CHAPTER XIV.

J’ai vu une jolie femme dont la conversation passoit pour un enchantement, personne au monde ne s’exprimoit comme elle, c’étoit la vivacité, c’étoit la finesse même qui parlait: les connoisseurs n’y pouvaient tenir de plaisir. La petite vérole lui vint, elle en resta extrèmement marquée, quand la pauvre femme reparut, ce n’étoit plus qu’une babillarde incommode.—MARIVAUX.

Although no consequences attended Lord Thorcaster’s admiration of Lady Montreville, as far as he himself was concerned, it had a visible effect upon her manners. People are always more vulnerable to flattery with regard to the merit for which they are least remarkable, than that on which they themselves are not in doubt. Lord Thorcaster’s compliments upon the strength of her understanding caused her to set up for a superior woman, _une tête forte_; and she sometimes astonished those who knew her best, by having a decided opinion upon some subject of which women are seldom supposed competent judges.

These little fits of pretension, if they did not add to her attractions, tended very much to increase the number of persons attracted. It was evident there must be vanity, when a new character was assumed for the purpose of shining; and this conviction gave courage and audacity to the herd of aspirers to her favour, who had hitherto been kept at bay by the candour and openness of her manner. The back of Lady Montreville’s opera box was always thronged with men. The door was constantly opened, and quickly shut again, by persons who could not find standing-room; and woe to the neighbours on each side, if by any chance they loved music, and wished to listen to the sweet sounds they had paid their money to hear.

Lionel Delville, who from the first had been exceedingly favourable to Lucy, now found his cousin’s house the most agreeable in London; and took advantage of the privileges of relationship to be always in attendance. It seemed to be a settled thing, that he was her most obsequious slave. Open conventional gallantry, and cousinly intimacy, were so skilfully blended, that it was difficult to ascertain when and where real gallantry commenced. She was proud of the admiration of the oracle of statesmen, and pleased with the devotion of the oracle of fashion. She was the life of society; she became a great talker, and her spirits rose with the exertion. Her voice was by nature so sweetly modulated, that no one could be tired of hearing it; her countenance was so soft, that although she occasionally sported the most decided opinions, they did not seem _tranchant_, when delivered by her.

If success in the great world could constitute the whole happiness of any person with naturally good feelings, she might now have been happy. But was she so? No.

She had not been brought up without some attention to religious subjects. She always went to church, and would have felt uneasy if she had omitted to do so; she had a general desire and resolution to do what was right, and a horror of doing what was wrong. Her own domestic discontents, Sophy’s arguments and example, the natural desire after happiness inherent in our nature, and the vanity which is lurking at the bottom of most hearts, had combined to lead her thus far on the road to wrong; but she could not be happy, unless she felt satisfied with herself.

She often thought, “How cheerful the Duchess of Altonworth is! How placid she looks! Nothing ever worries her, and every thing worries me. It makes me unhappy and discontented with myself to see her;” and the result was, that she frequented her quiet and select _soirées_ less and less; for when not in a whirl of engagements, she invariably felt weary and listless. Though the constant tribute paid to her charms afforded her but little pleasure, she felt the want of it, if by any chance it was withheld. Then she became fastidious upon the subject. She despised the homage of common-place empty youngsters; she ridiculed the _doux yeux_ of old men; she was disgusted with fulsome compliments; but Lionel Delville knew how to flatter, without appearing to do so; he had learned in his cousin’s school, and Lord Montreville saw his own arts practised upon his wife.

He had taken no notice of the tribe of general admirers, for, feeling himself not immaculate, he instinctively avoided what might lead to recrimination. He had not heeded Lord Thorcaster’s attentions, for he was nearly as old as himself, and much less good-looking;—but the increased devotion of Lionel Delville gave him serious uneasiness. From the beginning he had felt a dread of his particular friend, and had sought his company as little as possible, since he married. Until now, Lucy’s manner had been such, that she might safely have bid defiance to the most malicious; but the revolution which the last few weeks had effected in her rendered him serious and thoughtful. He was uncertain what line to take; and in the mean time he was not particularly good-humoured, and frequently spoke of the frivolity and the vanity of women, in a manner which sounded harshly in Lucy’s ears, when she thought of the immorality and the hypocrisy of men.

Often would she lament having ever seen the fatal letter; often did she wish herself once more deceived; often did she look back, as to a happy time, to that when she sought only to please her husband. She almost wished to be again ruled, and thwarted in all her everyday pursuits; for she now thought these petty annoyances were more than compensated by the satisfactory sensation of fulfilling the duties of a good wife, and the hope of securing the affections of her husband. It was with sorrow and regret that she reverted to the days when she did so sincerely wish to secure them. Those days were gone—gone, never to return!

The respect she had felt for him, as her wedded husband, as her guide, her superior in understanding, and in knowledge—was gone, and with it the halo she had willingly thrown around his age. She now looked upon him as a _passé_ profligate, to whom in a moment of infatuation she had linked her youth; one whom his own inconstancy had exonerated her from loving, and to whom she only owed the bare duties of obedience and fidelity, in compliance with her marriage vow.

She no longer felt bound to sacrifice her own tastes to his; and she adopted an independent tone, which was by no means agreeable to Lord Montreville, although, by having slacked the reins when first he feared his own aberrations were discovered, he found it somewhat difficult to again tighten them.

He had kept his resolution of breaking off all connexion with his former mistress; and he began to look upon himself as the most exemplary of husbands, to forget Lucy’s devotion and forbearance, and his own errors, and to feel that the blame lay all on her side.

He was seldom absent from home; and he acquired the habit of constantly coming in and out of the drawing-room during the morning, Lucy felt watched and suspected—unjustly suspected by him. Her spirit rebelled at the unfairness of mankind. Though meek, while she was anxious to please the husband she looked up to, the sense of injury had aroused in her a spirit which had heretofore lain dormant; and strong in the consciousness that she did nothing wrong, she did not alter her mode of proceeding, but continued to admit morning visiters, and to allow Lionel Delville to lounge away many an hour in St. James’s Square, before she went out in the carriage.

He had frequently of late presented her with bouquets of the most rare and beautiful flowers, which he professed to bring with him from his sister’s villa at Roehampton; and Lucy had no scruple in accepting the nosegay which her husband’s cousin brought from the country.

It so happened that Lord Montreville one day accompanied some ladies to Colville’s nursery garden, and they there admired a row of beautiful nosegays, which were delicately tied up, and arranged in order. They wished to purchase one of them, when the nurseryman begged to cut some fresh flowers, as these were all bespoken by Lord so and so, for Mrs. so and so; and by Sir something somebody, for Lady such a thing; and by Mr. Delville, for Lady Montreville. The other names were all notoriously coupled together; and that his wife’s should be mixed up with such, was enough to irritate any husband. Lord Montreville changed colour, and bit his lips. No more passed. Fresh flowers were procured, and the party proceeded on their ride.

Lord Montreville returned home at dressing time, and came up-stairs in no very placid frame of mind. He knew so much of the vice of the world, that if roused to suspect at all, he suspected a great deal. While Lucy was the simple unsophisticated creature she once was, he rendered justice to her purity; but with him there could be no medium. He could respect perfect innocence; but the first bloom of that innocence passed away, he made no allowances for the foibles of human nature, but fancied it either already plunged, or on the point of plunging, into reckless vice.

When he entered the apartment, the first sight which greeted his eyes, was Lionel Delville assisting Lucy to put the identical nosegay in water, that it might be fresh for the evening’s ball.

Lord Montreville could scarcely command himself. His blood boiled to his fingers’ ends. But, stronger than insulted pride, than love, than jealousy, was in the man of the world, the fear of appearing ridiculous in the eyes of another man of the world.

To an indifferent observer, his greeting would have appeared perfectly calm; his manner to Lionel cordial; that to his wife kind; but they all three knew the world, and none was deceived. Lionel saw his cousin’s feelings, and was annoyed; for it would be vexatious to have his pleasant morning visits disturbed, and quite a pity that Lady Montreville’s home should be rendered uncomfortable. Lucy, who had learned more of the workings of the human mind in the last year than in all her previous life, also perceived Lord Montreville’s inward irritation; and, although she had nothing really to reproach herself with, her conscience led her to guess pretty accurately what caused the storm she saw impending.

Lionel felt his situation as third distressing, and did not linger long after Lord Montreville’s entrance. He took a gay and sportive leave; Lucy bade him remember to get the new march from his military band; Lord Montreville added, “Mind, you dine with us to-morrow, my good fellow!”—the door closed.

Lord Montreville patiently awaited while he heard the clank of his boots as he hurried down the stone stairs; he waited till he heard the porter close the street door upon him, and then, turning to Lucy, he said, in a tone of choking calmness:—

“Lady Montreville, this will not do. I must put an immediate stop to your present mode of life.”

Lucy could not help feeling frightened out of her wits; but she remembered Alicia Mowbray, and she remembered that Lionel Delville had never spoken a word of love to her, and she roused herself to the onset with a feeling of desperation, and of contempt for her monitor.

“What will not do, Lord Montreville? What do you mean to put a stop to?”

“I mean to say that it is not my intention that the house of Montreville should be disgraced while I am its head; and that I shall take every precaution in my power to prevent such being the case.”

“Indeed, Lord Montreville! I approve of your resolution, and agree with you, that all who bear so noble a name should be _sans peur, et sans reproche_.”

“Madam!” and for a moment he looked fiercely upon her: “Whatever you may mean by that insinuation, you may remember that bravery is the virtue indispensable in men, while in women it is—chastity; and I tell you fairly, that I shall not be the convenient husband of a wife who flirts with half London, and keeps her favoured lover tame about the house.”

“Heavens! Lord Montreville, do you say such things to me? Do you dare say such things?” Her momentary pride was gone; she burst into a flood of tears, and clasping her hands, exclaimed: “Fool that I was, I mistook polished manners for real refinement, and fancied those coarse and vulgar, who would never have insulted as you have done!”

“It is certainly a pity you did not choose some one more suited to your unambitious taste; but as you did marry me, and as I have the honour of being your husband, I may be allowed some control over your actions; and I therefore repeat it, I expect you will conduct yourself in such a manner, as is consistent with your reputation and my own.”

Lord Montreville left the room with coolness and dignity in his air, but with rage and indignation in his heart. Indignant at having been reproached by the creature he had raised to her present brilliant situation, and whose conduct latterly had destroyed the _prestige_ which her behaviour to him in his illness had thrown around her.

Lucy remained in an agony of shame and anger, such as had never yet overpowered her. She rushed to her own room, and was found by Milly, who looked in to ask if she would like to have the child, rocking herself backwards and forwards in her chair, with her face buried in her hands, and sobbing audibly.

Milly exclaimed in terror, “Oh, la! my lady, whatever is the matter? My dear young lady, my sweet Miss Lucy, what has happened? Do speak, my dear Miss Lucy! what has happened to any of the dear family?”

“Milly, I am miserable! I am the most miserable wretch in the world!”

“Oh! my lady, don’t say so! I can’t bear to hear you talk in that way!”

“Did I not give him my first affections? Have I not been as truly devoted to him, as if he had loved me with the fervour of youth? Did I not yield to all his old bachelor fancies? I ask you, Milly, could I have nursed him with more tenderness, if he had been as dear to me as John was to you? And he was almost as dear; yes, it was with my whole heart that I gave myself up to my attendance upon him. And what do you think has been the return I have met with? That he should prefer to me a mistress! a horrible, wicked, abandoned woman, whose very vice constitutes her charm!”

“Sure, sure, my lady, somebody has told you false tales. This can never be true.”

“It is too true, Milly—I know it! Would I could have any doubt upon the subject! While I was shut up here, not allowed to enjoy myself in society, but passing long tiresome days of seclusion and dullness, and thinking he was attending to his duties, his parliamentary duties, the good of the nation, the welfare of his country, he was carrying on this shameful affair. During my confinement, when I was ill and suffering, he was amusing himself in the company of this woman. Oh! it makes me sick to think of! I have borne it all—I have done my duty—I have not complained—I have not reproached him—I have sat up with him night after night in his illness—I have not murmured? And now it is he who reproaches me, for at length trying to make myself happy without his affections, when he chooses to lavish them upon a shameless creature! He is angry with me, because everybody does not think me as little agreeable and as little charming as he does! He would wish me to be odious and ugly, to justify himself!”

“I am sure, my lady, nobody that knows you can think you odious or ugly.”

“It is not my fault, if people will think me otherwise.”

“Certainly, my lady; one could not expect that gentlefolks should not think you a good, kind, pleasant lady, as you are; nor one would not wish them not to think so; but——”

“But what, Milly?”

“Why, my lady, though my lord may have done what he should not have done, still, my lady, you are a married woman.”

“I know that, Milly; and I would rather die than ever be led to forget it. If I had allowed the dandies to make love to me—if I had given any one of them reason to imagine I had the least preference for him—if I had in any way deserved such treatment——”

“And do you think, my lady, you would be any the happier if you felt you did deserve it?”