of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of
their general mischievousness, and was
wholly unsuspicious
of danger to her daughter from their machinations.
Her cautions were confined to the following points.
"I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up
very warm about the
throat, when you come from the rooms
at night; and I wish you would try to keep some
accountof the money you spend; I will give you this little book
on purpose.
Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common
gentility will reach the age of sixteen without altering
her name as far as she can?), must from situation be at this
time the
intimate friend and confidante of her sister.
It is
remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on
Catherine's
writing by every post, nor exacted her promise
of transmitting the
character of every new
acquaintance,
nor a detail of every interesting conversation that Bath
might produce. Everything indeed
relative to this
important journey was done, on the part of the Morlands,
with a degree of
moderation and
composure, which seemed
rather
consistent with the common feelings of common life,
than with the
refined susceptibilities, the tender
motion" target="_blank" title="n.感情;情绪;激动">
emotions which the first
separation of a heroine
from her family ought always to
excite. Her father,
instead of giving her an
unlimited order on his banker,
or even putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands,
gave her only ten guineas, and promosed her more when she
wanted it.
Under these unpromising auspices, the parting
took place, and the journey began. It was performed
with
suitable quietness and uneventful safety.
Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky
overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more
alarming occurred than a fear, on Mrs. Allen's side,
of having once left her clogs behind her at an inn,
and that
fortunately proved to be groundless.
They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager
delight--her eyes were here, there, everywhere, as they
approached its fine and
striking environs, and afterwards drove
through those streets which conducted them to the hotel.
She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already.
They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings
in Pulteney Street.
It is now
expedient to give some
description of
Mrs. Allen, that the reader may be able to judge in what
manner her actions will
hereafter tend to
promote the
general
distress of the work, and how she will, probably,
contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate
wretchedness of which a last
volume is capable--whether by
her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy--whether by intercepting
her letters, ruining her
character, or turning her out of doors.
Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females,
whose society can raise no other
motion" target="_blank" title="n.感情;情绪;激动">
emotion than surprise
at there being any men in the world who could like them
well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty,
genius,
accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman,
a great deal of quiet,
inactive good
temper, and a trifling
turn of mind were all that could
account for her being
the choice of a
sensible,
intelligent man like Mr. Allen.
In one respect she was
admirably fitted to introduce a
young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere
and
seeing everything herself as any young lady could be.
Dress was her
passion. She had a most
harmless delight
in being fine; and our heroine's entree into life could
not take place till after three or four days had been
spent in
learning what was
mostly worn, and her chaperone
was provided with a dress of the newest fashion.
Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all
these matters were arranged, the important evening came
which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. Her hair
was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on
with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she
looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement,
Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd.
As for
admiration, it was always very
welcome when it came,
but she did not depend on it.
Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter
the ballroom till late. The season was full, the room crowded,
and the two ladies squeezed in as well as they could.
As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the card-room,
and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more
care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort
of her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng
of men by the door, as
swiftly as the necessary caution
would allow; Catherine, however, kept close at her side,
and linked her arm too
firmly within her friend's to be torn
asunder by any common effort of a struggling assembly.
But to her utter
amazement she found that to proceed
along the room was by no means the way to disengage
themselves from the crowd; it seemed rather to increase
as they went on,
whereas she had imagined that when once
fairly within the door, they should easily find seats
and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience.
But this was far from being the case, and though by
unwearied
diligence they gained even the top of the room,
their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of
the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies.
Still they moved on--something better was yet in view;
and by a continued
exertion of strength and ingenuity
they found themselves at last in the passage behind
the highest bench. Here there was something less
of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a
comprehensive view of all the company beneath her,
and of all the dangers of her late passage through them.
It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first
time that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed
to dance, but she had not an
acquaintance in the room.
Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case
by
saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you
could dance, my dear--I wish you could get a
partner."
For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for
these wishes; but they were
repeated so often, and proved
so
totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last,
and would thank her no more.
They were not long able, however, to enjoy the
repose of the
eminence they had so laboriously gained.
Everybody was
shortly in
motion for tea, and they must
squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel
something of disappointment--she was tired of being
continually pressed against by people, the generality
of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with
all of whom she was so
wholly unacquainted that she
could not
relieve the irksomeness of
imprisonment by the
exchange of a
syllable with any of her fellow captives;
and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt
yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join,