How different from the animated discussion at Lady Mandeville’s, was the
loud laugh and boisterous tone of Lady Augusta Selwyn, whom Calantha
found, on her return, at that very moment stepping from her carriage,
and enquiring for her. “Ah, my dear sweet friend,” she cried, flying
towards Calantha, and shaking her painfully by the hand, “this fortuitous
concurrence of atoms, fills my soul with rapture. But I was resolved to
see you. I have promised and vowed three things in your name; therefore,
consider me as your sponsor, and indeed I am old enough to be such.
In the first place, you must come to me to-night, for I have a little
supper, and all my guests attend only in the hope of meeting you. You
are the bribe I have held out—you are to stand me in lieu of a good
house, good cook, agreeable husband, and pretty face,—in all of which I
am most unfortunately deficient. Having confessed thus much, it would
be barbarous, it would be inhuman you know to refuse me. Now for the
second favour,” continued this energetic lady:—“come alone; for though I
have a great respect for Mrs. and Miss Seymour, yet I never know what I
am about when their very sensible eyes are fixed upon me.”—“Oh you need
not fear, Sophia would not come if I wished it; and Mrs. Seymour”—“I
have something else to suggest,” interrupted Lady Augusta:—“introduce
me immediately to your husband: he is divine, I hear—perfectly divine!”
“I cannot at this moment; but”—“By the bye, why were you not at the ball
last night. I can tell you there were some who expected you there. Yes,
I assure you, a pair of languid blue eyes watching for you—a fascinating
new friend waiting to take you home to a _petit souper très-bien assorti_.
I went myself. It was monstrously dull at the ball:—insupportable, I
assure you; perfectly so. Mrs. Turner and her nine daughters! It is quite
a public calamity, Mrs. Turner being so very prolific—the produce so
frightful. Amongst other animals, when they commit such blunders, the
brood is drowned; but we christians are suffered to grow up till the
land is overrun.” “Heigho.” “What is the matter? You look so _triste_
to-day, not even my wit can enliven you.—Isn’t it well, love? or has
its husband been plaguing it? Now I have it:—you have, perchance, been
translating an Ode of Pindar. I was there myself this morning; and it
gave me the vapours for ten minutes; but I am used to these things you
know child, and you are a novice. By the bye, where is your cousin,
_le beau capitaine, le chef des brigands_? I was quite frappè with his
appearance.” “You may think it strange,” said Calantha, “but I have not
seen him these eight years—not since he was quite a child.” “Oh, what
an interview there will be then,” said Lady Augusta: “he is a perfect
ruffian.”
“Are you aware that we have three sets of men now much in request?—There
are these ruffians, who affect to be desperate, who game, who drink,
who fight, who will captivate you, I am sure of it. They are always just
going to be destroyed, or rather talk as if they were; and every thing
they do, they must do it to desperation. Then come the exquisites. Lord
Dallas is one, a sort of refined _petit maître_, quite thorough bred,
though full of conceit. As to the third set, your useful men, who know
how to read and write, in which class critics, reviewers, politicians
and poets stand, you may always know them by their slovenly appearance.
But you are freezing, _mon enfant_. What can be the matter? I will
release you in a moment from my visitation. I have ten thousand things to
say.—Will you come to my opera box Tuesday? Are you going to the masked
ball Thursday? Has Mrs. Churchill sent for you to her _déjeûné paré_.
I know she wishes, more than I can express, to have you. Perhaps you
will let me drive you there. My ponies are beautiful arabians: have you
seen them? Oh, by the bye, why were you not at your aunt Lady Margaret’s
concert? I believe it was a concert:—there was a melancholy noise in
one of the rooms; but I did not attend to it.—Do you like music?”—“I
do; but I must own I am not one who profess to be all enchantment at
the scraping of a fiddle, because some old philharmonic plays on it;
nor can I admire the gurgling and groaning of a number of foreigners,
because it is called singing.”
“They tell me you think of nothing but love and poetry. I dare say
you write sonnets to the moon—the chaste moon, and your husband. How
sentimental!” “And you,”—“No, my dear, I thank heaven I never could
make a rhyme in my life.—Farewell—adieu—remember to-night,—bring Lord
Avondale—that divine Henry: though beware too; for many a lady has to
mourn the loss of her husband, as soon as she has introduced him into
the society of _fascinating_ friends.” “He is out of town.” “Then so
much the better. After all, a wife is only pleasant when her husband
is out of the way. She must either be in love, or out of love with him.
If the latter, they wrangle; and if the former, it is ten times worse.
Lovers are at all times insufferable; but when the holy laws of matrimony
give them a lawful right to be so amazingly fond and affectionate,
it makes one sick.” “Which are you, in love or out of love with Mr.
Selwyn?”—“Neither, my child, neither. He never molests me, never intrudes
his dear dull personage on my society. He is the best of his race, and
only married me out of pure benevolence. We were fourteen raw Scotch
girls—all hideous, and no chance of being got rid of, either by marriage,
or death—so healthy and ugly. I believe we are all alive and flourishing
somewhere or other now. Think then of dear good Mr. Selwyn, who took me
for his mate, because I let him play at cards whenever he pleased. He
is so fond of cheating, he never can get any one but me to play with
him. Farewell.—_Au revoir._—I shall expect you at ten.—_Adieu, chère
petite._” Saying which Lady Augusta left Calantha.