Fashionable Life: or, Paris and London

Chapter I

The life of Clara Holmwood, as far as it had yet gone, had, upon the whole, been peaceful and prosperous. Had it not been for the blunder committed by her father, in placing her in the hands of Dr. Brixbourg, and her own greater blunder still, in conveying an inti mation of attachment on her part to a young gentleman who had not conveyed any intima tion of the same kind to her,' — had it not been for these two very lamentable blunders, it would have been more peaceful, and more prosperous still. Nevertheless, she was not only VOL. III. B contented with her destiny, such as it was, but would have considered herself a very guilty creature had she not felt deeply thankful for the blessings she enjoyed. But, in truth, she had never guessed how very much happier she could be, till she was at length permitted to exercise her talents, and execute her will, in the delightful task of pre paring an enjoyable home for a friend who was dear to her.

Lady Amelia Wharton would have been greatly surprized, and greatly shocked, too, had she been aware how painful to Clara's nature had been the restraint which her own dread of profiting too largely by the great wealth and generous spirit of the city heiress had inflicted on her. Conscious of her own ignorance of everything relating to the customs and etiquettes established among persons of rank, and made painfully sensible, by her own unfortunate adventure, that her own opinions could not be applied, as a test of right and wrong, to the conduct or the feelings of those born and educated in a higher class than herself, Clara had restrained a multitude of kind and generous feelings, and refused herself the indulgence of many elegant whims, from the dread of appear ing ostentatiously extravagant, or, what she felt would be worse still, presumptuously generous.

But now she contrived to make it appear so evident to her conscientious ladyship, that all she was doing was for the purpose of embel lishing a residence which she constantly declared she never wished to quit, that all scruples concerning expenditure seemed to have given way ; and accordingly, Clara was now for the first time enjoying the indulgence of a taste which could not have been more really elegant and refined, had she derived the wealth which enabled her to indulge it from acres that had come to her through a dozen descents. My heroine had certainly never looked so lovely as she did on the day that Monsieur and Madame Victor Dormont returned from their wedding excursion to their home, — their ele gant, highly-furnished, and most commodious HOME. Lady Amelia, too, was in no state to medib2 tate upon the question of whose gold it was that had prepared such a paradise for her darling ; and as she gazed on the bright young face of Annie, as she sat down in the exquisite arm-chair which had been provided for her in her elegant boudoir (the ci-devant morning room of Clara), her ladyship certainly forgot everything but the delight of seeing her there.

Nay, even when the pretty bride, after deli berately reviewing with her bright happy eyes all the elegant things with which she was sur rounded, exclaimed, as she threw her arms round Clara after the survey, " And this is what you have prepared for me instead of the grim froisieme that I almost beat you for objecting to !" — not even then did Lady Amelia appear capable of feeling any sensation but pleasure. As to the young Victor, he certainly did appear rather too happy to know very distinctly what he was about, for he seized upon aunt Sarah, who gently stood looking on with eyes that overflowed with tears of happiness as she gazed, and performed a tour de waltz with her round the room, which concluded by his giving her a hearty kiss. But the greatest of Clara's triumphs was reserved for a tete-a-tete conversation which she held with Lady Amelia on the following morning, in the ci-devant third drawing-room, now converted into a boudoir as perfect, even, as that now occupied by Annie.

Clara watched the critical, and, perhaps, anxious eye, of her noble friend, as it deliberately examined the room, as if to discover whether there were any deficiency, or any rea son to fear that the personal comfort of Clara had been sacrificed for the pleasure or conve nience of her friend. But no ; the very keenest examination could detect no deficiency, and the smile with which the elder lady replied to the inquiring glance of the younger, showed very decidedly that she was satisfied. "Do you perceive that I have made a melancholy sacrifice of myself at the shrine of friendship, Lady Amelia?" said Clara, laughing. " No, my dear, you have not," replied her ladyship, gravely ; " but I am willing to say more than that, Clara," she added, earnestly. " But you must behave generously, and not be unmercifully triumphant, if I come to your feet with a confession.

We have both of us, I think, behaved in a very quiet lady-like way, and have never permitted a single word too strong to be civil to pass between us ; but yet we have been fighting a battle, Clara, ever since we have been together. You have been constantly endeavouring to embellish our ex istence, and I, as constantly, have been endeavouring to prevent you. I am now, my dear, going very candidly to confess, that in all this you have been right, and I have been wrong ; and I am now really very sorry and repentant for having so tormented you. Will you forgive me? " Eorgive you, dear Lady Amelia !" returned Clara, colouring, and not looking very directly in the face of her friend — " Eorgive you ? What a word ! What can you mean ?" " I mean, Clara, that I have been unceas ingly using my influence to prevent your indulging yourself by surrounding us all with a multitude of elegances, all conducive to enjoyment, and as perfectly within your reach as the buying a pincushion is within mine.

I have impeded your wish of making this very rational use of your superabundant wealth, because I felt sure that it was more for my sake than your own, that you were anxious to make our dwelling all that you have now made it ; and a feeling which I mistook for delicacy, and almost for honesty, rendered me the very ungracious being you have so often found me. But now, my dearest Clara, I more than suspect that this fine abnegation of self, which I really and sincerely cherished as a virtue, was, after all, nothing but pride, and very vulgar pride, too. I am now fully awakened to the disagreeable conviction, that you must have suffered — positively suffered — my dear friend, from having an imagination so fertile, and a taste so elegant, perpetually kept in fetters, for fear that I should feel too much indebted to you !

Indeed I have been very wrong ! Can you forgive me ?" " One must be made of very impenetrable stuff, not to feel that your present accordance and indulgence, with and for all my whims and all my wishes, overpay a hundred-fold all my by-gone little vexations," replied Clara, em bracing her. And this was, in fact, most perfectly true. The temper of Clara did not lead her to find any bitterness in restraint beyond what was produced by the privation of the wished-for whim ; and as this privation had never deprived her of any indulgence which did not fairly come under that denomination (although the epithets beautiful, graceful, elegant, might have been fairly enough assigned to each and all), she had not suffered any vexation on the subject which was not now over-paid, a thousand-fold, by the present licensed indulgence.

Why is it that a teller of stories finds it so much easier to describe sorrow than joy ? If the human beings whose adventures we are recording have in any way been the victims of sorrow, what a tide of woes comes rushing to the ready pen at once, as we set about giving a sketch of their unfortunate condition. But no sooner do the characters of the drama present themselves under happy circumstances, than we find the record halt. This is not an amiable trait, I am afraid, in the mental condition of story recounters ; but it very certainly is a fact with the majority of us. A more happy set of human beings were, perhaps, never brought together to constitute one family, than was now formed by Lady Amelia Wharton, Clara Holmwood, Victor Dormont, his wife Annie, and their loving old friend, "Aunt Sarah."

But having stated this pleasant fact, I really feel at a loss what next to tell my readers about them. Days, weeks, and months glided smoothly over them, and found them happy — happy — happy still. And then came the crowning joy of being told, upon the best authority, that Annie, although she certainly was looking rather pale, had nothing at all the matter with her which need cause them the least uneasiness, excepting that it might be found convenient, ere long, to look about, in order to discover in some part of the premises an additional room, rather more particularly warm and comfortable than any at present in use. As it had not occurred to either of the four females, for whose accommodation the house had been taken, that such an apartment was likely to be necessary, it now seemed to occur to them all simultaneously, that it might be very difficult to find such.

But Clara, upon this occasion, again felt conscious that she had sometimes a gift of " seeing things that were not yet in sight ;" and under the influence of this occult sort of inspiration, she contrived to be left at home upon a certain day, when Lady Amelia and her daughter were taking a constitutional walk in the Tuileries, and employed the time of their absence in asking " questions she had never asked before." She had made herself too thoroughly ac quainted (when engaged upon a voyage of discovery before Annie's marriage) with all the upper part of their dwelling, to waste any more time upon it now ; but she zealously set about a very diligent inquiry as to what might be found concealed behind sundry doors on the vez-de-chaussee ; and after being assured by the official whom she had selected to attend her, that she would find nothing but places for the reception of rubbish, she made disco very of two by no means very tiny apartments, which she instantly determined to convert into the most perfect day and night nursery that it was possible to imagine.

And then, once again, gentle reader, my heroine became much too happy for me to do justice to her feelings in words. For did she not see in her mind's eye her dearly-beloved little friend, Annie, smiling with maternal rapture as she bent over the miniature bed in one part of the room ; while Lady Amelia stood looking on with a charming mixture of pleasure and astonishment, as she contemplated a perfection of nursery ar rangement, which seemed more like the handi work of good fairies than the contrivance of a young beauty, who might have been forgiven had she been thinking more about her own toilet than that of an unborn baby. Such and so great, however, was the happiness of my heroine, as all this went on and prospered, that the only way of doing justice to her feelings is by saying that she had never felt so perfectly happy before in the whole course of her life.

And then came the anticipated and fondly longed-for little stranger, and a new and deep felt joy beamed, as it were, on all their hearts. No two members of the family met each other that their eyes did not seem mutually to wish each other joy. And then the christen ing came, and there was more joy. The baby was a little girl, and there was a good deal of affectionate disputing as to which of the two godmothers was to give its name. At length it was agreed that they should both have this honour ; and the baby (the prettiest, of course, beyond all comparison, that ever was seen) received the names of Amelia Clara. And the babe's health was drank in sparkling champagne ; and when the gay family party laid down to repose themselves after their happy day, it would have been really a matter of considerable difficulty for the most ima ginative and gayest-tempered person in the world to have hit upon any expedient capable of increasing the measureless contentment of the party assembled at their gay, though very domestic christening ; it is no wonder, then, that their historian, having stated as a fact that the records of happiness do not easily supply any very elaborate details, should leave this succinct statement without lengthening it by repeated descriptions of its perfection.

Chapter II

Iths not a gay task, even for such an idle story teller as myself, to turn from such a scene as I have described above, in order to exhibit the happy actors in it under circumstances very painfully different ; but, to use again a very expressive transatlantic phrase, " I have got to do it." The little Clara (for it was by her second name that she was usually called) had not fully achieved the dignity of being able to walk alone, when her young father, who had proudly proclaimed himself, and not without some show of justice, as the most skilful among her many instructors in the art, was observed to become somewhat remiss in his performance of this pleasant task. Aunt Sarah explained this by declaring that Victor had gone on urging the baby to perform feats of such dangerous hardihood, that he had become terrified himself, at the result of his own lessons ; but Lady Amelia declared that it was only a symptom of masculine incon stancy.

Annie gave a very different interpretation to it. " He has made baby so much fonder of himself than of any one else," she said, " that I have sometimes felt a little jealous, and I do really believe that Victor has found this out, and has given up the office he so dearly loved, in order that I might succeed to it." But my heroine did not agree in opinion with either of them. She fondly loved her dear Annie's little treasure, and had there been a dearth, instead of a superfluity of nurses, to attend her, she would have shown hei'self a very zealous auxiliary. But as it would have been nearly impossible for her to take posses sion of her little namesake for a single moment, without feeling that the darling plaything was longed for by somebody else ; she was more a looker-on than an active agent in the scenes wherein " baby " bore a part ; and her inter pretation of Victor's relaxed activity in giving her walking lessons, differed greatly from that of her friends.

She saw, or fancied she saw, that Victor was out of spirits ; and this idea was so painful to her, that she positively wished to persuade herself that he was ill, rather than permit her self to believe that he was unhappy. Whatever the cause of the change which she remarked in him, she had the deep pain of perceiving that, as days and weeks rolled on, this change became more and more obvious to her; nor was it very long before the other members of the family perceived it also ; but they all agreed in declaring that Victor was unwell. He had lost his appetite, and therefore they said it was evident that he was feverish ; and then an earnest contest arose upon the propriety of calling in medical advice. Clara's heart ached for him, as she witnessed the struggle in his mind, between the vexatious necessity of submitting his pulse, and his tongue, to the examination of a physician, or of confessing to the unsuspicious beings who were now his family, that he was suffering from mental anxiety.

But though perfectly sure that the malady which had produced the change which was every day becoming more evident, was mental and not bodily, Clara was as much at a loss to guess the cause as the simple-minded aunt Sarah herself. It was quite evident to her that Lady Amelia was uneasy about him, but by no means equally so, that her ladyship was as fully aware as she felt herself to be, that it was not his boddy health which had caused the change. This feeling of uncertainty respecting the state of her friend's mind, upon a subject so very important, was inexpressibly painful to Clara ; but she lacked the courage neces sary to entering openly and candidly on the subject. One reason for this reluctant feeling arose from the persuasion that, however unre servedly they might converse together, con cerning the altered demeanour of Victor, they VOL. III.

C u $ had neither of them the power of throwing any light upon the cause of it. It was, no doubt, this conviction which, after many not very pleasant night thoughts, at length determined Clara to avoid all dis cussion on the subject with Lady Amelia, till she had herself obtained sufficient light upon it to assist the judgment of her friend, instead of leading it astray. But how was such light to be got at? Where was it to be sought for ? More night thoughts were had recourse to, before this question was answered. At length, it oc curred to her, that the best person she could apply to on the subject, was Sir William Lawrence. Many obvious reasons seemed to conspire to make this choice of an adviser desirable. His long and well-known affection for Victor, aud the familiar intimacy which, despite the disparity of age, had made them such almost constant companions, pointed him out as the individual most likely to be acquainted with the cause of the young man's anxiety, if any such really existed ; while his near relationship to Victor's wife, gave the best possible assurance of his being as deeply interested on the subject as ever Clara herself could be.

The only obstacle to her immediately acting upon the idea which her anxious meditations thus suggested, arose from the difficulty of seeing Sir William alone. His nearly constant habit of dining with them daily, had been confirmed, rather than weakened by the marriage of Annie ; but this afforded no opportunity for the sort of conver sation which she now wished to hold with him. It would have been exceedingly easy for her to write upon a scrap of paper, " call upon me in the back draiving-room, at eleven o'clock to-morrow," and to have slipped the said scrap into the hands of the friendly old gentleman, when it was extended to take leave of her for the night ; but she thought it so extremely likely that upon feeling a note put into his hands, he should immediately have recourse to the table-lamp, in order to read it aloud, for the good of the company, that she dared not try the experiment.

But fortune favoured her; for having left c the drawing-room for a moment, she returned to it exactly when he was taking his leave, and stepping rapidly up to him as he was in the act of passing through the door, she extended her hand to him as a token of fare well, saying, as she retained his for a moment, " Will you let me see you in this room for a few minutes alone, to-morrow morning, after breakfast ?" Though probably not much in the habit, at present, of making clandestine appointments with young ladies, the good-natured baronet replied to her request, by an acquiescent nod ; and then, very discreetly, took his leave. The anxious Clara was not' made to wait long on the following morning for the tete-a tete conversation, from which she hoped, at least, to derive information, if not comfort ; and in this she was not disappointed.

There was a sort of constitutional dislike to all business-like subjects in Sir William Lawrence, of which all his intimate friends and connexions were so much aware, that no theme, capable of being so interpreted, was ever discussed before him. This fact had become particularly well known to Clara, by Lady Amelia's careful avoidance of all such subjects when he was present, during the anxious period which pre ceded the marriage of Annie. She therefore wisely determined to avoid everything like discussion, and to seek the information she so anxiously wished to obtain by a direct ques tion which he could neither evade, nor mis understand. "What is your pleasure, my fair lady?" were the first words of the old gentleman as he entered. " I want you to tell me," she replied, " the cause of Victor Dormont's being so sadly out of spirits."

And there she stopped. The kind-hearted old man seemed pushed by the direct form of her question, into the painful predicament of being obliged to give an answer. The almost habitual smile of his comely features gave place to a painful ex pression far unlike any she had ever seen them wear before, and this change of countenance was followed by what was more striking still, for he took her hand very gravely, and led her to the sofa, seating himself beside her in a manner which showed plainly enough, that he had no intention of dismissing the question she had asked, in the usually light tone in which, as she well knew, he was accustomed to treat everything. " You ask me a difficult question, Miss Holmwood, and a painful one too. But I am glad it is you who have asked it," he replied, very gravely.

" Your generous, your constant kindness to my nieces," he continued, affectionately taking her hand, " make it impossible that I should consider you as a stranger ; and yet, my dear young lady, with all your kiudness, it is easier for me to speak to you respecting this puz zling change in the aspect and manners of our dear Victor, than it would be for me to speak about it to them. I cannot understand it, Miss Holmwood." " Have you never been tempted to put the question to the young man himself, Sir William ?" said Clara, looking anxiously at him. " Tempted, my dear Miss Clara," replied the old man, shaking his head — " we are often tempted to do things that we like to do, better, perhaps, than is quite wise and reasonable. But I never, in my life, felt tempted to do what I disliked." " I confess, Sir William," replied Clara with a smile, in which there was not much gaiety, " I confess that the word I have used is not very appropriate, but yet I think that there might have been something like temptation, in the wish you must have felt to be made acquainted with everything concerning one so nearly and dearly connected with you."

" Yes .... that is a very natural idea, my dear. But I am almost ashamed to confess to you, that I shrink from the thoughts of hear ing from the lips of my dear, gay, light hearted Victor, the confession that he has some anxiety upon his mind which makes him miserable." " Believe me, Sir William," she replied, "I fully appreciate the affectionate kindness of the temper which occasions this reluctance, and if the gay garcon Victor Dormont were a garcon still, I should probably agree with you in thinking that there would be little wisdom, and less kindness, in urging him to communicate an annoyance which his charming temper would be so likely to treat lightly, if not made to dwell upon it by others. But the case is widely different now. The happiness of Annie, and of her mother, as well as the interest of his child, may all be compromised, if any real cause of anxiety exists, which he may not have the power of removing himself, nor the courage to communicate to his friends."

" Heaven forbid, my dear Miss Clara, that any such misery should threaten us!" exclaimed the old gentleman, very earnestly. " That Victor looks ill, and appears greatly less gay than formerly, can scarcely be denied by any one who observes him attentively," he continued ; " but may not this be accounted for by the new position in which he is placed ? Hitherto, if I understand the matter rightly, he has been merely a clerk, and his duties probably consisted wholly of overlooking ac counts, or writing letters, the contents of which were specified to him by his superiors ; but now he has the position of a partner in this great concern, and he must, of course, feel not only a deeper interest, but also a greater degree of anxiety." " That is quite true, dear sir !" replied Clara. " But yet, I should have thought," she added, " that this change, to an active, intelligent mind like his, must have brought more of pleasure than of pain ; but Victor does not only look fatigued — he looks unhappy."

" He does ! There is no denying it !" returned Sir William, looking extremely unhappy himself, as he acknowledged the justice of her statement. But how is it possible that there can be any cause for it ? Have I not known Roche most intimately for years ? Have I not been accustomed to see him amidst the best society in Paris, both English and French ? Why, my dear Miss Holmwood, his picture gallery, in the Place Vendorne, is a perfect mine of wealth. I have been told, over and over again, that he might sell his collection of pictures for twice as much in London as he is said to have given for them here. It is per fectly idle, therefore, to torment ourselves by any doubts and fears respecting the prosperous condition of the fine concern to which Victor has been admitted." " Is it not possible, Sir William," said Clara, " that Victor may find himself in a more labo rious position than he anticipated before he was made a partner ?

He certainly contrived to lead a very gay life before this much wished for partnership was obtained for him. It would be sadly mortifying to think that his having at length obtained what he so very earnestly de sired, should have caused this painful change from high health and light-hearted gaiety, to the languid looks and saddened tone which we witness now." " It would, indeed, Miss Holmwood !" replied the old gentleman, covering his eyes with his hand, as if he could thereby shut out the painful image she had placed before him. " But the fact is, my dear Miss Clara," he added, after the sUence of a minute or two, " the fact is, that we none of us know exactly what his actual situation is. We all know, well enough, that when he was head clerk to this great concern, that he was a clerk, and nothing else.

Never for a moment did the dear boy attempt to deceive any of us, upon that point." " Indeed, you do him but justice in saying so," replied Clara, earnestly. " On the con trary, he not only stated the fact too explicitly to leave any one in doubt upon it, but he made Lady Amelia understand, much more clearly than she would ever have done without his assistance, that his station was not such a one as could justify his proposing to Annie." "You do him justice, Miss Holmwood. Your statement is most correctly true, and this is one of the traits of character exhibited during the course of my long and intimate knowledge of him, which gave me such perfect confidence in him," replied Sir William, warmly. " But this very truth and sincerity, on one point," he added, after a moment's pause, " this very truth and sincerity make it only the more difficult to understand, why there should be so much reserve about him now.

Perhaps, my dear, you are not aware that I am, at this very moment, quite as ignorant as you are, as to the terms on which he has been admitted as a partner in this great concern ? But it is the fact, I assure you. I have not forgot, and we shall none of us ever forget, your noble wedding gift to your young friend," continued the old man, affectionately taking her hand, " nor have I been left in ignorance respecting any of the circumstances connected with it. I know, that in the first instance, it was proposed to obtain Victor's admission to the company, by the addition of this money to the common fund ; and I know, also, that Annie's mother, with very natural and proper anxiety for her child, desired that this most unexpected provision should be secured to Annie and her children, beyond the reach of any commercial risk what ever.

" This was, of course, at once agreed to by Victor; and it was thus that matters stood, when I set off upon my last trip to England. Upon my return, I certainly expressed something like disapproval at the idea of permitting the mar riage to take place before the young man obtained a distinct position in the firm, and I had more than one long and very friendly discussion with Monsieur Roche upon the subject, and then I left Paris again for a day or two, and when I returned I was told by our good friend, Roche, that means had been found to get Victor into the concern, without his selling his own dearly-beloved pictures, or Lady Amelia's giving up the settlement which had been made upon her daughter ; and be yond this, I know nothing, Victor never having told me any particulars whatever, respecting the terms upon which he had been received into the concern."