The Adventures of David Simple (1904)/Chapter 28
CHAPTER VII
which introduces a lady of cynthia's acquaintance to the company
Cynthia, who had been accustomed for many years to be startled from her sleep at every morning's dawn with all the uneasy reflections of the several insults and indignities, ill-nature, and a love of tyranny had barbarously made her suffer the day before, was at present in so different a situation, that the returning light, which used to be her greatest enemy, now, as her best friend, brought back to her remembrance all those pleasing ideas her present companions continually inspired her with. Therefore, instead of endeavouring to compose herself again to slumber (the usual method of the unfortunate, in order to lose the sense of their sorrows), the cheerfulness of her mind induced her to leave her bed, and indulge herself with all those various flights of fancy, which are generally the reward of temperance and innocence. She stole softly into Camilla's room, that if she was awake she might increase her own pleasures by sharing them with her friend; but finding her fast asleep, was again returning to her own chamber, when by a servant's opening the door of an apartment by which she was obliged to pass, she had a transient view of a young lady, with whom she fancied she was very well acquainted, but could not recollect where or by what means she had seen her. This raised so great a curiosity in Cynthia to know who she was, that she could not forbear immediately inquiring of the maid of the house, who lodged in that apartment. The maid replied. Truly, she did not know who she was, for she had not been there above a fortnight; she was very handsome, but she believed a very stupid kind of body, for that she never dressed fine or visited like other ladies, but sat moping by herself all day. "But," continued she, "there is no reason to complain of her. I think she is very honest, for she don't seem to want money to pay for anything she has a mind to have. She goes by the name of Isabelle, and they say she is a Frenchwoman."
The moment Cynthia heard her name, she remembered it to be the same with that of the Marquis de Stainville's sister, whom she knew very well when she was in France with my Lady ———; but then she could not imagine what accident or turn of affairs could possibly have brought her into that house, and have caused so great an alteration in her temper, as from a gay, sprightly girl, to fall into so melancholy a disposition.
When David and his companions met at breakfast, Cynthia fold them all which had passed, and by what means she had discovered an acquaintance in that house; and said she should be very glad of this opportunity of waiting on Isabelle; but that she feared, by the retired life she seemed to choose, company would be troublesome to her.
David immediately fancied it must be some terrible distress which had thus thrown this young lady into a settled melancholy; therefore begged Cynthia with the utmost eagerness to visit her, and find out, if possible, if there was any method could be thought on for her relief; and it was agreed by them all, that after breakfast Cynthia should send to know if she would admit of a visit from her.
In the meantime the whole conversation was taken up in conjectures on Isabelle's circumstances. Camilla could not forbear inquiring of Cynthia this young lady had not a father alive, and whether it was not probable his marrying a second wife might be the cause of her misfortunes; but before there was time for an answer, David said, "I think, madam, you mentioned her brother: he possibly may have treated her in such a manner as to make her hate her own country, and endeavour to change the scene, in hopes to abate her misery."
In short, every one guessed at some reason or other for a woman of Isabelle's quality leading a life so unsuitable to the station fortune had placed her in.
The Marquis de Stainville's sister, although at this time she would have made it greatly her choice to have been quite alone; yet, as she had always had a great liking to Cynthia's company, would not refuse to see her. Their conversation turned chiefly on indifferent things; for Cynthia would not so far transgress the rules of good breeding as to ask her any questions concerning her own affairs; but in the midst of their discourse she often observed tears to flow from Isabelle's eyes, though she used her utmost endeavours to conceal them.
David waited with great impatience while Cynthia was with Isabelle, in hopes, at her return, to learn whether or no it would be in his power to gratify his favourite passion (of doing good) on this occasion; but when Cynthia informed him it was impossible as yet, without exceeding all bounds of good manners, to know any occurrences that had happened to Isabelle, he grew very uneasy, and could not forbear reflecting on the tyranny of custom, which often subjects the unfortunate to bear their miseries, because her severe laws will neither suffer them to lay open their distresses without being thought forward and impertinent, nor let even those people who would relieve them inquire into their misery without being called by the world madly curious or ridiculously meddling. Whereas he thought that to see another uneasy was a sufficient reason for any of the same species to endeavour to know and remove the cause of it.
Cynthia, on reflection, was convinced that what on some occasions would be transgressing the laws of decency, in this case would be only the effect of a generous compassion. She therefore sought all opportunities of conversing with Isabelle, till at length, by her amiable and tender behaviour, she prevailed with her to let her introduce her to David and his company. They were all surprised at the grandeur of her air and manner, and the I perfect symmetry of her features, as much as they were concerned at the dejectedness of her countenance, and the fixed melancholy which visibly appeared in everything she said or did. For several days they made it their whole business to endeavour to divert her; but (as is usually the case where grief is really and unaffectedly rooted in the heart) she sighed at everything which at another time would have given her pleasure. And the behaviour of this company seemed only to make her regret the more something she had irrecoverably lost. She begged to be left to her own private thoughts, whatever they were, rather than disturb the felicity of such minds as she easily perceived theirs to be.
But David would not, nor indeed would any of the company, suffer her to leave them without informing them whether or no they could do anything to serve her. As to her saying she perceived by the tenderness of their dispositions she should only make them feel her afflictions without any possibility of relieving them, they looked on that to be the common reflection of every generous mind weighed down with present grief. At last, by their continual importunities, and the uneasiness she was convinced she gave to people who so much deserved her esteem, she resolved, whatever pain it would occasion her, to comply with their requests, and relate the history of her life; which she accordingly began as follows—
"I was bred up from five years of age in a nunnery. Nothing remarkable happened to me during my stay there; but I spent my time sometimes with my companions in innocent amusements and childish pleasures, sometimes in learning such things as were thought by my governess to be most for my improvement. At fourteen, my father sent for me home, and indulged me in bringing with me a young lady, named Juliè, for whom I had taken a great fancy. I had not been long there before a gentleman, who often visited and dined with my father, made him a proposal of marrying me. He soon informed me of it; and although he did not absolutely command me to receive him as my lover, yet I plainly saw he was very much inclined to the match. This was the first time I had any opportunity of acting, or that I had ever considered of anything further than how to spend my time most agreeably from one hour to another. I immediately ran and told my companion what had passed, in order to consult with her in what method I should act; but was very much surprised when I saw her, from the moment I mentioned the gentleman's name, alternately blush and turn pale; and that when she endeavoured to speak, her voice faltered, and she could not utter her words. When she was a little recovered, she begged me to call for a glass of water, for she was suddenly taken very ill. I was in the utmost confusion, and knew not what to say; but was resolved, however, for the present, not to begin again on a subject which had shocked her so much. We both endeavoured to turn the conversation on indifferent things, but were so perplexed in our own thoughts, that it was impossible for us to continue long together without running into a discourse of what we were both so full of. I therefore soon made some trifling excuse, and left her; and I believe this separation at that time was the most agreeable thing which could have happened to her.
"The moment I was alone, and had an opportunity to reflect on the foregoing scene, young as I then was, I could not avoid seeing the cause of Juliè's behaviour: it appeared very odd to me, that a girl of her sense should, in so short a time, be thus violently attached to a man; and had it not appeared so very visibly, the improbability of it would have made me overlook it. For my own part, I neither liked nor disliked the gentleman, but was perfectly averse to marriage, unless 1 had a tender regard for the man I was to live with as a husband. But I began now to think that a man who was capable of making such a conquest, without even endeavouring at it, must have something very uncommon in him; and was resolved therefore to observe him more narrowly for the future. I begged my father would give me leave to converse with him a little while longer, without being thought for that reason engaged in honour to live with him for ever; for certainly it is very unreasonable that any person should be obliged immediately to determine a point of such great importance.
"Juliè now avoided me as much as formerly she used to contrive all ways of being with me; and whenever we were together, her downcast eyes and anxious looks sufficiently declared her uneasiness at my having discovered a secret she would willingly have concealed within her own bosom.
"My lover, being now admitted to converse with me, seemed to make no doubt but that he should soon gain my affections, and grew every day more and more particular to me. I don't know what was the reason of it (for he was far from being a disagreeable man), but now he looked on himself as an accepted lover, my indifference turned into perfect aversion to him. I believe the seeing poor Juliè's continual unhappiness was one cause that I could not bear him to come near me. Besides, I fancied that he saw her love (notwithstanding all her endeavours to conceal it), and did not treat her in the manner a good-natured man would have done in that case. In short, I soon resolved to declare to my father that nothing could make me so unhappy as the marrying this gentleman, and to desire his permission to refuse him. But before I took this step, I was willing to talk to Juliè about it; for as I saw her unhappy situation, I dreaded doing anything that might make her more miserable, I was very much perplexed in what manner I could bring about a conversation on a subject, the very mentioning of which had so violent an effect on her. But one day, as we were sitting together, it came into my head to tell her a story parallel to our case; where a young woman, by an obstinate concealing from her friend that she was in love with the gentleman by whom this friend was addressed, suffered her innocently and ignorantly to marry the man for whom she had not so violent a passion, but that she could easily, and would have controlled and conquered it, had she known the passion of her friend, and the dreadful consequences which it afterwards produced to her.
"Juliè immediately understood my meaning; and after several sighs and struggles with herself, burst out into the following expressions—'Oh, Isabelle! what fresh obligations are you every minute loading me with! The generous care you take of my future peace is so much beyond my expectation, that it is impossible for me to thank you in any words adequate to the strong idea I have of your goodness. I am satisfied most women in your case would hate me as a rival, although they despised the man contended for. I must own to you, from the time I first saw Monsieur Le Buisson, I always liked him; and I flattered myself that he treated me with a peculiar air of gallantry, which I fondly imputed to a growing passion. If ever I accidentally met him walking in the garden, or in any other place, he seemed to seek occasions to keep me with him. But, alas! I have since found out that it was his love for you which made him endeavour to be acquainted with me, as he saw we were generally together. If you like him, I will go and bemoan my own wretched fate in any corner of the earth, rather than be the least obstacle to your happiness.'
"Here she ceased: the swelling tears stood ready to start from her eyes, and she seemed almost choked for want of utterance. I really pitied her, but knew not which way to relieve her. To tell Monsieur Le Buisson of her passion did not appear to me, by what I could observe of his disposition, to be a likely means of succeeding, I tried all manner of ways to find if there was a possibility of making her easy, in case there should be any unconquerable obstacle to the gratifying her inclination; but when at last I found she would hearken with pleasure to nothing but the talking of methods to make Monsieur Le Buisson in love with her, I began to think seriously which way I could bring it about. I imagined, if I kept him on without any determinate answer what I would do, that I might, by a disagreeable behaviour, joined to Juliè's good-nature and softness, make him turn his affections on her. But it was some time before I could bring myself to this; I thought it was not acting a sincere part, and I abhorred nothing so much as dissimulation. But then, when I consired, on the other side, that it would be making my friend happy, and doing no injury to Monsieur Le Buisson, as it would be the means of his having the best of wives, I overcame all my scruples, and engaged heartily in it. Every time I had used him ill enough to work him into a rage, Juliè purposely threw herself in his way, and by all the mild and gentle methods she could think on, endeavoured to calm his mind and bring him into good humour again: in short, we did this so often, that at last we succeeded to our wish. I got rid of my lover, and Juliè engaged the man whose love was the only thing she thought could make her happy.
"The match was soon concluded, for her friends all greatly approved of it. I was forced to tell my father the whole truth, to prevent his thinking himself injured by his friend. He chid me at first for not informing him of it sooner; but as he always looked with a favourable eye on what I did, he soon forgave me. My friend and I both thought ourselves now quite happy—Juliè in the completion of her wishes, and I in having been instrumental in bringing them about. But, alas! better had it been for us both, had she for ever shut herself from the world, and spent her time in conquering, instead of endeavouring to gratify and indulge her passion; for Monsieur Le Buisson, in a very short time, grew quite tired of her. For, as she had never been really his inclination, and it was only by working on the different turns of his passion that he was at first engaged to marry her, he could not keep himself from falling, at least, into a cold indifference: however, as he was a polite man, it was some time before he could bring himself to break through the rules of good breeding, and he treated her with the respect and civility he thought due to a woman. This, however, did not prevent her being very miserable; for the great tenderness she felt for him required all those soft sensations, and that delicacy in his behaviour, which only could have completed the happiness of such a heart as hers; but which it is impossible ever to attain where the love is not perfectly mutual.
"I denied myself the pleasure of ever seeing her, lest I should be the cause of any disturbance between them; but my caution was all in vain; for she, poor soul, endeavoured to raise his gratitude, and increase his love, by continually reminding him of her long and faithful passion, even from her first acquaintance with him; till at last, by these means, she put it into his head that my love for my friend was the cause of my refusing and treating him ill. This thought roused a fury in his breast; all decency and ceremony gave way to rage; and, from thinking her fondness had been his curse, by preventing his having the woman he liked, she soon became the object of his hatred rather than his love; and he could not forbear venting continual reproaches against her for having thus gained him. Poor Juliè did not long survive this usage, but languished a short time in greater misery than I can express, and then lost her life and the sense of her misfortunes together.
"This was the first real affliction I had ever felt; I had loved Juliè from her infancy, and I now looked upon myself to have been the cause of all her sorrows; nor could I help, in some measure, blaming my own actions, for I had always dreaded the consequence of thus in a manner betraying a man into matrimony. And although perhaps it may be something a more excusable frailty, yet it certainly is as much a failure in point of virtue, and as great a want of resolution, to indulge the inclination of our friends to their ruin, as it is to gratify our own; or, to speak more properly, to people who are capable of friendship, it is only more exquisite and refined way of giving themselves pleasure. But I will not attempt to repeat all I endured on that occasion, and shall only tell you that Monsieur Le Buisson, on the death of his wife, thinking now all obstacles were removed between us, would again have been my lover; but his usage of my poor Juliè had raised in me such an indignation against him, that I resolved never to see him more.
"But here, at the period of my first misfortune, I must cease; for I think nothing but the strong desire I have to oblige this company could possibly have supported my sunk and weak spirits to have talked so long at one time."
The whole company begged her not to tire herself, and expressed their hearty thanks for what she had already done. She insisted now on retiring to her own apartment; and promised the next day, if her health would give her leave, to continue her story, in order to satisfy their curiosity; or rather to convince them that their compassion in her case must be rendered perfectly fruitless by the invincible obstinacy of her misfortunes.
After Isabelle had left them they spent the remainder of the day in remarks on that part of her story she had already imparted to them. David could not help expressing the utmost indignation against Monsieur Le Buisson for his barbarous and ungrateful treatment of Juliè, He desired Cynthia to engage Isabelle as early as it was possible the next morning, that she might re-assume her story; which, he said, must have something very extraordinary in it, as the death of her first friend, and that in so shocking a manner, seemed to be but the prologue to her increasing miseries. Had not Cynthia's own inclinations exactly agreed with his, she would have been easily prevailed on to have obliged the man who had generously saved Valentine's life, and was the only cause of her present happy situation. In short, as soon as Isabelle was stirring the following day, she was persuaded to join the company; and, after breakfast, went on with her story as follows.