It is a pity, for the sake of our story, that Miss Warwick did not stay a few minutes longer at Mrs. Porett’s, that she might have heard this eulogium on Lady Frances Somerset, and might have, a second time in one day, discovered that she was on the very brink of meeting with the persons she most dreaded to see; but, however temptingly romantic such an incident would have been, we must, according to our duty as faithful historians, deliver a plain unvarnished tale.
Miss Warwick arrived at Mr. Beatson’s, and as soon as she had pronounced the name of Hodges, the printer called to his devil for a parcel of advertisements, which he put into her hand; they were proposals for printing by subscription a new novel—“The Sorrows of Araminta.”
“Oh, my Araminta! my amiable Araminta! have I found you at last?—The Sorrows of Araminta, a novel, in nine volumes—Oh, charming!—together with a tragedy on the same plan—Delightful!—Subscriptions received at Joseph Beatson’s, printer and bookseller; and by Rachael Hodges—Odious name!—at Mrs. Bertrand’s.”
“Bartrand!—There now you, do ye hear that? the lady lives at Mrs. Bartrand’s: how will you make out now that Bartrand begins with a p, and ends with a t, now?” said the hackney-coachman to Betty, who was standing at the door.
“Pertrant! why,” cried Betty, “what would you have?”
“Silence! O silence!” said Miss Warwick; and she continued reading—“Subscriptions received at Mrs. Bertrand’s.”
“Pertrant, you hear, plockhead, you Irishman!” cried Betty Williams.
“Bartrand—you have no ears, Welshwoman as you are!” retorted Terence O’Grady.
“Subscription two guineas, for the Sorrows of Araminta,” continued our heroine; but, looking up, she saw Betty Williams and the hackney-coachman making menacing faces and gestures at one another.
“Fight it out in the passage, for Heaven’s sake!” said Angelina; “if you must fight, fight out of my sight.”