“On peut étre plus fin qu’un autre, mais pas plus fin que tous les
autres.”--ROCHEFOUCAULT.
The following paragraph[8] extracted from the newspapers of the day,
will, doubtless, be acceptable to a large class of readers.
“FASHIONABLE HYMENEALS.
“Yesterday, Sir John Hunter, of Hunter Hall, Devonshire, Bart., led to
the hymeneal altar the accomplished Mrs. Beaumont, relict of the late
Colonel Beaumont, of Beaumont Park. On the same day her son and daughter
were also married--Mr. Beaumont to Miss Walsingham, daughter of E.
Walsingham, Esq., of Walsingham House;--and Miss Beaumont to Captain
Walsingham of the navy, a near relation of Edward Walsingham, Esq., of
Walsingham House.
“These nuptials in the Beaumont family were graced by an overflowing
concourse of beauty, nobility, and fashion, comprehending all the
relations, connexions, intimate friends, and particular acquaintances
of the interesting and popular Mrs. Beaumont. The cavalcade reached
from the principal front of the house to the south gate of the park, a
distance of three-quarters of a mile. Mrs. Beaumont and her daughter,
two lovely brides, in a superb landau, were attired in the most elegant,
becoming, fashionable, and costly manner, their dress consisting of the
finest lace, over white satin. Mrs. Beaumont’s was point lace, and she
was also distinguished by a long veil of the most exquisite texture,
which added a tempered grace to beauty in its meridian. In the same
landau appeared the charming brides’-maids, all in white, of course.
Among these, Miss Hunter attracted particular attention, by the felicity
of her costume. Her drapery, which was of delicate lace, being happily
adapted to show to the greatest advantage the captivating contour of
her elegant figure, and ornamented with white silk fringe and tassels,
marked every airy motion of her sylph-like form.
“The third bride on this auspicious day was Miss Walsingham, who, with
her father and bride’s-maids, followed in Mr. Walsingham’s carriage.
Miss Walsingham, we are informed, was dressed with simple elegance,
in the finest produce of the Indian loom; but, as she was in a covered
carriage, we could not obtain a full view of her attire. Next to the
brides’ equipages, followed the bridegrooms’. And chief of these Sir
John Hunter sported a splendid barouche. He was dressed in the height of
the ton, and his horses deserved particular admiration. After Sir John’s
barouche came the equipage belonging to Mr. Beaumont, highly finished
but plain: in this were the two bridegrooms, Mr. Beaumont and Captain
Walsingham, accompanied by Mr. Palmer (the great West-Indian Palmer),
who, we understand, is the intimate friend and relative of the Beaumont
family. Then followed, as our correspondent counted, above a hundred
carriages of distinction, with a prodigious cavalcade of gentry. The
whole was closed by a long line of attendants and domestics. The moment
the park gates were opened, groups of young girls of the Beaumont
tenantry, habited in white, with knots of ribands, and emblematical
devices suited to the occasion, and with baskets of flowers in their
hands, began to strew vegetable incense before the brides, especially
before Mrs. Beaumont’s landau.
‘And whilst the priests accuse the bride’s delay,
Roses and myrtles still obstruct her way.’
“The crowd, which assembled as they proceeded along the road to the
church, and in the churchyard, was such that, however gratefully
it evinced the popularity of the amiable parties, it became at last
evidently distressing to the principal object of their homage--Mrs.
Beaumont, who could not have stood the gaze of public admiration but
for the friendly and becoming, yet tantalizing refuge of her veil.
Constables were obliged to interfere to clear the path to the church
door, and the amiable almost fainting lady was from the arms of
her anxious and alarmed bride’s-maids lifted out of her landau, and
supported into the church and up the aisle with all the marked gallantry
of true tenderness, by her happy bridegroom, Sir John Hunter.
“After the ceremony was over, Sir John and Lady Hunter, and the two
other new-married couples, returned to Beaumont Park with the _cortège_
of their friends, where the company partook of an elegant collation. The
artless graces and fascinating affability of Lady Hunter won all hearts;
and the wit, festive spirits, and politeness of Sir John, attracted
universal admiration--not to say envy, of all present. Immediately after
the collation, the happy couple set off for their seat at Hunter Hall.
“Mr. Beaumont, and the new Mrs. Beaumont, remained at Beaumont Park.
Captain and Mrs. Walsingham repaired to Mr. Walsingham’s.
“It is a singular circumstance, communicated to us by the indisputable
authority of one of the bride’s-maids, that Miss Walsingham, as it was
discovered after the ceremony, was actually married with her gown the
wrong side outwards. Whether this be an omen announcing good fortune to
_all_ the parties concerned, we cannot take upon us to determine; but
this much we may safely assert, that never distinguished female in the
annals of fashion was married under more favourable auspices than the
amiable Lady Hunter. And it is universally acknowledged, that no lady
is better suited to be, as in the natural course of things she will soon
be, Countess of Puckeridge, and at the head of the great Wigram estate.”
* * * * *
So ends our newspaper writer.
Probably this paragraph was sent to the press before the _fashionable
hymeneals_ had actually taken place. This may in some measure account
for the extraordinary omissions in the narrative. After the three
marriages had been solemnized, just when the ceremony was over, and Lady
Hunter was preparing to receive the congratulations of the brilliant
congregation, she observed that the clergyman, instead of shutting his
book, kept it open before him, and looked round as if expecting another
bride. Mrs. Beaumont, we should say Lady Hunter, curtsied to him,
smiled, and made a sign that the ceremony was finished; but at this
instant, to her astonishment, she saw her bride’s-maid, Miss Hunter,
quit her place, and beheld Captain Lightbody seize her hand, and lead
her up towards the altar. Lady Hunter broke through the crowd that was
congratulating her, and reaching Miss Hunter, drew her hack forcibly,
and whispered, “Are you mad, Miss Hunter? Is this a place, a time for
frolic? What are you about?”
“Going to be married, ma’am! following your ladyship’s good example,”
answered her bride’s-maid, flippantly,--at the same time springing
forward from the detaining grasp, regardless even of the rent she made
in her lace dress, she hurried, or was hurried on by Captain Lightbody.
“Captain Lightbody!” cried Lady Hunter; but, answering only with a
triumphant bow, he passed on with his bride.
“Heavens! will nobody stop him?” cried Lady Hunter, over-taking them
again as they reached the steps. She addressed herself to the clergyman.
“Sir, she is a ward in chancery, and under my protection: they have
no licence; their banns have not been published: you cannot, dare not,
surely, marry them?”
“Pardon me, Lady Hunter,” said Captain Lightbody; “I have shown Mr.
Twigg my licence.”
“I have seen it--I thought it was with your ladyship’s knowledge,”
replied Mr. Twigg. “I--I cannot object--it would be at my own peril. If
there is any lawful impediment, your ladyship will make it at the proper
response.”
A friend of Captain Lightbody’s appeared in readiness to give the young
lady away.
“The ceremony must go on, madam,” said the clergyman.
“At your peril, sir!” said Lady Hunter. “This young lady, is a ward of
chancery, and not of age!”
“I am of age--of age last month,” cried the bride.
“Not till next year.”
“Of age last month. I have the parish register,” said Captain Lightbody.
“Go on, sir, if you please.”
“Good Heavens! Miss Hunter, can you bear,” said Lady Hunter, “to be the
object of this indecent altercation? Retire with me, and only let me
speak to you, I conjure you!”
No--the young lady stood her ground, resolute to be a bride.
“If there is any lawful impediment, your ladyship will please to make it
at the proper response,” said the chaplain. “I am under a necessity of
proceeding.”
The ceremony went on.
Lady Hunter, in high indignation, retired immediately to the vestry-room
with her bridegroom. “At least,” cried she, throwing herself upon a
seat, “it shall never be said that I countenanced, by my presence, such
a scandalous marriage! Oh! Sir John Hunter, why did you not interfere to
save your own sister?”
“Save her! Egad, she did not choose to be saved. Who can save a woman
that does not choose it? What could I do? Is not she your ladyship’s
pupil?--he! he! he! But I’ll fight the rascal directly, if that will
give you any satisfaction.”
“And he shall have a lawsuit too for her fortune!” said Lady Hunter;
“for she is not of age. I have a memorandum in an old pocket book. Oh!
who would have thought such a girl could have duped me so!”
Lady Hunter’s exclamations were interrupted by the entrance of her
son and daughter, who came to offer what consolation they could. The
brilliant congregation poured in a few minutes afterwards, with their
mingled congratulations and condolence, eager, above all things, to
satisfy their curiosity.
Captain Lightbody, with invincible assurance, came up just as Lady
Hunter was getting into her carriage, and besought permission to present
his bride to her. But Lady Hunter, turning her back upon him without
reply, said to her son, “If Captain Lightbody is going to Beaumont Park,
I am not going there.”
Mrs. Lightbody, who was now emancipated from all control, and from all
sense of propriety, called out from her _own_ carriage, in which she was
seated, “That, thank Heaven! she had a house of her own to go to,
and that nothing was farther from her thoughts than to interrupt the
festivities of Lady Hunter’s more mature nuptials.”
Delighted with having made this tart answer, Mrs. Lightbody ordered
her husband to order her coachman to drive off as fast as possible.
The captain, by her particular desire, had taken a house for her at
Brighton, the gayest place she could think of. We leave this amiable
bride rejoicing in the glory of having duped a lady of Mrs. Beaumont’s
penetration; and her bridegroom rejoicing still more in the parish
register, by the help of which he hoped to obtain full enjoyment of what
he knew to be his bride’s most valuable possession--her portion, and to
defy Lady Hunter’s threatened lawsuit.
In the mean time, Lady Hunter, in her point lace and beautiful veil,
seated beside her baronet, in his new barouche, endeavoured to forget
this interruption of her triumph. She considered, that though Miss
Hunter’s fortune was lost to her family, yet the title of countess,
and the Wigram estate, were _secure_: this was solid consolation; and
recovering her features from their unprecedented discomposure, she
forced smiles and looks suitable to the occasion, as she bowed to
congratulating passengers.
Arrived at Beaumont Park, she prepared, without appetite, to partake of
the elegant collation, and to do the honours with her accustomed grace:
she took care to seat Mr. Palmer beside her, that she might show the
world on what good terms they were together. She was pleased to see,
that though two younger brides sat near her, she engaged by far the
largest share of public admiration. They were so fully content and
engrossed by their own feelings, that they did not perceive that they
were what is called _thrown into the shade_. All the pride, pomp, and
circumstance of these glorious hymeneals appeared to them but as a
dream, or as a scene that was acting before them, in which they were
not called to take a part. Towards the end of the collation, one of the
guests, my Lord Rider, a nobleman who always gave himself the air of
being in a prodigious hurry, declared that he was under the necessity of
going off, for he expected a person to meet him at his house in town, on
some particular business, at an appointed day. His lordship’s travelling
companion, who was unwilling to quit so prematurely the present scene of
festivity, observed that the man of business had engaged to write to his
lordship, and that he should at least wait till the post should come in.
Lady Hunter politely sent to inquire if any letters had arrived for his
lordship; and, in consequence of his impatience, all the letters for
the family were brought: Lady Hunter distributed them. There was one for
Captain Walsingham, with a Spanish motto on the seal: Lady Hunter, as
she gave it to him, whispered to Amelia, “Don’t be jealous, my dear, but
that, I can tell you, is a letter from his Spanish incognita.” Amelia
smiled with a look of the most perfect confidence and love. Captain
Walsingham immediately opened the letter, and, looking at the signature,
said, “It is not from my Spanish incognita,--it is from her aunt; I will
read it by and by.”
“A fine evasion, indeed!” exclaimed Lady Hunter: “look how coolly he
puts it into his pocket! Ah! my credulous Amelia, do you allow him to
begin in this manner?” pursued she, in a tone of raillery, yet as if
she really suspected something wrong in the letter; “and have you no
_curiosity_, Mrs. Walsingham?”
Amelia declared that she had none; that she was not one of those who
think that jealousy is the best proof of love.
“Right, right,” said Mr. Palmer; “confidence is the best proof of love;
and yours, I’ll venture to say, is, and ever will be, well placed.”
Captain Walsingham, with a grateful smile, took his letter again out of
his pocket, and immediately began to read it in a low voice to Amelia,
Lady Hunter, and Mr. Palmer.
* * * * *
“DEAR SIR,
“Though almost a stranger to you, I should think myself wanting in
gratitude if I did not, after all the services you have done my family,
write to thank you in my niece’s name and in my own: and much I regret
that my words will so ill convey to you the sentiments of our hearts.
I am an old woman, not well accustomed to use my pen in the way of
letter-writing; but can say truly, that whilst I have life I shall be
grateful to you. You have restored me to happiness by restoring to me my
long-lost niece. It will, I am sure, give you satisfaction to hear, that
my niece--”
* * * * *
Captain Walsingham stopped short, with a look which confirmed Lady
Hunter in all her suspicions,--which made Mr. Palmer take out his
snuff-box,--which startled even Mr. Beaumont; but which did not raise
in the mind of Amelia the slightest feeling of doubt or suspicion. She
smiled, and looked round at her alarmed friends with a manner which
seemed to say, “Can you suppose it possible that there can be any thing
wrong?”
“Pray go on, Captain Walsingham,” said Lady Hunter, “unless--unless you
have particular, very particular reasons.”
“I have particular, very particular reasons,” said Captain Walsingham;
“and since,” turning to Amelia, “this confiding lady does not insist
upon my going on--”
“Oh!” said Lady Hunter, gaily, snatching the letter, “I am not such a
credulous, or, as you call it, confiding lady.”
“I beg of your ladyship not to read it,” said Captain Walsingham, in an
earnest tone.
“You beg of me not to read it, and with that alarmed look--Oh!
positively, I must, and will read it.”
“Not at present, then, I entreat you!”
“This very instant,” cried Lady Hunter, affecting all the imperious
vivacity of a young bride, under favour of which she determined to
satisfy her malicious curiosity.
“Pray, Lady Hunter, do not read it,” repeated Captain Walsingham, laying
his hand over the letter. “It is for your own sake,” added he, in a low
and earnest voice, “it is for your own sake, not mine, that I beg of you
to forbear.”
Lady Hunter, imagining this to be only a subterfuge, drew the letter
from beneath Captain Walsingham’s hand, exclaiming, “For _my sake!_ Oh,
Captain, that is a charming _ruse de guerre_, but do not hope that it
shall succeed!”
“Oh! mother, believe him, believe him,” cried Amelia: “I am sure he
tells you the truth, and he speaks for your sake, not for his own.”
Amelia interceded in vain.
Mr. Palmer patted Amelia’s shoulder fondly, saying, “You are a dear good
creature.”
“A dear credulous creature!” exclaimed Lady Hunter. She had now
undisturbed possession of the letter.
Captain Walsingham stood by with a face of great concern; in which
Amelia and Mr. Beaumont, without knowing the cause, seemed to
sympathize.
The contest had early attracted the attention of all within hearing
or view of her ladyship, and by this time had been pointed out and
accounted for in whispers, even to the most remote parts of the room; so
that the eyes of almost every individual in the assembly were now fixed
upon Lady Hunter. She had scarcely glanced her eye upon the letter, when
she turned pale as death, and exclaimed, “He knew it! he knew it!” Then,
recollecting herself, she made a struggle to conceal her dismay--the
forced smile quivered on her lip,--she fell back in a swoon, and was
carried out of the room by her son and daughter. Sir John Hunter was at
another table, eating eel-pie, and was the last person present who was
made to understand what had happened.
“It is the damned heat of the room, I suppose,” said he, “that made her
faint;” and swallowing the last morsel on his plate, and settling his
collar, he came up to Captain Walsingham. “What’s this I hear?--that
Lady Hunter has fainted? I hope they have carried her into the air. But
where’s the letter they say affected her so?”
“In my pocket,” said Captain Walsingham, coolly.
“Any thing new in it?” said Sir John, with a sulky, fashionable
indifference.
“Nothing new to you, probably, Sir John,” said Captain Walsingham,
walking away from him in disgust.
“I suppose it was the heat overcame Lady Hunter,” continued Sir John,
speaking to those who stood near him. “Is any body gone to see how she
is now? I wonder if they’ll let me in to see her.”
With assumed carelessness, but with real embarrassment, the bridegroom
went to inquire for his bride.
Good Mr. Palmer went soon afterwards, and knocked softly at the lady’s
door. “Is poor Lady Hunter any better?”
“Oh! yes; quite well again now,” cried Lady Hunter, raising herself from
the bed, on which she had been laid; but Mr. Palmer thought, as he
saw her through the half-opened door, she still looked a deplorable
spectacle, in all her wedding finery. “Quite well again, now: it was
nothing in the world but the heat. Amelia, my love, go back to the
company, and say so, lest my friends should be uneasy. Thank you, kind
Mr. Palmer, for coming to see me: excuse my not being able to let you
in now, for I must change my dress. Sir John sends me word his barouche
will be at the door in ten minutes, and I have to hurry on my travelling
dress. Excuse me.”
Mr. Palmer retired, seeing clearly that she wished to avoid any
explanation of the real cause of her fainting. In the gallery, leading
from her room, he met Captain Walsingham, who was coming to inquire for
Lady Hunter.
“Poor woman! do you know the cause of her fainting?” said Captain
Walsingham.
“No; and I believe she does not wish me to know it: therefore don’t tell
it me,” said Mr. Palmer.
“It is a secret that must be in the public papers in a few days,” said
Captain Walsingham. “This lady that I brought over from Lisbon--”
“Well, what can she have to say to Mrs. Beaumont?”
“Nothing to Mrs. Beaumont, but a great deal to Lady Hunter. You
may remember that I mentioned to you that some of her relations had
contrived to have her kept in that convent abroad, and had spread a
report of her death, that the heir-at-law might defraud her of her
property, and get and keep possession of a large estate, which fell to
him in case of her death. Of further particulars, or even of the name of
this estate, I knew nothing till this morning, when that letter from
the aunt--here it is--tells me, that the estate to which her niece
was entitled is the great Wigram estate, and that old Wigram was the
rascally heir-at-law. The lawyer I recommended to the lady was both an
honest and a clever fellow; and he represented so forcibly to old Wigram
the consequences of his having his fraud brought to light in a court of
equity, that he made him soon agree to a private reference. The affair
has been compromised, and settled thus:--The possession of the estate is
given up, just as it stands, to the rightful owner; and she forbears
to call the old sinner to an account for past arrears. She will let him
make it out to the world and to his own conscience, if he can, that he
bona-fide believed her to be dead.”
“So,” said Mr. Palmer, “so end Madam Beaumont’s hopes of being at
the head of the Wigram estate, and so end her hopes of being a
countess!--And actually married to this ruined spendthrift!--Now we see
the reason he pressed on the match so, and urged her to marry him before
the affair should become public. She is duped, and for life!--poor Madam
Beaumont!”
At this moment Lady Hunter came out of her room, after having changed
her dress, and repaired her smiles.
“Ready for my journey now,” said she, passing by Mr. Palmer quickly. “I
must show myself to the world of friends below, and bid them adieu. One
word, Captain Walsingham: there’s no occasion, you know,” whispered she,
“to say any thing _below_ of that letter; I really don’t believe it.”
Too proud to let her mortification be known, Lady Hunter constrained
her feelings with all her might. She appeared once more with a pleased
countenance in the festive assembly. She received their compliments
and congratulations, and invited them, with all the earnestness of
friendship, to favour Sir John and her, as soon as possible, with their
company at Hunter Hall. The company were now fast departing; carriages
came to the door in rapid succession. Lady Hunter went through with
admirable grace and variety the sentimental ceremony of taking leave;
and when her splendid barouche was at the door, and when she was to bid
adieu to her own family, still she acted her part inimitably. In all the
becoming mixed smiles and tears of a bride, she was seen embracing by
turns her beloved daughter and son, and daughter-in-law and son-in-law,
over and over again, in the hall, on the steps; to the last moment
contriving to be torn delightfully from the bosom of her family by her
impatient bridegroom. Seated beside him in his barouche, she kissed her
hand to Mr. Palmer,--smiled: all her family, who stood on the steps,
bowed; and Sir John drove away with his prize.
“He’s a swindler!” cried Mr. Palmer, “and she is--”
“Amelia’s mother,” interrupted Captain Walsingham.
“Right,” said Mr. Palmer; “but Amelia had a father too,--my excellent
friend, Colonel Beaumont,--whom she and her brother resemble in all that
is open-hearted and honourable. Well, well! I make no reflections; I
hate moral reflections. Every body can think and feel for themselves, I
presume. I only say,--Thank Heaven, we’ve done with _manoeuvring!_”
ALMERIA.
John Hodgkinson was an eminent and wealthy Yorkshire grazier, who had
no children of his own, but who had brought up in his family Almeria
Turnbull, the daughter of his wife by a former husband, a Mr. Turnbull.
Mr. Turnbull had also been a grazier, but had not been successful in the
management of his affairs, therefore he could not leave his daughter any
fortune; and at the death of her mother, she became entirely dependent
on her father-in-law. Old Hodgkinson was a whimsical man, who, except in
eating and drinking, had no inclination to spend any part of the
fortune he had made; but, enjoying the consequence which money confers,
endeavoured to increase this importance by keeping all his acquaintance
in uncertainty, as to what he called his “_testamentary dispositions_.”
Sometimes he hinted that his step-daughter should be a match for the
proudest riband in England; sometimes he declared, that he did not know
of what use money could be to a woman, except to make her a prey to
a fortune-hunter, and that his girl should not be left in a way to be
duped.
As to his daughter’s education, that was an affair in which he did not
interfere: all that he wished was, that the girl should be kept humble,
and have no fine notions put into her head, nor any communication with
fine people. He kept company only with men of his own sort; and as he
had no taste for any kind of literature, Almeria’s time would have
hung rather heavy upon her hands, had she been totally confined to his
society: but, fortunately for her, there lived in the neighbourhood
an elderly gentleman and his daughter, whom her father allowed her
to visit. Mr. Elmour was a country gentleman of a moderate fortune,
a respectable family, and of a most amiable character: between his
daughter Ellen and Miss Turnbull there had subsisted an intimacy
from their earliest childhood. The professions of this friendship had
hitherto been much the warmest on the part of Almeria; the proofs
were, perhaps, the strongest on the side of Ellen. Miss Elmour, as
the daughter of a gentleman, whose family had been long settled in the
country, was rather _more considered_ than Miss Turnbull, who was the
daughter of a grazier, whose money had but lately raised him to the
level of gentility. At Mr. Elmour’s house Almeria had an opportunity
of being in much better company than she could ever have seen at her
father’s; better company in every respect, but chiefly in the popular,
or more properly in the aristocratic sense of the term: her visits had
consequently been long and frequent; she appeared to have a peculiar
taste for refinement in manners and conversation, and often deplored the
want she felt of these at home. She expressed a strong desire to acquire
information, and to improve herself in every elegant accomplishment;
and Ellen, who was of a character far superior to the little meanness
of female competition and jealousy, shared with her friend all the
advantages of her situation. Old Hodgkinson never had any books in his
house, but such as Almeria borrowed from Mr. Elmour’s library. Ellen
constantly sent Miss Turnbull all the new publications which her father
got from town--she copied for her friend the new music with which
she was supplied, showed her every new drawing or print, gave her the
advantage of the lessons she received from an excellent drawing master,
and let her into those little mysteries of art which masters sometimes
sell so dear.
This was done with perfect readiness and simplicity: Ellen never seemed
conscious that she was bestowing a favour; but appeared to consider
what she did as matters of course, or as the necessary consequences of
friendship. She treated her friend at all times, and in all companies,
with that uniform attention and equality of manner, which most people
profess, and which so few have strength of mind to practise. Almeria
expressed, and probably at this time felt, unbounded gratitude and
affection for Ellen; indeed her expressions were sometimes so vehement,
that Miss Elmour rallied her for being romantic. Almeria one day
declared, that she should wish to pass all the days of her life at
Elmour Grove, without seeing any other human creatures but her friend
and her friend’s father.
“Your imagination deceives you, my dear Almeria,” said Ellen, smiling.
“It is my heart, not my imagination, that speaks,” said Almeria, laying
her hand upon her heart, or upon the place where she fancied her heart
ought to be.
“Your understanding will, perhaps, speak a different language by and by,
and your heart will not be the worse for it, my good young lady,” said
old Mr. Elmour.
Almeria persisted even to tears; and it was not till young Mr. Elmour
came home, and till she had spent a few weeks in his company, that she
began to admit that three was the number sacred to friendship. Frederick
Elmour was a man of honour, talents, spirit, and of a decided character:
he was extremely fond of his sister, and was prepossessed in favour
of every thing and person that she loved. Her intimate friend was
consequently interesting to him; and it must be supposed, that Miss
Elmour’s praises of Almeria were managed more judiciously than eulogiums
usually are, by the effect which they produced. Frederick became
attached to Miss Turnbull, though he perceived that, in firmness and
dignity of character, she was not equal to his sister. This inferiority
did not injure her in his opinion, because it was always acknowledged
with so much candour and humility by Almeria, who seemed to look up to
her friend as to a being of a superior order. This freedom from envy,
and this generous enthusiasm, first touched young Mr. Elmour’s heart.
Next to possessing his sister’s virtues and talents, loving them was,
in his opinion, the greatest merit. He thought that a person capable
of appreciating and admiring Ellen’s character, must be desirous
of imitating her; and the similarity of their tastes, opinions,
and principles, seemed to him the most secure pledge for his future
happiness. Miss Turnbull’s fortune, whatever it might be, was an object
of no great importance to him: his father, though not opulent, was in
easy circumstances, and was “willing,” he said, “to deprive himself of
some luxuries for the sake of his son, whom he would not controul in the
choice of a wife--a choice on which he knew, from his own experience,
that the happiness of life so much depends.”
The benevolent old gentleman had peculiar merit in this conduct; because
if he had a weakness in the world, it was a prejudice in favour of what
is called _good family and birth_: it had long been the secret wish of
his heart that his only son might marry into a family as ancient as his
own. Frederick was fully sensible of the sacrifice that his father made
of his pride: but that which he was willing to make of what he called
his luxuries, his son’s affection and sense of justice forbade him
to accept. He could not rob his father of any of the comforts of his
declining years, whilst in the full vigour of youth it was in his power,
by his own exertions, to obtain an independent maintenance. He had
been bred to the bar; no expense had been spared by his father in his
education, no efforts had been omitted by himself. He was now ready
to enter on the duties of his profession with ardour, but without
presumption.
Our heroine must be pardoned by the most prudent, and admired by the
most romantic, for being desperately in love with a youth of such a
character and such expectations. Whilst the young lady’s passion was
growing every hour more lively, her old father was growing every hour
more lethargic. He had a superstitious dread of making a will, as if
it were a preparation for death, which would hasten the fatal moment.
Hodgkinson’s friends tried to conquer this prejudice: but it was in vain
to reason with a man who had never reasoned during the whole of his life
about any thing except bullocks. Old Hodgkinson died--that was a matter
of no great consequence to any body--but he died without a will, and
that was a matter of some importance to his daughter. After searching in
every probable and improbable place, there was, at length, found in his
own handwriting a memorandum, the beginning of which was in the
first leaf of his cookery-book, and the end in the last leaf of his
prayer-book. There was some difficulty in deciphering the memorandum,
for it was cross-barred with miscellaneous observations in inks of
various colours--red, blue, and green. As it is dangerous to garble law
papers, we shall lay the document before the public just as it appeared.
_Copy from first leaf of the Cookery-look_.
I John Hodgkinson of Vetch-field, East Riding of Yorkshire, Grazier and
so forth, not choosing to style myself Gentleman, though entitled so to
do, do hereby certify, that when I can find an honest attorney, _it is
my_ intention to make my will and to leave--
[_Here the testator’s memorandum was interrupted by a receipt in a
diminutive female hand, seemingly written some years before_.]
Mrs. Turnbull’s recipe, infallible for all aches, bruises, and strains.
Take a handful of these herbs following--Wormwood, Sage, Broom-flowers,
Clown’s-All-heal, Chickweed, Cumphry, Birch, Groundsell, Agremony,
Southernwood, Ribwort, Mary Gould leaves, Bramble, Rosemary, Rue,
Eldertops, Camomile, Aly Campaigne-root, half a handful of Red
Earthworms, two ounces of Cummins-seeds, Deasy-roots, Columbine, Sweet
Marjoram, Dandylion, Devil’s bit, six pound of May butter, two pound of
Sheep suet, half a pound of Deer suet, a quart of salet oil beat well in
y’ boiling till the oil be green--Then strain--It will be better if you
add a dozen of Swallows, and pound all their Feathers, Gizzards, and
Heads before boiling--It will cure all aches--[9]
[_Beneath this valuable recipe, Mr. Hodgkinson’s testamentary
dispositions continued as follows_.]
All I am worth in the world real or personal--
To Collar a Pig.
Take a young fat pig, and when he is well scalded, cut off his head,
then slit him down the back, take out his bones, lay him in a dish of
milk and water, and shift him twice a day--for the rest, turn to page
103.
To my step-daughter Almeria, who is now at Elmour Grove in her
eighteenth year--
[_Written across the above in red ink_.]
Mem’m--I prophecy this third day of August, that the man from Hull will
be here to-morrow with _fresh_ mullets.
And as girls go, I believe a good girl, considering the times--but if
she disoblige me by marriage, or otherwise, I hereby revoke the same.
[_Written diagonally in red ink_.]
Mem’m--Weight of the Big Bullock, 90 score, besides offal.
[_The value was so pale it could not be deciphered_.]
And I further intend to except out of my above bequest to my daughter
Almeria, the sum of ...
A fine method to make Punch of Valentia dram. v. page 7.
Ten thousand pounds, now in Sir Thomas Stock’s my banker’s hands as a
token of remembrance to John Hodgkinson of Hull, on account of his being
my namesake, and, I believe, relation--
* * * * *
[_Continuation in the last leaf of the prayer-book_.]
It is my further intention (whenever I find said honest attorney fit
for my will) to leave sundry mourning rings with my hair value
(_blank_)--one in particular to Charles Elmour, sen. esquire, and also--
[_Upside down, in red ink_.]
Mem’m--Yorkshire Puddings--Knox says good in my case.
Hodgkinson late Hannah A Turnbull (my wife) her prayer book, born Dec’r
5th, 1700, died Jan’y 4th, 1760; leaving only behind her, in this world,
Almeria Turnbull (my step daughter).
Also another mourning ring to Frederick, the son of Charles Elmour, Esq.
and ditto to Ellen his daughter, if I have hair enough under my wig.
[_Diagonal in red ink_.]
Mem’m--To know from Dr. Knox by return of post what is good against
sleep--in my case--
This is the short of my will--the attorney (when found) will make it
long enough.--And I hereby declare, that I will write no other will with
my own hand, for man, woman, or child--And that I will and do hereby
disinherit any person or persons--male or female--good--bad--or
indifferent--who shall take upon them to advise or speak to me about
making or writing my will--which is no business of theirs--This my last
resolution and memorandum, dated, this 5th of August--reap to-morrow,
(glass rising)--1766, and signed with my own hand, same time.
John Hodgkinson, grazier & so forth.
* * * * *
Now it happened, that Mr. Hodgkinson’s namesake and relation disdained
the ten thousand pounds legacy, and claimed the whole property as
heir-at-law. Almeria, who was utterly unacquainted with business,
applied to Mr. Elmour in this difficulty, and he had the goodness to
undertake the management of her affairs. Frederick engaged to carry
on her law-suit, and to plead her cause against this rapacious Mr.
Hodgkinson of Hull.--Whilst the suit was pending, Miss Turnbull had
an opportunity of seeing something of the ways of the world; for the
manners of her Yorkshire acquaintance, of all but Ellen and the Elmours,
varied towards her, according to the opinion formed of the probable
event of the trial on which her fortune depended. She felt these
variations most keenly. In particular, she was provoked by the conduct
of Lady Stock, who was at this time _the_ fashionable lady of York: Sir
Thomas, her husband, was a great banker; and whenever she condescended
to visit her friends in the country, she shone upon them in all the
splendour and pride of wealth. Miss Turnbull, immediately after her
father’s death, went, accompanied by old Mr. Elmour, to Sir Thomas
Stock, to settle accounts with him: she was received by his lady as a
great heiress, with infinite civility; her visit punctually returned,
and an invitation to dinner sent to her and the Elmours with all due
expedition. As she seemed to wish to accept of it, her friends agreed to
accompany her, though in general they disliked fine dinners; and though
they seldom left their retirement to mix in the gaieties of York.
Miss Turnbull was received in rather a different manner from what she
expected upon this occasion; for between the sending and the accepting
of the invitation, Lady Stock had heard that her title to the fortune
was disputed, and that many were of an opinion that, instead of having
two hundred thousand pounds, she would not have a shilling. Almeria was
scarcely noticed, on her entrance, by the lady of the house; she found
herself in a formidable circle, where every body seemed to consider
her as being out of her place. At dinner she was suffered to go to a
side-table. From the moment she entered the house till she left it, Lady
Stock never deigned to speak to her, nor for one instant to recollect
that such a person existed. Not even Madame Roland, when she was sent
to the second table at the fermier general’s, expressed more indignation
than Almeria did, at the insolence of this banker’s lady. She could
think and speak of nothing else, all the time she was going home in
the evening to Elmour Grove. Ellen, who had more philosophy than our
heroine, did not sympathize in the violence of her indignation: on the
contrary, she was surprised that Almeria could feel so much hurt by the
slights of a woman, for whom she had neither esteem nor affection, and
with whom she was indeed scarcely acquainted.
“But does not her conduct excite your indignation?” said Miss Turnbull.
“No: it rather deserves my contempt. If a friend--if you, for instance,
had treated me in such a manner, it would have provoked my anger, I dare
say.”
“I! Oh, how impossible!” cried Almeria. “Such insufferable pride! Such
downright rudeness!--She was tolerably civil to you, but me she never
noticed: and this sudden change, it seems, Frederick, arises from her
doubts of my fortune.--Is not such meanness really astonishing?”
“It would be astonishing, perhaps,” replied Frederick, “if we did not
see similar instances every day.--Lady Stock, you know, is nothing but a
mere woman of the world.”
“I hate mere women of the world,” cried Almeria.
Ellen observed, that it was not worth while to hate, it was sufficient
to avoid them.--Almeria grew warmer in her abhorrence; and Ellen at
last expressed, half in jest, half in earnest, some fear, that if Miss
Turnbull felt with such exquisite sensibility the neglect of persons
of fashion, she might in a different situation be ambitious, or vain of
their favour. Almeria was offended, and was very near quarrelling with
her friend for harbouring such a mean opinion of her character.
“Do you imagine that _I could_ ever make a friend of such a person as
Lady Stock?”
“A friend! far from it. I am very sure that you could not.”
“Then how could I be ambitious of her favour? I am desirous only of the
favour, esteem, and affection of my friends.”
“But people who live in what is called the world, you know, my dear
Almeria, desire to have acquaintance as well as friends,” said Ellen;
“and they value those by their fashion or rank, and by the honour which
may be received from their notice in public places.”
“Yes, my dear,” interrupted Almeria; “though I have never been in
London, as you have, I understand all that perfectly well, I assure
you; but I only say, that I am certain I should never judge, and that I
should never act, in such a manner.”
Ellen smiled, and said, “It is difficult to be certain of what we should
do in situations in which we have never been placed.”--Almeria burst
into tears, and her friend could scarcely pacify her by the kindest
expressions.
“Observe, my dear Almeria, that I said _we,_ not _you_: I do not pretend
that, till I have been tried, I could be certain of my own strength of
mind in new situations: I believe it is from weakness, that people are
often so desirous of the notice of persons for whom they have no esteem.
If I were forced to live among a certain set of company, I suppose I
should, in time, do just as they do; for I confess, that I do not think
I could bear every day to be utterly neglected in society, even such as
we have been in to-day.”
Almeria wondered to hear her friend speak with so little confidence of
her own spirit and independence; and vehemently declared that she was
certain no change of external circumstances could make any alteration in
her sentiments and feelings. Ellen forbore to press the subject farther,
although the proofs which Almeria had this day given of her stoicism
were not absolutely conclusive.
About a month after this conversation had passed, the suit against Miss
Turnbull, to set aside Mr. Hodgkinson’s will, was tried at York. The
court was crowded at an early hour; for much entertainment was expected,
from the oddity of old Hodgkinson’s _testamentary dispositions_:
besides, the large amount of the property at stake could not fail to
make the cause interesting. Several ladies appeared in the galleries;
among the rest, Lady Stock--Miss Elmour was there also, to accompany
Almeria--Frederick was one of her counsel; and when it came to his turn
to speak, he pleaded her cause with so much eloquence and ability, as to
obtain universal approbation. After a trial, which lasted many hours,
a verdict was given in Miss Turnbull’s favour. An immediate change
appeared in the manners of all her acquaintance--they crowded round her
with smiles and congratulations; and persons with whom she was scarcely
acquainted, or who had, till now, hardly deigned to acknowledge her
acquaintance, accosted her with an air of intimacy. Lady Stock, in
particular, recovered, upon this occasion, both her sight and speech:
she took Almeria’s hand most graciously, and went on chattering with the
greatest volubility, as they stood at the door of the court-house. Her
ladyship’s handsome equipage had drawn up, and she offered to carry Miss
Turnbull home: Almeria excused herself, but felt ashamed, when she saw
the look of contempt which her ladyship bestowed on Mr. Elmour’s old
coach, which was far behind a number of others, and which could but ill
bear a comparison with a new London carriage. Angry with herself for
this weakness, our heroine endeavoured to conceal it even from her own
mind; and feelings of gratitude to her friends revived in her heart the
moment she was out of the sight of her fine acquaintance. She treated
Ellen with even more than usual fondness; and her acknowledgments of
obligation to her counsel and his father were expressed in the strongest
terms. In a few days, there came a pressing invitation from Lady Stock;
Mr. Elmour had accounts of Miss Turnbull’s to settle with Sir Thomas,
and, notwithstanding the air of indifference with which she read the
cards, Almeria was not sorry to accept of the invitation, as she knew
that she should be received in a very different manner from that in
which she had been treated on her former visit. She laughed, and said,
“that she should be entertained by observing the change which a few
thousand pounds more or less could produce in Lady Stock’s behaviour.”
Yet, such is the inconsistency or the weakness of human wishes, that the
very attentions which our heroine knew were paid merely to her fortune,
and not to her merit, flattered her vanity; and she observed, with a
strange mixture of pain and pleasure, that there was a marked difference
in Lady Stock’s manner towards her and _the Elmours_. When the evening
was over, and when she “had leisure to be good,” Almeria called herself
severely to account for this secret satisfaction, of which she had been
conscious from the preference given her over her friends--she
accused herself of ingratitude, and endeavoured to recover her own
self-complacency by redoubled professions of esteem and affection
for those to whom she had so much reason to be attached. But fresh
invitations came from Lady Stock, and the course of her thoughts again
changed. Ellen declined accompanying her; and Miss Turnbull regretted
this exceedingly, because it would be so distressing and awkward for her
to go _alone_.
“Then why do you go at all, my dear?” said Ellen; “you speak as if there
were some moral necessity for your visit.”
“Moral necessity! oh, no,” said Almeria, laughing; “but I really think
there is a _polite_ necessity, if you will allow me the expression.
Would it not be rude for all of us to refuse, when Lady Stock has made
this music party, as she says, entirely on my account--on our account,
I mean? for you see she mentions your fondness for music; and if she had
not written so remarkably civilly to you, I assure you I would neither
go myself, nor think of pressing you to go.”
This oratory had no effect upon Ellen: our heroine went alone to
the music meeting. The old coach returned to Elmour Grove at night,
empty--the servant brought “Lady Stock’s compliments, and she would
send her carriage home with Miss Turnbull early the next morning.” After
waiting above an hour and a half beyond their usual time, the family
were sitting down to dinner the next day, when Miss Turnbull, in Lady
Stock’s fine carriage, drove up the avenue--Frederick handed her out
of the carriage with more ceremony and less affection than he had ever
shown before. Old Mr. Elmour’s manner was also more distant, and Ellen’s
colder. Almeria attempted to apologize, but could not get through her
speech:--she then tried to laugh at her own awkwardness; but her
laugh not being seconded, she sat down to dinner in silence, colouring
prodigiously, and totally abashed. Good old Mr. Elmour was the first
to relent, and to endeavour, by resuming his usual kind familiarity, to
relieve her painful confusion. Ellen’s coolness was also dissipated when
Miss Turnbull took her aside after dinner, and with tears in her eyes
declared, “she was sorry she had not had sufficient strength of mind
to resist Lady Stock’s importunities to stay all night;--that as to the
carriage, it was sent back without her knowledge; and that this morning,
though she had three or four times expressed her fears that she should
keep her friends at Elmour Grove waiting for dinner, yet Lady Stock
would not understand her hints;” and she declared, “she got away the
very instant her ladyship’s carriage came to the door.” By Ellen’s kind
interposition, Frederick, whose pride had been most ready to take the
alarm at the least appearance of slight to his father and sister, was
pacified--he laid aside his ceremony to _Miss Turnbull_; called her
“Almeria,” as he used to do--and all was well again. With difficulty and
blushes, Almeria came out with an after-confession, that she had been so
silly as to make half a promise to Lady Stock, of going to her ball, and
of spending a few days with her at York, before she left the country.
“But this promise was only conditional,” said she: “if you or your
father would take it the least ill or unkindly of me, I assure you I
will not go--I would rather offend all the Lady Stocks in the world than
you, my dearest Ellen, or your father, to whom I am so much obliged.”
“Do not talk of obligations,” interrupted Ellen; “amongst friends there
can be no obligations. I will answer for it that my father will not be
offended at your going to this ball; and I assure you I shall not take
it unkindly. If you would not think me very proud, I should tell you
that I wish for our sakes, as well as your own, that you should see as
much of this Lady Stock, and as many _Lady Stocks_, as possible; for I
am convinced that, upon _intimate_ acquaintance, we must rise in your
opinion.”
Almeria protested that she had never for an instant thought of
comparing Ellen with Lady Stock. “A friend, a bosom friend, with an
acquaintance--an acquaintance of yesterday!--I never thought of making
such a comparison.”
“That is the very thing of which I complain,” said Ellen, smiling:
“I beg you will make the comparison, my dear Almeria; and the more
opportunities you have of forming your judgment, the better.”
Notwithstanding that there was something rather humiliating to Miss
Turnbull in the dignified composure with which Ellen now, for the first
time in her life, implied her own superiority, Almeria secretly rejoiced
that it was at her friend’s own request that the visits to her fine
acquaintance were repeated. At Lady Stock’s ball Miss Turnbull was
much _distinguished,_ as it is called--Sir Thomas’s eldest son was her
partner; and though he was not remarkably agreeable, yet his attentions
were flattering to her vanity, because the rival belles of York vied for
his homage. The delight of being taken notice of in public was new to
Almeria, and it quite intoxicated her brain. Six hours’ sleep afterwards
were not sufficient to sober her completely; as her friends at Elmour
Grove perceived the next morning--she neither talked, looked, nor moved
like herself, though she was perfectly unconscious that in this delirium
of vanity and affectation she was an object of pity and disgust to the
man she loved.
Ellen had sufficient good-nature and candour to make allowance for
foibles in others from which her own character was totally free; she
was clear-sighted to the merits, but not blind to the faults, of her
friends; and she resolved to wait patiently till Almeria should return
to herself. Miss Turnbull, in compliance with her friend’s advice,
took as many opportunities as possible of being with Lady Stock. Her
ladyship’s company was by no means agreeable to Almeria’s natural taste;
for her ladyship had neither sense nor knowledge, and her conversation
consisted merely of common-place phrases, or the second-hand affectation
of fashionable nonsense: yet, though Miss Turnbull felt no actual
pleasure in her company, she was vain of being of her parties, and even
condescended to repeat some of her sayings, in which there was neither
sense nor wit. From having lived much in the London world, her
ladyship was acquainted with a prodigious number of names of persons of
consequence and quality; and by these our heroine’s ears were charmed.
Her ladyship’s dress was also an object of admiration and imitation,
and the York ladies begged patterns of every thing she wore. Almeria
consequently thought that no other clothes could be worn with propriety;
and she was utterly ashamed of her past self for having lived so long
in ignorance, and for having had so bad a taste, as ever to have thought
Ellen Elmour a model for imitation.
“Miss Elmour,” her ladyship said, “was a very sensible young woman, no
doubt; but she could hardly be considered as a model of fashion.”
A new standard for estimating merit was raised in Almeria’s mind; and
her friend, for an instant, sunk before the vast advantage of having
the most fashionable mantua-maker and milliner in town. Ashamed of this
dereliction of principle, she a few minutes afterwards warmly pronounced
a panegyric on Ellen, to which Lady Stock only replied with a vacant,
supercilious countenance, “May be so--no doubt--of course--the Elmours
are a very respectable family, I’m told--and really more genteel than
the country families one sees: but is not it odd, they don’t _mix
more?_ One seldom meets them in town any where, or at any of the
watering-places in summer.”
To this charge, Almeria, with blushes, was forced to plead guilty for
her friends: she, however, observed, in mitigation, “that when they
were in town, what company they did see was always the best, she
believed--that she knew, for one person, the Duchess of A---- was a
friend of the Elmours, and corresponded with Ellen.”
This judicious defence produced an immediate effect upon Lady Stock’s
countenance; her eyebrows descended from the high arch of contempt: and
after a pause, she remarked, “it was strange that they had not accepted
of any of the invitations she had lately sent them--she fancied they
were, as indeed they had the character of being, very proud people--and
very odd.”
Almeria denied the pride and the oddity; but observed, “that they were
all remarkably fond of _home_.”
“Well, my dear Miss Turnbull, that’s what I call odd; but I am sure I
have nothing to say against all that--it is the fashion now to let every
body do as they please: if the Elmours like to bury themselves alive,
I’m sure I can’t have the smallest objection; I only hope they don’t
insist upon burying you along with them--I’m going to Harrowgate for a
few days, and I must have you with me, my dear.”
Our heroine hesitated. Lady Stock smiled, and said, she saw Miss
Turnbull was terribly afraid of these Elmours; that for her part, she
was the last person in the world to break through old connexions; but
that really some people ought to consider that other people cannot
always live as they do; that one style of life was fit for one style of
fortune, and one for another; and that it would look very strange to the
world, if an heiress with two hundred thousand pounds fortune, who if
she produced herself might be in the first circles in town, were to be
boxed up at Elmour Grove, and precluded from all advantages and offers
that she might of course expect.
To do our heroine justice, she here interrupted Lady Stock with more
eagerness than strict politeness admitted, and positively declared that
her friends never for one moment wished to confine her at Elmour Grove.
“On the contrary,” said she, “they urged me to go into company, and to
see something of the world, before I--” marry, she was going to say--but
paused.
Lady Stock waited for the finishing word; but when it did not come, she
went on just as if it had been pronounced. “The Elmours do vastly right
and proper to talk to you in this style, for they would be very much
blamed in the world if they acted otherwise. You know, young Elmour
has his fortune to make--very clever certainly he is, and will rise--no
doubt--I’m told--in his profession--but all that is not the same as a
ready-made fortune, which an heiress like you has a right to expect. But
do not let me annoy you with my reflections. Perhaps there is nothing
in the report--I really only repeat what I hear every body say. In what
every body says, you know there must be something. I positively think
you ought to show, in justice to the Elmours themselves, that you are
at liberty, and that they do not want to monopolize you--in this
unaccountable sort of way.”
To this last argument our heroine yielded, or to this she chose to
attribute her yielding. She went to Harrowgate with Lady Stock;
and every day and every hour she became more desirous of appearing
fashionable. To this one object all her thoughts were directed. Living
in public was to her a new life, and she was continually sensible of her
dependence upon the opinion of her more experienced companion. She
felt the _awkwardness_ of being surrounded by people with whom she was
unacquainted. At first, whenever she appeared she imagined that every
body was looking at her, or talking about her, and she was in perpetual
apprehension that something in her dress or manners should become
the subject of criticism or ridicule: but from this fear she was soon
relieved, by the conviction that most people were so occupied with
themselves as totally to overlook her. Sometimes indeed she heard the
whispered question of “Who is that with Lady Stock?” and the mortifying
answer, “I do not know.” However, when Lady Stock had introduced her to
some of her acquaintance as a great heiress, the scene changed, and
she found herself treated with much _consideration_; though still the
fashionable belles took sufficient care to make her sensible of her
inferiority. She longed to be upon an equal footing with them. Whilst
her mind was in this state, Sir Thomas Stock, one morning, when he
was settling some money business with her, observed that she would in
another year be of age, and of course would take her affairs into her
own hands; but in the mean time it would be necessary to appoint a
guardian; and that the choice depended upon herself. She instantly named
her friend Mr. Elmour. Sir Thomas insinuated that old Mr. Elmour, though
undoubtedly a most unexceptionable character, was not exactly the most
eligible person for a guardian to a young lady, whose large fortune
entitled her to live in a fashionable style. That if it was Miss
Turnbull’s intention to fix in the country, Mr. Elmour certainly was
upon the spot, and a very fit guardian; but that if she meant to appear,
as doubtless she would, in town, she would of course want another
conductor.
“To cut the matter short at once, my dear,” said Lady Stock, “you
must come to town with me next winter, and choose Sir Thomas for your
guardian. I’m sure it will give him the greatest pleasure in the world
to do any thing in his power--and you will have no difficulties with
him; for you see he is not a man to bore you with all manner of advice;
in short, he would only be your guardian for form’s sake; and that, you
know, would be the pleasantest footing imaginable. Come, here is a pen
and ink and gilt paper; write to old Elmour this minute, and let me have
you all to myself.”
Almeria was taken by surprise: she hesitated--all her former
professions, all her obligations to the Elmour family, recurred to her
mind--her friendship for Ellen--her love, or what she had thought love,
for Frederick:--she could not decide upon a measure that might offend
them, or appear ungrateful; yet her desire of going to town with Lady
Stock was ardent, and she knew not how to refuse Sir Thomas’s offer
without displeasing him. She saw that all future connexion with _the
Stocks_ depended on her present determination--she took a middle course,
and suggested that she might have two guardians, and then she should be
able to avail herself of Sir Thomas’s obliging offer without offending
her old friends. In consequence of this convenient arrangement, she
wrote to Mr. Elmour, enclosing her letter in one to Ellen, in which the
embarrassment and weakness of her mind were evident, notwithstanding all
her endeavours to conceal them. After a whole page of incomprehensible
apologies, for having so long delayed to write to her dearest Ellen; and
after professions of the warmest affection, esteem, and gratitude,
for her friends at Elmour Grove; she in the fourth page of her epistle
opened her real business, by declaring that she should ever, from the
conviction she felt of the superiority of Ellen’s understanding,
follow her judgment, however repugnant it might sometimes be to her
inclinations; that she therefore had resolved, in pursuance of Ellen’s
advice, to take an opportunity of seeing the gay world, and had accepted
of an invitation from Lady Stock to spend the winter with her in
town--that she had also accepted of Sir Thomas Stock’s offer to become
one of her guardians, as she thought it best to trouble her good friend
Mr. Elmour as little as possible at his advanced age.
In answer to this letter, she received a few lines from Mr. Elmour,
requesting to see her before she should go to town: accordingly upon her
return to York, she went to Elmour Grove to take leave of her friends.
She was under some anxiety, but resolved to carry it off with that
ease, or affectation of ease, which she had learnt during her six weeks’
apprenticeship to a fine lady at Harrowgate. She was surprised that no
Frederick appeared to greet her arrival; the servant showed her into Mr.
Elmour’s study. The good old gentleman received her with that proud
sort of politeness, which was always the sign, and the only sign, of his
being displeased.
“You will excuse me, Miss Turnbull,” said he, “for giving you the
trouble of coming here; it was my business to have waited on you, but
I have been so far unwell lately, that it was not in my power to leave
home; and these are papers,” continued he, “which I thought it my duty
to deliver into your own hands.”
Whilst Mr. Elmour was tying up these papers, and writing upon them,
Almeria began two sentences with “I hope,” and “I am afraid,” without in
the least knowing what she hoped or feared. She was not yet sufficiently
perfect in the part of a fine lady to play it well. Mr. Elmour looked up
from his writing with an air of grave attention when she began to speak,
but after waiting in vain for an intelligible sentence, he proceeded.
“You have judged very wisely for me, Miss Turnbull, in relieving my
declining years from the fatigue of business: no man understands the
management or the value of money better than Sir Thomas Stock, and
you could not, madam, in this point of view, have chosen a more proper
guardian.”
Almeria said, “that she hoped Mr. Elmour would always permit her
to consider him as her best friend, to whose advice she should have
recourse in preference to that of any person upon earth;” recovering her
assurance as she went on speaking, and recollecting some of the hints
Lady Stock had given her, about the envy and jealousy of the Elmours,
and of their scheme of monopolizing her fortune; she added a few
commonplace phrases about respectability--gratitude--and great
obligations--then gave a glance at Lady Stock’s handsome carriage,
which was waiting at the door--then asked for Miss Elmour--and hoped she
should not be so unfortunate as to miss seeing her before she left the
country, as she came on purpose to take leave of her--then looked at her
watch:--but all this was said and done with the awkwardness of a novice
in the art of giving herself airs. Mr. Elmour, without being in the
least irritated by her manner, was all the time considering how he
could communicate, with the least possible pain, what he had further to
say--“You speak of me, Miss Turnbull, as of one of your guardians, in
the letter I had the favour of receiving from you a few days ago,” said
he; “but you must excuse me for declining that honour. Circumstances
have altered materially since I first undertook the management of your
affairs, and my future interference, or perhaps even my advice, might
not appear as disinterested as formerly.”
Miss Turnbull here interrupted him with an exclamation of astonishment,
and made many protestations of entire dependence upon his disinterested
friendship. He waited with proud patience till she had finished her
eulogium.
“How far the generous extent of your confidence, madam, reaches, or may
hereafter reach,” said he, “must be tried by others, not by me--nor yet
by my son.”
Almeria changed colour.
“He has left it to me, madam, to do that for him, which perhaps he
feared he might not have sufficient resolution to do for himself--to
return to you these letters and this picture; and to assure you that he
considers you as entirely at liberty to form any connexion that may be
suited to your present views and circumstances.”
Mr. Elmour put into her hand a packet of her own letters to Frederick,
and a miniature picture of herself, which she had formerly given to her
lover. This was an unexpected stroke. His generosity--his firmness of
character--the idea of losing him for ever--all rushed upon her mind at
once.
Artificial manners vanish the moment the natural passions are touched.
Almeria clasped her hands in an agony of grief, and exclaimed, “Is he
gone? gone for ever?--I have deserved it!”--The letters and picture fell
from her hand, and she sunk back quite overpowered. When she recovered,
she found herself in the open air on a seat under Mr. Elmour’s study
windows, and Ellen beside her.
“Pity, forgive, and advise me, my dear, my best, my only real friend,”
said Almeria: “never did I want your advice so much as at this moment.”
“You shall have it, then, without reserve,” said Ellen, “and without
fear that it should be attributed to any unworthy motive. I could almost
as soon wish for my brother’s death as desire to see him united to any
woman, let her beauty and accomplishments be what they might, who had
a mean or frivolous character, such as could consider money as the
greatest good, or dissipation as the prime object of life. I am firmly
persuaded, my dear Almeria, that however you may be dazzled by the first
view of what is called fashionable life, you will soon see things as
they really are, and that you will return to your former tastes and
feelings.”
“Oh! I am, I am returned to them!” cried Almeria; “I will write directly
to Lady Stock and to Sir Thomas, to tell them that I have changed my
mind--only prevail upon your father to be my guardian.”
“That is out of my power,” said Ellen; “and I think that it is much
better you should be as you are, left completely at liberty, and
entirely independent of us. I advise you, Almeria, to persist in your
scheme of spending the ensuing winter in town with Lady Stock--then you
will have an opportunity of comparing your own different feelings,
and of determining what things are essential to your happiness. If
you should find that the triumphs of fashion delight you more than the
pleasures of domestic life; pursue them--your fortune will put it
in your power; you will break no engagements; and you will have no
reproaches to fear from us. On the contrary, if you find that your
happiness depends upon friendship and love, and that the life we
formerly led together is that which you prefer, you will return to
Elmour Grove, to your friend and your lover, and your choice will not be
that of romance, but of reason.”
It was with difficulty that Almeria, in her present fit of enthusiasm,
could be brought to listen to sober sense and true friendship. Her
parting from Ellen and Mr. Elmour cost her many tears, and she returned
to her fashionable friend with swollen eyes and a heavy heart. Her
sorrow, however, was soon forgotten in the bustle and novelty of a
new situation. Upon her arrival in London, fresh trains of ideas were
quickly forced upon her mind, which were as dissimilar as possible from
those associated with love, friendship, and Elmour Grove. At Sir Thomas
Stock’s, every thing she saw and heard served to remind, or rather to
convince her, of the opulence of the owner of the house. Here every
object was estimated, not for its beauty or elegance, but by its
costliness. Money was the grand criterion, by which the worth of animate
and inanimate objects was alike decided. In this society, the worship of
the golden idol was avowed without shame or mystery; and all who did not
bow the knee to it were considered as hypocrites or fools. Our heroine,
possessed of two hundred thousand pounds, could not fail to have a large
share of incense--every thing she said, or looked, was applauded in Sir
Thomas Stock’s family; and she would have found admiration delightful,
if she had not suspected that her fortune alone entitled her to all this
applause. This was rather a mortifying reflection. By degrees, however,
her delicacy on this subject abated; she learned philosophically to
consider her fortune a thing so immediately associated with herself
as to form a part of her personal merit. Upon this principle, she soon
became vain of her wealth, and she was led to overrate the consequence
that riches bestow on their possessor.
In a capital city, such numerous claimants for distinction appear, with
beauty, birth, wit, fashion, or wealth to support their pretensions,
that the vanity of an individual, however clamorous, is immediately
silenced, if not humbled. When Miss Turnbull went into public, she
was surprised by the discovery of her own, nay even of Lady Stock’s
insignificance. At York her ladyship was considered as a personage high
as human veneration could look; but in London she was lost in a crowd of
fellow-mortals.
It is, perhaps, from this sense of humiliation, that individuals combine
together, to obtain by their union that importance and self-complacency,
which separately they could never enjoy. Miss Turnbull observed, that
a numerous acquaintance was essential to those who lived much in
public--that the number of bows and curtsies, and the consequence of the
persons by whom they are given or received, is the measure of merit and
happiness. Nothing can be more melancholy than most places of public
amusement, to those who are strangers to the crowds which fill them.
Few people have such strength of mind as to be indifferent to the
opinions of numbers, even considered merely as numbers; hence those who
live in crowds, in fact surrender the power of thinking for themselves,
either in trifles or matters of consequence. Our heroine had imagined
before she came to town, that Lady Stock moved in the highest circle
of fashion; but she soon perceived that many of the people of rank who
visited her ladyship, and who partook of her sumptuous entertainments,
thought they condescended extremely whilst they paid this homage to
wealth.
One night at the Opera, Almeria happened to be seated in the next box to
Lady Bradstone, a proud woman of high family, who considered all whose
genealogy could not vie in antiquity with her own as upstarts that ought
to be kept down. Her ladyship, either not knowing or not caring who was
in the next box to her, began to ridicule an entertainment which had
been given a few days before by Lady Stock. From her entertainment, the
transition was easy to her character, and to that of her whole family.
Young Stock was pronounced to have all the purse-proud self-sufficiency
of a banker, and all the pertness of a clerk; even his bow seemed as if
it came from behind the counter.
Till this moment Almeria had at least permitted, if not encouraged, this
gentleman’s assiduities; for she had hitherto seen him only in
company where he had been admired: his attentions, therefore, had been
flattering to her vanity. But things now began to appear in quite a
different light: she saw Mr. Stock in the point of view in which Lady
Bradstone placed him; and felt that she might be degraded, but could not
be elevated, in the ranks of fashion by such an admirer. She began to
wish that she was not so intimately connected with a family which was
ridiculed for want of taste, and whose wealth, as she now suspected, was
their only ticket of admittance into the society of the truly elegant.
In the land of fashion, “Alps on Alps arise;” and no sooner has the
votary reached the summit of one weary ascent than another appears
higher still and more difficult of attainment. Our heroine now became
discontented in that situation, which but a few months before had been
the grand object of her ambition.
In the mean time, as Mr. Stock had not overheard Lady Bradstone’s
conversation at the Opera, and as he had a comfortably good opinion of
himself, he was sure that he was making a rapid progress in the lady’s
favour. He had of late seldom heard her mention any of her friends
at Elmour Grove; and he was convinced that her romantic attachment to
Frederick must have been conquered by his own superior address. Her
fortune was fully as agreeable to him as to his money-making father:
the only difference between them was, that he loved to squander, and
his father to hoard gold. Extravagance frequently produces premature
avarice--young Mr. Stock calculated Miss Turnbull’s fortune, weighed
it against that of every other young lady within the sphere of his
attractions, found the balance in her favour by some thousands, made his
proposal in form, and could not recover his astonishment, when he found
himself in form rejected. Sir Thomas and Lady Stock used all their
influence in his favour, but in vain: they concluded that Almeria’s
passion for Frederick Elmour was the cause of this refusal; and they
directed their arguments against the folly of marrying for love. Our
heroine was at this time more in danger of the folly of marrying for
fashion: not that she had fixed her fancy upon any man of fashion in
particular, but she had formed an exalted idea of the whole species--and
she regretted that Frederick was not in that magic circle in which
all her hopes of happiness now centred. She wrote kind letters to Miss
Elmour, but each letter was written with greater difficulty than the
preceding; for she had lost all interest in the occupations which
formerly were so delightful. She and Ellen had now few ideas in common;
and her epistles dwindled into apologies for long silence--promises
of being a better correspondent in future--reasons for breaking these
promises--hopes of pardon, &c. Ellen, however, continued steady in her
belief that her friend would at last prove worthy of her esteem, and of
her brother’s love. The rejection of Mr. Stock, which Almeria did not
fail to mention, confirmed this favourable opinion.
When that gentleman was at length with some difficulty convinced that
our heiress had decided against him, his manners and those of his
family changed towards her from the extreme of civility to that of
rudeness--they spoke of her as a coquette and a jilt, and a person who
gave herself very extraordinary airs. She was vexed, and alarmed--and in
her first confusion and distress thought of retreating to her friends
at Elmour Grove. She wrote a folio sheet to Ellen, unlike her late
apologetic epistles, full of the feelings of her heart, and of a
warm invective against fashionable and interested _friends_. After a
narrative of her quarrel with the Stocks, she declared that she would
immediately quit her London acquaintance and return to her best friend.
But the very day after she had despatched this letter she changed her
mind, and formed a new idea of a _best friend_.
One morning she went with Lady Stock to a bookseller’s, whose shop
served as a fashionable _lounge_. Her ladyship valued books, like all
other things, in proportion to the money which they cost: she had
no taste for literature, but a great fancy for accumulating the most
expensive publications, which she displayed ostentatiously as part of
the costly furniture of her house. Whilst she was looking over some
literary luxuries, rich in all the elegance of hot-press and vellum
binding, Lady Bradstone and a party of her friends came into the room.
She immediately attracted and engrossed the attention of all present.
Lady Stock turned over the leaves of the fine books, and asked their
prices; but she had the mortification to perceive that she was an object
rather of derision than of admiration to the new comers. None are so
easily put out of countenance by airs, as those who are most apt to
play them off on their inferiors. Lady Stock bit her lips in evident
embarrassment, and the awkwardness of her distress increased the
confidence and triumph of her adversary. She had some time before
provoked Lady Bradstone by giving a concert in opposition to one of
hers, and by engaging, at an enormous expense, a celebrated performer
for _her night_: hostilities had thenceforward been renewed at every
convenient opportunity, by the contending fair ones. Lady Bradstone now
took occasion loudly to lament her extreme poverty; and she put this
question to all her party, whether if they had it in their power they
should prefer having more money than taste, or more taste than money?
They were going to decide _par acclamation_, but her ladyship insisted
upon taking each vote separately, because this prolonged the torments of
her rival, who heard the preference of taste to money reiterated half a
dozen times over, with the most provoking variety of insulting emphasis.
Almeria’s sufferings during this scene were far more poignant than those
of the person against whom the ridicule was aimed: not that she pitied
Lady Stock--no; she would have rejoiced to have seen her humbled to the
dust, if she could have escaped all share in her mortification: but as
she appeared as her ladyship’s acquaintance, she apprehended that she
might be mistaken for her friend. An opportunity offered of marking the
difference. The bookseller asked Lady Stock if she chose to put her name
down in a list of subscribers to a new work. The book, she saw, was to
be dedicated to Lady Bradstone--and that was sufficient to decide her
against it.
She declared that she never supported such things either by her name
or her money; that for her part she was no politician; that she thought
female patriots were absurd and odious; and that she was glad none of
that description were of her acquaintance.
All this was plainly directed against Lady Bradstone, who was a zealous
patriot: her ladyship retorted, by some reflections equally keen, but
rather more politely expressed, each party addressing their inuendoes
to the bookseller, who afraid to disoblige either the rich or the
fashionable, preserved, as much as it was in the power of his muscles, a
perfectly neutral countenance. At last, in order to relieve himself from
his constraint, he betook himself to count the subscribers, and Miss
Turnbull seized this moment to desire that her name might be added to
the list. Lady Bradstone’s eyes were immediately fixed upon her with
complacency--Lady Stock’s flashed fire. Regardless of their fire,
Almeria coolly added, “Twelve copies, sir, if you please.”
“Twelve copies, Miss Turnbull, at a guinea a-piece! Lord bless me, do
you know what you are about, my dear?” said Lady Stock.
“Perfectly well,” replied our heroine; “I think twelve guineas, or
twenty times that sum, would be well bestowed in asserting independence
of sentiment, which I understand is the object of this work.”
A whisper from Lady Bradstone to one of the shopmen, of “Who is that
charming woman?” gave our heroine courage to pronounce these words. Lady
Stock in great displeasure walked to her carriage, saying, “You are to
consider what you will do with your twelve copies, Miss Turnbull; for I
am convinced your guardian will never let such a parcel of inflammatory
trash into his house: he admires female patriotism, and _all that sort
of thing_, as little as I do.”
The rudeness of this speech did not disconcert Almeria; for she was
fortified by the consciousness that she had gained her point with Lady
Bradstone. This lady piqued herself upon showing her preferences and
aversions with equal enthusiasm and _éclat_. She declared before a large
company at dinner, that notwithstanding Miss Turnbull was _nobody_ by
birth, she had made herself _somebody_ by spirit; and that for her part,
she should, contrary to her general principle, which she confessed was
to keep a strong line of demarcation between nobility and mobility,
take a pride in bringing forward merit even in the shape of a Yorkshire
grazier’s daughter.
Pursuant to this gracious declaration, she empowered a common friend to
introduce Miss Turnbull to her, on the first opportunity. When people
really wish to become acquainted with each other, opportunities are
easily and quickly found. The parties met, to their mutual satisfaction,
that very night in the waiting-room of the Opera-house, and conversed
more in five minutes than people in town usually converse in five months
or years, when it is their wish to keep on a merely civil footing. But
this was not the footing on which Miss Turnbull desired to be with Lady
Bradstone; she took the utmost pains to please, and succeeded. She owed
her success chiefly to the dexterous manner in which she manifested
her contempt for her late dear friend Lady Stock. Her having refused an
alliance with the family was much in her favour; her ladyship admired
her spirit, but little suspected that the contemptuous manner in which
she had once been overheard to speak of this _banker’s son_ was the
real and immediate cause of his rejection. The phrase--“_only_ Stock
the banker’s son”--decided his fate: so much may be done by the mere
emphasis on a single word from fashionable lips! Our heroine managed
with considerable address in bringing her quarrel with one friend to
a crisis at the moment when another was ready to receive her. An
ostensible pretext is never wanting to those who are resolved on war.
The book to which Miss Turnbull had subscribed was the pretext upon this
occasion: nothing could be more indifferent to her than politics; but
Lady Bradstone’s party and principles were to be defended at all events.
Sir Thomas Stock protested that he might be hurt essentially in the
opinion of those for whom he had the highest consideration if a young
lady living under his roof, known to be his ward, and probably presumed
to be guided by him, should put her name as subscriber to twelve copies
of a work patronized by Lady Bradstone. “The mere circumstance of its
being dedicated to her ladyship showed what it _must_ be,” Sir Thomas
observed; and he made it a point with Miss Turnbull that she should
withdraw her name from the subscription. This Miss Turnbull absolutely
refused. Lady Bradstone was her confidante upon the occasion, and
half-a-dozen notes a day passed between them: at length the affair
was brought to the long wished-for crisis. Lady Bradstone invited Miss
Turnbull to her house, feeling herself, as she said, bound in honour to
_bear her out_ in a dispute of which she had been the original occasion.
In this lady’s society Almeria found the style of dress, manners, and
conversation, different from what she had seen at Lady Stock’s: she had
without difficulty imitated the affectation of Lady Stock, but there
was an ease in the decided tone of Lady Bradstone which could not be
so easily acquired. Having lived from her infancy in the best company,
there was no heterogeneous mixture in her manners; and the consciousness
of this gave an habitual air of security to her words, looks, and
motions. Lady Stock seemed forced to beg or buy--Lady Bradstone
accustomed to command or levy admiration as her rightful tribute. The
pride of Lady Bradstone was uniformly resolute, and successful; the
insolence of Lady Stock, if it were opposed, became cowardly and
ridiculous. Lady Bradstone seemed to have, on all occasions, an
instinctive sense of what a person of fashion ought to do; Lady Stock,
notwithstanding her bravadoing air, was frequently perplexed, and
anxious, and therefore awkward: she had always recourse to precedents.
“Lady P---- said so, or Lady Q---- did so; Lady G---- wore this, or Lady
H---- was there, and therefore I am sure it is proper.”
On the contrary, Lady Bradstone never quoted authorities, but presumed
that she was a precedent for others. The one was eager to follow, the
other determined to lead, the fashion.
Our heroine, who was by no means deficient in penetration, and whose
whole attention was now given to the study of externals, quickly
perceived these shades of difference between her late and her present
friend. She remarked, in particular, that she found herself much more
at ease in Lady Bradstone’s society. Her ladyship’s pride was not so
offensive as Lady Stock’s vanity: secure of her own superiority, Lady
Bradstone did not want to measure herself every instant with inferiors.
She treated Almeria as her equal in every respect; and in setting her
right in points of fashion never seemed to triumph, but to consider her
own knowledge as a necessary consequence of the life she had led from
her infancy. With a sort of proud generosity, she always considered
those whom she honoured with her friendship as thenceforward entitled to
all the advantages of her own situation, and to all the respect due to
a part of herself. She now always used the word _we_, with peculiar
emphasis, in speaking of Miss Turnbull and herself. This was a signal
perfectly well understood by her acquaintance. Almeria was received
every where with the most distinguished attention; and she was
delighted, and absolutely intoxicated, with her sudden rise in the world
of fashion. She found that her former acquaintance at Lady Stock’s were
extremely ambitious of claiming an intimacy; but this could not be done.
Miss Turnbull had now acquired, by practice, the power of looking at
people without seeming to see them, and of forgetting those with whom
she was perfectly well acquainted. Her opinion of her own consequence
was much raised by the court that was paid to her by several young
men of fashion, who thought it expedient to marry two hundred thousand
pounds.
How quickly ambition extends her views! Our heroine’s highest object had
lately been to form an alliance with a man of fashion; she had now three
fashionable admirers in her train, but though she was flattered by their
attention, she had not the least inclination to decide in favour of any
of these candidates. The only young man of her present acquaintance who
seemed to be out of the reach of her power was Lord Bradstone; and upon
the conquest of his heart, or rather his pride, her fancy was fixed.
He had all his mother’s family pride, and he had been taught by her to
expect an alliance with a daughter of one of the first noble families in
England. The possibility of his marrying a grazier’s daughter had never
entered into his or Lady Bradstone’s thoughts: they saw, indeed, every
day, examples, among the first nobility, of such matches; but they saw
them with contempt. Almeria knew this, and yet she did not despair of
success: nor was she wrong in her calculations. Lord Bradstone was fond
of high play--his taste for gaming soon reduced him to distress--his
guardian was enraged, and absolutely refused to pay his lordship’s
debts. What was to be done?--He must extricate himself from his
difficulties by marrying some rich heiress. Miss Turnbull was the
heiress nearest at hand. Lord Bradstone’s pride was compelled to yield
to his interest, and he resolved to pay his addresses to the Yorkshire
grazier’s daughter: but he knew that his mother would be indignant at
this idea; and he therefore determined to proceed cautiously, and to
assure himself of the young lady’s approbation before he should brave
his mother’s anger.
The winter was now passed, and her ladyship invited Miss Turnbull to
accompany her to Cheltenham;--her son was of the party. Our heroine
plainly understood his intentions, and her friendship for Lady Bradstone
did not prevent her from favouring his views: neither was she deterred
by her knowledge of his lordship’s taste for play, so ardent was her
desire for a coronet. The recollection of Frederick Elmour sometimes
crossed her imagination, and struck her heart; but the pang was soon
over, and she settled her conscience by the reflection, that she
was not, in the least degree, bound in honour to him--he had set her
entirely at liberty, and could not complain of her conduct. As to
Ellen--every day she determined to write to her, and every day she put
it off till to-morrow. At last she was saved the trouble of making and
breaking any more resolutions: for one evening, as she was walking with
Lady Bradstone and her noble admirer, in the public walk, she met Miss
Elmour and her brother.
She accosted Ellen with great eagerness; but it was plain to her
friend’s discerning eyes that her joy was affected. After repeating
several times that she was quite delighted at this unexpected meeting,
she ran on with a number of commonplace questions, commencing and
concluding with, “When did you come?--How long do you stay?--Where do
you lodge?”
“We have been here about a fortnight, and I believe we shall stay about
a month longer.”
“Indeed!--A month!--So long!--How fortunate!--But where are you?”
“We lodge a little out of the town, on the road to Cirencester.”
“How unfortunate!--We are at such a shocking distance!--I’m with Lady
Bradstone--a most charming woman!--Whom are you with?”
“With my poor father,” said Ellen; “he has been very ill lately, and we
came here on his account.”
“Ill!--Old Mr. Elmour!--I’m extremely concerned--but whom have you to
attend him?--you should send to town for Dr. Grant--do you know he is
the only man now?--the only man Lady Bradstone and I have any dependence
on--if I were dying, he is the man I should send for. Do have him for
Mr. Elmour, my dear--and don’t be alarmed, above all things--you know
it’s so natural, at your father’s age, that he should not be as well as
he has been--but I distress you--and detain you.”
Our heroine, after running off these unmeaning sentences, passed on,
being ashamed to walk with Ellen in public, because Lady Bradstone had
whispered, “_Who is she?_”--Not to be known in the world of fashion is
an unpardonable crime, for which no merit can atone. Three days elapsed
before Miss Turnbull went to see her friends, notwithstanding her
extreme concern for poor Mr. Elmour. Her excuse to her conscience was,
that Lady Bradstone’s carriage could not sooner be spared. People in
a certain rank of life are, or make themselves, slaves to horses
and carriages; with every apparent convenience and luxury, they are
frequently more dependent than their tradesmen or their servants.
There was a time when Almeria would not have been restrained by these
imaginary _impossibilities_ from showing kindness to her friends; but
that time was now completely past. She was, at present, anxious to avoid
having any private conversation with Ellen, because she was ashamed
to avow her change of views and sentiments. In the short morning
visit which she paid her, Almeria talked of public places, of public
characters, of dress and equipages, &c. She inquired, indeed, with a
modish air of infinite sensibility, for poor Mr. Elmour; and when she
heard that he was confined to his bed, she regretted most excessively
that she could not see him; but a few seconds afterwards, with a
suitable change of voice and countenance, she made an easy transition
to the praise of a new dress of Lady Bradstone’s invention. Frederick
Elmour came into the room in the midst of the eulogium on her ladyship’s
taste--she was embarrassed for a moment; but quickly recovering the tone
of a fine lady, she spoke to him as if he had never been any thing to
her but a common acquaintance. The dignity and firmness of his manner
provoked her pride; she wished to coquet with him--she tried to excite
his jealousy by talking of Lord Bradstone: but vain were all her airs
and inuendoes; they could not extort from him even a sigh. She was
somewhat consoled, however, by observing in his sister’s countenance the
expression, as she thought, of extreme mortification.
A few days after this visit, Miss Turnbull received the following note
from Miss Elmour:
“MY DEAR ALMERIA,
“If you still wish that I should treat you as a friend, show me that you
do, and you will find my affection unaltered. If, on the contrary, you
have decided to pursue a mode of life, or to form connexions which make
you ashamed to own any one for a friend who is not a fine lady, let
our intimacy be dissolved for ever--it could only be a source of mutual
pain. My father is better to-day, and wishes to see you. Will you spend
this evening with him and with Your affectionate ELLEN ELMOUR?”
It happened that the very day Miss Turnbull received this note, Lady
Bradstone was to have a concert, and Almeria knew that her ladyship
would be offended if she were to spend the evening with the Elmours:
it was, as she said to herself, _impossible_, therefore, to accept of
Ellen’s invitation. She called upon her in the course of the morning,
to make an apology. She found Ellen beside her father, who was seated
in his arm-chair: he looked extremely pale and weak: she was at first
shocked at the change she saw in her old friend, and she could not utter
the premeditated apology. Ellen took it for granted that she was come,
in consequence of her note, to spend the day with her, and she embraced
her with affectionate joy. Her whole countenance changed when our
heroine began at last to talk of Lady Bradstone and the concert--Ellen
burst into tears.
“My dear child,” said Mr. Elmour, putting his hand upon his daughter’s,
which rested upon the arm of his chair, “I did not expect this weakness
from you.”
Miss Turnbull, impatient to shorten a scene which she had neither
strength of mind to endure nor to prevent, rose to take leave.
“My dear Ellen,” said she, in an irresolute tone, “my dearest creature,
you must not distress yourself in this way--I must have you keep up your
spirits. You confine yourself too much, indeed you do; and you see you
are not equal to it. Your father will be better, and he will persuade
you to leave him for an hour or two, I am sure, and we must have you
amongst us; and I must introduce you to Lady Bradstone--she’s a charming
woman, I assure you--you would like her of all things, if you knew her.
Come--don’t let me see you in this way. Really, my dear Ellen, this is
so unlike you--I can assure you that, whatever you may think, I love you
as well as ever I did, and never shall forget my obligations to _all_
your family; but, you know, a person who lives in the world, as I do,
must make such terrible sacrifices of their time--one can’t do as one
pleases--one’s an absolute slave. So you must forgive me, dear Ellen,
for bidding you farewell for the present.”
Ellen hastily wiped away her tears, and turning to Almeria with an air
of dignity, held out her hand to her, and said, “Farewell for ever,
Almeria!--May you never feel the want of a sincere and affectionate
friend!--May the triumphs of fashion make you amends for all you
sacrifice to obtain them!”
Miss Turnbull was abashed and agitated--she hurried out of the room to
conceal her confusion, stepped into a carriage with a coronet, drove
away, and endeavoured to forget all that had passed. The concert in the
evening recalled her usual train of ideas, and she persuaded herself
that she had done all, and more than was necessary, in offering to
introduce Ellen to Lady Bradstone. “How could she neglect such an
offer?”
A few days after the concert, Almeria had the pleasure of being
introduced to Lady Bradstone’s four daughters--Lady Gabriella, Lady
Agnes, Lady Bab, and Lady Kitty. Of the existence of these young ladies
Almeria had scarcely heard--they had been educated at a fashionable
boarding-school; and their mother was now under the disagreeable
necessity of bringing them home to live with her, because the eldest was
past seventeen.
Lady Gabriella was a beauty, and determined to be a Grace--but which of
the three Graces, she had not yet decided.
Lady Agnes was plain, and resolved to be a wit.
Lady Bab and Lady Kitty were charming hoydens, with all the _modern_
simplicity of fourteen or fifteen in their manners. Lady Bab had a fine
long neck, which was always in motion--Lady Kitty had white teeth, and
was always laughing;--but it is impossible to characterize them, for
they differed in nothing from a thousand other young ladies.
These four sisters agreed in but one point--in considering their mother
as their common enemy. Taking it for granted that Miss Turnbull was her
friend, she was looked upon by them as being naturally entitled to a
share of their distrust and enmity. They found a variety of causes of
complaint against our heroine; and if they had been at any loss, their
respective waiting-maids would have furnished them with inexhaustible
causes of quarrel.
Lady Bradstone could not bear to go with more than four in a
coach.--“Why was Miss Turnbull always to have a front seat in the
coach, and two of the young ladies to be always left at home on
her account?”--“How could Lady Bradstone make such a favourite of a
grazier’s daughter, and prefer her to her own children as a companion?”
&c.
The young ladies never discouraged their attendants from saying all the
ill-natured things that they could devise of Miss Turnbull, and they
invented a variety of methods of tormenting her. Lady Gabriella found
out that Almeria was horridly ugly and awkward; Lady Agnes _quizzed_ her
perpetually; and the Ladies Bab and Kitty played upon her innumerable
practical jokes. She was astonished to find in high life a degree of
vulgarity of which her country companions would have been ashamed: but
all such things in high life go under the general term _dashing_.
These young ladies were _dashers_. Alas! perhaps foreigners and future
generations may not know the meaning of the term!
Our heroine’s temper was not proof against the trials to which it was
hourly exposed: perhaps the consciousness that she was not born to the
situation in which she now moved, joined to her extreme anxiety to be
thought genteel and fashionable, rendered her peculiarly irritable
when her person and manners were attacked by ladies of quality. She
endeavoured to conciliate her young enemies by every means in her
power, and at length she found a method of pleasing them. They were
immoderately fond of baubles, and they had not money enough to gratify
this taste. Miss Turnbull at first, with great timidity, begged Lady
Gabriella’s acceptance of a ring, which seemed particularly to catch her
fancy: the facility with which the ring was accepted, and the favourable
change it produced, as if by magic, in her ladyship’s manners towards
our heroine, encouraged her to try similar experiments upon the
other sisters. She spared not ear-rings, crosses, brooches, pins, and
necklaces; and the young ladies in return began to show her all the
friendship which can be purchased by such presents--or by any presents.
Even whilst she rejoiced at the change in their behaviour, she could
not avoid despising them for the cause to which she knew it must be
attributed; nor did she long enjoy even the temporary calm procured by
these peace-offerings; for the very same things which propitiated the
daughters offended the mother. Lady Bradstone one morning insisted
upon Lady Gabriella’s returning a necklace, which she had received from
Almeria; and her ladyship informed Miss Turnbull, at the same time, with
an air of supreme haughtiness, that “she could not possibly permit
_her_ daughters to accept such valuable presents from any but their own
relations; that if the Lady Bradstones did not know what became them, it
was her duty to teach them propriety.”
It was rather late in life to begin to teach, even if they had been
inclined to learn. They resented her last lesson, or rather her last act
of authority, with acrimony proportioned to the value of the object;
and Miss Turnbull was compelled to hear their complaints. Lady Gabriella
said, she was convinced that her mother’s only reason for making her
return the necklace was because she had not one quite so handsome. Lady
Agnes, between whom and her mamma there was pending a dispute about a
pair of diamond ear-rings, left by her grandmother, observed, that her
mother might, if she pleased, call _jealousy, propriety_; but that she
must not be surprised if other people used the old vocabulary; that her
mamma’s pride and vanity were always at war; for that though she
was proud enough to see her daughters _show well_ in public, yet she
required to have it said that she looked younger than any of them, and
that she was infinitely better dressed.
Lady Bab and Lady Kitty did not fail in this favourable moment of
general discontent to bring forward their list of grievances; and in the
discussion of their rights and wrongs they continually appealed to our
heroine, crowding round her whilst she stood silent and embarrassed.
Ashamed of them and of herself, she compared the Lady Bradstones with
Ellen--she compared the sisters-in-law she was soon to have with the
friend she had forsaken. The young ladies mistook the expression of
melancholy in Almeria’s countenance at this instant, for sympathy in
their sorrows; and her silence, for acquiescence in the justice of their
complaints. They were reiterating their opinions with something like
plebeian loudness of voice, when their mother entered the room. The ease
with which her daughters changed their countenances and the subject of
conversation, when she entered, might have prevented all suspicion but
for the blushes of Almeria, who, though of all the party she was the
least guilty, looked by far the most abashed. The necklace which hung
from her hand, and on which in the midst of her embarrassment her eyes
involuntarily fell, seemed to Lady Bradstone proof positive against her.
Her ladyship recollected certain words she had heard as she opened the
door, and now applied them without hesitation to herself. Politeness
restrained the expression of her anger towards Miss Turnbull, but it
burst furiously forth upon her daughters; and our heroine was now as
much alarmed by the violence of her future mother-in-law as she had
been disgusted by the meanness of her _intended_ sisters. From this
day forward, Lady Bradstone’s manner changed towards Almeria, who could
plainly perceive, by her altered eye, that she had lost her confidence,
and that her ladyship considered her as one who was playing a double
part, and fomenting dissensions in her family. She thought herself
bound, in honour to the daughters, not to make any explanation that
could throw the blame upon them; and she bore in painful silence the
many oblique reproaches, reflections upon ingratitude, dissimulation,
and treachery, which she knew were aimed at her. The consciousness that
she was treating Lady Bradstone with insincerity, in encouraging the
addresses of her son, increased Miss Turnbull’s embarrassment; she
repented having for a moment encouraged his clandestine attachment; and
she now urged him in the strongest manner to impart his intentions to
his mother. He assured her that she should be obeyed; but his obedience
was put off from day to day; and, in the mean time, the more Almeria saw
of his family, the more her desire to be connected with them diminished.
The affair of the necklace was continually renewed, in some shape or
other, and a perpetual succession of petty disputes occurred, in which
both parties were in the wrong, and each openly or secretly blamed her
for not taking their part. Her mind was so much harassed, that all
her natural cheerfulness forsook her; and the being obliged to assume
spirits in company, and among people who were not worth the toil of
pleasing, became every hour more irksome. The transition from these
domestic miseries to public dissipation and gaieties made her still more
melancholy.
When she calmly examined her own heart, she perceived that she felt
little or no affection for Lord Bradstone, though she had been flattered
by his attentions, when the assiduity of a man of rank and fashion was
new to her; but now the joys of being a countess began to fade in her
imagination. She hesitated--she had not strength of mind sufficient to
decide--she was afraid to proceed; yet she had not courage to retract.
Ellen’s parting words recurred to her mind--“May you never feel the want
of a sincere and affectionate friend! May the triumphs of fashion make
you amends for all you sacrifice to obtain them!”--“Alas!” thought
she, “Ellen foresaw that I should soon be disgusted with this joyless,
heartless intercourse; but how can I recede? how can I disengage
myself from this Lord Bradstone, now that I have encouraged his
addresses?--Fool that I have been!--Oh! if I could now be advised by
that best of friends, who used to assist me in all my difficulties!--But
she despises, she has renounced me--she has bid me farewell for ever!”
Notwithstanding this “farewell for ever,” there was still at the bottom
of Almeria’s heart, even whilst she bewailed herself in this manner, a
secret hope that Ellen’s esteem and friendship might be recovered, and
she resolved to make the trial. She was eager to put this idea into
execution the moment it occurred to her; and after apologizing to the
Lady Bradstones for not, as usual, accompanying them in their morning
ride, she set out to walk to Miss Elmour’s lodgings. It was a hot
day--she walked fast from the hurry and impatience of her mind. The
servant who attended her knocked twice at Mr. Elmour’s door before any
one answered; at last the door was opened by a maid-servant, with a
broom in her hand.
“Is Miss Elmour at home?”
“No, sir, she left Cheltenham this morning betimes, and we be getting
the house ready for other lodgers.”
Almeria was very much disappointed--she looked flushed and fatigued;
and the maid said, “Ma’am, if you’ll be pleased to rest a while, you’re
welcome, I’m sure--and the parlour’s cleaned out--be pleased to sit
down, ma’am.”--Almeria followed, for she was really tired, and glad to
accept the good-natured offer. She was shown into the same parlour where
she had but a few weeks before taken leave of Ellen. The maid rolled
forward the great arm-chair, in which old Mr. Elmour had been seated;
and as she moved it, a gold-headed cane fell to the ground.