Mr. Bolton, after the little episode which I have described, returned to the merry mood, and rubbing his hands in an ecstacy, said, “No, no, depend upon it I will be ‘mute as a coach-horse.’ You shall none of you know a word of the under-plot which is weaving. I will not be a tell-tale. Let all things take their course.”
This dear little man is the soul of pleasantry, and seems to have an excellent heart, though bound up in a quaint outside. He is very English, and has a snug facetiousness of manner irresistibly diverting. I hope that I may be fortunate enough to meet him often in this neighbourhood, for he has both tact and feeling; and while his uncommon drollery amuses, his keen observation protects. He seems to delight in young people, and to understand us. My uncle enjoys his company, and they had a great deal of conversation, after which he took his leave, entreating that we should not fail to meet him at Lady Campion’s, to whose house we were invited for the following morning, to a trial of skill in archery. The time for these revels is not yet come; but as several families are prevented this year, I am told, from being in town, through one cause or other, they are doing the best they can to keep up the ball of pleasure, and rehearse for a more full and fashionable season. Mr. Bolton was my allurement, and the hope of seeing him, emboldened me to go under the wing of Mr. Otway, accompanied by Charlotte and Frederick.
Lady Campion and her daughters are come home within the last month, from Italy. They are a lovely group. Mother and daughters beautiful, and dressed in the same way, like sisters, it was not easy to distinguish the parent from the offspring. I do not like this. Surely the most tender love may subsist without this confusion of relationships. In the deep attachment which binds my heart to the precious author of my being, how sorry I should be even for a moment, to forget that she is my mother. But though not yet twenty, I feel as if I were fourscore, when I look around me. Nothing could be prettier than the little lawn on which we marshalled to see the archers. The graceful figures, the skill with which they managed the bow, the beauty of the fair competitors, clad in a livery of “Lincoln green,” the exquisite flowers which perfumed the amphitheatre of their sports, altogether charmed Charlotte and me. We were asked to join the lists, but as we could truly plead ignorance of the art, we gladly dropped back upon a fringe of the finest rhododendrons I ever beheld, lined by a bank of arbutus, to witness the combat. There were from forty to fifty spectators, amongst whom were only two, besides Mr. Bolton, whom I ever desire to see again. These were a Mrs. and Miss Fraser, Scotch people, a mother and daughter, very unlike our pretty hostess, who, to my amazement, I found was a rival candidate for the prize with her children; and, alas, can you believe it! is jealous of a Lord Thornborough’s attentions to the elder of them. This young and vapid peer was of our party; the most finnikin object that you can imagine. He had called one day at Marsden, so that I did not see him for the first time at Lady Campion’s; and when he visited my uncle, Fanny, whose fresh naïveté supplies a constant source of amusement to us, said, “Well, if in one of my walks I met Lord Thornborough and his friend Mr. Freeman (a young man of fashion who has accompanied him to this country), I am sure that I could not help offering them my assistance were there any difficulty to be got over; for certainly those young men could not help themselves over a hedge, ditch, or stile.”
I must give you a sketch of this London pair. They have both such heads for size, from the abundance of curled hair and whiskers that disfigure them, that if their bodies were concealed you would expect to see giants, judging by the proportion of limb that would suit such prodigious capitals. On the contrary, however, they are both rather diminutive than tall; their hands are not larger than a young lady’s, and as white as alabaster. Add to this appearance, rings, pins, chains, &c., and judge whether Fanny was very wide of the mark, when, with the rosy glow of sixteen, “redolent of life and spring,” her humanity would prompt the offer of her aid to creatures so pale, so thin, so cadaverous, that Mr. Bolton very truly said, that “they looked like weavers just out of an hospital.” But I have not done. How can I believe the things that I hear? Two pink spots, which alone distinguished Lord Thornborough’s face from that of a corpse, and which I thought indicated consumption, are, Mr. Bolton declares, positively rouge! I blush as I write the word! But to return to the archery.—The gentlemen were not so successful as the ladies: Miss Campion sped her arrow right through the centre of the target, and claimed a victory, which her mother, who came within half an inch of the bull’s eye, refused to admit, demanding to be queen herself, and awarding only the second prize to her daughter. An altercation ensued, and the angry looks, the unkind taunts which I witnessed, live still in my memory.
Matters grew so serious, that Mr. Otway proposed lots: Lady Campion drew the longest, and darting a look of fire at her rival, was crowned by Lord Thornborough, whom she in turn voted to be winner in the teeth of justice and truth; and, after having reciprocally distinguished him by a wreath of Fame, caught him by the hand, and triumphantly led the way towards a fine Grecian temple in the grounds, where a magnificent collation was prepared, and where the pseudo king and queen occupied a throne of scarlet and gold, decorated with laurels; while the rightful monarchs had not even the satisfaction of mingling their complaints, as the real hero was a sweet young midshipman, son to Mrs. Fraser, who laughed heartily at being choused, as he said, out of his conquest, and who seemed of much too noble a stamp to kneel at the feet of a haughty regina, who, though herself mortified, treated him with sovereign contempt.
While we were seated at a table covered with refreshments, one of the Misses Campion asked me, so suddenly, the ridiculous question, “Have you been out yet?” that though I have heard that it is the technical phrase for being presented in the world, the more familiar meaning occurred to my mind, and, like an idiot, I answered, that I should think a walk round the grounds very pleasant. A loud and rude burst of laughter drew the attention of the company upon me, and would have overwhelmed me with confusion, if Mr. Bolton, who was sitting between me and my tormentor, had not, with the celerity of an arrow, upset a flask of Champagne into the lap of the fair follower of Diana, which produced such a prompt metamorphosis, as “turned the green one red” in an instant, and the laugh against her from me. The thing was done so adroitly, that it appeared accidental, and as no one was more busy than the perpetrator in offering the most gallant commiseration, I never knew till two days after that I was thus indebted in a third instance to my faithful knight.
We adjourned presently to a music-room, where harp and piano-forte, with all “means and appliances to boot,” challenged competition in a new form; and here another sad scene was exhibited. A charming Italian duet was asked for by Lord Thornborough, and Miss Campion, who was in the habit of singing the second, was called very authoritively by her mother to take her part: she was also to accompany on the piano-forte. With a cheerful alacrity which delighted me, as evincing, I thought, a sweet forgiving temper, she took her seat at the instrument; but the harmony was soon disturbed, for she had no sooner landed her mother in a solo recitative, which the latter was singing to admiration, than, jumping up, overturning the music-desk, and rushing towards a window, she exclaimed, “Look at the eagle!” The company followed; and a crow, which had crossed the house, and was picking up worms in the lawn, was the only winged animal that presented itself to view. Peals of unmeaning laughter succeeded. Lady Campion was outrageous, and could scarcely preserve an appearance of decency; but as I felt how very irritating her daughter intended to be, I begged Mrs. and Miss Fraser to come and make a little party at her side. We entreated her to excuse Miss Campion’s mistake, and to indulge us with a repetition of the delightful air in which she had been interrupted.
After much disquietude, matters were arranged once more, and the solo was achieved; but in the midst of the concluding movement, which was very brilliant, and calculated to make a striking impression in the winding up, Miss Campion uttered a piercing shriek, the effect of which was ludicrous in the extreme, mingling as it did with the full harmony, and vociferated, “a bee, a bee!” and a bee there certainly was, crawling up the leg of the piano-forte, so weak and so drowsy after the cold weather, that the last of its intentions, poor thing, seemed to be to inflict the slightest injury on any one. Frederick put the obnoxious insect out of the window, but Lady Campion was now inexorable: she lost all control over looks and manner, which seemed to affect every one, except the person to whom they were directed; and, quite shocked by the scene, I requested that we might take our departure, which we did without delay, leaving such a domestic broil as I had then witnessed for the first time, to cool as it might.
Lord Thornborough handed me to the carriage, and with an unfeeling “Hah! hah! hah!” said, Miss Douglas, “you have come in for a thunder-storm to-day. Her ladyship was rather sublime; don’t you think so?” I was too much disgusted to reply, and, contenting myself with a passing bow, was happy to find myself on the high road to Marsden.
Am I sure that my senses do not deceive me, and that such things are? Is the sacred relationship of parent and child out of fashion? And is it possible, that while a daughter forgets the respect due to a mother, mothers have forgotten to respect themselves? I am not surprised now, when I hear Mr. Otway and Mr. Bolton speak of the present times, and compare them with the period immediately preceding the Revolution in France. I heard them agree a day or two ago in drawing the parallel with mournful fidelity, and finding in the frightful demoralization of continental manners, which is making, they said, rapid progress in these countries, but too certain a prognostic of the fate that will follow, if the tide be not arrested, of which there seems but little hope.