Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V.
"The bondage of certain ribands and gloves."
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"Your gown is a most rare fashion, i'faith."
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"These pelican daughters."—Shakespeare.
Shopping, true feminine felicity! how rapidly it passed the morning away—how in a few short hours were Emily's ideas expanded! Here she blushed for her sleeves, there for her flounces: how common seemed the memory of her red-rose wreath beside her newly-acquired taste for golden oats! The bonnets that were tried on, the silks that were unfolded, the ribands that were chosen,—till she went home happy in a hat, whose dimensions far exceeded the shields of any of her forefathers, and having chosen a ball dress, on whose composition, the milliner assured her, genius had exhausted itself.
Lady Etheringhame being now a constitutionalist, dined rather early: and Emily, her head like a kaleidoscope, full of colours, with not a little disdain, put on the blue silk she had thought bleu céleste, at least in the country. What a march does a woman's intellect, i.e. taste, take in the streets of London!
Exactly at five they were at the dowager's door—exactly five minutes after, they were seated in her dining-room; and Emily began to consider whether she or the wine-coolers were most chilled—whether Lady Etheringhame's black satin or herself were stiffest—and whether she weighed her words as she did her food in the little pair of scales by her side. They adjourned to the drawing-room, and sat "like figures ranged upon a dial-plate." The French clock on the mantel-piece ticked audibly—Lady Alicia dozed—their hostess detailed symptoms and remedies, and eulogised mustard-seed,—while Emily sat like a good child, playing propriety, and looking the listener at least. Ten o'clock came at last, and with it the carriage.
"I am afraid, mamma, you are so tired," said the daughter.
"How much we give to thoughts and things our tone,
And judge of others' feelings by our own!"
"I hope Miss Arundel will do me the honour of accompanying you on your next visit?"
A stately bend from the elder—a low "many thanks"—a good night—and the visit was over.
"Is it possible," thought Emily, "a visit in London could be so dull?"
The next morning was more amusing—visitor after visitor came in; for Lady Alicia, like most indolent people, preferred any one else's company to her own,—all could entertain her better than she could entertain herself. An elderly gentleman had gone off with a cough, and a lady of no particular age with a prophecy.
"Well, take my word for it, those girls will never marry; marriage is like money—seem to want it, and you never get it."
The Cassandra was scarcely departed, when the objects of her oracle appeared—Mrs. Fergusson and her two daughters. Nothing could he more correct than the externals of these young ladies—large curls, large sleeves, still larger bonnets, words like the poet's idea of adieu, or the advice to make good children—"to be seen, not heard,"—and faces indicative elegant indifference.
Mr. Fergusson had made his fortune, and Mrs. F. now meant to make her way in the world; her society was to be refined and exalted; she resolved on getting people to her house, and going to people's houses, whose names as yet were all she knew of them; and by dint of patience, perseverance and pushing, she had to a great degree succeeded. Is not Locke the great philosopher who says, the strokes of the pickaxe build the pyramid? But these social contracts were subservient to one great end—domestic economy. Mrs. Fergusson had a family of six daughters; and to get these well married was the hope and aim of her existence, "the ocean to the river" of her thoughts. By day she laid plans, by night dreamed they had succeeded. To this point tend dresses, dances, dinners; for this she drove in the park—for this waited out the ballet at the opera—for this Mr. St. Leger found his favourite pâté de cœur des tourterelles perfect at her table; for this Mr. Herbert, twice a week during last April, was asked to a family dinner—un dîné sans façons est une perfidie, though in a different sense to what the poet des plateaux intended; for this, on Mr. Hoggart, a Scotchman—who wore a blue coat, which he always began to button when economy was talked of—did mamma impress, what a treasure her Elizabeth was, and how well she supplied her place at home. [By the bye, what an odious thing is a blue coat with brass buttons, shining as if to stare you out of countenance, and reflecting in every button a concave composition, which you recognise as a caricature of yourself. No lady should dance with a man who wears a blue coat and brass buttons.] For Mr. Rosedale did Laura wear vestal white, when every one else was à la Zamiel, and a cottage bonnet—a cottage ornée, to be sure—when every other head was in a hat.
Still, two seasons, besides watering places, had passed away fruitlessly; and the Misses Fergussons, of whom two only had yet passed the Rubicon of balls, opera, &c. coming out, were still the fair but unappropriated adjectives of the noun-matrimonial husband; still it was something to be, "ready, ay ready"—the family motto. Of them nothing more can be said, than that Laura was pretty, and enacted the beauty; Elisabeth was plain, and therefore was to be sensible: the one sat at her harp, the other at her work-box.
Now, Mrs. Fergusson thought a visit to Lady Alicia a sad waste of time: there were no sons, no brothers, at least as bad as none—for the Earl was in the country, the younger abroad; still she was too little established in society for neglect. So, collecting a few facts and fancies, putting on her most fatigued face, she began talking, while the daughters sat such complete personifications of indifference, that Mrs. Granville might very well have addressed her ode to either of them.
"Mrs. De Lisle's rooms were so crowded last night—very brilliant. Still, alas!"—(here Mrs. Fergusson looked philosophical)—"the weariness of pleasure; but these dear girls were in such requisition, it was nearly day before we left. Conceive my fatigue."
"Why then," said her hearer, very quietly, "did you not leave before?"
"Ah, Lady Alicia, how little do you understand the feelings of a mother! Could I break in upon their young pleasures? Besides"—and here her voice sank to a whisper—"I do own my weakness; yet what maternal heart but must be gratified by such admiration as was excited by my sweet Laura? It is dangerous to a young head; but she is so simple, so unpretending."
"Very true," said her ladyship.
Now came one of those audible pauses, the tickings of the death-watch of English conversation. This was broken by Mrs. Fergusson's asking a question. How many are asked for want of something to say! The questions of curiosity are few to those of politeness.
"Pray when do you expect your brother, Mr. Lorraine, in England?"
"Ah, Edward! Delawarr told me he was coming at last. He is to stay with us."
Mrs. Fergusson now, for the first time, looked at Emily, who, occupied in considering whether the Misses Fergusson were deaf or dumb, or both, was quite unconscious of the scrutiny.
A marriage and a death concluded the visit.
"Well!" ejaculated Mrs. Fergusson, as soon as the carriage gave security to that flow of soul, entitled confidential conversation, "to think of the luck of some people—there will this Miss Arundel be living in the house with the Hon. Edward Lorraine."
No one knew better than this lady the dangers or advantages of propinquity.
"I hate that odious dark hair and ringlets too, so affected; but she is not pretty," said Miss Laura.
"There is nothing in her," said Miss Elizabeth, who piqued herself on discrimination of character.