Chapter 5

THE GENEROUS BEHAVIOUR OF SOPHIA TOWARDS HER AUNT

Sophia kept silence during the foregoing speech of her father, nor did she once answer otherwise than with a sigh; but as he understood none of the language, or, as he called it, lingo of the eyes, so he was not satisfied without some further approbation of his sentiments, which he now demanded of his daughter; telling her, in the usual way, “he expected she was ready to take the part of everybody against him, as she had always done that of the b—her mother.” Sophia remaining still silent, he cryed out, “What, art dumb? why dost unt speak? Was not thy mother a d—d b—to me? answer me that. What, I suppose you despise your father too, and don’t think him good enough to speak to?”

“For Heaven’s sake, sir,” answered Sophia, “do not give so cruel a turn to my silence. I am sure I would sooner die than be guilty of any disrespect towards you; but how can I venture to speak, when every word must either offend my dear papa, or convict me of the blackest ingratitude as well as impiety to the memory of the best of mothers; for such, I am certain, my mamma was always to me?”

“And your aunt, I suppose, is the best of sisters too!” replied the squire. “Will you be so kind as to allow that she is a b—? I may fairly insist upon that, I think?”

“Indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have great obligations to my aunt. She hath been a second mother to me.”

“And a second wife to me too,” returned Western; “so you will take her part too! You won’t confess that she hath acted the part of the vilest sister in the world?”

“Upon my word, sir,” cries Sophia, “I must belie my heart wickedly if I did. I know my aunt and you differ very much in your ways of thinking; but I have heard her a thousand times express the greatest affection for you; and I am convinced, so far from her being the worst sister in the world, there are very few who love a brother better.”

“The English of all which is,” answered the squire, “that I am in the wrong. Ay, certainly. Ay, to be sure the woman is in the right, and the man in the wrong always.”

“Pardon me, sir,” cries Sophia. “I do not say so.”

“What don’t you say?” answered the father: “you have the impudence to say she’s in the right: doth it not follow then of course that I am in the wrong? And perhaps I am in the wrong to suffer such a Presbyterian Hanoverian b—to come into my house. She may ’dite me of a plot for anything I know, and give my estate to the government.”

“So far, sir, from injuring you or your estate,” says Sophia, “if my aunt had died yesterday, I am convinced she would have left you her whole fortune.”

Whether Sophia intended it or not, I shall not presume to assert; but certain it is, these last words penetrated very deep into the ears of her father, and produced a much more sensible effect than all she had said before. He received the sound with much the same action as a man receives a bullet in his head. He started, staggered, and turned pale. After which he remained silent above a minute, and then began in the following hesitating manner: “Yesterday! she would have left me her esteate yesterday! would she? Why yesterday, of all the days in the year? I suppose if she dies to-morrow, she will leave it to somebody else, and perhaps out of the vamily.”—“My aunt, sir,” cries Sophia, “hath very violent passions, and I can’t answer what she may do under their influence.”

“You can’t!” returned the father: “and pray who hath been the occasion of putting her into those violent passions? Nay, who hath actually put her into them? Was not you and she hard at it before I came into the room? Besides, was not all our quarrel about you? I have not quarrelled with sister this many years but upon your account; and now you would throw the whole blame upon me, as thof I should be