“That may possibly be true; but I suspect that in the world—in the middle of that life where we daily meet and form friendships—there is very little time or opportunity for any thing above a passing feeling of admiration, that seldom reaches esteem. The Honourable Miss Tollemache meets Captain Fitzherbert of the Guards. They are introduced and dance together—the lady is pretty—the Captain amusing—they have a large number of mutual acquaintances, whom they quiz and praise by turns, with sufficient agreement to be mutually pleased. They separate; and the Captain asks if the lady really have ‘twenty thousand pounds fortune.’ Match-making aunts and mothers arrange preliminaries; and the young people have leisure to fail in love after the most approved fashion: that is, they meet very often, and talk more together, than common acquaintances are wont to do; but their talk is of Grisi and Lablache, of the Duke’s fete at Chiswick, and Lord Donnington’s yacht excursion to Malta. If the gentleman have a confidence to evoke, it is, possibly, the state of his mind on the approaching ‘Derby.’ Now I would ask, How much of mutual esteem, or even knowledge, grows out of all this?”
“Pretty much the same amount as exists in a French marriage, where M. le Marquis having ‘fait ses farces,’ is fain to marry, being somewhat too deep in debt to continue what his years admonish him to abandon. Mademoiselle is brought from the convent, or the governess’s apartment, to sign the contract and accept her husband. There is enough in the very emancipation she obtains to be pleasurable, not to speak of a grand trousseau, diamonds, cashmeres, and the prettiest equipage in Paris.”
“Hence,” said I, “we seem agreed, that one must not choose a wife or husband à la mode Anglaise ni Française.
“I believe not,” said she, laughing; “for if marriages be made in heaven, they are about the strangest employment for angels I ever heard of.”
“It entirely depends on how you regard what are commonly called accidents and chances, as to the interpretation you give that saying. If you see, in those curious coincidences that are ever occurring in life, nothing more than hazard, you at once abandon all idea of governing human actions. If, on the other hand, you read them too implicitly, and accept them as indications for the future, you rush into fatalism. For my own part, I think less of the events themselves, than as they originate or evoke sentiments in two parties, who, though previously known to each, only discover on some sudden emergency a wonderful agreement in sentiment and feeling. In the ordinary detail of life they had gone on, each ignorant of the other’s opinions: so long as the wheels of life revolved freely and noiselessly, the journey had called for nothing of mutual interest; but some chance occurrence, some accidental rencontre occurs, and they at once perceive a most fortuitous similarity in taste or thinking. Like people who have suddenly discovered a long-persisted-in mistake, they hasten to repair the past by sudden confidences. Let me give an instance, even though it be almost too bold a one for my theory. A friend of mine, who had served some years with great distinction in the East, returned to England in company with a brother officer, a man of high family, knowing and known to every one of a certain standing in London. My friend, who, from a remote province, had no town acquaintances, was, however, speedily introduced by his friend, and, heralded by his reputation, was greatly noticed in society. He soon wearied of a round of dissipations, wherein the great, if not the only interest, lies in knowledge of the actors; and was one night stealing away from a large evening party, secretly resolving that it should be his last ball. He had, by dint of great labour and perseverance, reached the last salon, and already-caught glimpse of the stair beyond, when his progress was suddenly arrested by a very sweet but excited voice, saying—‘One moment, sir; may I beg you will release my scarf.’ He turned and beheld a very handsome girl, who was endeavouring to disengage from her shoulders a rich scarf of lace, one end of which was caught in the star he wore on his breast—a decoration from the Nizam. He immediately began to detach the delicate tissue from its dangerous situation. But his address was inferior to his zeal, so that he continually received admonitions as to greater care and caution, with mingled laments over the inevitable mischief that must follow. Something abashed by his own awkwardness, his nervousness made him worse, and he muttered to himself in German, thinking it was a safe tongue for soliloquy—‘Why will ladies wear such preposterous finery?—the spider’s web is not so fragile.’ To which at once the lady replied, in the same language,—‘If men are vain enough to carry a coat full of ‘crachats’ and orders, ladies ought, at least, to be careful how they pass them.’ He blushed at the tart rebuke, and in his eagerness he tore a little hoop or mesh of the scarf. ‘Oh, pray sir, permit me! It is real Brussels!’ and so saying, she at once began, with a skill very different from his, the work of disentanglement. My friend, however, did not desist, but gave what aid he could, their fingers more than once meeting. Meanwhile a running fire of pleasantry and smartness went on between them, when suddenly his brother officer came up, saying,—
“‘Oh! Lydia, here is my friend Collyton. I have been so anxious you should know him; and he leaves to-morrow.’
“‘I hope he will permit me to rescue my scarf first,’ said the lady, taking no heed of the introduction.
“‘I am so sorry—I really am in despair,’ said Collyton, as the lady, growing at last impatient, tore the frail web in order to get free.
“‘It was all your fault, sir, remember that—or rather that of your star, which I’m sure I wish the Sirdar, or the Nizam, had reserved for a more careful wearer.’
“‘I never deemed it would have done me such service,’ said Collyton, recovering courage; ‘without it, I should have passed on, and you would never have taken the trouble to notice me.’