When Harriet equipped herself to pass a _sociable_ evening with the Urlingford family, who were among the most agreeable of her friends, she could not possibly anticipate any _contre-tems_ that would mar the pleasure of the visit. She arrived about dusk, and was somewhat surprised to find the whole family already at their tea. Mrs. Urlingford and the young ladies received her very cordially, but looked a little disconcerted, and Harriet apologized for interrupting them at table, by saying, that she thought their tea-hour was not till seven o'clock.
Mrs. Urlingford replied, that seven o'clock _was_ their usual hour for tea, but on that evening they had it much earlier than usual, that it might be over before the arrival of some of their musical friends, who were coming to practise with her daughters.
"Really, my dear Harriet," pursued Mrs. Urlingford, "I am rejoiced that you happened to fix on this evening for favouring us with an unceremonious visit. Though I know that you always decline playing and singing in company, and that you persist in saying you have very little knowledge of music, yet I think too highly of your taste and feeling not to be convinced of your fondness for that delightful art, and I am certain you will be much gratified by what you will hear to-night, though this is only a private practising; indeed a mere rehearsal. Next week we will have a general music-party, the first of a series which we have arranged to take place at intervals of a fortnight, and to which we intend ourselves the pleasure of sending invitations to you and all our other friends. This, of to-night, is, I repeat, nothing more than a rehearsal, and we expect only a few professional musicians, whose assistance we have secured for our regular musical soirees. I am very glad, indeed, my dear Harriet, that you chance to be with us this evening. As I said, we have tea earlier than usual, that the music may begin the sooner, and at ten o'clock we will have coffee and other refreshments handed round."
By this time, the table was newly set, fresh tea was made, and some additional nice things were produced. Harriet, who was very sorry for having caused any unnecessary trouble, sat down to her tea, which she despatched in all possible haste, as she knew that Mrs. Urlingford must be impatient to have the table cleared away, previous to the arrival of the musicians, who were now momentarily expected. Just as Harriet was finishing, there came in a German that played on the violon-cello, and was always very early. On being asked if he had taken tea, he replied in the affirmative, but that he would have no objection to a little more.
Accordingly he sat down and made a long and hearty meal, to the evident annoyance of the family, and still more to that of Harriet Heathcote, who knew that the table would long since have been removed, had it not been detained on her account. There was nothing now to be done, but to close the folding-doors, and shut in the German till he had completed his repast, as others of the company were fast arriving. And though Harriet had been told that this was merely a private practising, she soon found herself in the midst of something that very much resembled a large party; so many persons having been invited exclusive of the regular performers. She understood, however, that nobody had been asked to this rehearsal, who had not a decided taste for music.
Our heroine, for her part, had no extraordinary talent for that difficult and elegant accomplishment; and, after taking lessons for about a year, it was considered best that she should give it up, as her voice was of no great compass, and there was little probability of her reaching any proficiency, as an instrumental musician, that would compensate for an undue expense of time, money, and application.
Therefore, Harriet had never advanced beyond simple ballads, which she played and sang agreeably and correctly enough, but which she only attempted when her audience consisted exclusively of her own family; and none of her brothers and sisters had as yet shown any taste for that sort of music which is commonly called scientific.
The Urlingfords, on the contrary, could all sing and play; the girls on the harp, piano, and guitar; and the boys on the flute, and violin. They all had voices of great power, and sung nothing but Italian.
The evening was passed in the performance of pieces that exhibited much science, and much difficulty of execution: such pieces, in short, as Dr.
Johnson wished were "impossible." Being totally at variance with the simplicity of Harriet's taste, she found them very uninteresting, and inconceivably fatiguing, and after a while she had great difficulty in keeping herself awake. Of course, not a word was uttered during the performance, and the concertos, potpourris, arias, and cavatinas succeeded each other so rapidly that there was no interval in which to snatch a few moments of conversation. It is true the purport of the meeting was music, and music alone.
Miss Heathcote almost envied a young lady, who, having learnt all her music in Europe, had come home with an enthusiasm for feats of voice and finger, that on all these occasions transported her into the third heaven. She sat with her neck stretched forward, and her hands out-spread, her lips half open, her eyes sometimes raised as in ecstasy, and sometimes closed in overpowering bliss. But Harriet's envy of such exquisite sensations was a little checked, when she observed Miss Denham stealing a sly glance all round, to see who was looking at her, and admiring her enthusiasm. And then Harriet could not help thinking how very painful it must be (when only done for effect) to keep up such an air and attitude of admiration during a whole long evening.
Our heroine was also much entertained in the early part of the performance, particularly during a grand concerto, by observing the musician who officiated as leader, and was a foreigner of great skill in his profession. In him there was certainly no affectation. To have the piece performed in the most perfect manner, was "the settled purpose of his soul." All the energies of his mind and body were absorbed in this one object, and he seemed as if the whole happiness of his future life, nay, his existence itself, depended on its success. The piece was proceeding in its full tide of glory, and the leader was waving his bow with more pride and satisfaction than a monarch ever felt in wielding his sceptre, or a triumphant warrior in brandishing his sword. Suddenly he gave "a look of horror and a sudden start," and turning instantly round, his eyes glared fiercely over the whole circle of performers in search of the culprit who had been guilty of a false note; an error which would scarcely have been noticed by any of the company, had it not been made so conspicuous by the shock it had given to the chief musician. The criminal, however, was only discovered by his injudiciously "hiding his diminished head." Better for him to have been "a fine, gay, bold-faced villain."
Harriet could not help remarking that though the company all applauded every song that was sung, and every piece that was played, and that at the conclusion of each, the words "charming," "exquisite," "divine,"
were murmured round the room, still almost every one looked tired, many were evidently suppressing their inclination to yawn--some took opportunities of looking privately at their watches; and Mr. Urlingford and another old gentleman slept a duet together in a corner. The entrance of the coffee, &c., produced a wonderful revival, and restored animation to eyes that seemed ready to close in slumber. The company all started from the listless postures into which they had unconsciously thrown themselves, and every one sat up straight. As soon as she had drunk a cup of the refreshing beverage, Miss Heathcote was glad to avail herself of her brother's arrival and take her leave; Mrs. Urlingford, congratulating her again on having been so fortunate as to drop in exactly on that evening, and telling her that she should certainly expect her at all her musical parties throughout the season.
And Harriet might perhaps have gone to the first one, had she not been so unluckily present at the rehearsal.
On the next uninvited visit of our heroine, she found her friends, the three Miss Celbridges, sitting in the parlour with their mother, by no other light than that of the fire, and all looking extremely dejected.
On inquiring if they were well, they answered in the affirmative. Her next question was to ask when they had heard from Baltimore, in which place some of their nearest relations were settled. The reply was, that they had received letters that morning, and that their friends were in good health. "Well, girls," said Harriet, gayly, "you see I have taken you at your word, and have come to pass the evening with you _sans ceremonie_."
The Miss Celbridges exchanged looks with their mother, who cast down her eyes and said nothing; and one of the young ladies silently assisted Harriet in taking off her walking habiliments. There was an air of general constraint, and our heroine began to fear that her visit was not quite acceptable. "Is it possible," thought she, "that I could unconsciously have given any offence at our last meeting?" But she recollected immediately, that the Miss Celbridges had then taken leave of her with the most unequivocal evidences of cordiality, and had earnestly insisted on her coming to drink tea with them, as often as she felt a desire, assuring her that they should always be delighted to see her "in a sociable way."
The young ladies made an effort at conversation, but it was visibly an effort. The minds of the Miss Celbridges were all palpably engrossed with something quite foreign to the topic of discussion, and Harriet was too much surprised, and too much embarrassed to talk with her usual fluency.
At length Mr. Celbridge entered the room, and after slightly saluting Miss Heathcote, asked why the lamp was not lighted. It was done--and Harriet then perceived by the redness of their eyes, that the mother and daughters had all been in tears. Mr. Celbridge looked also very melancholy, and seating himself beside his wife, he entered into a low and earnest conversation with her. Mrs. Celbridge held her handkerchief to her face, and Harriet could no longer refrain from inquiring if the family had been visited by any unexpected misfortune. There was a pause, during which the daughters evidently struggled to command their feelings, and Mr. Celbridge, after a few moments' hesitation, replied in a tremulous voice: "Perhaps, Miss Heathcote, you know not that to-day I have become a bankrupt; that the unexpected failure of a house for which I had endorsed to a large amount, has deprived me of the earnings of twenty years, and reduced me to indigence."
Harriet was much shocked, and expressed her entire ignorance of the fact. "We supposed," said Mrs. Celbridge, "that it must have been known universally--and such reports always spread with too much rapidity."
"Surely," replied Harriet, taking the hand of Mrs. Celbridge, "you cannot seriously believe that it was known to _me_. The slightest intimation of this unfortunate event, would certainly have deterred me from interrupting you with my presence at a time when the company of a visitor must be so painfully irksome to the whole family."
She then rose, and said that if Mr. Celbridge would have the kindness to accompany her to her own door, she would immediately go home. "I will not dissemble, my dear Miss Heathcote," replied Mrs. Celbridge, "and urge you to remain, when it must be evident to you that none of us are in a state to make your visit agreeable to you, or indeed to derive pleasure from it ourselves. After the first shock is over, we shall be able, I hope, to look on our reverse of fortune with something like composure. And when we are settled in the humble habitation to which we must soon remove, we shall be glad indeed to have our evenings occasionally enlivened by the society of one whom we have always been so happy to class among our friends."
Mr. Celbridge escorted Harriet to her own residence, which was only at a short distance. She there found that her brother, having just heard of the failure, and knowing that she intended spending the evening at Mr.
Celbridge's, had sent her from his office a note to prevent her going, but it had not arrived till after her departure.
Among Miss Heathcote's acquaintances was Mrs. Accleton, a very young lady recently married, who on receiving her bridal-visits, had given out that she intended to live economically, and not to indulge in any unnecessary expense. She emphatically proclaimed her resolution never to give a party; but she did not even insinuate that she would never go to a party herself. She also declared that it did not comport with her plans (young girls when just married are apt to talk much of their plans) to have any regularly invited company; but that it would always afford her the greatest possible pleasure to see her friends _sociably_, if they would come and take tea with her, whenever it was convenient to themselves, and without waiting for her to appoint any particular time.
"My husband and I," said Mrs. Accleton, "intend spending all our evenings at home, so there is no risk of ever finding us out. We are too happy in each other to seek for amusement abroad; and we find by experience that nothing the world can offer is equal to our own domestic felicity, varied occasionally by the delightful surprise of an unceremonious visit from an intimate friend."
It was not till after the most urgent entreaties, often reiterated, that Harriet Heathcote undertook one of these visits to Mrs. Accleton. After ringing at the street-door till her patience was nearly exhausted, it was opened by a sulky-looking white girl, who performed the office of porteress with a very ill grace, hiding herself behind it because she was not in full dress; and to Harriet's inquiry if Mrs. Accleton was at home, murmuring in a most repulsive tone that "she believed she was."
Our heroine was kept waiting a considerable time in a cold and comfortless, though richly-furnished parlour, where the splendid coal-grate exhibited no evidences of fire, but a mass of cinders blackening at the bottom. At length Mrs. Accleton made her appearance, fresh from the toilet, and apologized by saying, that expecting no one that afternoon, she had ever since dinner been sitting up stairs in her wrapper. "About twelve o'clock," said she, "I always, when the weather is fine, dress myself and have the front-parlour fire made up, in case of morning-visiters. But after dinner, I usually put on a wrapper, and establish myself in the dining-room for the remainder of the day. My husband and I have got into the habit of spending all our evenings there. It is a charmingly comfortable little room, and we think it scarcely worth while to keep up the parlour-fire just for our two selves. However, I will have it replenished immediately. Excuse me for one moment." She then left the room, and shortly returning, resumed her discourse.
"I determined," said she, "from the hour I first thought of housekeeping, that it should be my plan to have none but white servants.
They are less wasteful than the blacks; less extravagant in their cooking; are satisfied to sit by smaller fires; and have fewer visiters.
The chief difficulty with them is, that there are so many things they are unwilling to do. Yesterday my cook left me quite suddenly, and to-day a little girl about fourteen, whom I hired last week as a waiter, was taken away by her mother; and I have just now been trying to persuade Sally, the chambermaid, to bring in the coal-scuttle and make up the fire. But she has a great objection to doing anything in presence of strangers, and I am rather afraid she will not come. And I do not much wonder at it, for Sally is a girl of a very respectable family. She has nothing of the servant about her."
"So much the worse," thought Harriet, "if she is obliged to get her living in that capacity."
After a long uncomfortable pause, during which there were no signs of Sally, Mrs. Accleton involuntarily put her hand to the bell, but recollecting herself, withdrew it again without pressing the spring.
"There would be no use," said she, "in ringing the bell, for Sally never takes the least notice of it. She is principled against it, and says she will not be rung about the house like a negro. I have to indulge her in this laudable feeling of self-respect, for in everything that is essential she is a most valuable girl, and irons my dresses beautifully, and does up my collars and pelerines to admiration."
So saying, Mrs. Accleton again left the parlour to have another expostulation with Sally, who finally vouchsafed to bring in the coal-scuttle, and flinging a few fresh coals on the top of the dying embers (from which all power of ignition had too visibly fled), put up the blower, and hurried out of the room. But the blower awakened no flame, and not a sound was heard to issue from behind its blank and dreary expanse. "I am afraid the fire is too far gone to be revived without a regular clearing out of the grate," said Mrs. Accleton, "and I doubt the possibility of prevailing on Sally to go through all that.
Anthracite has certainly its disadvantages. Perhaps we had better adjourn to the dining-room, where there has been a good fire the whole day. If I had only known that you intended me the pleasure of this visit! However, I have no doubt you will find it very comfortable up stairs."
To the dining-room they accordingly went. It was a little narrow apartment over the kitchen, with a low ceiling and small windows looking out on the dead wall of the next house, and furnished in the plainest and most economical manner. There was a little soap-stone grate that held about three quarts of coal, which, however, _was_ burning; a small round table that answered for every purpose; half a dozen wooden-bottomed cane-coloured chairs; and a small settee to match, covered with a calico cushion, and calculated to hold but two people.
"This is just the size for my husband and myself," said Mrs. Accleton, as she placed herself on the settee. "We had it made on purpose. Will you take a seat on it, Miss Harriet, or would you prefer a chair? I expect Mr. Accleton home in a few minutes." Harriet preferred a chair.
The conversation now turned on housekeeping, and the _nouvelle mariee_ gave a circumstantial detail of her various plans, and expressed some surprise that, notwithstanding the excellence of her system, she found so much difficulty in getting servants to fall into it. "I have the most trouble with my cooks," pursued Mrs. Accleton. "I have had six different women in that capacity, though I have only been married two months. And I am sure Mr. Accleton and myself are by no means hard to please. We live in the plainest way possible, and a very little is sufficient for our table. Our meat is simply boiled or roasted, and often we have nothing more than a beefsteak. We never have any sort of dessert, considering all such things as extremely unwholesome." "What is the reason," thought Harriet, "that so many young ladies, when they are first married, discover immediately that desserts are unwholesome; particularly if prepared and eaten in their own houses?"
Mrs. Accleton made frequent trips back and forward to the kitchen, and Harriet understood that tea was in agitation. Finally, Sally, looking very much out of humour, came and asked for the keys; and unlocking a dwarf side-board that stood in one of the recesses, she got out the common tea-equipage and placed it on the table. "You see, Miss Harriet, we treat you quite _en famille_," said Mrs. Accleton. "We make no stranger of you. After tea, the parlour will doubtless be warm, and we will go down thither." Harriet wondered if the anthracite was expected to repent of its obstinacy, and take to burning of its own accord.
Mr. Accleton now came home, and his wife, after running to kiss him, exclaimed: "Oh! my dear, I am glad you are come! You can now entertain Miss Heathcote while I go down and pay some attention to the tea, for Sally protests that she was not hired to cook, and, if the truth must be told, she is very busy ironing, and does not like to be taken off. This is our regular ironing-day, and one of my rules is never, on any consideration, to have it put off or passed over. Method is the soul of housekeeping."
Mr. Accleton was naturally taciturn, but he made a prodigious effort to entertain Harriet, and talked to her of the tariff.
It was near eight o'clock before Sally condescended to bring up the tea and its accompaniments, which were a plate containing four slices of the thinnest possible bread and butter, another with two slices of pale toast, and a third with two shapeless whitish cakes, of what composition it was difficult to tell, but similar to those that are called flap-jacks in Boston, slap-jacks in New York, and buckwheat cakes in Philadelphia.[84] In the centre was a deep dish with a dozen small stewed oysters floating in an ocean of liquor, as tasteless and insipid as dish-water. The tea also was tasteless, and for two reasons--first, that the Chinese herb had been apportioned in a very small quantity; and secondly, that the kettle had not "come to a boil."
[Footnote 84: Query? Which epithet is the most elegant, flap or slap? We rather think "the flaps have it."]
"We give you tea in a very plain style," said Mrs. Accleton to Harriet; "you see we make no stranger of you, and that we treat you just as we do ourselves. We know that simple food is always the most wholesome, and when our friends are so kind as to visit us, we have no desire to make them sick by covering our table with dainties. It is one of my rules never to have a sweetcake or sweetmeat in the house. They are not only a foolish expense, but decidedly prejudicial to health."
The hot cakes being soon despatched, there was considerable waiting for another supply. Mr. and Mrs. Accleton were at somewhat of a nonplus as to the most feasible means of procuring the attendance of Sally.
"Perhaps she will come if we knock on the floor," said Mrs. Accleton; "she _has_ done so sometimes." Mr. Accleton stamped on the floor, but Sally came not. Harriet could not imagine why Sally's pride should be less hurt by coming to a knock on the floor than to a ring of the bell; but there is no accounting for tastes. Mr. Accleton stamped again, and much more loudly than before. "Now you have spoiled all," said his wife, fretfully; "Sally will never come now. She will be justly offended at your stamping for her in that violent way. I much question if we see her face again to-night."
At last, after much canvassing, it was decided that Mr. Accleton should go to the head of the stairs and venture to call Sally; his wife enjoining him not to call too loudly, and to let his tone and manner be as mild as possible. This delicate business was successfully accomplished. Sally at last appeared with two more hot cakes, and Mrs.
Accleton respectfully intimated to her that she wished her to return in a few minutes to clear away the table.
Mr. Accleton, who was a meek man, being sent down by his wife to reconnoitre the parlour fire, came back and reported that it was "dead out." "How very unlucky," said Mrs. Accleton, "that Miss Heathcote should happen to come just on this evening! Unlucky for herself, I mean, for we must always be delighted to see her. However, I am so fond of this snug little room, that for my own part I have no desire ever to sit in any other. My husband and I have passed so many pleasant hours in it."
The ladies now resumed their sewing; Mrs. Accleton talked of her plans, and her economy, and Sally; and Mr. Accleton pored over the newspaper as if he was learning it all by heart, even to the advertisements; while his wife, who had taken occasion to remark that the price of oil had risen considerably, managed two or three times to give the screw of the astral lamp a twist to the left, which so much diminished the light that Harriet could scarcely see to thread her needle.
About an hour after tea, Mrs. Accleton called her husband to the other end of the room, and a half-whispered consultation took place between them, which ended in the disappearance of the gentleman. In a short time he returned, and there was another consultation, in the course of which Harriet could not avoid distinguishing the words--"Sally refuses to quit her clear-starching." "Well, dear, cannot I ask you just to do them yourself?" "Oh, no! indeed, it is quite out of the question; I would willingly oblige you in anything else." "But, dear, only think how often you have done this very thing when a boy." "But I am not a boy now."
"Oh, but dear, you really must. There is no one else to do it. Come now, only a few, just a very few." There was a little more persuasion; the lady seemed to prevail, and the gentleman quitted the room. A short time after, there was heard a sound of cracking nuts, which Mrs. Accleton, consciously colouring, endeavoured to drown by talking as fast and as loudly as possible.
We have said that Mr. Accleton was a meek man. Having finished his business down-stairs, he came back looking red and foolish; and after awhile Sally appeared with great displeasure in her countenance, and in her hands a waiter containing a plate of shellbarks, a pitcher of water, and some glasses. Mr. Accleton belonged to the temperance society, and therefore, as his wife said, was principled against having in his house, either wine, or any other sort of liquor.
The arrival of Albert Heathcote put an end to this comfortless visit; and Mrs. Accleton on taking leave of Harriet, repeated, for the twentieth time, her regret at not having had any previous intimation of it.
Our heroine could not but wonder why marriage should so soon have have made a change for the worse, in the lady with whom she had been passing the evening, and whom she had known when Miss Maiden, as a lively, pleasant, agreeable girl, not remarkable for much mind, but in every other respect the reverse of what she was now. Harriet had yet to learn that marriage, particularly when it takes place at a very early age, and before the judgment of the lady has had time to ripen by intercourse with the world, frequently produces a sad alteration in her habits and ideas. As soon as she is emancipated from the control of her parents, and when "her market is made," and a partner secured for life, all her latent faults and foibles are too prone to show themselves without disguise, and she is likewise in much danger of acquiring new ones.
Presuming upon her importance as a married lady, and also upon the indulgence with which husbands generally regard all the sayings and doings of their wives in the _early_ days of matrimony, woman, as well as man, is indeed too apt to "play fantastic tricks when dressed in a little brief authority."