"My dears, be not giddy, nor let your heads run on such follies. There is
no such name and no such thing and 'tis impossible--"
More she would have said, but a man came crying somewhat down the street,
and beside him went another with a flambeau, that he might read a paper in
his hand, and what the man cried was this:--
"Let the fashion of Dublin, both ladies and gentlemen, take notice that
there comes presently to the theatre in Aungier Street the dramatic
company which Mr Sheridan presents to his patrons in a new and luscious
play, by name--"
But here was the speaker's voice drowned by a wagon passing on the
cobblestones.
"What is it?" cries Mrs Gunning, running to the window; for indeed she
loved the play as well as did her girls. And, as if the question had
reached him, the man turned towards her and bellowed like the bull of
Bashan: "The Golden Vanity!"
The little company within stared transfixed upon one another.
* * * * *
For the next fortnight did the three live in a kind of rapture; and 't is
not to be wondered at, the name coming so pat on the prophecy. And sure,
Mr Lepel was no less moved; for he took a deeper than brotherly interest
in all that touched them, his heart being caught that day in Dublin
streets; and if he then thought Elizabeth a beauty, it took not a week to
rank her an angel. Before the week was out, he laid his heart and the
reversion of the baronetcy at her foot, not regarding the worn little shoe
that cased it. For, indeed, the sisters wore the same size, and Elizabeth
being the better mistress of her wardrobe, 'tis to be feared she sought
often for her own, to find them gadding abroad on Miss Maria's feet and
herself left to luck. 'Twas mortifying, and her heavenly blush was as much
owing to this circumstance as to the gentleman's ardour.
However, taken by Mr Harry's fine person and clothes (and which was the
most potent is not known), she accepted the heart, and he set about to
inform his father of his good fortune, for mother he had none. 'Twas with
inward quakings, for beauty, were it Helen's own, is but a blunted arrow
against a seasoned heart of seventy: and Sir Francis Lepel had reached
that discreet age. 'T was vain to tell him of celestial eyes and roseate
bloom. God help us! 'tis little he cared for the like. The baronetcy was
poor and Mr Harry expensive, and what Sir Francis looked to was a fat
balance at Child's the banker's. Was the lady a fortune? And when Mr
Harry, trembling, avowed that a single doit could not be hoped in that
quarter, the old gentleman, his temper as well as his foot highly inflamed
with gout, swore to disinherit him if the matter went further.
Poor Harry was in a sad quandary. He slept and ate ill, and 'twas
provoking that Elizabeth bloomed like a rose and troubled not her fair
head about Sir Francis. Her mind seemed possessed with but the one
thought--to attend the Birthnight ball and, like the planet Venus, shine
in her rightful heaven. And indeed Mr Harry could not fancy her heart so
deeply engaged as he might wish; for he could scarce get a word in while
the two peered into the mercers' shops, gloating on satin and muslin. Mrs
Gunning, as improvident, was almost drawn in by them, when word came of a
card debt that their papa owed to Sir Horatius Blake, and the unfortunate
lady received not even the pittance that provided herrings for six hungry
mouths; so that they were like to come down to dry bread, which event
fairly ended all talk of the ball.
'Tis not to be supposed that Mr Harry did not offer to set all the
mantua-makers in Dublin to work, though in his heart he knew his own
credit did not stand immaculate. He stormed up and down the room,
protesting, vowing, exclaiming; but Mrs Gunning would have none of it.
Says she:--
"I do all justice to your kind heart, Mr. Lepel, but 'tis not, because we
are unfortunate, that we have no pride, and 'tis impossible Miss Gunning
should accept garments from the gentleman she honours with her hand."
And Elizabeth, lovelier than ever in grief, confirmed her mother, Maria
stamping her foot like an angry goddess. 'Twill be admitted 'twas a hard
case. And since misfortunes don't come alone, arrived a furious letter
from Sir Francis, demanding instantly to see Mr. Harry, and acquainting
him that his appointment in the Guards was cancelled, and he must join his
new regiment in London at a day's notice. Sir Francis had good interest
with the lady whose interest with His Majesty was unquestioned, and 'tis
to be thought this event did not come by chance.
Oh, then were wailings and passionate embraces on the part of Mr. Lepel,
Miss Elizabeth receiving them with wondering eyes. "For London, is not so
far but we shall meet again, Harry," says she, with her angelical smile.
He had preferred tears, no doubt; but a man must take what comes his way,
and be thankful. He, who had never before been guilty of the like, now
composed a set of verses of atrocious demerit. Indeed, the first two lines
will suffice:--
If from my Chloe's snowy breast I part,
Grant me to know I bear with me her tears.
"'Tis very pretty!" says Chloe. "O Harry, I would you did not love me so!
A girl's affections are cool and temperate, I think--at least 'tis so with
me. Forget me a little,--though not too much child,--and be happy."
It might have been her mother who spoke. 'Tis certain no person ever had
the appearance of sweet simplicity more than Elizabeth Gunning; but
whether 'twas wholly devoid of art--Ah, well, shall we dissect the rose?
Best to enjoy and ask no questions.
The day of parting he came to Britain Street, and solemnly renewed his
vows in the presence of Mrs Gunning and Maria.
"And, O my Elizabeth," cries he, "pledge me once more that hand which is
all my joy. Swear that neither raging seas" ('twas a day calm as milk and
the Irish sea like a mirror) "nor the brutish tyranny of man shall divide
us, and that our constant hearts shall never change!"
Miss Elizabeth raises heavenly eyes, a glittering moisture enhancing their
brilliance.
"Have I not pledged my word, Harry; and if you believe not that, what will
serve? Sure 'tis you that rove and will see fairer faces" (frantic
protestations from Mr Lepel) "yet I don't doubt _you_. Farewell, dear
Harry, and remember us when you are in the glitter of London."
She covered her face with a handkerchief, and he took the last embrace,
kissed Mrs Gunning's hand and Maria's, and hurried madly from the room.
Elizabeth unveiled her face and folded the handkerchief for future use.
"He's gone," says poor Mrs Gunning, seeking her own; "and if I know where
tomorrow's dinner is to come from, for you all, I'm--a Dutchman!"
They mingled their tears, and Elizabeth's were real enough now. 'Tis
possible, could the matter be sifted, that many more tears have been shed
for absent dinners than absent lovers; and certainly, though beauty may
survive without the last, it cannot without the first. There was so much
of gloomy and terrible in their mama's aspect, that Maria wept also; and
Kitty and Lucy, with the little John, who had all been secreted in the
bedroom during the adieux, dashed in screaming at the tops of their
voices, as if the heavens were falling; and so sat the poor unfortunate
family drowned in tears. 'Twas not balls they thought of then, nor
departing lovers, but simply bread and herrings.
A lady came down the street, picking her way through the garbage that
adorned it. Her dress was hooped in the mode, and of a showy brocade, with
much tinsel interwoven and very glittering, so that the ragged children in
the gutter stood, finger in mouth, to see. She had a muslin cross-over
upon an expansive bosom, and 'twas finely laced with Mechlin, not too
clean, and set off with a black velvet ribbon about the throat, graced
with a clasp of paste. A large tilted hat tied beneath her chin shaded an
arch and sparkling pair of eyes, which, though not in their first youth,
lighted up a face with striking features an air of easy good-humour. If
her critics had accused this lady of being somewhat too goodhumored with
the other sex, why 'twas perhaps natural to her circumstances and needs no
further excuse. Her worst detractors never denied her a good heart, and an
ear open to the lament of misery. In her hand she carried a cane of fine
ebony, and altogether appeared a radiant vision of a fine woman in the
purlieus of Britain Street. She paused and looked about her, bewildered.
"I declare I know not where I am got to!" says she, half aloud. "And these
barbarians--'tis hard to be understood or to understand their gibberish.
If now--"
And even as the words left her lips, arose a piercing wail from across the
street, in which three lusty young throats united--Lucy, Kitty, and John,
each outscreaming the other.
"Crimini!" says Madam, "what's this? Is Herod abroad in Dublin?" The
screams redoubled. She added: "'Tis almost to be wished he was!" And stood
half-laughing, half-unwilling to pass on.
"I will!" says she; and more doubtfully, "I won't! 'Tis not my business.
Sure I have enough stage tears and sobs to make me distrust all I hear."
She turned resolutely away, and halted again.
"Poor lady! 'Tis a lady soothing them, and weeping herself. I will! She
can but bid me exit."
And so marched to the open door, and into the narrow passage, and rapped
smartly with her cane on the door of the parlour, bringing all her natural
assurance to bear.
Dead silence. The screams halted, as if a tap was turned off: whoever was
inside was all ears. She rapped again. And now a scuffling; and Maria
opened the door, and six pairs of astonished eyes gloated on the stranger.
And no less did hers on the party within; for there sat Mrs Gunning,
beautiful and maternal, with the little John's curly pate on her bosom;
Elizabeth, lovely as the day, leaning on one shoulder of her mother; Kitty
and Lucy, golden-curled cherubs, clinging to her gown; and Maria, like a
sorrowful wood-nymph, holding the door. Sure, never was such a family, and
these children seemed made of some more exquisite clay than ordinary.
"Lord, am I got into heaven, for I see the angels about me!" says Madam,
advancing with a reverence lower than the paltry room demanded. "Forgive
an intruder, Madam, and confer a benefit. For being newly come to Dublin,
I've lost my way returning from Smock Alley, and while I called up courage
to enter and ask it from any other than these savages, I heard a cry that
hastened my steps. Be pleased to pardon me, and say if I can be of service
to yourself and your sweet family; for 'tis the plain truth--I'm dazzled
as I stand, by the beauty of your olive branches."
'Tis not possible to mistake the voice of sympathy, and Mrs Gunning rising
from her chair, curtseyed in her turn, and begged the visitor to be
seated. "Lord, Madam," says she, "you catch us very unfit for company; but
so kind a heart needs no excuse, and I will be candid with you. We are of
birth and breeding like yourself." ('Twas a skilful compliment and the
lady simpered.) "And therefore, as a gentlewoman of quality, you shall
understand my grief when I present myself as my Lord Viscount Mayo's
daughter, and add that I have not the wherewithal to clothe or feed these
innocents! You are yourself too young to be a mother, Madam" (again the
lady simpered), "yet will comprehend a mother's anguish. I am Mrs. Gunning
of Castle Coote, and such is my condition!"
She wept again. The lady applied a laced kerchief to either eye. A
touching scene.
"Madam, a heart of marble must feel for you, and mine is not marble--far
from it. But sure such beauty must open all doors. Marriage--" She broke
off. "Alas, Madam, in these days of money-grubbing avarice, what is
beauty? My second"--she indicated Elizabeth--"is cruelly rejected by the
father of a gentleman of birth not near so high as our own, because she
has no estates pinned to her petticoat." "Monster!" cries the lady with
spirit.