Lady Eltondale returned their salutations with a sweeping reverence, between a bow and a curtsy, accompanied by one of her most fascinating smiles; and walking deliberately to the head of the room, "I am afraid, my dear Mrs. Galton, we have discomposed you;—we have arrived at an unseasonable moment," said her Ladyship in a voice of dulcet sweetness; though this demi-apology was accompanied by a look round the room, which plainly indicated that the fair speaker felt assured her arrival would at any time have discomposed such a company. "Well, Sir Henry," bellowed out Lord Eltondale, "how goes on the farm? I shall taste your beef admirably—I'm confoundedly hungry." "Hungry!—Beef—Good Lord!—Bless my heart, haven't dined yet? Now I should never have thought of that! Why, Selina! Mrs. Galton! Selina! do order something to be got ready directly. Bless my heart—not dined! why it's past seven o'clock! James! John! I say, Wilson!" "Pray, my dear brother," said the Viscountess, seating herself, "don't trouble yourself; a pâttié, a Maintenon, anything will do for us." "Aye, aye, Sir Henry, give us a beef steak or a mutton chop; any thing will do for us, if there is but enough." Lady Eltondale's fragile form underwent that species of delicate convulsion, between a shudder of horror and a shrug of contempt, which was her usual commentary on her lord's speeches; and very calmly untying her bonnet, she threw it on a chair at some distance, and discovered a little French cap, from beneath which a glossy ringlet of jet black hair had strayed not quite unbidden. She then no less leisurely proceeded to slip from under her silken coat, of which young Webberly, with officious velocity, flew to relieve her, though she still retained as many shawls as she could well dispose of in attitudinal drapery, without regarding the too apparent contrast they formed to the transparent summer clothing, which shaded, but scarcely hid her once perfect form. Mrs. Sullivan's impatience to be recognized would not suffer her to wait till the tedious ceremony of disrobing was finished; but finding her curtsies, and her nods, and her smiles, and her flutterings, had not yet procured her the notice she was so ambitious to obtain, she gave an audible preluding "hem!" and then addressed Lady Eltondale with "'Pon honour, my lady, I'm delighted to counter your ladyship. Your ladyship looks wastly vell. How is that 'ere pretty cretur, your Ladyship's monkey?" Lady Eltondale turning her head quickly round at the first sound of the sharp discordant voice that now assailed her ear, saw something so irresistibly attractive in the vessel of clay from which it proceeded, that she found it impossible immediately to withdraw her eyes, and, taking up her glass, remained in total silence for some moments, examining the grotesque figure opposite to her, displayed as it was to particular advantage in the operation of opening and shutting a brilliant scarlet fan with accelerated motion. "Forgive me, my dear madam—I am quite ashamed; but really your name has escaped my recollection:—your person I should think impossible to forget." A polite inclination of an admirably turned head and neck concealed the sarcasm of this equivocal compliment. "To be sure, my lady," continued the gratified Mrs. Sullivan, "ve town ladies can't get our wisiting lists off book like primers, he! he! he!—Sulliwan, my lady, Sulliwan's my name, and them there two girls are my daughters, and that there——" "Indeed, Mrs. Silly-one, you do me much honour," interrupted her Ladyship. "Selina, my love, I want to talk to you;—how goes on music?" "I think, Lady Eltondale," said Miss Cecilia Webberly, with assumed nonchalance, "the last time you and I were together was at the Lord Mayor's ball—a sweet girl that Lucy Nathin is!" "Brother, you must let La Fayette dress this dear girl's hair to-morrow; these ringlets will be superbe done à la corbeille." "Yes, my Lady, I quite agree with you, my Lady. All Miss Seymour vants is a little winishing and warnishing, as we hearties say. Her bodies ought to be cut down, my Lady; and her petticoats cut up, my Lady, and she would be quite another guess figure, my Lady. Six weeks in town would quite halter her hair and her mane; and as for music, Pinsheette's the man to improve her in vice." "Pucit-ta-a-a, mother!" screamed Cecilia, "can you ever learn that man's name?"
A most opportune summons to the "beef-steak" relieved Lady Eltondale from the discussion, which was on the point of commencing between mother and daughter. She rose with an air of dignity, that immediately silenced both combatants; and, while she leaned on Sir Henry's offered arm, she drew Selina's through her own, and, turning to Mrs. Galton, said with a bewitching smile, "You must spare this Hebe to be my cup-bearer. I almost envy you having monopolized her so long, notwithstanding all she has gained by it." Mordaunt, who had hitherto stood aloof, now advanced to open the door for them, and smiled significantly to Selina as they passed; while Webberly, who had just sense enough to perceive the distance of Lady Eltondale's manner, called loudly for his mother's carriage. The rest of the party, who had hitherto remained in dumb astonishment, gladly took the hint, and began the tedious ceremony of curtsying, bidding good night, and packing up; leaving Mrs. Galton at liberty to do the honours of the second dinner table, which lasted till nearly the hour when the good Baronet usually retired to rest.
CHAPTER VI.
And all your wit—your most distinguished art,
But makes us grieve you want an honest heart!
Brown.
Lady Eltondale was arrived at the meridian of life, and no longer boasted the charms of youth, "Elle ne fut pas plus jolie; mais elle fut toujours belle:" and perhaps the finished polish of her manners, and matured elegance of her person, were now scarcely less attractive than the loveliness of her earlier days had been: for beautiful she once was;
"Grace was in all her steps—Heav'n in her eye,
In all her gestures dignity:"
and, if "love" could have been added, she would have been, almost, faultless.—But a cold, selfish disposition blasted the fair promise; it was, "a frost, a chilling frost," that withered every bud of virtue! And yet she was not absolutely wicked; she could not be accused of having a bad heart; it might rather be said she had no heart at all.—And with every other requisite to form perfection in a female character, this one defect neutralized all the bounteous gifts of nature—her very talents, like those of Prometheus, were perverted, and preyed on her own soul; whilst the aching void, left by the total absence of all the nameless charities of life, she had vainly endeavoured to fill up by a restless, endless passion for scheming, either for herself or others.—She would, perhaps, have shuddered at the thought of designedly laying a plan to undermine the happiness of another; yet such were the sophistical powers of her mind, that she seldom failed in sincerely persuading herself, that whatever plan she proposed to execute, was, in reality, the most desirable that could be adopted,—and, with this conviction, she had scarcely ever been known to relinquish a project she had once formed, and seldom failed, either by art or perseverance, to obtain her end.