Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  ‘Like — minute — drops — from — off — the — eaves.’

  Or did you expect that, in hopes of being a pattern for the rising generation, I should hold my features in penance, immoveably, thus — like some of the poor ladies of Antigua, who, after they have blistered their faces all over, to get a fine complexion, are forced, whilst the new skin is coming, to sit without speaking, smiling, or moving muscle or feature, lest an indelible wrinkle should be the consequence?”

  Lady Boucher was impatient to have this speech finished, for she had a piece of news to tell. “Well!” cried she, “there’s no knowing what to believe or disbelieve, one hears so many strange reports; but I have a piece of news for you, that you may all depend upon. I have one secret worth knowing, I can tell your ladyship — and one, your ladyship and Miss Portman, I’m sure, will be rejoiced to hear. Your friend, Clarence Hervey, is going to be married.”

  “Married! married!” cried Lady Delacour.

  “Ay, ay, your ladyship may look as much astonished as you please, you cannot be more so than I was when I heard it. Clarence Hervey, Miss Portman, that was looked upon so completely, you know, as not a marrying man; and now the last man upon earth that your ladyship would suspect of marrying in this sort of way!”

  “In what sort of way? — My dear Belinda, how can you stand this fire?” said Lady Delacour, placing a skreen, dexterously, to hide her face from the dowager’s observation.

  “Now only guess whom he is going to marry,” continued Lady Boucher: “whom do you guess, Miss Portman?”

  “An amiable woman, I should guess, from Mr. Hervey’s general character,” cried Lady Delacour.

  “Oh, an amiable woman, I take for granted; every woman is amiable of course, as the newspapers tell us, when she is going to be married,” said the dowager: “an amiable woman, to be sure; but that means nothing. I have not had a guess from Miss Portman.”

  “From general character,” Belinda began, in a constrained voice.

  “Do not guess from general character, my dear Belinda,” interrupted Lady Delacour; “for there is no judging, in these cases, from general character, of what people will like or dislike.”

  “Then I will leave it to your ladyship to guess this time, if you please,” said Belinda.

  “You will neither of you guess till doomsday!” cried the dowager; “I must tell you. Mr. Hervey’s going to marry — in the strangest sort of way! — a girl that nobody knows — a daughter of a Mr. Hartley. The father can give her a good fortune, it is true; but one should not have supposed that fortune was an object with Mr. Hervey, who has such a noble one of his own. It’s really difficult to believe it.”

  “So difficult, that I find it quite impossible,” said Lady Delacour, with an incredulous smile.

  “Depend upon it, my dear Lady Delacour,” said the dowager, laying the convincing weight of her arm upon her ladyship’s, “depend upon it, my dear Lady Delacour, that my information is correct. Guess whom I had it from.”

  “Willingly. But first let me tell you, that I have seen Mr. Hervey within this half hour, and I never saw a man look less like a bridegroom.”

  “Indeed! well, I’ve heard, too, that he didn’t like the match: but what a pity, when you saw him yourself this morning, that you didn’t get all the particulars out of him. But let him look like what he will, you’ll find that my information is perfectly correct. Guess whom I had it from — from Mrs. Margaret Delacour: it was at her house that Clarence Hervey first met Mr. Hartley, who, as I mentioned, is the father of the young lady. There was a charming scene, and some romantic story, about his finding the girl in a cottage, and calling her Virginia something or other, but I didn’t clearly understand about that. However, this much is certain, that the girl, as her father told Mrs. Delacour, is desperately in love with Mr. Hervey, and they are to be married immediately. Depend upon it, you’ll find my information correct. Good morning to you. Lord bless me! now I recollect, I once heard that Mr. Hervey was a great admirer of Miss Portman,” said the dowager.

  The inquisitive dowager, whose curiosity was put upon a new scent, immediately fastened her eyes upon Belinda’s face; but from that she could make out nothing. Was it because she had not the best eyes, or because there was nothing to be seen? To determine this question, she looked through her glass, to take a clearer view; but Lady Delacour drew off her attention, by suddenly exclaiming—”My dear Lady Boucher, when you go back to town, do send me a bottle of concentrated anima of quassia.”

  “Ah! ah! have I made a convert of you at last?” said the dowager; and, satisfied with the glory of this conversion, she departed.

  “Admire my knowledge of human nature, my dear Belinda,” said Lady Delacour. “Now she will talk, at the next place she goes to, of nothing but of my faith in anima of quassia; and she will forget to make a gossiping story out of that most imprudent hint I gave her, about Clarence Hervey’s having been an admirer of yours.”

  “Do not leave the room, Belinda; I have a thousand things to say to you, my dear.”

  “Excuse me, at present, my dear Lady Delacour; I am impatient to write a few lines to Mr. Vincent. He went away—”

  “In a fit of jealousy, and I am glad of it.”

  “And I am sorry for it,” said Belinda; “sorry that he should have so little confidence in me as to feel jealousy without cause — without sufficient cause, I should say; for certainly your ladyship gave pain, by the manner in which you received Mr. Hervey.”

  “Lord, my dear, you would spoil any man upon earth. You could not act more foolishly if the man were your husband. Are you privately married to him? — If you be not — for my sake — for your own — for Mr. Vincent’s — do not write till we see the contents of Clarence Hervey’s packet.”

  “It can make no alteration in what I write,” said Belinda.

  “Well, my dear, write what you please; but I only hope you will not send your letter till the packet arrives.”

  “Pardon me, I shall send it as soon as I possibly can: the ‘dear delight of giving pain’ does not suit my taste.”

  Lady Delacour, as soon as she was left alone, began to reconsider the dowager’s story; notwithstanding her unbelieving smile, it alarmed her, for she could not refuse to give it some degree of credit, when she learnt that Mrs. Margaret Delacour was the authority from whom it came. Mrs. Delacour was a woman of scrupulous veracity, and rigid in her dislike to gossiping; so that it was scarcely probable a report originating with her, however it might be altered by the way, should prove to be totally void of foundation. The name of Virginia coincided with Sir Philip Baddely’s hints, and with Marriott’s discoveries: these circumstances considered, Lady Delacour knew not what opinion to form; and her eagerness to receive Mr. Hervey’s packet every moment increased. She walked up and down the room — looked at her watch — fancied that it had stopped — held it to her ear — ran the bell every quarter of an hour, to inquire whether the messenger was not yet come back. At last, the long-expected packet arrived. She seized it, and hurried with it immediately to Belinda’s room.

  “Clarence Hervey’s packet, my love! — Now, woe be to the person who interrupts us!” She bolted the door as she spoke — . rolled an arm-chair to the fire—”Now for it!” said she, seating herself. “The devil upon two sticks, if he were looking down upon me from the house-top, or Champfort, who is the worse devil of the two, would, if he were peeping through the keyhole, swear I was going to open a love-letter — and so I hope I am. Now for it!” cried she, breaking the seal.

  “My dear friend,” said Belinda, laying her hand upon Lady Delacour’s, “before we open this packet, let me speak to you, whilst our minds are calm.”

  “Calm! It is the strangest time for your mind to be calm. But I must not affront you by my incredulity. Speak, then, but be quick, for I do not pretend to be calm; it not being, thank my stars, ‘mon métier d’être philosophe.’ Crack goes the last seal — speak now, or for ever after hold your tongue, my calm philos
opher of Oakly-park: but do you wish me to attend to what you are going to say?”

  “Yes,” replied Belinda, smiling; “that is the usual wish of those who speak.”

  “Very true: and I can listen tolerably well, when I don’t know what people are going to say; but when I know it all beforehand, I have an unfortunate habit of not being able to attend to one word. Now, my dear, let me anticipate your speech, and if my anticipation be wrong, then you shall rise to explain; and I will,” said she, (putting her finger on her lips,) “listen to you, like Harpocrates, without moving an eyelash.”

  Belinda, as the most certain way of being heard, consented to hear before she spoke.

  “I will tell you,” pursued Lady Delacour, “if not what you are going to say to me, at least what you say to yourself, which is fully as much to the purpose. You say to yourself, ‘Let this packet of Clarence Hervey contain what it may, it comes too late. Let him say, or let him do, ’tis all the same to me — because — (now for the reasoning) — because things have gone so far with Mr. Vincent, that Lady Anne Percival and all the world (at Oakly-park) will blame me, if I retract. In short, things have gone so far that I cannot recede; because — things have gone so far.’ This is the rondeau of your argument. Nay, hear me out, then you shall have your turn, my dear, for an hour, if you please. Let things have gone ever so far, they can stop, and turn about again, cannot they? Lady Anne Percival is your friend, of course can wish only for your happiness. You think she is ‘the thing that’s most uncommon, a reasonable woman:’ then she cannot be angry with you for being happy your own way. So I need not, as the orators say, labour this point any more. Now, as to your aunt. The fear of displeasing Mrs. Stanhope a little more or less is not to be put in competition with the hope of your happiness for life, especially as you have contrived to exist some months in a state of utter excommunication from her favour. After all, you know she will not grieve for any thing but the loss of Mr. Vincent’s fortune; and Mr. Hervey’s fortune might do as well, or almost as well: at least, she may compound with her pride for the difference, by considering that an English member of parliament is, in the eyes of the world (the only eyes with which she sees), a better connexion than the son of a West India planter, even though he may be a protégé of Lady Anne Percival.

  “Spare me your indignation, my dear! — What a look was there! — Reasoning for Mrs. Stanhope, must not I reason as Mrs. Stanhope does? — Now I will put this stronger still. Suppose that you had actually acknowledged that Mr. Vincent had got beyond esteem with you; suppose that you had in due form consented to marry him; suppose that preparations were at this moment making for the wedding; even in that desperate case I should say to you, you are not a girl to marry because your wedding-gown is made up. Some few guineas are thrown away, perhaps; do not throw away your whole happiness after them — that would be sorry economy. Trust me, my dear, I should say, as I have to you, in time of need. Or, if you fear to be obliged to one who never was afraid of being obliged to you, ten to one the preparations for a wedding, though not the wedding, may be necessary immediately. No matter to Mrs. Franks who the bridegroom may be; so that her bill be paid, she would not care the turning of a feather whether it be paid by Mrs. Vincent or Mrs. Hervey. I hope I have convinced, I am sure I have made you blush, my dear, and that is some satisfaction. A blush at this moment is an earnest of victory. Lo, triumphe! Now I will open my packet; my hand shall not be held an instant longer.”

  “I absolve you from the penance of hearing me for an hour, but I claim your promise to attend to me for a few minutes, my dear friend,” said Belinda: “I thank you most sincerely for your kindness; and let me assure you that I should not hesitate to accept from you any species of obligation.”

  “Thanks! thanks! — there’s a dear good girl! — my own Belinda!”

  “But indeed you totally misunderstand me; your reasoning—”

  “Show me the fault of it: I challenge all the logic of all the Percivals.”

  “Your reasoning is excellent, if your facts were not taken for granted. You have taken it for granted, that Mr. Hervey is in love with me.”

  “No,” said Lady Delacour; “I take nothing for granted, as you will find when I open this packet.”

  “You have taken it for granted,” continued Belinda, “that I am still secretly attached to him; and you take it for granted that I am restrained only by fear of Lady Anne Percival, my aunt, and the world, from breaking off with Mr. Vincent: if you will read the letter, which I was writing to him when you came into the room, perhaps you will be convinced of your mistake.”

  “Read a letter to Mr. Vincent at such a time as this! then I will go and read my packet in my own room,” cried Lady Delacour, rising hastily, with evident displeasure.

  “Not even your displeasure, my dear friend,” said Belinda, “can alter my determination to behave with consistency and openness towards Mr. Vincent; and I can bear your anger, for I know it arises from your regard for me.”

  “I never loved you so little as at this instant, Belinda.”

  “You will do me justice when you are cool.”

  “Cool!” repeated Lady Delacour, as she was about to leave the room, “I never wish to be as cool as you are, Belinda! So, after all, you love Mr. Vincent — you’ll marry Mr. Vincent!”

  “I never said so,” replied Belinda: “you have not read my letter. Oh, Lady Delacour, at this instant — you should not reproach me.”

  “I did you injustice,” cried Lady Delacour, as she now looked at Belinda’s letter. “Send it — send it — you have said the very thing you ought; and now sit down with me to this packet of Clarence Hervey’s — be just to him, as you are to Mr. Vincent, that’s all I ask — give him a fair hearing: — now for it.”

  CHAPTER XXVI. — VIRGINIA

  Clarence Hervey’s packet contained a history of his connexion with Virginia St. Pierre.

  To save our hero from the charge of egotism, we shall relate the principal circumstances in the third person.

  It was about a year before he had seen Belinda that Clarence Hervey returned from his travels; he had been in France just before the Revolution, when luxury and dissipation were at their height in Paris, and when a universal spirit of licentious gallantry prevailed. Some circumstances in which he was personally interested disgusted him strongly with the Parisian belles; he felt that women who were full of vanity, affectation, and artifice, whose tastes were perverted, and whose feelings were depraved, were equally incapable of conferring or enjoying real happiness. Whilst this conviction was full in his mind, he read the works of Rousseau: this eloquent writer’s sense made its full impression upon Clarence’s understanding, and his declamations produced more than their just effect upon an imagination naturally ardent. He was charmed with the picture of Sophia, when contrasted with the characters of the women of the world with whom he had been disgusted; and he formed the romantic project of educating a wife for himself. Full of this idea, he returned to England, determined to carry his scheme immediately into execution, but was some time delayed by the difficulty of finding a proper object for his purpose: it was easy to meet with beauty in distress, and ignorance in poverty; but it was difficult to find simplicity without vulgarity, ingenuity without cunning, or even ignorance without prejudice; it was difficult to meet with an understanding totally uncultivated, yet likely to reward the labour of late instruction; a heart wholly unpractised, yet full of sensibility, capable of all the enthusiasm of passion, the delicacy of sentiment, and the firmness of rational constancy. It is not wonderful that Mr. Hervey, with such high expectations, should not immediately find them gratified. Disappointed in his first search, he did not, however, relinquish his design; and at length, by accident, he discovered, or thought that he discovered, an object formed expressly for his purpose.

  One fine evening in autumn, as he was riding through the New Forest, charmed with the picturesque beauties of the place, he turned out of the beaten road, and struck into a fresh track,
which he pursued with increasing delight, till the setting sun reminded him that it was necessary to postpone his farther reflections on forest scenery, and that it was time to think of finding his way out of the wood. He was now in the most retired part of the forest, and he saw no path to direct him; but, as he stopped to consider which way he should turn, a dog sprang from a thicket, barking furiously at his horse: his horse was high-spirited, but he was master of him, and he obliged the animal to stand quietly till the dog, having barked himself hoarse, retreated of his own accord. Clarence watched to see which way he would go, and followed him, in hopes of meeting with the person to whom he belonged: he kept his guide in sight, till he came into a beautiful glade, in the midst of which was a neat but very small cottage, with numerous beehives in the garden, surrounded by a profusion of rose-trees which were in full blow. This cultivated spot was strikingly contrasted with the wildness of the surrounding scenery. As he came nearer, Mr. Hervey saw a young girl watering the rose-trees, which grew round the cottage, and an old woman beside her filling a basket with the flowers. The old woman was like most other old women, except that she had a remarkably benevolent countenance, and an air that had been acquired in better days; but the young girl did not appear to Clarence like any other young girl that he had ever seen. The setting sun shone upon her countenance, the wind blew aside the ringlets of her light hair, and the blush of modesty overspread her cheeks when she looked up at the stranger. In her large blue eyes there was an expression of artless sensibility with which Mr. Hervey was so powerfully struck that he remained for some moments silent, totally forgetting that he came to ask his way out of the forest. His horse had made so little noise upon the soft grass, that he was within a few yards of them before he was perceived by the old woman. As soon as she saw him, she turned abruptly to the young girl, put the basket of roses into her hand, and bid her carry them into the house. As she passed him, the girl, with a sweet innocent smile, held up the basket to Clarence, and offered him one of the roses.