MADEMOISELLE PANACHE.
SECOND PART{1}
{Footnote 1: The first part is in the Parent’s Assistant, vol. iv.}
The tendency of any particular mode of education is not always perceived, before it is too late to change the habits or the character of the pupil. To superficial observers, children of nearly the same age often seem much alike in manners and disposition, who, in a few years afterward, appear in every respect strikingly different. We have given our readers some idea of the manner in which Mrs. Temple educated her daughters, and some notion of the mode in which Lady Augusta was managed by Mlle. Panache; the difference between the characters of Helen and Lady Augusta, though visible even at the early age of twelve or thirteen to an intelligent mother, was scarcely noticed by common acquaintance, who contented themselves with the usual phrases, as equally applicable to both the young ladies. “Upon my word, Lady Augusta and Miss Helen Temple are both of them very fine girls, and very highly accomplished, and vastly well educated, as I understand. I really cannot tell which to prefer. Lady Augusta, to be sure, is rather the taller of the two, and her manners are certainly more womanly and fashioned than Miss Helen’s; but then, Miss Helen Temple has something of simplicity about her that some people think very engaging. For my part, I don’t pretend to judge—girls alter so; there’s no telling at twelve years old what they may turn out at sixteen.”
From twelve to sixteen, Lady Augusta continued under the direction of Mlle. Panache; whilst her mother, content with her daughter’s progress in external accomplishments, paid no attention to the cultivation of her temper or her understanding. Lady S—— lived much in what is called the world; was fond of company, and fonder of cards, sentimentally anxious to be thought a good mother, but indolently willing to leave her daughter wholly to the care of a French governess, whose character she had never taken the trouble to investigate. Not that Lady S—— could be ignorant that, however well qualified to teach the true French pronunciation, she could not be a perfectly eligible companion for her daughter as she grew up: her ladyship intended to part with the governess when Lady Augusta was fifteen; but from day to day, and from year to year, this was put off: sometimes Lady S—— thought it a pity to dismiss mademoiselle, because “she was the best creature in the world;” sometimes she rested content with the idea, that six months more or less could not signify; till at length family reasons obliged her to postpone mademoiselle’s dismission: part of the money intended for the payment of the governess’s salary had been unfortunately lost by the mother at the card-table. Lady Augusta consequently continued under the auspices of Mlle. Panache till her ladyship was eighteen, and till her education was supposed to be entirely completed.
In the meantime Mlle. Panache endeavoured, by all the vulgar arts of flattery, to ingratiate herself with her pupil, in hopes that from a governess she might become a companion. The summer months seemed unusually long to the impatient young lady, whose imagination daily anticipated the glories of her next winter’s campaign. Towards the end of July, however, a reinforcement of visitors came to her mother’s, and the present began to engage some attention, as well as the future. Amongst these visitors was Lord George ——, a young nobleman, near twenty-one, who was heir to a very considerable fortune. We mention his fortune first, because it was his first merit, even in his own opinion. Cold, silent, selfish, supercilious, and silly, there appeared nothing in him to engage the affections, or to strike the fancy of a fair lady; but Lady Augusta’s fancy was not fixed upon his lordship’s character or manners, and much that might have disgusted consequently escaped her observation. Her mother had not considered the matter very attentively; but she thought that this young nobleman might be no bad match for her Augusta, and she trusted that her daughter’s charms would make their due impression on his heart. Some weeks passed away in fashionable negligence of the lady on his part, and alternate pique and coquetry on hers, whilst, during these operations, her confidante and governess was too much occupied with her own manoeuvres to attend to those of her pupil. Lord George had with him upon this visit a Mr. Dashwood, who was engaged to accompany him upon his travels, and who had had the honour of being his lordship’s tutor. At the name of a tutor, let no one picture to himself a gloomy pedant; or yet a man whose knowledge, virtue, and benevolence, would command the respect, or win the affections, of youth. Mr. Dashwood could not be mistaken for a pedant, unless a coxcomb be a sort of pedant. Dashwood pretended neither to win affection nor to command respect; but he was, as his pupil emphatically swore, “the best fellow in the world.” Upon this best fellow in the world, Mlle. Panache fixed her sagacious hopes; she began to think that it would be infinitely better to be the wife of the gallant Mr. Dashwood, than the humble companion or the slighted governess of the capricious Lady Augusta. Having thus far opened the views and characters of these various personages, we shall now give our readers an opportunity of judging of them by their words and actions.
“You go with us, my lord, to the archery-meeting this evening?” said Lady S——, as she rose from breakfast—his lordship gave a negligent assent.
“Ah!” exclaimed Mlle. Panache, turning eagerly to Dashwood, “have you seen de uniforme?—C’est charmant; and I have no small hand in it.”
Dashwood paid the expected compliment to her taste. “Ah! non,” said she, “you are too good, too flattering; but you must tell me your judgment without flattery! Vous êtes homme de goût, though an Englishman—you see I have got no préjugés.” Dashwood bowed. “Allons!” said she, starting up with vast gaiety: “we have got no time to lose. I have de rubans to put to de bow; I must go and attend my Diane.”
“Attend her Diane!” repeated Dashwood, the moment the door was shut, and he was left alone with Lord George. “Attend her Diane! a very proper attendant.” Lord George was wholly indifferent to propriety or impropriety upon this, as upon all other subjects. “What are we to do with ourselves, I wonder, this morning!” said he, with his customary yawn; and he walked towards the window. The labour of finding employment for his lordship always devolved upon his companion. “I thought, my lord,” said Dashwood, “you talked yesterday of going upon the water; the river is very smooth, and I hope we shall have a fine day.”
“I hope so too; but over the hill yonder it looks confounded black, hey? Well, at any rate we may go down and make some of them get ready to go with us. I’ll take my black Tom—he’s a handy fellow.”
“But if you take black Tom,” said Dashwood, laughing, “we must not expect to have the ladies of our party; for you know mademoiselle has an unconquerable antipaty, as she calls it, to a negro.”
Lord George declared that, for this very reason, he would order black Tom down to the water-side, and that he should enjoy her affectation, or her terror, whichever it was, of all things. “I suppose,” said he, “she’ll scream as loud as Lady Augusta screamed at a frog the other day.”
“I’ll lay you a wager I spoil your sport, my lord; I’ll lay you a guinea I get mademoiselle into the boat without a single scream,” said Dashwood.
“Done!” said Lord George. “Two to one she screams.”
“Done!” said Dashwood; and he hoped that, by proposing this bet, he had provided his pupil with an object for the whole morning. But Lord George was not so easily roused immediately after breakfast. “It looks terribly like rain,” said he, going back and forward irresolutely between the door and the window. “Do you think it will rain, hey?”
“No, no; I’m sure it will not rain.”
“I wouldn’t lay two to one of that, however: look at this great cloud that’s coming.”
“Oh! it will blow over.”
“I don’t know that,” said Lord George, shaking his head with great solemnity. “Which way is the wind?” opening the window. “Well, I believe it may hold up, hey?”
“Certainly—I think so.”
“Then I’ll call black Tom, hey?—though I think one grows tired of going upon the water,” muttered his lordship, as he left the room. “Couldn’t one find something better?”
“Nothing better,” thought Dashwood, “but to hang yourself, my lord, which, I’ll be bound, you’ll do before you are forty, for want of something better. But that’s not my affair.”
“Where’s mademoiselle?” cried Lady Augusta, entering hastily, with a bow and arrow in her hand: “I’ve lost my quiver: where’s mademoiselle?”
“Upon my word I don’t know,” said Dashwood, assuming an air of interest.
“You don’t know, Mr. Dashwood!” said Lady Augusta, sarcastically; “that’s rather extraordinary. I make it a rule, whenever I want mademoiselle, to ask where you are, and I never found myself disappointed before.”
“I am sorry, madam, you should ever be disappointed,” said Dashwood, laughing. “Is this your ladyship’s own taste?” added he, taking the painted bow out of her hand. “It’s uncommonly pretty.”
“Pretty or not, Lord George did not think it worth while to look at it last night. His lordship will go through the world mighty easily, don’t you think so, Mr. Dashwood?” Dashwood attempted an apology for his pupil, but in such a sort, as if he did not mean it to be accepted, and then, returning the bow to her ladyship’s hand, paused, sighed, and observed, that, upon the whole, it was happy for his lordship that he possessed so much nonchalance. “Persons of a different cast,” continued he, “cannot, as your ladyship justly observes, expect to pass through life so easily.” This speech was pronounced in a tone so different from Dashwood’s usual careless gaiety, that Lady Augusta could not help being struck with it; and by her vanity, it was interpreted precisely as the gentleman wished. Rank and fortune were her serious objects, but she had no objection to amusing herself with romance. The idea of seeing the gay, witty Mr. Dashwood metamorphosed, by the power of her charms, into a despairing, sighing swain, played upon her imagination, and she heard his first sigh with a look which plainly showed how well she understood its meaning.
“Why now, was there ever any thing so provoking!” cried Lord George, swinging himself into the room.
“What’s the matter, my lord?” said Dashwood.
“Why, don’t you see, it’s raining as hard as it can rain?” replied his lordship, with the true pathos of a man whose happiness is dependent upon the weather. His scheme of going upon the water being now impracticable, he lounged about the room all the rest of the morning, supporting that miserable kind of existence, which idle gentlemen are doomed to support, they know not how, upon a rainy day. Neither Lady Augusta nor her mother, in calculating the advantages and disadvantages of an alliance with his lordship, ever once considered his habits of listless idleness as any objection in a companion for life.
After dinner the day cleared up—the ladies were dressed in their archery uniform—the carriages came to the door, and Lord George was happy in the prospect of driving his new phaeton. Dashwood handed the ladies to their coach; for his lordship was too much engaged in confabulation with his groom, on the merits of his off-leader, to pay attention to any thing else upon earth.
His phaeton was presently out of sight, for he gloried in driving as fast as possible; and, to reward his exertions, he had the satisfaction of hearing two strangers, as he passed them, say—“Ha! upon my word, those horses go well!” A postilion at a turnpike gate, moreover, exclaimed to a farmer, who stood with his mouth wide open—“There goes Lord George! he cuts as fine a figure on the road as e’er a man in England.” Such was the style of praise of which this young nobleman was silly enough to be vain.
“I’ve been in these three quarters of an hour!” cried he, exultingly, as Lady S—— got out of her coach.
“There has been no shooting yet though, I hope?” said Lady Augusta.
“No, no, ma’am,” replied Dashwood; “but the ladies are all upon the green—a crowd of fair competitors; but I’d bet a thousand pounds upon your ladyship’s arrows. Make way there—make way,” cried the man of gallantry, in an imperious tone, to some poor people, who crowded round the carriage; and talking and laughing loud, he pushed forward, making as much bustle in seating the ladies as they could have wished. Being seated, they began to bow and nod to their acquaintance. “There’s Mrs. Temple and her daughters,” said Lady S——.
“Where, ma’am?” said Lady Augusta: “I’m sure I did not expect to meet them here. Where are they?”
“Just opposite to us. Pray, Mr. Dashwood, who is that gentleman in brown, who is talking to Miss Helen Temple?” “Upon my word I don’t know, madam; he bowed just now to Lord George.”
“Did he?” said Lady Augusta. “I wonder who he is!”
Lord George soon satisfied her curiosity, for, coming up to them, he said negligently, “Dashwood, there’s young Mountague yonder.”
“Ha! is that young Mountague? Well, is his father dead? What has he done with that old quiz?”
“Ask him yourself,” said Lord George sullenly: “I asked him just now, and he looked as black as November.”
“He was so fond of his father—it is quite a bore,” said Dashwood. “I think he’ll be a quiz himself in due time.”
“No,” said Lord George; “he knows better than that too in some things. He has a monstrous fine horse with him here; and that’s a good pretty girl that he’s going to marry.”
“Is he going to be married to Miss Helen Temple?” said Lady S——. “Who is he, pray? I hope a suitable match.”
“That I can’t tell, for I don’t know what she has,” replied Lord George. “But Mountague can afford to do as he pleases—very good family—fine fortune.”
“Yes; old quiz made an excellent nurse to his estate,” observed Dashwood; “he owes him some gratitude for that.”
“Is not he very young to settle in the world?” said Lady S——.
“Young—yes—only a year older than I am,” said Lord George; “but I knew he’d never be quiet till he got himself noosed.”
“I suppose he’ll be at the ball to-night,” said Lady Augusta, “and then we shall see something of him, perhaps. It’s an age since we’ve seen the Miss Temples any where. I wonder whether there’s any thing more than report, my lord, in this conquest of Miss Helen Temple? Had you the thing from good authority?”
“Authority!” said Lord George; “I don’t recollect my authority, faith!—somebody said so to me, I think. It’s nothing to me, at any rate.” Lady Augusta’s curiosity, however, was not quite so easily satisfied as his lordship’s; she was resolved to study Mr. Mountague thoroughly at the ball; and her habitual disposition to coquetry, joined to a dislike of poor Helen, which originated whilst they were children, made her form a strong desire to rival Helen in the admiration of this young gentleman of—“very good family and fine fortune.” Her ladyship was just falling into a reverie upon this subject, when she was summoned to join the archeresses.
The prize was a silver arrow. The ladies were impatient to begin—the green was cleared. Some of the spectators took their seats on benches under the trees, whilst a party of gentlemen stood by, to supply the ladies with arrows. Three ladies shot, but widely from the mark; a fourth tried her skill, but no applause ensued; a fifth came forward, a striking figure, elegantly dressed, who, after a prelude of very becoming diffidence, drew her bow, and took aim in the most graceful attitude imaginable.
“Who is that beautiful creature?” exclaimed Mr. Mountague, with enthusiasm; and as the arrow flew from the bow, he started up, wishing it success.
“The nearest, by six inches, that has been shot yet,” cried Dashwood. “Here, sir! here!” said he to Mr. Mountague, who went up to examine the target, “this is Lady Augusta S——‘s arrow, within the second circle, almost put out the bull’s eye!” The clamour of applause at length subsiding, several other arrows were shot, but none came near to Lady Augusta’s, and the prize was unanimously acknowledged to be hers.
The silver arrow was placed on high over the mark, and several gentlemen tried to reach it in vain: Mr. Mountague sprung from the ground with great activity, brought down the arrow, and presented it, with an air of gallantry, to the fair victor.
“My dear Helen,” said Emma to her sister, in a low voice, “you are not well.”
“I!” replied Helen, turning quickly: “why! can you think me so mean as to—”
“Hush, hush! you don’t consider how loud you are speaking.”
“Am I?” said Helen, alarmed, and lowering her tone; “but then, why did you say I was not well?”
“Because you looked so pale.”
“Pale! I’m sure I don’t look pale,” said Helen—“do I?”
“Not now, indeed,” said Emma, smiling.
“Was not it an excellent shot?” said Mr. Mountague, returning to them; “but you were not near enough to see it; do come and look at it.” Mrs. Temple rose and followed him.—“I can’t say,” continued he, “that I particularly admire lady archeresses; but this really is a surprising shot.”
“It really is a surprising shot,” said Helen, looking at it quite at ease. But a moment afterwards she observed that Mr. Mountague’s eyes were not intent upon the surprising shot, but were eagerly turned to another side of the green, where, illuminated by the rays of the setting sun, stood a beautiful figure, playing with a silver arrow, totally unconscious, as he imagined, either of her own charms or his admiration.—“Are you acquainted with Lady Augusta?” said Mr. Mountague.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Temple. “Are you?”
“Not yet; but I have met her mother often in town—a silly, card-playing woman. I hope her daughter is as little like her in her mind as in her person.” Here Mr. Mountague paused, for they had walked up quite close to the seemingly unconscious beauty.—“Oh, Mrs. Temple!” said she, starting, and then recovering herself, with an innocent smile—“is it you? I beg ten thousand pardons,” and, offering a hand to Helen and Emma, seemed delighted to see them. Helen involuntarily drew back her hand, with as much coldness as she could without being absolutely rude.
It was now late in the evening, and as the ball was to begin at ten, the ladies called for their carriages, that they might drive to their lodgings, in an adjacent town, to change their dress. In the crowd, Helen happened to be pretty close behind Lady S——, so close, that she could not avoid hearing her conversation.
“Dear ma’am!” an elderly lady in black was saying to her, “I can assure you, your ladyship has been misinformed. I assure you, it is no such thing. He’s a relation of the family—he has paid a long visit in this country, but then it is a parting visit to his uncle: he sets out immediately for Italy, I’m told. I assure you, your ladyship has been misinformed; he and his uncle are often at Mrs. Temple’s; but depend upon it he has no thoughts of Miss Helen.”
These words struck Helen to the heart: she walked on, leaning upon her sister’s arm, who fortunately happened to know where she was going. Emma helped her sister to recollect that it was necessary to get into the carriage when the step was let down. The carriage presently stopped with them at the inn, and they were shown to their rooms. Helen sat down, the moment she got up stairs, without thinking of dressing; and her mother’s hair was half finished, when she turned round and said, “Why, Helen, my dear! you certainly will not be ready.”
“Shan’t I, ma’am?” said Helen, starting up. “Is there any occasion that we should dress any more?”
“Nay, my dear,” said Mrs. Temple, laughing, “look in the glass at your hair; it has been blown all over your face by the wind.”
“It is a great deal of useless trouble,” said Helen, as she began the duties of the toilette.
“Why, Helen, this is a sudden fit of laziness,” said her mother.
“No, indeed, mamma; I’m not lazy. But I really don’t think it signifies. Nobody will take notice how I am dressed, I dare say.”
“A sudden fit of humility, then?” said Mrs. Temple, still laughing.
“No, ma’am; but you have often told us how little it signifies. When the ball is over, every thing about it is forgotten in a few hours.”
“Oh, a sudden fit of philosophy, Helen?”
“No, indeed, mother,” said Helen, sighing; “I’m sure I don’t pretend to any philosophy.”
“Well, then, a sudden fit of caprice, Helen?”
“No, indeed, ma’am!”
“No, indeed, ma’am!” said Mrs. Temple, still rallying her.—Why, Helen, my dear, you have answered ‘No, indeed, ma’am,’ to every thing I’ve said this half hour.”
“No, indeed, mother,” said Helen; “but I assure you, ma’am,” continued she, in a hurried manner, “if you would only give me leave to explain—”
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Temple, “this is no time for explanations: make haste and dress yourself, and follow me down to tea.” Mr. Mountague was engaged to drink tea with Mrs. Temple.
How many reflections sometimes pass rapidly in the mind in the course of a few minutes!
“I am weak, ridiculous, and unjust,” said Helen to herself. “Because Lady Augusta won a silver arrow, am I vexed? Why should I be displeased with Mr. Mountague’s admiring her? I will appear no more like a fool; and Heaven forbid I should become envious.”
As this last thought took possession of her mind, she finished dressing herself, and went with Emma down to tea. The well-wrought-up dignity with which Helen entered the parlour was, however, thrown away upon this occasion; for opposite to her mother at the tea-table there appeared, instead of Mr. Mountague, only an empty chair, and an empty teacup and saucer, with a spoon in it. He was gone to the ball; and when Mrs. Temple and her daughters arrived there, they found him at the bottom of the country dance, talking in high spirits to his partner, Lady Augusta, who, in the course of the evening, cast many looks of triumph upon Helen. But Helen kept to her resolution of commanding her own mind, and maintained an easy serenity of manner, which the consciousness of superior temper never fails to bestow. Towards the end of the night, she danced one dance with Mr. Mountague, and as he was leading her to her place, Lady Augusta, and two or three of her companions, came up, all seemingly stifling a laugh. “What is the matter?” said Helen. “Why, my dear creature,” said Lady Augusta, who still apparently laboured under a violent inclination to laugh, and whispering to Helen, but so loud that she could distinctly be overheard—“you must certainly be in love.”
“Madam!” said Helen, colouring, and much distressed.
“Yes; you certainly must,” pursued Lady Augusta, rudely; for ladies of quality can be as rude, sometimes ruder, than other people. “Must not she, Lady Di.,” appealing to one of her companions, and laughing affectedly—“must not she be either in love, or out of her senses? Pray, Miss Temple, put out your foot.” Helen put out her foot.
“Ay, that’s the black one—well, the other.” Now the other was white. The ill-bred raillery commenced. Helen, though somewhat abashed, smiled with great good humour, and walked on towards her seat. “What is the matter, my dear?” said her mother.
“Nothing, madam,” answered Mr. Mountague, “but that Miss Helen Temple’s shoes are odd, and her temper—even.” These few words, which might pass in a ball-room, were accompanied with a look of approbation, which made her ample amends for the pain she had felt. He then sat down by Mrs. Temple, and, without immediately adverting to any one, spoke with indignation of coquetry, and lamented that so many beautiful girls should be spoiled by affectation.
“If they be spoiled, should they bear all the blame?” said Mrs. Temple. “If young women were not deceived into a belief that affectation pleases, they would scarcely trouble themselves to practise it so much.”
“Deceived!” said Mr. Mountague—“but is any body deceived by a person’s saying, ‘I have the honour to be, madam, your obedient, humble servant?’ Besides, as to pleasing—what do we mean? pleasing for a moment, for a day, or for life?”
“Pleasing for a moment,” said Helen, smiling, “is of some consequence; for, if we take care of the moments, the years will take care of themselves, you know.”
“Pleasing for one moment, though,” said Mr. Mountague, “is very different, as you must perceive, from pleasing every moment.”
Here the country dance suddenly stopped, and three or four couple were thrown into confusion. The gentlemen were stooping down, as if looking for something on the floor. “Oh, I beg, I insist upon it; you can’t think how much you distress me!” cried a voice which sounded like Lady Augusta’s. Mr. Mountague immediately went to see what was the matter. “It is only my bracelet,” said she, turning to him. “Don’t, pray don’t trouble yourself,” cried she, as he stooped to assist in collecting the scattered pearls, which she received with grace in the whitest hand imaginable. “Nay, now I must insist upon it,” said she to Mr. Mountague, as he stooped again—“you shall not plague yourself any longer.” And in her anxiety to prevent him from plaguing himself any longer, she laid upon his arm the white hand, which he had an instant before so much admired. Whether all Mr. Mountague’s sober contempt of coquetry was, at this moment, the prevalent feeling in his mind, we cannot presume to determine; we must only remark, that the remainder of the evening was devoted to Lady Augusta; he sat beside her at supper, and paid her a thousand compliments, which Helen in vain endeavoured to persuade herself meant nothing more than—“I am, madam, your obedient, humble servant.”
“It is half after two,” said Mrs. Temple, when she rose to go.
“Half after two!” said Mr. Mountague, as he handed Mrs. Temple to her carriage—“bless me! can it be so late?”
All the way home Emma and Mrs. Temple were obliged to support the conversation; for Helen was so extremely entertained with watching the clouds passing over the moon, that nothing else could engage her attention.
The gossiping old lady’s information respecting Mr. Mountague was as accurate as the information of gossips usually is found to be. Mr. Mountague, notwithstanding her opinion and sagacity, had thoughts of Miss Helen Temple. During some months which he had spent at his uncle’s, who lived very near Mrs. Temple, he had had opportunities of studying Helen’s character and temper, which he found perfectly well suited to his own; but he had never yet declared his attachment to her. Things were in this undecided situation, when he saw, and was struck with the beauty of Lady Augusta ——, at this archery-ball. Lord George —— introduced him to Lady S——; and, in consequence of a pressing invitation he received from her ladyship, he went to spend a few days at S—— Hall.
“So Mr. Mountague is going to spend a week at S—— Hall, I find,” said Mrs. Temple, as she and her daughters were sitting at work the morning after the archery-ball. To this simple observation of Mrs. Temple a silence, which seemed as if it never would be broken, ensued.
“Helen, my dear!” said Mrs. Temple, in a soft voice.
“Ma’am!” said Helen, starting.
“You need not start so, my dear; I am not going to say any thing very tremendous. When you and your sister were children, if you remember, I often used to tell you that I looked forward, with pleasure, to the time when I should live with you as friends and equals. That time is come; and I hope, now that your own reason is sufficiently matured to be the guide of your conduct, that you do not think I any longer desire you to be governed by my will. Indeed,” continued she, “I consider you as my equals in every respect but in age; and I wish to make that inequality useful to you, by giving you, as far as I can, that advantage, which only age can give—experience.”
“You are very kind, dear mother,” said Helen.
“But you must be sensible,” said Mrs. Temple, in a graver tone, “that it will depend upon yourselves, in a great measure, whether I can be so much your friend as I shall wish.”
“Oh, mother,” said Helen, “be my friend! I shall never have a better; and, indeed, I want a friend,” added she, the tears starting from her eyes. “You’ll think me very silly, very vain. He never gave me any reason, I’m sure, to think so; but I did fancy that Mr. Mountague liked me.”
“And,” said Mrs. Temple, taking her daughter’s hand, “without being very silly or very vain, may not one sometimes be mistaken? Then you thought you had won Mr. Mountague’s heart? But what did you think about your own? Take care you don’t make another mistake (smiling). Perhaps you thought he never could win yours?”
“I never thought much about that,” replied Helen, “till yesterday.”
“And to-day,” said Mrs. Temple—“what do you think about it to-day?”
“Why,” said Helen, “don’t you think, mother, that Mr. Mountague has a great many good qualities?”
“Yes; a great many good qualities, a great many advantages, and, amongst them, the power of pleasing you.”
“He would not think that any advantage,” said Helen; “therefore I should be sorry that he had it.”
“And so should I,” said Mrs. Temple, “be very sorry that my daughter’s happiness should be out of her own power.”
“It is the uncertainty that torments me,” resumed Helen, after a pause. “One moment I fancy that he prefers me, the next moment I am certain he prefers another. Yesterday, when we were coming away from the green, I heard Mrs. Hargrave say to Lady S—— but why, mother, should I take up your time with these minute circumstances? I ought not to think any more about it.”
“Ought not!” repeated Mrs. Temple; “my dear, it is a matter of prudence, rather than duty. By speaking to your mother with so much openness, you secure her esteem and affection; and, amongst the goods of this life, you will find the esteem and affection of a mother worth having,” concluded Mrs. Temple, with a smile; and Helen parted from her mother with a feeling of gratitude, which may securely be expected from an ingenuous well-educated daughter, who is treated with similar kindness.
No one was ready for breakfast the morning that Mr. Mountague arrived at S—— Hall, and he spent an hour alone in the breakfast-room. At length the silence was interrupted by a shrill female voice, which, as it approached nearer, he perceived to be the voice of a foreigner half suffocated with ineffectual desire to make her anger intelligible. He could only distinguish the words—“I ring, ring, ring, ay, twenty time, and nobody mind my bell nor me, no more dan noting at all.” With a violent push, the breakfast-room door flew open, and Mlle. Panache, little expecting to find any body there, entered, volubly repeating—“Dey let me ring, ring, ring!” Surprised at the sight of a gentleman, and a young gentleman, she repented having been so loud in her anger. However, upon the second reconnoitring glance at Mr. Mountague, she felt much in doubt how to behave towards him. Mademoiselle boasted often of the well-bred instinct, by which she could immediately distinguish “un homme comme il faut” from any other; yet sometimes, like Falstaff’s, her instinct was fallacious. Recollecting that Lady S—— had sent for an apothecary, she took it into her head that Mr. Mountague was this apothecary. “Miladi is not visible yet, sir,” said she; “does she know you are here?”
“I hope not, ma’am; for I should be very sorry she were to be disturbed, after sitting up so late last night.”
“Oh, dat will do her no harm, for I gave her, pardonnez, some excellent white wine whey out of my own head last night, when she got into her bed. I hope you don’t make no objection to white wine whey, sir?”
“I!—not in the least, ma’am.”
“Oh, I’m glad you don’t disapprove of what I’ve done! You attend many family in dis country, sir?”
“Madam!” said Mr. Mountague, taking an instant’s time to consider what she could mean by attend.
“You visit many family in dis country, sir?” persisted mademoiselle.
“Very few, ma’am; I am a stranger in this part of the world, except at Mrs. Temple’s.”
“Madame Temple, ah, oui! I know her very well; she has two fine daughters—I mean when dey have seen more of de world. It’s a great pity, too, dey have never had de advantage of a native, to teach de good pronunciation de la langue Francaise. Madame Temple will repent herself of dat when it is too late, as I tell her always. But, sir, you have been at her house. I am sorry we did not hear none of de family had been indisposed.”
“They are all now perfectly well, ma’am,” replied Mr. Mountague, “except, indeed, that Mrs. Temple had a slight cold last week.”
“But she is re-establish by your advise, I suppose? and she—did she recommend you to miladi?”
“No, madam,” said Mr. Mountague, not a little puzzled by mademoiselle’s phraseology: “Lord George —— did me the honour to introduce me to Lady S——.”
“Ah, Milord George! are you a long time acquainted wid milord?”
“Yes, ma’am, I have known Lord George many years.”
“Ah, many year!—you be de family physician, apparemment?”
“The family physician! Oh no, ma’am!” said Mr. Mountague, smiling.
“Eh!” said mademoiselle, “but dat is being too modest. Many take de titre of physician, I’ll engage, wid less pretensions. And,” added she, looking graciously, “absolument, I will not have you call yourself de family apothicaire.”
At this moment Lord George came in, and shook his family apothecary by the hand, with an air of familiarity which astounded mademoiselle. “Qu’est ce que c’est?” whispered she to Dashwood, who followed his lordship: “is not dis his apothicaire?” Dashwood, at this question, burst into a loud laugh. “Mr. Mountague,” cried he, “have you been prescribing for mademoiselle? she asks if you are not an apothecary.”
Immediately Lord George, who was fond of a joke, especially where there was a chance of throwing ridicule upon any body superior to him in abilities, joined most heartily in Dashwood’s mirth; repeating the story, as “an excellent thing,” to every one, as they came down to breakfast; especially to Lady Augusta, whom he congratulated, the moment she entered the room, upon her having danced the preceding evening with an apothecary. “Here he is!” said he, pointing to Mr. Mountague.
“Ma chère amie! mon coeur! tink of my mistaking your Mr. Mountague for such a sort of person! If you had only told me, sir, dat you were Miladi Augusta’s partner last night, it would have saved me de necessity of making ten million apologies for my stupidity, dat could not find it out. Ma chère amie! Mon coeur! Miladi Augusta, will you make my excuse?”
“Ma chère amie! mon coeur!” repeated Mr. Mountague to himself: “is it possible that this woman can be an intimate friend of Lady Augusta?” What was his surprise, when he discovered that Mlle. Panache had been her ladyship’s governess! He fell into a melancholy reverie for some moments. “So she has been educated by a vulgar, silly, conceited French governess!” said he to himself; “but that is her misfortune, not her fault. She is very young, and a man of sense might make her what he pleased.” When Mr. Mountague recovered from his reverie, he heard the company, as they seated themselves at the breakfast-table, begin to talk over the last night’s ball. “You did not tire yourself last night with dancing, my lord,” said Dashwood.
“No; I hate dancing,” replied Lord George: “I wish the ladies would take to dancing with one another; I think that would be an excellent scheme.” An aunt of his lordship, who was present, took great offence at this suggestion of her nephew. She had been used to the deference paid in former times to the sex; and she said she could not bear to see women give up their proper places in society. “Really, George,” added she, turning to her nephew, “I wish you would not talk in this manner. The young men now give themselves the strangest airs. Lady S——, I will expose him; do you know, last night, he was lolling at his full length upon a bench in the ball-room, while three young handsome ladies were standing opposite to him, tired to death.”
“They could not be more tired than I was, I am sure, ma’am.”
“Why, you had not been dancing, and they had.”
“Had they, ma’am? that was not my fault. I did not ask ‘em to dance, and I don’t see it was my business to ask ‘em to sit down. I did not know who they were, at any rate,” concluded his lordship, sullenly.
“You knew they were women, and as such entitled to your respect.”
Lord George gave a sneering smile, looked at Dashwood, and pulled up his boot.
“Another thing—you were in the house three weeks with Miss Earl last summer; you met her yesterday evening, and you thought proper not to take the least notice of her.”
“Miss, Earl, ma’am; was she there?”
“Yes, close to you, and you never even bowed to her.”
“I did not see her, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Earl spoke to you.”
“I didn’t hear her, ma’am.”
“I told you of it at the moment.”
“I didn’t understand you, ma’am.”
“Besides, ma’am,” interposed Dashwood, “as to Miss Earl, if she meant that my lord should bow to her, she should have curtsied first to him.”
“Curtsied first to him!”
“Yes, that’s the rule—that’s the thing now. The ladies are always to speak first.”
“I have nothing more to say, if that be the case. Lady Augusta, what say you to all this?”
“Oh, that it’s shocking to be sure!” said Lady Augusta, “if one thinks of it; so the only way is not to think about it.”
“An excellent bon-mot!” exclaimed Dashwood. “It’s thinking that spoils conversation, and every thing else.”
“But,” added Lady Augusta, who observed that her bon-mot was not so much admired by all the company as by Dashwood, “I really only mean, that one must do as other people do.”
“Assurément,” said mademoiselle; “not dat I approve of the want of gallantry in our gentlemen, neider. But, I tink, Mademoiselle Earl is as stiff as de poker, and I don’t approve of dat, neider—Je n’aime pas les prudes, moi.”
“But, without prudery, may not there be dignity of manners?” said the old lady, gravely.
“Dignité!—Oh, I don’t say noting against dignité, neider; not but I tink de English reserve is de trop. I tink a lady of a certain rank has always good principes enough, to be sure, and as to the rest qu’importe?—dat’s my notions.”
Mr. Mountague looked with anxiety at Lady Augusta, to see what she thought of her governess’s notions; but all that he could judge from her countenance was that she did not think at all. “Well, she has time enough before her to learn to think,” said he to himself. “I am glad she did not assent to mademoiselle’s notions, at least. I hope she has learnt nothing from her but ‘the true French pronunciation.’”
No sooner was breakfast finished than Lord George —— gave his customary morning yawn, and walked as usual to the window. “Come,” said Dashwood, in his free manner—“come, mademoiselle, you must come down with us to the water-side, and Lady Augusta, I hope.”
“Ay,” whispered Lord George to Dashwood, “and let’s settle our wager about mademoiselle and my blackamore—don’t think I’ll let you off that.”
“Off!—I’m ready to double the bet, my lord,” said Dashwood aloud, and in the same moment turned to mademoiselle with some high-flown compliment about the beauty of her complexion, and the dangers of going without a veil on a hot sunny day.
“Well, Mr. Dashwood, when you’ve persuaded mademoiselle to take the veil, we’ll set out, if you please,” said Lady Augusta.
Mr. Mountague, who kept his attention continually upon Lady Augusta, was delighted to see that she waited for the elderly lady, who, at breakfast, had said so much in favour of dignity of manners. Mr. Mountague did not, at this moment, consider that this elderly lady was Lord George’s aunt, and that the attention paid to her by Lady Augusta might possibly proceed from motives of policy, not from choice. Young men of open tempers and generous dispositions are easily deceived by coquettes, because they cannot stoop to invent the meanness of their artifices. As Mr. Mountague walked down to the river, Lady Augusta contrived to entertain him so completely, that Helen Temple never once came into his mind; though he had sense enough to perceive his danger, he had not sufficient courage to avoid it: it sometimes requires courage to fly from danger. From this agreeable tête-à-tête he was roused, however, by the voice of Mlle. Panache, who, in an affected agony, was struggling to get away from Dashwood, who held both her hands—“No! no!—Non! non! I will not—I will not, I tell you, I will not.”
“Nay, nay,” said Dashwood; “but I have sworn to get you into the boat.”
“Ah! into de boat à la bonne heure; but not wid dat vilain black.”
“Well, then, persuade Lord George to send back his man; and you’ll acknowledge, my lord, in that case it’s a drawn bet,” said Dashwood.
“I! not I. I’ll acknowledge nothing,” replied his lordship; and he swore his black Tom should not be sent away: “he’s a capital boatman, and I can’t do without him.”
“Den I won’t stir,” said mademoiselle, passionately, to Dashwood.
“Then I must carry you, must I?” cried Dashwood, laughing; and immediately, to Mr. Mountague’s amazement, a romping scene ensued between this tutor and governess, which ended in Dashwood’s carrying mademoiselle in his arms into the boat, amidst the secret derision of two footmen, and the undisguised laughter of black Tom, who were spectators of the scene.
Mr. Mountague trembled at the thoughts of receiving a wife from the hands of a Mlle. Panache; but, turning his eye upon Lady Augusta, he thought she blushed, and this blush at once saved her, in his opinion, and increased his indignation against her governess. Mademoiselle being now alarmed, and provoked by the laughter of the servants, the dry sarcastic manner of Lord George, the cool air of Mr. Mountague, and the downcast looks of her pupil, suddenly turned to Dashwood, and in a high angry tone assured him, “that she had never seen nobody have so much assurance;” and she demanded, furiously—“how he could ever tink to take such liberties wid her? Only tell me how you could dare to tink of it?”
“I confess I did not think as I ought to have done, mademoiselle,” replied Dashwood, looking an apology to Lady Augusta, which, however, he took great care mademoiselle should not observe. “But your bet, my lord, if you please,” added he, attempting to turn it off in a joke: “there was no scream—my bet’s fairly won.”
“I assure you, sir, dis won’t do: it’s no good joke, I promise you. Ma chère amie, mon coeur,” cried mademoiselle to Lady Augusta—“viens—come, let us go—Don’t touch that,” pursued she, roughly, to black Tom, who was going to draw away the plank that led to the shore. “I will go home dis minute, and speak to Miladi S——. Viens! viens, ma chère amie!”—and she darted out of the boat, whilst Dashwood followed, in vain attempting to stop her. She prudently, however, took the longest way through the park, that she might have a full opportunity of listening to reason, as Dashwood called it; and before she reached home, she was perfectly convinced of the expediency of moderate measures. “Let the thing rest where it is,” said Dashwood: “it’s a joke, and there’s an end of it; but if you take it in earnest, you know the story might not tell so well, even if you told it, and there would never be an end of it.” All this, followed by a profusion of compliments, ratified a peace, which the moment he had made, he laughed at himself for having taken so much trouble to effect; whilst mademoiselle rested in the blessed persuasion that Dashwood was desperately in love with her; nay, so little knowledge had she of the human heart as to believe that the scene which had just passed was a proof of his passion.
“I wonder where’s Miladi Augusta? I thought she was wid me all this time,” said she.
“She’s coming; don’t you see her at the end of the grove with Mr. Mountague? We have walked fast,”
“Oh, she can’t never walk so fast as me; I tink I am as young as she is.”
Dashwood assented, at the same time pondering upon the consequences of the attachment which he saw rising in Mr. Mountague’s mind for Lady Augusta. If a man of sense were to gain an influence over her, Dashwood feared that all his hopes would be destroyed, and he resolved to use all his power over mademoiselle to prejudice her, and by her means to prejudice her pupil against this gentleman. Mademoiselle’s having begun by taking him for an apothicaire, was a circumstance much in favour of Dashwood’s views, because she felt herself pledged to justify, or at least to persist, in her opinion, that he did not look like un homme comme il faut.
In the mean time Mr. Mountague was walking slowly towards them with Lady Augusta, who found it necessary to walk as slowly as possible, because of the heat. He had been reflecting very soberly upon her ladyship’s late blush, which, according to his interpretation, said, as plainly as a blush could say, all that the most refined sense and delicacy could dictate. Yet such is, upon some occasions, the inconsistency of the human mind, that he by no means felt sure that the lady had blushed at all. Her colour was, perhaps, a shade higher than usual; but then it was hot weather, and she had been walking. The doubt, however, Mr. Mountague thought proper to suppress; and the reality of the blush, once thoroughly established in his imagination, formed the foundation of several ingenious theories of moral sentiment, and some truly logical deductions. A passionate admirer of grace and beauty, he could not help wishing that he might find Lady Augusta’s temper and understanding equal to her personal accomplishments. When we are very anxious to discover perfections in any character, we generally succeed, or fancy that we succeed. Mr. Mountague quickly discovered many amiable and interesting qualities in this fair lady, and, though he perceived some defects, he excused them to himself with the most philosophic ingenuity.
“Affectation,” the judicious Locke observes, “has always the laudable aim of pleasing:” upon this principle Mr. Mountague could not reasonably think of it with severity. “From the desire of pleasing,” argued he, “proceeds not only all that is amiable, but much of what is most estimable in the female sex. This desire leads to affectation and coquetry, to folly and vice, only when it is extended to unworthy objects. The moment a woman’s wish to please becomes discriminative, the moment she feels any attachment to a man superior to the vulgar herd, she not only ceases to be a coquette, but she exerts herself to excel in every thing that he approves, and, from her versatility of manners, she has the happy power of adapting herself to his taste, and of becoming all that his most sanguine wishes could desire.” The proofs of this discriminative taste, and the first symptoms of this salutary attachment to a man superior to the vulgar herd, Mr. Mountague thought he discerned very plainly in Lady Augusta, nor did he ever forget that she was but eighteen. “She is so very young,” said he to himself, “that it is but reasonable I should constantly consider what she may become, rather than what she is.” To do him justice, we shall observe, that her ladyship at this time, with all the address of which so young a lady was capable, did every thing in her power to confirm Mr. Mountague in his favourable sentiments of her.
Waiting for some circumstance to decide his mind, he was at length determined by the generous enthusiasm, amiable simplicity, and candid good sense which Lady Augusta showed in speaking of a favourite friend of hers, of whom he could not approve. This friend, Lady Diana, was one of the rude ladies who had laughed with so much ill-nature at Helen’s white and black shoes at the archery ball. She was a dashing, rich, extravagant, fashionable widow, affecting bold horsemanlike manners, too often “touching the brink of all we hate,” without exciting any passions allied to love. Her look was almost an oath—her language was suitable to her looks—she swore and dressed to the height of the fashion—she could drive four horses in hand—was a desperate huntress—and so loud in the praises of her dogs and horses, that she intimidated even sportsmen and jockeys. She talked so much of her favourite horse Spanker, that she acquired amongst a particular set of gentlemen the appellation of my Lady Di Spanker. Lady Augusta perceived that the soft affectations remarkable in her own manners were in agreeable contrast in the company of this masculine dame; she therefore cultivated her acquaintance, and Lady S—— could make no objection to a woman who was well received every where; she was rather flattered to see her daughter taken notice of by this dashing belle; consequently, Lady Di. Spanker, for by that name we also shall call her, frequently rode over from Cheltenham, which was some miles distant from S—— Hall. One morning she called upon Lady Augusta, and insisted upon her coming out to try her favourite horse. All the gentlemen went down immediately to assist in putting her ladyship on horseback: this was quite unnecessary, for Lady Diana took that office upon herself. Lady Augusta was all timidity, and was played off to great advantage by the rough raillery of her friend. At length she conquered her fears so much as to seat herself upon the side-saddle; her riding mistress gathered up the reins for her, and fixed them properly in her timid hands; then armed her with her whip, exhorting her, “for God’s sake, not to be such a coward!” Scarcely was the word coward pronounced, when Lady Augusta, by some unguarded motion of her whip, gave offence to her high-mettled steed, which instantly began to rear: there was no danger, for Mr. Mountague caught hold of the reins, and Lady Augusta was dismounted in perfect safety. “How now, Spanker!” exclaimed Lady Di., in a voice calculated to strike terror into the nerves of a horse—“how now, Spanker!” and mounting him with masculine boldness of gesture—“I’ll teach you, sir, who’s your mistress,” continued she; “I’ll make you pay for these tricks!” Spanker reared again, and Lady Di. gave him what she called “a complete dressing!” In vain Lady Augusta screamed; in vain the spectators entreated the angry amazon to spare the whip; she persisted in beating Spanker till she fairly mastered him. When he was perfectly subdued, she dismounted with the same carelessness with which she had mounted; and, giving the horse to her groom, pushed back her hat, and looked round for applause. Lord George, roused to a degree of admiration, which he had never before been heard to express for any thing female, swore that, in all his life, he had never seen any thing better done; and Lady Di. Spanker received his congratulations with a loud laugh, and a hearty shake of the hand. “Walk him about, Jack,” added she, turning to the groom, who held her horse; “walk him about, for he’s all in a lather; and when he’s cool, bring him up here again. And then, my dear child,” said she to Lady Augusta, “you shall give him a fair trial.”
“I!—Oh! never, never!” cried Lady Augusta, shrinking back with a faint shriek: “this is a trial to which you must not put my friendship. I must insist upon leaving Spanker to your management; I would not venture upon him again for the universe.”
“How can you talk so like a child—so like a woman?” cried her friend.
“I confess, I am a very woman,” said Lady Augusta, with a sigh: “and I fear I shall never be otherwise.”
“Fear!” repeated Mr. Mountague, to whom even the affectation of feminine softness and timidity appeared at this instant charming, from the contrast with the masculine intrepidity and disgusting coarseness of Lady Diana Spanker’s manners. The tone in which he pronounced the single word fear was sufficient to betray his feelings towards both the ladies. Lady Di. gave him a look of sovereign contempt. “All I know and can tell you,” cried she, “is, that fear should never get a-horseback.” Lord George burst into one of his loud laughs. “But as to the rest, fear may be a confounded good thing in its proper place; but they say it’s catching; so I must run away from you, child,” said she to Lady Augusta. “Jack, bring up Spanker. I’ve twenty miles to ride before dinner. I’ve no time to lose,” pulling out her watch: “faith, I’ve fooled away an hour here; Spanker must make it up for me. God bless you all! Good bye!” and she mounted her horse, and galloped off full speed.
“God bless ye! good bye to ye, Lady Di. Spanker,” cried Dashwood, the moment she was out of hearing. “Heaven preserve us from amazons!” Lord George did not say, Amen. On the contrary, he declared she was a fine dashing woman, and seemed to have a great deal of blood about her. Mr. Mountague watched Lady Augusta’s countenance in silence, and was much pleased to observe that she did not assent to his lordship’s encomium. “She has good sense enough to perceive the faults of her new friend, and now her eyes are open she will no longer make a favourite companion, I hope, of this odious woman,” thought he. “I am afraid, I am sadly afraid you are right,” said Lady Augusta, going up to the elderly lady, whom we formerly mentioned, who had seen all that had passed from the open windows of the drawing-room. “I own I do see something of what you told me the other day you disliked so much in my friend, Lady Di.;” and Lady Augusta gave the candid sigh of expiring friendship as she uttered these words.
“Do you know,” cried Dashwood, “that this spanking horsewoman has frightened us all out of our senses? I vow to Heaven, I never was so much terrified in my life as when I saw you, Lady Augusta, upon that vicious animal.”
“To be sure,” said Lady Augusta, “it was very silly of me to venture; I almost broke my neck, out of pure friendship.”
“It is well it is no worse,” said the elderly lady: “if a fall from a horse was the worst evil to be expected from a friendship with a woman of this sort, it would be nothing very terrible.”
Lady Augusta, with an appearance of ingenuous candour, sighed again, and replied—“It is so difficult to see any imperfections in those one loves! Forgive me, if I spoke with too much warmth, madam, the other day, in vindication of my friend. I own I ought to have paid more deference to your judgment and knowledge of the world, so much superior to my own; but certainly I must confess, the impropriety of her amazonian manners, as Mr. Dashwood calls them, never struck my partial eyes till this morning. Nor could I, nor would I, believe half the world said of her; indeed, even now, I am persuaded she is, in the main, quite irreproachable; but I feel the truth of what you said to me, madam, that young women cannot be too careful in the choice of their female friends; that we are judged of by our companions; how unfairly one must be judged of sometimes!” concluded her ladyship, with a look of pensive reflection.
Mr. Mountague never thought her half so beautiful as at this instant. “How mind embellishes beauty!” thought he; “and what quality of the mind more amiable than candour!—All that was wanting to her character was reflection; and could one expect so much reflection as this from a girl of eighteen, who had been educated by a Mlle. Panache?” Our readers will observe that this gentleman now reasoned like a madman, but not like a fool; his deductions from the appearances before him were admirable; but these appearances were false. He had not observed that Lady Augusta’s eyes were open to the defects of her amazonian friend, in the very moment that Lord George —— was roused to admiration by this horseman belle. Mr. Mountague did not perceive that the candid reflections addressed to his lordship’s aunt were the immediate consequence of female jealousy.
The next morning, at breakfast, Lord George was summoned three times before he made his appearance: at length he burst in, with a piece of news he had just heard from his groom—“That Lady Di. Spanker, in riding home full gallop the preceding day, had been thrown from her horse by an old woman. Faith, I couldn’t believe the thing,” added Lord George, with a loud laugh; “for she certainly sits a horse better than any woman in England; but my groom had the whole story from the grand-daughter of the old woman who was run over.”
“Run over!” exclaimed Lady Augusta; “was the poor woman run over?—was she hurt?”
“Hurt! yes, she was hurt, I fancy,” said Lord George. “I never heard of any body’s being run over without being hurt. The girl has a petition that will come up to us just now, I suppose. I saw her in the back yard as I came in.”
“Oh! let us see the poor child,” said Lady Augusta: “do let us have her called to this window.” The window opened down to the ground, and, as soon as the little girl appeared with the petition in her hand, Lady Augusta threw open the sash, and received it from her timid hand with a smile, which to Mr. Mountague seemed expressive of sweet and graceful benevolence. Lady Augusta read the petition with much feeling, and her lover thought her voice never before sounded so melodious. She wrote her name eagerly at the head of a subscription. The money she gave was rather more than the occasion required; but, thought Mr. Mountague,
“If the generous spirit flow
Beyond where prudence fears to go
Those errors are of nobler kind,
Than virtues of a narrow mind{2}.”
{Footnote 2: Soame Jenyns.}
By a series of petty artifices Lady Augusta contrived to make herself appear most engaging and amiable to this artless young man: but the moment of success was to her the moment of danger. She was little aware, that when a man of sense began to think seriously of her as a wife, he would require very different qualities from those which please in public assemblies. Her ladyship fell into a mistake not uncommon in her sex; she thought that “Love blinds when once he wounds the swain{3}.” Coquettes have sometimes penetration sufficient to see what will please their different admirers: but even those who have that versatility of manners, which can be all things to all men, forget that it is possible to support an assumed character only for a time; the moment the immediate motive for dissimulation diminishes, the power of habit acts, and the real disposition and manners appear.
{Footnote 3: Collius’s Eclogues.}
When Lady Augusta thought herself sure of her captive, and consequently when the power of habit was beginning to act with all its wonted force, she was walking out with him in a shrubbery near the house, and mademoiselle, with Mr. Dashwood, who generally was the gallant partner of her walks, accompanied them. Mademoiselle stopped to gather some fine carnations; near the carnations was a rose-tree. Mr. Mountague, as three of those roses, one of them in full blow, one half blown, and another a pretty bud, caught his eye, recollected a passage in Berkeley’s romance of Gaudentio di Lucca. “Did you ever happen to meet with Gaudentio di Lucca? do you recollect the story of Berilla, Lady Augusta?” said he.
“No; I have never heard of Berilla: what is the story?” said she.
“I wish I had the book,” said Mr. Mountague; “I cannot do it justice, but I will borrow it for you from Miss Helen Temple. I lent it to her some time ago; I dare say she has finished reading it.”
At these words, Lady Augusta’s desire to have Gaudentio di Lucca suddenly increased; and she expressed vast curiosity to know the story of Berilla. “And pray what put you in mind of this book just now?” said she.
“These roses. In Berkeley’s Utopia, which he calls Mezzorania—(every philosopher, you know, Mr. Dashwood, must have a Utopia, under whatever name he pleases to call it)—in Mezzorania, Lady Augusta, gentlemen did not, as amongst us, make declarations of love by artificial words, but by natural flowers{4}. The lover in the beginning of his attachment declared it to his mistress by the offer of an opening bud; if she felt favourably inclined towards him, she accepted and wore the bud. When time had increased his affection—for in Mezzorania it is supposed that time increases affection for those that deserve it—the lover presented a half-blown flower; and, after this also was graciously accepted, he came, we may suppose not very long afterwards, with a full-blown flower, the emblem of mature affection. The ladies who accepted these full-blown flowers, and wore them, were looked upon amongst the simple Mezzoranians as engaged for life; nor did the gentlemen, when they offered their flowers, make one single protestation or vow of eternal love, yet they were believed, and deserved, it is said, to be believed.”
{Footnote 4: Gaudentio di Lucca, p. 202.}
“Qu’est ce que c’est? Qu’est ce que c’est?” repeated mademoiselle several times to Dashwood, whilst Mr. Mountague was speaking: she did not understand English sufficiently to comprehend him, and Dashwood was obliged to make the thing intelligible to her in French. Whilst he was occupied with her, Mr. Mountague gathered three roses, a bud, a half-blown and a full-blown rose, and playfully presented them to Lady Augusta for her choice.—“I’m dying to see this Gaudentio di Lucca; you’ll get the book for me to-morrow from Miss Helen Temple, will you?” said Lady Augusta, as she with a coquettish smile took the rose-bud, and put it into her bosom.
“Bon!” cried mademoiselle, stooping to pick up the full-blown rose, which Mr. Mountague threw away carelessly. “Bon! but it is great pity dis should be thrown away.”
“It is not thrown away upon Mlle. Panache!” said Dashwood.
“Dat maybe,” said mademoiselle; “but I observe, wid all your fine compliment, you let me stoop to pick it up for myself—á l’Anglaise!”
“A la Française, then,” said Dashwood, laughing, “permit me to put it into your nosegay.”
“Dat is more dan you deserve,” replied mademoiselle.—“Eh! non, non. I can accommodate it, I tell you, to my own taste best.” She settled and resettled the flower: but suddenly she stopped, uttered a piercing shriek, plucked the full-blown rose from her bosom, and threw it upon the ground with a theatrical look of horror. A black earwig now appeared creeping out of the rose; it was running away, but mademoiselle pursued, set her foot upon it, and crushed it to death. “Oh! I hope to Heaven, Mr. Mountague, there are none of these vile creatures in the bud you’ve given me!” exclaimed Lady Augusta. She looked at her bud as she spoke, and espied upon one of the leaves a small green caterpillar: with a look scarcely less theatrical than mademoiselle’s, she tore off the leaf and flung it from her; then, from habitual imitation of her governess, she set her foot upon the harmless caterpillar, and crushed it in a moment.