“Sir Griffin,” said Lucinda, bowing her head.
“Perhaps you will condescend to remember what I had the honour of saying to you as we rode into Kilmarnock last Wednesday.”
“I had just been dragged out of a river, Sir Griffin, and I don’t think any girl ought to be asked to remember what was said to her in that condition.”
“If I say it again now, will you remember?”
“I cannot promise, Sir Griffin.”
“Will you give me an answer?”
“That must depend.”
“Come;—I will have an answer. When a man tells a lady that he admires her, and asks her to be his wife, he has a right to an answer. Don’t you think that in such circumstances a man has a right to expect an answer?”
Lucinda hesitated for a moment, and he was beginning again to remonstrate impatiently, when she altered her tone, and replied to him seriously, “In such circumstances a gentleman has a right to expect an answer.”
“Then give me one. I admire you above all the world, and I ask you to be my wife. I’m quite in earnest.”
“I know that you are in earnest, Sir Griffin. I would do neither you nor myself the wrong of supposing that it could be otherwise.”
“Very well then. Will you accept the offer that I make you?”
Again she paused. “You have a right to an answer—of course; but it may be so difficult to give it. It seems to me that you have hardly realised how serious a question it is.”
“Haven’t I, though! By George, it is serious!”
“Will it not be better for you to think it over again?”
He now hesitated for a moment. Perhaps it might be better. Should she take him at his word there would be no going back from it. But Lord George knew that he had proposed before. Lord George had learned this from Mrs. Carbuncle, and had shown that he knew it. And then, too—he had made up his mind about it. He wanted her, and he meant to have her. “It requires no more thinking with me, Lucinda. I’m not a man who does things without thinking; and when I have thought I don’t want to think again. There’s my hand;—will you have it?”
“I will,” said Lucinda, putting her hand into his. He no sooner felt her assurance than his mind misgave him that he had been precipitate, that he had been rash, and that she had taken advantage of him. After all, how many things are there in the world more precious than a handsome girl. And she had never told him that she loved him.
“I suppose you love me?” he asked.
“H’sh!—here they all are.” The hand was withdrawn, but not before both Mrs. Carbuncle and Lady Eustace had seen it.
Mrs. Carbuncle, in her great anxiety, bided her time, keeping close to her niece. Perhaps she felt that if the two were engaged, it might be well to keep the lovers separated for awhile, lest they should quarrel before the engagement should have been so confirmed by the authority of friends as to be beyond the power of easy annihilation. Lucinda rode quite demurely with the crowd. Sir Griffin remained near her, but without speaking. Lizzie whispered to Lord George that there had been a proposal. Mrs. Carbuncle sat in stately dignity on her horse, as though there were nothing which at that moment especially engaged her attention. An hour almost had passed before she was able to ask the important question, “Well;—what have you said to him?”
“Oh;—just what you would have me.”
“You have accepted him?”
“I suppose I was obliged. At any rate I did. You shall know one thing, Aunt Jane, at any rate, and I hope it will make you comfortable. I hate a good many people; but of all the people in the world I hate Sir Griffin Tewett the worst.”
“Nonsense, Lucinda.”
“It shall be nonsense, if you please; but it’s true. I shall have to lie to him—but there shall be no lying to you, however much you may wish it. I hate him!”
This was very grim, but Mrs. Carbuncle quite understood that to persons situated in great difficulty things might be grim. A certain amount of grimness must be endured. And she knew, too, that Lucinda was not a girl to be driven without showing something of an intractable spirit in harness. Mrs. Carbuncle had undertaken the driving of Lucinda, and had been not altogether unsuccessful. The thing so necessary to be done was now effected. Her niece was engaged to a man with a title, to a man reported to have a fortune, to a man of family, and a man of the world. Now that the engagement was made, the girl could not go back from it, and it was for Mrs. Carbuncle to see that neither should Sir Griffin go back. Her first steps must be taken at once. The engagement should be made known to all the party, and should be recognised by some word spoken between herself and the lover. The word between herself and the lover must be the first thing. She herself, personally, was not very fond of Sir Griffin; but on such an occasion as this she could smile and endure the bear. Sir Griffin was a bear—but so also was Lucinda. “The rabbits and hares All go in pairs; And likewise the bears In couples agree.” Mrs. Carbuncle consoled herself with the song, and assured herself that it would all come right. No doubt the she-bears were not as civil to the
