“My admiration of her person would not for a moment have changed my opinion of her conduct. I see beautiful women, who expose their persons in a manner I decidedly condemn (as I know, Matilda, you do likewise); looking at them as fine statues, I may admire the work of the great Artificer; but the moment I consider them as women filling a respectable place in society, the wives and daughters of men of rank and probity, and, what is still stronger, women professing, at least nominally, to be members of the Christian church, I turn from them with disgust and sorrow; and though I sincerely despise all affectation of more exalted purity than others, I yet will never hesitate to give my voice against a folly so unworthy of my sex, and which can be only tolerated by women whose vanity has destroyed that delicacy which is our best recommendation.”
Matilda applied all her mother said to waltzing, and thought it was equally just with the strictures she herself felt true, with regard to the mode of dress adopted by some whom she met in public. Ellen and herself were ever well, and even fashionably, dressed; but yet they avoided the fault they condemned: for some time, the sisterly affection which really subsisted between them, induced them to appear in similar dresses; but as Matilda rose to womanhood, a fear lest Ellen should be induced to expense, added to some jokes that were passed upon her respecting Charles, induced her to forego this plan, and Ellen had too much good sense to pursue it further; and, as the acquaintance of Mrs. Hanson increased, Matilda was necessarily led into parties where Ellen could not meet her; so that they became in some degree divided in person, but their attachment remained the same. Mrs. Hanson was desirous that her daughter should take a more extensive view of society than was necessary for Ellen; she dreaded an early marriage for her, although she thought it desirable to bring her into society, being persuaded that young women of large fortune too frequently are rendered unhappy in the marriage state, by being dazzled at their first outset in life by the novelty, and gaiety of the scene around them, which leads them to expect a continuance of the same brilliant career, incompatible with the duties of that state into which they incautiously plunge; whereas a short time passed in life, would show them the inefficacy of trifling amusement and splendid show to procure real satisfaction, and lead them to investigate those circumstances in the minds and situations of their admirers, most likely to ensure their future felicity, and most consonant with their real wants and wishes. The judicious mother saw, with the truest pleasure, that the well-turned mind of her daughter ever pointed to the scenes of simple enjoyment and virtuous intelligence which illumined her early years; but, in her peculiar situation, she was aware that Matilda, to a certain degree, should adopt the apostle’s advice—“Try all things, cleave to that which is good.”
On the other hand, Mr. and Mrs. Harewood, as the young people advanced towards maturity, had felt it a point of delicacy, however sincere and ardent their friendship might be, in a slight degree to abstain from that intimate and daily intercourse which had so long and happily subsisted between the families. The days were past when Charles could romp with, or Edmund instruct, Matilda; and although they held the same rank in society, yet as the noble fortune of Matilda (increased materially by the retired way in which her mother lived during her infancy) entitled her to marry a nobleman, Mr. Harewood did not choose that the presence of his sons should cause reports which might prevent her from receiving offers of this nature. He was attached to Matilda, as if she had indeed been his child, but he was too independent, as well as too honest, to render either his present affection, or his past services, the medium of increasing the general regard Matilda had manifested for both his sons into a decided predilection for either: nor was he aware that either of the young men had for her that peculiar attachment which a man ought to feel for a wife. Edmund was wrapt apparently in a profession which is in its own nature absorbing, and Charles appeared too eager to travel to have any tendency to early marriage.
About a week after the foregoing conversation had taken place between Matilda and her mother, the former went again to a ball, with a lady of rank, who engaged to be her guardian for the night, as Mrs. Hanson and Mrs. Weston had both caught severe colds, from being out late together.
Lady Araminta Montague, the conductor of Matilda for the evening, was a fashionable and showy woman, who never appeared in public without being surrounded by all those who affected to be considered persons of taste, and fitted to move in the first style. She was now sought with more than common avidity, on account of her attractive companion, whom she endeavoured to show off in the happiest manner, by leading the light conversation of the moment to subjects familiar to Matilda’s observation, or likely to draw from her those remarks in which the ability and talent she possessed would be naturally, yet strikingly, displayed. Of this species of kindness Matilda was wholly unconscious, as it was one which her own friends had never adopted; when, therefore, she found herself the universal centre of attraction in the room, it was no wonder that her spirits were unusually elated, and her vanity took the lead; so that when the sprightly dance added its intoxicating powers, and her mind was entranced by the pleasure of the moment, she forgot the resolutions and opinions formed in a wiser hour.
When the first two country-dances were over, several parties began, as on the preceding night, to form into couples for the purpose of waltzing, at that time a novelty in this country; and while Matilda was looking at them, to her surprise, Sir Theodore Branson just entered the room, and asked the honour of her hand, which he almost claimed as a promise.
This young gentleman was considered the handsomest man, and the most elegant dancer, in the circles of fashion. That he was at once a shallow coxcomb and an encroaching acquaintance, unfortunately did not prevent many young ladies from desiring him as a partner; and when Matilda perceived the leer of envy, and the pause of observation directed towards her, she half gave him her hand, being conscious that her own figure and style of dancing would be superior to any other of the candidates for admiration that had preceded her; yet she paused, remembering her mother’s words, and, with a kind of anxious, fearful gaze, that fell like a veil over the exultation and gaiety of her features, she looked an appeal to the lady who was her guide, or ought to have been.
“Really, my dear, I don’t know what to say; but as the thing is new, if you are not quite au fait, you will be pardoned, and Sir Theodore is so admirable a partner, I really think you may venture to try.”
Matilda, in a calmer moment, would have seen how totally distinct her ladyship’s fears were from those of her mother; but the flutter of her spirits, the demands of her vanity, and the address of her partner, combined to hurry her forward, and she found herself in the midst of the group before she was aware: it was then too late to recede: the motion for a short time restored her spirits; but as the arm of Sir Theodore encircled her waist, deep confusion overwhelmed her, she blushed to a degree that was absolutely painful; and though unable, in the hurry of the motion, to entertain a positive reflection, yet a thousand thoughts seemed to press at once for admittance, all tinged with self-reproach; and at length, unable to endure them, she suddenly laid her hand upon her forehead, and ran, or rather reeled, to her seat.
As it was the nature of the dance to produce the sensation of dizziness, this circumstance excited no particular attention, and her partner merely rallied her upon it, with that air of badinage young men now-a-days pretty generally adopt. Every word he uttered was distressing to Matilda, who felt as if she were insulted by his freedom, and had degraded herself too far to enjoy the right of resenting it; her native pride, however, contending with her self-condemnation, she removed her hand from her eyes, in order to give him a look which would repel his impertinence, and, to her utter astonishment, saw three gentlemen standing before, and looking earnestly upon her; two of these were her friends, Edmund and Charles Harewood.