Is all the counsel that we two have shar’d,
The sisters’ vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us,--Oh! and is all forgot?
SHAKSPEARE.
When the name of Miss Mordaunt was mentioned to Lady Latimer casually
at Almack’s by Lady Boreton, she really felt at the moment more
uneasiness as to the fate of her young friend, than would have been
believed by any who saw the radiant smile of conscious beauty with
which she received the next passing acquaintance. A London spring
is not the season best calculated for the cultivation of the softer
sympathies of our nature, which flourish rather in shade and solitude,
and are parched up beneath the scorching sunshine of the ball-room. Yet
often in the course of the evening did Lady Latimer, while watching the
gay groupes, amongst which she saw none so fair, wonder what could have
become of Helen Mordaunt.
Little did she think how near her in local position, but how estranged
by change of circumstances, her former protégée at that moment was!
It was almost within sound of the merry music, the highest notes of
which came upon her ear, mingled with the oaths of drunken coachmen,
and the frequent lashing of whips, that Helen Mordaunt sat in her
solitary lodging, endeavouring to eke out a scanty subsistence, by
protracting even to that late hour, such work as candlelight did
not prevent her from executing. Her difficulties had latterly much
increased. It has been mentioned that Dorothy had taken upon herself to
exercise the right of placing a veto on the choice of many humbler, but
cheaper, and equally convenient lodgings, with which Helen would have
been well contented. But though her choice had been at last consulted,
this had not prevented her from soon finding as many faults with that
which had been taken, as if she had been the unwilling party, and she
took a very inconvenient mode of justifying herself from the imputation
of unfounded caprice, by being very soon laid up with a really severe
fit of rheumatism. This is an infliction which never improves any
temper; but upon Dorothy its effects were dreadful. It required Helen’s
almost angelic patience to bear with her mingled ebullitions of pain
and passion. The disorder not only prevented Dorothy from lending her
that small assistance which, considering herself always more in the
light of a duenna, than an attendant, she had ever attempted, but it
made her conceive that she had a constant claim upon Helen’s attention
to all those alternate complaints about herself, and lectures to her
young mistress, which, now that she was bodily disabled, formed her
sole occupation. London was her never-failing theme of abuse.
“It was but to be expected that I should lose my precious health; I, a
sober well-conditioned body when I came, God forgive me! to such a sink
of iniquity! What with the draughts down the streets, and the damp,
and fog, and bad air--no one could live in it but by drunkenness, and
debauchery; and that I should have been over-persuaded by a foolish
girl, that’s like enough to go the way she should not!”
Much of this was often muttered to herself, or so interspersed with
groans, that Helen did not feel obliged to take any notice of it,
which she knew from experience of her old nurse’s character, had she
done, would only have made bad worse. She was often inconveniently
interrupted in her own work, by piteous requests, that she would alter
the position, or make some other attempt to alleviate the pain of the
sufferer.
She had also other annoyances, arising from disappointments. With
the sanguine expectations of youth, she had never doubted that those
talents and accomplishments, which had always met with the ready
encomiums of frivolous equals, when only exercised by her for her own
amusement, would be eagerly purchased, when offered for sale for her
support. The repose of a constant residence in the country, and the
habits of occupation thus engendered, had caused her much to excel in
all sorts of fancy-work, and any little specimens, whether of drawing,
or some other device, which had been casually observed at Boreton Park,
had always been the theme of unqualified admiration; for at that time
it would have been treason against good taste, not to admire any thing
that had been touched by the fair hands of Miss Mordaunt. But when, in
the full confidence of the impression thus created, she completed some
articles of the same kind, with infinite care, and offered them to a
shopwoman at the bazaar, who retailed toys and trinkets, she tossed
them slightingly over, saying, “Very pretty, I dare say; not that I’m
much a judge of these things myself; but I’ll tell you what, they
won’t do. The ladies have taken to this sort of thing themselves, and
there’s an end to employment for the like of you; for though I dare say
it would be as great a charity as any, if I was to give you, my young
woman, half what they get for theirs, yet I should be out of pocket
by it, for nobody will buy those sort of things, unless all the world
knows they’re doing a charity. However, if you like to leave them here,
you may, and then they’ll be seen, you know; and if I can get any thing
for them, why, I’ll account to you, that’s all;--and as you seem an
ingenious sort of body, if you could hit upon something new, such as
has never been seen, why, I’d make it worth your while to have puzzled
it out a bit.”
Disheartened by the reception of her first effort, yet having no
resource, Helen left them as desired, and returned home with the vague
hope of being able to invent something which should have the charm
of novelty, and therefore be more attractive. This, trifling as the
resource may seem, occupied her more than if it had been the mere
labour of the fingers in which she was engaged, and therefore prevented
her from reflecting so incessantly upon the dreariness of her situation.
At length, having succeeded, as she thought, in producing several
little fancy articles of different descriptions, which had some novelty
in their design, she again returned with them to the same stand in the
bazaar. She was more favourably received than the first time, and she
observed that the things she had then left had disappeared. “A friend
of hers,” the woman said, “after she had been tired to death of every
thing there, had, at length, consented to take them cheap, as part of
the stock she must get in, for a new shop at a distant watering-place,
before the next season;” and with this she handed over to Helen a
poor pittance, which was certainly not what she ought to have got for
them, but, at the same time, more than Helen, discouraged by her first
accounts, had latterly expected them to produce. The woman was more
liberal in her remuneration for some of those last brought, with one or
two of which she was particularly pleased, and desired Helen to keep
herself incessantly employed, in as many exact repetitions of the same
articles as she could execute, to be furnished in as short a time as
possible.
It was in this tedious mechanical labour that Helen had been without
intermission engaged, even to the late hour mentioned above. Her
spirits were completely exhausted, and her health began to suffer
under confinement, to which she was so little accustomed, and the
atmosphere, too, of the rooms, which Dorothy regulated by her own
rheumatism, was often oppressively close. Having, at length, finished
her task, so as to be able to take it to the bazaar the next day, she
threw up the window for air; and as the chill night wind rushed into
the apartment, it brought with it the confused noise of the bustle
below, and the often-repeated cry of “Lady Latimer’s carriage,” struck
upon Helen’s ear. As she listened, past times and changed circumstances
rushed upon her recollection.
“How differently,” thought she, “have the last few hours been passed
by Lady Latimer, and by one who, but some short weeks since, she would
never have allowed to be considered as other than her equal in every
thing--the partner in all her pleasures--concurrent in taste--and
alike even in dress!” And with this, came across her the recollection
of the unlucky ball-dress of the election night, and all the mischief
that had been caused by the colour of a ribbon--“and can she then so
soon have forgotten me?”
She could just distinguish the carriage which she knew contained
her friend, and as its rumbling sound slowly died away in the
distance,--“Even so,” thought she, “has all trace of her she formerly
loved, faded away from her mind!”
But a moment’s reflection served to banish this morbid idea as unjust
to her friend. How could she tell that Lady Latimer was in any respect
changed, or even cooled towards her? The estrangement, such as it
was, had all been her own doing. “My very silence alone is an unfair
reproach to her, and a treason to our former friendship. What right
had I to suppose her other than sincere, in those kindly feelings she
has so often expressed? There was nothing of brilliancy in my former
state which could of itself have captivated her. Why should I imagine
that my present forlorn condition, so calculated to excite sympathy,
should produce, on the contrary, alienation or estrangement?”
It was not so easy to act upon this conviction as to entertain it.
Delay had very much aggravated the difficulties of explanation. How
was it possible that she could now present herself to Lady Latimer’s
notice, without giving some reason why she had not, at an earlier
period of her distress, made that application which seemed to arise
so naturally out of their former connexion? It would now be more than
ever necessary to enter into painful details respecting her family,
and to sacrifice the memory of her who was no more, or to submit to
a suspicion as to her own motives in adopting her present doubtful
mode of life, which could no otherwise be accounted for than by
acknowledging that _somewhere_ there existed cause for concealment.
For a moment the thought crossed her mind that Lady Latimer never had
known, and now never could know, her of whom she would have to speak;
and that therefore no injury could be inflicted by confiding to her
the truth. “But shall not _I_ know of whom I am speaking; and even in
hinting at her frailty, how could I bear to recall the fond expression
of that mild blue eye that never looked reproach upon me?”
The result of her reflections was the determination to rise as early
as possible the next morning, and to carry all her little productions
to the bazaar the moment it was open. It was indeed early. The streets
were still empty--the windows still closed. The doors were only just
opened: and no spirits were stirring, except the Undines of the front
steps, who were sporting their usual morning water-works. Many of
them stopped for a time their twirling mops, whilst they followed
Helen with a stare, in which admiration was blended with a certain
difficulty in reconciling something in her air and appearance, with the
disadvantageous moral construction, which naturally arose from their
rarely seeing any one, at that early hour, at once good-looking, and
looking good.
As Helen, in hurrying abruptly on, turned a corner, she almost ran
against two gentlemen who were standing in earnest conversation,
and in whom, to her no small dismay, she recognized Fitzalbert and
Germain. Though she had passed them, before she was aware of this, and
at first she hoped unobserved by them, yet she soon became conscious
she was followed, and she fancied known. She was somewhat reassured
as to this last point, by hearing one say to the other, “A beautiful
figure, by Jove!” in an audible whisper, just as they passed her. They
then slackened their pace, and seemed determined that she should pass
them again. She drew her veil closer and thicker over her face, and
attempted to walk steadily by. She at first hoped and believed that
they were no longer following, but soon again she heard them close
behind, and talking in French to each other, evidently about her,
though not so pointedly as to have been remarked by one ignorant of
that language, which they no doubt supposed her to be. She could not
bear the idea of being known, which she had no doubt would be the case,
if she was traced to the bazaar; she therefore turned from it, sharp
round a corner, in the direction of her own home, hurried her pace by
degrees even to a run, and never looked behind till she reached her own
door.
When she made this sharp turn, Germain held her other pursuer back
by the arm, saying: “No, this will never do; it will be too marked;
besides, I am sure you are mistaken, and that we are a real annoyance
to her.”
“Admirably acted, that’s all: and indeed so successfully, that even _I_
feel my curiosity excited. Time was that the glimpse of a well-turned
ancle, whether cased in silk or worsted, would have led me over half
the stiles in the country; but one lives to learn, and experience has
taught me this, that every woman who studiously conceals her face, has,
depend upon it, derived from Dame Nature, very sufficient reasons for
so doing. However, she is the best goer I ever saw--that I will say for
her. I have a great mind to try whether she’ll last.”
“Stop! it’s past eight o’clock, and you’re not exactly in a hunting
dress for such a wild-goose chase”----pointing to his Almack’s costume
of the evening before, in which they had played all night.
“That’s very true--so good night to you, and good morning to her.”
Helen meanwhile rushed up stairs to her own apartment, threw herself
upon the sofa, crouching like a hunted hare; and whilst her heart beat
violently against her breast, listened anxiously for the dreaded sounds
of pursuit: and though a few minutes reassured her upon this point,
in vain she attempted throughout the day to regain her accustomed
composure.