plays [34]
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
to 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 rencounter 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
DOWN LETTER UNOPENED, AND SITS TO BREAKFAST, BARBARA WAITING.)
MISS FOSTER