CHAPTER III.

“Il faut très peu de fond pour la politesse dans les manières: il en faut beaucoup pour celle de l’esprit.”

LA BRUYERE.

This simple history of such interesting feelings made Lucy reflect a good deal. She looked back on her sisters’ courtships and weddings, and could not persuade herself they had either felt or inspired sentiments half so noble, or so disinterested, as John’s and Milly’s; and she resolved, in her own mind, she would never marry unless she was really in love—very much in love.

It seldom happens that people, on the subject of matrimony, act according to the plan they have proposed to themselves. The girl who settles she will marry a tall dark man, is sure to marry a little fair man; the man who resolves he will have a meek and gentle wife, is caught by some wild coquette, to whom he tamely submits for the sake of a quiet life. So the young lady, who has made up her mind that love is folly, and that, if she repents, it shall be in a coach and six, runs away with a pennyless captain; and Lucy, though extremely anxious to emulate Milly, never found the object to which she could thus devote herself, and ended by repenting in a coach and six.

In the empty dandies and lounging officers who frequented L——, the watering-place near which Colonel Heckfield’s small property was situated, she saw nothing superior to Captain Langley, or to Sir Charles Selcourt; and Nurse Roberts had decidedly not thought Sophy or Lizzy in love with either. But she was very young, and she had plenty of time to look about her. Her three elder sisters were married; her two younger ones had not yet emerged from the school-room; her numerous brothers looked on her as the pet and the beauty of the family, and they all reckoned she was to captivate something brilliant in the way of a _parti_. There was a floating wish in her mind to be heroically devoted, as, through her homely language, she perceived Milly Roberts had been; and yet a desire not to disappoint the expectations of father, mother, brothers, sisters, and governess.

All their acquaintances exclaimed at the good fortune of the Heckfields.

“They did not know how Mrs. Heckfield managed it, but her daughters no sooner appeared than they were snapped up—they were pretty, certainly. Harriet, the eldest, was a fine rosy girl, but she never had an air of fashion. Lizzy had pretty eyes and fine teeth, but her features were decidedly bad. Sophy had a beautiful figure, but she was so pale!” (Sir Charles Selcourt thought that a little rouge would make her look exceedingly well at the head of his table.) Lucy was the beauty, so they supposed she looked very high.

About this time Lord Montreville came to the watering-place of L——. He had but lately succeeded to the title of his elder brother; having passed through the career of a gallant gay Lothario, with the reputation of having been the most irresistible, and the most discreet, but the most general of lovers.

As the charming, but half-ruined Lord Arthur Stansfeld, he had been safe from the machinations of mammas; but the hearts of the daughters had not been safe from his. Secure in the impossibility of his being considered as an eligible _parti_ for the very lovely and high-born beauties who alone could attract his notice, he had not feared to pay such attentions as generally excited a preference on the part of the young ladies. As to the married women, whose names had been coupled with his, in a manner more gratifying to his vanity than to their honour, the list would be painfully long. Still he had avoided any _éclat_, and no one could accuse him of betraying, by a word or a look, any consciousness of his own powers of attraction. On the contrary, he preserved enough of the tone of the _vieille cour_ to make his manner respectful and devoted, and he had acquired enough of the ease of the present day to prevent its being the least formal. He had arrived at that age when, if he had not been so good-looking, so attentive to his dress, so lively in society, he would have been called by the young an old man; but, as it was, he was only called an agreeable man, without any reference being made to the number of years that had passed over his head. Having now succeeded to the family title and estates, he began for the first time to think seriously of marriage. But every charm which had formerly proved attractive to him now filled him with alarm. He had had every opportunity of becoming acquainted with the foibles and the faults of ladies of fashion, and none of estimating their good qualities. He regarded with suspicion style, manner, vivacity, talents, grace; and he resolved to choose some young, unsophisticated creature whom he could mould according to his own views, and who should be as unlike as possible to all those with whom he had had any former connexion.

He was accidentally introduced to Lucy, and she appeared to him precisely the thing of which he was in search. She was decidedly very pretty, and lacked nothing but what a week’s tuition would give, to have _un air distingué_. Her head was small—it was naturally well put on. Her figure was slender, her foot was not large; and, though her hands were a little red, they were well-shaped. Some almond-paste, the best shoemaker, and Mademoiselle Hyacinthe, would set all quite right. He thought he should not alter the style of her coeffure. The back of her head was so Grecian in its contour, she might venture upon her own simple twist and long ringlets.

Having thus made up his mind, he proceeded to ingratiate himself with the family. There was a public ball at the concert-rooms, and thither he went.

He never danced: he knew he was too old, and he never affected youth. But, when Lucy was dancing, she often found his large, intelligent, expressive eyes fixed on her from beneath the very dark eyebrows which shaded them, without giving them any look of harshness. She felt flattered, without being distressed, for the expression was that of kindly pleasure in seeing a lovely young woman innocently gay. The gaze expressed that he did think her lovely, though it contained nothing that could alarm the most shrinking modesty.

In the course of the evening he conversed a good deal with Mrs. Heckfield, in whose common-place remarks he seemed to find much pith and substance.

Between the dances, when Lucy returned to her mother, he rose to give her his seat, not as if he was merely doing an act of common courtesy, but as if it afforded him real heart-felt pleasure to be of any possible use to her, and it was with kindliness, rather than gallantry, that he flew to fetch her some tea, or some lemonade.

He handed Mrs. Heckfield to supper, and sat between her and Lucy, who found her partner quite dull and stupid, in comparison with this very agreeable new acquaintance. He did not talk much; he said nothing which she could afterwards remember as being either clever or amusing. But he had a manner of listening with a deferential air, his eyes fixed with attention on the speaker, while his countenance seemed to say, the remark made was new and luminous, something which had never struck him before, so that people believed themselves delighted with him, while, in truth, they were delighted with themselves.

In a cabinet-council, Colonel and Mrs. Heckfield agreed that, as he appeared to find so much pleasure in their society, they might venture to ask Lord Montreville to dinner. But who to invite to meet him? That was a question of much consideration. The Bexleighs were agreeable, but they were so numerous, that it would make the party dull to have so many of one family. It is dreadful if members of the same household get near each other; they cannot seize that moment for talking of family affairs, neither can they make conversation like strangers.

“Let us have the Thompsons, my dear,” said the Colonel.

“La! Colonel Heckfield! Mrs. Thompson! so fat and vulgar, and Mr. Thompson, so silent, unless you talk of stocks or consols.”

“Well, then, Colonel Danby and his daughter.”

“They will do pretty well; but I was thinking of Mrs. Haughtville, who, you know, has always lived in the first circles.”

“What! that deaf old woman? I can’t see of what use she can be.”

“Why, my dear, it won’t do to ask just common-place country neighbours. We must get somebody Lord Montreville is likely to know.”

“Very true! And then my friend Dolby, he knows every body, and can talk thirteen to the dozen.”

“He knows every body who has been in India, but I very much suspect he does not know any body that Lord Montreville would think any body,” answered the lady, who never could endure her husband’s jolly friend, who certainly did eat, drink, talk, and laugh thirteen to the dozen, but who, she not unwisely thought, would be a very bad ingredient in this refined party; “Surely Sir James Ashgrove, the member for the county, would be a better person; we can give him a bed, you know.”

“Very well—Ashgrove is a good fellow, and a sensible fellow, but he never gives you much of his conversation, unless you talk of the last division in Parliament, and then he will tell you which way every member voted, and the reasons of his vote into the bargain.”

“But he is a man of good birth and good connexions, and quite a friend of the family besides; James’s godfather and all.”

“Then, if we ask our good parson and his two daughters, we shall have quite enough. I don’t like a great let-off; it is much best to take matters quietly.”

“Good heavens, Colonel Heckfield! you cannot be in earnest. What! that old proser, who makes a comma between every word, and a full stop nowhere! and those two Misses, one as old as the hills, and the other as giggling a girl as ever I saw. Besides. Lucy and she will get laughing and gossiping together, and Lucy never appears to advantage when Bell Stopford is with her.”

“Whom had we best have then, my love?” responded the Colonel, who began to be weary of the discussion.

“Why, first of all, Mrs. Haughtville,” answered Mrs. Heckfield, who had long ago prepared her list in her mind, “and Sir James Ashgrove (as _you_ wish), and young Mr. Lyon, Lord Petersfield’s nephew, and Sir Alan Byway, the great traveller, and Miss Pennefeather, who wrote those sweet novels; she is quite the lion of these parts, and people of fashion like to meet a genius; and then, my dear, I thought of asking Lord and Lady Bodlington.”

“Mercy upon us, wife! why I don’t know them by sight.”

“But I do, Colonel Heckfield, and a sweet woman she is. I was introduced to her at the ball the other night, and it would be but civil to ask them to dinner.”

“I think it would be much better to have Mr. Denby and his nice daughter. But it is all the same to me; I don’t like running after fine folks, who care not a rush for us, that’s all.”

“Well, if Lord and Lady Bodlington cannot come, then we will ask the Denbys. But I really am half pledged to ask them, for Lady Bodlington said the other night she heard I had the prettiest green-house in the world: and I said I hoped to have the pleasure of showing it to her.”

“But we do not dine in the green-house?”

“I assure you, my love, I understand these little matters better than you do, and it would seem quite marked if we did not ask the Bodlingtons.”

Colonel Heckfield did not quite understand what would seem marked, but he acquiesced.

The distinguished personages mentioned by Mrs. Heckfield proved propitious, with the exception of Sir Alan Byway, whose place was filled, though most inadequately filled, by a young shy lordling, who was at a private tutor’s in the neighbourhood. Mrs. Heckfield preferred him, on account of his name, to the Indian friend Dolby, whom Colonel Heckfield, on the secession of the loquacious traveller, made another attempt to insert.

The eventful day arrived. Mrs. Heckfield, in her secret soul, was in a great fuss, though she maintained a tolerably placid exterior; she was so afraid, after all her pains to exclude any unworthy guests, that the party might prove dull, or not _bien assorti_. Colonel Heckfield was really composed and easy: he did not like seeking great people, but, if they fell in his way, they did not annoy him. The place, though small, was pretty; the house was _bien montée_; there was nothing to be ashamed of, and he did not see how it could much signify whether one, out of the many pleasant, cheerful dinners, which had taken place under his hospitable roof, proved, or did not prove, the quintessence of perfection.

Not so Mrs. Heckfield. She had settled that, on the impression made that day, depended the future fate of Lucy. When she let herself alone, she was a pleasing, popular woman; but on this occasion, she wished to be more elegant and well-bred than usual. Mrs. Haughtville being rather deaf, could not hear a word she said; and, as Mrs. Heckfield would not commit the vulgarity of speaking loud, every word they addressed to each other, might have figured very well in the game of cross questions and crooked answers. Lady Bodlington was a good-humoured very insipid little woman! Lord Bodlington the most common-place man imaginable. Mr. Lyon was an empty dandy, and he was unfortunately seated next to Miss Pennefeather, whom he regarded with horror, fear, detestation, and contempt, as a blue—and, worse than all, a country blue! Miss Pennefeather, in a yellow toque and red gown, sate up, waiting to be drawn out—but—she waited in vain. The fashionably low tone of voice in which the mistress of the mansion spoke, and her studied desire to be perfectly well-bred, communicated a _gêne_ and formality to the whole party, which, re-acting upon the suffering hostess, would have made the evening one of unmitigated pain to herself, and of unmitigated bore to her company, if Lord Montreville’s tact and good breeding had not come to the relief of all parties.

He asked Miss Pennefeather some questions upon modern literature, which gave her an opportunity of pouring forth her stores of information into the ears of the loathing dandy. He made a remark concerning the number of members who had paired off upon the last important division in the last session of Parliament, and Sir James Ashgrove was in his element. He informed Lady Bodlington what was the proper name for that species of sable of which her boa was composed, and she became eloquent to prove that, whatever its name, it was of the most approved sort—in Paris at least—whatever it might be in Russia. He told young Lord Slenderdale he ought to look at Captain Charles Heckfield’s brown mare, for she was the cleverest hack he had seen for a long time, and the two young men soon found themselves able to speak. He complimented Colonel Heckfield on his wines, and Mrs. Heckfield on the beautiful china of which the dinner service was composed; and he told her in a friendly, confidential manner, the only place where such rare china could be matched. By degrees the conversation became general, and then he listened to each, so as to make each person—each lady at least, believe herself an object of interest and attention to him.

Mrs. Heckfield felt quite at her ease concerning the fate of her dinner, and perfectly intimate with Lord Montreville, but not quite happy about Lucy, who, since the first awful silence, had given way to a comfortable universal clatter, had grown so merry with her brother and Lord Slenderdale, that Mrs. Heckfield felt convinced Lord Montreville would set her down in his mind as a missish hoyden, and entirely dismiss her from his thoughts. In vain were sundry maternal glances levelled at poor Lucy—knittings of the eyebrows (suddenly smoothed and converted into sweet smiles if any one looked her way), all were wasted on the unconscious girl, who, in the gaiety of her heart, continued to laugh and to talk till she was on the verge of laughing a little too loud, and, as Mrs. Heckfield thought, of losing a marquisate.

But she was mistaken. Lord Montreville knew the sex well, and he saw that it was an innocent, gay, natural laugh—that there was neither freedom nor coquetry in her merriment; he knew how quickly women catch the tone of good society, and he still thought she would do.

Mrs. Heckfield hastened the signal for the departure of the ladies, in consequence of Lucy’s ill-timed mirth, and they all sailed out, Lady Bodlington first, the Honourable Mrs. Haughtville next, Miss Pennefeather followed after, and Mrs. Heckfield was able quietly, but angrily, to whisper to Lucy, “that she giggled just as if Bell Stopford had been with her.”