The History of Sir Charles Grandison, Volume 4 (of 7)

Good God!—I am astonished at you, madam.

What signifies your astonishment?—when you have scared every body out of the house.

I, madam!

You, sir! Yes, you!—Did you not lord it over me in my dressing-room?– To be easy and quiet, did I not fly to our company in the drawing-room? Did you not follow me there—with looks—very pretty looks for a new-married man, I assure you! Then did you not want to take me aside— Would not anybody have supposed it was to express your sorrow for your odd behaviour? Was I not all obedience?—Did you not, with very mannish airs, slight me for my compliance, and fly out of the room? All the company could witness the calmness with which I returned to them, that they might not be grieved for me; nor think our misunderstanding a deep one. Well, then, when your stomach came down, as I supposed, you sent for me out: no doubt, thought I, to express his concern now.—I was all obedience again.

And did I not beseech you, madam—

Beseech me, my lord!—Yes—But with such looks!—I married, sir, let me tell you, a man with another face—See, see, Emily—He is gone again.—

My lord flew out of the room in a rage.—O these men, my dear! said she to Emily.

I know, said Emily, what I could have answered, if I dared: but it is ill meddling, as I have heard say, between man and wife.

Emily says, the quarrel was not made up; but was carried higher still in the morning.

She had but just finished her tale, when the following billet was brought me, from Lady G–:

***

TUESDAY MORNING

Harriet,

If you love me, if you pity me, come hither this instant: I have great need of your counsel. I am resolved to be unmarried; and therefore subscribe myself by the beloved name of

CHARLOTTE GRANDISON.

***

I instantly dispatched the following:

I Know no such person as Charlotte Grandison. I love Lady G–, but can pity only her lord. I will not come near you. I have no counsel to give you, but that you will not jest away your own happiness.

HARRIET BYRON.

***

In half an hour after, came a servant from Lady G– with the following letter:

So, then, I have made a blessed hand of wedlock. My brother gone: my man excessive unruly: Lord and Lady L– on his side, without inquiring into merits, or demerits: lectured by Dr. Bartlett's grave face: Emily standing aloof; her finger in her eye: and now my Harriet renouncing me: and all in one week!

What can I do?—War seems to be declared: and will you not turn mediatrix?—You won't, you say. Let it alone. Nevertheless, I will lay the whole matter before you.

It was last night, the week from the wedding-day not completed, that Lord G– thought fit to break into my retirement without my leave—By the way, he was a little impertinent at dinner-time; but that I passed over—

What boldness is this? said I—Pray, Sir, begone—Why leave you your company below?

I come, my dearest life! to make a request to you.

The man began with civility enough, had he had a little less of his odious rapture; for he flung his arms about me, Jenny in presence. A husband's fondness is enough to ruin these girls. Don't you think, Harriet, that there is an immorality in it, before them?

I refuse your request, be it what it will. How dare you invade me in my retirement?—You may believe, that I intended not to stay long above, my sister below. Does the ceremony, so lately past, authorize want of breeding?

Want of breeding, madam!—And he did so stare!

Leave me, this instant!—I looked good-natured, I suppose, in my anger; for he declared he would not; and again throwing his arms about me as I sat, joined his sharp face to mine, and presumed to kiss me; Jenny still in the room.

Now, Harriet, you never will desert me in a point of delicacy, I am sure. You cannot defend these odious freedoms in a matrimony so young, unless you would be willing to be served so yourself.

You may suppose, that then I let loose my indignation upon him. And he stole out, daring to mutter, and be displeased. The word devil was in his mouth.

Did he call me devil, Jenny?

No, indeed, madam, said the wench—And, Harriet, see the ill example of such a free behaviour before her: she presumed to prate in favour of the man's fit of fondness; yet, at other times, is a prude of a girl.

Before my anger was gone down, in again [It is truth, Harriet,] came the bold wretch. I will not, said he, as you are not particularly employed, leave you—Upon my soul, madam, you don't use me well. But if you will oblige me with your company tomorrow morning—

No where, Sir—

Only to breakfast with Miss Byron, my dear—As a mark of your obligingness, I request it.

His dear!—Now I hate a hypocrite, of all things. I knew that he had a design to make a shew of his bride, as his property, at another place; and seeing me angry, thought he would name a visit agreeable to me, and which at the same time would give him a merit with you, and preserve to himself the consequence of being obliged by his obedient wife, at the word of authority.

From this foolish beginning arose our mighty quarrel. What vexed me was, the art of the man, and the evident design he had to get you of his side. He, in the course of it, threatened me with appealing to you.—To intend to ruin me in the love of my dearest friend! Who, that valued that friend, could forgive it? You may believe, that if he had not proposed it, and after such accumulated offences, it was the very visit that I should have been delighted with.

Indeed, Sir—Upon my word, my lord—I do assure you, sir,—with a moderate degree of haughtiness—was what the quarrel arose to, on my side—And, at last, to a declaration of rebellion—I won't.

On his side, Upon my soul, madam—Let me perish, if—and then hesitating —You use me ill, madam. I have not deserved—And give me leave to say—

I insist upon being obliged, madam.

There was no bearing of this, Harriet.—It was a cool evening; but I took up my fan—Hey-day! said I, what language is this?—You insist upon it, my lord!—I think I am married; am I not?—And I took my watch, half an hour after ten on Monday night—the—what day of the month is this?– Please the lord, I will note down this beginning moment of your authoritative demeanour.

My dear Lady G–, [The wretch called me by his own name, perhaps farther to insult me,] if I could bear this treatment, it is impossible for me to love you as I do.

So it is in love to me, that you are to put on already all the husband!– Jenny! [Do you see, my lord, affecting a whisper, how you dash the poor wench? How like a fool she looks at our folly!] Remember, Jenny, that to-morrow morning you carry my wedding-suits to Mrs. Arnold; and tell her, she has forgot the hanging-sleeves to the gowns. Let her put them on out of hand.

I was proceeding—But he rudely, gravely, and even with an air of scorn, [There was no bearing that, you know,] admonished me. A little less wit, madam, and a little more discretion, would perhaps better become you.

This was too true to be forgiven. You'll say it, Harriet, if I don't. And to come from a man that was not overburdened with either—But I had too great a command of myself to say so. My dependence, my lord, [This I did say,] is upon your judgment: that will always be a balance to my wit; and, with the assistance of your reproving love, will in time teach me discretion.

Now, my dear, was not this a high compliment to him? Ought he not to have taken it as such? Especially as I looked grave, and dropt him a very fine courtesy. But either his conscience or his ill-nature, (perhaps you'll say both,) made him take it as a reflection, [True as you are alive, Harriet!] He bit his lip. Jenny, begone, said he—Jenny, don't go, said I—Jenny knew not which to obey. Upon my word, Harriet, I began to think the man would have cuffed me.—And while he was in his airs of mock-majesty, I stept to the door, and whipt down to my company.

As married people are not to expose themselves to their friends, (who I once heard you sagely remark, would remember disagreeable things, when the honest pair had forgotten them,) I was determined to be prudent. You would have been charmed with me, my dear, for my discretion. I will cheat by-standers, thought I; I will make my Lord and Lady L–, Dr. Bartlett, and Emily, whom I had before set in at cards, think we are egregiously happy—And down I sat, intending, with a lamb-like peaceableness, to make observations on the play. But soon after, in whipt my indiscreet lord, his colour heightened, his features working: and though I cautioned him not to expose himself, yet he assumed airs that were the occasion, as you shall hear, of frightening away my company. He withdrew, in consequence of those airs; and, after a little while, (repenting, as I hoped,) he sent for me out. Some wives would have played the queen Vashti on their tyrant, and refused to go: but I, all obedience, (my vow, so recently made, in my head,) obeyed, at the very first word: yet you must think that I (meek as I am naturally) could not help recriminating. He was too lordly to be expostulated with.– There was, 'I tell you, madam,' and 'I won't be told, sir;' and when I broke from the passionate creature, and hoped to find my company, behold! they were all gone! None but Emily left. And thus might poor Lady L– be sent home, weeping, perhaps, for such an early marriage-tyranny exerted on her meek sister.

Well, and don't you think that we looked like a couple of fools at each other, when we saw ourselves left alone, as I may say, to fight it out? I did expostulate with him as mildly as I could: he would have made it up with me afterwards; but, no! there was no doing that, as a girl of your nice notions may believe, after he had, by his violent airs, exposed us both before so many witnesses. In decency, therefore, I was obliged to keep it up: and now our misunderstanding blazes, and is at such a comfortable height, that if we meet by accident, we run away from each other by design. We have already made two breakfast-tables: yet I am meek; he is sullen: I make courtesies; he returns not bows.—Sullen creature, and a rustic!—I go to my harpsichord; melody enrages him. He is worse than Saul; for Saul could be gloomily pleased with the music even of the man he hated.