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.”