The Life and Legacy of Harriette Wilson. Harriette Wilson
scolding furnished me with so much entertainment, that I purposely neglected his bills, knowing his high charges and how well he could afford to give long credit. He came into the room, with a firmer step than usual and his bow was more stately.
"Your sarvant, Miss."
"Smith," said I, "those bills were paid to-day, I hope?"
Smith shook his head. "Too bad, too bad, Miss, upon my word!"
I laughed.
"You are a pretty creature!" said Smith, drawing in his breath, his amorous feelings for an instant driving the bills out of his head, and then added hastily, with an altered expression of countenance, "But you really must pay your bills!"
"You don't say so?"
"If," continued Smith earnestly; "if you had but ha' let me ha knode, you see; but, in this way, you hurt my credit in the City."
"What signifies having credit, in such a vulgar place as that?"
"You talk like a child," exclaimed Smith impatiently.
"Come," said I to Smith, "hand out your stamps."
"And Miss, do you expect me to find you in stamps too?"
I laughed.
"But," continued Smith, growing enthusiastic all at once, "you look so beautiful and charming in your little blue satin dress. You bought that satin of me I think? Ah, yes, I remember—you do look so pretty, and so tempting, and so, so—oh Lord."
"Mr. Smith, I really will speak to Mrs. Smith, if you will go into these sort of raptures."
"Beg you pardon, beg your pardon! Have got a curious little article here to show you" (pulling something from his breeches pocket, which proved to be some embroidered, covered buttons). "Beg your pardon, but, bless you! You are so well made you see, about here"—touching his own breast. "There is never a one of your sisters like you, about here. I always said it. Hay? hay? I was a saying so, you see, to my young man yesterday when you came into the shop. Now, there's Miss Sophy, pretty creature too! very, but, Oh, Lord! you beat them all, just about here."
"Mr. Smith, I really must send a note to your wife to-morrow."
"Oh, no! I am sure you wont. You would not be so hard-hearted." He then proceeded, in a whisper, "The fact is, there's never a man in England as don't have a bit of frolic; only they doesn't know it you see. Pretty hair!—-"
"Mr. Smith, if you meddle with my hair, I shall seriously be angry, and ring for my servant."
"Beg pardon.—Thousands of pardons—It's the worst of me, I'm so imperdent, you see!—can't help it—been so from child—never could keep my hands off a fine woman! and Mrs. Smith is confined, you see: that's one thing! Hay? Hay? but it shan't happen again. Now about those here bills? If I draw you up two more, now, will you really give me your word they shall be paid?"
"No," answered I.
"You wont?"
"No!"
"Then I'll tell you what, Miss! I can't say as you treat me exactly like a lady, and—now don't laugh—oh, you sly, pretty rogue!—Hay? Hay? Beg pardon—it's my own fault, you see. So very imperdent! Come, I'll draw up these here bills."
He began writing, and I laughed at him again. He shook his head at me. "Sad doings, Miss, these here bills being returned."
"It's the worst of me," said I, mimicking his manner. "It's the worst of me, that I never do pay my bills. Have been so from a child!"
Lord Ponsonby's well-known rap at the door occasioned Smith to be bundled into the street, bills and all, without the slightest ceremony.
I have, I believe, already said that I would not dwell much on that period of my life, which I passed so happily with Lord Ponsonby and which lasted, I think, three years. Lord Rivers used to say to me, "Your little light feet seem scarcely to touch the earth, as though you could almost fly!"
Happiness is a stupid subject to write upon, therefore I will revert to that of the present Lady Berwick, whom I often visited after she took possession of the poor humble lodging which Deerhurst's parsimony had provided for her. First, however, the respect I feel for the memory of a most tender parent, makes me anxious that she should be acquitted from every shadow of blame which might, by some perhaps, be imputed to her, in consequence of her daughters' errors and the life they fell into.
My mother was a natural daughter of a country gentleman, of great respectability and good estate, Mr. Cheney. His only son, General Cheney, was an old guardsman, and died some few years ago. The late Lady Frederick Campbell, aunt of his grace the Duke of Argyle, was so struck with the beauty of my mother as to adopt her and bring her up as her own child. After her marriage, her ladyship still continued her friendship and, indeed, almost up to the time of the very lamented death of that amiable lady.
I remember the ceremony of our being all dressed up in our best frocks to go out of town and pass the day with her ladyship, who was kind enough to stand godmother to my eldest sister. My mother was the most beautiful woman, and possessed the finest and most benevolent countenance, I have ever seen in my whole life. Her education had been carefully attended to by Lady Frederick, and she possessed a most excellent understanding; but, marrying so very young a man more than twenty years her senior, and being remarkably meek and gentle, she acquired such a habit of blind submission to his will, that at home she was more like our sister than our parent. She was powerless to contribute either to our good or our comfort in any one thing which did not suit my father's humour. Having no fortune to bestow on us, she gave us the best education in her power; and, what ought to have done us still more good, she ever set us the very best example; for she was not only virtuous, but patient, industrious, and invariably amiable in her temper. She was the mother of fifteen children, when she died lamented and respected by every one who knew her.
Our home was truly uncomfortable; but my dearest mother ever made it the study of her life to contribute to the ease and welfare of her family.
This, as I have said before, is not a complete confession; but nothing is stated of consequence to any individual which is not strictly true.
When I called on Sophia I generally found two or three beaux talking nonsense to her. Among them, Henry De Roos was the most favoured. Sophia appeared to dislike Lord Deerhurst of all things, and complained that he was unusually sparing of soap and water at his toilette.
"He dresses completely," said Sophia, "before he touches water; and, being equipped, he wets a very dirty hair-brush and draws it over his head; and this is what he calls washing it—and then, having thus washed his hands and face, he says that he feels fresh and comfortable."
One day Deerhurst insisted on my accompanying him and Sophia in his curricle, to go out of town somewhere to dinner.
"Three in a curricle?" said Sophia.
"Oh, it is no matter at this time of the year;" Deerhurst replied.
I inquired where we should dine.
Deerhurst named some small place about eight miles from town, but I have forgotten what he called it. He took us to a common village pot-house, where nothing could be put on the table besides fried eggs and bacon.
"Most excellent!" exclaimed Deerhurst, "an exquisite dish—and so very rural!"
Our rural dinner was soon despatched; and, as I could not endure the strong smell of tobacco, which issued in copious fumes from the tap-room, I proposed returning to town as fast as possible.
Sophia, who always agreed with everybody, was asked first by Deerhurst if eggs and bacon were not a delightful dish.
She answered, "Very much so indeed."
I then asked her if it were not enough to make us sick on such a hot day.
To which her reply was "I am quite sick already."
In coming home, Deerhurst put his horses all at once into a full gallop as we drew near the turnpike, bent on the noble triumph of cheating—I