# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 47

CHAPTER XII.
GOSSIPPING.
These are the spiders of society; They weave their pretty webs of lies and sneers, And lie themselves in ambush for the spoil. The web seems fair, and glitters in the sun, And the poor victim winds him in the toil Before he dreams of danger, or of death. Alas, the misery that such inflict! A word, a look, have power to wring the heart, And leave it struggling hopeless in the net Spread by the false and cruel, who delight In the ingenious torment they contrive.
A woman's character is developed by the affections: when once they come into action, how rapidly are the latent qualities called forth, and in how brief a time what a wonderful change is wrought! This process, rapid in all her sex, was unusually rapid in Constance. The bitter fruit of her experience had, like ​the bean-plant in the fairy tale, grown up in a single night. Guileless, confiding, and affectionate, she was a child in every thing but years when she married her cousin. Till then she knew naught of the world but from books, books that teach so much, and yet so little. A few weeks sufficed to work an amazing alteration: timid and subdued, the difference appeared little on the surface, but it worked not less certainly below. With all her ad vantages of birth, station, and wealth, it was impossible but that she must excite some degree of envy; and, alas! for human nature, envy will always delight in inflicting mortification.
Many were the disparaging remarks that reached, as they were intended to do, the ear of their victim. On one less sensitive, and more accustomed to the malice which, of all others, seems the vice society peculiarly engenders, they would have fallen comparatively harmless; but with Constance they struck to the heart. She had been so happy in the idea of Norbourne's attachment, that the doubt ​was dreadful. This disposition was encouraged by many casual expressions respecting Lady Marchmont, and by some, also, that were intentional. Among others, there was a Lady Dudley, a family connexion of her own, who having perceived Mrs. Courtenaye's jealousy (for poor Constance was but little accustomed to dissemble), did her very best to encourage it.
Lady Dudley was just such a being as is formed by an entire existence amid those
"Thick solitudes,
Called social, where all vice and hatred are."
Her youth had passed in intrigues and vanities, and she still lived among them at second-hand: she now talked what she formerly did. Lady Marchmont was an object of her especial dislike; she feared her wit, and could not forgive her youth and beauty. Moreover, there was an interest in any on dit about one so much the rage; her looks, laces, and sayings, were equally invaluable as matters of gossip. Moreover, Lady Dudley flattered herself with filling the next best part to the principal, that of ​confidante with Mrs. Courtenaye. Constance had, however, too much good taste, as well as good feeling, for this; she had betrayed her jealousy, not confessed it. Still, this was enough for her soi-disant friend, who went on torturing her with stories about Lady Marchmont's powers of fascination, and Lady Marchmont's coquetry.
"You do not know," said she, after a long visit, which left Constance pale as a statue, her lip feverish with anxiety, and eyes filled with tears which she would not shed: "you do not know what a dangerous person Lady Marchmont is! I should not, my sweet young friend, warn you so much against her, but that I take the deepest interest in your happiness!"
"You are too kind!" sighed Constance.
"You know your husband is a very young man, and a very handsome one—beauty is a dangerous gift!"
"Would I could try its danger!" thought Mrs. Courtenaye, as she caught her own wan and languid countenance in the opposite glance. ​ "Now, all men are vain, quite as vain as we are; indeed, I always say much more so," continued her tormentor; "and Mr. Courtenaye's vanity must be flattered by Lady Marchmont's admiration!"
"Do you think she admires him, then?" asked his wife, in a startled tone.
"Oh, I say nothing," replied Lady Dudley, with a sneer; " but we all know that Lady Marchmont would fain lead captive every man about town worth looking at. They say that she applied to her conquests the answer of the French actress, who, being asked if she could reckon up her lovers, replied, 'Oui, qui ne sçait compter jusqu'au mille?'"
"She is very lovely!" said Constance, mournfully.
"Oh, there are others as handsome as she is!" interrupted her ladyship; "but she is such a coquette—quite heartless; and, therefore, the more dangerous. Her passion is universal admiration; and she cares for nothing, so long as her vanity is but gratified: of course, I speak to you in complete confidence. Good by, my ​dearest Mrs. Courtenaye; I say to you what I would not say to any one else for the world!"
So saying, she hurried off, impatient to say precisely the same thing to some fifty or more dearest friends. Just as she left the room, but in time to receive the warmest reception, and a "How charming, my love, you look to-day!" Lady Marchmont made her appearance.
"Ah!" exclaimed she, "I should know that Lady Dudley had been your visitor, you look so weary. There, I will be very good, and allow you five minutes to recover yourself."
"I am not very well to-day," said Constance, rising to receive her; "I have a headach." What would women do, if headachs were abolished? They are the universal feminine resource.