The Ladies": A Shining Constellation of Wit and Beauty Part 10

"I leave you to judge, Mr Lepel," says she, "what it costs a mother to see her dear ones exiled from all the little gay scenes where it would become them to appear. But what can I do? My father's grandchildren, Mr Gunning's daughters, can't appear except with propriety; and why should I hesitate to tell so kind a friend that 'tis beyond my power?"

'Twas discussed between them all for an hour as to the Birthnight ball; but Mrs Gunning was resolute, nor could Mr Harry dare to make the offers that trembled on his lips. He could have groaned aloud to think on the sums he wasted nightly on gaming--one half of which would have adorned these beauties and set them free to flutter their wings in the sunshine of fashion. Later Maria, half-smiling, half-sad, told how they were promised luck by the old witch of Dublin, though she gave not all the particulars.

She built not on it, she declared, nor yet did Elizabeth; and she, a soft sigh parting her lips, confirmed her sister: "the more so," says she, "that none of us can imagine what is the Golden Vanity. Is there such a ship, to be the ship of our fortunes? 'Tis that it sounds most like."

He shook his head. Mrs Gunning softly remonstrated:--

"My dears, be not giddy, nor let your heads run on such follies. There is no such name and no such thing and 'tis impossible--"

More she would have said, but a man came crying somewhat down the street, and beside him went another with a flambeau, that he might read a paper in his hand, and what the man cried was this:--

"Let the fashion of Dublin, both ladies and gentlemen, take notice that there comes presently to the theatre in Aungier Street the dramatic company which Mr Sheridan presents to his patrons in a new and luscious play, by name--"

But here was the speaker's voice drowned by a wagon pa.s.sing on the cobblestones.

"What is it?" cries Mrs Gunning, running to the window; for indeed she loved the play as well as did her girls. And, as if the question had reached him, the man turned towards her and bellowed like the bull of Bashan: "The Golden Vanity!"

The little company within stared transfixed upon one another.

For the next fortnight did the three live in a kind of rapture; and 't is not to be wondered at, the name coming so pat on the prophecy. And sure, Mr Lepel was no less moved; for he took a deeper than brotherly interest in all that touched them, his heart being caught that day in Dublin streets; and if he then thought Elizabeth a beauty, it took not a week to rank her an angel. Before the week was out, he laid his heart and the reversion of the baronetcy at her foot, not regarding the worn little shoe that cased it. For, indeed, the sisters wore the same size, and Elizabeth being the better mistress of her wardrobe, 'tis to be feared she sought often for her own, to find them gadding abroad on Miss Maria's feet and herself left to luck. 'Twas mortifying, and her heavenly blush was as much owing to this circ.u.mstance as to the gentleman's ardour.

However, taken by Mr Harry's fine person and clothes (and which was the most potent is not known), she accepted the heart, and he set about to inform his father of his good fortune, for mother he had none. 'Twas with inward quakings, for beauty, were it Helen's own, is but a blunted arrow against a seasoned heart of seventy: and Sir Francis Lepel had reached that discreet age. 'T was vain to tell him of celestial eyes and roseate bloom. G.o.d help us! 'tis little he cared for the like. The baronetcy was poor and Mr Harry expensive, and what Sir Francis looked to was a fat balance at Child's the banker's. Was the lady a fortune? And when Mr Harry, trembling, avowed that a single doit could not be hoped in that quarter, the old gentleman, his temper as well as his foot highly inflamed with gout, swore to disinherit him if the matter went further.

Poor Harry was in a sad quandary. He slept and ate ill, and 'twas provoking that Elizabeth bloomed like a rose and troubled not her fair head about Sir Francis. Her mind seemed possessed with but the one thought--to attend the Birthnight ball and, like the planet Venus, shine in her rightful heaven. And indeed Mr Harry could not fancy her heart so deeply engaged as he might wish; for he could scarce get a word in while the two peered into the mercers' shops, gloating on satin and muslin. Mrs Gunning, as improvident, was almost drawn in by them, when word came of a card debt that their papa owed to Sir Horatius Blake, and the unfortunate lady received not even the pittance that provided herrings for six hungry mouths; so that they were like to come down to dry bread, which event fairly ended all talk of the ball.

'Tis not to be supposed that Mr Harry did not offer to set all the mantua-makers in Dublin to work, though in his heart he knew his own credit did not stand immaculate. He stormed up and down the room, protesting, vowing, exclaiming; but Mrs Gunning would have none of it.

Says she:--

"I do all justice to your kind heart, Mr. Lepel, but 'tis not, because we are unfortunate, that we have no pride, and 'tis impossible Miss Gunning should accept garments from the gentleman she honours with her hand."

And Elizabeth, lovelier than ever in grief, confirmed her mother, Maria stamping her foot like an angry G.o.ddess. 'Twill be admitted 'twas a hard case. And since misfortunes don't come alone, arrived a furious letter from Sir Francis, demanding instantly to see Mr. Harry, and acquainting him that his appointment in the Guards was cancelled, and he must join his new regiment in London at a day's notice. Sir Francis had good interest with the lady whose interest with His Majesty was unquestioned, and 'tis to be thought this event did not come by chance.

Oh, then were wailings and pa.s.sionate embraces on the part of Mr. Lepel, Miss Elizabeth receiving them with wondering eyes. "For London, is not so far but we shall meet again, Harry," says she, with her angelical smile.

He had preferred tears, no doubt; but a man must take what comes his way, and be thankful. He, who had never before been guilty of the like, now composed a set of verses of atrocious demerit. Indeed, the first two lines will suffice:--

If from my Chloe's snowy breast I part, Grant me to know I bear with me her tears.

"'Tis very pretty!" says Chloe. "O Harry, I would you did not love me so!

A girl's affections are cool and temperate, I think--at least 'tis so with me. Forget me a little,--though not too much child,--and be happy."

It might have been her mother who spoke. 'Tis certain no person ever had the appearance of sweet simplicity more than Elizabeth Gunning; but whether 'twas wholly devoid of art--Ah, well, shall we dissect the rose?

Best to enjoy and ask no questions.

The day of parting he came to Britain Street, and solemnly renewed his vows in the presence of Mrs Gunning and Maria.

"And, O my Elizabeth," cries he, "pledge me once more that hand which is all my joy. Swear that neither raging seas" ('twas a day calm as milk and the Irish sea like a mirror) "nor the brutish tyranny of man shall divide us, and that our constant hearts shall never change!"

Miss Elizabeth raises heavenly eyes, a glittering moisture enhancing their brilliance.

"Have I not pledged my word, Harry; and if you believe not that, what will serve? Sure 'tis you that rove and will see fairer faces" (frantic protestations from Mr Lepel) "yet I don't doubt _you_. Farewell, dear Harry, and remember us when you are in the glitter of London."

She covered her face with a handkerchief, and he took the last embrace, kissed Mrs Gunning's hand and Maria's, and hurried madly from the room.

Elizabeth unveiled her face and folded the handkerchief for future use.

"He's gone," says poor Mrs Gunning, seeking her own; "and if I know where tomorrow's dinner is to come from, for you all, I'm--a Dutchman!"

They mingled their tears, and Elizabeth's were real enough now. 'Tis possible, could the matter be sifted, that many more tears have been shed for absent dinners than absent lovers; and certainly, though beauty may survive without the last, it cannot without the first. There was so much of gloomy and terrible in their mama's aspect, that Maria wept also; and Kitty and Lucy, with the little John, who had all been secreted in the bedroom during the adieux, dashed in screaming at the tops of their voices, as if the heavens were falling; and so sat the poor unfortunate family drowned in tears. 'Twas not b.a.l.l.s they thought of then, nor departing lovers, but simply bread and herrings.

A lady came down the street, picking her way through the garbage that adorned it. Her dress was hooped in the mode, and of a showy brocade, with much tinsel interwoven and very glittering, so that the ragged children in the gutter stood, finger in mouth, to see. She had a muslin cross-over upon an expansive bosom, and 'twas finely laced with Mechlin, not too clean, and set off with a black velvet ribbon about the throat, graced with a clasp of paste. A large tilted hat tied beneath her chin shaded an arch and sparkling pair of eyes, which, though not in their first youth, lighted up a face with striking features an air of easy good-humour. If her critics had accused this lady of being somewhat too goodhumored with the other s.e.x, why 'twas perhaps natural to her circ.u.mstances and needs no further excuse. Her worst detractors never denied her a good heart, and an ear open to the lament of misery. In her hand she carried a cane of fine ebony, and altogether appeared a radiant vision of a fine woman in the purlieus of Britain Street. She paused and looked about her, bewildered.

"I declare I know not where I am got to!" says she, half aloud. "And these barbarians--'tis hard to be understood or to understand their gibberish.

If now--"

And even as the words left her lips, arose a piercing wail from across the street, in which three l.u.s.ty young throats united--Lucy, Kitty, and John, each outscreaming the other.

"Crimini!" says Madam, "what's this? Is Herod abroad in Dublin?" The screams redoubled. She added: "'Tis almost to be wished he was!" And stood half-laughing, half-unwilling to pa.s.s on.

"I will!" says she; and more doubtfully, "I won't! 'Tis not my business.

Sure I have enough stage tears and sobs to make me distrust all I hear."

She turned resolutely away, and halted again.

"Poor lady! 'Tis a lady soothing them, and weeping herself. I will! She can but bid me exit."

And so marched to the open door, and into the narrow pa.s.sage, and rapped smartly with her cane on the door of the parlour, bringing all her natural a.s.surance to bear.

Dead silence. The screams halted, as if a tap was turned off: whoever was inside was all ears. She rapped again. And now a scuffling; and Maria opened the door, and six pairs of astonished eyes gloated on the stranger.

And no less did hers on the party within; for there sat Mrs Gunning, beautiful and maternal, with the little John's curly pate on her bosom; Elizabeth, lovely as the day, leaning on one shoulder of her mother; Kitty and Lucy, golden-curled cherubs, clinging to her gown; and Maria, like a sorrowful wood-nymph, holding the door. Sure, never was such a family, and these children seemed made of some more exquisite clay than ordinary.

"Lord, am I got into heaven, for I see the angels about me!" says Madam, advancing with a reverence lower than the paltry room demanded. "Forgive an intruder, Madam, and confer a benefit. For being newly come to Dublin, I've lost my way returning from Smock Alley, and while I called up courage to enter and ask it from any other than these savages, I heard a cry that hastened my steps. Be pleased to pardon me, and say if I can be of service to yourself and your sweet family; for 'tis the plain truth--I'm dazzled as I stand, by the beauty of your olive branches."

'Tis not possible to mistake the voice of sympathy, and Mrs Gunning rising from her chair, curtseyed in her turn, and begged the visitor to be seated. "Lord, Madam," says she, "you catch us very unfit for company; but so kind a heart needs no excuse, and I will be candid with you. We are of birth and breeding like yourself." ('Twas a skilful compliment and the lady simpered.) "And therefore, as a gentlewoman of quality, you shall understand my grief when I present myself as my Lord Viscount Mayo's daughter, and add that I have not the wherewithal to clothe or feed these innocents! You are yourself too young to be a mother, Madam" (again the lady simpered), "yet will comprehend a mother's anguish. I am Mrs. Gunning of Castle Coote, and such is my condition!"

She wept again. The lady applied a laced kerchief to either eye. A touching scene.

"Madam, a heart of marble must feel for you, and mine is not marble--far from it. But sure such beauty must open all doors. Marriage--" She broke off. "Alas, Madam, in these days of money-grubbing avarice, what is beauty? My second"--she indicated Elizabeth--"is cruelly rejected by the father of a gentleman of birth not near so high as our own, because she has no estates pinned to her petticoat." "Monster!" cries the lady with spirit.

Mrs Gunning proceeded:--

"And, O, Madam, were you in want, as a lady of quality sometimes is, of a young lady to write letters, to keep accounts, and all those little useful arts such as mending lace and the like, I can truly say that in my Elizabeth you would find solid worth. She is graver than my Maria.

"Sure we cannot have had the happiness to meet you for nothing. 'Twas ordained you should walk in upon us. Permit me to ask the name of our benefactress." The lady hummed and hawed a little; but not being easily daunted, she tossed up her head bravely enough ere she replied:--

"Gemini, Madam! We can't all be ladies of quality; and if we could, I see not who could provide the wants and amus.e.m.e.nts of the fashionable. To be plain with you, I am an actress--and--"

"An actress!" screams Maria, all rapture. "Sister, do you hear? Was it not this very day I said, would I could go on the stage like the famous Mrs Woffington, and other beauties such as this lady. And then should I be happy and pour all the gold I made into my mama's lap."