 | CHAPTER IX. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
“How taught shall I return?”
Crabbe.”
Of course, Harry was established at Wyllys-Roof. And,
after a few days passed with her parents at Longbridge,
Elinor persuaded Jane to pay her a short visit.
It is a pleasant moment, for people of mature years, when
they can sit idly by, as affectionate observers, while a gay
party of young people, in whom they are interested, are
chatting familiarly together, with the lively tone and light
spirits of youth, free alike from the restraints of childhood,
and the cares of middle age. Every varied shade of character,
unconsciously betrayed by the young group—the playful
remark—the just observation—the pleasing acquirement—
an act of good-nature—a graceful motion—the bright eye
and the careless smile—ay, even the proof of inexperience
and want of worldly wisdom—all is attractive to the partial
friends. They feel such a moment to be the reward of
many a previous hour of care and anxiety; it is their happy
privilege to mark each improvement in person, mind and
heart—the fruit of past labours and prayers—the cheering
promise amid the doubts of the future. Happy they, who
can look upon the young people committed to their charge,
with the consciousness that no important duty towards them
has been neglected; happy the young person, who, with a
clear conscience and an open countenance, can meet the
approving smile of a parent; thrice happy the youth, who,
having taken a false step at the beginning of his career, has
had the courage and wisdom to turn, ere too late; that precious
approbation of wise and true friends, may still be fully
his; he has turned from danger, temptation and shame, into
the sure and safe path that leads to everything most to be
valued, even in this world.
As for our friends at Wyllys-Roof, the joy of re-union,
after a long absence, gave additional zest to the first pleasant
meetings of the young people, in whom Miss Agnes and Mr.
Wyllys were so warmly interested. Elinor was in gay
spirits—even Jane was more animated than usual, in her
expressions and manners. As for Harry, he was decidedly
improved; the last two years had done a great deal for him.
He was now a clever, well-educated, agreeable young man
of three-and-twenty, whose judgment and taste were much
improved by travelling.
“A very good-looking fellow, too, Agnes,” remarked Mr.
Wyllys.
It was easy to gather, from the natural, healthful tone of
his conversation, that in more important points, while he had
gained much, he had lost nothing by wider observation of
the world.
As for Jane, Miss Agnes had not expected much from her,
and she was pleased with the changes she observed. Her
young kinswoman's temper seemed to have become more
even than formerly, and she was quite as much pleased to
return to her family, as she ought to have been. It appeared
natural, that everybody who saw Jane should be satisfied
with looking at her. Beauty like hers disarmed their attempts
at severity, and disposed them to indulgence. It
seemed scarcely reasonable to expect any striking quality, or
great virtue, with beauty so rare. But if the Wyllyses had
thought her beautiful before she left them, they were really
astonished to find how much it had been possible for her to
gain in appearance. Her face was now perfectly lovely, in
the finest style of beauty. Miss Wyllys was pleased to find
her manners much improved; a change from the society of
Adeline Taylor, and her lively young friends, to that of older
and better-bred people, had been of great advantage. Jane's
labours of liveliness had annoyed Miss Agnes not a little;
and more than once she had ventured a remark on the subject;
but her young relative had been too well advised, by
Wyllys could possibly know, as well as themselves, what
were the fashionable airs and graces of the day. Since her
visit to Paris, however, Jane's manner, without her being
aware of it herself, had become much more quiet and natural.
During the last twelvemonth, she had not found it necessary
to make perpetual exertions to attract, or retain
admirers. She had learned to look upon the attentions of
society as a matter of course.
The observations of Mr. Wyllys and his daughter were
not all confined to the two young travellers; they watched
the graceful movements of Elinor, and listened with interest
to the gay remarks made in her pleasant voice. She had
never been in better spirits, and was evidently happy. Elinor
was really attached to Jane; and yet, never were two girls
less alike, not only in person, but in mind and disposition.
Jane's beauty was a great charm, in Elinor's eyes. The
homeliness of her own features only increased her admiration
for those of her cousin, who had always filled, with her, the
place of a younger sister and pet, although the difference
in their ages was very trifling. If these feelings were not
returned as warmly as they deserved, Elinor had never
seemed to expect that they should be; it was not in Jane's
nature to do so. That Harry's arrival should have made her
happy, was, of course, only natural; she betrayed, at times,
a touch of embarrassment towards him, when Aunt Agnes
had smiled too openly, or Mr. Wyllys had rallied too
strongly; but it was graceful, like every shade in her
manner.
Miss Agnes was well aware that the last two years had
not been lost with Elinor, although passed in quiet every-day
life. She knew, from close observation, that the character
of her adopted child had been gradually approaching nearer
to all she wished it to be. As the two young girls sat chatting
together, Miss Wyllys could not but mark the striking
difference in their appearance; but she also felt that if Jane's
she loved her far more deeply for the want of
beauty. But, of course, the world would have decided differently.
The morning after Jane's arrival at Wyllys-Roof, the
young people were engaged in one of the gay conversations
we have alluded to, when Mr. Wyllys called off Hazlehurst's
attention.
“Harry, what was that clumsy contrivance about the
French horses, you were describing to Van Horne, last night?
I wanted to ask you, at the time, but you began to talk with
Miss Patsey. You said something about a wooden collar,
I think.”
Harry changed his seat, for one nearer Mr. Wyllys, and
began a long explanation of the harness used by the French
teamsters.
“I have several engravings in my trunks, that will show
you my meaning, sir, better than words can do.”
“I should like to see them. But, are these wooden wings
to the collars, as you describe them, used throughout France,
or only in Normandy, and the neighbourhood of Paris?”
“We saw them wherever we went. All the carters and
farmers seem to use them. They have, besides, a great deal
of clumsy, useless ornament, and they contrive to want twice
as much tackle as we do.”
The gentlemen continued to discuss the subject of horses
and harness, Harry relating, for Mr. Wyllys's amusement,
many observations he had made, on these matters, in the
different countries where he had been.
Jane had brought down, from her room, an arm-full of
pretty things, evidently Parisian. She had just given Elinor
a very pretty bag, which Miss Agnes was called upon to
admire.
“My dear Aunt,” cried Elinor, “do look at this; Jane,
I think we must call it a sac — `bag' sounds too heavy.
Look at the material—the finest cachemere. And then the
colour, so rich and so delicate at the same time.”
“Yes; it is a very pretty shade of ponceau,” said Jane.
“And then the shape! so Parisian! And the ornaments—”
“It is very pretty, my dear,” said Miss Wyllys, after due
examination.
“That is the way with everything that comes from Paris,”
said Elinor; “it is always so complete; not one part good
and others clumsy—or good in quality, but ugly in form and
colour. The French seem to have an instinct about these
things; they throw a grace about everything.”
“Yes; they have a perfect taste,” said Jane.
“While I was up-stairs, with Louisa, yesterday,” said
Elinor, “we talked over Paris all the morning, Aunt Agnes.
I was amused with a great deal she told me. Louisa says,
there is a fitness in all that a French-woman does and says,
and even in everything she wears—that her dress is always
consistent—always appropriate to the occasion.”
“That is true,” replied Jane; “their dress is always of a
piece.”
“And yet, Louisa insists upon it, that they do not bestow
more time and thought upon the subject, than the women of
other countries—and, certainly, not so much money.”
“Everything is so easy to be had, and so much cheaper,
in Paris,” said Jane.
“But, she remarked, that they are never ashamed to wear
a pretty thing merely because it is cheap; nor to make
themselves comfortable, by wearing thick shoes in the mud,
and a coarse, warm shawl in a fog.”
“We have not much mud or fog to trouble us, in this
country;” said Miss Agnes.
“No, aunt; but we have hard showers in summer, and
cold weather in winter; in spite of which, you know, our
ladies must always be dressed like fairies.”
“I have often heard Madame de Bessières praise the good
sense of her countrywomen, on those subjects,” observed
Miss Wyllys.
“Louisa maintains that the French-women have a great
their good taste; and, I suppose, after all, good taste is only
good sense refined.”
“I suppose it is, my dear. Louisa seems to have come
back even more of a French-woman than you, Jane,” observed
Miss Agnes.
“Oh! I like the French very well, Aunt Agnes.”
“But Louisa is quite eloquent on the subject.”
“She was so very fortunate, Aunt, in having so kind a
friend in Paris, as Madame de Bessières. Louisa describes
the de Bessières as living in a delightful set of people—she
mentioned half a dozen persons whom she met habitually
there, as not only amiable, and highly accomplished, and
well-bred, but high-principled, too. She says she used
often to wish you could know them, Aunt Agnes.”
“I can readily believe anything good of the intimate
friends of Madame de Bessières, for I never knew a woman
whose character was more worthy of respect. It was a
great loss to us, when she returned to France. She was
very fond of you, Elinor.”
“How kind in a person of Madame de Bessières' age, to
remember me! I long to see the letter she wrote me;
Robert says I shall have it, certainly, to-morrow, when all
their baggage will be at Longbridge.”
“Madame de Bessières often spoke of you, Elinor,” said
Jane. “She bid me ask if you remembered all the pet
names she used to call you, but I forgot to mention it when
I wrote.”
“Just as you forget many other things, naughty girl; I
must say you are anything but a model correspondent, Jenny,
dear.”
“Well, I can't help it—I do dislike so to write!”
“You need not tell me that,” said Elinor, laughing. “But
I do remember all Madame de Bessières' kind names very
well. It was sometimes, mon lapin, mon lapin doré, mon
chou, ma mère — they all sounded pleasantly to me, she
children — Master Harry among others — used to translate
them; and, though rabbit, and golden rabbit, sounded very
well in English, I did not care to be called cabbage.”
“Did you like the young people you met in Paris, Jane?”
asked Miss Wyllys.
“Oh, yes; the young men don't trouble you to entertain
them, and the girls are very good-natured and pleasant.”
“Louisa seems to think the French girls are charming—
so graceful, and pleasing, and modest; really accomplished,
and well educated, too, she says—all that young women
ought to be.”
“Yes, she says that she hopes her little girls will be as
well educated as Madame de Bessières' grand-daughters,”
said Jane.
“Well, I hope my little namesake may answer her mother's
expectations. She is a sweet little puss now, at any rate.
Louisa was quite vexed yesterday, with Mrs. Van Horne,
who asked her if the French girls were not all artful, and
hypocritical. She answered her, that, on the contrary, those
she saw the most frequently, were modest, ingenuous, and
thoroughly well-principled in every way, besides being very
accomplished. She laid great stress on one point, the respect
invariably paid by the young to the old, not only among the
women, but the men, too.”
“Yes,” observed Miss Agnes; “I remember to have
heard the same remark from Madame de Bessières; she
observed, that after having been in many different countries,
she could justly claim for her own, that in no other was so
much deference paid to age as in France.”
“That agrees precisely with Louisa's opinion. She says
it is a striking feature in French society, and appears thoroughly
part of their character — not at all assumed for
appearance sake.”
“It is a duty too little remembered in this country. It
seems to be only in our very best families that the subject is
properly attended to,” said Miss Agnes.
“Louisa likes the manners of the men for the same reason;
she says that in society they are always respectful and
obliging, whatever other agreeable or disagreeable qualities
they may have. She remarked, that she had never met with
a rude Frenchman in society; but she had, repeatedly, met
with rude Englishmen, in very good company.
“What fault, pray, did Louisa find with the Englishmen
you met, Jane?” asked Miss Agnes.
“There is a certain set, who say and do rude things.”
“I should not have thought that,” said Miss Wyllys.
“Oh, they have a way of making themselves disagreeable;
now, a Frenchman never tries to be disagreeable.”
“One would think no one would try that,” said Elinor.
“The English do, though, I assure you; at least a certain
set. I don't believe any other people do. I remember one
evening, Harry was very angry with a certain Mr. Ellery,
son of a Lord Greystone, who used to come to our house
quite often last spring. Do you remember him, Harry?”
she added, as Hazlehurst again approached the table covered
with French knicknacks, where the girls were sitting.
“Whom were you talking about?” he asked.
“Mr. Ellery;—do you remember his manner?”
“Ellery?—To be sure I do!—Insufferable coxcomb!”
“Pray, what was his great offence?” asked Elinor,
laughing.
Harry coloured violently. “Oh, it was his intolerable
English manner. I have known him stretch himself out
nearly full length on a sofa, on which Jane or Louisa was
sitting, and stare at them, with the most sickening expression,
for half an hour at a time.”
“Half an hour, Harry! how can you talk so? Half a
minute, you mean.”
“Well, until he drove you away, at any rate. I was
often surprised that you could endure it as long as you did.
But happily, Louisa cooled him off after a while; though I
had a strong inclination to undertake the job myself.”
“It was much better as it was; it was Louisa's place to
do it,” observed Miss Agnes.
“But I thought you liked the English,” said Elinor, with
some surprise. “You were speaking very highly of several
of your English friends, last night.”
“I do like the better sort very much. They are fine,
manly fellows, as ever breathed.”
“What people did you like best?” asked Miss Agnes.
“A man who does not cherish prejudice, must naturally
like the best qualities and the best individuals of all nations.”
“But have you no preference?”
“There cannot be a doubt, that society is more agreeable
in France, in Paris, than elsewhere.”
“Are not the French too artificial?”
“I honestly do not think them more so than the English.
English simplicity often has a very artificial twist; with the
French it is just the reverse; art becomes a second-nature,
with them.”
“We hear the French accused of selfishness—”
“I think you would find both French and English more
selfish than we are. But they have different ways of showing
it. The Englishman is exclusive, and reserved; the
Frenchman egotistical. Reserve may seem dignified; but
it often covers a great deal of cold self-love; while French
egotism—not egoïsme—is often mingled with much naïveté
and bonhommie. Both nations, however, are more selfish
than the Italians, or Germans, I should say.”
“Still, you seem to like the French the best of the two.”
“Well, the French generally treat Americans more civilly
than the English. John Bull is very fond of giving himself
airs of superiority, after a disagreeable fashion of his own.
Now a Frenchman fancies himself so much more civilized
than the rest of the world, that he has a good-natured feeling
towards everybody but John Bull: he thinks he can afford
to be amiable and friendly.”
“If you are speaking of the best people in each country,
of judging national character. We must take the average.”
“I am aware of that, sir.”
“At any rate, you don't seem to have liked this Mr. Ellery,”
said Elinor.
“Not in the least; I used to think him excessively impertinent,”
exclaimed Harry, and as his choler rose, while certain
recollections passed through his mind, he coloured again.
To change the subject, he took up the bag the young ladies
had been admiring.
“What fanciful name may belong to this piece of finery;
for, of course, it is not a bag?” he asked.
“Oh, it is too useful, not to have a straight-forward, common
name; you may call it a sac, though, if you like. I
could not think of anything more imaginative; can you,
Jane?”
“I dare say, there is another name; but I have forgotten
it; everything has a name of its own, in Paris.”
“Your table looks like a fancy-shop, Aunt Agnes,” continued
Hazlehurst; “gloves, bags, purses, boxes, muslins,
portfolios, and twenty other things, jumbled together.”
“What sort of wood is the work-box that you chose for
Miss Patsey?” asked Elinor. “I am very glad you thought
of her.”
“Harry does not seem to have forgotten any of his friends,
while in Paris,” said Miss Agnes.
Hazlehurst looked down.
“It is some dark wood; not rose-wood, however. It is
rather plain; but a serviceable-looking box,” he said.
“Just the thing for Miss Patsey,” observed Elinor.
“Here, Elinor,” said Jane, “is the cape I spoke of;” and
she unfolded a paper, and drew from it a piece of muslin
which had evidently received a very pretty shape, fine embroidery,
and tasteful bows of riband from some Parisian
hand. “This is the one I spoke of.—Is it not much prettier
than any you have seen?”
Elinor received the cape from her cousin, who was unusually
animated in its praises; it was held up to the light;
then laid on the table; the delicacy of the work was admired;
then the form, and the ribands; and, at last, Elinor threw it
over Jane's shoulders, observing, at the same time, that it was
particularly becoming to her. Harry seemed determined
not to look; and, in order to resist any inclination he may
have felt, to do so, he resolutely took up a Review, and
began turning over its pages. The young ladies' admiration
of the cape lasted several minutes, and, at length, Elinor
called upon the rest of the party to admire how becoming it
was.
“Well, really,” exclaimed Harry, looking rather cross,
probably at being disturbed in his reading, “young ladies'
love of finery seems quite inexhaustible; it is sometimes
incomprehensible to the duller perceptions of the male sex.”
“Don't be saucy!” said Elinor.
“Why, you can't deny the fact, that you and Jane have
been doing nothing else, all the morning, but tumble over
this Paris finery?”
“I beg your pardon—we have been talking quite sensibly,
too; have we not, Aunt Agnes?”
“Much as usual, I believe, my dear,” replied Miss
Wyllys.
“Pray observe, that the table contains something besides
finery; here are some very good French and Italian books;
but, I suppose, you will say, those you selected yourself.”
“I certainly did,” said Harry; “and the music, too.”
“Well, I have half a mind not to tell you, that we like the
books and the music quite as well as anything here,” said
Elinor, colouring; and then, as if almost fearing that she
had betrayed her feelings, she continued, in a gay tone.
“But, why are you so severe upon us this morning?”
“Unpalatable truth, I suppose,” said Harry, shrugging
his shoulders.
“Pray, remember, sir, that if finery be thrown away upon
me refer you to certain kings, who, not content with studying
their own dresses, have condescended to compose those of
their queens, too. Remember how many great heroes —
your Turennes and Marlboroughs—have appeared in diamonds
and satin, velvet and feathers!”
“But that was two hundred years ago.”
“They were heroes, nevertheless; and, I suppose, une
fois caporal, toujours caporal. But, if you prefer something
nearer to our own time, figure to yourself Horace Walpole,
and General Conway, some half-century since, consulting,
in their correspondence, upon the particular shade
of satin best suited to their complexions—whether pea-green,
or white, were the most favourable.”
Hazlehurst laughed.
“There it is, in white and black!” said Elinor. “Just
remember Goldsmith, strutting about Temple Gardens, in
his blush-coloured satin, and fancying everybody in love
with him, too!”
“Quarter! quarter! Nelly,” cried her grandfather, laughing.
“True, I must confess,” said Harry, smiling; “but that was
more than fifty years ago. The world has grown wiser, now.”
“Has it?”
“Look at our sober coats, to-day—the last Paris fashions,
too!”
“Yes—but what is the reason?” cried Elinor, laughing
herself. “You have just found out that finery, and a showy
exterior, are of no use to you—they do not increase your
influence with the ladies! We do not value a man more
for a showy exterior!”
“I submit,” said Harry; but he coloured, and seemed to
Miss Agnes, more embarrassed by Elinor's remark than was
necessary. He threw down his book, however, and crossed
the room to take a place near her.
“What are you going to do this morning?” he said,
quietly.
A walk was proposed, and soon after the young people,
accompanied by Bruno, set out together.
| CHAPTER IX. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | |