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                                 THE

                              CONTRAST,

              BY THE AUTHOR OF “MATILDA,” “YES AND NO,”
                               &c. &c.


              Take but degree away--untune that string,
              And hark! what discord follows.
                                             SHAKSPEARE.


                          IN THREE VOLUMES.

                              VOL. III.


                               LONDON:

                  HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
                        NEW BURLINGTON STREET,

                                1832.




                            THE CONTRAST.




                              CHAPTER I.

    Thou art in London, in that pleasant place
    Where every kind of mischief’s daily brewing,
    Which can await warm youth in its wild race.
                                                BYRON.

    She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew,
    As seeking not to know it.
                                          SILENT LOVE.


Is there one--the veriest citizen of the world though he may be--who
has not felt a sudden chill seize upon his energies, a blight fall
as it were upon his faculties, when in the varied changes of his
chequered life, he has found himself amid scenes to which he alone
is strange, whilst all around are, as it were, “to the manner born?”
The sense of inferiority can take no more painful shape than the
impossibility of entering into sources of enjoyment, which seem
open to every one else. This impression can only occasionally and
incidentally afflict the man of the world, its repetition is evaded
by shunning the unusual society which caused it, or quitting those
foreign sojourning places where it was found. He therefore could
have no idea of the oppressive sensation of hopeless solitude
which overpowered Lucy when she first found herself dropped in the
midst of the ever busy crowds of London. Your true cockney is apt
to speculate, with no little self satisfaction, upon the first
impression that the largest city in the world must make upon that
foreigner who has only seen Paris or Petersburgh, or that countryman
who has only visited Bath or York; but how could he estimate the
bewilderment of her who had never, till within a short time, strayed
from the solitary shores of Morden Bay? Country girls have no
doubt constantly before come up to London, without any previous
preparation; but then their impressions have been limited by their
own straitened circumstances, and their individual cares for the
coming day have much confined the effects produced on them by the
surrounding grandeur; and the smallness of their own share of the
comforts which they beheld, has limited their admiration of the
marvellous variety which was to be divided among others. On the other
hand, the strange conviction on Lucy’s mind, that she would now
have as large an individual command as any one, of all the varied
luxuries which on all sides bewildered her sight, gave her a painful
consciousness of her own littleness.

For nearly seven miles of suburb, she had been expecting to stop at
every door she passed, thinking it quite impossible the town could
extend any farther. A curious inquiry it would be, and probably
puzzling to more experienced investigators than Lucy, who live in
those houses, which are perpetually building in most out-of-the
way districts? Are the houses built for the inhabitants, or the
inhabitants fitted to the houses?

The carriage at length stopped at Lord Castleton’s door, which was
in one of the _soi-disant_ fashionable squares in the west end of
London. It was still very early in a London spring morning, that is,
it was not above two hours after noon, and Castleton determined to go
out, to collect new gossip from old acquaintance at the clubs, and
Lucy was left alone; and she felt as if she was the first person in
the world who had ever known the most extended signification of that
word _alone_.

The _soignée salon_ in which she had been left, opened, behind its
muslin draperies, upon a balcony and veranda, filled with rare
and sweet plants, and from thence she looked forth upon the scene
beyond, having first stepped out merely to catch the last glimpse
of Castleton as he turned the corner. By one used to the more busy
parts of the metropolis, it would have been styled a quiet situation;
but to Lucy it appeared as if some great event must have collected
an unusual crowd. And there they all hurry on, she thought, whether
on business or pleasure, sent by one person seeking another. And I,
perhaps, of all this moving crowd, am the only creature who knows no
one, and for whom no one cares. Castleton has gone forth, and however
surprised, there is no one of whom I can ask a question; however
pleased, no one to whom I can express my admiration: and whatever may
be the destination of all these ever-moving busy ants below, the only
thing certain is, that their pursuits have no connexion whatever with
me. She envied even the dustman, who through the iron rail of the
area, shook the hand that declined his call. She thought even the old
clothesman looked with an eye of interest on all he passed. She would
have liked to have participated in the anxious care of the nervous
nursery maid, in convoying her unruly six sail over a dangerous
crossing. As the day advanced, she marked with equal certainty
that she could have no interest in their motions; the thundering
notification of the stately coach, which all ended in depositing an
empty card, and the stealthy approach of the gliding _cab_, which
neared the flags, and dropped a more interesting billet, just where a
fair expectant hand awaited it, either for herself or mistress.--Each
succeeding incident, of which she was an unobserved spectator, only
increased her sense of loneliness. Her attention was, at length,
particularly attracted to a gay cavalcade of ladies and gentlemen
who were making the circuit from the other side of the square.
There were in all three ladies, and a superabundant attendance of
cavaliers. But Lucy’s eye was fixed on the lady who rode first,
between two gentlemen, her horse indicating that sort of becoming
impatience which excites fear for a bad horse-woman, and admiration
of a good one. But to Lucy it looked very tremendous, till, upon
nearer approach, she observed that so far from being alarmed, she
was talking gaily, and laughing merrily. Her head was turned towards
the gentleman nearest Lucy, whilst her other companion was anxiously
appearing to be amused with what she was saying.

As they came under the balcony, Lucy clapped her hands with delight,
saying to herself, “O, dear, I’m so happy there is somebody I do
know; that’s the kind lady of Hornscliff Abbey.”

It was impossible, indeed, for any one who had once seen Lady Gayland
to be mistaken. Though the expression of her countenance was now as
different from that which, when Lucy had last beheld her, beamed with
sympathy on her distresses, as the costume which she now wore, or the
occasion on which she was seen. In passing, even whilst continuing
the conversation, without elevating her head, she raised her eyes to
the balcony on which Lucy was standing. Lucy conceived she must have
heard her, but, perhaps, entirely unconnected with her, Lady Gayland
had her own motives for casting one transient glance unobserved
in that direction. Lucy, though, thought otherwise, and hastily
withdrew, imagining that the only impression which her presence there
could cause, on the lady’s mind must be, “What can Lucy Darnell be
doing in that fine house?”

Lucy would hardly have been able to account for her never having
mentioned to Castleton her interview with the Lady of Hornscliff
Abbey; but, perhaps, one reason was, that not till some time after
that event did she see him again. And though she would not have
thought of premeditated concealment from him of any important point,
they had never been upon those terms of easy equality which could
have induced her to volunteer confidence. Latterly, too, she had
observed so much uneasiness and impatience on his part, at any casual
mention of circumstances connected either with the trial or smuggling
transactions, that the fear of annoying him, coupled with her
ignorance of the lady’s name, which left her indeed little to tell,
prevented her, upon his return, from making any mention of the person
she had observed from the window.

Castleton came home in high spirits; he had been much pleased with
the cordial manner in which his re-appearance had been greeted by
all his old acquaintances. It is a pleasing illusion which, on such
an occasion, makes a man appropriate, as indicating a clear sense of
his own merits, those manifestations of delight at his re-appearance,
which have oftener no other foundation than the ebullitions of
selfish satisfaction, at any break or change in the wearisome
monotony of a life of pleasure.

But Castleton was too popular a man for him not to be justified
in attributing to more flattering motives much of the warmth of
his welcome. It was astonishing the deference that was paid to his
opinion upon all matters connected with the arts, literature, or
politics, considering that he had never exerted his own talents
directly in any of these different departments. But perhaps for this
very reason, as he never even drew except that once at Morden Bay,
which was certainly not with a view to extended fame, or wrote,
or spoke himself at all, and was equally devoid of any pretensions
of his own, as either artist, author, or orator, he was the more
readily allowed to decide upon those of others; more particularly
as his manner of conveying his opinions was as mild as the opinions
themselves were valuable. And having established amongst his
acquaintance universally, a character as arbiter of taste, he was not
a little anxious how far that character might be confirmed by the
estimate of his conduct in so important a point as the choice of a
wife; about which he had his own misgivings. The fact is, that in no
point had Castleton more deceived himself than in not perceiving that
that very over refinement in scrutinizing the motives and opinions
of others, which had made him suspect interested inconsistencies in
all women in his own rank in life, would, taking only another shape,
make him even more conscious than another would have been of the
inevitable incongruities of his present partner with that rank of
life to which he had raised her. One of a less morbidly critical
taste, less disposed to analyze below the surface, would have been
satisfied with that favourable impression which beauty and grace
in perfection could not fail to make in the first instance. But he
already began to fear that those mental deficiencies, which he had,
indeed, but lately discovered himself, must at first sight be obvious
to every one else. Still, uncomfortable, indeed, must have been the
forebodings which could not have been chased away, at least for the
time, by the look of confiding devotion with which she received
him upon his return. His first care was to make her, as far as he
could, comfortable in her new habitation. But a sense of comfort is
not a feeling which can at once be transfused, with the will of him
who wishes it. Comfort is so closely connected with habit, that
many things which to others would have contributed to confer it,
were to Lucy, from their strangeness, only additional sources of
embarrassment.

His next anxiety was as to her first introduction into society, or
what is called the world. He was right in thinking that upon this
occasion much depended upon that first impression; but he was wrong
in doubting that in Lucy’s case, the probabilities were much in
favour of that being advantageous. In London, provided a person is
positively pretty and new, their other qualities may be negative;
and as long as they are not obtrusively either awkward or silly,
they may pass muster very well, at least for a time. People have
not either the leisure or the inclination to pick out peccadilloes
in deportment, which they have in a country neighbourhood. If the
same persons were not exposed one half the year to the really severe
ordeal of the one, they would not be so very sensitive in the other.
In the London season, all the little social rubs to which all are
in turn subject, arise much more from an over estimate of their own
importance, than from any intentional depreciation of it on the part
of their associates. It is to the failure of attempts to be what they
are not, rather than to any dispute as to conceding what they are,
that self-inflicted mortifications may be traced. Those who keep one
foot within reach of firm ground, will never get much of a tumble, in
climbing the ladder of fashion.




                             CHAPTER II.

    Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world!
      Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar
    Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl’d
      Like harnessed meteors; then along the floor
    Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirled;
      Then roll the brazen thunders of the door,
    Which opens to a thousand happy few,
    An earthly paradise of “Or Molu.”
                                                      BYRON.


Lord Castleton changed his mind very often as to the best preparatory
introduction for Lucy to a few select friends. He was convinced that
before she was launched into the great world, he ought to provide
her with some female companion, under whose auspices she might then
make her appearance. For though it might look merely loving and
interesting for a bride to appear leaning on her husband’s arm,
in that society to which they had both been previously known; yet
where she was a stranger, like needlessly backing a bill, it might
excite a suspicion as to her being able to stand alone, without his
name being thus attached, or his hand thus put to insure her not
being discredited. His first intention was to have invited a small
party to dinner at his own house. But though this would have insured
him the absolute selection of all the individuals to whom Lucy
was, in the first instance, to have been introduced; on the other
hand, the active duties of a hostess, perhaps in her idea so much
more active than he would have thought necessary, were more than he
wished to entail upon her in her probationary trial. Then, as to
the lady to whom he was to apply as a sort of _chaperon_ for his
inexperienced bride, his thoughts first turned to Lady Gayland; a
direction in which, as I am afraid it must be acknowledged, they did
turn oftener than he would have chosen to admit. Yet he had a great
disinclination to exposing at once to her acute perception any little
foibles or deficiencies on Lucy’s part, though he knew that the mere
circumstance of any one requiring her assistance, would have disposed
her to view them in the most favourable light. Yet there were many
little traits of ignorance on Lucy’s part which he was labouring
hard to correct, and which he hoped might yet be completely removed,
without Lady Gayland’s ever being conscious of them. There were also
circumstances of misconception, if not of misunderstanding, connected
with his last parting with that lady at Naples, which prevented his
feeling authorized in abruptly asking of her a favour.

The difficulties, both with respect to when the introductory dinner
was to be given, and the person by whom Lucy was to be _chaperoned_,
were removed at the same time, by his accidentally meeting a cousin
of his, Mrs. Tudor, who at once occurred to him as admirably suited
to both purposes. She was indeed an excellent woman--Mrs. Tudor.
Every one admitted it, no one could deny it. Faultless as she was
herself, faultless was her society--faultless were her dinners.

Now why is it, that in this wicked world every one of my readers have
associated an idea of insipidity with the description I have just
given? There were no words used which seemed at all to make such
an interpretation necessary, yet in this particular instance it is
certainly the right one. Every thing connected with Mrs. Tudor was
essentially insipid. Perhaps when an excellent woman is married to a
good kind of man, and such was Tudor, it is too much. It gives one
the fidgets at once. But excellent women, particularly if they happen
to have house and fortune in proportion to their good qualities, are
very apt to have very extensive and very eligible acquaintance; and
Castleton could not possibly have made a happier choice of the person
who was to smooth the first entrance of Lucy into her new career.

Mrs. Tudor was pleased at the extent of the confidence reposed in
her, which Castleton limited to informing her, that his bride was a
young person who had been educated in retirement, and consequently
was not at all prepared for all the ways of the great world. And
though activity was not any part of Mrs. Tudor’s excellence, yet this
was just the sort of quiet exertion which only made her fancy herself
occupied. She immediately fixed an early day for the Castleton’s
to dine with her. Do not let the reader be alarmed with the idea,
that that day is going to be made the subject of minute description.
Suffice it to say, that good nature had, in this instance, its own
reward, in pleasing those whom it was intended to gratify. Faultless
was the dinner, faultless were the guests invited, and faultless,
with pleasure let us add, was Lucy’s deportment during the whole of
that day. Anxious as she had already become as to the impression
which her conduct in these different circumstances should make
upon Castleton, she was on this occasion re-assured by the kind
consideration with which she was treated by all, and therefore bore
her part without discredit or remark on those ordinary topics from
which the conversation never soared.

From Castleton’s lavish praises of her as they returned home in the
carriage, she felt as if she must have done wonders, and therefore
looked forward without much dread, to the engagement she had made
with Mrs. Tudor, to accompany her the following night to Lady
Delacour’s ball.

That style of beauty which is defined as the beauty of innocence,
is sometimes supposed to be but little improved by dress; but such
was not the opinion portrayed in the gratified expression of Lord
Castleton’s countenance, when he witnessed the successful result of
his wife’s toilet on the succeeding evening: for he thought he never
saw her look one half so well--which judgment she read at once in
his looks, and felt repaid for all she had gone through. The whole
affair had been to her a most painful infliction. She had been in
turns a victim in the hands of the milliner, the hair-dresser, and
her own maid, each of whose successive operations she had at the time
thought to be never ending. She bore the sufferings of a martyr with
the patience of a saint. But as Castleton, having first sent the
landau for the Tudors, that they might go together, in handing her
into it, cast one more approving glance by the hall lamp, and pressed
her hand encouragingly, she felt as if she was utterly indifferent
as to what any one else thought of her. And though her diffidence
so far returned, upon hearing her name shouted from hall to
landing-place, and doorway to doorway, as to make an “O pray don’t”
half pass her lips, addressed in a supplicatory tone to a peculiarly
stentorian callman; yet upon entering the rooms, her admiration at
the brilliancy of a scene so much beyond what she had previously
conceived possible, gave to her countenance a subdued expression of
enjoyment struggling with embarrassment, which to her style of beauty
was peculiarly becoming.

As she proceeded, under Mrs. Tudor’s arm, Castleton soon got
separated from her by the crowd of acquaintances, who at that moment
seemed to have no other object there than to welcome him back to
London. After this had a little subsided, whilst jostled by that most
fidgetting, unquiet, unaccommodating of all mobs, the hat-tugging,
gown-tearing mob of fashion, he was of course subject occasionally to
hear remarks which were not meant to meet his ear, but none as yet,
which were not on the whole rather flattering than not. “Who is that
pretty _new_ girl with Mrs. Tudor?” “Where’s the _new_ beauty--have
you seen her?” “Who is that _new_ woman every body is raving about?”
It is true, in all these encomiums, the emphasis was on the word
_new_, as if that was the great attraction; but at the same time,
this, which seemed to imply most in itself, was always coupled with
some favourable adjuncts.

After a little, when it became more generally known who she was, he
observed that his vicinity often caused some half-vented exclamation
or inquiry to be checked by the nudge of a neighbouring elbow; but
even then this appeared to be more from the opinion being rather free
and familiar in its expression, than unfavourable in its nature.
He thought it as well to avoid as much as possible the running
any more risks of this kind, and therefore, making his way out of
that apartment where the crowd was thickest, he came unexpectedly
in the next upon a select circle of admiring listeners, of which
Lady Gayland was the centre of attraction. Their eyes met at the
same instant; one moment she paused, though in the very agony of
a half-finished _bon mot_. She hesitated one moment more, then
stretched out her hand to him, saying, “How is Lady Castleton? Is she
here?”

Mumbling his reply to this, from her, unexpected question, he passed
on. She renewed her sentence, but somehow omitted its point. Her
hearers were much disappointed thereat, though some who listened
were not aware of the fact. Amongst them was a foreign nobleman, to
whom our old acquaintance, Peter Spencer, much to her annoyance,
was showing off Lady Gayland, as a sort of literary lioness. The
Count Finale was a gentlemanlike, inoffensive man, who had been
much puzzled, upon first coming to this country, which of the two
alternatives, offered to every foreigner, he had better select,--the
could and would speak English line, or not. This is a very awkward
choice to make, and there are so many disadvantages both ways, that
it is really difficult to know which to recommend. All foreigners
now, after a manner, speak English, and few like to do it, but they
must profess both or neither, in the first case they are much more
generally well received, but get much less separate attention. They
have more acquaintance but less society; for it is impossible that
they can for some time make out the clipped, slovenly colloquy, in
which so much the greater part of common conversation passes current.
But the Count Finale had at length taken upon himself the alternative
of assumed knowledge, the consequence of which was, that he was at
the present moment in the most disagreeable situation for a gallant
man, that of appearing to be more amused than he really was with a
beautiful woman; for Lady Gayland’s thoughts flowed in much too rapid
sketches for him to be able to follow them.

“You are not aware, my dear Count,” said Peter Spencer, “that Lady
Gayland is a dweller on Parnassus--that she makes up an even _half
score_ with the _Nine_; indeed, there’s hardly a _muse_ whose
department she might not double with advantage, upon occasion.”

The habitual inattention which she always extended to every saying of
Peter Spencer’s, might account for her taking no notice whatever of
this pretty speech, without its being necessary to suppose that her
thoughts were just then straying after that mental will-o’-the-wisp,
the memory of by-gone visions. But Sir North Saunders, who was
standing by, was determined not to let the conversation drop,
therefore continued--

“Seen Lady Gayland’s last little work--eh! Count?”

“O pray, Sir North, don’t talk of one’s _work_, it sounds so
mechanical--savours much more of the tambour frame than the printing
press. Besides, work was a very appropriate description, when the
brain was distilled by midnight oil in a lonely garret. But now the
stud of letters is as light as the lives of the authors, who first
_amuse_ themselves, as the best way of _amusing_ their readers.
Formerly even _plays_ were _works_, but now any _work_ is but _play_.
Besides, from the days of Byron downwards, if an author has passions
he puts them into poetry--if foibles, he owns them with only the
additional lackering of some imaginary merit, confesses himself
grand but faulty--doubly gratifies his vanity, by being himself his
own theme--puts but a little gilt paper upon the blackest parts of
his character, and, in this May day finery, presents himself to an
admiring world.”

Lord Castleton, who had been hovering near, again approached, time
enough to catch most of the last speech, and said more to the speaker
herself, than those whom she had been addressing,

“Heaven forefend that I should ever take pen in hand; but if I did,
it would be to use myself as a warning, not a model. It would be
from the reverse of my own sentiments I should expect sympathy--from
a contrast to my own conduct I should promise happiness.”

Lady Gayland cast one penetrating glance upon him, as if wishing
to detect whether there was any particular meaning attached to so
extraordinary an avowal; and then saying, “And this from a newly
married man too, _che vergogna_,” she passed on.




                             CHAPTER III.

    Methinks I play as I have seen them
    In Whitsun past’rals: sure this robe of mine
    Does change my disposition.

    We are come to this great stage of fools--
    Wilt stay and see the revellers?
                                                SHAKSPEARE.


Lucy had been very much admired by all to whom Mrs. Tudor had
introduced her. A sweet smile, gentle manners, and the absence of
any kind of pretension, are quite enough to be supposed agreeable,
as well as attractive, by new acquaintances, in a mixed crowd. She
was quite equal to reciprocating comments upon the merits of the
fête, with those who, after presentation, hazarded two or three
commonplace sentences; and if she did use an out-of-the-way phrase
upon such an occasion, it was only reckoned original. Whilst thus
occupied, she observed her kind friend of Hornscliff Abbey intently
gazing on her, who, as soon as she saw that she was remarked,
advanced towards Mrs. Tudor, and begged to be presented to Lady
Castleton. Lucy was first puzzled at her former friend thinking
it necessary to go through that ceremony, and to treat her as a
stranger; but when Mrs. Tudor turned away to speak to some one,
Lady Gayland said in somewhat an under tone, “Forgive me, dear Lady
Castleton, if I suggest to you that, considering the circumstances
under which we last met, it should not be known that we ever did meet
before. It sounds odd advice; but I should particularly recommend
that Lord Castleton should not know it. He is so very old an
acquaintance of mine, that I think he will be better pleased in not
knowing that I am also an old acquaintance of yours. But to prove
to you that I consider myself as such, will you take a turn with me
whilst Mrs. Tudor there is curing the cholera? You will see much
more, by changing the pair of eyes by which you are shown all this
phantasmagoria.” So saying, she linked her arm in Lucy’s, and they
paraded through the suite of rooms.

As they passed along, the flattering admiration of the surrounding
throng was equally lost on both, though the sensations which produced
that disregard were widely dissimilar. In one it arose from simple
unconsciousness of the effect she produced, in the other from mere
dislike at the open demonstration of that which she felt nevertheless
to be her due.

“My dear Lady Castleton,” said her companion; “I have no doubt you
feel very strange in this unknown crowd.”

“O I do indeed! and if you only knew how delightful it is to find
myself talking with one, who I know, from experience, would on
occasion be so kind to me:” and she clung more closely to Lady
Gayland’s arm as she said it.

“Yes, but I am afraid that if here no one was to talk, except with
those whom they knew, if occasion served, would be kind to them, that
it would rather resemble the Temple of Silence, than the Babel it now
is. If I could only label these moving figures for your instruction,
you would be astonished how soon you would get to know as much of
them, as many who have for years what is called _lived_ in their set.
From a little observation, you would be able to detect whether they
had neglected their dentist, enriched their milliner, or cashiered
their _coiffeur_; and that is about the whole knowledge which their
friends, called intimate, have collected concerning them. This is
called by some a mere marriage mart; that is, however, only one
department in the bazaar of fashion; but the whole is, after all, but
a sort of face-fair--a show of bipeds; and the stock know about as
much of each other, as bullocks would from standing next stall.”

“But surely you, Lady Gayland, are an exception; ever since I have
been with you, you have spoken to so many people as if you knew them
so well; and not one but has seemed to long to linger with you, had
you not passed on.”

“Why I, to be sure, upon the principle that lookers on see most of
the game--I, who, having no husband, have not either to watch or
be watched, and have, likewise, no daughter to mind, or mother to
mind me, I am let a little behind the scenes, which only lets me
a thousand times more into the secret of the advantages of your
present position, as an unseen _debutante_. Why any mother in the
room would think her daughter’s fortune certain, and would begin to
criticise incumbrances in any offer beneath a dukedom, who had had
half the pretty things said of her, that have this night been said of
you; but that could only be the first night. No one knows so well as
chaperon chapwomen the converse of the French proverb, _Marchandise
que plait, est à moitié vendue_. But I forget; perhaps you do not
understand French,” added she kindly.

“No, indeed! I do not at all,” said Lucy, “though Castleton don’t
like me to say so.” Adding this domestic explanation in a tone which
perfectly conveyed to her auditress, “Though I have volunteered the
confession, do not betray me to him.”

“It is my fault for expressing myself in speckled language. It is
a great fault, I own. A foreign phrase, like a piebald horse, has
nothing to excuse the oddity of its use, but its being faultless and
perfect in its form, and peculiarly adapted to the purpose to which
it is applied. But see! here comes an old acquaintance of yours, Sir
North Saunders; never mind, do not fear his recognizing you, for he
moves about in a perpetual halo of selfishness, which prevents his
clearly distinguishing what does not concern himself.”

As she finished this piece of advice to Lucy, Sir North approached
Lady Gayland, and addressed her.

“Permit--in offering, as usual, adoration at my accustomed
shrine,--may be allowed to add farther offerings at the side altar
that now distracts my devotion. Will you present me to our friend’s
beautiful bride, Lady Castleton?”

“Sir North Saunders, as the most gallant of men, is naturally
anxious to make the acquaintance of his friend’s beautiful bride.
Lord Castleton is his friend--you are the beautiful bride. Lady
Castleton--Sir North Saunders! Sir North Saunders--Lady Castleton.
There, that’s quite in order, is not it? And now permit the neglected
shrine to move itself out of the renegade’s way.” And she took Lady
Castleton’s other arm, which brought Lucy next to Sir North, who
addressed her,

“Never more thoroughly convinced of the pre-eminence of Castleton’s
universally acknowledged taste.”

A formal curvature of his short fat figure was meant to complete the
compliment inferred in this half finished sentence; but Lucy only
looked confused and uneasy, as she could not yet persuade herself
that those little grey eyes, which she had last seen fixed on her,
with all the assumed appearance of intense scrutiny, could so soon
have ceased to reflect any trace of her identity. Sir North therefore
continued--

“Earliest friend--flatter myself, of Castleton.--Came of age as
Horncliffe--arrived at years of discretion--rather _volage_ in
those days. You ladies never like your husbands the worse for that,
in the preterpluperfect time. Hope to have the pleasure of seeing
you at Hornscliff Abbey. Your friend, Lady Gayland, behaved very
shabbily,--actually run away--second day--mus’n’t do that.”

“My dear Sir North, you know I was obliged, and couldn’t help myself;
but I assure you, Lady Castleton, you’ll find Sir North sometimes
tyrannical in the extent to which he pushes hospitality. Do you know,
now, if he thought there was any chance of your making your escape,
I shouldn’t wonder if he was actually to lock you up. Only think of
that--lock you up,--yes, positively keep you under lock and key!”

“Really, my dear Lady, that is rather a worn-out attack upon me.
However, it is, to be sure, perfectly new to Lady Castleton. You
don’t know, perhaps, that this joke originated in Lady Gayland’s
having taken a prodigious fancy to the society of a pretty vagrant,
brought up before me as a disorderly person. Poz--believe she left
Hornscliff, because I wouldn’t ask the fair tramper to my table.”

“Come, Sir North, you had better say no more on that subject,” said
Lady Gayland, seeing it distressed Lucy. “I can assure you Lady
Castleton won’t think the better of you for it.”

“Scrupulously avoid any unfavourable impression in such a
quarter.--Hope to be able to convince you that Hornscliff is not such
a dungeon. Not much used, apparently, to the hardships of rural
routine. No fear of being exposed to the fatigues of sight-seeing
at Hornscliff,--never be required to pound along in clogs. Confine
yourself, if you like, to the thirty-yard terrace, along which Mrs.
Macangle used once, before dusk, to glide, in green satin slippers,
to match its velvety surface.”

“I’ll tell you what, though, Sir North,” said Lady Gayland, “if I had
staid at Hornscliff Abbey, I should have voted your terrace _flat_ as
well as level. A country morning ought to be as varied as a London
evening; though the monotony of the first half of the day here, and
the latter there, is unavoidable.

“Always ready to adapt myself to the taste of my guests. Once,--years
ago, when your husband was a very young man, Lady Castleton, I
remember we did make a most extraordinary expedition to a strange
out-of-the-way place, called Morden Bay. But if Castleton ever
mentioned the circumstance, I dare say his recollection was not of
the distance being so formidable, for he was in love then.”

“In love!” thought Lucy. “Was his early partiality for me, then,
already suspected?”

“Don’t be alarmed, Lady Castleton. She of whom I speak,” continued
Sir North, “could never have been your rival, even if she had been
your contemporary; but hers was the reign of another generation. Poor
Lady Madelina Manfred! Castleton was her last conquest--certainly
made the most of him while it lasted. Ah, Castleton, just in time to
prevent the exposure of your past peccadilloes to your wife.”

Castleton gave him an inquiring stare, which seemed to say, “I do
think you very impertinent, but I won’t tell you so for fear of
provoking a continuance of the same:” and then turning to Lady
Gayland, said earnestly, “I cannot tell you how kind I think it of
_you_ to have taken such care of my inexperienced _debutante_.”

There was a slight emphasis on the words “_of you_,” which might
imply that it was what he had no reason to expect of her in
particular; but if such was its signification, Lady Gayland took no
notice of it, only replying, “I have been endeavouring to persuade
Lady Castleton to accompany me to my box at the opera tomorrow night;
she says she has never been there.”

Castleton would have found it difficult to separate the notions, or
to analyze the feelings, which induced him so readily to accept this
offer of Lady Gayland’s. And it was thus they separated the first
night of their renewed acquaintance, after a long interval, and under
much altered circumstances. Castleton was in spirits during the
return homewards; and as soon as they had deposited the Tudors, and
he was left alone with Lucy, delighted her with his praises of her
deportment during the whole evening, saying, “I am sure you must have
been all I could have wished, to have pleased Lady Gayland.”

“Well, I am sure,” said Lucy, “she is the person next to yourself
whose good opinion I should most wish to gain.”

But in spite of this, which was indeed the utterance of her real
feelings towards that lady, Lucy was not quite contented with
herself, or with that society which had produced such a feeling of
self-dissatisfaction on her part. It would have been inconvenient,
considering Castleton’s dislike to such a discovery, to have been
recognized by Sir North; but it is never very welcome to a young and
pretty woman to have been so soon and so completely forgotten, even
by Sir North Saunders, particularly as the terms in which alone her
other self had been mentioned were so little flattering. She could
not but remember that she was still the same person; that it was no
difference either in her character or identity, but merely the act of
another, which caused her to be now so differently considered in that
society to which he had raised her.

But the part which hurt her most was the new version which had that
night been given by Sir North, to the attraction which rendered
interesting to Castleton his former visit to Morden Bay.

Lucy’s diffidence as to her own merits and unlimited sense of
Castleton’s superiority, had often made her wonder why, courted as
she saw he still was, admired as she believed he must always have
been, he should nevertheless have diverged from his natural sphere
of triumph on purpose to win her from her remote seclusion. Yet with
all her modest astonishment that such should have been the case, she
still clung to the idea that at dear Morden Bay, at least, she was
supreme, that there “her reign there was none to dispute;” and of
all the splendid gifts with which he had presented her since their
marriage, there was none in her eyes which had half the value of
the little French watch given on the occasion of that first visit
to Morden Bay, and to which she always referred with pleasure, as
proving the consistency and permanence of his attachment, whenever
a painful sensation of inferiority made her almost question its
possibility.

The idea, therefore, started by Sir North, that at that time it was
the company of another which alone made the expedition to Morden Bay
tolerable to him, was most annoying to Lucy. She longed to question
her husband on the subject, but dared not.

This was an unfortunate effect of the timidity which rather
increased towards him, the longer they continued to live together,
without establishing any habits of confidence between them, which,
though most indulgent to her in every other respect, Castleton
never encouraged, from feeling a growing distrust of the power of
her intellect to reciprocate confidential communications. Had she
happily ventured to mention what Sir North had hinted to her, of the
companion he had had tacked to him at the time of that expedition,
Lucy would have found with pleasure, that nothing had so much
contributed to the cure of the sickly delusion under which Castleton
was then labouring, as the first sight of herself on the shore of
Morden Bay.




                             CHAPTER IV.

            She, ’midst the gay world’s hum,
    Was the queen-bee--the glass of all that’s fair;
    Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb--
    The last’s a miracle.
                                                 BYRON.

    That strain again--It had a dying fall;
    O it came o’er my ear like the sweet south
    That breathes upon a bank of violets,
    Stealing and giving odour. Enough--no more--
    ’Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
                                            SHAKSPEARE.


It so happened that the Italian Opera was the first scenic exhibition
of any description at which Lucy had ever been present. If such
amusements had been of easier attainment from Bankside Farm, Mrs.
Darnell would have thought a play-bill only a synonymous term for
a sure pass to perdition. Alice Darnell, it is true, through all
her sorrows, had always retained a lingering partiality for a
“metior,” in which she had during her short career been so eminently
successful; and she often took pleasure in attempting to explain to
her little niece, whilst reading parts of Shakspeare, the effect
that might be produced by the impersonation of the characters by
different actors; but still, no previous description can give to a
person who has never witnessed it, any adequate idea of the power of
perfect dramatic representation. Lucy would have been much astonished
if taken for the first time to one of our great national theatres,
where she would at least have understood the language, and made out
the intentions of the performers. But Castleton was, except upon
extraordinary occasions, a creature of habit. Winter was past--spring
was already advanced. As Covent Garden market comes into season,
Covent Garden Theatre goes out, and Lucy was taken for the first
time, to the Italian Opera; and to the effect of novelty which
any thing of the kind would have produced on her, were added the
perfectly unintelligible incongruities of that style of performance.

Perhaps when given in perfection, there is no description of scenic
representation which opens a more varied source of enjoyment to an
habitual frequenter of theatres. But then the rudiments of dramatic
representation must have been first understood. The merits of an
accurate imitation of nature must not only first have been tasted,
but the pleasure derived from that pure source, must in some measure
have been exhausted, before the graft of song upon incident and
character, could be relished.

There is, perhaps, nothing yet produced by the progress of
civilization, so thoroughly artificial as an Italian opera; and to a
child of nature like Lucy, it may be imagined, that much that night
was perfectly incomprehensible. As long as deadly defiance is hurled
in the most perfect concord--voices ringing in harmony, whilst swords
are brandishing in enmity--the crisis of fate consumed in repeating,
some hundred times, some Italian paraphrase of “I cannot stay, I
must away,” which practical performance of an alleged impossibility,
is probably encored--the most confidential communications of the
most disordered despair given over the lamps in the most elaborate
_roulades_, whilst four-and-twenty old maids all in a row, repeat
together at stated intervals “Poor thing! Poor thing--how very
much we all pity you!”--whilst thus upon every occasion sense is
sacrificed to sound, it would appear that assumption of character
must be a mere mockery. Yet this is far from being the case. In
losing the verisimility of nature, the unity of effect as a whole is
of course destroyed; yet so powerful is the additional impulse given
to the excited senses, by the aid of appropriate music adapted to the
action portrayed, that perhaps much the most brilliant movements of
the mimic art have been of late years on the Italian boards. And the
night in question was rich in examples of that description, for the
opera was Semiramide, and the finest living actress of the world, the
splendid Pasta, was the heroine.

Lady Gayland’s box was upon the pit tier, more upon the stage than
over the orchestra. Lady Gayland, passionately fond of music as she
was, had already arrived when Castleton and his wife entered. Lady
Castleton sat in front next the stage, Lady Gayland on the opposite
side, with her back to the audience, and Castleton beside her. Partly
from the earliness of the hour, and partly from the interest of the
performance of that opera, then new to this country, they remained
long without any additional visitors. Every thing was a matter of
bewilderment to Lucy, from the very first crash of the overture,
which, except the war of the winter waves, was the loudest sound she
had ever heard.

As subjects of astonishment and admiration accumulated in the opera,
she became confused with their multitude, and ashamed to show the
extent to which she was puzzled, by asking any questions. Lady
Gayland’s good-natured attempt to explain the story as it proceeded,
was not very successful, as Lucy could not retain either the real or
assumed names of the persons described, so as to be able to identify
them again; and the nature of the (to her) strange costumes, puzzled
her even as to which were meant for men, and which for women. The
choruses she could not at all understand. She longed to ask how
so many people could think of singing exactly the same words all
together, unless it had been a psalm. The finely executed elongation
of a high note, to her ignorant simplicity, seemed only an unmeaning
squall.

In the mean time, Castleton and Lady Gayland were in a state of
ecstasy only known to the true “Fanatici,” an enjoyment certainly
much enhanced to both of them by their being able mutually to
communicate their sensations. It has been remarked, that the peculiar
character of Castleton was the refinement of his taste, which was on
some occasions much too fastidious for his happiness; but in nothing
was his taste more perfect than in music, though he was often too
much of an enthusiast to be a very captious critic.

Castleton and Lady Gayland had often together heard and admired Pasta
in the same opera in Italy; and whilst they therefore anticipated
the brilliancy of each well-known passage, or subsequently discussed
its comparative merit, now and the last time they had heard it, Lucy
could not conceive how it was possible for any one to remember sounds
so long.

Perhaps that sympathy which depends on sound is, of all others, the
most independent of events, the most survives change, or despises
distance. It may be, that when any similarity occurs, the points of
difference are not so distinguishable by the ear as by the eye; but
certainly in foreign lands the tone of a bell, or even the whistling
of the wind, will sometimes recall a distant home more strongly than
any likeness in the outline of the landscape. And amongst individuals
the recollection of a loved and a lost one is sometimes casually
revived by a well-known intonation, or even emphasis, in the mouth
of an indifferent relative, when no family resemblance of feature
would have been admitted. Be this as it may, the impression now made
on Castleton and Lady Gayland, as the opera proceeded, and each
well-remembered cadence recurred was, that here again were the same
syren sounds which they had together heard, together admired. Even so
had they then sat, side by side; yet how changed in every respect now
was their relative position!

“I remember,” said Castleton, in answer to some remark of Lady
Gayland’s, “you made a similar observation to me last time we heard
it--it was the night before I left Naples.”

“Yes,” said Lady Gayland, “and Frank Melmoth was sitting, as it might
be, where Lady Castleton now is--I have never seen him either, since
that night.”

“You have never seen him since that night?”

“No; the pennyless treasurer passed on to his appropriate post in one
of the colonies.”

“And after that night you _never_ saw him?” eagerly asked Castleton.

“Never,” replied Lady Gayland calmly, clearing her “_longnettes_,”
and directing them towards the stage with a “_sang froid_” that
seemed to convey the idea that the fact was one which neither had
then made any impression on her, nor did she wish that its recital
should now make any on her auditor.

It will not be necessary to inflict on the reader any speculation
upon the nature of those mixed reflections which, during the next
few minutes of silence, whilst they were apparently absorbed in
attention to the performance, distracted the attention of the two
musical amateurs. It will be sufficient to explain that this Frank
Melmoth was rather a popular character, though what is commonly
called a cool hand. It was impossible to deny that he was amusing;
though not witty, he was funny,--a characteristic acquired by a
mixture of impudence and humour, which forms a sort of chemical
compound, often substituted for the real attic salt. There were
moments when it rather suited Lady Gayland’s humour to be amused
than interested, and of these Frank Melmoth availed himself during
his stay at Naples, on his way to the distant sinecure which his
necessities had obliged him to accept. A widow is said to be the
reverse of a sinecure, but he thought that a jointure, even with
its lively accompaniment, was better than being buried alive with
a pension; and therefore did his best to win her favour: in which
attempt he soon detected Castleton to be a formidable rival; and in
his endeavours to overcome that obstacle, Frank Melmoth was up to
a certain point successful. He had certainly most powerful weapons
with which to work, in Lady Gayland’s keen relish for ridicule, and
Castleton’s morbid sense of its slightest application to himself. Not
only did he sometimes succeed in amusing Lady Gayland at Castleton’s
expense, but in causing her demonstration of that amusement to be
offensive to Castleton’s taste, as well as hurtful to his feelings.
Lady Gayland was afraid that she had already shown herself too
sensible of the partiality of her sensitive admirer, to render these
playful ebullitions on her part of more than momentary impression;
but Castleton, whose feelings were too irritable on this subject
for his judgment to be very sound, thought that he perceived in her
readiness, when in a merry mood, to seek amusement from the society
of Frank Melmoth, another proof that (like the young lady whom he
mentioned in his letter to his friend St. Clair,) if she hesitated
between them, it was only the adventitious advantages of his
position in the world which rendered her choice doubtful, otherwise
her preference would have been decidedly accorded to the needy Frank
Melmoth.

This was an opinion which Frank did every thing in his power to
confirm. He had, indeed, induced Castleton by this means to hasten
his departure from Naples, and as he was obliged himself to proceed
soon, if not successful in his then pursuit, he had succeeded
in driving Castleton from the box at San Carlo that night, _in
dispetto_ with himself, and fancying that he was leaving behind a
triumphant rival, who five minutes afterwards brought upon himself
the sudden termination of all his hopes by an abrupt proposal, which
was summarily and concisely rejected, and the next morning, which
saw Castleton flying with foaming steeds in imaginary discomfiture
over the Pontine Marshes, saw Frank Melmoth thoroughly defeated,
paddling in a sulky steam-boat out of the bay of Naples. It may
therefore be seen, that if in the reflections which the same opera,
seen again together, mutually aroused, there was any food for
regret--that regret could on neither side be entirely unmingled
with self-reproach. Thoughtlessness had made Lady Gayland assume
the appearance of what she was far from being--a coquette; and in
Castleton’s case, distrust of himself had made him most unjust to
another whom he had then no right to doubt.

Towards the conclusion of the opera, these reflections were
interrupted by the dropping in, in succession, of many “a young man
about town,” _habitués_ of Lady Gayland’s box, whose nightly visit
had this time a double motive, as they were all anxious to have a
nearer view of the “new woman,” whom they had been admiring from a
distance.

At the conclusion of the opera, this rotation proceeded rapidly;
and Lucy was presented to an undistinguishable succession of young
gentlemen, with black heads and neckcloths, who had each hardly time
to mutter, “how divine Pasta had been!” when another and another
still succeeded.

Through all this Castleton had kept his station by the side of Lady
Gayland, by a sort of brevet rank, which the presence of his bride
gave him. Latterly, the society had again become more stationary.
Next to Castleton was his friend St. Clair, with whom he was soon
engaged in an interesting conversation. Opposite to them was Lord
Stayinmore, who had never more than a certain set of phrases to
address to a lady. Having exhausted these to Lucy, he suffered
himself to be engrossed by Sir North, on his other side, in a
political discussion.

Lady Gayland, therefore, took the opportunity of inquiring of Lucy,
“how the opera had amused her?” There was that unmistakable air of
real interest in Lady Gayland’s manner, whenever she addressed Lucy,
which made her always reply in a tone of confidence, different from
that which she felt towards any other member of the society in which
she moved.

“Why, to tell the honest truth,” said she, leaning forward towards
her questioner, “I can’t say that I could the least understand what
it all meant. It’s not likely that people should sing when they’re in
such sorrow; and then I can’t guess why that young man should kill
the queen that was so kind to him all along.”

“I don’t wonder that that should surprise you, my dear; but he was
not aware of what he was doing. It was in the dark.”

“In the dark! But I could see very well who it was, though I did not
know her so well as he did, and was so much farther off.”

“I am afraid you are in the dark, too, a little as yet,” said Lady
Gayland, (tapping her gently with her fan.) “But, tell me, did you
not admire the singing, though you could not understand the story?”

“Why, I should, perhaps, if I had known the language; but even then
they seemed to me more like birds, than men and women singing words.
I like a song that I can make out every word that’s said, just as
cousin George used to sing.”

She rather dropped her voice at the last half sentence, but not so
much as for it to escape the quick ear of Castleton, who turned
sharply round, even before Lady Gayland asked, “And who, pray, is
cousin George, my dear?”

“A relative of Lady Castleton’s, who is in the navy,” answered
Castleton for her; and then turned round to St. Clair again, as if,
though having heard it he had answered it, it was nevertheless a
question of no moment.

The overture to the ballet, just then commencing with a crash, Lady
Gayland took advantage of that moment to beckon Lucy towards her, and
whisper, “At Hornscliff that day, was he not?” and on her assenting,
Lady Gayland raised her finger to her lip in token of silence on the
subject.

The curtain then rose for the ballet; at first, Lucy was delighted
with the scenery and pageantry, for the spectacle was grand and
imposing. But at length the resounding plaudits announced the
_entrée_ of the perfect Taglioni. Lucy was a little astonished at her
costume upon her first appearance. She was attired as a goddess, and
goddesses’ gowns are somewhat of the shortest, and their legs rather
_au naturel_; but when she came to elicit universal admiration by
pointing her toe, and revolving in the slow _pirouette_, Lucy, from
the situation in which she sat, was overpowered with shame at the
effect; and whilst Lady Gayland, with her _longnette_ fixed on the
stage, ejaculated, “Beautiful! inimitable!” the unpractised Lucy
could not help exclaiming, “O that is too bad! I cannot stay to see
that!” and she turned her head away, blushing deeply.

“Is your ladyship ill?” exclaimed Lord Stayinmore. “Castleton, I am
afraid Lady Castleton feels herself indisposed.”

“Would you like to go?” kindly inquired Castleton.

“O so much!” she answered.

“Are you ill, my dear?” asked Lady Gayland.

“O no!” she said.

“Then you had better stay, it is so beautiful.”

“Thank you, Lord Castleton is kind enough to let me go.”

Which he did, still imagining that she had been suddenly taken ill.
Therefore St. Clair volunteered to call her carriage--Lord Stayinmore
bowed his lowest as she passed--Sir North reached his highest to
help her on with her cloak--Lady Gayland took leave of her most
kindly--and Castleton attending her with the greatest care, she was
safely conveyed to the carriage; and it was not till then that he
entreated an explanation of what had really been the cause of her
sudden departure.




                              CHAPTER V.

                             Oh, brave new world,
                     That hath such people in it!
                                                    SHAKSPEARE.

    Those that are good manners at the court, are as
    ridiculous in the country.
                                                    SHAKSPEARE.


“And how do you find yourself now, my dear Lucy?” tenderly inquired
Castleton, as the carriage drove off.

“O I am quite well, thank you.”

“Quite well! are you? What was it, then, that was the matter with
you?”

“There was nothing the matter with me; it was that woman.”

“What woman? what can you mean? Did you not say that you were ill;
and was not that the reason that we hurried away?”

“No! YOU said I was ill; and I did not contradict you, because you
tell me that in the world, as you call it, it is not always right
to give the real reason for what we do; and therefore I thought,
perhaps, that though of course you wished me to come away, you liked
to put it upon my being ill.”

“Of course I wished you to come away! I was never more unwilling to
move in all my life; and nothing but consideration for your health
would have induced me to stir. Why should I have wished you to come
away?”

“Why, the naked woman,” stammered Lucy.

“What can you mean?”

“You couldn’t surely wish me to sit by the side of those people, to
see such a thing as that?”

“As to being by the side of those people, I must remind you, that
it was Lady Gayland’s box in which you were; and that whatever she,
with her acknowledged taste and refinement, sanctions with her
presence, can only be objected to by ignorance or prejudice. You have
still a great deal to learn, my dear Lucy,” added he, more kindly;
“and nothing can be so fatal to your progress in that respect, as
your attempting to lead, or to find fault, with what you do not
understand.”

“But surely I can understand that it is not right to do what I saw
that woman do,” interrupted Lucy, presuming a little more doggedly
than she usually ventured to do on any subject with her husband; for
this time she had been really shocked by what she had seen.

“Wrong it certainly is not, if you mean moral wrong. As to such an
exhibition being becoming or not in point of manners, that depends
entirely upon custom. Many things at your father’s might strike
me as coarsenesses, which made no impression upon you from habit,
though much worse in my opinion than this presumed indecorum. Those
things probably arose from ignorance on your parts, which might be
corrected. This, on the other hand, from conventional indifference,
consequent on custom, which it is not in you to correct. Depend upon
it you will only get yourself laughed at, and me too, if you preach
about dancers’ petticoats.”

“I don’t want to preach to any body; and you know how much it fashes
me to contend with you.”

“Don’t say FASHES, say distresses, or annoys, not _fashes_, for
heaven’s sake, my dear Lucy.”

“O dear, it was very stupid of me to forget it. That was one of the
first things you taught me, and it is a many days since I said it
last; but it is so strange to me to venture to differ with you, that
I get confused, and don’t say any thing as right as I could do. Even
now I should like to ask, if modesty is a merit, whether nakedness
ought to be a show; but I’ll say no more, for I dare say you won’t
make me go there again.”

“No, that will be the best way to settle it. Certainly, if it is no
enjoyment to you, it would be much better that you should not go at
all, than make yourself particular by imagining evil where there is
none. One thing more I must remark to you, and I may as well do it
at once, as I had always rather get over any thing that assumes the
odious shape of a lecture, and have done with it.”

“I know what you are going to say, I’m sure,” said Lucy, feeling
rather bolder than usual, from her present position. The obscurity,
easy motion, and rumbling accompaniment of a London chariot, have
often promoted confidences which no other relative situations have
elicited. “I know what you are going to say. I ought not to have
thought about cousin George.”

“Thought about him! no! It was not that I meant. I was going to say,
that no person in good society talks about COUSIN George. Call him
_George_, if you must mention him; though his accomplishments cannot
be a very interesting topic to any one you are likely to see here. I
am sure if he had been known to them, the idea of your boasting of
his singing must have seemed still more absurd. Stentorian lungs, and
uproarious merriment, must have been his principal qualifications.”

“Indeed, he could sing with great feeling sometimes,” Lucy could not
help adding; and then checking herself, “but I ought certainly to
have recollected, that you have no reason to like him; and though in
his case you returned good for evil, you are not like to fancy much
hearing him praised by me.”

This was not exactly the footing upon which Castleton would have
wished to have left the subject, but just then the carriage stopped
at home, and Lucy, when he handed her out said,

“I am so very sorry that I have _annoyed_ you; that’s the right word,
is not it? And I’m sure it’s the right feeling.”

After this he could not but think that any renewal of any of the
topics in dispute, would be unkind and harsh on his part.

“I wish to ask a great favour, my dear Lord,” said Lucy, anxiously,
as they were seated the next morning at breakfast.

“Speak on, my dear,” said he, rather fearing some unsuitable request.

“I wish you would be good enough to tell me how I could make myself
most like Lady Gayland.”

“Make yourself like Lady Gayland! why should you wish it?” inquired
he, at once struck with the impossibility of her succeeding in such
an attempt.

“Because I feel that I admire her even more than I love her, and that
is difficult.--So easy in her cleverness as she is, and so kind to
others--so good as she was to me once!”

“Once! when?”

“I should have said _always_, for she is always kind to me.”

“My dear Lucy, I will not pretend to be otherwise than much pleased
at the desire you have expressed; which shows that you must have
taste to appreciate what you desire to imitate. But at the same
time, believe me, there would be nothing more impossible to imitate
than that ease, or rather absence of effect in cleverness, which
struck even you so much in Lady Gayland. You have a thousand other
charms of your own equally estimable, but perhaps the greatest is
that perfect nature which is incompatible with imitation. One thing,
however, I can recommend, as you introduced the subject, and think
not in alluding to it I am reviving, with any unpleasant feeling, the
occurrences of yesterday evening. But if my pretty little Lucy need
not attempt to be like, as little need she endeavour to be unlike,
Lady Gayland; and if you do not emulate as necessary, as little
need you avoid as wrong, any thing you observe in that accomplished
person.”

“At any rate if it is only to direct me thus far, I hope at least you
think that the more I see of Lady Gayland the better.”

And to this Lucy received no negative from Castleton.

Lady Gayland probably deceived herself in the nature of the motives
and feelings which induced her to acquiesce in the desire, equally
obvious on the part both of Castleton and Lucy, that their
intercourse with her should ripen into intimacy. She certainly
thought that the interest with which Lucy had inspired her, did not
depend at all upon the person she had married, but that, on the
contrary, had Castleton married any one else, past recollection
would have induced her rather to avoid him. The singular nature of
her first meeting with Lucy, combined with the strange coincidence
of her again crossing her path in so different a rank in life, and
the mystery in which that elevation was involved, would in her
imaginative brain have given a romantic charm to the acquaintance,
independent of the fact, that the precise fate which must have been
so unexpectedly thrust on her, whom she had known so forlorn and
lonely, was what, till lately, she had herself considered as one
which was hers either to accept or refuse.

Lady Gayland’s proud spirit, and conscious elevation of intellect,
would certainly prevent her from long pining after one who had
appeared to slight her preference; and the manner of Castleton’s
departure from Naples had undoubtedly exposed him to such an
imputation. But during their mutual residence in Italy, Castleton
had certainly made a serious impression on one whose heart was as
sensitive as her fancy was volatile. Sympathy of feeling is by
no means inconsistent with contrast in character. Her exuberant
spirits animated his more placid sense of enjoyment; and a smile of
approbation from him conferred more pleasure on her, than the noisy
applause of others. Her brilliant wit excited his dormant fancy into
more active exertion, which the fastidiousness of his taste might
otherwise have checked; and the acknowledged correctness of that
taste confined the soaring flights of her fancy within the limits
of approval. Thus the very variety of their genius only elicited, in
greater perfection, that cultivation of intellect which was equally
remarkable in both; and whilst rivalry was thus avoided, admiration
was reciprocal.




                             CHAPTER VI.

          And looking stedfastly at her, she sighed,
          As if she pitied her for being there,
          A pretty stranger without friend or guide,
          And all abash’d, too, at the general stare.
                                                     BYRON.


“I have invited a few friends to dine with us,” said Castleton, some
little time after the incidents of the last chapter. “I suppose you
will wish Lady Gayland to be one.”

“O by all means,” readily answered Lucy. “I always feel so much more
at my ease when she is by; not only she is always so kind to me; but
wherever _she_ is, every one must be occupied with her, so that if I
am awkward or not, no one has leisure to mark it.”

Castleton, whose dinners had always been “_recherché_,” as a
batchelor, had hitherto felt nervous as to Lucy’s being able to pass
the critical examination of a long London dinner, but at last having
for some time not detected any glaring impropriety in her deportment,
he became again desirous to collect his friends around him at his own
table.

It has been remarked before, that neither politics nor any of the
graver avocations of life had ever had much charm for Castleton.
Society, which to men of more active pursuits is but a relaxation,
was to him an occupation. It was the field in which must be
maintained his position as a critic, connoisseur, and man of
unrivalled taste. And where society is a _métier_, the man who gives
dinners differs as much from one who does not, as the _ins_ from the
_outs_ in politics,--one may earn some empty fame, but the other has
the real following.

On the evening of Castleton’s first dinner, Lucy had finished her
toilet early. Anxious to gratify her husband with a change, she had
for the first time adopted a novelty in her costume--abandoning her
usual ringlets, she had had her fine hair simply parted across her
forehead, adopting this mode, though not so much in the fashion, in
imitation of Lady Gayland, on whom she had often admired its effect.

Perhaps, generally speaking, it would be as safe to ape oddity
of conversation without the wit which excites it, as to imitate
any peculiarity in dress, which might only be becoming to its
inventor. But in this instance, Lucy’s attempt was successful, for
the same chaste classical setting which added elevation to the
thought-thronged brow of her gifted prototype, suited admirably the
simplicity of her own pure and innocent countenance.

Lucy’s first glance at the mirror as she entered the drawing-room,
convinced her that the effect was favourable, and she waited with the
impatience of agreeable expectation for Castleton’s opinion, which
she had no doubt he would express at once upon seeing her. It was,
therefore, a matter of disappointment to her, that when he entered,
it was in one of those absent and pre-occupied moods in which a man
looks at all things without seeing any.

Many little harmless artifices did poor Lucy play off to endeavour to
attract his attention before any of the company should arrive, and
thus prevent his expressing that approbation which she hoped she had
earned. She could not help thinking that the more she looked at him,
the more he must look at her, and therefore with a gaze that seemed
to require reciprocity, kept her eyes fixed on him, through all his
fidgetty and evidently uneasy movements.

The cause of this strange deportment on his part, arose from a
note he had found, upon his return home, from Sir North Saunders,
containing an acceptance of a verbal invitation he had given him
somewhat late to dine with him that day.

The party which he had invited was not a large one, though somewhat
mixed. The only ladies were Lady Gayland and Mrs. Tudor. He had
carefully avoided any practised scoffers, lest a _manque des
convenances_, on Lucy’s part, should unhappily furnish them with a
ready subject for ridicule on the morrow. But the sight of Sir North
addressing Lucy, without the slightest suspicion, as a person he
had never seen before, always gave him comfort, as reassuring him
as to the impossibility of her ever being recognized as having been
connected with the trial at ----. He had, therefore, on meeting Sir
North, pressed him to dine with him, and on Sir North regretting
that his having asked a friend himself, rendered it impossible,
Castleton had rather imprudently extended the invitation to the said
friend, to which Sir North demurred at the time, but had since wrote
to say--“Proud to present to your more special notice--rising young
man--particular friend,--Peter Spencer.”

Now not only did Castleton, from all he had heard, as well as the
little he had seen of Peter Spencer, dislike him particularly, but he
was also aware, that if ever the identity of Lady Castleton with the
Lucy Darnell of the assizes was to be detected, it was most likely
to be effected by the prying Peter Spencer, who was also one of the
very few people who could recollect her in the former situation.
He had, therefore, as much as he could, avoided that individual,
which, as Spencer now affected professional practice, and therefore
made but rare apparitions in general society, was not difficult. The
prospect of having brought upon himself such an intrusion into his
own house, was therefore not agreeable, and he was still puzzling
himself whether he could with advantage caution Lucy particularly,
as to her deportment towards that person, when the opportunity was
lost by the first knock at the door, which sound roused him from his
abstraction. He looked at Lucy for the first time attentively, and
kissed her kindly, saying, “How very much that becomes you! You look
so very well, and yet so unlike your usual self, that I should think
some might find it difficult to know you again.”

The door opened as he said this, thoroughly expected to see shut
in the pompous little person of Peter Spencer; but it was only a
punctual artist, a _protégé_ of Castleton’s, who was much struck
with the appearance of his patron’s bride, and enchanted with the
idea of so fine a subject as a sitter.

The long twilight of a London summer evening had almost ceased to
struggle against the artificial darkness of the drawing-room; the
company had collected, and the shades of night had gathered round
them, before Sir North and Peter Spencer arrived, and attempted to
guess their way through an obscure mass of friends and _fauteuils_ to
make their obeisance in the direction which Castleton’s voice marked
as that where was seated their indistinguishable hostess.

When dinner was announced, and Castleton and Lady Gayland of course
headed the downward procession, there ensued a pause in those
who were to follow, either arising from the darkness or doubtful
precedence, or the want of some one to marshall the order of march:
a point in which, of course Lucy was profoundly ignorant.

“How absurd!” said Lady Gayland, “the minute point to which this
mummery is studied in England. Men will sometimes draw back in horror
from an almost offered arm, and avoid the propinquity which can alone
make the party agreeable to him, for fear it should be supposed that
he had forgotten that his ancestors only fought at Agincourt, whilst
there was another man in the room whose name was connected with
Cressy. In that land, where social liberty has survived political
restraint, where we have so often met, it is the most recent
preference, not the most ancient patent, which places people.”

“I, at least, have no right to complain,” said Castleton, “who have
obtained by one system what I should have sought by the other.”

“Meaning me: of course you could not help saying as much, considering
how easily such things are said.”

“Mr. Spencer, will you sit next to Lady Gayland?” said Castleton to
him, catching him _en passant_, anxious to fix him at a distance from
Lucy.

“O no!” said Lady Gayland, “Mr. Mastic, I won’t hear of your
deserting me. Mr. Mastic here, is very anxious to study my profile,
which Lord Castleton has promised to give him an opportunity of doing
by being very agreeable on the other side; so Mr. Spencer, that
your presence is impossible--I am in despair;”--and Peter Spencer
proceeded upwards, where he found a vacant chair at the other side,
within two of Lucy--the party, it was stated, not being a very large
one, and the table circular.

“What had I done to deserve that?” asked Lady Gayland; “if you
had provided yourself with a silent pendant, _come questo_,” in a
lower tone, and glancing at Mr. Mastic, “I might have believed your
previous pretty speech; but to fix upon me so active a bore, you must
have determined to devote yourself entirely to Mrs. Tudor.”

Castleton could not give his real reason, and therefore merely said,
“I always thought Spencer had been rather protected by you.”

“Protected! never; sometimes attacked, but there is no luxury one
wears out so soon, as one’s butt. Like a glove, it ought never to be
used twice, it becomes so easy.”

Peter Spencer, in the mean time, from his new position, had every
opportunity of observing the fair hostess. The first impression was
rendered more striking, from the blaze of light by which she was now
surrounded, so immediately succeeding the obscurity out of which
they had groped their way. He had not even seen her at a distance
among the crowd at Lady Delacour’s ball; the only place to which he
had been since she came to town. At first view he merely retained
some indistinct recollection of its being a face he had somewhere
before seen; and it was only when she spoke that a confused idea of
the truth broke upon him. She was sitting next Lord Stayinmore, who,
to those who did not know him, and could not venture to treat him as
Lady Gayland did, was rather a formidable person. In answering his
pompous questions, Lucy got rather nervous, and there was something
in the tone of her reply, which recalled to Spencer’s mind the young
girl at the Assize town, under the examination of his senior, old Mr.
Bailey.

Turning to his next neighbour, he addressed him, with

“I can _e_-spy a most extra-_or_dinary res-_em_-blance in
our f-_a_cin-_a_ting hostess to an unf_or_tunate fe-_e_male
imp_li_cated in a nef-_a_rious tr_an_saction in the course of my
prof-_es_s-_io_nal career.”

“Hum,” said his neighbour, whom the communication did not all
interest.

Finding no encouragement in this quarter, with the strange
coincidence running in his head, though, as yet, without suspecting
the identity, he vociferated to Sir North, who sat just opposite to
him.

“Sir North, was not Lord Castleton in c_o_u_r_t at that most
extra-_or_dinary trial of a case, whose loc-_a_lity was in the
neighbourhood of H-_or_nscliff A-bb-_e_y?”

Castleton, even in the midst of one of Lady Gayland’s most brilliant
sallies, caught the drawling intonation of Spencer making this
_mal-apropos_ inquiry; and before Sir North could even finish his
reply, “that he was himself not in court,” he had interposed with,
“Mr. Spencer, a glass of wine--champagne?” But this only procured a
respite, through the assent, the order, its execution, the bow, and
the swallow, which completed the social libation. Peter Spencer then
continued, and Castleton could catch just enough of what followed to
make him uneasy, without enabling him to ascertain the moment when he
could interpose, and yet not bring about the very discovery he wished
to avoid.

Who has not sometimes suffered under that worst of conversational
penances, the feeling obliged to appear to listen to your next
neighbour, when you cannot help catching from a distance disjointed
words of some topic your peculiar favourite, on which you are most
anxious either to listen or amuse. But Castleton’s position was
even worse than this; for it was Lady Gayland, in her most winning
mood, who was his next neighbour, and it was her he was obliged to
neglect, in attempting to catch indistinctly the most unwelcome tones
of Mr. Spencer’s disagreeable voice.

“But, Sir North, though s-_a_tisf_a_ctory proof could not be then
el-_i_c_i_ted, I _o_-pine we shall have the h-_a_nging y_e_t of that
f_e_llow. D_a_rnell was his name; I have no doubt he made away with
the _u_-nkn-_o_wn. A blood-thirsty cut-throat from his birth.”

“O no, that he was not!” exclaimed Lucy vehemently, “he was the
kindest boy that ever breathed, and I have no doubt he will still
live to do honour to those who are kind to him.”

“Your ladyship, then, was personally acquainted with him?” inquired
Spencer.

“No, not I--Lord Castleton. Yes--why should I deny it? No! how should
I know? I was only joking--Ha! ha! ha! O dear, I’m very ill,” cried
she, again relapsing into a sort of hysterical laugh.

Her nerves being very much excited by her attempt to suppress any
appearance of interest in the conversation she had overheard; and
then having been incautiously betrayed into an imprudent speech, by
her desire to defend George from so harsh a sentence, she at last
got completely bewildered between her innate desire to speak the
truth when asked, and her horror at having unintentionally committed
herself, in a manner which she knew would, of all others, be most
displeasing to her husband.

Castleton, to whose painfully excited attention all this last
scene had been but too audible, was hardly withheld, even by the
imminent danger of an _esclandre_, which such a proceeding might
entail, from starting up, and, under the plea of illness, which
Lucy’s own expression had rendered plausible, inducing her at once
to retire. Yet he was afraid that sufficient clue had already been
given to the pettifogging intellect of Peter Spencer to enable
him to connect that sudden illness, which would of course become
the subject of conversation, with his own acute suspicion. Whilst
Castleton was still hesitating, Lucy not yet attempting to recover
herself,--general attention concentrating upon her, and wonderment
spreading, as to the cause of her strange state,--Lady Gayland
stretched her beautiful arm towards one of those tall, rickety,
pagoda-like bonbonnieres, which were here, as elsewhere, dotted about
the circle of the table at certain intervals, and lightly touching
it with her finger, the top-heavy machine tipped over with exactly
the impetus she intended, and both its circular and globular contents
rolled far and near, and scattered themselves all over the table,
and from the direction in which they were slily propelled, they
particularly abounded in the neighbourhood of Peter Spencer.

“If that had been done on purpose, the mischief could not have been
more complete. Lord Castleton can you pardon my awkwardness?” said
Lady Gayland, who had watched the progress of Lucy’s dilemma, knew
much more of its origin than any of the principal parties believed,
and had on the spur of the moment devised this expedient to divert
attention, and relieve Lucy’s difficulties.

“Good comes of evil though,” said she; “I am rewarded for my
clumsiness by a full view of Mr. Spencer, who was hitherto under an
eclipse to me, and now does he not rise upon me in all his grandeur!
Since Marius, in the ruins of Carthage, there never was anything
so stern or sublime, as he looks amongst the _debris_ of scattered
sugar-plums, and broken _bon-bons_.”

That is a happy expression of the French _saisir la ridicule_. But
no one knew so well as she did exactly the moment to bring into play
that faculty which must be innate, for no art can teach _saisir la
ridicule_.

She had, in this instance, both a motive for exertion and an object
on which to exercise it, and she certainly did not spare Peter
Spencer. The consequence of which was, that not only Lucy had time to
recover herself, but that her previous confusion was forgotten by the
company in the impression of the amusement furnished by Lady Gayland;
and even Spencer himself departed with, to the full, as distinct an
idea that he had made himself ridiculous, as that he had made Lady
Castleton uncomfortable.




                             CHAPTER VII.

                  For now my love is thawed,
          Which, like a waxen image ’gainst a fire,
          Bears no impression of the thing it was.
                                                  SHAKSPEARE.

          The English winter ending in July
          To recommence in August, now was done;
          ’Tis the postillion’s paradise; wheels fly
          On roads east, south, north, west.
                                                  BYRON.


Castleton was much vexed at the danger which Lucy had incurred, of
discovering all that he most wished to conceal; but she seemed to
have suffered so much herself, from her imprudence, that he could not
find it in his heart to upbraid her on the subject. Taking courage
from this forbearance on his part, she ventured the next morning
to ask him, “Would it not be better, my dear lord, that it should
at least be known from how low a station your kindness raised me:
when, perhaps, people would be too good-natured (or well-bred, as
you call the same thing) to talk to me on such subjects, since even
in attempting to conceal it, such risks are run as my imprudence is
always bringing about.”

“It is too late to think of that now, Lucy; if all were to do over
again, I know not how much might remain undone. However, if there had
not been that unlucky adventure blended with our early connexion,
it might perhaps have been better to have owned more; though I then
thought your manners, which still appear to me wonderful, prevented
the necessity of such an avowal. But that ill-starred cousin of
yours, who has given the character of a nest of smugglers to your
whole set, rendered any other course than concealment of your origin
impossible. Above all, now, you have no idea of the avidity with
which an awkward story about any one that is known is communicated.
‘Have you heard the strange story about Lord Castleton?’ would spread
like wildfire; and I should be the laughing-stock of every one who
spells a Sunday paper, from the Land’s end to John o’ Groat’s House.”

Lucy, though she would not dispute what she did not understand, felt
hurt at the slighting mention of the home of her youth as a “_nest of
smugglers_.” She might indeed have replied, that she was sure no one
who knew her dear father at Mayton or elsewhere, would believe that
_he_ could ever have any thing to say to such doings.

But Castleton, fearing nothing but anxiety from prolonging his stay
in London, continued, “We have now been above two months in London,
Lucy; would you dislike the idea of returning into the country?”

“O I should like it so much! One thing I should wish: do you think
you could persuade Lady Gayland to come and see us there? I feel
so fond of her, and I often think she is in many respects a more
suitable companion for you than I am. You both understand the same
things to talk about. And then, perhaps, if I wished just to go to
Morden Bay, you could better spare me a little while.”

“No, my dear Lucy,” said Castleton smiling, “that would not render
it at all less difficult to spare you. But about the rest do as you
like; you shall have the pleasure of asking Lady Gayland herself: if
she comes at all, it will be for you.”

It is not of course to be supposed but that a person of Lucy’s
natural quickness, though unpractised in observation, should
have made some progress during the time she was in town towards
understanding the requisite qualifications for her new situation;
but unfortunately this very quickness made her only more conscious
of her manifold deficiencies. A little application, when she gave
her attention to any one point, like a magnifying glass, made its
particular form and bearing perfectly distinct to her comprehension;
but that very circumstance only rendered her more thoroughly aware
how vague and undefined were to her all other objects on that varied
horizon, which she indistinctly surveyed from her isolated elevation,
and the shape in which this consciousness of her situation most
disagreeably occurred to her, was that whilst Castleton wandered
freely through all these scenes to him so familiar, she was herself
merely a sort of landmark of the affections, to which he returned at
stated intervals, rather than his constant companion through all
the mazes of society, or his active associate in the pursuits of
literature.

This painful sensation of her own unfitness, which feeling increased
with her efforts to diminish it, was expressed by her with much
candour to her friend Lady Gayland, while persuading that lady to
take up her abode with her as soon as possible at Somersby Park.

“There’s no study, dear Lady Gayland, which does me, I am sure, half
so much good as hearing you talk. What I attempt to teach myself,
seems only to show me how much more I have to learn. What you tell
me, seems as if it ought to be as easy to me, as it plainly is to
you. And yet I am afraid that you are just what I should find it most
difficult to imitate: at least, so Castleton thinks.”

“Perhaps his wish is father to that thought; there may be nothing he
would so little like you to resemble.”

“On the contrary, no one admires you more than he does--that I am
sure of; and then, too, you are old friends.”

“For that very reason, perhaps, a little contrast--”

“How can you say so? You can’t think it. But you are always so kind,
that I am sure you will let me speak a little seriously to you.”

“What about, my dear?” asked Lady Gayland, with apparently little
surprise, and perhaps some uneasiness.

“About myself. I want to consult you on a point on which your advice
would be of the greatest service to me. I need not say that it is my
only desire, as well as my first duty, to please Castleton. Nobody so
well as you could tell me how I ought to try for that,” she added,
with perfect simplicity.

“Go on--that’s somewhat difficult,” answered Lady Gayland
abstractedly.

“Now, when I hear any subject talked of in conversation about which I
know nothing, I never show my ignorance, because that Castleton told
me to avoid; but I treasure up the recollection of it, and endeavour
to work out the knowledge of it for myself against another time. But
there are some things I cannot learn from books. Now if you would let
me come to you about them----”

“But why not ask your husband, my dear?”

“So I do sometimes, but I don’t think he much likes it. Only the
other day I heard people say that one of their friends was very
lucky, for that he got ten thousand pounds for his wife. I could not
conceive how a man could do that. I never heard of such a thing. And
I asked Castleton to explain, and he said that as I knew nothing at
all about it, he should be obliged to make a very long story--that
he was in a hurry, hadn’t time, and it didn’t signify. And yet,
though he had not time for that, when I said just afterwards that I
should like to have a little black parrot, such as I had seen, he
rode a long way on purpose to try to get one, at the gardens with a
long name.”

“Zoological?”

“Yes; for he is very kind to me, and I hardly can form a wish that he
does not try to gratify, and yet----”

“Yet what!”

“Why, when I have taken pains to inform myself on any subject, if
he is not there, I quite long for an opportunity to bring it out,
and watch the conversation for that purpose only, and then every one
else seems to take it quite natural from me. But if I attempt this to
Castleton I feel quite awkward; and then he says, ‘Where did you pick
that up, my dear Lucy?’ and that makes me worse. And though at first
he used to seem surprised if I did _not_ know what others did, now
it is quite the contrary: he is just as much surprised if I do. That
change is not a good sign, I am afraid. Is it?”

“It is impossible to answer these questions directly,” said Lady
Gayland; “difficult to answer them any how satisfactorily--delicate
for any one to attempt it--perhaps most delicate for me. But
yours is a singular--a lonely situation. You ask for advice and
assistance from the only person who you think can be of service
to you, and with the interest I feel in you, I am unwilling to
refuse. I have known Lord Castleton long and well--how long and how
well it is unnecessary for the present purpose to recollect. But
circumstances made an observer like myself thoroughly acquainted
with his character. His misfortune is not a common one. His means
have always been in exaggerated proportion to his ends. Faculties,
which ought to have extended their influence over society in its
more extended sense of the community, he has confined to its more
limited definition--company; and he would have been more perfect
in all relations as a companion, had he also been a statesman, a
soldier, a philosopher, or even a poet. The human mind does not, like
the baser metal, accumulate in store; but like the physical organs
of our frame, from empty craving it takes to feed upon itself. In
the limited sphere he had chosen, as Lord Castleton could not dread
defeat, he learnt to despise success, and thence to cavil at its
causes. Let me see--what is there I can compare him to, that has come
within your observation: we went together the other night to the
pantomime.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Lucy, smiling even through the interest of
this discussion, at the amusement she had then experienced.

“Well, then, his mind is something like the magic of harlequin’s
wand amongst the chairs and tables, a superior power misapplied to
petty purposes, and therefore as often perverting and confounding,
as improving. This, however, could not apply to the exercise of the
affections, except so far as his experience of women as members of
the social system has filled his head with general, and in some
particular instances most unwarrantable, suspicions. O if a woman
could with honest pride feel herself the only object of devotion to
such----But what of this? it is not to the present purpose. Disgusted
with every thing he had seen and imagined of us poor women of the
world, he naturally sought the reverse of that which the past had
taught him. And in seeking an extreme, of the extent of which he
was by no means aware, I have no doubt that the entire novelty of
the attempt was originally its chief recommendation. How singularly
fortunate I think he was, when, in embarking in such an undertaking,
he met with you, I will not now say. I am not satisfied that you
should so far exceed all that he had a right to anticipate, but
wish that you should, if possible, realize his most unreasonable
expectations. Purity and perfect devotion, those sterling merits
whose spontaneous growth he sought in the wilderness, he has found in
you in the highest perfection. Those other qualities, of which he had
not previously supposed the want, because all he had hitherto seen
had uniformly possessed them, are produced by cultivation, and may
be engrafted. London is the place where their absence is most felt,
their acquirement is most difficult. In the country, where you will
have him entirely to yourself, you will soon find him again what you
wish; for Castleton, though clear-sighted, is also considerate to the
faults of those who interest him.”

“But, my dear Lady Gayland, I shall never be able to do any thing
without your assistance. When you are by, I always feel so much
bolder. I own I am at all times rather afraid of Castleton--that is,
afraid more of my own feeling than of his showing that I have not
pleased him. You say that I should have Castleton all to myself;
and certainly I should be glad to have him without the perpetual
interruptions of our present mode of life, but not without you. No;
your presence gives me comfort and courage, as well as pleasure.”

There was a pause of lengthened hesitation on Lady Gayland’s part,
before she replied to this appeal; but at last, to Lady Castleton’s
reiterated and anxious entreaty of “Now, pray don’t refuse me--do
come,” she answered,

“Well, my dear, then come I will. That is, I will stop and see you
when I leave town, on my way to the watering place, where I mean to
spend the autumn.”




                            CHAPTER VIII.

                   Downward flies my lord,
           Nodding beside my lady in his carriage;
           Away! away! fresh horses are the word,
           And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage.
                                                           BYRON.


It was with feelings of satisfaction, utterly unmixed with regret,
that Lucy found herself once more cutting her way through that dense
mass, which is made up of strings of carriages, and clouds of smoke,
towards those suburbs which upon her entrance had struck her as
interminable. She only felt that she had Castleton once more by her
side--a pleasure which had daily become more rare, as their stay in
London had been protracted. The impression uppermost in his mind, if
not so pure and unmixed, was upon the whole of a pleasurable nature.

The same train of thought recurred to him as had produced so much
effect upon his then unsettled opinions some years back, when upon
leaving town at that season he had first sought Morden Bay, and
had for the first time beheld the present partner of his fate; and
as these feelings returned in almost their original freshness,
they chased away all the more unworthy causes of repining, which
the frivolous habits of the world had fostered; and for the time
all anxieties dependent upon a false sense of shame at her former
position no longer interfered with well-merited admiration of her
excellent virtues, and transcendent beauty, and grateful confidence
in her unbounded devotion to himself. He even looked back with
something like contempt at the perpetual uneasiness under which
he had laboured, lest the extreme lowness of her origin should be
discovered, and was now ashamed of having been so much ashamed of
some of her unpractised mistakes.

One littleness, though, he could not help clinging to. It was
still a great satisfaction to him, that the dreaded discovery had
not been gossipped amongst his servants. He would of all things
have disliked that the daily talk of those from whom he looked
for habitual respect, should turn upon the fact of their mistress
having been, what they would call, “no better than themselves.”
As for the world, he knew enough of it to be aware that there his
principal difficulties and dangers were past. The world had been
peculiarly disposed to criticise the first debût of a new denizen
nearly connected with one to whose taste that world had long yielded
a forced allegiance. Another season, and detraction would find some
more stirring game than one so inoffensive as Lucy.

Amidst these topics for satisfaction, almost for self-gratulation,
one unpleasant doubt did obtrude itself. Though the care of the world
would no longer molest his enjoyment, was he quite certain that he
should himself continue perfectly contented with the success of his
experiment? Was she the companion he required? He started in anger
at himself as this hitherto fleeting and shapeless suspicion assumed
the form of a substantial doubt, and, as chasing it impatiently
away, he cast upon her a look of affection and encouragement, she
best answered the appeal, and removed for the time all traces of
painful impression, by discussing with ease and spirit the pleasure
she should derive from again beholding Somersby, and recalling
with accuracy the favourite spots within his domain which they had
together frequented, during their last residence there. As these
were the outward images then uppermost in his mind, he gladly
obliterated, in this fortunate reciprocity, those ideas which had
before intruded themselves.

The circumstances of the first few days at Somersby, seemed to
continue the illusion, (if illusion it was,) that the qualifications
of his partner for life left him nothing to desire. The weather
was beautiful, and with elastic step and cheerful countenance she
accompanied him every where, participating in all his plans and
entering into all his improvements. But persons, however strong,
cannot stroll through the whole day; and Lucy before she left London
had, with good reason, been recommended not to over fatigue herself;
so a pony-phaeton was put in requisition, and this enabled them to
extend their excursions, and protract their enjoyment; but our fickle
climate will sometimes frown on pony-phaetons even in August. There
came a wet week, and they were confined to the house, and immured in
the library. This was an unlucky _locale_ for Lucy; but it had always
been used as the common morning-room, and she felt lonely if she did
not see Castleton, even though _his_ eyes were fixed on his book.

Had Castleton been alone, his study would have been all-sufficient
to him; but being, as it were, thus continually in company, there
was hardly any thing he read, by which some train of thought was not
awakened in his ever active imagination, which he longed at once to
communicate. It was not that he was anxious captiously to criticise,
or to find fault, but he was often eager to illustrate and to impart
the beauties that struck him; and as, with this desire, he looked
upon his uninformed companion, he felt the hopelessness of such an
attempt. If it was a book of science, in vain would he comment upon
the extension of that, of which she neither knew the rudiments nor
the terms--if of fiction, equally beyond her reach were the least
soaring flights of fancy--if of satire, she was equally little
cognizant of the persons portrayed, or aware of the foibles for
which they were ridiculed. He had once before indulged in the social
custom of blending conversation with his reading; the precedent was
an ominous one. It had been at Rome. When persons familiarly known
to each other live under the same roof in a foreign hotel, their
intercourse is naturally on an easy footing, and much time will
sometimes be spent together by that facility of gliding, unasked, in
and out of apartments, which never could have been demanded under
the well-drilled form of “a knock-and-ring” London visit. When
the intimacy of friendship thus confirms the interest of a warmer
feeling, it is a delightful, but a dangerous habit.

Castleton had in this manner spent the most of many mornings in
Lady Gayland’s. They did not then think it necessary, under these
circumstances, always to talk, to the exclusion of books; but
they often found it agreeable to mix up reciprocal remarks on
their reading. And some of these most animated and interesting
discussions had arisen out of casual observations excited by some
passage which had forcibly struck them in the perusal; and whether
these conversations took the turn of excited enthusiasm, or refined
criticism, their uniform effect was, that the parties engaged in them
separated mutually better pleased with each other. In the course of
the last week, Castleton had frequently ventured, in some of the
lighter works with which he had been engaged, to read short extracts
to Lucy, explaining and recommending the whole book to her perusal.
This desire she always immediately complied with; but her attention
was ever fixed, and her memory exerted in the discovery of these
particular passages, which he happened accidentally to have cited;
and, in this pursuit, her eye would wander over whole lines of print,
as a traveller would over lines of hedge and ditch by the road side,
noting nothing by the way, in search of one only object.

The fact was, as has been stated before, that her mother had
always, at that age when the taste is acquired, discouraged reading
as unprofitable. And her aunt, not feeling herself at liberty to
interfere directly with the system of her mother, had rather selected
passages adapted to her capacity, and facilitated even these by
her explanations, than encouraged her in any independent course of
reading. Alice Darnell’s plan had had the effect upon her niece’s
mind, of a sort of intellectual “swimming in corks.” Now deprived of
this artificial aid, she felt more than ever, the utter helplessness
of her ignorance. She had been enabled by these means to dabble
gracefully in shallows; but was utterly incapable of venturing
unassisted on the wide ocean of knowledge.

A week had passed in this way; the mornings and most of the evenings
devoted to study on the part of Castleton, and the same time consumed
by Lucy, in vain attempts to toil after him in the few books, which,
on reading himself, he thought it possible to recommend to her. She
had, in making the effort, no other object in view, but endeavouring
to please him, by appearing to understand his remarks; and in this
she had too often failed; for, though gratified, at first, by
thinking that she had remarked the same points which had struck him,
he was again disappointed, when he went on to ask her opinion upon
other parts, which perhaps had made as strong an impression upon
himself, though, from the consciousness that she was unacquainted
with the book, he had not communicated that impression. He sometimes
found, that except those passages to which he had directed her
attention, all the rest of the work, connected with which these
isolated passages acquired a redoubled value, had produced no more
effect upon her, than if her eyes had never glanced over its pages.

One afternoon, he had accidentally taken up the “Promessi Sposi” of
Manzoni, (that only child of the old age of Italian literature.) The
copy in his hand was the original one, which he had not seen since he
had first read it with delight in Italy. The marks that had either
been made by himself, or another, of admiration of the most sterling,
though, perhaps, not the most palpable beauties of this work of true
genius, were still visible upon the pages before him, and recalled
the scene, and the occasions on which they were made; and when the
thought recurred, but for his own over-fastidious feeling, and
perverted imagination, what might now have been his lot, he turned on
Lucy a look, in which disappointment was perhaps too legibly written;
for she interpreted it at once into a desire for some change; and
imagining such to be his wish, she asked him if he did not think “it
was now fine enough to take a stroll out of doors?”

The weather had certainly shown symptoms of settling; the clouds
had first lightened, then dispersed; and now the sun, successfully
struggling through the dappled sky, already played on the sparkling
drops, which the gentle breeze began to shake from the dripping
leaves.

Castleton rose from his chair, glad to snap the chain of thought
which bound his spirit to no good purpose; and throwing up the
window, the enjoyment of all external sources of pleasure seemed
suddenly restored.

Every inducement combined to tempt them forth. The mingled odour of
the freshened herbage, and of the grateful flower-garden beneath,
breathed through the atmosphere one varied fragrance. The cheerful
song of the feathered tribe sounded as an irresistible invitation to
all living things, to share with them in rejoicing at the restored
reign of nature.

“Yes, dear Lucy,” said Castleton, encircling her waist, “get on your
bonnet, and we shall have a delightful walk.”

As he said this, the grinding of carriage-wheels through the
rain-soaked gravel was heard, and a well-packed travelling equipage
appeared in sight.

“O, I do believe that is Lady Gayland,” said Lucy, clapping her hands
with delight, “and now you won’t want for amusement.”

And Lady Gayland it certainly was. She had been expected shortly,
but the precise day was not known; and as she had paid another visit
since she left town--and no lady was ever expected to comprehend the
irregularities of a cross-country post--her arrival before her own
announcement of herself was very pardonable.




                             CHAPTER IX.

                         The mellow Autumn came,
            And with it came the promised guest.

                         There’s not an hour
            Of day or dreaming night, but I am with thee;
            There’s not a wind but whispers of thy name;
            And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon,
            But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale
            Of thee.

            Thou canst not teach me to forget.


How slight and almost imperceptible a change of position, how small
and almost unintentional a step in advance, will sometimes suddenly
open our eyes to the inevitable tendency of a course of conduct
which we have been, up to that point, pursuing in blind security!
Lady Gayland, acute and clear-sighted as she was for others, was
in her own case often the creature of impulse, acting without
consideration, upon the first generous feeling, and reasoning upon
its collateral bearings when too late to retract.

The carriage had been checked a moment for admission, at the spot
where the lodge leading to Somersby-park was situated, on the great
road. “Ah! _nous voila donc, Miladi_,” exclaimed Angelique to her
mistress, thus breaking the confused reverie in which that lady had
long been indulging.

“_Nous voila donc_, indeed,” thought Lady Gayland, as the iron
gates opened to receive them; “and strange indeed that it should be
so:” and for the first time all those reasons which rendered it so
peculiarly strange, that she should, under such circumstances, be
Castleton’s guest, forced themselves upon her attention the more
irresistibly, that they had been so long suppressed or avoided. True,
the ostensible motives of her visit were plausible enough. Her
early acquaintance with Lucy, and subsequent renewal of it, under
circumstances which had entailed a continuance of that protection
of her, which, in the first instant, she had beneficially extended,
the exclusive confidence which Lucy had reposed in her, the helpless
dependence which she had expressed upon her advice and assistance;
the anxiety with which she clung to her companionship as her best
hope of happiness,--all these would have rendered her presence of the
utmost service to any but the wife of Castleton.

Castleton’s manner to her in London had never been such as
necessarily to excite suspicion that his feelings were not subdued.
The two strongest exceptions to the general discipline of his
deportment have been given--the one, their first meeting at Lady
Delacour’s ball--the other, his anxious inquiry at the opera after a
certain gentleman whom he had left at Naples. But his usual manner
towards her was calm, apparently unconstrained, and even common-place.

Lady Gayland, as she never occupied herself much with the concerns
of others, was not perfectly aware of the rapidity with which the
heartless and the fickle can sometimes, in the sunshine of society,
force the artificial growth of indifference; yet she had heard
instances, when, without explanation, hands that had last been
pressed to throbbing hearts, had next met in the lifeless contact
of common courtesy, and lips which had last tremblingly faltered
forth a passionate farewell, when next seen had without emotion been
compressed into a cold and simpering greeting.

But though Lady Gayland knew that such things had been--though there
was nothing obtrusively obvious in Castleton’s manner to herself,
to contradict, and every thing in the mere act of his subsequent
marriage to confirm, the idea that he furnished another instance of
the easy forgetfulness of man, yet had she no internal conviction of
that kind by which to regulate her conduct.

To those gifted individuals who unite acute sensibility with keen
observation, and have ever brought those rarely united powers of
the mind and heart to bear upon the conduct and character of a
beloved object, there are open many hidden sources utterly unmarked
by the million, from which the most infallible impressions are
derived. It may be the accent of a casual word, dropped in common
conversation, or the character of a stolen glance, darted through
mingling crowds; which in spite of intervening years, and altered
circumstances--opportunities apparently neglected, and other
engagements since contracted, in defiance of all probability, and
in opposition to almost undeniable evidence,--will vibrate to the
inmost recesses of the heart, the certain consciousness that all is
not forgotten. And such a consciousness had Lady Gayland sometimes,
in spite of herself, felt that Castleton had not even yet become
indifferent to her. All the scattered indications from which she
collected this conviction, and which she had hitherto as much as
possible driven from her mind, now presented themselves one after
another to her recollection, as her carriage whirled rapidly towards
the front of the house.

“And why, then, am I here?” she asked herself, now the question came
too late. Half the debates in the secret conclave of the human mind
are conducted after the question has been put and carried; and reason
often returns after the event, in company with repentance, instead of
sticking (to speak parliamentarily) to his, proper _pair_, decision.

In this instance, Lady Gayland’s somewhat tardy self-inquiry, “Why
am I here,” was answered by Lucy, who, as the door of the carriage
opened, rushed down the steps to greet her with--

“O how delighted I am to see you! how good it is of you to come, and
even sooner than we expected you!”

Castleton’s reception of Lady Gayland was exactly what might be
expected from a practised man of the world, who had had time, since
seeing her carriage from the window, to prepare for appearing as glad
to see her as became him, without betraying how much more than that
quantum of satisfaction he might feel.

As Lucy, at his desire, conducted Lady Gayland to her own apartment,
she repeated, as she clung fondly to her arm,--

“I’m so very glad you are come; and so, I can assure you, is
Castleton also, though, perhaps, you don’t think he shows it enough;
but he has been rather dull, poring over books morning and evening,
for we have had sad wet weather: but now you are come, you can talk
to him as he likes, and he will soon be gay again.”

When Lucy was returning, having left Lady Gayland in her own room,
an accident occurred which led to much conversation in one part
of the house, though its effect was not immediately known in the
drawing-room. In passing through the gallery she met Lady Gayland’s
maid, Ma’amselle Angelique, whom she had not seen since their drive
from Hornscliff to Mayton. In the good-natured impulse of the moment,
Lucy, only recollecting that the person before her had once been kind
to her, when she needed kindness, seized her hand with warmth, saying,

“How do you do; I am very glad to see you again.”

At first Angelique drew back confused, thinking there must be some
mistake.

“Pardon, Miladi, ce n’est que moi.--Mon Dieu! mais est il possible!
la petite de _poni chaise_. Ah! milles pardons, miladi, si j’ose un
instant me rappeller de vous.” And with her best curtsey she passed
on, leaving Lucy, with the returning consciousness that she had
betrayed herself in a manner that would not be pleasing to Castleton.

Angelique began at once to touch upon her discovery to her mistress,
but there she found her garrulity more suddenly checked than it
usually was on indifferent subjects. At the same time, as Lady
Gayland knew that, by making a mystery, she would only increase the
desire to communicate, she laid no injunctions of silence upon her
attendant, who, accordingly, as soon as dismissed, went down into
the housekeeper’s room, with--

“De ting if the world the most astonish! Je suis petrifie. I was made
a stone. Je n’en reviens plus--and I never come back from it more.”

This of course led to much further cross-questioning and gossipping,
and Castleton had first the happiness of finding how generally the
story was known, when, some little time afterward, he found fault
with his housekeeper for some deficiency in her duty, she excused
herself under the pretence of having meant to please “my lady.” And
when Castleton rather pettishly replied, that he desired she would
not think of consulting my lady on that sort of subject, he was
punished by her impudently adding,

“To be sure, my Lord, I don’t suppose my Lady is like to know what’s
what.”

When, upon this, he indignantly asked what she meant by such
impertinence, to get herself out of the scrape, the blame was,
naturally enough, laid on Mamselle Angelique, both as a strange
servant and a foreigner, and the whole story thus came out.

During the social intercourse of the succeeding days, the effort
was equally made by Castleton and Lady Gayland, so to conduct the
course of their conversation, that Lucy might be enabled to bear them
company. But it evidently, to all parties, was an effort; and not
always a successful one. Sometimes irresistibly borne along by the
current of old recollections, Castleton and his guest were launched
into the wide sea of imagination--an element into which Lucy was not
fitted to follow them; she, therefore, was soon stranded by the way,
and sat watching them in silent security.

But there was one casual circumstance that contributed to throw Lady
Gayland more exclusively into the society of her former friend.
Whilst they were in the house, of course wherever she was, there
Lucy was likewise. But, as has been before observed, Lady Gayland
was passionately fond of riding: Lucy, on the contrary, never much
used to it, and always timid on horseback, was at present prevented
from attempting to mount, by reasons which are understood in all
families. But Castleton had upon their marriage provided her with a
delightful horse, and this she now pressed Lady Gayland to use. This,
to one who had all her life been an inveterate horse-woman, was too
tempting an offer to be refused, and accompanied by Castleton, she
made the trial of the new horse, which seemed to have been attended
with great success, for from that time their promenades were repeated
daily,--the weather continuing as propitious, as it had been
unfavourable before the arrival of the visitor.

What shall we call that state of sympathy, which, while it seems
too serious to settle into a mere flirtation, is as yet by no means
systematized into a _liaison_? But call it what we may, that is the
peculiar stage, when there is nothing so dangerous as a _tête-a-tête_
on horseback. Whilst every advance is still attended with doubt and
incertitude, the attempt is encouraged by apparent facilities of
retreat; in a room, the moment, which must come sooner or later,
when the door will have to be opened and closed behind one of the
parties, is always a matter of dread, and in anticipation, checks
many a hasty move; but here there is no such awkward epoch to come.
All is every instant changing around. An affected stumble on the part
of the horse, may conceal a real false step of his rider; and an ill
received hint, may be obliterated in a canter.

But to speak seriously, there is something in a _tête-a-tête_ ride
through a fine country, which, when a predisposition to confidence
between man and woman has existed, considerably tends to ripen it.
As to Castleton and his guest, their relative situation was such,
as to leave them nothing to confide. They had neither of them any
designs to advance, but if they could not thus avail themselves of
the advantages of the present, it was unfortunate that they should
have so apt an occasion to regret the past, for it was thus they
had wandered in other days, beneath southern skies, with brighter
prospects, and with better hopes.




                              CHAPTER X.

                             For it so falls out
           That what we have we prize not to the worth,
           Whiles we enjoy it; but, being lacked and lost,
           Why then we rack the value.
                                                      SHAKSPEARE.

                             Whilst I remember
           Her and her virtues, I cannot forget
           My blemishes in them, and so still think of
           The wrong I did myself.


This mode of life had continued for many more days than either of
them would retrospectively have imagined to have elapsed since its
commencement. And in the course of it many topics which should have
been altogether avoided, had every day imperceptibly been approached
more nearly, and with greater effort evaded.

One day Lady Gayland, principally from a desire to fix her attention
upon some extraneous and indifferent subject, had requested to be
allowed in their next ride to mount Castleton’s own horse, instead
of the more docile creature procured for Lucy, which she pronounced
too sluggish. Castleton was at first rather afraid to assent, as
his beautiful animal, though perfectly tractable under his skilful
management, had only lately exchanged the turf for the road. But as
the groom reported that the essay of the petticoat had been perfectly
satisfactory, and as Lady Gayland was a most fearless horse-woman,
the exchange, at her repeated request, was made on their next
excursion.

They had, in consequence of the novelty of the experiment, started
with the intention, at Castleton’s desire, of riding more quietly
and carefully; and as they strolled slowly onwards, insensibly their
attention had been transferred from the horse to their discourse,
which was much the more animated of the two, as no animal is more
sleepy than a spirited horse will sometimes be, when left to himself,
with the reins upon his neck.

The origin of this, as of many other interesting conversations, was
common place. We need not, perhaps, travel even so far back as when,
in reply to some disclaimer on Lady Gayland’s part, Castleton said,
“You know what Byron sings--

    ‘No friend like to a woman earth discovers.’”

“Ay, but remember,” interrupted Lady Gayland, “the proviso he adds:

    ‘So that they have not been, nor will be----’

what?--what is the word whose indispensable presence at the point of
the stanza alone, excuses such a botching rhyme as _discovers_?”

“_Lovers_,” answered Castleton. “To be sure he says they should never
have been, but then I think it was his own negative experience,
limiting his opinion of the social qualities of poor human nature
which warped his judgment. In introducing my quotation I should have
said _even_ Byron sings--for I think he never had, nor I think was it
in his nature to have, a female friend.”

“His sister--”

“He was a kind and a grateful brother to a fond and an indulgent
sister, that was all.”

“Poor Byron! who so philosophic a guide for others? who so practical
a blunderer for himself in search of the sources of happiness?”

“Others without his talent to commemorate their wayward
inconsistencies, may have thought as deeply and mistaken as
thoroughly,” answered Castleton, in a tone of bitterness.

“A female friend! ’tis almost an impossibility,” continued Lady
Gayland, still generalizing the conversation; “at what stage of our
existence could such a feeling take its date? As a girl? No! You men
generally treat girls either as flirts or fools, and wilfully shut
your eyes to the study of that character of which a special licence
is to be the diploma. So mankind to girls are divided into the
marrying and non-marrying classes. With the first, friendship would
appear forward; with the latter, lost time. As a wife?--Possibly some
men might. But I think you, for instance, would not like your wife to
maintain a perfect and unreserved friendship with another man? No; in
neither case would it do.”

“But yourself,” interrupted Castleton, “you need not be restrained by
any of the embarrassments of either of the stations you mention?”

“No; and at fifty perhaps I may think about it; but let us if
possible avoid to speak individually. There is only one relation in
life in which a woman may be peerless and perfect, and luckily that
is as a wife. A mistress’s present career is made up of regret for
the past and fear for the future; a female friend content to be no
more, is an anomaly rarely found. A wife may unite all that is most
estimable in friendship, with so much more than that cold feeling can
ever know, that it would be the veriest bathos to degrade a wife to
the title of friend.”

“Yet some wives can never be friends, and now, alas! some friends can
never become wives.”

“A woman’s part in courtship is, you must recollect, a passive one;
we must ever wait till we are asked.”

“Yet who but a fool or a coxcomb would ever venture a proposal unless
pretty certain that his suit would not be displeasing; and does not
that render it equivalent to a refusal, when a woman tortures by
indications of indifference? What would I now give that you had never
misled me!”

“Lord Castleton, I will not say how much I regret that you should
have introduced a subject which may interrupt our intercourse. For
that your society is agreeable to me, I wonder you should ever have
doubted; but it does not _now_ become me to make either professions
or disclaimers on that subject. It is only to excuse, not to revive,
the past, that I now speak. This is the last time that former days
must ever be mentioned between us. How did I then mislead you?”

“I know that I ought not to have recurred to this topic, nor, believe
me, had I any previous intention of doing so; but now it is as well
that I should explain, in doing which I own there may be more to
excuse in myself than to blame in you. But you knew me thoroughly--my
over sensitive fastidious nature; why then did you torture me with an
apparent preference of Frank Melmoth? I knew that he was every way
unworthy of you, but I construed your whole conduct into an internal
struggle between your judgment, which still held out on my side, and
your heart, which had already yielded to him.”

“Would any man but yourself have so interpreted it? Do you believe
even Frank Melmoth, with all his coxcombry, so read it?”

“Perhaps not; but still he was indefatigable in persuading me
that such was the construction all parties must put upon your
conduct. Trifles light as air are, you know, sometimes--I need
not particularize--the earliest violets which I had promised, and
procured for you, were boastfully displayed in his button-hole at
the ball, the same evening. Eager for an explanation, you refused
the request I therefore made to be set down at home by you, yet
afterwards you consented to convey him. The next night at the opera
was my last, and served to convince me, that your preference upon
all indifferent points was decidedly his, and that if there was still
a doubt upon your mind, it was my position, not my personal merits,
which maintained it.”

“And if the first part of your supposition had been well founded,
think not your position would have maintained that doubt a moment.
But, first, to answer your last instance; had I conveyed you home,
who had a carriage of your own in attendance, it would have been a
measure--and how much I might be aware that you were anxious for an
explanation--it was not my business so pointedly to facilitate it.
When afterwards the poor, needy, half-drowned creature begged for
a lift, it would have been positive cruelty to have sent him under
the spouts in such a deluge as was then pouring down. Besides, do
you not know, with us women there is no such universal patentee of
exclusive privileges as indifference. As to your other accusation,
the transfer of your flowers, in that, too, I was perfectly
innocent. They were left by you upon my table. You know how easy the
entrance into apartments at an hotel abroad always is. Frank Melmoth
volunteered a visit--I was in my own room. My spirits, so far as
society is concerned, seldom fail me; but I own I did then feel quite
unequal to receive him. A long time has elapsed, and too many changes
occurred since then, for it to be expected that I should recollect
exactly what the reflections were which then overpowered me; but as
if it were but yesterday, the feelings which then so unnerved me, are
even now as then fresh before me--but I have strength to drive them
hence. One word in concluding my explanation: I sent an excuse to
Melmoth, declining to see him: in revenge, he carried off my violets,
leaving me instead a few doggrel couplets, which I own I do not
recollect so well as the other parts of the transaction; but,” added
she, forcing a smile, “I know there was a string of rhymes, something
about flowers--hours--powers.--I have done----

   ‘The very head and front of my offending
    Hath this extent. No more.’”--

“Fool! dolt! idiot that I am!” exclaimed Castleton. “For this, then,
and no more, have I, with all my boasted superior discrimination,
cast aside my happiness for ever.”

“Nay,” said Lady Gayland, “I must not even now permit you to speak
thus: nor ever allow myself to touch on these topics again. And now
let us turn our own and our horses’ heads homewards. You have a home,
and to that ’tis time we bend both our thoughts and our course.”

So saying, and anxious at once to close the conversation, her
impatience as a woman got the better of her usual discretion as an
equestrian. Turning her horse round, she at the same time struck him
smartly with her whip. Thus unexpectedly roused from that torpor, in
which perhaps he had been indulging visions of former triumphs on the
turf, and fancying that the same exertions were required of him, the
fiery animal started eagerly forward. She checked him firmly with the
curb; but, unused to the severity of that bit, this only made him
plunge so violently, as to require all her presence of mind and skill
in riding to maintain her seat.

“For heaven’s sake let me take hold of his head, and change with me
again!” anxiously exclaimed Castleton, jumping off for that purpose.
But in violently shaking his head, in impatience at the sharpness
of the bit, Lady Gayland’s horse had detached the curb-chain from
the hook: this dangling loose, only maddened him the more; he became
perfectly unmanageable, and after plunging three or four times, more
furiously than ever, though without unseating, or even agitating her,
whose courage rose with the emergency, he at length brought down his
head, and bearing upon the now powerless bit with a dead, determined
pull, he bounded irresistibly onwards at full speed over the echoing
turf.

What state of mental suspense could equal, in agony, that of
Castleton during these dreadful moments? What, compared to his
feelings, are those of the patient whilst the surgeon is sharpening
his knife? or of the self-conscious criminal, when the death-bearing
verdict is about to be pronounced? For let us do poor human nature
the justice to own, that the fear-fraught sensations of such a moment
far surpass in intensity those which any merely selfish sufferings
could produce. This might still have been the case had he been only
the friend he professed himself: but he was never so well aware how
much dearer she was to him than he would have owned to himself, as
when even the recently-acquired conviction, that by his folly he
had lost her heart, was superseded by the all-engrossing fear, that
by his indiscretion he had endangered her life. And in his anguish
he felt that there was no earthly sacrifice at which he would not
purchase her precious safety.

At the time Lady Gayland’s horse broke away, he had already
dismounted, which caused a moment’s delay in following her. His
first impulse was digging his spurs into his own more sluggish beast
to attempt to come up with her. But he was too well aware of the
comparative speed of the two animals, which had before been tried on
other fields, not to know that this was impracticable, as long as
the fleetest and the foremost spurned from beneath him the ground he
hardly seemed to touch. Therefore, with eyes constantly fixed on the
object of all his anxieties, and a countenance as haggard as if the
dreaded calamity had already happened, he had only to follow as best
he might, pressing to the utmost his own panting steed.

There were various extensive grass-rides between avenues in the
wide-spreading domains of Somersby Park; but as these intersected the
open space of turf, and as Lady Gayland’s horse, in its self-directed
course, had either to cross or break into these between the trees,
each was a fresh source of alarm to Castleton. But as yet, his
undaunted rider still maintaining her self-possession, had succeeded
so far in guiding him as to steer him clear of any of these dangers.
At last he rushed into the long avenue which conducted straight to
the front of the house. Thus, therefore, many perils were now past,
but the worst Castleton anticipated was still to be feared, from
the concussion with which, sooner or later, his speed must meet a
sudden check; and this dread increased as he marked how, without
the slightest symptom of tiring, he still pursued his passionate
career. What would not Castleton have given at that moment for wings,
to dart over the short but still increasing space between them? so
disgusted was he with the inadequate efforts of his own flagging and
jaded animal, that he even madly meditated throwing himself off, and
endeavouring by his own exertions to reach her.

Within a hundred yards of the front of the house, the flying steed
had now arrived in safety, and Lady Gayland was already collecting
all her remaining strength to pull him up with one last attempt,
without recollecting that at that point a by-path conducted through
a shrubbery, at right-angles to the stables. For this the horse made,
with a sudden spring sideways. Lady Gayland, little prepared for so
unexpected a turn, lost her balance, and as the jerk she had at the
same time given caused him to flounder in the same direction, she
had not opportunity to recover herself, and was thrown with violence
against the shrubs on one side of the road.

Castleton, from the angle that the road had taken, and the thickness
of the shrubbery, had not actually seen the accident, but arriving a
few seconds afterwards, with horror he beheld her lying apparently
lifeless on the spot where she had fallen.

Throwing himself from his own horse, and rushing to her, he raised
her gently in his arms, and laying her head on his shoulder whilst
he supported her waist with his trembling hand, he gazed anxiously
in her face, to mark the least symptom of returning animation, but
as yet she lay there with the stiffness of a corpse; her eyes were
completely closed, and their long dark lashes seemed to press upon
her cheek. “She’s dead,--she’s dead, and I have killed her!” he
wildly cried. As he said this, her eyes for an instant opened, though
only with a dull unconscious stare; and the hand he held, grasped
his convulsively. “Look up once again!--For my sake live, my best
beloved, my own adored Geraldine!” He paused in vain, hoping that
these passionate exclamations might again wake her into life. A deep
drawn breath from behind was the only sound which in reply struck
upon his ear. He turned round in the direction from whence that sound
proceeded, and within two paces of him--colourless and motionless as
a statue--beheld the figure of his wife!




                             CHAPTER XI.

           This may be Nature: when our friends we lose,
           Our altered feelings alter to our views;
           What in their tempers teazed us, or distressed,
           Is with our anger, and the dead, at rest.
           And much we grieve, no longer trial made,
           For that impatience which we then displayed.
           Now to their love, and worth of every kind,
           A soft compunction turns the afflicted mind;
           Virtues neglected then, adored become,
           And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb.
                                                          CRABBE.


Lucy had been standing at the window of her own apartment, watching
for the return of the equestrians, and from hence she had first
seen with amazement the pace at which Lady Gayland was returning;
Castleton not, as usual, attending closely on her, but lingering some
distance in the rear. It was not till she had seen the violent manner
in which the horse had bolted for the stables, that the truth broke
upon her. She then became dreadfully alarmed, and would have been
at once upon the spot, but that her agitation impeded her tottering
steps.

Castleton was, as may be supposed, painfully anxious to ascertain
whether Lucy had heard the unguarded expressions which he had
incautiously dropped, but there was nothing in her immediately
subsequent conduct, from which he could form a guess whether this
had been so or not. She assisted with zeal and alacrity in every
thing that was necessary to be attempted to bring Lady Gayland to her
senses, and arranged, in concurrence with Castleton, the manner in
which she had best be conveyed to the house.

The servants had by this time collected, upon the alarm of seeing the
two horses return without riders to the stables. The removal to the
house was effected without difficulty, which seemed to confirm the
hope that no limb was fractured; and in the shortest possible space
of time, the best medical advice was procured. The surgeon expressed
a fear, from the state of torpor in which she remained, that there
might be a concussion of the brain, and, above all things, enjoined
the strictest quiet, and that she should be left to the care of her
own maid.

It was not till Lucy was thus dismissed from any further attendance,
that she owned that she herself was far from well; though, indeed,
her countenance (now first observed) showed that she was suffering
acute pain; all that night she was in considerable danger, and the
next morning produced the premature birth of a dead child.

Castleton, kind and affectionate in his nature, was, as may well be
supposed, driven almost distracted by her fearful state; aggravated
as his anxieties were, by the idea that he had himself been the cause
of the calamity. During some of the moments in which it was thought
most doubtful how it might end, Lucy kept constantly repeating to her
husband, “It was only the fright--it was the fright. I thought she
was killed, and that frightened me so--but that was all:” and this
anxious disavowal of any other cause of agitation, made Castleton
only the more fear that it was too probable she had heard the
expressions into which his alarm had betrayed him.

Perhaps the perfect quiet in which Lady Gayland was necessarily left,
contributed as much as any thing to her progressive recovery. Lucy
was, of course, unable for some time to go near her, and she availed
herself of the strict rules of English decorum, to exclude Castleton
also, as long as she was confined to her own room.

As soon as she was sufficiently re-established to be able to move,
Lady Gayland announced that circumstances prevented her from any
longer delaying her departure. She took an affectionate leave of
Lucy, and an unmarked farewell of Castleton. In answer to Lucy’s
inquiries, whether she still felt any ill effects from her fall, she
replied in the negative; professing, at the same time, that she had
no particular recollection of the circumstances which accompanied
the accident. This oblivion, if real, was fortunate; if assumed, was
judicious.

Castleton and Lucy were thus once more left alone, and had she really
been all in all to him, he could not more tenderly and anxiously
have watched over her slowly returning strength. Before she was by
any means restored to health, this tranquil state was broken in
upon by a melancholy piece of intelligence, which, under present
circumstances, affected Lucy more deeply, perhaps, than would be
imagined by those of my gentle readers who have attended to the
incidents of her early life. A letter arrived from her aunt Alice,
announcing the sudden death of her mother.

The end of Mrs. Darnell had been in some respects characteristic. It
will be recollected, that her neighbours were few and distant; and
those she had, she did not often visit, excepting one, a farmer’s
wife, who had, in the time of high prices, indulged in luxuries,
which Mrs. Darnell had always thought sinful. Having heard that this
woman’s daughter, a pretty boarding-school miss, had eloped from a
country town with a cornet, Mrs. Darnell could not deny herself the
satisfaction of going over, as she said, to condole with her; though
in reality to impress upon her, how the _edication_ which _she_ had
given _her_ daughter had just fitted her to be a lady of the land.

The length of this lecture, during the whole of which she had sat in
wet clothes, brought on an inflammatory cold, in the early stages
of which she had grudged herself a doctor, and in the more advanced
period of the disease she had got up and gone down thrice to see the
shamefu’ dinner that Richard had ordered Betty to dress for him,
“which,” she said, “was just of a piece with all the rest.” This was
her last grievance; for, by her ill-timed, economical imprudence, she
had brought on a typhus fever, of which in a few days she had fallen
the victim.

This event was a severe shock to Lucy. Mrs. Darnell was in no respect
a bad, though an unamiable woman; and in the endearing relation of
mother and daughter, it was impossible that, with such a child as
Lucy, there should not have been many moments which had left an
impression stronger than that of her habitual irritation of temper.
Besides, in these cases, the mind is a sort of intellectual virtuoso,
collecting and treasuring up, in proportion to their rarity, any
traits of kindness which death has stamped with the fictitious value
of reliques. On more general grounds, this melancholy event depressed
Lucy severely. The abrupt manner in which she had heard of the
catastrophe, proved to her how complete was her isolation from the
home of her childhood, how absolute her separation from all those to
whom formerly her every hour had been devoted, and with whom every
care had been divided. She had always considered her parting with her
family as only temporary, but this showed that, whilst with so few
interests in common, communications were so rare between them, their
parting had been transformed into a final one, without that warning
which might have enabled her to have been present at its termination,
or, at any rate, have somewhat prepared her to meet the worst with
fortitude.

It was on her mother that this first blow had fallen; the same might
shortly be the case with her father. The letter, which announced
her mother’s death, contained little more than a recital of the
melancholy event, and of the circumstances which had attended it;
in the next communication, however, which she received shortly
after from her aunt, much mention was made of her father’s lonely
situation, and she learned how frequently he dwelt upon the privation
of his dear child’s society, a loss which he now so deeply felt.
Feeble as Lucy still was, this excited an immediate and anxious
desire to go to him without delay, and she pressed her request upon
Castleton more earnestly than she had previously done any wish, of
the favourable reception of which she was not certain. Castleton
was too much touched with her present depression of spirits, and,
consequently, too anxious to accede to any desire of hers, to start
any other difficulty than his fears that her strength might not be
equal to the undertaking.

Morden Bay, it will be recollected, was in a very remote and secluded
situation: there was only one carriage road to it, the same by which
the pic-nic party had returned to Hornscliff, and that, besides being
very rough and difficult, was exactly in an opposite direction to
the place at which they were at present residing. It was difficult,
therefore, to arrange the method of putting her views into execution,
whilst she was still so far from being perfectly recovered, that even
an easy journey would not have been undertaken without fatigue.

As soon as she could bear the attempt, a plan occurred to Castleton,
by which the difficult part of the undertaking might be overcome.
There was a little sea-bathing place, called Sandford, at about forty
miles distant from Morden Bay, considerably nearer to Somersby, and
here his friend, Lord Stayinmore, had his yacht in waiting for him,
in case he should come back that way from his grouse-shooting in
Scotland.

Lord Stayinmore was one of those persons, who, with unlimited powers
to multiply their luxuries, often find that there is one thing which
they cannot purchase, which is, the time necessary to the successive
enjoyment of them all. This was quite the case in the present
instance. Whilst staying at Cowes, he had been seized with a sudden
fancy to have a yacht, and belong to the Royal Yacht Club. He had
immediately purchased, at an exorbitant price, the fastest sailer;
but this year the grouse had tempted him into Scotland; and as his
shooting-box is in the Central Highlands, whilst “he lies amongst the
moors,” his yacht was ordered to anchor in some port in the north of
England, in case he should wish for a sail, upon his return.

It was not very agreeable to Castleton to ask a favour from a man
of Lord Stayinmore’s character; but the circumstances of the case
induced him to get over his delicacy on this head, and he was
rewarded by receiving for answer a most prompt acquiescence in
his request, putting the vessel entirely under his command, with
a profusion of assurances of the peculiar felicity it gave him to
contribute in any way to Lady Castleton’s comfort. The journey to
Sandford was accomplished by easy stages, though hastened by Lucy’s
impatience to relieve her father’s lonely situation.

Since the second letter of her aunt, Richard Darnell’s solitude had
been broken in upon by a most unexpected return: which had happened
so recently that the event had not been notified in another letter
to Lucy. The ship in which George had been placed had been homeward
bound much sooner than had been contemplated; having been freighted
with some ex-emperor, or potentate on half-pay. George, upon the
receipt of the account of his aunt’s death, had immediately obtained
leave; had started for home to see his uncle, and was at present
staying at Morden Bay. He had hitherto conducted himself, in his new
career, to the complete satisfaction of all his superiors, and his
own merit, coupled with Castleton’s recommendation, had placed him
near his captain, who had made him his clerk and employed him in a
confidential manner.




                             CHAPTER XII.

             What other can she seek to see,
             Than thee, companion of her bower,
             The partner of her infancy?

             She is back again in her sunny home,
             And thick and fast the beatings come
             Of that young heart, as ’round she sees
             The same sweet flowers, the same old trees.
             It is her home, but all in vain
             Some lingering things unchanged remain;
             The present wakes no smile; the past
             Have tears to bid its memory last.


It was already autumn, but autumn stealing slowly on, in the guise of
summer, when, after a few hours’ sail from Sandford, the yacht made
Morden Bay. Not a ripple was on the wave, hardly a breath in the air,
as the light and graceful vessel rather floated with the tide, than
was impelled by its half-filled and nearly flapping sails, into that
romantic haven. Castleton and Lucy were seated upon the deck. He was
to leave her upon landing, and to return in the yacht to Sandford; as
she could not help completely concurring with him that it was much
better that he should not remain with her, whilst she resided at her
father’s. Still the return without him to scenes from which he only
had separated her, seemed more like a dissolution of their connexion,
than either the distance or the period of their parting appeared to
authorise; and perhaps the same impression was made upon him; for,
during the latter part of the sail, he kept constantly dwelling, with
apparent anxiety to convince himself of their certainty, on the many
projects which he meant to put into execution on their re-union.

They were landed just in that identical spot, in the centre of
Morden Bay, where Lucy and George had first been discovered by the
party from Hornscliff. The old coble, against which she had then
leant, was still moored upon the beach, and even so did she now lean
with Castleton, whilst the boat’s crew were engaged in carrying the
packages up the cliff. The similarity of their local position, with
the complete change in every other respect which had come over them
since that epoch, to which their memory referred, had, indeed, struck
them both most forcibly. However this might be, perhaps the very
nature of those recollections prevented them from reciprocating their
impressions; or perhaps the continued silence which ensued might only
be produced by the vicinity of Lady Castleton’s maid, who was waiting
to accompany her to the farm.

Castleton had rather disliked the idea of Mrs. Jenkins being
introduced to a knowledge of her mistress’s name, but he could not
possibly allow her to return home utterly unattended; and as he had
previously intended to change her waiting-woman before long, he had
determined that Jenkins’s service should end with the residence at
the farm.

As the men had returned, and again taken their stations in the boat,
he proposed to depart, and bidding her tenderly farewell, said,
“Here, then, I now leave you, Lucy.” As he uttered these words, a
melancholy presentiment vibrated through him. _Here_ had been his
first meeting--here might be his last parting; and as he returned
to the yacht, his own words seemed to cling to him, as he mentally
repeated, “_Here_, then, I now leave you, Lucy.” He marked her
mounting up the steep path which led to her father’s house, with
slow and unsteady steps, for she was still feeble; and he compared
her present appearance with the light elastic gait, with which he
had seen her bound up that same path. Who but himself had produced
this sad change? With bitter repentance he thought how completely
his experiment had failed; and the notions, which had induced him
to attempt it, now appeared to him in all the naked deformity of
selfishness, stripped of that disguise of assumed diffidence and
self-distrust, in which habitual sophistry had hitherto concealed
them from his own penetration. He had gradually been convinced how
almost impossible it was to fit her to perform, with comfort to
herself and credit to him, her part in that sphere to which he had so
abruptly transferred her.

And yet, on the other hand, after the attempts that he had for many
months made to eradicate all early impressions, did she on this
melancholy occasion return the same, to the home of her childhood?
Was it likely that she would now be able as naturally and efficiently
to fulfil all those filial offices which had formerly been her
delight? He asked himself the question, how had he repaid her for
the destruction of so many habitual sources of innocent satisfaction?
Was she now, as she ought to be, the unique object of his thoughts?
He turned his head away in shame at the consciousness of feeling how
unable he was to answer the question as he ought; but he looked on
the wide waste of waters before him, as if to lose himself and his
reflections on that indefinite horizon, rather than own, by a glance
in an opposite direction, that his thoughts turned towards Sandford,
and the possible prospect he thought there was of his there meeting
Lady Gayland.

But let us not make him out worse than he was: it was no deliberate
intention of this kind which had made him originate the plan; but
perhaps the casual mention, by that lady, of Lord Stayinmore’s yacht
being at the watering-place, to which she might be tempted to go in
the course of the autumn, had first suggested to Castleton the idea
of asking for the loan of the vessel.

Lucy had by this time, with much effort, half ascended the cliff, and
she now stopped to rest at an angle of the path, in an arbour which
had been constructed by herself and her cousin George, in the days of
their childhood; and as she prepared to seat herself within it, she
clung for support to those own sturdy boughs, which, as tendrils, she
had formerly moulded to her will; and as her maid, on whom she had
leant for assistance in the ascent, was a person in whom she could
not confide, she sat here for a while in silence, reflecting on past
times. She drew her sable-lined cloak more closely about her; for in
spite of the cheerfulness of the scene around, she felt the morbid
chilliness of lingering debility and shattered nerves; ills which, on
that spot, she had certainly never suffered from before; but now she
sat and shivered in the sunshine.

And even thus she was marked from near by one who longed to offer
assistance, yet dared not. George, at the first seeing her from the
garden above, as she landed from the boat, had rushed downwards; but
his courage had failed him as he approached; and he, who had braved
dangers in every shape, and in every clime, now, on this well-known
spot, feared to encounter the playmate of his infancy, the confidant
of his childhood; and as she neared the spot at which he had
hesitated and stopped, he hid himself, crouching in the copse behind
the arbour, to mark her more closely before presenting himself to her
notice.

He had known her from a distance; that is, having heard that she
was shortly expected, and to arrive by sea, although the day had
not been fixed, he felt assured that this must be her. Yet, upon
beholding her nearer, so much was she changed, that he felt disposed
to doubt her identity. She had grown much thinner, and this effect
was increased by her mourning attire. He had never before seen her
in the garb of woe, through all the long years which they had passed
together. Custom in her case would not have required her to assume
it for a distant relative, nor had sad necessity obliged her to wear
it for any one whom she would have really lamented. And if (thought
he) she should be as much altered in inward feeling, as in outward
appearance--if even now, sitting alone in that arbour, where we have
together so often lingered, there is a constraint in her manners,
who knows whether that constraint would be removed, or would assume
only a more chilling coldness, at again suddenly beholding the
companion of her youth? This fear pressed so strongly upon his mind
that he stirred not from his concealment, but suffered her to pass on
undisturbed.

She again commenced languidly ascending the remaining part of the
cliff, leaning on her maid, whose patience was very much exhausted,
and who could not help at last exclaiming; “Well to be sure, my lady,
this is the most horriblest outlandish place I ever seed; I wonder
that you, who knowed afore how bad it was, ever thought of returning
to it again; it would have been different if you had been brought to
it unsight unseen.”

“Such as it is,” replied Lady Castleton, “there is no carpeted hall
where I have wandered, since last I was here, which I have trodden
with half the pleasure that I feel as I again climb this rugged
ascent.”

Further comment on the part of her loquacious attendant was for the
present prevented; for they had at length reached the ledge upon
which Bankside Farm-house was situated, and Lucy was received in the
arms of her aunt Alice.




                            CHAPTER XIII.

               And if there be a human tear,
               From passion’s dross refined and clear--
               A tear so tempered and so meek
               That would not stain an angel’s cheek--
              ’Tis that which tender fathers shed
               Upon a duteous daughter’s head.


Alice Darnell had rather expected her niece on this day, though
none in particular had been specified by Lady Castleton, in the
announcement of her intention. She had, therefore, come over to
her brother’s to meet her. The farmer himself was, at the moment
of her arrival, out superintending his labourers--employment being
more than ever necessary to him. Alice Darnell, therefore, took
this opportunity to announce to Lucy the return of her cousin
George, thinking, with a woman’s recollections of past times, some
preparation for that event expedient. So announced, Lucy was prepared
for the reception of her cousin, when, having first watched her
progress upwards from his hiding-place, he soon afterwards himself
made his appearance.

Lucy’s greeting of him was frank and cordial; and if there was, on
either side, any awkwardness in the meeting, it was screened from
observation by the immediate entrance of her father, whose voice was
first heard exclaiming, “Where is she? where is’t my darling? my
little Lucy!” and he rushed into her arms. “Hast spoilt her by making
Lady Lucy on her? Noa; there’s still the same gentle look, and kind
eye. But let’s look again: why, she’s a sight thinner nor she was.
Hast not fed, dear? How’s this?”

“No, father; you forget I’ve been ill, and of course in distress too;
nothing more.”

“Yees; but the pratty plump cheek’s quite dipped in, I’s sure; and
what’s this?” encircling with the capacious span of his finger
and thumb, her somewhat emaciated arm, through the ample folds of
her crape gigot sleeve, “Why’s not now half the size. Ah! these
vanities,” said he, thrusting his fingers through the bows which, in
the fashion of that day, hung from the shoulder; “this here ribbon
grass is a terrible crop for wasting the soil that grows it. But this
is a sad lonely house you’re come to now, Lucy,” as his thoughts
turned to the cause of her visit; “sad, lonely place, indeed. Why
there’s nobody now to keep nout in order. Cocks and hens just walk in
at the front door, and Betty and the farming-men walk out at the back
jist when they both like; and neither niver stop to ask my leave,
whether one may come in, or t’other gang out; and I’s sure, even the
kitchen clock there, like a big coward, has ticked twice as loud,
since there has been none to talk against it.”

But seeing that this allusion, homely as it was, to the recent
calamity, had still the effect of upsetting Lucy, and causing her to
weep bitterly, he stopped short, saying, “No; but no more of this at
present;” and, though not celebrated for tact, the intuitive effort
of kind feeling, and true affection, enabled him soon to recover his
composure; and by way of turning the conversation, he asked her, “And
hast seen many fine folks in your fine hoam, Lady Lucy? Ah! let them
come as fine, and as many, and as used to bedizenment as they may be,
there’lt have been none to match my little Lucy in _prattiness_. Her
little nose is still as straight as ever; there’ll have been none
there to put it out of joint.”

“Dear father, your partiality makes you fancy that there is nothing
in the world like your little Lucy; but if you’d been where I’ve been
biding, you would soon have learnt the difference. We have not seen
much company; but there is one that would in every respect shame me
in the comparison. Lady Gayland is as much above me in beauty, as in
book-learning.”

“And Lady Gayland has been staying with you at Lord Castleton’s
house?” said George, inquiringly, as if he knew something about her,
that made this a matter of surprise to him.

“Yes, dear Lady Gayland. But why should that surprise you?” asked
Lucy, in her turn, anxious to find out on what his knowledge of Lady
Gayland was founded; but he evaded further mention of the subject on
that occasion. Some time afterwards, however, when they were alone
together, and she again alluded to Lady Gayland, he also again
hinted his surprise, that she should have been a guest in Castleton’s
house; and when pressed by Lucy to explain what he knew of that lady,
he began by asking whether she remembered Jack Carter.

This preliminary having, after reciprocal explanation, been assented
to, George continued that, immediately after her wedding, Jack
Carter had returned to Somersby, previously to sailing in the ship
to which Castleton had recommended him, and which was the same to
which George himself belonged. He had remained some few days in the
neighbourhood, to renew acquaintance with his early friends, amongst
whom were many of Lord Castleton’s present establishment; and, upon
joining the ship, he told George, to whom, as acquainted with all the
circumstances, he thought he could, without displeasing his patron,
communicate in confidence; that what most excited the general
surprise at my Lord’s unexpected marriage, was, that it had been the
universal impression, from the reports made by those servants who
had been abroad with him, that he was certainly to be united to Lady
Gayland.

“Even so I thought. What would I now give that so it had been.
Abroad?--Yes! and then I had never seen him but that once. Who would
not then have been happier?”

“Happier, Lucy?--then _you_ are not happy?”

“Do not ask me, dear George; there was a time when I had not a
thought that I would not have shared with you; but now, there are
thoughts which are my husband’s alone. Let us talk of something else.
My poor father!--he’s not fitted to live in an empty house; I wish
you’d fill it for him, George.”

“How do you mean, Lucy, ‘fill it?’”

“That you should marry, George. Nay, do not start so; I know that you
will say that your profession takes you much abroad; but then your
wife might bide your return. She would be a comfort to my father, he
would be a protector to her; and this house might be a home to all.”

“No, Lucy; I’d better now never try to have a home; a roving life is
my best resource. Change stands to me in the place of comfort; and
bustle does instead of happiness. One could not get a home at once,
either, just by the wishing it. My notion of home is, that every
thought, feeling, and wish should be in perfect concert, and that the
house should be the last thing to be in common.”

“This,” thought Lucy, “is his notion of home: how different has been
my experience of it!”

But Lucy was not the only person under her father’s roof, at the
present moment, who thought that it would well become George to take
a wife.

Mrs. Jenkins, Lucy’s maid, being now completely enlightened on the
subject of her mistress’s origin, thought, perhaps, that there must
be something in the atmosphere of Morden Bay, to make _més-alliances_
epidemic; and with so exaggerated a case of that description before
her, as the elevation of the farmer’s daughter to the peerage, it
was no great stretch of her imagination, to fancy that she might
captivate a petty officer; and, as she had here little to do, and
nobody to see but George, who was a good-looking manly youth, it was
natural for her to suppose herself in love with him.

Mrs. Jenkins had good eyes and teeth; and though her freshness had
been somewhat impaired by late hours, having been forced to watch
in solitude the return of daylight, and a succession of _young_
mistresses, yet she dressed herself with as much care and success as
her lady, and was altogether rather a smart figure. But if she had
been ten times as attractive, it is certain that George would, in his
present position, have viewed her with indifference, or rather, not
looked on her at all.

When she could no longer resist this conviction, her self-complacency
could not otherwise account for the fact than by imagining that
he had raised his aspiring eyes as high as her mistress; and this
idea once received, she became impatient to leave her service, and
make as much mischief of her discovery as she could. The defective
accommodation of the farmer’s house was the plea upon which she
chose to put her departure. “Very sorry, my lady, but I find it
quite _un_possible to remain, if I’m to sleep in the _hole_ in which
they’ve thrust me.”

“Why, what’s the matter with your room, Jenkins?”

“Why, my lady, it can’t be supposed that I’m to put up with _stuccy_;
I’ve always been used to be _papered_, ever since I went first into
service.”

“I can only say, Jenkins, that the room in which you at present are,
is the one out of which _I_ never slept till within the last few
months.”

“P_a_rfectly possible, my lady; but there’s a difference between what
some people are ’customed to, and what other people _were_ ’customed
to.”

Further attempts to appease the irritated Abigail, predetermined
to be affronted, only produced fresh impertinence; and this being
overheard by George, brought down a sharp rebuke, which did not
propitiate his slighted admirer. The result was, that as no attempt
to persuade her to stay appeared to Lucy likely to succeed, she was
allowed to depart in a fishing-boat for Sandford.

Though Lucy, from motives of delicacy, had declined entering into
any explanation with George, as to the disappointment which she had
experienced in the state of her husband’s feelings towards her; yet
she did not think it necessary to maintain the same reserve with
her aunt Alice. But even to her, her regrets were general, always
accompanied with the expressed consciousness of her own deficiencies
and unfitness; and, if she had gathered any specific cause of
uneasiness from what she might have overheard in the shrubbery, not
even to the feminine confidante of her early years, did she suffer
any complaint on that head to pass her lips.

Alice, whose acuteness and experience had foreseen the probability
of many of the drawbacks on her niece’s elevation, which had since
occurred, (though they, of course, did not appear so inevitable as
to justify her in opposing what was otherwise so advantageous,) could
now do no more than advise her to hasten and mitigate, as much as
she could, any expectations of exclusive devotion; and to use every
exertion that in _her_ conduct, at least, no cause of censure might
arise.




                             CHAPTER XIV.

                              Those who murder fame,
                   Kill more than life-destroyers.


Castleton, for the first few days at Sandford, led a listless,
lounging, watering-place kind of life. Lady Gayland was not yet come;
nor did he, among the many casual acquaintances that he encountered,
find any one calculated to be a resource. On the contrary, one
unexpectedly crossed his path here, the renewal of whose acquaintance
was most unwelcome; he would even have given much to avoid it. In
passing, at dusk one afternoon, by a trinket-shop on the cliff,
he heard his name uttered, inquiringly, out of a dark-coloured
chaise, with rose-coloured blinds. So summoned, he approached,
and, though the light was already too far gone to give more than
a general view of the features of the person who addressed him,
yet a disagreeable conviction at once occurred to him, through the
concurrent accumulation of rouge and wrinkles, that he once more
beheld Lady Madelina Manfred. She addressed him in the sickly tone of
resuscitated sentiment, and requested him to call upon her the next
day.

There was hardly any thing that he would not rather have done, and
yet there was hardly any thing that he could not better refuse to
do; and next morning saw him unwillingly winding his way towards a
cottage _orné_ on the cliff, which, with the dark-coloured chariot,
had been the produce of her recruited finances. Poor Manfred had, at
length, drank himself to death in the Bench; she had therefore come
upon the entailed property for her settled jointure; had quarrelled
with, and left Captain O’Connor in Connaught; and, with somewhat
diminished powers, was trying whom she could captivate here, to use
either as an agreeable _passe-temps_, or as a permanent settlement.

For Castleton she had always retained a lingering partiality; their
connexion, such as it was, had taken its date just at that period
of her life, when a woman of her description is peculiarly sensible
of the admiration of a very young man. He was since married, and
therefore she could not look forward to any renewal of their
_liaison_; but as she was not conscious of any other change, least of
all in herself, she still expected from him much devotion of manner.
But Castleton’s feelings towards her were now, on the contrary,
under the influence of that most powerful of all re-actions, the
thorough consciousness of having, with very little excuse, made a
very great fool of himself. He was now perfectly aware of all those
faults in her character, to which he had formerly been wofully
blind; and he could not even discover the traces of those personal
attractions which had alone been the cause of that blindness.
Therefore, though her reception of him was evidently studied;
her address to him tender and languishing; and the effect of her
appearance, assisted by the softened light that oozed through the
triply-folded curtains; yet, in spite of all this, his manner was as
cold as it was constrained.

Lady Madelina had always had a passion for presents; and on this
occasion, several trinkets, said to have been sent to her for choice,
were artfully displayed upon the table. Castleton could not mistake
the hint intended; but he hesitated at first, between a dislike to
take this particular method of checking her expectations, and the
danger of encouraging these too far, by acceding to her evident wish.
At last, as the best way of making good his retreat out of the room,
he begged her acceptance of the article which seemed most to have
tempted her fancy; accompanying his exit with an expression of his
regret that he was so much occupied at present, that he could have
but few opportunities of repeating his visit.

This occupation, which was imaginary at the time that it was so
pleaded, was soon afterwards realized; for Lady Gayland arrived the
next day, and was followed almost immediately by St. Clair and some
other young men; as well as by two or three families, who having
latterly been staying at the country-house where she has been on a
visit, near Somersby, had been principally tempted by her to take
Sandford in their way homewards.

Under these circumstances, Castleton found it very difficult now to
see her alone; a difficulty which she seemed by no means anxious to
remove. How wise would he have thought this determination in any
other case: how little justice did he do to its discretion in his
own. A man, under the influence of an unhappy passion, feeling the
obligation, but not having the power to resist it, is often the most
senseless animal in creation: always prone to misconstrue the actions
of the object of his devotion; unreasonable in his expectations of
demonstrations towards himself, and fastidiously criticising her
deportment towards any one else; equally ready to exact in the one
case, or exaggerate in the other.

In spite, however, of her previous determination to avoid it, the
intimate footing of society at a small watering place, and the tacit
acquiescence, if not expressed understanding, by which, on these
occasions, those two people are allowed to be most together whose
society is supposed to be the most agreeable to each other, led to
interviews which dangerously reminded them both of past times, and
produced some little gossip even beyond their immediate circle.

Lady Madelina had, ever since Castleton’s visit, and consequent
_cadeau_, pestered him with incessant pointedly-expressed
rose-coloured notes; which, after a time, he was rather apt to leave
unanswered. The cause of this she was anxious to discover. Her
position in the world was a doubtful one; she had been avoided, never
excluded; no record had ever appeared against her: Captain O’Connor,
and Connaught, were equally distant and unknown. She, therefore,
at a watering place, hovered sufficiently within the outskirts of
society to have occasional opportunities of observing Castleton. At
a raffle, which was held at one of the libraries, she met him with
Lady Gayland hanging on his arm, and addressing him with an easy
assurance, which she probably had acquired in the western province of
the sister country, said,

“Introduce me to your _new_ friend.”

“Excuse me;” was the laconic reply, pointedly expressed.

“This from _you_ to _me_!” was the equally concise retort, as she
floated by.

There is nothing in the world so vindictive as an irritated fool; and
an unexpected opportunity occurred of venting, in a congenial manner,
her spiteful feelings.

The maid whom Lucy had been obliged to dismiss from Morden Bay, was
landed at Sandford, and sought what might for her too truly be
termed a suitable service with Lady Madelina Manfred. It had always
been Lady Madelina’s custom to confide much in her maid, though the
services which she had required had generally been in aid of a softer
passion than hatred. The information that her new attendant had been
living with Lady Castleton, gave her an immediate clue to all the
discoveries that she most wished to make; and she was not a little
surprised to find, upon inquiry, that his present wife could be no
other than the little girl whom they had together seen, during their
excursions on the shores of Morden Bay. The details given by Mrs.
Jenkins, of the state of the establishment during the time that she
lived with the Castletons, and particularly of the present family
union at Bankside Farm, furnished ample food for mischief, had Lady
Madelina possessed powers equal to her desire, to wield the weapons
thus placed in her hands.

But there is one device, the attempt of which is open to the poorest,
the effects of which may content the most rancorous spirit. An
anonymous letter is a mode of moral murder, which, using only a
pen for a poniard, and an inkstand for a bowl, poisons confidence,
and stabs characters without fear of detection. A man who thus
“filches from me my good name,” is free from any dread of having
the stolen goods found upon him; and malignity, thus refined by
cowardice, feasts satisfactorily upon the mere distant imagination
of the success of its designs. This was the sort of revenge which
it occurred to Lady Madelina to take; and, collecting some topics
for mischief from her maid, she concocted the following epistle for
Lucy in a feigned hand; a disguise by no means complete, since the
highly-scented vellum paper, which was made use of, would have
suggested to any one less artless than Lucy, the sort of person
from whom it came. It began with those assurances with which every
anonymous letter abounds.

“_A friend_, deeply _interested_ in the welfare of Lady Castleton,
begs most anxiously to warn her of the doubly dangerous precipice on
which she at present stands. On one side her character is cruelly
traduced, and spies set over her to endeavour to collect proofs of
her criminal attachment to _one_ whom it is unnecessary to name, but
for whom the person who thus cautions her, feels assured that she
only entertains an innocent regard. At the same time attempts are
carrying on here by the same artful woman, who is thus working her
ruin, to rob her of her husband’s affections. This object, the friend
who now writes is afraid will be more likely to be accomplished than
the first part of the scheme. At any rate, why is Lady Castleton
not here? In regard alike for her reputation and her happiness, she
ought not to delay her return another instant: already her absence
is represented as arising from indifference to Lord Castleton, and
partiality for another. She is young in the world, and has much to
learn; and will not suffer by taking this hint from her sincere
friend,--Experience.”

Whatever might be the extent of the malice with which this was
written, the degree of misery which it inflicted on the poor girl
to whom it was addressed, must have excited some compunction if it
could have been witnessed by its author; especially as Lucy was not
herself so much the object, as the means, of attack upon the other
two intended victims.

Lucy, with this death-warrant of her happiness, as she considered
it, in her hand, felt as solitary in the centre of her family, as
she had done in the midst of the strange society to which she had
been transplanted. To whom could she willingly confide insinuations
so degrading to herself, so injurious to her husband? The experience
of the short time that had elapsed since her return to Bankside, had
served to convince her how little the greater part of what she had
lately learnt, could be understood by those amongst whom she had
previously lived. She could not, therefore, for the world acknowledge
to her father, still less to her cousin, that she could believe
that there was any foundation in that which was asserted about her
husband: and as little, she knew, would they credit what was said
about herself. Nay, she even shrunk from showing the odious letter to
her aunt, with whom she felt that she could have no half confidences.
And yet to herself she could not deny, that she thought she ought, if
possible, to follow the advice it contained, of an immediate return
to her husband--but on what grounds to explain to her family such a
previously unmentioned design?

An occasion, however, offered the very next day, while she was
repining in secret over the contents of the hateful communication,
which enabled her to attribute to the peculiar convenience of the
opportunity, her intention to avail herself of it.

Lord Stayinmore had had his yacht down to Scotland, to convey him
Southward, but having, before its arrival, changed his mind, and
being anxious to give some plausible reason for so doing, he had sent
it back, with an elaborately civil note to Lady Castleton, saying
that “he had desired his vessel might call at the Bay where she had
landed, (he had forgotten its name,) to express his hope that she
would do him the honour to avail herself of it to return home again,
to gladden the sight of the living world.”

Lucy, considering this arrival as almost providential, signified her
intention of immediately availing herself of the offer. In vain her
father and her aunt endeavoured to dissuade her, she showed a fixed
determination to abide by her intention, for which they could not
account. She, who was generally so gentle and pliable, was on this
occasion positive and unalterable. She refused, even, to detain the
vessel till the next morning; merely urging as a reason that, as it
was a convenience offered, and a favour conferred, she felt it right
to avail herself of it, without delay, if at all.

George had stood by in silence during the time that this little
family debate was carried on in the garden in the front of the house,
not wishing to obtrude his opinion in opposition to what appeared
to be Lucy’s decided intention; but he watched the while, with some
inquietude, indications of the weather, which his general nautical
experience, and previous knowledge of the signs to be remarked on
that particular spot, combined to make him fear promised but a rough
and disagreeable passage for a delicate female.

The season was now far advanced: autumn, though still gleaming
with an insidious smile, appeared generally in its own blustering
nakedness. As they stood in the little garden, amongst the now bare
and lifeless bushes, the fallen leaves rustled round them in fitful
eddies. The wind, though not loud or high, was unsteady. The little
vessel, although moored within the sheltered bay, in smooth, and
apparently unruffled waters, heaved slowly and solemnly under the
influence of a heavy ground swell from without; and though, with the
exception of some light, fleecy clouds, whose fantastic shapes seemed
to sport in the sunshine, the sky was generally clear, yet a low,
thick bank at sea, which lingered in the offing, appeared to George
to threaten some unpleasant weather at night, should the little skiff
not be able to make the port of Sandford before dark. Danger he did
not himself contemplate; and he wished not to prognosticate evil,
when she seemed so determined not to be dissuaded from starting;
he therefore merely urged that, if she intended to depart that
day, there would be no unnecessary delay. She thanked him, with an
expressive glance, for not having opposed himself to her wishes.

“One night more, dear Lucy,” said her father, as she turned to
prepare for her departure.

“My dear father, trust me, I would not refuse what I should myself
so much wish, had I not reasons, which I cannot explain, but which
convince me of the necessity of no delay.”

“You will at least, though, allow me to accompany you as far as
Sandford,” said George. “Quite alone with strange sailors, you cannot
think of undertaking the voyage.”

Lucy hesitated how to reply to this request. The perfect purity of
her own mind, and the correctness of her conduct, made it difficult
for her to fancy that any one could believe the insinuation in
the anonymous letter, of her continued attachment to her cousin.
Sometimes the recollection of past feelings would, perhaps, raise
a sigh to what might have been; but she never had thought of those
times and her cousin, but as referring to prospects which her conduct
had closed for ever against her; still if such reports had been
spread, the idea of returning to her husband in company with George,
caused her more fear than the alternative of braving the dangers
of the voyage alone. She therefore answered, “I had rather go by
myself, dear George.”

But her father was not so easily satisfied: the experience of an
unexpected bereavement, to one previously so prosperous, had made
him, for the present, morbidly alive to danger. “I’m not now,” he
said, “the fool-hardy swaggerer that I used to be; who just thought
no harm could happen, because it hadn’t happened afore. Yet even now
Richard Darnell’s fears are not to be slighted; and I shall jist have
no rest, unless you take George wi’ you.” To the desire thus urged by
her father, and seconded by her aunt’s entreaties, Lucy gave way, and
consented that George should accompany her. He immediately proceeded
to facilitate preparations for their departure; but even with his
exertions they were rather tardy, and it was much later than he could
have wished before they embarked.

Richard Darnell, and his sister, once more stood side by side to
watch the departure of their beloved Lucy, though under different
circumstances. Their fears were complicated, and their hopes were
chastened, since they had marked her borne away from the church by
her noble bridegroom. They had ascended the cliff, and reached the
ledge on which the farm-house was situated, just as the little bark
cleared the promontory of the bay; and as the freshening breeze met
them on their ascent to the upper land, they turned again to watch
the progress of a vessel that bore a freight so precious to them
both; and they observed, with no little anxiety, that she, at the
same moment began to pitch sharply and violently as she cut through
the increasing foam of the now unsheltered waters.




                             CHAPTER XV.

                         For several virtues
             Have I liked several women. Never any
             With so full soul, but some defect in her
             Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,
             And put it to the foil. But you, O you,
             So perfect and so peerless, are created
             Of every creature’s best.
                                                   SHAKSPEARE.

             Have not all past human beings parted?
             And must not all the present one day part?


It has been said that it was Lady Gayland’s intention to avoid,
as much as possible, the particular attentions of Castleton.
The difficulty of carrying this intention into effect very much
increased, as the society, in which they lived, itself diminished.
It is a hard task too, to have always to count the sentences you may
with discretion accord to one whose society you prefer; particularly
as there was nothing actually in Castleton’s deportment to put the
most prudent upon her guard. Since that eventful day at Somersby,
when circumstances had betrayed him into an unfortunate indiscretion,
his address to her had always been studiously unobjectionable. It was
only when, acting upon her present system, she made her attentions to
any one else more conspicuous, that his impatience prevented him from
altogether concealing his feelings: at other times, when enjoying her
society, he seemed to be perfectly convinced that she could never be
to him other than a chosen companion.

Lady Gayland was fully conscious of the danger of this position; she
wanted not the innuendoes of the world to enlighten her as to its
tendency; her own heart was to her the best warning that it was a
provisional state of things which could not always continue. Could
she have foreseen its natural termination, she would have been most
desirous to await that;--but when was it to end? The return of Lady
Castleton, with her partiality for herself, would only facilitate and
organise an intimacy. With this conviction upon her mind, after many
painful struggles, her resolution was taken; and when once decided,
the arrangements in furtherance of it were made immediately, and in
secret. She was most anxious to avoid, if possible, any thing in the
shape of remonstrance from Castleton; but, above all, a protracted
contest on the subject, which she felt must be peculiarly painful.

It was the afternoon of the same day on which Lucy embarked from
Morden Bay, that Castleton, upon calling at Lady Gayland’s lodgings,
was struck with the denuded and uninhabited appearance of the
apartment, from which all its comforts had been removed. He had
hardly time to make this observation, when a travelling carriage,
heavily laden, drove up to the door, and at the same moment, Lady
Gayland, equipped as for a journey, entered the room. Her countenance
was calm, but unusually pale; and a slight tremor betrayed itself
through the forced firmness of her voice, as she said, “Castleton,
you know I never had any opinion of a system of palliatives: a
disagreeable thing that must be done decidedly, may as well be
communicated directly. If you--if you--regard me, do not attempt to
dissuade me from what I would myself avoid, if possible. I am about
to leave Sandford--and--_I winter at Rome_.”

“At Rome!” repeated Castleton, starting back, and concentrating into
the tone in which he uttered those two words, the expression of
despair at extinguished happiness. “At Rome! No--it must not be.”

At that moment a servant came in to fetch Lady Gayland’s
writing-desk, which, alone, had not yet been consigned to the
carriage. It was one of those inopportune entrances, which it was
difficult to bear, but still more difficult to resist. The moments
occupied in enclosing the desk in its case seemed interminable: it
was impossible that one word could meanwhile be exchanged between
the parties. Castleton had turned his back at once, upon the man’s
entrance, and stood, without moving, with his face towards the
chimney-piece; and Lady Gayland watched, with intense anxiety, all
the varied workings of his expressive countenance, as portrayed in
the mirror before him. When at length the servant had again left
the room, Castleton turned slowly round, advanced towards Lady
Gayland, took her hand between his, and with effort gasped forth,
“Geraldine--you are right!”

This unexpectedly generous acquiescence in the propriety of her
determination, powerfully increased all her feelings in his favour,
and added therefore to the difficulty of concealing her own weakness.
Again, for some moments, they stood as silent as if an eye-witness
had been in the room: at last he continued--“’Tis, however, somewhat
sudden. I cannot yet quite forget what my prospects were the last
hour--what they are this. Mystery and concealment need no longer
be maintained, when all will so soon be over. Of course, I cannot
conceal from myself that _I_ am connected with this determination.”

“Castleton, I had hoped, by the course which I have taken, to have
been spared explanation, useless to you--injurious to myself:
but after the noble and disinterested manner in which you have
facilitated the execution of my project, by acknowledging its
propriety, I cannot refuse to answer your question, if you press for
reply.”

“I press for nothing that can be painful to yourself. I _can_ have no
claim on you.”

“You feel that it is not necessary,” added she, faintly smiling, “to
force me to a verbal confession that it was the influence which I
felt you _must_ have over my actions, if I stayed, which has induced
me to take this irrevocable step.”

“This candid avowal, at such a moment, only the more completely
exposes the folly of my former wilful blindness. But think not now
that I ever dared to shape my rash hopes into any other form than
the being allowed on sufferance the enjoyment of your society: I had
not the shadow of an excuse for further presumption. Had I first
known you bound in loathsome chains, I fear that a sense of moral
obligation might have in vain attempted to arrest the force of my
passion in its endeavours to break these chains asunder. But you are
still free--free as when I first loved you; and I am the cause of my
own bondage. That fatal mistake--I had had painful experience of your
sex--and by this I blindly judged a manner peculiar to yourself--I
thought myself again deceived: I felt that any thing like you, yet
not yourself, would be unendurable. I sought, therefore, in another
rank of life a perfect contrast. All that I could, in common reason,
have expected in such an experiment, I have obtained: and with it
every tie of honour obliges me to be satisfied--and so I will. Go,
dearest Lady Gayland, where prudence calls you. I have again deceived
myself in fancying that I could live with you as a friend. The
attempt has been useless. Go--you may still be happy in forgetting
him who has only himself to blame.”

“No; not entirely so. I feel that I likewise was formerly much to
blame; but my error was unintentional. I was always a strange,
unaccountable creature: I never could drill my deportment into
intelligible discipline; and, singular as it may seem, the same
heedless appearance was sometimes caused by directly opposite
feelings. It was, I believe, those very high spirits, produced by the
conviction of your attachment, which excited, at Rome, that levity
of which you complained: had I been more of a coquette at heart, I
should have been less a coquette in manner. Here, on the contrary,
where I have been really unhappy, as the sad certainty broke upon me
that I could not consider you only as a friend, though still hoping
that mine was a love as passionless as human heart can know, I have
endeavoured to lose for a moment that consciousness in the frivolous
society of others. Believe me, a gay tone often conceals more
anguish than it causes.”

“I believe all you say--I admire all you do--I despise myself--and I
submit.”

“The carriage is quite ready, my Lady,” said a servant opening the
door, and then closing it again.

“O not yet!” exclaimed Castleton, “I had so much more to say.”

“Is it, for either of our sakes, desirable to prolong these sad
moments?”

“No; and yet I would postpone, if it were even for an instant, the
dreary void in existence which will succeed your departure. Whilst
you are still here, I have not yet the actual consciousness that she,
who was but this morning the charm of every prospect, has for ever
faded from my sight. But this is wrong; your firmness deserves better
support from me. I feel the value, especially to you, of appearances
on this occasion. One moment more, and I will be ready.”

He took two or three hasty strides across the room--clenched his
hands violently--pressed his teeth against his closed lips--and then,
with forced composure, said, “Now I am ready to attend you to your
carriage.”

As they descended the first flight of stairs, Lady Gayland softly
murmured, “One word at parting: cherish your wife; she loves you, and
_you_ should at least make _her_ happy.”

Castleton pressed her arm against his heart, and nodded assent.

“Not quite ready, my Lady,” said the same servant, “the chaise seat
was forgot, in Mademoiselle’s room.”

As they had with much effort screwed their courage to the point,
this suspense was even more painful than their parting would have
been a few moments before; but there was no resource, and they
stood leaning against the wall at the head of the first flight
of steps. Availing himself of this opportunity, Castleton added,
“You will at least allow me to write to you; there are so many
subjects--indifferent subjects I mean--in the retired life that I
intend to lead, and I shall have no one near me with whom I can
communicate. To this, at least, there can be no objection.”

To this request Lady Gayland hesitated how to reply. “For the
present,” said she, “let us settle nothing but separation; it may be
a satisfaction to us hereafter that, at least for the time, we made
that complete.”

“Quite ready, my Lady,” was again announced, before Castleton could
further urge his request. As they descended the stairs they seemed
both nerved for the trial of the ultimate parting. Groups of idlers
on horseback, casual acquaintances returning from the parade, made
this exertion the more necessary. “An odious day,” exclaimed one.
“The most disagreeable that I ever knew,” added another;--and so they
passed on, without in the least suspecting that those whom they thus
concisely greeted, and in whom they remarked nothing particular, were
in the act of perfecting the greatest mutual sacrifice that the world
could require from either. Their hands had at length been severed,
the door was closed, and the carriage in motion, when Lady Gayland
covered her face, and sobbed aloud, exclaiming indistinctly; “The
blinds--the blinds--quick. Angélique, _les rideaux, tirez les donc_.”

“You are ill, my Lady; _will_ we stop?”

“Stop! No; faster--still faster:” and overwhelmed with long
suppressed emotion, she burst into an hysterical fit of tears.




                             CHAPTER XVI.

                   O, I have suffered
            With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel
            Who had no doubt some noble creatures in her,
            Dashed all to pieces!
                                                   SHAKSPEARE.


The evening, which was pronounced odious by the loungers at Sandford,
closed in dark and louring over the little vessel still far distant
from that port which she was endeavouring to make.

Lucy had been guilty of an imprudent piece of generosity on first
coming on board. Castleton had always given her an unbounded command
of money, wishing to provide against the danger of her having
imbibed parsimonious inclinations from her mother. Upon their last
separation, too, he had forced upon her a larger sum than usual;
thinking it not unlikely that she might wish to make a present to her
family, as from herself, without putting them under an obligation
to him: but as Farmer Darnell had resolutely refused to receive
money from her in any shape, knowing from whom the funds must be
derived, she still found herself with an over-burthened purse; and,
under a restless desire to give to some one, and a dislike to cause
unrequited trouble, she had made a much more liberal present to be
divided amongst the crew of Lord Stayinmore’s yacht, than they had
previously expected, or than they afterwards merited. For, without in
the least meaning to assert, that an amateur’s crew may not be the
best in the world, the crew of a neglected yacht may be supposed
likely to get a little disorganized. The certainty of this being
their last voyage for the season, joined to the prospect of ample
funds, provided for them by Lady Castleton, which they would soon be
at liberty to spend at their own pleasure, determined them to make
clear ship of what they yet had in store; having found out therefore
that their passenger George, was something of a seaman, the helm,
after having been transferred from one to the other of the crew,
was at length consigned to him. George readily accepted the trust;
believing from his knowledge of the local difficulties of the coast,
that he could steer her with the greatest safety. But he was not a
little uneasy when he saw the purpose for which this trust had been
abandoned to him.

Lucy sat near the helmsman, inquiring occasionally as to their
progress, which seemed to her impatience slow and tedious. George
endeavoured, as far as truth permitted, to tranquillize her; but his
own anxieties increased, as he watched the unclear and thickening
aspect of the weather, and at the same time noted, in the excited
countenances of the crew, as they occasionally peered above the
hatchway, how much they were unfitting themselves for that calm and
efficient assistance, which he knew must soon be required.

George’s situation was a difficult one; he could not leave the helm,
nor could he vociferate all he feared, to the unconscious crew,
without the danger of alarming Lucy. At length, he caught within
hail one straggler from the revellers below; and whispering to him
energetically the necessity of preparing to resist the danger, which
was now imminent, said, “Are you already so blinded, you besotted
drivellers, as not to see it yourselves? I have witnessed some stiff
gales and rough weather in every part of the world; but with this
wind, and the lee-shore, and the reef of rocks to weather with an
ebb-tide, I never saw threaten an uglier night, or one that required
more care.”

The man stood with the stupid, would-be-wise look of incipient
inebriety, and said he would go and tell his messmates.

Lucy evidently saw, by George’s anxious countenance, that all was
not right, and looked up to him, inquiring, as if demanding that
he should not conceal from her his thoughts; but as a driving rain
was just then added to the discomforts of the lowering evening, he,
instead of saying any thing in confirmation of her now awakened
fears, only urged that she should retire below, and not unnecessarily
expose herself to the storm. But she shook her head, saying, “No,
George; in my earliest dangers I was used to cling to you for
protection; and it seems more natural-like to bide by you, if we are
now in danger--are we, George?”

“Danger? no. There’s nothing but what such a tight built bark as
this ought to ride through in safety; but nothing’s to be done
without hands. If you could but call the skipper, Lucy; I cannot
leave the helm, even for a moment.” Lucy rose on the instant, and,
impressed with the idea of exerting herself for the common safety,
she trod the rolling deck with unusual firmness and security. The
sound of her voice unexpectedly calling upon them, and urging them
solemnly to return to their duty, roused the besotted revellers from
their orgies, and they tumbled, one after the other, upon deck, and
immediately began to consider as to the best method of meeting the
danger.

George, now relieved from the helm, insisted upon conveying Lucy to
the cabin, where she would be more safe from the boisterous rudeness
alike of the weather and of the crew. “George, I see that you think
there’s danger; tell me the truth, I pray you; it will be better for
me.”

“I can only repeat, that there ought to be no danger; but there are
points between here and Sandford, which require steady heads, and
skilful pilotage, to weather. The night, too, has set in darker than
I had hoped, and there are those aboard that are not so clear as they
might be; I certainly fear that, with this wind, we shall not get any
more sea-room. But the best safeguard is, that no one should stand
idle, whose hand and head are alike steady; so I must leave you,
Lucy.”

“One moment, George; if the worst should happen; that is, if the ship
should go down, think not of me. You, a man, active, and an excellent
swimmer, might easily save yourself. As for me, though I would not
sinfully hasten my end, believe me I feel still less disposed to
avoid it; for I should not in the least regret to die.”

“No, Lucy; the first instinct of my nature was to assist you, and I
should now selfishly bless the danger that gave me an unlooked-for
opportunity of either dying with you, or being the means of your
salvation.”

“But if to save me be beyond your power, then take this little watch
to my husband. Tell him that he tossed it to me carelessly before he
loved me; that I valued it as a relic, after he had ceased to love
me, and that only with the prospect of impending death did I part
with it. No, not even yet will I do so; it will be more proper to
keep it till the last,” said she, checking herself, and again hanging
it round her neck, and pressing it to her heart. “But, haste, you’re
wanted, George;” as a discordant cry for him was heard from the crew
above.

“Where are we, Sir?” eagerly asked several voices together.

“Why, fools, dolts, lubbers,” cried George, indignant, and at the
same time alarmed, “by the bearing of those two lights, we should be
as near as possible over Sunken-Spike Head.”

“No more a lubber than yourself; and we’re no more there than we are
in hell,” answered the offended skipper. But before the words had
well passed his lips, the violence of a sudden shock laid the greater
part of the already unsteady crew prostrate on the deck; and the
rest, thus completely sobered, too surely knew, from the pointed form
of the hidden rock, that an incurable leak must be sprung.

“The boat--the boat,” was the immediate cry. The boat was soon
lowered, and Lucy, almost unconscious, was carried into it by George.
The crew followed immediately, but in much greater numbers than so
small a bark could possibly hold, with any prospect of escape to
the passengers. But all remonstrance on this subject was rendered
unavailing; for whilst in this state, the boat was raised for an
instant on the surface of an enormous breaker, then dashed with
overpowering force against the side of the vessel; and it being thus
completely swamped, every one endeavoured to provide for his own
safety as best he might. George, supporting Lucy on one arm, and
maintaining his hold of a stray plank with the other, was left at the
mercy of the contending billows.




                            CHAPTER XVII.

            Was it her corpse that he bore for miles,
            When he gladly dreamt of her grateful smiles?
            Silently, as he bore her on,
            Her soul from its gentle frame has gone,
            And never on earth shall his heart discover
            The moment her love and her life were over.
                                                       * * * *

                   Lay her i’ the earth;
            And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
            May violets spring!
                                                    SHAKSPEARE.


Castleton had passed all that night in wakeful solitude. He had
dismissed his servant early, as if to write; but instead, had watched
through the sleepless hours, absorbed in somewhat tardy reflections
on the state to which he had reduced himself. How many prospects,
which opening life had shown him in perspective, had he unaccountably
missed in the actual attainment! How many sources of happiness had
been dried up, whilst he, instead of partaking of their spontaneous
flow, had been refining over-much on their component qualities. Too
true it was, that he, the favoured child of nature and fortune,
had signally failed, both in securing his own happiness, and in
contributing to that of others: and yet, in the result, he had no one
but himself to blame.

The silence of the hour, and the sad abstraction of his thoughts
conspired to invest any extraneous object, which should force his
attention, with the morbid impressions of his imagination. The fitful
gusts of the moaning wind seemed to speak a solemn and piteous
warning to him. He rose and drew aside the window-curtains. The dim
and struggling dawn had just begun to win its hard-fought way through
the dense masses of fast-rolling clouds, which rushed onwards to
oppose its progress. For one moment he felt freshened, as he exposed
his burning brow to the driving rain. Looking forth, he beheld at his
own door, a houseless mendicant, with a child in her arms, crouching
for shelter; and as he dropt a coin into her hand, he thought, “Poor
wretch! your sorrows are not of your own devising. One ought to be
thankful, that neither oneself, nor a beloved one, is exposed to such
a night as this.”

He had hardly again closed the window, when a noise was heard below,
and Carter, who had been staying with him lately, rushed into the
room, evidently endeavouring, but in vain, through his consternation
and distress, so to collect himself, as to be able to break to his
patron some dreadful news.

“O my Lord! prepare for the worst. My Lady!--they’re bringing her
here!--but it’s all over.”

Before he could at all relieve Castleton’s agonizing suspense, the
frantic figure of George stood before them; his eyes staring wildly,
and his drenched appearance showing from whence he had just emerged.

“She’s dead!--she’s dead! You’ll look your last on her now; and
cursed be the hour when you first beheld her!”

“Hold, man!” said Carter; “respect his feelings.”

“His feelings! what were his feelings for her compared with mine? Who
was it, who, in the moment of danger was present, to struggle for her
safety? He who had sworn to love, honour, and protect her, or her
despised and neglected cousin?”

The agony of Castleton, as the truth broke upon him, was too intense
for utterance, and prevented interruption; George, therefore,
proceeded half raving, “But for that hideous breaker which forced
us asunder, she might still have been saved. I stretched forth my
hand to renew my protecting hold, and this met my gripe, and snapped
within it,” putting his hand into his breast, and producing the gold
chain and little watch before referred to;--“your first fatal gift;”
and with that recollection, he raised it in his hand furiously, as
if preparing to dash it to the ground; but checking himself, he
added, “No; it was her last thought, the last request she made!” and,
kissing it solemnly, he placed it on the table before Castleton.
“Once more I felt that I had her safe. In vain the breakers a second
time strove to separate us; or, perhaps they only roared in mockery
at my reviving hopes. I rushed through the surf, as I thought in
triumph;--she was already dead!”

The mournful procession now arrived, bearing in a litter the lifeless
form of Lucy. There was on her no trace of death, beyond the mere
absence of life. Placid, as still in sleep, she lay without as yet
the paleness of a corpse; no disorder in her appearance, except the
streaming locks of her long fair hair, which, darkened and clotted
with moisture, hung in tangled masses over her features. There was
no symptom of a struggle on her part; but it seemed rather as if,
trusting, under Providence, to the efforts of him who would have
saved her if he could, she yielded her spirit to the issue; those
lips, through which might never more pass the slightest breath to
stir a feather, or dull a mirror, were calmly closed, not forcibly
compressed: the expression of her whole countenance was perfect
repose.

As they, who had brought her into the presence of her husband,
deposited their burthen, one arm dropped from her side, and hung
stiffly down to the ground. Castleton earnestly regarded it: there
was the hand on which he had placed the wedding-ring; and, as he
pressed it between his, already cold and clammy as it was, the idea
that first roused him from his stupor into which the sudden shock had
plunged him was, that she might yet be saved; such things had been
done before.

With wonderful precision he gave the requisite orders for attempting
to restore animation. George, who had for some time remained silent,
on hearing this, cried out with a bitter smile, “As if I would have
left her for a moment, had I not too surely known that there was no
longer such a chance.”

He was right: after many hours’ useless endeavours, all were obliged
to own that their efforts were vain.

George had, in the mean time, been in the first paroxysms of a brain
fever; through all the stages of which Castleton attended him with
the affectionate care of a brother; and when he was pronounced out
of danger, prepared to follow the corpse of poor Lucy to Somersby,
where she was to be interred in the family vault. As the orders which
Castleton had in his first despair given, that every possible honour
should be paid to her remains, were to be acted on by interested
parties, they had been too extravagantly fulfilled; and though, in
the stupor of grief, the chief mourner was as unconscious of any of
the surrounding splendours, as the corpse in whose honour they were
collected, yet she, to whom in life pomp had been her only bane,
was borne unconsciously along with princely and almost unparalleled
pageantry.

Castleton’s first care, upon somewhat recovering his composure, was
to exert all his influence to advance George in his profession.
In his wishes to serve the farmer and his sister, though equally
sincere, he was not equally successful. Nothing could persuade them
to leave Bankside, where they remained together, still mourning their
bereavement.

As to Castleton himself, I have too much respect for the intensity
of his present grief, aggravated in his case by bitter feelings
of self-reproach, to anticipate the date when that elasticity of
spirit, which is the never-failing attribute of the human mind,
shall have enabled him to struggle with his present depression, and
imparting its buoyancy, as it will do whenever the heart’s core has
not been completely crushed, shall, with the assistance of time, have
triumphed over mortal sorrow.


                               THE END.




                               LONDON:
         IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.




Transcriber’s Note:

Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent
hyphenation in the text. These were left unchanged, as were jargon,
dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings. Ten misspelled words
were corrected. The word ‘to’ was added to “... sit next [to] Lady
...”

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores,
_like this_. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside
down, reversed, or partially printed letters and punctuation,
were corrected. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and
abbreviations were added. Duplicate words at line endings were
removed.


*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78690 ***