Your uncle is a pleasant man: but tell him I say, that the man would be out of his wits, that did not make the preference he does in favour of his dame Selby, as he calls her. Tell him also, if you please, in return for his plain dealing, that I say, he studies too much for his pleasantries: he is continually hunting for occasions to be smart. I have heard my father say, that this was the fault of some wits of his acquaintance, whom he ranked among the witlings for it. If you think it will mortify him more, you may tell him, (for I am very revengeful when I think myself affronted,) that were I at liberty, which, God help me, I am not! I would sooner choose for a husband the man I have, (poor soul, as I now and then think him,) than such a teasing creature as himself, were both in my power, and both of an age. And I should have this good reason for my preference: your uncle and I should have been too much alike, and so been jealous of each other's wit; whereas I can make my honest Lord G—— look about him, and admire me strangely, whenever I please.
But I am, it seems, a person of a particular character. Every one, you say, loves me, yet blames me. Odd characters, my dear, are needful to make even characters shine. You good girls would not be valued as you are, if there were not bad ones. Have you not heard it said, that all human excellence is but comparative? Pray allow of the contrast. You, I am sure, ought. You are an ungrateful creature, if, whenever you think of my over-livelinesses, as you call 'em, you don't drop a courtesy, and say, you are obliged to me.
But still the attack made upon you in your dressing-room at Colnebrook, by my sister and me, sticks in your stomach—And why so? We were willing to shew you, that we were not the silly people you must have thought us, had we not been able to distinguish light from darkness. You, who ever were, I believe, one of the frankest-hearted girls in Britain, and admired for the ease and dignity given you by that frankness, were growing awkward, nay dishonest. Your gratitude! your gratitude! was the dust you wanted to throw into our eyes, that we might not see that you were governed by a stronger motive. You called us your friends, your sisters, but treated us not as either; and this man, and that, and t'other, you could refuse; and why? No reason given for it; and we were to be popt off with your gratitude, truly!—We were to believe just what you said, and no more; nay, not so much as you said. But we were not so implicit. Nor would you, in our case, have been so.
But 'you, perhaps, would not have violently broken in upon a poor thing, who thought we were blind, because she was not willing we should see.'— May be not: but then, in that case, we were honester than you would have been; that's all. Here, said I, Lady L——, is this poor girl awkwardly struggling to conceal what every body sees; and, seeing, applauds her for, the man considered: [Yes, Harriet, the man considered; be pleased to take that in:] let us, in pity, relieve her. She is thought to be frank, open-hearted, communicative; nay, she passes herself upon us in those characters: she sees we keep nothing from her. She has been acquainted with your love before wedlock; with my folly, in relation to Anderson: she has carried her head above a score or two of men not contemptible. She sits enthroned among us, while we make but common figures at her footstool: she calls us sisters, friends, and twenty pretty names. Let us acquaint her, that we see into her heart; and why Lord D—— and others are so indifferent with her. If she is ingenuous, let us spare her; if not, leave me to punish her—Yet we will keep up her punctilio as to our brother; we will leave him to make his own discoveries. She may confide in his politeness; and the result will be happier for her; because she will then be under no restraint to us, and her native freedom of heart may again take its course.
Agreed, agreed, said Lady L——. And arm-in-arm, we entered your dressing-room, dismissed the maid, and began the attack—And, O Harriet! how you hesitated, paraded, fooled on with us, before you came to confession! Indeed you deserved not the mercy we shewed you—So, child, you had better to have let this part of your story sleep in peace.
You bid me not tell Emily, that your cousin is in love with her: but I think I will. Girls begin very early to look out for admirers. It is better, in order to stay her stomach, to find out one for her, than that she should find out one for herself; especially when the man is among ourselves, as I may say, and both are in our own management, and at distance from each other. Emily is a good girl; but she has susceptibilities already: and though I would not encourage her, as yet, to look out of herself for happiness; yet I would give her consequence with herself, and at the same time let her see, that there could be no mention made of any thing that related to her, but what she should be acquainted with. Dear girl! I love her as well as you; and I pity her too: for she, as well as somebody else, will have difficulties to contend with, which she will not know easily how to get over; though she can, in a flame so young, generously prefer the interest of a more excellent woman to her own.—There, Harriet, is a grave paragraph: you'll like me for it.
You are a very reflecting girl, in mentioning to me, so particularly, your behaviour to your Grevilles, Fenwicks, and Ormes. What is that but saying, See, Charlotte! I am a much more complacent creature to the men, no one of which I intend to have, than you are to your husband!
What a pious woman, indeed, must be your grandmamma, that she could suspend her joy, her long-absent darling at her feet, till she had first thanked God for restoring her to her arms! But, in this instance, we see the force of habitual piety. Though not so good as I should be myself, I revere those who are so; and that I hope you will own is no bad sign.
Well, but now for ourselves, and those about us.
Lady Olivia has written a letter from Windsor to Lady L——. It is in
French; extremely polite. She promises to write to me from Oxford.