I liked the lodging well; and the more as she said the third room was still handsomer. I must sit down, Madam, (and chose the darkest part of the room): Won’t you take a seat yourself?—No price shall part us—but I will leave the terms to you and my wife, if you please. And also whether for board or not. Only please to take this for earnest, putting a guinea into her hand—and one thing I will say; my poor wife loves money; but is not an ill-natured woman. She was a great fortune to me: but, as the real estate goes away at her death, I would fain preserve her for that reason, as well as for the love I bear her as an honest man. But if she makes too close a bargain with you, tell me; and, unknown to her, I will make it up. This is my constant way: she loves to have her pen’orths; and I would not have her vexed or made uneasy on any account.
She said, I was a very considerate gentleman; and, upon the condition I had mentioned, she was content to leave the terms to my lady.
But, Madam, cannot a body just peep into the other apartment; that I may be more particular to my wife in the furniture of it?
The lady desires to be private, Sir—but—and was going to ask her leave.
I caught hold of her arm—However, stay, stay, Madam: it mayn’t be proper, if the lady loves to be private. Don’t let me intrude upon the lady—
No intrusion, Sir, I dare say: the lady is good-humoured. She will be so kind as to step down into the parlour, I dare say. As she stays so little a while, I am sure she will not wish to stand in my way.
No, Madam, that’s true, if she be good-humoured, as you say—Has she been with you long, Madam?
She came but yesterday, Sir—
I believe I just now saw the glimpse of her. She seems to be an elderly lady.
No, Sir! you’re mistaken. She’s a young lady; and one of the handsomest I ever saw.
Cot so, I beg her pardon! Not but that I should have liked her the better, were she to stay longer, if she had been elderly. I have a strange taste, Madam, you’ll say; but I really, for my wife’s sake, love every elderly woman. Indeed I ever thought age was to be reverenced, which made me (taking the fortune into the scale too, that I own) make my addresses to my present dear.
Very good of you, Sir, to respect age: we all hope to live to be old.
Right, Madam.—But you say the lady is beautiful. Now you must know, that though I choose to converse with the elderly, yet I love to see a beautiful young woman, just as I love to see fine flowers in a garden. There’s no casting an eye upon her, is there, without her notice? For in this dress, and thus muffled up about my jaws, I should not care to be seen any more than she, let her love privacy as much as she will.
I will go and ask if I may show a gentleman the apartment, Sir; and, as you are a married gentleman, and not over young, she’ll perhaps make the less scruple.
Then, like me, she loves elderly folks best perhaps. But it may be she has suffered by young ones.
I fancy she has, Sir, or is afraid she shall. She desired to be very private; and if by description inquired after, to be denied.
Thou art a true woman, goody Moore, thought I.
Good lack—good lack!—What may be her story then, I pray?
She is pretty reserved in her story: but, to tell you my thoughts, I believe love is in the case: she is always in tears, and does not much care for company.
Nay, Madam, it becomes not me to dive into ladies’ secrets; I want not to pry into other people’s affairs. But, pray, how does she employ herself?—Yet she came but yesterday; so you can’t tell.
Writing continually, Sir.
These women, Jack, when you ask them questions by way of information, don’t care to be ignorant of anything.
Nay, excuse me, Madam, I am very far from being an inquisitive man. But if her case be difficult, and not merely love, as she is a friend of yours, I would give her my advice.
Then you are a lawyer, Sir—
Why, indeed, Madam, I was some time at the bar; but I have long left practice; yet am much consulted by my friends in difficult points. In a pauper case I frequently give money; but never take any from the richest.
You are a very good gentleman, then, Sir.
Ay, Madam, we cannot live always here; and we ought to do what good we can—but I hate to appear officious. If the lady stay any time, and think fit, upon better acquaintance, to let me into her case, it may be a happy day for her, if I find it a just one; for, you must know, that when I was at the bar, I never was such a sad fellow as to undertake, for the sake of a paltry fee, to make white black, and black white: For what would that have been, but to endeavour to establish iniquity by quirks, while I robbed the innocent?
You are an excellent gentleman, Sir: I wish (and then she sighed) I had had the happiness to know there was such a lawyer in the world; and to have been acquainted with him.
Come, come, Mrs. Moore, I think your name is, it may not be too late—when you and I are better acquainted, I may help you perhaps.—But mention nothing of this
