“Honestly, not at all,” said Caroline; “but as we cannot have every thing we like, or avoid every thing we dislike, in life, we must balance the good against the evil, when we are to make our choice: and if I found certain amiable, estimable qualities in a character, I think that I might esteem, love, and marry him, even though he had a vulgar name and vulgar connexions. I fairly acknowledge, however, that it must be something superior in the man’s character which could balance the objection to vulgarity in my mind.”
“Very well, my dear,” said Rosamond, “do you be a martyr to vulgarity and philosophy, if you like it—but excuse me, if you please. Since you, who have so much strength of mind, fairly acknowledge that this objection is barely to be overcome by your utmost efforts, do me the favour, do me the justice, not to expect from me a degree of civil courage quite above my powers.”
Caroline, still believing that Rosamond was only bringing forward all the objections that might be raised against her wishes, replied, “Fortunately, my dear Rosamond, you are not called upon for any such effort of philosophy, for Mr. Gresham is not vulgar, nor is even his name vulgar, and he cannot have any vulgar relations, because he has no relations of any description—I heard him say, the other day, that he was a solitary being.”
“That is a comfort,” said Rosamond, laughing; “that is a great thing in his favour; but if he has not relations, he has connexions. What do you think of those horrible Pantons? This instant I think I see old Panton cooling himself—wig pushed back—waistcoat unbuttoned—and protuberant Mrs. Panton with her bay wig and artificial flowers. And not the Pantons only, but you may be sure there are hordes of St. Mary Axe cockneys, that would pour forth upon Mrs. Gresham, with overwhelming force, and with partnership and old-acquaintance-sake claims upon her public notice and private intimacy. Come, come, my dear Caroline, don’t speak against your conscience—you know you never could withstand the hordes of vulgarians.”
“These vulgarians in buckram,” said Caroline, “have grown from two to two hundred in a trice, in your imagination, Rosamond: but consider that old Panton, against whom you have such an invincible horror, will, now that he has quarrelled with Erasmus, probably very soon eat himself out of the world; and I don’t see that you are bound to Mr. Gresham’s dead partner’s widow—is this your only objection to Mr. Gresham?”
“My only objection! Oh, no! don’t flatter yourself that in killing old Panton you have struck off all my objections. Independently of vulgar relations or connexions, and the disparity of age, my grand objection remains. But I will address myself to my mother, for you are not a good person for judging of prejudices—you really don’t understand them, my dear Caroline; one might as well talk to Socrates. You go to work with logic, and get one between the horns of a wicked dilemma directly—I will talk to my mother; she understands prejudices.”
“Your mother thanks you,” said Mrs. Percy, smiling, “for your opinion of her understanding.”
“My mother is the most indulgent of mothers, and, besides, the most candid, and therefore I know she will confess to me that she herself cherishes a little darling prejudice in favour of birth and family, a leetle prejudice—well covered by good-nature and politeness—but still a secret, invincible antipathy to low-born people.”
“To low-bred people, I grant.”
“Oh, mother! you are upon your candour—my dear mother, not only low-bred but low-born: confess you have a—what shall I call it?—an indisposition towards low-born people.”