“Oh! between him and the Count there is no comparison, to be sure; but I forgot to mention, that what your father builds upon is our poor old friend the general’s death—Clay here, in a postscript, you see, mentions the gout in his stomach—so I am afraid he is as good as gone, as your father says, and then The Lodge in Asia Minor is certainly a pretty place to sit down upon if one could do no better.”
“But, ma’am, the Count’s vast possessions and rank!”
“I grant you all that, my dear; but our present object is the play—Zara’s royal robes cannot be had for nothing, you know—you never listened to my infallible means of obtaining your wish: I think I can engage that the commissioner will not refuse us, if you will empower me to say to him, that by this time twelvemonth, if nothing better offers—mind my if—Petcalf shall be rewarded for his constancy.”
“If—Oh! dear me! But before this time twelvemonth the Count—”
“Or one of the Clays might offer, and in that case, my if brings you off safe with your father.”
“Well, then, mamma, upon condition that you will promise me, upon your word, you will lay a marked emphasis upon your if—I believe, for Zara’s sake, I must—”
“I knew you would behave at last like a sensible girl,” said Mrs. Falconer: “I’ll go and speak to your father directly.”
Mrs. Falconer thus fairly gained her point, by setting Georgiana’s passion for dress against her passion for Count Altenberg; and having, moreover, under false pretences, extorted from the young lady many promises to keep her temper prudently, and to be upon the best terms possible with her rival, the mother went away perfectly satisfied with her own address.
The father was brought to perform his part, not without difficulty—Carte blanche for Zara’s sentimental blue and bridal white robes was obtained, silver fringe and pearls inclusive: the triumphant Zara rang for the base confidante of her late distresses—Lydia Sharpe re-entered, with the four dresses upon sale; but she and her guineas, and the most honourable appraisers, all were treated with becoming scorn—and as Lydia obeyed her young lady’s orders to replace her clothes in her wardrobe, and never to think of them more, they suddenly rose in value in her estimation, and she repented that she had been quite so much of an extortioner. She knew the difference of her mistress’s tone when disappointed or successful, and guessed that supplies had been obtained by some means or other: “New dresses, I smell, are the order of the day,” said Lydia Sharpe to herself; “but I’ll engage she will want me presently to make them up: so I warrant I won’t come down off my high horse till I see why—Miss Georgiana Falconer, ma’am, I beg pardon—you are the mistress—I meant only to oblige and accommodate when called upon—but if I’m not wanted, I’m not wanted—and I hope ladies will find them that will be more abler and willinger to serve them.”
So saying, half flouncing, half pouting, she retired. Her young mistress, aware that Lydia’s talents and expeditious performance, as a mantua-maker and a milliner, were essential to the appearance of Zara, suppressed her own resentment, submitted to her maid’s insolence, and brought her into humour again that night, by a present of the famous white satin.