She rose, nevertheless, from the seat which she had only momentarily, and from surprise occupied, and would have quitted the room, but that she saw she should again be publicly called back; and hers was not a situation for braving open enmity. She thankfully, however, accepted a chair which was brought to her by Sir Marmaduke Crawley, and placed next to that which had been vacated by the old Baronet; who then returned to his own.
She now hoped to find some support from his countenance; as his powerful situation in the house, joined to his age, would make his smallest attention prove to her a kind of protection. Her expectation, however, was disappointed: he did not address to her a word; or appear to have ever beheld her before; and his late act of politeness seemed exerted for a perfect stranger, from habitual good breeding.
And is it you, thought the pensive Juliet, who, but a few minutes since, spoke to me with such flattery, such preference? with an even impassioned regard? And shall this so little assembly guide and awe you? There, where I wished upon me your compliments; — while here, where a smile would be encouragement, where notice would be charity, you affect to have forgotten, or appear never to have seen me! Ah! mentally continued the silent moralist, if we reflected upon the difficulty of gaining esteem; upon the chances against exciting affection; upon the union of time and circumstance necessary for obtaining sincere regard; we should require courage to withhold, not to follow, the movement of kindness, that, where distress sighs for succour, where helplessness solicits support, gives power to the smallest exertion, to a single word, to a passing smile, — to bestow a favour, and to do a service, that catch, in the brief space of a little moment, a gratitude that never dies!
But, while thus to be situated, was pain and dejection to Juliet, to see her seated, however unnoticed, in the midst of this society, was almost equally irksome to Mrs Ireton; who, after some vain internal fretting, ordered the butler to carry about refreshments; consoled with the certainty, that he would as little dare present any to Juliet, as omit to present them to every one else.
The smiles and best humour of Mrs Ireton now soon returned; for the dependent state of Juliet became more than ever conspicuous, when thus decidedly she was marked as the sole person, in a large assembly, that the servants were permitted, if not instructed to neglect.
Juliet endeavoured to sit tranquil, and seem unconcerned; but her fingers were in continual motion; her eyes, meaning to look no where, looked every where; and Mrs Ireton had the gratification to perceive, that, however she struggled for indifference, she was fully sensible of the awkwardness of her situation.
But this was no sooner remarked by Lady Barbara Frankland, than, starting with vivacity from her vainly watchful aunt, she flew to her former instructress, crying, ‘Have you taken nothing yet, Miss Ellis? O pray, then, let me chuse your ice for you?’
She ran to a side-board, and selecting the colour most pleasing to her eyes, hastened with it to the blushing, but relieved and grateful Juliet; to whom this benevolent attention seemed instantly to restore the self-command, that pointed indignities, and triumphant derision, were sinking into abashed depression.
The sensation produced by this action in Mrs Ireton, was as ungenial as that which it caused to Juliet was consolatory. She could not for a moment endure to see the creature of her power, whom she looked upon as destined for the indulgence of her will, and the play of her authority, receive a mark of consideration which, if shewn even to herself, would have been accepted as a condescension. Abruptly, therefore, while they were standing together, and conversing, she called out, ‘Is it possible, Miss Ellis, that you can see the child in such imminent danger, and stay there amusing yourself?’
Lady Kendover hastily called off her young niece; and Juliet, sighing crossed over the room, to take charge of the little boy, who was sitting astraddle out of one of the windows.
‘But I had flattered myself,’ cried Sir Marmaduke Crawley, addressing Mrs Ireton, ‘that we should have a little music?’
Mrs Ireton, to whom the talents of Juliet gave pleasure in proportion only to her own repugnance to bringing them into play, had relinquished the projected performance, when she perceived the general interest which was excited by the mere appearance of the intended performer. She declared herself, therefore, so extremely fearful lest some mischief should befall her little nephew, that she could not possibly trust him from the care of Miss Ellis.
Half the company, now, urged by the thirst of fresh amusement, professed the most passionate fondness for children, and offered their services to watch the dear, sweet little boy, while Miss Ellis should play or sing; but the averseness] of Ellis remained uncombated by Mrs Ireton, and, therefore, unconquered.
The party was preparing to break up, when Mr Giles Arbe entered the room, to apologize for the non-appearance of Miss Arbe, his cousin, who had bid him bring words, he said, that she was taken ill.
Ireton, by a few crafty questions, soon drew from him, that Miss Arbe was only gone to a little private music-meeting at Miss Sycamore’s: though, affrighted when he had made the confession, he entreated Mrs Ireton not to take it amiss; protesting that it was not done in any disrespect to her, but merely because his cousin was more amused at Miss Sycamore’s.
Mrs Ireton, extremely piqued, answered, that she should be very careful, in future, not to presume to make an invitation to Miss Arbe, but in a total dearth of other entertainment; in a famine; or public fast.
But, the moment he sauntered into another room, to partake of some refreshments, ‘That old savage,’ she cried, ‘is a perfect horrour! He has not a single atom of common sense; and if he were not Miss Arbe’s cousin, one must tell one’s butler to shew him the door. At least, such is my poor opinion. I don’t pretend to be a judge; but such is my notion!’
‘O! I adore him!’ cried Miss Crawley. ‘He makes me laugh till I am ready to die! He has never a guess what he is about; and he never hears a word one says. And he stares so when one laughs at him! O! he’s the delightfullest, stupidest, dear wretch that breathes!’
‘O! I can’t look at him without laughing!’ exclaimed Miss Di. ‘He’s the best thing in nature! He’s delicious! enchanting! delightful! O! so dear a fool!’
‘He is quite unfit,’ said Mrs Maple, ‘for society; for he says every thing that comes uppermost, and has not the least idea of what is due to people.’
‘O! he is the sweetest-tempered, kindest-hearted creature in the world!’ exclaimed Lady Barbara. ‘My aunt’s woman has heard, from Miss Arbe’s maid, all his history. He has quite ruined himself by serving poor people in distress. He is so generous, he can never pronounce a refusal.’
‘But he dresses so meanly,’ said Miss Brinville, ‘that mamma and I have begged Miss Arbe not to bring him any more to see us. Besides, — he tells every thing in the world to every body.’
‘Poor Miss Arbe a’n’t to blame, I assure you, Miss Brinville,’ said Selina; ‘for she dislikes him as much as you do; only when her papa invited him to live with them, he was very rich; and it was thought he would leave all his fortune to them. But, since then, Miss Arbe says, he is grown quite poor; for he has dawdled away almost all his money, in one way or another; letting folks out of prison, setting people up in business, and all that.’
‘O! he’s the very king of quizzes!’ cried Ireton. ‘He drags me out of the spleen, when I feel as if there were no possibility I could yawn on another half hour.’
Sir Jaspar now, looking with an air of authority towards Ireton, said, ‘It would have been your good star, not your evil genius, by which you would have been guided, Mr Ireton, had you been attracted to this old gentleman as to an example, rather than as a butt for your wit. He has very good parts, if he knew how to make use of them; though he has a simplicity of manners, that induces common observers to conclude him to be nearly an ideot. And, indeed, an absent man seems always in a state of childhood; for as he is never occupied with what is present, those who think of nothing else, naturally take it for granted that w
hat passes is above his comprehension; when perhaps, it is only below his attention. But with Mr Arbe, though his temper is incomparably good and placid, absence is neither want of understanding, nor of powers of observation; for, when once he is awakened to what is passing, by any thing that touches his feelings of humanity, or his sense of justice, his seeming stupor turns to energy; his silence is superseded by eloquence; and his gentle diffidence is supplanted by a mental courage, which electrifies with surprize, from its contrast with his general docility; and which strikes, and even awes, from an apparent dignity of defying consequence; — though, in fact, it is but the effect of never weighing them. Such, however, as he is, Mr Ireton, with the singularities of his courage, or the oddities of his passiveness, he is a man who is useful to the world, from his love of doing good; and happy in himself, from the serenity of a temper unruffled by any species of malignity.’
Ireton ventured not to manifest any resentment at this conclusion; but when, by his embarrassed air, Sir Jaspar saw that it was understood, he smiled, and more gaily added, ‘If the fates, the sisters three, and such little branches of learning, had had the benevolence to have fixed my own birth under the influence of the same planet with that of Mr Giles Arbe, how many twitches, goadings, and worries should I have been spared, from impatience, ambition, envy, discontent, and ill will!’
The subject was here dropt, by the re-entrance of Mr Arbe; who, observing Selina, said that he wanted prodigiously to enquire about her poor aunt, whom, lately, he had met with no where; though she used to be every where.
‘My aunt, Sir? — She’s there!’ said Selina, pointing to Mrs Maple.
‘No, no, I don’t mean that aunt; I mean your young aunt, that used to be so all alive and clever. What’s become of her?’
‘O, I dare say it’s my sister you are thinking of?’
‘Ay, it’s like enough; for she’s young enough, to be sure; only you look such a mere child. Pray how is she now? I was very sorry to hear of her cutting her throat.’
A titter, which was immediately exalted into a hearty laugh by the Miss Crawleys, was all the answer.
‘It was not right to do such a thing,’ he continued; ‘very wrong indeed. There’s no need to be afraid of not dying soon enough, for we only come to be gone! I pitied her, however, with all my heart, for love is but a dangerous thing; it makes older persons than she is go astray, one way or other. And it was but unkind of Mr Harleigh not to marry her, whether he liked or not, to save her from such a naughty action. And pray what is become of that pretty creature that used to teach you all music? I have enquired for her at Miss Matson’s, often; but I always forgot where they said she was gone. Indeed they made me a little angry about her, which, probably, was the reason that I could never recollect what they told me of her direction.’
‘Angry, Mr Giles?’ repeated Mrs Ireton, with an air of restored complacency; ‘What was it, then, they said of her? Not that I am very curious to hear it, as I presume you will believe! You won’t imagine it, I presume, a matter of the first interest to me!’
‘O, what they said of her was very bad! very bad, indeed; and that’s the reason I give no credit to it.’
‘Well, well, but what was it?’ cried Ireton.
‘Why they told me that she was turned toad-eater.’
Universal and irresistible smiles throughout the whole company, to the exception of Lady Barbara and Sir Jaspar, now heightened the embarrassment of Juliet into pain and distress: but the young Loddard every moment struggled to escape into the garden, through the window; and she did not dare quit her post.
‘So I asked them what they meant,’ Mr Giles continued; ‘for I never heard of any body’s eating toads; though I am assured our neighbours, on t’other bank, are so fond of frogs. But they made it out, that it only meant a person who would swallow any thing, bad or good; and do whatever he was bid, right or wrong; for the sake of a little pay.’
This definition by no means brought the assembly back to its gravity; but while Juliet, ashamed and indignant, kept her face turned constantly towards the garden, Ireton called out, ‘Why you don’t speak to your little friend, Loddard, Mr Giles. There he is, at the window.’
Mr Giles now, notwithstanding her utmost efforts to avoid his eyes, perceived the blushing Juliet; though, doubting his sight, he stared and exclaimed, ‘Good la! that lady’s very like Miss Ellis! And, I protest, ’tis she herself! And just as pretty as ever! And with the same innocent face that not a soul can either buy or make, but God Almighty himself!’
He then enquired after her health and welfare, with a cordiality that somewhat lessened the pain caused by the general remark that was produced by his address: but the relief was at an end upon his adding, ‘I wanted to see you prodigiously, for I have never forgotten your paying your debts so prettily, against your will, that morning. It fixed you in my good opinion. I hope, however, it is a mistake, what they tell me, that you are turned what they call toad-eater? and have let yourself out, at so much a year, to say nothing that you think; and to do nothing that you like; and to beg pardon when you are not in fault; and to eat all the offals; and to be beat by the little gentleman; and worried by the little dog? I hope all that’s mere misapprehension, my dear; for it would be but a very mean way of getting money.’
The calmness of conscious superiority, with which Juliet heard the beginning of these interrogatories, was converted into extreme confusion, by their termination, from the appearance of justice which the incidents of the morning had given to the attack.
‘For now,’ continued he, ‘that you have paid all your debts, you ought to hold up your head; for, where nothing is owing, we are all of us equal, rich and poor; another man’s riches no more making him my superiour, or benefactor, if I do not partake of them, than my poverty makes me his servant, or dependent, if I neither work for, nor am benefited by him. And I am your witness that you gave every one his due. So don’t let any body put you out of your proper place.’
The mortification of Juliet, at this public exhortation, upon a point so delicate, was not all that she had to endure: the little dog, who, though incessantly tormented by the little boy, always followed him; kept scratching her gown; to be helped up to the window, that he might play with, or snarl at him, more at his ease; and the boy, making a whip of his pocket-handkerchief, continually attracted, though merely to repulse him; while Juliet, seeking alternately to quiet both, had not a moment’s rest.
‘Why now, what’s all this my pretty lady?’ cried Mr Giles, perceiving her situation. ‘Why do you let those two plagueful things torment you so? Why don’t you teach them to be better behaved.’
‘Miss Ellis would be vastly obliging, certainly,’ with a supercilious brow, said Mrs Ireton, ‘to correct my nephew! I don’t in the least mean to contest her abilities for superintending his chastisement; not in the least, I assure you! But only, as I never heard of my brother’s giving her such a carte blanche; and as I don’t recollect having given it myself, — although I may have done it, again, perhaps, in my sleep! — I should be happy to learn by what authority she would be invested with such powers of discipline?’
‘By what authority? That of humanity, Ma’am! Not to spoil a poor ignorant little fellow-creature; nor a poor innocent little beast.’
‘It would be immensely amiable of her, Sir, no doubt,’ said Mrs Ireton, reddening, ‘to take charge of the morals of my household; immensely! I only hope you will be kind enough to instruct the young person, at the same time, how she may hold her situation? That’s all! I only hope that!’
‘How? Why by doing her duty! If she can’t hold it by that, ’tis her duty to quit it. Nobody is born to be trampled upon.’
‘I hope, too, soon,’ said Mrs Ireton, scoffingly, ‘nobody will be born to be poor!’
‘Good! true!’ returned he, nodding his head. ‘Nobody should be poor! That is very well said. However, if you think her so poor, I can give you the satisfaction to shew you your mistake. She mayn’t, indee
d, be very rich, poor lady, at bottom; but still—’
‘No, indeed, am I not!’ hastily cried Juliet, frightened at the communication which she saw impending.
‘But still,’ continued he, ‘if she is poor, it is not for want of money; nor for want of credit, neither; for she has bank-notes in abundance in one of her work-bags; and not a penny of them is her own! which shews her to be a person of great honour.’
Every one now looked awakened to a new curiosity; and Selina exclaimed, ‘O la! have you got a fortune, then, my dear Ellis? O! I dare say, then, my guess will prove true at last! for I dare say you are a princess in disguise?’
‘As far as disguise goes, Selina,’ answered Mrs Maple, ‘we have never, I think, disputed! but as to a princess!...’
‘A princess?’ repeated Mrs Ireton. ‘Upon my word, this is an honour I had not imagined! I own my stupidity! I can’t but own my stupidity; but I really had never imagined myself so much honoured, as to suspect that I had a princess under my roof, who was so complaisant as to sing, and play, and read to me, at my pleasure; and to study how to amuse and divert me! I confess, I had never suspected it! I am quite ashamed of my total want of sagacity; but it had never occurred to me!’
‘And why not, Ma’am?’ cried Mr Giles. ‘Why may not a princess be pretty, and complaisant, and know how to sing and play, and read, as well as another lady? She is just as able to learn as you, or any common person. I never heard that a princess took her rank in the place of her faculties. I know no difference; except that, if she does the things with good nature, you ought to love and honour her the double, in consideration of the great temptation she has to be proud and idle, and to do nothing. We all envy the great, when we ought only to revere them if they are good, and to pity them if they are bad; for they have the same infirmities that we have; and nobody that dares put them in mind of them: so that they often go to the grave, before they find out that they are nothing but poor little men and women, like the rest of us. For my part, when I see them worthy, and amiable, I look up to them as prodigies! Whereas, a common person, such as you, or I, Ma’am,—’
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 317
