Chapter v.

The generous behaviour of Sophia towards her aunt.

Sophia kept silence during the foregoing speech of her father, nor did

she once answer otherwise than with a sigh; but as he understood none

of the language, or, as he called it, lingo of the eyes, so he was not

satisfied without some further approbation of his sentiments, which he

now demanded of his daughter; telling her, in the usual way, “he

expected she was ready to take the part of everybody against him, as

she had always done that of the b-- her mother.” Sophia remaining

still silent, he cryed out, “What, art dumb? why dost unt speak? Was

not thy mother a d--d b-- to me? answer me that. What, I suppose you

despise your father too, and don't think him good enough to speak to?”

“For Heaven's sake, sir,” answered Sophia, “do not give so cruel a

turn to my silence. I am sure I would sooner die than be guilty of any

disrespect towards you; but how can I venture to speak, when every

word must either offend my dear papa, or convict me of the blackest

ingratitude as well as impiety to the memory of the best of mothers;

for such, I am certain, my mamma was always to me?”

“And your aunt, I suppose, is the best of sisters too!” replied the

squire. “Will you be so kind as to allow that she is a b--? I may

fairly insist upon that, I think?”

“Indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have great obligations to my aunt. She

hath been a second mother to me.”

“And a second wife to me too,” returned Western; “so you will take her

part too! You won't confess that she hath acted the part of the vilest

sister in the world?”

“Upon my word, sir,” cries Sophia, “I must belie my heart wickedly if

I did. I know my aunt and you differ very much in your ways of

thinking; but I have heard her a thousand times express the greatest

affection for you; and I am convinced, so far from her being the worst

sister in the world, there are very few who love a brother better.”

“The English of all which is,” answered the squire, “that I am in the

wrong. Ay, certainly. Ay, to be sure the woman is in the right, and

the man in the wrong always.”

“Pardon me, sir,” cries Sophia. “I do not say so.”

“What don't you say?” answered the father: “you have the impudence to

say she's in the right: doth it not follow then of course that I am in

the wrong? And perhaps I am in the wrong to suffer such a Presbyterian

Hanoverian b-- to come into my house. She may 'dite me of a plot for

anything I know, and give my estate to the government.”

“So far, sir, from injuring you or your estate,” says Sophia, “if my

aunt had died yesterday, I am convinced she would have left you her

whole fortune.”

Whether Sophia intended it or no, I shall not presume to assert; but

certain it is, these last words penetrated very deep into the ears of

her father, and produced a much more sensible effect than all she had

said before. He received the sound with much the same action as a man

receives a bullet in his head. He started, staggered, and turned pale.

After which he remained silent above a minute, and then began in the

following hesitating manner: “Yesterday! she would have left me her

esteate yesterday! would she? Why yesterday, of all the days in the

year? I suppose if she dies to-morrow, she will leave it to somebody

else, and perhaps out of the vamily.”--“My aunt, sir,” cries Sophia,

“hath very violent passions, and I can't answer what she may do under

their influence.”

“You can't!” returned the father: “and pray who hath been the occasion

of putting her into those violent passions? Nay, who hath actually put

her into them? Was not you and she hard at it before I came into the

room? Besides, was not all our quarrel about you? I have not

quarrelled with sister this many years but upon your account; and now

you would throw the whole blame upon me, as thof I should be the

occasion of her leaving the esteate out o' the vamily. I could have

expected no better indeed; this is like the return you make to all the

rest of my fondness.”

“I beseech you then,” cries Sophia, “upon my knees I beseech you, if I

have been the unhappy occasion of this difference, that you will

endeavour to make it up with my aunt, and not suffer her to leave your

house in this violent rage of anger: she is a very good-natured woman,

and a few civil words will satisfy her. Let me entreat you, sir.”

“So I must go and ask pardon for your fault, must I?” answered

Western. “You have lost the hare, and I must draw every way to find

her again? Indeed, if I was certain”--Here he stopt, and Sophia

throwing in more entreaties, at length prevailed upon him; so that

after venting two or three bitter sarcastical expressions against his

daughter, he departed as fast as he could to recover his sister,

before her equipage could be gotten ready.

Sophia then returned to her chamber of mourning, where she indulged

herself (if the phrase may be allowed me) in all the luxury of tender

grief. She read over more than once the letter which she had received

from Jones; her muff too was used on this occasion; and she bathed

both these, as well as herself, with her tears. In this situation the

friendly Mrs Honour exerted her utmost abilities to comfort her

afflicted mistress. She ran over the names of many young gentlemen:

and having greatly commended their parts and persons, assured Sophia

that she might take her choice of any. These methods must have

certainly been used with some success in disorders of the like kind,

or so skilful a practitioner as Mrs Honour would never have ventured

to apply them; nay, I have heard that the college of chambermaids hold

them to be as sovereign remedies as any in the female dispensary; but

whether it was that Sophia's disease differed inwardly from those

cases with which it agreed in external symptoms, I will not assert;

but, in fact, the good waiting-woman did more harm than good, and at

last so incensed her mistress (which was no easy matter) that with an

angry voice she dismissed her from her presence.