Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  At the sound of the word generosity, Mrs. Somers became attentive; and Emilie was in hopes that she would recover her temper, and apologize to her mother: but at this moment a servant came to tell Mlle. de Coulanges that la comtesse wished to speak to her immediately. She found her mother in no humour to receive any apology, even if it had been offered: nothing could have hurt Mad. de Coulanges more than the imputation of being frivolous.

  “Frivole! — frivole! — moi frivole!” she repeated, as soon as Emilie entered the room. “My dear Emilie! I would not live with this Mrs. Somers for the rest of my days, were she to offer me the Pitt diamond, or the whole mines of Golconda! — Bon Dieu! — neither money nor diamonds, after all, can pay for the want of kindness and politeness! — There is Lady Littleton, who has never done us any favour, but that of showing us attention and sympathy; I protest I love her a million of times better than I can love Mrs. Somers, to whom we owe so much. It is in vain, Emilie, to remind me that she is our benefactress. I have said that over and over to myself, till I am tired, and till I have absolutely lost all sense of the meaning of the word. Bitterly do I repent having accepted of such obligations from this strange woman; for, as to the idea of regaining our estate, and paying my debt to her, I have given up all hopes of it. You see that we have no letters from France. I am quite tired out. I am convinced that we shall never have any good news from Paris. And I cannot, I will not, remain longer in this house. Would you have me submit to be treated with disrespect? Mrs. Somers has affronted me before M. de Brisac, in a manner that I cannot, that I ought not, to endure — that you, Emilie, ought not to wish me to endure. I positively will not live upon the bounty of Mrs. Somers. There is but one way of extricating ourselves. M. de Brisac — Why do you turn pale, child? — M. de Brisac has this morning made me a proposal for you, and the best thing we can possibly do is to accept of it.”

  “The best! — Pray don’t say the best!” cried Emilie. “Ah! dear mamma, for me the worst! Let me beseech you not to sacrifice my happiness for ever by such a marriage!”

  “And what other can you expect, Emilie, in your present circumstances?”

  “None,” said Emilie.

  “And here is an establishment — at least an independence for you — and you call it sacrificing your happiness for ever to accept of it!”

  “Yes,” said Emilie; “because it is offered to me by one whom I can neither love nor esteem. Dearest mamma! can you forget all his former meanness of conduct?”

  “His present behaviour makes amends for the past,” said Mad. de Coulanges, “and entitles him to my esteem and to yours, and that is sufficient. As to love — well educated girls do not marry for love.”

  “But they ought not to marry without feeling love, should they?” said Emilie.

  “Emilie! Emilie!” said her mother, “these are strange ideas that have come into the heads of young women since the Revolution. If you had remained safe in your convent, I should have heard none of this nonsense.”

  “Perhaps not, mamma,” said Emilie, with a deep sigh. “But should I have been happier?”

  “A fine question, truly! — How can I tell? But this I can ask you — How can any girl expect to be happy, who abandons the principles in which she was bred up, and forgets her duty to the mother by whom she has been educated — the mother, whose pride, whose delight, whose darling, she has ever been? Oh, Emilie! this is to me worse than all I have ever suffered!”

  Mad. de Coulanges burst into a passion of tears, and Emilie stood looking at her in silent despair.

  “Emilie, you cannot deceive me,” cried her mother; “you cannot pretend that it is simply your want of esteem for M. de Brisac which renders you thus obstinately averse to the match. You are in love with another person.”

  “Not in love,” said Emilie, in a faltering voice.

  “You cannot deceive me, Emilie — remember all you said to me about the stranger who was our fellow prisoner at the Abbaye. You cannot deny this, Emilie.”

  “Nor do I, dear mamma,” said Emilie. “I cannot deceive you, indeed I would not; and the best proof that I do not wish to deceive you — that I never attempted it — is, that I told you all I thought and felt about that stranger. I told you that his honourable, brave, and generous conduct towards us, when we were in distress, made an impression upon my heart — that I preferred him to any person I had ever seen — and I told you, my dear mamma, that—”

  “You told me too much,” interrupted Mad. de Coulanges; “more than I wished to hear — more than I will have repeated, Emilie. This is romance and nonsense. The man, whoever he was — and Heaven knows who he was! — behaved very well, and was a very agreeable person: but what then? are you ever likely to see him again? Do you even know his birth — his name — his country — or any thing about him, but that he was brave and generous? — So are fifty other men, five hundred, five thousand, five million, I hope. But is this any reason that you should refuse to marry M. de Brisac? Henry the Fourth was brave and generous two hundred years ago. That is as much to the purpose. You have as much chance of establishing yourself, if you wait for Henry the Fourth to come to life again, as if you wait for this nameless nobody of a hero — who is perhaps married, after all — who knows! — Really, Emilie, this is too absurd!”

  “But, dear mamma, I cannot marry one man and love another — love I did not quite mean to say. But whilst I prefer another, I cannot, in honour, marry M. de Brisac.”

  “Honour! — Love! — But in France, in my time, who ever heard of a young lady’s being in love before she was married? You astonish, you frighten, you shock me, child! Recollect yourself, Emilie! Misfortune may have deprived you of the vast possessions to which you are heiress; but do not, therefore, degrade yourself and me by forgetting your principles, and all that the representative of the house of Coulanges ought to remember. And as for myself — have I no claim upon your affections, Emilie? — have not I been a fond mother?”

  “Oh, yes!” said Emilie, melting into tears. “Of your kindness I think more than of any thing else! — more than of the whole house of Coulanges!”

  “Do not let me see you in tears, child!” said Mad. de Coulanges, moved by Emilie’s grief. “Your tears hurt my nerves more even than Mrs. Somers’ grossièreté. You must blame Mrs. Somers, not me, for all this — her temper drives me to it — I cannot live with her. We have no alternative. Emilie, my sweet child! make me happy! — I am miserable in this house. Hitherto you have ever been the best of daughters, and you shall find me the most indulgent of mothers. One whole month I will give you to change your mind, and recollect your duty. At the end of that time, I must see you Mad. de Brisac, and in a house of your own. — In the house of Mrs. Somers I will not, I cannot longer remain.”

  Poor Emilie was glad of the reprieve of one month. She retired from her mother’s presence in silent anguish, and hastened to her own apartment, that she might give way to her grief. There she found Mrs. Somers waiting for her, seated in an arm-chair, with an open letter in her hand.

  “Why do you start, Emilie? You look as if you were sorry to find me here,” cried Mrs. Somers—”IF THAT be the case, Mlle. de Coulanges—”

  “Oh, Mrs. Somers! do not begin to quarrel with me at this moment, for I shall not be able to bear it — I am sufficiently unhappy already!” said Emilie.

  “I am extremely sorry that any thing should make you unhappy, Emilie,” said Mrs. Somers; “but I think that you had never less reason than at this moment to suspect me of an intention of quarrelling with you — I came here with a very different design. May I know the cause of your distress?”

  Emilie hesitated, for she did not know how to explain the cause without imputing blame either to Mrs. Somers or to her mother — she could only say—”M. de Brisac—”

  “What!” cried Mrs. Somers, “your mother wants you to marry him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Immediately?”

  “In one month.”

  “And you have cons
ented?”

  “No — But—”

  “But — Good Heavens! Emilie, what weakness of mind there is in that but—”

  “Is it weakness of mind to fear to disobey my mother — to dread to offend her for ever — to render her unhappy — and to deprive her, perhaps, even of the means of subsistence?”

  “The means of subsistence! my dear. This phrase, you know, can only be a figure of rhetoric,” said Mrs. Somers. “Your refusing M. de Brisac cannot deprive your mother of the means of subsistence. In the first place, she expects to recover her property in France.”

  “No,” said Emilie; “she has given up these hopes — you have persuaded her that they are vain.”

  “Indeed I think them so. But still you must know, my dear, that your mother can never be in want of the means of subsistence, nor any of the conveniences, and, I may add, luxuries of life, whilst I am alive.”

  Emilie sighed; and when Mrs. Somers urged her more closely, she said, “Mamma has not, till lately, been accustomed to live on the bounty of others; the sense of dependence produces many painful feelings, and renders people more susceptible than perhaps they would be, were they on terms of equality.”

  “To what does all this tend, my dear?” interrupted Mrs. Somers. “Is Mad. de Coulanges offended with me? — Is she tired of living with me? — Does she wish to quit my house? — And where does she intend to go? — Oh! that is a question that I need not ask! — Yes, yes — I have long foreseen it — you have arranged it admirably — you go to Lady Littleton, I presume?”

  “Oh, no!”

  “To M. de Brisac?”

  “Mamma wishes to go—”

  “Then to M. de Brisac, for Heaven’s sake, let her go,” cried Mrs. Somers, bursting into a fit of laughter, which astonished Emilie beyond measure. “To M. de Brisac let her go—’tis the best thing she can possibly do, my dear; and seriously to tell you the truth, I have always thought it would be an excellent match. Since she is so much prepossessed in his favour, can she do better than marry him? and, as he is so much attached to the house of Coulanges, when he cannot have the daughter, can he do better than marry the mother? — Your mother does not look too old for him, when she is well rouged; and I am sure, if she heard me say so, she would forgive me all the rest — butterfly, frivolity, and all inclusive. Permit me, Emilie, to laugh.”

  “I cannot permit any body to laugh at mamma,” said Emilie; “and Mrs. Somers is the last person whom I should have supposed would have been inclined to laugh, when I told her that I was really unhappy.”

  “My dear Emilie, I forgive you for being angry, because I never saw you angry before; and that is more than you can say for me. You do me justice, however, by supposing that I should be the last person to laugh when you are in woe, unless I thought — unless I was sure — that I could remove the cause, and make you completely happy.”

  “That, I fear, is impossible,” said Emilie: “for mamma’s pride and her feelings have been so much hurt, that I do not think any apology would now calm her mind.”

  “Apology! — I am not in the least inclined to make any. Can I tell Mad. de Coulanges that I do not think her frivolous? — Impossible, indeed, my dear! I will do any thing else to oblige you. But I have as much pride, and as much feeling, in my own way, as any of the house of Coulanges: and if, after all I have done, madame can quarrel with me about a butterfly, I must say, not only that she is the most frivolous, but the most ungrateful woman upon earth; and, as she desires to quit my house, far from attempting to detain her, I can only wish that she may accomplish her purpose as soon as possible — as soon as it may suit her own convenience. As for you, Emilie, I do not suspect you of the ingratitude of wishing to leave me — I can make distinctions, even when I have most reason to be angry. I do not blame you, my dear — I do not ever ask you to blame your mother. I respect your filial piety — I am sure you must think her to blame, but I do not desire you to say so. Could any thing be more barbarously selfish than the plan of marrying you to this M. de Brisac, that she might have an establishment more to her taste than my house has been able to afford?”

  Emilie attempted, but in vain, to say a few words for her mother. Mrs. Somers ran on with her own thoughts.

  “And at what a time, at what a cruel time for me, did Mad. de Coulanges choose to express her desire to leave my house — at the moment when my whole soul was intent upon a scheme for the happiness of her daughter! Yes, Emilie, for your happiness! — and, my dear, your mother’s conduct shall change nothing in my views. You I have always found uniformly kind, gentle, grateful — I will say no more — I have found in you, Emilie, real magnanimity. I have tried your temper much — sometimes too much — but I have always found you proof against these petty trials. Your character is suited to mine. I love you, as if you were my daughter, and I wish you to be my daughter. — Now you know my whole mind, Emilie. My son — my eldest son, I should with emphasis say, if I were speaking to Mad. de Coulanges — will be here in a few days: read this letter. How happy I shall be if you find him — or if you will make him — such as you can entirely approve and love! You will have power over him — your influence will do what his mother’s never could accomplish. But whatever reasons I may have to complain of him, this is not the time to state them — you will connect him with me. At all events, he is a man of honour and a gentleman; and as he is not, thank Heaven! under the debasing necessity of considering fortune in the choice of a wife, he is, at least in this respect, worthy of my dear and high-minded Emilie.”

  Mrs. Somers paused, and fixed her eyes eagerly on Emilie, impatient for her answer, and already half provoked by not seeing the sudden transition of countenance which she had pictured in her imagination. With a mixture of dignity and affectionate gratitude in her manner, Emilie was beginning to thank Mrs. Somers for the generous kindness of her intention; but this susceptible lady interrupted her, and exclaimed, “Spare me your thanks, Mlle. de Coulanges, and tell me at once what is passing in your mind; for something very extraordinary is certainly passing there, which I cannot comprehend. Surely you cannot for a moment imagine that your mother will insist upon your now accepting of M. de Brisac; or, if she does, surely you would not have the weakness to yield. I must have some proof of strength of mind from my friends. You must judge for yourself, Emilie, or you are not the person I take you for. You will have full opportunity of judging in a few days. Will you promise me that you will decide entirely for yourself, and that you will keep your mind unbiassed? Will you promise me this? And will you speak, at all events, my dear, that I may understand you?”

  Emilie, who saw that even before she spoke Mrs. Somers was on the brink of anger, trembled at the idea of confessing the truth — that her heart was already biassed in favour of another: she had, however, the courage to explain to her all that passed in her mind. Mrs. Somers heard her with inexpressible disappointment. She was silent for some minutes. At last she said, in a voice of constrained passion, “Mlle. de Coulanges, I have only one question to ask of you — you will reflect before you answer it, because on your reply depends the continuance or utter dissolution of our friendship — do you, or do you not, think proper to refuse my son before you have seen him?”

  “Before I have seen Mr. Somers, it surely can be no affront to you or to him,” said Emilie, “to decline an offer that I cannot accept, especially when I give as my reason, that my mind is prepossessed in favour of another. With that prepossession, I cannot unite myself to your son: I can only express to you my gratitude — my most sincere gratitude — for your kind and generous intentions, and my hopes that he will find, amongst his own countrywomen, one more suited to him than I can be. His fortune is far above—”

  “Say no more, I beg, Mlle. de Coulanges — I asked only for a simple answer to a plain question. You refuse my son — you refuse to be my daughter. I am satisfied — perfectly satisfied. I suppose you have arranged to go to Lady Littleton’s. I heartily hope that she may be able to make her house more agreea
ble to you than I could render mine. Shake hands, Mlle. de Coulanges. You have my best wishes for your health and happiness — Here we part.”

  “Oh! do not let us part in anger!” said Emilie.

  “In anger! — not in the least — I never was cooler in my life. You have completely cooled me — you have shown me the folly of that warmth of friendship which can meet with no return.”

  “Would it be a suitable return for your warm friendship to deceive your son?” said Emilie.

  “To deceive me, I think still less suitable!” cried Mrs. Somers.

  “And how have I deceived you?”

  “You know best. Why was I kept in ignorance till the last moment? Why did you never confide your thoughts to me, Emilie? Why did you never till now say one word to me of this strange attachment?”

  “There was no necessity for speaking till now,” said Emilie. “It is a subject I never named to any one except to mamma — a subject on which I did not think it right to speak to any one but to a parent.”

  “Your notions of right and wrong, ma’am, differ widely from mine — we are not fit to live together. I have no idea of a friend’s concealing any thing from me: without entire confidence, there is no friendship — at least no friendship with me. Pray no tears. I am not fond of scenes. Nobody ever is that feels much. — Adieu! — Adieu!”

  Mrs. Somers hurried out of the room, repeating, “I’ll write directly — this instant — to Lady Littleton. Mad. de Coulanges shall not be kept prisoner in my house.” Emilie stood motionless.

  In a few minutes Mrs. Somers returned with an unfolded letter, which she put into Emilie’s passive hand. “Read it, ma’am, I beg — read it. I do every thing openly — every thing handsomely, I hope — whatever may be my faults.”

  The letter was written with a rapid hand, which was scarcely legible, especially to a foreigner. Emilie, with her eyes full of tears, had no chance of deciphering it.