Part 28 (1/2)
”O,” said she, ”she does not want persuading; she is willing enough, and I will run to papa and mamma and ask their leave, and then Lucilla will go and glad: won't you, Lucilla?”
So saying, she sprang out of my arms, and ran out of the room; Lucilla would have followed and prevented her. I respectfully detained her. How could I neglect such an opportunity? Such an opening as the sweet prattler had given me it was impossible to overlook. The impulse was too powerful to be resisted; I gently replaced her on her seat, and in language, which, if it did any justice to my feelings, was the most ardent, tender, and respectful, poured out my whole heart. I believe my words were incoherent; I am sure they were sincere.
She was evidently distressed. Her emotion prevented her replying. But it was the emotion of surprise, not of resentment. Her confusion bore no symptoms of displeasure. Blus.h.i.+ng and hesitating, she at last said: ”My father, sir--my mother.” Here her voice failed her. I recollected with joy that on the application of Lord Staunton she had allowed of no such reference, nay, she had forbidden it.
”I take your reference joyfully,” said I, ”only tell me that if I am so happy as to obtain their consent, you will not withhold yours.” She ventured to raise her timid eyes to mine, and her modest but expressive look encouraged me almost as much as any words could have done.
At that moment the door opened, and in came Sir John with the other drawing of the conservatory in his hand. After having examined us both with his keen, critical eye; ”Well, Miss Stanley,” said he, with a look and tone which had more meaning than she could well stand, ”here is the other drawing. As you look as if you had been _calmly_ examining the first, you will now give me your _cool, deliberate_ opinion of the merits of both.” He had the cruelty to lay so much stress on the words, cool, calm, and deliberate, and to p.r.o.nounce them in so arch a manner, and so ironical a tone, as clearly showed, he read in her countenance that no epithets could possibly have been so ill applied.
Lady Belfield came in immediately after. ”Well, Caroline,” said he, with a significant glance, ”Miss Stanley has deeply considered the subject since you went; I never saw her look more interested about any thing. I don't think she is dissatisfied on the whole. General approbation is all she now expresses. She will have time to spy out faults hereafter: she sees none at present. All is beauty, grace, and proportion.”
As if this was not enough, in ran Celia quite out of breath--”Oh, Lucilla,” cried she, ”papa and mamma won't let you go with Charles, though I told them you begged and prayed to go.”
Lucilla, the pink of whose cheeks was become crimson, said angrily, ”How Celia! what do you mean?”
”Oh, no,” replied the child, ”I mean to say that _I_ begged and prayed, and I thought you looked as if you would like to go, though Charles did not ask you, and so I told papa.”
This was too much. The Belfields laughed outright; but Lady Belfield had the charity to take Lucilla's hand, saying, ”Come into my dressing-room, my dear, and let us settle this conservatory business. This prattling child will never let us get on.” Miss Stanley followed, her face glowing with impatience. Celia, whom I detained, called after her, ”Papa only said there was not room in the curricle for three; but if it is only a little way, I am sure we could sit, could we not, Lucilla?” Lucilla was now happily out of hearing.
Though I was hurt that her delicacy had suffered so much, yet I own I hugged the little innocent author of this confusion with additional fondness. Sir John's raillery, now that Lucilla could be no longer pained by it, was cordially received, or rather I was inattentive to every object but the one of which my heart was full. To be heard, to be accepted, though tacitly, to be referred to parents who I knew had no will but hers,
Was such a sacred and homefelt delight, Such sober certainty of waking bliss As I ne'er felt till now.
During the remainder of the day I found no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Stanley. Always frank and cheerful, he neither avoided nor sought me, but the arrival of company prevented our being thrown together.
Lucilla appeared at dinner as usual: a little graver and more silent, but always unaffected, natural, and delicate. Sir John whispered to me that she had entreated her mother to keep Celia out of the way till this curricle business was a little got out of her head.
CHAPTER XLII.
The next morning, as soon as I thought Mr. Stanley had retreated to his library, I followed him thither. He was busy writing letters. I apologized for my intrusion. He laid his papers aside, and invited me to sit by him.
”You are too good, sir,” said I, ”to receive with so much kindness a culprit who appears before you ingenuously to acknowledge the infraction of a treaty into which he had the honor of entering with you. I fear that a few days are wanting of my prescribed month. I had resolved to obey you with the most religious scrupulousness; but a circ.u.mstance, trifling in itself, has led almost irresistibly to a declaration, which in obedience to your command I had resolved to postpone. But though it is somewhat premature, I hope, however, you will not condemn my precipitancy. I have ventured to tell your charming daughter how necessary she is to my happiness. She does not reject me. She refers me to her father.”
”You have your peace to make with my daughter, I can tell you, sir,”
said Mr. Stanley, looking gravely; ”I fear you have mortally offended her.”
I was dreadfully alarmed. ”You know not how you afflict me, sir,” said I: ”how have I offended Miss Stanley?”
”Not Miss Stanley,” said he, smiling, ”but Miss Celia Stanley, who extremely resents having been banished from the drawing-room yesterday evening.”
”If Celia's displeasure is all I have to fear, sir, I am most fortunate.
Oh, sir, my happiness, the peace of my future life, is in your hands.
But first tell me you forgive the violation of my promise.”
”I am willing to believe, Charles,” replied he, ”that you kept the spirit of your engagement, though you broke it in the letter; and for an unpremeditated breach of an obligation of this nature, we must not, I believe, be too rigorous. Your conduct since your declaration to me has confirmed the affection which your character had before excited. You were probably surprised and hurt at my cold reception of your proposal, a proposal which gave me a deeper satisfaction than I can express. Yet I was no dissembler in suppressing the pleasure I felt at an address so every way desirable. My dear Charles, I know a little of human nature. I know how susceptible the youthful heart is of impressions. I know how apt these impressions are to be obliterated--a new face, a more advantageous connection--”
”Hold, sir,” said I, indignantly interrupting him, ”you can not think so meanly of me--you can not rate the son of your friend so low!”
”I am very far indeed,” replied he, ”from rating you low. I know you abhor mercenary considerations; but I know also that you are a young man, lively, ardent, impressible. I know the rapid effect that leisure, retirement, rural scenes, daily opportunities of seeing a young woman not ugly, of conversing with a young woman not disagreeable, may produce on the heart, or rather on the imagination. I was aware that seeing no other, conversing with no other, none at least that, to speak honestly, I could consider as a fair compet.i.tor, hardly left you an unprejudiced judge of the state of your own heart. I was not sure but that this sort of easy commerce might produce a feeling of complacency which might be mistaken for love. I could not consent that mere accident, mere leisure, the mere circ.u.mstance of being thrown together, should irrevocably entangle either of you. I was desirous of affording you time to see, to know, and to judge. I would not take advantage of your first emotions. I would not take advantage of your friends.h.i.+p for me. I would not take advantage of your feeling ardently, till I had given you time to judge temperately and fairly.”