THE BREAKFAST.
Yes—it was to this individual that Maria Villiers was to be
sacrificed:—it was to him that the cold and selfish policy of Lord
Rossville was about to consign a beautiful, an artless, and an amiable
girl.
Sir Cherry's mother had paid the debt of nature about a year previously;
and the young baronet found himself the possessor of an immense fortune.
Lord Rossville only looked upon his orphan niece Maria as an encumbrance
while she remained single, or as a means of increasing the _wealth_ (and
in his idea, the _strength_) of the family when she married. Sir Cherry
had met her in the brilliant sphere of the West-End society: he had
courted her; and, the moment Lord and Lady Rossville observed his
attentions, they _commanded_ her to receive them with favour. She—poor
timid, friendless girl!—was half persuaded into the idea that the match
was really to her advantage, and half bullied (for we can actually use
no other term) into an acquiescence in the views of her guardian.
Thus she had not dared to utter a negative when the effeminate and
insipid baronet had solicited her hand; and, her silence being taken for
a ready consent, the preliminaries were hurried on, without any further
reference to the inclinations or wishes of the victim!
"We have been painfully excited on your account, Sir Cherry Bounce,"
said Lady Ravensworth, advancing to receive the bridegroom.
"The twuth wath that my fwiend Thmilackth inthithted on my widing the
new horth I bought yethterday," exclaimed the baronet; "and ath he don't
theem to be veway well bwoken in, the wethult wath that I nearly got a
bwoken head."
"I never saw such a Guy on a horse before—strike me!" ejaculated Major
Smilax Dapper, who had followed his friend into the room. "He would keep
in advance of me the whole way; and although I called after him to rein
in—strike him!—he would not listen to me."
"It wath that thouting and hoowaying that fwightened my horth," observed
Sir Cherry, casting a sulky look towards Smilax.
"At all events you are not hurt—and that is the essential," said Lord
Rossville.
"Hurted! no—of course de good gentleman's not hurted," exclaimed Baron
Torkemdef: "it noting at all but de idea—de fancy. You know vare well,
sare, dat you not really exist—dat you only tink you do exist——"
Sir Cherry Bounce, to whom these words were addressed, cast so ludicrous
a look of surprise mingled with dismay upon the philosopher, that Major
Smilax Dapper burst into an immoderate fit of laughter; so that Baron
Torkemdef was for a moment disconcerted.
Lord Rossville seized this opportunity to lead Sir Cherry Bounce towards
Miss Villiers, who received her intended husband with a manner which to
the superficial observer might appear excessive bashfulness, but which
to the penetrating eye was the expression of blank—dumb—soul-crushing
despair.
"I was just as timid with my _first_ as Maria is," whispered Mrs.
Berrymenny to the Countess of Brazenphace: "with my _second_ I was a
leetle more gay;—with my _third_——"
"Dear Mrs. Berrymenny," interrupted the Countess, impatiently; "pray do
not talk of your _seconds_ and _thirds_, when here are my two youngest
daughters who haven't even yet got their _firsts_."
Two footmen, in gorgeous liveries, now entered the room and threw open a
pair of folding-doors, thus revealing an inner apartment where the
nuptial ceremony was to take place by special license.
Then Sir Cherry Bounce took Maria's hand, and led her slowly into the
next room, the Honourable Misses Wigmore attending her in the capacity
of bridemaids.
The remainder of the company followed in procession.
And now the Bishop takes his place near the table, and opens the book.
The ceremony begins.
Pale as marble, and almost insensible to what is passing around her,
Maria Villiers hears a sort of droning mumbling, but cannot distinguish
the words.
And yet the Bishop read the prayers in a clear, distinct, and impressive
manner.
One of the bridemaids whispered in Maria's ear; and the young victim
mechanically repeated the answer thus prompted.
But she was scarcely aware of the tenour of what she had said: every
moment the scene became less comprehensible to her mind—and she was on
the point of uttering a wild cry, so alarming was the confusion of her
thoughts, when there was a sudden movement amongst the assembly—warm
lips touched her forehead for a moment and were instantly withdrawn—and
then her ears rang with the congratulations of her _friends_!
The chaos of her ideas was immediately dispelled; and the appalling
truth broke suddenly on her.
The ceremony was over—and she was a wife:—upon her marble brow the kiss
of a husband had been imprinted.
By one of those strange efforts of which the soul is sometimes capable,
when "the worst" has arrived and "the bitterness of death" has passed,
Maria recovered her presence of mind, and even smiled faintly in
acknowledgment of the congratulations which she received.
"Dat young lady seem vare happy now," whispered the German philosopher
to Mrs. Berrymenny; "but it all noting more dan de idea. We all idea—dat
reverend Bischop—dis room—dat book what he was read in—every ting!"
"Do you mean to persuade me, sir," asked Mrs. Berrymenny, with an
indignant glance at Baron Torkemdef, "that it is all mere fancy on my
part that I have had five husbands? If so, sir, all I can say is that I
should like to have a sixth opportunity of putting your theory to the
test."
And with these words the widow of five experiments of the marriage-state
joined the procession which was now on its way to the breakfast-room.
The table in this apartment was spread with all the delicacies which
were calculated to tempt the appetite even of satiety.
Sir Cherry thought it necessary to whisper some soft nonsense in the
ears of his bride, as he conducted her to a seat; and Maria turned upon
him a vacant glance of surprise;—then, suddenly recollecting the
relation in which she stood towards him, her head drooped upon her
bosom, and she made no reply.
"Cherry," whispered Major Dapper, "you are not half lively enough—blow
you! You look like a fool—but I suppose you can't help it."
"Hold your tongue, Thmilackth," returned Sir Cherry, colouring to such
an extent that the deep red was visible beneath his light hair. "You
than't tweat me like a child any more."
And now began the bustle of the breakfast-table, and the excitement of
the scene appeared to produce the most beneficial effects upon Lord
Ravensworth, who did the honours of the table, conjointly with Adeline,
in a manner indicative of more gaiety and spirit than he had exhibited
for some time.
"Lord Ravensworth is certainly improving," said the Countess of
Brazenphace apart to Mrs. Berrymenny.
"My _second_ used to deceive me in the same manner," was the reply, also
delivered in an under tone. "He was always dying—and always getting
better, for at least three years before he went off altogether. My
_fourth_——"
"Oh! you have told me all about him before," hastily interrupted the
Countess, who was alarmed lest the widow should inflict upon her a
narrative of oft-experienced tediousness.
"Dat vare excellent bird—how you call him? Peasant—ah!" observed Baron
Torkemdef to the young clergyman, who, like a child, saw, heard, but
said nothing. "But after all it no use for to praise one ting or to
blame anoder—'cause dem each de idea—de fancy. Dere really no table—no
peasant—no wine—no peoples: it all de imagination."
And while the philosopher went on expatiating in this manner, the viands
disappeared from his plate and the wine from the decanter near him with
a marvellous rapidity; so that the young clergyman could not help
muttering to himself, "I wonder whether the Baron's appetite is an idea
also."
"Seraphina," whispered the Countess of Brazenphace to one of her
daughters, "if you look so much at Count Swindeliski, I shall be very
angry. He has got no money, and is not a match for you. There is the
Member for Buyemup-cum-Rhino sitting on your right, and he is a wealthy
bachelor."
"But, dear mamma," returned Miss Seraphina, also in a whisper, "he is at
least sixty."
"So much the better," was the prompt reply: "he is the easier to catch.
Now mind your p's and q's, Miss."
This maternal advice was duly attended to; and, by the time he had
tossed off his third glass of champagne, the Member for
Buyemup-cum-Rhino had grown very tenderly maudlin towards the red-haired
young husband-hunter.
"Miss Blewstocken, dear," cried the elder Miss Wigmore, "have you
composed nothing appropriate for the present occasion?—no sweet little
poem in your own fascinating style?"
"Oh! dear Miss Wigmore, how unkind!" said the literary young lady, in an
affected and languishing manner. "I could not have believed it of you—to
appeal to me before so many! If I have told you in confidence, or if it
be indeed generally known that '_The Poetic Nosegay_' was written by
me—and if it had a very large circulation—I do not think it is fair to
expect——"
"Ah! Miss Blewstocken," exclaimed Miss Wigmore, "we are all aware that
your pen is seldom idle."
"It is really quite provoking to find oneself known to Fame," said the
literary lady, with increasing affectation of manner, and in a drawling,
insipid tone. "I wish I had never written at all:—not that I have ever
been induced to acknowledge the authorship of that novel which was so
successful last year—'_The Royal Fiddlestick_,' I mean. No:—but the time
_may_ come——"
And here the literary lady shook her head in so mysterious a way that if
she intended to be incomprehensible, she certainly was most successful
in the endeavour.
"Who is that lady?" inquired the Bishop of Lord Rossville.
"Miss Blewstocken, the celebrated authoress," was the reply.
"Oh!" said the Bishop, in a dry laconic way, which proved that, however
celebrated Miss Blewstocken might be, the trumpet of her renown had
never sounded in his ears before.
"Talk of de poetry and de novel," exclaimed the German Baron, "what are
all dem to de researches of de philosoph? Was your lordship ever read my
von grand vork on de '_Ideality of de Universe_?'"
"I cannot say that I have ever read it, sir," answered the Bishop, with
a frown. "I have heard of it, sir—and I consider its doctrines to be
opposed to the Bible, sir. I believe it is in fourteen large volumes,
sir? Well, sir—then all I have to observe upon it is that so many
quartos are themselves too substantial to be a mere idea."
"But dey are von idea!" exclaimed the Baron, angrily. "Dey do not really
exist, milor—in spite of what your lordship shall say. Every ting is de
idea—we be ourselves all de walking, moving idea: dere no such ting as
joy—no such ting as pain—dey mere sensation—"
At this moment the learned philosopher started from his seat with a yell
of agony, and began stamping on the floor in a furious manner.
The fact was that while he was gesticulating in order to bestow
additional emphasis on the enunciation of his principles, his hand,
raised in the air, came in contact with a cup of coffee which a domestic
was about to place before the young clergyman; and the scalding fluid
was poured forth on the bald head and down the back of the philosopher.
"Pray do not mind it, sir," said the Bishop, drily: "it is merely an
idea."
"Yes—it de idea, no doubt!" ejaculated Baron Torkemdef, as he wiped his
head with his pocket-handkerchief, while the domestic murmured an
apology and slunk away: "but de idea was come in de unpleasant shape—dat
noting against my doctrine—tousand devils, how him do burn!"
And, particularly disconcerted, the learned man sank back into his seat,
where he consoled himself with a renewed application to the decanter
near him.
Meantime Count Swindeliski was rendering himself very amiable to the
Honourable Miss Helena Sophia Alexandrina Wigmore, next to whom he sate.
"Poland, then, must be a very beautiful country?" said the young lady,
duly impressed by a most graphic description which the Count had just
terminated.
"It vare fine—vare fine," returned the fascinating foreigner. "De
ancestral castle of the Swindeliskis vare grand—touch de clouds—so long
dat when you do stand at de von end you shall not see de oder—so wide
dat horses shall always be kept saddled for to cross de court. My father
was keep tree tousand dependants: me not choose for to spend de revenue
in dat vay—me only may keep von tousand."
"And can you prefer England to your own beautiful country?" inquired
Miss Helena Wigmore.
"Me shall not prefare England," answered the Count: "me shall choose
wife of de English ladies—dey vare beautiful—vare fine—vare clevare. Den
me take my wife to Poland, where she shall be von vare great lady
indeed."
And, as he spoke, he threw a tender glance at his fair companion.
But Miss Helena Sophia Alexandrina Wigmore knew full well that every
word the Count uttered concerning his fortune and castle was false. She
was, however, too polite not to seem to believe him; and she was,
moreover, pleased at engrossing the attentions of the handsomest man in
the room. She therefore permitted herself to flirt a little with him;
especially as her mother was not present to control her actions; but,
like all young ladies in fashionable circles, she was too astute and
wary to entertain the least idea of a more serious connexion.
The breakfast was now over; a carriage and four drove up to the front of
the mansion; and the hour of departure had arrived for the "happy
couple."
Maria withdrew for a few moments in company with Lady Ravensworth and
the two bridemaids and when she returned she was dressed for travelling.
"Happy fellow!" whispered Major Dapper to his friend; "blow you!"
"Fooleth Thmilackth!" returned Sir Cherry Bounce. "But I am weally veway
happy—ekthepth that curthed wide on the fatht twotting horth. Good bye:
I thall wite to you in a few dayth."
The farewells were all said; and Maria resigned her hand to him who was
about to bear her away from the Hall.
She wept not—she sighed not: but despair was written on her marble
visage—though none present could read that sombre and melancholy
language.
"I have directed Flora to accompany you," whispered Lady Ravensworth;
"and you can keep her altogether, if you choose. Should the young woman
whom you have hired, make her appearance, I will retain her, and give
her a trial. But what is her name? I had forgotten to ask you."
Maria gave an answer; but there was such a bustle in the room at the
moment and such a confused din of many voices, that the name escaped
Adeline's ears.
Sir Cherry at the same instant led Maria towards the stairs; and in a
few minutes the carriage, containing the newly-married pair, was rolling
away from Ravensworth Hall on its journey to Cherry Park in Essex.
"I wish I was bound on a similar trip with a _sixth_," thought Mrs.
Berrymenny, as she watched from the window the departure of the
carriage.
"I wish I could get off my _eighth_ and _ninth_ as easily as the
Rossvilles have done with Maria," thought the Countess of Brazenphace.
"But I am afraid that the member for Buyemup-cum-Rhino will not bite."
"I wish I had not eulogised the single state in my poems," thought Miss
Blewstocken, with a profound sigh.
"Me wish me shall soon find de agreeable lady dat will make me de von
happiest of men," said Count Swindeliski to Miss Helena Sophia
Alexandrina Wigmore.
"After all," said Baron Torkemdef, who had recovered his equanimity, by
dint of frequent libations, "de marriage only de idea—de fancy, like any
oder ting. Dat handsome chariot do not actually exist—it only de idea;
and dat loving pair what shall sit in it are only idea as well. All is
idea—me an idea—and dat Lord Bischop wid de lawn-sleeves only an idea."
"Where is Lord Ravensworth?" inquired Adeline of a domestic.
"His lordship felt suddenly unwell a few moments ago, my lady, and has
retired to his cabinet."
"Ah! a reaction—a recurrence to the meerschaum!" murmured Lady
Ravensworth, a cloud passing over her brow.
"Please your ladyship," said the servant, "a young woman has just
arrived from London. She says that she was hired by Miss Villiers—I beg
pardon Lady Bounce—and that an accident to the vehicle in which she came
to the Hall has delayed her."
"Oh! she is to remain with me," returned Adeline. "Tell her that I will
take her into my service on the same terms that were arranged between
her and Lady Bounce. She is to replace Flora."
"Very good, my lady;"—and the servant was about to retire.
"One moment, William," said Adeline, beckoning him back. "Did this young
woman mention her name—for as yet I am really ignorant of it?"
"Yes, my lady," answered the domestic: "her name is Lydia Hutchinson."
And the servant withdrew.
"Lydia Hutchinson!" murmured Lady Ravensworth, turning deadly pale, and
tottering to a seat.
"Are you unwell, Adeline?" inquired Lady Rossville, approaching her
daughter.
"No—a sudden indisposition—it is nothing!" replied Adeline; and she
hastened from the room.