Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  In losing Mr. Mountague’s heart, Lady Augusta’s vanity felt a double pang, from the apprehension that Helen would probably recover her captive. Acting merely from the impulse of the moment, her ladyship was perfectly a child in her conduct; she seldom knew her own mind two hours together, and really did not foresee the consequences of any one of her actions. Half a dozen incompatible wishes filled her heart, or, rather, her imagination. The most immediate object of vanity had always the greatest power over her; and upon this habit of mind Dashwood calculated with security.

  In the pride of conquest, her ladyship had rejoiced at her mother’s inviting Mrs. Temple and her daughters to an entertainment at S —— Hall, where she flattered herself that Mr. Mountague would appear as her declared admirer. The day, alas! came; but things had taken a new turn, and Lady Augusta was as impatient that the visit should be finished, as she had been eager to have the invitation sent. Lady S —— was not precisely informed of all that was going on in her own house, as we have observed; and she was, therefore, a little surprised at the look of vexation with which her daughter heard that she had pressed Mrs. Temple to stay all night. “My dear,” said Lady S —— , “you know you can sleep in mademoiselle’s room for this one night, and Miss Helen Temple will have yours. One should be civil to people, especially when one sees them but seldom.” Lady Augusta was much out of humour with her mother’s ill-timed civility; but there was no remedy. In the hurry of moving her things at night, Lady Augusta left in her dressing table drawer a letter of Dashwood’s — a letter which she would not have had seen by Miss Helen Temple for any consideration. Our readers may imagine what her ladyship’s consternation must have been, when, the next morning, Helen put the letter into her hand, saying, “There’s a paper you left in your dressing-table, Lady Augusta.” The ingenuous countenance of Helen, as she spoke, might have convinced any one but Lady Augusta that she was incapable of having opened this paper; but her ladyship judged otherwise: she had no doubt that every syllable of the letter had been seen, and that her secret would quickly be divulged. The company had not yet assembled at breakfast. She retired precipitately to her own room, to consider what could possibly be done in this emergency. She at length resolved to apply to Mr. Mountague for assistance; for she had seen enough of him to feel assured that he was a man of honour, and that she might safely trust him. When she heard him go down stairs to breakfast, she followed, and contrived to give him a note, which he read with no small degree of surprise.

  “How to apologize for myself I know not, nor have I one moment’s time to deliberate. Believe me, I feel my sensibility and delicacy severely wounded; but an ill-fated, uncontrollable passion must plead my excuse. I candidly own that my conduct must appear to you in a strange light; but spare me, I beseech you, all reproaches, and pardon my weakness, for on your generosity and honour must I rely, in this moment of distress.

  “A letter of mine — a fatal letter from Dashwood — has fallen into the hands of Miss Helen Temple. All that I hold most dear is at her mercy. I am fully persuaded that, were she to promise to keep my secret, nothing on earth would tempt her to betray me; but I know she has so much the habit of speaking of every thing to her mother, that I am in torture till this promise is obtained. Your influence I must depend upon. Speak to her, I conjure you, the moment breakfast is over; and assure yourself of my unalterable gratitude.

  “AUGUSTA —— .”

  The moment breakfast was over, Mr. Mountague followed Helen into the library; a portfolio, full of prints, lay open on the table, and as he turned them over, he stopped at a print of Alexander putting his seal to the lips of Hephaestion, whom he detected reading a letter over his shoulder. Helen, as he looked at the print, said she admired the delicacy of Alexander’s reproof to his friend; but observed, that it was scarcely probable the seal should bind Hephsestion’s lips.

  “How so?” said Mr. Mountague, eagerly.

  “Because,” said Helen, “if honour could not restrain his curiosity, it would hardly secure his secrecy.”

  “Charming girl!” exclaimed Mr. Mountague, with enthusiasm. Helen, struck with surprise, and a variety of emotions, coloured deeply. “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Mountague, changing his tone, “for being so abrupt. You found a letter of Lady Augusta’s last night. She is in great, I am sure needless, anxiety about it.”

  “Needless, indeed; I did not think it necessary to assure Lady Augusta, when I returned her letter, that I had not read it. I gave it her because I thought she would not like to have an open letter left where it might fall into the hands of servants. As she has mentioned this subject to you, I hope, sir, you will persuade her of the truth; you seem to be fully convinced of it yourself.”

  “I am, indeed, fully convinced of your integrity, of the generosity, the simplicity of your mind. May I ask whether you formed any conjecture, whether you know whom that letter was from?”

  Helen, with an ingenuous look, replied—”Yes, sir, I did form a conjecture — I thought it was from you.”

  “From me!” exclaimed Mr. Mountague. “I must undeceive you there: the letter was not mine. I am eager,” continued he, smiling, “to undeceive you. I wish I might flatter myself this explanation could ever be half as interesting to you as it is to me. That letter was not mine, and I can never, in future, be on any other terms with Lady Augusta than those of a common acquaintance.”

  Here they were interrupted by the sudden entrance of mademoiselle, followed by Dashwood, to whom she was talking with great earnestness. Mr. Mountague, when he had collected his thoughts sufficiently to think of Lady Augusta, wrote the following answer to her letter: —

  “Your ladyship may be perfectly at ease with respect to your note. Miss Helen Temple has not read it, nor has she, I am convinced, the slightest suspicion of its contents or its author. I beg leave to assure your ladyship, that I am sensible of the honour of your confidence, and that you shall never have any reason to repent of having trusted in my discretion. Yet permit me, even at the hazard of appearing impertinent, at the still greater hazard of incurring your displeasure, to express my most earnest hope that nothing will tempt you to form a connexion, which I am persuaded would prove fatal to the happiness of your future life. I am, with much respect, Your ladyship’s obedient servant, F. MOUNTAGUE.”

  Lady Augusta read this answer to her note with the greatest eagerness: the first time she ran her eye over it, joy, to find her secret yet undiscovered, suspended every other feeling; but, upon a second perusal, her ladyship felt extremely displeased by the cold civility of the style, and somewhat alarmed at the concluding paragraph. With no esteem, and little affection for Dashwood, she had suffered herself to imagine that her passion for him was uncontrollable.

  What degree of felicity she was likely to enjoy with a man destitute equally of fortune and principle, she had never attempted to calculate; but there was something awful in the words—”I earnestly hope that nothing will tempt you to form a connexion which would prove fatal to your future happiness.” Whilst she was pondering upon these words, Dashwood met her in the park, where she was walking alone. “Why so grave?” exclaimed he, with anxiety.

  “I am only thinking — that — I am afraid — I think this is a silly business: I wish, Mr. Dashwood, you wouldn’t think any more of it, and give me back my letters.”

  Dashwood vehemently swore that her letters were dearer to him than life, and that the “last pang should tear them from his heart.”

  “But, if we go on with all this,” resumed Lady Augusta, “it will at least break my mother’s heart, and mademoiselle’s into the bargain; besides, I don’t half believe you; I really—”

  “I really, what?” cried he, pouring forth protestations of passion, which put Mr. Mountague’s letter entirely out of her head.

  A number of small motives sometimes decide the mind in the most important actions of our lives; and faults are often attributed to passion which arise from folly. The pleasure of duping her governess, the fear of w
itnessing Helen’s triumph over her lover’s recovered affections, and the idea of the bustle and éclat of an elopement, all mixed together, went under the general denomination of love! — Cupid is often blamed for deeds in which he has no share.

  “But,” resumed Lady Augusta, after making the last pause of expiring prudence, “what shall we do about mademoiselle?”

  “Poor mademoiselle!” cried Dashwood, leaning back against a tree to support himself, whilst he laughed violently—”what do you think she is about at this instant? — packing up her clothes in a band-box.”

  “Packing up her clothes in a band-box!”

  “Yes; she verily believes that I am dying with impatience to carry her off to Scotland, and at four o’clock to-morrow morning she trips down stairs out of the garden-door, of which she keeps the key, flies across the park, scales the gate, gains the village, and takes refuge with her good friend, Miss Lacy, the milliner, where she is to wait for me. Now, in the mean time, the moment the coast is clear, I fly to you, my real angel.”

  “Oh, no, upon my word,” said Lady Augusta, so faintly, that Dashwood went on exactly in the same tone.

  “I fly to you, my angel, and we shall be half way on our trip to Scotland before mademoiselle’s patience is half exhausted, and before Miladi S —— is quite awake.”

  Lady Augusta could not forbear smiling at this idea; and thus, by an unlucky stroke of humour, was the grand event of her life decided.

  Marmontel’s well-known story, called Heureusement, is certainly not a moral tale: to counteract its effects, he should have written Malheureusement, if he could.

  Nothing happened to disconcert the measures of Lady Augusta and Dashwood.

  The next morning Lady S —— came down, according to her usual custom, late to breakfast. Mrs. Temple, Helen, Emma, Lord George, Mr. Mountague, &c., were assembled. “Has not mademoiselle made breakfast for us yet?” said Lady S —— . She sat down, and expected every moment to see Mlle. Panache and her daughter make their appearance; but she waited in vain. Neither mademoiselle, Lady Augusta, nor Dashwood, were any where to be found. Every body round the breakfast-table looked at each other in silence, waiting the event. “They are out walking, I suppose,” said Lady S —— , which supposition contented her for the first five minutes; but then she exclaimed, “It’s very strange they don’t come back!”

  “Very strange — I mean rather strange,” said Lord George, helping himself, as he spoke, to his usual quantity of butter, and then drumming upon the table; whilst Mr. Mountague, all the time, looked down, and preserved a profound silence.

  At length the door opened, and Mlle. Panache, in a riding habit, made her appearance. “Bon jour, miladi! Bon jour!” said she, looking round at the silent party, with a half terrified, half astonished countenance. “Je vous demande mille pardons — Qu’est ce que c’est? I have only been to take a walk dis morning into de village to de milliner’s. She has disappointed me of my tings, dat kept me waiting; but I am come back in time for breakfast, I hope?”

  “But where is my daughter?” cried Lady S —— , roused at last from her natural indolence—”where is Lady Augusta?”

  “Bon Dieu! Miladi, I don’t know. Bon Dieu! in her bed, I suppose. Bon Dieu!” exclaimed she a third time, and turned as pale as ashes. “But where den is Mr. Dashwood?” At this instant a note, directed to mademoiselle, was brought into the room: the servant said that Lady Augusta’s maid had just found it upon her lady’s toilette — mademoiselle tore open the note.

  “Excuse me to my mother — you can best plead my excuse.

  “You will not see me again till I am

  ‘Augusta Dashwood.’”

  “Ah scélérat! Ah scélérat! Il m’a trahi!” screamed mademoiselle: she threw down the note, and sunk upon the sofa in real hysterics; whilst Lady S —— , seeing in one and the same moment her own folly and her daughter’s ruin, fixed her eyes upon the words “Augusta Dashwood,” and fainted. Mr. Mountague led Lord George out of the room with him, whilst Mrs. Temple, Helen, and her sister, ran to the assistance of the unhappy mother and the detected governess.

  As soon as mademoiselle had recovered tolerable composure, she recollected that she had betrayed too violent emotion on this occasion. “Il m’a trahi,” were words, however, that she could not recall; it was in vain she attempted to fabricate some apology for herself. No apology could avail: and whilst Lady S —— , in silent anguish, wept for her own and her daughter’s folly, the governess, in loud and gross terms, abused Dashwood, and reproached her pupil with having shown duplicity, ingratitude, and a bad heart.

  “A bad education!” exclaimed Lady S —— , with a voice of mingled anger and sorrow. “Leave the room, mademoiselle; leave my house. How could I choose such a governess for my daughter! Yet, indeed,” added her ladyship, turning to Mrs. Temple, “she was well recommended to me, and how could I foresee all this?”

  To such an appeal, at such a time, there was no reply to be made: it is cruel to point out errors to those who feel that they are irreparable; but it is benevolent to point them out to others, who have yet their choice to make.

  THE KNAPSACK

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  COUNT HELMAAR, a Swedish Nobleman. CHRISTIERN, a Swedish Soldier. ALEFTSON, Count Helmaar’s Fool. THOMAS, a Footman.

  ELEONORA, a Swedish Lady, beloved by Count Helmaar. CHRISTINA, Sister to Helmaar. ULRICA, an old Housekeeper. CATHERINE, Wife to Christiern.

  KATE and ULRIC, the Son and Daughter of Catherine — they are six and seven years old.

  Serjeant, and a Troop of Soldiers, a Train of Dancers, a Page, Peasants, &c.

  ACT I.

  SCENE — A cottage in Sweden. — CATHERINE, a young and handsome woman, is sitting at her spinning wheel. — A little Boy and Girl, of six and seven years of age, are seated on the ground eating their dinner.

  CATHERINE sings, while she is spinning.

  Haste from the wars, oh, haste to me, The wife that fondly waits for thee; Long are the years, and long each day, While my loved soldier’s far away. Haste from the wars, &c.

  Lone ev’ry field, and lone the bow’r; Pleasant to me nor sun nor show’r: The snows are gone, the flow’rs are gay — Why is my life of life away? Haste from the wars, &c.

  Little Girl. When will father come home?

  Little Boy. When will he come, mother? when? To-day? to-morrow?

  Cath. No, not to-day, nor to-morrow, but soon, I hope, very soon; for they say the wars are over.

  Little Girl. I am glad of that, and when father comes home, I’ll give him some of my flowers.

  Little Boy (who is still eating). And I’ll give him some of my bread and cheese, which he’ll like better than flowers, if he is as hungry as I am, and that to be sure he will be, after coming such a long, long journey.

  Little Girl. Long, long journey! how long? — how far is father off, mother? — where is he?

  Little Boy. I know, he is in — in — in — in — in Finland? how far off, mother?

  Cath. A great many miles, my dear; I don’t know how many.

  Little Boy. Is it not two miles to the great house, mother, where we go to sell our faggots?

  Cath. Yes, about two miles — and now you had best set out towards the great house, and ask Mrs. Ulrica, the housekeeper, to pay you the little bill she owes you for faggots — there’s good children; and when you have been paid for your faggots, you can call at the baker’s, in the village, and bring home some bread for to-morrow (patting the little boy’s head) — you that love bread and cheese so much must work hard to get it.

  Little Boy. Yes, so I will work hard, then I shall have enough for myself and father too, when he comes. Come along — come (to his sister) — and, as we come home through the forest, I’ll show you where we can get plenty of sticks for to-morrow, and we’ll help one another.

  Little Girl sings.

  That’s the best way, At work and at play, To help one another — I heard mother say — To help one another
— I heard mother say —

  {The children go off, singing these words.}

  Cath. (alone.) Dear, good children, how happy their father will be to see them, when he comes back! — (She begins to eat the remains of the dinner, which the children have left.) The little rogue was so hungry, he has not left me much; but he would have left me all, if he had thought that I wanted it: he shall have a good large bowl of milk for supper. It was but last night he skimmed the cream off his milk for me, because he thought I liked it. Heigho! — God knows how long they may have milk to skim — as long as I can work they shall never want; but I’m not so strong as I used to be; but then I shall get strong, and all will be well, when my husband comes back (a drum beats at a distance). Hark! a drum! — some news from abroad, perhaps — nearer and nearer (she sinks upon a chair) — why cannot I run to see — to ask (the drum beats louder and louder) — fool that I am! they will be gone! they will be all gone! (she starts up.)

  {Exit hastily.}

  SCENE changes to a high road, leading to a village. — A party of ragged, tired soldiers, marching slowly. Serjeant ranges them.

  Serj. Keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, we have not a great way further to go: — keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, through yonder village. (The drum beats.)

  {Soldiers exeunt.}

  Serj. (alone.) Poor fellows, my heart bleeds to see them! the sad remains, these, of as fine a regiment as ever handled a musket. Ah! I’ve seen them march quite another guess sort of way, when they marched, and I amongst them, to face the enemy — heads up — step firm — thus it was — quick time — march! — (he marches proudly) — My poor fellows, how they lag now (looking after them) — ay, ay, there they go, slower and slower; they don’t like going through the village; nor I neither; for, at every village we pass through, out come the women and children, running after us, and crying, “Where’s my father? — What’s become of my husband?” — Stout fellow as I am, and a Serjeant too, that ought to know better, and set the others an example, I can’t stand these questions.