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.