“I do,” he said; “and if I could I would grudge Lucy to a nobody as much as you do; but is all my happiness to go for that, my lady? I dare not speak of hers,” he said, faltering, “if I could hope that her happiness was concerned, what secondary consideration in the world could be put by the side of that?”
Lady Curtis shook her head. She clasped and unclasped her hands, with the nervousness of agitation.
“It is easy for you to say that,” she cried, “very easy for you at your stage; but happiness is not everything—happiness is not all I have to look to,” and as she spoke, there flashed across Lady Curtis’s mind a realization of the time when she should hear her daughter called Mrs. Durant, and listen to the anxious explanations of society, as to how old Durant the saddler, was not her father, but her grandfather-in-law. How could she bear it, how could she bear it? she who had in imagination seen her pretty daughter the admired of all admirers, at the height of splendour and fashion, and with a better title than her mother’s. No, no, no; it was not to be tolerated. She could never permit it! whatever traitors might fight in her bosom for Lewis and his rights.
“This is how it is then,” he said, sadly, “it is you, my friend, my kindest patroness and guide, you who have been the help to me that only such as you could be—that reject me, my lady? Why should I claim you as my lady—or use such a familiar term at all?”
“Lewis, don’t be cruel to me,” she cried.
“I am not cruel. It is only that it is you, and not Sir John, who rejects me,” he said.
No intimation was made to Lucy how this interview was going on; she did not know what form it would take, nor how far Durant would go; and after the first half hour of suppressed excitement and agitation, her pride arose against the notion of waiting here for any news that might be sent her. She would not do it. She went out, rushing along, round by the back of the house, to avoid being seen from her mother’s windows, and set off to visit a sick family in the Park, belonging to one of the gamekeepers. This would occupy her, and prevent her mind from dwelling upon anything Lewis might have to say to Lady Curtis, and anything my lady might reply. But it may be imagined how busy her mind was with a thousand thoughts as she struck across the damp park, upon which the hoarfrost had melted not very long before. It made her wet, but she did not care. She did not come back, and this was done with intention, till the bell was ringing for luncheon. She saw her mother and Durant both looking anxiously down the avenue as she made her way in by the back entrance as she had gone out. “My lady wants you, Miss Lucy,” all the maids told her one after another; but Lucy’s pride was not to be so easily overcome. She went upstairs and took off her wet shoes and outdoor wraps with the composure of a Stoic, going down only when the summons of the bell was no longer to be neglected, for Sir John was not a man to be kept waiting. When she got down stairs, her colour a little brighter than usual, and her air perhaps conscious in the very elaboration of indifference—she found the party already assembled, her father from his library, and her mother from the morning-room, where she had been shut up the whole morning with her guest. These two gave her anxious glances, both the one and the other. Some understanding she felt sure they must have come to, as, mastering her pride and the sense of injury she felt in being thus unacquainted with what had been going on, she sat down at the table. Why did not she know, why was not she the first person to be considered? To be sure it was her own fault. She had gone away, concealing herself from them, binding on her armour of pride, pretending not to know or care. But it was curious even to Lucy in that condition, and would have been still more curious to a calmer spectator to see Sir John taking his place in unbroken calm amid a party so agitated. Sir John knew nothing of what had been going on, of Durant’s presumptuous hopes, nor of how he had been occupied winning over Lady Curtis to his side. He was full of something which had happened to himself, a little adventure which had quite roused him from his habitual calm. He told them all the story as they sat at the meal, which was little more than a pretence to the others. While he ate his cutlet he went on with his tale, telling them how he had driven out to see the state of the plantations of which Rolt had been talking, and how as they approached one special spot he sent the groom away to inquire into some changes in the covers which he had not authorized.
“And when I got as far as Fox’s Hollow,” said Sir John, “I found the gate shut, which Short had assured me was always open. I was driving the black colt, Lucy; you know the animal is a restive creature and very fresh. I don’t know when he had been in harness before. I remember the time when it would not have cost me much to jump down and open the gate, too quick to give any horse his head, but that is all over now. I was reflecting what to do with such a high-tempered brute, and a little doubtful whether I’d venture to get down—a slow business now, Durant, as you’ll know when you have come to my years; and as I was thinking that discretion was the better part of valour, who should rise up suddenly from the bushes but—no, not a pheasant, not a covey—but a beautiful young lady. You may well open your eyes—a young creature like a princess in a strange sort of black dress. I never saw her before. She opened the gate to me, and she made me a curtsey and gave me a smile. I can tell you, my lady, it produced such a sensation in me as I have not felt for long enough. Of course I thanked her—of course I said everything in the way of gratitude, and regret to have troubled her, and excuse of myself as an old man. But the wonder is I didn’t know her! A perfectly charming creature! Could it be young Seymour’s wife, or who could it be? Upon my honour, though it sounds so strange to say so, I never saw her before!”
“Then you have seen her, too?” cried Lady Curtis. “Now, Lucy, you perceive your papa agrees with me—”
“Who is this mysterious princess?” said Durant. He was glad as was my lady of something that relieved the painful agitation of pre-occupied thoughts.