She fell asleep full of these imaginations—dreamed of Frederick and Elmour Grove—but this was only a dream. The next day—and the next—and the next—passed without her seeing or hearing any thing of Frederick; and the fourth day, as she rode by the house where the Elmours had lodged, she saw put up in the parlour window an advertisement of “Lodgings to be let.” She was now convinced that Frederick had left Cheltenham—left it without thinking of her or of Lord Bradstone. The young Lady Bradstones observed that she scarcely spoke a word during the remainder of her morning’s ride. At night she was attacked with a feverish complaint: the image of the beautiful person whom she had seen in the coach that passed while she was walking with Frederick, was now continually before her eyes. She had made all the inquiries she could, to find out who that young lady might be; but this point could not be ascertained, because, though she described the lady accurately, she was not equally exact about the description of the carriage. The arms and livery had totally escaped her observation. The different conjectures that had been made by the various people to whom she had applied, and the voices in which their answers were given, ran in her head all this feverish night.
“Perhaps it was Lady Susanna Quin—very likely it was Lady Mary Lowther—very possibly Miss Grant; you know she goes about with old Mrs. Grant in a yellow coach—but there are so many yellow coaches—the arms or the livery would settle the point at once.” These words, the arms and the livery would settle the point at once, she repeated to herself perpetually, though without annexing any ideas to the words. In short, she was very feverish all night; and in the morning, though she endeavoured to rise, she was obliged to lie down again. She was confined to her bed for about a week: Lady Bradstone sent for the best physicians; and the young ladies, in the intervals of dressing and going out, whenever they could remember it, came into Miss Turnbull’s room to “hope she found herself better.” It was obvious to her that no one person in the house cared a straw about her, and she was oppressed with the sense of being an encumbrance to the whole family. Whilst she was alone she formed many projects for her future life, which she resolved to execute as soon as she should recover. She determined immediately to go down to her own house in the country, and to write to Ellen a recantation of all her fine lady errors. She composed, whilst she lay on her feverish pillow, twenty letters to her former friend, each of them more eloquent and magnanimous than the other: but in proportion as her fever left her, the activity of her imagination abated, and with it her eloquence and magnanimity. Her mind, naturally weak, and now enfeebled by disease, became quite passive, and received and yielded to the impressions made by external circumstances. New trains of ideas, perfectly different from those which had occupied her mind during her fever, and in the days preceding her illness, were excited during her convalescence. She lay listening to, or rather hearing, the conversation of the young Lady Bradstones. They used to come into her room at night, and stay for some time whilst they had their hair curled, and talked over the events of the day—whom they had met—what dresses they had worn—what matches were on the tapis, &c. They happened one night to amuse themselves with reading an old newspaper, in which they came to an account of a splendid masquerade, which had been given the preceding winter in London by a rich heiress.
“Lord! what charming entertainments Miss Turnbull might give if she pleased. Why, do you know, she is richer than this woman,” whispered Lady Bab; “and she is of age now, you know. If I were she, I’m sure I’d have a house of my own, and the finest I could get in London. Now such a house as my aunt Pierrepoint’s—and servants—and carriages—and I would make myself of some consequence.”
This speech was not lost upon our heroine; and the whisper in which it was spoken increased its effect. The next day, as Lady Bab was sitting at the foot of Almeria’s bed, she asked for a description of “my aunt Pierrepoint’s house.” It was given to her con amore, and a character of “my aunt Pierrepoint” was added gratis. “She is the most charming amiable woman in the world—quite a different sort of person from mamma. She has lived all her life about court, and she is connected with all the great people, and a prodigious favourite at court—and she is of such consequence!—You cannot imagine of what consequence she is!”
Lady Gabriella then continued the conversation, by telling Miss Turnbull a great secret, that her aunt Pierrepoint and her mother were not on the best terms in the world: “for mamma’s so violent, you know, about politics, and quite on a contrary side to my aunt. Mamma never goes to court; and, between you and me, they say she would not be received. Now that is a shocking thing for us; but the most provoking part of the business is, that mamma won’t let my aunt Pierrepoint present us. Why, when she cannot or will not go to the drawing-room herself, what could be more proper, you know, than to let us be presented by Lady Pierrepoint?—Lady Pierrepoint, you know, who is such a prodigious favourite, and knows every thing in the world that’s proper at court, and every where: it really is monstrous of mamma! Now if you were in our places, should not you be quite provoked? By-the-bye, you never were presented at court yourself, were you?”
“Never,” said Almeria, with a sudden feeling of mortification.
“No, you could not—of course you could not, living with mamma as you do; for I am sure she would quarrel with an angel for just only talking of going to court. Lord! if I was as rich as you, what beautiful birthday dresses I would have!”
These and similar conversations wrought powerfully upon the weak mind of our poor heroine. She rose from her bed after her illness wondering what had become of her passion for Frederick Elmour: certainly she was now able to console herself for his loss, by the hopes of being presented at court, and of being dressed with uncommon splendour. She was surprised at this change in her own mind; but she justified it to herself by the reflection, that it would show an unbecoming want of spirit to retain any remains of regard for one who had treated her with so much coldness and indifference, and who in all probability was attached to another woman. Pride and resentment succeeded to tenderness; and she resolved to show Frederick and Ellen that she could be happy her own way. It is remarkable that her friendship for the sister always increased or decreased with her love for her brother. Ambition, as it has often been observed, is a passion that frequently succeeds to love, though love seldom follows ambition. Almeria, who had now recovered her strength, was one morning sitting in her own room, meditating arrangements for the next winter’s campaign, when she was roused by the voices of Lady Bab and Lady Kitty at her room door.
“Miss Turnbull! Miss Turnbull! come! come!—Here’s the king and queen and all the royal family, and my aunt Pierrepoint—come quick to our dressing-room windows, or they will be out of sight.”
The fair hoydens seized her between them, and dragged her away.