Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Do you think, madam,” said she, with hesitation—”do you think, madam, that I have a bad heart?”

  “A bad heart, — my dear! why, what put that into your head?”

  “Leonora said that I had, madam, and I felt ashamed when she said so.”

  “But, my dear, how can Leonora tell whether your heart be good or bad?

  However, in the first place, tell me what you mean by a bad heart.”

  “Indeed I do not know what is meant by it, madam; but it is something which everybody hates.”

  “And why do they hate it?”

  “Because they think that it will hurt them, ma’am, I believe: and that those who have bad hearts take delight in doing mischief; and that they never do anybody any good but for their own ends.”

  “Then the best definition,” said Mrs. Villars, “which you can give me of a bad heart is, that it is some constant propensity to hurt others, and to do wrong for the sake of doing wrong.”

  “Yes, madam; but that is not all either. There is still something else meant; something which I cannot express — which, indeed, I never distinctly understood; but of which, therefore, I was the more afraid.”

  “Well, then, to begin with what you do understand, tell me, Cecilia, do you really think it possible to be wicked merely for the love of wickedness? No human being becomes wicked all at once. A man begins by doing wrong because it is, or because he thinks it, for his interest. If he continue to do so, he must conquer his sense of shame and lose his love of virtue. But how can you, Cecilia, who feel such a strong sense of shame, and such an eager desire to improve, imagine that you have a bad heart?”

  “Indeed, madam, I never did, until everybody told me so, and then I began to be frightened about it. This very evening, madam, when I was in a passion, I threw little Louisa’s strawberries away, which, I am sure, I was very sorry for afterwards; and Leonora and everybody cried out that I had a bad heart — but I am sure I was only in a passion.”

  “Very likely. And when you are in a passion, as you call it, Cecilia, you see that you are tempted to do harm to others. If they do not feel angry themselves, they do not sympathize with you. They do not perceive the motive which actuates you; and then they say that you have a bad heart. I daresay, however, when your passion is over, and when you recollect yourself, you are very sorry for what you have done and said; are not you?”

  “Yes, indeed, madam — very sorry.”

  “Then make that sorry of use to you, Cecilia, and fix it steadily in your thoughts, as you hope to be good and happy, that if you suffer yourself to yield to your passion upon every occasion, anger and its consequences will become familiar to your mind; and, in the same proportion, your sense of shame will be weakened, till what you began with doing from sudden impulse you will end with doing from habit and choice: then you would, indeed, according to our definition, have a bad heart.”

  “Oh, madam! I hope — I am sure I never shall.”

  “No, indeed, Cecilia; I do, indeed, believe that you never will; on the contrary, I think that you have a very good disposition, and what is of infinitely more consequence to you, an active desire of improvement. Show me that you have as much perseverance as you have candour, and I shall not despair of your becoming everything that I could wish.”

  Here Cecilia’s countenance brightened, and she ran up the steps in almost as high spirits as she ran down them in the morning.

  “Good-night to you, Cecilia,” said Mrs. Villars, as she was crossing the hall. “Good-night to you, madam,” said Cecilia; and she ran upstairs to bed. She could not go to sleep; but she lay awake, reflecting upon the events of the preceding day, and forming resolutions for the future, at the same time that she had resolved, and resolved without effect, she wished to give her mind some more powerful motive. Ambition she knew to be its most powerful incentive. “Have I not,” said she to herself, “already won the prize of application, and cannot the same application procure me a much higher prize? Mrs. Villars said that if the prize had been promised to the most amiable, it would not have been given to me. Perhaps it would not yesterday, perhaps it might not to-morrow; but that is no reason that I should despair of ever deserving it.”.

  In consequence of this reasoning, Cecilia formed a design of proposing to her companions that they should give a prize, the first of the ensuing month (the lst of June), to the most amiable. Mrs. Villars applauded the scheme, and her companions adopted it with the greatest alacrity.

  “Let the prize,” said they, “be a bracelet of our own hair;” and instantly their shining scissors were produced, and each contributed a lock of their hair. They formed the most beautiful gradation of colours, from the palest auburn to the brightest black. Who was to have the honour of plaiting them? was now the question. Caroline begged that she might, as she could plait very neatly, she said. Cecilia, however, was equally sure that she could do it much better; and a dispute would have inevitably ensued, if Cecilia, recollecting herself just as her colour rose to scarlet, had not yielded — yielded, with no very good grace indeed, but as well as could be expected for the first time. For it is habit which confers ease; and without ease, even in moral actions, there can be no grace.

  The bracelet was plaited in the neatest manner by Caroline, finished round the edge with silver twist, and on it was worked, in the smallest silver letters, this motto, “TO THE MOST AMIABLE.” The moment it was completed, everybody begged to try it on. It fastened with little silver clasps, and as it was made large enough for the eldest girls, it was too large for the youngest. Of this they bitterly complained, and unanimously entreated that it might be cut to fit them.

  “How foolish!” exclaimed Cecilia; “don’t you perceive that if any of you win it, you have nothing to do but to put the clips a little further from the edge, but if we get it, we can’t make it larger?”

  “Very true,” said they; “but you need not to have called us foolish,

  Cecilia.”

  It was by such hasty and unguarded expressions as these that Cecilia offended. A slight difference in the manner makes a very material one in the effect. Cecilia lost more love by general petulance than she could gain by the greatest particular exertions.

  How far she succeeded in curing herself of this defect — how far she became deserving of the bracelet, and to whom the bracelet was given — shall be told in the History of the First of June.

  ——

  The First of June was now arrived, and all the young competitors were in a state of the most anxious suspense. Leonora and Cecilia continued to be the foremost candidates. Their quarrel had never been finally adjusted, and their different pretensions now retarded all thoughts of a reconciliation. Cecilia, though she was capable of acknowledging any of her faults in public before all her companions, could not humble herself in private to Leonora. Leonora was her equal; they were her inferiors, and submission is much easier to a vain mind, where it appears to be voluntary, than when it is the necessary tribute to justice or candour. So strongly did Cecilia feel this truth, that she even delayed making any apology, or coming to any explanation with Leonora, until success should once more give her the palm.

  “If I win the bracelet, to-day,” said she to herself, “I will solicit the return of Leonora’s friendship; it will be more valuable to me than even the bracelet, and at such a time, and asked in such a manner, she surely cannot refuse it to me.” Animated with this hope of a double triumph, Cecilia canvassed with the most zealous activity. By constant attention and exertion she had considerably abated the violence of her temper, and changed the course of her habits. Her powers of pleasing were now excited, instead of her abilities to excel; and, if her talents appeared less brilliant, her character was acknowledged to be more amiable. So great an influence upon our manners and conduct have the objects of our ambition.

  Cecilia was now, if possible, more than ever desirous of doing what was right, but she had not yet acquired sufficient fear of doing wrong. This was the fundamental error of h
er mind; it arose in a great measure from her early education. Her mother died when she was very young; and though her father had supplied her place in the best and kindest manner, he had insensibly infused into his daughter’s mind a portion of that enterprising, independent spirit which he justly deemed essential to the character of her brother. This brother was some years older than Cecilia, but he had always been the favourite companion of her youth. What her father’s precepts inculcated, his example enforced; and even Cecilia’s virtues consequently became such as were more estimable in a man than desirable in a female. All small objects and small errors she had been taught to disregard as trifles; and her impatient disposition was perpetually leading her into more material faults; yet her candour in confessing these, she had been suffered to believe, was sufficient reparation and atonement.

  Leonora, on the contrary, who had been educated by her mother in a manner more suited to her sex, had a character and virtues more peculiar to a female. Her judgment had been early cultivated, and her good sense employed in the regulation of her conduct. She had been habituated to that restraint, which, as a woman, she was to expect in life, and early accustomed to yield. Compliance in her seemed natural and graceful; yet notwithstanding the gentleness of her temper, she was in reality more independent than Cecilia. She had more reliance upon her own judgment, and more satisfaction in her own approbation. The uniform kindness of her manner, the consistency and equality of her character, had fixed the esteem and passive love of her companions.

  By passive love we mean that species of affection which makes us unwilling to offend rather than anxious to oblige, which is more a habit than an emotion of the mind. For Cecilia her companions felt active love, for she was active in showing her love to them.

  Active love arises spontaneously in the mind, after feeling particular instances of kindness, without reflection on the past conduct or general character. It exceeds the merits of its object, and is connected with a feeling of generosity, rather than with a sense of justice.

  Without determining which species of love is the most flattering to others, we can easily decide which is the most agreeable feeling to our minds. We give our hearts more credit for being generous than for being just; and we feel more self-complacency when we give our love voluntarily, than when we yield it as a tribute which we cannot withhold. Though Cecilia’s companions might not know all this in theory, they proved it in practice; for they loved her in a much higher proportion to her merits than they loved Leonora.

  Each of the young judges were to signify their choice by putting a red or a white shell into a vase prepared for the purpose. Cecilia’s colour was red, Leonora’s white.

  In the morning nothing was to be seen but these shells; nothing talked of but the long expected event of the evening. Cecilia, following Leonora’s example, had made it a point of honour not to inquire of any individual her vote, previously to their final determination.

  They were both sitting together in Louisa’s room. Louisa was recovering from the measles. Everyone during her illness had been desirous of attending her; but Leonora and Cecilia were the only two that were permitted to see her, as they alone had had the distemper. They were both assiduous in their care of Louisa, but Leonora’s want of exertion to overcome any disagreeable feelings of sensibility often deprived her of presence of mind, and prevented her from being so constantly useful as Cecilia. Cecilia, on the contrary, often made too much noise and bustle with her officious assistance, and was too anxious to invent amusements and procure comforts for Louisa, without perceiving that illness takes away the power of enjoying them.

  As she was sitting at the window in the morning, exerting herself to entertain Louisa, she heard the voice of an old peddler who often used to come to the house. Downstairs they ran immediately, to ask Mrs. Villars’ permission to bring him into the hall. Mrs. Villars consented, and away Cecilia ran to proclaim the news to her companions. Then, first returning into the hall, she found the peddler just unbuckling his box, and taking it off his shoulders.

  “What would you be pleased to want, miss?” said the peddler; “I’ve all kinds of tweezer-cases, rings, and lockets of all sorts,” continued he, opening all the glittering drawers successively.

  “Oh!” said Cecilia, shutting the drawer of lockets which tempted her most, “these are not the things which I want. Have you any china figures? any mandarins?”

  “Alack-a-day, miss, I had a great stock of that same chinaware; but now I’m quite out of them kind of things; but I believe,” said he, rummaging one of the deepest drawers, “I believe I have one left, and here it is.”

  “Oh, that is the very thing! what’s its price?”

  “Only three shillings, ma’am.” Cecilia paid the money, and was just going to carry off the mandarin, when the peddler took out of his great- coat pocket a neat mahogany case. It was about a foot long, and fastened at each end by two little clasps. It had besides, a small lock in the middle.

  “What is that?” said Cecilia, eagerly.

  “It’s only a china figure, miss, which I am going to carry to an elderly lady, who lives nigh hand, and who is mighty fond of such things.”

  “Could you let me look at it?”

  “And welcome, miss,” said he, and opened the case.

  “Oh, goodness! how beautiful!” exclaimed Cecilia.

  It was a figure of Flora, crowned with roses, and carrying a basket of flowers in her hand. Cecilia contemplated it with delight. “How I should like to give this to Louisa!” said she to herself; and, at last, breaking silence, “Did you promise it to the old lady?”

  “Oh, no, miss, I didn’t promise it — she never saw it; and if so be that you’d like to take it, I’d make no more words about it.”

  “And how much does it cost?”

  “Why, miss, as to that, I’ll let you have it for half-a-guinea.”

  Cecilia immediately produced the box in which she kept her treasure, and, emptying it upon the table, she began to count the shillings. Alas! there were but six shillings. “How provoking!” said she; “then I can’t have it. Where’s the mandarin? Oh, I have it,” said she, taking it up, and looking at it with the utmost disgust. “Is this the same that I had before?”

  “Yes, miss, the very same,” replied the peddler, who, during this time, had been examining the little box out of which Cecilia had taken her money — it was of silver. “Why, ma’am,” said he, “since you’ve taken such a fancy to the piece, if you’ve a mind to make up the remainder of the money, I will take this here little box, if you care to part with it.”

  Now this box was a keepsake from Leonora to Cecilia. “No,” said Cecilia hastily, blushing a little, and stretching out her hand to receive it.

  “Oh, miss!” said he, returning it carelessly, “I hope there’s no offence. I meant but to serve you, that’s all. Such a rare piece of china-work has no cause to go a-begging,” added he. Then, putting the Flora deliberately into the case, and turning the key with a jerk, he let it drop into his pocket; when, lifting up his box by the leather straps, he was preparing to depart.

  “Oh, stay one minute!” said Cecilia, in whose mind there had passed a very warm conflict during the peddler’s harangue. “Louisa would so like this Flora,” said she, arguing with herself. “Besides, it would be so generous in me to give it to her instead of that ugly mandarin; that would be doing only common justice, for I promised it to her, and she expects it. Though, when I come to look at this mandarin, it is not even so good as hers was. The gilding is all rubbed off, so that I absolutely must buy this for her. Oh, yes! I will, and she will be so delighted! and then everybody will say it is the prettiest thing they ever saw, and the broken mandarin will be forgotten for ever.”

  Here Cecilia’s hand moved, and she was just going to decide: “Oh, but stop,” said she to herself, “consider — Leonora gave me this box, and it is a keepsake. However, we have now quarrelled, and I dare say that she would not mind my parting with it. I’m sure that I should not ca
re if she was to give away my keepsake, the smelling-bottle, or the ring which I gave her. Then what does it signify? Besides, is it not my own? and have I not a right to do what I please with it?”

  At this moment, so critical for Cecilia, a party of her companions opened the door. She knew that they came as purchasers, and she dreaded her Flora’s becoming the prize of some higher bidder. “Here,” said she, hastily putting the box into the peddler’s hand, without looking at it; “take it, and give me the Flora.” Her hand trembled, though she snatched it impatiently. She ran by, without seeming to mind any of her companions.

  Let those who are tempted to do wrong by the hopes of future gratification, or the prospect of certain concealment and impunity, remember that, unless they are totally depraved, they bear in their own hearts a monitor, who will prevent their enjoying what they ill obtained.

  In vain Cecilia ran to the rest of her companions, to display her present, in hopes that the applause of others would restore her own self- complacency; in vain she saw the Flora pass in due pomp from hand to hand, each vying with the other in extolling the beauty of the gift and the generosity of the giver. Cecilia was still displeased with herself, with them, and even with their praise. From Louisa’s gratitude, however, she yet expected much pleasure, and immediately she ran upstairs to her room.

  In the meantime, Leonora had gone into the hall to buy a bodkin; she had just broken hers. In giving her change, the peddler took out of his pocket, with some halfpence, the very box which Cecilia had sold to him. Leonora did not in the least suspect the truth, for her mind was above suspicion; and besides, she had the utmost confidence in Cecilia.

  “I should like to have that box,” said she, “for it is like one of which

  I was very fond.”