Pride of place, and the power of living well in front of the world's
eye, are dear to us all;--are, doubtless, intended to be dear. Only
in acknowledging so much, let us remember that there are prices at
which these good things may be too costly. Therefore, being desirous,
too, of telling the truth in this matter, I must confess that Lucy
did speculate with some regret on what it would have been to be Lady
Lufton. To have been the wife of such a man, the owner of such a
heart, the mistress of such a destiny--what more or what better could
the world have done for her? And now she had thrown all that aside
because she would not endure that Lady Lufton should call her a
scheming, artful girl! Actuated by that fear she had repulsed him
with a falsehood, though the matter was one on which it was so
terribly expedient that she should tell the truth. And yet she was
cheerful with her brother and sister-in-law. It was when she was
quite alone, at night in her own room, or in her solitary walks,
that a single silent tear would gather in the corner of her eye and
gradually moisten her eyelids. "She never told her love," nor did
she allow concealment to "feed on her damask cheek." In all her
employments, in her ways about the house, and her accustomed quiet
mirth, she was the same as ever.
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