Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Then returning to Helen—”After all, I did so right, and I am so glad I thought in time of inviting Esther, now Mr. Beauclerc is coming — the general’s sister — half sister. Oh, so unlike him! you would never guess that Miss Clarendon was his sister, except from her pride. But she is so different from other people; she knows nothing, and wishes to know nothing of the world. She lives always at an old castle in Wales, Llan —— something, which she inherited from her mother, and she has always been her own mistress, living with her aunt in melancholy grandeur there, till her brother brought her to Florence, where — oh, how she was out of her element! Come this way and I will tell you more. The fact is, I do not not much like Miss Clarendon, and I will tell you why — I will describe her to you.”

  “No, no, do not,” said Helen; “do not, my dear Cecilia, and I will tell you why.”

  “Why — why?” cried Cecilia. “Do you recollect the story my uncle told us about the young bride and her old friend, and the bit of advice?”

  No, Cecilia did not recollect any thing of it. She should be very glad to hear the anecdote, but as to the advice, she hated advice.

  “Still, if you knew who gave it — it was given by a very great man.”

  “A very great man! now you make me curious. Well, what is it?” said Lady Cecilia.

  “That for one year after her marriage, she would not tell to her friends the opinion she had formed, if unfavourable, of any of her husband’s relations, as it was probable she might change that opinion on knowing them better, and would afterwards be sorry for having told her first hasty judgment. Long afterwards the lady told her friend that she owed to this advice a great part of the happiness of her life, for she really had, in the course of the year, completely changed her first notions of some of her husband’s family, and would have had sorely to repent, if she had told her first thoughts!”

  Cecilia listened, and said it was all “Vastly well! excellent! But I had nothing in the world to say of Miss Clarendon, but that she was too good — too sincere for the world we live in. For instance, at Paris, one day a charming Frenchwoman was telling some anecdote of the day in the most amusing manner. Esther Clarendon all the while stood by, grave and black as night, and at last turning upon our charmer at the end of the story, pronounced, ‘There is not one word of truth in all you have been saying!’ Conceive it, in full salon! The French were in such amazement. ‘Inconceivable!’ as they might well say to me, as she walked off with her tragedy-queen air; ‘Inconcevable — mais, vraiment inconcevable;’ and ‘Bien Anglaise,’ they would have added, no doubt, if I had not been by.”

  “But there must surely have been some particular reason,” said Helen.

  “None in the world, only the story was not true, I believe. And then another time, when she was with her cousin, the Duchess of Lisle, at Lisle-Royal, and was to have gone out the next season in London with the Duchess, she came down one morning, just before they were to set off for town, and declared that she had heard such a quantity of scandal since she had been there, and such shocking things of London society, that she had resolved not to go out with the Duchess, and not to go to town at all? So absurd — so prudish!”

  Helen felt some sympathy in this, and was going to have said so, but Cecilia went on with —

  “And then to expect that Granville Beauclerc — should—”

  Here Cecilia paused, and Helen felt curious, and ashamed of her curiosity; she turned away, to raise the branches of some shrub, which were drooping from the weight of their flowers.

  “I know something has been thought of,” said Cecilia. “A match has been in contemplation — do you comprehend me, Helen?”

  “You mean that Mr. Beauclerc is to marry Miss Clarendon,” said Helen, compelled to speak.

  “I only say it has been thought of,” replied Lady Cecilia; “that is, as every thing in this way is thought of about every couple not within the prohibited degrees, one’s grandmother inclusive. And the plainer the woman, the more sure she is to contemplate such things for herself, lest no one else should think of them for her. But, my dear Helen, if you mean to ask—”

  “Oh, I don’t mean to ask any thing,” cried Helen.

  “But, whether you ask or not, I must tell you that the general is too proud to own, even to himself, that he could; ever think of any man for his sister who had not first proposed for her.”

  There was a pause for some minutes.

  “But,” resumed Lady Cecilia, “I could not do less than ask her here for Clarendon’s sake, when I know it pleases him; and she is very — estimable, and so I wish to make her love me if I could! But I do not think she will be nearer her point with Mr. Beauclerc, if it is her point, by coming here just now. Granville has eyes as well as ears, and contrasts will strike. I know who I wish should strike him, as she strikes me — and I think — I hope—”

  Helen looked distressed.

  “I am as innocent as a dove,” pursued Lady Cecilia; “but I suppose even doves may have their own private little thoughts and wishes.”

  Helen was sure Cecilia had meant all this most kindly, but she was sorry that some things had been said. She was conscious of having been interested by those letters of Mr. Beauclerc’s; but a particular thought had now been put into her mind, and she could never more say, never more feel, that such a thought had not come into her head. She was very sorry; it seemed as if somewhat of the freshness, the innocence, of her mind was gone from her. She was sorry, too, that she had heard all that Cecilia had said about Miss Clarendon; it appeared as if she was actually doomed to get into some difficulty with the general about his sister; she felt as if thrown back into a sea of doubts, and she was not clear that she could, even by opposing, end them.

  On the appointed Tuesday, late, Miss Clarendon arrived; a fine figure, but ungraceful, as Helen observed, from the first moment when she turned sharply away from Lady Cecilia’s embrace to a great dog of her brother’s—”Ah, old Neptune! I’m glad you’re here still.”

  And when Lady Cecilia would have put down his paws—”Let him alone, let him alone, dear, honest, old fellow.”

  “But the dear, honest, old fellow’s paws are wet, and will ruin your pretty new pelisse.”

  “It may be new, but you know it is not pretty,” said Miss Clarendon, continuing to pat Neptune’s head as he jumped up with his paws on her shoulders.

  “O my dear Esther, how can you bear him? he is so rough in his love!”

  “I like rough better than smooth.” The rough paw caught in her lace frill, and it was torn to pieces before “down! down!” and the united efforts of Lady Cecilia and Helen could extricate it.—”Don’t distress yourselves about it, pray; it does not signify in the least. Poor Neptune, how really sorry he looks — there, there, wag your tail again — no one shall come between us two old friends.”

  Her brother came in, and, starting up, her arms were thrown round his neck, and her bonnet falling back, Helen who had thought her quite plain before, was surprised to see that, now her colour was raised, and there was life in her eyes, she was really handsome.

  Gone again that expression, when Cecilia spoke to her: whatever she said, Miss Clarendon differed from; if it was a matter of taste, she was always of the contrary opinion; if narrative or assertion, she questioned, doubted, seemed as if she could not believe. Her conversation, if conversation it could be called, was a perpetual rebating and regrating, especially with her sister-in-law; if Lady Cecilia did but say there were three instead of four, it was taken up as “quite a mistake,” and marked not only as a mistake, but as “not true.” Every, the slightest error, became a crime against majesty, and the first day ended with Helen’s thinking her really the most disagreeable, intolerable person she had ever seen.

  And the second day went on a little worse. Helen thought Cecilia took too much pains to please, and said it would be better to let her quite alone. Helen did so completely, but Miss Clarendon did not let Helen alone; but watched her with penetrating eyes con
tinually, listened to every word she said, and seeming to weigh every syllable,—”Oh, my words are not worth your weighing,” said Helen, laughing.

  “Yes they are, to settle my mind.”

  The first thing that seemed at all to settle it was Helen’s not agreeing with Cecilia about the colour of two ribands which Helen said she could not flatter her were good matches. The next was about a drawing of Miss Clarendon’s, of Llansillan, her place in Wales; a beautiful drawing indeed, which she had brought for her brother, but one of the towers certainly was out of the perpendicular. Helen was appealed to, and could not say it was upright; Miss Clarendon instantly took up a knife, cut the paper at the back of the frame, and, taking out the drawing, set the tower to rights.

  “There’s the use of telling the truth.”

  “Of listening to it,” said Helen.

  “We shall get on, I see, Miss Stanley, if you can get over the first bitter outside of me; — a hard outside, difficult to crack — stains delicate fingers, may be,” she continued, as she replaced her drawing in its frame—”stains delicate fingers, may be, in the opening, but a good walnut you will find it, taken with a grain of salt.”

  Many a grain seemed necessary, and very strong nut-crackers in very strong hands. Lady Cecilia’s evidently were not strong enough, though she strained hard. Helen did not feel inclined to try.

  Cecilia invited Miss Clarendon to walk out and see some of the alterations her brother had made. As they passed the new Italian garden, Miss Clarendon asked, “What’s all this? — don’t like this — how I regret the Old English garden, and the high beech hedges. Every thing is to be changed here, I suppose, — pray do not ask my opinion about any of the alterations.”

  “I do not wonder,” said Cecilia, “that you should prefer the old garden, with all your early associations; warm-hearted, amiable people must always be so fond of what they have loved in childhood.”

  “I never was here when I was a child, and I am not one of your amiable people.”

  “Very true, indeed,” thought Helen.

  “Miss Stanley looks at me as if I had seven heads,” said Miss Clarendon, laughing; and, a minute after, overtaking Helen as she walked on, she looked full in her face, and added, “Do acknowledge that you think me a savage.” Helen did not deny it, and from that moment Miss Clarendon looked less savagely upon her: she laughed and said, “I am not quite such a bear as I seem, you’ll find; at least I never hug people to death. My growl is worse than my bite, unless some one should flatter my classical, bearish passion, and offer to feed me with honey, and when I find it all comb and no honey, who would not growl then?”

  Lady Cecilia now came up, and pointed out views to which the general had opened. “Yes, it’s well, he has done very well, but pray don’t stand on ceremony with me. I can walk alone, you may leave me to my own cogitations, as I like best.”

  “Surely, as you like best,” said Lady Cecilia; “pray consider yourself, as you know you are, at home here.”

  “No, I never shall be at home here,” said Esther.

  “Oh! don’t say that, let me hope — let me hope—” and she withdrew. Helen just stayed to unlock a gate for Miss Clarendon’s ‘rambles further,’ and, as she unlocked it, she heard Miss Clarendon sigh as she repeated the word, “Hope! I do not like to hope, hope has so often deceived me.”

  “You will never be deceived in Cecilia,” said Helen.

  “Take care — stay till you try.”

  “I have tried,” said Helen, “I know her.”

  “How long?”

  “From childhood!”

  “You’re scarcely out of childhood yet.”

  “I am not so very young. I have had trials of my friends — of Cecilia particularly, much more than you could ever have had.”

  “Well, this is the best thing I ever heard of her, and from good authority too; her friends abroad were all false,” said Miss Clarendon.

  “It is very extraordinary,” said Helen, “to hear such a young person as you are talk so —

  “So — how?”

  “Of false friends — you must have been very unfortunate.”

  “Pardon me — very fortunate — to find them out in time.” She looked at the prospect, and liked all that her brother was doing, and disliked all that she even guessed Lady Cecilia had done. Helen showed her that she guessed wrong here and there, and smiled at her prejudices; and Miss Clarendon smiled again, and admitted that she was prejudiced, “but every body is; only some show and tell, and others smile and fib. I wish that word fib was banished from English language, and white lie drummed out after it. Things by their right names and we should all do much better. Truth must be told, whether agreeable or not.”

  “But whoever makes truth disagreeable commits high treason against virtue,” said Helen.

  “Is that yours?” cried Miss Clarendon, stopping short.

  “No,” said Helen. “It is excellent whoever said it.”

  “It was from my uncle Stanley I heard it,” said Helen.

  “Superior man that uncle must have been.”

  “I will leave you now,” said Helen.

  “Do, I see we shall like one another in time, Miss Stanley; in time, — I hate sudden friendships.”

  That evening Miss Clarendon questioned Helen more about her friendship with Cecilia, and how it was she came to hive with her. Helen plainly told her.

  “Then it was not an original promise between you?”

  “Not at all,” said Helen.

  “Lady Cecilia told me it was. Just like her, — I knew all the time it was a lie.”

  Shocked and startled at the word, and at the idea, Helen exclaimed, “Oh! Miss Clarendon, how can you say so? anybody may be mistaken. Cecilia mistook—” Lady Cecilia joined them at this moment. Miss Clarendon’s face was flushed. “This room is insufferably hot. What can be the use of a fire at this time of year?”

  Cecilia said it was for her mother, who was apt to be chilly in the evenings; and as she spoke, she put a screen between the flushed cheek and the fire. Miss Clarendon pushed it away, saying, “I can’t talk, I can’t hear, I can’t understand with a screen before me. What did you say, Lady Cecilia, to Lady Davenant, as we came out from dinner, about Mr. Beauclerc?”

  “That we expect him to-morrow.”

  “You did not tell me so when you wrote!”

  “No, my dear.”

  “Why pray?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know, Lady Cecilia! why should people say they do not know, when they do know perfectly well?”

  “If I had thought it was of any consequence to you, Esther,” said Cecilia, with an arch look ——

  “Now you expect me to answer that it was not of the least consequence to me — that is the answer you would make; but my answer is, that it was of consequence to me, and you knew it was.”

  “And if I did?”

  “If you did, why say ‘If I had thought it of any consequence to you?’ — why say so? answer me truly.”

  “Answer me truly!” repeated Lady Cecilia, laughing. “Oh, my dear Esther, we are not in a court of justice.”

  “Nor in a court of honour,” pursued Miss Clarendon.

  “Well, well! let it be a court of love at least,” said Lady Cecilia. “What a pretty proverb that was, Helen, that we met with the other day in that book of old English proverbs—’Love rules his kingdom without a sword.’”

  “Very likely; but to the point,” said Miss Clarendon, “when do you expect Mr. Beauclerc?”

  “To-morrow.”

  “Then I shall go to-morrow!”

  “My dear Esther, why?”

  “You know why; you know what reports have been spread; it suits neither my character nor my brother’s to give any foundation for such reports. Let me ring the bell and I will give my own orders.”

  “My dear Esther, but your brother will be so vexed — so surprised.”

  “My brother is the best judge of his own condu
ct, he will do what he pleases, or what you please. I am the judge of mine, and certainly shall do what I think right.”

  She rang accordingly, and ordered that her carriage should be at the door at six o’clock in the morning.

  “Nay, my dear Esther,” persisted Cecilia, “I wish you would not decide so suddenly; we were so glad to have you come to us—”

  “Glad! why you know—”

  “I know,” interrupted Lady Cecilia, colouring, and she began as fast as possible to urge every argument she could think of to persuade Miss Clarendon; but no arguments, no entreaties of hers or the general’s, public or private, were of any avail, — go she would, and go she did at six o’clock.

  “I suppose,” said Helen to Lady Davenant, “that Miss Clarendon is very estimable, and she seems to be very clever: but I wonder that with all her abilities she does not learn to make her manners more agreeable.”

  “My dear,” said Lady Davenant, “we must take people as they are; you may graft a rose upon an oak, but those who have tried the experiment tell us the graft will last but a short time, and the operation ends in the destruction of both; where the stocks have no common nature, there is ever a want of conformity which sooner or later proves fatal to both.”

  But Beauclerc, what was become of him? — that day passed, and no Beauclerc; another and another came, and on the third day, only a letter from him, which ought to have come on Tuesday. — But “too late,” the shameful brand of procrastination was upon it — and it contained only a few lines blotted in the folding, to say that he could not possibly be at Clarendon Park on Tuesday, but would on Wednesday or Thursday if possible.