Each look, each motion, wak'd a new born grace,That o'er her form its transient glory cast;Some lovelier wonder soon usurp'd the place,Chas'd by a charm still lovelier than the last.Lyttelton.
Each look, each motion, wak'd a new born grace,That o'er her form its transient glory cast;Some lovelier wonder soon usurp'd the place,Chas'd by a charm still lovelier than the last.
Lyttelton.
Mr. Mordaunt, finding it impossible to persuade Sir Henry Seymour's veteran coachman to resign his office of charioteer, or even willingly to admit a partner on his throne, was obliged to solace himself with Mrs. Galton's conversation, till they entered the park of Deane. At last, as the carriage turned up the long dark avenue which led to the magnificent though antique mansion, his delighted eye beheld Selina, as she supported her father, whilst "with measured step and slow" he walked up and down the broad smooth terrace, which stretched along the south front of the house, and commanded all the beauties of the rich vale below. Her fragile form and firm yet elastic step were contrasted with Sir Henry's tottering feeble gait. But though her sparkling eyes gave a joyous welcome, even from a distance, to Mrs. Galton and Augustus, yet, with the fond solicitude of filial love, she restrained her father's hastening steps, till Augustus relieved her from her charge; then light as a zephyr which scarcely bends the flower over which it passes, she flew to Mrs. Galton, and had already seen, if not examined, all her purchases, recapitulated her various occupations during her three hours' absence, and made Mrs. Galton repeat twice over all the particulars she could recollect, of "dear Mrs. Temple," and Miss Wildenheim, before Augustus had conducted Sir Henry to the hall door, or replied to more than half his inquiries about "poor Brown's lease, and the arrangements that were made for his wife and children."
Selina Seymour was nearly seventeen; her person
"Fair as the forms that, wove in fancy's loom,"Float in light vision round the poet's head;"
"Fair as the forms that, wove in fancy's loom,"Float in light vision round the poet's head;"
and her mind as well cultivated as could be expected under the peculiar circumstances of her situation; for she had lived entirely in the country, and never had as yet an opportunity of acquiring that brilliancy of execution in the fine arts, by which so many of our modern girls of fashion rival the painters, and the dancers, and the singers, and the players on musical instruments, who live only by the exertion of their talents in those different lines. Of what are usually calledaccomplishmentsshe was comparatively ignorant. She knew little or nothing of fancy works—had never made any pasteboard screens—could neither waltz nor play on the flageolet—nor beat the tambourine in all the different attitudes practised and taught to young ladies by the Duke of York's band—but with several modern languages she was well acquainted, and had learned to draw from Mrs. Galton, who particularly excelled in miniature painting, and delighted in transmitting all her knowledge to her adopted child. Music was however Selina's favourite amusement, and for it she early discovered a decided genius. An old blind organist, from the town of ——, generally attended her for three months every summer, and certainly taught her well the only part of the art he understood, namely, thorough bass—but of the soul of music, he, poor man, had no idea; for that she was indebted solely to her own intensity of feeling; and whatever execution she possessed she had acquired by the indefatigable practice of such lessons of Handel's, Corelli's, Scarlatti's, and Bach's, as her father's old music chest afforded; for Sir Henry had not added an air to his collection since the death of her mother Lady Seymour, nor did he suppose it possible, that any improvement could have taken place in the art of composition since that period. Perhaps, had he heard Selina play some of Mozart's admirable melodies, he might have been induced to acknowledge their merit, as he generally thought all she did was perfection; though in her education he never interfered—the care of that had been intrusted, ever since she had lost her mother, to Mrs. Galton, and the excellent rector of the parish, Mr. Temple, who had been tutor to Sir Henry Seymour's ward, Augustus Mordaunt. With them Selina often joined in studies of a graver cast than those usually appropriated to her age and sex. And perhaps the peculiar style of her education was the one best adapted to her disposition. She had naturally uncommon vivacity. "Her cheek was yet unprofaned by a tear," and her buoyant spirits had never been depressed by those unfeeling prohibitions and restraints, which, "like a worm i' th' bud," feed on the opening blossom, and turn the happiest season of our lives into days of protracted penance. To her elasticity of spirits and brilliancy of imagination, which, but for an uncommon superiority of talent, might have degenerated into frivolity of mind, this calm and almost masculine education formed an admirable counterpoise. But yet such was her natural pliability of character, that Mrs. Galton scarcely deemed even this antidote sufficient; and looked forward with trembling anxiety to the period of her being introduced to society, knowing how probable it was, that her fancy, and even her heart, might be seriously affected, long before her reason or understanding were called into action.
Selina was the only one of Sir Henry Seymour's children who had survived their mother; in her were centred all his hopes and nearly all his affections; her vivacity amused, and her talents gratified him. But he was not capable of justly appreciating or fully comprehending her character; he had so long considered her as a mere child, it never entered into his calculation, that she was now approaching that eventful period of life, when more was required from the discretion and affection of a parent, than a mere tolerance of harmless vivacity. It did certainly sometimes occur to him, that she might marry, but he generally banished the idea from his mind as quickly as it arose; for it was always accompanied by a painful feeling, arising in truth from a dread of losing her delightful society; but he never analyzed this feeling, and always repeating to himself that she was still but a child, he concluded by his usual reflection, that there "was no use in thinking about it; for, if it was to happen, he could not help it."
Thus, with infatuated security, he anticipated no danger in allowing his daughter to associate with Augustus Mordaunt. They had been brought up as children together, and their manner to each other was so unrestrained, so free from all those artificial precautions, that by a premature defence first apprise innocence of its danger, that even wiser heads than poor Sir Henry's might have believed, as Selina really did, that only the affection of brother and sister existed between them: it is true, Mrs. Galton and Mr. Temple sometimes talked over together the possibility of their future union; and so desirable did it seem to both, and so certain to obtain Sir Henry's consent, that they left them to their fate, scarcely wishing that any circumstance should arise to prevent a mutual attachment taking place.
Augustus was nephew to the earl of Osselstone, and heir to his title. His father, dying when he was four years old, had left him to the guardianship of Sir Henry; and the boy had been removed to Deane Hall the year before Selina was born, where he had constantly resided since, except during the periods he had passed at Eton and Oxford. Sir Henry felt for him an affection almost paternal; nor was it unreturned, or unworthily bestowed. The disposition of Augustus was naturally benevolent and ardent in the extreme. Even in the most trifling pursuit either of knowledge or amusement, the fervency of his character was manifested; and where the susceptibility of his heart was once called forth, though expression might be repressed, his feelings were not easily to be subdued.
Mr. Temple, profiting by the example the fate of Mordaunt's parents had presented, early laboured to bring his passions under the control of reason. He succeeded in regulating them, though they were not to be extinguished; and though Augustus early acquired a habit of self-possession, yet the natural vivacity of his character was expressed in every glance of his intelligent countenance, which served to portray each fleeting sentiment as it arose, whilst his dark expressive eye seemed to penetrate into the inmost thoughts of others, and to search for a mind congenial to his own. His figure was not less remarkable for elegance than strength; and he particularly excelled in all those manly exercises and accomplishments in which grace or activity are required. He had derived, partly from nature, partly from education, such high and almost chivalrous ideas of principle, that, even as a boy, no temptation could have induced him either to deserve or submit to the slightest imputation on his honour; and as he approached to manhood, this jealousy of character had given him a reputation of pride, which his dignified manner and appearance in some degree corroborated.—Though to his inferiors his address was always affable, yet to strangers of his own rank in life he was generally reserved: he was therefore not always understood; and those who were incapable of fully comprehending his peculiar merits, frequently attributed that apparent haughtiness of demeanour, which repelled officious familiarity, less to the superiority of his individual character, than to the adventitious circumstance of his high birth and expectations.
He had early shown a strong predilection for the army, but he could never prevail on Sir Henry to consent to his entering that profession; and as a coolness existed between his uncle and his guardian, none other had yet been decided on for him. Nor, if it was to depend on Sir Henry's advice or exertions, was the selection likely soon to be made; for such was the habitual indolence of the baronet's character, that, unless the natural benevolence of his disposition was peculiarly called forth by any accidental circumstance, he was content with feelings of unbounded good will to all mankind, without making a single effort to promote the welfare of any individual. Yet, nevertheless, he was an affectionate father, an indulgent landlord, a hospitable neighbour, a kind friend, and as such universally beloved and respected. In his establishment at Deane Hall, old English hospitality was maintained to the fullest extent; and the regularity of this establishment was united to such an uniformity of pursuit, that it almost amounted to a monotony of life. The care of directing his household and doing the honours of his table he left entirely to Mrs. Galton, the sister of the late Lady Seymour. She was, however, only called "mistress" by courtesy, for though "still in the sober charms of womanhood mature," just "verging on decay," she was yet unmarried. In her youth this lady had been as beautiful as she was amiable, and being possessed of a large fortune, had many suitors: on one of these, a Mr. Montague, she had bestowed her affections, and was on the point of marrying him, when she discovered that he was an inveterate gamester, ruined in fortune, morals, and character, and of course unworthy of her regard; and though her good sense enabled her in time to recover from the misery this discovery occasioned her, yet she was never afterwards prevailed on to make another choice. Shortly after her refusal of him, Mr. Montague married a Miss Mortimer, who was as depraved as himself, and lost his life in a duel with one of his dissipated companions. Mrs. Galton had resided at Deane Hall from the period of her sister's death; and Selina soon filled the place of daughter in her affectionate heart. As that heart had been so deeply wounded, she had turned assiduously to the cultivation of her understanding; and in endeavouring to engraft her own perfections on Selina's ductile mind, she preserved the peace of her own, by withdrawing it from those corroding remembrances, that had threatened it with irreparable injury.
The day at last arrived, which was fixed for the annual visit of Mrs. Sullivan and her party at Deane Hall; for it may easily be supposed, that where such dissimilarity of character and pursuit existed, little intercourse would be maintained. At least an hour after the appointed time, the loud and peremptory knock of their London footman proclaimed their arrival; but their welcome was much less cordial, than it would otherwise have been, from all the assembled party at Deane, as they came unaccompanied by Miss Wildenheim.
Mrs. Sullivan, on entering the room, displayed a low, fat, vulgar figure, arrayed in all the shades admissible in fashionablemourning. Her gown was asoi-disantgrey, approximating, as nearly as possible, to a sky blue, relieved with black and scarlet, and profusely ornamented with artificial flowers. On her head waved a plume of white ostrich feathers, which, in their modest color and airy form, served perfectly to contrast her piony cheeks and lumpish person.
Her petticoats, wired at the bottom, kept unbroken the ample circle, of which her breadth from hip to hip formed the diameter. Her shuffling gait put all her finery in motion from head to foot; and Selina could not help thinking, that, "if she might just give her onelittletwirl," she would make to perfection what in her girlish plays was called acheese. Mrs. Sullivan was followed by her two elder daughters—Miss Webberly, loaded with all the superfluous decorations of modern costume, which could be called in aid to conceal her natural deformity, and her sister, dressed in the opposite extreme of capricious fashion, equally solicitous to exhibit her all unobscured charms. Soon after, the entrance of the remaining guests completed the circle, and the company insensibly dividing into small separate parties, Mrs. Galton found herself between her two intimate friends, Mr. and Mrs. Temple, and expressed to them her sincere regret at not seeing Miss Wildenheim, for whom Mrs. Sullivan had made an awkward apology.
"What a beautiful style of countenance hers is," said Augustus Mordaunt, who was standing by: "quite the Grecian head." "I look more to the inside of the head," replied Mr. Temple, "and find it as admirable as you do the outside." "You are always so warm in your admiration of your young favourite, that I am really quite jealous," said his amiable wife, with a look that expressed her love and pride in the speaker, and her regard for the object spoken of. "I do indeed admire her; nay, youthful as she is, I reverence her," resumed Mr. Temple.
"And how did you happen to know so much of her?" asked Mrs. Galton; "for she has been carefully secluded from the rest of the neighbourhood."
"I was called upon to attend her in my pastoral office last winter, during her dangerous illness; and having good reason to think that her pillow was unsmoothed by any kind hand, I pitied her most sincerely; and when we heard she was recovering, we both visited her frequently, and without much difficulty prevailed on Mrs. Sullivan, to permit her to come to the parsonage for change of air, where my ill-natured wife nursed her for six weeks." "I think," said Mrs. Temple, "one becomes better acquainted with a person in an invalide state, than in any other; the sort of charge that the healthy take upon them for the sick, entitles them to discard much of the formality of common intercourse." "You are right, my dear; and the being that is in hourly uncertainty of its stay here, is anxious to part with its fellow mortals, not only in peace, but in love; and receives every proffered kindness with gratitude. Impressed with these feelings," continued Mr. Temple, "Miss Wildenheim suffered us to gain a knowledge of her disposition no other circumstance could have procured us.—To know and not to admire her is an impossibility!"
Mrs. Sullivan, who had kept herself aloof to impress on her mind an inventory of the furniture, and to listen to the whole company at once, could no longer keep patience or restrain her indignation; and having gathered sufficient to understand that Mr. and Mrs. Temple were praising her lovely ward, she exclaimed with involuntary vehemence, "Lauk! how can you admire Miss Wildenheim, with her sallow complexion, and such a poke?" "Pardon me, Mrs. Sullivan," replied Mrs. Galton; "the only time I ever met her I thought her complexion the most beautiful brunette I ever saw: but perhaps her colour was heightened by exercise." "And her carriage"—rejoined Mrs. Temple, with less ceremony, "is grace itself!" "Et vera incessu patuit Dea[4]"—said the worthy rector to Mordaunt; and, as he abhorred gossips, sheered off to the window, to ask him some questions regarding his studies at Oxford. "Well, well!" resumed Mrs. Sullivan, "I loves a girl as straight as the poplars at Islington, with a good white skin, (casting a look of triumph at Cecilia); I never liked none of them there outlandish folk: why she's for all the world like a gipsy. My poor dear Mr. Sullivan didn't ought for to bring his casts-up to me and my daughters, who are come of good havage!—If she and my Carline wasn't sisters, they never would be so out of the way fond of one another. If Miss was her natural mother, she couldn't make more of her than she does now, for her father's sake: and my foolish little chit thinks this Frenchified lady a nonsuch. I'll warrant me her schooling cost a pretty penny in foreign parts, where she got that odorous twang on her tongue; howsoever, she's culpable to teach my little girl to jabber French; and, as one good turn deserves another, I takes a world of pains to teach her not to misprison her words: and would you believe it? she looks sometimes as if she had a mind to laugh; and then she casts down her hugeous eyes, and colours up as red as a turkey cock, all out of pride! But I'm resolved she shan't ruinate Carline's English; I'll supersede that myself."
Dinner being announced, prevented Mrs. Sullivan's female auditors from making either comment or reply, except by an "alphabet of looks," which had this sapient lady possessed sufficient shrewdness to decipher, she would not have been much gratified by its import.
Once on a time, so runs the fable,A country mouse, right hospitable,Received a town mouse at his board,Just as a farmer would a lord.Pope.
Once on a time, so runs the fable,A country mouse, right hospitable,Received a town mouse at his board,Just as a farmer would a lord.
Pope.
The dessert was scarcely laid on the table and the servants withdrawn, when a clatter of pattens and a loud talking announced the arrival of the guests from Deane. Mrs. Galton and Miss Seymour were anxious to retire immediately; but Mrs. Sullivan was too busily engaged paying her devoirs to a fine peach, and her second daughter in monopolizing those of Mr. Mordaunt, to attend the signal; whilst Miss Webberly was slanderously attributing to the family of "Gases" affinities and products that never before had been hinted at; and was so eagerly bent on astonishing Mr. Temple by a discourse "Enflé de vent, vide de raison," that some minutes elapsed before thedebouchingwas effected. They however reached the huge fire-place, now decked in all the pride of summer's bloom, which marked the centre of the old-fashioned hall, before the finishing strokes were given to the toilets of the newly-arrived party. "I declare here they all come!" exclaimed Mrs. Martin; "Lucy, my dear, hold up your head. Here, put this pocket-handkerchief in your bonnet for night, whilst I just slip your shoes and stockings into your ridicule." "How d'ye do, Mrs. Galton? Thank ye, ma'am, my Lucy's used to walking—never catches cold. We were twice at Vauxhall last spring two year. Well certainly, Miss Seymour, the country air does agree with you; you look vastly well. Pray, my dear miss, isn't that Mrs. Sullivan and the two Miss Webberlys? They don't seem to remember me. I'll just go and ask whether the currant wine I made 'em a present of was good or not." So saying, the active Mrs. Martin bustled up to Mrs. Sullivan to recommence her usual string of queries, without waiting for an answer to any one of those she had already made with such uninterrupted volubility. But Mrs. Sullivan's pomposity was not to be discomposed by any sudden attack. She was by this time sitting, or rather reclining, (for reposing it could not be called) on the high-backed, hard-bottomed, uncushioned, damask-covered sofa, which had not yet resigned its proud and ancient place against the side wall of Sir Henry's drawing-room. She was paying as much attention to Mrs. Galton's conversation as repeated yawns would permit, an attention ostentatiously redoubled at the entrance of Mrs. Martin, while Mrs. Lucas was balancing herself on the edge of an immoveable arm-chair, assiduously offering her assenting monosyllable, and smiling "he hem" at the close of every sentence the two ladies uttered, however contradictory its import might be to the last expressed opinion.
Mrs. Temple had in the mean time joined the young people who had withdrawn to one of the deep recesses of the windows, collected together in a groupe, by that indescribable attraction which is found in a similarity of age, however unlike the characters or pursuits of the different individuals may be. Some beautiful roses which filled an old china vase, and scarcely rivalled its colours, served for the subject of their conversation. "I suppose," said Miss Webberly, "you have plenty of time, in this out of the way place, Miss Seymour, for the study of botany and the fine arts. How I envy you! Now in town we have never no time for nothing." "No, indeed," replied Miss Seymour, "I know nothing of botany, though I delight in flowers." "Not understand botany!" "Why indeed, my love Emily," interrupted Miss Cecilia Webberly, "no person of taste likes those things now, they are quite out; indeed, 'the loves of the plants' is a delightful book, that will always go down. I have it almost off by heart. Don't you admire it, Miss Seymour?" "I have never read it," answered Selina. "And what do you read?" continued Cecilia; "I suppose you hardly ever get a new book at Slater's?" "Yes; do let us hear what your studies are," said Miss Webberly, in a tone approaching to contempt. "My employments scarcely deserve the name of studies," modestly replied Selina. "I am very fond of drawing, and spend a great deal of time in that occupation; but any information I receive from books has been principally gathered from what Augustus reads out to my aunt and me, whilst my father sleeps in an evening." "How extatic must be your communication with Mr. Temple, my dear madam!" said Miss Webberly, turning from Selina to Mrs. Temple; "yours must be the feast of reason and the flow of soul. Does the vegetable creation ever attract your notice?" "Yes;" quietly answered Mrs. Temple; "but I principally cultivate flowers for the sake of my bees; they, you know, are my second nursery." "And pray, while you are practising horticulture, do you think you ever suffer from imbibing the hydrogen?" "To tell you the truth, my dear Miss Webberly, I feel I so little understand either hydrogen or oxygen, that I never think about them." "Nothing more easy! nothing more easy, I assure you! Every body learns chemistry in town. I always attend the Royal Institution;—Sir Humphrey Davy is so dear! so animated! so delightful! I once asked him, 'My dear Sir Davy,' says I, 'what's the distinction between oxygen and hydrogen?' 'Why,' says he, 'one is pure gin, and the other gin and water.'" Poor Selina was as little capable of enjoying the scientifical jargon of Miss Webberly, as she was of comprehending the more fluent discourse of her sister, who had already talked over the contents of Slater's library with Miss Martin and Miss Lucas, and astonished them with a minute description of the last spring fashions. The arrival of the tea and coffee was therefore to her no unwelcome interruption.
But the occupations attending the tea-table were scarcely commenced, when the approach of Sir Henry Seymour from the dining-room was announced by the quickly repeated sound of his knotted cane, which kept due measure with his hurried footsteps along the well polished floor of the hall, as it preserved the worthy baronet from its slippery influence. "Why, Selina! Mrs. Galton! Selina!" exclaimed he, hastily opening the door, "Who is it? what is it? are there any more asked to day? have I forgot any one? bless my stars!" "What is the matter?" exclaimed both ladies at once. "Matter!" quoth Sir Henry, "why a coach and four's the matter, and a man galloping like the devil up the long avenue is the matter. God forgive my swearing. Well, to be sure, that I should never have thought of them! Who can it be? I have certainly offended some of my neighbours! Good Lord!" The ladies had by this time thronged to the windows to see the unusual sight, except Miss Webberly, who affected to keep at a distance, though she could not refrain from peeping over their heads as she stood on tip-toe. At the same instant, all the family dogs joined in one chorus of welcome; and the equestrian, arriving at full speed, jumped off his horse, and pulling the door-bell with a vehemence it had seldom felt before, so electrified poor Sir Henry, that he almost unconsciously repaired with unpremeditated haste to the scene of action. "I say, old Square-toes," vociferated the stranger, "is this Harry Seymour's castle?" "Ye-e-s," answered its hospitable owner, whilst astonishment and indignation impeded his utterance. "Ye-es! why you look as queer as the castle spectre yourself. Well, send somebody for my horse, for here's my lord and lady; and, I say, order beds." Perhaps Sir Henry would in his turn equally have astonished his unexpected visitor, had not a sudden turn of the open barouche, as it approached the door, presented to his view the faces of Lord and Lady Eltondale. "Why, Gad's my life! Good Lord! Selina, here's your aunt! Good Lord! well to be sure!" The name of "aunt," a title that always called forth from Selina's affectionate heart sentiments of the tenderest gratitude and delight, acted like a talisman on the lovely girl, and brought her in an instant to the spot with sparkling eyes, glowing cheeks, and steps of fairy lightness; while Mrs. Galton, who better knewthe auntshe was about to meet, advanced to offer a more sober, though not less polite reception.
From the side of the barouche next the door descended Lord Eltondale, with as much activity as his unwieldy body would permit, encumbered as it was by an immense bang-up coat, which, by a moderate computation of the specific gravity of like solids, would in all probability have increased the weight of the ponderous carcase it enclosed to nearly that of his Lordship's own prize ox. With much less alacrity his fair spouse prepared to alight; an open pelisse, wrapped in a thousand folds, partially concealed her yet beautiful figure, while an enormous Londonrusticbonnet, with the affectation of simplicity and the real stamp of fashion, equally disguised her face. During that time, Lord Eltondale, in no subdued tone of voice, was expressing his lively pleasure at meeting Sir Henry, almost dislocating Mrs. Galton's wrists with the fervency of salutation, and with no less zeal imprinting oscular proofs of satisfaction on the fair retiring cheek of his niece. Lady Eltondale had full time to kiss her white hand in turn to each individual, to commit her smelling-bottle and work bag to the particular charge of the footman who had preceded them, and to descend leisurely from the carriage with apparent timidity, but real anxiety, to save her shawls, and exhibit her well-turned ancle to Mordaunt, who supported her faltering steps.
"Why, Gad's my life, I'm glad to see you all, though I never should have thought of it," exclaimed Sir Henry, his wig nearly as much turned round as the brains underneath it. "Why, Bell, what the devil brings you here?—Come to spend the summer, eh, with that chaise full of band boxes? Well, to be sure, to think of your coming to Deane Hall again! But I can't reach your mouth till you kick off that trumpet you've on." "Good God!" exclaimed Lady Eltondale with an involuntary shudder, but instantaneously recovering herself, "I am quite delighted, my dear brother, to find you in such charming spirits. How do, Mrs. Galton? I declare you look younger than ever. And Selina! why, child, you are almost as tall as I am." Selina's first impulse had been to throw herself into Lady Eltondale's arms, believing innocently that an "aunt" was another Mrs. Galton. But the boisterousbonhomieof the Viscount's compliments, and still more the fashionable frigidity of Lady Eltondale's address, were repulsive to her feelings, and she unconsciously withdrew to that part of the hall to which Mordaunt had retired, whilst a tear trembled on her long eye-lashes. "She is not at all like aunt Mary," said Selina in a half whisper, "I'm sure I shan't like her." "But she will surely like you, Selina," answered Mordaunt.—"Come, you foolish girl," continued he, taking her hand, "don't you know aunt Mary said this morning, you were almost old enough to do the honours yourself! Let us see yourcoup d'essai." Meantime Sir Henry and Mrs. Galton led the travellers to the drawing-room, and introduced them to the wondering party they had left there.
Lady Eltondale returned their salutations with a sweeping reverence, between a bow and a curtsy, accompanied by one of her most fascinating smiles; and walking deliberately to the head of the room, "I am afraid, my dear Mrs. Galton, we have discomposed you;—we have arrived at an unseasonable moment," said her Ladyship in a voice of dulcet sweetness; though this demi-apology was accompanied by a look round the room, which plainly indicated that the fair speaker felt assured her arrival would at any time have discomposedsucha company. "Well, Sir Henry," bellowed out Lord Eltondale, "how goes on the farm? I shall taste your beef admirably—I'm confoundedly hungry." "Hungry!—Beef—Good Lord!—Bless my heart, haven't dined yet? Now I should never have thought of that! Why, Selina! Mrs. Galton! Selina! do order something to be got ready directly. Bless my heart—not dined! why it's past seven o'clock! James! John! I say, Wilson!" "Pray, my dear brother," said the Viscountess, seating herself, "don't trouble yourself; a pâttié, a Maintenon, anything will do for us." "Aye, aye, Sir Henry, give us a beef steak or a mutton chop; any thing will do for us, if there is but enough." Lady Eltondale's fragile form underwent that species of delicate convulsion, between a shudder of horror and a shrug of contempt, which was her usual commentary on her lord's speeches; and very calmly untying her bonnet, she threw it on a chair at some distance, and discovered a little French cap, from beneath which a glossy ringlet of jet black hair had strayed not quite unbidden. She then no less leisurely proceeded to slip from under her silken coat, of which young Webberly, with officious velocity, flew to relieve her, though she still retained as many shawls as she could well dispose of in attitudinal drapery, without regarding the too apparent contrast they formed to the transparent summer clothing, which shaded, but scarcely hid her once perfect form. Mrs. Sullivan's impatience to be recognized would not suffer her to wait till the tedious ceremony of disrobing was finished; but finding her curtsies, and her nods, and her smiles, and her flutterings, had not yet procured her the notice she was so ambitious to obtain, she gave an audible preluding "hem!" and then addressed Lady Eltondale with "'Pon honour, my lady, I'm delighted to counter your ladyship. Your ladyship looks wastly vell. How is that 'ere pretty cretur, your Ladyship's monkey?" Lady Eltondale turning her head quickly round at the first sound of the sharp discordant voice that now assailed her ear, saw something so irresistibly attractive in the vessel of clay from which it proceeded, that she found it impossible immediately to withdraw her eyes, and, taking up her glass, remained in total silence for some moments, examining the grotesque figure opposite to her, displayed as it was to particular advantage in the operation of opening and shutting a brilliant scarlet fan with accelerated motion. "Forgive me, my dear madam—I am quite ashamed; but really your name has escaped my recollection:—your person I should think impossible to forget." A polite inclination of an admirably turned head and neck concealed the sarcasm of this equivocal compliment. "To be sure, my lady," continued the gratified Mrs. Sullivan, "ve town ladies can't get our wisiting lists off book like primers, he! he! he!—Sulliwan, my lady, Sulliwan's my name, and them there two girls are my daughters, and that there——" "Indeed, Mrs. Silly-one, you do me much honour," interrupted her Ladyship. "Selina, my love, I want to talk to you;—how goes on music?" "I think, Lady Eltondale," said Miss Cecilia Webberly, with assumednonchalance, "the last time you and I were together was at the Lord Mayor's ball—a sweet girl that Lucy Nathin is!" "Brother, you must let La Fayette dress this dear girl's hair to-morrow; these ringlets will besuperbedoneà la corbeille." "Yes, my Lady, I quite agree with you, my Lady. All Miss Seymour vants is a little winishing and warnishing, as we hearties say. Her bodies ought to be cut down, my Lady; and her petticoats cut up, my Lady, and she would be quite another guess figure, my Lady. Six weeks in town would quite halter her hair and her mane; and as for music, Pinsheette's the man to improve her in vice." "Pucit-ta-a-a, mother!" screamed Cecilia, "can you ever learn that man's name?"
A most opportune summons to the "beef-steak" relieved Lady Eltondale from the discussion, which was on the point of commencing between mother and daughter. She rose with an air of dignity, that immediately silenced both combatants; and, while she leaned on Sir Henry's offered arm, she drew Selina's through her own, and, turning to Mrs. Galton, said with a bewitching smile, "You must spare this Hebe to be my cup-bearer. I almost envy you having monopolized her so long, notwithstanding all she has gained by it." Mordaunt, who had hitherto stood aloof, now advanced to open the door for them, and smiled significantly to Selina as they passed; while Webberly, who had just sense enough to perceive the distance of Lady Eltondale's manner, called loudly for his mother's carriage. The rest of the party, who had hitherto remained in dumb astonishment, gladly took the hint, and began the tedious ceremony of curtsying, bidding good night, and packing up; leaving Mrs. Galton at liberty to do the honours of the second dinner table, which lasted till nearly the hour when the good Baronet usually retired to rest.
And all your wit—your most distinguished art,But makes us grieve you want an honest heart!Brown.
And all your wit—your most distinguished art,But makes us grieve you want an honest heart!
Brown.
Lady Eltondale was arrived at the meridian of life, and no longer boasted the charms of youth, "Elle ne fut pas plus jolie; mais elle fut toujours belle:" and perhaps the finished polish of her manners, and matured elegance of her person, were now scarcely less attractive than the loveliness of her earlier days had been: for beautiful she once was;
"Grace was in all her steps—Heav'n in her eye,In all her gestures dignity:"
"Grace was in all her steps—Heav'n in her eye,In all her gestures dignity:"
and, if "love" could have been added, she would have been, almost, faultless.—But a cold, selfish disposition blasted the fair promise; it was, "a frost, a chilling frost," that withered every bud of virtue! And yet she was not absolutely wicked; she could not be accused of having abadheart; it might rather be said she had no heart at all.—And with every other requisite to form perfection in a female character, this one defect neutralized all the bounteous gifts of nature—her very talents, like those of Prometheus, were perverted, and preyed on her own soul; whilst the aching void, left by the total absence of all the nameless charities of life, she had vainly endeavoured to fill up by a restless, endless passion for scheming, either for herself or others.—She would, perhaps, have shuddered at the thought of designedly laying a plan to undermine the happiness of another; yet such were the sophistical powers of her mind, that she seldom failed in sincerely persuading herself, that whatever plan she proposed to execute, was, in reality, the most desirable that could be adopted,—and, with this conviction, she had scarcely ever been known to relinquish a project she had once formed, and seldom failed, either by art or perseverance, to obtain her end.
Her history was a very common one—Her father died while she was young, leaving her mother and herself a comfortable, though not a splendid provision, as all the landed property descended to her brother, Sir Henry Seymour, who was many years older than she was.
The dowager lady Seymour, a weak woman, but indulgent parent, was easily prevailed on by her lovely daughter, to choose London for her place of residence; and when Sir Henry married, their visits to Deane Hall, which had never been frequent entirely ceased. Miss Seymour meantime took every advantage of the opportunities her new line of life afforded. She cultivated with assiduity and success every brilliant accomplishment, and was admired even more than her own vanity, and her mother's blind partiality, had taught her to expect. Her pretensions rose in proportion to her success; and at one time she fancied nothing less than a ducal coronet could render the chains of matrimony supportable. At last, however, after a thousand schemes and speculations, in a moment of pique, she accepted the title of viscountess, which was all Lord Eltondale had to offer, except a splendid temporary establishment; as nearly all his property was entailed on his son by a former marriage. Indeed, so dissimilar were their tastes, characters, and pursuits, that their union was a seven days' wonder; and would not, perhaps, ever have taken place, had not Miss Seymour, in the prosecution of a far different plan, at first unguardedly encouraged, or rather provoked, Lord Eltondale's addresses; and he, "good easy man,"had not timeto develope the cause of the flattering selection.
Lord Eltondale was one of those unoffending, undistinguished mortals, who would most probably have returned to his original clay unnoticed and unwept, had not fortune, in one of her most sportive moods, hung a coronet on his brow, and thus dragged the Cymon into observation. He possessed neither talents nor acquirements, and held "the harmless tenour of his way" in equal mean betwixt vice and virtue.
By nature he was a gourmand, and by fashion a farmer; for, strange to say, amongst the other changes this century has produced, not the least remarkable is the insatiable ambition of our peers to rival—not their ancestors—but their coachmen and ploughmen. But, even in the only science Lord Eltondale affected to understand, his learning was only superficial: he delighted in going through the whole farming vocabulary; could talk for hours of threshing machines, and drilling machines, and Scotch ploughs, and bush harrows; particularly if he was so fortunate as to meet with an auditor, whose learning on those subjects did not transcend his own. He was also an inimitable judge of the peculiar merit of sheep and oxen, when they were transformed into beef and mutton: but of real useful agriculture, that art which is one of England's proudest boasts, he only knew enough to entitle him to imitate a clown in appearance, and to constitute him an honorary member of different farming societies; which, besides procuring him sundry good dinners, particularly suited the supineness of his disposition, by giving him an excuse, "De ne rien faire, en toujours faisant des riens[5]."
Such was the partner the lovely Miss Seymour chose for life; and as the death of her mother, and that of the only child she ever had, occurred before the expiration of the second year of her marriage, she was left without any tie to attach her to a domestic life; while her own conscious superiority to her lord deprived her of any support from him, which might have guided her, as she swam on the highest wave of fashion.
Sir Henry Seymour experienced at least as much surprise as pleasure, at such an unexpected visit from his sister and the viscount; but he did not suspect the object of it, till her ladyship herself explained it to him the following morning. Indeed the only motive that could have been strong enough, to induce her to return, even for a few hours, to a place she so much abhorred, was that which now had brought her; namely, an anxious desire to promote a marriage between Selina Seymour and her step-son, Mr. Elton. Lady Eltondale was well aware, that her extravagance, and her lord's indolence, had already swallowed up any ready money they had originally possessed, and that whenever the property came into the hands of Frederick Elton, little, if any thing, would be left for her support, except what she should receive from his generosity; and therefore she had determined to secure for him one of the richest and loveliest brides England could offer, believing, that by so doing she should not only increase his power of being generous, but also establish her claims on his everlasting gratitude. It is true she was not certain, that such a step would ensure the happiness, or even meet the approbation of Frederick. On that point, strange as it may appear, Lady Eltondale had bestowed but little consideration, (self-interest being always paramount in her mind), as this plan would be certainly beneficial to herself, she determined to consider it equally advantageous to him. In fine, she had been the first to suggest it; she had long meditated on it, and at last resolved upon it: having thus made up her own mind, the difficulties which might occur in the prosecution of her scheme, if any should arise, would but make her more solicitous for its accomplishment.
At first Lady Eltondale found some little difficulty in persuading Sir Henry to accede to her proposal; not that he for a moment recollected the cruelty of engaging irrevocably his daughter's hand, before he even enquired into the state of her affections; or that he reflected on the danger of confiding a character so volatile as was Selina's to the guardianship of a young man they were both totally unacquainted with. Sir Henry only hesitated, from an unwillingness to part from her himself; for he was one of those fatally partial parents, who, prizing too highly their daughters' society, often sacrifice their happiness to that selfish consideration. But to every objection he could urge Lady Eltondale had some specious answer ready: she reminded him, that Mr. Elton was then abroad, and that his return might possibly be delayed for some time; dwelt upon the excellence of his character; and finally, more by perseverance than argument, succeeded in obtaining Sir Henry's promise, that he would consent to their marriage taking place, as soon as Frederick returned from the continent. Lady Eltondale well understood that magic, which is the empire a strong mind exercises over a weaker; and had so well worked on all the springs of poor Sir Henry's, that he gave the required promise as explicitly as she demanded it; for she was well aware, that if once she prevailed on him to give such a promise, not even his deference to Mrs. Galton's opinion would induce him to break it. But as of the tendency of that opinion Lady Eltondale had a sort of presentiment, she wished to save herself the trouble of combating it; and therefore prevailed on her brother not to mention it during the short remainder of her stay at the Hall, on the pretence of sparing her "dear Selina's feelings;" and as he was for many reasons not unwilling to dismiss the subject from his thoughts, he agreed to the required silence.
The evening of that day, which sealed Selina's destiny, passed over without any particular circumstance to mark its progress, save only that Lady Eltondale was even, if possible, more attractive than ever. She eminently possessed that "complaisance, which adopts the ideas of others as its own; and all that politeness, in fine, which perhaps is not virtue itself, yet is sometimes its captivating resemblance, which gives laws to self-love, and enables pride to pass every instant by the side of pride, without offending." This art she was in the daily habit of exercising towards all her associates; but to delude or flatter Mrs. Galton, Lady Eltondale always felt, was a task of no small difficulty. Her penetration and her modesty were both too great to be easily evaded; and her character was composed of such delicate tints, blended insensibly into so admirable a whole, that to bring forward only one part seemed to destroy that unity, which constituted its perfection. Besides, Mrs. Galton was so true, so simple, in all she said, and thought, and did, that she seemed sanctified by her own purity: and though the artful viscountess could not feel all the beauty of such a mind, its very greatness, unadorned as it was, impressed her with an awe so unusual, that the stranger feeling degenerated into repugnance and distrust. Yet even to her her manner on the eventful night was complaisant in the extreme—to Sir Henry it was affectionate, to Selina indulgent; and to Mordaunt a veil of tempered coquetry gave a dazzling attraction to all her words, looks, and actions. In her intercourse with him, she chose to avail herself of all the privileges she could derive from her seniority; while the fascinations of her wit, the elegance of her manner, and the real beauty of her person, gave her a dangerous power over an unpractised heart, which the artless charms of inexperienced youth dared not have used, and could scarcely have possessed. Little aware were the innocent members of the circle she was delighting, that her increased animation and her improved charms arose from the glow of conscious pride, as she triumphantly reflected on the success of her scheme; a scheme which, nevertheless, she had sufficient penetration to discover, would blight the fairest prospects of those she appeared most sedulous to please; and which might destroy for ever the happiness of a scene, that, till the moment of her intrusion, had bloomed another Paradise.
Ah! gentle pair, ye little think, how nighYour change approaches, when all these delightsWill vanish, and deliver ye to wo,More wo, the more your taste is now of joy!Paradise Lost.
Ah! gentle pair, ye little think, how nighYour change approaches, when all these delightsWill vanish, and deliver ye to wo,More wo, the more your taste is now of joy!
Paradise Lost.
The next morning, notwithstanding its being Sunday, was fixed for the departure of the Eltondales for Cheltenham; as, in addition to Lady Eltondale's dread of passing a Sunday evening at the Hall, the hallowed day was one usually set apart by her and her obedient lord for travelling.
The whole of Sir Henry's household, unused to such an appropriation of the Sabbath, was thrown into disorder. The arrival of the post horses; the bustle and importance of the servants who were departing, with the confusion of those who were to remain; the enumeration of the packages by Madame La Fayette, who was, if possible, a finer lady than her mistress; and the awkward, and perhaps not quite unintentional, mistakes of her aides-de-camp the house-maids, in their arrangement, presented altogether a scene of clamour that totally dismayed poor quiet Sir Henry: and even Mrs. Galton could scarcely refrain from expressing a part of her discomposure, at perceiving the slow progress, that was actually making in the work of preparation, would effectually prevent either the domestics or themselves joining their worthy pastor in his public worship. At last Lady Eltondale appeared, to partake of what she called the early breakfast; and before this affair, always so important to the Viscount, was concluded, the different forms of farewell had been gone through, and the last part of the train had fairly moved from the door, the greatest portion of the morning was elapsed. Selina stood at the library window, watching the rapid motion of the carriages, and the spirited action of the postilions; as, cracking their whips over the horses' heads, they turned out of the long avenue, and disappeared down the hill. She listened for some time, involuntarily wishing to hear again the sound of the carriage wheels; then turning suddenly round, and casting her eye hastily over the dark damask hangings and massy furniture of the room, wondered why she had never before seen it look so gloomy as it now appeared. Mrs. Galton, who had silently marked the changes of that countenance, which so eloquently depicted every passing idea, now abruptly asked her, what she had been thinking of. Selina started and colored. But, as yet, she had never been conscious of a thought she would not wish to own; and, with her usual ingenuousness, replied—"I wonder, Aunt, what sort of place Cheltenham is? How I should like to go there!"—"I dare say, Lady Eltondale would gladly have taken you there, Selina," replied Mrs. Galton, with a look of sadness, blended with anxiety.—"But you don't think, surely, I should like to leave you and Papa behind?—no; if you, and Papa, and Augustus, would all come with me, I should be delighted to go! but not else." So saying, she threw her polished arms round Mrs. Galton's neck, and kissing her cheek with an effusion of affection, gave a gratifying and unequivocal proof of the sincerity of her assertion.
Meantime, Sir Henry had strolled out, leaning on the arm of Augustus: at last, after a silence unusually prolonged, the Baronet exclaimed, "Good Lord! bless my heart, who would have thought, this day se'ennight, that Bell and Lord Eltondale would have been come and gone again by this time?"—"She must have been very beautiful," returned Mordaunt. "Aye, she was once very handsome indeed," replied Sir Henry.—"Bless my heart, how time passes on! I remember the winter she was presented at Court, how much she was admired! and good Lord! how things come about: every body said she was to have been married to your uncle, Lord Osselstone, though, I believe, there was never any truth in the report. That was the very year you were born, Augustus, two-and-twenty years ago, last Michaelmas. I have never been in London since; and, please God, never shall!" Augustus had attended more to his own thoughts, than to Sir Henry's observations; and would perhaps have continued his reverie, had not the old man's silence had the effect of rousing him, which his conversation had not. "I think," said he, at last, "Selina is very like her aunt: her eyes, to be sure, sparkle more, and her countenance is more animated, but her figure is nearly the same, if she were but a very little taller."—"Aye," returned Sir Henry, with a sigh, "Selina will grow a great deal yet, I dare say.—Well, to be sure, who would have thought it? Bless my heart, she was but a child the other day: and then," he added, after a few moment's pause, "I wonder what sort of a chap that Frederick Elton is? I wonder will he like to play backgammon with me of an evening, as Selina does? Poor girl! he mustn't think of taking her to London, it would be the death of me, God help me!"
"Frederick Elton!" rejoined Augustus, "Good God, sir! what do you mean?" "Aye, Augustus, I thought you would be surprised. Bless my heart! why, I never should have thought of it myself. Do you know, Bell and Lord Eltondale came all this way out of their road to ask my consent to Selina's marrying his son Frederick Elton? It was very kind of them to think of it, to be sure; but I had rather they hadn't troubled themselves." "Well, sir, well surely, Sir Henry, you didn't give it?" "Bless my heart! well, to be sure, what makes you stare so?—to be sure I gave it. What had I to say against the young man? and Bell told me he would always like to live here." "And Selina, Miss Seymour, has given her consent too?" "Oh, poor child! she knows nothing about it yet;—I haven't told her a word of it.—But what makes you shiver so? Are you cold? Why, Augustus, boy, you look as pale as ashes! Good Lord!—Bless my heart, what's the matter with you?" "Nothing, sir, I've only a confounded head-ache, which a ride will cure." So saying, he turned abruptly from Sir Henry, who had by this time reached the hall door, and resumed his knotty cane. "Good Lord! well to be sure, he's not half so happy about it as I expected he would have been. I wonder what Mrs. Galton will say." And the doubt of the possibility of her not approving the plan, as he knew she was not partial to Lady Eltondale's plans in general, made him at first hesitate about informing her. But the habit he had acquired of consulting her on all occasions, and a certain restless anxiety, which persons of weak minds always feel to have their opinions or actions sanctioned by others, at last preponderated; and he retired to his study, after sending to request to speak to Mrs. Galton, fortifying himself, previous to her appearance, with as many of Lady Eltondale's arguments as he could recal to his disturbed memory.
Mrs. Galton was not as entirely unprepared for the communication as poor Augustus had been. She knew enough of Lady Eltondale's character to surmise, that her sudden re-appearance at Deane Hall could neither have been unpremeditated or without design; and, from some hints which Lady Eltondale had casually dropped in the course of conversation, her penetration had led her to form some tolerably accurate surmises on the subject. When, therefore, she entered the study, she was more grieved than surprised at the looks of painful emotion, with which Sir Henry received her. The poor old man, embarrassed with his own thoughts, began with more circumlocution than explicitness, to relate the circumstances, and ended a most perplexed speech by abruptly informing Mrs. Galton of the proposal. "It is as I expected," calmly replied she. "Aye! aye!" exclaimed the delighted Baronet, "I knew if any one would guess it you would.—I should never have thought of it myself." "But have you given your consent, Sir Henry?" "Given my consent—Good Lord! what do you mean! Well to be sure, all the world's run mad to-day, I think! Why, bless my heart! didn't you say it was what you expected?" "I could not expect; my dear sir, that you would give your consent to any proposal on which the future happiness of Selina's whole life depends, without deliberation, and a proper understanding and consideration of her feelings on the subject." "But, good Lord! I tell you again Ihavegiven my consent." "Not irrevocably, I hope, Sir Henry; you know nothing of Mr. Elton's character, taste, or disposition; you know nothing.—" "God forgive me for being in a passion," interrupted Sir Henry, "but the perverseness of women is enough to provoke a saint, which, the Lord help me, I'm not.—But you know, Mrs. Galton," continued he, in a more moderate tone, "you know Frederick Elton is a connection of our own;—and as for our not being acquainted with him—don't you remember he came here from school one Easter holidays, and gave Selina the measles by the same token, poor child!" "Forgive me, Sir Henry," calmly replied Mrs. Galton, "but I do not think that is knowing him well enough to decide on his title to Selina's esteem; and, believe me, that dear girl will never be happy unless she marries a man she not only esteems but loves." "Well, and didn't Lady Eltondale tell me Selina would certainly love Frederick Elton? She says he is twice as handsome as Augustus Mordaunt; which, good Lord! is unnecessary, for Augustus, poor boy, is as fine a young man as ever I saw in my life." "Aye, poor Augustus!" sorrowfully exclaimed Mrs. Galton, "he would indeed have been happy with Selina, and God knows, he is the character that of all others would best have suited her." "Augustus Mordaunt, Mrs. Galton! Well to be sure! Good Lord! who would have thought of that! However, poor boy, though I don't give him Selina, I'll take care to give him something else—he shall never be dependent on that old uncle of his."
Mrs. Galton saw it was in vain to contend at that moment with the Baronet, who was fully convinced that his promise was irrevocable, and that after all it was the best thing he could do, for Bell had told him so. All that Mrs. Galton could procure was a promise no less positive, that he would not give Selina the most distant hint of the project, by which she hoped not only to prolong her present days of peace, but also faintly flattered herself, that something might occur to prevent their union, between then and the time of Mr. Elton's return from abroad.
In the mean time Augustus prosecuted his useless ride—