Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Den me will tell all.”

  This conversation passed before Miss Portman and Charles Percival, who were walking in the park with Mr. Vincent, at the time he met Juba and asked him to go for the tambourine. When he came to the words, “Me will tell all,” he made a sign that he wished to tell it to his master alone. Belinda and the little boy walked on, to leave him at liberty to speak; and then, though with a sort of reluctant horror, he told that the figure of an old woman, all in flames, had appeared to him in his bedchamber at Harrowgate every night, and that he was sure she was one of the obeah-women of his own country, who had pursued him to Europe to revenge his having once, when he was a child, trampled upon an egg-shell that contained some of her poisons. The extreme absurdity of this story made Mr. Vincent burst out a laughing; but his humanity the next instant made him serious; for the poor victim of superstitious terror, after having revealed what, according to the belief of his country, it is death to mention, fell senseless on the ground. When he came to himself, he calmly said, that he knew he must now die, for that the obeah-women never forgave those that talked of them or their secrets; and, with a deep groan, he added, that he wished he might die before night, that he might not see her again. It was in vain to attempt to reason him out of the idea that he had actually seen this apparition: his account of it was, that it first appeared to him in the coach-house one night, when he went thither in the dark — that he never afterwards went to the coach-house in the dark — but that the same figure of an old woman, all in flames, appeared at the foot of his bed every night whilst he stayed at Harrowgate; and that he was then persuaded she would never let him escape from her power till she had killed him. That since he had left Harrowgate, however, she had not tormented him, for he had never seen her, and he was in hopes that she had forgiven him; but that now he was sure of her vengeance for having spoken of her.

  Mr. Vincent knew the astonishing power which the belief in this species of sorcery7 has over the minds of the Jamaica negroes; they pine and actually die away from the moment they fancy themselves under the malignant influence of these witches. He almost gave poor Juba over for lost. The first person that he happened to meet after his conversation was Belinda, to whom he eagerly related it, because he had observed, that she had listened with much attention and sympathy to the beginning of the poor fellow’s story. The moment that she heard of the flaming apparition, she recollected having seen a head drawn in phosphorus, which one of the children had exhibited for her amusement, and it occurred to her that, perhaps, some imprudent or ill-natured person might have terrified the ignorant negro by similar means. When she mentioned this to Mr. Vincent, he recollected the threat that had been thrown out by Mrs. Freke, the day that Juba had taken possession of the disputed coach-house; and from the character of this lady, Belinda judged that she would be likely to play such a trick, and to call it, as usual, fun or frolic. Miss Portman suggested that one of the children should show him the phosphorus, and should draw some ludicrous figure with it in his presence. This was done, and it had the effect that she expected. Juba, familiarized by degrees with the object of his secret horror, and convinced that no obeah-woman was exercising over him her sorceries, recovered his health and spirits. His gratitude to Miss Portman, who was the immediate cause of his cure, was as simple and touching as it was lively and sincere. This was the circumstance which first turned Mr. Vincent’s attention towards Belinda. Upon examining the room in which the negro used to sleep at Harrowgate, the strong smell of phosphorus was perceived, and part of the paper was burnt on the very spot where he had always seen the figure, so that he was now perfectly convinced that this trick had been purposely played to frighten him, in revenge for his having kept possession of the coach-house.

  Mrs. Freke, when she found herself detected, gloried in the jest, and told the story as a good joke wherever she went — triumphing in the notion, that it was she who had driven both master and man from Harrowgate.

  The exploit was, however, by no means agreeable in its consequences to her friend Mrs. Luttridge, who was now at Harrowgate. For reasons of her own, she was very anxious to fix Mr. Vincent in her society, and she was much provoked by Mrs. Freke’s conduct. The ladies came to high words upon the occasion, and an irreparable breach would have ensued had not Mrs. Freke, in the midst of her rage, recollected Mrs. Luttridge’s electioneering interest: and suddenly changing her tone, she declared that “she was really sorry to have driven Mr. Vincent from Harrowgate; that her only intention was to get rid of his black; she would lay any wager, that, with Mrs. Luttridge’s assistance, they could soon get the gentleman back again;” and she proposed, as a certain method of fixing Mr. Vincent in Mrs. Luttridge’s society, to invite Belinda to Harrowgate.

  “You may be sure,” said Mrs. Freke, “that she must by this time be cursedly tired of her visit to those stupid good people at Oakly-park, and never woman wanted an excuse to do any thing she liked: so trust to her own ingenuity to make some decent apology to the Percivals for running away from them. As to Vincent, you may be sure Belinda Portman is his only inducement for staying with that precious family-party; and if we have her we have him. Now we can be sure of her, for she has just quarrelled with our dear Lady Delacour. I had the whole story from my maid, who had it from Champfort. Lady Delacour and she are at daggers-drawing, and it will be delicious to her to hear her ladyship handsomely abused. We are the declared enemies of her enemy, so we must be her friends. Nothing unites folk so quickly and so solidly, as hatred of some common foe.”

  This argument could not fail to convince Mrs. Luttridge, and the next day Mrs. Freke commenced her operations. She drove in her unicorn to Oakly-park to pay Miss Portman a visit. She had no acquaintance either with Mr. Percival or Lady Anne, and she had always treated Belinda, when she met her in town, rather cavalierly, as an humble companion of Lady Delacour. But it cost Mrs. Freke nothing to change her tone: she was one of those ladies who can remember or forget people, be perfectly familiar or strangely rude, just as it suits the convenience, fashion, or humour of the minute.

  CHAPTER XVII. — RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

  Belinda was alone, and reading, when Mrs. Freke dashed into the room.

  “How do, dear creature?” cried she, stepping up to her, and shaking hands with her boisterously—”How do? — Glad to see you, faith! — Been long here? — Tremendously hot to-day!”

  She flung herself upon the sofa beside Belinda, threw her hat upon the table, and then continued speaking.

  “And how d’ye go on here, poor child? — Gad! I’m glad you’re alone — expected to find you encompassed by a whole host of the righteous. Give me credit for my courage in coming to deliver you out of their hands. Luttridge and I had such compassion upon you, when we heard you were close prisoner here! I swore to set the distressed damsel free, in spite of all the dragons in Christendom; so let me carry you off in triumph in my unicorn, and leave these good people to stare when they come home from their sober walk, and find you gone. There’s nothing I like so much as to make good people stare — I hope you’re of my way o’ thinking — you don’t look as if you were, though; but I never mind young ladies’ looks — always give the lie to their thoughts. Now we talk o’looks — never saw you look so well in my life — as handsome as an angel! And so much the better for me. Do you know, I’ve a bet of twenty guineas on your head — on your face, I mean. There’s a young bride at Harrowgate, Lady H —— , they’re all mad about her; the men swear she’s the handsomest woman in England, and I swear I know one ten times as handsome. They’ve dared me to make good my word, and I’ve pledged myself to produce my beauty at the next ball, and to pit her against their belle for any money. Most votes carry it. I’m willing to double my bet since I’ve seen you again. Come, had not we best be off? Now don’t refuse me and make speeches — you know that’s all nonsense — I’ll take all the blame upon myself.”

  Belinda, who had not been suffered to utter a word whilst Mrs. Freke ran on in this strange ma
nner, looked in unfeigned astonishment; but when she found herself seized and dragged towards the door, she drew back with a degree of gentle firmness that astonished Mrs. Freke. With a smiling countenance, but a steady tone, she said, “that she was sorry Mrs. Freke’s knight-errantry should not be exerted in a better cause, for that she was neither a prisoner, nor a distressed damsel.”

  “And will you make me lose my bet?” cried Mrs. Freke “Oh, at all events, you must come to the ball! — I’m down for it. But I’ll not press it now, because you’re frightened out of your poor little wits, I see, at the bare thoughts of doing any thing considered out of rule by these good people. Well, well! it shall be managed for you — leave that to me: I’m used to managing for cowards. Pray tell me — you and Lady Delacour are off, I understand? — Give ye joy! — She and I were once great friends; that is to say, I had over her ‘that power which strong minds have over weak ones,’ but she was too weak for me — one of those people that have neither courage to be good, nor to be bad.”

  “The courage to be bad,” said Belinda, “I believe, indeed, she does not possess.”

  Mrs. Freke stared. “Why, I heard you had quarrelled with her!”

  “If I had,” said Belinda, “I hope that I should still do justice to her merits. It is said that people are apt to suffer more by their friends than their enemies. I hope that will never be the case with Lady Delacour, as I confess that I have been one of her friends.”

  “‘Gad, I like your spirit — you don’t want courage, I see, to fight even for your enemies. You are just the kind of girl I admire. I see you have been prejudiced against me by Lady Delacour; but whatever stories she may have trumped up, the truth of the matter is this, there’s no living with her, she’s so jealous — so ridiculously jealous — of that lord of hers, for whom all the time she has the impudence to pretend not to care more than I do for the sole of my boot,” said Mrs. Freke, striking it, with her whip; “but she hasn’t the courage to give him tit for tat: now this is what I call weakness. Pray, how do she and Clarence Hervey go on together? — Are they out o’ the hornbook of platonics yet?”

  “Mr. Hervey was not in town when I left it,” said Belinda.

  “Was not he? — Ho! ho! — He’s off then! — Ay, so I prophesied; she’s not the thing for him: he has some strength of mind — some soul — above vulgar prejudices; so must a woman be to hold him. He was caught at first by her grace and beauty, and that sort of stuff; but I knew it could not last — knew she’d dilly dally with Clary, till he would turn upon his heel and leave her there.”

  “I fancy that you are entirely mistaken both with respect to Mr. Hervey and Lady Delacour,” Belinda very seriously began to say. But Mrs. Freke interrupted her, and ran on; “No! no! no! I’m not mistaken; Clarence has found her out. She’s a very woman — that he could forgive her, and so could I; but she’s a mere woman — and that he can’t forgive — no more can I.”

  There was a kind of drollery about Mrs. Freke, which, with some people, made the odd things she said pass for wit. Humour she really possessed; and when she chose it, she could be diverting to those who like buffoonery in women. She had set her heart upon winning Belinda over to her party. She began by flattery of her beauty; but as she saw that this had no effect, she next tried what could be done by insinuating that she had a high opinion of her understanding, by talking to her as an esprit fort.

  “For my part,” said she, “I own I should like a strong devil better than a weak angel.”

  “You forget,” said Belinda, “that it is not Milton, but Satan, who says,

  ‘Fallen spirit, to be weak is to be miserable.’”

  “You read, I see! — I did not know you were a reading girl. So was I once; but I never read now. Books only spoil the originality of genius: very well for those who can’t think for themselves — but when one has made up one’s opinion, there is no use in reading.”

  “But to make them up,” replied Belinda, “may it not be useful?”

  “Of no use upon earth to minds of a certain class. You, who can think for yourself, should never read.”

  “But I read that I may think for myself.”

  “Only ruin your understanding, trust me. Books are full of trash — nonsense, conversation is worth all the books in the world.”

  “And is there never any nonsense in conversation?”

  “What have you here?” continued Mrs. Freke, who did not choose to attend to this question; exclaiming, as she reviewed each of the books on the table in their turns, in the summary language of presumptuous ignorance, “Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments — milk and water! Moore’s Travels — hasty pudding! La Bruyère — nettle porridge! This is what you were at when I came in, was it not?” said she, taking up a book8 in which she saw Belinda’s mark: “Against Inconsistency in our Expectations. Poor thing! who bored you with this task?”

  “Mr. Percival recommended it to me, as one of the best essays in the English language.”

  “The devil! they seem to have put you in a course of the bitters — a course of the woods might do your business better. Do you ever hunt? — Let me take you out with me some morning — you’d be quite an angel on horseback; or let me drive you out some day in my unicorn.”

  Belinda declined this invitation, and Mrs. Freke strode away to the window to conceal her mortification, threw up the sash, and called out to her groom, “Walk those horses about, blockhead!”

  Mr. Percival and Mr. Vincent at this instant came into the room.

  “Hail, fellow! well met!” cried Mrs. Freke, stretching out her hand to Mr. Vincent.

  It has been remarked, that an antipathy subsists between creatures, who, without being the same, have yet a strong external resemblance. Mr. Percival saw this instinct rising in Mr. Vincent, and smiled.

  “Hail, fellow! well met! I say. Shake hands and be friends, man! Though I’m not in the habit of making apologies, if it will be any satisfaction to you, I beg your pardon for frightening your poor devil of a black.”

  Then turning towards Mr. Percival, she measured him with her eye, as a person whom she longed to attack. She thought, that if Belinda’s opinion of the understanding of these Percivals could be lowered, she should rise in her esteem: accordingly, she determined to draw Mr. Percival into an argument.

  “I’ve been talking treason, I believe, to Miss Portman,” cried she; “for I’ve been opposing some of your opinions, Mr. Percival.”

  “If you opposed them all, madam,” said Mr. Percival, “I should not think it treason.”

  “Vastly polite! — But I think all our politeness hypocrisy: what d’ye say to that?”

  “You know that best, madam!”

  “Then I’ll go a step farther; for I’m determined you shall contradict me: I think all virtue is hypocrisy.”

  “I need not contradict you, madam,” said Mr. Percival, “for the terms which you make use of contradict themselves.”

  “It is my system,” pursued Mrs. Freke, “that shame is always the cause of the vices of women.”

  “It is sometimes the effect,” said Mr. Percival; “and, as cause and effect are reciprocal, perhaps you may, in some instances, be right.”

  “Oh! I hate qualifying arguers — plump assertion or plump denial for me: you sha’n’t get off so. I say shame is the cause of all women’s vices.”

  “False shame, I suppose you mean?” said Mr. Percival.

  “Mere play upon words! All shame is false shame — we should be a great deal better without it. What say you, Miss Portman? — Silent, hey? Silence that speaks.”

  “Miss Portman’s blushes,” said Mr. Vincent, “speak for her.”

  “Against her,” said Mrs. Freke: “women blush because they understand.”

  “And you would have them understand without blushing?” said Mr. Percival. “I grant you that nothing can be more different than innocence and ignorance. Female delicacy—”

  “This is just the way you men spoil women,” cried Mrs. Frek
e, “by talking to them of the delicacy of their sex, and such stuff. This delicacy enslaves the pretty delicate dears.”

  “No; it enslaves us,” said Mr. Vincent.

  “I hate slavery! Vive la liberté!” cried Mrs. Freke. “I’m a champion for the Rights of Woman.”

  “I am an advocate for their happiness,” said Mr. Percival, “and for their delicacy, as I think it conduces to their happiness.”

  “I’m an enemy to their delicacy, as I am sure it conduces to their misery.”

  “You speak from experience?” said Mr. Percival.

  “No, from observation. Your most delicate women are always the greatest hypocrites; and, in my opinion, no hypocrite can or ought to be happy.”

  “But you have not proved the hypocrisy,” said Belinda. “Delicacy is not, I hope, an indisputable proof of it? If you mean false delicacy — —”

  “To cut the matter short at once,” cried Mrs. Freke, “why, when a woman likes a man, does not she go and tell him so honestly?”

  Belinda, surprised by this question from a woman, was too much abashed instantly to answer.

  “Because she’s a hypocrite. That is and must be the answer.”

  “No,” said Mr. Percival; “because, if she be a woman of sense, she knows that by such a step she would disgust the object of her affection.”

  “Cunning! — cunning! — cunning! — the arms of the weakest.”

  “Prudence! prudence! — the arms of the strongest. Taking the best means to secure our own happiness without injuring that of others is the best proof of sense and strength of mind, whether in man or woman. Fortunately for society, the same conduct in ladies which best secures their happiness most increases ours.”

  Mrs. Freke beat the devil’s tattoo for some moments, and then exclaimed, “You may say what you will, but the present system of society is radically wrong: — whatever is, is wrong.”