SUPERFLUITY
LONDON FOR THE RICH--A GOLDEN IMAGE--THE LADY OF FASHION--LIFE
WELL SPENT--BOOK-WRITING AND BOOK-MAKING--THE DAY OF THE
DRAWING-ROOM--GOING TO MY CLUB--THE AWFUL MOMENT--GOD SAVE THE
QUEEN
London for the rich, though, is a different thing altogether. “Money
cannot purchase happiness,” said the philosopher. “No,” replied a
celebrated wit, himself well skilled in circulating the much-esteemed
dross, “but it can purchase a very good imitation of it;”
and none can gainsay the truth of his distinction. What can it do
for us in the great Babylon? It can buy us airy houses--cool
rooms--fragrant flowers--the best of everything to eat and
drink--carriages--horses--excitement--music--friends--everything but a
good appetite and content. London for the rich man is indeed a palace
of delights. See him at the window of his club, in faultless attire,
surrounded by worshippers who perform their part of the mutual
contract most religiously, by finding conversation and company, both
of the pleasantest, for him who provides drag and dinner, equally of
the best. Though they bow before a calf, is it not a golden one?
though they “eat dirt,” is it not dressed by a French cook? See him
cantering in the Park--an animal so well broke as that would make John
Gilpin himself appear a fine horseman. What envious glances follow him
from the humble pedestrian--what sunny smiles shine on him from lips
and eyes surmounting the most graceful shapes, the most becoming
neck-ribbons! No, admiring stranger! You are not in the Bazaar at
Constantinople--you are amidst England’s high-born beauties in the
most moral country on earth; yet even here, with sorrow be it said,
there is many a fair girl ready to barter love, and hope,
and self-respect, for a box at the opera and an _adequate_
settlement--only it must be large enough. Within fifty yards of this
spot may Tattersall’s voice be heard any Monday or Thursday
proclaiming, hammer in hand, his mercenary ultimatum, “The best blood
in England, and she is to be sold.” Brain-sick moralists would read a
lesson from the animal’s fate. Our men of the world are satisfied to
take things as they are. Meanwhile the calf has shown himself long
enough to his idolaters; he dines _early_ to-day--a quarter past
eight--therefore he canters home to dress. Man has no right to insult
such a cook as his by being hungry, so he trifles over a repast that
Apicius would have envied, and borrows half-an-hour’s fictitious
spirits from a golden vintage that has well-nigh cost its weight in
gold. What an evening is before him! All that can enchant the eye, all
that can ravish the ear--beauties of earth and sounds of heaven--the
very revelry of the intellect, and “the best box in the house” from
which to see, hear, and enjoy. The calf is indeed pasturing in the
Elysian fields, and we need follow him no longer. Can he be otherwise
than happy? Can there be lips on which such fruits as these turn to
ashes? Are beauty, and luxury, and society, and song, nothing after
all but “a bore”? Nature is a more impartial mother than we are prone
to believe, and the rich man need not always be such an object of envy
only because he _is_ rich.
But pretty Blanche Kettering enjoyed the glitter and the excitement,
and the pleasures of her London life, even as the opening flower
enjoys the sunshine and the breeze. It requires a season or two to
take the edge off a fresh, healthy appetite, and _ennui_ scowls in
vain upon the _very_ young. Gingham thought her young lady had never
looked so well as she did to-day, of all days in the year the one in
which Blanche was to _be presented_. Yes--it was the day of the
Drawing-room, and our former Abigail forgot the supercilious manners
of the new porter, and the high and mighty ways of the General’s
gentleman, and even her own faded black silk, in a paroxysm of
motherly affection and professional enthusiasm, brought on by the
beauty of her darling, and the surpassing magnificence of her costume.
Blanche was nearly dressed when she arrived, standing like a little
princess amongst her many attendants--this one smoothing a fold, that
one adjusting a curl, and a third holding the pincushion aloft, having
transferred the greater portion of its contents to her own mouth.
Would that we had power to describe the young lady’s dress; would that
we could delight bright eyes, should bright eyes condescend to glance
upon our page, with a critical and correct account of the materials
and the fashion that were capable of constituting so attractive a
_tout ensemble_--how the gown was brocade, and the train was silk, and
the trimmings were gossamer, to the best of our belief!--how pearls
were braided in that soft brown hair, and feathers nodded over that
graceful little head, though to our mind it would have been even
better without these accessories--and how the dear girl looked
altogether like a fairy queen, smiling through a wreath of mist, and
glittering with the dewdrops of the morning.
“Lor’, miss, you do look splendid!” said Gingham, lost in admiration,
partly at the richness of the materials, partly at the improvement in
her old charge. Blanche was a very pretty girl, certainly, even in a
court dress, trying as is that costume to all save the dark, tall
beauties, who do indeed look magnificent in trains and feathers; but
then the Anglo-Saxon _blonde_ has her revenge next morning in her
simple _déshabillé_ at breakfast--a period at which the black-eyed
sultana is apt to betray a slight yellowness of skin, and a drowsy,
listless air, not above half awake. Well, they are all very charming
in all dresses--it’s lucky they are so unconscious of their own
attractions.
Blanche was anything but a vain girl; but of course it takes a long
time to dress for a Drawing-room, and when mirrors are properly
arranged for self-inspection, it requires a good many glances to
satisfy ladies as to the correct disposition of “front, flanks, and
rear”; so several minutes elapse ere Gingham can be favoured with a
private interview, and she passes that period in admiring her young
lady, and scanning, with a criticism that borders on disapprobation,
the ministering efforts of Rosine, the French maid.
A few weeks of London dissipation have not yet taken the first fresh
bloom off Blanche’s young brow; there is not a single line to herald
the “battered look” that will, too surely, follow a very few years of
late hours, and nightly excitement, and disappointments. The girl is
all _girl_ still--bright, and simple, and lovely. With all our
prejudices in her favour, and our awe-struck admiration of her dress,
we cannot help thinking she would look yet lovelier in a plain morning
gown, with no ornament but a rose or two; and that Mary Delaval’s
stately beauty and commanding figure would be more in character with
those splendid robes of state. But Mary is only a governess, and
Blanche is an heiress; so the one remains up-stairs, and the other
goes to Court. What else would you have?
It is difficult for an inferior at any time to obtain an interview
with a superior, and nowhere more so than in London. Gingham was
secure of Blanche’s sympathy as of her assistance; but although the
latter was forthcoming the very instant there was the slightest
hesitation perceived in her answer to the natural question, “How are
you getting on?” Gingham was deprived of her share of the former by a
thundering double-knock, that shook even the massive house in
Grosvenor Square to its foundation, and the announcement that Lady
Mount Helicon had arrived, and was even then waiting in the carriage
for Miss Kettering.
“Good-bye, good-bye, Gingham,” said Blanche, hurrying off in a state
of nervous trepidation, she scarcely knew why; “I mustn’t keep Lady
Mount Helicon waiting, and of course she won’t get out in her
train--come again soon--good-bye;” and in another moment the steps
were up, the door closed with a bang, and Blanche, spread well out so
as not to get “creased,” by the side of stately Lady Mount Helicon, in
a magnificent family coach, rich in state-liveried coachman and
Patagonian footmen, to which Cinderella’s equipage in the fairy tale
was a mere costermonger’s cart.
As the stout official on the box hammer-cloth, whose driving,
concealed as he is behind an enormous nosegay, is the admiration of
all beholders, will take some little time to reach the “string,” and
when placed in that lingering procession, will move at a snail’s pace
the whole way to St. James’s, we may as well fill up the interval by
introducing to the reader a lady with whom Blanche is rapidly becoming
intimate, and who takes a warm--shall we say a _maternal_?--interest
in the movements of our young heiress.
Lady Mount Helicon, then, is one of those characters which the
metropolis of this great and happy country can alone bring to
perfection. That she was once a merry, single-hearted child, is more
than probable, but so many years have elapsed since that innocent
period--so many “seasons,” with their ever-recurring duties of
card-leaving, dinner-receiving, ball-haunting, and keeping up her
acquaintance, have been softening her brain and hardening her heart,
that there is little left of the child in her world-worn nature, and
not a great deal of the woman, save her attachment to her son. She is
as fond of him as it is possible for her to be of anything. She is
proud of his talents, his appearance, his acquirements, and in her
heart of hearts of his wildness. Altogether, she thinks him a great
improvement on the old lord, and would sacrifice anything for him in
the world, save her position in society. That position, such as it is,
she has all her life been struggling to retain. She would improve it
if she could, but she will never get any farther. She belongs to the
mass of good society, and receives cards for all the “best places” and
most magnificent entertainments; but is as far removed as a curate’s
wife in Cornwall from the inner circle of those “bright particular
stars” with whom she would give her coronet to associate.
Lady Long-Acre _bows_ to her, but she never _nods_. Lady Dinadam
invites her to the great ball, which that exemplary peeress annually
endures with the constancy of a martyr; but as for the little dinners,
for which her gastronomic lord is so justly renowned, it is needless
to think of them. She might just as well expect to be asked to
Wassailworth. And although the Duke is hand-and-glove with her son,
she well knows she has as much chance of visiting the Emperor of
Morocco. Even tiny Mrs. Dreadnought alternately snubs and patronises
her. Why that artificial woman, who has no rank and very little
character, should be one of “the great people” is totally
inexplicable; however, there she _is_, and Lady Mount Helicon looks up
to her accordingly. Well, there are gradations in all ranks, even to
the very steps before the throne. In her ladyship’s immediate circle
are the Ormolus, and the Veneers, and the Blacklambs, with whom she is
on terms of the most perfect equality; while below her again are the
Duffles, and the Marchpanes, and the Featherheads, and a whole host of
inferiors. If Lady Long-Acre is distant with _her_, can she not be
condescending in her turn to Lady Tadpole? If Dinadam, who uses
somewhat coarse language for a nobleman, says he “can’t stand that
_something_ vulgar woman,” cannot Lady Mount Helicon cut young
Deadlock unblushingly in the street, and turn the very coldest part of
her broad shoulder on Sir Timothy and Lady Turnstile? “City people, my
dear,” as she explains for the edification of Blanche, who is somewhat
aghast at the uncourteous manœuvre. Has she not a grand object to
pursue for eighteen hours out of every twenty-four? Must she not keep
alive the recollections of her existence in the memories of some two
or three hundred people, who would not care a straw if she were dead
and buried before to-morrow morning? Is it not a noble ambition to
arrive at terms of apparent intimacy with this shaky grandee, or that
superannuated duchess, because they _are_ duchesses and grandees? Can
horses and carriages be better employed than in carrying cards about
for judicious distribution? Is not that a delightful night of which
two-thirds are spent blocked up in the “string,” and the remainder
suffocated on the staircase? In short, can money be better lavished,
or time and energy better applied, than in “keeping up one’s
acquaintance”?
This is the noble aim of “all the world.” This it is which brings
country families to London when their strawberries are ripe, and their
roses in full bloom. The Hall looks beautiful when its old trees are
in foliage, and its sunny meadows rippled with the fresh-mown hay.
But, dear! who would be out of London in June? except, of course,
during Ascot week. No, the gardener and the steward are left to enjoy
one of the sweetest places in England, and the family hug themselves
in the exchange of their roomy chambers, and old oak wainscoting, and
fresh country air, for a small, close, ill-constructed house, redolent
of those mysterious perfumes which are attributed to drains, and grimy
with many a year’s accumulation of soot and other impurities, but
happy, thrice happy in its _situation_--not a quarter of a mile from
St. James’s Street, and within a stone’s throw of Berkeley Square!
Year after year the exodus goes on. Year after year has the squire
sworn stoutly that he will enjoy _this_ summer at home, and perjured
himself, as a man invariably does when he attests by oath an opinion
in defiance of his wife. While there are daughters to marry off, and
sons to get commissions for, we can account in a measure for the
migratory movement, though based, we conceive, on fallacious
principles. But when John has got his appointment, through the
_county_ member after all, and Lucy has married the young rector of
the adjoining parish, who fell in love with her at the _county_
archery meeting, why the two poor old folks should make their annual
struggle, and endure discomfort, is only to be explained by the
tenacity with which English people cling to their national
superstitions and their national absurdities.
Even little Blanche, living in one of the best houses in Grosvenor
Square, and going to Court under a peeress’s “wing,” sighed while she
thought of Newton-Hollows and its shrubberies, and her garden just
blooming into summer luxuriance. As they toiled slowly down St.
James’s Street, envying the privileged grandees with the _entrée_
through St. James’s Park, our pretty heiress would fain have been back
in her garden-bonnet, tying up her roses, and watching her carnations,
and idling about in the deep shades of her leafy paradise. Not so the
chaperon. She was full of the important occasion. It was her pleasure
to _present_ Miss Kettering, and her business to arrange how that
maidenly patronymic should be merged in the title of Mount Helicon:
for this she was herself prepared to lapse into a _dowager_. Who but a
mother would be capable of such a sacrifice? Yet it must be; none knew
better than her ladyship--excepting, perhaps, the late lord’s man of
business, and certain citizens of the Hebrew persuasion, collectors of
noblemen’s and gentlemen’s autographs--how impossible it was for
“Mount” to go on much longer. His book on the Derby was a far deeper
affair than his “Broadsides from the Baltic”--where the publisher lost
shillings on the latter, the author paid away hundreds on the
former--and the literary sportsman confessed, with his usual
devil-may-care candour, that “between black-legs and blue-stockings he
was pretty nearly told-out!”--therefore must an heiress be
supplied from _the canaille_ to prop the noble house of Mount
Helicon--therefore have the Mount Helicon arms, and the Mount Helicon
liveries, and the Mount Helicon carriage, been seen day after day
waiting in Grosvenor Square--therefore does their diplomatic
proprietress speak in all societies of “_her_ charming Miss
Kettering,” and “_her_ sweet Blanche,” and therefore are they even now
arriving in company at St. James’s, followed by the General in his
brougham, who has come to pay his respects to his sovereign in _the
tightest_ uniform that ever threatened an apoplectic warrior with
convulsions. “My dear, you look exquisite,” says the chaperon, “only
mind how you get out, and don’t dirty your train, and recollect your
feathers; when you curtsey to the Queen, whatever you do, don’t let
them bob in her Majesty’s face.” Blanche, albeit somewhat frightened,
could not help laughing, and looked so fresh and radiant as she
alighted, that the very mob, assembled for purposes of criticism,
scarcely forbore from telling her as much to her face. “Don’t be
nervous, my dear,” and “_Pray_ don’t let us get separated,” said the
two ladies simultaneously, as they entered the palace; and Blanche
felt her knees tremble and her heart beat as she followed her
conductress up the stately, well-lined staircase, between rows of
magnificent-looking gentlemen-officials, all in full dress. The
kettle-drums of the Life Guards booming from without did not serve to
reassure her half so much as the jolly faces of the beef-eaters, every
one of whom seems to be cut out to exactly the same pattern, and,
inexplicable as it may appear, is a living impersonation of Henry
VIII.; but she took courage after a time, seeing that nobody was the
least frightened except herself, and that young Brosier of the Guards,
one of her dancing-partners, and to-day on duty at St. James’s, was
swaggering about as much at home as if he had been brought up in the
palace instead of his father’s humble-looking parsonage. Blanche would
have liked it better, though, had the staircase and corridor been a
little more crowded; as it was, she felt too conspicuous, and fancied
people looked at her as if they knew she was clutching those two
tickets, with her name and her chaperon’s legibly inscribed thereon,
for the information of an exalted office-bearer, because this was her
first appearance at Court, and she was going _to be presented_.
Innocent Blanche! The gentlemen in uniform are busy with their collars
(the collar of a uniform is positive strangulation for everything but
a _bonâ fide_ soldier), whilst those in civil vestures are absorbed in
the contemplation of their own legs, which, in the unusual attire of
silk stockings and “shorts,” look worse to the owner than to any one
else, and that is saying a good deal. The General is close behind his
niece, and struts with an ardour which yesterday’s levee in that same
tight coat has been unable to cool. The plot thickens, and they add
their tickets to a table already covered by cards inscribed with the
names of England’s noblest and fairest, for the information of the
grand vizier, and--shall we confess it?--the gentlemen of the press!
Lady Mount Helicon bows right and left with stately courtesy: Blanche
seizes a moment to arrange her train and a stray curl unobserved; and
the General, between gold lace and excitement, breaks out into an
obvious perspiration. Blanche’s partners gather round her as they
would at a ball, though she scarcely recognises some in their military
disguises. And those who have not been introduced whisper to each
other, “_That’s_ Miss Kettering,” and depreciate her, and call her
“very pretty _for an heiress_.” Captain Lacquers is magnificent; he
has exchanged into the “Loyal Hussars,” chiefly on account of the
uniform, and thinks that in “hessians” and a “pelisse” he ought not to
_be bought_ under half-a-million. He breakfasted with “Uppy” this
morning, and rallied that suitor playfully on his advantage in
attending the Drawing-room, whereas Sir Ascot was to be on duty, and
is even now lost in jack-boots and a helmet, on a pawing black
charger, outside. D’Orville is there too, with his stately figure and
grave, handsome face. His hussar uniform sits none the worse for those
two medals on his breast; and his beauty is none the less commanding
for a tinge of brown caught from an Indian sun. He is listening to the
General, and bending his winning eyes on Blanche. The girl thinks he
is certainly the _nicest_ person _here_. By a singular association of
ideas, the whole thing reminds the General of the cavalry action at
Gorewallah, and his energetic reminiscences of that brilliant affair
are by no means lost on the bystanders.
“Blanche, my dear, there’s Sir Roger Rearsby--most distinguished
officer. What?--I was his brigade-major at Chutney, and we--D’Orville,
_you_ know that man--how d’ye mean?--why, it’s Colonel Chuffins. I
pulled him from under his horse in the famous charge of the Kedjerees,
and stood across him for two hours--_two hours_, by the god of
war!--till I’d rallied the Kedjerees, and we swept everything before
us. I suppose you’ll allow Gorewallah was the best thing of the war.
Zounds! I don’t believe the Sepoys have done talking of it yet! Look
ye here: Marsh Mofussil occupied the heights, and Bahawdar Bang was
detached to make a demonstration in our rear. Well, sir----”
At this critical juncture, and ere the General had time to explain the
strategy by which Bahawdar Bang’s manœuvre was defeated, he and his
party had been swept onward with the tide to where a doorway stemmed
the crowd into a mass of struggling confusion. Lappets and feathers
waved to and fro like a grove of poplars in a breeze; fans were
broken, and soft cheeks scratched against epaulettes and such
accoutrements of war; here and there a pair of moustaches towered
above the surface, like the yards of some tall bark in a storm; whilst
ever and anon a heavy dowager, like some plunging seventy-four that
answers not her helm, came surging through the mass with the sheer
force of that specific gravity which is not to be denied. As the
state-rooms are reached, the crowd becomes more dense and the heat
insufferable. A red cord, stretched tightly the whole length of the
room, offers an insuperable barrier to the impetuous, and compels the
panting company to defile in due order of precedence--“first come
first served” being here, as elsewhere, the prevailing maxim. And now,
people being obliged to stand still, make the best of it, and begin to
talk, their remarks being as original and interesting as those of a
well-dressed crowd usually are. “Wawt a crush--aw”--says Captain
Lacquers, skilfully warding off from Blanche the whole person of a
stout naval officer, and sighing to think of the tarnish his beloved
hessians have sustained by being trodden on--“there’s Lady Crane and
the Miss Cranes--that’s Rebecca, the youngest, she’s going to
be presented, poor girl!--aw--she’s painfully ugly, Miss
Kettering--aw--makes me ill to look at her.” Poor Rebecca! she’s not
pretty, at least in a court dress, and is dreadfully frightened
besides. She knows the rich Miss Kettering by sight, and admires her
honestly, and envies her too, and would give anything to change places
with her now, for she has a slight _tendresse_ for good-looking,
unmeaning Lacquers. Take comfort, Rebecca, you will hardly condescend
to speak to him, when you go through the same dread ordeal next year,
in this very place, as Marchioness Ermindale. The Marquis is looking
out for a young wife, and has seen you already, walking early, in
shabby gloves, with your governess, and has made up his mind, and will
marry you out of hand before the end of the season. So you will be the
richest peeress in England, and have a good-looking, good-humoured,
honest-hearted husband, very little over forty; and you will do pretty
much what you like, and never go with your back to the horses any
more; only you don’t know it, nor has it anything to do with our
story, except to prove that the lottery is not, invariably, “all
blanks and no prizes”--that a quiet, unassuming, lady-like girl has
fully as good a chance of winning the game as any of your fashionable
beauties--your dashing young ladies, with their pictures in
print-books, and their names in the clubs, and their engagements a
dozen deep, and their heart-broken lovers in scores--men who can well
afford to be _lovers_, seeing that their resources will not admit of
their becoming husbands. Such a suitor is Captain Lacquers to the
generality of his lady-loves, though he means honestly enough as
regards Blanche, and would like to marry her and her Three per Cents,
to-morrow. Misguided dandy! what chance has he against such a rival as
D’Orville? Even if there were no Frank Hardingstone, and Cousin
Charlie were never to come back, he is but on a par with Sir Ascot,
Lord Mount Helicon, and a hundred others--there is not a toss of a
halfpenny for choice between them. Nevertheless, he has great
confidence in his own fascinations, and not being troubled with
diffidence, is only waiting for an opportunity to lay himself, his
uniform, and his debts at the heiress’s feet.
The Major, meanwhile, whom Lady Mount Helicon thinks “charming,” and
of whom she is persuaded _she_ has made a conquest, pioneers a way for
Blanche and her chaperon through the glittering throng. “It _is_ very
formidable, Miss Kettering,” says he, pitying the obvious nervousness
of the young girl, “but it’s soon over, like a visit to the dentist.
You know what to do, and the Queen is so kind and so gracious, it’s
not half so alarming when you are really before her; now, go on;
that’s the grand vizier; keep close to Lady Mount Helicon; and mind,
don’t turn your back to any of the royalties. I shall be in the
gallery to get your carriage after it’s over. I shall be so anxious to
know how you get through it.”
“Thank you, Major D’Orville,” replied poor Blanche, with an upward
glance of gratitude that made her violet eyes look deeper and lovelier
than ever; and she sailed on, with a very respectable assumption of
fortitude, but inwardly wishing that she could sink into the earth,
or, at least, remain with kind, protecting Major D’Orville and Uncle
Baldwin, and those gentlemen whose duty did not bring them into the
immediate presence of their sovereign.
These worthies, having nothing better to do, began to beguile the time
by admiring each other’s uniforms, criticising the appearance of the
company, and such vague impertinences as go by the name of general
conversation. Lacquers, who had just caught the turn of his hessians
at a favourable point of view, was more than usually communicative.
“Heard of Bolter?” says he, addressing the public in general, and
amongst others a first cousin of that injured man. “Taken his wife
back again--aw--soft, I should say--fact is, she and Fopples couldn’t
get on; Frank kicked at the poodle directly he got to the railway
station; he swore he would only take the parrot, and they quarrelled
there. I don’t believe they went abroad at all, at least not together.
Seen the poodle? Nice dog; they’ve got him in Green Street; very like
Frank; believe he was jealous of him!” A general laugh greeted the
hussar’s witticism, and the cousin being, as usual, not on the best of
terms with his relation, enjoyed the joke more than any one else.
Major D’Orville alone has neither listened to the story nor caught the
point. Blanche’s pleading, grateful eyes haunt him still. He feels
that the more he likes her, the less he would wish to marry her. “She
is worthy of a better fate,” he thinks, “than to be linked to a
broken-down _roué_.” And as is often the case, the charm of beauty in
another brings forcibly to his mind the only face he ever really
loved; and the Major sighs as he wishes he could begin life again, on
totally different principles from those he has all along adopted.
Well, it is too late now. The game must be played out, and he proceeds
to cement his alliance with the General by asking him to lunch with
him at his club “after this thing’s over.”
“We’ll all go together,” exclaimed Lacquers, who had been meditating
the very same move against his prospective uncle-in-law, only he
couldn’t hit the right pronunciation of a _déjeuner à la fourchette_,
the term in which he was anxious to couch his invitation.
“Not a member, sir,” says the General, with a well-pleased smile at
the invitation; “cross-questioned by the waiter, kicked out by the
committee--what?--only belong to ‘The Chelsea and Noodles’--don’t
approve of clubs in the abstract--all very well whilst one’s
a bachelor--eh? D----d selfish and all that--wife moping in a
two-storied house at Bayswater--husband swaggering in a Louis Quatorze
drawing-room in Pall Mall. Can’t dine at home to-day, my love; where’s
the latch-key? Promised to have a mutton-chop at the club with an old
brother-officer. Wife dines on chicken broth with her children, and
has a poached egg at her tea. Husband begins with oysters and ends
with a pint of claret, by himself too--we all know who the old
brother-officer is--lives in the Edgeware Road!--how d’ye mean?”
Lacquers goes off with a horse-laugh; he enjoys the joke amazingly; it
is just suited to his comprehension. “Then we’ll meet in an hour from
now,” says he, as the crowd, surging in, breaks up their little
conclave; “should like to show you our pictures--aw--fond of high art,
you know--and our staircase, Arabian, you know, with the ornaments
quite Mosaic. _A-diavolo!_” And pleased with what he believes to be
his real Spanish farewell, our dandy-linguist elbows his way up to
Lady Ormolu, and gladdens that panting peeress with the pearls and
rubies of his intellectual conversation.
All this time Blanche is nearing the ordeal. If she thought the crowd
too dense before, what would she not give now to bury herself in its
sheltering ranks? An ample duchess is before her with a red-haired
daughter, but everywhere around her there is room to breathe, and
walk, and _to be seen_. Through an open door she catches a glimpse of
the Presence and the stately circle before whom she must pass.
Good-natured royalties, of both sexes, stand smiling and bowing, and
striving to put frightened subjects at their ease, and carrying their
kind hearts on their handsome open countenances; but they are all
whirling round and round to Blanche, and she cannot tell uniforms from
satin gowns, epaulettes from ostrich plumes, old from young. It
strikes her that there is something ridiculous in the way that a
central figure performs its backward movement, and the horrid
conviction comes upon her that she will have to go through the same
ceremony before all those royal eyes, and think of her train, her
feathers, her curtsey, and her escape, all at one and the same
agonising moment. A foreign diplomatist makes a complimentary remark
in French, addressed to his neighbour, a tall, soldier-like German
with nankeen moustaches. The German unbends for an instant that frigid
air of military reserve which has of late years usurped the place of
what we used to consider foreign volubility and politeness--he stoops
to reply in a whisper, but soon recovers himself, stiffer and
straighter than before.
Neither the compliment nor its reception serves to reassure Blanche.
In vain she endeavours to peep past the duchess’s ample figure, and
see how the red-haired daughter pulls through. The duchess rejoices in
substantial materials, both of dress and fabric, so Blanche can see
nothing. Another moment, and she hears her own name and Lady Mount
Helicon’s pronounced in a whisper, every syllable of which thrills
upon her nerves like a musket-shot. She reaches the door--she catches
a glimpse of a tall, handsome young man with a blue ribbon, and a
formidable-looking phalanx of princes, princesses, foreign
ambassadors, and English courtiers, in a receding circle, of which she
feels she is about to become the centre. Blanche would like to cry,
but she is in the Presence now, and we follow her no farther. It would
not become us to enlarge upon the majesty which commands reverence for
the queen, or the beauty which wins homage for the woman; to speak of
her as do her servants, her household, her nobility, or all who are
personally known to her, would entail such language of devoted
affection as in our case might be termed flattery and adulation. To
hurrah and throw our hats up for her, with the fervent loyalty of an
English mob--to cheer with the whole impulse of every stout English
heart, and the energy of good English lungs, is more in accordance
with our position and our habits, and so “Hip, hip, hip--God save the
Queen.”
“Oh, dear! if I’d only known,” said Blanche, some two hours
afterwards, as Rosine was brushing her hair, and taking out the costly
ostrich plumes and the string of pearls, “I needn’t have been so
frightened after all! So good, so kind, so considerate, I shouldn’t
the least mind being presented every day!”