Chapter vi.

In which Mrs Miller pays a visit to Sophia.

Access to the young lady was by no means difficult; for, as she lived

now on a perfect friendly footing with her aunt, she was at full

liberty to receive what visitants she pleased.

Sophia was dressing when she was acquainted that there was a

gentlewoman below to wait on her. As she was neither afraid, nor

ashamed, to see any of her own sex, Mrs Miller was immediately

admitted.

Curtsies and the usual ceremonials between women who are strangers to

each other, being past, Sophia said, “I have not the pleasure to know

you, madam.” “No, madam,” answered Mrs Miller, “and I must beg pardon

for intruding upon you. But when you know what has induced me to give

you this trouble, I hope----” “Pray, what is your business, madam?”

said Sophia, with a little emotion. “Madam, we are not alone,” replied

Mrs Miller, in a low voice. “Go out, Betty,” said Sophia.

When Betty was departed, Mrs Miller said, “I was desired, madam, by a

very unhappy young gentleman, to deliver you this letter.” Sophia

changed colour when she saw the direction, well knowing the hand, and

after some hesitation, said--“I could not conceive, madam, from your

appearance, that your business had been of such a nature.--Whomever

you brought this letter from, I shall not open it. I should be sorry

to entertain an unjust suspicion of any one; but you are an utter

stranger to me.”

“If you will have patience, madam,” answered Mrs Miller, “I will

acquaint you who I am, and how I came by that letter.” “I have no

curiosity, madam, to know anything,” cries Sophia; “but I must insist

on your delivering that letter back to the person who gave it you.”

Mrs Miller then fell upon her knees, and in the most passionate terms

implored her compassion; to which Sophia answered: “Sure, madam, it is

surprizing you should be so very strongly interested in the behalf of

this person. I would not think, madam”--“No, madam,” says Mrs Miller,

“you shall not think anything but the truth. I will tell you all, and

you will not wonder that I am interested. He is the best-natured

creature that ever was born.”--She then began and related the story of

Mr Anderson.--After this she cried, “This, madam, this is his

goodness; but I have much more tender obligations to him. He hath

preserved my child.”--Here, after shedding some tears, she related

everything concerning that fact, suppressing only those circumstances

which would have most reflected on her daughter, and concluded with

saying, “Now, madam, you shall judge whether I can ever do enough for

so kind, so good, so generous a young man; and sure he is the best and

worthiest of all human beings.”

The alterations in the countenance of Sophia had hitherto been chiefly

to her disadvantage, and had inclined her complexion to too great

paleness; but she now waxed redder, if possible, than vermilion, and

cried, “I know not what to say; certainly what arises from gratitude

cannot be blamed--But what service can my reading this letter do your

friend, since I am resolved never----” Mrs Miller fell again to her

entreaties, and begged to be forgiven, but she could not, she said,

carry it back. “Well, madam,” says Sophia, “I cannot help it, if you

will force it upon me.--Certainly you may leave it whether I will or

no.” What Sophia meant, or whether she meant anything, I will not

presume to determine; but Mrs Miller actually understood this as a

hint, and presently laying the letter down on the table, took her

leave, having first begged permission to wait again on Sophia; which

request had neither assent nor denial.

The letter lay upon the table no longer than till Mrs Miller was out

of sight; for then Sophia opened and read it.

This letter did very little service to his cause; for it consisted of

little more than confessions of his own unworthiness, and bitter

lamentations of despair, together with the most solemn protestations

of his unalterable fidelity to Sophia, of which, he said, he hoped to

convince her, if he had ever more the honour of being admitted to her

presence; and that he could account for the letter to Lady Bellaston

in such a manner, that, though it would not entitle him to her

forgiveness, he hoped at least to obtain it from her mercy. And

concluded with vowing that nothing was ever less in his thoughts than

to marry Lady Bellaston.

Though Sophia read the letter twice over with great attention, his

meaning still remained a riddle to her; nor could her invention

suggest to her any means to excuse Jones. She certainly remained very

angry with him, though indeed Lady Bellaston took up so much of her

resentment, that her gentle mind had but little left to bestow on any

other person.

That lady was most unluckily to dine this very day with her aunt

Western, and in the afternoon they were all three, by appointment, to

go together to the opera, and thence to Lady Thomas Hatchet's drum.

Sophia would have gladly been excused from all, but would not

disoblige her aunt; and as to the arts of counterfeiting illness, she

was so entirely a stranger to them, that it never once entered into

her head. When she was drest, therefore, down she went, resolved to

encounter all the horrors of the day, and a most disagreeable one it

proved; for Lady Bellaston took every opportunity very civilly and

slily to insult her; to all which her dejection of spirits disabled

her from making any return; and, indeed, to confess the truth, she was

at the very best but an indifferent mistress of repartee.

Another misfortune which befel poor Sophia was the company of Lord

Fellamar, whom she met at the opera, and who attended her to the drum.

And though both places were too publick to admit of any

particularities, and she was farther relieved by the musick at the one

place, and by the cards at the other, she could not, however, enjoy

herself in his company; for there is something of delicacy in women,

which will not suffer them to be even easy in the presence of a man

whom they know to have pretensions to them which they are disinclined

to favour.

Having in this chapter twice mentioned a drum, a word which our

posterity, it is hoped, will not understand in the sense it is here

applied, we shall, notwithstanding our present haste, stop a moment to

describe the entertainment here meant, and the rather as we can in a

moment describe it.

A drum, then, is an assembly of well-dressed persons of both sexes,

most of whom play at cards, and the rest do nothing at all; while the

mistress of the house performs the part of the landlady at an inn, and

like the landlady of an inn prides herself in the number of her

guests, though she doth not always, like her, get anything by it.

No wonder then, as so much spirits must be required to support any

vivacity in these scenes of dulness, that we hear persons of fashion

eternally complaining of the want of them; a complaint confined

entirely to upper life. How insupportable must we imagine this round

of impertinence to have been to Sophia at this time; how difficult

must she have found it to force the appearance of gaiety into her

looks, when her mind dictated nothing but the tenderest sorrow, and

when every thought was charged with tormenting ideas!

Night, however, at last restored her to her pillow, where we will

leave her to soothe her melancholy at least, though incapable we fear

of rest, and shall pursue our history, which, something whispers us,

is now arrived at the eve of some great event.