“Vastly well!” said Lady Jane: “so you mean to bury your daughters in the country—to shut them up, at least—all the days of their unfortunate lives?”
Mr. and Mrs. Percy, both at the same moment, eagerly declared that they had no such absurd or cruel intention towards their daughters. “On the contrary,” said Mr. Percy, “we shall take every proper occasion, that our present fortune and situation will allow, of letting them see agreeable and sensible persons.”
“Are they to spring out of the ground, these agreeable and sensible persons?” said Lady Jane. “Whom do you see in this desert, or expect to see?”
“We see your ladyship, in the first place,” said Mr. Percy: “you cannot therefore wonder if we are proud enough to expect to see sometimes good company, persons of merit, and even of fashion, though we have lost our station and fortune.”
“That is very politely turned by you, Mr. Percy. Much more polite than my desert. But I could not bear the thoughts of your sweet pretty Caroline’s blushing unseen.”
“Nor could we,” said Mr. Percy, “bear the thoughts of her ceasing to blush from being too much seen. We could not bear the thoughts of fitting our daughters out, and sending them to the London market, with the portionless class of matrimonial adventurers, of whom even the few that succeed are often doomed but to splendid misery in marriage; and the numbers who fail in their venture are, after a certain time, consigned to neglect and contempt in single wretchedness. Here, on the contrary, in the bosom of their own families, without seeking to entice or entrap, they can at all events never be disappointed or degraded; and, whether married or single, will be respected and respectable, in youth and age—secure of friends, and of a happy home.”
“Happy nonsense! begging your pardon, my dear coz. Shall I tell you what the end of all this living in the bosom of their own families will be?—that they will die old maids. For mercy’s sake, my dear Mrs. Percy, do not let Mr. Percy be philosophical for your daughters, whatever he may be for himself. You, I am sure, cannot wish your poor daughters to be old maids,” said her ladyship, with a tremendous accent upon the word.
“No, I should wish them to marry, if I could ensure for them good husbands, not merely good fortunes. The warmest wish of my heart,” cried Mrs. Percy, “is to see my daughters as happy as I am myself, married to men of their own choice, whom they can entirely esteem, and fondly love. But I would rather see my daughters in their graves than see them throw themselves away upon men unworthy of them, or sell themselves to husbands unsuited to them, merely for the sake of being established, for the vulgar notion of getting married, or to avoid the imaginary and unjust ridicule of being old maids.”
The warmth and energy with which these last words were spoken, by so gentle a person as Mrs. Percy, surprised Lady Jane so much, that she was silent; all her ideas being suddenly at a stand, and her sagacity at fault. Mr. Percy proposed a walk to show her the Hills; as her ladyship rose to accompany him, she said to herself, “Who could have guessed that Mrs. Percy was so romantic?—But she has caught it from her husband.—What a strange father and mother!—But for the sake of the poor girls, I will not give up the point. I will have Caroline with me to Tunbridge, and to town, in spite of their wise heads.”
She renewed her attack in the evening after tea. Rising, and walking towards the window, “A word with you, Mr. Percy, if you please. The young people are going to walk, and now we can talk the matter over by ourselves.”