Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Notwithstanding Lady Bearcroft’s want of knowledge of the great world, she had considerable knowledge of human nature, which stood her wonderfully in stead. She had no notion of being made sport of for the élégantes, and, with all Lady Masham’s plausibility of persiflage, she never obtained her end, and never elicited anything really absurd by all attempts to draw her out — out she would not be drawn. After an unconquerable silence and all the semblance of dead stupidity, Lady Bearcroft suddenly showed signs of life, however, and she, all at once, began to talk — to Helen of all people! — And why? — because she had taken, in her own phrase, a monstrous fancy to Miss Stanley; she was not sure of her name, but she knew she liked her nature, and it would be a pity that her reason should not be known and in the words in which she told it to Lady Cecilia, “Now I will just tell you why I have taken such a monstrous fancy to your friend here, Miss Hanley—”

  “Miss Stanley — give me leave to mention,” said Lady Cecilia. “Let me introduce you regularly.”

  “Oh! by no means; don’t trouble yourself now, Lady Cecilia, for I hate regular introductions. But, as I was going to tell you how, before dinner to-day, as I came down the great staircase, I had an uncommon large, big, and, for aught I know, yellow corking-pin, which that most careless of all careless maids of mine — a good girl, too — had left sticking point foremost out of some part of me. Miss Hanley — Stanley (beg pardon) was behind, and luckily saw and stopped. Out she pulled it, begging my pardon; so kindly too, I only felt the twitch on my sleeve, and turned, and loved the first sight I had of that pretty face, which need never blush, I am sure, though it’s very becoming the blush too. So good-natured, you know, Lady Cecilia, it was, when nobody was looking, and before any body was the wiser. Not like some young ladies, or old even, that would have showed one up, rather than help one out in any pin’s point of a difficulty.”

  Lady Cecilia herself was included in Lady Bearcroft’s good graces, for she liked that winning way, and saw there was a real good-nature there, too. She opened to both friends cordially, à propos to some love of a lace trimming. Of lace she was a famous judge, and she went into details of her own good bargains, with histories of her expeditions into the extremity of the city in search of cheap goods and unheard of wonders at prime cost, in regions unknown. She told how it was her clever way to leave her carriage and her people, and go herself down narrow streets and alleys, where only wheel-barrows and herself could go; she boasted of her feats in diving into dark dens in search of run goods, charming things — French warranted — that could be had for next to nothing, and, in exemplification, showed the fineness of her embroidered cambric handkerchiefs, and told their price to farthing!

  Lady Masham’s “Wonderful!” was worthy of any Jesuit male or female, that ever existed.

  From her amazing bargains, the lady of the law-knight went on to smuggling; and, as she got into spirits, talking loudly, she told of some amber satin, a whole piece capitally got over in an old gentleman’s “Last Will and Testament,” tied up with red tape so nicely, and sealed and superscribed and all, got through untouched! “But a better thing I did myself,” continued she; “the last trip I made to Paris — coming back, I set at defiance all the searchers and stabbers, and custom-house officers of both nations. I had hundreds of pounds worth of Valenciennes and Brussels lace hid — you would never guess where. I never told a servant — not a mortal maid even; that’s the only way; had only a confidante of a coachmaker. But when it came to packing-up time, my own maid smelt out the lace was missing; and gave notice, I am, confident, to the custom-house people to search me. So much the more glory to me. I got off clear; and, when they had stabbed the cushions, and torn the inside of my carriage all to pieces, I very coolly made them repair the mischief at their own cost. Oh, I love to do things bravely! and away I drove triumphant with the lace, well stuffed, packed, and covered within the pole leather of the carriage they had been searching all the time.”

  At this period of her narrative the gentlemen came into the drawing-room. “But here comes Sir Benjamin! mum, mum! not a word more for my life! You understand, Lady Cecilia! husbands must be minded. And let me whisper a favour — a whist-party I must beg; nothing keeps Sir Ben in good-humour so certainly as whist — when he wins, I mean.”

  The whist-party was made, and Lady Cecilia took care that Sir Benjamin should win, while she lost with the best grace possible. By her conciliating manners and good management in dividing to govern, all parties were arranged to general satisfaction. Mr. Harley’s antipathy, the attaché, she settled at ecartê with Lady Masham, who found him “quite a well-mannered, pleasant person.” Lady Cecilia explained to Mr. Harley, that it was her fault — her mistake entirely — that this person had been invited. Mr. Harley was now himself again, and happy in conversation with Lady Davenant, beside whom he found his place on the sofa.

  After Helen had done her duty at harp and piano-forte, Cecilia relieved her, and whispered that she might now go to her mother’s sofa, and rest and be happy. “Mamma’s work is in some puzzle, Helen; you must go and set it to rights, my dear.” Lady Davenant welcomed her with a smile, made room for her on the sofa, and made over to her the tambour-frame; and now that Helen saw and heard Mr. Harley in his natural state, she could scarcely believe that he was the same person who had sat beside her at dinner. Animated and delightful he was now, and, what she particularly liked in him, there was no display — nothing in the Churchill style. Whenever any one came near, and seemed to wish to hear or speak, Mr. Harley not only gave them fair play, but helped them in their play. Helen observed that he possessed the art which she had often remarked in Lord Davenant, peculiar to good-natured genius — the art of drawing something good out of every body; sometimes more than they knew they had in them till it was brought out. Even from Lord Masham, insipid and soulless though he was, as any courtier-lord in waiting could be, something was extracted: Lord Masham, universally believed to have nothing in him, was this evening surprisingly entertaining. He gave Lady Davenant a description of what he had been so fortunate as to see — the first public dinner of the king of France on his restoration, served according to all the ci-devant ceremonials, and in the etiquette of Louis the Fourteenth’s time. Lord Masham represented in a lively manner the Marquis de Dreux, in all his antiquarian glory, going through the whole form prescribed: first, knocking with his cane at the door; then followed by three guards with shouldered carbines, marching to buttery and hall, each and every officer of the household making reverential obeisance as they passed to the Nef — the Nef being, as Lord Masham explained to Miss Stanley, a piece of gilt plate in the shape of the hull of a ship, in which the napkins for the king’s table are kept. “But why the hull of a ship should be appropriated to the royal napkins?” was asked. Lord Masham confessed that this was beyond him, but he looked amazingly considerate — delicately rubbed his polished forehead with the second finger of the right hand, then regarded his ring, and turned it thrice slowly round, but the talismanic action produced nothing, and he received timely relief by a new turn given to the conversation, in which he was not, he thought, called upon to take any share — the question indeed appeared to him irrelevant, and retiring to the card-table, he “left the discussion to abler heads.”

  The question was, why bow to the Nef at all? — This led to a discussion upon the advantages of ceremonials in preserving respect for order and reverence for authority, and then came an inquiry into the abuses of this real good. It was observed that the signs of the times should always be consulted, and should guide us in these things. — How far? was next to be considered. All agreed on the principle that ‘order is Heaven’s first law,’ yet there were in the application strong shades of difference between those who took part in the conversation. On one side, it was thought that overturning the tabouret at the court of France had been the signal for the overthrow of the throne; while, on the other hand, it was suggested that a rigid adherence to forms unsuited to the temper of the times
only exasperates, and that, wherever reliance on forms is implicit, it is apt to lead princes and their counsellors to depend too much on the strength of that fence which, existing only in the imagination, is powerless when the fashion changes. Ins a court quite surrounded and enveloped by old forms, the light of day cannot penetrate to the interior of the palace, the eyes long kept in obscurity are weakened, so that light cannot be borne: when suddenly it breaks in, the royal captive is bewildered, and if obliged to act, he gropes, blunders, injures himself, and becomes incapable of decision in extremity of danger, reduced to the helplessness which marks the condition of the Eastern despot, or les rois fainéans of any time or country.

  As Helen sat by, listening to this conversation, what struck and interested her most was, the manner in which it went on and went off without leading to any unpleasant consequences, notwithstanding the various shades of opinion between the parties. This she saw depended much on the good sense and talents, but far more on the good breeding and temper of those who spoke and those who listened. Time in the first place was allowed and taken for each to be understood, and no one was urged by exclamation, or misconception, or contradiction, to say more than just the thing he thought.

  Lady Cecilia, who had now joined the party, was a little in pain when she heard Louis the Fourteenth’s love for punctuality alluded to. She dreaded, when the general quoted “Punctuality is the virtue of princes,” that Mr. Harley, with the usual impatience of genius, would have ridiculed so antiquated a notion; but, to Lady Cecilia’s surprise, he even took the part of punctuality: in a very edifying manner he distinguished it from mere ceremonial etiquette — the ceremonial of the German courts, where “they lose time at breakfast, at dinner, at supper; at court, in the antechamber, on the stairs, everywhere:” — punctuality was, he thought, a habit worthy to be ranked with the virtues, by its effects upon the mind, the power it demands and gives of self-control, raising in us a daily, hourly sense of duty, of something that ought, that must be done, one of the best habits human creatures can have, either for their own sake or the sake of those with whom they live. And to kings and courtiers more particularly, because it gives the idea of stability — of duration; and to the aged, because it gives a sort of belief that life will last for ever. The general had often thought this, but said he had never heard it so well expressed; he afterwards acknowledged to Cecilia that he found Mr. Harley was quite a different person from what he had expected—”He has good sense, as well as genius and good breeding. I am glad, my dear Cecilia, that you asked him here.” This was a great triumph.

  Towards the close of the evening, when mortals are beginning to think of bed-chamber candles, Lady Cecilia looked at the ecarté table, and said to her mother, “How happy they are, and how comfortable we are! A card-table is really a necessary of life — not even music is more universally useful.” Mr. Harley said, “I doubt,” and then arose between Lady Davenant and him an argument upon the comparative power in modern society of music and cards. Mr. Harley took the side of music, but Lady Davenant inclined to think that cards, in their day, and their day is not over yet, have had a wider range of influence. “Nothing like that happy board of green cloth; it brings all intellects to one level,” she said. Mr. Harley pleaded the cause of music, which, he said, hushes all passions, calms even despair. Lady Davenant urged the silent superiority of cards, which rests the weary talker, and relieves the perplexed courtier, and, in support of her opinion, she mentioned an old ingenious essay on cards and tea, by Pinto, she thought; and she begged that Helen would some time look for it in the library. Helen went that instant. She searched, but could not find; where it ought to have been, there it of course was not. While she was still on the book-ladder, the door opened, and enter Lady Bearcroft.

  “Miss Hanley!” cried she, “I have a word to say to you, for, though you are a stranger to me, I see you are a dear good creature, and I think I may take the liberty of asking your advice in a little matter.”

  Helen, who had by this time descended from the steps, stood and looked a little surprised, but said all that was properly civil, “gratified by Lady Bearcroft’s good opinion-happy to be of any service,” — &c. &c.

  “Well, then — sit ye down one instant, Miss Hanley.”

  Helen suggested that her name was Stanley.

  “Stanley! — eh? — Yes, I remember. But I want to consult you, since you are so kind to allow me, on a little matter — but do sit down, I never can talk of business standing. Now I just want you, my dear Miss Hanley, to do a little job for me with Lady Davenant, who, with half an eye can see, is a great friend of yours. — Aren’t I right?”

  Helen said Lady Davenant was indeed a very kind friend of hers, but still what it could be in which Lady Bearcroft expected her assistance she could not imagine.

  “You need not be frightened at the word job; if that is what alarms you,” continued Lady Bearcroft, “put your heart at ease, there is nothing of that sort here. It is only a compliment that I want to make, and nothing in the world expected in return for it — as it is a return in itself. But in the first place look at this cover.” She produced the envelope of a letter. “Is this Lady Davenant’s handwriting, think you?” She pointed to the word “Mis-sent,” written on the corner of the cover. Helen said it was Lady Davenant’s writing. “You are certain? — Well, that is odd! — Mis-sent! when it was directed to herself, and nobody else on earth, as you see as plain as possible — Countess Davenant, surely that is right enough?” Then opening a red morocco case she showed a magnificent diamond Sevigné. “Observe now,” she continued, “these diamonds are so big, my dear Miss Hanley — Stanley, they would have been quite out of my reach, only for that late French invention, which maybe you may not have heard of, nor should I, but for the hint of a friend at Paris, who is in the jewellery line. The French, you must know, have got the art of sticking small diamonds together so as to make little worthless ones into large, so that, as you see, you would never tell the difference; and as it was a new discovery, and something ingenious and scientific, and Lady Davenant being reported to be a scientific lady, as well as political and influential, and all that, I thought it a good opportunity, and a fine excuse for paying her a compliment, which I had long wished to pay, for she was once on a time very kind to Sir Ben, and got him appointed to his present station; and though Lord Davenant was the ostensible person, I considered her as the prime mover behind the curtain. Accordingly, I sat me down, and wrote as pretty a note as I could pen, and Sir Ben approved of the whole thing; but I don’t say that I’m positive he was as oft-handed and clean-hearted in the matter as I was, for between you and I his gratitude, as they say of some people’s, is apt to squint with one eye to the future as well as one to the past — you comprehend?”

  Helen was not clear that she comprehended all that had been said; still less had she any idea what she could have to do in this matter; she waited for further explanation.

  “Now all I want from you then, Miss Hanley — Stanley I would say, I beg pardon, I’m the worst at proper names that lives — but all I want of you, Miss Hanley, is — first, your opinion as to the validity of the handwriting, — well, you are positive, then, that this mis-sent is her hand. Now then, I want to know, do you think Lady Davenant knew what she was about when she wrote it?”

  Helen’s eyes opened to their utmost power of distension, at the idea of anybody’s questioning that Lady Davenant knew what she was about.

  “La! my dear,” said Lady Bearcroft; “spare the whites of your eyes, I didn’t mean she didn’t know what she was about in that sense.”

  “What sense?” said Helen.

  “Not in any particular sense,” replied Lady Bearcroft. “But let me go on, or we shall never come to an understanding; I only meant that her ladyship might have just sat down to answer my note, as I often do myself, without having read the whole through, or before I have taken it in quite.” Helen thought this very unlikely to have happened with Lady Davenant.

 
“But still it might have happened,” continued Lady Bearcroft, “that her ladyship did not notice the delicacy of the way in which the thing was put — for it really was put so that nobody could take hold of it against any of us — you understand; and after all, such a curiosity of a Sevigné as this, and such fine ‘di’monds,’ was too pretty, and too good a thing to be refused hand-over-head, in that way. Besides, my note was so respectable, and respectful, it surely required and demanded something more of an answer, methinks, from a person of birth or education, than the single bald word ‘mis-sent,’ like the postman! Surely, Miss Hanley, now, putting your friendship apart, candidly you must think as I do? And, whether or no, at least you will be so obliging to do me the favour to find out from Lady Davenant if she really made the reply with her eyes open or not, and really meant what she said.”

  Helen being quite clear that Lady Davenant always meant what she said, and had written with her eyes open, declined, as perfectly useless, making the proposed inquiry. It was plain that Lady Davenant had not thought proper to accept of this present, and to avoid any unpleasant explanations, had presumed it was not intended for her, but had been sent by mistake. Helen advised her to let the matter rest.