Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Lord William with increasing anxiety listened, but dared not look at Caroline, who with becoming modesty, but with firmness in what she believed to be right, answered, “that if a woman saw that a gentleman loved her, and felt that she could not return his attachment, she might, without any rude or premature rejecting, simply by a certain ease of manner, which every man of sense knows how to interpret, mark the difference between esteem and tenderer sentiments; and might, by convincing him that there was no chance of his obtaining any farther interest in her heart, prevent his ever having the pain of a decided refusal.”

  The discussion ended here. Fresh company joined them; other subjects were started. Lord William continued silent: he did not take any share in any conversation, but was so absent and absorbed in his own thoughts, that several times he was spoken to, without his being able to give a plausible answer — then he stood covered with confusion — confusion increasing from the sense that it was observed, and could not be conquered. The company moved different ways, but his lordship continued fixed near Caroline. At last the attention of all near him was happily diverted and drawn away from him by the appearance of some new and distinguished person. He seized the moment, and summoned courage sufficient to address some slight question to Caroline: she answered him with an ease of manner which he felt to be unfavourable to his wishes. The spell was upon him, and he could not articulate — a dead silence might have ensued, but that Lady Jane happily went on saying something about pine-apple ice. Lord William assented implicitly, without knowing to what, and replied, “Just so — exactly so—” to contradictory assertions; and if he had been asked at this instant whether what he was eating was hot or cold, he could not have been able to decide. Lady Jane composedly took a biscuit, and enjoyed the passing scene, observing that this was the pleasantest party she had been at this season.

  Mrs. Crabstock came up, and Lady Jane, with wit at will, kept the pattern-lady in play by an opportunely-recollected tale of scandal; with ears delighted, eyes riveted, stood Mrs. Crabstock, while Lord William, again relieved from the fear of observation, breathed once more; and, partly recovering his senses, through the mist that hung over him, looked at Caroline, in hopes of drawing some encouraging omen from her countenance. He had come to this party determined to say something that should explain to her his sentiments. He thought he could speak to her better in a crowd than alone. Now or never! said he to himself. With desperate effort, and with an oppressed voice, he said — the very thing he did not mean to say.

  “Miss Percy, I never was so inclined in all my life to quarrel with ease of manner in any body as in you.” Then, correcting himself, and blushing deeply, he added, “I don’t mean that I don’t admire your ease of manner in general — but — in short, it is impossible, I think, that with your penetration, you can be in any doubt as to my sentiments. If I thought—”

  He stopped short: he felt as if his life hung upon a thread — as if the first look, the first sound of her voice, the next word spoken, must decide his fate. He longed, yet feared to see that look, and to hear that word. “And I think it is impossible that, with your lordship’s penetration, you should mistake mine,” said Caroline.

  There was an ingenuous sweetness in her look and voice, a fear of giving pain, yet a resolution to be sincere. Lord William felt and understood it all. He saw there was no hope. Caroline heard from him a deep sigh. With great and painful emotion, in the most calm voice she could command, but in the kindest tone, she added, “For the sentiments of regard and esteem your lordship has expressed for me, believe me, I am truly grateful.”

  Mrs. Crabstock moved towards them, and Caroline paused.

  “Are you to be at Lady Arrowsmith’s concert to-morrow, my lord?” said Mrs. Crabstock, who was now at liberty to ask questions; for even scandal will not hold curiosity in check for ever.

  “Are you to be at Lady Arrowsmith’s, my lord, to-morrow night?” repeated she, for her first attack was unheard.

  “I do not know, indeed,” said he, starting from his fit of absence.

  Mrs. Crabstock persisted. “Were you at the opera last night, my lord?”

  “I really, ma’am, do not recollect.”

  “Bless me!” cried Mrs. Crabstock.

  And “Bless me!” cried Lady Jane Granville. “We are to be at the Duchess of Greenwich’s ball: Caroline, my dear — time for us to move. My lord, might I trouble your lordship to ask if our carriage is to be had?”

  Lord William, before she had completed the request, obeyed. As they went down the staircase, Lady Jane laughing said, “I am afraid I shall be as impertinently curious as Mrs. Crabstock — I was going to ask your lordship whether you are engaged to-morrow, or whether you can come to us — to me?”

  “Unhappily,” the accent on the word showed it was no expression of course. “Unhappily I cannot — I am engaged — I thank your ladyship.”

  Lady Jane looked back at Caroline, who was a little behind her.

  “Though I could not recollect in time to tell Mrs. Crabstock where I was last night, or where I am to be to-morrow,” continued his lordship, making an effort to smile, “yet I can satisfy your ladyship — I shall be at Tunbridge.”

  “Tunbridge!” cried Lady Jane, stopping short, and turning to Lord William, as the light shone full on his face: “Tunbridge, at this season?”

  “All seasons are alike to me — all seasons and their change,” replied Lord William, scarcely knowing what he answered — the powers of mind and body engrossed in suppressing emotion.

  They had now reached the bottom of the stairs — a shawl of Lady Jane’s was not to be found; and while the servants were searching for it, she and Caroline, followed by Lord William, went into one of the supper-rooms, which was open.

  “To Tunbridge!” repeated Lady Jane. “No, my lord, you must not leave us.”

  “What is there to prevent me?” said Lord William, hastily, almost harshly; for though at the time he felt her kindness, yet, irresistibly under the power of his demon, he said the thing he did not mean: his voice and look expressed the reverse of what his heart felt.

  “Nay, if there is nothing to prevent your lordship,” said Lady Jane, walking away with dignity, “I have only to wish your lordship a good journey.”

  “I would stay, if I could see any thing to keep me,” said Lord William, impelled, contrary to his better judgment, to appeal once more to Caroline’s countenance. Then cursed himself for his weakness.

  Lady Jane, turning back, saw his lordship’s look; and now, convinced that Caroline was to blame for all, reproached herself for misinterpreting his words and manner.

  “Well, my lord,” cried she, “you will not be in such haste to set out for Tunbridge, I am sure, as to go before you hear from me in the morning. Perhaps I may trouble your lordship with some commands.”

  He bowed, and said he should do himself the honour of waiting her ladyship’s commands. She passed on quickly towards the hall. Lord William offered his arm to Caroline.

  “I must speak to you, Miss Percy — and have but a moment—”

  Caroline walked more slowly.

  “Thank you, madam — yes, I do thank you. Much pain you have given; but as little as you could. Better now than later. Like yourself — and I thank you for preserving the idea of excellence in my mind in all its integrity — in all — I shall detain you but a moment — you are not impatient?”

  “No,” said Caroline, in a tremulous voice; yet for his sake, as well as for the sake of her own consistency, trying to suppress emotion which she thought he might misinterpret.

  “Fear not — I shall not misinterpret — I know too well what love is. Speak freely of my sentiments to Lady Jane, when I am gone — her friendship deserves it from me.”

  He stopped speaking. “Stay,” said Caroline. “It may give your noble mind some ease to know that my heart was engaged before we ever met.”

  He was silent. It was the silence of deep feeling. They came within view of the servants — he
walked quietly to the carriage — assisted her into it, pressed her hand — and said in a low voice, “Farewell — for ever.”

  The carriage-door was shut.

  “Where to, my lady?” said the footman.

  “The Duchess of Greenwich’s, or home, Caroline?”

  “Oh! home, if I may choose,” said Caroline.

  “Home!” said Lady Jane.

  And the moment the glass was up, “Caroline, my dear, tell me this instant, what is all this between you and Lord William? — Is it as I hope? — or, is it as I fear? — speak.”

  Caroline could not — she was in tears.

  “What have you done? — If you have said any thing irrevocable, and without consulting me, I never, never will forgive you, Caroline. Speak, at all events.”

  Caroline tried to obey her ladyship.

  “What have you done? — What have you said?”

  “I have said the truth — I have done, I hope, what I ought,” said Caroline; “but I have given great pain—”

  Lady Jane now perceiving by her voice that she was in sorrow, spoke no more in anger; but, checking herself, and changing her tone, said, “It is not irremediable, my dear. Whatever pain you may have given, you know the power to give pleasure is still in your own hands.”

  Caroline sighed—”Alas! no, madam, it is not.”

  “Why so, my love? He will not leave town in the morning without my commands; and I am at your command. A note, a line, a word, will set all to rights.”

  “But that word I cannot say.”

  “Then let me say it for you. Trust your delicacy to me — I will be dignity itself. Can you doubt it? Believe me, much as I wish to see you what and where you ought to be in society, I would not — there it is, begging Lady Frances Arlington’s pardon, that Mrs. Falconer and I differ in character essentially, and de fond en comble. I would never yield a point of real delicacy; I would not descend the thousandth part of a degree from proper dignity, to make you — any more than to make myself — a princess. And now, without reserve, open your heart, and tell me what you wish to have done or said.”

  “Nothing, my dear Lady Jane.”

  “Nothing? my dear Caroline.”

  “I have no more to say — I have said all I can say.”

  The carriage stopped at their own door.

  “We are all in the dark,” said Lady Jane: “when I have more light I shall be able better to tell what we are about.”

  “Now, I can see as well as hear,” continued she, as her woman met her with lights. “Keppel, you may go to bed; we shall not want you to-night.”

  “Now, Caroline, take care: remember your countenance is open to me, if not your heart.”

  “Both, both are open to you, my dear friend!” cried Caroline. “And Lord William, who said you deserved it from him, desired me to speak as freely for him as for myself.”

  “He’s a noble creature! There’s the difference between reserve of character and reserve of manner — I always said so. Go on, my dear.”

  Caroline related every thing that had passed; and Lady Jane, when she had finished, said, “A couple of children! — But a couple of charming children. Now I, that have common sense, must set it all to rights, and turn no prettily into yes.”

  “It cannot be done,” said Caroline.

  “Pardon me, solemn fair one, it can.”

  “Pardon me, my dear Lady Jane, it must not be done.”

  “Children should not say must,” cried Lady Jane, in a playful tone; for never did she feel in more delightful spirits than at this moment, when all her hopes for Caroline, as she thought, were realized; “and to complete ‘the pleasing history,’ no obstacle remained,” she said, “but the Chinese mother-of-pearl curtain of etiquette to be withdrawn, by a dexterous, delicate hand, from between Shuey-Ping-Sin and her lover.” Lady Jane, late as it was at night, took up a pen, to write a note to Lord William.

  “What are you going to do, may I ask, my dear madam?” cried Caroline.

  “My dear madam, I am going my own way — let me alone.”

  “But if you mean to write for me—”

  “For you! — not at all — for myself. I beg to see Lord William in the morning, to trouble him with my commands.”

  “But seriously, my dear Lady Jane, do not give him unnecessary pain — for my mind is decided.”

  “So every young lady says — it is a ruled case — for the first three days.” Lady Jane wrote on as fast as she could.

  “My dear Lady Jane,” cried Caroline, stopping her ladyship’s hand, “I am in earnest.”

  “So, then,” cried Lady Jane, impatiently, “you will not trust me — you will not open your heart to me, Caroline?”

  “I do — I have trusted you entirely, my dear friend. My heart I opened to you long ago.”

  A dead pause — and blank consternation in Lady Jane’s countenance.

  “But surely since then it must have changed?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “But it will change: let Lord William try to change it.”

  Caroline shook her head. “It will not — I cannot.”

  “And you won’t do this, when I ask it as a favour for my friend, my particular friend?”

  “Excuse me, dear, kind Lady Jane; I know you wish only my happiness, but this would make me unhappy. It is the only thing you could ask with which I would not comply.”

  “Then I’ll never ask any thing else while I live from you, Miss Percy,” cried Lady Jane, rising and throwing her pen from her. “You are resolved to throw your happiness from you — do so. Wish your happiness! — yes, I have wished it anxiously — ardently! but now I have done: you are determined to be perverse and philosophical. Good night to you.”

  Lady Jane snatched up her candle, and in haste retired. Caroline, sensible that all her ladyship’s anger at this moment arose from warm affection, was the more sorry to have occasioned it, and to feel that she could not, by yielding, allay it instantly. — A sleepless night.

  Early in the morning, Keppel, half-dressed and not half awake, came, with her ladyship’s love, and begged to speak a word to Miss Percy.

  “Love!” repeated Caroline, as she went to Lady Jane’s apartment: “how kind she is!”

  “My dear, you have not slept, I see — nor I neither; but I am sure you have forgiven my hastiness;” said Lady Jane, raising herself on her pillow.

  Caroline kissed her affectionately.

  “And let these tears, my dearest Caroline,” continued Lady Jane, “be converted into tears of joy: for my sake — for your whole family — for your own sake, my sweet girl, be advised, and don’t throw away your happiness for life. Here’s a note from Lord William — he waits my commands — that’s all. Let me only desire to see him.”

  “On my account? I cannot,” said Caroline — the tears streaming down her face, though she spoke calmly.

  “Then it is your pride to refuse the man for whom every other young woman is sighing.”

  “No, believe me that I do not act from pride: I feel none — I have no reason to feel any.”

  “No reason to feel pride! Don’t you know — yes, you know as well as I do, that this is the man of men — the man on whom every mother’s — every daughter’s eye is fixed — the first unmarried nobleman now in England — the prize of prizes. The most excellent man, you allow, and universally allowed to be the most agreeable.”

  “But if he be not so to me?” said Caroline.

  “That can only be because — you are conscious of the cause, Caroline — it is your own fault.”

  “And therefore I said, that I felt I had no reason to be proud,” said Caroline.

  “Then have reason to be proud; conquer this weakness, and then you may have cause to be proud. You pique yourself on being reasonable: is it reasonable to leave your affections in the possession of a man, of whom, in all human probability, you will never hear more?”

  “Too probable,” said Caroline.

  “And will you,
Caroline Percy, like Lady Angelica Headingham, leave your heart at the mercy of a foreign adventurer?”

  “Oh! stop, ma’am,” cried Caroline, putting her hand before Lady Jane’s mouth: “don’t say that word — any thing else I could bear. But if you knew him — education, character, manners — no, you would not be so unjust.”

  “You know you told me you were sensible you ought not to indulge such a weakness, Caroline?”

  “I did — I am sensible of it — oh! you see I am; and my best — my very best have I done to drive him from my memory; and never, till I was forced to make this comparison, did I recollect — did I feel — Weak, I may be,” said Caroline, changing from great agitation to perfect decision; “but wicked will not be: I will never marry one man, and love another. My own happiness if I sacrifice, mine be the consequence; but will never injure the happiness of another. Do not, madam, keep that noble heart, this excellent Lord William, in suspense — What are your commands?”

  “My commands!” cried Lady Jane, raising her voice, trembling with anger. “Then this is your gratitude — this your generosity!”

  “I cannot be generous — I must be just. I have concealed nothing from Lord William — he knows that my heart was engaged before we met.”

  “And this your affection for all your friends — all who wish for your happiness? You would sacrifice nothing — nothing — no, not the slightest fancy, disgraceful fancy of your own, to please them, when you know how ardently too they wish to see you happily married.”

  “To marry to please others, against my own inclination, against my own conscience, must be weakness indeed — self-deception; for if my friends wish my happiness, and I make myself miserable, how can that please them? Any sacrifice I could make, except that of principle, I would; but that I never will make, nor will my friends, nor do they, desire it — Forgive me, dear Lady Jane.”

  “I never will forgive you,” interrupted Lady Jane. “Ring! — yes, ring the bell — and when rung, never expect my forgiveness.”

  It must be done, thought Caroline, sooner or later.

  “My compliments, Keppel, to Lord William,” said Lady Jane; “I have no commands to trouble him with. Stay, I must find something — that parcel for Mrs. Baggot, Tunbridge — I must write — I cannot write.”