Hold, hold, sir! resisting; but with features far more placid than she had suffered to be before visible—If I must be compelled—You are a strange man, Sir Charles Grandison—If I must be compelled to see Sir Harry—But you are a strange man—And she rang the bell.
Lady Beauchamp, Dr. Bartlett, is one of those who would be more ready to forgive an innocent freedom, than to be gratified by a profound respect; otherwise I had not treated her with so little ceremony. Such women are formidable only to those who are afraid of their anger, or who make it a serious thing.
But when the servant appeared, she not knowing how to condescend, I said, Go to your master, sir, and tell him that your lady requests the favour—
Requests the favour! repeated she; but in a low voice: which was no bad sign.
The servant went with a message worded with more civility than perhaps he was used to carry to his master from his lady.
Now, dear Lady Beauchamp, for your own sake; for Sir Harry's sake; make happy; and be happy. Are there not, dear madam, unhappinesses enow in life, that we must wilfully add to them?
Sir Harry came in sight. He stalked towards us with a parade like that of a young officer wanting to look martial at the head of his company.
Could I have seen him before he entered, my work would have been easier.
But his hostile air disposed my lady to renew hostilities.
She turned her face aside, then her person; and the cloudy indignation with which she entered at first, again overspread her features. Ought wrath, Dr. Bartlett, to be so ready to attend a female will?—Surely, thought I, my lady's present airs, after what has passed between her and me, can be only owing to the fear of making a precedent, and being thought too easily persuaded.
Sir Harry, said I, addressing myself to him, I have obtained Lady
Beauchamp's pardon for the officious letter—