CHAPTER XVIII
THE FÊTE.
There was a feast that night,
And coloured lamps sent forth their odorous light
Over gold carvings, and the purple fall
Of tapestry; and around each stately hall
Were statues pale, and delicate, and fair,
As all of beauty, save her blush, were there;
And, like light clouds floating around each room,
The censers sent their breathings of perfume;
And scented waters mingled with the breath
Of flowers that died as they rejoiced in death.
The tulip, with its globe of rainbow light;
The red rose, as it languished with delight;
The bride-like hyacinth, drooping as with shame,
And the anemone, whose cheek of flame
Is golden, as it were the flower the sun,
In his noon hour, most loved to look upon.
At first the pillared halls were still and lone,
As if some fairy palace, all unknown
To mortal eye or step:—this was not long—
Wakened the lutes, and rose the sound of song;
And the wide mirrors glittered with the crowd
Of changing shapes: the young, the fair, the proud,
Came thronging in.
Midnight brought with it all the world to Lord Norbourne's—at least that portion of it which calls itself the world, to the exclusion of all the rest. His usual good fortune attended him; and the management of a fête requires as much good fortune as any thing else. How many were in that glittering crowd whose names are still familiar to us! There was the Duchess of Queensberry, who had not as yet cut the king and queen, looking strangely beautiful, and half tempting one to believe in the doctrine of transmigration; namely, that the soul of the Duchess of Newcastle had transmigrated into the body of the modern peeress. There she was, doing rude things, and saying ruder, which every body bore with the best grace in the world: then, as now, it was perfectly astonishing what people in general will submit to in the way of insolence, provided the said insolence be attended by rank and riches. Near her was the young and beautiful Duchess of Marlborough, wearing the diamond necklace she had recently purchased with Congreve's legacy—last memorial of the small vanity which had characterised him through life. The money now lavished on the ostentation of a splendid toy, what a blessing would it have been to some one struggling with life's worst difficulties—poverty and pretence!
Lord Peterborough was talking to her,—a man sent into the world to shew that the Amadis could have its prototype in reality; and yet all his heroic qualities dashed with a ridicule, as much as to say, the present age is quite unfit for them. Next came a crowd of young beauties, who shed their own brilliancy around; and near were a group of cavaliers, "fine gentlemen about town," who, whatever else they might doubt, had not a doubt of their own irresistibility. And, crowning glory of the evening! a conquest was made, a conquest so sudden, so brilliant, and so obvious, that it was enough to give any fête at which it occurred the immortality of a season.
At Lord Norbourne's express petition, the beautiful Miss Walpole was allowed to emerge from the seclusion of Houghton, where she had been wasting her sweetness on the desert air for the last two years. Very lovely, and very simple-minded, she was allowed more of her own way than it is ever good for a woman to have. Engrossed in politics, her brother left her almost entirely to her own amusements and fancies. Unfortunately, she was induced to accept an invitation to stay at Lord Wharton's, a man notorious for what are so strangely misnamed gallantries, and whose Lady was as bad as himself. She had scarcely reached the place before, also, her intended visit reached Sir Robert's ears. With him, a resolution aways carried itself into action with all possible rapidity: he ordered post horses to his carriage, and went himself as courier to precede it. Making no excuses, and listening to none, he insisted on his sister's immediate appearance and departure, and sent her off next day into Norfolk. Fortune, however, to-night seemed resolved on making full amends to a beauty cut short in the first flush of success, and sent to waste two of her prettiest years in the dull seclusion of an old house in the country.
"What blooming simplicity!" exclaimed Lord Townshend.
"Positive milk of roses!" exclaimed Lady Mary Wortley Montague: but the sneer passed unheeded; and Lord Townshend, crossing the room, entreated Mrs. Courtenaye to present him to her lovely young friend.
Miss Walpole was a soft, sleepy-looking beauty, with a pretty, startled, fawnlike look in her large eyes; shy, silent, and with gathered blushes of two summers on her cheek: but, if she had few words, she had a great many smiles, and of these Lord Townshend had the entire benefit. She was just one of those sweet and simple creatures whose attraction Talleyrand so well described, when he was asked what was the charm he found in Madame's society: "C'est que cela me repose!"
Nothing could be more satisfactory than this conquest was to Lord Norbourne; he saw how it would strengthen the connexion between Walpole and Townshend, and he liked the éclat of its happening at his daughter's house. No one in his secret soul more despised the small vanities and successes of society, while he, also, well knew the advantage to which they might be turned; but he had to-night one deeper and dearer source of gratification—it was seeing his daughter look so well. Lady Marchmont had superintended her toilette, and it was the very triumph of exquisite taste; every thing about it seemed as fragile and delicate as herself. The robe was the palest pink taffety, trimmed with the finest lace, and a magnificent set of emeralds served to contrast her soft fair hair. The excitement of the evening lighted up her eyes, and warmed her cheek with a faint but lovely colour—
"The crimson touched with pale."
The royal party had just departed; Queen Caroline having said all those flattering things which come with such a grace from royalty, and which no one knew better how to apply than she did; and the circle, sufficiently satisfied with distinction, began to grow gayer than ever.
"My dear Constance, your hand is very feverish," said Norbourne, approaching his wife; "you are exerting yourself too much: come with me to the next room, it is much cooler there."
She thanked him with the deeper colour of pleasure, for one kind word of his made her heart beat its quickest and sweetest time, and they turned to go into the adjoining room. At that moment there was a simultaneous rush towards the spot where a popular singer was commencing a favourite song of the time; Norbourne felt the arm that was in his cling suddenly to him for support, and then relax its hold: he had scarcely time to prevent her sinking on the ground. He caught her up, and bore her to the first window near. The blood was rushing from her nose and mouth—she had broken a blood-vessel!