Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Two years ago, madam,” said Mrs. Wynne.

  “Was it two? — I dare say it might — you know it is so impossible to keep a register of deaths and marriages in one’s head. Pray, are you at all acquainted, Mrs. Wynne, with the Duchess of A —— ? She was always a prodigious friend of the Elmours, as I remember. How is that? — Are they any way related, I wonder?”

  “Yes; they are now related by marriage,” said Mr. Wynne; “Mrs. Elmour is a niece of the duchess.”

  “Indeed!”

  “She is a charming woman,” said Mr. Wynne; “so beautiful and yet so unaffected — so sensible, yet so unassuming.”

  “Pray,” interrupted Mrs. Ingoldsby, “has not her grace conversaziones, or reading parties, or something in that style every week? — She is quite a learned lady, I understand. There was always something odd about her, and I cannot help being afraid of her.”

  “I assure you,” said Mrs. Wynne, “that there is nothing odd or strange about the Duchess of A —— . She has always the most agreeable society that London can afford.”

  Miss Turnbull and Mrs. Ingoldsby interchanged looks of affected contempt: but Mr. Wynne added, “Her grace has, you know, a taste for literature and for the arts; and the most celebrated literary characters, as well as those who have distinguished themselves in active life, assemble at her house, where they can enjoy the most agreeable conversation — that in which a knowledge of books and of the world is happily blended.”

  “And as to being afraid of her grace,” resumed Mrs. Wynne, “that is quite impossible; she has such affable, engaging manners. I am sure, even I am not in the least afraid of her.”

  “But you know,” said Miss Turnbull, with a malicious look of mock humility, “there is a difference between you and me. — I would not meet her grace for the world, for I am persuaded I should not be able to articulate a syllable in her classical presence — I have not been used to that style of company, by any means. I assure you I should be, as Mrs. Ingoldsby says, horribly afraid of your witty duchess.”

  “She has none of the airs of a wit, believe me,” said Mrs. Wynne, growing more and more earnest; “and if you will not believe me, ask your friend Ellen.”

  “Oh, excuse me, I beseech; I shall ask no questions — I only beg leave to keep myself well when I am well. The Elmours who are so clever, and have such merit and so on, are all vastly better suited to her grace than I am.”

  No contradiction ensued — our heroine was mortified beyond the power of concealment.

  After dinner, when the ladies retired, Mrs. Wynne, though somewhat alarmed and puzzled by Miss Turnbull’s behaviour, summoned all the resolution which benevolence could inspire, and resolved at once to come to the point with our heroine. She flattered herself that all in Miss Turnbull that appeared inauspicious to her hopes was only her manner, that sort of manner which people, who live much in high life, catch and practise, without meaning to give themselves airs, or to humble their neighbours.

  Many persons will perhaps think good Mrs. Wynne almost an idiot: but she was a woman of abilities; and if she did not exert them in discovering with promptitude the follies of others, she enjoyed much happiness in her benevolent scepticism. This evening, however, she was doomed to be absolutely convinced, against her will, that she had formed too favourable an opinion of one of her fellow-creatures.

  She was eager to explain herself to Almeria before Ellen and Mr. Frederick Elmour should arrive; she therefore took her aside, and began without any preface:—”My dear Miss Turnbull, here is a charming opportunity for you to do a kind, and generous, and grateful action. This poor Mrs. Henry Elmour! — She has told you how she has been reduced to distress without any imprudence of hers. Now you could not, I am sure, prove the goodness of your own heart better to your friends (who will be here in half an hour) than by showing kindness to this unfortunate widow. I cannot presume to say more than that I think she would make a most agreeable companion to an amiable, sensible young lady — and you have not decided your choice, have you?”

  “Pardon me, I have decided, beyond a possibility of retracting,” replied Miss Turnbull, haughtily.

  “I am very sorry,” said Mrs. Wynne, with an expression of real concern in her countenance. “I have been very imprudent.”

  “Really I am infinitely distressed that it is out of my power to oblige her; but the lady who is with me now, Mrs. Ingoldsby, has a prior claim.”

  Prior claim! — prior to that of the Elmour family! thought Mrs. Wynne.

  The decisive manner in which Miss Turnbull spoke precluded all further hope.

  “Well, I did think it would have been such a pleasure to Miss Turnbull to meet Mrs. Henry Elmour, and all her old friends the Elmours here to-day; and I fancied, that if there had been any little coolness or misunderstanding, it would quite have passed off, and that I should have had the joy of seeing you all shake hands — I thought it would have been such an agreeable surprise to you to see all the Elmour family, and Ellen’s charming little girl, and Mr. Frederick Elmour’s boy!”

  A more disagreeable surprise could scarcely have been imagined for our heroine. She informed Mrs. Wynne, coldly, that there was not the slightest quarrel between her and any of the Elmours; and that therefore there was no necessity, or possible occasion, for any shaking of hands or reconciliation scenes: that undoubtedly the style of life she had been thrown into had entirely separated her from her Yorkshire acquaintance; and time had dissolved the sort of intimacy that neighbourhood had created: that she should always, notwithstanding, be most particularly happy to meet any of the Elmour family; though, from her situation, it was a good fortune she had not often enjoyed, nor indeed could in future expect: but that she wished it to be understood, and repeated, that she always in all companies properly acknowledged the obligations she had to Mr. Frederick Elmour as a lawyer. Her cause, she believed, was the first in which he had distinguished himself; and she was rejoiced to find that he had since risen so rapidly in his profession. — As to Miss Ellen Elmour, she was a very charming, sensible young woman, no doubt; and Miss Turnbull assured Mrs. Wynne she was delighted to hear she was so suitably married in point of understanding and temper, and all that sort of thing — and besides, to a gentleman of a reasonable fortune, which she was happy to hear Mr. Charles Wynne possessed.

  Here she was interrupted in her speech — the door opened, and the Duchess of A —— , Mr. and Mrs. Elmour, and Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wynne, were announced. Our heroine was not prepared for the sight of the duchess; and her grace’s appearance made her receive her old friends in a manner very different from that in which she had determined to meet them. Practised as she was, she stood irresolute and awkward, whilst Ellen, with easy, graceful kindness, accosted her, and immediately introduced her to the Duchess of A —— . As Mr. Frederick Elmour approached, and as his beautiful wife was presented to Miss Turnbull, not all her efforts could conceal the mortification she endured, whilst she pronounced that she was vastly happy — quite delighted — that all this was really such an agreeable and unexpected surprise to her — for she did not even know any of her Yorkshire friends were in town.

  Mrs. Ingoldsby came up to her assistance. Miss Turnbull rallied her spirits, and determined to make her stand upon the exclusive ground of fashion. Those who comprehend the rights of the privileged orders of fashion are aware that even a commoner, who is in a certain set, is far superior to a duchess who is not supposed to move in that magic circle, Almeria, upon this principle, began to talk to the duchess of some of her acquaintance, who were of the highest ton; and then affectedly checked herself, and begged pardon, and looked surprised at Mrs. Ingoldsby, when she found that her grace was not acquainted with them. Much as Miss Turnbull had reason to complain of Lady Pierrepoint and the young bride the marchioness, she now thought that their names would do her honour; and she scrupled not to speak of them as her best friends, and as the most amiable creatures existing. — Such is the meanness and insufficiency of vanity!

/>   “Poor Lady Pierrepoint,” said the Duchess of A —— : “with her independent fortune, what could tempt her to enslave herself, as she has done, to a court life?”

  “Her ladyship finds herself suited to her situation, I believe,” said Miss Turnbull. “Lady Pierrepoint is certainly formed, more than most people I know, to succeed and shine in a court; and she is in favour, and in power, and in fashion.”

  “Does it follow of course that she is happy?” said Ellen.

  “Oh! happy — of course; I suppose so.”

  “No doubt,” said Mrs. Ingoldsby; “she has every reason to be happy: has not she just made her niece marchioness?”

  Miss Turnbull repeated “Happy! to be sure Lady Pierrepoint is happy, if any body in the world is happy.” — A short sigh escaped from our heroine.

  Ellen heard the sigh, and attended to it more than to her words; she looked upon her with compassion, and endeavoured to change the conversation.

  “We spend this winter in town; and as I think I know your real tastes, Almeria,” said she, taking Almeria’s hand, “we must have the pleasure of introducing you to some of her grace’s literary friends, who will, I am sure, please and suit you particularly.”

  Mr. Frederick Elmour, who now really pitied Almeria, though in his pity there was a strong mixture of contempt, joined his sister in her kindness, and named and described some of the people whom he thought she would be most desirous of knowing. The names struck Miss Turnbull’s ears, for they were the names of persons distinguished in the fashionable as well as in the literary world; and she was dismayed and mortified by the discovery that her country friends had by some means, incomprehensible to her, gained distinction and intimacy in society where she had merely admission; she was vexed beyond expression when she found that the Elmours were superior to her even on her own ground. At this instant Mrs. Wynne, with her usual simplicity, asked Mrs. Elmour and Ellen why they had not brought their charming children with them; adding, “You are, my dears, without exception, the two happiest mothers and wives I am acquainted with. And after all, what happiness is there equal to domestic happiness? — Oh! my dear Miss Turnbull, trust me, though I am a silly old woman, there’s nothing like it — and friends at court are not like friends at home — and all the Lady Pierrepoints that ever were or ever will be born, are not, as you’ll find when you come to try them, like one of these plain good Ellens and Elmours.”

  The address, simple as it was, came so home to Almeria’s experience, and so many recollections rushed at once upon her memory, that all her factitious character of a fine lady gave way to natural feeling, and suddenly she burst into tears.

  “Good heavens! my dear Miss Turnbull,” cried Mrs. Ingoldsby, “what is the matter? — Are not you well? — Salts! salts! — the heat of the room! — Poor thing! — she has such weak nerves. — Mr. Elmour, may I trouble you to ring the bell for our carriage? Miss Turnbull has such sensibility! This meeting, so unexpected, with so many old friends, has quite overcome her.”

  Miss Turnbull, recalled to herself by Mrs. Ingoldsby’s voice, repeated the request to have her carriage immediately, and departed with Mrs. Ingoldsby as soon as she possibly could, utterly abashed and mortified; mortified most at not having been able to conceal her mortification. Incapable absolutely of articulating, she left Mrs. Ingoldsby to cover her retreat, as well as she could, with weak nerves and sensibility.

  Even the charitable Mrs. Wynne was now heard to acknowledge that she could neither approve of Miss Turnbull’s conduct, nor frame any apology for it. She confessed that it looked very like what she of all things detested most — ingratitude. Her nephew, who had been a cool observant spectator of this evening’s performance, was glad that his aunt’s mind was now decided by Almeria’s conduct. He exclaimed that he would not marry such a woman, if her portion were to be the mines of Peru.

  Thus Miss Turnbull lost all chance of the esteem and affection of another man of sense and temper, who might even at this late period of her life have recalled her from the follies of dissipation, and rendered her permanently happy.

  And now that our heroine must have lost all power of interesting the reader, now that the pity even of the most indulgent must be utterly sunk in contempt, we shall take our leave of her, resigning her to that misery which she had been long preparing for herself. It is sufficient to say, that after this period she had some offers from men of fashion of ruined fortunes; but these she rejected, still fancying that with her wealth she could not fail to make a splendid match. So she went on coquetting; and coquetting, rejecting and rejecting, till at length she arrived at an age when she could reject no longer. She ceased to be an object to matrimonial adventurers, but to these succeeded a swarm of female legacy-hunters. Among the most distinguished was her companion, Mrs. Ingoldsby, whose character she soon discovered to be artful and selfish in the extreme. This lady’s flattery, therefore, lost all its power to charm, but yet it became necessary to Almeria; and even when she knew that she was duped, she could not part with Mrs. Ingoldsby, because it was not in her power to supply the place of a flatterer with a friend. — A friend! that first blessing of life, cannot be bought — it must be deserved.

  Miss, or as she must now be called, Mrs. Almeria Turnbull, is still alive — probably at this moment haunting some place of public amusement, or stationary at the card-table. Wherever she may be, she is despised and discontented; one example more amongst thousands, that wealth cannot purchase, or fashion bestow, real happiness.

  “See how the world its veterans rewards — youth of folly, an old age of cards!”

  Edgeworth’s-Town, 1802.

  VIVIAN.

  PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

  Miss Edgeworth’s general views, in these stories, are explained in the preface to the first volume. I cannot, however, omit repeating, that public favour has not yet rendered her so presumptuous as to offer hasty effusions to her readers, but that she takes a longer time to revise what she writes than the severe ancients required for the highest species of moral fiction.

  Vivian exposes one of the most common defects of mankind. To be “infirm of purpose” is to be at the mercy of the artful or at the disposal of accident. Look round, and count the numbers who have, within your own knowledge, failed from want of firmness.

  An excellent and wise mother gave the following advice with her dying breath: “My son, learn early how to say, No!” — This precept gave the first idea of the story of Vivian.

  THE ABSENTEE is not intended as a censure upon those whose duties, and employments, and superior talents, lead them to the capital; but to warn the thoughtless and the unoccupied from seeking distinction by frivolous imitation of fashion and ruinous waste of fortune.

  A country gentleman, or even a nobleman, who does not sit in parliament, may be as usefully and as honourably employed in Yorkshire, Mid Lothian, or Ireland, as at a club-house or an assembly in London.

  Irish agents are here described as of two different species. That there have been bad and oppressive Irish agents, many great landed English proprietors have felt; that there are well-informed, just, and honourable Irish agents, every-day experience can testify.

  MADAME DE FLEURY points out some of the means which may be employed by the rich for the real advantage of the poor. This story shows that sowing gold does not always produce a golden harvest; but that knowledge and virtue, when early implanted in the human breast, seldom fail to make ample returns of prudence and felicity.

  EMILIE DE COULANGES exposes a fault into which the good and generous are liable to fall.

  Great sacrifices and great benefits cannot frequently be made or conferred by private individuals; but, every day, kindness and attention to the common feelings of others is within the power, and may be the practice, of every age, and sex, and station. Common faults are reproved by all writers on morality; but there are errors and defects that require to be treated in a lighter manner, and that come, with propriety, within the province of essayists and o
f writers for the stage.

  R. L. EDGEWORTH. May, 1812.

  CHAPTER I.

  “To see the best, and yet the worse pursue.”

  “Is it possible,” exclaimed Vivian, “that you, Russell, my friend, my best friend, can tell me that this line is the motto of my character!—’ To see the best, and yet the worse pursue. — Then you must think me either a villain or a madman.”

  “No,” replied Russell, calmly; “I think you only weak.”

  “Weak — but you must think me an absolute fool.”

  “No, not a fool; the weakness of which I accuse you is not a weakness of the understanding. I find no fault either with the logical or the mathematical part of your understanding. It is not erroneous in either of the two great points in which Bacon says that most men’s minds be deficient in — the power of judging of consequences, or in the power of estimating the comparative value of objects.”

  “Well,” cried Vivian, impatiently, “but I don’t want to hear just now what Bacon says — but what you think. Tell me all the faults of my character.”

  “All! — unconscionable! — after the fatigue of this long day’s journey,” said Russell, laughing.

  These two friends were, at this time, travelling from Oxford to Vivian Hall (in —— shire), the superb seat of the Vivian family, to which Vivian was heir. Mr. Russell, though he was but a few years older than Vivian, had been his tutor at college; and by an uncommon transition, had, from his tutor, become his intimate friend.

  After a pause, Vivian resumed, “Now I think of it, Russell, you are to blame, if I have any faults. Don’t you say, that every thing is to be done by education? And are not you — though by much too young, and infinitely too handsome, for a philosopher — are not you my guide, philosopher, and friend?”

  “But I have had the honour to be your guide, philosopher, and friend, only for these three years,” said Russell. “I believe in the rational, but not in the magical, power of education. How could I do, or undo, in three years, the work of the preceding seventeen?”