Part 17 (1/2)
”Nephew! I never heard her speak of a nephew before. Sir Richard had no nephews or nieces, for he was an only son, and the t.i.tle has now gone into the Vivian branch, and I never heard of her having a nephew. And what has she left you, mademoiselle, if it is not asking too much?”
”Lady R--has left me 500 pounds, my lady.”
”Indeed! well then, she pays you for your trouble. But really, Miss de Chatenoeuf, I do wish you could put off this business until after the marriages. I am so hurried and worried that I really do not know which way to turn, and really I have felt your loss these last two days more than you can imagine. You are so clever, and have so much taste, that we cannot get on without you. It's all your own fault,” continued her ladys.h.i.+p, playfully, ”you are so good-natured, and have made us so dependent upon you, that we cannot let you off now. Nothing in the _trousseaux_ is approved of, unless stamped by the taste of Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf. Now, a week cannot make a great difference, and lawyers love delay: will you oblige me, therefore, by leaving Lady R--'s affairs for the present?”
”Certainly, Lady M--,” replied I. ”I will stop a letter I was about to send to her solicitor, and write another to the effect you wish, and I will not repeat my request for the carriage until after the marriages have taken place.”
”Many thanks,” replied her ladys.h.i.+p, and I went out, took my letter from the hall table, and wrote another to Mr Selwyn, stating that I could not enter into any business until the following week, when I should be prepared to receive him.
I wrote another to the same effect to Lionel, requesting him not to call again, but that I would write and let him know where to meet me as soon as I was more at leisure.
Indeed I was glad that Lady M--had made the request, as the trouble and chattering and happy faces which were surrounding the trousseaux, and the constant employment and appeals made to me, drove away the melancholy which Lady R--'s affairs had occasioned me. I succeeded to a great degree in recovering my spirits, and exerted myself to my utmost, so that everything was complete and satisfactory to all parties two days before the wedding was to take place.
At last, the morning came. The brides were dressed and went down into the drawing-room, frightened and perplexed, but their tears had been shed above. The procession of carriages moved on to Hanover Square; there was a bishop of course, and the church was filled with gay and tastefully-dressed women. The ceremony was performed, and the brides were led into the vestry-room to recover, and receive kisses and congratulations. Then came the banquet, which n.o.body hardly tasted except the bishop, who had joined too many couples in his lifetime to have his appet.i.te at all affected by the ceremony, and some two or three others who were old stagers on the road of life, and who cared little whether it was a wedding-breakfast, or refreshments after a funeral.
At last, after a most silent entertainment, the brides retired to change their dresses, and, when they re-appeared, they were handed into the carriages of their respective bridegrooms as soon as they could be torn away from the kisses and tears of Lady M--, who played the part of a bereaved mother to perfection. No one to have seen her then, raving like another Niobe, would have imagined that all her thoughts and endeavours and manoeuvres, for the last three years, had been devoted to the sole view of getting them off; but Lady M--was a perfect actress, and this last scene was well got up.
As her daughters were led down to the carriages, I thought that she was going to faint; but it appeared, on second thoughts, that she wished first to see the girls depart in their gay equipages; she therefore tottered to the window, saw them get in, looked at Newman's greys and gay postillions--at the white and silver favours--the dandy valet and smart lady's-maid in each rumble. She saw them start at a rattling pace, watched them till they turned the corner of the square, and then-- and not till then--fell senseless in my arms, and was carried by the attendants into her own room.
After all, the poor woman must have been very much worn out, for she had been for the last six weeks in a continual worry lest any _contre-temps_ should happen, which might have stopped or delayed the happy consummation.
The next morning her ladys.h.i.+p did not leave her room, but sent word down that the carriage was at my service; but I was fatigued and worn out, and declined it for that day. I wrote to Lionel and to Mr Selwyn, desiring them to meet me in Baker Street, at two o'clock the next day; and then pa.s.sed the day quietly, in company with Amy, the third daughter of Lady M--, whom I have before mentioned. She was a very sweet, unaffected girl; and I was more partial to her than to her sisters, who had been just married. I had paid great attention to her, for she had a fine voice, and did credit to my teaching, and there was a great intimacy between us, arising on my part from my admiration of her ingenuous and amiable disposition, which even her mother's example to the contrary could not spoil.
After some conversation relative to her sisters and their husbands, she said, ”I hardly know what to do, Valerie. I love you too well to be a party to your being ill-treated, and yet I fear that you will be pained if I tell you what I have heard about you. I know also that you will not stay, if I do tell you, and that will give me great pain; but _that_ is a selfish feeling which I could overcome. What I do not like is hurting your feelings. Now, tell me candidly, ought I to tell you, or not?”
”I will give you my opinion candidly,” replied I. ”You have said too little or too much. You speak of my being ill-treated; certainly, I should wish to guard against that, although I cannot imagine who is my enemy.”
”Had I not heard it, I could not have believed it either,” replied she.
”I thought that you had come here on a visit as a friend; but what makes me think that I ought to tell you is, that there will be something said against your character, which I am sure, must be false.”
”Now, indeed, I must request that you will tell me everything, and soften nothing down, but tell me the whole truth. Who is it that intends to attack my character?”
”I am sorry--very sorry to say, it is mamma,” replied she, wiping away a tear.
”Lady M--!” exclaimed I.
”Yes,” replied she; ”but now you must listen to all I have to say. I am sure that I am doing right in telling you, and therefore nothing shall prevent me. I love my mother--what a sad thing it is that I cannot respect her! I was in the dressing-room, when my mother was lying on the sofa in her bedroom this morning, when her great friend, Mrs Germane, came up. She sat talking with my mother for some time, and they appeared either to forget or not to care if I heard them; for at last your name was mentioned.
”'Well, she does dress you and your girls beautifully, I must say,' said Mrs Germane. 'Who is she? They say that she is of a good family; and how came she to live with you as a milliner?'
”'My dear Mrs Germane, that she does live with me as a milliner is true, and it was for that reason only I invited her to the house; but she is not aware that I retain her in that capacity. She is, I understand from Mrs Bathurst, of a n.o.ble family in France, thrown upon the world by circ.u.mstances, very talented, and very proud. Her extreme taste in dress I discovered when she was living with Mrs Bathurst; and, when I found that she was about, through my management, to leave Lady R--, I invited her here as a sort of friend, and to stay with my daughters--not a word did I mention about millinery; I had too much tact for that. Even when her services were required, I made it appear as her own offer, and expressed my thanks for her condescension, and since that, by flattery and management, she has continued to dress my daughters for me; and, I must say, that I do believe it has been owing to her exquisite taste that my daughters have gone off so well.'
”'Well, you have managed admirably,' replied Mrs Germane; 'but, my dear Lady M--, what will you do with her now?'
”'Oh,' replied Lady M--, 'as Amy will now come out, I shall retain her in my employ until she is disposed of; and then--'
”'Yes, then will be the difficulty,' replied Mrs Germane; 'after having allowed her to live so long with you as a visitor, I may say, how will you get rid of her?'
”'Why, I was puzzling myself about that, and partly decided that it should be done by mortifying her, and wounding her feelings, for she is very proud; but, fortunately, I have found out something which I shall keep to myself, until the time comes, and then I can dismiss her at a moment's warning.'