Mrs. Dorothea had been so busy all day, changing her lodgings again,
that she had hardly had time to ask Sarah a word about the Salters'
dinner-party.
On this occasion, however, we must remark, that she had moved to a
furnished house, not to a mere lodging; for she was determined to make
an exertion, while the Ardens were in Cheltenham, live how she might the
rest of the year, having a great horror of living like a poor relation.
Most people have a particular objection to seeming to be what they
really are.
Indeed Lady Arden had written most kindly to Mrs. Dorothea, inviting her
to spend the time they should be at Cheltenham with them. Had the
expense of a house or lodging been no object to Aunt Dorothea, she would
gladly have availed herself of this invitation for the pleasure of the
thing; but the arrangement would have been so very convenient, that her
_pride_ took the alarm, and would not suffer her to accept the offer. In
her father's life time, as a daughter of the then head of the family,
she had acquired notions of her own consequence, which became a painful
incumbrance from the moment her circumstances underwent that violent
revolution to which those of the daughters of the proudest and most
ancient families are peculiarly liable.
_Pride_ in any situation is a moral disease, which it would be highly
desirable to see for ever banished from the world! but _pride_, when
complicated with poverty, is apt to render the unhappy sufferer not only
always very uncomfortable, but often very ridiculous. Added to which, it
must ever be impossible for the heart that harbours _pride_ to know
contentment.
At present, however, Mrs. Dorothea was quite delighted. The house she
had taken for six months certain for Lady Arden, though designated by
the rural title of Violet Bank, was a splendid mansion. The one she had
taken for herself for the same period, was both pretty and agreeably
situated; it was accommodated with a cook, or maid of all work, who was
taken with it as a part of the furniture. Mrs. Dorothea had also hired a
footman for the great occasion, and put him into livery; so that with
Sarah, her own maid, she had now, for a single lady, quite a respectable
little establishment, and could look forward to returning the evening
entertainments, at least of her relations, on something of an
independent footing. Dinners of course she could not give, nor need she
accept them; she did not care what she eat. She certainly liked the best
society, and that she should now have, without laying herself under
obligations to any one. For, much as she liked Lady Arden, (one whom no
one could help liking, she was so truly amiable,) she could not forget
that her ladyship was a stranger in blood, from whom, consequently, an
_Arden_ could not receive even a courtesy without requital.
Mrs. Dorothea was so glad too, as she told Sarah, while she stood in the
centre of her new drawing-room, looking round her, to get out of that
horrid place where she had been for the last two months, sitting every
evening on those tiresome little chairs, for, as Sarah had prophesied,
her landlady had never given her the sofa, nor put the drops to the
chimney-light, nor even got a key for the chiffonier. Then, the woman of
the house could not or would not afford a decent servant, so that the
cooking was shocking, and the attendance wretched; and then the oven of
the bakehouse next door she found out at last was just on the other side
of the one brick thin wall, against which her bed stood, so that she had
been nearly baked to death, and had been losing her health without
knowing why. To be sure the carpet looked respectable, but then the
lodging had no other recommendation, as in addition to its many
discomforts, it had proved one way or other very expensive; for
mistaking the heat and restlessness she felt at nights for the
consequences of the lassitude and want of appetite of which they were in
fact the cause; she had got frightened about herself, and had called in
doctor after doctor, and taken ever so much medicine in vain, till at
last happening to go in next door to correct an error in her baker's
bill, in which she had been charged with all the bread supplied to her
landlady, she became acquainted with the geography of the premises, and
so discovered the whole mystery. Then being without a key to the
chiffonier too, made a great difference in the groceries, though having
no proof of the fact, it would not do to say so. This might have brought
down the lawyers upon her; then indeed would the cup of her afflictions
have been full. Poor Aunt Dorothea felt almost restored to the days of
her youth by the comparative comforts which now surrounded her. She
moved into her regular dining-room when her dinner was ready, and was
there decently and respectfully attended by her own footman in livery.
There was a sideboard, and her few articles of plate were arranged upon
it, and things looked orderly and comfortable; it was enough to give one
an appetite, and made her boiled chicken and quarter of a hundred of
asparagus seem a dinner for an emperor. Instead of dining in the
comfortless scramble she used to do, in her haste to send the tray out
of the drawing-room lest some one should come in, she now ate as slowly
as possible to prolong the gratifying sense of dignity which accompanied
the ceremony.
The very next day the Misses Salter had the impudence to call, and the
new footman not being in the family secrets, admitted them.
On their entrance Aunt Dorothea looked her astonishment with great
dignity.
"What a sweet situation," exclaimed Miss Salter.
"What a charming house," said Miss Grace. Mrs. Dorothea bowed.
"How fortunate we were in finding you at home," said Miss Salter.
"Oh, yes, very fortunate indeed!" added Miss Grace. Mrs. Dorothea bowed
again.
"How sorry we were you could not come to us last night," said Miss
Salter, "we had such a _select_ party, just what you would have liked."
"Yes, just what you would have liked," echoed Miss Grace.
"I hope we shall be more fortunate the next time," said Miss Salter. "We
shall have a great many of those agreeable _select_ parties just now.
Our _particular friend_, Lady Flamborough, you see, and our _particular
friend_, Lady Whaleworthy, and our _particular friend_, Lady Shawbridge,
and all that pleasant set being here just now, naturally induces one to
see a great deal of company. Then there are such delightful young men
here at present, and that you know always makes parties pleasant,
there's _our friend_, Sir William Orm, _such_ an elegant fashionable
young man."
"And Sir James Lindsey," observed Miss Grace, "an old baronet, with
fifteen thousand a-year."
"Yes," said Miss Salter, "such an agreeable good tempered little man, so
affable and unassuming. And there is General Powel too, in short we
quite abound in _nice young_ men. And I hope," added Miss Salter, with
an air of great friendship, "that we shall soon and often have the
pleasure of seeing you, Mrs. Arden."
"You are very obliging," replied Mrs. Dorothea, bowing gravely, "but my
arrangements will for some considerable time be controlled entirely by
those of my sister, Lady Arden, and her family, with whom I shall
consider myself engaged, either at home or abroad, every day during
their stay."
"So you expect Lady Arden," said Miss Salter, with well affected
surprise. "Dear me, I'm sure we should be most happy to pay attention to
any friend of yours."
"You are very obliging," observed Mrs. Dorothea, with if possible
increasing stiffness, "but Lady Arden does not mean to extend her
acquaintance."
The discomforted Misses Salter finding lingering and last words useless,
at length took their departure.
The Ardens dined on the road, but arrived in time to take tea with Aunt
Dorothea. The weather was beautiful; the rural appearance of the little
villa, situated among the plantations and pleasure grounds of the public
walks, its own miniature lawn and veranda, adorned with flowers and
flowering shrubs, and garlanded with roses as if for a festival, the
fine trees of the Old-Well-Walk in view, and bands of music, as if hid
in every grove, sending forth on each breeze some strain of melody, all
seemed delightful and refreshing to people just escaped from the heat
and fatigue of London. While the large and joyous looking family party,
some seated within the open glass door, some standing in the veranda,
some straying on the fresh mown turf of the little lawn, formed a
picture of social felicity quite delightful to the usually solitary Aunt
Dorothea; to whom the idea of the party being not only her near
relatives, but also her guests, was altogether so pleasing that she had
not been as happy for many years. To her kind heart must be ascribed the
chief of the pleasure she experienced; if, however, there was a slight
admixture of gratified vanity we cannot be surprised, when we consider
that a pretty comfortable house of her own, in which to receive her
friends, was to her so great a novelty.