“I think it extremely ill-judged and ill-bred of Mrs. Falconer to invite me to this wedding. Does she think I have no feeling? My own near relations and best friends deprived of their birth-right by this Sir Robert Percy—does she conceive it possible that I could go to such a wedding?—No; nor did she wish or expect it; she only wrote from vanity, and I shall answer her with pride, which, at least, is somewhat superior to that mean passion; and I shall go, I am now determined, to Mr. Gresham’s—I do nothing by halves.”
Her ladyship immediately wrote answers to both the invitations. Nothing for months had done her so much good as the exertion, interest, and imaginary self-importance these two notes created. At Mr. Gresham’s on the day of the wedding her ladyship appeared with great dignity, and was satisfied that she had conferred honour and serious obligation. Could she have seen into the minds of all the company, she would have been astonished to find how little she occupied their thoughts. It would be difficult to determine whether it is more for the happiness or misery of man and womankind that politeness should cherish, or truth destroy, these little delusions of self-love.
Presently there appeared in the newspapers a splendid account of the marriage at St. George’s church, Hanover-square, of Sir Robert Percy, of Percy-hall, with Arabella, the eldest daughter of J. Falconer, Esquire: present at the ceremony was a long list of fashionable friends, who, as Lady Jane Granville observed, “would not have cared if the bride had been hanged the next minute.” The happy pair, after partaking of an elegant collation, set out in a barouche and four for Percy-hall, the seat of Sir Robert Percy.
“So!” cried Lady Jane, throwing down the paper, “Mrs. Falconer has accomplished that match at last, and has got one of her daughters well off her hands—the ugly one too. Upon my word, she is amazingly clever. But, after all, the man has a horrid temper, and a very bad character. Now it is over, my dear Caroline, I must tell you, that long ago, before I was so well aware of what sort of a man he was, I had formed the plan of marrying him to you, and so uniting the two branches, and bringing the estate into your family; but we have often reason to rejoice that our best-concerted schemes don’t succeed. I give Mrs. Falconer joy. For worlds I would not have such a man married to any relation or friend of mine—Oh! if I recover my fortune, Caroline, I have hopes for you!”
Her ladyship was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Gresham, who came to take leave, as he was just setting out for Holland. He was a man who said less and did more for his friends, as Caroline observed, than almost any person she knew. On seeing his gallery of paintings, she had noticed some beautiful miniatures; he now brought all those which she had admired, and begged to leave them with her during his absence, that she might at her leisure copy any of them she liked. He knew she painted in miniature, for he had long ago, when at the Hills, seen her copy of M. de Tourville’s picture of Euphrosyne.
“If,” said Mr. Gresham, observing that Caroline scrupled to take charge of so many precious pictures, “if you are too proud to receive from me the slightest kindness without a return, I am willing to put myself under an obligation to you. While I am away, at your leisure, make me a copy of that Euphrosyne—I shall love it for your sake, and as reminding me of the time when I first saw it—the happiest time perhaps of my life,” added he, in a low voice.
“Oh, Rosamond!” thought Caroline, “if you had heard that!—and if you knew how generously kind he has been to your brothers!”
At parting from Alfred and Erasmus, he said to them, “My good young friends, why don’t either of you marry? To be sure, you are young enough; but think of it in time, and don’t put off, put off, till you grow into old bachelors. I know young men generally in these days say, they find it too expensive to marry—some truth in that, but more selfishness: here’s young Mr. Henry has set you a good example. Your practice in your professions, I suppose, puts you as much at ease in the world by this time as he is. Malthus, you know, whom I saw you studying the other day, objects only to people marrying before they can maintain a family. Alfred, when I was at the Hills, I heard of a certain Miss Leicester. If you shall think of marrying before I come back again, you’ll want a house, and I’ve lent mine already—but money, you know, can place one in any part of the town you might like better—I have a sum lying idle at my bankers, which I have just had transferred to the account of Alfred and Erasmus Percy—whichever of you marry before I come back, must do me the favour to purchase a good house—I must have it at the polite end of the town, or I shall be worse than an old bachelor—let me find it well furnished and aired—nothing airs a house so well as a warm friend: then, you know, if I should not fancy your purchase, I leave it on your hands, and you pay me the purchase-money year by year, at your leisure—if you can trust that I will not throw you into jail for it.”
The warmth of Alfred’s thanks in particular showed Mr. Gresham that he had not been mistaken about Miss Leicester.
“I wish I had thought, or rather I wish I had spoken of this sooner,” added Mr. Gresham: “perhaps I might have had the pleasure of seeing you married before my leaving England; but—no—it is best as it is—I might have hurried things—and in these matters every body likes to go their own pace, and their own way. So fare ye well—God bless you both, and give you good wives—I can ask nothing better for you from Heaven.”