“Then why do you go at all, my dear?” said Ellen; “you speak as if there were some moral necessity for your visit.”
“Moral necessity! oh, no,” said Almeria, laughing; “but I really think there is a polite necessity, if you will allow me the expression. Would it not be rude for all of us to refuse, when Lady Stock has made this music party, as she says, entirely on my account—on our account, I mean? for you see she mentions your fondness for music; and if she had not written so remarkably civilly to you, I assure you I would neither go myself, nor think of pressing you to go.”
This oratory had no effect upon Ellen: our heroine went alone to the music meeting. The old coach returned to Elmour Grove at night, empty—the servant brought “Lady Stock’s compliments, and she would send her carriage home with Miss Turnbull early the next morning.” After waiting above an hour and a half beyond their usual time, the family were sitting down to dinner the next day, when Miss Turnbull, in Lady Stock’s fine carriage, drove up the avenue—Frederick handed her out of the carriage with more ceremony and less affection than he had ever shown before. Old Mr. Elmour’s manner was also more distant, and Ellen’s colder. Almeria attempted to apologize, but could not get through her speech:—she then tried to laugh at her own awkwardness; but her laugh not being seconded, she sat down to dinner in silence, colouring prodigiously, and totally abashed. Good old Mr. Elmour was the first to relent, and to endeavour, by resuming his usual kind familiarity, to relieve her painful confusion. Ellen’s coolness was also dissipated when Miss Turnbull took her aside after dinner, and with tears in her eyes declared, “she was sorry she had not had sufficient strength of mind to resist Lady Stock’s importunities to stay all night;—that as to the carriage, it was sent back without her knowledge; and that this morning, though she had three or four times expressed her fears that she should keep her friends at Elmour Grove waiting for dinner, yet Lady Stock would not understand her hints;” and she declared, “she got away the very instant her ladyship’s carriage came to the door.” By Ellen’s kind interposition, Frederick, whose pride had been most ready to take the alarm at the least appearance of slight to his father and sister, was pacified—he laid aside his ceremony to Miss Turnbull; called her “Almeria,” as he used to do—and all was well again. With difficulty and blushes, Almeria came out with an after-confession, that she had been so silly as to make half a promise to Lady Stock, of going to her ball, and of spending a few days with her at York, before she left the country.
“But this promise was only conditional,” said she: “if you or your father would take it the least ill or unkindly of me, I assure you I will not go—I would rather offend all the Lady Stocks in the world than you, my dearest Ellen, or your father, to whom I am so much obliged.”
“Do not talk of obligations,” interrupted Ellen; “amongst friends there can be no obligations. I will answer for it that my father will not be offended at your going to this ball; and I assure you I shall not take it unkindly. If you would not think me very proud, I should tell you that I wish for our sakes, as well as your own, that you should see as much of this Lady Stock, and as many Lady Stocks, as possible; for I am convinced that, upon intimate acquaintance, we must rise in your opinion.”
Almeria protested that she had never for an instant thought of comparing Ellen with Lady Stock. “A friend, a bosom friend, with an acquaintance—an acquaintance of yesterday!—I never thought of making such a comparison.”
“That is the very thing of which I complain,” said Ellen, smiling: “I beg you will make the comparison, my dear Almeria; and the more opportunities you have of forming your judgment, the better.”
Notwithstanding that there was something rather humiliating to Miss Turnbull in the dignified composure with which Ellen now, for the first time in her life, implied her own superiority, Almeria secretly rejoiced that it was at her friend’s own request that the visits to her fine acquaintance were repeated. At Lady Stock’s ball Miss Turnbull was much distinguished, as it is called—Sir Thomas’s eldest son was her partner; and though he was not remarkably agreeable, yet his attentions were flattering to her vanity, because the rival belles of York vied for his homage. The delight of being taken notice of in public was new to Almeria, and it quite intoxicated her brain. Six hours’ sleep afterwards were not sufficient to sober her completely; as her friends at Elmour Grove perceived the next morning—she neither talked, looked, nor moved like herself, though she was perfectly unconscious that in this delirium of vanity and affectation she was an object of pity and disgust to the man she loved.
Ellen had sufficient good-nature and candour to make allowance for foibles in others from which her own character was totally free; she was clear-sighted to the merits, but not blind to the faults, of her friends; and she resolved to wait patiently till Almeria should return to herself. Miss Turnbull, in compliance with her friend’s advice, took as many opportunities as possible of being with Lady Stock. Her ladyship’s company was by no means agreeable to Almeria’s natural taste; for her ladyship had neither sense nor knowledge, and her conversation consisted merely of common-place phrases, or the second-hand affectation of fashionable nonsense: yet, though Miss Turnbull felt no actual pleasure in her company, she was vain of being of her parties, and even condescended to repeat some of her sayings, in which there was neither sense nor wit. From having lived much in the London world, her ladyship was acquainted with a prodigious number of names of persons of consequence and quality; and by these our heroine’s ears were charmed. Her ladyship’s dress was also an object of admiration and imitation, and the York ladies begged patterns of every thing she wore. Almeria consequently thought that no other clothes could be worn with propriety; and she was utterly ashamed of her past self for having lived so long in ignorance, and for having had so bad a taste, as ever to have thought Ellen Elmour a model for imitation.
“Miss Elmour,” her ladyship said, “was a very sensible young woman, no doubt; but she could hardly be considered as a model of fashion.”