# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 6

CHAPTER VI.
MUCH CHANGE IN A LITTLE TIME.
And she too—that beloved child, was gone— Life's last and loveliest link. There was her place Vacant beside the hearth—he almost dreamed He saw her still; so present was her thought. Then some slight thing reminded him how far The distance was that parted her and him. Fear dwells around the absent—and our love For such grows all too anxious, too much filled With vain regrets, and fond inquietudes:
We know not love till those we love depart.
Not above a month had elapsed since the little party were seated on the sloping lawn; and yet that short space had sufficed to change the position of all assembled in the pleasant quiet of that evening.
In the gloomy library of Meredith Place is seated an old man, surrounded by books, which he is too weary to read, and by chemical apparatus which he has not spirits to use. Till she went, Sir Jasper knew not how ​dearly the child of his old age had clung to his very existence. He fancied that he had resources in his own mind: alas! the mind ill supplies the wants of the heart. There is to age something so enlivening in the company of youth, unconsciously it shares the cheerfulness it witnesses, and hopes with the hopes around, in that sympathy which is the kindliest part of our nature. Even his young neighbour who so often shared his studies, had departed—Walter Maynard had gone to London. Nor was the house of the Churchills less altered. Their young kinsman had received a sudden summons from his mother, on the occasion of his uncle, Lord Norbourne's visit. Ethel sat lonely on the little lawn, where every thing had altered almost as much as her own feelings. The approach of autumn's bleaker hour had stripped many of the trees of their foliage, and the bare boughs waved disconsolate to a low and moaning wind. The last of the flowers had fallen from the stem; and there was not even moonlight to soften the dreariness of the scene. The dark evenings ​closed in rapidly, and even the cheerful fireside failed to bring back the smile to Ethel's lip, or the gladness to her eye. There was, however, one time to which she and Sir Jasper alike looked forward. The post came in twice a week; and the sound of the horn, though its arrival was always expected, and every minute of the hour before it came counted, while the breath was held for fear of losing a sound, yet not the less did Ethel's colour deepen to crimson, and her heart beat even to pain. Night after night, too, did she sink back with the sickness of disappointed hope. No letter came from Norbourne Courtenaye.
Sir Jasper was more fortunate: he also set two days apart in the week, he also counted minutes of the evenings when the post came in; but he was never disappointed—it always brought him a letter. Whatever might be the young countess's engagements, none prevented her from writing to her uncle; and for the sake of the beloved writer, the aged recluse took an interest in all the news of the day—in such light chronicles as the following epistle.
FIRST LETTER OF LADY MARCHMONT TO
SIR JASPER MEREDITH.
Vanity! guiding power, 'tis thine to rule
Statesman and vestryman—the knave or fool.
The Macedonian crossed Hydaspes' wave,
Fierce as the storm, and gloomy as the grave.
Urged by the thought, what would Athenians say, When next they gathered on a market-day?
And the same spirit that induced his toil,
Leads on the cook, to stew, and roast, and boil:
Whether the spice be mixed—the flag unfurled— Each deems their task the glory of the world.
After all, my dearest uncle, nothing has impressed me more strongly than our first approach to London. It was getting dusk, and I had for some time been leaning back fatigued in the carriage, when, raising my head, I saw afar off a line of tremulous light on the horizon: it was the reflection of the myriad lamps and fires of the vast city we were about to enter. Next came a hollow murmur, something like the sound of the sea on our coast; but it soon ​grew less instinct with the mysterious harmony of the mighty, but most musical, world of waters—it was broken and harsh, and the noise of wheels was easily distinguished. Then we became involved, as it were, in a wilderness of houses; and there was something singularly oppressive in the feeling of immensity and of loneliness that came over me. The heavy vapours which hung dark and dense upon the air, were as if they rose charged with the crime and suffering of the multitudes below; and the faint light was like their feeble endeavours to struggle through the weary weight flung upon existence. How little and how worthless appeared all my own gay schemes and glad anticipations! I shrank from them as if they were a criminal selfishness. But, as you have sometimes said, I have not suffered enough for my fits of despondency to last very long: mine passed away on arriving at my new house—I cannot say home; that word is reserved for my childhood and you—dear, old Meredith Place is still home to me. I was full of eagerness and curiosity, and would fain have snatched ​a candle from one of the servants, and ran over every room at once. But this was quite contrary to Lord Marchmont's ideas of the fitness of things; and he is, as you know, a disciplinarian in small matters. He has a genius for furniture, and piques himself on screens and arm-chairs.
We arrived three hours later than he intended, and, as the house could not be seen in the precise manner that he wished, he decided that it should not be seen at all till the next day. My own apartment, however, I was allowed to enter; and very pretty, I must say, it is. It is hung with Indian-silk, where the brightest of birds, and the gayest of flowers, disport themselves on a white ground. The screens and dressing-table are of black japan, while the mirror is set in exquisite silver filigree work, of which material are also the boxes of my toilette. There are also two large Venetian glasses. Lord Marchmont's picture used to hang in the place of one: he has removed it to the library,—"Taking for granted," said he, "that you would prefer ​your own face to mine. Besides, it is too much of a good thing to have both substance and shadow." The conjugal gallantry was delicate—and true.
I was delighted the next morning when I approached the window: it looks on a small but pleasant garden, opening into the Green Park. The fine old trees looked like familiar friends. In the distance were the towers of the Abbey, bathed with the golden tinge of early morning. I looked towards it, and thought of the happy evenings passed over the clasped volumes in which its annals are recorded. How glad I now am of all that we used to read together! I have now a thousand associations with you and the past, where otherwise there would be none.
My time is divided between visitors and dressmakers. Madame Legarde, the "glass of fashion and the nurse of form," (alias the most fashionable of milliners,) has comfortably assured me, "that my figure has great merit, and only requires cultivation:" this is to be done by tissues, brocades, and laces, which ​are now scattered round me in charming confusion.
What a duty to one's self it is to be young, vain, and pretty! but the middle quality is the most important. Vanity is a cloak that wraps us up comfortably, and a drapery which sets us off to the best advantage; and its great merit is, that it suits itself to every sort of circumstance.
I have just had an amusing incident happen, very illustrative of my theory. Lord Marchmont gives dinners with a due sense of their importance, and our chef de cuisine is a master of the divine art. His late master fought a duel with his most intimate friend, because he found that he had been holding forth strong inducements for Chloe to become his. "My mistress," said the indignant Amphitryon, "was at his service; but to think of his endeavouring to seduce my cook!" Chloe had, however, a high sense of honour: "A false friend does not deserve me," was his only reply. The death, however, of Lord C———set him free to an admiring world, and ​Marchmont was the successful candidate for his favours. Hitherto their harmony has been perfect—each appreciated the other; and it had been settled between them, that the first dinner after our marriage was to be a triumph.
This morning Chloe sent to ask an audience; it was granted, and he entered my dressing-room.
"Just such a man, so wan, so spiritless,
Drew Priam's curtains in the dead of night,
And came to tell him that his Troy was burned."
Chloe is a tall meagre-looking individual, just embodying the popular idea of a Frenchman. "Mon Dieu! madame!" exclaimed he, all but throwing himself at my feet in the most theatrical of attitudes, (Titus, for example, in a scene of despair with Berenice,) "mine honour is in your hands—I appeal to your feelings—you see before you de most miserable of humanity—ma gloire is the sacrifice of his lordship's prejudice! He will not hear reason, but he will hear you."
"Thank you," said I, laughing.
"Ah, madame!" he exclaimed, "I do only ​mean, that you leave no reason for people to judge with; therefore they must let you judge for them—will you pity me?"
Well, to make short of a long story, told with a broken accent that made it doubly piquant, and embellished with gestures equally earnest and grotesque,—I found that the ornaments now used at desserts are on a gigantic scale; and Chloe believed that he had immortalised himself by a representation of the war of the Titans against the gods. Unfortunately, they were higher than even the room; and Lord Marchmont refused to comply with the wishes of the artiste, and to take down his splendidly painted ceiling to admit of the dessert. This threw Chloe into an agony: with tears in his eyes, he implored my intercession. "C'est mon avenir dat I ask of you. I have not slept for nights, filled with my grand project—mais c'est magnifique! Will madame fancy the entrance of de giants—taller than de tallest figures at de duke of—vat is dat berry?—ah, de queen's, Queensberry, or gooseberry."
My dear uncle, I behaved like an angel: ​I did not laugh—I admired the design—I sympathised with the professor's honourable ambition, but suggested a remedy. "A man of your genius," I said, "should despise the beaten track: all you can do with your giants is to have them a little larger than others have had. Invent something fresh—a hint is all that is needed by a man like yourself. Why not introduce pigmies? let us have some mythological device, executed in an exquisite style."
"Madame est un ange de bonté! je comprends—mais c'est ravissant! My rivals shall die! Yes, we will have the marriage of Peleus and Thetis in the temple of Solomon. Je vois tout ce qu'il y a de grand dans votre idée. De temple shall be of fine spun sugar, and Hymen shall hold a littel torch of scented flame: then de apple flung by de goddess Discord shall be gold."
"Rather ominous," I exclaimed, "for a bridal feast."
"Ah, no! von fine moral lesson; and it shall be gilded. Quel plaisir de faire une chose ​si nouvelle et si sublime! Madame need not fear that she has intrusted her scheme to an unworthy hand—je me dévoue à l'exécution. Mille graces—madame has saved my life et ma gloire. If she wants the least small bouillon, I will always see to it myself."
So saying, he bowed out of the room with an air divided between conscious merit and tender gratitude.
Any subject after this important one must be insipid; I, therefore, bid you good-night God bless you, my dearest uncle!
Your affectionate
Henrietta. ​
LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER
MEREDITH.
Which was the true philosopher?—the sage Who to the sorrows and the crimes of life Gave tears—or he who laughed at all he saw? Such mockery is bitter, and yet just: And Heaven well knows the cause there is to weep. Methinks that life is what the actor is— Outside there is the quaint and gibing mask; Beneath, the pale and careworn countenance.
My dear, kind Uncle,—I cannot tell you the effect which the sight of your handwriting had upon me. It was the first letter that I ever had from you in my life. How bitterly it reminded me that we were separated! and yet I was very glad to hear from you. I am ashamed to tell you that I cried like a child before I opened it, or rather before I read it: still, it has made me much happier. It reminded me, that there was one person to whom every thing that concerned me was an object ​of interest; it broke the sense of loneliness that has pressed upon me ever since my arrival.
I do not agree with Mrs. Churchill's sweeping condemnation, "that London is only a great, wicked, expensive place;" but you leave the fairy land of fancy behind you forever, on entering it. It is the most real place in the world; you will inevitably be brought to your level. If I were to quit it now, I should quit it not liking it at all: no one does who, having country habits, comes up for only a short time. The sense of your own insignificance is any thing but pleasant; then you are hurried through a round of amusements for which you have not acquired a relish, they being, as yet, unconnected with any little personal vanities. You suffer from bodily fatigue, because the exertion is of a kind to which you are unaccustomed; moreover, you feel your own deficiencies, and exaggerate both their importance and the difficulty of overcoming them. But this is only "beginning at the beginning;" and I have a very brilliant perspective—I intend to be so courted, ​so flattered, and so "beautiful." You will laugh at my making up my mind to the last; but I do assure you that a great deal depends on yourself.
The first step towards establishing pretensions of any kind, is to believe firmly in them yourself: faith is very catching, and half the beauty-reputations of which I hear have originated with the possessors. Having determined upon being a beauty, it is absolutely necessary that I should have my portrait taken by Sir Godfrey Kneller: a portrait of his is a positive diploma of loveliness.
Among my new acquaintance is Lady Mary Wortley Montague, who is just returned from Constantinople, where her husband was ambassador. She is very handsome, very amusing, and a little alarming. She tells me, very frankly, that she has taken a great liking to me.
"Not, my dear," said she, "that I profess the least friendship for you—friendship is just an innocent delusion, to round a period in a moral essay. I lay it down as a rule, that all men are rascals to women, and all women ​rascals to each other. Perhaps very young girls, who do not know what to do with a superabundance of affection, run up a kind of romantic liking for each other; but it never lasts—one good-looking young man would break up all the female friendships that ever were formed. In our secret heart we all hate each other. What I shall expect from you is a little pleasant companionship; and I offer you the same in return."
My protestations of "so flattered," and "too happy," were interrupted by her continuing:—
"The fact is, we have each the charm of novelty. I know every body, and shall put them in the worst possible point of view. I shall, therefore, be both useful and agreeable. You at present know nobody, and will like to hear all about them—especially to know the worst: of course, therefore, you will be a good listener. Now, a good listener is the most fascinating of companions. In time, I shall have told all I have to tell, and you will have heard all that you care to hear: then our bond ​of union ceases; and so will our friendship, unless we can in any way make a convenience of each other."
Well, I have made a plunge into the cold bath of her ladyship's acquaintance, and she accompanied me to Sir Godfrey's. It was quite a visit of canvassing, for he has almost given up his profession; it is a favour if he paints you. Lady Mary told me some amusing anecdotes. Among others, she repeated to me a conversation between him and Pope, who called on a visit of condolence during a severe fit of illness. The poet, by way of comfort, gave him every prospect of going to heaven. "Ver good place," replied the invalid, "but I wish le bon Dieu would let me stay in my new house—it is good enough for me."
One day, Gay was reading to him a most outrageous panegyric, in which he ascribed to Kneller every virtue under the sun—perhaps a few more. Sir Godfrey heard him with great complacency, only interrupting him by a few approving nods, or a "by Gott, sare, you say de truth." At the close, he highly ​applauded the performance, but said, "You have done well, Mistere Gay—ver well, as far as you have gone: but you have left me out one great quality. It is good for de Duke of Marlborough, that was I not a soldier, and his enemy. Once, when I was such a littel boy, I was on St. Mark's Place in Venice, and dey let off some fireworks. By Gott, I liked de smell of de gunpowder! Ah! sare, I should have made von great general—I should have killed men instead of making dem discontent vith demselves, as my pictures do."
Sir Godfrey is a little, shrewd looking old man, with manners courteous even to kindness. He received us with the greatest empressement, and was in excellent humour, having just received a haunch of venison from one of the principal auctioneers. "There," he exclaimed, in a tumult of soft emotion, "is a goot man! He loves me—see what beautiful fat is on his venison!"
A few judicious remarks, while he was showing us his pictures, placed me high in his favour; but my last compliment was the climax.
​ "I am," said I, in a tone of the most modest hesitation, "afraid, Sir Godfrey, to sit to you. I shall be discontented with my looking-glass for the rest of my life."
"Mine Gott!" exclaimed he, "your ladyship has a genius for de fine arts—you taste, you feel dem. But do not be afraid—you shall only look your best; your picture vill teach you de duty you owe to yourself—you must try to look like it."
I thanked him for the glorious ambition which he thus set before me: and we took our leave, saying a profusion of fine things to each other.
You see, my dear uncle, I write to you in the most merciless manner: I spare you nothing that happens to me. At least, details only kept in mind for your sake will show my dearest, kindest uncle, how affectionately he is remembered by his
Grateful and devoted
Henrietta.
P.S. Lord Marchmont, whenever he sees ​me writing, sends you a message of equal length and civility. Once named, it will do for always. You can keep it by you like a stock of frozen provision.