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—
Pardon, Sir Charles Grandison! You are a good man, and it was kindly intended—
He was going on: anger from his eyes flashed upon his cheek-bones, and made them shine. My lady's eyes struck fire at Sir Harry, and shewed that she was not afraid of him.
Better intended, than done, interrupted I, since my lady tells me, that it was the occasion of a misunderstanding—But, sir, all will be right: my lady assures me, that you are not disinclined to comply with the contents; and she has the goodness—
Pray, Sir Charles, interrupted the lady—
To give me hopes that she—
Pray, Sir Charles—
Will use her interest to confirm you in your favourable sentiments—
Sir Harry cleared up at once—May I hope, madam—And offered to take her hand.
She withdrew it with an air. O Dr. Bartlett, I must have been thought an unpolite husband, had she been my wife!
I took her hand. Excuse this freedom, Sir Harry—For Heaven's sake, madam, (whispering,) do what I know you will do, with a grace—Shall there be a misunderstanding, and the husband court a refused hand?—I then forced her half-unwilling hand into his, with an air that I intended should have both freedom and respect in it.
What a man have we got here, Sir Harry? This cannot be the modest man, that you have praised to me—I thought a good man must of necessity be bashful, if not sheepish: and here your visitor is the boldest man in England.
The righteous, Lady Beauchamp, said Sir Harry, with an aspect but half-conceding, is bold as a lion.
And must I be compelled thus, and by such a man, to forgive you, Sir Harry?—Indeed you were very unkind.
And you, Lady Beauchamp, were very cruel.
I did not think, sir, when I laid my fortune at your feet—
O, Lady Beauchamp! You said cutting things! Very cutting things.
And did not you, Sir Harry, say, it should be so?—So very peremptorily!
Not, madam, till you, as peremptorily—
A little recrimination, thought I, there must be, to keep each in countenance on their past folly.
Ah, Sir Charles!—You may rejoice that you are not married, said Sir Harry.
Dear Sir Harry, said I, we must bear with ladies. They are meek good creatures—They—
Meek! Sir Charles, repeated Sir Harry, with a half-angry smile, and shrugging, as if his shoulder had been hurt with his wife's meekness— say, meek!
Now, Sir Charles Grandison, said my lady, with an air of threatening—
I was desirous either of turning the lady's displeasure into a jest, or of diverting it from the first object, in order to make her play with it, till she had lost it.
Women are of gentle natures, pursued I; and, being accustomed to be humoured, opposition sits not easy upon them. Are they not kind to us, Sir Harry, when they allow of our superiority, by expecting us to bear with their pretty perversenesses?
O, Sir Charles Grandison! said my lady; both her hands lifted up.
Let us be contented, proceeded I, with such their kind acknowledgments, and in pity to them, and in compliment to ourselves, bear with their foibles.—See, madam, I ever was an advocate for the ladies.
Sir Charles, I have no patience with you—
What can a poor woman do, continued I, when opposed? She can only be a little violent in words, and, when she has said as much as she chooses to say, be perhaps a little sullen. For my part, were I so happy as to call a woman mine, and she happened to be in the wrong, I would endeavour to be in the right, and trust to her good sense to recover her temper: arguments only beget arguments.—Those reconciliations are the most durable, in which the lady makes the advances.
What doctrine is this, Sir Charles! You are not the man I took you for. —I believe, in my conscience, that you are not near so good a man, as the world reports you.
What, madam, because I pretend to know a little of the sex? Surely, Lady Beauchamp, a man of common penetration may see to the bottom of a woman's heart. A cunning woman cannot hide it. A good woman will not. You are not, madam, such mysteries, as some of us think you. Whenever you know your own minds, we need not be long doubtful: that is all the difficulty: and I will vindicate you, as to that—
As how, pray, sir?
Women, madam, were designed to be dependent, as well as gentle, creatures; and, of consequence when left to their own wills, they know not what to resolve upon.
I was hoping, Sir Charles, just now, that you would stay to dinner: but if you talk at this rate, I believe I shall be ready to wish you out of the house.
Sir Harry looked as if he were half-willing to be diverted at what passed between his lady and me. It was better for me to say what he could not but subscribe to by his feeling, than for him to say it. Though reproof seldom amends a determined spirit, such a one as this lady's; yet a man who suffers by it cannot but have some joy when he hears his sentiments spoken by a bystander. This freedom of mine seemed to save the married pair a good deal of recrimination.
You remind me, madam, that I must be gone, rising and looking at my watch.
You must not leave us, Sir Charles, said Sir Harry.
I beg excuse, Sir Harry—Yours, also, madam, smiling—Lady Beauchamp must not twice wish me out of the house.
I will not excuse you, sir, replied she—If you have a desire to see the matter completed—She stopt—You must stay to dinner, be that as it will.
'Be that as it will,' madam!—You shall not recede.
Recede! I have not yet complied—
O these women! They are so used to courtship, that they know not how to do right things without it—And, pardon me, madam, not always with it.
Bold man—Have I consented—
Have you not, madam, given a lady's consent? That we men expect not to be very explicit, very gracious.—It is from such non-negative consents, that we men make silence answer all we wish.
I leave Sir Charles Grandison to manage this point, said Sir Harry. In my conscience, I think the common observation just: a stander-by sees more of the game, than he that plays.
It ever will be so, Sir Harry—But I will tell you, my lady and I have as good as agreed the matter—
I have agreed to nothing, Sir Harry—
Hush,
