CHAPTER XXXI.
It was late one fine evening toward the end of August, when, though therooms at the Granby had been brilliantly lighted, several windows wereopen to admit the soft radiance of moonlight, and the wholemiscellaneous party of ladies and gentlemen resident at the great hotelhad assembled, full of gay excitement, in the public saloon, where thebuzz and laughter of merry voices might be heard on every side. Variousagreeable excursions had taken place throughout the morning. Pic-nicshad flourished at Studley, Ripon, Bolton Abbey, and Harewood House,while even Plumpton rocks, very little higher than the cut for arailway, had not been without admirers who called them sublime, and thepetrifying well at Knaresborough had petrified many with admiration.
A day of amusement seemed likely now to end, as such days too commonlydo, in weariness and ennui. Several very old gentlemen sat down tocards,--those who still made any attempts at being juvenile, flirtedwith the more elderly misses, and Agnes, seated between Lord Doncasterand the Abbe, seemed industriously exerting herself to fascinate themboth, while, though generally careful of her smiles, she now lavishedthem on each side with apparently heedless profusion.
The scarcity of _beaux_, so often remarked and lamented in mostsocieties, could hardly be a legitimate cause of complaint on thisoccasion, but, as Sir Patrick remarked to Marion, "in every familythere is but one eldest son, while there are at least three-and-twentydaughters, each educated and prepared to take her place at the head ofa brilliant establishment; therefore, seeing in this room sixty-fiveyoung ladies, every one of whom expects to marry on at least L2000a-year, it would require L130,000 per annum to satisfy them and theirexpectant mammas!"
Lord Wigton's fortune alone might have been sufficient, if divided intosuitable portions, for at least ten such happy couples; but his wholeheart seemed bent on bestowing it, with himself, on Marion, who foundthat she was pursued with assiduity so persevering, not only by him,but also by Captain De Crespigny, who had now openly abandoned Agnesfor her, that, annoyed and perplexed how to act, rather than becomerepulsive and forbidding, which was always repulsive to her nature, shesilently retreated with Sir Arthur to the quiet domestic fireside ofthe Granvilles, where she enjoyed the peaceful reality of happiness,instead of that noisy and glittering imitation of it which she had sogladly forsaken.
In the public saloon, Mrs. O'Donoghoe, a superannuated _jeune femme_ ofabout thirty, more or less, in a dress as bright and red as ablacksmith's forge, hammered on a decayed piano-forte a sort of tune,which might be an Irish jig or a Scotch strathspey, while severalmournful-looking gentlemen had been persuaded to dance with three orfour very affected, over-dressed partners, giggling young ladies, mostof whom were on the shady side of five-and-twenty, dressed in stiffmuslin frocks _a l'enfant_, bare shoulders, rouge, and very pinkstockings.
Mrs. O'Donoghoe's marriage, ten years before, had been a trueHarrowgate match--a mutual take-in--the lady being a reputed heiress,without a shilling, and the gentleman endowed with an imaginary estate,which turned out to be situated in the moon. Since her widowhood, shehad affected extreme youth, excessive wealth, and extraordinaryvivacity, being of opinion that liveliness is the most universallypopular of all qualities in the gay world, and that those who are notgifted by nature with light and joyous spirits, should assume them,though, if the exact degree of any person's happiness were distinctlymarked by a thermometer on their foreheads, the reality might seldomcoincide with the external appearance, and the pre-eminence wouldseldom be awarded to those who are blazing the brightest in a crowd.The most malevolent persons could scarcely wish their worst enemy tolead that life of anxiety, mortification, and misery, the inevitabledoom of ladies who will not consent with a good grace to grow old--whodesire to seem what they are not, and never can be again--who, insteadof cheerfully advancing to meet advancing years, attempt to _rajeunirleur beaute passee_, and who, vainly endeavoring to stem the tide oftime, catch at every straw which affords a hope of impeding theircareer into oblivion. If it be indeed true, as all who have experiencedit acknowledge, that a worldly career, decked with all the glare andglitter of success, is yet a weariness to the spirit, what must such alife be to those for whom it does not even assume the tinsel of deceit.
Mrs. O'Donoghoe had appeared during nine successive seasons atHarrowgate, where she shone like a moving rainbow, dressing of courseyounger as she became older, and being considered now quite a part andparcel of the Granby establishment. Though it had been remarked thatshe always appeared about the same day as Lord Doncaster, yet her usualplace of habitation and means of existence were perfectly unknown; butas, on her arrival, she generally entered the public room about thesame hour as the post bag, it became shrewdly conjectured that shemight perhaps condescend to travel per mail, while, nevertheless, sheboasted long and loudly of her enormous jointure.
Sir Patrick alleged, that on a former occasion, when the house wascrowded, Mrs. O'Donoghoe ordered a bed to be made up for her on thebilliard table, and that now she had bespoken one, after the dancingwas over, in the orchestra, while she gladly dispensed with asitting-room, as the deficiency formed an adequate pretext forconstantly frequenting the public room, which she greatly preferred,alleging at the same time, in the most emphatic terms, that saving sixshillings a-day for the hire of a parlor was not of the slightestconsequence to her, money being "no object," as poor Mr. O'Donoghoe hadleft her more than she could ever hope to spend.
Mrs. O'Donoghoe's name appeared regularly in the weekly printed list ofcompany at Harrowgate, and she was certainly by no means a dead letterin the brilliant circle. She sang a little, played a little, and talkeda great deal, while no topic of conversation ever came amiss to her.The gay widow floundered through anything or everything, making athousand blunders, and adapting herself to each individual whoconversed with her in succession, being ready and anxious for theadmiration of all. She seemed willing to compensate for the want ofsilver in her purse, by having plenty on her tongue, and apparentlythought, if she thought at all, that conversation resembled a game atwhist, where each individual should implicitly follow his partner'slead.
In every carriage going to races, balls, pigeon matches, or steeplechases, Mrs. O'Donoghoe generally manoeuvred to get herself a place,either inside or outside, she seemed by no means particular which; andwhenever the master of the ceremonies became perplexed at balls, by anapplication for a partner from some heavy elderly gentleman in yellowgloves, who desired to risk his tendon of Achilles by dancing, he wassure to be rapturously welcomed by Mrs. O'Donoghoe. She had been alwayshitherto the favorite flirt of Lord Doncaster; and her bold bravuramanner amused Captain De Crespigny, who called her "Fountain's Abbey,"on account of her being so picturesque a ruin on so very large a scale.Though not quite so "wither'd, auld, and droll," as he and somerefractory officers had alleged, when entreated by the master of theceremonies to dance with her, yet Mrs. O'Donoghoe's best friendsallowed she was thirty--her enemies protested she was forty--and thetruth lay, as usual, between both extremes. Forced almost toacknowledge at last that she had arrived on the debatable groundbetween youth and that uninteresting period, middle age, too old fordancing, too young for cards, and not quite beyond the excitement oflove-hunting, she still eagerly hoped to forget, in a brilliantestablishment, the blighted hopes of former years. No unmarried man wastoo elderly or too juvenile for Mrs. O'Donoghoe to try herwell-practised fascinations on; and whether they were majors or minor,Lord Wigton, Captain De Crespigny, Sir Patrick, or the Marquis, she yetcontinued to hope for their admiration. Still she retained a firmconviction that every gentleman arrived at Harrowgate with the fullintention of marrying within a month or two--that happy couples, at theend of every season, were to be paired off like pairs of gloves orshoes--and that every gentleman among her numerous assortment ofintimate acquaintances, would at last make his own selection; but themost sanguine hope of her sanguine mind was, that the attentions shownto her during many a successive season by Lord Doncaster, which hadgone so far as even to excite some scandal
, might at last ripen into anoffer of his coronet; in which very ardent expectation she had recentlysuspended her dancing propensities, and diligently exercised on theMarquis her talents for listening, when his society could be had, or inhis absence, she even tolerated his shadow, the Abbe.
"Mrs. O'Donoghoe," exclaimed Captain De Crespigny, throwing himselfinto a seat beside the piano during the interval of a quadrille, "onlylook at your old superannuated admirer and Miss Dunbar. People laugh atthe susceptibility of seventeen, but that is nothing to thesusceptibility of seventy. Your ears have generally been the best oflisteners to Lord Doncaster's prosing, but you are fairly outdoneto-night. How all you young ladies must be tormented by that oldfellow's button-holding propensities."
"Quite the contrary! His conversation, though not always perfectlycorrect, is, it must be confessed, very amusing. Men in general are aqueer set, but I like Lord Doncaster's old-fashioned compliments--quiteof the _vieille cour_--one might fancy he had lived some centuriesago!"
"I heartily wish he had! I could back old Doncaster against the world,for being the dullest proser in the United Kingdoms of Great Britainand Ireland, with the Colonies besides. He will die talking, for hetalks everybody else to death! The Abbe, too, has no more mind than asparrow. His conversation should be filtered every evening to purify itfrom bad taste of every kind. He picks up half a dozen stories everymorning at the ordinary, and retails them to any wearied victim who canbe forced to listen at night; when these are done so is he--his barrelorgan has run down--and you may know when the Abbe has come to an end,by observing the hurry he is in to be off."
"You are an habitual hater, Captain De Crespigny, and have put on yourblack cap to condemn us all this evening; but I will not have our goodAbbe hissed off the stage in this way."
"Good! Look out that word, Mrs. O'Donoghoe, in the dictionaryto-morrow, for you cannot know its real meaning!"
"Your criticisms on his conversation are like a shower of sleet thiscold night, but I assure you the Abbe started a perfected new storyyesterday, and I have sometimes heard him say very good things!"
"Then you have the advantage of everybody else, for I have known himsince the time of William the Conqueror, and who ever heard of hissaying or doing a single good thing? He cannot even understand one. Thewhole pattern of his conversation is egotism in all its branches, andyou must positively permit me to enjoy my detestation of the Abbe inpeace."
"I allow that he is in bad taste occasionally," whispered Mrs.O'Donoghoe, confidentially. "The Abbe can say very shocking thingswithout causing one to feel shocked. If he has any hypocrisy, it is intrying to appear worse than he is."
"Could any one be worse? That seems to me impossible. No human beingwould think of calling me strict, but of all the odious, revoltingsights I know, none can go beyond an irreligious clergy-man. The Abbealways looks to me like a person who had something very heavy upon hisconscience--a guilty, suspicious expression of countenance. I haveoccasionally wondered, Mrs. O'Donoghoe, to see you out-laugh him atsome of his own abortive attempts to be witty; but you can do manythings that no other person can, and that is one of them."
"Captain De Crespigny, we must now and then laugh at other people'sjokes besides our own!"
"I never laugh! I am the gravest man in Europe. I do sometimes give abewitching smile, but never more."
"Did you ever try an ineffable look?"
"Perhaps I may some evening, when anxious to cut out old Doncaster!Miss Dunbar must find her two hours' conversation with him a seriousgrievance; but what would a life-time be! The ideas which proceed fromthe inside of my uncle's wig are certainly not of the most original andamusing. Fancy him day after day _toujours_ Doncaster! Dunbar says hewould dismiss the best servant he ever had, if the fellow so much asadmitted him to a morning visit. If I had an ill-will at you, Mrs.O'Donoghoe, which is luckily not the case, I should certainly wish youwere married to my uncle! Ladies and gentlemen may laugh; but I canassure them it would be no laughing matter!"
"Well, say what you will; but I may perhaps think my rose-colored satinhas done its duty if I have an offer from the Marquis of Doncaster, oldas he is!"
"Ah, Mrs. O'Donoghoe! If you had worn that red satin when we were firstacquainted, there is no saying what might have happened. Another day ofit now, and I should be perfectly done for! With a train, you would befit to appear at St. James's! You alone, in the whole world, neveralter! You must have been born a century old, and become younger everyday!"
Though Mr. Granville and Marion, with the good-humored connivance ofSir Arthur, now spent many delightful hours in rational and animatedintercourse, their happiness became gradually clouded with anxietyrespecting the lovely but fragile Clara, who evidently drooped andfaded. Her mind was stronger than her body; while resigned and gentle,she never caused a moment's distress to others that could be avoided,though the bright eye, and brighter cheek, which might have beenmistaken for the glow of health, were but too evidently caused byfever; and her brother's heart occasionally misgave him, on observingthat a vivid flush, and a deadly paleness, chased each other on hercountenance when she spoke. There was a nervous tremor in her manner,and a deep sensibility in her smile, which saddened the eye that lookedon that form of almost ethereal delicacy, while she tried, but tried invain, to conquer the wasting sorrow with which she thought the vicesand follies of Sir Patrick had forever divided them.
Several transient rencontres with the young Baronet, accidental on herpart, but preconcerted on his, had renewed the conflict of herfeelings, and unable to sustain the nearly frantic reproaches of onewhom she loved only too well, Clara became now almost entirely aprisoner in her own apartments. It was the power of principle overfeeling which caused her to reject, with gentle sorrow, the expressionof attachment once so precious, and the fascination of Sir Patrick'smanner to her was such, that his very errors she could not utterlyhate, though day after day, she schooled her heart afresh with theremembrance how unjustifiably her own best hopes of lasting peace wouldbe endangered by trusting her affections to the keeping of one who hadbetrayed others, and who would have but too baneful an influence overher own mind were they united, as he could so little sympathize in theemotions, occupations, and duties of the Christian life. While shemight have said, like the poet, "I but know that I love thee whateverthou art," Clara felt that if her life were to be the sacrifice, hemust be rejected; therefore, day after day, with pious resignation andfortitude, she endured the slow but agonizing martyrdom ofextinguishing from her memory one whom she had so deeply loved. SirPatrick contrived to testify by a thousand indescribable assiduities,only too gratifying to her nature, how constantly she was the object ofhis solicitude. Every morning Clara's sitting room was adorned withflowers from an unknown hand, which she felt and knew must be sent bySir Patrick, though it was an attention he had never shown to anyother; and the rarest fruit was frequently produced at her solitarydinner, though the waiter neither could nor would give any clearaccount of whence it came, while not a day passed that Clara did notsee Sir Patrick's graceful figure lounging beneath her windows,conversing in an animated tone, with everybody except herself, orthrowing himself on horseback, and galloping almost madly out of sight.
Every evening Mr. Granville urged upon his sister the importance of herbeing speedily conveyed to the continent; but every morning Clarapostponed their preparations, feeling too much enfeebled for thejourney, and unwilling to lose the delightful fascination of Marion'ssociety, who sat beside her couch all day, and every day, making hoursseem like moments while they conversed together. Clara knew nothing ofennui, and never had occasion to kill time, for she valued it as timeought to be valued, at an inestimable price. She had no weariness todissipate, as every hour was occupied in improving her own mind andheart, while she exerted herself for the happiness of others, and neverlaid her head on the pillow at night without an anxious examinationwhether she had done all in her power for the real advantage of herselfand others. It was the opinion of Mr. Granville, frequently express
ed,that the very essence of earthly happiness is found in exertion,--that"while a right discharge of religious duty is in itself the greatest ofall exertions, even the trifles or the essentials of life must all begained by making existence one great struggle against nature. Study,integrity, good-humor, benevolence, early rising, and moderation areall exertions that must be made upon principle,--a principle ofChristian obedience; and, as difficulty is the condition of success,our frame is strengthened by exertion, our skill by practice, ourreasoning powers by opposition, and he who wrestles most will wrestlebest."
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