“Has your ladyship ever been at Trimmerstone?” inquired the attentive and sympathising youth.
“Never,” replied her ladyship; “but I am sure it must be a dull place; there is not a soul to speak to but a dull country squire or two, and the parson of the parish, and he is but the curate; for it is such a stupid place that even the rector cannot reside there. His lordship did not seem to want much of my company in town—I think he might do very well without it in the country.”
“Your ladyship is very ill-used,” said Mr. Tippetson; “I have been often astonished that you could patiently put up with such behaviour.”
“But I must put up with it, Mr. Tippetson, I have no remedy.”
So spake the Countess of Trimmerstone; but her ladyship knew that she had a remedy—only the remedy was worse than the disease. Mr. Tippetson also knew that there was a remedy; but Mr. Tippetson was not quite so great a novice as to name that remedy in so many words. He therefore made no reply, and her ladyship was also silent; yet her heart swelled, and the tears were in her eyes, and she seemed altogether given up to the hopelessness of sorrow. Now as Henry Augustus Tippetson was an adept in common-place, he knew that there was more prudence and policy in absolute silence under present circumstances, than in any language which he could utter. And as the Countess, in the hurry and agitation of her grief, was now in one part of the room, now in another, now sitting, now walking, now before the glass, and now before the window, Mr. Tippetson was always at her side; and after many changes of place, they at length sat down together on a sofa; and Mr. Tippetson, scarcely thinking what he did, actually took hold of her ladyship’s hand, and pressed it between his two hands more tenderly than any single man ought to press the hand of any married woman. What was the young gentleman’s design in this, or whether he had any design in it at all or not, we cannot say. But be it as it may, he approached her ladyship in such a questionable shape, that whether his intents were wicked or charitable, she spoke to him, saying, “Oh, Tippetson!”
Now this was too bad. Whatever were the young gentleman’s intentions, her ladyship ought certainly to have left him to himself, and to have suffered him to evolve his own schemes: it was grievously indecorous, we think, to give the gentleman any assistance or prompting in such matter; but we will not be very positive, seeing that we do not understand the etiquette of elopement. And perhaps the Countess herself thought that Mr. Tippetson was also inexpert, and therefore assisted him in the development of his scheme for relieving her from the burden of a disagreeable husband.
When, therefore, the Countess had with so much tenderness said, “Oh, Tippetson!” it was impossible for Henry Augustus to avoid saying, “Oh, Celestina!”—for thus familiarly had he been accustomed to address the lady while she was a spinster. As by the use of this familiar mode of address her ladyship’s active fancy imagined that more was meant than met the ear, and as there was evidently little time for deliberation, and as she thought it absolutely indispensable to make some show of opposition to such a wicked proposal, as she construed “Oh, Celestina!” to mean, her ladyship immediately withdrew her hand from Mr. Tippetson, and exclaimed, “Oh, never! never! never! do not be so barbarous; I cannot—no, I cannot—I would undergo any thing rather than take so imprudent a step.”
Mr. Tippetson, whose ideas of morality were not very nice, and whose sense of propriety was not very acute, thought that it was a gentle designation of elopement to call it only “an imprudent step.” He was not best pleased, therefore, with this mode of resistance; but he was now under the absolute necessity of kneeling to her ladyship, and of seizing her hand again most passionately, and pressing it to his heart, and vowing eternal fidelity, and exclaiming—
“Oh, fly with me, my dearest Celestina; I will go with you to the end of the world.”