Chapter VIII

The ‘Coming out’

At eighteen, Miss Murray was to emerge from the quiet obscurity of the schoolroom into the full blaze of the fashionable world – as much of it, at least, as could be had out of London; for her papa could not be persuaded to leave his rural pleasures and pursuits, even for a few weeks’ residence in town. She was to make her début on the third of January, at a magnificent ball, which her mamma proposed to give to all the nobility and choice gentry of O – and its neighbourhood for twenty miles round. Of course, she looked forward to it with the wildest impatience, and the most extravagant anticipations of delight.

‘Miss Grey,’ said she, one evening, a month before the all-important day, as I was perusing a long and extremely interesting letter of my sister’s – which I had just glanced at in the morning to see that it contained no very bad news, and kept till now, unable before to find a quiet moment for reading it, – ‘Miss Grey, do put away that dull, stupid letter, and listen to me! I’m sure my talk must be far more amusing than that.’

She seated herself on the low stool at my feet; and I, suppressing a sigh of vexation, began to fold up the epistle.

‘You should tell the good people at home not to bore you with such long letters,’ said she; ‘and, above all, do bid them write on proper note-paper, and not on those great vulgar sheets. You should see the charming little lady-like notes mamma writes to her friends.’

‘The good people at home,’ replied I, ‘know very well that the longer their letters are, the better I like them. I should be very sorry to receive a charming little lady-like note from any of them; and I thought you were too much of a lady yourself, Miss Murray, to talk about the “vulgarity” of writing on a large sheet of paper.’

‘Well, I only said it to tease you. But now I want to talk about the ball; and to tell you that you positively must put off your holidays till it is over.’

‘Why so? – I shall not be present at the ball.’

‘No, but you will see the rooms decked out before it begins, and hear the music, and, above all, see me in my splendid new dress. I shall be so charming, you’ll be ready to worship me – you really must stay.’

‘I should like to see you very much; but I shall have many opportunities of seeing you equally charming, on the occasion of some of the numberless balls and parties that are to be, and I cannot disappoint my friends by postponing my return so long.’

‘Oh, never mind your friends! Tell them we won’t let you go.’

‘But, to say the truth, it would be a disappointment to myself: I long to see them as much as they to see me – perhaps more.’

‘Well, but it is such a short time.’

‘Nearly a fortnight by my computation; and, besides, I cannot bear the thoughts of a Christmas spent from home: and, moreover, my sister is going to be married.’

‘Is she – when?’

‘Not till next month; but I want to be there to assist her in making preparations, and to make the best of her company while we have her.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘I’ve only got the news in this letter, which you stigmatize as dull and stupid, and won’t let me read.’

‘To whom is she to be married?’

‘To Mr. Richardson, the vicar of a neighbouring parish.’

‘Is he rich?’

‘No; only comfortable.’

‘Is he handsome?’

‘No; only decent.’

‘Young?’

‘No; only middling.’

‘Oh, mercy! what a wretch! What sort of a house is it?’

‘A quiet little vicarage, with an ivy-clad porch, an old-fashioned garden, and —’

‘Oh, stop! – you’ll make me sick. How can she bear it?’

‘I expect she’ll not only be able to bear it, but to be very happy. You did not ask me if Mr. Richardson were a good, wise, or amiable man; I could have answered Yes, to all these questions – at least so

Mary thinks, and I hope she will not find herself mistaken.’

‘But – miserable creature! how can she think of spending her life there, cooped up with that nasty old man; and no hope of change?’

‘He is not old: he’s only six or seven and thirty; and she herself is twenty-eight, and as sober as if she were fifty.’

‘Oh! that’s better then – they’re well matched; but do they call him the “worthy vicar”?’

‘I don’t know; but if they do, I believe he merits the epithet.’

‘Mercy, how shocking! and will she wear a white apron and make pies and puddings?’

‘I don’t know about the white apron, but I dare say she will make pies and puddings now and then; but that will be no great hardship, as she has done it before.’

‘And will she go about in a plain shawl, and a large straw bonnet, carrying tracts and bone soup to her husband’s poor parishioners?’

‘I’m not clear about that; but I dare say she will do her best to make them comfortable in body and mind, in accordance with our mother’s example.’

Chapter IX

The Ball

‘Now, Miss Grey,’ exclaimed Miss Murray, immediately I entered the schoolroom, after having taken off my outdoor garments, upon returning from my four weeks’ recreation, ‘Now – shut the door, and sit down, and I’ll tell you all about the ball.’

‘No – damn it, no!’ shouted Miss Matilda. ‘Hold your tongue, can’t ye? and let me tell her about my new mare – such a splendour, Miss Grey! a fine blood mare —’

‘Do be quiet, Matilda; and let me tell my news first.’

‘No, no, Rosalie; you’ll be such a damned long time over it – she shall hear me first – I’ll be hanged if she doesn’t!’

‘I’m sorry to hear, Miss Matilda, that you’ve not got rid of that shocking habit yet.’

‘Well, I can’t help it: but I’ll never say a wicked word again, if you’ll only listen to me, and tell Rosalie to hold her confounded tongue.’

Rosalie remonstrated, and I thought I should have been torn in pieces between them; but Miss Matilda having the loudest voice, her sister at length gave in, and suffered her to tell her story first: so I was doomed to hear a long account of her splendid mare, its breeding and pedigree, its paces, its action, its spirit, etc., and of her own amazing skill and courage in riding it; concluding with an assertion that she could clear a five-barred gate ‘like winking,’ that papa said she might hunt the next time the hounds met, and mamma had ordered a bright scarlet hunting-habit for her.

‘Oh, Matilda! what stories you are telling!’ exclaimed her sister.

‘Well,’ answered she, no whit abashed, ‘I know I could clear a five-barred gate, if I tried, and papa will say I may hunt, and mamma will order the habit when I ask it.’

‘Well, now get along,’ replied Miss Murray; ‘and do, dear Matilda, try to be a little more lady-like. Miss Grey, I wish you would tell her not to use such shocking words; she will call her horse a mare: it is so inconceivably shocking! and then she uses such dreadful expressions in describing it: she must have learned it from the grooms. It nearly puts me into fits when she begins.’

‘I learned it from papa, you ass! and his jolly friends,’ said the young lady, vigorously cracking a hunting-whip, which she habitually carried in her hand. ‘I’m as good judge of horseflesh as the best of ’m.’

‘Well, now get along, you shocking girl! I really shall take a fit if you go on in such a way. And now, Miss Grey, attend to me; I’m going to tell you about the ball. You must be dying to hear about it, I know. Oh, such a ball! You never saw or heard, or read, or dreamt of anything like it in all your life. The decorations, the entertainment, the supper, the music were indescribable! and then the guests! There were two noblemen, three baronets, and five titled ladies, and other ladies and gentlemen innumerable. The ladies, of course, were of no consequence to me, except to put me in a good humour with myself, by showing how ugly and awkward most of them were; and the best, mamma told me, – the most transcendent beauties among them, were nothing to me. As for me, Miss Grey – I’m so sorry you didn’t see me! I was charming – wasn’t I, Matilda?’

‘Middling.’

‘No, but I really was – at least so mamma said – and Brown and Williamson. Brown said she was sure no gentleman could set eyes on me without falling in love that minute; and so I may be allowed to be a little vain. I know you think me a shocking, conceited, frivolous girl; but then, you know, I don’t attribute it all to my personal attractions: I give some praise to the hairdresser, and some to my exquisitely lovely dress – you must see it to-morrow – white gauze over pink satin – and so sweetly made! and a necklace and bracelet of beautiful, large pearls!’

‘I have no doubt you looked very charming: but should that delight you so very much?’

‘Oh, no! – not that alone: but, then, I was so much admired; and I made so many conquests in that one night – you’d be astonished to hear – ’

‘But what good will they do you?’

‘What good! Think of any woman asking that!’

‘Well, I should think one conquest would be enough; and too much, unless the subjugation were mutual.’

‘Oh, but you know I never agree with you on those points. Now, wait a bit, and I’ll tell you my principal admirers – those who made themselves very conspicuous that night and after: for I’ve been to two parties since. Unfortunately the two noblemen, Lord G – and Lord F —, were married, or I might have condescended to be particularly gracious to them; as it was, I did not: though Lord F —, who hates his wife, was evidently much struck with me. He asked me to dance with him twice – he is a charming dancer, by-the-by, and so am I: you can’t think how well I did – I was astonished at myself. My lord was very complimentary too – rather too much so in fact – and I thought proper to be a little haughty and repellent; but I had the pleasure of seeing his nasty, cross wife ready to perish with spite and vexation – ’

‘Oh, Miss Murray! you don’t mean to say that such a thing could really give you pleasure? However cross or – ’

‘Well, I know it’s very wrong; – but never mind! I mean to be good some time – only don’t preach now, there’s a good creature. I haven’t told you half yet. Let me see. Oh! I was going to tell you how many unmistakeable admirers I had: – Sir Thomas Ashby was one, – Sir Hugh Meltham and Sir Broadley Wilson are old codgers, only fit companions for papa and mamma. Sir Thomas is young, rich, and gay; but an ugly beast, nevertheless: however, mamma says I should not mind that after a few months’ acquaintance. Then, there was Henry Meltham, Sir Hugh’s younger son; rather good-looking, and a pleasant fellow to flirt with: but being a younger son, that is all he is good for; then there was young Mr. Green, rich enough, but of no family, and a great stupid fellow, a mere country booby! and then, our good rector, Mr. Hatfield: an humble admirer he ought to consider himself; but I fear he has forgotten to number humility among his stock of Christian virtues.’

‘Was Mr. Hatfield at the ball?’

‘Yes, to be sure. Did you think he was too good to go?’

‘I thought be might consider it unclerical.’

‘By no means. He did not profane his cloth by dancing; but it was with difficulty he could refrain, poor man: he looked as if he were dying to ask my hand just for one set; and – oh! by-the-by – he’s got a new curate: that seedy old fellow Mr. Bligh has got his long-wished-for living at last, and is gone.’

‘And what is the new one like?’

‘Oh, such a beast! Weston his name is. I can give you his description in three words – an insensate, ugly, stupid blockhead. That’s four, but no matter – enough of him now.’

Then she returned to the ball, and gave me a further account of her deportment there, and at the several parties she had since attended; and further particulars respecting Sir Thomas Ashby and Messrs. Meltham, Green, and Hatfield, and the ineffaceable impression she had wrought upon each of them.

‘Well, which of the four do you like best?’ said I, suppressing my third or fourth yawn.

‘I detest them all!’ replied she, shaking her bright ringlets in vivacious scorn.

‘That means, I suppose, “I like them all” – but which most?’

‘No, I really detest them all; but Harry Meltham is the handsomest and most amusing, and Mr. Hatfield the cleverest, Sir Thomas the wickedest, and Mr. Green the most stupid. But the one I’m to have, I suppose, if I’m doomed to have any of them, is Sir Thomas Ashby.’

‘Surely not, if he’s so wicked, and if you dislike him?’

‘Oh, I don’t mind his being wicked: he’s all the better for that; and as for disliking him – I shouldn’t greatly object to being Lady Ashby of Ashby Park, if I must marry. But if I could be always young, I would be always single. I should like to enjoy myself thoroughly, and coquet with all the world, till I am on the verge of being called an old maid; and then, to escape the infamy of that, after having made ten thousand conquests, to break all their hearts save one, by marrying some high-born, rich, indulgent husband, whom, on the other hand, fifty ladies were dying to have.’

‘Well, as long as you entertain these views, keep single by all means, and never marry at all: not even to escape the infamy of old-maidenhood.’