Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “We do not like to question you,” said Rosamond, “lest we should ask what you might not like to answer, or what the young woman would be sorry that you should answer.”

  “Why, miss, that’s very considerate in you, and only that I know it would be for her benefit, I am sure I would not have said a word — but here I have so very little to give her, and that little so coarse fare to what she been used to, both when she was at service, and when she was with her own people, that I be afraid, weak as she be grown now, she won’t do. And though I have been a good nurse in my day, I think she wants now a bit better doctor than I be — and then if she could see the minister, to take the weight off her heart, to make her not fret so, to bid her look up above for comfort, and to raise her with the hope and trust that God will have more mercy upon her than her father and mother do have; and to make her — hardest of all! — forget him that has forsaken her and her little one, and been so cruel — Oh! ladies, to do all that, needs a person that can speak to her better and with more authority than I can.”

  The poor woman stopped again for some minutes, and then recollecting that she had not told what she had intended to tell, she said, “I suppose, ladies, you guess now how it be, and I ought to beg pardon for speaking of such a thing, or such a one, as — as poor Kate is now, to you, young ladies; but though she is fallen so low, and an outcast, she is not hardened; and if it had been so that it had pleased Heaven that she had been a wife to one in her own condition — Oh! what a wife, and what a mother there was lost in her! The man that wronged her has a deal to answer for. But he has no thought of that, nor care for her, or his child; but he is a fine man about London, they say, driving about with colonels, and lords, and dancing with ladies. Oh! if they saw Kate, one would guess they would not think so much of him: but yet, may be, they’d think more — there’s no saying how the quality ladies judge on these matters. But this I know, that though he was very free of his money, and generous to Kate at the first, and even for some months after he quit the country, till I suppose he forgot her, yet he has not sent her a guinea for self or child these four months, nor a line of a letter of any kind, which she pined for more, and we kept thinking the letters she did write did not get to him by the post, so we sent one by a grandson of my own, that we knowed would put the letter safe into his hands, and did, just as the young gentleman was, as my grandson told me, coming out of a fine house in London, and going, with a long whip in his hand, to get upon the coach-box of a coach, with four horses too — and he looks at the letter, and puts it in his pocket, and calls to my boy, ‘No answer now, my good friend — but I’ll write by post to her.’ Those were the very words; and then that colonel that was with him laughing and making game like, went to snatch the letter out of the pocket, saying, ‘Show us that love-letter, Buckhurst’ — Lord forgive me! what have I done now?” said the old woman, stopping short, struck by the sudden change in the countenance of both her auditors.

  “Mr. Buckhurst Falconer is a relation of ours,” said Rosamond.

  “Dear ladies, how could I think you knew him even?” interrupted the old woman. “I beg your pardon. Kate says he’s not so cruel as he seems, and that if he were here this minute, he’d be as kind and generous to her as ever. — It’s all forgetfulness just, and giddiness, she says — or, may be, as to the money, that he has it not to spare.”

  “To spare!” repeated Caroline, indignantly.

  “Lord love her! what a colour she has now — and what a spirit spoke there! But, ladies, I’d be sorry to hurt the young gentleman; for Kate would be angry at me for that worse than at any thing. And as to all that has happened, you know it’s nothing extraordinary, but what happens every day, by all accounts; and young gentlemen, such as he be, thinks nothing of it; and the great ladies, I know, by what I noticed when I was in sarvice once in Lon’on myself, the great ladies thinks the better of them for such things.”

  “I am not a great lady,” said Caroline.

  “Nor I, thank God!” said Rosamond.

  “Well, for certain, if you are not great, you’re good ladies,” said the old woman.

  As they were now within sight of their own house, they thanked and dismissed their loquacious but kind-hearted guide, putting into her hand some money for poor Kate, Caroline promising to make further inquiries — Rosamond, without restriction, promising all manner of assistance, pecuniary, medical, and spiritual.

  The result of the inquiries that were made confirmed the truth of all that old Dorothy had related, and brought to light other circumstances relative to the seduction and desertion of this poor girl, which so shocked Rosamond, that in proportion to her former prepossession in Buckhurst’s favour was now her abhorrence; and as if to repair the imprudence with which she had formerly used her influence over her sister’s mind in his favour, she now went as far on the opposite side, abjuring him with the strongest expressions of indignation, and wishing that Caroline’s last letter had not gone to Buckhurst, that she might have given her refusal on this special account, in the most severe and indignant terms the English language could supply.

  Mrs. Percy, however, on the contrary, rejoiced that Caroline’s letter had been sent before they knew any thing of this affair.

  “But, ma’am,” cried Rosamond, “surely it would have been right for Caroline to have given this reason for her refusal, and to have declared that this had proved to her beyond a possibility of doubt that her former objections to Mr. Buckhurst Falconer’s principles were too well founded; and it would have become Caroline to have written with strong indignation. I am persuaded,” continued Rosamond, “that if women would reprobate young men for such instances of profligacy and cruelty, instead of suffering such conduct to go under the fine plausible general names of gallantry and wildness, it would make a greater impression than all the sermons that could be preached. And Caroline, who has beauty and eloquence, can do this with effect. I remember Godfrey once said, that the peculiar characteristic of Caroline, that in which she differed most from the common herd of young ladies, is in her power of feeling and expressing virtuous indignation. I am sure that Godfrey, partial as he is to Mr. Buckhurst Falconer, would think that Caroline ought, on such an occasion, to set an example of that proper spirit, which, superior to the fear of ridicule and fashion, dares to speak the indignation it feels.”

  “Very well spoken, and better felt, my dear daughter,” said Mrs. Percy. “And Heaven forbid I should lower the tone of your mind, or your honest indignation against vice; but, Rosamond, my dear, let us be just. — I must do even those, whom Godfrey calls the common herd of young ladies, the justice to believe that there are many among them who have good feeling enough to be angry, very angry, with a lover upon such an occasion — angry enough to write him a most indignant, and, perhaps, very eloquent letter. — You may recollect more than one heroine of a novel, who discards her lover upon such a discovery as was made by you last night. It is a common novel incident, and, of course, from novels every young lady, even, who might not have felt without a precedent, knows how she ought to express herself in such circumstances. But you will observe, my dear, that both in novels and in real life, young ladies generally like and encourage men of feeling in contradistinction to men of principle, and too often men of gallantry in preference to men of correct morals: in short, that such a character as that of Mr. Buckhurst Falconer is just the kind of person with whom many women would fall in love. By suffering this to be thought the taste of our sex, ladies encourage libertinism in general, more than they can possibly discourage it by the loudest display of indignation against particular instances. — If, like your sister Caroline, young ladies would show that they really do not prefer such men, it would do essential service. And observe, my dear Rosamond, this can be done by every young woman with perfect delicacy: but I do not see how she can, with propriety or good effect, do more. It is a subject ladies cannot well discuss; a subject upon which the manners and customs of the world are so much at variance with religion and m
orality, that entering upon the discussion would lead to greater difficulties than you are aware of. It is, therefore, best for our sex to show their disapprobation of vice, and to prove their sense of virtue and religion by their conduct, rather than to proclaim it to the world in words. Had Caroline in her letter expressed her indignation in the most severe terms that the English language could supply, she would only have exposed herself to the ridicule of Mr. Buckhurst Falconer’s fashionable companions, as a prating, preaching prude, without doing the least good to him, or to any one living.”

  Rosamond reluctantly acknowledged that perhaps her mother was right.

  “But, Caroline, how quietly you sit by, while we are talking of you and your lover!” cried Rosamond; “I do not know whether to be provoked with you, or to admire you.”

  “Admire me, pray,” said Caroline, “if you can.”

  “I do not believe you will ever be in love,” said Rosamond. “I confess I should admire, or, at least, love you better, if you had more feeling,” added Rosamond, hastily.

  “By what do you judge that I want feeling?” said Caroline, colouring deeply, and with a look and tone that expressed her keen sense of injustice. “What proof have I ever given you of my want of feeling?”

  “No proof, that I can recollect,” said Rosamond, laughing; “no proof, but that you have never been in love.”

  “Is it a proof I am incapable of feeling, that I have not been in love with one who has proved himself utterly unworthy of my esteem — against whose conduct my sister cannot find words sufficiently severe to express her indignation? Rosamond, my mind inclined towards him at the first reading of his last letter; but if I had ever given him any encouragement, if I had loved him, what would have been my misery at this moment!”

  “All! my dear, but then if you had been very miserable, I should have pitied you so much, and loved you so heartily for being in love,” said Rosamond, still laughing —

  “Oh! Rosamond,” continued Caroline, whose mind was now too highly wrought for raillery, “is love to be trifled with? No, only by trifling minds or by rash characters, by those who do not conceive its power — its danger. Recollect what we have just seen: a young, beautiful woman sinking into the grave with shame — deserted by her parents — wishing her child unborn. Do you remember her look of agony when we praised that child? the strongest charm of nature reversed — the strongest ties dissolved; and love brought her to this! She is only a poor servant girl. But the highest and the fairest, those of the most cultivated understandings, of the tenderest hearts, cannot love bring them down to the same level — to the same fate? — And not only our weak sex, but over the stronger sex, and the strongest of the strong, and the wisest of the wise, what is, what has ever been the power, the delusions of that passion, which can cast a spell over the greatest hero, throw a blot on the brightest glory, blast in a moment a life of fame! — What must be the power of that passion, which can inspire genius in the dullest and the coldest, waken heroism in the most timid of creatures, exalt to the highest point, or to the lowest degrade our nature — the bitterest curse, or the sweetest blessing Heaven bestows on us in this life! — Oh! sister, is love to be trifled with?”

  Caroline paused, and Rosamond, for some instants, looked at her and at her mother in silence; then exclaimed, “All this from Caroline! Are not you astonished, mother?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Percy; “I was aware that this was in Caroline’s mind.”

  “I was not,” said Rosamond. “She who never spoke of love! — I little imagined that she thought of it so highly, so seriously.”

  “Yes, I do think of it seriously, highly may Heaven grant!” cried Caroline, looking fervently upwards as she spoke with an illuminated countenance. “May Heaven grant that love be a blessing and not a curse to me! Heaven grant that I may never, in any moment of selfish vanity, try to excite a passion which I cannot return! Heaven grant that I never may feel the passion of love but for one whom I shall entirely esteem, who shall be worthy to fill my whole soul!”

  “Mother,” continued Caroline, turning eagerly, and seizing her mother’s hand, “my guide, my guardian, whenever you see me in any, the slightest inclination to coquetry, warn me — as you wish to save me from that which I should most dread, the reproaches of my own conscience — in the first, the very first instance, reprove me, mother, if you can — with severity. And you, my sister, my bosom friend, do not use your influence to soften, to open my mind to love; but if ever you perceive me yielding my heart to the first tenderness of the passion, watch over me, if the object be not every way worthy of me, my equal, my superior. — Oh! as you would wish to snatch me from the grave, rouse me from the delusion — save me from disappointment, regret, remorse, which I know that I could not bear, and live.”

  Her mother, into whose arms she threw herself, pressed Caroline close to her heart, while Rosamond, to whom she had given her hand, held it fast, and stood motionless between surprise and sympathy. Caroline, to whose usual manners and disposition every thing theatrical or romantic was so foreign, seemed, as soon as she recollected herself, to be ashamed of the excessive emotion and enthusiasm she had shown; withdrawing her hand from her sister, she turned away, and left the room.

  Her mother and sister both remained silent for a considerable time, fully occupied with their own thoughts and feelings. The mother’s reverie looked to the future prospects of her daughter; — confident in Caroline’s character, yet uncertain of her fate, she felt a pleasing yet painful solicitude.

  Rosamond’s thoughts turned rather to the past than to the future: she recollected and compared words and looks, yet found insuperable difficulty in connecting all she had ever before known or fancied of Caroline with what she had just seen and heard. Rosamond did not fairly recover from her surprise, and from her look of perplexity, during a full hour that she remained absolutely silent, poring upon a screen, upon which she saw nothing.

  She then went in search of Caroline, in hopes of renewing the conversation; but she found her busied in some of the common affairs of life, and apparently a different person.

  Rosamond, though she made divers attempts, could not lead Caroline back again to the same train of thought, or tone of expression. Indeed, Rosamond did not attempt it very skilfully, but rather with the awkward impatience of one not accustomed to use address. Caroline, intent upon the means of assisting the poor young woman whom they had seen at the cottage, went there again as soon as she could, to warn old Dorothy, in the first place, to be less communicative, and not on any account to mention to any one else the names and circumstances which she had told them with so little reserve. Caroline next applied to Dr. Leicester, the vicar of their former parish, a most amiable and respectable clergyman, who had come from his vicarage, near Percy-hall, to spend what time he could spare from his duties with his favourite parishioners; at Caroline’s request he willingly went to see this unhappy young woman, and succeeded in his endeavours to soothe and tranquillize her mind by speaking to her words of peace. His mild piety raised and comforted the trembling penitent; and while all prospect of forgiveness from her parents, or of happiness in this world, was at an end, he fixed her thoughts on those better hopes and promises which religion only can afford. Her health appeared suddenly to mend when her mind was more at ease: but this was only transient, and Dr. Percy, to whom Caroline applied for his medical opinion, gave little hopes of her recovery. All that could be done by medicine and proper kindness to assuage her sufferings during her decline was done in the best manner by Mrs. Percy and her daughters, especially by Caroline: the young woman, nevertheless, died in six weeks, and was buried without Buckhurst Falconer’s making any inquiry concerning her, probably without his knowing of her death. A few days after she was no more, a letter came to her from him, which was returned unopened by Dorothy, who could just write well enough to make these words intelligible in the cover:

  “SIR,

  “Kate Robinson is dead — this four days — your child is w
ith me still, and well. — She bid me tell you, if ever you asked more concerning her — she left you her forgiveness on her death-bed, and hopes you will be happy, sir. —

  “Your humble servant,

  “DOROTHY WHITE.”

  A bank note of ten pounds was received by Dorothy soon afterwards for the use of the child, and deep regret was expressed by the father for the death of its mother. But, as Dorothy said, “that came too late to be of any good to her.”

  CHAPTER XIV.

  Soon after the death of poor Kate, the attention of the Percy family was taken up by a succession of different visits; some from their old neighbours and really affectionate friends, some from among the band of reproaching condolers. The first we shall mention, who partook of the nature of both these classes, was Lady Jane Granville: she was a sincere and warm friend, but a tormenting family adviser and director.

  Her ladyship was nearly related to Mr. Percy, which gave her, on this occasion, rights of which she knew how to avail herself.

  To do her justice, she was better qualified to be an adviser and protector than many who assume a familiar tone and character.

  Lady Jane Granville was of high birth and fortune, had always lived in good company, had seen a great deal of the world, both abroad and at home; she had a complete knowledge of all that makes people well received in society, had generalized her observations, and had formed them into maxims of prudence and politeness, which redounded the more to her credit in conversation, as they were never committed to writing, and could, therefore, never be brought to the dangerous test of being printed and published. Her ladyship valued her own traditional wisdom, and oral instruction, beyond any thing that can be learned from books. She had acquired a tact, which, disclaiming and disdaining every regular process of reasoning, led her with admirable certainty to right conclusions in her own concerns, and thus, in some degree, justified the peremptory tone she assumed in advising others.