“Madam,” said I, “what must any gentleman think when he sees youth, beauty, and innocence in distress? I wish I could tell you that I was old enough to be your father; I think we must give that up,” I continued, with a smile. “But I will tell you something about myself which ought to do as well, and to set that little heart at rest in my society. I am a lover. May I say it of myself—for I am not quite used to all the niceties of English—that I am a true lover? There is one whom I admire, adore, obey; she is no less good than she is beautiful; if she were here, she would take you to her arms: conceive that she has sent me—that she has said to me, ‘Go, be her knight!’”
“O, I know she must be sweet, I know she must be worthy of you!” cried the little lady. “She would never forget female decorum—nor make the terrible erratum I’ve done!”
And at this she lifted up her voice and wept.
This did not forward matters: it was in vain that I begged her to be more composed and to tell me a plain, consecutive tale of her misadventures; but she continued instead to pour forth the most extraordinary mixture of the correct school miss and the poor untutored little piece of womanhood in a false position—of engrafted pedantry and incoherent nature.
“I am certain it must have been judicial blindness,” she sobbed. “I can’t think how I didn’t see it, but I didn’t; and he isn’t, is he? And then a curtain rose.... O, what a moment was that! But I knew at once that you were; you had but to appear from your carriage, and I knew it. O, she must be a fortunate young lady! And I have no fear with you, none—a perfect confidence.”
“Madam,” said I, “a gentleman.”
“That’s what I mean—a gentleman,” she exclaimed. “And he—and that—he isn’t. O, how shall I dare meet father!” And disclosing to me her tear-stained face, and opening her arms with a tragic gesture: “And I am quite disgraced before all the young ladies, my school-companions!” she added.
“O, not so bad as that!” I cried. “Come, come, you exaggerate, my dear Miss ——? Excuse me if I am too familiar: I have not yet heard your name.”
“My name is Dorothy Greensleeves, sir: why should I conceal it? I fear it will only serve to point an adage to future generations, and I had meant so differently! There was no young female in the county more emulous to be thought well of than I. And what a fall was there! O, dear me, what a wicked, piggish donkey of a girl I have made of myself, to be sure! And there is no hope! O, Mr.——”
And at that she paused and asked my name.