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!”