friend of hers: many a time she had played with it when she was a child,
and for many years she had been accustomed to see it in the hand of
a man whom she loved and respected. It brought many pleasing and some
painful associations to her mind--for she reflected how ill she had
behaved to the owner of it the last time she saw him.
“Ay, ma’am,” said the maid, “it is the poor old gentleman’s cane, sure
enough--it has never been stirred from here, nor his hat and gloves,
see, since the day he died.”
“Died!--Good Heavens!--Is Mr. Elmour dead?”
“Yes, sure--he died last Tuesday, and was buried yesterday. You’d better
drink some of this water, ma’am,” said the girl, filling a glass that
stood on the table. “Why! dear heart! I would not have mentioned it
so sudden in this way, but I thought it could no way hurt you. Why, it
never came into my head you could be a friend of the family’s, nor more,
may be, at the utmost, than an acquaintance, as you never used to call
much during his illness.”
This was the most cutting reproach, and the innocence with which it was
uttered made it still more severe. Almeria burst into tears; and the
poor girl, not knowing what to say next, and sorry for all she had said,
took up the cane, which had fallen from Almeria’s hands, and applied
herself to brightening the gold head with great diligence. At this
instant there was a double knock at the house-door.
“It’s only the young gentleman, ma’am,” said the maid, as she went
towards the door.
“What young gentleman?” said Almeria, rising from her seat.
“Young Mr. Elmour, ma’am: he did not go away with his sister, but stayed
to settle some matters. Oh, they have let him in!”
The maid stood with the parlour-door half open in her hand, not being
able to decide in her own fancy whether the lady wished that he should
come into the room or stay out; and before either she, or perhaps
Almeria, had decided this point, it was settled for them by his walking
in. Almeria was standing so as to be hid by the door; and he was so
intent upon his own thoughts, that, without perceiving there was any
body in the room, he walked straight forward to the table, took up
his father’s hat and gloves, and gave a deep sigh. He heard his sigh
echoed--looked up, and started at the sight of Almeria, but immediately
assumed an air of distant and cold respect. He was in deep mourning, and
looked pale, as if he had suffered much. Almeria endeavoured to speak;
but could get out only a few words, expressive of _the shock and
astonishment_ she had just felt.
“Undoubtedly, madam, you must have been shocked,” replied Frederick, in
a calm voice; “but you could not have reason to be much astonished. My
father’s life had been despaired of some time--you must have seen how
much he was changed when you were here a few weeks ago.” Almeria could
make no reply; the tears, in spite of all her efforts to restrain them,
rolled down her cheeks: the cold, and almost severe, manner, in which
Frederick spoke, and the consciousness that she deserved it, struck her
to the heart. He followed her, as she abruptly quitted the room, and
in a tone of more kindness, but with the same distant manner, begged to
have the honour of attending her home. She bowed her head, to give that
assent which her voice could not at this instant utter; and she was
involuntarily going to put her arm within his; but, as he did not seem
to perceive this motion, she desisted, coloured violently, adjusted
the drapery of her gown to give employment to the neglected hand, then
walked on with precipitation. Her foot slipped as she was crossing the
street; Frederick offered his arm--she could not guess, from the way in
which it was presented, whether her former attempt had been perceived or
not. This trifle appeared to her a point of the utmost importance; for
by this she thought she could decide whether his feelings were really
as cold towards her as they appeared, whether he felt love and anger, or
contempt and indifference. Whilst she was endeavouring in vain to form
her opinion, all the time she leant upon his arm, and walked on in
silence, a carriage passed them; Frederick bowed, and his countenance
was suddenly illuminated. Almeria turned eagerly to see the cause of the
change, and as the carriage drove on she caught a glimpse of a beautiful
young lady. A spasm of jealousy seized her heart--she withdrew her
arm from Frederick’s. The abruptness of the action did not create any
emotion in him--his thoughts were absent. In a few minutes he slackened
his pace, and turned from the road towards a path across the fields,
asking if Miss Turnbull had any objection to going that way to Lady
Bradstone’s instead of along the dusty road. She made no objection--she
thought she perceived that Frederick was preparing to say something of
importance to her, and her heart beat violently.
“Miss Turnbull will not, I hope, think what I am going to say
impertinent; she may be assured that it proceeds from no motive but the
desire to prevent the future unhappiness of one who once honoured my
family with her friendship.”
“You are too good--I do not deserve that you should be interested in
my happiness or unhappiness--I cannot think you impertinent--pray speak
freely.”
“And quickly,” she would have added, if she dared. Without abating any
of his reserve from this encouragement, he proceeded precisely in the
same tone as before, and with the same steady composure.
“An accidental acquaintance with a friend of my Lord Bradstone’s, has
put me in possession of what, perhaps, you wish to be a secret, madam,
and what I shall inviolably keep as such.”
“I cannot pretend to be ignorant of what you allude to,” said Almeria;
“but it is more than probable that you may not have heard the exact
state of the business; indeed it is impossible that you should, because
no one but myself could fully explain my sentiments. In fact they were
undecided; I was this very morning going to consult your sister upon
that subject.”
“You will not suppose that I am going to intrude my counsels upon you,
Miss Turnbull; nothing can be farther from my intention: I am merely
going to mention a fact to you, of which I apprehend you are ignorant,
and of which, as you are circumstanced, no one in your present society,
perhaps no one in the world but myself, would choose to apprize you.
Forgive me, madam, if I try your patience by this preface: I am very
desirous not to wound your feelings more than is necessary.”
“Perhaps,” said Almeria, with a doubtful smile, “perhaps you are under
a mistake, and imagine my feelings to be much more interested than they
really are. If you have any thing to communicate to Lord Bradstone’s
disadvantage, you may mention it to me without hesitation, and without
fear of injuring my happiness or his; for, to put you at ease at once,
I am come to a determination positively to decline his lordship’s
addresses.”
“This assurance certainly puts me at ease at once,” said Frederick. But
Almeria observed that he neither expressed by his voice nor countenance
any of that joy which she had hoped to inspire by the assurance: on
the contrary, he heard it as a determination in which he was personally
unconcerned, and in which pure benevolence alone could give him an
interest. “This relieves me,” continued he, “from all necessity of
explaining myself further.”
“Nay,” said Almeria, “but I must beg you will explain yourself. You do
not know but it may be necessary for me to have your antidote ready in
case of a relapse.”
No change, at least none that betrayed the anxiety of a lover, was
visible in Frederick’s countenance at this hint of a relapse; but he
gravely answered, that, when so urged, he could not forbear to tell
her the exact truth, that Lord Bradstone was a ruined man--ruined
by gaming--and that he had been so indelicate as to declare to his
_friend_, that his sole object in marrying was money. Our heroine’s
pride was severely hurt by the last part of this information; but
even that did not wound her so keenly as the manner in which Frederick
behaved. She saw that he had no remains of affection for her lurking
in his heart--she saw that he now acted merely as he declared, from a
desire to save from misery one who had formerly honoured his family
with her friendship. Stiff, cold words--she endeavoured to talk upon
indifferent subjects, but could not--she was somewhat relieved when they
reached Lady Bradstone’s door, and when Frederick left her. The moment
he was gone, however, she ran up stairs to her own apartment, and looked
eagerly out of her window to catch the last glimpse of him. Such is
the strange caprice of the human heart, that a lover appears the
most valuable at the moment he is lost. Our heroine had felt all her
affection for Frederick revive with more than its former force within
this last hour; and she thought she now loved with a degree of passion
of which she had never before found herself capable. Hope is perhaps
inseparable from the existence of the passion of love. She passed
alternately from despair to the most flattering delusions: she fancied
that Frederick’s coldness was affected--that he was acting only from
honour--that he wished to leave her at liberty--and that as soon as he
knew she was actually disengaged from Lord Bradstone, he would fly
to her with all his former eagerness. This notion having once taken
possession of her mind, she was impatient in the extreme to settle her
affairs with Lord Bradstone. He was not at home--he did not come in till
late in the evening. It happened, that the next day Almeria was to be of
age; and Lord Bradstone, when he met her in the evening, reminded her
of her promise not “to prolong the torments of suspense beyond that
period.” She asked whether he had, in compliance with her request,
communicated the affair to Lady Bradstone? No; but he would as soon as
he had reasonable grounds of hope. Miss Turnbull rejoiced that he had
disobeyed her injunctions--she said that Lady Bradstone might now be for
ever spared hearing what would have inevitably excited her indignation.
His lordship stared, and could not comprehend our heroine’s present
meaning. She soon made it intelligible. We forbear to relate all that
was said upon the occasion: as it was a disappointment of the purse
and not of the heart, his lordship was of course obliged to make
a proportional quantity of professions of eternal sorrow and
disinterestedness. Almeria, partly to save her own pride the
mortification of the repetition, forbore to allude to the confidential
speech in which he had explained to _a friend_ his motives for marrying;
she hoped that he would soon console himself with some richer heiress,
and she rejoiced to be disencumbered of him, and even of his coronet;
for in this moment coronets seemed to her but paltry things--so much
does the appearance of objects vary according to the medium through
which they are viewed!
Better satisfied with herself after this refusal of the earl, and in
better spirits than she had been for some months, she flattered herself
with the hopes that Frederick would call upon her again before he left
Cheltenham; he would then know that Lord Bradstone was no longer her
lover.
She fell asleep full of these imaginations--dreamed of Frederick and
Elmour Grove--but this was only a dream. The next day--and the next--and
the next--passed without her seeing or hearing any thing of Frederick;
and the fourth day, as she rode by the house where the Elmours had
lodged, she saw put up in the parlour window an advertisement of
“_Lodgings to be let_.” She was now convinced that Frederick had left
Cheltenham--left it without thinking of her or of Lord Bradstone. The
young Lady Bradstones observed that she scarcely spoke a word during
the remainder of her morning’s ride. At night she was attacked with a
feverish complaint: the image of the beautiful person whom she had seen
in the coach that passed while she was walking with Frederick, was now
continually before her eyes. She had made all the inquiries she could,
to find out who that young lady might be; but this point could not be
ascertained, because, though she described the lady accurately, she was
not equally exact about the description of the carriage. The arms and
livery had totally escaped her observation. The different conjectures
that had been made by the various people to whom she had applied, and
the voices in which their answers were given, ran in her head all this
feverish night.
“Perhaps it was Lady Susanna Quin--very likely it was Lady Mary
Lowther--very possibly Miss Grant; you know she goes about with old Mrs.
Grant in a yellow coach--but there are so many yellow coaches--the arms
or the livery would settle the point at once.” These words, _the arms
and the livery would settle the point at once,_ she repeated to herself
perpetually, though without annexing any ideas to the words. In
short, she was very feverish all night; and in the morning, though she
endeavoured to rise, she was obliged to lie down again. She was
confined to her bed for about a week: Lady Bradstone sent for the best
physicians; and the young ladies, in the intervals of dressing and going
out, whenever they could remember it, came into Miss Turnbull’s room
to “hope she found herself better.” It was obvious to her that no one
person in the house cared a straw about her, and she was oppressed with
the sense of being an encumbrance to the whole family. Whilst she was
alone she formed many projects for her future life, which she resolved
to execute as soon as she should recover. She determined immediately
to go down to her own house in the country, and to write to Ellen a
recantation of all her fine lady errors. She composed, whilst she lay on
her feverish pillow, twenty letters to her former friend, each of them
more eloquent and magnanimous than the other: but in proportion as her
fever left her, the activity of her imagination abated, and with it her
eloquence and magnanimity. Her mind, naturally weak, and now enfeebled
by disease, became quite passive, and received and yielded to the
impressions made by external circumstances. New trains of ideas,
perfectly different from those which had occupied her mind during her
fever, and in the days preceding her illness, were excited during her
convalescence. She lay listening to, or rather hearing, the conversation
of the young Lady Bradstones. They used to come into her room at night,
and stay for some time whilst they had their hair curled, and talked
over the events of the day--whom they had met--what dresses they had
worn--what matches were on the tapis, &c. They happened one night to
amuse themselves with reading an old newspaper, in which they came to
an account of a splendid masquerade, which had been given the preceding
winter in London by a rich heiress.
“Lord! what charming entertainments Miss Turnbull might give if she
pleased. Why, do you know, she is richer than this woman,” whispered
Lady Bab; “and she is of age now, you know. If I were she, I’m sure I’d
have a house of my own, and the finest I could get in London. Now such a
house as my aunt Pierrepoint’s--and servants--and carriages--and I would
make myself of some consequence.”
This speech was not lost upon our heroine; and the whisper in which it
was spoken increased its effect. The next day, as Lady Bab was sitting
at the foot of Almeria’s bed, she asked for a description of “my aunt
Pierrepoint’s house.” It was given to her _con amore_, and a character
of “my aunt Pierrepoint” was added gratis. “She is the most charming
amiable woman in the world--quite a different sort of person from mamma.
She has lived all her life about court, and she is connected with all
the great people, and a prodigious favourite at court--and she is of
such consequence!--You cannot imagine of what consequence she is!”
Lady Gabriella then continued the conversation, by telling Miss Turnbull
a great secret, that her aunt Pierrepoint and her mother were not on
the best terms in the world: “for mamma’s so violent, you know, about
politics, and quite on a contrary side to my aunt. Mamma never goes to
court; and, between you and me, they say she would not be received.
Now that is a shocking thing for us; but the most provoking part of the
business is, that mamma won’t let my aunt Pierrepoint present us. Why,
when she cannot or will not go to the drawing-room herself, what
could be more proper, you know, than to let us be presented by Lady
Pierrepoint?--Lady Pierrepoint, you know, who is such a prodigious
favourite, and knows every thing in the world that’s proper at court,
and every where: it really is monstrous of mamma! Now if you were in
our places, should not you be quite provoked? By-the-bye, you never were
presented at court yourself, were you?”
“Never,” said Almeria, with a sudden feeling of mortification.
“No, you could not--of course you could not, living with mamma as you
do; for I am sure she would quarrel with an angel for just only talking
of going to court. Lord! if I was as rich as you, what beautiful
birthday dresses I would have!”
These and similar conversations wrought powerfully upon the weak mind of
our poor heroine. She rose from her bed after her illness wondering what
had become of her passion for Frederick Elmour: certainly she was now
able to console herself for his loss, by the hopes of being presented at
court, and of being dressed with uncommon splendour. She was surprised
at this change in her own mind; but she justified it to herself by the
reflection, that it would show an unbecoming want of spirit to retain
any remains of regard for one who had treated her with so much coldness
and indifference, and who in all probability was attached to another
woman. Pride and resentment succeeded to tenderness; and she resolved
to show Frederick and Ellen that she could be happy her own way. It
is remarkable that her friendship for the sister always increased or
decreased with her love for her brother. Ambition, as it has often been
observed, is a passion that frequently succeeds to love, though love
seldom follows ambition. Almeria, who had now recovered her strength,
was one morning sitting in her own room, meditating arrangements for the
next winter’s campaign, when she was roused by the voices of Lady Bab
and Lady Kitty at her room door.
“Miss Turnbull! Miss Turnbull! come! come!--Here’s the king and queen
and all the royal family, and my aunt Pierrepoint--come quick to our
dressing-room windows, or they will be out of sight.”
The fair hoydens seized her between them, and dragged her away.
“Mamma says it’s horribly vulgar to run to the windows, but never mind
that. There’s my aunt Pierrepoint’s coach--is not it handsome?--Oh!
everything about her is so handsome!--you know she has lived all her
life at court.”
The eulogiums of these young ladies, and the sight of Lady Pierrepoint’s
entry in to Cheltenham in the wake of royalty, and the huzzas of the
mob, and the curiosity of all ranks who crowded the public walks in
the evening, to see the illustrious guest, contributed to raise our
heroine’s enthusiasm. She was rather surprised afterwards to observe
that Lady Pierrepoint passed her sister and nieces, on the public walk,
without taking the slightest notice of them; her head was turned indeed
quite another way when she passed, and she was in smiling conversation
with one of her own party.
Lady Gabriella whispered, “My aunt Pierrepoint cannot _know_ us now,
because we are with mamma.”
Miss Turnbull now, for the first time, saw Lady Bradstone in a situation
in which she was neglected; this served to accelerate the decline and
fall of her ladyship’s power over her mind. She began to consider her
not as a person by whom she had been brought into notice in the circles
of fashion, but as one by whom she was prevented from rising to a higher
orbit. Lady Bradstone went to see her sister the day after her arrival,
but she was _not at home_. Some days afterwards Lady Pierrepoint
returned her visit: she came in a sedan chair, because she did not wish
that her carriage should be seen standing at Lady Bradstone’s door. It
was incumbent upon her to take every possible precaution to prevent the
suspicion of her being biassed by sisterly affection; her sister and
she were unfortunately of such different opinions in politics, and her
sister’s politics were so much disapproved of, where Lady Pierrepoint
most wished for approbation, that she could not, consistently with her
principles or interest, countenance them, by appearing in public with
one so obnoxious.
Miss Turnbull observed, with the most minute attention, every word and
gesture of Lady Pierrepoint. At first view, her ladyship appeared all
smiling ease and affability; but in all her motions, even in those of
her face, there was something that resembled a puppet--her very smiles,
and the turns of her eyes, seemed to be governed by unseen wires. Upon
still closer observation, however, there was reason to suspect that this
puppet might be regulated by a mind within, of some sort or other; for
it could not only answer questions by a voice of its own, and apparently
without being prompted, but moreover it seemed to hesitate, and to take
time for thought, before it hazarded any reply. Lady Pierrepoint spoke
always as if she thought her words would be repeated, and must _lead to
consequences_; and there was an air of vast circumspection and mystery
about her, which appeared sublime or ridiculous according to the light
in which it was considered. To our heroine it appeared sublime. Her
ladyship’s conversation, if a set of unmeaning phrases be deserving of
that name, at length turned upon the concern she felt that it had not
been in her power to procure an increase of pension for a certain Mrs.
Vickars. “Such a respectable character!--the widow of a distant relation
of the Pierrepoints.” There was no probability, after all the interest
and influence she had used, she said, that Mrs. Vickars could ever
be gratified in the line she had attempted; that therefore it was her
ladyship’s advice to her to look out for some situation of an eligible
description, which might relieve her from the distressing apprehension
of appearing burdensome or importunate.
As well as her ladyship’s meaning could be made out, cleared from the
superfluity of words with which it was covered, she wished to get rid of
this poor widow, and to fasten her as an humble companion upon any body
who would be troubled with _such a respectable character!_ Miss Turnbull
foresaw the possibility of obliging her ladyship by means of Mrs.
Vickars: for as she proposed to purchase a house in town, it would be
convenient to her to have some companion; and this lady, who was of a
certain age, and who had always lived in the best company, would be well
suited to serve as her chaperon. To do our heroine justice, considering
that she was unpractised in manoeuvring with court ladies, she conducted
her scheme with a degree of address worthy of her object. Through the
medium of Lady Bab and Lady Gabriella, she opened a correspondence with
Lady Pierrepoint. Mrs. Vickars was introduced to Miss Turnbull--liked
her prodigiously; and Lady Pierrepoint was most happy in the prospect
of her relation’s being so eligibly situated. In proportion as Miss
Turnbull advanced in the good graces of Lady Pierrepoint, she receded
from Lady Bradstone. This lady’s indignation, which had been excited
against Almeria by her not siding with her against her daughters, now
rose to the highest pitch, when she perceived what was going on. No
crime could in her eyes be greater than that of seceding from her party.
Her violence in party matters was heightened by the desire to contrast
herself with her sister Pierrepoint’s courtly policy. Lady Bradstone,
all the time, knew and cared very little about politics, except so
far as they afforded her opportunities for the display of spirit
and eloquence. She had a fine flow of words, and loved to engage in
argument, especially as she had often been told by gentlemen that her
enthusiasm became her extremely, and that, even if a man could resist
the force of her arguments, he must yield to the fire of her eyes. It
happened that Miss Turnbull was present one day when Lady Bradstone had
been unusually warm in a political argument, and Lady Pierrepoint as
cool and guarded as her sister was eager. Almeria was appealed to, and
gave judgment in favour of Lady Pierrepoint, who happened to be in the
right. Regardless of right or wrong, Lady Bradstone became more and more
vehement, whilst Lady Pierrepoint sat in all the composed superiority
of silence, maintaining the most edifying meekness of countenance
imaginable, as if it were incumbent on her to be, or at least to seem,
penitent for a sister’s perversity. She sighed deeply when the _tirade_
was finished, and fixed her eyes upon her beautiful niece Gabriella.
Lady Gabriella immediately filled up the pause by declaring that she
knew nothing of politics and hoped she never should, for that she did
not know of what use they were to women, except to prevent them from
going to court.
Lady Bradstone expressed high indignation at perceiving that her
daughters thought more of dancing at a birthnight ball than of the good
of the nation.
Mrs. Vickars, who was present, now interposed a word as mediatrix,
observing, that it was natural for the young ladies at their age: and
Miss Turnbull, catching or imitating something of the tone of Lady
Pierrepoint, ventured to add, that “it was a pity that Lady Bradstone’s
daughters did not enjoy all the advantages of their high rank, and that
she really wished Lady Bradstone could be prevailed upon to enter into
conciliatory measures.”
On hearing this speech, Lady Bradstone, no longer able to restrain her
anger within the bounds of politeness, exclaimed, “I am not surprised at
receiving such advice from you, Miss Turnbull; but I own I am astonished
at hearing such sentiments from my daughters. High sentiments are to be
expected from high birth.”
How Lady Bradstone contrived to make her aristocratic pride of birth
agree with her democratic principles, it may be difficult to explain;
but fortunately the idea of preserving consistency never disturbed her
self-complacency. Besides, to keep her ladyship in countenance, there
are so many examples of persons who live as royalists and talk as
republicans.
Almeria could not brook the affront implied by Lady Bradstone’s last
speech; and matters were now brought to a crisis: she resolved not to
remain longer in a house where she was exposed to such insults. She was
of “age, and, thank Heaven! independent.”
Lady Bradstone made no opposition to her determination; but
congratulated her upon the prospect of becoming independent.
“I agree with you, Miss Turnbull, in thanking Heaven for making me
independent. Independence of mind, of course,” added she, “I value above
independence of purse.”
Whatever vexation our heroine might feel from this speech, and from
the perfect indifference with which Lady Bradstone parted from her,
was compensated by the belief that she had by her conduct this evening
ingratiated herself with Lady Pierrepoint. She was confirmed in this
opinion by Mrs. Vickars, who said that her ladyship afterwards spoke of
Miss Turnbull as a very judicious and safe young person, whom she should
not scruple to protect. She was even so condescending as to interest
herself about the house in town, which Miss Turnbull talked of
purchasing: she knew that a noble friend of hers, who was going on a
foreign embassy, had thoughts of parting with his house; and it would
certainly suit Miss Turnbull, if she could compass the purchase. Almeria
felt herself highly honoured by her ladyship’s taking a concern in any
of her affairs; and she begged of Mrs. Vickars to say, that “expense was
no object to her.” She consequently paid a few hundred guineas more
than the value of the house, for the honour of Lady Pierrepoint’s
interference. Her ladyship saw into the weakness of our heroine’s
character, and determined to make advantage of it. It was a maxim of
hers, that there is no person so insignificant, but some advantage may
be made of them; and she had acted upon this principle through life,
sometimes so as to excite in the minds of the ignorant a high admiration
of her affability. It is said, that when Lady Pierrepoint was asked why
she married, she replied, “To increase my consequence, and strengthen my
connexions.”
Perhaps this speech was made for her by some malicious wit; but it
is certain that she never upon any occasion of her life neglected an
opportunity of acting upon this principle. She was anxious with this
view to have as many dependents as possible: and she well knew that
those who were ambitious of a curtsy from her at the playhouse, or
a whisper at the opera, were as effectually her dependents as the
mendicants at her door, who are in want of a shilling. The poor may be
held in the iron fetters of necessity, but the rich are dragged behind
the car of fashion by the golden chains of vanity.
The summer in the life of a fine lady is a season comparatively of so
little consequence, that the judicious historian may pass over some
months of it without their being missed in the records of time. He
hastens to the busy and important season of winter.
Our heroine took possession of her magnificent house in town: and Mrs.
Vickars was established as _arbitratrix elegantiarum_.
This lady deemed herself a judge in the last appeal of every thing that
became a person of fashion; and her claim to infallibility upon those
points was established by her being fourth cousin to Lady Pierrepoint.
Almeria soon discovered in her companion an inordinate love of power,
and an irritability of temper, which misfortunes and ill health had
increased to such a degree that it required more than the patience of
a female Job to live with her upon good terms. Martyrs in the cause of
vanity certainly exhibit wonderful, if not admirable, fortitude, in the
midst of the absurd and extravagant torments which they inflict upon
themselves. Our heroine endured for a whole season, without any outward
complaint, but with many an inward groan, the penance which she had
imposed upon herself: the extent of it can be comprehended only by those
who have been doomed to live with a thoroughly ill-tempered woman. The
reward was surely proportioned to the sufferings. Miss Turnbull received
a smile, or a nod, or something like a curtsy from Lady Pierrepoint,
whenever she met her in public; her ladyship’s cards were occasionally
left at the Yorkshire heiress’s door; and she sometimes honoured Miss
Turnbull’s crowded rooms, by crowding them still more with her august
presence. There was further reason to hope, that her ladyship might be
induced to present Almeria at court before the next birthday. All
these advantages were to be attributed to Mrs. Vickars, for she was the
connecting link between two beings of inferior and superior order.
We forbear to describe, or even to enumerate, the variety of balls,
suppers, dinners, déjeunés, galas, and masquerades, which Miss Turnbull
gave to the fashionable world during this winter. The generous public
forget these things the week after they are over; and the consequence
they bestow endures no longer than the track of a triumphal chariot.
Our heroine was never fully convinced of this truth till it was
confirmed by her own experience. She found it necessary continually to
renew her expensive efforts, to keep herself alive in the memory of her
great acquaintance. Towards the time when she expected to be presented
at court by Lady Pierrepoint, a sudden coolness was apparent in her
ladyship’s manner; and one morning Almeria was surprised by a note from
her, regretting, in the most polite but positive terms, that it would
be absolutely out of her power to have the honour of presenting Miss
Turnbull at St. James’s. In the utmost consternation, Almeria flew for
an explanation to Mrs. Vickars. Mrs. Vickars was in a desperate fit of
_the sullens_, which had lasted now upwards of eight-and-forty hours,
ever since her advice had not been taken about the placing of certain
bronze figures, with antique lamps in their hands, upon the great
staircase. It was necessary to bring the lady into a good humour in
the first place, by yielding to her uncontrolled dominion over the
_candelabras_. This point being settled, and an unqualified submission
in all matters of taste, past, present, or to come, declared or implied
on the part of our heroine, Mrs. Vickars on her part promised to set out
immediately on an embassy to Lady Pierrepoint, to discover the cause of
the present discontent. After making sundry ineffectual attempts to
see her noble relation, she was at last admitted; and after one hour’s
private audience, she returned to the anxious Almeria with a countenance
lengthened to the utmost stretch of melancholy significance.
“What _is_ the matter, Mrs. Vickars?”
It was long before this question was answered; but after many friendly
lamentations, Mrs. Vickars could not help observing, that Miss Turnbull
had nobody to blame in this business but herself. This, or any thing
else, she was willing to admit, to get at the point, “But what have I
done? I dare say it is, as you say, all my own fault--but tell me how?”
“How!--Can you, my dearest Miss Turnbull, forget that you did the most
imprudent and really unaccountable thing, that ever woman did?--Lady
Pierrepoint _had it_ from Stock the banker. Now you must be certainly
conscious to what I allude.”
Almeria still looked innocent till Mrs. Vickars produced the book
dedicated to Lady Bradstone, for twelve copies of which Miss Turnbull
had subscribed. Her name was printed among the list of subscribers, and
there was no palliating the fact. When her companion saw that she was
quite overwhelmed with the sense of this misfortune, she began to hint,
that though the evil was great, it was not without remedy; that in her
own private opinion, Lady Pierrepoint might have passed over the thing,
if she had not heard it at a most unlucky moment. The provoking banker
mentioned it to her ladyship just after he had disappointed her of
certain moneys, for which she was negotiating. From her situation and
means of obtaining secret and early intelligence, she had it frequently
in her power to make money by selling in or out of the stocks. Such an
opportunity at present occurred; and “it was a great pity,” Mrs. Vickars
observed, “that the want of a little ready money should preclude her
from the possibility of profiting by her situation.” Miss Turnbull,
who was not deficient in quickness of comprehension, upon this hint
immediately said, “that her ladyship might command some thousands which
she had in Sir Thomas Stock’s bank.” Lady Pierrepoint the next day found
that it would be best to hush up the affair of the subscription to
the fatal pamphlet. She said, “that she had with infinite satisfaction
ascertained, that the thing had not been noticed in the quarter where
she feared it would have created an insuperable prejudice--that there
were other Turnbulls, as she was happy to understand, in the world,
besides Mrs. Vickars’s friend; and that as, in the list of subscribers,
she was mentioned only as _Miss_ Turnbull, not as Almeria Turnbull, all
was safe, and nobody would suspect that a lady presented at court by my
Lady Pierrepoint could be the same person that subscribed to a book of
such a description.”
This affair being adjusted, the league was tacitly formed between
interest and vanity. Miss Turnbull was presented at court by Lady
Pierrepoint, and her ladyship bought into the stocks with the Yorkshire
heiress’s money. The gratification of Almeria’s ambition, however, did
not complete her happiness. When she was at the summit of the Alps of
fashion, she saw how little was to be seen.
Though she liked to have it to say that she was a great deal with Lady
Pierrepoint, yet the time always passed most heavily in her company;
nor was the inferiority of this lady’s understanding compensated by
an affectionate heart. Her smoothly polished exterior prevented all
possibility of obtaining any hold over her. She had the art at once
to seem to be intimate with people, and to keep them at the greatest
distance; as, in certain optical deceptions, an object which appears
close to us, eludes our hand if we attempt to grasp it. Almeria felt the
want of that species of unreserved confidence and friendship which she
had formerly enjoyed with Ellen. In judging of what will make us happy,
we are apt to leave time out of the account; and this leads to most
important errors. For a short period we may be amused or gratified by
what will fatigue and disgust us if long continued. The first winter
that she spent in dissipation she was amused; but winter after winter
passed; and the recurrence of the same public diversions, and the
same faces, and the same common-place conversation, wearied instead of
interesting her. But as the pleasure of novelty declined, the power
of habit increased; and she continued the same course of life for six
years--six long years! against both her judgment and her feelings, the
absolute slave of an imaginary necessity. Thus the silly chicken remains
prisoner in a circle of chalk: even when the hand by which it was held
down is removed, it feels an imaginary pressure, from which it dares not
even attempt to escape.
Almeria, however, was now arrived at an age when she could no longer,
with any propriety, be called a chicken: she was seven-and-twenty; and
the effect of keeping late hours, and the continual petty irritations
to which she had been subject, were sufficiently visible in her
countenance. She looked in a morning so faded and haggard, that any one
not used to the _wear and tear_ of fashionable faces would have guessed
Almeria’s age to be seven-and-thirty instead of seven-and-twenty. During
her six campaigns in London, she or her fortune had made many conquests;
but none of her London captives had ever obtained any power over her
affections, and her ambition could not decide upon the pretensions of
her several suitors. Lady Pierrepoint, who was her prime adviser, had an
interest in keeping her unmarried; because during this time her ladyship
employed most advantageously certain moneys, which she had borrowed
from our heiress. This female politician made some objection to
every proposal; continually repeating, that Miss Turnbull might do
better--that she might look higher--that with her pretensions, there
could be no doubt that she would have a variety of advantageous
offers--and that her _play_ should be to raise her value by rejecting,
without hesitation, all pretenders but those of the first distinction.
Lady Pierrepoint, who usually spoke with all the ambiguity of an oracle,
seemed on this subject more than usually mysterious. She dropped half
sentences, then checked herself, hinted that she was not at liberty to
speak out; but that she had her own private reasons for advising her
friend Miss Turnbull not to be precipitate in her choice. Her ladyship’s
looks said more than her words, and Almeria interpreted them precisely
as she wished. There was a certain marquis, whom she sometimes met at
Lady Pierrepoint’s, and whom she would have been pleased to meet more
frequently. He was neither young, nor handsome, nor witty, nor wise.
What was he then?--He was a marquis--and is not that enough?--Almeria
saw that he was looked up to as a person of great influence and
importance, and she now had the habit of trusting to the eyes and ears
of others. She now considered what people were _thought of_, not what
they really were; and according to this mode of estimation she could
not fail to form a high opinion of this exalted personage. He paid her
distinguished, but not decisive attention; and perhaps the uncertainty
in which she was kept as to his views increased her interest upon the
subject. There was always some obstacle, which seemed to prevent him
from declaring himself:--at one time he was suddenly obliged to go
ambassador to some foreign court; he went, and stayed a year; at his
return he was immersed in politics, and deplored his hard fate in terms
which Almeria thought it was impossible not to construe favourably
to her wishes. She thought she was upon the point of becoming a
marchioness, when his lordship was again sent into what he called
banishment. Lady Pierrepoint had constantly letters from him, however;
passages from which she from time to time read to Almeria, in whose weak
mind this kept alive an indistinct hope, for which she had no rational
foundation. She was confirmed in her belief that the marquis had serious
thoughts of her, by the opinion of Mrs. Vickars, who she thought was
in the secret, and who certainly would not speak decidedly without
sufficient reason. Indeed, nothing but the pleasure she received from
Mrs. Vickars’s favourable prognostics upon this subject could have in
any degree balanced the pain she daily endured from this lady’s fretful
temper. Almeria submitted to her domineering humour, and continued to
propitiate her with petty sacrifices, more from fear than love--from
fear that her adverse influence might be fatal to her present scheme of
aggrandizement. Weak minds are subject to this apprehension of control
from secret causes utterly inadequate to their supposed effects; and
thus they put their destiny into the hands of persons who could not
otherwise obtain influence over their fate.
The time at length arrived when our heroine was to be confirmed in her
expectations, or wakened from her state of self-delusion. The
marquis returned from abroad, and Lady Pierrepoint wrote a note more
mysteriously worded than usual, signifying that she “wished to have
a conference with Miss Turnbull on a subject of some importance; and
begged to know at what hour in the morning she might be secure of the
pleasure of finding her at home.” Almeria named her hour, and waited
for its arrival with no small impatience. Lady Pierrepoint’s thundering
knock at the door was heard; her ladyship was shown up stairs; and she
entered the room with a countenance that seemed to promise well. She
preluded with many flattering phrases--declared that ever since she had
been first acquainted with Miss Turnbull at Cheltenham, she had always
considered her with sentiments of esteem, of which she had since given
indeed the most convincing proofs, by accepting of obligations from her.
“Obligations!” exclaimed Almeria, with an air of polite astonishment.
“Yes, my dear Miss Turnbull,” continued her ladyship, with still more
polite humility, “I am under obligations to you assuredly. Things of a
pecuniary nature ought not to be named, I confess, in the same sentence
with friendship; yet for the sake of one’s family it is, whilst we
remain in this world, the duty of every one to pay a certain degree of
attention to such points; and a person who has, like me, advantages of
situation and connexions, would not be justifiable in neglecting, under
due limitations, to make use of them.”
Miss Turnbull readily assented to these guarded truisms, but wondered to
what all this was to lead.
“The money which you have had the goodness to trust in my hands,”
continued her ladyship, “has, without in the least impoverishing, or, I
hope, _inconveniencing_ you, been of the most material advantage to me.”
Almeria comprehended that her ladyship referred to her speculations
in the stocks, and she congratulated her upon her success; and added
assurances, that for her own part she had not been in the slightest
degree _inconvenienced_. Whilst Miss Turnbull uttered these assurances,
however, she was not sorry to see Lady Pierrepoint take out of her
pocket-book bank notes to the amount of her debt; for in plain truth,
the interest of this loan had never been punctually paid; and Almeria
had often regretted that she had placed so much of her fortune out of
her own power. “Let me now return these to you with a thousand thanks,”
said her ladyship. “Indeed, my niece Gabriella has more reason even than
I have to thank you; for you must know, my dear Miss Turnbull, that all
my speculations have been for her. From the time that she came to live
with me, I was determined that she should be properly established; and
you must be sensible that, for a young lady’s establishment in our days,
money is as essential as beauty. La belle Gabrielle is now provided for
as she ought to be, and of course the consequence will be a suitable
alliance.” Miss Turnbull expressed her satisfaction at finding that
her money had been instrumental in attaining so happy a purpose, and
presumed to ask if her ladyship had any immediate alliance in view.
“It is a secret as yet; but I have no secrets for you, my dear Miss
Turnbull: indeed, I came here this morning by our dear Gabriella’s
particular desire to communicate it to you. I flatter myself you will
approve of her choice--our favourite marquis.”
Almeria was so much astonished and shocked by these words, that she
turned as pale as if she were going to faint. “Our favourite marquis!”
she repeated in a faltering voice; “I thought----”
The fear of becoming ridiculous restrained her anger, and she
paused.--“You thought, perhaps,” resumed the perfectly-composed Lady
Pierrepoint, “you thought, perhaps, my dear, that there was too great a
disparity of age between Gabriella and the marquis.”
“Oh! no.”
“Why, that is an objection, I confess; at least it would be to some
young ladies: but as Gabriella is satisfied, we may waive that.”
“Oh! yes, certainly.”
“One cannot help being interested for him; he is such a respectable
character--and so much in love! It would really surprise you, my dear;
for you know he was a man, one would have imagined, so much immersed in
politics--I protest I never had a suspicion of his having a thought of
Gabriella, till the proposal was absolutely made.”
“I am sure _I_ never suspected the marquis’s attachment to Lady
Gabriella,” said Miss Turnbull: “on the contrary--”
“On the contrary,” pursued Lady Pierrepoint, “he paid her always, as I
remember, less attention than to twenty others, who were indifferent to
him.”
The struggle was still violent in our heroine’s mind between rage and
the dread of exposing herself to ridicule. Lady Pierrepoint saw this,
and coolly held her in this dilemma.
“Now,” continued her ladyship, “men are such unaccountable creatures,
one never can understand them. Do you know, my dear Miss Turnbull, I
had, till his lordship explained himself unequivocally to me, a notion
that he was in love with you.”
“Really!” said our heroine, forcing a laugh.
“Did your friend Mrs. Vickars never tell you so?”
“Yes, she did--frequently.”
“Both of us mistaken, you see, my dear. Mortifying! to find one’s
judgment so fallible. I tell the marquis, he might absolutely have been
privately married to Gabriella without my finding him out--it is so easy
now, the easiest thing in the world, to impose upon me. Well, I must bid
you adieu for the present, my dear Miss Turnbull--you may imagine I have
a world of business on my hands.”
With the utmost appearance of cordiality Lady Pierrepoint shook our
heroine’s receding hand; and, without seeming to notice the painful
emotions visible in Almeria’s countenance, departed smiling, and
perfectly composed.
The moment that her ladyship had left the room, our heroine retired to
her own apartment, and hastily bolted the door to prevent the intrusion
of Mrs. Vickars, whose curiosity and condolence, whether real or
affected, she was not in a humour to endure. She walked up and down the
room in great agitation, by turns angry with Lady Pierrepoint, with the
marquis, with Lady Gabriella, with Mrs. Vickars, and with herself.
After her anger had spent itself, the sorrowful certainty that it
was unavailing remained; the disappointment was irremediable, and her
mortification was the more poignant, because she had no human being to
sympathize in her feelings, no one to whom she could complain.
“So this is fashionable friendship!” said she to herself. “This is the
end of all Lady Pierrepoint’s and Lady Gabriella’s professions of regard
for me!--Fool that I have been, to become their dupe!--With my eyes
open I saw nothing that was going forward, though now I can recollect
a thousand and a thousand circumstances, by which I might have been
undeceived. But I trusted implicitly--idiot that I was!--to the
friendship of this treacherous, unfeeling courtier. Once I had a friend,
to whom I might trust implicitly--I never, never, shall find her equal.”
A transient recollection of former times crossed her mind--but those
times could not be recalled; and the present pressed upon her most
forcibly. Frustrated in all her ambitious schemes, she was sensible that
all that now remained for her was to conceal her disappointment, and
to avoid the contempt to which she would be exposed in the world, if it
were whispered that Miss Turnbull had fancied that the Marquis of ----
was in love with her, whilst he was all the while paying his addresses
to Lady Gabriella Bradstone. This powerful fear of ridicule conquered,
or suppressed, all other feelings. With all the resolution she could
assume, Almeria went to Mrs. Vickars, and congratulated her upon the
happy event which was soon likely to take place in her family: she even
constrained herself so far, as, without expressing either suspicion or
resentment, to hear her companion disclaim all knowledge of the affair,
and declare that she had, that morning, for the first time, heard of it
from Lady Pierrepoint, with a degree of astonishment from which she had
not yet recovered.
In a few weeks afterwards Lady Gabriella’s marriage took place. Our
heroine’s mortification was much increased by the splendour in which the
bride appeared, and by the great share of the public attention which
the fair marchioness seemed for some days to engross. Miss Turnbull
was weary of hearing the praises of her equipages and dress; and the
dissimulation she was continually obliged to practise towards Mrs.
Vickars became intolerable. Nothing but a pretext for quarrelling with
this lady was wanting to Almeria, and nothing but an excuse for leaving
Almeria was now desired by Mrs. Vickars, who had received an invitation
from the marchioness, which she was impatient to accept. The ladies one
morning after breakfast fell into a dispute upon the comparative
merits of blue and green. It was not to all appearance a very dangerous
subject, but in certain situations every subject becomes dangerous.
“This riband is a beautiful blue,” said Miss Turnbull.
“I confess I do not think so,” said Mrs. Vickars; “it is a very
unbecoming shade of blue.”
“Unbecoming!--I have been told by twenty people, that it is remarkably
becoming to me. Mrs. Ingoldsby told me yesterday, that she never saw so
beautiful a blue.”
“Mrs. Ingoldsby’s taste is not infallible, I imagine,” said Mrs.
Vickars, with a contemptuous smile.
“It may not be infallible,” replied our heroine, “but it is at least as
much to be relied upon as other people’s.”
“I am sure I do not pretend to compare my taste to Mrs. Ingoldsby’s;
but I may be permitted to have an opinion of my own, I hope: and in my
opinion it is a frightful blue, and shockingly unbecoming. And at all
events I like green infinitely better than blue; and I beseech you, Miss
Turnbull, not to wear this hideous riband.”
“I am sure I don’t pretend to set my taste in competition with Mrs.
Vickars’s, but I must confess I cannot think this a frightful blue, or
shockingly unbecoming; nor can I agree with any body in preferring
green to blue; and for once I shall take the liberty of following my own
fancy.”
“For once!--I am sorry I ever presumed to offer an opinion upon this or
any other subject to Miss Turnbull--I shall be more cautious in future;
but I candidly own I did think I might prefer green to blue without
giving offence.”
“It gives me no offence, I assure you, Mrs. Vickars, that you should
prefer green to blue; I am not so ridiculous. But people who cannot bear
to be contradicted themselves are always apt to fancy that others have
the same strange sort of domineering temper.”
“People who can bear nothing but flattery, Miss Turnbull, should have
such a friend as Mrs. Ingoldsby, who would swear that blue is green,
and black white, I make no doubt,” said Mrs. Vickars; “for my part, I am
sorry I cannot get rid of my troublesome sincerity.”
“Sincerity! Sincerity!--To do you justice, Mrs. Vickars, whatever I may
have felt about trifles, in affairs of importance I have never found
your _sincerity_ troublesome.”
The ironical accent upon the word _sincerity_ sufficiently marked Miss
Turnbull’s meaning.
The irritable temper of Mrs. Vickars put it out of her power to act a
part with that “exquisite dissimulation,” for which some of her sex have
been celebrated by the judicious Davila. Thrown off her guard by the
last sarcastic insinuation, Mrs. Vickars burst into an angry defence
of her own sincerity with respect to the affair of the marquis and Lady
Gabriella. Almeria observed, that this “defence was quite unnecessary,
as she had not made any accusation; and these apologies could be
prompted only by Mrs. Vickars’s own _tenderness_ of conscience.” Mrs.
Vickars replied with increasing acrimony. She said, that her “conduct
needed no apologies, and that she should not stoop to make any, to
soothe the disappointed ambition of any person whatever.” Reproach
succeeded reproach--sarcasm produced sarcasm--till at last Mrs. Vickars
declared, that after what had passed it was impossible she should remain
another day in Miss Turnbull’s house. This declaration was heard
by Almeria with undisguised satisfaction. The next day Mrs. Vickars
accepted of an invitation from the marchioness; and our heroine
afterwards protested that she was as much rejoiced to be freed from the
encumbrance of such a companion as Sinbad the sailor was to get rid of
the old man of the sea, who fastened himself upon his shoulders with
such remorseless tenacity.
She resolved to be more cautious in choice of her next companion. There
were many candidates for the honour of supplying the place of Mrs.
Vickars; amongst these was Mrs. Ingoldsby, a lady who was perfect
mistress of the whole art of flattery, by means of which she had so
far ingratiated herself with Miss Turnbull, that she felt secure of a
preference over all competitors. Almeria had indeed almost decided in
her favour, when she received a note from a Mrs. Wynne, an old lady with
whom she had formerly been acquainted in Yorkshire, and who, being just
come to town, was eager to renew her intimacy with Miss Turnbull.
She was a woman of an excellent heart, and absolutely incapable of
suspecting that others could be less frank or friendly than herself. She
was sometimes led into mistakes by this undistinguishing benevolence;
for she imagined that all which appeared wrong would prove right, if
properly understood; that there must be some good reason for every thing
that seemed to be bad; that every instance of unkindness or insolence
was undesigned; and that every quarrel was only a misunderstanding.
Possessed by this good-natured kind of wrong-headedness, she frequently
did the most provoking, by way of doing the most obliging things
imaginable.
Upon this principle she would place contending parties by surprise in
the very situation which of all others they most wished to avoid, and
then give the signal for a pitched battle, by begging the enemies would
shake hands with one another. Now she had heard it reported in Yorkshire
that there was some coolness between the Elmours and Miss Turnbull; but
she was morally certain there could be no truth in this report, for a
variety of the very best reasons in the world.
“In the first place,” argued Mrs. Wynne, “to my certain knowledge, Miss
Turnbull was, from her infancy, always the greatest favourite at Elmour
Grove, the pupil of the good old gentleman, and the intimate friend of
the daughter. During that odd Hodgkinson’s lifetime, Almeria was always
with Miss Ellen Elmour, who treated her quite like a sister. I am sure
I remember, as if it was yesterday, her introducing Miss Turnbull to me,
and the affectionate way in which she spoke of her--and I particularly
recollect hearing Almeria Turnbull, amongst other grateful things, say,
that she should wish to live and die with her friends at Elmour Grove.
Then she had stronger reasons afterwards for being attached to them--you
know it was Mr. Frederick Elmour who gained her large fortune for her. I
was in the court-house in York the very day the cause was decided, and
I never heard a man speak with more energy and eloquence than Frederick
Elmour did in her defence. It was plain, indeed, that the eloquence came
from his heart--as to the law part of the business, I know my nephew,
who understands those things, said it was a very nice question, and that
if her cause had not been managed as ably as it was, she would not have
gained her fortune. Now of course this was a thing that never could be
forgotten. I own, I expected that there would have been a match between
Miss Turnbull and Mr. Elmour; but Sir Thomas Stock, her guardian, took
her away from us, and Mr. Elmour fell in love with another lady. But all
this time Miss Turnbull has never married, though she has been so much
in the great world, and from her large fortune must have had so many
offers. I heard it said yesterday, that she had refused Sir Thomas
Stock’s eldest son, and my Lord Bradstone, and some others; now it is
plain she would not marry merely for money or title. My nephew, who is
so amiable and sensible, is just the man for her, and he had used to
admire her very much in former times, when he met her at Elmour Grove.”
Mrs. Wynne hinted her wishes to her nephew, but he seemed not much
inclined towards Miss Turnbull, “because,” said he, “though Frederick
and his sister never uttered a syllable to her disadvantage, I cannot,
from circumstances, help imagining, that she has not behaved well to
them; and besides, after five or six years spent in the great world, and
in all the dissipation in which she has lived, her disposition cannot
probably be the same as it was when I knew her in the country.”
Mrs. Wynne could not, with her good-natured eyes, see the force of any
of these objections, and she was determined to convince her nephew of
their futility. With this view she formed a scheme which was to be kept
a profound secret from the parties concerned, till the moment when it
should be ripe for execution. She heard that Miss Turnbull was in want
of a companion; and she knew that Mrs. Henry Elmour, a very amiable
young widow, distantly related to the Elmour family, and who had
formerly been a friend of Almeria’s, was at this moment in great
distress. She had no doubt that Miss Turnbull would be delighted with an
opportunity of serving any one connected with a family to whom she
owed such obligations. Mrs. Wynne fancied that this would be the finest
occasion imaginable to prove to her nephew, that, notwithstanding
Almeria had lately lived so much in the fashionable world, she had the
same grateful heart as formerly.
Eager to come to this demonstration, Mrs. Wynne wrote immediately to
the distressed widow, begging her to come to town with all possible
expedition; “for I have found, or at least I am morally sure of finding,
the most charming situation your heart can desire. I say no more, that I
may not deprive you of the pleasure of the surprise.”
The same day that she sent this letter to the post, she despatched the
following note to Almeria:
‘MY DEAR MISS TURNBULL,
“I am too well persuaded of the goodness of your heart to fear that you
should think my present interference impertinent. We used to be very
good friends in Yorkshire, and I am sure shall be just the same in
London; therefore I write without ceremony, as friends should. I called
upon you twice, but found you were, unluckily, not at home. Now I have a
matter very near my heart to speak to you about, that perhaps will turn
out as much to your satisfaction as to mine. I cannot express myself so
well as I could wish in writing, but am sure you will not repent your
kindness, if you will do us the honour of dining with us in a family
way on Friday next; and in the mean time, let me beg you will not decide
your choice of a companion. I cannot be more explicit, lest (as I have
said once before to-day) I should deprive you of the pleasure of the
surprise. Dear madam, forgive this freedom in one who most sincerely
wishes you well (as Friday will prove). My nephew, Henry Wynne (whom you
may remember a great admirer of yours), desires his best respects; and
with every good wish I remain, Dear Miss Turnbull’s
“Affectionate humble servant,
“M. WYNNE.”
This letter at first surprised our heroine, and afterwards afforded
subject for much ridicule to Mrs. Ingoldsby, to whom Almeria showed
it. She laughed at the odd freedom of the Yorkshire dame, at the
old-fashioned plainness of the style--parenthesis within parenthesis--at
last concluding with respects and best wishes, and _remaining_ dear Miss
Turnbull’s humble servant. She opined, however, upon the third perusal
of the letter, that Mrs. Wynne was anxious to present her nephew to Miss
Turnbull, and that this was the real meaning of her curious note--that
probably she wished to surprise her with the sight of some Yorkshire
damsel, who had formed the reasonable expectation, that because Miss
Turnbull had done her the honour to notice her ages ago in the country,
she was to be her companion in town. Mrs. Ingoldsby further observed,
that Mrs. Wynne, though she had not practised at court, was no bad
politician in thus attempting to recommend a companion to Miss Turnbull,
who would, of course, be entirely in her nephew’s interests. Almeria’s
vanity was indirectly flattered by these insinuations, which tended
to prove her vast consequence, in being thus the object of plots
and counterplots; and she the more readily believed this, from the
experience she had had of Lady Pierrepoint’s manoeuvres. “It is really
a dreadful thing,” said she, “to be a great heiress. One must be so
circumspect--so much upon one’s guard with all the world. But poor Mrs.
Wynne shows her cards so plainly, one must be an idiot not to guess her
whole play.”
To “mistake reverse of wrong for right” is one of the most common errors
in the conduct of life. Our heroine being sensible that she had been
ridiculously credulous in her dealings with Lady Pierrepoint, was now
inclined to be preposterously suspicious. She determined with her next
admirer to pursue a system diametrically opposite to that which she had
followed with the marquis; she had shown him attractive complaisance;
she was now prepared to display the repulsive haughtiness becoming
the representative of two hundred thousand pounds: she had completely
adopted Lady Pierrepoint’s maxim. _That a lady should marry to increase
her consequence and strengthen her connexions_. Her former ideas, that
love and esteem were necessary to happiness in a union for life, seemed
obsolete and romantic; and the good qualities of her admirers, though
they were always to be mentioned as the ostensible reasons for her
choice, were never in reality to influence her decision.
To stoop at once from a marquis to a private gentleman would be
terrible; yet that private gentleman was worthy of some little
consideration, not because he was, as Almeria remembered, a man of
excellent sense, temper, and character, but because he had a clear
estate of eight thousand pounds a-year, and was next heir to an earldom.
Miss Turnbull cannot properly be called a female fortune-hunter; but,
to coin a new name for our heroine, which may be useful to designate
a numerous class of her contemporaries, she was decidedly a female
_title-hunter_.
She accepted of the invitation to dinner, and, accompanied by a proper
supporter in Mrs. Ingoldsby, went to Mrs. Wynne’s, dressed in the utmost
extravagance of the mode, blazing in all the glory of diamonds, in hopes
of striking admiration even unto awe upon the hearts of all beholders.
Though she had been expressly invited to a _family party_, she
considered that only as an humble country phrase to excuse, beforehand,
any deficiency of magnificence. She had no doubt that the finest
entertainment, and the finest company, Mrs. Wynne could procure
or collect, would be prepared for her reception. She was somewhat
surprised, especially as she came fashionably late, to find in the
drawing-room only old Mrs. Wynne, her nephew, and a lady, who, from her
dress and modest appearance, was evidently _nobody_. Miss Turnbull swept
by her, though she had a disagreeable recollection of having somewhere
seen this figure in a former state of existence. Mrs. Wynne, good
soul! did not believe in wilful blindness, and she therefore said, with
provoking simplicity, “Miss Turnbull, this is your good friend, Mrs.
Henry Elmour--poor thing! she is sadly altered in her looks since you
saw her, a gay rosy lass at Elmour Grove! But though her looks are
changed, her heart, I can answer for it, is just the same as ever; and
she remembers you with all the affection you could desire. She would not
be like any other of her name, indeed, if she did otherwise. The Elmours
were all so fond of you!”
The name of Elmour, instead of having that irresistible charm, which
Mrs. Wynne expected, over Almeria’s heart, produced a directly contrary
effect. It recalled many associations that were painful to her pride;
she was vexed to perceive that obligations and intimacies which she had
forgotten, or which she wished to forget, were remembered so obstinately
by others. All this passed in her mind whilst Mrs. Wynne was speaking.
With a look of ill-humoured surprise, Almeria half rose from her seat,
and, as Mrs. Henry Elmour was presented to her, uttered some phrases
in an unintelligible voice, and then sunk back again on the sofa. Mrs.
Wynne made room for the widow between her and Miss Turnbull--Mr. Wynne
kept aloof--a dead silence ensued--and Miss Turnbull, seeing that in her
present position there was nothing else to be done, condescended to hope
that all Mrs. Henry Elmour’s friends in Yorkshire were well when she
left them. Mrs. Wynne’s countenance brightened up, and she now addressed
her conversation to Mrs. Ingoldsby, in order to leave the pair, whom she
had destined to be friends, at perfect liberty to talk over “old times.”
Mrs. Henry Elmour naturally spoke of the happy days which they had spent
together at Elmour Grove; but Miss Turnbull was so much occupied in
clasping one of her diamond bracelets, that half of what was said to her
seemed not to be heard, and the other half to create no interest. She
looked up, when she had at length adjusted her bracelet, and with an
insipid smile (learnt from Lady Pierrepoint) seemed to beg pardon for
her fit of absence. The unfortunate Mrs. Elmour recommenced all she had
said; but though Miss Turnbull’s eyes were at this time directed towards
the widow’s face, they wandered over her features with such insolent
examination, that she was totally abashed. Having gained her point,
our heroine now looked round as the door opened, in expectation of the
entrance of some persons who might be worthy of her attention; but,
lo! it was only a servant, who announced that dinner was served. Miss
Turnbull’s surprise could be equalled only by her indignation, when she
found that it was literally to a _family party_ she was invited. “Miss
Turnbull,” said Mrs. Wynne, as they were sitting down to dinner, “I
have been much disappointed in not having the company of some friends of
yours, who I expected would dine with us to-day; but they will be with
us, I hope, to-night--they were unluckily engaged to dine with the
Duchess of A----.”
Miss Turnbull vouchsafed to appear interested, when the name of
a duchess was mentioned; but her countenance again changed to an
expression of almost angry vexation, when Mrs. Wynne explained, that
these friends were Mr. and Mrs. Elmour, and Mr. Charles Wynne and his
lady. “Miss Ellen Elmour, you know: she was----“--“Very true, I saw
her marriage in the papers, I remember, some time ago,” replied Miss
Turnbull; “a year, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Two years ago, madam,” said Mrs. Wynne.
“Was it two?--I dare say it might--you know it is so impossible to keep
a register of deaths and marriages in one’s head. Pray, are you at all
acquainted, Mrs. Wynne, with the Duchess of A----? She was always a
prodigious friend of the Elmours, as I remember. How is that?--Are they
any way related, I wonder?”
“Yes; they are now related by marriage,” said Mr. Wynne; “Mrs. Elmour is
a niece of the duchess.”
“Indeed!”
“She is a charming woman,” said Mr. Wynne; “so beautiful and yet so
unaffected--so sensible, yet so unassuming.”
“Pray,” interrupted Mrs. Ingoldsby, “has not her grace conversaziones,
or reading parties, or something in that style every week?--She is quite
a learned lady, I understand. There was always something odd about her,
and I cannot help being afraid of her.”
“I assure you,” said Mrs. Wynne, “that there is nothing odd or strange
about the Duchess of A----. She has always the most agreeable society
that London can afford.”
Miss Turnbull and Mrs. Ingoldsby interchanged looks of affected
contempt: but Mr. Wynne added, “Her grace has, you know, a taste
for literature and for the arts; and the most celebrated literary
characters, as well as those who have distinguished themselves in active
life, assemble at her house, where they can enjoy the most agreeable
conversation--that in which a knowledge of books and of the world is
happily blended.”
“And as to being afraid of her grace,” resumed Mrs. Wynne, “that is
quite impossible; she has such affable, engaging manners. I am sure,
even I am not in the least afraid of her.”
“But you know,” said Miss Turnbull, with a malicious look of mock
humility, “there is a difference between you and me.--I would not meet
her grace for the world, for I am persuaded I should not be able to
articulate a syllable in her classical presence--I have not been used to
that style of company, by any means. I assure you I should be, as Mrs.
Ingoldsby says, horribly afraid of your witty duchess.”
“She has none of the airs of a wit, believe me,” said Mrs. Wynne,
growing more and more earnest; “and if you will not believe me, ask your
friend Ellen.”
“Oh, excuse me, I beseech; I shall ask no questions--I only beg leave to
keep myself well when I am well. The Elmours who are so clever, and have
such merit and so on, are all vastly better suited to her grace than I
am.”
No contradiction ensued--our heroine was mortified beyond the power of
concealment.
After dinner, when the ladies retired, Mrs. Wynne, though somewhat
alarmed and puzzled by Miss Turnbull’s behaviour, summoned all the
resolution which benevolence could inspire, and resolved at once to come
to the point with our heroine. She flattered herself that all in Miss
Turnbull that appeared inauspicious to her hopes was only _her manner,_
that sort of manner which people, who live much in high life, catch and
practise, without meaning to give themselves airs, or to humble their
neighbours.
Many persons will perhaps think good Mrs. Wynne almost an idiot: but she
was a woman of abilities; and if she did not exert them in discovering
with promptitude the follies of others, she enjoyed much happiness in
her benevolent scepticism. This evening, however, she was doomed to
be absolutely convinced, against her will, that she had formed too
favourable an opinion of one of her fellow-creatures.
She was eager to explain herself to Almeria before Ellen and Mr.
Frederick Elmour should arrive; she therefore took her aside, and
began without any preface:--“My dear Miss Turnbull, here is a charming
opportunity for you to do a kind, and generous, and grateful action.
This poor Mrs. Henry Elmour!--She has told you how she has been reduced
to distress without any imprudence of hers. Now you could not, I am
sure, prove the goodness of your own heart better to your friends
(who will be here in half an hour) than by showing kindness to this
unfortunate widow. I cannot presume to say more than that I think she
would make a most agreeable companion to an amiable, sensible young
lady--and you have not decided your choice, have you?”
“Pardon me, I have decided, beyond a possibility of retracting,” replied
Miss Turnbull, haughtily.
“I am very sorry,” said Mrs. Wynne, with an expression of real concern
in her countenance. “I have been very imprudent.”
“Really I am infinitely distressed that it is out of my power to oblige
her; but the lady who is with me now, Mrs. Ingoldsby, has a prior
claim.”
Prior claim!--prior to that of the Elmour family! thought Mrs. Wynne.
The decisive manner in which Miss Turnbull spoke precluded all further
hope.
“Well, I did think it would have been such a pleasure to Miss Turnbull
to meet Mrs. Henry Elmour, and all her old friends the Elmours here
to-day; and I fancied, that if there had been any little coolness or
misunderstanding, it would quite have passed off, and that I should have
had the joy of seeing you all shake hands--I thought it would have been
such an agreeable surprise to you to see all the Elmour family, and
Ellen’s charming little girl, and Mr. Frederick Elmour’s boy!”
A more disagreeable surprise could scarcely have been imagined for
our heroine. She informed Mrs. Wynne, coldly, that there was not the
slightest quarrel between her and any of the Elmours; and that therefore
there was no necessity, or possible occasion, for any shaking of hands
or reconciliation scenes: that undoubtedly the style of life she
had been thrown into had entirely separated her from her Yorkshire
acquaintance; and time had dissolved the sort of intimacy that
neighbourhood had created: that she should always, notwithstanding, be
most particularly happy to meet any of the Elmour family; though, from
her situation, it was a good fortune she had not often enjoyed, nor
indeed could in future expect: but that she wished it to be understood,
and repeated, that she always in all companies properly acknowledged the
obligations she had to Mr. Frederick Elmour as a lawyer. Her cause, she
believed, was the first in which he had distinguished himself; and
she was rejoiced to find that he had since risen so rapidly in his
profession.--As to Miss Ellen Elmour, she was a very charming, sensible
young woman, no doubt; and Miss Turnbull assured Mrs. Wynne she was
delighted to hear she was so suitably married in point of understanding
and temper, and all that sort of thing--and besides, to a gentleman of
a reasonable fortune, which she was happy to hear Mr. Charles Wynne
possessed.
Here she was interrupted in her speech--the door opened, and the Duchess
of A----, Mr. and Mrs. Elmour, and Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wynne, were
announced. Our heroine was not prepared for the sight of the duchess;
and her grace’s appearance made her receive her old friends in a manner
very different from that in which she had determined to meet them.
Practised as she was, she stood irresolute and awkward, whilst Ellen,
with easy, graceful kindness, accosted her, and immediately introduced
her to the Duchess of A----. As Mr. Frederick Elmour approached, and as
his beautiful wife was presented to Miss Turnbull, not all her efforts
could conceal the mortification she endured, whilst she pronounced that
she was vastly happy--quite delighted--that all this was really such an
agreeable and _unexpected surprise_ to her--for she did not even know
any of her Yorkshire friends were in town.
Mrs. Ingoldsby came up to her assistance. Miss Turnbull rallied her
spirits, and determined to make her stand upon the exclusive ground of
fashion. Those who comprehend the rights of the privileged orders of
fashion are aware that even a commoner, who is in a certain _set_, is
far superior to a duchess who is not supposed to move in that magic
circle, Almeria, upon this principle, began to talk to the duchess
of some of her acquaintance, who were of the highest _ton_; and then
affectedly checked herself, and begged pardon, and looked surprised at
Mrs. Ingoldsby, when she found that her grace was not acquainted with
them. Much as Miss Turnbull had reason to complain of Lady Pierrepoint
and the young bride the marchioness, she now thought that their names
would do her honour; and she scrupled not to speak of them as her
best friends, and as the most amiable creatures existing.--Such is the
meanness and insufficiency of vanity!
“Poor Lady Pierrepoint,” said the Duchess of A----: “with her
independent fortune, what could tempt her to enslave herself, as she has
done, to a court life?”
“Her ladyship finds herself suited to her situation, I believe,” said
Miss Turnbull. “Lady Pierrepoint is certainly formed, more than most
people I know, to succeed and shine in a court; and she is in favour,
and in power, and in fashion.”
“Does it follow of course that she is happy?” said Ellen.
“Oh! happy--of course; I suppose so.”
“No doubt,” said Mrs. Ingoldsby; “she has every reason to be happy: has
not she just made her niece marchioness?”
Miss Turnbull repeated “_Happy!_ to be sure Lady Pierrepoint is happy,
if any body in the world is happy.”--A short sigh escaped from our
heroine.
Ellen heard the sigh, and attended to it more than to her words;
she looked upon her with compassion, and endeavoured to change the
conversation.
“We spend this winter in town; and as I think I know your _real_ tastes,
Almeria,” said she, taking Almeria’s hand, “we must have the pleasure of
introducing you to some of her grace’s literary friends, who will, I am
sure, please and suit you particularly.”
Mr. Frederick Elmour, who now really pitied Almeria, though in his
pity there was a strong mixture of contempt, joined his sister in her
kindness, and named and described some of the people whom he thought
she would be most desirous of knowing. The names struck Miss Turnbull’s
ears, for they were the names of persons distinguished in the
fashionable as well as in the literary world; and she was dismayed and
mortified by the discovery that her _country friends_ had by some means,
incomprehensible to her, gained distinction and intimacy in society
where she had merely admission; she was vexed beyond expression when she
found that _the Elmours_ were superior to her even on her own ground.
At this instant Mrs. Wynne, with her usual simplicity, asked Mrs. Elmour
and Ellen why they had not brought their charming children with them;
adding, “You are, my dears, without exception, the two happiest mothers
and wives I am acquainted with. And after all, what happiness is there
equal to domestic happiness?--Oh! my dear Miss Turnbull, trust me,
though I am a silly old woman, there’s nothing like it--and friends at
court are not like friends at home--and all the Lady Pierrepoints that
ever were or ever will be born, are not, as you’ll find when you come to
try them, like one of these plain good Ellens and Elmours.”
The address, simple as it was, came so home to Almeria’s experience,
and so many recollections rushed at once upon her memory, that all her
factitious character of a fine lady gave way to natural feeling, and
suddenly she burst into tears.
“Good heavens! my dear Miss Turnbull,” cried Mrs. Ingoldsby, “what
is the matter?--Are not you well?--Salts! salts!--the heat of the
room!--Poor thing!--she has such weak nerves.--Mr. Elmour, may I
trouble you to ring the bell for our carriage? Miss Turnbull has such
sensibility! This meeting, so unexpected, with so many old friends, has
quite overcome her.”
Miss Turnbull, recalled to herself by Mrs. Ingoldsby’s voice, repeated
the request to have her carriage immediately, and departed with Mrs.
Ingoldsby as soon as she possibly could, utterly abashed and mortified;
mortified most at not having been able to conceal her mortification.
Incapable absolutely of articulating, she left Mrs. Ingoldsby to cover
her retreat, as well as she could, with weak nerves and sensibility.
Even the charitable Mrs. Wynne was now heard to acknowledge that she
could neither approve of Miss Turnbull’s conduct, nor frame any apology
for it. She confessed that it looked very like what she of all things
detested most--_ingratitude_. Her nephew, who had been a cool observant
spectator of this evening’s performance, was glad that his aunt’s mind
was now decided by Almeria’s conduct. He exclaimed that he would not
marry such a woman, if her portion were to be the mines of Peru.
Thus Miss Turnbull lost all chance of the esteem and affection of
another man of sense and temper, who might even at this late period of
her life have recalled her from the follies of dissipation, and rendered
her permanently happy.
And now that our heroine must have lost all power of interesting the
reader, now that the pity even of the most indulgent must be utterly
sunk in contempt, we shall take our leave of her, resigning her to that
misery which she had been long preparing for herself. It is sufficient
to say, that after this period she had some offers from men of fashion
of ruined fortunes; but these she rejected, still fancying that with
her wealth she could not fail to make a splendid match. So she went on
coquetting; and coquetting, rejecting and rejecting, till at length she
arrived at an age when she could reject no longer. She ceased to be an
object to matrimonial adventurers, but to these succeeded a swarm of
female legacy-hunters. Among the most distinguished was her companion,
Mrs. Ingoldsby, whose character she soon discovered to be artful and
selfish in the extreme. This lady’s flattery, therefore, lost all its
power to charm, but yet it became necessary to Almeria; and even when
she knew that she was duped, she could not part with Mrs. Ingoldsby,
because it was not in her power to supply the place of a flatterer with
a _friend_.--A friend! that first blessing of life, cannot be bought--it
must be deserved.
Miss, or as she must now be called, _Mrs_. Almeria Turnbull, is still
alive--probably at this moment haunting some place of public amusement,
or stationary at the card-table. Wherever she may be, she is despised
and discontented; one example more amongst thousands, that wealth cannot
purchase, or fashion bestow, real happiness.
“See how the world its veterans rewards--youth of folly, an old age of
cards!”
_Edgeworth’s-Town_, 1802.
_VIVIAN_.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
Miss Edgeworth’s general views, in these stories, are explained in the
preface to the first volume. I cannot, however, omit repeating, that
public favour has not yet rendered her so presumptuous as to offer hasty
effusions to her readers, but that she takes a longer time to revise
what she writes than the severe ancients required for the highest
species of moral fiction.
Vivian exposes one of the most common defects of mankind. To be “infirm
of purpose” is to be at the mercy of the artful or at the disposal of
accident. Look round, and count the numbers who have, within your own
knowledge, failed from want of firmness.
An excellent and wise mother gave the following advice with her dying
breath: “My son, learn early how to say, No!”--This precept gave the
first idea of the story of Vivian.
THE ABSENTEE is not intended as a censure upon those whose duties, and
employments, and superior talents, lead them to the capital; but to warn
the thoughtless and the unoccupied from seeking distinction by frivolous
imitation of fashion and ruinous waste of fortune.
A country gentleman, or even a nobleman, who does not sit in parliament,
may be as usefully and as honourably employed in Yorkshire, Mid Lothian,
or Ireland, as at a club-house or an assembly in London.
Irish agents are here described as of two different species. That there
have been bad and oppressive Irish agents, many great landed English
proprietors have felt; that there are well-informed, just, and
honourable Irish agents, every-day experience can testify.
MADAME DE FLEURY points out some of the means which may be employed
by the rich for the real advantage of the poor. This story shows that
sowing gold does not always produce a golden harvest; but that knowledge
and virtue, when early implanted in the human breast, seldom fail to
make ample returns of prudence and felicity.
EMILIE DE COULANGES exposes a fault into which the good and generous are
liable to fall.
Great sacrifices and great benefits cannot frequently be made or
conferred by private individuals; but, every day, kindness and attention
to the common feelings of others is within the power, and may be the
practice, of every age, and sex, and station. Common faults are reproved
by all writers on morality; but there are errors and defects that
require to be treated in a lighter manner, and that come, with
propriety, within the province of essayists and of writers for the
stage.
R. L. EDGEWORTH. _May_, 1812.
CHAPTER I.
“To see the best, and yet the worse pursue.”
“Is it possible,” exclaimed Vivian, “that you, Russell, my friend, my
best friend, can tell me that this line is the motto of my character!--’
To see the best, and yet the worse pursue.--Then you must think me
either a villain or a madman.”
“No,” replied Russell, calmly; “I think you only weak.”
“Weak--but you must think me an absolute fool.”
“No, not a fool; the weakness of which I accuse you is not a weakness
of the understanding. I find no fault either with the logical or the
mathematical part of your understanding. It is not erroneous in either
of the two great points in which Bacon says that most men’s minds be
deficient in--the power of judging of consequences, or in the power of
estimating the comparative value of objects.”
“Well,” cried Vivian, impatiently, “but I don’t want to hear just now
what Bacon says--but what _you_ think. Tell me all the faults of my
character.”
“All!--unconscionable!--after the fatigue of this long day’s journey,”
said Russell, laughing.
These two friends were, at this time, travelling from Oxford to Vivian
Hall (in ----shire), the superb seat of the Vivian family, to which
Vivian was heir. Mr. Russell, though he was but a few years older than
Vivian, had been his tutor at college; and by an uncommon transition,
had, from his tutor, become his intimate friend.
After a pause, Vivian resumed, “Now I think of it, Russell, you are to
blame, if I have any faults. Don’t you say, that every thing is to
be done by education? And are not you--though by much too young, and
infinitely too handsome, for a philosopher--are not you my guide,
philosopher, and friend?”
“But I have had the honour to be your guide, philosopher, and friend,
only for these three years,” said Russell. “I believe in the rational,
but not in the magical, power of education. How could I do, or undo, in
three years, the work of the preceding seventeen?”
“Then, if you won’t let me blame you, I must blame my mother.”
“Your mother!--I had always understood that she had paid particular
attention to your early education, and all the world says that Lady
Mary Vivian, though a woman of fashion, is remarkably well-informed and
domestic; and, judging from those of her letters which you have shown
me, I should think that, for once, what all the world says is right.”
“What all the world says is right, and yet I am not wrong:--my mother
is a very clever woman, and most affectionate, and she certainly paid
particular attention to my early education; but her attention was too
particular, her care was too great. You know I was an only son--then
I lost my father when I was an infant; and a woman, let her be ever
so sensible, cannot well educate an _only_ son, without some manly
assistance; the fonder she is of the son the worse, even if her fondness
is not foolish fondness--it makes her over-anxious--it makes her do too
much. My mother took too much, a great deal too much, care of me; she
over-educated, over-instructed, over-dosed me with premature lessons of
prudence: she was so afraid that I should ever do a foolish thing, or
not say a wise one, that she prompted my every word, and guided my every
action. So I grew up, seeing with her eyes, hearing with her ears, and
judging with her understanding, till, at length, it was found out that
I had not eyes, ears, or understanding of my own. When I was
between twelve and thirteen, my mother began to think that I was not
sufficiently manly for my age, and that there was something too yielding
and undecided in my character. Seized with a panic, my mother, to make
a man of me at once, sent me to ---- school. There I was, with all
convenient expedition, made ashamed of every thing good I had learned at
home; and there I learned every thing bad, and nothing good, that could
be learned at school. I was inferior in Latin and Greek; and this was a
deficiency I could not make up without more labour than I had courage to
undertake. I was superior in general literature, but this was of
little value amongst my competitors, and therefore I despised it; and,
overpowered by numbers and by ridicule, I was, of course, led into all
sorts of folly, by mere _mauvaise honte_. Had I been in the habit of
exercising my own judgment, or had my resolution been strengthened by
degrees; had I, in short, been prepared for a school, I might, perhaps,
have acquired, by a public education, a manly, independent spirit. If
I had even been wholly bred up in a public school, I might have been
forced, as others were, by early and fair competition, to exercise my
own powers, and by my own experience in that microcosm, as it has been
called, I might have formed some rules of conduct, some manliness
of character, and might have made, at least, a good schoolboy. Half
home-bred, and half school-bred, from want of proper preparation,
one half of my education totally destroyed the other. From school, of
course, I went to college, and at college, of course, I should have
become one of the worst species of college lads, and should have had
no chance, in my whole future life, of being any thing but a dissipated
fool of fashion, one of the _Four-in-Hand Club_, or the _Barouche Club_,
or the _Tandem Club_, or the _Defiance Club_, had not I, by the greatest
good fortune, met with such a friend as you, and, by still greater good
fortune, found you out for myself; for if my mother had recommended you
to me, I should have considered you only as a college tutor; I should
never have discovered half your real merit; I doubt whether I should
have even seen that you are young and handsome: so prejudiced should I
have been with the preconceived notion of a college tutor, that I am not
certain whether I should have found out that you are a gentleman as well
born and well bred as myself; but, be that as it may, I am positive that
I never should have made you my companion and friend; I should never
have thrown open my whole soul to you, as I have done; nor could you
ever have obtained such wondrous power as you possess over my mind, if
you had been recommended to me by my mother.”
“I am sorry,” said Russell, smiling, “that, after so many wise
reflections, and so many fine compliments, you end by proving to me that
my wondrous power is founded on your wondrous weakness. I am mortified
to find that your esteem and friendship for me depended so much upon my
not having had the honour of your mother’s recommendation; and have not
I reason to fear, that now, when I have a chance of becoming acquainted
with Lady Mary Vivian, and, perhaps, a chance of her thinking me a fit
companion and friend for her son, I must lose his regard and
confidence, because I shall labour under the insuperable objection of an
affectionate mother’s approbation?”
“No, no,” said Vivian; “my wilful folly does not go quite so far as
that. So that I maintain the privilege of choosing my friends for
myself, I shall always be pleased and proud to find my mother approve my
choice.”
After a few moments’ pause, Vivian added, “You misunderstand, quite
misunderstand me, if you think that I am not fond of my mother. I
respect and love her with all my soul:--I should be a most ungrateful
wretch if I did not. I did very wrong to speak as I did just now, of
any little errors she may have made in my education; but, believe me, I
would not have said so much to any one living but yourself, nor to you,
but in strict confidence; and, after all, I don’t know whether I ought
not to lay the blame of my faults on my masters more than on my poor
mother.”
“Lay the blame where we will,” said Russell, “remember, that the
punishment will rest on ourselves. We may, with as much philosophic
justice as possible, throw the blame of our faults on our parents and
preceptors, and on the early mismanagement of our minds; yet, after we
have made out our case in the abstract, to the perfect satisfaction of a
jury of metaphysicians, when we come to _overt_ actions, all our judges,
learned and unlearned, are so awed, by the ancient precedents and
practice of society, and by the obsolete law of common sense, that they
finish by pronouncing against us the barbarous sentence, that every man
must suffer for his own faults.”
“‘I hope I shall be able to bear it, my lord,’ as the English sailor
said when the judge----But look out there! Let down that glass on your
side of the carriage!” cried Vivian, starting forward. “There’s Vivian
Hall!”
“That fine old castle?” said Russell, looking out of the window.
“No; but farther off to the left, don’t you see amongst the trees that
house with wings?”
“Ha! quite a new, modern house: I had always fancied that Vivian Hall
was an old pile of building.”
“So it was, till my father threw down the old hall, and built this new
house.”
“And a very handsome one it is.--Is it as good within as without?”
“Quite, I think; but I’ll leave you to judge for yourself.--Are not
those fine old trees in the park?”
From this time till the travellers arrived at Vivian Hall, their
conversation turned upon trees, and avenues, and serpentine
_approaches_, and alterations that Vivian intended to make, when he
should be of age, and master of this fine place; and he now wanted but a
twelvemonth of being at legal years of discretion. When they arrived at
the hall, Lady Mary Vivian showed much affectionate joy at the sight of
her son, and received Mr. Russell with such easy politeness that he was
prepossessed at first in her favour. To this charm of well-bred manners
was united the appearance of sincerity and warmth of feeling. In
her conversation there was a mixture of excellent sense and general
literature with the frivolities of the fashionable world, and the
anecdotes of the day in certain high circles, of which she seemed to
talk more from habit than taste, and to annex importance more from the
compulsion of external circumstances than from choice. But her son,--her
son was the great object of all her thoughts, serious or frivolous.
She was delighted by the improvements she saw in his understanding
and character; by the taste and talents he displayed, both for fine
literature and for solid information: this flattered her hope that he
would both shine as a polished gentleman and make a figure in public
life. To his friend Russell she attributed these happy improvements;
and, though he was not a tutor of her own original selection, yet
her pride, on this occasion, yielded to gratitude, and she graciously
declared, that she could not feel jealous of the pre-eminent power he
had obtained over her son, when she saw the admirable use he made of
this influence. Vivian, like all candid and generous persons, being
peculiarly touched by candour and generosity in others, felt his
affection for his mother rapidly increased by this conduct; nor did his
enthusiasm for his friend in the least abate, in consequence of the high
approbation with which she honoured him, nor even in consequence of her
ladyship’s frequent and rather injudicious expressions of her hopes,
that her son would always preserve and show himself worthy of such a
friend.
He joined in his mother’s entreaties to Russell to prolong his visit;
and as her ladyship declared she thought it of essential consequence to
her son’s interest and future happiness, that he should, at this _turn
of his life_, have such a companion, Russell consented to remain with
him some time longer. All parties were thus pleased with each other, and
remained united by one common interest about the same objects, during
several weeks of a delightful summer. But, alas! this family harmony,
and this accord of reason and _will_, between the mother and son, were
not of longer duration. As usual, there were faults on both sides.
Lady Mary Vivian, whose hopes of her son’s distinguishing himself by his
abilities had been much exalted since his last return from Oxford, had
indulged herself in pleasing anticipations of the time when he should
make his appearance in the fashionable and in the political world. She
foresaw the respect that would be paid to her, on his account, both by
senators and by matrons; by ministers, who might want to gain a rising
orator’s vote, and by mothers, who might wish to make an excellent match
for their daughters: not only by all mothers who had daughters to marry,
but by all daughters who had hearts or hands to dispose of, Lady
Mary felt secure of having her society courted. Now, she had rather
extravagant expectations for her son: she expected him to marry, so as
to secure domestic happiness, and, at the same time, to have fashion,
and beauty, and rank, and high connexions, and every amiable quality in
a wife. This vision of a future daughter-in-law continually occupied her
ladyship’s imagination. Already, with maternal _Alnascharism_, she had,
in her reveries, thrown back her head with disdain, as she repulsed the
family advances of some wealthy but low-born heiress, or as she rejected
the alliance of some of the new nobility. Already she had arranged
the very words of her answers to these, and determined the degrees and
shades of her intimacies with those; already had she settled
“To whom to nod, whom take into her coach, Whom honour with her hand;”
when one morning, as she sat at work, absorbed in one of these reveries,
she was so far “rapt into future times,” that, without perceiving that
any body was present, she began to speak her thoughts, and said aloud to
herself, “As if my son could possibly think of her!”
Her son, who was opposite to her, lying on a sofa, reading, or seeming
to read, started up, and putting down his book, exclaimed, in a
voice which showed at once that he was conscious of thinking of some
particular person, and determined to persist in the thought, “As if your
son could possibly think of her!----Of whom, ma’am?”
“What’s the matter, child? Are you mad?”
“Not in the least, ma’am; but you said----”
“What!” cried Lady Mary, looking round; “What did I say, that has
occasioned so much disturbance?--I was not conscious of saying any
thing. My dear Selina,” continued her ladyship, appealing to a young
lady, who sat very intent upon some drawing beside her, “my dear Selina,
you must have heard; what did I say?”
The young lady looked embarrassed; and the colour which spread over her
face, brought a sudden suspicion into Lady Mary’s mind: her eye darted
back upon her son--the suspicion, the fear was confirmed; and she grew
instantly pale, silent, and breathless, in the attitude in which she was
struck with this panic. The young lady’s blush and embarrassment had a
very different effect on Vivian; joy suddenly sparkled in his eyes, and
illumined his whole countenance, for this was the first instant he had
ever felt any hope of having obtained an interest in her heart. He was
too much transported at this moment to think either of prudence or
of his mother; and, when he recollected himself, he was too little
practised in dissimulation to repair his indiscretion. Something he did
attempt to say, and blundered, and laughed at his blunder; and when his
mother looked up at him, in serious silence, he only begged pardon for
his folly, confessed he believed he was mad, and, turning away abruptly,
left the room, exclaiming that he wondered where Russell had been all
the morning, and that he must go and look for him. A long silence
ensued between Vivian’s mother and the young lady, who were left alone
together. Lady Mary first broke the silence, and, in a constrained tone,
asked, as she took up the newspaper, “Whether Miss Sidney had found any
news?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” answered Miss Sidney, in a voice scarcely
articulate.
“I should have imagined there must be some news from the continent:
but you did not find any, I think you say, Miss Sidney;” continued Lady
Mary, with haughty, averted eyes. After turning over the pages of the
paper, without knowing one word it contained, she laid it down, and rose
to leave the room. Miss Sidney rose at the same time.
“Lady Mary, one instant; my dear Lady Mary.”
Lady Mary turned, and saw Selina’s supplicating eyes full of tears; but
her ladyship, still retaining her severity of manner, coldly said, “Does
Miss Sidney desire that I should stay?--Does Miss Sidney wish to speak
to me?”
“I do--as soon as I can,” said Selina in a faltering voice; but, raising
her eyes, and perceiving the contemptuous expression of Lady Mary’s
countenance, her own instantly changed. With the firm tone of conscious
innocence, she repeated, “I do wish to speak to your ladyship, if you
will hear me with your usual candour; I do not expect or solicit your
usual indulgence.”
“Miss Sidney,” replied Lady Mary, “before you say more, it becomes me to
point out to you, that the moment is past for confidence between us two;
and that in no moment could I wish to hear from any person, much less
from one whom I had considered as my friend, confessions, extorted by
circumstances, degrading and unavailing.”
“Your ladyship need not be apprehensive of hearing from me any degrading
confessions,” said Miss Sidney; “I have none to make: and since, without
any just cause, without any cause for suspicion, but what a blush,
perhaps, or a moment’s embarrassment of manner may have created, you
think it becomes you to point out to me that the moment for confidence
between us is past, I can only lament my mistake in having believed that
it ever existed.”
Lady Mary’s countenance and manner totally changed. The pride of rank
yielded before the pride of virtue; and perhaps the hope that she had
really no cause for suspicion at once restored her affection for her
young friend. “Let us understand one another, my dear Selina,” said she;
“if I said a hasty or a harsh word, forgive it. You know my affection
for you, and my real confidence; in actions, not in words, I have shown
it.--In thought, as well as in actions, my confidence in you has been
entire; for, _upon my word,_ and you know this is not an asseveration I
lightly use, _upon my word,_ till that unfortunate moment, a suspicion
of you never crossed my imagination. The proof--if there could need any
proof to you of what I assert--the proof is, the delight I take in your
society, the urgent manner in which I have so frequently, this summer,
begged your company from your mother. You know this would have not only
been the height of insincerity, but of folly and madness, if I had
not felt a reliance upon you that made me consider it as an absolute
impossibility that you could ever disappoint my friendship.”
“I thank your ladyship,” said Selina, softened by the kind tone in which
Lady Mary now spoke, yet still retaining some reserve of manner;
“I thank your ladyship for all your kindness--it has flattered me
much--touched me deeply--commanded my gratitude, and influenced my
conduct uniformly--I can and do entirely forgive the injustice of a
moment; and I now bid you adieu, my dear Lady Mary, with the conviction
that, if we were never to meet again, I should always hold that place in
your esteem and affection with which you have honoured me, and which, if
it be not too proud an expression, I hope I have deserved----Won’t you
bid me farewell?”
The tears gushed from Lady Mary’s eyes. “My dear, charming, and prudent
Selina, I understand you perfectly--and I thank you: it grieves me to
part with you--but I believe you are right--I believe there is no other
safety--no other remedy. How, indeed, could I expect that my son could
see and hear you--live in the house with you, and become intimately
acquainted with such a character as yours, without danger! I have
been very imprudent, unaccountably imprudent, to expose him to such
a temptation; but I hope, I trust, that your prudence will repair, in
time, the effects of my rashness--and again and again I thank you, my
dear young friend--but, perhaps it might be still better that you should
not leave us abruptly. Still better than your absence, I think, would be
the conviction you might impress on his mind of the impossibility of
his hopes: if you were to stay a day or two, and convince him by your
indifference that----” “Excuse me, that is what I cannot undertake,”
said Selina, blushing, and conscious of blushing. Lady Mary was too
polite and too delicate to seem to observe her confusion, but, embracing
her, said--“If we must part, then take with you my highest esteem,
affection, and gratitude; and this much let me add, that my most
sanguine expectations for my son’s happiness would be realized, if
amongst the women to whom family interests must restrict his choice, he
could meet with one of half your merit, and half your attractions.”