Book: The Bracelets
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Maria Edgeworth >> The Bracelets
How far she succeeded in curing herself of this defect, how far she
became deserving of the bracelet, and to whom the bracelet was given,
shall be told in the history of the first of June.
CONTINUATION OF THE BRACELETS.
The first of June was now arrived, and all the young competitors were in
a state of the most anxious suspense. Leonora and Cecilia continued to
be the foremost candidates; their quarrel had never been finally
adjusted, and their different pretensions now retarded all thoughts of a
reconciliation. Cecilia, though she was capable of acknowledging any of
her faults in public before all her companions, could not humble herself
in private to Leonora; Leonora was her equal, they were her inferiors;
and submission is much easier to a vain mind, where it appears to be
voluntary, than when it is the necessary tribute to justice or candour.
So strongly did Cecilia feel this truth that she even delayed making any
apology, or coming to any explanation with Leonora, until success should
once more give her the palm.
If I win the bracelet to-day, said she to herself, I will solicit the
return of Leonora's friendship; it will be more valuable to me than even
the bracelet; and at such a time, and asked in such a manner, she surely
cannot refuse it to me. Animated with this hope of a double triumph,
Cecilia canvassed with the most zealous activity; by constant attention
and exertion she had considerably abated the violence of her temper, and
changed the course of her habits. Her powers of pleasing were now
excited, instead of her abilities to excel; and, if her talents appeared
less brilliant, her character was acknowledged to be more amiable; so
great an influence upon our manners and conduct have the objects of our
ambition. Cecilia was now, if possible, more than ever desirous of
doing what was right, but she had not yet acquired sufficient fear of
doing wrong. This was the fundamental error of her mind; it arose in a
great measure from her early education.
Her mother died when she was very young; and though her father had
supplied her place in the best and kindest manner, he had insensibly
infused into his daughter's mind a portion of that enterprising,
independent spirit, which he justly deemed essential to the character of
her brother. This brother was some years older than Cecilia, but he had
always been the favourite companion of her youth; what her father's
precepts inculcated, his example enforced, and even Cecilia's virtues
consequently became such as were more estimable in a man than desirable
in a female.
All small objects and small errors she had been taught to disregard as
trifles; and her impatient disposition was perpetually leading her into
more material faults; yet her candour in confessing these, she had been
suffered to believe, was sufficient reparation and atonement.
Leonora, on the contrary, who had been educated by her mother in a
manner more suited to her sex, had a character and virtues more peculiar
to a female; her judgment had been early cultivated, and her good sense
employed in the regulation of her conduct; she had been habituated to
that restraint, which, as a woman, she was to expect in life, and early
accustomed to yield; compliance in her seemed natural and graceful.
Yet, notwithstanding the gentleness of her temper, she was in reality
more independent than Cecilia; she had more reliance upon her own
judgment, and more satisfaction in her own approbation. Though far from
insensible to praise, she was not liable to be misled by the
indiscriminate love of admiration; the uniform kindness of her manner,
the consistency and equality of her character, had fixed the esteem and
passive love of her companions.
By passive love, we mean that species of affection which makes us
unwilling to offend, rather than anxious to oblige; which is more a
habit than an emotion of the mind. For Cecilia, her companions felt
active love, for she was active in showing her love to them.
Active love arises spontaneously in the mind, after feeling particular
instances of kindness, without reflection on the past conduct or general
character; it exceeds the merits of its object, and is connected with a
feeling of generosity, rather than with a sense of justice.
Without determining which species of love is the more flattering to
others, we can easily decide which is the most agreeable feeling to our
own minds; we give our hearts more credit for being generous than for
being just; and we feel more self-complacency when we give our love
voluntarily, than when we yield it as a tribute which we cannot
withhold. Though Cecilia's companions might not know all this in theory,
they proved it in practice; for they loved her in a much higher
proportion to her merits than they loved Leonora.
Each of the young judges were to signify their choice by putting a red
or a white shell into a vase prepared for the purpose. Cecilia's colour
was red, Leonora's white. In the morning nothing was to be seen but
these shells, nothing talked of but the long-expected event of the
evening. Cecilia, following Leonora's example, had made it a point of
honour not to inquire of any individual her vote previous to their final
determination.
They were both sitting together in Louisa's room; Louisa was recovering
from the measles. Every one, during her illness, had been desirous of
attending her; but Leonora and Cecilia were the only two that were
permitted to see her, as they alone had had the distemper. They were
both assiduous in their care of Louisa; but Leonora's want of exertion
to overcome any disagreeable feelings of sensibility often deprived her
of presence of mind, and prevented her being so constantly useful as
Cecilia. Cecilia, on the contrary, often made too much noise and bustle
with her officious assistance, and was too anxious to invent amusements
and procure comforts for Louisa, without perceiving that illness takes
away the power of enjoying them.
As she was sitting in the window in the morning, exerting herself to
entertain Louisa, she heard the voice of an old pedlar who often used to
come to the house. Down stairs she ran immediately to ask Mrs. Villars's
permission to bring him into the hall.
Mrs. Villars consented, and away Cecilia ran to proclaim the news to her
companions; then first returning into the hall, she found the pedlar
just unbuckling his box, and taking it off his shoulders. "What would
you be pleased to want, Miss?" said he. "I've all kinds of
tweezer-cases, rings, and lockets of all sorts," continued he, opening
all the glittering drawers successively.
"Oh!" said Cecilia, shutting the drawer of lockets which tempted her
most, "these are not the things which I want; have you any china
figures, any mandarins?"
"Alack-a-day, Miss, I had a great stock of that same china ware, but now
I'm quite out of them kind of things; but I believe," said he, rummaging
in one of the deepest drawers, "I believe I have one left, and here it
is."
"Oh, that is the very thing! what's its price?"
"Only three shillings, ma'am." Cecilia paid the money, and was just
going to carry off the mandarin, when the pedlar took out of his
great-coat pocket a neat mahogany case; it was about a foot long, and
fastened at each end by two little clasps; it had besides a small lock
in the middle.
"What is that?" said Cecilia, eagerly.
"It's only a china figure, Miss, which I am going to carry to an
elderly lady, who lives nigh at hand, and who is mighty fond of such
things."
"Could you let me look at it?"
"And welcome, Miss," said he, and opened the case.
"O goodness! how beautiful!" exclaimed Cecilia.
It was a figure of Flora, crowned with roses, and carrying a basket of
flowers in her hand. Cecilia contemplated it with delight. "How I should
like to give this to Louisa," said she to herself; and at last breaking
silence, "Did you promise it to the old lady?"
"O no, Miss; I didn't promise it--she never saw it; and if so be that
you'd like to take it, I'd make no more words about it."
"And how much does it cost?"
"Why, Miss, as to that, I'll let you have it for half-a-guinea."
[Illustration]
Cecilia immediately produced the box in which she kept her treasure, and
emptying it upon the table, she began to count the shillings; alas!
there were but six shillings. "How provoking!" said she; "then I can't
have it--where's the mandarin? O I have it," said she, taking it up, and
looking at it with the utmost disgust. "Is this the same that I had
before?"
"Yes, Miss, the very same," replied the pedlar, who, during this time,
had been examining the little box out of which Cecilia had taken her
money; it was of silver.
"Why, ma'am," said he, "since you've taken such a fancy to the piece, if
you've a mind to make up the remainder of the money, I will take this
here little box, if you care to part with it."
Now this box was a keepsake from Leonora to Cecilia. "No," said Cecilia
hastily, blushing a little, and stretching out her hand to receive it.
"Oh, Miss!" said he, returning it carelessly, "I hope there's no
offence; I meant but to serve you, that's all. Such a rare piece of
china-work has no cause to go a begging," added he, putting the Flora
deliberately into the case; then turning the key with a jerk, he let it
drop into his pocket, and lifting up his box by the leather straps, he
was preparing to depart.
"Oh, stay one minute!" said Cecilia, in whose mind there had passed a
very warm conflict during the pedlar's harangue. "Louisa would so like
this Flora," said she, arguing with herself; "besides, it would be so
generous in me to give it to her instead of that ugly mandarin; that
would be doing only common justice, for I promised it to her, and she
expects it. Though, when I come to look at this mandarin, it is not even
so good as hers was; the gilding is all rubbed off, so that I absolutely
must buy this for her. O yes, I will, and she will be so delighted! and
then every body will say it is the prettiest thing they ever saw, and
the broken mandarin will be forgotten forever."
Here Cecilia's hand moved, and she was just going to decide: "O! but
stop," said she to herself; "consider Leonora gave me this box, and it
is a keepsake; however, now we have quarreled, and I dare say that she
would not mind my parting with it; I'm sure that I should not care if
she was to give away my keepsake the smelling bottle, or the ring which
I gave her; so what does it signify; besides, is it not my own, and have
I not a right to do what I please with it?"
At this dangerous instant for Cecilia, a party of her companions opened
the door; she knew that they came as purchasers, and she dreaded her
Flora's becoming the prize of some higher bidder. "Here," said she,
hastily putting the box into the pedlar's hand, without looking at it;
"take it, and give me the Flora." Her hand trembled, though she snatched
it impatiently; she ran by, without seeming to mind any of her
companions--she almost wished to turn back.
Let those who are tempted to do wrong by the hopes of future
gratification, or the prospect of certain concealment and impunity,
remember that, unless they are totally depraved, they bear in their own
hearts a monitor who will prevent their enjoying what they have ill
obtained.
In vain Cecilia ran to the rest of her companions, to display her
present, in hopes that the applause of others would restore her own
self-complacency; in vain she saw the Flora pass in due pomp from hand
to hand, each viewing with the other in extolling the beauty of the gift
and the generosity of the giver. Cecilia was still displeased with
herself, with them, and even with their praise; from Louisa's gratitude,
however, she yet expected much pleasure, and immediately she ran up
stairs to her room.
In the mean time Leonora had gone into the hall to buy a bodkin; she had
just broken hers. In giving her change, the pedlar took out of his
pocket, with some half-pence, the very box which Cecilia had sold him.
Leonora did not in the least suspect the truth, for her mind was above
suspicion; and besides, she had the utmost confidence in Cecilia. "I
should like to have that box," said she, "for it is like one of which I
was very fond."
The pedlar named the price, and Leonora took the box; she intended to
give it to little Louisa.
On going to her room she found her asleep, and she sat down softly by
her bed-side. Louisa opened her eyes.
"I hope I didn't disturb you," said Leonora.
"O no; I didn't hear you come in; but what have you got there?"
"It is only a little box; would you like to have it? I bought it on
purpose for you, as I thought perhaps it would please you; because it's
like that which I gave Cecilia."
"O yes! that out of which she used to give me Barbary drops. I am very
much obliged to you. I always thought _that_ exceedingly pretty; and
this, indeed, is as like it as possible. I can't unscrew it; will you
try?"
Leonora unscrewed it.
"Goodness!" exclaimed Louisa, "this must be Cecilia's box; look, don't
you see a great L at the bottom of it?"
Leonora's colour changed. "Yes," she replied calmly, "I see that, but it
is no proof that it is Cecilia's; you know that I bought this box just
now of the pedlar."
"That may be," said Louisa; "but I remember scratching that L with my
own needle, and Cecilia scolded me for it, too. Do go and ask her if she
has lost her box--do," repeated Louisa, pulling her by the sleeve, as
she did not seem to listen.
Leonora indeed did not hear, for she was lost in thought; she was
comparing circumstances, which had before escaped her attention. She
recollected that Cecilia had passed her as she came into the hall,
without seeming to see her, but had blushed as she passed. She
remembered that the pedlar appeared unwilling to part with the box, and
was going to put it again into his pocket with the half-pence; "and why
should he keep it in his pocket and not show it with his other things?"
Combining all these circumstances, Leonora had no longer any doubt of
the truth; for though she had honourable confidence in her friends, she
had too much penetration to be implicitly credulous. "Louisa," she
began, but at this instant she heard a step, which, by its quickness,
she knew to be Cecilia's, coming along the passage. "If you love me,
Louisa," said Leonora, "say nothing about the box."
"Nay, but why not? I dare say she has lost it."
"No, my dear, I am afraid she has not." Louisa looked surprised.
"But I have reasons for desiring you not to say any thing about it."
"Well, then, I won't, indeed."
Cecilia opened the door, came forward smiling, as if secure of a good
reception, and, taking the Flora out of the case, she placed it on the
mantel-piece, opposite to Louisa's bed. "Dear, how beautiful," cried
Louisa, starting up.
"Yes," said Cecilia, "and guess who it's for?"
"For me, perhaps!" said the ingenuous Louisa.
"Yes, take it, and keep it for my sake; you know that I broke your
mandarin."
"O! but this is a great deal prettier and larger than that."
"Yes, I know it is; and I meant that it should be so. I should only have
done what I was bound to do if I had only given you a mandarin."
"Well, and that would have been enough, surely; but what a beautiful
crown of roses! and then that basket of flowers! they almost look as if
I could smell them. Dear Cecilia! I'm very much obliged to you, but I
won't take it by way of payment for the mandarin you broke; for I'm sure
you could not help that; and, besides, I should have broken it myself by
this time. You shall give it to me entirely, and I'll keep it as long as
I live as your keepsake."
Louisa stopped short and coloured. The word keepsake recalled the box
to her mind, and all the train of ideas which the Flora had banished.
"But," said she, looking up wishfully in Cecilia's face, and holding the
Flora doubtfully, "did you----"
Leonora, who was just quitting the room, turned her head back, and gave
Louisa a look, which silenced her.
Cecilia was so infatuated with her vanity, that she neither perceived
Leonora's sign, nor Louisa's confusion, but continued showing off her
present, by placing it in various situations, till at length she put it
into the case, and laying it down with an affected carelessness upon the
bed, "I must go now, Louisa. Good bye," said she, running up and kissing
her; "but I'll come again presently;" then clapping the door after her,
she went.
But as soon as the fermentation of her spirits subsided, the sense of
shame, which had been scarcely felt when mixed with so many other
sensations, rose uppermost in her mind. "What?" said she to herself,
"is it possible that I have sold what I promised to keep for ever? and
what Leonora gave me? and I have concealed it too, and have been making
a parade of my generosity. O! what would Leonora, what would Louisa,
what would every body think of me, if the truth were known?"
Humiliated and grieved by these reflections, Cecilia began to search in
her own mind for some consoling idea. She began to compare her conduct
with the conduct of others of her own age; and at length, fixing her
comparison upon her brother George, as the companion of whom, from her
infancy, she had been habitually the most emulous, she recollected that
an almost similar circumstance had once happened to him, and that he had
not only escaped disgrace, but had acquired glory by an intrepid
confession of his fault. Her father's words to her brother, on that
occasion, she also perfectly recollected.
"Come to me, George," he said, holding out his hand; "you are a
generous, brave boy. They who dare to confess their faults will make
great and good men."
These were his words; but Cecilia, in repeating them to herself, forgot
to lay that emphasis on the word _men_, which would have placed it in
contradistinction to the word women. She willingly believed that the
observation extended equally to both sexes, and flattered herself that
she should exceed her brother in merit, if she owned a fault which she
thought that it would be so much more difficult to confess. "Yes, but,"
said she, stopping herself, "how can I confess it? This very evening, in
a few hours, the prize will be decided; Leonora or I shall win it. I
have now as good a chance as Leonora, perhaps a better; and must I give
up all my hopes? all that I have been labouring for this month past! O,
I never can;--if it were to-morrow, or yesterday, or any day but this, I
would not hesitate, but now I am almost certain of the prize, and if I
win it--well, why then I will--I think, I will tell all--yes, I will; I
am determined," said Cecilia.
Here a bell summoned them to dinner. Leonora sat opposite to her, and
she was not a little surprised to see Cecilia look so gay and
unrestrained. "Surely," said she to herself, "if Cecilia had done this,
that I suspect, she would not, she could not look as she does." But
Leonora little knew the cause of her gayety; Cecilia was never in higher
spirits, or better pleased with herself, than when she had resolved upon
a sacrifice or a confession.
"Must not this evening be given to the most amiable? Whose, then, will
it be?" All eyes glanced first at Cecilia and then at Leonora. Cecilia
smiled; Leonora blushed. "I see that it is not yet decided," said Mrs.
Villars; and immediately they ran up stairs, amidst confused
whisperings.
Cecilia's voice could be distinguished far above the rest. "How can she
be so happy?" said Leonora to herself. "O, Cecilia, there was a time
when you could not have neglected me so!--when we were always together,
the best of friends and companions, our wishes, tastes, and pleasures
the same. Surely she did once love me," said Leonora; "but now she is
quite changed. She has even sold my keepsake, and would rather win a
bracelet of hair from girls whom she did not always think so much
superior to Leonora, than have my esteem, my confidence, and my
friendship, for her whole life; yes, for her whole life, for I am sure
she will be an amiable woman. Oh that this bracelet had never been
thought of, or that I was certain of her winning it; for I am certain
that I do not wish to win it from her. I would rather, a thousand times
rather, that we were as we used to be, than have all the glory in the
world. And how pleasing Cecilia can be when she wishes to please! how
candid she is! how much she can improve herself!--let me be just,
though she has offended me--she is wonderfully improved within this last
month; for one fault, and _that_ against myself, should I forget all her
merits?"
As Leonora said these last words, she could but just hear the voices of
her companions; they had left her alone in the gallery. She knocked
softly at Louisa's door----"Come in," said Louisa. "I in not asleep. Oh,"
said she, starting up with the Flora in her hand, the instant that the
door was opened. "I'm so glad you are come, Leonora, for I did so long
to hear what you were all making such a noise about--have you forgot
that the bracelet----"
"O yes! is this the evening?"
"Well, here's my white shell for you. I've kept it in my pocket this
fortnight; and though Cecilia did give me this Flora, I still love you a
great deal better."
"I thank you, Louisa," said Leonora, gratefully. "I will take your
shell, and I shall value it as long as I live. But here is a red one,
and if you wish to show me that you love me, you will give this to
Cecilia. I know that she is particularly anxious for your preference,
and I am sure that she deserves it."
"Yes, if I could I would choose both of you; but you know I can only
choose which I like the best."
"If you mean, my dear Louisa," said Leonora, "that you like me the best,
I am very much obliged to you; for, indeed I wish you to love me; but it
is enough for me to know it in private. I should not feel the least more
pleasure at hearing it in public, or in having it made known to all my
companions, especially at a time when it would give poor Cecilia a great
deal of pain."
"But why should it give her pain? I don't like her for being jealous of
you."
"Nay, Louisa, surely you don't think Cecilia jealous; she only tries to
excel and to please. She is more anxious to succeed than I am, it is
true, because she has a great deal more activity, and perhaps more
ambition; and it would really mortify her to lose this prize. You know
that she proposed it herself; it has been her object for this month
past, and I am sure she has taken great pains to obtain it."
"But, dear Leonora, why should you lose it?"
"Indeed, my dear, it would be no loss to me; and, if it were, I would
willingly suffer it for Cecilia; for, though we seem not to be such good
friends as we used to be, I love her very much, and she will love me
again, I'm sure she will; when she no longer fears me as a rival, she
will again love me as a friend."
Here Leonora heard a number of her companions running along the gallery.
They all knocked hastily at the door, calling, "Leonora! Leonora! will
you never come? Cecilia has been with us this half hour."
Leonora smiled. "Well, Louisa," said she, smiling, "will you promise
me?"
"O, I'm sure, by the way they speak to you, that they won't give you
the prize!" said the little Louisa; and the tears started into her eyes.
"They love me though, for all that; and as for the prize, you know whom
I wish to have it."
"Leonora! Leonora!" called her impatient companions; "don't you hear us?
What are you about?"
"O, she never will take any trouble about any thing," said one of the
party; "let's go away."
"O go! go! make haste," cried Louisa; "don't stay, they are so angry--I
will, I will, indeed!"
"Remember, then, that you have promised me," said Leonora, and she left
the room. During all this time Cecilia had been in the garden with her
companions. The ambition which she had felt to win the first prize, the
prize of superior talents and superior application, was not to be
compared to the absolute anxiety which she now expressed to win this
simple testimony of the love and approbation of her equals and rivals.
To employ her exuberant activity, she had been dragging branches of
lilacs, and laburnums, roses, and sweet-briar, to ornament the bower in
which her fate was to be decided. It was excessively hot, but her mind
was engaged, and she was indefatigable. She stood still, at last, to
admire her works; her companions all joined in loud applause. They were
not a little prejudiced in her favour by the great eagerness which she
expressed to win their prize, and by the great importance which she
seemed to affix to the preference of each individual. At last, "Where is
Leonora?" cried one of them, and immediately, as we have seen, they ran
to call her.
Cecilia was left alone. Overcome with heat and too violent exertion, she
had hardly strength to support herself; each moment appeared to her
intolerably long; she was in a state of the utmost suspense, and all her
courage failed her; even hope forsook her, and hope is a cordial which
leaves the mind depressed and enfeebled. "The time is now come," said
Cecilia; "in a few moments it will be decided. In a few moments!
goodness! how much I do hazard! If I should not win the prize, how shall
I confess what I have done? How shall I beg Leonora to forgive me? I,
who hoped to restore my friendship to her as an honour!--they are gone
to seek for her--the moment she appears I shall be forgotten--what
shall--what shall I do?" said Cecilia, covering her face with her hands.