425 SOPHIE. BY MRS. ALFRED M. MÜNSTER. I. LADY MARIA'S CAPRICE. Ir Robespierre had not splashed his stocking, and returned to change it, thereby missing the diligence, the great French Revolution, with all its horrors, might never have been. If Marie Antoinette had been able to leave Paris without the fatal nécessaire, she might never have laid her queenly head on the block of the guillotine. And, "to descend from Polar stars to corner cupboards," if Lady Maria West had not had toothache when visiting her daughter at a fashionable boarding-school near London, these pages had never been written. It happened in this wise: the French governess at the school was celebrated for the efficacy of a remedy she possessed against the peine forte et dure, and Miss West, whose special friend Mademoiselle de Lausac was, was overjoyed at the prospect of making her friend useful to her mother, and thus winning for the beautiful young Frenchwoman the favourable regards of a lady so capricious and silly as Lady Maria West. Mademoiselle de Lausac never threw away her opportunities, and this one she improved to such good purpose, that her grateful patient returned to Brighton engaged in forming the first nucleus of a resolve that "that fascinating girl" should visit them at the approaching Christmas holidays. To her widowed sister (who, being poor and childless, was glad to toady the more fortunate wife of a rich baronet) Lady Maria imparted her project, and was astonished to find that it met but a qualified approval. "You are so unsympathising, Jane! If, by any good fortune, I meet a person who is likely to suit me, you are certain to try and put ime against the notion. Of all things, that mean jealousy is the most contemptible!" "I did not mean to vex you, Maria. Of course you know what is best-that is, what you would like best, and all that-but it just struck me that as John is to be home at Christmas, and this girl is such a paragon as you describe, and you know how easily John falls in love, and what an endless worry there was about that affair with Miss Clutterbuck, Iown it did seem to me rather a leetle incautious to bring them together." "How I find patience to bear with you, I really cannot tell!" exclaimed Lady Maria, with a peculiar elongation and compression of the mouth, supposed to express resignation. "As if, with my poor health and my other troubles, I had not enough to make me uneasy, you must make me apprehensive on the very point where I am most sensitive. John has more sense now than he had when that forward creature, Fanny Clutterbuck, entangled him." "I hope so, but it's my opinion that men never get sense in that way; if they get credit for having gained it, it is only because they are out of the way of temptation, or that no woman thinks it worth her while to make them show how little they have changed." " You are absurd, Jane. Just think how many people we shall have VOL. LVIII. 2 F at Christmas, and what parties there will be, and then think of the immense advantage I should have in having the benefit of mademoiselle's advice, and even assistance in my toilettes. I give you my honour, she had an alpaca on yesterday which I am certain did not cost a farthing more than sixpence a yard, and it might have been a queen's velvet and ermine-those French people certainly have a way of putting on their clothes and putting up their hair that we cannot come up to, and they can turn their hands to anything. While I was lying on her bed yesterday, that girl, with a few snips of her scissors and a stitch or two, changed my head-dress altogether into the most tasty, fanciful thing you ever saw. Oh! I shall certainly have her here she would be invaluable to me; and Minnie is so unhappy at school; only for Mademoiselle de Lausac, she says she would have run away long since, she is such a wild, high-spirited creature. But I did not mind all Minnie's raptures; I like to judge for myself, and I declare a more elegant young woman I never beheld." In two months from the date of the foregoing colloquy Minnie West had left school, and Mademoiselle de Lausac was her governess at home, and, being Minnie's governess, she was also the dear friend and confidante of Minnie's mother, chief overseer of that lady's wardrobe, and president of her toilette rites. A hard life-how hard, those alone can know who are aware of the frantic struggles of a long-faded beauty, whose only weapon has been that vanished cestus of Venus to retain the faintest semblance of the charms which were once so puissant; but, hard as it was, I presume that Sophie found it answer better than the monotonous routine of life at Mrs. Meredythe's. Here, at least, she had some excitement, some amusement, and, best of all, she got that which was as the breath of her nostrils-much admiration-for, when Lady Maria was pleased, she was not ill natured; that is to say, when everything was to her own mind, and she had set-in to enjoy herself, she had no objection to those around her enjoying themselves also, always providing that their pleasure did not obtrude itself too much on her notice. During the few months of this her short reign of pleasure, Mademoiselle de Lausac was, therefore, "like a sister" to Lady Maria, and treated by her as quite on an equality with herself; but prematurely wise, from a precocious acquaintance with a very bad side of human nature, the Frenchwoman knew she was on mined ground. Very beautiful women are not often seen in France; spirituelle, piquante, amiable, and a thousand other degrees of fascination, number their priestesses in myriads, and agreeable and dressed perfectly a Frenchwoman most commonly is, but beauty of the kind, which must still be acknowledged as such, whether in the cashmere of a duchess or the rags of a chiffonnière, is rare in the land of sallow complexions and unclassical noses. Mademoiselle de Lausac was one of the rare exceptions. In the most crowded street of the most crowded city, I do not think that two men under forty years of age, once getting a glimpse of her face and figure, would not have tried to get a second; her skin was smooth and clear and pale, with the least possible pink tinge in her cheeks; she had very dark grey eyes, with black fringes to the lids, and beautifully crêpée hair-but that is an adornment you can procure of Messrs. Unwin and Albert's crisping-pins, so that I cannot say if it were natural or artificial; she had a lovely figure, supple and slender, yet perfectly rounded, and her expression was a study-in fact, some people said she had no beauty but her expression. I think myself they were mistaken, however; but it was so sad, so dreamy now, and again so arch and brilliant, that her face was always changing and always attractive. "John," alluded to by Mrs. Hanbury, and the only son of a former marriage of Lady Maria West, came at Christmas, and, as his aunt had foreseen, fell at once into hopeless bondage. But he was a lout, an unlicked cub, and fully eight years younger than Sophie, and he had nothing on earth in the shape of property except what his mother chose to leave him. So that Sophie won the gratitude of the mother by telling her of the son's vituline adoration, and ridiculing it in a half-tender, half-sorrowful, "poor boy" tone. John took his broken heart to Oxford for repairs in due time, and when he again returned he was a very different beinga very objectionable creature, if the truth must be said, slangy and fast, and flashy in style and manner, mistaking impudence and shamelessness for ease, and an acquaintance with some hundred or so very disreputable persons of both sexes, for knowledge of the world; this change not having been altogether wrought by the life at Oxford, but still more by the death of a fatuous grandmother, who did her best to undo the young fellow by leaving him a very large fortune, amassed in the tallow-trade, which fortune was to be John's without control as soon as he reached the age of twenty-one, of which he then wanted some five months. There was no more humble adoration now. Armed with all his advantages, John still thought Sophie a divine "creeachaw," but it was fitting that she should know what she had lost before he again extended the sceptre of forgiveness; and then began a pretty game of fence, in which, of course, poor stupid John was inevitably worsted, as was proved by his becoming absurdly happy and offensively demonstrative. Whether even his wealth would have tempted Sophie to befool him had the family continued at Brighton, I know not, but with her temperament, the circumstances under which she was now living rendered some distraction imperatively necessary. Sir Francis West, the husband of Lady Maria, was a physician, and, though a sensible man, firmly believed in his foolish vain wife, and indulged her in every wish of her heart; all the more so, that he knew her folly and vanity must soon give place before one power mightier than either. He had long been aware of a fact of which poor Lady Maria was ignorant-viz. that she nursed in her bosom a fatal disease, which was each day sapping the foundations of life; and as it was utterly impossible to keep the silly lady from exciting and over-fatiguing herself, so long as she was within the reach of balls and fêtes, he seized on a pretext to send the whole family off to Devonshire, where he possessed a pretty, though small property. It was a lonely place, and none of the party had much taste for scenery, so, as Lady Maria was feeling languid and nervous, and generally out of sorts, she began to pick flaws in her pearl of governesses and companions. "She laid herself too much out for admiration; she rather presumed sometimes; she was not so careful to please." In short, the good lady began to tire of Sophie, and, to cap the climax, she one day discovered that John and Sophie were betrothed lovers, and only awaiting the young man's legalised attainment of his property to become man and wife. It was a severe blow to Lady Maria. Her son was her ideal of all manly perfections, and she deemed that his deserts entitled him to an alliance with the choicest flower of the rank and beauty of England. To have him meditating a marriage with a sort of upper-maid, a governess, an artful designing creature, was too much. And a stormy scene was the result, which scene ended in a parting between those who were erst such dear friends. Lady Maria was at first violent and abusive, and the pride of Sophie rose bravely to meet this mode of attack. John, too, finding Sophie unawed, took heart of grace, and declared his fixed resolve to be faithful until he should be his own master, when he meant to lose no time in marrying his beloved. Finding that she had made a mistake in her plan of operations, and not being without cunning-the weapon of the weak-knowing, also, that John, obstinate, like most fools, would certainly keep his word, if opposed, Lady Maria called a temporary armistice, and managed to separate the allies. She first tried her powers on Sophie, as being the most important. She spoke, not without pathos, of her former affection for the girl and her kindness to her; she promised her undying gratitude, and substantial evidences thereof, if all idea of this most unsuitable match were relinquished. She drew a vivid picture of Sophie's charms and many accomplishments, and the success in life they might achieve for her; and lastly, she pointed out her fate as the wife of John-a drunkard, a proficient in low debauchery, a mindless, soulless wretch, who had already been what he called in love some five-and-twenty times, and who was quite certain to ill treat any woman who might have the misfortune to marry him. All this she represented to Sophie, and not without a certain eloquence, born of the deep interest she had in the subject. And Sophie listened attentively, doubtlessly giving every argument its full weight, which candid frame of mind was not a little aided by the fact that she felt for her lover a repugnance which was not far removed from loathing. The conference lasted long, and the point at issue seemed difficult of adjustment, for Lady Maria well knew that she was wholly powerless in the matter, and that should she summarily dismiss Mademoiselle de Lausac, John's obstinacy, as well as the compound of feelings he termed his affection, would to a certainty bring about the event she dreaded. She had never had any control over him, and his goings and comings were quite independent of the pleasure of any one save Sophie; so that Lady Maria plainly saw, unless she gained the lady on her side, the matter was altogether desperate. Finally, she did win the battle-how, does not matter here. And having written a long and decisive letter to John, dissolving her engagement to him, and assuring him that any effort of his to find her would be unsuccessful, or, if successful, quite useless to change her determination, Mademoiselle de Lausac departed without beat of drum, during the absence of her lover at some races which were being held in the neighbourhood. II. SOPHIE AT HOME. A DREARY, snowy day was merging into a miserable night. The streets of a manufacturing town in the north of England were covered with that horrible mud which results from trodden snow, and the white flakes, which were still falling thickly, were sullied as they fell; a bitter north-east wind howled along the thoroughfares, and the yellow light of the gas-lamps showed that every one who had a home to go to was hurrying thither as fast as possible. In a very respectable house of a very respectable street two ladies sat by a bright fire; a handsome lamp stood unlighted on the centre table, behind the tea equipage, but the occupants of the room seemed too much engrossed in their conversation to remember either lamp or tea. One of the ladies was a young and splendidly handsome woman, dressed in a deep violet cashmere, exquisitely fitting, and relieved by delicate lace at the throat and wrists. A handsome gold bracelet, and a slender glittering watch-chain suspended from her pearl brooch, gave an effect of richness and finish to her costume, which suited her to admiration; and her companion, an old and very wrinkled woman, was, in her own style, as well got up as her more attractive friend-a little thin woman, in rich black silk, with a wadded velvet jacket, and a cap of fine lace on her false hair. She had false teeth too; you could see the gold springs glisten in the firelight, for she showed a great deal of them, as she talked with a sort of frequently-recurring snarl, which was not pleasant either to see or hear. The conversation was carried on rapidly, and with abundance of gesture, in French, and the tempers of the interlocutors rose as they spoke. The voice of the elder lady also, sharp, thin, and shrill, was elevated to its utmost pitch, while the young woman-although it was quite evident that she was as much excited as the other-rarely changed from the low, rich, and sad tone which seemed habitual to her. "It has always been so" (the old lady speaks)-"always. You were the same from childhood-erratic, lazy, self-indulgent and luxurious; inconstant as the wind in love, in affairs always fickle. You will end badly. I have done all for you. I have given up my habits, my home in that dear land, my quiet, and the few little pleasures which suit my age, for your sake; and you, ungrateful that you are, make my sacrifices of no avail, and threaten to destroy my future by your instability." "You are always the same," replied Sophie-for she it was "always reproaches. And for what? Did you not form me? Such as I am you have made me. For the rest, Nature has given me a temperament that abhors hardship and poverty, and if I love to surround myself with beautiful and luxurious things, have you not your share of them?" " I deny it not; but, girl, why can you not live on as you are doing? We do well, your beauty is greater than ever, your fascinations unharmed. You would make money were you less extravagant." "I am sick of it. I was not made to work. I must have Bohemian blood in me, for the very respectability of my life stifles me. I cannot breathe, I cannot be said to live. These worthy, stupid people, to whom I talk so sweetly, who have so good an opinion of me, if they only knew how I despise them and their life! After all said, I fancy I shall yet end on the stage. That would be the life for me, to see hundreds, thousands hanging on my words, to revel in luxury, to be worshipped, adored. Ah! what an existence!" "Madness! You will marry some respectable man-respectable by his great wealth; you will wear velvet and silk, and have many children as beautiful as yourself; you will worry his heart out and your own, but you will be his wife. And in this worthy country, a wife is not only a |