"The downright, by all means," cried the Colonel. "No, no," said Fitzsimmons; "let me hear the others first. The downright would be too overwhelming without a previous preparation."
Lucinda affected to hide her face with a feather that had fallen from her head during the dance, and which she still held in her hand, and she uttered hesitatingly and with downcast eyes--
"If I could hope to be pardoned for my temerity in thus presuming to address one whose manifest perfections so preponderate in the scale, when weighed against my own demerits--"
"Oh! stop, stop!" exclaimed Fitzsimmons; "this will never do!"
"Why, it is just the way a poor young fellow courted me last summer,"
replied Lucinda. "Come, let me go on. Conscious as I am that I might as well 'love a bright and particular star, and think to wed it--'"
"You will never succeed in that strain," said Fitzsimmons, laughing.
"You must try another."
"Well, then," continued Lucinda, changing her tone, "here is the prudential mode. Mr. Gordon Fitzsimmons, thinking it probable (though I speak advisedly) that you may have no objection to change your condition, and believing (though perhaps I may be mistaken) that we are tolerably well suited to each other--I being my own mistress, and you being your own master--perceiving no great disparity of age, or incompatibility of temper--"
"I like not this mode either," interrupted Fitzsimmons; "it is worse than the other."
"Do you think so?" resumed Lucinda. "It is just the way a rich old fellow courted me last winter."
"Nothing is more likely," said Fitzsimmons. "But neither of these modes will succeed with me."
"Then," observed the Colonel, "there is nothing left but the plain downright."
"Mr. Fitzsimmons, will you marry me?" said Lucinda.
"With all my heart and soul," replied Fitzsimmons, taking her hand.
"Oh! you forget yourself," exclaimed Lucinda, struggling to withdraw it.
"You are not half so good a comedian as I am. You should look down, and play with your guard-chain; and then look up, and tell me you are perfectly happy in your single state--that marriage is a lottery--that our acquaintance has been too slight for either of us to form a correct opinion of the other. In short, you should say _no_."
"By heavens!" exclaimed Fitzsimmons, kissing her beautiful hand; "I cannot say no--even in jest."
Lucinda's first sensation was involuntary delight. But in a moment she was startled by the conviction that she had unthinkingly gone too far.
The native delicacy of woman thrilled every nerve in her frame, and her cheeks varied alternately from red to pale. Shocked at the length to which she had inadvertently carried a dialogue begun in _badinage_, and confused, mortified, and distressed at its result, she forcibly disengaged her hand from that of Fitzsimmons, and turning to a lady and gentleman that she saw passing, she said she would accompany them to the other end of the room. Arrived there, she seated herself in the midst of a group that were warmly engaged in discussing the comparative merits of Spanish dances and Polish dances: and she endeavoured to collect her scattered thoughts, and compose the flutter of her spirits. But it was in vain--the more she reflected on the little scene that had just taken place, the more she regretted it.
"What must Fitzsimmons think of me?" was her predominant idea. "His gallantry as a gentleman prompted his reply, but still how sadly I must have sunk in his opinion! That I should have allowed myself to be drawn into such a conversation! That I should have carried a foolish jest so far! But I will punish myself severely. I will expiate my folly by avoiding all farther intercourse with Gordon Fitzsimmons; and from this night we must become strangers to each other."
The change in Lucinda's countenance and manner was now so obvious that several of her friends asked her if she was ill. To these questions she answered in the negative: but her cheeks grew paler, and the tears sprang to her eyes.
Miss Delwin now approached, and said to her in a low voice--"My dear Lucinda, I perceive that you are suffering under some _contre-tems_; but such things, you know, are always incidental to balls, and all other assemblages where every one expects unqualified delight. We should be prepared for these contingencies, and when they do occur, the only alternative is to try to pass them over as well as we can, by making an effort to rally our spirits so as to get through the remainder of the evening with apparent composure, or else to plead indisposition and go home. Which course will you take?"
"Oh! how gladly would I retire!" exclaimed Lucinda, scarcely able to restrain her tears. "But were I to do so, there are persons who might put strange constructions--or rather the company might be induced to make invidious remarks--"
"By no means," interrupted Miss Delwin. "A lady may at any time be overcome with the heat and fatigue of a ball-room--nothing is more common."
"But," said Lucinda, "were I to leave the company--were I to appear as if unable to stay--were I to evince so much emotion--he would, indeed, suppose me in earnest."
"He!" cried Miss Delwin, looking surprised. "Of whom are you speaking, dear Lucinda? Who is it that would suppose you in earnest?"
"No matter," replied Lucinda, "I spoke inadvertently; I forgot myself; I knew not what I was saying."
"Dearest Lucinda," exclaimed Miss Delwin, "I am extremely sorry to find you so discomposed. What can have happened? At a more convenient time, may I hope that you will tell me?"
"Oh! no, no," replied Lucinda, "it is impossible. I cannot speak of it even to you. Ask me no further. I am distressed, humiliated, shocked at myself (and she covered her face with her hands). But I cannot talk about it, now or ever."
"Lucinda, my dear Lucinda," said Miss Delwin, "your agitation will be observed."
"Then I must endeavour to suppress it," replied Lucinda, starting up. "I _must_ stay till this unfortunate ball is over; my going home would seem too pointed."
"Let me then intreat you, my dear girl," said Miss Delwin, "to exert yourself to appear as usual. Come, take my arm, and we will go and talk nonsense to Apesley Sappington."
Lucinda did make an effort to resume her usual vivacity. But it was evidently forced. She relapsed continually: and she resembled an actress that is one moment playing with her wonted spirit, and the next moment forgetting her part.
"So," said Colonel Kingswood to Fitzsimmons, after Lucinda had left them together, "I am to infer that you are are really in love with Miss Mandeville?"
"Ardently--passionately--and I long to tell her so in earnest," replied Fitzsimmons; and he took up the feather that Lucinda in her agitation had dropped from her hand.
"Of course, then, you will make your proposal to-morrow morning," said the colonel.
"No," replied Fitzsimmons, concealing the feather within the breast of his coat. "I cannot so wound her delicacy. I see that she is disconcerted at the little scene into which we inadvertently drew her, and alarmed at the idea that perhaps she allowed herself to go too far.
I respect her feelings, and I will spare them. But to me she has long been the most charming woman in existence."
"What, then," inquired the colonel, "has retarded the disclosure of your secret, if secret it may be called?"
"Her superiority in point of fortune," replied Fitzsimmons. "You know the small amount of property left me by my father, and that in my profession I am as yet but a beginner; though I must own that my prospects of success are highly encouraging. To say nothing of my repugnance to reversing the usual order of the married state, and drawing the chief part of our expenditure from the money of my wife, how could I expect to convince her that my motives in seeking her hand were otherwise than mercenary?"
"Are they?" said Colonel Kingswood, with a half smile.
"No, on my soul they are not," replied Fitzsimmons, earnestly. "Were our situations reversed, I would, without a moment's hesitation, lay all that I possessed at her feet, and think myself the most honoured, the most fortunate of men if I could obtain a gem whose intrinsic value requires not the aid of a gold setting."
"Do you suppose, then," said Colonel Kingswood, "that a lovely and elegant woman like Miss Lucinda Mandeville can have so humble an opinion of herself as to suppose that she owes all her admirers to her wealth, and that there is nothing attractive about her but her bank-stock and her houses?"
"Since I first knew Miss Mandeville," replied Fitzsimmons, "I have secretly cherished the hope of being one day worthy of her acceptance.
And this hope has incited me to be doubly assiduous in my profession, with the view of ultimately acquiring both wealth and distinction. And when I have made a name, as well as a fortune, I shall have no scruples in offering myself to her acceptance."
"And before all this is accomplished," observed the colonel, "some lucky fellow, with a ready-made fortune, and a ready-made name, or, more probably, some bold adventurer with neither, may fearlessly step in and carry off the prize."
"There is madness in the thought!" exclaimed Fitzsimmons, putting his hand to his forehead.
"Did it never strike you before?" inquired the colonel.
"It has, it has," cried Fitzsimmons; "a thousand times has it passed like a dark cloud over the sunshine of my hopes."
"Take my advice," said the colonel, "and address Miss Mandeville at once."
"Fool that I was!" exclaimed Fitzsimmons, "how could I be so utterly absurd--so devoid of all tact, as to reply to her unguarded _badinage_ in a tone of reality! No wonder she looked so disconcerted, so shocked.
At this moment, how she must hate me!"
"I am not so sure of that," observed the colonel; "but take my advice, and let the _etourderie_ of this evening be repaired by the opening it affords you of disclosing your real feelings to the object of your love."