We turn from the sunshine of Willow Cottage to the shady side of the narrow street in which Lady Selina and her nieces for years have made their abode. How have those years sped with the woman of the world?
They have sped in the constant pursuit of pleasure, grasping at shadows, seeking satisfying joys where such are never to be found; in straining to “keep up appearances,” efforts to dress as well, entertain as well as those whose fortunes greatly exceeded her own; in paying by the self-denial of a month for the ostentatious display of a night; in exchanging rounds of formal visits with acquaintance who would not shed a tear, or forego an hour’s mirth, were she to-morrow laid in her grave. Lady Selina feels her strength decaying, but by artificial aids she attempts to hide the change from others—by wilful delusion from herself. She would ignore sickness, ignore trial, ignore death! And yet, in hours of solitude and weakness, truth, however unwelcome, will sometimes force its way; and those whose all is contained within the hour-glass of Time are constrained to watch the sands ever flowing, to see below the accumulating heap of infirmities, troubles, and cares, and mark above the hollow, inverted cone of ever-lessening pleasures. How miserable, then, is the reflection, that no mortal hand can restore a single grain, and that, when the last runs out, nothing will remain but the grave, and the dark, awful future beyond it.
But Lady Selina spares no effort to banish such reflections. It is but recently that she has even mustered courage sufficient for the performance of the necessary duty of making her will, leaving her small property to her nephew, Vincent; perhaps as a salve to her conscience for utterly neglecting him during her lifetime. Lady Selina is less willing than she ever was before to fix her meditations on death or the grave. She will struggle on to the last, laden with the vanity which distracts, the prejudice which distorts, the malice which corrodes the mind. Her temper has become very irritable, for which her infirmities may offer some excuse; but her peevish nervousness serves to imbitter the lives of the two sisters who have chosen her dwelling as their own.
The haughty Arabella has suffered not less acutely, though more silently than her aunt, from the change in their outward circumstances; but she wraps herself up in selfishness and pride, and though she often finds her present life painful and mortifying, deems it more tolerable than one spent in a cottage, with Clemence Effingham for a companion.
The case is somewhat different with her sister. There have been times when, wearied with a round of amusements, longing for gentle sympathy and affection, wounded by the peevishness of her aunt, or the selfish indifference of Arabella, Louisa has felt almost disposed to accept reiterated invitations to Willow Cottage, and has half resolved to cast in her lot with those nearest and dearest to her heart. But she is like some fluttering insect, caught in the double web of her own habitual love of pleasure and the influence of worldly relatives. Lady Selina ever represents Cornwall as an English Siberia, a desolate wild, in which existence would be perfect stagnation. She paints the gloom which must surround the dwelling of a ruined, disappointed man, till Louisa actually regards her indulgent father with feelings approaching to fear. Arabella is indignant if her sister even alludes to the subject of any change in her arrangements; so, enchained by indolence, folly, and fear, Louisa quietly resigns herself to a position which is often painful as well as unnatural. Her father’s kindness permits her a choice; her choice is to remain where pleasure may be found. Her longing for happiness is unsatisfied still, but it is at the world’s broken cisterns that she seeks to quench the thirst of an immortal soul.
Lady Selina’s ambition is now concentrating itself on one object. Her nieces must form brilliant alliances—they must be united to men of fortune and rank, and in their homes she must find once more the luxury, grandeur, and importance which she once enjoyed in that of their father. The wish so long indulged, and scarcely concealed, appears now to be on the point of partial fulfilment. Sir Mordaunt Strange has offered his hand to Louisa; it has been, after some hesitation, accepted, and every letter to the cottage from Lady Selina is full of encomiums on the character, manner, and appearance of the “Intended,” and of felicitations on the happy prospects opening before the young bride elect.
Mr. Effingham and his son are to be present at the wedding. Clemence would fain accompany them to London, for her heart yearns over Louisa, and the very praise so lavishly bestowed upon Sir Mordaunt by Lady Selina excites misgivings in the step-mother’s breast. Prudential motives and other obstacles, however, prevent Clemence from accomplishing her wish.
We shall glance for a moment at Louisa, as she stands before a pier-glass in the drawing-room of her aunt, trying on her bridal veil and wreath of white orange-blossoms. A milliner is adjusting the spray which is to fall on the fair girl’s graceful neck.
“Stay for a moment,” says Lady Selina, walking towards the bride with a feeble step (for she is infirm, though she will not own it, and was more fit for her couch last night than for the gay assembly at which she appeared); “Sir Mordaunt’s beautiful diamond spray will make the coiffure complete,” and she draws from its case a sparkling ornament, which she places upon the brow of her niece. “Look, Arabella, could anything be more charming? The dear child is mise à peindre!”