Faint was the suppose in Lady Castlefort’s imagination. Not so the hope which rose in Lady Katrine’s mind the moment she saw him here. “How fortunate!” Her ladyship had now come to that no particular age, when a remarkable metaphysical phenomenon occurs; on one particular subject hope increases as all probability of success decreases. This aberration of intellect is usually observed to be greatest in very clever women; while Mr. Churchill, the flattered object of her present hope, knew how to manage with great innocence and modesty, and draw her on to overt acts of what is called flirtation.
Rousseau says that a man is always awkward and miserable when placed between two women to whom he is making love. But Rousseau had never seen Mr. Churchill, and had but an imperfect idea of the dexterity, the ambiguity, that in our days can be successfully practised by an accomplished male coquette. Absolutely to blind female jealousy may be beyond his utmost skill; but it is easy, as every day’s practice shows, to keep female vanity pleasantly perplexed by ocular deception—to make her believe that what she really sees she does not see, and that what is unreal is reality: to make her, to the amusement of the spectators, continually stretch out her hand to snatch the visionary good that for ever eludes her grasp, or changes, on near approach, to grinning mockery.
This delightful game was now commenced with Lady Katrine, and if Helen could be brought to take a snatch, it would infinitely increase the interest and amusement of the lookers on. Of this, however, there seemed little chance; but the evil eye of envy was set upon her, and the demon of jealousy was longing to work her woe.
Lady Castlefort saw with scornful astonishment that Mr. Beauclerc’s eyes, sometimes when she was speaking, or when she was singing, would stray to that part of the room where Miss Stanley might be; and when she was speaking to him, he was wonderfully absent. Her ladyship rallied him, while Lady Katrine, looking on, cleared her throat in her horrid way, and longed for an opportunity to discomfit Helen, which supreme pleasure her ladyship promised herself upon the first convenient occasion,—convenient meaning when Lady Davenant was out of the room; for Lady Katrine, though urged by prompting jealousy, dared not attack her when under cover of that protection. From long habit, even her sarcastic nature stood in awe of a certain power of moral indignation, which had at times flashed upon her, and of which she had a sort of superstitious dread, as of an incomprehensible, incalculable power.
But temper will get the better of all prudence. Piqued by some little preference which Lady Cecilia had shown to Helen’s taste in the choice of the colour of a dress, an occasion offered of signalising her revenge, which could not be resisted. It was a question to be publicly decided, whether blue, green, or white should be adopted for the ladies’ uniform at an approaching fête. She was deputed to collect the votes. All the company were assembled; Lady Davenant, out of the circle, as it was a matter that concerned her not, was talking to the gentlemen apart.
Lady Katrine went round canvassing. “Blue, green, or white? say blue, pray.” But when she came to Helen, she made a full stop, asked no question—preferred no prayer, but after fixing attention by her pause, said, “I need not ask Miss Stanley’s vote or opinion, as I know my cousin’s, and with Miss Stanley it is always ‘I say ditto to Lady Cecilia;’ therefore, to save trouble, I always count two for Cecilia—one for herself and one for her double.”
“Right, Lady Katrine Hawksby,” cried a voice from afar, which made her start; “you are quite right to consider Helen Stanley as my daughter’s double, for my daughter loves and esteems her as her second self—her better self. In this sense Helen is Lady Cecilia’s double, but if you mean——”
“Bless me! I don’t know what I meant, I declare. I could not have conceived that Lady Davenant——Miss Stanley, I beg a thousand million of pardons.”
Helen, with anxious good-nature, pardoned before she was asked, and hastened to pass on to the business of the day, but Lady Davenant would not so let it pass; her eye still fixed she pursued the quailing enemy—“One word more. In justice to my daughter, I must say her love has not been won by flattery, as none knows better than the Lady Katrine Hawksby.”
The unkindest cut of all, and on the tenderest part. Lady Katrine could not stand it. Conscious and trembling, she broke through the circle, fled into the conservatory, and, closing the doors behind her, would not be followed by Helen, Cecilia, or any body.