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she, “he is going—Mr. De Courcy is going, and it is all my fault. I am
afraid you will be very angry with me. but indeed I had no idea it would
end so.” “My love,” I replied, “do not think it necessary to apologize to
me on that account. I shall feel myself under an obligation to anyone who
is the means of sending my brother home, because,” recollecting myself, “I
know my father wants very much to see him. But what is it you have done to
occasion all this?” She blushed deeply as she answered: “I was so unhappy
about Sir James that I could not help—I have done something very wrong, I
know; but you have not an idea of the misery I have been in: and mamma had
ordered me never to speak to you or my uncle about it, and—” “You
therefore spoke to my brother to engage his interference,” said I, to save
her the explanation. “No, but I wrote to him—I did indeed, I got up this
morning before it was light, and was two hours about it; and when my letter
was done I thought I never should have courage to give it. After breakfast
however, as I was going to my room, I met him in the passage, and then, as
I knew that everything must depend on that moment, I forced myself to give
it. He was so good as to take it immediately. I dared not look at him, and
ran away directly. I was in such a fright I could hardly breathe. My dear
aunt, you do not know how miserable I have been.” “Frederica” said I,
“you ought to have told me all your distresses. You would have found in me
a friend always ready to assist you. Do you think that your uncle or I
should not have espoused your cause as warmly as my brother?” “Indeed, I
did not doubt your kindness,” said she, colouring again, “but I thought Mr.
De Courcy could do anything with my mother; but I was mistaken: they have
had a dreadful quarrel about it, and he is going away. Mamma will never
forgive me, and I shall be worse off than ever.” “No, you shall not,” I
replied; “in such a point as this your mother’s prohibition ought not to
have prevented your speaking to me on the subject. She has no right to make
you unhappy, and she shall NOT do it. Your applying, however, to Reginald
can be productive only of good to all parties. I believe it is best as it
is. Depend upon it that you shall not be made unhappy any longer.” At that
moment how great was my astonishment at seeing Reginald come out of Lady
Susan’s dressing-room. My heart misgave me instantly. His confusion at
seeing me was very evident. Frederica immediately disappeared. “Are you
going?” I said; “you will find Mr. Vernon in his own room.” “No,
Catherine,” he replied, “I am not going. Will you let me speak to you a
moment?” We went into my room. “I find,” he continued, his confusion
increasing as he spoke, “that I have been acting with my usual foolish
impetuosity. I have entirely misunderstood Lady Susan, and was on the point
of leaving the house under a false impression of her conduct. There has
been some very great mistake; we have been all mistaken, I fancy. Frederica
does not know her mother. Lady Susan means nothing but her good, but she
will not make a friend of her. Lady Susan does not always know, therefore,
what will make her daughter happy. Besides, I could have no right to
interfere. Miss Vernon was mistaken in applying to me. In short, Catherine,
everything has gone wrong, but it is now all happily settled. Lady Susan, I
believe, wishes to speak to you about it, if you are at leisure.”
“Certainly,” I replied, deeply sighing at the recital of so lame a story. I
made no comments, however, for words would have been vain.
Reginald was glad to get away, and I went to Lady Susan, curious,
indeed, to hear her account of it. “Did I not tell you,” said she with a
smile, “that your brother would not leave us after all?” “You did, indeed,”
replied I very gravely; “but I flattered myself you would be mistaken.” “I
should not have hazarded such an opinion,” returned she, “if it had not at
that moment occurred to me that his resolution of going might be
occasioned by a conversation in which we had been this morning engaged, and
which had ended very much to his dissatisfaction, from our not rightly
understanding each other’s meaning. This idea struck me at the moment, and
I instantly determined that an accidental dispute, in which I might
probably be as much to blame as himself, should not deprive you of your
brother. If you remember, I left the room almost immediately. I was
resolved to lose no time in clearing up those mistakes as far as I could.
The case was this—Frederica had set herself violently against marrying Sir
James.” “And can your ladyship wonder that she should?” cried I with some
warmth; “Frederica has an excellent understanding, and Sir James has none.”
“I am at least very far from regretting it, my dear sister,” said she; “on
the contrary, I am grateful for so favourable a sign of my daughter’s
sense. Sir James is certainly below par (his boyish manners make him appear
worse); and had Frederica possessed the penetration and the abilities which
I could have wished in my daughter, or had I even known her to possess as
much as she does, I should not have been anxious for the match.” “It is odd
that you should alone be ignorant of your daughter’s sense!” “Frederica
never does justice to herself; her manners are shy and childish, and
besides she is afraid of me. During her poor father’s life she was a spoilt
child; the severity which it has since been necessary for me to show has
alienated her affection; neither has she any of that brilliancy of
intellect, that genius or vigour of mind which will force itself forward.”
“Say rather that she has been unfortunate in her education!” “Heaven knows,
my dearest Mrs. Vernon, how fully I am aware of that; but I would wish to
forget every circumstance that might throw blame on the memory of one whose
name is sacred with me.” Here she pretended to cry; I was out of patience
with her. “But what,” said I, “was your ladyship going to tell me about
your disagreement with my brother?” “It originated in an action of my
daughter’s, which equally marks her want of judgment and the unfortunate
dread of me I have been mentioning—she wrote to Mr. De Courcy.” “I know
she did; you had forbidden her speaking to Mr. Vernon or to me on the cause
of her distress; what could she do, therefore, but apply to my brother?”
“Good God!” she exclaimed, “what an opinion you must have of me! Can you
possibly suppose that I was aware of her unhappiness! that it was my object
to make my own child miserable, and that I had forbidden her speaking to
you on the subject from a fear of your interrupting the diabolical scheme?
Do you think me destitute of every honest, every natural feeling? Am I
capable of consigning HER to everlasting: misery whose welfare it is my
first earthly duty to promote? The idea is horrible!” “What, then, was your
intention when you insisted on her silence?” “Of what use, my dear sister,
could be any application to you, however the affair might stand? Why should
I subject you to entreaties which I refused to attend to myself? Neither
for your sake nor for hers, nor for my own, could such a thing be
desirable. When my own resolution was taken I could nor wish for the
interference, however friendly, of another person. I was mistaken, it is
true, but I believed myself right.” “But what was this mistake to which
your ladyship so often alludes! from whence arose so astonishing a
misconception of your daughter’s feelings! Did you not know that she
disliked Sir James?” “I knew that he was not absolutely the man she would
have chosen, but I was persuaded that her objections to him did not arise
from any perception of his deficiency. You must not question me, however,
my dear sister, too minutely on this point,” continued she, taking me
affectionately by the hand; “I honestly own that there is something to
conceal. Frederica makes me very unhappy! Her applying to Mr. De Courcy
hurt me particularly.” “What is it you mean to infer,” said I, “by this
appearance of mystery? If you think your daughter at all attached to
Reginald, her objecting to Sir James could not less deserve to be attended
to than if the cause of her objecting had been a consciousness of his folly;
and why should your ladyship, at any rate, quarrel with my brother for an
interference which, you must know, it is not in his nature to refuse when
urged in such a manner?”
“His disposition, you know, is warm, and he came to expostulate with me;
his compassion all alive for this ill-used girl, this heroine in distress!
We misunderstood each other: he believed me more to blame than I really
was; I considered his interference less excusable than I now find it. I
have a real regard for him, and was beyond expression mortified to find
it, as I thought, so ill bestowed We were both warm, and of course both to
blame. His resolution of leaving Churchhill is consistent with his general
eagerness. When I understood his intention, however, and at the same time
began to think that we had been perhaps equally mistaken in each other’s
meaning, I resolved to have an explanation before it was too late. For any
member of your family I must always feel a degree of affection, and I own
it would have sensibly hurt me if my acquaintance with Mr. De Courcy had
ended so gloomily. I have now only to say further, that as I am convinced
of Frederica’s having a reasonable dislike to Sir James, I shall instantly
inform him that he must give up all hope of her. I reproach myself for
having even, though innocently, made her unhappy on that score. She shall
have all the retribution in my power to make; if she value her own
happiness as much as I do, if she judge wisely, and command herself as she
ought, she may now be easy. Excuse me, my dearest sister, for thus
trespassing on your time, but I owe it to my own character; and after this
explanation I trust I am in no danger of sinking in your opinion.” I could
have said, “Not much, indeed!” but I left her almost in silence. It was
the greatest stretch of forbearance I could practise. I could not have
stopped myself had I begun. Her assurance! her deceit! but I will not allow
myself to dwell on them; they will strike you sufficiently. My heart
sickens within me. As soon as I was tolerably composed I returned to the
parlour. Sir James’s carriage was at the door, and he, merry as usual, soon
afterwards took his leave. How easily does her ladyship encourage or
dismiss a lover! In spite of this release, Frederica still looks unhappy:
still fearful, perhaps, of her mother’s anger; and though dreading my
brother’s departure, jealous, it may be, of his staying. I see how closely
she observes him and Lady Susan, poor girl! I have now no hope for her.
There is not a chance of her
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