but he had not the strength to resist the energy of Lucretia. The force of her character seized upon the weak part of his own,—its gentleness, its fear of inflicting pain, its reluctance to say “No,”—that simple cause of misery to the over-timid. A few sentences more, full of courage, confidence, and passion, on the part of the woman, of constraint and yet of soothed and grateful affection on that of the man, and the affianced parted.
Mainwaring had already given orders to have his trunks sent to him at his father’s; and, a hardy pedestrian by habit, he now struck across the park, passed the dell and the hollow tree, commonly called “Guy’s Oak,” and across woodland and fields golden with ripening corn, took his way to the town, in the centre of which, square, solid, and imposing, stood the respectable residence of his bustling, active, electioneering father.
Lucretia’s eye followed a form as fair as ever captivated maiden’s glance, till it was out of sight; and then, as she emerged from the shade of the cedars into the more open space of the garden, her usual thoughtful composure was restored to her steadfast countenance. On the terrace, she caught sight of Vernon, who had just quitted his own room, where he always breakfasted alone, and who was now languidly stretched on a bench, and basking in the sun. Like all who have abused life, Vernon was not the same man in the early part of the day. The spirits that rose to temperate heat the third hour after noon, and expanded into glow when the lights shone over gay carousers, at morning were flat and exhausted. With hollow eyes and that weary fall of the muscles of the cheeks which betrays the votary of Bacchus,—the convivial three-bottle man,—Charley Vernon forced a smile, meant to be airy and impertinent, to his pale lips, as he rose with effort, and extended three fingers to his cousin.
“Where have you been hiding? Catching bloom from the roses? You have the prettiest shade of colour,—just enough; not a hue too much. And there is Sir Miles’s valet gone to the rectory, and the fat footman puffing away towards the village, and I, like a faithful warden, from my post at the castle, all looking out for the truant.”
“But who wants me, cousin?” said Lucretia, with the full blaze of her rare and captivating smile.
“The knight of Laughton confessedly wants thee, O damsel! The knight of the Bleeding Heart may want thee more,—dare he own it?”
And with a hand that trembled a little, not with love, at least, it trembled always a little before the Madeira at luncheon,—he lifted hers to his lips.
“Compliments again,—words, idle words!” said Lucretia, looking down bashfully.
“How can I convince thee of my sincerity, unless thou takest my life as its pledge, maid of Laughton?”
And very much tired of standing, Charley Vernon drew her gently to the bench and seated himself by her side. Lucretia’s eyes were still downcast, and she remained silent; Vernon, suppressing a yawn, felt that he was bound to continue. There was nothing very formidable in Lucretia’s manner.
“‘Fore Gad!” thought he, “I suppose I must take the heiress after all; the sooner ‘t is over, the sooner I can get back to Brook Street.”
“It is premature, my fair cousin,” said he, aloud,—“premature, after less than a week’s visit, and only some fourteen or fifteen hours’ permitted friendship and intimacy, to say what is uppermost in my thoughts; but we spendthrifts are provokingly handsome! Sir Miles, your good uncle, is pleased to forgive all my follies and faults upon one condition,—that you will take on yourself the task to reform me. Will you, my fair cousin? Such as I am, you behold me. I am no sinner in the disguise of a saint. My fortune is spent, my health is not strong; but a young widow’s is no mournful position. I am gay when I am well, good-tempered when ailing. I never betrayed a trust,—can you trust me with yourself?”
This was a long speech, and Charley Vernon felt pleased that it was over. There was much in it that would have touched a heart even closed to him, and a little genuine emotion had given light to his eyes, and color to his cheek. Amidst all the ravages of dissipation, there was something interesting in his countenance, and manly in his tone and his gesture. But Lucretia was only sensible to one part of his confession,—her uncle consented to his suit. This was all of which she desired to be assured, and against this she now sought to screen herself.
“Your candour, Mr. Vernon,” she said, avoiding his eye, “deserves candour in me; I cannot affect to misunderstand you. But you take me by surprise; I was so unprepared for this. Give me time,—I must reflect.”
“Reflection is dull work in the country; you can reflect more amusingly in town, my fair cousin.”
“I will wait, then, till I find myself in town.”
“Ah, you make me the happiest, the most grateful of men,” cried Mr. Vernon, rising, with a semi-genuflection which seemed to imply, “Consider yourself knelt to,”—just as a courteous assailer, with a motion of the hand, implies, “Consider yourself horsewhipped.”
Lucretia, who, with all her intellect, had no capacity for humour, recoiled, and looked up in positive surprise.
“I do not understand you, Mr. Vernon,” she said, with austere gravity.
“Allow me the bliss of flattering myself that you, at least, are understood,” replied Charley Vernon, with imperturbable assurance. “You will wait to reflect till you are in town,—that is to say, the day after our honeymoon, when you awake in Mayfair.”
Before Lucretia could reply, she saw the indefatigable valet formally approaching, with the anticipated message that Sir Miles requested to see her. She replied hurriedly to this last, that she would be with her uncle immediately; and when he had again disappeared within the porch, she said, with a constrained effort at frankness,—
“Mr. Vernon, if I have misunderstood your words, I think I do not mistake your character. You cannot wish to take advantage of my affection for my uncle, and the passive obedience I owe to him, to force me into a step of which—of which—I have not yet sufficiently considered the results. If you really desire that my feelings should be consulted, that I should not—pardon me—consider myself sacrificed to the family pride of my guardian and the interests of my suitor—”
“Madam!” exclaimed Vernon, reddening.
Pleased with the irritating effect her words had produced, Lucretia continued calmly, “If, in a word, I am to be a free agent in a choice on which my happiness depends, forbear to urge Sir Miles further at present; forbear to press your suit upon me. Give me the delay of a few months; I shall know how to appreciate your delicacy.”
“Miss Clavering,” answered Vernon, with a touch of the St. John haughtiness, “I am in despair that you should even think so grave an appeal to my honour necessary. I am well aware of your expectations and my poverty. And, believe me, I would rather rot in a prison than enrich myself by forcing your inclinations. You have but to say the word, and I will (as becomes me as a man and gentleman) screen you from all chance of Sir Miles’s displeasure, by taking it on myself to decline an honour of which I feel, indeed, very undeserving.”
“But I have offended you,” said Lucretia, softly, while she turned aside to conceal the glad light of her eyes,—“pardon me; and to prove that you do so, give me your arm to my uncle’s room.”
Vernon, with rather more of Sir Miles’s antiquated stiffness than his own rakish ease, offered his arm, with a profound reverence, to his cousin, and they took their way to the house. Not till they had passed up the stairs, and were even in the gallery, did further
