Tales and Novels, Vol. VII by Maria Edgeworth

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

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Caroline assured her mother that no such weak fear acted upon her mind; and
that in any case where she had the least doubt whether she could like a
person as a husband or not, she should certainly ask for time to consider,
before she would give an answer; but that, with respect to Mr. Barclay,
she had had sufficient opportunities of seeing and judging of him in the
character of a lover, whilst he had been the admirer of Lady Angelica;
that she fully appreciated his good qualities, and was grateful for his
favourable opinion; but that she felt perfectly certain that she did not
and could not love him; and therefore she desired, as soon as possible,
to put him out of the pain of suspense, to prevent him from having the
mortification of showing himself the admirer of one by whom he must
ultimately be refused; and to leave him at liberty to turn his thoughts
elsewhere, to some person to whom he was better suited, and who was better
suited to him.

Mr. Barclay had made Mrs. Hungerford alone his confidant. As to Lady
Angelica Headingham, he thought that her ladyship could not be in any doubt
of the state of his affections as far as she was concerned, and that was
all she had a right to know. He never had actually declared his passion
for her, and his attentions had completely ceased since the determination
she had made to break her engagement with his aunt; but Lady Angelica had
still imagined that he would not be able to bring himself to part with
her for ever, and she trusted that, even at the moment of getting into
her carriage, she might prevail upon him to forget his wrongs, and might
at last carry him off. These hopes had been checked, and for a moment
overthrown, by Mr. Barclay's appearance this morning in the Oriel; the
emotion with which she saw him speak to Caroline, and the indifference with
which she heard him wish her ladyship health and happiness at Weymouth, or
wherever she went, for an instant convinced her of the truth. But obstinate
vanity recurred to the hope that he was not yet irreclaimable, and under
this persuasion she hurried on the preparations for her departure,
impatient for the moment of crisis--of triumph.

The moment of crisis arrived--but not of triumph. Lady Angelica
Headingham's landau came to the door. But _trunks packed and corded_ gave
no pang to her former lover--Mrs. Hungerford did not press her to stay--Mr.
Barclay handed her into the carriage--she stooped to conquer, so far as to
tell him that, as she had only Mr. Seebright and her maid, she could give
him a seat in her carriage, if he would come to Weymouth, and that she
would thence, in a fortnight at farthest, go to his aunt, dear Lady B----,
in Leicestershire. But all in vain--she saw it would not do--bid her
servant shut the carriage-door--desired Mr. Seebright to draw up the glass,
and, with a look of angry contempt towards Mr. Barclay, threw herself back
on the seat to conceal the vexation which she could not control, and drove
away for ever from irreclaimable lovers and lost friends. We do not envy
Mr. Seebright his trip to Weymouth with his patroness in this humour; but
without troubling ourselves further to inquire what became of her, we leave
her

"To flaunt, and go down a disregarded thing."

Rosamond seemed to think that if Caroline married Mr. Barclay, the
denouement would be too near, too clear, and commonplace: she said that in
this case Caroline would just be married, like any body else, to a man with
a good fortune, good character, good sense, and every thing very good, but
nothing extraordinary, and she would be settled at Mr. Barclay's seat in
Leicestershire, and she would be Mrs. Barclay, and, perhaps, happy enough,
but nothing extraordinary.

This plain view of things, and this positive termination of all hope of
romance, did not please Rosamond's imagination. She was relieved, when
at last Caroline surprised her with the assurance that there was no
probability of Mr. Barclay's succeeding in his suit. "And yet," said
Caroline, "if I were compelled at this moment to marry, of all men I have
ever yet seen, Mr. Barclay is the person to whom I could engage myself with
the least reluctance--the person with whom I think I should have the best
security for happiness."

Rosamond's face again lengthened. "If that is the case," said she, "though
you have no intention of marrying him at present, you will, I suppose, be
_reasoned into_ marrying him in time."

"No," said Caroline, "for I cannot be reasoned into loving him."

"There's my own dear Caroline," cried Rosamond: "I was horribly afraid that
this man of sense would have convinced you that esteem was quite sufficient
without love."

"Impossible!" said Caroline. "There must be some very powerful motive that
could induce me to quit my family: I can conceive no motive sufficiently
powerful, except love."

Rosamond was delighted.

"For what else _could_ I marry?" continued Caroline: "I, who am left by
the kindest of parents freely to my own choice--could I marry for a house
in Leicestershire? or for a barouche and four? on Lady Jane Granville's
principles for _an establishment_? or on the _missy_ notion of being
married, and having a house of my own, and ordering my own dinner?--Was
this your notion of me?" said Caroline, with a look of such surprise, that
Rosamond was obliged to fall immediately to protestations, and appeals to
common sense. "How was it possible she could have formed such ideas!"

"Then why were you so much surprised and transported just now, when I told
you that no motive but love could induce me to marry?"

"I don't recollect being surprised--I was only delighted. I never suspected
that you could marry without love, but I thought that you and I might
differ as to the quantity--the degree."

"No common degree of love, and no common love, would be sufficient to
induce me to marry," said Caroline.

"Once, and but once, before in your life, you gave me the idea of your
having such an exalted opinion of love," replied Rosamond.

"But to return to Mr. Barclay," said Caroline. "I have, as I promised
my father that I would, consulted in the first place my own heart, and
considered my own happiness. He appears to me incapable of that enthusiasm
which rises either to the moral or intellectual sublime. I respect his
understanding, and esteem his principles; but in conversing with him,
I always feel--and in passing my life with him, how much more should I
feel!--that there is a want of the higher qualities of the mind. He shows
no invention, no genius, no magnanimity--nothing heroic, nothing great,
nothing which could waken sympathy, or excite that strong attachment,
which I think that I am capable of feeling for a superior character--for a
character at once good and great."

"And where upon earth are you to find such a man? Who is romantic now?"
cried Rosamond. "But I am very glad that you _are_ a little romantic; I am
glad that you have in you a touch of human absurdity, else how could you be
my sister, or how could I love you as I do?"

"I am heartily glad that you love me, but I am not sensible of my present
immediate claim to your love by my touch of human absurdity," said
Caroline, smiling. "What did I say, that was absurd or romantic?"

"My dear, people never think their own romance absurd. Well! granted that
you are not romantic, since that is a point which I find I must grant
before we can go on,--now, tell me, was Mr. Barclay very sorry when you
refused him?" said Rosamond.

"I dare not tell you that there is yet no danger of his breaking his
heart," said Caroline.

"So I thought," cried Rosamond, with a look of ineffable contempt. "I
thought he was not a man to break his heart for love. With all his sense, I
dare say he will go back to his Lady Angelica Headingham. I should not be
surprised if he went after her to Weymouth to-morrow."

"I should," said Caroline; "especially as he has just ordered his carriage
to take him to his aunt, Lady B----, in Leicestershire."

"Oh! poor man!" said Rosamond, "now I do pity him."

"Because he is going to his aunt?"

"No; Caroline--you are very cruel--because I am sure he is very much
touched and disappointed by your refusal. He cannot bear to see you again.
Poor! _poor_ Mr. Barclay! I have been shamefully ill-natured. I hope I did
not prejudice your mind against him--I'll go directly and take leave of
him--poor Mr. Barclay!"

Rosamond, however, returned a few minutes afterwards, to complain that Mr.
Barclay had not made efforts enough to persuade Caroline to listen to him.

"If he had been warmly in love, he would not so easily have given up hope.

'None, without hope, e'er loved the brightest fair;
But love can hope, where Reason should despair.'

"That, I think, is perfectly true," said Rosamond.

Never--begging Rosamond and the poet's pardon--never--except where
reason is very weak, or where the brightest fair has some touch of the
equivocating fiend. Love, let poets and lovers say what they will to the
contrary, can no more subsist without hope than flame can exist without
fuel. In all the cases cited to prove the contrary, we suspect that there
has been some inaccuracy in the experiment, and that by mistake a little,
a very little hope has been admitted. The slightest portion, a quantity
imperceptible to common observation, is known to be quite sufficient to
maintain the passion; but a total exclusion of hope secures its extinction.

Mr. Barclay's departure was much regretted by all at Hungerford Castle,
most, perhaps, by the person who expressed that regret the least, Lady
Mary Pembroke--who now silently enjoyed the full chorus of praise that
was poured forth in honour of the departed. Lady Mary's common mode of
enjoying the praise of her friends was not in silence; all she thought and
felt usually came to her lips with the ingenuous vivacity of youth and
innocence. Caroline had managed so well by not managing at all, that Lady
Mary, far from guessing the real cause of Mr. Barclay's sudden departure,
repeatedly expressed surprise that her aunt Hungerford did not press him to
stay a little longer; and once said she wondered how Mr. Barclay _could_
leave Hungerford Castle whilst Caroline was there; that she had begun to
think he had formed an attachment which would do him more honour than his
passion for Lady Angelica Headingham, but that she feared he would have
a relapse of that fit of folly, and that it would at last end fatally in
marriage.

Mrs. Hungerford smiled at the openness with which her niece told her
conjectures, and at the steadiness with which Caroline kept Mr. Barclay's
secret, by saying no more than just the thing she ought. "The power of
keeping a secret is very different from the habit of dissimulation. You
would convince me of this, if I had doubted it," said Mrs. Hungerford, to
Caroline. "Now that the affair is settled, my dear, I must insist upon
your praising me, as I have praised you for discretion. I hope I never
influenced your decision by word or look, but I will now own to you that
I was very anxious that you should decide precisely as you have done. Mr.
Barclay is a sensible man, an excellent man, one who will make any amiable
woman he marries happy. I am convinced of it, or I should not, as I do,
wish to see him married to my niece--yet I never thought him suited to
you. Yours is a character without pretension, yet one which, in love and
marriage, would not, I believe, be easily satisfied, would require great
qualities, a high tone of thought and action, a character superior and
lofty as your own."

Mrs. Hungerford paused, and seemed lost in thought. Caroline felt that this
lady had seen deeply into her mind. This conviction, beyond all praise,
and all demonstrations of fondness, increases affection, confidence, and
gratitude, in strong and generous minds. Caroline endeavoured, but could
not well express in words what she felt at this instant.

"My dear," said Mrs. Hungerford, "we know that we are speaking plain
truth to each other--we need no flowers of speech--I understand you, and
you understand me. We are suited to each other--yes, notwithstanding the
difference of age, and a thousand other differences, we are suited to
each other. This possibility of a friendship between youth and age is
one of the rewards Heaven grants to the early and late cultivation of
the understanding and of the affections. Late as it is with me in life,
I have not, thank God, survived my affections. How can I ever, whilst
I have such children, such friends!" After a pause of a few moments of
seemingly pleasurable reflections, Mrs. Hungerford continued, "I have
never considered friendship as but a name--as a mere worldly commerce
of interest: I believe in disinterested affection, taking the word
_disinterested_ in its proper sense; and I have still, believe me, the
power of sympathizing with a _young_ friend--such a young friend as
Caroline Percy. Early as it is with her in life, she has so cultivated her
understanding, so regulated her mind, that she cannot consider friendship
merely as a companionship in frivolous amusement, or a mixture of gossiping
confidences and idle sentiment; therefore, I am proud enough to hope that
she can and will be the friend of such an old woman as I am."

"It would be the pride of my life to have--to deserve such a friend,"
cried Caroline: "I feel all the condescension of this kindness. I know you
are much too good to me. I am afraid you think too highly of me. But Mrs.
Hungerford's praise does not operate like flattery: though it exalts me
in my own opinion, it shall not make me vain; it excites my ambition to
be--all she thinks me."

"You _are_ all I think you," said Mrs. Hungerford; "and that you may
hereafter be something yet nearer than a friend to me is the warmest wish
of my heart--But, no, I will not indulge myself in expressing that wish;
Such wishes are never wise where we have no power, no right to act--such
wishes often counteract their own object--anticipations are always
imprudent. But--about my niece, Lady Mary Pembroke. I particularly admire
the discretion, still more than the kindness, with which you have acted
with respect to her and Mr. Barclay--you have left things to their natural
course. You have not by any imprudent zeal or generosity hazarded a word
that could hurt the delicacy of either party. You seem to have been fully
aware that wherever the affections are concerned, the human mind is most
tenacious of what one half of the philosophers in the world will not allow
to exist, and the other half cannot define. Influenced as we all are every
moment in our preferences and aversions, sometimes imperceptibly, sometimes
avowedly, by the most trifling and often the silliest causes, yet the
wisest of us start, and back, and think it incumbent on our pride in love
affairs, to resist the slightest interference, or the best advice, from the
best friends. What! love upon compulsion! No--Jupiter is not more tenacious
of his thunderbolt than Cupid is of his arrows. Blind as he is, none may
presume to direct the hand of that little urchin."

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who
brought the post-bag, with many letters for Mrs. Hungerford.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The arrival of the post was at this time an anxious moment to Mrs.
Hungerford, as she had so many near relations and friends in the army and
navy. This day brought letters, with news that lighted up her countenance
with dignified joy, one from Captain Hungerford, her second son, ten
minutes after an action at sea with the French.

"Dear mother--English victorious, of course; for particulars, see Gazette.
In the cockle shell I have, could do nothing worth mentioning, but am
promised a ship soon, and hope for opportunity to show myself worthy to be
your son.

"F. HUNGERFORD."

"I hope I am grateful to Providence for such children!" cried Mrs.
Hungerford.

Mrs. Mortimer darted upon Captain Hungerford's name in the Gazette--"And
I cannot refrain from mentioning to your lordships the gallant manner in
which I was seconded by Captain Hungerford."

"Happy mother that I am! And more happiness still--a letter also from my
colonel! Thanks of commanding officer--gallant conduct abroad--leave of
absence for three weeks--and will be here to-morrow!"

This news spread through the castle in a few minutes, and the whole house
was in motion and in joy.

"What is the matter?" said Rosamond, who had been out of the room when the
colonel's letter was read. "As I came down stairs, I met I can't tell how
many servants running different ways, with faces of delight. I do believe
Colonel Hungerford is come."

"Not come, but coming," said Mrs. Hungerford; "and I am proud that you, my
friends, should see what a sensation the first sound of his return makes in
his own _home_. There it is, after all, that you may best judge what a man
really is."

Every thing conspired to give Caroline a favourable idea of Colonel
Hungerford. He arrived--and his own appearance and manners, far from
contradicting, fully justified all that his friends had said. His
appearance was that of a soldier and a gentleman, with a fine person and
striking countenance, with the air of command, yet without presumption;
not without a consciousness of his own merit, but apparently with only
a consciousness sufficient to give value and grace to his deference for
others. To those he respected or loved, his manner was particularly
engaging; and the appropriate attentions he paid to each of his friends
proved that their peculiar tastes, their characteristic merits, and
their past kindnesses, were ever full in his remembrance. To his mother
his grateful affection, and the tender reverence he showed, were quite
touching; and the high opinion he had of her character, and the strong
influence she held over his mind, he seemed proud to avow in words and
actions. To his sister Mortimer, in a different but not less pleasing
manner, his affection appeared in a thousand little instances, which the
most polite courtiers, with the most officious desire to please, could
not without the happy inspiration of truth have invented. There were
innumerable slight strokes in his conversation with his sister which
marked the pleasure he felt in the recollection of their early friendship,
allusions to trivial passages in the history of their childhood, which none
of the important scenes in which he had since been engaged had effaced
from his mind; and at other times a playful carelessness, that showed
the lightness, the expanding freedom of heart, which can be felt only in
the perfect confidence and intimacy of domestic affection. In his manner
towards his cousins, the Lady Pembrokes, who, since he had last seen
them, had grown up from children into fine young women, there were nice
differences; with all the privileged familiarity of relationship he met
the sprightly frankness of Lady Mary, and by a degree of delicate tender
respect put the retiring sensitive timidity of Lady Elizabeth at ease.
None of these shades of manner were lost upon Caroline's discriminating
observation. For some time after his arrival, the whole attention of every
individual at Hungerford Castle was occupied by Colonel Hungerford. All
were alternately talking of him or listening to him. The eagerness which
every body felt to hear from him accounts of public and private affairs,
and the multitude and variety of questions by which he was assailed, drew
him out continually; so that he talked a great deal, yet evidently more
to gratify others than himself. He was always unwilling to engross the
conversation, and sometimes anxious to hear from his mother and sister of
domestic occurrences; but he postponed his own gratification, and never
failed to satisfy general curiosity, even by the repetition of narratives
and anecdotes, till he was exhausted. Conscious that he did not wish to
make himself the hero of his tale, he threw himself upon the mercy of his
friends, or their justice; and without any of the provoking reserve of
affected or cowardly humility, he talked naturally of the events in which
he had taken a share, and of what concerned himself as well as others. With
polite kindness, which gratified them peculiarly, he seemed to take the
Percy family, as his mother's friends, directly upon trust as his own: he
spoke before them, freely, of all his confidential opinions of men and
things. He did them justice in considering them as safe auditors, and they
enjoyed and fully appreciated the value of his various conversation. In his
anecdotes of persons, there was always something decidedly characteristic
of the individual, or illustrative of some general principle. In his
narratives there were strong marks of the Froissart accuracy of detail,
which interests by giving the impression of reality, and the proof of
having been an eye-witness of the scene; and sometimes, scorning detail,
he displayed the power of keeping an infinite number of particulars in
subordination, and of seizing those large features which gave a rapid and
masterly view of the whole. For his profession he felt that enthusiasm
which commands sympathy. Whilst he spoke of the British army, those who
heard him seemed to see every thing, as he did, in a military point of
view. Yet his love of military glory had not hardened his heart so as
to render him insensible of the evils and sufferings which, alas! it
necessarily produces. The natural expression of great feeling and humanity
burst from him; but he turned hastily and firmly from the contemplation
of evils, which he could not prevent, and would not uselessly deplore. In
conversing one day privately with Mr. Percy, he showed that bitter and deep
philosophic reflections on the horrors and folly of war had passed through
his mind, but that he had systematically and resolutely shut them out.

"We are now," said he, "less likely than ever to see the time when all the
princes of Europe will sign the good Abbe de St. Pierre's project for a
perpetual peace; and, in the mean time, while kingdoms can maintain their
independence, their existence, only by superiority in war, it is not for
the defenders of their country to fix their thoughts upon 'the price of
victory.'"

After explaining the plan of a battle, or the intrigues of a court, Colonel
Hungerford would turn with delight to plans of cottages, which his sister
Mortimer was drawing for him; and from a map of the seat of war he would
go to a map of his own estate, eagerly asking his mother where she would
recommend that houses should be built, and consulting her about the
characters and merits of those tenants with whom his absence on the
continent had prevented him from becoming acquainted. These and a thousand
other little traits showed that his military habits had not destroyed his
domestic tastes.

Caroline had taken an interest in the military profession ever since her
eldest brother had gone into the army. Colonel Hungerford was seven or
eight years older than Godfrey Percy, and had a more formed, steady,
and exalted character, with more knowledge, and a far more cultivated
understanding; but many expressions, and some points of character, were
similar. Caroline observed this, and wished and hoped that, when her
brother should have had as many opportunities of improvement as Colonel
Hungerford's experience had given him, he might be just such a man. This
idea increased the interest she took in observing and listening to Colonel
Hungerford. After he had been some time at home, and that every day more
and more of his amiable character had been developed, Rosamond said to
herself, "This is certainly the man for Caroline, and I suspect she begins
to think so. If she does not, I never will forgive her."

One day, when the sisters were by themselves, Rosamond tried to sound
Caroline on this subject. She began, as she thought, at a safe distance
from her main object. "How very much esteemed and beloved Colonel
Hungerford is in his own family!"

"Very much and very deservedly," answered Caroline. She spoke without any
hesitation or embarrassment.

Rosamond, rather dissatisfied even with the fulness of the assent to her
first proposition, added, "And not only by his own family, but by all who
know him."

Caroline was silent.

"It is surprising," continued Rosamond, "that a man who has led a soldier's
wandering life should have acquired so much literature, such accurate
knowledge, and should have retained such simple and domestic tastes."

Full assent again from Caroline, both of look and voice--but still not the
exact look and voice Rosamond desired.

"Do you know, Caroline," continued she, "I think that in several things
Colonel Hungerford is very like my brother Godfrey."

"Yes, and in some points, I think Colonel Hungerford is superior to
Godfrey," said Caroline.

"Well, I really think so too," cried Rosamond, "and I am sure Godfrey would
think and say so himself. How he would admire Colonel Hungerford, and how
desirous, how ambitious he would be to make such a man his friend, his--in
short, I know if Godfrey was here this minute, he would think just as I do
about Colonel Hungerford, and about--all other things."