MRS. MARTHA SLINGSBY.
The reader who is acquainted with the West End of the great metropolis
of the British Empire, cannot have failed to notice the air of gloomy
grandeur which characterises the aristocratic mansions of Old Burlington
Street.
The dingy brick-fronts—the massive doors, all of a sombre colour—the
windows, darkened by heavy hangings—and the dead silence which seems to
prevail within, produce upon the passer-by a strange and almost
melancholy effect.
There is nothing bustling—nothing cheerful in that street: on the
brightest day of summer its aspect is cold—mournful—prison-like.
It seems to be the last refuge of the aristocracy of the old
school,—that aristocracy which still clings to all its ancient
prejudices, its haughty notions, its exclusive pride,—an aristocracy
which finds its influence each day narrowing into a smaller compass, in
proportion as that of the masses expands around it.
And God grant that every thing in the shape of hereditary aristocracy
may shortly expire altogether—crushed by the weight of new interests and
modern civilisation!
In one of those gloomy-looking houses of Old Burlington Street dwelt
Mrs. Slingsby—a lady of about forty-two, but who, enhancing by art a
natural conservation of beauty truly miraculous in a female of her age,
seemed at least five or six years younger.
Her hair was very dark; and as she wore the sweetest French caps that
Parisian fashion could suggest, she was invested with that air which
bewilders the common observer between its admirable coquettishness and
its matronly sedateness.
Her complexion was clear and delicate; and a careful but regular use of
cosmetics concealed those incipient wrinkles which appeared at the
corners of the eye-lids. Her teeth were perfect, white, and even; and
her figure, though upon a large scale, was maintained in fine symmetry
by the skill of her dress-maker. She had naturally a splendid bust; and
as she usually wore very high dresses, she was the better enabled to
maintain its appearance of youthful firmness in spite of the prominent
expansion it had experienced as the lady herself increased in years.
Mrs. Martha Slingsby was the aunt of Mr. Clarence Villiers, the lover of
Adelais Torrens. When very young, she was sacrificed by her parents to a
gentleman double her age, and who had acquired a fortune while he lost
his health in India. Shortly after this union, circumstances compelled
Mr. Slingsby to return to Calcutta; and his youthful wife accompanied
him. There they remained about eight years, at the expiration of which
period Mr. Slingsby died of a broken heart, his immense wealth having
been suddenly and entirely swept away by the failure of a great
mercantile and banking establishment in the Anglo-Indian capital. Mrs.
Slingsby, however, found a friend in the person of Sir Henry Courtenay—a
baronet who had long held a high office in the Council of India, and who
was about to return to England, having relinquished the cares of
employment in the public service. He was upwards of fifty at that
period—a widower—but having a family of young children. The moment that
the misfortunes of Mrs. Slingsby were reported to him by a mutual
friend, Sir Henry proposed to her that she should enter his family to
supply, as far as possible, the attentions of the mother whom the
children had lost. This offer was gratefully accepted; and Mrs.
Slingsby, who had no offspring of her own, returned to England with the
baronet.
For some years after her arrival in London, she remained in the family
of Sir Henry Courtenay,—where she appeared to be treated as a near
relation, and not as a dependant. But when the boys and girls were old
enough to be placed at school, she removed to the house in Old
Burlington Street, in which we now find her. Rumour declared that she
was enabled to take so handsome an establishment, in consequence of the
sudden and unexpected recovery of a portion of that fortune which was
supposed to have been irretrievably swallowed up in the failure of the
bank at Calcutta, and the loss of which had broken her husband's heart.
At all events, she paid her way regularly—and was famed for her numerous
charities. Calumny had never assailed her; for she was so regular in her
religious duties—so retired in her mode of life—so ready to assist the
deserving poor—so constant in her donations to all humane and
philanthropic institutions—and so zealous a patroness of Missionary and
Bible Societies, that her neighbours looked upon her as a very pattern
of Christian virtue.
Between herself and the Courtenay family the most sincere attachment
appeared to exist. Whenever the young gentlemen and the young ladies
returned home for the holidays, they invariably passed a week with her
whom they almost looked upon as a mother; and Sir Henry himself, in
speaking of her to his friends, seemed to take a delight in eulogising
the manner in which she had performed her duty towards his children. The
consequence was that his relations and acquaintances echoed these
praises elsewhere; and Mrs. Martha Slingsby was quoted at the West End
as the perfect model of a good and excellent woman.
Thus, at the age of forty-two, Mrs. Slingsby had escaped that ordeal
through which so many beautiful widows are doomed to pass: we mean, the
whisperings of calumny. Not a breath had ever sullied her fame;—not a
hint had ever been dropped to her disparagement. Scandal seemed to avoid
her threshold as an evil spirit is supposed to recoil from the vicinity
of the temple of worship.
We must observe that Sir Henry Courtenay was now close upon
sixty-three—thirteen years having elapsed since Mrs. Slingsby had
entered his family in India. He was nevertheless a fine man, on whose
brow time seemed to sit lightly, considering how great a portion of his
mortal career was already run. It is true that he wore false teeth and
false hair; but art had rendered those substitutes so natural in
appearance, that few suspected they were really false. Elegant in his
manners—endowed with a mind which had treasured up the richest stores of
intellectual wealth—fascinating in his conversation—and evincing in his
attire the taste of a polished gentleman, Sir Henry Courtenay was one of
the brightest stars of the fashionable world—a favourite at Court—and
welcome in every gay circle.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon of that day which followed
the events related in the few preceding chapters, that Mrs. Martha
Slingsby was seated in her elegantly furnished drawing-room, revising
the list of her usual Christmas donations to the humane, philanthropic,
and religious Societies.
Adelais and Rosamond Torrens were seated one on each side of her, and
aiding their kind friend in her pious task.
Rosamond held in her hand a memorandum-book from which she read the
names of the various associations alluded to;—Mrs. Slingsby had a
cash-box open before her;—and Adelais made entries, according to this
lady's dictation, in another memorandum-book.
The two beautiful girls appeared to be the daughters of the elegant and
handsome woman who sate between them; and there was so much sweetness in
the countenances of all three—so much animation, and so much
modesty—that a painter would have been rejoiced to depict the group as
Charity dictating to Benevolence and Mercy.
"Proceed, dear Rosamond," said Mrs. Slingsby, when Adelais had finished
a note in her memorandum-book.
"_The Orphan Children's Free-School Association_, madam," read the young
maiden thus addressed; "and last year you gave ten guineas."
"This Christmas I shall subscribe fifteen, my loves," observed Mrs.
Slingsby, in a mild and silvery tone of voice. "There is no duty so
sweet—so holy as to contribute to the religious instruction of those
poor creatures who are deprived of their natural protectors. Besides,
the committee have manifested the most praiseworthy readiness to attend
to any suggestions which I may deem it right to offer. For instance, it
was the custom until lately to have three multiplication-table lessons
to only one Bible-reading; and this, you must admit, my loves, was very
indiscreet—I will not use a harsher term. But, in consequence of my
recommendation, the dear children have now _three_ Bible-readings to
_one_ multiplication-table lesson. Have you written down _fifteen
guineas_, my dear?" she inquired, turning towards Adelais.
A reply was given in the affirmative; and Mrs. Slingsby wrapped the
amount up in an elegant sheet of rose-coloured paper, and, having noted
in pencil the contents of the little packet, added it to several others
which were ranged before her on the table.
Rosamond then read the next item.
"_The Poor Authors' Assistance Fund_; and last year you gave five
guineas, madam."
"And this year I shall only send two, my loves," said Mrs. Slingsby.
"Authors and journalists are ruining the country, both politically and
morally, as fast as they can. They are writing _for_ the people, and
_against_ the aristocracy; and this, my loves, is a crying abomination.
Heaven forgive me for speaking in such harsh terms—so inconsistent with
pious meekness and Christian forbearance; but it would disturb the
patience of a saint to behold the attacks made by these men upon our
blessed Constitution—our holy Church, and its most necessary union with
the State—the prerogatives of our monarch—the rights of the upper
classes—the privileges of wealth—and all those institutions which were
perfected by the wisdom of our ancestors. Do you understand me, my
loves?"
"Oh! quite, madam," answered Adelais, who already began to look upon
liberal-minded authors and journalists as a set of incarnate fiends
banded against every thing worth preserving in society.
"Besides, my dear girls," added Mrs. Slingsby, "the _Poor Authors'
Assistance Fund_ does not publish a Report of its proceedings nor a list
of those who subscribe to it; and, under all circumstances, I think that
I should be acting more consistently with my duties as a Christian and
as an Englishwoman devoted to the blessed institutions of her happy
country, to decline any donation whatever to a Society encouraging
infidels and republicans. So you may draw a pen through the name,
Rosamond, love. There!—now my conscience is at rest. Which is the next
item?"
"_The Distressed Milliners' Friends Society_, madam," was the answer.
"That is another Association from which I must withdraw my patronage,"
observed Mrs. Slingsby, her countenance losing its serene placidity in
an air of severity. "You are too young and too pure-minded to understand
my motives, dear girls; but when I tell you that most of these
distressed milliners are very naughty women, you will perceive the
justice of my conduct. And then they endeavour to make their penury an
excuse for their turpitude! Oh! how wicked—how sinful is human nature,
my loves! Erase that name also, dear Rosamond. And now what is the
next?"
"_The South-Sea Island Bible-Circulating Society_, madam; and last year
you gave twenty guineas."
"That is indeed a blessed institution!" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby, turning
her eyes piously upward; "and it is to this Society's rooms that we are
going in the evening to hear that estimable man, Mr. Joshua Sheepshanks,
give an account of the mission from which he has just returned. I shall
increase my donation by five guineas in this instance."
Adelais accordingly wrote down thirty-five guineas, which sum was duly
wrapped up in rose-coloured paper and added to the other packets.
Rosamond then read the next item in her memorandum-book.
"_The Naked Savages General Clothing Association_; and last year——"
"Pardon me, dearest girl," said Mrs. Slingsby, "I cannot support that
Society any longer. There is in its title a word most offensive to the
ears of decency; and I do not know how I could have ever been prevailed
upon to lend it the countenance of my name and the aid of my purse.
Besides, I do not think the object of the institution is useful; for in
India one sees the natives of the lower orders in the country districts,
going about in a state bordering on nudity, and one gets so accustomed
to it that it produces no disagreeable effect whatever. The name of the
Association is decidedly indelicate; but there is nothing repulsive in
the fact of savages going about in a state of nudity. You may strike out
the item, Rosamond love."
"I have done so, madam. The next is, _The_——"
Rosamond was interrupted by a loud knock at the front-door, which
resounded through the house.
In a few moments Sir Henry Courtenay was announced.