Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Caroline had taken an interest in the military profession ever since her eldest brother had gone into the army. Colonel Hungerford was seven or eight years older than Godfrey Percy, and had a more formed, steady, and exalted character, with more knowledge, and a far more cultivated understanding; but many expressions, and some points of character, were similar. Caroline observed this, and wished and hoped that, when her brother should have had as many opportunities of improvement as Colonel Hungerford’s experience had given him, he might be just such a man. This idea increased the interest she took in observing and listening to Colonel Hungerford. After he had been some time at home, and that every day more and more of his amiable character had been developed, Rosamond said to herself, “This is certainly the man for Caroline, and I suspect she begins to think so. If she does not, I never will forgive her.”

  One day, when the sisters were by themselves, Rosamond tried to sound Caroline on this subject. She began, as she thought, at a safe distance from her main object. “How very much esteemed and beloved Colonel Hungerford is in his own family!”

  “Very much and very deservedly,” answered Caroline. She spoke without any hesitation or embarrassment.

  Rosamond, rather dissatisfied even with the fulness of the assent to her first proposition, added, “And not only by his own family, but by all who know him.”

  Caroline was silent.

  “It is surprising,” continued Rosamond, “that a man who has led a soldier’s wandering life should have acquired so much literature, such accurate knowledge, and should have retained such simple and domestic tastes.”

  Full assent again from Caroline, both of look and voice — but still not the exact look and voice Rosamond desired.

  “Do you know, Caroline,” continued she, “I think that in several things Colonel Hungerford is very like my brother Godfrey.”

  “Yes, and in some points, I think Colonel Hungerford is superior to Godfrey,” said Caroline.

  “Well, I really think so too,” cried Rosamond, “and I am sure Godfrey would think and say so himself. How he would admire Colonel Hungerford, and how desirous, how ambitious he would be to make such a man his friend, his — in short, I know if Godfrey was here this minute, he would think just as I do about Colonel Hungerford, and about — all other things.”

  “All other things,” repeated Caroline, smiling: “that includes a great deal.”

  “Yes, it does, that is certain,” said Rosamond, significantly. “And,” continued she, “I know another person of excellent judgment too, who, if I mistake not, is of my way of thinking, of wishing at least, in some things, that is a comfort. How Mrs. Hungerford does adore her son! And I think she loves you almost as much.” Caroline expressed strong gratitude for Mrs. Hungerford’s kindness to her, and the warmest return of affection.

  “Then, in one word,” continued Rosamond, “for out it must come, sooner or later — I think she not only loves you as if you were her daughter, but that — Now confess, Caroline, did not the idea ever occur to you? And don’t you see that Mrs. Hungerford wishes it? — Oh! that blush is answer enough — I’ll say no more — I do not mean to torment or distress — good bye, I am satisfied.”

  “Stay, my dear Rosamond, stay one moment, and I will tell you exactly all I think and feel.”

  “I will stay as long as you please,” said Rosamond, “and I thank you for this confidence.”

  “You have a right to it,” said Caroline: “I see, my dear sister, and feel all your kindness towards me, and all Mrs. Hungerford’s — I see what you both wish.”

  “There’s my own sister Caroline, above all artifice and affectation.”

  “But,” said Caroline.

  “But — Oh! Caroline, don’t go back — don’t palter with us — abide by your own words, and your own character, and don’t condescend to any pitiful buts.”

  “You do not yet know the nature of my but.”

  “Nor do I wish to know it, nor will I hear it,” cried Rosamond, stopping her ears, “because I know, whatever it is, it will lower you in my opinion. You have fairly acknowledged that Colonel Hungerford possesses every virtue, public and private, that can make him worthy of you — not a single fault on which to ground one possible, imaginable, rational but. Temper, manners, talents, character, fortune, family, fame, every thing the heart of woman can desire.”

  “Every thing against which the heart of woman should guard itself,” said Caroline.

  “Guard! — Why guard? — What is it you suspect? What crime can you invent to lay to his charge?”

  “I suspect him of nothing. It is no crime — except, perhaps, in your eyes, dear Rosamond,” said Caroline, smiling—”no crime not to love me.”

  “Oh! is that all? Now I understand and forgive you,” said Rosamond, “if it is only that you fear.”

  “I do not recollect that I said I feared it,” said Caroline.

  “Well, well — I beg pardon for using that unguarded word — of course your pride must neither hope nor fear upon the occasion; you must quite forget yourself to stone. As you please, or rather as you think proper; but you will allow me to hope and fear for you. Since I have not, thank Heaven! made proud and vain professions of stoicism — have not vowed to throw away the rose, lest I should be pricked by the thorn.”

  “Laugh, but hear me,” said Caroline. “I make no professions of stoicism; it is because I am conscious that I am no stoic that I have endeavoured to guard well my heart. — I have seen and admired all Colonel Hungerford’s good and amiable qualities; I have seen and been grateful for all that you and Mrs. Hungerford hoped and wished for my happiness — have not been insensible to any of the delightful, any of the romantic circumstances of the vision; but I saw it was only a vision — and one that might lead me into waking, lasting misery.”

  “Misery! lasting! How?” said Rosamond.

  “Neither your wishes nor Mrs. Hungerford’s, you know, can or ought to decide, or even to influence the event, that is to be determined by Colonel Hungerford’s own judgment and feelings, and by mine. In the mean time, I cannot forget that the delicacy, honour, pride, prudence of our sex, forbid a woman to think of any man, as a lover, till he gives her reason to believe that he feels love for her.”

  “Certainly,” said Rosamond; “but I take it for granted that Colonel Hungerford does love you.”

  “But why should we take it for granted?” said Caroline: “he has not shown me any preference.”

  “Why — I don’t know, I am not skilled in these matters,” said Rosamond—”I am not sure — but I think — and yet I should be sorry to mislead you — at any rate there is no harm in hoping—”

  “If there be no harm, there might be much danger,” said Caroline: “better not to think of the subject at all, since we can do no good by thinking of it, and may do harm.”

  After a pause of surprise, disappointment, and reflection, Rosamond resumed: “So I am to understand it to be your opinion, that a woman of sense, delicacy, proper pride, honour, and prudence, must, can, and ought to shut her eyes, ears, understanding, and heart, against all the merit and all the powers of pleasing a man may possess, till said man shall and do make a matrimonial proposal for her in due form — hey! Caroline?”

  “I never thought any such thing,” answered Caroline, “and I expressed myself very ill if I said any such thing. A woman need not shut her eyes, ears, or understanding to a man’s merit — only her heart.”

  “Then the irresistible charm, the supreme merit, the only merit that can or ought to touch her heart in any man, is the simple or glorious circumstance of his loving her?”

  “I never heard that it was a man’s supreme merit to love,” said Caroline; “but we are not at present inquiring what is a man’s but what is a woman’s characteristic excellence. And I have heard it said to be a woman’s supreme merit, and grace, and dignity, that her love should not unsought be won.”

  “That is true,” said Rosamond, “perfectly true — in general;
but surely you will allow that there may be cases in which it would be difficult to adhere to the letter as well as to the spirit of this excellent rule. Have you never felt — can’t you imagine this?”

  “I can well imagine it,” said Caroline; “fortunately, I have never felt it. If I had not early perceived that Colonel Hungerford was not thinking of me, I might have deceived myself with false hopes: believe me, I never was insensible to his merit.”

  “But where is the merit or the glory, if there was no struggle, no difficulty?” said Rosamond, in a melancholy tone.

  “Glory there is none,” said Caroline; “nor do I claim any merit: but is not it something to prevent struggle and difficulty? Is it nothing to preserve my own happiness?”

  “Something, to be sure,” said Rosamond. “But, on the other hand, you know there is the old proverb, ‘Nothing hazard, nothing have.’”

  “That is a masculine, not a feminine proverb,” said Caroline.

  “All I meant to say was, that there is no rule without an exception, as all your philosophers, even the most rigid, allow; and if an exception be ever permitted, surely in such a case as this it might, in favour of such a man as Colonel Hungerford.”

  “Dangerous exceptions!” said Caroline. “Every body is too apt to make an exception in such cases in their own favour: that, you know, is the common error of the weak. Oh! my dear sister, instead of weakening, strengthen my mind — instead of trying to raise my enthusiasm, or reproaching me for want of sensibility, tell me that you approve of my exerting all my power over myself to do that which I think right. Consider what evil I should bring upon myself, if I became attached to a man who is not attached to me; if you saw me sinking, an object of pity and contempt, the victim, the slave of an unhappy passion.”

  “Oh! my dear, dear Caroline, that could never be — God forbid; oh! God forbid!” cried Rosamond, with a look of terror: but recovering herself, she added, “This is a vain fear. With your strength of mind, you could never be reduced to such a condition.”

  “Who can answer for their strength of mind in the second trial, if it fail in the first?” said Caroline. “If a woman once lets her affections go out of her power, how can she afterwards answer for her own happiness?”

  “All very right and very true,” said Rosamond: “but for a young person, Caroline, I could spare some of this premature reason. If there be some folly, at least there is some generosity, some sensibility often joined with a romantic temper: take care lest you ‘mistake reverse of wrong for right,’ and in your great zeal to avoid romance, run into selfishness.”

  “Selfishness!”

  “Why, yes — after all, what are these cold calculations about loving or not loving such a character as Colonel Hungerford — what is all this wonderfully long-sighted care of your own individual happiness, but selfishness? — moral, very moral selfishness, I grant.”

  Caroline coloured, paused, and when she answered, she spoke in a lower and graver tone and manner than usual.

  “If it be selfish to pursue, by the best means in my power, and by means which cannot hurt any human being, my own happiness, must I deserve to be called selfish? — Unless a woman be quite unconnected with others in society, without a family, and without friends — which, I thank God, is not my situation — it is impossible to hazard or to destroy our own happiness by any kind of imprudence, without destroying the happiness of others. Therefore imprudence, call it romance, or what you please, is often want of generosity — want of thought for the happiness of our friends, as well as for our own.”

  “Well come off!” said Rosamond, laughing: “you have proved, with admirable logic, that prudence is the height of generosity. But, my dear Caroline, do not speak so very seriously, and do not look with such ‘sweet austere composure.’ — I don’t in earnest accuse you of selfishness — I was wrong to use that ugly word; but I was vexed with you for being more prudent than even good old Mrs. Hungerford.”

  At these words tears filled Caroline’s eyes. “Dear, kind Mrs. Hungerford,” she exclaimed, “in the warmth of her heart, in the fulness of her kindness for me, once in her life Mrs. Hungerford said perhaps an imprudent word, expressed a wish of which her better judgment may have repented.”

  “No, no!” cried Rosamond—”her better, her best judgment must have confirmed her opinion of you. She never will repent of that wish. Why should you think she has repented of it, Caroline?”

  “Because she must by this time see that there is no probability of that wish being accomplished: she must, therefore, desire that it should be forgotten. And I trust I have acted, and shall always act, as if it were forgotten by me, except as to its kindness — that I shall remember while I have life and feeling. But if I had built a romance upon that slight word, consider how much that excellent friend would blame herself, when she found that she had misled me, that she had been the cause of anguish to my heart, that she had lowered in the opinion of all, even in her own opinion, one she had once so exalted by her approbation and friendship. And, oh! consider, Rosamond, what a return should I make for that friendship, if I were to be the occasion of any misunderstanding, any disagreement between her and her darling son. If I were to become the rival of her beloved niece!”

  “Rival! — Niece! — How? — Which?” cried Rosamond, “Which?” repeated she, eagerly; “I cannot think of any thing else, till you say which.”

  “Suppose Lady Elizabeth.”

  “The thought never occurred to me — Is it possible? — My dear Caroline, you have opened my eyes — But are you sure? Then you have acted wisely, rightly, Caroline; and I have as usual been very, very imprudent. Forgive what I said about selfishness — I was unjust. You selfish! you, who thought of all your friends, I thought only of you. But tell me, did you think of Lady Elizabeth from the first? Did you see how it would be from the very first?”

  “No; I never thought of it till lately, and I am not sure of it yet.”

  “So you never thought of it till lately, and you are not sure of it yet? — Then I dare say you are mistaken, and wrong, with all your superfluous prudence. I will observe with my own eyes, and trust only my own judgment.”

  With this laudable resolution Rosamond departed.

  The next morning she had an opportunity of observing, and deciding by her own judgment. Lady Elizabeth Pembroke and Caroline had both been copying a picture of Prince Rupert when a boy. They had finished their copies. Mrs. Hungerford showed them to her son. Lady Elizabeth’s was rather the superior painting. Colonel Hungerford instantly distinguished it, and, in strong terms, expressed his admiration; but, by some mistake, he fancied that both copies were done by Caroline: she explained to him that that which he preferred was Lady Elizabeth’s.

  “Yours!” exclaimed Colonel Hungerford, turning to Lady Elizabeth with a look and tone of delighted surprise. Lady Elizabeth coloured, Lady Mary smiled: he forbore adding one word either of praise or observation. Caroline gently relieved Mrs. Hungerford’s hand from her copy of the picture which she still held.

  Rosamond, breathless, looked and looked and waited for something more decisive.

  “My mother wished for a copy of this picture,” said Lady Elizabeth, in a tremulous voice, and without raising her eyes, “for we have none but a vile daub of him at Pembroke.”

  “Perhaps my aunt Pembroke would be so good to accept of the original?” said Colonel Hungerford; “and my mother would beg of Lady Elizabeth to give her copy to — our gallery.”

  “Do, my dear Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Hungerford. Lady Elizabeth shook her head, yet smiled.

  “Do, my dear; you cannot refuse your cousin.”

  “Cousin! there’s hope still,” thought Rosamond.

  “If it were but worthy of his acceptance,” said Lady Elizabeth. — Colonel Hungerford, lost in the enjoyment of her self-timidity and retiring grace, quite forgot to say how much he thought the picture worthy of his acceptance.

  His mother spoke for him.

  “Since Hungerford
asks you for it, my dear, you may be certain that he thinks highly of it, for my son never flatters.”

  “Who? I! — flatter!” cried Colonel Hungerford; “flatter!” added he, in a low voice, with a tenderness of accent and look, which could scarcely be misunderstood. Nor was it misunderstood by Lady Elizabeth, as her quick varying colour showed. It was well that, at this moment, no eye turned upon Rosamond, for all her thoughts and feeling would have been read in her face.

  “Come,” cried Lady Mary, “let us have the picture in its place directly — come all of you to the gallery, fix where it shall be hung.” Colonel Hungerford seized upon it, and following Lady Elizabeth, accompanied Lady Mary to the gallery. Mrs. Hungerford rose deliberately — Caroline offered her arm.

  “Yes, my dear child, let me lean upon you.”

  They walked slowly after the young party — Rosamond followed.

  “I am afraid,” said Mrs. Hungerford, as she leaned more upon Caroline, “I am afraid I shall tire you, my dear.”

  “Oh! no, no!” said Caroline, “not in the least.”

  “I am growing so infirm, that I require a stronger arm, a kinder I can never have.”

  The door of the antechamber, which opened into the gallery, closed after the young people.

  “I am not one of those exigeante mothers who expect always to have possession of a son’s arm,” resumed Mrs. Hungerford: “the time, I knew, would come, when I must give up my colonel.”

  “And with pleasure, I am sure, you now give him up, secure of his happiness,” said Caroline.

  Mrs. Hungerford stopped short, and looked full on Caroline, upon whom she had previously avoided to turn her eyes. From what anxiety did Caroline’s serene, open countenance, and sweet ingenuous smile, at this instant, relieve her friend! Old as she was, Mrs. Hungerford had quick and strong feelings. For a moment she could not speak — she held out her arms to Caroline, and folded her to her heart.