“And you must be sensible,” continued Rosamond, “that I could not, by any effort of imagination, or by any illusion of love, convert a man of Mr. Gresham’s time of life and appearance, with his wig, and sober kind of understanding, into a hero.”
“As to the wig,” replied Mrs. Percy, “you will recollect that both Sir Charles Grandison and Lovelace wore wigs; but, my dear, granting that a man cannot, in these days, be a hero in a wig, and granting that a hero cannot or should not have a sober understanding, will you give me leave to ask, whether you have positively determined that none but heroes and heroines should live, or love, or marry, or be happy in this mortal world?”
“Heaven forbid!” said Rosamond, “particularly as I am not a heroine.”
“And as only a few hundred millions of people in the world are in the same condition,” added Mrs. Percy.
“And those perhaps, not the least happy of human beings,” said Caroline. “Be that as it may, I think it cannot be denied that Mr. Gresham has, in a high degree, one of the qualities which ought to distinguish a hero.”
“What?” said Rosamond, eagerly.
“Generosity,” replied Caroline; “and his large fortune puts it in his power to show that quality upon a scale more extended than is usually allowed even to the heroes of romance.”
“True—very true,” said Rosamond, smiling: “generosity might make a hero of him if he were not a merchant—a merchant!—a Percy ought not to marry a merchant.”
“Perhaps, my dear,” said Mrs. Percy, “you don’t know that half, at least, of all the nobility in England have married into the families of merchants; therefore, in the opinion of half the nobility of England, there can be nothing discreditable or derogatory in such an alliance.”
“I know, ma’am, such things are; but then you will allow they are usually done for money, and that makes the matter worse. If the sons of noble families marry the daughters of mercantile houses, it is merely to repair the family fortune. But a nobleman has great privileges. If he marry beneath himself, his low wife is immediately raised by her wedding-ring to an equality with the high and mighty husband—her name is forgotten in her title—her vulgar relations are left in convenient obscurity: the husband never thinks of taking notice of them; and the wife, of course, may let it alone if she pleases. But a woman, in our rank of life, must bear her husband’s name, and must also bear all his relations, be they ever so vulgar. Now, Caroline, honestly—how should you like this?”