Colonel Heckfield was a quiet, easy, amiable man, whom everybody loved. He was in the habit of thinking his wife understood such matters better than he did, and that as she had hitherto married all his girls extremely well, there was no need of his interference. He always considered the affair as appertaining to Mrs. Heckfield, and never felt as if his daughters had any other share in the whole transaction, than that of being the instruments employed by Mrs. Heckfield’s master-hand. So much did he look upon her as the principal, that he was once heard to say, “when my wife married Sir Charles Selcourt—”
The happy mother proceeded to inform Mademoiselle Hirondelle of the high honours which awaited her pupil.
“Ah, madame, I thought well when Miss Lucy had such a bad headache yesterday que c’était l’objet. Miss Lucy was in anger with me, but I had reason. I know myself what it is de se consumer dans l’absence.”
Mrs. Heckfield dreaded the history of mademoiselle’s faithless lover, the bookseller at Caen, who had not written to her for three years, seven months, and three weeks, and she hastened to tell Emma that she might now look forward to coming out very soon.
“And I shall go to Almack’s with Lucy, after all, mamma?”
Neither did Mrs. Heckfield fail to tell Milly of the lofty station to which her nurseling would be raised.
“Sure, ma’am! and so Miss Lucy is going to leave us,” said Milly, with a calm and stoical manner, very unlike that she usually had when any thing most remotely affecting one of the “dear children” was in question.
“Yes, nurse; and I do think I am the most fortunate of mothers.”
“La! ma’am, to have all your children leave you so soon? Sure, you will be very lonesome when they are all married and gone?”
“Oh, nurse, we mothers are never selfish. We wish for nothing but our children’s advantage.”
How many parents sacrifice the happiness, under the firm conviction they are promoting the welfare of the children, for whom they would themselves be ready to endure every privation.
Lucy had received her father’s cordial blessing, Mademoiselle’s Frenchified embrace, her sister’s thoughtless, merry congratulations, and Milly’s thoughtful, serious, good wishes. She came down to dinner with a cheek flushed by vague emotions, and conscious eyes, which durst not rest on any one. She looked really lovely.
Lord Montreville was received by Mrs. Heckfield with unfeigned joy, by Colonel Heckfield with heartiness, by Lucy with a pleased tremor which was perfectly satisfactory. A look from Mrs. Heckfield, and he seated himself by Lucy’s side.
“You will, then, allow me to prove by my future life, as I did this morning, when I sacrificed my own wishes to yours, that I prefer your gratification to my own.”
“Indeed you are very good. I hope always——”
Dinner was announced. Lord Montreville offered his arm to Lucy as the accepted lover, instead of to Mrs. Heckfield, as merely the visitor of highest rank.
There was no retreating after this, even supposing she had wished to do so, for the Denbys and several others were present. He was more than usually amiable. His attentions were not too marked; his manners were so frank, and so polite to every one, there was nothing that could make her shy or uncomfortable, so that she felt quite grateful to him for putting her so much more at her ease than, under the circumstances, she could have thought possible.
In the course of the evening, Mrs. Heckfield communicated the great event of the day to her friend Mrs. Denby, under a strict promise of secrecy, to which Mrs. Denby rigidly adhered; notwithstanding which, the small town of Lyneton, and the adjoining village of Purley, and half the country houses in the neighbourhood, were apprised of the fact before the next sun sank into the Western Ocean. The propagation of a secret is a mystery; every body promises, and nobody breaks their promise; and yet the propagation of the secret is rapid in proportion to the strictness of the promise; I cannot, and therefore will not attempt to explain this paradox.
That night, when Milly attended Lucy’s coucher, her countenance was unusually serious, and Lucy felt uncomfortable in her presence. She knew not what to say; and yet she was so much in the habit of making Milly a party to all the innocent pains and pleasures of her short life, that she felt awkward in not discussing this most momentous occurrence.
“Nurse, I hope you will like Lord Montreville.”
“I am sure, my dear Miss Lucy, I shall like any gentleman that makes you a good husband.”
“He told me, to-day, he had rather be wretched himself than give me one moment’s annoyance.”
“Sure, miss! No gentleman can’t speak no fairer than that.”
“I suppose that is what all lovers say, though. I suppose John said that kind of thing to you?”
“Lord save your sweet heart, miss! John never said such fine things to me. He was but a plain-spoken young man; though he was always for saving me any trouble that he could, poor fellow, and nobody could work no harder for his family while he had health to do it.”
“Won’t it be nice, having Emma to stay with me, and taking her out to the great balls? And then mamma has been longing to give Mary a good singing master. I can have her with me, you know, in London, where there are all the best masters; and poor mademoiselle would be so glad to see her sister; and I will have such a charming school for poor children (by-the-by, they shan’t have brown frocks, I like green so much better); and I shall be sure to have a beautiful horse, for all the ladies ride in the Park now. Oh! and I can give Dame Notter the new red cloak I have so long wanted to get her, only my pocket-money was so low. Do you know the Montreville diamonds are supposed to be the finest in England after the Duchess of P——’s? And when I am in London, where you know I must be while Lord Montreville is attending Parliament, I shall see Harriet every day, and all those dear children! I wonder how far St. James’s Square is from Upper Baker Street?”
“I can’t say for certain, miss; but I think ’tis a good step.”
“Well, it does not signify, for of course I shall have carriages; and I can send for them constantly when I do not go to Baker Street.”
“Ah! you are a kind-hearted young lady; and good night, and God bless you, and may you be as happy as you expect to be, and as you deserve to be.”
Milly sighed to think how much the notion of grandeur and of fine things of this world had taken possession of her young lady’s mind; “Though, to be sure, ’twas all in the way of being kind and good to others.”
The next few days passed off agreeably enough. When among the rest of the family, Lord Montreville was so generally pleasing, that she felt happy and contented; but whenever they were alone, she felt unaccountably shy, and, if possible, she either left the room with her mother, or detained her sister by her side. The kind, protecting, almost parental manner, which had at first so won upon her confidence, while at the same time it flattered her vanity, was exchanged for something more of the lover; and the ease she had felt in his society was gradually diminishing, at the very moment it was most desirable it should increase. Moreover, she occasionally found that it was not impossible for her to do amiss in his eyes. Her inordinate passion for animals, which he had appeared to think so very naïf and fascinating, did not always meet with the same looks of amused admiration, which had, unknown to herself, encouraged her in her avowed fondness for them. He frequently remonstrated with her upon running out without her bonnet, and upon taking off her gloves when she was arranging the flowers, by which means she dirtied, and occasionally even scratched her fingers. He was dreadfully particular about shoes!
These were trifles; but it seemed to her odd, that the very things he had appeared to think natural charms, “snatching a grace beyond the reach of art,” should now be the very points he wished altered.
She was not aware how often the fault which excites disapprobation, allures, while it is condemned;—how often, also, the virtue which charms, is most perseveringly undermined by the person who peculiarly feels its attraction.
Mrs. Heckfield insisted upon going to London to procure the wedding-clothes. Poor Lucy! Many people have a distinct abstract love of dress;—happy is it for them!—for as there is no doubt that a tolerably good-looking woman, very well dressed, will, in these days, eclipse a much handsomer one who is ill-dressed, surely it is a fortunate thing for those who can thus amuse, and embellish themselves at the same time. But this was not Lucy’s case. She was glad to look as well as she could, but the means of doing so were to her irksome; and she would fain have trusted the whole affair to mamma and to Mademoiselle. But no! Lord Montreville was exceedingly particular and anxious upon the subject. He especially recommended the only shoemaker who, to his mind, had an idea of making a shoe; and Lucy had at least half-a-dozen pair made, fitted, and descanted upon, before he was satisfied that they did justice to the shape of her foot, which proved extremely good when it was properly chaussé. She was half angry at his numerous criticisms and remarks upon the make of her gowns, and considerably bored at the number of times he wished to have them altered; still he did it all in so kind and so good-humoured a manner, she could not do otherwise than submit. But when he recommended his own dentist, and various tinctures, and tooth-powders, she felt half insulted. With the full consciousness about her of youth, and health, and ivory teeth, she thought, though he might have occasion for dentists and dentifrices, she needed not such things, and she felt for a moment the full difference of their ages. It was but for a moment—she was his plighted wife—her young affections were vowed to him; and she would have fancied herself guilty, to wish him other than he was.
There were moments when her spirits were somewhat depressed; but at others, she was dazzled and excited by the beautiful presents that arrived every day. The diamonds, the Montreville diamonds, which were now her’s. The large pearl, which had belonged to Henrietta Maria, and which had been given by her to an ancestress of Lord Montreville’s; a diamond ring, placed by Charles II. on the taper finger of the beautiful wife of a Sir Ralph Montreville, a short time previous to his elevation to the peerage; an antique aigrette, presented by Queen Anne, on occasion of a royal fête! Ornaments of more modern date were showered upon her; but the heirlooms which assorted so well with the Welsh Castle, with its unpronounceable name, its donjon-keep, its subterranean passages, and its massive walls, were much more suited to her taste.
Lord Montreville had neither father, mother, brother, nor sister, to whom he need introduce his bride elect; and as all his cousins and other relatives were out of town at this season of the year, he lived entirely with his future family, without being called upon to introduce them to any of his own circle. This was precisely what he wished. Little did Lucy imagine, when, in the warmth of her heart, she was anticipating the kind things she would do to brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins, how little Lord Montreville intended to marry the whole family. Want of knowledge of the world, or rather of l’usage du monde, was naïveté in the blooming youthful Lucy, but not so in the middle-aged parents, or the hoyden younger misses. Lord Montreville was not much of a politician; he was not a man of deep reading, though his mind was sufficiently cultivated to give grace, if not depth, to his observations: he was not witty, though he was often droll, and consequently it was on living people and passing events that his conversation chiefly turned. Any one who knows every one worth knowing, and can talk of them and their concerns with some tact, and not much ill-nature, is reckoned agreeable; but he felt that his histoirettes lost half their piquancy from the ignorance of his audience respecting the persons alluded to. Though it had amused him to enchant the whole family, especially while he had an ulterior object in view,—that object once gained, he found their society insipid, and in London he became peculiarly sensible how inexpedient it would be to transplant them into his own circle. Mrs. Bentley, the eldest daughter, and the dear children of whom poor Lucy meant to see so much, were wholly out of the question.
Country gentlefolks not of the first water of fashion (for the Heckfields were not vulgar—their dress, their house, their equipage were all perfectly presentable), are infinitely less objectionable to the very refined, than London gentility not of the first class. Mrs. Bentley was very rich, and her house in Upper Baker Street was a very good one, and she dressed in the extreme of the fashion; but she wanted the air distingué which was natural to Lucy. Though handsome, she was inclined to be large and red, and withal, she was a little languishing, and she was especially languishing for Lord Montreville. She looked as strong as a horse, but she complained of nerves; she was a good woman, and loved her children, but she talked as if she could not bear to have them with her, and declared that their noise distracted her; and, in short, she took every possible pains to make herself appear as little amiable, and as unlike what she really was, as possible.
Sir Charles and Lady Selcourt came to attend the wedding, and Lord Montreville soon perceived that Lady Selcourt was an unexceptionable person for Lady Montreville, or any other lady, to appear with in public; but he doubted whether her society at home would be as advantageous for any newly-married young woman. Her figure, which was always beautiful, was dressed in the most perfect taste; her eyes, which were very large and very dark, became lustrous from the addition of rouge, which, as we anticipated, she now habitually wore; and in the evening her skin, which by daylight was yellowish, became brilliantly white. There was not a fault to be found in her own manner; but Lord Montreville soon perceived by Sir Charles’s that she had proved not the weaker, but the stronger vessel.
The morning after Lady Selcourt’s arrival in London, the sisters went shopping together; and after tossing over various silks and gauzes, they both fixed upon one which they pronounced to be quite lovely; when Lucy suddenly checked herself, saying—
“Oh, no, I won’t have it though, for Lord Montreville does not like pink!”
“Well, but he is not going to wear it himself,” answered Lady Selcourt.
“But, I mean, he does not like that I should wear pink.”
“My dear Lucy, you are not going to yield to all his fancies in this manner? You will entirely spoil him; you will make a tyrant of him. It would not do with a young man!”
“It would not do with a young man,” grated rather unpleasantly on Lucy’s ears. However, when they were once more seated in the carriage, she resumed,
“But, my dear Sophy, one must please one’s husband, you know; and though you would have that pink gauze sent with the others we are to look at by candle-light, I do not mean to buy it. Surely it is not worth while to annoy any one, for the colour of a gown.”
“My dear Lucy, you are very young; you do not know what you are about; of course, in marrying, your idea is not to be merely an old,—a middle-aged man’s, play-thing. You owe it to yourself, to the station you will hold in society, I may almost add to Lord Montreville himself, not to be a mere cipher, but to be an independent and a reasonable person—a free agent. And, depend upon it, if you begin in this manner, you will never be able to rescue yourself from any thraldom in which he may wish to keep you. Every thing depends on the first start—I know it—and so did Sir Charles’s old French valet, for when we got into our carriage on the wedding-day, I had my beautiful in-laid India work-box, which you know is rather large, and I overheard old Le Clerc whisper to his master, ‘Sire Charles, Sire Charles—you band-box to-day, you band-box all your life!’ Sir Charles accordingly complained of the size of the box, and begged me to let the servant take care of it behind, but I felt, if I yielded then, I was undone. I explained to him the value I had for this particular box, and that it would break my heart to have it spoiled: and he saw I was so hurt at the idea of its being scratched or injured, that he gave up the point. Indeed, I must say, I have always found him very reasonable, and it is quite impossible for two people to go on better together. I never think of opposing his wishes when I am indifferent upon a subject. He knows, therefore, my anxiety to oblige him, and so he never thwarts me when he sees I am determined on any thing. Depend upon it, Lucy, if you begin in this manner before marriage, you will be no better than a slave after marriage.”
Sophy always had such a flow of words, and such a multitude of good arguments to adduce, that Lucy knew it was useless to dispute with her; besides, she was older, and she was a married woman, and she always was the cleverest; and Lucy was more than half persuaded there was a good deal of truth in what she said. Accordingly, she showed Milly the gauzes as she was dressing for dinner, and promulgated her intention of having a gown of the pink one.
“La, Miss!” said Milly, “I thought my Lord did not like pink, and that he made you send back the pink hat.”
“Yes, but do you not think it is great nonsense to let one’s husband interfere about such trifles? What can it signify to him whether I wear pink or blue?”
“I don’t know, Miss, as it can signify much to anybody; but I should think it signified more to him than to anybody else.”
“But this is to be a smart gown to wear in company, and not at home with him.”
“But sure, Miss Lucy, you don’t want to look well in any body’s eyes more than in your own husband’s.”
“That is very true,” thought Lucy; “it would be very wrong to wish to be admired by other people, and not by one’s husband.”
In the evening the gauzes were spread out, and Sophy expatiated on the beauties of the pink one. Lucy timidly admired it, and cast a glance towards Lord Montreville; she was half ashamed of appearing afraid to buy it, and was acquiescing in its merits, when Lord Montreville said,
“I suppose you are afraid of my admiring you too much, as you are bent upon the only colour which I do not think becoming to you.”
“Do you really dislike pink so much?” asked Lucy.
“The colour is a pretty colour, but you know I think you look prettier in any other. Perhaps other people may admire you in it.”
“I am sure I do not want other people to admire me. It would be very wrong if I did, now. Do you like that vapeur, Lord Montreville, or this white one? The white is the prettiest after all. Yes, I do like the white best, Sophy, and the white I will have.”
And she put a resolute tone into the last sentence, that her submission should not look like submission in Sophy’s eyes. Why is it many amiable people are as much ashamed of appearing amiable, as many unamiable ones are of appearing unamiable?
CHAPTER VIII.
At length the awful day arrived. Lucy was married, and the Marquess and Marchioness of Montreville drove from St. George’s Church in the neatest of dark-green chariots, with four grey horses, leaving Colonel Heckfield sad, but satisfied, Mrs. Heckfield joyful, but dissolved in tears, Emma full of delight, wonderment, and awe, at her sister Lucy being actually a marchioness, Mademoiselle feeling herself the person most peculiarly concerned, inasmuch as it must have been entirely owing to the superior education she had given her pupil that she had been deemed worthy to be raised to so lofty a station in the peerage. Milly watched the carriage till it was out of sight, with tearful eyes, and left the window with a foreboding shake of the head.
The bride and bridegroom spent the honeymoon at Ashdale Park, and Lucy was much edified by the grandeur of the place. The park was extensive, the pleasure-grounds immense, the gardens perfect. She had nothing to do but to enjoy all she saw. She went round the pictures several times, till she thought there was no pleasure in making her neck ache with looking up, and her eyes ache with peering through Claude Lorraine glasses; she repeatedly walked about the gardens, but she dreaded the sight of the gardener; he used such hard names, and he was such a gentleman, that she scarcely ventured to ask him the name of a flower, much less to suggest any fancy of her own. The house was completely montée. The maître d’hôtel sent in the bill of fare, but she could never have presumed to propose any alteration in the repast. She had heard that Ashdale Park was famous for bantams, and she one day expressed a wish to see them. Lord Montreville ordered the pony phaeton to drive her to the poultry establishment.
“Oh, let us walk, dear Lord Montreville; I had much rather walk.”
“It has been just raining, my dear Lucy, and your shoes are thin.”
“But I can put on thick ones in a moment.”
“I hate to see a woman’s foot look like a man’s. Nothing so ugly as great coarse shoes upon a pretty woman’s little foot.”
“Oh! but nobody will see me.”
“Yes, I shall see you,” answered Lord Montreville, and Lucy felt frightened lest he should think she could have meant he was nobody. So the pony phaeton was ordered. In about three quarters of an hour it appeared, and a groom on another beautiful little long-tailed pony to follow, and Lucy’s wadded cloaks, and Lord Montreville’s fur cloak, and the boa, and the parasol, and the umbrella, and the reticule, &c. were all duly packed and arranged, and they entered the carriage, and drove about a mile to the end of the park.
Having summoned the poultryman, Lady Montreville was introduced to all the different yards and coops, the winter roosting-place, and the summer roosting-place, and the coops for early chickens, and the places for fatting; and Lucy soon felt that the poulterer, who did the honours of the establishment, was much more the master of the whole concern than she could ever be; so, having bestowed the requisite portion of approbation and admiration, she was departing without any particular desire to revisit the scene, when a young gosling waddled past her feet. She stooped to pick it up—it escaped her—she ran after it—she succeeded in catching it—she brought the pretty little yellow thing back to Lord Montreville in great delight at having secured it, and fully expecting that he would sympathize in her feelings.
“Look at the pretty creature!—Is it not a love?—dear little thing!”
“My dear Lady Montreville, it will dirty you all over—its feathers are coming off: I beg, I entreat, you will put it down!” added Lord Montreville in a tone of annoyance.
Lucy let the gosling go, and followed Lord Montreville to the carriage. When they had remounted, and again arranged the cloaks and shawls, Lord Montreville said—
“My dear Lucy, you must remember that now you are a married woman, and my wife: these are little girlish ways that do not sit well upon you. I am sure your own good sense will point out to you that there ought to be something more posé in manner for your present situation.”
Lucy acquiesced, and resolved not to catch goslings any more.
They lived in the most perfect retirement. Lord Montreville did not mean to enter the world till he had tutored his wife into being precisely the thing he wished.
She found the time hang rather heavy on her hands; she read, but she could not read all day; she wrote to her mother and sisters, but she had not much to say, and a bride’s letters are always very dull. No part of the household required her superintendence: she did not work much, for where was the use of working when she had plenty of money, and could buy every thing so much better than she could make it? She always hated torturing a piece of muslin, till the muslin was dirty and the pattern out of fashion. She played and sang a little; but Lord Montreville liked Italian music, and she sang English ballads. She liked long walks; but Lord Montreville always thought she would get tanned if the sun shone, and red if the wind blew, and wet if it had been raining, or was likely to rain. Then there were so many rooms, she never found any thing at the moment she wished for it: when she was at luncheon in the ante-room, she missed her reticule, which was left in the library, where she passed the morning; when she retired to her boudoir after her drive, she found she had left her letters in the saloon, where they breakfasted: in the evening, when they sat in the great drawing-room, she wanted her work, and the work-box was in the library. Lord Montreville rang the bell, and a servant was despatched to bring the work-box. He returned, but the one skein of silk of the right shade was missing, and it ended by her lighting a candle and going to look for it herself. In the morning, after hunting all over the library for the book she was reading, she remembered she had left it the preceding evening in the drawing-room; and she sometimes thought it would be vastly comfortable to live in one snug room, where one had all one’s things about one.
Lord Montreville had so far tamed her, that she did not think of setting out to trudge alone beyond the precincts of the shrubbery: she had learned not to pat every dog she met, or to kiss a donkey’s nose; and she was as steady from a gosling or duckling as a good fox-hound from a hare. When she wanted any thing at the other end of the room, she did not run, neither did she ever jump over the footstool, and she carried a candle perpendicularly, instead of horizontally. Lord Montreville thought it was time to ascertain a little what her manners would be in society, before he ventured to ask any of his own set to his house; and they sent forth a regular invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, Mr. and Mrs. Delafield, Major and Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Smith’s sister, Miss Brown.
Lucy was a little appalled at the prospect of making the signal after dinner. Every woman must have felt that the first time of making this little mysterious bow is an epoch in her life. Lucy was sure she should stay too long or too short a time. Then, to which of the ladies was the sign to be made? Lord Montreville told her that when the conversation took the turn of horses, hunting, dogs, or partridges, which it invariably did somewhere between twenty minutes and half an hour after the servants had left the apartment, all women with any tact or discretion took advantage of the first pause to depart; and that the lady whom he should hand in to dinner would almost invariably prove the one towards whom she should direct her eyes.
The dinner went off very well. Lucy’s manners were perfect. She never was awkward, and her thoughts were sufficiently occupied with the idea of making the dreaded signal at the right moment to render her rather shy, and to prevent her spirits running away with her. She watched narrowly every thing that was said after dinner; and upon Major Smith asking her if she was fond of riding, she cast a glance towards Lord Montreville, to see if that was near enough the mark for her to rise; but, upon the whole, she thought not, as the question was addressed to herself. This occurred precisely eighteen minutes after the last servant had changed the last plate on which there had been ice; and sure enough it led the way to the usual turn of gentlemen’s conversation before twenty-two minutes had expired.
Lucy had answered, “Yes, but Lord Montreville had not yet found a horse he thought fit for her.”
Mr. Johnson remarked, that “Nothing was so difficult to procure as a good lady’s horse.”
“Except a good hunter for a heavy weight,” said Mr. Delafield.
“I can scarcely agree with you, Delafield,” rejoined Mr. Johnson; “for a lady’s horse should be so very safe, and all horses will stumble sometimes, and temper and mouth are so indispensable, besides action and ease.”
“Temper is as necessary for a good hunter,” interrupted Mr. Delafield, “or they knock themselves to pieces; and I know that a heavy man like me can’t afford to have a horse take too much out of himself at first.”
The moment was decidedly come; and Lucy, with a slight palpitation of the heart, looked at Mrs. Johnson. But Mrs. Johnson did not give a responsive glance: she was talking to Miss Brown. Lucy looked again; Mrs. Johnson was putting on her gloves, and did not raise her eyes. The conversation became every moment more sporting, and Lucy felt that if she had any tact or discretion she ought to depart. Her heart positively beat, but she could not venture to say any thing out loud, and she kept looking and looking, when Major Smith again addressed her, and she was obliged to answer him. He rejoined, and she found herself entangled in a fresh discourse. The half hour—more than the half hour must have elapsed! She answered with an absent air, still glancing uneasy glances, till at length Miss Brown nudged Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Johnson looked up, and Lucy hastily rose from her chair in the middle of Major Smith’s sentence.
Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Delafield made a great ceremony at the door, during which time the gentlemen stood bolt upright, with their napkins in their hands, waiting with exemplary patience while the ladies gave each other le pas. At length they marched out arm-in-arm, with a slight laugh to carry off their uncertainties. Lady Montreville, in her shyness, slipped her arm within Miss Brown’s, and thanked her for making Mrs. Johnson look round.
“Why could I not catch her eye before?”
“Oh, don’t you know? She is only the wife of a younger son of a Baronet, and Mrs. Delafield is the wife of the eldest son of a Knight, so you know she was afraid of putting herself forward.”
This was a new light to Lucy, who had never before been aware of these niceties.
Miss Brown was rather pretty, with gay laughing eyes, and a lively countenance; and Lucy was so glad to meet with a person of her own age, and who looked as if she could be merry, that she forgot it was her duty to attend to the married ladies.
She had shown Miss Brown all her diamonds and trinkets, and the wedding-gown. Miss Brown had half confessed she should soon be in want of such an article herself. Lady Montreville was in the act of trying to find out who was to be the happy man. They were in deep, interesting, and rather giggling conversation, somewhat apart, while Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Delafield were sitting up quite prim, when the gentlemen entered. Lord Montreville was not pleased. Lucy, who was accustomed to her mother’s countenance when Bell Stopford was in question, instantly recognised the expression, and was frightened out of her wits. She was conscience-stricken; she broke off her discourse with Miss Brown; she came forward to the other ladies, and began talking to them with all her might.
If people are easily offended by any want of attention from the great, in return they are easily soothed. The consciousness of being slighted is so unpleasant to the amour propre, that if the intention to be civil is made manifest, they readily accept the will for the deed; and they soon forgave the lovely young Marchioness when they found there was no intentional neglect.
The evening passed much like other evenings after a dinner in the country. There were no new people whom Lord Montreville wished to charm; they were old country neighbours, with whom there was no object to gain, and he let things take their course. He had merely wished to accustom Lucy to sit at the head of her table.
When the company had all departed, he thus addressed his wife—
“Lucy, my dear, what did I hear you saying to Miss Brown about Monday?”
“I only asked her to come here. She is such a nice girl—is she not? I said I would send for her, that was all.”
And Lucy began to fear that “all” was a great deal. It seemed so natural to ask Miss Brown to her own house at the moment she did so; but now that she told Lord Montreville what she had done, it did not seem so natural.
“This will never do, my dear Lucy: Miss Brown is not at all the sort of person I wish you to be intimate with,—not at all the sort of person with whom I wish my wife to appear in public; and, if you are intimate in private, you must be the same in public. I hold it out of the question to begin intimacies you cannot keep up;—it exposes people to being accused of caprice and finery, which are very different things from the proper pride and self-respect which should make them move in their own sphere, and associate with persons in their own station. You understand me, my near Lucy?—and you will remember what I say:—and now let us see what can be done. Her coming here is wholly out of the question. If she is the first person who visits you after your marriage, it is proclaiming her your friend. I want to see my lawyer some time soon, and, instead of sending for him here, we will go to St. James’s Square for a few days; and you can write a very civil note—mind, a very civil note—(I never affronted any body in my life), and tell her we are obliged to go to town on particular business.”
All this was said in the sweetest and kindest tone imaginable; but Lucy was confounded and stupified when she found her having invited Miss Brown to her house for a day had brought on this complete déménagement. She felt herself a cipher; she felt herself perfectly helpless. But the tone was so kind, and at the same time so decided, that she had not a word to say. Lord Montreville turned to other subjects,—told her he had seen her distress after dinner,—laughed with her at the rival dignities of the lady of the Baronet’s youngest son, and the lady of the Knight’s eldest son,—and was most gay and agreeable.
Lucy did not quite like so entirely giving up her point without a struggle. If he had spoken a little longer, if he had harped upon the subject, she would have rallied, and said something; but before she had recovered her first surprise, the whole affair was settled and done, and she did not know how to recur to it.
The next morning, after breakfast, Lord Montreville said, “Lucy, my love, write your note; and, as I am going to the stables, I will order a groom to be ready to take it to Miss Brown.”
He left the room. There was no time to remonstrate. Lucy thought of Lady Selcourt,—she thought of her mother. Lady Selcourt would simply not have written the note; her mother would have had a thousand arguments before Colonel Heckfield had finished half his first sentence. She had not cool courage for the first line of conduct, nor had she had presence of mind for the latter. There was nothing left for her to do but to submit; so she wrote the note (not without three foul copies), sealed it very neatly, rang the bell, and gave it to the servant with a heavy heart; not that she cared for Miss Brown, but she felt herself imprisoned and enthralled.
CHAPTER IX.
Une belle femme est aimable dans son naturel, elle ne perd rien à être negligée, et sans autre parure que celle qu’elle tire de sa beauté et de sa jeunesse. Une grace naïve éclate sur non visage, anime ses moindres actions: il y aurait moins de péril à la voir avec tout l’attirail de l’ajustement et de la mode.
La Bruyere.
To London they went on Monday. Lucy was languid and out of spirits during the first part of the journey, but the rapid motion of the swinging vehicle and the four horses revived her young spirits, and the busy streets of London roused her, and the first sight of her house in London pleased her. The excitement, however, did not last. The hall was grand, the staircase noble, the rooms were vast, but they were not set out in order, as the family were not to take up their abode in London till the meeting of Parliament.
The magnificent lustres were in canvass bags, the sofas in brown holland covers, the carpets only put down in the dining-room and the smaller back drawing-room. One day, while Lord Montreville was occupied with his lawyer, Lucy, from real désœuvrement, perambulated the desolate apartments, and uncovered the end of a sofa and the corner of an ottoman. She found them beautiful,—she longed to see the effect; she set to work, removed canvass bags, and paper coverings, &c. Her blood began to flow, and her spirits to rise, at being actively employed: she took care not to send for the housemaid; she was quite glad to work hard. She was in the act of dragging forth a beautiful chaise-longue, her bonnet tossed aside, her hair all out of curl, her gloves as gloves must be that have come in contact with London furniture, her shawl having slipped off her shoulders on the floor, her fine embroidered handkerchief covered with dirt and dust off some delicate little ornaments on the chimney-piece, the room spread with all the different envelopes she had abstracted from the furniture, when Lord Montreville entered, and, with him, a very handsome, very well-dressed, very pleasing-looking young man.
Lucy stopped short in her employment, and no little boy caught by his schoolmaster in the act of stealing apples ever looked more shame-faced, more confused, more guilty. Worse and worse. Lord Montreville introduced the stranger as his cousin, Lionel Delville. Lucy knew he was the oracle of the world of fashion, and the person for whose opinion Lord Montreville had more deference than for any other person’s living. She stammered, blushed, and stood abashed.
Lord Montreville, however, showed no outward signs of annoyance; but, with a smiling countenance and easy manner, he said:—
“You seem to have been very busy! Well! I dare say you will settle the rooms with much more taste than ever they were arranged before: women have ten times more tact in making a house look inhabited, than any man—always excepting my cousin Lionel. You must take him into your counsels, Lucy, if you wish your suite of apartments to be perfect;” and Lord Montreville led the way back into the boudoir.
Lucy was comforted at Lord Montreville appearing to take her équippée so quietly, and she in some measure recovered her self-possession.
She looked exceedingly pretty in her dishevelled state, and Lionel Delville thought his cousin, the untutored, rustic Marchioness, a most piquante creature. But though Lord Montreville himself had been originally attracted by this same manner, it was not the manner by which he intended that his wife should charm; and when Mr. Delville took his leave, the lecture which Lucy flattered herself had passed away, arrived with accumulated seriousness.
His wrath was not disarmed by the degree in which he had seen Lionel pleased. He wished him to approve; but he did not at all wish to see him attracted. When he advised Lucy to take him into her counsels, it was from the fear Mr. Delville should read how little he wished she should do so.
Lucy quaked at the tone in which he addressed her.
“Do you think, Lucy, I have had reason to be pleased at the mode in which I have been obliged to present my wife to the first of my relations who has seen her? Do you think your appearance and your occupation were calculated to make a favourable impression upon my family?”
“I am so sorry, dear Lord Montreville! but I did so long to see those pretty things!”
“Could you not send for the housemaid?”
“Yes; to be sure I might; but I had nothing to do; and I only meant to take one peep, and I never thought of any body calling; I thought there was not a soul in London; and then, I know so few people—I never thought of being caught!”
“You forget that I have a very large acquaintance, and that you are my wife; and you also forget one thing, which I have often tried to impress upon your mind—that a woman should never be unfit to be seen—that she should never be caught, as you term it, employed in any manner unsuited to her rank and station in life—that your pleasures should be such as befit the situation in which I have placed you; and that my wife should always act as if the eyes of the world were upon her. Let me hear no more of being caught—the expression is worthy of a school-miss in her teens.”
Lucy blushed rosy red. She blushed for shame; for she felt there was something undignified in the expression: but she blushed more from anger at being treated as a missish girl—at being, in fact, accused of vulgarity. She was on the point of crying, but the servant entered with the tickets for the play; and he put on coals, and swept up the ashes, and lighted the lamps, and shut the shutters. Lucy had time to recover herself, and Lord Montreville to reflect that he should not do wisely to frighten her too much; that his own annoyance had perhaps caused him to speak more angrily than the thing deserved.
It was, therefore, in a gay and good-humoured tone, that he bade her make haste and dress; though, at the same time, he gave her a hint to be simple in her costume, as it was not good ton to be too smart at the play.
They dined alone; but Lionel Delville and a friend joined them late in the evening. If he thought her pretty in the morning, he thought her lovely in her present quiet, but most soigné and fashionable attire.
He seated himself by her side, and gave her very little opportunity of enjoying the drollery of the afterpiece. But he did not, he could not, flirt with her. There was a complete simplicity—a straightforward frankness in her manner, which rendered it impossible to know how to begin. Moreover, she believed herself in love with her husband; and besides, being dutifully and religiously devoted, she was particularly anxious to give him satisfaction after her errors of the morning; and her real thoughts and attention were on him and for him alone. He could not but be pleased; knowing women to their heart’s core, as he did, he saw the genuine innocence of her manner, and he felt assured that it must take a long apprenticeship to the world to contaminate the purity of her mind. He resolved to watch attentively over it.
The kindness of his manner towards her the next day gratified her. He presented her with a magnificent real Cashmere; and the next day with a beautiful guard-ring. She thought him very kind, and she determined to do every thing to please him, which was, in fact, never to do any thing except to dress well, sit on the sofa buried among cushions (not bolt upright engaged in any employment), and especially to fling herself back into the corner of her carriage with an elegant abandon when she went out airing.
Her efforts to do nothing were crowned with success: he thought her extremely improved; but this dolce far niente to her was not dolce, especially when they returned into the country, and she could not go shopping every day—an occupation to which he had no objection, as her pin-money was so ample that she could not easily be distressed.
He now thought he might venture to gather some of his own friends and relations around him, and before Christmas there arrived a large party, all people of the very highest fashion, pleasing and agreeable. They, like their host, seemed in their conversation to have adopted the motto of “Glissez mortels, mais n’appuyez pas;” and though the hours might fly swiftly and pleasantly in their society, there was nothing about them sufficiently original or individual to deserve recording.
Lucy behaved exceedingly well; she had been properly drilled before their arrival: she was in an interesting state, which, assisted by the lectures of the apothecary, and the constant solicitude of Lord Montreville, and the ennui occasioned by being headed, as a sportsman would term it, whenever she attempted to stir hand or foot, gave to her whole carriage and deportment a most excellent languor. She no longer felt any flutter when she made the signal after dinner, and, upon the whole, Lord Montreville thought the result all he could wish, except that he would fain have had her join a little more in general conversation, if he could have been quite sure of no exuberance of spirits.
Was she happy in the midst of her splendour? Her husband exceedingly attentive, and the most agreeable society collected around her. No: she was bored—from morning till night, constantly suffering from ennui. She was grateful for her husband’s attentions, but they invariably prevented her doing the thing she wished to do; and she sometimes wondered how so many little chubby children were running about the village in health and safety, who were not heirs to titles and properties.
The society of her husband’s friends did not amuse her; they were all the intimates of one clique; and, notwithstanding their habitual good-breeding, she could not help often being unable to understand, or, at all events, to join in their conversation. A slight tone of persiflage and of quizzing in their mode of treating all subjects, also made her feel less at her ease, than she would otherwise have done after ten days’ residence under the same roof; and she often longed for a hearty laugh with Bell Stopford, a long scrambling walk with Emma and Mary, or a quiet chat with the dear, honest, affectionate Milly.
Lucy occasionally suggested how glad she should be to see her parents; but the house was always filled with a succession of visitors. The Duke and Duchess of Altonworth announced their intention of taking Ashdale Park in their way to London, and Lord Montreville inadvertently exclaimed, “Whom shall we get to meet them, for this party disperses on Wednesday?”
“Oh, then, now we can have papa and mamma, and Emma and Mary!—that will be nice!”
Lord Montreville’s countenance fell—he looked blank and dismayed. Lucy saw she was wrong, but she could not imagine that papa and mamma were not fit company for any duke or duchess in the land; so she awaited the result, blank and dismayed in her turn, but wholly at a loss to guess what was the matter. Lord Montreville soon rallied.
“I do not think that would quite do, my dear Lucy: a family party is always a dull thing, and the Duchess is very clever, and altogether——My dear Lucy, I am sure you perfectly understand me.”
This time, however, Lucy could not and would not understand.
“But it will not be a family party to the Duchess, and I am sure mamma is clever too: some people call her blue.”
“Very true, my love; but the Duchess is clever and not blue, and she is a person who is very exclusive; she has retired habits, and does not like new acquaintances; and, in short, we must either get somebody whom she would decidedly like to meet, or we had better have nobody.”
“But we are going to town in a fortnight, and mamma has not been here yet,” said Lucy with more pertinacity, and even humour, than she had ever yet shown.
“We shall be here again at Easter, and in the summer certainly, and then you shall have them all, Emma and Mary, and your old friend Milly too, if you like it;” and Lord Montreville resolved he would do it once for all, well and thoroughly.
Lucy acquiesced, though she did not exactly see why Ashdale Park should be open to so many slight acquaintances, and yet that a visit from her parents should be so difficult of accomplishment. She was also somewhat appalled at the idea of this clever, exclusive Duchess, whom she should have to entertain herself, for no one whom Lord Montreville thought worthy of meeting her could be found on such short notice. Lucy was sure she should dislike her; she was angry with her for, as she thought, keeping away her own family, and she determined to bear patiently the infliction of her presence for the few days she remained, and never to seek her any more. She was free from the vulgar awe which simple rank inspires to the parvenu, though she was not free from the gêne which most people feel when in company with persons who are wedded to their own set, and who do not give themselves any trouble to please those who are not of it.
The day arrived, and Lucy, who was not constitutionally shy, and had now become perfectly at her ease in the discharge of her every-day hostess duties, awaited with composure the entry of the disagreeable Duchess.
She was rather surprised when a little, quiet, middle-aged woman, in a close bonnet, and a black cloak, slid into the room, followed by a large, gaunt, lordly-looking man. Lord Montreville was not present. Lucy rose to receive them; the Duchess introduced herself and the Duke, in a gentle, kind, frank manner.
They sat down, and the Duchess being very cold drew her chair close to the fire, put her feet upon the fender, and dropped out little natural sentences, which half amused, half pleased Lucy, and before they went to dress for dinner she felt more intimate with the dreaded Duchess than with any of the other people who had yet been her inmates at Ashdale Park.
At dinner Lord Montreville was in his most agreeable vein; the Duchess was charming, so unaffected, so straightforward, and, withal, there was something singular and original in her turn of thought, with a graceful bonhommie which was peculiar to herself. The Duke was a sensible, hard-headed, high-minded man, silent in large society, but conversable enough in small ones. Lucy was interested and amused all the time, and would have talked more than she did, but that she liked to listen to the Duchess, and to watch the pleasing expression of her countenance, and the wonderful manner in which, without youth, features, or complexion, it lighted up into something more attractive than beauty.
Upon further acquaintance she found her as good as she was fascinating. She spoke of her married daughters, of her grand-children, of her home, her garden, her son, and his wife and children, who lived at Altonworth, when in the country; of her school, of the poor people, and Lucy perceived that, in fact, her heart was so completely filled with the near and dear charities of life, that it was not strange she had no inclination to seek for other objects in the world.
Lucy’s genuine feelings thawed to her immediately; and the Duchess was also pleased with the innocence and simplicity of her young hostess. Lucy was more delighted and flattered at the hope of being admitted into her intimacy, than she had been since the ball, at which she had first met Lord Montreville, when he had first made her feel herself a person altogether superior to the common run of girls.
Lucy and the Duchess parted with a mutual wish to meet again; on the part of one, amounting to a passionate desire, on the part of the other to a kindly inclination.