After breakfast next morning the company dropped off one after another,
except Lady Belfield, Miss Stanley, and myself. We had been so busily
engaged in looking over the plan of a conservatory, which Sir John
proposed to build at Beechwood, his estate in Surrey, that we hardly
missed them.
Little Celia, whom I call the rosebud, had climbed up my knees, a
favorite station with her, and was begging me to tell her another pretty
story. I had before told her so many, that I had exhausted both my
memory and my imagination. Lucilla was smiling at my impoverished
invention, when Lady Belfield was called out of the room. Her fair
friend rose mechanically to follow her. Her ladyship begged her not to
stir, but to employ the five minutes of her absence in carefully
criticising the plan she held in her hand, saying she would bring back
another which Sir John had by him; and that Lucilla, who is considered
as the last appeal in all matters of this nature, should decide to which
the preference should be given, before the architect went to work. In a
moment I forgot my tale and my rosebud, and the conservatory, and every
thing but Lucilla, whom I was beginning to address, when little Celia,
pulling my coat, said--"Oh, Charles" (for so I teach all the little ones
to call me), "Mrs. Comfit tells me very bad news. She says that your new
curricle is come down, and that you are going to run away. Oh! don't go;
I can't part with you," said the little charmer, throwing her arms round
my neck.
"Will you go with me, Celia?" said I, kissing her rosy cheek. "There
will be room enough in the curricle."
"Oh, I should like to go," said she, "if Lucilla may go with us. Do,
dear Charles, do let Lucilla go to the Priory. She will be very good:
won't you, Lucilla?"
I ventured to look at Miss Stanley, who tried to laugh without
succeeding, and blushed without trying at it. On my making no reply, for
fear of adding to her confusion, Celia looked up piteously in my face
and cried:
"And so you won't let Lucilla go home with you? I am sure the curricle
will hold us all nicely; for I am very little, and Lucilla is not very
big."
"Will _you_ persuade her, Celia?" said I.
"O," said she, "she does not want persuading; she is willing enough, and
I will run to papa and mamma and ask their leave, and then Lucilla will
go and glad: won't you, Lucilla?"
So saying, she sprang out of my arms, and ran out of the room; Lucilla
would have followed and prevented her. I respectfully detained her. How
could I neglect such an opportunity? Such an opening as the sweet
prattler had given me it was impossible to overlook. The impulse was too
powerful to be resisted; I gently replaced her on her seat, and in
language, which, if it did any justice to my feelings, was the most
ardent, tender, and respectful, poured out my whole heart. I believe my
words were incoherent; I am sure they were sincere.
She was evidently distressed. Her emotion prevented her replying. But it
was the emotion of surprise, not of resentment. Her confusion bore no
symptoms of displeasure. Blushing and hesitating, she at last said: "My
father, sir--my mother." Here her voice failed her. I recollected with
joy that on the application of Lord Staunton she had allowed of no such
reference, nay, she had forbidden it.
"I take your reference joyfully," said I, "only tell me that if I am so
happy as to obtain their consent, you will not withhold yours." She
ventured to raise her timid eyes to mine, and her modest but expressive
look encouraged me almost as much as any words could have done.
At that moment the door opened, and in came Sir John with the other
drawing of the conservatory in his hand. After having examined us both
with his keen, critical eye; "Well, Miss Stanley," said he, with a look
and tone which had more meaning than she could well stand, "here is the
other drawing. As you look as if you had been _calmly_ examining the
first, you will now give me your _cool, deliberate_ opinion of the
merits of both." He had the cruelty to lay so much stress on the words,
cool, calm, and deliberate, and to pronounce them in so arch a manner,
and so ironical a tone, as clearly showed, he read in her countenance
that no epithets could possibly have been so ill applied.
Lady Belfield came in immediately after. "Well, Caroline," said he, with
a significant glance, "Miss Stanley has deeply considered the subject
since you went; I never saw her look more interested about any thing. I
don't think she is dissatisfied on the whole. General approbation is all
she now expresses. She will have time to spy out faults hereafter: she
sees none at present. All is beauty, grace, and proportion."
As if this was not enough, in ran Celia quite out of breath--"Oh,
Lucilla," cried she, "papa and mamma won't let you go with Charles,
though I told them you begged and prayed to go."
Lucilla, the pink of whose cheeks was become crimson, said angrily, "How
Celia! what do you mean?"
"Oh, no," replied the child, "I mean to say that _I_ begged and prayed,
and I thought you looked as if you would like to go, though Charles did
not ask you, and so I told papa."
This was too much. The Belfields laughed outright; but Lady Belfield had
the charity to take Lucilla's hand, saying, "Come into my dressing-room,
my dear, and let us settle this conservatory business. This prattling
child will never let us get on." Miss Stanley followed, her face glowing
with impatience. Celia, whom I detained, called after her, "Papa only
said there was not room in the curricle for three; but if it is only a
little way, I am sure we could sit, could we not, Lucilla?" Lucilla was
now happily out of hearing.
Though I was hurt that her delicacy had suffered so much, yet I own I
hugged the little innocent author of this confusion with additional
fondness. Sir John's raillery, now that Lucilla could be no longer
pained by it, was cordially received, or rather I was inattentive to
every object but the one of which my heart was full. To be heard, to be
accepted, though tacitly, to be referred to parents who I knew had no
will but hers,
Was such a sacred and homefelt delight,
Such sober certainty of waking bliss
As I ne'er felt till now.
During the remainder of the day I found no opportunity of speaking to
Mr. Stanley. Always frank and cheerful, he neither avoided nor sought
me, but the arrival of company prevented our being thrown together.
Lucilla appeared at dinner as usual: a little graver and more silent,
but always unaffected, natural, and delicate. Sir John whispered to me
that she had entreated her mother to keep Celia out of the way till this
curricle business was a little got out of her head.