Want of knowledge of the world, or rather of l'usage du monde, was naïveté in the blooming youth of Lucy, but not so in the middle-aged parents, or the hoyden younger misses. Lord Montreville was not much of a politician; he was not a man of deep reading, though his mind was sufficiently cultivated to give grace, if not depth, to his observations: he was not witty, though he was often droll, and consequently it was on living people and passing events that his conversation chiefly turned. Any one who knows every one worth knowing, and can talk of them and their concerns with some tact, and not much ill-nature; is reckoned agreeable; but he felt that his histoirettes lost half their piquancy from the ignorance of his audience respecting the persons alluded to. Though it had amused him to enchant the whole family, especially while he had an ulterior object in view, that object once gained, he found their society insipid, and in London he became peculiarly sensible how inexpedient it would be to transplant them into his own circle. Mrs. Bentley, the eldest daughter, and the dear children of whom poor Lucy meant to see so much, were wholly out of the question. Country gentlefolks not of the first water of fashion (for the Heckfields were not vulgar-their dress, their house, their equipage were all perfectly presentable), are infinitely less objectionable to the very refined, than London gentility not of the first class. Mrs. Bentley was very rich, and her house in • Upper Baker-Street was a very good one, and she dressed in the extreme of the fashion; but she wanted the air distingué which was natural to Lucy. Though handsome, she was inclined to be large and red, and withal, she was a little languishing, and she was especially languishing for Lord Montreville. She looked as strong as a horse, but she complained of nerves; she was a good woman, and loved her children, but she talked as if she could not bear to have them with her, and declared that their noise distracted her; and, in short, she took every possible pains to make herself appear as little amiable, and as unlike what she really was, as possible. Sir Charles and Lady Selcourt came to attend the wedding, and Lord Montreville soon perceived that Lady Selcourt was an unexceptionable person for Lady Montreville, or any other lady, to appear with in public; but he doubted whether her society at home would be as advantageous for any newly-married young woman. Her figure, which was always beautiful, was dressed in the most perfect taste; her eyes, which were very large and very dark, became lustrous from the addition of 1 the value I had for this particular box, and that it would break my heart to have it spoiled: and he saw I was so hurt at the idea of its being scratched or injured that he gave up the point. Indeed, I must say, I have always found him very reasonable, and it is quite impossible for two people to go on better together. I never think of opposing his wishes when I am indifferent upon a subject. He knows, therefore, my anxiety to oblige him, and so he never thwarts me when he sees I am determined on any thing. Depend upon it, Lucy, if you begin in this manner before marriage, you will be no better than a slave after marriage." Sophy always had such a flow of words, and such a multitude of good arguments to adduce, that Lucy knew it was useless to dispute with her; besides, she was older, and she was a married woman, and she always was the cleverest; and Lucy was more than half-persuaded there was a good deal of truth in what she said. Accordingly, she showed Milly the gauzes as she was dressing for dinner, and promulgated her intention of having a gown of the pink one. "La, miss!" said Milly, "I thought my lord did not like pink, and that he made you send back the pink hat." "Yes, but do you not think it is great nonsense to let one's husband interfere about such trifles? What can it signify to him whether I wear pink or blue ?" "I don't know, miss, as it can signify much to anybody; but I should think it signified more to him than to anybody else." "But this is to be a smart gown to wear in company, and not at home with him." "But sure, Miss Lucy, you don't want to look well in anybody's eyes more than in your own husband's." "That is very true," thought Lucy; "it would be very wrong to wish to be admired by other people, and not by one's husband." In the evening the gauzes were spread out, and Sophy expatiated on the beauties of the pink one. Lucy timidly admired it, and cast a glance towards Lord Montreville; she was half-ashamed of appearing afraid to buy it, and was acquiescing in its merits, when Lord Montreville said, "I suppose you are afraid of my admiring you too much, as you are bent upon the only colour which I do not think becoming to you." "Do you really dislike pink so much?" asked Lucy. It look prettier in any other. Perhaps other people may admire you in it." "I am sure I do not want other people to admire me. would be very wrong if I did, now. Do you like that vapeur, Lord Montreville, or this white one? The white is the prettiest after all. Yes, I do like the white best, Sophy, and the white I will have." And she put a resolute tone into the last sentence, that her submission should not look like submission in Sophy's eyes. Why is it many amiable people are as much ashamed of appearing amiable, as many unamiable ones are of appearing unamiable? CHAPTER VIII. Calantha. To court, good brother, ere her bloom of mind Manuscript Poems. Ar length the awful day arrived. Lucy was married, and the Marquis and Marchioness of Montreville drove from St. George's Church in the neatest of dark-green chariots, with four gray horses, leaving Colonel Heckfield sad, but satisfied, Mrs. Heckfield joyful, but dissolved in tears, Emma full of delight, wonderment, and awe, at her sister Lucy being actually a marchioness, Mademoiselle feeling herself the person most peculiarly concerned, inasmuch as it must have been entirely owing to the superior education she had given her pupil that she had been deemed worthy to be raised to so lofty a station in the peerage. Milly watched the carriage till it was out of sight, with tearful eyes, and left the window with a foreboding shake of the head. The bride and bridegroom spent the honeymoon at Ashdale Park, and Lucy was much edified by the grandeur of the place. The park was extensive, the pleasure-grounds immense, the gardens perfect. She had nothing to do but to enjoy all she saw. She went round the pictures several times, till she thought there was no pleasure in making her neck ache with looking up, and her eyes ache with peering through Claude Lorraine glasses; she repeatedly walked about the gardens, but she dreaded the sight of the gardener; he used such hard names, and he was such a gentleman, that she scarcely ventured to ask him the name of a flower, much less to suggest any fancy of her own. The house was completely montée. The maître d'hôtel sent in the bill of fare, but she could never have presumed to propose any alteration in the repast. She had heard that Ashdale Park was famous for bantams, and she one day expressed a wish to see them. Lord Montreville ordered the pony phaeton to drive her to the poultry establishment." "Oh, let us walk, dear Lord Montreville; I had much rather walk." "It has been just raining, my dear Lucy, and your shoes are thin." "But I can put on thick ones in a moment." "I hate to see a woman's foot look like a man's. Nothing so ugly as great coarse shoes upon a pretty woman's little foot." "Oh! but nobody will see me." "Yes, I shall see you," answered Lord Montreville, and Lucy felt frightened lest he should think she could have meant he was nobody. So the pony phaeton was ordered. In about three-quarters of an hour it appeared, and a groom on another beautiful little long-tailed pony to follow, and Lucy's wadded cloak, and Lord Montreville's fur cloak, and the boa, and the parasol, and the umbrella, and the reticule, &c., were all duly packed and arranged, and they entered the carriage, and drove about a mile to the end of the park. Having summoned the poultryman, Lady Montreville was introduced to all the different yards and coops, the winter roosting-place, and the summer roosting-place, and the coops for early chickens, and the places for fatting; and Lucy soon felt that the poulterer, who did the honours of the establishment, was much more the master of the whole concern than she could ever be; so, having bestowed the requisite portion of approbation and admiration, she was departing without any |