Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  This proud and rash security in his own courage, strength of mind, and integrity, was the only fault of Cecil Devereux. He never prayed not to be led into temptation, he thought himself so sure of avoiding evil. Unconscious of his danger, even though his disease was at its height, he now braved it most imprudently: he was certain that he should never pass the bounds of friendship; he had proved this to himself, and was satisfied: he told me that he could with indifference, nay, with pleasure, see Lady Geraldine mine. In the mean time, upon the same principle that he deemed flight inglorious, he was proud to expose himself to the full force of Love’s artillery. He was with us now every day, and almost all day, and Lady Geraldine was more charming than ever. The week was fixed for her departure. Still I could not decide. I understood that her ladyship would pass the ensuing winter in Dublin, where she would probably meet with new adorers; and even if Mr. Devereux should not succeed, some adventurous knight might win and wear the prize. This was an alarming thought. It almost decided me to hazard the fatal declaration; but then I recollected that I might follow her ladyship to town the next winter, and that if the impression did not, as might be hoped, wear off during the intervening autumn, it would be time enough to commit myself when I should meet my fair one in Dublin. This was at last my fixed resolution. Respited from the agonies of doubt, I now waited very tranquilly for that moment to which most lovers look forward with horror, the moment of separation. I was sensible that I had accustomed myself to think about this lady so much, that I had gradually identified my existence with hers, and I thus found my spirit of animation much increased. I dreaded the departure of Lady Geraldine less than the return of ennui.

  In this frame of mind I was walking one morning in the pleasure grounds with Lady Geraldine, when a slight accident made me act in direct contradiction to all my resolutions, and, I think, inconsistently with my character. But such is the nature of man! and I was doomed to make a fool of myself, even in the very temple of Minerva. Among the various ornamental buildings in the grounds at Ormsby Villa, there was a temple dedicated to this goddess, from which issued a troop of hoyden young ladies, headed by the widow O’Connor and Lady Kilrush, all calling to us to come and look at some charming discovery which they had just made in the temple of Minerva. Thither we proceeded, accompanied by the merry troop. We found in the temple only a poetical inscription of Lady Kilrush’s, pompously engraved on a fine marble tablet. We read the lines with all the attention usually paid to a lady’s poetry in the presence of the poetess. Lady Geraldine and I turned to pay some compliments on the performance, when we found that Lady Kilrush and all her companions were gone.

  “Gone! all gone!” said Lady Geraldine; “and there they are, making their way very fast down to the temple of Folly! Lady Kilrush, you know, is so ba-a-ashful, she could not possibly stay to receive nos hommages. I love to laugh at affectation. Call them back, do, my lord, and you shall see the fair author go through all the evolutions of mock humility, and end by yielding quietly to the notion that she is the tenth Muse. But run, my lord, or they will be out of our reach.”

  I never was seen to run on any occasion; but to obey Lady Geraldine I walked as fast as I could to the door, and, to my surprise, found it fastened.

  “Locked, I declare! Some of the witty tricks of the widow O’Connor, or the hoyden Miss Callwells!”

  “How I hate hoydens!” cried Lady Geraldine: “but let us take patience; they will be back presently. If young ladies must perform practical jokes, because quizzing is the fashion, I wish they would devise something new. This locking-up is so stale a jest. To be sure it has lately to boast the authority of high rank in successful practice: but these bungling imitators never distinguish between cases the most dissimilar imaginable. Silly creatures! We have only to be wise and patient.”

  Her ladyship sat down to re-peruse the tablet. I never saw her look so beautiful. — The dignified composure of her manner charmed me; it was so unlike the paltry affectation of some of the fashionable ladies by whom I had been disgusted. I recollected the precedent to which she alluded. I recollected that the locking-up ended in matrimony; and as Lady Geraldine made some remarks upon the verses, I suppose my answers showed my absence of mind.

  “Why so grave, my lord? why so absent? I assure you I do not suspect your lordship of having any hand in this vulgar manoeuvre. I acquit you honourably; therefore you need not stand any longer like a criminal.”

  What decided me at this instant I cannot positively tell: whether it was the awkwardness of my own situation, or the grace of her ladyship’s manner: but all my prudential arrangements were forgotten, all my doubts vanished. Before I knew that the words passed my lips, I replied, “That her ladyship did me justice by such an acquittal; but that though I had no part in the contrivance, yet I felt irresistibly impelled to avail myself of the opportunity it afforded of declaring my real sentiments.” I was at her ladyship’s feet, and making very serious love, before I knew where I was. In what words my long-delayed declaration was made, I cannot recollect, but I well remember Lady Geraldine’s answer.

  “My lord, I assure you that you do not know what you are saying: you do not know what you are doing. This is all a mistake, as you will find half an hour hence. I will not be so cruelly vain as to suppose you serious.”

  “Not serious! no man ever was more serious.”

  “No, no — No, no, no.”

  I swore, of course, most fervently.

  “Oh! rise, rise, I beseech you, my lord, and don’t look so like a hero; though you have done an heroical action, I grant. How you ever brought yourself to it, I cannot imagine. But now, for your comfort, you are safe — Vous voilà quitte pour la peur! Do not, however, let this encourage you to venture again in the same foolish manner. I know but few, very few young ladies to whom Lord Glenthorn could offer himself with any chance or reasonable hope of being refused. So take warning: never again expect to meet with such another as my whimsical self.”

  “Never, never can I expect to meet with any thing resembling your charming self,” cried I. This was a new text for a lover’s rhapsody. It is not necessary, and might not be generally interesting to repeat all the ridiculous things I said, even if I could remember them.

  Lady Geraldine listened to me, and then very calmly replied, “Granting you believe all that you are saying at this minute, which I must grant from common gratitude, and still more common vanity; nevertheless, permit me to assure you, my lord, that this is not love; it is only a fancy — only the nettle-rash, not the plague. You will not die this time. I will insure your life. So now jump out of the window as fast as you can, and unlock the door — you need not be afraid of breaking your neck — you know your life is insured. Come, take the lover’s leap, and get rid of your passion at once.”

  I grew angry.

  “Only a cloud,” said Lady Geraldine—”it will blow over.”

  I became more passionate — I did not know the force of my own feelings, till they met with an obstacle; they suddenly rose to a surprising height.

  “Now, my lord,” cried Lady Geraldine with a tone and look of comic vexation, “this is really the most provoking thing imaginable; you have no idea how you distress me, nor of what exquisite pleasures you deprive me — all the pleasures of coquetry; legitimate pleasures, in certain circumstances, as I am instructed to think them by one of the first moral authorities. There is a case — I quote from memory, my lord; for my memory, like that of most other people, on subjects where I am deeply interested, is tolerably tenacious — there is a case, says the best of fathers, in his Legacy to the best of daughters — there is a case, where a woman may coquet justifiably to the utmost verge which her conscience will allow. It is where a gentleman purposely declines making his addresses, till such time as he thinks himself perfectly sure of her consent. Now, my lord, if you had had the goodness to do so, I might have made this delightful case my own; and what charming latitude I might have allowed my conscience! But now, alas! it is all over, and
I must be as frank as you have been, under pain of forfeiting what I value more even than admiration — my own good opinion.”

  She paused, and was silent for a few moments; then suddenly changing her manner, she exclaimed, in a serious, energetic tone, “Yes, I must, I will be sincere; let it cost me what it may. I will be sincere. My lord, I never can be yours. My lord, you will believe me, even from the effort with which I speak:” her voice softened, and her face suffused with crimson, as she spoke. “I love another — my heart is no longer in my own possession; whether it will ever be in my power, consistently with my duty and his principles, to be united with the man of my choice, is doubtful — more than doubtful — but this is certain, that with such a prepossession, such a conviction in my mind, I never could nor ought to think of marrying any other person.”

  I pleaded, that however deserving of her preference the object of her favour might be, yet that if there were, as her own prudence seemed to suggest, obstacles, rendering the probability of her union with that person more than doubtful, it might be possible that her superior sense and strength of mind, joined to the persevering affection of another lover, who would spare no exertions to render himself worthy of her, might, perhaps, in time —

  “No, no,” said she, interrupting me; “do not deceive yourself. I will not deceive you. I give you no hopes that my sentiments may change. I know my own mind — it will not change. My attachment is founded on the firm basis of esteem; my affection has grown from the intimate knowledge of the principles and conduct of the man I love. No other man, let his merits be what they may, could have these advantages in my opinion. And when I say that the probability of our being united is more than doubtful, I do not mean to deny that I have distant hope that change of circumstances might render love and duty compatible. Without hope I know love cannot long exist. You see I do not talk romantic nonsense to you. All that you say of prudence, and time, and the effect of the attentions of another admirer, would be perfectly just and applicable, if my attachment were a fancy of yesterday — if it were a mere young lady’s commonplace first love; but I am not a very young lady, nor is this, though a first love, commonplace. I do not, you see, in the usual style, tell you that the man I adore is an angel, and that no created form ever did, or ever can, resemble this angel in green and gold; but, on the contrary, do justice to your lordship’s merit: and believing, as I do, that you are capable of a real love; still more, believing that such an attachment would rouse you to exertion, and bring to life and light a surprising number of good qualities; yet I should deceive you unpardonably, fatally for my own peace of mind, if not for yours, were I not frankly and decidedly to assure you, that I never could reward or return your affection. My attachment to — I trust entirely where I trust at all — my attachment to Mr. Devereux is for life.”

  “He deserves it — deserves it all,” cried I, struggling for utterance; “that is as much as a rival can say.”

  “Not more than I expected from you, my lord.”

  “But your ladyship says there is a hope of duty and love being compatible. Would Lady Kildangan ever consent?”

  She looked much disturbed.

  “No, certainly; not unless — Lord O’Toole has promised — not that I depend on courtiers’ promises — but Lord O’Toole is a relation of ours, and he has promised to obtain an appointment abroad, in India, for Mr. Devereux. If that were done, he might appear of more consequence in the eyes of the world. My mother might then, perhaps, be propitious. My lord, I give you the strongest proof of my esteem, by speaking with such openness. I have had the honour of your lordship’s acquaintance only a few months; but without complimenting my own penetration, I may securely trust to the judgment of Mr. Devereux, and his example has taught me to feel confidence in your lordship. Your conduct now will, I trust, justify my good opinion, by your secrecy; and by desisting from useless pursuit you will entitle yourself to my esteem and gratitude. These, I presume, you will think worth securing.”

  My soul was so completely touched, that I could not articulate.

  “Mr. Devereux is right — I see, my lord, that you have a soul that can be touched.”

  “Kissing hands, I protest!” exclaimed a shrill voice at the window. We turned, and saw Mrs. O’Connor and a group of tittering faces peeping in. “Kissing hands, after a good hour’s tête-à-tête! Oh, pray, Lady Kildangan, make haste here,” continued Mrs. O’Connor; “make haste, before Lady Geraldine’s blushes are over.”

  “Were you ever detected in the crime of blushing, in your life, Mrs. O’Connor?” said I.

  “I never was found out locked up with so fine a gentleman,” replied Mrs. O’Connor.

  “Then it hurts your conscience only to be found out, like all the rest of the vast family of the Surfaces,” said Lady Geraldine, resuming her spirit.

  “Found out! — Locked up! — bless me! bless me! What is all this?” cried Lady Kildangan, puffing up the hill. “For shame! young ladies; for shame!” continued her ladyship, with a decent suppression of her satisfaction, when she saw, or thought she saw, how matters stood. “Unlock the door, pray. Don’t be vexed, my Geraldine. Fie! fie! Mrs. O’Connor. But quizzing is now so fashionable — nobody can be angry with any body. My Geraldine, consider we are all friends.”

  The door unlocked, and as we were going out, Lady Geraldine whispered to me—”For mercy’s sake, my lord, don’t break my poor mother’s heart! Never let her know that a coronet has been within my grasp, and that I have not clutched it.”

  Lady Kildangan, who thought that all was now approaching that happy termination she so devoutly wished, was so full of her own happy presentiments, that it was impossible for me to undeceive her ladyship. Even when I announced before her, to Sir Harry Ormsby, that I was obliged to return home immediately, on particular business, she was, I am sure, persuaded that I was going to prepare matters for marriage-settlements. When I mounted my horse, Mr. Devereux pressed through a crowd assembled on the steps at the hall-door, and offered me his hand, with a look and manner that seemed to say — Have you sufficient generosity to be still my friend? “I know the value of your friendship, Mr. Devereux,” said I, “and I hope to deserve it better every year that I live.”

  For the effort which it cost me to say this I was rewarded. Lady Geraldine, who had retired behind her companions, at this instant approached with an air of mingled grace and dignity, bowed her head, and gave me a smile of grateful approbation. This is the last image left on my mind, the last look of the charming Geraldine — I never saw her again.

  After I got home I did not shave for two days, and scarcely ever spoke. I should have taken to my bed to avoid seeing any human creature; but I knew that if I declared myself ill, no power would keep my old nurse Ellinor from coming to moan over me; and I was not in a humour to listen to stories of the Irish Black Beard, or the ghost of King O’Donoghoe; nor could I, however troublesome, have repulsed the simplicity of her affection. Instead of going to bed, therefore, I continued to lie stretched upon a sofa, ruminating sweet and bitter thoughts, after giving absolute orders that I should not be disturbed on any account whatever. Whilst I was in this state of reverie, one of my servants — an odd Irish fellow, who, under pretence of being half-witted, took more liberties than his companions — bolted into my presence.

  “Plase your lordship, I thought it my duty, in spite of ’em all below, to come up to advertise to your lordship of the news that’s going through the country. That they are all upside down at Ormsby Villa, all mad entirely — fighting and setting off through the kingdom, every one their own way; and, they say, it’s all on account of something that Miss Clemmy Ormsby told, that Lady Geraldine said about my Lord O’Toole’s being no better than a cat’s paw, or something that way, which made his lordship quite mad; and he said, in the presence of Captain Andrews, and my Lady Kildangan, and Lady Geraldine, and all that were in it, something that vexed Lady Geraldine, which made Mr. Cecil Devereux mad next; and he said something smart in reply, that L
ord O’Toole could not digest, he said, which made his lordship madder than ever, and he discharged Mr. Devereux from his favour, and he is not to get that place that was vacant, the lord-lieutenancy of some place in the Indies that he was to have had; this made Lady Geraldine mad, and it was found out she was in love with Mr. Devereux, which made her mother mad, the maddest of all, they say, so that none can hold her, and she is crying night and day how her daughter might have had the first coronet in the kingdom, maning you, my lard, if it had not been that she prefarred a beggar-man, maning Mr. Cecil Devereux, who is as poor, they say, as a Connaughtman — and he’s forbid to think of her, and she’s forbid, under pain of bread and water, ever to set her eyes upon him the longest day ever she lives; so the horses and coaches are ordered, and they are all to be off with the first light for Dublin: and that’s all, my lard; and all truth, not a word of lies I’m telling.”

  I was inclined not to credit a story so oddly told; but, upon inquiry, I found it true in its material points. My own words to Mr. Devereux, and the parting look of Lady Geraldine, were full in my recollection; I was determined, by an unexpected, exertion, to surprise both the lovers, and to secure for ever their esteem and gratitude. The appointment, which Mr. Devereux desired, was not yet given away; the fleet was to sail in a few days. I started up from my sofa — ordered my carriage instantly — shaved myself — sent a courier on before to have horses ready at every stage to carry me to Dublin — got there in the shortest time possible — found Lord O’Toole but just arrived. Though unused to diplomatic language and political negotiation, I knew pretty well on what they all hinge. I went directly to the point, and showed that it would be the interest of the party concerned to grant my request. By expressing a becoming desire that my boroughs, upon a question where a majority was required, should strengthen the hands of government, I obtained for my friend the favour he deserved. Before I quitted Lord O’Toole, his secretary, Captain Andrews, was instructed to write a letter, announcing to Mr. Devereux his appointment. A copy of the former letter of refusal now lay before me; it was in his lordship’s purest diplomatic style — as follows: