Chapter ii.

The adventures which Sophia met with after her leaving Upton.

Our history, just before it was obliged to turn about and travel

backwards, had mentioned the departure of Sophia and her maid from the

inn; we shall now therefore pursue the steps of that lovely creature,

and leave her unworthy lover a little longer to bemoan his ill-luck,

or rather his ill-conduct.

Sophia having directed her guide to travel through bye-roads, across

the country, they now passed the Severn, and had scarce got a mile

from the inn, when the young lady, looking behind her, saw several

horses coming after on full speed. This greatly alarmed her fears, and

she called to the guide to put on as fast as possible.

He immediately obeyed her, and away they rode a full gallop. But the

faster they went, the faster were they followed; and as the horses

behind were somewhat swifter than those before, so the former were at

length overtaken. A happy circumstance for poor Sophia; whose fears,

joined to her fatigue, had almost overpowered her spirits; but she was

now instantly relieved by a female voice, that greeted her in the

softest manner, and with the utmost civility. This greeting Sophia, as

soon as she could recover her breath, with like civility, and with the

highest satisfaction to herself, returned.

The travellers who joined Sophia, and who had given her such terror,

consisted, like her own company, of two females and a guide. The two

parties proceeded three full miles together before any one offered

again to open their mouths; when our heroine, having pretty well got

the better of her fear (but yet being somewhat surprized that the

other still continued to attend her, as she pursued no great road, and

had already passed through several turnings), accosted the strange

lady in a most obliging tone, and said, “She was very happy to find

they were both travelling the same way.” The other, who, like a ghost,

only wanted to be spoke to, readily answered, “That the happiness was

entirely hers; that she was a perfect stranger in that country, and

was so overjoyed at meeting a companion of her own sex, that she had

perhaps been guilty of an impertinence, which required great apology,

in keeping pace with her.” More civilities passed between these two

ladies; for Mrs Honour had now given place to the fine habit of the

stranger, and had fallen into the rear. But, though Sophia had great

curiosity to know why the other lady continued to travel on through

the same bye-roads with herself, nay, though this gave her some

uneasiness, yet fear, or modesty, or some other consideration,

restrained her from asking the question.

The strange lady now laboured under a difficulty which appears almost

below the dignity of history to mention. Her bonnet had been blown

from her head not less than five times within the last mile; nor could

she come at any ribbon or handkerchief to tie it under her chin. When

Sophia was informed of this, she immediately supplied her with a

handkerchief for this purpose; which while she was pulling from her

pocket, she perhaps too much neglected the management of her horse,

for the beast, now unluckily making a false step, fell upon his

fore-legs, and threw his fair rider from his back.

Though Sophia came head foremost to the ground, she happily received

not the least damage: and the same circumstances which had perhaps

contributed to her fall now preserved her from confusion; for the lane

which they were then passing was narrow, and very much overgrown with

trees, so that the moon could here afford very little light, and was

moreover, at present, so obscured in a cloud, that it was almost

perfectly dark. By these means the young lady's modesty, which was

extremely delicate, escaped as free from injury as her limbs, and she

was once more reinstated in her saddle, having received no other harm

than a little fright by her fall.

Daylight at length appeared in its full lustre; and now the two

ladies, who were riding over a common side by side, looking stedfastly

at each other, at the same moment both their eyes became fixed; both

their horses stopt, and, both speaking together, with equal joy

pronounced, the one the name of Sophia, the other that of Harriet.

This unexpected encounter surprized the ladies much more than I

believe it will the sagacious reader, who must have imagined that the

strange lady could be no other than Mrs Fitzpatrick, the cousin of

Miss Western, whom we before mentioned to have sallied from the inn a

few minutes after her.

So great was the surprize and joy which these two cousins conceived at

this meeting (for they had formerly been most intimate acquaintance

and friends, and had long lived together with their aunt Western),

that it is impossible to recount half the congratulations which passed

between them, before either asked a very natural question of the

other, namely, whither she was going?

This at last, however, came first from Mrs Fitzpatrick; but, easy and

natural as the question may seem, Sophia found it difficult to give it

a very ready and certain answer. She begged her cousin therefore to

suspend all curiosity till they arrived at some inn, “which I

suppose,” says she, “can hardly be far distant; and, believe me,

Harriet, I suspend as much curiosity on my side; for, indeed, I

believe our astonishment is pretty equal.”

The conversation which passed between these ladies on the road was, I

apprehend, little worth relating; and less certainly was that between

the two waiting-women; for they likewise began to pay their

compliments to each other. As for the guides, they were debarred from

the pleasure of discourse, the one being placed in the van, and the

other obliged to bring up the rear.

In this posture they travelled many hours, till they came into a wide

and well-beaten road, which, as they turned to the right, soon brought

them to a very fair promising inn, where they all alighted: but so

fatigued was Sophia, that as she had sat her horse during the last

five or six miles with great difficulty, so was she now incapable of

dismounting from him without assistance. This the landlord, who had

hold of her horse, presently perceiving, offered to lift her in his

arms from her saddle; and she too readily accepted the tender of his

service. Indeed fortune seems to have resolved to put Sophia to the

blush that day, and the second malicious attempt succeeded better than

the first; for my landlord had no sooner received the young lady in

his arms, than his feet, which the gout had lately very severely

handled, gave way, and down he tumbled; but, at the same time, with no

less dexterity than gallantry, contrived to throw himself under his

charming burden, so that he alone received any bruise from the fall;

for the great injury which happened to Sophia was a violent shock

given to her modesty by an immoderate grin, which, at her rising from

the ground, she observed in the countenances of most of the

bye-standers. This made her suspect what had really happened, and what

we shall not here relate for the indulgence of those readers who are

capable of laughing at the offence given to a young lady's delicacy.

Accidents of this kind we have never regarded in a comical light; nor

will we scruple to say that he must have a very inadequate idea of the

modesty of a beautiful young woman, who would wish to sacrifice it to

so paltry a satisfaction as can arise from laughter.

This fright and shock, joined to the violent fatigue which both her

mind and body had undergone, almost overcame the excellent

constitution of Sophia, and she had scarce strength sufficient to

totter into the inn, leaning on the arm of her maid. Here she was no

sooner seated than she called for a glass of water; but Mrs Honour,

very judiciously, in my opinion, changed it into a glass of wine.

Mrs Fitzpatrick, hearing from Mrs Honour that Sophia had not been in

bed during the two last nights, and observing her to look very pale

and wan with her fatigue, earnestly entreated her to refresh herself

with some sleep. She was yet a stranger to her history, or her

apprehensions; but, had she known both, she would have given the same

advice; for rest was visibly necessary for her; and their long journey

through bye-roads so entirely removed all danger of pursuit, that she

was herself perfectly easy on that account.

Sophia was easily prevailed on to follow the counsel of her friend,

which was heartily seconded by her maid. Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise

offered to bear her cousin company, which Sophia, with much

complacence, accepted.

The mistress was no sooner in bed than the maid prepared to follow her

example. She began to make many apologies to her sister Abigail for

leaving her alone in so horrid a place as an inn; but the other stopt

her short, being as well inclined to a nap as herself, and desired the

honour of being her bedfellow. Sophia's maid agreed to give her a

share of her bed, but put in her claim to all the honour. So, after

many courtsies and compliments, to bed together went the

waiting-women, as their mistresses had done before them.

It was usual with my landlord (as indeed it is with the whole

fraternity) to enquire particularly of all coachmen, footmen,

postboys, and others, into the names of all his guests; what their

estate was, and where it lay. It cannot therefore be wondered at that

the many particular circumstances which attended our travellers, and

especially their retiring all to sleep at so extraordinary and unusual

an hour as ten in the morning, should excite his curiosity. As soon,

therefore, as the guides entered the kitchen, he began to examine who

the ladies were, and whence they came; but the guides, though they

faithfully related all they knew, gave him very little satisfaction.

On the contrary, they rather enflamed his curiosity than extinguished

it.

This landlord had the character, among all his neighbours, of being a

very sagacious fellow. He was thought to see farther and deeper into

things than any man in the parish, the parson himself not excepted.

Perhaps his look had contributed not a little to procure him this

reputation; for there was in this something wonderfully wise and

significant, especially when he had a pipe in his mouth; which,

indeed, he seldom was without. His behaviour, likewise, greatly

assisted in promoting the opinion of his wisdom. In his deportment he

was solemn, if not sullen; and when he spoke, which was seldom, he

always delivered himself in a slow voice; and, though his sentences

were short, they were still interrupted with many hums and ha's, ay

ays, and other expletives: so that, though he accompanied his words

with certain explanatory gestures, such as shaking or nodding the

head, or pointing with his fore-finger, he generally left his hearers

to understand more than he expressed; nay, he commonly gave them a

hint that he knew much more than he thought proper to disclose. This

last circumstance alone may, indeed, very well account for his

character of wisdom; since men are strangely inclined to worship what

they do not understand. A grand secret, upon which several imposers on

mankind have totally relied for the success of their frauds.

This polite person, now taking his wife aside, asked her “what she

thought of the ladies lately arrived?” “Think of them?” said the wife,

“why, what should I think of them?” “I know,” answered he, “what I

think. The guides tell strange stories. One pretends to be come from

Gloucester, and the other from Upton; and neither of them, for what I

can find, can tell whither they are going. But what people ever travel

across the country from Upton hither, especially to London? And one of

the maid-servants, before she alighted from her horse, asked if this

was not the London road? Now I have put all these circumstances

together, and whom do you think I have found them out to be?” “Nay,”

answered she, “you know I never pretend to guess at your

discoveries.”----“It is a good girl,” replied he, chucking her under

the chin; “I must own you have always submitted to my knowledge of

these matters. Why, then, depend upon it; mind what I say--depend upon

it, they are certainly some of the rebel ladies, who, they say, travel

with the young Chevalier; and have taken a roundabout way to escape

the duke's army.”

“Husband,” quoth the wife, “you have certainly hit it; for one of them

is dressed as fine as any princess; and, to be sure, she looks for all

the world like one.----But yet, when I consider one thing”----“When

you consider,” cries the landlord contemptuously----“Come, pray let's

hear what you consider.”----“Why, it is,” answered the wife, “that she

is too humble to be any very great lady: for, while our Betty was

warming the bed, she called her nothing but child, and my dear, and

sweetheart; and, when Betty offered to pull off her shoes and

stockings, she would not suffer her, saying, she would not give her

the trouble.”

“Pugh!” answered the husband, “that is nothing. Dost think, because

you have seen some great ladies rude and uncivil to persons below

them, that none of them know how to behave themselves when they come

before their inferiors? I think I know people of fashion when I see

them--I think I do. Did not she call for a glass of water when she

came in? Another sort of women would have called for a dram; you know

they would. If she be not a woman of very great quality, sell me for a

fool; and, I believe, those who buy me will have a bad bargain. Now,

would a woman of her quality travel without a footman, unless upon

some such extraordinary occasion?” “Nay, to be sure, husband,” cries

she, “you know these matters better than I, or most folk.” “I think I

do know something,” said he. “To be sure,” answered the wife, “the

poor little heart looked so piteous, when she sat down in the chair, I

protest I could not help having a compassion for her almost as much as

if she had been a poor body. But what's to be done, husband? If an she

be a rebel, I suppose you intend to betray her up to the court. Well,

she's a sweet-tempered, good-humoured lady, be she what she will, and

I shall hardly refrain from crying when I hear she is hanged or

beheaded.” “Pooh!” answered the husband.----“But, as to what's to be

done, it is not so easy a matter to determine. I hope, before she goes

away, we shall have the news of a battle; for, if the Chevalier should

get the better, she may gain us interest at court, and make our

fortunes without betraying her.” “Why, that's true,” replied the wife;

“and I heartily hope she will have it in her power. Certainly she's a

sweet good lady; it would go horribly against me to have her come to

any harm.” “Pooh!” cries the landlord, “women are always so

tender-hearted. Why, you would not harbour rebels, would you?” “No,

certainly,” answered the wife; “and as for betraying her, come what

will on't, nobody can blame us. It is what anybody would do in our

case.”

While our politic landlord, who had not, we see, undeservedly the

reputation of great wisdom among his neighbours, was engaged in

debating this matter with himself (for he paid little attention to the

opinion of his wife), news arrived that the rebels had given the duke

the slip, and had got a day's march towards London; and soon after

arrived a famous Jacobite squire, who, with great joy in his

countenance, shook the landlord by the hand, saying, “All's our own,

boy, ten thousand honest Frenchmen are landed in Suffolk. Old England

for ever! ten thousand French, my brave lad! I am going to tap away

directly.”

This news determined the opinion of the wise man, and he resolved to

make his court to the young lady when she arose; for he had now (he

said) discovered that she was no other than Madam Jenny Cameron

herself.