When I mentioned the three ladies, I said they were fashionable women;
and it was all the praise, as a faithful historian, I could bestow on
them; the only thing in which they were consistent. I forgot to mention
that they were all of one family, a mother, her daughter, and niece. The
daughter was sent by her physician, to avoid a northerly winter; the
mother, her niece, and nephew, accompanied her.
They were people of rank; but unfortunately, though of an ancient
family, the title had descended to a very remote branch--a branch they
took care to be intimate with; and servilely copied the Countess's
airs. Their minds were shackled with a set of notions concerning
propriety, the fitness of things for the world's eye, trammels which
always hamper weak people. What will the world say? was the first thing
that was thought of, when they intended doing any thing they had not
done before. Or what would the Countess do on such an occasion? And when
this question was answered, the right or wrong was discovered without
the trouble of their having any idea of the matter in their own heads.
This same Countess was a fine planet, and the satellites observed a most
harmonic dance around her.
After this account it is scarcely necessary to add, that their minds had
received very little cultivation. They were taught French, Italian, and
Spanish; English was their vulgar tongue. And what did they learn?
Hamlet will tell you--words--words. But let me not forget that they
squalled Italian songs in the true _gusto_. Without having any seeds
sown in their understanding, or the affections of the heart set to work,
they were brought out of their nursery, or the place they were secluded
in, to prevent their faces being common; like blazing stars, to
captivate Lords.
They were pretty, and hurrying from one party of pleasure to another,
occasioned the disorder which required change of air. The mother, if we
except her being near twenty years older, was just the same creature;
and these additional years only served to make her more tenaciously
adhere to her habits of folly, and decide with stupid gravity, some
trivial points of ceremony, as a matter of the last importance; of
which she was a competent judge, from having lived in the fashionable
world so long: that world to which the ignorant look up as we do to the
sun.
It appears to me that every creature has some notion--or rather relish,
of the sublime. Riches, and the consequent state, are the sublime of
weak minds:--These images fill, nay, are too big for their narrow souls.
One afternoon, which they had engaged to spend together, Ann was so ill,
that Mary was obliged to send an apology for not attending the
tea-table. The apology brought them on the carpet; and the mother, with
a look of solemn importance, turned to the sick man, whose name was
Henry, and said;
"Though people of the first fashion are frequently at places of this
kind, intimate with they know not who; yet I do not choose that my
daughter, whose family is so respectable, should be intimate with any
one she would blush to know elsewhere. It is only on that account, for I
never suffer her to be with any one but in my company," added she,
sitting more erect; and a smile of self-complacency dressed her
countenance.
"I have enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one who
has the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune."
"Lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:" mamma went on; "She is a romantic
creature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of the
large fortune in ----shire, of which you may remember to have heard the
Countess speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so much
admired; but she is married."
She then told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, who
picked it out of Mary's servant. "She is a foolish creature, and this
friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of
quality, is a beggar." "Well, how strange!" cried the girls.
"She is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew. Henry sighed,
and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and
played the air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praise
it.
The music was uncommonly melodious, "And came stealing on the senses
like the sweet south." The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat by
her friend--she listened without knowing that she did--and shed tears
almost without being conscious of it. Ann soon fell asleep, as she had
taken an opiate. Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine
she had deceived herself--Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many
heavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting this
welcome guest.--And she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety,
that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid.
No sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look,
to enquire of the ladies who she should send for. When she entered the
room she could not articulate her fears--it appeared like pronouncing
Ann's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken
words, and she remained silent. The ladies wondered that a person of her
sense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administer
some common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the
will of Heaven, and the like trite consolations, which Mary did not
answer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed,
"I cannot live without her!--I have no other friend; if I lose her, what
a desart will the world be to me." "No other friend," re-echoed they,
"have you not a husband?"
Mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and red. A delicate sense of
propriety prevented her replying; and recalled her bewildered
reason.--Assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more composed
manner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room. Henry's eyes
followed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strange
behaviour.