MABEL CHESTER was the beauty and toast of South Shropshire. She had
refused the hand of half the country squires in a circle of some dozen
miles, till at last Mr. Vane became her suitor. Besides a handsome face
and person, Mr. Vane had accomplishments his rivals did not possess. He
read poetry to her on mossy banks an hour before sunset, and awakened
sensibilities which her other suitors shocked, and they them.
The lovely Mabel had a taste for beautiful things, without any excess of
that severe quality called judgment.
I will explain. If you or I, reader, had read to her in the afternoon,
amid the smell of roses and eglantine, the chirp of the mavis, the hum
of bees, the twinkling of butterflies, and the tinkle of distant sheep,
something that combined all these sights, and sounds, and smells--say
Milton's musical picture of Eden, P. L., lib. 3, and after that “Triplet
on Kew,” she would have instantly pronounced in favor of “Eden”; but
if _we_ had read her “Milton,” and Mr. Vane had read her “Triplet,” she
would have as unhesitatingly preferred “Kew” to “Paradise.”
She was a true daughter of Eve; the lady, who, when an angel was telling
her and her husband the truths of heaven in heaven's own music, slipped
away into the kitchen, because she preferred hearing the story at
second-hand, encumbered with digressions, and in mortal but marital
accents.
When her mother, who guarded Mabel like a dragon, told her Mr. Vane was
not rich enough, and she really must not give him so many opportunities,
Mabel cried and embraced the dragon, and said, “Oh, mother!” The
dragon, finding her ferocity dissolving, tried to shake her off, but the
goose would cry and embrace the dragon till it melted.
By and by Mr. Vane's uncle died suddenly and left him the great
Stoken Church estate, and a trunk full of Jacobuses and Queen Anne's
guineas--his own hoard and his father's--then the dragon spake
comfortably and said: “My child, he is now the richest man in
Shropshire. He will not think of you now; so steel your heart.”
Then Mabel, contrary to all expectations, did not cry; but, with
flushing cheek, pledged her life upon Ernest's love and honor: and
Ernest, as soon as the funeral, etc., left him free, galloped to Mabel,
to talk of our good fortune. The dragon had done him injustice; that
was not his weak point. So they were married! and they were very, very
happy. But, one month after, the dragon died, and that was their first
grief; but they bore it together.
And Vane was not like the other Shropshire squires. His idea of pleasure
was something his wife could share. He still rode, walked, and sat with
her, and read to her, and composed songs for her, and about her, which
she played and sang prettily enough, in her quiet, lady-like way, and in
a voice of honey dropping from the comb. Then she kept a keen eye upon
him; and, when she discovered what dishes he liked, she superintended
those herself; and, observing that he never failed to eat of a certain
lemon-pudding the dragon had originated, she always made this pudding
herself, and she never told her husband she made it.
The first seven months of their marriage was more like blue sky than
brown earth; and if any one had told Mabel that her husband was a
mortal, and not an angel, sent to her that her days and nights might
be unmixed, uninterrupted heaven, she could hardly have realized the
information.
When a vexatious litigant began to contest the will by which Mr. Vane
was Lord of Stoken Church, and Mr. Vane went up to London to concert
the proper means of defeating this attack, Mrs. Vane would gladly have
compounded by giving the man two or three thousand acres or the whole
estate, if he wouldn't take less, not to rob her of her husband for
a month; but she was docile, as she was amorous; so she cried (out of
sight) a week; and let her darling go with every misgiving a loving
heart could have; but one! and that one her own heart told her was
impossible.
The month rolled away--no symptom of a return. For this, Mr. Vane was
not, in fact, to blame; but, toward the end of the next month, business
became a convenient excuse. When three months had passed, Mrs. Vane
became unhappy. She thought he too must feel the separation. She offered
to come to him. He answered uncandidly. He urged the length, the fatigue
of the journey. She was silenced; but some time later she began to take
a new view of his objections. “He is so self-denying,” said she. “Dear
Ernest, he longs for me; but he thinks it selfish to let me travel so
far alone to see him.”
Full of this idea, she yielded to her love. She made her preparations,
and wrote to him, that, if he did not forbid her peremptorily, he must
expect to see her at his breakfast-table in a very few days.
Mr. Vane concluded this was a jest, and did not answer this letter at
all.
Mrs. Vane started. She traveled with all speed; but, coming to a halt
at ----, she wrote to her husband that she counted on being with him at
four of the clock on Thursday.
This letter preceded her arrival by a few hours. It was put into his
hand at the same time with a note from Mrs. Woffington, telling him she
should be at a rehearsal at Covent Garden. Thinking his wife's letter
would keep, he threw it on one side into a sort of a tray; and, after a
hurried breakfast, went out of his house to the theater. He returned, as
we are aware, with Mrs. Woffington; and also, at her request, with Mr.
Cibber, for whom they had called on their way. He had forgotten his
wife's letter, and was entirely occupied with his guests.
Sir Charles Pomander joined them, and found Mr. Colander, the head
domestic of the London establishment, cutting with a pair of scissors
every flower Mrs. Woffington fancied, that lady having a passion for
flowers.
Colander, during his temporary absence from the interior, had appointed
James Burdock to keep the house, and receive the two remaining guests,
should they arrive.
This James Burdock was a faithful old country servant, who had come up
with Mr. Vane, but left his heart at Willoughby. James Burdock had for
some time been ruminating, and his conclusion was, that his mistress,
Miss Mabel (as by force of habit he called her), was not treated as she
deserved.
Burdock had been imported into Mr. Vane's family by Mabel; he had
carried her in his arms when she was a child; he had held her upon a
donkey when she was a little girl; and when she became a woman, it was
he who taught her to stand close to her horse, and give him her foot and
spring while he lifted her steadily but strongly into her saddle, and,
when there, it was he who had instructed her that a horse was not a
machine, that galloping tires it in time, and that galloping it on
the hard road hammers it to pieces. “I taught the girl,” thought James
within himself.
This honest silver-haired old fellow seemed so ridiculous to Colander,
the smooth, supercilious Londoner, that he deigned sometimes to converse
with James, in order to quiz him. This very morning they had had a
conversation.
“Poor Miss Mabel! dear heart. A twelvemonth married, and nigh six months
of it a widow, or next door.”
“We write to her, James, and entertain her replies, which are at
considerable length.”
“Ay, but we don't read 'em!” said James, with an uneasy glance at the
tray.
“Invariably, at our leisure; meantime we make ourselves happy among the
wits and the sirens.”
“And she do make others happy among the poor and the ailing.”
“Which shows,” said Colander, superciliously, “the difference of
tastes.”
Burdock, whose eye had never been off his mistress's handwriting, at
last took it up and said: “Master Colander, do if ye please, sir, take
this into master's dressing-room, do now?”
Colander looked down on the missive with dilating eye. “Not a bill,
James Burdock,” said he, reproachfully.
“A bill! bless ye, no. A letter from missus.”
No, the dog would not take it in to his master; and poor James, with a
sigh, replaced it in the tray.
This James Burdock, then, was left in charge of the hall by Colander,
and it so happened that the change was hardly effected before a hurried
knocking came to the street door.
“Ay, ay!” grumbled Burdock, “I thought it would not be long. London for
knocking and ringing all day, and ringing and knocking all night.” He
opened the door reluctantly and suspiciously, and in darted a lady,
whose features were concealed by a hood. She glided across the hall,
as if she was making for some point, and old James shuffled after her,
crying: “Stop, stop! young woman. What is your name, young woman?”
“Why, James Burdock,” cried the lady, removing her hood, “have you
forgotten your mistress?”
“Mistress! Why, Miss Mabel, I ask your pardon, madam--here, John,
Margery!”
“Hush!” cried Mrs. Vane.
“But where are your trunks, miss? And where's the coach, and Darby and
Joan? To think of their drawing you all the way here! I'll have 'em into
your room directly, ma'am. Miss, you've come just in time.”
“What a dear, good, stupid old thing you are, James. Where is
Ernest--Mr. Vane? James, is he well and happy? I want to surprise him.”
“Yes, ma'am,” said James, looking down.
“I left the old stupid coach at Islington, James. The something--pin was
loose, or I don't know what. Could I wait two hours there? So I came on
by myself; you wicked old man, you let me talk, and don't tell me how he
is.”
“Master is main well, ma'am, and thank you,” said old Burdock, confused
and uneasy.
“But is he happy? Of course he is. Are we not to meet to-day after six
months? Ah! but never mind, they _are_ gone by.”
“Lord bless her!” thought the faithful old fellow. “If sitting down and
crying could help her, I wouldn't be long.”
By this time they were in the banqueting-room and at the preparations
there Mabel gave a start; she then colored. “Oh, he has invited his
friends to make acquaintance. I had rather we had been alone all this
day and to-morrow. But he must not know that. No; _his_ friends are _my_
friends, and shall be too,” thought the country wife. She then glanced
with some misgiving at her traveling attire, and wished she had brought
_one_ trunk with her.
“James,” said she, “where is my room? And, mind, I forbid you to tell a
soul I am come.”
“Your room, Miss Mabel?”
“Well, any room where there is looking-glass and water.”
She then went to a door which opened in fact on a short passage leading
to a room occupied by Mr. Vane himself.
“No, no!” cried James. “That is master's room.”
“Well, is not master's room mistress's room, old man? But stay; is he
there?”
“No, ma'am; he is in the garden, with a power of fine folks.”
“They shall not see me till I have made myself a little more decent,”
said the young beauty, who knew at bottom how little comparatively
the color of her dress could affect her appearance, and she opened Mr.
Vane's door and glided in.
Burdock's first determination was, in spite of her injunction, to tell
Colander; but on reflection he argued: “And then what will they do?
They will put their heads together, and deceive us some other way. No!”
thought James, with a touch of spite, “we shall see how they will all
look.” He argued also, that, at sight of his beautiful wife, his master
must come to his senses, and the Colander faction be defeated; and
perhaps, by the mercy of Providence, Colander himself turned off.
While thus ruminating, a thundering knock at the door almost knocked him
off his legs. “There ye go again,” said he, and he went angrily to the
door. This time it was Hunsdon, who was in a desperate hurry to see his
master.
“Where is Sir Charles Pomander, my honest fellow?” said he.
“In the garden, my Jack-a-dandy!” said Burdock, furiously.
(“Honest fellow,” among servants, implies some moral inferiority.)
In the garden went Hunsdon. His master--all whose senses were playing
sentinel--saw him, and left the company to meet him.
“She is in the house, sir.”
“Good! Go--vanish!”
Sir Charles looked into the banquet-room; the haunch was being placed on
the table. He returned with the information. He burned to bring husband
and wife together; he counted each second lost that postponed this (to
him) thrilling joy. Oh, how happy he was!--happier than the serpent when
he saw Eve's white teeth really strike into the apple!
“Shall we pay respect to this haunch, Mr. Quin?” said Vane, gayly.
“If you please, sir,” said Quin, gravely. Colander ran down a by-path
with an immense bouquet, which he arranged for Mrs. Woffington in a vase
at Mr. Vane's left hand. He then threw open the windows, which were on
the French plan, and shut within a foot of the lawn.
The musicians in the arbor struck up, and the company, led by Mr.
Vane and Mrs. Woffington, entered the room. And a charming room it
was!--light, lofty, and large--adorned in the French way with white and
gold. The table was an exact oval, and at it everybody could hear what
any one said; an excellent arrangement where ideaed guests only are
admitted--which is another excellent arrangement, though I see people
don't think so.
The repast was luxurious and elegant. There was no profusion of
unmeaning dishes; each was a _bonne-bouche_--an undeniable delicacy. The
glass was beautiful, the plates silver. The flowers rose like walls
from the table; the plate massive and glorious; rose-water in the
hand-glasses; music crept in from the garden, deliciously subdued into
what seemed a natural sound. A broad stream of southern sun gushed in
fiery gold through the open window, and, like a red-hot rainbow, danced
through the stained glass above it. Existence was a thing to bask in--in
such a place, and so happy an hour!
The guests were Quin, Mrs. Clive, Mr. Cibber, Sir Charles Pomander, Mrs.
Woffington, and Messrs. Soaper and Snarl, critics of the day. This pair,
with wonderful sagacity, had arrived from the street as the haunch
came from the kitchen. Good-humor reigned; some cuts passed, but as the
parties professed wit, they gave and took.
Quin carved the haunch, and was happy; Soaper and Snarl eating the same,
and drinking Toquay, were mellowed and mitigated into human flesh. Mr.
Vane and Mrs. Woffington were happy; he, because his conscience was
asleep; and she, because she felt nothing now could shake her hold of
him. Sir Charles was in a sort of mental chuckle. His head burned, his
bones ached; but he was in a sort of nervous delight.
“Where is she?” thought he. “What will she do? Will she send her maid
with a note? How blue he will look! Or will she come herself? She is a
country wife; there must be a scene. Oh, why doesn't she come into this
room? She must know we are here! is she watching somewhere?” His brain
became puzzled, and his senses were sharpened to a point; he was all
eye, ear and expectation; and this was why he was the only one to hear
a very slight sound behind the door we have mentioned, and next to
perceive a lady's glove lying close to that door. Mabel had dropped it
in her retreat. Putting this and that together, he was led to hope and
believe she was there, making her toilet, perhaps, and her arrival at
present unknown.
“Do you expect no one else?” said he, with feigned carelessness, to Mr.
Vane.
“No,” said Mr. Vane, with real carelessness.
“It must be so! What fortune!” thought Pomander.
_Soaper._ “Mr. Cibber looks no older than he did five years ago.”
_Snarl._ “There was no room on his face for a fresh wrinkle.”
_Soaper._ “He! he! Nay, Mr. Snarl: Mr. Cibber is like old port; the more
ancient he grows, the more delicious his perfume.”
_Snarl._ “And the crustier he gets.”
_Clive._ “Mr. Vane, you should always separate those two. Snarl, by
himself, is just supportable; but, when Soaper paves the way with his
hypocritical praise, the pair are too much; they are a two-edged sword.”
_Woffington._ “Wanting nothing but polish and point.”
_Vane._ “Gentlemen, we abandon your neighbor, Mr. Quin, to you.”
_Quin._ “They know better. If they don't keep a civil tongue in their
heads, no fat goes from here to them.”
_Cibber._ “Ah, Mr. Vane; this room is delightful; but it makes me sad. I
knew this house in Lord Longueville's time; an unrivaled gallant, Peggy.
You may just remember him, Sir Charles?”
_Pomander_ (with his eye on a certain door). “Yes, yes; a gouty old
fellow.”
Cibber fired up. “I wish you may ever be like him. Oh, the beauty, the
wit, the _petits-soupers_ that used to be here! Longueville was a great
creature, Mr. Vane. I have known him entertain a fine lady in this room,
while her rival was fretting and fuming on the other side of that door.”
“Ah, indeed!” said Sir Charles.
“More shame for him,” said Mr. Vane.
Here was luck! Pomander seized this opportunity of turning the
conversation to his object. With a malicious twinkle in his eye, he
inquired of Mr. Cibber what made him fancy the house had lost its virtue
in Mr. Vane's hands.
“Because,” said Cibber, peevishly, “you all want the true _savoir faire_
nowadays, because there is no _juste milieu,_ young gentlemen. The young
dogs of the day are all either unprincipled heathen, like yourself, or
Amadisses, like our worthy host.” The old gentleman's face and manners
were like those of a patriarch, regretting the general decay of virtue,
not the imaginary diminution of a single vice. He concluded with a sigh
that, “The true _preux des dames_ went out with the full periwig; stab
my vitals!”
“A bit of fat, Mr. Cibber?” said Quin, whose jokes were not polished.
“Jemmy, thou art a brute,” was the reply.
“You refuse, sir?” said Quin, sternly.
“No, sir!” said Cibber, with dignity. “I accept.”
Pomander's eye was ever on the door.
“The old are so unjust to the young,” said he. “You pretend that the
Deluge washed away iniquity, and that a rake is a fossil. What,” said
he, leaning as it were on every word, “if I bet you a cool hundred
that Vane has a petticoat in that room, and that Mrs. Woffington shall
unearth her?”
The malicious dog thought this was the surest way to effect a dramatic
exposure, because if Peggy found Mabel to all appearances concealed,
Peggy would scold her, and betray herself.
“Pomander!” cried Vane, in great heat; then, checking himself, he said
coolly: “but you all know Pomander.”
“None of you,” replied that gentleman. “Bring a chair, sir,” said he,
authoritatively, to a servant; who, of course, obeyed.
Mrs. Clive looked at him, and thought: “There is something in this!”
“It is for the lady,” said he, coolly. Then, leaning over the table,
he said to Mrs. Woffington, with an impudent affectation of friendly
understanding: “I ran her to earth in this house not ten minutes ago.
Of course I don't know who she is! But,” smacking his lips, “a rustic
Amaryllis, breathing all May-buds and Meadowsweet.”
“Have her out, Peggy!” shouted Cibber. “I know the run--there's the
covert! Hark, forward! Ha, ha, ha!”
Mr. Vane rose, and, with a sternness that brought the old beau up with
a run, he said: “Mr. Cibber, age and infirmity are privileged; but for
you, Sir Charles--”
“Don't be angry,” interposed Mrs. Woffington, whose terror was lest he
should quarrel with so practiced a swordsman. “Don't you see it is a
jest! and, as might be expected from poor Sir Charles, a very sorry one.
“A jest!” said Vane, white with rage. “Let it go no further, or it will
be earnest!”
Mrs. Woffington placed her hand on his shoulder, and at that touch he
instantly yielded, and sat down.
It was at this moment, when Sir Charles found himself for the present
baffled--for he could no longer press his point, and search that room;
when the attention of all was drawn to a dispute, which, for a moment,
had looked like a quarrel; while Mrs. Woffington's hand still lingered,
as only a woman's hand can linger in leaving the shoulder of the man she
loves; it was at this moment the door opened of its own accord, and a
most beautiful woman stood, with a light step, upon the threshold!
Nobody's back was to her, except Mr. Vane's. Every eye but his was
spellbound upon her.
Mrs. Woffington withdrew her hand, as if a scorpion had touched her.
A stupor of astonishment fell on them all.
Mr. Vane, seeing the direction of all their eyes, slewed himself round
in his chair into a most awkward position, and when he saw the lady, he
was utterly dumfounded! But she, as soon as he turned his face her way,
glided up to him, with a little half-sigh, half-cry of joy, and taking
him round the neck, kissed him deliciously, while every eye at the table
met every other eye in turn. One or two of the men rose; for the lady's
beauty was as worthy of homage as her appearing was marvelous.
Mrs. Woffington, too astonished for emotion to take any definite shape,
said, in what seemed an ordinary tone: “Who is this lady?”
“I am his wife, madam,” said Mabel, in the voice of a skylark, and
smiling friendly on the questioner.
“It is my wife!” said Vane, like a speaking-machine; he was scarcely in
a conscious state. “It is my wife!” he repeated, mechanically.
The words were no sooner out of Mabel's mouth than two servants, who had
never heard of Mrs. Vane before, hastened to place on Mr. Vane's right
hand the chair Pomander had provided, a plate and napkin were there in a
twinkling, and the wife modestly, but as a matter of course, courtesied
low, with an air of welcome to all her guests, and then glided into the
seat her servants obsequiously placed before her.
The whole thing did not take half a minute!