- "Les douleurs muettes et stupides sont hors d'usage; on pleure, on récite, on répète, on est si touchée de la mort de son mari, qu'on n'en oublie pas la moindre circonstance."
- A BRUYERE.
"PRAY put on your Lennox face this morning, Mary," said Lady Emily one day to her cousin, "for I want you to go and pay a funeral visit with me to a distant relation, but unhappily a near neighbour of ours, who has lately lost her husband. Lady Juliana and Adelaide ought to go, but they won't, so you and I must celebrate, as we best can, the obsequies of the Honourable Mr. Sufton."
Mary readily assented; and when they were seated in the carriage, her cousin began—
"Since I am going to put you in the way of a trap, I think it but fair to warn you of it. All traps are odious things, and I make it my business to expose them wherever I find them. I own it chafes my spirit to see even sensible people taken in by the clumsy machinery of such a woman as Lady Matilda Sufton. So here she is in her true colours. Lady Matilda is descended from the ancient and illustrious family of Altamont. To have a fair character is, in her eyes, much more important than to deserve it. She has prepared speeches for every occasion, and she expects they are all to be believed—in short, she is a show woman; the world is her theatre, and from it she looks for the plaudits due to her virtue; for with her the reality and the semblance are synonymous. She has a grave and imposing air, which keeps the timid at a distance; and she delivers the most common truths as if they were the most profound aphorisms. To degrade herself is her greatest fear; for, to use her own expression, there is nothing so degrading as associating with our inferiors—that is, our inferiors in rank and wealth—for with her all other gradations are incomprehensible. With the lower orders of society she is totally unacquainted; she knows they are meanly clothed and coarsely fed, consequently they are mean. She is proud, both from nature and principle; for she thinks it is the duty of every woman of family to be proud, and that humility is only a virtue in the canaille. Proper pride she calls it, though I rather think it ought to be pride proper, as I imagine it is a distinction that was unknown before the introduction of heraldry. The only true knowledge, according to her creed, is the knowledge of the world, by which she means a knowledge of the most courtly etiquette, the manners and habits of the great, and the newest fashions in dress. Ignoramuses might suppose she entered deeply into things, and was thoroughly acquainted with human nature. No such thing; the only wisdom she possesses, like the owl is the look of wisdom, and that is the very part of it which I detest. Passions or feelings she has none, and to love she is an utter stranger. When somewhat 'in the sear and yellow leaf' she married Mr. Sufton, a silly old man, who had been dead to the world for many years. But after having had him buried alive in his own chamber till his existence was forgot, she had him disinterred for the purpose of giving him a splendid burial in good earnest. That done, her duty is now to mourn, or appear to mourn, for the approbation of the world. And now you shall judge for yourself, for here is Sufton House. Now for the trappings and the weeds of woe."
Aware of her cousin's satirical turn, Mary was not disposed to yield conviction to her representation, but entered Lady Matilda's drawing-room with a mind sufficiently unbiassed to allow her to form her own judgment; but a very slight survey satisfied her that the picture was not overcharged. Lady Matilda sat in an attitude of woe—a crape—fan and open prayer-book lay before her—her cambric handkerchief was in her hand—her mourning-ring was upon her finger—and the tear, not unbidden, stood in her eye. On the same sofa, and side by side, sat a tall, awkward, vapid-looking personage, whom she introduced as her brother, the Duke of Altamont. His Grace was flanked by an obsequious-looking gentleman, who was slightly named as General Carver; and at a respectful distance was seated a sort of half-cast gentle-woman, something betwixt the confide humble companion, who was incidentally as "my good Mrs. Finch."
Her Ladyship pressed Lady Emily's hand—
"I did not expect, my dearest young friend, after the blow I have experienced—I did not expect I should so soon have been enabled to see my friends; but I have made a great exertion. Had I consulted my own feelings, indeed!—but there is a duty we owe to the world—there is an example we are all bound to show—but such a blow!" Here she had recourse to her handkerchief.
"Such a blow!" echoed the Duke.
"Such a blow!" re-echoed the General.
"Such a blow!" reverberated Mrs. Finch.
"The most doating husband! I may say he lived but in my sight. Such a man!"
"Such a man!" said the Duke.
"Such a man!" exclaimed the General.
"Oh! such a man!" sobbed Mrs. Finch, as she complacently dropped a few tears. At hat moment, sacred to tender remembrance, the door opened, and Mrs. Downe Wright was announced. She entered the room as if she had come to profane the ashes of the dead, and insult the feelings of the living. A smile was upon her face; and, in place of the silent pressure, she shook her Ladyship heartily by the hand as she expressed her pleasure at seeing her look so well.
"Well!" replied the Lady, "that is wonderful, after whatever have suffered; but grief, it seems, will not kill!"
"I never thought it would," said Mrs. Downe Wright; "but I thought your having been confined to the house so long might have affected your looks. However, I'm happy to see that is not the case, as I don't recollect ever to have seen you so fat."
Lady Matilda tried to look her into decency, but in vain. She sighed, and even groaned; but Mrs. Downe Wright would not be dolorous, and was not to be taken in, either by sigh or groan, crape-fan or prayer-book. There was nobody her Ladyship stood so much in awe of as Mrs. Downe Wright. She had an instinctive knowledge that she knew her, and she felt her genius repressed by her, as Julius Cresar's was by Cassius. They had been very old acquaintances, but never were cordial friends, though many worthy people are very apt to confound the two. Upon this occasion Mrs. Downe Wright certainly did; for, availing herself of this privilege, she took off her cloak, and said, "'Tis so long since I have seen you, my dear; and since I see you so well, and able to enjoy the society of your friends, I shall delay the rest of my visits, and spend the morning with you."
"That is truly kind of you, my dear Mrs. Downe Wright," returned the mourner, with a countenance in which real woe was now plainly depicted; "but I cannot be so selfish as to claim such a sacrifice from you."
"There is no sacrifice in the case, I assure you, my dear," returned Mrs. Downe Wright. "This is a most comfortable room; and I could go nowhere that I would meet a pleasanter little circle," looking round.
Lady Matilda thought herself undone. Looking well—fat—comfortable room—pleasant circle—rung in her ears, and caused almost as great a whirl in her brain as noses, lips, handkerchiefs, did in Othello's Mrs. Downe Wright, always disagreeable, was now perfectly insupportable. She had disconcerted all her plans—she was a bar to all her studied speeches—even an obstacle to all her sentimental looks; yet to get rid of her was impossible. In fact, Mrs. Downe Wright was far from being an amiable woman. She took a malicious pleasure in tormenting those she did not like; and her skill in this art was so great that she even deprived the tormented of the privilege of complaint. She had a great insight into character, and she might be said to read the very thoughts of his victims. Making a desperate effort to be herself again, Lady Matilda turned to her two young visitors, with whom she had still some hopes of success.
"I cannot express how much I feel indebted to the sympathy of my friends upon this trying occasion—an occasion, indeed, that called for sympathy."
"A most melancholy occasion!" said the Duke.
"A most distressing occasion!" exclaimed the General.
"Never was greater occasion!" moaned Mrs. Finch.
Her Ladyship wiped her eyes, and resumed.
"I feel that I act but a melancholy part, in spite of every exertion. But my kind friend Mrs. Downe Wright's spirits will, I trust, support me. She knows what it is to lose—"
Again her voice was buried in her handkerchief, and again she recovered and proceeded.
"I ought to apologise for being thus overcome; but my friends, I hope, will make due allowance for my situation. It cannot be expected that I should at all times find myself able for company."
"Not at all!" said the Duke; and the two satellites uttered their responses.
"You are able for a great deal, my dear!" said the provoking Mrs. Downe Wright; "and I have no doubt but, with a very little exertion, you could behave as if nothing had happened."
"Your partiality makes you suppose me capable of a great deal more than I am equal to," answered her Ladyship, with a real hysteric sob. "It is not everyone who is blessed with the spirits of Mrs. Downe Wright."
"What woman can do, you dare; who dares do more, is none!" said the General, bowing with a delighted air at this brilliant application.
Mrs. Downe Wright charitably allowed it to pass, as she thought it might be construed either as a compliment or a banter. Visitors flocked in, and the insufferable Mrs. Downe Wright declared to all that her Ladyship was astonishingly well; but without the appropriate whine, which gives proper pathos, and generally accompanies this hackneyed speech. Mrs. Finch indeed laboured hard to counteract the effect of this injudicious cheerfulness by the most orthodox sighs, shakes of the head, and confidential whispers, in which "wonderful woman!"—"prodigious exertion!"—"perfectly overcome!"—"suffer for this afterwards,"—were audibly heard by all present; but even then Mrs. Downe Wright's drawn-up lip and curled nose spoke daggers. At length the tormentor recollected an engagement she had made elsewhere, and took leave, promising to return, if possible, the following day. Her friend, in her own mind, took her measures accordingly. She resolved to order her own carriage to be in waiting, and if Mrs. Downe Wright put her threat in execution she would take an airing. True, she had not intended to have been able for such an exertion for at least a week longer; but, with the blinds down, she thought it might have an interesting effect.
The enemy fairly gone, Lady Matilda seemed to feel like a person suddenly relieved from the nightmare; and she was beginning to give a fair specimen of her scenic powers when Lady Emily, seeing the game was up with Mrs. Downe Wright, abruptly rose to depart.
"This has been a trying scene for you, my sweet young friends!" said her Ladyship, taking a hand of each.
"It has indeed!" replied Lady Emily, in a tone so significant as made Mary start.
"I know it would—youth is always so full of sympathy. I own I have a preference for the society of my young friends on that account. My good Mrs. Finch, indeed, is an exception; but worthy Mrs. Downe Wright has been almost too much for me."
"She is too much!" said the Duke.
"She is a great deal too much!" said the General.
"She is a vast deal too much!" said Mrs. Finch.
"I own I have been rather overcome by her!" with a deep-drawn sigh, which her visitors hastily availed themselves of to make their retreat. The Duke and the General handed Lady Emily and Mary to their carriage.
"You find my poor sister wonderfully composed," said the former.
"Charming woman, Lady Matilda!" ejaculated the latter; "her feelings do honour to her head and heart!"
Mary sprang into the carriage as quick as possible to be saved the embarrassment of a reply; and it was not till they were fairly out of sight that she ventured to raise her eyes to her cousin's face. There the expression of ill-humour and disgust were so strongly depicted that she could not longer repress her risible emotions, but gave way to a violent fit of laughter.
"How!" exclaimed her companion, "is this the only effect 'Matilda's moan' has produced upon you? I expected your taste for grief would have been highly gratified by this affecting representation."
"My appetite, you ought rather to say," replied Mary; "taste implies some discrimination, which you seem to deny me."
"Why, to tell you the truth, I do look upon you as a sort of intellectual ghoul; you really do remind me of the lady in the Arabian Nights, whose taste or appetite, which you will, led her to scorn everything that did not savour of the churchyard."
"The delicacy of your comparison is highly flattering," said Mary; "but I must be duller than the fatweed were I to give my sympathy to such as Lady Matilda Sufton."
"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so; for I assure you I was in pain lest you should have been taken in, notwithstanding my warning to say something larmoyante—or join the soft echo—or heave a sigh—or drop a tear—or do something, in short, that would have disgraced you with me for ever. At one time, I must do you the justice to own, I thought I saw you with difficulty repress a smile, and then you blushed so, for fear you had betrayed yourself! The smile I suppose has gained you one conquest—the blush another. How happy you who can hit the various tastes so easily! Mrs. Downe Wright whispered me as she left the room, 'What a charming intelligent countenance your cousin has!' While my Lord Duke of Altamont observed, as he handed me along, 'What a very sweet modest-looking girl Miss Douglas was! 'So take your choice—Mrs. William Downe Wright, or Duchess of Altamont!"
"Duchess of Altamont, to be sure," said Mary: "and then such a man! Oh! such a man!"