A "MOTHER OF ENGLAND."
If the Squire's study was the most comfortable room in the Dene, the
prettiest, and to a refined taste the most attractive, without
contradiction, was "my lady's chamber." It was of moderate size, on the
first floor, at an angle of the building; two deep oriels to the south
and east caught every available gleam of sunshine in winter, while in
summer time many cunning devices within and without kept heat and glare
at bay. The walls were hung with dark purple silk, each panel set in a
frame of polished oak; bright borderings and bouquets of flowers
inwoven, prevented the effect from being sombre; the damask of the
furniture, as well as the velvet of the _portieres_ and curtains (these
last almost hidden now in clouds of muslin and lace), matched the
hangings exactly. There was as much of buhl and marqueterie and mosaic
in the room as it could _well_ hold--no more; no appearance of crowding
or redundance of ornament. On each of the panels was one picture, of the
smallest cabinet size, and on three of the tables lay cases of
miniatures, priceless from their extreme rarity or intrinsic beauty; and
all sorts of costly trifles, jewelled, enamelled, and chased, were
scattered about with a studied artistic carelessness. The delicate
_mignardise_ pervading every object around you was very agreeable at
first, and finished by producing the oppressive, unhealthy effect of an
atmosphere overladen with rare perfumes. Such an impression of unreality
was left, that you fancied all the pretty vision would vanish, like a
scene of fairy-land, at the intrusion of any rude, unauthorized mortal,
such as some "mighty hunter," bearing traces of field and flood from cap
to spur. That the hallowed precincts had never been profaned by so
incongruous an apparition since Lady Mildred Vavasour began to reign, it
is unnecessary to say. Her husband came there very seldom; her son,
rather often, when he was at home. With these two exceptions, the
threshold had remained for years inviolate by masculine footstep, as
that of the Taurian Artemis. Few even of her own sex had the _entree_;
and of these only three or four ventured to penetrate there uninvited.
It was a privilege more difficult to obtain than the gold key of the
_petits appartemens_ at Trianon.
The whole tone and aspect of the _boudoir_ was marvellously in keeping
with the exterior of its mistress. She occupied it on that August
evening, alone, if we might except a Maltese lion-dog, sleeping in lazy
beatitude, half buried in a purple velvet cushion, like a small
snow-ball. It may be as well to say, at once, that this latter
personage, though a very important one in his own sphere, gifted with
remarkable intelligence, and capable of strong attachments, has nothing
on earth to do with the story.
It would be difficult as well as uncourteous to guess at Lady Mildred
Vavasour's precise age; her dark hair has lost perhaps somewhat of its
luxuriance, but little of its glossy sheen; her pale cheek--tinged with
a faint colour (either by nature or art) exactly in the right place--and
white brow, are still polished and smooth as Carrara marble; and her
small, slight, delicate figure, with which the tiniest of hands and feet
harmonize so perfectly, retains its graceful roundness of outline.
Why is it that, after one brief glance--giving the lady credit for all
these advantages--we feel sure that she has advanced already far into
the maturity of womanhood? Perhaps, when the mind has been restless and
the thoughts busy for a certain number of years, those years _will_ not
be dissembled, and, however carefully the exterior may have been
conserved, traces of toil, sensible, if not visible, remain. There is no
short cut to Political Science any more than to Pure Mathematics; not
without labour and anxiety, which must tell hereafter, can their crowns
be won; and Foresight, though certainly the more useful faculty of the
two, is sometimes more wearing than Memory.
Now, in her own line, Lady Mildred Vavasour stood unrivalled; she was
the very Talleyrand of domestic diplomacy. I do not mean to infer that
she was pre-eminent among those Machiavels in miniature, who glide into
supremacy over their own families imperceptibly, and maintain their
position by apparent non-resistance, commanding always, while they seem
to obey. In her own case such cleverness would have been wasted. She no
more dreamt of interfering with any of the Squire's tastes or pursuits
than he did with hers; and was perfectly content with complete freedom
of action, sure of having every whim gratified. Indeed, up to the
present time, her talents had been employed in singularly disinterested
ways. Very, very seldom had she acted with her own advantage, or that of
any one closely connected with her, in view. The position of the
Vavasours was such as never to tempt them to look for aggrandizement;
the Squire represented his county, as a matter of course, but there was
not a particle of ambition in his nature; and her son had always
steadily refused to allow his mother's talents or influence to be
exercised on his behalf. But she had a vast circle of acquaintance, both
male and female, and when any one of these was in a difficulty, he or
she constantly resorted to Lady Mildred, sure of her counsel, if not of
her co-operation. She gave one or both, not in the least because she was
good-natured, but because she liked it. She liked to hold in her little
white hand the threads of a dozen at once of those innocent plots and
conspiracies, which are carried on so satisfactorily beneath the smooth,
smiling surface of this pleasant world of ours. Granting that the means
were trivial, and the end unworthy--it was almost grand to see how her
cool calculation, fertile invention, and dauntless courage, rose up to
battle with difficulty or danger. She loved a complicated affair, and
went into it heart and soul; no one could say how many cases that had
been given up as hopeless, she had carried through auspiciously, with an
exceptional good fortune. With mere politics she meddled very seldom
(though she never sought for a place or promotion for one of her own
favourites, or an adopted _protege_, without obtaining it), but in her
own circle there scarcely was a marriage made or marred, of which the
result might not have been traced to the secret police of Lady Mildred's
_boudoir_. If she had a _specialite_, it was the knack of utterly
crushing and abolishing--in a pleasant, noiseless way--a dangerous
Detrimental. The victim scarcely ever suspected from what quarter the
arrow came, but often entertained, in after days, a great respect and
regard for the fatal Atalante.
Yes, the work had told even on that calm, well-regulated nature: Lady
Mildred's smile was still perilously fascinating; but a certain covert
subtlety, when you looked closer, half neutralized its power; and the
bright, dark eyes were now and then disagreeably searching and keen. At
such times you could only marvel at the manifest contradiction; with all
the outward and visible signs of youth about her, she looked unnaturally
older than her age.
In all probability, at no one period of her life had she been more
attractive than at the present moment. There was extant a miniature
taken before she was twenty, and the resemblance of that portrait to the
living original was very striking. One charm she certainly never could
have possessed--_La beaute du Diable_.
Now we are on the subject, I wish some one would explain this paradox or
misnomer. Do we take it in a passive sense, and suppose, that if any
emotion of love could fall on "the blasted heart"--like water on molten
iron--it would be stirred by that especial type of loveliness--seen now
so seldom, but remembered so well? It may well be so. _Voe miseris!_
Every other phase of mortal and immortal beauty has ten thousand
representatives in Gehenna, save only _this_. Surely few lost spirits
carry the stamp of innocence on their brows, even so far as the broad
gate with the dreary legend over its door: "Leave hope behind you." Seen
very seldom--only when across the great Gulf, the souls in torment catch
a glimpse of angelic features melting in intense, unavailing pity; but,
perchance, well remembered, for where should freshness and innocence be
found, if not in the faces of the Cherubim? And his punishment would be
incomplete if it were given to the Prince of Hell to forget sights and
sounds familiar to the Son of the Morning.
It is worth while to realize how dwarfed, and trivial, and childish,
appears all tales of human ruin and shame and sorrow, by the side of the
weird primeval tragedy. Well: the brute creation sympathizes with _us_
in our pain; but who are we, that we should presume to pity a fallen
archangel? Truly, pious and right-minded men have done so, in all
simplicity and sincerity. The story of the Perthshire minister is always
quoted among the _Traits of Scotch Humour_; but I am sure the amiable
zealot intended nothing irreverent, and saw nothing grotesque in his
prayer. He had exhausted, you know, his memory and imagination in
interceding not only for his own species and the lower orders of
animals, but for "every green thing upon the earth," beside. He paused
at last and took breath; then he went on--rather diffidently, as if
conscious of treading on perilous ground, but in an accent plaintively
persuasive--
"An' noo, ma freends, let us praigh for the De'il; naebody praighs for
the puir De'il!"
That is not a bad digression--taking it as a digression--from the
boudoir of a _petite maitresse_ to the bottomless pit. Whatever
connexion may ultimately be established between the two, I am aware that
it is neither usual nor justifiable to place them in such close
proximity.
But here I make my first and last act of contrition for all such
divagations, in season and out of season, past, present, and to come.
Reader of mine! you have always the resource (which I would were
available in society) of banishing your interlocutor when he bores you,
by skipping the paragraph, or throwing the book aside. I may not hope to
instruct you; it is quite enough if your interest and yourself are kept
awake. Whether this object would be promoted by writing "to order," is
more than doubtful. If one's movements are naturally awkward and slow,
they will scarcely gain in grace with the fetters on. Let us not force
our talent, such as it is. Few qualities are more useful or estimable
than that grave pertinacity of purpose which never loses sight for a
moment of the end it has had in view all along. But then, one must
_have_ a purpose to start with; and up to the present point, this volume
is guiltless of any such element of success. It is in the nature of some
to be desultory; and there are heretics who think that the prizes of
Life--let alone those of authorship--would hardly be worth the winning,
if one were bound down under heavy penalties to go on straight to the
goal, never turning aside for refreshment by the way.
_Peccavimus, et peccabimus._ If this literary ship must be shattered on
rocks ahead, we will, at least, make no obeisance to the powers that
have ordained the wreck. O younger son of Telamon! you have spoken well,
if not wisely. The wrath of adverse gods is mighty, and hath prevailed;
but let us die as we have lived--impenitent and self-reliant, without
benefit of Athene.
It is nearly time, though, to go back to Lady Mildred. She is still
sitting where we left--I am ashamed to say how long ago--in the same
attitude of indolent grace; a very refreshing picture to look upon after
such a sultry day, the ideal of repose and comfortable coolness. No
mortal eye had ever seen "my lady's" cheek unbecomingly flushed, or her
lips blue with cold; it must be confessed that she seldom threw a
chance away in taking care of herself, and had a wholesome dread of the
caprices of our English atmosphere. She had been amusing herself for the
last two hours with one of the paper-covered _novelettes_ which flow in
a stream (happily) perennial from that modest fountain head in the
Burlington Arcade, mollifying our insular manners, and not permitting us
to be brutified. The labour of perusing even this unremittingly, seemed
to be too much for the fair student, for ever and anon the volume would
sink down on her lap, and she would pause for several minutes, musing on
its philosophy--or on graver things--with half-closed eyes.
While she was indulging in one of these reveries or semi-siestas, a
quick, elastic step came down the long corridor. Lady Mildred could not
have been dozing (nobody ever does allow that they have been
sleeping--out of their beds), for she recognised the footfall instantly,
though it brushed the deep-piled carpet so lightly as to have been to
most ears inaudible: simultaneously with the timid knock that seemed to
linger on the panel, her clear quiet voice said--
"Come in, my Helen!"
In these prosaic days of Realism, when Oreads and Undines, and other
daughters of the elements, have become somewhat coy and unattainable, it
would be hard to conjure up a fairer vision than that which now stood
hesitating on the threshold. I will try to give you a faint idea of
Helen Vavasour as she appeared then, in the spring-tide of her
marvellous loveliness.
She had inherited the magnificent stature for which her family had for
centuries been remarkable, united to the excessive refinement of contour
and delicacy of feature which had made "the Dene Beauties"
world-renowned. Her figure, though very slight, betrayed no signs of
fragility, and you guessed that the development that three more years
must bring would make it quite faultless. Her hair was darker than her
mother's by many shades--equally fine and silky, but thrice as
luxuriant; its intense black was relieved by a sheen of deep glossy
blue, such as Loxias may have worshipped in the tresses of the
violet-haired daughter of Pitane. Her complexion is much fairer than is
often found where all the other points are so decidedly a brunette's;
dazzling from its transparent purity, it was never brilliant, except
when some passing emotion deepened the subdued shade of delicate, tender
pink into the fuller rose-tint that lines a rare Indian shell. So with
her eyes--long, large, and velvet-soft, they stole upon you at first
with a languid, dreamy fascination; but you never realized their hidden
treasures till amusement, or love, or anger made them glitter like the
Southern Cross. It was one of those faces bearing even in childhood the
impress of pride and decision, over which half a century may pass
without rendering one line in them harsher or harder.
If you have ever taken up a plain photograph, untouched by the
miniature-painter, of the form and features (for the moment) deemed
fairest of all, you will sympathise with my utter dissatisfaction in
reviewing this abortive attempt at portraiture. The stereoscope brings
out a certain similitude; but what a cold, colourless parody on glorious
reality! That very fixedness of expression--in the original so
perpetually varied--makes it an insult to our incarnate idol.
Long and attentive study, for her own or her friends' benefit, had
taught Lady Mildred to read very fluently the language of the eyes; the
glance of the Expert withdrew their secret from Helen's, during those
few seconds while she stood hesitating in the doorway; and a shy,
conscious happiness glowing round her like a soft halo, made surmise
certainty.
O laughter-loving daughter of Dione! your divinity is trampled in the
dust, and none worship now at the shrines of Aphrodite, Astarte, or
Ashtaroth; but one feels tempted at times to turn Pagan again, were it
only to believe in your presence and power. Other, and younger, and
fairer faces have borne tokens of having met you in the wood, since your
breath left a freshness and radiance on the swart features of the false
sea-rover, that carried Dido's heart by storm.
Yes, Lady Mildred guessed the truth at once, and all her self control
was needed to repress a sigh of vexation and impatience, which very
nearly escaped her; it bore her through, though, triumphantly. Nothing
could be more placable and propitious than her smile; nothing more
playfully than her gesture, as she beckoned Helen to her side:--
"My darling! what has happened in your ride to agitate you so? I can see
you are not much hurt. Come and make confession instantly."
This was apparently the young lady's intention, for she had evidently
come straight to the boudoir after dismounting; she was still in her
riding-dress, and had only taken off her Spanish hat. While her mother
was speaking she came near with the swift, springy step which made her
inimitable, and knelt down by the low couch, half-concealing her glowing
face and sparkling eyes.
If there is any written manual adapted to such rifle-practice, (I mean
where a young woman has to fire off at her parent a piece of
intelligence particularly important or startling), I fancy, here, it
would run thus--"At the word 'three,' sink down at once on the right
knee, six inches to the right and twelve inches to the rear of the left
heel, and square with the foot, which is to be under the body and
upright"--the great difference being, that the fair recruit is "_not_ to
fix the eye steadfastly on an object in front."
So far, certainly, Helen acted up to the formula provided for her case;
but she had not been much drilled, and was indeed singularly exempt from
most of the little weaknesses, conventionalisms, and _minauderies_ which
are, justly or unjustly, attributed to modern damosels. Natures like
hers affect, as a rule, no more diffidence than they feel, and are
seldom unnecessarily demonstrative, however small and select their
audience and however dramatic the piece they are playing. So, after a
few minutes' silence, she looked up and said, quite quietly and simply--
"Mamma, Alan asked me this afternoon to marry him; and--I love him
dearly."
The two voices were strangely alike in their accent and inflexions; but
the girl's voice, even when, as now, somewhat tremulous and uncertain,
was mellower in its rich cadences, fuller and rounder in its music.
Lady Mildred clasped her daughter's waist, and bent down to kiss her,
repeatedly, with passionate tenderness. When the close embrace was
ended, she lingered yet for a few seconds with her cheek pillowed on
Helen's forehead; during those seconds her features were set, and her
lips tense and rigid; that brief interval of self-indulgence lasted just
so long as it would have taken her to utter the words--"It shall never
be."
Now, mark; the daughter was kneeling at her mother's feet, as she might
have knelt to say the first prayer of infancy; she had just told the
secret which involved her life's hope of happiness--whether wrongly or
rightly founded it matters not; the mother sate there, with a firm, cool
resolve at her heart to crush the hope and frustrate the purpose; and
yet she kissed her child without shivering or shrinking. To our rough
common sense it would seem, that caress more cruel in its falsehood,
more base in its deliberate treachery, never was bestowed since that one
over which angels wept and devils shouted for joy--the kiss given in the
Garden of Gethsemane.
But who are we, that we should criticize the policy of a Mother of
England, cavil at her concessions to expediency, or question the
rectitude of her intentions? They are white-hot Protestants, many of
them, but none the less do they cherish and act upon the good old Jesuit
maxim--"The end justifies the means." Unluckily, sometimes even _their_
sagacity and foresight are baffled in guessing what the end of all will
be. You have read _Aspen Court_, of course? Do you remember Cyprian
Heywood's definition of a parable?--"A falsehood in illustration of
truth." "My lady" affected this convenient figure of speech a good deal;
her first words now were decidedly parabolical.
"My dearest child, you have quite taken my breath away. I cannot tell
yet whether I am sorry or glad to hear this. It comes so very suddenly!"
"Ah, mamma, say at least that you are not angry--with Alan," the soft
voice pleaded.
Lady Mildred did not think it necessary to remain long astounded, being
always averse to unnecessary expenditure of time or trouble. So she
answered, after drawing one or two deep, agitated breaths (wonderfully
well done), with intense gentleness of manner and tone--
"How could I be angry, darling? Next to Max, and yourself, and your
father, I think I love Alan better than anything in the world. He has
been rash and wild, of course; but I believe he is quite good and steady
now. I am sure he will try and make you happy. Every one will exclaim
against your imprudence, and mine; but we will not look forward
despondently. Only you must not be impatient; you _must_ wait and hope.
You don't know as well as I do what difficulties are in the way. Perhaps
I ought to have foreseen what was likely to happen, when you and Alan
were thrown so much together as you have been lately; but I never
dreamt--" she stopped, compressing her lips, as if annoyed that a truth,
for once, was escaping them. "Well--never mind; confess, Helen, you did
not fear that _I_ should oppose your wishes? You know my first object in
life is to see you happy; and I have not often contradicted you, have I,
since you were old enough to have a will of your own?"
I fancy that most damsels, under similar circumstances, would have been
of Miss Vavasour's opinion--"That there never was such a darling
mother." She did not express it very intelligibly, though; and, indeed,
it must be confessed, that the conversation from this point was of a
somewhat incoherent and irrational nature. Feminine example is
miraculously contagious; if the fountain of tears is once unlocked, the
gentle influence of the Naiad will be sure to descend on every womanly
bosom within the circle of its spray. I do not mean to imply that upon
the present occasion there was any profuse weeping; but they got into a
sort of _caressive_ and altogether childish frame of mind--a condition
very unusual with either mother or daughter. It may be questioned, if
the sympathetic weakness displayed by Lady Mildred was altogether
assumed. The most accomplished actresses have sometimes so identified
themselves with their parts, as to ignore audience and foot-lights, and
become natural in real emotion. Five minutes, however, were more than
enough to restore one of the parties to her own calm, calculating self.
Another yet fonder caress told Helen, as plainly as words could have
done, that the audience was ended: as soon as she was alone, Lady
Mildred fell back into her old quiet, musing attitude. But the French
novel was not taken up again; its late reader had a plot, if not a
romance, of her own, to interest her now. Whether the thoughts that
chased one another so rapidly through that busy brain were kindly or
angry, whether the glimpses of the future were gloomy or hopeful--the
smooth, white brow and steady lips betrayed, neither by frown nor smile.