go up-stairs and ask Miss Letitia if she was coming down to tea, or if
she should send her some. The man departed, and was gone a long while.
When he returned--"Is Miss Letitia coming down to tea?" asked Charlotte
anxiously; "Miss Letitia don't say," replied the man. Charlotte bit her
lip in vexation, and then with something that resembled a sigh, invited
Harriet to take her seat at the table, and began to pour out. When tea
was about half over, Letitia made her appearance, walking with great
dignity, and looking very cross. She sat down in silence, opposite to
Harriet. "Sister," said Charlotte, in a voice of half-suppressed anger,
"shall I give you black tea or green? you know you sometimes take one
and sometimes the other." "I'll help myself," replied Letitia, in a
voice of chilling coldness. And taking up one of the tea-pots she
proceeded to do so. As soon as she put the cup to her lips, she set it
down again with apparent disgust, saying--"This tea is not fit to
drink." Charlotte, making a visible effort to restrain herself, placed
the other tea-pot within her sister's reach; Letitia poured out a few
drops by way of trial, tasted it, then pushed it away with still greater
disgust than before, and threw herself back in her chair, casting a look
of indignation at Charlotte, and murmuring,--"'Tis always so when I do
not preside at the tea-table myself."
Charlotte sat swelling with anger, afraid to trust herself to speak,
while Harriet, affecting not to notice what was passing, made an attempt
to talk on some indifferent subject, and addressed to Letitia a few
words which she did not answer, and handed her some waffles which she
would not take. Never had Harriet been present at so uncomfortable a
repast, and heartily did she wish herself at home, regretting much that
she had happened to pay a visit during this state of hostilities.
After the failure of both sorts of tea, Letitia sat in silent
indignation till the table was cleared, leaning back in her chair,
eating nothing, but crumbling a piece of bread to atoms, and
pertinaciously averting her head both from Charlotte and Harriet.
When tea was over, Harriet hoped that Letitia would retire to her own
room, but on the contrary the lady was perversely bent on staying in the
parlour. Charlotte and Harriet placed themselves at the sofa-table with
their sewing, and Letitia desired the servant-man to bring her one of
the new table-cloths that had been sent home that morning. Then making
him light a lamp that stood in the corner of the mantel-piece, she
seated herself under it on a low chair, and commenced silently and
sedulously the task of ravelling or fringing the ends of the
table-cloth, while Charlotte looked at her from time to time with
ill-suppressed resentment. Now and then, Harriet, in the hope of
conciliating Letitia into something like common civility, addressed a
few words to her in as pleasant a manner as possible, but Letitia
replied only by a cold monosyllable, and finally made no answer at all.
Charlotte was too angry at her sister to be able to sustain anything
that could be called a conversation with Miss Heathcote, and Harriet,
rather than say nothing, began to describe a very entertaining new novel
that had lately appeared, relating with great vivacity some of its most
amusing scenes. But she soon found that Charlotte was too much out of
humour with her sister to be able to give much attention to the
narrative, and that her replies and comments were _distrait_ and
_mal-à-propos_.
Letitia sat coldly fringing the table-cloth, and showing no sort of
emotion, except that she threw the ravellings into the fire with rather
more energy than was necessary, and occasionally jogged the foot that
rested on a cushion before her; and she resolutely refused to partake of
the refreshments that were brought in after tea.
Miss Heathcote sat in momentary dread of an explosion, as she saw that
the angry glances of Charlotte towards the lady fringing the
table-cloth, were becoming more frequent and more vivid, that her colour
was heightening, and the tremor of her voice increasing. Our heroine was
heartily glad of the arrival of her brother about nine o'clock, an hour
earlier than she expected him. He explained, in a few words, that being
desirous of returning to the theatre to see a favourite after-piece, he
had thought it best to come for his sister as soon as the play was over,
rather than keep her waiting for him till near eleven, before which time
it was not probable that the whole entertainment would be finished.
Charlotte, who was evidently impatient for an outbreak, saw Miss
Heathcote depart with visible satisfaction, and Letitia merely bowed her
head to the adieu of our heroine, who, vexed at herself for having
volunteered her visit on this ill-omened day, felt it a relief to quit
the presence of these unamiable sisters, and "leave them alone in their
glory."
The black girl that had brought down her hood and cloak, ran forward to
open the street door, and said in a low voice to Harriet, "I suppose,
miss, you did not know before you came, that our ladies had a high
quarrel this morning, and are affronted, and don't speak. But I dare say
they will come to, in the course of a few weeks, and then I hope you'll
pay us another visit, for company's _scace_."
When Harriet equipped herself to pass a _sociable_ evening with the
Urlingford family, who were among the most agreeable of her friends, she
could not possibly anticipate any _contre-tems_ that would mar the
pleasure of the visit. She arrived about dusk, and was somewhat
surprised to find the whole family already at their tea. Mrs. Urlingford
and the young ladies received her very cordially, but looked a little
disconcerted, and Harriet apologized for interrupting them at table, by
saying, that she thought their tea-hour was not till seven o'clock.
Mrs. Urlingford replied, that seven o'clock _was_ their usual hour for
tea, but on that evening they had it much earlier than usual, that it
might be over before the arrival of some of their musical friends, who
were coming to practise with her daughters.
"Really, my dear Harriet," pursued Mrs. Urlingford, "I am rejoiced that
you happened to fix on this evening for favouring us with an
unceremonious visit. Though I know that you always decline playing and
singing in company, and that you persist in saying you have very little
knowledge of music, yet I think too highly of your taste and feeling not
to be convinced of your fondness for that delightful art, and I am
certain you will be much gratified by what you will hear to-night,
though this is only a private practising; indeed a mere rehearsal. Next
week we will have a general music-party, the first of a series which we
have arranged to take place at intervals of a fortnight, and to which we
intend ourselves the pleasure of sending invitations to you and all our
other friends. This, of to-night, is, I repeat, nothing more than a
rehearsal, and we expect only a few professional musicians, whose
assistance we have secured for our regular musical soirées. I am very
glad, indeed, my dear Harriet, that you chance to be with us this
evening. As I said, we have tea earlier than usual, that the music may
begin the sooner, and at ten o'clock we will have coffee and other
refreshments handed round."
By this time, the table was newly set, fresh tea was made, and some
additional nice things were produced. Harriet, who was very sorry for
having caused any unnecessary trouble, sat down to her tea, which she
despatched in all possible haste, as she knew that Mrs. Urlingford must
be impatient to have the table cleared away, previous to the arrival of
the musicians, who were now momentarily expected. Just as Harriet was
finishing, there came in a German that played on the violon-cello, and
was always very early. On being asked if he had taken tea, he replied in
the affirmative, but that he would have no objection to a little more.
Accordingly he sat down and made a long and hearty meal, to the evident
annoyance of the family, and still more to that of Harriet Heathcote,
who knew that the table would long since have been removed, had it not
been detained on her account. There was nothing now to be done, but to
close the folding-doors, and shut in the German till he had completed
his repast, as others of the company were fast arriving. And though
Harriet had been told that this was merely a private practising, she
soon found herself in the midst of something that very much resembled a
large party; so many persons having been invited exclusive of the
regular performers. She understood, however, that nobody had been asked
to this rehearsal, who had not a decided taste for music.
Our heroine, for her part, had no extraordinary talent for that
difficult and elegant accomplishment; and, after taking lessons for
about a year, it was considered best that she should give it up, as her
voice was of no great compass, and there was little probability of her
reaching any proficiency, as an instrumental musician, that would
compensate for an undue expense of time, money, and application.
Therefore, Harriet had never advanced beyond simple ballads, which she
played and sang agreeably and correctly enough, but which she only
attempted when her audience consisted exclusively of her own family; and
none of her brothers and sisters had as yet shown any taste for that
sort of music which is commonly called scientific.
The Urlingfords, on the contrary, could all sing and play; the girls on
the harp, piano, and guitar; and the boys on the flute, and violin. They
all had voices of great power, and sung nothing but Italian.
The evening was passed in the performance of pieces that exhibited much
science, and much difficulty of execution: such pieces, in short, as Dr.
Johnson wished were "impossible." Being totally at variance with the
simplicity of Harriet's taste, she found them very uninteresting, and
inconceivably fatiguing, and after a while she had great difficulty in
keeping herself awake. Of course, not a word was uttered during the
performance, and the concertos, potpourris, arias, and cavatinas
succeeded each other so rapidly that there was no interval in which to
snatch a few moments of conversation. It is true the purport of the
meeting was music, and music alone.
Miss Heathcote almost envied a young lady, who, having learnt all her
music in Europe, had come home with an enthusiasm for feats of voice and
finger, that on all these occasions transported her into the third
heaven. She sat with her neck stretched forward, and her hands
out-spread, her lips half open, her eyes sometimes raised as in ecstasy,
and sometimes closed in overpowering bliss. But Harriet's envy of such
exquisite sensations was a little checked, when she observed Miss Denham
stealing a sly glance all round, to see who was looking at her, and
admiring her enthusiasm. And then Harriet could not help thinking how
very painful it must be (when only done for effect) to keep up such an
air and attitude of admiration during a whole long evening.
Our heroine was also much entertained in the early part of the
performance, particularly during a grand concerto, by observing the
musician who officiated as leader, and was a foreigner of great skill in
his profession. In him there was certainly no affectation. To have the
piece performed in the most perfect manner, was "the settled purpose of
his soul." All the energies of his mind and body were absorbed in this
one object, and he seemed as if the whole happiness of his future life,
nay, his existence itself, depended on its success. The piece was
proceeding in its full tide of glory, and the leader was waving his bow
with more pride and satisfaction than a monarch ever felt in wielding
his sceptre, or a triumphant warrior in brandishing his sword. Suddenly
he gave "a look of horror and a sudden start," and turning instantly
round, his eyes glared fiercely over the whole circle of performers in
search of the culprit who had been guilty of a false note; an error
which would scarcely have been noticed by any of the company, had it not
been made so conspicuous by the shock it had given to the chief
musician. The criminal, however, was only discovered by his
injudiciously "hiding his diminished head." Better for him to have been
"a fine, gay, bold-faced villain."
Harriet could not help remarking that though the company all applauded
every song that was sung, and every piece that was played, and that at
the conclusion of each, the words "charming," "exquisite," "divine,"
were murmured round the room, still almost every one looked tired, many
were evidently suppressing their inclination to yawn--some took
opportunities of looking privately at their watches; and Mr. Urlingford
and another old gentleman slept a duet together in a corner. The
entrance of the coffee, &c., produced a wonderful revival, and restored
animation to eyes that seemed ready to close in slumber. The company all
started from the listless postures into which they had unconsciously
thrown themselves, and every one sat up straight. As soon as she had
drunk a cup of the refreshing beverage, Miss Heathcote was glad to avail
herself of her brother's arrival and take her leave; Mrs. Urlingford,
congratulating her again on having been so fortunate as to drop in
exactly on that evening, and telling her that she should certainly
expect her at all her musical parties throughout the season.
And Harriet might perhaps have gone to the first one, had she not been
so unluckily present at the rehearsal.
On the next uninvited visit of our heroine, she found her friends, the
three Miss Celbridges, sitting in the parlour with their mother, by no
other light than that of the fire, and all looking extremely dejected.
On inquiring if they were well, they answered in the affirmative. Her
next question was to ask when they had heard from Baltimore, in which
place some of their nearest relations were settled. The reply was, that
they had received letters that morning, and that their friends were in
good health. "Well, girls," said Harriet, gayly, "you see I have taken
you at your word, and have come to pass the evening with you _sans
ceremonie_."
The Miss Celbridges exchanged looks with their mother, who cast down her
eyes and said nothing; and one of the young ladies silently assisted
Harriet in taking off her walking habiliments. There was an air of
general constraint, and our heroine began to fear that her visit was not
quite acceptable. "Is it possible," thought she, "that I could
unconsciously have given any offence at our last meeting?" But she
recollected immediately, that the Miss Celbridges had then taken leave
of her with the most unequivocal evidences of cordiality, and had
earnestly insisted on her coming to drink tea with them, as often as she
felt a desire, assuring her that they should always be delighted to see
her "in a sociable way."
The young ladies made an effort at conversation, but it was visibly an
effort. The minds of the Miss Celbridges were all palpably engrossed
with something quite foreign to the topic of discussion, and Harriet was
too much surprised, and too much embarrassed to talk with her usual
fluency.
At length Mr. Celbridge entered the room, and after slightly saluting
Miss Heathcote, asked why the lamp was not lighted. It was done--and
Harriet then perceived by the redness of their eyes, that the mother and
daughters had all been in tears. Mr. Celbridge looked also very
melancholy, and seating himself beside his wife, he entered into a low
and earnest conversation with her. Mrs. Celbridge held her handkerchief
to her face, and Harriet could no longer refrain from inquiring if the
family had been visited by any unexpected misfortune. There was a pause,
during which the daughters evidently struggled to command their
feelings, and Mr. Celbridge, after a few moments' hesitation, replied in
a tremulous voice: "Perhaps, Miss Heathcote, you know not that to-day I
have become a bankrupt; that the unexpected failure of a house for which
I had endorsed to a large amount, has deprived me of the earnings of
twenty years, and reduced me to indigence."
Harriet was much shocked, and expressed her entire ignorance of the
fact. "We supposed," said Mrs. Celbridge, "that it must have been known
universally--and such reports always spread with too much rapidity."
"Surely," replied Harriet, taking the hand of Mrs. Celbridge, "you
cannot seriously believe that it was known to _me_. The slightest
intimation of this unfortunate event, would certainly have deterred me
from interrupting you with my presence at a time when the company of a
visitor must be so painfully irksome to the whole family."
She then rose, and said that if Mr. Celbridge would have the kindness to
accompany her to her own door, she would immediately go home. "I will
not dissemble, my dear Miss Heathcote," replied Mrs. Celbridge, "and
urge you to remain, when it must be evident to you that none of us are
in a state to make your visit agreeable to you, or indeed to derive
pleasure from it ourselves. After the first shock is over, we shall be
able, I hope, to look on our reverse of fortune with something like
composure. And when we are settled in the humble habitation to which we
must soon remove, we shall be glad indeed to have our evenings
occasionally enlivened by the society of one whom we have always been so
happy to class among our friends."
Mr. Celbridge escorted Harriet to her own residence, which was only at a
short distance. She there found that her brother, having just heard of
the failure, and knowing that she intended spending the evening at Mr.
Celbridge's, had sent her from his office a note to prevent her going,
but it had not arrived till after her departure.
Among Miss Heathcote's acquaintances was Mrs. Accleton, a very young
lady recently married, who on receiving her bridal-visits, had given out
that she intended to live economically, and not to indulge in any
unnecessary expense. She emphatically proclaimed her resolution never to
give a party; but she did not even insinuate that she would never go to
a party herself. She also declared that it did not comport with her
plans (young girls when just married are apt to talk much of their
plans) to have any regularly invited company; but that it would always
afford her the greatest possible pleasure to see her friends _sociably_,
if they would come and take tea with her, whenever it was convenient to
themselves, and without waiting for her to appoint any particular time.
"My husband and I," said Mrs. Accleton, "intend spending all our
evenings at home, so there is no risk of ever finding us out. We are too
happy in each other to seek for amusement abroad; and we find by
experience that nothing the world can offer is equal to our own domestic
felicity, varied occasionally by the delightful surprise of an
unceremonious visit from an intimate friend."
It was not till after the most urgent entreaties, often reiterated, that
Harriet Heathcote undertook one of these visits to Mrs. Accleton. After
ringing at the street-door till her patience was nearly exhausted, it
was opened by a sulky-looking white girl, who performed the office of
porteress with a very ill grace, hiding herself behind it because she
was not in full dress; and to Harriet's inquiry if Mrs. Accleton was at
home, murmuring in a most repulsive tone that "she believed she was."
Our heroine was kept waiting a considerable time in a cold and
comfortless, though richly-furnished parlour, where the splendid
coal-grate exhibited no evidences of fire, but a mass of cinders
blackening at the bottom. At length Mrs. Accleton made her appearance,
fresh from the toilet, and apologized by saying, that expecting no one
that afternoon, she had ever since dinner been sitting up stairs in her
wrapper. "About twelve o'clock," said she, "I always, when the weather
is fine, dress myself and have the front-parlour fire made up, in case
of morning-visiters. But after dinner, I usually put on a wrapper, and
establish myself in the dining-room for the remainder of the day. My
husband and I have got into the habit of spending all our evenings
there. It is a charmingly comfortable little room, and we think it
scarcely worth while to keep up the parlour-fire just for our two
selves. However, I will have it replenished immediately. Excuse me for
one moment." She then left the room, and shortly returning, resumed her
discourse.
"I determined," said she, "from the hour I first thought of
housekeeping, that it should be my plan to have none but white servants.
They are less wasteful than the blacks; less extravagant in their
cooking; are satisfied to sit by smaller fires; and have fewer visiters.
The chief difficulty with them is, that there are so many things they
are unwilling to do. Yesterday my cook left me quite suddenly, and
to-day a little girl about fourteen, whom I hired last week as a waiter,
was taken away by her mother; and I have just now been trying to
persuade Sally, the chambermaid, to bring in the coal-scuttle and make
up the fire. But she has a great objection to doing anything in presence
of strangers, and I am rather afraid she will not come. And I do not
much wonder at it, for Sally is a girl of a very respectable family. She
has nothing of the servant about her."
"So much the worse," thought Harriet, "if she is obliged to get her
living in that capacity."
After a long uncomfortable pause, during which there were no signs of
Sally, Mrs. Accleton involuntarily put her hand to the bell, but
recollecting herself, withdrew it again without pressing the spring.
"There would be no use," said she, "in ringing the bell, for Sally never
takes the least notice of it. She is principled against it, and says she
will not be rung about the house like a negro. I have to indulge her in
this laudable feeling of self-respect, for in everything that is
essential she is a most valuable girl, and irons my dresses beautifully,
and does up my collars and pelerines to admiration."
So saying, Mrs. Accleton again left the parlour to have another
expostulation with Sally, who finally vouchsafed to bring in the
coal-scuttle, and flinging a few fresh coals on the top of the dying
embers (from which all power of ignition had too visibly fled), put up
the blower, and hurried out of the room. But the blower awakened no
flame, and not a sound was heard to issue from behind its blank and
dreary expanse. "I am afraid the fire is too far gone to be revived
without a regular clearing out of the grate," said Mrs. Accleton, "and I
doubt the possibility of prevailing on Sally to go through all that.
Anthracite has certainly its disadvantages. Perhaps we had better
adjourn to the dining-room, where there has been a good fire the whole
day. If I had only known that you intended me the pleasure of this
visit! However, I have no doubt you will find it very comfortable up
stairs."
To the dining-room they accordingly went. It was a little narrow
apartment over the kitchen, with a low ceiling and small windows looking
out on the dead wall of the next house, and furnished in the plainest
and most economical manner. There was a little soap-stone grate that
held about three quarts of coal, which, however, _was_ burning; a small
round table that answered for every purpose; half a dozen
wooden-bottomed cane-coloured chairs; and a small settee to match,
covered with a calico cushion, and calculated to hold but two people.
"This is just the size for my husband and myself," said Mrs. Accleton,
as she placed herself on the settee. "We had it made on purpose. Will
you take a seat on it, Miss Harriet, or would you prefer a chair? I
expect Mr. Accleton home in a few minutes." Harriet preferred a chair.
The conversation now turned on housekeeping, and the _nouvelle mariée_
gave a circumstantial detail of her various plans, and expressed some
surprise that, notwithstanding the excellence of her system, she found
so much difficulty in getting servants to fall into it. "I have the most
trouble with my cooks," pursued Mrs. Accleton. "I have had six
different women in that capacity, though I have only been married two
months. And I am sure Mr. Accleton and myself are by no means hard to
please. We live in the plainest way possible, and a very little is
sufficient for our table. Our meat is simply boiled or roasted, and
often we have nothing more than a beefsteak. We never have any sort of
dessert, considering all such things as extremely unwholesome." "What is
the reason," thought Harriet, "that so many young ladies, when they are
first married, discover immediately that desserts are unwholesome;
particularly if prepared and eaten in their own houses?"