So as there is as much difference between the counsel that a friend giveth, and that a man giveth himself, as there is between the counsel of a friend and of a flatterer; for there is no such flatterer as a man’s self, and there is no such remedy against flattery of a man’s self, as the liberty of a friend.—Lord Bacon’s Essays.
Lucy stopped short. There was something in this simple answer of Milly’s that overthrew all the chain of argument with which she was going to bewilder herself. She looked back, and was obliged to confess to herself how little real enjoyment she had felt from all the dissipation of the last season.
“Happiness, Milly! I have done with happiness for ever. All I can now look for is amusement.”
“Oh, my lady, depend upon it, a good conscience is all in all. If any body has every blessing this world can afford, it is of no use, as long as their conscience tells them they have not done what is right; and if it so happens that they are in trouble, why a good conscience is the only happiness they have left. It is not balls, nor plays, nor such like, that can cure trouble. I beg your pardon, my lady, for talking so to you; but, indeed, I do believe that if God sees any of us poor frail creatures fighting against our sorrow with a pious heart, He will help us to bear up against it, and we shall feel something nearer happiness than we ever shall by amusing ourselves with the pleasures of the world. I am sure I ought to be ashamed to speak so to a lady like you; but I am an old woman, and I love you, Miss Lucy; I love you as if you were my own child!”
“Dear Milly, you are my only comfort, and I do not know what would become of me if I had not you, to whom I could open my heart. You are quite right, and I am sure I would not do any thing wrong that I know of.”
“I am sure you would not, my lady; but I have sometimes thought of what you once said to me before ever you was married, about gentlemen talking to ladies, and ladies being talked of. I did not rightly understand you at the time.”
“What can you mean, Milly?”
“Why, my lady, I scarce know how to tell you; but since you have let me make so bold as to speak to you, I did hear some of the servants——”
“The servants, Milly! what on earth could the servants say?”
“Why servants will talk, my lady, and there’s no use in thinking of hindering them; and the truth is, I heard John say to Thomas, ‘So my lady has taken up with a lover at last!’”
“Impossible! Milly.”
“Yes, my lady, it is true enough; and Thomas made answer, ‘I thought how ’twould be—many ladies makes a show of being better than their neighbours at first, but they all will run their rig.’”
“Oh, horrid! horrid! But they did not mention any name?”
“Why, yes, they did indeed; for John answered, ‘He supposed my lord would not mind it, as ’twas all in the family.’ ‘Not mind it?’ says Thomas; ‘It’s my belief my lord will kick Mr. Delville out of the house one of these fine days.’”
“Stop! stop! Milly, I cannot bear to hear another word. Oh that I should live to be so spoken of by my own servants! I cannot bear it! I will turn them all away, the impertinent wretches!”
“’Tis shocking, to be sure; but them London footmen, they stick at nothing. And servants will talk, my lady! there’s no help for it—they will talk, if there is any thing to talk about.”
“But there is nothing to talk about. Oh! what shall I do? What shall I do? If I change suddenly, and break off with Lord Montreville’s cousin, it will seem so odd; it will justify these dreadful suspicions; and besides, he is the only person whose society is the least agreeable to me.”
“Oh, la! my lady! Then I am sure it is time you should not have so much of his company.”
“But, Milly, he never pays me half as many compliments as other people do; and he never said a word like being in love with me; and he never spoke a word against Lord Montreville; and he never told me I was too young or too pretty for him—he never said any of the things I have been put on my guard against, as being the first advances of a man who wishes to flirt with a married woman; for I have sometimes watched to see whether he did, for fear he should be making love before I was aware.”
“You know best, my lady; but I should think you would not have been on the look-out for it, if he had no such thing in his head.”
“Why, Milly, you are as bad as all the rest of the world! But what shall I do? My husband says I must not go on as I have done; and then he has asked Mr. Delville to dinner to-morrow—and what can I do? What can I say? How am I to behave to him?”
“Sure, my lady, just be civil and pleasant.”
“That is all I have ever been, Milly! O dear! O dear! If I had but married some good young man who had loved me truly, and whom I could have loved and respected, as I would fain love and respect my husband, how easy it would have been to do my duty, if he had been ever so poor and humble!”
“Now don’t you be fretting in this way, my lady. Some has one trial, and some another; and people always think their own trial the hardest to bear. I thought mine were very hard to bear; but in all my troubles I had one comfort—my duty always lay straight before me—I always knew what I ought to do, though ’twas a hard matter sometimes to do it without murmuring.”
“I will not go to the ball to-night! Yet perhaps Mr. Delville may guess why—I had better go. By the by, this is the Duchess of Altonworth’s evening for being at home. I will go there. It will not seem so odd as not going out at all, and Mr. Delville is very seldom at her parties. Besides, I shall have an opportunity of asking the Duchess if she will receive me early to-morrow. She is good, kind, and judicious, and she knows the world well, too. I will tell her what an uncomfortable state I am in, and she will advise me.”
Lord Montreville dined out at a political dinner, and they met no more in the course of the evening.
To the Duchess of Altonworth’s Lucy went, filled with a desire to do what was right, but at the same time with a strong conviction of her own wrongs, and in consequence a feeling of martyrdom.
The first person she saw, as she entered the Duchess’s, was Lionel Delville. She was not prepared for this, and it annoyed her considerably. She was forced into his society before she had by any means decided on the line of conduct, or rather the tone of manner (for the whole question was an affair of manner), which she meant to adopt. He instantly greeted her with a serious air of tender interest and concern, and ventured to look in her eyes with an inquiring expression, as if he expected to ascertain how her tête-à-tête with Lord Montreville had gone off. His eyes disconcerted her. She was distressed at meeting them. She looked in every other direction; but although she might avoid seeing them upon her, she could not avoid feeling them upon her. She made careless, indifferent, insipid remarks, in rather a higher pitched voice than was common to her.
Lionel saw that she had been lectured, perceived that she was no longer at her ease, and took courage from her evident gêne. He expressed his happiness at meeting her again “so soon;” said he had come to the Duchess’s because he had imagined it likely she might prefer a quiet party to a ball “that evening,” and enquired whether he might call “as usual.” His whole air had in it something confidential, as if there existed between them a mystery, which both understood, without any need of explanation. In vain Lucy tried to be easy, and to laugh—to be any thing but mysterious. She answered, “Oh, yes!” or “to be sure,” and “I suppose so,” in an affectedly loud and unconcerned tone, to all the half-whispered expressions of solicitude which he was pouring into her ear. Whatever subject she started, he contrived to throw a shade of sentiment over it. She thought herself safe in dashing into the last speech of Lord Thorcaster, and loudly declared her admiration of his eloquence; for she had passed the preceding night with her head through the ventilator of the House of Commons. This led to a discussion upon eloquence, and Lionel said “he could imagine circumstances in which there might be more eloquence in three short words, than in all the flowing sentences, the rounded periods, the flowers of rhetoric, employed by sages and senators since the world began.”
“Eloquence in three words! What can they be?”
He kept his face looking straight forward, but uttered, in a low, clear, musical voice, which reached her ear, and her’s alone, “What think you of the three words ‘I love you?’”
Lucy felt hot all over; but she rejoined, with what calmness she could command, “I should say those three words conveyed an agreeable,—or, perhaps, a disagreeable fact, in the plainest and simplest manner, and had nothing to do with eloquence.”
Lionel saw he had gone too far. “When your little boy first lisps, ‘Mamma, I love you!’ I think you will agree with me, that there can be eloquence in the words.”
Lucy felt it certainly would be delightful to hear them from his lips; and an air of tenderness succeeded to her confusion; she became conscious that to all lookers-on the appearance was that of a desperate flirtation. She felt her cheeks flush; she felt her eyes gleam with excited emotions of all kinds, and she was afraid to raise them from the ground. Lionel thought her eyelashes quite beautiful, as they almost swept her cheek, while they evidently only veiled the brightness beneath: he thought her confusion bewitching, and he was irresistibly attracted.
The Duchess was surprised, and grieved, at the change which she feared had come over Lady Montreville during the last few weeks. Lucy caught her eyes upon her, and read in them an expression of pity, and of blame. She could not bear that look. Jumping up from her seat, she exclaimed, “I have something particular to say to the Duchess; I beg you ten thousand pardons;” and she left him in the middle of a tirade, upon the folly of those who, by groundless suspicions, justify what they dread.
He remained planté, and bit his lips in pique and provocation. Lucy meantime passed her arm within the Duchess’s, and saying she must arrange with her some plan for seeing the Dulwich Gallery, she led her aside and sat down by her. “Do not look at me with that expression of countenance, my dear Duchess. I cannot bear it. I have enough to annoy me, and I cannot have you look so coldly and unkindly upon me.”
“If my looks expressed coldness or unkindness, they belied me. I feel any thing but indifference, I can assure you.”
“Let me come to you to-morrow morning, and promise to listen to a long history, in which, if I am to blame, I am more sinned against than sinning—indeed, till to-night, I thought myself a pattern of discretion; but I begin to think I may have been a little imprudent.”
“Well, we cannot discuss that point just now,” answered the Duchess, smiling. “Come to-morrow morning, and I will not be at home to any one else.”
Lucy kept close to the Duchess the rest of the evening, and did not give Mr. Delville any opportunity of speaking to her again. The next morning she breakfasted in her dressing-room, and at twelve o’clock she went to the Duchess, resolved to tell her her whole history, to ask her advice, and, if possible, to follow it. She did not feel as if there would be any great difficulty in giving up the attentions of others, but she felt she could not accomplish being the affectionate wife she once was, if that should be the thing required of her.
When she found herself alone with the Duchess, she told her her tale of woe and injury. “Now what can I do? What shall I do? I am ready to confess that last night Mr. Delville did seem inclined to make love, though just when I thought it was really coming, he turned the conversation, and talked about my child. However, I am not at this moment so indignant as I was yesterday, when I thought the suspicion ridiculous and insulting. I am ready to do any thing that shall be calculated to prevent him, or any one else, flirting with me; but what have I done, or said, to encourage them?”
“It is very odd that last year, though you were as pretty as you are now, you had no difficulty of this kind, had you?”
“No, none at all. I went out a great deal, but no one paid me particular attention; and I did not feel afraid of any constructions put upon this thing and that thing; and yet I am sure I was not half so attentive to appearances, and did not think half as much about them.”
“I should think, then, there must be some change in yourself.”
“Yes; that there is! I thought my husband loved me then, and my study was to please him.”
“That is the thing! Men have such tact in finding out when a woman is discontented at home.”
“And how can I be contented? That does not depend upon me.”
“Not exactly. But do you not think that from having been mortified at home, perhaps you have sought for gratification to your vanity abroad, that you have wished to be reassured concerning your own attractions?”
“Why, perhaps I may. It is so mortifying, you know, to be married to a man old enough to be one’s father, and then that he should neglect and despise one. I just did want to ascertain that the fault was not in me, but that it was all owing to his bad taste. Oh dear! why was I dazzled with rank and fashion, polished manners, and good breeding. I was at the play the other night, and I was so struck with those lines of Anne Boleyn’s, that I came home and learned them by heart.
If I had but married an honest, true-hearted man, with ardent affections—one to whom I had been all the world, as he would have been to me—I could have buffeted cheerily through the storms of life, hand in hand with him.”
“And how many of your acquaintance are blessed with the fate (which I grant you is the happiest in the world) for which you so frequently sigh?”
“You are.”
“So I am! but do not fancy I have not had my share of sorrow, though I am cheerful,—more than cheerful,—and most grateful for my very large share of happiness. But remember I lost a son, my first-born, in the full vigour of youth and intellect; one who was all that a mother’s love or pride could wish or dream. God grant you may be spared that trial, my dearest Lady Montreville!”—her voice faltered as she spoke. “Depend upon it all others are light in comparison. Not that I murmur. Heaven knows that I bow in submission, and acknowledge myself still a person to be envied; but you need not envy me so very much,”—and a tear glistened in her eye.
Lucy thought of her boy, and trembled. She confessed to herself she had not sufficiently prized the blessing vouchsafed to her. She thought also that what Milly had said to her was very true,—“Some have one trial, some another.”
“You will not find many more so fortunate in their marriage as I am,” added the Duchess.
“Lord and Lady John Ashton.”
“They have been married four months and a half!”
“Well then, Mr. and Mrs. Stanton.”
“Yes, they are very happy now. He married her from pique, because my niece Jemima refused him. But it has turned out particularly well, and Mrs. Stanton suits him ten times better than Jemima would have done.”
“Oh, I should not like to have been married out of pique! Well then! those dear old souls the Hartleys. It is a pleasure to see them toddling so cozily down the hill together. He is charming, and so fond of her!”
“So he is! But the greater part of his youth was spent in devotion to other women. However, her gentleness and patience have their reward at last. He loves her now as she deserves.”
“Oh! I cannot emulate her there. I cannot wish to win back the affections of a person I have left off respecting; but indeed I wish to do my duty. I have the most ardent desire to be a virtuous wife, if I cannot be a loving one.”
“Well now! to begin, you must constantly and invariably repress vanity. Vanity is the stumbling-block of most women. Vanity has led more women astray, than feeling, or vice, or any thing else. You must give up showing your husband you can charm others.”
“Sophy told me that was the way in the world to keep one’s husband! Not that I did it exactly with the view of keeping him, for I had given up that point; but I did wish to show him what he had lost.”
“My dear Lady Montreville, you have been playing a dangerous game. By your own confession, then, vanity has been the true mainspring of your actions of late!”
“Oh, not quite! only a little; but, after all, what can be done without a little bit of vanity? As Sophy says, every body would sit still, and do nothing; people would not try to be pleasing and clever; heroes would not fight; legislators would not legislate; there would be no arts, or sciences, or improvements in the world. Sophy says vanity is as necessary in the economy of the mind, as fire in the economy of the world. That without it all things would stagnate.”
“Very true! But like fire, if once allowed to get beyond your control, it rages, destroys, and devours every thing. Like fire, it is the best of servants, the worst of masters.”
“Oh, so it is! If I could but have thought of that when Sophy and I have been talking! but as I could not answer her, I thought her arguments were unanswerable. Well, then, I will not give way to vanity any more. I always was taught that it was wrong to do so, till Sophy persuaded me one ought to try to be agreeable, that it was a duty one owed to society. Still, how shall I get through our dinner to-day? My husband so angry! and Mr. Delville to be one of the party!”
“Shall I tell you what to do? Go home to Lord Montreville, and ask him how he wishes you to behave to his cousin, and assure him you are ready to follow his directions in all respects.”
“What! quite humble myself before him, as if I was an erring wife, and he an immaculate angel? Oh, my dear Duchess, I scarcely think I can do that! Think of Alicia!”
“But your husband having failed in his duties, is no reason you should not perform yours. Your vow was not conditional. Your duties remain the same. Moreover, asking Lord Montreville how he wishes you to conduct yourself, is not expressing any approbation of his conduct. In short, it is the right thing to do; and you will find yourself happier, if you do what is right, simply because it is right, than you can be in any other way.”
“That is just what Milly said!” exclaimed Lucy. “And if you and Milly both say so, it must be true. I will drive home as fast as I can, and catch him before he goes out.”
Lucy rang for her carriage, and kissing the Duchess with heartfelt gratitude for her sympathy and good advice, she hurried away, and went straight into Lord Montreville’s morning-room, without giving her pride time to rise up again within her bosom.
CHAPTER XVI.
“Il n’y a rien qui rafraîchisse le sang comme avoir su éviter de faire une sottise.”—La Bruyere.
Lord Montreville was sitting before a table, covered with papers and books, with a novel open before him, of which he had not turned over a leaf for at least thirty-six minutes. He was thinking how innocent Lucy had been when first he had married her; he was lamenting the total change which he believed had taken place in her; he was wondering how far she had become acquainted with his connexion with Alicia Mowbray, and he confessed to himself that he could date the alteration which he had perceived in her, from the period when she had an opportunity of perceiving that fatal letter. That she had read it, was now evident, from her taunting allusion the preceding day. He was persuading himself that pique and jealousy might have driven her to flirtation, and he did not feel so chilled, so awed, so daunted, as when her measured, cold, though dutiful behaviour had made him painfully aware of his own errors, and of her merits. Neither was he so indignant, as when, in his anger, he attributed the whole change to mere indifference to himself, and love of the admiration of others.
As Lucy approached him, her cheek was slightly flushed; her clear blue eyes looked full at him, with a gentle but determined expression which seemed to say, I have no thought which shuns the light, inquire, and my heart shall be laid open before you.
“Lord Montreville,” she said, “you were angry with me yesterday for seeing so much of your cousin, Mr. Delville. You have asked him to dine here to-day, and I want to know how you would wish me to conduct myself towards him. I wish to be guided by you. I wish to see those whom you approve, and I wish to see no more of them than you approve. I value my own good name as much as you can do; and although I yesterday felt very angry at the manner in which you took me to task, my anger has subsided, and I only want to do what is right. You will find me willing and anxious to follow your directions, whatever they may be.”
Lord Montreville was taken by surprise. He could not look in her face and refuse to believe in the perfect candour and sincerity of her address to him. Her manner was neither humble, as if she had any thing to be forgiven; nor was it bold, as if she meant to brave him. The train of his own thoughts had rather tended to soften than to inflame him, and simple truth generally carries conviction with it.
“Lucy! I own I was angry yesterday, and can you assure me I had no cause for being so?”
“None that I know of.”
“Answer me honestly,—Has not Lionel Delville made love to you?”
“I have no wish but to answer honestly. Yesterday morning I should have said, never; and even now I can scarcely say he has, though yesterday evening, when I met him at the Duchess’s, his manner was changed. I think that if I had given him any encouragement, he would have made love to me; and it is in consequence of finding you were so far justified in your suspicions, that I now come to you, and beg you will direct my conduct. My wish is to fulfil my duties. I am convinced that by so doing alone one can know happiness,—or rather contentment (for she felt at that moment that life presented but a blank and cheerless prospect to her)—happiness I have long ceased to look for.”
“Lucy! this is not kind or flattering to me.”
“I am very sorry for it, but it is the fact!” She sat down, half overcome by her feelings of determined duty and of self-commiseration.
“Lucy, why should you not be happy?”
“Can you ask, Lord Montreville?” and she gave him a glance, in which the flash of indignation was tempered by a reproachful tear, which swam in her eye.
“Oh, Lucy! do you allude to that—that letter—which you so unfortunately——?”
“Yes, I do allude to that letter, which I so unfortunately saw; and to that woman, that shameless woman, whom you prefer to me. But I do not wish to reproach you—the time is gone by. I have made up my mind to being the neglected wife of a faithless husband. But I wish to do my duty, for my own sake, for the sake of my conscience. Tell me what to do, and I will do it!”
“Lucy, I never preferred that woman to you. I have never seen her since we left Wales, and I never will see her again as long as I live.”
“I am very glad for your own sake to hear you say so. For whatever you and other fashionable men may think, you may rest assured it is a great sin—though I have latterly been so bewildered about right and wrong, and I have tried so to find excuses for those around me, that I believe, if it had not been for the Duchess, and for Milly, I should scarcely have known which was which.”
Lord Montreville, though not a strict moralist, could not help being struck with these few words, which so forcibly expressed the mode by which the most amiable become contaminated by bad examples. He felt he had been the cause of her thus trying to reconcile morality to practice, instead of practice to morality.
A pause ensued. Had Lucy been in love with her husband, most likely her heart would have entirely softened towards him; and though she would have poured forth a much more vehement torrent of reproaches, she would have been more ready to restore him to his former place in her affections. As it was, she heard his assurance with satisfaction, but with calmness. It did not produce any instantaneous revulsion in her feelings. It did not now affect her as it would have done on the evening at Caërwhwyddwth Castle, when his silence had so seared her heart. Since then she had had leisure to look back upon her marriage, and to decipher what her feelings had then been, and to become convinced how little of real love there was in her preference of him. She now knew how easily we can deceive ourselves. The spell was broken! The halo her own imagination had thrown around him was dispersed.
Although with a mind so naturally well disposed as hers, if his conduct had always been such as to ensure her respect, the spell would never have been broken, the halo never dispersed; still it was not at her option again to conjure up the one, or to invest him with the other. She saw him as he was; but he was the father of her child, and she rejoiced that the silence and reserve which had so long been maintained between them, was at length broken through. She did not wish it should ever be resumed, and she continued,—
“I hope we now both wish to perform our duties, and I really need your instructions with respect to my behaviour to Mr. Delville.”
At this moment Lord Montreville felt his own errors had been so much more serious than hers, that he was grateful to her for expressing herself as if they each had something to forget and to forgive; and his jealous feelings had vanished into thin air before her candour and sincerity, in a manner which surprised himself.
“Lucy,” he said, “I trust to you; there can be no deceit under that open brow. I have known many women, but none so free from guile, so single-hearted as yourself. You are now aware that Lionel’s attentions to you have given me uneasiness, and I feel convinced you will conduct yourself as you ought to do. I only wish you felt the same confidence in me.”
“Indeed, Lord Montreville, if you assure me you have broken off all connection with that woman, I implicitly believe what you say. But, to tell the honest truth, I cannot get over your having ever done any thing so wicked. I may be able to forgive the insult to myself, but how can I look up to you as I once did, when I know you have been led into such wickedness?”
“Dear Lucy, you do not know with what free notions men are educated; you do not know how difficult it is for a man to shake off a woman who has once acquired power over him, and who tries to get him back into her toils, even although the inclination he has once felt for her has long, long passed away.”
“Then it was not since your marriage that you first became acquainted with her?”
“No. When I married, I meant never to see her again. It was her distress, and mere pity for her wants and miseries, that ever led me back to her. I did not then know what you really were. I thought you beautiful and gentle, but it was not till later that I learned to honour you as a being of a holier, higher nature than any I had yet met with. At the very time when you shut up your heart from me, mine was filled with admiration, respect, and affection for you. Half the jealousy I felt was, I believe, sorrow to see the first and only being in whose unsullied purity I had firmly believed, on the point of becoming contaminated by collision with the world.”
Lucy was touched by this homage to the rectitude of her intentions, and she thought there would be something satisfactory in redeeming her whole sex in his estimation. She also thought if she could lead him to see the real guilt of those errors which he had hitherto looked upon as so venial, she should be promoting his welfare in this world and the next. With these feelings she answered smilingly, “I am glad you entertained such a good opinion of me, and I should be very, very sorry to forfeit it. You shall continue to respect me.”
“And to love you, dearest Lucy. Though I could not have reached the age at which I married without having been in love before, still, to love you as I never loved any woman but you——”
“Thank you,” answered Lucy, and she sighed to think that his tenderness awakened no corresponding emotion in her bosom; that it was forgiveness, satisfaction, kindness, that she felt, but no responsive love.
On the contrary, the word rather chilled her; for she felt it impossible to return the sentiment expressed; and she hastily added, “Well, good by; I see your horses in the street, and I am going to take the child to play with the Duchess of Altonworth’s grandchildren.”
They parted in kindness, and they met again before dinner in the same frame of mind.
Lionel Delville, who had calculated upon finding Lucy alone, as Lord Montreville was apt to be late for dinner, entered the apartment before any of the rest of the company had arrived. At first he thought the old fellow must be very jealous to have made so unusual an exertion; but he soon perceived that a perfect understanding subsisted between them, and that Lord Montreville’s countenance no longer betrayed any sign of uneasiness at his approach.
He sat, as usual, by Lady Montreville at dinner, and he again found the open, straightforward manner which, when first he met her, had so completely baffled him. The gêne and shyness which were the consequence of feeling herself suspected, had completely vanished. She knew that her husband now had perfect confidence in her; she knew that he did justice to the purity of her intentions, and she mentally resolved he should never, never have cause to doubt them.
Lord Montreville’s knowledge of the sex, which rendered him jealous and umbrageous when there was any, the remotest, cause for being so, also enabled him to understand and to appreciate her behaviour on the present occasion. Lionel saw the game was up, and had the tact to slip back into the open conventional gallantry, from which he had been gradually advancing into serious gallantry.
Lucy that night retired to her room satisfied with herself, thoroughly convinced that every effort made in the cause of virtue produces its own reward, resolved to be thankful for the blessings she possessed, and strong in the determination to do her duty in that state of life in which she was placed; while at the same time she could not deny to herself that the duties of those who are united to a person suited to them in age, disposition, and pursuits, are the most easy to fulfil.
Lord and Lady Montreville have lived many years in comfort and good fellowship. Lady Montreville is the best of mothers, and finds in the sportive tenderness of her children, happiness far beyond the contentment which at one time was all to which she dared aspire. Yet sometimes, as she watches the innocent gambols of her two lovely little girls, she sighs to think those halcyon days of youth, which to herself were days of such unalloyed joyousness, cannot last for ever, and that the time must assuredly come when they too will think of love and marriage.
Such reflections were passing through her mind, when she one day exclaimed to Milly, “Nurse, how sorry I shall be when those children grow up, and one has to go through for them all the agitations attendant upon lovers, and going to be married. Marriage is such a lottery, you know!”
“Ah, well! I shall be dead and buried before ever that time comes; but whatever you do, my lady, be sure they choose gentlemen that have the fear of God before their eyes. Ah, bless their little hearts!” she added, as she followed their light, graceful forms with eyes of pride and tenderness, “they may grow up ever so pretty—as pretty as yourself, my lady, and they can’t be much prettier, but it’s a poor hold a woman has over a man if it’s only the hold her own beautiful face, sweet manners, and gentle temper can have. It is to the man’s good principles a woman must look, to keep her husband constant and true to her.”