CHAPTER I.

STANDARD

NOVELS.

N^o CXIV.

“No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction. Pictures of

life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more eagerly received by

the many than graver productions, however important these latter may be.

APULEIUS is better remembered by his fable of Cupid and Psyche than by

his abstruser Platonic writings; and the Decameron of BOCCACCIO has outlived

the Latin Treatises, and other learned works of that author.”

RECOLLECTIONS OF A CHAPERON.

COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET;

AND BELL & BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH.

1849.

NOTICE.

The Proprietors of CIRCULATING LIBRARIES in all parts of the country

are compelled by the new Copyright Act to discontinue purchasing and

lending out a single copy of a foreign edition of an English work. _The

mere having it in their possession ticketed and marked as a library

book_ exposes them to

A PENALTY OF TEN POUNDS.

By the new Copyright Act and the new Customs Act, even single copies of

pirated editions of English Works are prohibited both in Great Britain

and the Colonies. Copies so attempted to be passed are seized.

☞ These measures will be rigidly enforced.

[Illustration:

_Clara Cawse, pinx._ _G. Cook sc._

RECOLLECTIONS OF A CHAPERON.

_Isabella looked surpassingly beautiful when bending over the marble

basin, while she laughingly twisted dahlias into her hair._

_London, Published by Richard Bentley, 1848_]

RECOLLECTIONS

OF

A CHAPERON.

EDITED BY

LADY DACRE.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET;

AND BELL & BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH.

1849.

LONDON:

SPOTTISWOODE and SHAW,

New-street-Square.

RECOLLECTIONS

OF

A CHAPERON.

INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.

I was left a widow with seven daughters. I have married them all, or

rather, I have let them marry themselves; for I never took any active

measures towards bringing about a result which I own to be a desirable

one in a family consisting of seven daughters and one son.

I have seen manœuvring mothers succeed; but I have as often seen them

fail in their matrimonial speculations. I have seen dignified mothers

with modest daughters, pass year after year, unnoticed and unsought;

but I have also seen the unobtrusive daughters of retiring mothers

form splendid alliances; and at the very beginning of my career as a

Chaperon, I came to the conclusion that, as there was no rule which

could ensure success, it was safer and more respectable to do too

little than to do too much; better simply to fail, than to fail and to

be ridiculous at the same time.

Accordingly, when I had mounted my feathered hat and black velvet gown,

or my white satin gown and flowered cap, as the occasion might require,

and patiently taken my station upon the chair, seat, or bench which I

could most conveniently appropriate to myself, I beguiled the weary

hours by studying those around me, trusting for the rest to chance, and

to the principles which I had endeavoured to impress upon the minds of

my girls; viz. not to flirt so as to attract attention,—not to think

too highly of their own pretensions,—and, above all, not to be betrayed

into laughing at any man before they knew him, by which means more

than one girl of my acquaintance has been obliged, for consistency’s

sake, to repulse a person whom, upon further acquaintance, she might

have sincerely preferred.

My daughters were not beautiful enough, nor did they marry brilliantly

enough, to excite the jealousy of other mothers. I had brought them

up to avoid a fault odious in all, but especially so in the young,

that of being more ready to perceive the failings than the merits of

their companions: we were, therefore, a popular family. I had myself

the happy knack of being interested in the concerns and distresses of

others, and I listened with pleasure to details however trifling: I had

consequently many intimate friends.

As people never were afraid of me, transient emotions, and harmless

weaknesses, which would have been concealed from a sterner, cleverer,

or more important personage, were confessed, or, at all events,

permitted to escape in a _tête-à-tête_ with the good-natured, quiet,

inoffensive Mrs. ——. But what am I doing? I wish to preserve my incog.,

and only hope I have not already betrayed myself by the mention of my

white satin, and my black velvet gowns.

I will write no more, lest some unguarded expression should give a

clue to my name: I will simply add, that my last daughter having

been comfortably established a year ago, “Othello’s occupation is

gone;” and my purse being somewhat drained by the purchase of so many

_trousseaux_, I have occupied my leisure, and, I trust, shall recruit

my finances, by portraying characters and feelings which I believe are

true to nature, although under circumstances and in situations not

founded on fact.

THE SINGLE WOMAN

OF

A CERTAIN AGE.

CHAPTER I.

_Duke._ And what’s her history.

_Viola._ A blank, my lord.

Why is it that the bustling matron, who (having, without preference

or selection, married the first man who proposed to her,) has spent

her days in the unsentimental details of a household, a nursery, and

a school-room, merely considering her partner as the medium through

which the several departments are provided for?—why is it that the

languid beauty, who has sold herself to age or folly for an opera-box,

an equipage, a title?—why is it that the scold, who has jangled through

a wedded life of broils and disputes—and the buxom widow, whose gay

and blooming face gives the lie to her mourning garments?—why is it

that they all cast a pitying glance of contempt on the “single woman

of a certain age” who ventures an opinion on the subject of love? Why

do they all look as if it were impossible she could ever have felt its

influence?

On the contrary, the very fact of singleness affords in itself

presumptive evidence of the power of some strong and unfortunate

predilection. Few women pass through life without having had some

opportunities of what is commonly called “settling;” therefore the

chances are, that betrayed affections, an unrequited attachment, or

an early prepossession, has called forth the sentiment of which they

are supposed incapable—and called it forth, too, in a mind of too much

delicacy to admit the idea of marriage from any other motive than that

of love.

The following story, which is ushered into the world by so unattractive

a title, might afford an example, that a life which appears “a blank”

in the history of events, may be far from “a blank” in the history of

feelings.

By the death of her father, Lord T——, Isabella St. Clair found herself,

at the age of nineteen, an orphan possessed of a considerable fortune,

of great personal attractions, and of all the accomplishments which,

in these days of education and refinement, are expected to grace young

ladies of fashion. Her brother, the young Lord T——, was not of an age

to serve as her protector, and accordingly she removed to the house of

her uncle and guardian, Sir Edward Elmsley.

Sir Edward and Lady Elmsley were of that respectable class of English

gentry who, by not attempting to move in a more elevated circle than

that in which they are naturally placed, command the esteem and respect

of those above, as well as of those below them. Their daughter Fanny,

although of the same age as her cousin Isabella, had not yet been

initiated into the pleasures and the pains of a London campaign.

Isabella, who had been accustomed to a life of excitement, was not

sorry, at the expiration of her mourning for her father, to join in

whatever gaiety was going forward, and to exercise once more the power

of that beauty which, even in London, had attracted its full share of

admiration.

In the country, where beauty, rank, fashion, fortune, and

accomplishments are not so common, of course the brilliant Miss

St. Clair was the star of every ball; and all the young men of any

pretensions in the county vied with each other in obtaining a word, a

smile, a look from the lovely Isabella.

Nor did the charms with which she was really endowed lose any thing

from want of skill in the possessor. She had the art of keeping an

indefinite number of persons occupied with her alone; she had left her

shawl in the next room, and, with a thousand graceful apologies, she

asked one person to fetch it for her, at the same time holding her cup

in a helpless manner, and casting a beseeching glance around her, which

brought a hundred eager hands to set it down. Then she looked timidly

confused at having given so much trouble. Presently she had a message

to send to her cousin Fanny, with which she despatched one admirer,

while she hinted in a low voice to another, who was pressing her to

stand up in the next quadrille, that she did not like to do so while

Fanny was sitting still. The devoted youth flew to dance with Fanny,

claiming as his reward the hand of Isabella for the ensuing waltz. She

knew how to pique and to excite the vanity of each: to one she implied

she had heard something of him which certainly had very much surprised

her; to another that she understood he had been abusing her horridly;

she playfully scolded a third for not admiring Fanny half as much as

he ought, and wondered how he could be so blind. She assured a fourth

that he and all the world had quite mistaken her disposition; indeed,

that scarcely any one did understand her; implying there was depth of

character and feeling beyond the reach of the multitude, and thereby

piquing and interesting the sentimental youth to discover these hidden

treasures.

Fanny, meanwhile, placid and contented, enjoyed what she met with

that was agreeable, without its ever crossing her imagination to feel

envy or jealousy of her cousin. She was not mortified, for she saw

her so beautiful, so brilliant, that all rivalry seemed out of the

question. They were happy and affectionate with each other. Isabella,

constitutionally gay, good-humoured, and joyous, was never crossed

or thwarted by Fanny, and, although an acute observer might discover

in her fondness for her cousin, a tone of superiority, a protecting

kindness, Fanny so completely acquiesced in that superiority, that it

never for a moment wounded her self-love.

About a year after Isabella’s arrival at Elmsley Priory, the society

of that neighbourhood received a very animating addition in the young

Lord Delaford, who, soon after his return from his travels, established

himself at his beautiful Castle of Fordborough. He joined to the

most prepossessing appearance and manners, an excellent character,

considerable talents, and extensive possessions. He paid a visit to Sir

Edward Elmsley, and of course Isabella counted upon him as her devoted

slave, and thought such a conquest was not to be neglected.

She was rather surprised that he handed the quiet Fanny to dinner,

but she satisfactorily accounted for this circumstance by supposing

he considered it a courtesy to which the young lady of the house was

entitled. But when, in the course of the evening, he voluntarily

seated himself by Fanny, and appeared interested by her conversation,

she certainly was very much astonished, and not much pleased.

To Lord Delaford, who had lately come into the country, wearied and

disgusted with the dissipation of Paris, and the turmoil of London,

the style, the vivacity, and even the beauty of Isabella, were too

much what he had been in the habit of seeing every day, to possess any

peculiar attractions for him; while the calm brow, the placid air, the

perfect innocence and unconsciousness of Fanny’s manner, appeared to

him as soothing and refreshing as the green trees and verdant meadows

after the glare and confusion of the streets. In conversation he found

her modest and well-informed, and he sought her society the next day

and the next. By degrees his manner assumed a tone of admiration which,

to a person accustomed as she was to be placed in the shade, had more

than the usual effect attributed to admiration, that of enhancing the

charms by which it was first excited.

Those who imagine they do not please, often neglect the means by which

they might do so; whereas, if they once become aware that all they say

and do finds favour in the sight of others, they are no longer ashamed

of being charming, or afraid to be agreeable.

People in general were astonished at the wonderful improvement in

Fanny, but her mother remarked that, when Lord Delaford entered the

room, her soft brown eyes shone with a lustrous consciousness, that

if he addressed her, the colour mounted in her pale and delicate

complexion, and she understood full well the cause of this improvement.

If Lord Delaford had been originally attracted by the unruffled

placidity of her expression, he was infinitely more so by finding

that his presence had the power of disturbing that placidity. Though

he could not doubt that he possessed many qualities which might make

him an object of preference to young ladies, and every adventitious

qualification to make him approved of by the old; though he must have

known he had been sighed for by daughters, and sought by mammas;

still he was not one of those men who are piqued by coldness, and

inflamed by the difficulty of winning the object. On the contrary,

there was a natural diffidence about him which made him vulnerable

to the attentions of women, and easily daunted by any appearance of

disinclination.

Fanny was too amiable and too humble ever to have felt jealous of her

cousin, but she was not insensible to the pleasure of finding herself

suddenly preferred by the one person whose favour all were desirous

to gain. Every thing seemed to prosper to the utmost of her or her

parents’ wishes. Lord Delaford became every day more serious in his

attentions, and there appeared to be no reason why Fanny should not

yield to the engrossing fascinations of a passion which, if felt for

the first time at the age of twenty, combines with the freshness of a

first love the depth and strength of which the more formed character is

susceptible.

In the mean time Isabella no longer found the same gratification in

the insipid crowd of common-place admirers, whose suffrages had before

elated her. She felt, truly enough, of how much more value were the

sincere esteem and affection of one true heart, than all the frivolous

admiration of people she did not care for; all her former conquests

lost their value in her eyes; she, for the first time, felt herself the

forgotten and neglected one. Vanity, like ambition, only becomes the

more insatiable by being fed, and, as the single Mordecai, who refused

to bow before the pomp of Haman, embittered all the glories of his

triumph, so the one person who was proof against her charms outweighed,

in her estimation, the herd who acknowledged their power.

She had too much tact, too much knowledge of the world, too much

spirit, to allow these feelings to be visible to the eyes of common

observers. Lord Delaford and Fanny were so completely occupied with

each other that they could not remark any thing about Isabella;

but Lady Elmsley, with maternal quick-sightedness, perceived her

mortification, and with pride, which may perhaps be pardoned in a

mother, could not help being pleased that, at length, her daughter’s

merits should be valued, as they deserved, above those of Isabella.

Occasionally Isabella caught a glance of triumph which escaped from the

eyes of Lady Elmsley, and she resolved to let slip no opportunity of

gaining the attention of Lord Delaford.

Mortification is but half felt while it is only felt in secret. It is

not till we perceive it has been remarked by others, that it becomes

one of the most painful sensations to which the weak, the vain, and the

worldly, are liable, and one from which the most humble and pure minded

can scarcely boast of being entirely free.

CHAPTER II.

_Gerarda._—Que todo se aprende hija y no hai cosa mas facil que

engañar a los hombres de que ellos tienen la culpa; porque como nos

han privado el estudio de los ciencios en que pudieramos divertir

nuestros ingenios sutiles, solo estudiamos una, que es la de

engañarlos, y como no hay mas de un libro, todas lo sabemos de memoria.

_Dorotea._—Nunca yo le he visto.

_Gerarda._—Pres es excellente letura, y de famosos capitulos.

_Dorotea._—Dime los titulos signiera.

_Gerarda._—De fingir amor al rico y no disgustar el pobre.

De desmayarse a su tiempo, y llorar sin causa.

De dar zelos al libre y al colerico satisfacciones.

De mirar dormido, y reir con donayre.

De estudiar vocablos y aprender bailes.

* * * * *

Y de no enamorarse por ningun acontecimiento, porquè todo se va

perdido, sin otros muchos capitulos de mayor importancia.

LOPE DE VEGA.

Isabella had attentively studied the character of Lord Delaford, and

she felt sure that if she could once get him within her toils, she

should be able to keep him there. She had discovered, that although

too refined not to be disgusted by any open attempt to attract him,

there was a considerable mixture of vanity and of humility in his

composition; and she flattered herself she could work upon both these

feelings.

She one day happened to sit next him at dinner, and contrived, with a

tact for which she was peculiar, to turn the conversation upon himself.

She said she never knew any one of whom she was so much afraid: to

which he replied,

“That is very odd! I have always been reckoned a good-natured sort of

fellow.”

“Oh, yes!” she answered; “I am sure you are good-natured; but your very

good-nature helps to frighten me. You are so unlike other people; and I

feel so awed when you are present.”

“Well, that is strange! I don’t think I ever awed any body before. Do I

look so cross?”

“Oh! it is not that; but you are so good; and you always say just what

you should say, and no more. I should be afraid to utter, or to do any

thing foolish before you.”

“Well, I should be as useful to you as Prince Cheri’s ring in the fairy

tale. It is a pity I am not always by your side!”

“Oh! but then I should always be in a fright;—not that I mean it is a

disagreeable sort of fright.” And she turned the conversation, fearful

of showing any design of attracting him.

In the evening, he, as usual, turned over the leaves of Fanny’s

music-book, while she was singing, or forgot to turn them over, while

gazing with delight upon those melting, yet innocent eyes, which met

his so kindly and so trustingly—eyes, that looked as if there lurked in

the heart beneath, depths of unawakened and unexplored feelings, which

only waited to be excited.

But when he was alone, the remarks of Isabella recurred to his

recollection, and he wondered what in him could have struck her as

being so singular and so reserved. The next day, when they were riding,

he found himself near her, and reverted to the conversation of the

preceding day.

“I have been quite uneasy, Miss St. Clair, at finding I am so

disagreeable as I must be, if I am the precise, formal, measured person

you describe me to be.”

A certain step is gained, when, instead of starting a new and

indifferent subject, the topic of the preceding conversation is

resumed. Most coquettes know, by intuition, that the best mode of

accomplishing this is to talk to persons of themselves. Isabella’s

heart beat quicker at finding how well she had succeeded in awakening

his curiosity; but assuming a nonchalant manner, she answered,

“Disagreeable! Surely I never could have said any thing half so

uncivil?”

“Oh, certainly you did not tell me in so many words that I was

disagreeable; but you implied it.”

“No, no! Indeed, I think I said every thing most flattering—that you

were so very good.”

“Well, I suppose if I am so very good, I must not consider being good,

and being disagreeable, as synonymous terms; and yet you made it appear

yesterday as if they were!”

“Oh, Lord Delaford! how can you accuse me of saying any thing so

shocking? I only declared you were so good, so superior, I was afraid

of you.”

“But a person who makes you fear him, must be disagreeable to you.”

“No, indeed: I like to be awed. I am fond of an organ in a cathedral;

and I admire lofty mountains, and beautiful stormy skies, and every

thing that is grand and sublime in art and in nature! Could one

bear to hear one’s own feeble voice mingle itself with the pealing

reverberations of the organ in the glorious pile of St. Peter’s? And

does one not feel one’s own nothingness when among the mountains, the

torrents, the precipices, the peaks, the glaciers of the stupendous

Alps? Yet surely these are pleasurable emotions! With me, at least, awe

and pleasure are very compatible sensations.”

As she spoke her large and brilliant eye glanced upwards for a moment,

with an expression of lofty enthusiasm.

Lord Delaford gazed upon her, and mentally exclaimed, “That girl has

a soul!” Presently, relaxing into a smile, as if ashamed of her own

eagerness, she added, “I believe Doctor Spurzheim would discover in me

the bump of veneration;” and putting her horse into a canter, the whole

party became mixed together, and she addressed herself to some one

else. Lord Delaford mechanically found himself by the side of Fanny;

but it was some time before they became engaged in any thing that

deserved the name of conversation.

By degrees, however, the unobtrusive gentleness of Fanny had its

usual effect upon him; and they discoursed calmly and agreeably upon

subjects of literature, or the immediate events of the neighbourhood;

but that day there were none of those flattering turns of phrase,

that deferential manner of listening, which, not appearing in the

common-place form of compliment, have the effect of flattery, without

putting one on one’s guard against it.

Fanny returned from her ride less exhilarated than usual. She thought

the wind was rather cold, and her beautiful, thorough-bred horse, not

quite agreeable.

At dinner Lord Delaford sat between Isabella and herself, and his

attention was, to say the least, divided between the cousins. Isabella

was in high spirits. She was animated by the desire and the hope of

pleasing. She caught an uneasy look from Lady Elmsley, and she could

not suppress an emotion of gratified pique. She had too much the

tone of good society ever to run the risk of being noisy; her flow

of spirits only showed itself by being exceedingly droll and lively;

and though perhaps she amused in some degree at the expense of the

absent, her dancing dark eyes glanced with such brilliancy, such

merriment, such a look of gay archness, that no one could suspect her

of harbouring a feeling of ill-nature towards any one. Nor in truth

did she harbour any such feeling; she only wished to amuse; and there

are few people who have not occasionally been led by the intoxicating

pleasure of causing a laugh, into ridiculing persons towards whom

they felt no ill-will. Lord Delaford was entertained, and laughed

incessantly at her quaint ideas. He wondered why Fanny did not seem

more to enjoy sallies which appeared to him so full of talent and of

wit. He thought it argued a want of imagination, which disappointed

him. Fanny meanwhile was depressed, she knew not why; but when she

retired to rest, in the stillness of her chamber, she made a discovery

as painful as it was humiliating.

Surprised to find herself so very serious when others were so much

amused, in doubt and trembling she looked into her own heart, and

she found it to be nearly engrossed by one overwhelming passion.

She had always intended to keep herself “fancy free” till she could

devote her whole soul, her pure unhacknied affections, to one only

object for ever. From the easy footing of society in a country-house,

her intercourse with Lord Delaford had been free and unconstrained;

his attentions, although constant, were not marked, and nothing had

occurred to call her mind to the effect they were gradually, but

surely, producing. It was not till the fear came over her that he did

not care for her, that she discovered she had ever believed in his

preference; it was not till she felt how inexpressibly painful was that

fear, that she discovered her affections were fixed on one only object

for ever.

She was suddenly aroused from her fancied security, and found

within the heart which she had imagined fresh and uncontaminated,

love,—unrequited love, and jealousy,—jealousy of her dearest friend.

She thought herself degraded. She was miserable. But she did not allow

her mortification to swallow up all other feelings. Maidenly pride

remained, and she determined he should never perceive the power she

had allowed him to acquire over her.

Lord Delaford, on his part, reflected upon the increased attractions of

Isabella, and upon the want of vivacity of Fanny. Though no coxcomb,

he thought it possible Fanny might entertain for him feelings which,

his conscience told him, would have been wounded by the unusual degree

in which he had been occupied with Isabella. His goodnatured heart

smote him at the idea of giving pain to so gentle and lovely a being,

and he joined the breakfast party the next morning full of kindness

and interest for Fanny, flattered by the interpretation he had himself

given to her coldness, and well prepared to return any indications of

preference which he might perceive in her manner towards him.

Fanny had schooled her heart, and the more she was really agitated, the

more was she resolved to wear a calm exterior; the more she knew there

was a sentiment within her bosom which could not be confessed, the

more was she resolved no human eye should discover it. She was aware

that sudden coolness might be construed into pique, and she determined

to be merely careless and indifferent. She did not remember that she

might, by this means, lose what most she wished to gain. She did not

calculate. The abstract idea that any woman should love any man better

than he loved her—that any woman should be won unwooed, roused her

pride for the sex in general; and that she herself should be one of

these poor, weak, infatuated creatures, gave her a sense of humiliation

against which her very soul rebelled.

Lord Delaford watched for some indications of the sentiments he had in

his own mind attributed to her; but he found her as she intended to

appear,—gay, careless, cold. He did not perceive any affectation in her

gaiety, or any thing studied in her carelessness.

Lady Elmsley precisely read the state of her heart, and put the right

construction upon the trifles which constitute encouragement or

repulse, and which denote preference or indifference; but Lord Delaford

was quite puzzled, and somewhat mortified.

It is said there is an instinct which teaches every one to read

their fellow-creatures where love is concerned. This is true of

all indifferent spectators, who can decipher emotions, often not

acknowledged by the individuals to themselves. Not so the persons

most interested. Sometimes they twist appearances to suit their hopes

or fears. Sometimes, being aware that their judgment is likely to be

prejudiced, they dare not trust to their natural impressions. Lord

Delaford watched the countenance, the eyes, the expression, the words

of Fanny for a day or two, and he became each day more convinced his

own self-conceit must have misled him. He had studiously avoided such

attentions as might commit him, and he now took care to divide them

equally between the two cousins. To Fanny, who had been accustomed to

his exclusive devotion, this was a virtual withdrawal of them; and

she set a more strict watch than ever over all her words and looks.

Isabella, who was exhilarated at receiving half, when she had been

accustomed to none, was _pétillante de graces_. The more Fanny was

aware of Isabella’s attractions, and the more she perceived that Lord

Delaford became aware of them, so much the more she wrapped herself

up in impenetrable, but good-humoured reserve. Her manner lost that

confiding, innocent gaiety, which a short time before had been one

of her greatest charms, without regaining the bashful ingenuousness,

which had at first attracted him from its novelty. She laboured hard

to appear calm, and unfortunately succeeded but too well in her

endeavours. Lord Delaford was half provoked with himself for having

been so ready to fancy he was irresistible; and half provoked with

Fanny, for having given rise to his dissatisfaction with himself.

He was in this frame of mind when an accident occurred which confirmed

him in his opinion of her coldness. He was riding a restive horse,

which he alone had succeeded in subduing, and which he thought was so

completely tamed, that he might venture to ride it with the ladies.

Isabella admired a flower in the hedge, and he turned his horse round

to gather it for her. The animal, who had proceeded quietly by the side

of the others, did not like being separated from its companions; and

rearing suddenly, fell backwards with its rider.

Isabella was close to him at the moment of the accident, and was

naturally dreadfully frightened. He had contrived to slip off on one

side, and was not hurt; but there was a moment when horse and rider

appeared as if they would be crushed together.

Fanny was some yards in advance, and only turned round in time to see

him as he was getting up from the ground, and was therefore spared the

first alarm. She was not a nervous, hysterical person; and although

she turned pale, and trembled, she did not fall from her horse, or

do any thing that attracted attention to herself. Isabella, really

agitated, and really nervous, (as indulged and flattered people are

very apt to be,) shrieked aloud, and burst into tears—real tears—for

she affected nothing; she only gave way to what she felt, from the

consciousness that she was charming, and that her emotions would not

appear disagreeable and uninteresting.

She was lifted off her horse, in a fainting state. Lord Delaford was

supporting her. Every one was busy about her. In the confusion, her

hat fell off, and all her ringlets were floating on the wind: her

eyes were half closed; and the long lashes looked beautifully dark on

her cheek, which was really pale. Fanny thought she never saw any one

look so lovely! Lord Delaford watched her revival with an expression

of intense interest; and Fanny sat still on her horse, unnoticed and

unregarded, with feelings of hardness and bitterness which never before

had been the inmates of her gentle bosom. This protracted exhibition

of sensibility appeared to her perfectly unnecessary; and she could

not help thinking that Isabella might have recovered much sooner;

that she might have twisted up her own hair, and tucked it under her

hat, without any assistance from Lord Delaford; and that there was no

occasion for several ringlets to be allowed to escape, and to stray

over her face and shoulders.

Such were her thoughts when the party remounted, and proceeded

homewards; and she “hoped Lord Delaford was not the least hurt,” in a

guarded, constrained, and scarcely soft voice, which grated on his ear,

after the languid accents of the fainting Isabella. He turned away from

Fanny, and devoted himself entirely to her cousin, whose interest in

his safety gave her a sort of right to his care and solicitude.

As soon as they reached home, Fanny rushed to her room, and there

paced the apartment in an agony of mind which frightened herself.

She envied Isabella the interest she had excited, while she felt she

would rather have died than have betrayed such emotion: yet she was

angry with herself for having appeared cold and unfeeling. Presently

she heard footsteps approaching her door; and hastily composing her

looks, she seized a book, and appeared buried in its contents. It was

Lady Elmsley, who came to tell her there was some company expected at

dinner. She longed to open her heart to her mother, who, she was sure,

by the increased tenderness of her manner, had read the state of her

feelings: but Lady Elmsley never sought, or encouraged confidence upon

the subject. She saw that Isabella had superseded her Fanny in Lord

Delaford’s heart, and that her child’s hopes were blighted—she knew

that an acknowledged preference was far more difficult to eradicate

than one which had never been confessed—that pride, and constancy, and

consistency, had induced many a girl to persevere in a devotion which,

if it had never been avowed, would have died away; and she judged of

Fanny by the rest of the world.

The end of this day passed off as many succeeding ones did—in sad and

bitter calmness on the part of Fanny—in flattered vanity, and growing

love, on the part of Isabella—in gratitude, admiration, amusement, and

pique, which were fast ripening into love, on the part of Lord Delaford.

CHAPTER III.

Though Marian’s frolic mirth so gay

The sultry hay-field cheer,

Say, when the short, cold, sunless day,

Shall close the parting year,

Will her gay smile then beam as bright,

And beam for only thee?

Will winter’s toils to her seem light

As they had seem’d to me?

Say, will she trim thy evening hearth?

Duteous, thy meal prepare?

Nor know, nor dream, a bliss on earth,

Save but to see thee there?

_Unpublished Poems._

At length the decisive moment came. Lord Delaford made his proposals

to Isabella, and was accepted. Isabella herself, in all the flush

and agitation of the event which decided her fate for life, came to

Fanny’s room and told her what had happened,—not to triumph over her.

No: she had of late been so completely occupied by her own feelings,

that she had almost forgotten those she had suspected in Fanny, and

she came simply in the fulness of her heart, to give vent to all

the mingled emotions which every woman must experience on such an

occasion. Fanny had for some time prepared herself for this termination

to all her hopes and fears. Yet when the fact was certain, when she

heard it with her own ears, it came upon her like a thunderbolt. She

turned deadly pale; she thought that she was going to faint; but the

recollection that she should be committed, not only to her successful

rival, but through her to Lord Delaford himself, again restored her

self-possession, and after a momentary struggle, which, thanks to

the dim light of the embers over which they were sitting, and to the

engrossing nature of Isabella’s own thoughts, escaped observation,

she was able to say, “God grant you may both be as happy, as from the

bottom of my heart I wish you both to be!”

She spoke with earnestness and solemnity; and Isabella gazed on her

for a moment with surprise. The tone was not exactly that in which

young ladies usually converse upon such subjects, and Isabella’s former

suspicions flashed across her mind. But she looked at Fanny’s tearless

eyes, and satisfied herself that it was “only Fanny’s way. Her cousin

always had a more serious turn of mind than most girls.”

Perhaps she was as willing not to see, as Fanny was anxious to conceal,

the true state of the case; for though her thirst of admiration might

lead her to do that which was most painful to another, she was not more

unfeeling than a coquette must necessarily be. Moreover, prosperous

love opens and softens the heart, and for the time at least produces an

amiable disposition of mind. Though consideration for Fanny could not

have prevented her attempting to gain Lord Delaford, yet now that she

had succeeded in her object, it would have been exceedingly distressing

to her to know the pangs under which her gentle cousin was at this

moment writhing.

The half-hour bell rang. Isabella hurried away, and Fanny was left

alone with her dreary, desolate, mortified, crushed, hopeless heart.

At dinner the engaged couple did not sit next each other. As there

were strangers among the company, Lord Delaford thought it more

delicate towards Isabella not to bring observation upon her. As a safe

person he offered his arm to Fanny, and consequently sat next to her.

Totally unsuspicious of her preference, and feeling on the contrary

that her coldness had nipped in the bud the affection he had at first

been inclined to entertain for her, he spoke to her of his happiness

with the frankness of a friend. He expatiated on the perfections of

Isabella, on the beautiful union of liveliness and of gaiety with that

depth of feeling, which, though people in general might not suspect it,

formed the true basis of her character.

Lovers always invest the object of their love with such merits as they

have settled in their own minds to be indispensable qualifications.

There is also something particularly fascinating in the idea that

one has discovered hidden treasures of mind that have escaped the

observation of the common herd.

Every word that Lord Delaford uttered was a several infliction on

Fanny. All he said of Isabella’s liveliness and gaiety she felt was an

unflattering contrast to what her manner, of late at least, had been.

All he said of Isabella’s sensibility she knew to be far from true;

and she, who was wrestling with a thousand conflicting feelings, was

treated by implication, as a calm, cold, philosophical automaton, by

the very person who was torturing them almost past endurance. Every

word that he spoke of hope and happiness, was answered by an internal

groan of hopelessness and misery.

But her countenance was unchanged; and her eyes, which were habitually

downcast, only remained the more firmly riveted to the table-cloth, for

fear they should allow any of the emotions that were working within, to

shine through them.

When the ladies retired, the mammas congratulated Lady Elmsley in

audible whispers upon the brilliant prospects which they perceived were

opening before her daughter, and the daughters looked arch when they

asked Fanny what sort of a person their new neighbour Lord Delaford was.

The fire and earnestness of his manner at dinner, and the downcast

reserve of Fanny’s, coupled with the reports which had previously been

abroad, in consequence of Lord Delaford’s frequent and protracted

visits to Elmsley Priory, had been misconstrued by them all, and they

fancied the case so clear, that it was fair to congratulate, and to

quiz.

In vain Fanny repelled all their insinuations with something

approaching annoyance and peevishness. Isabella cast a meaning glance

of amazement, and of mutual understanding, which only confirmed the

young ladies in their preconceived notion; and when the gentlemen

came into the room, they contrived to leave a place vacant by Fanny,

while they crowded round Isabella at the pianoforte, to look at a new

song, and be rapturous over a new _galop_. Lord Delaford, who thought

he had done his duty in avoiding Isabella at dinner, was only intent

upon gaining a place next her, and did not even perceive Fanny, who

had been detained from joining the young set, by an old lady who was

very particular in ascertaining the stitch of Fanny’s work. By the

time Fanny had completely explained the mysteries of the stitch, Lord

Delaford was among the youthful party, and she then felt it utterly

impossible to get up, and to walk across the room to that side of it

where he was.

She saw Lord Delaford’s devoted manner to Isabella: she felt herself

deserted! she knew by intuition, that all the people who had just

been complimenting, congratulating, and quizzing, were in the act of

becoming aware that she was not the object of his attention, that she

was not the attraction to Elmsley Priory.

Such trifles as these, when the blighted prospects of a life are in

question, seem to an observer, and to the person concerned, when once

they are past, as not deserving of a thought, yet, at the moment, they

add not a little to the bitter feelings of an already crushed spirit.

Singing became the order of the evening, and Fanny was of course called

upon. She had had time to reflect upon her present position, and also

to resolve it should ever remain unknown to others; she roused all her

energies, and the unusual excitement brought colour into her cheeks,

and animation into her eyes. There were other gentlemen in the room,

and they were enthusiastic in their admiration of the power, sweetness,

pathos of Miss Elmsley’s voice. But what were these praises to her?

They fell cold and sickening on her heart; Lord Delaford had been in

low and earnest conversation with Isabella in the embrasure of the

window, and scarcely knew that she had been singing. When the music

was over, however, they left their retirement, and both were struck

with the fire, the gleam of worked-up resolution in Fanny’s eyes,

and Lord Delaford whispered to Isabella, “How brilliant your cousin

looks to-night!” These few words made her heart beat with a joy at

which she was herself shocked, and when she retired for the night,

she looked courageously into her own feelings, and severely reproved

herself for having felt pleasure in exciting a look of admiration

in the betrothed of her cousin. She determined no longer to give

way to sad retrospection—to dwell no more on blighted hopes, but to

further, as far as in her lay, their future prospects of happiness.

She knew Isabella’s character thoroughly, and could not but be aware

there were many points in it which were not calculated to make a

happy _ménage_. Love of admiration, a consciousness of power, and a

delight in exercising that power, were among the most conspicuous. She

also thought Lord Delaford was a man likely to be much influenced by

those he loved, and lived with—and she resolved, if possible, to lead

Isabella’s mind towards using her influence over him for none but good

purposes.

She came down to breakfast the next morning placid, and even cheerful.

Isabella, whose mind had been quite relieved from the lurking

apprehension of having cut out her gentle and unpresuming cousin,

by the brilliancy and animation of Fanny the preceding evening, and

had settled that she could not care about Lord Delaford, as she was

so evidently elated by the admiration of the other gentlemen, was

completely confirmed in this notion by her cheerfulness at breakfast,

and by the manner in which she opened the conversation upon Isabella’s

marriage when they were alone.

In vain did Fanny try to inspire her with the same notions of devotion

and self-sacrifice which she herself entertained. Isabella was in love

with Lord Delaford—that is to say, she preferred him to all others,

and exceedingly liked his love of her; but as for considering his

happiness, his pleasure, his advantage, his interests, before her own,

the idea seemed to her an idle romantic dream.

Weeks elapsed, and the settlements were arranged; the wedding clothes

prepared.

Lord Delaford had returned, after a fortnight’s absence, for the few

days preceding the marriage, which was to take place in the village

church of Elmsley Priory. Fanny was glad that the ceremony was to be

performed in the church, for she thought that the solemnity of the

scene, and the holiness of the place, would more completely eradicate

from her bosom the feelings which she feared were rather smothered,

than destroyed.

It was, indeed, a day of trial, almost beyond the strength of even her

chastened spirit to endure, without betraying the struggle. She was

bridesmaid, and she had to stand unmoved during the whole of a ceremony

which, to the least interested, is touching and affecting. She heard

him utter the solemn vow which separated him for ever from her—she saw

their plighted hands—she heard the priest’s benediction on the youthful

couple as they knelt before him. She did not shed a tear, she scarcely

trembled, when Isabella, half-fainting, leaned on her for support.

She sustained her graceful bending form, she whispered her words of

encouragement, till, at the close, the bridegroom proudly led his

wedded wife from the altar.

They returned to Elmsley Priory that the bride might change her dress;

Fanny, of course, assisted her friend to take off the wedding-garments,

the Brussells lace veil, the orange flowers, &c. which were to be

replaced by a more quiet travelling costume, and accompanied her to

the room in which breakfast was prepared, and the intimate friends and

relations, who had been collected for the occasion, were assembled.

Isabella flushed, agitated, happy, blushing, looked all one could wish

a lovely bride to look. Fanny was calm, deadly calm.

At length the travelling carriage came to the door; the packages were

all arranged, the servants were on the box, and Lord and Lady Delaford

took leave of the family party. The parting kiss went round—Lord

Delaford, as one of the family, dutifully embraced his new uncle, his

new aunt, his new relations. Fanny saw her turn would come, and she

thought she could bear any coldness rather than this kindness; she felt

her heart beat as he drew near the side of the room where she stood,

she was almost inclined to slip away; but pride got the better; she

resolved to do nothing that could look like emotion, or might possibly

attract attention, and she stood her ground. When he took her hand and

approached his lips to her cheek, she felt a cold shudder run through

her, and she became, if possible, paler than before. He scarcely

touched her cheek; she looked so coldly, purely immoveable, that he

instinctively durst not give to her the kindly kiss which, in the joy

and warmth of his heart, he had given to the elder branches of his new

family.

They hurried through the hall, and, in a moment, the sound of their

carriage-wheels was heard rolling by the windows. All rushed to take a

last look at them, and Fanny remained, as it were, petrified, fixed on

the spot where she had parted from him.

All the visions of her days of hope crowded on her memory; every

sign of affection, every flattering attention he had ever shown her,

appeared at one and the same moment present to her mind—all that had

subsequently passed seemed like a dream; she felt for an instant as if

she had been robbed of her betrothed; she had to rouse herself and to

look round at the signs of the wedding feast, the cake, the ices, the

fruits, and to assure herself of the sad reality. Fortunately, before

the attention of the guests was withdrawn from the window, she had

recovered her self-possession, had sent back all the feelings which she

now considered as positively criminal, back to the depths of her heart,

till she had leisure to drag them forth once more to the light, to

examine into them, and to expel them resolutely from their fastnesses.

Her head bewildered with all the thoughts she would not think, and all

the feelings she would not feel, she mixed among the guests, and was

again the kind, the gentle, the well-bred Fanny, attentive to the wants

and wishes of every one; and although she did once help a good old

aunt to jelly, when she asked for chicken, and gave ice to a cousin,

who wanted champagne—though she did put a black satin cloak on the

shoulders of a worthy old clergyman who was taking his leave, still, in

the confusion, these inadvertencies escaped all remark, and the only

observation made was, that Fanny was a sweet, amiable creature, but

she had not much feeling—they never saw a girl so unmoved during the

ceremony, which generally made people cry, and she did not show any

sorrow at parting from her charming friend and cousin, who must be such

a loss to her.

“Well,” added a maiden friend, “there’s no use in such a deal of

sensibility. Fanny has just enough—enough to make her amiable and kind,

and not enough to make her unhappy.”

There was one heart which had read poor Fanny’s—one person who had

watched her during the few moments when she had stood transfixed—who

had remarked the trifling mistakes she had made in her civilities; and

a keen observer might have read Fanny’s secret by the devoted attention

which her mother showed her, if he had not already discovered it by

the coldness with which Lady Elmsley returned the affectionate embrace

of the bride and bridegroom. Time does not stand still, though it

sometimes moves but slowly, and at length the company dispersed.

The pieces of bride-cake were all directed by Fanny, till her hand

was weary of writing “With Lord and Lady Delaford’s compliments,” or

“love,” or “kind regards,” according as the degree of intimacy might

require.

The dinner succeeded, a large family dinner, very formal, consisting of

the Dowager Lady Delaford, an old admiral, uncle to Lord Delaford,—his

wife, and a very missish daughter, who thought it odd her cousin should

have overlooked her charms when he was thinking of a wife;—Lord T——,

the bride’s brother, a youth at college,—two school-boys, Fanny’s

brothers,—the clergyman who performed the ceremony, who had been Lord

Delaford’s tutor, and was a total stranger to the inhabitants of

Elmsley Priory,—and the lawyer, an old friend of the family, whose

eternal flow of prosy anecdotes concerning people whom no one knew

by name, proved, for the first time, invaluable,—they prevented the

clatter of knives and forks, and the creaking of footmen’s shoes, from

falling so sharp on the ear as they would have done, if they had had no

accompaniment except the low, gentle voice of Fanny, who was imparting

to the worthy clergyman all the details he wished to know concerning

the charity-school in the village. When the cloth was removed, the

health of the bride and bridegroom was drunk, and the garrulous old

lawyer, who had not forgotten in his quirks and quibbles his original

taste for beauty, expatiated till the tears stood in his pale glassy

eyes upon the virtues, the discretion, the gentleness of the bride,

all which hidden qualities had been made manifest to him by the rosy

lips, the blooming cheeks, the dark eyebrows, the white forehead, the

glossy ringlets which had dazzled his eyes the preceding evening when

she had signed the settlements. Inspired by the subject, warmed by the

generous wine, the happy lawyer, directing his eyes across the table

to Fanny, begged leave to propose another toast—that, before six months

were over, he might again find himself at Sir Edward’s hospitable

board on as pleasing an errand; and he hoped the bridegroom might be

just like Lord Delaford—he could not wish his young hostess a more

charming husband! All eyes turned to Fanny—her brothers, with a loud

“Ha! ha! Fanny!—catch your fish, Fanny!”—Miss Melfort, the admiral’s

daughter, with a suppressed giggle; and Lady Elmsley, with a face full

of anxiety and fear lest her child might betray herself. Fanny, who

had never deviated from the calm and collected manner she had resolved

to maintain throughout the whole of this trying day, upon finding

herself suddenly the object of remark, felt the colour rush over her

forehead, her neck, her arms; she scarcely knew what they were wishing

her; she thought he was wishing her married to Lord Delaford. Every

thing became confused—her eyes grew dim; when Lady Elmsley, pretending

that she was overcome by the heat, made the signal for departure, and

the ladies left the dining-room. Fanny’s trials were not yet over:

Miss Melfort, naturally curious upon such subjects, wished to hear

all about the whole affair—how it began—how long they had suspected

it—whether he fell in love at first sight—whether he or she was most

in love—whether he proposed for her to Sir Edward, or whether he spoke

first to Isabella herself; and then, as she was dying that Fanny should

wonder how he could have been insensible to her attractions, she began

to wonder how it was, that he should have preferred Miss St. Clair to

Fanny; that, for her part, she did not admire such tall people, nor did

she admire such very long ringlets. She was little herself, and her

hair was exceedingly _crêpé_.

There is an end to all things: at length the wine and water came, and

every one retired to rest, and Fanny found herself alone in her own

room, and she sat down to indulge in all the luxury of grief. Yes,

there is “a joy in grief:”—she revelled in letting her tears flow, and

her sobs succeeded one another without interruption, till, exhausted

and spent with weeping, she fell asleep the moment she laid her head on

the pillow, and never woke till morning.

She was not a person whose eyes betrayed that she had been weeping;

and she went down to breakfast, with no outward traces of all she had

suffered, but inwardly feeling guilty in having allowed herself to shed

such bitter tears for the husband of another. They were, however, to

be the last. She saw that her mother read her heart, and was grieved,

and she would not throw a gloom over the declining years of the parent

she adored, and whose health, always delicate, had of late become more

so. She stifled all vain repinings; she was cheerful, and full of

occupation. Her hand did shake when she opened her first letter from

Lady Delaford, and her heart sickened when she saw her signature for

the first time; and it took a long time to write her first answer,

and, perhaps, when finished, it was somewhat measured and cold: but

all such letters are more or less constrained, and Fanny was not

_demonstrative_, and it all passed off very well.

Lord and Lady Delaford went abroad soon after their marriage, and she

was not put to the trial of a meeting.

CHAPTER IV.

Surtout les femmes nourries dans la mollesse, l’abondance et

l’oisiveté, sont indolentes et dédaigneuses pour tout ce détail.

Elles ne font pas grande différence entre la vie champêtre et celle

des sauvages de Canada: si vous leur parlez de bled, de cultures de

terres, de différentes natures de revenus, de la levée de rentes, et

des autres droits seigneuriaux, de la meilleure manière de faire des

fermes ou d’établir des receveurs, elles croyent que vous voulez les

réduire à des occupations indignes d’elles. Ce n’est pourtant que par

ignorance qu’on méprise cette science de l’économie.—FENELON.

Poor Fanny’s thoughts were soon called off to real and actual sorrow,

in which all other griefs were absorbed; and she almost wondered how

she ever could have felt so much about any thing that did not concern

her mother. Lady Elmsley’s health declined rapidly; and the whole

family repaired to Clifton, in hopes that she might derive benefit from

the springs. In vain! Fanny was doomed to endure that sorrow, to which,

as being in the due course of nature, some say the mind reconciles

itself with more calmness than to many others. But notwithstanding

all the arguments of cool philosophy, the loss of a parent is one of

the most acute and lasting griefs to which human nature is liable. It

often befals the young and the prosperous, and, coming upon them in the

midst of health, strength, and happiness, finds their minds unprepared

and unchastened by any previous suffering. Moreover, it is a loss,

absolutely irremediable, which, though time may soften, can in no

length of time, ever, ever be replaced.

During the whole of her mother’s illness, Fanny was so occupied in her

anxious attendance upon her, that every other thought was banished

from her mind. When Lady Elmsley once, and once only, alluded to the

state of Fanny’s affections, and spoke favourably of an amiable young

man, of excellent connexions, and fair prospects, whose attentions had

been unequivocal, she was able to assure her mother, with truth, “That

although Mr. Lisford had not succeeded in making himself agreeable to

her, all prepossession for another was quite over.”

It is vain to dwell on the melancholy details of gradual decay. Suffice

it to say, that Fanny watched, with agonised feelings, the last moments

of a beloved parent; and only conquered her own emotions, to alleviate

those of her father.

After the funeral, they returned to their desolate home. Their hearts

sank within them as they drove along the well-known avenue, which led

straight to the front of the house, on which the hatchment met their

eyes, for the last half-mile of their approach.

Fanny supported her father into the drawing-room, where every object

which met their eyes was but a renewal of grief. The easy chair, with

cushions of every shape, to procure ease to a frame wearied and worn

out—the invalid sofa-table, the footstool, just where Lady Elmsley

had last used it—the portable book-case, containing her favourite

authors, stood on the table as usual—the large basket of carpet-work,

which was deemed too cumbrous to be taken to Clifton—the glass vase,

which Fanny always kept replenished with the choicest flowers, and

which the gardener had now filled with care, that the room might look

cheerful, and which the housemaid had placed on the accustomed spot,

all combined to make their return more painful, if possible, than they

had anticipated.

The next morning, when, before her father left his room, Fanny altered

the disposition of the furniture, and removed the things which so

forcibly reminded them of her for whom they mourned, she felt it almost

a sacrilegious act to touch them.

Time, however, rolled on, and Sir Edward became calm and resigned;

but Fanny’s spirits did not rally. She had fervently loved her mother;

she missed her in every occupation, in every duty, in every amusement.

Strange to say, her thoughts, which during her mother’s illness had

been so completely weaned from the subject of her own disappointment,

in her present quiet and solitude would revert to former scenes.

She did not recur to the happy days of delusion, when she believed

herself the object of Lord Delaford’s preference; she felt that

would have been a sin: but she fancied that by dwelling only on

recollections, in which the images of Lord Delaford and of Isabella

were blended together, she was accustoming herself to the idea of their

union, and preparing her mind for seeing them, as man and wife, when,

on their return from the Continent, they were to pay their promised

visit to the Priory. She forgot that,

“En songeant qu’il faut l’oublier,

Elle s’en souvient.”

As she wandered about her lonely flower-garden, she at one time

remembered how Lord Delaford had gathered some of the beautiful double

dahlias, and had called Isabella’s attention to the rich blending of

their various hues; how Isabella had laughingly twisted them into

her hair: and how surpassingly beautiful she had looked when bending

over the marble basin (she had used it, as nymphs of old, for her

looking-glass,) while the evening sun just tipped her dark brown

curls with a golden hue, and tinged her downy mantling cheek with a

more mellow bloom. Fanny could almost fancy she again saw the eyes of

rapturous admiration with which he watched her graceful action.

At another time, if she were training the straggling honeysuckles

over the treillage, she recollected how her hopes had received their

death-blow, when, on entering the drawing-room before dinner, she found

Lord Delaford and Isabella in their morning dress, still occupied in

reducing the unruly tendrils to obedience; and how Isabella blushed

to find it so late, and Lord Delaford insisted it must be Fanny who

had mistaken the hour. In recollecting these circumstances, she again

experienced the same painful feelings of mortification and despondency;

she did not thus acquire forgetfulness, or indifference.

After an absence of about a year, Lord and Lady Delaford announced

their return to England, and their intention of finding themselves

very shortly at the Priory. Fanny believed herself rejoiced at the

intelligence, and began setting every thing in order for their arrival.

She was agitated when they actually came, but at that moment the

recollection of her mother, and of the sad change that had taken place

in her home, was uppermost in her mind, and almost all the tears she

shed, were from a pure and holy source.

Isabella was truly sorry for the loss of her aunt: Lord Delaford was

all kindness, although the sort of _gêne_ which exists between the

dearest and most intimate friends, when they meet after any severe

misfortune, prevented their at first deriving much pleasure from each

other’s society. The persons least interested do not feel sure how far

they may venture to allude to the sad event, how far they may venture

to be cheerful, and their fear of not exactly falling in with the tone

of feeling of the mourners, imparts to their manner a want of ease

which is infectious, and prevents a free and unconstrained flow of

confidence.

This, however, did not last long. Fanny soon poured forth into

Isabella’s ear every melancholy detail of the last moments of her

beloved parent, and found her heart warm towards the person to whom she

could dwell upon the subject.

When nothing occurred to call forth her love of admiration, her love

of power, or her love of the world, her naturally good heart, and her

constitutional good temper, rendered Isabella as loveable as she was

lovely. Her faults had been fostered by her early education, while her

good qualities had not been cultivated.

Since her marriage, the devotion of her husband had rendered her fully

aware of her unbounded influence over him; while, at the same time, the

society with which she had mixed on the Continent, and the unsettled

life of travellers, had been peculiarly unfavourable to the acquirement

of domestic habits.

When Fanny, in return, inquired into the manner which Isabella had

passed her time abroad, preparing her mind for a picture of conjugal

bliss, and resolving to rejoice in the happiness of two people for

whom she felt so sincere a friendship, her feelings were put to a

very different trial from that which she anticipated. All Isabella’s

descriptions were of the gay parties at Florence; the delightful

riding parties from Rome; the agreeable Dukes, and Princes, and

Cardinals, and Monsignores, they had met with: the brilliant fancy

balls, the entertaining masquerades, the gorgeous fêtes, the select

soirées, the exclusive _petits soupers_, and Fanny wondered that Lord

Delaford should be grown so fond of dissipation. Yet she remarked than

when he spoke of foreign scenes, he seldom dwelt on those which alone

had formed the subject of Isabella’s descriptions. He frequently spoke

of home and of rural occupations as delightful, and conversed with Sir

Edward on the state of the agricultural interest, and that of the poor.

On such occasions Isabella would laughingly interrupt him, and beg the

gentlemen to be more gallant, and not to discuss subjects which could

be of no possible interest to them. Fanny, who had been accustomed to

consider attention to the humbler classes as one of the duties of the

rich, could not help one day saying to her, when the gentlemen left the

room,

“But don’t you think, Isabella, it is rather interesting to us, who

live in the country, to learn how one may do good, and not run the

risk of doing mischief, when one wishes to be useful to one’s fellow

creatures?”

“But, my dear, you don’t imagine I am going to be buried in the country

all my life, enacting the part of a Lady Bountiful at Fordborough

Castle. I have no objection to supplying the money, but, as to staying

to distribute it, I leave that to the clergyman’s wife, whose business

it is to attend to that kind of thing.”

“But Lord Delaford is so fond of the country, and he always talks

of what he means to do at his own place. Depend upon it he means to

live in the country a great part of the year; I have heard him say he

thought it right.”

“Oh, yes! You know it is never worth while to argue a point—I hold

it out of the question for a man and wife to dispute; but I have not

the least idea of letting him put these golden-age romantic notions

in practice. Not that I have the least objection to the country at

Christmas, or at Easter, or occasionally in the autumn, in a reasonable

way; but, as for taking up my abode at Fordborough Castle, I shall not

do it.”

“But every thing is prepared for you now. He has had the drawing-room

and saloon new furnished, and your own boudoir is made lovely!”

“Oh, you know it could not be left as it was in my good mother-in-law’s

time, with straight-backed chairs, and pembroke-tables; but I shan’t

live there, you will see if I do.”

“But, Isabella, I am convinced Lord Delaford wishes it.”

“Oh! he fancies it would be vastly agreeable; but, in fact, he would be

moped to death there, and so should I.”

“Well, I don’t understand being moped to death with a husband one

loves,” and she felt a slight blush rise to her cheek, which she

attributed to the little rebuke implied in her answer; and she added,

half smiling, “you know, you do like him very much, Isabella!”

“Like him! to be sure I do. He is the best creature in the world; and,

after all, nobody looks so like a gentleman. He was generally the

best-looking man in the room, except Count Pfaffenhoffen, and he was

so foolish that one was ashamed to be seen talking to him, though one

endured his conversation for the sake of his waltzing. He is the most

becoming waltzer! He is just the right height, and he does not bend too

forward, nor too far back, and he holds his arm just right. What a pity

it is he should be so silly!”

Soon after this conversation Lord and Lady Delaford went to their

own place, where they established themselves very comfortably. Fanny

spent a day with them. She began to flatter herself that Isabella’s

worldly notions were only to be found in her conversation, and not in

her actions. She left her very busy, and apparently happy, in making

discoveries of curious old China, and arranging it in the drawing-room.

While these and similar occupations lasted, she was amused and

contented, and her husband was delighted to see her, as he thought,

acquiring a taste for the country.

One short week afterwards, Fanny received a note from her, written as

she was setting off for London, to meet her dear friend Lady B——, who

was only in town for a few days, on her way from Paris to Ireland.

She soon again heard from her, that she was very unwell, and that

Doctor S—— had ordered her warm sea-baths, and that she was therefore

obliged to go to Brighton.

There they remained till Christmas, when they returned to Fordborough

Castle, and brought with them a large party of friends. Fanny was to

join them at the particular wish of Sir Edward, who lamented that she

did not regain her natural spirits.

She found Lord Delaford looking harassed and oppressed. His company

was not of his own choosing, and wearied him. Of his wife he saw but

little, and he had no time for his own occupations.

One day he had to do the honours of the place to a party of particular

friends, for whom he did not care a straw; another to provide shooting

for a set of young men, who thought it a very bad day’s sport if the

birds did not get up as fast as two _gardes de chasse_ could load their

guns.

There is nothing more agreeable than the exercise of hospitality

towards those whom you like, and who like you in return; but when every

point in which the accommodation and luxuries of your house, fall

short of those at such a hall, or such a castle, where every amusement

you may be able to provide, merely provokes a comparison between the

sport Lord so and so, and the Duke of so and so, gives his friends;

the delightful and poetical rites of hospitality, become a tiresome

tax upon the time and patience of the luckless possessor of an ancient

mansion and an extensive domain.

This fashionable, but most unsatisfactory party dispersed, and Lord and

Lady Delaford were on the point of going to town for the meeting of

Parliament, when they obtained a promise from Sir Edward, that Fanny

should pay them a visit in London after Easter. To do Isabella justice,

she felt real affection for Fanny, and sincerely regretted seeing her

so joyless, and conscientiously believed that the pleasures of London

would prove a balm for every sorrow.

Fanny was unwilling to leave her father, and had a vague dread of being

so entirely domesticated under Lord Delaford’s roof. Had her mother

been still living, she would have interfered to prevent her child’s

feelings and principles being put to so unusual, and so needless a

trial; she would have taken care that the peace of mind she had striven

so hard to regain, should run no risk of being disturbed; but Sir

Edward would not hear of her dutiful regrets at leaving him; and if she

harboured any other thought in her mind, it was one which could not

be hinted at,—one she scarcely dared own to her secret soul, without

implying a mistrust of herself.

To London, therefore, she went. She found Lady Delaford in the full

vortex of dissipation. She possessed beauty, rank, talents, and riches.

Many women who might boast of these advantages, are not the fashion.

But Lady Delaford added to them all, the wish, and the determination

to be a leading person in society. What wonder, then, if she instantly

accomplished her object, when, without any of the qualifications before

enumerated, it is often attained by simple, strong volition.

CHAPTER V.

Nae mair of that, dear Jenny: to be free,

There’s some men constanter in love than we.

They’ll reason caumly, and with kindness smile,

When our short passions wad our peace beguile:

Sae, whensoe’er they slight their maiks at haine,

’Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame.

_Gentle Shepherd._

Lord Delaford, though considerably occupied with politics, was not

entirely engrossed by them, and he wished extremely for the quiet

enjoyment of domestic life. When he returned from the House, he would

fain have been greeted by his wife, or at least he would have been glad

to know where he might join her; but among the many engagements for

each night, he did not know where to find her; and after having once or

twice followed her through the whole list of parties, he gave up the

point, and went to bed, jaded and out of spirits.

She seldom came down-stairs till so late, that he had long breakfasted,

and was on the point of going out to some committee. Sometimes,

being free from business, he determined to remain at home, and to

devote the morning to the society of his young and lovely wife.

On these occasions he usually found her so beset till two o’clock

by her maid, by milliners, by tradesmen, by innumerable notes to

answer, and arrangements to make, that she could only answer him

with an absent air, her thoughts evidently intent on the organizing

of some plan of amusement for that, or the ensuing day. After two

o’clock, her drawing-room was of course crowded with dandies whipping

their boots—with sage politicians, a race who peculiarly enjoy the

_délassement_ of a pretty woman’s society,—and with literati, a tribe

who are very apt to find peculiar gratification from the favourable

suffrage of the lovely and titled, though upon the most dry and

abstruse work, into which the fair critic had never looked, and which,

if she had looked into it, she could not possibly have understood. This

select crowd (for none but the most distinguished of each genus was

admitted) did not disperse till the carriage had been long announced,

and the hour of some appointment was long past; when, hurrying away

from the admiring throng, she drove from her own door without having

given a moment of her attention to her husband.

Lord Delaford’s anticipated morning of conjugal felicity generally

ended in his seizing his hat and stick, and marching forth at a quick

pace, and in no very enviable frame of mind.

Fanny was at first bewildered by this mode of life, but she accompanied

her friend through the whole routine, till she found that neither her

spirits nor her health could stand such constant wear and tear; she

was obliged occasionally to remain at home, while Isabella continued

her giddy round of pleasures; and she could not avoid perceiving that

Lord Delaford was a man formed for all the charities of life—and that

Isabella was throwing away happiness such as seldom falls to the lot of

woman.

The gradual decline of wedded happiness is a melancholy subject of

contemplation to the most indifferent by-stander; how much more

so to one deeply interested in the welfare of both parties! She

felt justified in her dejection. Perhaps, if she had witnessed the

unrestrained flow of confidence, the fulness of mutual devotion,

she might not have found the sight so exhilarating as she sincerely

believed it would have been. However that might be, reassured by her

sorrow at not seeing her wishes for their happiness fulfilled—that her

joy, if they were fulfilled, would be as great, she reposed in fancied

security that the interest she took in his welfare was that of simple

friendship, and she did not think it necessary to avoid him, if he

found her alone in the drawing-room, where he in vain sought the wife

of whom he was still deeply enamoured.

He would sometimes sigh to find her still absent, and would

occasionally express his desire of a more domestic life; he even

confessed feelings of discontent and dissatisfaction—he wished his

wife would give him more of her society—he wished her disposition was

more like Fanny’s.

These words fell on her ear with a sensation she scarcely knew how to

define. Was it pleasure?—was it pain?

It is a dangerous situation for any young woman to be the confidante

of any young man’s sorrows, especially if they proceed from blighted

affections and deceived hopes; but to Fanny, how tenfold dangerous!

The world is scarcely sufficiently indulgent to those who are deprived

of the tender vigilance of a mother; nor are the young who enjoy such

a blessing, sufficiently thankful for possessing it. Had Lady Elmsley

lived, Fanny would never have been placed in the position of confidante

to the domestic sorrows of the man who had won her young affections, as

the lover approved of, and courted by, her parents. Was it in nature

that she should not think, “If I had been his choice, the happiness of

which he so feelingly deplores the loss might then

‘Have blest his home, and crown’d our wedded loves.’”

Another circumstance occurred, which roused her from the security into

which she had lulled herself.

Among the multitudes of young men who frequented Lady Delaford’s

house, some were sensible to the unpresuming charms of Fanny, and

especially Lord John Ashville became seriously attached to her. There

was no possible objection to him, and Isabella flattered herself she

should have the pleasure of announcing to Sir Edward that, under her

auspices, Fanny had made a brilliant match. Both she and Lord Delaford

were astonished when he was rejected, and Fanny herself was grieved to

find she could not love him, as she thought it her bounden duty to love

the person to whom she should swear eternal constancy. She would have

been glad to prove to herself that former impressions were completely

obliterated; but she could not succeed in persuading herself that she

preferred him to all others.

Nothing is more common than that a person under the influence of

mortification and disappointment should rush headlong into a fresh

engagement; but this most frequently occurs when the mortification is

one of which others are aware, and such a measure, it is hoped, will be

a virtual disproval of the fact. Though a dangerous experiment, it is

one which succeeds oftener than might be expected from so desperate a

remedy. Fanny’s sense of right and wrong, however, could not reconcile

itself to the plain fact of solemnly vowing an untruth, and she already

found the duty of watching over her secret affections sufficiently

difficult, not to venture to impose upon herself the additional one of

loving where she was not inclined to do so.

Perhaps time and perseverance might have conquered her objections,

but, a proposal once made, and once rejected, an opportunity is seldom

afforded for further acquaintance.

This event had an unfavourable effect upon her mind. It proved to her

that her heart was not free, that she had combated in vain.

She was one day looking back upon her wayward fate, and reproaching

herself for her weakness, when Lord Delaford entered the room, and

inquired for Isabella.

Fanny told him “she was walking in Kensington Gardens with the Miss

Merfields.”

“And when do you expect her home?”

“Lady B—— takes her from Kensington Gardens to Grosvenor Place, where

they dine together; and she accompanies her to the French play in her

morning dress, so I am afraid she will not be at home till she returns

to prepare for the balls.”

“Balls! why how many is she going to to-night?”

“Oh, there are five on the list; but she is only going to two.”

“And what becomes of you?”

“I dine with my father’s old friend, Mrs. Burley, and then I shall go

quietly to bed; for I was at the Duchess’s ball last night, you know.”

“So, I suppose, I must dine at my club, for I hate a solitary dinner

in my own house. If I cannot have the comforts of home, I will play at

the independence of a bachelor. Well, when I married, this was not the

life to which I looked forward. But how comes it you are so quiet? Why

do not you run the same course? Why are you not at all in the ring?

You can endure the sight of your own fireside. You can find time for

conversation, for reading. Your mind is not in a perpetual whirl.”

“Oh, but you know I am not very strong; I could not do so much.”

“But have you, then, the inclination?”

“Why, not quite; I like it very much in its way; nobody can enjoy

society more, I am sure, only——”

“Only you have room in your heart for other things; you are not wholly

engrossed by that all-devouring passion for the world. Ah, Fanny, if

you had been able to like me when first we were acquainted, I should

have been a happier man.”

“Lord Delaford!” exclaimed Fanny, in a voice of doubt and fear.

“Why, you know, when first I went to Elmsley Priory, you were the

person I should naturally have liked, only you did not care for me,

and Isabella did. Kind and affectionate as you are in other respects,

you seem to have no room in your heart for love, as poor Lord John has

experienced also. But Isabella! she then seemed made up of feeling!”

Fanny dared not speak, breathe, move, for fear of betraying her

agitation. Did she hear from his own lips that he had loved her? Did

she hear him accuse her of coldness, while her brain was dizzy, and

her heart throbbing with feelings, which, for two long years, she had

attempted (she now felt how vainly attempted) to quell? And must she

sit still and allow him to think her insensible and heartless? Yes!

religion, principle, and duty, forbade her betraying, by word or look,

emotions which might have invested her in his eyes with the only charm

in which he fancied her deficient. Impossible to let him ever guess she

could harbour an unlawful preference for the husband of another, that

other her kind and unsuspecting cousin. The very idea made her recoil

with horror from herself. A pause ensued. She longed to break it—could

she trust her voice to speak? What would Lord Delaford think of her

silence? But, if he should perceive that her voice trembled! She was

relieved from her difficulty by his exclaiming,—

“No! it could not have been my own infatuation! Isabella was then all I

believed her to be!”

Fanny perceived he was not thinking of her, and she had time to compose

herself. The love to which he had so calmly alluded, had left not a

trace behind, unless the confidence he felt in her now, might owe its

origin to the esteem he had then imbibed for her character.

Following the course of his own thoughts, he continued to compare what

Isabella once was, to what she was now become. He regretted their tour

on the Continent, and attributed her present dissipation to the habits

acquired in Italy and at Paris.

Fanny was able to utter common-place hopes that her cousin would soon

be weary of this useless life, and assurances that her heart was still

true and warm.

When she was alone, Fanny found herself fearfully happy. A load seemed

taken off her mind. Painful as it might be to know that, by her own

pride, (false pride, perhaps,) she had lost the happiness of her life;

the joy of finding that she had not let herself be won unsought,—that

she had not wasted the whole affections of her young pure heart upon a

person to whom they had always been a matter of perfect indifference;

that her love had not been wholly unrequited,—relieved her from that

humiliation which had constantly sunk her to the earth.

She was, however, convinced, that a longer residence under Lord

Delaford’s roof would not be conducive either to the peace or the

purity of her mind. She had been considering what excuse she should

make for wishing to return to Elmsley Priory, when, in the course of

conversation, Lord Delaford one day spoke of her presence, her example,

her advice, as the pillar on which he rested his hope of reclaiming

Isabella to the quiet duties of a wife, and he entreated her to use all

her influence over her cousin towards the accomplishment of this object.

This request gave a new current to her thoughts. If it was true that

she had influence over Isabella, that she might reclaim her from the

worldly course she seemed likely to run, would she be justified in

leaving her friend at this moment? If she could be the means of causing

his happiness, though through another, would she refuse to attempt it?

People often argue themselves into believing it their duty to do what

their inclination prompts. In this case, however, Fanny really wished

to find herself once more under her father’s roof. She trembled at

the undertaking before her—she felt a salutary fear and doubt of her

own heart, which she had found so weak, and she humbly strengthened

herself for the task imposed upon her. She looked with satisfaction to

the prospect of being really useful to others, and she thought that,

next to being the object of his love, the most enviable situation was

to be the object of his gratitude.

Modest and unpresuming, she had never ventured to remonstrate seriously

with Isabella upon her mode of life; indeed, she had always experienced

a degree of shyness in alluding to Lord Delaford, and to the feelings

of a wife, which had prevented her saying what she might naturally have

done. She had also an instinctive horror of interfering between man and

wife—on most occasions, a praiseworthy fear; but which, in complying

with Lord Delaford’s wishes, she thought it right to overcome.

But how to introduce the subject?

Common and trite observations upon the duties of matrimony, she knew

would only excite Isabella’s raillery upon her antiquated notions; but

perhaps, by alarming her fears, she might have some chance of arresting

her attention.

Fanny was so little accustomed to having any plan, any ulterior object

in her communications with her fellow-creatures, that her heart beat,

and she felt almost guilty, as she seized the first opportunity when

they were alone, to say,—

“I wonder, Isabella, you are not afraid of quite losing Lord Delaford’s

affections.”

“Quite lose his affections, Fanny! What can you mean? I certainly do

not anticipate any such misfortune,” she answered, smiling; and her eye

glanced complacently over the mirror, at which she was trying on the

hat which she was to wear that evening at a _bal costumé_.

“Why, my dear Isabella, you must be aware he is not what he was—that

your indifference is beginning to have a corresponding effect upon him.”

“Nonsense, Fanny, you are joking!” But she took off the beautiful hat,

and sat arranging and re-arranging the feathers, though in a manner

which would have been far from satisfactory to the artiste, who had hit

off that particular disposition of feathers, in a fortunate moment of

inspiration.

Instinct had served Fanny on this occasion, as well as a deeper

knowledge of the world; for vanity and affection can both take alarm

at the idea of losing the devotion they have been accustomed to. She

now remained silent, simply because she did not know what she had best

say; but her silence had the effect of piquing Lady Delaford. After a

pause of several minutes, Isabella added:

“Lady B—— and Mrs. Clairville tell me they never saw any husband so

devoted as mine; they wish I would impart my secret, that they might

profit by it.”

“They mean he is kind, and lets you have your own way; that he is

the least selfish of human beings: but you must know, and feel, that

he is not the contented, cheerful person, he once was; that his

countenance does not brighten when he sees you, as it once did; that

he is silent, abstracted. You cannot be happy, Isabella, and see

your husband—and such a husband!—gradually weaning himself from your

society, his confidence lessening, his affections cooling? Did I say

he was indifferent? No, not indifferent! But he is hurt—wounded! he

is shutting up his heart from you! Oh, Isabella! and can you let such

a heart close itself to you? you, who might have all the treasures of

that noble mind, that manly understanding, that warm generous soul,

poured out at your feet—can you throw away such happiness?—you, who

might be the happiest woman in the whole world!”

Her voice faltered—a tear trembled in her eye—she dared not trust

herself to speak another word. Isabella was struck by Fanny’s manner,

though she jestingly replied:

“One would think I was the worst wife in the world! Now, I could name

you a dozen, much worse, among our most intimate acquaintances.”

“But, Isabella, are you satisfied with not being a bad wife? Don’t you

wish to be a good one?”

“Well, I do not see what harm I do. I am never cross; I never worry

him; I do not run in debt; and I am very civil to all his friends,

whenever he asks them to dinner, however great bores they may be: and

it is not every wife who can say as much for herself!”

“But, Isabella, of what comfort are you to him? If he has any

annoyance, does he find you ready to sympathise with him? If he has

any joy, are you there to share it with him? When do you communicate

your thoughts, opinions, pleasures, pains, to each other? You do order

dinner for him; but really I cannot see what other advantage he

derives from having a house, a home, a wife, _une maison montée_.”

“Well, I see what you are driving at, all this time; I will make

breakfast for him to-morrow morning—that will be quite right and

wife-like.”

At this moment, the servant entered to say that the box at the French

play, which her ladyship had wished to have, had been given up, and

that it was at her service for that evening.

“Oh, Fanny, that is charming! We can go there for the two first pieces,

and come home to dress.”

“But Lord Delaford was to dine at home, and he will dine alone if we

go.”

“Oh! he does not mind that.”

“Doesn’t he?” said Fanny, in a low, marked tone.

Lady Delaford desired the servant to let the man wait; and Fanny felt

she had gained something.

“Now, I don’t think he will care a pin whether we are at home or not;

and he goes back to the House afterwards.”

“Not till ten o’clock, he said.”

“Married people should not see too much of each other. _Toujours

perdrix_ is insipid!”

“How much have you seen of him to-day?”

“Why, let me see! he looked in, did he not, just as we had done

breakfast, about one?”

“Yes; and your Italian improvisatore came two minutes afterwards, whose

energetic rhapsodies of gratitude for your patronage, and admiration

of your talents, were delivered in so stentorian a voice, that he took

his departure, to prevent the drums of his ears from being broken. And

yesterday—what did we see of him yesterday?”

“Why, he dined out, you know, at a political man-dinner—that was not my

fault—and in the morning we were at Lady F.’s breakfast.”

“And the day before?”

“Oh! that was the day of our water-party to Greenwich; and that

occupied the whole day. Well, I see how it is—but you will make me

spoil him; and then, when he is quite unmanageable and untractable, I

shall reproach you!”

“Well, dearest Isabella, I give you full leave to do so—then!”

Lady Delaford rang the bell, and sent back the tickets.

“Now, how bored we shall all three of us be to-day at dinner! I shall

be thinking all the time of that dear little Mademoiselle Hyacinthe.”

“No, no, you won’t, dear Isabella. You will be your own gay, agreeable

self.”

Lord Delaford came home to dinner, and seemed pleased to find so small

a party. Isabella told him, with an arch glance at Fanny, that he was

very near finding a still smaller one; that the tickets for the best

box at the French play had been sent to them after all.

“And why did you not go?” asked Lord Delaford.

Isabella did not like to take all the credit, when she felt she

deserved but little, and she answered: “Why, I believe Fanny suspects

you of having a bad conscience; at least she thought you would not like

to be alone.”

Lord Delaford cast a glance of gratitude towards Fanny, which made

her heart beat with a joy for which she had no occasion to reproach

herself. He thanked them both for their attention to him, and was more

gay and communicative than he had been for some time. The dinner was

agreeable. Isabella was pleased to feel she was doing right, although

she did not know that was the reason she was in spirits. Lord Delaford

was gratified, and full of hope that more domestic days were about

to dawn upon him. Fanny was animated; but there was a flutter in her

animation, she scarcely knew wherefore.

CHAPTER VI.

Trepideva pur anche per quel pudore che non nasce dalla triste scienza

del male, per quel pudore che ignora se stesso, somigliante alla paura

del fanciullo che trema nelle tenebre senza saper di che.—_I Promessi

Sposi._

The next morning Isabella did come down to breakfast; but it was a

great effort, and she soon relaxed into her former habits. Engagements

previously formed could not be broken through, and one engagement led

to another. Occasionally, however, Fanny persuaded her to give up one

or two of the many evening-parties, and she succeeded in making her

rather more quiet in the morning, so that her husband sometimes found

her at liberty, and he could sit down and converse upon the passing

events.

When he was alone with Fanny he almost invariably talked over his

future prospects, and attributed to her every symptom of improvement

in his wife. Though these thanks and praises fell on her ear as the

most delightful music, still she felt rather uneasy at the kind of

understanding that existed between them. Though the subject was one

so wholly unconnected with herself, and so conducive to his future

conjugal felicity, she could not help a guilty consciousness, when,

upon the entrance of Isabella, they changed the topic of their

conversation. She resolved, when once she had accomplished the grand

object of persuading Isabella to take up her abode at Fordborough

Castle, she would rescue herself from her trying situation, return to

her father’s house, and devote herself with redoubled energy to being

the consolation and solace of his widowed home.

London was growing thin. Balls became more rare: water-parties more

frequent; well-laden carriages, awfully encumbered with wells,

imperials, boots, trunks, and bonnet-boxes, &c., were constantly seen

whirling along the streets. One day they happened, all three, to be

standing at the window debating whether the weather was sufficiently

settled for Mrs. Clairville’s rural fête to take place, when they were

amused by watching the immense number of nurses, children, boxes, and

bundles, which were crammed into an immense coach, one of the three

carriages which were getting under weigh at the opposite door. Lord

Delaford thought this would be a good moment to enter on the subject,

by asking, in an easy tone, but well aware of the difficulties he was

going to encounter,

“And when shall we go to Fordborough Castle, Isabella?”

“Heavens, Lord Delaford! London is just beginning to be agreeable. All

the bores are gone, or going, and society is becoming really select,

and every thing on an easy, sensible, pleasant footing. The sight we

see opposite, gives one a delightful promise of what London will be!

Don’t you hear that sound?” as the three carriages were set in motion,

and rumbled heavily along the street. “Society will be as light and

elastic when cleared of such heavy component parts, as the air after a

thunder-storm!”

“And have you not had enough of society yet? I am almost sick of my

fellow-creatures’ faces, and yet I am no misanthrope! Do you not long

to see green fields and trees and flowers, and to smell the sweet

smells of the country?”

“That is just the reason why I like water-parties, and excursions into

the country, and Mrs. Clairville’s breakfasts, so much! How lovely

the evening was as we rowed down the river from Richmond! and as for

flowers, where can you see any half so beautiful as at Lady P——’s

enchanting villa? You can have no taste, no refinement, if you do not

doubly enjoy all the beauties of nature in the society of the most

polished, the most gifted, in short, of the master spirits of the age!

to say nothing of all the prettiest women.”

“I do not wish to see all the pretty women;” and he added with some

bitterness, “I only wish to see one woman, who, if she was as perfect

in mind as she is in person, would be all-sufficient for my happiness;

though,” and his tone changed to one of deep mortification, “I see how

little I am so to hers,” and he left the room.

Isabella was somewhat startled. Fanny looked at her with a beseeching

face of woe, and eyes full of tears.

“You are playing a dangerous game, Isabella. Heaven grant you may not

repent it! You have nearly destroyed the happiness of one of the most

perfect of human beings. Heaven grant you may not alter his nature

too! Heaven grant that may remain unchanged! To see his kindly temper

soured, his manly character degraded into the mere obsequious husband

of a London fine lady,—I beg your pardon, Isabella, but it would indeed

be a melancholy sight!”

“You seem to take a very lively interest in his welfare,” answered

Isabella, a little frightened at the effect she had produced on her

husband, and consequently half inclined to be pettish.

Fanny rejoined with warmth,—

“Who can see one woman wilfully cast from her a fate which would be the

summit of happiness to almost every other, and not feel warmly?”

“Why, Fanny, I never saw you so animated; I believe you have fallen in

love with him yourself, and are envying me this same fate of mine.”

Fanny’s face became suddenly crimson. She had been carried away by her

feelings—she had forgotten her own secret, she was so moved at seeing

him mortified, and wounded, that she thought only of him.

Isabella’s half-joking speech recalled it all to her; she felt

betrayed, discovered, and her confusion knew no bounds. Isabella,

surprised at the effect she had produced, in a moment recollected the

suspicions she had once entertained, but she was just smarting under

the mortification of finding she had over-calculated her complete

influence over her husband, of finding that Fanny was right in her

advice, and of feeling she deserved her rebuke, and she exclaimed,—

“Well, I never saw such a guilty face.”

Fanny was thunder-struck, bewildered—she burst into tears, and, hiding

her face with her hands, she exclaimed—

“Spare me, Isabella! spare me! if you have discovered my secret, spare

me!” and, throwing herself on her knees, she hid her face in Isabella’s

lap. “Yes, I have loved your husband, but I loved him before you

thought of him, and I have struggled and combated, and fought to subdue

my feelings; indeed I have. And I have loved him with a holy love,”—and

she lifted up her tearful face with an expression of solemn grief and

earnestness which was almost sublime: “Yes! I call Heaven to witness,

never, for a moment, have I ceased to wish for your happiness, to pray

for it, to use every endeavour to forward it. Is it not true? Isabella,

I appeal to yourself?”

“Get up, my dear Fanny! For Heaven’s sake! I had not an idea—I did not

mean”—and Isabella burst into tears also. She remembered, what she had

almost forgotten, how she had once believed him attached to Fanny; she

remembered, what she had often persuaded herself was not so, how she

had used every art in her power to wean him from her, and she felt

almost as guilty as Fanny did.

She had never intended to inflict such keen anguish on any one, and

she was grieved to see what she had done. Had there been any thing to

excite jealousy, or that might have touched her vanity, perhaps she

would not have felt so amiably; but she was perfectly certain poor

Fanny’s love was unrequited, and there was nothing mortifying in her

husband’s having inspired so deep and fervent an attachment. Moreover,

an uncontrolled burst of feeling, in a person habitually placid and

reserved, is in itself almost an awful sight.

The two friends stood mutually abashed before each other, when Fanny

exclaimed,—

“Do not utterly despise me, Isabella. Oh! if you knew half what I feel

at this moment you would pity me. And I have been venturing to lecture

you, to teach you your duty! But, indeed, I spoke from pure motives,

indeed—though—I have—loved him”—and she again blushed crimson, her

cheeks, her temples, her neck, at hearing herself speak words which,

till that day, had never found utterance from her lips, “it was for

your sake, as well as for his——”

“Dearest Fanny,” interrupted Isabella, “do you think I doubt your

motives? No! they are pure and excellent as your own innocent heart. I

spoke in jest—you so entirely succeeded in concealing your feelings——”

“But do you not utterly despise me now? Me, whom you once thought

retiring and dignified, to have been so lavish of my affections as

to love one who is devoted to another, to pass my life nurturing a

hopeless and an unlawful preference! Oh! that thought almost maddens

me sometimes. You must look down upon me as a poor, abject, weak, and

wicked creature.”

“Fanny, don’t speak so of yourself, you make me miserable—it is I who

ought to beg your forgiveness—it is I who have been guilty towards

you—my foolish, selfish vanity could not bear to see him prefer you,

and I did all I could to take him away from you; but I had no idea you

really cared about him so much; I only meant to try my own power; and

then, if you had seemed unhappy, I would have desisted,—at least I

thought I would. But you appeared so cool, so indifferent, and then I

liked him myself, and then I thought, if you cared so little, why there

was no reason why I should give up so brilliant a _parti_, and then—I

forgot all about you, and thought only of myself.”

“You do think, then, he did like me once?”

“It was that which piqued me so much; but, if I had known what you were

feeling, dear Fanny——”

“Oh, Isabella, this is ridiculous! You are, as it were, defending

yourself to me—to me, who stand here self-betrayed—self-accused. Oh!

it is all wrong; this must not be; we must forget all this—bury it in

oblivion—let it be as though it had never been. Only make him happy,

dearest Isabella, for your own sake—for his sake, and a little for my

sake too. Make him happy, and I shall rejoice in the fate that has made

you his wife; make him happy, as you value your own happiness and his,

in this world and the next. But I forget myself again. It is not for me

to guide others—weak, erring, sinful creature that I am.”

She sank on the sofa, and, pressing her hands upon her eyes, and

resting her head on the arm of the sofa, she strove to command and to

subdue herself.

Isabella stood motionless beside her, in thought as deep and as

painful. A mist seemed to have fallen from her sight. She looked on

life with different eyes from what she had done an hour before.

The broken-hearted quivering form before her read her a lecture upon

the effects of worldliness, which she had never thought of before. She

saw, for the first time, what havoc blighted affections might cause.

She thought of her husband, and she said to herself, “Shall I, through

my own wilful folly, cause the misery of two good and amiable beings? I

have already blasted the prospects of one, shall I throw a blight over

those of the other, and that other the being I have sworn to love as

long as I have life? Shall I have robbed poor Fanny of what would have

made her happiness, and shall I not value the prize myself?”

A flood of tender and self-reproachful feelings rushed over her soul.

Fanny’s grief cut her to the heart; she gazed upon her till she felt

herself cruel and odious. She pictured to herself what sufferings she

must have inflicted upon her during the days of her courtship, on

her wedding-day, on a thousand other occasions; she remembered her

unfailing, uncomplaining gentleness; she thought of the good advice she

had given her at various times, and felt how generous and how judicious

it had been.

Seating herself by her side, she gently lifted her head from the

sofa—she kissed her—she wept with her—she used every tender and

endearing epithet—she implored her to be comforted.

“I am weeping for my own degradation,” she replied, “that the secret I

scarcely dared own to myself should be uttered in positive words, and

to you, to his wife!—and you will betray me to him, you will tell him,

I am sure you will. Oh! that I should have come to this!—I, who hoped

to have passed through life with a fair, untarnished name, though my

wretched heart might break! Oh, Isabella! in pity keep my secret—spare

me this last bitter drop in the cup of life! He respects me now, and I

think it would kill me to be despised by him.”

Her broken voice was choked by sobs—she again hid her face in her

hands—she seemed to shrink into herself.

“Dearest Fanny! what shall I say, what shall I do? If you knew how your

anguish harrows my very soul! I will promise any thing, I will do any

thing that can relieve your mind.”

“Will you indeed do any thing that I ask?” said Fanny, looking up from

her tears with a face in which beamed a high and lofty hope: “Then, all

I ask of you is, to be happy: and to be truly so, you must place all

your happiness in him; you must let no other feelings interfere with

what is conducive to his welfare, his respectability. Promise this,

Isabella, and I ask no more.”

“I promise you, dearest Fanny!” and, kneeling at her feet, her hands

clasped and laid on Fanny’s knees, Isabella solemnly repeated, “I

promise you that, for your sake, as well as for his own, I will love,

cherish, and obey him, in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow,

in poverty or in wealth: I will strive to be unto him a loving,

dutiful, and virtuous wife.”

“Thank you, my own Isabella!” exclaimed Fanny, and, throwing themselves

into each other’s arms, they mingled tears and embraces. At length

Fanny added, “It is a weight off my mind that I have no longer anything

concealed from you, Isabella; and if I could but feel sure that you,

and you only, should know my weakness——”

“Shall I promise?”

“Do, dearest Isabella; let me hear a vow of secrecy pass your lips, and

I think it will go farther towards eradicating every vestige of former

folly than anything else can do.”

“I promise you that no one word of this day’s conversation shall pass

my lips; and I promise that, except by my future conduct, you shall

never be reminded of it. Will that satisfy you?”

“Oh, yes, generous, kind, good Isabella! You are only too good, too

kind, and make me feel so inferior to you.”

“But, Fanny, we must make haste and go into the country. How soon

can we go? I wish we could set out to-morrow; I long to begin my new

career; I am so afraid of growing worldly again in London,—I mean

worldly in my inclinations; my actions I can control, and my vow is

sacred. But how shall I set about opening the subject to my husband? He

was really angry to-day.”

“What so easy, dearest Isabella? Go at once to him, and say you saw he

was annoyed, and that you are sorry he was so, and that, rather than

annoy him, you are ready to go whenever he wishes.”

“He will think a very sudden change has come over me: however, I will

try.”

That evening Fanny pleaded a headache, and went to bed. She was totally

unfitted for society, and could not have ventured into Lord Delaford’s

presence; so that, when he came in, he found Isabella alone.

For the first time he wished for company; he felt a _tête-à-tête_ with

his wife awkward and unpleasant. He was displeased and disappointed:

it was evident to him he was not loved as he loved, and he was not

yet worked up to the point of accomplishing by authority, what he

fain would have accomplished by affection: his manner was cold and

abstracted.

Isabella perceived that Fanny’s advice was not given before it was

needed.

After a silence of some minutes, during which she had twisted a note

into every variety of form of which a note is capable, and he had

turned over the leaves of a very old Review, in which there was not one

entertaining article, she resolved to break the ice at once. Shaking

back her long locks, she looked up in his face, and, holding out her

hand to him, she said—

“I want to make friends, Henry.” Then, smiling with a frankness of

manner, which, when combined with any thing of emotion, was in her

almost irresistible—“I don’t want to lose your affections by being

obstinate and wilful, and I am ready to go into the country whenever

you please.”

“Are you in earnest, Isabella, or am I dreaming?”

“I am in real good earnest, and you had better take me in earnest, for

fear my good resolutions should evaporate. I do really wish to go into

the country, and to be very good;—as good as Fanny.”

“But can you be happy with only me?”

“Why, I mean to try;” and she gave him a glance, such as a pretty woman

can give when she feels she has regained her power, but means to use it

in the most agreeable manner.

“Then I am the happiest of men!” said, and thought, Lord Delaford.

Reconciliations, joy and peace of mind, are totally uninteresting;

therefore, the sooner the present story is brought to a close the

better. Lord and Lady Delaford went almost immediately to Fordborough

Castle—Fanny returned to her father. She experienced real pleasure in

finding herself again at home, and in ministering to the comforts of

her kind parent.

By some odd turn of the human mind, the avowal of her secret feelings

to the very person towards whom they were an injury, went farther

towards eradicating them, than all her own reflections and resolutions.

Her conscience felt lighter; she looked back upon them as a matter of

history; and her affection for Isabella had warmed into a real and

ardent friendship. Every one loves a person whom they have served,

essentially served; and every one loves a person over whose conduct

they feel they have great influence.

One morning, Lord Delaford, having rode over to Elmsley Priory, took an

opportunity of telling Fanny that he was the happiest of men, and that

he was aware he owed all this happiness to her. Then did Fanny enjoy

pure and unalloyed satisfaction! She felt she had not lived in vain:

she had been of service to her fellow-creatures, and she felt raised in

her own estimation.

Isabella, meanwhile, laboured hard to put in practice all the good

advice she had received from Fanny. The happiness she found she had the

power of bestowing, repaid her for her self-denial in relinquishing the

exciting pleasures of the great world; and before she had time to weary

of her domesticity, she found herself in a situation which called forth

other, and as tender, feelings.

While she was in Italy, a premature confinement had prevented her

knowing the engrossing affection of a mother, and had allowed her to

plunge again into the vortex of dissipation.

A growing family is an excellent nostrum for keeping down an active,

restless spirit. Time, health, and thoughts must be, in a great

measure, devoted to their children, by those mothers who do not utterly

neglect their duty; and the constant intercourse with such a mind as

Lord Delaford’s, and the frequent visits which, after a time, Fanny

paid at Fordborough Castle, gradually produced in her character a

reformation of all that was reprehensible.

Fanny found new objects of interest in Isabella’s children: she was

full of occupation at home; she was her father’s darling. Her life was

a retired one, especially when Lord and Lady Delaford were in London

in the spring; and as there are not many very charming _partis_ in the

immediate neighbourhood of Elmsley Priory, and as she would doubtless

be somewhat difficult in her choice, and as she is no longer quite as

young or as blooming as she has been, it is more than probable she may

become a “single woman of a certain age.”

Though such should be her fate, may she not be allowed to have an

opinion, should “affairs of the heart” be discussed in her presence?

MILLY AND LUCY.

CHAPTER I.

Affection true and strong, and simpleness

His goods and chattels, and her bridal dower!

Riches more sure two wedded hearts to bless

Than fortune’s proudest gifts in partial hour:

Unknowing to define by words the power,

That held their spirits in that blissful thrall;

Pride cannot chill nor jealous anger sour,

Each other’s wish they evermore forestall,

And of Love’s darts and flames they never talk at all.

_Manuscript Poems._

“Well, nurse, a wedding is not a merry thing, after all. I could not

help crying bitterly to-day when my sisters were married, and yet it

is what we have all been wishing for so much. I am sure papa and mamma

were in the greatest of frights when they thought Captain Langley

would sail without proposing to Lizzy; and when Sir Charles spoke out

to papa, after we were all gone to bed, I never shall forget what a

banging of doors there was, mamma popping into all our rooms to tell us

the good news!”

“Ah, poor young ladies!” said nurse Roberts, as she was undressing the

blooming Lucy, the evening of the day on which two of her sisters had

been safely disposed of to two gentlemen, the connection with whom gave

great satisfaction to Colonel and Mrs. Heckfield.

“Poor young ladies!” repeated Lucy in a tone of surprise: “why do you

pity my sisters, nurse?”

“La, Miss, I don’t justly know; but somehow ’tisn’t the sort of wedding

as I likes.”

“Why, what sort of wedding do you like?”

“Ah, Miss Lucy, I am an old woman, and I have old-fashioned notions;

but I likes to see young people marry as has a respect for one another.”

“Why, nurse, I am sure Captain Langley and Sir Charles were quite

respectful. What can you mean?”

“There wasn’t no time, Miss, no time for them to get to have a respect

for one another. I have heard talk of love at first sight, to be sure,

but to my mind there wasn’t no love at all; and that’s the truth of it.

’Tis my belief the Captain he wanted to take a wife to India, because,

as I’ve heard say, ladies are scarce there, and here there’s more of a

choice; and Sir Charles he wanted a lady to sit at t’other end of the

table, and be civil and genteel to the gentlefolks when they comes a

visiting to him; and as for poor Miss Sophy and Miss Lizzy, I don’t

see that they liked these two gentlemen a bit better than twenty other

gentlemen as have been here at one time or another.”

“Well! I never should have guessed you were so romantic, nurse. Do you

know this is really the true spirit of romance?”

“No! no! ’Tan’t romance, nor book-nonsense, as I’m talking about. But

when a woman’s once married, she may have many trials and troubles.

There’s Miss Lizzy going into foreign parts, and there’s no knowing

what a wife may have to go through for her husband, first or last,

whether at home or abroad; and if she has not a spirit in her that she

does not care where she goes, nor what she does, as long as it’s for

his sake, why, sometimes ’tis hard to bear.”

“But when people marry, they marry to be happy, not to go through

trials and troubles.”

“And do you think, Miss, unless Miss Lizzy loves Captain Langley

dearly, she will be happy when she is a thousand and a thousand miles

away from her friends, and in a strange country? No! no! I knows what

’tis to be alone among strangers, and I knows ’twould have been hard to

bear, if it had not been for poor John’s sake!”

“Were you very much in love, then, nurse?” and Lucy’s eye twinkled

with an arch glance of amusement as she asked the question, for at the

moment she saw reflected in the glass her own blooming cheeks, rounded

chin, rosy lips, and flowing locks, and the withered face, thin lips,

grey hair, and close-crimped cap of the old woman. “Were you very much

in love?” she repeated, in rather a drawling sentimental tone.

“I don’t know about that, Miss; but he was true to me, from the time I

was quite a slip of a girl, and it would have been hard if I had been

the one to change. I told him I never would; and I kept my word.”

“And did he keep his?”

“That he did, poor soul! There was not a better nor a truer-hearted man

anywhere, than my poor John was. And though I had known some trouble

before, I never knew what ’twas really to grieve till I lost him!” The

poor old woman gave a deep sigh; and Lucy said, in a kind and feeling

tone of voice,—

“Was it in America you lost your poor husband? I know you once were

there.”

“Ah! sure enough was it, my dear young lady; and not a friend nor a

relation (besides my two fatherless babes) had I that side of the

water, when I saw my poor John put into the ground. ’Tis that makes

me think so much about Miss Lizzy. I am old, Miss, and I have known

troubles and crosses; and I can’t help looking forward to what may

happen.”

“But Captain Langley, you know, has friends and relations in India;

and every body says Lizzy will have so many people to wait on her, and

beautiful jewels, and all kinds of things! How could you, dear nurse,

go into a foreign land, if you had no friends and relations there?”

“Oh, Miss Lucy! ’tis a long story; and you had better go to bed, and go

to sleep.”

“Now do tell me to-night, nurse? I can’t go to sleep, I am sure; and I

do feel so interested about you and your poor John.”

The old woman’s heart warmed at hearing her husband’s name spoken so

kindly; and she was nothing loth to begin her story.

“Why, you see, Miss, John and I, we were neighbours’ children, and

we used to come home from school by the same path; and we often went

nutting and gathering blackberries together, and he was always a

civil, good-tempered boy, and the folks used to call us the little

sweethearts; and so, when we grew bigger, we wished to get married: but

father he said, ‘No, by no means! he would not hear of it!’”

“But why did your father object to such a respectable young man?”

“Why, you see, Miss, he was a ropemaker, and was in a good way

of business, and had got above the world; and John, he was only

under-gardener at the Squire’s. He was a handy, sharp young man; but

he had not any thing but just what he earned from week to week; and

father said, he would not hear of no such nonsense, and we must leave

off courting. We both saw that father was right not to agree to our

marrying then; but we thought it hard that we were not to speak to each

other any more. My own mother was dead; and my father’s second wife she

aggravated him against us, and said, if we saw each other as usual,

we should be sure to marry; and then he would have to keep us off the

parish; and that I was a likely, fresh-coloured girl, and might do

better for myself, and might get somebody who would be a help instead

of a hindrance to the family. So I told John I would not marry without

father’s leave, for I knew that would be wrong; but that I would never

have any body but him, if it was ever so.

”My stepmother, she never let me out of her sight, and always kept me

to my work at home; and I never saw John to speak to him. Of a Sunday,

when we came out of church, he always stood near the hand-gate, and

sometimes, if there was only father, he opened it for us: and as long

as he did that, I was sure he was true to me.

“One morning, about a year after my father had said he would not hear

no more of John Roberts, and that his girl should marry somebody as

had a house to take her to, and enough to keep her when he had got her

there; ’twas a Monday-morning, and I had washed up the tea-things, and

swept up the hearth, and was just holding a bit of wood-embers in the

tongs for father to light his pipe by, before he went to his work,

when what should I see but John’s face as he went by the window to the

door. I was like to let the tongs fall, it came upon me so sudden!

John knocked at the door, and I shook all over, as if I had got the

ague; for I thought, to be sure, father would be in a towering passion.

Father, he never turned round; but he kept drawing in his breath to

make the pipe light, and he said, ‘Why don’t you go and open the door,

girl?’ So I went to the door, and opened it, and in stepped John; and

he said never a word to me, he only just gave me a look, and he went

straight up to father, and said:—

“‘Mr. Ansell, don’t take it amiss if I am come to say a few plain words

to you. You won’t let me have your daughter—you think we shall come

into trouble, and be a burthen upon you; and you think Milly can do

better for herself?’

“‘Yes!’ said my father; ‘you speak right enough.’

“‘But Milly has told me, she’ll never have nobody but me; and you know,

Mr. Ansell, she’s a girl of her word; and you know you could not get

her to marry Mr. Simpkins, the tailor; no, nor you won’t be able to

get her to marry no other lover, if she should have a dozen—I know you

won’t; and I won’t have no other girl! But that’s neither here nor

there—what I’ve got to say is this:—I have just had sent me a letter

from my brother as is in Canada; and he tells me, if I want to make

my fortune, I have only to take ship at Liverpool, and come to him at

Halifax; and there, he says, any man as knows a little of gardening,

and such like, has no more to do, but to get as much land as he likes,

to set to work, and he will have a good market for his vegetables, and

he can be made a man of in no time. He sends me money enough to pay my

expenses out, and he says he will see that I want for nothing, till I

get into a regular way of business. And now, Mr. Ansell, if Milly an’t

afraid to venture over the seas with me, I think we shall be able to

shift for ourselves; and we need never be no burthen to you, nor none

of our friends; and if she won’t go,—why, I’ll go by myself; and I’ll

try to make my fortune alone, and come back and marry her some day or

another, please God to spare me.’”

“What did your father say to this, nurse?”

“Why, father seemed very angry when first John began to speak. I

looked at him, and my heart sank within me; then I looked at John, and

his face was flushed like, and his eyes seemed quite bright, he was

so full of hope, and I thought I could never bear to disappoint him.

My stepmother had come in when she heard John’s voice, and so father

turned to her, and said,—

“‘Well, Sarah, what do you think of this young chap’s notion? I don’t

much like to have my Milly go away from me altogether, and beyond seas

too; though she has been a little testy, or so, about John—I don’t half

like it!’

“I felt so, I did not know what to do; and I began to cry and to sob;

and John said to me then,—

“‘Milly,’ said he, ‘speak your mind. Do you think you could venture

across the water, all the way to America, with me? You know I’ll work

hard for you, and I’ll be as tender of you as if you were a babe; and

whichever way it is, I’ll be true to you, if so be I live.’

“Then father said,—‘Milly, if you an’t willing to go along with him,

why there’s an end of it at once, and so speak out.’

“I looked at John again, and the longest day I have to live I never

shall forget his face that minute. He was as pale as ashes, and his two

eyes were fixed on me with such a beseeching look! I thought I could do

any thing, and bear any thing, sooner than have him go quite away by

himself, and so I said,—

“‘Father, I am ready to go anywhere that John takes me to; I know he

will always be kind to me. I an’t afraid with him.’

“Poor John! To be sure, how his face did change! his colour came again,

and he looked up so proud and so kind like! I thought nothing would be

a trouble to me for his sake then.

“Father did not half like what I answered; but his wife was very

good-natured, and said, that perhaps we should do very well in America;

she had a cousin once that made a great fortune somewhere beyond seas,

and that it was very true what John said, we should be no burthen to

our friends when we were so far off.”

“She was evidently very glad to get rid of you,” interrupted Lucy.

“Maybe ’twas so, for sometimes father and she had words about me.

Father never could bear to see me put upon; however that was, she was

very kind now, and by degrees we brought father to think about it. And

then John, he had to tell him we must get married out of hand, for the

ship was to sail in a week, and we had to go to Liverpool, and to buy

the things as were wanted on board ship.”

“Only a week! That was very short notice indeed!”

“Yes, Miss, and father flew out sadly at first. But there was no help

for it, if I went at all. So John went to the minister, and talked to

him about it, and the minister helped him how to get a licence; and on

the Tuesday, John walked to the town, seven miles off, and he bought a

licence, and a deal of money he paid for it; but his sister gave him

something towards it, and he bought the wedding-ring, and he came to me

Tuesday evening, and showed them both to me, and I thought to be sure

it was a dream. Next morning I was to be married, and I dressed myself

as neat as I could.’

“Ah, by the by, what did you do for wedding clothes?”

“Why, I had a light-coloured gown as good as new, and the minister’s

daughter gave me a new straw bonnet, and my stepmother gave me her

second-best shawl, and we went to church, and my little sister was

bridesmaid, and all the girls round about, as I knew, came to the

wedding. Poor father, how he did cry! and the minister, he was obliged

to stop once, and put down the book to wipe his eyes. He said it was

awful to see two such young things going out into the wide world, so

left to themselves like—but he was not against it, for all that; and

John, he cried too. The rector told father he had never seen so many

people crying at a wedding in all his ministry. Well, it was a sad day

to us all; now that I was married to John, and was sure I was not going

to lose him, it almost broke my heart to see father take on so, and

to look round at the chairs and tables, and the dresser I had cleaned

so many times, and the plates and jugs and cups I took such pride

to set in order, and the strings of birds’ eggs as I had hung over

the chimney-piece, with two peacock’s feathers John and I had picked

up in the Squire’s park, and the sweet-brier we had planted when we

were children, and which grew up quite tall by the house. Ah, sure,

it seems all as plain before me as if it was yesterday. Father sat

with his hands on the top of his stick, and his chin resting on his

hands, looking at the fire, and he took little notice of any of us. My

stepmother, she was bustling about, and seemed to wish to do all she

could for us the last day.

“Next morning, Thursday, we parted from father, and brothers, and

sisters, and all, and we got on the top of the coach, and we went off

so fast, it made me quite dizzy as it were. We got to Liverpool, Friday

evening; I seemed as though I was lost in that great busy place, but,

whenever John saw me begin to look sad or frightened, he thanked me so

for coming along with him, that I felt I cared for nothing as long as

he was contented.

“On the Saturday we got all the things they said we must take in the

ship with us, for there are shops as sell every thing ready to hand.

And Sunday we went to church for the first time together as man and

wife, and for the last time together in our own country. As we came out

of the church-door, John said to me, ‘Milly, I am glad we have been

able to go to church together once more in Old England; we don’t know

what places of worship there may be in this new country. But we can

read our Bible wherever we go.’

“The vessel was to sail Monday, just one week from the day John

surprised us so as I was making our own little kitchen tidy at home. We

were all on board ship early in the morning. To be sure, how frightened

I was! but I had made up my mind not to be down-hearted, and I bore up

against it all. We had a good passage, and, as soon as we had got our

little matters safe on shore, we set out to look for John’s brother,

who kept a shop for seeds and such like; we soon found the shop, but

it was a sad time for us when we got there. But la, Miss,—there’s the

clock striking twelve, and you not in bed! What will your mamma say to

me for keeping you awake with my old woman’s tales? but it is not often

I talk of by-gone days, and when once I begin I hardly know how to

stop.”

CHAPTER II.

What spirit e’er so gentle shall be found,

So softly reared in humble privacy;

What form so fragile on wide earth’s vast round,

Shrinking from every blast beneath the sky,

That will not brave severest destiny.

Bear, uncomplaining, want and cruel wrong,

And look on danger with unblenching eye,

If love have made that gentle spirit strong,

Love, pure, approved by Heav’n, led that frail form along.

_Manuscript Poems._

Lucy would not hear of going to bed till she had heard the rest of

Milly’s adventures.

“You must go on, nurse. I cannot let you stop—you know I love any

story, and you know I love you, and so you may guess how much I must be

interested.”

“You are very good, Miss, to say so. Mine’s a very plain homely tale,

but you always was a kind young lady, and somehow, when I have got over

the first talking about my poor husband, and all our troubles, I can’t

say but there is a kind of pleasure, like, in going over it all again.”

“Now there’s a good nurse, mind you tell me every thing. What had

happened when you got to your brother-in-law’s?”

“Ah! poor man! he was dead—dead and buried. He died just three weeks

after he wrote to John; and, though the widow kept on the shop, she

could not do for us as he would have done. Poor soul! she was left with

five young children, and she was almost beside herself with care and

trouble. However, she took us in, and told us we should not have to pay

for lodging while we stayed there, but she could not afford to keep us.

She told John who was the proper person to apply to, to get what they

call a grant of land, and he went next day to see about it, for he was

loth to be a burthen to the poor widow.

“He found he could not get any garden nor any land near the town, but

he must go a great way off to the back woods, where there were new

settlers, and where he must cut down the trees and dig up the soil

fresh for himself. This was a great disappointment, and he lost a deal

of time trying if he could not get something that would suit better.

But you see, ma’am, every thing goes by interest in one country just

like another; and now his brother was gone he had nobody to put in a

good word for him, and he found there was no use in haggling on any

longer. So he set about buying the goods and the tools which they said

were quite necessary for a new settler, and by the time he had got his

grant of land, and had bought his things, all our money was pretty well

gone, and I was not in a way to be much of a help to him. Poor John!

He said he would not have me begin a long journey in this condition,

and when I got to the end of it have no roof over my head, and be in

a lonesome place with nobody to do for me when the time of my trouble

came. My sister-in-law was very good, and she promised to take care of

me. She got me needlework, and I could earn enough for my own keep; and

so John set off all alone to this land that was to be his. He was to

get the trees felled, and a log-house built, and some ground trenched,

and every thing quite comfortable in a manner; and he was to come back

for me in the spring. I did not half like this. As long as I was with

him I felt as if I could do any thing; but when he was gone, I don’t

know how it was, but I had no spirit to any thing. But he would not let

me go. He said, ‘No! he had told father I should be treated tenderly,

and he would never let me be worse off than the very gipsies in Old

England.’

“The autumn seemed very long to me; but I worked hard, and earned

enough to get every thing nice for my baby, and to have a few household

things ready to take with me when the spring came. After my child was

born, I began to grow quite happy with thinking how pleased John would

be to see it. I had got together all my little goods, and had packed

them up, and I was waiting every day for him to come. I thought every

step I heard at the door might be him; for there was no post in those

outlandish parts, and I had only heard from him twice by a private

hand since he went. One day I was startled by hearing a strange voice

ask for me. It was not John, I knew well enough; and there came such

a fright over me I could not answer, nor I could not go to the door.

Though I was always wishing John would come, and wondering he did not,

yet it never before came into my head to be frightened, I felt so sure

he would come at last; but I don’t know how it was, I thought now there

was something bad in store for me.

“My sister-in-law went to the door, and she brought me up a letter. It

was in his own hand-writing. But when I had got it, I could hardly read

it, I was in such a hurry, and all over in such a tremble. However, it

told me he had been very ill; he had had a bad rheumatic fever, and

was not able to come for me yet; but he was getting better, and hoped

to be able to set off before summer came. I made up my mind directly

what I would do—to set off the next day as ever came, and go to him.

So I went down stairs to the man as brought me the letter, and I asked

him which was the road, and what were the names of the places I had to

go through, and how I was to find out his settlement. I was a pretty

middling scholar, so I wrote it all down from his mouth. That night

I packed up my bundle, and I sold the linen and things I had bought,

for I could not carry them, and I knew I should want the money. My

sister-in-law lent me a little she was able to spare, and next morning

I set out. I reckoned I could walk fifteen miles a-day, and that, as it

was three hundred miles up the country, it would take me about three

weeks to get to him. I was very tired the first day, for I had to carry

my bundle on my back, and my child in my arms; but I did not care. I

thought so of getting to John, I hardly knew that I was tired. I found

a decent little inn, and a civil woman, who made me pretty comfortable

that night, and I had nothing to complain of for several days more; but

after a week or thereabouts, the country was very bare, and there were

but few houses to be seen. One day I had to walk better than twenty

miles before I could get taken in, and, after all, the place was a

miserable hovel, and the woman as kept it was so old, and dirty, and

smoky, and she spoke so short to me, and looked at me so sharp, that

I felt frightened, and almost sorry, when, after a little haggling,

she let me into the hut. It seemed to belong to her; but some men who

came in after me, ordered her about as if they were masters of her and

all she had; and she did not think of refusing them any thing, and

they swore at her terribly, and made themselves quite at home. I had

got away into the inner room when I saw them coming, and I never went

back into the kitchen. The old woman seemed no ways anxious that I

should. I begged her to let me lie down, and she said I might do as I

would; so I tried to get some rest; but I could see these men through

the chinks of the logs, and I could hear most of what they said. They

drank, and they sang, and, by their way of talking, I think they led a

rough sort of robber-like life; but I could not half understand what

they said. At last they rolled themselves up on the floor, and went to

sleep, and I went to sleep too. All my little stock of money, which

was getting very low, but which was my only dependence for reaching my

poor husband, was under my pillow, and I resolved I would not part with

it if I could help it. In the middle of the night my child began to

cry; I felt sure these strange men would wake and rob me, and perhaps

murder me too. I heard one move, and I could see him sit up, rub his

eyes, stretch himself, and he wondered what the noise could be; but I

managed to pacify the child, and he settled himself again. To be sure,

I was glad when I heard him breathe quite hard! I did not sleep any

more that night, and by day-break the hunters (for they had guns, and

powder-pouches, and bags—so I suppose they were hunters) were astir,

and left the hut. I asked the old woman who they were, and which way

they were likely to take; but she did not like being questioned, and

so, when I thought they had been gone about an hour, I set out again on

my lonesome journey.

“That day the road lay through a great forest of very tall trees,

taller than any trees we have here. I never did feel so lonesome

before; there was not a creature to be seen anywhere, and the tall

trees made the road so dreary, and it was all dark and hollow each

side; for in those great woods the trees stand clear of each other,

and there is no underwood, nor bushes, nor briers, but the boles go up

straight, and the branches meet at top, and one may go miles and miles

and never see the blue sky over one’s head. There was no telling what

might come out from those dismal hollows, and I kept looking round

every minute, and trying to see into them, but ’twas impossible: I

could see the trunks of the trees for a little way, and then ’twas all

as black as night. It made one feel so alone, and yet one did not know

what might be near one; and I thought what would become of me if I was

benighted in this dreary place; and I thought of the wild Indians, and

of the bears, and of my poor innocent babe; but then I thought again of

my husband on his sick-bed, and I took courage.

“It was past the middle of the day, and the sun had sunk some way below

those tall dark trees, when I sat down to rest myself, and to drink

from a clear stream by the roadside. I was wondering how much farther

it could be to the end of the forest, where I had been told I should

find something of a decent hut, when I was startled at hearing voices

and the report of a gun; and presently three of the men who had passed

the night in the old woman’s hovel came out from among the gloomy trees

on the other side.

“They looked surprised to see me, and came straight up to me. I don’t

know how it was, but when the time came I did not seem so timid as I

thought I should. I remembered how poor I was, and it could not be no

object to any body to rob me; and I knew I was doing my duty in going

to my husband, and I thought God would protect me. I sat quite still,

and did not tremble nor shake. One of them asked me how I came there?

So I told him the truth, and spoke quite civil, and yet, as it were,

bold and steady, that I was walking from Halifax to my husband at the

far settlement. So another of the men said, quite sharp—‘If you have

got a husband, he had better keep a sharper look-out after such a tight

lass as you are.’

“The first man said—‘You have got a long journey before you, my girl.’

“And I answered, ‘Yes, sir; but I have got safe through more than half

of it, and I hope, with the blessing of God, to get safe through the

rest of it to my husband, to nurse him in his illness.’

“‘Oh! he’s ill, that’s it,’ said the second.

“‘Well, you can’t be travelling all this way without money,’ says the

third, who had not spoken yet.

“‘Come, come, poor girl,’ interrupted the first, and gave a wink to the

last speaker, ‘we won’t hinder your journey any longer: you had better

push on, or you’ll be in the dark.’ And he took the other by the arm,

and he seemed to persuade them both to go away; and when I saw them go

off into the woods again, I thanked God for his goodness, and thought

he was indeed a Father to the fatherless, and that he never did desert

them as put their trust in him in the time of their need.

“I hugged my baby close, and quite forgot how tired I had been a little

while before, and walked and ran till it was nearly dark, when the

trees grew thinner, and I thought I could see lights glimmer in the

distance. I made all the haste I could, and at last I got to a small

settlement of half a dozen log-houses. I stopped at the first door, and

I never felt so happy as when I saw a light, and a fire, and a woman’s

face again. She had a child in her arms too, and I felt quite safe.

“Next day I was very tired, and the woman at the little inn wished me

to stay all day, and rest myself; but when I was walking and toiling,

I did not feel so much about John: the moment I was still, I thought

how ill he might be, and I could not bear to keep quiet. Besides, the

woman’s husband was going part of the same road, to make a bargain

about some furs; so he kept me company through the rest of the forest,

and he begged the fur-merchants, as he came to speak to, that they

would see me safe to the village where I was to stop that night. This

day my baby began to grow fretful, and no wonder; for, though I did the

best I could for it, ’twas next to impossible to get any thing fit for

a baby at the places I stopped at, and I lived so hard myself that I

made but a poor nurse.

“My shoes were quite worn out, and my feet were so sore, I thought

I must afford myself a pair of shoes, as I should not have another

opportunity. They were very dear, for every thing was brought from

Halifax. I was sorry afterwards I did not make shift without them.

Next morning my baby was so ill I went to the doctor, for there was

a doctor there, and they said he was the only real doctor anywhere

for miles and miles. He gave me something as quieted the child; but,

when I had paid for this too, my purse was so low, I began to fear I

should not have enough to buy me any thing to eat after the two next

days; and as for begging, I had never been brought up to think of such

a thing. I touched nothing but the coarsest and cheapest food I could

get, and drank nothing but cold water, and I walked farther each day to

get sooner to the end of my journey. I was almost worn out, and (as I

reckoned) I had still three days’ travelling between me and my husband

when I paid away my last farthing. I scarcely hoped ever to reach him,

but I walked on till I got to a small settlement, and then I sat down

by the way-side, and thought what should I do?

“I could not help crying, and thinking what would father say if he

could see me then; and it hurt me so! for I knew he would feel angry

with John, and fancy it was through him his child was brought into such

trouble, and forced to beg her bread; for there was no help for it, if

I wished to see my husband, and not to let my baby die, I must that

night ask charity of strangers. So I knocked at the nearest door, and

I told my story, and asked for food and lodging. I have often thought,

a mother with her infant in her arms has something which goes to the

hearts of their fellow-creatures, if they have any kindness left in

them. I’m sure I never see a poor beggar-woman with a baby at the door

but I think of myself that weary night, and I never have the heart to

send them away without some little trifle, though, maybe, I’m often

imposed upon.

“Well! the man as opened the door took pity upon us directly, and bade

me come in and sit by the fire. His daughter, a nice girl of fourteen,

brought us some potatoes and some milk, and let me share her bed. They

would have given me enough to pay my way for the next two days if they

had had it to give; but I was forced to ask charity again that night,

but it did not seem to give me such a choking in the throat as it did

the first time; and I thought how soon we lose our spirit when we get

low in the world, and how easy it is to go on from bad to worse! The

next night I hoped to get to my husband. They told me to keep along

the banks of a great river on my left, where there was something of a

path, but ’twas so overgrown with the long rank grass, ’twas not easy

to find. The new settlement was near the river-side, for the trees,

which the settlers cut some way higher up, drifted down the river till

they came to this place, where the ground was particular rich, and

then they pulled them ashore, and built themselves log-houses. There

were about seven families together, as they told me, and my husband’s

house was the farthest but one. How my poor heart did beat all the way

I went! I longed so to get there, and I dreaded it so too. I walked on

and on, and still I saw no people, nor no huts, nor no fields, and I

began to think I must have come wrong; for, though it was all open and

flat, I could not see very far before me, for the grass was long, and

the rushes very tall, sometimes, by the river-side. Of all the day’s

journeys I had come, this did seem to me the longest; but I suppose

’twas only because I was so impatient to get to the end of it. I looked

at the sun, and it was not above half-way down. Just then there was a

rise in the road, and I could see some smoke, and the roofs of some

low huts, and some little patches of ground that were cultivated, and

I strained my eyes to try and make out the last but one. I don’t know

how I got over the ground, but I soon did reach the first house, and I

saw a child at play, and I asked him which was John Roberts’s. I could

hardly breathe while he answered, ‘He lives out yonder.’ He lives! and

when I heard him say that, I first knew I had been afraid of never

seeing John again.

“I ran as well as I could to the hut. It looked wretched and half

finished; the door was ajar—I pushed it open—there was nobody in the

kitchen—I heard no noise—I listened—I did not dare step on. Just then

my child cried, and a voice from within said, in a hollow tone, ‘Who’s

there?’ I ran into the bed-room, and there lay my husband, sick, pale,

and weak, but it was my husband alive, and all seemed well.”

“Oh, nurse,” exclaimed Lucy, “I never heard any thing half so

interesting in my life. Poor souls! and how was your husband? He got

well?”

“Yes, Miss, he did get well after a time. He fretted so much to think

he could not go for me, that it had kept him back, and he had nobody

to make him any thing nice, nor to do for him; leastways not to do for

him as I could, though the neighbours looked in now and then and made

his bed, and boiled his potatoes for him, and such like. Sure! how

overjoyed he was to see me, and how pleased he was to see the babe. He

soon began to mend, and then he was so vexed to think he had not been

able to get the place to rights a bit before I came.

“The fence outside was all broken down, and the garden was only

half-planted; but I had not been there a fortnight before I got it all

to look quite different. I cleaned up the house, and settled the few

things he had got in it, and I helped him to mend the fence, and he was

soon able to dig again, and the things grow very quick in that rich

soil, and our house and garden were quite decent, and we were so glad

to be together again, that we did not see no faults in any thing.

“In the winter-time John had been lucky in shooting, and had sold

some furs for enough to buy him a cow, and some chickens; and then,

being a pretty middling gardener, he had helped his neighbours, and

put them in the way to crop their gardens as they should be; and most

of them gave him a trifle, some one thing and some another, so that

now he was pretty well, and I was there to keep matters tidy, we were

very comfortable. The winter was cold and long, and in the spring he

had another touch of that nasty fever, as was so common in them low

swampy grounds. In the summer I had my Betsy—you know my Betsy, as is

married to Farmer Crofts?—some of the neighbours were very kind to me,

and I got over it pretty well. Of a Sunday we used to read our Bible

together, and think how true John’s saying was, when we came out of

church at Liverpool, that there was no knowing what places of worship

we might find where we were going to. But John often said all places

might be made places of worship if one had but the mind to it, whether

it was a real church, or the tall, dark, still woods, or the damp wide

savannah, or our own log-hut; and so, I hope, when we read our prayers

there, it did us as much good as if there had been a minister and a

pulpit, and all as it should be.

“I believe I was too happy then for it to last. With the spring came

the rheumatic fever again, and my poor husband was quite laid up. He

could not do any thing, and he fretted so to think his land was not

trenched, nor any thing seen to! and, what with the children, and the

house, and the cow, and the things out of doors, and poor John to

nurse, I had more than one pair of hands could well do. This would not

have signified if John had but mended when the summer came, but he got

worse and worse. He was so weak, and he suffered a deal of pain, and

there was no doctor. Then I did wish we had never left England, and

I thought it would have been better we should both have worked and

laboured in our own country, till we had got old, and earned enough

to marry upon. But we did for the best; and if John was so set upon

coming, even without me, why, then, it was best I came too, for he had

some one to do for him. It was all written, I suppose; and perhaps

’twas for our good—but this was hard, very hard to bear.

“One evening I had got the children off to sleep, and I had taken my

bit of work, and was sitting by John’s bedside, when he said to me—

“‘Milly, you must not stay here when I am gone. If you sell all the

little matters we have got together here, you’ll have enough to pay

your journey to Halifax, and your passage home too, as I reckon. Your

father will be good to you, I think—I hope. Tell him I meant for the

best when I persuaded you to come.’

“Oh, Miss Lucy, I never thought to see that day: I had always hoped I

should have been the first to go. But it pleased God otherwise.”

The poor old woman sat with her apron to her eyes, in quiet, silent

tears. Lucy took one of her withered hands, and pressing it between her

own, told her, with tears in her eyes, how much she felt for her, and

how much she admired her husband’s kind and manly character. She found

this was the chord to which, after so many years, the old nurse’s heart

still vibrated.

“Yes, Miss Lucy,” and her faded eyes flashed with almost youthful

brightness; “he was the kindest-hearted, the truest-hearted, and the

bravest-hearted man as ever lived. He feared nothing, but to do wrong,

and to part with me. His thoughts were always on me; and when he was

taken, the last words he ever spoke were, ‘my own Milly,’ and the last

look he ever gave was for me, and my hand felt the last pressure his

ever gave.”

Lucy’s tears flowed fast. She had read many novels, but the fictitious

woes of their heroines did not seem to her half so touching as her old

nurse’s plain story.

“Well, Miss Lucy, I buried him there; he lies by the banks of that

great river, and there’s the roaring sea, and miles and miles of dreary

land between me and my poor John; and, what’s more, when I die, we

shan’t lie near each other; that frets me sadly sometimes; but he told

me to come home, and so, Miss, I could not do no other. I thought when

I turned my back on the log-hut, where we had passed some such happy

days together, and when I passed by the place where he was buried, at

the other end of the settlement, I thought my heart must have broke;

and, if it had not been for the children, I should have thought it a

mercy if it had.

“There was some people going to Halifax, and I travelled with them.

I fancied myself in trouble when I went that road before, but now I

thought how happy I was then, for I was going to see my husband’s

face again. But God is very merciful, he never gives us more than

we can bear. I bore it all, and I got to Halifax, and I went to my

sister-in-law. She was a kind woman, and she was sorry for me, for she

knew what it was to be a widow. I took my passage on board a vessel for

England, and I and my two children left America. Though my husband’s

grave was so far up the country, I felt when I left the land, as if

I was more parted from him than ever. But ’twas on board ship that I

learned to be thankful to God for what was left, and not to grieve too

much for any of his creatures. My little boy sickened and died, and he

was not buried, decently buried in the earth, but my poor child was

thrown into the sea. I could not get over that for a long time. It did

seem so unnatural like. But I learned then never to think myself so

low, but what God might afflict me more, and I learned to be grateful

for my Betsy. And she has been a blessing to me—a kind and a dutiful

girl—and one as will never let her old mother come to want, as she gets

in years.”

“My poor, dear nurse,” exclaimed Lucy, “I can’t bear to think I should

ever have been a naughty pettish child, and have plagued and worried

you when I was little, and you with all these heavy afflictions on your

mind.”

“Lord bless your sweet heart! you never plagued me; and, as for your

little vagaries, I believe they made me love you all the better.”

CHAPTER III.

“Il faut très peu de fond pour la politesse dans les manières: il en

faut beaucoup pour celle de l’esprit.”

LA BRUYERE.

This simple history of such interesting feelings made Lucy reflect a

good deal. She looked back on her sisters’ courtships and weddings, and

could not persuade herself they had either felt or inspired sentiments

half so noble, or so disinterested, as John’s and Milly’s; and she

resolved, in her own mind, she would never marry unless she was really

in love—very much in love.

It seldom happens that people, on the subject of matrimony, act

according to the plan they have proposed to themselves. The girl who

settles she will marry a tall dark man, is sure to marry a little fair

man; the man who resolves he will have a meek and gentle wife, is

caught by some wild coquette, to whom he tamely submits for the sake of

a quiet life. So the young lady, who has made up her mind that love is

folly, and that, if she repents, it shall be in a coach and six, runs

away with a pennyless captain; and Lucy, though extremely anxious to

emulate Milly, never found the object to which she could thus devote

herself, and ended by repenting in a coach and six.

In the empty dandies and lounging officers who frequented L——, the

watering-place near which Colonel Heckfield’s small property was

situated, she saw nothing superior to Captain Langley, or to Sir

Charles Selcourt; and Nurse Roberts had decidedly not thought Sophy or

Lizzy in love with either. But she was very young, and she had plenty

of time to look about her. Her three elder sisters were married; her

two younger ones had not yet emerged from the school-room; her numerous

brothers looked on her as the pet and the beauty of the family, and

they all reckoned she was to captivate something brilliant in the way

of a _parti_. There was a floating wish in her mind to be heroically

devoted, as, through her homely language, she perceived Milly Roberts

had been; and yet a desire not to disappoint the expectations of

father, mother, brothers, sisters, and governess.

All their acquaintances exclaimed at the good fortune of the Heckfields.

“They did not know how Mrs. Heckfield managed it, but her daughters no

sooner appeared than they were snapped up—they were pretty, certainly.

Harriet, the eldest, was a fine rosy girl, but she never had an air of

fashion. Lizzy had pretty eyes and fine teeth, but her features were

decidedly bad. Sophy had a beautiful figure, but she was so pale!”

(Sir Charles Selcourt thought that a little rouge would make her look

exceedingly well at the head of his table.) Lucy was the beauty, so

they supposed she looked very high.

About this time Lord Montreville came to the watering-place of L——.

He had but lately succeeded to the title of his elder brother;

having passed through the career of a gallant gay Lothario, with the

reputation of having been the most irresistible, and the most discreet,

but the most general of lovers.

As the charming, but half-ruined Lord Arthur Stansfeld, he had been

safe from the machinations of mammas; but the hearts of the daughters

had not been safe from his. Secure in the impossibility of his being

considered as an eligible _parti_ for the very lovely and high-born

beauties who alone could attract his notice, he had not feared to

pay such attentions as generally excited a preference on the part

of the young ladies. As to the married women, whose names had been

coupled with his, in a manner more gratifying to his vanity than to

their honour, the list would be painfully long. Still he had avoided

any _éclat_, and no one could accuse him of betraying, by a word or

a look, any consciousness of his own powers of attraction. On the

contrary, he preserved enough of the tone of the _vieille cour_ to

make his manner respectful and devoted, and he had acquired enough of

the ease of the present day to prevent its being the least formal.

He had arrived at that age when, if he had not been so good-looking,

so attentive to his dress, so lively in society, he would have been

called by the young an old man; but, as it was, he was only called an

agreeable man, without any reference being made to the number of years

that had passed over his head. Having now succeeded to the family

title and estates, he began for the first time to think seriously of

marriage. But every charm which had formerly proved attractive to him

now filled him with alarm. He had had every opportunity of becoming

acquainted with the foibles and the faults of ladies of fashion, and

none of estimating their good qualities. He regarded with suspicion

style, manner, vivacity, talents, grace; and he resolved to choose some

young, unsophisticated creature whom he could mould according to his

own views, and who should be as unlike as possible to all those with

whom he had had any former connexion.

He was accidentally introduced to Lucy, and she appeared to him

precisely the thing of which he was in search. She was decidedly very

pretty, and lacked nothing but what a week’s tuition would give, to

have _un air distingué_. Her head was small—it was naturally well put

on. Her figure was slender, her foot was not large; and, though her

hands were a little red, they were well-shaped. Some almond-paste, the

best shoemaker, and Mademoiselle Hyacinthe, would set all quite right.

He thought he should not alter the style of her coeffure. The back of

her head was so Grecian in its contour, she might venture upon her own

simple twist and long ringlets.

Having thus made up his mind, he proceeded to ingratiate himself with

the family. There was a public ball at the concert-rooms, and thither

he went.

He never danced: he knew he was too old, and he never affected youth.

But, when Lucy was dancing, she often found his large, intelligent,

expressive eyes fixed on her from beneath the very dark eyebrows which

shaded them, without giving them any look of harshness. She felt

flattered, without being distressed, for the expression was that of

kindly pleasure in seeing a lovely young woman innocently gay. The gaze

expressed that he did think her lovely, though it contained nothing

that could alarm the most shrinking modesty.

In the course of the evening he conversed a good deal with Mrs.

Heckfield, in whose common-place remarks he seemed to find much pith

and substance.

Between the dances, when Lucy returned to her mother, he rose to give

her his seat, not as if he was merely doing an act of common courtesy,

but as if it afforded him real heart-felt pleasure to be of any

possible use to her, and it was with kindliness, rather than gallantry,

that he flew to fetch her some tea, or some lemonade.

He handed Mrs. Heckfield to supper, and sat between her and Lucy, who

found her partner quite dull and stupid, in comparison with this very

agreeable new acquaintance. He did not talk much; he said nothing which

she could afterwards remember as being either clever or amusing. But

he had a manner of listening with a deferential air, his eyes fixed

with attention on the speaker, while his countenance seemed to say, the

remark made was new and luminous, something which had never struck him

before, so that people believed themselves delighted with him, while,

in truth, they were delighted with themselves.

In a cabinet-council, Colonel and Mrs. Heckfield agreed that, as he

appeared to find so much pleasure in their society, they might venture

to ask Lord Montreville to dinner. But who to invite to meet him? That

was a question of much consideration. The Bexleighs were agreeable, but

they were so numerous, that it would make the party dull to have so

many of one family. It is dreadful if members of the same household get

near each other; they cannot seize that moment for talking of family

affairs, neither can they make conversation like strangers.

“Let us have the Thompsons, my dear,” said the Colonel.

“La! Colonel Heckfield! Mrs. Thompson! so fat and vulgar, and Mr.

Thompson, so silent, unless you talk of stocks or consols.”

“Well, then, Colonel Danby and his daughter.”

“They will do pretty well; but I was thinking of Mrs. Haughtville, who,

you know, has always lived in the first circles.”

“What! that deaf old woman? I can’t see of what use she can be.”

“Why, my dear, it won’t do to ask just common-place country neighbours.

We must get somebody Lord Montreville is likely to know.”

“Very true! And then my friend Dolby, he knows every body, and can talk

thirteen to the dozen.”

“He knows every body who has been in India, but I very much suspect he

does not know any body that Lord Montreville would think any body,”

answered the lady, who never could endure her husband’s jolly friend,

who certainly did eat, drink, talk, and laugh thirteen to the dozen,

but who, she not unwisely thought, would be a very bad ingredient in

this refined party; “Surely Sir James Ashgrove, the member for the

county, would be a better person; we can give him a bed, you know.”

“Very well—Ashgrove is a good fellow, and a sensible fellow, but he

never gives you much of his conversation, unless you talk of the last

division in Parliament, and then he will tell you which way every

member voted, and the reasons of his vote into the bargain.”

“But he is a man of good birth and good connexions, and quite a friend

of the family besides; James’s godfather and all.”

“Then, if we ask our good parson and his two daughters, we shall have

quite enough. I don’t like a great let-off; it is much best to take

matters quietly.”

“Good heavens, Colonel Heckfield! you cannot be in earnest. What!

that old proser, who makes a comma between every word, and a full

stop nowhere! and those two Misses, one as old as the hills, and the

other as giggling a girl as ever I saw. Besides. Lucy and she will get

laughing and gossiping together, and Lucy never appears to advantage

when Bell Stopford is with her.”

“Whom had we best have then, my love?” responded the Colonel, who began

to be weary of the discussion.

“Why, first of all, Mrs. Haughtville,” answered Mrs. Heckfield, who

had long ago prepared her list in her mind, “and Sir James Ashgrove

(as _you_ wish), and young Mr. Lyon, Lord Petersfield’s nephew, and

Sir Alan Byway, the great traveller, and Miss Pennefeather, who wrote

those sweet novels; she is quite the lion of these parts, and people of

fashion like to meet a genius; and then, my dear, I thought of asking

Lord and Lady Bodlington.”

“Mercy upon us, wife! why I don’t know them by sight.”

“But I do, Colonel Heckfield, and a sweet woman she is. I was

introduced to her at the ball the other night, and it would be but

civil to ask them to dinner.”

“I think it would be much better to have Mr. Denby and his nice

daughter. But it is all the same to me; I don’t like running after fine

folks, who care not a rush for us, that’s all.”

“Well, if Lord and Lady Bodlington cannot come, then we will ask the

Denbys. But I really am half pledged to ask them, for Lady Bodlington

said the other night she heard I had the prettiest green-house in the

world: and I said I hoped to have the pleasure of showing it to her.”

“But we do not dine in the green-house?”

“I assure you, my love, I understand these little matters better

than you do, and it would seem quite marked if we did not ask the

Bodlingtons.”

Colonel Heckfield did not quite understand what would seem marked, but

he acquiesced.

The distinguished personages mentioned by Mrs. Heckfield proved

propitious, with the exception of Sir Alan Byway, whose place was

filled, though most inadequately filled, by a young shy lordling, who

was at a private tutor’s in the neighbourhood. Mrs. Heckfield preferred

him, on account of his name, to the Indian friend Dolby, whom Colonel

Heckfield, on the secession of the loquacious traveller, made another

attempt to insert.

The eventful day arrived. Mrs. Heckfield, in her secret soul, was in a

great fuss, though she maintained a tolerably placid exterior; she was

so afraid, after all her pains to exclude any unworthy guests, that

the party might prove dull, or not _bien assorti_. Colonel Heckfield

was really composed and easy: he did not like seeking great people,

but, if they fell in his way, they did not annoy him. The place, though

small, was pretty; the house was _bien montée_; there was nothing to be

ashamed of, and he did not see how it could much signify whether one,

out of the many pleasant, cheerful dinners, which had taken place under

his hospitable roof, proved, or did not prove, the quintessence of

perfection.

Not so Mrs. Heckfield. She had settled that, on the impression made

that day, depended the future fate of Lucy. When she let herself alone,

she was a pleasing, popular woman; but on this occasion, she wished to

be more elegant and well-bred than usual. Mrs. Haughtville being rather

deaf, could not hear a word she said; and, as Mrs. Heckfield would not

commit the vulgarity of speaking loud, every word they addressed to

each other, might have figured very well in the game of cross questions

and crooked answers. Lady Bodlington was a good-humoured very insipid

little woman! Lord Bodlington the most common-place man imaginable.

Mr. Lyon was an empty dandy, and he was unfortunately seated next to

Miss Pennefeather, whom he regarded with horror, fear, detestation,

and contempt, as a blue—and, worse than all, a country blue! Miss

Pennefeather, in a yellow toque and red gown, sate up, waiting to be

drawn out—but—she waited in vain. The fashionably low tone of voice in

which the mistress of the mansion spoke, and her studied desire to be

perfectly well-bred, communicated a _gêne_ and formality to the whole

party, which, re-acting upon the suffering hostess, would have made the

evening one of unmitigated pain to herself, and of unmitigated bore to

her company, if Lord Montreville’s tact and good breeding had not come

to the relief of all parties.

He asked Miss Pennefeather some questions upon modern literature, which

gave her an opportunity of pouring forth her stores of information

into the ears of the loathing dandy. He made a remark concerning the

number of members who had paired off upon the last important division

in the last session of Parliament, and Sir James Ashgrove was in his

element. He informed Lady Bodlington what was the proper name for that

species of sable of which her boa was composed, and she became eloquent

to prove that, whatever its name, it was of the most approved sort—in

Paris at least—whatever it might be in Russia. He told young Lord

Slenderdale he ought to look at Captain Charles Heckfield’s brown mare,

for she was the cleverest hack he had seen for a long time, and the two

young men soon found themselves able to speak. He complimented Colonel

Heckfield on his wines, and Mrs. Heckfield on the beautiful china of

which the dinner service was composed; and he told her in a friendly,

confidential manner, the only place where such rare china could be

matched. By degrees the conversation became general, and then he

listened to each, so as to make each person—each lady at least, believe

herself an object of interest and attention to him.

Mrs. Heckfield felt quite at her ease concerning the fate of her

dinner, and perfectly intimate with Lord Montreville, but not quite

happy about Lucy, who, since the first awful silence, had given way

to a comfortable universal clatter, had grown so merry with her

brother and Lord Slenderdale, that Mrs. Heckfield felt convinced Lord

Montreville would set her down in his mind as a missish hoyden, and

entirely dismiss her from his thoughts. In vain were sundry maternal

glances levelled at poor Lucy—knittings of the eyebrows (suddenly

smoothed and converted into sweet smiles if any one looked her way),

all were wasted on the unconscious girl, who, in the gaiety of her

heart, continued to laugh and to talk till she was on the verge of

laughing a little too loud, and, as Mrs. Heckfield thought, of losing a

marquisate.

But she was mistaken. Lord Montreville knew the sex well, and he saw

that it was an innocent, gay, natural laugh—that there was neither

freedom nor coquetry in her merriment; he knew how quickly women catch

the tone of good society, and he still thought she would do.

Mrs. Heckfield hastened the signal for the departure of the ladies,

in consequence of Lucy’s ill-timed mirth, and they all sailed out,

Lady Bodlington first, the Honourable Mrs. Haughtville next, Miss

Pennefeather followed after, and Mrs. Heckfield was able quietly, but

angrily, to whisper to Lucy, “that she giggled just as if Bell Stopford

had been with her.”

CHAPTER IV.

Il n’est pas bien honnête, et pour beaucoup de causes,

Qu’une femme étudie et sache tant de choses.

Former aux bonnes mœurs l’esprit de ses enfans,

Faire aller son ménage, avoir l’œil sur ses gens,

Et régler la dépense avec économie,

Doit être son étude et sa philosophie.

Nos pères sur ce point étaient gens bien sensés,

Qui disaient qu’une femme en sait toujours assez

Quand la capacité de son esprit se hausse

A connaître un pourpoint d’avec un haut de chausse.

Les leurs ne lisaient point, mais elles vivaient bien,

Leurs ménages étaient tout leur docte entretien;

Et leurs livres, un dé, du fil, et des aiguilles,

Dont elles travaillaient au trousseau de leurs filles.

Les femmes d’à present sont bien loin de ces mœurs,

Elles veulent écrire, et devenir auteurs.—MOLIERE.

There is no moment more trying to the mistress of a house than that

in which the ladies first gather round the fire when they leave the

dining-room. If a silence ensues, or if the conversation is begun in

too low a tone of voice, that voiceless utterance which denotes and

produces shyness, the die is cast—the character of the evening is

stamped.

Unfortunately Mrs. Heckfield, in her anxiety to be attentive, just as

the ladies were crowding round the fire, asked them if they would not

“take a seat,” and was sufficiently wanting in tact to allow them to

settle themselves, in something very nearly approaching a circle, and a

circle some way removed from the fire.

In vain were the sofas stuffed with cushions, in vain were the ottomans

as low as possible, and the arm-chairs so deep that no one under seven

feet high could reach the back of them; in vain were all the tables so

orthodoxly covered with snuff boxes under glass cases, miniatures in

beautiful frames, French souvenirs with liliputian artificial flowers,

annuals in every variety of binding, prose albums, poetry albums,

drawing albums, china cups and Sevres vases, Dresden inkstands, and

mother-of-pearl letter pressers, till it was impossible to find a spot

on which a cup could be safely deposited; all these appliances and

means to boot will not produce ease if it is wanting in the mind of the

hostess. From which, by the by, might be deduced the superiority of

mind over matter.

Mrs. Haughtville was a fine lady, and was anxious Lady Bodlington

should not labour under the erroneous impression that she was in her

element with Miss Pennefeather and the Heckfields. She therefore took

an early opportunity of asking Lady Bodlington how many Miss Heckfields

there were, and whether this Miss Heckfield was older or younger than

Lady Selcourt. Lady Bodlington answered truly and simply, that she

did not know, as she had only met them once before at the ball. Mrs.

Haughtville did not hear, and Lady Bodlington, who was straightforward

and good-humoured, and did not wish to be uncivil, was quite distressed

to know how to answer. Mrs. Haughtville continued to ask questions

about the people present, forgetting that though she asked in a

whisper, she could not hear the whispered answer.

Mrs. Heckfield, who thought if Miss Pennefeather would talk every one

must be delighted with her cleverness, was occupied in leading her to

subjects on which she fancied she would shine and edify her audience;

but Miss Pennefeather, who had found the dandy very unsatisfactory, and

was not much pleased with the _insouciance_ of the ladies of fashion,

and who thought herself privileged to have the sensitive pride of

genius, was not so easily drawn out. Lucy, who had been daunted by her

mother’s remark as they left the dining-room, was meek and silent.

It was up-hill work for Mrs. Heckfield. At length she thought of some

Italian views which had lately been sent to her by her eldest son, who

was on his travels.

“Have you seen these prints, Miss Pennefeather, that Henry has sent me?

They are quite in your way, such an Italian scholar as you are.”

Miss Pennefeather revived; she piqued herself on her pronunciation of

Italian. She looked at them with interest, read the names of each with

great emphasis, scrupulously called Leghorn, Livorno, and Florence,

Firenze; and expatiated on the beauties of each place, as if she had

lived there all her life.

“I thought you had never been abroad, Miss Pennefeather?” said Lucy,

timidly and simply.

“No! I have never been abroad, exactly,” replied Miss Pennefeather,

with a slight embarrassment, but, instantly recovering, she added

with enthusiasm, “but I have heard and read so much of these hallowed

spots, I feel as if I knew them perfectly; as if I had roved with

Il Petrarca, through the shady groves and by the purling streams of

Valchiusa; as if I had accompanied the great author of the Divina

Commedia in his wanderings; and I can almost fancy I had made one of

that party of congenial souls in the enchanted skiff with Guido and

Lappo,

‘E Monna Vanna, e Monna Bice poi,

E quella sotto ’l numer delle trenta!’

I never see a print of La bella Firenze, without thinking of her exiled

poet, and,” she added with a sigh, and an upward glance, which was

intended to speak volumes, “feeling with him—

‘Come sa di sale

Lo pan altrui, com’ è duro calle,

Lo scender, e ’l salir per l’altrui scale.’”

Miss Pennefeather was poor, and her friends were extremely kind in

frequently inviting her to stay at their houses, where she appeared to

enjoy herself exceedingly, and gave no signs of sympathising with Dante.

“What did she say?” asked Mrs. Haughtville.

“Something about salt bread, and its being very hard to go up and down

stairs,” answered the good-humoured Lady Bodlington.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Haughtville.

Miss Pennefeather cast a glance of contempt at the high-born pair,

and relapsed into a dignified silence. Coffee came: that was a real

blessing. Tea succeeded, which was some comfort. Mrs. Heckfield’s eyes

turned frequently and more frequently towards the door; still the

gentlemen came not. In her despair she bade Lucy give them a little

music.

“You are fond of music, I believe, Lady Bodlington?”

“Oh, yes! passionately fond of music!” answered Lady Bodlington, with a

suppressed yawn, and poor Lucy seated herself at the pianoforte.

She had a pretty voice, but she was very much frightened. Miss

Pennefeather was a critic, and Mrs. Haughtville looked so cold.

Lady Bodlington she did not mind—she seemed good-natured, and the

circumstance of her being a viscountess, had not the same effect on

Lucy’s nerves as on her mother’s.

She did her best, and Lady Bodlington, with a sweet smile, thanked her

for that pretty Spanish air.

“It is German!” said Lucy, with the _naïveté_ of youth; and both felt

uncomfortable. Lady Bodlington, at having made a wrong hit, Lucy,

at not having pronounced her words more distinctly. Lady Bodlington

should have known better than to utter any phrase of commendation which

committed her, as to the language in which a young lady’s song is

couched. Lucy should have known better than to set her right, when she

had made the mistake.

“If Miss Pennefeather would favour us!” humbly suggested Mrs.

Heckfield: “One of your own unique compositions, my dear Miss

Pennefeather. Miss Pennefeather composes words, and music, and all,

Mrs. Haughtville, and they are the sweetest things!”

This account of Miss Pennefeather’s multifarious talents excited

a slight emotion of curiosity in Mrs. Haughtville’s mind, and she

accordingly begged Miss Pennefeather to grant their request. Lady

Bodlington was very anxious indeed; and the poetess, whose pride,

though easily wounded, was, through the medium of her vanity, as

easily soothed, found the two fine ladies were more intellectual, and

consequently more worthy of the efforts of her genius, than she had at

first imagined.

After a little bashful reluctance, she seated herself upon the round

stool. She was short and thick, with a very small waist and a very full

gown, and she sat extremely stiff and upright. Her arms were short, and

when she meant to play _staccato_, she caught up her hands as high as

her shoulders, and then she pounced down again on the affrighted notes

as a kite upon a brood of chickens. The “sweet thing” she selected for

the occasion was in a German style. A love-lorn damsel who sold herself

to the spirit of darkness, that she might rejoin her murdered lover’s

ghost in another, but not a better, world. Miss Pennefeather’s nose was

small, and somewhat _retroussé_; her eyes were large, black, and round

(they were her beauty); her mouth would not have been ugly, but that it

was difficult to decide where her chin ended and her throat began, so

that, during the vehement and energetic passages which the nature of

the subject called forth, when the head was thrown back, and the black

eyes were darting their beams towards the ceiling, the double chin

protruded rather beyond the natural and original one.

The gentlemen entered just as the maiden was torn away to the realms

below by the infernal crew, and, having repented her of her unholy

compact, was invoking beings of the upper air to her rescue. The poor

pianoforte reeled under the astounding accompaniment, in its lowest

bass to the deep-toned exultation of the demons, and to the shrieks of

the maiden in its highest treble; the Sappho’s cheeks were suffused

with the excitement of the moment, the feathers in her yellow toque

were waving as rapidly as the plume of a hero in the thickest of the

fight. The sight, the sounds, were awful!

The dandy reached the door—he saw—he heard—and, he fled. He retreated

to the hall, and hastily seizing a hat (which, by the by, happened to

be Lord Montreville’s instead of his own,) and throwing around him his

military cloak, he boldly sallied forth in a drizzling wet night to

walk two miles to his lodgings.

“He’d brave the raging of the skies,

But not”—Miss Pennefeather.

The other gentlemen were less easily intimidated, and made good

their entrance. Lord Montreville seated himself by the side of Lucy,

and, without speaking enough to be uncivil towards the performer,

he contrived to make Lucy perfectly understand that he preferred

her conversation to Miss Pennefeather’s singing, although he was

passionately fond of music, and should like of all things to hear her

sing.

When the performance was concluded, he assured the Corinne of the

evening that her composition was one which could be heard with

indifference by no one. Miss Pennefeather was charmed, and asked if his

Lordship was an admirer of the new style of English music, which had

been introduced since the Captive Knight and the Treasures of the Deep

had made such a sensation.

“Of course you know the Treasures of the Deep? They tell me I have

caught something of the inspired authoress’s expression.” Lord

Montreville really trembled. He had heard it sung by the inspired

authoress, and he hastened to avert the sacrilegious attempt, by

begging for another of her own composition.

Charmed and flattered, Miss Pennefeather again burst forth in a

perfectly original piece, under cover of which Lord Montreville

entered into a most agreeable conversation with Lucy. His dark,

lively, expressive eyes, looked at her with so much consciousness

of being understood, that she immediately felt quite intimate, and

perfectly satisfied that he was as much amused as she was, by Miss

Pennefeather’s exhibition. These looks of mutual intelligence and

amusement prevented her feeling any awe of his age or his rank, while

his very age made her feel perfectly safe and innocent in immediately

giving in to the intimacy which so suddenly sprang up between them.

Their communication did not confine itself to a little good-humoured

ridicule of the self-constituted Corinne; he had the happy knack of

leading the conversation to topics interesting to the individuals with

whom he conversed; and Mrs. Heckfield overheard Lucy, in the fullness

of her heart, giving a detailed account of the death of a Newfoundland

puppy, which was supposed to have been bit by a mad dog!

Mrs. Heckfield was in agonies: she looked unutterable things; but her

looks were utterly thrown away. Lucy’s heart and soul were in her

subject, and her eyes were sufficiently tearful to look very bright

and melting. Lord Montreville thought this extremely countrified

simplicity, charming, though he did not intend it should last for

ever. He was himself a professed lover of animals, and he gave her, in

return, an account of a horse who neighed when he came into the stable,

and would put his nose into his pocket to find the bread he was in the

habit of feeding him with.

Lucy thought him the nicest, best-natured creature she had ever met

with; and Mrs. Heckfield saw her, in the midst of his story, draw her

chair nearer to him, her whole mind intent upon the sensible horse.

Mrs. Heckfield thought, “How improper! how forward! how vulgar! What

can ail Lucy to-night?”

When the company dispersed, what was her horror to see Lucy put out

her hand towards Lord Montreville, and shake hands with him cordially,

heartily, and frankly; but her horror was mixed with astonishment, when

Lord Montreville begged permission to call the next morning, as Miss

Heckfield had promised to show him some beautiful puppies, and to allow

him to select one, as he was a great dog-fancier.

“What can be the meaning of this?” thought she, “he must be disgusted

with Lucy’s manners to-day! They could not have been worse if Bell

Stopford had been here!”

When the last carriage had driven from the door, Mrs. Heckfield threw

herself into a chair.

“Well, Lucy! I think you have done it to-day! When you knew I wished

you to behave like a girl of fashion. When we had all the best

company within ten miles round assembled here, just this one day, to

giggle and laugh all dinner-time, and then to entertain a man of Lord

Montreville’s refinement and taste with your dog’s death, and your

puppies’ birth! He must think you have been brought up in the stables,

rather than in the drawing-room.”

“Oh, dear mamma! I assure you he asked me all about poor dear Hector’s

death!”

“Asked you about Hector’s death! How could he have known such a dog as

Hector ever existed, if you had not begun about your own dog and your

own affairs? Don’t you know that egotism should be avoided in every

way, and that it is the most ill-bred thing in the world to talk of

yourself and your concerns?”

“So it is, mamma;—very true. I did not mean to talk of myself, and

I am sure I do not know how I fell into it: but you don’t know how

interested he seemed. I do not think he was bored, really: he says he

is so fond of animals—just like me.”

“Pooh, child!—he is a very well-bred man, and was too polite to let you

feel you bored him. You must learn not to be led into pouring your own

histories into people’s ears.”

Mrs. Heckfield forgot that at dinner she had given Lord Montreville a

very long account of the manner in which she had become possessed of

the china he had admired.

CHAPTER V.

“Enfin ils me mettaient à mon aise: et moi qui m’imaginais qu’il y

avait tant de mystère dans la politesse des gens du monde, et qui

l’avais regardé comme une science qui m’était totalement inconnue,

et dont je n’avais nul principe, j’étais bien surprise de voir qu’il

n’y avait rien de si particulier dans la leur, rien qui me fût si

étranger; mais seulement quelque chose de liant, d’obligeant, et

d’aimable.”

MARIVAUX.

Lucy went to bed uneasy at having had such bad manners, and yet not

altogether mortified; for, though she implicitly believed all her

mother said of her behaviour, she did not think it had quite produced

the effect she imagined upon Lord Montreville, “for mamma did not know

how good-natured he was.”

She generally chatted with Milly, as she was undressing; and Milly,

who was aware that the party of that day was one which had excited

some anxiety in her mistress’s bosom, inquired of Miss Lucy “how the

gentlefolks had been pleased, and whether every thing was right at

table.”

“We were all pretty well placed, I believe, only mamma says I am not to

sit so near Charles again, for if we get near each other we make too

much noise; and Mr. Lyon did not like Miss Pennefeather at all.”

“I am sorry for that, miss; but I meant how the cross-corners did, for

poor Mrs. Fussicome was in such a way. The jelly would not stand, and

it looked so shocking bad when it was in the dish, that what did we do

but beat up some raspberry cream in no time, and sent it in instead;

but then it made two reds at the cross-corners; but I should hope

nobody noticed it.”

“I am sure I did not, nurse, and I don’t think mamma did; at least

she said nothing about it. Every thing looked very nice, tell Mrs.

Fussicome.”

“Yes, miss, that I will, for she has been quite put out about it; she

said she could not enjoy her supper a bit, and she thought the soufflet

was not quite right.”

“Mamma did not say any thing about it: indeed she saw no faults in the

dinner, they were all in me. How I do wish I had not such spirits. I

mean to be so quiet and demure, and as soon as the people begin to

talk to me I forget. I do really believe Lord Montreville is very

good-natured, and will not think the worse of me.”

“La! miss, I’m sure your mamma can’t think there is any harm in talking

and laughing with such an old gentleman.”

“He is not so very old, Milly,” answered Lucy, though if Milly had not

said so, she might have been the first to say it herself.

About one o’clock the next morning, Lord Montreville arrived at Rose

Hill Lodge, and was surprised to find Lucy shy, reserved, timid,

and rather awkward. Mrs. Heckfield, anxious to efface from Lord

Montreville’s mind all impressions concerning the kennel, and the

stables, and the dog-hutches, led his attention to the flower garden,

which was remarkably pretty, and to her small conservatory, which was

in excellent order, at the same time taking care to let him know that

the disposition of the flower-beds was according to Lucy’s taste, that

Lucy had arranged the vases in the manner which excited his admiration,

that the training of the creepers in festoons from one tree to another

was Lucy’s fancy. She pointed out a beautiful new geranium which had

been named after her little “madcap Lucy; for madcap as she is, Lord

Montreville, she has a decided taste for botany and that kind of

thing,” added Mrs. Heckfield, with a sweet smile at Lucy, who certainly

that morning had not deserved the name of “madcap.”

Lord Montreville immediately understood the state of the case, and

was well pleased; he thereby perceived that Lucy was docile, easily

subdued, and easily managed. However, as his present object was to win

her confidence, preparatory to attempting her heart, he alluded to Miss

Heckfield’s promise of a puppy of their beautiful breed of setters, and

he begged to be taken to the kennel, as he was to be allowed to choose

for himself. Mrs. Heckfield entreated Lord Montreville would allow

her to send for the dogs. Lord Montreville insisted on not giving so

much trouble, when the servant was seen issuing from the drawing-room

windows, showing the way to Lord and Lady Bodlington, who had called

to see the conservatory. Mrs. Heckfield had a fresh demand on her

politeness, and after the proper greetings, Lord Montreville whispered

Lucy that she must not allow him to be cheated of his puppy, that he

had quite set his heart upon seeing the whole family, and entreated

her to lead the way. She was at first somewhat confused, and looked

uneasily towards her mother, who was some way in advance; but she did

not know how to refuse, so they proceeded through the back-yard, by the

coal-hole, and the bottle-rack, through the drying-ground, past the

pigsties, to a range of out-houses, where Lufra and all her family were

shut up.

The moment Lucy opened the door, up jumped Lufra, to the great

detriment of the pretty muslin gown which that day made its first

appearance.

“Oh, my best new gown!” exclaimed Lucy. “O dear! Why would mamma make

me put it on?”

She had scarcely uttered the words when it flashed across her why mamma

had wished her to be smart and to look well. She stopped short, and

blushed up to the eyes.

“This is too _naïf_,” thought Lord Montreville; “but _naïveté_ soon

dies away if it is not encouraged. Her mother wishes to catch me, I

know; but the girl has no plan; I shall be able to mould her to my

liking.”

A young man would have flown off upon perceiving the mother’s views;

but Lord Montreville had seen them plainly from the very beginning, and

it did not affect his opinion as to whether Lucy _était son fait_, or

not. Because Mrs. Heckfield wished to catch him, there was no reason he

should be caught; and he continued his observations of Lucy, and his

calculations whether she would easily become the sort of wife he wished

to have.

After a long discussion concerning the several merits and beauties

of the several puppies, in which Lucy found Lord Montreville’s taste

in dogs perfectly coincided with her own, the puppy was selected,

and Lucy’s heart had again opened, her reserve had vanished, she had

made up her mind that, for once, mamma was wrong, and she was right;

that her’s had been the most correct estimate of Lord Montreville’s

character. She asked him if he admired young donkeys. He confessed that

if he had a weakness, it was for a little baby donkey, with a shaggy

forehead and a pointed nose. Lucy’s eyes sparkled at such a proof of

sympathy in her companion. She proposed to show him her pet. He eagerly

assented, and they proceeded through the chicken-yard to the paddock

where the donkeys were grazing. The chickens expected to be fed, and

all gathered round Lucy’s feet; the donkeys instantly set up a most

sonorous braying, and galloped to her with their uplifted heads. Lucy

was amused, and began to laugh, and to pat, and stroke, and pinch the

dear sensible creatures, when a turn in the shrubbery walk brought Mrs.

Heckfield, Lord and Lady Bodlington, and Mr. Lyon to the opposite side

of the paddock, which commanded a view of Lucy and Lord Montreville.

Lucy felt her cheeks glow, and her mirth subside. Her mother, who

could not but know through what ignoble paths she must have led Lord

Montreville, would be more displeased than ever. She was sobered in an

instant. Lord Montreville perceived the blush, and the change in her

countenance, and flattered himself there was something gratifying to

himself in her emotions. They retraced their steps, but Lucy was silent

and abashed, and looked heartily ashamed of herself when they rejoined

the party.

Lord Montreville immediately addressed Mrs. Heckfield, informed her

that “Miss Heckfield, at his earnest request, had allowed him to

inspect the puppies, and to select the one he fancied; and that he had

a childish passion for young donkeys, which she had also most kindly

indulged.”

Mrs. Heckfield saw that no harm was done, and she was soothed. Lucy

thought him more good-natured than ever in thus averting the storm she

saw impending, and gratitude was added to cement the union of their

congenial souls.

He now became a frequent visitor at Rosehill Lodge, and his manner

gradually assumed more the tone of gallantry. Reports arose. Lucy was

rallied by her young friends, and began to look into her feelings.

She had seen his beautiful equipage, his four blood bays; she had

seen engravings of his magnificent seat in Staffordshire, of his

lovely villa near London, of his ancient castle in Wales. She was

proof against the splendour of Ashdale Park, and the elegancies of

Beausejour, but the castle had a decided effect upon her heart. The

walls were nine feet thick; there was a donjon keep, at the top of a

tower nine hundred and forty-one years old; and Lord Montreville’s

teeth were extremely good, almost as good as Captain Langley’s. From

the vaults under the Caërwhwyddwth Castle subterraneous passages, to

the end of which no one within the memory of man had penetrated, were

supposed to extend to the ruined monastery of Caërmerwhysteddwhstgen;

and then Lord Montreville was quite thin, not the least inclined to

corpulency. He was older than Sir Charles Selcourt, but he was much

more agreeable; he was certainly a great deal older than Captain

Langley, but then Captain Langley was not the least clever. All

their tastes agreed exactly. He was enthusiastic upon the self-same

subjects,—puppies, donkeys, goslings, and Lord Byron.

Her mind was in a wavering state, when the following conversation took

place between herself and Milly:—

“This is poor Miss Lizzy’s birth-day, miss, and we have all been

drinking her health and happiness to-night at supper. She is twenty-two

this very day.”

“And I shall be nineteen next birthday, Milly. We are all growing very

old. It is almost time I should be married. How old were you when you

married?”

“Nineteen, Miss Lucy.”

“Just about my age. And how old was John?”

“In his twenty-one, miss.”

“Dear! I don’t think that was difference enough. A man ought to be a

good deal older than his wife, that he may advise her, and guide her,

and all that, as mamma says, when she is out of sight of her mother.”

“I can’t say, miss. The Bible says, ‘I will make an help meet for

him;’ so I suppose the woman is to help the man, as well as the man to

help the woman; and if they are to help one another, why I reckon they

should be something of an age.”

“Perhaps that may be best, nurse, where they both have to work, and

where the man should be young and strong to labour for his family; but

in another line, nurse,—among richer people, you know,—where there is

no occasion to be strong and to work hard, it is such a thing for a

giddy young girl to have a steady sensible man, who can tell her all

she ought to do—a man much cleverer than herself, a person she can

quite look up to.”

“Maybe it is, miss.”

“And then, as mamma says, a married woman, if she is not quite ugly,

is liable, you know, to have men—young men—talk to her,—talk to her a

good deal,—more than they should; and then it is such a thing to have a

husband who can tell her exactly whom she should talk to, and whom she

should not talk to.”

“But sure, miss, I should think every woman, married or single, might

know when a gentleman said any thing as was not becoming for her to

listen to.”

“Yes, certainly; but mamma says that in the great world a young woman

might get herself talked about just for talking all about nothing

at all, to one of those fashionable dandies, and that if she has a

husband who knows the world well, he will tell her just how far she may

listen to such people.”

“Well, my dear Miss Lucy, we poor folks don’t understand about talking,

and being talked about, and listening, and not listening. For my part,

for as long as I have lived in this wicked world—and a wicked world it

is in some ways—I never knew a young woman as was married to a young

man as was the man of her heart, as ever lost her good name for all

she might be affable and pleasant like with her neighbours. But the

gentlefolks knows best, to be sure.”

Milly was unsatisfactory: she saw what was going on in the family, and

she could not like it: it was no business of hers, and she would never

think of stepping out of her place. Lucy was uncomfortable. She loved

Milly, and, moreover, she had settled in her own mind to love like

Milly. She longed to know what she thought of Lord Montreville, and at

length she plunged into the subject.

“Don’t you think Lord Montreville is a very pleasing-looking man,

Milly?”

“Yes, miss; he looks very well for his years.”

“He is so clever, you can’t think.”

“Is he, miss?”

“And so very good-natured!”

“That is a good thing for all his servants, I am sure, miss.”

“And for every one else who is connected with him.”

“Yes, certainly, miss.”

“He is the most agreeable person, and loves all sorts of animals, and

seems to like to have every thing about him happy.”

“Sure, miss.”

“Do you know, Milly, I should not be very much surprised if you might

some day have an opportunity of trying whether he made those around him

happy or not.”

“Indeed, miss!”

“Mamma says she is convinced he likes me very much;” and she added, in

a coaxing manner, “now what shall we do, you and I, Milly?”

“I am sure, miss, it is just as you please.”

“Yes, I know that well enough,” answered Lucy, with a shade of

pettishness in her tone; “I can say no as well as anybody, if I please,

and mamma says she would not influence my choice for the world; but

it certainly is very true what mamma says, that I am so giddy I should

always be getting into scrapes if I was to marry anybody as young

and as giddy as myself. It was only yesterday she was talking about

it, after Lord Montreville had brought me that beautiful bouquet of

orange-flowers; and she asked me whether I had any objection in the

world to him, and whether I did not think him clever, and agreeable,

and good-natured, and whether there was any body else I thought more

clever, or more agreeable, or more good-natured, and I’m sure I can’t

think of any body just now. Lord Slenderdale and Mr. Desmond are

handsomer, to be sure; but mamma would be shocked to hear me talk about

beauty in that kind of way. It does not sound well in a girl, you

know,” Then, after a pause, she added, “Did you think John handsome?”

“I believe other folks called him a fine young man, but I am sure I

never thought nothing at all about his looks.”

“Oh!” thought Lucy, “mamma is quite right; girls should not set any

value on the exterior—one should only think of the mind. Besides, Lord

Montreville is still very good-looking.” Presently she continued, “Did

you think John very clever, Milly?”

“La! miss, I don’t know, I am sure. The schoolmaster never said no

other than that he was a very good boy at his book, but I never thought

about his scholarship. That was no business of mine.”

“Was John agreeable, and pleasant, amusing, you know, to talk to.”

“He was always pleasant to me, I’m sure; he never gave me a bad word

nor an unkind look in his life, and he was always very agreeable to

any thing I wished; and, as to being amusing, why we always had other

things to think of, than amusing ourselves, so I can’t justly say.”

“Oh!” thought Lucy, “he was a good creature, but evidently very stupid

and dull; and Lord Montreville is so lively and agreeable!”

The result of this conversation was, that Lucy went to bed, pleased

with Lord Montreville, and not quite pleased with Milly. She went to

sleep and dreamed she was the Marchioness of Montreville, chaperoning

her sister Emma to Almack’s. People cannot prevent their dreams. “In

vino veritas.” Likewise, in dreams, there is truth. Many a weakness,

many a secret preference, which the waking thoughts would not be

guilty of harbouring, have been revealed to the dreamer in visions

over which he, or she, had no control. The emulator of Milly’s pure,

disinterested, uncompromising, uncalculating affection, would never

wittingly have allowed the idea of worldly vanities and splendours

to have influenced her mind; but I fear we should lower our heroine

too much in the opinion of the young and romantic reader, were we to

inquire too deeply into the degree in which they did influence her view

of the subject.

The next morning she jokingly repeated her dream to Emma.

“Oh! Lucy,” exclaimed Emma, “what a charming dream! And you know mamma

says, if you marry, I may come out at seventeen, and, if you don’t, I

must stay in this poky school-room till I am eighteen. You never can

refuse Lord Montreville.”

CHAPTER VI.

“A l’age où j’étais on n’a pas le courage de résister à tout le monde,

je crus ee qu’on me disait tant par docilité que par persuasion; je me

laissai entraîner, je fis ce qu’on me disait, j’étais dans une émotion

qui avait arrêté toutes mes pensées; les autres decidèrent de mon

sort, et je ne fus moi-même qu’une spectatrice stupide de l’engagement

éternel que je pris.”—MARIVAUX.

What with the jests of others and her mother’s counsels, both open

and implied, Lucy had no doubt of Lord Montreville’s intentions. The

whole affair seemed only to depend upon herself. What was her surprise

when at seven o’clock, instead of Lord Montreville, a note arrived,

apologising for his absence, on the plea that he had been summoned away

upon business. Lucy thought lovers were to be devoted things, who were

to have no business but that of gaining their lady’s favour.

There was a party that day, and she saw people looked surprised at

hearing Lord Montreville was gone away so suddenly, and she felt a

little mortified. “I am certainly in love,” she thought, “for every

thing seems dull to-day. Yes, it is all a blank now he is gone (how

much is implied by the simple pronoun _he_ or _she_); just as Milly

said when John was gone to the back woods, and she was left at Halifax.”

The resemblance between her situation and feelings, and those of Milly,

would not have been so evident to others.

Several days elapsed, and nothing was heard of Lord Montreville. His

saddle-horses were seen to pass towards London with their horse-cloths

packed upon their saddles, in travelling costume. Lucy thought he was

certainly gone quite away, without proposing, and she felt acute pangs

of mortification and disappointment. She was ready to cut out her

tongue for having, of her own accord, spoken to Milly of her prospects

in life, when those prospects were evidently mere conjurings of her

own self-conceit; she could have beat herself for having repeated her

foolish dream to Emma, who had repeated it to Mary, who had repeated

it to the governess, who had made Lucy blush more than once by her

allusions to it,—she could cry at thinking how faintly she had rebutted

Bell Stopford’s innuendoes, and she worked herself up to a state of

soreness and agitation, not unlike that which might be produced by the

tender passion itself.

It is not easy to distinguish how much of the emotions on such

occasions proceeds from real preference, and how much from gratified or

mortified vanity. I believe it does not often fall to the lot of any

one, to feel the real, pure, passion of love to the highest degree of

which their nature is capable; but the combination of other, less noble

passions, will produce considerable pains, pleasures, blushings, and

flushings; hearts will beat, cheeks turn pale, hands shake, knees even

will knock a little together, and the symptoms pass muster very well,

as love, true love. If the affair ends in marriage, and the parties

suit, it does as well as love, and often ends in becoming love itself.

If, on the contrary, the flirtation ends, as many flirtations do, these

symptoms are mentally laughed at and forgotten, as having only been

passing ebullitions of gratified vanity, or indignant pride; the heart

is supposed, and really is, free, and ready for a real true passion

whenever it may be called forth.

Lucy passed a restless and uncomfortable week—annoyed, when they were

asked where Lord Montreville was gone—annoyed, when they were obliged

to answer they did not know—annoyed, when they were asked when he

returned—annoyed, at being again obliged to reply they could not

tell—annoyed, when people looked surprised at their answers—annoyed,

when they looked wise and cunning, and treated these answers as

discreet evasions.

At length, on the tenth day from Lord Montreville’s departure his

servant was seen riding up the coach-road, towards the back-door.

Lucy’s heart beat very quick, and she thought it quite abominable of

John not to bring the note up-stairs immediately. She would fain have

told her mother that she had seen the servant arrive, and that John was

evidently waiting to finish his dinner, and to prepare the luncheon,

before he brought the note; but she was ashamed to show her impatience,

and she resolutely continued to copy music.

John, it is presumed, had a good appetite that day, at least the

time appeared unaccountably long. At length, however, luncheon was

announced, and the note delivered, with the information that Lord

Montreville’s servant was to wait for an answer.

“It must be the proposal; and the servant is not to return without the

answer,” thought Lucy, and her eyes felt dizzy. She glanced at the

exterior of the note—it was three-cornered! It could not be a proposal.

No! Never did a proposal come in the shape of a three-cornered note! It

was very short, announcing his return, and begging if Mrs. Heckfield

had finished the third volume of some novel which he had lent her,

that she would return it, as he was sending back a box of books to the

library.

Lucy durst not ask what were the contents of the note; but her mother

threw it to her, bidding her look for the book. She read the momentous

communication, the withholding of which by John had so excited her

internal wrath, and she thought it the shortest, oddest note, she ever

read!—so abrupt! evidently written in such a hurry! There could be no

doubt, however, what it meant to convey—a complete breaking off of the

intimacy with their family;—even sending for his book in such haste!

Meanwhile, she hunted for the volume, and she packed it up, resolving

in her own mind to beware of the base deceiver, man; and feeling

herself a slighted damsel.

Lord Montreville’s absence had been caused by business connected

with the intentions he entertained towards Lucy; but if he had acted

upon a plan, he could not have shown more consummate policy. Every

one values more highly whatever they have lost, or believe themselves

on the point of losing; and when, in the course of that very day, he

himself called at Rosehill Lodge, Lucy felt very happy, and greeted him

with a blushing cheek and conscious face, which made him think he had

really inspired the young thing with the tenderest interest; and Lucy,

when she felt her heart beat, said to herself, “This is love—it can be

nothing else.”

They were prepared for their walk, when Lord Montreville called; and

he begged leave to accompany them. Mrs. Heckfield stopped to give

some directions to the gardener, Lord Montreville proceeded along

the shrubbery-path with Lucy, and Mrs. Heckfield was not so swift

of foot as to overtake them without exerting herself more than she

thought there was any occasion to do. The three-cornered note had not

appeared to her such decisive evidence of a wish to withdraw from their

acquaintance.

Lord Montreville expressed his pleasure at returning to Lyneton,—not

that he liked Lyneton—he thought it an odious place; but he was so glad

to find himself once more in the neighbourhood of Rosehill Lodge: but

great as was the pleasure he felt, he could hardly flatter himself his

return could give any corresponding pleasure; if he could suppose so,

he should indeed esteem himself fortunate.

“It is coming,” thought Lucy; and she now felt as much afraid he should

propose, as she had before felt afraid he would not. Her whole wish was

to avert the momentous explanation.

“Oh, yes,” she answered, “mamma is always very glad to see you. Where

is mamma? perhaps she has missed us; we had better find her;” and she

turned and mended her pace.

“May I not hope to detain you one moment, Miss Heckfield?” asked Lord

Montreville, in a voice of earnest persuasion.

“Oh! it is as good as come!” thought Lucy; “what shall I do?—Oh yes,

certainly,” she answered, but walked on faster than ever.

“If you would allow me a few moments’ conversation, Miss Heckfield, I

have much to say that interests me deeply.”

“Where can mamma be?” rejoined Lucy, in a tone of fear and trepidation.

“For a few moments you must listen to me!” &c. &c. &c.

Suffice it to say, Lord Montreville then proposed. The words of a

proposal are horridly stupid to the ears of all but the parties

concerned; and in what precise terms Lord Montreville couched the offer

of his hand, heart, fortune, and titles, has remained, and will ever

remain, unknown. A terrified “O dear!” uttered by Lucy when he began to

unfold his mind, were the only words which escaped her lips. When he

pressed for an answer, she did not say “No!” but she still walked on,

her pace increasing every second, her close garden-bonnet well pulled

over her face, which was rigidly directed on the gravel-walk before

her, so that no one who was not immediately opposite had a chance of

catching a glimpse of her countenance. Even Lord Montreville began

to feel a little awkward. He had made love often enough, but he had

proposed but once before; and that was in his early youth, to a very

rich heiress, who had soon after married a duke. Fortunately for the

nerves of both, they came upon Mrs. Heckfield at a turn in the walk.

She saw with a glance that something decisive had taken place, and she

hastened to relieve Lucy, and also to clench the matter.

Lucy slipped her arm within Mrs. Heckfield’s, and feeling comparatively

easy and secure, now she had interposed her mother between herself and

her suitor, she walked on in silence, carefully contriving to make each

step so exactly keep time, that the somewhat rounded form of the matron

should completely eclipse the slender form of the girl.

Lord Montreville explained himself in becoming and graceful terms; and

Mrs. Heckfield, in a rapture of scarcely concealed joy, declared with

what pleasure she should communicate Lord Montreville’s flattering

declaration to Colonel Heckfield.

“But, my dear Mrs. Heckfield, I have not yet been allowed to hope. Your

daughter has not given me one word, one look of encouragement, and I

need your kind influence to induce her——”

“Lucy, my dear, you have not been so uncivil as to—My dear child, don’t

be so silly. You must excuse her, my dear Lord Montreville, she is so

young, and so little used to these agitating scenes. _I_ know what her

feelings are, and although she is not at this moment able to speak for

herself, I think I may answer for it you need not despair. Perhaps, if

you were to leave her for a short time to compose herself, she would be

more able to enjoy your society by dinner-time.”

“Must I then depart without hearing my fate? But I would not distress

Miss Heckfield on any consideration, and I had rather pass some hours

of suspense and wretchedness myself than that she should feel one

moment’s annoyance. I trust she will allow me to prove by my future

life that such are my sentiments.” He took her unresisting hand, and

pressing it between his own with an air of gallantry, he took his

departure with very little doubt or suspense as to the result of

the family colloquy. But he wished not only to be accepted, but to

be preferred. He was himself totally incapable of again feeling the

passion of love, if indeed any of the _liaisons_ and flirtations in

which he had been engaged deserved such a name; but he wished to excite

it, and it was to him an amusing and a gratifying study, to watch the

flutter and the trepidations of the young thing who was apparently now

experiencing them for the first time.

As soon as he was fairly out of sight, Lucy burst into tears, and threw

herself upon her mother’s shoulder, saying, “Oh, mamma, I am as good as

married!”

“Well, my love, and do you wish to live single all your life?”

“O no, mamma!”

“And do you dislike Lord Montreville?”

“O no, mamma!”

“You seemed to me very uneasy and restless when he went away without

proposing.”

“Yes, mamma, so I was, certainly.”

“And you looked very happy when he called just now. Were you not glad

to see him?”

“Yes, mamma, I certainly was.”

“Well, my dear, if you were sorry he went away without proposing, you

must be glad he has come back, and has proposed.”

“Yes, I suppose I am, but I do not feel as if I was.”

“Do you wish me, then, to refuse him? I would never force any girl’s

inclinations, as I have always told you, and I am ready to take

the whole thing upon myself if you please; for really, after the

encouragement you have given him, I do not see how you can consistently

say he is not agreeable to you.”

“Have I encouraged him so very much?”

“I do not know, my love; but you allowed him to take your hand just

now, and you always appeared to have neither eyes nor ears for any one

else when he was present.”

“He always had so much the most to say.”

“Well, you know best: I can say no more than that if you dislike him, I

am ready to refuse him for you. Do you wish me to do so?”

“Oh, no! not that——”

“Then you wish me to accept him, in your name?”

“Oh, not quite that, mamma.”

“My dear, girls must say Yes or No. As I have always told you, I will

not put any force on your inclinations.”

Nothing persuades people so much, as saying you would not persuade

them,—nothing constrains them so much, as saying you would put no

constraint upon them. This Mrs. Heckfield felt from female tact. It

was from intuition, not by design, that she used these expressions,

while at the same time she thereby re-assured herself that she was not

hurrying Lucy into a worldly marriage.

“Do you wish me to tell Lord Montreville that, although you may have

seemed to prefer his society to that of others, you do not in fact

prefer him, and that therefore you must decline the offer he is so

flattering as to make you. Shall I say so?”

“No, mamma; I should be very sorry, I am sure.”

“Then you wish me to say yes?”

“I suppose I do, mamma.”

“Well, my love, I think you have decided very wisely for yourself, and

no girl ever had more reason to be delighted with her prospects. You

have been selected from all the rest of your sex by a man who has been

universally reckoned most fascinating and irresistible, and whom all

the ladies were in love with, when he was only a younger brother; and

now that he has a noble fortune, and high rank, and might choose from

all the first beauties in the land, he picks out my little Lucy, who is

crying like a child, at having got—just the very thing she was ready

to cry because she thought she should not get, for I saw your face this

morning when the note came.”

Lucy smiled through her tears; the picture of the conquest she had made

was agreeable to her self-love, and the picture of her inconsistency

was undeniably true.

Mrs. Heckfield kissed her, and hastened to Colonel Heckfield to

communicate the important intelligence.

CHAPTER VII.

Oh, never may the hope that lights thine eyes,

Sweet maid, be changed to disappointment’s gloom;

Never th’ ingenuous frolic laugh I prize

To the forced smile that care must oft assume;

But may the blissful dream of thy young heart,—

That dream from which so many wake too late,—

Of joys that love requited shall impart,

Be realised in thy approaching fate!

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.

_Calantha._—To court, good brother, ere her bloom of mind

Be set for fruit? Oh, take her not to court,

Where we be slaves to petty circumstance

Of empty form and fashion. Where the laugh

Pealed merrily from the joy-freighted heart,

Gives place to measured smiles still worn by all,

As ’twere a thing of custom, and alike

Lavished on friend and foe; where your fair child,

For coronals of buttercups and hare-bells,

Must prank her youth in gorgeous robes of state,

And where sweet nature’s impulses must all

Be curbed, suppressed.

_Manuscript Poems._

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.

CHAPTER X.

Kingdomes are bote cares,

State ys devoyd of staie,

Ryches are ready snares

And hasten to decaie.

HENRY VI. _King of England_.

When in London, Lucy, although in perfect health, and peculiarly active

and alert, was not permitted to go out. She was chained to the sofa,

till she almost longed to be a little ill to give her some occupation.

She did muster a little attack of nerves, and an occasional whim,

which, unfortunately for her, served to justify Lord Montreville in the

continuance of his precautions.

Lord Montreville was often at the House of Lords, and as the season

advanced he was more and more absent from home. Lucy thought the peers

really worked very hard, and sacrificed a great deal of time to the

good of their country. However, it was so right and praiseworthy to do

so that she could not complain.

Numberless persons left their cards with her, and she sent her’s in

return; but, as she was not allowed to keep late hours, she did not go

out of an evening, and her circle of acquaintance did not increase as

rapidly as she expected. Lord Montreville did not allow her to admit

gentlemen of a morning, and he did not encourage her seeing much of

Mrs. Bentley and her “sweet children;” so that, except the visits of

the Duchess of Altonworth and her daughters, with whom she soon became

intimate, and the drives into the country, which she sometimes took

with them, nothing could exceed the monotony of her life.

She heartily wished the spring over, and her confinement over, and

another spring come, that she might revel in the anticipated delights

of a good London season.

In the course of time the spring was over; they returned to the

country, and Lucy reminded Lord Montreville that he had promised her

parents should pay them a visit. The invitation was despatched, and

they arrived, father, mother, sisters, and Milly.

Lucy’s situation afforded an excuse for not seeing much company, which

suited Lord Montreville very well; but not so well Mrs. Heckfield, who

had passed four days in London, on her way to Ashdale Park, for the

purpose of providing herself and daughters with apparel fit for the

succession of distinguished company which she there expected to meet.

Neither did it suit Emma and Mary, whose hearts palpitated at the

prospect of wearing their new wardrobe, and at the effect it was

to produce. Vague images of barons, viscounts, earls, marquesses,

and even dukes, were floating in their minds, and Mademoiselle had

certainly intimated she did not see why if one of her young people had

married so brilliantly, the others should not do as well, especially

as Mademoiselle Emma played with much more execution than Madame la

Marquise, and Mademoiselle Marie had begun learning German.

One and all were wofully disappointed when day after day elapsed, and

the family party received no addition, unless it might be the clergyman

of the parish, Lord Montreville’s solicitor from the county town, once

his agent from Lancashire, and once the Delafields.

Mrs. Heckfield appeared in perfect caps from Devi’s, in the last new

Parisian hat from Carson’s; Emma and Mary in the crispest of white

muslins, over the cleanest of white satins. In vain! Neither duke,

marquess, earl, viscount, baron, or even baronet, made his appearance.

A fortnight had already slipped away,—the time for departure was

approaching, when Mrs. Heckfield one day said to her daughter,—

“Well, my dear Lucy, I hope when your confinement is over, you will

lead a gayer life. I fancied you had your house always full of company.

Your letters constantly contained a list of visitors as long as my arm,

and I am sure since we have been here, scarcely a soul has crossed your

threshold. We have ten times as much society at Rose Hill Lodge.”

“Lord Montreville takes too much care of me, and that is the reason we

have been so dull. I was afraid Emma and Mary would be disappointed,

but whenever I proposed asking people to come, Lord Montreville seemed

so afraid of my being ill. I am sure I am well enough, if he would but

think so.”

“Well, my dear, it is quite right that husbands should be attentive,

and I cannot but rejoice that your’s is so peculiarly so. Certainly

your father never took half so much care of me. However, I hope the

next time we pay you a visit we may find you well, and strong, and able

to have your house full, and that I shall have the pleasure of seeing

my Lucy the life of a brilliant society.”

Lucy sighed, for she had begun to understand Lord Montreville’s dislike

to introducing her friends to his friends, and she feared it would be

long before she had them all around her again. It was not that their

visit gave her all the pleasure she had anticipated from it: she felt

that her husband was bored; she was aware that he avoided his own set;

she was in an agony if any of her family did any of the things which

he thought out of the question; and her sisters, who were not “come

out,” although they “dined down,” as they termed it, often made her

uncomfortable.

One day her mother asked a gentleman opposite if he would “take”

some of the dish before her, and Lucy looked timidly towards Lord

Montreville to see if he had caught the sound of a word which was

peculiarly obnoxious to his ears. Emma, on another occasion, exclaimed,

what a “delicious” trifle, and she felt a chill run through her, for

she knew he had a particular aversion to an epithet, which to him

seemed expressive of gluttony.

Mary (who had never dined down before) was so delighted with the

variety of excellent dishes before her, that she was much inclined to

go the round of the second course, and needed many admonitory nods and

frowns from her mother. She also frequently tipped her chair on its two

fore-legs while she was writing or working, and this Lucy knew was an

unpardonable sin.

Both girls were gay and wild, and had, as most sisters have, till

they have been a little schooled in the world, the habit of talking

over each other, and sometimes of interrupting the person speaking in

their eagerness to rejoin. On such occasions Lord Montreville stopped

short, and betook himself to a silence which was most painful to Lucy,

although it was entirely unperceived by the culprits.

Lucy occasionally attempted to give them gentle hints upon these

subjects, but they only seemed to think she was grown quite fine,

and very difficult to please, and they could not conceal their

disappointment at the retirement in which she lived.

The result was, that at the end of three weeks, when the large coach

which contained them all drove from the door, a sensation of relief

mingled itself with the sorrow she felt at parting from them.

Milly remained at Ashdale Park, and Lucy looked forward with unmixed

pleasure to the prospect of having always about her a person so

thoroughly attached, and in whom she had such perfect confidence.

In the autumn the long-expected event took place,—Lord Montreville was

made happy by the birth of a son, and Lucy was delighted to think she

should soon be a free agent again.

They had removed to London for the occasion. Lord Montreville was a

great deal from home, and, as there were very few people in town, the

time hung heavy with Lucy; for she was so impatient to leave her sick

room and her sofa, that she did not find every thought and feeling

wholly absorbed in the new-born babe. She was very young in years, and

still more so in character: she had by no means had enough of youth and

gaiety, and was not yet ripe for the tender affections and dull details

of maternity. She was charmed with her baby, and was very unhappy if

it cried, but it did not suffice her for amusement to watch it all day

long. She wished Lord Montreville would stay at home, and read to her,

or would bring her home some news, or that somebody would come, or

something happen.

Milly was her comfort. She sometimes conversed with her for hours, and

listened with sympathy to the details of her life in America, and with

interest to her unsophisticated view of things in general. She thought

that after all there was nothing half so good or so sensible as Milly,

except the Duchess of Altonworth;—indeed, she fancied she perceived a

considerable resemblance between their characters.

They returned to the country. When the first excitement was over, of

bells being rung and oxen being roasted—when the servants, the tenants,

the neighbours, had all looked at the wonderful child, and pronounced

it to be the very finest they had ever seen, Lucy relapsed into her

former state of ennui. She began to think she must be ill.

“Milly, I do not think I am well,” she one day promulgated to Milly, as

she was sitting in the nursery.

“La, my lady! I am sure you look the very picture of health! What ever

is the matter?”

“I do not know, exactly.”

“You have not the headache, sure?”

“No! my head never aches.”

“Perhaps, my lady, you feel tired if you walk too far.”

“No! I do not think I ever feel tired with walking, but I feel very

tired if I do not walk.”

“Sure, my lady!—that’s comical too!”

“I never feel merry as I used to do; and I think it must be my state

of health that prevents my being so. I have thought of consulting Dr.

Bolusville, only I do not know what to say to him. I have no symptom

that I know of—only I ought to be so very happy. I possess every

thing that a person can sit down and wish for, and yet I feel low. I

sometimes think, if I had more occupation, I should be better; but Lord

Montreville is so kind, he will not let me take any trouble about any

thing. Now, I dare say you did not feel low when you were in your log

hut, on the banks of your swampy river—did you?”

“No, my lady! I never did, certainly;—when poor John was middling well,

that is.”

“Ah, yes, for you had plenty to do! that must have been the reason.

When I was a child, I always worked harder in my garden than my

sisters; and the old bailiff once gave me a silver knife, because he

said I had earned it haymaking. How I do wish Lord Montreville would

let me help him to manage the house, and that he would consult me, and

talk with me; but you see he never has any thing to say to me, except

a kind word now and then, just as he has to the child. I should like

to go hand-in-hand with my husband, as you and John did, and ride

about his woods, and his park, and his farm with him, as the Duchess

of Altonworth does with the Duke; and I should like to have a school,

and to be useful. But he would not let me go to the school—especially

now—he is so afraid of my bringing back the measles, or any complaint

to the child.”

“Well, my lady, the baby will soon be business enough for you. What a

sweet fellow he grows! Look! he knows you already!” and Milly tried to

turn her attention to the child; for she thought all the mischief lay

in Lord Montreville’s being so very little like John Roberts; and as

that evil was without a remedy, the less it was dwelt upon the better.

The wished-for spring came, and Lucy was at once launched into the

circle, which, to those who are not admitted, appears far to exceed in

glory and delights Dante’s “_Paradiso_.”

Lord Montreville did not approve of her going out quite every evening,

nor did he like her being seen at four or five parties the same night;

but he allowed her a fair proportion of dissipation. He generally

accompanied her himself; and without appearing to watch her, he

contrived to know exactly what she was doing: but he did not make

a point of never letting her stir without him: he took care to do

nothing that should make her feel herself doubted, or that should cause

either her or himself to appear ridiculous in the eyes of others. His

proceedings were, as usual, dictated by the head, rather than by the

heart; and were, as usual, framed with reference to the effect to be

produced on the world, rather than to any abstract notion of right and

wrong. In this instance, however, morality and expediency pointed out

the same line of conduct.

Lucy was charmed with all she saw, and she was also delighted at

finding herself considered charming; but her gaiety was as frank and

natural as ever, although more subdued than in her girlish days. She

ventured to talk more in society, and there was still enough left of

the madcap Lucy to give a certain raciness and originality to what she

uttered. Speeches, which in themselves were nothing, pleased from being

so like herself.

Lord Montreville had now sufficient confidence in her tact not to fear

any outbreak which could offend the most fastidious; and he rendered

justice to the perfect innocence of her manner, in which there was so

complete an absence of prudery or of coquetry, that no one presumed to

pay her any marked attention.

This was the happiest period of her wedded life. The charms of London

society had not yet palled on her, and, although her head was not

turned with it, still she could not be insensible to the _éclat_ of

her present position. She gradually became quite reconciled to seeing

less of Mrs. Bentley and her children than she had at first wished, and

she was not so much annoyed as she thought she should have been at not

having Emma with her at Almack’s.

The Duchess of Altonworth was most kind, and she passed many agreeable

evenings with small parties at her house.

Upon the whole, time no longer hung heavy. Lord Montreville now had

seldom occasion to set her right on any point of etiquette; and

when she saw him in private, he appeared pleased and satisfied with

her. But, although she did not always see his name in the House of

Lords, still he was frequently absent of an evening, except when they

were engaged to some pleasant party, in which case he almost always

accompanied her.

The season drew to a close. They left London, and, to her great

delight, removed to the Welsh castle, to pass some of the summer weeks

among the wild beauties of nature.

All she had heard or imagined of the awful glories of the castle were

more than realised. It was as vast, as dark, as gloomy, as massive, as

uncomfortable, and as ghostly as heart could wish; and when first she

arrived with all the spirits which the London season had infused into

her, she was enchanted with the small windows in the thick walls, and

the delightful look-out into the square courtyard.

There is no saying how long she would have found amusement in wandering

about the oaken passages, and the winding stairs, and in finding

likenesses for her boy among the grim warriors and furred judges whose

portraits adorned the sides of the gallery; or how soon she would have

longed for some of her friends to explore and to admire with her, for,

soon after their arrival at Caërwhwyddwth Castle, an event occurred

which gave a completely new current to her thoughts and feelings.

Lord Montreville, who had been out on horseback with his agent to

inspect some improvements that were making on the property, was one

evening brought home senseless. In descending a narrow footpath to

examine the foundations of a new bridge, the horse slipped. He was

precipitated down a considerable declivity, and a blow on the head

produced a concussion of the brain, from which the most serious

consequences might be apprehended.

Lucy’s horror and grief were such as might be expected. The doctor

from the nearest town arrived as soon as possible. His report of

the patient’s state was most alarming, although he gave hopes of

ultimate recovery. All the usual remedies of bleeding, blistering,

and extreme quiet were recommended; and Lucy sat night and day by his

bed-side, watching with intense anxiety for the symptoms of returning

consciousness.

The doubt had sometimes crossed her mind whether she did love her

husband as she had wished and intended to do, and as Milly had loved

John. But now, in his present helpless and suffering state, she felt

herself so capable of doing any thing for him, of enduring any thing

for him,—she felt that on his recovery all her future happiness so

completely depended, that she was quite reassured as to the extent of

her affection. She reflected with gratitude on his having selected her

from all the world; she forgot his little particularities, she thought

only of his kindnesses, and she nursed him with all the devotion and

forgetfulness of self with which Milly could have nursed her John.

Weeks elapsed, and he did not recover his memory, nor did he seem to

recognise those about him.

In the mean time agents, servants, stewards,—all required orders and

directions. There were law affairs pending. Lord Montreville’s letters

had been carefully set aside in his study till he himself might be

well enough to open them, when Lucy received a formal epistle from

the agent, informing her that among these letters there were some

containing papers which it was absolutely necessary should be returned

for signature. Lucy made up her mind that she must open the letters.

Before she went to Lord Montreville’s study to proceed with the

necessary routine, she looked into the sick room, to see that all was

quiet and comfortable.

She was again closing the curtains, when she was almost overcome with

joy at hearing him utter, in feeble accents, “Lucy, do not leave me!”

CHAPTER XI.

Se a ciascuno l’interno affanno

Si leggesse in fronte scritto,

Quanti mai che invidia fanno

Ci farebbero pietà.

METASTASIO.

Lucy could scarcely command herself so as to answer her husband,

without betraying a degree of emotion which might have been prejudicial

to him in his present state of weakness. He thanked her for her

attention to him; he told her he had often been aware of her presence,

though he had not had the power to show it. She bathed his hand with

tears of joy and gratitude; and at that moment, when he was endeared to

her by long watching and by deep anxiety, she felt as if Milly’s love

for John could not have exceeded her’s for her husband, her guide, her

protector, the father of her child.

The doctor came, and pronounced the patient convalescent; but

prescribed the most perfect quiet, and the avoidance of every thing

which might in any way arouse his feelings. Lucy told him of the letter

she had received from the agent, and asked his opinion and advice upon

the subject.

He declared it out of the question that Lord Montreville should be

allowed to attend to matters of business for weeks, nay, perhaps months.

Under these circumstances, Lucy resumed her intention of opening

Lord Montreville’s letters, and of acting according to the best

of her judgment. Several were most uninteresting and unimportant

communications, which required neither comment nor answer; some were

letters of correspondence, which she laid aside as soon as she found

they did not contain the papers of which she was in search. At length

she came to one written in a delicate female hand, beginning, “Dearest

Montreville,” and signed “Your Alicia Mowbray.”

“Alicia Mowbray!” she thought; “I never heard of her,” and her eye

glanced upon words which filled her with astonishment and horror:

“cruel absence,” and “consuming grief,” “counting the moments,” and

“happy meeting,” and “sad parting,” and “distress for money,” and

“necessary expenses,” winding up with an urgent request for a fresh

supply of a hundred pounds.

Could this be intended for Lord Montreville! She looked again at the

direction at the beginning of the letter. There could be no mistake:

it was most assuredly addressed to her husband,—to the husband whom in

health she had so dutifully studied to please,—whom in sickness she

had nursed with such unwearied attention,—from whom, though exposed to

all the fascinations and allurements of a London life, she had never

for one moment allowed her thoughts to wander! That he, whom she had

always looked upon as the appointed guardian of her honour and her

morals, should have been habitually, deliberately breaking his nuptial

vow, preferring to her pure and true affection the hired caresses of a

mistress,—and, above all, exposing her to the eyes of the world as the

neglected wife of an old profligate, old enough to be her father! The

letter fell from her hand; her brain went round with the multitudinous

thoughts that rushed almost simultaneously through it; but rage,

indignation, and disgust superseded, for some moments, all more tender

emotions.

Then came pity for herself, who had thus wasted the bloom of her early

feelings, and she wept bitter tears over her blighted youth, her

worthless beauty; for at this moment she suddenly became aware that she

was one of the most lovely and most admired of women,—admired by all

around her, except her husband,—lovely in all eyes but his!

Lucy had married almost from the school-room. Lord Montreville had

drawn a veil over his own former career; he had studiously avoided

initiating her into the frailties of fashionable life; he had

wished to preserve the purity he found; so that she still retained

that freshness of mind which refuses itself to the conviction of the

existence of vice, but which, when once unwillingly convinced, sees it

in all its natural deformity.

From long acquaintance with the world, the imagination becomes

familiarised with what at first inspired horror; or from experience of

the weakness of human nature, the temptations to which it is exposed,

and the gradations by which one error often leads on to guilt, the

charitable learn to pity the sinner, while they condemn the sin. But

Lucy’s perceptions of right and wrong were not blunted by habitual

intercourse with the faulty, nor softened by the consideration of their

temptations or their repentance. She saw but the broad distinction

between virtue and vice, and she looked on the latter with the

indignant horror of youth. Charity is not the characteristic virtue of

the young.

While she was absorbed in such new and painful reflections, there came

a tap at the door, and her maid informed her that Lord Montreville

was awake, and was incessantly asking for her. She started at the

interruption, and, quickly dismissing the maid, stood for a few moments

paralysed.

She had looked with loathing at the letter, till her tears had all

retreated to their cells. She roused herself, and hastily pushing the

other papers into an escrutoire, she stopped to pick up the fatal

epistle.

At that moment the servant entered. She instinctively crammed it into

her bosom, but as instantly pulled it forth again, as if its very touch

was contamination.

Lord Montreville was so impatient for her return, that a second

messenger had been despatched to hasten her. She rushed to her own

apartment, where she placed the letter under lock and key, and then was

obliged, with what composure she could muster, to repair to the bedside

of her husband.

He greeted her with a pleased smile,—he extended his pale and emaciated

hand to take her’s. “Dearest Lucy,” he said, “it seems an age since you

left me; it does me good to know my kindest and best nurse is near me.

I cannot bear to feel that what I love best is absent from me.”

His hand lay passively in hers; her soul recoiled from him. She could

not return the pressure of his hand, she could not meet his eyes.

“Falsehood upon his lips,” she thought, “when scarcely snatched from

the jaws of death, when still trembling on the verge of the grave.”

She made an effort to speak, and, assuring him the doctor forbade all

excitement or emotion, she begged him to compose himself to sleep.

“You will not leave me, then?”

She promised she would not, and she seated herself by the bedside. All

was quiet; he gradually dozed off into a light slumber; and there she

sat bewildered, confused, fancying all that had occurred must be a

dream! Could he speak so kindly, so tenderly, and yet be false? Could

he address her as the being he loved best, while he preferred to her

this Alicia? Could he, with death staring him in the face, thus add a

deliberate lie to all his other sins? Yet there existed the letter—the

letter which expressed implicit reliance on his affections!

She gazed on him as he slept, and looked back to the moment when he

had first recognised her, and thought, was it possible one little hour

could have worked such a wondrous revolution in her mind?

The truth was, that Alicia had been a mistress of former days, on whom

he had settled a handsome annuity at the very time when his absence

from Lyneton had excited such surprise in the inhabitants of Rose Hill

Lodge, and from whom he had then parted, as he intended for ever, but

who had once more succeeded in getting him within her toils.

For some time after his marriage he had neither heard nor seen any

thing of her; but when he came to London in the spring, he received

from her a letter, stating that she had been robbed of the money he

allowed her—that she was deeply in debt, and was threatened with an

execution in her house, and with the prospect of being sent to prison.

He could not do otherwise than ascertain the truth of this history,

and interfere to save her from such wretchedness. She was still very

handsome, in deep grief, and in great agitation at again seeing him.

He relieved her immediate wants, and occasionally visited her; for

which visits she expressed the greatest gratitude, and from which she

contrived to extract considerable additions to her allowance. He did

not thoroughly believe in her passionate devotion to him, but he could

not be cruel to a person who had acquired the sort of hold over him

which is obtained by long habit.

He did not consider that this renewal of his former acquaintance at all

interfered with his making an excellent husband, for he treated his

wife with all possible respect and attention; she had every thing that

an unlimited command of money could procure her, and he imagined that

the whole guilt of infidelity consisted in its coming to the knowledge,

and consequently hurting the feelings, of the wife.

If he had been obliged to make his election between them, he would

not have hesitated for a moment; but there was nothing, to his mind,

incompatible in the two connexions.

In fact, his sentiments for Lucy had of late rather increased than

diminished in warmth; for he could not but respect the singleness of

heart with which she passed through the ordeal of a London season,

so dangerous to a young and lovely married woman of high rank, and

especially to one who was the fashion. As the mother of his son and

heir, she had an additional claim on his affections that no other woman

had ever possessed; and the attention with which she had nursed him had

now awakened in his bosom stronger emotions of tenderness than he had

thought himself capable of feeling.

The expressions which fell from his lips came straight from his heart,

although, at that moment, they appeared to Lucy to be an insulting

refinement of deceit.

During the hour which she passed watching his slumbers, she seemed

to live a long life of bitter and confused thoughts, and she was

unutterably relieved when the entrance of the physician enabled her to

make her escape, and to lock herself into her room, there to meditate

on the past, the present, and the future.

On looking back she remembered a thousand circumstances which to her

unsuspicious mind had seemed of no import at the time, but which

now proved to her that this connexion was one of some standing. She

remembered having heard persons allude to debates in the House of

Lords, at which he had been obliged to confess he had not been present,

although he had been absent from her all the evening. She remembered

how little she had seen of him during her confinement; she looked at

the fatal letter, and felt certain she had often seen notes in the same

hand-writing, and she became more and more indignant to think she had

long been a neglected, an injured, and a duped wife. She recollected

the rigid notions of female propriety which he professed; she thought

the care he had taken of her morals, the censorship which he exercised

over the books she read, an insulting mockery. She could almost smile

in bitterness at his having forbidden her reading Delphine, and made

her return Adam Blair to the library,—and at the remark he made to some

one who wondered she had never yet read _La Nouvelle Heloise_—that he

was surprised at any woman who had read the first three lines of the

introduction owning she had read any further.

“And I was grateful to him,” she thought, “for thus watching over

me. I fancied it argued affection for me, and a love of virtue in

himself, while he was thus treating me like a fool, and laughing at his

childish dupe! No wonder he wished to preserve the ignorance which was

so convenient to him. This taste for purity in which I so rejoiced,

was but the veil to conceal his own vice. And I am bound for life to

this man. I must drag on a weary existence, forced, Heaven knows how

unwillingly, to break my marriage vow; for how can I love, how can I

honour, what I despise and condemn?”

Floods of tears came to the relief of her bursting heart and bursting

head. She wept, till she was once more calm, and could look with some

degree of composure upon the actual position in which she was placed.

In the first instance she resolved, although she could never again find

pleasure in the performance of her duty, that she would rigidly adhere

to it, that she would command all outward expression of her emotions,

and that she would continue to nurse Lord Montreville, if possible,

with the same devotion as before. She made up her mind that when she

had succeeded in finding the papers for which the lawyer had written,

she would lock up all the letters together, and when Lord Montreville

was well enough to attend to his own affairs again, she would explain

the circumstances under which she had been obliged to search for these

papers, and give him the key of the escrutoire without any farther

remark.

When she had despatched the papers, and safely deposited the letters

according to her intention, she felt somewhat relieved, and was enabled

to return once more to the sick room, and take her station there as

usual.

Fortunately he spoke but little, and she was spared any fresh

ebullitions of tenderness on his part. In the evening she repaired to

the nursery, where Milly was rapturous in her congratulations upon his

lordship’s wonderful improvement.

“Well, my lady, your good nursing has its reward at last! La! when

first he called you by your name, and spoke so kind and tender like,

Mrs. Gauzelee told me she never saw such a moving sight. And to see

you, my lady, take his hand and kiss it, and my lord calling you ‘his

own Lucy.’ Well! it does my old heart good to think you have known such

a blessed moment; for I remember, as I pushed open the bed-room door

of our log-hut, when my poor John said, ‘Why, Milly, t’an’t you,’ I

thought the joy of hearing my husband’s voice speak my name again would

have quite got the better of me.”

Few people like to be told they felt this or that, on such or such an

occasion; still more disagreeable is it when, although they cannot

disclaim the emotions attributed to them, they are conscious of

experiencing those the most diametrically opposite.

Lucy held her child in her arms. She contrived to bury her face in its

little bosom, and to remain bending over it, till her voice and her

countenance were sufficiently under control to venture an answer: “The

doctor seems to think that, with perfect quiet, Lord Montreville may

soon be quite himself again.”

Milly was surprised at the cool and measured reply. Lucy’s devotion had

been such, that she could not doubt the love she bore to her husband.

Her lady looked ill. She thought, perhaps, she had harassed herself

too much, and she entreated her to go to bed early. But no! she was

resolved to watch as before.

“My actions,” she said to herself, “shall be under command, though my

feelings may not be so. I will do the same I did before,” and she took

her station in his darkened room, where, by the glimmer of one shaded

candle, she usually passed a great part of the night in reading.

That night her eyes in vain glanced over the words, they conveyed no

corresponding ideas to her mind. She imagined long conversations and

explanations; she fancied reproaches, excuses, she pictured penitence

and sorrow. She convinced herself that, when Lord Montreville examined

his letters, and found this one opened, he would be overwhelmed with

shame and self-reproach, and that he would throw himself on her mercy.

She considered how it would then be her duty to act; she consulted

her own heart whether she should then be able to restore him to the

same place in her affections. She tried to lower her standard of manly

excellence; she tried to frame to herself a less exalted scale of

morals. Alas! is not this but too likely an error to fall into, as the

frailties and follies of human nature open upon the young and gentle,

to whom it is painful to condemn and despise their fellow-creatures?

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

VOLUME THE SECOND.

CHAPTER XII.

Les gens vertueux sont rares, mais ceux qui estiment la vertu ne le

sont pas; d’autant moins qu’il y a mille occasions dans la vie, où

l’on a absolument besoin des personnes qui en ont.—_Marivaux._

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.

Mais ne savez-vous pas que notre âme est encore plus superbe que

vertueuse, plus glorieuse qu’honnête, et par conséquent plus

délicate sur les intérêts de sa vanité que sur ceux de son véritable

honneur.—_Marivaux._

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.

J’ai vu une jolie femme dont la conversation passoit pour un

enchantement, personne au monde ne s’exprimoit comme elle, c’étoit la

vivacité, c’étoit la finesse même qui parlait: les connoisseurs n’y

pouvaient tenir de plaisir. La petite vérole lui vint, elle en resta

extrèmement marquée, quand la pauvre femme reparut, ce n’étoit plus

qu’une babillarde incommode.—MARIVAUX.

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.

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.

I swear ’tis better to be lowly born,

And range with humble livers in content,

Than to be perked up in a glistering grief

And wear a golden sorrow.

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.

When all is done and said,

In the end, this shall you find,

He most of all doth bathe in bliss

That hath a quiet mind.

Our wealth leaves us at death,

Our kinsmen at the grave;

But virtues of the mind unto

The Heavens with us we have.

THOMAS LORD VAUX, 1521.

“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.”

WARENNE;

OR,

THE PIPING TIMES OF PEACE.

CHAPTER I.

So I, by vent’rous friendship led,

* * * * *

Wad fain thy dauntless valour sing,

Resistless as the tempest’s wing

That wave on wave does dashing fling

Upon the shore,

Yet mild thy soul as breath of spring

When war is o’er.

_Unpublished Poems._

One evening in the winter of 182—, a large party of the officers of the

—— dragoons were dining together in the best room of the Green Dragon,

the principal inn of ——, on the southern coast of Ireland. The district

around was under military law, but though occasional outrages marked

the wild and turbulent spirit which reigned, since their arrival in

their present quarters no disturbances had taken place of sufficient

magnitude to cause them serious alarm; and it appeared probable that,

notwithstanding the efforts of the agitators to excite tumult, men’s

passions would subside, and affairs resume their wonted, if not happy,

current. To men under such circumstances, without danger to animate, or

occupations to interest them, dinner is a meal of much importance, and

the young cornets or captains were busily employed in dispelling their

_ennui_ according to the received rules of social indulgence.

Some two or three of the neighbouring gentry had been invited to join

the mess; and as the generous wine passed quickly round, many a loud

laugh and many a light jest told the gay and unconstrained merriment

of the festive meeting. There was, however, one individual at the

table, who, though he apparently shared in their mirth, and though

no trace of uneasiness on his brow betrayed the working of the mind

within, looked upon the proceedings of his young friends and their

guests with feelings of an anxious nature. Their commanding officer,

Lieutenant-Colonel Warenne, feared that he could perceive, amid the

joyousness of their good-humoured revelry, impending discord and

confusion.

Warenne, though young in years, was a gallant and very distinguished

officer. He had entered the army a boy, at the commencement of the

Peninsular war, and was entirely employed from that time till its

close. Promotion came quickly to the survivors in those days of

perilous glory, and he had successively risen step after step, until he

found himself in the spring of 1814 first major of his old regiment,

the —— dragoons. At Waterloo his lieutenant-colonel was killed, and

Warenne obtained the high rank he held at the moment of which we

are writing. Thus, after several years of peace, he was not quite

thirty-four. Daring, cool, and firm, with quick perception, great

knowledge of his profession, and much general information, he was

looked upon by his seniors as one who, if opportunity should be given

him, could not fail to raise himself to the highest honours of his

profession; kind of heart, and gentle in manner, he was the idol of

the soldiery. His form and his features coincided with the character

of his mind. Tall and muscular, but spare and active, his broad chest

and clean limbs showed at once strength, and capability of continued

exertion. His dark and piercing eye bespoke quick comprehension;

while his mouth, beautifully formed, and expressing, as its natural

characteristics, benignity, and perhaps humour, when through agitation

it became compressed, bore the stamp of decision.

On the night in question, a bystander might have detected somewhat of

Warenne’s anxiety to keep up a tone of conversation throughout the

party rather higher than that which usually graces a mess-table, but

otherwise no outward signs denoted his anticipations. He had learnt by

accident, in the course of the day, that one of the gentlemen, whom he

had invited to dinner, was closely connected with the agitating party;

and he every instant expected to hear him break out into some abuse of

existing powers, which might not be brooked at a table of his majesty’s

officers. He watched therefore the increasing effects of the wine upon

his guests with a melancholy foreboding, and was on the alert to put

a stop to any discussion that seemed likely to terminate angrily. He

turned his keen eye round on all his young subalterns in succession, to

see if the colour was yet mounting to their cheeks, or if their knit

brows showed symptoms of provocation. More especially did he observe

the bearing of two at the table. For the first he was interested by

the tie of blood; the second had been committed to his care, a few

months previously, by one whom he was strongly disposed to think the

handsomest and most charming of her sex.

Frank Warenne was the lieutenant-colonel’s only brother, about six

years the younger, a gay, dashing, intelligent puppy, very handsome,

and a good deal spoilt, that is to say, as far as a disposition, by

nature incorruptibly good, could be deteriorated by the admiration of

women, and the good-nature of friends. The affectionate kindness of

Colonel Warenne himself had perhaps contributed, as much as any other

cause, to render Frank what he was.

Their father, a younger son of the noble house of Warenne, had died

when his eldest boy Gerald was only thirteen years old, having, shortly

before his death, vested his small property in land. His widow had

hoped to be able, with the income arising from this, to educate her two

children well, and she had placed Gerald at Eton. Before a year had

passed, she too was gathered to the tomb. Mr. Warenne had bequeathed

the estate in fee to his wife, trusting to her to divide it between her

two sons as she might deem best for their future interests.

She died, however, without a will, and it devolved on Gerald as sole

heir. From that moment, Gerald, with the decision and nobleness

which formed so prominent a part of his after character, determined,

not only to take charge of the instruction and support of Frank

during his minority by making over for that purpose a portion of

the allowance given him by Chancery, but, on his coming of age, to

divide his inheritance equally with him; a resolution which he carried

into practice, shortly after his return to England from the army of

occupation, in the winter of 1815.

He obtained for Frank a commission in the same regiment with himself,

as soon as he was old enough to hold it; and the young cornet fought

his first battle at Waterloo under his auspices.

In this manner, under his brother’s fostering eye, Frank had grown

up to his present age of manhood, in perfect freedom from care, in

the enjoyment of as much money as he needed, with the advantages of

birth, of friends (for his brother’s friends were his), and of personal

beauty—a pleasant introduction into life; but not one to bring to

maturity the seeds of good implanted by nature. The consequence of this

was, that though Captain Warenne was an excellent officer, and a gay,

agreeable companion, he wanted that vigour of mind and intellectual

superiority which Colonel Warenne himself possessed.

The other object of anxiety to Warenne, on this evening, Henry Marston,

was a wild, thoughtless, impetuous boy, with high and generous

feelings, undisciplined by education. When he joined the regiment, only

a few months before, he first quitted the paternal roof beneath which

he had been brought up under a private tutor, who had consulted his

own ease more than his pupil’s advancement, and had never attempted

to teach him the necessity of self-command, or even of concession

to the prejudices and opinions of others. From him, therefore,

Warenne momentarily expected some burst of temper, or some passionate

interruption of his Irish guests, which must lead to a quarrel.

His fears were not without reason;—by degrees the little softening

remarks which he from time to time threw in were less attended to,

while the agitator grew more violent and seditious in his language,

louder in tone, and more offensive in his gesticulations. By degrees

Henry passed from a state of good-humoured amusement to a feeling of

intense provocation, which hardly permitted him to observe the usual

courtesies of society; and the former at last venturing to declare in a

threatening manner, that “England, if she chose still to continue her

galling oppression of Ireland, should remember that Irishmen had hearts

and hands, and that she did it at her peril,” he angrily demanded,—

“Peril! of what?”

“Do you ask of what?” rejoined the indignant orator. “Of war, war to

the knife. Ireland cannot—will not—longer be the slave of England. We

bid her, and her bloodthirsty myrmidons defiance.”

In an instant more than one young officer started from his seat, and

together with Henry, who was thoroughly exasperated, loudly took him to

task for his ill-timed and ill-placed tirade against their country. At

this moment the well-known voice of their lieutenant-colonel was heard.

“Mr. Marston, Mr. Kennedy, Captain Warenne; I beg of you to remain

quiet.”

The clear stern tone in which these few simple words were uttered,

permitted not any hesitation. The young soldiers reseated themselves,

and a general silence ensued.

“Gentlemen,” continued he, speaking slowly and calmly, “this for the

present is my table, these gentlemen my guests.” Then addressing

himself to the unlucky cause of the disturbance. “Mr. O’Neil, as the

countenances of my young friends do not seem to promise much more

agreeable conversation, perhaps we had better retire.”

He rose from his chair as he concluded, and bowing, led the way to the

door. The Irishman followed him, and they all left the room. Colonel

Warenne quietly walked before them from the door to the court-yard

of the inn, courteously showing the way; as soon, however, as he had

reached a spot where he could not be overheard, he turned round and

said,—

“After what has passed, Mr. O’Neil, you must be aware that you and

I cannot again meet as friends without some explanation; I must

therefore wish you good night. To-morrow morning, perhaps, your present

feelings of excitement will be past away, and you will be sorry for the

intemperate language you have used. I shall be happy to find that such

is the case, when I send my friend Major Stuart to wait on you.”

O’Neil seemed struck by the collected and business-like tone of this

address, but made no answer, and departed with his companions.

As soon as they were gone, Warenne sought Major Stuart’s apartment,

and placed the matter in his hands. He then retraced his steps to the

mess-room, revolving in his mind many various schemes for preventing

all inquiry, on the part of his young friends, into the measures he

had taken, or was about to take, when, fortunately for him, an orderly

rode into the yard with orders from General Unwin, who commanded the

district, to move the regiment the next day to ——. With the despatch in

his hand, he re-entered the dining-room, where, during his absence, his

conduct had been canvassed. The younger officers were strongly disposed

to think that he had treated the impertinent stranger with too much

consideration; and, as he returned, Henry Marston was in the act of

saying to Frank, that he was inclined to quarrel with his brother for

not allowing him to kick the rascal out. He quickly, however, silenced

their incipient questionings, by occupying their attention with the

change of station to be effected on the morrow, with the line of route,

&c.: and soon afterwards, breaking up the party, dismissed them to

their rooms in utter forgetfulness of the mischance which had thrown

them into such disagreeable confusion.

CHAPTER II.

“When honour is a support to virtuous principles, and runs parallel

with the laws of God and our country, it cannot be too much cherished

and encouraged; but when the dictates of honour are contrary to

those of religion and equity, they are the greatest depravations of

human nature, by giving wrong, ambitious, and false ideas of what is

good and laudable, and should therefore be exploded by every good

government, and driven out as the bane and plague of human society.”

ADDISON.

Frank Warenne alone was not deceived, and could not doubt that his

brother would resent the insult which he had received. He knew too

well Warenne’s delicate sense of honour; and, recognising in the

tranquillity of his demeanour the settled calmness of decision, he

intuitively guessed the truth. Want of fraternal affection was not one

of Frank’s failings, and he sought his chamber in a state of serious

disquietude. He saw no means by which a rencontre could be prevented,

nor any by which he might transfer to his own person the danger that

threatened him he loved so dearly. He felt that honour, according

to military custom, demanded from Warenne himself that he should

require an apology from O’Neil; that in all probability O’Neil would

not apologize; and they must therefore necessarily meet each other.

He could not rest—he did not even attempt to lie down, but paced his

room in restless anxiety hour after hour, forming a thousand different

schemes to ensure his brother’s safety, yet unable to find one which

should not compromise his fame. At last, about five o’clock, resolving

to ascertain whether his fears were well founded, he stole across the

passage to the door of Warenne’s room, and gently opened it. Warenne

was writing, but started up at Frank’s entrance.

“Is it you, Frank!” he exclaimed.

“Forgive me, Gerald,” rejoined Frank, “but I am certain you are going

to fight that scoundrel O’Neil, and I am wretched about it: I have

passed the whole night in utter misery. Gerald! this may be our last

meeting,” and as he spoke he flung himself upon his brother’s neck.

“Do not unman me,” said Warenne; “just at this moment I have need of

all my firmness, for I will not deny your conclusion with respect to

O’Neil. Would that I could! for I abhor duelling from my soul. I cannot

disguise from myself that it is a wicked and abominable practice,

expressly contrary to the law of Him, in whom, notwithstanding the

irregularities of my soldier’s life, I most sincerely trust,—if I may

dare to say so in such an hour as this; neither can I forget that I

am perhaps about to appear before him with the crime of murder, in

intention at least, upon my soul. Still I have not the moral courage

to break through custom, when the alternative is disgrace—but I must

not think of these matters now. Let us talk of something else, Frank—I

had just finished a letter to you as you came in, which I meant should

be delivered to you in case I fell;—put it in your pocket, and return

it to me, if all goes well—nay, do not read it. It contains only a

few words of advice from your old Mentor, who would fain have you do

justice to his instructions, and to yourself.”

As he proceeded, Warenne regained his habitual self-command, and

Frank, his mind unconsciously imbibing a portion of his brother’s

calmness, became more tranquil. They talked on with composure, and

even cheerfulness, of the future prospects of the latter. It was now

six o’clock, and Warenne begged Frank to leave him to a few minutes

repose. The sad conviction that this might be their last interview

once more forced itself on the mind of the latter, and he would have

relieved his bursting heart by tears, had he not feared to give pain

to one he loved better than himself. He lingered for a while on his

brother’s neck, pressed him yet closer to his heart, then invoking

every blessing upon his head, and receiving from him a fond but solemn

benediction in return, he rushed to his own chamber, where he threw

himself on his bed, and, after a few minutes, fairly sobbed himself to

sleep.

About a quarter before seven Stuart knocked at Warenne’s door, with

the intelligence that O’Neil would not apologise. Nothing remained

therefore to be done but to proceed to the meeting, and in a few

minutes the two friends were on the road to a sequestered spot a short

distance from the town, which Stuart and O’Neil’s second had selected.

It is not necessary to relate the particulars of a duel; suffice it to

say, that the affair was properly conducted, and that O’Neil fell at

the first fire, severely, but not dangerously, wounded; while Warenne

received his antagonist’s ball in the fleshy part of his right arm,

just above the elbow. As soon as the latter saw the effect of his fire

he ran up to O’Neil, and endeavoured as well as he could to raise

him up, with a feeling of anguish he alone can estimate who finds

himself with blood upon his hand, shed, not under excitement, nor in

a moment of passion, but coolly and unnecessarily, in compliance with

the customs of the world. Nor was his distress alleviated, when as he

waited with impatience the opinion of the surgeon on the nature and

extent of the injury he had inflicted, the wounded man took his hand

and said—

“If I die, I forgive you; my own folly has been the cause of my death.”

He could have cursed himself for his crime. His suspense, however,

lasted not long. The surgeon, after an accurate examination into the

direction of the ball, pronounced that no vital part was injured, and

that “Mr. O’Neil would be as sound a man as ever in three months.”

Never did sounds of sweetest melody fall so pleasantly on Warenne’s

ear, as the oracular dictum of his old fellow campaigner, Mr. Morris,

the regimental Æsculapius. There seemed to be a weight taken from his

breast, which he felt it would have been impossible for him to sustain.

“Thank Heaven!” murmured he to himself, “I am not a murderer!” Then

turning to O’Neil, he said aloud, “We part friends, I hope, not the

less that you are to live.”

O’Neil smiled faintly, and once again held out his hand. Warenne shook

it warmly, and immediately proceeded on his return to ——, that he might

procure further assistance, and the means of conveyance for his former

foe.

As he turned to leave him, he laid his hand, as he supposed, on

Stuart’s arm for support—it was Frank’s! Poor Frank had slept but for

an instant, and on awakening, had sought his brother’s apartment.

Finding that he was gone out, he had immediately ran down, through the

court-yard of the inn, to a spot in the high road from whence he could

command a view over the adjacent country, where catching a glimpse of

two figures, about a mile from him, quitting the beaten track, he had

rightly conjectured they were Stuart and his principal. He followed

as fast as he was able, and arrived on the ground just in time to see

O’Neil fall. He had then stolen up during the interval of confusion

which ensued, and behind his brother had awaited the surgeon’s decision.

Warenne recognised Frank, but simply pressed his arm with affection.

His heart was too full for utterance, and the silence was not broken,

until the latter exclaimed, “Thank God! Gerald, you are yet spared to

us!”

“Thank God, indeed!” replied the other. The deep but subdued tone of

his voice expressing the sincerity with which he acknowledged the mercy

of that Being, not only in preserving his life from destruction, but

his conscience from a horrible crime.

Stuart soon afterwards joined them. “Warenne,” said he, “I congratulate

you on being so well out of this business; for the wound in your arm is

a trifle. Of all life’s disagreeable accidents, in my opinion, there is

nothing so unpleasant as a duel; nothing so unsatisfactory; nothing—I

beg your pardon—so foolish.”

“Do not beg my pardon,” replied Warenne; “all you say is true, and if

the encounter ends in the death of either party, nothing so dreadful,

both with regard to him who is hurried from the very act of sin, into

the presence of his Maker, and to him who survives, to wear out a

melancholy existence in unavailing remorse.”

Such weak and unstable creatures are we! Knowing the better line of

conduct, but preferring the worse; afraid of the breath of our own

species, who can only hurt the body, yet scrupling not to incur the

anger of Him who can destroy both body and soul.

Warenne, a man of excellent principles, of commanding talents, and

in the habit of controlling his passions, though he acknowledged the

heinousness of the offence he was about to commit, and though he avowed

his obligations to obey the commandment, “Thou shalt not kill!” could

not subdue his worldly pride, but shrank from the danger of disgrace.

A quarter of an hour’s walk brought the party to their quarters; and

Warenne, having thanked his old friend Stuart for the kind fulfilment

of the disagreeable office which had devolved upon him, retired with

Frank to his apartment.

When the two brothers were again alone in that room in which, not

much more than two hours before, they had parted from each other

with such painful emotions, Warenne, who could not reconcile to his

conscience the steps which he had taken, though he had wilfully blinded

himself to their inconsistency with his duty as a Christian, and was,

moreover, much agitated with his narrow escape from more serious and

irretrievable guilt, gave way to his feelings, and hastily saying,

“Frank, you must pray for forgiveness for me!” threw himself on his

knees by his bedside, and earnestly entreated pardon of his offended

Creator.

Frank silently placed himself beside him, and for a few minutes both

were absorbed in their devotions; those of the latter, perhaps,

assuming the tone of grateful thanksgiving, rather than of anxious

supplication. Warenne then rose composed and calm, and looking

affectionately on his brother, whose tearful countenance betrayed the

sincerity of the feeling in which he had prayed, bade him hasten to

prepare for their march. How lightly, how gladly did Frank now obey him!

In an hour the bugles sounded, and the busy scene of departure

commenced. The street was alive with men and horses, as the small

parties came up from their different billets, and respectively fell

into their places. Warenne had taken advantage of the interval to have

his wound examined and dressed, and walked down the ranks to assume

the command of his regiment with his cloak drawn over his bandaged

arm, a little paler, perhaps, and graver than usual, but collected and

self-possessed. A glance at his men showed him, that in the short time

which had elapsed, the particulars of the duel had transpired. They

were standing by their horses ready to mount; and as he passed along

their front, one or two of the old veterans, who had fought through the

peninsular campaigns with him, and considered him almost to belong to

them, ventured to murmur reproachfully,—

“Surely, sir, _you_ need not have gone to show your courage; if any

thing had happened to you, what would have become of us? It’s a’most

too bad of you.” And in a second more Henry Marston came up with a

flushed face, and asked him how he could think of putting his life in

danger to cover his foolish disputes with the Irish guests.

“Why,” said he earnestly, “did you not let some one of us young ones

fight O’Neil?”

Warenne’s pale cheek received a slight tinge of colour, as he heard the

affectionate remonstrances of his old soldiers; but he answered them

only with a look of kind acknowledgment; to Henry, however, he replied

smilingly, “Never mind now, Henry, I promise you that you shall shoot

the next man who behaves ill at our mess; in the mean time I’ll try

if I cannot occupy you more profitably.” Then hastening to mount his

horse, he gave the signal for immediate departure.

CHAPTER III.

“I think thee all that e’er was tenanted

Of noblest worth in loveliest female form.”

JOANNA BAILLIE’S “_Constantine Palœologus._”

“His countenance was troubled, and his speech

Like that of one whose tongue to light discourse

At fits constrained, betrays a heart disturbed.”

SOUTHEY’S “_Roderick_.”

During the whole of that winter, the —— dragoons were kept on constant

duty in the district in which they were quartered; thanks, however, to

the unceasing activity of their commanding officer, his easy and kind

manners to the people; his ready perception of their humour; his strict

observance of justice and open-handed generosity, which made them deem

him a “raal” gentleman—it passed without bloodshed or disturbance. In

the following spring the regiment was ordered to England, and several

of the officers, of whom Henry Marston was one, obtained leave of

absence.

Warenne himself only waited till he should have placed his men in their

new quarters at Calbury, to proceed to town for a few weeks, leaving

Frank behind him, to amuse himself with the pleasures and occupations

of a country town in the summer months. A few hours served to bring

Henry to his paternal home in Charles Street, and to the arms of those

he loved best in the world, his father and his sister.

Lord Framlingham was a good-natured man, much attached to his children,

devoted to politics, and almost wholly engrossed with the cares of an

office of some importance, which he held under the ministry of the day.

He had ever been a fond parent to Henry, and Henry repaid his love with

true filial affection. His sister was his earliest friend, the sharer

of his boyish hopes and fears; and now that he had grown to manhood,

the object of his fraternal pride. In truth Adelaide Marston was a

sister of whom any man might justly be proud. She was at the present

time in her twenty-fourth year, the eldest of the three sisters and

brothers who composed Lord Framlingham’s family. Tall and beautifully

made, her head sprang from her neck, as that of a Grecian statue of

old. Her brow was marble itself; her nose thin and sharp cut; her large

dark lustrous eyes teemed with expression; and her mouth, perhaps,

after all, the most remarkable feature in her countenance, gave a

character of loveliness to the whole. Whether she stood before you in

silent thought, with her raven hair quietly shading her brow, or shook

back her locks in innocent mirth, her bright teeth positively flashing

on you as she smiled, she was altogether as glorious an object as eye

could look upon. The charms of her mind, though perhaps really as

great, were not so evident as those of her person. Her manners were in

public rather cold and reserved, and in the eyes of many who did not

know her, bore the semblance of pride. Never, however, did there exist

a breast in which pride was less an inmate. The truth was, she was shy

from too great humility.

She had never been a favourite with her mother, who was a foolish

woman, and disappointed that her first-born was a daughter, and she had

been from infancy subjected to all those checkings and thwartings which

unwise mothers are apt to exercise injudiciously. She had found her

sisters constantly preferred to her; and not the less, after they had

grown up and made brilliant matches. These circumstances, which, with a

disposition less innately good, would probably have produced a soreness

of temper, and a disdainful disregard of the opinions of others, in her

occasioned only a degree of reserve in general conversation.

Thus, with greater personal attractions than her sisters, and more

excellent qualities of mind, she yet remained Adelaide Marston,

while they were ennobled matrons. Could the world have seen beneath

the surface, how differently would it have judged her—it would have

found there strong affections, and kind and gentle feelings, united

to a nobleness of spirit, an enthusiastic generosity, and a love

of truth, which, while they caused her to render scrupulously unto

every one their due, made her scorn to receive credit to which she

did not conceive herself justly entitled. Shrinking and retiring on

common occasions almost beyond feminine timidity, when called upon for

exertion, she was frank, straightforward, decided, and uncompromising.

She was altogether a person whom an inferior mind could not estimate,

but whom a superior one could never sufficiently admire.

Her mother was now dead, and she lived with her father, his sole

companion. To her, therefore, Henry’s return was a source of more than

ordinary joy, and the sister and the brother met as if they had been

separated for years instead of months.

A day or two after his return, as Henry was relating to Adelaide the

adventures of his _début_ as a soldier, he naturally came to the

mention of Warenne’s name.

“Adelaide,” said he, “what a man that is! it is worth something to know

him, if only to have the benefit of his example, and he has been the

kindest friend to me possible. You do not know how much I owe you for

recommending me to his care.”

Adelaide listened, unconsciously perhaps, with increased attention;

and Henry, thus encouraged, gave the reins to the generous feelings of

his warm heart, and did ample justice to Warenne’s merits. He detailed

all he knew himself of the object of his praise, both with regard to

his character and to his life; and all he had gleaned from his brother

officers, and from the old soldiers, with whom some of Warenne’s early

and more dashing exploits were a favourite topic of conversation;

especially, dilating upon his conduct in the duel with O’Neil, which

Henry was conscious he had himself principally provoked.

“Your friend is a perfect _heros de roman_,” exclaimed Adelaide,

smiling, as he concluded. “Is he so entirely without fault?”

“Without fault!” replied Henry, half angrily; “of course he has faults:

every one has. I do not wish to make him out ‘a faultless monster,

which the world ne’er knew;’ but he has better qualities than any other

man I ever saw. I shall not say person, because I think you as near

perfection as he is, though your question is enough to provoke one; but

you shall judge for yourself, and see whether I have said too much.

He will be in town in a few days, and I hope my father will make him

consider this house as a second home. He has been, I am sure, a brother

and a father to me, since I have been with him. I do not believe that

I should stand here alive now but for him. I was for ever getting

into scrapes when I first joined, owing to my home education, which

prevented my learning how to command my temper, and I should never have

extricated myself from them without his assistance.”

“Indeed, Henry, I did not mean to be provoking,” replied Adelaide.

“I have every disposition to admire one you love so much; but why

give yourself a bad character? Praise your friend, but do not abuse

yourself.”

“I do not think I deserve much commendation,” said Henry, smiling in

his turn; “when I can fire up at an innocent expression from you, my

actions would belie my words.”

Had Henry been able to read Adelaide’s heart, he would not have

suspected her of a wish to treat Warenne’s good qualities with

lightness. She had been impressed with a very favourable idea of

him during the three weeks she had passed in his society at Norton

Chenies, and was sufficiently disposed to admire a character, in many

respects congenial with her own. Not that she had, what is commonly

called, fallen in love with him, but that she had been pleased with

his spirit, his superior intelligence, and his high-minded chivalrous

tone of sentiment. He had also appeared to appreciate her from the

first moment of their acquaintance, and she was grateful to him for

his discernment. When Henry left her, she could not help reflecting

upon what had formed the principal topic of their conversation, and

she certainly did not find her esteem for Warenne decreased by Henry’s

commendation. She thought over, one by one, the little incidents which

had been mentioned, with a secret feeling of satisfaction at his strict

observance of her request to him; and though she did not yet think of

love, Warenne, it may not be denied, would have been gratified, had he

known how much his image occupied her mind: to him the three weeks at

Norton Chenies had been the bright epoch of his life.

In a few days Warenne came to town; and after notifying his arrival

at the Horse Guards, &c. &c., was brought by Henry to his father’s.

Lord Framlingham received the man who had been so true a friend to his

son with marked consideration, and pressed him to come frequently to

Charles Street—an invitation which Warenne was not the less disposed to

accept, when Adelaide, with extended hand, and radiant looks, welcomed

him, and thanked him for his kindness to her brother.

From that time he was a constant visiter at Lord Framlingham’s. A club

of military men possessed small attractions for one who sought in

London a _délassement_ from military duty; and the cold civility of

Lord Warenne, and of other connections of his family, did not lead him

to desire a greater degree of intimacy with them. Thus he had leisure,

as well as inclination, to profit by Lord Framlingham’s hospitality;

and when the old lord himself appeared to like his society, and to

derive pleasure from conversing with him on the interior policy of the

country, its power, its laws, and its sources of wealth (subjects on

which he had reflected much, and accumulated much information in his

wanderings through the different garrison towns of England); when Henry

seemed gratified by his coming; when, above all, Adelaide seemed to

meet him with gladness; he, on some pretence or other, found himself

almost daily in Charles Street.

His admiration of Adelaide quickly ripened into love, pure and ardent

love, and to hear her speak and see her smile, became his only wish. He

could listen for hours to her sweet voice as she joined in conversation

with her father and himself, or with Henry talked over the incidents

of the day; and he knew no greater happiness than to trace the high

character of her mind, as, in the intimacy of friendship, she gave

scope to her generous feelings.

Adelaide, too, had learned to love, and her heart, which had passed

unscathed through the gay dawning of her career, throbbed with the

tumultuous impulses of imperious passion. She loved, and life to her

was now one dream of pleasurable emotion, for, with a woman’s intuitive

tact, she could trace the workings of Warenne’s heart more plainly

than those of her own, and she saw that she there reigned undisputed

mistress of his affections. That commanding spirit, which was wont to

assert its mastery over the feelings, and to control and discipline

them within the bounds of wisdom, lived on her every look. If he spoke,

he turned to discover if she approved; if he did aught, he was not

satisfied till he knew she deemed it well done. Conscious thus of her

power over him, she for a while drank of the cup of joy which hope

presented to her lip, and permitted it not to be embittered by any fear

for the future.

Her father perceived what was going on, but gave no outward sign

that he should oppose himself to the result to which circumstances

were apparently leading. In fact, he had not come to any decision

on the subject, for though he was a worldly-minded man, and wished

his daughter to make what is termed a good match, he was aware that,

with her small fortune, she could not command one; and he knew from

experience, that she would never sacrifice her feelings to the prospect

of a brilliant establishment. He was not, therefore, disinclined to

her marrying a person of moderate means, for whom she had conceived an

affection. Adelaide interpreted silence to mean consent, and feeling

complete confidence in Warenne’s love for her, gave him, in return, the

full affection of her maiden heart.

What happy and blissful hours were these, when each, though they had

not told their love, lived but for the other. They lasted not long.

Warenne soon awakened to the real difficulties of his situation, and

took himself severely to task for the headlong impetuosity with which

he had set at hazard his own, and, perhaps, another’s happiness.

Had he a right to ask one who had been from childhood surrounded by

every luxury affluence could purchase, to descend, for his sake, to

comparative indigence? Could he request her to quit the brilliant

circle she adorned to become the inmate of a barrack yard? His soul

revolted at the thought. What was he, that he should outweigh in her

estimation privations such as these? She would, he doubted not, if she

loved him, despise all worldly advantages, but should he subject her to

them because she loved him?

For the first time in his life his want of riches galled him; he felt

as though he were guilty of presumption in loving Adelaide, and he

hesitated to make the avowal which for ever hovered upon his lips.

Adelaide perceived his disquietude, and from some expressions he

inadvertently let fall, pretty accurately conjectured its cause. At

first she was inclined to be angry with him, under the false impression

that he conceived her capable of being influenced by a regard for

wealth; but she could not retain her anger when she overheard him one

day say to Henry, who had been blaming an acquaintance of theirs for

not proposing to a lady to whom he was tenderly attached, “Henry, you

forget that Compton is a poor man. How can he ask Miss Thornton to

leave her comfortable home and share his poverty?”

There was a bitterness in the tone with which he uttered these words,

which betrayed the secret feeling that prompted the reply. Then she was

aware that he considered a woman of any refinement to be singularly

misplaced in the midst of the quarters of a regiment, for, in the

earlier days of their intimacy, when laughing and talking with her and

her brother, over the _agrémens_ and _desagrémens_ of a soldier’s life,

he had often expressed an opinion to this effect.

She reflected on the sentiments which he evidently entertained on

these points, and her resentment vanished. She might, perhaps, deem

his delicacy over-strained, but she knew, if he left the army, that

he must forfeit, not only his fair hopes of fame and advancement, but

also a large proportion of his income; and she could not blame him

for being unwilling to subject her to the discomforts of a profession

which he might not with any degree of prudence desert. But when she

had arrived at this better understanding of Warenne’s motives, she was

perplexed how to act. Her affections had been given; they could not be

recalled; she could not retrace her steps; yet how proceed? She was

ready to submit to whatever sacrifices might be necessary for the sake

of him she loved, but till he afforded her an opportunity, by first

openly declaring his own passion, she could not acquaint him with her

determination. She longed to bid him throw aside his scruples, and give

her liberty to decide in her own cause; but maidenly reserve prevented

this virtual avowal of her preference for him—reserve which, in her

shrinking and timid nature, might be with difficulty overcome, even

under happier circumstances. There remained no alternative but to wait

for Warenne’s proposals, though when he would make them, or whether

he would make them at all, seemed a matter of uncertainty. He still

lingered on in town, unable to tear himself from her presence, yet

fearing to speak; living but for her society, yet far from satisfied in

his own mind of the propriety of his continuing to seek it. At length,

one morning that he called in Charles Street, to know if he might

accompany Adelaide and her brother in their ride, he was so depressed

in spirits that she could not avoid asking him, with some appearance of

anxiety, if he was unwell.

“I am, indeed, Miss Marston,” exclaimed he, forgetting for a moment his

resolutions of prudence in the emotions which the kind manner of her

inquiry had conjured up; “but not in body; I am ill in mind, displeased

and angry with myself, for wanting the courage, when my duty and

inclinations clash, to sacrifice the latter to the former; but I cannot

do so, were my life the forfeit.”

He spoke hastily and passionately; Adelaide made no reply, she did not

even raise her eyes from the ground. Warenne looked at her earnestly

for a moment, then feeling that as they were at present circumstanced,

he had said either too much or too little, he resolved to proceed. He

could not, however, utterly control the contradictory impulses which

distracted his mind, and his words appeared to flow from despair, and

scorn of his own presumption, rather than from love.

“Tell me,” said he, “is not a man unjustifiable who would have another

submit to sacrifices for his own welfare?”

He paused for her answer. Adelaide pitied him from her soul; she felt

how much mental agony he must have endured ere he could thus, on a

point where his whole happiness was at stake, so frame his questions as

if he wished her to decide against him. She therefore replied timidly

and evasively,

“Surely, Colonel Warenne, this must depend very much on the

circumstances of the case, on the extent of injury to be inflicted, and

the degree of advantage to be obtained.”

“True,” rejoined he, his voice gradually losing its tone of bitterness,

and becoming mournfully tender, “true,” said he, “and I cannot disguise

from myself that though the benefit to myself would be inexpressibly

great, greater far than I have any right to hope for, yet the injury

which I should inflict would be certain and considerable. Would to

Heaven I could come to a contrary conclusion, but I cannot.” He buried

his face in his hands on the table which stood before him; a second

afterwards, however, he looked up, with a deep flush crimsoning his

very brow, and continued in a hurried manner, “I cannot, however,

renounce my chance.”

Henry’s voice at this instant was heard at the door, and Warenne ceased

abruptly. Henry came to tell Adelaide that her aunt was waiting for her

below in her carriage. Adelaide obeyed the summons, and with a lighter

heart than she had borne for many days, ran down the stairs to her

aunt. “He must speak out now,” thought she; “he must confess his love:”

and in the certainty that an explanation would take place when next

they met, she forgave Henry his interruption of their interview.

Warenne departed under the influence of very different feelings. He

was ashamed of his own irresolution, and afraid that he had acted

dishonourably in betraying the state of his mind to Adelaide. Ere

he reached his lodgings, however, the very consciousness of having

committed himself relieved his breast of much anxiety. He had not

again to weigh the value of the different arguments which love and

honour suggested, for the adoption of one line of conduct or the

other. Henceforth he had one only measure to embrace, viz. to lay his

fortunes, such as they were, at Miss Marston’s feet. He resolved to try

his fate on the following morning.

CHAPTER IV.

“Est-il point vray, ou si je l’ay songé,

Qu’il m’est besoin m’éloigner ou distraire

De votre amour, et en prendre congé?

Las! je le veux, et ne le puis faire—

Que dis-je, veux! Non, c’est tout le contraire,

Faire le puis, et ne le puis vouloir.”

Attributed to FRANÇOIS I.

The next day accordingly at an early hour, Warenne sought the residence

of Lord Framlingham in Charles Street, when, on his knocking at the

door, the servant who opened it presented him with a note from Henry,

stating, that in the course of the preceding night an express had

reached them from Epworth Castle, the seat of Mrs. Honoria Epworth, who

was Adelaide’s godmother, desiring them to set off immediately if they

wished to find her alive, and that his sister and himself were in the

act of commencing their journey at the moment at which he wrote.

Poor Warenne, who had hoped to ascertain his future destiny before

he again quitted Charles Street, was sadly disappointed at this

intelligence. The evil, however, was without remedy, and he was obliged

to retrace his steps towards home, there to await the hour of their

return in all the misery of suspense. During this period he received

the following letter from Frank:—

“MY DEAR BROTHER,

“Who do you think has just called upon me? Henry Marston. I never was

so surprised in my life. He tells me that he came the night before

last to Epworth Castle with his sister, to attend the death-bed of

poor old Mrs. Honoria Epworth. She died a very few hours after their

arrival, and has left every thing she possessed to Miss Marston. Henry

says his sister will not have less than ten thousand a year, besides

the old castle, which is beautiful;—did you see it when you were

here?—it is not more than two miles from this town. What a charming

godmother! I wish nevertheless that she had given Henry a slice of her

property, for though he will eventually be Lord Framlingham, and rich,

yet he would do great credit to a few thousands a year in the interim.

He and his sister remain at the castle till after the funeral, when

they return to London. When are we to see you again? Stuart rides

in often from Oldham, and gives a good report of the two troops he

has there, and I can do the same of the officers and men at Calbury.

I command the four troops you left under my orders with a species

of sedate authority deserving, though I say it, of much admiration.

I have only one little _équippée_ to tell of, which is that I have

fallen desperately in love, and that my love is returned; do not be

frightened, Gerald, _l’objêt_ is a blind Irish-woman, who sells cakes

and bulls-eyes on the sort of boulevard there is to this town. She is

my delight, but our loves are too long, so God bless you!

“Oh! I have forgotten the most important portion of my letter, which

is, that I am making great preparations for the coming hunting season.

I have sold Croppie, and bought two clippers, and I want you to let me

be doing something in your stable. I should positively be a happier

man if I might rescue your two old horses’ tails from their degraded

state of switch, and square them a little. Once more, God bless you.

“Your affectionate brother,

F. W.”

Warenne at first read over this letter from his brother with pleasure,

and natural delight at the increased prosperity of his friends, but a

second perusal of it filled him with anxiety and doubt. Was there not

now an insuperable barrier raised against his pretensions to Adelaide?

If indeed he had made known his passion, it were not impossible that

a woman with her nobleness of spirit might only regard the addition

to her fortune as a means of increasing their mutual happiness. But

could he with honour ask her hand for the first time under these

changed circumstances? Must he not appear to her, and to the world, a

contemptible fortune hunter, who could live in her society for weeks,

and find her only worthy of attention when she became an heiress?

“O, Frank!” cried he aloud, as he paced his room despondingly, “your

gay letter is a bitter one to me. I must learn to tread in the dust

the bright visions fancy had formed; to crush my aspiring hopes, and

with blighted prospects, and a broken heart, to banish myself from that

sweet presence in which I would fain have passed my days—but better

that, than dishonour. There is no spot as yet on my name, and I will

not now sully it. Yes, the die is cast, I will rejoin my regiment.”

Though Warenne thus briefly settled the part which it became him to act

in this emergency, it cost him many an hour of bitter anguish before

he could carry his resolution into effect. He had never really loved

before, and he now loved with his whole soul; it seemed to him as if

his love was an essential portion of his existence, and that to tear

it from his breast was almost to destroy within him the principle of

vitality. He wrote however to Frank, to say that he should join him in

a few days; went to the Horse Guards to inquire if they projected any

alteration in the quarters of his regiment (for Calbury was not a town

in which troops were usually stationed), or had any orders for him with

respect to their particular employment; and called on Lord Framlingham

to inform him of his determination.

The old Lord received him with much civility, but, as it appeared to

Warenne, with less than his usual cordiality. There was also a degree

of earnestness in the manner in which he encouraged him to quit town

immediately, and assured him that government had received accounts of a

very unpleasant spirit pervading the neighbourhood of Calbury.

Warenne could not help perceiving that his absence was desired.

In truth, Lord Framlingham, immediately upon Adelaide’s increase

of fortune, had begun to renew the views of aggrandisement which

he had reluctantly laid aside; and, conceiving that Warenne might

very possibly prove an impediment to the success of his schemes, he

sincerely wished him out of the way. It was not, perhaps, strictly

consonant with the gratitude he professed towards Warenne for his

kindness to Henry to repel attentions which he had hitherto tacitly

encouraged; but, in his anxiety to accomplish his purposes with respect

to Adelaide, he did not much regard her lover’s feelings, and certainly

assumed not a delicacy which he did not possess.

Warenne was intensely hurt by Lord Framlingham’s manner. Was he already

deemed an intruder? It was indeed time for him to depart; he would only

see Adelaide once again, and bid her farewell for ever.

The travellers returned; and Henry, having heard from his father of

Warenne’s determination to rejoin the regiment, proceeded immediately

to his lodgings to propose their quitting London together, his own

leave of absence being on the point of expiring.

After their first greetings were over, and Henry had had time

for closer observation, he was much struck with an appearance of

ill-health, and with a degree of severity of manner in Warenne; he

loved him, however, too sincerely, and respected him too highly, to

venture a remark on the change that had occurred. He at once entered

upon the object of his visit, and soon concluded an arrangement for

their travelling together to Calbury; then, thinking it probable

Warenne in his present state of mind would rather be alone, he begged

him to call in Charles Street the following morning, to see him and

Adelaide, who was not, he said, so afflicted by the loss of her

godmother, with whom she had never lived, as to shut the door upon

old friends; and with an affectionate pressure of the hand wished him

good-b’ye.

Warenne shook the offered hand, accepted the invitation, stood for a

moment after his departure with a bewildered air, then hurried forth

to occupy his attention with professional avocations,—for he durst not

give way to the feelings that invitation had awakened, or to reflect in

solitude on the impending wretchedness of the morrow.

The morrow came, and about the hour Henry had mentioned as that at

which his sister would probably receive him Warenne found himself in

Charles Street. Henry was alone in the drawing-room when he entered;

but in a few minutes Adelaide joined them. She had scarcely recovered

from the anxiety occasioned by the melancholy scenes she had so lately

witnessed, and was pale and languid, but the snowy whiteness of her

brow accorded well with the serious expression of her countenance, and

poor Warenne thought he had never seen her look so lovely. She received

him kindly; for, satisfied that he loved her, she saw no reason for

controlling the natural impulse of her heart; and for some little

time the whole party conversed on the events which had taken place

without hesitation, if not with cheerfulness. After a while, Henry,

who shrewdly suspected the state of his sister’s and of his friend’s

affections, found some excuse for quitting the room, and requesting

Warenne to await his return left him with Adelaide. The conversation

flagged—presently ceased altogether—Warenne, firm to his purpose

(but, much as that purpose had already cost him, knowing not until

this instant the utter misery he was about to entail upon himself)

could not bring himself to speak. Adelaide’s spirits had not regained

their usually cheerful flow, and their depression was increased by his

manifest uneasiness. The awkwardness of their situation each moment

became greater; at length Warenne, making an effort, in a hurried

manner uttered some common-place remark on an indifferent subject.

Adelaide gave the necessary assent, and again there was silence. He

made a second and a third attempt, but with no better success. He now

grew confused, and spoke at random upon every topic which presented

itself to his over-excited mind, until Adelaide, who could not but

recollect the very different manner in which their last interview had

concluded, knew not what to think. As she looked, however, on his

flushed cheek and unsteady eye that would not meet her’s, a suspicion

of the truth flashed across her mind. Could it be that he had formed

so unworthy an opinion of her as to conceive that her affections could

be influenced by her accession of fortune?—a moment’s reflection

assured her that his generous nature would spurn the thought; yet how,

since she knew not that her father had almost turned him from his

door, was she to interpret his behaviour? She was hurt, and angry with

him, and even, as by degrees she obtained a clearer insight into his

feelings, could not altogether divest herself of indignation, though

she pitied his sufferings. He might, she thought, if he really loved

her, sacrifice for her sake his fantastic notions of honour—for so they

then seemed to her,—and let her decide for herself whether or not she

thought his hand worth acceptance. She became colder and more formal,

until at length Warenne, unable to endure any longer her altered looks

and his own excessive wretchedness, hastily left the room in the full

conviction that he had injured himself in her esteem, and caused her

to think ill of him by the very course which, at the price of his own

happiness, he had deemed it his duty to pursue.

A few days afterwards, Henry and Warenne quitted London for Calbury.

CHAPTER V.

How fair thy vales, thy hills how beautiful!

The sun, who sheds on thee his parting smiles,

Sees not in all his wide career a scene

Lovelier, nor more exuberantly blessed

By bounteous earth and heaven.

The time has been when happy was their lot,

Who had their birthright here.

SOUTHEY’S _Roderick_.

The state of the agricultural population around Calbury, at the time of

the return of the two friends to their regiment, was by no means such,

in outward appearance at least, as to justify the apprehensions which,

according to Lord Framlingham, were entertained by the government.

The greater demand for labour, and the consequent increase of wages,

which the summer had occasioned, seemed to have extinguished the stormy

passions kindled by cold, hunger, and compulsory idleness.

The country itself looked bright and gay, and the fields with their

rich crops of corn gave promise of plenty, comfort, and tranquillity.

Warenne was tempted to hope that the fear of disturbance was

ill-founded, and that the symptoms of insubordination, on which it was

grounded, had arisen from a temporary pressure, which was past and

would not recur. The first hours after their arrival were dedicated to

the inspection of the troops, the order and discipline of which were

highly commended, to Frank’s infinite delight.

This necessary duty concluded, the two brothers and Henry retired to

Warenne’s apartments, and Warenne called on Frank to give some account

of his proceedings during the time he had held the command of the

regiment.

“Why, I have had but a dullish _séjour_ in this place, I must say,”

replied Frank; “my chief occupation has been to preserve my dignity;

and, if it were not that once or twice I have been seduced into a smile

by the earnest admiration of sundry blue and black eyes which encounter

me in my perambulations, I should say I had succeeded admirably. People

assert that the labourers in the neighbourhood are discontented; but I

cannot say that I perceive it. I see them on a Sunday as happy as beer

and love can make them. They are not refined, perhaps, in their mode of

carrying on the war; and the fastidious might think it unsentimental

at least, if not indecorous, in the women, to wait round the doors

of the public-houses, and take possession of the men as they come

forth red with beer, and reeking with tobacco; but I am above such

prejudices, and have no doubt that the rogues enjoy life extremely.”

“Have you observed no signs of an evil spirit abroad in other

quarters?” interrupted Warenne.

“Faith, none,” rejoined Frank, “unless you deem such the curious

specimens of division of labour which have been displayed here lately

by the beggars and trampers. In former times, it was thought that one

man might sell, if not make, many bundles of matches. Now, it is no

uncommon thing for two men to be occupied in the sale of one bundle;

in the same way, generally speaking, there are two to hawk one boot

lace, and always two to buy a hare skin or a rabbit skin. Then, again,

there are always two sailors, who have been ship-wrecked together, and

saved together, and who have preserved from the wreck precisely the

same things, viz. a very clean white shirt and white pair of trowsers,

and for whom therefore one story serves when they ask your charity. I

never in my life saw such a number of these vagabonds as now, and they

beg in a tone which, in a bye-place, can hardly fail to alarm women, if

not men. Seriously speaking, Gerald, though it may to you sound foolish

to say so, I do not know what to make of these fellows; I cannot

understand how they all exist, unless they have some secret mode of

obtaining a livelihood, different from the ostensible one. I don’t half

like them, and I do not think my better genius, Nanny Rudd, is more

pleased with them than I am.”

“Who the devil is Nanny Rudd, Frank?” said Henry.

“Not to know Nanny,” continued Frank, “argues yourself unknown. She is

the most important personage in the town, in the eyes at least of all

the little boys and girls who play about its public walks. She is the

queen of heart-cakes, and bulls-eyes, _et l’objet de mes plus tendres

amours_. Do not be frightened, Gerald—she is a dear blind old Irish

beggar-woman, the widow of a man of the name of Rudd, whose brother

keeps that little ale-house, the Rose and Crown, as you enter the town

by the London road.

“Rudd was a private in the Guards, and went with them to Egypt under

Abercromby, where he was wounded and died. She accompanied him thither,

and nursed him till his death. She afterwards herself unfortunately

caught the ophthalmia, and lost both her eyes. The officers and men,

with whom she was a great favourite, brought her carefully to England,

and by her own wish settled her in this place among her husband’s

relations. She lives now on a small pension with her brother-in-law,

who is very kind to her, and she ekes out her little modicum by the

sale of her cakes.”

“But what can a blind old woman know of the state of the country, or

how does it happen that she is a friend of yours?” interrupted Henry.

“You are so impatient, Henry,” replied Frank, “you would know every

thing, and the reasons thereof at once; but I shall not spoil the story

of my best adventure during your absence, to satisfy your impetuous

curiosity. _Il faut toujours commencer au commencement._ You must hear

the narrative of our first introduction, or you close my lips for ever

on the subject of Nanny Rudd; for if there is an action in the course

of my military career of which I am proud, it is the deed of ‘derring

do,’ as Ivanhoe would have called it, which first won me her esteem.”

“Come, be quick then,” said Henry, laughing; “when, how, and where did

you meet with this wondrous lady?”

“More questions! Henry? you are positively incorrigible! Our first

acquaintance was on this wise: a parcel of young urchins were playing

on the walk where she usually sits with her basket, and one of them

attempted to obtain some of her tartlets without going through the

necessary form of paying for them. Nanny, who hears like a mole, made

a dash at the young rogue, just as he had his hand in the basket,

and seizing him with a hand of iron began to thrash him well with

her stick, reproving him at the same time for his misconduct with a

considerable flow of military eloquence. The other boys came to the

rescue. Nanny kept her hold, and brandished her stick. Their charge,

however, was not to be resisted; they released their companion,

gained possession of the basket, from which Nanny had wandered in the

struggle, and were retiring triumphant, when I reached the field.

“In an instant I flew to the succour of the discomfited fair, routed

her insulting foes, and recovered for her her (empty) basket. Cæsar

would have said, _Veni, vidi, vici!_ I then led her to her old seat,

and having given her half-a-crown was taking my departure, in order to

enjoy in solitude the satisfaction of having exhibited both valour and

generosity, when she said to me in her own sweet accents,—

“‘I’ll sit a bit, your honour, and catch my wind; them little

blackguards blowed me;—and then I’ll go home. I’ll never draw a

halfpenny the whole day, unless I bait my basket with a cake.’ I asked

her if I could assist her on the road. ‘No, no; thank you all the

same,’ continued she; ‘but if you’d just tell me who your own self

is, that comed in the nick of time to presarve me from them childer,

I’d be obliged to you. You are a soldier by your step—I can tell that

as well as if I saw you; and an officer by the softness of your voice

and the delicacy, not to say iligance, of your expressions.’ Mark you

that, Henry. I told her my name, rank, &c. and we parted. The next day

I came to inquire after her health, and we had a long gossip together

about her own dear country, since which I have paid her a visit almost

every day, and I flatter myself have entirely won her heart. ‘Captain

Warenne,’ said she to me the other day, ‘I like you; you are always

very kind to me, and can always find time to spake a word or two to me,

which is more than many will do to the like of me. You are a soldier,

too. I loves a soldier. I wish you had been _fut_, for _fut’s_ more

natural to me; but all can’t be _fut_, and I’ll never forget you if I

can do you a good turn.’”

“Your Nanny is charming,” interrupted Henry; “and having heard her

opinion of you, I am really anxious to know what she thinks of the

beggars who have moved your spleen.”

“She entertains little doubt,” answered Frank, “that they are the

emissaries of some evil-disposed parties in the country, and the medium

of communication between different districts and the metropolis; and

her conclusions are drawn from the remarks which she has heard fall

from the labourers and mechanics in this town, with whom her brother’s

alehouse is a favourite place of resort.”

“Indeed,” said Warenne; “and does she think that they are likely to

produce a disturbance?”

“She certainly does,” replied Frank; “for about three or four days

ago, when I paid her a visit, she bade me be cautious not to be seen

talking to her. ‘I sits,’ said she, ‘in my brother’s chimney-corner of

an evening, with my bit duddeen; and because I’m blind, folks believe

I can’t hear. There’ll be a row after harvest, or Nanny’s a liar; but

your honour shall know in time. A’n’t I a soldier’s widow, and bound to

keep the peace? I’ll just reconnoitre the ground for you cleverly; but

you must not be seen spaking to me daily, or I’ll be suspected. You can

drop past me as you go to see your men at the Boot of a morning; and,

if the coast is clear, say ‘Good morrow, Nanny;’ you would go to your

men natural like, and then I can asy tell you if I have larnt any news,

without putting it into men’s heads that I’m thick at head-quarters.’”

Warenne recommended Frank to keep up his acquaintance with Nanny Rudd,

observing that it was only by employing every, even the humblest means

in their power of obtaining an insight into the actual condition

of the country that they could hope to preserve tranquillity. His

long acquaintance with a disturbed district had taught him that very

frequently a little circumstance would better indicate the real spirit

of a population than their actions, as a feather or a straw thrown into

the air will more readily point out the direction of a current of wind

than any more ponderous body.

Warenne now turned his attention to the magistracy in the town and

neighbourhood, and sought every opportunity of mixing in their society;

in which endeavour Henry and Frank were both of much use to him; the

former from the position in which he stood as brother to the heiress of

Epworth and the latter from his having, during the summer, by his gay

off-hand manner, and happy disposition, made himself a welcome guest

at many houses in the vicinity. To the different persons of influence

he suggested the advantage of arranging a constabulary force, upon the

system of a noble lord in a neighbouring county, and the propriety of

their previously fixing on some definite plan of action, in case the

apprehensions of the government for the repose of the country should be

realized.

It is a very difficult thing to give advice; and all people hate it,

unless they have decided on their line of conduct; in which case they

have, generally speaking, no objection to prove the superiority of

their own views on the subject to those of their advisers. Warenne,

however, was so mild, so gentle in manner, so entirely free from all

appearance of dictation, so ready to listen, so well informed on

all points, and so practical in his measures, that he succeeded in

effecting the preparations he desired. By the time harvest was over his

precautions were completed.

At this period, Adelaide and her father were daily expected at Epworth,

and Warenne’s heart sunk within him at the thought of being again

thrown into her society, now that their relative position was so

changed; but he was not permitted to dwell long upon this topic without

interruption.

CHAPTER VI.

As there are certain hollow blasts of winds and secret swellings of

seas before a tempest, so are there in states.

Ille etiam cæcos instare tumultus

Sæpe monet, fraudesque et operta tumescere bella.

LORD BACON.

The head-quarters of the —— Dragoons were, as we have seen, at Calbury;

two or three troops being stationed in the surrounding villages. An

order now arrived from the Horse Guards, directing that one troop

should be sent to Fisherton, a town about forty miles distant, near the

sea-coast, and that a second should be placed in some situation, as

nearly as possible midway between Fisherton and Calbury, in order to

preserve a ready communication between these two extreme points.

To delegate to another a duty incumbent on himself was not consistent

with Warenne’s character. He immediately sent forward his servant with

horses, and on the following morning himself started at an early hour,

to ascertain the best mode of carrying into effect the instructions

which he had received. His intentions were to examine the _locale_ of

Fisherton, and, as far as he could, to discover the disposition and

pursuits of the surrounding population, so that if any disturbance

should arise there, he might be competent to act with decision.

He found Fisherton a large straggling town, with some appearance of

wealth, arising from its communication with the seaport of D——, by

means of the river Swale, irregularly built, though nearly divided

into four equal quarters by the London and coast roads, which crossed

each other about its centre. As he entered by the former of these

roads, the place presented on either side an imposing row of goodly

houses; he could perceive, however, that this fair show was limited to

the principal streets. On looking down the smaller streets, or rather

passages (for they were passable only by pedestrians) which branched

off from the highway, he could distinguish nothing beyond the ordinary

cottages of labourers and mechanics. On the banks of the river might be

seen warehouses and cranes, and other signs of trade, but nowhere else:

the rest of the town bore an ambiguous character, and it was difficult

to determine whether its prosperity depended on commerce or agriculture.

Warenne rode into the yard of the principal inn, which occupied one of

the angles caused by the junction of the roads, and had large gates

opening into each of them, intending to establish himself there for the

night. Having put up his horses, he quickly sought an opportunity of

conversing with the landlord, in the hope of extracting from him some

information relative to the state of society in the immediate environs

of Fisherton.

The communications of the worthy Boniface were any thing but

satisfactory. He assured Warenne that the labourers in the

neighbourhood, for ten miles round, were a bad set at the best of

times; many of them professional smugglers—all of them occasionally

engaged in running goods; and that, at the moment in which he was

speaking, they were in a state of great discontent and irritation from

the distress incidental to the existing depression of wages.

“I’m sure, I hope,” said mine host, sufficiently animated by the theme

to draw one hand out of his breeches-pocket, and extend it in an

emphatic manner, “that they won’t break out, for if they do, it will be

an awful business. The exciseman what lodges at my house, tells me that

they are afraid of nothing, and care for nothing; and then they have

such means of letting one another know when any thing is a-foot. Lord

bless you, sir, if there’s a smuggling vessel makes a signal off the

coast at dusk, by twelve at night there are a thousand people collected

near the shore to run the goods, and they laugh at the Preventive

Service.”

Warenne was inclined to suspect, that the account given by his landlord

of the numbers and desperation of the people engaged in these lawless

pursuits might be exaggerated. There was, however, evidently enough

of truth in the report to make him wish to send another troop to

Fisherton. But his orders were positive; and the officer appointed to

the chief command of the district was one from whom he could not expect

to obtain an alteration of them. He was a man well known in the army

for his wrong-headed obstinacy, and pertinacious regard to the minutiæ

of military discipline. It was also said of him, that having been in

India during the time of the Peninsular war, and therefore without

opportunity of distinguishing himself in any European campaign, he had

a mean jealousy of those who had served in Portugal and Spain, and was

disposed to treat them with captiousness, when they had the misfortune

to be employed under him. Warenne determined, nevertheless, to write to

General Mapleton a respectful request to be permitted to increase the

force at Fisherton.

He had been walking round the town, and was entering the inn-yard by

the London gateway, when almost at the same moment a gentleman, on a

remarkably neat well-bred cob, rode in from the coast road. As they

encountered each other, the new visiter, who was a fresh-coloured fair

man, of about his own age, dressed in sporting costume, looked at

him earnestly. The countenance was familiar to him, but he could not

recollect where he had seen it. He was in the act of having recourse

to the landlord, for the purpose of ascertaining its owner, when the

gentleman himself, having more quickly obtained his master’s address

from Warenne’s servant, came up to him, and claimed his acquaintance.

“Warenne; how are you? You forget me, I dare say, for it is a long time

since we last met; but I remembered you the moment I saw you, though I

could not give you a name without the assistance of John there. Do you

not recollect Jack Nicholas, at Dame Twyford’s, just over Barn’s Pool

Bridge, at Eton?”

Warenne immediately recalled to mind a heavy, good-natured boy of that

name, who resisted every attempt made by his tutor to instil into his

brain any classical lore, but who was an expert fisherman, and not a

bad foot-ball player.

Nicholas continued, “What are you doing in this place? You had much

better come over and dine with us. My father lives little more than

five miles from the town, and will give you a hearty welcome. Do come,

we can give you a bed. Well, certainly, I never thought of meeting you

to-day. How lucky it was I rode over to take a look at the fish-market!

I have got the nicest brill, too.”

Warenne replied that he really should have been happy to accept his

invitation, but that his horses were tired with their day’s work, and

that he was obliged to leave Fisherton at a very early hour on the

following morning.

“Oh! I can arrange all these matters,” said Nicholas. “You shall have

the landlord’s own nag, and a very clever one it is, I can tell you—few

better. And if you must be off so early to-morrow, you can return here

to-night; though if you would stay all night with us we should like it

better, and I would ride over with you in the morning. I shall most

probably come here, for to-morrow is the day when our magistrates hold

their weekly sessions; and if I have nothing else to do, I usually

attend to hear the news. That’s a good fellow; you will come, I see.

I’ll call for you in ten minutes, as soon as I have seen that our cart

takes the brill.”

Warenne, having obtained a loan of the landlord’s horse, was ready to

join Nicholas on his return from the fish-market. They quitted the

town by the coast road, which for rather more than a mile proceeded in

a south-easterly direction. It then bent more to the southward, when

they quitted it, and proceeded along a narrow lane, with high hedges

on each side, keeping the same course as the portion of the road over

which they had already travelled. There was not here much opportunity

for observation; and Warenne, willingly diverting his thoughts from the

disagreeable lucubrations to which his landlord’s discourse had given

rise, entered unreservedly into conversation with his old schoolfellow.

He answered Nicholas’s questions concerning his different campaigns,

and in return sought to extract from him the history of his past and

present life.

“You went,” said he, “to Oxford, if I recollect rightly, after you left

Eton?”

“Yes, I did,” answered Nicholas, “and I liked it much; it just suited

me. I hardly ever attended a lecture; and I kept three very clever

hunters in full work—but it was too happy a state to last. The old Dean

of Christchurch, when I had been there little more than a year, gave me

a hint which I might not misinterpret, that I had better see the world;

and my father made me travel through Scotland and Ireland, which was

all the world Buonaparte would let a man see in those days, unless he

turned soldier and went to Spain. This was dull work, though every

now and then I got some good fishing, and once or twice some capital

grouse-shooting; so I returned home as quickly as I could, and have

been living with my father here at the Plashetts (for that’s the name

of our place) ever since. I have four as nice hunters as you ever saw,

and get plenty of shooting and trout-fishing, without going a yard off

his manors; so I make it out pretty well. If it happens any day that

I neither hunt, fish, nor shoot, I trot over to Fisherton to see what

fish there is in the market.”

Warenne smiled at the complacency with which Nicholas reviewed his

useless life. “Are you not a magistrate?” inquired he.

“No,” replied his friend, “they wished to make me one, but I have

refused myself to every application on the subject. There is no fun in

being interrupted at all hours of the day by a pack of greasy fellows,

making complaints against each other for assaults in their drunken

squabbles overnight; nor in being condemned to sit from eleven o’clock

to six one day in every week, to hear the idle blackguards of the

neighbouring parishes abuse their overseers. No, thank you, said I, I

am not going to be one of your ‘glorious unpaid,’ with the press firing

into me for every little mistake I might make, and never giving me

credit for the sacrifice of my time and comfort; I know better.”

By this time the character of the road had undergone some change. The

hedges had disappeared, and instead of the narrow trough, if I may so

term it, in which they had been travelling, wherein their view was

limited to the hot sun and clear sky above them, they had now, on

either side, a broad strip of waste land, beyond which to the north lay

a large extent of wild low brushwood; while to the south there were

some newly inclosed fields. Presently all signs of arable cultivation

ceased, and they came out on a wide common. Just at this point the road

bent rather more to the southward, and the line of brushwood going off

from it nearly at right angles and then sweeping round to the east,

till it joined some large trees, formed a sort of boundary to the

waste.

“Mark this corner of the brushwood,” said Nicholas, “that you may not

miss your way as you return to-night; for we now leave the road, and

cross the common to those trees where the brushwood closes in again.

The Plashetts lie very nearly due east of Fisherton, and the carriage

road is a mile round. From those trees there is an avenue leading

directly to the house.”

Warenne took due note of the bearings of the ground, and they

proceeded. When they had passed over a considerable portion of the

common, the turf, which hitherto had been soft and swampy, became firm;

and Warenne, whose powers of observation had been called into play by

Nicholas’s late caution, remarked that it bore signs of having been

much trodden.

“Have you had a fair here, or races?” asked he of Nicholas.

“No,” was the reply; “the sheep, I believe, keep unmolested possession

of the common from year’s end to year’s end. But why do you inquire?”

Warenne simply answered that the grass appeared trampled, and turned

the conversation. They soon reached the Plashetts; and Nicholas,

the elder, greeted his son’s friend with a hearty welcome. He was

a cheerful, light-hearted old gentleman, and the evening passed

pleasantly, if not gaily.

About ten o’clock Warenne remounted his horse, and at a gentle pace

began to retrace his road to Fisherton. The moon was just rising, but

it was a cloudy night, and a sharp south-wester blew directly in his

face. As he entered the avenue he could not help recalling to mind the

state of the grass on the firmer part of the common; his reflections

upon it caused him some anxiety. He had never, he thought, seen ground

so trodden, but on places where soldiers were drilled and exercised.

Could it be that there was truth in the report which he had heard,

that the labourers held nightly meetings for the purpose of training

themselves to the use of arms? As the idea presented itself, he hugged

the trees to the southward more closely, so as to envelope himself

completely in their shade. Presently he fancied that he heard in the

wind the sounds of steps and voices. He stopped, and listened with

attention, and soon became certain of the fact; they seemed however to

proceed from persons at some distance. He advanced slowly, trusting

to the wind to drown the noise of his horse’s hoofs. Again he

stopped,—the sounds reached him more plainly. Using now still greater

caution, he pushed forward towards the edge of the common, and he there

beheld the realisation of his worst fears.

By the light of the moon, which fell fully and clearly on the open

space, he saw a considerable body of men, marching backwards and

forwards, dividing and subdividing themselves, then reuniting again;

in a word, going through a regular system of drill, though not perhaps

with military exactness. He watched them for some time, endeavouring to

ascertain their number, &c. &c. till he conceived it likely that they

would soon disperse.

It then became a question with him, how he himself should proceed. He

was unwilling to return to the Plashetts, and alarm its inmates by

acquainting them with the true reason of his return. He could not cross

the common, for in that case he should have to pass through the very

centre of the persons collected; he dared not to await the breaking

up of their assemblage, lest some of the men should come upon him in

their way to their cottages, which of course lay scattered about in

every direction. He did not hesitate long; he remembered that a few

hundred yards back he had passed three or four large single trees,

which stood out on the broad glade between the two lines of elms which

formed the avenue, making, as it were, a gate to the pass. To that

point he quickly retraced his steps, and seizing a moment when the

moon was obscured, crossed to the opposite side of the avenue; then

forcing his horse into the brushwood, he made his way through it in the

direction of the lane he had travelled in the morning, and continued

his course, carefully avoiding too near an approach to the exterior of

the wood which was lighted up by the moon, until he reached the hedge

which separated it from the road. There, thinking himself safe, or

at all events at too great a distance from the men at exercise to be

discovered, he dragged his horse through the fence, and, remounting

him, galloped as quickly as he could to Fisherton.

CHAPTER VII.

Concerning the materials of sedition, it is a thing well to be

considered; for the surest way to prevent seditions (if the times do

bear it) is to take away the matter of them; for if there be fuel

prepared, it is hard to tell whence the spark shall come that shall

set it on fire.—LORD BACON.

The insight which this adventure gave Colonel Warenne into the real

state of the country induced him to alter his plans. Instead of setting

off for Calbury at an early hour the following morning, he determined

that it would be more advisable for him to remain at Fisherton for

the greater part of the day, in order to see Nicholas, and put him

on his guard, and also to obtain through him some acquaintance with

the magistrates, who were about to meet there on that day, and who

were those to whom he must look for co-operation, in the event of any

commotion.

About eleven o’clock the next day, Nicholas rode into Fisherton, and

was surprised to find Warenne still at the inn.

“What, not off yet?” said he, “you might as well have slept at the

Plashetts; our beds are as well aired as those of mine host here.”

Warenne requested him to come to his room, and recounted to him what he

had seen on the preceding night. Nicholas was startled, if not alarmed,

at hearing of such preparations for tumult in his own immediate

vicinity.

“What is to be done?” said he, “it is extremely disagreeable! My poor

sisters will be frightened out of their wits. Cannot some means be

found to put a stop to such proceedings?”

Warenne doubted whether an attempt to prevent the meetings would not

have the effect of setting the people on their guard, without deterring

them from their purpose, and was rather inclined to watch them, so as

in some measure to discover their intentions, when it might be easy to

baffle them.

“If, indeed,” said he, “we knew what grievances pressed most heavily

upon the labourers, we might, by relieving them, be able to repress the

disposition to riot, and escape the necessity of having recourse to

coercion.”

“One need not go far to find their grievances,” interrupted Nicholas;

“the poor fellows are not half paid; the farmers only give them

wages enough to keep body and soul together, and whatsoever else they

require for the maintenance of their families, is made up to them by

the parish, in proportion to the number of their children. Thus they

are, every one of them, made paupers; and the consequence is they work

as paupers. The farmers quarrel with them for their idleness, and the

overseers devise schemes for making them earn, as they term it, the

pittance they allow them. About a fortnight ago, as I passed through

Oathampstead, I saw a man marching fifteen or twenty others up and down

the village; and on my inquiring the reason of this proceeding, I was

told that the men were out of regular employ, and that the overseer,

resolving that they should do something for their money, had given one

of them, who was a militia man, a pot of beer to act as corporal over

the rest, and drill them. They will have enough of the drilling system

now, I reckon.”

“Could you put an end to such fatal mistakes as these,” Warenne

resumed, “you would do more to quell the turbulent spirit, of which I

fear we shall soon see some melancholy indications, than if you were

to quarter a regiment of soldiers in each village. But now you must

give me some information on another point. What magistrate had I better

apply to in case of a disturbance in this neighbourhood? Who will be

most disposed to act in concert with me, and assist me in repressing

it?”

“Oh, I know who is the best man for you,” answered Nicholas—“at least

in my opinion; Charley Seaforth: but you shall judge for yourself,

if you will wait a quarter of an hour. The magistrates meet in the

old ball-room of the inn here at twelve; we will get our friend the

landlord to admit us first into the gallery, where the musicians sit

when there is a ball, and make our observations; after which we can

descend, and I will introduce you to any or all of the bench, as you

please.”

Warenne gladly acceded to his friend’s proposal, and they were soon

seated in the orchestra Nicholas had described, which, though at the

opposite end of the room to that at which the magistrates sat, was yet

sufficiently near to them to enable its inmates to hear all that was

going on. The magistrates recognised Nicholas as one of the intruders

upon their deliberations, and did not attempt to drive him from the

position he had taken up. The business of the day speedily commenced,

to which Warenne gave his most earnest attention. As occasions arose he

whispered the result of his observations to Nicholas.

“I like your chairman,” said he; “he is a clear-headed, sensible man;

but I fear he is too old to take an active part in putting down a riot.”

“There is not a better magistrate or man in England,” whispered

Nicholas in return; “but, as you say, he is past fast work, to say

nothing of the gout to which he is a martyr. Make him but fifty again,

and he would be with you, I warrant, go where you will, or do what you

will; he is out of the question now. You must choose between three I

will point out to you: that fellow, the tall, athletic, handsome man

with grey hair, a hook nose, and a sharpish eye, with his chin thrust

out so as to give him what he considers to be a look of decision.”

“I mark him,” interrupted Warenne, “but I do not much fancy him; for

he always differs from the chairman in a pompous sort of way, and when

asked, cannot assign any reasons for his differing, but shakes his head

importantly, puts on an air of wisdom, and then coincides with him at

last, though so as to make it appear that he is certain he himself is

right, and that he yields only for the sake of peace.”

“You have not judged your man amiss, Colonel,” replied Nicholas; “Mr.

Fownall, for that is his name, is a mighty man in his own conceit. You

should see him at a county meeting: he will begin his speech with such

graces; he will raise himself up, and put on a solemn look of wisdom

that would deceive any man who is not aware that he is no conjurer; and

then, in very strong language, accuse the government of profligacy,

extravagance, and corruption, taking care to select, when he comes to

his proofs, the only parts of their conduct which are defensible. Oh!

he is a bother-headed one.”

Warenne thought his companion also a better judge of men and their

capacities than he had imagined him to be; he had not done Nicholas

justice, who, though uneducated, was by no means without natural

shrewdness, especially on points on which he was excited, as on country

politics, in which he was forced to mix, from the position held by his

father in the country.

“Mr. Fownall will not do for me,” said Warenne, “if I can get another

magistrate. Now for your next man,—which is Mr. Seaforth?”

“I shall show our Charley last,” replied Nicholas. “My second subject

for your choice is that round fat little man to the right.”

“He is a sharp fellow, is he not?” inquired Warenne; “I have seen the

chairman refer to him several times.”

“Sharp enough,” continued Nicholas; “he is a retired lawyer. He has the

law at his fingers’ ends; but he will not suit you, I think.”

“Why, is he not firm and resolute?”

“Too firm, too resolute by half; the truth is, he has lived in town the

greater part of his life, and he does not know how to manage the poor

at all. Though an excellent, well-meaning man, he is hard in his words

and in his ways, and the poor do not like him. He would not conciliate

enough for you, though in other respects he would do admirably.”

“Bar equitation!” said Warenne, smiling. “He can never ride with those

round fat legs; and if any tumult does occur, we shall require a

magistrate capable of quick locomotion.”

“No, no, Mr. Raymond is no rider,” rejoined Nicholas; “but now for

my friend Charley. Do you see that very quiet looking, middle-aged,

rather pale man, with a remarkably intelligent eye, sitting behind the

chairman?”

“He is rather a silent one, is he not?” observed Warenne.

“Silent or not silent,” said Nicholas, roused to eagerness in behalf

of his favourite, “he is the best magistrate on the bench next to the

chairman, and knows as much sessions law as Raymond. If he has not

spoken lately, it is because he agrees in opinion with the chairman. He

would speak fast enough if he differed from him.” Just at that moment

the chairman leant back to ask Mr. Seaforth a question. “You see, he

is ready enough with his answer, when it is wanted. Then he is beloved

by all the poor; he is so kind-hearted, and so kindly spoken to them.

The very men he sends to prison say they would rather be convicted and

condemned by him, than only tried before another person. He always

treats the labourers as _fellow men_ in a different station of life,

and that is what they like. If you seem by your manner to consider them

as an inferior race, they are annoyed and sore at it; but talk to them

as man and man, and they will willingly pay you the deference due to

your superior rank in life, and listen to you into the bargain. Again,

if you want a fellow who can ride, I will match Seaforth against any

man you can bring from Melton for the season through, for a hundred.”

Warenne smiled at Nicholas’s animated description of his friend; but he

saw so much natural shrewdness in him, that he was inclined to place

confidence in his opinion.

“Then as for firmness and nerves,” continued Nicholas, “you should see

him _make_ a young horse, though, that, perhaps, has not much to do

with the matter in question—it is beautiful to see him put a young,

raw, five-years-old, at a fence; seriously speaking, he is the boldest

and coolest fellow you ever saw, though you are a soldier. I may say

this of him, for he has been tried. Last year there was a dreadful

fight between the preventive service men and the smugglers, in which

the former were driven off, and one or two of them killed. Seaforth,

who was the nearest magistrate, took it up, and never rested till he

had apprehended the murderers, though he had to go into places where

half the men in England would not venture to set foot, and to fight his

way through some desperate scuffles. He got Jem Emlett, who has been

ringleader in every row, robbery, or smuggling transaction for the last

twenty years, and his whole gang; and though Jem broke out of prison

the night before the assizes, that was not his fault. Besides, Charley

is bred to be a good one. There have been wild ones of his blood,

perhaps, but never any that wanted game.”

“Mr. Seaforth is the man for me,” said Warenne; “get your friend out of

court, and introduce me to him.”

Nicholas had not overrated Seaforth. Warenne found him a person of

great intelligence, and peculiar animation of character, far more

so, indeed, than he had anticipated. The unassuming demeanour of

Seaforth amongst his brother magistrates had led Warenne to consider

him a sensible, and Nicholas’s panegyric to believe him a brave,

man; but neither the one nor the other had prepared him for meeting

an eager, impetuous spirit, ready to devote his whole powers to what

he conceived to be his duty, and in whom mind so far predominated

over body as to cause alarm, lest by its restless activity it should

undermine and exhaust the physical strength. But a few minutes had

elapsed from the time of their introduction, before Warenne was

perfectly satisfied with the choice he had made of a coadjutor.

He recounted to Seaforth what he had seen; and they were soon in deep

consultation. It seemed evident to them that the nightly meetings

originated in an organised combination to resist the law,—a combination

extending far beyond the immediate neighbourhood of Fisherton.

The agricultural labourers were not persons likely, without some strong

external excitement, to sacrifice a night’s rest to an employment they

hated so sincerely as learning the manœuvres of soldiers; neither were

the smugglers, though they were doubtless to a man engaged in the

business; and the conclusion to which Warenne and Seaforth came was,

that agents from London and Manchester must have lighted up this strong

flame of disaffection.

What, then, was to be done? Could they in any way suppress the

meetings? Seaforth proposed to be present at one of them, and to try

the effect of expostulation; but this course, though one in which _he_,

if anybody, would have succeeded, from the affection borne him by his

poorer neighbours, was too dangerous and imprudent to be listened to

for an instant, at a time when the smugglers were peculiarly irritated

against him for the apprehension, and consequent execution, of some of

their comrades only a few months before.

It appeared useless, on the other hand, to attempt to control the

meetings by military or constabulary force; for there could be little

doubt that the proceedings of both magistrates and soldiers would be

watched, and information so conveyed to the parties assembling, that

by the time either of them could reach the ground there would not be

a soul to be seen. All that it seemed possible to do was to adopt

an intermediate mode of action, viz. to collect a greater number of

troops in the neighbourhood, to hold them in readiness, and to take

advantage of any opportunity of acting which might be afforded by the

indiscretion of the conspirators; while in order, if possible, to deter

the misguided men from plunging hastily into violence, and to prevent

unnecessary shedding of blood, Seaforth undertook to watch the conduct

of some particular men whom he suspected, and with whom he imagined

himself to have some influence. They would thus, it is true, set the

rioters more on their guard, but then, even if they failed in their

endeavours to put an end to the chance of disturbance by gentle means,

they would escape the responsibility of having tacitly encouraged

disaffection up to a certain point that they might more severely and

effectually quell it afterwards.

It was arranged, therefore, that Warenne should endeavour to obtain

permission from General Mapleton to send another troop to Fisherton,

and that Seaforth should try the effect of private conciliation, either

party keeping up a constant communication with the other, and both with

Nicholas, who readily promised to give them every assistance in his

power. This settled, they separated, and Warenne retook the road to

Calbury.

CHAPTER VIII.

Tristes pensamientos,

De alegres memorias.

_Spanish Romance._

The prospect of a protracted stay at Calbury gave Colonel Warenne

no promise of a return to tranquillity of mind. The apprehension of

danger past, the routine of military duties usual in country quarters

alone demanding his attention, his thoughts naturally recurred to his

blighted hopes, and the distressing situation in which fortune had

placed him.

Adelaide was at Epworth—only two short miles separated them. Henry and

Frank were living more at Epworth than at Calbury. It was necessary,

unless he determined to set at defiance the common rules of civility,

that he himself should visit those with whom he had so lately lived in

intimacy. He must again undergo the torture of meeting her he loved

with the degree of coldness consistent with his ideas of duty, and her

father’s more than hinted opinion of his supposed pretensions. There

was no alternative; in ordinary courtesy he was bound to make the

attempt, even at the expense of increased wretchedness.

After a delay of some days, during which Warenne persuaded himself that

he was detained in Calbury by business, he rode over to Epworth, with a

tolerably calm exterior, though with a beating heart. His visit seemed

to have been foreseen by Lord Framlingham; for as the servant ushered

Warenne into the drawing-room, he entered it by another door; and as

his lordship appeared to have correctly calculated the precise moment

of Warenne’s calling, so did he seem to have determined to ascertain

the exact duration of his stay beneath his daughter’s roof, for he did

not quit the drawing-room until Warenne had departed.

This behaviour on the part of Lord Framlingham, though it rather

irritated Warenne at the time, yet served to render his visit less

painful than he had expected to find it. There was no temptation in

the presence of a third person, directly opposed to his wishes, to lay

aside the measured friendliness of manner which he had adopted.

A second, and a third time, that Warenne called at Epworth, Lord

Framlingham observed a similar system of precaution; but at last,

either bored with playing the part of a Duenna, or becoming satisfied

with Warenne’s conduct, he relaxed in his vigilance; and one day that

the latter had ridden over to Epworth with Frank and Henry, who wished

to arrange some shooting excursion with the gamekeepers, he found

himself once again alone with Adelaide. He felt his hour of trial to

be at last come. He was now to show his self-command, to keep down the

tumultuous and passionate thoughts to which he burnt to give utterance.

His love had not diminished through the obstacles which fortune had

thrown in his path to happiness; on the contrary, it burnt with a

stronger and a steadier flame than when he had, without interruption,

enjoyed the pleasure of her society in London.

Adelaide, though possessed of every requisite to grace the most refined

circles, appeared yet more lovely in the calmer occupations of the

country. In the easy intercourse of her immediate friends her shyness

forsook her, and she did justice to the beauty of her character. All

he had seen of her, all he had heard of her since she came to Epworth,

tended to foster his luckless passion. The poor had already learnt to

bless her name. With her wonted enthusiasm she had commenced plans for

their improvement; and though her schemes might perhaps be a little

visionary, Warenne was not inclined to quarrel with their want of

practicability, while they developed the benevolent spirit of their

author.

Adelaide also had reasons for feeling distressed at the interview. She

had perceived her father’s manner to Warenne, and became satisfied that

Warenne could not honourably have pursued any other line than that he

had chosen; but her conviction on this point, while it took from her

the little anger she had conceived against him, made it difficult for

her to preserve the coldness of manner which she had latterly assumed;

thus both parties felt awkwardly situated. It is true, that one word

might have produced a right understanding between them; but that word,

Adelaide could not, and Warenne would not, speak. Still the visit could

not be passed in silence;—at least so thought Warenne, and acting upon

this supposition, in a shy and constrained manner, he asked,

“Have you ridden much, Miss Marston, since your return to the country?

I am informed there are beautiful rides in this neighbourhood.”

“No! not much; my father is not able to ride far, and Henry is always

out shooting. He has promised, however, to ride with me in a day or

two.”

“You must make him keep his promise quickly, or the leaves will be off

the trees, and they will have lost their autumnal beauty.”

“I fear so.”

How gladly would Warenne have offered her his escort, had he dared!

how gladly would Adelaide have accepted it! But this might not be; and

to check the vivid workings of his imagination, he hastily changed the

subject.

“I hear we are to have a gay neighbourhood this winter; Frank, who,

I believe, has an instinctive knowledge of a ball, as a vulture of

a horse that drops in the desert, tells me that the Merivales and

Dashworths each mean to have one in the course of the next month.”

“I have not the pleasure of knowing them,” observed Adelaide, coldly.

“Of course they will call upon you, as an act of civility towards a

person newly come into the county.”

“Perhaps so; but they have not visited me yet.”

Adelaide’s manner did not contribute to restore poor Warenne to

serenity of mind.

I know, thought he, that I have chosen a very stupid subject for

conversation, although perhaps a safe one; but what can I do? If

I speak on more interesting topics I shall betray the state of my

affections, and exactly do that which in honour I am bound not to do.

He blundered on: “My brother tells me, that Miss Merivale is extremely

pretty and dances beautifully.”

“Does she?” was the reply; “I shall like to see her, if they ask me to

their parties.”

Warenne could proceed no further with the tiresome subject; he turned

therefore to another upon which, though more attractive to both parties

than the former, he thought he might yet converse without emotion. “You

are devising, I believe, schemes for the improvement of the condition

of your poor.”

Adelaide’s eye brightened.

“If it is not too great a liberty, I should like much to hear what you

intend to do.”

“Oh! I fear,” said Adelaide, smiling, “that my views are not quite so

practical as they might be. I have not long had the power of playing

the Lady Bountiful, but I will tell them to you, and you shall give me

your opinion. You have, I know, turned your attention to such matters

more than soldiers generally do.”

Warenne thought there could be no harm in her explaining to him her

plans, or in his assisting her with his advice upon them; and in a few

moments they were busily discussing the merit of Penny Banks, Savings’

Banks, &c.; but after a while he found his thoughts wandering from the

charities to the founder of them, and that he was on dangerous ground.

As Adelaide gave herself up, with the full warmth of her kind heart,

to the development of her benevolent intentions, and spoke to him

again with the freedom of former intimacy (perhaps glad in her inmost

soul to have a legitimate reason for resuming it, and perhaps even

not without a hope of leading him in turn to throw off restraint), he

became conscious, that should he attempt to speak, his voice would

falter, and that his eyes were but too ready to tell the forbidden tale

of constant unvarying affection. He dared not trust himself further

to temptation; making therefore a violent mental effort, and putting

even more than his former coldness into his tone, he hastily concluded

the conversation by remarking that her goodness in thus considering the

welfare of her poor fellow-creatures was above all praise. Adelaide

looked up, almost with astonishment, at this formal approbation of her

virtue, but said nothing. He coloured, as he felt her eye glance upon

him, yet firm to his purpose, would not recur to the subject of the

charities again. He sat silent and confused; turned over the leaves

of a book lying upon the table, hoping to extract from thence matter

for the continuance of their conversation, but in vain; his eyes could

neither follow the lines, nor his brain take in their purport. In

despair he returned again to the beauty of the country and the weather,

and once more there was a sound of voices. Badly, however, as they had

succeeded in conversing before their hearts had in some measure opened

to each other, now their attempt was ten times worse, and it was a

positive relief to both parties when Lord Framlingham accidentally came

in. Had he arrived a quarter of an hour sooner, he might not have been

satisfied with the aspect of affairs, which was decidedly inauspicious

to his schemes; as it was, they seemed to prosper, and he was pleased.

He spoke to Warenne with more kindness than usual. This filled the cup

of poor Warenne’s misery. He had looked to Lord Framlingham’s marked

repulsiveness of manner towards him, as the one circumstance that could

give Adelaide a favourable explanation of his own conduct towards her.

Muttering, therefore, something about seeking his brother and Henry, he

hurried away from Epworth, with the determination of never revisiting a

spot where he had endured such utter wretchedness.

Whether he would or could have executed this resolution it is

impossible to say, for the position in which he was placed was doomed

to undergo a change.

CHAPTER IX.

Libels and licentious discourses against the state, when they are

frequent and open; and in like sort false news often running up and

down to the disadvantage of the state, and hastily embraced, are among

the signs of troubles.

LORD BACON.

It is now necessary to relate the march of events up to this period.

General Mapleton, in reply to the letter which Warenne had addressed

him on his return from Fisherton, requesting that he might be allowed

to send an increased force to that place, returned a most dry and

positive negative. His answer was to the effect,—that he was very sorry

to receive from Colonel Warenne such a proof of the disaffected spirit

which prevailed in the district to the command of which he had been

appointed by his majesty, but that being responsible for the employment

of the troops under his orders, he must be permitted to station them in

such manner, and in such numbers, as in his own judgment he considered

best for the interests of the country; and that he must desire Colonel

Warenne would on no account detach from himself a larger force than

that which he had authorised. It was his wish that Colonel Warenne

should send one troop to Fisherton and another to Charnstead, or some

place midway between Fisherton and Calbury, and that at the expiration

of every month the Fisherton troop should return to head quarters

of the regiment, and the Charnstead troop move on to Fisherton. “In

conclusion,” wrote the general, “I must particularly request that

Colonel Warenne will on no account alter these arrangements, nor absent

himself from the quarters of his regiment without leave.”

The soreness and readiness to take umbrage evident throughout this

letter gave much disturbance to Warenne, who had written to the general

in the fullness of his heart, and with the sincere wish of setting him

on his guard against times of peril; but he was too sensible a man, and

too zealous an officer, to suffer his uneasiness to be seen even by

his most intimate associates. He resolved diligently to conform to the

orders he had received, and was really anxious that they might prove

effectual. In truth, the general, though the principal motive for his

refusal had been a low jealousy of Warenne’s European honours, was not

without reasons for the negative which he had sent. Much about this

time reports came in almost daily from the surrounding villages that

the labourers were using threatening language to the farmers, insisting

upon an increase of wages, and upon the demolition of their threshing

machines; that they threatened to pull down and burn the machines of

those who would not comply with the demands; and that the farmers in

consequence were in a state of great alarm. Some had yielded to the

demands of the rioters, partly from fear, and partly also from an idea

that they might make their sufferings a plea for a diminution of rent

and tithes—others again had resisted them; but the cunning or cowardice

of the former had added exasperation to the anger of the peasantry

against the latter, so as to put an end to all feeling of security

with regard to life and property. It was said, also, that there were

assemblages every evening round the alehouse-doors, where orators in

clouted shoes and smock frocks held forth upon the rights of men; while

there were not wanting persons who came from “no one knew where,” to

inculcate the same doctrines with more force and greater dexterity—men,

who from their education were enabled to make the worse appear the

better reason, and heighten the evil passions that were abroad. Thanks,

however, to the vigilance of the magistrates, who were not afraid to

employ the civil power, now that they were backed by a military force,

all these evil signs ended without disturbance. There might be a

drunken riot or so; but the mobs uniformly dispersed, as the effect of

the intoxicating liquors by which they were excited wore off, or, as

Nanny Rudd expressed herself to Frank, “as the beer died in them.”

About this time also occurred an event, which, though not of immediate

importance to the story, is interesting as characteristic of the

period. The two brothers and Henry were engaged to dine at Epworth.

Dinner was served, but Frank and Henry did not make their appearance.

At last, but not before the party assembled had become exceedingly

anxious for their arrival, they came in, heated and agitated.

“What can make you so late?” asked Adelaide; “you must have finished

shooting several hours ago.”

Henry did not answer; but Frank said, “We must, I suppose, confess—we

have had a row with some poachers.”

“Good heavens! you are neither of you hurt, I hope,” asked Adelaide

again, in alarm.

“Oh no,” replied Frank, laughing, “not in person, at all events, though

in honour.”

“What has happened is this,” interrupted Henry. “We had been shooting

in that large wood of yours which adjoins the road leading to

Charnstead, and having given our guns to the keepers, were on our

return home; that is to say, were walking back through the wood to the

Dolphin to get our horses. We had left our game in one of the rides

through which we had to pass; when we arrived at the spot we found a

party of men quietly filling a light cart with it. For a moment we

thought they might be some of our beaters, but finding our mistake, we

called to them, and ran up to arrest their proceedings; in an instant

we were surrounded, thrown to the ground, and kept there until they

had finished packing the cart, when, politely thanking us for our

good-nature in shooting for them, off they all went into the high road.”

“In short,” said Frank, “never did two officers in his majesty’s

service suffer a worse defeat or greater disgrace.”

This incident alarmed not only Adelaide and Lord Framlingham, but

also the surrounding neighbours. So gross and deliberate an outrage

destroyed all feeling of security, and though every attempt was made to

trace its perpetrators, they could not be discovered.

Warenne argued that it had been committed by some of the people who

were endeavouring but too successfully to excite disturbances in the

country; for that their calmness in the execution of their scheme

betrayed consciousness of power. “If they had thrashed you,” said he to

Frank, “and left you half dead, I should have considered the whole as

the action of common poachers, determined not to be taken nor detected.”

Frank was thankful that “his friends,” as he termed them, were such a

superior style of men, considering the disadvantage at which they had

Henry and himself,—though doubtless it would have been better for the

nation, had it been otherwise. By no party, however, was light ever

thrown upon the transaction.

These various signs of the prevailing disaffection among the peasantry

occupied much of Warenne’s time and attention, and his anxiety was

increased by his receiving from Seaforth a fearful account of the

state of the neighbourhood of Fisherton. Seaforth had attempted, in

conformity to the proposal previously made by him, to converse with

those individuals whom he suspected to be implicated in the conspiracy

which evidently existed; but they had refused to listen to him, and had

even insulted him, giving him to understand that his every movement was

closely watched.

Under these circumstances Warenne again petitioned for an increase of

force at Fisherton. Again General Mapleton returned him an answer in

the negative—if possible, couched in yet more peremptory language than

he had hitherto used. Still no actual riot took place either at the one

place or the other, and Warenne began to hope that the winter would

pass over without further disturbance. These fallacious expectations

lasted but for a day or two. All at once, on every wall throughout

Calbury, and the neighbouring villages, appeared chalked up—“Bread

or blood,”—“Liberty or death,” and similar short expositions of the

popular feelings.

Nanny Rudd also warned Frank that some project was on foot, though she

could not yet discover the particulars of it. Warenne patiently waited

for further information, which at last he obtained through the means of

his brother’s faithful ally.

“Captain, dear,” said Nanny to Frank, as he passed her one morning on

his way to the stables, “you may just bid your men stand at ease, if

you mean to stay at Calbury; there will be no row here. It’s the coast

you must look to! Last night some strangers came into my brother’s with

two of the Rusbrook men, who fit agen the ’Stabulary t’other day, and

they were talking how they had managed finely, and frightened you all

so, that you dare not move a foot from home. Dare not! the blackguards!

As if they knew the soul of a jintleman soldier. And then they cast

up, that they should have it all their own way where they were going,

for that the whole county was ready to join them,—let alone quite a

raal army of smugglers. Them’s a bad set, my dear captain,—particular

bad,—they wouldn’t drink none, but seemed to think only of killing and

plundering; and when my brother came in, they was as hush! They’d talk

afore me, a poor old blind body, as they thought couldn’t move off my

settle without help, but they wouldn’t open their ’tato traps afore

him. Publicans must look to their licence, says they! you’ll see that

afore long there will be an outbreak towards the coast. One rascal said

roundly, ‘We’ll give ’em some bonfires before the fifth of November

this year.’”

These indications of the popular feeling were further accompanied by

acts of incendiarism. There were frequent alarms of fire at night,

which increased in number as the end of the month approached. With

regard to these, however, Warenne remarked, that though some had been

caused by the private malice of individuals, yet that, generally

speaking, it was an haulm stack, or a parcel of straw, or a rick, which

lay far from any farm buildings that was set fire to; from whence he

was the rather inclined to give credit to Nanny Rudd’s conjectures,

that the demonstrations in the neighbourhood of Calbury were solely

with the view of occupying the attention of the military, and diverting

it from the real point of danger.

CHAPTER X.

Give good hearing to those that give the first information in

business, and rather direct them in the beginning, than interrupt them

in the continuance of their speeches; for he that is put out of his

own order will go forward and backward, and be more tedious while he

waits upon his memory, than he could have been if he had gone on his

own course—LORD BACON.

Affairs remained in this unpleasant state until the evening of the

30th of October, when between seven and eight o’clock a man on a jaded

horse, and covered with mud, galloped up to the door of Warenne’s

lodging. He hastily ascertained from the servant that his master

was within; threw the rein to him, and dashed up the stairs. It was

Nicholas.

“Warenne,” cried he, as soon as he entered the room, “you must be

off, and quickly, if you wish to save Fisherton. It will be attacked

to-morrow night by a large body of men, and sacked and burnt, if you

are not there to prevent it.”

“When?” asked Warenne; “to-morrow night? for heaven’s sake tell me what

you have heard.”

“I will,” replied Nicholas, “all in order; but the upshot is this,—that

Fisherton will be plundered to-morrow night, and that there are more

smugglers engaged in the business than are sufficient to set your one

troop at defiance.”

He then proceeded to state that he had been shooting that very morning

on some property of his father’s between the Plashetts and the coast,

when a woman in great distress had run up to him, and begged him to

come and speak with her husband, who was dying. “He wished,” she said,

“to speak to some clergyman, or magistrate, or to Mr. Nicholas.”

Nicholas accordingly accompanied her to her cottage, where he found

a poor fellow, to whom his father had behaved with much kindness the

previous winter, lying with both his legs broken, and his back severely

injured, from a fall of ground in a chalk-pit. Clarke, for that was his

name, was in great agony, and evidently could not live many hours. On

seeing Nicholas, and receiving his condolences, he said, “My body is

bad enough, to be sure, but it is nothing to my mind. I could not die

easy till I had seen you, Mr. John. Tell the women to leave the room,

sir. I must speak to you; if I die before I make a clean breast, I can

never find no mercy. Why don’t the women leave the room?” repeated he

fiercely. “Now, then, they are gone, and no one is here but ourselves.

Come nearer to me, if you please, sir. You know, sir, about our nightly

meetings. I have been one as has regularly attended them. God forgive

me, I wish I had never heard of them. Last night, sir, last night,”

as he repeated the word he raised himself in his bed, casting his

eyes inquiringly about the room, as if he dreaded a witness to his

disclosure, and sank his voice to a whisper, “it was agreed that we

should make an attack on Fisherton as to-morrow night. The troops are

changed to-morrow: the one as is at Fisherton goes to Calbury, and the

Charnstead one comes into Fisherton; and we reckoned that the new men

would not know the ground, and having just marched in, would be tired,

and off their guard. So we settled to collect together at certain

places after dusk, and then, in company with the smugglers, who were to

join us there, to enter the town, and set fire to it in several parts,

and plunder it in the confusion. That ever I should have agreed to such

wickedness! I never should, Mr. John—I never should, if I had not been

fool enough to listen to those villains, who persuaded us that we were

all deprived of our rights by the rich, and that it was appointed that

we should all share and share alike. I see it all quite different now.

Do you think, sir, I shall ever be forgiven?”

Nicholas, shocked and alarmed, tried to soothe the wretched man—“That

is a question I can hardly answer, for I am no divine; but I should

think you might be, if you are really sorry for what you were going

to do. One thing I am sure of, the best way of making amends for your

crime is to confess all you know.”

“I know no more,” replied the poor fellow. “Our leaders never told

us any more than I have just said, that we were to attack the place

to-morrow between nine and ten o’clock, by which time we thought people

would be beginning to go to bed.”

Nicholas having thus ascertained all that could be extracted from the

wounded man, considered that between the present hour and the morrow’s

night there was but little time for communication with Warenne, on whom

the safety of the town depended, and he became anxious to depart; but

Clarke, seizing his hand, exclaimed—

“Pray, sir, don’t leave! I am no ways prepared for death.”

Nicholas observed to him, “Clarke, if I do not go, I cannot prevent the

attack, and your confession will do no good.”

“Oh no!” replied Clarke, withdrawing his grasp, “nor me no good

neither. I had forgot that—go sir, go—but no—stay one moment. Oh, sir,

when I am gone, don’t give me up—don’t let people know as I ever split;

they would murder my wife and children. And do you, Martha—pray, sir,

call my wife—Martha, I say, I charge you never, as you value your life,

tell a soul as Mr. John has been here to-day.” The poor frightened

woman promised acquiescence. “Now then go, sir,” said he; “God bless

you! I will try and pray.”

Nicholas immediately made the best of his way to the Plashetts, sent

off an express to Seaforth, and himself started for Calbury on the best

horse in his stable.

Warenne listened patiently to Nicholas’s story, for he knew well that

the quickest mode of obtaining the truth from any man is to let him

speak what he has to say in his own manner. At its close he seemed for

a moment to be lost in thought, then, turning to Nicholas, he asked

him if he had seen a magistrate, or could say that he was sent by any

magistrate to ask the assistance of the soldiery. Nicholas replied

in the negative, and Warenne began to pace up and down the room in

deep thought, and apparently under much anxiety. At last he stopped,

and exclaimed, “Well, then, I must take the responsibility on myself.

Communication with head-quarters is impossible. I must disobey orders,

and abide the consequences: I cannot, for any hazard to myself, suffer

a town to be burnt, and its inhabitants to be massacred.”

He rang the bell; and bade his servant send Captain Harris to him, and

also his brother; and he resumed his meditative walk, until it flashed

across him that he was treating Nicholas with great inhospitality.

“I beg your pardon, Nicholas,” said he, “I make you but an ill return

for your kindness in bringing me this news yourself in person; but the

truth is, I am so awkwardly placed, that I am forced to employ all my

wits in considering what will be my best line of conduct.”

“Oh never mind me,” answered the good-natured fellow; “I shall go and

hunt out your cook, and take care of myself. You have plenty on your

hands, without attending to the wants of a hungry man.”

A few minutes brought Captain Harris to his colonel’s apartment.

“Captain Harris,” said Warenne, “you will immediately call out your

troop, and proceed with it in the direction of Charnstead, so as to

reach that place to-morrow morning before eight o’clock. Rest there

until Captain Paulet moves his troop to Fisherton, and do you then

accompany him. You will meet the Fisherton troop between that place

and Charnstead; take them back with you. As soon as you arrive at

Fisherton, if I am not with you, notify your arrival to Major Stuart.

He will probably have quarters ready for you; but whether you see him

or not, do not unbridle, and keep your men standing by their horses.”

Captain Harris, who had received many similar orders the previous

winter in Ireland, merely bowed and left the room, and in twenty

minutes was with his troop in march on the Charnstead road.

Frank came in as Captain Harris left the room. Warenne briefly

explained to him how matters stood. “And now, Frank,” said he, “I shall

leave you with the remaining troops to take care of this neighbourhood.

No (seeing Frank about to interrupt him), I cannot take you with me.

On the contrary, I must leave you here. I must have some one on this

ground who will value my honour as his own, and I look to you as the

person I can best trust on earth. Should a disturbance take place here,

and get to a head while I am absent, I am a ruined man. If you love me,

you will stay here.”

Frank _did_ dearly love his brother: he was flattered too by the

unlimited confidence reposed in him. He therefore said not a word about

going, but simply asked for his orders.

“You are almost as good a soldier as I am,” said Warenne, “and must be

guided by circumstances. I hardly think that you will be called on to

take any very serious measures. It will be well, however, to keep a

watchful eye on all that is going forward, and to make as much parade

as you can with your soldiers. Never mind harassing them a little,

for a day or two; but multiply their numbers as much as possible, by

showing them in different parts of the town. Make your one hundred and

fifty men appear five hundred if you can. Should you be required to

act, be decisive.”

The two brothers then proceeded to arrange some minor details, when a

knock was heard at the door, and a voice saying, in rather a tone of

authority, “Colonel, I must come in.”

“By all that is sacred, it is Nanny Rudd!” exclaimed Frank, “what can

she want here at this hour?” He ran to the door and opened it. “Come

in, Nanny; what are your commands to-night?”

“Captain Warenne,” answered Nanny, “ye’ll give that girl, as come

with me, and brought me here, a crown. I promised her the same; and

whiles you are taking it out of your purse, I’ll spake a word with your

brother. I have business with him.”

Warenne came forward, and laying hold of her hand, inquired what she

had to say to him.

“Is the captain,” asked Nanny, with emphasis, “giving the girl the

crown?”

Frank knew Nanny’s ways, and guessed that she wished him to get the

girl out of the room. “Here, my good girl,” said Frank, stepping into

an adjoining room, “here is not a crown, but a guinea for you. You

are a kind-hearted lass to lead about a poor blind old woman, who is

neither kith nor kin to you.”

The girl was delighted both with the guinea and with Frank, and

immediately began telling him how she came to accompany the old lady to

Warenne’s lodgings.

In the meanwhile Nanny bade Warenne close the door. “I don’t want,”

said she, “that poor lass to hear what I am saying. She has nothing of

the soldier about her, and don’t comprehend the necessity of keeping an

asy tongue on all occasions, and she might tell tales, and get herself

and others into trouble. Colonel,” continued she, when she ascertained

that the door was shut, “I could not rest on my settle till I got to

you to-night. How should I, when I receives the King’s money as I

do? There’s going to be a row somewhere on the coast. I should guess

to-morrow night, but I didn’t hear particulars.”

“Indeed, Nanny,” said Warenne, “what have you heard?”

“I’ll tell your honour,” answered Nanny. “There’s a man been staying

at my brother’s house these last ten days; a pretty bad one, I reckon.

I couldn’t make out why he kept staying on so. Well, to-night, just

about six o’clock, he comes into the kitchen,—with Will Sharpe, whom

you’ve heard speak of, I dare say, in this town, as a big thief and

vagabond,—as I suppose ready-dressed for travelling; for Will says to

him,—

“‘Then you’re off now?’ ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘in less than five minutes;

my job is done, and well done. We’ve flammed the beaks (that’s the

magistrates, you know) finely. I was to stay here till the latest

moment I could this evening, to ascertain that the bloody redcoats—them

was his words, a nasty blackguard!—was quiet, and nothing suspected,

and then to get down, you know where, in time to make the necessary

arrangements for to-morrow.’ ‘You’ll be there,’ says Will, ‘early

to-morrow morning?’ ‘I’ll be on the Plashetts Green by twelve

to-night,’ answers t’other, ‘or I’ll know the rights on it.’ With that

he jumped into his gig or light cart, and went away like a madman. Will

Sharpe came back into the kitchen, and had some beer, and I did not

dare to move till he was gone; but at last he went, and I stole out

into the back-yard, and got my brother’s girl to lead me here.”

“About six did the man set off?” asked Warenne.

“Yes,” answered she, “and I would have been here an hour ago if that

prying divil of his companion had gone away at first, as he ought. I

hate a man to sit and drink by himself; it is not neighbourly.”

He was off, then, thought Warenne, before the troops had started; so

far, so good. Nicholas, too, came the cross-road, so he did not meet

him.

“But now, Colonel,” said Nanny, interrupting his calculations, “I must

go, or the girl will get into a scrape at home.”

Warenne asked her if she wanted anything for herself.

“If you mean pay, for doing my duty as a soldier’s widow ought,” said

Nanny, “I’m above it; but you didn’t mean that, I reckon; for I am told

you’re quite the gentleman, thof I do think an officer in his Majesty’s

infantry would have had more delicacy; but no, no, I want nothing;

we’ll talk of that some other day. Where’s the wench? Betsy! Betsy!”

Betsy returned with a radiant face at having had nonsense talked to her

for a quarter of an hour by a very handsome captain of dragoons.

“Betsy, where are you?” muttered the old woman; “I didn’t do right to

send that captain out with you. I heard him give you a guinea, too.

They are all alike, them captains. I hope he has not turned your head;

that would be but a bad return for your coming along with me this

night.”

“Lawk, Nanny!” said Betsy, laughing, “do you think I don’t know the

value of an officer’s talk, and they quartered here for three months?”

“You are a giddy child, Betsy,” answered Nanny; “but I’ll hope for the

best.”

Warenne informed Frank of the confirmation given to Nicholas’s story

by Nanny’s intelligence. “We shall be a match for them yet, I trust,”

continued he; “but now I must to work. I must send off an express to

head-quarters—tell the adjutant to have one ready for me. The general

will not thank me for the step I am about to take; so I must e’en write

him as conciliatory a letter as I can. Good night.”

Warenne composed his letter with the greatest care; stated his extreme

reluctance to disobey the orders which he had received; hoped that,

under the circumstances of the case, he should merely anticipate his

general’s wishes by the arrangements which he had made to prevent the

loss of life and destruction of property, which could not fail to be

consequent on the execution of a plot such as he developed; and added

the informations of Nicholas and Nanny Rudd.

This done, for the first time since Nicholas’s arrival, he ventured

to turn his mind wholly to the difficulties of his situation. To the

charge of disobedience, to the risk of disgrace, when so important an

object was in view, he had reconciled himself without a struggle; but

now that he had leisure to reflect, there was much to appal him in the

enterprise which he had undertaken.

He was about to stake his military character on a single cast;

to disobey the strict orders of his general, to act upon his own

responsibility; wherefore, if he failed, he must expect to be dismissed

from the service. He doubted for a moment whether it would not have

been wiser to adopt the safe line—obey orders, and avoid danger of

every sort—but it was only for a moment; the next, his generous nature

spurned the thought. His self-devotion, however, was tasked to the

utmost when he contemplated the effect that might be produced on

Adelaide’s mind by his being disgraced.

Hope, spite of reason, had hitherto remained an inmate of his breast;

and had whispered that a day might come when he could venture to

declare to her his passion; but can this, he asked himself, ever take

place if I am dishonoured? Can I, with a tarnished reputation, ever

ask her to wed me? or can she ever believe my vows, when I now leave

this spot, where danger is supposed to threaten, and trust her to the

protection of any arm but my own?

These ideas, in every variety of form, for a time pressed upon

Warenne’s heated imagination; but wrestling with the rebellious

feelings of his heart, he would not suffer his love to unman him.

His only hope was in success—a poor hope, perhaps; for even success

might not rescue him from censure for presumption and disregard of