Tales and Novels Volume X Part 29

Persons without a name Horace treated as barbarians who did not know the value of their gold; and he seemed to think that, if they chanced to possess rings and jewels, they might be plucked from them without remorse, and converted to better use by some lucky civilised adventurer.

Yet in his most successful piracies he was always haunted by the fear of discovery, and he especially dreaded the acute perception of Lady Davenant; he thought she suspected his arts of appropriation, and he took the first convenient opportunity of sounding her opinion on this point.

"How I enjoy," said he to Lady Cecilia "telling a good story to you, for you never ask if it is a fact. Now, in a good story, no one sticks to absolute fact; there must be some little embellishment. No one would send his own or his friend's story into the world without 'putting a hat on its head, and a stick into its hand,'" Churchill triumphantly quoted; this time he did not steal.

"But," said Lady Davenant, "I find that even the pleasure I have in mere characteristic or humorous narration is heightened by my dependence on the truth--the character for truth--of the narrator."

Not only Horace Churchill, but almost every body present, except Helen, confessed that they could not agree with her. The character for truth of the story-teller had nothing to do with his story, unless it was _historique_, or that he was to swear to it.

"And even if it were _historique_," cried Horace, buoyed up at the moment by the tide in his favour, and floating out farther than was prudent--"and even if it were _historique_, how much pleasanter is graceful fiction than grim, rigid truth; and how much more amusing in my humble opinion!"

"Now," said Lady Davenant, "for instance, this book I am reading--(it was Dumont's 'Memoires de Mirabeau')--this book which I am reading, gives me infinitely increased pleasure, from my certain knowledge, my perfect conviction of the truth of the author. The self-evident nature of some of the facts would support themselves, you may say, in some instances; but my perceiving the scrupulous care he takes to say no more than what he knows to be true, my perfect reliance on the relater's private character for integrity, gives a zest to every anecdote he tells--a specific weight to every word of conversation which he repeats--appropriate value to every trait of wit or humour characteristic of the person he describes. Without such belief, the characters would not have to me, as they now have, all the power, and charm, and life, of nature and reality. They are all now valuable as records of individual varieties that have positively so existed. While the most brilliant writer could, by fiction, have produced an effect, valuable only as representing the general average of human nature, but adding nothing to our positive knowledge, to the data from which we can reason in future."

Churchill understood Lady Davenant too well to stand quite unembarra.s.sed as he listened; and when she went on to say how differently she should have felt in reading these memoirs if they had been written by Mirabeau himself; with all his brilliancy, all his talents, how inferior would have been her enjoyment as well as instruction! his shrinking conscience told him how this might all be applied to himself; yet, strange to say, though somewhat abashed, he was nevertheless flattered by the idea of a parallel between himself and Mirabeau. To _Mirabeauder_ was no easy task; it was a certain road to notoriety, if not to honest fame.

But even in the better parts of his character, his liberality in money matters, his good-natured patronage of rising genius, the meanness of his mind broke out. There was a certain young poetess whom he had encouraged; she happened to be sister to Mr. Mapletofft, Lord Davenant's secretary, and she had spoken with enthusiastic grat.i.tude of Mr.

Churchill's kindness. She was going to publish a volume of Sonnets under Mr. Churchill's patronage, and, as she happened to be now at some country town in the neighbourhood, he requested Lady Cecilia to allow him to introduce this young auth.o.r.ess to her. She was invited for a few days to Clarendon Park, and Mr. Churchill was zealous to procure subscriptions for her, and eager to lend the aid of his fas.h.i.+on and his literary reputation to bring forward the merits of her book. "Indeed,"

he whispered, "he had given her some little help in the composition,"

and all went well till, in an evil hour, Helen praised one of the sonnets rather too much--more, he thought, than she had praised another, which was his own. His jealousy wakened--he began to criticise his protegee's poetry. Helen defended her admiration, and reminded him that he had himself recommended these lines to her notice.

"Well!--yes--I did say the best I could for the whole thing, and for her it is surprising--that is, I am anxious the publication should take. But if we come to compare--you know this cannot stand certain comparisons that might be made. Miss Stanley's own taste and judgment must perceive--when we talk of genius--that is quite out of the question, you know."

Horace was so perplexed between his philanthropy and his jealousy, his desire to show the one and his incapability of concealing the other, that he became unintelligible; and Helen laughed, and told him that she could not now understand what his opinion really was. She was quite ready to agree with him, she said, if he would but agree with himself: this made him disagree still more with himself and unluckily with his better self, his benevolence quite gave way before his jealousy and ill-humour, and he vented it upon the book; and, instead of prophecies of its success, he now groaned over "sad careless lines,"--"pa.s.sages that lead to nothing,"--"similes that will not hold when you come to examine them."

Helen pointed out in the dedication a pretty, a happy thought.

Horace smiled, and confessed that was his own.

What! in the dedication to himself?--and in the blindness of his vanity he did not immediately see the absurdity.

The more he felt himself in the wrong, of course the more angry he grew, and it finished by his renouncing the dedication altogether, declaring he would have none of it. The book and the lady might find a better patron. There are things which no man of real generosity could say or do, or think, put him in ever so great a pa.s.sion. He would not be harsh to an inferior--a woman--a protegee on whom he had conferred obligations; but Mr. Churchill was harsh--he showed neither generosity nor feeling; and Helen's good opinion of him sank to rise no more.

Of this, however, he had not enough of the sympathy or penetration of feeling to be aware.

CHAPTER III.

The party now at Clarendon Park consisted chiefly of young people.

Among them were two cousins of Lady Cecilia's, whom Helen had known at Cecilhurst before they went abroad, while she was still almost a child.

Lady Katrine Hawksby, the elder, was several years older than Cecilia. When Helen last saw her, she was tolerably well-looking, very fas.h.i.+onable, and remarkable for high spirits, with a love for _quizzing_, and for all that is vulgarly called _fun_, and a talent for ridicule, which she indulged at everybody's expense. She had always amused Cecilia, who thought her more diverting than really ill-natured; but Helen thought her more ill-natured than diverting, never liked her, and had her own private reasons for thinking that she was no good friend to Cecilia: but now, in consequence either of the wear and tear of London life, or of a disappointment in love or matrimony, she had lost the fresh plumpness of youth; and gone too was that spirit of mirth, if not of good humour, which used to enliven her countenance. Thin and sallow, the sharp features remained, and the sarcastic without the arch expression; still she had a very fas.h.i.+onable air. Her pretensions to youth, as her dress showed, were not gone; and her hope of matrimony, though declining, not set. Her many-years-younger sister, Louisa, now Lady Castlefort, was beautiful. As a girl, she had been the most sentimental, refined, delicate creature conceivable; always talking poetry--and so romantic--with such a soft, sweet, die-away voice--lips apart--and such fine eyes, that could so ecstatically turn up to heaven, or be so cast down, charmingly fixed in contemplation:--and now she is married, just the same. There she is, established in the library at Clarendon Park, with the most sentimental fas.h.i.+onable novel of the day, beautifully bound, on the little rose-wood table beside her, and a ma.n.u.script poem, a great secret, "Love's Last Sigh," in her bag with her smelling-bottle and embroidered handkerchief; and on that beautiful arm she leaned so gracefully, with her soft languis.h.i.+ng expression; so perfectly dressed too--handsomer than ever.

Helen was curious to know what sort of man Lady Louisa had married, for she recollected that no hero of any novel that ever was read, or talked of, came up to her idea of what a hero ought to be, of what a man must be, whom she could ever think of loving. Cecilia told Helen that she had seen Lord Castlefort, but that he was not Lord Castlefort, or likely to be Lord Castlefort, at that time; and she bade her guess, among all she could recollect having ever seen at Cecilhurst, who the man of Louisa's choice could be. Lady Katrine, with infinite forbearance, smiled, and gave no hint, while Helen guessed and guessed in vain. She was astonished when she saw him come into the room. He was a little deformed man, for whom Lady Louisa had always expressed to her companions a peculiar abhorrence. He had that look of conceit which unfortunately sometimes accompanies personal deformity, and which disgusts even Pity's self. Lord Castlefort was said to have declared himself made for love and fighting! Helen remembered that kind-hearted Cecilia had often remonstrated for humanity's sake, and stopped the quizzing which used to go on in their private coteries, when the satirical elder sister would have it that _le pet.i.t bossu_ was in love with Louisa.

But what _could_ make her marry him? Was there anything within to make amends for the exterior? Nothing--nothing that could "rid him of the lump behind." But superior to the metamorphoses of love, or of fairy tale, are the metamorphoses of fortune. Fortune had suddenly advanced him to uncounted thousands and a t.i.tle, and no longer _le pet.i.t bossu_, Lord Castlefort obtained the fair hand--the very fair hand of Lady Louisa Hawksby, _plus belle que fee!_

Still Helen could not believe that Louisa had married him voluntarily; but Lady Cecilia a.s.sured her that it was voluntarily, quite voluntarily.

"You could not have so doubted had you seen the _trousseau_ and the _corbeille_, for you know, '_Le present fait oublier le futur_.'"

Helen could scarcely smile.

"But Louisa had feeling--really some," continued Lady Cecilia; "but she could not afford to follow it. She had got into such debt, I really do not know what she would have done if Lord Castlefort had not proposed; but she has some little heart, and I could tell you a secret; but no, I will leave you the pleasure of finding it out."

"It will be no pleasure to me," said Helen.

"I never saw anybody so out of spirits," cried Lady Cecilia, laughing, "at another's unfortunate marriage, which all the time she thinks very fortunate. She is quite happy, and even Katrine does not laugh at him any longer, it is to be supposed; it is no laughing matter now."

"No indeed," said Helen.

"Nor a crying matter either," said Cecilia. "Do not look shocked at me, my dear, I did not do it; but so many do, and I have seen it so often, that I cannot wonder with such a foolish face of blame--I do believe, my dear Helen, that you are envious because Louisa is married before you!

for shame, my love! Envy is a naughty pa.s.sion, you know our Madame Bonne used to say; but here's mamma, now talk to her about Louisa Castlefort, pray."

Lady Davenant took the matter with great coolness, was neither shocked nor surprised at this match, she had known so many worse; Lord Castlefort, as well as she recollected, was easy enough to live with.

"And after all," said she, "it is better than what we see every day, the fairest of the fair knowingly, willingly giving themselves to the most profligate of the profligate, In short, the market is so overstocked with accomplished young ladies on the one hand, and on the other, men find wives and establishments so expensive, clubs so cheap and so much more luxurious than any home, liberty not only so sweet but so fas.h.i.+onable, that their policy, their maxim is, 'Marry not at all, or if marriage be ultimately necessary to pay debts and leave heirs to good names, marry as late as possible;' and thus the two parties with their opposite interests stand at bay, or try to outwit or outbargain each other. And if you wish for the moral of the whole affair, here it is from the vulgar nursery-maids, with their broad sense and bad English, and the good or bad French of the governess, to the elegant innuendo of the drawing-room, all is working to the same effect: dancing-masters, music-masters, and all the tribe, what is it all for, but to prepare young ladies for the grand event; and to raise in them, besides the natural, a fact.i.tious, an abstract idea of good in being married! Every girl in these days is early impressed with the idea that she must be married, that she cannot be happy unmarried. Here is an example of what I meant the other day by strength of mind; it requires some strength of mind to be superior to such a foolish, vain, and vulgar belief."

"It will require no great strength of mind in me," said Helen, "for I really never have formed such notions. They never were early put into my head; my uncle always said a woman might be very happy unmarried. I do not think I shall ever be seized with a terror of dying an old maid."

"You are not come to the time yet, my dear," said Lady Davenant smiling.

"Look at Lady Katrine; strength of mind on this one subject would have saved her from being a prey to envy, and jealousy, and all the vulture pa.s.sions of the mind.

"In the old French _regime_," continued Lady Davenant, "the young women were at least married safely out of their convents; but our young ladies, with their heads full of high-flown poetry and sentimental novels, are taken out into the world before marriage, expected to see and not to choose, shown the most agreeable, and expected, doomed to marry the most odious. But, in all these marriages for establishment, the wives who have least feeling are not only likely to be the happiest, but also most likely to conduct themselves well. In the first place they do not begin with falsehood. If they have no hearts, they cannot pretend to give any to the husband, and that is better than having given them to somebody else. Husband and wife, in this case, clearly understand the terms of agreement, expect, imagine no more than they have, and jog-trot they go on together to the end of life very comfortably."

"Comfortably!" exclaimed Helen, "it must be most miserable."

"Not most miserable, Helen," said Lady Davenant, "keep your pity for others; keep your sighs for those who need them--for the heart which no longer dares to utter a sigh for itself, the faint heart that dares to love, but dares not abide by its choice. Such infatuated creatures, with the roots of feeling left aching within them, must take what opiates they can find; and in after-life, through all their married existence, their prayer must be for indifference, and thankful may they be if that prayer is granted."

These words recurred to Helen that evening, when Lady Castlefort sang some tender and pa.s.sionate airs; played on the harp with a true Saint Cecilia air and att.i.tude; and at last, with charming voice and touching expression, sung her favourite--"Too late for redress."

Both Mr. Churchill and Beauclerc were among the group of gentlemen; neither was a stranger to her. Mr. Churchill admired and applauded as a connoisseur. Beauclerc listened in silence. Mr. Churchill entreated for more--more--and named several of his favourite Italian airs. Her ladys.h.i.+p really could not. But the slightest indication of a wish from Beauclerc, was, without turning towards him, heard and attended to, as her sister failed not to remark and to make others remark.

Seizing a convenient pause while Mr. Churchill was searching for some master-piece, Lady Katrine congratulated her sister on having recovered her voice, and declared that she had never heard her play or sing since she was married till tonight.

"You may consider it as a very particular compliment, I a.s.sure you,"

continued she, addressing herself so particularly to Mr. Beauclerc that he could not help being a little out of countenance,--"I have so begged and prayed, but she was never in voice or humour, or heart, or something. Yesterday, even Castlefort was almost on his knees for a song,--were not you, Lord Castlefort?"

Lord Castlefort pinched his pointed chin, and casting up an angry look, replied in a dissonant voice,--"I do not remember!"

"_Tout voir, tout entendre, tout oublier_," whispered Lady Katrine to Mr. Churchill, as she stooped to a.s.sist him in the search for a music-book--"_Tout voir, tout entendre, tout oublier_, should be the motto adopted by all married people."

Lady Castlefort seemed distressed, and turned over the leaves in such a flutter that she could not find anything, and she rose, in spite of all entreaties, leaving the place to her sister, who was, she said, "so much better a musician and not so foolishly nervous." Lady Castlefort said her "voice always went away when she was at all--"

There it ended as far as words went; but she sighed, and retired so gracefully, that all the gentlemen pitied her.

There is one moment in which ill-nature sincerely repents--the moment when it sees pity felt for its victim.

Horace followed Lady Castlefort to the ottoman, on which she sank.

Beauclerc remained leaning on the back of Lady Katrine's chair, but without seeming to hear what she said or sung. After some time Mr.

Churchill, not finding his attentions well received, or weary of paying them, quitted Lady Castlefort but sat down by Helen; and in a voice to be heard by her, but by no one else, he said--