PERVERSENESS.
A few days after I sent my letter to Carlo, the long-dreaded event
occurred. A special messenger arrived to inform Mr. Mordaunt that Mr.
Vivian was in London, and intended to come and take possession of
Langdale Priory. The messenger also brought a letter from Mr. Graspem,
which, with many murmuring and angry speeches, Mr. Mordaunt showed me.
“I suppose you won’t understand it? Women never can comprehend lawyers’
letters, or anything about business--of course you can’t; and this is a
most confounded and infernal--beg your pardon, but it is the worst piece
of business I ever came across. I see you don’t understand it. Well, I
commissioned Graspem to do all he could for you, and, you see, he gives
some hope that you and your mother will obtain a small income.”
“But if we have no right to any, how can Mr. Graspem do this?”
“Because, as widow, she must be entitled to some provision or jointure;
and though, you see, he says that he does not like the looks of Mr.
Vivian, and has no opinion of his man of business, who came with him to
England, still, something must be done; and Mr. Henry Mordaunt is also
most anxious that a suitable arrangement should be made for both you and
your mother.”
“We will take nothing from him, I am determined,” I replied, with proud
defiance.
“Of course not, my dear young lady--not from him, no; but you and your
mother are fairly, in common justice, entitled to a settlement. It
must--it shall be; and if Graspem does not secure it for you, I give him
up.”
I found that Mrs. Chandos (at Norah’s suggestion, I concluded) had made
Mrs. Mordaunt promise that we should all go there for a few days
whenever we left the Priory--in fact, they wished us to stay at Chandos
Mount until Mr. Mordaunt had found a house to suit him either in London
or some other place.
This plan, and my sudden affection for Norah, somewhat mitigated the
pang of leaving my own beautiful home; yet still I felt most miserable,
and as we drove away through the lovely park, I thought I could never be
happy again. I could not even cry; a sort of dull despair seemed for the
present time to numb all my faculties.
Since Carlo no longer cared for me, and I was destined never to see my
father’s loved home again, I seemed to have lost all interest in life.
Even the cheering affection of Norah, and Mrs. Chandos’s elaborate
attempt to do the right thing towards me, failed to revive my spirits,
and I scarcely remarked her shortcomings or vulgarities.
As long as we had remained at the Priory, I suppose I never fully
realised that I had lost it, and I only now began to lose all hope, and
understand the full extent of the misfortune; so I wasted those few days
when, had I been less stupidly absorbed in my selfish misery, the pure
and soothing words and looks of Norah would have done me infinite good.
However, the after-impressions they made were not lost, for long
afterwards they returned, like the recollection of some pleasant dream.
But I was thus getting hardened and utterly insensible to any good
influence. Mr. Mordaunt did not accompany us to Chandos Mount, but went
straight to London, to look for a house, and see what Graspem was doing
about my affairs.
At the end of a week he arrived, and informed me that an arrangement had
been made; and that in fact, he said, “you are of course entitled to the
small pittance of a hundred a year, and your mother will have two
hundred a year paid to her regularly as long as she lives. So now, you
see, my dear young lady, you will at any rate be independent, and can
either live with your mother or with us, which we should much prefer. In
fact, our cousin Lady Horatia Somerton, who saw you at your convent in
Paris, has set her heart on taking you out in London.”
“Lady Horatia Somerton; oh, I remember--handsome, tall, and dark. Ah,
yes, she did seem to like or admire me, now I remember.”
“Yes, and she says you would be quite the reigning beauty if she were to
introduce you; so you really can’t do better, and then you will marry
some rich man of high rank, and get perhaps a finer place of your own
than the Priory after all.”
“And Carlo!” I thought, as the vision of possible splendour rose before
me.
“Well, if Carlo really does not care for me, it may be well to show him
that others do, and now I should be loved for myself alone.”
I had confessed to Norah my affection for Carlo, but I did not breathe a
word of this new ambitious thought and wish into her ears. I was silent
and reserved during the remainder of the visit, and she saw that she
had less power to amuse or cheer me than before my uncle’s return,
although she knew that he brought comparatively good news. But I
instinctively felt that she was too pure and good to understand, or
rather to tolerate, the evil and ambitious feelings which seemed to have
corrupted my nature, and I shrank from the pure, lovely expression of
her eyes.
And so the last hour arrived, and all her dear kind efforts to make me
speak or tell her my real thoughts or feelings were unavailing.
“But you will write to me,” she said, “will you not?--and pray tell me
sometimes your real thoughts; won’t you? Oh, if you could but see Aunt
Jane, I am sure she would do you good, for you do want some good.”
“That I do indeed, but I feel so wicked that even Aunt Jane could have
no influence over me.”
“Oh, yes, she could and so could I; now that you feel conscious of not
thinking quite right.”
I shook my head, but I kissed her with real affection, and the first
tears I had shed since I left the Priory left the traces on her pretty
cheeks. And she wept too, not, as she often told me, so much from grief
at my departure, as for joy at seeing that I was at last touched, and my
prideful, rebellious feelings were softened.
Mr. Mordaunt had not yet found a house to suit them, so we were going on
a visit to our cousin, Lady Horatia; and she was going to give a grand
ball the following week.
She had married two daughters very successfully, Mr. Mordaunt told me;
and now she had only one left, who was not yet out. Lady Horatia
Somerton was said to be very worldly, but I believe it was only because
she fully enjoyed the world, and more particularly the London world, the
peculiarly exclusive world of London society in those days.
I mean that she was apparently devoid of the meanness which generally
accompanies and is a part of worldliness. She fully enjoyed agreeable
society; she liked to be admired, and, above all, she liked to be
successful--to have the pleasantest people, without caring much whether
they were either rich or titled,--to pass through life on the agreeable
wings of pleasant companionship, and to hover above the realities and
cares of existence, without being distressed much by anything. She had
sufficient feeling to take a kindly interest in the concerns of her
friends and acquaintances, without sharing their deeper sorrows. She had
a fair share of beauty, with fair health and an even temper; and was
full of all the qualities of a good chaperon, for she was never tired,
and seldom bored.
But there were not so many bores admitted into the exclusive society of
those days as there have been since. In fact, London society may well be
described in Lord Houghton’s description of “Miss Berry’s Parties,”
where
“None were sad, and few were dull.”
And where
“No taunt or scoff obscured the wit,
That there rejoiced to reign;
They never could have laughed at it,
If it had carried pain.
“There needless scandal, e’en though true,
Provoked no bitter smile,
And even men of fashion grew
Benignant for awhile.”
I had never been in London before (for it was already night when we
passed through on our way from Folkestone to the Priory), and all the
dingy and miserable looks of the suburbs, the straight rows of
melancholy streets, made me very sad. A kind of listless ill-humour was
added to my mood of rebellious despair, as we drove up to Lady Horatia’s
house in Cavendish Square. She was not at home, but we were shown up
into the drawing-room, which was full of good pictures, and old china,
and curiosities, and had an air of refinement and good taste, which
somewhat revived my spirits.
We had scarcely time to look at the pictures by my favourite old
artists, before Lady Horatia came home; and there was something in the
tone of her voice, and the hearty greeting she gave us, that revived me
still more. After kissing me, with an approving nod, she led me to the
window, and then scanned me from head to foot, as if I were a picture.
“Delightful!” was her exclamation, after a long pause. “She will make
the greatest sensation anyone has made since the little Bramham girl.
She shall--she must go with me to the Duke of D----’s ball to-morrow
night. Yes; don’t say a word. I’ll write a note this moment, and say I
shall bring you. And now about your dress. Ah! I thought you would have
none that would do. I will see to that, and consult with Adèle. Now take
off your bonnet, and let me look at your hair. Splendid! Of course you
dress it yourself? Yes, stick to that; never let anyone touch that hair
of yours, because I see by your eyes you have good taste and
originality. Now you only want one thing to make you perfect.”
“What is that?” I asked, with some curiosity.
“What you had by nature, but have lately lost--happiness. Of course you
cannot get over your misfortunes all at once; but you must remember
that it is well known, and you will be pointed out as the great heiress
who lost all her fortune, and therefore (don’t interrupt me) you must
show people that you are above minding it.” Then, turning to Mrs.
Mordaunt, she said, “It would have been too much--that beauty with a
fortune besides. She will have endless offers; and will have the
satisfaction that she is loved for herself alone.”
I scarcely knew whether to be pleased or affronted at her observations;
but there was something in the genial expression of her face and
melodious sound of her voice that cheered me in spite of myself, and I
felt that I ought to be pleased at the notice and the interest she
seemed so causelessly and unexpectedly to have taken in me. For I had
heard that the Duke of D----’s parties were considered the best in
London. Norah told me that, as a great favour, she had been taken to one
by her aunt early in the season, and she knew numbers of people who were
dying to get invitations, and had no chance; therefore it was certainly
very kind of Lady Horatia to take me there. Still I made some objection.
I had never been at any ball, and never seen any other dancing than the
girls in the convent with our dancing-master.
“Very glad you have not--it will be all the more new and enjoyable for
you.” And she clapped her hands with glee.