If any circumstance had been wanting to give strength to Lady Tilney's resolves on the momentous question of social reform, the occurrences at Lady Feuillemerte's were in themselves sufficient—at least, they formed an addition to that kind of plausible excuse, sought for on all occasions where the will is previously set on a particular line of conduct, but which, without a pretext, it would hardly be safe for the individual to adopt.

The motley and unkindred assemblage of the previous evening, with its royal restraints, its want of organization in its inferior members, and the consequent offences experienced by those of higher order—for Lady Tilney, although she did not divulge the stain inflicted by Colonel Temple's assiduities, yet felt it deeply,—were points she dwelt upon to her colleagues in the following morning with that extreme pathos and eloquence which the sufferings of self never fail to produce, and which could not but enforce on her auditors conviction of the necessity of the measures she proposed.

Closeted, therefore, with the leading characters in her own peculiar circle, the final arrangements for that sociÉtÉ choisie which was to eclipse courts and banish sovereigns, to school rank, and bring to maturity all the yet unripened follies of a soi-disant ton, were at length concluded. The lists were full—the doors were closed to all but the secret representatives of the system, and the anathema went forth. Strange that St. James's did not shake from its foundation, England's sovereign resign his sceptre, and her lengthened line of nobility crouch in the dust, under the awful denunciation of such an ascendancy. But though this were not so—yet must the loyalty of many a high-born subject, and the purity of many a noble and virtuous mind, have been outraged, when the results of a system at once so contemptuous and immoral began to be developed.

It will be remembered that Lady Tilney had already fixed on the evening of Lady Borrowdale's assembly as a fitting occasion for the display of her own undivided rule in the empire of fashion. Her cards had been issued for that purpose, and these were now followed by injunctions through various channels, requiring an early attendance—since the two syrens of the day, Pasta and Sontag, it was whispered, were engaged to give additional effect to the opening charms of exclusiveness, and render the blow struck at the existing state of society at once decisive.

Lady Borrowdale's apartments, it was decreed, should possess only the canaille of the fashionable world, and royalty be doomed to oblivion there, in the surpassing lustre which Lady Tilney's circle would display. To the authority that called for this ready obedience, none of the satellites of Lady Tilney's court were ever known to offer resistance;—and though the chiefs of her party alone knew the real object of the summons, yet the uninitiated hastened to obey it with the same alacrity as their superiors, satisfied that in so doing they were best consulting their views of advancement to the distinction courted by them, as well as securing a greater license in the indulgence of those follies and errors which made the sum of their daily occupation.

To tell of the decoration of the apartments, of the splendour and luxury which reigned around the mansion of Lady Tilney, to dwell on externals, would be to repeat descriptions a thousand times given, and tend to no developement of import. A plant, under the fairest guise of colour or of form, sometimes contains within its fibres the deadliest poison; and in the scorching plains of the East, the upas-tree extends an alluring shade over the exhausted and unconscious traveller, who is soon to sink beneath its deadly atmosphere. But what would it profit were the naturalist to dwell only on the pencilling and texture of the one, or the traveller describe vaguely the outspreading branches and inviting coolness of the other, and yet neglect to record the noxious qualities and inherent dangers of each. The plant and its virtues, not the scene in which it is to be found, must first be recognised and known, if escape from its contagion be intended;—and it is to the habits and system of a people, not to the country they inhabit, that we must look, rightly to understand the manner in which their lives are passed.

To a casual observer, Lady Tilney's assembly presented no distinguishing external marks at variance with received habits or customs. The rooms were not darkened, the servants passed through the apartments at intervals in the performance of their respective duties without constraint: the company, however, was less numerous, and more scattered and divided into detached parties. The conversation, with the exception of Lady Tilney herself, was carried on in a low tone, scarcely audible but to the individual addressed; the different members of the coterie, when they moved about, seemed to do so under certain measured and stated paces.

It was not, however, the step and air of real dignity of fashion, but rather the mincing minauderie of des petites maÎtresses. Whatever was done or spoken (when for a moment some general observation was hazarded), appeared as if performed by rule, and under apprehension of drawing down ridicule, which at once went to destroy all natural grace of speech or demeanour. This sentiment attached more particularly to the younger and newer noviciates, who felt that an unguarded expression, or a movement at variance with the prescribed forms of the circle, would render them the objects of the malicious remarks and sneers of the more experienced—an uneasy restraint, therefore, was often the consequence; and had it not been, that to form part of so chosen a society, and under Lady Tilney's roof, was in itself an indescribable satisfaction—some who were there might have been suspected of suffering considerable ennui, and of being ready to admit, by the suppressed and ill-concealed yawn, that although the honour of exclusiveness was great, the pleasure was certainly small.

Not so, however, with the more initiated—these appeared by habit to take the part at once most to their tastes; to select the companion most agreeable to them; to remain under the eye of observation, or retire from it, as they chose, with indifference;—for it was not only in what was done or said, but in the manner, also, that the distinguishing characteristics of this coterie were to be detected. All things were lawful—but then under outward forms (not however of propriety always, or of morality), but of convention; and whoever attained fulfilment of these, had the privilege, the indulgentia plenaria, as proposed by Lord Rainham, to sin with impunity.

When it was said, therefore, that an assembly composed as the present differed not in its appearance from others passing under the same generic name, it was premised to be only under the impression of a first view;—a more intimate acquaintance with many of its laws and practices, so opposed to received customs in the world, could not in the end fail to astonish! And first the observer (the moral observer is meant) would have been struck by the discovery, that the young and beautiful in this magic circle were all married women, and that the person who individually (for the number was rarely more than singular) paid his assiduous court, leant over the chair, and whispered into the ear of the fair whom he selected or was selected by, was no aspirant to her hand in marriage, no relative—neither was he her husband—but a member of the privileged society, which was alone sufficient.

His astonishment would have been yet stronger on discovering that for a season, till mutual convenience, or disagreement dissolved their familiar acquaintance, each party, similarly paired, invariably met, conversed, and retired at the same time, when the circle broke up, or when they quitted it, apparently on the same footing of intimacy which the most holy ties could have sanctioned; while those whom such a tie actually bound to them were themselves pursuing a similar career.

Had the conversation which for the most part occupied this portion of the sociÉtÉ choisie been reported, or reached the ear, it is possible a considerate mind might have thought, notwithstanding the singularity of a system which excluded the unmarried from scenes of amusement, that it was well they formed no portion of it; but still, in an escape from its early influence, enjoyed the opportunity of attaining to a degree of moral principle, and feminine decorum, which must otherwise have been swept away in the general license.

This, however, can unfortunately be said only of the one sex—the unmarried in the other, provided their attainments were of the kind to authorize admission, were not on the excluded list; and the young, well-principled, and ingenuous perhaps at their outset, might, in the examples constantly before them, have found incentive to conduct, which at a future day they would discover to have been the great bane and poison of their existence.—Of these the person who entered Lady Tilney's apartments when the coterie had nearly assembled, and who was new to most of them, offered an instance, for whom the liveliest fears with justice might have been entertained.

Young, strikingly handsome, talented, of high rank, of widely extended interest, and possessing all the means of gratifying every wish, to what dangers was not Lord Albert D'Esterre exposed, in such a scene as has been described, and on which he was from that evening to play a part! He seemed, with the impulse of natural politeness, to look around for Lady Tilney, as he entered, as if he would pay his first homage to her, whose self and not her house he visited; in a manner directly the reverse of that false refinement of modern ton, which seeks a display of its savoir vivre, in a pointed indifference to all the received forms of society.

Before he had reached the second room he was met by Lady Tilney, with a greater degree of courtesy and empressement than was usual in her receptions; and his address was listened to with more complacency and patience than generally marked her manner towards any one.—"Who is he?" passed in whispers round the circle amongst those to whom he was unknown.—"Did you hear his name announced?"—"No! I have seen him somewhere before, I think—is it not Lord Albert D'Esterre, Lord ——'s son?"

"Ah true, it is! but what an extraordinary lengthy speech he is making—surely Lady Tilney must be ready to expire under its duration."—"Not under its dulness, I am certain," said Lord Glenmore, as he caught Lady Baskerville's remark to Lord Rainham, "for, D'Esterre is too clever ever to say a dull thing." "Or ever do a wise one, perhaps," added Lord Rainham in his most caustic manner.

"Did you hear Rainham?" whispered Spencer Newcombe to Ombre; "there was no time for gestation there—it was really well said."—"Then, if so," replied his neighbour, "we may 'for once a miracle accept instead of wit.'"

"No; I do not allow of miracles now a days," said Lord Rainham, turning sharply round, having overheard the remark applied to him: "I do not believe in miracles—not even in the resurrection of the Glacier man—do you, Ombre?" The laugh was with the latter speaker; but Mr. Ombre thought that, in fact, miracles had not ceased when Lord Rainham could thus improvise two good things without incubation; and so he whispered into the ear of his friend Spencer Newcombe, as Lord Rainham moved away.

While Lord Albert D'Esterre was thus affording subject of remark to the coterie, and their observations in turn made matter of ill-natured review among themselves, he was addressing his courteous excuse to Lady Tilney for having disobeyed her commands, in arriving so late. Lady Baskerville was probably right in her conjecture, that Lady Tilney felt considerably bored by his doing so, and making reference to injunctions which she had forgotten the moment they were given, because certain they would be generally obeyed, and Lady Borrowdale's assembly be left untenanted by all her early visitors.

She heard him, however, with smiles and outward complaisance; for Lord Albert was of consequence enough in a political way, at least, for Lady Tilney to court; and as she assured him that he was still in good time, and that the Sontag had not yet sung, presented him to several persons, whom, she remarked, would be almost strangers to him after so long an absence from England.

In all, however, that Lord Albert had said, he had been sincere; and in his manner towards the different persons he was made known to, there was a genuine distinguished air of high breeding and politeness, as much at variance with the manners, as his ingenuousness was with the minds and dispositions of those who figured in the moral masquerade before him. Although fresh in this scene, and therefore without contamination, he was powerful, and, therefore, worth appropriation; and what was considered outrÉ and too maniÈre in his address, was partially overlooked at the moment, as certain to give way under the powerful influence of better examples.

The Sontag now came forward and poured her liquid notes mellifluous through the assembly. Every body was in raptures—indiscriminate raptures;—for though raptures were generally obsolete, there were a few short seasons for a few new things in which it was permitted to be rapturous; but woe to the unhappy individual who, ignorant of the mark, gave way to these ebullitions at unallowed times, or beyond the peculiar limits prescribed by ton.

When the aria was concluded, however, the remarks among the younger votaries of fashion were principally directed to the figure and appearance of the singer, rather than to her performance. Leslie Winyard admired her foot; Lady Boileau her eyes; Lord Gascoyne saw indescribable beauty in the delicacy of her waist; and Lord Tonnerre declared her neck to be as fine drawn and as perfect as that of a race-horse—a simile which was perhaps the only figure of speech the latter lord could have hazarded, consistently with his knowledge of any subject. These by turns approached the singer, and as they addressed her with an air of familiar condescension, seemed in their ungentle gaze to seek an opportunity of confirming their previous judgments; which, according to the result, were signified in the presence of the persons by a look, or a whisper, to one another.

If a few ventured an observation on what they had been listening to, it was in a tone either of indiscriminate praise, founded on some one's opinion in their own circle from whose decree there was no appeal; or else, measuring things in themselves admitting not of parallel, by one another, they drew an unfair comparison between the powers of Sontag and of Pasta; just in the same way as a pseudo connoisseur would measure the merits of Paul Veronese or Tintoretto by those of Raphael.

"I am surprised you waste so much time in this discussion," said Mr. Ombre, who was standing near the parties debating on the latter point; "there can be no question as to the merits of the case—Sontag is new."

"Is she not enchanting?" asked Lady Tilney, addressing Lord Albert D'Esterre, who had been listening with the utmost attention—"quite perfection!" He smiled; "I do not know that I ever heard or saw any thing quite perfect; at all events, I prefer Pasta."

"Well, you surprise me!" replied Lady Baskerville; "there is such brilliancy—such lightness, such fluency in the Sontag."

"But there is more depth, more pathos, more poetry in Pasta. Nevertheless I admire Mademoiselle Sontag; and because I prefer one, I am not deaf to the powers of another singer—a feeling of the sublime does not exclude the lesser sense of the beautiful."—"What a prosing, sententious popinjay; ay!" whispered Lord Baskerville to Lady Ellersby.

"But he is very handsome," she answered.

"I know not what you ladies may esteem handsome" (and here Lord Baskerville put himself in his best possible form, and bent his cane against the ground); "but I can see nothing in that stiff conceited face and figure to call handsome; and I would not be doomed to listen to his affected pretensions for half an hour together on any condition whatever—no, not to hear Sontag sing three songs consecutively—beautiful, charming, dear as she is!"

"Does beauty enter in at the ears?" asked Spencer Newcombe.

"Not exactly; but it goes a great way towards making what does enter there agreeable," replied Lord Baskerville.

"What do you say, Sir Henry D'Aubigne," addressing that celebrated artist: "is not the Sontag exceedingly lovely?"

"Indeed I have not yet had an opportunity of judging," was Sir Henry's discreet reply; for he gave offence to none. "There is considerable grace and play of countenance certainly; a fine-cut eye; and on the whole I should say she was a very pretty creature. But really, in this land of beauty, (looking round him as he spoke), one may be allowed to be difficult, and where there is so much to dazzle, confess oneself unable to decide."

"Sir Henry is almost as graceful in his speech as in his portraits; I wish I were such a poet!" sighed Mr. Ombre, "and then I might hope to turn all the ladies' hearts, for they accept your homage, but will not mine, although I never flatter."

Thus did the poet and the painter mutually pay their allotted fealties to the sovereigns of ton, when the whisper ran round the room that the Sontag was again about to sing.

During the performance, Lord Albert D'Esterre was standing at the back of Lady Hamlet Vernon's chair, addressing to her, at intervals, his conversation on the merits of the singer.

"I am told," said Lady Hamlet Vernon, when the music ceased, "that the Sontag is very like Lady Adeline Seymour. You will know, Lord Albert D'Esterre?" Lord Albert coloured.

"I do not see the least resemblance to my cousin;" and then he added: "I was not aware that Lady Adeline had the advantage of your acquaintance."

"I have not the pleasure of her's neither—I hear she is a most delightful person!" Lord Albert again coloured, and felt his heart beat quicker at the mention of a name so dear to him.

"Is Lady Dunmelraise expected in town this year?" continued Lady Hamlet Vernon; "I understand she has very bad health. A very intimate friend of mine, from whom I sometimes receive a letter, Mr. George Foley—you may perhaps know him—and who is at present staying at Dunmelraise, informs me that she is far from well."

Lord Albert D'Esterre found himself irresistibly drawn towards Lady Hamlet Vernon, by the circumstance of her knowledge of Lady Adeline Seymour, and they continued for a long while in conversation—till interrupted by Lord Rainham, who, quitting the circle of the political characters of the day, with whom he had been in apparently close discussion, addressed Lady Hamlet Vernon on some other topic, and Lord Albert turned aside.

"Tell me what is your real opinion of the person you have been conversing with?" said Lord Rainham, in a low voice, while his small quick eye followed Lord Albert; "is he clever? has he talent—tact, or any other serviceable quality?"—"I hardly know how to answer inquiries of such depth," answered Lady Hamlet Vernon, smiling; "had you asked me if he were agreeable, I could have answered yes. But to what do your questions tend—are they general or particular; or are they political, or what?"

"Oh, I mean, is he like other people, like other young men—empty—and conceited?—or has he wherewithal to make his conversation endurable—worth listening to—point—repartee—subject—does he talk of people or of things?"

"Of both. But shall I add another to your list of inquiries—To what side of the question does he lean? Does not this sum up all you would know from me? And what if I should tell you—I know nothing about the matter?"

"Psha! well: that may be too—what do you think—?"

"Why I think him very handsome."

"Aye, may be so; I dare say he is—but—"

"But has he avowed his political creed? will he support your favourite measures, or oppose them? I know that is all you wish me to say," replied Lady Hamlet Vernon.

"Why, to be sure, one judges in these days of a man's sense a little by his politics—one learns whether he thinks at all, or follows his interests."

"Oh, you all do that, my dear lord. But come; I will tell you what I think of Lord Albert D'Esterre: I think he is worth winning—and—"

"You will try," said Lord Rainham.

"Fi donc!—now I will tell you no more." And Lady Hamlet Vernon left the foiled diplomatist to lament the failure of his mission, and learn to play his part better for the future.

The evening, or rather the night, was wearing fast away; the Sontag had sung three times, and those who had formed part of Lady Tilney's first soirÉe choisie were soon to be left in possession only of the recollections—no—not the recollections—the life of the aggregate assembled there would banish such an exercise of mental powers—but in possession of the fact, that they had been of the chosen number; that they had heard the favourite of the hour, not in the too-frequented Opera, but in the privacy of the drawing-room; and that they alone could justly, therefore, weigh her merits, and determine her defects.

In follies such as these a large portion of Lady Tilney's associates were sure to find gratification on the morrow. And it might have been well had all contented themselves with these, so comparatively harmless, although such worthless, fruits of exclusive ton; but it may be feared that, with some, the result of that evening, and the prospect of others to succeed it of the same kind, held out objects of a far different complexion, which a sure immunity from censure, and a complete freedom from obnoxious comparisons, successfully tended to promote.

Lord Albert D'Esterre had turned away from a group of young men with whom he had been conversing, and whose discourse, assuming a tone and character equally indelicate and revolting to his feelings, he thus endeavoured to avoid, when he found himself near Lady Boileau.

"Lord Albert D'Esterre," she said, addressing him, "if you will excuse an invitation so destitute of form, will you do Lord Boileau and myself the pleasure of dining with us on Saturday—I will send you a card." Lord Albert bowed with courtesy, and expressed himself sorry that he was already engaged, and, after some conversation of little interest, as Lady Boileau's carriage was announced, she left the room. Leslie Winyard, with the familiarity of one well acquainted, whispered in Lord Albert's ear—

"You have ÉchappÉd belle from that."

"What do you mean?" asked the latter.

"Why, I mean that you have escaped a most uncomfortable concern by just refusing the invitation to the Boileaus."

"I thought I heard you say to Lady Boileau but now that you would be delighted to wait upon her."

"Oh yes, certainly, one says those sort of things; and if nothing better occurs, one does them;—but it does not always follow: for instance, if any one were to ask me whom I liked better, or if you, or some equally pleasant person, were to propose our dining together at Crockford's—"

"I am not a member of Crockford's," said Lord Albert D'Esterre, gravely.

"Oh! but your name is down, and you are certain of being admitted on the next ballot, and—" Lord Albert attempted to reply, but Leslie Winyard continued, "and, as I was telling you, if a pleasant dinner was prepared at Crockey's, I should, of course, not starve myself at the Boileaus."

"I confess myself at a loss to comprehend what you mean."

"Well then, some day go and try; find yourself frozen in rooms where the fire is lit only five minutes before the hour of your expected arrival—starve at the hands of the very worst cook in England,—and then, when you hear that my Lady spends twelve guineas on a new bonnet, squanders thousands on her journies to Paris, and ruins Boileau in articles for her toilette, marvel—but the thing is so."

"Is it possible?" Lord Albert continued saying to himself; as the person who had been talking to him turned away, half in derision of his unsophisticated expressions and manner of receiving what he said,—"is it possible that so much refinement of duplicity can exist, for an end so trivial—where the gratification of the spirit of falsehood, or the indulgence of an ill-bred impertinence, is the only object?"

Whilst thus musing, and preparing to leave a scene which, as he became more acquainted with the actors, appeared little suited to his tastes or modes of thinking, he saw Lady Hamlet Vernon approach the door unattended. A recollection that she alone, in the manner she spoke of Lady Adeline Seymour, had seemed to have any sentiment in common with himself, made him move towards her, and inquire if he could be of any service in seeing her to her carriage.

"I do not know if it is up," was her reply, "but perhaps you will have the goodness to ask." He did so, and in the interval, before it was announced, they continued conversing. "Je vous fÉlicite," said Lord Rainham, addressing Lady Hamlet Vernon in a low tone as he passed, and looking significantly at the same time at Lord Albert D'Esterre.

"There is no cause," she replied, "I am waiting for my carriage, and I think it will never come."

"DiscrÈte," answered Lord Rainham, as he moved towards the door, and signalled what he had observed to Leslie Winyard, whose answering nod expressed concurrence in his suspicions.

It was long before Lady Hamlet Vernon's carriage arrived, and she continued talking with Lord Albert on various topics; the societies of Paris and Vienna, compared with that of London; the state of the Opera, and the prevalent bad taste of music on the Continent. She inquired for many who in their exile in this country had been known to her, and with whom, in the splendour of restored rank and fortunes, she found Lord Albert had lived on terms of close intimacy. In speaking of them he seemed to dwell with pleasure on their recollection of the services rendered them in England, as a bright trait in the human character, which betokened feelings that it was plain to see were in accordance with his own generous and noble nature—and which had formed the basis of that familiar intercourse in which he had lived with them. Although the reverse of this picture has been ascribed to too many foreigners, who have with justice been accused of ingratitude, it ought not therefore to be recorded that all were subject to such condemnation. Lord Albert knew otherwise.

As he extolled their characters and perfections, and spoke of the charms which their society had always possessed for him, Lady Hamlet Vernon listened with increased attention, as if she would have gathered from his discourse the individual sources of that satisfaction, which he professed in so lively a manner to have found. "You are warm and enthusiastic in your eulogiums," she said: "I hope that in England, also, you may find those whom, with the same reasons, and an equal ardour of attachment, you will be disposed to admit to your friendship."

There was something in the tone in which these words were addressed to him, that made Lord Albert D'Esterre for a moment fix his eyes on the speaker; but they were as quickly withdrawn, when he saw Lady Hamlet Vernon blush, apparently confused, and then pluck a flower from a vase near her, while she endeavoured to hide her face by inhaling the perfume. There was an awkwardness in the pause which ensued, which neither seemed at the moment able to surmount; when fortunately Lady Hamlet Vernon's carriage was called, and as Lord Albert handed her to it, he received an invitation to her house in the evening, when Lady Tilney's coterie were to assemble there.