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 RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 A CHAPERON. 
 
 OL, H-- b a., 'r- C "•■•■^ o^ '^'- '^^ ^^. *vv J^ 
 
 EDITED BY LADY DACRE. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, 
 
 (successor TO HENRY COLJJURN.) 
 
 1833.
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/recollectionsofc01sull
 
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER, 
 
 I WAS left a widow with seven daughters. 
 I have married them all, or rather, I have let 
 them marry themselves ; for I never took any 
 active measures towards bringing about a re- 
 sult which I own to be a desirable one in a 
 family consisting of seven daughters and one 
 son. 
 
 I have seen manoeuvring mothers succeed ; 
 but I have as often seen them fail in their 
 matrimonial speculations. I have seen digni- 
 fied mothers with modest daughters, pass year 
 after year, unnoticed and unsought ; but I 
 have also seen the unobtrusive daughters of 
 retiring mothers form splendid alliances ; and 
 at the very beginning of my career as a Cha- 
 peron, I came to the conclusion that, as there 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 was no rule which could ensure success, it 
 was safer and more respectable to do too little 
 than to do too much ; better simply to fail, 
 than to fail and to be ridiculous at the same 
 time. 
 
 Accordingly, when I had mounted my fea- 
 thered hat and black velvet gown, or my white 
 satin gown and flowered cap, as the occasion 
 might require, and patiently taken my station 
 upon the chair, seat, or bench which I could 
 most conveniently appropriate to myself, I 
 beguiled the weary hours by studying those 
 around me, trusting for the rest to chance, 
 and to the principles which I had endea- 
 voured to impress upon the minds of my 
 girls ; viz. not to flirt so as to attract atten- 
 tion, — not to think too highly of their own 
 pretensions, — and above all, not to be betrayed 
 into laughing at any man before they kne^^ 
 him, by which means more than one girl of 
 my acquaintance has been obliged, for consis- 
 tency's sake, to repulse a person whom, upon 
 further acquaintance, she might have sincerely 
 preferred. 
 
 My daughters were not beautiful enouglr. 
 
 ■\^-
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 3 
 
 nor did they marry brilliantly enough, to 
 excite the jealousy of other mothers. I had 
 brought them up to avoid a fault odious 
 in all, but especially so in the young, that 
 of being more ready to jierceive the failings 
 than the merits of their companions : we were, 
 therefore, a popular family. I had myself the 
 happy knack of being interested in the con- 
 cerns and distresses of others, and I listened 
 with pleasure to details however trifling : I had 
 consequently many intimate friends. 
 
 As people never were afraid of me, trans- 
 ient emotions, and harmless weaknesses, which 
 would have been concealed from a sterner, 
 cleverer, or more important personage, were 
 confessed, or, at all events, permitted to escape 
 in a ttte-a-tite with the good-natured, quiet, 
 
 inoffensive Mrs. . But what am I doing ? 
 
 I wish to preserve my incog, and only hope I 
 have not already betrayed myself by the men- 
 tion of my white satin, and my black velvet 
 gowns. 
 
 I will write no more, lest some unguarded 
 expression should give a clue to my name : 
 I will simply add, that my last daughter hav- 
 B 2
 
 ' 4 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 ing been comfortably established a year ago, 
 " Othello's occupation is gone ;" and my purse 
 being somewhat drained by the purchase of so 
 many trousseaux, I have occupied my leisure, 
 and, T trust, shall recruit my finances, by 
 pourtraying characters and feelings which I 
 believe are true to nature, although under 
 circumstances and in situations not founded 
 on fact.
 
 THE SINGLE WOxMAN 
 
 A CERTAIN AGE,
 
 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 A CERTAIN AGE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Duke. And what 's her history 1 
 riola. A blank, my lord. 
 
 Why is it that the bustling matron, who 
 (having, without preference or selection, mar- 
 ried the first man who proposed to her,) has 
 spent her days in the unsentimental details of 
 a household, a nursery, and a school-room, 
 merely considering her partner as the me- 
 dium through which these several departments 
 are provided for?— why is it that the Ian- 
 guid beauty, who has sold herself to age or 
 folly for an opera-box, an equipage, a title? 
 —why is it that the scold, who has jangled
 
 8 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 through a wedded life of broils and disputes — 
 and the buxom widow, whose gay and bloom- 
 ing face gives the lie to her mourning gar- 
 ments ? — why is it that they all cast a pitying 
 glance of contempt on the " single woman of 
 a certain age" who ventures an opinion on 
 the subject of love ? Why do they all look 
 as if it were impossible she could ever have 
 felt its influence ? 
 
 On the contrary, the very fact of singleness 
 affords in itself presumptive evidence of the 
 power of some strong and unfortunate pre- 
 dilection. Few women pass through life with- 
 out having had some opportunities of what 
 is commonly called "settling;" therefore the 
 chances are, that betrayed affections, an un- 
 requited attachment, or an early prepossesr 
 sion, has called forth the sentiment of which 
 they are supposed incapable — and called it 
 forth, too, in a mind of too much delicacy 
 to admit the idea of marriage from any other 
 motive than that of love. 
 
 The following story, which is ushered into 
 the world by so unattractive a title, might 
 afford an example, that a life which appears
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. [) 
 
 " a blank'"* in the history of events, may be 
 far from '' a blank" in the history of feelings. 
 
 By the death of her father, Lord T , 
 
 Isabella St. Clair found herself, at the age 
 of nineteen, an orphan possessed of a consi- 
 derable fortune, of great personal attractions, 
 and of all the accomplishments which, in 
 these days of education and refinement, are 
 expected to grace young ladies of fashion. 
 
 Her brother, the young Lord T , was not 
 
 of an age to serve as her protector, and ac- 
 cordingly she removed to the house of her 
 uncle and guardian, Sir Edward Elmsley. 
 
 Sir Edward and Lady Elmsley were of that 
 respectable class of English gentry who, by 
 not attempting to move in a more elevated 
 circle than that in which they are naturally 
 placed, command the esteem and respect of 
 those above, as well as of those below them. 
 Their daughter Fanny, although of the same 
 age as her cousin Isabella, had not yet been 
 initiated into the pleasures and the pains of 
 a London campaign. 
 
 Isabella, who had been accustomed to a 
 life of excitement, was not sorry, at the ex- 
 B 5
 
 10 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 piration of her mourning for her father, to 
 join in whatever gaiety was going forward, 
 and to exercise once more the power of that 
 beauty which, even in London, had attracted 
 its full share of admiration. 
 
 In the country, where beauty, rank, fashion, 
 fortune, and accomplishments are not so com- 
 mon, of course the brilliant Miss St. Clair was 
 the star of every ball ; and all the young men 
 of any pretensions in the county, vied with 
 each other in obtaining a word, a smile, a look 
 from the lovely Isabella. 
 
 Nor did the charms with which she was 
 really endowed lose any thing from want of 
 skill in the possessor. She had the art of 
 keeping an indefinite number of persons oc- 
 cupied with her alone ; she had left her shawl 
 in the next room, and, with a thousand grace- 
 ful apologies, she asked one person to fetch 
 it for her, at the same time holding her cup 
 in a helpless manner, and casting a beseeching 
 glance around her, which brought a hundred 
 eager hands to set it down. Then she looked 
 timidly confused at having given so much 
 trouble. Presently she had a message to send
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 11 
 
 to her cousin Fanny, with which she despatch- 
 ed one admirer, while she hinted in a low voice 
 to another, who was pressing her to stand up 
 in the next quadrille, that she did not like 
 to do so while Fanny was sitting still. The 
 devoted youth flew to dance with Fanny, 
 claiming as his reward the hand of Isabella 
 for the ensuing waltz. She knew how to pique 
 and to excite the vanity of each : to one she 
 implied she had heard something of him which 
 certainly had very much surprised her ; to 
 another that she understood he had been abu- 
 sing her horridly ; she playfully scolded a 
 third for not admiring Fanny half as much 
 as he ought, and wondered how he could be 
 so blind. She assured a fourth that he and 
 all the world had quite mistaken her dispo- 
 sition, indeed, that scarcely any one did un- 
 derstand her ; implying there was depth of 
 character and feeling beyond the reach of tlie 
 multitude, and thereby piquing and interest- 
 ing the sentimental youth to discover these 
 hidden treasures. 
 
 Fanny, meanwhile, placid and contented, 
 enjoyed what she met with that was agree-
 
 12 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 able, without its ever crossing her imagination 
 to feel envy or jealousy of her cousin. She 
 was not mortified, for she saw her so beau- 
 tiful, so brilliant, that all rivalry seemed out 
 of the question. They were happy and af- 
 fectionate Avith each other. Isabella, consti- 
 tutionally gay, good-humoured, and joyous, 
 was never crossed or thwarted by Fanny, 
 and, although an acute observer might dis- 
 cover in her fondness for her cousin, a tone 
 of superiority, a protecting kindness, Fanny 
 so completely acquiesced in that superiority, 
 that it never for a moment wounded her self- 
 love. 
 
 About a year after Isabella's arrival at 
 Elmsley Priory, the society of that neighbour- 
 hood received a very animating addition in 
 the young Lord Delaford, who, soon after his 
 return from his travels, established himself 
 at his beautiful Castle of Fordborough. He 
 joined to the most prepossessing appearance 
 and manners, an excellent character, consi- 
 derable talents, and extensive possessions. He 
 paid a visit to Sir Edward Elmsley, and of 
 course Isabella counted upon him as her de-
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 13 
 
 voted slave, and thought such a conquest was 
 not to be neglected. 
 
 She was rather surprised that he handed the 
 quiet Fanny to dinner, but she satisfactorily 
 accounted for this circumstance by supposing 
 he considered it a courtesy to which the young 
 lady of the house was entitled. But when, 
 in the course of the evening, he voluntarily 
 seated himself by Fanny, and appeared in- 
 terested by her conversation, she certainly was 
 very much astonished, and not much pleased. 
 
 To Lord Delaford, who had lately come into 
 the country, wearied and disgusted with the 
 dissipation of Paris, and the turmoil of Lon- 
 don, -the style, the vivacity, and even the 
 beauty of Isabella, were too much what he 
 had been in the habit of seeing every day, to 
 possess any peculiar attractions for him ; while 
 the calm brow, the placid air, the perfect in- 
 nocence and unconsciousness of Fanny's man- 
 ner, appeared to him as soothing and refresh- 
 ing, as the green trees and verdant meadows 
 after the glare and confusion of the streets. 
 In conversation he found her modest and well- 
 informed, and he sought her society the next
 
 14 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 day and the next. By degrees his manner 
 assumed a tone of admiration which, to a 
 person accustomed as she was to be placed 
 in the shade, had more than the usual effect 
 attributed to admiration, that of enhaiuino 
 the charms by which it was first excited. 
 
 Those who imagine they do not please, often 
 neglect the means by which they might do 
 so ; whereas, if they once become aware that 
 all they say and do finds favour in the siglit 
 of others, they are no longer ashamed of beino 
 charming, or afraid to be agreeable. 
 
 People in general were astonished at the 
 wonderful improvement in Fanny, but her mo- 
 ther remarked that, when Lord Delaford en- 
 tered the room, her soft brown eyes shone 
 with a lustrous consciousness, that if lie ad- 
 dressed her, the colour mounted in her pale 
 and delicate complexion, and she understood 
 full well the cause of this improvement. 
 
 If Lord Delaford had been originally at- 
 tracted by the unruffled placidity of hi r ex- 
 pression, he was infinitely more so by fiiuling 
 that his presence had the power of disturbing 
 that placidity. Though he could not doubt
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 15 
 
 that he possessed many qualities which might 
 make him an object of preference to young 
 ladies, and every adventitious qualification to 
 make him approved of by the old ; though he 
 must have known he had been sighed for by 
 daughters, and sought by mammas ; still he was 
 not one of those men who are piqued by cold- 
 ness, and inflamed by the difficulty of winning 
 the object. On the contrary, there was a na- 
 tural diffidence about him which made him 
 vulnerable to the attentions of women, and 
 easily daunted by any appearance of disin- 
 clination. 
 
 Fanny was too amiable and too humble 
 ever to have felt jealous of her cousin, but 
 she was not insensible to the pleasure of find- 
 ing herself suddenly preferred by the one 
 person whose favour all were desirous to gain. 
 Every thing seemed to prosper to the utmost 
 of her's or her parent'*s wishes. Lord Delaford 
 became every day more serious in his atten- 
 tions, and there appeared to be no reason why 
 Fanny should not yield to the engrossing fas- 
 cinations of a passion which, if felt for the first 
 time at the age of twenty, combines with the
 
 16 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 freshness of a first love, the depth and strength 
 of which the more formed character is sus- 
 ceptible. 
 
 In the mean time Isabella no longer found 
 the same gratification in the insipid crowd of 
 common-place admirers, whose suffrages had 
 before elated her. She felt, truly enough, of 
 how much more value were the sincere esteem 
 and affection of one true heart, than all the 
 frivolous admiration of people she did not care 
 for ; all her former conquests lost their value 
 in her eyes ; she, for the first time, felt herself 
 the forgotten and neglected one. Vanity, like 
 ambition, only becomes the more insatiable by 
 being fed, and, as the single Mordecai, who 
 refused to bow before the pomp of Haman, 
 embittered all the glories of his triumph, so 
 the one person who was proof against her 
 charms, outweighed in her estimation the herd 
 who acknowledged their power. 
 
 She had too much tact, too much knowledge 
 of the world, too much spirit, to allow these 
 feelings to be visible to the eyes of common 
 observers. Lord Delaford and Fanny were 
 so completely occupied with each other that
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 17 
 
 they could not remark anything about Isa- 
 bella ; but Lady Elmsley, with maternal quick- 
 sightedness, perceived her mortification, and 
 with pride, which may perhaps be pardoned 
 in a mother, could not help being pleased that, 
 at length, her daughter's merits should be 
 valued, as they deserved, above those of Isa- 
 bella. 
 
 Occasionally Isabella caught a glance of 
 triumph which escaped from the eyes of Lady 
 Elmsley, and she resolved to let slip no op- 
 portunity of gaining the attention of Lord 
 Delaford. 
 
 ]Mortifi cation is but half felt while it is only 
 felt in secret. It is not till we perceive it has 
 been remarked by others, that it becomes one 
 of the most painful sensations to which the 
 weak, the vain, and the worldly, are liable, 
 and one from which the most humble and pure 
 minded can scarcely boast of being entirely 
 free.
 
 18 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Gerarda, Que todo se aprende hija y no hai cosa mas facil 
 
 que enganar a los hombres de que ellos tienea la culpa ; porqut 
 como nos han privado el estudio de los ciencios en que pudiera- 
 mos divertir nuestros ingenios sutiles, solo estudiamos una, (jue 
 es la de enganarlos, y como no hay mas de un libro, todas lo 
 sabemos de memoria. 
 
 Dorotea, — Nunca yo le he visto. 
 
 Gerarda. — Pres es excellente letura, y de famosos capitulos. 
 
 Dorotea. — Dime los titulos siguiera. 
 
 Gerarda, — De fingir amor al rico y no disgustar el pobre. 
 
 De desmayarse a su tiempo, y Uorar sin causa. 
 
 De dar zelos al libre y al colerico satisfacciones. 
 
 De mirar dormido, y reir con donayre. 
 
 De estudiar vocablos y ap render bailes. 
 
 « ♦ * * • 
 
 Y de no enamorarse por ningun acontecimiento, porque tod.- 
 se va perdido, sin otros muchos capitulos de mayor importanciu. 
 
 Lope de Vega. 
 
 Isabella had attentively studied the cl»a- 
 racier of Lord Delaford, and she felt sure 
 that if she could once get him within lior
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 19 
 
 toils, she should be able to keep him there. 
 She had discovered, that although too refined 
 not to be disgusted by any open attempt to 
 attract him, there was a considerable mixture 
 of vanity and of humility in his composition ; 
 and she flattered herself she could work upon 
 both these feelings. 
 
 She one day happened to sit next him at 
 dinner, and contrived, with a tact for which 
 she was peculiar, to turn the conversation 
 upon himself. She said she never knew any 
 one of whom she was so much afraid : to 
 which he replied, 
 
 " That is very odd ! I have always been 
 reckoned a good-natured sort of fellow." 
 
 " Oh, yes !'*' she answered ; " I am sure 
 you are good-natured ; but your very good- 
 nature helps to frighten me. You are so un- 
 like other people ; and I feel so awed when 
 you are present.*" 
 
 " Well, that is strange ! I don't think I 
 ever awed any body before. Do I look so 
 cross ?" 
 
 " Oh ! it is not that ; but you are so good ;
 
 J20 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 .and you always say just what you should say, 
 iand no more. I should be afraid to utter, or 
 :to do any thing foolish before you." 
 
 " Well, I should be as useful to you as 
 ■Prince Cheri's ring in the fairy tale. It is 
 a pity I am not always by your side !" 
 
 " Oh ! but then I should always be in a 
 -fright ; — not that I mean it is a disagreeable 
 sort of fright." And she turned the conver- 
 sation, fearful of showing any design of at- 
 tracting him. 
 
 In the evening, he, as usual, turned over 
 the leaves of Fanny's music-book, while she 
 "was singing, or forgot to turn them over, 
 while gazing with delight upon those melt- 
 ing, yet innocent eyes, which met his so 
 kindly and so trustingly — eyes, that looked 
 as if there lurked in the heart beneath, depths 
 of unawakened and unexplored feelings, which 
 only waited to be excited. 
 
 '\ But when he was alone, the remarks of 
 Isabella recurred to his recollection, and he 
 wondered what in him could have struck her 
 as being so singular and so reserved. The
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 21 
 
 next day, when they were riding, he found 
 himself near her, and reverted to the conver- 
 sation of the preceding day. 
 
 " I have been quite uneasy, Miss St. Clair, 
 at finding I am so disagreeable as I must be, 
 if I am the precise, formal, measured person, 
 you describe me to be."' 
 
 A certain step is gained, when, instead of 
 starting a new and indifferent subject, the 
 topic of the preceding conversation is resumed. 
 Most coquettes know, by intuition, that the 
 best mode of accomplishing this, is to talk 
 to persons of themselves. Isabella's heart beat 
 quicker, at finding how well she had succeeded, 
 in awakening his curiosity ; but assuming a 
 nonchalant manner, she answered, 
 
 " Disagreeable ! Surely I never could have 
 said any thing half so uncivil ?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly you did not tell me in so 
 many words that I was disagreeable ; but you 
 implied it."' 
 
 " No, no ! Indeed, I think I said every 
 thing most flattering — that you were so very 
 good." 
 
 '' Well, I suppose if I am so very good,
 
 22 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 I must not consider being good, and being 
 disagreeable, as synonymous terms; and yet 
 you made it appear yesterday as if they 
 were ?" 
 
 " Oh, Lord Delaford ! how can you accuse 
 me of saying any thing so shocking ? I only 
 declared you were so good, so superior, I 
 was afraid of you.'"* 
 
 " But a person who makes you fear him, 
 must be disagreeable to you." 
 
 " No, indeed : — I like to be awed. I am 
 fond of an organ in a cathedral ; and I ad- 
 mire lofty mountains, and beautiful stormy 
 skies, and every thing that is grand and sub- 
 lime in art and in nature ! Could one bear to 
 hear one's own feeble voice mingle itself with 
 the pealing reverberations of the organ in the 
 glorious pile of St. Peter's ? And does one 
 not feel one's own nothingness, when among 
 the mountains, the torrents, the precipices, 
 the peaks, the glaciers of the stupendous 
 Alps ? Yet surely these are pleasurable emo- 
 tions ! With me, at least, awe and pleasure 
 are very compatible sensations." 
 
 As she spoke, her large and brilliant eye
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 2S 
 
 glanced upwards for a moment, with an ex- 
 pression of lofty enthusiasm. 
 
 Lord Delaford gazed upon her, and men- 
 tally exclaimed, " That girl has a soul !" 
 Presently, relaxing into a smile, as if ashamed 
 of her own eagerness, she added, " I believe 
 Doctor Spurzheim would discover in me the 
 bump of veneration ;*" and putting her horse 
 into a canter, the whole party became mixed 
 together, and she addressed herself to some 
 one else. Lord Delaford mechanically found 
 himself by the side of Fanny ; but it was 
 some time before they became engaged in any 
 thing that deserved the name of conversation. 
 
 By degrees, however, the unobtrusive gen- 
 tleness of Fanny had its usual effect upon 
 him ; and they discoursed calmly and agree- 
 ably, upon subjects of literature, or the im- 
 mediate events of the neighbourhood ; but 
 that day there were none of those flattering 
 turns of phrase, that deferential manner of 
 listening, which, not appearing in the com- 
 mon-place form of compliment, have the effect 
 of flattery, without putting one on one's guard 
 against it.
 
 24 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 Fanny returned from her ride less exhila- 
 rated than usual. She thought the wind was 
 rather cold, and her beautiful, thorough-bred 
 horse, not quite agreeable. 
 
 At dinner Lord Delaford sat between Isa- 
 bella and herself, and his attention was, to say 
 the least, divided between the cousins. Isa- 
 bella was in high spirits. She was animated 
 by the desire and the hope of pleasing. She 
 caught an uneasy look from Lady Elmsley, 
 and she could not suppress an emotion of 
 gratified pique. She had too much the tone 
 of good society ever to run the risk of being 
 noisy ; her flow of spirits only showed itself by 
 being exceedingly droll and lively ; and though 
 perhaps she amused in some degree at the 
 expense of the absent, her dancing dark eyes 
 glanced with such brilliancy, such merriment, 
 such a look of gay archness, that no one could 
 suspect her of harbouring a feeling of ill-nature 
 towards any one. Nor in truth did she 
 harbour any such feeling. She only wished 
 to amuse ; and there are few people who have 
 not occasionally been led by the intoxicating 
 pleasure of causing a laugh, into ridiculing
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 25 
 
 persons towards whom they felt no ill-will. 
 Lord Delaford was entertained, and laughed 
 incessantly at her quaint ideas. He wondered 
 why Fanny did not seem more to enjoy sallies 
 which appeared to him so full of talent and of 
 wit. He thought it argued a want of imagi- 
 nation, which disappointed him. Fanny mean- 
 while was depressed, she knew not why ; but 
 when she retired to rest, in the stillness of her 
 chamber, she made a discovery as painful as it 
 was humiliating. 
 
 Surprised to find herself so very serious, 
 when others were so much amused, in doubt 
 and trembling she looked into her own heart, 
 and she found it to be nearly engrossed by one 
 overwhelming passion. She had always in- 
 tended to keej) herself " fancy free" till she 
 could devote her whole soul, her pure un- 
 hacknied affections, to one only object for ever. 
 From the easy footing of society in a country- 
 house, her intercourse with Lord Delaford had 
 been free and unconstrained ; his attentions, 
 although constant, were not marked, and 
 nothing had occurred to call her mind to the 
 effect they were gradually, but surely, pro, 
 VOL. 1. c
 
 26 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 ducing. It was not till the fear came over her 
 that he did not care for her, that she discovered 
 she had ever believed in his preference ; it 
 was not till she felt how inexpressibly painful 
 was that fear, that she discovered her affec- 
 tions w6re fixed on one only object for ever. 
 
 She was suddenly aroused from her fancied 
 security, and found within the heart which she 
 had imagined fresh and uncontaminated, love, 
 — unrequited love, and jealousy, — jealousy of 
 her dearest friend. She thought herself de- 
 graded. She was miserable. But she did not 
 allow her mortification to swallow up all other 
 feelings. Maidenly pride remained, and she 
 determined he should never perceive the power 
 she had allowed him to acquire over her. 
 
 Lord Delaford, on his part, reflected upon 
 the increased attractions of Isabella, and upon 
 the want of vivacity of Fanny. Though no 
 coxcomb, he thought it possible Fanny might 
 entertain for him feelings which, his conscience 
 told him, would have been wounded by the 
 unusual degree in which he had been occupied 
 with Isabella. His goodnatured heart smote
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 27 
 
 him at the idea of giving pain to so gentle and 
 lovely a being, and he joined the breakfast- 
 party the next morning full of kindness and 
 interest for Fanny, flattered by the interpre- 
 tation he had himself given to her coldness, 
 and well prepared to return any indications of 
 preference which he might perceive in her 
 manner towards him. 
 
 Fanny had schooled her heart, and the 
 more she was really agitated, the more was she 
 resolved to wear a calm exterior ; the more she 
 knew there was a sentiment within her bosom 
 which could not be confessed, the more was 
 she resolved no human eye should discover it. 
 She was aware that sudden coolness might be 
 construed into pique, and she determined to 
 be merely careless and indifferent. She did 
 not remember that she might, by this means, 
 lose what most she wished to gain. She did 
 not calculate. The abstract idea that any 
 woman should love any man better tlian he 
 loved her — that any Avoman should be won 
 un-wooed, roused her pride for the sex in 
 general ; and that she herself should be one of 
 c 2
 
 28 THE SINGLE WOMAN , 
 
 these poor, weak, infatuated creatures, gave her 
 a sense of humiliation against which her very 
 soul rebelled. 
 
 Lord Delaford watched for ^ome indications 
 of the sentiments he had in his own mind 
 attributed to her ; but he found her as she 
 intended to appear, — gay, careless, cold. He 
 did not perceive any affectation in her gaiety, 
 or any thing studied in her carelessness. 
 
 Lady Elmsley precisely read the state of her 
 heart, and put the right construction upon the 
 trifles which constitute encouragement or re- 
 pulse, and which denote preference or indif- 
 ference ; but Lord Delaford was quite puzzled, 
 and somewhat mortified. 
 
 It is said there is an instinct which teaches 
 every one to read their fellow-creatures where 
 love is concerned. This is true of all indif- 
 ferent spectators, who can decypher emotions, 
 often not acknowledged by the individuals to 
 themselves. Not so the persons most interest- 
 ed. Sometimes they twist appearances to suit 
 their hopes or fears. Sometimes, being aware 
 that their judgment is likely to be prejudiced, 
 they dare not trust to their natural impressions.
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 29 
 
 Lord Delaford watched the countenance, the 
 eyes, the expression, the words of Fanny for a 
 day or two, and he became each day more 
 convinced his own self-conceit must have mis- 
 led him. He had studiously avoided such 
 attentions as might commit him, and he now 
 took care to divide them equally between the 
 two cousins. To Fanny, who had been ac- 
 customed to his exclusive devotion, this was 
 a virtual withdrawal of them ; and she set 
 a more strict watch than ever over all her 
 words and looks. Isabella, who was exhila- 
 rated at receiving half, when she had been 
 accustomed to none, was pttillante de graces. 
 The more Fanny was aware of Isabella's at- 
 tractions, and the more she perceived that 
 Lord Delaford became aware of them, so 
 much the more she wrapped herself up in 
 impenetrable, but good-humoured reserve. 
 Her manner lost that confiding, innocent 
 gaiety, which a short time before had been 
 one of her greatest charms, without regain- 
 ing the bashful ingenuousness, which had at 
 first attracted him from its novelty. She 
 laboured hard to appear calm, and unfortu-
 
 30 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 nately succeeded but too well in her endea- 
 vours. Lord Delaford was half provoked 
 with himself, for having been so ready to 
 fancy he was irresistible ; and half provoked 
 with Fanny, for having given rise to his dis- 
 satisfaction with himself. 
 
 He was in this frame of mind, when an 
 accident occurred, which confirmed him in 
 his opinion of her coldness. He was riding 
 a restive horse, which he alone had succeeded 
 in subduing, and which he thought was so 
 completely tamed, that he might venture to 
 ride it with the ladies. Isabella admired a 
 flower in the hedge, and he turned his horse 
 round to gather it for her. The animal, who 
 had proceeded quietly by the side of the 
 others, did not like being separated from its 
 companions ; and rearing suddenly, fell back- 
 wards with its rider. 
 
 Isabella was close to him at the moment 
 of the accident, and was naturally dreadfully 
 frightened. He had contrived to slip oiF on 
 one side, and was not hurt ; but there was 
 a moment, when horse and rider appeared 
 as if they would be crushed together.
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 31 
 
 Fanny was some yards in advance, and 
 only turned round in time to see him as he 
 was getting up from the ground, and was 
 therefore spared the first alarm. She was not 
 a nervous, hysterical person ; and although 
 she turned pale, and trembled, she did not 
 fall from her horse, or do any thing that 
 attracted attention to herself. Isabella, really 
 agitated, and really nervous, (as indulged 
 and flattered people are very apt to be,) 
 shrieked aloud, and burst into tears — real 
 tears — for she aifected nothing ; she only gave 
 way to what she felt, from the consciousness 
 that she was charming, and that her emotions 
 would not appear disagreeable and uninter- 
 esting. 
 
 She was lifted off" her horse, in a fainting 
 state. Lord Delaford was supporting her. 
 Every one was busy about her. In the con- 
 fusion, her hat fell off*, and all her ringlets 
 were floating on the wind : her eyes were 
 half closed ; and the long lashes looked beau- 
 tifully dark on her cheek, which was really 
 pale. Fanny thought she never saw any one 
 look so lovely ! Lord Delaford watched her
 
 82 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 revival with an expression of intense interest; 
 and Fanny sat still on her horse, unnoticed 
 and unregarded, with feelings of hardness 
 and bitterness which never before had been 
 the inmates of her gentle bosom. This pro- 
 tracted exhibition of sensibility appeared to 
 her perfectly unnecessary ; and she could not 
 help thinking that Isabella might have re- 
 covered much sooner ; that she might have 
 twisted up her own hair, and tucked it under 
 her hat, without any assistance from Lord 
 Delaford ; and tiiat there was no occasion for 
 several ringlets to be allowed to escape, and 
 to stray over her face and shoulders. 
 
 Such were her thoughts when the party 
 remounted, and proceeded homewards ; and 
 she " hoped Lord Delaford was not the least 
 hurt," in a guarded, constrained, and scarcely 
 soft voice, which grated on his ear, after the 
 languid accents of the fainting Isabella. He 
 turned away from Fanny, and devoted him- 
 self entirely to her cousin, whose interest in 
 his safety gave her a sort of right to his care 
 and solicitude. 
 
 As soon as they reached home, Fanny
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 33 
 
 rushed to her room, and there paced the 
 apartment in an agony of mind which fright- 
 ened herself. She envied Isabella the interest 
 she had excited, while she felt she would rather 
 have died than have betrayed such emotion : 
 yet she was angry with herself for having 
 appeared cold and unfeeling. Presently she 
 heard footsteps approaching her door; and 
 hastily composing her looks, she seized a 
 book, and appeared buried in its contents. 
 It was Lady Elmsley, who came to tell her 
 there was some company expected at dinner. 
 She longed to open her heart to her mother, 
 who, she was sure, by the increased tender- 
 ness of her manner, had read the state of 
 her feelings : but Lady Elmsley never sought, 
 or encouraged confidence upon the subject. 
 She saw that Isabella had superseded her 
 Fanny in Lord Delaford's heart, and that 
 her child's hopes were blighted — she knew 
 that an acknowledged preference was far more 
 difficult to eradicate than one which had 
 never been confessed — that pride, and con- 
 stancy, and consistency, had induced many a 
 girl to persevere in a devotion which, if it 
 c 5
 
 34 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 had never been avowed, would have died 
 away ; and she judged of Fanny by the 
 rest of the world. 
 
 The end of this day passed off as many 
 succeeding ones did — in sad and bitter calm- 
 ness on the part of Fanny — in flattered vanity, 
 and growing love, on the part of Isabella — in 
 gratitude, admiration, amusement, and pique, 
 which were fast ripening into love, on the 
 part of Lord Delaford.
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 35 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Though ]Marian's frolic mirth so gay 
 
 The sultry hay-field cheer, 
 Say, when the short, cold, sunless day, 
 
 Shall close the parting year. 
 
 Will her gay smile then beam as bright, 
 
 And beam for only thee 1 
 Will winter's toils to her seem light 
 
 As they had seemed to me 1 
 
 Say, will she trim thy evening hearth ? 
 
 Duteous, thy meal prepare 1 
 Nor know, nor dream, a bliss on earth. 
 
 Save but to see thee there ? 
 
 Unpublished Poems. 
 
 At length the decisive moment came. Lord 
 Delaford made his proposals to Isabella, and 
 was accepted. Isabella herself, in all the flush 
 and agitation of the event which decided her 
 fate for life, came to Fanny's room and told her 
 what had happened, — not to triumph over her.
 
 S6 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 No : she had of late been so completely occu- 
 pied by her own feelings, that she had almost 
 forgotten those she had suspected in Fanny, 
 and she came simply in the fulness of her 
 heart, to give vent to all the mingled emotions 
 which every woman must experience on such 
 an occasion. Fanny had for some time pre- 
 pared herself for this termination to all her 
 hopes and fears. Yet when the fact was cer- 
 tain, when she heard it with her own ears, it 
 came upon her like a thunderbolt. She turned 
 deadly pale ; she thought that she was going to 
 faint ; but the recollection that she should be 
 committed, not only to her successful rival, 
 but through her to Lord Delaford himself, 
 again restored her self-possession, and after a 
 momentary struggle, which, thanks to the 
 dim light of the embers over which they were 
 sitting, and to the engrossing nature of Isa- 
 bella's own thoughts, escaped observation, she 
 was able to say, " God grant you may both be 
 as happy, as from the bottom of my heart I 
 wish you both to be !" 
 
 She spoke with earnestness and solemnity; 
 and Isabella gazed on her for a moment with
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 37 
 
 surprise. The tone was not exactly that in 
 which young ladies usually converse upon 
 such subjects, and Isabella's former suspicions 
 flashed across her mind. But she looked at 
 Fanny's tearless eyes, and satisfied herself that 
 it was " only Fanny's way. Her cousin al- 
 ways had a more serious turn of mind than 
 most girls." 
 
 Perhaps she was as willing not to see, as 
 Fanny was anxious to conceal, the true state of 
 the case ; for though her thirst of admiration 
 might lead her to do that which was most 
 painful to another, she was not more unfeeling 
 tlian a coquette must necessarily be. More- 
 over, prosperous love opens and softens the 
 heart, and for the time at least produces an 
 amiable disposition of mind. Though con- 
 sideration for Fanny could not have prevented 
 her attempting to gain Lord Delaford, yet 
 now that she had succeeded in her object, it 
 would have been exceedingly distressing to her 
 to know the pangs under which her gentle 
 cousin was at this moment writhing. 
 
 The half-hour bell rang. Isabella hurried 
 away, and Fanny was left alone with her
 
 38 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 dreary, desolate, mortified, crushed, hopeless 
 heart. 
 
 At dinner the engaged couple did not sit 
 next each other. As there were strangers 
 among the company, Lord Delaford thought 
 it more delicate towards Isabella not to bring 
 observation upon her. As a safe person he 
 offered his arm to Fanny, and consequently 
 sat next to her. Totally unsuspicious of her 
 preference, and feeling on the contrary that 
 her coldness had nipped in the bud the affec- 
 tion he had at first been inclined to entertain 
 for her, he spoke to her of his happiness with 
 the frankness of a friend. He expatiated on 
 the perfections of Isabella, on the beautiful 
 union of liveliness and of gaiety with that 
 depth of feeling, which, though people in 
 general might not suspect it, formed the true 
 basis of her character. 
 
 Lovers alwa^^s invest the object of their 
 love with such merits as they have settled in 
 their own minds to be indispensable quali- 
 fications. 
 
 There is also something particularly fasci- 
 nating in the idea that one has discovered
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 39 
 
 hidden treasures of mind that have escaped 
 the observation of the common herd. 
 
 Every word that Lord Delaford uttered was 
 a several infliction on Fanny. All he said of 
 Isabella's liveliness and gaiety she felt was an 
 unflattering contrast to what her manner, of 
 late at least, had been. All he said of Isa- 
 bella's sensibility she knew to be far from 
 true ; and she, who was wrestling with a 
 thousand conflicting feelings, was treated by 
 implication, as a calm, cold, philosophical 
 automaton, by the very person who was tor- 
 turing them almost past endurance. Every 
 word that he spoke of hope and happiness, 
 was answered by an internal groan of hopeless- 
 ness and misery. 
 
 But her countenance was unchanged ; and 
 her eyes, which were habitually downcast, 
 only remained the more firmly riveted to the 
 table-cloth, for fear they should allow any of 
 the emotions that were working within, to 
 shine through them. 
 
 When the ladies retired, the mammas con- 
 gratulated Lady Elmsley in audible whispers 
 upon the brilliant prospects which they per-
 
 40 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 ceived were opening before her daughter, and 
 the daughters looked arch when they asked 
 Fanny what sort of a person their new neigh- 
 bour Lord Delaford was. 
 
 The fire and earnestness of his manner at 
 dinner, and the downcast reserve of Fanny's, 
 coupled with the reports which had previously 
 been abroad, in consequence of Lord Dela- 
 ford's frequent and protracted visits to Elmsley 
 Priory, had been misconstrued by them all, 
 and they fancied the case so clear, that it was 
 fair to congratulate, and to quiz. 
 
 In vain Fanny repelled all their insinuations 
 with something approaching annoyance and 
 peevishness. Isabella cast a meaning glance 
 of amazement, and of mutual understanding, 
 which only confirmed the young ladies in their 
 preconceived notion ; and when the gentle- 
 men came into the room, they contrived to 
 leave a place vacant by Fanny, while they 
 crowded round Isabella at the pianoforte, to 
 look at a new song, and be rapturous over a 
 new galop. Lord Delaford, who thought he 
 had done his duty in avoiding Isabella at 
 dinner, was only intent upon gaining a place
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 41 
 
 next her, and did not even perceive Fanny, 
 who had been detained from joining the young 
 set, by an old lady who was very particular 
 in ascertaining the stitch of Fanny's work. 
 By the time Fanny had completely explained 
 the mysteries of the stitch, Lord Delaford was 
 among the youthful party, and she then felt 
 it utterly impossible to get up, and to walk 
 across the room to that side of it where he was. 
 
 She saw Lord Delaford 's devoted manner to 
 Isabella ; she felt herself deserted ! she knew 
 by intuition, that all the people who had 
 just been complimenting, congratulating, and 
 quizzing, were in the act of becoming aware 
 that she was not the object of his attention, 
 that she was not the attraction to Elmsley 
 Priory. 
 
 Such trifles as these, when the blighted pro- 
 spects of a life are in question, seem to an 
 observer, and to the person concerned, when 
 once they are past, as not deserving of a 
 thought, yet, at the moment, they add not 
 a little to the bitter feelings of an already 
 crushed spirit. Singing became the order of 
 the evening, and Fanny was of course called
 
 42 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 upon. She had had time to reflect upon her 
 present position, and also to resolve it should 
 ever remain unknown to others ; she roused 
 all her energies, and the unusual excitement 
 brought colour into her cheeks, and animation 
 into her eyes. There were other gentlemen 
 in the room, and they were enthusiastic in 
 their admiration of the power, sweetness, pa- 
 thos of Miss Elmsley's voice. But what were 
 these praises to her ? They fell cold and 
 sickening on her heart ; Lord Delaford had 
 been in low and earnest conversation with Isa- 
 bella in the embrasure of the window, and 
 scarcely knew that she had been singing- 
 When the music was over, however, they left 
 their retirement, and both were struck with 
 the fire, the gleam of worked-up resolution 
 in Fanny's eyes, and Lord Delaford whispered 
 to Isabella, " How brilliant your cousin looks 
 to-night !" These few words made her heart 
 beat with a joy at which she was herself shock- 
 ed, and when she retired for the night, she 
 looked courageously into her own feelings, and 
 severely reproved herself for having felt plea-
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 43 
 
 sure in exciting a look of admiration in the 
 betrothed of her cousin. She determined no 
 longer to give way to sad retrospection — to 
 dwell no more on blighted hopes, but to fur- 
 ther, as far as in her lay, their future pro- 
 spects of happiness. She knew Isabella's cha- 
 racter thoroughly, and could not but be aware 
 there were many points in it which were not 
 calculated to make a happy menage. Love of 
 admiration, a consciousness of power, and a 
 delight in exercising that power, were among 
 the most conspicuous. She also thought Lord 
 Delaford was a man likely to be much in- 
 fluenced by those he loved, and lived with — 
 and she resolved, if possible, to lead Isabella's 
 mind towards using her influence over him 
 for none but good purposes. 
 
 She came down to breakfast the next morn- 
 ing placid, and even cheerful. Isabella, whose 
 mind had been quite relieved from the lurk- 
 ing apprehension of having cut out her gentle 
 and unpresuming cousin, by the brilliancy and 
 animation of Fanny the preceding evening, 
 and had settled that she could not care about
 
 44 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 Lord Delaford, as she was so evidently elated 
 by the admiration of the other gentlemen, was 
 completely confirmed in this notion by her 
 cheerfulness at breakfast, and by the manner 
 in which she opened the conversation upon 
 Isabella's marriage when they were alone. 
 
 In vain did Fanny try to inspire her with 
 the same notions of devotion and self-sacrifice 
 which she herself entertained. Isabella was 
 in love with Lord Delaford — that is to say, 
 she preferred him to all others, and exceed- 
 ingly liked his love of her, but as for con- 
 sidering his happiness, his pleasure, his ad- 
 vantage, his interests, before her own, the 
 idea seemed to her an idle romantic dream. 
 
 Weeks elapsed, and the settlements were 
 arranged ; the wedding clothes prepared. 
 
 Lord Delaford had returned, after a fort- 
 night'*s absence, for the few days preceding 
 the marriage, which was to take place in the 
 village church of Elmsley Priory. Fanny 
 was glad that the ceremony was to be per- 
 formed in the church, for she thought that 
 the solemnity of the scene, and the holiness 
 of the place, would more completely eradicate
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 45 
 
 from her bosom the feelings which she feared 
 were rather smothered, than destroyed. 
 
 It was, indeed, a day of trial, almost be- 
 yond the strength of even her chastened spirit 
 to endure, without betraying the struggle. She 
 was bridesmaid, and she had to stand un- 
 moved during the whole of a ceremony which, 
 to the least interested, is touching and affecting. 
 She heard him utter the solemn vow which 
 separated him for ever from her — she saw their 
 plighted hands — she heard the priest's bene- 
 diction on the youthful couple as they knelt 
 before him. She did not shed a tear, she 
 scarcely trembled, when Isabella, half- faint- 
 ing, leaned on her for support. She sustain- 
 ed her graceful bending form, she whispered 
 her words of encouragement, till, at the close, 
 the bridegroom proudly led his wedded wife 
 from the altar. 
 
 They returned to Elmsley Priory that the 
 bride might cliange her dress ; Fanny, of 
 course, assisted her friend to take off the wed- 
 ding garments, the Brussells lace veil, the 
 orange flowers, &c. which were to be replaced 
 by a more quiet travelling costume, and ac-
 
 46 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 companied her to the room in which break- 
 fast was prepared, and the intimate friends 
 and relations, who had been collected for the 
 occasion, were assembled. 
 
 Isabella flushed, agitated, happy, blushing, 
 looked all one could wish a lovely bride to 
 look. Fanny was calm, deadly calm. 
 
 At length the travelling carriage came to 
 the door ; the packages were all arranged, 
 the servants were on the box, and Lord and 
 Lady Delaford took leave of the family party. 
 The parting kiss went round — Lord Delaford, 
 as one of the family, dutifully embraced his 
 new uncle, his new aunt, his new relations. 
 Fanny saw her turn would come, and she 
 thought she could bear any coldness rather 
 than this kindness ; she felt her heart beat as 
 he drew near the side of the room where 
 she stood, she was almost inclined to slip 
 away ; but pride got the better ; she resolved 
 to do nothing that could look like emotion, 
 or might possibly attract attention, and she 
 stood her ground. When he took her hand 
 and approached his lips to her cheek, she felt 
 a cold shudder run through her, and she
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 47 
 
 became, if possible, paler than before. He 
 scarcely touched her cheek ; she looked so 
 coldly, purely immoveable that he instinctively 
 durst not give to her the kindly kiss which, 
 in the joy and warmth of his heart, he had 
 given to the elder branches of his new family. 
 
 They hurried through the hall, and, in a 
 moment, the sound of their carriage- wheels 
 was heard rolling by the windows. All rush- 
 ed to take a last look at tliem, and Fanny re- 
 mained, as it were, petrified, fixed on the spot 
 where she had parted from him. 
 
 All the visions of her days of hope crowded 
 on her memory ; every sign of affection, every 
 flattering attention he had ever shown her, 
 appeared at one and the same moment present 
 to her mind — all that had subsequently passed 
 seemed like a dream ; she felt for an instant 
 as if she had been robbed of her betrothed; 
 she had to rouse herself and to look round at 
 the signs of the wedding feast, the cake, the 
 ices, the fruits, and to assure herself of the 
 sad reality. Fortunately, before the attention 
 of the guests was withdrawn from the win- 
 dow, she had recovered her self-possession, had
 
 48 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 sent back all the feelings which she now consi- 
 dered as positively criminal, back to the depths 
 of her heart, till she had leisure to drag them 
 forth once more to the light, to examine into 
 them, and to expel them resolutely from their 
 fastnesses. 
 
 Her head bewildered with all the thoughts 
 she would not think, and all the feelings she 
 would not feel, she mixed among the guests, 
 and was again the kind, the gentle, the well- 
 bred Fanny, attentive to the wants and wishes 
 of every one ; and although she did once help 
 a good old aunt to jelly, when she asked for 
 chicken, and gave ice to a cousin, who wanted 
 champagne — though she did put a black satin 
 cloak on the shoulders of a worthy old clergy- 
 man who was taking his leave, still, in the 
 confusion, these inadvertencies escaped all re- 
 mark, and the only observation made was, 
 that Fanny was a sweet, amiable creature, but 
 she had not much feeling — they never saw a 
 girl so unmoved during the ceremony, which 
 generally made people cry, and she did not 
 show any sorrow at parting from her charm-
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 49 
 
 ing friend and cousin, who must be such a 
 loss to her. 
 
 " Well/' added a maiden friend, " there's 
 no use in such a deal of sensibility. Fanny 
 has just enough — enough to make her amiable 
 and kind, and not enough to make her un- 
 happy." 
 
 There was one heart which had read poor 
 Fanny's — one person who had watched her 
 during the few moments when she had stood 
 transfixed — who had remarked the trifling 
 mistakes she had made in her civilities ; and 
 a keen observer might have read Fanny's 
 secret by the devoted attention which her 
 mother showed her ; if he had not already 
 discovered it by the coldness with which 
 Lady Elmsley returned the affectionate em- 
 brace of the bride and bridegroom. Time 
 does not stand still, though it sometimes moves 
 but slowly, and at length the company dis- 
 persed. 
 
 The pieces of bride-cake w^ere all directed 
 by Fanny, till her hand was weary of writ- 
 ing " With Lord and Lady Delaford's com- 
 
 VOL. 1. D
 
 50 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 pliments/' or " love," or " kind regards,'' ac- 
 cording as the degree of intimacy might re- 
 quire. 
 
 The dinner succeeded, a large family dinner, 
 very formal, consisting of the Dowager Lady 
 Delaford, an old Admiral, uncle to Lord De- 
 laford, — his wife, and a very missish daugh- 
 ter, who thought it odd her cousin should 
 have overlooked her charms when he was 
 
 thinking of a wife ; — Lord T , the bride's 
 
 brother, a youth at college, — two schoolboys, 
 Fanny's brothers, — the clergyman who per- 
 formed the ceremony, who had been Lord 
 Delaford's tutor, and was a total stranger to 
 the inhabitants of Elmsley Priory, — and the 
 lawyer, an old friend of the family, whose 
 eternal flow of prosy anecdotes concerning 
 people whom no one knew by name, proved, 
 for the first time, invaluable — they prevented 
 the clatter of knives and forks, and the creek- 
 ing of footmen's shoes, from falling so sharp on 
 the ear as they would have done, if they had 
 had no accompaniment except the low, gentle 
 voice of Fanny, who was imparting to the 
 worthy clergyman all the details he wished to
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 51 
 
 know concerning the charity-school in the vil- 
 lage. When the cloth was removed, the health 
 of the bride and bridegroom was drunk, and 
 the garrulous old lawyer, who had not forgot- 
 ten in his quirks and quibbles his original taste 
 for beauty, expatiated till the tears stood in his 
 pale glassy eyes upon the virtues, the discre- 
 tion, the gentleness of the bride, all which hid- 
 den qualities had been made manifest to him by 
 the rosy lips, the blooming cheeks, the dark 
 eyebrows, the white forehead, the glossy ring- 
 lets which had dazzled his eyes the preceding 
 evening when she had signed the settlements. 
 Inspired by the subject, warmed by the ge- 
 nerous wine, the happy law^^er, directing his 
 eyes across the table to Fanny, begged leave 
 to propose another toast — that before six 
 months were over, he might again find him- 
 self at Sir Edward's hospitable board on as 
 pleasing an errand ; and he hoped the bride- 
 groom might be just like Lord Delaford — he 
 could not wish his young hostess a more charm- 
 ing husband ! All eyes turned to Fanny — her 
 brothers, with a loud " Ha ! ha ! Fanny !— 
 catch your fish, Fanny !" — Miss Melfort, the 
 D 2 
 
 Uc 
 
 OF \\^ US.
 
 52 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 admiral's daughter, with a suppressed giggle ; 
 and Lady Elmsley with a face full of anxiety 
 and fear lest her child might betray herself. 
 Fanny, who had never deviated from the calm 
 and collected manner she had resolved to 
 maintain throughout the whole of this trying 
 day, upon finding herself suddenly the object 
 of remark, felt the colour rush over her fore- 
 head, her neck, her arms ; she scarcely knew 
 what they were wishing her; she thought he 
 was wishing her married to Lord Delaford. 
 Everything became confused — her eyes grew 
 dim ; when Lady Elmsley, pretending that she 
 was overcome by the heat, made the signal for 
 departure, and the ladies left the dining-room. 
 Fanny's trials were not yet over : Miss Mel- 
 fort, naturally curious upon such subjects, 
 wished to hear all about the whole affair — 
 how it began — how long they had suspected 
 it — whether he fell in love at first sight — 
 whether he or she was most in love — whether 
 he proposed for her to Sir Edward, or whe- 
 ther he spoke first to Isabella herself; and 
 then, as she was dying that Fanny should 
 wonder how he could have been insensible
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 58 
 
 to her attractions, she began to wonder how 
 it was, that he should have preferred Miss 
 St. Clair, to Fanny ; that, for her part, she 
 did not admire such tall people, nor did she 
 admire such very long ringlets. She was 
 little herself, and her hair was exceedingly 
 crepe. 
 
 There is an end to all things : at length 
 the wine and water came, and every one re- 
 tired to rest, and Fanny found herself alone 
 in her own room, and she sat down to in- 
 dulge in all the luxury of grief. Yes, there 
 is " a joy in grief f* — she revelled in letting 
 her tears flow, and her sobs succeeded one 
 another without interruption, till, exhausted 
 and spent with weeping, she fell asleep the 
 moment she laid her head on the pillow, and 
 never woke till morning. 
 
 She was not a person whose eyes betrayed 
 that she had been weeping ; and she went 
 down to breakfast, with no outward traces 
 of all she had suffered, but inwardly feel- 
 ing guilty in having allowed herself to shed 
 such bitter tears for the husband of another. 
 They were, however, to be the last. She saw
 
 54f THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 that her mother read her heart, and was 
 grieved, and she would not throw a gloom 
 over the declining years of the parent she 
 adored, and whose health, always delicate, 
 had of late become more so. She stifled all 
 vain repinings ; she was cheerful, and full 
 of occupation. Her hand did shake when 
 she opened her first letter from Lady Dela- 
 ford, and her heart sickened when she saw 
 her signature for the first time ; and it took 
 a long time to write her first answer, and, 
 perhaps, when finished, it was somewhat 
 measured and cold ; but all such letters are 
 more or less constrained, and Fanny was not 
 demonstrative, and it all passed off* very well. 
 
 Lord and Lady Delaford went abroad soon 
 after their marriage, and she was not put to 
 the trial of a meeting.
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 55 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Surtout les femmes nourries dans la mollesse I'abondance et 
 
 I'oisivete, sont indolentes et dedaigneuses pour tout ce detail. 
 
 Elles ne font pas grande difference entre la vie champfitre et 
 
 celle des sauvages de Canada : si vous leur parlez de bled, de 
 
 cultures de terres, de diflferentes natures de revenus, de la lev^e 
 
 de rentes, et des autres droits seigneuriaux, de la meilleure 
 
 maniere de faire des fermes ou d'etablir des receveurs, elles 
 
 croyent que vous voulez les r^duire a des occupations indignes 
 
 d'elles. Ce n'est pourtant que par ignorance qu'on meprise 
 
 cette science de I'economie. 
 
 Fenelon. 
 
 Poor Fanny's thoughts were soon called 
 off to real and actual sorrow, in which all 
 other griefs were absorbed ; and she almost 
 wondered how she ever could have felt so 
 much about any thing that did not concern 
 her mother. Lady Elmsley's health declined 
 rapidly ; and the whole family repaired to 
 Clifton, in hopes that she might derive bene-
 
 56 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 fit from the springs. In vain ! Fanny was 
 doomed to endure that sorrow, to which, as 
 being in the due course of nature, some say 
 the mind reconciles itself with more calmness 
 than to many others. But notwithstanding 
 all the arguments of cool philosophy, the loss 
 of a parent is one of the most acute and 
 lasting griefs to which human nature is liable. 
 It often befals the young, and the prosperous, 
 and coming upon them in the midst of health, 
 strength, and happiness, finds their minds un- 
 prepared and unchastened by any previous 
 suffering. Moreover, it is a loss, absolutely 
 irremediable, which, though time may soften, 
 can in no length of time, ever, ever be re- 
 placed. 
 
 During the whole of her mother''s illness, 
 Fanny was so occupied in her anxious attend- 
 ance upon her, that every other thought was 
 banished from her mind. When Lady Elms- 
 ley once, and once only, alluded to the state 
 of Fanny's affections, and spoke favourably 
 of an amiable young man, of excellent con- 
 nexions, and fair prospects, whose attentions 
 had been unequivocal, she was able to assure
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 65 
 
 sionally in the autumn, in a reasonable way ; 
 but, as for taking up my abode at Ford- 
 borough Castle, I shall not do it." 
 
 " But every thing is prepared for you now. 
 He has had the drawing-room and saloon new 
 furnished, and your own boudoir is made 
 lovely !" 
 
 "Oh, you know it could not be left as it 
 was in my good mother-in-law's time, with 
 straight-backed chairs, and pembroke-tables ; 
 but I shan't live there, you will see if I do." 
 
 " But, Isabella, I am convinced Lord De- 
 laford wishes it.'' 
 
 " Oh ! he fancies it would be vastly agree- 
 able ; but, in fact, he would be moped to death 
 there, and so should I." 
 
 " Well, I don't understand being moped to 
 death with a husband one loves," and she felt 
 a slight blush rise to her cheek, which she 
 attributed to the little rebuke implied in her 
 answer ; and she added half-smiling, " you 
 know, you do like him very much, Isabella !" 
 
 " Like him ! to be sure I do. He is the 
 best creature in the world, and after all, no- 
 body looks so like a gentleman. He was
 
 66 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 generally the best-looking man in the room, 
 except Count Pfaifenhoffen, and he was so 
 foolish that one was ashamed to be seen talking 
 to him, though one endured his conversation 
 for the sake of his waltzing. He is the most 
 becoming waltzer ! He is just the right 
 height, and he does not bend too forward, 
 nor too far back, and he holds his arm just 
 right. What a pity it is he should be so 
 silly !^' 
 
 Soon after this conversation Lord and Lady 
 Delaford went to their own place, where 
 they established themselves very comfortably. 
 Fanny spent a day with them. She began to 
 flatter herself that Isabella's worldly notions 
 were only to be found in her conversation, and 
 not in her actions. She left her, very busy, 
 and apparently happy, in making discoveries 
 of curious old China, and arranging it in the 
 drawing-room. While these and similar oc- 
 cupations lasted, she was amused and con- 
 tented, and her husband was delighted to see 
 her, as he thought, acquiring a taste for the 
 country.
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 67 
 
 One short week afterwards, Fanny received 
 a note from her, written as she was setting off 
 for London, to meet her dear friend Lady 
 
 B , who was only in town for a few days, 
 
 in her way from Paris to Ireland. 
 
 She soon again heard from her, that she 
 
 was very unwell, and that Doctor S had 
 
 ordered her warm sea-baths, and that she was 
 therefore obliged to go to Brighton. 
 
 There they remained till Christmas, when 
 they returned to Fordborough Castle, and 
 brought with them a large party of friends. 
 Fanny was to join them at the particular wish 
 of Sir Edward, who lamented that she did not 
 regain her natural spirits. 
 
 She found Lord Delaford looking harassed 
 and oppressed. His company was not of his 
 own choosing, and wearied him. Of his wife 
 he saw but little, and he had no time for his 
 own occupations. 
 
 One day he had to do the honours of the 
 place to a party of particular friends, for whom 
 he did not care a straw; another to provide 
 shooting for a set of young men, who thought it
 
 68 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 a very bad day's sport if the birds did not get 
 up as fast as two gardes de chasse could load 
 their guns. 
 
 There is nothing more agreeable than the 
 exercise of hospitality towards those whom you 
 like, and who like you in return ; but when 
 every point in which the accommodation and 
 luxuries of your house, fall short of those at 
 such a hall, or such a castle, where every 
 amusement you may be able to provide, 
 merely provokes a comparison between the 
 sport Lord so and so, and the Duke of so and 
 so, gives his friends ; the delightful and poeti- 
 cal rites of hospitality, become a tiresome tax 
 upon the time and patience of the luckless 
 possessor of an ancient mansion and an exten- 
 sive domain. 
 
 This fashionable, but most unsatisfactory 
 party dispersed, and Lord and Lady Delaford 
 were on the point of going to town for the 
 meeting of Parliament, when they obtained a 
 promise from Sir Edward, that Fanny should 
 pay them a visit in London after Easter. To 
 do Isabella justice, she felt real affection for 
 Fanny, and sincerely regretted seeing her
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 69 
 
 SO joyless, and conscientiously believed that 
 the pleasures of London, would prove a balm 
 for every sorrow. 
 
 Fanny was unwilling to leave her father, 
 and had a vague dread of being so entirely 
 domesticated under Lord Delaford's roof. 
 Had her mother been still living, she would 
 have interfered to prevent her child's feelings 
 and principles being put to so unusual, and so 
 needless a trial ; she would have taken care 
 that the peace of mind she had striven so hard 
 to regain, should run no risk of being dis- 
 turbed ; but Sir Edward would not hear of 
 her dutiful regrets at leaving him ; and if she 
 harboured any other thought in her mind, it 
 was one which could not be hinted at,— one 
 she scarcely dared own to her secret soul, 
 without implying a mistrust of herself. 
 
 To London, therefore, she went. She found 
 Lady Delaford in the full vortex of dissipa- 
 tion. She possessed beauty, rank, talents, and 
 riches. Many women who might boast of 
 these advantages, are not the fashion. But 
 Lady Delaford added to them all, tlie wish, 
 and the determination to be a leading per-
 
 70 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 son in society. What wonder, then, if she 
 instantly accomplished her object, when, with- 
 out any of the qualifications before enume- 
 rated, it is often attained by simple, strong 
 volition.
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 71 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Nae raair of that, dear Jenny : to be free, 
 There 's some men constanter in love than we. 
 They '11 reason caumly, and with kindness smile, 
 "When our short passions wad our peace beguile : 
 Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame, 
 'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame. 
 
 Gentle Shepherd. 
 
 Lord Delaford, though considerably 
 occupied with politics, was not entirely en- 
 grossed by them, and he wished extremely for 
 the quiet enjoyment of domestic life. When 
 he returned from the House, he would fain 
 have been greeted by his wife, or at least he 
 would have been glad to know where he might 
 join her ; but among the many engagements 
 for each night, he did not know where to find 
 her ; and after having once or twice followed
 
 72 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 her through the whole list of parties, he gave 
 up the point, and went to bed, jaded and out 
 of spirits. 
 
 She seldom came down-stairs till so late, 
 that he had long breakfasted, and was on 
 the point of going out to some committee. 
 Sometimes, being free from business, he de- 
 termined to remain at home, and to devote 
 the morning to the society of his young and 
 lovely wife. On these occasions he usually 
 found her so beset till two o'clock by her 
 maid, by milliners, by tradesmen, by innu- 
 merable notes to answer, and arrangements to 
 make, that she could only answer him with 
 an absent air, her thoughts evidently intent 
 on the organizing of some plan of amusement 
 for that, or the ensuing day. After two o'clock, 
 her drawing-room was of course crowded with 
 dandies whipping their boots — with sage poli- 
 ticians, a race who peculiarly enjoy the de- 
 lassement of a pretty woman's society, — and 
 with litterati, a tribe who are very apt to 
 find peculiar gratification from the favourable 
 suffrage of the lovely and titled, though upon 
 the most dry and abstruse work, into which
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 73 
 
 the fair critic had never looked, and which, if 
 she had looked into it, she could not possibly 
 have understood. This select crowd (for none 
 but the most distinguished of each genus was 
 admitted) did not disperse till the carriage had 
 been long announced, and the hour of some 
 appointment was long past ; when, hurrying 
 away from the admiring throng, she drove 
 from her own door without having given a 
 moment of her attention to her husband. 
 
 Lord Delaford's anticipated morning of 
 conjugal felicity generally ended in his seiz- 
 ing his hat and stick, and marching forth at 
 a quick pace, and in no very enviable frame 
 of mind. 
 
 Fanny was at first bewildered by this 
 mode of life, but she accompanied her friend 
 through the whole routine, till she found 
 that neither her spirits nor her health could 
 stand such constant wear and tear : she was 
 obliged occasionally to remain at home, while 
 Isabella continued her giddy round of plea- 
 sures ; and she could not avoid perceiving 
 that Lord Delaford was a man formed for 
 all the charities of life — and that Isabella was 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 throwing away happiness such as seldom falls 
 to the lot of woman. 
 
 The gradual decline of wedded happiness 
 is a melancholy subject of contemplation to 
 the most indifferent by-stander ; how much 
 more so to one deeply interested in the welfare 
 of both parties ! She felt justified in her 
 dejection. Perhaps, if she had witnessed the 
 unrestrained flow of confidence, the fulness 
 of mutual devotion, she might not have found 
 the sight so exhilarating as she sincerely 
 believed it would have been. However that 
 might be, re-assured by her sorrow at not 
 seeing her wishes for their happiness ful- 
 filled — that her joy, if they were fulfilled, 
 would be as great, she reposed in fancied 
 security that the interest she took in his 
 welfare was that of simple friendship, and 
 she did not think it necessary to avoid him 
 if he found her alone in the drawing-room, 
 where he in vain sought the wife of whom he 
 was still deeply enamoured. 
 
 He would sometimes sigh to find her still 
 absent, and would occasionally express his 
 desire of a more domestic life ; he even con-
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 75 
 
 fessed feelings of discontent and dissatisfac- 
 tion — he wished his wife would give him 
 more of her society — he wished her disposi- 
 tion was more like Fanny's. 
 
 These words fell on her ear with a sensa- 
 tion she scarcely kne'w how to define. Was 
 it pleasure ? — was it pain ? 
 
 It is a dangerous situation for any young 
 woman to be the confidante of any young 
 man's sorrows, especially if they proceed from 
 blighted affections and deceived hopes ; but 
 to Fanny, how ten-fold dangerous! 
 
 The world is scarcely sufficiently indulgent 
 to those who are deprived of the tender vigi- 
 lance of a mother ; nor are the young who 
 enjoy such a blessing, sufficiently thankful for 
 possessing it. Had Lady Elmsley lived, Fanny 
 would never have been placed in the position 
 of confidante to the domestic sorrows of the 
 man who had won her young affections, as the 
 lover approved of, and courted by her parents. 
 Was it in nature that she should not think, " If 
 I had been his choice, the happiness of whicli 
 he so feelingly deplores the loss, might then 
 ' Have blest his home, and crown'd our wedded loves.' " 
 
 e2
 
 76 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 Another circumstance occurred, which roused 
 her from the security into which she had 
 lulled herself. 
 
 Among the multitudes of young men who 
 frequented Lady Delaford's house, some were 
 sensible to the unpresuming charms of Fanny, 
 and especially Lord John Ashville became se- 
 riously attached to her. There was no pos- 
 sible objection to him, and Isabella flattered 
 herself she should have the pleasure of an- 
 nouncing to Sir Edward that, under her aus- 
 pices, Fanny had made a brilliant match. 
 Both she and Lord Delaford were astonished 
 M^hen he was rejected, and Fanny herself was 
 grieved to find she could not love him, as 
 she thought it her bounden duty to love the 
 person to whom she should swear eternal con- 
 stancy. She would have been glad to prove to 
 herself that former impressions were completely 
 obliterated, but she could not succeed in per- 
 suading herself that she preferred him to all 
 others. 
 
 Nothing is more common than that a per- 
 son under the influence of mortification and 
 disappointment should rush headlong into a
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 77 
 
 fresh engagement ; but this most frequently 
 occurs when the mortification is one of which 
 others are aware, and such a measure, it 
 is hoped, will be a virtual disproval of the 
 fact. Though a dangerous experiment, it is 
 one which succeeds oftener than might be ex- 
 pected from so desperate a remedy. Fanny's 
 sense of right and wrong, however, could not 
 reconcile itself to the plain fact of solemnly 
 vowing an untruth, and she already found 
 the duty of watching over her secret affections 
 sufficiently difficult, not to venture to impose 
 upon herself the additional one of loving where 
 she was not inclined to do so. 
 
 Perhaps time and perseverance might have 
 conquered her objections, but, a proposal once 
 made, and once rejected, an opportunity is 
 seldom afforded for further acquaintance. 
 
 This event had an unfavourable effect upon 
 her mind. It proved to her that her heart 
 was not free, that she had combated in vain. 
 
 She was one day looking back upon her 
 wayward fate, and reproaching Herself for her 
 weakness, when Lord Delaford entered the 
 room, and inquired for Isabella.
 
 78 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 Fanny told him " She was walking in Ken- 
 sington Gardens with the Miss Merfields." 
 
 " And when do you expect her home ?"" 
 
 " Lady B takes her from Kensington 
 
 Gardens to Grosvenor Place, where they dine 
 together ; and she accompanies her to the 
 French play in her morning dress, so I am 
 afraid she will not be at home till she returns 
 to prepare for the balls.'' 
 
 '' Balls ! why how many is she going to 
 to-night ?" 
 
 " Oh, there are five on the list, but she is 
 only going to two." 
 
 " And what becomes of you ?" 
 
 " I dine with my father's old friend, Mrs. 
 Burley, and then I shall go quietly to bed, 
 for I was at the Duchess's ball last night, you 
 know." 
 
 " So, I suppose, I must dine at my club, 
 for I hate a solitary dinner in my own house. 
 If I cannot have the comforts of home, I will 
 play at the independence of a bachelor. Well, 
 when I married, this was not the life to which 
 I looked forward. But how comes it you are 
 so quiet .P Why do not you run the same
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 79 
 
 course ? Why are you not at all in the ring ? 
 You can endure the sight of your own fire- 
 side. You can find time for conversation, for 
 reading. Your mind is not in a perpetual 
 whirl." 
 
 *' Oh, but you know I am not very strong ; 
 I could not do so much." 
 
 '^ But have you, then, the inclination ?" 
 
 " Why, not quite ; I like it very much in 
 its way ; nobody can enjoy society more, I am 
 sure, only " 
 
 " Only you have room in your heart for 
 other things ; you are not wholly engrossed 
 by that all-devouring passion for the world. 
 Ah, Fanny, if you had been able to like me 
 when first we were acquainted, I should have 
 been a happier man." 
 
 " Lord Delaford !" exclaimed Fanny, in a 
 voice of doubt and fear. 
 
 " Why you know, when first I went to 
 Elmsley Priory, you were the person I should 
 naturally have liked, only you did not care for 
 me, and Isabella did. Kind and affectionate as 
 you are in other respects, you seem to have no 
 room in your heart for love, as. poor Lord
 
 80 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 John has experienced also : But Isabella ! she 
 then seemed made up of feeling !" 
 
 Fanny dared not speak, breathe, move, for 
 fear of betraying her agitation. Did she hear 
 from his own lips that he had loved her ? 
 Did she hear him accuse her of coldness, 
 while her brain was dizzy, and her heart 
 throbbing with feelings, which, for two long 
 years, she had attempted (she now felt how 
 vainly attempted) to quell? And must she 
 sit still and allow him to think her insensible 
 and heartless ? Yes ! religion, principle, and 
 duty, forbade her betraying, by word or look, 
 emotions which might have invested her in 
 his eyes with the only charm in which he 
 fancied her deficient. Impossible to let him 
 ever guess she could harbour an unlawful pre- 
 ference for tlie husband of another, that other 
 her kind and unsuspecting cousin. The very 
 idea made her recoil with horror from herself. 
 A pause ensued. She longed to break it — could 
 she trust her voice to speak ? What would 
 Lord Delaford think of her silence ? But, 
 if he should perceive that her voice trembled !
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 81 
 
 She was relieved from her difficulty by his 
 exclaiming, 
 
 " No ! it could not have been my own in- 
 fatuation ! Isabella was then all I believed 
 her to be !" 
 
 Fanny perceived he was not thinking of 
 her, and she had time to compose herself. 
 The love to which he had so calmly alluded 
 had left not a trace behind, unless the con- 
 fidence he felt in her now, might owe its origin 
 to the esteem he had then imbibed for her 
 character. 
 
 Following the course of his own thoughts, 
 he continued to compare what Isabella once 
 was, to what she was now become. He re- 
 gretted their tour on the Continent, and at- 
 tributed her present dissipation to the habits 
 acquired in Italy and at Paris. 
 
 Fanny was able to utter common-place 
 hopes that her cousin would soon be weary of 
 this useless life, and assurances that her heart 
 was still true and warm. 
 
 When she was alone, Fanny found herself 
 fearfully happy. A load seemed taken off 
 E 5
 
 82 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 her mind. Painful as it might be to know 
 that, by her own pride, (false pride, perhaps,) 
 she had lost the happiness of her life; the 
 joy of finding that she had not let herself 
 be won unsought ; that she had not wasted 
 the whole affections of her young pure heart 
 upon a person to whom they had always been 
 a matter of perfect indifference ; that her love 
 had not been wholly unrequited, relieved her 
 from that humiliation which had constantly 
 sunk her to the earth. 
 
 She was, however, convinced, that a longer 
 residence under Lord Delaford's roof would 
 not be conducive either to the peace or the 
 purity of her mind. She had been consider- 
 ing what excuse she should make for wishing 
 to return to Elmsley Priory, when, in the 
 course of conversation. Lord Delaford one 
 day spoke of her presence, her example, her 
 advice, as the pillar on which he rested his 
 hope of reclaiming Isabella to the quiet duties 
 of a wife, and he entreated her to use all 
 her influence over her cousin towards the ac- 
 complishment of this object. 
 
 This request gave a new current to her
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 83 
 
 thoughts. If it was true that she had in- 
 fluence over Isabella, that she might reclaim 
 her from the worldly course she seemed likely 
 to run, would she be justified in leaving her 
 friend at this moment ? If she could be the 
 means of causing his happiness, though through 
 another, would she refuse to attempt it ? 
 
 People often argue themselves into believing 
 it their duty to do what their inclination 
 prompts. In this case, however, Fanny real- 
 ly wished to find herself once more under 
 her father's roof. She trembled at the un- 
 dertaking before her — she felt a salutary fear 
 and doubt of her own heart, which she had 
 found so weak, and she humbly strengthened 
 herself for the task imposed upon her. She 
 looked with satisfaction to the prospect of 
 being really useful to others, and she thought 
 that next to being the object of his love, the 
 most enviable situation was to be the object 
 of his gratitude. 
 
 Modest and unpresuming, she had never 
 ventured to remonstrate seriously with Isabella 
 upon her mode of life ; indeed, she had always 
 experienced a degree of shyness in alluding
 
 84 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 to Lord Delaford, and to the feelings of a 
 wife, which had prevented her saying what 
 she might naturally have done. She had also 
 an instinctive horror of interfering between 
 man and wife — on most occasions, a praise- 
 worthy fear ; but which, in complying with 
 Lord Delaford's wishes, she thought it right 
 to overcome. 
 
 But how to introduce the subject ? 
 
 Common and trite observations upon the du- 
 ties of matrimony, she knew would only excite 
 Isabella's raillery upon her antiquated notions; 
 but perhaps, by alarming her fears, she might 
 have some chance of arresting her attention. 
 
 Fanny was so little accustomed to having 
 any plan, any ulterior object in her commu- 
 nications with her fellow-creatures, that her 
 heart beat, and she felt almost guilty, as she 
 seized the first opportunity when they were 
 alone, to say, 
 
 " I wonder, Isabella, you are not afraid of 
 quite losing Lord Delaford's affections." 
 
 *•' Quite lose his affections, Fanny ! What 
 can you mean ? I certainly do not anticipate 
 any such misfortune," she answered, smiling ;
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 85 
 
 and her eye glanced complacently over the 
 mirror, at which she was trying on the hat 
 which she was to wear that evening at a bal 
 costume. 
 
 " Why, my dear Isabella, you must be aware 
 he is not what he was — that your indifference 
 is beginning to have a corresponding effect 
 upon him." 
 
 " Nonsense, Fanny, you are joking !" But 
 she took off the beautiful hat, and sat arrang- 
 ing and re-arranging the feathers, though in 
 a manner which would have been far from 
 satisfactory to the artiste, who had hit off that 
 particular disposition of feathers, in a fortu- 
 nate moment of inspiration. 
 
 Instinct had served Fanny on this occasion, 
 as well as a deeper knowledge of the world ; 
 for vanity and aflection can both take alarm 
 at the idea of losing the devotion they have 
 been accustomed to. She now remained silent, 
 simply because she did not know what she 
 had best say ; but her silence had the effect 
 of piquing Lady Delaford. After a pause of 
 several minutes, Isabella added : 
 
 " Lady B and Mrs. Clairville tell
 
 86 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 me they never saw any husband so devoted 
 as mine ; they wish I would impart my secret, 
 that they might profit by it." 
 
 " They mean he is kind, and lets you have 
 your own way ; that he is the least selfish of 
 human beings ; but you must know, and feel, 
 that he is not the contented, cheerful person, 
 he once was ; that his countenance does not 
 brighten when he sees you, as it once did ; 
 that he is silent, abstracted. You cannot be 
 happy, Isabella, and see your husband — and 
 such a husband ! — gradually weaning himself 
 from your society, his confidence lessening, his 
 affections cooling ! Did I say he was indif- 
 ferent ? No, not indifferent ! But he is hurt 
 — wounded ! he is shutting up his heart from 
 you ! Oh, Isabella ! and can you let such 
 a heart close itself to you ? you, who might 
 have all the treasures of that noble mind, 
 that manly understanding, that warm gene- 
 rous soul, poured out at your feet — can you 
 throw away such happiness ? — you, who might 
 be the happiest woman in the whole world !"" 
 
 Her voice faltered — a tear trembled in her 
 eye — she dared not trust herself to speak
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 87 
 
 another word. Isabella was struck by Fanny's 
 manner, though she jestingly replied : 
 
 " One would think I was the worst wife in 
 the world ! Now, I could name you a dozen, 
 much worse, among our most intimate ac- 
 quaintances." 
 
 " But, Isabella, are you satisfied with not 
 being a bad wife.? Don't you wish to be a 
 good one ?" 
 
 " Well, I do not see what harm I do. I 
 am never cross ; I never worry him ; I do not 
 run in debt ; and I am very civil to all his 
 friends, whenever he asks them to dinner, how- 
 ever great bores they may be : and it is not 
 every wife who can say as much for herself !" 
 
 " But, Isabella, of what comfort are you 
 to him ? If he has any annoyance, does he 
 find you ready to sympathize with him ? If 
 he has any joy, are you there to share it 
 with him ? When do you communicate your 
 thoughts, opinions, pleasures, pains, to each 
 other ? You do order dinner for him ; but 
 really I cannot see what other advantage he 
 derives from having a house, a home, a wife, 
 line maison montte,''''
 
 88 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 " Well, 1 see what you are driving at, all 
 this time ; I will make breakfast for him to- 
 morrow morning— that will be quite right and 
 wife-like." 
 
 At this moment, the servant entered to say 
 that the box at the French play, which her 
 Ladyship had wished to have, had been given 
 up, and that it was at her service for that 
 evening. 
 
 '' Oh, Fanny, that is charming ! We can 
 go there for the two first pieces, and come 
 home to dress." 
 
 " But Lord Delaford was to dine at home, 
 and he will dine alone if we go." 
 
 " Oh ! he does not mind that." 
 
 " Doesn't he.^" said Fanny, in a low 
 marked tone. 
 
 Lady Delaford desired the servant to let 
 the man wait; and Fanny felt she had gained 
 something. 
 
 " Now, I don't think he will care a pin 
 whether we are at home or not ; and he goes 
 back to the House afterwards." 
 
 " Not till ten o'clock, he said."
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 89 
 
 " Married people should not see too much 
 of each other. Toujours perdrix is insipid !" 
 
 " How much have you seen of him to- 
 day?" 
 
 " Why, let me see ! he looked in, did he 
 not, just as we had done breakfast, about 
 one r 
 
 " Yes ; and your Italian improvisatore came 
 two minutes afterwards, whose energetic rhap- 
 sodies of gratitude for your patronage, and 
 admiration of your talents, were delivered in 
 so stentorian a voice, that he took his depar- 
 ture, to prevent the drums of his ears from 
 being broken : And yesterday — what did we 
 see of him yesterday ?" 
 
 " Why, he dined out, you know, at a 
 political man-dinner — that was not my fault 
 — and in the morning, we were at Lady F.'s 
 breakfast." 
 
 " And the day before .^" 
 
 " Oh ! that was the day of our water-party 
 to Greenwich ; and that occupied the whole 
 day. Well, I see how it is — but you will 
 make me spoil him ; and then, when he is
 
 90 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 quite unmanageable and untractable, I shall 
 reproach you !" 
 
 " Well, dearest Isabella, I give you full 
 leave to do so — then !" 
 
 Lady Delaford rang the bell, and sent back 
 the tickets. 
 
 " Now how bored we shall all three of us 
 be to-day at dinner. I shall be thinking all 
 the time of that dear little Mademoiselle 
 Hyacinthe.'' 
 
 *' No ! no ! you won't, dear Isabella. You 
 will be your own gay, agreeable self." 
 
 Lord Delaford came home to dinner, and 
 seemed pleased to find so small a party. Isa- 
 bella told him, with an arch glance at Fanny, 
 that he was very near finding a still smaller 
 one; that the tickets for the best box at the 
 French play had been sent to them after 
 all." 
 
 " And why did you not go .?*" asked Lord 
 Delaford. 
 
 Isabella did not like to take all the credit, 
 when she felt she deserved but little, and she 
 answered : " Why, I believe Fanny suspects
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 91 
 
 you of having a bad conscience ; at least she 
 thought you would not like to be alone."' 
 
 Lord Delaford cast a glance of gratitude 
 towards Fanny, which made her heart beat 
 with a joy, for which she had no occasion to 
 reproach herself. He thanked them both for 
 their attention to him, and was more gay and 
 communicative than he had been for some 
 time. The dinner was agreeable. Isabella 
 was pleased to feel she was doing right, al- 
 though she did not know that was the reason 
 she was in spirits. Lord Delaford was gra- 
 tified, and full of hope that more domestic 
 days were about to dawn upon him. Fanny 
 was animated ; but there was a flutter in her 
 animation, she scarcely knew wherefore.
 
 92 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Trepideva pur anche per quel pudore cbe non nasce dalla 
 
 triste scienza del male per quel pudore che ignora se stesso 
 
 somigliante alia paura del fanciullo che trema nelle tenebre 
 
 senza saper di che. 
 
 / Promessi Sposi. 
 
 The next morning Isabella did come down 
 to breakfast ; but it was a great effort, and 
 she soon relaxed into her former habits. 
 Engagements previously formed, could not 
 be broken through, and one engagement led 
 to another. Occasionally, however, Fanny 
 persuaded her to give up one or two of the 
 many evening-parties, and she succeeded in 
 making her rather more quiet in the morning, 
 so that her husband sometimes found her at 
 liberty, and he could sit down and converse 
 upon the passing events.
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 93 
 
 When he was alone with Fanny he almost 
 invariably talked over his future prospects, 
 and attributed to her every symptom of im- 
 provement in his wife. Though these thanks 
 and praises fell on her ear as the most de- 
 lightful music, still she felt rather uneasy 
 at the kind of understanding that existed 
 between them. Though the subject was one 
 so wholly unconnected with herself, and so 
 conducive to his future conjugal felicity, she 
 could not help a guilty consciousness, when, 
 upon the entrance of Isabella, they changed 
 the topic of their conversation. She resolved, 
 when once she had accomplished the grand 
 object of persuading Isabella to take up her 
 abode at Fordborough Castle, she would 
 rescue herself from her trying situation, re- 
 turn to her father's house, and devote herself 
 with redoubled energy to being the consola- 
 tion and solace of his widowed home. 
 
 London was growing thin. Balls became 
 more rare ; water-parties more frequent ; well- 
 laden carriages, awfully encumbered with 
 wells, imperials, boots, trunks, and bonnet- 
 boxes, &c. were constantly seen whirling along
 
 94 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 the streets. One day they happened, all three, 
 to be standing at the window debating whether 
 the weather was sufficiently settled for Mrs. 
 Clairville's rural fete to take place, when they 
 were amused by watching the immense number 
 of nurses, children, boxes, and bundles, which 
 were crammed into an immense coach, one of 
 the three carriages which were getting under 
 weigh at the opposite door. Lord Delaford 
 thought this would be a good moment to 
 enter on the subject, by asking, in an easy 
 tone, but well aware of the difficulties he was 
 going to encounter, 
 
 " And when shall we go to Fordborough 
 Castle, Isabella.?" 
 
 " Heavens, Lord Delaford ! London is 
 just beginning to be agreeable. All the bores 
 are gone, or going, and society is becoming 
 really select, and every thing on an easy, 
 sensible, pleasant footing. The sight we see 
 opposite, gives one a delightful promise of 
 what London will be ! Don't you hear that 
 sound ?''"' as tlie three carriages were set in 
 motion, and rumbled heavily along the street. 
 " Society will be as light and elastic when
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 95 
 
 cleared of such heavy component parts, as the 
 air after a thunder-storm !" 
 
 " And have you not had enough of society 
 yet ? I am almost sick of my fellow-creatures' 
 faces, and yet I am no misanthrope ! Do 
 you not long to see green fields and trees, 
 and flowers, and to smell the sweet smells of 
 the country ?'' 
 
 " That is just the reason why I like water- 
 parties, and excursions into the country, and 
 Mrs. Clairville's breakfasts so much ! How 
 lovely the evening was as we rowed down the 
 river from Richmond ! and as for flowers, 
 where can you see any half so beautiful as at 
 
 liady P 's enchanting villa? You can 
 
 have no taste, no refinement, if you do not 
 doubly enjoy all the beauties of nature, in the 
 society of the most polished, the most gifted, 
 in short, of the master spirits of the age ! to 
 say nothing of all the prettiest women.'' 
 
 " I do not wish to see all the pretty women ;'' 
 and he added with some bitterness, " I only 
 wish to see one woman, who if she was as 
 perfect in mind, as she is in person, would be 
 all-sufficient for my happiness ; though,"' and
 
 96 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 his tone changed to one of deep mortification, 
 '' I see how little I am so to her's," and he 
 left the room. 
 
 Isabella was somewhat startled. Fanny 
 looked at her with a beseeching face of woe, 
 and eyes full of tears. 
 
 " You are playing a dangerous game, Isa- 
 bella. Heaven grant you may not repent it ! 
 You have nearly destroyed the happiness of 
 one of the most perfect of human beings. 
 Heaven grant you may not alter his nature 
 too ! Heaven grant that may remain un- 
 changed ! To see his kindly temper soured, 
 his manly character degraded into the mere 
 obsequious husband of a London fine lady, — 
 I beg your pardon, Isabella, but it would in- 
 deed be a melancholy sight !'"* 
 
 " You seem to take a very lively interest 
 in his welfare," answered Isabella, a little 
 frightened at the effect she had produced on 
 her husband, and consequently half inclined 
 to be pettish. 
 
 Fanny rejoined with warmth. 
 
 " Who can see one woman wilfully cast 
 from her a fate which would be the summit
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 97 
 
 of happiness to almost every other, and not 
 feel warmly ?"" 
 
 " Why, Fanny, I never saw you so ani- 
 mated ; I believe you have fallen in love with 
 him yourself, and are envying me this same 
 fate of mine." 
 
 Fanny's face became suddenly crimson. 
 She had been carried away by her feelings — 
 she had forgotten her own secret, she was 
 so moved at seeing him mortified, and wound- 
 ed, that she thought onl}- of him. 
 
 Isabella's half joking speech recalled it all 
 to her ; she felt betrayed, discovered, and 
 her confusion knew no bounds. Isabella, sur- 
 prised at the effect she had produced, in a 
 moment recollected the suspicions she had once 
 entertained, but she was just smarting under 
 the mortification of finding she had over-cal- 
 culated her complete influence over her hus- 
 band, of finding that Fanny was right in her 
 advice, and of feeling she deserved her rebuke, 
 and she exclaimed, 
 
 " Well, I never saw such a guilty face."" 
 
 Fanny was thunder-struck, bewildered — she 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 burst into tears, and hiding her face with her 
 hands, she exclaimed — 
 
 "Spare me, Isabella! spare me! if you 
 have discovered my secret, spare me !" and, 
 throwing herself on her knees, she hid her 
 face in Isabella's lap. " Yes, I have loved 
 your husband, but I loved him before you 
 thought of him, and I have struggled and 
 combated, and fought to subdue my feel- 
 ings, indeed I have. And I have loved him 
 with a holy love," and she lifted up her 
 tearful face with an expression of solemn grief 
 and earnestness which was almost sublime : 
 " Yes ! I call Heaven to witness, never, for 
 a moment, have I ceased to wish for your 
 happiness, to pray for it, to use every en- 
 deavour to forward it. Is it not true ? Isa- 
 bella, I appeal to yourself.-^" 
 
 " Get up, my dear Fanny ! For Heaven'^s 
 sake ! I had not an idea — I did not mean — " 
 and Isabella burst into tears also. She re- 
 membered, what she had almost forgotten, how 
 she had once believed him attached to Fanny ; 
 she remembered, what she had often persuaded
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 99 
 
 herself was not so, how she had used every 
 art in her power to wean him from her, and 
 she felt almost as guilty as Fanny did. 
 
 She had never intended to inflict such keen 
 anguish on any one, and she was grieved to 
 see what she had done. Had there been any- 
 thing to excite jealousy, or that might have 
 touched her vanity, perhaps she would not have 
 felt so amiably ; but she was perfectly certain 
 poor Fanny's love was unrequited, and there 
 was nothing mortifying in her husband's having 
 inspired so deep and fervent an attachment. 
 Moreover, an uncontrolled burst of feeling, 
 in a person habitually placid and reserved, 
 is in itself almost an awful siffht. 
 
 The two friends stood mutually abashed 
 before each other, when Fanny exclaimed, 
 
 " Do not utterly despise me, Isabella. Oh, 
 if you knew half what I feel at this moment 
 you would pity me. And I have been ven- 
 turing to lecture you, to teach you your duty ! 
 But, indeed, I spoke from pure motives, in- 
 deed — thoiigh — I have — loved him — " and 
 she again blushed crimson, her cheeks, her 
 F 2
 
 100 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 temples, her neck, at hearing herself speak 
 words which, till that day, had never found 
 utterance from her lips, " it was for your sake, 
 as well as for his " 
 
 " Dearest Fanny," interrupted Isabella, " do 
 you think I doubt your motives ? No ! they 
 are pure and excellent as your own innocent 
 heart. I spoke in jest — you so entirely suc- 
 ceeded in concealing your feelings '"* 
 
 " But do you not utterly despise me now ? 
 Me, whom you once thought retiring and 
 dignified, to have been so lavish of my affec- 
 tions as to love one who is devoted to another, 
 to pass my life nurturing a hopeless and an 
 unlawful preference ! Oh, that thought al- 
 most maddens me sometimes. You must look 
 down upon me as a poor, abject, weak, and 
 wicked creature.*"^ 
 
 " Fanny, don't speak so of yourself, you 
 make me miserable — it is I who ought to beg 
 your forgiveness — it is I who have been guilty 
 towards you — my foolish, selfish vanity could 
 not bear to see him prefer you, and I did all 
 I could to take him away from you; but 1 
 had no idea you really cared about him so
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 101 
 
 much ; I only meant to try my own power ; 
 and then, if you had seemed unhappy, I 
 would have desisted, — at least I thought I 
 would. But you appeared so cool, so indif- 
 ferent, and then I liked him myself, and then 
 I thought, if you cared so little, why there was 
 no reason why I should give up so brilliant 
 a parti, and then — I forgot all about you, 
 and thought only of myself." 
 
 " You do think, then, he did like me once t^'' 
 
 " It was that which piqued me so much ; 
 
 but, if I had known what you were feeling, 
 
 dear Fanny " 
 
 " Oh, Isabella, this is ridiculous ! You are, 
 as it were, defending yourself to me — to me 
 who stand here self-betrayed — self- accused. 
 Oh ! it is all wTong ; this must not be ; we must 
 forget all this — bury it in oblivion — let it be 
 as though it had never been. Only make him 
 happy, dearest Isabella, for your own sake — 
 for his sake, and a little for my sake too. 
 Make him happy, and I shall rejoice in the 
 fate that has made you his wife — make him 
 happy, as you value your own happiness and 
 his, in this world and the next. But I forget
 
 102 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 myself again. It is not for me to guide others 
 — weak, erring, sinful creature that I am." 
 
 She sank on the sofa, and pressing her hands 
 upon her eyes, and resting her head on the 
 arm of the sofa, she strove to command and 
 to subdue herself. 
 
 Isabella stood motionless beside her, in 
 thought as deep and as painful. A mist seem- 
 ed to have fallen from her sight. She looked 
 on life with different eyes from what she had 
 done an hour before. 
 
 The broken-hearted quivering form before 
 her, read her a lecture upon the effects of 
 worldliness, which she had never thought of 
 before. She saw, for the first time, what havoc 
 blighted affections might cause. She thought 
 of her husband, and she said to herself, " Shall 
 I, through my own wilful folly, cause the 
 misery of two good and amiable beings ? 1 
 have already blasted the prospects of one, 
 shall I throw a blight over those of the other, 
 and that other, the being I have sworn to love 
 as long as I have life.'^ Shall I have robbed 
 poor Fanny of what would have made her
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 103 
 
 happiness, and shall I not value the prize 
 myself?'' 
 
 A flood of tender and self-reproachful feel- 
 ings rushed over her soul. Fanny's grief cut 
 her to the heart — she gazed upon her till she 
 felt herself cruel and odious. She pictured 
 to herself what sufferings she must have in- 
 flicted upon her during the days of her court- 
 ship, on her wedding-day, on a thousand other 
 occasions ; she remembered her unfailing, un- 
 complaining gentleness ; she thought of the 
 good advice she had given her at various 
 times, and felt how generous and how ju- 
 dicious it had been. 
 
 Seating herself by her side, she gently lifted 
 her head from the sofa — she kissed her — she 
 wept with her — she used every tender and en- 
 dearing epithet — she implored her to be 
 comforted. 
 
 " I am weeping for my own degradation," 
 she replied, " that the secret I scarcely dared 
 own to myself should be uttered in positive 
 words, and to you, to his wife ! — and you 
 will betray me to him, you will tell him, I 
 am sure you will. Oh ! that I should have
 
 104 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 come to this! — I, who hoped to have passed 
 through life with a fair, untarnished name, 
 though my wretched heart might break ! Oh, 
 Isabella ! in pity keep my secret — spare me 
 this last bitter drop in the cup of life ! He 
 respects me now, and I think it would kill me 
 to be despised by him."' 
 
 Her broken voice was choked by sobs — 
 she again hid her face in her hands — she 
 seemed to shrink into herself. 
 
 " Dearest Fanny ! what shall I say, what 
 shall I do ? If you knew how your anguish 
 harrows my very soul ! I will promise any- 
 thing, I will do anything that can relieve 
 your mind." 
 
 " Will you indeed do anything that I ask ?" 
 said Fanny, looking up from her tears with 
 a face in which beamed a high and lofty 
 hope : " Then, all I ask of you is, to be 
 happy : and to be truly so, you must place 
 all your happiness in him ; you must let no 
 other feelings interfere with what is condu- 
 cive to his welfare, his respectability. Pro- 
 mise this, Isabella, and I ask no more." 
 
 " I promise you, dearest Fanny !" and
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 105 
 
 kneeling at her feet, her hands clasped and 
 laid on Fanny's knees, Isabella solemnly re- 
 peated, '' I promise you that, for your sake, 
 as well as for his own, I will love, cherish, 
 and obey him, in sickness and in health, in 
 joy and in sorrow, in poverty or in wealth : 
 I will strive to be unto him a loving, dutiful, 
 and virtuous wife."' 
 
 " Thank you, my own Isabella !" exclaimed 
 Fanny, and throwing themselves into each 
 other's arms, they mingled tears and em- 
 braces. At length Fanny added, "It is a 
 weight off my mind that I have no longer 
 anything concealed from you, Isabella ; and 
 if I could but feel sure that you, and you 
 only, should know my weakness " 
 
 " Shall I promise ^ 
 
 " Do, dearest Isabella ; let me hear a vow 
 of secrecy pass your lips, and I think it 
 will go farther towards eradicating every 
 vestige of former folly than anything else 
 can do." 
 
 " I promise you that no one word of this 
 day's conversation shall pass my lips ; and 
 I promise that, except by my future con- 
 F 5
 
 106 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 duct, you shall never be reminded of it. 
 Will that satisfy you ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, generous, kind, good Isabella. 
 You are only too good, too kind, and make 
 me feel so inferior to you." 
 
 " But, Fanny, we must make haste and go 
 into the country. How soon can we go ? I 
 wish we could set out to-morrow ; I long to 
 begin my new career ; I am so afraid of growing- 
 worldly again in London, — I mean worldly in 
 my inclinations ; my actions I can control, 
 and my vow is sacred. But how shall I set 
 about opening the subject to my husband ? 
 He was really angry to-day." 
 
 " What so easy, dearest Isabella ? Go at 
 once to him, and say you saw he was annoyed, 
 and that you are sorry he was so, and that, 
 rather than annoy him, you are ready to go 
 whenever he wishes." 
 
 " He will think a very sudden change has 
 come over me : however, I will try." 
 
 That evening Fanny pleaded a head-ache, 
 and went to bed. She was totally unfitted 
 for society, and could not have ventured
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 107 
 
 into Lord Delaford's presence ; so that, when 
 he came in, he found Isabella alone. 
 
 For the first time he wished for company ; 
 he felt a tete-a-tete with his wife awkward 
 and unpleasant. He was displeased and dis- 
 appointed : it was evident to him he was not 
 loved as he loved, and he was not yet worked 
 up to the point of accomplishing by authority, 
 what he fain would have accomplished by 
 affection : his manner was cold and abs- 
 tracted. 
 
 Isabella perceived that Fanny's advice was 
 not given before it was needed. 
 
 After a silence of some minutes, during 
 which she had twisted a note into every va- 
 riety of form of which a note is capable, 
 and he had turned over the leaves of a very old 
 Review, in which there was not one entertain- 
 ing article, she resolved to break the ice at 
 once. Shaking back her long locks, she 
 looked up in his face, and holding out her 
 hand to him, she said — 
 
 " I want to make friends, Henrv." Then, 
 smiling with a frankness of manner, which,
 
 108 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 when combined with anything of emotion, 
 was in lier ahnost irresistible — "I don't want 
 to lose your affections by being obstinate 
 and wilful, and I am ready to go into the 
 country whenever you please." 
 
 " Are you in earnest, Isabella, or am I 
 dreaming ?" 
 
 ^' I am in real good earnest, and you had 
 better take me in earnest, for fear my good re- 
 solutions should evaporate. I do really wish 
 to go into the country, and to be very good ; — 
 as good as Fanny." 
 
 " But can you be happy with only me .?" 
 
 " Why, I mean to try ;" and she gave him 
 a glance, such as a pretty woman can give 
 when she feels she has regained her power, 
 but means to use it in the most agreeable 
 manner. 
 
 " Then I am the happiest of men!" said, 
 and thought. Lord Delaford. 
 
 Reconciliations, joy and peace of mind, 
 are totally uninteresting; therefore, the sooner 
 the present story is brought to a close, the 
 better. Lord and Lady Delaford went almost
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. 109 
 
 immediately to Fordborough Castle — Fanny 
 returned to her father. She experienced real 
 pleasure in finding herself again at home, and 
 in ministering to the comforts of her kind 
 parent. 
 
 By some odd turn of the human mind, the 
 avowal of her secret feelings to the very 
 person towards whom they were an injury, 
 went farther towards eradicating them, than 
 all her own reflections and resolutions. Her 
 conscience felt lighter ; she looked back up- 
 on them as a matter of history ; and her 
 affection for Isabella had warmed into a real 
 and ardent friend^ihip. Every one loves a 
 person whom they have served, essentially 
 served ; and every one loves a person, over 
 whose conduct they feel they have great in- 
 fluence. 
 
 One morning, Lord Delaford having rode 
 over to Elmsley Priory, took an opportunity 
 of telling Fanny that he was the happiest of 
 men, and that he was aware he owed all 
 this happiness to her. Then did Fanny en- 
 joy pure and unalloyed satisfaction ! She
 
 110 THE SINGLE WOMAN 
 
 felt she had not lived in vain : she had been 
 of service to her fellow-creatures, and she felt 
 raised in her own estimation. 
 
 Isabella, meanwhile, laboured hard to put 
 in practice all the good advice she had re- 
 ceived from Fanny. The happiness she found 
 she had the power of bestowing, repaid her 
 for her self-denial in relinquishing the excit- 
 ing pleasures of the great world ; and before 
 she had time to weary of her domesticity, she 
 found herself in a situation which called forth 
 other, and as tender feelings. 
 
 While she was in Italy, a premature con- 
 finement had prevented her knowing the en- 
 grossing affection of a mother, and had allow- 
 ed her to plunge again into the vortex of dis- 
 sipation. 
 
 A growing family is an excellent nostrum for 
 keeping down an active, restless spirit. Time, 
 health, and thoughts must be, in a great mea- 
 sure, devoted to their children, by those mo- 
 thers who do not utterly neglect their duty ; 
 and the constant intercourse with such a mind 
 as Lord Delaford's, and the frequent visits 
 which, after a time, Fanny paid at Ford-
 
 OF A CERTAIN AGE. Ill 
 
 borough Castle, gradually produced in her 
 character a reformation of all that was repre- 
 hensible. 
 
 Fanny found new objects of interest in Isa- 
 bella's children : she was full of occupation 
 at home ; she was her father's darling. Her 
 life was a retired one, especially when Lord 
 and Lady Delaford were in London in the 
 spring ; and as there are not many very 
 charming partis in the immediate neighbour- 
 hood of Elmsley Priory, and as she would 
 doubtless be somev.hat difficult in her choice, 
 and as she is no longer quite as young or as 
 blooming as she has been, it is more than 
 probable she may become a " single woman 
 of a certain age." 
 
 Though such should be her fate, may she 
 not be allo'.ved to have an opinion, should 
 " affairs of the heart" be discussed in her 
 presence ?
 
 MILLY AND LUCY.
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Affection true and strong, and slrapleness 
 His goods and chattels, and her bridal dower ! 
 Riches more sure two wedded hearts to bless 
 Than fortune's proudest gifts in partial hour : 
 Unknowing to define by words the power. 
 That held their spirits in that blissful thrall ; 
 Pride cannot chill nor jealous anger sour, 
 Each other's wish they evermore forestall, 
 And of Love's darts and flames they never talk at all. 
 
 Manuscript Poems. 
 
 " Well, nurse, a -wedding is not a merry 
 thing, after all. I could not help crying bit- 
 terly to-day when my sisters were married, 
 and yet, it is what we have all been wishing for 
 so much. I am sure papa and mamma were 
 in the greatest of frights when they thought
 
 116 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 Captain Langley would sail without proposing 
 to Lizzy ; and when Sir Charles spoke out to 
 papa, after we were all gone to bed, I never 
 shall forget what a banging of doors there 
 was, mamma popping into all our rooms to 
 tell us the good news !'"* 
 
 "Ah, poor young ladies!" said Nurse 
 Roberts, as she was undressing the blooming 
 Lucy, the evening of the day on which two of 
 her sisters had been safely disposed of to two 
 gentlemen, the connexion with whom gave 
 great satisfaction to Colonel and Mrs. Heck- 
 field. 
 
 " Poor young ladies !" repeated Lucy in a 
 tone of surprise : " why do you pity my sisters, 
 
 nurse ?"" 
 
 " La, Miss, I don^t justly know ; but 
 
 somehow 'tisn't the sort of wedding as I 
 
 likes." 
 
 " Why, what sort of wedding do you 
 
 like .?" 
 
 " Ah, Miss Lucy, I am an old woman, and 
 
 I have old-fashioned notions ; but I likes to 
 
 see young people marry, as has a respect for 
 
 one another.*"
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 117 
 
 " Why, nurse, I am sure Captain Langley 
 and Sir Charles were quite respectful. What 
 can you mean ?" 
 
 " There wasn't no time. Miss, no time for 
 them to get to have a respect for one another. 
 I have heard talk of love at first sight, to be 
 sure, but to my mind there wasn't no love at 
 all; and that's the truth of it. 'Tis my be- 
 lief the Captain he wanted to take a wife to 
 India, because, as I've heard say, ladies are 
 scarce there, and here there's more of a choice ; 
 and Sir Charles he wanted a lady to sit at 
 t'other end of the table, and be civil and gen- 
 teel to the gentlefolks when they comes a visit- 
 ing to him ; and as for poor INliss Sophy and 
 Miss Lizzy, I don't see that they liked these 
 two gentlemen a bit better than twenty other 
 gentlemen as have been here at one time or 
 another." 
 
 " Well ! I never should have guessed you 
 were so romantic, nurse. Do you know this 
 is really the true spirit of romance ?" 
 
 " ]\o ! no ! 'Tan't romance, nor book- 
 nonsense as I'm talking about. But when 
 a woman's once married, she may have many
 
 118 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 trials and troubles. There 's Miss Lizzy 
 going into foreign parts, and there's no know- 
 ing what a wife may have to go through for 
 her husband, first or last, whether at home or 
 abroad ; and if she has not a spirit in her that 
 she does not care where she goes, nor what she 
 does, as long as it's for his sake, why, some- 
 times "'tis hard to bear." 
 
 " But when people marry, they marry 
 to be happy, not to go through trials and 
 troubles." 
 
 " And do you think, Miss, unless Miss 
 Lizzy loves Captain Langley dearly, she will 
 be happy when she is a thousand and a thou- 
 sand miles away from her friends, and in a 
 strange country ? No ! no ! I knows what 
 'tis to be alone among strangers, and I knows 
 'twould have been hard to bear, if it had not 
 been for poor John's sake !" 
 
 " Were you very much in love then, 
 nurse ?'"' and Lucy's eye twinkled with an arch 
 glance of amusement as she asked the question, 
 for at the moment she saw reflected in the 
 glass her own blooming cheeks, rounded chin, 
 rosy lips, and flowing locks, and the withered
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 119 
 
 face, thin lips, grey hair, and close-crimped 
 cap of the old woman. " Were you very 
 much in love ?" she repeated in rather a draw- 
 ling sentimental tone. 
 
 " I don't know about that, Miss; but he 
 was true to me, from the time I was quite a 
 slip of a girl, and it would have been hard if 
 I had been the one to change. I told him I 
 never would; and I kept my word." 
 
 *' And did he keep his .?" 
 
 " That he did, poor soul ! There was not 
 a better, nor a truer-hearted man anywhere, 
 than my poor John was. And though I had 
 known some trouble before, I never knew 
 what 'twas really to grieve till I lost him !" 
 The poor old woman gave a deep sigh, and 
 Lucy said in a kind and feeling tone of 
 voice : 
 
 '' Was it in America, you lost your poor 
 husband ? I know you once were there." 
 
 " Ah ! sure enough was it, my dear young 
 lady ; and not a friend nor a relation (besides 
 ray two fatherless babes) had I that side of 
 the water, when I saw my poor John put into 
 the ground. 'Tis that makes me think so
 
 120 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 much about Miss Lizzy. I am old, Miss, 
 and I have known troubles and crosses; 
 and I can't help looking forward to what may 
 happen." 
 
 " But Captain Langley, you know, has 
 friends and relations in India ; and every 
 body says Lizzy will have so many people 
 to wait on her, and beautiful jewels, and all 
 kinds of things ! How could you, dear nurse, 
 go into a foreign land, if you had no friends 
 and relations there ?'''' 
 
 " Oh, Miss Lucy ! 'tis a long story ; and 
 you had better go to bed, and go to sleep."" 
 
 " Now do tell me to-night, nurse ? I can't 
 go to sleep, 1 am sure ; and I do feel so in- 
 terested about you and your poor John." 
 
 The old woman's heart warmed at hearing 
 her husband's name spoken so kindly ; and 
 she was nothing loth to begin her story. 
 
 " Why, you see. Miss, John and I, we were 
 neighbours' children, and we used to come 
 home from school by the same path ; and we 
 often went nutting, and gathering blackberries 
 together, and he was always a civil, good- 
 tempered boy, and the folks used to call us
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 121 
 
 the little sweethearts ; and so, when we grew 
 bigger, we wished to get married : but father 
 he said, ' No, by no means ! he would not 
 hear of it!'" 
 
 " But why did your father object to such 
 a respectable young man ?" 
 
 " ^Vhy, you see, Miss, he was a ropemaker, 
 and was in a good way of business, and had 
 got above the world ; and John, he was only 
 under-gardener at the Squire's. He was a 
 handy, sharp young man ; but he had not 
 any thing but just what he earned from week 
 to week ; and father said, he would not hear 
 of no such nonsense, and we must leave off 
 courting. We both saw that father was right 
 not to agree to our marrying then ; but we 
 thought it hard that we were not to speak 
 to each other any more. My own mother was 
 dead ; and my father's second wife she ag- 
 gravated him against us, and said, if we saw 
 each other as usual, we should be sure to 
 marry ; and then he would have to keep us 
 off the parish ; and that I was a likely, fresh- 
 coloured girl, and might do better for myself, 
 and might get somebody who would be a help 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 instead of a hindrance to the family. So I 
 told John I would not marry without father's 
 leave, for I knew that would be wrong ; but 
 that I would never have any body but him, 
 if it was ever so. 
 
 " My stepmother, she never let me out of 
 her sight, and always kept me to my work at 
 home ; and I never saw John to speak to him. 
 Of a Sunday, when we came out of church, 
 he always stood near the hand-gate, and some- 
 times, if there was only father, he opened it 
 for us; and as long as he did that, I was 
 sure he was true to me. 
 
 " One morning, about a year after my fa- 
 ther had said he would not hear no more of 
 John Roberts, and that his girl should marry 
 somebody as had a house to take her to, and 
 enough to keep her when he had got her 
 there; 'tvvas a Monday-morning, and I had 
 washed up the tea-things, and swept up the 
 hearth, and was just holding a bit of wood- 
 embers in the tongs for father to light his 
 pipe by, before he went to his work, when 
 what should I see but John''s face as he went 
 ])y the window to the door. I was like to
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 123 
 
 let the tongs fall, it came upon me so sudden ! 
 John knocked at the door, and I shook all 
 over, as if I had got the ague ; for I thought, 
 to be sure, father would be in a towering pas- 
 sion. Father, he never turned round ; but he 
 kept drawing in his breath to make the pipe 
 light, and he said, ' Why don't you go and 
 open the door, girl ?"* So I went to the door, 
 and opened it, and in stepped John ; and he 
 said never a word to me, he only just gave 
 me a look, and he went straight up to father, 
 and said : — 
 
 " ' Mr. Ansell, don't take it amiss if I am 
 come to say a few plain words to you. You 
 won't let me have your daughter — you think 
 we shall come into trouble, and be a burthen 
 upon you ; and you think Milly can do better 
 for herself ?' 
 
 " ' Yes !' said my father ; ' you speak right 
 enough.' 
 
 " ' But Milly has told me, she'll never have 
 nobody but me; and you know, Mr. Ansell, she's 
 a girl of her word ; and you know you could 
 not get her to marry Mr. Simpkins, the tailor ; 
 no, nor you won't be able to get her to marry 
 G 2
 
 124 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 no other lover, if she should have a dozen — 
 I know you won't ; and I won't have no other 
 ffirl ! But that 's neither here nor there — what 
 I've got to say is this — I have just had sent 
 me a letter from my brother as is in Ca- 
 nada ; and he tells me, if I want to make 
 my fortune, I have only to take ship at Li- 
 verpool, and come to him at Halifax ; and 
 there, he says, any man as knows a little of 
 gardening, and such like, has no more to do, 
 but to get as much land as he likes, to set 
 to work, and he will have a good market for 
 his vegetables, and he can be made a man of 
 in no time. He sends me money enough to 
 pay my expenses out, and he says he will 
 see that I want for nothing, till I get into 
 a regular way of business ; and now, Mr. 
 Ansell, if Milly an't afraid to venture over 
 the seas with me, I think we shall be able 
 to shift for ourselves ; and we need never be 
 no burthen to you, nor none of our friends ; 
 and if she won't go, — why, I '11 go by myself; 
 and I'll try to make my fortune alone, and 
 come back and marry her some day or ano- 
 ther, please God to spare me.' "
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 125 
 
 " What did your father say to this, nurse ?^' 
 
 " Why, father seemed very angry when 
 first John began to speak. I looked at him, 
 and my heart sank within me ; then I looked 
 at John, and his face was flushed like, and 
 his eyes seemed quite bright, he was so full 
 of hope, and I thought I could never bear 
 to disappoint him. My stepmother had come 
 in when she heard John's voice, and so father 
 turned to her, and said, 
 
 " ' Well, Sarah, what do you think of this 
 young chap's notion ? I don't much like to 
 have my Milly go away from me altogether, 
 and beyond seas too ; though she has been 
 a little testy, or so, about John — I don't half 
 like it!' 
 
 " I felt so, I did not know what to do ; 
 and I began to cry and to sob ; and John 
 said to me then : 
 
 " ' Milly,' said he, ' speak your mind. Do 
 you think you could venture across the water, 
 all the way to America with me P You know 
 I'll work hard for you, and I'll be as tender of 
 you as if you were a babe ; and whichever way 
 it is, I '11 be true to you, if so be I live.'
 
 126 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 " Then father said : — « Milly, if you an't 
 willing to go along with him, why there's an 
 end of it at once, and so speak out.' 
 
 " I looked at John again, and the longest day 
 I have to live I never shall forget his face that 
 minute. He was as pale as ashes, and his two 
 eyes were fixed on me with such a beseech- 
 ing look ! I thought I could do any thing, 
 and bear any thing, sooner than have him 
 go quite away by himself, and so I said, 
 
 " * Father, I am ready to go anywhere that 
 John takes me to ; I know he will always be 
 kind to me. I an't afraid with him.' 
 
 " Poor John ! To be sure, how his face did 
 change ! his colour came again, and he looked 
 up so proud and so kind like ! 1 thought no- 
 thing would be a trouble to me for his sake 
 then. 
 
 " Father did not half like what I answered, 
 but his wife was very good-natured, and said, 
 that perhaps we should do very well in Ame- 
 rica ; she had a cousin once that made a great 
 fortune somewhere beyond seas, and that it 
 was very true what John said, we should be
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 127 
 
 no burthen to our friends when we were so 
 far off." 
 
 " She was evidently very glad to get rid of 
 you,"*^ interrupted Lucy. 
 
 " Maybe 'twas so, for sometimes father and 
 she had words about me. Father never could 
 bear to see me put upon ; however that was, 
 she was very kind now, and by degrees we 
 brought father to think about it. And then 
 John, he had to tell him we must get married 
 out of hand, for the ship was to sail in a week, 
 and we had to go to Liverpool, and to buv 
 the things as were wanted on board ship.**"* 
 
 " Only a week ! That was very short notice 
 indeed !'' 
 
 " Yes, Miss, and father flew out sadly at 
 first. But there was no help for it, if I went 
 at all. So John went to the minister, and 
 talked to him about it, and the minister helped 
 him how to get a licence, and on the Tuesday 
 John walked to the town, seven miles off, and 
 he bought a licence, and a deal of money he 
 paid for it ; but his sister gave him something 
 towards it, and he bought the wedding-ring.
 
 128 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 and he came to me Tuesday evening, and 
 showed them both to me, and I thought to 
 be sure it was a dream. Next morning I was 
 to be married, and I dressed myself as neat 
 as I could."" 
 
 " Ah, by the by, what did you do for wed- 
 ding clothes ?"'' 
 
 " Why, I had a light-coloured gown as 
 good as new, and the minister's daughter gave 
 me a new straw bonnet, and my stepmother 
 gave me her second-best shawl, and we went 
 to church, and my little sister was brides- 
 maid, and all the girls round about, as I knew, 
 came to the wedding. Poor father, how he 
 did cry ! and the minister, he was obliged to 
 stop once, and put down the book to wipe 
 his eyes. He said it was avvful to see two 
 such young things going out into the wide 
 world, so left to themselves like — but he was 
 not against it, for all that ; and John, he cried 
 too. The Rector told father he had never 
 seen so many people crying at a wedding in 
 all his ministry. Well, it was a sad day to 
 us all ; now that I was married to John, 
 and was sure I was not going to lose him,
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 129 
 
 it almost broke my heart to see father take 
 on so, and to look round at the chairs and 
 tables, and the dresser I had cleaned so many 
 times, and the plates, and jugs, and cups I 
 took such pride to set in order, and the strings 
 of birds' eggs as I had hung over the chimney- 
 piece, with two peacock's feathers John and I 
 had picked up in the Squire's park, and the 
 sweet-brier we had planted when we were 
 children, and w hich grew up quite tall by the 
 house. Ah, sure, it seems all as plain before 
 me as if it was yesterday. Father sat with 
 his hands on the top of his stick, and his chin 
 resting on his hands, looking at the fire, and 
 he took little notice of any of us. My step- 
 mother, she was bustling about, and seemed 
 to wish to do all she could for us the last day. 
 
 " Next morning, Thursday, w^e parted from 
 father, and brothers, and sisters, and all, and 
 we got on the top of the coach, and we went 
 off so fast, it made me quite dizzy as it were. 
 We got to Liverpool, Friday evening ; I seem- 
 ed as though I was lost in that great busy 
 place, but, whenever John saw me begin to 
 look sad or frightened, he thanked me so for 
 G 5
 
 130 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 coming along with him, that I fc4t I cared for 
 nothing as long as he was contented. 
 
 '' On the Saturday we got all the things 
 they said we must take in the ship with us, 
 for there are shops as sell every thing ready 
 to hand. And Sunday we went to church 
 for the first time together as man and wife, 
 and for the last time together in our own 
 country. As we came out of the church- 
 door, John said to me, ' Milly, I am glad 
 we have been able to go to church together 
 once more in Old England ; we don't know 
 what places of worship there may be in this 
 new countr3^ But we can read our Bible 
 wherever we go.' 
 
 " The vessel was to sail Monday, just one 
 week from the day John surprised us so as 
 I was making our own little kitchen tidy at 
 home. We were all on board ship early 
 in the morning. To be sure, how frightened I 
 was ; but I had made up my mind not to be 
 down-hearted, and I bore up against it all. 
 We had a good passage, and, as soon as we 
 had got our little matters safe on shore, we 
 set out to look for John's brother, who kept
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 131 
 
 a shop for seeds and such like ; we soon found 
 the shop, but it was a sad time for us when 
 we got there. But la, Miss — there 's the clock 
 striking twelve, and you not in bed. What 
 will your mamma say to me for keeping you 
 awake with my old woman's tales ? but it is 
 not often I talk of by-gone days, and when 
 once I begin I hardly know how to stop."
 
 13^ MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 What spirit e'er so gentle shall be found, 
 So softly reared in humble privacy ; 
 What form so fragile on wide earth's vast round, 
 Shrinking from every blast beneath the sky, 
 That will not brave severest destiny, 
 Bear uncomplaining, want and cruel wrong, 
 And look on danger with unblenching eye, 
 If love have made that gentle spirit strong. 
 Love, pure, approved by Heav'n, led that frail form along. 
 
 Manuscript Poems. 
 
 Lucy would not bear of going to bed till 
 sbe bad beard tbe rest of INIilly's adventures. 
 
 " You must go on, nurse. I cannot let you 
 stop — you know I love any story, and you 
 know I love you, and so you may guess bow 
 miicb I must be interested." 
 
 " You are very good, Miss, to say so. 
 Mine's a very plain bomely tale, but you
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 133 
 
 always was a kind young lady, and somehow, 
 when I have got over the first talking about 
 my poor husband, and all our troubles, I can't 
 say but there is a kind of pleasure, like, in 
 going over it all again." 
 
 " Now there's a good nurse, mind you tell 
 me every thing. What had happened when 
 you got to your brother-in-law's ?^^ 
 
 " Ah ! poor man ! he was dead — dead and 
 buried. He died just three weeks after he 
 wrote to John ; and, though the widow kept 
 on the shop, she could not do for us as he 
 would have done. Poor soul ! she was left 
 with five vouncj children, and she was al- 
 
 ./CD ■' ■ 
 
 most beside herself with care and trouble. 
 However, she took us in, and told us we 
 should not have to pay for lodging while we 
 stayed there, but she could not afford to keep 
 us. She told John who was the proper person 
 to apply to, to get what they call a grant 
 of land, and he went next day to see about 
 it, for he was loth to be a burthen to the 
 poor widow. 
 
 " He found he could not get any garden, nor 
 any land near the town, but he must go a
 
 134 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 great way off to the back woods, where there 
 were new settlers, and where he must cut 
 down the trees, and dig up the soil fresh for 
 himself. This was a great disappointment, 
 and he lost a deal of time trying if he could 
 not get something that would suit better. 
 But you see, ma'am, every thing goes by in- 
 terest in one country just like another; and 
 now his brother was gone he had nobody to 
 put in a good word for him, and he found 
 there was no use in haggling on any longer. 
 So he set about buying the goods, and the 
 tools which they said were quite necessary for a 
 new settler, and by the time he had got his 
 grant of land, and had bought his things, all 
 our money was pretty well gone, and I was 
 not in a way to be much of a help to him. 
 Poor John ! He said he would not have me 
 begin a long journey in this condition, and 
 when I got to the end of it have no roof over 
 my head, and be in a lonesome place with no- 
 body to do for me when the time of my trouble 
 came. My sister-in-law was very good, and 
 she promised to take care of me. She got me 
 needlework, and I could earn enough for my
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 135 
 
 own keep ; and so John set off all alone to this 
 land that was to be his. He was to get the 
 trees felled, and a log-house built, and some 
 ground trenched, and every thing quite com- 
 fortable in a manner ; and he was to come 
 back for me in the spring. I did not half 
 like this. As long as I was with him I felt as 
 if I could do any thing ; but when he was 
 gone, I don't know how it was, but I had no 
 spirit to any thing. But he would not let me 
 go. He said, ' No ! he had told father I should 
 be treated tenderly, and he would never let 
 me be worse off than the very gipsies in Old 
 England."' 
 
 " The autumn seemed very long to me ; 
 but I worked hard, and earned enough to get 
 every thing nice for my baby, and to have 
 a few household things ready to take with 
 me when the spring came. After my child 
 was born, I began to grow quite happy with 
 thinking how^ pleased John would be to see it. 
 I had got together all my little goods, and had 
 packed them up, and I was waiting every day 
 for him to come. I thought every step I 
 heard at the door might be him ; for there was
 
 136 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 no post in those outlandish parts, and I had 
 only heard from him twice by a private hand 
 since he went. One day I was startled by 
 hearing a strange voice ask for me. It was 
 not John, I knew well enough ; and there 
 came such a fright over me I could not answer, 
 nor I could not go to the door. Though I 
 was always wishing John w^ould come, and 
 wondering he did not, yet it never before 
 came into my head to be frightened, I felt so 
 sure he would come at last ; but I don't know 
 how it was, I thought now there was something- 
 bad in store for me. 
 
 " My sister-in-law went to the door, and 
 she brought me up a letter. It was in his own 
 hand-writing. But when I had got it, I could 
 hardly read it, I was in such a hurry, and all 
 over in such a tremble. However, it told me 
 he had been very ill ; he had had a bad rheu- 
 matic fever, and was not able to come for me 
 yet ; but he was getting better, and hoped to 
 be able to set off before summer came. I made 
 up my mind directly Avhat I v/ould do — to set 
 off the next day as ever came, and go to him. 
 So I went down- stairs to the man a« brought
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 137 
 
 me the letter, and I asked him which was the 
 road, and what were the names of the places 
 I had to go through, and how I was to find 
 out his settlement. I was a pretty middling 
 scholar, so I wrote it all down from his mouth. 
 That night I packed up my bundle, and I sold 
 the linen and things I had bought, for I could 
 not carry them, and I knew I should want the 
 money. My sister-in-law lent m.e a little she 
 was able to spare, and next morning I set out. 
 I reckoned I could walk fifteen miles a-day, 
 and that as it was three hundred miles up the 
 country, it would take me about three weeks 
 to get to him. I was very tired the first day, 
 for I had to carry my bundle on my back, and 
 my child in my arms ; but I did not care. I 
 thought so of getting to John, I hardly knew 
 that I was tired. I found a decent little inn, 
 and a civil woman, who made me pretty com- 
 fortable that night, and I had nothing to 
 complain of for several days more ; but after 
 a week or thereabouts, the country was very 
 bare, and there were but few houses to be seen. 
 One day T had to walk better than twenty 
 miles before I could get taken in, and after all
 
 138 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 the place was a miserable hovel, and the woman 
 as kept it was so old, and dirty, and smoky, 
 and she spoke so short to me, and looked at 
 me so sharp, that I felt frightened, and almost 
 sorry, when, after a little haggling, she let me 
 into the hut. It seemed to belong to her ; 
 but some men who came in after me, ordered 
 her about as if they were masters of her and 
 all she had ; and she did not think of refusing 
 them any thing, and they swore at her ter- 
 ribly, and made themselves quite at home. I 
 had got away into the inner-room when I saw 
 them coming, and I never went back into the 
 kitchen. The old woman seemed no ways 
 anxious that I should. I begged her to let me 
 lie down, and she said I might do as I would ; 
 so I tried to get some rest ; but I could see 
 these men through the chinks of the logs, 
 and I could hear most of what they said. 
 They drank, and they sang, and by their way 
 of talking, I think they led a rough sort of 
 robber-like life ; but I could not half understand 
 what they said. At last they rolled themselves 
 up on the floor, and went to sleep, and I went to 
 sleep too. All my little stock of money, which
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 139 
 
 was getting very low, but which was my only 
 dependence for reaching my poor husband, 
 was under my pillow, and I resolved I would 
 not part witli it if I could help it. In the 
 middle of the night my child began to cry ; 
 I felt sure these strange men w^ould wake 
 and rob me, and perhaps murder me too. I 
 heard one move, and I could see him sit up, 
 rub his eyes, stretch himself, and he wondered 
 what the noise could be ; but I managed to 
 pacify the child, and he settled himself again. 
 To be sure, I was glad when I heard him 
 breathe quite hard ! I did not sleep any more 
 that night, and by day-break, the hunters 
 (for they had guns, and powder-pouches, and 
 bags — so I suppose they were hunters,) were 
 astir, and left the hut. I asked the old wo- 
 man who they were, and which way they were 
 likely to take ; but she did not like being 
 questioned, and so, when I thought they had 
 been gone about an hour, I set out again on 
 my lonesome journey. 
 
 " That day the road lay through a great 
 forest of very tall trees, taller than any trees 
 we have here. I never did feel so lonesome
 
 140 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 before ; there was not a creature to be seen 
 anywhere, and the tall trees made the road so 
 dreary, and it was all dark and hollow each 
 side ; for in those great woods the trees stand 
 clear of each other, and there is no under- 
 wood, nor bushes, nor briers, but the boles 
 go up straight, and the branches meet at 
 top, and one may go miles and miles, and 
 never see the blue sky over one's head. There 
 was no telling what might come out from 
 those dismal hollows, and I kept looking 
 round every minute, and trying to see into 
 them, but 'twas impossible : I could see the 
 trunks of the trees for a little way, and then 
 'twas all as black as night. It made one feel so 
 alone, and yet one did not know what might 
 be near one; and I thought what would be- 
 come of me if I was benighted in this dreary 
 place, and I thought of the wild Indians, and 
 of the bears, and of my poor innocent babe ; 
 but then I thought again of my husband on 
 his sick-bed, and I took courage. 
 
 " It was past the middle of the day, and the 
 sun had sunk some way below those tall dark 
 trees, when I sat down to rest myself, and
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 141 
 
 to drink from a clear stream by the road- 
 side. I was wondering how much farther it 
 could be to the end of the forest, where I 
 had been told I should find something of a 
 decent hut, when I was startled at hearing 
 voices and the report of a gun ; and pre- 
 sently three of the men who had passed the 
 night in the old woman's hovel came out 
 from among the gloomy trees on the other 
 side. 
 
 " They looked surprised to see me, and 
 came straight up to me. I don't know how 
 it was, but when the time came I did not 
 seem so timid as I thought I should. I re- 
 membered how poor I was, and it could not 
 be no object to anybody to rob me, and I 
 knew I was doing my duty in going to my 
 husband, and I thought God would protect 
 me. I sat quite still, and did not tremble 
 nor shake. One of them asked me how I 
 came there .'^ so I told him the truth, and 
 spoke quite civil, and yet, as it were, bold 
 and steady, - that I was walking from Halifax 
 to my husband at the far settlement. So 
 another of the men said, quite sharp — ' If
 
 142 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 you have got a husband, he had better keep a 
 sharper look-out after such a tight lass as 
 you are.' 
 
 " The first man said — * You have got a 
 long journey before you, my girl.' 
 
 '* And I answered, ' Yes, Sir ; but I have 
 got safe through more than half of it, and 
 I hope, with the blessing of God, to get safe 
 through the rest of it to my husband, to 
 nurse him in his illness.' 
 
 " ' Oh ! he 's ill, that 's it,' said the se- 
 cond. 
 
 " ' Well, you can't be travelling all this 
 way without money,' says the third, who had 
 not spoken yet. 
 
 " ' Come, come, poor girl,' interrupted the 
 first, and gave a wink to ' the last speaker, 
 ' we won't hinder your journey any longer: 
 you had better push on, or you '11 be in the 
 dark.' And he took the other by the arm, 
 and he seemed to persuade them both to go 
 away ; and when I saw them go off into the 
 woods again, I thanked God for his goodness, 
 and thought he was indeed a Father to the 
 fatherless, and that he never did desert them
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 143 
 
 as put their trust in Him in the time of their 
 need. 
 
 " I hugged my baby close, and quite forgot 
 how tired I had been a little while before, 
 and walked and ran till it was nearly dark, 
 when the trees grew thinner, and I thought I 
 could see lights glimmer in the distance. I 
 made all the haste I could, and at last I 
 got to a small settlement of half a dozen 
 log-houses. I stopped at the first door, and 
 I never felt so happy as when I saw a light, 
 and a fire, and a woman's face again. She 
 had a child in her arms too, and I felt 
 quite safe. 
 
 " Next day I was very tired, and the wo- 
 man at the little inn wished me to stay all 
 day, and rest myself; but when I was walking 
 and toiling, I did not feel so much about 
 John : the moment I was still, I thought 
 how ill he might be, and I could not bear 
 to keep quiet Besides, the woman's husband 
 was going part of the same road, to make a 
 bargain about some furs ; so he kept me com- 
 pany through the rest of the forest, and he 
 begged the fur-merchants, as he came to
 
 144 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 speak to, that they would see me safe to the 
 village where I was to stop that night. This 
 day my baby began to grow fretful, and no 
 wonder, for, though I did the best I could 
 for it, "'twas next to impossible; to get anything 
 fit for a baby at the places I stopped at, 
 and I lived so hard myself that 1 made but 
 a poor nurse. 
 
 " My shoes were quite worn out, and my feet 
 were so sore, I thought I must afford myself a 
 pair of shoes, as I should not have another 
 opportunity. They were very dear, for every- 
 thino- was brought from Halifax. I was sorry 
 afterwards I did not make sliift without them. 
 Next morning my baby was so ill I went to 
 the doctor, for there was a doctor there, and 
 they said he was the only real doctor any- 
 where for miles and miles. He gave me some- 
 thing as quieted the child, but, when I had 
 paid for this too, my purse was so low, I 
 beo-an to fear I should not have enough to 
 buy me any thing to eat after the two next 
 days; and as for begging, — I had never been 
 brought up to think of such a thing. I touch- 
 ed nothing but the coarsest and cheapest food
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 145 
 
 I could get, and drank nothing but cold water, 
 and I walked farther each day, to get sooner 
 to the end of my journey. I was almost worn 
 out, and, (as I reckoned,) I had still three 
 days' travelling between me and my husband 
 when I paid away my last farthing. I scarce- 
 ly hoped ever to reach him, but I walked 
 on till 1 got to a small settlement, and then 
 I sat down by the way-side, and thought 
 what should I do ? 
 
 " I could not help crying, and thinking 
 what would father say if he could see me then ; 
 and it hurt me so ! for I knew he would feel 
 angry with John, and fancy it was through 
 him his child was brought into such trouble, 
 and forced to beg her bread — for there was 
 no help for it — if I wished to see my husband, 
 and not to let my baby die, I must that 
 night, ask charity of strangers. So I knocked 
 at the nearest door, and I told my story, 
 and asked for food and lodging. I have 
 often thought a mother, with her infant in 
 her arms, has something which goes to the 
 hearts of their fellow-creatures, if they have 
 any kindness left in them. I'm sure I never 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 see a poor beggar-woman with a baby, at 
 the door, but I think of myself that weary 
 night, and I never have the heart to send 
 them away without some little trifle, though, 
 maybe, I ""m often imposed upon. 
 
 " Well ! the man as opened the door took 
 pity upon us directly, and bade me come in 
 and sit by the fire. His daughter, a nice girl 
 of fourteen, brought us some potatoes and 
 some milk, and let me share her bed. They 
 would have given me enough to pay my way 
 for the next two days, if they had had it 
 to give ; but I was forced to ask charity again 
 that night, but it did not seem to give me 
 such a choking in the throat as it did the 
 first time ; and I thought how soon we lose 
 our spirit when we get low in the world, 
 and how easy it is to go on from bad to 
 worse ! The next night I hoped to get to 
 my husband. They told me to keep along 
 the banks of a great river on my left, where 
 there was something of a path, but 'twas so 
 overgrown with the long rank grass, 'twas 
 not easy to find. The new settlement was 
 near the river-side, for the trees, which the
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 147 
 
 settlers cut some way higher up, drifted down 
 the river till they came to this place, where 
 the ground was particular rich, and then they 
 pulled them ashore, and built themselves log 
 houses. There were about seven families to- 
 gether, as they told me, and my husband's 
 house was the farthest but one. How my poor 
 heart did beat all the w^ay I went ; I longed so 
 to get there, and I dreaded it so too. I walk- 
 ed on and on, and still I saw no people, nor 
 no huts, nor no fields, and I began to think 
 I must have come wrong, for, thougli it was 
 all open and flat, I could not see very far 
 before me, for the grass was long, and the 
 rushes very tall, sometimes, by the river-side. 
 Of all the day's journeys I had come, this 
 did seem to me the longest ; but I suppose 
 'twas only because I was so impatient to get 
 to the end of it. I looked at the sun, and 
 it was not above half way down. Just then 
 there was a rise in the road, and I could see 
 some smoke, and the roofs of some low huts, 
 and some little patches of ground that were 
 cultivated, and I strained my eyes to try 
 and make out the last but one ; I don't know 
 H 2
 
 148 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 how I got over the ground, but I soon did 
 reach the first house, and I saw a child at 
 play, and I asked him which was John Ro- 
 berts's. T could hardly breathe while he an- 
 swered, ' He lives out yonder." He lives ! 
 and when I heard him say that, I first knew 
 I had been afraid of never seeing John again. 
 
 " I ran as well as I could to the hut. It 
 looked wretched and half finished ; the door 
 was ajar — I pushed it open — there was no- 
 body in the kitchen — I heard no noise — I 
 listened — I did not dare step on. Just then 
 my child cried, and a voice from within said, 
 in a hollow tone, ' Who 's there ?'' I ran 
 into the bed-room, and there lay my husband, 
 sick, pale, and weak, but it was my husband 
 alive, and all seemed well." 
 
 " Oh, nurse,"' exclaimed Lucy, '' I never 
 heard any thing half so interesting in my life. 
 Poor souls! and how was your husband.'^ 
 He got well ?'' 
 
 " Yes, Miss, he did get well after a time. 
 He fretted so much to think he could not go 
 for me, that it had kept him back, and he 
 had nobody to make him any thing nice, nor
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 149 
 
 to do for him ; leastways not to do for him 
 as I could, though the neighbours looked in 
 now and then and made his bed, and boiled 
 his potatoes for him, and such like. Sure ! 
 how overjoyed he was to see me, and how 
 pleased he was to see the babe. He soon 
 began to mend, and then he was so vexed 
 to think he had not been able to Pet the 
 place to rights a bit before I came. 
 
 " The fence outside was all broken down, 
 and the garden was only half-planted ; but I 
 had not been there a fortnight before I got 
 it all to look quite different. I cleaned up 
 the house, and settled the few things he had 
 got in it, and I helped him to mend the 
 fence, and he was soon able to dig again, 
 and the things grow very quick in that rich 
 soil, and our house and garden were quite 
 decent, and we were so glad to be together 
 again, that we did not see no faults in any 
 thing. 
 
 " In the winter-time John had been lucky 
 in shooting, and had sold some furs for enough 
 to buy him a cow, and some chickens ; and 
 then, being a pretty middling gardener, he had
 
 150 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 helped his neighbours, and put them in the 
 way to crop their gardens as they should be ; 
 and most of them gave him a trifle, some 
 one thing and some another, so that now he 
 was pretty well, and I was there to keep 
 matters tidy, we were very comfortable. The 
 winter was cold and long, and in the spring 
 he had another touch of that nasty fever, as 
 was so common in them low swampy grounds. 
 In the summer I had my Betsy — you know 
 my Betsy, as is married to Farmer Crofts ? — 
 some of the neighbours were very kind to 
 me, and I got over it pretty well. Of a 
 Sunday we used to read our Bible together, 
 and think how true John's saying was, when 
 we came out of cliurch at Liverpool, that 
 there was no knowing what places of wor- 
 ship we might find where we were going to. 
 But John often said all places might be 
 made places of worship if one had but the 
 mind to it, whether it was a real church, 
 or the tall, dark, still woods, or dii; damp 
 wide savannah, or our own log-hut ; and so, 
 I hope, when we read our prayers there, it
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 151 
 
 did US as much good as if there had been a 
 minister and a pulpit, and all as it should 
 be. 
 
 " I believe I was too happy then for it to 
 last. With the spring came the rheumatic 
 fever again, and my poor husband was quite 
 laid up. He could not do any thing, and he 
 fretted so to think his land was not trenched, 
 nor any thing seen to ! and, what with the 
 children, and the house, and the cow, and the 
 things out of doors, and poor John to nurse, 
 I had more than one pair of hands could 
 well do. This would not have signified if 
 John had but mended when the summer came, 
 but he got worse and worse. He was so 
 weak, and he suffered a deal of pain, and 
 there was no doctor. Then I did wish we 
 had never left England, and I thought it 
 would have been better we should both have 
 worked and laboured in our own country, 
 till we had got old, and earned enough to 
 marry upon. But we did for the best ; and 
 if John was so set upon coming, even without 
 me, why, then, it was best I came too, for
 
 152 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 he had some one to do for him. It was all 
 written, I suppose ; and perhaps 'twas for our 
 good — but this was hard, very hard to bear. 
 
 " One evening I had got the children off to 
 sleep, and I had taken my bit of work, and 
 was sitting by John's bedside, when he said 
 to me — 
 
 " ' Milly, you must not stay here when 
 I am gone. If you sell all the little matters 
 we have got together here, you '11 have enough 
 to pay your journey to Halifax, and your 
 passage home too, as I reckon. Your father 
 will be good to you, I think — I hope. Tell 
 him I meant for the best when I persuaded 
 you to come."* 
 
 " Oh, Miss Lucy, I never thought to see 
 that day : I had always hoped I should have 
 been the first to go. But it pleased God 
 otherwise.'" 
 
 The poor old woman sat with her apron 
 to her eyes, in quiet, silent tears. Lucy took 
 one of her withered hands, and pressing it 
 between her own, told her, with tears in her 
 eyes, how much she felt for her, and how 
 much she admired her husband's kind and
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 153 
 
 manly character. She found this ^vas the 
 chord to which, after so many years, the old 
 nurse's heart still vibrated. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Lucy,"' and her faded eyes 
 flashed with almost youthful brightness ; 
 " He was the kindest-hearted, the truest- 
 hearted, and the bravest-hearted man as ever 
 lived. He feared nothing, but to do wrong, 
 and to part with me. His thoughts were al- 
 ways on me ; and when he was taken, the 
 last words he ever spoke were, ' my own 
 Milly,"* and the last look he ever gave was 
 for me, and my hand felt the last pressure 
 his ever gave."" 
 
 Lucy's tears flowed fast. She had read 
 many novels, but the fictitious woes of their 
 heroines did not seem to her half so touching 
 as her old nurse's plain story. 
 
 " "Well, Miss Lucy, I buried him there ; 
 he lies by the banks of that great river, and 
 there 's the roaring sea, and miles and miles 
 of dreary land between me and my poor John ; 
 and, what's more, when I die, we shan't lie 
 near each other ; that frets me sadly some- 
 times ; but he told me to come home, and 
 H 5
 
 154 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 so, Miss, I could not do no other. I thought 
 when I turned my back on the log-hut, where 
 we had passed some such happy days toge- 
 ther, and when I passed by the place where 
 he was buried, at the other end of the set- 
 tlement, I thought my heart must have broke ; 
 and, if it had not been for the children, I 
 should have thought it a mercy if it had. 
 
 " There was some people going to Halifax, 
 and I travelled with them. I fancied myself 
 in trouble when I went that road before, 
 but now I thought how happy I was then, 
 for I was going to see my husband's face 
 again. But God is very merciful, he never 
 gives us more than we can bear. I bore it 
 all, and I got to Halifax, and I went to 
 my sister-in-law. She was a kind woman, 
 and she was sorry for me, for she knew what 
 it was to be a widow. I took my passage 
 on board a vessel for England, and I and 
 my two children left America. Though my 
 husband's grave was so far up the country, 
 I felt, when I left the land, as if I was 
 more parted from him than ever. But 'twas 
 on board ship that I learned to be thankful
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 155 
 
 to God for what was left, and not to grieve 
 too much for any of his creatures. My little 
 boy sickened and died, and he was not buried, 
 decently buried in the earth, but my poor 
 child was thrown into the sea. I could not 
 get over that for a long time. It did seem 
 so unnatural like. But I learned then never 
 to think myself so low, but what God might 
 afflict me more, and I learned to be grate- 
 ful for my Betsy. And she has been a bless- 
 ing to me — a kind and a dutiful girl — and 
 one as will never let her old mother come 
 to want, as she gets in years." 
 
 " ^ly poor, dear nurse," exclaimed Lucy, 
 " I can't bear to think I should ever have 
 been a naughty pettish child, and have plagued 
 and worried you when I was little, and you, 
 with all these heavy afflictions on your mind/' 
 
 " Lord bless your sweet heart ! you never 
 plagued me ; and, as for your little vagaries, 
 I believe they made me love you all the 
 better."
 
 156 MILLY AND LUCV. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " 11 faut tres peu de fond pour la politesse dans les manieres : 
 il en faut beaucoup pour celle de I'esprit." 
 
 La Bruyf.re. 
 
 This simple history of such interesting feel- 
 ings made Lucy reflect a good deal. She 
 looked back on her sisters' courtships and 
 weddings, and could not persuade herself they 
 liad 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
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 157 
 
 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 co- 
 quette, 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 penny less Cap- 
 tain ; and Lucy, though extremely anxious 
 to emulate ^lilly, 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 Cap- 
 tain Langley, or to Sir Charles Selcourt; and 
 Xurse 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 nu- 
 merous brothers looked on her as the pet 
 and the beauty of the family, and they all
 
 158 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 reckoned she was to captivate something bril- 
 liant in the way of a parti. There was a float- 
 ing wish in her mind to be heroically devoted, 
 as, through her homely language, she per- 
 ceived Milly Roberts had been, and yet a 
 desire not to disappoint the expectations of 
 father, mother, brothers, sisters, and gover- 
 ness. 
 
 All their acquaintances exclaimed at the 
 good fortune of the Heckfields. 
 
 '' They did not know how Mrs. Heckfield ma- 
 naged 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 bro-
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 159 
 
 ther ; 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 con- 
 sidered as an eligible parti for the very lovely 
 and high-born beauties who alone could at- 
 tract his notice, he had not feared to pay 
 such attentions as generally excited a pre- 
 ference 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 eclat, and no one could accuse him of be- 
 traying, by a word or a look, any conscious- 
 ness 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 pre-
 
 160 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 vent its being the least formal. He had ar- 
 rived 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 for- 
 merly 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 liad 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
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 161 
 
 very pretty, and lacked nothing but what a 
 week's tuition would give, to have un air 
 distingue. Her head was small— it was na- 
 turally well put on. Her figure was slender, 
 lier foot was not large ; and, though her hands 
 were a little red, they were well-shaped. Some 
 almond-paste, the best shoemaker, and IMa- 
 demoiselle 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 pro- 
 ceeded 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 harsh- 
 ness. She felt flattered, without being dis- 
 tressed, for the expression was that of kindly 
 pleasure in seeing a lovely young woman in-
 
 162 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 nocently gay. The gaze expressed that he 
 did think her lovely, though it contained no- 
 thing 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
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 163 
 
 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. Heck- 
 field 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 Bex- 
 leighs were agreeable, but they were so nu- 
 merous, that it would make the party dull to 
 have so many of one family. It is dread- 
 ful if members of the same household get 
 near each other; they cannot seize that mo- 
 ment 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."
 
 164 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 " 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, thir- 
 teen to the dozen, but who, she not unwisely 
 thought, would be a very bad ingredient in 
 this refined party ; " Surely Sir James Ash- 
 grove, the member for the county, would be a
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 165 
 
 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 ^vhich way every member voted, 
 and the reasons of his vote into the bargain."" 
 
 " But \.j 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. Mliat ! that old proser, 
 who makes a conmia between every word, and 
 a full stop nowhere ! and those two INIisses, 
 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 to- 
 gether, and Lucy never appears to advantage 
 when Bell Stopford is with her."
 
 166 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 " 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," an- 
 swered 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 By- 
 way, the great traveller, and Miss Penne- 
 feather, 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.''
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 167 
 
 " Well, if Lord and Lady Bodlington can- 
 not 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 
 showdng 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, wath 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 Heck- 
 field, on the secession of the loquacious tra- 
 veller, made another attempt to insert. 
 
 The eventful day arrived. Mrs. Heckfield,
 
 168 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 ex- 
 clude any unworthy guests, that the party 
 might prove dull, or not hien 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 liouse 
 was bieti montee ; 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, de- 
 pended 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. Heck- 
 field would not commit the vulgarity of speak- 
 ing loud, every word they addressed to each
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 169 
 
 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. ^Ir. 
 Lyon was an empty dandy, and he was un- 
 fortunately seated next to ^liss Pennefeather, 
 whom he regarded with horror, fear, detes- 
 tation, and contempt, as a blue — and, worse 
 than all, a country blue ! Miss Pennefeather, 
 in a yellow toque and red gowm, sate up, wait- 
 ing 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, com- 
 municated a gaie 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 unmi- 
 tigated bore to her company, if Lord ]Mon- 
 treville'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 in- 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 formation 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 Par- 
 liament, 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 be- 
 came eloquent to prove that, whatever its 
 name, it was of the most approved sort — in 
 Paris at least — whatever it might be in Rus- 
 sia. 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 beau- 
 tiful 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 lis- 
 tened to each, so as to make each person —
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 171 
 
 each iady at least, believe herself an object 
 of interest and attention to him. 
 
 Mrs. Heckfield felt quite at her ease con- 
 cerning 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 univer- 
 sal clatter, had grown so merry with her bro- 
 ther and Lord Slenderdale, that Mrs. Heck- 
 field 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 level- 
 led 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 
 I 2
 
 172 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 was neither freedom nor coquetry in her mer- 
 riment ; 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 witl^ 
 her."
 
 MILLY AND LUCY 173 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 11 u'est pas bien honnete, et pour beaucoup de causes, 
 
 Qu'une femme etudie et sache taat de choses. 
 
 Foniier aux bonnes moeurs I'esprit de ses enfans, 
 
 Faire aller son menage, avoir I'oeil sur ses gens, 
 
 Et regler la depense avec economic, 
 
 Doit etre son etude et sa philosophie. 
 
 Xos peres sur ce point etaient gens bien senses. 
 
 Qui disaient qu'une femme en sait toujours assez 
 
 Quand la capacite de son esprit se hausse 
 
 a" connaitre un pourpoint d'avec un haut de chausse. 
 
 Les leurs ne lisaient point, mais elles vivaient bien, 
 
 Leurs menages etaient tout leur docte entretien ; 
 
 Et leurs livres, un de, du fil, et des aiguilles, 
 
 Dont elles travaillaient au trousseau de leurs filles. 
 
 Les femnies d'a present sont bien loin de ces moeurs, 
 
 Elles veulent ecrire, et devenir auteurs. Moliere. 
 
 There is no moment more trying to the 
 mistress of a house than that in which the 
 ladies first gather round the fire when they 
 leave the dining-room. If a silence ensues,
 
 174 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 or if the conversation is begun in too low 
 a tone of voice, that voiceless utterance which 
 denotes and produces shyness, the die is cast — 
 the character of the evening is stamped ! 
 
 Unfortunately Mrs. Heckfield, in her anx- 
 iety to be attentive, just as the ladies were 
 crowding round the fire, asked them if they 
 would not " take a seat,"" and was sufficiently 
 wanting in tact to allow them to settle them- 
 selves, in something very nearly approaching 
 a circle, and a circle some way removed from 
 the fire. 
 
 In vain were the sofas stuffed with cushions, 
 in vain were the ottomans as low as possible, 
 and the arm-chairs so deep that no one under 
 seven feet high could reach the back of them ; 
 in vain were all the tables so orthodoxly co- 
 vered with snuff-boxes under glass-cases, 
 miniatures in beautiful frames, French sou- 
 venirs with liliputian artificial flowers, an- 
 nuals in every variety of binding — prose al- 
 bums — poetry albums — drawing albums — china 
 cups, and Sevres vases — Dresden ink-stands, 
 and mother-of-pearl letter-pressers, till it was 
 impossible to find a spot on which a cup could
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 175 
 
 be safely deposited ; all these appliances and 
 means to boot will not produce ease if it is 
 wanting in the mind of the hostess. From 
 which, by the by, might be deduced the su- 
 periority of mind over matter. 
 
 Mrs. Haughtville was a fine lady, and was 
 anxious Lady Bodlington should not labour 
 under the erroneous impression that she was 
 in her element with Miss Pennefeather and the 
 Heckfields. She, therefore, took an early oppor- 
 tunity of asking Lady Bodlington how many 
 Miss Heckfields there were, and whether this 
 Miss Heckfield was older or younger than 
 Lady Selcourt. Lady Bodlington answered 
 truly and simply, that she did not know, as 
 she had only met them once before at the 
 ball. Mrs. Haughtville did not hear, and 
 Lady Bodlington, who was straightforward 
 and good-humoured, and did not wish to be 
 uncivil, w^as quite distressed to know how to 
 answer. Mrs. Haughtville continued to ask 
 questions about the people present, forgetting 
 that though she asked in a whisper, she could 
 not hear the whispered answer. 
 
 Mrs. Heckfield, who thought if Miss Pen-
 
 176 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 nefeather would talk, every one must be de- 
 lighted with her cleverness, was occupied in 
 leading her to subjects on which she fancied 
 she would shine and edify her audience; but 
 Miss Pennefeather, who had found the dandy 
 very unsatisfactory, and was not much pleased 
 with the insouciance of the ladies of fashion, 
 and who thought herself privileged to have 
 tlie sensitive pride of genius, was not so easily 
 drawn out. Lucy, who had been daunted by 
 her mother's remark as they left the dining- 
 room, was meek and silent. 
 
 It was up-hill work for "Sirs. Heckfield. 
 At length she thought of some Italian views, 
 which had lately been sent to her by her 
 eldest son, who was on his travels. 
 
 " Have you seen these prints. Miss Penne- 
 feather, that Henry has sent me ? They are 
 quite in your way, such an Italian scholar as 
 you are !" 
 
 Miss Pennefeather revived ; sh e piqued her- 
 self on her pronunciation of Italian. She 
 looked at them with interest, read the names 
 of each with great emphasis, scrupulously call- 
 ed Leghorn, Livorno, and Florence, Firenze ;
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 177 
 
 and expatiated on the beauties of each place, 
 as if she had lived there all her life. 
 
 " I thought you had never been abroad, 
 Miss Pennefeather ?" said Lucy timidly and 
 simply. 
 
 " No ! I have never been abroad, exactly,"' 
 replied Miss Pennefeather, with a slight em- 
 barrassment, but, instantly recovering, she 
 added with enthusiasm, " but I have heard 
 and read so much of these hallowed spots, I 
 feel as if I knew them perfectly ; as if I had 
 roved with II Petrarca, through the shady 
 groves and by the purling streams of Yal- 
 chiusa ; as if I had accompanied the great 
 author of the Divina Commedia in his wan- 
 derings ; and I can almost fancy I had made 
 one of that party of congenial souls in tlie 
 enchanted skiiF with Guido and Lappo, 
 
 E Monna Vanna, e ^lonna Bice poi, 
 E quella sotto '1 numer delle trenta ! 
 
 I never see a print of La bella Firenze, without 
 thinking of her exiled poet, and," she added 
 witli a sigh, and an upward glance, which 
 was intended to speak volumes, " feeling with 
 him — 
 
 I 5
 
 178 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 Come sa di sale 
 Lo pan altrui, com'e duro calle, 
 Lo scender, e'l salir per I'altrui scale." 
 
 Miss Pennefeather was poor, and her friends 
 were extremely kind in frequently inviting 
 her to stay at their houses, where she appeared 
 to enjoy herself exceedingly, and gave no signs 
 of sympathising with Dante. 
 
 '' What did she say ?" asked Mrs. Haught- 
 ville. 
 
 " Something about salt bread, and its being 
 very hard to go up and down-stairs," answered 
 the good-humoured Lady Bodlington. 
 
 " Oh !" said Mrs. Haughtville. 
 
 Miss Pennefeather cast a glance of contempt 
 at the high-born pair, and relapsed into a 
 dignified silence. Coffee came : that was a 
 real blessing. Tea succeeded, which was some 
 comfort. Mrs. Heckfield's eyes turned fre- 
 quently and more frequently towards the door; 
 still the gentlemen came not. In her despair 
 she bade Lucy give them a little music. 
 
 " You are fond of music, I believe. Lady 
 Bodlington. ■"' 
 
 " Oh, yes ! passionately fond of music !"
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 179 
 
 answered Lady Bodlington, with a suppressed 
 yawn, and poor Lucy seated herself at the 
 piano-forte. 
 
 She had a pretty voice, but she was very 
 much frightened. Miss Pennefeather was a 
 critic, and Mrs. Haughtville looked so cold. 
 Lady Bodlington she did not mind — she seem- 
 ed good-natured, and the circumstance of her 
 being a Viscountess, had not the same effect 
 on Lucy's nerves as on her mother's. 
 
 She did her best, and Lady Bodlington, 
 with a sweet smile, thanked her for that pretty 
 Spanish air. 
 
 " It is German !" said Lucy with the nai- 
 vete of youth ; and both felt uncomfortable. 
 Lady Bodlington, at having made a wrong 
 hit, Lucy, at not having pronounced her 
 words more distinctly. Lady Bodlington 
 should have known better than to utter any 
 phrase of commendation which committed her, 
 as to the language in which a young lady's 
 song is couched. Lucy should have known 
 better than to set her right, when she had 
 made the mistake. 
 
 " If Miss Pennefeather would favour us !"
 
 180 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 humbly suggested Mrs. Heckfield : " One of 
 your own unique compositions, my dear Miss 
 Pennefeather. Miss Pennefeather composes 
 words, and music, and all, Mrs. Haughtville, 
 and they are the sweetest things !"' 
 
 This account of Miss Pennefeather's multi- 
 farious talents excited a slight emotion of cu- 
 riosity in Mrs. Haughtville's mind, and she 
 accordingly begged ^liss Pennefeather to grant 
 their request. Lady Bodlington was very 
 anxious indeed ; and the poetess, whose pride, 
 though easily wounded, was, through the 
 medium of her vanity, as easily soothed, found 
 the two fine ladies were more intellectual, 
 and consequently more worthy of the ef- 
 forts of her genius, than she had at first 
 imagined. 
 
 After a little bashful reluctance, she seated 
 lierself upon the round stool. She was short 
 and thick, with a very small waist and a very 
 full gown, and she sat extremely stiff and 
 upright. Her arms were short, and when she 
 meant to play staccato, she caught up her 
 hands as high as her shoulders, and then she 
 pounced down again on the affrighted notes
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 181 
 
 as a kite upon a brood of chickens. The 
 " sweet thing" she selected for the occasion 
 was in a German style. A love-lorn damsel 
 who sold herself to the spirit of darkness, that 
 she might rejoin her murdered lover's ghost 
 in another, but not a better, world. Miss 
 Pennefeather's nose was small, and somewhat 
 retrousse ; her eyes were large, black, and 
 round, (they were her beauty,) her mouth 
 would not have been ugly, but that it 
 was difficult to decide where her chin ended 
 and her throat began, so that, during the 
 vehement and energetic passages which the 
 nature of the subject called forth, when the 
 head was thrown back, and the black eyes 
 were darting their beams towards the ceiling, 
 the double chin protruded rather beyond the 
 natural and original one. 
 
 The gentlemen entei*ed just as the maiden 
 was torn away to the realms below by the 
 infernal crew, and, having repented her of 
 her unlioly compact, was invoking beings of 
 the upper air to her rescue. The poor piano- 
 forte reeled under the astounding accompa- 
 niment, in its lowest bass to the deep-toned
 
 18^ MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 exultation of the demons, and to the shrieks 
 of the maiden in its highest treble; the Sap- 
 pho's cheeks were suffused with the excite- 
 ment of the moment, the feathers in her yel- 
 low toque were waving as rapidly as the plume 
 of a hero in the thickest of the fight. The 
 sight, the sounds, were awful ! 
 
 The dandy reached the door — he saw — he 
 heard — and he fled. He retreated to the hall, 
 and hastily seizing a hat, (which, by the by, 
 happened to be Lord Montreville's instead of 
 his own,) and throwing around him his mi- 
 litary cloak, he boldly sallied forth in a driz- 
 zling wet night to walk two miles to his lodg- 
 ings. 
 
 " He 'd brave the raging of the skies, 
 But not" — Miss Pennefeather. 
 
 The other gentlemen were less easily inti- 
 midated, and made good their entrance. Lord 
 Montreville seated himself by the side of Lucy, 
 and, without speaking enough to be uncivil 
 towards the performer, he contrived to make 
 Lucy perfectly understand that he preferred 
 her conversation, to Miss Pennefeather's sing- 
 ing, although he was passionately fond of
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 183 
 
 music, and should like of all things to hear 
 her sing. 
 
 When the performance was concluded, he 
 assured the Corinne of the evening that her 
 composition was one which could be heard with 
 indifference by no one. Miss Pennefeather 
 was charmed, and asked if his Lordship was 
 an admirer of the new style of English music, 
 which had been introduced since the Captive 
 Knight and the Treasures of the Deep, had 
 made such a sensation. 
 
 " Of course you know the Treasures of the 
 Deep ? They tell me I have caught something 
 of the inspired authoress's expression."" Lord 
 Montreville really trembled. He had heard 
 it sung by the inspired authoress, and he 
 hastened to avert the sacrilegious attempt, by 
 begging for another of her own composition. 
 
 Charmed and flattered, Miss Pennefeather 
 again burst forth in a perfectly original piece, 
 under cover of which Lord Montreville en- 
 tered into a most agreeable conversation with 
 Lucy. His dark, lively, expressive eyes, look- 
 ed at her with so much consciousness of being 
 understood, that she immediately felt quite
 
 184 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 intimate, and perfectly satisfied that he was 
 as much amused as she was, by Miss Penne- 
 feather's exhibition. These looks of mutual 
 intelligence and amusement prevented her feel- 
 ing any awe of his age or his rank, while his 
 very age made her feel perfectly safe and in- 
 nocent in immediately giving in to the intimacy 
 which so suddenly sprang up between them. 
 Their communication did not confine itself 
 to a little good-humoured ridicule of the self- 
 constituted Corinne ; he had the happy knack 
 of leading the conversation to topics interest- 
 ing to the individuals with whom he conversed ; 
 and Mrs. Heckfield overheard Lucy, in the 
 fulness of her heart, giving a detailed account 
 of the death of a Newfoundland puppy, which 
 was supposed to have been bit by a mad 
 dog! 
 
 Mrs. Heckfield was in agonies : she looked 
 unutterable things ; but her looks were ut- 
 terly thrown away. Lucy''s heart and soul 
 were in her subject, and her eyes were suffi- 
 ciently tearful to look very bright and melt- 
 ing. Lord Montreville thought this extreme- 
 ly countrified simplicity, charming, though
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 185 
 
 he did not intend it should last for ever. 
 He was himself a professed lover of animals, 
 and he gave her, in return, an account of a 
 horse who neighed when he came into the 
 stable, and would put his nose into his pocket 
 to find the bread he was in the habit of feedins: 
 him with. 
 
 Lucy thought him the nicest, best-natured 
 creature she had ever met with ; and iNlrs. 
 Heckfield saw her, in the midst of his story, 
 draw lier chair nearer to him, her whole mind 
 intent upon the sensible horse. 2\lrs. Heck- 
 field thought, " How improper ! how forward ! 
 how vulgar ! What can ail Lucy to-night .''" 
 
 When the company dispersed, what was 
 her horror to see Lucy put out her hand 
 towards Lord ^lontreville, and shake hands 
 with him cordially, heartily, and frankly ; but 
 her horror was mixed with astonishment, when 
 Lord Montreville begged permission to call 
 the next morning, as Miss Heckfield had pro- 
 mised to show him some beautiful puppies, 
 and to allow him to select one, as he was 
 a o^reat do<T-fancier. 
 
 " What can be the meaning of this .^"
 
 186 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 thought she, " he must be disgusted with 
 Lucy's manners to-day ! They could not have 
 been worse if Bell Stopford had been here !'' 
 
 When the last carriage had driven from the 
 door, Mrs. Heckfield threw herself into a 
 chair. 
 
 " Well, Lucy ! I think you have done it 
 to-day I When you knew I wished you to 
 behave like a girl of fashion. When we had 
 all the best company within ten miles round 
 assembled here, just this one day, to giggle 
 and laugh all dinner-time, and then to en- 
 tertain a man of Lord Montreville's refine- 
 ment and taste with your dog"'s death, and 
 your puppies' birth ! He must think you 
 have been brought up in the stables, rather 
 than in the drawing-room." 
 
 '' Oh, dear mamma ! I assure you he asked 
 me all about poor dear Hector's death !" 
 
 " Asked you about Hector'*s death ! How 
 could he have known such a dog as Hector ever 
 existed, if you had not begun about your own 
 dog and your own affairs ? Don't you know 
 that egotism should be avoided in every way,
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 187 
 
 and that it is the most ill-bred thing in the 
 world to talk of yourself and your concerns ?" 
 
 " So it is, mamma ; — very true. I did not 
 mean to talk of myself, and I am sure I do 
 not know how I fell into it : but you don't 
 know how interested he seemed. I do not think 
 he was bored, really : he says he is so fond of 
 animals — ^just like me." 
 
 ''Pooh, child!— he is a very well-bred 
 man, and was too polite to let you feel you 
 bored him. You must learn not to be led 
 into pouring your own histories into people's 
 ears." 
 
 Mrs. Heckfield forgot that at dinner she had 
 given Lord Montreville a very long account 
 of the manner in which she had become pos- 
 sessed of the china he had admired.
 
 188 MILLY AND LUCY 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Enfin lis me mettaient a mon aise : et moi qui m'imaginais 
 qu'il y avait tant de mystere dans la polltesse des gens du 
 monde, et qui I'avais regarde comme une science qui m'etait 
 totalement inconnue, et dont je n'avais nul principe, j'etais bien 
 surprise de voir qu'il n'y avait rien de si particulier dans la leur, 
 rien qui me fiit si etranger ; mais seulement quelque chose de 
 liant, d'obligeant, et d'aimable. 
 
 Marivaux. 
 
 Llcy went to bed uneasy at having had 
 such bad manners, and yet not altogether mor- 
 tified ; for, though she implicitly believed all 
 her mother said of her behaviour, she did 
 not think it had quite produced the effect she 
 imagined upon Lord Montreville, " for mam- 
 ma did not know how good-natured he was." 
 
 She generally chatted with Milly, as she 
 was undressing ; and Milly, who was aware 
 that the party of that day was one which had 
 excited some anxiety in her mistress's bosom.
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 189 
 
 inquired of Miss Lucy " how the gentlefolks 
 had been pleased, and whether everything was 
 right at table." 
 
 " We were all pretty well placed, I be- 
 lieve ; only mamma says I am not to sit so 
 near Charles again, for, if we get near each 
 other, we make too much noise ; and Mr. 
 Lyon did not like Miss Pennefeather at all."' 
 
 " I am sorry for that, Miss ; but I meant 
 how^ the cross-corners did, for poor Mrs. Fus- 
 sicome was in such a way ! The jelly would 
 not stand, and it looked so shocking bad when 
 it was in the dish, that what did we do but 
 beat up some raspberry-cream in no time, and 
 sent it in instead ; but, then, it made two reds 
 at the cross-corners ; but I should hope no- 
 body noticed it.'" 
 
 " I am sure I did not, nurse, and I don"'t 
 think mamma did ; at least, she said nothing 
 about it. Everything looked very nice, tell 
 Mrs. Fussicome." 
 
 *' Yes, Miss, that I will, for she has been 
 
 quite put out about it ; she said she could not 
 
 enjoy her supper a bit, and she thought the 
 
 soufflet was not quite right.'"' 
 
 " Mamma did not say anything about it :
 
 190 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 indeed, she saw no faults in the dinner — they 
 were all in me. How I do wish I had not such 
 spirits. — I mean to be so quiet and demure, 
 and as soon as the people begin to talk to me, 
 I forget. I do really believe Lord Montre- 
 ville is very good-natured, and will not think 
 the worse of me." 
 
 '' La ! Miss, I 'm sure your mamma can't 
 think there is any harm in talking and laugh- 
 ing with such an old gentleman.^' 
 
 " He is not so very old, Milly," answered 
 Lucy, though, if Milly had not said so, she 
 might have been the first to say it herself. 
 
 About one o'clock the next morning. Lord 
 Montreville arrived at Rose Hill Lodge, and 
 was surprised to find Lucy shy, reserved, 
 timid and rather awkward. Mrs. Heckfield, 
 anxious to efface from Lord Montreville's 
 mind all impressions concerning the kennel, 
 and the stables, and the dog-hutches, led his 
 attention to the flower-garden, which was re- 
 markably pretty, and to her small conserva- 
 tory, which was in excellent order ; at the 
 same time taking care to let him know that 
 the disposition of the flower-beds was accord-
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 191 
 
 ing to Lucy's taste — that Lucy had arranged 
 the vases in the manner which excited his ad- 
 miration — that the training of the creepers in 
 festoons from one tree to another, was Lucy's 
 fancy. She pointed out a beautiful new ge- 
 ranium which had been named after her little 
 '^ madcap Lucy ; for madcap as she is. Lord 
 Montreville, she has a decided taste for bo- 
 tany and that kind of thing," added Mrs. 
 Heckfield, with a sweet smile at Lucy, who 
 certainly that morning had not deserved the 
 name of " madcap." 
 
 Lord ^lontreville immediately understood 
 the state of the case, and was well pleased : he 
 thereby perceived that Lucy was docile, easily 
 subdued, and easily managed. However, as 
 his present object was to win her confidence, 
 preparatory to attempting her heart, he al- 
 luded to INliss Heckfield's promise of a puppy 
 of their beautiful breed of setters, and he 
 begged to be taken to the kennel, as he was 
 to be allowed to choose for himself. ^Irs. 
 Heckfield intreated Lord Montreville would 
 allow her to send for the dogs — Lord Montre- 
 ville insisted on not giving so much trouble;
 
 192 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 when the servant was seen issuing from the 
 drawing-room windows, showing the way to 
 Lord and Lady Bodlington, who had called to 
 see the conservatory. Mrs. Heckfield had a 
 fresh demand on her politeness ; and, after 
 the proper greetings, Lord Montreville whis- 
 pered Lucy that she must not allow him to 
 be cheated of his puppy— that he had quite 
 set his heart upon seeing the whole family, and 
 intreated her to lead the way. She was at 
 first somewhat confused, and looked uneasily 
 towards her mother, who was some way in 
 advance ; but she did not know how to re- 
 fuse : so they proceeded through the back- 
 yard, by the coaUhole, and the bottle-rack 
 — through the drying-ground — past the pig- 
 sties, to a range of out-houses, where Lufra 
 and all her family were shut up. 
 
 The moment Lucy opened the door, up 
 jumped Lufra, to the great detriment of the 
 pretty muslin gown which that day made 
 its first appearance. 
 
 " Oh, my best new goAvn !'" exclaimed 
 Lucy, " Oh dear I Why would mamma 
 make me put it on ?'^
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 193 
 
 She had scarcely uttered the words, Avhen it 
 flashed across her why mamma had wished her 
 to be smart and to look well — she stopped 
 short, and blushed up to the eyes. 
 
 " This is too naif,'" thought Lord Montre- 
 ville ; " but na'ivett soon dies away if it is not 
 encouraged. Her mother wishes to catch me, 
 I know ; but the girl has no plan : I shall be 
 able to mould her to my liking.*' 
 
 A young man would have flown off upon 
 perceiving the mother's views ; but Lord Mon- 
 treville had seen them plainly from the very 
 l^eginning, and it did not aflect his opinion 
 as to whether Lucy etait aon fait, or not. 
 Because Mrs. Heckfield wished to catch him, 
 there was no reason he should be caught ; and 
 he continued his observations of Lucy, and 
 his calculations whether she would easily be- 
 come the sort of wife he wished to have. 
 
 After a long: discussion concernino^ the seve- 
 ral merits and beauties of the several puppies, 
 in which Lucy found Lord Montreville's taste 
 in dogs perfectly coincided with her own, the 
 puppy was selected, and Lucy's heart had 
 again opened, her reserve had vanished, she 
 
 VOL. \. K
 
 194 MILLY AND LUCV. 
 
 had made up her mind that, for once, mamma 
 was wrong and she was right ; that her's had 
 been the most correct estimate of Lord Montre- 
 ville's character. She asked him if he admired 
 young donkeys. He confessed, that if he had 
 a weakness, it was for a little baby donkey, 
 with a shaggy forehead, and a pointed nose. 
 Lucy'*s eyes sparkled at such a proof of sym- 
 pathy in her companion. She proposed to 
 show him her pet. He eagerly assented, and 
 they proceeded through the chicken-yard to 
 the paddock where the donkeys were grazing. 
 The chickens expected to be fed, and all ga- 
 thered round Lucy"'s feet ; the donkeys instantly 
 set up a most sonorous braying, and galloped 
 to her with their uplifted heads. Lucy was 
 amused and began to laugh, and to pat, and 
 stroke, and pinch the dear sensible creatures, 
 when a turn in the shrubbery walk brought 
 Mrs. Heckfield, Lord and Lady Bodlington, 
 and Mr. Lyon to the opposite side of the pad- 
 dock, which commanded a view of Lucy and 
 Lord Montreville. Lucy felt her cheeks glow, 
 and her mirth subside. Her mother, who 
 could not but know throuojh what io^noble
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 195 
 
 paths she must have led Lord Montreville, 
 would be more displeased than ever. She was 
 sobered in an instant. Lord Montreville per- 
 ceived the blush, and the change in her coun- 
 tenance, and flattered himself there was some- 
 thing gratifying to himself in her emotions. 
 They retraced their steps, but Lucy was silent 
 and abashed, and looked heartily ashamed of 
 herself when they rejoined the party. 
 
 Lord Montreville immediately addressed 
 Mrs. Heckfield ; informed her that " Miss 
 Heckfield, at his earnest request, had allowed 
 him to inspect the puppies, and to select the 
 one he fancied ; and that he had a childish 
 passion for young donkeys, which she had also 
 most kindly indulged."' 
 
 jNIrs. Heckfield saw that no harm was done, 
 and she was soothed. Lucy thought him more 
 good-natured than ever in thus averting the 
 storm she saw impending, and gratitude was 
 added to cement the union of their congenial 
 souls. 
 
 He now became a frequent visitor at Rose- 
 hill Lodge, and his manner gradually assumed 
 more the tone of gallantry. Reports arose. 
 K 2
 
 196 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 Lucy was rallied by her young friends, and 
 began to look into her feelings. 
 
 She had seen his beautiful equipage, his four 
 blood bays ; she had seen engravings of his mag- 
 nificent seat in Staffordshire, of his lovely villa 
 near London, of his ancient castle in Wales. 
 She was proof against the splendour of Ashdale 
 Park, and the elegances of Beausejour, but 
 the castle had a decided effect upon her heart. 
 The walls were nine feet thick ; there was a 
 donjon keep, at the top of a tower nine hun- 
 dred and forty-one years old ; and Lord Mon- 
 treville's teeth were extremely good — almost as 
 good as Captain Langley^s. From the vaults 
 under the Ca'erwhwyddwth Castle subterra- 
 neous passages, to the end of which no one 
 within the memory of man had penetrated, 
 were supposed to extend to the ruined monas- 
 tery of Caermerwhysteddwhstgen ; and then 
 Lord Montreville was quite thin — not the 
 least inclined to corpulency. He was older 
 than Sir Charles Selcourt, but he was much 
 more agreeable, — he was certainly a great deal 
 older than Captain Langley, but then Captain 
 Langley was not the least clever. All their
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 197 
 
 tastes agreed exactly. He was enthusiastic 
 upon the self-same subjects,— puppies, donkeys, 
 goslings, and Lord Byron. 
 
 Her mind was in a wavering state, when the 
 following conversation took place between her- 
 self and Milly. 
 
 " This is poor Miss Lizzy's birth-day, Miss, 
 and we have all been drinking her health and 
 happiness to-night at supper. She is twenty- 
 two this very day."" 
 
 " And I shall be nineteen next birthday, 
 Milly. We are all growing very old. It is 
 almost .time I should be married. How old 
 were you when you married .'^'" 
 
 " Nineteen, Miss Lucy." 
 
 " Just about my age. And how old was 
 John ?" 
 
 " In his twenty-one. Miss." 
 
 " Dear ! I don't think that was difference 
 enough. A man ought to be a good deal older 
 than his wife, that he may advise her, and 
 guide her, and all that, as mamma says, when 
 she is out of sight of her mother." 
 
 " I can't say, Miss. The Bible says, ' I 
 will make an help meet for him ;' so I sup-
 
 198 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 pose the woman is to help the man, as well as 
 the man to help the woman ; and if they are to 
 help one another, why I reckon they should be 
 something of an age." 
 
 " Perhaps that may be best, nurse, where 
 they both have to work, and where the man 
 should be young and strong to labour for his 
 family; but in another line, nurse, — among 
 richer people, you know, — where there is no 
 occasion to be strong and to work hard, it is 
 such a thing for a giddy young girl to have a 
 steady sensible man, who can tell her all she 
 ought to do — a man much cleverer than herself, 
 a person she can quite look up to/' 
 
 " Maybe it is. Miss." 
 
 " And then, as mamma says, a married 
 woman, if she is not quite ugly, is liable, you 
 know, to have men — young men — talk to 
 her, — talk to her a good deal, — more than they 
 should; and then it is such a thing to have 
 a husband who can tell her exactly whom she 
 should talk to, and whom she should not talk 
 to." 
 
 '' But sure. Miss, I should think every 
 woman, married or single, might know when
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 199 
 
 a gentleman said any thing as was not be- 
 coming for her to listen to." 
 
 " Yes, certainly; but mamma says that in 
 the great world a young woman might get 
 herself talked about just for talking all about 
 nothing at all, to one of those fashionable dan- 
 dies, and that if she has a husband who knows 
 the world well, he will tell her just how far 
 she may listen to such people."" 
 
 " Well, my dear Miss Lucy, we poor folks 
 don't understand about talking, and being 
 talked about, and listening, and not listening. 
 For my part, for as long as I have lived in 
 this wicked world — and a wicked world it is in 
 some ways — I never knew a young woman as 
 was married to a young man as was the man 
 of her heart, as ever lost her good name for 
 all she might be affable and pleasant like with 
 her neighbours. But the gentlefolks knows 
 best, to be sure."* 
 
 Milly was unsatisfactory : she saw what was 
 going on in the family, and she could not like 
 it : it was no business of her's, and she would 
 never think of stepping out of her place. 
 Lucy was uncomfortable. She loved Milly,
 
 200 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 and, moreover, she had settled in her own 
 mind to love like Milly. She longed to know 
 what she thought of Lord Montreville, and at 
 length she plunged into the subject. 
 
 " Don't you think Lord Montreville is a 
 very pleasing-looking man, Milly ?" 
 
 " Yes, Miss ; he looks very well for his 
 years." 
 
 " He is so clever you can't think."' 
 
 " Is he, Miss r 
 
 " And so very good-natured !" 
 
 " That is a good thing for all his servants, 
 I am sure. Miss." 
 
 " And for every one else who is connected 
 with him." 
 
 " Yes, certainly, Miss." 
 
 " He is the most agreeable person, and 
 loves all sorts of animals, and seems to like to 
 have every thing about him happy." 
 
 " Sure, Miss." 
 
 " Do you know, Milly, I should not be very 
 much surprised if you might some day have an 
 opportunity of trying whether he made those 
 around him happy or not." 
 
 " Indeed, Miss !"
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 201 
 
 " Mamma says she is convinced he likes me 
 very much ;" and she added, in a coaxing 
 manner, " now what shall we do, you and I, 
 Milly ?^' 
 
 " I am sure, Miss, it is just as you please." 
 " Yes, I know that well enough,''' answered 
 Lucy, with a shade of pettishness in her tone ; 
 " I can say no as well as anybody; if I please, 
 and mamma says she would not influence my 
 choice for the world ; but it certainly is very 
 true what mamma says, that I am so giddy 
 I should always be getting into scrapes if I was 
 to marry anybody as young and as giddy as 
 myself. It was only yesterday she was talking 
 about it, after Lord Montreville had brought me 
 that beautiful bouquet of orange-flowers ; and 
 she asked me whether I had any objection in 
 the world to him, and whether I did not think 
 him clever, and agreeable, and good-natured, 
 and whether there was any body else I thought 
 more clever, or more agreeable, or more good- 
 natured, and I am sure I can't think of any- 
 body just now. Lord Slenderdale and Mr. Des- 
 mond are handsomer, to be sure ; but mamma 
 would be shocked to hear me talk about beauty 
 K 5
 
 202 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 in that kind of way. It does not sound well 
 in a girl, you know."" Then, after a pause, she 
 added. '' Did you think John handsome ?'* 
 
 " I believe other folks called him a fine 
 young man, but I am sure I never thought no- 
 thing at all about his looks." 
 
 " Oh !" thought Lucy, " mamma is quite 
 right ; girls should not set any value on the 
 exterior — one should only think of the mind. 
 Besides, Lord Montreville is still very good- 
 looking." Presently she continued, " Did you 
 think John very clever, Milly .?" 
 
 " La ! Miss, I don't know, I 'm sure. The 
 schoolmaster never said no other than that he 
 was a very good boy at his book, but I never 
 thought about his scholarship. That was no 
 business of mine." 
 
 " Was John agreeable, and pleasant, amus- 
 ing, you know, to talk to." 
 
 " He was always pleasant to me, I'm sure ; he 
 never gave me a bad word, nor an unkind look 
 in his life, and he was always very agreeable 
 to any thing I wished ; and, as to being amus- 
 ing, why we always had other things to think
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 203 
 
 of, than amusing ourselves, so I can't justly 
 say/' 
 
 " Oh,"" thought Lucy, " he was a good 
 creature, but evidently very stupid and dull ; 
 and Lord Montreville is so lively and agree- 
 able !" 
 
 The result of this conversation was, that 
 Lucy went to bed, pleased with Lord Mon 
 treville, and not quite pleased with Milly 
 She went to sleep and dreamed she was the 
 Marchioness of Montreville, chaperoning her 
 sister Emma to Almack's. People cannot pre- 
 A'ent their dreams. " In vino Veritas." Like- 
 wise, in dreams, there is truth. Many a weak- 
 ness, many a secret preference, which the 
 waking thoughts would not be guilty of har- 
 bouring, have been revealed to the dreamer in 
 visions over which he, or she, had no control. 
 The emulator of Milly's pure, disinterested, un- 
 compromising, uncalculating affection, would 
 never wittingly have allowed the idea of worldly 
 vanities and splendours to have influenced her 
 mind ; but I fear we should lower our heroine 
 too much in the opinion of the young and ro-
 
 204 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 mantic reader, were we to inquire too deeply 
 into the degree in which they did influence her 
 view of the subject. 
 
 The next morning she jokingly repeated her 
 dream to Emma. 
 
 " Oh, Lucy !" exclaimed Emma, " what a 
 charming dream ! And you know mamma 
 says, if you marry, I may come out at seven- 
 teen, and, if you donH, I must stay in this 
 poky school-room till I am eighteen. You 
 never can refuse Lord Montreville."
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 205 
 
 CHAPTER Vr. 
 
 A' Ta^ bu j'etais on n'a pas le courage de r^sister a tout le 
 monde, je cms ce qu'on me disait tant par docilite que par per- 
 suasion ; je me laissai entrainer, je fis ce qu'on me disait, j'etais 
 dans une Amotion qui avait arrete toutes mes pens^es ; les autres 
 deciderent de mon sort, et je ne fus moi-meme qu'une specta- 
 trice stupide de I'engagement eternel que je pris. 
 
 I\[arivaux. 
 
 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, ^yhat was her surprise when at seven 
 o'clock, instead of Lord Montreville, a note 
 arrived, apologizing for his absence, on the 
 plea that he had been summoned away upon 
 business. Lucy thought lovers were to be de- 
 voted things, who were to have no business 
 but that of gaining their lady's favour.
 
 206 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 There was a party that day, and she saw 
 people looked surprised at hearing Lord Mon- 
 treville 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 disappoint- 
 ment. 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
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 207 
 
 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 consider- 
 able 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 flirta-
 
 208 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 tions 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 when- 
 ever 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
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 209 
 
 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 unac- 
 countably long. At length, however, luncheon 
 was announced, and the note delivered, with 
 the information that Lord Montreville's ser- 
 vant 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-cor- 
 nered ! 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, bid- 
 ding her look for the book. She read the mo-
 
 210 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 mentous 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 feel- 
 ing herself a slighted damsel. 
 
 Lord Montreville's absence had been caused 
 by business connected with the intentions he en- 
 tertained 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 call- 
 ed 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 ten- 
 derest interest; and Lucy, when she felt her
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 211 
 
 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 Lyne- 
 ton — 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 cor- 
 responding pleasure ; if he could suppose so, 
 he should indeed esteem himself fortunate. 
 
 "It is coming," thought Lucy ; and she
 
 212 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 ex- 
 planation. 
 
 " Oh, yes," she answered, " mamma is al- 
 ways 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 mo- 
 ment, Miss Heckfield ?'' asked Lord Montre- 
 ville, 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 hor- 
 ridly stupid to the ears of all but the parties 
 concerned ; and in what precise terms Lord
 
 xMILLY AND LUCY. 213 
 
 Montreville couched the offer of his hand, 
 heart, fortune, and titles, has remained, and 
 will ever remain, unknown. A terrified " Oh 
 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 catch- 
 ing a glimpse of her countenance. Even Lord 
 INIontreville 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 
 Heck field 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. Heck- 
 field's, and feeling comparatively easy and
 
 214 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 some- 
 what rounded form of the matron should com- 
 pletely eclipse the slender form of the girl. 
 
 Lord Montreville explained himself in be- 
 coming and graceful terms; and Mrs. Heck- 
 field, in a rapture of scarcely concealed joy, 
 declared with what pleasure she should com- 
 municate Lord Montreville's flattering decla- 
 ration, to Colonel Heckfieid. 
 
 " But, my dear Mrs. Heckfieid, I have not 
 yet been allowed to hope. Your daughter has 
 not given me one word, one look of encourage- 
 ment, and I need your kind influence to induce 
 her—" 
 
 " Lucy, my dear, you have not been so un- 
 civil as to — My dear child, don't be so silly. 
 You must excuse her, my dear Lord Montre- 
 ville, she is so young, and so little used to 
 these agitating scenes. I know what her feel- 
 ings are, and although she is not at this mo- 
 ment able to speak for herself, I think I may 
 answer for it you need not despair. Perhaps,
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 215 
 
 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 Heck- 
 field 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
 
 216 MILLY AND 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 ?" 
 
 " Oh no, mamma!" 
 
 " And do you dislike Lord Montreville ?*' 
 
 '•' Oh no, mamma !" 
 
 " You seemed to me very uneasy and rest- 
 less 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 ? 1 
 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
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 217 
 
 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 ?" 
 
 " 01], not quite that, mamma." 
 
 " ^ly 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 con- 
 strains 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, 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 de- 
 cline 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
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 219 
 
 was ready to cry because she thought she 
 should not get, for I saw your face this morn- 
 ing 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 inconsis- 
 tency was undeniably true. 
 
 Mrs. Heckfield kissed her, and hastened to 
 Colonel Heckfield to communicate the im- 
 portant intelligence. 
 
 L 2
 
 •220 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 realized in thy approaching fate ! 
 
 Colonel Heckfield was a quiet, easy, 
 amiable man, whom everybody loved. He 
 was in the habit of thinking his wife under- 
 stood such matters better than he did, and 
 that, as she had hitherto married all his girls 
 extremely well, there was no need of his inter- 
 ference. 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 in-
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 221 
 
 struments 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 ^la- 
 demoiselle Hirondelle of the high honours 
 which awaited her pupil. 
 
 " Ah, Madame, I thought well when Miss 
 Lucy had such bad head-ache yesterday que c' 
 ttait Vobjet. Miss Lucy was in anger with me, 
 but I had reason. I know myself what it is 
 de se consumer dans V absence .'''' 
 
 Mrs. Heckfield dreaded the history of Made- 
 moiselle's faithless lover, the bookseller at Caen, 
 who had not written to her for three years, 
 seven months, and three weeks, and she hasten- 
 ed to tell Emma that she might now look for- 
 ward 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 nursling would 
 be raised. 
 
 " Sure, Ma'am ! and so Miss Lucy is going 
 to leave us,'' said Milly, with a calm and
 
 222 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 I 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 ad- 
 vantage." 
 
 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 bless- 
 ing. 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
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 223 
 
 Heckfield with heartiness ; by Lucy, with a 
 pleased tremor, which was perfectly satisfac- 
 tory. 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 sacri- 
 ficed my own wishes to your's, 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 ^Irs. 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 atten- 
 tions were not too marked ; his manners were 
 so frank, and so polite to every one, there 
 was nothing that could make her shy or un- 
 comfortable ; 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
 
 224 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 communicated the great event of the day to 
 her friend Mrs. Denby, under a strict pro- 
 mise 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 be- 
 fore the next sun sank into the Western 
 ocean. The propagation of a secret is a mys- 
 tery ; 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 seri- 
 ous, and Lucy felt uncomfortable in her pre- 
 sence. 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 Mon- 
 treville !'' 
 
 " I am sure, my dear Miss Lucy, I shall
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 225 
 
 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 ^lary a good singing-master. I can 
 have her wdth me, you know, in London, 
 where there are all the best masters ; and poor 
 Mademoiselle would be so glad to see her 
 :5ister ; and I will have such a charming school 
 L 5
 
 226 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 i 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 tliose 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 AND LUCY. 227 
 
 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 when- 
 ever 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 pa- 
 rental manner, which had at first so won up- 
 on her confidence, while at the same time it 
 flattered her vanity, was exchanged for some- 
 thing 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 naif and fascinating, did not always 
 meet with the same looks of amused admira-
 
 228 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 tion, which had, unknown to herself, encou- 
 raged 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 be- 
 yond 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 con- 
 demned ; — 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 Lon- 
 don to procure the wedding^lothes. 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-
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 2^9 
 
 dressed, surely it is a fortunate thing for 
 those who can thus amuse, and embellish them- 
 selves 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 trust- 
 ed the whole affair to mamma and to Made- 
 moiselle. But no ! Lord Montreville was ex- 
 ceedingly 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 chaussL She was 
 half angry at his numerous criticisms and re- 
 marks upon the make of her gowns, and consi- 
 derably 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
 
 230 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 about her of youth, and health, and ivory 
 teeth, she thought, though he might have oc- 
 casion 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 Hen- 
 rietta 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 
 loyal fete! Ornaments of more modern date 
 were showered upon her; but the heir-looms 
 which assorted so well with the Welsh Castle,
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 231 
 
 with its unpronounceable name, its donjon- 
 keep, its subterranean passages, and its mas- 
 sive walls, were much more suited to her taste. 
 Lord Montreville had neither father, mo- 
 ther, brother, nor sister, to whom he need in- 
 troduce 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 Mon- 
 treville intended to marry the whole family. 
 Want of knowledge of the world, or rather of 
 Vusas,e dii monde. was na'ivett in the bloomino; 
 youthful Lucy, but not so in the middle- 
 aged parents, or the hoyden younger misses. 
 Lord Montreville was not much of a politi- 
 cian ; 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.
 
 232 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 per- 
 sons 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 vul- 
 gar — 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.
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 233 
 
 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 distingut 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 espe- 
 cially languishing for Lord ]Montreville. She 
 looked as strong as a horse, but she com- 
 plained 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 posible 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 perceiv- 
 ed 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 advan- 
 tageous for any newly-married young woman. 
 Her figure, which was always beautiful, was
 
 2S4f MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 an- 
 ticipated, she now habitually wore ; and in the 
 evening her skin, which by daylight was yel- 
 lowish, 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 him- 
 self," 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 ty-
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 235 
 
 rant 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 }'ou 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
 
 236 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 237 
 
 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 dis- 
 pute 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 non- 
 sense 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."'
 
 238 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 " 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 Men-
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 239 
 
 tre-ville, 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 ?
 
 2W MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Calantha. — To court, good brother, ere her bloom of mind 
 
 Be set for fruit 1 Oh, take her not to court, 
 
 Where we be slaves to petty circumstance 
 
 Of empty form and fashion. Where the laugh 
 
 Pealed merrily from the joy-freighted heart, 
 
 Gives place to measured smiles still worn by all, 
 
 As 'twere a thing of custom, and alike 
 
 T>avished on friend and foe ; where your fair child. 
 
 For coronals of buttercups and hare-bells. 
 
 Must prank her youth in gorgeous robes of state, 
 
 And where sweet nature's impulses must all 
 
 Be curbed, suppressed. ^ Manuscript Poems. 
 
 At length the awful day arrived. Lucy 
 was married, and the Marquess and Mar- 
 chioness of Montreville drove from St. 
 George's Church in the neatest of dark-green 
 chariots, with four grey horses, leaving Co- 
 lonel Heckfield sad, but satisfied, Mrs. Heck- 
 field joyful, but dissolved in tears, Emma full
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 211 
 
 of delight, wonderment, and awe, at her sister 
 Lucy being actually a Marchioness, Made- 
 moiselle feeling herself the person most pe- 
 culiarly concerned, inasmuch as it must have 
 been entirely owing to the superior education 
 she had given her pupil that she had been 
 deemed worthy to be raised to so lofty a 
 station in the peerage. Milly watched the 
 carriage till it was out of sight, with tearful 
 eyes, and left the window with a foreboding 
 shake of the head. 
 
 The bride and bridegroom spent the honey- 
 moon at Ashdale Parkj and Lucy was much 
 edified by the grandeur of the place. The 
 park was extensive, the pleasure-grounds im- 
 mense, the gardens perfect. She had nothing 
 to do but to enjoy all she saw. She went round 
 the pictures several times, till she thought 
 there was no pleasure in making her neck 
 ache with looking up, and her eyes ache with 
 peering through Claude Lorraine glasses ; she 
 repeatedly walked about the gardens, but she 
 dreaded the sight of the gardener; he used 
 such hard names, and he was such a gen- 
 tleman, that she scarcely ventured to ask 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 him the name of a flower, much less to sug- 
 gest any fancy of her own. The house was 
 completely montte. The maitre d^hotel sent 
 in the bill of fare, but she could never have 
 presumed to propose any alteration in the 
 repast. She had heard that Ashdale Park 
 was famous for bantams, and she one day 
 expressed a wish to see them. Lord Mon- 
 treville ordered the pony phaeton to drive 
 her to the poultry establishment." 
 
 " Oh, let us walk, dear Lord Montreville ; 
 I had much rather walk." 
 
 " It has been just raining, my dear Lucy, 
 and your shoes are thin." 
 
 " But I can put on thick ones in a mo- 
 ment."" 
 
 " I hate to see a woman's foot look like 
 a man's. Nothing so ugly as great coarse 
 shoes, upon a pretty woman''s little foot/' 
 
 " Oh ! but nobody will see me.'' 
 
 " Yes, I shall see you," answered Lord 
 Montreville, and Lucy felt frightened lest he 
 should think she could have meant he was 
 nobody. So the pony phaeton was ordered. 
 In about three quarters of an hour it ap-
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 243 
 
 peared, and a groom on another beautiful 
 little long-tailed pony to follow, and Lucy's 
 wadded cloaks, and Lord Montreville's fur 
 cloak, and the boa, and the parasol, and the 
 umbrella, and the reticule, &c. were all duly 
 packed and arranged, and they entered the 
 carriage, and drove about a mile to the end 
 of the park. 
 
 Having summoned the poultryman. Lady 
 Montreville was introduced to all the different 
 yards and coops, the winter roosting-place, 
 and the summer roosting-place, and the coops 
 for early chickens, and the places for fatting ; 
 and Lucy soon felt that the poulterer, who 
 did the honours of the establishment, was 
 much more the master of the whole concern 
 than she could ever be ; so, having be- 
 stowed the requisite portion of approbation 
 and admiration, she was departing without 
 any particular desire to revisit the scene, 
 when a young gosling waddled past her feet. 
 She stooped to pick it up — it escaped her — 
 she ran after it — she succeeded in catching it 
 — she brought the pretty little yellow thing 
 back to Lord Montreville in great delight at 
 M 2
 
 424 MILLY AND LUCV. 
 
 having secured it, and fully expecting that 
 he would sympathize in her feelings. 
 
 " Look at the pretty creature ! — Is it not 
 a love ? — dear little thing !" 
 
 " My dear Lady Montreville, it will dirty 
 you all over — its feathers are coming off: I 
 beg, I entreat, you will put it down !" added 
 Lord Montreville in a tone of annoyance. 
 
 Lucy let the gosling go, and followed Lord 
 Montreville to the carriage. When they had 
 remounted, and again arranged the cloaks and 
 shawls, Lord Montreville said — 
 
 " My dear Lucy, you must remember that 
 now you are a married woman, and my wife : 
 these are little girlish ways that do not sit 
 well upon you. I am sure your own good 
 sense will point out to you that there ought 
 to be something more pose in manner for 
 your present situation." 
 
 Lucy acquiesced, and resolved not to catch 
 goslings any more. 
 
 They lived in the most perfect retirement. 
 Lord Montreville did not mean to enter the 
 world till he had tutored his wife into being; 
 precisely the thing he wished.
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 245 
 
 She found the time hang rather heavy on 
 her hands ; she read, but she could not read 
 all day ; she wrote to her mother and sisters, 
 but she had not much to say, and a bride's 
 letters are always very dull. No part of the 
 household required her superintendence : she 
 did not work much, for where was the use of 
 working when she had plenty of money, and 
 could buy everything so much better than 
 she could make it ? She always hated tor- 
 turing a piece of muslin, till the muslin was 
 dirty and the pattern out of fashion. She 
 played and sang a little ; but Lord Montre- 
 ville liked Italian music, and she sang English 
 ballads. She liked long walks ; but Lord 
 Montreville always thought she would get 
 tanned if the sun shone, and red if the wind 
 blew, and wet if it had been raining, or was 
 likely to rain. Then there were so many 
 rooms, she never found anything at the mo- 
 ment she wished for it : when she was at 
 luncheon in the ante-room, she missed her 
 reticule, which was left in the library, where 
 she passed the morning ; when she retir- 
 ed to her boudoir after her drive, she found
 
 246 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 she had left her letters in the saloon, where 
 they breakfasted : in the evening, when they 
 sat in the great drawing-room, she wanted 
 her work, and the work-box was in the li- 
 brary. Lord Montreville rang the bell, and 
 a servant was despatched to bring the work- 
 box. He returned, but the one skein of silk 
 of the right shade was missing, and it ended 
 by her lighting a candle and going to look 
 for it herself. In the morning, after hunt- 
 ing all over the library for the book she was 
 reading, she remembered she had left it the 
 preceding evening in the drawing-room ; and 
 she sometimes thought it would be vastly 
 comfortable to live in one snug room, where 
 one had all one's things about one. 
 
 Lord Montreville had so far tamed her, 
 that she did not think of setting out to trudge 
 alone beyond the precincts of the shrubbery : 
 she had learned not to pat every dog she 
 met, or to kiss a donkey"'s nose ; and she was 
 as steady from a gosling or duckling as a 
 good fox-hound from a hare. When she 
 wanted anything at the other end of the 
 room, she did not run, neither did she ever
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 247 
 
 jump over the footstool, and she carried a 
 candle perpendicularly, instead of horizontally. 
 Lord Montreville thought it was time to as- 
 certain a little what her manners would be 
 in society, before he ventured to ask any of 
 his own set to his house ; and they sent 
 forth a regular invitation to INIr. and Mrs. 
 Johnson, Mr. and Mrs. Delafield, Major and 
 Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Smith's sister. Miss 
 Brown. 
 
 Lucy was a little appalled at the prospect of 
 making the signal after dinner. Every woman 
 must have felt that the first time of making 
 this little mysterious bow is an epoch in her 
 life. Lucy was sure she should stay too long 
 or too short a time. Then, to which of the 
 ladies was the sign to be made ? Lord Mon- 
 treville told her that when the conversation 
 took the turn of horses, hunting, dogs, or 
 partridges, which it invariably did somewhere 
 between twenty minutes and half an hour 
 after the servants had left the apartment, all 
 women with any tact or discretion took ad- 
 vantage of the first pause to depart ; and 
 that the lady whom he should hand in to
 
 248 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 dinner would almost invariably prove the one 
 towards whom she should direct her eyes. 
 
 The dinner went off very well. Lucy's 
 manners were perfect. She never was awk- 
 ward, and her thoughts were sufficiently oc- 
 cupied with the idea of making the dreaded 
 signal at the right moment, to render her 
 rather shy, and to prevent her spirits running 
 away with her. She watched narrowly every 
 thing that was said after dinner : and upon 
 Major Smith asking her if she was fond of 
 riding, she cast a glance towards Lord Mon- 
 treville, to see if that was near enough the 
 mark for her to rise ; but, upon the whole, 
 she thought not, as the question was addressed 
 to herself. This occurred precisely eighteen 
 minutes after the last servant had changed 
 the last plate on which there had been ice; 
 and sure enough it led the way to the usual 
 turn of gentlemen's conversation before twenty- 
 two minutes had expired. 
 
 Lucy had answered " Yes, but Lord Mon- 
 treville had not yet found a horse he thought 
 fit for her.''
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 249 
 
 Mr. Johnson remarked, that " Nothing was 
 so difficult to procure as a good lady's horse/' 
 
 " Except a good hunter for a heavy weight," 
 said Mr. Delafield. 
 
 " I can scarcely agree with you, Delafield,'' 
 rejoined Mr. Johnson : "for a lady's horse 
 should be so very safe, and all horses will 
 stumble sometimes, and temper and mouth 
 are so indispensable, besides action and ease."" 
 
 " Temper is as necessary for a good hunter," 
 interrupted Mr. Delafield, " or they knock 
 themselves to pieces ; and I know that a heavy 
 man like me can't afford to have a horse take 
 too much out of himself at first." 
 
 The moment was decidedly come, and Lucy, 
 with a slight palpitation of the heart, looked 
 at Mrs. Johnson. But Mrs. Johnson did not 
 give a responsive glance. She was talking 
 to Miss Brown. Lucy looked again, Mrs. 
 Johnson was putting on her gloves, and did 
 not raise her eyes. The conversation became 
 every moment more sporting, and Lucy felt 
 that if she had any tact or discretion, she 
 ought to depart. Her heart positively beat, 
 M 5
 
 250 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 but she could not venture to say any thing 
 out loud, and she kept lookmg and look- 
 ing, when Major Smith again addressed her, 
 and she was obliged to answer him. He re- 
 joined, and she found herself entangled in a 
 fresh discourse. The half hour — more than 
 the half hour must have elapsed ! She an- 
 swered with an absent air, still glancing un- 
 easy glances, till at length Miss Brown 
 nudged Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Johnson look- 
 ed up, and Lucy hastily rose from her chair, 
 in the middle of Major Smith's sentence. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Delafield made a 
 great ceremony at the door, during which 
 time the gentlemen stood bolt upright, with 
 their napkins in their hands, waiting with 
 exemplary patience while the ladies gave each 
 other le pas. At length they marched out 
 arm-in-arm, with a slight laugh to carry off 
 their uncertainties. Lady Montreville, in her 
 shyness, slipped her arm within Miss Brown's, 
 and thanked her for making Mrs. Johnson 
 look round. 
 
 " Why could I not catch her eye before .^" 
 *' Oh, don't you know.? She is only the
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 251 
 
 wife of a younger son of a Baronet, and Mrs. 
 Delafield is the wife of the eldest son of a 
 Knight, so you know she was afraid of putting 
 herself forward." 
 
 This was a new light to Lucy, who had 
 never before been aware of these niceties. 
 
 Miss Brown was rather pretty, with gay 
 laughing eyes, and a lively countenance, and 
 Lucy was so glad to meet with a person of 
 her own age, and who looked as if she could 
 be merry, that she forgot it was her duty to 
 attend to the married ladies. 
 
 She had shown Miss Brown all her dia- 
 monds and trinkets, and the wedding-gown. 
 Miss Brown had half confessed she should 
 soon be in want of such an article herself. 
 Lady Montreville was in the act of trying 
 to find out who was to be the happy man ; 
 they were in deep, interesting, and rather 
 giggling conversation, somewhat apart, while 
 Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Dela- 
 field were sitting up quite prim, when the 
 gentlemen entered. Lord Montreville was not 
 pleased. Lucy, who was accustomed to her
 
 252 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 mother's countenance when Bell Stopford was 
 in question, instantly recognised the expression, 
 and was frightened out of her wits. She was 
 conscience- stricken ; she broke off her discourse 
 with Miss Brown, she came forward to the 
 other ladies, and began talking to them with 
 all her might. 
 
 If people are easily offended by any want 
 of attention from the great, in return they are 
 easily soothed. The consciousness of being 
 slighted is so unpleasant to the amour propre, 
 that if the intention to be civil is made ma- 
 nifest, they readily accept the will for the 
 deed, and they soon forgave the lovely young 
 Marchioness when tliey found there was no 
 intentional neglect. 
 
 The evening passed much like other even- 
 ings after a dinner in the country. There 
 were no new people whom Lord Montreville 
 wished to charm, they were old country neigh- 
 bours, with whom there was no object to gain, 
 and he let things take their course. He had 
 merely wished to accustom Lucy to sit at 
 the head of her table.
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 253 
 
 When the company had all departed, he 
 thus addressed his wife — 
 
 " Lucy, my dear, what did I hear you 
 saying to Miss Brown about Monday ?" 
 
 " I only asked her to come here. She is 
 such a nice girl — is she not ? I said I would 
 send for her, that was all." 
 
 And Lucy began to fear that " all " was 
 a great deal. It seemed so natural to ask 
 Miss Brown to her own house at the moment 
 she did so, but now that she told Lord Mon- 
 treville what she had done, it did not seem 
 so natural. 
 
 " This will never do, my dear Lucy : Miss 
 Brown is not at all the sort of person I wish 
 you to be intimate with, — not at all the sort of 
 person with whom I wish my wife to appear 
 in public, and, if you are intimate in private, 
 you must be the same in public. I hold it out 
 of the question to begin intimacies you cannot 
 keep up ; — it exposes people to being accused 
 of caprice and finery, which are very different 
 things from the proper pride and self-respect, 
 which should make them move in their own
 
 254 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 sphere, and associate with persons in their own 
 station. You understand me, my dear Lucy P 
 — and you will remember what I say : — and 
 now let us see what can be done. Her coming 
 here is wholly out of the question. If she is 
 the first person who visits you after your mar- 
 riage it is proclaiming her your friend. I want 
 to see my lawyer some time soon, and instead 
 of sending for him here, we will go to St. 
 James''s Square for a few days, and you can 
 write a very civil note, — mind, a very civil 
 note, — (I never affronted any body in my life,) 
 and tell her we are obliged to go to town on 
 particular business." 
 
 All this was said in the sweetest and kindest 
 tone imaginable, but Lucy was confounded 
 and stupified when she found her having in- 
 vited Miss Brown to her house for a day had 
 brought on this complete demtnagement. She 
 felt herself a cipher ; she felt herself perfectly 
 helpless. But the tone was so kind, and at 
 the same time so decided, that she had not a 
 word to say. Lord Montreville turned to other 
 subjects, — told her he had seen her distress 
 after dinner, laughed with her at the rival dig-
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 255 
 
 nities of the lady of the Baronet's youngest 
 son, and the lady of the Knighf s eldest son, 
 and was most gay and agreeable. 
 
 Lucy did not quite like so entirely giving 
 up her point without a struggle. If he had 
 spoken a little longer, if he had harped upon 
 the subject, she would have rallied, and said 
 something ; but before she had recovered her 
 first surprise, the whole aiFair was settled and 
 done, and she did not know how to recur to it. 
 
 The next morning, after breakfast. Lord 
 Montreville said, " Lucy, my love, write your 
 note, and as I am going to the stables, I will 
 order a groom to be ready to take it to Miss 
 Brown." 
 
 He left the room. There was no time to 
 remonstrate. Lucy thought of Lady Selcourt, 
 — she thought of her mother. Lady Selcourt 
 would simply not have written the note ; her 
 mother would have had a thousand arguments 
 before Colonel IJeckfield had finished half his 
 first sentence. She had not cool courage for 
 the first line of conduct, nor had she had pre- 
 sence of mind for the latter. There was no- 
 thing left for her to do but to submit ; so she
 
 256 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 wrote the note, (not without three foul copies,) 
 sealed it very neatly, rang the bell, and gave 
 it to the servant with a heavy heart ; not that 
 she cared for Miss Brown, but she felt herself 
 imprisoned and enthralled.
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 257 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Une belle femme est aimable dans son natiirel, elle ne perd 
 lien a etre negligee, et sans autre parure que celle qu'elle tire de 
 sa beaute et de sa jeunesse. Une grace naive delate sur son 
 visage, anime ses moindres actions : il y aurait moins de peril a 
 la voir avec tout I'attirail de I'ajustement et de la mode. 
 
 La Bruyere. 
 
 To London they went on Monday. Lucy 
 was languid and out of spirits during the first 
 part of the journey, but the rapid motion of 
 the swinging vehicle and the four horses re- 
 vived her young spirits, and the busy streets 
 of London roused her, and the first sight of 
 her house in London pleased her. The excite- 
 ment, however, did not last. The hall was 
 grand, the staircase noble, the rooms were 
 vast, but they were not set out in order, as the 
 family were not to take up their abode in Lon- 
 don till the meeting of Parliament.
 
 258 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 The magnificent lustres were in canvass bags, 
 the sofas in brown hoUand covers, the carpets 
 only put down in the dining-room and the 
 smaller back drawing-room. One day, while 
 Lord Montreville was occupied with his law- 
 yer, Lucy, from real dtsauvrement^ perambu- 
 lated the desolate apartments, and uncovered 
 the end of a sofa and the corner of an otto- 
 man. She found them beautiful, — she longed 
 to see the effect; she set to work, removed 
 canvass bags, and paper coverings, &c. Her 
 blood began to flow, and her spirits to rise, at 
 being actively employed : she took care not to 
 send for the housemaid ; she was quite glad to 
 work hard. She was in the act of dragging 
 forth a beautiful chaise-longue^ her bonnet toss- 
 ed aside, her hair all out of curl, her gloves as 
 gloves must be that have come in contact with 
 London furniture, her shawl having slipped off 
 her shoulders on the floor, her fine embroidered 
 handkerchief covered with dirt and dust off 
 some delicate little ornaments on the chimney- 
 piece, the room spread with all the different 
 envelopes she had abstracted from the furni- 
 ture, when Lord Montreville entered, and.
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 259 
 
 with him, a very handsome, very well-dressed, 
 very pleasing-looking young man. 
 
 Lucy stopped short in her employment, and 
 no little boy caught by his schoolmaster in 
 the act of stealing apples ever looked more 
 shame-faced, more confused, more guilty. 
 Worse and worse. Lord Montreville intro- 
 duced the stranger as his cousin, Lionel Del- 
 ville. Lucy knew he was the oracle of the 
 world of fashion, and the person for whose 
 opinion Lord Montreville had more deference 
 than for any other person's living. She stam- 
 mered, blushed, and stood abashed. 
 
 Lord Montreville, however, showed no out- 
 ward signs of annoyance ; but, with a smiling 
 countenance and easy manner, he said : 
 
 " You seem to have been very busy ! 
 Well ! I dare say you will settle the rooms 
 with much more taste than ever they were 
 arranged before : women have ten times more 
 tact in making a house look inhabited, than 
 any man — always excepting my cousin Lionel. 
 You must take him into your counsels, Lucy, 
 if you wish your suite of apartments to be 
 perfect ;" and Lord Montreville led the way 
 back into the boudoir.
 
 260 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 Lucy was comforted at Lord Montreville 
 appearing to take her tquippee so quietly, and 
 she in some measure recovered her self-pos- 
 session. 
 
 She looked exceedingly pretty in her di- 
 shevelled state, and Lionel Delville thought 
 his cousin, the untutored, rustic Marchioness, 
 a most piquante creature. But though Lord 
 Montreville himself had been originally at- 
 tracted by this same manner, it was not the 
 manner by which he intended that his wife 
 should charm ; and when Mr. Delville took 
 his leave, the lecture which Lucy flattered 
 herself had passed away, arrived with accu- 
 mulated seriousness. 
 
 His wrath was not disarmed by the degree 
 in which he had seen Lionel pleased. He 
 wished him to approve; but he did not at 
 all wish to see him attracted. When he ad- 
 vised Lucy to take him into her counsels, it 
 was from the fear Mr. Delville should read 
 how little he wished she should do so. 
 
 Lucy quaked at the tone in which he ad- 
 dressed her. 
 
 " Do you think, Lucy, I have had reason
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 261 
 
 to be pleased at the mode in which I have 
 been obliged to present my wife to the first 
 of my relations who has seen her ? Do you 
 think your appearance and your occupation 
 were calculated to make a favourable impres- 
 sion upon my family ?" 
 
 " I am so sorry, dear Lord Montreville ! 
 but I did so long to see those pretty things !" 
 
 " Could you not send for the housemaid ?'** 
 
 " Yes ; to be sure I might ; but I had 
 nothing to do ; and I only meant to take one 
 peep, and I never tliought of any body call- 
 ing ; I thought there was not a soul in Lon- 
 don ; and then, I know so few people — I 
 never thought of beine: cauo^ht !" 
 
 " You forget that I have a very large ac- 
 quaintance, and that you are my wife ; and 
 you also forget one thing, which I have often 
 tried to impress upon your mind — that a wo- 
 man should never be unfit to be seen — that 
 she should never be caught, as you term it, 
 employed in any manner unsuited to her rank 
 and station in life — that your pleasures should 
 be such as befit the situation in which I have 
 placed you ; and that my wife should always
 
 262 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 act as if the eyes of the world were upon her. 
 Let me hear no more of being caught — the 
 expression is worthy of a school-miss in her 
 teens." 
 
 Lucy blushed rosy red. She blushed for 
 shame ; for she felt there was something un- 
 dignified in the expression : but she blushed 
 more from anger at being treated as a missish 
 girl — at being, in fact, accused of vulgarity. 
 She was on the point of crying, but the 
 servant entered with the tickets for the play ; 
 and he put on coals, and swept up the ashes, 
 and lighted the lamps, and shut the shutters. 
 Lucy had time to recover herself, and Lord 
 Montreville to reflect that he should not do 
 wisely to frighten her too much ; that his own 
 annoyance had perhaps caused him to speak 
 more angrily than the thing deserved. 
 
 It was, therefore, in a gay and goocj- 
 humoured tone, that he bade her make haste 
 and dress ; though, at the same time he gave 
 her a hint to be simple in her costume, as it 
 was not good ton to be too smart at the play. 
 
 They dined alone ; but Lionel Delville and 
 a friend joined them late in the evening. If
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 263 
 
 he thought her pretty in the morning, he 
 thought her lovely in her present quiet, but 
 most soigne and fashionable attire. 
 
 He seated himself by her side, and gave 
 her very little opportunity of enjoying the 
 drollery of the afterpiece. But he did not, 
 he could not, flirt with her. There was a 
 complete simplicity — a straight-forward frank- 
 ness in her manner, which rendered it impos- 
 sible to know how to begin. INIoreover, she 
 believed herself in love with her husband ; 
 and besides, being dutifully and religiously de- 
 voted, she was particularly anxious to give 
 him satisfaction after her errors of the morn- 
 ing ; and her real thoughts and attention were 
 on him and for him alone. He could not but 
 be pleased ; knowing w^omen to their heart's 
 core, as he did, he saw the genuine innocence 
 of her manner, and he felt assured that it 
 must take a long apprenticeship to the world 
 to contaminate the purity of her mind. He 
 resolved to watch attentively over it. 
 
 The kindness of his manner towards her the 
 next day gratified her. He presented her 
 with a maojnificent real Cashmere ; and the
 
 264 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 next day with a beautiful guard-ring. She 
 thought him very kind, and she determined 
 to do everything to please him, which was, 
 in fact, never to do anything except to dress 
 well, sit on the sofa buried among cushions, 
 (not bolt upright engaged in any employ- 
 ment,) and especially to fling herself back 
 into the corner of her carriage with an elegant 
 abandon when she went out airing. 
 
 Her efforts to do nothing were crowned 
 with success : he thought her extremely im- 
 proved ; but this dolce far niente to her was 
 not dolce, especially when they returned into 
 the country, and she could not go shopping 
 every day — an occupation to which he had no 
 objection, as her pin-money was so ample that 
 she could not easily be distressed. 
 
 He now thought he might venture to ga- 
 ther some of his own friends and relations 
 around him, and before Christmas there ar- 
 rived a large party, all people of the very 
 highest fashion, pleasing and agreeable. They, 
 like their host, seemed in their conversation 
 to have adopted the motto of " Glissez mor- 
 tels, mais ri'appuyez pas ;" and though the
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 265 
 
 hours might fly swiftly and pleasantly in their 
 society, there was nothing about them suffi- 
 ciently original or individual to deserve re- 
 cording- 
 Lucy behaved exceedingly \vell ; she had 
 been properly drilled before their arrival : she 
 was in an interesting state, which, assisted by 
 the lectures of the apothecary, and the con- 
 stant solicitude of Lord Montreville, and the 
 ennui occasioned by being headed, as a sports- 
 man would term it, whenever she attempted 
 to stir hand or foot, gave to her whole car- 
 riage and deportment a most excellent lan- 
 guor. She no longer felt any flutter when she 
 made the signal after dinner, and, upon the 
 whole. Lord ^lontreville thought the result 
 all he could wish, except that he would fain 
 have had her join a little more in general 
 conversation, if he could have been quite sure 
 of no exuberance of spirits. 
 
 Was she happy in the midst of her splen- 
 dour ? Her husband exceedingly attentive, 
 and the most agreeable society collected around 
 her. No : she was bored — from morning till 
 night constantly suffering from ennui. She 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 was grateful for her husband's attentions, but 
 they invariably prevented her doing the thing 
 she wished to do ; and she sometimes won- 
 dered how so many little chubby children 
 were running about the village in health and 
 safety, who were not heirs to titles and pro- 
 perties. 
 
 The society of her husband's friends did 
 not amuse her ; they were all the intimates 
 of one clique ; and, notwithstanding their ha- 
 bitual good-breeding, she could not help often 
 being unable to understand, or, at all events, 
 to join in» their conversation. A slight tone 
 of persiflage and of quizzing in their mode of 
 treating all subjects, also Inade her feel less at 
 her ease, than she would otherwise have done 
 after ten days' residence under the same roof; 
 and she often longed for a hearty laugh with 
 Bell Stopford, a long scrambling walk with 
 Emma and Mary, or a quiet chat with the 
 dear, honest, affectionate Milly. 
 
 Lucy occasionally suggested how glad she 
 should be to see her parents ; but the house 
 was always filled with a succession of visitors. 
 The Duke and Duchess of Altonworth an-
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 267 
 
 nounced their intention of taking Ashdale 
 Park in their way to London, and Lord 
 Montreville inadvertently exclaimed, " Whom 
 shall we get to meet them, for this party 
 disperses on Wednesday ?" 
 
 " Oh, then, now we can have papa and 
 mamma, and Emma and Mary! — that will 
 be nice !" 
 
 Lord ^lontreville's countenance fell — he 
 looked blank and dismayed. Lucy saw she 
 was wrong, but she could not imagine that 
 papa and mamma were not fit company for 
 any duke or duchess in the land ; so she 
 awaited the result, blank and dismayed in 
 her turn, but v.hoUy at a loss to guess what 
 was the matter. Lord Montreville soon ral- 
 lied. 
 
 " I do not think that would quite do, my 
 dear Lucy : a family party is always a dull 
 thing, and the Duchess is very clever, and 
 
 altogether My dear Lucy, I am sure you 
 
 perfectly understand me.*''' 
 
 This time, however, Lucy could not and 
 would not understand. 
 
 " But it will not be a family party to the 
 N 2
 
 268 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 Duchess, and I am sure mamma is clever 
 too : some people call her blue." 
 
 " Very true, my love ; but the Duchess is 
 clever and not blue, and she is a person who 
 is very exclusive ; she has retired habits, and 
 does not like new acquaintances ; and, in 
 short, we must either get somebody whom 
 she would decidedly like to meet, or we had 
 better have nobody." 
 
 " But we are going to town in a fortnight, 
 and mamma has not been here yet," said 
 Lucy with more pertinacity, and even hu- 
 meur, than she had ever yet shown. 
 
 " We shall be here again at Easter, and 
 in the summer certainly, and then you shall 
 have them all, Emma and Mary, and your old 
 friend Milly too, if you like it ;" and Lord 
 Montreville resolved he would do it once for 
 all, well and thoroughly. 
 
 Lucy acquiesced, though she did not ex- 
 actly see why Ashdale Park should be open 
 to so many slight acquaintances, and yet 
 that a visit from her parents should be so 
 difficult of accomplishment. She was also 
 somewhat appalled at the idea of this clever,
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 269 
 
 exclusive Duchess, whom she shouM have to 
 entertain herself, for no one whom Lord Mon- 
 treville thought worthy of meeting her could 
 be found on such short notice. Lucy was 
 sure she should dislike her ; she was angry 
 with her for, as she thought, keeping away 
 her own family, and she determined to bear 
 patiently the infliction of her presence for the 
 few days she remained, and never to seek her 
 any more. She was free from the vulgar awe 
 which simple rank inspires to the parvenu^ 
 though she was not free from the gene which 
 most people feel when in company with persons 
 who are wedded to their own set, and who 
 do not give themselves any trouble to please 
 those who are not of it. 
 
 The day arrived, and Lucy, who was not 
 constitutionally shy, and had now become per- 
 fectly at her ease, in the discharge of her 
 every-day hostess duties, awaited with com- 
 posure the entry of the disagreeable Duchess. 
 
 She was rather surprised when a little, 
 quiet, middle-aged woman, in a close bonnet, 
 and a black cloak, slid into the room, fol- 
 lowed by a large, gaunt, lordly-looking man.
 
 270 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 Lord Montreville was not present. Lucy rose 
 to receive them ; the Duchess introduced her- 
 self and the Duke, in a gentle, kind, frank 
 manner. 
 
 They sat down, and the Duchess being very 
 cold drew her chair close to the fire, put her 
 feet upon the fender, and dropped out little na- 
 tural sentences, which half amused, half pleased 
 Lucy, and before they went to dress for dinner 
 she felt more intimate with the dreaded Duch- 
 ess, than with any of the other people who 
 had yet been her inmates at Ashdale Park. 
 
 At dinner Lord Montreville was in his most 
 agreeable vein ; the Duchess was charming, 
 so unaffected, so straight-forward, and, withal, 
 there was something singular and original in 
 her tiirn of thought, with a graceful hon- 
 hommie which was peculiar to herself. The 
 Duke was a sensible, hard-headed, high-minded 
 man, silent in large society, but conversable 
 enough in small ones. Lucy was interested 
 and amused all the time, and would have 
 talked more than she did, but that she liked 
 to listen to tlie Duchess, and to watch the
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 271 
 
 pleasing expression of her countenance, and 
 the wonderful manner in which, without youth, 
 features, or complexion, it lighted up into 
 something more attractive than beauty. 
 
 Upon further acquaintance she found her 
 as good as she was fascinating. She spoke 
 of her married daughters, of her grand-chil- 
 dren, of her home, her garden, her son, and 
 his wife and children, who lived at Alton- 
 worth, when in the country ; of her school, 
 of the poor people, and Lucy perceived that, 
 in fact, her heart was so completely filled 
 with the near and dear charities of life, that it 
 was not strange she had no inclination to seek 
 for other objects in the world. 
 
 Lucy's genuine feelings thawed to her 
 immediately; and the Duchess was also 
 pleased with the innocence and simplicity of 
 her young hostess. Lucy was more delighted 
 and flattered at the hq^e of being admitted 
 into her intimacy, than she had been since 
 the ball, at which she had first met Lord 
 Montreville, when he had first made her feel
 
 272 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 herself a person altogether superior to the 
 common run of girls. 
 
 Lucy and the Duchess parted with a mutual 
 wish to meet again ; on the part of one, 
 amounting to a passionate desire, on the part 
 of the other to a kindly inclination.
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 273 
 
 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 occa- 
 sional whim, which, unfortunately for her, 
 served to justify Lord Montreville in the con- 
 tinuance 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 
 N 5
 
 ^<4 MILLY AND 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 
 Avas not allowed to keep late hours, she did not 
 go out of an evening, and her circle of acquaint- 
 ance did not increase as rapidly as she ex- 
 pected. Lord Montreville did not allow her 
 to admit gentlemen of a morning, and he did 
 not encourage her seeing much of Mrs. Bent- 
 ley and her " sweet children ;" so that, except 
 the visits of the Duchess of Altonworth and 
 her daughters, with whom she soon became in- 
 timate, 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 re-
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 275 
 
 minded Lord Montreville that he had pro- 
 mised her parents should then 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 Lon- 
 don, on her way to Ashdale Park, for the pur- 
 pose 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. A'ague images of Barons, Vis- 
 counts, 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 ^ladame la Mar- 
 quise, and ^lademoiselle Marie had begun 
 learning German.
 
 276 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 Montre- 
 ville's solicitor from the county town, once his 
 agent from Lancashire, and once the Dela- 
 fields. 
 
 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 approach- 
 ing, 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. 
 T 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."
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 277 
 
 " 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 hus- 
 bands should be attentive, and I cannot but 
 rejoice that your's is so peculiarly so. Cer- 
 tainly 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 under- 
 stand 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 tlie 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
 
 278 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 things which he thought out of the question ; 
 and her sisters, v,'ho were not " come out," 
 although they "dined down," as tliey termed 
 it, often made her uncomfortable. 
 
 One day her mother asked a gentleman op- 
 posite 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 obnox- 
 ious 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 w ild, and had, as 
 most sisters have, till they have been a little
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 279 
 
 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, altliough 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 w^as made happy by
 
 280 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 occa- 
 sion. 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 de- 
 tails 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 con- 
 versed with her for hours, and listened with 
 sympathy to the details of her life in America, 
 and with interest to her unsophisticated view
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 281 
 
 of things in general. She thought that after 
 all there was nothing half so good or so sen- 
 sible as Milly, except the Duchess of Alton- 
 worth ; — indeed, she fancied she perceived a 
 considerable resemblance between their cha- 
 racters. 
 
 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 head-ache, sure ?^^ 
 
 " No ! my head never aches." 
 
 " Perhaps, my Lady, you feel tired if you 
 walk too far."
 
 282 MILLY AND LUCi. 
 
 " 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 r 
 
 '' 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
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 283 
 
 me a silver knife, because he said I had earned 
 it haymaking. How I do wish Lord Mon- 
 treville 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 Alton worth 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 con] plaint 
 to the child." 
 
 " Well, my Lady, the baby will soon be 
 business enough for you. What a sweet fel- 
 low he grows ! Look ! he knows you al- 
 ready !" and jNIilly 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 with- 
 out a remedy, the less it was dwelt upon the 
 better.
 
 284 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 " Pcua- 
 diso^ 
 
 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 pro- 
 portion of dissipation. He generally accom- 
 panied 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 nes^er 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.
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 285 
 
 Lucy was charmed with all she saw, and 
 she was also delighted at finding herself con- 
 sidered charming : but her gaiety was as frank 
 and natural as ever, although more subdued 
 than in her girlish days. She ventured to 
 talk mbre 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 confi- 
 dence 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 com- 
 plete 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 in- 
 sensible to the tclat of her present position. 
 She gradually became quite reconciled to see- 
 ing less of Mrs. Bentley and her children than
 
 2S6 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 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 Al- 
 mack'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 
 x)f Lords, still he was frequently absent of 
 an evening, except when they were engaged 
 to some pleasant party, in which case he al- 
 most always accompanied her. 
 
 The season drew to a close. They left Lon- 
 don, 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 realized. 
 It was as vast, as dark, as gloomy, as massive, 
 as uncomfortable, and as ghosty as heart
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 287 
 
 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 w^alls, and the 
 delightful look-out into the square court- 
 yard. 
 
 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 Caer- 
 whwyddwth 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 im- 
 provements 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 de-
 
 288 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 clivity, 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 patienfs state was most alarming, al- 
 though 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 symp- 
 toms 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 help- 
 less and suffering state, she felt herself so capa- 
 ble of doing any thing for him, of enduring any 
 thing for him, she felt that on his recovery 
 all her future happiness so completely de- 
 pended, 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.
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 289 
 
 she thought only of his kindnesses, and she 
 nursed hira with all the devotion and forge t- 
 fulness of self, with which Milly could have 
 nursed her John. 
 
 Weeks elapsed and he did not recover his 
 memory, nor did he seem to recognize 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 Montrevilk'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 no^ leave 
 me!" 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 290 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Se a ciascuno I'interno afFauno 
 
 Si leggesse in fronte scritto, 
 Quanti mai che invidia fanao 
 
 Ci farebbero pieta. Mktastasio. 
 
 Lucy could scarcely command herself so as 
 to answer her husband, without betraying a 
 degree of emotion which might have been 
 prejudicial to him in his present state of weak- 
 ness. He thanked her for her attention to 
 him ; he told her he had often been aware 
 of her presence though he had not had the 
 power to show it. She bathed his hand with 
 tears of joy and gratitude, and at that moment, 
 when he was endeared to her by long watching 
 and by deep anxiety, she felt as if Milly's love 
 for John could not have exceeded her's for
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 291 
 
 her husband, her guide, her protector, the 
 father of her child. 
 
 The doctor came, and pronounced the pa- 
 tient convalescent, but prescribed the most 
 perfect quiet, and the avoidance of every thing 
 which might in any way arouse his feelings. 
 Lucy told him of the letter she had received 
 from the agent, and asked his opinion and 
 advice upon the subject. 
 
 He declared it out of the question that Lord 
 Montreville should be allowed to attend to 
 matters of business for weeks, nay, perhaps 
 months. 
 
 Under these circumstances Lucy resumed 
 her intention of opening Lord Montreville' s 
 letters, and of acting according to the best of 
 her judgment. Several were most uninterest- 
 ing and unimportant communications, which 
 required neither comment nor answer ; some 
 were letters of correspondence, which she laid 
 aside as soon as she found they did not contain 
 the papers of which she was in search. At 
 length she came to one written in a delicate 
 female hand, beginning, "Dearest Montre- 
 ville," and signed " Your Alicia Mowbray."
 
 292 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 " Alicia Mowbray !" she thought ; " I never 
 heard of her,*" and her eye glanced upon words 
 which filled her with astonishment and horror ; 
 " cruel absence,'"' and '' consuming grief," 
 " counting the moments," and " happy meet- 
 ing,'' and " sad parting,'" and " distress for 
 money," and " necessary expenses," winding- 
 up with an urgent request for a fresh supply 
 of a hundred pounds. 
 
 Could this be intended for Lord Montre- 
 ville ! She looked again at the direction, at 
 the beginning of the letter. There could be 
 no mistake : it was most assuredly addressed 
 to her husband, — to the husband whom in 
 health she had so dutifully studied to please, 
 whom in sickness she had nursed with such 
 unwearied attention, from whom, though ex- 
 posed to all the fascinations and allurements 
 of a London life, she had never for one mo- 
 ment allowed her thoughts to wander ! That 
 he, whom she had always looked upon as the 
 appointed guardian of her honour and her 
 morals, should have been habitually, delibe- 
 rately, breaking his nuptial vow, preferring to
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 293 
 
 her pure and true affection the hired caresses 
 of a mistress, and above all exposing her to 
 the eyes of the world as the neglected wife of 
 an old profligate, old enough to be her father ! 
 The letter fell from her hand ; her brain went 
 round with the multitudinous thoujjhts that 
 rushed almost simultaneously through it ; but 
 rage, indignation, and disgust, superseded for 
 some moments all more tender emotions. 
 
 Then came pity for herself, who had thus 
 wasted the bloom of her early feelings, and she 
 wept bitter tears over her blighted youth, her 
 worthless beauty ; for at this moment she sud- 
 denly became aware that she was one of the 
 most lovely and most admired of women, — ad- 
 mired by all around her, except her husband, — 
 lovely in all eyes but his ! 
 
 Lucy had married almost from the school- 
 room ; Lord Montreville had drawn a veil 
 over his own former career ; he had studiously 
 avoided initiating her into the frailties of 
 fashionable life ; he had wished to preserve the 
 purity he found, so that she still retained that 
 freshness of mind which refuses itself to the 
 o3
 
 294 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 conviction of the existence of vice, but which, 
 when once unwillingly convinced, sees it in all 
 its natural deformity. 
 
 From long acquaintance with the world, the 
 imagination becomes familiarised with what at 
 first inspired horror ; or from experience of the 
 v/eakness of human nature, the temptations to 
 which it is exposed, and the gradations by 
 which one error often leads on to guilt, the 
 charitable learn to pity the sinner, while they 
 condemn the sin. But Lucy's perceptions of 
 right and wrong were not blunted by habitual 
 intercourse with the faulty, nor softened by 
 the consideration of their temptations or their 
 repentance. She saw but the broad distinc- 
 tion between virtue and vice, and she looked on 
 the latter with the indignant horror of youth. 
 Charity is not the characteristic virtue of the 
 young. 
 
 AVhile she was absorbed in such new and 
 painful reflections, there came a tap at the 
 door, and her maid informed her that Lord 
 Montreville was awake, and was incessantly 
 asking for her. She started at the interrup-
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 295 
 
 tion, and quickly dismissing the maid, stood 
 for a few moments paralysed. 
 
 She had looked with loathing at the letter, 
 till her tears had all retreated to their cells. 
 She roused herself, and hastily pushing the 
 other papers into an escrutoire, she stopped to 
 pick up the fatal epistle. 
 
 At that moment the servant entered. She 
 instinctively crammed it into her bosom, but 
 as instantly pulled it forth again, as if its very 
 touch was contamination. 
 
 Lord Montreville was so impatient for her 
 return, that a second messenger had been des- 
 patched to hasten her. She rushed to her 
 own apartment, where she placed the letter 
 under lock and key, and then was obliged, 
 with what composure she could muster, to 
 I'epair to the bedside of her husband. 
 
 He greeted her with a pleased smile, — he 
 extended his pale and emaciated hand to take 
 her's. " Dearest Lucy," he said, " it seems an 
 age since you left me ; it does me good to 
 know my kindest and best nurse is near me. 
 I cannot bear to feel that what I love best is 
 absent from me."'
 
 296 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 His hand lay passively in hers ; her soul 
 recoiled from him. She could not return the 
 pressure of his hand, she could not meet his 
 eyes. " Falsehood upon his lips,'' she thought, 
 " when scarcely snatched from the jaws of 
 death, when still trembling on the verge of the 
 grave."" 
 
 She made an effort to speak, and, assuring 
 him the doctor forbade all excitement or emo- 
 tion, she begged him to compose himself to 
 sleep. 
 
 " You will not leave me then .?" 
 
 She promised she would not, and she seated 
 herself by the bedside. All was quiet ; he 
 gradually dozed off into a light slumber ; and 
 there she sat bewildered, confused, fancying 
 all that had occurred must be a dream ! 
 Could he speak so kindly, so tenderly, and 
 yet be false.? Could he address her as the 
 being he loved best, while he preferred to 
 her this Alicia ? Could he, with death star- 
 ing him in the face, thus add a deliberate lie 
 to all his other sins ? Yet there existed the 
 letter — the letter which expressed implicit reli- 
 ance on his affections !
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 297 
 
 She gazed on him as he slept, and looked 
 back to the moment when he had first re- 
 cognized her, and thought was it possible 
 one little hour could have worked such a 
 wondrous revolution in her mind ? 
 
 The truth was, that Alicia had been a mis- 
 tress of former days, on whom he had settled 
 a handsome annuity at the very time when 
 his absence from Lyneton had excited such 
 surprise in the inhabitants of Rose Hill Lodge, 
 and from whom he had then parted, as he 
 intended for ever, but who had once more 
 succeeded in gettino^ him within her toils. 
 
 For some time after his marriage he had 
 neither heard nor seen anything of her ; but 
 when he came to London in the spring, 
 he received from her a letter, stating that 
 she had been robbed of the money he al- 
 lowed her — that she was deeply in debt, and 
 was threatened with an execution in her 
 house, and with the prospect of being sent 
 to prison. He could not do otherwise than 
 ascertain the truth of this history, and inter- 
 fere to save her from such wretchedness. She 
 was still very handsome, in deep grief, and
 
 298 MILLY AND LUCY, 
 
 in great agitation at again seeing him. He 
 relieved her immediate wants, and occasionally 
 visited her, for which visits she expressed the 
 greatest gratitude, and from which she con- 
 trived to extract considerable additions to her 
 allowance. He did not thoroughly believe in 
 her passionate devotion to him, but he could 
 not be cruel to a person who had acquired the 
 sort of hold over him which is obtained by 
 long habit. 
 
 He did not consider that this renewal of 
 his former acquaintance at all interfered with 
 his making an excellent husband, for he 
 treated his wife with all possible respect and 
 attention ; she had everything that an unli- 
 mited command of money could procure her, 
 and he imagined that the whole guilt of in- 
 fidelity, consisted in its coming to the know- 
 ledge, and consequently hurting the feelings, 
 of the wife. 
 
 If he had been obliged to make his election 
 between them, he would not have hesitated 
 for a moment ; but there was nothing, to 
 his mind, incompatible in the two con- 
 nexions.
 
 MILLY AND LUCY, 299 
 
 In fact, his sentiments for Lucy had of 
 late rather increased than diminished in 
 warmth ; for he could not but respect the 
 singleness of heart with which she passed 
 through the ordeal of a London season, so 
 dangerous to a young and lovely married 
 woman of high rank, and especially to one 
 who was the fashion. As the mother of his 
 son and heir, she had an additional claim on 
 his affections that no other woman had ever 
 possessed ; and the attention with which she 
 had nursed him, had now awakened in his 
 bosom, stronger emotions of tenderness than 
 he had thought himself capable of feeling. 
 
 The expressions which fell from his lips 
 came straight from his heart, although, at 
 that moment, they appeared to Lucy to be 
 an insulting refinement of deceit. 
 
 During the hour which she passed watching 
 his slumbers, she seemed to live a long life 
 of bitter and confused thoughts, and she 
 was unutterably relieved when the entrance 
 of the physician enabled her to make her 
 escape, and to lock herself into her room, 
 there to meditate on the past, the present, 
 and the future.
 
 300 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 On looking back she remembered a thou- 
 sand circumstances which to her unsuspicious 
 mind had seemed of no import at the time, 
 but which now proved to her that this con- 
 nexion was one of some standing. She re- 
 membered having heard persons allude to de- 
 bates in the House of Lords, at which he had 
 been obliged to confess he had not been pre- 
 sent, although he had been absent from her 
 all the evening. She remembered how little 
 she had seen of him during her confinement ; 
 she looked at the fatal letter, and felt certain 
 she had often seen notes in the same hand- 
 writing, and she became more and more in- 
 dig-nant to think she had long been a neglect- 
 ed, an injured, and a duped wife. She re- 
 collected the rigid notions of female propriety 
 which he professed ; she thought the care he 
 had taken of her morals, the censorship which 
 he exercised over the books she read, an 
 insulting mockery. She could almost smile in 
 bitterness at his having forbidden her reading 
 Delphine, and made her return Adam Blair to 
 the library, — and at the remark he made to 
 some one who wondered she had never yet
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 301 
 
 read La ^ouvelle Heloise — that he was sur- 
 prised at any woman who had read the first 
 three lines of the introduction owning she 
 had read any further. 
 
 " And I was grateful to him," she thought, 
 " for thus watching over me. I fancied it 
 argued affection for me, and a love of virtue 
 in himself, while he was thus treating me 
 like a fool, and laughing at his childish dupe ! 
 No wonder he wished to preserve the ignorance 
 which was so convenient to him. This taste 
 for purity in which I so rejoiced, was but the 
 veil to conceal his own vice. And I am bound 
 for life to this man. I must drag on a weary 
 existence, forced, Heaven knows how un- 
 willingly, to break my marriage vow ; for how 
 can I love, how can I honour, what I despise 
 and condemn ?'''' 
 
 Floods of tears came to the relief of her burst- 
 ing heart and bursting head. She wept, till 
 she was once more calm, and could look with 
 some degree of composure upon the actual po- 
 sition in irhich she was placed. 
 
 In the first instance she resolved, although 
 she could never again find pleasure in the 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 302 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 performance of her duty, that she would rigidly 
 adhere to it, that she would command all out- 
 ward expression of her emotions, and that she 
 would continue to nurse Lord Montreville, if 
 possible, with the same devotion as before. 
 She made up her mind that when she had 
 succeeded in finding the papers for which the 
 lawyer had written, she would lock up all 
 the letters together, and when Lord Montre- 
 ville was well enough to attend to his own 
 affairs again, she would explain the circum- 
 stances under which she had been obliged 
 to search for these papers, and give him the 
 key of the escrutoire without any farther re- 
 mark. 
 
 When she had despatched the papers, and 
 safely deposited the letters according to her 
 intention, she felt somewhat relieved, and was 
 enabled to return once more to the sick room, 
 and take her station there as usual. 
 
 Fortunately he spoke but little, and she 
 was spared any fresh ebullitions of tenderness 
 on his part. In the evening she repaired to 
 the nursery, where Milly was rapturous in her
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 303 
 
 congratulations upon his Lordship's wonder- 
 ful improvement. 
 
 " Well, ray Lady, your good nursing has 
 its reward at last ! La ! when first he called 
 you by your name, and spoke so kind and 
 tender like, Mrs. Gauzelee told me she never 
 saw such a moving sight. And to see you, 
 my Lady, take his hand and kiss it, and my 
 Lord calling you ' his own Lucy.** Well ! it 
 does my old heart good to think you have 
 known such a blessed moment ; for I re- 
 member, as I pushed open the bed-room door 
 of our log-hut, when my poor John said, 
 ' Why, Milly, t'an't you,' I thought the joy 
 of hearing my husband's voice speak my name 
 again, would have quite got the better of 
 me." 
 
 Few people like to be told they felt this or 
 that, on such or such an occasion ; still more 
 disagreeable is it when, although they cannot 
 disclaim the emotions attributed to them, they 
 are conscious of experiencing those the most 
 diametrically opposite. 
 
 Lucy held her child in her arms. She con-
 
 304 MILLY AND LUCY. 
 
 trived to bury her face in its little bosom, and 
 to remain bending over it, till her voice and 
 her countenance were sufficiently under control 
 to venture an answer : " The doctor seems to 
 think that, with perfect quiet. Lord Mon- 
 treville may soon be quite himself again." 
 
 Milly was surprised at the cool and mea- 
 sured reply. Lucy's devotion had been such, 
 that she could not doubt the love she bore 
 to her husband. Her lady looked ill. She 
 thought, perhaps, she had harassed herself 
 too much, and she entreated her to go to bed 
 early. But no ! she was resolved to watch as 
 before. 
 
 " My actions," she said to herself, " shall be 
 under command, though my feelings may not 
 be so. I will do the same I did before," 
 and she took her station in his darkened room, 
 where, by the glimmer of one shaded candle, 
 she usually passed a great part of the night 
 in reading. 
 
 That night her eyes in vain glanced over the 
 words, they conveyed no corresponding ideas 
 to her mind. She imagined long conversations 
 and explanations ; she fancied reproaches, ex-
 
 MILLY AND LUCY. 305 
 
 cuses, she pictured penitence and sorrow. 
 She convinced herself that, when Lord Mon- 
 treville examined his letters, and found this 
 one opened, he would be overwhelmed with 
 shame and self-reproach, and that he would 
 throw himself on her mercy. She considered 
 how it would then be her duty to act; she 
 consulted her own heart whether she should 
 then be able to restore him to the same place 
 in her affections. She tried to lower her 
 standard of manly excellence ; she tried to 
 frame to herself a less exalted scale of morals. 
 Alas ! is not this but too likely an error to 
 fall into, as the frailties and follies of human 
 nature open upon the young and gentle, to 
 whom it is painful to condemn and despise 
 their fellow- creatures.^ 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY, 
 
 Dorset-Street, Fleet-street.
 
 ^y 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILL1N0I3-URBAN« 
 
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