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.