Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  One only old daub of a grandmother was there; all the rest had been sold, and their vacant places remained discoloured on the walls. There were two or three dismembered old chairs, the richly dight windows broken, the floor rat-eaten. The general stood and looked, and did not sigh, but absolutely groaned. They went to the shattered glass door, which looked out upon the terrace — that terrace which had cost thousands of pounds to raise, and he called Cecilia to show her the place where the youngsters used to play, and to point out some of his favourite haunts.

  “It is most melancholy to see a family-place so gone to ruin,” said Beauclerc; “if it strikes us so much, what must it be to the son of this family, to come back to the house of his ancestors, and find it thus desolate! Poor Beltravers!”

  The expression of the general’s eye changed.

  “I am sure you must pity him, my dear general,” continued Beauclerc.

  “I might, had he done any thing to prevent, or had he done less to hasten, this ruin.”

  “How? he should not have cut down the trees, do you mean? — but it was to pay his father’s debts — —”

  “And his own,” said the general.

  “He told me his father’s, sir.”

  “And I tell you his own.”

  “Even so,” said Beauclerc, “debts are not crimes for which we ought to shut the gates of mercy on our fellow-creatures — and so young a man as Beltravers, left to himself, without a home, his family abroad, no parent, no friend — no guardian friend.”

  “But what is it you would do, Beauclerc?” said the general.

  “What you must wish to be done,” said Beauclerc. “Repair this ruin, restore this once hospitable mansion, and put it in the power of the son to be what his ancestors have been.”

  “But how — my dear Beauclerc? Tell me plainly — how?”

  “Plainly, I would lend him money enough to make this house fit to live in.”

  “And he would never repay you, and would never live in it.”

  “He would, sir — he promised me he would.”

  “Promised you!”

  “And I promised him that I would lend him the money.”

  “Promised! Beauclerc? Without your guardian’s knowledge? Pray, how much—”

  “Confound me, if I remember the words. The sense was, what would do the business; what would make the house fit for him and his sisters to live in.”

  “Ten thousand! — fifteen thousand would not do.”

  “Well, sir. You know what will be necessary better than I do. A few thousands more or less, what signifies, provided a friend be well served. The superfluous money accumulated during my long minority cannot be better employed.”

  “All that I have been saving for you with such care from the time your father died!”

  “My dear guardian, my dear friend, do not think me ungrateful; but the fact is, — in short, my happiness does not depend, never can depend, upon money; as my friend, therefore, I beseech you to consider my moneyed interest less, and my happiness more.”

  “Beauclerc, you do not know what your happiness is. One hour you tell me it is one thing, the next another. What is become of the plan for the new house you wanted to build for yourself? I must have common sense for you, Beauclerc, as you have none for yourself. I shall not give you this money for Lord Beltravers.”

  “You forget sir, that I told you I had promised.”

  “You forget, Beauclerc, that I told you that such a promise, vague and absurd in itself, made without your guardian’s concurrence or consent, is absolutely null and void.”

  “Null and void in law, perhaps it may be,” cried Beauclerc; “but for that very reason, in honour, the stronger the more binding, and I am speaking to a man of honour.”

  “To one who can take care of his own honour,” said the general.

  “And of mine, I trust.”

  “You do well to trust it, as your father did, to me: it shall not be implicated—”

  “When once I am of age,” interrupted Beauclerc.

  “You will do as you please,” said the general. “In the mean time I shall do my duty.”

  “But, sir, I only ask you to let me lend this money.”

  “Lend — nonsense! lend to a man who cannot give any security.”

  “Security!” said Beauclerc, with a look of unutterable contempt. “When a friend is in distress, to talk to him like an attorney, of security! Do, pray, sir, spare me that. I would rather give the money at once.”

  “I make no doubt of it; then at once I say No, sir.”

  “No, sir! and why do you say no?”

  “Because I think it my duty, and nothing I have heard has at all shaken my opinion.”

  “Opinion! and so I am to be put down by opinion, without any reason!” cried Beauclerc. Then trying to command his temper, “But tell me, my dear general, why I cannot have this cursed money?”

  “Because, my dear Beauclerc, I am your guardian, and can say no, and can adhere to a refusal as firmly as any man living, when it is necessary.”

  “Yes, and when it is unnecessary. General Clarendon, according to your own estimate, fifteen thousand pounds is the utmost sum requisite to put this house in a habitable state — by that sum I abide!”

  “Abide!”

  “Yes, I require it, to keep my promise to Beltraver’s, and have it I MUST.”

  “Not from me.”

  “From some one else then, for have it I WILL.

  “Dearest Clarendon,” whispered Lady Cecilia, “let him have it, since he has promised — —”

  Without seeming to hear her whisper, without a muscle of his countenance altering, General Clarendon repeated, “Not from me.”

  “From some one else then — I can.”

  “Not while I have power to prevent.”

  “Power! power! power! Yes, that is what you love, above all things and all persons, and I tell you plainly, General Clarendon,” pursued Beauclerc, too angry to heed or see Lady Cecilia’s remonstrating looks, “at once I tell you that you have not the power. You had it. It is past and gone. The power of affection you had, if not of reason; but force, General Clarendon, despotism, can never govern me. I submit to no man’s mere will, much less to any man’s sheer obstinacy.”

  At the word obstinacy, the general’s face, which was before rigid, grew hard as iron. Beauclerc walked up and down the room with great strides, and as he strode he went on talking to himself.

  “To be kept from the use of my own money, treated like a child — an idiot — at my time of life! Not considered at years of discretion, when other men of the meanest capacity, by the law of the land, can do what they please with their own property! By heavens! — that will of my father’s — —”

  “Should be respected, my dear Granville, since it was your father’s will,” said Lady Cecilia, joining him as he walked. “And respect — —” He stopped short.

  “My dear Lady Cecilia, for your sake — —” he tried to restrain himself.

  “Till this moment never did I say one disrespectful word to General Clarendon. I always considered him as the representative of my father; and when most galled I have borne the chains in which it was my father’s pleasure to leave me. Few men of my age would have so submitted to a guardian not many years older than himself.”

  “Yes, and indeed that should be considered,” said Lady Cecilia, turning to the general.

  “I have always considered General Clarendon more as my friend than my guardian.”

  “And have found him so, I had hoped,” said the general, relaxing in tone hut not in looks.

  “I have never treated you, sir, as some wards treat their guardians. I have dealt openly, as man of honour to man of honour, gentleman to gentleman, friend to friend.”

  “Acknowledged, and felt by me, Beauclerc.”

  “Then now, my dear Clarendon, grant the only request of any consequence I ever made you — say yes.” Beauclerc trembled with impatience.

  “No,” said t
he general, “I have said it — No.”

  The gallery rung with the sound.

  “No!” repeated Beauclerc.

  Each walked separately up and down the room, speaking without listening to what the other said. Helen heard an offer from Beauclerc, to which she extremely wished that the general had listened. But he was deaf with determination not to yield to any thing Beauclerc could say further: the noise of passion in their ears was too great for either of them to hear the other.

  Suddenly turning, Beauclerc exclaimed, —

  “Borne with me, do you say? ’Tis I that have to bear — and by heavens!” cried he, “more than I can — than I will — bear. Before to-morrow’s sun goes down I will have the money.”

  “From whom?”

  “From any money-lending Jew — usurer — extortioner — cheat — rascal — whatever he be. You drive me to it — you — you my friend — you, with whom I have dealt so openly; and to the last it shall be open. To no vile indirections will I stoop. I tell you, my guardian, that if you deny me my own, I will have what I want from the Jews.”

  “Easily,” said his guardian. “But first, recollect that a clause in your father’s will, in such case, sends his estates to your cousin Venables.”

  “To my cousin Venables let them go — all — all; if such be your pleasure, sir, be it so. The lowest man on earth that has feeling keeps his promise. The slave has a right to his word! Ruin me if you will, and as soon as you please; disgrace me you cannot; bend my spirit you cannot; ruin in any shape I will meet, rather than submit to such a guardian, such a — —”

  Tyrant he was on the point of saying, but Lady Cecilia stopped that word by suddenly seizing upon his arm: forcibly she carried him off, saying “Come out with me on the terrace, Granville, and recover your senses.”

  “My senses! I have never lost them; never was cooler in my life,” said he, kicking open the glass door upon its first resistance, and shattering its remaining panes to fragments. Unnoticing, not hearing the crash, the general stood leaning his elbow on the mantel-piece, and covering his eyes with his hand. Helen remained near him, scarce breathing loud enough to be heard; he did not know she was there, and he repeated aloud, in an accent of deep feeling, “Tyrant! from Beauclerc!”

  A sigh from Helen made him aware of her presence, and, as he removed his hand from his eyes, she saw his look was more in sorrow than in anger: she said softly, “Mr. Beauclerc was wrong, very wrong, but he was in a passion, he did not know what he meant.”

  There was silence for a few moments. “You are right, I believe,” said the general, “it was heat of anger — —”

  “To which the best are subject,” said Helen, “and the best and kindest most easily forgive.”

  “But Beauclerc said some things which were — —”

  “Unpardonable — only forget them; let all be forgotten.”

  “Yes,” said the general, “all but my determination; that, observe, is fixed. My mind, Miss Stanley, is made up, and, once made up, it is not to be changed.”

  “I am certain of that,” said Helen, “but I am not clear that your mind is made up.”

  The general looked at her with astonishment.

  “Your refusal is not irrevocable.”

  “You do not know me, Miss Stanley.”

  “I think I do.”

  “Better than I know myself.”

  “Yes, better, if you do yourself the injustice to think that you would not yield, if it were right to do so. At this very instant,” pursued Helen, disregarding his increasing astonishment, “you would yield if you could reasonably, honourably — would not you? If you could without injury to your ward’s fortune or character, would you not? Surely it is for his good only that you are so resolute?”

  “Certainly!” He waited with eyes fixed, bending forward, but with intensity of purpose in his calmness of attention.

  “There was something which I heard Mr. Beauclerc say, which, I think, escaped your attention,” said Helen. “When you spoke of the new house he intended to build for himself, which was to cost so much, he offered to give that up.”

  “I never heard that offer.”

  “I heard him,” said Helen, “I assure you: it was when you were both walking up and down the room.”

  “This may be so, I was angry then,” said the general.

  “But you are not angry now,” said Helen.

  He smiled, and in truth he desired nothing more than an honourable loophole — a safe way of coming off without injury to his ward — without hurting his own pride, or derogating from the dignity of guardian. Helen saw this, and, thanking him for his condescension, his kindness, in listening to her, she hastened as quickly as possible, lest the relenting moment might not be seized; and running out on the terrace, she saw Beauclerc, his head down upon his arms, leaning upon an old broken stone lion, and Lady Cecilia standing beside him, commiserating; and as she approached, she beard her persuading him to go to the general, and speak to him again, and say so — only say so.

  Whatever it was, Helen did not stay to inquire, but told Cecilia, in as few words as she could, all that she had to say; and ended with “Was I right?”

  “Quite right, was not she, Granville?”

  Beauclerc looked up — a gleam of hope and joy came across his face, and, with one grateful look to Helen, he darted forward. They followed, but could not keep pace with him; and when they reached the gallery, they found him appealing, as to a father, for pardon.

  “Can you forgive, and will you?”

  “Forgive my not hearing you, not listening to you, as your father would? My dear Beauclerc, you were too hot, and I was too cold; and there is an end of it.” This reconciliation was as quick, as war, as the quarrel had been. And then explanations were made, as satisfactorily as they are when the parties are of good understanding, and depend on each other’s truth, past, present, and future.

  Beauclerc, whose promise all relied on, and for reasons good, none more implicitly than the general, promised that he would ask for no more than just what would do to put this Old Forest house in habitable trim; he said he would give up the new house for himself, till as many thousands as he now lent, spent, or wasted — take which word you will — should be again accumulated from his income. It was merely a sacrifice of his own vanity, and perhaps a little of his own comfort, he said, to save a friend, a human being, from destruction.

  “Well, well, let it rest so.”

  It was all settled, witness present—”two angels to witness,” as Beauclerc quoted from some old play.

  And now in high good-humour, up again to nonsense pitch, they all felt that delightful relief of spirits, of which friends, after perilous quarrel, are sensible in perfect reconciliation. They left this melancholy mansion now, with Beauclerc the happiest of the happy, in the generous hope that he should be the restorer of its ancient glories and comfort. The poor old woman was not forgotten as they passed, she courtesying, hoping, and fearing: Lady Cecilia whispered, and the deaf ear heard.

  “The roof will not fall — all will be well: and there is the man that will do it all.”

  “Well, well, my heart inclined to him from the first — at least from the minute I knew him not to be my young lord.”

  They were to go home by water. The boat was in readiness, and, as Beauclerc carefully handed Helen into it, the general said:—”Yes, you are right to take care of Miss Stanley, Beauclerc; she is a good friend in need, at least, as I have found this morning,” added he, as he seated himself beside her.

  Lady Cecilia was charming, and every thing was delightful, especially the cold chicken.

  CHAPTER XI.

  No two people could be more unlike in their habits of mind than this guardian and ward. General Clarendon referred in all cases to old experience, and dreaded innovation; Beauclerc took for his motto, “My mind leadeth me to new things.” General Clarendon was what is commonly called a practical man; Granville Beauclerc was the flower of theorists. The genera
l, fit for action, prompt and decided in all his judgments, was usually right and just in his conclusions — but if wrong, there was no setting him right; for he not only would not, but could not go back over the ground — he could not give in words any explanation of his process of reasoning — it was enough for him that it was right, and that it was his; while Beauclerc, who cared not for any man’s opinion, was always so ingeniously wrong, and could show all the steps of his reasoning so plausibly, that it was a pity he should be quite out of the right road at last. The general hated metaphysics, because he considered them as taking a flight beyond the reach of discipline, as well as of common sense: he continually asked, of what use are they? — While Lady Davenant answered, —

  “To invigorate and embellish the understanding. ‘This turning the soul inward on itself concentrates its forces, and fits it for the strongest and boldest flights; and in such pursuits, whether we take or whether we lose the game, the chase is certainly of service.’”

  Possibly, the general said; he would not dispute the point with Lady Davenant, but a losing chase, however invigorating, was one in which he never wished to engage: as to the rest, he altogether hated discussions, doubts, and questionings. He had “made up his fagot of opinions,” and would not let one be drawn out for examination, lest he should loosen the bundle.

  Beauclerc, on the contrary, had his dragged out and scattered about every day, and each particular stick was tried, and bent, and twisted, this way and that, and peeled, and cut, and hacked; and unless they proved sound to the very core, not a twig of them should ever go back into his bundle, which was to be the bundle of bundles, the best that ever was seen, when once tied so that it would hold together — of which there seemed little likelihood, as every knot slipped, and all fell to pieces at each pull.

  While he was engaged in this analysis, he was, as his guardian thought, in great moral peril, for not a principle had he left to bless himself with; and, in any emergency, if any temptation should occur, what was to become of him? The general, who was very fond of him, but also strongly attached to his own undeviating rule of right, was upon one occasion about peremptorily to interpose, not only with remonstrances as a friend, but with authority as a guardian.