THE CONTRAST.
On the evening of Sir William Temple's dinner-party, the invitation
to which Lord Albert had declined, he retired at an early hour to
his study; and having closed his door, he sat some minutes with his
head reclining on his hands, endeavouring to shut out the frivolous
insignificances of many late past evenings, and to recal those of a
very different description and tendency.
A sweet and silvery tone of feeling analogous to a fine Wilson that
hung opposite to his writing-table, shed a serene, self-satisfying
sensation over his mind; it might be a false complacency, yet
complacency for the time being it was--and he opened his writing-box,
in the lid of which was a portrait. This portrait represented a very
youthful girl intently busied in copying a bust, the likeness of
himself. A flush passed over his countenance, his eyes sparkled, and a
genuine sensation of rapture thrilled through his heart, as he said,
"Oh! how superior to all I now see around me--young, innocent,
intelligent, the dignity of human nature is here! Gazing at this image,
I can never err; it would recal me to the path of rectitude were I
ever so inclined to swerve from it." At that moment a letter caught
his attention; it was still unanswered--again he coloured, for it had
remained so since the preceding morning; and such a letter! Now with an
eagerness that would have redeemed the slight, he actually kissed the
opened page; and previous to replying to it, re-perused the following
contents of
LADY ADELINE SEYMOUR'S LETTER.
"I think it a long time, dearest Albert, since I have heard from you.
But then you are so busy, and have so many things to do; whereas I
have nothing to do, but to count up minutes, days, and hours; yet
this is so wrong, that I blame myself even for thinking, much more
for writing the thought; and would blot out the dissatisfied words,
but that I promised you should know truly, and without disguise, what
really passed in my mind.
"After what I heard good Mr. Adams preach last Sunday, how dare I
wish to hurry on time, when I make so poor a use of it? Indeed, dear
Albert, when I think seriously, I do not wish it; but when I feel that
we are parted, and yield to that feeling, why then I am a wayward
creature. Does not this prove, my dear Albert, how cautiously we ought
to look into our hearts, since out of them are the issues of life? I
will do so; I will try to do so, if God will help me; for it is only
by this watching that I shall render myself at all worthy of you.
Mamma said to me the other day:
"'My dear love, remember that marriage is a state necessarily
imposing many duties, and accumulating many cares; this in its
happiest instances must ever be the case; it is wisely ordered that
it should be so. But it is a state honoured by God and man, and opens
upon a wide field for self-improvement. If entered upon in this view,
it brings with its pains many delights and consolations, both for
this world and the next; but if it is engaged in rashly, merely for
the purpose of running a more unchecked career, or for the unworthy
purposes of aggrandizement in rank and fortune apart from nobler
views, it never fails to produce disappointment, and it may be,
disgust of life and endless misery.'
"What a terrible picture, my Albert! But I cannot conceive it
possible that any body should marry from any motive but attachment,
and therefore I can hardly persuade myself that any of these awful
consequences are likely to attend on marriage; only my Bible shews me
the insufficiency of all mere mortal trusts; and Mamma, I know, never
says what she does not think is true; therefore I must try and prepare
myself for becoming such a wife to you as will secure our mutual
felicity. The little book we exchanged on the day you left us, I read
morning and evening, and as soon as it is finished I begin it again;
so when you are reading yours, you may be certain we are pronouncing
the same words, thinking the same thoughts, lifting up our hearts
together to the God who made us.
"How thankful we ought to be for good books; are they not messengers
from heaven? And yet how we slight them. Often, when engaged in my
morning's duty of reading, my wandering mind turns so frequently
to drawing, to music, or any other exercise, that at length I
have punished myself by determining not to have recourse to these
recreations till I can moderate my ardour for them, and enjoy them
only as recreations; they _ought not_ to be more--all beyond is
idolatry. I have of late, too, engaged myself in active duties among
the poor around our neighbourhood; and my rides to their different
habitations give me such additional health and spirits, that I am
always ready to laugh at all Mr. Foley's silly jokes. My heart is so
light, and I feel so happy--I see no end to all the diverting things
I have in view, and some day or another when, please God, I am really
your wife, all the schemes I form for the benefit of those within the
circle of my influence will be fully realized.
"What an extended sphere of usefulness will then be mine, and oh!
my Albert! what an awful responsibility too will then attach to my
situation! I pray daily that I may be enabled to meet it as I ought.
What I grudge most is, the time which I am now frequently forced to
lose, in being civil to our dull neighbours here; and I do confess
that to sit amused by Miss Grimsdale's side, while she talks over
the last county ball, or to listen to old Lady Henniker's history
of her ménage with becoming patience, is a trial for which no
self-complacency in the idea, that I am making a sacrifice to oblige
others, does in any degree compensate. But Mamma smiles when she hears
me answering _tout a rebours_, and sees my fingers entangling the
silks, and tells me afterwards that we are not to live to ourselves,
and that in fact to please others, when not neglecting, any positive
duty, is a minor virtue. I am sure she is right--but, dear Albert, I
feel on such occasions how difficult it is to be good! Mr. Foley, to
whom I expressed myself thus the other day, told me, 'I talked a great
deal of nonsense, though I was a very charming person altogether,'
and ended by asking me seriously--'What wrong I thought it possible
I could do, living as I did?' How ignorant he must be of the state
of the human heart, not to know that our best efforts are faulty,
our purest actions imperfect! I stared at him, and then attempted to
explain to him that all our thoughts, words, and actions, are marked
with inherent error. He stared at me in return, and, looking at me
incredulously, asked 'do you really mean what you say?'
"'Most assuredly,' I replied; 'can any one mean otherwise?' Then he
looked very grave indeed, sighed heavily, and said, 'it was a sad
thing to see one so fair and young imbued with such false ideas--ideas
which in the end would make me wretched.' I laughed, as I assured him
that it was he that was deceived, and who would be wretched; that as
for myself, I was the gayest, happiest creature upon earth; and all
I had to dread was, loving the world too well, and seeing it in too
fair a light. I had not a corner of my heart, I said, unoccupied, or
a minute in the day unemployed; and besides that, my reliance upon
God made me feel as if I never could be perfectly unhappy under any
circumstances.
"But no sooner were these words uttered, than my heart smote me,
for I thought of _you_, dear Albert, and suddenly a cloud seemed to
pass over me, and my deceitful heart sickened at the thought of the
possibility of losing you; and then I knew how ill I was prepared to
yield that perfect obedience which we are called upon to yield to the
will of heaven.--I believe my countenance betrayed somewhat of this
self-condemning spirit, for Mr. Foley quickly asked, whilst fixing his
searching eyes on mine, 'What, is there _nothing_ which could make you
miserable?' and I trembled, and blushed, and felt a tear of shame rise
in my eye, as I answered:
"'Perhaps I deceive myself, and think of myself too highly.
Perhaps--in short--at all events, I know that I am _trying_ so to
feel, and so to think.' He laughed contemptuously, saying:
"'I guessed how it was--poor Lady Adeline! this false system is
spreading fearfully indeed!' What could he mean? Mamma told me on my
repeating to her this conversation, 'that to many persons Mr. Foley
would be a dangerous man; but not to you, my child; and I have a
love for that wayward creature, the son of the dearest friend I ever
possessed, which makes me incline to overlook his faults, and hope
that he will amend them. Who knows but the mode of life we lead may
be the means of sowing some good seed in his heart? However, my dear
child, encourage not his conversation on such points.' I believe Mamma
is right, for notwithstanding my dislike of his irreligious tenets, he
is so well-informed, and so very diverting, that I cannot help being
entertained by him. And in many respects I assure you, Albert, he is a
good man, and general report bespeaks him such. He is very charitable;
is kind to people in distress; and goes regularly to church, when he
is with us--is not all this very unaccountable with his strange way
of talking to me? I do not understand it, and indeed it is not worth
thinking much about, one way or the other. Write to me, dear Albert,
and tell me what your opinion is upon this subject. I wish in all
things to conform to your wishes, and to model my opinion on yours:
for I well know your excellent principles and unerring judgment.
To-morrow, I allow myself to return to the delight of copying your
dear bust, '_O che festa!_'--Sometimes (I am almost ashamed of telling
you) I divert myself with putting my caps and hats on it, and please
myself with the idea that it is very like _me_--do not laugh and call
me 'foolish child!' Now I dislike that _you_ should call me child;
remember the day you receive this I shall be seventeen, so put on all
your gravity and consider me with due respect.
"The menagerie is thriving; I visit our pets every day, and you will
find them in fine condition when you return,--when will that be? I
wish the time were come, don't you? Good night, good night, for there
is no end to this writing. I must end. Again good night. Dearest
Albert, I am, heart and soul, your own
"ADELINE SEYMOUR."
"Sweet, pure Adeline!" cried Lord Albert, "how shall I answer
this letter." He seized a pen, and in the first glow of fondness
and admiration, which such a letter and such a portrait before him
inspired, he filled two pages, not less tender or sincere than those
which had been addressed to himself: when he was suddenly disturbed by
hearing a bustle and violent clattering of horses in the street, and at
the same time the voices of some of his own servants. This increasing,
he rang the bell to inquire the cause, and no one answering, he at
length opened the door of an apartment and called to the porter,
asking what was the matter? He was answered, that a carriage had been
overturned opposite his door, and it was wished to bring the lady who
had suffered from the accident into his Lordship's house.
"By all means, immediately," Lord Albert exclaimed; "afford every
assistance possible;" and in a few instants a lady was borne in by two
domestics. She was immediately placed, apparently insensible, on a
couch in an adjoining apartment. The female attendants were summoned
to her aid, and Lord Albert himself supported her head on his breast:
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "it is Lady Hamlet Vernon! Send off
directly for Doctor Meynell." A stream of blood flowed over her face,
and in order to ascertain where she was wounded it was necessary to let
down her hair, which fell in glossy masses over her neck and shoulders.
The glass of the carriage window, against which Lady Hamlet Vernon had
fallen, was the cause of the catastrophe; and though the injury was
not found to be dangerous, the wound had been sufficiently severe to
occasion a suffusion of blood. The physician soon arrived, and having
examined the extent of the evil, applied remedies and administered
restoratives to the terrified Lady Hamlet Vernon, who was shortly after
restored to her senses, and enabled to explain the cause of her having
met with so dangerous an accident.
"She was returning," she said, "from Sir William Temple's
dinner-party, when her coachman, whom she supposed was intoxicated,
drove furiously, and the carriage coming in contact with the
curb-stone at the corner of the street, overturned, was dashed with
violence against the pavement, and broken to pieces." This account
was corroborated by her footmen, who had miraculously escaped unhurt.
Lady Hamlet then expressed her thanks at having received such prompt
and kind assistance, and Doctor Meynell having pronounced it as his
opinion, that if she remained quiet for a few days, she would find no
disagreeable effects result from the accident, and that she might with
safety be removed to her own house, Lord Albert's carriage was ordered
to convey her thither. "I am happy, indeed, to think it is thus," said
Lord Albert; "and that I have been of the least use is most gratifying
to me."
This adventure, related in a few words, occupied an hour or more in
its actual occurrence; and Lord Albert had had leisure to remark the
symmetry of form and feature for which Lady Hamlet Vernon had been so
long celebrated. He might have beheld Lady Hamlet for ever, rouged and
dressed in public, and have passed her by unnoticed; but when he beheld
her pale, dishevelled, in pain, and dependent on him at the moment for
relief, he thought her exquisitely fair, and there entered a degree of
romantic illusion in this accident which roused his fancy, while her
sufferings touched the friendly feelings of his nature.
As he assisted her to her carriage, they passed through the room
where he had been sitting previous to her arrival; the candles were
still burning, and his papers lay in confusion around, the writing-box
was open, in the lid of which was the portrait of Lady Adeline. Lady
Hamlet Vernon pausing, complained of a momentary feeling of faintness,
and threw herself on a chair close to the writing-table; her eyes in
an instant were rivetted on the picture, and at the same moment Lord
Albert's hand closed it from her view. There was nothing that demanded
secrecy in his possessing Lady Adeline's picture. His engagement to his
cousin was generally known, and his having her portrait, therefore,
was no offence against propriety; but every body who has loved will
understand the feeling, that the sacredness of their heart's affections
is broken in upon, if an indifferent or casual eye rest upon a treasure
of the kind. Lady Hamlet Vernon spoke not, but her looks testified what
they had seen; while he remained confused, and seemed glad when she
proposed moving again to the carriage.
"I am afraid," she said, her voice trembling as she spoke, "I am
afraid my accident has been the occasion of breaking in upon your
retirement, and disturbing you out of a most delightful reverie. I
shall regret this the more if it makes you hate me altogether--but the
fault was not mine."
"Hate you! Lady Hamlet Vernon--hatred and Lady Hamlet Vernon are two
words that cannot by any accident be connected together."
"Ah! would that your words were as true as they are courteous," she
replied mournfully; "but courtesies, alas! _imply_ an interest that
they do not mean. Do not, however, let me detain you, Lord Albert; it
rains"-- As he still lingered at the door of the carriage, which they
had reached, and in which she now entered, he added, "You will at least
give me leave to enquire for you to-morrow?" which was all he had time
to say, as the carriage was driven rapidly away.
Lord Albert returned to his room, with a confusion of images chasing
each other in such quick succession through his mind, that though he
resumed his pen to finish his letter to Lady Adeline, he found it
difficult to do so; and he was conscious that the few words which he
added were in such a different tone, and so little in keeping with the
previous part, that he finished abruptly, and, folding and sealing
his letter, closed the box that contained the miniature, and throwing
himself back in his chair, mused in vacancy of thought till slumber was
overpowering him. Without once adverting to Lady Adeline's book, he
hastened to lose in sleep the feeling of dissatisfaction which had so
suddenly possessed him.
On the following morning, when Lady Hamlet Vernon arose, feeling
little of the accident of the preceding evening, and having taken
particular pains with her toilette, she cast a glance of complacency
at her reflected image in the mirror, and, descending to her boudoir,
placed herself on a sofa, spread with embroidered cushions, folded a
velvet _couvre-pied_ over her feet, ordered a table stored with books
to be placed within her reach, on which also rested a guitar and a
vase of flowers, and gave way to a train of reflections and feelings
unaccountably called up by the occurrences of the previous evening.
Lady Hamlet Vernon was a person who had read, and did read, at _times_;
but in the present instance, when calling for her books, she intended
no farther use of them beyond casual allusion to their contents, and
what their appearance might avail to give an interest in regard to
herself.
She lay with her arm resting on a pillow, and her ears attentively
listening to every cabriolet that passed, eagerly anticipating a visit
from Lord Albert. She twice looked at her watch; once she struck it, to
know if its sound answered to the hour its hand designated.--"Surely,"
she said, with some impatience, "he must at least inquire for me?--and
it is late--late for a person of Lord Albert's early habit--it is
really three o'clock." At that moment a short decided knock at the
door roused her attention. Her hand was on the bell in an instant,
lest the servants might deny her--but in another the door opened, and
_not_ Lord Albert, but the pale and melancholy Frank Ombre entered. The
revulsion from pleasure to disappointment occasioned by the appearance
of this visitor, and which displayed itself in Lady Hamlet Vernon's
features, was ingeniously ascribed by her to a sudden pain in her head,
the consequence, she said, of her accident the preceding night; which
accident she hastened to detail, and was gratified by the homage of
regrets, most poetically expressed by Mr. Ombre, who remarked that the
danger of this occurrence was transferred from herself to her admirers.
"The beautiful languor which it has cast over your person has produced
a varied charm more inimical to our peace than even the lightning of
your eyes. What a fortunate man that Lord Albert was, to be on the
very spot to render you assistance! There are some persons, as we all
know, who are born felicitous--they please without caring to please;
they render services without thinking what they are doing, or even
being interested in reality about the persons whom they serve; they
are reckoned handsome without one regularly beautiful feature, and
pronounced clever, superior, talented, without ever doing any thing to
prove it. But in that, perhaps, lies their wisdom--one may be _every
thing_ so long as one never proves one's-self _nothing_."
"True, there are such people in the world, I believe; but do you really
mean to say"--(and she almost blushed.)
"I never mean, or can mean, to say any thing that is disagreeable to
you"....
"Oh, it is not I who am interested in what he _is_, or is _not_; but,
to confess the truth, a very dear friend of mine, a charming young
person, takes an interest in him, and I should like to know if he is
worthy of that interest before her affections are further engaged."
"Ah! my dear Lady Hamlet Vernon," replied Mr. Ombre, "there is nobody
like you--I always said so. You know _I never flatter_; but you are so
disinterested, always thinking about other people, always so kindly
busy where you can be of any use; so unlike the world in general, in
short, that it quite spoils one for living in it."
"Well, this is a point we shall not dispute about, my dear Mr. Ombre,
only tell me what you know of Lord Albert D'Esterre? what are his
tastes, his habits, his pursuits, his politics?"
"Of himself I can tell you little; with his father I was very intimate
long ago, and I believe, somehow or other, people do always contrive
to be like either father or mother, some time or another in their
life. Of the father I could tell you, that there did not exist a more
polished or high-bred man, a term which you know is not always justly
applicable to persons of high rank; one very well versed in literature
too, at least for the peerage in that day, and so long as he continued
in public life, no one acted more to the general satisfaction of people
than my Lord Tresyllian. Of the mother there is little to say, except
that she was--nay is, for aught I know to the contrary--a very good
sort of person; who was never known to make any noise, save once, in
her life, and that certainly was not on a judicious occasion, for
it was when the famous Bellina, the dancer, was _attachée_ to the
suite of her husband during his embassy at ----. Then indeed Lady
Tresyllian did make some very unadvised stir, and contrived that the
whole court should remark upon the subject; but her husband, who was
the most polite man in the world, as I have said before, represented
to her the inutility of such conduct, pointed out how such a lady,
and such a one, conducted herself in similar situations; stated that
these sort of things always happened, and were only unpleasant when
they were injudiciously managed, and in short the affair was amicably
adjusted; an affair which happened so long ago, that it is only some
old chroniclers like myself who have any recollection of it.
"After Lord Tresyllian's return to England, he continued to fill
several official situations as long as his friends, or his party
rather, as those are called who contrive to hang together for some
interest,--their own or their country's, it matters not--continued in
office--and on their retiring, his Lordship retired also: I suppose to
preserve his consistency, or because his talents were not needed in
the new arrangement. Since then, gout and disappointed ambition have
contributed to make him a recluse from the busy world of fashion; and
in the magnificence of his princely fortune, and in the society of
a chosen few, who have shared his fate, or depended on his interest
in their political career, his existence is now passed, settling the
balance of Europe in his closet, opposing his Majesty's ministers (as
long as they shall not include his own party) in the senate, and on
every other occasion, and haranguing every assembly of disappointed
patriots in his own county, of which he is lord lieutenant.
"Of Lord Tresyllian's patriotism I presume none doubt--of his judgment
and good taste in politics, from the last-mentioned fact, while holding
his present situation, perhaps there may be some question. But he has
considerable parliamentary interest, and will therefore always have
some who will think all he says or does right. His eldest son Osberton
we all know follows in his father's line of opposition; glad, I dare
say, to be saved the trouble of acting or thinking for himself. I need
not tell you more of him--in short, there is nothing to tell, but his
party. What Lord Albert D'Esterre's will be, remains to be proved;
I mean in the only way people think a man's being any thing is of
consequence, namely the part he will take in public life. He inherits
wealth from Lady Tresyllian, and so far will be independent of his
father; but he is too young, I should think, to escape the toils that
will be laid for a young member, and therefore we shall soon see him
engaged on one side or the other, as a tool of party. By the bye, what
says Lady Tilney of him for that?" Here another knock announced another
arrival, and Mr. Ombre rose to depart.
"Pray, my dear Mr. Ombre, do not run away; I should be so delighted if
you would stay and help to keep the conversation alive, I am too weak
to do any thing but listen. Indeed my poor head tells me that I ought
not to do that."
"I would not stay a moment longer on any account--not for the world,"
was Mr. Ombre's reply, gently pressing her extended hand; "I am sure I
have talked too much already. Lord Albert D'Esterre," (for it was he
who entered), "I request you will not be so agreeable as you usually
are, for our fair friend feels the effect of her accident last night;
and I am sure she ought not to be amused, unless being put to sleep
be called amusement. If I were her nurse I would prescribe a quieting
draught and bed, as to a tired child; and so I take my leave and give
my advice without any fee: it is always the cheapest thing in the world
you know;" and he went away at the very proper moment, having left
behind him the character of being the most agreeable man in the world.
"I should have come sooner," said Lord Albert, "to inquire for you,
Lady Hamlet Vernon, but I was afraid of being too early; and I really
put a restraint on my wishes in not being at your door much sooner;
for I was very anxious to know you had not suffered from the shock you
received last night."
"I have suffered, certainly," she replied, blushing, "but not to
any alarming degree; a day or two of confinement to my sofa, and Dr.
Meynell assures me I shall be quite able to go about again as usual. In
the mean time, here are my friends," pointing to the books, "who are
ever at hand to entertain me."
"And surely," Lord D'Esterre replied, "there are a thousand living
friends also, alike ready to endeavour to make the hours pass sweetly;
nevertheless, I honour those who can be independent of society for
entertainment."
Lady Hamlet Vernon saw she had guessed rightly, and went on to say,
sighing as she spoke, "The fact is, that London crowds are not society,
that the whole routine of a town life unsatisfactory; and that every
circumstance, depending upon a mere pursuit of dissipation, is in
itself necessarily an alienation, for the time at least in which we
are engaged in it, from all our higher and better enjoyments; but then
when one has lost all on whom one depended for comfort, and support,
and advice; when one is left alone, a heart-broken thing upon the wide
world, misjudged by some, condemned by many, flattered it may be by a
few, there is such a stormy ocean, such a desert waste outspread to
view, that the heart seeks refuge from the alternative in a multitude
of minor trifles, which leave no leisure to feel, still less to
reflect; and hurrying on from hour to hour, one passes life away as
chance directs."
Lady Hamlet Vernon did not know to whom she was speaking, or she would
have spoken in a very different tone. She had heard of refinement and
morality, she could even admire both; but to religious principle she
was a stranger. She paused after having uttered the last words, and,
looking in Lord Albert's countenance as she waited for a reply, read
there a varying expression, the meaning of which she was at a loss to
interpret. At last he spoke, and said with deep earnestness, which
failed not to attract her attention, although she was not prepared to
understand the import of his words:
"Is it possible! then I grieve for you indeed." As he uttered this
brief sentence he took up a book, unconscious of what he was doing; and
opening the title-page, read "Tremaine." Lady Hamlet Vernon had had
recourse to her salts, to her handkerchief; and then, as if repressing
her starting tears, she asked, "What do you think of Tremaine?--is it
not charming?--Do you know I have thought the hero was like you."
"I hope not; I would not be like that man on any account whatever."
"No!--and why?"
"Why, because I think false refinement the most wretched of human
possessions; and all refinement is false which converts enjoyment to
pain; nay, I deny that it is refinement; it is only the sophistry of a
diseased mind, the excrescence of a beautiful plant; however, the work
is a work of power, and its intention pure, though I do not think it
free from danger. But tell me, Lady Hamlet Vernon--that is, will you
give me leave to ask you a question?"
"Certainly."
"Did you ever read the third volume of Tremaine attentively through?"
She blushed a genuine blush as she replied: "_Not quite_: I am
afraid--I thought it heavy."
"You do not surprise me; the mind must come tutored to the page to
enjoy it as it ought to be enjoyed; and perhaps the fault which might
be found is precisely this, that those who would be most likely to read
it, are those who would be least likely to benefit by its perusal."
"You certainly converse, Lord Albert," said Lady Hamlet Vernon, "very
differently from any person I ever conversed with; your ideas are quite
extraordinary to me, quite new, and you have made me lose myself in a
world of thought; you make me feel that every thing I have hitherto
thought was all mistake; but you must allow me to say, that, though
willing to become your pupil, I must be somewhat instructed in this
novel language before I feel myself competent to reply."
"What I said seems to me very simple; I am not conscious of having
expressed any abstruse or recondite thoughts: at all events, I
certainly did not mean to be affected, still less impertinent--it was
something you said, which startled me, and made me feel concern, and it
might seem to you, that I evinced it with too much freedom--if I have
erred, pardon me."
"Pardon, my dear Lord! there is no question about pardoning; but I am
curious to know what made you look so very grave when I said I wished
to forget my existence, and lose all sense of what had befallen me, or
what might befall me, in the busy idleness of life--do you attach any
very dreadful idea to this declaration?"
"A very dreadful one indeed," was his reply.
"Well, then, I do begin to believe that what I heard of you was
true--you are one of the saints--I mean, one of the set of people who
go about preaching and praying all day long. But then you frequent
balls and assemblies, and are so charming, I cannot reconcile this idea
with your air, appearance, and demeanour, or with the character of
those sour, misanthropic beings: do explain to me this mystery."
"I wish I were one of those whom you so designate," said Lord Albert
D'Esterre gravely,--"but indeed I am far from being so. All I can say
to explain my meaning briefly is, that I have received a Christian and
religious education, and consequently that I think to live by chance,
and to let accident sway our actions, is a perilous state of delusion."
"What do you mean to say, Lord Albert, that you regulate all your
thoughts, words, and actions, by some strictly self-drawn line of rule?"
"Oh, Lady Hamlet Vernon, you probe my conscience, and I am thankful to
you: no, indeed, I have never yet been enabled so to do--but I wish I
could--not indeed by any self-drawn line or rule, but that by which all
ought to guide themselves."
"Well, at last I have met with one extraordinary person, and this our
conversation must be resumed; but here comes some unwelcome visitor,
and for the moment the subject must drop."
The conversation was interrupted by the announcement of Mr. Temple
Vernon. He has been already noticed as the object of Lady Tilney's
particular dislike from his independent, and, as she termed it, rude
freedom of character, and he must have been unpopular in a coterie
where studied deportment and total absence of all nature formed a
requisite merit for admission. But he was nearly allied by marriage to
Lady Hamlet Vernon, having inherited that portion of her late husband,
Lord Hamlet Vernon's property, which was not bequeathed to herself.
He was first cousin of the late Lord also, and Lady Hamlet Vernon's
jointure being paid from estates that devolved to him, she had been
condemned to keep up an intercourse which, under existing circumstances
of his _mauvaise odeur_, in her particular circle, she would gladly
have dispensed with. She however endeavoured to maintain that kind
of friendly intercourse with him, which would prevent any thing like
collision in matters where her own interest was concerned, and with
this view preferred exposing herself to harsh remarks from Lady Tilney
and others of the society, as to his admission into her house. "Ah, Mr.
Vernon, is it you," said Lady Hamlet Vernon to him as he entered; "I
hope I see you well?"
"Allow me rather to inquire, Lady Hamlet Vernon, about yourself;
I have made a _détour_ of at least two miles to satisfy my anxiety
concerning you all. London is ringing with the terrible accident which
befel you last night. Pray tell me all the particulars, and tell me too
who was the fortunate knight-errant that rendered you assistance?" Lady
Hamlet made an inclination of her head towards Lord Albert D'Esterre.
"Ah! is it so? well, he looks as if he were made for adventures,"
directing his glance towards Lord Albert. "Now, though I, poor devil
that I am, desire no happier chance, I may drive about all day or night
and no such good fortune ever betide me as delivering a lady from a
perilous accident--really, Lord Albert, I congratulate you." Lord
Albert bowed, as he replied,
"I am exceedingly happy that my servants were of any use; but indeed I
had not the good fortune you ascribe to me: for I was sitting occupied
in my library, and wholly unconscious of what passed in the street,
till Lady Hamlet Vernon was brought into the house."
"Indeed, is it so? well, I have heard it said through the whole town,
that Lady Hamlet Vernon's horses ran away, that the coachman was dashed
from his box, and that some _preux chevalier_ had seized the horses
in their course, and though nearly annihilated himself, had succeeded
in his desperate efforts to stop them; whereas I am happy to see my
Lord is safe and sound. Lady Hamlet, I rejoice to find very little the
worse, and the long paragraph in the Morning Post all a lie. Well,
there is only one thing to be done under these circumstances, which is
to set the story right by a counter-statement, and therefore pray do
tell me all the particulars."
Lady Hamlet Vernon smiled, with constrained complacency, saying, "you
may tell the fact, Mr. Vernon, if you chuse to take the trouble, which
is simply this;--that on returning home my coachman was drunk, and
upset my carriage; and the accident happened close to Lord Albert
D'Esterre's door, so that I was borne into his house, and received
there every kind attention."
"But," enquired Mr. Temple Vernon, who had listened with evident
eagerness to the recital, "where were you going?--whence were you
coming?--for all these particulars are of importance."
"Oh! home."
"Good heavens, home! and at the early hour of twelve?"
"Yes."
"But where were you coming from?"
"Oh! we had been dining at Sir William Temple's."
"Ah, and is that really so? was all that Temple said at the clubs
yesterday morning really true? Did you, and the Tilney, and the
Leinsengen, and I don't know who else, dine with him? Well, that is
really too good--why no room in London will hold Temple after this. He
was always insufferable, even before he was promoted in the world; and
now that affairs have taken this favourable turn, heaven knows what he
will become; why he'll burst like the frog in the fable. But I am very
sorry, for his dinners were good dinners in their way; now, however,
they will be intolerable, for they will consist in every course of
_réchauffés_ of what Lady Tilney admired, or did, or said--do tell me
how the affair went off."
"Indeed, Mr. Temple Vernon, I cannot talk more to-day; rather I pray
you tell me some news--how did the D'Hermanton's party end?"
"Well then, if you so command it, let us turn to my note
book"--affecting to read, as he counted over his fingers, "Lady Tilney
was _not_ at the Duchess of D'Hermanton's; Lady Ellersby _was_, but
only walked through the apartments; Lady Boileau went no further
than the first room; item, Mr. Pierpoint did not either; neither did
Comtesse Leinsengen, who sat all the evening by Lord Baskerville, but
spoke little; the Duke of Mercington only shewed his waistcoat, and
then departed: all of which I hold to be signs that portend dark doings
in the court of Denmark. Now this I think is a correct _résume_ of the
Hermanton 'at home.' As to the politics of the last evening, it is
confidently stated that the Duke of ---- has some famous bird-lime,
called expediency, which will catch a vast number of young birds,"
turning at the same time to Lord Albert, "is it not so, my Lord?"
"Mr. Temple Vernon seems so perfectly master of every body's
intentions and affairs, that I scarcely know, in his presence, whether
or not I am master of my own."
"The fact is, my good Lord, that nobody knows what they are going to do
(if they will only confess the truth) for two minutes together."
"In one sense that is true enough, Mr. Temple Vernon, for we intend
many things which we never do, and _vice versâ_; nevertheless our will
is free, and fortunately not always under the direction of others to
guide it for us."
"Oh! this is becoming too deep for me," interrupted Lady Hamlet Vernon.
"And for me too," replied Mr. Temple Vernon, "as I have a thousand
things to do before seven, and it is now past four o'clock; however
I leave Lady Hamlet Vernon with less regret, knowing she has so
entertaining a companion as Lord D'Esterre." This was said very
ironically, and as the latter quickly perceived all the monkey malice
of the man, he disarmed it of its sting by rising to depart, saying:
"Lady Hamlet Vernon has far more entertaining companions lying on her
table, than are generally to be met with among London idlers; and not
to prove myself one of these, I must make my bow without further delay,
trusting soon to have the pleasure of seeing her once more, in the gay
scenes in which she is so fair an ornament;" and again bowing to Mr.
Temple Vernon, he departed before the latter could leave the room.
"Well, my dear Lady, you owe me something, I am sure, for having rid
you from the presence of that formal personage." Lady Hamlet Vernon did
not look as if she agreed with him, but forced a smile as she replied:
"I like variety in character and manners; the world would grow dull, if
every one were cut out on the same pattern."
"I am glad to hear you say that, my dear Lady Hamlet Vernon, for that
is exactly what I think; and, therefore, I have always held off from
the tyranny, which goes to make every body subscribe to the same code
in manners, dress, hours, nay even language; and at least, my coat, my
neckcloth, my hair, is all after a cut of my own, and I find all does
vastly well; for if the world does not approve the one or like the
other, they are at least afraid of me, because I think for myself. This
answers my purpose precisely as well. But you look serious, I see, and
therefore I will follow my Lord Albert D'Esterre's inimitable example,
and leaving my last sentence in the tablets of your memory, farewell,
most fair and fascinating lady. One word more I beg to add, remember
that I wish exceedingly to go to Lady Tilney's next Friday, and I leave
my wish in the hands of the kindest and fairest of the daughters of
Eve. I _depend_ upon your managing it for me."
"Oh! certainly, nothing is easier you know, you are always _le bien
venu_, I wonder that you can make this request a favour."
"Ah! all that is very well from your lips, but you know, although
I am the most admired man about town, I am sometimes by some chance
forgotten. It is very odd that it should be so, but nevertheless it is
often unjustly the case; and I correct fortune by such applications as
the one I have just made to you; and now _je vous baise les mains_ in
the D'Esterre phraseology, though I would much rather do so in reality,
and so farewell most fair."
"Depend upon me," replied Lady Hamlet Vernon, kissing her hand to him
as he left the room. "Depend upon my hating you most cordially," she
said to herself; as her head sank on the pillow of her sofa, and she
tried to shut out from her recollection all his ill-timed _bavardage_,
and to recal the strange but eloquent converse of the interesting Lord
D'Esterre.