The volumes of sketches of fashionable life with this quaint title
will serve to amuse a few inveterate novel-readers; while occasional
pages may induce others to take up the thread of the narrative. The
flying follies of high life, or rather, we think, of affected ton,
are hit off with truth and vigour, and there is a pleasantry in
the writer's style which is an acceptable relief to the dulness of
common-place details. We shall endeavour to detach a scene or two,
one, as a specimen of "the art of ingeniously tormenting," and the
incipient waywardness of a newly-married pair.
"From the first months of his domestication with his wife at Wellwood
Abbey, Sir Henry Wellwood had intended, had _longed_, to commence his
little system of tender remonstrance; but the slightest insinuation
of a difference of opinion was sufficient to fan the embers of
Henrietta's distemperature into a conflagration. The blaze was not
strong, indeed; for the lady had always been accustomed to find a fit
of wilfulness, or of affected despondency, more available and becoming
than one of hasty anger. But she was tolerably expert in those piquant
flippancies of speech which harass the enemy like a straggling fire;
and could contrive, when it suited her purpose, to make herself as
disagreeable as if her face had not been that of a cherub, or her
voice seraphic.
"'A woman,' quoth La Bruyère, 'must be charming indeed, whose husband
does not repent, ten times a day, that he is a married man.' Sir Henry
Wellwood would have scoffed at the axiom. The 'idol of his soul' was
still an idol; although, like the votaries of old, he had managed to
discover that it was not wholly formed of precious metals; that its
feet were of clay! He still fancied himself the happiest of mortals;
particularly when Henrietta, in her best looks and spirits, was riding
by his side through the Wellwood plantations, listening to the project
of his intended improvements;--or seated in her boudoir sketching
designs and modelling plans for his two new lodges. Sometimes after
dinner she would busy herself with her guitar, and insist on his
attempting a second to her Italian notturno; sometimes she persuaded
him to lend her his arm towards the village, to assist in executing
that easy work of benevolence, the deplenishment of her silken purse.
At such, moments she was indeed enchanting;--and the fascinated
Wellwood was quite willing to echo the chorus of Mrs. Delafield's
visiters, that he had 'drawn a prize.'
"But the sands of life are not formed exclusively of diamond sparks.
Flint and granite mingle in the contents of the hour-glass; and Sir
Henry often found himself required to listen to fractious complaints
of old Roddington's innovations, of Lawford's negligence--of roses
that would not blow at the gardener's bidding,--of London booksellers,
who would not send down the new novels in proper time,--of old women
who refused to be cured of their rheumatism, and young ones
who declined becoming scholars at her platting school. His own
misdemeanours, too, were frequent and unpardonable. He had a knack of
carrying off the very volume she was reading,--of losing _her_ place,
and leaving his own marked by leaving the unfortunate book sprawling
upon its face on the table, like a drunkard on the ground. He often
kept her waiting five minutes for her ride, or twenty for dinner;
would stop and detain her, in their walks, while he corrected the
practical blunders of some superannuated hedger and ditcher; had a
trick of whipping off the thistle-tops while driving her in the garden
chair, to the imminent indignation of her ponies; was sometimes seen
to nod after dinner, when the morning's run had been a good one; and
had an opinion of his own in politics, which precisely reversed those
of Lady Mandeville and her coterie.--In a word, he was often very
'tiresome!' and whenever the fair Henrietta was excited into
pronouncing that sentence on his proceedings, it was a signal for
ill-humour for the remainder of the day; or rather till the spoiled
child would condescend to be coaxed into a more satisfactory mood of
mind."
But we are more struck with the appalling fidelity of the following
scene in a tale named _the Divorcee_. The heroine, Amelia, is married
in early life to a Mr. Allanby, "a man with 10,000l. per annum,
and a grey pigtail:" the match turns out a miserable one: Amelia's
dishonour by Vavasor Kendal, her divorce, and Mr. Allanby's death are
told in a few pages--the guilty pair, Vavasor and Amelia, flee to
Paris, and we are introduced to this faithful picture of Parisian
vice:--
"The infirmity of Amelia's health served at least to release her from
those forced efforts of gaiety which had recoiled so heavily on her
feelings. Her day for vivacity was gone.--In an atmosphere whose
buoyancy is exhausted, the feather falls as heavily as the plummet.
"But instead of commiserating the languor and feebleness extending
from the physical to the moral existence of the invalid, Vavasor only
made her dulness an excuse for flying to the relief of society more
congenial with his own tendency to vice and folly. Lady Emlyn who
in London was the leader of a coterie devoted to the excitements of
high-play,--a coterie that felt privileged to inveigh with horror
against 'gambling,' because its members ventured their thousands
on games where cunning tempers the fortuities of chance,--on the
manoeuvres of écarté and whist instead of the dare-all risks of
hazard and rouge-et-noir,--had now removed her card-table from
Grosvenor-square to a splendid hotel in the Rue Rivoli; where she had
the honour of assembling, twice a week, a larger proportion of the
idle and licentious of the exclusive caste, than could be found in any
other suite of drawing-rooms in civilized Europe. Her _salon_ was in
fact crowded with busy ranks of those swindlers of distinction who,
in opposition to their brethren of lower pretensions, (the chevaliers
d'industrie), ought surely to be termed the chevaliers de la paresse.
Among these, the brilliant air and lively effrontery of Captain Kendal
secured him a warm acceptance; and by frequenting the circle of Lady
Emlyn, he had not only the gratification of escaping from the insipid
mediocrity of the home his vices had created, but acquired the power
of indulging in others which were now still dearer to his heart.
"Vavasor Kendal was an expert player. Like other frigid egotists, his
head and heart were always at leisure; and his successes had been
the means, on more than one occasion, of extending his means of
disgraceful enjoyment. At least, however, his career lay on the
verge of a precipice; for playing at a stake beyond the limit of his
fortune, a single faltering step might at any hour precipitate him
into an abyss of shame and ruin. Amelia was often tempted to doubt
whether she had more cause to dread that intoxication of triumph,
which induced him to still further excesses, or the reverses tending
to aggravate the violence of temper to which she was an habitual
victim. The fluctuating fortunes of the gamester,--his losses or
gains,--were equally a source of suffering to herself. But the
Carnival was drawing to a close; she soon began ardently to wish that
his sister might grow weary of the increasing dulness of the French
capital, and migrate among other swallows of the season, in search of
new pleasures.
"Long had she been in expectation of an announcement to this effect,
when one night,--a cold cheerless night in March,--Vavasor exceeded
even his ordinary period of absence. The habitually dissolute of Paris
rarely keep late hours. Vice does not form with _them_, as with the
English _roue_, an occasional excess, but is consistent and regular
in its habits. Captain Kendal usually returned home between two and
three; and Amelia was accustomed to sit up, and by her own services
lighten the labours of their scanty establishment. It was _she_, the
invalid, who was careful to keep up light and fire for the tyrant of
the domestic hearth.
"But on this occasion two o'clock came,--three, four, five
o'clock,--and no Vavasor. Hour after hour she listened to the chime of
the gaudy timepiece decorating their shabby apartment; and while the
night advanced, in all its chilly, lonely, comfortless protraction,
shivered as she added new logs to the dying embers, and as she hoped
or despaired of his return, alternately replaced the veilleuse by
candles, the candles by a veilleuse. She had already assumed her
night-apparel; and alter wandering like an unquiet spirit from her own
apartment to the sitting-room and back again, a thousand, thousand
times,--after reclining her exhausted frame and throbbing head against
the door of the ante-room, in the trust of catching the sound of his
well-known step upon the stairs, she threw herself down on the
sofa for a moment's respite. But in a few minutes she started up
again.--Surely that was _his_ voice, which reached her from some
passenger in the street below, some passenger humming an air from the
new Opera, according to Vavasor's custom, when returning flushed with
the excitement of success? Again and hurriedly did she prepare for his
reception,--again place his chair by the fire, his slippers beside
it; and stand with a beating heart and suspended breath, to await the
entrance of the truant. But, no! it was _not_ him. The wanderer had
hastened onwards to some happier home. The street was quiet again. She
would take a book and strive to beguile the tediousness of suspense.
"Dreary indeed is that hour of the twenty-four which may be said to
afford the true division between night and day; when even the latest
watcher has retired to rest, while the earliest artisans scarcely
yet rouse themselves for the renewal of their struggle with
existence;--when even the studious, the sorrowing, and the dissipated,
close their over-wearied eyes;--and when those who 'do lack, and
suffer hunger,' enjoy that Heaven-vouchsafed stupor affording the only
interim to their consciousness of want and woe. The winds whistle more
shrilly in the stillness of that lonely hour. Man and beast are in
their lair, and unearthly things alone seem stirring;--the good genius
glides with a holy and hallowing influence through the tranquil
dwelling of virtue; the demon grins and gibbers in the deserted but
reeking chambers of the vicious. Even sorrow has phantoms of its own;
and when Amelia found herself a lonely watcher in the stillness of
night, the kind voice of old Allanby,--the voice that was wont of yore
to bid her speak her bosom's wish that it might be granted,--often
seemed creeping into the inmost cell of her ear. She could fancy him
close beside her,--taunting her,--touching her,--till, starting from
her seat, she strove to shake off the hideous delusion. Sometimes
the soft cordial tones of her mother,--her mother, who was in the
grave,--seemed again dispensing those lessons of virtue of which
her own life had afforded so pure an example: sometimes the playful
caresses of her boys seemed to grow warm upon her lips--around her
neck. Yes! she could hear them, see them:--little Charles, who, in
his very babyhood, had been accustomed to uplift his tiny arm in
championship of his own dear mother;--Digby, the soft, tender,
loving infant, whose every look was a smile, whose every action an
endearment!--And now they appeared to pass before her as strangers;
changed--matured--enlightened;--without one word of fondness--one
gesture of recognition!
"From such meditations, how horrible to start up amid the dreariness
of night, nor find a human heart unto which to appeal for comfort,--a
human voice from which to claim reply in annihilation of the spell
that transfixed her mind. The cold cheerless room, the flickering
light, the desolation that was around her, struck more heavily than
ever on her heart. 'Oh! that this were an omen!' she cried, with
clasping hands, as she listened to the howling of the wind upon the
lofty staircase leading to their remote apartments. Drawing closer
over her bosom the wrapper by which she attempted to exclude the
piercing night-air, Amelia smiled at the thought of the chilliness of
the grave,--of the grave, where the heart beats not, and the fixed
glassy eye is incapable of tears.
"'I shall lie among the multitudes of a strange country,' faltered
she; 'there will be no one to point out with officious finger to my
sons, the dishonoured resting-place of their mother,--their _divorced_
mother! Vavasor will be freed from his bondage--free to choose anew,
and commence H more auspicious career. But for me he might have been a
different being. It is _I_ who have hardened his heart and seared his
mind. And oh! may Heaven in its mercy touch them,--that he may deal
gently with me during the last short remnant of our union!'
"A harsh sound interrupted her contemplations;--the grating of his key
in the outer door,--of his step in the ante-room. Mechanically she
rose, and advanced to meet the truant who had kept her watching,--who
had so _often_ kept her watching,--so often been forgiven. A momentary
glimpse of his countenance convinced her that he was in no mood even
to wish for indulgence. His brow was black--his eyes red and glaring.
After a terrified pause, she tendered him her assistance to unclasp
his cloak; but with a deadly execration he rejected the offer.
"'Are the servants up?' said he sullenly.
"'Not yet.'
"'So much the better! I must be off before they are on the move.'
"'Off? Vavasor!--for the love of Heaven--'
"'Be still! Do not harass me with your nonsense. I was a fool to come
here at all; only it may be necessary for you to know explicitly to
what you may trust for the future.'
"Amelia sank stupefied into a chair.
"'In one word, I am a ruined man. To-night's losses have made me
as hopeless as I ought to have been long ago. I have lost--but no
matter!--I know I played like a fool. What is to be expected from
a miserable dog like me, who has thrown away his prospects, and
is harassed with all sorts of cares and annoyances?--No
matter!--To-morrow the thing will be blown; and before my creditors
get wind of the business I shall be half way to Brussels.'
"'To Brussels?' faltered Amelia.
"'Of course it is out of the question hampering myself with companions
of any kind at such a moment. Besides, my sister has only afforded me
the means of getting out of the scrape, on condition that _you_ return
to England to your family. I have no longer the power of maintaining
you; but if you are inclined to co-operate in the only plan that can
save us both from starving, Sophia will secure you an allowance of
fifty or sixty pounds a year.'
"Amelia was silent.
"If not, you must take your chance; for I can do nothing further for
you. For Heaven's sake don't treat me with a scene; for I have only a
few minutes to pack up my property! The fiacre is waiting; there
is not a moment to lose. Well, Amelia! what do you say?--I want an
answer. Do you, or do you not choose to go to England?'
"Amelia made an affirmative movement;--she could not utter a
syllable. And Vavasor instantly passed into his own room to make his
preparations for immediate flight.--She never knew in what manner
he took his last leave of her. When the servants proceeded to their
occupations on the following morning, they found her insensible on the
ground; but when restored to consciousness, the continued absence of
her husband and a note of five hundred franks which he had deposited
in her work-box for the purpose of enabling her to quit Paris, served
to prove that the dreadful impression on her mind was not a mere
delusion of the night. Alas! she was soon compelled to admit that she
had looked upon him for the last time."
* * * * *