ETHEL CHURCHILL.
CHAPTER I.
THE CORONATION.
What memories haunt the venerable pile
It is the mighty treasury of the past,
Where England garners up her glorious dead.
The ancient chivalry are sleeping there—
Men who sought out the Turk in Palestine,
And laid the crescent low before the cross.
The sea has sent her victories: those aisles
Wave with the banners of a thousand fights.
There, too, are the mind's triumphs—in those tombs
Sleep poets and philosophers, whose light
Is on the heaven of our intellect.
The very names inscribed on those old walls
Make the place sacred.
LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH.
I suppose, my dear uncle, that we shall all now come to our senses—that is, those who have any senses to which they could come— for the coronation is over. We have talked of nothing during the last six weeks, but ermine and purple velvet. The day has been devoted to walking up and down the room, practising the stately pace with which we were to enter the abbey; and all night to dreaming that none looked so well as ourselves. Peers have been at a premium—that is, the unmarried ones; not an heiress but would have waved settlements altogether for the sake of walking in the procession. I can assure you I felt quite glad that I was married—glad for the first and last time, peut-être.
Will you believe me, dearest uncle, when I say, that there are times when I could almost wish that I loved my husband? I often feel, in spite of the perpetual gaiety in which I live, so lonely and so unvalued. One cannot always be amused, one would wish sometimes to be interested. How often have I feelings that crave for sympathy, and thoughts eager for communication! Lord Marchmont would enter as little into the feeling as he could understand the thought. Every day shews me more forcibly the narrowness of his mind, and the coldness of his heart. I do not believe that, in the whole course of his life, he had ever one lofty aspiration, or one warm and generous emotion. He is selfish, but it is selfishness on a singularly small scale: he is scarcely to be called ambitious; for his desires extend no further than a riband and a title—the wish to influence or to control his fellow men by talent and by exertion, would never enter the vacant space called his mind. He loves money, because it is the only shape that power takes, which he can comprehend. Moreover, he delights in its small miserable enjoyments; he likes a fine house, fine dresses, and fine dinners; they are the material pleasures of which alone he is capable.
I am like a plant brought from the kind and genial air of your affection, into a cold and bright atmosphere—a frosty day in winter is for ever around me; while the chill hardens my nature, and I shall soon become a very icicle. What would Lord Marchmont do with the passionate and devoted love that is in my heart? Well, better that it should there waste itself away in unbroken slumber, than waken into the bitter and burning life which is its inevitable heritage. I do not forget your lessons. What has love been to our gentle Ethel? But, how I have wandered from my subject! At all events the external world is bright enough; and why should we gaze on the dark and troubled depths of that which is within?
The spectacle was magnificent—worthy of the history that I recalled. As I looked round the noble old abbey—the most glorious tomb in which ever were enshrined the honours of the past—I marvelled at the indifference with which the ordinary hours of life treat all that makes its greatness and its poetry. I could not believe that I had never had the resolution to see our most beautiful and most national building before.
It was a strange inconsistency, but never till then had I been so much struck with the worthless and frivolous life of society. Never till then did I feel the deep and eternal debt of gratitude that human nature owes to those who assert its higher influence; who feel their generous activity stirred by a thrice noble emulation; who appeal from the present to the future, and redeem their kind, by shewing of how much that is good and great ambition and genius are capable. But, I am wandering again,—perhaps from very consciousness that I can give you no idea of the splendid scene, which yet floats before my eyes. No person can have a greater respect for words than myself: they can do every thing but what is impossible: and there is an extraordinary excitement in a crowd, which lives in no description that I ever yet read. It is strange the influence we exercise over each other. What is tame and cold with the few, becomes passion shared with the many.
When "God save the King!" resounded through the stately abbey, the banners vibrating with the mighty music, I felt quite enthusiastic in my loyalty. I hear that the procession of the peeresses, as each after each stepped through the arch, was quite charming. We ourselves knew the least about it; for we were too much taken up with our own appearance to think about others. After myself, to whom, of course, in my secret heart, I gave the first vote,—the beauties of the day were the Duchess of Queensberry and Lady Mary Wortley Montague. It is, after all, full dress that is the test of the gentlewoman. Common people are frightened at an unusual toilette: they think that finer clothes deserve finer manners, forgetting that any manner, to be good, must be that of every day.
But you should have seen my beauties,—so stately, yet so easy, as if the ermine mantle were familiar as the white and spreading wings are to the swan. Then the fine features were lighted up with a consciousness of looking well, which is one of beauty's most becoming moods. The Duchess of Queensberry is accustomed to that grace with which poetry invests flattery; but she is fitted to inspire it. Odd, very often rude, setting all common rules at defiance, I yet like her better than most of those with whom I come in contact. The fact is, she is more sincere. Now, let us alter and improve as much as we can; yet nature will have what nothing else can, a hold upon the heart. You will think that I am grown "philosophical, very;" but the fact is, I am quite worn out with yesterday's fatigue. I can do nothing but lie on the couch and write to you. I always grow thoughtful when I am very tired.
We are going next week to a fête at Marble Hill, which is given to their majesties by Mrs. Howard. I am very desirous of going, not for the sake of the fête, for I am already beginning to look with an elegant indifference on pleasure; but I want to see the bride. Mr. and Mrs. Norbourne Courtenaye will then make their first appearance in public. The seclusion has been very long of their honeymoon; I wonder there was no wish for display before, as the bride is one of our richest heiresses. Norbourne has only changed suit, and taken the queen of diamonds instead of hearts. I hear that the lady is both ugly and deformed. I wish I could prevail on Ethel to come up to London, if it were but for the sake of eclipsing her rival. I will stand godmother to the town's admiration, and promise and vow three things in its name:—first, that she will forget her faithless swain in the multitude of new ones; secondly, that she will be universally ran after; and, thirdly, that she will be brilliantly married.
And now adieu, dearest uncle, my eyes are closing with a rich confusion of banners, velvet, and jewels. I must go to sleep for a while, and dream of them.
Your affectionate
Henrietta.