Tales and Novels, Vol. VII by Maria Edgeworth

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Tales and Novels, Vol. VII

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Triumphant from the consciousness of having hitherto had all the wit on her
side, Lady Jane looked round, and continued: "Though I don't pretend to
draw my maxims from books, yet this much I do know, that in matrimony, let
people have ever so much sense, and merit, and love, and all that, they
must have bread and butter into the bargain, or it won't do."

"Certainly," said Mrs. Percy: "under that head I suppose you include all
the necessaries of life."

"And some of the luxuries, if you please; for in these days luxuries are
become necessaries."

"A barouche and four, for instance?" said Mrs. Percy.

"Oh! no, no--my dear madam, I speak within bounds; you cannot expect a
barouche and four for girls who have nothing."

"I expect it as little as I wish it for them," said Mrs. Percy, smiling;
"and as little as my daughters, I believe, desire it."

"But if such a thing should offer, I presume you would not wish that
Rosamond or Caroline should refuse?"

"That depends upon _who_ offers it," said Mrs. Percy. "But whatever my
wishes might be, I should, as I believe I safely may, leave my daughters
entirely at liberty to judge and decide for themselves."

"Yes, I believe you safely may," said Lady Jane, "as long as you keep them
here. You might as well talk of leaving them at liberty in the deserts of
Arabia. You don't expect that knights and squires should come hither in
quest of your damsels?"

"Then you would have the damsels sally forth in quest of the knights and
squires?" said Mr. Percy.

"Let them sally forth at any rate," said Lady Jane, laughing; nobody has
a right to ask in quest of what. We are not now in the times of ancient
romance, when young ladies were to sit straight-laced at their looms, or
never to stir farther than to their bower windows."

"Young ladies must now go a great deal farther," said Mr. Percy, "before
the discourteous knights will deign to take any notice of them."

"Ay, indeed, it is shameful!" said Lady Jane sighing. "I declare it is
shameful!" repeated she, indignantly. "Do you know, that last winter at
Bath the ladies were forced to ask the gentlemen to dance?"

"Forced?" said Mr. Percy.

"Yes, forced!" said Lady Jane, "or else they must have sat still all night
like so many simpletons."

"Sad alternative!" said Mr. Percy; "and what is worse, I understand that
partners for life are scarcely to be had on easier terms; at least so I
am informed by one of your excellent modern mothers, Mrs. Chatterton, who
has been leading her three _gawky_ graces about from one watering-place to
another these six years, fishing, and hunting, and hawking for husbands.
'There now! I have carried my girls to Bath, and to London, and to
Tunbridge, and to Weymouth, and to Cheltenham, and every where; I am sure I
can do no more for them.' I assure you," continued Mr. Percy, "I have heard
Mrs. Chatterton say these very words in a room full of company."

"In a room full of company? Shocking!" said Lady Jane. "But then poor
Mrs. Chatterton is a fool, you know; and, what is worse, not _well
mannered_,--how should she? But I flatter myself, if you will trust me
with your daughter Caroline, we should manage matters rather better. Now
let me tell you my plan. My plan is to take Caroline with me immediately
to Tunbridge, previous to her London campaign. Nothing can be a greater
mistake than to keep a young lady _up_, and prevent her being seen till the
moment when she is to be brought out: it is of incalculable advantage that,
previously to her appearance in the great world, she should have been seen
by certain fashionable _proneurs_. It is essential that certain reports
respecting her accomplishments and connexions should have had time to
circulate properly."

All this Mr. and Mrs. Percy acknowledged, in as unqualified a manner as
Lady Jane could desire, was fit and necessary to secure what is called a
young lady's success in the fashionable world; but they said that it was
not their object to _dispose of their daughters_, as it is called, _to the
best advantage_. The arts which are commonly practised for this purpose
they thought not only indelicate, but ultimately impolitic and absurd; for
men in general are now so well aware of them, that they avoid the snares,
and ridicule and detest those by whom they are contrived. If, now and then,
a dupe be found, still the chance is, that the match so made turns out
unhappily; at best, attachments formed in public places, and in the hurry
of a town life, can seldom be founded on any real knowledge of character,
or suitableness of taste and temper. "It is much more probable," added Mrs.
Percy, "that happy marriages should be made where people have leisure
and opportunities of becoming really and intimately acquainted with each
other's dispositions."

"Vastly well!" said Lady Jane: "so you mean to bury your daughters in the
country--to shut them up, at least--all the days of their unfortunate
lives?"

Mr. and Mrs. Percy, both at the same moment, eagerly declared that they
had no such absurd or cruel intention towards their daughters. "On the
contrary," said Mr. Percy, "we shall take every proper occasion, that our
present fortune and situation will allow, of letting them see agreeable and
sensible persons."

"Are they to spring out of the ground, these agreeable and sensible
persons?" said Lady Jane. "Whom do you see in this desert, or expect to
see?"

"We see your ladyship, in the first place," said Mr. Percy: "you cannot
therefore wonder if we are proud enough to expect to see sometimes good
company, persons of merit, and even of fashion, though we have lost our
station and fortune."

"That is very politely turned by you, Mr. Percy. Much more polite than my
desert. But I could not bear the thoughts of your sweet pretty Caroline's
blushing unseen."

"Nor could we," said Mr. Percy, "bear the thoughts of her ceasing to blush
from being too much seen. We could not bear the thoughts of _fitting our
daughters out_, and sending them to the London market, with the portionless
class of matrimonial adventurers, of whom even the few that succeed are
often doomed but to splendid misery in marriage; and the numbers who fail
in their venture are, after a certain time, consigned to neglect and
contempt in single wretchedness. Here, on the contrary, in the bosom of
their own families, without seeking to entice or entrap, they can at all
events never be disappointed or degraded; and, whether married or single,
will be respected and respectable, in youth and age--secure of friends, and
of a happy home."

"Happy nonsense! begging your pardon, my dear coz. Shall I tell you
what the end of all this living in the bosom of their own families will
be?--that they will die old maids. For mercy's sake, my dear Mrs. Percy, do
not let Mr. Percy be philosophical for your daughters, whatever he may be
for himself. You, I am sure, cannot wish your poor daughters to be _old
maids_," said her ladyship, with a tremendous accent upon the word.

"No, I should wish them to marry, if I could ensure for them good husbands,
not merely good fortunes. The warmest wish of my heart," cried Mrs. Percy,
"is to see my daughters as happy as I am myself, married to men of their
own choice, whom they can entirely esteem, and fondly love. But I would
rather see my daughters in their graves than see them throw themselves
away upon men unworthy of them, or sell themselves to husbands unsuited to
them, merely for the sake of being _established_, for the vulgar notion of
_getting married_, or to avoid the imaginary and unjust ridicule of being
old maids."

The warmth and energy with which these last words were spoken, by so gentle
a person as Mrs. Percy, surprised Lady Jane so much, that she was silent;
all her ideas being suddenly at a stand, and her sagacity at fault. Mr.
Percy proposed a walk to show her the Hills; as her ladyship rose to
accompany him, she said to herself, "Who could have guessed that Mrs. Percy
was so romantic?--But she has caught it from her husband.--What a strange
father and mother!--But for the sake of the poor girls, I will not give up
the point. I will have Caroline with me to Tunbridge, and to town, in spite
of their wise heads."

She renewed her attack in the evening after tea. Rising, and walking
towards the window, "A word with you, Mr. Percy, if you please. The
young people are going to walk, and now we can talk the matter over by
ourselves."

"Why should not we talk it over before the young people?" said Mr. Percy.
"We always speak of every thing openly in this family," continued he,
turning to Lady Jane; "and I think that is one reason why we live so
happily together. I let my children know all my views for them, all my
affairs, and my opinions, I may say all my thoughts, or how could I expect
them to trust me with theirs?"

"As to that, children are bound by gratitude to treat their parents with
perfect openness," said Lady Jane; "and it is the duty of children, you
know, to make their parents their confidants upon all occasions."

"Duty and gratitude are excellent things," said Mr. Percy, "but somewhat
more is necessary between parent and child to produce friendship. Recollect
the Duc d'Epernon's reply to his king, who reproached him with want of
affection. 'Sire, you may command my services, my life; but your majesty
knows, friendship is to be won only by friendship.'"

"Very true," said Lady Jane; "but friendship is not, properly speaking, the
connexion that subsists between parents and children."

"I am sorry you think so," said Mr. Percy, smiling: "pray do not teach my
children that doctrine."

"Nay," said Lady Jane, "no matter whether we call it friendship or not; I
will answer for it, that without any refined notions about perfect openness
and confidence, your children will be fond of you, if you are indulgent to
them in certain points. Caroline, my dear," said she, turning to Caroline,
who was at the farthest end of the room, "don't look so unconscious, for
you are a party concerned; so come and kneel at the feet of this perverse
father of yours, to plead your cause and mine--I must take you with me to
Tunbridge. You must let me have her a summer and winter, and I will answer
for Caroline's success."

"What does your ladyship mean by my success?" said Caroline.

"Why, child--Now don't play your father's philosophic airs upon me! We
people who live in the world, and not with philosophers, are not prepared
for such entrapping interrogatories. But come, I mean in plain English,
my dear, though I am afraid it will shock your ears, that you will be"
(speaking loud) "pretty well admired, pretty well abused, and--oh,
shocking!--pretty well married."

"Pretty well married!" repeated Mrs. Percy, in a scornful tone: "but
neither Caroline nor I should be satisfied unless she be very well
married."

"Heyday! There is no knowing where to have you _lady_ philosophers. This
morning you did not desire a coach and four for your daughters, not you;
now you quarrel with me on the other side of the question. Really, for a
lady of moderation, you are a little exorbitant. _Pretty well married_,
you know, implies 2000_l._ a-year; and very well married, nothing under
10,000_l._"

"Is that the language of the market? I did not understand the exact meaning
of _very well married_--did you, Caroline? I own I expect something more
than 10,000_l._ a-year."

"More!--you unconscionable wretch! how much more?" said Lady Jane.

"Infinitely more," said Mr. Percy: "I expect a man of sense, temper, and
virtue, who would love my daughter as she deserves to be loved."

"Let me advise you," said Lady Jane, in her very gravest tone, "not to puff
up Caroline's imagination with a parcel of romantic notions.--I never yet
knew any good done by it. Depend on it you will be disappointed, if you
expect a genius to descend from the clouds express for your daughters. Let
them do as other people do, and they may have a chance of meeting with
some good sort of men, who will make them as happy as--as happy as their
neighbours."

"And how happy is that?" said Caroline: "as happy as we are now?"

"As you are now!" said Lady Jane: "a vastly pretty maidenly speech! But
young ladies, nevertheless, usually think that the saffron robe of Hymen
would not be the most unbecoming dress in the world; and whether it be in
compliance with their daughters' taste, or their own convenience, most
parents are in a hurry to purchase it."

"Sometimes at the expense of their daughters' happiness for life," said
Mrs. Percy.

"Well, lest we should go over the same ground, and get into the same
labyrinth, where we lost ourselves this morning, let me come to the
point at once.--May I hope, Mr. and Mrs. Percy, to have the pleasure of
Caroline's company at Tunbridge next week, and in town next winter, or
not?--That is the question."

"That is a question which your ladyship will be so good as to ask Caroline,
if you please," said Mr. Percy; "both her mother and I wish that she should
decide for herself."

"Indeed?" cried Lady Jane: "then, my dear Caroline, if you please, come
with me this minute to my dressing-room, and we'll settle it all at my
_toilette de nuit_. I have a notion," added her ladyship, as she drew
Caroline's arm within hers, and led her out of the room, "I have a notion
that I shall not find you quite so impracticable as your father has shown
himself."

"You may leave us, Keppel," said Lady Jane to her maid, as she went into
her dressing-room--"I will ring when I want you.--My love," said she to
Caroline, who stood beside her dressing-table, "why did not you let Keppel
dress your hair to-day?--But no matter--when I once get you to town, we'll
manage it all our own way. I have a notion that you are not of a positive
temper."

Caroline coloured at this speech.

"I see what are you thinking of," said Lady Jane, mistaking her
countenance; "and to tell you the truth, I also am sadly afraid, by what
I see, that we shall hardly gain our point. I know your father--some
difficulty will be started, and ten to one he will not allow me to have you
at last, unless you try and persuade him yourself."

"I never try to persuade my father to do any thing."

"What, then, he is not a man to be persuaded?"

"No," said Caroline, smiling; "but what is much better, he is a man to be
convinced."

"Better!" exclaimed Lady Jane: "Why surely you had not rather live with a
man you were to convince than one you could persuade?"

"Would it not be safer?" said Caroline: "the arts of persuasion might be
turned against us by others, but the power of conviction never could."

"Now, my dear, you are too deep for me," replied Lady Jane. "You said very
little in our long debate this morning, and I'm afraid I said too much; but
I own I could not help speaking candidly. Between ourselves, your father
has some notions, which, you know, are a little odd."

"My father!" exclaimed Caroline.

"Yes, my dear, though he is your father, and my relation too, you know
one cannot be quite blinded by partiality--and I never would give up my
judgment."

"Nor would I," said Caroline. "Nor I am sure would my father ever desire
it. You see how freely he permits, he encourages us all to converse with
him. He is never displeased with any of us for being of a different opinion
from him."

"He may not show displeasure," said Lady Jane.

"Oh! he does not feel it, ma'am--I assure you," said Caroline, with
emotion. "You do not know my father, indeed you do not."

"My dear," said Lady Jane, retracting, "I know he is an excellent father,
and I am sure I would have you think so--it is your duty; but, at the same
time, you know he is not infallible, and you must not insist," added she,
sharply, "upon all the world being of one way of thinking.--My dear, you
are his favourite, and it is no wonder you defend him."

"Indeed, ma'am," said Caroline, "if I am his favourite, I do not know it."

"My dear, don't mistake me. It is no wonder that you _are_. You must be a
favourite with every body; and yet," said Lady Jane, and she paused, "as
you hinted, perhaps I am mistaken; I think Rosamond seems--hey?--Now tell
me candidly--which is the favourite?"

"I would if I knew," said Caroline.

"Oh! but there must be some favourite in a family--I know there must; and
since you will not speak, I guess how it is. Perhaps, if I had asked your
sister Rosamond to go to town with me next winter, your father would have
been better pleased, and would have consented more readily."

"To lose her company if she were his favourite?" said Caroline, smiling.

"But you know, my dear," continued Lady Jane, without hearing or attending
to this, "you know, my dear, that Rosamond, though a very good girl and
very sensible, I am sure, yet she has not your personal advantages,
and I could do nothing for her in town, except, perhaps, introduce her
at Mrs. Cator's, and Lady Spilsbury's, or Lady Angelica Headingham's
conversazione--Rosamond has a mixture of naivete and sprightliness that is
new, and might _take_. If she had more courage, and would hazard more in
conversation, if she had, in short, _l'art de se faire valoir_, one could
hand her verses about, and get her forward in the bel-esprit line. But
she must stay till we have brought you into fashion, my dear, and another
winter, perhaps--Well, my love, I will not keep you up longer. On Monday,
if you please, we shall go--since you say you are sure your father is in
earnest, in giving you leave to decide for yourself."

What was Lady Jane Granville's astonishment, when she heard Caroline
decline, with polite thanks, her kind invitation!

Her ladyship stood silent with suspended indignation.

"This cannot be your own determination, child?"

"I beg your ladyship's pardon--it is entirely my own. When a person is
convinced by good reasons, those reasons surely become their own. But
independently of all the arguments which I have heard from my father and
mother, my own feelings must prevent me from leaving home in our present
circumstances. I cannot quit my parents and my sister, now they are,
comparatively speaking, in distress. Neither in prosperity nor in adversity
do I wish to leave my family, but certainly not in adversity."

"High-flown notions! Your family is not in any great distress, that I see:
there is a change, to be sure, in the style of life; but a daughter more,
you know only increases the--the difficulties."

"I believe my father and mother do not think so," said Caroline; "and till
they do, I wish to stay with them, and share their fortune, whatever it may
be."

"I have done--as you please--you are to decide for yourself, Miss Caroline
Percy: this is your final determination?"

"It is," said Caroline; "but permit me," added she, taking Lady Jane's
hand, and endeavouring by the kindest tone of gratitude to avert the
displeasure which she saw gathering, "permit me to assure you, that I am
truly grateful for your kindness, and I hope--I am sure, that I never shall
forget it."

Lady Jane drew away her hand haughtily. "Permit me to assure you, Miss
Caroline Percy, that there are few, very few young ladies indeed, even
among my own nearest relations, to whom I would have undertaken to be
_chaperon_. I do not know another young lady in England to whom I would
have made the offer I have made to you, nor would that offer ever have been
made could I reasonably have foreseen the possibility of its being refused.
Let us say no more, ma'am, if you please--we understand one another
now--and I wish you a good night."

Caroline retired, sorry to have displeased one who had shown so much
friendly eagerness to serve her, yet not in the least disposed to change
her determination. The next day Lady Jane's morning face boded no good.
Mr. and Mrs. Percy in vain endeavoured by all the kind attentions in their
power to assuage her feelings, but nothing restored her to that sweet
temper in which she had begun the chapter of advice. She soon announced
that she had received letters which called her immediately to Tunbridge,
and her ladyship quitted the Hills, resolving never more to visit relations
who would not be guided by her opinion.

The next persons who came to visit the Percy family in their retirement
were Mrs. Hungerford and her daughter, Mrs. Mortimer, who had been friends
and near neighbours whilst they resided at Percy-hall, and whose society
they had particularly regretted. The distance at which they now lived from
Hungerford Castle was such, that they had little hope that any intercourse
could be kept up with its inhabitants, especially as Mrs. Hungerford had
arrived at that time of life when she was exempted from the ceremony of
visiting, and she seldom stirred from home except when she went to town
annually to see her daughter Mortimer.

"So," said Mrs. Hungerford, as Mr. Percy helped her out of her carriage,
"my good friend, you are surprised at seeing me, are you?--Ah! you thought
I was too old or too lazy to come; but I am happy to be able to convince
you that you are mistaken. See what motive will do! You know Mr. Percy
says, that people can do any thing they please, and it is certain that it
pleased me to do this."

When she was seated, and Mrs. Percy spoke of the distance from which
she had kindly come to see them, she answered, "I hear people talk of a
_visiting distance_; and I understand perfectly well what it means when
acquaintance are in question, but for friends there is no _visiting
distance_. Remove to the Land's End, and, old as I am, I will pursue and
overtake you too, tortoise as I seem; and don't depend upon dark nights,
for every night is full moon to me, when I am bent upon a visit to a
friend; and don't depend upon hills--there are no Pyrenees between us."

These sound, perhaps, like mere civil speeches, but they came from one who
always spoke sincerely, and who was no common person. Mrs. Hungerford was,
by those who did not know her, thought proud; those who did, knew that she
had reason to be proud. She was of noble descent, dignified appearance,
polite manners, strong understanding, and high character. Her fortune,
connexions, various knowledge, and extraordinary merit, had, during a long
life, given her means of becoming acquainted with most of the persons of
any celebrity or worth in her own or in foreign countries. No new candidate
for fame appeared in any line of life, without desiring to be noticed by
Mrs. Hungerford; no traveller of distinction or of literature visited
England without providing himself with letters of introduction to Mrs.
Hungerford, and to her accomplished daughter, the wife of Admiral Mortimer.
In her early youth she had passed some years abroad, and had the vivacity,
ease, polish, _tact_, and _esprit de societe_ of a Frenchwoman, with the
solidity of understanding, amiable qualities, domestic tastes, and virtues
of an Englishwoman. The mutual affection of this mother and daughter not
only secured their own happiness, but diffused an additional charm over
their manners, and increased the interest which they otherwise inspired.
Mrs. Mortimer's house in London was the resort of the best company, in the
best sense of the word: it was not that dull, dismal, unnatural thing, an
English _conversazione_, where people are set, against their will and their
nature, to talk wit; or reduced, against their pride and their conscience,
to worship _idols_. This society partook of the nature of the best English
and the best French society, judiciously combined: the French mixture of
persons of talents and of rank, men of literature and of the world; the
French habit of mingling feminine and masculine subjects of conversation,
instead of separating the sexes, far as the confines of their prison-room
will allow, into hostile parties, dooming one sex to politics, argument,
and eternal sense, the other to scandal, dress, and eternal nonsense. Yet
with these French manners there were English morals; with this French ease,
gaiety, and politeness, English sincerity, confidence, and safety: no
_simagree_, no _espionnage_; no intrigue, political or gallant; none of
that profligacy, which not only disgraced, but destroyed the _reality_ of
pleasure in Parisian society, at its most brilliant era. The persons of
whom Mrs. Mortimer's society was formed were, in their habits and good
sense, so thoroughly English, that, even had it been possible for them
to put morality and religion out of the question, they would still have
thought it quite as convenient and agreeable to love their own husbands
and wives as to play at cross-purposes in gallanting their neighbours'. Of
consequence, Mrs. Mortimer, in the bloom of youth and height of fashion,
instead of being a coquette, "hunting after men with her eyes," was
beloved, almost to adoration, as a daughter, a wife, a mother, a friend.
Mrs. Hungerford, at an advanced age, was not a wretched, selfish Madame
du Deffand, exacting _hommage_ and _attentions_, yet disbelieving in the
existence of friendship; complaining in the midst of all the luxuries of
life, mental and corporeal, of being oppressed by ennui, unable to find any
one to love and esteem, or incapable of loving and esteeming any one; Mrs.
Hungerford, surrounded