When I
mentioned the three ladies, I said they were fashionable women; and it was all
the praise, as a faithful historian, I could bestow on them; the only thing in
which they were consistent. I forgot to mention that they were all of one
family, a mother, her daughter, and niece. The daughter was sent by her
physician, to avoid a northerly winter; the mother, her niece, and nephew,
accompanied her.
They were
people of rank; but unfortunately, though of an ancient family, the title had
descended to a very remote branch—a branch they took care to be intimate with; and servilely
copied the Countess's airs. Their minds were shackled with a set of notions
concerning propriety, the fitness of things for the world's eye, trammels which
always hamper weak people. What will the world say? was the first thing that
was thought of, when they intended doing any thing they had not done before. Or what would the Countess do on such an occasion?
And when this question was answered, the right or wrong was discovered without
the trouble of their having any idea of the matter in their own heads. This
same Countess was a fine planet, and the satellites observed a most harmonic
dance around her.
After this
account it is scarcely necessary to add, that their minds had received very
little cultivation. They were taught French, Italian, and Spanish; English was their vulgar tongue. And what did they learn? Hamlet
will tell you—words—words. But let me not forget that they squalled
Italian songs in the true gusto. Without having any seeds sown in their
understanding, or the affections of the heart set to work, they were brought
out of their nursery, or the place they were secluded in, to prevent their
faces being common; like blazing stars, to captivate Lords.
They were
pretty, and hurrying from one party of pleasure to another, occasioned the
disorder which required change of air. The mother, if we except her being near
twenty years older, was just the same creature; and these additional years only
served to make her more tenaciously adhere to her habits of folly, and decide
with stupid gravity, some trivial points of ceremony, as a matter
of the last importance; of which she was a competent judge, from having lived
in the fashionable world so long: that world to which the ignorant look up as
we do to the sun.
It appears
to me that every creature has some notion—or rather relish, of the sublime.
Riches, and the consequent state, are the sublime of weak minds:—These images
fill, nay, are too big for their narrow souls.
One
afternoon, which they had engaged to spend together, Ann
was so ill, that Mary was obliged to send an apology for not attending the
tea-table. The apology brought them on the carpet; and the mother, with a look
of solemn importance, turned to the sick man, whose name was Henry, and said;
"Though
people of the first fashion are frequently at places of this kind, intimate with they know not who; yet I do not choose that my
daughter, whose family is so respectable, should be intimate with any one she
would blush to know elsewhere. It is only on that account, for I never suffer
her to be with any one but in my company," added she, sitting more erect;
and a smile of self-complacency dressed her countenance.
"I have
enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one
who has the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune."
"Lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:" mamma went on; "She is a
romantic creature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of the
large fortune in ——shire, of which you may remember to have heard the Countess
speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so
much admired; but she is married."
She then
told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, who picked it out of
Mary's servant. "She is a foolish creature, and this friend that she pays
as much attention to as if she was a lady of quality, is a beggar."
"Well, how strange!" cried the girls.
"She
is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew. Henry sighed, and
strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and played the
air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praise it.
The music was
uncommonly melodious, "And came stealing on the senses like the sweet
south." The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat by her friend—she
listened without knowing that she did—and shed tears almost
without being conscious of it. Ann soon fell asleep, as she had taken an
opiate. Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine she had deceived
herself—Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many heavy hours; yet she was
displeased with herself for admitting this welcome guest.—And she worked up her
mind to such a degree of anxiety, that she determined, once more, to seek
medical aid.
No sooner
did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look, to enquire of the
ladies who she should send for. When she entered the room she could not articulate
her fears—it appeared like pronouncing Ann's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken words, and she
remained silent. The ladies wondered that a person of her sense should be so
little mistress of herself; and began to administer some
common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the will of Heaven,
and the like trite consolations, which Mary did not answer; but waving her
hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed, "I cannot live without
her!—I have no other friend; if I lose her, what a desart
will the world be to me." "No other friend," re-echoed they,
"have you not a husband?"
Mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and
red. A delicate sense of propriety prevented her replying; and recalled her
bewildered reason.—Assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more
composed manner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room. Henry's eyes
followed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strange behaviour.