“Lady Emily Greville’s carriage!” was now called in the anteroom.
“I must go, but first make me known to your friend Miss Stanley, you see I know her by instinct;” but “Lady Emily Greville’s carriage!” now resounded reiteratedly, and gentlemen with cloaks stood waiting, and as she put hers on, Lady Emily stooped forward and whispered,
“I do not believe one word of what they say of her,” and she was off, and Lady Cecilia stood for an instant looking after her, and considering what she could mean by those last words. Concluding, however, that she had not heard aright, or had missed some intervening name, and that these words, in short, could not possibly apply to Helen, Lady Cecilia turned to her, they resumed their way onward, and at length they reached the grand reception-room.
In the middle of that brilliantly lighted saloon, immediately under the centre chandelier, was ample verge and space enough reserved for the élite of the world; circle it was not, nor square, nor form regularly defined, yet the bounds were guarded. There was no way of getting to the further end of the saloon, or to the apartments open in the distance beyond it, except by passing through this enclosed space, in which one fair entrance was practicable, and one ample exit full in view on the opposite side. Several gentlemen of fashionable bearing held the outposts of this privileged place, at back of sofa, or side of fauteuil, stationary, or wandering near. Some chosen few were within; two caryatides gentlemen leaned one on each side of the fireplace, and in the centre of the rug stood a remarkably handsome man, of fine figure, perfectly dressed, his whole air exquisitely scornful, excruciatingly miserable, and loftily abstract. ’Twas wonderful, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange! how one so lost to all sublunary concerns, so far above the follies of inferior mortals, as he looked, came here — so extremely well-dressed too! How happened it? so nauseating the whole, as he seemed, so wishing that the business of the world were done! With half-closed dreamy eyelids he looked silent down upon two ladies who sat opposite to him, rallying, abusing, and admiring him to his vanity’s content. They gave him his choice of three names, l’Ennuyé, le Frondeur, or le Blasé. L’Ennuyé? he shook his head; too common; he would have none of it. Le Frondeur? no; too much trouble; he shrugged his abhorrence. Le Blasé? he allowed, might be too true. But would they hazard a substantive verb? He would give them four-and-twenty hours to consider, and he would take twenty-four himself to decide. They should have his definitive to-morrow, and he was sliding away, but Lady Castlefort, as he passed her, cried, “Going, Lord Beltravers, going are you?” in an accent of surprise and disappointment; and she whispered, “I am hard at work here, acting receiver general to these city worthies; and you do not pity me — cruel!” and she looked up with languishing eyes, that so begged for sympathy. He threw upon her one look of commiseration, reproachful. “Pity you, yes! But why will you do these things? and why did you bring me here to do this horrid sort of work?” and he vanished.
Lady Cecilia Clarendon and Miss Stanley now appeared in the offing, and now reached the straits: Lady Castlefort rose with vivacity extraordinary, and went forward several steps. “Dear Cecilia! Miss Stanley, so good! Mr. Beauclerc, so happy! the general could not? so sorry!” Then with hand pressed on hers, “Miss Stanley, so kind of you to come. Lady Grace, give me leave — Miss Stanley — Lady Grace Bland,” and in a whisper, “Lord Beltravers’ aunt.”
Lady Grace, with a haughty drawback motion, and a supercilious arching of her brows, was “happy to have the honour.” Honour nasally prolonged, and some guttural sounds followed, but further words, if words they were, which she syllabled between snuffling and mumbling, were utterly unintelligible; and Helen, without being “very happy,” or happy at all, only returned bend for bend.
Lady Cecilia then presented her to a group of sister graces standing near the sofas of mammas and chaperons — not each a different grace, but similar each, indeed upon the very same identical pattern air of young-lady fashion — well-bred, and apparently well-natured. No sooner was Miss Stanley made known to them by Lady Cecilia, than, smiling just enough, not a muscle too much, they moved; the ranks opened softly, but sufficiently, and Helen was in the group; amongst them, but not of them — and of this she became immediately sensible, though without knowing how or why. One of these daughters had had expectations last season from having been frequently Mr. Beauclerc’s partner, and the mother was now fanning herself opposite to him. But Helen knew nought of this: to her all was apparently soft, smooth, and smiling. While, whenever any of the unprivileged multitude, the city monsters, passed near this high-born, high-bred group, they looked as though the rights of pride were infringed, and, smiling scorn, they dropped from half-closed lips such syllables of withering contempt, as they thought these vulgar victims merited: careless if they heard or not, rather rejoicing to see the sufferers wince beneath the wounds which they inflicted in their pride and pomp of sway. “Pride!” thought Helen, “was it pride?” If pride it was, how unlike what she had been taught to consider the proper pride of aristocracy; how unlike that noble sort which she had seen, admired, and loved! Helen fancied what Lady Davenant would have thought, how ignoble; how mean, how vulgar she would have considered these sneers and scoffs from the nobly to the lowly born. How unworthy of their rank and station in society! They who ought to be the first in courtesy, because the first in place.
As these thoughts passed rapidly in Helen’s mind, she involuntarily looked towards Beauclerc; but she was so encompassed by her present companions that she could not discover him. Had she been able to see his countenance, she would have read in it at once how exactly he was at that instant feeling with her. More indignant than herself, for his high chivalrous devotion to the fair could ill endure the readiness with which the gentlemen, attendants at ottoman or sofa, lent their aid to mock and to embarrass every passing party of the city tribe, mothers and their hapless daughter-train.
At this instant Lady Bearcroft, who, if she had not good breeding, certainly had good-nature, came up to Beauclerc, and whispered earnestly, and with an expression of strong interest in her countenance, “As you love her, do not heed one word you hear anybody say this night, for it’s all on purpose to vex you; and I am certain as you are it’s all false — all envy. And there she goes, Envy herself in the black jaundice,” continued she, looking at Lady Katrine Hawksby, who passed at that instant.
“Good Heavens!” cried Beauclerc, “what can — —”
“No, no,” interrupted Lady Bearcroft, “no, no, do not ask — better not; best you should know no more — only keep your temper whatever happens. Go you up the hill, like the man in the tale, and let the black stones bawl themselves hoarse — dumb. Go you on, and seize your pretty singing thinking bird — the sooner the better. So fare you well.”
And she disappeared in the crowd. Beauclerc, to whom she was perfectly unknown, (though she had made him out,) totally at a loss to imagine what interest she could take in Helen or in him, or what she could possibly mean, rather inclined to suppose she was a mad women, and he forgot everything else as he saw Helen with Lady Cecilia emerging from the bevy of young ladies and approaching him. They stopped to speak to some acquaintance, and he tried to look at Helen as if he were an indifferent spectator, and to fancy what he should think of her if he saw her now for the first time. He thought that he should be struck not only with her beauty, but with her graceful air — her ingenuous countenance, so expressive of the freshness of natural sensibility. She was exquisitely well dressed too, and that, as Felicie observed, goes for much, even with your most sensible men. Altogether he was charmed, whether considering her as with the eyes of an unbiased stranger or with his own. And all he heard confirmed, and, although he would not have allowed it, strengthened his feelings. He heard it said that, though there were some as handsome women in the room, there were none so interesting; and some of the young men added, “As lovely as Lady Blanche, but with more expression.” A citizen, with whom Beauclerc could have shaken hands on the spot, said, �
��There’s one of the highbreds, now, that’s well-bred too.” In the height of the rapture of his feelings he overtook Lady Cecilia, who telling him that they were going on to another room, delivered Helen to his care, and herself taking the arm of some ready gentleman, they proceeded as fast as they could through the crowd to the, other end of the room.
This was the first time Helen had ever seen Lady Cecilia in public, where certainly she appeared to great advantage. Not thinking about herself, but ever willing to be pleased; so bright, so gay, she was sunshine which seemed to spread its beams wherever she turned. And she had something to say to everybody, or to answer quick to whatever they said or looked, happy always in the àpropos of the moment. Little there might be, perhaps, in what she said, but there was all that was wanted, just what did for the occasion. In others there often appeared a distress for something to say, or a dead dullness of countenance opposite to you. From others, a too fast hazarded broadside of questions and answers — glads and sorrys in chain-shots that did no execution, because there was no good aim — congratulations and condolences playing at cross purposes — These were mistakes, misfortunes, which could never occur in Lady Cecilia’s natural grace and acquired tact of manner. Helen was amused, as she followed her, in watching the readiness with which she knew how to exchange the necessary counters in the commerce of society: she was amused, till her attention was distracted by hearing, as she and Beauclerc passed, the whispered words—”I promessi sposi — look — La belle fiancée.” These words were repeated as they went on, and Lady Cecilia heard some one say, “I thought it was broken off; that was all slander then?” She recollected Lady Emily’s words, and, terrified lest Helen should hear more of — she knew not what, she began to talk to her as fast as she could, while they were stopped in the door-way by a crowd. She succeeded for the moment with Helen; she had not heard the last speech, and she could not, as long as Lady Cecilia spoke, hear more; but Beauclerc again distinguished the words “Belle fiancée;” and as he turned to discover the speaker, a fat matron near him asked, “Who is it?” and the daughter answered, “It is that handsome girl, with the white rose in her hair.”—”Hush!” said the brother, on whose arm she leaned; “Handsome is that handsome does.”
Handsome does! thought Beauclerc: and the mysterious warning of his unknown friend recurred to him. He was astonished, alarmed, furious; but the whispering party had passed on, and just then Lady Cecilia descrying Mr. Churchill in the distance, she made towards him. Conversation sure to be had in abundance from him. He discerned them from afar, and was happily prepared both with a ready bit of wit and with a proper greeting. His meeting with Lady Cecilia was, of course, just the same as ever. He took it up where he left off at Clarendon Park; no difference, no hiatus. His bow to Beauclerc and Helen, to Helen and Beauclerc, joined in one little sweep of a congratulatory motion, was incomparable: it said everything that a bow could say, and more. It implied such a happy freedom from envy or jealousy; such a polite acquiescence in the decrees of fate; such a philosophic indifference; such a cool sarcastic superiority to the event; and he began to Lady Cecilia with one of his prepared impromptus: “At the instant your ladyship came up, I am afraid I started, actually in a trance, I do believe. Methought I was — where do you think? In the temple of Jaggernaut.”
“Why?” said Lady Cecilia smiling.
“Methought,” continued Horace, “that I was in the temple of Jaggernaut — that one strange day in the year, when ill castes meet, when all distinction of castes and ranks is forgotten — the abomination of mixing them all together permitted, for their sins no doubt — high caste and low, from the abandoned Paria to the Brahmin prince, from their Billingsgate and Farringilon Without, suppose, up to their St. James’s, Street and Grosvenor Square, mingle, mingle, ye who mingle may, white spirits and grey, black spirits and blue. Now, pray look around: is not this Jaggernaut night with Lady Castlefort?”
“And you,” said Lady Cecilia; “are not you the great Jaggernaut himself, driving over all in your triumphant chariot of sarcasm, and crushing all the victims in your way?”
This took place with Horace; it put him in spirits, in train, and he fired away at Lady Castlefort, whom he had been flattering à loutrance five minutes before.
“I so admire that acting of sacrifice in your belle cousine to-night! Pasta herself could not do it better. There is a look of ‘Oh, ye just gods! what a victim am I!’ and with those upturned eyes so charming! Well, and seriously it is a sad sacrifice. Fathers have flinty hearts by parental prescription; but husbands — petit Bossus especially — should have mercy for their own sakes; they should not strain their marital power too far.”
“But,” said Lady Cecilia, “it is curious, that one born and bred such an ultra exclusive as Louisa Castlefort, should be obliged after her marriage immediately to open her doors and turn ultra liberale, or an universal suffragist — all in consequence of these mésalliances.”
“True, true,” said Churchill, with a solemn, pathetic shake of the head. “Gentlemen and noblemen should consider before they make these low matches to save their studs, or their souls, or their entailed estates. Whatever be the necessity, there can be no apology for outraging all bienséance. Necessity has no law, but it should have some decency. Think of, bringing upon a foolish elder brother — But we won’t be personal.”
“No, don’t pray, Horace,” said Lady Cecilia, moving on. “But think, only think, my dear Lady Cecilia; think what it must be to be ‘How-d’ye-doed,’ and to be ‘dear sistered’ by such bodies as these in public.”
“Sad! sad!” said Lady Cecilia.
“The old French nobility,” continued Churchill, “used to call these low money-matches, ‘mettre du fumier sur nos terres.’”
“Dirty work at best,” said Lady Cecilia.
“But still,” said Horace, “it might be done with decency if not with majesty.”
“But in the midst of all this,” said Lady Cecilia, “I want some ice very much for myself, and for Helen more.”
“I have a notion we shall find some here,” replied he, “if you will come on this way — in this sanctum sanctorum of Lady Katrine’s.”
He led them on to a little inner apartment, where, as he said, Lady Katrine Hawksby and her set do always scandal take, and sometimes tea.—”Tea and punch,” continued he, “you know, in London now is quite à la Française, and it is astonishing to me, who am but a man, what strong punch ladies can take.”
“Only when it is iced,” said Lady Cecilia, smiling.
“Be it so,” said he,—”very refreshing ice, and more refreshing scandal, and here we have both in perfection. Scandal, hot and hot, and ice, cold and cold.”
By this time they had reached the entrance to what he called Lady Katrine’s sanctum sanctorum, where she had gathered round the iced punch and tea-table a select party, whom she had drawn together with the promise of the other half of a half-published report, — a report in which “I promessi Sposi” and “La belle fiancée” were implicated!
“Stop here one moment,” cried Churchill, “one moment longer. Let us see before we are seen. Look in, look in pray, at this group. Lady Katrine herself on the sofa, finger up — holding forth; and the deaf old woman stretching forward to hear, while the other, with the untasted punch, sits suspended in curiosity. ‘What can it be?’ she says, or seems to say. Now, now, see the pretty one’s hands and eyes uplifted, and the ugly one, with that look of horror, is exclaiming, ‘You don’t say so, my dear Lady Katrine!’ Admirable creatures! Cant and scandal personified! I wish Wilkie were here — worth any money to him.”
“And he should call it ‘The scandal party,’” said Lady Cecilia. “He told me he never could venture upon a subject unless he could give it a good name.”
At this moment Lady Katrine, having finished her story, rose, and awaking from the abstraction of malice, she looked up and saw Helen and Lady Cecilia, and, as she came forward, Churchill whispered between them, “Now — now we a
re going comfortably to enjoy, no doubt, Madame de Sevigné’s pleasure ‘de mal dire du prochain,’ at the right hour too.”
Churchill left them there. Lady Katrine welcoming her victims — her unsuspicious victims — he slid off to the friends round the tea-table to learn from “Cant” what “Scandal” had been telling. Beauclerc was gone to inquire for the carriage. The instant Helen appeared, all eyes were fixed upon her, and “Belle fiancée” was murmured round, and, Cecilia heard—”He’s much to be pitied.”
At this moment Lord Castlefort went up to Helen; she had always been a favourite of his; he was grateful to her for her constant kindness to him, and, peevish though the little man might be, he had a good heart, and he showed it now by instantly taking Helen out of the midst of the starers, and begging her opinion upon a favourite picture of his, a Madonna. — Was it a Raffaelle, or was it not? He and Mr. Churchill, he said, were at issue about it. In short, no matter what he said, it engrossed Helen’s attention, so that she could not hear any thing that passed, and could not be seen by the starers; and he detained her in conversation till Beauclerc came to say—”The carriage is ready, Lady Cecilia is impatient.” Lord Castlefort opened a door that led at once to the staircase, so that they had not to recross all the rooms, but got out immediately. The smallest service merits thanks, and Helen thanked Lord Castlefort by a look which he appreciated.
Even in the few words which Beauclerc had said as he announced the carriage, she had perceived that he was agitated, and, as he attended her in silence down the stairs, his look was grave and pre-occupied; she saw he was displeased, and she thought he was displeased with her. When he had put them into the carriage, he wished them good night.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 266