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  THE
  EXCLUSIVES.

  VOL. I.




  THE
  EXCLUSIVES.

  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. I.

  SECOND EDITION.

  LONDON:
  HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
  NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

  1830.




  LONDON:

  Printed by J. L. Cox, Great Queen Street,
  Lincoln's-Inn Fields.




THE EXCLUSIVES.




CHAPTER I.

THE BOUDOIR.


The boudoir of a woman of fashion exhibits in its history, if
faithfully recorded, a picture of the manners, modes, and morals of the
times; and, however little such things in themselves might deserve to
be handed down, or registered as objects of imitation, yet to chronicle
them for the day would not be without its use. The sensible part of
mankind would laugh at the follies, and wonder at the extravagance,
which the page of such ephemeral history unfolded; while the actors in
the scene might possibly view in the mirror held up to them their own
lives, and their own actions, in a new and truer light.

Lady Tilney's boudoir,--the boudoir _par excellence_,--was not in fact
a boudoir, according to the old legitimate meaning of the word. Indeed,
Lady Tilney herself, the presiding deity of the sanctuary, professed
her contempt of legitimacy in boudoirs, as well as in sovereigns; at
least she did so in words, though, like many other professors, her
words and actions frequently contradicted each other; and it may be
questioned if there are any greater despots, than those who inveigh
most against despotism.

But to return from this digression to the boudoir. Lady Tilney's
boudoir was destined to the reception of far other votaries than
those of the old _rabattu_ god of love. No: her boudoir was visited
by persons of a very different character from those who were formerly
the frequenters of such a scene. Authors, poets, political intriguers,
artists, and committees for the management of the state of society,
formed the chief personages among those who figured there, and their
business was of a very different complexion from that of the supposed
use, or original meaning ascribed to a boudoir.

In the former, of old, the painted harpsichord, the huge cabinet, the
gigantic chimney-piece, the tapestried wall, were suited to the silken
garb, and bag and sword, that formed the attire of the male part of
its visitants; as well as to the hoop and fly-cap of the ladies who
presided there. In this modern temple of idolatry, only a few of
the ancient decorations were allowed a place, such as the marquetry
cabinet, the _or-moulu_ clock, or vase of China; but for the rest, what
a change!

Volumes of worth, and works of merit and deep learning, were now
covered by the novels of the day, or hidden by trivial elegancies newly
imported from Paris; while on the walls, the rare productions of Titian
or Vandyck were intermingled with some chalky portrait of the modern
school, tricked out in the millinery geer of the fashion of the day.
Scattered on the tables, however, there was a redeeming feature in the
character of the decorative objects which met the eye, for there lay
some richly chased gold ornaments, the works of Benvenuto Cellini, or
some one not less skilful, though it may be of forgotten name; and
while these ornamented the apartment, they served the double purpose of
affording Lady Tilney an opportunity, not only to discourse on their
beauty, but to enter into all the particulars of Cellini's strange life.

Add to this description of the boudoir and its visitants, the
occasional presence of Lady Tilney's beautiful children, and its
portraiture is closed; but not so the genius and history of all the
transactions, councils, and cabals which took place there. These will
be best understood, by passing from the boudoir to Lady Tilney's own
character and pursuits; if to describe these by any means were indeed
possible: but it would be an endless, hopeless task, to enumerate all
that Lady Tilney did, or fancied _she did_--still more what she said;
for to do her justice, her's was no vapid existence of the mere routine
of a London lady's life.

No--indolence was not the besetting sin, insipidity was not the vice
of her _morale_ or her _physique_. But as to enumerating severally the
subjects which employed her care, and the various branches of these
subjects into which she diverged, that indeed would be difficult. Her
life and occupations may, perhaps, be best delineated by representing
them as one vast bazar of interests, all equally claiming her
attention--"the court, the camp, the senate, and the field:" certainly
the field of Newmarket, where it is said she regulated her husband's
calculations and interests with great success.

These objects, and many more than these, which, as the charlatans say
at the end of their lists, are too tedious to mention, filled up the
life of this laborious and distinguished lady. Nor were her labours
less onerous in managing the government of the society of _ton_. Her
rule was there despotic--her word was law;--and if some few persons
pretended to step aside, not following the fashionable multitude in
bowing the knee to Baal, or ventured to think for themselves in the
circle in which she moved, immediately, as though by an enchanter's
wand, they were banished thence, and some more amalgamating spirit
was chosen to fill up the vacancy. There was a kind of air-gun fired,
which was sure to hit the mark, without betraying the hand that drew
the trigger: a sort of _lettre-de-cachet_, as effectual as those
promulgated in the times of Louis le Grand, which consigned to oblivion
the offending persons, while the victims themselves could not fathom
any cause or assign any particular reason for the sentence.

Nevertheless, in the very midst of this ruling and reigning, this
despotic sway in the court of _ton_, a secret dissatisfaction existed
in the breast of Lady Tilney. She, indeed, was one of those haughty
liberals who affect to despise kings and courts; not because they
dislike those necessary evils, as they call them, but because they are
themselves, or would be if they could, the greatest of all sovereigns.

Notwithstanding, therefore, the high ground of rank and situation
on which she stood, it rankled at her heart to have offended her
sovereign, and to feel herself an object of just dislike to him; for,
however great the magnanimity shewn to her on the occasion of her
offence, still to be aware that, under circumstances, she could no
longer be considered a favourite at court, was in itself a source of
the deepest mortification. Impressed with this consciousness, what was
to be done? Why, render all courts the subject of flippant raillery;
vote them and their sovereigns old-fashioned bores; erect herself into
a queen, and have a court of her own. In truth, this plan agreed better
with her self-love than any other; because sovereigns and courts, in as
far as regards the outward decorum of forms, regulate and keep society
in its proper course; whereas, under the sham dynasty of _ton_, caprice
bears rule, and tyranny in its worst sense marks the conduct of those
who sit on its ephemeral throne.

Connected with this system, the pride of ancestry too was necessarily
another subject of ridicule with Lady Tilney, who thought that those
who, on such grounds, pretended to take any lead in the world of
fashion, had much better retire to their castles, and there indulge in
dreams of their greatness.

Nor did Lady Tilney's thirst for power end with her effort for
universal dominion in matters of _ton_--she had another ambition,
that of leading and controlling the political party to which she had
attached herself. Here, however, her sway was more imaginary than real;
and often the long-headed politician, or crafty diplomate, as they
listened with apparent complacency to her advice, allowed her words
to fall unheeded on their ear, or laughed at her in secret. With the
young and uninformed aspirants in the career of political life, Lady
Tilney had, perhaps, more success; and many a rising scion of a noble
house has been known to adopt, under the influence of her smiles, and
from a foolish vanity of being noticed by her, a line of conduct quite
at variance with the wishes of their parents, and to the sacrifice of
their own best interests.

In this grasp at power, however successfully achieved, Lady Tilney felt
herself ill at ease--her mind was continually harassed by reflections
on the tottering and uncertain tenure of _ton_, and the possibility,
nay, probability, of some younger, newer person, climbing to the
envied seat which she then possessed. The fear of a certain Duchess
of Hermanton was constantly before her imagination, as the embodied
object of her alarm; and she considered it as a measure little short
of self-preservation, to secure her influence, if possible, on a still
firmer basis, by some decided act, or the invention of some fresh
folly. As to Almack's, that circle of exclusiveness had been polluted;
its brief course was run, and its brightness on the decline.

The more Lady Tilney reflected on the subject, the more she became
convinced of the expediency of her intentions; and determined,
therefore, to mature her plan immediately. Having despatched her notes
to the Comtesse Leinsengen, Lady Tenderden, and Lady Ellersby, she
commanded that no one should be admitted to her presence but themselves.

"Yet stay, Destouches," she added to the page, as she issued her
orders; "Prince Luttermanne by all means, should he call." And then,
having given audience to three cooks, four painters, two authors, an
authoress, and several milliners, she finished with advice to a poet
and a critique upon his work.

Lady Tilney, before the arrival of the personages she had written to
(for Lady Tilney knew the value of intervals), arranged her list of
engagements; tossing some into the fire--with the velocity of one well
practised in the weight, measure, and value of names; and examining
others of more importance. She determined to mar all that might
interfere with her own views in society.--"Mrs. Annesly, truly what
a griffin! and the Countess of Delamere, and Lady Melcombe!--but the
Marchioness of Borrowdale! that indeed requires attention." Lady Tilney
rang the bell--Destouches appeared in a minute--the peculiar hasty
touch of call was known to the well-appointed page. "Send Arquimbeaud
here!" and the distinguished Arquimbeaud soon obeyed the summons. "I
have determined to have a party, Arquimbeaud, next Thursday; see that
cards are issued for that day, according to this list."

As he withdrew, Comtesse Leinsengen was announced. The immense bonnet
and deep veil--the splendid cashmere and still long petticoats
(although they were generally worn very much shortened), afforded a
favourable costume to the lady who now advanced; certain defects were
thus concealed, and imagination might lend that delicacy of slimness
and form to the feet and ancles which pervaded the rest of the person,
but which did not characterize those of the Comtesse.

The rapid volubility of the one lady, and the sharp short sentences
of the other, began the conference. Lady Tilney placed the most
luxurious of all the luxurious chairs close to the fire, pushed
forward the screen, and with the eagerness of apparent friendship,
seemed to wish to make her visitor quite at home: or, as she expressed
it, "deliciously comfortable." "You have learned that word now,
dear Comtesse,--indeed you have adopted it; and there is no one who
understands the thing so perfectly as yourself."

Midst all these courtesies and courtings the Comtesse observed a
sort of abstracted air, though they were (and so far Lady Tilney was
sincere) things of course.

"My dear Comtesse, I am so glad we have a minute alone, to discuss
our plans. I have many things of consequence to say to you; but before
I begin I must speak to you of that horrible affair of poor Lady
Mailing's; it is quite impossible to support her any longer, for you
are aware her secret is publicly known. So long as she was prudent,
and observed appearances, it was all very well; but _now_ it will
be impossible for me to receive her. You know I never did receive
any body who placed themselves in a similar situation--not even my
own relations; my character has always been _intacte_, and I cannot
_compromète_ myself, though I am very sorry for poor Lady Mailing;
and had she only avoided this _esclandre_, and managed her affair
prudently, I would have stood by her to the end; but as it is--"

"Oh, certainly not," interrupted the Comtesse; "you must be conscious
that every one knows Lady Tilney's high reputation, and it would never
be supposed dat you would countenance a belle passion; vraiment, quand
on est tellement dupe as to sacrifice sa position dans le monde, to a
man's vanity, or to be playing de sentimentale at forty, it is quite
enough to make one sick, and she well deserves to be vat you call
blown. _Mais, de grâce_, do not let us prose more about her--_vat
sinifies?_"

"Oh, very true, and then there are other matters of so much greater
consequence to consider. Do you really think that this administration
will hold--you who are in all the secrets?--positively you must tell
me. I am sure if that man (lowering her voice to a whisper) is at the
head of affairs, all must go wrong--poor England! what will become of
you? But we will never allow that--shall we?"

"Oh! trève de politiques, ma chere, si vous m'aimez; it is a subject
quite marital, and therefore, you know, not at all in my way. What I
want to revolutionize, or rather to reform, is your state of society."

"Precisely, my dear Comtesse, it is the very subject on which I wished
to talk to you, when I wrote requesting to see you--you received my
note, did you not?"

"Oh, yes; but it is an affair on which we hold such very different
opinions. My maxim is, se bien amuser d'après sa propre volonté--that
is what I want to do; and to tell you the truth, I am ennuyé à la mort
in your London world--every thing is so stupid here! Vat signify dat
tiresome Almack, after all? It was good enough at first, when it put
people in a passion, et pendant que se faisoit fureur; but now that,
somehow or oder, you liberales admitted every petite demoiselle vid her
red elbows, and vulgar mama to take care of her, it has lost all its
character, and I positively intend to withdraw my name. Besides, de
lady patronesses cannot even maintain a seat at de top of de room--de
oder night I find Lady Melcombe and her daughter perch up in my seat;
and though I walked over them and stared them down, dey positively took
no hint, but sat still so comfortably vulgar it was quite provoking.
No, no, my dear, Almack's day is finish and de thing must fall--so
never stay by a falling friend; when a person or a ting begins to
totter, leave it."

"Very true," rejoined Lady Tilney; "there is much truth in what you
advise (and she looked very grave). But then, you know, my dear
Comtesse, you must consider the independence of our constitution--which
makes it very difficult--"

"Not to have a stupid society.--Agreed."

"But the great number of our nobility," rejoined Lady Tilney, "and the
weight and consequence of a still greater number of influential members
in the other house"----

"Renders all your pretences of a société choisie mere pretence."

"Pardon me, Comtesse, you have yourself owned that my parties are
select; and you yourself, although in a public situation, contrive
to leave out those who do not suit your purpose. After all, what can
tend more to the preservation of society?--than such impertinence" was
on Lady Tilney's tongue; but she checked herself, and added with a
little cough that gave time for reflexion: "What can tend more to the
maintenance of a société distinguée than the exercise of this choice,
made without reference to the rank or situation of the parties, but
merely dependent on the voice of the few who are formed to lead?"

"Very true," rejoined the Comtesse Leinsengen, "and if that system
was properly upheld, it is the only chance of not being _obsédé_ by
vulgars;--but you do not act upon it sufficiently. As to myself, I can
no long bear de whole ting; my health does not permit of your late
hours, and I generally go away when your company are beginning to
arrive. And then these great routs of your Duchess D'Hermantons and
your Ladi Borrowdales and Aveling, sont à dormir de bout."

"Agreed, my dear Comtesse, I do so agree with you; it is the very
matter I am longing to discuss with you. Do let us settle something
amongst ourselves, that shall rid us of all these evils, and establish
a _société à part_. I must tell you what I have already done to effect
this purpose. You know that odious Lady Borrowdale has one of her
everlasting At Homes next Thursday, to meet their Royal Highnesses the
---- as usual, that vulgar decoy; so I have therefore countermanded my
former invitations, and issued my cards for that very day--Nobody will
go there, will they?"

"Perhaps not many; and if some do, there are plenty left."

"Yes," said Lady Tilney, with ill-concealed anxiety, "but you know the
royalties always do accept her invitations."

"What matters dat--you do not care for royalties." For an instant
Lady Tilney's command of language was checked--she almost betrayed her
vexation, when fortunately the name of Lady Ellersby was announced,
whose dawdling drawl, as she entered the apartment, smoothed over the
asperities which began to mark the conversation, and which might have
rendered it in the end a little too _piquante_.

"My dear Lady Ellersby," said Lady Tilney, "how charmed I am to
see you. I was dying to meet you, to consult you, to enjoy your
entertaining society." The Comtesse Leinsengen smiled significantly, as
she said, "And so was I."

"Consult me! La--well, that is something quite new--nobody ever
consulted me; but pray explain what you mean."

"Oh! we want to establish some regulations by which our society shall
be distinguished, and which shall save us from the inroads of all these
people whom we are constantly meeting, and obliged to be civil to,
whether we will or no--in short, something that shall make us, as we
ought to be--a _race à part_."

"I thought," Lady Ellersby replied, "we always were that."--"To
be sure we were; but then, my dear, you know abuses will creep in,
and all constitutions require from time to time to be strengthened
or reformed, according to circumstances; and you know, my dear Lady
Ellersby, that we have all of us long since lamented that Almack's,
which was excellent in its way, has now, from the infringement on
its privileges, become quite corrupted from its original design, and
something positively must be done, or we shall be overwhelmed _en
masse_--something to stem this torrent, this inroad of Goths and
Vandals."

"Dear me, that sounds very alarming--you quite frighten me; I don' t
understand you--pray tell me what it is you propose."

"Why," answered Lady Tilney, "we wish to form a society entirely
to ourselves, which shall be quite exclusive--a society for which
we shall settle _d'avance_ every particular and qualification of
the persons who may be admitted to it. Thus you see (turning to the
Comtesse Leinsengen), my dear Comtesse, we shall never do any thing
but in concert with each other, and never invite any one but those who
entirely suit us. You understand me now, don't you?" addressing Lady
Ellersby.

"Oh dear, yes! I think I do."

"No, no, you do not understand her. Permettez--in one word I will
explain vat Lady Tilney mean to say: voici le mot de l'énigme--you are
all English, and though you do your _possible_ you cannot help being
English. You are all afraid in dis country to do vat you like best; and
though Lady Tilney propose to ask only de chosen few, you will none of
you do so in reality, take my word for dat. You talk freedom, but act
in chains. Now we, au contraire, _chez nous_--we women I mean--do de
freedom, and never tink of de chain at all; but whenever you ladies
make your lists for your parties for instance; den comes--dis is not
politic, _toder_ is not right,--dis is not my husband's pleasure; some
scarecrow or anoder is always driving you off de land of amusement. Now
you say you will open your doors only to those you like, and you are
right--dere is no oder secret for to make pleasant society; but you
will _not_ do it nevertheless, ladies, for you are all de cowards."

"Indeed, my dear Comtesse," rejoined Lady Tilney, "you will find
that we _shall_, though--and I think effectually; although there are
certain principles in our constitution which extend to the ruling even
of private life--and these the wives of certain nobles cannot wholly
overlook." Comtesse Leinsengen shrugged her shoulders.

"Ah, dear, it is as I thought, you are de woman I like best in dis
country; but you are all over shackle, up to de ear in de _qu'en dira
t'on_! De plebe ought to be made of de noble's opinion, not de noble
constrained to dat of de vulgar."

"That may do very well with you," rejoined Lady Tilney, "but with us
as an unqualified maxim it will never do. I grant, Comtesse, all that
you say can be done in one's own house, where one makes one's own laws
and rules in one's own way: so far it is only asserting one's own right
to liberty, and as far as we can persuade people to be of the same way
of thinking it is all right. But I have too much liberty in my heart to
desire to tyrannize as you suggest; and, in fine, confess myself too
much of an Englishwoman to wish to see your system prevailing amongst
us."

Lady Tilney said this in a tone of English pride, which proved that she
had not forgotten all that was best worth remembering, although it was
in contradiction to the spirit of what had fallen from her a moment
before.

Lady Tilney, however, dealt largely in contradiction at all times. The
Countess Ellersby smiled; the Comtesse Leinsengen again shrugged her
shoulders, drew her shawl around her, and was preparing to depart,
saying, "Well! mes chères dames, I leave you to the enjoyment of your
liberty, and have done."

"But I have not done," said Lady Tilney; "I am determined we shall
have a society that shall be quite our own, and yet not subversive of
principles we must uphold. (Another shrug of the shoulders.) Allow me
to say, that if you, Comtesse, and you, my dear Lady Ellersby, will
but second me, I am sure we shall not fail, and I know I may reckon on
Prince Luttermanne co-operating with us;--so far so good."

"And Princesse Luttermanne?" inquired Lady Ellersby.

"Oh, for the prince's sake we must have her," replied the Comtesse
Leinsengen, "D'ailleurs, _dans ma position_, it could not be
oderwise--in all cases we must pass over des inconveniens--besides she
is good-humoured, and has _her own fry to fish_, and will not trouble
us much."

Lady Ellersby and Lady Tilney looked at each other, and laughed. "And
then," observed Lady Tilney, "we have Princesse de la Grange, and
Mrs. Kirchoffer; we must enrol them on our list (although they are
sufficiently insipid), because they can be useful, and dare not act
but in subserviency to _us_. But, Lady Boileau, what shall we do with
her? She indeed has a will of her own, and she has a mother very much
_de trop_, whom however she treats cavalierly enough (of which, by the
way, I do not approve); but, notwithstanding, I think we must have her,
though we can by no means be troubled with the mama."

"Certainment pas," cried the Comtesse, "for the Irish mama with her
vulgar repartee would give a mauvaise tournure to de whole society."

"There you are right; and while we admit the daughter, remember, it
is only on sufferance, just on the same footing as we admit Mrs.
Kirchoffer, and as I propose that we should also do Lady de Chere and
Lady Hamlet Vernon, and----"

"Mais, que faire de la jeune lady," interrupted the Comtesse, "qui
parmi un certain set is a good deal de vogue, Ladi--Ladi,--vat you name
her?"

"What, Lady Baskerville?" asked Lady Tilney; and then replied, "Oh
she must be one of us, to be sure, for I think we can make use of
her--she only longs to be in the fashion, and her husband also. Flatter
their vanity, and you do with them what you chuse; make them believe
they are of the _ton_, and you have them at command."

"Well, den, now you have named all de ladies I suppose, and dere is but
one cavalier; do you mean us to be a convent, and have no gentlemen?"

"By no means, my dear Comtesse; of course there will be all our
husbands." Here the Comtesse Leinsengen had recourse to her usual
expressive gesture of contempt. "And then," proceeded Lady Tilney,
"there is the Duke of Mercington, Lord Raynham, Lord Tonnerre, Leslie
Winyard, and Frank Ombre,--Spencer Newcombe,--and we must not forget
Lord Glenmore; though I wish he were more decided in his political
creed. Besides we cannot omit Lord Albert D'Esterre, whom we must
have on probation, for he is young and only just returned from the
Continent; but they say he is very clever, and I think may in time
become one of us. But, ere we decide further on the gentlemen, we must
consult Prince Luttermanne."

"Ah! bon chere ladi" (with a nod of approval). "Quite so," added Lady
Ellersby, languidly; "for, though he is called good-humoured, he can
be as cross as is necessary. I never saw any body _walk over people_
better than he does."

Lady Tilney, who had been for the last minute or two busily employed
with her pen setting down the names which she had just mentioned,
interrupted Lady Ellersby, saying, "By the bye, there is one rule very
necessary to be observed, which I am sure we shall all agree in; that
is, to admit no unmarried ladies, unless something very particular
indeed should make us waive our resolve. When I say this, I do not,
of course, mean to _balls_; but I mean to those coteries which will
in fact constitute the élite of our society. And then I propose that
we none of us go to the old-established dullifications; but, on their
nights, each one of us must in turn take care to chuse that same
evening for our coteries."

"Dat vill do very well for de Lady Borrowdale, and de Lady Aveling,
and dat old Marchioness--vat you call her--Feuille morte; but La
Duchesse D'Hermanton, vat vill you do vid her? it is not so easy to
_take dat lionne par la barbe_."

"Oh," rejoined Lady Tilney, for this was a name she feared to offend,
"the Duchess is not one of us, it is true; but we need only walk once
a year through her apartments; and we can bear that--besides, she is
a sort of person" (apart)--and Lady Tilney broke off abruptly from a
subject, in itself always disagreeable to her.

"And now," she went on to say, "having formed the outline of our plan,
we have only to follow it up, and I am sure it will be successful. I
wonder Prince Luttermanne and Lady Tenderden are not come, for I wrote
to them both; and I should have liked that we talked the matter over
altogether. However, I cannot doubt but they will agree with us in our
arrangements; and if you, dear Comtesse, and you Lady Ellersby, will
see Princesse de la Grange and Mrs. Kirchoffer, and Lady Baskerville,
I will take care to speak to the other parties. Of course I shall see
Prince Luttermanne some time or other this day, and Lady Tenderden,
for they must have received my notes; and I will settle with him about
our gentlemen." Then addressing the Comtesse, she added, "I need not,
I am sure, remind you, who are so discreet, that the success of every
thing which is to produce éclat depends upon the secret combination of
the movements; and therefore, in speaking to the different parties,
pray impress on their minds the absolute necessity of privacy, and
not to let our designs be known beforehand by a premature publication
of them, but rather let them be developed by their effect; and when
their existence will have been confirmed beyond the possibility of
counteraction."

"Assurement laissez moi faire."--And here Lady Ellersby, looking at
her watch, started from her chair, saying, "Dear me! I had no notion
it was so late. I had an appointment with my Lord, and it is past the
time. Bless me! what shall I do?" Then making her adieu, with more
vivacity than was her custom, she departed in greater haste than she
was ever known to do before.

"Who _is her_ Milord just now?" asked Comtesse Leinsengen.

"Oh fie! malicieuse," replied Lady Tilney.

"Is it again dat little consequential personage who looks like a
perdrix santé aux truffes? I fancy I saw something like a réchauffé
getting up between them de oder night at Lady De Chere's."

"Now really, my dear Comtesse, I must defend my friend. People are
always so ill-natured--one must have some cavalier, you know, to walk
about with in public--and scandal always ascribes evil where none
exists. No, no; Lady Ellersby has too charming a husband for this to
gain credit for a moment." The Comtesse's usual shrug implied comme
vous voulez, and she added, "it is truly extraordinary how any body can
call dat ladi handsome, vid her drawn mouth and peevish expression!"

"Surely she has a sweet smile?"--"When it is not a bitter one,"
rejoined the Comtesse; "but what _sinifies_? she does very well for
what she is good for. Now I must go, and you must be de active agent in
settling our Lady Parliament; as for me, I will have a sinecure post."

"You are quite delightful, Comtesse, and ought to have every thing
your own way; so good bye, if you _must_ go. I will remember to see
Prince Luttermanne; I will not let the matter rest--adieu," and they
kissed each other's cheeks on both sides, "adieu!"--"You will not
let de matter rest--no, I am sure you will not--nor any oder ting
or person," thought the Comtesse, as she glided out of the room.
"How frightfully red her nose is become," observed Lady Tilney,
soliloquizing, as she looked at her own smooth cream-coloured skin in
the glass.




CHAPTER II.

CHARACTERISTICS.


Of Lady Tilney's character a hasty outline has been attempted in the
preceding chapter; falling short, however, as it is confessed every
attempt must do, to delineate all its varied features. Something,
however, may have been gathered, by viewing her in the midst of the
group assembled in her boudoir; and the portraiture will be rendered
still more distinct, as the character of her associates are further
developed.

Of Lady Tilney herself it may be said, that that real or pretended
contempt of rank which she affected to entertain, arose from the
circumstances of her own parentage, which, on her mother's side
at least, was not noble; to the same cause, also, may perhaps be
attributed her anxious irritability, ill concealed under a forced
gaiety, lest the respect and homage which she considered to be her
due, should not be paid her. There was a restlessness in her assumed
tranquillity, wholly unlike the easy natural languor of her friend Lady
Ellersby, to which she would gladly have attained, and which it was
always the object of her ambition to imitate; but she never reached
that perfectibility of _insouciance_, which marks a superiority of
birth and station.

Notwithstanding the part which she consequently was obliged to play,
there was still a good deal of nature in her composition; much more
than in that of the person whose demeanour she envied;--and had not her
character been influenced by a life of dissipation, she seemed designed
to have passed through existence diffusing usefulness and cheerfulness
around her. Much might be said in extenuation of Lady Tilney's faults
and follies, courted and caressed as she was; as indeed there is
ever much indulgence to be extended to all who, in situations of
power and of temptation (however many their foibles) remain free from
positive vice. The voice of censure should be guarded therefore in its
condemnation; remembering that the inability to do wrong, or the want
of allurement to yield to it, are often the sole preservatives against
similar errors.

In commenting upon such characters as Lady Tilney's, it is not for the
purpose therefore of attaching blame to the defects of the individual,
so much as to point out the dangers attendant on their peculiar
stations, and to shew how far even noble natures are liable to be
debased by constant exposure to a baneful influence. Were not this the
object of a writer, idle and contemptible indeed would be the pen,
which could waste its powers in tracing the vanities and follies of a
race which always has existed in some shape or other, and possibly will
always continue to do so.

There is an indulgence of spleen, a silly gossiping espionage, which
delights in prying into the faults of others, without any motive but
that of the gratification of its own mean nature--but there is an
investigation into the habits and manners of the actors in the scene
of fashionable folly, which, by dispelling the illusion, may preserve
others from being heedlessly drawn into the vortex of so dangerous
a career. A sermon would not, could not, descend from its sacred
dignity, to effect this--a philosophical or moral discourse, would have
as little chance of working such an end;--but a narrative of actual
occurrences may perhaps give warning of a peril, which is the greater
because it bears outwardly, and on a cursory view, no appearance of
future evil; for to the young, and indeed to all, there is a charm,
and a very great charm too, in being something superior, something
that others are not, or cannot be. No one acquainted with human
nature will ever contradict this. The question of vital importance
to be asked is--In what ought this distinction to consist? and what
will really give it? Certainly _not_ a life of dissipation, in which
the affectation of new modes and manners constitute the business of
existence; certainly _not_ the sacrifice of moral and religious duty,
to a courting of frivolous homage and the pursuit of an empty _éclat_.

These, however, it is to be feared, are more generally the spurious
objects of ambition with persons in fashionable life, than the solid
advantages, and lasting fame, which their situations afford them the
means of securing. And if it is thus with the world of fashion in
general, how much more was it the case in the circle in which Lady
Tilney reigned! Herself and her friends had no thought that tended to
any specific moral purpose, in the strict sense of the word. The duties
that were performed, were such only in a negative sense; they went to
church, they lived with their husbands; some of them, but not all, had
escaped scandal; they were fond mothers, at least in the eye of _their_
world; they were alive to their offsprings' interests, at least their
worldly interests; and beyond this, it is to be feared, neither for
them, or for themselves, did their views extend.

Here may be closed the catalogue of their moral possessions. Of their
outward shew of manner and courtesy, where so much in a _soi-disant_
empire of ton might be expected, perhaps, there was still less to
praise: a _brusquerie_ of address took place of polished breeding,
where intimacy permitted any address at all; and where none was
allowable, an insolent carelessness marked the behaviour, instead of
that polite courtesy which is ever the distinguishing mark of really
good manners.

Lady Tilney, had she not stood on the 'vantage ground of _ton_, might
have been called vulgar: the loud and incessant talking, the abrupt and
supercilious glance and motion, had it not been backed by title and an
assumed superiority, would have been designated by a very different
name from that under which her manners passed current; and even as
it was, they sometimes received a reproof which, however affectedly
scorned, was deeply felt. An instance of this occurred on the occasion
of her receiving the homage of a distinguished foreigner; when, in the
intoxication of the moment's vanity, Lady Tilney forgot the respect
due to one of exalted station, rudely turning her back, and brushing
past him in the dance, a disregard of etiquette which he whose manners
are all elegance and condescension, would never in his station have
shewn to the meanest of his subjects, and whose sense of delicacy and
propriety is so acute, that wherever female manners are concerned, none
could better know how to condemn whatever derogated in the slightest
degree from them.

It was to the displeasure incurred by this circumstance, and to the
loss of favour which all who have ever lived in its sunshine cannot
fail to lament when withdrawn, that allusion was made, in speaking of
Lady Tilney's contempt of sovereigns and courts. Here was to be found
one bad effect of a system which, while false in every sense, arrogated
to itself perfection in all.

There was no immorality to rebuke in this instance of Lady Tilney's
conduct; but it proceeded from a source, which if not in her, in others
at least, might be productive of serious consequences; namely, from a
contempt of established rules and received opinions; and if, in the
midst of this arrogance there was a redeeming spirit of occasional
kindness,--a smile which took the heart captive for the moment, and
gave promise of better things,--it only caused a regret that the good
which was there should be thus choaked by the noxious weeds of vanity.

Some of Lady Tilney's companions in _ton_ had not, like her, escaped
the breath of slander; one or more were supposed to have listened,
at least, to that corruptive voice of gallantry, which withers the
bloom and freshness of a married woman's reputation; whose error is
remembered long after its cause has passed away--let it have been real
or imaginary;--in either case the effect on a woman's character is
the same. It is in vain that in a certain sphere there exists a tacit
agreement to pass by, and gloss over such defamatory tales; the persons
coming under their degrading mark have a seal set upon them, which,
in spite of themselves, and maugre the usage of _their_ world, is
nevertheless destructive of peace; and it requires little penetration
to see beneath the forced smiles which are put on with the adornments
of the toilette, the gnawing worm that preys upon the heart.

The fatal effects of such errors attach only to those guilty of
them; the feeling inspired for their situation would be one of pure
commiseration; but, alas! the influence of example is contagious,
and whatever is felt for the individual who thus errs, the sentence
of condemnation must go forth against the crime. In regard to the
other members who formed Lady Tilney's intimate circle, the Countess
Tenderden, Princesse de la Grange, Lady de Chere, and Lady Boileau,
for instance, there was equal matter for remark, varying with the
character of each. The first of these, possessing nothing decided in
her composition, had been, from the commencement, a follower in the
track of others, and it was owing to this laziness of disposition that
she became the ready and obedient slave of fashionable command, as well
as from her early initiation into the secrets of _ton_, rather than
from any other cause, that she held the place she did in Lady Tilney's
estimation.

Lady Tenderden's unsatisfactory and frivolous existence had thus
been passed without any decided plan, except that of being generally
impertinent, and of courting personal admiration; which, when it is
paid to beauty alone, ceases with the first cessation of youth: the
consciousness of which fact added no genuine sweetness to the smile of
Lady Tenderden; but left her, although in the possession of most of the
outward circumstances which could grace existence, with a fading person
and a dissatisfied mind.

Princesse de la Grange was a star in the midst of this false galaxy
of _ton_, in as much as a strict regard to married duty, and a
preservation of moral and religious principle, gave to her character
a superior brightness; but whether from the taint of the poisonous
air she breathed, or from a defect of strength of mind, or from the
situation she filled, or from all these circumstances combined, the
Princesse de la Grange did not escape entirely the pollution of folly,
and she too delighted in the vanity of being exclusive.

In the love of being distinguished above her compeers, Lady de Chere,
however, far excelled; attaining a perfection which her exceedingly
clever and powerful understanding, together with the management of her
conduct, and an appearance of general decorum, enabled her to preserve.
Nor were her moral qualities alone conducive to her success: she had
besides the advantage of being able to set her face like a flint
(which indeed it resembled physically), and she deemed all emotion or
all expression of natural feeling (even that of bodily kind) to be a
weakness unworthy of a woman of fashion. Lady de Chere was once known
on an occasion of personal suffering, when a few tears actually escaped
her, to have exclaimed to her attendant: "You are the first person in
the world who have ever seen me guilty of such weakness." Nay, she even
carried this perfection of induration so far, as to boast of having cut
her own mother.

In this last instance of the perfectibility of _ton_, Lady Boileau
yielded not the palm--she had remained a good many more years than she
had bargained for, unmarried--she had studied under a mother, whose
lessons eventually were but too well rewarded in kind. This mother,
however, had loved _her_; and with much and unremitting labour, had
effected for her an alliance of title--of wealth. What more could
either of them with their views desire?

Lady Marchmont had established her daughter greatly, and the daughter
had accepted the marriage upon certain calculations: such as being
her own mistress, independent of her husband, or her mother; who knew
too well _de quel bois elle se chauffoit_, for Lady Boileau to like
her surveillance. Lady Boileau had then made no scruple of swearing
to love, honour, and obey him whom she loved _not_, held _cheap_, and
determined to _resist_. But these words, and too many more, bear a
totally different signification, it is well known, in the language of
_ton_, from what they do in their common acceptation.

One of the first steps of Lady Boileau after her marriage, was to
gain admission into the circle of Lady Tilney on a footing of intimacy;
for although she had been on visiting terms with her, yet she was aware
that the mere interchange of cards did not constitute her the friend
or protégé of Lady Tilney, to which distinction she aspired. There
were one or two circumstances, however, which rendered the attainment
of this object rather difficult. In the first place, Lady Boileau had
a mother whom it would require more decided measures to detach from
her than, as it has been seen, Lady Tilney chose to countenance. The
general tenour of her conduct, too, was a thing yet unproved, and
it was, therefore, still unascertained how far she might be true to
their _esprit du corps_, and be worthy of admission into this circle.
Lady Boileau was considered, notwithstanding these impediments, to
be a person of promise, and she was accordingly admitted, with the
tacit understanding, however, that she was not to push Lady Marchmont
indiscreetly on the scene; where her wit and plain speaking might break
forth in corruscations too potent for the _tendre demi-jour_, or rather
darkness, in which the proceedings of the _ton par excellence_ were
invariably to be veiled.

There was, however, one person whose name has not yet figured in the
catalogue, but whose character of mixed good and evil, would require
a powerful pencil to delineate; for the many amalgamating tints which
united and harmonised its opposing lights and shades were any thing
but an easy task to give--divested of these, the portrait would become
caricature. How often does marriage, especially in early life, give a
colour to the future conduct of women. Had Lady Hamlet Vernon married
differently, she was possessed of qualities which would have rendered
her estimable as well as amiable; and was mistress of talents which,
if properly directed and matured, would have rendered her a being
distinguished above her sex. But this was not so; she had married for
situation, and soon found the burthen she had imposed upon herself far
outweighed the advantages she had contemplated in the step she had
taken. Unhappiness was the first natural result; and in the absence of
religious principle, young, beauteous, and fascinating, she soon found
in the universal admiration paid her, a delusive balm to alleviate
the society of a husband considerably older than herself, and who had
married her from the pride of calling a person so admired his own.
Under these circumstances, Lady Hamlet Vernon could not remain without
the stigma of slander attaching to her.

The early demise, however, of Lord Hamlet Vernon liberated her from
the hazard of her situation, and at five-and-twenty she found herself
again free. Titled, and with great wealth at her command, she was
too clever for the empty votaries of folly, but too clever also to
be entirely set aside by them. She was, at the same time, too much
_sujetté à caution_ to be admitted on terms of unguarded intimacy
amongst those in her own sphere who were observers of religious and
moral conduct, and who happily form the aggregate of distinguished
society in England. Left without choice, therefore, as to who should
be her associates, Lady Hamlet Vernon was drawn into a society where
the errors of her early conduct were, by the contagion of example, sure
to be confirmed, and the remainder of any good principles that she
might have possessed, in danger of being subverted; for it was not the
least evil arising out of the system of the society alluded to, that
the persons composing it were under a compact of exclusion of all who
differed from them in habit and opinions; and, thus deprived of the
power of comparison, their own conduct wanted that useful touchstone of
its rectitude.

We are all alive to impressions daily made upon us; and if a life of
carelessness and dissipation is not to be checked by an occasional
example of what is truly excellent and worthy in character, the moral
perception between right and wrong of its mistaken votaries will soon
be blunted, till at last both their ears and eyes are closed to all
remonstrance. The riper in years, therefore, were sure to have their
false estimate of life confirmed; _they_ could not return on their
steps, even if they wished it; while the young and the inconsiderate
were taught to believe, that those who had so long followed in that
destructive but glittering career, were the only objects worthy of
imitation, and in their turn became hardened actors in the scene.
Although the characters hitherto produced as slaves to this system
have been of the weaker sex alone, still let it not be imagined that
they were its only victims, or that they alone played their part in
upholding it.

If possible, the men of the society were many of them as frivolous, and
more vicious; and, though here and there might be found a character
that, from family connection or ignorance of the tendency of the
society, mingled in its contamination without infection, or making a
wreck of principle, yet, far from these solitary instances detracting
from the general truth of what has been said, it will be found that
such persons, the moment they became aware of the lurking evil, broke
from it abruptly; though perhaps, saving themselves with difficulty
from the entanglement.

In the members, however, which swelled the list of the male part
of this circle, few indeed were there who ever made an effort to
withdraw from it. Vice and folly, in manners and in dress--male
coquetry--ineffable impertinence--ignorance--detraction of virtue
which might have resisted, or talents which eclipsed them--insipidity
in mind, and effeminacy in person--devotion to luxury,--these, and
more than these, if such could be catalogued, of the immoralities
and follies of man, were all to be found here, in degree and kind,
revolving in their different orbits--and fulfilling their allotted
parts in the system, till their existence closed. What though wit
might sometimes play around their board, or the quick repartee enliven
the monotonous circle of the evening--what though talent might be
allowed, for a brief season, to expatiate on higher topics, and the
deep discourse of great human learning might be suffered to dwell at
intervals on subjects more intellectual--yet what profited this to
those who listened or to those who spoke?--The moment's amusement, the
indulgence of mere curiosity, the establishing of some political tenet
or philosophical dogma, were alone the objects looked to. Talents, when
found in this society, were in fact directed to none but _worldly_
views; and the feeling which should have guided their possessors to
acknowledge the bounty of the Author who bestowed them, and a faithful
employment of his gifts, was not only wanting, but the sacred religion
of that very Author was too frequently made an exercise for them--a
subject of their scorn or cavil.

Though untitled, yet of noble family, there was one, who figured
first as most licentious and unprincipled among the devotees of _ton_.
He was handsome, winning, specious; but he concealed under this
attractive exterior a heart of the blackest dye; no sense of right or
wrong checked its impulses. All to him was lawful that was attainable.
Pleasure was his object; and he had sailed down the short voyage of
his life unchecked by any of those reverses, unscared by any of those
feelings of shame or compunction, which would have operated on a weaker
mind; and if, for a moment, some enormity of conduct made the more
timid--they could not be called the more virtuous--of his associates
recoil, the hardened face, the laugh of carelessness, the ready excuse,
soon dissipated these transient feelings of shame; and patronized,
courted, upheld, in that true _esprit de corps_ which bound each member
of the society to protect the other, his youthful career had been run
from excess to excess.

Although a person whose weight and influence in themselves were not
great, yet he formed from his habits and opinions, and the talents
which (though perverted) he really possessed, one of those ties in
a fabric, which being multiplied, keep the whole body compact; and,
having once obtained a footing in Lady Tilney's circle, it followed,
as a matter of course, that he should be employed in that remodelling
of her society, which it has been seen Lady Tilney was so anxious
to effect, and his name therefore was not forgotten in the list,
concerning which she intended to consult Prince Luttermanne.

It is well for human nature, that many characters such as have been
just described are not often found; it certainly had no compeer in the
circle in which it moved. And though the folly of dress--the waste of
time--the uselessness of life--indulgence in the excess of luxury, are
errors and faults that cannot be too strongly held up to animadversion,
yet they are, by comparison, of a venial kind. Their effects, however,
ultimately do not prove such; for degradation of intellect must
follow a course of indolence, and an obtuseness of conscience must
be the consequence of long-neglected duties. Let it not be supposed,
therefore, that because Lord Boileau, Lord Baskerville, Lord Marchmont,
or Lord Tonnerre, were younger and less matured in a vicious course
than another, that therefore their conduct was less deserving of moral
censure--the seed that is sown in spring time will grow up to the
harvest, and it must be reaped accordingly. The pursuits of a careless
life of pleasure, the gaming-table, the society of opera dancers, the
intrigues of _ton_, are not preparations for the maintenance of family
consequence and wealth, still less for the fulfilment of the duties of
married life, the protection of a wife's conduct, or the education of
their offspring. Yet these, it is to be feared, were the sole objects
of Lord Boileau, of his companions, and of many others.

Besides these, however, there were characters intended to be included
in Lady Tilney's arrangements of a far different complexion, and the
very reverse of their inexistence--there were noble politicians, whose
lives were passed in any thing but inactivity; there were titled wits,
whose places were any thing but sinecures; poets, whose lays found
frequent subjects in the galaxy of beauty that surrounded them; and
painters, whose talents and winning flatteries constituted their patent
of nobility. The admission of all the latter personages was a decided
evidence of Lady Tilney's supremacy; for, with few exceptions, she
alone considered that to be surrounded by talents was essential to high
station, since with the generality of her coterie, the idea of mingling
intellect in their pleasures, was rather to destroy than heighten them.

Lady Tilney, however, in the end prevailed, and no society of _ton_
was in future considered complete without those appendages. But even
Lady Tilney's command of the suffrage of talents was not always
absolute; and once, it is said, a man of holy profession, whose
celebrity in his calling had led the London world in crowds to be his
auditors, though thrice bidden to the shrine of fashion, declined, with
steady consistency, to form one of a circle whose conduct in life it
was his duty to reprove.

It is not to be supposed that the list of cavaliers is yet full with
the names of the persons just alluded to; there were many others too
insignificant to bear designation--and enough of portraits. Catalogues
of these can only be interesting to a few curious collectors, and are
very unsatisfactory to the generality of persons. It is living with the
actors on the shifting scene, which can alone, for any length of time,
engage the attention, or be productive of any just understanding of the
character. To note down their actions as they occur, and to develope
the system by which their lives are regulated, will be the easiest, as
well as the most profitable task; for although there may be something
which at first appears unnatural, and scarcely to be recognised as
truth, in the idea that there exists a regular and defined system in
lives, which at a hasty glance seem spent in the careless manner of
the persons represented, nevertheless it is so--and there is a depth
in their folly, which requires to be sounded,--there is a mischief
in their apparent carelessness, which it is wise to detect--there is
a principle of latent evil under this seeming incipiency of conduct,
which requires to be unfolded, and shewn in its true colours.




CHAPTER III.

AN OLD-FASHIONED ASSEMBLY.


Although the outlines of Lady Tilney's project had been generally
settled, yet some of its details were still wanting; and in the
interval, she determined on one of those movements in the game, which a
crafty adversary sometimes makes to cover an ultimate and deeper end.
The Marchioness of Feuillemerte held one of her assemblies, and as it
was admissible to appear in such a circle once at least during the
season, _sans se compromettre_, Lady Tilney devoted herself for that
evening to the unpalatable task, and engaged Lady Ellersby to meet her.

After casting a glance of inquiry round the room, "My dear," said she,
"did you ever in your life see such an heterogeneous multitude (she
loved long, hard words) as are assembled here?"

"No, except here"--"Figures," continued Lady Tilney, "_renouvellés des
Grecs_--creatures dug out of Herculaneum, only not so elegant; all
George the Third's court I believe; and then such a tiresome eternity
of royalty, persons who never die, and whom Lady Feuillemerte, and Lady
Borrowdale have preserved, together with themselves, in spirits, I
believe, to exhibit on their great nights."

"Yes," rejoined Mr. Frank Ombre, who had been permitted to overhear
the whisper, and smiling with one of those doubtful expressions which
might do for tragic or for comic effect, "we do not want royalty
now to keep us in order,--that is quite an obsolete idea. No, we
have more enlarged views; we like to turn every thing, _sans dessus
dessous_--don't we Lady Tilney? I am sure I had rather bow to the
sceptre of your beauty, than to that of any prince or princess--and you
know I never flatter." At that moment a royal personage entered the
assembly, when Lady Tilney, under pretence of going away, hurried to
the door, saying, "oh, do let me avoid this _seccatura_."

"Do, Mr. Spencer Newcombe," addressing this privileged friend of her
own circle who stood near her, "do call my carriage,"--in the meanwhile
placing herself in a situation that made it impossible, without
rudeness, for the person whose approach she would have appeared to
shun, to pass her by unregarded; a behaviour which, however consistent
with Lady Tilney's ill breeding, when she wished to shew dislike, was
never known to attach to any of the family who were the objects of her
pretended contempt.

Lady Tilney did not, on the present occasion, make her arrangements
in vain, and was not only spoken to, but held so long in conversation
by the royal person who entered, that she had the satisfaction of
hearing her carriage repeatedly announced, till every individual of
the assembly must have been aware of the cause of her delay. The dense
crowd, however, which now encircled the prince, seemed to oppress
Lady Tilney, and affecting to be almost overcome by the pressure,--a
pressure which in fact she was herself causing, by obstinately keeping
her place, and not allowing the conversation to drop--she was at length
gratified by an offer of the arm of royalty to lead her to a seat, on
which she sank affectedly, while the prince took that next to her. In
one of the pauses of conversation which ensued, Mr. Ombre chanced to
find himself exactly at the back of Lady Tilney's chair, and she took
an opportunity of whispering to him, "how tiresome!" He shrugged his
shoulders, and replied in her ear, "I pity you from the bottom of my
heart," (adding aside to Spencer Newcombe), "As I do every one who
always succeeds in every thing they wish."

Shortly after, the prince rose to depart to speak to others, while
Lady Tilney having made good her right to royal attention, now prepared
to express her contumely of every thing regal, and to resume the
exercise of her own right to absolute power in her own person.

"Do, Mr. Ombre, sit down and let me have a _little_ real conversation
with you, for I am sick of all the _fadaises_ which have just passed."
"What a fortunate man," he rejoined, "shall I be, if I have only a
_little_ conversation with Lady Tilney!--you know I never flatter,--and
besides that distinction, a seat,"--dropping carelessly into the one
that was vacant.

But Lady Tilney did not read these words otherwise than in the sense
to which they were agreeable to her, and immediately her hitherto
repressed eloquence broke forth.

"Have you read the Male Coquet? Do tell me, is it not exquisite? Among
all the trash heaped upon people of fashion, this alone is well done.
It must be confessed that, in spite of its severity, the whole is well
drawn, and though highly coloured, not a daub."

"Yes, I have read it, and I like it; but the world don't."

"No! well I cannot conceive why--perhaps you can tell me.--Not like
it! indeed you surprise me! Why, it has already gone through three
editions."

"Yes, in the advertisements! but they say the publisher is ruined,
nevertheless."

"Well! that is quite extraordinary! I thought all the world approved
it."

"The world!--the world, my dear Lady Tilney, is a very ill-natured
world, though you have never found it so; but you will some day."

"Oh, do not imagine," cried Lady Tilney, a little displeased at her
supposed want of discernment, "do not suppose that I am not quite aware
of the world's ill-nature--only--"

"Only you are bound, my dear friend, to suppose it otherwise, since, in
its opinion of you, it does indeed make an exception."

"You know I hate flattery, Mr. Ombre."--"Well, well, I have done; but
in some cases, what appears flattery, is truth. Besides, I never _do
flatter_."

"Come, come," said Lady Tilney, "never mind! let us return to the Male
Coquet, I have not half done talking about it. What do you think of
the character of Lord Algernon, is it not delightful, is it not quite
perfect?--And for that very reason, quite detestable."

"My dear lady, I never knew but one perfect person in the world whom I
could bear; do you guess who I mean?"

"Dear me, are you still here?" said Lady Ellersby, approaching at the
moment.

"Yes--you know when those royalties _will_ talk to one,
it is impossible to get away."--"Ah, true--and it is so
fatiguing."--"Royalties--dose royalties, and you mind _dem_?" said the
Comtesse Leinsengen, who had caught Lady Tilney's words as she passed,
leaning on the arm of the Minister for Foreign Affairs.

"My dear Lady Tilney, I wonder to see _you_ here--but you always do de
reverse of what you talk, you know--I tell your so."

Lady Tilney was embarrassed, and looked around for an escape from
the conversation. She saw the half-formed sentence preparing by Lord
Rainham; which, however, she knew must undergo the necessary process
of preorganization and arrangement before it was addressed to her.
Luckily the Comtesse Leinsengen pressed forward before this could take
place, and Lady Tilney, to avoid any more sarcasm on her inconsistency,
willingly allowed for once the witty Lord to pass without a word. Mr.
Ombre, who was still by her side, and had lost nothing of the scene,
gave his word of consolation to Lady Tilney, as he remarked:

"How appropriate to the situation which he fills;--the ready orator,
the decided projector of measures and expedients,--how truly great a
minister! You know, Lady Tilney, I never flatter. I really think so."
Lady Tilney had no wish to continue the subject, and turning to Lady
Ellersby, remarked,

"Did you ever see such jewels as the Duchess of Hermanton's? How
vulgar to wear them in such quantities; she is like a walking
chandelier. But, look, there is Lord Arlingford; he is coming this
way--I want to speak to him, and if you move a step or two forward, I
shall be able to do so." Lord Arlingford was accordingly arrested on
his passage, for he had not intended to converse with Lady Tilney, but
was looking on towards a group of persons, in the midst of whom stood
the Duchess of Hermanton. "Well, Lord Arlingford, how surprised I am to
see _you_ here; are you not bored to death?"

"Why, Lady Tilney," he asked, in return, "should you be surprised to
see me in an assembly to which half London is invited?"

"That is precisely the reason," she replied, "I should have thought you
never went to these sort of things; they are very tiresome, and I am
sure you must be dreadfully annoyed."

Lord Arlingford was not an apt _élève_ of Lady Tilney's, although his
high rank and connexions had made her sedulously endeavour to direct
his education in the world of _ton_ from his very first _début_.

"Pardon me, not in the least _ennuyé_. I do not come often enough, or
remain long enough in these places, to be sickened by the shew--and
_as_ a shew, it is a very splendid one, and I like to see so much
beauty as is here to-night gather together."

"Fewer at a time," said Lady Tilney, "would be more agreeable, I should
think."

"Perhaps so, for habitual private society; but then that is quite
another affair: all things are good in their way, and in their proper
season and measure." Lady Tilney was mortified at this very rational
distinction of the indocile Lord, but went on to say, "At least you
will allow that a circle more _choisie_ is preferable--and one comes
to this sort of mob only as a kind of disagreeable duty."--"Duty! that
is quite a new idea of duty to me--but I am happy to be taught by so
fair an instructress." As he spoke, Lord Arlingford's grave countenance
(for it was a countenance of gravity for so young a man) relaxed into
something like vivacity; and Lady Tilney, profiting by the momentary
gleam of expression, requested him to assist her through the crowd, in
order that she might speak to the Duchess of Hermanton.

"You will come, will you not, Lady Ellersby?" turning her head over
her shoulder as she spoke.

"No (for at this moment the Duke of Mercington was coming towards her),
I have already seen the Duchess." Lady Tilney would then have lingered,
glad to have exchanged the arm on which she leant for that of the man
of still higher rank; but the Duke only making her the acknowledgment
of a familiar nod, offered his arm to Lady Ellersby, and as her friend
walked away in a contrary direction, Lady Tilney, mortified, bit her
lip, and was obliged to proceed.

The crowd in the door-way soon stopped her progress, and turning to her
companion, she observed,

"I wonder how many private couriers Lady Borrowdale keeps in pay, to
bring over the newest fashions from Paris. Have you seen her to-night?
did you ever behold any thing like the magnificence of her gown?"--"I
think," replied Lord Arlingford, "that she is a very fine-looking
person, and in her youth must have been perfectly beautiful; but I did
not observe her gown." The subject seemed to inspire Lord Arlingford,
who broke through the usual briefness of his sentences as he continued,
"And her manner, I think, is excellent; there is so much dignity in it,
united with so much courtesy; and she is never, I am told, capricious,
or forgetful of good-breeding."

"Why, my dear Lord Arlingford, this is an oration--you are quite
eloquent! But you cannot really like that old-fashioned _manière_ of
curtseying."

"Indeed I am serious; I like it very much: and if I were to point
out the person whose manners I should like to see any one I loved
adopt, in public at least--for I have not the honour of her intimate
acquaintance--it would be Lady Borrowdale's."

"How singular you are! Really, if you entertain such opinions as these,
we must expel you from our circle. But if you are determined to be
extraordinary, I suppose you will tell me that you cannot bear any
thing that is younger or more modern."

"Pardon me; there is Lady Georgina Melcombe, and the Ladies
Fitzmaurice, and their cousins, the Ladies Partington, and many others,
who look as if they were every thing which the young and lovely ought
to be,--unaffected, cheerful, and courteous."

"Oh, this is worse and worse; you are becoming quite insufferable. But
do tell me who is that person there, whose appearance is so particular,
and who has so extraordinary an air--is he a foreigner?"

"No--that is Lord Albert D'Esterre. Are you not acquainted with him? He
is a very charming person,--full of talent, and very handsome, as you
see. But I forget--you cannot well recollect him, for he went to the
Continent as a boy, and is only lately returned."

"True; I remember--I hear he is likely to distinguish himself--pray
present him to me."

The presentation took place; and, after a few words, including an
invitation to Lord Albert to her _soirées_, Lady Tilney passed on with
Lord Arlingford to where the Duchess of Hermanton was standing.

To have taken pains thus to seek one whom she affected to despise,
whose manners and right to fashion she was perpetually calling in
question, might argue great inconsistency; but in this instance Lady
Tilney's wishes to be well with the Duchess of Hermanton, far from
being the result of any thing like the contradiction of a settled
principle, were the absolute fruits of it, and were influenced by a
feeling of fear--if she would have confessed it--by an apprehension
that that really amiable person, possessing the envied superiority of
united rank and birth and talent, should assume her proper place in
society, and overthrow the false rule to which Lady Tilney herself laid
claim. It was therefore conciliation rather; and, as she addressed
the Duchess, she put on her sweetest smiles, and laid aside those
indescribable airs which were displayed when she intended to scorn
or crush; and, while uttering those nothings which form the sum and
substance of what is said on such occasions, her manners were almost
servile. The simplicity of unquestioned superiority is one of its
most sure characteristics; and the Duchess of Hermanton's mode of
receiving this homage was unaffected and courteous. But as the two
persons had little similarity in their natures, the conference lasted
only sufficiently long for Lady Tilney to preserve that degree of
familiarity in acquaintance, which she determined should prevent
her being a stranger to one too independent and distinguished to be
altogether passed over.

Meanwhile, Lord Arlingford having profited by the opportunity to quit
Lady Tilney, now joined Lady Georgina Melcombe and some of the persons
standing together in another part of the room; and Lady Tilney, thus
left alone, had, for a few moments, leisure to behold the splendour of
the apartments and of the persons met in them. In her heart she could
not but acknowledge that whatever London could boast as being most
distinguished was present, and that the good and great predominated;
but it was _not exclusive_--that is, it was an assembly constituted of
almost all those whose rank entitled them to be on the list of Lady
Feuillemerte's visitors.

It was numerous, therefore, which is the very essence of an assembly;
for what is so insipid as public receptions where the members are few,
the rooms half filled, and the scene unenlivened by those circumstances
which a diversity of ages, characters, and dresses cast around?

Here all met the society which best accorded with their tastes.
The politician, the courtier, the man of fashion, found here their
associates and their amusement, each in their different sphere, as they
retired from the rest to discuss some present topic of public interest,
or glided through the throng with that easy politeness which breathed
of the atmosphere they inhaled in the presence of their Sovereign,
paying the well-timed compliment as they passed, or displaying
the refinement of wit and repartee in their short and animated
conversations.

Here, too, amidst the younger and fresher forms, beauties of former
days still shone in the dignity of their manners, and of that air and
carriage which the fashion of their time had rendered a portion of
themselves; which lent a grace to their every movement, and might well
have afforded a school of manners and propriety of outward bearing
for the young who mingled with them--in counteraction of the oblivion
and extermination of all manners, which the prevailing system of the
_soi-disant_ members of _ton_ would have enforced.

Such, at least, were the external features of an old-fashioned
assembly--in its moral character the advantages were no less. Its
honest and avowed purpose was the interchange of those courtesies
which render life agreeable, and the preservation of those general
guards in society which, as checks to profligacy, are more useful than
abstract theories of ethics, or codes of moral laws. People, unless
lost, sin not so blindly in mixed communities--one individual forms a
restraint on the others--children stand in awe of parents, and these,
in their turn, acknowledge a wholesome control in the presence of
their offspring--the good are a terror to the evil (for an alloy will
ever exist); while the one and the other mutually afford examples of
imitation, or beacons of danger to be avoided, which every individual
may, if there be the will, turn to profit, in the correction of some
temper, the curbing of some excess, the chastening of some wish, or the
abandonment of some folly.

The more intimate associations in life are not here spoken of; but
these in characters of the same description as Lady Feuillemerte's,
would doubtless be founded on the same basis, and have the same
objects in view; for whether in the cherishing of natural affections,
the formation of those friendships which spring up in the domestic
circle, the cultivation and exercise of talents which give a charm to
existence, or the acquirement of more important attainments, the system
which holds out examples, and affords restraint, will ever be best.

The "_société choisie_," however, which Lady Tilney desired to form,
was, in its nature, the very reverse of what has been described. Its
exclusive character was to consist, not in the selection of what was
amiable in nobility, or virtuous in talent; it was not to be the circle
drawn within a narrower circumference, for a more perfect enjoyment of
private friendship, or the cultivation of more intellectual pursuits
than the wide range of fashionable life could afford; it was not to be
retirement from the busier throng, for the purposes of a more rational
and purer existence; but it was to consist of those whose follies
in the pursuit of pleasure, and whose weakness in the indulgence of
all the empty toys of life, had given them a distinction above their
fellows; of those who judged immorality, when burnished by the tinsel
of superficial acquirements, as venial error;--of those, in short,
who were either senseless or wicked enough to consider life but a
bubble, to be blown down the current, according to the dictates of
the will, and whose daily existence testified, that they were alike
without a thought or a fear for the morrow's eternity. Such were to be
its members, and its seclusion from the general eye of the world, its
secession from all others but--; its rigid law, that unmarried women
were not eligible to its chosen meetings--for what purpose, and to what
end were these? If for vanity of distinction, merely, it was weak;
if for the purpose of indulging in pursuits and conversation, which
would receive a check in a society less selected for the object--it
was wicked. In whichever point of view, a society so constituted must
be demoralizing, for assuredly it would have the character of being,
if it even were not, really vicious--and its example would have a
contaminating effect in the corruption of morals, and the overthrow of
the barriers of domestic peace.

It cannot be said that these were the reflections of Lady Tilney,
as she stood for the few moments alone in the crowd at Lady
Feuillemerte's. It would be injustice to her to suppose that they were,
or that she contemplated in the formation of a coterie, according to
her own peculiar prejudices, any of the evils with which the system was
sure to be pregnant. It is thus, however, with all reforms, entered
upon for private ends; the individual sees but the accomplishment
of his own and his immediate associates' views, in what is to be
overturned; and the fatal result accruing to the community, even if
clearly distinguished, are at the moment but as dust in the balance of
self.

It is more probable that, as Lady Tilney gazed on the mingled group
around her, blind to the demerits of her projected revolution of
society, and proud of influence, which over a certain portion of the
London world she had succeeded in establishing, she became firmer in
her purpose; and as her eye fell on one individual after another, whose
manners, mode of life, dress, or very name were disagreeable to her,
or proved them wanting in the stamp of ideal fashion, the necessity
of the measure she contemplated she conceived became more and more
imperative. Whatever might have been Lady Tilney's reflections, she
was not long suffered to indulge them. In the tide which passed before
her appeared Lord Rainham, unattended however, as previously, by the
Comtesse Leinsengen: Lady Tilney therefore awaited his address, without
any appearance of recurrence to her professed distaste for royalty.

"A marvel, I declare!" were the opening words of a speech already
polished, _usque ad unguam_, before Lord Rainham ventured to give it
utterance.--"Behold Lady Tilney without a crowd of worshippers at her
feet!--Explain me this phenomenon, and say, have you been cruel to your
slaves, and are they gone themselves, or have they forgotten their
allegiance? Such things have been, though they ought not to be--and yet
methinks you would find it sufficiently dull, if all things were as
they ought to be, would you not? tell me the truth, and give me your
confidence; I have long wished to have the confidence of a handsome
woman, and I promise you _indulgentia plenaria_."

"No, not for the world!--I hold it to be quite a false maxim to have
any confidants: besides I have nothing to confide."

"You are too wise to be so handsome," said Lord Rainham abruptly, "and
so good night; for since you will not parley with me, 'tis in vain I
linger;" and as he turned away, words of fresh _impromptu_ on some
other subject began audibly to escape his lips.

"In your orisons be all my sins remembered," whispered Mr. Ombre as
he passed, and again found himself at Lady Tilney's side. "It is high
time such bookworms as I should retire into our cells; so, lady sweet,
good night.--You know it is not I who speak, but he, who would have
been blest, could he have poured all his sweetest lays into that gentle
ear." Lady Tilney considered the homage of talent as peculiarly her
own, and would gladly have retained the speaker; but gliding with the
gentle undulation of some shadowy form towards the door, he escaped the
infliction of a penalty, which even the syren smiles which were his
reward could hardly at times repay.

It was now growing late--the assembly was breaking up, and Lady Tilney
looked anxiously for some _cavalier_ to attend her to her carriage: but
this was not a point of easy settlement. In degree he must be either
of rank, or a dependent--one who was her equal, or one on whom she
might confer distinction by her choice of his services. Neither such
requisites, however, were to be found in the group around, and Lady
Tilney, whilst feeling yet more and more the necessity of an exclusive
circle, where such predicaments would be avoided, was doomed still
further mortification in the approach of Colonel Temple, a person whom
she hardly ever considered recognizable, and whose offer of assistance,
made evidently with sarcastic reference to her being alone, came in a
shape particularly offensive to her.

"Will you allow me to have the honour of calling your carriage," he
said, addressing her with easy familiarity; "or if you are going to
walk through the rooms, allow me to escort you?" (offering his arm).

"No," said Lady Tilney, in a manner that might have awed any one else;
"I am going away immediately."

"Well, then, let me call your carriage," he replied, with a tenacity
that nothing could evade--whilst Lady Tilney continued to move on,
terrified lest she should be seen _so_ attended.

This apparent anxiety to avoid him, was, however, with Colonel Temple,
the surest incitement to a continuance of his proffered attentions. It
might not have been exactly consistent with the general, high breeding
and politeness which distinguished Lady Feuillemerte's assemblies, for
any one to have acted under this influence perhaps; but Col. Temple was
a character known to all the world as such, and privileged to do things
which no one else did. He was a man, too, of family, and felt his
situation in society, in the midst of all his eccentricities. His want
of refinement had its compensation in an honesty of disposition quite
at variance with the measured forms of fashionable exclusiveness, but
which made him generally beloved; while his shrewd sense, mixed with a
certain vein of sarcastic humour, always penetrated the littleness of
vanity, and often inflicted on it its severest wounds.

Lady Tilney, from repeated slights, was a darling object of his
attacks, and could she without compromise have purchased immunity from
their never-failing and successful arrogance, by an honourable truce,
she would gladly have done so. But Col. Temple was _too_ arrogant,
_too_ presumptuous, to be checked by any defiance of ultra fashion--too
independent, too high-spirited, to suffer a cold and haughty
recognition, in place of the politeness and courtesy due to him as a
gentleman, and thus this warfare had become interminable.

Enjoying his triumphs in the way in question, he followed Lady Tilney
from room to room--even to the steps of her carriage, assuring her
as they proceeded, that her apprehensions of being detected in his
society were compliments to him beyond price; he was aware that, to be
of importance, the next thing to being liked, was being feared--and
bidding her be sure to send him a card for her next choice _soirée_, he
handed his victim into her carriage, under a thousand half-pronounced
inuendos upon his insufferable vulgarity, and the awful anathema of
future exclusion.




CHAPTER IV.

A MODERN COTERIE.


If any circumstance had been wanting to give strength to Lady Tilney's
resolves on the momentous question of social reform, the occurrences
at Lady Feuillemerte's were in themselves sufficient--at least, they
formed an addition to that kind of plausible excuse, sought for on all
occasions where the will is previously set on a particular line of
conduct, but which, without a pretext, it would hardly be safe for the
individual to adopt.

The motley and unkindred assemblage of the previous evening, with its
royal restraints, its want of organization in its inferior members, and
the consequent offences experienced by those of higher order--for Lady
Tilney, although she did not divulge the stain inflicted by Colonel
Temple's assiduities, yet felt it deeply,--were points she dwelt upon
to her colleagues in the following morning with that extreme pathos and
eloquence which the sufferings of self never fail to produce, and which
could not but enforce on her auditors conviction of the necessity of
the measures she proposed.

Closeted, therefore, with the leading characters in her own peculiar
circle, the final arrangements for that _société choisie_ which was
to eclipse courts and banish sovereigns, to school rank, and bring to
maturity all the yet unripened follies of a _soi-disant ton_, were at
length concluded. The lists were full--the doors were closed to all but
the secret representatives of the system, and the anathema went forth.
Strange that St. James's did not shake from its foundation, England's
sovereign resign his sceptre, and her lengthened line of nobility
crouch in the dust, under the awful denunciation of such an ascendancy.
But though this were not so--yet must the loyalty of many a high-born
subject, and the purity of many a noble and virtuous mind, have been
outraged, when the results of a system at once so contemptuous and
immoral began to be developed.

It will be remembered that Lady Tilney had already fixed on the evening
of Lady Borrowdale's assembly as a fitting occasion for the display of
her own undivided rule in the empire of fashion. Her cards had been
issued for that purpose, and these were now followed by injunctions
through various channels, requiring an early attendance--since the two
syrens of the day, Pasta and Sontag, it was whispered, were engaged
to give additional effect to the opening charms of exclusiveness,
and render the blow struck at the existing state of society at once
decisive.

Lady Borrowdale's apartments, it was decreed, should possess only
the _canaille_ of the fashionable world, and royalty be doomed to
oblivion there, in the surpassing lustre which Lady Tilney's circle
would display. To the authority that called for this ready obedience,
none of the satellites of Lady Tilney's court were ever known to offer
resistance;--and though the chiefs of her party alone knew the real
object of the summons, yet the uninitiated hastened to obey it with the
same alacrity as their superiors, satisfied that in so doing they were
best consulting their views of advancement to the distinction courted
by them, as well as securing a greater license in the indulgence of
those follies and errors which made the sum of their daily occupation.

To tell of the decoration of the apartments, of the splendour and
luxury which reigned around the mansion of Lady Tilney, to dwell on
externals, would be to repeat descriptions a thousand times given, and
tend to no developement of import. A plant, under the fairest guise of
colour or of form, sometimes contains within its fibres the deadliest
poison; and in the scorching plains of the East, the upas-tree extends
an alluring shade over the exhausted and unconscious traveller, who is
soon to sink beneath its deadly atmosphere. But what would it profit
were the naturalist to dwell only on the pencilling and texture of the
one, or the traveller describe vaguely the outspreading branches and
inviting coolness of the other, and yet neglect to record the noxious
qualities and inherent dangers of each. The plant and its virtues, not
the scene in which it is to be found, must first be recognised and
known, if escape from its contagion be intended;--and it is to the
habits and system of a people, not to the country they inhabit, that we
must look, rightly to understand the manner in which their lives are
passed.

To a casual observer, Lady Tilney's assembly presented no
distinguishing external marks at variance with received habits or
customs. The rooms were not darkened, the servants passed through the
apartments at intervals in the performance of their respective duties
without constraint: the company, however, was less numerous, and more
scattered and divided into detached parties. The conversation, with
the exception of Lady Tilney herself, was carried on in a low tone,
scarcely audible but to the individual addressed; the different members
of the coterie, when they moved about, seemed to do so under certain
measured and stated paces.

It was not, however, the step and air of real dignity of fashion, but
rather the mincing _minauderie_ of _des petites maîtresses_. Whatever
was done or spoken (when for a moment some general observation was
hazarded), appeared as if performed by rule, and under apprehension
of drawing down ridicule, which at once went to destroy all natural
grace of speech or demeanour. This sentiment attached more particularly
to the younger and newer noviciates, who felt that an unguarded
expression, or a movement at variance with the prescribed forms of
the circle, would render them the objects of the malicious remarks
and sneers of the more experienced--an uneasy restraint, therefore,
was often the consequence; and had it not been, that to form part
of so chosen a society, and under Lady Tilney's roof, was in itself
an indescribable satisfaction--some who were there might have been
suspected of suffering considerable _ennui_, and of being ready to
admit, by the suppressed and ill-concealed yawn, that although the
honour of exclusiveness was great, the pleasure was certainly small.

Not so, however, with the more initiated--these appeared by habit to
take the part at once most to their tastes; to select the companion
most agreeable to them; to remain under the eye of observation, or
retire from it, as they chose, with indifference;--for it was not
only in _what_ was done or said, but in the _manner_, also, that the
distinguishing characteristics of this coterie were to be detected.
All things were lawful--but then under outward forms (not however of
propriety always, or of morality), but of convention; and whoever
attained fulfilment of these, had the privilege, the _indulgentia
plenaria_, as proposed by Lord Rainham, to sin with impunity.

When it was said, therefore, that an assembly composed as the present
differed not in its appearance from others passing under the same
generic name, it was premised to be only under the impression of a
first view;--a more intimate acquaintance with many of its laws and
practices, so opposed to received customs in the world, could not in
the end fail to astonish! And first the observer (the moral observer
is meant) would have been struck by the discovery, that the young and
beautiful in this magic circle were all married women, and that the
person who individually (for the number was rarely more than singular)
paid his assiduous court, leant over the chair, and whispered into the
ear of the fair whom he selected or was selected by, was no aspirant to
her hand in marriage, no relative--neither was he her husband--but a
member of the privileged society, which was alone sufficient.

His astonishment would have been yet stronger on discovering that for
a season, till mutual convenience, or disagreement dissolved their
familiar acquaintance, each party, similarly paired, invariably met,
conversed, and retired at the same time, when the circle broke up, or
when they quitted it, apparently on the same footing of intimacy which
the most holy ties could have sanctioned; while those whom such a tie
actually bound to them were themselves pursuing a similar career.

Had the conversation which for the most part occupied this portion of
the _société choisie_ been reported, or reached the ear, it is possible
a considerate mind might have thought, notwithstanding the singularity
of a system which excluded the unmarried from scenes of amusement, that
it was well they formed no portion of it; but still, in an escape from
its early influence, enjoyed the opportunity of attaining to a degree
of moral principle, and feminine decorum, which must otherwise have
been swept away in the general license.

This, however, can unfortunately be said only of the one sex--the
unmarried in the other, provided their attainments were of the kind
to authorize admission, were not on the excluded list; and the young,
well-principled, and ingenuous perhaps at their outset, might, in the
examples constantly before them, have found incentive to conduct,
which at a future day they would discover to have been the great bane
and poison of their existence.--Of these the person who entered Lady
Tilney's apartments when the coterie had nearly assembled, and who was
new to most of them, offered an instance, for whom the liveliest fears
with justice might have been entertained.

Young, strikingly handsome, talented, of high rank, of widely extended
interest, and possessing all the means of gratifying every wish, to
what dangers was not Lord Albert D'Esterre exposed, in such a scene as
has been described, and on which he was from that evening to play a
part! He seemed, with the impulse of natural politeness, to look around
for Lady Tilney, as he entered, as if he would pay his first homage to
her, whose self and not her house he visited; in a manner directly the
reverse of that false refinement of modern _ton_, which seeks a display
of its _savoir vivre_, in a pointed indifference to all the received
forms of society.

Before he had reached the second room he was met by Lady Tilney, with
a greater degree of courtesy and _empressement_ than was usual in her
receptions; and his address was listened to with more complacency and
patience than generally marked her manner towards any one.--"Who is
he?" passed in whispers round the circle amongst those to whom he was
unknown.--"Did you hear his name announced?"--"No! I have seen him
somewhere before, I think--is it not Lord Albert D'Esterre, Lord ----'s
son?"

"Ah true, it is! but what an extraordinary lengthy speech he is
making--surely Lady Tilney must be ready to expire under its
duration."--"Not under its dulness, I am certain," said Lord Glenmore,
as he caught Lady Baskerville's remark to Lord Rainham, "for, D'Esterre
is too clever ever to say a dull thing." "Or ever do a wise one,
perhaps," added Lord Rainham in his most caustic manner.

"Did you hear Rainham?" whispered Spencer Newcombe to Ombre; "there was
no time for gestation there--it was really well said."--"Then, if so,"
replied his neighbour, "we may 'for once a miracle accept instead of
wit.'"

"No; I do not allow of miracles now a days," said Lord Rainham,
turning sharply round, having overheard the remark applied to him: "I
do not believe in miracles--not even in the resurrection of the Glacier
man--do you, Ombre?" The laugh was with the latter speaker; but Mr.
Ombre thought that, in fact, miracles had not ceased when Lord Rainham
could thus improvise two good things without incubation; and so he
whispered into the ear of his friend Spencer Newcombe, as Lord Rainham
moved away.

While Lord Albert D'Esterre was thus affording subject of remark to
the coterie, and their observations in turn made matter of ill-natured
review among themselves, he was addressing his courteous excuse to Lady
Tilney for having disobeyed her commands, in arriving so late. Lady
Baskerville was probably right in her conjecture, that Lady Tilney felt
considerably bored by his doing so, and making reference to injunctions
which she had forgotten the moment they were given, because certain
they would be generally obeyed, and Lady Borrowdale's assembly be left
untenanted by all her early visitors.

She heard him, however, with smiles and outward complaisance; for Lord
Albert was of consequence enough in a political way, at least, for Lady
Tilney to court; and as she assured him that he was still in good time,
and that the Sontag had not yet sung, presented him to several persons,
whom, she remarked, would be almost strangers to him after so long an
absence from England.

In all, however, that Lord Albert had said, he had been sincere; and in
his manner towards the different persons he was made known to, there
was a genuine distinguished air of high breeding and politeness, as
much at variance with the manners, as his ingenuousness was with the
minds and dispositions of those who figured in the moral masquerade
before him. Although fresh in this scene, and therefore without
contamination, he was powerful, and, therefore, worth appropriation;
and what was considered _outré_ and too _manière_ in his address, was
partially overlooked at the moment, as certain to give way under the
powerful influence of better examples.

The Sontag now came forward and poured her liquid notes mellifluous
through the assembly. Every body was in raptures--indiscriminate
raptures;--for though raptures were generally obsolete, there were a
few short seasons for a few new things in which it was permitted to
be rapturous; but woe to the unhappy individual who, ignorant of the
mark, gave way to these ebullitions at unallowed times, or beyond the
peculiar limits prescribed by _ton_.

When the _aria_ was concluded, however, the remarks among the
younger votaries of fashion were principally directed to the figure
and appearance of the singer, rather than to her performance. Leslie
Winyard admired her foot; Lady Boileau her eyes; Lord Gascoyne saw
indescribable beauty in the delicacy of her waist; and Lord Tonnerre
declared her neck to be as fine drawn and as perfect as that of a
race-horse--a simile which was perhaps the only figure of speech the
latter lord could have hazarded, consistently with his knowledge of any
subject. These by turns approached the singer, and as they addressed
her with an air of familiar condescension, seemed in their ungentle
gaze to seek an opportunity of confirming their previous judgments;
which, according to the result, were signified in the presence of the
persons by a look, or a whisper, to one another.

If a few ventured an observation on what they had been listening to, it
was in a tone either of indiscriminate praise, founded on some one's
opinion in their own circle from whose decree there was no appeal;
or else, measuring things in themselves admitting not of parallel,
by one another, they drew an unfair comparison between the powers of
Sontag and of Pasta; just in the same way as a pseudo connoisseur would
measure the merits of Paul Veronese or Tintoretto by those of Raphael.

"I am surprised you waste so much time in this discussion," said Mr.
Ombre, who was standing near the parties debating on the latter point;
"there can be no question as to the merits of the case--Sontag is new."

"Is she not enchanting?" asked Lady Tilney, addressing Lord Albert
D'Esterre, who had been listening with the utmost attention--"quite
perfection!" He smiled; "I do not know that I ever heard or saw any
thing _quite perfect_; at all events, I prefer Pasta."

"Well, you surprise me!" replied Lady Baskerville; "there is such
brilliancy--such lightness, such fluency in the Sontag."

"But there is more depth, more pathos, more poetry in Pasta.
Nevertheless I admire Mademoiselle Sontag; and because I prefer one, I
am not deaf to the powers of another singer--a feeling of the sublime
does not exclude the lesser sense of the beautiful."--"What a prosing,
sententious popinjay; ay!" whispered Lord Baskerville to Lady Ellersby.

"But he is very handsome," she answered.

"I know not what you ladies may esteem handsome" (and here Lord
Baskerville put himself in his best possible form, and bent his cane
against the ground); "but I can see nothing in that stiff conceited
face and figure to call handsome; and I would not be doomed to
listen to his affected pretensions for half an hour together on
any condition whatever--no, not to hear Sontag sing three songs
consecutively--beautiful, charming, dear as she is!"

"Does beauty enter in at the ears?" asked Spencer Newcombe.

"Not exactly; but it goes a great way towards making what does enter
there agreeable," replied Lord Baskerville.

"What do you say, Sir Henry D'Aubigne," addressing that celebrated
artist: "is not the Sontag exceedingly lovely?"

"Indeed I have not yet had an opportunity of judging," was Sir Henry's
discreet reply; for he gave offence to none. "There is considerable
grace and play of countenance certainly; a fine-cut eye; and on the
whole I should say she was a very pretty creature. But really, in this
land of beauty, (looking round him as he spoke), one may be allowed to
be difficult, and where there is so much to dazzle, confess oneself
unable to decide."

"Sir Henry is almost as graceful in his speech as in his portraits; I
wish I were such a poet!" sighed Mr. Ombre, "and then I might hope to
turn all the ladies' hearts, for they accept your homage, but will not
mine, although I never flatter."

Thus did the poet and the painter mutually pay their allotted fealties
to the sovereigns of _ton_, when the whisper ran round the room that
the Sontag was again about to sing.

During the performance, Lord Albert D'Esterre was standing at the back
of Lady Hamlet Vernon's chair, addressing to her, at intervals, his
conversation on the merits of the singer.

"I am told," said Lady Hamlet Vernon, when the music ceased, "that the
Sontag is very like Lady Adeline Seymour. You will know, Lord Albert
D'Esterre?" Lord Albert coloured.

"I do not see the least resemblance to my cousin;" and then he
added: "I was not aware that Lady Adeline had the advantage of your
acquaintance."

"I have not the pleasure of her's neither--I hear she is a most
delightful person!" Lord Albert again coloured, and felt his heart beat
quicker at the mention of a name so dear to him.

"Is Lady Dunmelraise expected in town this year?" continued Lady Hamlet
Vernon; "I understand she has very bad health. A very intimate friend
of mine, from whom I sometimes receive a letter, Mr. George Foley--you
may perhaps know him--and who is at present staying at Dunmelraise,
informs me that she is far from well."

Lord Albert D'Esterre found himself irresistibly drawn towards Lady
Hamlet Vernon, by the circumstance of her knowledge of Lady Adeline
Seymour, and they continued for a long while in conversation--till
interrupted by Lord Rainham, who, quitting the circle of the political
characters of the day, with whom he had been in apparently close
discussion, addressed Lady Hamlet Vernon on some other topic, and Lord
Albert turned aside.

"Tell me what is your real opinion of the person you have been
conversing with?" said Lord Rainham, in a low voice, while his small
quick eye followed Lord Albert; "is he clever? has he talent--tact, or
any other serviceable quality?"--"I hardly know how to answer inquiries
of such depth," answered Lady Hamlet Vernon, smiling; "had you asked me
if he were agreeable, I could have answered yes. But to what do your
questions tend--are they general or particular; or are they political,
or what?"

"Oh, I mean, is he like other people, like other young men--empty--and
conceited?--or has he wherewithal to make his conversation
endurable--worth listening to--point--repartee--subject--does he talk
of people or of things?"

"Of both. But shall I add another to your list of inquiries--To what
side of the question does he lean? Does not this sum up all you would
know from me? And what if I should tell you--I know nothing about the
matter?"

"Psha! well: that may be too--what _do_ you think--?"

"Why I think him very handsome."

"Aye, may be so; I dare say he is--but--"

"But has he avowed his political creed? will he support your favourite
measures, or oppose them? I know that is all you wish me to say,"
replied Lady Hamlet Vernon.

"Why, to be sure, one judges in these days of a man's sense a little
by his politics--one learns whether he thinks at all, or follows his
interests."

"Oh, you all do that, my dear lord. But come; I will tell you what I
think of Lord Albert D'Esterre: I think he is worth winning--and--"

"You will try," said Lord Rainham.

"Fi donc!--now I will tell you no more." And Lady Hamlet Vernon left
the foiled diplomatist to lament the failure of his mission, and learn
to play his part better for the future.

The evening, or rather the night, was wearing fast away; the Sontag
had sung three times, and those who had formed part of Lady Tilney's
first _soirée choisie_ were soon to be left in possession only of the
recollections--no--not the recollections--the life of the aggregate
assembled there would banish such an exercise of mental powers--but in
possession of the fact, that they had been of the chosen number; that
they _had_ heard the favourite of the hour, _not_ in the too-frequented
Opera, but in the privacy of the drawing-room; and that they alone
could justly, therefore, weigh her merits, and determine her defects.

In follies such as these a large portion of Lady Tilney's associates
were sure to find gratification on the morrow. And it might have
been well had all contented themselves with these, so comparatively
harmless, although such worthless, fruits of _exclusive ton_; but it
may be feared that, with some, the result of that evening, and the
prospect of others to succeed it of the same kind, held out objects of
a far different complexion, which a sure immunity from censure, and a
complete freedom from obnoxious comparisons, successfully tended to
promote.

Lord Albert D'Esterre had turned away from a group of young men with
whom he had been conversing, and whose discourse, assuming a tone and
character equally indelicate and revolting to his feelings, he thus
endeavoured to avoid, when he found himself near Lady Boileau.

"Lord Albert D'Esterre," she said, addressing him, "if you will excuse
an invitation so destitute of form, will you do Lord Boileau and myself
the pleasure of dining with us on Saturday--I will send you a card."
Lord Albert bowed with courtesy, and expressed himself sorry that he
was already engaged, and, after some conversation of little interest,
as Lady Boileau's carriage was announced, she left the room. Leslie
Winyard, with the familiarity of one well acquainted, whispered in Lord
Albert's ear--

"You have _échappéd belle_ from that."

"What do you mean?" asked the latter.

"Why, I mean that you have escaped a most uncomfortable concern by just
refusing the invitation to the Boileaus."

"I thought I heard you say to Lady Boileau but now that you would be
delighted to wait upon her."

"Oh yes, certainly, one _says_ those sort of things; and if nothing
better occurs, one _does_ them;--but it does not always follow: for
instance, if any one were to ask me whom I liked better, or if you, or
some equally pleasant person, were to propose our dining together at
Crockford's--"

"I am not a member of Crockford's," said Lord Albert D'Esterre, gravely.

"Oh! but your name is down, and _you_ are certain of being admitted
on the next ballot, and--" Lord Albert attempted to reply, but Leslie
Winyard continued, "and, as I was telling you, if a pleasant dinner was
prepared at Crockey's, I should, of course, not starve myself at the
Boileaus."

"I confess myself at a loss to comprehend what you mean."

"Well then, some day go and try; find yourself frozen in rooms where
the fire is lit only five minutes before the hour of your expected
arrival--starve at the hands of the very worst cook in England,--and
then, when you hear that my Lady spends twelve guineas on a new bonnet,
squanders thousands on her journies to Paris, and ruins Boileau in
articles for her toilette, _marvel_--but the thing is so."

"Is it possible?" Lord Albert continued saying to himself; as the
person who had been talking to him turned away, half in derision of his
unsophisticated expressions and manner of receiving what he said,--"is
it possible that so much refinement of duplicity can exist, for an end
so trivial--where the gratification of the spirit of falsehood, or the
indulgence of an ill-bred impertinence, is the only object?"

Whilst thus musing, and preparing to leave a scene which, as he became
more acquainted with the actors, appeared little suited to his tastes
or modes of thinking, he saw Lady Hamlet Vernon approach the door
unattended. A recollection that she alone, in the manner she spoke of
Lady Adeline Seymour, had seemed to have any sentiment in common with
himself, made him move towards her, and inquire if he could be of any
service in seeing her to her carriage.

"I do not know if it is up," was her reply, "but perhaps you will have
the goodness to ask." He did so, and in the interval, before it was
announced, they continued conversing. "_Je vous félicite_," said Lord
Rainham, addressing Lady Hamlet Vernon in a low tone as he passed, and
looking significantly at the same time at Lord Albert D'Esterre.

"There is no cause," she replied, "I am waiting for my carriage, and I
think it will never come."

"_Discrète_," answered Lord Rainham, as he moved towards the door, and
signalled what he had observed to Leslie Winyard, whose answering nod
expressed concurrence in his suspicions.

It was long before Lady Hamlet Vernon's carriage arrived, and she
continued talking with Lord Albert on various topics; the societies of
Paris and Vienna, compared with that of London; the state of the Opera,
and the prevalent bad taste of music on the Continent. She inquired
for many who in their exile in this country had been known to her, and
with whom, in the splendour of restored rank and fortunes, she found
Lord Albert had lived on terms of close intimacy. In speaking of them
he seemed to dwell with pleasure on their recollection of the services
rendered them in England, as a bright trait in the human character,
which betokened feelings that it was plain to see were in accordance
with his own generous and noble nature--and which had formed the basis
of that familiar intercourse in which he had lived with them. Although
the reverse of this picture has been ascribed to too many foreigners,
who have with justice been accused of ingratitude, it ought not
therefore to be recorded that all were subject to such condemnation.
Lord Albert knew otherwise.

As he extolled their characters and perfections, and spoke of the
charms which their society had always possessed for him, Lady Hamlet
Vernon listened with increased attention, as if she would have gathered
from his discourse the individual sources of that satisfaction, which
he professed in so lively a manner to have found. "You are warm and
enthusiastic in your eulogiums," she said: "I hope that in England,
also, you may find those whom, with the same reasons, and an equal
ardour of attachment, you will be disposed to admit to your friendship."

There was something in the tone in which these words were addressed
to him, that made Lord Albert D'Esterre for a moment fix his eyes on
the speaker; but they were as quickly withdrawn, when he saw Lady
Hamlet Vernon blush, apparently confused, and then pluck a flower from
a vase near her, while she endeavoured to hide her face by inhaling
the perfume. There was an awkwardness in the pause which ensued, which
neither seemed at the moment able to surmount; when fortunately Lady
Hamlet Vernon's carriage was called, and as Lord Albert handed her to
it, he received an invitation to her house in the evening, when Lady
Tilney's _coterie_ were to assemble there.




CHAPTER V.

"NEWSPAPERS"--"THE PARK."


The newspapers of the following morning had devoted columns to the
description of Lady Borrowdale's entertainment, and the numbering of
the distinguished persons assembled there; the dresses, the apartments,
the decorations, the viands, and every minute arrangement, were all
detailed with an accuracy which an eye-witness of the scene would
readily have acknowledged, and which none but an eye-witness could
possibly have succeeded in giving.

In a far less conspicuous and pretending manner, did the announcement
figure in the same paper, that "Lady Tilney yesterday evening received
a select circle of her friends at her house in ---- Street, where
the Sontag gave several specimens of her unrivalled talents." An
uninstructed reader would have been misled by these harbingers of
public events; and from the tone of the respective _affichés_ feel
justified in the conclusion, that the one must have been the production
of Lady Borrowdale's own pen, or at least from her dictation, while the
other appeared naturally as the result of that publicity, to which the
actions of the great are always subjected. But this would have been
far from the fact, or rather the very opposite to it; it was to the
milliners, the confectioners, the musicians, the _maître d'hotel_, and
the other individuals interested in affording publicity to the dresses
and entertainments of their employers, that the long and circumstantial
details of Lady Borrowdale's, or any other great assembly, are to be
attributed; free from any petty interference, or the gratification of a
silly vanity on the part of the principals themselves.

That this was the fact, was a circumstance which could not escape Lady
Tilney; and aware that such evidence, if it reached the public eye,
would destroy at once all the sacredness of her select _coteries_,
and the charms of the _société choisie_ which she was labouring to
form, she determined on suppressing it, and issued orders, not to
be disobeyed with impunity, for the effectual prevention of any
announcement of whom the circle consisted of on the evening in
question, and of its proceedings, with the exception that it excelled
all other of the same date, by the possession of Sontag's inimitable
powers. A mystery, which suited well with the ideas of Lady Tilney
and of her friends on the subject of exclusive _ton_, would thus, she
conceived, be thrown over their actions, and the rites of the supreme
deity of fashion impenetrably veiled from the prying, inquisitive eye,
and vulgar imitation of its pretending votaries.

Humility is a duty of as especial injunction in the sacred volume,
as its opposite is of strict prohibition; and let it not surprise,
therefore, that Lord Albert D'Esterre, young in the world's masquerade,
and imbued with feelings, which if not religiously grounded, were
at least, from their purity, analogous to the moral doctrine which
religion teaches, should be struck, as he perused the two paragraphs,
by the apparent vanity of the one compared with the unostentatious
wording of the other, and drew his inferences accordingly.

"What silly pomp in Lady Borrowdale; how unworthy her rank--how
positively little, thus to set forth the splendour of her
entertainment, which is worth nothing when it loses the character of
being a natural consequence of her station in society. What could
be more brilliant than Lady Tilney's assembly; and yet there is no
parade--no _catalogue raisonnée_ of all that was seen, done, or said in
her drawing-rooms--how much more like a woman of real fashion."

Had Lord Albert D'Esterre been acquainted with the actual truth,
in all probability the opinion which he passed on this trivial
circumstance, as he took his breakfast, would have been the very
reverse of what it was; and, however he might hold cheap any silly
ostentatious display of wealth or rank, he would certainly have been
more ready to overlook Lady Borrowdale's carelessness whether her
assembly was reported accurately, or not at all, than he would have
been to forgive Lady Tilney's over-anxiety and ultra, _ton_ism (if such
a word may be coined), to screen the names and numbers of her guests,
and give celebrity to the coterie by making it a matter of secrecy and
of injunction to her domestics.

The mornings of Lord Albert, however, were generally passed in
reflections of much more use and importance than such as newspaper
subjects could furnish. During the whole of his residence abroad, his
time had been employed in acquirements of a solid kind. He had studied
men and things--had made himself acquainted with the constitutions,
governments, resources, and political importance of all the great
European states; had lived amongst their inhabitants for the purpose
of acquiring that accurate knowledge of their habits and dispositions,
which tends so much to a just appreciation of the line of policy to
be observed towards them, and which must ever be influenced by an
acquaintance with national character.

While receiving their instructions he had formed friendships with
some of their most distinguished literati in all the different
branches of knowledge, and had returned to England fully prepared for
the commencement of that public career to which his inclination led
him; and in which, amongst those who knew him intimately, and could
appreciate his abilities, he was justly expected to shine.

The habit of occupation which he had formed whilst thus pursuing his
studies on the Continent, did not desert Lord Albert D'Esterre, even
in the noise and bustle of London society, in the midst of which he
now found himself; but in the mass of business which now fell upon
him in consequence of his taking possession of his large estates, in
the conferences of lawyers and agents, in the answering of letters on
these matters of varied interest which now occupied him, and in the
attentions to those minor cases of life, the etiquettes and forms of
the world, he still found leisure for serious and studious application;
nor indulged in the idleness of fashion till the duties of the morning
had been performed, when alone he availed himself of them, for the
purpose of relaxation and the unbending of his mind.

It was the morning after Lady Tilney's soirée, and when he had gone
through his usual course of occupations, that Lord Albert recollected,
with what would be called old-fashioned politeness, "the propriety of
leaving his cards with the persons to whom he had been presented the
preceding evening, and more particularly with Lady Tilney herself; and
he determined to do so on his way to the Park. On arriving at Lady
Tilney's door he was informed that she was at home (for his name was
already on the list of those who had the entrée), and he was preparing
to dismount when he saw the carriage of the Countess Leinsengen
drive up. She bowed to him, and he was presently at the _portière_
to hand her out; and offering her his arm, conducted her to Lady
Tilney's boudoir. "Comment ça va-t-il chère Comtesse," said the former
addressing her; "I congratulate you on possessing de acquaintance of
de only polite Englishman I have ever known--Dare is milor Albert
D'Esterre had vraiement de galanterie to get off his horse and conduct
me from my carriage. N'est-ce pas merveilleux in dis country!"

Lord Albert bowed to the compliment; but added: "I am sure Lady
Tilney will not allow such a cruel sentence on our nation to pass even
your lips, Comtesse; and will agree with me, that though a few may
have taken up a false system, and assumed an air of disregard to the
courtesies of life, yet it is only such as seek for distinction by
false means, and by doing the reverse of what others do: we cannot,
therefore, allow the censure to be general on us all; indeed, I do
my sex but justice I hope, when I say, that they are in this country
invariably the friends and supporters of women, and--" "Oh yes; perhaps
if one tumble down, or break one's leg, or meet vid any personal danger
or affront, dis may be so; but dese affairs do not arise every day: and
for de little cares of de men, _les petits soins_, I never knew one of
your country men who knew vat dey meant."

Lord Albert smiled at the manner in which the argument in favour of
his politeness was maintained; but perceiving Lady Tilney little
inclined to keep up a conversation on the subject of national manners,
he refrained from drawing the comparison, which would have been just,
between a natural politeness, arising as much from feeling and imbued
delicacy of sentiment, as from habit, and the mere outward forms of
courtesy and etiquette, which in those most profuse of them have seldom
any thing of sincerity.

"Well, I suppose ve must go to dat tiresome Almack dis evening. You
go?" said the Comtesse Leinsengen, addressing Lady Tilney; "for my part
I tink I shall viddraw my name."

"Oh, certainly I shall go," replied the latter, "for it is absolutely
necessary you know, my dear Comtesse, that some of us should be there;
and besides I am of opinion that as people must have something to keep
them quiet, and which _they think recherché_, Almack's is as good
as any thing else, and therefore I shall support it--In regard to
_us_, I agree perfectly with you, it is _passée_, and no longer what
was intended." The Comtesse shrugged her shoulders: "You will be at
Almack's to-night," said Lady Tilney, turning to Lord Albert D'Esterre,
"although we are giving it such a bad name, will you not?"

"Your hours of admission are limited you know, and I scarcely think I
can get away in time from ----"

"There is no debate of consequence, is there?" rejoined Lady Tilney
with earnestness--"I may forget, but should there be, of course----"

"I did not mean from the house," continued Lord Albert, "but I am
going to dine where I shall meet Baron H.; I have known him on the
continent, and his conversation is so very interesting."--"And so very
long," added the Comtesse Leinsengen, interrupting him, and with a look
which was intended to repay many discussions she had been constrained
to endure at Lady Tilney's hands; "I wonder he ever finds people to
listen to him."--"But where do you dine," said Lady Tilney, seeming to
disregard the opinion just uttered. "I know Barnette, and he is very
agreeable, very clever, but I wonder he allows himself to be so _fétéd_
by people so little known in the world. I shall be happy, I am sure--"

"I am to meet him at the Miss D.'s," replied Lord Albert, interrupting
her, and who felt that _this_ was the point he was called upon to
answer, and not that of who were or who were not known in Lady Tilney's
estimation.

"And do you really visit them?" said the latter with great surprise,
"are you not _ennuyé_ to death at their parties?"

"_Ennuyé!_ no--but then I must premise that I never am so under any
circumstances."

"Ah, _bon!_ do tell me how that is, Milor," said the Comtesse
Leinsengen, "precisely, do tell me how you avoid infection from dat
prevalent disease of your island, dat _bore_ you call it."

"Oh, I always do what I like," replied Lord Albert with a smile.

"Cela ne fait rien à l'affaire, one do not always know vat von like."

"I have nothing to reply to that; but for myself, if I do not find
exactly what I like I always endeavour to extract entertainment from
the persons or place, where, or with whom I may chance to be."

"Par exemple, at the Miss D.'s, what can you find at their horrible
conversaziones to keep you awake," asked Lady Tilney, "c'est un ennui à
périr, it makes me yawn to think of it."

"Oh, he goes to do penance for his sins, and purchase indulgence for
dose to come, n'est ce pas, Milor?"

"Neither, I assure you; I was really more entertained during a _soirée_
there last week than I have been since my return to England."

"Ah, le beau compliment! de grâce do not avow it," said the Comtesse.

Lady Tilney looked amazed at these opinions, like one in doubt if she
had not with too much precipitation admitted an enemy within the camp,
in the person of Lord Albert; and whilst canvassing the necessity of
retrieving her error, by his future exclusion, and at the same time
the policy of retaining one of his interest and promise in her circle,
with a view to his reform, she directed her enquiries to him in a tone
almost dictatorial, as to the ground of his faith in the merits of
the society he had been extolling. "Will you tell me, Lord Albert, of
whom are these parties generally composed? I have yet to learn that
there are distinguished individuals capable of creating such great
interest apart from what is generally termed the society of London;
or, I must conclude--but I will not do that hastily--that you yourself
have imbibed ideas quite foreign to propriety, and have given way to
associations quite unfitting your situation in the world."

Lord Albert in his turn seemed astonished at these categories, but
answered with perfect ease: "I have found at the Miss D.'s many whom I
meet elsewhere and, every where; but my chief attraction is the number
of talented persons who are often assembled in the circle, and whose
conversation affords me the greatest interest, and much instruction."

"One do not go into society to be instructed," said the Comtesse
Leinsengen with a sneer.

"Surely not," added Lady Tilney, "clever people are well in their
way,--I mean your really learned persons--men who have read, travelled,
written all their lives, but then it is in one's own apartment in the
morning that they are sufferable. I know but very few indeed, who are
presentable, or who have the true talent of turning their powers to
account, without torturing one to death with their learning; and then
without great circumspection they become familiar, and one is obliged
to take so much trouble, and be so much on one's guard, to keep them
in their place. Be assured, Lord Albert, you will find this to be the
case," continued Lady Tilney, "if you give unlimited encouragement to
_gens de ce grade_--There is but one subject on which you may listen
to them, I mean politics; but how few there are of the class who are
enlightened enough to speak on that subject. We have, it is true, D--
and B-- C--, and the Count K--, sometimes with us; and among our own
countrymen, we have M-- and a few others, but--"

The Countess Leinsengen's impatience was here manifested by the usual
shrug of her shoulders, and as she perceived Lady Tilney embarking on
the interminable ocean of politics, turning quickly to Lord Albert she
enquired,

"But who may be de very clever persons, Milor, who give you so much
amusement in dis very charming society?"

"Where there are so many to name, it is hard to select," replied
Lord Albert; "but there was the great traveller, who has been further
into the interior of Africa than any one has yet penetrated. His
descriptions of deserts, and skies, and camels, conveyed me beside
him in his pilgrimage; the trackless sands in which no insect can
find subsistence; the well by which the caravan halted, the only
visible friend of the traveller throughout the vast desert; the wide
canopy of starry heavens, spread out above; those heavens and those
stars, of whose clear brightness we in these cloudy regions have but a
faint idea; the varied and picturesque garb of guides and guards; the
meekness of the patient camel; the silence of the march, unless some
alarm from the fierce and wandering tribes of the country disturbed
its tranquillity; and then the noise, and gesticulation, and activity,
which accompanied the pitching of the tents for the night's or noon's
repose, were circumstances all described and dwelt upon by the
traveller, with a nervous strength and accuracy of delineation which
nothing but original description can give, and which came to me with so
much force and truth, and such beauty of imagery, that I thought, as he
spoke, travelling was the only delightful way of passing one's life."

Lady Tilney and the Comtesse Leinsengen exchanged looks, while Lord
Albert was thus giving way to the natural feelings of a mind yet
untinctured with the follies of fashion, and which saw no degradation
to his rank in seeking and finding amusement in the society of
enlightened persons.

"Tell me," at length asked Lady Tilney, with an expression something
like contempt, "had you no _changement de décoration_; was all your
talk about camels, and deserts, and wells, and stars?"--"Ah," cried the
Comtesse Leinsengen, "_avouez moi, Milor, que la nouvelle du jour vaut
been mieux_." Lord Albert smiled, and allowed that this was amusing too
in its way; but he added,

"We had a change of divertissement I assure you, after dinner; _Il
cantar che nel' anima si sente_ took the place of conversation for a
time, and Mr. M--"

"Oh he is well enough," said Lady Tilney, "in his place, and sings
charmingly;" (for the person in question was the Anacreon of her party,
and sometimes tuned his lays to subjects on which party feeling and
political animosity loved to cast derision)--"he is well enough."--"And
sings, do you not think," rejoined Lord Albert, "divinely? I have heard
others sing finely--sweetly--scientifically--even feelingly; but such
lightness, such magic bursts of imagery, such painting of sounds, I
never heard but in his song."

"And you have heard de Sontag: you heard her dis last evening?"

"Oh yes, often; I heard her at Vienna before she came to England."

"Well, and you prefer dis little gentleman--_tout les gens sont
respectables_;" and she sneered, as if in contradiction to the words.

"Perhaps the parties will not bear a comparison," added Lady Tilney,
jealous of one whom she patronized, and whose merits she had in a
measure acknowledged; and then, turning to Lord Albert, she continued--

"You must not mistake me, my dear lord; I have no objection to the
_sort of thing_ you have been describing. I honour talent, and delight
in conversation; but then it must be on a proper footing; in circles
where those persons who talk, and talk very well I dare say, should be
under restraint; where they would feel themselves debarred entirely
from _undue_ license, and a consideration that they formed part of
the society, and where they would appear in their true characters--to
direct and amuse others when called upon; just as actors and singers
come upon the stage to play their parts, and then retire. Now in the
circle you allude to all this necessary distinction is overthrown at
once--every one there, from the nature of things, considers himself
_pair et compagnon_ of the company, and behaves accordingly. In small
rooms--"

"_On meurt de chaud au de froid, par parenthèse_," interrupted the
Comtesse, who dreaded one of Lady Tilney's long discussions; "for
dere is one moment a thorough air, and de next all is shut up, and
one fries vid de fire; but dat is always de case where dere is no
_poêle_ stove--However, adieu ma belle; I must go and leave you and
Milor dere to settle all de points about dat société which he likes so
much--adieu--_au revoir, Milor, je vous salue_."

Lord Albert would have followed his natural impulse of politeness, and
handed the Comtesse Leinsengen to her carriage; disposed, perhaps, also
to escape further conversation with Lady Tilney on topics where they
seemed to hold no ideas in common. This, however, he was not permitted
to do, the Comtesse declining his offered arm, saying she should never
be forgiven if Lady Tilney were deprived of the triumph of converting
him from his errors;--and closing the door, as she insisted on his
remaining, Lord Albert was left tête-à-tête with Lady Tilney.

"Do you not think she is terribly gone off this year?" said the latter.

"I do not know if I understand you. If it be that her beauty is gone
off, I should say yes--but I never heard she _was_ handsome."

"No?" asked Lady Tilney, with an expression of satisfaction; "but she
is surely very _distingué_ looking."--"She has the advantage of that
species of polish which the world gives," was Lord Albert's reply; "but
this often covers an unpolished mind--and I am not sure it is the first
thing I should look for."

"I like nature as much as you can do, my dear lord; I ever stood up for
that liberty and freedom attendant on persons not quite _fait au feu_;
but I must confess that I like to have them a little dressed, _not
perfectly raw_."

How far Lord Albert might have found it possible to agree with Lady
Tilney in this new question, so suddenly started, it was not left him
to discover; for at that moment fresh visitors were announced--and, as
they entered, Lord Albert prepared to depart. Not, however, till Lady
Tilney--who, spite of what she called his false theories, saw he was a
person by no means to be hastily rejected--had bidden him to her box at
the Opera on Saturday evening. "I am determined to be at the rising of
the curtain," she said, "to hear the Sontag--only it is so difficult to
be in time. Were you ever in time in your life?"--

"Yes, I have," answered Lord Albert, smiling.

"Then be at the very _premier congé d'arche_ on Saturday," added Lady
Tilney, as he bowed to her and left the apartment; glad to have gotten
over a visit of ceremony, where, from the tone of conversation which
had passed, he augured that little in future would be found consonant
to his ideas or his tastes.

As he rode from the door, Lord Albert turned his horse towards the
Park. It was one of the first Spring days that had shone in the early
year, and all the gayest of London seemed hastening to enjoy its genial
influence.--Yes, even the weary and the _blazé_ in life's crooked paths
appeared for a moment to acknowledge the charm which the brilliancy of
the scene and the brightness of the atmosphere combined to form. Smiles
were in every face and cheerfulness in every movement.

Than the throng of Hyde Park there is perhaps no promenade in Europe
more dazzling; none where more magnificence of equipage, or more beauty
of human form is displayed; and it is difficult for the young, and the
handsome more particularly, not to feel intoxicated as they enter on a
stage where the whole appearance is so fair, and where a consciousness
of personal charms assures them they must themselves shine.--It is
not probable that Lord Albert D'Esterre, philosophical as he has just
appeared while discoursing with Lady Tilney, was altogether free from
feelings so natural to his years, or from that species of vanity which
seeks a display of personal beauty, or whatever other quality may best
glitter in such a scene.

He was young, strikingly handsome, possessing a form of perfect
symmetry, and moreover one of the finest horsemen of his time. What
wonder then if, as he sought the crowded road of the Park, something
like self-love had a share in the direction which he took, and the
choice made of the spot where he might breathe the balmy air of such a
day. As he joined some of his acquaintances in the Ride, and stopped to
speak to others, passing from right to left and from north to south in
the gay and splendid crowd, his recollections were naturally turned to
similar parades in other countries, and he felt pride as an Englishman
in considering how far our national display of beauty and of wealth
outshone that of other capitals.

"Neither Vienna, nor Paris, nor St. Petersburgh, can rival this,
Glenmore," he said, in the buoyancy of his gratification at the
scene--"nothing that we ever beheld there is comparable with this--now
is it?"

"You have chosen your day well," replied the latter, "because, if it
had been one of those three hundred and sixty-five days of mist which
we generally enjoy in this metropolis, I should be disposed to dispute
the point with you, and set the sunshine of a Parisian Spring against
the brilliancy of our ladies' eyes and the splendour of their retinues.
And would you not agree with me?"

"Why, as a mere animal, I might, perhaps--climate does affect our
_physique_, I will allow; but the national pride--"

"Oh, bah! my dear D'Esterre your national pride in this instance has
nothing to do with the matter;--and if the belles of Paris, or Vienna,
or the Calmuck beauties of St. Petersburgh, could rival ours, their
horses and coach-makers surpass what you see before you, and their
summers be eternal, your _amour de la patrie_, I fear, would not long
continue _to bias_ your judgment. No, no, D'Esterre, that feeling does
not live on food like this; but we have other and better sources for
it, as you well know and feel."

Lord Albert's face shewed, in the generous glow which suffused it,
a sense of his friend's appreciation of his sounder judgment; but he
added, with a smile, "if you will not allow my present admiration
to proceed from such a noble spring, at least do not accuse me of a
reverse of sentiment, if I draw a comparison, in another respect, not
at all favourable to my countrymen. Do you observe that line of men
drawn up in battle array, and with impertinent nonchalance passing
judgment on the women who drive before them? It must, or ought to be,
at least, offensive to the pride and delicacy of the former; it would
shock any European, and is a custom more suited to eastern despotism,
and to the rules of an Asiatic slave mart, than to a civilized nation."

"But do you conclude, therefore, that the men are alone to blame in
this?" asked Lord Glenmore; "and is it to be presumed that they would
have forgotten the courtesies and respect due from them, if women in
general had been more true to the delicacies and decencies of their own
sex. Do justice to the men while you blame the practice of the day, and
acknowledge, that if the nod, or motion of the hand, or impertinent
glance of recognition now takes place of the bow and respectful
salutation of other times, yet that there must have been a sufferance
of the change, if not an encouragement of it, and an equal alteration
of manners on the other hand, or it would never have been."

"I dare say you are right, Glenmore; and if so the more the pity. But
although custom sanctions all change in reciprocal demeanour between
men and women, yet because the stiff and _manière_ address of the last
century was laid aside with the silk coat, and bag-wig, and sword, I do
not see why courtly manners should have been exiled at the same time.
So long as society is to exist on a proper footing, there must be an
outward shew of proper feelings; and when all deference in minor points
ceases, it is quite certain that all consideration of respect in more
serious matters will cease too."--"What is that I hear?" cried Leslie
Winyard, riding up to Lord Glenmore's side, and nodding familiarly to
his companion;--"what is that I hear about proper feelings, and all
consideration of respect? You are not moralizing in Hyde Park I hope."

"D'Esterre says that you men do very wrong to sit on your horses, rank
and file, and let the ladies parade before you; and I think what he
says is true."

"Indeed!" replied Mr. Leslie Winyard, and looking round in Lord Albert
D'Esterre's face with a sneer, "I believe if we were not to do so,
you would have very few beauties to admire in your ride,--the women
only come here to see us."--"And what do _you_ come for?" asked Lord
Glenmore smiling.--"Oh, to shew ourselves, certainly: to _be_ admired."
Before he could reply to the insufferable impertinence of this
speech--if indeed he would have deemed it worthy any reply--an equipage
caught the eye of Lord Glenmore as it entered the gate, and putting
spurs to his horse he was at its side in a moment and speaking to the
ladies in it. "Whose carriage is that?" asked Lord Albert of Leslie
Winyard, who continued to saunter his horse in company with him.

"It's the Melcombe's," he replied, after a pause, and having put the
handle of his whip, which contained a glass, to his eye--"it's the
Melcombe's: Georgina is a d--d fine girl. Don't you know Georgina? they
say Glenmore is smitten,--I'll go and see the fun;" and, with these
words, this model of the gallantry of the nineteenth century rode off.
"What can he mean," said Lord Albert to himself, "by calling any woman
familiarly by her name in that manner, unless she be his sister or near
relative; but to me, a stranger almost to himself, and to the party
utterly unknown, what abominable vulgarity, what detestable insolence!"

There is no saying how far Lord Albert might have gone on in his
animadversions on the manners of his sex, if he had been left quite
to himself, for there was enough around him, and before his eyes, to
provoke remark even in a mind less alive to the niceties and decorum
of polished life. But his attention was called another way, and he
in turn was to become a subject of flippant ridicule; to be set down
as a person _à prétension_, by the young men whose manners he had
very justly condemned, and who chose to attribute to coxcombry and to
affectation, a demeanour and a bearing which they had not the power to
imitate.

A graceful inclination of the head from some lady passing in the
throng, and whose feathers waved in unison with the movement, as she
bowed to Lord Albert, caught his eye. He gazed for a moment, not
recognizing the party, but lifted his hat courteously from his head,
and as he looked back to ascertain better who it was, perceived the
carriage had stopped near the gate. Turning his horse, therefore, he
rode in the direction, and discovered that it was Lady Hamlet Vernon
who had saluted him. He approached the carriage, with all the air and
gallantry of a really high bred person, thanked Lady Hamlet Vernon
for the honour she had done him, in recognizing him in the crowd;
apologized for his own blindness, and continued for some minutes in
conversation with her on the beauty and gaiety of the scene, and on
the current topics of the day. His back was turned at the time to the
phalanx of horsemen, whose ranks, and avowed occupation, had given
occasion to his remarks on the bad manners of the age; and who now,
assembled in closer body by the gate, were ready to give their last
glance of scrutiny or recognition to the departing carriages.

"That's a fine horse that man is upon," said Lord Tonnerre, pointing to
Lord Albert; "who the devil is he?"

"Oh! its D'Esterre," said Leslie Winyard, "do you not know him a mile
off, by all his bows and grimaces: for me, I could 'wind him i' the
lobby, any where.'"

"Damn the fellow, what business has he with such a horse--can he ride?"

"I should think not," drawled out Lord Baskerville; "he is the most
conceited animal London has boasted for some centuries. I heard him
talk last night about that dear Sontag, till I was sick."--"And, my
lords and gentlemen," said Leslie Winyard, in mock solemnity, "he
talked not only most fancifully, as my Lord Baskerville avers, last
night, but on this morning too: and upon what? Divine, O ye augurs!
declare it, ye soothsayers!--Why he discovered, in the very age and
body of the time--its forms and its complexion, and pronounced our
manners, rude; our bearing, unlike gentlemen; our noble array here,
barbaric and uncivilized;--in short, [assuming his natural tone] he
is a d--d puppy. I caught him, but now, preaching in this strain to
Glenmore, who, like a fool, said he agreed with him!"--A general
murmur burst from the circle which had listened to Leslie Winyard,
and the words coxcomb, ass, puppy, poppinjay, and jackanapes, issued
simultaneously from the lips of these polished ultras of ton.

Lord Tonnerre alone was silent, but his features shewed him to be as
little in a mood for gentleness as any of them. When having grasped
his rein, and put his horse on his haunches, he glanced a look of
intelligence to those around him, and was off at full speed towards the
spot where Lord Albert, leaning from his horse, was still conversing
with Lady Hamlet Vernon. Regardless of courtesy, or the consequences of
his impetuosity, he kept his violent course till within half a neck of
the carriage, and then suddenly endeavoured to wheel round, and pass on
the other side. Lord Albert's horse, startled at this close and sudden
approach, plunged, and alarmed at the carriages and noise, became, for
a moment, unmanageable, and broke away. His rider's admirable dexterity
and coolness, however, soon enabled him to rein in this movement,
and return towards the spot from which he had started, and where his
preoccupation had prevented his observing that a crowd of horsemen had
gathered, who partially stood round, or were dismounting, seemingly to
assist in some accident. He moved at a quicker pace, and found that
Lord Tonnerre's horse, on being so roughly checked, had reared, and
fallen back on his rider.

Lord Albert was on his feet in an instant, and making his way through
the throng was as eager in his inquiries, and prompt to render
assistance to the sufferer, as if he had been personally interested
in him. He found, however, no serious mischief had occurred. Lord
Tonnerre, with the exception of having been stunned with the fall, and
not yet able to rise, seemed perfectly himself, and careless of what
had happened.

His first inquiries were for his horse; and having been assured by
several of his friends that no injury had been sustained in that
quarter, he swore loudly against the animal for a fault which had been
entirely his own, gave way to the most violent gesticulations of angry
passion against the curiosity (as he called it) of the by-standers, and
so disgusted Lord Albert D'Esterre by his want of proper feeling under
an accident that might have ended fatally, that the latter mounted his
horse once more, rode round to the other side of Lady Hamlet Vernon's
carriage to assure her that she need be under no apprehension for
Lord Tonnerre's safety, and continuing by her side as she proceeded
out of the Park, left the actors of this paltry scene to bear their
discomfiture as they best could.




CHAPTER VI.

"THE OPERA."


It is not to be supposed that Lady Tilney should keep a determination
formed fully one hundred and forty-four hours before the season of
its fulfilment, or retain on the Saturday evening the same degree of
passionate admiration of the Sontag's powers, which she had expressed
on the previous Wednesday to Lord Albert D'Esterre, when announcing
her intention of being present at the first scene of the Opera. She
did, however, reach the house, on the evening in question, before the
conclusion of the third act, and found the Comtesse Leinsengen already
in her box.

"Eh bien, ma chere, à la fin vous voilà! have you been ever since at
dat tiresome dinner?"

"Oh no; I drove home immediately after you went away; but I had
a thousand things of consequence to do, and could not positively
arrive sooner. Amongst other things there was a great enormous card
of invitation from the D'Hermantons. It is quite out of the question
_my_ going: and I think the affair ought to be overturned as much as
possible--our cause should be established without offence directly
given, but decidedly; and if we are engaged elsewhere, you know, our
excuse of '_exceedingly sorry_' will always effect this, and save us,
in the present instance, from the extensive and moral acquaintances of
the Duchess, and from the _fadeur_ of her evenings. I would myself send
out cards did I not think it would be too marked; but some of us might
do so. There is Lady de Chére, I see, in her box; would you arrange
the business with her to-night in the room--Do you agree with me, my
dear Comtesse?" Her friend nodded assent; and in her abrupt rough voice
said, "N'ayez pas peur! I can always hold up my head and tread _down de
plebe_--we are used to dat; but for you, I fear in dis country, you do
not understand de matter."--

"You know, my dear Comtesse, I have often explained to you, that our
constitution--"

"Oh! trève de politiques I implore," said the Comtesse Leinsengen,
turning her head away, and looking towards the stage: "trève de
politiques je n'en puis plus; but fiez vous en à moi."--

"I am surely the last person you ought to suspect unequal to that task!
It is quite unjust to me, dear Comtesse! Have you forgotten the woman
whom Lady Ellersby and myself thought we could use? whom we actually
paraded for a season, maintained she was a beauty, and a person 'qui
feroit fureur;' and after all, when she failed, left her planté in the
midst of the promised honours; actually ejected her from Almack's,
and if we met, walked over her as a person whose face we had never
seen!--Was not this carried with a proper spirit?"

"Yes, under my suggestion; but I could have told you from de first
that her _grand nigaud de mari_ would be always _à ses trousses_, and
prevent her being of the least service to us. It is quite a mistake
to attempt such a measure, _ça sent le roman_, and I do hate all
romance--Dat young milor, (vat you name him?) dat was at your house
de oder morning, Lor--Lor Albert D'Esterre; I don't think, upon my
word, never I don't, dat he will do us any good, I have my doubts dat
he is only _un espion_, and--" Whilst the Comtesse was speaking, the
door of the box opened, and there entered, with an air of affected
refinement, a person whose appearance ill suited with his outward show
of courtliness--his face was red and large, with grey eyes, his hair
inclining to flaxen, and his whole figure round and ill-formed.

This physiognomy, however, if Sir William Temple would have allowed
himself to be natural, was an index to his disposition, for he was _au
fond_ good-natured; but an overweening vanity--a desire to be fine, and
be considered one of the beau-monde, had spoilt the man, and he became
insufferably pompous and conceited--in proportion as his exertions in
good dinners _in_ the season, a good country house _out_ of it, and
a vote in parliament, made him successful in obtaining the notice of
people of rank, and of the minister. The first thought his cook good,
his chateau, at an easy distance from London, convenient--and the last,
remembering the old woman's adage, considered that every little helped,
and that Sir William's vote, so long as it was on the right side, was
as good as any other. He had made his way thus far with tolerable
facility, but his ambition grew by feeding on, and was only to be
satisfied by the attainment of the highest distinction of the _ton_ of
the day; such as in his estimate was conferred by the protecting smile
of Lady Tilney, the Comtesse Leinsengen and others of that _élite_ body.

No opportunity therefore was lost, no pains omitted to arrive at this
desirable end, and to improve the recognition with which Sir William
found himself at times honoured, into what should at least _appear_ a
footing of intimacy. An opera box was an outwork more easy to be taken
by a _coup de main_, than a lodgment effected in the citadel itself;
and while unregistered on the favoured list of the _entré_ at Lady
Tilney's mansion, the access to her circle in the public theatre, which
was not denied him, appeared a license of the utmost importance, and
one which he was the last man to let grow obsolete by neglect of usage,
or forget to turn to profit.

"Has not the Sontag outdone herself to-night, Lady Tilney?" asked Sir
William as he entered the box.

"Yes, never was there such a singer--I have been listening till my very
ears ache with intense attention."

"I am so glad, Lady Tilney, to hear you say so, for I have been
disputing the point with Lord Albert D'Esterre, who maintains that
the Sontag's singing is not in the first style, and a great deal more
of the same sort; but he might as well endeavour to persuade me that
Ude is inferior to Doveton's present man Mariné. I think Lord Albert
D'Esterre wishes to be thought an oracle, and the superior judge of all
judges, and that without his decree there can be no perfection."

"_Vraiment_," said the Comtesse with a shrug of her shoulders, "I
think Milor might suspend his judgments till he heard if people cared
for dem."

"Ah, how delighted I am Comtesse to hear you say so," cried Sir
William, repeating the words he had first addressed to Lady Tilney, and
which indeed he addressed to every one of _ton_, let what might be the
subject, or the sense that fell from them.

"_Vraiment!_" again came drily from the lips of Comtesse Leinsengen,
accompanied with a look at the speaker, which told him that the
contempt conveyed in that expression, when speaking of Lord Albert,
attached equally to himself. Fully understanding the intended meaning,
and conscious that with the Comtesse Leinsengen he had made much less
way than with Lady Tilney, he turned once more to the latter, and
addressed her on a subject by which he knew well he should pay his
court successfully.

"You were not at Lady Borrowdale's the other night. You never saw such
a set as were assembled there; positively there was no stirring without
coming in contact with people whom one had never seen before--and then
it is such bad taste to collect such a crowd--for my part, I got away
after the first glance at the affair." Lady Tilney smiled, and Sir
William, encouraged, continued, "Do you dine at Doveton's?"

"I believe so."

"I am delighted to hear you say so. Lord Osbalston asked me for the
same day--but Mariné, you know, lives with Doveton now, and he could
always turn the scale with me" (laughing affectedly); "_Apropos_,
might I venture to ask the honour of your partaking of my rustic fare?
I am living, you know, quite _en garçon_; but it would be a variety,
so different from all you meet elsewhere; so very plain, and so very
humble; and you would of course do me the honour to name your own
party. Might I hope that you too, Comtesse, would condescend so far?"

This was the boldest step Sir William Temple had yet taken; and
he stood in proportionate anxiety, breathless and red, awaiting a
reply which was to confirm or crush his hopes. May be, like a second
Cæsar, he felt that he had crossed the limits of the empire, and
saw that victory only could retrieve what he had hazarded, and that
he must rise or fall by that. If victory did attend him, then, like
another Alexander, he might weep for fresh worlds to conquer; but if
he fell,--"oh! what a fall was there, my friends!" Such feelings, no
doubt, did agitate his swelling breast when he saw the interchange of
looks pass between Lady Tilney and her friend, as if they questioned
each other.

"Shall we gratify this man?" (this fool he would have read, could
he have interpreted the Countess Leinsengen's expression): "shall
we countenance him?" and in the tremendous moment of suspense Sir
William blest his stars that there were none by to mark him. But when
the joyful sound of Lady Tilney's voice pronounced an acceptance of
his petition, he would have given every thing, short of the promised
honour itself, that the whole Opera house had been present to witness
his triumph. "You will receive us _en garçon_, Sir William, dat will
be very good," said the Comtesse Leinsengen: "all I bargain for is dat
there should be no misses--dose unmarried women are always in de way."

Sir William was too much intoxicated with joy--too much absorbed
with the prospect of his increasing consequence in the eyes of the
fashionable world, when it should be announced that he had entertained
the Comtesse Leinsengen, Lady Tilney, and a party of distinguished
personages to dinner, at his house in May Fair, to pay attention to
any thing not immediately connected with the results which that dinner
would produce. He had heard not one word distinctly beyond the promised
acceptance of his invitation; although he continued mechanically to
reply, whenever he imagined himself addressed. "I am so glad to hear
you say so!--I am delighted to hear that!" At last, on recovering
a little, he perceived that Lady Tilney and her friend had entered
into an argument on the subject of the unmarried ladies, to whom
the Comtesse had alluded, and in which his dinner seemed entirely
forgotten, or likely to be so.

"Dey are always tinking of settlements, and jewels, and have nothing
to do but take notice of what oders are doing," rejoined the Comtesse
Leinsengen, in her most thrilling tone: "Our way is much de better dan
yours; we marry our children at once, or put them in de convents: dat
settles de matter, and make dem much happier too."

"I am not quite so sure of that point, my dear Comtesse," said Lady
Tilney, "although I own ladies are bores; but we manage the thing
in _our_ way, and as well at least: we let them _seem_ to please
themselves, which is half the battle towards making them satisfied with
the lot they draw, and we ourselves direct the entire _marche du jeu_.
You know I am for liberty in all things; liberty of choice as well as
conscience; but very young people do not know what they wish and it
is only when a little acquainted with the world that any body can be
said to have a choice." Sir William Temple remained in torture during
this discussion, and more than once wished all the unmarried ladies
in London, who thus seemed to step in between himself and fortune,
at the bottom of the sea. At length, tired, but not convinced, Lady
Tilney left her opponent in the middle of a sentence, and turning to
the unhappy Sir William, asked, "for what day shall I make our party at
your house?"

"I am delighted to hear you say that!" was the prompt and very sincere
answer of the person addressed. "Oh, any day you do me the honour to
appoint."

"Dat dinner of yours, Sir William, oh vraiment je me fais fête d'y
penser," cried the Comtesse Leinsengen, turning abruptly round to him,
and determined that her rival in argument should not have even that
subject entirely her own.

"I hate vaiting and puts off; we vill fix de day at once--vat say
you to Sunday? to-morrow--de Sunday is always frightful dull in your
country; 'tis the only day, besides, in which I am disengaged."

"I'm so glad to hear you say so," replied Sir William, "let it be
to-morrow," turning at the same time with a look of inquiry to Lady
Tilney.

"Oh, after church there is no objection to diverting one's-se1f
innocently; it is impossible to read and pray all day: besides I like
to make the Sunday, on principle, a gay, chearful day."

At this moment Lord Albert D'Esterre entered. "Shall I ask him for
to-morrow?" eagerly whispered Sir William into Lady Tilney's ear;
afraid lest the subject nearest his heart should again be usurped by
some other topic.

"Yes--no--yes, you may;" replied Lady Tilney; whose answer in the
affirmative was decided by her wish to know more of Lord Albert in
society, and a little also by Comtesse Leinsengen's having held cheap
her penetration in regard to the qualifications of the former for their
_société choisie_. The invitation was quickly given, and no excuse
would be admitted. While Lord Albert was endeavouring to extricate
himself from this importunity, and Sir William to convince him of
the impossibility of disobeying Lady Tilney's commands, which he
advanced to strengthen his cause, the Comtesse Leinsengen caught the
conversation:

"So, Milor, you will not be at de party to-morrow? an excuse vraiment!
when de people make _me excuse_, I know what dat means, and it is made
up in my mind never to ask dem again."

"When you have once expressed that horrible sentence," answered Lord
Albert, smiling, "it would surely be impossible to incur so great a
danger; but as I am really not able to give my assent to the very
obliging invitation, I shall not, I hope, be deemed deserving of the
penalty."

"What! _then_ you will _not_ accept?" asked the Comtesse Leinsengen
again, in her own abrupt tone of command.

"No; I lament I cannot." The Comtesse shrugged her shoulders, adding:

"What! you will not accept, I suppose, because it is Sunday; and you
are engaged all de day long to de Church; is it not dat--are you what
dey call a saint?" Lord Albert felt annoyed by the importunity with
which he had been assailed; and conceiving, according to his own ideas
of good breeding, that declining an invitation at first was sufficient,
he continued to look more grave and annoyed. Still as the Comtesse
repeated the question:

"Are you what dey call a saint?"

"No, a sinner certainly; but would I were indeed a saint."

"So den you condemn us all, I suppose, who do not keep de Sunday
stupidly _à la façon Angloise_? Vill you tell me now, Milor, vat you
tink one may do on a Sunday? I suppose you would not hang your cat,
_par exemple_, if she killed her mouse on Sunday, vould you?"

Lord Albert D'Esterre looked still more cold and grave, as he drew
himself up and leant against the back of the box, saying, that "it was
an unfitting time and place for such discussions, and that he begged
to be excused from entering upon them." Then bending forward to Lady
Tilney, who had remained silent, and saying a few words to her, he
bowed and retired.

"Il est farouche et fanfaron au possible," cried the Comtesse
Leinsengen, as he closed the door; "after to-night I have done vid him."

"He is only original; and it will be a great thing to soften his little
prejudices, and teach him to enjoy existence under your tuition,
if it were possible," said Sir William, making as low a bow as his
_embonpoint_ would permit, "'_to soften knotted oaks, and bend the
rocks_,' it would be done--"

Lady Tilney smiled at the mis-quotation, while the Comtesse Leinsengen
added in a tone of impatience: "but Miladi, do vat she vill, cannot
make a bore agreeable; but, ah!" turning round, "dere is Milor
Baskerville, how glad I am to have something humanized to talk to!
Milor, we have just had a saint in our box; do you not smell de odour
of sanctity very strong?"

"I am at a loss to know your meaning, Comtesse--pray explain;" and
when she did so, he replied; "Hem! from the first moment I saw him, I
suspected that stiff unnatural sort of manner had something sinister,
(hem!) I hope I am not worse than my neighbours, (hem!) but whenever
I hear any thing approaching to cant (hem!) I fly from it, (hem!) as
I would from all that I hold most detestable; (hem!) besides, since
his conduct to Tonnerre, I have considered him (hem!) hardly in the
light of a gentleman. (hem!) You heard, Comtesse, did you not, of that
affair? (hem!)"

"No, vat _affaire_ you speak of?"

"Oh, you know he nearly caused Tonnerre a most serious accident, and
(hem!) his favourite horse Chester, it is feared, is entirely ruined."

"No, I never heard one word of it, vat was it for?"--"Why, Tonnerre
(hem!) was riding up gently to speak (hem!) to Lady Hamlet Vernon
in the Park, (hem!) my Lord Albert D'Esterre, who was by her
carriage, (hem!) chose to turn his horse short round, and to shew his
horsemanship, spurred the animal, who plunged and kicked, and (hem!)
Tonnerre's horse was driven against the carriage and reared, and fell
back--(hem!) and--"

"And what did de oder Milor do--did he tumble off?"

"Yes, (hem!) at least I believe he did, but I don't know--we were all
so engaged, (hem!) in assisting Tonnerre--the last I saw of him was his
horse going through the Park Gate like a shot, for he can't ride."

"Baskerville," interrupted Lord Glenmore, who had entered the box,
and, while talking with Lady Tilney, had overheard the latter part of
this veracious history,--"Baskerville, you must pardon me if I correct
your statement a little. _You_ may have _heard_ the circumstances
only related, _I saw_ them--and if ever a man deserved having his
neck broke, and losing a favourite horse, it was Tonnerre. I never
witnessed any thing like the manner in which he rode, not _to_ Lady
Hamlet Vernon's carriage, _but at_ D'Esterre, and if the latter had
not been the excellent horseman he is, I think there might have been
more serious results accruing to both than actually happened. However,
Tonnerre and his horse are quite well, for I met both to-day." Lord
Baskerville had a mode of dropping the corners of his mouth, raising
his chin, and turning up his eyes, whenever he wished to shew signs
of contempt; but too discreet to offend a person of Lord Glenmore's
calibre, he managed to suppress them in some measure; and having heard
out what Lord Glenmore had to say, turned without answering him to the
Comtesse Leinsengen.

"Do not talk more about dat man, I pray you, I am tired to death of
his name," said the latter; "but tell me, Milor, vill you and Miladi
Baskerville meet me to-morrow at dinner? Miladi Tilney and myself are
going to do Sir William dere de honour to dine vid him, and vid our own
party."

Lord Baskerville looked amazed, and before he could recover his
surprise, Sir William himself seemingly confirmed the strange
announcement, by facing round and assuring _Baskerville_, as he called
him, on the strength of many a good dinner before, that "he should be
delighted to see him; and Lady Baskerville too, I hope will confer
the same honour upon me as these ladies." Lord Baskerville, ere he
answered, directed a look of inquiry to the Comtesse Leinsengen, to
ascertain if the matter were really serious.--"Oh, you must come vid
me," said the Comtesse, "I positively vill have no excuse."

"I am ever ready to obey your commands, Comtesse, you know, and--"

"I am delighted to hear you say so," cried Sir William. (Lord
Baskerville drew up.) "And Lady Baskerville?" continued the former.

"Hem! _I_ cannot _answer for Lady_ Baskerville, Sir William--but (hem!
hem!) I will certainly inform her of the invitation, and (hem!) should
she have no other engagement, (hem!) doubtless she will be most happy,
and (hem!) will wait upon you; (hem!) but dear me the Opera is ended,"
looking at his watch, and turning to Lady Tilney. "Oh those tiresome
bishops--really I wish people would not meddle with what (hem!) they
have nothing to do,--we are always now deprived of half our ballet on
the Saturdays." (hem!)

"_C'est vraiment ridicule_," murmured the Comtesse Leinsengen: "dere is
no country in de world where dis sort of foolish ting takes place but
in England."

"It is rather an infringement upon our liberties, I will allow,"
observed Lady Tilney, "to turn us out of our Opera boxes at a
particular hour."

"Liberty--liberty--dat liberty of the subject is all a farce, chere
Miladi; it is all a make believe, as I often have de honour of telling
you. Lord Baskerville, vill you be so obliging--my schall."

Lady Tilney, however, would not suffer the Comtesse to go till she
had spoken to her again on the subject of their _soirée_ at Lady
de Chere's. "The Duchess of Hermanton's night will be a very good
opportunity," she said; "to let the world know that we do not mingle in
societies of the kind; all the regulars, as they consider themselves,
look upon D'Hermanton House as head-quarters, and make a point of
attending like subalterns gaping for promotion; and if we are there
it will have the worst possible effect. Then again, such as we choose
to invite to Lady de Chere's, will understand what is meant, _sans
nous compromettre_, and hold off in future from engagements like the
D'Hermanton's. You know it would be unwise and impolitic to impart our
intentions to all indiscriminately who compose our circle; but we must
at the same time afford some guide for conduct. If we do as I propose
the affair will be very well understood, without our being unpleasantly
involved, and the system will answer well, n'êtes vous pas de mon
avis, chere Comtesse?"--"Peût-être qu'oui," was the Comtesse's answer,
accompanied by the habitual shrug of the shoulders; "and," continued
Lady Tilney, "I think there was every one at my house the other night
who ought to be invited. Shall I send Lady de Chere my list?"

"I will see about dat; but first we must know if Miladi vil do as
we wish. Laissez-moi faire, j'arrangerai tout ça," and taking Lord
Baskerville's arm, she was leaving the box--

"But what shall we do about dat dinner to-morrow, chere Miladi?" she
added in a lower tone to Lady Tilney.

"Oh go, by all means; he is well enough--will be so pleased that we may
do henceforth as we like with him, and it allows others to hope for the
same honour."

"Vell, den, I vill go--remember Milor you are engaged to me to-morrow."
Lord Baskerville made one of his most refined bows. "And who else shall
we have?" asked the Comtesse of Lady Tilney.

"Oh! I don't know; there are the Boileaus and Lord Gascoyne, and Prince
Luttermanne, and Lord Tonnerre."

"Dose vill do very well; I vill tell dem if I see dem in de room.
Adieu, chere Miladi. Ve shall dine vid you to-morrow, Sir William," she
added as she left the box.

"I am delighted to hear you say so!" replied the happy Sir William
Temple.

"May this be true!--O may it--can it be;--Is it by any wonder
possible?" whispered Spencer Newcombe, who had heard the Comtesse
Leinsengen's last words, and now approached Sir William with affected
surprise.

"Come, my master; if so, the great ones shall not have you all to
themselves," he continued: "I too will dine with you to-morrow. Lady
Tilney, are you of the party?"

"Yes."

"Why, where is the sign now? have ye e'er a calendar--where's the sign,
trow you?" Spencer continued saying.

"The what?" asked Sir William.

"The sign--Believe me there's a most secret power in that! Court any
woman in the right sign, Sir William, as you have done, and you shall
not miss."

"I am delighted to hear you say so!" replied Sir William.

"I believe he thinks you allude to the sign-post of an inn," whispered
Lord Boileau, who had joined the party, "and it suits well enough to a
dinner-giving man like him." Lady Tilney now prepared to leave the box;
and taking the arm of the Duke of Mercington, was followed by all the
men who had paid their visit and their court to her.

Sir William seemed to look with pride on the world behind him, as he
mingled in the crowd; conscious of the mark of fashion which would from
the morrow be emblazoned on his brow; and in the hurry of the throng,
and in the quiet of his pillow, the glory of his future success and
progress alike presented itself to him that night in a thousand forms.




CHAPTER VII.

THE DINNER.


When Lord Baskerville announced to Lady Baskerville the names of those
who composed Sir William Temple's dinner party, she was sufficiently
astonished; but felt there could be no compromise in being present, and
at once accepted his invitation. The affair being considered rather in
the light of a party to Richmond, or some similar gaiety, several of
the guests went together. Prince Luttermanne attended Lady Tilney; the
Boileaus joined Lady Hamlet Vernon; and Lord Baskerville engaged his
friend Lord Tonnerre to accompany himself and Lady Baskerville.

As the carriage of the latter proceeded down ---- street, they passed
the church at the moment when Lord Albert D'Esterre was leaving the
door, after evening service. Lady Baskerville's quick eye immediately
recognized him, although mingled in a crowd of those denominated the
common people; and pointing him out to Lord Tonnerre, the latter asked,
in his usual tone of command,

"What can _he_ be doing in that crowd?"

"Isn't it Sunday?" rejoined Lord Baskerville, yawning. "He has been, I
suppose, (hem!) to some conventicle. (hem!)"

"Yes, he looks like one of those d--d Methodists, who would ring people
to church from morning to night, by G--;" (Lord Tonnerre forgot that
swearing was no longer a fashionable vice) "they ought to be scouted
from society."

"True," replied Lord Baskerville, "I think (hem!) that it would do a
great deal of good to society, if (hem!) they were all run up, _à la
lanterne_."

"Ay, hang them--hang them as high as you can see," continued Lord
Tonnerre; "rid the land of them any how. There's my father--I wish _he_
had them for once in his hands; there's not a stricter person on earth
than my father; he'll suffer no immorality, he'll have no profligacy
in the family; but if one of these canting rascals was ever known to
cross his door, or to be found on his estates, he'd make short work
with him--he'd send him away with marks which the fellow would carry
to his grave,--by G-- would he. All this comes, however, from the
manner in which we pass our Sundays. I hate foreigners and all their
d--d ways; but they act more sensibly than we do in regard to Sunday:
they let the people amuse themselves after church. It's right to go to
church, and all that,--that I'll allow; but I am sure the common people
would be much better afterwards with what is fitting for them, quoits,
or nine-holes, or cricket, or something to busy them with, instead of
going to Methodist meetings, where they turn saints, merely because
they have no better amusement; unless, indeed, it be the alehouse."

"And there get drunk," remarked Lady Baskerville; "that would be
vastly better, vastly more moral. When you and Baskerville rule the
state, things will be much better managed, no doubt." This was said
half sneeringly; for Lady Baskerville for some reason was not in very
good humour.

"Hem!" rejoined Lord Baskerville; "I must beg your Ladyship would limit
what you say to yourself. It is (hem!) a liberty I _never_ take _with
you_, to say what you _would_ or would _not_ do (hem!)" Upon this a
silence ensued in the trio; when a few minutes broke the awkwardness
occasioned by it, and they found themselves arrived at Sir William
Temple's door.

Lord Tonnerre offered his arm to Lady Baskerville as they alighted;
while Lord Baskerville, to avoid the unfashionable appearance of
entering the room with his wife, stopped, seemingly for the purpose of
giving orders to his servants, till such time as he imagined he could
walk in alone. There were arrived of the party only Lady Tilney and
Prince Luttermanne. Lord Baskerville, having made his bow, retired
to a sofa, discomposed at finding that the Comtesse Leinsengen, on
whose appearance he had staked the whole of his consequence, and the
excuse of his presence, was not yet come. Lord Tonnerre too, displeased
that Sir William Temple continued to occupy Lady Baskerville with the
profusion of his acknowledgments for the honour done him, and that Lady
Tilney appeared too much engaged to notice any one, stood for some
moments in gloomy silence, when at length Lord Somerton entered.

"How d'ye do, Somerton?--glad to see you," was Sir William's salutation
to his guest, as he held out a finger to him, and continued talking to
Lady Baskerville.

"Tonnerre," said Lord Somerton, turning away from this brief reception
with a degree of contempt; "come aside, I have something to tell
you;" when a deep discussion on matters interesting and intelligible
to the former seemed to ensue, since it was productive of a partial
relaxation of the scowl which generally characterized his face when he
felt himself, as in the present instance, overlooked, or when subjects
indifferent to him, or above his comprehension, were alluded to.

Lady Tilney, hitherto absorbed in her conversation with Prince
Luttermanne, now looked up, and addressing Lady Baskerville with an air
of protection, invited her to come and take the seat next to her. "What
a vastly pretty cap you have on!--do tell me where you got it; and, my
dear Lady Baskerville, if you have nothing better to do, pray don't
forget to come to me to-morrow night. Have you seen any thing of Lord
Albert D'Esterre to-day? What do _you_ think of him? _I_ can hardly
understand him yet; sometimes I think one thing, sometimes another.
They say he is a Methodist--how extraordinary! if he was not young, or
not handsome, or not _d'une bonne tournure_, one might suppose such a
thing; but as it is I don't believe it--do you?"

"I have not seen enough of him to judge," was the cautious reply
(for Lady Baskerville could be cautious where so deep a stake was at
hazard as fashionable consideration); "but I think he rather affects
singularity."

"Perhaps so; but then you know he will soon correct that fault when he
has lived a little longer amongst us. I have heard that he is engaged
to be married;--do you know if it is true?"

"I did hear," said Lady Baskerville, "something about a Lady Adeline
Seymour, a cousin of his who has been brought up in the shades, and is
said to be a world's wonder of beauty, and purity, and perfection; but
the engagement was an affair of the papa's and mamma's, and probably
the parties themselves will hate each other in consequence."

At this moment the Comtesse Leinsengen was announced, and then
followed Lord and Lady Boileau, Lady Hamlet Vernon, Mr. Spencer
Newcombe, and Lord Gascoigne, each received with that portion and kind
of welcome which marked a well-studied knowledge of Debrett on the part
of Sir William Temple, who felt himself the deity of the day, and who,
complimentary, facetious, pompous, _affairé_, and familiar by turns,
according to the _calibre_ of the person he addressed, moved about
the apartments like some presiding Joss or Amsterdam Cupid. The whole
party were at length assembled, the dinner announced, and the company
withdrew to enjoy the very best _artiste's_ best efforts, put forth on
an occasion so replete with honour and distinction to his _employé_.
Lord Baskerville contrived to place himself next to the Comtesse
Leinsengen, whose hand, in her _qualité d'ambassadrice_, the master of
the feast had shewn his skill in precedence by soliciting, as he led
the way to the dining-room; a circumstance, by the way, fortunate for
him on his _début_, for although Lord Baskerville's arm would have been
far more agreeable, yet the Comtesse would never have pardoned such a
neglect of her grade in favour of her dear friend Lady Tilney.

Of the other arrangements of the party it would be unnecessary to
speak, and equally useless to catalogue the dinner itself. It is
known to all that in London, after the first few weeks of the season,
every one's table who gives a dinner is covered in exactly the same
way--there may be degrees of excellence in the flavour and science of
the dishes; but the things themselves are, as the Geneva traveller said
of travelling, "_toujours la même chose, toutes les villes sont les
mêmes, vous avez des maisons à droite et des maisons à gauche--et la
rue au milieu--c'est toujours la même chose_."

It is true there are certain critical periods in a spring season,
in which nature's fruits, still immatured, are brought to perfection
by the fostering hand of man; and on these the deep and skilful in
gastronomy will seize as apt occasions for a display of superior taste
and refinement; then, and then only is it, as is well known, that
cucumbers are lawful, green peas to be suffered, and strawberries and
peaches tolerated; but beyond this there is even yet another point--"a
grace beyond the reach of art"--the very North Pole of elegance--the
paradox, it may be called, of the gastronomic system--it is to display
these productions when positively they are not to be got. Happy the man
who so succeeds--thrice happy Sir William, that on this day the stars
so ordered it, that while London was yet innocent of cucumbers or peas,
you should be profuse of both;--that when peaches and strawberries had
not so much as crossed the thoughts of the most refined, they too in
abundance graced your board. Oh! happy consummation of those honours,
which from the last evening seemed about to centre round your head, and
raise you to the pinnacle of gastronomy and of _ton_. During the first
moments of all dinners a very few monosyllables are uttered--a sort of
murmuring conversation then ensues between the parties nearest each
other,--till at last one individual more gifted or more hardy than the
rest hazards a remark across the table, and the talking becomes general.

It was Lady Tilney who on the present occasion broke the monotony
of those half-audible sounds that whispered round the table. "Lord
Gascoigne," she said aloud, "I hope you are really going to put down
that vile newspaper, The ----, it is a disgrace to London."

"I should have thought that you, Lady Tilney, would rather have upheld
a paper of its principles, and which affords such a proof of what you
always profess to have so much at heart--the liberty of the press."

"You must pardon me, it has nothing to do with the liberty of the
press,--but a great deal with its abuse,--besides, the liberty of the
press applies only to politics--not to private affairs."

"_C'est selon_," replied Lord Gascoigne with provoking suavity of
manner; "if we publish ourselves what we do, we court public remark."

"She cannot forget or forgive," whispered Spencer Newcombe to Lord
Baskerville, "that she herself was once the target at which some of the
severest shots of this paper were sent."

"How?" asked the latter.

"Why, when, for party's sake, she was once about to take a step.... I
cannot tell you about it now--some other time," he added, as he turned
to Lady Boileau, who had asked the same question of him thrice.

"Publish ourselves! my dear Lord," continued Lady Tilney to Lord
Gascoigne, "why we never do that if our actions attract notice from our
situation."

"They should be more looked to," was the reply of the latter,
interrupting her; "if there is nothing to censure, the satirist's
occupation is gone."

"Vraiment Milor treats de subject en moraliste, and as if himself vas
a paragon of excellence dat could not err. Pray, Milor, do you always
tink so wisely on vat you do, dat you never do nothing wrong yourself?"

"Oh, do wrong--yes a thousand times a day, Comtesse,--but when I do,
I do not quarrel with the world because it will not think me right,
nor if it call me a fool or a knave, am I angry--for perhaps it is a
truth--at any rate, other and better men than I have been called the
same."

"It is an execrable paper," said Lady Tilney; "and ought to be burnt by
the hangman."

"It is an abominable ting," said the Comtesse Leinsengen, "and would
not be suffered in any country but England."--Lady Tilney would have
interrupted her, but the Comtesse was bent on proceeding: "I repeat,
as I have often had de honor to tell you, dat de English are a people
of contradictions; dey talk always of dere great _purité_,--dere
_virtue_--and den suffer so quietly all dose vile tings to be said of
dem in de public prints." Lord Gascoigne, who did not care one straw
what was said either of himself or any one else, perceiving he had
sufficiently fanned the growing indignation of Lady Tilney by his
apparent callousness to public attack, for a moment remained silent,
amused to hear the topic discussed in other hands. Lady Tilney loved
argument, and for its sake often adopted opinions which at other times
she would as strongly have opposed.

"If the things alluded to _are done_," she continued, addressing
herself to the Comtesse Leinsengen, "they are _better told_--I always
like every thing to be told."

"Vid de exception always, ma chere amie, of vat concerns one's-self,"
replied the Comtesse sharply.

"But I deny that there is any truth," rejoined Lady Tilney, not
appearing to notice this last remark; "I deny that there is any truth
in any thing that comes through such an abominable channel as that
paper; all its remarks are the offspring of impertinent malice or
envious vulgarity, and all its facts, falsehoods."

"Hem!" said Lord Baskerville, in his slowest and most imposing tone,
"these things have always been, Lady Tilney, and always will be. Some
satirist or other, (hem!) has always lived since the Flood, from
Lycophron down to our own day, to lash the vice and follies of the
age, as _they_ say; but in fact to indulge that spleen which is common
to the canaille at all periods. And after all, what does it signify?
Nobody thinks about any thing that is said of any body--hem!--nine days
after it is said--hem!"

"If I ever saw _my_ name in that d--d paper," exclaimed Lord Tonnerre,
while his brow was knit in tremendous frowns, "if ever allusion were
made to me--the writer should eat his words."

"My dear Tonnerre," rejoined Lord Gascoigne, once more taking up the
conversation, "you would find he has an ostrich's stomach. But why
should such a toy trouble you?"

"By G----, the writer shall suffer," replied Lord Tonnerre, furiously,
"he shall suffer--he shall pay--"

"Who," asked Lady Boileau quietly, "who shall pay?"

"The scoundrel--the ---- who has dared to use my name," answered Lord
Tonnerre, after several efforts at utterance, which his passion for
some moments impeded.

"But you must discover _who_ is the _who_," replied Lord Gascoigne,
with provoking calmness of manner.--"Junius himself was never hid so
successfully as is this writer. You will find it fencing in the dark,
Tonnerre, if you meddle with him.--But I see you are angry; now take my
advice, when you are so use this antidote--it is an excellent rule I
learned from my grandfather--repeat your alphabet; and that being done,
your anger will be over too." Lord Tonnerre's face moved convulsively
in every muscle, and his whole frame seemed to writhe under the words
of Lord Gascoigne.

"He boils like a pot," whispered Spencer Newcombe.

"Oh, do not vex him, pray," said Lady Baskerville; "he is _only
nervous_."

"Mad, mad!" rejoined Lord Gascoigne, "pray take heed." With many hems
and ha's, Sir William Temple remarked, that for his part he thought it
cruel to delight in mischief; that to him it always appeared a most
uncharitable practice to wound another's feelings--and somewhat rude
too; fit only for the vulgar.

"The pleasure or amusement," he continued, "of saying ill-natured
things is quite beyond my comprehension--quite inconceivable. I
remember, when I used to live a good deal at D---- House, there was a
rule established that no one should notice, remark, or seem to observe
what was passing;--it was considered so very vulgar to interfere
with other people's affairs--all were left at large without account
or question--and the consequence was, there never was any thing so
enchanting since the world began as that society--so _suave_, so
equal, so gentle, so serene;--not a voice ever heard louder than a
whisper--every one so well amused, every one so well employed, that
_ennui_ was unknown. There never was any thing to compare to that
society."

"_De graces!_" exclaimed the Comtesse Leinsengen, as Sir William
concluded this effusion of his reminiscences, "_de graces!_ do not tell
us, Sir Villiam, of _vat_ VAS: to talk of _tings_ gone being delightful
is like telling a woman who is _passée_, 'I remember when you were so
admired.' De ting to talk of is _to-day_."

"Oh, of course," rejoined Sir William, taking the Comtesse's last words
_au pied de la lettre_, "of course the society of to-day--the society
_here_--is _par excellence_, the most delightful in the world." A nod
here passed between Spencer Newcombe and Lord Gascoigne, indicative of
Sir William having escaped from his blunders with more adroitness than
they had given him credit for; and at the same moment the ladies rose
to depart.

"_Vraiment_," exclaimed the Comtesse Leinsengen, as she entered the
drawing-rooms, "I do tink, as we are de deities of dis fête, ces
messieurs might for once have broken through dere abominable customs,
and accompanied us; but dat terrible Lord Somerton and dat young milor
Tonnerre would tink, I suppose, de constitution in danger, if dey did
not remain at de table after de ladies.--I vonder, Miladi Baskerville,
comme Milor est votre éléve, dat you do not teach him better."

"Dear Comtesse, not I, I assure you--it is quite enough to take care
of one's-self; I never interfere with other people's affairs--nothing
would induce me to undertake any body's education."

"I believe you are very wise," said Lady Boileau; "the _laissez faire_
and the _laissez aller_ is the best rule."

"I do not quite agree with you in that," said Lady Tilney; "how could
we have a pleasant or a distinguished society if that system was
allowed to prevail? how could we--"

"La! what sinifies dat?" said the Comtesse Leinsengen, as she arranged
her _bérin_ at the glass; "_Vos milliners ne valent rien_--I have just
sent to Paris, and then I shall have a _coiffure_ that will not be so
hideous."

"Did you observe the Duchesse D'Hermanton's last dress?" asked Lady
Baskerville; "she did think it was perfection; one feather on the top
of another, flower upon flower, flounce upon flounce, jewel upon jewel,
till she was one mass of moving millinery--I never saw such a figure
since the days of Lady Aveling's ambassadress' glory."

"Vat sinifie vat dose women do? D'ailleurs les Angloises ont toujours
singé les modes." In this, and similar conversation, passed the hour of
separation in the drawing-rooms, while at the dinner-table the subject
of discussion possessed as little interest as is generally found in
society so constituted.

"Baskerville, Boileau, Gascoigne," said Sir William Temple, as he
resumed his chair after the departure of the ladies, "will you not come
up, and in the short absence we are doomed to suffer from our fair
companions, let us find comfort in this poor earthly Nectar?" (Sir
William believed his wines to be the best in creation.) "Baskerville,
what wine do you take?"

"Claret," was the reply of the latter, accompanied by a look of
surprise which seemed to say, "of course."--"Did you ever hear such a
question!" he added in an under-tone to Lord Boileau.

"Never--he might as well have asked if one would try Chambertin
after _Truites à l'Aurore_, or _Clos de Voguet_ after _Bécasses à la
Luculle_!" rejoined Lord Baskerville.

"Fools were made for jests to men of sense," whispered Spencer Newcomb,
"and I know of no one who affords more amusement than my friend there,
Sir William."

"How officious and _affairé_ he was in contriving this party," said
Lord Gascoigne.

"And how puzzled, lame, and lost in prosecuting it!" rejoined the other.

"He is a most substantial ass," said Lord Baskerville.

"Tonnerre," asked Sir William at the moment, and affecting to vary the
theme, according to the taste of the person, "Do you know which is the
favourite for the Derby?"

"Gad, he turns his words as many ways as a lathe," whispered Lord
Gascoigne again--"understands all subjects alike, and is as learned as
the occult philosopher of Hudibras."

"And as much renowned for profound and solid stupidity," rejoined the
latter. A laugh escaped at these words; and as their "ha! ha! ha!"
passed round, Sir William laughed louder.

"Very good that, Spencer, I just caught the end of it--the point is
always in the tail you know."

"He caught it," said Lord Gascoigne, repeating the words, and looking
at Spencer Newcomb; "do you think he did?"

"If it was with his mouth, he might certainly--for it is large enough
to catch any thing--and he is welcome; I give him my jest for his
dinner, it is the only return I ever make."

"And you thrive on your bargain generally, Spencer, I should suppose."

"How long do you think I took from Penzance to town?" said Lord
Tonnerre aloud; and without waiting for any reply added,--"Eighteen
hours by ----, in hack chaises too, changing every stage."

"_I_ do not conceive it much to do," rejoined Lord Baskerville. "I
remember, (hem!) once leaving town seven hours after the mail; and
though I had rips of horses, I arrived, (hem!) at twenty minutes before
his Majesty's stage coach, (hem!)"

"Well," said Lord Gascoigne, "well, Basky, that is excellent,--ha! ha!
ha! that is excellent,--ha! ha! ha!" The abbreviation of his patronymic
was always distasteful to Lord Baskerville, and on this occasion he not
only felt his dignity compromised by the license of Lord Gascoigne's
address, but was himself offended by the covert suspicion conveyed
of the substantiality of the fact he had related; turning therefore
away with an air of contempt, he addressed himself to another of the
party. Lord Gascoigne, however, was not so easily to be silenced, and
exchanging looks with those who had watched the scene, added, with very
provoking calmness,

"Basky, you were not offended, I hope, with any thing I said, I meant
only--"

"Not at all," replied Lord Baskerville, the corners of his mouth
dropping in the exact angle of scorn by which, as a mathematical man of
_ton_, he would have described his contempt of the speaker,--"not at
all, Gascoigne; I beg you won't think of it;"--and he turned again to
the party with whom he was conversing.

"Beat--beat, Gascoigne," exclaimed Spencer Newcomb.--Lord Baskerville
looked around with a dignified air, and for a moment silence ensued,
not however without a wink passing from Spencer Newcomb, implying that
they had gone as far as was advisable. But Lord Gascoigne was not to be
stopped without a farewell shot, as he added, "Well, Baskerville, we
start at eight, and breakfast at nine, is it not so?" The latter again
tried to look grave, but obliged at length in self-defence to join in
the laugh which followed these words, he let fall for an instant the
mask that too often covered his most trivial actions, and appeared the
good-hearted good-humoured creature nature had made him.

"Somerton," said Sir William Temple, breaking the subject of
conversation, "do you remember when you were at my chateau in the
north?"

"Yes," was the dry reply he received from one who, though he eat
his dinners, held him in the most sovereign disdain, and this "yes"
sounded harshly on the ears of Sir William, living as he did in the
praises bestowed on his establishments, and never losing an opportunity
of referring to the subject of them; nor was he less annoyed, as he
observed a whisper pass between his northern guest and Lord Tonnerre,
to whom Lord Somerton had turned after his very short and laconic
reply, and added,

"The fellow had one covey of partridges, two dozen of Burgundy, and a
mistress; I made love to the one, drank the other, killed the third,
and then quitted."

"Good," said Spencer Newcomb, who had overheard what passed; "he would
have pardoned you, however, the first, if you had praised the others."

"No doubt he would," replied Lord Somerton, "but on my conscience I
could not do it, and I presume he feels this as well as myself, for
I shall make him give me a dinner the first day in the week I am
disengaged." Thus fared Sir William Temple in the hands of those for
whom he had lavished, and _incessantly_ lavished, an expense which, if
properly directed, would have rendered him an amiable, respectable, and
happy individual. As it was, he spent his money on objects despicable
in themselves, and for persons absolutely turning him into ridicule
while enjoying his bounty.

The party from the dining-table soon after arose, some having
attained the object for which alone they came, the enjoyment of
a dinner; others who had yet a further motive, ascended to the
drawing-rooms, and after passing there sufficient time to complete
arrangements, arrange departures, and fix dry points that needed
discussion for the morrow's amusement or occupation, took their
departure also, leaving Sir William Temple to feed on the empty
honour which remained to him, of having entertained in his house in
May-fair so distinguished a party; none of whom, however, beyond the
dinner-living Lord Somerton, Spencer Newcomb, and one or two lordlings,
ever intended to think more of him for the future.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE CONTRAST.


On the evening of Sir William Temple's dinner-party, the invitation
to which Lord Albert had declined, he retired at an early hour to
his study; and having closed his door, he sat some minutes with his
head reclining on his hands, endeavouring to shut out the frivolous
insignificances of many late past evenings, and to recal those of a
very different description and tendency.

A sweet and silvery tone of feeling analogous to a fine Wilson that
hung opposite to his writing-table, shed a serene, self-satisfying
sensation over his mind; it might be a false complacency, yet
complacency for the time being it was--and he opened his writing-box,
in the lid of which was a portrait. This portrait represented a very
youthful girl intently busied in copying a bust, the likeness of
himself. A flush passed over his countenance, his eyes sparkled, and a
genuine sensation of rapture thrilled through his heart, as he said,

"Oh! how superior to all I now see around me--young, innocent,
intelligent, the dignity of human nature is here! Gazing at this image,
I can never err; it would recal me to the path of rectitude were I
ever so inclined to swerve from it." At that moment a letter caught
his attention; it was still unanswered--again he coloured, for it had
remained so since the preceding morning; and such a letter! Now with an
eagerness that would have redeemed the slight, he actually kissed the
opened page; and previous to replying to it, re-perused the following
contents of

 LADY ADELINE SEYMOUR'S LETTER.

 "I think it a long time, dearest Albert, since I have heard from you.
 But then you are so busy, and have so many things to do; whereas I
 have nothing to do, but to count up minutes, days, and hours; yet
 this is so wrong, that I blame myself even for thinking, much more
 for writing the thought; and would blot out the dissatisfied words,
 but that I promised you should know truly, and without disguise, what
 really passed in my mind.

 "After what I heard good Mr. Adams preach last Sunday, how dare I
 wish to hurry on time, when I make so poor a use of it? Indeed, dear
 Albert, when I think seriously, I do not wish it; but when I feel that
 we are parted, and yield to that feeling, why then I am a wayward
 creature. Does not this prove, my dear Albert, how cautiously we ought
 to look into our hearts, since out of them are the issues of life? I
 will do so; I will try to do so, if God will help me; for it is only
 by this watching that I shall render myself at all worthy of you.
 Mamma said to me the other day:

 "'My dear love, remember that marriage is a state necessarily
 imposing many duties, and accumulating many cares; this in its
 happiest instances must ever be the case; it is wisely ordered that
 it should be so. But it is a state honoured by God and man, and opens
 upon a wide field for self-improvement. If entered upon in this view,
 it brings with its pains many delights and consolations, both for
 this world and the next; but if it is engaged in rashly, merely for
 the purpose of running a more unchecked career, or for the unworthy
 purposes of aggrandizement in rank and fortune apart from nobler
 views, it never fails to produce disappointment, and it may be,
 disgust of life and endless misery.'

 "What a terrible picture, my Albert! But I cannot conceive it
 possible that any body should marry from any motive but attachment,
 and therefore I can hardly persuade myself that any of these awful
 consequences are likely to attend on marriage; only my Bible shews me
 the insufficiency of all mere mortal trusts; and Mamma, I know, never
 says what she does not think is true; therefore I must try and prepare
 myself for becoming such a wife to you as will secure our mutual
 felicity. The little book we exchanged on the day you left us, I read
 morning and evening, and as soon as it is finished I begin it again;
 so when you are reading yours, you may be certain we are pronouncing
 the same words, thinking the same thoughts, lifting up our hearts
 together to the God who made us.

 "How thankful we ought to be for good books; are they not messengers
 from heaven? And yet how we slight them. Often, when engaged in my
 morning's duty of reading, my wandering mind turns so frequently
 to drawing, to music, or any other exercise, that at length I
 have punished myself by determining not to have recourse to these
 recreations till I can moderate my ardour for them, and enjoy them
 only as recreations; they _ought not_ to be more--all beyond is
 idolatry. I have of late, too, engaged myself in active duties among
 the poor around our neighbourhood; and my rides to their different
 habitations give me such additional health and spirits, that I am
 always ready to laugh at all Mr. Foley's silly jokes. My heart is so
 light, and I feel so happy--I see no end to all the diverting things
 I have in view, and some day or another when, please God, I am really
 your wife, all the schemes I form for the benefit of those within the
 circle of my influence will be fully realized.

 "What an extended sphere of usefulness will then be mine, and oh!
 my Albert! what an awful responsibility too will then attach to my
 situation! I pray daily that I may be enabled to meet it as I ought.
 What I grudge most is, the time which I am now frequently forced to
 lose, in being civil to our dull neighbours here; and I do confess
 that to sit amused by Miss Grimsdale's side, while she talks over
 the last county ball, or to listen to old Lady Henniker's history
 of her ménage with becoming patience, is a trial for which no
 self-complacency in the idea, that I am making a sacrifice to oblige
 others, does in any degree compensate. But Mamma smiles when she hears
 me answering _tout a rebours_, and sees my fingers entangling the
 silks, and tells me afterwards that we are not to live to ourselves,
 and that in fact to please others, when not neglecting, any positive
 duty, is a minor virtue. I am sure she is right--but, dear Albert, I
 feel on such occasions how difficult it is to be good! Mr. Foley, to
 whom I expressed myself thus the other day, told me, 'I talked a great
 deal of nonsense, though I was a very charming person altogether,'
 and ended by asking me seriously--'What wrong I thought it possible
 I could do, living as I did?' How ignorant he must be of the state
 of the human heart, not to know that our best efforts are faulty,
 our purest actions imperfect! I stared at him, and then attempted to
 explain to him that all our thoughts, words, and actions, are marked
 with inherent error. He stared at me in return, and, looking at me
 incredulously, asked 'do you really mean what you say?'

 "'Most assuredly,' I replied; 'can any one mean otherwise?' Then he
 looked very grave indeed, sighed heavily, and said, 'it was a sad
 thing to see one so fair and young imbued with such false ideas--ideas
 which in the end would make me wretched.' I laughed, as I assured him
 that it was he that was deceived, and who would be wretched; that as
 for myself, I was the gayest, happiest creature upon earth; and all
 I had to dread was, loving the world too well, and seeing it in too
 fair a light. I had not a corner of my heart, I said, unoccupied, or
 a minute in the day unemployed; and besides that, my reliance upon
 God made me feel as if I never could be perfectly unhappy under any
 circumstances.

 "But no sooner were these words uttered, than my heart smote me,
 for I thought of _you_, dear Albert, and suddenly a cloud seemed to
 pass over me, and my deceitful heart sickened at the thought of the
 possibility of losing you; and then I knew how ill I was prepared to
 yield that perfect obedience which we are called upon to yield to the
 will of heaven.--I believe my countenance betrayed somewhat of this
 self-condemning spirit, for Mr. Foley quickly asked, whilst fixing his
 searching eyes on mine, 'What, is there _nothing_ which could make you
 miserable?' and I trembled, and blushed, and felt a tear of shame rise
 in my eye, as I answered:

 "'Perhaps I deceive myself, and think of myself too highly.
 Perhaps--in short--at all events, I know that I am _trying_ so to
 feel, and so to think.' He laughed contemptuously, saying:

 "'I guessed how it was--poor Lady Adeline! this false system is
 spreading fearfully indeed!' What could he mean? Mamma told me on my
 repeating to her this conversation, 'that to many persons Mr. Foley
 would be a dangerous man; but not to you, my child; and I have a
 love for that wayward creature, the son of the dearest friend I ever
 possessed, which makes me incline to overlook his faults, and hope
 that he will amend them. Who knows but the mode of life we lead may
 be the means of sowing some good seed in his heart? However, my dear
 child, encourage not his conversation on such points.' I believe Mamma
 is right, for notwithstanding my dislike of his irreligious tenets, he
 is so well-informed, and so very diverting, that I cannot help being
 entertained by him. And in many respects I assure you, Albert, he is a
 good man, and general report bespeaks him such. He is very charitable;
 is kind to people in distress; and goes regularly to church, when he
 is with us--is not all this very unaccountable with his strange way
 of talking to me? I do not understand it, and indeed it is not worth
 thinking much about, one way or the other. Write to me, dear Albert,
 and tell me what your opinion is upon this subject. I wish in all
 things to conform to your wishes, and to model my opinion on yours:
 for I well know your excellent principles and unerring judgment.
 To-morrow, I allow myself to return to the delight of copying your
 dear bust, '_O che festa!_'--Sometimes (I am almost ashamed of telling
 you) I divert myself with putting my caps and hats on it, and please
 myself with the idea that it is very like _me_--do not laugh and call
 me 'foolish child!' Now I dislike that _you_ should call me child;
 remember the day you receive this I shall be seventeen, so put on all
 your gravity and consider me with due respect.

 "The menagerie is thriving; I visit our pets every day, and you will
 find them in fine condition when you return,--when will that be? I
 wish the time were come, don't you? Good night, good night, for there
 is no end to this writing. I must end. Again good night. Dearest
 Albert, I am, heart and soul, your own

       "ADELINE SEYMOUR."

"Sweet, pure Adeline!" cried Lord Albert, "how shall I answer
this letter." He seized a pen, and in the first glow of fondness
and admiration, which such a letter and such a portrait before him
inspired, he filled two pages, not less tender or sincere than those
which had been addressed to himself: when he was suddenly disturbed by
hearing a bustle and violent clattering of horses in the street, and at
the same time the voices of some of his own servants. This increasing,
he rang the bell to inquire the cause, and no one answering, he at
length opened the door of an apartment and called to the porter,
asking what was the matter? He was answered, that a carriage had been
overturned opposite his door, and it was wished to bring the lady who
had suffered from the accident into his Lordship's house.

"By all means, immediately," Lord Albert exclaimed; "afford every
assistance possible;" and in a few instants a lady was borne in by two
domestics. She was immediately placed, apparently insensible, on a
couch in an adjoining apartment. The female attendants were summoned
to her aid, and Lord Albert himself supported her head on his breast:
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "it is Lady Hamlet Vernon! Send off
directly for Doctor Meynell." A stream of blood flowed over her face,
and in order to ascertain where she was wounded it was necessary to let
down her hair, which fell in glossy masses over her neck and shoulders.
The glass of the carriage window, against which Lady Hamlet Vernon had
fallen, was the cause of the catastrophe; and though the injury was
not found to be dangerous, the wound had been sufficiently severe to
occasion a suffusion of blood. The physician soon arrived, and having
examined the extent of the evil, applied remedies and administered
restoratives to the terrified Lady Hamlet Vernon, who was shortly after
restored to her senses, and enabled to explain the cause of her having
met with so dangerous an accident.

"She was returning," she said, "from Sir William Temple's
dinner-party, when her coachman, whom she supposed was intoxicated,
drove furiously, and the carriage coming in contact with the
curb-stone at the corner of the street, overturned, was dashed with
violence against the pavement, and broken to pieces." This account
was corroborated by her footmen, who had miraculously escaped unhurt.
Lady Hamlet then expressed her thanks at having received such prompt
and kind assistance, and Doctor Meynell having pronounced it as his
opinion, that if she remained quiet for a few days, she would find no
disagreeable effects result from the accident, and that she might with
safety be removed to her own house, Lord Albert's carriage was ordered
to convey her thither. "I am happy, indeed, to think it is thus," said
Lord Albert; "and that I have been of the least use is most gratifying
to me."

This adventure, related in a few words, occupied an hour or more in
its actual occurrence; and Lord Albert had had leisure to remark the
symmetry of form and feature for which Lady Hamlet Vernon had been so
long celebrated. He might have beheld Lady Hamlet for ever, rouged and
dressed in public, and have passed her by unnoticed; but when he beheld
her pale, dishevelled, in pain, and dependent on him at the moment for
relief, he thought her exquisitely fair, and there entered a degree of
romantic illusion in this accident which roused his fancy, while her
sufferings touched the friendly feelings of his nature.

As he assisted her to her carriage, they passed through the room
where he had been sitting previous to her arrival; the candles were
still burning, and his papers lay in confusion around, the writing-box
was open, in the lid of which was the portrait of Lady Adeline. Lady
Hamlet Vernon pausing, complained of a momentary feeling of faintness,
and threw herself on a chair close to the writing-table; her eyes in
an instant were rivetted on the picture, and at the same moment Lord
Albert's hand closed it from her view. There was nothing that demanded
secrecy in his possessing Lady Adeline's picture. His engagement to his
cousin was generally known, and his having her portrait, therefore,
was no offence against propriety; but every body who has loved will
understand the feeling, that the sacredness of their heart's affections
is broken in upon, if an indifferent or casual eye rest upon a treasure
of the kind. Lady Hamlet Vernon spoke not, but her looks testified what
they had seen; while he remained confused, and seemed glad when she
proposed moving again to the carriage.

"I am afraid," she said, her voice trembling as she spoke, "I am
afraid my accident has been the occasion of breaking in upon your
retirement, and disturbing you out of a most delightful reverie. I
shall regret this the more if it makes you hate me altogether--but the
fault was not mine."

"Hate you! Lady Hamlet Vernon--hatred and Lady Hamlet Vernon are two
words that cannot by any accident be connected together."

"Ah! would that your words were as true as they are courteous," she
replied mournfully; "but courtesies, alas! _imply_ an interest that
they do not mean. Do not, however, let me detain you, Lord Albert; it
rains"-- As he still lingered at the door of the carriage, which they
had reached, and in which she now entered, he added, "You will at least
give me leave to enquire for you to-morrow?" which was all he had time
to say, as the carriage was driven rapidly away.

Lord Albert returned to his room, with a confusion of images chasing
each other in such quick succession through his mind, that though he
resumed his pen to finish his letter to Lady Adeline, he found it
difficult to do so; and he was conscious that the few words which he
added were in such a different tone, and so little in keeping with the
previous part, that he finished abruptly, and, folding and sealing
his letter, closed the box that contained the miniature, and throwing
himself back in his chair, mused in vacancy of thought till slumber was
overpowering him. Without once adverting to Lady Adeline's book, he
hastened to lose in sleep the feeling of dissatisfaction which had so
suddenly possessed him.

On the following morning, when Lady Hamlet Vernon arose, feeling
little of the accident of the preceding evening, and having taken
particular pains with her toilette, she cast a glance of complacency
at her reflected image in the mirror, and, descending to her boudoir,
placed herself on a sofa, spread with embroidered cushions, folded a
velvet _couvre-pied_ over her feet, ordered a table stored with books
to be placed within her reach, on which also rested a guitar and a
vase of flowers, and gave way to a train of reflections and feelings
unaccountably called up by the occurrences of the previous evening.
Lady Hamlet Vernon was a person who had read, and did read, at _times_;
but in the present instance, when calling for her books, she intended
no farther use of them beyond casual allusion to their contents, and
what their appearance might avail to give an interest in regard to
herself.

She lay with her arm resting on a pillow, and her ears attentively
listening to every cabriolet that passed, eagerly anticipating a visit
from Lord Albert. She twice looked at her watch; once she struck it, to
know if its sound answered to the hour its hand designated.--"Surely,"
she said, with some impatience, "he must at least inquire for me?--and
it is late--late for a person of Lord Albert's early habit--it is
really three o'clock." At that moment a short decided knock at the
door roused her attention. Her hand was on the bell in an instant,
lest the servants might deny her--but in another the door opened, and
_not_ Lord Albert, but the pale and melancholy Frank Ombre entered. The
revulsion from pleasure to disappointment occasioned by the appearance
of this visitor, and which displayed itself in Lady Hamlet Vernon's
features, was ingeniously ascribed by her to a sudden pain in her head,
the consequence, she said, of her accident the preceding night; which
accident she hastened to detail, and was gratified by the homage of
regrets, most poetically expressed by Mr. Ombre, who remarked that the
danger of this occurrence was transferred from herself to her admirers.

"The beautiful languor which it has cast over your person has produced
a varied charm more inimical to our peace than even the lightning of
your eyes. What a fortunate man that Lord Albert was, to be on the
very spot to render you assistance! There are some persons, as we all
know, who are born felicitous--they please without caring to please;
they render services without thinking what they are doing, or even
being interested in reality about the persons whom they serve; they
are reckoned handsome without one regularly beautiful feature, and
pronounced clever, superior, talented, without ever doing any thing to
prove it. But in that, perhaps, lies their wisdom--one may be _every
thing_ so long as one never proves one's-self _nothing_."

"True, there are such people in the world, I believe; but do you really
mean to say"--(and she almost blushed.)

"I never mean, or can mean, to say any thing that is disagreeable to
you"....

"Oh, it is not I who am interested in what he _is_, or is _not_; but,
to confess the truth, a very dear friend of mine, a charming young
person, takes an interest in him, and I should like to know if he is
worthy of that interest before her affections are further engaged."

"Ah! my dear Lady Hamlet Vernon," replied Mr. Ombre, "there is nobody
like you--I always said so. You know _I never flatter_; but you are so
disinterested, always thinking about other people, always so kindly
busy where you can be of any use; so unlike the world in general, in
short, that it quite spoils one for living in it."

"Well, this is a point we shall not dispute about, my dear Mr. Ombre,
only tell me what you know of Lord Albert D'Esterre? what are his
tastes, his habits, his pursuits, his politics?"

"Of himself I can tell you little; with his father I was very intimate
long ago, and I believe, somehow or other, people do always contrive
to be like either father or mother, some time or another in their
life. Of the father I could tell you, that there did not exist a more
polished or high-bred man, a term which you know is not always justly
applicable to persons of high rank; one very well versed in literature
too, at least for the peerage in that day, and so long as he continued
in public life, no one acted more to the general satisfaction of people
than my Lord Tresyllian. Of the mother there is little to say, except
that she was--nay is, for aught I know to the contrary--a very good
sort of person; who was never known to make any noise, save once, in
her life, and that certainly was not on a judicious occasion, for
it was when the famous Bellina, the dancer, was _attachée_ to the
suite of her husband during his embassy at ----. Then indeed Lady
Tresyllian did make some very unadvised stir, and contrived that the
whole court should remark upon the subject; but her husband, who was
the most polite man in the world, as I have said before, represented
to her the inutility of such conduct, pointed out how such a lady,
and such a one, conducted herself in similar situations; stated that
these sort of things always happened, and were only unpleasant when
they were injudiciously managed, and in short the affair was amicably
adjusted; an affair which happened so long ago, that it is only some
old chroniclers like myself who have any recollection of it.

"After Lord Tresyllian's return to England, he continued to fill
several official situations as long as his friends, or his party
rather, as those are called who contrive to hang together for some
interest,--their own or their country's, it matters not--continued in
office--and on their retiring, his Lordship retired also: I suppose to
preserve his consistency, or because his talents were not needed in
the new arrangement. Since then, gout and disappointed ambition have
contributed to make him a recluse from the busy world of fashion; and
in the magnificence of his princely fortune, and in the society of
a chosen few, who have shared his fate, or depended on his interest
in their political career, his existence is now passed, settling the
balance of Europe in his closet, opposing his Majesty's ministers (as
long as they shall not include his own party) in the senate, and on
every other occasion, and haranguing every assembly of disappointed
patriots in his own county, of which he is lord lieutenant.

"Of Lord Tresyllian's patriotism I presume none doubt--of his judgment
and good taste in politics, from the last-mentioned fact, while holding
his present situation, perhaps there may be some question. But he has
considerable parliamentary interest, and will therefore always have
some who will think all he says or does right. His eldest son Osberton
we all know follows in his father's line of opposition; glad, I dare
say, to be saved the trouble of acting or thinking for himself. I need
not tell you more of him--in short, there is nothing to tell, but his
party. What Lord Albert D'Esterre's will be, remains to be proved;
I mean in the only way people think a man's being any thing is of
consequence, namely the part he will take in public life. He inherits
wealth from Lady Tresyllian, and so far will be independent of his
father; but he is too young, I should think, to escape the toils that
will be laid for a young member, and therefore we shall soon see him
engaged on one side or the other, as a tool of party. By the bye, what
says Lady Tilney of him for that?" Here another knock announced another
arrival, and Mr. Ombre rose to depart.

"Pray, my dear Mr. Ombre, do not run away; I should be so delighted if
you would stay and help to keep the conversation alive, I am too weak
to do any thing but listen. Indeed my poor head tells me that I ought
not to do that."

"I would not stay a moment longer on any account--not for the world,"
was Mr. Ombre's reply, gently pressing her extended hand; "I am sure I
have talked too much already. Lord Albert D'Esterre," (for it was he
who entered), "I request you will not be so agreeable as you usually
are, for our fair friend feels the effect of her accident last night;
and I am sure she ought not to be amused, unless being put to sleep
be called amusement. If I were her nurse I would prescribe a quieting
draught and bed, as to a tired child; and so I take my leave and give
my advice without any fee: it is always the cheapest thing in the world
you know;" and he went away at the very proper moment, having left
behind him the character of being the most agreeable man in the world.

"I should have come sooner," said Lord Albert, "to inquire for you,
Lady Hamlet Vernon, but I was afraid of being too early; and I really
put a restraint on my wishes in not being at your door much sooner;
for I was very anxious to know you had not suffered from the shock you
received last night."

"I have suffered, certainly," she replied, blushing, "but not to
any alarming degree; a day or two of confinement to my sofa, and Dr.
Meynell assures me I shall be quite able to go about again as usual. In
the mean time, here are my friends," pointing to the books, "who are
ever at hand to entertain me."

"And surely," Lord D'Esterre replied, "there are a thousand living
friends also, alike ready to endeavour to make the hours pass sweetly;
nevertheless, I honour those who can be independent of society for
entertainment."

Lady Hamlet Vernon saw she had guessed rightly, and went on to say,
sighing as she spoke, "The fact is, that London crowds are not society,
that the whole routine of a town life unsatisfactory; and that every
circumstance, depending upon a mere pursuit of dissipation, is in
itself necessarily an alienation, for the time at least in which we
are engaged in it, from all our higher and better enjoyments; but then
when one has lost all on whom one depended for comfort, and support,
and advice; when one is left alone, a heart-broken thing upon the wide
world, misjudged by some, condemned by many, flattered it may be by a
few, there is such a stormy ocean, such a desert waste outspread to
view, that the heart seeks refuge from the alternative in a multitude
of minor trifles, which leave no leisure to feel, still less to
reflect; and hurrying on from hour to hour, one passes life away as
chance directs."

Lady Hamlet Vernon did not know to whom she was speaking, or she would
have spoken in a very different tone. She had heard of refinement and
morality, she could even admire both; but to religious principle she
was a stranger. She paused after having uttered the last words, and,
looking in Lord Albert's countenance as she waited for a reply, read
there a varying expression, the meaning of which she was at a loss to
interpret. At last he spoke, and said with deep earnestness, which
failed not to attract her attention, although she was not prepared to
understand the import of his words:

"Is it possible! then I grieve for you indeed." As he uttered this
brief sentence he took up a book, unconscious of what he was doing; and
opening the title-page, read "Tremaine." Lady Hamlet Vernon had had
recourse to her salts, to her handkerchief; and then, as if repressing
her starting tears, she asked, "What do you think of Tremaine?--is it
not charming?--Do you know I have thought the hero was like you."

"I hope not; I would not be like that man on any account whatever."

"No!--and why?"

"Why, because I think false refinement the most wretched of human
possessions; and all refinement is false which converts enjoyment to
pain; nay, I deny that it is refinement; it is only the sophistry of a
diseased mind, the excrescence of a beautiful plant; however, the work
is a work of power, and its intention pure, though I do not think it
free from danger. But tell me, Lady Hamlet Vernon--that is, will you
give me leave to ask you a question?"

"Certainly."

"Did you ever read the third volume of Tremaine attentively through?"
She blushed a genuine blush as she replied: "_Not quite_: I am
afraid--I thought it heavy."

"You do not surprise me; the mind must come tutored to the page to
enjoy it as it ought to be enjoyed; and perhaps the fault which might
be found is precisely this, that those who would be most likely to read
it, are those who would be least likely to benefit by its perusal."

"You certainly converse, Lord Albert," said Lady Hamlet Vernon, "very
differently from any person I ever conversed with; your ideas are quite
extraordinary to me, quite new, and you have made me lose myself in a
world of thought; you make me feel that every thing I have hitherto
thought was all mistake; but you must allow me to say, that, though
willing to become your pupil, I must be somewhat instructed in this
novel language before I feel myself competent to reply."

"What I said seems to me very simple; I am not conscious of having
expressed any abstruse or recondite thoughts: at all events, I
certainly did not mean to be affected, still less impertinent--it was
something you said, which startled me, and made me feel concern, and it
might seem to you, that I evinced it with too much freedom--if I have
erred, pardon me."

"Pardon, my dear Lord! there is no question about pardoning; but I am
curious to know what made you look so very grave when I said I wished
to forget my existence, and lose all sense of what had befallen me, or
what might befall me, in the busy idleness of life--do you attach any
very dreadful idea to this declaration?"

"A very dreadful one indeed," was his reply.

"Well, then, I do begin to believe that what I heard of you was
true--you are one of the saints--I mean, one of the set of people who
go about preaching and praying all day long. But then you frequent
balls and assemblies, and are so charming, I cannot reconcile this idea
with your air, appearance, and demeanour, or with the character of
those sour, misanthropic beings: do explain to me this mystery."

"I wish I were one of those whom you so designate," said Lord Albert
D'Esterre gravely,--"but indeed I am far from being so. All I can say
to explain my meaning briefly is, that I have received a Christian and
religious education, and consequently that I think to live by chance,
and to let accident sway our actions, is a perilous state of delusion."

"What do you mean to say, Lord Albert, that you regulate all your
thoughts, words, and actions, by some strictly self-drawn line of rule?"

"Oh, Lady Hamlet Vernon, you probe my conscience, and I am thankful to
you: no, indeed, I have never yet been enabled so to do--but I wish I
could--not indeed by any self-drawn line or rule, but that by which all
ought to guide themselves."

"Well, at last I have met with one extraordinary person, and this our
conversation must be resumed; but here comes some unwelcome visitor,
and for the moment the subject must drop."

The conversation was interrupted by the announcement of Mr. Temple
Vernon. He has been already noticed as the object of Lady Tilney's
particular dislike from his independent, and, as she termed it, rude
freedom of character, and he must have been unpopular in a coterie
where studied deportment and total absence of all nature formed a
requisite merit for admission. But he was nearly allied by marriage to
Lady Hamlet Vernon, having inherited that portion of her late husband,
Lord Hamlet Vernon's property, which was not bequeathed to herself.
He was first cousin of the late Lord also, and Lady Hamlet Vernon's
jointure being paid from estates that devolved to him, she had been
condemned to keep up an intercourse which, under existing circumstances
of his _mauvaise odeur_, in her particular circle, she would gladly
have dispensed with. She however endeavoured to maintain that kind
of friendly intercourse with him, which would prevent any thing like
collision in matters where her own interest was concerned, and with
this view preferred exposing herself to harsh remarks from Lady Tilney
and others of the society, as to his admission into her house. "Ah, Mr.
Vernon, is it you," said Lady Hamlet Vernon to him as he entered; "I
hope I see you well?"

"Allow me rather to inquire, Lady Hamlet Vernon, about yourself;
I have made a _détour_ of at least two miles to satisfy my anxiety
concerning you all. London is ringing with the terrible accident which
befel you last night. Pray tell me all the particulars, and tell me too
who was the fortunate knight-errant that rendered you assistance?" Lady
Hamlet made an inclination of her head towards Lord Albert D'Esterre.

"Ah! is it so? well, he looks as if he were made for adventures,"
directing his glance towards Lord Albert. "Now, though I, poor devil
that I am, desire no happier chance, I may drive about all day or night
and no such good fortune ever betide me as delivering a lady from a
perilous accident--really, Lord Albert, I congratulate you." Lord
Albert bowed, as he replied,

"I am exceedingly happy that my servants were of any use; but indeed I
had not the good fortune you ascribe to me: for I was sitting occupied
in my library, and wholly unconscious of what passed in the street,
till Lady Hamlet Vernon was brought into the house."

"Indeed, is it so? well, I have heard it said through the whole town,
that Lady Hamlet Vernon's horses ran away, that the coachman was dashed
from his box, and that some _preux chevalier_ had seized the horses
in their course, and though nearly annihilated himself, had succeeded
in his desperate efforts to stop them; whereas I am happy to see my
Lord is safe and sound. Lady Hamlet, I rejoice to find very little the
worse, and the long paragraph in the Morning Post all a lie. Well,
there is only one thing to be done under these circumstances, which is
to set the story right by a counter-statement, and therefore pray do
tell me all the particulars."

Lady Hamlet Vernon smiled, with constrained complacency, saying, "you
may tell the fact, Mr. Vernon, if you chuse to take the trouble, which
is simply this;--that on returning home my coachman was drunk, and
upset my carriage; and the accident happened close to Lord Albert
D'Esterre's door, so that I was borne into his house, and received
there every kind attention."

"But," enquired Mr. Temple Vernon, who had listened with evident
eagerness to the recital, "where were you going?--whence were you
coming?--for all these particulars are of importance."

"Oh! home."

"Good heavens, home! and at the early hour of twelve?"

"Yes."

"But where were you coming from?"

"Oh! we had been dining at Sir William Temple's."

"Ah, and is that really so? was all that Temple said at the clubs
yesterday morning really true? Did you, and the Tilney, and the
Leinsengen, and I don't know who else, dine with him? Well, that is
really too good--why no room in London will hold Temple after this. He
was always insufferable, even before he was promoted in the world; and
now that affairs have taken this favourable turn, heaven knows what he
will become; why he'll burst like the frog in the fable. But I am very
sorry, for his dinners were good dinners in their way; now, however,
they will be intolerable, for they will consist in every course of
_réchauffés_ of what Lady Tilney admired, or did, or said--do tell me
how the affair went off."

"Indeed, Mr. Temple Vernon, I cannot talk more to-day; rather I pray
you tell me some news--how did the D'Hermanton's party end?"

"Well then, if you so command it, let us turn to my note
book"--affecting to read, as he counted over his fingers, "Lady Tilney
was _not_ at the Duchess of D'Hermanton's; Lady Ellersby _was_, but
only walked through the apartments; Lady Boileau went no further
than the first room; item, Mr. Pierpoint did not either; neither did
Comtesse Leinsengen, who sat all the evening by Lord Baskerville, but
spoke little; the Duke of Mercington only shewed his waistcoat, and
then departed: all of which I hold to be signs that portend dark doings
in the court of Denmark. Now this I think is a correct _résume_ of the
Hermanton 'at home.' As to the politics of the last evening, it is
confidently stated that the Duke of ---- has some famous bird-lime,
called expediency, which will catch a vast number of young birds,"
turning at the same time to Lord Albert, "is it not so, my Lord?"

"Mr. Temple Vernon seems so perfectly master of every body's
intentions and affairs, that I scarcely know, in his presence, whether
or not I am master of my own."

"The fact is, my good Lord, that nobody knows what they are going to do
(if they will only confess the truth) for two minutes together."

"In one sense that is true enough, Mr. Temple Vernon, for we intend
many things which we never do, and _vice versâ_; nevertheless our will
is free, and fortunately not always under the direction of others to
guide it for us."

"Oh! this is becoming too deep for me," interrupted Lady Hamlet Vernon.

"And for me too," replied Mr. Temple Vernon, "as I have a thousand
things to do before seven, and it is now past four o'clock; however
I leave Lady Hamlet Vernon with less regret, knowing she has so
entertaining a companion as Lord D'Esterre." This was said very
ironically, and as the latter quickly perceived all the monkey malice
of the man, he disarmed it of its sting by rising to depart, saying:

"Lady Hamlet Vernon has far more entertaining companions lying on her
table, than are generally to be met with among London idlers; and not
to prove myself one of these, I must make my bow without further delay,
trusting soon to have the pleasure of seeing her once more, in the gay
scenes in which she is so fair an ornament;" and again bowing to Mr.
Temple Vernon, he departed before the latter could leave the room.

"Well, my dear Lady, you owe me something, I am sure, for having rid
you from the presence of that formal personage." Lady Hamlet Vernon did
not look as if she agreed with him, but forced a smile as she replied:

"I like variety in character and manners; the world would grow dull, if
every one were cut out on the same pattern."

"I am glad to hear you say that, my dear Lady Hamlet Vernon, for that
is exactly what I think; and, therefore, I have always held off from
the tyranny, which goes to make every body subscribe to the same code
in manners, dress, hours, nay even language; and at least, my coat, my
neckcloth, my hair, is all after a cut of my own, and I find all does
vastly well; for if the world does not approve the one or like the
other, they are at least afraid of me, because I think for myself. This
answers my purpose precisely as well. But you look serious, I see, and
therefore I will follow my Lord Albert D'Esterre's inimitable example,
and leaving my last sentence in the tablets of your memory, farewell,
most fair and fascinating lady. One word more I beg to add, remember
that I wish exceedingly to go to Lady Tilney's next Friday, and I leave
my wish in the hands of the kindest and fairest of the daughters of
Eve. I _depend_ upon your managing it for me."

"Oh! certainly, nothing is easier you know, you are always _le bien
venu_, I wonder that you can make this request a favour."

"Ah! all that is very well from your lips, but you know, although
I am the most admired man about town, I am sometimes by some chance
forgotten. It is very odd that it should be so, but nevertheless it is
often unjustly the case; and I correct fortune by such applications as
the one I have just made to you; and now _je vous baise les mains_ in
the D'Esterre phraseology, though I would much rather do so in reality,
and so farewell most fair."

"Depend upon me," replied Lady Hamlet Vernon, kissing her hand to him
as he left the room. "Depend upon my hating you most cordially," she
said to herself; as her head sank on the pillow of her sofa, and she
tried to shut out from her recollection all his ill-timed _bavardage_,
and to recal the strange but eloquent converse of the interesting Lord
D'Esterre.




CHAPTER IX.

THE PRIMA SERA; LETTERS, SNARES.


Lady Hamlet Vernon, in consequence of her recent accident, received
society at home instead of seeking it abroad; and for several evenings
the _élite_ of _ton_, passed their _prima sera_ at her house. Lord
Albert D'Esterre was constant too in his attendance there, and was
evidently much occupied with Lady Hamlet Vernon. His attentions did not
escape remark, and though Lady Tilney's object, in wishing to possess
an influence over Lord Albert, was quite of another nature, still
she felt some disappointment at finding he was interested in another
quarter, and therefore less likely to yield to the designs which she
had formed upon his political independence.

"I'll tell you how that matter stands," replied Lord Rainham, as she
inquired his opinion on the subject, "the _love_ is at present entirely
on the lady's side; Lord Albert is not at all captive, and he has such
obsolete ways of thinking, that I imagine he will not be easily caught.
I should recommend his being given up altogether, he will never play a
part among us, depend upon that; and you will not find him worth the
trouble of educating."

"Oh! as to playing a part, my dear Lord, one does not want every body
to play a part, at least not a _first_ part you know; and as for
_educating_ them, that is quite out of the question."

"But," rejoined Lord Rainham, "you forget there is such a thing as
persuasion; and it is said D'Esterre took his seat on the side of
ministers by some means of that sort. Now it is possible, that although
no _liaison de cœur_ exists between him and Lady Hamlet Vernon, yet as
a clever woman, she may have decided his vacillating judgment; to say
the truth, I believe she has." Lady Tilney bit her lip, and something
like the word provoking, escaped her, as she replied, "I would scorn
to persuade any body to any thing against his will; there is nothing
I have ever maintained more strenuously, than that every individual
should have a free choice in all the different elections of life."
Lord Rainham smiled. "But after all," she added with an affected
indifference, by which she attempted ineffectually to conceal her
mortification, "it is of very little importance which side Lord Albert
has taken."

"One would have thought so indeed but for the disappointment which is
evident since he has declared himself," replied Lord Rainham, drily.

However much Lady Tilney felt chagrined at the thought that another had
succeeded in turning Lord Albert's mind in a direction contrary to her
wishes, yet she was too politic to betray her disappointment to the
person who had triumphed; and therefore, on the evening in question,
she paid more than usual attention to Lady Hamlet Vernon.

"Dear Lady Hamlet Vernon," said Lady Tilney addressing her, as she
took a seat by her, "you must not pretend to be ill any longer, we
positively cannot do without you;" and then turning to Comtesse
Leinsengen, she added, "did you ever see any thing to equal the beauty
of her fairy foot?"

This was a sore subject, as the reverse of the proposition always
suggested itself to the Comtesse's fancy, in respect of her own; and
she pretended on the present occasion not to hear it, but tossing up
her head, took Lady Baskerville's arm, who was sitting on the other
side of her, and whispered in her ear, "Lady Tilney does take such
_engouements_, and then is as quickly tired of them, _des feus de
pailles_," shrugging her shoulders contemptuously; "but I wonder she
_like_ to dat old story of her admiration for feet, when she made
herself so very ridiculous in her affected praises of dat _soi-disant_
princesse. De lady who professes to worship liberty, independence,
and all dat sort of ting, to sit holding anoder woman's foot upon her
knee, and making all dat sort of fuss, for my part, _je n'ai jamais pu
conçevoir ce plaisir là_."

"It does seem to me rather extraordinary," replied Lady Baskerville;
"but then Lady Tilney is so very good-humoured, she always protects
every body she thinks put down or in distress." This was a prudent
answer on Lady Baskerville's part, but not well received, which on
perceiving, she quickly added:

"As to myself, I confess I do not take any pleasure in those sort of
out-of-the-way admirations; I can admire beauty in other women; but I
cannot affect to be so exceedingly enchanted by it as to turn _fille de
chambre_ in its honour. But there are many things in the world vastly
ridiculous; for instance, can any thing be more so in its way than
that Duke and Duchess D'Hermanton, who have been married I don't know
how long, and are still _aux premiers amours_; one sees them eternally
dawdling about together, as if persons came into company to be always
setting a pattern of conjugal felicity. It is pardonable, perhaps,
for very young people, during a few months to fancy themselves vastly
in love; but after that time it is sickening--don't you think so,
Comtesse?"

"Oui, vraiment; _au reste_ it is only in dis country that people do
give themselves such _ridicule_, and to say truth, not often, even
here."

"But pardon me, Comtesse," said Lady Baskerville, withdrawing from her;
"I must go away, for I see Lord Boileau waiting for me, whom I had
promised to take to Almack's, and had nearly forgotten;" so saying she
passed into an adjoining room, and addressing him said:

"Lord Boileau we are very late, and if we do not make haste we shall be
shut out."

"Oh, no--all _that_ is left out of the evening's entertainment, I can
assure you, for they begin to be afraid that nobody will go in, though
the doors are left wide open all night."

"I am not surprised, for I hate the whole thing, and think it is become
quite detestable, only I promised Lady Aveling to go to-night, so if
you are ready let us begone;--but I have not made my curtsey to Lady
Hamlet."

"Indeed, Lady Baskerville, you may spare yourself that trouble, if you
mean to be agreeable, for do you not see she is enamoured _pardessus
les yeux_ with _that_ Lord Albert D'Esterre."

"Ah," rejoined Lady Baskerville, looking in the direction where they
sat, "is it so? Well, every one has her taste; but I cannot say such a
person would ever touch my heart."

"Oh! _your_ heart we all know is assailable but _by one_, and that
Baskerville is the man, the most to be envied in all the world; to be
sure there never was _such_ a wife as you are, quite perfect, Lady
Baskerville, only too perfect." Lady Baskerville cast back her head,
and looking at Lord Boileau with one of her _intelligent_ smiles, they
passed on, and stepping into the carriage, drove off to finish their
evening amusements in the insipid glitter of an Almack's ball.

After the lapse of some weeks Lady Hamlet Vernon was completely
restored to health and beauty, and again resumed her usual routine of
existence. She sought dissipation at all times eagerly, from habit;
but now there was added to this impulse a restlessness of feeling, an
anxiety if alone, and a void in her heart, from the evening in which
her accident happened, such as she had never before experienced. It
was in vain for her to conceal from herself, that she had perhaps
_hitherto_ unconsciously courted the society of Lord Albert D'Esterre
more than of any other person, without considering how far she was
yielding to the gratification consistently with any probable chance
of happiness to herself in the ultimate issue. She certainly had a
decided preference for Lord Albert D'Esterre, or why did she seek
every opportunity of seeing him; or why feel uneasy when she heard of
his acknowledged affiance to another? These feelings prompted her to
know more of the appearance and character of his intended bride, whom
circumstances had as yet prevented from appearing in the great world of
London, and to whom she was an utter stranger.

Under this influence, she determined to address a letter to one with
whom she was in the habit of corresponding, and whom she knew to be on
a visit to Dunmelraise, the seat of Lady Adeline's mother. She felt
confident that she might take this step without compromising herself,
and without her inquiries being deemed strange, or indicative of any
thing beyond a natural curiosity. Shortly after this letter had been
written, the following reply came from her friend, Mr. G. Foley; the
contents of which were not at all calculated to tranquillize Lady
Hamlet Vernon's feelings, if she really had any affection for Lord
Albert.

 _Letter from Mr. Foley to Lady Hamlet Vernon._

 "When one is not to write of that which one is thinking about,
 it is the most difficult thing in the world to write at all. But
 you command, and I must endeavour to obey. Let me see how am I to
 commence? Perhaps it is best that I do so by giving you _the history_,
 as one young lady writing to another would say, of the Lady Adeline
 Seymour. You know that Lady Dunmelraise, her mother, lost her husband
 and an only son soon after Lady Adeline's birth; she then fell into
 low spirits and bad health, but by degrees roused herself to live for
 this child; and I must do her the justice to say, she has fulfilled
 her task admirably.

 "As to personal appearance, Lady Adeline Seymour is of that height
 which just escapes being too tall; of that slimness which just escapes
 being too thin; of that untutored manner which is often nearly being
 _gauche_, were it not that it is accompanied by a childish grace which
 evades the charge. Quick of perception, and quicker still in feeling,
 she has a peculiar way of checking these impulses so as never to
 allow them to betray her into any unbecoming harshness or abruptness
 of manner; the very fear one entertains that she may overstep the
 boundary of polished _rétenu_ gives an additional zest to her, but
 _gare a ceux qui voudroit l'imiter_--for she is perfectly original and
 defies all copyists. As to her face it is not marvellously beautiful,
 still less regularly so, but it is of such love-like paleness, chased
 by such sunny gleams of joyous youth continually playing over her
 features, that one could not wish it changed even for a more regular
 beauty. She is the very model of the poet's dream when he wrote--

    ----'Her pure and eloquent blood
    Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,
    That one would almost say her body thought.'

 "Thus much for Lady Adeline's appearance and manners. In regard to
 the acquirements and endowments of her mental being, I am perhaps not
 myself qualified to speak--she is not precisely what the laborious
 educating mammas would call accomplished, but she has a master genius
 for _one_ art and a love for all. Her musical talent certainly
 requires much instruction to bring it to any perfection, but the
 scraps of airs she warbles as she flies about the house, are in the
 best taste as far as they go--and a few Venetian ballads which she
 sings to her guitar, and which she says her cousin taught her, are
 quite inebriating.

 "She unfeignedly undervalues all she does; perhaps too much so; but
 you read in her countenance that she is perfectly sincere; that all
 _spoken_ praise distresses her; and you are involuntarily led to seek
 to give her homage in some more palatable shape.

 "What do you think of this portrait of the young Adeline? It looks
 like that of a heroine in romance, as I glance my eyes over the
 words, and yet I have such a nausea at all the persons bearing that
 designation, that I would fain save the delightful one of whom I am
 writing from that hacknied name. You must have heard, of course, that
 she is engaged to her cousin Lord Albert D'Esterre; but like all those
 engagements made for people when they are children, I do not think
 it will be fulfilled _con amore_--not but what she blushes whenever
 she speaks of him, and _that_ she does pretty frequently; and if he
 is grown up like a certain bust (for I have not seen him these three
 years, and boys change so from eighteen to one and twenty), he really
 must be _un bel Giovane_. By the way, she has made an exquisite
 drawing of _mon beau cousin_, but that is neither here nor there,
 the fiction of seventeen is always beautiful. Pray in your next
 gracious letter inform me what sort of man he has become, for I feel a
 brotherly regard for this very nice person, Lady Adeline Seymour, and
 should like to think she had a chance of happiness. Happiness, what a
 sound! but the reality, where is it?

      'Come L'Araba Fenicè
    Che ci sia, ciascun lo dicè
    Dove sia, nessun lo sà.'

 "I should have told you, by the bye, that with all the gaiety,
 which is one of her greatest charms, Lady Adeline has a tincture of
 seriousness mingled with it, which some might suppose approached to
 Methodism; but even if it is so, _à son age elle en guérira_.

 "I have been a long time here: but it has been a great gratification
 to me, and time has glided softly by; for in addition to the charms
 of the daughter, Lady Dunmelraise is in all respects a very agreeable
 and sensible woman, has seen a great deal of the world, and besides
 all that, honours your humble servant with her very particular regard;
 which she tells me is bestowed entirely for the sake of my mother,
 the friend whom she loved most in the world next to her own family;
 but I am vain enough to flatter myself that she likes me a little for
 mine own sake too. And you, who understand every thing _à demi mot_,
 will know how soothing it is to a sick heart to receive kindness; this
 has induced me hitherto to linger on from day to day; but I shall
 vary the scene soon, for I begin to think that even I may be _de
 trop_; for I hear frequent mention made of Lord Albert D'Esterre's
 expected arrival; so to-morrow I set off for Luryddicath Park. Lord
 Tresyllian's; who, you know, is father to Lord Albert.

 "And now, my dear Lady Hamlet Vernon, having given you the particulars
 you required, I will not weary you with more of myself: but in pity to
 me, seeing that I am still for a time cut off from that only tolerable
 place in England, London, do write me a brief, gracious missive, that
 I may feast upon it till I am once more restored to your presence, and
 in the mean while believe me to be the most devoted of your slaves.
 Can I say more?

     "G. FOLEY."

Lady Hamlet Vernon, after perusing this letter, fell into a deep train
of reflection, if such can be called intense feeling usurping the mind,
to the exclusion of every other idea. The image of Lady Adeline, thus
vividly pourtrayed by Mr. Foley's pen, stood in actual presence before
her; and combined with that image, rose the vision of Lord Albert
D'Esterre. The happiness which would be the growth of an union between
two such persons as her knowledge of the one, and her fancied knowledge
of the other, represented them, was embodied with forcible reality, and
tears coursed each other involuntarily down her cheeks as she sat, more
like a marble image than a living being.

From this state she was suddenly roused by the servants announcing
Lord Albert D'Esterre himself; and making an effort to subdue the
feeling which either she was too much ashamed, or too proud to own,
she endeavoured to receive him with as much composure as she could
assume. After the first words of course had passed, Lady Hamlet Vernon
was too deeply absorbed in one subject for her readily to turn to any
indifferent topic; and she at length addressed Lord Albert on the
subject of her solicitude, saying, "Do you know I have received a
letter this morning full of the praises of a person, in whom I believe
you are much interested; it is from a friend of mine now staying at
Dunmelraise, and who draws such a picture of the charms of Lady Adeline
Seymour, that I wonder, Lord Albert, to see you here--but you are going
to Dunmelraise, are you not, immediately?" Her tears almost flowed
afresh as she pronounced these words; and unconsciously she cast a
look of tender intreaty on Lord Albert. The latter had involuntarily
started, coloured, and hesitated to reply to this unexpected question;
at length he answered:

"No, not immediately; I am unable to leave town yet."

"You are not in love," Lady Hamlet Vernon exclaimed, "no, you are _not_
in love with Lady Adeline Seymour--I read your heart in the measured
calmness of your words; she is _not_ the mistress of your affections."

The sentence seemed to have escaped Lady Hamlet Vernon's lips without
the power of control, in a moment of excitement; and her eyes, which
had been fixed on Lord Albert, now as suddenly fell beneath his gaze as
he exclaimed with astonishment,

"What can you mean, what _do_ you mean, Lady Hamlet Vernon?" At that
moment Lady Tilney was announced, and a minute after Lord Gascoigne.
Conversation became general; but Lord Albert, evidently labouring under
some painful feeling, took no part in it. Still he seemed determined to
remain, to await the departure of the others, when Lady Tilney proposed
to Lady Hamlet Vernon to accompany her to the Park; and the latter,
fearing that she had compromised herself in the too open expression of
her feelings relative to Lord Albert and Lady Adeline Seymour, availed
herself of the opportunity to avoid any renewal of the theme. With a
heart ill at ease, she prepared to attend Lady Tilney to the dazzling
throng of Hyde Park; while Lord Albert, seeing it was vain to look for
any explanation of Lady Hamlet Vernon's extraordinary address to him
at the moment, reluctantly handed her to Lady Tilney's carriage; and,
trusting to some future opportunity to ask an explanation, he mounted
his horse and rode off; but not with a mind so tranquil or a heart so
buoyant as he had possessed a short time before.

In proposing to take Lady Hamlet Vernon to the Park, Lady Tilney's
real object was to withdraw her from Lord Albert, whose anxiety had
not escaped her observation, and whose political career she still had
hopes might not be positively decided; at any rate, if hope remained,
it was worth the trial; and should she have been correct in her idea
that Lord Albert had not committed himself irrevocably, no time was
to be lost; that very moment perhaps he waited only the voice of Lady
Hamlet's influence, to decide his wavering intentions. Lady Tilney's
part was therefore quickly taken; and as they proceeded to the Park,
she endeavoured to turn Lady Hamlet Vernon's mind from Lord Albert, if
he really occupied any share in it, by adverting to every topic of the
day; among other things she said:

"What do you think! Miss Melcomb's marriage with Lord Glenmore is at
length declared. I had long had my suspicions that it would be so; but
I cannot say I approve of the affair; and I am sure you will think
with me, Lord Glenmore is too great a card to be played by that little
miss, who has never left her mamma's wing; and has, of course, imbibed
all her prejudices. But although Lord Glenmore has allied himself with
this family, we must not wholly give him up; besides the Georgina
is pretty, and she may yet not prove quite such a simpleton as she
looks." Lady Tilney, however, in vain endeavoured to interest Lady
Hamlet Vernon in any subject she discussed; the former acquiesced in
every thing her companion said, in order to avoid the argument which
would have followed any dissent from her opinion. Lady Hamlet Vernon's
remarks, when she made any, were short, and little to the purpose; and
at length, wearied and ill at ease, she complained of a head-ache, and
besought Lady Tilney to set her down at home.

When the carriage-door closed, Lady Tilney flung herself back,
exclaiming as she drew up the glass, "How provokingly discreet, she did
not once commit herself!" and Lady Tilney drove once more back to the
Park, in the hope of seeing Lord Albert; and if possible, by courting
his attention, of counteracting any influence which might have been
exercised on his opinion by Lady Hamlet Vernon. She looked, however, in
vain for him in the crowd; and at length drove home, disappointed and
displeased at her want of success, and out of humour with every thing.




CHAPTER X.

FASHIONABLE FRIENDSHIP.


Lord Glenmore's marriage soon became the subject of general
conversation. The day of the nuptials was already named, and the
ceremony was to be in the most splendid style. In compliment to Lord
Glenmore, several of his acquaintance were invited. Amongst these was
Lady Tilney and Lady Tenderden; the Comtesse Leinsengen of course; and
Lady Ellersby, who on her mother's side was related to the family of
the Melcombs. The parties named expressed themselves annoyed at the
idea of forming part of what they called the _Melcomb mélange_; but a
secret wish to retain an influence with Lord Glenmore, whose marriage
it was intended should not, without a trial of Miss Melcomb's aptitude
for _ton_, banish him from their circle.

The whole affair, however, was _sotto sugezione_ in the opinion of
Lady Tilney and her friends. "The strangest thing of all is," exclaimed
the former, as she was conversing on the subject with Lady Tenderden
and the Comtesse Leinsengen, "that the marriage takes place in church."

"In church! _quelle idée, vraiment on mourra de froid_."

"And pray how must one be dressed?" inquired Lady Tenderden.

"Oh, _en costume de traineau_, I presume, since it is in von of your
cold church; but vat sinifies how von dresses for it?"

"If it rains I really must send my excuse," said Lady Tilney, who
wanted to be on a level at least with the Comtesse in impertinence.
"Have you seen the _trousseau_?" she added.

"Yes, I have," replied Lady Tenderden. Lady Tilney looked blank; she
could not bear that others should precede her even in the inspection
of a _trousseau_. Lady Tenderden, continued:--"Madame Duval brought
me every thing that was worth seeing; the laces are magnificent, and
the _corbeille de noces_, and every thing is in good taste. But here
is Lady Ellersby," exclaimed Lady Tenderden, glad to break off from a
subject which had been disagreeable to her, "I do not suppose _she_
will approve of the programme of this ceremony."

"My dear Lady Ellersby," the ladies all exclaimed, running up to her,
"why did you not exert your influence with Lady Melcomb to prevent this
_baroque_ fancy of being married in church; surely your relationship
would have authorized your good advice on the occasion." Lady Ellersby
looked surprised, and asked an explanation.

"Do you not know," answered Lady Tilney, "that the ceremony is to take
place in a church?"

"La! does it? What a strange fancy!" drawled Lady Ellersby; "but I
should never think of giving any advice to Lady Melcomb--I never do, to
any body."

"Dat Mademoiselle Melcomb, vid all her imbecile _niaiserie_, seems not
to have played her part amiss."

"I think she will turn out better than one could have supposed,"
rejoined Lady Tenderden, "when she becomes _un peu plus façonné_."

"Do tell me who are the invited?" interrupted Lady Tilney, addressing
Lady Ellersby.

"Oh, half London, to be sure; such a quantity of tiresome relations,
and so much property, and family dignity, there will be no end of all
the cousins--don't you know they are just the sort of people who teem
with relations?"

"But who is there of the party that one knows?" replied Lady Tilney.

"Oh, there are ourselves, and the Duke of Mercington, and the Boileaus,
and Baskervilles, I believe; I fancy too the Duke and Duchess
D'Hermanton, and some of _that_ set, are also among the _priés_, but
I must go now _en qualité de cousine_, and leave my card with the
Melcombs, and then I shall go on to Kitchener's, who has the resetting
of the family diamonds. I am told they are magnificent; and I should
so like to persuade Lord Ellersby to let mine be reset too, I have had
them three years in their present form, and am so tired of them as
they are--he, he, he!--well--adieu, we shall meet to-night at Lady De
Chere's?"

"_Avouez moi qu'elle passe la permission qu'ou a d'être bête_,"
observed Lady Tenderden, as she left the room.

"May be so, but she is a very old friend of mine, and besides, she is
perfectly _comme il faut_, and after all, that sort of thing gets on in
the world just as well as talent."

"Perhaps better," rejoined Lady Tilney.

"_Précisement_," said the Comtesse Leinsengen, "but, _il faut que je
pars, je vais voir le trousseau_, for oderwise I shall have nothing to
say to Lady Baskerville, who goes vid me to-night to de Opera. _Adieu
les belles, adieu._"

"I wonder how she can be at the trouble of going to see that foolish
_trousseau_," exclaimed Lady Tilney, as soon as she was out of hearing.
"She is so _inconséquente_. Did Lady Ellersby name the Baskervilles as
being among the invited?" continued Lady Tilney.

"Oh yes, the Comtesse, depend upon it, has taken care they shall be
asked; and my Lord is always flattered in being reckoned a requisite
appendage to a woman of high rank; but he will soon find his error
in depending on her smiles, for except for the gratification of the
moment's vanity, she seeks no further aim, and at all times scruples
not to sacrifice her _çi-devant_ friends to her new ones."

"Poor Lord Baskerville," replied Lady Tilney, "was intended to be by
nature _le bon enfant_, which she calls him; but he has fallen into the
terrible mistake of thinking himself a _leader_ of _ton_, which gives
him a ridicule that he would not otherwise have."

"How well you read characters, my dear Lady Tilney! But I thought he
was a _protégé_ of yours."

"Oh, so he is; I like him of all things; and he is often vastly useful.
One must have different characters at command to fill different parts,
or else nothing that one wants would go on. But to return to the
Melcombs, I do not recover from my surprise about that marriage."

"It only shews what perseverance will do, I wished to talk the matter
over with you, and to ascertain whether or not you meant to attend;
so now I need not trouble you longer. Your gown you say is to be
rose-colour, mine shall be jonquille."

"Ah, you always look divine in that golden light: but what light do
you not look divine in?"

"I must positively run away, or you will quite turn my head with
flattery. Adieu, adieu," and they parted well pleased with each other.

When Lady Ellersby stopped at Lady Melcomb's door, where she had
intended only to leave her card, a multiplicity of people on the same
errand _faisoit queue à la porte_; but to her infinite dismay, just as
her carriage drove up, Lord Glenmore, who happened to be coming out of
the door, approached her with a countenance beaming happiness.

"I am sure Georgina will be at home to _you_; do allow me to hand you
out of your carriage."

"Not for the world, I would not intrude; I am sure Miss Melcomb has a
thousand things to do, and to arrange; but--"

"Nay, dear Lady Ellersby," continued Lord Glenmore, pressingly (who
thought every one must be as anxious to see his bride, as he was eager
she should be seen), "Georgina will be so disappointed if you do not
go up stairs, that I must entreat you will." And in short, for once,
what between curiosity to look at the bridal paraphernalia, and a sort
of awkwardness to do a decided thing, and say no, Lady Ellersby's
indolence was overcome, and she allowed herself to be handed up stairs
into the drawing room, where were assembled a host of ladies (_not_
Miss Melcomb), who were busily engaged admiring the various dresses and
finery which were displayed before them.

"You are just come in time, Lady Ellersby," exclaimed Lady Aveling,
"for after to-day, nobody is to be admitted."

"No? well, la! I am glad then; but my dear Lady Melcomb I came, I
assure you, expressly to wish you joy, and to leave my congratulations
also with Miss Melcomb, whom I hope, I am to see, for Lord Glenmore
insisted on my coming in, otherwise I would not have done so--knowing
how tiresome visitors are at such a moment; but since I am here, do me
the favour to mention to Miss Melcomb, how very happy I am to have the
opportunity of wishing her joy."

"And do look," cried Lady Aveling, "at this enchanting hat; it is just
come from Paris--was there ever any thing _de meilleur gôut_?--and
then look at this, and that _seduisante_--really, Lady Melcomb, your
selection has been exquisite. But here comes the bride."

Then ensued kisses, curtseys, and congratulations, during which Lord
Glenmore retired, wearied with the nonsense of the female coterie, and
despairing of even catching a glance from Miss Melcomb.

While the marriage ornaments continued to absorb the attention of the
other visitors, Miss Melcomb took Lady Ellersby aside to shew her what,
she said, was infinitely better worth looking at--a miniature of Lord
Glenmore.

"So, my dear," said Lady Ellersby, "you are really what they call in
love? he, he, he!"

"I am fondly attached to Lord Glenmore, and feel proud now in declaring
it;--it has become my happy duty," replied Miss Melcomb.

"Duty!" replied Lady Ellersby, opening her mouth, and _ouvrant des
grands yeux_, "he, he, he!--surely you are not serious? Whoever heard
a young person going to be married, that is, going to be her own
mistress, talk of duty! Tell me, really are you not delighted at the
idea of having horses and equipages, and doing exactly what you like,
and going out every where you please? That was what I liked and thought
of, when I was going to be married, and----but then I was not in
love--he, he, he!"

"No?" replied Miss Melcomb, somewhat astonished.

"Certainly not--he, he, he!"

"I have no wish," rejoined Miss Melcomb, "to be more my own mistress
than I am at present. I shall, on the contrary, feel myself less at
liberty, for of course a married woman has a thousand things to think
of which a girl has not."

"La, my dear, you talk in a way which it is very right to teach
children, but when people act for themselves they think very
differently. Every body, you know, marries to avoid being governed."

"I never could have married for that reason, for I have been the
happiest of creatures at home."

"Well really, la! you don't say so! But now you will have an opera
box, jewels, equipages, and all sorts of delightful things."

"I don't know--perhaps if Lord Glenmore intends I should--"

"La, how droll you are; you don't really mean to set out by asking his
leave, or consulting him on such trifling subjects as these, my dear
child, he, he, he! you are enough to spoil any husband.--Well, good
morning--you must correct yourself of such _enfantillage_--remember
what I say. Six months will not have elapsed before you recant all
this, and change your present mode of thinking and feeling."

Miss Melcomb smiled, and shook her head in token of dissent. "Good
morning," Lady Ellersby repeated, "I have already intruded too much
upon your time; I shall be delighted to cultivate your society when you
come back a gay bride; and pray tell Lady Melcomb I will not torment
her any more just now.--Once again accept my congratulations, and my
best compliments to Lord Melcomb, he, he, he!"

It is a strange thing that in the happiest of times there is often a
word spoken, or a thing occurs, which seems to interpose a dark spot
upon the brightness of happiness, as though we were not to forget the
nature of mortal felicity. Lady Ellersby's words, of six months will
not elapse ere you have changed your present feelings--sounded in Miss
Melcomb's ears long after they had been spoken; and though she strove
to drive them from her remembrance, they remained fixed there like a
warning which she was not to disregard--a foreboding of evil (for to
the happy all change has terror in it). Minor circumstances such as
this, have happened to every body in their course through life, and
have been like visions which opened a vista to futurity.

The day at length came which was to unite Miss Melcomb with Lord
Glenmore, and the various persons invited met at Lord Melcomb's house,
from whence their carriages followed in the suite of that of the
bride's. The ceremony took place in St. James's Chapel, and it was a
beautiful sight to see the bride, with composed bashfulness, in the
long white robe and coronal that bound her veiled brows, so fitly
emblematic of her own purity, supported by her father to the altar,
and given from the paternal arms into those of a husband, who was
henceforth to be all the world to her, and whom she acknowledged to be
lord of her affections in the seriousness of true and deep attachment,
as the chosen of her heart. Her velvet prayer book in one hand--the
other folding her veil across her person, which it but partially
concealed, she knelt down in that spirit of piety which hallows and
sanctifies the vows she was about to take. The previous tremor which
had shook her frame as she advanced to the altar, was stilled into
composure as she bent the knee, and raised her thoughts to heaven.

Lord Glenmore, too, seemed imbued with the same devout feelings, and
all those who came with lighter thoughts, appeared, outwardly at least,
impressed.

When the ceremony closed, the now Lady Glenmore knelt before her
parents, and as they pressed her to their breast, blessed her with
silent fervour; and even the most insensible acknowledged a touch of
feeling at this scene. Lady De Chere was heard to say, that she had
no idea it would be made such a serious affair of; had she known it,
she certainly would not have been present. Congratulations having been
offered on every side, some with sincere goodwill, but the greater
part with common-place phrase; the marriage party returned to Lady
Melcomb's, where a breakfast had been prepared.

"What a _mélange_ of persons!" observed Lady Ellersby, as she stopped
in the door-way on entering, in order to reconnoitre. "If I had not
been obliged" (she whispered to Lady Tilney), "nothing should have
brought me here."

"And _I_ most indubitably should not have come," replied the latter,
"had it not been to _oblige you_; and after all I would have given a
great deal that I _had not_: for I assure you, my dear, as soon as the
affair of the day is over, we must none of us be seen here again; what
we may do respecting Lord and Lady Glenmore, _reste a savoir_. But
yonder is Lady Baskerville and Lady Tenderden, let us join them, and
by keeping as much as possible together, and talking to no one but in
our own circle, shew that we are not here even at present on familiar
footing." Lady Baskerville was conversing with Lady Tenderden on one
of those square Ottomans _dos-a-dos_, with their several cavaliers by
them, Lord Tonnerre, Lord Gascoigne, Lord Boileau, &c.

"Well I am sure," said Lady Baskerville, addressing Lord Boileau,
"if I were Lady Glenmore, I should heartily wish all this _étiquette
de noces_ was over; when a marriage has taken place, and it is known
to all the world, the amusement is ended, and there is nothing to be
wished for, but the comfortable arrangement of two sensible persons,
who know what it is to live without being _a charge_ to each other."

"To be sure," replied Lord Boileau, "I wonder how people can make this
sort of fuss and _étalage_; it is assuming that one is interested for
them--nobody cares whether any body is happy or miserable, and it is a
bad taste to _affiché_ their private feelings in this public manner."

At this moment a general movement in one of the apartments attracted
every body's attention.--"Lord Melcomb is dead!" "Lord Melcomb is
dying!" resounded in audible whispers.

"Call my carriage."--"How shocking."--"I would not be in the room with
a corpse for the world."--"Do let us get away."

"Who knows but it may be catching--how fortunate for Glenmore," said
Lord Boileau, looking over the people's heads, as he beheld Lord
Melcomb apparently lifeless. "He will have the pretty heiress and her
fortune at the same moment."

"What do you mean?" asked some one who stood near.

"Why, only if the old Lord dies, that Miss Melcomb becomes immediate
mistress of Melcomb Park, and an estate of ten thousand a year."

"Does she! you do not mean so; had I known that, I would have proposed
to the girl myself," said Lord Tonnerre.

"But is he really in an apoplectic fit?" said another.

"Perhaps, but sometimes people do outlive these sort of things, and
walk about quite gaily many years."

"Ah! there is that chance to be sure," said Lady Baskerville, laughing.
It is lamentable to remark, how those who live in fashion's fooleries
become actually indifferent to every thing, and to every circumstance,
of what mighty moment soever, that does not immediately concern their
interests and pleasures. The most tremendous events, the most awful
dispensations, the most surprising occurrences are to them so many
little coloured bubbles, that seem to blow about for their amusement,
or targets set up to shoot jokes at. Life and death seem but as
foot-balls for these puppets to play with: it would be laughable if it
were not horrible.

Lord Melcomb had only a fainting fit, occasioned by over fatigue,
and the heat of the room. The brilliant crowd, however, which were
assembled at his house, fled in dismay on the first alarm of sickness
or of sorrow; and their inquiries the next day for his health, were
influenced more by curiosity, than by any feeling of humanity, or any
real care whether he were alive or dead. This event, however, had a
very different effect on the minds of Lord Melcomb's sincere friends,
who waited with anxiety to learn the effects of this sudden illness.
On Lady Glenmore's mind it cast a cloud, which seemed to overshadow
the bright dawning of her happiness; and she trembled at the idea of
some unknown calamity, an idea which had once before visited her, when
called up by Lady Ellersby's words, and which now again recurred to her
with painful intenseness. A short hour, however, relieved every one
from anxiety; Lord Melcomb was completely restored, and he received the
embraces of his child: when kissing away the tears, which she could
not restrain, he entreated her to lay aside all fears on his account.
Once more the bridal pair received the parental blessing; and taking
leave of the few dear friends that surrounded them, stepped into their
carriage and set off for Lord Glenmore's villa, where after remaining a
short time, and feeling quite reassured on Lord Melcomb's account, they
proceeded on a tour to Paris.




CHAPTER XI.

A FASHIONABLE EASTER.


The season was approaching when, in good old times, the heads of great
families left the metropolis, and in the retirement of their country
seats or villas devoted the precious hours of the solemn festival of
Easter to reflection, apart from busy scenes of public life in the
bosoms of their families--thus setting an example worthy of imitation:
and overcoming, in some degree, the difficulty with which we know a
rich man shall enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

How widely different is it at the present day with those who call
themselves _The Ton_. They go indeed, at this holy season, to villas,
and country seats, but take with them there all the follies, and vices,
and habits of that daily idleness and dissipation which can suffer no
pause in its riot, no diminution in its intoxication.

Lady Ellersby had invited to Restormel Lady Tilney and the more select
of her coterie. Some there were, the subalterns of their _corps élite_,
who, however subservient and ready they had proved themselves to
adopt the follies of exclusiveness, had as yet failed in establishing
themselves in its full rights and prerogatives, and who, after the
sacrifice of their own true dignity, still found themselves but as
tools in the hands of others. These, often overlooked in the more
_recherché_ amusements, _heard_ of the party at Restormel, but only
_heard_, and were not among the invited. To be excluded on such an
occasion was a mortification of the severest kind, and it became a
matter of the greatest importance to have their names inserted, if
possible, on the select list. To obtain this point, the infinite pains
and ingenuity employed were worthy of a better cause. The Baskervilles
were of the number overlooked; and, addressing his wife on the subject
with as much eagerness as it was permitted one of his dignified
refinement to display, Lord Baskerville said:

"Imagine what Boileau has just told me; Lady Ellersby has a party at
Restormel next week! I do think _we_ had a right to be asked; don't
you?"

"Oh certainly, _love_," replied Lady Baskerville, a sweet-sounding
epithet of affection which but on few occasions passed between them:
"Certainly: and if we are not, I shall think it quite rude; but _I
will_ arrange the matter."

That night Lady Baskerville went to the Opera with Lady Boileau; as
soon as an opportunity presented itself, Lady Baskerville turned
suddenly round, and said, "Oh, there is Lady Ellersby, I see, in her
box: how well she looks--of _course you_ are going to Restormel at
Easter?" and she kissed her hand the while, in her most smiling manner,
to the lady of whom she spoke.

"No, I am not invited," replied Lady Boileau. "Are you?"

"Yes," rejoined Lady Baskerville, (determined to hazard the lie at
all events, and trust to chance, or her own devices, to make it true
afterwards.) "But how very odd she should have left you out; it must be
some mistake."

"Oh, no, it is not a mistake--it cannot be; for Lady Ellersby, you
know, makes all her invitations on these occasions _de vive voix_."
Lady Baskerville almost betrayed herself as she _felt_ Lady Boileau's
penetrating eyes fixed upon her's, with a scrutiny she did not wish to
prolong; however she rallied dexterously, and turned off the discourse
into some other channel; but Lady Boileau returned to the charge,
saying:

"Well, my dear Lady Baskerville, as _you are_ asked, do you not think
you could get us invited also? You know I hardly ever break my rule of
running the risk of compromising a friend by tormenting her to procure
invitations, but for this once I think I may venture, considering
our long friendship, to entrust you with the secret (for you know I
would not have it said for the world), that I wish to be of the number
of the _Priées_ to Restormel--now as I intend giving my first ball
immediately after Easter, I shall consult her to-night about certain
persons whom I am rather doubtful whether I shall ask or not, and then
by appealing to you, throw the conversation into your hands, and give
you an opportunity of naming those who are invited to Restormel, which
will bring about the subject in such a natural way, that either I must
be asked or she will commit herself by a rudeness which she generally
avoids."

Lady Baskerville sat on thorns, but during the length of this speech
she had leisure to collect her scattered senses, and began a reply
equally elaborate, professing herself to be exceedingly attached and
obliged to Lady Boileau, and for _that very reason_ declining all
interference on the present occasion--"for you know," she said, "it
makes one so very _nervous_ to put a friend under the unpleasant
predicament of being refused. Besides, the moment one lets the
world know that one has a friend who wants any thing, people begin
immediately to conclude that they may want many things, and directly
look shy, and make an excuse, and get off, and probably cut both the
_asker_ and the person for whom they ask. However _you know_ I will do
what _I can do_, but only I entreat you will leave me at liberty to
chuse the mode of managing this business."

"Yes," rejoined Lady Boileau, "most certainly; but perhaps the best way
of all will be to say nothing about it, beforehand, and then for me to
arrive unexpectedly, and say _you_ had asked me, and had forgotten to
mention to Lady Ellersby that you had done so."

"Oh! _not for the world_, my dearest Lady Boileau, not for the
world,--besides,--I just recollect--Lord Baskerville had some idea
we should not go at all;"--at that instant arrives Lord Baskerville
himself, and forgetting his acquired manner, he opened the box-door
somewhat abruptly, and in his natural gay agreeable way, such as is his
own when he ceases to remember he is an exclusive, he said, addressing
Lady Baskerville,

"I have this instant had an invitation for you, which I am sure you
will accept with pleasure: it is from Lady Ellersby to go to Restormel."

"Dear! la! Lord Baskerville, how odd you are--that is so like you--to
have forgot--and Lady Ellersby too, she must have forgotten, don't you
know _we were_ asked a fortnight ago."

"Ah--hem! very true," and taking the hint which Lady Baskerville had
given him by an expressive glance, "hem! I _had_ really forgotten, I
always forget _those sort of things_, hem!"

"Yes, and you said then, _if you_ remember, that _you_ would not go,
for that you thought of visiting Tunbridge, as you always conceived
Restormel to be a dull, damp place, and so unwholesome, with its
quantity of trees and stagnant water."

"Ay--so I did,--hem! very true, and so it is, and now you put me in
mind, I rather suppose _we_, that is _I_, shall not go, for of course
_your_ ladyship will do as you chuse."

Lady Boileau, though young in years, was too old a bird of fashion
to be caught with chaff, she saw through this matrimonial manœuvre,
but was too prudent to let her perception be seen; and in regard to
Lady Baskerville's refusal on the subject of Restormel, she pretended
to take it as the latter intended it should be taken, and her outward
appearance remained unruffled, but at the same time it was marked
in the tablets of her memory, as a token of friendship _not to be
forgotten_.

"Indeed," replied Lady Boileau, in answer to Lord Baskerville's last
remark, "you are both quite right, Restormel _is_ a _dull_ place, and
I advise you to secure a party for Tunbridge, in which I shall be most
happy to join you."

"I will think about it, hem!" replied Lord Baskerville, "and consult
the Comtesse Leinsengen," and thus he bowed out of the box. Shortly
after, Lady Baskerville feigned a very bad head-ache and retired before
the end of the ballet. Not so Lady Boileau; she watched Lady Ellersby's
movements, and contrived to meet her in the room just at the very
moment when the crowd prevented her escaping.

"What do you think I have been doing all night?" Lady Boileau asked?

"Not listening to the Opera," replied Mr. Spencer Newcomb, who was
handing Lady Ellersby.

"As if any body ever really came to attend to or listen to it!" she
observed; "it is the very last thing one comes to the Opera for,"
yawning.

"I have been much better employed," rejoined Lady Boileau, "for I
have been defending the _agrémens_ of Restormel against Lord and Lady
Baskerville's assertion of its being the dullest place in the world;
they both declared it always gave them the vapours."

"So it does me," replied Lady Ellersby, again yawning, "and that is
precisely the reason why I take such special care never to go there,
without having it well filled. But then all places in the country are
alike, and one _must_ go out of town at Easter."

"Well, Lady Ellersby, that may be true enough: all country places are
insufferably dull except it be to give a fête during the lilac and
laburnum season; but I think your friends might make some distinction
between _you_ and your _place_, and as far as I could observe there was
none made by the Baskervilles."

"Oh was there _not_, he, he! Oh if such _is_ the case I am sorry I
asked them to-night."

"To-night! did you not make Lady Baskerville the invitation long
before to-night? you will pardon my asking the question; I have a
particular reason, which I will explain to you hereafter, for doing so."

"La, dear, no," yawning, "I never thought of asking any body _long
ago_." This, though in contradiction to her former declaration of
taking care to _secure_ a party, she was obliged to say in order to
avoid a marked rudeness to Lady Boileau, "and," she continued, "now
I have the good fortune to meet you, dear Lady Boileau, will you
and Lord Boileau have the charity to join us; and, notwithstanding
Lady Baskerville's terrific account of Restormel, venture to come
and _egayer_ its melancholy bowers; at all events it will be better
than remaining in town, and we will try to do what we can to render
ourselves agreeable to you."

"I shall be delighted; we shall have the greatest pleasure in waiting
upon you, and am certain we shall be extremely well amused."

The great object of Lady Boileau's day was now successfully attained,
and doubtless she laid her head upon her pillow that night with all the
satisfaction which such success ought to confer. Lady Baskerville, on
her part rejoiced in having as she thought so completely outmanœuvred
her friend, and enjoyed the triumph which her superior skill in the
management of such matters, as well as her superior knowledge of _the
world_, had afforded her. Yet these women called each other _friends_!
How is that sacred name profaned, that name which can have no embodied
existence, but with the sincere and good, yet which is polluted in the
world's mouth at every instant.

Restormel was, as it had been described by Lady Baskerville, an
exceedingly gloomy place, but all within the house was luxury; beyond
its walls, however, there were none of those moral circumstances which
can give interest even to the dullest spot. The scenery was monotonous
and insipid; but there might have been an enlivening character thrown
over the gloom, in the happy countenances and cheerful looks of
dependents and retainers, if such had been the will of the possessors
of Restormel. But this was not the case, the cold calculating system
of employment of the poor, merely when the purpose of keeping up the
grounds or other improvements made it necessary, and then taking no
further charge whatever of the beings so employed, regarding them only
as the labourers of the hour, conspired to give the place a moral, as
well as a natural gloom.

No peasant's abode in these domains was ever cheered by Lady Ellersby's
presence; no sufferer in sickness or distress alleviated beyond the
donation of money, and that but seldom;--none of those heart-interests
in short were ever evinced, on her, or her Lord's part, which confer a
mutual delight on those who receive, and on those who bestow them, and
which maintain that link between the higher and lower classes, which
is at once so beautiful and so beneficial, and without which all the
luxuries in the world will never produce any thing but a melancholy and
unsatisfying grandeur.

There certainly, however, were the means, if they had been resorted
to, for every laudable gratification of interest and entertainment at
Restormel. And where is the country place in which, if its possessor
fulfil the various duties the possession entails on him, the means are
wanting; and even as it was, if that sickly appetite for excitement
which characterised its present inhabitants could ever have been
satisfied, it must have been here, where every thing connected with
their system of life was found in profusion; but the factitious smiles
which gild the exterior of such a circle as was generally to be met
with at Restormel is not the sunshine of real happiness.

Easter was now arrived and the party assembled at Restormel, consisted
of the Tilneys, the Tenderdens, the Baskervilles, the Leinsengens,
Luttermannes, Lord Tonnerre, Lady Hamlet Vernon, Lord Albert D'Esterre
(who was asked _on trial_), Lord and Lady Boileau, by the manœuvre
which has been described, and one or two single men like Mr. Leslie
Winyard, Mr. Spencer Newcomb, &c. &c.

These persons all met on the first night of their arrival at an eight
o'clock dinner. Lord Albert D'Esterre had been invited at Lady Tilney's
suggestion, who considered a country house a good stage for the display
of a new _debutant_, and as affording no unpropitious opportunity of
forwarding her wishes in regard to Lord Albert's political bias. These
wishes, however, were soon doomed to disappointment; Lord Albert had
accepted the invitation under the impression that in the country there
was more leisure and tranquillity than the hurry of a London life
allowed; but whether in the country or town, he might have known, had
not the fatal mist of delusion which comes over all who enter on a
tortuous path began to blind him, that reflection and serenity of mind
do not depend on time or place; that power, that calm, may be destroyed
or may be nurtured in cities, as in lonely wilds, it is true; but had
he thought for a moment, he would have felt that the gay assemblage in
which he was to mix at Restormel, was not calculated to restore him to
that state of mind which he believed himself anxious to regain.

In the course of Lord Albert D'Esterre's acquaintance with Lady Hamlet
Vernon, he had discovered much to charm, to dazzle, and to lead a mind
so young as his into a maze of error. Sophistry had gradually drawn
its veil before his perception of truth; through this he viewed her
character; and under the same delusive influence, he persuaded himself
that the interest he took in her arose from the purest motive, namely
that of endeavouring to free from error, one whose nature was naturally
endowed with capabilities for becoming truly estimable. He listened to
all her dangerous and seductive opinions, while he gazed on her beauty,
bewildered with the false conviction that he did so to prove to her the
error of the one, and to point out the peril which, with such unfixed
tenets, the other would most probably lead her into.

What a melancholy prospect, he inwardly exclaimed, lies before that
beautiful creature, whose principles have never been formed to virtue,
and who has been cast among those whose every axiom is contrary to the
laws of purity and truth! What delight in the reflection, what a good
action it will be, to disentangle such a being from the snares that
surround her, and restore her to a life of usefulness and happiness. My
heart aches for her, when I think how in early youth, before she could
know her own wishes, she was married to an unprincipled husband, one
who could never have known her worth; she must not be abandoned without
an effort to save her. Thus did Lord Albert parley with himself, till
a dangerous admixture of evil glided in with his better feelings, and
prevented that clear perception between right and wrong, which under
his engagements should have made him at once fly from Lady Hamlet
Vernon. It was _not_ so, however, and Lady Hamlet Vernon was more the
object that led him to Restormel, than any wish for, or sense of, the
necessity of retirement and reflection.

The mode of living at Restormel was what Spencer Newcomb wittily
called the _foreign system_, that is, every pleasure-giving
circumstance was throughout the daily routine cultivated to the utmost
point which art could reach. To give an account of it in detail would
be a work of supererogation; for it was a transfer of London to the
country, only with this difference, that the post town and high road
took place of the streets of the metropolis; and the shrubberies and
gardens of Restormel, of those of Kensington and the Park; with the
exception, too, of a rather animated discussion between Lady Tilney and
Lord Tonnerre on the subject of female influence; and which brought the
parties into closer collision, than was consistent with the outward
harmony of exclusive _ton_.

Little occurred during the first few days of the retreat to Restormel
to vary the monotony of the scene. With reference to this latter
subject, Lady Tilney remarked to Lady Baskerville, as they left the
dining-room, on the evening when the affair alluded to had taken place,
"I am very sorry, my dear Lady Baskerville, very sorry indeed, that
what I said should have taken such a desperate effect on your friend
Lord Tonnerre; however, it does every body good to hear the truth now
and then, and as he seldom if ever hears it, I think I have done him
service in sounding that tocsin in his ears for once in his life, don't
you, my dear?"

"He, he, he!" tittered Lady Baskerville, who did not like to offend
the speaker, though she was really angry with her in her heart; "I
dare say you are quite right--but for my part, I never wish to teach
any body any thing; I was so tired of being taught myself, that
whatever reminds me of the dull days of being a good girl, and having a
governess, quite overcomes me."

"Oh," observed the Comtesse Leinsengen, "what sinnify, whether dat Lord
is in a passion or not, nothing will ever change him. He knows but two
phrases in the dictionary, _I will_ and _I won't_, you _shall_ and
you _shan't_, and he do tink himself, and all dat belong to himself,
quite perfect, _c'est une ignorance crasse a tout prendre_, but what
_sinnify_ it? He was alway Milor Tonnerre, he _is_ Milor Tonnerre, he
will alway _be_ Milor Tonnerre; _laisser le grogner, c'est son métier;
en qualité de Tonnerre il grognera toujours, quesque ça nous fait? il
n'est pas notre mari laisse-le là de grâces_," and she looked at Lady
Baskerville as she spoke.

This affair, however, did not pass over quite so easily as Lady
Tilney would have had it; and it ended in Lord Tonnerre's going
suddenly to town; and Lady Baskerville remaining in exceedingly bad
humour: for to be without an _attaché quelconque_ was as bad as to be
without a hat from Herbot's.




CHAPTER XII.

FASCINATION--THE CHURCH-YARD, &c.


In a continued scene of frivolity, to call it by no harsher name, and
in the turmoil of petty passions and jarring female interests, passed
the hours at Restormel that led on to the most solemn period of the
year. Amongst the actors in it, Lord Albert D'Esterre cannot (with the
feelings and character which he still possessed) be supposed to have
held a part at all consistent with his true wishes; and, but for the
increasing and alarming fascination of his senses, and the warping of
his better judgment, by the influence which Lady Hamlet Vernon still,
day by day, more effectually exercised over him, he would have quitted
a society altogether, of which he could never really form a component
part, and _from_ which, but for the third power which held him in
combination with it, he must have quickly separated himself.

But, however much this fatal influence might affect the general line of
his conduct, the good seeds sown in early life, though sadly choaked as
they had been, were not yet totally eradicated; and on the morning of
the Easter festival, he took his way to the village to obey the calling
bell of church. The service had begun when he entered, and it was not
till the first lesson was commenced that he lifted his eyes from the
book, and beheld in the family pew opposite Lady Hamlet Vernon. A flush
of various feelings coloured his cheek, and suffused with a richer glow
even the whiteness of his forehead. She is then, he thought, in despite
of the example around her, really good;--she has listened to my advice;
she has come to the fountain-head for instruction--all is well! He then
endeavoured to follow the service throughout its solemn beauty; but his
mind was disturbed, and his thoughts wandered.

When the congregation was dismissed, of course he bowed and approached
Lady Hamlet Vernon with the greetings of the morning salutations, and
offering her his arm, they walked slowly on into the church-yard;
it was one of those quiet gray days, which belong neither to winter
nor spring, but owned affinity with both, and there was a freshness
in the odour of the new trodden grass, which might have been deemed
the precursor of flowers, had not a frosty air chilled the sweet
promise;--some fine old yews surrounded the church-yard, and the
gay colours of the country peoples' ribbons and cloaks appeared in
brilliant relief as they lingered beneath the dark boughs.

The rustic curtsey, and abrupt inclination of respect, which were
offered in homage to Lord D'Esterre and Lady Hamlet Vernon on either
side, as they passed through the village throng, indicated that the
actions of those in the higher ranks of life can never be disregarded
by the lower; a kind of deep respect, and an apparent satisfaction,
sat on the countenances of these good people, and they showed by their
very looks and manner, that they felt the hallowing of the sabbath to
be a link of sympathy existing between them and their superiors, which
mutually allied them in the bonds of christian fellowship.

These are feelings which, even in the uneducated, are still indigenous
to the human heart, and, if cherished and preserved, become as
productive of good as, when neglected or contemned, they tend to
incalculable evil. As Lord Albert and Lady Hamlet Vernon passed along,
the latter observed:

"I love to linger here; these rude memorials of love and respect to
the dead" (pointing to the graves at their feet) "are a mournful
gratification to the living; they tell us that in our turn we may at
least hope to remain some short time in the memories of those whom we
quit; but after all, _tout passe_," and she sighed heavily;--"yes,
_here_ undoubtedly all that the proudest trophies can do, is for a time
to point the moral of a good or bad character by the stone that covers
or decorates the tomb."

"But the tomb, dear Lady Hamlet, is only the repository of the dust;
it will itself become like the dust it covers; but never, like that
awakened dust, be infused with new life, a life far more glorious than
all that we can form an idea of; and we must look not _upon_, not _in_
the grave, but beyond it, where death is swallowed up in victory."

"_You_ can do this, and you are happy," she replied. A cold revulsion
struck on Lord Albert's heart as she paused and breathed with labouring
breath,--"and can _you_ not do so?" he asked in deep low tone and
shuddered as he spoke. She shook her head; and after a moment's pause
said, "all the happiness I know is confined to a few brief moments--a
few electric gleams of pleasure, which vanish in their birth; a
feverish uncertain and fearful catching at delight, which yet eludes
my grasp. These are all the means which I possess to obtain happiness;
yet, such as they are, and such as my success in them is, I would not
exchange them for yours--what! exchange your cold, leaden, measured
_theories of feelings_, for they are nothing more--or the beating pulse
of spontaneous joy, which even in this moment of our communing is mine;
no, Lord Albert, no--meanly as I think of myself when measured by your
standard in the general tenour of our existence, and in the scale of
being, there are moments when I soar above all that was ever dreamt of
in your philosophy,"--and as she spoke her eyes danced in a deceptive
brilliancy that for the moment turned Lord Albert's brain. He shuddered
as he felt the pressure of her arm on his while she uttered these
words, and his uncertain footsteps slid upon the base of a marble tomb.

In the action of recovering himself, a kind of change seemed to pass
through his frame; so much are we influenced by trivial circumstances,
which yet are surely not the agents of chance; in so doing his eyes
rested on an inscription engraven on the stone, and as if glad to
escape from answering her, he read the following lines:

    They were so one, it never could be said
    Which of them ruled, or which of them obeyed;
    He ruled because she would obey, and she
    By him obeying, ruled as well as he.
    There ne'er was known betwixt them a dispute,
    Save which the other's will should execute.

"The lines are indeed beautiful," said Lady Hamlet Vernon, "and I
could be content to be the mould under that stone, if I had ever
enjoyed an existence to which they might with truth have been
applied--but as it is, _non ragionam di lor_;" and she sprang lightly
forwards, adding in a tone of affected levity, "let us make haste back
to Restormel; why, dear Lord Albert, we shall be laughed at if it is
known that we have been to church." The spell was broken, he made no
reply, and they continued the remainder of their walk in silence.

"Hard, cold, insensate man!" cried Lady Hamlet Vernon, when she
reached her own apartment; "but he shall be met with an equal share of
self-love. I will subdue this haughty nature, and mock at him, when his
hour of suffering arrives. If he loved passionately any thing, even
that doll, that infant, that piece of clock-work Lady Adeline Seymour,
I could forgive him; but he does not, it is a systematical pursuit of
an ideal perfection, that leaves his heart always cold and untouched,
and fenced round as it were with adamant. Proud D'Esterre, thou shalt
weep for this"--and she paused for a moment, then collecting all her
thoughts, her final resolution was taken, and availing herself of a
communication which she had to make to Mr. Foley, who she trusted
might be instrumental to her purpose, with a breaking heart, and with
contending feelings she seized a pen, and traced the following letter:

 "I am happy to inform you, my dear Mr. Foley, that the official
 patronage, which you have long wished me to procure for you, is now
 actually obtained, and your arrival in town is all that is wanted
 to arrange the necessary preliminaries. A letter received yesterday
 informs me of this; but in the interim, I wish you could make it
 convenient to pass a few days here on your road to London; for between
 ourselves, this place and its society is insufferably dull; and were
 it not for tilt and tournament between Lord Tonnerre and Lady Tilney
 (who you know under the rose cannot hear each other,) we must have
 all gone to sleep, or torn one another to pieces, or eaten our own
 paws, like antediluvian hyenas, from the absolute want of mental
 nourishment. But in this predicament, resembling people reduced to
 starvation on a sea voyage, we cast lots to see who should first
 be sacrificed for the benefit of the rest, and fortunately by the
 address of Lady Tilney, the lot was made to fall on Lord Tonnerre,
 who finished his existence amongst us, as he always lived, in a storm
 of passion; the only one of the party, I believe, who regrets his
 absence, is Lady Baskerville, who is now _sans cavalier_, and in the
 Roman phraseology, _d'impeccarsi_. I advise you then by all means to
 come quickly, and to supply the vacancy.

 "But to leave joking, I must tell you my dear friend, that I languish
 for a rational companion, and one who will kindly enter into my
 feelings; nobody understands me here;--too good, and too bad, I am
 like Mahomet's tomb, hanging between heaven and earth, and I find no
 resting place for my sick soul, nor shall I, 'till you come with your
 kindly smile, to solace my weary spirit. Come, therefore, and that
 without delay, for you well know that when any thing is to be done, it
 had best be done quickly--all delays are dangerous, and with me they
 are despair.

 "Would you wish to know something of those you will meet here? I have
 only to mention their names, and refer you to our old note book; I see
 no great visible change in any of them. Mr. Spencer Newcombe has been
 here for a few days, and is certainly the _most_ diverting man in the
 world; and well he may be, for he lives entirely for that purpose.

 "Lord Albert D'Esterre is here also; he sets up for a censor and
 corrector of men, manners, and things. He will have enough to do,
 if he persists in this unpopular walk; but I am much mistaken, if
 he will not soon find it a very arduous undertaking, and one indeed
 which is quite hopeless. If he were but content to do as other people
 do, who live in the world, and to be a little more like his day and
 generation, and a little less of Don Quixotte, he would really be a
 pleasant person. He does not, _par parenthèse_, seem in a hurry to
 join his betrothed, which I think is rather a good sign; for I should
 have but a poor opinion of a man who did as papa and mamma ordered,
 and fell in love precisely as he had been desired to do in the days of
 his childhood.

 "The Tilney, the Leinsengen, the Baskerville, the Boileau, go on in
 their usual way; and like the old quotation, though they all differ,
 yet they all agree in one thing at least, which is wishing the society
 of your agreeable self; so under pain of not only my displeasure,
 but that of all the world's, come quickly, and delay not. Adieu, and
 believe me to be the most true of your true friends.

     "H. V."

In consequence of the occurrence of Lord Albert's morning walk, he
felt little inclined to join the circle on his return to Restormel; and
was in a mood too replete with contradictory feelings, to allow him to
reflect calmly, still less to enable him to decide sanely upon the only
vigorous step he should have taken, namely, to flee from temptation.
He excused himself under the plea of being unwell, from leaving his
own room; and sitting down with a determination of communing with
his own heart, he found not the habit so easy, after long neglect;
and was conscious that he mused, without deriving any fruit from his
contemplations.

But by degrees, this confusion of mind subsided; and then came that
soothing composure, which, after a state of emotion, is always welcomed
with something like pleasure. He opened a favourite author, Owen
Feltham; and he could not read long, without seeing his own necessities
reflected in the page, as in a glass; this is one way by which to prove
whether a moral or religious work be sterling or not, does it apply to
our necessities? does it first probe, and then salve our wounds? Lord
Albert D'Esterre found this book did both; and in its perusal, there
was a sanctity of enjoyment to which he had been long a stranger. This
enjoyment was, however, too soon disturbed by his servant bringing in a
note; he felt it as an unwelcome intrusion; but it was opened after a
moment's hesitation, and contained the following words:

 "I am anxious to know how you really are. I too am unwell, and I dread
 lest I should have have said or done something this morning, which
 may have offended you--oh! if you know how terrible it is for those
 who have none to care for them, to suppose for an instant that they
 have given pain (however, unwittingly) to the only person whose good
 opinion they are anxious to possess, and who has evinced an interest
 in their welfare--you would now feel for me. I am not of those who
 make a display of their heart's feelings--far from it, I am a miser of
 the few treasures which lie hoarded there; it is for that reason that
 I mingle with the rest, as though I were one of _them_; and that I am
 now writing these troubled lines in the midst of the insipid turmoil
 which surrounds me; _tout comme si de rien étoit_. Aid me in bearing
 my grievous burthen of existence, and send me one line to be a cordial
 for the moment at least; the present moment's ease is all I ever hope
 for."

What an overturn to all composure was conveyed in this little bit of
perfumed paper; fifty commencements of reply were made and torn; at
last he rang his bell, summoned his valet, and having given a verbal
answer to the effect that he would shortly obey the commands of Lady
Hamlet Vernon, he appeared in the drawing-room almost as soon as she
could have expected a written reply. She was sitting apart from the
rest of the company with a look of abstractedness and melancholy, the
effect of which was heightened by extreme paleness; her beautiful dark
hair was less carefully arranged than the laws of fashion demanded, but
it was not the less beautiful for that, and some stray tresses fell
gracefully upon her neck; her air, her dress, the subdued expression of
her eyes, were all captivating, and precisely in Lord Albert's _own_
way.

There was a carelessness or scorn of _fashionable_ dress, which
particularly suited his theories on the subject, not that his practical
admiration had not fifty times been excited by a very different mode of
attire; for the fact is, that men's tastes in respect to the costume of
women are always regulated by that of the person they are in love with.
On this occasion, however, it is certain that Lady Hamlet's attire was
in the letter and in the spirit precisely what Lord Albert D'Esterre
pronounced perfect. She held out her hand to him as he entered the
saloon with the composed air of friendship, and expressed her pleasure
at seeing him, for she had feared his indisposition would not have
allowed him to leave his room: and then motioning him to sit down by
her with that expression of calm interest, which attracts without
affording any plausible application of the sentiment to a more vivid
interest, she secured her object, and he occupied the vacant seat next
to her's. Mr. Leslie Winyard, who was playing _écarté_ (even on the
sacred day) with Lady Boileau, while the rest were studying and betting
on the game, called to Lord D'Esterre, "ah! Lord Albert, we have all
been guessing the reason of your absence; one said writing letters
of love, another sleeping; but the successful guess was given to my
penetrating judgment, writing a sermon on the vanities of human life,
that is, holding up to censure all that we your friends are doing."

"I assure you, Mr. Leslie Winyard, that you have not proved your
judgment infallible; for I do not plead guilty either to _your_ charge,
or to any of the others."

"Well, then, join in our game; Lady Boileau intends to beat me, and
I'll vacate my seat in your favour, and, in parliamentary phrase,
accept at the same time as many hundreds as you may choose to give me."

"Pardon me," said Lord Albert, "I cannot."

"Did you suppose Lady Hamlet Vernon would let him do so?" whispered
Lady Baskerville.

"That may be," replied Leslie Winyard, "but my life for it that is not
his reason, he will not play because it is Sunday."

"Sunday, is it?" yawned Lady Ellersby; "dear me! I did not know it was
Sunday."

"Leslie Winyard declares you will not play because it is Sunday, Lord
Albert D'Esterre," exclaimed Mr. Spencer Newcomb.

"Whatever may be my motive, or my fancy for not playing," replied Lord
Albert, "I conceive that it is at variance with the high good breeding
of this circle to inquire further into the matter, though, if it will
afford any satisfaction to Mr. Leslie Winyard, I have not the smallest
hesitation to give to him those motives."

"I am bounden to you, my Lord," rejoined the latter, putting his hand
to his heart, "but for the moment waive the honour of hearing more,
being at the very crisis of the game," and so saying he turned to the
card-table, and left Lord D'Esterre to the undisturbed enjoyment of his
conversation with Lady Hamlet Vernon.

She first broke silence (speaking in a low tone). "How many misnomers
there are in the world; this society considers itself the mode and
paragon of manners and of fashion--the world _par excellence_; and yet
the members of it are always doing or saying something to offend the
feelings of each other. Why was a being like myself thrown amongst
them? one who sees their falsehood and folly, and yet cannot escape
from it. But on the contrary, every day as it passes seems more and
more to entangle me. I possess indeed one friend, from whom I look
for consolation; but _he_, like every one in this world, has his own
troubles, and indeed I have sometimes feared, that is I fear"--she
broke off abruptly as if to find a suitable expression for what
she would say, then again continued after a pause--"that I did not
altogether act a generous part by him; one may excite a deeper interest
than one intends, for it is so soothing to a desolate heart, to find
any one whom it can like, and rest upon, that it is easy to be betrayed
into a conduct, that would afterwards perhaps render one obnoxious to
the imputation of coquetry; the character for which of all others, I
have the most decided contempt. I have not yet learnt from you, Lord
Albert D'Esterre," laying particular emphasis on her words, "that
firm independence of mind, which never yields under circumstances;
for whatever vain disputation I may hold with myself, I find I am
continually yielding to the influence of events, and floating down
the tide of life, guided more by impulse, than by principle. It will
perhaps be as well in the end--who knows?"

Lord Albert D'Esterre had listened with evident pain to the sophistry
these words contained, and as Lady Hamlet Vernon paused, added in his
most impressive manner:

"Oh! dear Lady Hamlet Vernon, I fear it will undoubtedly _not_ be well
with us in the end, if we live by chance; and we may all know, if we
chuse to know, that so to live will prove our condemnation."

"Persuade me of _that_, teach me your knowledge, and I will act upon
it; give me your conviction and I will bless you."

"Surely," thought Lord Albert D'Esterre, "it is my duty to reclaim
this person from the unhappy and destructive errors into which she has
fallen; it would be altogether wrong, it would be barbarous, to abandon
one, who calls upon me for aid, who appeals to _me_ for instruction."
Not but another view of the subject crossed his mind, for thoughts, as
we all know, flow in from contradictory sources.

"Surely the friend to whom you allude, and on whom you say you rely,
will be a far more able instructor than I can be."

"Ay, so he might (she replied) if"----"If what?"----"If I durst on all
occasions apply to him--but--but there are existing reasons to which I
before alluded, and which I now frankly tell you, have frequently made
me deny myself the consolation of his society. We shall see how things
are now, when we are to meet again after a long absence."

Lord Albert D'Esterre could scarcely misunderstand the meaning which
these words implied, and he was too delicate to press the matter
further; but when they separated for the night, the chief point which
was impressed on Lord Albert's mind was, that Lady Hamlet Vernon
was beloved by Mr. Foley, and if she did not positively return that
sentiment in its full degree, that she owned a preference in his
favour, to which it was very nearly allied. Yet if it were so, why
should that circumstance cause him uneasiness? It could only be from
the interest he had imbibed for a person, who seemed intended for a
higher and better career than the one she was pursuing.

Men, even the very best of men, frequently deceive themselves on
similar occasions; they are not, perhaps, _in love_, they do not mean
to be so; still less is it their intention deliberately to awaken an
interest which they feel they cannot return: but though they are few,
who would attempt to _win_ a heart under these circumstances, and
merely for the triumph of doing so; _all_ are not sufficiently free
from vanity to _refuse_ one, when spontaneously offered, nor, while its
possession can be valued for the passing gratification of self-love
_only_, voluntarily forego the distinction which its homage affords.
That such was the predicament in which Lord Albert D'Esterre stood, or
that such was the train of his thoughts, it would be difficult to say.

Lady Hamlet Vernon's conduct and manners towards himself certainly
betrayed partiality, which it was impossible to avoid seeing; but it
was equally impossible to attach to them the decided character of love;
and even were it so, Lord Albert stood pledged to an engagement of
the most sacred nature, and one which had it been intimated to him he
could have abandoned, he would have started from the contemplation of
its possibility; still, however, his mind was under delusion in regard
to Lady Hamlet Vernon, and the interest which he would have persuaded
himself was felt for her sake only, was, it is to be feared, nearly
allied to a sentiment, which in his circumstances never should have
been entertained.

If, however, Lord Albert D'Esterre was wandering in the maze of
undefined resolution, and with an uncertainty of object, in all his
speculations, not so Lady Hamlet Vernon, who well marked the nature of
the interest she was gradually acquiring over him, and which she hoped
soon to see augmented in a degree which would render him completely her
own.

Many days did not elapse from this time before Mr. Foley arrived.
With that refinement of tact which all women understand so well, Lady
Hamlet Vernon made her first approach towards the object she had in
view, by producing between Mr. Foley and Lord Albert D'Esterre a mutual
partiality.

She effected this, as is often successfully done, by repeating
favourable opinions respecting each, which were uttered, or were
not uttered, as it chanced by the parties one of another; "_mais on
ne s'avise jamais de tout_," and there was one circumstance which
operated against her wishes whilst cementing their intimacy. Thus was
the influence which Mr. Foley's vivid description and praises of the
attractions of Lady Adeline Seymour produced on Lord Albert D'Esterre's
mind. Although somewhat diminished by absence and by the too great
security he felt of conceiving her to be beyond the possibility of
change, these attractions still retained their power, and it needed but
the description which he more than once listened to of her beauty and
her worth, as the theme was dwelt upon by Mr. Foley, to revive in him
all the latent feelings of his love and admiration for her. After this
revival of the natural allegiance of his heart, Lord Albert D'Esterre
started from his wayward dream as though he had been warned by his
better angel. Shaking off the listless unaccountable thraldom which had
of late palsied his resolution, he ordered post-horses, and determined
to set off for Dunmelraise the very next day.


END OF VOL. I.


LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. L. COX, GREAT QUEEN STREET.




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's
original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Exclusives, Vol I., by Charlotte Campbell Bury

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