FullReads

It is a pity, for the sake of our story, that Miss Warwick did not stay a few minutes longer at Mrs. Porett’s, that she might have heard this eulogium on Lady Frances Somerset, and might have, a second time in one day, discovered that she was on the very brink of meeting with the persons she most dreaded to see; but, however temptingly romantic such an incident would have been, we must, according to our duty as faithful historians, deliver a plain unvarnished tale.

Miss Warwick arrived at Mr. Beatson’s, and as soon as she had pronounced the name of Hodges, the printer called to his devil for a parcel of advertisements, which he put into her hand; they were proposals for printing by subscription a new novel–“The Sorrows of Araminta.”

“Oh, my Araminta! my amiable Araminta! have I found you at last?– The Sorrows of Araminta, a novel, in nine volumes –Oh, charming!– together with a tragedy on the same plan –Delightful!– Subscriptions received at Joseph Beatson’s, printer and bookseller; and by Rachael Hodges –Odious name!– at Mrs. Bertrand’s.”

” Bartrand! –There now you, do ye hear that? the lady lives at Mrs. Bartrand’s: how will you make out now that Bartrand begins with a p, and ends with a t, now?” said the hackney-coachman to Betty, who was standing at the door.

“Pertrant! why,” cried Betty, “what would you have?”

“Silence! O silence!” said Miss Warwick; and she continued reading–” Subscriptions received at Mrs. Bertrand’s.”

“Pertrant, you hear, plockhead, you Irishman!” cried Betty Williams.

“Bartrand–you have no ears, Welshwoman as you are!” retorted Terence O’Grady.

“Subscription two guineas, for the Sorrows of Araminta,” continued our heroine; but, looking up, she saw Betty Williams and the hackney-coachman making menacing faces and gestures at one another.

“Fight it out in the passage, for Heaven’s sake!” said Angelina; “if you must fight, fight out of my sight.”

“For shame, before the young lady!” said Mr. Beatson, holding the hackney-coachman: “have done disputing so loud.”

“I’ve done, but she is wrong,” cried Terence.

“I’ve done, put he is wrong,” said Betty.

Terence was so much provoked by the Welshwoman, that he declared he would not carry her a step further in his coach–that his beasts were tired, and that he must be paid his fare, for that he neither could nor would wait any longer. Betty Williams was desired by Angelina to pay him. She hesitated; but after being assured by Miss Warwick that the debt should be punctually discharged in a few hours, she acknowledged that she had silver enough “in a little box at the bottom of her pocket;” and, after much fumbling, she pulled out a snuff-box, which, she said, had been given to her by her “creat crandmother.”–Whilst she was paying the coachman, the printer’s devil observed one end of a piece of lace hanging out of her pocket; she had, by accident, pulled it out along with the snuff-box.

“And was this your great grandmother’s too?” said the printer’s devil, taking hold of the lace.

Betty started. Angelina was busy, making inquiries from the printer, and she did not see or hear what was passing close to her: the coachman was intent upon the examination of his shillings. Betty, with great assurance, reproved the printer’s devil for touching such lace with his plack fingers.

“‘Twas not my Grandmother’s–’tis the young lady’s,” said she: “let it pe, pray–look how you have placked it, and marked it, with plack fingers.”

She put the stolen lace hastily into her pocket, and immediately went out, as Miss Warwick desired, to call another coach.

Before we follow our heroine to Mrs. Bertrand’s, we must beg leave to go, and, if we can, to transport our readers with us, to Lady Frances Somerset’s house, at Clifton.

CHAPTER IV.

“Well, how I am to get up this hill again, Heaven knows!” said Lady Diana Chillingworth, who had been prevailed upon to walk down Clifton Hill to the Wells. “Heigho! that sister of mine, Lady Frances, walks, and talks, and laughs, and admires the beauties of nature till I’m half dead.”