Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Pale! I’m sure I don’t look pale,” said Helen—”do I?”

  “Not now, indeed,” said Emma, smiling.

  “Was not it an excellent shot?” said Mr. Mountague, returning to them; “but you were not near enough to see it; do come and look at it.” Mrs. Temple rose and followed him.—”I can’t say,” continued he, “that I particularly admire lady archeresses; but this really is a surprising shot.”

  “It really is a surprising shot,” said Helen, looking at it quite at ease. But a moment afterwards she observed that Mr. Mountague’s eyes were not intent upon the surprising shot, but were eagerly turned to another side of the green, where, illuminated by the rays of the setting sun, stood a beautiful figure, playing with a silver arrow, totally unconscious, as he imagined, either of her own charms or his admiration.—”Are you acquainted with Lady Augusta?” said Mr. Mountague.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Temple. “Are you?”

  “Not yet; but I have met her mother often in town — a silly, card-playing woman. I hope her daughter is as little like her in her mind as in her person.” Here Mr. Mountague paused, for they had walked up quite close to the seemingly unconscious beauty.—”Oh, Mrs. Temple!” said she, starting, and then recovering herself, with an innocent smile—”is it you? I beg ten thousand pardons,” and, offering a hand to Helen and Emma, seemed delighted to see them. Helen involuntarily drew back her hand, with as much coldness as she could without being absolutely rude.

  It was now late in the evening, and as the ball was to begin at ten, the ladies called for their carriages, that they might drive to their lodgings, in an adjacent town, to change their dress. In the crowd, Helen happened to be pretty close behind Lady S —— , so close, that she could not avoid hearing her conversation.

  “Dear ma’am!” an elderly lady in black was saying to her, “I can assure you, your ladyship has been misinformed. I assure you, it is no such thing. He’s a relation of the family — he has paid a long visit in this country, but then it is a parting visit to his uncle: he sets out immediately for Italy, I’m told. I assure you, your ladyship has been misinformed; he and his uncle are often at Mrs. Temple’s; but depend upon it he has no thoughts of Miss Helen.”

  These words struck Helen to the heart: she walked on, leaning upon her sister’s arm, who fortunately happened to know where she was going. Emma helped her sister to recollect that it was necessary to get into the carriage when the step was let down. The carriage presently stopped with them at the inn, and they were shown to their rooms. Helen sat down, the moment she got up stairs, without thinking of dressing; and her mother’s hair was half finished, when she turned round and said, “Why, Helen, my dear! you certainly will not be ready.”

  “Shan’t I, ma’am?” said Helen, starting up. “Is there any occasion that we should dress any more?”

  “Nay, my dear,” said Mrs. Temple, laughing, “look in the glass at your hair; it has been blown all over your face by the wind.”

  “It is a great deal of useless trouble,” said Helen, as she began the duties of the toilette.

  “Why, Helen, this is a sudden fit of laziness,” said her mother.

  “No, indeed, mamma; I’m not lazy. But I really don’t think it signifies. Nobody will take notice how I am dressed, I dare say.”

  “A sudden fit of humility, then?” said Mrs. Temple, still laughing.

  “No, ma’am; but you have often told us how little it signifies. When the ball is over, every thing about it is forgotten in a few hours.”

  “Oh, a sudden fit of philosophy, Helen?”

  “No, indeed, mother,” said Helen, sighing; “I’m sure I don’t pretend to any philosophy.”

  “Well, then, a sudden fit of caprice, Helen?”

  “No, indeed, ma’am!”

  “No, indeed, ma’am!” said Mrs. Temple, still rallying her. — Why, Helen, my dear, you have answered ‘No, indeed, ma’am,’ to every thing I’ve said this half hour.”

  “No, indeed, mother,” said Helen; “but I assure you, ma’am,” continued she, in a hurried manner, “if you would only give me leave to explain—”

  “My dear child,” said Mrs. Temple, “this is no time for explanations: make haste and dress yourself, and follow me down to tea.” Mr. Mountague was engaged to drink tea with Mrs. Temple.

  How many reflections sometimes pass rapidly in the mind in the course of a few minutes!

  “I am weak, ridiculous, and unjust,” said Helen to herself. “Because Lady Augusta won a silver arrow, am I vexed? Why should I be displeased with Mr. Mountague’s admiring her? I will appear no more like a fool; and Heaven forbid I should become envious.”

  As this last thought took possession of her mind, she finished dressing herself, and went with Emma down to tea. The well-wrought-up dignity with which Helen entered the parlour was, however, thrown away upon this occasion; for opposite to her mother at the tea-table there appeared, instead of Mr. Mountague, only an empty chair, and an empty teacup and saucer, with a spoon in it. He was gone to the ball; and when Mrs. Temple and her daughters arrived there, they found him at the bottom of the country dance, talking in high spirits to his partner, Lady Augusta, who, in the course of the evening, cast many looks of triumph upon Helen. But Helen kept to her resolution of commanding her own mind, and maintained an easy serenity of manner, which the consciousness of superior temper never fails to bestow. Towards the end of the night, she danced one dance with Mr. Mountague, and as he was leading her to her place, Lady Augusta, and two or three of her companions, came up, all seemingly stifling a laugh. “What is the matter?” said Helen. “Why, my dear creature,” said Lady Augusta, who still apparently laboured under a violent inclination to laugh, and whispering to Helen, but so loud that she could distinctly be overheard—”you must certainly be in love.”

  “Madam!” said Helen, colouring, and much distressed.

  “Yes; you certainly must,” pursued Lady Augusta, rudely; for ladies of quality can be as rude, sometimes ruder, than other people. “Must not she, Lady Di.,” appealing to one of her companions, and laughing affectedly—”must not she be either in love, or out of her senses? Pray, Miss Temple, put out your foot.” Helen put out her foot.

  “Ay, that’s the black one — well, the other.” Now the other was white. The ill-bred raillery commenced. Helen, though somewhat abashed, smiled with great good humour, and walked on towards her seat. “What is the matter, my dear?” said her mother.

  “Nothing, madam,” answered Mr. Mountague, “but that Miss Helen Temple’s shoes are odd, and her temper — even.” These few words, which might pass in a ball-room, were accompanied with a look of approbation, which made her ample amends for the pain she had felt. He then sat down by Mrs. Temple, and, without immediately adverting to any one, spoke with indignation of coquetry, and lamented that so many beautiful girls should be spoiled by affectation.

  “If they be spoiled, should they bear all the blame?” said Mrs. Temple. “If young women were not deceived into a belief that affectation pleases, they would scarcely trouble themselves to practise it so much.”

  “Deceived!” said Mr. Mountague—”but is any body deceived by a person’s saying, ‘I have the honour to be, madam, your obedient, humble servant?’ Besides, as to pleasing — what do we mean? pleasing for a moment, for a day, or for life?”

  “Pleasing for a moment,” said Helen, smiling, “is of some consequence; for, if we take care of the moments, the years will take care of themselves, you know.”

  “Pleasing for one moment, though,” said Mr. Mountague, “is very different, as you must perceive, from pleasing every moment.”

  Here the country dance suddenly stopped, and three or four couple were thrown into confusion. The gentlemen were stooping down, as if looking for something on the floor. “Oh, I beg, I insist upon it; you can’t think how much you distress me!” cried a voice which sounded like Lady Augusta’s. Mr. Mountague immediately went to see what was the matter. “It is only my bracelet
,” said she, turning to him. “Don’t, pray don’t trouble yourself,” cried she, as he stooped to assist in collecting the scattered pearls, which she received with grace in the whitest hand imaginable. “Nay, now I must insist upon it,” said she to Mr. Mountague, as he stooped again—”you shall not plague yourself any longer.” And in her anxiety to prevent him from plaguing himself any longer, she laid upon his arm the white hand, which he had an instant before so much admired. Whether all Mr. Mountague’s sober contempt of coquetry was, at this moment, the prevalent feeling in his mind, we cannot presume to determine; we must only remark, that the remainder of the evening was devoted to Lady Augusta; he sat beside her at supper, and paid her a thousand compliments, which Helen in vain endeavoured to persuade herself meant nothing more than—”I am, madam, your obedient, humble servant.”

  “It is half after two,” said Mrs. Temple, when she rose to go.

  “Half after two!” said Mr. Mountague, as he handed Mrs. Temple to her carriage—”bless me! can it be so late?”

  All the way home Emma and Mrs. Temple were obliged to support the conversation; for Helen was so extremely entertained with watching the clouds passing over the moon, that nothing else could engage her attention.

  The gossiping old lady’s information respecting Mr. Mountague was as accurate as the information of gossips usually is found to be. Mr. Mountague, notwithstanding her opinion and sagacity, had thoughts of Miss Helen Temple. During some months which he had spent at his uncle’s, who lived very near Mrs. Temple, he had had opportunities of studying Helen’s character and temper, which he found perfectly well suited to his own; but he had never yet declared his attachment to her. Things were in this undecided situation, when he saw, and was struck with the beauty of Lady Augusta —— , at this archery-ball. Lord George —— introduced him to Lady S —— ; and, in consequence of a pressing invitation he received from her ladyship, he went to spend a few days at S —— Hall.

  “So Mr. Mountague is going to spend a week at S —— Hall, I find,” said Mrs. Temple, as she and her daughters were sitting at work the morning after the archery-ball. To this simple observation of Mrs. Temple a silence, which seemed as if it never would be broken, ensued.

  “Helen, my dear!” said Mrs. Temple, in a soft voice.

  “Ma’am!” said Helen, starting.

  “You need not start so, my dear; I am not going to say any thing very tremendous. When you and your sister were children, if you remember, I often used to tell you that I looked forward, with pleasure, to the time when I should live with you as friends and equals. That time is come; and I hope, now that your own reason is sufficiently matured to be the guide of your conduct, that you do not think I any longer desire you to be governed by my will. Indeed,” continued she, “I consider you as my equals in every respect but in age; and I wish to make that inequality useful to you, by giving you, as far as I can, that advantage, which only age can give — experience.”

  “You are very kind, dear mother,” said Helen.

  “But you must be sensible,” said Mrs. Temple, in a graver tone, “that it will depend upon yourselves, in a great measure, whether I can be so much your friend as I shall wish.”

  “Oh, mother,” said Helen, “be my friend! I shall never have a better; and, indeed, I want a friend,” added she, the tears starting from her eyes. “You’ll think me very silly, very vain. He never gave me any reason, I’m sure, to think so; but I did fancy that Mr. Mountague liked me.”

  “And,” said Mrs. Temple, taking her daughter’s hand, “without being very silly or very vain, may not one sometimes be mistaken? Then you thought you had won Mr. Mountague’s heart? But what did you think about your own? Take care you don’t make another mistake (smiling). Perhaps you thought he never could win yours?”

  “I never thought much about that,” replied Helen, “till yesterday.”

  “And to-day,” said Mrs. Temple—”what do you think about it to-day?”

  “Why,” said Helen, “don’t you think, mother, that Mr. Mountague has a great many good qualities?”

  “Yes; a great many good qualities, a great many advantages, and, amongst them, the power of pleasing you.”

  “He would not think that any advantage,” said Helen; “therefore I should be sorry that he had it.”

  “And so should I,” said Mrs. Temple, “be very sorry that my daughter’s happiness should be out of her own power.”

  “It is the uncertainty that torments me,” resumed Helen, after a pause. “One moment I fancy that he prefers me, the next moment I am certain he prefers another. Yesterday, when we were coming away from the green, I heard Mrs. Hargrave say to Lady S —— but why, mother, should I take up your time with these minute circumstances? I ought not to think any more about it.”

  “Ought not!” repeated Mrs. Temple; “my dear, it is a matter of prudence, rather than duty. By speaking to your mother with so much openness, you secure her esteem and affection; and, amongst the goods of this life, you will find the esteem and affection of a mother worth having,” concluded Mrs. Temple, with a smile; and Helen parted from her mother with a feeling of gratitude, which may securely be expected from an ingenuous well-educated daughter, who is treated with similar kindness.

  No one was ready for breakfast the morning that Mr. Mountague arrived at S —— Hall, and he spent an hour alone in the breakfast-room. At length the silence was interrupted by a shrill female voice, which, as it approached nearer, he perceived to be the voice of a foreigner half suffocated with ineffectual desire to make her anger intelligible. He could only distinguish the words—”I ring, ring, ring, ay, twenty time, and nobody mind my bell nor me, no more dan noting at all.” With a violent push, the breakfast-room door flew open, and Mlle. Panache, little expecting to find any body there, entered, volubly repeating—”Dey let me ring, ring, ring!” Surprised at the sight of a gentleman, and a young gentleman, she repented having been so loud in her anger. However, upon the second reconnoitring glance at Mr. Mountague, she felt much in doubt how to behave towards him. Mademoiselle boasted often of the well-bred instinct, by which she could immediately distinguish “un homme comme il faut” from any other; yet sometimes, like Falstaff’s, her instinct was fallacious. Recollecting that Lady S —— had sent for an apothecary, she took it into her head that Mr. Mountague was this apothecary. “Miladi is not visible yet, sir,” said she; “does she know you are here?”

  “I hope not, ma’am; for I should be very sorry she were to be disturbed, after sitting up so late last night.”

  “Oh, dat will do her no harm, for I gave her, pardonnez, some excellent white wine whey out of my own head last night, when she got into her bed. I hope you don’t make no objection to white wine whey, sir?”

  “I! — not in the least, ma’am.”

  “Oh, I’m glad you don’t disapprove of what I’ve done! You attend many family in dis country, sir?”

  “Madam!” said Mr. Mountague, taking an instant’s time to consider what she could mean by attend.

  “You visit many family in dis country, sir?” persisted mademoiselle.

  “Very few, ma’am; I am a stranger in this part of the world, except at Mrs. Temple’s.”

  “Madame Temple, ah, oui! I know her very well; she has two fine daughters — I mean when dey have seen more of de world. It’s a great pity, too, dey have never had de advantage of a native, to teach de good pronunciation de la langue Francaise. Madame Temple will repent herself of dat when it is too late, as I tell her always. But, sir, you have been at her house. I am sorry we did not hear none of de family had been indisposed.”

  “They are all now perfectly well, ma’am,” replied Mr. Mountague, “except, indeed, that Mrs. Temple had a slight cold last week.”

  “But she is re-establish by your advise, I suppose? and she — did she recommend you to miladi?”

  “No, madam,” said Mr. Mountague, not a little puzzled by mademoiselle’s phraseology: “Lord George —— did me the honour to
introduce me to Lady S —— .”

  “Ah, Milord George! are you a long time acquainted wid milord?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I have known Lord George many years.”

  “Ah, many year! — you be de family physician, apparemment?”

  “The family physician! Oh no, ma’am!” said Mr. Mountague, smiling.

  “Eh!” said mademoiselle, “but dat is being too modest. Many take de titre of physician, I’ll engage, wid less pretensions. And,” added she, looking graciously, “absolument, I will not have you call yourself de family apothicaire.”

  At this moment Lord George came in, and shook his family apothecary by the hand, with an air of familiarity which astounded mademoiselle. “Qu’est ce que c’est?” whispered she to Dashwood, who followed his lordship: “is not dis his apothicaire?” Dashwood, at this question, burst into a loud laugh. “Mr. Mountague,” cried he, “have you been prescribing for mademoiselle? she asks if you are not an apothecary.”

  Immediately Lord George, who was fond of a joke, especially where there was a chance of throwing ridicule upon any body superior to him in abilities, joined most heartily in Dashwood’s mirth; repeating the story, as “an excellent thing,” to every one, as they came down to breakfast; especially to Lady Augusta, whom he congratulated, the moment she entered the room, upon her having danced the preceding evening with an apothecary. “Here he is!” said he, pointing to Mr. Mountague.

  “Ma chère amie! mon coeur! tink of my mistaking your Mr. Mountague for such a sort of person! If you had only told me, sir, dat you were Miladi Augusta’s partner last night, it would have saved me de necessity of making ten million apologies for my stupidity, dat could not find it out. Ma chère amie! Mon coeur! Miladi Augusta, will you make my excuse?”

  “Ma chère amie! mon coeur!” repeated Mr. Mountague to himself: “is it possible that this woman can be an intimate friend of Lady Augusta?” What was his surprise, when he discovered that Mlle. Panache had been her ladyship’s governess! He fell into a melancholy reverie for some moments. “So she has been educated by a vulgar, silly, conceited French governess!” said he to himself; “but that is her misfortune, not her fault. She is very young, and a man of sense might make her what he pleased.” When Mr. Mountague recovered from his reverie, he heard the company, as they seated themselves at the breakfast-table, begin to talk over the last night’s ball. “You did not tire yourself last night with dancing, my lord,” said Dashwood.