There is no moment more trying to the mistress of a house than that in which the ladies first gather round the fire when they leave the dining-room. If a silence ensues, or if the conversation is begun in too low a tone of voice, that voiceless utterance which denotes and produces shyness, the die is cast—the character of the evening is stamped.
Unfortunately Mrs. Heckfield, in her anxiety to be attentive, just as the ladies were crowding round the fire, asked them if they would not “take a seat,” and was sufficiently wanting in tact to allow them to settle themselves, in something very nearly approaching a circle, and a circle some way removed from the fire.
In vain were the sofas stuffed with cushions, in vain were the ottomans as low as possible, and the arm-chairs so deep that no one under seven feet high could reach the back of them; in vain were all the tables so orthodoxly covered with snuff boxes under glass cases, miniatures in beautiful frames, French souvenirs with liliputian artificial flowers, annuals in every variety of binding, prose albums, poetry albums, drawing albums, china cups and Sevres vases, Dresden inkstands, and mother-of-pearl letter pressers, till it was impossible to find a spot on which a cup could be safely deposited; all these appliances and means to boot will not produce ease if it is wanting in the mind of the hostess. From which, by the by, might be deduced the superiority of mind over matter.
Mrs. Haughtville was a fine lady, and was anxious Lady Bodlington should not labour under the erroneous impression that she was in her element with Miss Pennefeather and the Heckfields. She therefore took an early opportunity of asking Lady Bodlington how many Miss Heckfields there were, and whether this Miss Heckfield was older or younger than Lady Selcourt. Lady Bodlington answered truly and simply, that she did not know, as she had only met them once before at the ball. Mrs. Haughtville did not hear, and Lady Bodlington, who was straightforward and good-humoured, and did not wish to be uncivil, was quite distressed to know how to answer. Mrs. Haughtville continued to ask questions about the people present, forgetting that though she asked in a whisper, she could not hear the whispered answer.
Mrs. Heckfield, who thought if Miss Pennefeather would talk every one must be delighted with her cleverness, was occupied in leading her to subjects on which she fancied she would shine and edify her audience; but Miss Pennefeather, who had found the dandy very unsatisfactory, and was not much pleased with the insouciance of the ladies of fashion, and who thought herself privileged to have the sensitive pride of genius, was not so easily drawn out. Lucy, who had been daunted by her mother’s remark as they left the dining-room, was meek and silent.
It was up-hill work for Mrs. Heckfield. At length she thought of some Italian views which had lately been sent to her by her eldest son, who was on his travels.
“Have you seen these prints, Miss Pennefeather, that Henry has sent me? They are quite in your way, such an Italian scholar as you are.”
Miss Pennefeather revived; she piqued herself on her pronunciation of Italian. She looked at them with interest, read the names of each with great emphasis, scrupulously called Leghorn, Livorno, and Florence, Firenze; and expatiated on the beauties of each place, as if she had lived there all her life.
“I thought you had never been abroad, Miss Pennefeather?” said Lucy, timidly and simply.
“No! I have never been abroad, exactly,” replied Miss Pennefeather, with a slight embarrassment, but, instantly recovering, she added with enthusiasm, “but I have heard and read so much of these hallowed spots, I feel as if I knew them perfectly; as if I had roved with Il Petrarca, through the shady groves and by the purling streams of Valchiusa; as if I had accompanied the great author of the Divina Commedia in his wanderings; and I can almost fancy I had made one of that party of congenial souls in the enchanted skiff with Guido and Lappo,
I never see a print of La bella Firenze, without thinking of her exiled poet, and,” she added with a sigh, and an upward glance, which was intended to speak volumes, “feeling with him—
Miss Pennefeather was poor, and her friends were extremely kind in frequently inviting her to stay at their houses, where she appeared to enjoy herself exceedingly, and gave no signs of sympathising with Dante.
“What did she say?” asked Mrs. Haughtville.
“Something about salt bread, and its being very hard to go up and down stairs,” answered the good-humoured Lady Bodlington.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Haughtville.
Miss Pennefeather cast a glance of contempt at the high-born pair, and relapsed into a dignified silence. Coffee came: that was a real blessing. Tea succeeded, which was some comfort. Mrs. Heckfield’s eyes turned frequently and more frequently towards the door; still the gentlemen came not. In her despair she bade Lucy give them a little music.
“You are fond of music, I believe, Lady Bodlington?”
“Oh, yes! passionately fond of music!” answered Lady Bodlington, with a suppressed yawn, and poor Lucy seated herself at the pianoforte.
She had a pretty voice, but she was very much frightened. Miss Pennefeather was a critic, and Mrs. Haughtville looked so cold. Lady Bodlington she did not mind—she seemed good-natured, and the circumstance of her being a viscountess, had not the same effect on Lucy’s nerves as on her mother’s.
She did her best, and Lady Bodlington, with a sweet smile, thanked her for that pretty Spanish air.
“It is German!” said Lucy, with the naïveté of youth; and both felt uncomfortable. Lady Bodlington, at having made a wrong hit, Lucy, at not having pronounced her words more distinctly. Lady Bodlington should have known better than to utter any phrase of commendation which committed her, as to the language in which a young lady’s song is couched. Lucy should have known better than to set her right, when she had made the mistake.
“If Miss Pennefeather would favour us!” humbly suggested Mrs. Heckfield: “One of your own unique compositions, my dear Miss Pennefeather. Miss Pennefeather composes words, and music, and all, Mrs. Haughtville, and they are the sweetest things!”
This account of Miss Pennefeather’s multifarious talents excited a slight emotion of curiosity in Mrs. Haughtville’s mind, and she accordingly begged Miss Pennefeather to grant their request. Lady Bodlington was very anxious indeed; and the poetess, whose pride, though easily wounded, was, through the medium of her vanity, as easily soothed, found the two fine ladies were more intellectual, and consequently more worthy of the efforts of her genius, than she had at first imagined.
After a little bashful reluctance, she seated herself upon the round stool. She was short and thick, with a very small waist and a very full gown, and she sat extremely stiff and upright. Her arms were short, and when she meant to play staccato, she caught up her hands as high as her shoulders, and then she pounced down again on the affrighted notes as a kite upon a brood of chickens. The “sweet thing” she selected for the occasion was in a German style. A love-lorn damsel who sold herself to the spirit of darkness, that she might rejoin her murdered lover’s ghost in another, but not a better, world. Miss Pennefeather’s nose was small, and somewhat retroussé; her eyes were large, black, and round (they were her beauty); her mouth would not have been ugly, but that it was difficult to decide where her chin ended and her throat began, so that, during the vehement and energetic passages which the nature of the subject called forth, when the head was thrown back, and the black eyes were darting their beams towards the ceiling, the double chin protruded rather beyond the natural and original one.
The gentlemen entered just as the maiden was torn away to the realms below by the infernal crew, and, having repented her of her unholy compact, was invoking beings of the upper air to her rescue. The poor pianoforte reeled under the astounding accompaniment, in its lowest bass to the deep-toned exultation of the demons, and to the shrieks of the maiden in its highest treble; the Sappho’s cheeks were suffused with the excitement of the moment, the feathers in her yellow toque were waving as rapidly as the plume of a hero in the thickest of the fight. The sight, the sounds, were awful!
The dandy reached the door—he saw—he heard—and, he fled. He retreated to the hall, and hastily seizing a hat (which, by the by, happened to be Lord Montreville’s instead of his own,) and throwing around him his military cloak, he boldly sallied forth in a drizzling wet night to walk two miles to his lodgings.
The other gentlemen were less easily intimidated, and made good their entrance. Lord Montreville seated himself by the side of Lucy, and, without speaking enough to be uncivil towards the performer, he contrived to make Lucy perfectly understand that he preferred her conversation to Miss Pennefeather’s singing, although he was passionately fond of music, and should like of all things to hear her sing.
When the performance was concluded, he assured the Corinne of the evening that her composition was one which could be heard with indifference by no one. Miss Pennefeather was charmed, and asked if his Lordship was an admirer of the new style of English music, which had been introduced since the Captive Knight and the Treasures of the Deep had made such a sensation.
“Of course you know the Treasures of the Deep? They tell me I have caught something of the inspired authoress’s expression.” Lord Montreville really trembled. He had heard it sung by the inspired authoress, and he hastened to avert the sacrilegious attempt, by begging for another of her own composition.
Charmed and flattered, Miss Pennefeather again burst forth in a perfectly original piece, under cover of which Lord Montreville entered into a most agreeable conversation with Lucy. His dark, lively, expressive eyes, looked at her with so much consciousness of being understood, that she immediately felt quite intimate, and perfectly satisfied that he was as much amused as she was, by Miss Pennefeather’s exhibition. These looks of mutual intelligence and amusement prevented her feeling any awe of his age or his rank, while his very age made her feel perfectly safe and innocent in immediately giving in to the intimacy which so suddenly sprang up between them. Their communication did not confine itself to a little good-humoured ridicule of the self-constituted Corinne; he had the happy knack of leading the conversation to topics interesting to the individuals with whom he conversed; and Mrs. Heckfield overheard Lucy, in the fullness of her heart, giving a detailed account of the death of a Newfoundland puppy, which was supposed to have been bit by a mad dog!
Mrs. Heckfield was in agonies: she looked unutterable things; but her looks were utterly thrown away. Lucy’s heart and soul were in her subject, and her eyes were sufficiently tearful to look very bright and melting. Lord Montreville thought this extremely countrified simplicity, charming, though he did not intend it should last for ever. He was himself a professed lover of animals, and he gave her, in return, an account of a horse who neighed when he came into the stable, and would put his nose into his pocket to find the bread he was in the habit of feeding him with.
Lucy thought him the nicest, best-natured creature she had ever met with; and Mrs. Heckfield saw her, in the midst of his story, draw her chair nearer to him, her whole mind intent upon the sensible horse. Mrs. Heckfield thought, “How improper! how forward! how vulgar! What can ail Lucy to-night?”
When the company dispersed, what was her horror to see Lucy put out her hand towards Lord Montreville, and shake hands with him cordially, heartily, and frankly; but her horror was mixed with astonishment, when Lord Montreville begged permission to call the next morning, as Miss Heckfield had promised to show him some beautiful puppies, and to allow him to select one, as he was a great dog-fancier.
“What can be the meaning of this?” thought she, “he must be disgusted with Lucy’s manners to-day! They could not have been worse if Bell Stopford had been here!”
When the last carriage had driven from the door, Mrs. Heckfield threw herself into a chair.
“Well, Lucy! I think you have done it to-day! When you knew I wished you to behave like a girl of fashion. When we had all the best company within ten miles round assembled here, just this one day, to giggle and laugh all dinner-time, and then to entertain a man of Lord Montreville’s refinement and taste with your dog’s death, and your puppies’ birth! He must think you have been brought up in the stables, rather than in the drawing-room.”
“Oh, dear mamma! I assure you he asked me all about poor dear Hector’s death!”
“Asked you about Hector’s death! How could he have known such a dog as Hector ever existed, if you had not begun about your own dog and your own affairs? Don’t you know that egotism should be avoided in every way, and that it is the most ill-bred thing in the world to talk of yourself and your concerns?”
“So it is, mamma;—very true. I did not mean to talk of myself, and I am sure I do not know how I fell into it: but you don’t know how interested he seemed. I do not think he was bored, really: he says he is so fond of animals—just like me.”
“Pooh, child!—he is a very well-bred man, and was too polite to let you feel you bored him. You must learn not to be led into pouring your own histories into people’s ears.”
Mrs. Heckfield forgot that at dinner she had given Lord Montreville a very long account of the manner in which she had become possessed of the china he had admired.
CHAPTER V.
“Enfin ils me mettaient à mon aise: et moi qui m’imaginais qu’il y avait tant de mystère dans la politesse des gens du monde, et qui l’avais regardé comme une science qui m’était totalement inconnue, et dont je n’avais nul principe, j’étais bien surprise de voir qu’il n’y avait rien de si particulier dans la leur, rien qui me fût si étranger; mais seulement quelque chose de liant, d’obligeant, et d’aimable.”
Marivaux.
Lucy went to bed uneasy at having had such bad manners, and yet not altogether mortified; for, though she implicitly believed all her mother said of her behaviour, she did not think it had quite produced the effect she imagined upon Lord Montreville, “for mamma did not know how good-natured he was.”
She generally chatted with Milly, as she was undressing; and Milly, who was aware that the party of that day was one which had excited some anxiety in her mistress’s bosom, inquired of Miss Lucy “how the gentlefolks had been pleased, and whether every thing was right at table.”
“We were all pretty well placed, I believe, only mamma says I am not to sit so near Charles again, for if we get near each other we make too much noise; and Mr. Lyon did not like Miss Pennefeather at all.”
“I am sorry for that, miss; but I meant how the cross-corners did, for poor Mrs. Fussicome was in such a way. The jelly would not stand, and it looked so shocking bad when it was in the dish, that what did we do but beat up some raspberry cream in no time, and sent it in instead; but then it made two reds at the cross-corners; but I should hope nobody noticed it.”
“I am sure I did not, nurse, and I don’t think mamma did; at least she said nothing about it. Every thing looked very nice, tell Mrs. Fussicome.”
“Yes, miss, that I will, for she has been quite put out about it; she said she could not enjoy her supper a bit, and she thought the soufflet was not quite right.”
“Mamma did not say any thing about it: indeed she saw no faults in the dinner, they were all in me. How I do wish I had not such spirits. I mean to be so quiet and demure, and as soon as the people begin to talk to me I forget. I do really believe Lord Montreville is very good-natured, and will not think the worse of me.”
“La! miss, I’m sure your mamma can’t think there is any harm in talking and laughing with such an old gentleman.”
“He is not so very old, Milly,” answered Lucy, though if Milly had not said so, she might have been the first to say it herself.
About one o’clock the next morning, Lord Montreville arrived at Rose Hill Lodge, and was surprised to find Lucy shy, reserved, timid, and rather awkward. Mrs. Heckfield, anxious to efface from Lord Montreville’s mind all impressions concerning the kennel, and the stables, and the dog-hutches, led his attention to the flower garden, which was remarkably pretty, and to her small conservatory, which was in excellent order, at the same time taking care to let him know that the disposition of the flower-beds was according to Lucy’s taste, that Lucy had arranged the vases in the manner which excited his admiration, that the training of the creepers in festoons from one tree to another was Lucy’s fancy. She pointed out a beautiful new geranium which had been named after her little “madcap Lucy; for madcap as she is, Lord Montreville, she has a decided taste for botany and that kind of thing,” added Mrs. Heckfield, with a sweet smile at Lucy, who certainly that morning had not deserved the name of “madcap.”
Lord Montreville immediately understood the state of the case, and was well pleased; he thereby perceived that Lucy was docile, easily subdued, and easily managed. However, as his present object was to win her confidence, preparatory to attempting her heart, he alluded to Miss Heckfield’s promise of a puppy of their beautiful breed of setters, and he begged to be taken to the kennel, as he was to be allowed to choose for himself. Mrs. Heckfield entreated Lord Montreville would allow her to send for the dogs. Lord Montreville insisted on not giving so much trouble, when the servant was seen issuing from the drawing-room windows, showing the way to Lord and Lady Bodlington, who had called to see the conservatory. Mrs. Heckfield had a fresh demand on her politeness, and after the proper greetings, Lord Montreville whispered Lucy that she must not allow him to be cheated of his puppy, that he had quite set his heart upon seeing the whole family, and entreated her to lead the way. She was at first somewhat confused, and looked uneasily towards her mother, who was some way in advance; but she did not know how to refuse, so they proceeded through the back-yard, by the coal-hole, and the bottle-rack, through the drying-ground, past the pigsties, to a range of out-houses, where Lufra and all her family were shut up.
The moment Lucy opened the door, up jumped Lufra, to the great detriment of the pretty muslin gown which that day made its first appearance.
“Oh, my best new gown!” exclaimed Lucy. “O dear! Why would mamma make me put it on?”
She had scarcely uttered the words when it flashed across her why mamma had wished her to be smart and to look well. She stopped short, and blushed up to the eyes.
“This is too naïf,” thought Lord Montreville; “but naïveté soon dies away if it is not encouraged. Her mother wishes to catch me, I know; but the girl has no plan; I shall be able to mould her to my liking.”
A young man would have flown off upon perceiving the mother’s views; but Lord Montreville had seen them plainly from the very beginning, and it did not affect his opinion as to whether Lucy était son fait, or not. Because Mrs. Heckfield wished to catch him, there was no reason he should be caught; and he continued his observations of Lucy, and his calculations whether she would easily become the sort of wife he wished to have.
After a long discussion concerning the several merits and beauties of the several puppies, in which Lucy found Lord Montreville’s taste in dogs perfectly coincided with her own, the puppy was selected, and Lucy’s heart had again opened, her reserve had vanished, she had made up her mind that, for once, mamma was wrong, and she was right; that her’s had been the most correct estimate of Lord Montreville’s character. She asked him if he admired young donkeys. He confessed that if he had a weakness, it was for a little baby donkey, with a shaggy forehead and a pointed nose. Lucy’s eyes sparkled at such a proof of sympathy in her companion. She proposed to show him her pet. He eagerly assented, and they proceeded through the chicken-yard to the paddock where the donkeys were grazing. The chickens expected to be fed, and all gathered round Lucy’s feet; the donkeys instantly set up a most sonorous braying, and galloped to her with their uplifted heads. Lucy was amused, and began to laugh, and to pat, and stroke, and pinch the dear sensible creatures, when a turn in the shrubbery walk brought Mrs. Heckfield, Lord and Lady Bodlington, and Mr. Lyon to the opposite side of the paddock, which commanded a view of Lucy and Lord Montreville. Lucy felt her cheeks glow, and her mirth subside. Her mother, who could not but know through what ignoble paths she must have led Lord Montreville, would be more displeased than ever. She was sobered in an instant. Lord Montreville perceived the blush, and the change in her countenance, and flattered himself there was something gratifying to himself in her emotions. They retraced their steps, but Lucy was silent and abashed, and looked heartily ashamed of herself when they rejoined the party.
Lord Montreville immediately addressed Mrs. Heckfield, informed her that “Miss Heckfield, at his earnest request, had allowed him to inspect the puppies, and to select the one he fancied; and that he had a childish passion for young donkeys, which she had also most kindly indulged.”
Mrs. Heckfield saw that no harm was done, and she was soothed. Lucy thought him more good-natured than ever in thus averting the storm she saw impending, and gratitude was added to cement the union of their congenial souls.
He now became a frequent visitor at Rosehill Lodge, and his manner gradually assumed more the tone of gallantry. Reports arose. Lucy was rallied by her young friends, and began to look into her feelings.
She had seen his beautiful equipage, his four blood bays; she had seen engravings of his magnificent seat in Staffordshire, of his lovely villa near London, of his ancient castle in Wales. She was proof against the splendour of Ashdale Park, and the elegancies of Beausejour, but the castle had a decided effect upon her heart. The walls were nine feet thick; there was a donjon keep, at the top of a tower nine hundred and forty-one years old; and Lord Montreville’s teeth were extremely good, almost as good as Captain Langley’s. From the vaults under the Caërwhwyddwth Castle subterraneous passages, to the end of which no one within the memory of man had penetrated, were supposed to extend to the ruined monastery of Caërmerwhysteddwhstgen; and then Lord Montreville was quite thin, not the least inclined to corpulency. He was older than Sir Charles Selcourt, but he was much more agreeable; he was certainly a great deal older than Captain Langley, but then Captain Langley was not the least clever. All their tastes agreed exactly. He was enthusiastic upon the self-same subjects,—puppies, donkeys, goslings, and Lord Byron.
Her mind was in a wavering state, when the following conversation took place between herself and Milly:—
“This is poor Miss Lizzy’s birth-day, miss, and we have all been drinking her health and happiness to-night at supper. She is twenty-two this very day.”
“And I shall be nineteen next birthday, Milly. We are all growing very old. It is almost time I should be married. How old were you when you married?”
“Nineteen, Miss Lucy.”
“Just about my age. And how old was John?”
“In his twenty-one, miss.”
“Dear! I don’t think that was difference enough. A man ought to be a good deal older than his wife, that he may advise her, and guide her, and all that, as mamma says, when she is out of sight of her mother.”
“I can’t say, miss. The Bible says, ‘I will make an help meet for him;’ so I suppose the woman is to help the man, as well as the man to help the woman; and if they are to help one another, why I reckon they should be something of an age.”
“Perhaps that may be best, nurse, where they both have to work, and where the man should be young and strong to labour for his family; but in another line, nurse,—among richer people, you know,—where there is no occasion to be strong and to work hard, it is such a thing for a giddy young girl to have a steady sensible man, who can tell her all she ought to do—a man much cleverer than herself, a person she can quite look up to.”
“Maybe it is, miss.”
“And then, as mamma says, a married woman, if she is not quite ugly, is liable, you know, to have men—young men—talk to her,—talk to her a good deal,—more than they should; and then it is such a thing to have a husband who can tell her exactly whom she should talk to, and whom she should not talk to.”
“But sure, miss, I should think every woman, married or single, might know when a gentleman said any thing as was not becoming for her to listen to.”
“Yes, certainly; but mamma says that in the great world a young woman might get herself talked about just for talking all about nothing at all, to one of those fashionable dandies, and that if she has a husband who knows the world well, he will tell her just how far she may listen to such people.”
“Well, my dear Miss Lucy, we poor folks don’t understand about talking, and being talked about, and listening, and not listening. For my part, for as long as I have lived in this wicked world—and a wicked world it is in some ways—I never knew a young woman as was married to a young man as was the man of her heart, as ever lost her good name for all she might be affable and pleasant like with her neighbours. But the gentlefolks knows best, to be sure.”
Milly was unsatisfactory: she saw what was going on in the family, and she could not like it: it was no business of hers, and she would never think of stepping out of her place. Lucy was uncomfortable. She loved Milly, and, moreover, she had settled in her own mind to love like Milly. She longed to know what she thought of Lord Montreville, and at length she plunged into the subject.
“Don’t you think Lord Montreville is a very pleasing-looking man, Milly?”
“Yes, miss; he looks very well for his years.”
“He is so clever, you can’t think.”
“Is he, miss?”
“And so very good-natured!”
“That is a good thing for all his servants, I am sure, miss.”
“And for every one else who is connected with him.”
“Yes, certainly, miss.”
“He is the most agreeable person, and loves all sorts of animals, and seems to like to have every thing about him happy.”
“Sure, miss.”
“Do you know, Milly, I should not be very much surprised if you might some day have an opportunity of trying whether he made those around him happy or not.”
“Indeed, miss!”
“Mamma says she is convinced he likes me very much;” and she added, in a coaxing manner, “now what shall we do, you and I, Milly?”
“I am sure, miss, it is just as you please.”
“Yes, I know that well enough,” answered Lucy, with a shade of pettishness in her tone; “I can say no as well as anybody, if I please, and mamma says she would not influence my choice for the world; but it certainly is very true what mamma says, that I am so giddy I should always be getting into scrapes if I was to marry anybody as young and as giddy as myself. It was only yesterday she was talking about it, after Lord Montreville had brought me that beautiful bouquet of orange-flowers; and she asked me whether I had any objection in the world to him, and whether I did not think him clever, and agreeable, and good-natured, and whether there was any body else I thought more clever, or more agreeable, or more good-natured, and I’m sure I can’t think of any body just now. Lord Slenderdale and Mr. Desmond are handsomer, to be sure; but mamma would be shocked to hear me talk about beauty in that kind of way. It does not sound well in a girl, you know,” Then, after a pause, she added, “Did you think John handsome?”
“I believe other folks called him a fine young man, but I am sure I never thought nothing at all about his looks.”
“Oh!” thought Lucy, “mamma is quite right; girls should not set any value on the exterior—one should only think of the mind. Besides, Lord Montreville is still very good-looking.” Presently she continued, “Did you think John very clever, Milly?”
“La! miss, I don’t know, I am sure. The schoolmaster never said no other than that he was a very good boy at his book, but I never thought about his scholarship. That was no business of mine.”
“Was John agreeable, and pleasant, amusing, you know, to talk to.”
“He was always pleasant to me, I’m sure; he never gave me a bad word nor an unkind look in his life, and he was always very agreeable to any thing I wished; and, as to being amusing, why we always had other things to think of, than amusing ourselves, so I can’t justly say.”
“Oh!” thought Lucy, “he was a good creature, but evidently very stupid and dull; and Lord Montreville is so lively and agreeable!”
The result of this conversation was, that Lucy went to bed, pleased with Lord Montreville, and not quite pleased with Milly. She went to sleep and dreamed she was the Marchioness of Montreville, chaperoning her sister Emma to Almack’s. People cannot prevent their dreams. “In vino veritas.” Likewise, in dreams, there is truth. Many a weakness, many a secret preference, which the waking thoughts would not be guilty of harbouring, have been revealed to the dreamer in visions over which he, or she, had no control. The emulator of Milly’s pure, disinterested, uncompromising, uncalculating affection, would never wittingly have allowed the idea of worldly vanities and splendours to have influenced her mind; but I fear we should lower our heroine too much in the opinion of the young and romantic reader, were we to inquire too deeply into the degree in which they did influence her view of the subject.
The next morning she jokingly repeated her dream to Emma.
“Oh! Lucy,” exclaimed Emma, “what a charming dream! And you know mamma says, if you marry, I may come out at seventeen, and, if you don’t, I must stay in this poky school-room till I am eighteen. You never can refuse Lord Montreville.”
CHAPTER VI.
“A l’age où j’étais on n’a pas le courage de résister à tout le monde, je crus ee qu’on me disait tant par docilité que par persuasion; je me laissai entraîner, je fis ce qu’on me disait, j’étais dans une émotion qui avait arrêté toutes mes pensées; les autres decidèrent de mon sort, et je ne fus moi-même qu’une spectatrice stupide de l’engagement éternel que je pris.”—Marivaux.
What with the jests of others and her mother’s counsels, both open and implied, Lucy had no doubt of Lord Montreville’s intentions. The whole affair seemed only to depend upon herself. What was her surprise when at seven o’clock, instead of Lord Montreville, a note arrived, apologising for his absence, on the plea that he had been summoned away upon business. Lucy thought lovers were to be devoted things, who were to have no business but that of gaining their lady’s favour.
There was a party that day, and she saw people looked surprised at hearing Lord Montreville was gone away so suddenly, and she felt a little mortified. “I am certainly in love,” she thought, “for every thing seems dull to-day. Yes, it is all a blank now he is gone (how much is implied by the simple pronoun he or she); just as Milly said when John was gone to the back woods, and she was left at Halifax.”
The resemblance between her situation and feelings, and those of Milly, would not have been so evident to others.
Several days elapsed, and nothing was heard of Lord Montreville. His saddle-horses were seen to pass towards London with their horse-cloths packed upon their saddles, in travelling costume. Lucy thought he was certainly gone quite away, without proposing, and she felt acute pangs of mortification and disappointment. She was ready to cut out her tongue for having, of her own accord, spoken to Milly of her prospects in life, when those prospects were evidently mere conjurings of her own self-conceit; she could have beat herself for having repeated her foolish dream to Emma, who had repeated it to Mary, who had repeated it to the governess, who had made Lucy blush more than once by her allusions to it,—she could cry at thinking how faintly she had rebutted Bell Stopford’s innuendoes, and she worked herself up to a state of soreness and agitation, not unlike that which might be produced by the tender passion itself.
It is not easy to distinguish how much of the emotions on such occasions proceeds from real preference, and how much from gratified or mortified vanity. I believe it does not often fall to the lot of any one, to feel the real, pure, passion of love to the highest degree of which their nature is capable; but the combination of other, less noble passions, will produce considerable pains, pleasures, blushings, and flushings; hearts will beat, cheeks turn pale, hands shake, knees even will knock a little together, and the symptoms pass muster very well, as love, true love. If the affair ends in marriage, and the parties suit, it does as well as love, and often ends in becoming love itself. If, on the contrary, the flirtation ends, as many flirtations do, these symptoms are mentally laughed at and forgotten, as having only been passing ebullitions of gratified vanity, or indignant pride; the heart is supposed, and really is, free, and ready for a real true passion whenever it may be called forth.
Lucy passed a restless and uncomfortable week—annoyed, when they were asked where Lord Montreville was gone—annoyed, when they were obliged to answer they did not know—annoyed, when they were asked when he returned—annoyed, at being again obliged to reply they could not tell—annoyed, when people looked surprised at their answers—annoyed, when they looked wise and cunning, and treated these answers as discreet evasions.
At length, on the tenth day from Lord Montreville’s departure his servant was seen riding up the coach-road, towards the back-door. Lucy’s heart beat very quick, and she thought it quite abominable of John not to bring the note up-stairs immediately. She would fain have told her mother that she had seen the servant arrive, and that John was evidently waiting to finish his dinner, and to prepare the luncheon, before he brought the note; but she was ashamed to show her impatience, and she resolutely continued to copy music.
John, it is presumed, had a good appetite that day, at least the time appeared unaccountably long. At length, however, luncheon was announced, and the note delivered, with the information that Lord Montreville’s servant was to wait for an answer.
“It must be the proposal; and the servant is not to return without the answer,” thought Lucy, and her eyes felt dizzy. She glanced at the exterior of the note—it was three-cornered! It could not be a proposal. No! Never did a proposal come in the shape of a three-cornered note! It was very short, announcing his return, and begging if Mrs. Heckfield had finished the third volume of some novel which he had lent her, that she would return it, as he was sending back a box of books to the library.
Lucy durst not ask what were the contents of the note; but her mother threw it to her, bidding her look for the book. She read the momentous communication, the withholding of which by John had so excited her internal wrath, and she thought it the shortest, oddest note, she ever read!—so abrupt! evidently written in such a hurry! There could be no doubt, however, what it meant to convey—a complete breaking off of the intimacy with their family;—even sending for his book in such haste!
Meanwhile, she hunted for the volume, and she packed it up, resolving in her own mind to beware of the base deceiver, man; and feeling herself a slighted damsel.
Lord Montreville’s absence had been caused by business connected with the intentions he entertained towards Lucy; but if he had acted upon a plan, he could not have shown more consummate policy. Every one values more highly whatever they have lost, or believe themselves on the point of losing; and when, in the course of that very day, he himself called at Rosehill Lodge, Lucy felt very happy, and greeted him with a blushing cheek and conscious face, which made him think he had really inspired the young thing with the tenderest interest; and Lucy, when she felt her heart beat, said to herself, “This is love—it can be nothing else.”
They were prepared for their walk, when Lord Montreville called; and he begged leave to accompany them. Mrs. Heckfield stopped to give some directions to the gardener, Lord Montreville proceeded along the shrubbery-path with Lucy, and Mrs. Heckfield was not so swift of foot as to overtake them without exerting herself more than she thought there was any occasion to do. The three-cornered note had not appeared to her such decisive evidence of a wish to withdraw from their acquaintance.
Lord Montreville expressed his pleasure at returning to Lyneton,—not that he liked Lyneton—he thought it an odious place; but he was so glad to find himself once more in the neighbourhood of Rosehill Lodge: but great as was the pleasure he felt, he could hardly flatter himself his return could give any corresponding pleasure; if he could suppose so, he should indeed esteem himself fortunate.
“It is coming,” thought Lucy; and she now felt as much afraid he should propose, as she had before felt afraid he would not. Her whole wish was to avert the momentous explanation.
“Oh, yes,” she answered, “mamma is always very glad to see you. Where is mamma? perhaps she has missed us; we had better find her;” and she turned and mended her pace.
“May I not hope to detain you one moment, Miss Heckfield?” asked Lord Montreville, in a voice of earnest persuasion.
“Oh! it is as good as come!” thought Lucy; “what shall I do?—Oh yes, certainly,” she answered, but walked on faster than ever.
“If you would allow me a few moments’ conversation, Miss Heckfield, I have much to say that interests me deeply.”
“Where can mamma be?” rejoined Lucy, in a tone of fear and trepidation.
“For a few moments you must listen to me!” &c. &c. &c.
Suffice it to say, Lord Montreville then proposed. The words of a proposal are horridly stupid to the ears of all but the parties concerned; and in what precise terms Lord Montreville couched the offer of his hand, heart, fortune, and titles, has remained, and will ever remain, unknown. A terrified “O dear!” uttered by Lucy when he began to unfold his mind, were the only words which escaped her lips. When he pressed for an answer, she did not say “No!” but she still walked on, her pace increasing every second, her close garden-bonnet well pulled over her face, which was rigidly directed on the gravel-walk before her, so that no one who was not immediately opposite had a chance of catching a glimpse of her countenance. Even Lord Montreville began to feel a little awkward. He had made love often enough, but he had proposed but once before; and that was in his early youth, to a very rich heiress, who had soon after married a duke. Fortunately for the nerves of both, they came upon Mrs. Heckfield at a turn in the walk. She saw with a glance that something decisive had taken place, and she hastened to relieve Lucy, and also to clench the matter.
Lucy slipped her arm within Mrs. Heckfield’s, and feeling comparatively easy and secure, now she had interposed her mother between herself and her suitor, she walked on in silence, carefully contriving to make each step so exactly keep time, that the somewhat rounded form of the matron should completely eclipse the slender form of the girl.
Lord Montreville explained himself in becoming and graceful terms; and Mrs. Heckfield, in a rapture of scarcely concealed joy, declared with what pleasure she should communicate Lord Montreville’s flattering declaration to Colonel Heckfield.
“But, my dear Mrs. Heckfield, I have not yet been allowed to hope. Your daughter has not given me one word, one look of encouragement, and I need your kind influence to induce her——”
“Lucy, my dear, you have not been so uncivil as to—My dear child, don’t be so silly. You must excuse her, my dear Lord Montreville, she is so young, and so little used to these agitating scenes. I know what her feelings are, and although she is not at this moment able to speak for herself, I think I may answer for it you need not despair. Perhaps, if you were to leave her for a short time to compose herself, she would be more able to enjoy your society by dinner-time.”
“Must I then depart without hearing my fate? But I would not distress Miss Heckfield on any consideration, and I had rather pass some hours of suspense and wretchedness myself than that she should feel one moment’s annoyance. I trust she will allow me to prove by my future life that such are my sentiments.” He took her unresisting hand, and pressing it between his own with an air of gallantry, he took his departure with very little doubt or suspense as to the result of the family colloquy. But he wished not only to be accepted, but to be preferred. He was himself totally incapable of again feeling the passion of love, if indeed any of the liaisons and flirtations in which he had been engaged deserved such a name; but he wished to excite it, and it was to him an amusing and a gratifying study, to watch the flutter and the trepidations of the young thing who was apparently now experiencing them for the first time.
As soon as he was fairly out of sight, Lucy burst into tears, and threw herself upon her mother’s shoulder, saying, “Oh, mamma, I am as good as married!”
“Well, my love, and do you wish to live single all your life?”
“O no, mamma!”
“And do you dislike Lord Montreville?”
“O no, mamma!”
“You seemed to me very uneasy and restless when he went away without proposing.”
“Yes, mamma, so I was, certainly.”
“And you looked very happy when he called just now. Were you not glad to see him?”
“Yes, mamma, I certainly was.”
“Well, my dear, if you were sorry he went away without proposing, you must be glad he has come back, and has proposed.”
“Yes, I suppose I am, but I do not feel as if I was.”
“Do you wish me, then, to refuse him? I would never force any girl’s inclinations, as I have always told you, and I am ready to take the whole thing upon myself if you please; for really, after the encouragement you have given him, I do not see how you can consistently say he is not agreeable to you.”
“Have I encouraged him so very much?”
“I do not know, my love; but you allowed him to take your hand just now, and you always appeared to have neither eyes nor ears for any one else when he was present.”
“He always had so much the most to say.”
“Well, you know best: I can say no more than that if you dislike him, I am ready to refuse him for you. Do you wish me to do so?”
“Oh, no! not that——”
“Then you wish me to accept him, in your name?”
“Oh, not quite that, mamma.”
“My dear, girls must say Yes or No. As I have always told you, I will not put any force on your inclinations.”
Nothing persuades people so much, as saying you would not persuade them,—nothing constrains them so much, as saying you would put no constraint upon them. This Mrs. Heckfield felt from female tact. It was from intuition, not by design, that she used these expressions, while at the same time she thereby re-assured herself that she was not hurrying Lucy into a worldly marriage.
“Do you wish me to tell Lord Montreville that, although you may have seemed to prefer his society to that of others, you do not in fact prefer him, and that therefore you must decline the offer he is so flattering as to make you. Shall I say so?”
“No, mamma; I should be very sorry, I am sure.”
“Then you wish me to say yes?”
“I suppose I do, mamma.”
“Well, my love, I think you have decided very wisely for yourself, and no girl ever had more reason to be delighted with her prospects. You have been selected from all the rest of your sex by a man who has been universally reckoned most fascinating and irresistible, and whom all the ladies were in love with, when he was only a younger brother; and now that he has a noble fortune, and high rank, and might choose from all the first beauties in the land, he picks out my little Lucy, who is crying like a child, at having got—just the very thing she was ready to cry because she thought she should not get, for I saw your face this morning when the note came.”
Lucy smiled through her tears; the picture of the conquest she had made was agreeable to her self-love, and the picture of her inconsistency was undeniably true.
Mrs. Heckfield kissed her, and hastened to Colonel Heckfield to communicate the important intelligence.