_Yet still thy good and amiable gifts
The sober dignity of virtue wear not._
Joanna Baillie.
As soon as Miss Arnold and I were alone, she renewed the subject of the
masked ball. 'Well, Ellen!' cried she, 'I protest, I never was so much
astonished as at your simplicity in returning those tickets. That old
woman really winds you about just as she pleases.'
'No, I am not quite so pliant,' answered I, somewhat piqued; 'but after
the footing upon which Miss Mortimer put her request, I do not see how I
could refuse it.'
'She has art enough to know where you are most accessible,' said Miss
Arnold, well knowing that nothing was more likely to stir the proud
spirit than a suspicion of being duped. 'It is really provoking to see
you so managed!' continued she; 'and now to have her trick us out of
this ball, where we should have been so happy! You would have looked
quite enchanting as a sultana! and your diamond plume would have been
divine in the front of your turban, and----'
She ran on describing our dresses and characters, enlarging on the
amusement of which my ill-timed facility had deprived us, till I was
thoroughly indignant at Miss Mortimer's interference. 'I am sure,'
interrupted I, 'I wish I had not allowed myself to be wheedled over like
a great baby; but I promise you that she shan't find it so easy to
persuade me another time.' Then I proceeded to reproach my own want of
spirit; for we can all attack ourselves where we are invulnerable. 'If I
had not been the tamest creature in the world,' said I, 'I should not
have yielded the matter; but it is in vain to talk of it now.'
'Why in vain?' cried Miss Arnold with vivacity.
'You know,' answered I, 'that now when we have returned the tickets
nothing more can be done.'
'What if we could still have the tickets?' said Miss Arnold.
'Impossible!' said I; 'I would not condescend to ask them again from
Lord Frederick.'
'But,' said Miss Arnold, throwing her arm round my neck with an
insinuating smile, 'what if I, seeing that my dearest Ellen's heart was
set upon this ball, and guessing that she would soon repent of her
saint-errantry, had slily put the tickets into my pocket, and could
produce them thus' (showing me a corner of them), 'at this very moment?'
I was thunderstruck. In spite of eight years' intimacy, Miss Arnold had
miscalculated upon my sentiments, when she expected me to approve of
this manoeuvre. Confidence in my mother's mildness and affection had
instilled into my infant mind habits of sincerity; habits which she had
strengthened less by precept than by encouragement and example. The tint
had been infused at the fountain head, and it still coloured the stream.
A dead silence followed Miss Arnold's discovery; she, waiting to hear my
sentiments, I not caring to speak them; she looking intently in my face,
I gazing steadfastly on the tickets, without recollecting that I held
them in my hand.
'How could we produce them to Miss Mortimer?' said I, at last, pursuing
my reflections aloud. 'She confidently believes that they are gone; and
she will think this such a piece of--' cunning, I would have said, but I
could not utter the ungracious truth to the kind creature, who had erred
purely to oblige me. 'She would be so astonished!' continued I: 'and
only this morning she praised my ingenuousness! I cannot keep these
tickets.'
'Oh!' cried Miss Arnold, 'I am sure there is no disingenuousness on your
part. It was not you who detained the tickets. I will tell her honestly
how the matter stands. I would be chidden for a month rather than that
you should lose this ball,--you would be so happy, and so much admired!'
'My dear, kind-hearted Juliet! you cannot suppose that I will take
advantage of your good nature! You would not have me buy my pleasure at
the expense of injuring you in any one's good opinion? No, no; were I to
keep these tickets it should be at my own hazard.'
I think Miss Arnold blushed; and she certainly hesitated a moment before
she replied,--'I assure you I do not care a straw for her good opinion.
What signify the whims of people who think like nobody else?'
Of all my acquaintance, Mr Maitland alone joined Miss Mortimer in
'thinking like nobody else;' and a recollection of him glanced across my
mind. The association was not over favourable to Miss Arnold's purpose.
'Some of the most sensible men in the kingdom think like Miss Mortimer,'
said I.
'The most sensible men in the kingdom often think wrong,' returned Miss
Arnold. 'Besides, what signify their thoughts, so long as they dare not
tell us them?'
'Some of them do dare,' said I with a sigh.
'Come, come, Ellen,' said Juliet, 'do you keep the tickets, and I shall
willingly take the blame. Be satisfied with being afraid of the men and
the methodists yourself; you will never make me so.'
'Afraid!' The word jarred upon my spirit. 'Afraid!' repeated I; 'I fear
no mortal! but I scorn to do what the coldest, most correct man in
England could think dishonourable. I would not be despised for all the
pleasures under heaven! I will send back these tickets this moment.'
I turned proudly away, wholly unconscious how much the sense of honour
was indebted to the opportune remembrance of Mr Maitland, and as
confident in my own integrity as if it had already been seven times
tried in the furnace. I rang the bell; delivered, with my own hand, the
tickets to a servant; and never in my life felt more conscious of my
advantages of stature. I forgot the languor of indisposition. I walked
with the springing step of exultation. I forgave Miss Mortimer my
disappointment. I was grateful to Juliet for her kind intentions. Every
object was pleasing, for it shone with the reflected light of
self-approbation. My evening was cheerful, though comparatively lonely;
my sleep refreshing, though unbought by exercise. I could have wished
that it had been allowable to tell Miss Mortimer all my cause of
triumph; and once (such is the selfishness of pride) I entertained a
thought of boasting to her my second sacrifice to propriety; but, when I
remembered the meanness of betraying my friend to censure, the base
suggestion vanished from my mind; and again I inwardly applauded my own
rectitude, instead of blushing that such a thought could have found
entrance into my soul.
Almost for the first time in my life I wished for Mr Maitland's
presence; probably, though I did not shape the idea to myself, in the
hope that he would confirm my self-esteem. But he came not to take
advantage of my order for excluding all visiters except himself. The
next day, however, he called; and as I was still somewhat indisposed, he
was admitted to my _boudoir_. He had not been seated many minutes, when
Miss Mortimer adverted to my late sacrifice. 'You must assist me with
your invention, Mr Maitland,' said she. 'I want to make Monday, the 5th
of May, the happiest day in the season, and as gay as is consistent with
happiness.'
'My intention is quite at your service,' said Mr Maitland; 'but why is
the 5th of May to be so distinguished?'
'I am deeply in Miss Percy's debt for amusement on that day; for it was
fixed for a masked ball, which she has given up at my request.'
I stole a glance at Mr Maitland, and saw his countenance relax
pleasantly. 'I dare say,' said he, 'you owe Miss Percy nothing on that
account, for she will have more pleasure in complying with your wish
than twenty masked balls would have given her.'
'I am not sure of that,' cried I; 'for of all things on earth, I should
like to see a masked ball.'
'Must I then, per force, allow you some merit for relinquishing this
one?' said Mr Maitland, seating himself by my side, with such a smile of
playful kindness as he sometimes bestowed on Miss Mortimer. 'But why,'
continued he, 'should you, of all women, desire to appear in masquerade?
Come, confess that you believe you may conceal more charms than fall to
the lot of half your sex, and still defy competition.'
'You may more charitably suppose,' returned I, 'that I am humbly
desirous to escape comparisons.'
'Nay,' said Mr Maitland, with a smile which banished all the severity of
truth, 'that would imply too sudden a reformation. Would you have me
believe that you have conquered your besetting sin since the last time
we met?'
'How have you the boldness,' said I, smiling, 'to talk to me of
besetting sin?'
'As I would talk to a soldier of his scars,' said Mr Maitland. 'You
think it an honourable blemish.'
'This is too bad!' cried I, 'not only to call me vain, but to tell me
that I pique myself on my vanity!'
'Ay,' returned Mr Maitland, dryly, 'on your vanity, or your pride, or
your----, call it what you will.'
'Well, pride let it be,' said I. 'Surely there is a becoming pride,
which every woman ought to have.'
'A becoming pride!' repeated Mr Maitland; 'the phrase sounds well; now
tell me what it means.'
'It means--it means--that is, I believe it means--that sort of dignity
which keeps your saucy sex from presuming too far.'
'What connection is there, think you, between cautious decency,--that
peculiar endearing instinct of a woman,--and inordinate
self-estimation?'
'Oh! I would not have my pride inordinate. I would merely have a
comfortable respect for myself and my endowments, to keep up my spirit,
that I might not be a poor domestic animal to run about tame with the
chickens, and cower with them into a corner as oft as lordly man
presented his majestic port before me!--No! I hope I shall never lose my
spirit. What should I be without it?'
'Far be it from me to reduce you so deplorably!' said Mr Maitland;
beginning with a smile, though, before he ceased to speak, the
seriousness of strong interest stole over his countenance. 'But what if
Miss Percy, intrusted with every gift of nature and of fortune, should
remember that still they were only trusts, and should fear to abuse
them? What if, like a wise steward, instead of valuing herself upon the
extent of her charge, she should study how to render the best account of
it? What would you then be? All that your warmest friends could wish
you. You would cease to covet--perhaps to receive--the adulation of
fools; and gain, in exchange, the respect, the strong affection, of
those who can look beyond a set of features.'
The earnestness with which Mr Maitland spoke was so opposite to the cold
composure of his general manner; his eyes, which ever seemed to
penetrate the soul, flashed with such added brightness, that mine fell
before them, and I felt the warm crimson burn on my cheek. I believe no
other man upon earth could have quelled my humour for a moment; but I
had an habitual awe of Mr Maitland, and felt myself really relieved,
when the entrance of my father excused me from replying.
I knew, by my father's face, that he was full of an important something;
for he merely paid the customary compliment to Mr Maitland, and then
walked silently up and down the room with an air of unusual stateliness
and satisfaction. 'What has pleased you so much this morning, papa?'
enquired I.
'Pleased, Miss Percy!' returned my father, knitting his brow, and
endeavouring to look out of humour; 'I tell you I am not pleased. I am
teased out of my life on your account by one fellow or another.' Then,
turning to Maitland, he formally apologised for troubling him with
family affairs, though I believe he was, on this occasion, not at all
sorry to have his friend for a hearer.
'Which of them has been teasing you now, sir?' said I, carelessly.
'The Duke of C----,' said my father, in a fretful tone, though a smile
was lurking at the corner of his mouth, 'has been here this morning to
make proposals for a match between you and his son Frederick.'
'Well, sir,' said I, with some little interest in the issue of the
conference; but my curiosity was instantly diverted into another
channel, by a sudden and not very gentle pressure of the hand, which Mr
Maitland had still held, and which he now released. The gesture, however
inadvertent, attracted my eye towards him; but his face was averted, and
my vanity could not extract one particle of food from the careless air
with which he began to turn over the pages of a book which lay upon my
work-table.
My father proceeded. 'His Grace proposed to settle two thousand pounds
a-year upon his son; no great matter he was forced to confess; but then
he harangued about supporting the dignity of the title, and the hardship
of burdening the representative of the family with extravagant provision
for younger children. But, to balance that, Ellen, he hinted that you
might be a Duchess; for the Marquis, like most of these sprigs of
quality, is of a very weakly constitution. Pity that ancient blood
should so often lose strength in the keeping! Eh, Ellen!'
My father made a pause, and looked as if he expected that I should now
express some curiosity in regard to his decision, but my pride was
concerned to show my total indifference on the subject; so I sat quietly
adjusting my bracelet, without offering him the slightest encouragement
to proceed. He looked towards Maitland; but Maitland was reading most
intently. He turned to Miss Mortimer; and at last found a listener, who
was trembling with interest which she had not power to express.
'What think you of the great man's liberality' continued my father. 'Is
not two thousand pounds a-year a mighty splendid offer for a girl like
my Ellen there, with a hundred thousand pounds down, and perhaps twice
as much more before she dies? Eh, Miss Elizabeth? Should not I be a very
sensible fellow, to bring a jackanapes into my house to marry my
daughter, and spend my money, and be obliged to me for the very coat on
his back, and all by way of doing me a great honour forsooth? No, no.
I'll never pay for having myself and my girl looked down upon. She's a
pretty girl, and a clever girl, and the d----l a De Burgh in England can
make his daughter as well worth an honest man's having: eh, Maitland?'
'Not in your opinion and mine, undoubtedly, sir,' said Maitland, with
the air of a man who is obliged to pay a compliment.
'I told the old gentleman my mind very distinctly,' said my father,
drawing up his head, and advancing his chest. 'I have given his grandee
pride something to digest, I warrant you. And now he is ashamed of his
repulse, and wants the whole affair kept private forsooth. I am sure it
is none of my concern to trumpet the matter. All the world knows I have
refused better offers for Miss Percy.'
'If his Grace wishes the affair to be so private,' cried I, 'I am afraid
he won't inform his daughters of it.'
'You of course will consider it as quite at an end,' said my father,
addressing himself to me.
'Oh certainly, sir,' answered I; 'but how shall I get the news conveyed
to Lady Maria?'
'Tell it to a mutual friend as a profound secret,' said Mr Maitland,
dryly. 'But why are you so anxious that Lady Maria should hear of her
brother's disappointment?'
'Oh because it will provoke her so delightfully,' cried I. 'The
descendant of a hundred and fifty De Burghs to be rejected by a city
merchant's daughter! It will ruin her in laces and lip-salve.'
I was so enchanted with the prospect of my rival's vexation, that it was
some moments ere I observed that Mr Maitland, actually turning pale, had
shrunk from me as far as the end of the couch would permit him, and sat
leaning his head on his hand with an air of melancholy reflection.
Presently afterwards he was rising to take his leave, when a servant
came to inform Miss Mortimer that Mrs Wells, the woman whom Mr Maitland
had rescued from the effect of my rashness, was below waiting to speak
with her. 'Stay a few minutes, Mr Maitland, and see your protegee,' said
Miss Mortimer to him, as he was bidding her good morning. He immediately
consented; while my father quitted the room, saying, 'If the woman is
come for money, Miss Mortimer, you may let me know. I always send these
people what they want, and have done with them.'
Mrs Wells, however, was come, not in quest of money, but of a commodity
which the poor need almost as often, though they ask it less frequently.
She wanted advice. Finding that Miss Mortimer was not alone, she was at
first modestly unwilling to intrude upon the attention of the company.
But Mr Maitland, who, I believe, possessed some talisman to unlock at
his pleasure every heart but mine, engaged her by a few simple
expressions of interest to unfold the purpose of her coming. She told
us, that her eldest daughter, Sally, had for some time been courted by a
young man of decent character, and was inclined to marry him. 'The girl
must be a great fool,' thought I, 'for she can neither expect carriages
nor jewels, and what else should tempt any woman to marry?' The lover,
Mrs Wells said, could earn five-and-twenty or thirty shillings a week by
his trade, which was that of a house-carpenter. This, together with
Sally's earnings as a mantua-maker, might maintain the young couple in
tolerable comfort. But they had no house, and could not furnish one
without incurring debts which would be a severe clog on their future
industry. The young man, however, being in love, was inclined to despise
all prudential considerations; and, in spite of her mother's counsels,
had almost inspired his mistress with similar temerity. Mrs Wells
therefore begged of Miss Mortimer to fortify Sally with her advice, and
to set before her the folly of so desperate a venture. 'Thanks to your
excellent mother, Miss Percy,' said she, 'my children have forgotten
poverty; and, indeed, no one rightly knows what it is, but they who have
striven with it as I have. Any other distress one may now and then
forget; but hard creditors, and cold hungry children will not allow one
to forget them.' Her proposal was, that Miss Mortimer should prevail
with the girl to resist her lover's solicitations for a few years, till
the joint savings of the pair might amount to forty or fifty pounds,
which she said would enable them to begin the world reputably.
'Forty or fifty pounds,' cried I; 'is that all?--Oh! if you are sure
that Sally really wants to be married, I can settle that in a minute. I
am sure I must have more than that left of my quarterly allowance.'
'What are you talking of, Ellen?' cried Miss Arnold, who had just
entered the room. 'You are not going to give away fifty pounds at once?'
'Why not?' answered I. 'Probably I shall not want the money; or if I do,
papa will advance my next quarter.'
I had, I believe, at first offered my gift from a simple emotion of
good-will; but now, taught by my friend's resistance, I began to claim
some merit for my generosity; and glanced towards Mr Maitland in search
of his approving look. But Mr Maitland had no approving look to reward a
liberality which sprang from no principle, and called for no labour,
and inferred no self-denial. His eye was fixed upon me with an
expression of calm compassion, which seemed to say, 'Poor girl! have
even thy best actions no solid virtue in them?' Mrs Wells, however, had
less discrimination. The poor know not what it is to give without
generosity, for they possess nothing which can be spared without
self-denial. Tears of gratitude filled her eyes while she praised and
thanked me; but she positively refused to deprive me of such a sum. 'No,
no,' said she, 'let Robert and Sally work and save for two or three
years; and in that time they will get a habit of patience and good
management, which will be of as much use to them as money.' The
approving look which I had sought was now bestowed upon Mrs Wells. 'You
judge very wisely, Mrs Wells,' said Mr Maitland. 'But two or three years
will seem endless to them; say one year, that we may not frighten them,
and whatever they can both save in that time, I will double to them.'
Mrs Wells thanked him, not with the servility of dependence, but with
the warmth of one whom kindness had made bold. Then turning to me, and
apologising for the liberty she took, she begged my patronage for Sally
in the way of her business. 'I assure you, ma'am,' said she, 'that Sally
works very nicely; and if she could get the name of being employed by
such as you, she would soon have her hands full.'
I was thoroughly discomposed by this request. I could part with fifty
pounds with inconvenience, but to wear a gown not made by Mrs Beetham,
was a humiliation to which I could not possibly submit. Unwilling to
disappoint, I knew not what to answer; but Miss Arnold instantly
relieved my dilemma. 'Bless you, good woman,' cried she, 'how could Miss
Percy wear such things as your daughter would make? Before she could
have a pattern, it would be hacked about among half the low creatures in
town.'
Mrs Wells coloured very deeply. 'I meant no offence,' said she: 'I
thought, perhaps, Miss Percy might direct Sally how she wished her gowns
to be made, and I am sure Sally would do as she was directed.'
'Indeed, my good friend,' answered I, 'I can no more direct Sally in
making a gown, than in making a steam-engine. But I will ask employment
for her wherever I think I am likely to be successful. Come, Miss
Mortimer, I shall begin with you.'
'Do,' said Mr Maitland, in his dry manner. 'Miss Mortimer can afford to
spare the attraction of a fashionable gown.'
It has been since discovered, that Mr Maitland did, that very day,
provide for the accomplishment of his promise, in case that death or
accident should prevent his fulfilling it in person. Miss Mortimer
easily persuaded Sally to pursue the prudent course; and, besides,
exerted her influence so successfully, as to procure employment for
every hour of the girl's time. My profuse offer passed from my mind,
and was forgotten. But their charity,--the charity of Christians,--had
at all times little resemblance to the spurious quality which in my
breast usurped the name. Theirs was the animated virtue, instinct with
life divine!--mine, the mutilated stony image, which even if it had
been complete in all its parts, would still have wanted the living
principle. Theirs was the blessed beam of Heaven, active, constant,
universal!--mine the unprofitable, unsteady flash of the 'troubled sea,
which cannot rest.'