CHAPTER XXII.
A MATRIMONIAL TÊTE-À-TÊTE.
These are the things that fret away the heart—
Cold, careless trifles; but not felt the less
For mingling with the hourly acts of life.
It is a cruel lot for the fine mind,
Full of emotions generous and true,
To feel its light flung back upon itself;
All its warm impulses repelled and chilled,
Until it finds a refuge in disdain!
And woman, to whom sympathy is life,
The only atmosphere in which her soul
Developes all it has of good and true;
How must she feel the chill!
"How fond she was of flowers!" exclaimed Lady Marchmont, turning sadly away from a stand of choice plants, which Mrs. Courtenaye had sent her, two days before her death; "there was a likeness between them—so frail, so fair, and doomed so soon to perish. She was too good to last; and I feel as if I had lost an angel from my side. I was always better when I had been with her."
A rap at the door of her closet interrupted her soliloquy.
"I thought," muttered she, "that I had given strict orders that no one should be admitted—well, come in!" and Lord Marchmont made his appearance. "The very person I most wished to see!" exclaimed Henrietta, starting up, eagerly, to receive him.
"My dear Lady Marchmont, your energy is positively startling," said he, slowly articulating his words, and deliberately seating himself in an arm-chair, which he moved twice; once to avoid the air from an open window, and next to avoid the sun.
His wife well knew that it was in vain to speak till he had finished his arrangements for his personal comfort; and she solaced her impatience by tearing a rose to pieces.
Lord Marchmont was about thirty years of age, and what is generally called a fine-looking man. His figure was good, as far as his height and proportion went; but his movements wanted ease, and, consequently, grace; and there was something of self-importance in his air—the last thing in the world to prepossess a beholder in his favour. We may admit the superiority of another, but we very much object to their assuming it as an undeniable fact. His features were high and good, with a strongly marked aquiline nose; but the mouth neither gave sweetness, nor the eye light, to his face. His eyes were of a cold dim blue, that never seemed to vary; they were unfamiliar with tears, and the pupil never brightened with laughter. His lips were thin, and, when they did smile, it was stiff, and made up like the embroidery on his coat. His dress was splendid; his hands glittered with rings, his snuff-box was covered with diamonds, and his ruffles were of the finest Mechlin lace. The only fault was the want of harmony in colouring; the one hue destroyed the effect of the other. I am persuaded, that where there is no eye for colours, something of that keen susceptibility is wanting, which constitutes the poetical and picturesque; and, certainly, to neither of these qualities had his lordship the slightest claim. His style of conversation was made up of set sentences; and his manner, what his inferiors called overbearing, and his equals tiresome. His mind was made up of lessons and examples, he only reasoned by precedents; every thing with him went by example, and it was a relief to him when he could quote an authority. If he had a passion, it was love of money: he loved it both for its own sake—that close kind of attachment which money certainly does inspire—and also for the enjoyments that it could procure. He liked the pleasures of the table, and he liked attendance; he was a sort of Sublime Porte to his valets. Generally speaking, his comprehension was slow, and his ideas narrow; but the moment his own interest was concerned, it was astonishing how his perception enlarged: he became cautious, if not enlightened; and cunning, if not shrewd. In short, his character might be summed up in a word—Lord Marchmont was an intensely selfish man.
Being, at length, comfortably settled in his fauteuil, one foot balanced on a chair, and the other reposed on a stool, his snuff-box opened, and his perfumed handkerchief ready,—Henrietta thought that she might begin to speak.
"I wanted so much to see you," exclaimed she.
"Very flattering," replied his lordship, with a grave inclination.
"I have so much," continued she, "to talk to you about."
"Perhaps, madam," interrupted Lord Marchmont, in a slow and solemn tone, "you will accord me my privilege of speaking first. I have also much to say to you."
It was now Henrietta's turn to seek a comfortable position; and, sinking back on the sofa, she began to pick another rose to pieces. To this his lordship paid no attention, he had a certain number of words to say, and the idea never crossed him but that they must be of paramount interest. He rarely looked at the person to whom he was talking; his glance dwelt either on his feet, or his hands, or his snuff-box—something, in short, that was more peculiarly his own; to say nothing of occasional glances at the looking-glass opposite. He talked as if he were reading aloud, and that in the most monotonous manner.
"It is my duty, madam, to tell you," he began, in a solemn tone, "that I exceedingly disapprove of your conduct."
Henrietta's colour rose. "This is the first time I have heard of it," exclaimed she; "if you"
"Pray, madam, do not interrupt me," said Lord Marchmont; "you may be quite sure that I never make an assertion which I am not prepared to prove. I again repeat, that I exceedingly disapprove of your conduct, in which I am more surprised you should persist, as you are aware of my complete disapprobation."
"What have I done?" asked his listener.
"Again, madam, am I under the necessity of requesting that you will abstain from interruption. The petulance of your sex is especially shewn in trifles. As I heard his Grace the Duke of Wharton observe, only yesterday,—'Women never will listen.' This was his remark while we were walking in the Mall together; and I could not but be struck by its profound truth. I am not above being instructed, whatever, madam, you may think to the contrary."
Henrietta bit her lip to prevent herself from saying, that the task of instruction appeared to her, in this instance, a very hopeless one; and his lordship went on to observe,—
"I am sorry to see that, this morning even, you persist in disobeying me. I repeat, that I entirely disapprove of your line of conduct."
"Why, what am I doing now but listening to you? Is that what you disapprove?"
"To listen to me, madam, is your duty: though," said he, in a voice growing every moment more solemn, "I regret to say, that you pay but little attention to it. Again I assert, that I have only too much reason to complain of your conduct."