# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 39

CHAPTER IV.
THE FÊTE.
Many were lovely there; but, of that many, Was one who looked the loveliest of any— The youthful countess. On her cheek the dies Were crimson with the morning's exercise; The laugh upon her full red lip yet hung; And, arrow-like, light words flashed from her tongue. She had more loveliness than beauty—hers Was that enchantment which the heart confers. A mouth, sweet from its smiles; a large dark eye, That had o'er all expression mastery, Laughing the orb, but yet the long lash made Somewhat of sadness with its twilight shade; And suiting well the upcast look that seemed, At times, as it of melancholy dreamed; Her cheek was as a rainbow, it so changed At each emotion o'er its surface ranged—  Her face was full of feeling.
Mrs. Howard's fête at Marble Hill more than realised all expectations. The very spring put itself forward to please her; or, rather borrowed a day from summer. The king and queen were ​in the last extremities of royal condescension. It was enough to make domestic felicity the fashion from one end of the British empire to the other, just to see the august couple walking arm in arm through the gardens; Mrs. Howard a little in advance, pointing out the beauties, and the favourites of the suite close behind. The king was fond of walking; and it is a singular instance of that feminine courage, endurance, how the queen contrived, subject as she was to the gout, to accompany him.
Queen Caroline must have been a very handsome woman; her eyes were still fine, and her smile peculiarly sweet. No one understood the science of temporising better than she did, or of
"If she rule him, not to shew she rules."
Give a strong mind the advantage of habit, and its dominion over the weak one is absolute. It is a strong proof of Sir Robert Walpole's sagacity, that he never for a moment mistook the real source of power. Others might court ​the royal Favourite; he saw at once that Mrs. Howard was but the shadow flung, by the queen's own good pleasure, before her. There can be no doubt but that Queen Caroline secretly enjoyed the knowledge of her influence. To a strong-minded woman, shut out from the natural sphere of the affections, what remains but the enjoyment of consciousness of power?
Amid the brilliant crowd, that gathered on the lawns, or loitered through the saloons, no one looked more lovely than Lady Marchmont; and it was obvious, that she enjoyed the homage by which she was surrounded. Tired of seeing one cavalier desert her after another, Lady Mary Wortley Montague joined the gay circle, of which her brilliant rival was the centre. By so doing, it also appeared her own—at least she was where all assembled; none could say that she was deserted.
"What a change!" exclaimed she, glancing round the room,—"since Mrs. Howard was obliged to cut off her beautiful hair, and sell it, in order to pay for her own and her husband's dinner."
​ "What a dreadful sacrifice!" exclaimed Lady Marchmont, with mock-tragedy air—"though, as Chloe would say, it was devoted to the noblest duty of humanity."
"It is a pity, Lady Mary, that Pope now 'disdains the shrine he once adored,'" said Lord Harvey, "or what a subject you might suggest to him in the locks of the modern Berenice. But I believe 'Sappho's eye, quick glancing round the park,' has lost its ancient influence."
"I am glad to find," retorted her ladyship, annoyed at his allusion to lines any thing but complimentary, and too well known to need more than allusion,—"I am glad to find that Lord Harvey has, at length, found a virtue to suit him," retorted Lady Mary; "there is candour, at least, in borrowing from the wit of others, it frankly admits that we have none of our own."
"It is, then, a virtue," said Lady Marchmont, good-naturedly, "that we are all likely to practise in your presence. But I go a step beyond: I candidly admit, instead of ​borrowing, I would very gladly steal your wit."
"Ah!" whispered Lord Harvey, "Lady Marchmont is resolved that her very sins should be innocent. Now that she has begun to covet, it is something not worth having."
"Are you talking," interrupted Lady Mary, "of Lord Harvey's head or heart? as I hear you speaking of things not worth having."
At this juncture, their attention was attracted to a lady who passed, finely, rather than richly dressed.
"What a splendid pair of ear-rings!" exclaimed Lady Marchmont.
"Well, really," said Lord Harvey, "Lady S.'s conduct is too audacious. Why, every body knows those ear-rings were given her by that man for whom she procured the place in the Custom-house, through the queen's interest."
"Well," replied Lady Mary, "who is to know where good wine is sold, unless you hang out the bush."
"The announcement that the banqueting-​room was thrown open, occasioned a general rush. Lady Marchmont had not yet attained that elegant audacity which forces its way through trains, ruffles, elbows, &c.; and, with the exception of Lord Harvey, who was handing her forward, she completely lost her party. Her attention was engrossed by a young female, who, only accompanied by an elderly gentleman, was quite incapable of either advancing, or even extricating herself from the crowd. Henrietta saw at once that the youthful stranger was unaccustomed to such a scene, and that she was even more embarrassed than fatigued. They were so close that they touched each other, till the lady leant for support against Lady Marchmont. It was but for a moment; and, recovering herself, she apologised in a voice so sweet, and so timid, that Henrietta felt a sudden and voluntary interest,—one of those attractions for which we can as little account as we can resist. She drew the arm of the trembling girl within her own, and said,—"Suppose we try and make way to the window, we can sit there; and ​I dare say that you care as little for the banquet as I do."
They easily reached the window, to the no small joy of the elderly gentleman, who, now that he was rid of his troublesome charge, thought that he himself could reach the royal presence; and to lose his chance of a smile from the king or queen was a dreadful thing. Lord Harvey, after seeing them securely seated, volunteered his services in procuring some sort of refreshment, so that Lady Marchmont was left alone with her new acquaintance. She was scarcely pretty, but looked so young, so delicate, and the soft colour came and went in her cheek with such sweet shyness, that Henrietta found herself every moment more and more interested. At first she had great difficulty in bringing about a conversation, the stranger was ignorant of the topics of the day, and very timid. But Lady Marchmont had a fascination about her it was impossible to resist, and they soon began talking with both ease and pleasure. Suddenly the stranger broke off abruptly in what she was ​saying, her eyes grew almost brilliant with delight, and a rich crimson animated her whole countenance.
"There is my husband!" exclaimed she, in a voice trembling with emotion.
Lady Marchmont was astonished that one so young, and so shy, should be married; but she was still more astonished when she saw her husband—it was Norbourne Courtenaye.