The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 15

Miss Foster. Of which I entirely disapprove —

Barbara. And first there came out two of the most beautiful – the Royal livery, madam!

Miss Foster. Of course, of course: the Duke of York arrived last night. I trust you did not hail the Duke’s footmen?

Barbara. O no, madam, it was after they were gone. Then, who should come out – but you’ll never guess!

Miss Foster. I shall certainly not try.

Barbara. Mr. Menteith himself!

Miss Foster. Why, child, I never heard of him.

Barbara. O madam, not the Beau’s own gentleman?

Miss Foster. Mr. Austin’s servant. No? Is it possible? By that, George Austin must be here.

Barbara. No doubt of that, madam; they’re never far apart. He came out feeling his chin, madam, so; and a packet of letters under his arm, so; and he had the Beau’s own walk to that degree you couldn’t tell his back from his master’s.

Miss Foster. My dear Barbara, you too frequently forget yourself. A young woman in your position must beware of levity.

Barbara. Madam, I know it; but la, what are you to make of me? Look at the time and trouble dear Miss Dorothy was always taking – she that trained up everybody – and see what’s come of it: Barbara Ridley I was, and Barbara Ridley I am; and I don’t do with fashionable ways – I can’t do with them; and indeed, Miss Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were all back again on Edenside, and Mr. Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss Dorothy her old self, galloping the bay mare along the moor, and taking care of all of us as if she was our mother, bless her heart!

Miss Foster. Miss Dorothy herself, child? Well, now you mention it, Tunbridge of late has scarcely seemed to suit her constitution. She falls away, has not a word to throw at a dog, and is ridiculously pale. Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, after six months of infidelity, to the dear Wells, we shall all, I hope, be brightened up. Has the mail come?

Barbara. That it has, madam, and the sight of Mr. Menteith put it clean out of my head. (With letters.) Four for you, Miss Evelina, two for me, and only one for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy seems quite neglected, does she not? Six months ago, it was a different story.

Miss Foster. Well, and that’s true, Barbara, and I had not remarked it. I must take her seriously to task. No young lady in her position should neglect her correspondence. (Opening a letter.) Here’s from that dear ridiculous boy, the Cornet, announcing his arrival for to-day.

Barbara. O madam, will he come in his red coat?

Miss Foster. I could not conceive him missing such a chance. Youth, child, is always vain, and Mr. Anthony is unusually young.

Barbara. La, madam, he can’t help that.

Miss Foster. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. Anthony is a great concern to me. He was orphaned, to be sure, at ten years old; and ever since he has been only as it were his sister’s son. Dorothy did everything for him: more indeed than I thought quite ladylike, but I suppose I begin to be old-fashioned. See how she worked and slaved – yes, slaved! – for him: teaching him herself, with what pains and patience she only could reveal, and learning that she might be able; and see what he is now: a gentleman, of course, but, to be frank, a very commonplace one: not what I had hoped of Dorothy’s brother; not what I had dreamed of the heir of two families – Musgrave and Foster, child! Well, he may now meet Mr. Austin. He requires a Mr. Austin to embellish and correct his manners. (Opening another letter.) Why, Barbara, Mr. John Scrope and Miss Kate Dacre are to be married!

Barbara. La, madam, how nice!

Miss Foster. They are: as I’m a sinful woman. And when will you be married, Barbara? and when dear Dorothy? I hate to see old maids a-making.

Barbara. La, Miss Evelina, there’s no harm in an old maid.

Miss Foster. You speak like a fool, child: sour grapes are all very well, but it’s a woman’s business to be married. As for Dorothy, she is five-and-twenty, and she breaks my heart. Such a match, too! Ten thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the north, a most advantageous person, all the graces, the finest sensibility, excellent judgment, the Foster walk; and all these go positively a-begging! The men seem stricken with blindness. Why, child, when I came out (and I was the dear girl’s image!) I had more swains at my feet in a fortnight than our Dorothy in – O, I cannot fathom it: it must be the girl’s own fault.

Barbara. Why, madam, I did think it was a case with Mr. Austin.

Miss Foster. With Mr. Austin? why, how very rustic! The attentions of a gentleman like Mr. Austin, child, are not supposed to lead to matrimony. He is a feature of society: an ornament: a personage: a private gentleman by birth, but a kind of king by habit and reputation. What woman could he marry? Those to whom he might properly aspire are all too far below him. I have known George Austin too long, child, and I understand that the very greatness of his success condemns him to remain unmarried.

Barbara. Sure, madam, that must be tiresome for him.

Miss Foster. Some day, child, you will know better than to think so. George Austin, as I conceive him, and as he is regarded by the world, is one of the triumphs of the other sex. I walked my first minuet with him: I wouldn’t tell you the year, child, for worlds; but it was soon after his famous encounter with Colonel Villiers. He had killed his man, he wore pink and silver, was most elegantly pale, and the most ravishing creature!

Barbara. Well, madam, I believe that: he is the most beautiful gentleman still.

SCENE II

To these, Dorothy, L

Dorothy (entering). Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for me? (She goes eagerly to table and looks at letters.)

Miss Foster. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, Barbara.

Dorothy (with letter unopened). Nothing.

Miss Foster. And what do you call that, my dear? (Sitting.) Is John Fenwick nobody?

Dorothy (looking at letter). From John? O yes, so it is. (Lays letter down unopened, and sits to breakfast, Barbara waiting.)

Miss Foster (to Barbara, with plate). Thanks, child; now you may give me some tea. Dolly, I must insist on your eating a good breakfast: I cannot away with your pale cheeks and that Patience-on-a-Monument kind of look. (Toast, Barbara!) At Edenside you ate and drank and looked like Hebe. What have you done with your appetite?

Dorothy. I don’t know, aunt, I’m sure.

Miss Foster. Then consider, please, and recover it as soon as you can: to a young lady in your position a good appetite is an attraction – almost a virtue. Do you know that your brother arrives this morning?

Dorothy. Dear Anthony! Where is his letter, Aunt Evelina? I am pleased that he should leave London and its perils, if only for a day.

Miss Foster. My dear, there are moments when you positively amaze me. (Barbara, some p̢t̩, if you please!) I beg you not to be a prude. All women, of course, are virtuous; but a prude is something I regard with abhorrence. The Cornet is seeing life, which is exactly what he wanted. You brought him up surprisingly well; I have always admired you for it; but let us admit Рas women of the world, my dear Рit was no upbringing for a man. You and that fine solemn fellow, John Fenwick, led a life that was positively no better than the Middle Ages; and between the two of you poor Anthony (who, I am sure, was a most passive creature!) was so packed with principle and admonition that I vow and declare he reminded me of Issachar stooping between his two burdens. It was high time for him to be done with your apron-string, my dear: he has all his wild oats to sow; and that is an occupation which it is unwise to defer too long. By the bye, have you heard the news? The Duke of York has done us a service for which I was unprepared. (More tea, Barbara!) George Austin, bringing the prince in his train, is with us once more.

Dorothy. I knew he was coming.

Miss Foster. You knew, child? and did not tell? You are a public criminal.

Dorothy. I did not think it mattered, Aunt Evelina.

Miss Foster. O do not make-believe. I am in love with him myself, and have been any time since Nelson and the Nile. As for you, Dolly, since he went away six months ago, you have been positively in the megrims. I shall date your loss of appetite from George Austin’s vanishing. No, my dear, our family require entertainment: we must have wit about us, and beauty, and the bel air.

Barbara. Well, Miss Dorothy, perhaps it’s out of my place: but I do hope Mr. Austin will come: I should love to have him see my necklace on.

Dorothy. Necklace? what necklace? Did he give you a necklace?

Barbara. Yes, indeed, Miss, that he did; the very same day he drove you in his curricle to Penshurst. You remember, Miss, I couldn’t go.

Dorothy. I remember.

Miss Foster. And so do I. I had a touch of … Foster in the blood: the family gout, dears!.. And you, you ungrateful nymph, had him a whole day to yourself, and not a word to tell me when you returned.

Dorothy. I remember. (Rising.) Is that the necklace, Barbara? It does not suit you. Give it me.