“‘And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances and the public show.’”
Lady Castlefort took Miss Stanley aside, after the dance was over, to whisper to her so good-naturedly, how shockingly severe Katrine had been; faithfully repeating every word that her sister had said. “And so cruel, to talk of your bearing about the mockery of woe!—But, my sweet little lamb, do not let me distress you so.” Helen, withdrawing from the false caresses of Lady Castlefort, assured her that she should not be hurt by any thing Lady Katrine could say, as she so little understood her real feelings; and at the moment her spirit rose against the injustice, and felt as much superior to such petty malice as even Lady Davenant could have desired. She had resolved to continue in mourning for the longest period in which it is worn for a parent, because, in truth, her uncle had been a parent to her; but the morning after Lady Katrine’s cruel remarks, Cecilia begged that Helen would oblige her by laying aside black. “Let it be on my birthday.” Lady Cecilia’s birth-day was to be celebrated the ensuing week. “Well, for that day certainly I will,” Helen said; “but only for that day.” This would not satisfy Cecilia. Helen saw that Lady Katrine’s observations had made a serious impression, and, dreading to become the subject of daily observation, perhaps altercation, she yielded. The mourning was thrown aside. Then every thing she wore must be new. Lady Cecilia and Mademoiselle Felicie, her waiting-maid, insisted upon taking the matter into their own hands. Helen really intended only to let one dress for her friend’s birth-day be bespoken for her; but from one thing she was led on to another. Lady Cecilia’s taste in dress was exquisite. Her first general principle was admirable—“Whatever you buy, let it be the best of its kind, which is always the cheapest in the end.” Her second maxim was—“Never have anything but from such and such people, or from such and such places,” naming those who were at the moment accredited by fashion. “These, of course, make you pay high for the name of the thing; but that must be. The name is all,” said Lady Cecilia. “Does your hat, your bonnet, whatever it be, come from the reigning fashionable authority? then it is right, and you are quite right. You can put down all objections and objectors with the magic of a name. You need think no more about your dress; you have no trouble; while the poor creatures who go toiling and rummaging in cheap shops—what comes of it? but total exhaustion and disgrace! Yesterday, now, my dear Helen, recollect. When Lady Katrine, after dinner, asked little Miss Isdall where she bought that pretty hat, the poor girl was quite out of countenance. ‘Really she did not know; she only knew it was very cheap.’ You saw that nobody could endure the hat afterwards; so that, cheap as it might be, it was money to all intents and purposes absolutely thrown away, for it did not answer its purpose.”
Helen, laughing, observed, that if its purpose had been to look well, and to make the wearer look well, it had fully succeeded. “Sophistry, my dear Helen. The purpose was not to look well, but to have a distinguished air. Dress, and what we call fashion and taste altogether, you know, are mere matters of opinion, association of ideas, and so forth. When will you learn to reason, as mamma says? Do not make me despair of you.”
Thus, half in jest, half in earnest, with truth and falsehood, sense and nonsense, prettily blended together, Lady Cecilia prevailed in overpowering Helen’s better judgment, and obtained a hasty submission. In economy, as in morals, false principles are far more dangerous than any one single error. One false principle as to laying out money is worse than any bad bargain that can be made, because it leads to bad bargains innumerable. It was settled that all Helen wanted should be purchased, not only from those who sold the best goods, but from certain very expensive houses of fashionably high name in London. And the next point Lady Cecilia insisted upon was, that Helen’s dress should always be the same as her own. “You know it used to be so, my dear Helen, when we were children; let it be so now.”
“But there is such a difference now” said Helen; “and I cannot afford——”
“Difference! Oh! don’t talk of differences—let there be none ever between us. Not afford!—nonsense, my dear—the expense will be nothing. In these days you get the materials of dress absolutely for nothing—the fashion—the making-up is all, us Felicie and I, and everybody who knows anything of the matter, can tell you. Now all that sort of thing we can save you—here is my wedding paraphernalia all at your service—patterns ready cut—and here is Felicie, whose whole French soul is in the toilette—and there is your own little maid, who has hands, and head, and heart, all devoted to you—so leave it to us—leave it to us, my dear—take no thought what you shall put on—and you will put it on all the better.” Felicie was summoned. “Felicie, remember Miss Stanley’s dress is always to be the same as my own. It must be so, my dear. It will be the greatest pleasure to me,” and with her most persuasive caressing manner, she added, “My own dear Helen, if you love me, let it be so.”
This was an appeal which Helen could not resist. She thought that she could not refuse without vexing Cecilia; and, from a sort of sentimental belief that she was doing Cecilia “a real kindness,”—that it was what Cecilia called “a sisterly act,” she yielded to what she knew was unsuited to her circumstances—to what was quite contrary to her better judgment. It often so happens, that our friends doubly guard one obvious point of weakness, while another exists undiscovered by them, and unknown to ourselves. Lady Davenant had warned Helen against the dangers of indecision and coquetry with her lovers, but this danger of extravagance in dress she had not foreseen—and into how much expense this one weak compliance would lead her, Helen could not calculate. She had fancied that, at least, till she went to town, she should not want anything expensive—this was a great mistake. Formerly in England, as still in every other country but England, a marked difference was made in the style of dress in the country and in town. Formerly, overdressing in the country was reprobated as quite vulgar; but now, even persons of birth and fashion are guilty of this want of taste and sense. They display almost as much expensive dress in the country as in town.
It happened that, among the succession of company at Clarendon Park this summer, there came, self-invited, from the royal party in the neighbourhood, a certain wealthy lady, by some called “Golconda,” by others “the Duchess of Baubleshire.” She was passionately fond of dress, and she eclipsed all rivals in magnificence and variety of ornaments. At imminent peril of being robbed, she brought to the country, and carried about everywhere with her, an amazing number of jewels, wearing two or three different sets at different times of the day—displaying them on the most absurdly improper occasions—at a fete champêtre, or a boat race.
Once, after a riding-party, at a pic-nic under the trees, when it had been resolved unanimously that nobody should change their dress at dinner-time, Golconda appeared in a splendid necklace, displayed over her riding-dress, and when she was reproached with having broken through the general agreement not to dress she replied, that, “Really she had put the thing on in the greatest hurry, without knowing well what it was, just to oblige her little page who had brought three sets of jewels for her choice—she had chosen the most undressed of the three, merely because she could not disappoint the poor little fellow.”
Every one saw the affectation and folly, and above all, the vulgarity of this display, and those who were most envious were most eager to comfort themselves by ridicule. Never was the “Golconda” out of hearing, but Lady Katrine was ready with some instance of her “absurd vanity.” “If fortune had but blessed her with such jewels,” Lady Katrine said, “she trusted she should have worn them with better grace;” but it did not appear that the taste for baubles was diminished by the ridicule thrown upon them—quite the contrary, it was plain that the laughers were only envious, and envious because they could not be envied.