Henrietta Temple Part 24

What is it? You don't know! Here, you man, who are you? Mr. Temple's servant. I knew your master when he was not as high as that cage. What do you think of that?' continued her ladys.h.i.+p, with a triumphant smile.

'What do you laugh at, sir? Did you ever see a woman ninety years old before? That I would wager you have not. What do I want? I want something. Why do you tease me by not remembering what I want? Now, I knew a gentleman who made his fortune by once remembering what a very great man wanted. But then the great man was a minister of state. I dare say if I were a minister of state, instead of an old woman ninety years of age, you would contrive somehow or other to find out what I wanted.

Never mind, never mind. Come, my charming friend, let me take your arm. Now I will introduce you to the prettiest, the dearest, the most innocent and charming lady in the world. She is my greatest favourite.

She is always my favourite. You are my favourite, too; but you are only my favourite for the moment. I always have two favourites: one for the moment, and one that I never change, and that is my sweet Henrietta Temple. You see I can remember her name, though I couldn't yours. But you are a good creature, a dear good soul, though you live in a bad set, my dear, a very bad set indeed; vulgar people, my dear; they may be rich, but they have no _ton_. This is a fine place. Stop, stop,' Lady Bellair exclaimed, stamping her little foot and shaking her little arm, 'Don't drive away; I remember what it was. Gregory! run, Gregory! It is the page! There was no room for him behind, and I told him to lie under the seat. Poor dear boy! He must be smothered. I hope he is not dead.

Oh! there he is. Has Miss Temple got a page? Does her page wear a feather? My page has not got a feather, but he shall have one, because he was not smothered. Here! woman, who are you? The housemaid. I thought so. I always know a housemaid. You shall take care of my page. Take him at once, and give him some milk and water; and, page, be very good, and never leave this good young woman, unless I send for you. And, woman, good young woman, perhaps you may find an old feather of Miss Temple's page. Give it to this good little boy, because he was not smothered.'

CHAPTER IV.

_Containing Some Account of the Viscountess Dowager Bellair_.

THE Viscountess Dowager Bellair was the last remaining link between the two centuries. Herself born of a n.o.ble family, and distinguished both for her beauty and her wit, she had reigned for a quarter of a century the favourite subject of Sir Joshua; had flirted with Lord Carlisle, and chatted with Dr. Johnson. But the most remarkable quality of her ladys.h.i.+p's destiny was her preservation. Time, that had rolled on nearly a century since her birth, had spared alike her physical and mental powers. She was almost as active in body, and quite as lively in mind, as when seventy years before she skipped in Marylebone Gardens, or puzzled the gentlemen of the Tuesday Night Club at Mrs. Cornely's masquerades. These wonderful seventy years indeed had pa.s.sed to Lady Bellair like one of those very masked b.a.l.l.s in which she had formerly sparkled; she had lived in a perpetual crowd of strange and brilliant characters. All that had been famous for beauty, rank, fas.h.i.+on, wit, genius, had been gathered round her throne; and at this very hour a fresh and admiring generation, distinguished for these qualities, cheerfully acknowledged her supremacy, and paid to her their homage. The heroes and heroines of her youth, her middle life, even of her old age, had vanished; brilliant orators, profound statesmen, inspired bards, ripe scholars, ill.u.s.trious warriors; beauties whose dazzling charms had turned the world mad; choice spirits, whose flying words or whose fanciful manners made every saloon smile or wonder--all had disappeared.

She had witnessed revolutions in every country in the world; she remembered Brighton a fis.h.i.+ng-town, and Manchester a village; she had shared the pomp of nabobs and the profusion of loan-mongers; she had stimulated the early ambition of Charles Fox, and had sympathised with the last aspirations of George Canning; she had been the confidant of the loves alike of Byron and Alfieri; had worn mourning for General Wolfe, and given a festival to the Duke of Wellington; had laughed with George Selwyn, and smiled at Lord Alvanley; had known the first macaroni and the last dandy; remembered the Gunnings, and introduced the Sheridans! But she herself was unchanged; still restless for novelty, still eager for amus.e.m.e.nt; still anxiously watching the entrance on the stage of some new stream of characters, and indefatigable in attracting the notice of everyone whose talents might contribute to her entertainment, or whose attention might gratify her vanity. And, really, when one recollected Lady Bel-lair's long career, and witnessed at the same time her diminutive form and her unrivalled vitality, he might almost be tempted to believe, that if not absolutely immortal, it was at least her strange destiny not so much vulgarly to die, as to grow like the heroine of the fairy tale, each year smaller and smaller,

'Fine by degrees, and beautifully less,'

until her ladys.h.i.+p might at length subside into airy nothingness, and so rather vanish than expire.

It was the fas.h.i.+on to say that her ladys.h.i.+p had no heart; in most instances an unmeaning phrase; in her case certainly an unjust one.

Ninety years of experience had a.s.suredly not been thrown away on a mind of remarkable acuteness; but Lady Bellair's feelings were still quick and warm, and could be even profound. Her fancy was so lively, that her attention was soon engaged; her taste so refined, that her affection was not so easily obtained. Hence she acquired a character for caprice, because she repented at leisure those first impressions which with her were irresistible; for, in truth, Lady Bellair, though she had nearly completed her century, and had pa.s.sed her whole life in the most artificial circles, was the very creature of impulse. Her first homage she always declared was paid to talent, her second to beauty, her third to blood. The favoured individual who might combine these three splendid qualifications, was, with Lady Bellair, a nymph, or a demi-G.o.d. As for mere wealth, she really despised it, though she liked her favourites to be rich.

Her knowledge of human nature, which was considerable, her acquaintance with human weaknesses, which was unrivalled, were not thrown away upon Lady Bellair. Her ladys.h.i.+p's perception of character was fine and quick, and nothing delighted her so much as making a person a tool. Capable, where her heart was touched, of the finest sympathy and the most generous actions, where her feelings were not engaged she experienced no compunction in turning her companions to account, or, indeed, sometimes in honouring them with her intimacy for that purpose. But if you had the skill to detect her plots, and the courage to make her aware of your consciousness of them, you never displeased her, and often gained her friends.h.i.+p. For Lady Bellair had a fine taste for humour, and when she chose to be candid, an indulgence which was not rare with her, she could dissect her own character and conduct with equal spirit and impartiality. In her own instance it cannot be denied that she comprised the three great qualifications she so much prized: for she was very witty; had blood in her veins, to use her own expression; and was the prettiest woman in the world, for her years. For the rest, though no person was more highly bred, she could be very impertinent; but if you treated her with servility, she absolutely loathed you.

Lady Bellair, after the London season, always spent two or three months at Bath, and then proceeded to her great grandson's, the present viscount's, seat in the North, where she remained until London was again attractive. Part of her domestic diplomacy was employed each year, during her Bath visit, in discovering some old friend, or making some new acquaintance, who would bear her in safety, and save her harmless from all expenses and dangers of the road, to Northumberland; and she displayed often in these arrangements talents which Talleyrand might have envied. During the present season, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, the widow of a rich East Indian, whose intention it was to proceed to her estate in Scotland at the end of the autumn, had been presented to Lady Bellair by a friend well acquainted with her ladys.h.i.+p's desired arrangements.

What an invaluable acquaintance at such a moment for Lady Bellair! Mrs.

Montgomery Floyd, very rich and very anxious to be fas.h.i.+onable, was intoxicated with the flattering condescension and antic.i.p.ated companions.h.i.+p of Lady Bellair. At first Lady Bellair had quietly suggested that they should travel together to Northumberland. Mrs.

Montgomery Floyd was enchanted with the proposal. Then Lady Bellair regretted that her servant was very ill, and that she must send her to town immediately in her own carriage; and then Mrs. Montgomery Floyd insisted, in spite of the offers of Lady Bellair, that her ladys.h.i.+p should take a seat in her carriage, and would not for an instant hear of Lady Bellair defraying, under such circ.u.mstances, any portion of the expense. Lady Bellair held out to the dazzled vision of Mrs. Montgomery Floyd a brilliant perspective of the n.o.ble lords and wealthy squires whose splendid seats, under the auspices of Lady Bellair, they were to make their resting-places during their progress; and in time Lady Bellair, who had a particular fancy for her own carriage, proposed that her servants should travel in that of Mrs. Montgomery Floyd.

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd smiled a too willing a.s.sent. It ended by Mrs.

Montgomery Floyd's servants travelling to Lord Bellair's, where their mistress was to meet them, in that lady's own carriage, and Lady Bellair travelling in her own chariot with her own servants, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd defraying the expenditure of both expeditions.

CHAPTER V.

_In Which Lady Bellair Gives Some Account of Some of Her Friends_.

LADY BELLAIR really loved Henrietta Temple. She was her prime and her permanent favourite, and she was always lamenting that Henrietta would not come and stay with her in London, and marry a duke. Lady Bellair was a great matchmaker. When, therefore, she was welcomed by the fair mistress of Ducie Bower, Lady Bellair was as genuine as she was profuse in her kind phrases. 'My sweet, sweet young friend,' she said, as Henrietta bowed her head and offered her lips to the little old lady, 'it is something to have such a friend as you. What old woman has such a sweet friend as I have! Now let me look at you. It does my heart good to see you. I feel younger. You are handsomer than ever, I declare you are.

Why will you not come and stay with me, and let me find you a husband?

There is the Duke of Derandale, he is in love with you already; for I do nothing but talk of you. No, you should not marry him, he is not good enough. He is not good enough. He is not refined. I love a duke, but I love a duke that is refined more. You shall marry Lord Fitzwarrene.

He is my favourite; he is worthy of you. You laugh; I love to see you laugh. You are so fresh and innocent! There is your worthy father talking to my friend Mrs. Twoshoes; a very good creature, my love, a very worthy soul, but no _ton_; I hate French words, but what other can I use? And she will wear gold chains, which I detest. You never wear gold chains, I am sure. The Duke of------would not have me, so I came to you,' continued her ladys.h.i.+p, returning the salutation of Mr. Temple.

'Don't ask me if I am tired; I am never tired. There is nothing I hate so much as being asked whether I am well; I am always well. There, I have brought you a charming friend; give her your arm; and you shall give me yours,' said the old lady, smiling, to Henrietta. 'We make a good contrast; I like a good contrast, but not an ugly one. I cannot bear anything that is ugly; unless it is a very ugly man indeed, who is a genius and very fas.h.i.+onable. I liked Wilkes, and I liked Curran; but they were famous, the best company in the world. When I was as young as you, Lady Lavington and I always hunted in couples, because she was tall, and I was called the Queen of the Fairies. Pretty women, my sweet child, should never be alone. Not that I was very pretty, but I was always with pretty women, and at last the men began to think that I was pretty too.'

'A superbly pretty place,' simpered the magnificent Mrs. Montgomery Floyd to Mr. Temple, 'and of all the sweetly pretty persons I ever met, I a.s.sure you I think Miss Temple the most charming. Such a favourite too with Lady Bellair! You know she calls Miss Temple her real favourite,'

added the lady, with a playful smile.

The ladies were ushered to their apartments by Henrietta, for the hour of dinner was at hand, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd indicated some anxiety not to be hurried in her toilet. Indeed, when she reappeared, it might have been matter of marvel how she could have effected such a complete transformation in so short a period. Except a train, she was splendid enough for a birthday at St. James's, and wore so many brilliants that she glittered like a chandelier. However, as Lady Bellair loved a contrast, this was perhaps not unfortunate; for certainly her ladys.h.i.+p, in her simple costume which had only been altered by the subst.i.tution of a cap that should have been immortalised by Mieris or Gerard Douw, afforded one not a little startling to her sumptuous fellow-traveller.

'Your dinner is very good,' said Lady Bellair to Mr. Temple. 'I eat very little and very plainly, but I hate a bad dinner; it dissatisfies everybody else, and they are all dull. The best dinners now are a new man's; I forget his name; the man who is so very rich. You never heard of him, and she (pointing with her fork to Mrs. Montgomery) knows n.o.body. What is his name? Gregory, what is the name of the gentleman I dine with so often? the gentleman I send to when I have no other engagement, and he always gives me a dinner, but who never dines with me. He is only rich, and I hate people who are only rich; but I must ask him next year. I ask him to my evening parties, mind; I don't care about them; but I will not have stupid people, who are only rich, at my dinners. Gregory, what is his name?'

'Mr. Million de Stockville, my lady.'

'Yes, that is the man, good Gregory. You have no deer, have you?'

enquired her ladys.h.i.+p of Mr. Temple. 'I thought not. I wish you had deer. You should send a haunch in my name to Mr. Million de Stockville, and that would be as good as a dinner to him. If your neighbour, the duke, had received me, I should have sent it from thence. I will tell you what I will do; I will write a note from this place to the duke, and get him to do it for me. He will do anything for me. He loves me, the duke, and I love him; but his wife hates me.'

'And you have had a gay season in town this year, Lady Bellair?'

enquired Miss Temple. 'My dear, I always have a gay season.' 'What happiness!' softly exclaimed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 'I think nothing is more delightful than gaiety.'

'And how is our friend Mr. Bonmot this year?' said Mr. Temple.

'My dear, Bonmot is growing very old. He tells the same stories over again, and therefore I never see him. I cannot bear wits that have run to seed: I cannot ask Bonmot to my dinners, and I told him the reason why; but I said I was at home every morning from two till six, and that he might come then, for he does not go out to evening parties, and he is huffy, and so we have quarrelled.'

'Poor Mr. Bonmot,' said Miss Temple.

'My dear, there is the most wonderful man in the world, I forget his name, but everybody is mad to have him. He is quite the fas.h.i.+on. I have him to my parties instead of Bonmot, and it is much better. Everybody has Bonmot; but my man is new, and I love something new. Lady Frederick Berrington brought him to me. Do you know Lady Frederick Berrington?

Oh! I forgot, poor dear, you are buried alive in the country; I must introduce you to Lady Frederick. She is charming, she will taste you, she will be your friend; and you cannot have a better friend, my dear, for she is very pretty, very witty, and has got blood in her veins. I won't introduce you to Lady Frederick,' continued Lady Bellair to. Mrs.

Montgomery Floyd; 'she is not in your way. I shall introduce you to Lady Splash and Dashaway; she is to be your friend.'

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd seemed consoled by the splendid future of being the friend of Lady Splash and Dashaway, and easily to endure, with such a compensation, the somewhat annoying remarks of her n.o.ble patroness.

'But as for Bonmot,' continued Lady Bellair, 'I will have nothing to do with him. General Faneville, he is a dear good man, and gives me dinners. I love dinners: I never dine at home, except when I have company. General Faneville not only gives me dinners, but lets me always choose my own party. And he said to me the other day, "Now, Lady Bellair, fix your day, and name your party." I said directly, "General, anybody but Bonmot." You know Bonmot is his particular friend.'

'But surely that is cruel,' said Henrietta Temple, smiling.

'I am cruel,' said Lady Bellair, 'when I hate a person I am very cruel, and I hate Bonmot. Mr. Fox wrote me a copy of verses once, and called me "cruel fair;" but I was not cruel to him, for I dearly loved Charles Fox; and I love you, and I love your father. The first party your father ever was at, was at my house. There, what do you think of that? And I love my grandchildren; I call them all my grand-children. I think great-grandchildren sounds silly; I am so happy that they have married so well. My dear Selina is a countess; you shall be a countess, too,'

added Lady Bellair, laughing. 'I must see you a countess before I die.

Mrs. Grenville is not a countess, and is rather poor; but they will be rich some day; and Grenville is a good name: it sounds well. That is a great thing. I hate a name that does not sound well.'

CHAPTER VI.

_Containing a Conversation Not Quite so Amusing as the Last_.

IN THE evening Henrietta amused her guests with music. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd was enthusiastically fond of music, and very proud of her intimate friends.h.i.+p with Pasta. 'Oh! you know her, do you?' 'Very well; you shall bring her to my house. She shall sing at all my parties; I love music at my evenings, but I never pay for it, never. If she will not come in the evening, I will try to ask her to dinner, once at least. I do not like singers and tumblers at dinner, but she is very fas.h.i.+onable, and young men like her; and what I want at my dinners are young men, young men of very great fas.h.i.+on. I rather want young men at my dinners. I have some; Lord Languid always comes to me, and he is very fine, you know, very fine indeed. He goes to very few places, but he always comes to me.'

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd quitted the piano, and seated herself by Mr.

Temple. Mr. Temple was gallant, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd anxious to obtain the notice of a gentleman whom Lady Bellair had a.s.sured her was of the first _ton_. Her ladys.h.i.+p herself beckoned Henrietta Temple to join her on the sofa, and, taking her hand very affectionately, explained to her all the tactics by which she intended to bring-about a match between her and Lord Fitzwarrene, very much regretting, at the same time, that her dear grandson, Lord Bellair, was married; for he, after all, was the only person worthy of her. 'He would taste you, my dear; he would understand you. Dear Bellair! he is so very handsome, and so very witty. Why did he go and marry? And yet I love his wife. Do you know her? Oh! she is charming: so very pretty, so very witty, and such good blood in her veins. I made the match. Why were you not in England?

If you had only come to England a year sooner, you should have married Bellair. How provoking!'

'But, really, dear Lady Bellair, your grandson is very happy. What more can you wish?'

'Well, my dear, it shall be Lord Fitzwarrene, then. I shall give a series of parties this year, and ask Lord Fitzwarrene to every one. Not that it is very easy to get him, my child. There is n.o.body so difficult as Lord Fitzwarrene. That is quite right. Men should always be difficult. I cannot bear men who come and dine with you when you want them.'

'What a charming place is Ducie!' sighed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd to Mr.

Temple. 'The country is so delightful.'