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?