The Absentee

by Maria Edgeworth

  'Eh, now! really didn't recollect I was in black,' was all the apology he made. Lady Clonbrony was particularly vexed that the appearance of the statira, canopy should be spoiled before the effect had been seen by Lady Pococke, and Lady Chatterton, and Lady G—, Lady P—, and the Duke of V—, and a party of superlative fashionables, who had promised TO LOOK IN UPON HER, but who, late as it was, had not yet arrived. They came in at last. But Lady Clonbrony had no reason to regret for their sake the statira couch. It would have been lost upon them, as was everything else which she had prepared with so much pains and cost to excite their admiration, They came resolute not to admire. Skilled in the art of making others unhappy, they just looked round with an air of apathy. 'Ah! you've had Soho!—Soho has done wonders for you here! Vastly well!—Vastly well!—Soho's very clever in his way!'

  Others of great importance came in, full of some slight accident that had happened to themselves, or their horses, or their carriages; and, with privileged selfishness, engrossed the attention of all within their sphere of conversation. Well, Lady Clonbrony got over all this, and got over the history of a letter about a chimney that was on fire, a week ago, at the Duke of V's old house, in Brecknockshire. In gratitude for the smiling patience with which she listened to him, his Grace of V—fixed his glass to look at the Alhambra, and had just pronounced it to be 'Well!—very well!' when the Dowager Lady Chatterton made a terrible discovery—a discovery that filled Lady Clonbrony with astonishment and indignation—Mr. Soho had played her false! What was her mortification when the dowager assured her that these identical Alhambra hangings had not only been shown by Mr. Soho to the Duchess of Torcaster, but that her grace had had the refusal of them, and had actually rejected them, in consequence of Sir Horace Grant the great traveller's objecting to some of the proportions of the pillars. Soho had engaged to make a new set, vastly improved, by Sir Horace's suggestions, for her Grace of Torcaster.

  Now Lady Chatterton was the greatest talker extant; and she went shout the rooms telling everybody of her acquaintance—and she was acquainted with everybody—how shamefully Soho had imposed upon poor Lady Clonbrony, protesting she could not forgive the man. 'For,' said she,'though the Duchess of Torcaster has been his constant customer for ages, and his patroness, and all that, yet this does not excuse him and Lady Clonbrony's being a stranger, and from Ireland, makes the thing worse.' From Ireland!—that was the unkindest cut of all but there was no remedy.

  In vain poor Lady Clonbrony followed the dowager about the rooms, to correct this mistake, and to represent, in justice to Mr. Soho, though he had used her so ill, that he knew she was an Englishwoman, The dowager was deaf, and no whisper could reach her ear. And when Lady Clonbrony was obliged to bawl an explanation in her car, the dowager only repeated—

  'In justice to Mr. Soho!—No, no; he has not done you justice, my dear Lady Clonbrony! and I'll expose him to everybody. Englishwoman—no, no, no!—Soho could not take you for an Englishwoman!'

  All who secretly envied or ridiculed Lady Clonbrony enjoyed this scene. The Alhambra hangings, which had been, In one short hour before, the admiration of the world, were now regarded by every eye with contempt, as CAST hangings, and every tongue was busy declaiming against Mr. Soho; everybody declared that, from the first, the want of proportion had 'struck them, but that they would not mention it till others found it out.'

  People usually revenge themselves for having admired too much, by afterwards despising and depreciating without mercy—in all great assemblies the perception of ridicule is quickly caught, and quickly too revealed. Lady Clonbrony, even in her own house, on her gala night, became an object of ridicule—decently masked, indeed, under the appearance of condolence with her ladyship, and of indignation against 'that abominable Mr. Soho!'

  Lady Langdale, who was now, for reasons of her own, upon her good behaviour, did penance, as she said, for her former imprudence, by abstaining even from whispered sarcasms. She looked on with penitential gravity, said nothing herself, and endeavoured to keep Mrs. Dareville in order; but that was no easy task. Mrs. Dareville had no daughters, had nothing to gain from the acquaintance of my Lady Clonbrony; and, conscious that her ladyship would bear a vast deal from her presence, rather than forego the honour of her sanction, Mrs. Dareville, without any motives of interest, or good-nature of sufficient power to restrain her talent and habit of ridicule, free from hope or fear, gave full scope to all the malice of mockery, and all the insolence of fashion. Her slings and arrows, numerous as they were and outrageous, were directed against such petty objects, and the mischief was so quick, in its aim and its operation, that, felt but not seen, it is scarcely possible to register the hits, or to describe the nature of the wounds.

  Some hits sufficiently palpable, however, were recorded for the advantage of posterity. When Lady Clonbrony led her to look at the Chinese pagoda, the lady paused, with her foot on the threshold, as if afraid to enter this porcelain Elysium, as she called it—Fool's Paradise, she would have said; and, by her hesitation, and by the half-pronounced word, suggested the idea—'None but belles without petticoats can enter here,' said she, drawing her clothes tight round her; 'fortunately, I have but two, and Lady Langdale has but one.' Prevailed upon to venture in, she walked on with prodigious care and trepidation, affecting to be alarmed at the crowd of strange forms and monsters by which she was surrounded.

  'Not a creature here that I ever saw before in nature! Well, now I may boast I've been in a real Chinese pagoda!'

  'Why yes, everything is appropriate here, I flatter myself,' said Lady Clonbrony.

  'And how good of you, my dear Lady Clonbrony, in defiance of bulls and blunders, to allow us a comfortable English fireplace and plenty of Newcastle coal, in China!—And a white marble—no! white velvet hearthrug, painted with beautiful flowers—oh, the delicate, the USEFUL thing!'

  Vexed by the emphasis on the word USEFUL, Lady Clonbrony endeavoured to turn off the attention of the company. 'Lady Langdale, your ladyship's a judge of china—this vase is an unique, I am told.'

  'I am told,' interrupted Mrs. Dareville, 'this is the very vase in which B—, the nabob's father, who was, you know, a China captain, smuggled his dear little Chinese wife and all her fortune out of Canton—positively, actually put the lid on, packed her up, and sent her off on shipboard!—True! true! upon my veracity! I'll tell you my authority!'

  With this story Mrs. Dareville drew all attention from the jar, to Lady Clonbrony's infinite mortification.

  Lady Langdale at length turned to look at a vast range of china jars.

  'Ali Baba and the forty thieves!' exclaimed Mrs. Dareville; 'I hope you have boiling oil ready!'

  Lady Clonbrony was obliged to laugh, and to vow that Mrs. Dareville was uncommon pleasant to-night. 'But now,' said her ladyship, 'let me take you on to the Turkish tent.'

  Having with great difficulty got the malicious wit out of the pagoda and into the Turkish tent, Lady Clonbrony began to breathe more freely; for here she thought she was upon safe ground: 'Everything, I flatter myself' said she, 'is correct and appropriate, and quite picturesque.' The company, dispersed in happy groups, or reposing on seraglio ottomans, drinking lemonade and sherbet beautiful Fatimas admiring, or being admired—'Everything here quite correct, appropriate, and picturesque,' repeated Mrs. Dareville.

  This lady's powers as a mimic were extraordinary, and she found them irresistible. Hitherto she had imitated Lady Clonbrony's air and accent only behind her back; but, bolder grown, she now ventured, in spite of Lady Langdale's warning pinches, to mimic her kind hostess before her face, and to her face. Now, whenever Lady Clonbrony saw anything that struck her fancy in the dress of her fashionable friends, she had a way of hanging her head aside, and saying, with a peculiar sentimental drawl—

  'How pretty!—how elegant! Now that quite suits my TEESTE! This phrase, precisely in the same accent, and with the head set to the same angle of affectation, Mrs. Dareville had the assurance to address to her ladyship, apro
pos to something which she pretended to admire in Lady Clonbrony's COSTUME—a costume which, excessively fashionable in each of its parts, was, all together, so extraordinarily unbecoming as to be fit for a print-shop. The perception of this, added to the effect of Mrs. Dareville's mimicry, was almost too much for Lady Langdale; she could not possibly have stood it, but for the appearance of Miss Nugent at this instant behind Lady Clonbrony. Grace gave one glance of indignation which seemed suddenly to strike Mrs. Dareville. Silence for a moment ensued, and afterwards the tone of the conversation was changed.

  'Salisbury!—explain this to me,' said a lady, drawing Mr. Salisbury aside. 'If you are in the secret, do explain this to me; for unless I had seen it, I could not have believed it. Nay, though I have seen it, I do not believe it. How was that daring spirit laid? By what spell?'

  'By the spell which superior minds always cast on inferior spirits.'

  'Very fine,' said the lady, laughing, 'but as old as the days of Leonora de Galigai, quoted a million times. Now tell me something new and to the purpose, and better suited to modern days.'

  'Well, then, since you will not allow me to talk of superior minds in the present days, let me ask you if you have never observed that a wit, once conquered in company by a wit of a higher order, is thenceforward in complete subjection to the conqueror, whenever and wherever they meet.'

  'You would not persuade me that yonder gentle-looking could ever be a match for the veteran Mrs. Dareville? She may have the wit, but has she the courage?'

  'Yes; no one has more courage, more civil courage, where her own dignity, or the interests of her friends are concerned. I will tell you an instance or two to-morrow.'

  'To-morrow!—To-night!—tell it me now.'

  'Not a safe place.'

  'The safest in the world, in such a crowd as this. Follow my example. Take a glass of orgeat—sip from time to time, thus—speak low, looking innocent all the while straight forward, or now and then up at the lamps—keep on in an even tone—use no names—and you may tell anything.'

  'Well, then, when Miss Nugent first came to London, Lady Langdale—'

  'Two names already—did not I warn ye?'

  'But how can I make myself intelligible?'

  'Initials—can't you use—or genealogy? What stops you?

  'It is only Lord Colambre, a very safe person, I have a notion, when the eulogium is of Grace Nugent.'

  Lord Colambre, who had now performed his arduous duties as a dancer, and had disembarrassed himself of all his partners, came into the Turkish tent just at this moment to refresh himself, and just in time to hear Mr. Salisbury's anecdotes.

  'Now go on.'

  'Lady Langdale, you know, sets an inordinate value upon her curtsies in public, and she used to treat Miss Nugent, as her ladyship treats many other people, sometimes noticing, and sometimes pretending not to know her, according to the company she happened to be with. One day they met in some fine company—Lady Langdale looked as if she was afraid of committing herself by a curtsy. Miss Nugent waited for a good opportunity; and, when all the world was silent, leant forward, and called to Lady Langdale, as if she had something to communicate of the greatest consequence, skreening her whisper with her hand, as in an aside on the stage,—'Lady Langdale, you may curtsy to me now—nobody is looking.'

  'The retort courteous!' said Lord Colambre—'the only retort for a woman.'

  'And her ladyship deserved it so well. But Mrs. Dareville, what happened about her?'

  'Mrs. Dareville, you remember, some years ago, went to Ireland with some lady-lieutenant to whom she was related. There she was most hospitably received by Lord and Lady Clonbrony—went to their country house—was as intimate with Lady Clonbrony and with Miss Nugent as possible—stayed at Clonbrony Castle for a month; and yet, when Lady Clonbrony came to London, never took the least notice of her. At last, meeting at the house of a common friend, Mrs. Dareville could not avoid recognising her ladyship; but, even then, did it in the least civil manner and most cursory style possible. 'Ho! Lady Clonbrony!—didn't know you were in England!—When did you come?—How long shall you stay in town!—Hope, before you leave England, your Ladyship and Miss Nugent will give us a day?' A DAY!—Lady Clonbrony was so astonished by this impudence of ingratitude, that she hesitated how to TAKE IT; but Miss Nugent, quite coolly, and with a smile, answered, 'A DAY!—certainly—to you, who gave us a month!'

  'Admirable! Now comprehend perfectly why Mrs. Dareville declines insulting Miss Nugent's friends in her presence.'

  Lord Colambre said nothing, but thought much. 'How I wish my mother,' thought he, 'had some of Grace Nugent's proper pride! She would not then waste her fortune, spirits, health, and life, in courting such people as these.'

  He had not seen—he could not have borne to have beheld—the manner in which his mother had been treated by some of her guests; but he observed that she now looked harassed and vexed; and he was provoked and mortified by hearing her begging and beseeching some of these saucy leaders of the ton to oblige her, to do her the favour, to do her the honour, to stay to supper. It was just ready—actually announced. 'No, they would not—they could not; they were obliged to run away—engaged to the Duchess of Torcaster.'

  'Lord Colambre, what is the matter?' said Miss Nugent, going up to him, as he stood aloof and indignant: 'Don't look so like a chafed lion; others may perhaps read your countenance as well as I do.'

  'None can read my mind so well,' replied he. 'Oh, my dear Grace!'

  'Supper!—supper!' cried she; 'your duty to your neighbour, your hand to your partner.'

  Lady Catharine, as they went downstairs to supper, observed that Miss Nugent had not been dancing, that she had kept quite in the background all night-quite in the shade.

  'Those,' said Lord Colambre, 'who are contented in the 'shade are the best able to bear the light; and I am not surprised that one so interesting in the background should not desire to be the foremost figure in a piece.'

  The supper room, fitted up at great expense, with scenery to imitate Vauxhall, opened into a superb greenhouse, lighted with coloured lamps, a band of music at a distance—every delicacy, every luxury that could gratify the senses, appeared in profusion. The company ate and drank—enjoyed themselves—went away—and laughed at their hostess. Some, indeed, who thought they had been neglected, were in too bad humour to laugh, but abused her in sober earnest; for Lady Clonbrony had offended half, nay, three-quarters of her guests, by what they termed her exclusive attention to those very leaders of the ton, from whom she had suffered so much, and who had made it obvious to all that they thought they did her too much honour in appearing at her gala. So ended the gala for which she had lavished such sums; for which she had laboured so indefatigably; and from which she had expected such triumph.

  'Colambre, bid the musicians stop; they are playing to empty benches,' said Lady Clonbrony. 'Grace, my dear, will you see that these lamps are safely put out? I am so tired, so WORN OUT, I must go to bed; and I am sure I have caught cold too! What a NERVOUS BUSINESS it is to manage these things! I wonder how one gets through it, or WHY one does it!'

  Chapter IV

  *

  Lady Clonbrony was taken ill the day after her gala; she had caught cold by standing, when much overheated, in a violent draught of wind, paying her parting compliments to the Duke of V—, who thought her a bore, and wished her in heaven all the time for keeping his horses standing. Her ladyship's illness was severe and long; she was confined to her room for some weeks by a rheumatic fever, and an inflammation in her eyes. Every day, when Lord Colambre went to see his mother, he found Miss Nugent in her apartment, and every hour he found fresh reason to admire this charming girl. The affectionate tenderness, the indefatigable patience, the strong attachment she showed for her aunt, actually raised Lady Clonbrony in her son's opinion. He was persuaded she must surely have some good or great qualities, or she could not have excited such strong affection. A few foibles out of the question, such as her love of fine
people, her affectation of being English, and other affectations too tedious to mention, Lady Clonbrony was really a good woman, had good principles, moral and religious, and, selfishness not immediately interfering, she was good-natured; and though her soul and attention were so completely absorbed in the duties of acquaintanceship that she did not know it, she really had affections—they were concentrated upon a few near relations. She was extremely fond and extremely proud of her son. Next to her son, she was fonder of her niece than of any other creature. She had received Grace Nugent into her family when she was left an orphan, and deserted by some of her other relations. She had bred her up, and had treated her with constant kindness. This kindness and these obligations had raised the warmest gratitude in Miss Nugent's heart; and it was the strong principle of gratitude which rendered her capable of endurance and exertions seemingly far above her strength. This young lady was not of a robust appearance, though she now underwent extraordinary fatigue. Her aunt could scarcely bear that she should leave her for a moment: she could not close her eyes unless Grace sat up with her many hours every night. Night after night she bore this fatigue; and yet, with little sleep or rest, she preserved her health, at least supported her spirits; and every morning, when Lord Colambre came into his mother's room, he saw Miss Nugent look as blooming as if she had enjoyed the most refreshing sleep. The bloom was, as he observed, not permanent; it came and went, with every emotion of her feeling heart; and he soon learned to fancy her almost as handsome when she was pale as when she had a colour. He had thought her beautiful when he beheld her in all the radiance of light, and with all the advantages of dress at the gala, but he found her infinitely more lovely and interesting now, when he saw her in a sick-room—a half-darkened chamber—where often he could but just discern her form, or distinguish her, except by her graceful motion as she passed, or when, but for a moment, a window-curtain drawn aside let the sun shine upon her face, or on the unadorned ringlets of her hair.