“When I was young—sixty years ago now—we lived at Camberwell, a very different place then from now, my dear,” added the old lady with something of a sigh, “a gay place, too, but we were happy and young enough to be gay. Well, my love, we had our monthly assemblies and many other pleasant meetings now passed away or despised. At these assemblies often met two of the greatest beauties whom you could have found within ten miles of London then, now I think you might search England through, in vain, to equal one of them. My dear, I cannot give you their real names, so we will call them Augusta and Lucy.”
“How jealous they must have been of one another!” Isabella interposed.
“My love,” said the old lady, much shocked, “they were the dearest friends. Augusta was a tall, fine girl of seventeen when I first knew her, with a handsome ingenuous face, somewhat haughty, but very beautiful nevertheless; it was her fine, upright figure and stately carriage that the gentlemen so admired.” The old lady paused and sighed. “Lucy was only one year younger, and a little graceful thing with light hair and a fair complexion; her eyes, I was told, were very lovely, blue and open. She loved Augusta with all her heart, they were companion beauties, no rivals.”
“I should not like that!”
“My dear, may you ever find as dear a friend as Lucy did in Augusta; Lucy was poor, Augusta rich, yet she loved and sought her. Well, mouth after month were these two girls admired, and many a husband given to either,” and Mrs. Margaret smiled. “but folks found they were mistaken; the year came round, and they were still but Misses. Meantime, Lucy had been with her father—poor thing she had no mother—to visit an uncle in—we will say, Berkshire. He was the rector of a little country parish; the autumn was rainy; he had no wife—no children; and whilst her uncle and father were out shooting or fishing, Lucy was left alone with the housekeeper, a tabby cat, and Robinson Crusoe.”
“I should have run home.”
Mrs. Margaret smiled and paused.
“My dear, they were the happiest days of her life; I was going to say the last happy days of her life, but that would have been far from true, though once she thought so. Well, near the end of her visit, the family came back to the hall; there was grand rejoicing and bell-ringing, for with them came the son and heir, a young man just returned from America,—he had been wounded at Saratoga. Well, Lucy’s uncle went to pay his respects to the Squire and his lady. Now, my dear, the Squire was old and gouty, and my lady a good wife to him—yes, a good woman—to all be their due; but proud—very proud. Well, the Squire was laid up with so sharp an attack that week, he could not return the call, nor did Lucy see any of the family till the Sunday, when my lady and her son appeared in the large hall-pew. The Squire’s lady looked like a Squire’s lady in those days,—none of your flimsy muslins and barèges; but Lady Anne then and ever was in the richest brocade, one, my dear that would have stood by itself, well displayed by her hoop. Lucy watched her as she sailed up the aisle, and thought her the finest lady she had ever seen. My dear, she was also the cruelest.”
Isabella looked up.
Mrs. Margaret smiled. “But she was a very handsome woman for all that, my love, and used her fan, and curteseyed to the people with surpassing grace and dignity. Her wide skirts filled the little aisle, and so behind her walked the young Colonel. He—well, my dear, he was the best-looking man I ever saw,—a better-looking man than you can ever hope to see. He was dressed in a Pompadour coat, laced with silver, and wore one arm still in a sling, Well, and Lucy—silly little Lucy—could not keep her eyes off that fine, pleasant-looking gentleman. Yes, his very looks were pleasant. Silly did I say she was? She was worse than silly—wrong. If she had that morning thought—as she ought to have done—of man’s Maker, instead of man, and kept her eyes upon her book, almost all the trouble which she ever knew would have been spared her. She and her father were to leave Berkshire the middle of that week. On the Tuesday young Colonel Redworth called to make his father’s excuses; the poor old man could not leave the house. Well, Lucy was sitting in the arbour, working; silly child—she longed to go in, but shame kept her out; she felt whose voice it was that she caught occasionally. Well, my dear, he and her uncle came out into the garden,—the Hector had in old times been the Colonel’s tutor,—they came towards her, and Lucy heard a frank, pleasant voice say:
“Ah, do you remember that last lesson in the arbour, and how you said I should kill you before I’d done with it? I should be a more attentive pupil now, I hope; let us see it again.”
They turned towards the arbour, they came nearer and nearer; Lucy waited till escape was too late, and then by a silly, sudden impulse rose to free. Her uncle—he was so fond and proud of her—called her back; good manners compelled her to turn round and curtesey. Colonel Redworth bowed.
“My dear, I believe myself he felt in love with her at that moment; but others told her, he never loved her at all. They say Lucy never looked so lovely as when blushing and confused, and she was confused enough then.”
“Aunt, you say, ‘They tell me:’ Didn’t you know her yourself?”
“My dear, I never saw her; but Augusta, her great friend, I often saw every day for months, and she knew poor Lucy’s story as well as Lucy did herself. Well, Colonel Redworth was a charming man—a very charming man; if he fell in love with Lucy, it was little wonder that she did so with him. That evening came a note from Lady Anne, asking Mr.—we will call the Rector—Jervis to dinner, and trusting that his brother and niece would accompany him. Well, my dear, the day named was Thursday. Lucy and her father were to have gone back to Camberwell on the Wednesday. Lucy persuaded her father to stay; at least, his brother did, for he saw how Lucy’s wishes lay. They went. My lady had a great respect for