Tales and Novels, Vol. VII by Maria Edgeworth

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

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"All other things," repeated Caroline, smiling: "that includes a great
deal."

"Yes, it does, that is certain," said Rosamond, significantly. "And,"
continued she, "I know another person of excellent judgment too, who, if
I mistake not, is of my way of thinking, of wishing at least, in _some
things_, that is a comfort. How Mrs. Hungerford does adore her son! And I
think she loves you almost as much." Caroline expressed strong gratitude
for Mrs. Hungerford's kindness to her, and the warmest return of affection.

"Then, in one word," continued Rosamond, "for out it must come, sooner
or later--I think she not only loves you as if you were her daughter,
but that--Now confess, Caroline, did not the idea ever occur to you? And
don't you see that Mrs. Hungerford wishes _it_?--Oh! that blush is answer
enough--I'll say no more--I do not mean to torment or distress--good bye, I
am satisfied."

"Stay, my dear Rosamond, stay one moment, and I will tell you exactly all I
think and feel."

"I will stay as long as you please," said Rosamond, "and I thank you for
this confidence."

"You have a right to it," said Caroline: "I see, my dear sister, and feel
all your kindness towards me, and all Mrs. Hungerford's--I see what you
both wish."

"There's my own sister Caroline, above all artifice and affectation."

"But," said Caroline.

"_But_--Oh! Caroline, don't go back--don't palter with us--abide by your
own words, and your own character, and don't condescend to any pitiful
_buts_."

"You do not yet know the nature of my _but_."

"Nor do I wish to know it, nor will I hear it," cried Rosamond, stopping
her ears, "because I know, whatever it is, it will lower you in my opinion.
You have fairly acknowledged that Colonel Hungerford possesses every
virtue, public and private, that can make him worthy of you--not a single
fault on which to ground one possible, imaginable, rational _but_. Temper,
manners, talents, character, fortune, family, fame, every thing the heart
of woman can desire."

"Every thing against which the heart of woman should guard itself," said
Caroline.

"Guard!--Why guard?--What is it you suspect? What crime can you invent to
lay to his charge?"

"I suspect him of nothing. It is no crime--except, perhaps, in your eyes,
dear Rosamond," said Caroline, smiling--"no crime not to love me."

"Oh! is that all? Now I understand and forgive you," said Rosamond, "if it
is only _that_ you fear."

"I do not recollect that I said I _feared_ it," said Caroline.

"Well, well--I beg pardon for using that unguarded word--of course your
pride must neither hope nor fear upon the occasion; you must quite forget
yourself to stone. As you please, or rather as you think proper; but you
will allow me to hope and fear for you. Since I have not, thank Heaven!
made proud and vain professions of stoicism--have not vowed to throw away
the rose, lest I should be pricked by the thorn."

"Laugh, but hear me," said Caroline. "I make no professions of stoicism;
it is because I am conscious that I am no stoic that I have endeavoured to
guard well my heart.--I have seen and admired all Colonel Hungerford's good
and amiable qualities; I have seen and been grateful for all that you and
Mrs. Hungerford hoped and wished for my happiness--have not been insensible
to any of the delightful, any of the romantic circumstances of the
_vision_; but I saw it was only a vision--and one that might lead me into
waking, lasting misery."

"Misery! lasting! How?" said Rosamond.

"Neither your wishes nor Mrs. Hungerford's, you know, can or ought to
decide, or even to influence the event, that is to be determined by Colonel
Hungerford's own judgment and feelings, and by mine. In the mean time, I
cannot forget that the delicacy, honour, pride, prudence of our sex, forbid
a woman to think of any man, as a lover, till he gives her reason to
believe that he feels love for her."

"Certainly," said Rosamond; "but I take it for granted that Colonel
Hungerford does love you."

"But why should we take it for granted?" said Caroline: "he has not shown
me any preference."

"Why--I don't know, I am not skilled in these matters," said Rosamond--"I
am not sure--but I think--and yet I should be sorry to mislead you--at any
rate there is no harm in hoping--"

"If there be no harm, there might be much danger," said Caroline: "better
not to think of the subject at all, since we can do no good by thinking of
it, and may do harm."

After a pause of surprise, disappointment, and reflection, Rosamond
resumed: "So I am to understand it to be your opinion, that a woman of
sense, delicacy, proper pride, honour, and prudence, must, can, and ought
to shut her eyes, ears, understanding, and heart, against all the merit and
all the powers of pleasing a man may possess, till said man shall and do
make a matrimonial proposal for her in due form--hey! Caroline?"

"I never thought any such thing," answered Caroline, "and I expressed
myself very ill if I said any such thing. A woman need not shut her eyes,
ears, or understanding to a man's merit--only her heart."

"Then the irresistible charm, the supreme merit, the only merit that can or
ought to touch her heart in any man, is the simple or glorious circumstance
of his loving her?"

"I never heard that it was a man's supreme merit to love," said Caroline;
"but we are not at present inquiring what is a man's but what is a woman's
characteristic excellence. And I have heard it said to be a woman's supreme
merit, and grace, and dignity, that her love should _not unsought be won_."

"That is true," said Rosamond, "perfectly true--in general; but surely you
will allow that there may be cases in which it would be difficult to adhere
to the letter as well as to the spirit of this excellent rule. Have you
never felt--can't you imagine this?"

"I can well imagine it," said Caroline; "fortunately, I have never felt it.
If I had not early perceived that Colonel Hungerford was not thinking of
me, I might have deceived myself with false hopes: believe me, I never was
insensible to his merit."

"But where is the merit or the glory, if there was no struggle, no
difficulty?" said Rosamond, in a melancholy tone.

"Glory there is none," said Caroline; "nor do I claim any merit: but is not
it something to prevent struggle and difficulty? Is it nothing to preserve
my own happiness?"

"Something, to be sure," said Rosamond. "But, on the other hand, you know
there is the old proverb, 'Nothing hazard, nothing have.'"

"That is a masculine, not a feminine proverb," said Caroline.

"All I meant to say was, that there is no rule without an exception, as all
your philosophers, even the most rigid, allow; and if an exception be ever
permitted, surely in such a case as this it might, in favour of such a man
as Colonel Hungerford."

"Dangerous exceptions!" said Caroline. "Every body is too apt to make an
exception in such cases in their own favour: that, you know, is the common
error of the weak. Oh! my dear sister, instead of weakening, strengthen my
mind--instead of trying to raise my enthusiasm, or reproaching me for want
of sensibility, tell me that you approve of my exerting all my power over
myself to do that which I think right. Consider what evil I should bring
upon myself, if I became attached to a man who is not attached to me; if
you saw me sinking, an object of pity and contempt, the victim, the slave
of an unhappy passion."

"Oh! my dear, dear Caroline, that could never be--God forbid; oh! God
forbid!" cried Rosamond, with a look of terror: but recovering herself, she
added, "This is a vain fear. With your strength of mind, you could never be
reduced to such a condition."

"Who can answer for their strength of mind in the second trial, if it fail
in the first?" said Caroline. "If a woman once lets her affections go out
of her power, how can she afterwards answer for her own happiness?"

"All very right and very true," said Rosamond: "but for a young person,
Caroline, I could spare some of this premature reason. If there be some
folly, at least there is some generosity, some sensibility often joined
with a romantic temper: take care lest you 'mistake reverse of wrong for
right,' and in your great zeal to avoid romance, run into selfishness."

"Selfishness!"

"Why, yes--after all, what are these cold calculations about loving or not
loving such a character as Colonel Hungerford--what is all this
wonderfully long-sighted care of your own individual happiness, but
selfishness?--moral, very moral selfishness, I grant."

Caroline coloured, paused, and when she answered, she spoke in a lower and
graver tone and manner than usual.

"If it be selfish to pursue, by the best means in my power, and by means
which cannot hurt any human being, my own happiness, must I deserve to
be called selfish?--Unless a woman be quite unconnected with others in
society, without a family, and without friends--which, I thank God, is not
my situation--it is impossible to hazard or to destroy our own happiness
by any kind of imprudence, without destroying the happiness of others.
Therefore imprudence, call it romance, or what you please, is often want of
generosity--want of thought for the happiness of our friends, as well as
for our own."

"Well come off!" said Rosamond, laughing: "you have proved, with admirable
logic, that prudence is the height of generosity. But, my dear Caroline,
do not speak so very seriously, and do not look with such 'sweet austere
composure.'--I don't in earnest accuse you of selfishness--I was wrong to
use that ugly word; but I was vexed with you for being more prudent than
even good old Mrs. Hungerford."

At these words tears filled Caroline's eyes. "Dear, kind Mrs. Hungerford,"
she exclaimed, "in the warmth of her heart, in the fulness of her kindness
for me, once in her life Mrs. Hungerford said perhaps an imprudent word,
expressed a wish of which her better judgment may have repented."

"No, no!" cried Rosamond--"her better, her best judgment must have
confirmed her opinion of you. She never will repent of that wish. Why
should you think she has repented of it, Caroline?"

"Because she must by this time see that there is no probability of that
wish being accomplished: she must, therefore, desire that it should be
forgotten. And I trust I have acted, and shall always act, as if it were
forgotten by me, except as to its kindness--_that_ I shall remember while
I have life and feeling. But if I had built a romance upon that slight
word, consider how much that excellent friend would blame herself, when she
found that she had misled me, that she had been the cause of anguish to my
heart, that she had lowered in the opinion of all, even in her own opinion,
one she had once so exalted by her approbation and friendship. And, oh!
consider, Rosamond, what a return should I make for that friendship, if I
were to be the occasion of any misunderstanding, any disagreement between
her and her darling son. If _I_ were to become the rival of her beloved
niece!"

"Rival!--Niece!--How?--Which?" cried Rosamond, "Which?" repeated she,
eagerly; "I cannot think of any thing else, till you say which."

"Suppose Lady Elizabeth."

"The thought never occurred to me--Is it possible?--My dear Caroline, you
have opened my eyes--But are you sure? Then you have acted wisely, rightly,
Caroline; and I have as usual been very, _very_ imprudent. Forgive what I
said about selfishness--I was unjust. You selfish! you, who thought of all
your friends, I thought only of you. But tell me, did you think of Lady
Elizabeth from the first? Did you see how it would be from the very first?"

"No; I never thought of it till lately, and I am not sure of it yet."

"So you never thought of it till lately, and you are not sure of it
yet?--Then I dare say you are mistaken, and wrong, with all your
superfluous prudence. I will observe with my own eyes, and trust only my
own judgment."

With this laudable resolution Rosamond departed.

The next morning she had an opportunity of observing, and deciding by her
own judgment. Lady Elizabeth Pembroke and Caroline had both been copying a
picture of Prince Rupert when a boy. They had finished their copies. Mrs.
Hungerford showed them to her son. Lady Elizabeth's was rather the superior
painting. Colonel Hungerford instantly distinguished it, and, in strong
terms, expressed his admiration; but, by some mistake, he fancied that
both copies were done by Caroline: she explained to him that that which he
preferred was Lady Elizabeth's.

"Yours!" exclaimed Colonel Hungerford, turning to Lady Elizabeth with a
look and tone of delighted surprise. Lady Elizabeth coloured, Lady Mary
smiled: he forbore adding one word either of praise or observation.
Caroline gently relieved Mrs. Hungerford's hand from her copy of the
picture which she still held.

Rosamond, breathless, looked and looked and waited for something more
decisive.

"My mother wished for a copy of this picture," said Lady Elizabeth, in a
tremulous voice, and without raising her eyes, "for we have none but a vile
daub of him at Pembroke."

"Perhaps my aunt Pembroke would be so good to accept of the original?" said
Colonel Hungerford; "and my mother would beg of Lady Elizabeth to give her
copy to--our gallery."

"Do, my dear Elizabeth," said Mrs. Hungerford. Lady Elizabeth shook her
head, yet smiled.

"Do, my dear; you cannot refuse your cousin."

"_Cousin!_ there's hope still," thought Rosamond.

"If it were but worthy of his acceptance," said Lady Elizabeth.--Colonel
Hungerford, lost in the enjoyment of her self-timidity and retiring
grace, quite forgot to say how much he thought the picture worthy of his
acceptance.

His mother spoke for him.

"Since Hungerford asks you for it, my dear, you may be certain that he
thinks highly of it, for my son never flatters."

"Who? I!--flatter!" cried Colonel Hungerford; "flatter!" added he, in a
low voice, with a tenderness of accent and look, which could scarcely be
misunderstood. Nor was it misunderstood by Lady Elizabeth, as her quick
varying colour showed. It was well that, at this moment, no eye turned upon
Rosamond, for all her thoughts and feeling would have been read in her
face.

"Come," cried Lady Mary, "let us have the picture in its place
directly--come all of you to the gallery, fix where it shall be hung."
Colonel Hungerford seized upon it, and following Lady Elizabeth,
accompanied Lady Mary to the gallery. Mrs. Hungerford rose
deliberately--Caroline offered her arm.

"Yes, my dear child, let me lean upon you."

They walked slowly after the young party--Rosamond followed.

"I am afraid," said Mrs. Hungerford, as she leaned more upon Caroline, "I
am afraid I shall tire you, my dear."

"Oh! no, no!" said Caroline, "not in the least."

"I am growing so infirm, that I require a stronger arm, a kinder I can
never have."

The door of the antechamber, which opened into the gallery, closed after
the young people.

"I am not one of those _exigeante_ mothers who expect always to have
possession of a son's arm," resumed Mrs. Hungerford: "the time, I knew,
would come, when I must give up my colonel."

"And with pleasure, I am sure, you now give him up, secure of his
happiness," said Caroline.

Mrs. Hungerford stopped short, and looked full on Caroline, upon whom she
had previously avoided to turn her eyes. From what anxiety did Caroline's
serene, open countenance, and sweet ingenuous smile, at this instant,
relieve her friend! Old as she was, Mrs. Hungerford had quick and strong
feelings. For a moment she could not speak--she held out her arms to
Caroline, and folded her to her heart.

"Excellent creature!" said she--"Child of my affections--_that_ you must
ever be!"

"Oh! Mrs. Hungerford! my dear madam," cried Rosamond, "you have no idea how
unjust and imprudent I have been about Caroline."

"My love," said Mrs. Hungerford, smiling, and wiping tears from her eyes,
"I fancy I can form a competent idea of your imprudence from my own. We
must all learn discretion from this dear girl--you, early--I, late in
life."

"Dear Rosamond, do not reproach yourself for your excessive kindness to
me," said Caroline; "in candour and generous feeling, who is equal to you?"

"Kissing one another, I protest," cried Lady Mary Pembroke, opening the
door from the gallery, "whilst we were wondering you did not come after us.
Aunt Hungerford, you know how we looked for the bow and arrows, and the
peaked shoes, with the knee-chains of the time of Edward the Fourth. Well,
they are all behind the great armoury press, which Gustavus has been moving
to make room for Elizabeth's copy of Prince Rupert. Do come and look at
them--but stay, first I have a favour to beg of you, Caroline. I know
Gustavus will ask my sister to ride with him this morning, and the flies
torment her horse so, and she is such a coward, that she will not be able
to listen to a word that is said to her--could you lend her your pretty
gentle White Surrey?"

"With pleasure," said Caroline, "and my net."

"I will go and bring it to your ladyship," said Rosamond.

"My ladyship is in no hurry," cried Lady Mary--"don't run away, don't go:
it is not wanted yet."

But Rosamond, glad to escape, ran away, saying, "There is some of the
fringe off--I must sew it on."

Rosamond, as she sewed on the fringe, sighed--and worked--and wished it was
for Caroline, and said to herself, "So it is all over--and all in vain!"

The horses for the happy riding party came to the door. Rosamond ran down
stairs with the net; Caroline had it put on her horse, and Lady Elizabeth
Pembroke thanked her with such a look of kindness, of secure faith in her
friend's sympathy, that even Rosamond forgave her for being happy. But
Rosamond could not wish to stay to witness her happiness just at this time;
and she was not sorry when her father announced the next day that business
required his immediate return home. Lamentations, loud and sincere, were
heard from every individual in the castle, especially from Mrs. Hungerford,
and from her daughter. They were, however, too well bred to persist in
their solicitations to have the visit prolonged.

They said they were grateful for the time which had been given to them,
and appeared kindly satisfied with their friends' promise to repeat their
visit, whenever they could with convenience.

Caroline, tenderly and gratefully attached to Mrs. Hungerford, found it
very difficult and painful to part from her; the more painful because she
feared to express all the affection, admiration, and gratitude she felt
for this excellent friend, lest her emotion might be misinterpreted. Mrs.
Hungerford understood her thoroughly. When she took leave of her, she
kissed her at first in silence, and then, by a few strong words, and more
by her manner than by her words, expressed her high esteem and affection
for her young friend.

CHAPTER XIX.

LETTER FROM DR. PERCY TO HIS SISTER ROSAMOND.

"I never told you, my dear Rosamond, that the beautiful Constance was
Mr. Gresham's daughter; I told you only that I saw her at his house.
To the best of my belief she is no relation to him. She is daughter to
Mr. Gresham's sick partner; and this partner--now, Rosamond, here is
coincidence, if not romance, enough to please you--this partner is Mr.
Panton, the London correspondent of the shipwrecked Dutch merchants, the
very Panton and Co. to whom my father lately wrote to recommend Godfrey's
friend, young Captain Henry--captain no more. I have not seen him yet;
he is invisible, in the counting-house, in the remote city, in ultimate
Broad-street, far as pole from pole from me at _Mrs._ Panton's fine house
in Grosvenor-square.

"But now to have done with an old story, before I begin with a new--I will
tell you at once all I know, or probably shall ever know, about Constance.
She is sole heiress to her father's fortune, which, on his repeated word, I
believe, amounts to hundreds of thousands. She is accomplished and amiable,
and, as I told you before, beautiful: but luckily her style of beauty,
which is that of one of Rubens' wives, does not particularly strike my
fancy. Besides, I would really and truly rather have a profession than be
an idle gentleman: I love my profession, and feel ambitious to distinguish
myself in it, and to make you all proud of your brother, Dr. Percy. These
general principles are strengthened beyond the possibility of doubt, by the
particular circumstances of _the present case_. A young unknown physician,
I have been introduced by a friend to this family, and have, in my medical
capacity, been admitted to a degree of familiarity in the house which none
shall ever have cause to repent. Physicians, I think, are called upon for
scrupulous _good faith_, because in some respects, they are more trusted in
families, and have more opportunities of intimacy, than those of any other
profession. I know, my dear Rosamond, you will not suspect me of assuming
fine sentiments that are foreign to my real feelings; but I must now inform
you, that if I could make myself agreeable and acceptable to Miss Panton,
and if it were equally in my will and in my power, yet I should never be,
in the language of the market, one shilling the better for her. Her father,
a man of low birth, and having, perhaps, in spite of his wealth, suffered
from the proud man's contumely, has determined to ennoble his family by
means of his only child, and she is not to enjoy his fortune unless she
marry one who has a title. If she unites herself with any man, below the
rank of a baron's son, he swears she shall never see the colour of sixpence
of his money. I understand that a certain Lord Roadster, eldest son of
Lord Runnymede, is the present candidate for her favour--or rather for her
wealth; and that his lordship is _patronized_ by her father. Every thing
that could be done by the vulgar selfishness and moneyed pride of her
father and mother-in-law to spoil this young lady, and to make her consider
herself as the first and only object of consequence in this world, has been
done--and yet she is not in the least spoiled. Shame to all systems of
education! there are some natures so good, that they will go right, where
all about them go wrong. My father will not admit this, and will exclaim,
Nonsense!--I will try to say something that he will allow to be sense. Miss
Panton's own mother was of a good family, and, I am told, was an amiable
woman, of agreeable manners, and a cultivated mind, who had been sacrificed
for fortune to this rich city husband. Her daughter's first principles and
ideas of manners and morals were, I suppose, formed by her precepts and
example. After her mother's death, I know she had the advantage of an
excellent and enlightened friend in her father's partner, Mr. Gresham, who,
having no children of his own, took pleasure, at all his leisure moments,
in improving little Constance. Then the contrast between her father and
him, between their ignorance and his enlightened liberality, must have
early struck her mind, and thus, I suppose, by observing their faults
and follies, she learned to form for herself an opposite character and
manners. The present Mrs. Panton is only her step-mother. Mrs. Panton is a
huge, protuberant woman, with a full-blown face, a bay wig, and artificial
flowers; talking in an affected little voice, when she is in company, and
when she has on her _company clothes and manners_; but bawling loud, in a
vulgarly broad cockney dialect, when she is at her ease in her own house.
She has an inordinate passion for dress, and a _rage_ for fine people. I
have a chance of becoming a favourite, because I am 'of a good _fammully_,"
and Mrs. Panton says she knows very well I have been egg and bird in the
best company.

"My patient--observe, my patient is the last person of whom I speak or
think--is nervous and hypochondriac; but as I do not believe that you have
much taste for medical detail, I shall not trouble you with the particulars
of this old gentleman's case, but pray for his recovery--for if I succeed
in setting him up again, it will set me up.... For the first time I have,
this day, after many calls, seen Godfrey's friend, young Mr. Henry. He
is handsome, and, as you ladies say, _interesting_. He is particularly
gentlemanlike in his manners; but he looks unhappy, and I thought he was
reserved towards me; but I have no right yet to expect that he should be
otherwise. He spoke of Godfrey with strong affection.

"Yours, truly,

"ERASMUS PERCY."

In the care of Mr. Panton's health, Dr. Percy was now the immediate
successor to a certain apothecary of the name of Coxeater, who, by right of
flattery, had reigned for many years over the family with arbitrary sway,
till he offended the lady of the house by agreeing with her husband upon
some disputed point about a julep. The apothecary had a terrible loss of
old Panton, for he swallowed more drugs in the course of a week than any
man in the city swallows in a year. At the same time, he was so economical
of these very drugs, that when Dr. Percy ordered the removal from his
bedchamber of a range of half full phials, he was actually near crying at
the thoughts of the waste of such a quantity of good physic: he finished by
turning away a footman for laughing at his ridiculous distress. Panton was
obstinate by fits, but touch his fears about his health, and he would be as
docile as the _bon vivant_ seigneur in Zadig, whose physician had no credit
with him when he digested well, but who governed him despotically whenever
he had an indigestion; so that he was ready to take any thing that could be
prescribed, even a basilisk stewed in rose-water. This merchant, retired
from business, was now as much engrossed with his health as ever he had
been with his wealth.