The object that Lady Jane had in view was to prevent Caroline from
discouraging, by premature candour, a passion which she saw rising in
the heart of a young nobleman.
Lord William ----,
“Well pleased to ‘scape from flattery to wit,”
had always preferred Lady Jane Granville’s company to the society of
those who courted him more, or with less delicacy. Since Miss Caroline
Percy’s arrival and appearance in town Lady Jane had, to do her justice,
preserved with his lordship exactly the same even tenor of conduct;
whatever her wishes might be, she had too much proper pride to
compromise her own or her young friend’s dignity. Moreover, her ladyship
had sense and knowledge of character sufficient to perceive that such a
sacrifice, or the least appearance of a disposition to make it, would be
not only degrading, but vain: it would, she knew, for ever disgust and
ruin them in the opinion of a man, who had infinitely more penetration
and feeling than those who flattered him were aware that he possessed.
Lord William had excellent abilities, knowledge, and superior qualities
of every sort, all depressed by excessive timidity, to such a degree as
to be almost useless to himself and to others. Whenever he was, either
for the business or pleasure of life, to meet or mix with numbers, the
whole man was, as it were, snatched from himself. He was subject to
that nightmare of the soul, who seats herself upon the human breast,
oppresses the heart, palsies the will, and raises spectres of dismay,
which the sufferer combats in vain--that cruel enchantress, who hurls
her spell even upon childhood; and when she makes the youth her victim,
pronounces, “Henceforward you shall never appear in your natural
character: innocent, you shall look guilty; wise, you shall look silly;
never shall you have the use of your natural faculties. That which you
wish to say, you shall not say--that which you wish to do, you shall not
do: you shall appear reserved when you are enthusiastic, insensible when
your heart sinks into melting tenderness. In the presence of those you
most wish to please, you shall be most awkward; and when approached
by her you love, you shall become lifeless as a statue, under the
irresistible spell of _mauvaise honte_.”
Strange that France should give a name to that malady of the mind which
she never knew, or of which she knows less than any other nation upon
the surface of the civilized globe! Under the spell of _mauvaise honte_
poor Lord William--laboured--fast bound--and bound the faster by all the
efforts made for his relief by the matrons and young damsels who crowded
round him continually. They were astonished that all their charms, and
all the encouragement they held out, failed to free this young nobleman
from his excessive timidity.
“What a pity! it was his only fault, they were sure.”--“Ten thousand
pities he could not be made to speak--they were certain he had a vast
deal to say.”--“And he could be so agreeable, they were confident, if
he would.”--“Most extraordinary that a man of his rank and fortune, whom
every creature admired, should be so timid.”
True; but the timid Lord William all the time esteemed himself more
highly than these ladies who affected to admire him. Mixed with his
apparent timidity there was a secret pride. Conscious of the difference
between what he was, and what he appeared to be, he was at once
mortified and provoked, and felt disdain and disgust for those who
pretended to admire his outward man, or who paid to his fortune that
tribute which he thought due to his merit. With some few, some very few,
by whom he was appreciated, his pride and his timidity were equally at
ease, his reserve vanished in an astonishing manner, and the man came
out of the marble. Of this small number in his confidence Lady Jane
Granville was one. Even from his boyish years she had discerned his
worth and value, and he now distinguished her by his grateful and
constant regard. But Lady Jane Granville, though a woman of considerable
talents, could not be a judge of the whole of his mind, or the extent of
his powers: her talent was chiefly wit--her knowledge, knowledge of
the world--her mind cultivated but slightly, and for embellishment--his
deeply, extensively, and with large views. When he became acquainted
with Miss Caroline Percy, he soon found that to her all this appeared,
and by her was justly valued. His assiduity in cultivating his friend
Lady Jane’s acquaintance increased; and his taste for the conversation
at her house became so great, that he was always the first, and usually
the last, at her parties. His morning visits were frequent and long; he
knew, by instinct, the hours when the two ladies were disengaged, but
not always so exactly the time when he ought to take leave. His ear
never informed him when Lady Jane’s carriage came to the door, nor did
he always hear the servant announce its being in readiness. Her ladyship
might fidget as much as her politeness would permit without danger of
its being observed. His lordship never was wakened to the sense of
its being necessary to stir, till Miss Caroline Percy, by some strong
indication, such as putting away her drawing, and the books, or by
plainly saying, “We must go out now,” made it manifest to him that he
must depart. For this Caroline was regularly reproved afterwards by Lady
Jane--but she never found that it gave Lord William any offence; nor did
she for some time observe that it caused him much uneasiness. He seemed
to her to stay from mere habitual absence of mind, and unwillingness to
remove from a retreat where he was safe and comfortable, to some place
where he was liable to be annoyed by his fair persecutors. That he liked
her company and conversation she did not affect to deny, nor could she
doubt that he felt for her esteem and regard--he expressed both, and
he was not a man to express more than he felt, or the truth of whose
professions could be suspected; but she thought that his regard for
her, and for Lady Jane, were both of the same nature. She thought him
a _friend, not a lover_. This was not with Caroline a mere commonplace
phrase. She believed this to be true; and at the time she believed it,
she was right. But constantly in the society of an amiable, sensible,
and beautiful young woman, with a man of feeling, taste, and
understanding, whose heart is disengaged, the passage from friendship to
love is found so easy and rapid, as to be scarcely perceptible. And to
this, which generally happens in similar circumstances, Lord William
was peculiarly liable. For though, from the crowds who courted his
attention, it might seem that his liberty of choice was unlimited, yet,
in fact, his power of choosing was contracted and reduced to the few
“whom choice and passion both approve.” Among these few his fastidious
judgment, and his apprehensions of domestic unhappiness, saw frequently,
and sometimes too justly, objection to the family connexion of the
young lady: some want of union in it--want of principle, or train of
dissipation, which he dreaded, or some folly he disliked; so that among
the numbers of his own rank who sought his alliance, it was not easy for
him to satisfy himself, even as to connexion--still more difficult to
satisfy him as to love, “the modern fair one’s jest,” or, what is worse,
her affectation. His lordship was well aware that among the numbers of
young ladies who were ready at a moment’s warning to marry him, not one
of these would love him for his own sake. Now in common with Marmontel’s
Alcibiades, and with most men of rank who have any superiority of
character, Lord William had an anxious desire to be loved for his own
sake; for though, in the opinion of most people of the world, and of
some philosophers, the circumstances of rank and fortune form a part of
personal merit; yet as these are not indissolubly associated with the
individual, he rather preferred affection and esteem arising from merit,
of which he could not be deprived by any revolution of fate or turn of
fancy. If he were ever loved by Caroline Percy, it would be _for his
own sake_; and of the constancy of her affection, if once obtained,
the whole tenor of her character and conduct gave him the most secure
pledge. Her education, manners, talents, and beauty, were all such as
would honour and grace the highest rank of life. She had no fortune--but
that was of no consequence to him--he was likely to have a princely
income: he had no debts, he had at present all that satisfied his
wishes, and that could enable him to live married, as well as single, in
a manner that suited his station. His friends, eager to have him marry,
and almost despairing of his complying, in this point, with their
wishes, left him entirely at liberty in his choice. Reason and passion
both determined on that choice, just about the time when English Clay
proposed for Caroline, and when the conversation about declarations
and refusals had passed between her and Lady Jane. That conversation,
instead of changing or weakening the opinions Caroline then expressed,
had confirmed her in her own sentiments, by drawing out more fully the
strength of the reasons, and the honourable nature of the feelings, on
which they were founded. Some slight circumstances, such as she could
scarcely state in words, occurred about this time, which first gave
her the idea, that Lord William ---- felt for her more than esteem.
The tender interest he showed one day when she had a slight
indisposition--the extreme alarm he expressed one night when there
occurred an embarrassment between their carriages at the door of the
opera-house, by which Lady Jane’s vis-à-vis was nearly overturned--an
alarm much greater than Caroline thought the occasion required--was
succeeded by anger against his coachman, so much more violent and
vehement than the error or offence justified, or than his lordship had
ever before been seen to show; these things, which in a man of gallantry
might mean nothing but to show his politeness, from Lord William seemed
indicative of something more. Caroline began to see that the friend
might become a lover, and now, for the first time, questioned her own
heart. She thought highly of Lord William’s abilities and character--she
saw, as she had once said to Lady Jane, “signs which convinced her that
this volcano, covered with snow, and often enveloped in clouds, would
at some time burst forth in torrents of fire.” Little indication as
Lord William now showed to common observers of being or of becoming an
orator, she perceived in him the soul of eloquence; and she foresaw,
that on some great occasion, from some great motive, he would at
once vanquish his timidity, and burst forth upon the senate. She felt
convinced that whether eloquent or silent, speaking or acting, in public
or private life, Lord William would in every circumstance of trial fill
and sustain the character of an upright, honourable, enlightened English
nobleman. Notwithstanding that she thought thus highly of him, Count
Altenberg, in her opinion, far surpassed him in the qualities they both
possessed, and excelled in many, in which Lord William was deficient--in
manner especially; and manner goes a great way in love, even with people
of the best understanding. Besides all the advantages of manner, Count
Altenberg had far superior talents, or at least far superior habits of
conversation--he was altogether as estimable and more agreeable than
his rival. He also had had the advantage of finding Caroline’s mind
disengaged--he had cultivated her society in the country, where he had
had time and opportunity to develope his own character and hers--in
one word, he had made the first impression on her heart; and such an
impression, once made on a heart like hers, cannot be easily effaced.
Though there seemed little chance of his returning to claim his place in
her affections--though she had made the most laudable efforts to banish
him from her recollection, yet
“En songeant qu’il faut qu’on l’oublie
On s’en souvient;”
and now she found, that not only all others compared with him were
indifferent to her, but that any, whom she was forced to put in
comparison and competition with Count Altenberg, immediately sunk in her
opinion.
Thus distinctly knowing her own mind, Caroline was however still in
doubt as to Lord William’s, and afraid of mistaking the nature of his
sentiments. She well remembered Lady Jane’s cautions; and though she
was fully resolved to spare by her candour the suspense and pain which
coquetry might create and prolong, yet it was necessary to be certain
that she read aright, and therefore to wait for something more decisive,
by which to interpret his meaning. Lady Jane wisely forbore all
observations on the subject, and never said or looked a word that could
recall the memory of her former debate. With the most scrupulous, almost
haughty delicacy, and the most consummate prudence, she left things to
take their course, secure of what the end would be.
One night Lady Jane and Caroline were at a party. When they arrived,
they descried Lord William, in the midst of a group of the fair and
fashionable, looking as if he was suffering martyrdom. His eye caught
Caroline as she passed, and his colour changed. The lady next him put up
her glass, to look for the cause of that change--but the glass was
put down again, and no apprehensions excited. By degrees, Lord William
worked his way towards Caroline--no, not towards Caroline, but to Lady
Jane Granville. The company near her were talking of a proposal, which
a gentleman had lately made for a celebrated beauty--his suit had been
rejected. Some said that the lady must have seen that he was attached to
her, and that she had been to blame in allowing him so long to pay
her attentions, if she were determined to refuse him at last; others
defended the lady, saying that the gentleman had never made a distinct
declaration, and that therefore the lady was quite correct in not
appearing to know that his intentions meant any thing more than was
avowed. Lord William listened, perfectly silent, and with an appearance
of some anxiety. Lady Jane Granville supported warmly the same side
of the question which she had taken in a similar conversation with
Caroline.
Miss Percy was appealed to for her opinion, “Would it not be strange,
indeed, if a lady were to reject a gentleman before she was asked?”
Lord William with increasing anxiety listened, but dared not look at
Caroline, who with becoming modesty, but with firmness in what she
believed to be right, answered, “that if a woman saw that a gentleman
loved her, and felt that she could not return his attachment, she might,
without any rude or premature rejecting, simply by a certain ease
of manner, which every man of sense knows how to interpret, mark
the difference between esteem and tenderer sentiments; and might, by
convincing him that there was no chance of his obtaining any farther
interest in her heart, prevent his ever having the pain of a decided
refusal.”
The discussion ended here. Fresh company joined them; other subjects
were started. Lord William continued silent: he did not take any share
in any conversation, but was so absent and absorbed in his own thoughts,
that several times he was spoken to, without his being able to give
a plausible answer--then he stood covered with confusion--confusion
increasing from the sense that it was observed, and could not be
conquered. The company moved different ways, but his lordship continued
fixed near Caroline. At last the attention of all near him was happily
diverted and drawn away from him by the appearance of some new and
distinguished person. He seized the moment, and summoned courage
sufficient to address some slight question to Caroline: she answered him
with an ease of manner which he felt to be unfavourable to his wishes.
The spell was upon him, and he could not articulate--a dead silence
might have ensued, but that Lady Jane happily went on saying something
about pine-apple ice. Lord William assented implicitly, without
knowing to what, and replied, “Just so--exactly so--” to contradictory
assertions; and if he had been asked at this instant whether what he was
eating was hot or cold, he could not have been able to decide. Lady Jane
composedly took a biscuit, and enjoyed the passing scene, observing that
this was the pleasantest party she had been at this season.
Mrs. Crabstock came up, and Lady Jane, with wit at will, kept the
pattern-lady in play by an opportunely-recollected tale of scandal; with
ears delighted, eyes riveted, stood Mrs. Crabstock, while Lord William,
again relieved from the fear of observation, breathed once more; and,
partly recovering his senses, through the mist that hung over him,
looked at Caroline, in hopes of drawing some encouraging omen from her
countenance. He had come to this party determined to say something that
should explain to her his sentiments. He thought he could speak to her
better in a crowd than alone. Now or never! said he to himself. With
desperate effort, and with an oppressed voice, he said--the very thing
he did not mean to say.
“Miss Percy, I never was so inclined in all my life to quarrel with ease
of manner in any body as in you.” Then, correcting himself, and blushing
deeply, he added, “I don’t mean that I don’t admire your ease of manner
in general--but--in short, it is impossible, I think, that with
your penetration, you can be in any doubt as to my sentiments. If I
thought--”
He stopped short: he felt as if his life hung upon a thread--as if the
first look, the first sound of her voice, the next word spoken, must
decide his fate. He longed, yet feared to see that look, and to hear
that word. “And I think it is impossible that, with your lordship’s
penetration, you should mistake mine,” said Caroline.
There was an ingenuous sweetness in her look and voice, a fear of giving
pain, yet a resolution to be sincere. Lord William felt and understood
it all. He saw there was no hope. Caroline heard from him a deep
sigh. With great and painful emotion, in the most calm voice she could
command, but in the kindest tone, she added, “For the sentiments of
regard and esteem your lordship has expressed for me, believe me, I am
truly grateful.”
Mrs. Crabstock moved towards them, and Caroline paused.
“Are you to be at Lady Arrowsmith’s concert to-morrow, my lord?” said
Mrs. Crabstock, who was now at liberty to ask questions; for even
scandal will not hold curiosity in check for ever.
“Are you to be at Lady Arrowsmith’s, my lord, to-morrow night?” repeated
she, for her first attack was unheard.
“I do not know, indeed,” said he, starting from his fit of absence.
Mrs. Crabstock persisted. “Were you at the opera last night, my lord?”
“I really, ma’am, do not recollect.”
“Bless me!” cried Mrs. Crabstock.
And “Bless me!” cried Lady Jane Granville. “We are to be at the Duchess
of Greenwich’s ball: Caroline, my dear--time for us to move. My lord,
might I trouble your lordship to ask if our carriage is to be had?”
Lord William, before she had completed the request, obeyed. As they went
down the staircase, Lady Jane laughing said, “I am afraid I shall be
as impertinently curious as Mrs. Crabstock--I was going to ask your
lordship whether you are engaged to-morrow, or whether you can come to
us--to me?”
“_Unhappily_,” the accent on the word showed it was no expression of
course. “Unhappily I cannot--I am engaged--I thank your ladyship.”
Lady Jane looked back at Caroline, who was a little behind her.
“Though I could not recollect in time to tell Mrs. Crabstock where I
was last night, or where I am to be to-morrow,” continued his lordship,
making an effort to smile, “yet I _can_ satisfy your ladyship--I shall
be at Tunbridge.”
“Tunbridge!” cried Lady Jane, stopping short, and turning to Lord
William, as the light shone full on his face: “Tunbridge, at this
season?”
“All seasons are alike to me--all seasons and their change,” replied
Lord William, scarcely knowing what he answered--the powers of mind and
body engrossed in suppressing emotion.
They had now reached the bottom of the stairs--a shawl of Lady Jane’s
was not to be found; and while the servants were searching for it,
she and Caroline, followed by Lord William, went into one of the
supper-rooms, which was open.
“To Tunbridge!” repeated Lady Jane. “No, my lord, you must not leave
us.”
“What is there to prevent me?” said Lord William, hastily, almost
harshly; for though at the time he felt her kindness, yet, irresistibly
under the power of his demon, he said the thing he did not mean: his
voice and look expressed the reverse of what his heart felt.
“Nay, if there is nothing to prevent your lordship,” said Lady Jane,
walking away with dignity, “I have only to wish your lordship a good
journey.”
“I would stay, if I could see any thing to keep me,” said Lord William,
impelled, contrary to his better judgment, to appeal once more to
Caroline’s countenance. Then cursed himself for his weakness.
Lady Jane, turning back, saw his lordship’s look; and now,
convinced that Caroline was to blame for all, reproached herself for
misinterpreting his words and manner.
“Well, my lord,” cried she, “you will not be in such haste to set
out for Tunbridge, I am sure, as to go before you hear from me in the
morning. Perhaps I may trouble your lordship with some commands.”
He bowed, and said he should do himself the honour of waiting her
ladyship’s commands. She passed on quickly towards the hall. Lord
William offered his arm to Caroline.
“I must speak to you, Miss Percy--and have but a moment--”
Caroline walked more slowly.
“Thank you, madam--yes, I _do_ thank you. Much pain you have given;
but as little as you could. Better now than later. Like yourself--and
I thank you for preserving the idea of excellence in my mind in all
its integrity--in all--I shall detain you but a moment--you are not
impatient?”
“No,” said Caroline, in a tremulous voice; yet for his sake, as well as
for the sake of her own consistency, trying to suppress emotion which
she thought he might misinterpret.
“Fear not--I shall not misinterpret--I know too well what love is. Speak
freely of my sentiments to Lady Jane, when I am gone--her friendship
deserves it from me.”
He stopped speaking. “Stay,” said Caroline. “It may give your noble mind
some ease to know that my heart was engaged before we ever met.”
He was silent. It was the silence of deep feeling. They came within view
of the servants--he walked quietly to the carriage--assisted her into
it, pressed her hand--and said in a low voice, “Farewell--for ever.”
The carriage-door was shut.
“Where to, my lady?” said the footman.
“The Duchess of Greenwich’s, or home, Caroline?”
“Oh! home, if I may choose,” said Caroline.
“Home!” said Lady Jane.
And the moment the glass was up, “Caroline, my dear, tell me this
instant, what is all this between you and Lord William?--Is it as I
hope?--or, is it as I fear?--speak.”
Caroline could not--she was in tears.
“What have you done?--If you have said any thing irrevocable, and
without consulting me, I never, never will forgive you, Caroline. Speak,
at all events.”
Caroline tried to obey her ladyship.
“What have you done?--What have you said?”
“I have said the truth--I have done, I hope, what I ought,” said
Caroline; “but I have given great pain--”
Lady Jane now perceiving by her voice that she was in sorrow, spoke no
more in anger; but, checking herself, and changing her tone, said, “It
is not irremediable, my dear. Whatever pain you may have given, you know
the power to give pleasure is still in your own hands.”
Caroline sighed--“Alas! no, madam, it is not.”
“Why so, my love? He will not leave town in the morning without my
commands; and I am at your command. A note, a line, a word, will set all
to rights.”
“But that word I _cannot_ say.”
“Then let me say it for you. Trust your delicacy to me--I will be
dignity itself. Can you doubt it? Believe me, much as I wish to see you
what and where you ought to be in society, I would not--there it is,
begging Lady Frances Arlington’s pardon, that Mrs. Falconer and I differ
in character essentially, and _de fond en comble_. I would never yield
a point of real delicacy; I would not descend the thousandth part of a
degree from proper dignity, to make you--any more than to make myself--a
princess. And now, without reserve, open your heart, and tell me what
you wish to have done or said.”
“Nothing, my dear Lady Jane.”
“Nothing? my dear Caroline.”
“I have no more to say--I have said all I can say.”
The carriage stopped at their own door.
“We are all in the dark,” said Lady Jane: “when I have more light I
shall be able better to tell what we are about.”
“Now, I can see as well as hear,” continued she, as her woman met
her with lights. “Keppel, you may go to bed; we shall not want you
to-night.”
“Now, Caroline, take care: remember your countenance is open to me, if
not your heart.”
“Both, both are open to you, my dear friend!” cried Caroline. “And
Lord William, who said you deserved it from him, desired me to speak as
freely for him as for myself.”
“He’s a noble creature! There’s the difference between reserve of
character and reserve of manner--I always said so. Go on, my dear.”
Caroline related every thing that had passed; and Lady Jane, when she
had finished, said, “A couple of children!--But a couple of charming
children. Now I, that have common sense, must set it all to rights, and
turn _no_ prettily into _yes_.”
“It cannot be done,” said Caroline.
“Pardon me, solemn fair one, it can.”
“Pardon me, my dear Lady Jane, it must not be done.”
“Children should not say _must_,” cried Lady Jane, in a playful tone;
for never did she feel in more delightful spirits than at this moment,
when all her hopes for Caroline, as she thought, were realized; “and to
complete ‘_the pleasing history_,’ no obstacle remained,” she said, “but
the Chinese mother-of-pearl curtain of etiquette to be withdrawn, by a
dexterous, delicate hand, from between Shuey-Ping-Sin and her lover.”
Lady Jane, late as it was at night, took up a pen, to write a note to
Lord William.
“What are you going to do, may I ask, my dear madam?” cried Caroline.
“My dear madam, I am going my own way--let me alone.”
“But if you mean to write for me--”
“For you!--not at all--for myself. I beg to see Lord William in the
morning, to trouble him with my commands.”
“But seriously, my dear Lady Jane, do not give him unnecessary pain--for
my mind is decided.”
“So every young lady says--it is a ruled case--for the first three
days.” Lady Jane wrote on as fast as she could.
“My dear Lady Jane,” cried Caroline, stopping her ladyship’s hand, “I am
in earnest.”
“So, then,” cried Lady Jane, impatiently, “you will not trust me--you
will not open your heart to me, Caroline?”
“I do--I have trusted you entirely, my dear friend. My heart I opened to
you long ago.”
A dead pause--and blank consternation in Lady Jane’s countenance.
“But surely since then it must have changed?”
“Not in the least.”
“But it will change: let Lord William try to change it.”
Caroline shook her head. “It will not--I cannot.”
“And you won’t do this, when I ask it as a favour for my friend, my
particular friend?”
“Excuse me, dear, kind Lady Jane; I know you wish only my happiness,
but this would make me unhappy. It is the only thing you could ask with
which I would not comply.”
“Then I’ll never ask any thing else while I live from you, Miss Percy,”
cried Lady Jane, rising and throwing her pen from her. “You are resolved
to throw your happiness from you--do so. Wish your happiness!--yes,
I have wished it anxiously--ardently! but now I have done: you are
determined to be perverse and philosophical. Good night to you.”
Lady Jane snatched up her candle, and in haste retired. Caroline,
sensible that all her ladyship’s anger at this moment arose from warm
affection, was the more sorry to have occasioned it, and to feel that
she could not, by yielding, allay it instantly.--A sleepless night.
Early in the morning, Keppel, half-dressed and not half awake, came,
with her ladyship’s love, and begged to speak a word to Miss Percy.
“_Love!_” repeated Caroline, as she went to Lady Jane’s apartment: “how
kind she is!”
“My dear, you have not slept, I see--nor I neither; but I am sure you
have forgiven my hastiness;” said Lady Jane, raising herself on her
pillow.
Caroline kissed her affectionately.
“And let these tears, my dearest Caroline,” continued Lady Jane, “be
converted into tears of joy: for my sake--for your whole family--for
your own sake, my sweet girl, be advised, and don’t throw away your
happiness for life. Here’s a note from Lord William--he waits my
commands--that’s all. Let me only desire to see him.”
“On my account? I cannot,” said Caroline--the tears streaming down her
face, though she spoke calmly.
“Then it is your pride to refuse the man for whom every other young
woman is sighing.”
“No, believe me that I do not act from pride: I feel none--I have no
reason to feel any.”
“No reason to feel pride! Don’t you know--yes, you know as well as I
do, that this is the man of men--the man on whom every mother’s--every
daughter’s eye is fixed--the first unmarried nobleman now in
England--the prize of prizes. The most excellent man, you allow, and
universally allowed to be the most agreeable.”
“But if he be not so to me?” said Caroline.
“That can only be because--you are conscious of the cause, Caroline--it
is your own fault.”
“And therefore I said, that I felt I had no reason to be proud,” said
Caroline.
“Then have reason to be proud; conquer this weakness, and then you may
have cause to be proud. You pique yourself on being reasonable: is it
reasonable to leave your affections in the possession of a man, of whom,
in all human probability, you will never hear more?”
“Too probable,” said Caroline.
“And will you, Caroline Percy, like Lady Angelica Headingham, leave your
heart at the mercy of a foreign _adventurer_?”
“Oh! stop, ma’am,” cried Caroline, putting her hand before Lady Jane’s
mouth: “don’t say that word--any thing else I could bear. But if
you knew him--education, character, manners--no, you would not be so
unjust.”
“You know you told me you were sensible you ought not to indulge such a
weakness, Caroline?”
“I did--I am sensible of it--oh! you see I am; and my best--my very best
have I done to drive him from my memory; and never, till I was forced to
make this comparison, did I recollect--did I feel--Weak, I may be,” said
Caroline, changing from great agitation to perfect decision; “but
wicked will not be: I will never marry one man, and love another. My own
happiness if I sacrifice, mine be the consequence; but will never injure
the happiness of another. Do not, madam, keep that noble heart, this
excellent Lord William, in suspense--What are your commands?”
“My commands!” cried Lady Jane, raising her voice, trembling with anger.
“Then this is your gratitude--this your generosity!”
“I cannot be generous--I must be just. I have concealed nothing from
Lord William--he knows that my heart was engaged before we met.”
“And this your affection for all your friends--all who wish for your
happiness? You would sacrifice nothing--nothing--no, not the slightest
fancy, disgraceful fancy of your own, to please them, when you know how
ardently too they wish to see you happily married.”
“To marry to please others, against my own inclination, against my own
conscience, must be weakness indeed--self-deception; for if my friends
wish my happiness, and I make myself miserable, how can that please
them? Any sacrifice I could make, except that of principle, I would;
but that I never will make, nor will my friends, nor do they, desire
it--Forgive me, dear Lady Jane.”
“I never will forgive you,” interrupted Lady Jane. “Ring!--yes, ring the
bell--and when rung, never expect my forgiveness.”
It must be done, thought Caroline, sooner or later.
“My compliments, Keppel, to Lord William,” said Lady Jane; “I have no
commands to trouble him with. Stay, I must find something--that parcel
for Mrs. Baggot, Tunbridge--I must write--I cannot write.”
“With great difficulty, in the agitation of her mind and hand, Lady Jane
wrote a few lines, and holding the note up, looked at Caroline--a last
appeal--in vain.
“Take it, Keppel--I’m sorry Lord William’s servant has been kept
waiting,” cried her ladyship, and suddenly closed the curtain. Caroline
retired softly, hoping that Lady Jane might sleep, and sleep off her
anger; but no--the morning passed--the day passed--and the sun went down
upon her wrath. At night she would not, she could not, go out any where.
Caroline, alone with her, endured a terrible tête-à-tête. Lady Jane
never spoke. Caroline tried all she could, by affectionate kindness
of look and voice, and by contrite gentleness, to soothe her perturbed
spirit. Lady Jane’s anger admitted of no alleviation: her disappointment
increased the more she reflected, and the more she thought of what
others would think, if they could know it. And that they did not know,
might never know it, (for Lady Jane was too honourable to betray Lord
William’s secret,) was an additional mortification. It was not till
after ninety-six hours that Caroline perceived in her ladyship any
change for the better. The first favourable symptom was her giving vent
to her natural feelings in the following broken sentences: “After all my
pains! When I was just thinking of writing to your father--when I might
have carried you home in triumph, Lady William! A duke in all human
probability--a duchess--absolutely a duchess you might have been! And
such a well-informed--such an amiable man!--every thing your own family
could have wished--And Rosamond!--Ah! poor Rosamond--Rosamond, you
little know!--And nobody will ever know--no creature will ever be a
bit the wiser. If you would have let him even come to a
declaration--properly, decently to a declaration--let him attend you in
public once or twice, your declared admirer--what harm could it possibly
have done him, you, or any body? Then there would have been some credit,
at least--and some comfort to me. But now, at the end of the campaign,
just where we were before! The season over, under Lady Jane Granville’s
_chaperonage_, the beautiful Miss Caroline Percy has received one
proposal and a quarter!--No, while I live, I will never forgive it.”