A Wife's Duty Part 14

"Yes; my husband required me to act, and I obeyed."

"I understand you. Oh! what a rash, ill-judging being he is! But I beg your pardon, and will say no more. Yet I must add, you are justified; but alas! what can justify him?"

This conversation did not give me any additional courage to undertake and execute my task; especially as I had no reputation as an actress to lose, and other circ.u.mstances increased my timidity.--Lady Martindale had purposely reserved all her powers for this evening, and, as she herself said, she was very glad to have her performance witnessed by such a judge as Lord Charles Belmour--a man whose opinion, she knew, was looked up to in all circles as decisive, with regard to beauty, grace, and talents. No wonder, therefore, that to throw her spells round him was become the object of her ambition. Hitherto he had avoided her, and she seemed conscious that he did not admire her. Her only hope was, I believe, therefore, to charm him at once by a _coup de theatre_; and while she convinced Pendarves that for him alone she should exert her various powers, her fascinating graces were in reality aimed at Lord Charles: so I thought and suspected,--and though jealousy blinds, it also very often enlightens.

She was to begin the entertainments by acting a French proverb with a French gentleman, an _emigre_, who was staying at the house; and having no doubt of her transcendent powers, I felt very reluctant to enter into compet.i.tion with her. Yet, was not the prize for which I strove my husband's admiration? But then was I not degrading myself from the dignity of a wife and a private gentlewoman, by putting myself into a compet.i.tion like this? The question was difficult to answer, and while I was thus ruminating, the curtain drew up.

I shall not describe her performance: suffice, that the exhibition was perfect. The dialogue was epigrammatic, and the scenes too short to let the attention flag. Every word, every gesture, every look told; and the curtain dropped amidst the loudest applauses.

I could only see from the side-scene; but I saw enough to make me feel my own inferiority, and I went on for Let.i.tia Hardy in a tremor of spirits of which I was quite ashamed; nor could the kindest of the audience applaud me, except from pity and the wish to encourage me; while I saw that Lord Charles could not even do that, and sat silent, and, I thought, uneasy. However, I recovered myself in the masquerade scene, though my voice when I sung still trembled with emotion; and now I was overwhelmed with plaudits, and even Lord Charles seemed pleased; for, as I was masked, I could examine the audience.

Still the play went off languidly after the lively pet.i.te piece, and I saw I had mortified my husband's vanity, which my first performance had gratified.

Much impatience was expressed for the next entertainment, which was Rouseau's Pygmalion. Pygmalion by the French Marquis; the Statue, by Lady Martindale. This was received with delight; and I saw that the beautiful statue, whose exquisite proportions were any thing but concealed by the dress she wore, absorbed completely the attention of Pendarves; and when she left the stage apparently exhausted, how different were the look and manner with which he led her to her dressing-room, to those with which he had so handed me!

"Why, why," said I to myself, "did I attempt a comparison, in which I was sure to fail?" But if I had erred, I had meant well, and my mother had approved my conduct, and that must console me under my want of success; for, instead of winning Seymour back, I now saw that, feeling my rival's superiority over me, he would be more her slave than ever.

The whole concluded with a ballet of action, a monodrame, by Lady Martindale, to which I was too uncomfortable to attend; but what I saw I thought admirable. She pretended to be overcome with fatigue when it was ended, and fell into my husband's arms, who in his alarm called me to her a.s.sistance. I went; but her lip retained its glowing hue, and I saw in her illness nothing but a new att.i.tude, and that the statue was now rec.u.mbent. Having been long enough contemplated in this posture, she opened her eyes, fixed them with a dying look on Pendarves, and then desired him to lead her to her apartment: whence she returned attired in a splendid mantle, which seemed in modesty thrown over her statue dress, but which coquettishly displayed occasionally the form it seemed intended to hide.

I never saw Lord Charles so disconcerted as he was during the whole of the time. He could not bear to praise the heroine of the evening, yet he felt that praise was her due. Nor could he bear either to find fault with or to praise _me_. In this dilemma, he seemed to think it was best to be silent; and drawing himself up, he entrenched himself in the consciousness that he was Lord Charles Belmour. But while Lady Martindale leaned on Seymour on one side and I on the other, as we were awaiting the summons to supper, surrounded by our flatterers, one glance at my dejected countenance brought back his kinder feelings; and turning to my mother, who held his arm, he said, "Shall I tell your fair daughter how enchanted I was with the masquerade scene?"

"I a.s.sure you," said Seymour, "Helen did not do herself justice to-night: she did not act as well as she can act."

"I should have been very sorry, so much do I esteem her, to have seen her act better," was his cold reply. "Would you have your wife, Pendarves, perform as well as a professional person, and as if she had been brought up on the stage?"

"I would wish my wife to do well whatever she undertakes," replied Seymour.

"And so she does, and so she _did_; but if you do not love her the better (as I am sure you do) for the graceful timidity which she displayed, I could not esteem you."

Lady Martindale, who watched his very look, now bit her lip, and Seymour did not look pleased. My mother owned afterwards, that what with pinching Lord Charles's arm, to see how Lord and Lady Martindale both were confused by the first part of his speech, and squeezing it affectionately from delight at the last, she is very sure Lord Charles carried her marks with him to London. _I_ too could scarcely keep the grateful tears from flowing down my cheeks, which his well timed kindness brought into my eyes: but I saw that my expression was not lost upon him.

Seymour led Lady Martindale to the head of the supper table, and Lord Charles on account of his rank was forced to sit next her.

"Painful pre-eminence!" he whispered to my mother, who, as I was one of the queens of the night, insisted on my taking her place on the other side. Lord Martindale seated himself next me; and Seymour took the seat vacant by Lady Martindale. As Lord Charles scarcely noticed her, except as far as civility commanded, Lady Martindale soon turned her back on him, and Seymour and she seemed to forget any one else was present.

Lord Charles endeavoured by the most unremitting attentions to conceal from me what must, he knew, distress me. But he could not do it: I heard every whisper of their softened voices, and I dare say my uneasy countenance was a complete and whimsical contrast to that of Lord Martindale, who seemed perfectly easy under circ.u.mstances which would have distressed most men, and talked and laughed with every one in his turn.

The Lord and Lady of the feast, who were never tired of exhibitions, now began their usual demands on the talents of their guests, and were importunate in soliciting several of them to sing, a custom which I usually think "more honoured in the breach than the observance;" but on this occasion it was welcome to me, especially as I knew that it must for a time interrupt Seymour's attention to Lady Martindale. But as the hypochondriac, when he reads a book on diseases, always finds his own symptoms in every case before him, so I in the then existing state of my feelings always brought home every thing I heard or read to my own heart; and two of the songs which were sung that night accorded so well with my own state of mind, that I felt the tears come into my eyes as I listened; and during the following one Pendarves sighed so audibly, that I imagined he felt great sympathy with the sentiments; and that idea increased my suffering:--

SONG.

O that I could recall the day When all my hours to thee were given, And, as I gazed my soul away, Thou wert my treasure, world, and heaven!

Then time on noiseless pinions flew, And life like one bright morning beam'd: Then love around us roses threw, Which ever fresh and fragrant seem'd.

And are these moments gone for ever?

And can they ne'er return? NO NEVER.

For oh! that cruel traitor Time, Although he might unheeded move, Bore off our YOUTH'S luxuriant prime, And _also_ stole the _bloom of_ LOVE.

Yet still the thought of raptures past Shall gild life's dull remaining store, As sinking suns a _splendour_ cast On scenes their _presence lights_ no more.

But are those raptures gone for ever?

And will they ne'er return? NO NEVER.

The other song was only in unison with my feelings in the last lines of the last verse. Still, while my morbid fancy made me consider them as the expression of my own sentiments, I listened with such a tell-tale countenance, that my delicacy was wounded; for I saw that my emotion was visible to those who sat opposite to me.

The song was as follows:--

FAIREST, SWEETEST, DEAREST,

A SONG.

"Say, by what name can I impart My sense, dear girl, of what thou art?

Nay, though to frown thou darest, I'll say thou art of _girls the pride_: And though that modest lip may chide, Mary! I'll call thee 'FAIREST.'

"Yet no--that word can but express The soft and winning loveliness In which the sight thou meetest.

But not thy heart, thy temper too, So good, so sweet--Ha! that will do!

Mary! I'll call thee 'SWEETEST.'

"But 'fairest, sweetest,' vain would be To speak the love I feel for thee: Why smilest thou as thou hearest?"

"Because," she cried, "one little name Is all I wish from thee to claim-- That _precious_ name is 'DEAREST.'"

You will not, I conclude, imagine that I remember these songs only from having heard them that night, especially as they have very little merit; but the truth is, I was so pleased with them, because I fancied them applicable to my own feelings, that I requested them of the gentlemen who sung, and they were given to me.

Lord Charles meanwhile listened to the singing with great impatience, as he had had enough of the company, which was very numerous, and by no means as select as it had been before. Indeed at one table were many persons in whom the observant eye of Lord Charles discovered a.s.sociates whose evident vulgarity made him feel himself out of his place. However, he could not presume to break up the party; and as our indefatigable host and hostess still kept forcing the talents of their guests into their service, song succeeded to song, and duet to duet. From one of the latter, however, sung by a lady and gentleman, I at length derived a soothing feeling; and in one moment, an observation of Seymour's, with, as I fancied, a correspondent and intended expression of countenance, removed a load from my heart, and my clouded brow became consciously to myself unclouded again.

The words of this healing duet were as follows:--

DUET.

"Say, why art thou pensive, beloved of my heart?

Indeed I am happy wherever thou art: My eyes I confess toward others may rove, But never, believe me, with wishes of love.

And trust me, however my _glances_ may roam, Of them, and _my heart_, THOU ALONE ART THE HOME!"

ANSWER.

"Perhaps I am wrong thus dejected to be; But my faithful eyes never wander from _thee_.

On beauty and youth _I unconsciously_ gaze, No thought, no emotion in me they can raise; And ah! if thine eyes get the habit to roam, How can I _be certain_ they'll EVER COME HOME?"

"Oh! trust thy own charms! See the bee as he flies, And visits each blossom of exquisite dies; There culls of their sweetness some store for his cell; But short are his visits, and prompt his farewell; For still he remembers, howe'er he may roam, That _h.o.a.rd of delight_ which AWAITS HIM AT HOME.

"Then trust me, however thy Henry may roam, I feel my best pleasures AWAIT ME AT HOME."

"I'll try to believe, howsoever thou roam, Thy heart's dearest pleasures await thee at home."

"That is a charming duet," cried Seymour when it was ended. Then leaning behind Lady Martindale and Lord Charles, and calling to me, he said, with a look from which my conscious eye shrunk, "Helen, I admire the sentiment of that duet. I think, my love, we will get it--we should sing it _con amore_, should we not?" I could not look at him as I replied, "_I_ could, I am sure."

"Silly girl," he added in a low and kind tone, "and so, I am sure, could I."