The arrival of a pretty heiress increased very much the flow of bile in the young ladies, and in their mammas, who did not bring them to Cheltenham merely to drink the waters. The gentlemen, moreover, did not admire being so totally eclipsed by Mr Rainscourt, who rendered insignificant what, previous to his appearance, had been considered “to be quite the thing.” The ladies would talk of nothing but Mr Rainscourt and his equipage—and such a handsome man, too. But, on the whole, the females were the most annoyed, as there threatened to be a stagnation in the market, until this said heiress was disposed of: Gentlemen who had been attentive more than a week, who had been asked twice to dinner, and who had been considered to have nibbled a sufficient time to ensure their eventually taking the bait, had darted in full liberty in the direction of the great heiress. Young ladies who were acknowledged to have the most attractions, pecuniary or personal, who simpered and smiled to twenty young philanderers, as they took their morning glass, now poured down their lukewarm solution in indignant solitude, if Mrs Rainscourt and her daughter made their appearance on the promenade. Real cases of bile became common; and the fair sex, in despair, although they did not, as they were evidently requested by the conduct of the gentlemen, “to a nunnery go,” to preserve their complexions, were necessitated to repair to the pump.
“Don’t you think that Miss Rainscourt’s nose is rather too straight?” asked a young lady, with one on her own face that had a strong tendency towards the pug.
“Indeed, I do not,” replied a light-hearted Irish girl, “although she has put ours out of joint, as they call it. I only wish I’d her face or her fortune—either the one or the other—and I wouldn’t be coming to Cheltenham after a husband—the gentlemen should trot over to Ireland.”
“How very odd that Mr and Mrs Rainscourt should not live together—such good friends as they seem to be.”
“Oh, I know the reason of that; I was told it yesterday by Lady Wagtail. It was a runaway match, and they happened to be related within the canonical law; they are both Roman Catholics; and the Pope found it out, and ordered them to be separated, upon pain of excommunication.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, and Mr Rainscourt is waiting for a licence from the conclave—a dispensation they call it. They say it is expected from Rome next post, and then they can be united again immediately.”
“What beautiful horses Mr Rainscourt drives!”
“Yes, that curricle, with the greys and the outriders, is quite superb. He always drives through the turnpike, I observe.”
“To be sure he does. Why, they say that he has 40,000 pounds a year.”