It was not, however, the step and air of real dignity of fashion, but rather the mincing minauderie of des petites maîtresses. Whatever was done or spoken (when for a moment some general observation was hazarded), appeared as if performed by rule, and under apprehension of drawing down ridicule, which at once went to destroy all natural grace of speech or demeanour. This sentiment attached more particularly to the younger and newer noviciates, who felt that an unguarded expression, or a movement at variance with the prescribed forms of the circle, would render them the objects of the malicious remarks and sneers of the more experienced—an uneasy restraint, therefore, was often the consequence; and had it not been, that to form part of so chosen a society, and under Lady Tilney's roof, was in itself an indescribable satisfaction—some who were there might have been suspected of suffering considerable ennui, and of being ready to admit, by the suppressed and ill-concealed yawn, that although the honour of exclusiveness was great, the pleasure was certainly small.
Not so, however, with the more initiated—these appeared by habit to take the part at once most to their tastes; to select the companion most agreeable to them; to remain under the eye of observation, or retire from it, as they chose, with indifference;—for it was not only in what was done or said, but in the manner, also, that the distinguishing characteristics of this coterie were to be detected. All things were lawful—but then under outward forms (not however of propriety always, or of morality), but of convention; and whoever attained fulfilment of these, had the privilege, the indulgentia plenaria, as proposed by Lord Rainham, to sin with impunity.
When it was said, therefore, that an assembly composed as the present differed not in its appearance from others passing under the same generic name, it was premised to be only under the impression of a first view;—a more intimate acquaintance with many of its laws and practices, so opposed to received customs in the world, could not in the end fail to astonish! And first the observer (the moral observer is meant) would have been struck by the discovery, that the young and beautiful in this magic circle were all married women, and that the person who individually (for the number was rarely more than singular) paid his assiduous court, leant over the chair, and whispered into the ear of the fair whom he selected or was selected by, was no aspirant to her hand in marriage, no relative—neither was he her husband—but a member of the privileged society, which was alone sufficient.
His astonishment would have been yet stronger on discovering that for a season, till mutual convenience, or disagreement dissolved their familiar acquaintance, each party, similarly paired, invariably met, conversed, and retired at the same time, when the circle broke up, or when they quitted it, apparently on the same footing of intimacy which the most holy ties could have sanctioned; while those whom such a tie actually bound to them were themselves pursuing a similar career.
Had the conversation which for the most part occupied this portion of the société choisie been reported, or reached the ear, it is possible a considerate mind might have thought, notwithstanding the singularity of a system which excluded the unmarried from scenes of amusement, that it was well they formed no portion of it; but still, in an escape from its early influence, enjoyed the opportunity of attaining to a degree of moral principle, and feminine decorum, which must otherwise have been swept away in the general license.
This, however, can unfortunately be said only of the one sex—the unmarried in the other, provided their attainments were of the kind to authorize admission, were not on the excluded list; and the young, well-principled, and ingenuous perhaps at their outset, might, in the examples constantly before them, have found incentive to conduct, which at a future day they would discover to have been the great bane and poison of their existence.—Of these the person who entered Lady Tilney's apartments when the coterie had nearly assembled, and who was new to most of them, offered an instance, for whom the liveliest fears with justice might have been entertained.
Young, strikingly handsome, talented, of high rank, of widely extended interest, and possessing all the means of gratifying every wish, to what dangers was not Lord Albert D'Esterre exposed, in such a scene as has been described, and on which he was from that evening to play a part! He seemed, with the impulse of natural politeness, to look around for Lady Tilney, as he entered, as if he would pay his first homage to her, whose self and not her house he visited; in a manner directly the reverse of that false refinement of modern ton, which seeks a display of its savoir vivre, in a pointed indifference to all the received forms of society.
Before he had reached the second room he was met by Lady Tilney, with a greater degree of courtesy and empressement than was usual in her receptions; and his address was listened to with more complacency and patience than generally marked her manner towards any one.—"Who is he?" passed in whispers round the circle amongst those to whom he was unknown.—"Did you hear his name announced?"—"No! I have seen him somewhere before, I think—is it not Lord Albert D'Esterre, Lord ——'s son?"
"Ah true, it is! but what an extraordinary lengthy speech he is making—surely Lady Tilney must be ready to expire under its duration."—"Not under its dulness, I am certain," said Lord Glenmore, as he caught Lady Baskerville's remark to Lord Rainham, "for, D'Esterre is too clever ever to say a dull thing." "Or ever do a wise one, perhaps," added Lord Rainham in his most caustic manner.