“Questionless, he would be sadly displeased, for I have begged of him in vain to permit me to stay at home. But oh, miss, I have such a terror of masquerades”—“Drawn from Mr Richardson,” she put in—“and such a diversion is so ill-suited to my present thoughts and situation, and I am so apprehensive of being spoken to by my persecutor, and perhaps insulted, that if you would persuade Mr Freyne to excuse me, I should be for ever grateful to you. And I know that my papa has a vastly high esteem for Mrs Hurstwood.”
“And pray, miss,” says she, “will you prefer Calcutta to say you remain at home out of jealousy for my marriage, or grief for Mr Fraser’s departure, or sympathy with Lieutenant Bentinck?”
“You terrify me!” I cried. “Sure my papa was only kind in commanding me to appear, if this be the alternative. But,” for a sudden thought seized me, “I can’t wear this dress. I should feel like a tricked-out skeleton. Pray, miss, oblige me by putting it on. You may be taken for me, but I know you’ll hold your own with the boldest wretches in Calcutta”—“I thank you, miss,” said she.—“As for me, I’ll endeavour to strengthen and calm my mind by wearing the dress of the incomparable Clarissa, who was greater in her humiliation than in her happiest days. My white damask nightgown and satin petticoat, with a morning cap, and my hair in a dégagé style, will answer all purposes, and should save me from recognition.”
“I vow you’re mistaken, if you think an undress and the absence of a hoop will disguise the finest shape in Calcutta,” says my Charlotte; “but the notion of deceiving the fellows is agreeable enough. Well, miss, if you’re really in earnest, I’ll oblige you by wearing your dress.”
“I can never be grateful enough to my dear Mrs Hurstwood,” I said, and calling in Marianna, we soon had Charlotte dressed in the blue satin waistcoat and petticoat, laced and fringed with silver, the white silk scarf and the fantastical cap, so well known to all Mr Richardson’s readers. While I was hurrying into my own gown, my stepmother looked in at the door.
“What, miss! exchanging dresses?” she cried.
“A mishap has come to Mrs Hurstwood’s gown, madam,” said I, “and she is so good as to wear mine, which I have took a dislike to.”
“Oh, very well,” said Mrs Freyne. “And you are the divine Clarissa in the Sponging-house, I see. O’ my conscience, miss, I wonder at your preference! But your papa and I can’t wait for you. You’ll follow with Mrs Hurstwood, I suppose?”
“I expect my spouse every moment, madam,” says Charlotte, “and I’ll assure you we’ll both have an eye to Miss’s safety.”
Mrs Freyne went away, and I finished dressing in much better spirits. But what was my vexation when I arrived at the Play-house with the Hurstwoods to perceive that my naughty, unkind stepmother must have told Mr Menotti of my sudden change of intention, for he came stumping towards me as soon as I alighted from my palanqueen, in a greatcoat with a cape, the collar turned up and buttoned round his chin, a pair of coarse stockens drawn over his own, and an old tie-wig, the very image of the abandoned Lovelace when he forced himself in this disguise upon Clarissa’s retirements at Hampstead. I could have wept, Amelia. The sole consolation that offered itself to me (and it did give me a sensible pleasure, I’ll promise you) was the thought of the inconvenience the wretch must be suffering from the heat, and the mortification it must have cost him to lay aside his fine Grandison dress. There was no escaping him, for he was the first to observe our arrival, and I was forced to give him my hand, and to endure his talk, which was as free as that of Lovelace, but wanted the wit, until I hated him worse than ever, if that were possible, and seized the chance of our becoming entangled in a crowd of masques to rid myself of his company.