Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Subsistence! Lord bless me, what a word! fitter for a pauper than a nobleman — subsistence! Then, if you are going to look after your father’s property, I hope you will make the agents do their duty, and send us remittances. And pray how long do you mean to stay?”

  “Till I am of age, madam, if you have no objection. I will spend the ensuing months in travelling in Ireland; and I will return here by the time I am of age, unless you and my father should, before that time, be in Ireland.”

  “Not the least chance of that, if I can prevent it, I promise you,” said Lady Clonbrony.

  Lord Colambre and Miss Nugent sighed.

  “And I am sure I shall take it very unkindly of you, Colambre, if you go and turn out a partisan for Ireland, after all, like Grace Nugent.”

  “A partisan! no; — I hope not a partisan, but a friend,” said Miss Nugent.

  “Nonsense, child! — I hate to hear people, women especially, and young ladies particularly, talk of being friends to this country or that country. What can they know about countries? Better think of being friends to themselves, and friends to their friends.”

  “I was wrong,” said Miss Nugent, “to call myself a friend to Ireland; I meant to say, that Ireland had been a friend to me: that I found Irish friends, when I had no others; an Irish home, when I had no other; that my earliest and happiest years, under your kind care, had been spent there; and I can never forget that, my dear aunt — I hope you do not wish that I should.”

  “Heaven forbid, my sweet Grace!” said Lady Clonbrony, touched by her voice and manner; “Heaven forbid! I don’t wish you to do or be any thing but what you are; for I am convinced there’s nothing I could ask you would not do for me: and, I can tell you, there’s few things you could ask, love, I would not do for you.”

  A wish was instantly expressed in the eyes of her niece.

  Lady Clonbrony, though not usually quick at interpreting the wishes of others, understood and answered before she ventured to make her request in words.

  “Ask any thing but that, Grace — Return to Clonbrony, while I am able to live in London? That I never can or will do for you or any body!” looking at her son in all the pride of obstinacy: “so there is an end of the matter. Go you where you please, Colambre; and I shall stay where I please: — I suppose, as your mother, I have a right to say this much?”

  Her son, with the utmost respect, assured her that he had no design to infringe upon her undoubted liberty of judging for herself; that he had never interfered, except so far as to tell her circumstances of her affairs with which she seemed to be totally unacquainted, and of which it might he dangerous to her to continue in ignorance.

  “Don’t talk to me about affairs,” cried she, drawing her hand away from her son. “Talk to my lord, or my lord’s agents, since you are going to Ireland about business — I know nothing about business; but this I know, I shall stay in England, and be in London, every season, as long as I can afford it; and when I cannot afford to live here, I hope I shall not live any where. That’s my notion of life; and that’s my determination, once for all; for, if none of the rest of the Clonbrony family have any, I thank Heaven I have some spirit.” Saying this, in her most stately manner she walked out of the room. Lord Colambre instantly followed her: for after the resolution and the promise he had made, he did not dare to trust himself at this moment with Miss Nugent.

  There was to be a concert this night at Lady Clonbrony’s, at which Mrs. and Miss Broadhurst were of course expected. That they might not he quite unprepared for the event of her son’s going to Ireland, Lady Clonbrony wrote a note to Mrs. Broadhurst, begging her to come half an hour earlier than the time mentioned in the cards, “that she might talk over something particular that had just occurred.”

  What passed at this cabinet council, as it seems to have had no immediate influence on affairs, we need not record. Suffice it to observe, that a great deal was said, and nothing done. Miss Broadhurst, however, was not a young lady who could easily be deceived, even where her passions were concerned. The moment her mother told her of Lord Colambre’s intended departure, she saw the whole truth. She had a strong mind, capable of looking steadily at truth. Surrounded as she had been from her childhood by every means of self-indulgence which wealth and flattery could bestow, she had discovered early what few persons in her situation discover till late in life, that selfish gratifications may render us incapable of other happiness, but can never, of themselves, make us happy. Despising flatterers, she had determined to make herself friends — to make them in the only possible way — by deserving them. Her father realized his immense fortune by the power and habit of constant, bold, and just calculation. The power and habit which she had learned from him she applied on a far larger scale: with him it was confined to speculations for the acquisition of money; with her, it extended to the attainment of happiness. He was calculating and mercenary: she was estimative and generous.

  Miss Nugent was dressing for the concert, or rather was sitting half-dressed before her glass, reflecting, when Miss Broadhurst came into her room. Miss Nugent immediately sent her maid out of the room.

  “Grace,” said Miss Broadhurst, looking at Grace with an air of open deliberate composure, “you and I are thinking of the same thing — of the same person.”

  “Yes, of Lord Colambre,” said Miss Nugent, ingenuously and sorrowfully.

  “Then I can put your mind at ease, at once, my dear friend, by assuring you that I shall think of him no more. That I have thought of him, I do not deny — I have thought, that if, notwithstanding the difference in our ages and other differences, he had preferred me, I should have preferred him to any person who has ever yet addressed me. On our first acquaintance, I clearly saw that he was not disposed to pay court to my fortune; and I had also then coolness of judgment sufficient to perceive that it was not probable he should fall in love with my person. But I was too proud in my humility, too strong in my honesty, too brave, too ignorant; in short, I knew nothing of the matter. We are all of us, more or less, subject to the delusions of vanity, or hope, or love — I — even I! — who thought myself so clear-sighted, did not know how, with one flutter of his wings, Cupid can set the whole atmosphere in motion; change the proportions, size, colour, value, of every object; lead us into a mirage, and leave us in a dismal desert.”

  “My dearest friend!” said Miss Nugent in a tone of true sympathy.

  “But none but a coward or a fool would sit down in the desert and weep, instead of trying to make his way back before the storm rises, obliterates the track, and overwhelms every thing. Poetry apart, my dear Grace, you may be assured that I shall think no more of Lord Colambre.”

  “I believe you are right. But I am sorry, very sorry, it must be so.”

  “Oh, spare me your sorrow!”

  “My sorrow is for Lord Colambre,” said Miss Nugent. “Where will he find such a wife? — Not in Miss Berryl, I am sure, pretty as she is; a mere fine lady! — Is it possible that Lord Colambre should prefer such a girl — Lord Colambre!”

  Miss Broadhurst looked at her friend as she spoke, and saw truth in her eyes; saw that she had no suspicion that she was herself the person beloved.

  “Tell me, Grace, are you sorry that Lord Colambre is going away?”

  “No, I am glad. I was sorry when I first heard it; but now I am glad, very glad: it may save him from a marriage unworthy of him, restore him to himself, and reserve him for — , the only woman I ever saw who is suited to him, who is equal to him, who would value and love him as he deserves to be valued and loved.”

  “Stop, my dear; if you mean me, I am not, and I never can be, that woman. Therefore, as you are my friend, and wish my happiness, as I sincerely believe you do, never, I conjure you, present such an idea before my mind again — it is out of my mind, I hope, for ever. It is important to me that you should know and believe this. At least I will preserve my friends. Now let this subject never be mentioned or alluded to again between us, my dear. We have s
ubjects enough of conversation; we need not have recourse to pernicious sentimental gossipings. There is great difference between wanting a confidante, and treating a friend with confidence. My confidence you possess; all that ought, all that is to be known of my mind, you know, and — Now I will leave you in peace to dress for the concert.”

  “Oh, don’t go! you don’t interrupt me. I shall be dressed in a few minutes; stay with me, and you may be assured, that neither now, nor at any other time, shall I ever speak to you on the subject you desire me to avoid. I entirely agree with you about confidantes and sentimental gossipings: I love you for not loving them.”

  A loud knock at the door announced the arrival of company.

  “Think no more of love, but as much as you please of admiration — dress yourself as fast as you can,” said Miss Broadhurst. “Dress, dress, is the order of the day.”

  “Order of the day and order of the night, and all for people I don’t care for in the least,” said Grace. “So life passes!”

  “Dear me, Miss Nugent,” cried Petito, Lady Clonbrony’s woman, coming in with a face of alarm, “not dressed yet! My lady is gone down, and Mrs. Broadhurst and my Lady Pococke’s come, and the Honourable Mrs. Trembleham; and signor, the Italian singing gentleman, has been walking up and down the apartments there by himself, disconsolate, this half hour. Oh, merciful! Miss Nugent, if you could stand still for one single particle of a second. So then I thought of stepping in to Miss Nugent; for the young ladies are talking so fast, says I to myself, at the door, they will never know how time goes, unless I give ’em a hint. But now my lady is below, there’s no need, to be sure, to be nervous, so we may take the thing quietly, without being in a flustrum. Dear ladies, is not this now a very sudden motion of our young lord’s for Ireland? Lud a mercy! Miss Nugent, I’m sure your motions is sudden enough; and your dress behind is all, I’m sure, I can’t tell how.”

  “Oh, never mind,” said the young lady, escaping from her; “it will do very well, thank you, Petito.”

  “It will do very well, never mind,” repeated Petito, muttering to herself, as she looked after the ladies, whilst they ran down stairs. “I can’t abide to dress any young lady who says never mind, and it will do very well. That, and her never talking to one confidantially, or trusting one with the least bit of her secrets, is the thing I can’t put up with from Miss Nugent; and Miss Broadhurst holding the pins to me, as much as to say, do your business, Petito, and don’t talk. — Now, that’s so impertinent, as if one wasn’t the same flesh and blood, and had not as good a right to talk of every thing, and hear of every thing, as themselves. And Mrs. Broadhurst, too, cabinet-councilling with my lady, and pursing up her city mouth, when I come in, and turning off the discourse to snuff, forsooth; as if I was an ignoramus, to think they closeted themselves to talk of snuff. Now, I think a lady of quality’s woman has as good a right to be trusted with her lady’s secrets as with her jewels; and if my Lady Clonbrony was a real lady of quality, she’d know that, and consider the one as much my paraphernalia as the other. So I shall tell my lady to-night, as I always do when she vexes me, that I never lived in an Irish family before, and don’t know the ways of it — then she’ll tell me she was born in Hoxfordshire — then I shall say, with my saucy look, ‘Oh, was you, my lady — I always forget that you was an Englishwoman:’ then may be she’ll say, ‘Forget! you forget yourself strangely, Petito.’ Then I shall say, with a great deal of dignity, ‘If your ladyship thinks so, my lady, I’d better go.’ And I’d desire no better than that she would take me at my word; for my Lady Dashfort’s is a much better place, I’m told, and she’s dying to have me, I know.”

  And having formed this resolution, Petito concluded her apparently interminable soliloquy, and went with my lord’s gentleman into the antechamber, to hear the concert, and give her judgment on every thing: as she peeped in through the vista of heads into the Apollo saloon — for to-night the Alhambra was transformed into the Apollo saloon — she saw that whilst the company, rank behind rank, in close semicircles, had crowded round the performers to hear a favourite singer, Miss Broadhurst and Lord Colambre were standing in the outer semicircle, talking to one another earnestly. Now would Petito have given up her reversionary chance of the three nearly new gowns she expected from Lady Clonbrony, in case she stayed; or, in case she went, the reversionary chance of any dress of Lady Dashfort’s, except her scarlet velvet, merely to hear what Miss Broadhurst and Lord Colambre were saying. Alas! she could only see their lips move; and of what they were talking, whether of music or love, and whether the match was to be on or off, she could only conjecture. But the diplomatic style having now descended to waiting-maids, Mrs. Petito talked to her friends in the antechamber with as mysterious and consequential an air and tone as a chargé d’affaires, or as the lady of a chargé d’affaires, could have assumed. She spoke of her private belief; of the impression left upon her mind; and her confidential reasons for thinking as she did; of her “having had it from the fountain’s head;” and of “her fear of any committal of her authorities.”

  Notwithstanding all these authorities, Lord Colambre left London next day, and pursued his way to Ireland, determined that he would see and judge of that country for himself, and decide whether his mother’s dislike to residing there was founded on caprice or on reasonable causes.

  In the mean time, it was reported in London that his lordship was gone to Ireland to make out the title to some estate, which would be necessary for his marriage settlement with the great heiress, Miss Broadhurst. Whether Mrs. Petito or Sir Terence O’Fay had the greater share in raising and spreading this report, it would be difficult to determine; but it is certain, however or by whomsoever raised, it was most useful to Lord Clonbrony, by keeping his creditors quiet.

  CHAPTER VI.

  The tide did not permit the packet to reach the Pigeon-house, and the impatient Lord Colambre stepped into a boat, and was rowed across the Bay of Dublin. It was a fine summer morning. The sun shone bright on the Wicklow mountains. He admired, he exulted in the beauty of the prospect; and all the early associations of his childhood, and the patriotic hopes of his riper years, swelled his heart as he approached the shores of his native land. But scarcely had he touched his mother earth, when the whole course of his ideas was changed; and if his heart swelled, it swelled no more with pleasurable sensations, for instantly he found himself surrounded and attacked by a swarm of beggars and harpies, with strange figures and stranger tones; some craving his charity, some snatching away his luggage, and at the same time bidding him “never trouble himself,” and “never fear.” A scramble in the boat and on shore for bags and parcels began, and an amphibious fight betwixt men, who had one foot on sea and one on land, was seen; and long and loud the battle of trunks and portmanteaus raged! The vanquished departed, clinching their empty hands at their opponents, and swearing inextinguishable hatred; while the smiling victors stood at ease, each grasping his booty — bag, basket, parcel, or portmanteau: “And, your honour, where will these go? — Where will we carry ’em all to for your honour?” was now the question. Without waiting for an answer, most of the goods were carried at the discretion of the porters to the custom-house, where, to his lordship’s astonishment, after this scene of confusion, he found that he had lost nothing but his patience; all his goods were safe, and a few tinpennies made his officious porters happy men and boys; blessings were showered upon his honour, and he was left in peace at an excellent hotel, in —— street, Dublin. He rested, refreshed himself, recovered his good-humour, and walked into the coffee-house, where he found several officers, English, Irish, and Scotch. One English officer, a very gentlemanlike, sensible-looking man, of middle age, was sitting reading a little pamphlet, when Lord Colambre entered: he looked up from time to time, and in a few minutes rose and joined the conversation; it turned upon the beauties and defects of the city of Dublin. Sir James Brooke (for that was the name of the gentleman) showed one of his brother officers the book which he had been r
eading, observing that, in his opinion, it contained one of the best views of Dublin which he had ever seen, evidently drawn by the hand of a master, though in a slight, playful, and ironical style: it was “An intercepted Letter from China.” The conversation extended from Dublin to various parts of Ireland, with all which Sir James Brooke showed that he was well acquainted. Observing that this conversation was particularly interesting to Lord Colambre, and quickly perceiving that he was speaking to one not ignorant of books, Sir James spoke of different representations and misrepresentations of Ireland. In answer to Lord Colambre’s inquiries, he named the works which had afforded him the most satisfaction; and with discriminative, not superficial celerity, touched on all ancient and modern authors on this subject, from Spenser and Davies to Young and Beaufort. Lord Colambre became anxious to cultivate the acquaintance of a gentleman who appeared so able and willing to afford him information. Sir James Brooke, on his part, was flattered by this eagerness of attention, and pleased by our hero’s manners and conversation: so that, to their mutual satisfaction, they spent much of their time together whilst they were at this hotel; and meeting frequently in society in Dublin, their acquaintance every day increased and grew into intimacy; an intimacy which was highly advantageous to Lord Colambre’s views of obtaining a just idea of the state of manners in Ireland. Sir James Brooke had at different periods been quartered in various parts of the country — had resided long enough in each to become familiar with the people, and had varied his residence sufficiently to form comparisons between different counties, their habits, and characteristics. Hence he had it in his power to direct the attention of our young observer at once to the points most worthy of his examination, and to save him from the common error of travellers — the deducing general conclusions from a few particular cases, or arguing from exceptions, as if they were rules. Lord Colambre, from his family connexions, had of course immediate introduction into the best society in Dublin, or rather into all the good society of Dublin. In Dublin there is positively good company, and positively bad; but not, as in London, many degrees of comparison: not innumerable luminaries of the polite world, moving in different orbits of fashion; but all the bright planets of note and name move and revolve in the same narrow limits. Lord Colambre did not find that either his father’s or his mother’s representations of society resembled the reality which he now beheld. Lady Clonbrony had, in terms of detestation, described Dublin such as it appeared to her soon after the Union; Lord Clonbrony had painted it with convivial enthusiasm, such as he saw it long and long before the Union, when first he drank claret at the fashionable clubs. This picture, unchanged in his memory, and unchangeable by his imagination, had remained, and ever would remain, the same. The hospitality of which the father boasted, the son found in all its warmth, but meliorated and refined; less convivial, more social; the fashion of hospitality had improved. To make the stranger eat or drink to excess, to set before him old wine and old plate, was no longer the sum of good breeding. The guest now escaped the pomp of grand entertainments; was allowed to enjoy ease and conversation, and to taste some of that feast of reason and that flow of soul so often talked of, and so seldom enjoyed. Lord Colambre found a spirit of improvement, a desire for knowledge, and a taste for science and literature, in most companies, particularly among gentlemen belonging to the Irish bar: nor did he in Dublin society see any of that confusion of ranks or predominance of vulgarity, of which his mother had complained. Lady Clonbrony had assured him, that, the last time she had been at the drawing-room at the Castle, a lady, whom she afterwards found to be a grocer’s wife, had turned angrily when her ladyship had accidentally trodden on her train, and had exclaimed with a strong brogue, “I’ll thank you, ma’am, for the rest of my tail.”