us heart to bid each other good night.
No – beds were made for rest.
And that noise of carriages and link-boys at Sir George Splendorville's, next door, would keep us awake, if our sorrows did not.
The poor have still more to complain of, when chance throws them thus near the rich, – it forces upon their minds a comparison might drive them to despair, if —
– If they should not have good sense enough to reflect, that all this bustle and show of pleasure, may fall very short of happiness; as all the distress we feel, has not yet, thank Heaven, reached to misery.
What do you call it then?
A trial; sent to make us patient.
It may make you so, but cannot me. Good morning to you.
Nay, it is night yet. Where are you going?
I don't know. – To take a walk. – The streets are not more uncomfortable than this place, and scarcely colder.
Oh, my dear brother! I cannot express half the uneasiness I feel when you part from me, though but for the shortest space.
Why?
Because I know your temper; you are impatient under adversity; you rashly think providence is unkind; and you would snatch those favours, which are only valuable when bestowed.
What do you mean?
Nay, do not be angry; but every time you go out into this tempting town, where superfluous riches continually meet the eye of the poor, I tremble lest you should forfeit your honesty for that, which Heaven decreed should not belong to you.
And if I did, you would despise and desert me?
No: not desert you; for I am convinced you would only take, to bring to me; but this is to assure you, I do not want for any thing.
Not want? – Nor does my father?
Scarcely, while we visit him. Every time he sees us we make him happy; but he would never behold us again if we behaved unworthy of him.
What! banish us from a prison?
And although it is a prison, you could not be happy under such a restriction.
Happy! – When was I happy last?
Yesterday, when your father thanked you for your kindness to him. Did we not all three weep with affection for each other? and was not that happiness?
It was – nor will I give up such satisfaction, for any enticement that can offer. – Be contented, Eleanor, – for your sake and my father's, I will be honest. – Nay, more, – I will be scrupulously proud – and that line of conduct which my own honour could not force me to follow, my love to you and him, shall compel me to. – When, through necessity, I am tempted to plunder, your blushes and my father's anguish shall hold my hand. – And when I am urged through impatience, to take away my own life, your lingering death and his, shall check the horrid suggestion, and I will live for you.
Then do not ever trust yourself away, at least from one of us.
Dear sister! do you imagine that your power is less when separated from me? Do you suppose I think less frequently on my father and his dismal prison, because we are not always together? Oh! no! he comes even more forcibly to my thoughts in his absence – and then, more bitterly do I feel his misery, than while the patient old man, before my eyes, talks to me of his consolations; his internal comforts from a conscience pure, a mind without malice, and a heart, where every virtue occupy a place. – Therefore, do not fear that I shall forget either him or you, though I might possibly forget myself.
If before him I am cheerful, yet to myself I must complain. [Weeps] And that sound of festivity at the house adjoining is insupportable! especially when I reflect that a very small portion of what will be wasted there only this one night, would be sufficient to give my dear father liberty.
[A rapping at the door of her chamber, on theopposite entrance.]
Who's there?
Open the door. [Without.
The voice of our landlord. [Goes to the door.
Is it you, Mr. Blackman?
Yes, open the door. [Rapping louder.
What a time have you made me wait! – And in the name of wonder, why do you lock your door? Have you any thing to lose? Have not you already sold all the furniture you brought hither? And are you afraid of being stolen yourself?
Is this the chamber?
Yes, Sir, yes, Mr. Bluntly, this is it.
This! [Contemptuously.
Why yes, sir, – this is the only place I have left in my own house, since your master has been pleased to occupy that next door, while his own magnificent one has been repairing. – Lock yourself up, indeed! (Looking at Eleanor.) – You have been continually asking me for more rooms, Mr. Bluntly, and have not I made near half a dozen doors already from one house to the other, on purpose to accommodate your good family. – Upon my honour, I have not now a single chamber but what I have let to these lodgers, and what I have absolute occasion for myself.
And if you do put yourself to a little inconvenience, Mr. Blackman, surely my master —
Your master, Mr. Bluntly, is a very good man – a very generous man – and I hope at least he has found me a very lucky one; for good luck is all the recommendation which I, in my humble station, aspire to – and since I have been Sir George's attorney, I have gained him no less than two law-suits.
I know it. I know also that you have lost him four.
We'll drop the subject. – And in regard to this room, sir, it does not suit, you say?
No, for I feel the cold wind blow through every crevice.
But suppose I was to have it put a little
