The moment that Mr. Temple reached his friend’s chambers, he threw
himself into a chair.
“What repose--what leisure--what retirement is here!” cried he. “A man
can think and feel a moment for himself.”
“Not well, I fear, in the midst of the crackling of these parchments,”
said Alfred, folding up the deeds at which he had been at work.
“However, I have now done my business for this day, and I am your
man for what you please--if you are not engaged by some of your great
people, we cannot do better than dine together.”
“With all my heart,” said Mr. Temple.
“And where shall we dine?” said Alfred.
“Any where you please. But I have a great deal to say to you,
Alfred--don’t think of dining yet.”
“At the old work!” cried Alfred.
“‘You think of convincing, while I think of dining.’”
But, as he spoke, Alfred observed his friend’s agitated countenance,
and immediately becoming serious, he drew a chair beside Mr. Temple, and
said, “I believe, Temple, you have something to say that you are anxious
about. You know that if there is any thing I can do, head, hand, and
heart are at your service.”
“Of that I am quite sure, else I should not come here to open my heart
to you,” replied Mr. Temple. Then he related all that had just passed
between Lord Oldborough and himself, and ended by asking Alfred, whether
he thought there was any chance of success for his love?
“You have not told me who the lady is,” said Alfred.
“Have not I?--but, surely, you can guess.”
“I have guessed--but I wish to be mistaken--Lady Frances Arlington?”
“Quite mistaken. Guess again--and nearer home.”
“Nearer home!--One of my sisters!--Not Caroline, I hope?”
“No.”
“Then it must be as I once hoped. But why did you never mention it to me
before?”
Mr. Temple declared that he had thought there was so little chance of
his ever being in circumstances in which he could marry, especially a
woman who had not some fortune of her own, that he had scarcely ventured
to avow, even to himself, his attachment.
“I thought my love would wear itself out,” added he. “Indeed I did not
know how serious a business it was, till this sudden proposal was made
to me of leaving England: then I felt that I should drag, at every step,
a lengthening chain. In plain prose, I cannot leave England without
knowing my fate. But don’t let me make a fool of myself, Alfred. No man
of sense will do more than hazard a refusal: that every man ought to
do, or he sacrifices the dignity of the woman he loves to his own false
pride. I know that in these days gentlemen-suitors are usually expert
in _sounding_ the relations of the lady they wish to address. To inquire
whether the lady is engaged or not is, I think, prudent and honourable:
but beyond this, I consider it to be treacherous and base to endeavour,
by any indirect means, to engage relations to say what a lover should
learn only from the lady herself. Therefore, my dear friend, all I ask
is whether you have reason to believe that your sister Rosamond’s heart
is pre-engaged; or if you think that there is such a certainty of my
being rejected, as ought, in common prudence, to prevent my hazarding
the mortification of a refusal?”
Alfred assured his friend, that, to the best of his belief, Rosamond’s
heart was disengaged. “And,” continued he, “as a witness is or ought to
be prepared to tell his cause of belief, I will give you mine. Some time
since I was commissioned by a gentleman, who wished to address her, to
make the previous inquiry, and the answer was, quite disengaged. Now as
she did not accept of this gentleman, there is reason to conclude that
he did not engage her affections--”
“Was he rich or poor, may I ask?” interrupted Mr. Temple.
“That is a leading question,” said Alfred.
“I do not want you to tell me who the gentleman was--I know that would
not be a fair question, and I trust I should be as far from asking, as
you from answering it. But there are so many rich as well as so many
poor men in the world, that in answering to the inquiry rich or poor,
what city or court man do you name? I want only to draw a general
inference as to your sister’s taste for wealth.”
“Her taste is assuredly not exclusively for wealth; for her last admirer
was a gentleman of very large fortune.”
“I am happy, at least, in that respect, in not resembling him,” said Mr.
Temple. “Now for my other question--what chance for myself?”
“Of that, my good friend, you must judge for yourself. By your own rule
all you have a right to hear is, that I, Rosamond’s brother, have no
reason for believing that she has such a repugnance to you as would make
a refusal certain. And that you may not too much admire my discretion, I
must add, that if I had a mind to tell you more, I could not. All I know
is, that Rosamond, as well as the rest of my family, in their letters
spoke of you with general approbation, but I do not believe the idea of
considering you as her lover ever entered into her head or theirs.”
“But now the sooner it enters the better,” cried Mr. Temple. “Will
you--can you--Have not you business to do for Lord Oldborough at
Clermont-park?”
“Yes--and I am glad of it, as it gives me an opportunity of indulging
myself in going with you, my dear Temple. I am ready to set out at any
moment.”
“God bless you! The sooner the better, then. This night in the mail,
if you please. I’ll run and take our places,” said he, snatching up his
hat.
“Better send,” cried Alfred stopping him: “my man can run and take
places in a coach as well as you. Do you stay with me. We will go to the
coffee-house, dine, and be ready to set off.”
Mr. Temple acceded.
“In the mean time,” said Alfred, “you have relations and connexions of
your own who should be consulted.”
Mr. Temple said he was sure that all his relations and connexions would
highly approve of an alliance with the Percy family. “But, in fact,”
added he, “that is all they will care about the matter. My relations,
though high and mighty people, have never been of any service to me:
they are too grand, and too happy, to mind whether a younger son of a
younger son sinks or swims; whether I live in single wretchedness or
double blessedness. Not one relation has nature given, who cares for me
half as much as the friend I have made for myself.”
Sincerely as Alfred was interested for his success, yet he did not let
this friendship interfere with the justice due to his sister, of leaving
_her_ sole arbitress of a question which most concerned her happiness.
During the last stage of their journey, they were lucky enough to have
the coach to themselves, and Mr. Temple made himself amends for the
restraint under which he had laboured during the preceding part of the
journey, whilst he had been oppressed by the presence of men, whose talk
was of the lower concerns of life. After he had descanted for some
time on the perfections of his mistress, he ended with expressing his
surprise that his friend, who had often of late rallied him upon his
being in love, had not guessed sooner who was the object of his passion.
Alfred said that the idea of Rosamond had occurred to him, because his
friend’s absence of mind might be dated from the time of his last visit
to Clermont-park; “but,” said Alfred, “as Lady Frances Arlington
was there, and as I had formerly fancied that her ladyship’s wish to
captivate or dazzle you, had not been quite without effect, I was still
in doubt, and thought even your praises of Rosamond’s disposition and
temper, compared with her ladyship’s, might only be _ruse de guerre_, or
_ruse d’amour_.”
“There was no _ruse_ in the case,” said Mr. Temple; “I confess that when
I first emerged from my obscurity into all the light and life of the
world of fashion, my eyes were dazzled, and before I recovered the use
of them sufficiently to compare the splendid objects by which I found
myself surrounded, I was wonderfully struck with the appearance of
Lady Frances Arlington, and did not measure, as I ought, the immense
difference between Lord Oldborough’s secretary, and the niece of the
Duke of Greenwich. Lady Frances, from mere _gaieté de coeur_ likes
to break hearts; and she continually wishes to add one, however
insignificant, to the number of her conquests. I, a simple man of
literature, unskilled in the wicked ways of the fair, was charmed by her
ladyship’s innocent naïveté and frank gaiety, and all that was
‘Strangely wild, or madly gay,
I call’d it only pretty Fanny’s way.’
“Fortunately, just as I was in imminent danger of exchanging true sighs
for false smiles, I became acquainted with your sister Rosamond. In the
country, and under circumstances more favourable for the development of
character than any which might occur for months or years in a town-life,
where all the men and women are merely actors, I had leisure to see and
mark the difference and the resemblance between Lady Frances Arlington’s
character, and that of your sister. They resembled each other in natural
quickness of intellect and of feeling; in wit, sprightliness, and
enthusiasm, they were also to a certain degree alike. I was amused by
Lady Frances Arlington’s lively nonsense, till I heard your sister’s
lively sense. Her ladyship hazards saying every thing that occurs to
her, and often makes happy hits; but your sister’s style of wit is far
superior, and far more agreeable, because it has the grace, elegance,
and, above all, the infinite variety which literary allusion supplies.
I found myself pleased, not only with what she said, but with the trains
of ideas, that, by a single word, she often suggested. Conversing with
her, my mind was kept always active, without ever being over-exerted
or fatigued. I can look back, and trace the whole progress of my
attachment. I began in this way, by finding her conversation most
delightful--but soon discovered that she was not only more entertaining
and more cultivated, but far more amiable than my idol, Lady Frances,
because she had never been an idol, and did not expect to be adored.
Then she was more interesting, because more capable of being interested.
Lady Frances requires much sympathy, but gives little; and for that
enthusiasm of temper which had, at first, charmed me in her ladyship,
I began to lose my taste, when I observed that it was always excited by
trifles, and by trifles that concerned herself more than any one else.
I used to think her--what every body calls her, a perfectly natural
character; and so, perhaps, she is: but not the better for that--since
she is what, I am afraid, we all are naturally--selfish. Her ladyship,
if I may use the expression, is enthusiastically selfish. Your
sister--enthusiastically generous. Lady Frances’s manners are caressing,
yet I doubt whether she feels affection for any one living, except just
at the moment when they are ministering to her fancies. It was Miss
Percy’s warm affection for her sister Caroline which first touched
my heart. I saw each in her own family. The contrast was striking--in
short, by the joint effect of contrast and resemblance, my love for one
lady decreased as fast as it increased for the other; and I had just wit
and judgment enough to escape from snares that could not have held me
long, to chains that have power to hold me for ever.”
To this history of the birth and progress of his love, Mr. Temple added
many expressions of his hopes, fears, and regrets, that he had not five
thousand a year, instead of five hundred, to offer his mistress; he at
length became absolutely silent. They were within view of the Hills, and
too many feelings crowded upon his mind to be expressed in words.
And now we might reasonably contrive to fill
“Twelve vast French romances neatly gilt,”
with the history of the following eventful fortnight, including the
first surprise at the arrival of the travellers--the declaration of Mr.
Temple’s love--the astonishment of Rosamond on discovering that she was
the object of this passion--of a passion so generous and ardent--the
consequent and rapid discovery of a hundred perfections in the gentleman
which had before escaped her penetration--the strong peculiar temptation
to marry him, because he had not enough to live upon--the reaction of
generosity on the other side of the question, which forbade to ruin
her lover’s fortune--the fluctuations of sentiment and imagination, the
delicacies of generosity, gratitude, love, and finally the decision of
common sense.
It was fortunate for Rosamond, not only that she had prudent friends,
but that they had not made her in the least afraid of their superior
wisdom, so that she had, from the time she was a child, told them every
idea, as it rose in her vivid imagination, and every feeling of her
susceptible heart; imprudent as she might appear in her confidential
conversation, this never passed from words to actions. And now, when she
was called upon in an important event of life to decide for herself, she
acted with consummate discretion.
Mr. Temple’s character and manners peculiarly pleased her, and his being
a man of birth and family certainly operated much in his favour. Her
parents now, as in Mr. Gresham’s case, did not suffer their own tastes
or prepossessions to interfere with her happiness.
Caroline, grateful for the sympathy which Rosamond had always shown
her, took the warmest interest in this affair. Caroline was the most
excellent, indulgent, yet safe confidante; and as a hearer, she was
absolutely indefatigable. Rosamond never found her too busy, too lazy,
or too sleepy to listen to her: late at night, early in the morning, or
in the most hurried moment, of the day, it was all the same--Caroline
seemed to have nothing to do but to hear, think, and feel for Rosamond.
The fortnight allowed by Lord Oldborough having now nearly elapsed,
it was absolutely necessary Rosamond should come to some decision. Mr.
Temple’s understanding, temper, disposition, and manners, she allowed
to be excellent--his conversation was particularly agreeable. In short,
after searching in vain for an objection, she was obliged to confess
that she liked him. Indeed, before she had allowed this in words her
mother and sister had made the discovery, and had seen the struggle
in her mind between love and prudence. Mr. Temple’s fortune was not
sufficient for them to live upon, and she knew that a wife in
his present circumstances must be a burden to him; therefore,
notwithstanding all that his passion and all that her own partiality
could urge, she decidedly refused his proposal of an immediate union,
nor would she enter into any engagement, or suffer him to bind himself
by any promise for the future; but he obtained permission to correspond
with her during his absence from England, and with the hope that she
was not quite indifferent to him, he took leave of her--returned to
town--waited upon Lord Oldborough--accepted of the embassy, and prepared
for his departure to the continent.
Now that there was an approaching possibility and probability of hearing
of Count Altenberg, Caroline felt it extremely difficult to adhere to
her resolution of never thinking of him, especially as her mind,
which had been actively occupied and deeply interested in her sister’s
concerns, was now left to return upon itself in all the leisure of
retirement. Fortunately for her, about this time she was again called
upon for that sympathy which she was ever ready to give to her friends.
She received the following letter from Mrs. Hungerford.
LETTER FROM MRS. HUNGERFORD TO MISS CAROLINE PERCY.
“Come, my beloved Caroline, my dear young friend, friend of my family,
and of all who are most near and dear to me--come, and enjoy with me and
them that happiness, which your judicious kindness long since foresaw,
and your prudence promoted.
“My niece, Lady Mary Pembroke, is at last persuaded that she has it in
her power to make Mr. Barclay permanently happy. He has been obliged to
take a considerable length of time to convince her of the steadiness of
his attachment. Indeed, her objection--that he had been charmed by such
a coquette as the lady by whom we first saw him captivated, appeared
to me strong; and I thought my niece right for adhering to it, more
especially as I believed that at the time her affections pleaded against
her reason in his favour, and that, if she had been convinced long ago,
it would not have been against her will.
“Mr. Barclay has behaved like a man of sense and honour. Without
disguise he told her of his former attachment to you. She instantly made
an answer, which raised her high in my estimation. She replied, that Mr.
Barclay’s being detached from Lady Angelica Headingham by your superior
merit was to her the strongest argument in his favour. She must, she
said, have felt insecure in the possession of a heart, which had been
transferred directly from Lady Angelica to herself, because she was
conscious that her own disposition was so different from her ladyship’s;
but in succeeding to the affection which he had felt for a woman of
your character, she should feel perfect security, or at least reasonable
hope, that by similar, though certainly inferior qualities, she might
ensure his happiness and her own. They are to be married next week. Lady
Mary particularly wishes that you should be one of her bride-maids--come
then, my love, and bring all my _Percys_. I shall not perfectly enjoy
my own and my niece’s happiness till you share it with me. My daughter
Mortimer insists upon signing this as well as myself.
“MARY-ELIZABETH HUNGERFORD.
“KATE MORTIMER.”
Caroline and _all Mrs. Hungerford’s Percys_ obeyed her summons with
alacrity. Lady Mary Pembroke’s marriage with Mr. Barclay was solemnized
under the happiest auspices, and in the midst of approving and
sympathizing friends. As soon as the ceremony was over, and she had
embraced and congratulated her niece, Mrs. Hungerford turned to Mrs.
Percy, and in a low voice said, “If it were not too much for one so
happy as I am, so rich in blessings, to ask one blessing more, I should
ask to be permitted to live to see the day when our dear Caroline--”
Mrs. Hungerford pressed Mrs. Percy’s hand, but could say no more; the
tears rolled down her cheeks as she looked up to heaven. Some minutes
afterwards, following Caroline with her eyes, “Look at her, Mrs. Percy!”
said Mrs. Hungerford. “Did ever selfish coquette, in the height of
triumph over lover or rival, enjoy such pleasure as you see sparkling at
this moment in that dear girl’s countenance?”
The bride and bridegroom set off immediately for Mr. Barclay’s seat in
Berkshire. Lady Florence accompanied her sister; and Mrs. Hungerford,
after parting from both her nieces, entreated that Caroline might be
left with her. “It is a selfish request, I know, my dear; but at my age
I cannot afford to be generous of the society of those I love. Allow me
to plead my age, and my--Well, I will not say more since I see it gives
you pain, and since I see you will grant the prayer of my petition,
rather than hear my claims to your compassion.”
Caroline liked particularly to stay with Mrs. Hungerford at this time,
when there was not any company at the castle, no one but Mrs. Hungerford
and her daughter, so that she had the full and quiet enjoyment of their
society. At this time of her life, and in the state of her mind at this
period, no society could have been more agreeable, soothing, and useful
to Caroline, than that of such a friend. One, who had not forgotten the
passions of youth; who could give at once sympathy and counsel; who
was willing to allow to love its full and exquisite power to exalt the
happiness of human life, yet appeared herself, in advanced and serene
old age, a constant example of the falsehood of the notion, that the
enthusiasm of passion is essential to felicity. An elegant and just
distinction has been made by a philosophical writer between _delicacy
of passion_ and _delicacy of taste_. One leading to that ill-governed
susceptibility, which transports the soul to ecstasy, or reduces it to
despair, on every adverse or prosperous change of fortune; the other
enlarging our sphere of happiness, by directing and increasing our
sensibility to objects of which we may command the enjoyment, instead of
wasting it upon those over which we have no control. Mrs. Hungerford was
a striking example of the advantage of cultivating _delicacy of taste_.
At an advanced age, she showed exquisite perception of pleasure in every
work of genius; in conversation, no stroke of wit or humour escaped her
quick intelligence, no shade of sentiment or politeness was lost upon
her; and on hearing of any trait of generosity or greatness of soul, her
whole countenance beamed with delight; yet with all this quickness
of feeling she was quite free from fastidiousness, and from that
irritability about trifles, into which those who indulge _the delicacy
of passion_ in youth are apt to degenerate in age. Caroline felt, every
day, increasing affection as well as admiration for Mrs. Hungerford, and
found time pass delightfully in her company. Besides that general
and well-chosen acquaintance with literature which supplied her with
perpetual resources, she had that knowledge of life and of the world
which mixes so well, in conversation, with the knowledge of books.
She had known, intimately, most of the celebrated people of the last
century, and had store of curious and interesting anecdotes, which she
produced with so much taste and judgment, and told so well, as never
to fatigue attention. Caroline found that her mind was never passive or
dormant in Mrs. Hungerford’s company; she was always excited to follow
some train of thought, to discuss some interesting question, or to
reflect upon some new idea. There was, besides, in the whole tenor of
her conversation and remarks such an indulgence for human nature, with
all its faults and follies, as left the most pleasing and encouraging
impression on the mind, and inspired hope and confidence. Her anecdotes
and her philosophy all tended to prove that there is more virtue than
vice, more happiness than misery, in life; and, above all, that there is
a greater probability that the world should improve than that it should
degenerate. Caroline felt pleased continually to find her own favourite
opinions and hopes supported and confirmed by the experience and
judgment of such a woman; and there was something gratifying to her, in
being thus distinguished and preferred by one who had read so much and
thought so deeply.
As Mrs. Hungerford had heard nothing more of Count Altenberg, she
wisely forbore to touch upon the subject, or even to mention his name to
Caroline; and she saw, with satisfaction, the care with which her young
friend turned her mind from every dangerous recollection. Sometimes,
however, the remembrance of the Count was unavoidably recalled; once, in
particular, in turning over the life of Sir Philip Sidney, there was a
passage copied in his hand, on a slip of paper, which had accidentally
been left in the book.
“Algernon Sidney, in a letter to his son, says, that in the whole of
his life he never knew one man, of what condition soever, arrive at any
degree of reputation in the world, who made choice of, or delighted
in the company or conversation of those, who in their qualities were
inferior, or in their parts not much superior to himself.”
“What have you there, my love? Something that pleases and interests you
particularly, I see,” said Mrs. Hungerford, not knowing what it was that
Caroline was reading: “show it me, my dear--I am sure I shall like it.”
Caroline, deeply blushing, gave her the paper. She recollected the
hand-writing, and folding up the paper, put it in her pocket-book.
“It is an observation,” said she, “that I wish I could write in letters
of gold for the advantage of all the young men in the world in whom I
take any interest.”
The energetic warmth with which Mrs. Hungerford spoke relieved Caroline,
as it seemed to justify the delight she had involuntarily expressed--the
sentiments for the individual seemed now enveloped in general
approbation and benevolence. She never loved Mrs. Hungerford better than
at this instant.
Mrs. Hungerford observed that none of the common sentimental passages,
either in poetry or novels, ever seemed to affect Caroline; and to the
romantic descriptions of love she was so indifferent that it might
have appeared to a common observer as if she was, and ever would be, a
stranger to the passion. By the help of the active and plastic powers
of the imagination, any and every hero of a novel could be made, at
pleasure, to appear the exact resemblance of each lady’s different
lover. Some, indeed, professed a peculiar and absolute exclusive
attachment, founded on unintelligible or indescribable merits or graces;
but these ladies, of all others, she had found were most liable to
change, and on farther acquaintance with the world to discover, on
generalizing their notions, similar or superior attractions in new
models of perfection. In Caroline, Mrs. Hungerford saw none of these
capricious fancies, and that it was not her imagination, but her reason
which gave Count Altenberg the exalted place he held in her esteem. It
was therefore with pleasure, that this kind lady perceived, that her
young friend’s residence with her soothed her mind and restored it to
its former tone.
But Caroline was soon obliged to leave Hungerford Castle, A letter from
Erasmus informed her that poor Lady Jane Granville was ill of a
nervous fever, that she had no companion, no one to attend her but a
maid-servant, and that she was much in want of some judicious friend who
could raise her spirits and tranquillize her mind, which was in a state
of continual agitation about her lawsuit. Caroline, remembering Lady
Jane’s former kindness, thought this a fit opportunity to show her
gratitude; and, happy as she was with her friends at Hungerford Castle,
she hesitated not a moment to sacrifice her own pleasure.--Her father
and mother approved of her determination, and her brother Alfred carried
her to London.