THE FRENCH PLAY.
It was late when Lady Glenmore returned from Lady Melcombe's; and as
she drove home she pleased herself with the idea of talking over with
her husband the insipid and insignificant scene of the morning, as well
as losing in his society the recollection of those uneasy feelings
respecting Lady Tenderden, which Lady Tilney's allusion to past times
had created: and then glowed in her breast the one natural, honest
hope, which was ever uppermost in Lady Glenmore's heart, of meeting her
husband for the simple, single pleasure she enjoyed of _being in his
presence_.
"Is Lord Glenmore come home?" was her first question when she alighted
from her carriage: the "No" was chilling.
"Did he leave any message? has he sent any note?" Still "No, no,"
sounded heavily in her ears. She prepared, however, for his return,
by taking more pains with her toilette than usual; and when she had
finished arraying herself, not according to the code of the _Belle
Assemblée_ or _Feuilles des Modes_, but in accordance with that of her
own young innocent face, her glass told her she had not done so in
vain. She then sat for some time with tolerable patience, first taking
up one book, then another, then throwing them down again; going to the
instrument, touching a few chords; turning over the ornamented leaves
of a Lilliputian music-book, invisibly written with a crow-quill;
pushing it away, leaving it to tumble down off the desk as it might,
and going to the window, the shutters of which she had not allowed the
servant to close, in order that she might listen to every cabriolet
that passed. At length she rang the bell, and was told that it was
eight o'clock.
"Is there no message from Lord Glenmore?" "No, my lady. Shall dinner be
served?" "No--yes--no--yes; bring up something, any thing is enough;"
and away she went to her splendid board in her splendid apartment, with
a train of liveried domestics, to sit down to a lonely dinner with an
aching heart. She hastily dismissed the servants, and then leaning back
on her chair, and suffering the tears that were choking her to flow
over her face--
"I wish we were poor, and he not political," she said, sobbing; "I
should not then be left alone, I should not be absent from him." A
servant entered with a note. She endeavoured to conceal her tears, and,
hastily opening it, read a few kind words from Lord Glenmore, which
spoke his regret at being prevented from meeting her at dinner; and
hoping she would go early to the French play with Lady Tenderden, where
he would join them if possible. The ebb and flow of young feelings
are very quick; and this note was such a cordial, that, as she ran up
stairs, she carolled in the gaiety of her altered feelings: so soon had
she forgot disappointment in anticipated pleasure.
In a few minutes more she was in her carriage on the way to the French
play. When she came into the box, she found it empty, and the play
begun. Lady Tenderden was not arrived; and by the time she had cast a
glance round the house, bowed to some of her acquaintance, and settled
her shawls, &c., she turned all her attention to the stage. It was a
play which had collected a class of audience seldom frequenting that
house; for it was one of those sterling comedies of Molière's, apart
from his too frequent grossness, which, with the true legitimate
intention of comedy, lashed the follies of the age for which it
was written, and was not without its prototype in the present. _Les
Précieuses Ridicules_ is a play that all unsophisticated natures must
enjoy, even those who, as in the case of Lady Glenmore, were not
acquainted with the times and the persons it was written to satirize;
and she herself evinced the pleasure she derived from it, by laughing
naturally and frequently. Her merry laugh called the observation of
several persons, not accustomed to see pain, or pleasure, or amusement,
ever expressed by any outward sign, and who attributed to the
uneducated only such marks of unconstrained nature; but others, again,
(some few), were pleased at any thing so unlike what they generally
beheld; and it conveyed to _them_ a reflected sensation of freshness of
enjoyment, such as they remembered to have felt when life was new, and
before they were schooled by the false fastidious system of the world
of ton, or _blazéd_ to the zest of pleasure.
"What a pity," observed Lord Baskerville, speaking between his teeth,
in his company voice, "that that very pretty Lady Glenmore should make
herself so conspicuous."--He was in the Comtesse Leinsengen's box,
within one of that in which Lady Glenmore was sitting.
"Not at all," replied Mr. Spencer Newcombe; "she only draws attention;
and one cannot look at a prettier woman."
"_Peut-être_," said the Comtesse Leinsengen, "she does it for dat very
purpose, and takes dis new way of being _distingué_."
"Insufferable!" rejoined Lord Baskerville; "if she were as beautiful as
an angel, she would disgust me with those _roturière_ manners."
"I believe," said Mr. Leslie Winyard with a yawn, "that I must really
take compassion on her, and give her some good advice on the subject of
education."
"_L'affaire est faite_," rejoined the comtesse, "if you take her
_en main; mais tout est pour le mieux dans ce meilleur des mondes
possibles_."
Having thus settled the matter in Lady Tilney's box, Mr. Leslie Winyard
proceeded to that of Lady Glenmore, there to commence his destined
essay on education. "I am delighted," he said, "to see you in such good
health, and so intent on immortalizing Molière. If he could only know
what homage you are paying his talents in these expressions of your
mirth, how delighted he would be!"
"Hush," said Lady Glenmore, "I will talk presently; but now I want to
listen to the play--it is so amusing."
"So it is," he replied; "and I am glad to be with any one so natural,
and so much of my own way of thinking. I will, if you allow me, occupy
this place," taking the front seat, "and we will enjoy the thing
together."
"Certainly," said Lady Glenmore, with a pleased expression of
countenance, which, though he knew better than to ascribe its influence
to himself, he was yet gratified to think that others might do so;
and while she continued intent on what was passing on the stage, Mr.
Winyard was busily looking round, _à-la-derobée_, to see what remarks
were passing on his being alone with the new minister's wife. This,
however, was a privilege which he did not long enjoy; for Lord Raynham
and Mr. Spencer Newcombe came in to make their bows and give their meed
of homage. After having courteously received them, Lady Glenmore turned
again to the stage, and they went on talking in an under tone together
at the back of the box.
"I wish," said Lord Raynham, addressing Mr. Spencer Newcombe, "I wish
that we had any dramatist as clever now-a-days to lash our follies."
"Do you think you would like it if you had?" asked his friend.
"Somehow or another, for my own part, I feel I get on just as well
without, and I suspect I am too old to be whipped. Depend upon it,
the reason why we are so well amused with this and some of the other
comedies of Molière is, because we think we are only laughing at
another generation, and another nation, whose _ridicules_ have nothing
in common with our own. No, no; believe me, we English do not like to
be satirized; we can bear it less well than any other nation I know.
Broad farce is our _sauce piquant_; but the exact delineation of our
peculiar vices and follies would not be well received, and indeed I
doubt if legitimate comedy, however well acted or written, would go
down at all."
"My good friend," said Lord Raynham, "this very piece is not so widely
different from the follies of the present day as you may at first sight
imagine."
"Perhaps so," replied his friend; "but one need not put on the cap, you
know; and then nobody can tell whether it fits or not."
Lord Raynham continued (following the thread of his own fancy, rather
than replying to the speaker, as was his wont), "Change the names and
the modes of _Les Précieuses Ridicules_ to those of a certain set
existing now-a-days, and the principle of vanity and folly is much the
same in both; only that, perhaps, on the whole, those of the Hôtel de
Rambouillet were more to women's advantage after all; and had they
not pushed their system too far, it might have lasted longer than the
present dynasty of _ton_ is likely to do. Both are entirely false, both
equally far from the real, nay, genuine charm of true good society.
"However, in all the freaks that vanity and fashion play, there have
been, and ever will be, some redeeming characters, who mix with all the
_fanfaronnade_ of the day, and yet remain uninfected with the epidemic
follies. She, for instance," indicating Lady Glenmore with a look; "can
any thing be more young and fresh, in mind and heart as well as years,
more gay, more natural?"
"Certainly not; and it is quite invigorating to witness her
unsophisticated manners, and the genuine entertainment she derives from
that which she is come professedly to be diverted by; but then the
more's the pity, for it will not last long thus."
"Do not forebode evil," replied Lord Raynham, who was in one of his
best _couleur de rose_ humours; "remember there were, and are, among
the _précieuses ridicules, depuis tout les temps, des Mesdames de
Sevigné et de Connel_, and I forget all their names, who retained
their own innocent individuality, and their natural grace of mind, amid
the most decided affectation and the most ridiculous pretensions."
"Yes, but they were exceptions to general rules; and I do not augur so
well of that one," still meaning Lady Glenmore, "under the care of that
_Alcoviste_," alluding to Mr. Leslie Winyard.
"Is not that Lady Tilney sitting alone in her box?" asked Lord Raynham:
"I must go make my obeisance, as in duty bound, or I may chance to
be discarded; and as we have no Molière to overturn our Hôtel de
Rambouillet[1], we had better keep its door open to us."
[Footnote 1: Vide Molière's Preface to Les Précieuses Ridicules.]
"Agreed," said Mr. Spencer Newcombe; and, bowing to Lady Glenmore,
they departed, leaving Mr. Leslie Winyard tenaciously keeping his
conspicuous place, with cane at lip, and glove in hand, and eyes
that were gathering the observations passed upon him with lynx-like
sharpness, while they seemed half closed in listless or consequential
apathy. In a few minutes after, the curtain dropped.
"Oh!" said Lady Glenmore, "I am so sorry it is over! I do not know when
I have been so amused."
"I, too, am sorry it is over; but _amused_ is not exactly the
explanation I should give of the _cause of my regret_;" and he
endeavoured that his eyes should explain what he _did_ mean.
"No!" said Lady Glenmore with perfect _naiveté_; "then perhaps you have
seen the play often before, and have been looking at the company, not
at the stage?"
"Did you ever play at the game called Magical Music?" asked Mr. Leslie
Winyard; "and if so, and that I were the performer on the instrument, I
should now touch it _forte fortissime_, for you are very near guessing
the truth."
"I do not understand you," said Lady Glenmore, still unconscious of
his drift, and her attention caught by some one who was entering, and
causing a considerable stir. She hoped it was Lord Glenmore, which made
her ask suddenly what o'clock it was. "I am sure," she added, "it must
be very late, and I fear Lady Tenderden is not coming; and Glenmore,
too, said he would come; but I begin to be afraid they _neither_ of
them will;" and her countenance changed, and another spirit than that
of girlish amusement took possession of her, and she became silent,
overcast, and disquieted.
"Were they to come _together_?" asked Mr. Leslie Winyard, insidiously
laying a peculiar emphasis on the last word.
"Oh no!--that is to say, not that I know of. Lady Tenderden did not
tell me so." Mr. Leslie Winyard half smiled, and then, as if checking
himself, he rejoined carelessly, "Oh! you know these diplomatists are
the most slippery fellows imaginable; that is their trade: they are so
taken up with the affairs of the nation, they forget all other affairs.
But it _is_ odd that Lady Tenderden also should have forgotten her
engagement to you."
Lady Glenmore made no reply, but she became more and more uneasy: her
colour went and came "like colours o'er the morning skies." She looked
anxiously around, and started at every step that seemed to pass the
door of her box, but yet, remembering certain lessons she had received,
she contrived to keep under her uneasiness.
"Is there any thing I can do?" said Mr. Leslie Winyard, with an air of
interest and concern. "I am afraid you are not well. Would you like
to go home? I dare say my carriage is at the door, if yours is not
arrived, and that you would do me the honour to accept it."
"Oh no!" she replied; "I am equally obliged to you, but I shall await
the end of the performance."
Mr. Leslie Winyard now thought it was necessary to use all his art,
to draw off her attention from the subject that engrossed it, and, if
possible, fix it on himself.
"I am not apt," he said, "to be often in good-humour with myself; in
truth, I have not much reason; but I am half inclined to suppose there
must be some redeeming clause in my composition, for I have frequently
observed that, after an hour or two of this sort of thing, you grow
restless and weary, and I declare I always feel the same. I plume
myself mightily in having discovered this similarity between us."
"Pardon me, you are quite mistaken. I am often exceedingly well
diverted in public; and when Lord Glenmore is with me," and she
blushed, as if she had said something she ought not, "I am generally
well pleased to stay late, for I am never sleepy."
Mr. Leslie Winyard thought that it was more troublesome to counteract
nature by art, than overcome art itself by art, as he replied,
"Oh! certainly, I understand that; but what I meant to say was, that
it is not these scenes which afford one any real happiness; it is
the society of a few friends, a selection of persons who suit each
other, and who like the same things, and who are occupied in the
same interests. For instance, how very much more enchanting it is to
be singing a duet with you, than sitting at an opera, hearing the
artificial execution of those who sing by profession! for surely the
true intention of music is, that it should express our own feelings,
and transport us into a sort of half-beatific state, such as that
expressed by your '_Sempre più t'amo_.'"
All this sentimental jargon, so different from the real nature of the
speaker, was accompanied by those glances of admiration which spoke a
much plainer language than even his words; but though the innocent Lady
Glenmore was as yet unaware of their tendency, and did not see through
the artificial refinement which Mr. Leslie Winyard thought it worth his
while to assume, in order to induce her to listen to him at all, there
was, nevertheless, a secret sense of genuine purity in her heart, which
made her dislike the license of his gaze; and she answered, fixing
her eyes on him with all the composure of perfect innocence, "It is
very delightful to me to go to the Opera; and the perfect finish of
the singing of professional people teaches me to improve my own. I am
much obliged to you for the compliment; but I assure you, if you only
heard me sing with my master, you would acknowledge that it is quite a
different thing from what it is when I sing with you, for I was always
afraid of putting you out, and that spoiled the little power I have."
This speech certainly did _put him out_, and in his heart Mr. Leslie
Winyard cursed what he called her _niaiserie_; but he determined
that, sooner or later, he would be revenged. Concealing, however, his
mortification, he replied, "You were too good to consider me in any
way; but I am sure nothing that you could do would ever give me a
feeling of displeasure, whatever it might do of regret." He modified
the expression of his eyes as well as that of his words, and entered
with her into a long comparison of the charms of Paris and London in
their respective societies and manners, which engaged her attention;
and she listened with great complacency for some time, during which
he had continued to move his chair nearer and nearer her own, and to
appear to the public to be deeply engaged in the most interesting
conversation, while, at the same time, he succeeded in allaying any
discomfort she might have felt at his own too-marked admiration,
previously shown, by turning her attention into a totally different
channel, and determining to reserve a more open avowal of his
sentiments for a more favourable and distant period, when suddenly the
box door opened. Lady Glenmore started forward with an exclamation of
surprise and pleasure, supposing it to be her husband; but in this she
was mistaken, for Lady Tenderden entered alone.
"I beg your pardon, my _dear ladi_, for being so late," said the
latter; "but you know how impossible it is to get away in any time
from a dinner party"--[the _impossibilities_ of a fine lady are to be
understood with certain modifications and meanings which do not belong
to the literal signification of the word]--"and I regret being detained
on all accounts;" Lady Tenderden went on to say, "first, because I have
lost your society; then, for the sake of de play, which of all things I
wanted to have seen: but you have been amused, I hope?"
"Oh, exceedingly!" replied Lady Glenmore; and then her countenance
was overcast again at her husband's absence, and she sighed heavily,
so that Lady Tenderden hardly knew what to think, and for a moment
began to suppose that she had arrived inopportunely, and disturbed
a _tête-à-tête_; but then, again, remembering the character of Lady
Glenmore, she only turned to Mr. Leslie Winyard, and whispered, in
allusion to a circumstance connected with the _Précieuses Ridicules_,
"I am sure _you_ have been well entertained, although you have
only been studying _la carte du tendre_." Lady Glenmore was too
much absorbed in her disappointment, to pay any attention to their
conversation; and when she roused herself from her reverie, she longed
to ask Lady Tenderden if she knew any thing of the House, and whether
it had broken up or not; but she feared to incur her ridicule. Other
men came into the box to pay their court to Lady Tenderden; and Mr.
Leslie Winyard contrived, in the general move that took place, to
secure the chair immediately behind Lady Glenmore's, and endeavoured to
regain her ear; but her mind was quite abstracted, and herself totally
uninterested in all that was passing; so he leant back in his chair,
and affected to be absent also, that he might appear to others to be
occupied sympathetically with herself.
At length Lady Glenmore could restrain her inquietude no longer; and
turning suddenly round, she said, "I wonder what can detain Lord
Glenmore! he promised to join me here." The different persons looked
at each other and smiled significantly; some in pity, some in derision,
all in contempt.
"Oh you know, my dear," replied Lady Tenderden, "dese conjugal
appointments are _sensé_ to be broken; dey are de pie-crusts of life."
Every body laughed, and poor Lady Glenmore coloured, as she felt a sort
of indignation rise in her heart against the whole scene and the actors
therein.
"But make yourself quite easy," Lady Tenderden added in a sort of
childish voice, "dere is no danger for Lord Glenmore; I will be
answerable for his safety."
Mr. Leslie Winyard affected to feel for Lady Glenmore, and to
disapprove of this joke; and turning to her, he said in his most
_doucereux_ tone, "You may depend upon it, a very long debate has taken
place, and engages Lord Glenmore's absence from hence _necessarily_. It
was always expected that the House would sit very late to-night: what
else could keep him away from _you_?" he whispered, with an expression
that was intended should soothe her; and it did soothe her, and she
felt grateful, and rewarded him by one of her sweetest smiles, saying,
"I conclude you are right." It was not long, however, before Lord
Boileau came into the box.
"Boileau, are you come from the House?" said Mr. Leslie Winyard.
"No," he replied; "the House was adjourned very early on account of the
ex-minister's illness, whose explanation was looked for."
Lady Glenmore heard this circumstance with a beating heart; and looking
reproachfully at Mr. Leslie Winyard, she said, "You see you were
mistaken; why did you deceive me?"
He affected, for a moment, to be overcome with disappointment and
chagrin, and then said in a low voice, "Oh, be not uneasy; there are so
many things may have detained a man in his station. Why do you suffer
yourself to be thus wretched? Would to Heaven he knew! If he did but
know, surely, surely he would be here. But how people mistake their own
happiness! Were I in his place--"
"You would be where he is," said Lady Glenmore with composure.
"Doubtless," rejoined Mr. Leslie Winyard with great presence of mind,
"for we cannot change natures with any one; nor indeed do we ever wish
it." And then he relapsed into silence.
Although Lady Glenmore felt piqued and mortified at her husband's
having broken his promise to her, she could not bear that any one else
should cast the least blame upon him; and she dismissed her chagrin,
and forced herself to talk gaily, as though her heart was light.
Mr. Leslie Winyard, apparently yielding to an irresistible impulse of
admiration, once, and once only, whispered to her, "Admirable creature!
it is only I that see through this disguise, and honour you for the
sacrifice you are making of your feelings, considering the motives by
which you are actuated."
She turned this speech off as a joke; but there was something in it
which, though it pained, yet pleased her. How difficult it is for the
purest natures not to lean to self-approbation when it comes in the
soft breath of praise! Nevertheless, the minutes seemed hours to her
till the curtain dropped, and she arose quickly to depart.
"Where are you going, _ma chère dame_?" said Lady Tenderden.
"Positively you must come with me. I have a _petit soupèr_ on purpose
for you; and as Lord Glenmore knows of old that it is my custom to have
this always after de play, having been prevented from joining us here,
he will not fail to come to my house, and we shall find him waiting for
us."
"Do you really think so?" asked Lady Glenmore hesitatingly.
"Yes, to be sure I do; at all events, you can but come and try; it
will be always time enough to go home afterwards." These persuasions,
adroitly pressed, won upon Lady Glenmore's easy credulity, and
she suffered herself to be handed down stairs, and got into Lady
Tenderden's carriage.
"You look quite divinely to-night," said Lady Tenderden to her as they
drove along--"positively _ravissante; vous ferez fureur, je l'avois
toujours prédit_. Even when you had dat horrible English _modiste_ to
dress you, you were always lovely; but now--now that you have de _vraie
tournure_, and dat _le coupe de vos cheveux_, and de plait of your
petticoat, is _d'après le dernier goût_, depend upon it, all de hearts
will fly to you."
Lady Glenmore laughed outright, it might be a little maliciously; for
she knew that no scissors, however classical in the estimation of her
companion, had touched the luxuriance of her beautiful hair, or any
body but her old English maid fashioned her petticoat; but she enjoyed
the mistake, and only thought, "This it is to be a minister's wife!"
When arrived at Lady Tenderden's house, every thing was prepared for
the reception of the _petit soupèr_, that is to say, about twenty
people of the _élite_; and the rooms were lit only to that precise
degree of brilliancy which is best expressed by a _jour tendre_; but
there was _no Lord Glenmore_.
Some of the gentlemen loitered round the instrument, touching the
notes, and humming some fashionable airs. "Apropos," said Lady
Tenderden, "nobody sings like Lady Glenmore, and Mr. Leslie Winyard
will accompany her in a duet."
"Pardon me," said the latter, "I sing so ill, I should only _put Lady
Glenmore out_," and he looked at her significantly; "besides, joking
apart, I have such a cold, it is impossible I could utter a sound. But
perhaps Lady Glenmore may be prevailed upon to favour us with an air,
which will come doubly recommended when not marred by such an ignoramus
as myself. Here are all sorts of beautiful things lying about;" and
he turned over the music. "Not only all the modern, but all the
half-antiquated compositions. Above all, here is my old admiration; and
it has this advantage over many of its cotemporaries, it has _echappé
belle_, and is not hackneyed, for this cogent reason, that hardly any
body _can_ sing it. I mean Haydn's _Ariana à Naxos_."
"Oh, charming!" echoed one or two _real_ amateurs; "do, Lady Glenmore,
do let us prevail with you to grant us the favour."
"Come," joined Lady Tenderden's voice with the rest, "I am sure you
will not have ended before _Teseo_ will have arrived." Lady Glenmore
_was_ prevailed on to comply; and though she began unwillingly, it
was a composition so much in unison with her actual feelings, that
unconsciously she became identified with its expression; and she
sang with such impassioned tenderness, and looked so much the Ariana
that she sang, that all the men were in unfeigned raptures, and Lady
Tenderden sat biting her lips in despite for having pressed her to
the trial of her skill. Once or twice Lady Glenmore paused when there
was a change in the movement, and half rose, saying, "This is too
long, you will be tired;"--but she permitted a _douce_ violence, and,
reseating herself, finished the whole _scena_. However delightful her
performance, and however delighted her audience might be, the odour of
the delicate viands that now awaited them made a powerful diversion
in favour of the latter; and with _empressement_, while murmurs of
applause were still on the lips of many of her auditors, they hastened
to arrange themselves at the table.
The Comtesse Leinsengen, who was of course of the party, observed to
Lord Baskerville, as he placed himself by her, "I am quite glad to put
de taste of dat horrid dull _Teseo_ out of my mouth. How people can
be so _baroque_ as to choose such long old-fashioned things, good for
nothing but your German professors!"
Lady Tenderden said, "_Avouez, moi milor, qu'une romance ou barcarolle
vaut bien mieux_."
"After all," said Lady Baskerville, "music is a good thing, but supper
is a better." And now came the general clatter of tongues and knives
and forks, sweeter than all the harmony of the spheres.
"I have made a vow," said Mr. Leslie Winyard to Lady Glenmore; "guess
what it is."
"No, tell me; for I never guessed any thing in my life."
"Why, never again to sing with you, even should you deign to ask me,
for I am quite convinced of the truth of your hint, that I only mar the
perfection of your song; and besides, the true way to feel _with you_,
is to see _you feel_, unoccupied by any thought of one's own." Then,
as if he avoided dwelling on the theme of his admiration, he talked
gaily, and glanced at various topics with that agreeable lightness
of manner which scarcely touches what it lights on, and alternately
made her laugh and nearly cry, till her spirits got into that state of
excitement which obscures reason, and leaves the mind in some degree
open to impressions that, at soberer and more reflective times, it
would cast off as not analogous to its healthful state.
It was at a very late hour that this party broke up. Day was breaking,
and with its clear pale light shaming their orgies, before Lady
Glenmore was actually on her way down stairs to depart; but suddenly
the morning was overcast with one of those thunder-storms not unusual
at the season, and torrents of rain burst from the clouds. A heavy
thunder-clap, that made the very houses rattle again, broke over the
spot where she stood: for an instant she paused, appalled, while the
company were rushing up and down past her, and snatching their various
coverings, to shield them as they flew to their carriages.
"You are not afraid?" said Mr. Leslie Winyard, gently pressing the arm
that rested upon his.
"No, not afraid," she answered; but her countenance was very serious,
and something seemed to reproach her for being in such a scene at such
an hour without any natural protector. She moved on, however, to her
carriage: it was the last at the door. "How do you go home?" she said
to Mr. Leslie Winyard.
"Oh! any how," he answered; and he looked around. "I see my people have
thought it wise to avoid the storm, and left me to take care of myself."
"Can I not set you down?" she asked, from an innocent impulse of
good-nature; and again a still louder clap of thunder rebounded over
their heads, and it was with difficulty the coachman held his horses,
as they reared and plunged violently.
"If you will be so very gracious," he answered, stepping in after her;
and at the same time the carriage door was shut, the footman leaped up
behind, and off the horses flew to ---- street.
"I am quite shocked," he said, "to take you out of your way; but really
I think it was not quite safe, with these young horses, to let you
go home alone, and unattended by any protector, in the midst of this
terrific storm."
"Oh! as to that, I am sure Lord Glenmore would never let me have horses
that were not to be depended upon."
"Will that tiresome name," thought Mr. Leslie Winyard, "never be out
of her mouth;" while he replied at the same time, "Doubtless he would
have _that_ care; for who would not be happy to have such a precious
charge as your safety delegated to him?"
"I am very tired," said Lady Glenmore, yawning; "I wonder what made me
stay so late; but I will never do so again."
"I fear, indeed," he answered, "that this, to me, most fortunate moment
will never return, and that I may never again be able to feel that
I am of the least use to you." At length they arrived at Mr. Leslie
Winyard's door. He reiterated his thanks, took his leave, waited at the
threshold till he saw her carriage depart, and Lady Glenmore proceeded
home.
No sooner was Lady Glenmore alone, than she began to reflect on the
unsatisfactory way in which she had passed the night. She felt sorry
that she had been prevailed upon to go to the supper, or, having gone,
that she had staid so long; and, last of all, she regretted having set
Mr. Leslie Winyard down in her carriage. With these excited feverish
feelings, she arrived at her own door.
As soon as she began to undress, she learnt from her maid that Lord
Glenmore had come home early, had waited till one o'clock for her
ladyship, and then gone to bed. "Dear, how provoking!" she said,
tearing off the ornaments she wore; "what could possess me to remain
out so late! How sorry I am!" and all the while she was demurring
in her own mind whether she should tell her husband that she had
set down Mr. Leslie Winyard, or pass the affair over in silence.
"He may be angry; and I meant no harm; and I cannot bear to see him
displeased. Why should I tell him? a thing, in fact, of such common
occurrence, and, in itself, so perfectly innocent." Thus, instead of
going to peaceful rest, did a feverish inquietude take possession of
her mind; for the first step of a married woman from the high road of
unquestioned purity is doing any thing, however trivial in itself,
of which, having done it, she feels she would _rather not_ tell her
husband.