Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  VOLUME THE THIRD.

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  VOLUME THE FIRST.

  CHAPTER I.

  “There is Helen in the lime-walk,” said Mrs. Collingwood to her husband, as she looked out of the window. The slight figure of a young person in deep mourning appeared between the trees,—”How slowly she walks! She looks very unhappy!”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Collingwood, with a sigh, “she is young to know sorrow, and to struggle with difficulties to which she is quite unsuited both by nature and by education, difficulties which no one could ever have foreseen. How changed are all her prospects!”

  “Changed indeed!” said Mrs. Collingwood, “pretty young creature! — Do you recollect how gay she was when first we came to Cecilhurst? and even last year, when she had hopes of her uncle’s recovery, and when he talked of taking her to London, how she enjoyed the thoughts of going there! The world was bright before her then. How cruel of that uncle, with all his fondness for her, never to think what was to become of her the moment he was dead: to breed her up as an heiress, and leave her a beggar!”

  “But what is to be done, my dear?” said her husband.

  “I am sure I do not know; I can only feel for her, you must think for her.”

  “Then I think I must tell her directly of the state in which her uncle’s affairs are left, and that there is no provision for her.”

  “Not yet, my dear,” said Mrs. Collingwood: “I don’t mean about there being no provision for herself, that would not strike her, but her uncle’s debts, — there is the point: she would feel dreadfully the disgrace to his memory — she loved him so tenderly!”

  “Yet it must be told,” said Mr. Collingwood, resolutely “and perhaps it will be better now; she will feel it less, while her mind is absorbed by grief for him.”

  Helen was the only daughter of colonel and Lady Anne Stanley; her parents had both died when she was too young to know her loss, nor had she ever felt till now that she was an orphan, for she had been adopted and brought up with the greatest tenderness by her uncle, Dean Stanley, a man of genius, learning, and sincere piety, with the most affectionate heart, and a highly cultivated understanding. But on one subject he really had not common sense; in money matters he was inconceivably imprudent and extravagant; extravagant from charity, from taste, from habit. He possessed rich benefices in the church, and an ample private fortune, and it was expected that his niece would be a great heiress — he had often said so himself, and his fondness for her confirmed every one in this belief. But the dean’s taste warred against his affection: his too hospitable, magnificent establishment had exceeded his income; he had too much indulged his passion for all the fine arts, of which he was a liberal patron: he had collected a magnificent library, and had lavished immense sums of money on architectural embellishments. Cursed with too fine a taste, and with too soft a heart — a heart too well knowing how to yield, never could he deny himself, much less any other human being, any gratification which money could command; and soon the necessary consequence was, that he had no money to command, his affairs fell into embarrassment — his estate was sold; but, as he continued to live with his accustomed hospitality and splendour, the world believed him to be as rich as ever.

  Some rise superior from the pressure of pecuniary difficulties, but that was not the case with Dean Stanley, not from want of elasticity of mind; but perhaps because his ingenuity continually suggested resources, and his sanguine character led him to plunge into speculations — they failed, and in the anxiety and agitation which his embarrassments occasioned him, he fell into bad health, his physicians ordered him to Italy. Helen, his devoted nurse, the object upon which all his affections centered, accompanied him to Florence. There his health and spirits seemed at first, by the change of climate, to be renovated; but in Italy he found fresh temptations to extravagance, his learning and his fancy combined to lead him on from day to day to new expense, and he satisfied his conscience by saying to himself that all the purchases which he now made were only so much capital, which would, when sold in England, bring more than their original price, and would, he flattered himself, increase the fortune he intended for his niece. But one day, while he was actually bargaining for an antique, he was seized with a fit of apoplexy. From this fit he recovered, and was able to return to England with his niece. Here he found his debts and difficulties had been increasing; he was harassed with doubts as to the monied value of his last-chosen chef-d’oeuvres; his mind preyed upon his weakened frame, he was seized with another fit, lost his speech, and, after struggles the most melancholy for Helen to see, conscious as she was that she could do nothing for him — he expired — his eyes fixed on her face, and his powerless hand held between both hers.

  All was desolation and dismay at the deanery; Helen was removed to the vicarage by the kindness of the good vicar and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood.

  It was found that the dean, instead of leaving a large fortune, had nothing to leave. All he had laid out at the deanery was sunk and gone; his real property all sold; his imaginary wealth, his pictures, statues — his whole collection, even his books, his immense library, shrunk so much in value when estimated after his death, that the demands of the creditors could not be nearly answered: as to any provision for Miss Stanley, that was out of the question.

  These were the circumstances which Mrs. Collingwood feared to reveal, and which Mr. Collingwood thought should be told immediately to Helen; but hitherto she had been so much absorbed in sorrow for the uncle she had loved, that no one had ventured on the task.

  Though Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood had not known her long (for they had but lately come to the neighbourhood), they had the greatest sympathy for her orphan state; and they had seen enough of her during her uncle’s illness to make them warmly attached to her. Every body loved her that knew her, rich or poor, for in her young prosperity, from her earliest childhood, she had been always sweet-tempered and kind-hearted; for though she had been bred up in the greatest luxury, educated as heiress to a large fortune, taught every accomplishment, used to every fashionable refinement, she was not spoiled — she was not in the least selfish. Indeed, her uncle’s indulgence, excessive though it was, had been always joined with so much affection, that it had early touched her heart, and filled her whole soul with ardent gratitude.

  It is said, that the ill men do, lives after them — the good is oft interred with their bones. It was not so with Dean Stanley: the good he had intended for Helen, his large fortune, was lost and gone; but the real good he had done for his niece remained in full force, and to the honour of his memory: the excellent education he had given her — it was excellent not merely in the worldly meaning of the word, as regards accomplishments and elegance of manners, but excellent in having given her a firm sense of duty, as the great principle of action, and as the guide of her naturally warm generous affections.

  And now, when Helen returned from her walk, Mr. Collingwood, in the gentlest and kindest manner he was able, informed her of the confusion in her uncle’s affairs, the debts, the impossibility of paying the creditors, the total loss of all fortune for herself.

  Mrs. Collingwood had well foreseen the effect this int
elligence would have on Helen. At first, with fixed incredulous eyes, she could not believe that her uncle could have been in any way to blame. Twice she asked—”Are you sure — are you certain — is there no mistake?” And when the conviction was forced upon her, still her mind did not take in any part of the facts, as they regarded herself. Astonished and, shocked, she could feel nothing but the disgrace that would fall upon the memory of her beloved uncle.

  Then she exclaimed—”One part of it is not true, I am certain:” and hastily leaving the room, she returned immediately with a letter in her hand, which, without speaking, she laid before Mr. Collingwood, who wiped his spectacles quickly, and read.

  It was addressed to the poor dean, and was from an old friend of his, Colonel Munro, stating that he had been suddenly ordered to India, and was obliged to return a sum of money which the dean had many years before placed in his hands, to secure a provision for his niece, Miss Stanley.

  This letter had arrived when the dean was extremely ill. Helen had been afraid to give it to him, and yet thought it right to do so. The moment her uncle had read the letter, which he was still able to do, and to comprehend, though he was unable to speak, he wrote on the back with difficulty, in a sadly trembling hand, yet quite distinctly, these words:—”That money is yours, Helen Stanley: no one has any claim upon it. When I am gone consult Mr. Collingwood; consider him as your guardian.”

  Mr. Collingwood perceived that this provision had been made by the dean for his niece before he had contracted his present debts — many years before, when he had sold his paternal estate, and that knowing his own disposition to extravagance, he had put this sum out of his own power.

  “Right — all right, my dear Miss Stanley,” said the vicar; “I am very glad — it is all justly yours.”

  “No,” said Helen, “I shall never touch it: take it, my dear Mr. Collingwood, take it, and pay all the debts before any one can complain.”

  Mr. Collingwood pressed her to him without speaking; but after a moment’s recollection he replied:—”No, no, my dear child, I cannot let you do this: as your guardian, I cannot allow such a young creature as you are, in a moment of feeling, thus to give away your whole earthly fortune — it must not be.”

  “It must, indeed it must, my dear sir. Oh, pay everybody at once — directly.”

  “No, not directly, at all events,” said Mr. Collingwood—”certainly not directly: the law allows a year.”

  “But if the money is ready,” said Helen, “I cannot understand why the debt should not be paid at once. Is there any law against paying people immediately?”

  Mr. Collingwood half smiled, and on the strength of that half smile Helen concluded that he wholly yielded. “Yes, do,” cried she, “send this money this instant to Mr. James, the solicitor: he knows all about it, you say, and he will see everybody paid.”

  “Stay, my dear Miss Stanley,” said the vicar, “I cannot consent to this, and you should be thankful that I am steady. If I were at this minute to consent, and to do what you desire — pay away your whole fortune, you would repent, and reproach me with my folly before the end of the year — before six months were over.”

  “Never, never,” said Helen.

  Mrs. Collingwood strongly took her husband’s side of the question. Helen could have no idea, she said, how necessary money would be to her. It was quite absurd to think of living upon air; could Miss Stanley think she was to go on in this world without money?

  Helen said she was not so absurd; she reminded Mrs. Collingwood that she should still have what had been her mother’s fortune. Before Helen had well got out the words, Mrs. Collingwood replied,

  “That will never do, you will never be able to live upon that; the interest of Lady Anne Stanley’s fortune, I know what it was, would just do for pocket-money for you in the style of life for which you have been educated. Some of your uncle’s great friends will of course invite you presently, and then you will find what is requisite with that set of people.”

  “Some of my uncle’s friends perhaps will,” said Helen; “but I am not obliged to go to great or fine people, and if I cannot afford it I will not, for I can live independently on what I have, be it ever so little.”

  Mrs. Collingwood allowed that if Helen were to live always in the country in retirement, she might do upon her mother’s fortune.

  “Wherever I live — whatever becomes of me, the debts must be paid — I will do it myself;” and she took up a pen as she spoke—”I will write to Mr. James by this day’s post.”

  Surprised at her decision of manner and the firmness of one in general so gentle, yielding, and retired, and feeling that he had no legal power to resist, Mr. Collingwood at last gave way, so far as to agree that he would in due time use this money in satisfying her uncle’s creditors; provided she lived for the next six months within her income.

  Helen smiled, as if that were a needless proviso.

  “I warn you,” continued Mr. Collingwood, “that you will most probably find before six months are over, that you will want some of this money to pay debts of your own.”

  “No, no, no,” cried she; “of that there is not the slightest chance.”

  “And now, my dear child,” said Mrs. Collingwood, “now that Mr. Collingwood has promised to do what you wish, will you do what we wish? Will you promise to remain with us? to live here with us, for the present at least; we will resign you whenever better friends may claim you, but for the present will you try us?”

  “Try!” in a transport of gratitude and affection she could only repeat the words “Try! oh, my dear friends, how happy I am, an orphan, without a relation, to have such a home.”

  But though Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood, childless as they were, felt real happiness in having such a companion — such an adopted daughter, yet they were sure that some of Dean Stanley’s great friends and acquaintance in high life would ask his niece to spend the spring in town, or the summer in the country with them; and post after post came letters of condolence to Miss Stanley from all these personages of high degree, professing the greatest regard for their dear amiable friend’s memory, and for Miss Stanley, his and their dear Helen; and these polite and kind expressions were probably sincere at the moment, but none of these dear friends seemed to think of taking any trouble on her account, or to be in the least disturbed by the idea of never seeing their dear Helen again in the course of their lives.

  Helen, quite touched by what was said of her uncle, thought only of him; but when she showed the letters to Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood, they marked the oversight, and looked significantly as they read, folded the letters up and returned them to Helen in silence. Afterwards between themselves, they indulged in certain comments.

  “Lady C —— does not invite her, for she has too many daughters, and they are too ugly, and Helen is too beautiful,” said Mrs. Collingwood.

  “Lady L —— has too many sons,” said Mr. Collingwood, “and they are too poor, and Helen is not an heiress now.”

  “But old Lady Margaret Dawe, who has neither sons nor daughters, what stands in the way there? Oh! her delicate health — delicate health is a blessing to some people — excuses them always from doing anything for anybody.”

  Then came many, who hoped, in general, to see Miss Stanley as soon as possible; and some who were “very anxious indeed” to have their dear Helen with them; but when or where never specified — and a general invitation, as every body knows, means nothing but “Good morning to you.”

  Mrs. Coldstream ends with, “I forbear to say more at present,” without giving any reason.

  “And here is the dean’s dear duchess, always in the greatest haste, with ‘You know my heart,’ in a parenthesis, ‘ever and ever most sincerely and affec’ — yours.’”

  “And the Davenants,” continued Mrs. Collingwood, “who were such near neighbours, and who were so kind to the dean at Florence; they have not even written!”

  “But they are at Florence still,” said Mr. Collingwood, “they
can hardly have heard of the poor dean’s death.”

  The Davenants were the great people of this part of the country; their place, Cecilhurst, was close to the deanery and to the vicarage, but they were not known to the Collingwoods, who had come to Cecilhurst during the dean’s absence abroad.

  “And here is Mrs. Wilmot too,” continued Mrs. Collingwood, “wondering as usual, at everybody else, wondering that Lady Barker has not invited Miss Stanley to Castleport; and it never enters into Mrs. Wilmot’s head that she might invite her to Wilmot’s fort. And this is friendship, as the world goes!”

  “And as it has been ever since the beginning of the world and will be to the end,” replied Mr. Collingwood. “Only I thought in Dean Stanley’s case — however, I am glad his niece does not see it as we do.”

  No — with all Helen’s natural quickness of sensibility, she suspected nothing, saw nothing in each excuse but what was perfectly reasonable and kind; she was sure that her uncle’s friends could not mean to neglect her. In short, she had an undoubting belief in those she loved, and she loved all those who she thought had loved her uncle, or who had ever shown her kindness. Helen had never yet experienced neglect or detected insincerity, and nothing in her own true and warm heart could suggest the possibility of double-dealing, or even of coldness in friendship. She had yet to learn that —

  “No after-friendship e’er can raze

  Th’ endearments of our early days,

  And ne’er the heart such fondness prove,

  As when it first began to love;

  Ere lovely nature is expelled,

  And friendship is romantic held.

  But prudence comes with hundred eyes,

  The veil is rent, the vision flies,

  The dear illusions will not last,

  The era of enchantment’s past:

  The wild romance of life is done,

  The real history begun!”

  CHAPTER II.

  Some time after this, Mr. Collingwood, rising from the breakfast-table, threw down the day’s paper, saying there was nothing in it; Mrs. Collingwood glancing her eye over it exclaimed —