The Semi-detached House/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI.
Willis and Mrs. Hopkinson walked for some time in silence, and then she suddenly said,
"I don't like those people, Charles; I do not mind their rudeness to me. I suppose I look like a respectable housekeeper, and she thinks I am one, that does not matter; but I do not quite make out what they are. What do you know of them, my dear?"
"He is one of the wealthiest men in the city," said Willis apologetically, for he was rather nettled that his mother-in-law should have been treated cavalierly, "and she is a very fine lady."
"Very fine, my dear, but not a lady, take my word for it; I don't mind her not being ladylike in manner, nor indeed in look, which to my thinking she is not, but I hate her pretences."
"Pretentions, ma'am, you mean."
"No, I don't, Charles, I know what pretentions are, we all have them; I mean pretences. Her helplessness, her ignorance, her nerves are all pretence, and before you have any dealings with that family in money matters—speculations I think you call them—I would advise you to know a little more of their history."
Willis was rather appalled at this. He had a great opinion of Mrs. Hopkinson's stirling sense, and he had an instinctive idea that her advice was good, but it came too late. He had already, to some extent, embroiled himself in the Baron's schemes, and was on the point of embarking in a larger joint speculation. That he might avoid, and he determined to take his mother-in-law's counsel, though of course, with a murmur at her for offering it.
On their arrival at home, they found that Janet and Rose were at Pleasance. Mrs. Hopkinson read a note from Lady Chester, which they had left on the table, and shewing it to Willis said, 'Now I call that the note of a lady. She wants to hear them sing together, and wishes Lady Sarah to have that pleasure, too; but she hopes they will not think of coming if they have any engagement whatever, but name some other time, and she invites me to come too."
"What is all this about the girls' music. Do they sing well?" asked Willis, who could not have distinguished God save the Queen from an Irish jig if his life had depended on it.
"I am sure I don't know if they sing well or not, they sing to amuse themselves, and to please me; and it's an odd kind of pleasure, too, for sometimes I sit and cry like a baby, when I listen to words about the deep sea and the wild waves roaring; but then, of course, I am thinking of John, and perhaps it is that that moves me, and yet there is something very particular in their voices, too, poor dears."
"Are you going to them, ma'am?"
"No, my dear, they are all young at Pleasance, and don't want me. I had rather hear all about it from the girls."
And when they returned, they had so much to tell, that they interrupted each other every ten words, then talked both together, and then stopped and tried to start fair again with their news.
"Oh, mamma! what do you think? You have seen Colonel Hilton ride by?" said Janet.
"The tall officer who has taught Charlie—" said Rose.
"To call him Moustache," interrupted Janet.
"Who is brother to the Duchess of St. Maur—"
"And the Duchess of St. Maur is his sister."
Then they both added together, "And he is going to be married to Miss Grenville."
"One at a time," said their mother laughing. "Well, a wedding is a nice cheerful incident to my mind—and did you see the lovers?"
"Yes, Colonel Hilton is, what Lady Chester calls, Fanatico per la musica, quite mad for music, and he did so admire Janet's 'Ruth.'"
"And he said Rose had one of the best contralto voices he ever heard; and the Duchess was there, and oh, mamma, this is the nicest thing of all, she has actually asked us," and then they both spoke together, "to a morning concert at St. Maur House, to hear Piccolomini and Giuglini and all the great singers we have read about in the paper."
"You don't say so, my loves, but you two can't go alone amongst all that crowd of great people."
"Oh! but she asked you, too, here is the card, she brought it with her—Mrs. Hopkinson and the Miss Hopkinsons."
Poor Mrs. Hopkinson did not respond at all to the radiant looks of her daughters, she was grieved to disappoint them; but the notion of going to a large London party was one she could not entertain for a moment, and so she sorrowfully told them,
"I was afraid you would not like it, dearest old mammy, and so we did refuse at first, but then Lady Chester (she is so nice and so pretty, and so everything that she ought to be) said that Lady Sarah was to chaperon Miss Grenville, and that we might go with them in her carriage; so if you have no objection, we should like to go."
"No objection at all to that," said Mrs. Hopkinson, clearing up instantly. "Only think if your father were to come home that day, and to hear that you were at a concert at St. Maur House—he would be surprised! Why the Queen goes there, and though of course she will not be asked to meet you—I mean you would not be asked to meet her, still you are going to a house where you might have met Her Majesty." And Mrs. Hopkinson's loyalty waxed warm at the possibility.
Dress was the next subject of discussion, but Janet and Rose thought Lady Chester was so good-natured, they might venture to ask for her directions on that point, so that consideration was deferred; and Mrs. Hopkinson narrated her morning experiences, which filled her daughters with indignation, and they issued peremptory orders to their mother, never to go to Marble Hall again.
"Poor Willis!" added Mrs. Hopkinson, "I suppose he is an unlucky man, as he says. He is certainly not fortunate in these friends, the niece was the best of the set, though I did not understand what she was talking about, and she is pretty too."
"Does Charles think so?" said Janet.
"Charles? I never thought to ask him. Why bless me, girls!" Mrs. Hopkinson added, after a pause, "you don't mean to say that poor Willis will ever look up again after his sad loss—that he will ever think of a second wife. To be sure, I have no right to speak; I had been a widow only two years when I married your father; but then I was young and gay, and between ourselves, children, my poor dear first was not a man to grieve for long. Eh, dear! we all have our faults, and he certainly had a good many. And somehow I was not very happy with him, but it is all made up to me now, and perhaps he meant well."
If so, he had certainly failed singularly in acting up to his intentions, for he had treated his young wife brutally; and as there is no reason to suppose that the fall from his tandem, which terminated his dissipated life was a voluntary act, or in any way meant as a kind attention, or an atonement—it was charitable of Mrs. Hopkinson to endow him with even a limited amount of well meaning.