ANTONIA'S INITIATION.
'Twas the close of the season when Antonia arrived in London, and
she left St. James's Square two days after her interview with the
Stobarts, on a visit to Lady Margaret Laroche at Bath, where that
lady's drawing-rooms in Pulteney Street were open every evening to
those worldlings who preferred whist and commerce to Whitefield, and
the airy gossip of the _beau monde_ to the heart-searchings of the
aristocratic penitents who attended Lady Huntingdon's assemblies. Lady
Margaret, familiarly known in the fashionable world as Lady Peggy,
was one of those rare and delightful women who, without any desire to
revolutionize, dare to think for themselves, and to arrange their lives
in accord with their own tastes and inclinations, unshackled by the
mode of the moment. Her circle was the most varied and the pleasantest
in London and Bath, and she carried with her an atmosphere of easy
gaiety which made her an element of cheerfulness in every house she
visited. In a word, she had _esprit_, which, united with liberal ideas
and far-reaching sympathies, made her the most delightful of companions
as well as the staunchest of friends.
This lady--a distant cousin of Lord Kilrush's--had deemed it her duty
to wait upon Antonia; and, finding as much intelligence as beauty, took
the young widow under her wing and promised to make her the fashion.
"With so fine a house and so good an income you will like to see
people," she said. "You had best spend a month with me at the Bath,
where you will meet at least half the great world, and you will grow
familiar with them there in less time than 'twould take you to be
on curtseying terms in London, where the Court takes up so much of
everybody's attention, and politics go before friendship. At the Bath
we are all Jack and Peggy, my dear and my love. We eat badly cooked
dinners in sweltering parlours, dance or gossip in a mixed mob at the
Rooms every night, and simmer together in a witches' cauldron every
morning; at least, other people do; but for my own part I abjure all
such community in ailments."
At Bath Antonia found herself the rage in less than a fortnight, and
had a crowd round her whenever she appeared among the morning dippers
or at the evening dance. She was voted the most magnificent creature
who had appeared since Lady Coventry began to go off in looks; and the
men almost hustled each other for the privilege of handing her to her
chair.
She accepted their attentions with a lofty indifference that enhanced
her charms. Men talked of her "goddess air;" and in that age of
_sobriquets_ she was soon known as Juno and as Diana. She kept them all
at an equal distance, yet was polite to all. Her sense of humour was
tickled by the memory of those evening walks with her father in the
West End streets, when she had caught stray glimpses of fashionable
assemblies through open windows. "Was I as perfect a creature then as
the woman they pretend to worship?" she questioned; "and, if I was,
how strange that of all the men who passed me in the street, there was
but one now and then, and he some hateful Silenus, that ever tried to
pursue me. But I had not my white and silver gown then, nor the Kilrush
jewels, nor my coach and six."
She had a supreme contempt for adulation which she ascribed to
her fortune rather than to her charms; and Lady Margaret saw with
satisfaction that her _protégée's_ head was not one of those that the
first-comer can turn.
"'Tis inevitable you should take a second husband," she said, "but I
hope you will wait for a duke."
"There is no duke in England would tempt me, dear Lady Peggy. I shall
carry my husband's name to the grave, where I hope to lie beside him."
"'Tis a graceful, romantic fancy you cherish, child; but be sure there
will come a day when some warm living love will divert your thoughts
from that icy rendezvous."
"Ah, madam, think how inimitable a lover I lost."
"I know he was an insinuating wretch whom women found irresistible; but
you are too young to hang over an urn for the rest of your days, like
a marble figure in Westminster Abbey. There is a long life before you
that you must not spend in solitude."
"While I have so kind a friend as your ladyship I can never think
myself alone."
"Alas! Antonia, I am an old woman. My friendship is like the fag end of
a lease."
Lady Margaret was the widow of an admiral, with a handsome jointure,
and a small neat house in Spring Gardens, where she was visited by
all the best people in town, and by all the best-known painters,
authors, and actors of the day, who were often to be found at four
o'clock seated round her ladyship's dinner-table, and drinking her
ladyship's admirable port and burgundy. Temperate herself as a sylph,
Lady Peggy was a judge of wines, and always gave the best. She had a
clever Scotchwoman for her cook, and a Frenchman for her major-domo,
who kept her two Italian footmen in order, and did not think it beneath
his dignity to compose a salmi, toss an omelet, or dress a salad on a
special occasion, when a genius of the highest mark or a princess of
the blood royal was to dine with his mistress.
With such a guide Antonia opened her house to the great world early in
November, and her entertainments became at once the top of the fashion.
Lady Margaret had instructed her in the whole science of party-giving,
and especially whom to invite and whom to leave out.
"'Tis by the people who are _not_ asked your parties will rank
highest," she said.
"Sure, dear madam, I should not like to slight any one."
"Pshaw, woman, if you never slight any one you will confess yourself
a parvenu. The first art a _grande dame_ has to learn is how to be
uncivil civilly. You must be gracious to every one you meet; but you
cannot be too exclusive when it comes to inviting people."
"But if I am to look for spotless reputations my rooms will be empty;"
and Antonia smiled at the thought of how small and dowdy a crew she
could muster were stainless virtue the pass-word.
"You will invite nobody who has been found out--no woman who has thrown
her cap over the mill, no man who has been _detected_ cheating at
cards. There are lots of 'em _do_ it, but that don't count."
"But, dear Lady Margaret, among the actresses and authors you receive
sure there must be some doubtful characters."
"Not doubtful, _chérie;_ we know all about 'em. But _their_ peccadillos
don't count. We inquire no more about 'em than about the morals of
a dancing bear. The creatures are there to amuse us, and we are
not curious as how they behave in their garrets and back parlours.
But 'twas not so much reputation I thought of when I urged you to
be exclusive. 'Tis the ugly and the dull you must eliminate; the
empty chatterers; the corpulent bores, who block doorways and crowd
supper-rooms. There's your visiting list, _douce_," concluded Lady
Peggy, handing her a closely written sheet of Bath post. "'Tis the salt
of the earth, and if you ever introduce an unworthy name in it out of
easy good nature, you deserve to lose all hope of fashion."
To be the fashion, to be one of the chosen few whom all foreigners
and outsiders want to see; to be mobbed in the Park, stared at in the
playhouse and at the opera; to be imitated in dress, gesture, speech;
to introduce the latest mispronunciation and call Bristol "Bristo,"--is
it not the highest prize in the lottery of woman's life? To be famous
as painter, poet, actor? Alas! a fleeting renown. The new generation is
at the door. The veteran must give way. But the empire of fashion is
more enduring, and having won _that_ crown, a woman must be a simpleton
if she do not wear it all her life, and bring the best people in town
to gape and whisper round her death-bed.
* * * * *
Antonia's first ball was a triumph. The lofty suites of rooms, the
double staircase and surrounding gallery were thronged with rank and
beauty; the clothes were finer than at the last birthday, the silver
and gold brocades of dazzling splendour; the jewels, borrowed, hired,
or owned, flashed prismatic colours across the softer candlelight.
The newspapers expatiated on the entertainment, computed the candles
by the thousand, the footmen by the score. Lady Kilrush was at once
established as a woman of the highest _ton;_ her drawing-rooms were
crowded with morning visitors, her tea-table at six o'clock served as
a rendezvous for all that was choicest in the world of fashion. Every
day brought a series of engagements--breakfasts at Strawberry Hill,
where Horace Walpole exercised his most delightful talents for the
amusement of so charming a guest; great dinners where the Ministers and
the Opposition drank their three bottles together in amity, the Duke
of Newcastle and Mr. Pelham, Pitt and Fox, Granville and Pulteney,--a
galaxy of ribbons and stars; parties at Syon House and at Osterley;
excursions to Hampton Court and Windsor, braving the wintry roads in a
coach and six, and with half a dozen out-riders as a guard against the
hazards of the journey. Lady Kilrush had become one of the most popular
women in London, and the only evil thing that was said of her was that
she did not return visits as quickly as people expected.
Was she happy in the midst of it all, she who believed only in this
brief life and the pleasure or the pain that it holds? Yes. She was too
young, too beautiful and complete a creature not to be intoxicated by
the brilliancy of her new existence, and the sense of unbounded power
that wealth gave her. The novelty of the life was in itself enough for
happiness. The London in which she moved to-day was as new to her as
Rome had been, and more splendid, if less romantic. Operas, concerts,
plays, auctions, picture-galleries, masquerades, ridottos, provided a
series of pleasures that surpassed her dreams. Handel and the Italian
singers offered inexhaustible delight. She might tire of all the
rest--of Court balls and modish drums, of bidding for china monsters,
buying toys of Mrs. Chenevix and trinkets of jeweller Deard in Pall
Mall--but of music she could never tire, and the more she heard of
Handel's oratorios the better she loved them.