Recollections of a chaperon

Lord Montreville recovered slowly, but satisfactorily. The doctor, the servants, Milly, all on different occasions, and in different manners, conveyed to his mind an impression of Lucy’s unceasing attention to him during his illness. Indeed, the old doctor had imbibed such an enthusiastic admiration for Lady Montreville’s unpresuming, frank, and affectionate character, that he could scarcely speak of her without tears in his eyes.

Lord Montreville found his gratitude daily increase his affection; and when she brought him his child whose caresses and opening intelligence awoke in him emotions from as yet unexplored recesses of his heart, his love for his wife assumed a new character, and he felt for her as he had never yet felt for woman. He had hitherto seldom considered them in any light but as a mistress, a plaything, a necessary appendage to a large house and an establishment, or an object of conquest, either gained or to be gained. He had thought absence of harm, their highest recommendation. In Lucy he had first discovered that strong affections, strength of mind, patience, and perseverance could be perfectly compatible with almost childish candour, and singleness of heart.

While this revolution had taken place in Lord Montreville’s feelings, what were Lucy’s? The increased tenderness of his manner perplexed and confounded her. At moments, especially when her husband was playing with her boy, and watching with delight his attempts to walk, marking his recognition of familiar objects, and listening to the first half-uttered lispings of infancy, she almost yielded to her longing desire to be happy and affectionate, when the thought of Alicia Mowbray shot through her heart, and chilled the kindly smile on her lip, the soft expression of her eye, the tender intonation of her voice.

One day the child was playing on Lord Montreville’s sofa, when he beckoned her to sit there likewise. He passed his fingers through the curls of the boy’s fair hair, and looking at him with tenderness remarked, “I never knew before what engaging creatures children were! that clear white forehead, and those blue eyes, with such shady eyelashes, are just like yours, Lucy, and I do not love him the less for that.”

She thought how delightful such expressions would have been to her, could she have trusted them, and yet she felt almost guilty at receiving them so coldly. He passed his arm round her waist as he spoke. She dared not repel the caress, but she burst into tears, and suddenly rising, she said, “I must not be so foolish and nervous. I believe I want a little fresh air, for I have not been out these two days. I will go and take a turn in the park this lovely evening.”

She hastened to quit the room, leaving Lord Montreville surprised, and yet pleased, for he could not attribute this agitation to any cause except love for himself.

She sought the most retired part of the park. The sun was getting low, and lighted up the grey rough boles of the old oaks, while the slant beams tipped every object in the landscape with gold, and increased the rich variety of foliage, of form, and of colouring. The distant mountains were purple, the nearer ones adorned with every hue and tint, which blended most softly into the other. The young fawns were skipping and sporting on the smooth glades, between the tufts of trees, while the belling of the deer among the fern mingled with the hum of bees, the chirp of birds, and the summer sounds of evening.

She gazed around and thought, “How lovely, how beautiful is nature! How calm and cheerful every thing looks! It is more painful to feel unhappy while every thing seems so gay around one, than if all was as dreary and desolate as one’s own heart. Oh! how I do long to be happy!” and she began to think that perhaps she tormented herself foolishly; that there might be some excuse for her husband, of which she was not aware; that it was impossible any one could seem so affectionate as Lord Montreville, without feeling what he showed: she yielded to the genial influence of the scene around her, and vaguely hoped that all would yet come right.

“He will soon be well enough to read his letters,” she thought, “and as I am sure he is very fond of me now, whatever he may have been hitherto, he will be miserable when he finds the letter from that shocking woman; and he will be humble and penitent, and tell me the whole truth, and then I will forgive him, and then he must love me a great deal better than ever, for being so very kind.”

With the exception perhaps of a few singular persons who seem to enjoy being miserable, there is so strong a desire of happiness in the youthful mind, and something so painful in a continued state of depression, that the spirits will spring up, unless new causes of unhappiness arise; and Lucy returned from her walk with an elastic step, and a sensation as if a weight had been taken off her mind, although nothing had occurred which in the slightest degree altered her situation.

Lord Montreville was now able to bear the full light, and to move into the next room. He became anxious to see his letters. He asked for the key of the escrutoire, in which they were locked up. The moment was come when she had to impart to him that she had ventured to break the seal of some of them. With a beating heart, and trembling hand, she showed him that she had received from the agent, and told him how she had in consequence been obliged to open some of his letters, to find the papers required.

Lord Montreville’s colour changed. He repeated his request for the key, and without making any farther remark, he rang the bell for his own man, and taking his arm, walked into his morning-room. He dismissed the servant, and Lucy heard him lock the door, as if to preclude all chance of interruption.

She sat with a palpitating heart, counting and calculating the time it would take him to read through the mass of papers which had accumulated, and wondering when he would rush to her feet to crave mercy and forgiveness. It was evident by the change in his countenance, by his silence, by his ringing for his servant, instead of asking for her supporting arm, that he expected letters from this woman. She remained hoping, doubting, fearing.

Dinner-time arrived. Lord Montreville was not yet well enough to dine with her, so she ate, or rather could not eat, her solitary morsel.

They generally drank tea together. She wondered whether she should find him in the drawing-room as usual. She wondered how he would receive her. She did find him there as usual, but with him the nurse and child.

That evening their boy first toddled alone from the father’s sofa to the mother’s knee, and Lucy caught him up, and devoured him with kisses, in a transport of delight and pride, that mothers, and mothers only, can comprehend. “Oh!” she thought, “he will own all to me to-night, and I shall forgive him for the sake of that dear child.”

The boy went to bed—the candles came—Lucy took her work, and sat down with her back rather turned towards Lord Montreville, wondering when the moment would arrive. “He is waiting till tea is over—the servants will be coming in and out.”

Tea did come. It was generally with them a meal, as Lord Montreville dined at two o’clock. It was however a meal, to which neither of them, that evening, did justice. At length urn, toast, butter, bread, and cakes, were removed, and Lucy’s heart might almost have been heard to beat, when the last servant shut the door.

“He must speak now,” she thought. But the silence continued unbroken, and she determined not to be the first to break it. She sat, imagining in what words he would open the subject, till the first sound of his voice made her almost start from her seat. He asked her to put the shade over the candles a little lower down. He had to repeat the request, before she could collect her thoughts so as to comply with it. “He is ashamed I should see his countenance, when he speaks of this disgraceful connexion,” she thought; and she remained again in expectation.

Another silence succeeded. For very awkwardness Lucy wished to say something, but she could think of nothing that did not either lead away from the subject uppermost in both their minds, or else indirectly lead to it. Every sentence she planned, sounded either too formal, or too tender. At length she fell back upon the never-failing resource of the bankrupt in conversation; and after ten minutes’ reflection and consideration, she promulgated “It is very hot to-night!” He agreed, and begged her to look at Moore’s Almanack, to see what weather was there predicted. He continued to say a vast deal upon the subject, to which she replied in absent monosyllables.

There was no more to be extracted from this topic. Lord Montreville had foretold drought, and rain, wind and heat, storm and sunshine, and Lucy had assented to the probability of each in succession, when another silence ensued. She began to feel angry at being treated with such coldness, and such contempt, that he did not even deem any apology or explanation due to her; as if he imagined her only fit to be a nurse, only capable of talking about the weather. Her heart, which had been yearning towards the father of her child, became suddenly chilled and shut up.

Her wrongs rose before her eyes in fearful array against him; and if he had then entered upon the subject, he would have found her in a very different frame of mind from that in which she had been at the commencement of their tête-à-tête. She made a variety of the most insipid common-place remarks, in the most dry and indifferent tone of voice. Never was dialogue kept up between two strangers in a more constrained tone, than between this couple, who really entertained a great affection for each other, and on the evening of the day on which their first child had first walked alone.

The fact is, that Lord Montreville was thunderstruck when he found his letters had been opened; though, under the circumstances, he confessed to himself there had been no other course for Lucy to pursue. He was still more horrified, when he found the fatal letter among the number of those of which the seal had been broken. Even according to his own idea of morality, such a proceeding became wrong when it reached the wife’s knowledge: and his attachment to that wife had latterly so much increased, that he found his opinions upon the duties of matrimony vastly more strict than before his illness. The liaison which had appeared to him a matter of such trifling importance while he believed her ignorant of it, suddenly assumed, even in his eyes, the character of a sin of the first magnitude when he felt it known to a being so innocent, so conscientious as the young wife whom he had now learned to respect, as well as to love. He half persuaded himself it was impossible she could have read, or at least have comprehended the purport of the letter, or she could never have nursed him with such unremitting attention, without ever speaking, implying, or looking a reproach.

He also had awaited the evening meeting with dread and agitation, half expecting that he must go through a scene of tears and explanation. As she alluded not to the subject, he half hoped at first that she had not read the letter. He had instinctively availed himself of the weather to attempt a conversation on indifferent subjects; but, adept as he was at giving what turn he pleased to conversation in society, he was unequal to the task now. She did not assist him, and he became nearly convinced by her taciturnity that she knew all, and then his spirit felt abashed before her’s.

He mentally resolved to break off entirely with Alicia, and for the future to be the most exemplary of husbands; but he had not the nobleness of character to be able willingly to own his fault, and to throw himself on her mercy for forgiveness. Indeed, though he could not choose but admire her conduct, supposing she was acquainted with his errors, still the admiration he felt did not attract him. On the contrary, the consciousness of inferiority, from which he could not defend himself, vis-à-vis of a woman, and of one whom he had raised from comparative obscurity, chilled the love which had been gradually increasing in his heart, with the growth of his newly-awakened parental affection. This evening, and many succeeding evenings and mornings, passed off in gêne and coldness.

Lucy’s generous impulse of forgiveness had changed to a feeling of disgust for his unblushing immorality, contempt for what she thought was hypocrisy in his tender expressions towards herself, and indignation at the insult offered to her as a wife, a mother, and a young and lovely woman. She wrapt herself up in cool reserve.

If at first Lord Montreville could not work himself up to a full confession in all contrition and humility, still less could he do so, when the soft, the mild, the timid Lucy, had assumed a certain calm, composed, and self-possessed manner, which repelled, rather than invited confidence.

CHAPTER XIII.

In the mean time, Lord Montreville had completely recovered his health. They left Caërwhwyddwth Castle, and established themselves at Ashdale Park for the winter. Their house was soon full, and Lucy tried to drown all sense of her cares in the succession of company, with which she was as desirous as Lord Montreville could be, to keep their house constantly replenished. They each equally dreaded finding themselves alone with the other.

The breakfast hour was late; before luncheon the excursion for the day was organised; after luncheon the preconcerted ride or drive took place; the company was constantly changing, and Lady Montreville’s presence was frequently required in the drawing-room, to speed the parting, or to greet the coming guest. It was only in the nursery that the face which in society she had learned to dress in smiles, relaxed into an expression of languor and joylessness, which astonished and distressed the faithful Milly. When the child’s gambols and caresses called forth a smile, it was so melancholy a one, that Milly’s eyes would often fill with tears as she looked upon her lady.

One day, when among the foolish questions with which poor little children are tormented, Lucy said to him, “Charlie loves mamma, does not he?” He answered, “Me love papa.” The boy meant nothing, but the words fell on Lucy’s heart, as if they doomed her to utter lonelessness and lovelessness! as if her own child cared not for her! and she burst into a passionate flood of tears, which alarmed and confounded Milly.

“La, my lady! sure you are not crying for that? Why you would not but have the dear babe love his own papa?”

“I do not believe any body or any thing loves me in this world—except you, Milly;” and Lucy’s sobs redoubled.

“Oh, my lady! how can you speak so? And to think of my lord, how he used to be asking and calling for you when he was so ill, and that’s the time when people call for them as they really love best; and ’twas then my lord could not bear you out of his sight, though may be, now he is well, he takes pleasure in the other gentlefolks too.”

Lucy had pride and dignity enough not to open the secrets of her domestic wrongs, even to Milly; and exerting all her self-control, she dried her tears, and tried to smile at her silly maternal jealousy. But Milly was not so deceived. Simple as she was, the warmth of her own feelings rendered her quick-sighted in all that regarded those of others. She was sure that her lady’s lowness of spirits had some deeper source than the child’s little speech, though she was quite at a loss to divine what the cause might be. She had been so well satisfied with Lord Montreville’s love for her, when first he recovered his recollection, that she did not suspect it could be occasioned by any unkindness on his part.

At this period of our story, Sir Charles and Lady Selcourt arrived at Ashdale Park. Lucy was overjoyed to see a face that reminded her of the happy days of her childhood, a person who was bound to her by ties of blood, who distinctly belonged to herself. Although not perhaps the one whose character was most congenial to her own, still she was her sister; they had played the same plays, wandered about the same fields, studied in the same school-room, had shared the same parental cares, and in the present desolate state of her feelings, her heart went forth towards Sophy with warmth.

Lady Selcourt was a worldly woman, and a coquette, but she was not a common-place coquette. She never made any advances towards men; she never apparently sought them; but she dressed herself quite beautifully, and sat still with an expression of conscious charms, combined with strict propriety, which seldom failed to bring all the men in the room hovering round the sofa on which she sat.

She was not witty, or learned, or talkative, but she looked very soft, and occasionally very arch; and when she did speak, implied a great deal more than she said. All girls hated her, for she occupied the gentlemen, without being so openly a flirt, that they could console themselves by thinking “any body can gain the attention of men, who will go such lengths to obtain it,” for she went no lengths. Yet most men, and all women, knew it was not simply by superior charms that she did attract them.

Pretty as Lucy was, pleasing as were her good-humour and her simplicity, much as all men admired her in speaking of her, it was round Lady Selcourt that they congregated; her dress was the subject of conversation; it was to give her their arm that they rushed when dinner was announced; it was upon her cards at écarté that all were anxious to bet.

As the sisters were sitting one day in her boudoir, Lady Montreville remarked to Sophy that she almost wondered Sir Charles should like to see so many men fluttering around his wife, while she appeared so much more occupied with others than with him. “For Sir Charles is very fond of you, Sophy,” she added, with a sigh.

“To be sure he is, and he would not be half so fond of me, if others did not flutter around me, as you call it. Nothing keeps a man up to the mark so well, as seeing that his wife is valued by others. Do you not invariably see dawdling devoted wives, with careless indifferent husbands?”

“Indeed I am not sure that devotion is the way to fix one’s husband,” rejoined Lucy, in a desponding tone.

“It only spoils the men, Lucy. Husbands are things that ought to be kept in hot water, if one wishes to preserve one’s influence over them, which every woman of sense must perceive is one of her first duties. And I own I should not like to be considered as a domestic drudge, who have fulfilled the end of my existence when I have provided heirs to the estate, can keep my husband’s shirts mended, and know precisely when the kettle boils. Women have souls, and they have hearts” (so they have! thought Lucy), “and understandings—sometimes the best of the two; and it always makes my blood boil to see them treated as beings of an inferior order! People do not judge for themselves. If you are overlooked by others, your husband thinks nothing of you; if others admire and seek your society, he is proud that so recherchée a person is his wife. Of course I would not have any woman commit herself by word or deed. As you know, I would not walk across the room for any man that breathes: no one ever saw me do any one thing derogatory to the dignity of our sex; but there is no reason why one should not dress well, and make one’s-self agreeable. On vaut ce qu’on veut valoir, especially in one’s husband’s eyes.”

Lucy began to think it was as much the bounden duty of every married woman to flirt, as to love, honour, and obey.

“I think,” added Lucy, “very submissive wives often have faithless husbands.”

“It stands to reason they should. Men have had flirtations, and liaisons, and love affairs of all kinds, up to the time they marry. They have been accustomed to excitement, and they can never sit down contented with a humdrum wife, always hemming and stitching quietly at home. Unless a woman has something in her, the husband will seek for amusement abroad.”

“This is rather hard upon some women though, who have never had all these flirtations, and who do not want to flirt, but would fain give their whole hearts to their husbands; at best they can only hope to be last of many loves.”

“Why you could never have expected to be your husband’s first love, my dear! Really! Lucy, you are the oddest mixture of romance and worldly wisdom, that ever I met with. One would think you had married all for love, or the world well lost. Yours is the most sentimental mode of making a good parti I ever knew.”

“I was not alluding to myself,” Lucy hastily interrupted; for she dreaded to have her secret annoyances laid bare to the eyes of any one, especially to those of Sophy.

“Why I suppose not; for if you had wished to be your husband’s first love, you would have chosen a youth certainly not past nineteen. But sometimes you have such a melancholy, sentimental expression in your face, I scarcely know what to make of you.”

“You have such spirits, Sophy! I think you have ten times the spirits you had when you were a girl, which is so odd!” and she thought of the halcyon days of donkeys and puppy dogs.

“Not at all odd! When one is a girl, one does not know what one’s fate is to be; and though one has some pleasant and agreeable hours, one has mortifications also; but when one’s fortune is made, when one has a husband who is proud of one, and (though it sounds vain to say so) when one feels that one is admired and courted by others, I do not see why one should not be in spirits.”

Lady Selcourt had been gratified that morning by a noble dandy’s compliance with her request to prolong his stay at Ashdale Park, in order to join in some charades which were proposed for the evening’s amusement, when he had resisted the general solicitations of the rest of the party. If Lucy had seen her at Sir Charles’s seat in Oxfordshire, with her husband and her children around her, in the bosom of her family, she would not have thought her flow of spirits so enviable.

Arguments, the unsoundness and sophistry of which would be apparent enough at other times, appear conclusive and convincing when they are in accordance with the feelings of the moment. Lucy was thoroughly discontented with her husband, and her own manner of life; her mind was unsettled—she was in a state of mortification, while at the same time she thought more highly of her own charms than she had ever done before. She saw Sophy with half her personal beauty, but with an adoring husband (for she had succeeded in making Sir Charles admire, as well as fear her; she had enthralled him, and he dared not even struggle in his shackles, but appeared to look on them as precious ornaments); and she also saw her receiving the incense of that conventional complimentary manner which all women can command, if they choose to require it.

If she had been happy at home, she would have despised and condemned such unmeaning homage; but as it was, she did not like to be altogether eclipsed by Sophy, and her manner instinctively assumed a tone which encouraged men to talk to her. There was a characteristic simplicity in her view of subjects, and in her mode of expressing herself, which amused, as being peculiar to herself. She ventured to be droll. She was pleased at success, her spirits rose, and she began to think that, after all, one might make oneself very tolerably happy without the romantic affection which Milly’s story had taught her to sigh after.

Another spring arrived, and Lady Montreville went to London with the full intention of shining as the most attractive of women, and of having a train of admirers—humble admirers, who should be kept at a most respectful distance, but who might show her husband what others thought of her.

She had little difficulty in succeeding in her object. With rank and beauty, a lively manner, and a husband so much older than herself, the difficulty was to keep them off, not to attract them. Lionel Delville became a frequent visiter in St. James’s Square. He no longer found it impossible to pay her a compliment, although, as yet, he dared go no farther. Captain Lyon claimed acquaintance as an old friend. Although he had scarcely found out she was alive as the fourth daughter of Colonel Heckfield, he proclaimed her the most fascinating of her sex, as the Marchioness of Montreville. Indeed, he insinuated that he had been the first to discover these fascinations, and to point them out to Lord Montreville. He affected to patronise her to all his friends.

Statesmen, warriors, poets, were to be found in her train. Among others, Lord Thorcaster, a deep politician, who was particularly strong on political economy, the bullion question, the poor laws, and free trade. She was quite pretty enough to be exceedingly agreeable to this man of deep reading and comprehensive mind. He did not make love—no: he talked politics; but her eyes were so blue, and her teeth so white, that he thought her political aperçus astonishingly luminous; especially when one day that the question of free trade was discussed, she exclaimed in her simple manner,—

“Why can they not let it all alone! and then every body, and every country, will naturally manufacture what they can do best, and what they are most fitted for; and everybody will buy where they can get the best things for the least money. That must be good for all parties, and there would be an end of all this fuss about duties on imports and exports.”

“My dear Lady Montreville, you have in one sentence condensed all the arguments that it has taken the two houses of Parliament years to discuss. I have urged this very train of reasoning myself. If our legislators were but endowed with the clear and powerful understanding of a certain young and beautiful woman, it would be well for our poor country! But it is not every mind that can thus grapple with a subject, divest it of all the false colouring thrown over it by sophistry, and at once seize the real point at issue.”

“Dear me! have I done all this? It seemed very natural to say what I said.”

“Very natural to persons of decision, who can shake themselves free from the trammels of prejudice.”

“But I never thought upon the subject before, so I had no prejudices to shake off; I merely said what struck me as plain and obvious.”

“Indeed! astonishing you should at once seize all the bearings of the case.”

Lucy felt a little like M. Jourdain, when he discovered that he had been speaking prose all his life; and was rather elated at finding she was so clever. She had heard she was pretty, and had perceived she was attractive, and had sometimes felt that she amused, but she had never before been told she was clever.

Lord Thorcaster was a man who stood high with a certain set; his suffrage was decidedly worth having, for he was reckoned very fastidious; and Lucy was much exalted in her own estimation by his opinion of her talents. She now listened with attention to political discussions; fancied she greatly preferred such subjects to the frivolous conversation of women; she occasionally retailed the arguments she heard adduced by others, and sometimes hazarded an opinion of her own. Lord Thorcaster was charmed; but as he was neither young nor handsome, the degree in which he frequented St. James’s Square gave no umbrage to Lord Montreville, nor ground for scandal to the world.

CHAPTER XIV.

Although no consequences attended Lord Thorcaster’s admiration of Lady Montreville, as far as he himself was concerned, it had a visible effect upon her manners. People are always more vulnerable to flattery with regard to the merit for which they are least remarkable, than that on which they themselves are not in doubt. Lord Thorcaster’s compliments upon the strength of her understanding caused her to set up for a superior woman, une tête forte; and she sometimes astonished those who knew her best, by having a decided opinion upon some subject of which women are seldom supposed competent judges.

These little fits of pretension, if they did not add to her attractions, tended very much to increase the number of persons attracted. It was evident there must be vanity, when a new character was assumed for the purpose of shining; and this conviction gave courage and audacity to the herd of aspirers to her favour, who had hitherto been kept at bay by the candour and openness of her manner. The back of Lady Montreville’s opera box was always thronged with men. The door was constantly opened, and quickly shut again, by persons who could not find standing-room; and woe to the neighbours on each side, if by any chance they loved music, and wished to listen to the sweet sounds they had paid their money to hear.

Lionel Delville, who from the first had been exceedingly favourable to Lucy, now found his cousin’s house the most agreeable in London; and took advantage of the privileges of relationship to be always in attendance. It seemed to be a settled thing, that he was her most obsequious slave. Open conventional gallantry, and cousinly intimacy, were so skilfully blended, that it was difficult to ascertain when and where real gallantry commenced. She was proud of the admiration of the oracle of statesmen, and pleased with the devotion of the oracle of fashion. She was the life of society; she became a great talker, and her spirits rose with the exertion. Her voice was by nature so sweetly modulated, that no one could be tired of hearing it; her countenance was so soft, that although she occasionally sported the most decided opinions, they did not seem tranchant, when delivered by her.

If success in the great world could constitute the whole happiness of any person with naturally good feelings, she might now have been happy. But was she so? No.

She had not been brought up without some attention to religious subjects. She always went to church, and would have felt uneasy if she had omitted to do so; she had a general desire and resolution to do what was right, and a horror of doing what was wrong. Her own domestic discontents, Sophy’s arguments and example, the natural desire after happiness inherent in our nature, and the vanity which is lurking at the bottom of most hearts, had combined to lead her thus far on the road to wrong; but she could not be happy, unless she felt satisfied with herself.

She often thought, “How cheerful the Duchess of Altonworth is! How placid she looks! Nothing ever worries her, and every thing worries me. It makes me unhappy and discontented with myself to see her;” and the result was, that she frequented her quiet and select soirées less and less; for when not in a whirl of engagements, she invariably felt weary and listless. Though the constant tribute paid to her charms afforded her but little pleasure, she felt the want of it, if by any chance it was withheld. Then she became fastidious upon the subject. She despised the homage of common-place empty youngsters; she ridiculed the doux yeux of old men; she was disgusted with fulsome compliments; but Lionel Delville knew how to flatter, without appearing to do so; he had learned in his cousin’s school, and Lord Montreville saw his own arts practised upon his wife.

He had taken no notice of the tribe of general admirers, for, feeling himself not immaculate, he instinctively avoided what might lead to recrimination. He had not heeded Lord Thorcaster’s attentions, for he was nearly as old as himself, and much less good-looking;—but the increased devotion of Lionel Delville gave him serious uneasiness. From the beginning he had felt a dread of his particular friend, and had sought his company as little as possible, since he married. Until now, Lucy’s manner had been such, that she might safely have bid defiance to the most malicious; but the revolution which the last few weeks had effected in her rendered him serious and thoughtful. He was uncertain what line to take; and in the mean time he was not particularly good-humoured, and frequently spoke of the frivolity and the vanity of women, in a manner which sounded harshly in Lucy’s ears, when she thought of the immorality and the hypocrisy of men.

Often would she lament having ever seen the fatal letter; often did she wish herself once more deceived; often did she look back, as to a happy time, to that when she sought only to please her husband. She almost wished to be again ruled, and thwarted in all her everyday pursuits; for she now thought these petty annoyances were more than compensated by the satisfactory sensation of fulfilling the duties of a good wife, and the hope of securing the affections of her husband. It was with sorrow and regret that she reverted to the days when she did so sincerely wish to secure them. Those days were gone—gone, never to return!

The respect she had felt for him, as her wedded husband, as her guide, her superior in understanding, and in knowledge—was gone, and with it the halo she had willingly thrown around his age. She now looked upon him as a passé profligate, to whom in a moment of infatuation she had linked her youth; one whom his own inconstancy had exonerated her from loving, and to whom she only owed the bare duties of obedience and fidelity, in compliance with her marriage vow.

She no longer felt bound to sacrifice her own tastes to his; and she adopted an independent tone, which was by no means agreeable to Lord Montreville, although, by having slacked the reins when first he feared his own aberrations were discovered, he found it somewhat difficult to again tighten them.

He had kept his resolution of breaking off all connexion with his former mistress; and he began to look upon himself as the most exemplary of husbands, to forget Lucy’s devotion and forbearance, and his own errors, and to feel that the blame lay all on her side.

He was seldom absent from home; and he acquired the habit of constantly coming in and out of the drawing-room during the morning, Lucy felt watched and suspected—unjustly suspected by him. Her spirit rebelled at the unfairness of mankind. Though meek, while she was anxious to please the husband she looked up to, the sense of injury had aroused in her a spirit which had heretofore lain dormant; and strong in the consciousness that she did nothing wrong, she did not alter her mode of proceeding, but continued to admit morning visiters, and to allow Lionel Delville to lounge away many an hour in St. James’s Square, before she went out in the carriage.

He had frequently of late presented her with bouquets of the most rare and beautiful flowers, which he professed to bring with him from his sister’s villa at Roehampton; and Lucy had no scruple in accepting the nosegay which her husband’s cousin brought from the country.

It so happened that Lord Montreville one day accompanied some ladies to Colville’s nursery garden, and they there admired a row of beautiful nosegays, which were delicately tied up, and arranged in order. They wished to purchase one of them, when the nurseryman begged to cut some fresh flowers, as these were all bespoken by Lord so and so, for Mrs. so and so; and by Sir something somebody, for Lady such a thing; and by Mr. Delville, for Lady Montreville. The other names were all notoriously coupled together; and that his wife’s should be mixed up with such, was enough to irritate any husband. Lord Montreville changed colour, and bit his lips. No more passed. Fresh flowers were procured, and the party proceeded on their ride.

Lord Montreville returned home at dressing time, and came up-stairs in no very placid frame of mind. He knew so much of the vice of the world, that if roused to suspect at all, he suspected a great deal. While Lucy was the simple unsophisticated creature she once was, he rendered justice to her purity; but with him there could be no medium. He could respect perfect innocence; but the first bloom of that innocence passed away, he made no allowances for the foibles of human nature, but fancied it either already plunged, or on the point of plunging, into reckless vice.

When he entered the apartment, the first sight which greeted his eyes, was Lionel Delville assisting Lucy to put the identical nosegay in water, that it might be fresh for the evening’s ball.

Lord Montreville could scarcely command himself. His blood boiled to his fingers’ ends. But, stronger than insulted pride, than love, than jealousy, was in the man of the world, the fear of appearing ridiculous in the eyes of another man of the world.

To an indifferent observer, his greeting would have appeared perfectly calm; his manner to Lionel cordial; that to his wife kind; but they all three knew the world, and none was deceived. Lionel saw his cousin’s feelings, and was annoyed; for it would be vexatious to have his pleasant morning visits disturbed, and quite a pity that Lady Montreville’s home should be rendered uncomfortable. Lucy, who had learned more of the workings of the human mind in the last year than in all her previous life, also perceived Lord Montreville’s inward irritation; and, although she had nothing really to reproach herself with, her conscience led her to guess pretty accurately what caused the storm she saw impending.

Lionel felt his situation as third distressing, and did not linger long after Lord Montreville’s entrance. He took a gay and sportive leave; Lucy bade him remember to get the new march from his military band; Lord Montreville added, “Mind, you dine with us to-morrow, my good fellow!”—the door closed.

Lord Montreville patiently awaited while he heard the clank of his boots as he hurried down the stone stairs; he waited till he heard the porter close the street door upon him, and then, turning to Lucy, he said, in a tone of choking calmness:—

“Lady Montreville, this will not do. I must put an immediate stop to your present mode of life.”

Lucy could not help feeling frightened out of her wits; but she remembered Alicia Mowbray, and she remembered that Lionel Delville had never spoken a word of love to her, and she roused herself to the onset with a feeling of desperation, and of contempt for her monitor.

“What will not do, Lord Montreville? What do you mean to put a stop to?”

“I mean to say that it is not my intention that the house of Montreville should be disgraced while I am its head; and that I shall take every precaution in my power to prevent such being the case.”

“Indeed, Lord Montreville! I approve of your resolution, and agree with you, that all who bear so noble a name should be sans peur, et sans reproche.”

“Madam!” and for a moment he looked fiercely upon her: “Whatever you may mean by that insinuation, you may remember that bravery is the virtue indispensable in men, while in women it is—chastity; and I tell you fairly, that I shall not be the convenient husband of a wife who flirts with half London, and keeps her favoured lover tame about the house.”

“Heavens! Lord Montreville, do you say such things to me? Do you dare say such things?” Her momentary pride was gone; she burst into a flood of tears, and clasping her hands, exclaimed: “Fool that I was, I mistook polished manners for real refinement, and fancied those coarse and vulgar, who would never have insulted as you have done!”

“It is certainly a pity you did not choose some one more suited to your unambitious taste; but as you did marry me, and as I have the honour of being your husband, I may be allowed some control over your actions; and I therefore repeat it, I expect you will conduct yourself in such a manner, as is consistent with your reputation and my own.”

Lord Montreville left the room with coolness and dignity in his air, but with rage and indignation in his heart. Indignant at having been reproached by the creature he had raised to her present brilliant situation, and whose conduct latterly had destroyed the prestige which her behaviour to him in his illness had thrown around her.

Lucy remained in an agony of shame and anger, such as had never yet overpowered her. She rushed to her own room, and was found by Milly, who looked in to ask if she would like to have the child, rocking herself backwards and forwards in her chair, with her face buried in her hands, and sobbing audibly.

Milly exclaimed in terror, “Oh, la! my lady, whatever is the matter? My dear young lady, my sweet Miss Lucy, what has happened? Do speak, my dear Miss Lucy! what has happened to any of the dear family?”

“Milly, I am miserable! I am the most miserable wretch in the world!”

“Oh! my lady, don’t say so! I can’t bear to hear you talk in that way!”

“Did I not give him my first affections? Have I not been as truly devoted to him, as if he had loved me with the fervour of youth? Did I not yield to all his old bachelor fancies? I ask you, Milly, could I have nursed him with more tenderness, if he had been as dear to me as John was to you? And he was almost as dear; yes, it was with my whole heart that I gave myself up to my attendance upon him. And what do you think has been the return I have met with? That he should prefer to me a mistress! a horrible, wicked, abandoned woman, whose very vice constitutes her charm!”

“Sure, sure, my lady, somebody has told you false tales. This can never be true.”

“It is too true, Milly—I know it! Would I could have any doubt upon the subject! While I was shut up here, not allowed to enjoy myself in society, but passing long tiresome days of seclusion and dullness, and thinking he was attending to his duties, his parliamentary duties, the good of the nation, the welfare of his country, he was carrying on this shameful affair. During my confinement, when I was ill and suffering, he was amusing himself in the company of this woman. Oh! it makes me sick to think of! I have borne it all—I have done my duty—I have not complained—I have not reproached him—I have sat up with him night after night in his illness—I have not murmured? And now it is he who reproaches me, for at length trying to make myself happy without his affections, when he chooses to lavish them upon a shameless creature! He is angry with me, because everybody does not think me as little agreeable and as little charming as he does! He would wish me to be odious and ugly, to justify himself!”

“I am sure, my lady, nobody that knows you can think you odious or ugly.”

“It is not my fault, if people will think me otherwise.”

“Certainly, my lady; one could not expect that gentlefolks should not think you a good, kind, pleasant lady, as you are; nor one would not wish them not to think so; but——”

“But what, Milly?”

“Why, my lady, though my lord may have done what he should not have done, still, my lady, you are a married woman.”

“I know that, Milly; and I would rather die than ever be led to forget it. If I had allowed the dandies to make love to me—if I had given any one of them reason to imagine I had the least preference for him—if I had in any way deserved such treatment——”

“And do you think, my lady, you would be any the happier if you felt you did deserve it?”

CHAPTER XV.