Soon after the death of poor Kate, the attention of the Percy family
was taken up by a succession of different visits; some from their old
neighbours and really affectionate friends, some from among the band of
reproaching condolers. The first we shall mention, who partook of the
nature of both these classes, was Lady Jane Granville: she was a sincere
and warm friend, but a tormenting family adviser and director.
Her ladyship was nearly related to Mr. Percy, which gave her, on this
occasion, rights of which she knew how to avail herself.
To do her justice, she was better qualified to be an adviser and
protector than many who assume a familiar tone and character.
Lady Jane Granville was of high birth and fortune, had always lived in
good company, had seen a great deal of the world, both abroad and
at home; she had a complete knowledge of all that makes people well
received in society, had generalized her observations, and had formed
them into maxims of prudence and politeness, which redounded the more to
her credit in conversation, as they were never committed to writing,
and could, therefore, never be brought to the dangerous test of being
printed and published. Her ladyship valued her own traditional wisdom,
and oral instruction, beyond any thing that can be learned from books.
She had acquired a _tact_, which, disclaiming and disdaining every
regular process of reasoning, led her with admirable certainty to right
conclusions in her own concerns, and thus, in some degree, justified the
peremptory tone she assumed in advising others.
Though by no means pleased with Mr. and Mrs. Percy’s answer to several
of her letters of counsel, yet she thought it her duty, as a friend and
relation, to persevere. She invited herself to the Hills, where, with
great difficulty, through scarcely practicable cross roads, she arrived.
She was so much fatigued and exhausted, in body and mind, that during
the first evening she could talk of nothing but her hair-breadth
escapes. The next morning after breakfast, she began with, “My dear Mr.
Percy, now I have a moment’s ease, I have a thousand things to say to
you. I am very much surprised that you have thought fit to settle here
quite out of the world. Will you give me leave to speak my mind freely
to you on the subject?”
“As freely as you please, my dear Lady Jane, upon any subject, if you
will only promise not to be offended, if we should not coincide in
opinion.”
“Certainly, certainly; I am sure I never expect or wish any body
to submit to my opinion, though I have had opportunities of seeing
something of the world: but I assure you, that nothing but very
particular regard would induce me to offer my advice. It is a maxim
of mine, that family interference begins in ill-breeding and ends in
impertinence, and accordingly it is a thing I have ever particularly
avoided. But with a particular friend and near relation like you, my
dear Mr. Percy, I think there ought to be an exception. Now, my
dear sir, the young people have just left the room--I can take this
opportunity of speaking freely: your daughters--what will you do with
them?”
“Do with them! I beg pardon for repeating your ladyship’s words, but I
don’t precisely understand your question.”
“Well, precise sir, then, in other words, how do you mean to dispose of
them?”
“I don’t mean to dispose of them at all,” said Mr. Percy.
“Then let me tell you, my good friend,” said Lady Jane, with a
most prophetic tone, “let me tell you, that you will live to repent
that.--You know I have seen something of the world--you ought to bring
them forward, and make the most of their birth, family, and connexions,
put them in a way of showing their accomplishments, make proper
acquaintance, and obtain for your girls what I call the patronage of
fashion.”
“Patronage!” repeated Mr. Percy: “it seems to be my doom to hear of
nothing but patronage, whichever way I turn. What! patronage for my
daughters as well as for my sons!”
“Yes,” said Lady Jane, “and look to it; for your daughters will never
go on without it. Upon their first coming out, you should--” Here her
ladyship stopped short, for Caroline and Rosamond returned. “Oh! go on,
go on, let me beg of your ladyship,” said Mr. Percy: “why should not my
daughters have the advantage of hearing what you are saying?”
“Well, then, I will tell them candidly that upon their first _coming
out_, it will be an inconceivable advantage, whatever you may think
of it, to have the patronage of fashion! Every day we see many an ugly
face, many a mere simpleton, many a girl who had nothing upon earth but
her dress, become quite charming, when the radiance of fashion is upon
them. And there are some people who can throw this radiance where and on
whom they please, just as easily,” said Lady Jane, playing with a spoon
she held in her hand, “just as easily as I throw the sunshine now upon
this object and now upon that, now upon Caroline and now upon Rosamond.
And, observe, no eye turns upon the beauteous Caroline now, because she
is left in the shade.”
It was Mr. Percy’s policy to allow Lady Jane full liberty to finish all
she wished to say without interruption; for when people are interrupted,
they imagine they have much more to add. Let them go on, and they come
to the end of their sense, and even of their words, sooner than they or
you could probably expect.
“Now,” continued her ladyship, “to apply to living examples; you know
Mrs. Paul Cotterel?”
“No.”
“Well!--Lady Peppercorn?”
“No.”
“Nor the Miss Blissets?”
“No.”
“That is the misfortune of living so much out of the world!--But there
are the Falconers, we all know them at least--now look at the Miss
Falconers.”
“Alas! we have not the honour of knowing even the Miss Falconers,” said
Mr. Percy, “though they are our cousins.”
“Is it possible that you don’t know the Miss Falconers?”
“Very possible,” replied Mr. Percy: “they live always in town, and we
have never seen them since they were children: except a visit or two
which passed between us just after Mrs. Falconer’s marriage, we know
nothing even of her, though we are all acquainted with the commissioner,
who comes from time to time to this part of the country.”
“A very clever man is the commissioner in his way,” said Lady Jane, “but
nothing to his wife. I can assure you, Mrs. Falconer is particularly
well worth your knowing; for unless maternal rivalship should interfere,
I know few people in the world who could be more useful to your girls
when you _bring them out_. She has a vast deal of address. And for a
proof, as I was going to point out to you, there are the Miss Falconers
in the first circles--asked every where--yet without fortunes, and with
no pretensions beyond, or equal to, what your daughters have--not with
half Rosamond’s wit and information--nothing comparable in point of
beauty and accomplishments, to Caroline; yet how they have _got on_! See
what fashion can do! Come, come, we must court her patronage--leave that
to me: I assure you I understand the ways and means.”
“I have no doubt of that,” said Mr. Percy. “All that your ladyship has
said is excellent sense, and incontrovertible as far as--”
“Oh! I knew you would think so: I knew we should understand one another
as soon as you had heard all I had to say.”
“Excellent sense, and incontrovertible, as far as it relates to the
means, but perhaps we may not agree as to the ends; and if these are
different, you know your means, though the best adapted for gaining your
objects, may be quite useless or unfit for the attainment of mine.”
“At once, then, we can’t differ as to our objects, for it is my object
to see your daughters happily married; now tell me,” said Lady Jane,
appealing alternately to Mr. and Mrs. Percy, “honestly tell me, is not
this your object--and yours?”
“Honestly, it is,” said Mr. and Mrs. Percy.
“That’s right--I knew we must agree there.”
“But,” said Mrs. Percy, “allow me to ask what you mean by happily
married?”
“What do I mean? Just what you mean--what every body means at the
bottom of their hearts: in the first place married to men who have some
fortune.”
“What does your ladyship mean by _some_ fortune?”
“Why--you have such a strange way of not understanding! We who live in
the world must speak as the world speaks--we cannot recur continually to
a philosophical dictionary, and if we had recourse to it, we should
only be sent from _a_ to _z_, and from _z_ back again to _a_; see
_affluence_, see _competence_, see _luxury_, see _philosophy_, and
see at last that you see nothing, and that you knew as much before you
opened the book as when you shut it--which indeed is what I find to be
the case with most books I read.”
Triumphant from the consciousness of having hitherto had all the wit on
her side, Lady Jane looked round, and continued: “Though I don’t
pretend to draw my maxims from books, yet this much I do know, that in
matrimony, let people have ever so much sense, and merit, and love, and
all that, they must have bread and butter into the bargain, or it won’t
do.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Percy: “under that head I suppose you include all
the necessaries of life.”
“And some of the luxuries, if you please; for in these days luxuries are
become necessaries.”
“A barouche and four, for instance?” said Mrs. Percy.
“Oh! no, no--my dear madam, I speak within bounds; you cannot expect a
barouche and four for girls who have nothing.”
“I expect it as little as I wish it for them,” said Mrs. Percy, smiling;
“and as little as my daughters, I believe, desire it.”
“But if such a thing should offer, I presume you would not wish that
Rosamond or Caroline should refuse?”
“That depends upon _who_ offers it,” said Mrs. Percy. “But whatever my
wishes might be, I should, as I believe I safely may, leave my daughters
entirely at liberty to judge and decide for themselves.”
“Yes, I believe you safely may,” said Lady Jane, “as long as you keep
them here. You might as well talk of leaving them at liberty in the
deserts of Arabia. You don’t expect that knights and squires should come
hither in quest of your damsels?”
“Then you would have the damsels sally forth in quest of the knights and
squires?” said Mr. Percy.
“Let them sally forth at any rate,” said Lady Jane, laughing; “nobody has
a right to ask in quest of what. We are not now in the times of ancient
romance, when young ladies were to sit straight-laced at their looms, or
never to stir farther than to their bower windows.”
“Young ladies must now go a great deal farther,” said Mr. Percy, “before
the discourteous knights will deign to take any notice of them.”
“Ay, indeed, it is shameful!” said Lady Jane sighing. “I declare it is
shameful!” repeated she, indignantly. “Do you know, that last winter at
Bath the ladies were forced to ask the gentlemen to dance?”
“Forced?” said Mr. Percy.
“Yes, forced!” said Lady Jane, “or else they must have sat still all
night like so many simpletons.”
“Sad alternative!” said Mr. Percy; “and what is worse, I understand that
partners for life are scarcely to be had on easier terms; at least so
I am informed by one of your excellent modern mothers, Mrs. Chatterton,
who has been leading her three _gawky_ graces about from one
watering-place to another these six years, fishing, and hunting, and
hawking for husbands. ‘There now! I have carried my girls to Bath, and
to London, and to Tunbridge, and to Weymouth, and to Cheltenham, and
every where; I am sure I can do no more for them.’ I assure you,”
continued Mr. Percy, “I have heard Mrs. Chatterton say these very words
in a room full of company.”
“In a room full of company? Shocking!” said Lady Jane. “But then poor
Mrs. Chatterton is a fool, you know; and, what is worse, not _well
mannered_,--how should she? But I flatter myself, if you will trust me
with your daughter Caroline, we should manage matters rather better. Now
let me tell you my plan. My plan is to take Caroline with me immediately
to Tunbridge, previous to her London campaign. Nothing can be a greater
mistake than to keep a young lady _up_, and prevent her being seen
till the moment when she is to be brought out: it is of incalculable
advantage that, previously to her appearance in the great world, she
should have been seen by certain fashionable _prôneurs_. It is essential
that certain reports respecting her accomplishments and connexions
should have had time to circulate properly.”
All this Mr. and Mrs. Percy acknowledged, in as unqualified a manner as
Lady Jane could desire, was fit and necessary to secure what is called a
young lady’s success in the fashionable world; but they said that it was
not their object to _dispose of their daughters_, as it is called, _to
the best advantage_. The arts which are commonly practised for this
purpose they thought not only indelicate, but ultimately impolitic and
absurd; for men in general are now so well aware of them, that they
avoid the snares, and ridicule and detest those by whom they are
contrived. If, now and then, a dupe be found, still the chance is, that
the match so made turns out unhappily; at best, attachments formed in
public places, and in the hurry of a town life, can seldom be founded
on any real knowledge of character, or suitableness of taste and temper.
“It is much more probable,” added Mrs. Percy, “that happy marriages
should be made where people have leisure and opportunities of becoming
really and intimately acquainted with each other’s dispositions.”
“Vastly well!” said Lady Jane: “so you mean to bury your daughters
in the country--to shut them up, at least--all the days of their
unfortunate lives?”
Mr. and Mrs. Percy, both at the same moment, eagerly declared that they
had no such absurd or cruel intention towards their daughters. “On the
contrary,” said Mr. Percy, “we shall take every proper occasion, that
our present fortune and situation will allow, of letting them see
agreeable and sensible persons.”
“Are they to spring out of the ground, these agreeable and sensible
persons?” said Lady Jane. “Whom do you see in this desert, or expect to
see?”
“We see your ladyship, in the first place,” said Mr. Percy: “you cannot
therefore wonder if we are proud enough to expect to see sometimes good
company, persons of merit, and even of fashion, though we have lost our
station and fortune.”
“That is very politely turned by you, Mr. Percy. Much more polite
than my desert. But I could not bear the thoughts of your sweet pretty
Caroline’s blushing unseen.”
“Nor could we,” said Mr. Percy, “bear the thoughts of her ceasing
to blush from being too much seen. We could not bear the thoughts of
_fitting our daughters out_, and sending them to the London market, with
the portionless class of matrimonial adventurers, of whom even the few
that succeed are often doomed but to splendid misery in marriage;
and the numbers who fail in their venture are, after a certain time,
consigned to neglect and contempt in single wretchedness. Here, on the
contrary, in the bosom of their own families, without seeking to entice
or entrap, they can at all events never be disappointed or degraded;
and, whether married or single, will be respected and respectable, in
youth and age--secure of friends, and of a happy home.”
“Happy nonsense! begging your pardon, my dear coz. Shall I tell you
what the end of all this living in the bosom of their own families will
be?--that they will die old maids. For mercy’s sake, my dear Mrs. Percy,
do not let Mr. Percy be philosophical for your daughters, whatever he
may be for himself. You, I am sure, cannot wish your poor daughters to
be _old maids_,” said her ladyship, with a tremendous accent upon the
word.
“No, I should wish them to marry, if I could ensure for them good
husbands, not merely good fortunes. The warmest wish of my heart,” cried
Mrs. Percy, “is to see my daughters as happy as I am myself, married to
men of their own choice, whom they can entirely esteem, and fondly love.
But I would rather see my daughters in their graves than see them
throw themselves away upon men unworthy of them, or sell themselves to
husbands unsuited to them, merely for the sake of being _established_,
for the vulgar notion of _getting married_, or to avoid the imaginary
and unjust ridicule of being old maids.”
The warmth and energy with which these last words were spoken, by so
gentle a person as Mrs. Percy, surprised Lady Jane so much, that she
was silent; all her ideas being suddenly at a stand, and her sagacity at
fault. Mr. Percy proposed a walk to show her the Hills; as her ladyship
rose to accompany him, she said to herself, “Who could have guessed
that Mrs. Percy was so romantic?--But she has caught it from her
husband.--What a strange father and mother!--But for the sake of the
poor girls, I will not give up the point. I will have Caroline with me
to Tunbridge, and to town, in spite of their wise heads.”
She renewed her attack in the evening after tea. Rising, and walking
towards the window, “A word with you, Mr. Percy, if you please. The
young people are going to walk, and now we can talk the matter over by
ourselves.”
“Why should not we talk it over before the young people?” said Mr.
Percy. “We always speak of every thing openly in this family,” continued
he, turning to Lady Jane; “and I think that is one reason why we live so
happily together. I let my children know all my views for them, all
my affairs, and my opinions, I may say all my thoughts, or how could I
expect them to trust me with theirs?”
“As to that, children are bound by gratitude to treat their parents with
perfect openness,” said Lady Jane; “and it is the duty of children, you
know, to make their parents their confidants upon all occasions.”
“Duty and gratitude are excellent things,” said Mr. Percy, “but somewhat
more is necessary between parent and child to produce friendship.
Recollect the Duc d’Epernon’s reply to his king, who reproached him with
want of affection. ‘Sire, you may command my services, my life; but your
majesty knows, friendship is to be won only by friendship.’”
“Very true,” said Lady Jane; “but friendship is not, properly speaking,
the connexion that subsists between parents and children.”
“I am sorry you think so,” said Mr. Percy, smiling: “pray do not teach
my children that doctrine.”
“Nay,” said Lady Jane, “no matter whether we call it friendship or not;
I will answer for it, that without any refined notions about perfect
openness and confidence, your children will be fond of you, if you
are indulgent to them in certain points. Caroline, my dear,” said she,
turning to Caroline, who was at the farthest end of the room, “don’t
look so unconscious, for you are a party concerned; so come and kneel
at the feet of this perverse father of yours, to plead your cause and
mine--I must take you with me to Tunbridge. You must let me have her a
summer and winter, and I will answer for Caroline’s success.”
“What does your ladyship mean by my success?” said Caroline.
“Why, child--Now don’t play your father’s philosophic airs upon me!
We people who live in the world, and not with philosophers, are not
prepared for such entrapping interrogatories. But come, I mean in plain
English, my dear, though I am afraid it will shock your ears, that
you will be” (speaking loud) “pretty well admired, pretty well abused,
and--oh, shocking!--pretty well married.”
“Pretty well married!” repeated Mrs. Percy, in a scornful tone: “but
neither Caroline nor I should be satisfied unless she be very well
married.”
“Heyday! There is no knowing where to have you _lady_ philosophers. This
morning you did not desire a coach and four for your daughters, not you;
now you quarrel with me on the other side of the question. Really, for a
lady of moderation, you are a little exorbitant. _Pretty well married_,
you know, implies 2000_l._ a-year; and very well married, nothing under
10,000_l._”
“Is that the language of the market? I did not understand the exact
meaning of _very well married_--did you, Caroline? I own I expect
something more than 10,000_l._ a-year.”
“More!--you unconscionable wretch! how much more?” said Lady Jane.
“Infinitely more,” said Mr. Percy: “I expect a man of sense, temper, and
virtue, who would love my daughter as she deserves to be loved.”
“Let me advise you,” said Lady Jane, in her very gravest tone, “not to
puff up Caroline’s imagination with a parcel of romantic notions.--I
never yet knew any good done by it. Depend on it you will be
disappointed, if you expect a genius to descend from the clouds express
for your daughters. Let them do as other people do, and they may have
a chance of meeting with some good sort of men, who will make them as
happy as--as happy as their neighbours.”
“And how happy is that?” said Caroline: “as happy as we are now?”
“As you are now!” said Lady Jane: “a vastly pretty maidenly speech! But
young ladies, nevertheless, usually think that the saffron robe of Hymen
would not be the most unbecoming dress in the world; and whether it be
in compliance with their daughters’ taste, or their own convenience,
most parents are in a hurry to purchase it.”
“Sometimes at the expense of their daughters’ happiness for life,” said
Mrs. Percy.
“Well, lest we should go over the same ground, and get into the same
labyrinth, where we lost ourselves this morning, let me come to the
point at once.--May I hope, Mr. and Mrs. Percy, to have the pleasure of
Caroline’s company at Tunbridge next week, and in town next winter, or
not?--That is the question.”
“That is a question which your ladyship will be so good as to ask
Caroline, if you please,” said Mr. Percy; “both her mother and I wish
that she should decide for herself.”
“Indeed?” cried Lady Jane: “then, my dear Caroline, if you please, come
with me this minute to my dressing-room, and we’ll settle it all at my
_toilette de nuit_. I have a notion,” added her ladyship, as she drew
Caroline’s arm within hers, and led her out of the room, “I have a
notion that I shall not find you quite so impracticable as your father
has shown himself.”
“You may leave us, Keppel,” said Lady Jane to her maid, as she went into
her dressing-room--“I will ring when I want you.--My love,” said she
to Caroline, who stood beside her dressing-table, “why did not you let
Keppel dress your hair to-day?--But no matter--when I once get you to
town, we’ll manage it all our own way. I have a notion that you are not
of a positive temper.”
Caroline coloured at this speech.
“I see what are you thinking of,” said Lady Jane, mistaking her
countenance; “and to tell you the truth, I also am sadly afraid, by what
I see, that we shall hardly gain our point. I know your father--some
difficulty will be started, and ten to one he will not allow me to have
you at last, unless you try and persuade him yourself.”
“I never try to persuade my father to do any thing.”
“What, then, he is not a man to be persuaded?”
“No,” said Caroline, smiling; “but what is much better, he is a man to
be convinced.”
“Better!” exclaimed Lady Jane: “Why surely you had not rather live with
a man you were to convince than one you could persuade?”
“Would it not be safer?” said Caroline: “the arts of persuasion might be
turned against us by others, but the power of conviction never could.”
“Now, my dear, you are too deep for me,” replied Lady Jane. “You said
very little in our long debate this morning, and I’m afraid I said too
much; but I own I could not help speaking candidly. Between ourselves,
your father has some notions, which, you know, are a little odd.”
“My father!” exclaimed Caroline.
“Yes, my dear, though he is your father, and my relation too, you know
one cannot be quite blinded by partiality--and I never would give up my
judgment.”
“Nor would I,” said Caroline. “Nor I am sure would my father ever desire
it. You see how freely he permits, he encourages us all to converse
with him. He is never displeased with any of us for being of a different
opinion from him.”
“He may not show displeasure,” said Lady Jane.
“Oh! he does not feel it, ma’am--I assure you,” said Caroline, with
emotion. “You do not know my father, indeed you do not.”
“My dear,” said Lady Jane, retracting, “I know he is an excellent
father, and I am sure I would have you think so--it is your duty;
but, at the same time, you know he is not infallible, and you must not
insist,” added she, sharply, “upon all the world being of one way of
thinking.--My dear, you are his favourite, and it is no wonder you
defend him.”
“Indeed, ma’am,” said Caroline, “if I am his favourite, I do not know
it.”
“My dear, don’t mistake me. It is no wonder that you _are_. You must be
a favourite with every body; and yet,” said Lady Jane, and she paused,
“as you hinted, perhaps I am mistaken; I think Rosamond seems--hey?--Now
tell me candidly--which is the favourite?”
“I would if I knew,” said Caroline.
“Oh! but there must be some favourite in a family--I know there must;
and since you will not speak, I guess how it is. Perhaps, if I had asked
your sister Rosamond to go to town with me next winter, your father
would have been better pleased, and would have consented more readily.”
“To lose her company if she were his favourite?” said Caroline, smiling.
“But you know, my dear,” continued Lady Jane, without hearing or
attending to this, “you know, my dear, that Rosamond, though a very
good girl and very sensible, I am sure, yet she has not your personal
advantages, and I could do nothing for her in town, except, perhaps,
introduce her at Mrs. Cator’s, and Lady Spilsbury’s, or Lady Angelica
Headingham’s conversazione--Rosamond has a mixture of naïveté and
sprightliness that is new, and might _take_. If she had more courage,
and would hazard more in conversation, if she had, in short, _l’art de
se faire valoir_, one could hand her verses about, and get her forward
in the bel-esprit line. But she must stay till we have brought you into
fashion, my dear, and another winter, perhaps--Well, my love, I will not
keep you up longer. On Monday, if you please, we shall go--since you say
you are sure your father is in earnest, in giving you leave to decide
for yourself.”
What was Lady Jane Granville’s astonishment, when she heard Caroline
decline, with polite thanks, her kind invitation!
Her ladyship stood silent with suspended indignation.
“This cannot be your own determination, child?”
“I beg your ladyship’s pardon--it is entirely my own. When a person is
convinced by good reasons, those reasons surely become their own. But
independently of all the arguments which I have heard from my father and
mother, my own feelings must prevent me from leaving home in our present
circumstances. I cannot quit my parents and my sister, now they are,
comparatively speaking, in distress. Neither in prosperity nor in
adversity do I wish to leave my family, but certainly not in adversity.”
“High-flown notions! Your family is not in any great distress, that I
see: there is a change, to be sure, in the style of life; but a daughter
more, you know only increases the--the difficulties.”
“I believe my father and mother do not think so,” said Caroline;
“and till they do, I wish to stay with them, and share their fortune,
whatever it may be.”
“I have done--as you please--you are to decide for yourself, Miss
Caroline Percy: this is your final determination?”
“It is,” said Caroline; “but permit me,” added she, taking Lady Jane’s
hand, and endeavouring by the kindest tone of gratitude to avert the
displeasure which she saw gathering, “permit me to assure you, that I
am truly grateful for your kindness, and I hope--I am sure, that I never
shall forget it.”
Lady Jane drew away her hand haughtily. “Permit me to assure you, Miss
Caroline Percy, that there are few, very few young ladies indeed, even
among my own nearest relations, to whom I would have undertaken to be
_chaperon_. I do not know another young lady in England to whom I would
have made the offer I have made to you, nor would that offer ever have
been made could I reasonably have foreseen the possibility of its being
refused. Let us say no more, ma’am, if you please--we understand one
another now--and I wish you a good night.”
Caroline retired, sorry to have displeased one who had shown so much
friendly eagerness to serve her, yet not in the least disposed to change
her determination. The next day Lady Jane’s morning face boded no good.
Mr. and Mrs. Percy in vain endeavoured by all the kind attentions in
their power to assuage her feelings, but nothing restored her to that
sweet temper in which she had begun the chapter of advice. She soon
announced that she had received letters which called her immediately to
Tunbridge, and her ladyship quitted the Hills, resolving never more to
visit relations who would not be guided by her opinion.
The next persons who came to visit the Percy family in their retirement
were Mrs. Hungerford and her daughter, Mrs. Mortimer, who had been
friends and near neighbours whilst they resided at Percy-hall, and whose
society they had particularly regretted. The distance at which they now
lived from Hungerford Castle was such, that they had little hope that
any intercourse could be kept up with its inhabitants, especially as
Mrs. Hungerford had arrived at that time of life when she was exempted
from the ceremony of visiting, and she seldom stirred from home except
when she went to town annually to see her daughter Mortimer.
“So,” said Mrs. Hungerford, as Mr. Percy helped her out of her carriage,
“my good friend, you are surprised at seeing me, are you?--Ah! you
thought I was too old or too lazy to come; but I am happy to be able to
convince you that you are mistaken. See what motive will do! You know
Mr. Percy says, that people can do any thing they please, and it is
certain that it pleased me to do this.”
When she was seated, and Mrs. Percy spoke of the distance from which
she had kindly come to see them, she answered, “I hear people talk of a
_visiting distance_; and I understand perfectly well what it means when
acquaintance are in question, but for friends there is no _visiting
distance_. Remove to the Land’s End, and, old as I am, I will pursue and
overtake you too, tortoise as I seem; and don’t depend upon dark nights,
for every night is full moon to me, when I am bent upon a visit to a
friend; and don’t depend upon hills--there are no Pyrenees between us.”
These sound, perhaps, like mere civil speeches, but they came from
one who always spoke sincerely, and who was no common person. Mrs.
Hungerford was, by those who did not know her, thought proud; those who
did, knew that she had reason to be proud. She was of noble descent,
dignified appearance, polite manners, strong understanding, and high
character. Her fortune, connexions, various knowledge, and extraordinary
merit, had, during a long life, given her means of becoming acquainted
with most of the persons of any celebrity or worth in her own or in
foreign countries. No new candidate for fame appeared in any line of
life, without desiring to be noticed by Mrs. Hungerford; no traveller of
distinction or of literature visited England without providing himself
with letters of introduction to Mrs. Hungerford, and to her accomplished
daughter, the wife of Admiral Mortimer. In her early youth she had
passed some years abroad, and had the vivacity, ease, polish, _tact_,
and _esprit de société_ of a Frenchwoman, with the solidity of
understanding, amiable qualities, domestic tastes, and virtues of an
Englishwoman. The mutual affection of this mother and daughter not only
secured their own happiness, but diffused an additional charm over their
manners, and increased the interest which they otherwise inspired. Mrs.
Mortimer’s house in London was the resort of the best company, in the
best sense of the word: it was not that dull, dismal, unnatural thing,
an English _conversazione_, where people are set, against their will
and their nature, to talk wit; or reduced, against their pride and their
conscience, to worship _idols_. This society partook of the nature of
the best English and the best French society, judiciously combined: the
French mixture of persons of talents and of rank, men of literature
and of the world; the French habit of mingling feminine and masculine
subjects of conversation, instead of separating the sexes, far as the
confines of their prison-room will allow, into hostile parties, dooming
one sex to politics, argument, and eternal sense, the other to scandal,
dress, and eternal nonsense. Yet with these French manners there were
English morals; with this French ease, gaiety, and politeness, English
sincerity, confidence, and safety: no _simagrée_, no _espionnage_; no
intrigue, political or gallant; none of that profligacy, which not only
disgraced, but destroyed the _reality_ of pleasure in Parisian society,
at its most brilliant era. The persons of whom Mrs. Mortimer’s society
was formed were, in their habits and good sense, so thoroughly English,
that, even had it been possible for them to put morality and religion
out of the question, they would still have thought it quite as
convenient and agreeable to love their own husbands and wives as to play
at cross-purposes in gallanting their neighbours’. Of consequence, Mrs.
Mortimer, in the bloom of youth and height of fashion, instead of being
a coquette, “hunting after men with her eyes,” was beloved, almost to
adoration, as a daughter, a wife, a mother, a friend. Mrs. Hungerford,
at an advanced age, was not a wretched, selfish Madame du Deffand,
exacting _hommage_ and _attentions_, yet disbelieving in the existence
of friendship; complaining in the midst of all the luxuries of life,
mental and corporeal, of being oppressed by ennui, unable to find any
one to love and esteem, or incapable of loving and esteeming any one;
Mrs. Hungerford, surrounded
“With all that should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends.”
was, as she often declared, with gratitude to Providence, happier in age
than she had been even in youth. With warm affections, and benevolence
guided and governed in its objects by reason and religion; indulgent
to human nature in general, and loving it, but not with German
cosmopolitism--first and best, loving her daughter, her family,
comprising a wide and happy extent of relations and connexions, sons and
nephews in the army and navy, or in different employments in the state:
many of these young men already distinguished, others wanting only
opportunity to do equal honour to their name.
During the summer, Mrs. Mortimer usually spent some months at Hungerford
Castle, and generally took with her from town some friends whose company
she thought would peculiarly suit her mother’s taste. Mrs. Hungerford
had always been in the habit of inviting the Percy family, whenever she
had any body with her whom she thought they would wish to see or hear;
and thus the young people, though living retired in the country, had
enjoyed the advantages of becoming early acquainted with many celebrated
literary and public characters, and of living in the best society;
these were advantages which they obtained from their education and their
merit; for assuredly Mrs. Hungerford would never have troubled herself
with them merely because they were her neighbours, possessing so many
thousand pounds a year, and representatives of the Percy interest in the
county.--A proof of which, if any were wanting, is, that she never took
the least notice of those who now held their place at Percy-hall; and
the first visit she paid when she came to the country, the first visit
she had been known to pay for years, was to her friends the Percys,
after they had lost their thousands per annum. So completely was it
themselves and not their fortune which she had always considered, that
she never condoled with them, and scarcely seemed to advert to any
change in their circumstances. She perceived, to be sure, that she was
not at Percy-hall; she discovered, probably, that she was in a small
instead of a large room; the change of prospect from the windows
struck her eye, and she remarked that this part of the country was more
beautiful than that to which she had been accustomed.--As to the more or
less of show, of dress, or equipage, these things did not merely make
no difference in Mrs. Hungerford’s estimation of persons, but in fact
scarcely made any impression upon her senses or attention. She had
been so much accustomed to magnificence upon a large scale, that the
different subordinate degrees were lost upon her; and she had seen
so many changes of fashion and of fortune, that she attached little
importance to these. Regardless of the drapery of objects, she saw at
once what was substantial and essential. It might, she thought, be
one man’s taste to visit her in a barouche and four, with half-a-dozen
servants, and another person’s pleasure to come without parade or
attendants--this was indifferent to her. It was their conversation,
their characters, their merit, she looked to; and many a lord and lady
of showy dress and equipage, and vast importance in their own opinions,
shrunk into insignificance in the company of Mrs. Hungerford; and,
though in the room with her, passed before her eyes without making a
sufficient sensation upon her organs to attract her notice, or to change
the course of her thoughts.
All these _peculiarities_ in this lady’s character rendered
her particularly agreeable to the Percy family in their present
circumstances. She pressed them to pay her a long visit.
“You see,” said Mrs. Hungerford, “that I had the grace to forbear asking
this favour till I had possession of my daughter Mortimer, and could
bring her with me to entice you.--And my dear young friends, you shall
find young friends too, as well as old ones, at my house: my nieces,
the Lady Pembrokes, are to be with me; and Lady Angelica Headingham, who
will entertain you, though, perhaps, you will sometimes be tired _for_
her, she works so hard _aux galères de bel-esprit_. I acknowledge
she has a little too much affectation. But we must have charity for
affectation and its multitude of foibles; for, you know, Locke says
that it is only a mistaken desire to please. Angelica will find out her
mistakes in time, and after trying all manners, will hold fast by the
best--that is, the most natural: in the mean time, do you, my dear young
friends, come and admire her as an inimitable actress. Then, Mr. Percy,
I have for you three temptations--a man of letters, a man of science,
and a man of sense. And, for the climax of my eloquence, I have
reserved,” continued she turning to Mrs. Percy, “my appeal to the
mother’s feelings. Know, then, that my son, my eldest hope, my colonel,
has arrived from the continent--landed last night--I expect him home
in a few days, and you must come and flatter me that he is prodigiously
improved by the service he has seen, and the wounds which he can
show, and assure me that, next to your own Godfrey, you would name my
Gustavus, of all the officers in the army, as most deserving to be our
commander-in-chief.”
An invitation, which there were so many good and kind reasons for
accepting, could not be refused. But before we go to Hungerford Castle,
and before we see Colonel Hungerford--upon whom, doubtless, many a
one at this instant, as well as Rosamond Percy, has formed designs or
prognostics in favour of Caroline--we must read the following letter,
and bring up the affairs of Alfred and Erasmus.