“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 Godfr
ey’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.
When Dr. Percy was first called in, he found his patient in a lamentable state, in an arm-chair, dying with the apprehension of having swallowed in a peach a live earwig, which he was persuaded had bred, was breeding, or would breed in his stomach. However ridiculous this fancy may appear, it had taken such hold of the man, that he was really wasting away — his appetite failing as well as his spirits. He would not take the least exercise, or stir from his chair, scarcely move or permit himself to be moved, hand, foot, or head, lest he should disturb or waken this nest of earwigs. Whilst these “reptiles” slept, he said, he had rest; but when they wakened, he felt them crawling about and pinching his intestines. The wife had laughed, and the apothecary had flattered in vain: Panton angrily persisted in the assertion that he should die — and then they’d “see who was right.” Dr. Percy recollected a case, which he had heard from a celebrated physician, of a hypochondriac, who fancied that his intestines were sealed up by a piece of wax which he had swallowed, and who, in this belief, refused to eat or drink any thing. Instead of fighting against the fancy, the judicious physician humoured it — showed the patient sealing-wax dissolving in spirit of wine, and then persuaded him to take some of that spirit to produce the same effect. The patient acceded to the reasoning, took the remedy, said that he felt that his intestines were unsealing — were unsealed: but, alas! they had been sealed so long, that they had lost their natural powers and actions, and he died lamenting that his excellent physician had not been called in soon enough.
Dr. Percy was more fortunate, for he came in time to kill the earwigs for his patient before they had pinched him to death. Erasmus showed Mr. Panton the experiment of killing one of these insects, by placing it within a magic circle of oil, and prevailed upon him to destroy his diminutive enemies with castor oil. When this hallucination, to speak in words of learned length, when this hallucination was removed, there was a still more difficult task, to cure our hypochondriac of the three remote causes of his disease — idleness of mind — indolence of body — and the habit of drinking every day a bottle of London particular: to prevail upon him to diminish the quantity per diem was deemed impossible by his wife; especially as Mr. Coxeater, the apothecary, had flattered him with the notion, that to live high was necessary for a gouty constitution, and that he was gouty. — N.B. He never had the gout in his life.
Mrs. Panton augured ill of Dr. Percy’s success, and Constance grew pale when he touched upon this dangerous subject — the madeira. Yet he had hopes. He recollected the ingenious manner in which Dr. Brown [Footnote: Vide Life of Dr. Brown.] worked upon a Highland chieftain, to induce him to diminish his diurnal quantity of spirituous potation. But there was no family pride to work upon, at least no family arms were to be had. Erasmus found a succedaneum, however, in the love of titles and of what are called fine people. Lord Runnymede had given Mr. Panton a gold beaker, of curious workmanship, on which his lordship’s arms were engraved; of this present the citizen was very fond and vain: observing this, Dr. Percy was determined to render it subservient to his purposes. He knew they would be right glad of any opportunity of producing and talking of this beaker to all their acquaintance. He therefore advised — no, not advised; for with some minds if you advise you are not listened to, if you command you are obeyed — he commanded that his patient should have his madeira always decanted into the curious beaker, for certain galvanic advantages that every knowing porter-drinker is aware of: Erasmus emptied a decanter of madeira into the beaker to show that it held more than a quart. This last circumstance decided Mr. Panton to give a solemn promise to abide by the advice of his physician, who seized this auspicious moment to act upon the imagination of his patient, by various medical anecdotes. Mr. Panton seemed to be much struck with the account of bottles made of antimonial glass, which continue, for years, to impregnate successive quantities of liquor with the same antimonial virtues. Dr. Percy then produced a piece of coloured crystal about the size of a large nut, which he directed his patient to put into the beaker, and to add another of these medicated crystals every day, till the vessel should be half full, to increase the power of the drug by successive additions; and by this arrangement, Panton was gradually reduced to half his usual quantity of wine.
Dr. Percy’s next difficulty was how to supply the purse-full and purse-proud citizen with motive and occupation. Mr. Panton had an utter aversion and contempt for all science and literature; he could not conceive that any man “could sit down to read for amusement,” but he enjoyed a party of pleasure in a good boat on the water, to one of the aits or islets in the Thames at the right season, to be regaled with eel-pie. One book he had read, and one play he liked — no, not a play, but a pantomime. The book was Robinson Crusoe — the pantomime, Harlequin Friday. He had been heard to say, that if ever he had a villa, there should be in it an island like Robinson Crusoe’s; and why not a fortress, a castle, and a grotto? this would be something new; and why should he not have his fancy, and why should not there be Panton’s Folly as well as any of the thousand Follies in England? Surely he was rich enough to have a Folly. His physician cherished this bright idea. Mrs. Panton was all this time dying to have a villa on the Thames. Dr. Percy proposed that one should be made on Mr. Panton’s plan. The villa was bought, and every day the hypochondriac — hypochondriac now no more — went to his villa-Crusoe, where he fussed, and furbished, and toiled at his desert island in the Thames, as hard as ever he laboured to make his plum in the counting-house. In due course he recovered his health, and, to use his own expression, “became as alert as any man in all England of his inches in the girth, thanks be to Dr. Percy!”
We find the following letter from Dr. Percy, written, as it appears, some months after his first attendance upon Mr. Panton.
“Yes, my dear friends at home, Alfred tells you truth, and does not flatter much. The having set up again this old citizen, who was thought bankrupt in constitution, has done me honour in the city; and, as Alfred assures you, has spread my name through Broad-street, and Fleet-street, and Milk-street, embracing the wide extremes between High-Holborn and St. Mary Axe,
‘And even Islington has heard my fame.’
“In earnest, I am getting fast into practice in the city — and Rosamond must not turn up her aristocratic lip at the city — very good men, in every sense of the word, some of the best men I know, inhabit what she is pleased to call the wrong end of the town.
“Mr. Gresham is unceasing and indefatigable in his kindness to me. I consider it as an instanc
e of this kindness that he has found employment for my poor friend, O’Brien; has made him his porter — a pleasanter place than he had with the painter that pleased nobody: O’Brien sees me almost every day, and rejoices in what he calls my prosperity.
“‘Heaven for ever prosper your honour’ is the beginning and end of all he says, and, I believe, of all he thinks. Is not it singular, that my first step towards getting into practice should have been prepared by that which seemed to threaten my ruin — the quarrel with Frumpton about O’Brien and the hospital?
“A delicacy strikes me, and begins at this moment, in the midst of my prosperity, to make my pride uneasy.
“I am afraid that my father should say Erasmus gets on by patronage, after all — by the patronage of a poor Irish porter and a rich English merchant.
“Adieu, my dear friends; you must not expect such long letters from me now that I am becoming a busy man. Alfred and I see but little of one another, we live at such a distance, and we are both so gloriously industrious. But we have holiday minutes, when we meet and talk more in the same space of time than any two wise men — I did not say, women — that you ever saw.
“Yours, affectionately,
“ERASMUS PERCY.
“P.S. I have just recollected that I forgot to answer your question about Mr. Henry. I do see him whenever I have time to go, and whenever he will come to Mr. Gresham’s, which is very seldom. Mr. Gresham has begged him repeatedly to come to his house every Sunday, when Henry must undoubtedly be at leisure; yet Mr. Henry has been there but seldom since the first six weeks after he came to London. I cannot yet understand whether this arises from pride, or from some better motive. Mr. Gresham says he likes what he has seen of him, and well observes, that a young officer, who has lived a gay life in the army, must have great power over his own habits, and something uncommon in his character, to be both willing and able thus suddenly and completely to change his mode of life, and to conform to all the restraints and disagreeable circumstances of his new situation.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 120