Next day, Harriet was surprised by a morning visit from Mrs. Accleton, who came in looking much discomposed, and, after the first salutations, said in a tone of some bitterness, "I have met with a great misfortune, Miss Heathcote. I have lost that most valuable servant, Sally. The poor girl's pride was so deeply wounded at being obliged to bring in the waiter before company (and as her family is so respectable, she of course has a certain degree of proper pride), that she gave me notice this morning of the utter impossibility of her remaining in the house another day. I tried in vain to pacify her, and I assured her that your coming to tea was entirely accidental, and that such a thing might never happen again. All I could urge had no effect on her, and she persisted in saying that she never could stay in any place after her feelings had been hurt, and that she had concluded to live at home for the future, and take in sewing. So she quitted me at once, leaving me without a creature in the house, and I have been obliged to borrow mamma's Kitty for the present. And I have nearly fatigued myself to death by walking almost to Schuylkill to inquire the character of a cook that I heard of yesterday. As to a chambermaid, I never expect to find one that will replace poor Sally. She was so perfectly clean, and she clear-starched, and plaited, and ironed so beautifully; and when I went to a party, she could arrange my hair as well as a French barber, which was certainly a great saving to me. Undoubtedly, Miss Heathcote, your company is always pleasant, and we certainly spent a delightful evening, but if I had had the least intimation that you intended me the honour of a visit yesterday, I should have taken the liberty of requesting you to defer it till I had provided myself with a cook and a waiter. Poor Sally--and to think, too, that she had been ironing all day!"
Harriet was much vexed, and attempted an apology for her ill-timed visit. She finally succeeded in somewhat mollifying the lady by presenting her with some cake and wine as a refreshment after her fatigue, and Mrs. Accleton departed in rather a better humour, but still the burthen of her song was, "of course, Miss Heathcote, your visits must be always welcome--but it is certainly a sad thing to lose poor Sally."
Our heroine's next attempt at a sociable visit was to her friend Amanda Milbourne, the eldest daughter of a large family. As soon as Harriet made her entrance, the children, with all of whom she was a great favourite, gathered round, and informed her with delighted faces, that their father and mother were going to take them to the play. Harriet feared that again her visit had been ill-timed, and offered to return home. "On the contrary," said Mrs. Milbourne, "nothing can be more fortunate, at least for Amanda, who has declined accompanying us to the theatre, as her eyes are again out of order, and she is afraid of the lights. Therefore she will be extremely happy to have you spend the evening with her." "It is asking too much of Harriet's kindness," said Amanda, "to expect her to pass a dull evening alone with me; I fear I shall not be able to entertain her as I would wish. The place that was taken for me at the theatre will be vacant, and I am sure it would give you all great pleasure if Harriet would accept of it, and accompany you thither." This invitation was eagerly urged by Mr. and Mrs. Milbourne, and loudly reiterated by all the children, but Harriet had been at the theatre the preceding evening, the performances of to-night were exactly the same, and she was one of those that think "nothing so tedious as a twice-seen play," that is, if all the parts are filled precisely as before.
Mrs. Milbourne then again felicitated Amanda on being so fortunate as to have Miss Heathcote to pass the evening with her. "To say the truth,"
said the good mother, "I could scarcely reconcile myself to the idea of your staying at home, particularly as your eyes will not allow you to read or to sew this evening, and you could have no resource but the piano." Then turning to Harriet, she continued, "When her eyes are well, it may be truly remarked of Amanda, that she is one of those fortunate persons 'who are never less alone than when alone;' she often says so herself."
Accordingly Harriet was prevailed on to go through with her visit. And as soon as tea was over, all the Milbourne family (with the exception of Amanda) departed for the theatre.
Harriet produced her bead work, and endeavoured to be as amusing as possible, but her friend seemed silent, abstracted, and not in the vein for conversation, complaining at times of the pain in her eyes, which, however, looked as well as usual. Just after the departure of the family, Amanda stole softly to the front-door and put up the dead-latch, so that it could be opened from without. After that, she resumed her seat in the parlour, and appeared to be anxiously listening for something. The sound of footsteps was soon heard at the door, and presently a handsome young gentleman walked in without having rung the bell, and as he entered the parlour, stopped short, and looked disconcerted at finding a stranger there. Amanda blushed deeply, but rose and introduced him as Captain Sedbury of the army. Harriet then recollected having heard a vague report of an officer being very much in love with Miss Milbourne, and that her parents discountenanced his addresses, unwilling that the most beautiful and most accomplished of their daughters should marry a man who had no fortune but his commission.
The fact was, that Captain Sedbury, after an absence of several months at his station, had only arrived in town that morning, and finding means to notify his mistress of his return, it had been arranged between them that he should visit her in the evening, during the absence of the family, and for this purpose Amanda had excused herself from going to the theatre. He took his seat beside Amanda, who contrived to give him her hand behind the backs of their chairs, and attempted some general conversation, catching, at times, an opportunity of saying in a low voice a few words to the lady of his love, whose inclination was evidently to talk to him only.
Harriet Heathcote now found herself in a very awkward situation. On this occasion she was palpably what the French call _Madame de Trop_, a character which is irksome beyond all endurance to the lady herself, if she is a person of proper consideration for the convenience of others.
Though conscious that they were wishing her at least in Alabama, she felt much sympathy for the lovers, as she had a favoured inamorato of her own, who was now on his return from Canton. She talked, and their replies were tardy and _distrait_; she looked at them, and they were gazing at each other, and several times she found them earnestly engaged in a whisper. She felt as if on thorns, and became so nervous that she actually got the headache. The dullness of Mrs. Drakelow, the sick baby of Mrs. Rushbrook, the feuds of the Miss Brandons, the failure of Mr.
Celbridge, the music-practising of the Urlingfords, the maid Sally of the Accletons, had none of them at the time caused our heroine so much annoyance as she felt on this evening, from the idea that she was so inconveniently interrupting the stolen interview of two affianced lovers. At last she became too nervous to endure it any longer, and putting away her bead work, she expressed a desire to go home, pleading her headache as an excuse. Captain Sedbury started up with alacrity, and offered immediately to attend her. But Amanda, whose eyes had at first sparkled with delight, suddenly changed countenance, and begged Harriet to stay, saying, "You expect your brother, do you not?"
"Certainly," replied Harriet, "but as the distance is short, I hope it will be no great encroachment on Captain Sedbury's time. And then," she added with a smile, "he will of course return hither and finish his visit, after he has deposited me at my own door."
Amanda still hesitated. She recollected an instance of a friend of hers having lost her lover in consequence of his escorting home a pretty girl that made a "deadset" at him. And she was afraid to trust Captain Sedbury with so handsome a young lady as Miss Heathcote. Fortunately, however, Harriet removed this perplexity as soon as she guessed the cause. "Suppose," said she to Amanda, "that you were to accompany us yourself. It is a fine moonlight night, and I have no doubt the walk will do you good, as you say you have not been out for several days."
To this proposal Amanda joyfully assented, and in a moment her face was radiant with smiles. She ran up stairs for her walking equipments, and was down so quickly that Harriet had not much chance of throwing out any allurements in her absence, even if she had been so disposed. The captain gave an arm to each of the ladies, and in a short time the lovers bade Miss Heathcote good night at the door of her father's mansion.
Harriet now comprehended why her friend Amanda "was never less alone than when alone."
Three weeks afterwards, when Miss Milbourne and Captain Sedbury had effected a runaway marriage, and the parents had forgiven them according to custom, Amanda and her husband made themselves and Harriet very merry by good-humouredly telling her how much her accidental visit had incommoded them, and how glad they were to get rid of her.
We have only to relate one more instance of Harriet Heathcote's sociable visits. This was to her friends the Tanfields, a very charming family, consisting of a widow and her two daughters, whom she was certain of finding at home, because they were in deep mourning, and did not go out of an evening.
Harriet had been detained by a visiter, and it was nearly dark when she reached Mrs. Tanfield's door, and was told by the coloured man who opened it, that all his ladies had set out that morning for New York, having heard that young Mr. Tanfield (who lived in that city) was dangerously ill. Harriet was sorry that her friends should have received such painful intelligence, and for a few moments could think of nothing else, for she knew young Tanfield to be one of the best of sons and brothers. Her next consideration was how to get home, as there was no possibility of staying at Mrs. Tanfield's. Her residence was at a considerable distance, and "the gloomy night was gathering fast." She thought for a moment of asking Peters, the black man, to accompany her; but from the loud chattering and giggling that came up from the kitchen, (which seemed to be lighted with unusual brightness), and from having noticed, as she approached the house, that innumerable coloured people were trooping down the area-steps, she rightly concluded that Mrs.
Tanfield's servants had taken advantage of her absence to give a party, and that "high life below stairs" was at that moment performing.
Fearing that if she requested Peters to escort her, he would comply very ungraciously, or perhaps excuse himself, rather than be taken away from his company, Miss Heathcote concluded on essaying to walk home by herself, for the first time in her life, after lamplight. As she turned from the door, (which Peters immediately closed) she lingered awhile on the step, looking out upon the increasing gloom, and afraid to venture into it. However, as there seemed no alternative, she summoned all her courage, and set off at a brisk pace. Her intention was to walk quietly along without showing the slightest apprehension, but she involuntarily shrunk aside whenever she met any of the other sex. On suddenly encountering a row of young men, arm in arm, with each a segar in his mouth, she came to a full stop, and actually shook with terror. They all looked at her a moment, and then made way for her to pass, and she felt as if she could have plunged into the wall to avoid touching them.
Presently our heroine met three sailors reeling along, evidently intoxicated, and singing loudly. She kept as close as possible to the curbstone, expecting nothing else than to be rudely accosted by them, but they were too intent upon their song to notice her; though one of them staggered against her, and pushed her off the pavement, so as almost to throw her into the street.
Her way home lay directly in front of the Walnut Street Theatre, which she felt it impossible to pass, as the people were just crowding in. And she now blessed the plan of the city which enabled her to avoid this inconvenience by "going round a square." The change of route took her into a street comparatively silent and retired, and now her greatest fear was of being seized and robbed. She would have given the world to have met any gentleman of her acquaintance, determining, if she did so, to request his protection home. At last she perceived one approaching, whose appearance she thought was familiar to her, and as they came within the light of a lamp, she found it to be Mr. Morland, an intimate friend of her brother's. He looked at her with a scrutinizing glance, as if he half-recognised her features under the shade of her hood. Poor Harriet now felt ashamed and mortified that Mr. Morland should see her alone and unprotected, walking in the street after dark. She had not courage to utter a word, but, drawing her hood more closely over her face, she glided hastily past him, and walked rapidly on. She had no sooner turned the corner of the street, than she regretted having obeyed the impulse of the moment, lamenting her want of presence of mind, and reflecting how much better it would have been for her to have stopped Mr. Morland, and candidly explained to him her embarrassing situation.
But it was now too late.
Presently there was a cry of fire, and the State House bell tolled out north-east, which was exactly the contrary direction from Mr.
Heathcote's residence. Immediately an engine came thundering along the street, accompanied by a hose, and followed by several others, and Harriet found herself in the midst of the crowd and uproar, while the light of the torches carried by the firemen glared full upon her. But what had at first struck her with terror, she now perceived to be rather an advantage than otherwise, for no one noticed her in the general confusion, and it set every one to running the same way. She found, as she approached her father's dwelling, that there was no longer any danger of her being molested by man or boy, all being gone to the fire, and the streets nearly deserted. Anxious to get home at all hazards, she commenced running as fast as she could, and never stopped till she found herself at her own door.
The family were amazed and alarmed when they saw Harriet run into the parlour, pale, trembling, and almost breathless, and looking half dead as she threw herself on the sofa, unable to speak; and she did not recover from her agitation, till she had relieved the hurry of her spirits by a flood of tears.
It was some minutes before Harriet was sufficiently composed to begin an explanation of the events of the evening.
"It is true," said she, "that I have not been actually molested or insulted, and I believe, after all, that in our orderly city there is little real danger to be apprehended by females of respectable appearance, when reduced to the sad necessity of walking alone in the evening. But still the mere supposition, the bare possibility of being thus exposed to the rudeness of the vulgar and unfeeling, will for ever prevent me from again subjecting myself to so intolerable a situation. I know not what could induce me again to go through all I have suffered since I left Mrs. Tanfield's door.--And this will be my last attempt at sociable visiting."
We submit it to the opinion of our fair readers, whether, in nine cases out of ten, the visits of ladies do not "go off the better," if anticipated by some previous intimation. We believe that our position will be borne out by the experience both of the visiters and the visited. Our heroine, as we have seen, did not only, on most of these occasions, subject herself to much disappointment and annoyance, but she was likewise the cause of considerable inconvenience to her entertainers; and we can say with truth, that the little incidents we have selected "to point our moral and adorn our tale," are all sketched from life and reality.
COUNTRY LODGINGS.
"Chacun a son gout."--_French Proverb._
It has often been a subject of surprise to me, that so many even of those highly-gifted people who are fortunate enough to possess both sorts of sense (common and uncommon), show, nevertheless, on some occasions, a strange disinclination to be guided by the self-evident truth, that in all cases where the evil preponderates over the good, it is better to reject the whole than to endure a large portion of certain evil for the sake of a little sprinkling of probable good. I can think of nothing, just now, that will more aptly illustrate my position, than the practice so prevalent in the summer-months of quitting a commodious and comfortable home, in this most beautiful and convenient of cities, for the purpose of what is called boarding out of town; and wilfully encountering an assemblage of almost all "the ills that flesh is heir to," in the vain hope of finding superior coolness in those establishments that go under the denomination of country lodgings, and are sometimes to be met with in insulated locations, but generally in the unpaved and dusty streets of the villages and hamlets that are scattered about the vicinity of Philadelphia.
These places are adopted as substitutes for the springs or the sea-shore; and it is also not unusual for persons who have already accomplished the fashionable tour, to think it expedient to board out of town for the remainder of the summer, or till they are frightened home by the autumnal epidemics.
I have more than once been prevailed on to try this experiment, in the universal search after coolness which occupies so much of the attention of my fellow-citizens from June to September, and the result has been uniformly the same: a conviction that a mere residence beyond the limits of the city is not an infallible remedy for all the _desagremens_ of summer; that (to say nothing of other discomforts) it is possible to feel the heat more in a small house out of the town than in a large one in it.
The last time I was induced to make a trial of the delights of country lodgings, I had been told of a very genteel lady (the widow of an Englishman, said to have been highly connected in his own country), who had taken a charming house at a short distance from the city, with the intention of accommodating boarders for the summer; and I finally allowed myself to be prevailed on to become an inmate of her establishment, as I had just returned from the north, and found the weather still very warm.
Two of my friends, a lady and gentleman, accompanied me when I went to engage my apartment. The ride was a very short one, and we soon arrived at a white frame house with green window-shutters, and also a green gate which opened into a little front garden with one gravel walk, two grass plats, and four Lombardy poplar trees, which, though excluded in the city, still keep their ground in out-of-town places.
There was no knocker, but, after hammering and shaking the door for near five minutes, it was at last opened by a barefooted bound-girl, who hid herself behind it as if ashamed to be seen. She wore a ragged light calico frock, through the slits of which appeared at intervals a black stuff petticoat: the body was only kept together with pins, and partly concealed by a dirty cape of coarse white muslin; one lock of her long yellow hair was stuck up by the wreck of a horn comb, and the remaining tresses hung about her shoulders. When we inquired if Mrs. Netherby was at home, the girl scratched her head, and stared as if stupified by the question, and on its being repeated, she replied that "she would go and look," and then left us standing at the door. A coloured servant would have opened the parlour, ushered us in, and with smiles and curtsies requested us to be seated. However, we took the liberty of entering without invitation: and the room being perfectly dark, we also used the freedom of opening the shutters.
The floor was covered with a mat which fitted nowhere, and showed evidence of long service. Whatever air might have been introduced through the fire-place, was effectually excluded by a thick chimney-board, covered with a square of wall-paper representing King George IV. visiting his cameleopard. I afterwards found that Mrs.
Netherby was very proud of her husband's English origin. The mantel-piece was higher than our heads, and therefore the mirror that adorned it was too elevated to be of any use. This lofty shelf was also decorated with two pasteboard baskets, edged with gilt paper, and painted with bunches of calico-looking flowers, two fire-screens ditto, and two card-racks in the shape of harps with loose and crooked strings of gold thread. In the centre of the room stood an old-fashioned round tea-table, the feet black with age, and the top covered with one of those coarse unbleached cloths of figured linen that always look like dirty white. The curiosities of the centre-table consisted of a tumbler of marigolds: a dead souvenir which had been a living one in 1826: a scrap work-box stuck all over with figures of men, women, and children, which had been most wickedly cut out of engravings and deprived of their backgrounds for this purpose: an album with wishy-washy drawings and sickening verses: a china writing-apparatus, destitute alike of ink, sand, and wafers: and a card of the British consul, which, I afterwards learnt, had once been left by him for Mr. Netherby.
The walls were ornamented with enormous heads drawn in black crayon, and hung up in narrow gilt frames with bows of faded gauze riband. One head was inscribed Innocence, and had a crooked mouth; a second was Beneficence, with a crooked nose; and a third was Contemplation, with a prodigious swelling on one of her cheeks; and the fourth was Veneration, turning up two eyes of unequal size. The flesh of one of these heads looked like china, and another like satin; the third had the effect of velvet, and the fourth resembled plush.
All these things savoured of much unfounded pretension; but we did not then know that they were chiefly the work of Mrs. Netherby herself, who, as we learned in the sequel, had been blest with a boarding-school education, and was, according to her own opinion, a person of great taste and high polish.
It was a long time before the lady made her appearance, as we had arrived in the midst of the siesta in which it was the custom of every member of the establishment (servants included) to indulge themselves during the greatest part of the afternoon, with the exception of the bound-girl, who was left up to "mind the house." Mrs. Netherby was a tall, thin, sharp-faced woman, with an immense cap, that stood out all round, and encircled her head like a halo, and was embellished with an enormous quantity of yellowish gauze riband that seemed to incorporate with her huge yellow curls: fair hair being much affected by ladies who have survived all other fairness. She received us with abundance of smiles, and a profusion of flat compliments, uttered in a voice of affected softness; and on making known my business, I was conducted up-stairs to see a room which she said would suit me exactly. Mrs.
Netherby was what is called "a sweet woman."
The room was small, but looked tolerably well, and though I was not much prepossessed in favour of either the house or the lady, I was unwilling that my friends should think me too fastidious, and it was soon arranged that I should take possession the following day.
Next afternoon I arrived at my new quarters; and tea being ready soon after, I was introduced to the other boarders, as they came down from their respective apartments. The table was set in a place dignified with the title of "the dining-room," but which was in reality a sort of anti-kitchen, and located between the acknowledged kitchen and the parlour. It still retained vestiges of a dresser, part of which was entire, in the shape of the broad lower-shelf and the under-closets.
This was painted red, and Mrs. Netherby called it the side-board. The room was narrow, the ceiling was low, the sunbeams had shone full upon the windows the whole afternoon, and the heat was extreme. A mulatto man waited on the tea-table, with his coat out at elbows, and a marvellous dirty apron, not thinking it worth his while to wear good clothes in the country. And while he was tolerably attentive to every one else, he made a point of disregarding or disobeying every order given to him by Mrs.
Netherby: knowing that for so trifling a cause as disrespect to herself, she would not dare to dismiss him at the risk of getting no one in his place; it being always understood that servants confer a great favour on their employers when they condescend to go with them into the country.
Behind Mrs. Netherby's chair stood the long-haired bound girl (called Anna by her mistress, and Nance by Bingham the waiter), waving a green poplar branch by way of fly-brush, and awkwardly flirting it in every one's face.
The aspect of the tea-table was not inviting. Everything was in the smallest possible quantity that decency would allow. There was a plate of rye-bread, and a plate of wheat, and a basket of crackers: another plate with half a dozen paltry cakes that looked as if they had been bought under the old Court House: some morsels of dried beef on two little tea-cup plates, and a small glass dish of that preparation of curds, which in vulgar language is called smearcase, but whose _nom de guerre_ is cottage-cheese, at least that was the appellation given it by our hostess. The tea was so weak that it was difficult to discover whether it was black or green; but, finding it undrinkable, I requested a glass of milk: and when Bingham brought me one, Mrs. Netherby said with a smile, "See what it is to live in the country!" Though, after all, we were not out of sight of Christ Church steeple.
The company consisted of a lady with three very bad children; another with a very insipid daughter, about eighteen or twenty, who, like her mother, seemed utterly incapable of conversation; and a fat Mrs.
Pownsey, who talked an infinite deal of nothing, and soon took occasion to let me know that she had a very handsome house in the city. The gentlemen belonging to these ladies never came out till after tea, and returned to town early in the morning.
Towards sunset, I proposed taking a walk with the young lady, but she declined on account of the dew, and we returned to the parlour, where there was no light during the whole evening, as Mrs. Netherby declared that she thought nothing was more pleasant than to sit in a dark room in the summer. And when we caught a momentary glimpse from the candles that were carried past the door as the people went up and down stairs, we had the pleasure of finding that innumerable cockroaches were running over the floor and probably over our feet; these detestable insects having also a fancy for darkness.
The youngest of the mothers went up stairs to assist her maid in the arduous task of putting the children to bed, a business that occupied the whole evening; though the eldest boy stoutly refused to go at all, and stretching himself on the settee, he slept there till ten o'clock, when his father carried him off kicking and screaming.