We were indeed cheated out of our philosophy, and set laughing most comfortably by the ridiculousness of this adventure of neighbour Bentley, which, as he anticipated, was seized upon with rapture by Mrs. Fitzroy, for her "Irish Reminiscences," but poor Charlotte was writhing under the remembrance of her having blushed, and Mrs. Fitzroy, who is very good-natured, and who saw exactly the cause, which was no other than that of having been suspected to feel what in reality she did not feel, endeavoured to relieve her by recurring to the subject of our conversation, saying, "Oh! Charlotte, you must repeat your last observation, I scarcely heard it. Were you not saying that in wild places where there is no great choice of society, the bonds of fellowship are drawn closer, and people are disposed to like each other better than in situations which render one fastidious by the variety they present? If that, my dear, was your remark, I think it a very just one, and I believe that I may apply the rule to our young friends who are gone to-day; one of whom, had I met him in what is called the world, I should probably never have known, he is so reserved: and the other is so volatile, that he would have been completely evaporated over a larger surface."
Charlotte, who had quite recovered her nerve, answered with perfect ease, "Well, there is great pleasure in liking our fellow-creatures, and, if retirement produce philanthropy, it is better than the world; is it not?" "I believe," answered Mrs. Fitzroy, that I shall be entirely of your opinion some time or other, though we arrive at this agreement by very opposite paths. You, having seen nothing of the world, and I a great deal too much of it; you inhabitants of Glenalta are making me long for settlement amongst you; and I feel as if you were the only set of people living
"Whose hearts keep the promise I had from the face."
Old Bentley fidgeted; giving one of his rapid glances at George, to ascertain how he stood affected by Mrs. Fitzroy's panegyric, and finding "pleased acquiescence" seated on his nephew's countenance, suddenly clapped his hands on his knees (a favourite movement of his) and exclaimed, "Pooh, madam! all fal lal sort of talk. You might sit here till doomsday ringing the changes upon these matters of sentiment, and all be right and all be wrong. I dare say that Miss Douglas could say something different from what you and her sister think upon the subject. Miss Fanny, if we call her from tying up those sweet peas, would probably tell us something else; and our young gentlemen, all, I dare say, could produce a different reading of the self-same thought. The fact is, that each individual character gives its own hue to such sort of disquisitions. Miss Douglas what do you say?"
"Indeed, Mr. Bentley, I believe that I do think differently from Mrs. Fitzroy and Charlotte on this occasion, and so I dare say that I am wrong; but it strikes me that the more retired the situation in which we live, the more nice do we grow, and the more necessary do we find great congeniality in the people with whom we associate; that is if we want to love them. In the world where every variety of talent and disposition is to be found, one can choose, and if disappointed in one instance, try in another; but in retreat, we must make the best of the given ingredients."
Bentley chuckled with delight, and rubbed his hands in triumph. This keen observer knew that Emily's opinion would justify his assertion, and moreover that it would be favourable to his views of keeping George's hopes, if he has any, down to the ground, Emily being the person, towards whom I suspect that he thinks his nephew's half averted eyes, are directed.
"Aye, there it is," said the uncle, "all right, all wrong; exactly as I said. Mrs. Fitzroy is social in all her tendencies. Human nature is the book in which she principally delights to study. Her love even of fine scenery is coupled with society. She does not like any thing much, except with a reference to communicating her ideas, and puts me continually in mind of a passage that I have met with in the works of Balsac, an old French author, who says, "Que la solitude est un belle chose, mais qu'il est agréable d'avoir quelque un qui sache répondre, a qui on puisse dire que la solitude est une belle chose." Now another thing is, that Mrs. Fitzroy does not require coincidence so much as intelligence. Her mind is generally in search of a good whetstone, while Miss Douglas——."
"Oh, do not paint me, Mr. Bentley," said Emily, "I should fly from a portrait of myself."
"And I," said Mrs. Fitzroy, "declare loudly against Mr. Bentley's rough sketches. I will, however, admit that there is some truth in what he says, and it exceedingly amuses me to catch glimpses of his caricatures, though they would terrify if I looked long at them."
"That is because my caps fit," answered our Diogenes.