“Most true,” replied Mrs. Mathews; “and this ought, methinks, to be a lesson to us. It should teach us that one set of men ought not to assume the right of ruling the minds of another set of men. Ruling their actions is a very legitimate governmental operation; but ruling the mind is not. There is something impious in the very idea.”
“There would be nothing impious in it,” replied the priest, solemnly, “if ONE single and simple condition were annexed to the power. If a society could be formed, wide-spreading and powerful as that of the Jesuits, which should consent to guide itself by the first natural law that divides good from evil; namely, the law which divides truth from falsehood; and teach a strict, bold, fearless, unflinching adherence to truth, in word and deed, instead of a strict, bold, fearless, and unflinching adherence to falsehood; that company might indeed be called the Company of Jesus. And where, save in heaven itself, is the limit to which such a rule might not lead us? Depend upon it, friend Mathews, that poor unfortunate dreamer, Fourier, had some such thing in his thoughts.”
“You are not going to propose, I hope, by way of a cure for all our woes in this ‘vale of tears,’ that we should be shut up in Phalange pens, like fat sheep at Smithfield?” said Mrs. Mathews.
“No; but I believe, priest though I be, that poor Fourier, all madman as he was, had now and then a ray of light breaking in upon him, and that had he been as clear-headed as he was honest, he might have done good, either in his generation or after it. But a fatal fallacy was mixed up with all his notions. He had not heard, or he had not understood, that very profound political axiom put forth by Shakspere, —
‘Strength will be lord of imbecility.’
That little line contains a truth which knocks down, and rolls in the dust for ever, that vainest of all human notions, — EQUALITY. If God had intended that men should be equal, he would not have made one a Newton and another a ninny. But he has given, amongst them, power enough to work their way onwards and upwards, — how far or how high, it is difficult to say. But, I repeat it, Mistress Mary, were a union as mighty as that of the Jesuits to be formed, which would advocate the cause of truth, as courageously and as skilfully as they have advocated the cause of falsehood, the moral advancement of the human race would beat steam in speed, and chemistry in acuteness. So much for speculation,” said the heretical priest, rising. “But, however much we may differ on other subjects, there is at least one on which we shall be sure to agree, namely, in the interest we feel for that noble fellow, Herbert Otterborne, and in our being both equally anxious that he should not marry any one very particularly unworthy of him. As to the matter of confession, I do not wish to delude you, old friend, into believing me to be a more faithful priest than I am. It is not from any reverence for priestly practice or for priestly rule, that I am averse to use information so obtained. It is merely a sort of gentleman-like reluctance to betray any confidence, unless indeed, some moral obligation stronger still, should oblige me to do it. And now, farewell.”
“I thank you heartily for the conclusion of your homily, Sir Priest,” replied Mrs. Mathews; “you positively frightened me at its commencement. But now, after all your elaborate explanations, I find you very nearly the same sort of being that I thought you before.”
“Well, Mistress Mary, I will be content with that. Farewell!”
CHAPTER XXXIV
IT may easily be imagined that such a termination to a pic-nic party as the escapade of the beautiful Emily, did not, and could not pass away, without causing a prodigious quantity of observation and conjecture. It is likely enough that Lady Otterborne and Janet were the only individuals, among the fourteen of whom the party had consisted, who met and who talked together afterwards without making any allusion whatever to the subject.
The father and mother of the heroine of the adventure were very nearly quarrelling about it. Mr. Steyton did not approve his daughter’s conduct at all; but Mrs. Steyton was of opinion that she had done no more than she ought to have done, in order to show that proud puppy, Herbert Otterborne, that she was not so wholly and solely at his command as he appeared to suppose.
“It is all mighty fine to talk of filial respect and duty,” said she; “but it is a farce to talk of a man’s being in love, if, in a party of pleasure like this, he is to leave his affianced bride by herself, to break her shins over every stump in the forest, while he is parading with my lady, his mother, out of sight and out of sound, happen what might to his lady love.”
“Stuff and nonsense, wife,” returned the father; “I tell you that Miss Emily has behaved like a flirt and a jilt; and if you had ever treated me so, you would never have been Madam Steyton, with your half-a-dozen thousands per annum, I can tell you.”
“It is no good,” replied his wife, “for any one to pretend to be in love with Emily, Mr. Steyton, who has any objection to liveliness. Mr. Herbert had better jilt Emily at once, and fall in love with Miss Price, if he wants a doll for a wife instead of a woman. Emily is as beautiful as an angel, and as rich as a princess; and it is not such a girl as that, who is to be left in a wood with her finger in her eye, while her sweetheart is taking care of his mamma! And as to young Mr. Cornington, he is one of the most perfectly well-behaved young men that I ever met with in the whole course of my life. He would scorn to do what was ungenteel in any way.”
“I never heard that it was ungenteel to make love to a pretty girl when there was a good opportunity for it,” said the father. “Let him have said or done what he would, my dear, I should not blame him. But I tell you again, your daughter has behaved like a jilt and a flirt.”
“And I tell you, Mr. Steyton, that if you go and say so to her, you will learn to repent it, as sure as you are alive,” said the mother, warmly; “I know Emily Steyton thoroughly She is an angel, if ever there was one on earth; but she won’t bear scolding, either from father or mother, from king or kaiser. You may take my word for that; and if anything could make such an angel go wrong, it would be just telling her that she did not go right.”
At the breakfast-table of the reverend Mr. Price the same subject was discussed, but whatever either of the party might think of the beautiful Emily’s capricious manœuvre, they neither of them used such harsh words as jilt and flirt.
Mr. Price observed, with a sort of dignified decorum that became him well, both as a beneficed high churchman and a gentleman of independent fortune, that he did not much like to give an opinion upon such a subject, because he was aware that an opinion from him might be considered as of more importance than that of any other individual; “And when one is conscious of this,” he continued, “it becomes one’s duty, as a Christian and a gentleman, to be very cautious. Nevertheless, for the sake of my own daughter, I will not deny that, were I either father or mother to the young lady, I should be very much tempted to lock her up.”
“For my part,” said Mrs. Price, with aspect and accent of exemplary gentleness, “I so greatly dislike every sort of slander, or censorious severity of any kind, that it would be much more pleasant to me to avoid this painful subject altogether; only that I feel myself called upon, as a Smitherton, and the granddaughter of an English peer, to confess that, if my daughter had behaved in the same style, I should have done all that lay within my reach to prevent her ever having the power of following her own fancies again.”
“You speak, as you always do, my dear love, with the most perfect propriety,” said her husband; “but with such a mother,” he added, “there can be very little danger that our daughter should ever imitate this imprudent young lady’s example.”
It was very rarely that any individual of the Price family ever differed from the rest; but, upon this occasion, the young man ventured to say that he thought Mr. Otterborne was more to blame than Miss Emily, “I am sure I wish she had not done it,” added the young man, “as you and mamma both think it was so wrong; but I must say, I think it was only serving Mr. Herbert right.”
This was considered as so very lively a sally by the fa
mily party, that they all indulged in rather a hearty laugh; but after it was over, Miss Louisa said, very affectionately, “Poor dear Emily! it is very wrong to laugh at her; for I am sure she never intends to do anything wrong.”
“Laugh at her! Who thought of laughing at her, Louisa?” said the young man. “It is fair enough to laugh at Mr. Herbert, I think. And he ought to remember the vulgar old proverb, ‘Many a slip’ — you know the rest.”
“Yes, William, we know the rest,” said his father, with a gentle smile; “and I am quite ready to confess that proverbs are, as they have been well called, ‘the wisdom of nations.’ I doubt, indeed, if it is quite judicious in Mr. Otterborne to show himself so very careless a wooer; for the father’s fortune may be lost, as well as the daughter’s heart, by it.”
“I am sure it would be better that he should lose both, Sir, than that such a girl as Emily Steyton should be married for her money.”
“Indeed, I think so too,” said Miss Louisa, with a friendly sigh; “and I wish with all my heart that she was going to be married to some one who really did love her.”
And hereupon Mr. William Price sighed too, and looked at his sister very affectionately.
But the reader must follow me to the bower of the beautiful Emily before he can learn anything authentic on the state of that young lady’s mind.
The first words she uttered, when she found herself shut up tête-à-tête with Minny upon retiring for the night, were these — (and they sounded awfully in the handmaiden’s ear):— “Minny!” said she; “Wild horses should not drag me to church to marry that odious and detestable animal, Herbert Otterborne. I hate him like poison!”
Poor Minny’s only answer to this was a dismal groan.
“What do you grunt for in that horrid way?” demanded her lively mistress.
“Because I am now as sure as sure can be, that you will never be married at all, Miss?” replied the maid.
“Minny! you are an idiot!” returned Miss Emily.
“No, I am not, Miss,” returned Minny, stoutly. “The lady that does not think Squire Otterborne good enough, never will, and never can, find any one that is.”
“Minny! you are an idiot, I tell you!” repeated her mistress. “And now, then,” she added, “be good enough to tell me, if you ever had the good luck to get sight of a young gentleman called Mr. Stephen Cornington?”
“Yes, ma’am, I have had the luck to see him,” returned the girl, turning her head away.
“What are you looking after there, you fool?” exclaimed her impetuous mistress. “When I choose to condescend to talk to you, I expect that you will condescend to listen to me. Look in my face steadily, Miss Minny, and tell me plainly and distinctly, whether you ever saw any human being, male or female, so beautiful as Stephen Cornington.”
The servant had obeyed the commands of her mistress, and was looking steadily in her face, but she changed colour violently, first, for an instant, looking deadly pale, and then becoming very red.
“What on earth is the matter with the girl?” exclaimed Emily, looking both puzzled and frightened. “Are you ill, Minny?”
“I don’t believe that I am quite well, ma’am,” she replied; “for I have had a horrid head-ache all day; but it is not that which has made my face in a flame, as I feel it is. The reason of my turning so red is that I feel ready to cry, if I dared, at your speaking just as if you really liked another man better than the noble gentleman as you are engaged to.”
“Then you need not blush, nor cry either, any more on that account, Miss Minny, for I no longer hold myself engaged to any mortal man. Herbert Otterborne has proved himself to be a false-hearted, base betrayer to me, Minny, and after I have told you that, you will leave off asking me to marry him, I hope.”
“But you would not take any such fancy into your head, if you wasn’t in love with somebody else, Miss,” said Minny, rather in a faltering voice.
“You are afraid to speak out, you goose!” cried Emily, laughing, “but you need not be so shame-faced, girl! For you have said no more than is true. I am in love with somebody else.”
“Oh, Miss! it is dangerous work changing so very often! Perhaps your new lover may have a heard as little constant as your own,” said Minny.
“Stephen Cornington inconstant, you monster! How do you dare to breathe such a thought in my presence! He adores me, girl! He is positively dying for love of me!”
“I wonder I never heard you say so before, Miss Emily,” said the maid, affecting a light laugh; “but I see you are trying to make a fool of me.”
“No, my dear good Minny; I certainly should never think of so wasting my time, for you are a fool already,” replied Emily, gaily; but her gaiety did not seem infectious, for Minny again turned very pale as she said, “If you will only please to speak seriously to me, Miss Emily, I might not appear to be such a fool as you now seem to think me. For the love of God! tell me, Miss Emily, without any joking at all, do you mean that you are in earnest when you say you are not going to marry Squire Otterborne?”
“Most truly in earnest, my dear Minny,” replied Emily, kindly; “and if you are fretting, as I suppose you are, at the idea that all your hopes of seeing your mistress a bride are gone and over, I can comfort your heart with one word: I will be a bride, Minny, never you fear! I will be a bride, and with very little loss of time; and my bridegroom, my beautiful bridegroom, shall be Stephen Cornington!”
The girl — who, either for the reason her mistress had assigned, or for some other, had been apparently a good deal agitated by the conversation — now made a strong effort to recover herself, and so far succeeded as to say, with some appearance of composure, “Well, Miss, of course everybody knows their own business best; but I should have thought Squire Otterborne, who is a baronet born, would have been a fitter match for you than the other one as you have been pleased to mention.”
“Pleased to mention! Yes, girl! I am pleased to mention him — dear, beautiful fellow! We settled it all in the wood, last night, when we pretended to lose our way, and it won’t be very long before all the rest of the business will be settled too. I have not quite made up my mind yet as to what I shall say to that magnificent gentleman, Mr. Herbert. I feel as if I were a little afraid of him, Minny; and sometimes I think it would be the best way to let him go on a little further with his impertinent, neglectful ways, so as to give me a fairer excuse for saying outright that I have done with him.”
“And that is one of the wisest things that I ever heard you say, Miss Emily,” replied Minny. “You just take care to put him in the wrong, and then you will be sure of being right yourself. Don’t you be too much in a hurry, Miss; and then I will answer for it that all will be exactly as you wish.”
To say the truth, Emily, with all her courage, was greatly comforted by this view of the case from her ready-witted maid Minny; the evident discomfiture with which she had listened to the announcement of this last-discovered change in the state of her affections having rather alarmed her: for as Minny had always been a most indulgent listener upon all former occasions of a like nature, she could not help fearing that what had appeared so monstrous to her might appear monstrous to others also.
But now her courage revived, and she retired to rest with an easy conscience, and a very firm resolution of becoming Mrs. Stephen Cornington with as little delay as possible, or, to speak more correctly, with as little delay as convenient.
CHAPTER XXXV
THE mental condition of her maid Minny was very far from being so comfortable; and as this discomfort on her part led to very important results, its rise and progress must be accounted for, which shall be done as briefly as possible.
Mr. Stephen Cornington was a very handsome man, but, like Captain Smith, of immortal memory, he was also a gay deceiver. It may also be observed, that young as he looked, he was a year or two older than he had stated himself to be when he presented himself to his newly-found grandfather. Moreover, Mr. Stephen Cornington, having been partly edu
cated in Paris, and partly in Barbadoes, had never, at any period of his life, been what is called a backward youth, and his successes among the fair and fragile of the softer sex had not commenced at Weldon.
He had come to that rural abode at the instigation of his respectable progenitress, Madame Briot, who, having very accurately informed herself of the present position in life of her early lover, had deemed it a good speculation to send the youth to claim kindred and seek fortune in a quarter where it would be so difficult to deny his natural claim to both.
This expedition was undertaken by him with right good-will, for it promised novelty and amusement, and might lead to many more solid advantages still.
Everything, as we have seen, prospered with him marvellously. He was, indeed, fully aware that he had failed in his attempts to convince Mrs. Mathews that he was all that her husband believed him to be; and he was aware, too, that Janet Anderson was not in love with him; but in neither case did his failure greatly distress him.
A doting grandfather was a much more important personage than a doting grandfather’s wife; and Janet Anderson, thank Heaven! was not the only pretty girl to be found in Weldon.
His intention had certainly been to captivate the whole family, and also the whole neighbourhood likewise; and his success had been such as might well satisfy any reasonable young man, and in fact it did pretty well satisfy him.
His philosophical resignation under his failure with Janet, whom he had certainly thought very decidedly pretty when he first looked at her beneath the elm-tree, must not, however, be received as a proof of his philosophy on such subjects in general; for Mr. Stephen Cornington was exceedingly addicted to falling in love, and the majority of the fair sex with whom he had hitherto made acquaintance through life had been very much addicted to falling in love with him in return.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 407