“Very unfashionable books, Mr. Vivian,” said Miss Strictland, bridling and smiling as in scorn.
“Very unfashionable books!” repeated Lady Glistonbury, with the same inflection of voice, and the same bridling and smiling. “Very different,” continued her ladyship, “very different from what you have been accustomed to see on some ladies’ tables, no doubt, Mr. Vivian! Without mentioning names, or alluding to transactions that ought to be buried in eternal oblivion, and that are so very distressing to your friends here to think of, sir, give me leave to ask, Mr. Vivian, whether it be true what I have heard, that the prosecution, and every thing relative to it, is entirely given up?”
“Entirely, madam.”
“Then,” said Lady Glistonbury, glancing her eye at Miss Strictland, “we may welcome Mr. Vivian with safe consciences to Glistonbury; and since the affair will never become public, and since Lady Sarah knows none of the improper particulars; and since she may, and, from her education, naturally will, class all such things under the head of impossibilities and false reports, of which people, in our rank of life especially, are subject every hour to hear so many; there cannot, as I am persuaded you will agree with me in thinking, Miss Strictland, be any impropriety in our and Lady Sarah’s receiving Mr. Vivian again on the same footing as formerly.”
Miss Strictland bowed her formal assent: Vivian bowed, because he saw that a bow was expected from him; and then he pondered on what might be meant by the words, on the same footing as formerly; and he had just framed a clause explanatory and restrictive of the same, when he was interrupted by the sound of laughter, and of numerous, loud, and mingled voices, coming along the gallery that led to the drawing-room. As if these were signals for her departure, and as if she dreaded the intrusion and contamination of the revel rout, Lady Glistonbury arose, looked at her watch, pronounced her belief that it was full time for her to go to dress, and retired through a Venetian door, followed by Miss Strictland, repeating the same belief, and bearing her ladyship’s tapestry work: her steps quickened as the door at the opposite end of the room opened; and, curtsying (an unnecessary apology to Mr. Vivian) as she passed, she left him to himself. And now,
“He sees a train profusely gay,
Come pranckling o’er the place.”
Some were dressed for comic, some for tragic characters; but all seemed equally gay, and talked equally fast. There had been a dressed rehearsal of “The Fair Penitent,” and of “The Romp;” and all the spectators and all the actors were giving and receiving exuberant compliments. Vivian knew many of the party,—some of them bel-esprits, some fashionable amateurs; all pretenders to notoriety, either as judges or performers. In the midst of this motley group, there was one figure who stood receiving and expecting universal homage: she was dressed as “The Fair Penitent;” but her affected vivacity of gesture and countenance was in striking contrast to her tragic attire; and Vivian could hardly forbear smiling at the minauderies with which she listened and talked to the gentlemen round her; now languishing, now coquetting; rolling her eyes, and throwing herself into a succession of studied attitudes, dealing repartees to this side and to that; and, in short, making the greatest possible exhibition both of her person and her mind.
“Don’t you know her? Did you never see her before?—No! you’ve been out of England; but you’ve heard of her, certainly?—Rosamunda,”—whispered Lord Glistonbury to Vivian.
“And who is Rosamunda?” said Vivian; “an actress.”
“Actress!—Hush!—Bless you! no—but the famous poetess. Is it possible that you hav’n’t read the poems of Rosamunda?—They were in every body’s hands a few months ago; but you were abroad—better engaged, or as well, hey? But, as I was going to tell you, that’s the reason she’s called The Rosamunda—I gave her the name, for I patronized her from the first. Her real name is Bateman; and Lady Glistonbury and her set call her Miss Bateman still, but nobody else. She’s an amazing clever woman, I assure you—more genius than any of ‘em since the time of Rousseau!—Devil of a salary!—and devil of a battle I had to fight with some of my friends before I could fix her here; but I was determined I would follow my own ideas in Julia’s education. Lady Glistonbury had her way and her routine with Lady Sarah; and it’s all very well, vastly well—