Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  One evening, Belinda was playing with little Charles Percival at spillikins. Mr. Vincent, who found pleasure in every thing that amused Belinda, and Mr. Percival, who took an interest in every thing which entertained his children, were looking on at this simple game.

  “Mr. Percival,” said Belinda, “condescending to look at a game of jack-straws!”

  “Yes,” said Lady Anne; “for he is of Dryden’s opinion, that, if a straw can be made the instrument of happiness, he is a wise man who does not despise it.”

  “Ah! Miss Portman, take care!” cried Charles, who was anxious that she should win, though he was playing against her. “Take care! don’t touch that knave.”

  “I would lay a hundred guineas upon the steadiness of Miss Portman’s hand,” cried Mr. Vincent.

  “I’ll lay you sixpence, though,” cried Charles, eagerly, “that she’ll stir the king, if she touches that knave — I’ll lay you a shilling.”

  “Done! done!” cried Mr. Vincent.

  “Done! done!” cried the boy, stretching out his hand, but his father caught it.

  “Softly! softly, Charles! — No betting, if you please, my dear. Done and done sometimes ends in — undone.”

  “It was my fault — it was I who was in the wrong,” cried Vincent immediately.

  “I am sure you are in the right, now,” said Mr. Percival; “and, what is better than my saying so, Miss Portman thinks so, as her smile tells me.”

  “You moved, Miss Portman!” cried Charles:—”Oh, indeed! the king’s head stirred, the very instant papa spoke. I knew it was impossible that you could get that knave clear off without shaking the king. Now, papa, only look how they were balanced.”

  “I grant you,” said Mr. Vincent, “I should have made an imprudent bet. So it is well I made none; for now I see the chances were ten to one, twenty to one, a hundred to one against me.”

  “It does not appear to me to be a matter of chance,” said Mr. Percival. “This is a game of address, not chance, and that is the reason I like it.”

  “Oh, papa! Oh, Miss Portman! look how nicely these are balanced. There! my breath has set them in motion. Look, they shake, shake, shake, like the great rocking-stones at Brimham Crags.”

  “That is comparing small things to great, indeed!” said Mr. Percival.

  “By-the-by,” cried Mr. Vincent, “Miss Portman has never seen those wonderful rocking-stones — suppose we were to ride to see them to-morrow?”

  The proposal was warmly seconded by the children, and agreed to by every one. It was settled, that after they had seen Brimham Crags they should spend the remainder of the day at Lord C — —’s beautiful place in the neighbourhood.

  The next morning was neither too hot nor too cold, and they set out on their little party of pleasure; the children went with their mother, to their great delight, in the sociable; and Mr. Vincent, to his great delight, rode with Belinda. When they came within sight of the Crags, Mr. Percival, who was riding with them, exclaimed—”What is that yonder, on the top of one of the great rocking-stones?”

  “It looks like a statue,” said Vincent. “It has been put up since we were here last.”

  “I fancy it has got up of itself,” said Belinda, “for it seems to be getting down of itself. I think I saw it stoop. Oh! I see now, it is a man who has got up there, and he seems to have a gun in his hand, has not he? He is going through his manual exercise for his diversion — for the diversion of the spectators below, I perceive — there is a party of people looking at him.”

  “Him!” said Mr. Percival.

  “I protest it is a woman!” said Vincent.

  “No, surely,” said Belinda: “it cannot be a woman!”

  “Not unless it be Mrs. Freke,” replied Mr. Percival.

  In fact it was Mrs. Freke, who had been out shooting with a party of gentlemen, and who had scrambled upon this rocking-stone, on the summit of which she went through the manual exercise at the word of command from her officer. As they rode nearer to the scene of action, Belinda heard the shrill screams of a female voice, and they descried amongst the gentlemen a slight figure in a riding habit.

  “Miss Moreton, I suppose,” said Mr. Vincent.

  “Poor girl! what are they doing with her?” cried Belinda.

  “They seem to be forcing her up to the top of that place, where she has no mind to go. Look how Mrs. Freke drags her up by the arm!”

  As they drew nearer, they heard Mrs. Freke laughing loud as she rocked this frightened girl upon the top of the stone.

  “We had better keep out of the way, I think,” said Belinda: “for perhaps, as she has vowed vengeance against me, she might take a fancy to setting me upon that pinnacle of glory.”

  “She dare not,” cried Vincent, his eyes flashing with anger: “you may trust to us to defend you.”

  “Certainly! — But I will not run into danger on purpose to give you the pleasure of defending me,” said Belinda; and as she spoke, she turned her horse another way.

  “You won’t turn back, Miss Portman?” cried Vincent eagerly, laying his hand on her bridle.—”Good Heavens, ma’am! we can’t run away! — We came here to look at these rocking-stones! — We have not half seen them. Lady Anne and the children will be here immediately. You would not deprive them of the pleasure of seeing these things!”

  “I doubt whether they would have much pleasure in seeing some of these things! and as to the rest, if I disappoint the children now, Mr. Percival will, perhaps, have the goodness to bring them some other day.”

  “Certainly,” said Mr. Percival: “Miss Portman shows her usual prudence.”

  “The children are so good tempered, that I am sure they will forgive me,” continued Belinda; “and Mr. Vincent will be ashamed not to follow their example, though he seems to be rather angry with me at present for obliging him to turn back — out of the path of danger.”

  “You must not be surprised at that,” said Mr. Percival, laughing; “for Mr. Vincent is a lover and a hero. You know it is a ruled case, in all romances, that when a lover and his mistress go out riding together, some adventure must befal them. The horse must run away with the lady, and the gentleman must catch her in his arms just as her neck is about to be broken. If the horse has been too well trained for the heroine’s purpose, ‘some footpad, bandit fierce, or mountaineer,’ some jealous rival must make his appearance quite unexpectedly at the turn of a road, and the lady must be carried off — robes flying — hair streaming — like Bürger’s Leonora. Then her lover must come to her rescue just in the proper moment. But if the damsel cannot conveniently be run away with, she must, as the last resource, tumble into a river to make herself interesting, and the hero must be at least half drowned in dragging her out, that she may be under eternal obligations to him, and at last be forced to marry him out of pure gratitude.”

  “Gratitude!” interrupted Mr. Vincent: “he is no hero, to my mind, who would be content with gratitude, instead of love.”

  “You need not alarm yourself: Miss Portman does not seem inclined to put you to the trial, you see,” said Mr. Percival, smiling. “Now it is really to be regretted, that she deprived you of an opportunity of fighting some of the gentlemen in Mrs. Freke’s train, or of delivering her from the perilous height of one of those rocking-stones. It would have been a new incident in a novel.”

  “How that poor girl screamed!” said Belinda. “Was her terror real or affected?”

  “Partly real, partly affected, I fancy,” said Mr. Percival.

  “I pity her,” said Mr. Vincent; “for Mrs. Freke leads her a weary life.”

  “She is certainly to be pitied, but also to be blamed,” said Mr. Percival. “You do not know her history. Miss Moreton ran away from her friends to live with this Mrs. Freke, who has led her into all kinds of mischief and absurdity. The girl is weak and vain, and believes that every thing becomes her which Mrs. Freke assures her is becoming. At one time she was persuaded to go to a public ball with her arms as bare as Juno’
s, and her feet as naked as Mad. Tallien’s. At another time Miss Moreton (who unfortunately has never heard the Greek proverb, that half is better than the whole,) was persuaded by Mrs. Freke to lay aside, her half boots, and to equip herself in men’s whole boots; and thus she rode about the country, to the amazement of all the world. These are trifles; but women who love to set the world at defiance in trifles seldom respect its opinion in matters of consequence. Miss Moreton’s whole boots in the morning, and her bare feet in the evening, were talked of by every body, till she gave them more to talk of about her attachment to a young officer. Mrs. Freke, whose philosophy is professedly latitudinarian in morals, laughed at the girl’s prejudice in favour of the ceremony of marriage. So did the officer; for Miss Moreton had no fortune. It is suspected that the young lady did not feel the difficulty, which philosophers are sometimes said to find in suiting their practice to their theory. The unenlightened world reprobated the theory much, and the practice more. I am inclined, in spite of scandal, to think the poor girl was only imprudent: at all events, she repents her folly too late. She has now no friend upon earth but Mrs. Freke, who is, in fact, her worst enemy, and who tyrannizes over her without mercy. Imagine what it is to be the butt of a buffoon!”

  “What a lesson to young ladies in the choice of female friends!” said Belinda. “But had Miss Moreton no relations, who could interfere to get her out of Mrs. Freke’s hands?”

  “Her father and mother were old, and, what is more contemptible, old-fashioned: she would not listen to their advice; she ran away from them. Some of her relations were, I believe, willing that she should stay with Mrs. Freke, because she was a dashing, fashionable woman, and they thought it might be what is called an advantage to her. She had one relation, indeed, who was quite of a different opinion, who saw the danger of her situation, and remonstrated in the strongest manner — but to no purpose. This was a cousin of Miss Moreton’s, a respectable clergyman. Mrs. Freke was so much incensed by his insolent interference, as she was pleased to call it, that she made an effigy of Mr. Moreton dressed in his canonicals, and hung the figure up as a scarecrow in a garden close by the high road. He was so much beloved and respected for his benevolence and unaffected piety, that Mrs. Freke totally failed in her design of making him ridiculous; her scarecrow was torn to pieces by his parishioners; and though, in the true spirit of charity, he did all he could to moderate their indignation against his enemy, the lady became such an object of detestation, that she was followed with hisses and groans whenever she appeared, and she dared not venture within ten miles of the village.

  “Mrs. Freke now changed the mode of her persecution: she was acquainted with a nobleman from whom our clergyman expected a living, and she worked upon his lordship so successfully, that he insisted upon having an apology made to the lady. Mr. Moreton had as much dignity of mind as gentleness of character; his forbearance was that of principle, and so was his firmness: he refused to make the concessions that were required. His noble patron bullied. Though he had a large family to provide for, the clergyman would not degrade himself by any improper submission. The incumbent died, and the living was given to a more compliant friend. So ends the history of one of Mrs. Freke’s numerous frolics.”

  “This was the story,” said Mr. Vincent, “which effectually changed my opinion of her. Till I heard it, I always looked upon her as one of those thoughtless, good-natured people, who, as the common saying is, do nobody any harm but themselves.”

  “It is difficult in society,” said Mr. Percival, “especially for women, to do harm to themselves, without doing harm to others. They may begin in frolic, but they must end in malice. They defy the world — the world in return excommunicates them — the female outlaws become desperate, and make it the business and pride of their lives to disturb the peace of their sober neighbours. Women who have lowered themselves in the public opinion cannot rest without attempting to bring others to their own level.”

  “Mrs. Freke, notwithstanding the blustering merriment that she affects, is obviously unhappy,” said Belinda; “and since we cannot do her any good, either by our blame or our pity, we had better think of something else.”

  “Scandal,” said Mr. Vincent, “does not seem to give you much pleasure, Miss Portman. You will be glad to hear that Mrs. Freke’s malice against poor Mr. Moreton has not ruined him. Do you know Mr. Percival, that he has just been presented to a good living by a generous young man, who heard of his excellent conduct?”

  “I am extremely glad of it,” said Mr. Percival. “Who is this generous young man? I should like to be acquainted with him.”

  “So should I,” said Mr. Vincent: “he is a Mr. Hervey.”

  “Clarence Hervey, perhaps?”

  “Yes, Clarence was his name.”

  “No man more likely to do a generous action than Clarence Hervey,” said Mr. Percival.

  “Nobody more likely to do a generous action than Mr. Hervey,” repeated Belinda, in rather a low tone. She could now praise Clarence Hervey without blushing, and she could think even of his generosity without partiality, though not without pleasure. By strength of mind, and timely exertion, she had prevented her prepossession from growing into a passion that might have made her miserable. Proud of this conquest over herself, she was now disposed to treat Mr. Vincent with more favour than usual. Self-complacency generally puts us in good-humour with our friends.

  After spending some pleasant hours in Lord C —— —’s beautiful grounds, where the children explored to their satisfaction every dingle and bushy dell, they returned home in the cool of the evening. Mr. Vincent thought it the most delightful evening he had ever felt.

  “What! as charming as a West Indian evening?” said Mr. Percival. “This is more than I expected ever to hear you acknowledge in favour of England. Do you remember how you used to rave of the climate and of the prospects of Jamaica?”

  “Yes, but my taste has quite changed.”

  “I remember the time,” said Mr. Percival, “when you thought it impossible that your taste should ever change; when you told me that taste, whether for the beauties of animate or inanimate nature, was immutable.”

  “You and Miss Portman have taught me better sense. First loves are generally silly things,” added he, colouring a little. Belinda coloured also.

  “First loves,” continued Mr. Percival, “are not necessarily more foolish than others; but the chances are certainly against them. From poetry or romance, young people usually form their earlier ideas of love, before they have actually felt the passion; and the image which they have in their own minds of the beau ideal is cast upon the first objects they afterward behold. This, if I may be allowed the expression, is Cupid’s Fata Morgana. Deluded mortals are in ecstasy whilst the illusion lasts, and in despair when it vanishes.”

  Mr. Percival appeared to be unconscious that what he was saying was any way applicable to Belinda. He addressed himself to Mr. Vincent solely, and she listened at her ease.

  “But,” said she, “do not you think that this prejudice, as I am willing to allow it to be, in favour of first loves, may in our sex be advantageous? Even when a woman may be convinced — that she ought not to indulge a first love, should she not be prevented by delicacy from thinking of a second?”

  “Delicacy, my dear Miss Portman, is a charming word, and a still more charming thing, and Mrs. Freke has probably increased our affection for it; but even delicacy, like all other virtues, must be judged of by the test of utility. We should run into romance, and error, and misery, if we did not constantly refer to this standard. Our reasonings as to the conduct of life, as far as moral prudence is concerned, must depend ultimately upon facts. Now, of the numbers of people in this world, how many do you think have married their first loves? Probably not one out of ten. Then, would you have nine out of ten pine all their lives in celibacy, or fret in matrimony, because they cannot have the persons who first struck their fancy?”

  “I acknowledge this would not add to the happiness of
society,” said Belinda.

  “Nor to its virtue,” said Mr. Percival. “I scarcely know an idea more dangerous to domestic happiness than this belief in the unextinguishable nature of a first flame. There are people who would persuade us that, though it may be smothered for years, it must break out at last, and blaze with destructive fury. Pernicious doctrine! false as it is pernicious! — The struggles between duty and passion may be the charm of romance, but must be the misery of real life. The woman who marries one man, and loves another, who, in spite of all that an amiable and estimable husband can do to win her confidence and affection, nourishes in secret a fatal prepossession for her first love, may perhaps, by the eloquence of a fine writer, be made an interesting heroine; — but would any man of sense or feeling choose to be troubled with such a wife? — Would not even the idea that women admired such conduct necessarily tend to diminish our confidence, if not in their virtue, at least in their sincerity? And would not this suspicion destroy our happiness? Husbands may sometimes have delicate feelings as well as their wives, though they are seldom allowed to have any by these unjust novel writers. Now, could a husband who has any delicacy be content to possess the person without the mind? — the duty without the love? — Could he be perfectly happy, if, in the fondest moments, he might doubt whether he were an object of disgust or affection? — whether the smiles of apparent joy were only the efforts of a suffering martyr? — Thank Heaven! I am not married to one of these charming martyrs. Let those live with them who admire them. For my part, I admire and love the wife, who not only seems but is happy — as I,” added Mr. Percival smiling, “have the fond credulity to believe. If I have spoken too long or too warmly upon the chapter of first loves, I have at least been a perfectly disinterested declaimer; for I can assure you, Miss Portman, that I do not suspect Lady Anne Percival of sighing in secret for some vision of perfection, any more than she suspects me of pining for the charming Lady Delacour, who, perhaps, you may have heard was my first love. In these days, however, so few people marry with even the pretence to love of any sort, that you will think I might have spared this tirade. No; there are ingenuous minds which will never be enslaved by fashion or interest, though they may be exposed to be deceived by romance, or by the delicacy of their own imaginations.”