RECOLLECTIONS OF A CHAPERON.

STANDARD

NOVELS.

No CXIV.

“No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction. Pictures of life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more eagerly received by the many than graver productions, however important these latter may be. Apuleius is better remembered by his fable of Cupid and Psyche than by his abstruser Platonic writings; and the Decameron of Boccaccio has outlived the Latin Treatises, and other learned works of that author.”

RECOLLECTIONS OF A CHAPERON.

COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.

LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET; AND BELL & BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH. 1849.

NOTICE.

The Proprietors of Circulating Libraries in all parts of the country are compelled by the new Copyright Act to discontinue purchasing and lending out a single copy of a foreign edition of an English work. The mere having it in their possession ticketed and marked as a library book exposes them to

A PENALTY OF TEN POUNDS.

By the new Copyright Act and the new Customs Act, even single copies of pirated editions of English Works are prohibited both in Great Britain and the Colonies. Copies so attempted to be passed are seized.

☞ These measures will be rigidly enforced.

Clara Cawse, pinx. G. Cook sc.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A CHAPERON.

Isabella looked surpassingly beautiful when bending over the marble basin, while she laughingly twisted dahlias into her hair.

London, Published by Richard Bentley, 1848

RECOLLECTIONS

OF

A CHAPERON.

EDITED BY

LADY DACRE.

LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET; AND BELL & BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH. 1849.

London: Spottiswoode and Shaw, New-street-Square.

[Pg 1]

RECOLLECTIONS

OF

A CHAPERON.

INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.

I was left a widow with seven daughters. I have married them all, or rather, I have let them marry themselves; for I never took any active measures towards bringing about a result which I own to be a desirable one in a family consisting of seven daughters and one son.

I have seen manœuvring mothers succeed; but I have as often seen them fail in their matrimonial speculations. I have seen dignified mothers with modest daughters, pass year after year, unnoticed and unsought; but I have also seen the unobtrusive daughters of retiring mothers form splendid alliances; and at the very beginning of my career as a Chaperon, I came to the conclusion that, as there was no rule which could ensure success, it was safer and more respectable to do too little than to do too much; better simply to fail, than to fail and to be ridiculous at the same time.

Accordingly, when I had mounted my feathered hat and black velvet gown, or my white satin gown and flowered cap, as the occasion might require, and patiently taken my station upon the chair, seat, or bench which I could most conveniently appropriate to myself, I beguiled the weary hours by studying those around me, trusting for the rest to chance, and to the principles which I had endeavoured to impress upon the minds of my girls; viz. not to flirt so as to attract attention,—not to think too highly of their own pretensions,—and, above all, not to be betrayed into laughing at [Pg 2]any man before they knew him, by which means more than one girl of my acquaintance has been obliged, for consistency’s sake, to repulse a person whom, upon further acquaintance, she might have sincerely preferred.

My daughters were not beautiful enough, nor did they marry brilliantly enough, to excite the jealousy of other mothers. I had brought them up to avoid a fault odious in all, but especially so in the young, that of being more ready to perceive the failings than the merits of their companions: we were, therefore, a popular family. I had myself the happy knack of being interested in the concerns and distresses of others, and I listened with pleasure to details however trifling: I had consequently many intimate friends.

As people never were afraid of me, transient emotions, and harmless weaknesses, which would have been concealed from a sterner, cleverer, or more important personage, were confessed, or, at all events, permitted to escape in a tête-à-tête with the good-natured, quiet, inoffensive Mrs. ——. But what am I doing? I wish to preserve my incog., and only hope I have not already betrayed myself by the mention of my white satin, and my black velvet gowns.

I will write no more, lest some unguarded expression should give a clue to my name: I will simply add, that my last daughter having been comfortably established a year ago, “Othello’s occupation is gone;” and my purse being somewhat drained by the purchase of so many trousseaux, I have occupied my leisure, and, I trust, shall recruit my finances, by portraying characters and feelings which I believe are true to nature, although under circumstances and in situations not founded on fact.

[Pg 3]

CHAPTER I.

Why is it that the bustling matron, who (having, without preference or selection, married the first man who proposed to her,) has spent her days in the unsentimental details of a household, a nursery, and a school-room, merely considering her partner as the medium through which the several departments are provided for?—why is it that the languid beauty, who has sold herself to age or folly for an opera-box, an equipage, a title?—why is it that the scold, who has jangled through a wedded life of broils and disputes—and the buxom widow, whose gay and blooming face gives the lie to her mourning garments?—why is it that they all cast a pitying glance of contempt on the “single woman of a certain age” who ventures an opinion on the subject of love? Why do they all look as if it were impossible she could ever have felt its influence?

On the contrary, the very fact of singleness affords in itself presumptive evidence of the power of some strong and unfortunate predilection. Few women pass through life without having had some opportunities of what is commonly called “settling;” therefore the chances are, that betrayed affections, an unrequited attachment, or an early prepossession, has called forth the sentiment of which they are supposed incapable—and called it forth, too, in a mind of too much delicacy to admit the idea of marriage from any other motive than that of love.

[Pg 4]

The following story, which is ushered into the world by so unattractive a title, might afford an example, that a life which appears “a blank” in the history of events, may be far from “a blank” in the history of feelings.

By the death of her father, Lord T——, Isabella St. Clair found herself, at the age of nineteen, an orphan possessed of a considerable fortune, of great personal attractions, and of all the accomplishments which, in these days of education and refinement, are expected to grace young ladies of fashion. Her brother, the young Lord T——, was not of an age to serve as her protector, and accordingly she removed to the house of her uncle and guardian, Sir Edward Elmsley.

Sir Edward and Lady Elmsley were of that respectable class of English gentry who, by not attempting to move in a more elevated circle than that in which they are naturally placed, command the esteem and respect of those above, as well as of those below them. Their daughter Fanny, although of the same age as her cousin Isabella, had not yet been initiated into the pleasures and the pains of a London campaign.

Isabella, who had been accustomed to a life of excitement, was not sorry, at the expiration of her mourning for her father, to join in whatever gaiety was going forward, and to exercise once more the power of that beauty which, even in London, had attracted its full share of admiration.

In the country, where beauty, rank, fashion, fortune, and accomplishments are not so common, of course the brilliant Miss St. Clair was the star of every ball; and all the young men of any pretensions in the county vied with each other in obtaining a word, a smile, a look from the lovely Isabella.

Nor did the charms with which she was really endowed lose any thing from want of skill in the possessor. She had the art of keeping an indefinite number of persons occupied with her alone; she had left her shawl in the next room, and, with a thousand graceful apologies, she asked one person to fetch it for her, at the same time holding her cup in a helpless manner, and casting a beseeching glance around her, which brought a hundred eager hands to set it down. Then she looked timidly confused at having given so much trouble. Presently she had a message to send to her cousin Fanny, with which she despatched one admirer, while she hinted in [Pg 5]a low voice to another, who was pressing her to stand up in the next quadrille, that she did not like to do so while Fanny was sitting still. The devoted youth flew to dance with Fanny, claiming as his reward the hand of Isabella for the ensuing waltz. She knew how to pique and to excite the vanity of each: to one she implied she had heard something of him which certainly had very much surprised her; to

another that she understood he had been abusing her horridly; she playfully scolded a third for not admiring Fanny half as much as he ought, and wondered how he could be so blind. She assured a fourth that he and all the world had quite mistaken her disposition; indeed, that scarcely any one did understand her; implying there was depth of character and feeling beyond the reach of the multitude, and thereby piquing and interesting the sentimental youth to discover these hidden treasures.

Fanny, meanwhile, placid and contented, enjoyed what she met with that was agreeable, without its ever crossing her imagination to feel envy or jealousy of her cousin. She was not mortified, for she saw her so beautiful, so brilliant, that all rivalry seemed out of the question. They were happy and affectionate with each other. Isabella, constitutionally gay, good-humoured, and joyous, was never crossed or thwarted by Fanny, and, although an acute observer might discover in her fondness for her cousin, a tone of superiority, a protecting kindness, Fanny so completely acquiesced in that superiority, that it never for a moment wounded her self-love.

About a year after Isabella’s arrival at Elmsley Priory, the society of that neighbourhood received a very animating addition in the young Lord Delaford, who, soon after his return from his travels, established himself at his beautiful Castle of Fordborough. He joined to the most prepossessing appearance and manners, an excellent character, considerable talents, and extensive possessions. He paid a visit to Sir Edward Elmsley, and of course Isabella counted upon him as her devoted slave, and thought such a conquest was not to be neglected.

She was rather surprised that he handed the quiet Fanny to dinner, but she satisfactorily accounted for this circumstance by supposing he considered it a courtesy to which the young lady of the house was entitled. But when, in the [Pg 6]course of the evening, he voluntarily seated himself by Fanny, and appeared interested by her conversation, she certainly was very much astonished, and not much pleased.

To Lord Delaford, who had lately come into the country, wearied and disgusted with the dissipation of Paris, and the turmoil of London, the style, the vivacity, and even the beauty of Isabella, were too much what he had been in the habit of seeing every day, to possess any peculiar attractions for him; while the calm brow, the placid air, the perfect innocence and unconsciousness of Fanny’s manner, appeared to him as soothing and refreshing as the green trees and verdant meadows after the glare and confusion of the streets. In conversation he found her modest and well-informed, and he sought her society the next day and the next. By degrees his manner assumed a tone of admiration which, to a person accustomed as she was to be placed in the shade, had more than the usual effect attributed to admiration, that of enhancing the charms by which it was first excited.

Those who imagine they do not please, often neglect the means by which they might do so; whereas, if they once become aware that all they say and do finds favour in the sight of others, they are no longer ashamed of being charming, or afraid to be agreeable.

People in general were astonished at the wonderful improvement in Fanny, but her mother remarked that, when Lord Delaford entered the room, her soft brown eyes shone with a lustrous consciousness, that if he addressed her, the colour mounted in her pale and delicate complexion, and she understood full well the cause of this improvement.

If Lord Delaford had been originally attracted by the unruffled placidity of her expression, he was infinitely more so by finding that his presence had the power of disturbing that placidity. Though he could not doubt that he possessed many qualities which might make him an object of preference to young ladies, and every adventitious qualification to make him approved of by the old; though he must have known he had been sighed for by daughters, and sought by mammas; still he was not one of those men who are piqued by coldness, and inflamed by the difficulty of winning the object. On the contrary, there was a natural diffidence about him which made [Pg 7]him vulnerable to the attentions of women, and easily daunted by any appearance of disinclination.

Fanny was too amiable and too humble ever to have felt jealous of her cousin, but she was not insensible to the pleasure of finding herself suddenly preferred by the one person whose favour all were desirous to gain. Every thing seemed to prosper to the utmost of her or her parents’ wishes. Lord Delaford became every day more serious in his attentions, and there appeared to be no reason why Fanny should not yield to the engrossing fascinations of a passion which, if felt for the first time at the age of twenty, combines with the freshness of a first love the depth and strength of which the more formed character is susceptible.

In the mean time Isabella no longer found the same gratification in the insipid crowd of common-place admirers, whose suffrages had before elated her. She felt, truly enough, of how much more value were the sincere esteem and affection of one true heart, than all the frivolous admiration of people she did not care for; all her former conquests lost their value in her eyes; she, for the first time, felt herself the forgotten and neglected one. Vanity, like ambition, only becomes the more insatiable by being fed, and, as the single Mordecai, who refused to bow before the pomp of Haman, embittered all the glories of his triumph, so the one person who was proof against her charms outweighed, in her estimation, the herd who acknowledged their power.

She had too much tact, too much knowledge of the world, too much spirit, to allow these feelings to be visible to the eyes of common observers. Lord Delaford and Fanny were so completely occupied with each other that they could not remark any thing about Isabella; but Lady Elmsley, with maternal quick-sightedness, perceived her mortification, and with pride, which may perhaps be pardoned in a mother, could not help being pleased that, at length, her daughter’s merits should be valued, as they deserved, above those of Isabella.

Occasionally Isabella caught a glance of triumph which escaped from the eyes of Lady Elmsley, and she resolved to let slip no opportunity of gaining the attention of Lord Delaford.

Mortification is but half felt while it is only felt in secret. [Pg 8]It is not till we perceive it has been remarked by others, that it becomes one of the most painful sensations to which the weak, the vain, and the worldly, are liable, and one from which the most humble and pure minded can scarcely boast of being entirely free.

CHAPTER II.

Gerarda.—Que todo se aprende hija y no hai cosa mas facil que engañar a los hombres de que ellos tienen la culpa; porque como nos han privado el estudio de los ciencios en que pudieramos divertir nuestros ingenios sutiles, solo estudiamos una, que es la de engañarlos, y como no hay mas de un libro, todas lo sabemos de memoria.

Dorotea.—Nunca yo le he visto.

Gerarda.—Pres es excellente letura, y de famosos capitulos.

Dorotea.—Dime los titulos signiera.

Gerarda.—De fingir amor al rico y no disgustar el pobre.

De desmayarse a su tiempo, y llorar sin causa.

De dar zelos al libre y al colerico satisfacciones.

De mirar dormido, y reir con donayre.

De estudiar vocablos y aprender bailes.

Y de no enamorarse por ningun acontecimiento, porquè todo se va perdido, sin otros muchos capitulos de mayor importancia.

Lope de Vega.

Isabella had attentively studied the character of Lord Delaford, and she felt sure that if she could once get him within her toils, she should be able to keep him there. She had discovered, that although too refined not to be disgusted by any open attempt to attract him, there was a considerable mixture of vanity and of humility in his composition; and she flattered herself she could work upon both these feelings.

She one day happened to sit next him at dinner, and contrived, with a tact for which she was peculiar, to turn the conversation upon himself. She said she never knew any one of whom she was so much afraid: to which he replied,

“That is very odd! I have always been reckoned a good-natured sort of fellow.”

“Oh, yes!” she answered; “I am sure you are good-natured; but your very good-nature helps to frighten me. You are so unlike other people; and I feel so awed when you are present.”

“Well, that is strange! I don’t think I ever awed any body before. Do I look so cross?”

[Pg 9]

“Oh! it is not that; but you are so good; and you always say just what you should say, and no more. I should be afraid to utter, or to do any thing foolish before you.”

“Well, I should be as useful to you as Prince Cheri’s ring in the fairy tale. It is a pity I am not always by your side!”

“Oh! but then I should always be in a fright;—not that I mean it is a disagreeable sort of fright.” And she turned the conversation, fearful of showing any design of attracting him.

In the evening, he, as usual, turned over the leaves of Fanny’s music-book, while she was singing, or forgot to turn them over, while gazing with delight upon those melting, yet innocent eyes, which met his so kindly and so trustingly—eyes, that looked as if there lurked in the heart beneath, depths of unawakened and unexplored feelings, which only waited to be excited.

But when he was alone, the remarks of Isabella recurred to his recollection, and he wondered what in him could have struck her as being so singular and so reserved. The next day, when they were riding, he found himself near her, and reverted to the conversation of the preceding day.

“I have been quite uneasy, Miss St. Clair, at finding I am so disagreeable as I must be, if I am the precise, formal, measured person you describe me to be.”

A certain step is gained, when, instead of starting a new and indifferent subject, the topic of the preceding conversation is resumed. Most coquettes know, by intuition, that the best mode of accomplishing this is to talk to persons of themselves. Isabella’s heart beat quicker at finding how well she had succeeded in awakening his curiosity; but assuming a nonchalant manner, she answered,

“Disagreeable! Surely I never could have said any thing half so uncivil?”

“Oh, certainly you did not tell me in so many words that I was disagreeable; but you implied it.”

“No, no! Indeed, I think I said every thing most flattering—that you were so very good.”

“Well, I suppose if I am so very good, I must not consider being good, and being disagreeable, as synonymous terms; and yet you made it appear yesterday as if they were!”

“Oh, Lord Delaford! how can you accuse me of saying [Pg 10]any thing so shocking? I only declared you were so good, so superior, I was afraid of you.”

“But a person who makes you fear him, must be disagreeable to you.”