While Mrs. Hungerford was wasting her good advice upon Lady Angelica,
Sir James Harcourt at his toilette received this day’s letters, which he
read, as usual, while his hair was dressing. Some of these letters
were from creditors, who were impatient to hear when his _advantageous
marriage_ would be concluded, or when he would obtain that place which
had been so long promised. The place at court, as he was by this post
informed by a _private, very confidential_ letter, under a government
cover and huge seal, from his intimate friend, my Lord Skreene,
ministers had found themselves under the unfortunate necessity of giving
away, to secure three votes on a certain cabinet question.
Sir James threw the letter from him, without reading the rest of his
dear friend’s official apologies: “So, the place at court is out of
the question--a wife must be my last resource,” thought he, “but how to
bring her to the point?”
Sir James knew that though he was now in high favour, he might, at some
sudden turn of caprice, be discarded or deserted by his fair one, as
had been the fate of so many of his predecessors. The ruling passion,
vanity, must be touched, and the obvious means of awakening jealousy
were in his power. He determined to pay attentions to Miss Caroline
Percy: his experience in the tactics of gallantry supplying the place
of knowledge of the human heart, he counterfeited the symptoms of a new
passion, and acted “The Inconstant” so well, that Lady Angelica had no
doubt of his being what be appeared. She was not prepared for this turn
of fate, well as she thought she knew her game, and at this unlucky
moment, just when she wanted to play off Sir James against Mr.
Barclay--and in an old castle in the country too, where no substitute
was to be had!
Her ladyship was the more vexed, because Mrs. Hungerford must see her
distress. Unused to any thing that opposed her wishes, she lost all
temper, and every word and look manifested resentment and disdain
towards her innocent and generous rival. In this jealousy, as there was
no mixture of love to colour and conceal its nature, it could not
pass for refinement of sentiment--it bore no resemblance to any thing
noble--it must have been detected, even by a less penetrating and less
interested observer than Mr. Barclay. His eyes were now completely
opened.
In the mean time, Caroline’s character, the more it was brought into
light, the more its value, goodness, and purity appeared. In the
education of a beauty, as of a prince, it is essential early to inspire
an utter contempt of flattery, and to give the habit of observing, and
consequently the power of judging, of character.
Caroline, on this occasion, when, perhaps, some little temptation
might have been felt by some ladies, remembered her own prayer against
coquetry--her manner towards Sir James was free from all possibility of
reproach or misconstruction: and by simply and steadily adhering to the
truth, and going the straight road, she avoided all the difficulties in
which she would have been involved, had she deviated but for a moment
into any crooked path.
But to return to Lady Angelica Headingham. She was pleased to see Sir
James Harcourt disconcerted, and delighted to see him mortified. Her
ladyship’s disdainful manner towards Caroline was thrown aside,
“And all the cruel language of the eye”
changed at once. Lady Angelica acknowledged that no one could show more
magnanimity than Miss Caroline Percy had displayed in her conduct to Sir
James Harcourt. This speech was made of course to be repeated, and when
Caroline heard it she could not help smiling at the word magnanimity,
which sounded to her rather too grand for the occasion.
Sir James Harcourt finding himself completely foiled in his schemes, and
perceiving that the parties were closing and combining in a manner which
his knowledge of the world had not taught him to foresee, endeavoured
with all possible address and expedition to make his separate peace with
Lady Angelica. Her ladyship, however, was proud to show that she had
too much sense and spirit to accept again the homage of this recreant
knight. He had not time to sue for pardon--his adventure might have
ended in a jail; so forthwith he took his departure from Hungerford
Castle, undetermined whether he should again haste to court to beg
a place, or bend his course to the city, there to barter his fashion
against the solid gold of some merchant, rolling in his majesty’s coin,
who might be silly enough to give his daughter, for a bow, to a courtier
without a shilling. On one point, however, Sir James was decided--betide
him weal, betide him woe--that his next mistress should neither be a
wit, nor a beauty, nor yet a patroness.
After the departure of the baronet, the Lady Angelica expected to find
her remaining lover at her feet, in transports of joy and gratitude for
this haughty dismissal of his rival. No such thing: Mr. Barclay seemed
disposed to throw himself at the feet of another, and of the last person
in the world at whose feet her ladyship could bear to think of seeing
him. Yet if she had even now taken Mrs. Hungerford’s friendly warning,
she might still have saved herself from mortification; but she was
hurried on by her evil genius--the spirit of coquetry.
She had promised to pay a visit this summer to an aunt of Mr. Barclay,
Lady B----, who lived in Leicestershire. And now, when every thing was
arranged for her reception, Lady Angelica changed her mind, and told Mr.
Barclay that she could not go, that she had just received letters from
town, from several of her fashionable friends, who were setting out for
Weymouth, and who insisted upon her meeting them there--and there was a
delightful Miss Kew, a protégée of hers, who was gone to Weymouth in the
hope and trust that her ladyship would _produce_ her and her new novel
at the reading parties which Lady Angelica had projected. She declared
that she could not possibly disappoint Miss Kew; besides, she had
promised to carry Mr. Seebright to Weymouth, to introduce him and
his poem to her friends--his subscription and the success of his poem
entirely depended upon her going to Weymouth--she could not possibly
disappoint _him_.
Mr. Barclay thought more of his own disappointment--and said so: at
which her ladyship rejoiced, for she wished to make this a trial of her
power; and she desired rather that her reasons should not appear valid,
and that her excuses should not be reasonable, on purpose that she
might compel Mr. Barclay to submit to her caprice, and carry him off in
triumph in her train.
She carelessly repeated that Leicestershire was out of the question at
this time, but that Mr. Barclay might attend her, if he pleased.
But it did not please him: he did not think that his aunt was properly
treated, and he preferred her to all the bel-esprits and fine ladies who
were going to Weymouth--her charming self excepted.
She depended too much on the power of that charming self. Mr. Barclay,
whose bands she had gradually loosened, now made one resolute effort,
asserted and recovered his liberty. He declared that to Weymouth he
could not have the honour of attending her: if her ladyship thought the
claims and feelings of her protégées of greater consequence than his,
if she held herself more bound by the promises she had given to Mr.
Seebright, Miss Kew, or any of her bel-esprit friends, than by those
with which she had honoured his aunt, he could not presume to dispute
her pleasure, or further to press Lady B.’s request; he could only
lament--and submit.
Lady Angelica flattered herself that this was only a bravado, or a
temporary ebullition of courage, but, to her surprise and dismay, Mr.
Barclay continued firm, calm, and civil. His heart now turned to the
object on which his understanding had long since told him it should fix.
He saw that Miss Caroline Percy was all that could make him happy
for life, if he could win her affections; but of the possibility of
succeeding he had great doubts. He had, to be sure, some circumstances
in his favour: he was of a good family, and had a considerable fortune;
in a worldly point of view he was a most advantageous match for Caroline
Percy, but he knew that an establishment was not the _first_ object,
either with her, or with her parents; neither could he wish that any
motives of interest should operate in his favour. His character, his
principles, were good, and he had reason to believe that Mr. Percy was
impressed with a highly favourable opinion of his good sense and
general understanding. Caroline talked to him always as if she liked his
conversation, and felt esteem for his character; but the very freedom
and ease of her manner showed that she had no thoughts of him. He
was many years older than Caroline: it did not amount to an absolute
disparity, but it was an alarming difference. Mr. Barclay, who estimated
himself with perfect impartiality and candour, was sensible that though
his temper was good, yet that he was somewhat fastidious, and though his
manners were polite, yet they were reserved--they wanted that amenity,
gaiety, and frankness, which might be essential to win and keep a lady’s
heart. The more his love, the more doubts of his own deserts increased;
but at last he determined to try his fate. He caught a glimpse of
Caroline one morning as she was drawing in the Oriel. Her sister and the
two Lady Pembrokes were in the library, and he thought he was secure of
finding her alone.
“May I beg the favour of a few minutes?”--he began with a voice of much
emotion as he entered the room; but he stopped short at the sight of
Lady Angelica.
In spite of all the rouge she wore, her ladyship’s change of colour was
striking. Her lips trembled and grew pale. Mr. Barclay’s eyes fixed
upon her for one moment with astonishment, then turning calmly away, he
addressed himself to Caroline, his emotion recurring, though he merely
spoke to her of a drawing which she was examining, and though he only
said, “Is this yours?”
“Yes, Lady Angelica has just given it to me; it is one of her
drawings--a view of Weymouth.”
“Very beautiful,” said Mr. Barclay, coldly--“a view of Weymouth.”
“Where I hope to be the day after to-morrow,” cried Lady Angelica,
speaking in a hurried, piqued, and haughty voice--“I am dying to get to
Weymouth. Mr. Barclay, if you have any letters for your friends there,
I shall be happy to carry them. Only let them be given to my woman in
time,” added her ladyship, rising; “and now I must go and say _vivace!
presto! prestissimo!_ to her preparations. Well, have you any commands?”
“No commands--but my best wishes for your ladyship’s health and
happiness, whenever and wherever you go.”
Lady Angelica sunk down upon her seat--made a strong effort to rise
again--but was unable. Caroline, without appearing to take any notice of
this, turned to Mr. Barclay, and said, “Will you have the goodness now
to give me the book which you were so kind as to promise me?”
Mr. Barclay went in search of it. Caroline proceeded with her drawing,
gave Lady Angelica time to recover, and left her the hope that her
perturbation had not been noticed. Her ladyship, as soon as she could,
left the room, repeating that she had some orders to give for her
departure. Caroline waited some time in vain for Mr. Barclay and his
book. Afterwards, as she was going up stairs, she was met by Rosamond,
who, with a face full of mystery, whispered, “Caroline, my father wants
you this instant in my mother’s dressing-room--Mr. Barclay,” added she,
in a low voice, and nodding her head, “Oh! I see you know what I mean--I
knew how it would be--I said so last night. Now go to my father, and you
will hear all the particulars.”
Caroline heard from her father the confirmation of Rosamond’s
intelligence, and she received from him and from her mother the kind
assurance that they would leave her entirely at liberty to accept or
refuse Mr. Barclay, according as her own judgment and feelings might
dictate. They said, that though it might be, in point of fortune, a
highly advantageous match, and though they saw nothing to which they
could object in his character, understanding, and temper, yet they
should not attempt to influence her in his favour. They begged her to
decide entirely for herself, and to consult only her own happiness.
“All I insist upon, my dear daughter, is, that you should, without any
idle or unjust generosity, consider first and solely what is for your
own happiness.”
“And for Mr. Barclay’s,” said Caroline.
“And for Mr. Barclay’s, as far as you are concerned: but, remember,
the question he asks you is, whether you can love him, whether you will
marry him, not whether you would advise him to love or marry somebody
else? Don’t I know all that passes in your mind?”
“Not all, perhaps,” said Caroline, “nor can I tell it you, because it is
another person’s secret; therefore, I am sure you will not question me
further: but since you are so kind as to trust to my judgment, trust to
it entirely, when I assure you that I will, without any idle or unjust
generosity, consider, principally, what is for my own happiness.”
“I am satisfied,” said Mr. Percy, “no--one thing more: without meaning
or wishing to penetrate into any other person’s affairs, I have a full
right to say to my daughter all that may be necessary to assist her in
deciding on a point the most material to her happiness. Now, Caroline,”
continued her father, looking away from her, “observe, I do not
endeavour, from my knowledge of your countenance, even to guess whether
what I imagine is fact; but I state to you this supposition--suppose you
had been told that another lady is attached to Mr. Barclay?”
“I never was told so,” interrupted Caroline, “but I have discovered it
by accident--No, I have said too much--I do not think _that person_ is
attached to him, but that she might easily have become attached, if this
proposal had been made to her instead of to me; and I think that their
two characters are exactly suited to each other--much better suited than
mine could be to Mr. Barclay, or his to me: she has wit and imagination,
and great vivacity; he has judgment, prudence, and solid sense: in each
there is what would compensate for what is wanting in the other, and
both together would make a happy union.”
“My dear Caroline,” said her father, “I must put you upon your guard
against the too easy faith of a sincere affectionate heart. I am
really surprised that you, who have always shown such good judgment of
character, should now be so totally mistaken as to think a woman capable
of a real love who is merely acting a part from vanity and coquetry.”
“Vanity! coquetry!” repeated Caroline: “nobody upon earth is more free
from vanity and coquetry than--Surely you do not imagine I am thinking
of Lady Angelica Headingham?--Oh! no; I have no compassion for her. I
know that if she suffers from losing Mr. Barclay, it will be only from
losing ‘the dear delight of giving pain,’ and I should be very sorry she
ever again enjoyed that delight at Mr. Barclay’s expense. I assure you,
I am not thinking of Lady Angelica.”
Both Mr. and Mrs. Percy were in doubt whether Caroline was thinking of
her sister Rosamond or of her friend Lady Mary Pembroke; but without
attempting to discover, they only repeated that, whoever the person in
question might be, or however amiable or dear to Caroline, she ought not
to let this idea interfere with her own happiness, or influence her in
giving an answer to Mr. Barclay’s proposal, which she ought either to
accept or decline, according as her own feelings and judgment should
decide.--“If you wish to take time to decide, your father and I will
make Mr. Barclay clearly understand that he is not to consider this as
any encouragement; and as to the rest,” added Mrs. Percy, “when you are
sure that you mean right, and that you do right, you will not, my dear
Caroline, I hope, be deterred from determining upon what is best for
your own happiness, merely by the weak fear of what idle foolish people
will say about an affair in which they have no concern.”
Caroline assured her mother that no such weak fear acted upon her mind;
and that in any case where she had the least doubt whether she could
like a person as a husband or not, she should certainly ask for time to
consider, before she would give an answer; but that, with respect to Mr.
Barclay, she had had sufficient opportunities of seeing and judging of
him in the character of a lover, whilst he had been the admirer of
Lady Angelica; that she fully appreciated his good qualities, and was
grateful for his favourable opinion; but that she felt perfectly certain
that she did not and could not love him; and therefore she desired, as
soon as possible, to put him out of the pain of suspense, to prevent him
from having the mortification of showing himself the admirer of one by
whom he must ultimately be refused; and to leave him at liberty to turn
his thoughts elsewhere, to some person to whom he was better suited, and
who was better suited to him.
Mr. Barclay had made Mrs. Hungerford alone his confidant. As to Lady
Angelica Headingham, he thought that her ladyship could not be in any
doubt of the state of his affections as far as she was concerned, and
that was all she had a right to know. He never had actually declared
his passion for her, and his attentions had completely ceased since the
determination she had made to break her engagement with his aunt; but
Lady Angelica had still imagined that he would not be able to bring
himself to part with her for ever, and she trusted that, even at the
moment of getting into her carriage, she might prevail upon him to
forget his wrongs, and might at last carry him off. These hopes had been
checked, and for a moment overthrown, by Mr. Barclay’s appearance
this morning in the Oriel; the emotion with which she saw him speak
to Caroline, and the indifference with which she heard him wish her
ladyship health and happiness at Weymouth, or wherever she went, for an
instant convinced her of the truth. But obstinate vanity recurred to the
hope that he was not yet irreclaimable, and under this persuasion she
hurried on the preparations for her departure, impatient for the moment
of crisis--of triumph.
The moment of crisis arrived--but not of triumph. Lady Angelica
Headingham’s landau came to the door. But _trunks packed and corded_
gave no pang to her former lover--Mrs. Hungerford did not press her to
stay--Mr. Barclay handed her into the carriage--she stooped to conquer,
so far as to tell him that, as she had only Mr. Seebright and her maid,
she could give him a seat in her carriage, if he would come to Weymouth,
and that she would thence, in a fortnight at farthest, go to his aunt,
dear Lady B----, in Leicestershire. But all in vain--she saw it would
not do--bid her servant shut the carriage-door--desired Mr. Seebright
to draw up the glass, and, with a look of angry contempt towards Mr.
Barclay, threw herself back on the seat to conceal the vexation which
she could not control, and drove away for ever from irreclaimable lovers
and lost friends. We do not envy Mr. Seebright his trip to Weymouth with
his patroness in this humour; but without troubling ourselves further to
inquire what became of her, we leave her
“To flaunt, and go down a disregarded thing.”
Rosamond seemed to think that if Caroline married Mr. Barclay, the
dénouement would be too near, too clear, and commonplace: she said that
in this case Caroline would just be married, like any body else, to a
man with a good fortune, good character, good sense, and every thing
very good, but nothing extraordinary, and she would be settled at Mr.
Barclay’s seat in Leicestershire, and she would be Mrs. Barclay, and,
perhaps, happy enough, but nothing extraordinary.
This plain view of things, and this positive termination of all hope of
romance, did not please Rosamond’s imagination. She was relieved, when
at last Caroline surprised her with the assurance that there was no
probability of Mr. Barclay’s succeeding in his suit. “And yet,” said
Caroline, “if I were compelled at this moment to marry, of all men I
have ever yet seen, Mr. Barclay is the person to whom I could engage
myself with the least reluctance--the person with whom I think I should
have the best security for happiness.”
Rosamond’s face again lengthened. “If that is the case,” said she,
“though you have no intention of marrying him at present, you will, I
suppose, be _reasoned into_ marrying him in time.”
“No,” said Caroline, “for I cannot be reasoned into loving him.”
“There’s my own dear Caroline,” cried Rosamond: “I was horribly afraid
that this man of sense would have convinced you that esteem was quite
sufficient without love.”
“Impossible!” said Caroline. “There must be some very powerful motive
that could induce me to quit my family: I can conceive no motive
sufficiently powerful, except love.”
Rosamond was delighted.
“For what else _could_ I marry?” continued Caroline: “I, who am left
by the kindest of parents freely to my own choice--could I marry for
a house in Leicestershire? or for a barouche and four? on Lady Jane
Granville’s principles for _an establishment_? or on the _missy_ notion
of being married, and having a house of my own, and ordering my own
dinner?--Was this your notion of me?” said Caroline, with a look of
such surprise, that Rosamond was obliged to fall immediately to
protestations, and appeals to common sense. “How was it possible she
could have formed such ideas!”
“Then why were you so much surprised and transported just now, when I
told you that no motive but love could induce me to marry?”
“I don’t recollect being surprised--I was only delighted. I never
suspected that you could marry without love, but I thought that you and
I might differ as to the quantity--the degree.”
“No common degree of love, and no common love, would be sufficient to
induce me to marry,” said Caroline.
“Once, and but once, before in your life, you gave me the idea of your
having such an exalted opinion of love,” replied Rosamond.
“But to return to Mr. Barclay,” said Caroline. “I have, as I promised
my father that I would, consulted in the first place my own heart,
and considered my own happiness. He appears to me incapable of that
enthusiasm which rises either to the moral or intellectual sublime. I
respect his understanding, and esteem his principles; but in conversing
with him, I always feel--and in passing my life with him, how much more
should I feel!--that there is a want of the higher qualities of the
mind. He shows no invention, no genius, no magnanimity--nothing heroic,
nothing great, nothing which could waken sympathy, or excite that strong
attachment, which I think that I am capable of feeling for a superior
character--for a character at once good and great.”
“And where upon earth are you to find such a man? Who is romantic now?”
cried Rosamond. “But I am very glad that you _are_ a little romantic; I
am glad that you have in you a touch of human absurdity, else how could
you be my sister, or how could I love you as I do?”
“I am heartily glad that you love me, but I am not sensible of my
present immediate claim to your love by my touch of human absurdity,”
said Caroline, smiling. “What did I say, that was absurd or romantic?”
“My dear, people never think their own romance absurd. Well! granted
that you are not romantic, since that is a point which I find I must
grant before we can go on,--now, tell me, was Mr. Barclay very sorry
when you refused him?” said Rosamond.
“I dare not tell you that there is yet no danger of his breaking his
heart,” said Caroline.
“So I thought,” cried Rosamond, with a look of ineffable contempt.
“I thought he was not a man to break his heart for love. With all his
sense, I dare say he will go back to his Lady Angelica Headingham. I
should not be surprised if he went after her to Weymouth to-morrow.”
“I should,” said Caroline; “especially as he has just ordered his
carriage to take him to his aunt, Lady B----, in Leicestershire.”
“Oh! poor man!” said Rosamond, “now I do pity him.”
“Because he is going to his aunt?”
“No; Caroline--you are very cruel--because I am sure he is very much
touched and disappointed by your refusal. He cannot bear to see you
again. Poor! _poor_ Mr. Barclay! I have been shamefully ill-natured.
I hope I did not prejudice your mind against him--I’ll go directly and
take leave of him--poor Mr. Barclay!”
Rosamond, however, returned a few minutes afterwards, to complain that
Mr. Barclay had not made efforts enough to persuade Caroline to listen
to him.
“If he had been warmly in love, he would not so easily have given up
hope.
‘None, without hope, e’er loved the brightest fair;
But love can hope, where Reason should despair.’”
“That, I think, is perfectly true,” said Rosamond.
Never--begging Rosamond and the poet’s pardon--never--except where
reason is very weak, or where the brightest fair has some touch of the
equivocating fiend. Love, let poets and lovers say what they will to the
contrary, can no more subsist without hope than flame can exist without
fuel. In all the cases cited to prove the contrary, we suspect that
there has been some inaccuracy in the experiment, and that by mistake a
little, a very little hope has been admitted. The slightest portion,
a quantity imperceptible to common observation, is known to be quite
sufficient to maintain the passion; but a total exclusion of hope
secures its extinction.
Mr. Barclay’s departure was much regretted by all at Hungerford Castle,
most, perhaps, by the person who expressed that regret the least, Lady
Mary Pembroke--who now silently enjoyed the full chorus of praise that
was poured forth in honour of the departed. Lady Mary’s common mode of
enjoying the praise of her friends was not in silence; all she thought
and felt usually came to her lips with the ingenuous vivacity of youth
and innocence. Caroline had managed so well by not managing at all,
that Lady Mary, far from guessing the real cause of Mr. Barclay’s sudden
departure, repeatedly expressed surprise that her aunt Hungerford did
not press him to stay a little longer; and once said she wondered how
Mr. Barclay _could_ leave Hungerford Castle whilst Caroline was there;
that she had begun to think he had formed an attachment which would do
him more honour than his passion for Lady Angelica Headingham, but that
she feared he would have a relapse of that fit of folly, and that it
would at last end fatally in marriage.
Mrs. Hungerford smiled at the openness with which her niece told
her conjectures, and at the steadiness with which Caroline kept Mr.
Barclay’s secret, by saying no more than just the thing she ought.
“The power of keeping a secret is very different from the habit of
dissimulation. You would convince me of this, if I had doubted it,” said
Mrs. Hungerford, to Caroline. “Now that the affair is settled, my
dear, I must insist upon your praising me, as I have praised you for
discretion. I hope I never influenced your decision by word or look,
but I will now own to you that I was very anxious that you should decide
precisely as you have done. Mr. Barclay is a sensible man, an excellent
man, one who will make any amiable woman he marries happy. I am
convinced of it, or I should not, as I do, wish to see him married to
my niece--yet I never thought him suited to you. Yours is a character
without pretension, yet one which, in love and marriage, would not, I
believe, be easily satisfied, would require great qualities, a high tone
of thought and action, a character superior and lofty as your own.”
Mrs. Hungerford paused, and seemed lost in thought. Caroline felt that
this lady had seen deeply into her mind. This conviction, beyond
all praise, and all demonstrations of fondness, increases affection,
confidence, and gratitude, in strong and generous minds. Caroline
endeavoured, but could not well express in words what she felt at this
instant.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Hungerford, “we know that we are speaking plain
truth to each other--we need no flowers of speech--I understand you, and
you understand me. We are suited to each other--yes, notwithstanding the
difference of age, and a thousand other differences, we are suited to
each other. This possibility of a friendship between youth and age is
one of the rewards Heaven grants to the early and late cultivation of
the understanding and of the affections. Late as it is with me in life,
I have not, thank God, survived my affections. How can I ever, whilst
I have such children, such friends!” After a pause of a few moments of
seemingly pleasurable reflections, Mrs. Hungerford continued, “I have
never considered friendship as but a name--as a mere worldly commerce
of interest: I believe in disinterested affection, taking the word
_disinterested_ in its proper sense; and I have still, believe me, the
power of sympathizing with a _young_ friend--such a young friend as
Caroline Percy. Early as it is with her in life, she has so cultivated
her understanding, so regulated her mind, that she cannot consider
friendship merely as a companionship in frivolous amusement, or a
mixture of gossiping confidences and idle sentiment; therefore, I am
proud enough to hope that she can and will be the friend of such an old
woman as I am.”
“It would be the pride of my life to have--to deserve such a friend,”
cried Caroline: “I feel all the condescension of this kindness. I know
you are much too good to me. I am afraid you think too highly of me.
But Mrs. Hungerford’s praise does not operate like flattery: though it
exalts me in my own opinion, it shall not make me vain; it excites my
ambition to be--all she thinks me.”
“You _are_ all I think you,” said Mrs. Hungerford; “and that you may
hereafter be something yet nearer than a friend to me is the warmest
wish of my heart--But, no, I will not indulge myself in expressing that
wish; Such wishes are never wise where we have no power, no right to
act--such wishes often counteract their own object--anticipations
are always imprudent. But--about my niece, Lady Mary Pembroke. I
particularly admire the discretion, still more than the kindness, with
which you have acted with respect to her and Mr. Barclay--you have left
things to their natural course. You have not by any imprudent zeal or
generosity hazarded a word that could hurt the delicacy of either party.
You seem to have been fully aware that wherever the affections are
concerned, the human mind is most tenacious of what one half of the
philosophers in the world will not allow to exist, and the other half
cannot define. Influenced as we all are every moment in our preferences
and aversions, sometimes imperceptibly, sometimes avowedly, by the most
trifling and often the silliest causes, yet the wisest of us start, and
back, and think it incumbent on our pride in love affairs, to resist the
slightest interference, or the best advice, from the best friends.
What! love upon compulsion! No--Jupiter is not more tenacious of his
thunderbolt than Cupid is of his arrows. Blind as he is, none may
presume to direct the hand of that little urchin.”
Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who
brought the post-bag, with many letters for Mrs. Hungerford.