consisted, like her own company, of two females and a guide. The two
parties proceeded three full miles together before any one offered
again to open their mouths; when our heroine, having pretty well got
the better of her fear (but yet being somewhat surprized that the
other still continued to attend her, as she pursued no great road, and
had already passed through several turnings), accosted the strange
lady in a most obliging tone, and said, "She was very happy to find
they were both travelling the same way." The other, who, like a ghost,
only wanted to be spoke to, readily answered, "That the happiness
was entirely hers; that she was a perfect stranger in that country,
and was so overjoyed at meeting a companion of her own sex, that she
had perhaps been guilty of an impertinence, which required great
apology, in keeping pace with her." More civilities passed between
these two ladies; for Mrs. Honour had now given place to the fine
habit of the stranger, and had fallen into the rear. But, though
Sophia had great curiosity to know why the other lady continued to
travel on through the same bye-roads with herself, nay, though this
gave her some uneasiness, yet fear, or modesty, or some other
consideration, restrained her from asking the question.
The strange lady now laboured under a difficulty which appears
almost below the dignity of history to mention. Her bonnet had been
blown from her head not less than five times within the last mile; nor
could she come at any ribbon or handkerchief to tie it under her chin.
When Sophia was informed of this, she immediately supplied her with
a handkerchief for this purpose; which while she was pulling from
her pocket, she perhaps too much neglected the management of her
horse, for the beast, now unluckily making a false step, fell upon his
fore-legs, and threw his fair rider from his back.
Though Sophia came head foremost to the ground, she happily received
not the least damage: and the same circumstances which had perhaps
contributed to her fall now preserved her from confusion; for the lane
which they were then passing was narrow, and very much overgrown
with trees, so that the moon could here afford very little light,
and was moreover, at present, so obscured in a cloud, that it was
almost perfectly dark. By these means the young lady's modesty,
which was extremely delicate, escaped as free from injury as her
limbs, and she was once more reinstated in her saddle, having received
no other harm than a little fright by her fall.
Daylight at length appeared in its full lustre; and now the two
ladies, who were riding over a common side by side, looking stedfastly
at each other, at the same moment both their eyes became fixed; both
their horses stopt, and, both speaking together, with equal joy
pronounced, the one the name of Sophia, the other that of Harriet.
This unexpected encounter surprized the ladies much more than I
believe it will the sagacious reader, who must have imagined that
the strange lady could be no other than Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the cousin
of Miss Western, whom we before mentioned to have sallied from the inn
a few minutes after her.
So great was the surprize and joy which these two cousins
conceived at this meeting (for they had formerly been most intimate
acquaintance and friends, and had long lived together with their
aunt Western), that it is impossible to recount half the
congratulations which passed between them, before either asked a
very natural question of the other, namely, whither she was going?
This at last, however, came first from Mrs. Fitzpatrick; but, easy
and natural as the question may seem, Sophia found it difficult to
give it a very ready and certain answer. She begged her cousin
therefore to suspend all curiosity till they arrived at some inn,
"which I suppose," says she, "can hardly be far distant; and,
believe me, Harriet, I suspend as much curiosity on my side; for,
indeed, I believe our astonishment is pretty equal."
The conversation which passed between these ladies on the road
was, I apprehend, little worth relating; and less certainly was that
between the two waiting-women; for they likewise began to pay their
compliments to each other. As for the guides, they were debarred
from the pleasure of discourse, the one being placed in the van, and
the other obliged to bring up the rear.
In this posture they travelled many hours, till they came into a
wide and well-beaten road, which, as they turned to the right, soon
brought them to a very fair promising inn, where they all alighted:
but so fatigued was Sophia, that as she had sat her horse during the
last five or six miles with great difficulty, so was she now incapable
of dismounting from him without assistance. This the landlord, who had
hold of her horse, presently perceiving, offered to lift her in his
arms from her saddle; and she too readily accepted the tender of his
service. Indeed fortune seems to have resolved to put Sophia to the
blush that day, and the second malicious attempt succeeded better than
the first; for my landlord had no sooner received the young lady in
his arms, than his feet, which the gout had lately very severely
handled, gave way, and down he tumbled; but, at the same time, with no
less dexterity than gallantry, contrived to throw himself under his
charming burden, so that he alone received any bruise from the fall;
for the great injury which happened to Sophia was a violent shock
given to her modesty by an immoderate grin, which, at her rising
from the ground, she observed in the countenances of most of the
bye-standers. This made her suspect what had really happened, and what
we shall not here relate, for the indulgence of those readers who
are capable of laughing at the offence given to a young lady's
delicacy. Accidents of this kind we have never regarded in a comical
light; nor will we scruple to say, that he must have a very inadequate
idea of the modesty of a beautiful young woman, who would wish to
sacrifice it to so paltry a satisfaction as can arise from laughter.
This fright and shock, joined to the violent fatigue which both
her mind and body had undergone, almost overcame the excellent
constitution of Sophia, and she had scarce strength sufficient to
totter into the inn, leaning on the arm of her maid. Here she was no
sooner seated than she called for a glass of water; but Mrs. Honour,
very judiciously, in my opinion, changed it into a glass of wine.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, hearing from Mrs. Honour that Sophia had not
been in bed during the two last nights, and observing her to look very
pale and wan with her fatigue, earnestly entreated her to refresh
herself with some sleep. She was yet a stranger to her history, or her
apprehensions; but, had she known both, she would have given the
same advice; for rest was visibly necessary for her; and their long
journey through bye-roads so entirely removed all danger of pursuit,
that she was herself perfectly easy on that account.
Sophia was easily prevailed on to follow the counsel of her
friend, which was heartily seconded by her maid. Mrs. Fitzpatrick
likewise offered to bear her cousin company, which Sophia, with much
complacence, accepted.
The mistress was no sooner in bed than the maid prepared to follow
her example. She began to make many apologies to her sister Abigail
for leaving her alone in so horrid a place as an inn; but the other
stopt her short, being as well inclined to a nap as herself, and
desired the honour of being her bedfellow. Sophia's maid agreed to
give her a share of her bed, but put in her claim to all the honour.
So, after many courtsies and compliments, to bed together went the
waiting-women, as their mistresses had done before them.
It was usual with my landlord (as indeed it is with the whole
fraternity) to enquire particularly of all coachmen, footmen,
post-boys, and others, into the names of all his guests; what their
estate was, and where it lay. It cannot therefore be wondered at, that
the many particular circumstances which attended our travellers, and
especially their retiring all to sleep at so extraordinary and unusual
an hour as ten in the morning, should excite his curiosity. As soon,
therefore, as the guides entered the kitchen, he began to examine who
the ladies were, and whence they came; but the guides, though they
faithfully related all they knew, gave him very little satisfaction.
On the contrary, they rather enflamed his curiosity than extinguished
it.
This landlord had the character, among all his neighbours, of
being a very sagacious fellow. He was thought to see farther and
deeper into things than any man in the parish, the parson himself
not excepted. Perhaps his look had contributed not a little to procure
him this reputation; for there was in this something wonderfully
wise and significant, especially when he had a pipe in his mouth;
which, indeed, he seldom was without. His behaviour, likewise, greatly
assisted in promoting the opinion of his wisdom. In his deportment
he was solemn, if not sullen; and when he spoke, which was seldom,
he always delivered himself in a slow voice; and, though sentences
were short, they were still interrupted with many hums and ha's, ay
ays, and other expletives: so that, though he accompanied his words
with certain explanatory gestures, such as shaking or nodding the
head, or pointing with his fore-finger, he generally left his
hearers to understand more than he expressed; nay, he commonly gave
them a hint that he knew much more than he thought proper to disclose.
This last circumstance alone may, indeed, very well account for his
character of wisdom; since men are strangely inclined to worship
what they do not understand. A grand secret, upon which several
imposers on mankind have totally relied for the success of their
frauds.
This polite person, now taking his wife aside, asked her "what she
thought of the ladies lately arrived?" "Think of them?" said the wife,
why, what should I think of them?" "I know," answered he, "what I
think. The guides tell strange stories. One pretends to be come from
Gloucester, and the other from Upton; and neither of them, for what
I can find, can tell whither they are going. But what people ever
travel across the country from Upton hither, especially to London? And
one of the maidservants, before she alighted from her horse, asked
if this was not the London road? Now I have put all these
circumstances together, and whom do you think I have found them out to
be?" "Nay," answered she, "you know I never pretend to guess at your
discoveries."-- "It is a good girl," replied he, chucking her under
the chin; "I must own you have always submitted to my knowledge of
these matters. Why, then, depend upon it; mind what I say- depend
upon it, they are certainly some of the rebel ladies, who, they say,
travel with the young Chevalier; and have taken a round-about way to
escape the duke's army."
"Husband," quoth the wife," you have certainly hit it; for one of
them is dressed as fine as any princess; and, to be sure, she looks
for all the world like one.-- But yet, when I consider one thing"--
"When you consider," cries the landlord contemptuously-- "Come, pray
let's hear what you consider."-- "Why, it is," answered the wife,
"that she is too humble to be any very great lady: for, while our
Betty was warming the bed, she called her nothing but child, and my
dear, and sweetheart; and, when Betty offered to pull off her shoes
and stockings, she would not suffer her, saying, she would not give
her the trouble."
"Pugh!" answered the husband, "that is nothing. Dost think,
because you have seen some great ladies rude and uncivil to persons
below them, that none of them know how to behave themselves when
they come before their inferiors? I think I know people of fashion
when I see them- I think I do. Did not she call for a glass of water
when she came in? Another sort of women would have called for a
dram; you know they would. If she be not a woman of very great
quality, sell me for a fool; and, I believe, those who buy me will
have a bad bargain. Now, would a woman of her quality travel without a
footman, unless upon some such extraordinary occasion?" "Nay, to be
sure, husband," cries she, "you know these matters better than I, or
most folk." "I think I do know something," said he. "To be sure,"
answered the wife, "the poor little heart looked so piteous, when
she sat down in the chair, I protest I could not help having a
compassion for her almost as much as if she had been a poor body.
But what's to be done, husband? If an she be a rebel, I suppose you
intend to betray her up to the court. Well, she's a sweet-tempered,
good-humoured lady, be she what she will, and I shall hardly refrain
from crying when I hear she is hanged or beheaded." "Pooh!" answered
the husband.-- "But, as to what's to be done, it is not so easy a
matter to determine. I hope, before she goes away, we shall have the
news of a battle; for, if the Chevalier should get the better, she may
gain us interest at court, and make our fortunes without betraying
her." "Why, that's true," replied the wife; "and I heartily hope she
will have it in her power. Certainly she's a sweet good lady; it would
go horribly against me to have her come to any harm." "Pooh!" cries
the landlord, "women are always so tenderhearted. Why, you would not
harbour rebels, would you?" "No, certainly," answered the wife; "and
as for betraying her, come what will on't, nobody can blame us. It
is what anybody would do in our case."
While our politic landlord, who had not, we see, undeservedly the
reputation of great wisdom among his neighbours, was engaged in
debating this matter with himself (for he paid little attention to the
