Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Do not hurry yourself, ma’am,” said Mrs. Somers. “I will leave you my letter to show to madame la comtesse, and then you will be so good as to despatch it. — Mlle. de Coulanges,” cried Mrs. Somers, “you will be so obliging as to refrain from mentioning to the countess the foolish offer that I made you in my son’s name this morning. There is no necessity for mortifying my pride any farther — a refusal from you is quite decisive — so pray let there be no consultations. As to the rest, the blame of our disagreement will of course be thrown upon me.”

  As Emilie moved towards the door, Mrs. Somers said, “Mlle. de Coulanges, I beg pardon for calling you back: but should you ever think of this business or of me, hereafter, you will do me the justice to remember that I made the proposal to you at a time when I was under the firm belief that you would never recover an inch of your estates in France.”

  “And you, dear Mrs. Somers, if you should ever think of me hereafter,” said Emilie, “will, I hope, remember that my answer was given under the same belief.”

  With a look which seemed to refuse assent, Mrs. Somers continued, “I am as well aware, ma’am, as you, or Mad. de Coulanges, can be, that if you should recover your hereditary property, the heiress of the house of Coulanges would be a person to whom my son should not presume to aspire.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Somers! Is not this cruel mockery — undeserved by me — unworthy of you?”

  “Mockery! — Ma’am, it is not three days since your mother was so positive in her expectations of being in the Hotel de Coulanges before next winter, that she was almost in fits because I ventured to differ on this point from her and Lady Littleton — Lady Littleton’s judgment is much better than mine, and has, of course, had its weight — very justly — But I insist upon your understanding clearly that it had no weight with me in this affair. Whatever you may imagine, I never thought of the Coulanges estate.”

  “Believe me, I never could have imagined that you did. If I could suspect Mrs. Somers of interested motives,” said Emilie, with emotion so great that she could scarcely articulate the words, “I must be an unfeeling — an ungrateful idiot!”

  “No, not an idiot, Mlle. de Coulanges — nobody can mistake you for an idiot: but, as I was going to say, if you inquire, Lady Littleton can tell you that I was absolutely provoked when I first heard you had a chance of recovering your property — you may smile, ma’am, but it is perfectly true. I own I might have been more prudent; but prudence, in affairs of the heart, is not one of my virtues: I own, however, it would have been more prudent to have refrained from making this proposal, till you had received a positive answer from France.”

  “And why?” said Emilie. “Whatever that answer might have been, surely you must be certain that it would not have made any alteration in my conduct. — You are silent, Mrs. Somers! — You wound me to the heart! — Oh! do me justice! — Justice is all I ask.”

  “I think that I do you justice — full justice — Mlle. de Coulanges; and if it wounds you to the heart, I am sorry for it; but that is not my fault.”

  Emilie’s countenance suddenly changed from the expression of supplicating tenderness to haughty indignation. “You doubt my integrity!” she exclaimed: “then, indeed, Mrs. Somers, it is best that we should part!”

  Mlle. de Coulanges disappeared, and Mrs. Somers shut herself up in her room, where she walked backwards and forwards for above an hour, then threw herself upon a sofa, and remained nearly another hour, till Mrs. Masham came to say that it was time to dress for dinner. She then started up, saying aloud, “I will think no more of these ungrateful people.”

  “They are gone, ma’am,” said Mrs. Masham—”gone, and gave no vails! — which I don’t think on, upon my own account, God knows! for if millions were offered me, in pocket-pieces, I would not touch one from any soul that comes to the house, having enough, and more than enough, from my own generous lady, who is the only person I stoop to receive from with pleasure. But there are others in the house who are accustomed to vails, and, after staying so long, it was a little ungenteel to go without so much as offering any one any thing — and to go in such a hurry and huff — taking only a French leave, after all! I must acknowledge with you, ma’am, that they are the ungratefullest people that ever were seen in England. Why, ma’am, I went backwards and forwards often enough into their apartments, to try to make out the cause of the packings and messages to the washer-woman, that I might inform you, but nothing transpired; yet I am certain, in their hearts, they are more black and ungrateful than any that ever were born; for there! — at the last moment, when even, for old acquaintance sake, the tears stood in my eyes, there was Miss Emilie, sitting as composedly as a judge, painting a butterfly’s wing on some of her Frenchifications! Her eyes were red, to do her justice; but whether with painting or crying, I can’t pretend to be certain. But as to Mad. de Coulanges, I can answer for her that the sole thing in nature she thought of, in leaving this house, was the bad step of the hackney-coach.”

  “Hackney-coach!” cried Mrs. Somers, with surprise. “Did they go away in a hackney-coach?”

  “Yes, ma’am, much against the countess’ stomach, I am sure: I only wish you had seen the face she made when the glass would not come up.”

  “But why did not they take my carriage, or wait for Lady Littleton’s? They were, it seems, in a violent hurry to be gone,” said Mrs. Somers.

  “So it seems, indeed, ma’am — no better proof of their being the most ungratefullest people in the universe: but so it is, by all accounts, with all of their nation — the French having no constant hearts for any thing but singing, and dancing, and dressing, and making merry-andrews of themselves. Indeed, I own, till to-day, I thought Miss Emilie had less of the merry-andrew nature than any of her country; but the butterfly has satisfied me that there is no striving against climate and natural character, which conquer gratitude and every thing else.”

  Mrs. Somers sighed, and told Masham that she had said enough upon this disagreeable subject. At dinner the subject was renewed by many visitors, who, as soon as they found that Mad. and Mlle. de Coulanges had left Mrs. Somers, began to find innumerable faults with the French in general, and with the countess and her daughter in particular. On the chapter of gratitude they were most severe; and Mrs. Somers was universally pitied for having so much generosity, and blamed for having had so much patience. Every body declared that they foresaw how she would be treated; and the exclamations of wonder at Lady Littleton’s inviting to her house those who had behaved so ill to her friend were unceasing. Mrs. Somers all the time denied that she had any cause of complaint against either Mad. de Coulanges or her daughter; but the company judiciously trusted more to her looks than her words. Every thing was said or hinted that could exasperate her against her former favourites: for Mad. de Coulanges had made many enemies by engrossing an unreasonable share in the conversation; and Emilie by attracting too great a portion of attention by her beauty and engaging manners. Malice often overshoots the mark: Mrs. Somers was at first glad to hear the objects of her indignation abused; but at last she began to think the profusion of blame greater than was merited, and when she retired to rest at night, and when Masham began with “Oh, ma’am! do you know that Mlle. de Coulanges—” Mrs. Somers interrupted her, and said, “Masham, I desire to hear nothing more about Mlle. de Coulanges: I have heard her and her mother abused, without ceasing, these two hours, and that is enough.”

  “Lord! ma’am, I was not going to abuse them — God forbid! I was just going to tell you,” cried Masham, “that never was any thing so mistaken as all I said before dinner. Just now, ma’am, when I went into the little dressing-room, within Mad. de Coulanges’ room, and happened to open the wardrobe, I was quite struck back with shame at my own unjustice: there, ma’am, poor Miss Emilie left something — and out of her best things! — to every maid-servant in the house; all directed in her own hand, and with a good word for each; and this ring for me, which she is kind enough to say is of no value but to put me in
mind of all the attentions I have shown her and her mother — which, I am sure, were scarcely worth noticing, especially at such a time when she had enough to do, and her heart full, no doubt, poor soul! — There are her little paintings and embroideries, and pretty things, that she did when she was confined with her sprain, all laid out in order—’tis my astonishment how she found time! — and directed to her friends in London, as keep-sakes: — and the very butterfly that I was so angry with her for staying to finish, is on something for you, ma’am; and here’s a packet that was with it, and that nobody saw till this minute.”

  “Give it me!” cried Mrs. Somers. She tore it open, and found, in the first place, the pocketbook, full of bank notes, which she had given Mad. de Coulanges, with a few polite but haughty lines from the countess, saying that only twenty guineas had been used, which she hoped, at some future period, to be able to repay. Then came a note from Emilie, in which Mrs. Somers found her own letter to Lady Littleton. Emilie expressed herself as follows.

  “Many thanks for the enclosed, but we have determined not to go to Lady Littleton’s: at least we will take care not to be the cause of quarrel between friends to whom we are so much obliged. — No, dear Mrs. Somers! we do not part in anger. Excuse me, if the last words I said to you were hasty — they were forced from me by a moment of passion — but it is past: all your generosity, all your kindness, the recollection of all that you have done, all that you have wished for my happiness, rush upon my mind; and every other thought, and every other feeling, is forgotten. Would to Heaven that I could express to you my gratitude by actions! — but words, alas! are all that I have in my power — and where shall I find words that can reach your heart? I had better be silent, and trust to time and to you. I know your generous temper — you will soon blame yourself for having judged too severely of Emilie. But do not reproach yourself — do not let this give you a moment’s uneasiness: the clouds pass away, and the blue sky remains. Think only — as I ever shall — of your goodness to mamma and to me. Adieu!

  “EMILIE DE COULANGES.”

  Mrs. Somers was much affected by this letter, and by the information that Emilie and her mother had declined taking refuge with Lady Littleton, lest they should occasion jealousies between her and her friend. Generous people are, of all others, the most touched by generosity of sentiment or of action. Mrs. Somers went to bed, enraged against herself — but it was now too late.

  In the mean time, Emilie and her mother were in an obscure lodging, at a haberdasher’s near Golden Square. The pride of Mad. de Coulanges, at first, supported her even beyond her daughter’s expectations; she uttered no complaints, but frequently repeated, “Mais nous sommes bien ici, très bien — we cannot expect to have things as well as at the Hotel de Coulanges.” In a short time she was threatened with fits of her vapeurs noirs; but Emilie, with the assistance of her whole store of French songs, a bird-organ, a lap-dog, and a squirrel, belonging to the girl of the house, contrived to avert the danger for the present — as to the future, she trembled to think of it. M. de Brisac seemed to be continually in her mother’s thoughts; and whatever occurred, or whatever was the subject of conversation, Mad. de Coulanges always found means to end with “à propos de M. de Brisac.” Faithful to her promise, however, which Emilie, with the utmost delicacy, recalled to her mind, she declared that she would not give M. de Brisac an answer till the end of the month, which she had allowed her daughter for reflection, and that, till that period, she would not even let him know where they were to be found. Emilie thought that the time went very fast, and her mother evidently rejoiced at the idea that the month would soon be at an end. Emilie endeavoured, with all her skill, to demonstrate to her mother that it would be possible to support themselves, by her industry and ingenuity, without this marriage; and to this, Mad. de Coulanges at first replied, “Try, and you will soon be tired, child.” Emilie’s spirits rose on receiving this permission: she began by copying music for a music-shop in the neighbourhood; and her mother saw, with astonishment, that she persevered in her design, and that no fatigue or discouraging circumstances could vanquish her resolution.

  “Good Heavens! my child,” said she, “you will wear yourself to a skeleton with copying music, and with painting, and embroidery, besides stooping so many hours over that tambour frame. My dear, how can you bear all this?”

  “How! — Oh! dear mamma!” said Emilie, “there is no great difficulty in all this to me — the difficulty, the impossibility would be, to live happily with a man I despise.”

  “I wish,” cried Mad. de Coulanges, “I wish to all the saints, that that hero of yours, that fellow-prisoner of ours at the Abbaye, with his humanity, and his generosity, and his courage, and all his fine qualities, had kept out of your way, Emilie: I wish he were fairly at the bottom of the Black Sea.”

  “But you forget that he was the means of obtaining your liberty, mamma.”

  “I wish I could forget it — I am always doomed to be obliged to those whom I cannot love. But, after all, you might as well think of the khan of Tartary as of this man, whom we shall never hear of more. Marry M. de Brisac, like a reasonable creature, and do not let me see you bending, as you do, for ever, over a tambour frame, wasting your fine eyes and spoiling your charming shape.”

  “But, mamma,” said Emilie, “would it not be much worse to marry one man, and like another?”

  “For mercy’s sake! say something new to me, Emilie; at all events, I have heard this a hundred times.”

  “The simple truth, alas!” said Emilie, “must always be the same: I wish I could put it in any new light that would please you, dear mamma.”

  “It never can please me, child,” cried Mad. de Coulanges, angrily; “nor can you please me, either, as you are going on. Fine heroism, truly! — you will sacrifice your duty and your mother to your obstinacy in an idle fancy. But, remember, the last days of the month are at hand — longer I will not listen to such provoking nonsense — it has half killed me already.”

  Neither lap-dog, squirrel, bird-organ, nor Emilie’s whole stock of French songs, could longer support the vivacity of Mad. de Coulanges; for some days she had passed the time in watching and listening to the London cries, as she sat at her window: the figures and sounds in this busy part of the town were quite new to her; and, whilst the novelty lasted, she was, like a child, good-humoured and full of exclamations. The want of some one to listen to these exclamations was an insupportable evil; she complained terribly of her daughter’s silence, whilst she was attending to her different employments. This want of conversation, and of all the luxuries she enjoyed at the house of Mrs. Somers, her anger against that lady, her loss of all hope of hearing from France, and her fear that Emilie would at last absolutely refuse to obey and marry M. de Brisac, all together operated so powerfully upon Mad. de Coulanges, that she really felt sick, and kept her bed. Emilie now confined herself to her mother’s room, and attended her with the most affectionate care, and with a degree of anxiety, which those only can comprehend who have believed themselves to be the cause of the illness of a friend — of a parent. Mad. de Coulanges would sometimes reply, when her daughter asked her if such or such a thing had done her good, “No, my child, nothing will do me good but your obedience, which you refuse me — perhaps on my deathbed.”

  Though Emilie did not apprehend that her mother was in any immediate danger, yet these continual fits of low spirits and nervous attacks excited much alarm. Emilie’s reflections on her own helpless situation contributed to magnify her fears: she considered that she was a stranger, a foreigner, without friends, without credit, almost without money, and deprived, by the necessary attendance on her sick mother, of all power to earn any by her own exertions. The bodily fatigue that she endured, even without any mental anxiety, would have been sufficient to wear out the spirits of a more robust person than Emilie. She had no human being to assist her but a young girl, a servant-maid belonging to the house, who, fortunately, was active and good-natured; but her mistress wa
s excessively cross, vulgar, and avaricious; avarice, indeed, often seemed to conquer in her the common feelings of humanity. Once, whilst Mad. de Coulanges was extremely ill, she forced her way into her bedchamber, to insist upon changing the counterpane upon the bed, which she said was too good to be stained with coffee: another day, when she was angry with Mlle. de Coulanges, for having cracked a basin by heating some soup for her mother, she declared, in the least ceremonious terms possible, that she hated to have any of the French refugees and emigrants in the house, for that she was not accustomed to let her lodgings to folk that nobody ever came near to visit, and that lived only upon soups and salads, and such low stuff; “and who, when they were ill, never so much as called in a physician, or even a nurse, but must take up the time of people that were not bound to wait upon them.”

  Mlle. de Coulanges bore all this patiently rather than run the hazard of removing to other lodgings whilst her mother was so ill. The countess had a prejudice against English physicians, as she affirmed that it was impossible that they could understand French constitutions, especially hers, which was different from that of any other human being, and which, as she said, only one medical man in France rightly understood. At last, however, she yielded to the persuasions of her daughter, and permitted Emilie to send for a physician. When she inquired what he thought of her mother, he said, that she was in a nervous fever, and that unless her mind was kept free from anxiety he could not answer for her recovery. Mad. de Coulanges looked full at her daughter, who was standing at the foot of her bed; a mist came before Emilie’s eyes, a cold dew covered her forehead, and she was forced to hold by the bed-post to support herself.

  At this instant the door opened, and Lady Littleton appeared. Emilie sprang forward, and threw herself into her arms — Mad. de Coulanges started up in her bed, exclaiming “Ah Ciel!” and then all were silent — except the mistress of the house, who went on making apologies about the dirt of her stairs, and its being Friday night. But as she at length perceived that not a soul in the room knew a word she was saying, she retreated. The physician took leave — and, when they were thus left at liberty, Lady Littleton seated herself in the broken arm-chair beside the bed, and told Mad. de Coulanges that Mrs. Somers had been very unhappy, in consequence of their quarrel; and that she had been indefatigable in her inquiries and endeavours to find out the place of their retreat; that she had at last given up the search in despair. “But,” continued Lady Littleton, “it has been my good fortune to discover you by means of this flower of Emilie’s painting” — (she produced a little hand-screen, which Emilie had lately made, and which she had sent to be disposed of at the Repository for Ingenious Works). “I knew it to be yours, my dear, because it is an exact resemblance of one upon your watch of Flora, which was drawn from the flower I brought you from Kew Gardens. Now you must not be angry with me for finding you out, nor for begging of you to be reconciled to poor Mrs. Somers, who has suffered much in your absence — much from the idea of what you would endure — and more from her self-reproaches. She has, indeed, an unfortunate susceptibility of temper, which makes her sometimes forget both politeness and justice: but, as you well know, her heart is excellent. Come, you must promise me to meet her at my house, as soon as you are able to go out, my dear Mad. de Coulanges.”