Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Godfrey took fire at this, and exclaimed against the injustice of a doctrine which would render wretched for life many young women who might possess every amiable and estimable quality, and who could never remedy the misfortune of their birth. Godfrey urged, that whilst this would render the good miserable, it would be the most probable means of driving the weak from despair into vice.

  Rosamond eagerly joined her brother’s side of the question. Mr. Percy, though he knew, he said, that he must appear one of the “fathers with flinty hearts,” protested that he felt great compassion for the unfortunate individuals, as much as a man who was not in love with any of them could reasonably be expected to feel.

  “But now,” continued he, “granting that all the consequences which Godfrey has predicted were to follow from my doctrine, yet I am inclined to believe that society would, upon the whole, be the gainer by such severity, or, as I am willing to allow it to be, such apparent injustice. The adherence to this principle would be the misery, perhaps the ruin, of a few; but would, I think, tend to the safety and happiness of so many, that the evil would be nothing in comparison to the good. The certainty of shame descending to the daughters would be a powerful means of deterring mothers from ill-conduct; and might probably operate more effectually to restrain licentiousness in high life than heavy damages, or the now transient disgrace of public trial and divorce. As to the apparent injustice of punishing children for the faults of their parents, it should be considered that in most other cases children suffer discredit more or less for the faults of their parents of whatever kind; and that, on the other hand, they enjoy the advantage of the good characters which their parents establish. This must be so from the necessary effect of experience, and from the nature of human belief, except in cases where passion operates to destroy or suspend the power of reason—”

  “That is not my case, I assure you, sir,” interrupted Godfrey.

  Mr. Percy smiled, and continued:—”It appears to me highly advantageous, that character, in general, should descend to posterity as well as riches or honours, which are, in fact, often the representations, or consequences, in other forms, of different parts of character — industry, talents, courage. For instance, in the lower ranks of life, it is a common saying, that a good name is the richest legacy a woman can leave her daughter. This idea should be impressed more fully than it is upon the higher classes. At present, money too frequently forms a compensation for every thing in high life. It is not uncommon to see the natural daughters of men of rank, or of large fortune, portioned so magnificently, either with solid gold, or promised family protection, that their origin by the mother’s side, and the character of the mother, are quite forgotten. Can this be advantageous to good morals? Surely a mother living in open defiance of the virtue of her sex should not see her illegitimate offspring, instead of being her shame, become her glory. — On the contrary, nothing could tend more to prevent the ill conduct of women in high life than the certainty that men who, from their fortune, birth, and character, might be deemed the most desirable matches, would shun alliances with the daughters of women of tainted reputation.”

  Godfrey eagerly declared his contempt for those men who married for money or ambition either illegitimate or legitimate daughters. He should be sorry, he said, to do any thing that would countenance vice, which ought to be put out of countenance by all means — if possible. But he was not the guardian of public morals; and even if he were, he should still think it unjust that the innocent should suffer for the guilty. That for his own part, if he could put his father’s disapprobation out of the question, he should easily settle his mind, and overcome all objections in a prudential point of view to marrying an amiable woman who had had the misfortune to have a worthless mother.

  Mrs. Percy had not yet given her opinion — all eyes turned towards her. As usual, she spoke with persuasive gentleness and good sense; she marked where each had, in the warmth of argument, said more than they intended, and she seized the just medium by which all might be conciliated. She said that she thought the important point to be considered was, what the education of the daughter had been; on this a prudent man would form his opinion, not on the mere accident of her birth. He would inquire whether the girl had lived with the ill-conducted mother — had been in situations to be influenced by her example, or by that of the company which she kept. If such had been the case, Mrs. Percy declared she thought it would be imprudent and wrong to marry the daughter. But if the daughter had been separated in early childhood from the mother, had never been exposed to the influence of her example, had, on the contrary, been educated carefully in strict moral and religious principles, it would be cruel, because unnecessary, to object to an alliance with such a woman. The objection would appear inconsistent, as well as unjust, if made by, those who professed to believe in the unlimited power of education.

  Godfrey rubbed his hands with delight — Mr. Percy smiled, and acknowledged that he was compelled to admit the truth and justice of this statement.

  “Pray do you know, Godfrey,” said Rosamond, “whether Miss Hauton lived with her mother, or was educated by her?”

  “I cannot tell,” said Godfrey; “but I will make it my business to find out. At all events, my dear mother,” continued he, “a child cannot decide by whom she will be educated. It is not her fault if her childhood be passed with a mother who is no fit guardian for her.”

  “I acknowledge,” said Mrs. Percy, “that is her misfortune.”

  “And would you make it an irreparable misfortune?” said Godfrey, in an expostulatory tone: “my dear mother — only consider.”

  “My dear son, I do consider,” said Mrs. Percy; “but I cannot give up the point of education. I should be very sorry to see a son of mine married to a woman who had been in this unfortunate predicament. But,” added Mrs. Percy, after a few minutes’ silence, “if from the time her own will and judgment could be supposed to act, she had chosen for her companions respectable and amiable persons, and had conducted herself with uniform propriety and discretion, I think I might be brought to allow of an exception to my general principle.” She looked at Mr. Percy.

  “Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Percy; “exceptions must not merely be allowed, but will force themselves in favour of superior merit, of extraordinary excellence, which will rise above every unfavourable circumstance in any class, in any condition of life in which it may exist, which will throw off any stigma, however disgraceful, counteract all prepossessions, however potent, rise against all power of depression — redeem a family — redeem a race.”

  “Now, father, you speak like yourself!” cried Godfrey: “this is all I ask — all I wish.”

  “And here,” continued Mr. Percy, “is an adequate motive for a good and great mind — yes, great — for I believe there are great minds in the female as well as in the male part of the creation; I say, here is an adequate motive to excite a woman of a good and great mind to exert herself to struggle against the misfortunes of her birth.”

  “For instance,” said Rosamond, “my sister Caroline is just the kind of woman, who, if she had been one of these unfortunate daughters, would have made herself an exception.”

  “Very likely,” said Mr. Percy, laughing; “but why you should go so far out of your way to make an unfortunate daughter of poor Caroline, and why you should picture to yourself, as Dr. Johnson would say, what would be probable in an impossible situation, I cannot conceive, except for the pleasure of exercising, as you do upon most occasions, a fine romantic imagination.”

  “At all events I am perfectly satisfied,” said Godfrey. “Since you admit of exceptions, sir, I agree with you entirely.”

  “No, not entirely. I am sure you cannot agree with me entirely, until I admit Miss Hauton to be one of my exceptions.”

  “That will come in time, if she deserve it,” said Mrs. Percy.

  Godfrey thanked his mother with great warmth, and observed, that she was always the most indulgent of friends.

  “But remem
ber my if,” said Mrs. Percy: “I know nothing of Miss Hauton at present, except that she is very pretty, and that she has engaging manners — Do you, my dear Godfrey?”

  “Yes, indeed, ma’am, I know a great deal more of her.”

  “Did you ever see her before this night?”

  “Never,” said Godfrey.

  “And at a ball!” said Mrs. Percy: “you must have wonderful penetration into character. — But Cupid, though blindfold, can see more at a single glance than a philosophic eye can discover with the most minute examination.”

  “But, Cupid out of the question, let me ask you, mother,” said Godfrey, “whether you do not think Miss Hauton has a great deal of sensibility? You saw that there was no affectation in her fainting.”

  “None, none,” said Mrs. Percy.

  “There, father!” cried Godfrey, in an exulting tone; “and sensibility is the foundation of every thing that is most amiable and charming, of every grace, of every virtue in woman.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Percy, “and perhaps of some of their errors and vices. It depends upon how it is governed, whether sensibility be a curse or a blessing to its possessor, and to society.”

  “A curse!” cried Godfrey; “yes, if a woman be doomed—”

  “Come, come, my dear Godfrey,” interrupted Mr. Percy, “do not let us talk any more upon the subject just now, because you are too much interested to reason coolly.”

  Rosamond then took her turn to talk of what was uppermost in her thoughts — Buckhurst Falconer, whom she alternately blamed and pitied, accused and defended; sometimes rejoicing that Caroline had rejected his suit, sometimes pitying him for his disappointment, and repeating that with such talents, frankness, and generosity of disposition, it was much to be regretted that he had not that rectitude of principle, and steadiness of character, which alone could render him worthy of Caroline. Then passing from compassion for the son to indignation against the father, she observed, “that Commissioner Falconer seemed determined to counteract all that was good in his son’s disposition, that he actually did every thing in his power to encourage Buckhurst in a taste for dissipation, as it seemed on purpose to keep him in a state of dependence, and to enslave him to the great.

  “I hope, with all my heart, I hope,” continued Rosamond, “that Buckhurst will have sense and steadiness enough to refuse; but I heard his father supporting that foolish Colonel Hauton’s persuasions, and urging his poor son to go with those people to Cheltenham. Now, if once he gets into that extravagant, dissipated set, he will be ruined for ever! — Adieu to all hopes of him. He will no more go to the bar than I shall — he will think of nothing but pleasure; he will run in debt again, and then farewell principle, and with principle, farewell all hopes of him. But I think he will have sense and steadiness enough to resist his father, and to refuse to accompany this profligate patron, Colonel Hauton. — Godfrey, what is your opinion? Do you think Buckhurst will go?”

  “I do not know,” replied Godfrey: “in his place I should find it very easy, but in my own case, I confess, I should feel it difficult, to refuse, if I were pressed to join a party of pleasure with Miss Hauton.”

  CHAPTER V.

  Godfrey Percy went in the morning to inquire after the health of his fair partner: this was only a common civility. On his way thither he overtook and joined a party of gentlemen, who were also going to Clermont-park. They entered into conversation, and talked of the preceding night — one of the gentlemen, an elderly man, who had not been at the ball, happened to be acquainted with Miss Hauton, and with her family. Godfrey heard from him all the particulars respecting Lady Anne Hauton, and was thrown into a melancholy reverie by learning that Miss Hauton had been educated by this mother, and had always lived with her till her ladyship’s death, which happened about two years before this time. — After receiving this intelligence, Godfrey heard little more of the conversation that passed till he reached Clermont-park. — A number of young people were assembled in the music-room practising for a concert. — Miss Hauton was at the piano-forte when he entered the room: she was sitting with her back to the door, surrounded by a crowd of amateurs; she did not see him — he stood behind listening to her singing. Her voice was delightful; but he was surprised, and not pleased, by the choice of her songs: she was singing, with some other high-bred young ladies, songs which, to use the gentlest expression, were rather too anacreontic — songs which, though sanctioned by fashion, were not such as a young lady of taste would prefer, or such as a man of delicacy would like to hear from his sister or his wife. They were nevertheless highly applauded by all the audience, except by Godfrey, who remained silent behind the young lady. In the fluctuation of the crowd he was pressed nearer and nearer to her chair. As she finished singing a fashionable air, she heard a sigh from the person behind her.

  “That’s your favourite, I think?” said she, turning round, and looking up. “Mr. Percy! I — I thought it was Mr. Falconer.” Face, neck, hands, suddenly blushed: she stooped for a music-book, and searched for some time in that attitude for she knew not what, whilst all the gentlemen officiously offered their services, and begged only to know for what book she was looking.

  “Come, come, Maria,” cried Colonel Hauton, “what the d —— are you about? — Can’t you give us another of these? You can’t be better. Come, you’re keeping Miss Drakelow.”

  “Go on, Miss Drakelow, if you please, without me.”

  “Impossible. Come, come, Maria, what the deuce are you at?”

  Miss Hauton, afraid to refuse her brother, afraid to provoke the comments of the company, began to sing, or rather to attempt to sing — her voice faltered; she cleared her throat, and began again — worse still, she was out of tune: she affected to laugh. Then, pushing back her chair, she rose, drew her veil over her face, and said, “I have sung till I have no voice left. — Does nobody walk this morning?”

  “No, no,” said Colonel Hauton; “who the deuce would be bored with being broiled at this time of day? Miss Drakelow — Miss Chatterton, give us some more music, I beseech you; for I like music better in a morning than at night — the mornings, when one can’t go out, are so confoundedly long and heavy.”

  The young ladies played, and Miss Hauton seated herself apart from the group of musicians, upon a bergère, leaning on her hand, in a melancholy attitude. Buckhurst Falconer followed and sat down beside her, endeavouring to entertain her with some witty anecdote.

  She smiled with effort, listened with painful attention, and the moment the anecdote was ended, her eyes wandered out of the window. Buckhurst rose, vacated his seat, and before any of the other gentlemen who had gathered round could avail themselves of that envied place, Miss Hauton, complaining of the intolerable heat, removed nearer to the window, to an ottoman, one half of which was already so fully occupied by a large dog of her brother’s, that she was in no danger from any other intruder. Some of the gentlemen, who were not blessed with much sagacity, followed, to talk to her of the beauty of the dog which she was stroking; but to an eulogium upon its long ears, and even to a quotation from Shakspeare about dewlaps, she listened with so vacant an air, that her followers gave up the point, and successively retired, leaving her to her meditations. Godfrey, who had kept aloof, had in the mean time been looking at some books that lay on a reading table. — Maria Hauton was written in the first page of several of them. — All were novels — some French, and some German, of a sort which he did not like.

  “What have you there, Mr. Percy?” said Miss Hauton.—”Nothing worth your notice, I am afraid. I dare say you do not like novels.”

  “Pardon me, I like some novels very much.”

  “Which?” said Miss Hauton, rising and approaching the table.

  “All that are just representations of life and manners, or of the human heart,” said Godfrey, “provided they are—”

  “Ah! the human heart!” interrupted Miss Hauton: “the heart only can understand the heart — who, in modern times, can describe the human heart
?”

  “Not to speak of foreigners — Miss Burney — Mrs. Inchbald — Mrs. Opie,” said Godfrey.

  “True; and yet I — and yet—” said Miss Hauton, pausing and sighing.

  “And yet that was not what I was thinking of,” she should have said, had she finished her sentence with the truth; but this not being convenient, she left it unfinished, and began a new one, with “Some of these novels are sad trash — I hope Mr. Godfrey Percy will not judge of my taste by them: that would be condemning me for the crimes of my bookseller, who will send us down everything new that comes out.”

  Godfrey disclaimed the idea of condemning or blaming Miss Hauton’s taste: “he could not,” he said, “be so presumptuous, so impertinent.”

  “So then,” said she, “Mr. Godfrey Percy is like all the rest of his sex, and I must not expect to hear the truth from him.” — She paused — and looked at a print which he was examining.—”I would, however, rather have him speak severely than think hardly of me.”

  “He has no right to speak, and certainly no inclination to think hardly of Miss Hauton,” replied Godfrey gravely, but with an emotion which he in vain endeavoured to suppress. To change the conversation, he asked her opinion about a figure in the print. She took out her glass, and stooped to look quite closely at it.—”Before you utterly condemn me,” continued she, speaking in a low voice, “consider how fashion silences one’s better taste and feelings, and how difficult it is when all around one—”

  Miss Chatterton, Miss Drakelow, and some officers of their suite came up at this instant; a deputation, they said, to bring Miss Hauton back, to favour them with another song, as she must now have recovered her voice.

  “No — no — excuse me,” said she, smiling languidly; “I beg not to be pressed any more. I am really not well — I absolutely cannot sing any more this morning. I have already sung so much — too much,” added she, when the deputation had retired, so that the last words could be heard only by him for whom they were intended.