“Of course, I knew that a proposal from Clay, of Clay-hall, would be to you—just what it is to me,” said Lady Jane. “I hope you cannot apprehend that, for the sake of his seven or ten thousand, whatever he has per annum, I should press such a match upon you, Caroline? No, no, you are worth something much better.”
“Thank you, my dear Lady Jane,” cried Caroline, embracing her with warm gratitude.
“Why, child, you could not think me so—merely mercenary. No; touch me upon family, or fashion—any of my aristocratic prejudices as your father calls them—and I might, perhaps, be a little peremptory. But John Clay is a man just risen from the ranks, lately promoted from being a manufacturer’s son, to be a subaltern in good company, looking to rise another step by purchase: no, no—a Percy could not accept such an offer—no loss of fortune could justify such a mésalliance. Such was my first feeling, and I am sure yours, when you read at the bottom of this awkwardly folded epistle, ‘Your ladyship’s most devoted, &c. John Clay’—”
“I believe I had no feeling, but pure surprise,” said Caroline. “I scarcely think Mr. Clay can be in earnest—for, to the best of my recollection, he never spoke five words to me in his life!”
“English Clay, my dear. Has not he said every thing in one word?—I should have been a little surprised, but that I have been seeing this good while the dessous des cartes. Don’t flatter yourself that love for you offers Clay-hall—no; but hatred to Mrs. and Miss Falconer. There have been quarrels upon quarrels, and poor Lady Trant in the middle of them, unable to get out—and John Clay swearing he is not to be taken in—and Miss Falconer buffeting Lady Trant with the willow he left on her brows—and Mrs. Falconer smiling through the whole, and keeping the secret, which every body knows: in short, my dear, ‘tis not worth explaining to you—but John Clay certainly hopes to complete the mortification of the Falconers by giving himself to you. Besides, you are in fashion. Too much has been said about him—I’m tired of him. Write your answer, my dear—or I’m to write, am I? Well, give me some gilt paper—let us do the thing properly.” Properly the thing was done—the letter folded, not awkwardly, was sealed and sent, Caroline delighted with Lady Jane, and Lady Jane delighted with herself.
“So there’s an end of that matter,” said Lady Jane. “I saw how it would be long ago; but I was glad you saw nothing of it, lest you should not have let it come to a declaration. A refusal is always creditable; therefore, I own, I should have been mortified, if the season had passed without your having one proposal. But now you have nothing to be ashamed of—you’ve killed your man—and I hope and trust I shall live to see you kill another.”
Caroline laughed, but said she was glad Lady Jane was not one of those who count refusals as so many proofs of a young lady’s merit; for her own part, she acknowledged she was inclined to think that they were sometimes proofs rather of coquetry and duplicity.
Lady Jane hesitated, and said she did not see this—she could not agree to this.
The conversation went on till her ladyship and Caroline came to a complete opposition of opinion on a principle, which, though it was only stated in general, and in the abstract, her ladyship defended with an urgency, and Caroline resisted with a steadiness, which are seldom shown about any merely speculative point, unless there is some secret apprehension of their being soon reduced to practice.
Lady Jane asserted that “a woman should always let an attachment come to a declaration, before she permits a man to see her mind, even though determined upon a refusal.”