“Is that what you call being calm, David? Let me alone--don't slobber
me. I am sure I wish she had said, 'No.' If I had thought she would
come I would never have asked her.”
“You would, Eve; you would, for love of me.”
“Who knows? Perhaps I might. I am more indulgent than kind.”
“Eve, do tell me all. Is she well? does she come of her own good will?
Dear Eve!”
“Well, I'll tell you: first we had a bit of a talk for a blind like;
and her uncle is away; so then I asked her plump to come to tea. Well,
David, first she looked 'No'--only for a single moment, though; she
soon altered her mind, and so then, the moment it was to be 'Yes,' she
cleared up, and you would have thought she had been asked to the
king's banquet. Ah! David, my lad, you have fallen into good
hands--you have launched your heart on a deeper ocean than ever your
ship sailed on.”
David took no notice. He was in a state of exaltation for one thing,
and, besides, Eve's simile was sent to the wrong address; we
terrestrials fear water in proportion to its depth, but these mariners
dread their native element only when it is shallow.
David now kept asking in an excited way what they could do for her.
“What could they get to do her honor? Wouldn't she miss the luxuries
of her fine place?”
“Now you be quiet, David; we need not put ourselves about, for she
will be the easiest girl to please you have ever seen here; or, if she
isn't, she'll act it so that you'll be none the wiser. However, you
can go and buy some flowers for me.”
“That I will; we have none good enough for her here.”
“And, David, tea under the catalpa, as we always do on fine nights.”
“You don't mean that.”
“Ah! but I do. These fine ladies are all for novelties. Now I'm much
mistaken if this one has ever had her tea out of doors in all her born
days. What! do you think our little stuffy room would be any treat to
her, after the drawing-room at Font Abbey? Come, you be off till
half-past five; you'll fidget yourself and fidget me else.”
David recognized her superiority, obeyed and vanished.
Eve, having got rid of him, showed none of the insouciance she had
recommended. She darted into the kitchen, bared her arms, and made
wheaten cakes with unequaled rapidity, the servant looking on with
demure admiration all the while. These put into the oven, she got her
keys and put out the silver teapot, cream jug and sugar basin, things
not used every day, I can tell you; item, the best old china tea
service; item, some rare tea, of which David had brought home a small
quantity from China. At six o'clock Miss Fountain came; a footman
marched twenty yards behind her. She dismissed him at the door, and
Eve invited her at once into the garden. There David joined them, his
heart beating violently. She put out her hand kindly and calmly, and
shook hands with him in the most unembarrassed way imaginable. At the
touch of her soft hand every fiber in him thrilled and the color
rushed into his face. At this a faint blush tinged her own, but no
more than the warm welcome she was receiving might account for.
They seated her in a comfortable chair under the catalpa. Presently
out came a nice, clean maid, her white neck half hidden, half
revealed, by plain, unfigured muslin worn where the frock ended. She
put the tea things on the table, and courtesied to Lucy, who returned
her salute by a benignant smile. Out came another stouter one with the
kettle, hung it from a hoop between two stout sticks, and lighted a
fire she had laid underneath, retiring with a parting look at the
kettle as soon as it hissed. Then returned maid one with bread, and
wheaten cakes, and fruit, butter nice and hard from the cellar, and
yellow cream, and went off smiling.
A gentle zeal seemed to animate these domestics, as if they, also, in
relative proportions, gave the fete, or at least contributed good
will. Lucy's quick eye caught this. It was new to her.
The tea was soon made, and its Oriental fragrance mingled with the
other odors that filled the balmy air. Gay golden broken lights
flickered in patches on the table, the china cups, the ladies'
dresses, and the grass, all but in one place, where the cool deep
shadow lay undisturbed around the foot of the tree-stem. Looking up to
see whence the flickering gold came that sprinkled her white hand,
Lucy saw one of the loveliest and commonest things in nature. The sky
was blue--the sun fiery--the air potable gold outside the tree, so
that, as she looked up, the mellow green leaves of the catalpa, coming
between her and the bright sky and glowing air, shone like transparent
gold--staircase upon staircase of great exotic translucent leaves,
with specks of lovely blue sky that seemed to come down and perch
among the top branches. Charming as these sights were, contrast
doubled their beauties; for all these dimples of bright blue and
flakes of translucent gold were eyed from the cool and from the deep
shade.
The light, it is true, came down and danced on the turf here and
there, but it left its heat behind through running the gauntlet of the
myriad leaves. Over Lucy's head hung by a silk line from one of the
branches a huge globe of humble but fragrant flowers; they were, in
point of fact, fastened with marvelous skill all round a damp sponge,
but she did not know that. Thus these simple hosts honored their
lovely guest. And while these sights and smells stole into her deep
eyes and her delicate nostrils, “Fiddle, David,” said Eve, loftily,
and straightway a simple mellow tune rang sweetly on the cheerful
chords--a rustic, dulcet, and immortal ditty, in tune with summer and
afternoon, with gold-checkered grass, and leaves that slumbered, yet
vibrated, in the glowing air.
A bright, dreamy hour; the soul and senses floated gently in color,
fragrance, melody, and great calm. “Each sound seemed but an echo of
tranquillity.”
Lucy looked up and absorbed the scene, then closed her eyes and
listened; and presently her lips parted gradually in so ravishing a
smile, her eyes remaining closed, that even Eve, who saw her in her
true light, a terrible girl come there to burn and destroy David,
remaining cool as a cucumber, could hardly forbear seizing and
mumbling her.
In certain companies you shall see a boisterous cordiality, which at
bottom is as hollow as diplomacy; but there is a modest geniality
which is to society what the bloom is to the plum.
And this charm Lucy found in her hosts of the catalpa. For this very
reason that they were her hosts, their manner to her changed a little,
and becomingly; they made no secret that it was a downright pleasure
to them to have her there. They petted her, and showed her so much
simple kindness, that what with the scene, the music, and her
companions' goodness, the coy bud opened--timidly at first--but in a
way it never had expanded at Font Abbey.
She even developed a feeble sense of fun, followed suit demurely when
Eve came out sprightly, laughed like a brook gurgling to Eve's peal of
bells, and lo and behold, when the two girls got together, and faced
the man, strong in numbers, a favorite trick, backed her ally as
cowards back the brave, and set her on to sauce David. They cast
doubts upon his skill in navigation. They perplexed him with
treacherous questions in geography, put with an innocent affectation
of a humble desire for information. In short, they played upon him
lightly as they touch the piano. And Eve carolled a song, and David
accompanied her on the fiddle; and at the third verse Lucy chimed in
spontaneously with a second, and the next verse David struck in with a
base, and the tepid air rang with harmony, and poor David thrilled
with happiness. His heart felt his voice mingle and blend with hers,
and even this contact was delicious to his imagination. And they were
happy. But all must end; the shades of evening came down, and the
pleasant little party broke up, and, as John had not come, David asked
leave to escort her home. Oh no, she could not think of giving him
that trouble; so saying, she went home with him. When they were alone,
his deep love made him timid and confused. He walked by her side, and
did not speak to her. She waited with some surprise at this silence,
and then, as he was shy, she talked to him, uttered many airy
nothings, and then put questions to him. “Did he always drink tea out
of doors?”
“On fine nights in summer. Eve settled all such matters.”
“Have you not a voice?”
“I have a voice, but no vote. She is skipper ashore.”
“Oh, is she? Who taught her how delicious it is to drink tea out of
doors?”
David did not know--fancied it was her own idea. “Did you really like
it, Miss Fountain?”
“Like it, Mr. Dodd! It was Elysium. I never passed a sweeter evening
in my life.”
David colored all over. “I wish I could believe that.”
“Was it the tulip-tree, or the violin, or was it your conversation,
Mr. Dodd, I wonder?” asked she demurely, looking mock-innocent in his
face.
“It was your goodness to be so easily pleased,” said Dodd, with a gush
that made her color. She smiled, however. “Well, that is one way of
looking at things,” said she. _“Entre nous,_ I think Miss Dodd
was the enchantress.”
“Eve is capital company, for that matter.”
“Indeed she is; you must be very happy together. Your mutual affection
is very charming, Mr. Dodd, but sometimes it almost makes me sad.
Forgive me! I have no brother.”
“You will never want one to love you a thousand times better than a
brother can love.”
“Oh, shan't I?” said the lady, and opened her eyes.
“No; and there is more than one that worships the ground you tread on
at this moment; but you know that.”
“Oh, do I?” She opened her eyes still wider.
David longed to tell how he loved her, but dared not. He looked
wistfully at her face. It was quite calm and had suddenly became a
little reserved. He felt he was on new and dangerous ground; he sighed
and was silent. He turned away his face. When this involuntary sigh
broke from him she turned her head a little and looked at him. He felt
her eye dwell on him, and his cheeks burned under it.
The next moment they were at Font Hill, and Lucy seemed to David to
hesitate whether to give him her hand at parting or not.
She did give him her hand, though not so freely, David thought, as she
had done on his own little lawn three hours before, and this dashed
his spirits. It seemed to him a step lost, and he had hoped to gain a
step somehow by walking home with her. He felt like one who has
undertaken to catch some skittish timorous thing, that, if you stand
still, will come within a certain small but safe distance, but you
must not move a step toward it, or, whir, away it is. He went slowly
home, his heart warm and cold by turns; warm when he remembered the
sweet hours he had just spent, and her sweet looks and heavenly tones,
every one of which he saw and heard again; cold when he thought of the
social distance that separated them, and the hundred chances to one
against his love. Then he said to himself: “Time was I thought I could
never bring a yard down from the foretop to the deck, but I mastered
that. Time was I thought I could never work out a logarithm without a
formula, but I mastered that. Time was the fiddle beat me so I was
ready to cry over it, but at last I learned to make it sing, and now I
can make her smile with it (God bless her!) instead of stopping her
ears. I can hardly mind the thing that didn't beat me dead for a long
while, but I persevered and got the upper hand. Ay, but this is higher
and harder than them all--a hundred times harder and higher.
“I'll hold my course, let the wind blow high or low, and if I can't
overhaul the wish of my heart, well, I'll carry her flag to the last.
I'll die a bachelor for her sake, as sure as you are the moon, my
lass, and you the polar star, and from this hour I'll never look at
you, but I'll make believe it is her I am looking up at; for she is as
high above me, and as bright as you are. God bless her! and to think I
never even said good-night to her! I stood there like a mummy.” And
David reproached himself for his unkindness.
Lucy, on entering the drawing-room, was surprised to find it blazing
with candles, but she was more surprised at what she saw seated calmly
in an armchair--Mrs. Bazalgette. Lucy stood transfixed; the audacious
intruder laughed at her astonishment; the next moment they
intertwined, and fell to kissing one another with tender violence.
“Well, love, the fact is, I was passing here on my way home from
Devonshire, and I wanted particularly to speak to you, so I thought I
would venture just to pop in for a passing call, and lo! I find the
old ogre is absent, and not expected back for ever so long, so I have
installed myself at his Font Abbey, partly out of love for you, dear,
partly, I confess it, out of hate to him. You will write and tell me
his face when he comes home and hears I have been living and enjoying
myself in his den. I ordered my imperial into his bedroom. I took it
for granted that would be the only comfortable one in his house.”
“Aunt Bazalgette!” cried Lucy, turning pale; “oh, aunt, what will
become of us?”
“Don't be frightened; the gray-haired monster that dyes his whiskers,
and gets him up to look only sixty, interposed and forbade the
consecration.”
“I am glad of it. You shall sleep in mine, dear, and I will go into
the east room. It is a sweet little room.”
“Is it? then why not put me there?” Lucy colored a little. “I think
mine would suit you better, dear, because it is larger and airier,
and--”
“I see. As you please; you know I never make difficulties.”
“And how long have you been here, aunt?”
“About three hours.”
“Three hours, and not send for me! I was only in the village. Did no
one tell you?”
“Yes; but you know it is not my way to make a fuss and put people out.
How could I tell? You might be agreeably employed, and I was sure of
you before bedtime.”
Mighty-fine! but the truth is, she came to Font Abbey to pry. She had
heard a vague report about Lucy and a gentleman.
She was very glad to find Lucy was out; it gave her an opportunity.
She sent for Lucy's maid to help her unpack a dress or two--thirteen.
This girl was paid out of Lucy's estate, but did not know that. Mrs.
Bazalgette handed her her wages, and that gives an influence. The wily
matron did not trust to that alone. In unpacking she gave the girl a
dress and several smaller presents, and, this done, slowly and
cautiously pumped her. Jane, to fulfill her share of a bargain, which,
though never once alluded to, was perfectly understood between both
the parties, told her all she knew and all she conjectured; told her,
in particular, how constantly Mr. Talboys was in the house, and how,
one night, the old gentleman had walked part of the way home with him,
“which Mr. Thomas says he didn't think his master would do it for the
king, mum!” and had come in all of a flurry, and sent up for miss, and
swore* awful when she couldn't come because she was abed. “So you may
depend, mum, it is so; leastways, the gentlemen they are willing. We
talk it over mostly every day in the servants' hall, mum, and we are
all of a mind so fur; but whether it will come to a wedding, that we
haven't a settled yet. It's miss beats us; she is like no other young
lady ever I came anigh. A man or woman--it is all the same to her--a
kind word for everybody, and pass on. But I do really think she likes
her own side of the house a trifle the best.”
*The ladies of the bedchamber will embellish. After all, it
is their business.
“And there you don't agree with her, Jane?”
“Well, mum--being as we are alone--now is it natural? But Mr. Thomas
he says, 'The cold ones take the first offer that comes when there is
money ahind it. It isn't us they wants,' says he. I told him I should
think not the likes of him--'but our house and land,' says he, 'and
hopera box and cetera.' 'But I don't think that of our one,' says I;
'bless you, she is too high-minded.' But what I think, mum, is, she
wouldn't say 'no' to her uncle; her mouth don't seem made for saying
no, especially to him; and he is bent on Talboys, mum, you take my
word.”
To return to the drawing-room: Mrs. Bazalgette, after the above
delicate discussion, sat there in ambush, knowing more of Lucy's
affairs than Lucy knew. Her next point was to learn Lucy's sentiments,
and to find whether she was deliberately playing false and breaking
her promise, vide.
“Well, Lucy, any lovers yet?”
“No, aunt.”
“Take care, Lucy, a little bird whispers in my ear.”
“Then it is a humming-bird,” and Lucy pouted. “Now, aunt, did you
really come to Font Abbey to tease me about such nonsense
as--as--gentlemen?” and Lucy looked hurt.
“Here's an actress for you,” thought Mrs. Bazalgette; but she calmly
dropped the subject, and never recurred to it openly all the evening,
but lay secretly in watch, and put many subtle but seeming innocent
questions to her niece about her habits, her uncle's guest, whether
her uncle kept a horse for her, whether he bought it for her, etc.,
etc.
The next morning Mrs. Bazalgette breakfasted in bed, during which
process she rang her bell seven times. Lucy received at the
breakfast-table a letter from her uncle.
“MY DEAR NIECE--The funeral was yesterday, and, I flatter myself, well
performed: there were five-and-twenty carriages. After that a
luncheon, in the right style, and then to the reading of the will. And
here I shall surprise you, but not more than I was myself: I am left
5,000 pounds consols. My worthy friend, whose loss we are called on so
suddenly to deplore, accompanied this bequest in his will with many
friendly expressions of esteem, which I have always studied and shall
study to deserve. He bequeathed to me also, during minority, the care
of his boy, the heir to this fine property, which far exceeds the
value I had imagined. There is a letter attached to the will; in
compliance with it Arthur is to go to Cambridge, but not until he has
been well prepared. He will therefore accompany me to Font Abbey
to-morrow, and I must contrive somehow or other to find him a
mathematical tutor in the neighborhood. There is a handsome allowance
made out of the estate for his board, etc., etc.
“He is an interesting boy, and has none of the rudeness and
mischievousness they generally have--blue eyes, soft, silky, flaxen
hair, and as modest as a girl. His orphaned state merits kindness, and
his prospects entitle him to consideration. I mention this because I
fancy, when we last discussed this matter, I saw a little disposition
on your part to be satirical at the poor boy's expense. I am sure,
however, that you will restrain this feeling at my request, and treat
him like a younger brother. I only wish he was three or four years
older--you understand me, miss.
“To-morrow afternoon, then, we shall be at Font Abbey. Let him have
the east room, and tell Brown to light a blazing fire in my bedroom.
and warm and air every mortal thing, on pain of death.
“Your affectionate uncle,
“JOHN FOUNTAIN.”
On reading this letter Lucy formed an innocent scheme. It had long
been matter of regret to her that Aunt Bazalgette could not see the
good qualities of Uncle Fountain, and Uncle Fountain of Aunt
Bazalgette. “It must be mere prejudice,” said she, “or why do I love
them both?” She had often wished she could bring them together, and
make them know one another better; they would find out one another's
good qualities then, and be friends. But how? As Shakespeare says,
“Oxen and wain-ropes would not haul them, together.”
At last chance aided her--Mrs. Bazalgette was at Font Abbey actually.
Lucy knew that if she announced Mr. Fountain's expected return the B
would fly off that minute, so she suppressed the information, and,
giving up to young Arthur as she had to Mrs. B., moved into a still
smaller room than the east room.
And now her heart quaked a little. “But, after all, Uncle Fountain is
a gentleman,” thought she, “and not capable of showing hostility to
her under his own roof. Here she is safe, though nowhere else; only I
must see him, and explain to him before he sees her.” With this view
Lucy declined demurely her aunt's proposal for a walk. No, she must be
excused; she had work to do in the drawing-room that could not be
postponed.
“Work! that alters the case. Let me see it.” She took for granted it
was some useful work--something that could be worn when done. “What!
is this it--these dirty parchments? Oh! I see; it is for that selfish
old man; who but he would set a lady to parchments!”
“A bad guess,” cried Lucy, joyously. “I found them myself, and set
myself to work on them.”
“Don't tell me! He is at the bottom of it. If it was for yourself you
would give it up directly. How amusing for me to see you work at
that!” Lucy rose and brought her the new novel. Mrs. Bazalgette took
it and sat down to it, but she could not fix her attention long on it.
Ladies whose hearts are in dress have no taste for books, however
frivolous; can't sit them for above a second or two. Mrs. Bazalgette
fidgeted and fidgeted, and at last rose and left the room, book in
hand. “How unkind I am!” said Lucy to herself.
She was sitting sentinel till the carriage should arrive; then she
could run down and prepare her uncle for his innocent and accidental
visitor. It would not be prudent to let him receive the information
from a servant, or without the accompanying explanation. This it was
that made her so unnaturally firm when the little idle B pressed her
to waste in play the shining hours.
Mrs. Bazalgette went book in hand to her bedroom, and had not been
there long before she found employment. Many of Lucy's things were
still in the wardrobes. Mrs. B. rummaged them, inspected them at the
window, and ended by ringing for her maid and trying divers of her
niece's dresses on. “They make her dresses better than they do mine;
they take more pains.” At last she found one that was new to her,
though Lucy had worn it several times at Font Abbey.
“Where did she get this, Jane?”
“Present from the old gentleman, mum; he had it down from London for
her all at one time with this shawl and twelve puragloves.”
Lucy looked two inches taller than Mrs. B., but somehow, I can't tell
how, this dress of hers fitted the latter like a glove. It embraced
her; it held her tenderly, but tight, as gowns and lovers should. The
poor dear could not get out of it. “I _must_ wear it an hour or
two,” said she. “Besides, it will save my own, knocking about in these
country lanes.” Thus attired she went into the drawing-room to
surprise Lucy. Now Lucy was determined not to move; so, not to be
enticed, she did not even look up from her work; on this the other
took a mild huff and whisked out.
So keen are the feminine senses, that Lucy, on reflection, recognized
something brusk, perhaps angry, in the rustle of that retiring dress,
and soon after rang the bell and inquired where Mrs. Bazalgette was.
John would make henquiries.
“Your haunt is in the back garden, miss.”
“Walking, or what?”
John would make henquiries.
“She is reading, miss; and she is sitting on the seat master 'ad made
for _you,_ miss.
“Very well: thank you.”
“Any more commands, miss?”
“Not at present.” John retired with a regretful air, as one capable of
executing important commissions, but lost for lack of opportunity. All
the servants in this house liked to come into contact with Lucy. She
treated them with a dignified kindness and reserved politeness that
wins these good creatures more than either arrogance or familiarity.
“Jeames is not such a fool as he looks.”
Lucy was glad. Her aunt had got her book. It is an interesting story;
she will not miss me now, and the carriage will soon be here, and then
I will make up for my unkindness. Curiously enough, at this very
juncture, the fair student found something in her parchment which gave
her some little hopes of a favorable result.
She was following this clue eagerly, when all of a sudden she started.
Her ear had caught the rattle of a carriage over the stones of the
stable yard. She rang the bell, and inquired if that was not the
carriage.
“Yes, miss.
“My uncle has sent it back, then? He is not coming to-day?”
John would inquire of the coachman.
“Oh yes, miss, master is come, but he got out at the foot of the hill,
and walked up through the shrubbery with the young gentleman to show
him the grounds.” On this news Lucy rose hastily, snatched up a garden
hat, and, without any other preparation, went out to intercept her
uncle. As she stepped into the garden she heard a loud scream,
followed by angry voices; she threw her hands up to heaven in dismay
and ran toward the sounds. They came from the back garden. She went
like lightning round the corner of the house, and came plump upon an
agitated group, of whom she made one directly, spellbound. Here stood
Aunt Bazalgette, her head turned haughtily, her cheeks scarlet. There
stood Mr. Fountain on the other side of the rustic seat, red as fire,
too, but wearing a hang-dog look, and behind him young Arthur, pale,
with two eyes like saucers, gazing awestruck at the first row he had
ever seen between a full-grown lady and gentleman.
Our narrative must take a step to the rear, as an excellent writer,
Private ----* phrases it, otherwise you might be misled to suppose
that Uncle Fountain was quarreling with Mrs. B. for having set her
foot in sacred Font Abbey.
* “I had an escape myself. As I opened the door of a house, a
black fellow was behind waiting for me, and made a chop. I
took a step to the rear, fired through the door, and cooked
his goose.”--_Times._
No, the pudding was richer than that. Mr. Fountain had young Arthur in
charge, and, not being an ill-natured old gentleman, he pitied the
boy, and did all he could to make him feel he was coming among
friends. He sent the carriage on, and showed Arthur the grounds, and
covertly praised the place and all about it, Lucy included, for was
not she an appendage of his abbey. “You will see my niece--a charming
young lady, who will be kind to you, and you must make friends with
her. She is very accomplished--paints. She plays like an angel, too.
Ah! there she is. She has got the gown on I gave her--a compliment to
me--a very pretty attention, Arthur, the day of my return. What is she
doing?”
Arthur, with his young eyes, settled this question. “The lady is
asleep. See, she has dropped her book.” And; in fact, the whole
attitude was lax and not ungraceful. Her right hand hung down, and the
domestic story, its duty done, reposed beneath.
“Now, Arthur,” said the senior, making himself young to please the
boy, and to show him that, if he looked old, he was not worn out,
“would you like a bit of fun? We will startle her--we'll give her a
kiss.” Arthur hung back irresolute, and his cheeks were dyed with
blushes.
“Not you, you young rogue; you are not her uncle.” The old gentleman
then stole up at the back of the seat, followed with respectful
curiosity by Arthur. She happened to move as the senior got near; so,
for fear she was going to wake of herself and baffle the surprise, he
made a rush and rubbed his beard a little roughly against Mrs.
Bazalgette's cheek. Up starts that lady, who was not fast asleep, but
only under the influence of the domestic tale, utters a scream, and,
when she sees her ravisher, goes into a passion.
“How dare you? What is the meaning of this insult?”
“How came you here?” was the reply, in an equally angry tone.
“Can't a lady come into your little misery of a garden without being
outraged?”
“It isn't the garden--it is only the back garden,” cried the
proprietor of Font Hill; _“(blesse)_ I'll swear that is my
niece's gown; so you've invaded that, too.”
“Aunt Bazalgette--Uncle Fountain, it was my fault,” sighed a piteous
voice. This was Lucy, who had just come on the scene. “Dear uncle,
forgive me; it was I who invited her.”
Lucy's pathetic tones, which were fast degenerating into sobs, were
agreeably interrupted.
At one and the same moment the man and woman of the world took a new
view of the situation, looked at one another, and burst out laughing.
Both these carried a safety-valve against choler--a trait that takes
us into many follies, but keeps us out of others--a sense of humor.
The next thing to relieve the situation was the senior's comprehensive
vanity. He must recover young Arthur's reverence, which was doubtless
dissolving all this time. “Now, Arthur,” he whispered, “take a lesson
from a gentleman of the old school. I hate this she-devil; but this is
at my house, so--observe.” He then strutted jauntily and feebly up to
Mrs. Bazalgette: “Madam, my niece says you are her guest; but permit
me to dispute her title to that honor.” Mrs. Bazalgette smiled
agreeably. She wanted to stay a day or two at Font Abbey. The senior
flourished out his arm. “Let me show you what _we_ call the
garden here.” She took his arm graciously. “I shall be delighted, sir
[pompous old fool!].”
Mrs. Bazalgette steeled her mind to admire the garden, and would have
done so with ease if it had been hideous. But, unfortunately, it was
pretty--prettier than her own; had grassy slopes, a fountain, a
grotto, variegated beds, and beds a blaze of one color (a fashion not
common at that time); item, a brook with waterlilies on its bosom.
“This brook is not mine, strictly speaking,” said her host; “I
borrowed it of my neighbor.” The lady opened her eyes; so he grinned
and revealed a characteristic transaction. A quarter of a century ago
he had found the brook flowing through a meadow close to his garden
hedge. He applied for a lease of the meadow, and was refused by the
proprietor in the following terms: “What is to become of my cows?”
He applied constantly for ten years, and met the same answer.
Proprietor died, the cows turned to ox-beef, and were eaten in London
along with flour and a little turmeric, and washed down with Spanish
licorice-water, salt, gentian and a little burned malt. Widow
inherited, made hay, and refused F. the meadow because her husband had
always refused him. But in the tenth year of her siege she assented,
for the following reasons: _primo,_ she had said “no” so often
the word gave her a sense of fatigue; _secundo,_ she liked
variety, and thought a change for the worse must be better than no
change at all.
Her tenant instantly cut a channel from the upper part of the stream
into his garden, and brought the brook into the lawn, made it write an
S upon his turf, then handed it but again upon the meadow “none the
worse,” his own comment. These things could be done in the
country--_jadis._
It cost Mrs. Bazalgette a struggle to admire the garden and borrowed
stream--they were so pretty. She made the struggle and praised all.
Lucy, walking behind the pair, watched them with innocent
satisfaction. “How fast they are making friends,” thought she,
mistaking an armistice for an alliance.
“Since the place is so fortunate as to please you, you will stay a
week with me, madam, at least.”
“A week! No, Mr. Fountain; I really admire your courtesy too much to
abuse it.”
“Not at all; you will oblige me.”
“I cannot bring myself to think so.”
“You may believe me. I have a selfish motive.”
“Oh, if you are in earnest.”
“I will explain. If you are my guest for a week, that will give me a
claim to be yours in turn.” And he bent a keen look upon the lady, as
much as to say, “Now I shall see whether you dare let me spy on you as
you are doing on me.”
“I propose an amendment,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, with a merry air of
defiance: “for every day I enjoy here you must spend two beneath my
roof. On this condition, I will stay a week at Font Abbey.”
“I consent,” said Mr. Fountain, a little sharply. He liked the
bargain. “I must leave you to Lucy for a minute; I have some orders to
give. I like _my_ guests to be comfortable.” With this he retired
to his study and pondered. “What is she here for? it is not affection
for Lucy; that is all my eye, a selfish toad like her. (How agreeable
she can make herself, though.) She heard I was out, and came here to
spy directly. That was sharp practice. Better not give her a chance of
seeing my game. I disarmed her suspicion by asking her to stay a week,
aha! Well, during that week Talboys must not come, that is all; aha!
my lady, I won't give those cunning eyes of yours a chance of looking
over my hand.” He then wrote a note to Talboys, telling him there was
a guest at Font Abbey, a disagreeable woman, “who makes mischief
whenever she can. She would be sure to divine our intentions, and use
all her influence with Lucy to spite me. You had better stay away till
she is gone.” He sent this off by a servant, then pondered again.
“She suspects something; then that is a sign she has her own designs
on Lucy. Hum! no. If she had, she would not have invited me to her
house. She invited me directly and cheerfully--!”
Mrs. Bazalgette walked and sat with an arm round Lucy's waist, and
told her seven times before dinner how happy she was at the prospect
of a quiet week with her. In the evening she yawned eleven times. Next
day she asked Lucy who was coming to dinner.
“Nobody, dear.”
“Nobody at all?”
“I thought you would perhaps not care to have our tete-a-tete
interrupted yet.”
“Oh, but I should like to explore the natives too.”
“I will give uncle a hint, dear.” The hint was given very delicately,
but the malicious senior had a perverse construction ready
immediately.
“So this is her mighty affection for you. Can't get through two days
without strangers.”
“Uncle,” said Lucy, imploringly, “she is so used to society, and she
has me all day; we ought to give her some little amusement at night.”
“Well, I can't make up parties now; my friends are all in London. She
only wants something to flirt with. Send for David Dodd.”
“What, for her to flirt with?”
“Yes; he is a handsome fellow; he will serve her turn.”
“For shame, uncle; what would Mr. Bazalgette say? Poor aunt, she is a
coquette now.”
“And has been this twenty years.”
“Now I was thinking--Mr. Talboys?”
“Talboys is not at home; she must be content with lower game. She
shall bring down David.”
Lucy hesitated. “I don't think she will like Mr. Dodd, and I am sure
he will not like her.”
“How can you know that?”
“He is so honest. He will not understand a woman of the world and her
little in--sin--No, I don't mean that.”
“Well, if he does not understand her he may like her.”
“Aunt, he has made me ask the Dodds to tea, and I am afraid you will
not like them.”
“Well, if I don't we must try some more natives to-morrow. Who are
they?” Lucy told her. “Pretty people to ask to meet me,” said she,
loftily. This scorn dissolved in course of the evening. Lucy, anxious
her guests should be pleased with one another, drew the Dodds out,
especially David--made him spin a yarn. With this and his good looks
he so pleased Mrs. Bazalgette that it was the last yarn he ever span
during her stay. She took a fancy to him, and set herself to captivate
him with sprightly ardor.
David received her advances politely, but a little coldly. The lady
was very agreeable, but she kept him from Lucy; he hardly got three
words with her all the evening. As they went home together, Eve
sneered: “Well, you managed nicely; it was your business to make
friends with that lady.”
“With all my heart.”
“Then why didn't you do what she bid you?”
“She gave me no orders that I heard,” said the literal first mate.
“She gave you a plain hint, though.”
“To do what?”
“To do what? stupid! Why, to make love to her, to be sure.”
“Why, she is a married woman?”
“If she chooses to forget that, is it your business to remember it?”
“And if she was single, and the loveliest in the world, how could I
court her when my heart is full of an angel?”
“If your heart is full, your head is empty. Why, you see nothing.”
“I can't see why I should belie my heart.”
“Can't you? Then I can. David, in less than a month Miss Fountain goes
to this lady and stays a quarter of a year: she told me so herself.
Oh, my ears are always open in your service ever since I did agree to
be as great a fool as you are. Now don't you see that if you can't get
Mrs. Bazalgette to invite you to her house, you must take leave of the
other here forever?”
“I see what you mean, Eve; how wise you are! It is wonderful. But what
is to be done? I am bad at feigning. I can't make love to her.”
“But you can let her make love to you: is that an effort you feel
equal to? and I must do the rest. Oh, we have a nice undertaking
before us. But, if boys will cry for fruit that is out of their reach,
and their silly sisters will indulge them--don't slobber _me.”_
“You are such a dear girl to fight for me so a little against your
judgment.”
“A little, eh? Dead against it, you mean. Don't look so blank, David;
you are all right as far as me. When my heart is on your side you can
snap your fingers at my judgment.”
David was cheered by this gracious revelation.
Eve was a tormenting little imp. She could not help reminding him
every now and then that all her maneuvers and all his love were to end
in disappointment. These discouraging comments had dashed poor David's
spirits more than once; but he was beginning to discover that they
were invariably accompanied or followed by an access of cheerful zeal
in the desperate cause--a pleasing phenomenon, though somewhat
unintelligible to this honest fellow, who had never microscoped the
enigmatical sex.
Mrs. Bazalgette reproached Lucy: “You never told me how handsome Mr.
Dodd was.”
“Didn't I?
“No. He is the handsomest man I ever saw.”
“I have not observed that, but I think he is one of the worthiest.”
“I should not wonder,” said the other lady, carelessly. “It is clear
you don't appreciate him here. You half apologized to me for inviting
him.”
“That was because you are such a fashionable lady, and the Dodds have
no such pretensions.”
“All the better; my taste is not for sophisticated people. I only put
up with them because I am obliged. Why, Lucy, you ought to know how my
heart yearns for nature and truth; I am sure I have told you so often
enough. An hour spent with a simple, natural creature like Captain
Dodd refreshes me as a cooling breeze after the heat and odors of a
crowded room.”
“Miss Dodd is very natural too--is she not?”
“Very. Pertness and vulgarity are natural enough--to some people.”
“My uncle likes her the best of the two.”
“Then your uncle is mad. But the fact is, men are no judges in such
cases; they are always unjust to their own sex, and as blind to the
faults of ours as beetles.”
“But surely, aunt, she is very arch and lively.”
“Pert and fussy, you mean.”
“Pretty, at all events? Rather?”
“What, with that snub nose!!?”
Lucy offered to invite other neighbors; Mrs. Bazalgette replied she
didn't want to be bothered with rurality. “You can ask Captain Dodd,
if you like; there is no need to invite the sister.”
“Oh yes, I must; my uncle likes her the best.”
“But _I_ don't; and I am only here for a day or two.”
“Miss Dodd would be hurt. It would be unkind--discourteous.”
“No, no. She watches him all the time like a little dragon.”
_“Apres?_ We have no sinister designs on Mr. Dodd, have we?” and
something unusually keen flashed upon Aunt Bazalgette out of the tail
of the quiet Lucy's eye.
Mrs. Bazalgette looked cross. “Nonsense, Lucy; so tiresome! Can't we
have an agreeable person without tacking on a disagreeable one?”
“Aunt,” said Lucy, pathetically, “ask me anything else in the world,
but don't ask me to be rude, for _I can't.”_
“Well, then, you are bound to entertain her, since she is your choice,
and leave me mine.”
Lucy acquiesced softly.
David, tutored by his sister, now tried to seem interested in her who
came between him and Lucy, and a miserable hand he made of this his
first piece of acting. Luckily for him, Mrs. Bazalgette liked the
sound of her own voice; and his good looks, too, went a long way with
the mature woman. Lucy and Eve sat together at the tea-table; Mr.
Fountain slumbered below; Arthur was in the study, nailed to a novel;
Eve, under a careless exterior, watched intently to find out if Lucy,
under a calm surface, cared for David at all or not, and also watched
for a chance to serve him. She observed a certain languor about the
young lady, but no attempt to take David from the coquette. At last,
however, Lucy did say demurely, “Mr. Dodd seems to appreciate my
aunt.”
“Don't you think it is rather the other way?”
“That is an insidious question, Miss Dodd. I shall make no admissions;
but I warn you she is a very fascinating woman.”
“My brother is greatly admired by the ladies, too.”
“Oh, since I praised my champion, you have a right to praise yours.
But he will get the worst in that little encounter.”
“Why so?
“Because my sprightly aunt forgets the very names of her conquests
when once she has thoroughly made them.”
“She will never make this one; my brother carries an armor against
coquettes.”
“Ay, indeed; and pray what may that be?” inquired Lucy, a little
quizzingly.
“A true and deep attachment.”
“Ah!”
“And if you will look at him a little closer you will see that he
would be glad to get away from that old flirt; but David is very
polite to ladies.”
Lucy stole a look from under her silken lashes, and it so happened
that at that very moment she encountered a sorrowful glance from David
that said plainly enough, I am obliged to be here, but I long to be
there. She received his glance full in her eyes, absorbed it blandly,
then lowered her lashes a moment, then turned her head with a sweet
smile toward Eve. “I think you said your brother was engaged.”
“No.”
“I misunderstood you, then.”
“Yes.” Eve uttered this monosyllable so dryly that Lucy drew back, and
immediately turned the conversation into chit-chat.
It had not trickled above ten minutes when an exclamation from David
interrupted it. The young ladies turned instinctively, and there was
David flushing all over, and speaking to Mrs. Bazalgette with a
tremulous warmth, that, addressed as it was to a pretty woman, sounded
marvelously like love-making.
Lucy turned her crest round a little haughtily, and shot such a glance
on Eve. Eve read in it a compound of triumph and pique.
David came to Eve one morning with parchments in his hand and a merry
smile. “Eureka!”
“You're another,” said Eve, as quick as lightning, and upon
speculation.
“I have made Mr. Fountain's pedigree out,” explained David.
“You don't say so! won't he be pleased?”
“Yes. Do you think _she_ will be pleased?”
“Why not? She will look pleased, anyway. I say, don't you go and tell
them the whole county was owned by the Dodds before Fountain, or
Funteyn, or Font, was ever heard of.”
“Hardly. I have my own weaknesses, my lass; I've no need to adopt
another man's.”
“Bless my soul, how wise you are got! So sudden, too! You shouldn't
surprise a body like that. Lucky I'm not hysterical. Now let me think,
David--Solomon, I mean--no, you shall keep this discovery back awhile;
it may be wanted.” She then reminded him that the Fountains were
capricious; that they had dropped him for a week, and eight again; if
so, this might be useful to unlock their street door to him at need.
“Good heavens, Eve, what cunning!”
“David, when I have a bad cause in hand, I do one of two things: I
drop it, or I go into it heart and soul. If my zeal offends you, I can
retire from the contest with great pleasure.”
“No! no! no! no! no! If you leave the helm I shall go ashore
directly”--dismay of David; grim satisfaction of his imp.
This matter settled, David asked Eve if she did not think Master
Nelson (Mr. Fountain's new ward) was a very nice boy.
“Yes; and I see he has taken a wonderful fancy to you.”
“And so have I to him; we have had one or two walks together. He is to
come here at twelve o'clock to-day.”
“Now why couldn't you have asked me first, David? The painters are
coming into the house to-day; and the paperers, and all, and we can't
be bothered with mathematics. You must do them at Font Abbey.” Eve was
a little cross. David only laughed at her; but he hesitated about
making a school-house of Font Abbey--it would look like intruding.
“Pooh! nonsense,” said Eve; “they will only be too glad to take
advantage of your good-nature.”
“He is an orphan,” said David, doggedly.
However, the lesson was given at Font Abbey, and after it Master
Nelson came bounding into the drawing-room to the ladies.
“Oh, Lucy, Mr. Dodd is such a beautiful geometrician! He has been
giving me a lesson; he is going to give me one every day. He knows a
great deal more than my last tutor.” On this Master Nelson was
questioned, and revealed that a friendship existed between him and Mr.
Dodd such as girls are incapable of (this was leveled at Lucy); being
cross-examined as to the date of this friendship, he was obliged to
confess that it had only existed four days, but was to last to death.
“But, Arthur,” said Lucy, “will not this take up too much of Mr.
Dodd's time? I think you had better consult Uncle Fountain before you
make a positive arrangement of the kind.”
“Oh, I have spoken to my guardian about it, and he was _so_
pleased. He said that would save him a mathematical tutor.”
“Oh, then,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, “Mr. Dodd is to teach mathematics
gratis.”
“My friend is a gentleman,” was the timid reply. (Juveniles have a
pomposity all their own, and exquisitely delicious.*) “We read
together because we like one another, and that is why we walk together
and play together; if we were to offer him money he would throw it at
our heads.” Mr. Arthur then relaxed his severity, and, condescending
once more to the familiar, added: “And he has made me a kite on
mathematical principles--such a whacker--those in the shops are no
use; and he has sent his mother's Bath chair on to the downs, and he
is going to show me the kite draw him ten knots an hour in it--a knot
means a mile, Lucy--so I can't stay wasting my time here; only, if you
want to see some fun for once in your lives, come on the downs in
about an hour--will you? Oh yes! do come!”
* Read the Oxford Essays.
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, sharply.
“Excuse us, dear,” said Lucy in the same breath.
“Well, Lucy,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, “am I wrong about your uncle's
selfishness! I have tried in vain ever since I came here to make you
see it where _you_ were the only sufferer.”
“Not quite in vain, aunt,” said Lucy sadly; “you have shown me defects
in my poor uncle that I should never have discovered.”
Mrs. Bazalgette smiled grimly.
“Only, as you hate him, and I love him, and always mean to love him,
permit me to call his defects 'thought-lessness.' _You_ can apply
the harsh term 'selfish-ness' to the most good-natured, kind,
indulgent--oh!”
“Ha! ha! Don't cry, you silly girl. Thoughtless? a calculating old
goose, who is eternally aiming to be a fox--never says or does
anything without meaning something a mile off. Luckily, his veil is so
thin that everybody sees through it but you. What do you think of his
_thought-less-ness_ in getting a tutor gratis? Poor Mr. Dodd!”
“I will answer for it, it is a pleasure to Mr. Dodd to be of service
to his little friend,” said Lucy, warmly.
“How do you know a bore is a pleasure to Mr. Dodd?”
“Mr. Dodd is a new acquaintance of yours, aunt, but I have had
opportunities of observing his character, and I assure you all this
pity is wasted.”
“Why, Lucy, what did you say to Arthur just now. You are contradicting
_yourself.”_
“What a love of opposition I must have. Are you not tired of in-doors?
Shall we go into the village?”
“No; I exhausted the village yesterday.”
“The garden?”
“No.”
“Well, then, suppose we sketch the church together. There is a good
light.”
“No. Let us go on the downs, Lucy.”
“Why, aunt, it--it is a long walk.”
“All the better.”
“But we said 'No.'”
“What has that to do with it?”
Arthur was right; the kites that are sold by shops of prey are not
proportioned nor balanced; this is probably in some way connected with
the circumstance that they are made to sell, not fly. The monster
kite, constructed by the light of Euclid, rose steadily into the air
like a balloon, and eventually, being attached to the chair, drew Mr.
Arthur at a reasonable pace about half a mile over a narrow but level
piece of turf that was on the top of the downs. Q.E.D. This done,
these two patient creatures had to wind the struggling monster in, and
go back again to the starting point. Before they had quite achieved
this, two petticoats mounted the hill and moved toward them across the
plateau. At sight of them David thrilled from head to foot, and Arthur
cried, “Oh, bother!” an unjust ejaculation, since it was by his
invitation they came. His alarms were verified. The ladies made
themselves No. 1 directly, and the poor kite became a shield for
flirtation. Arthur was so cross.
At last the B's desire to occupy attention brought her to the verge of
trouble. Seeing David saying a word to Lucy, she got into the chair,
and went gayly off, drawn by the kite, which Arthur, with a mighty
struggle, succeeded in hooking to the car for her. Now, the plateau
was narrow, and the chair wanted guiding. It was easy to guide it, but
Mrs. Bazalgette did not know how; so it sidled in a pertinacious and
horrid way toward a long and steepish slope on the left side. She
began to scream, Arthur to laugh--the young are cruel, and, I am
afraid, though he stood perfectly neutral to all appearance, his heart
within nourished black designs. But David came flying up at her
screams--just in time. He caught the lady's shoulders as she glided
over the brow of the slope, and lifted her by his great strength up
out of the chair, which went the next moment bounding and jumping
athwart the hill, and soon rolled over and groveled in rather an ugly
way.
Mrs. Bazalgette sobbed and cried so prettily on David's shoulder, and
had to be petted and soothed by all hands. Inward composure soon
returned, though not outward, and in due course histrionics commenced.
First the sprain business. None of you do it better, ladies, whatever
you may think. David had to carry her a bit. But she was too wise to
be a bore. Next, the heroic business: _would_ be put down,
_would_ walk, possible or not; _would_ not be a trouble to
her kind friends. Then the martyr smiling through pain. David was very
attentive to her; for while he was carrying her in his arms she had
won his affection, all he could spare from Lucy. Which of you can tell
all the consequences if you go and carry a pretty woman, with her
little insinuating mouth close to your ears?
Lucy and Arthur walked behind. Arthur sighed. Lucy was _reveuse._
Arthur broke silence first. “Lucy!”
“Yes, dear.”
“When is she going?”
“Arthur, for shame! I won't tell you. To-morrow.”
“Lucy,” said Arthur, with a depth of feeling, “she spoils
everything!!!”
Next morning ---- _come back?_ What for? _I will have the
goodness to tell you what she said in his ear?_ Why, nothing.
_You are a female reader?_ Oh! that alters the case. To attempt
to deceive you would be cowardly, immoral; it would fail. She sighed,
“My preserver!” at which David had much ado not to laugh in her face.
Then she murmured still more softly, “You must come and see me at my
home before you sail--will you not? I insist” (in the tone of a
supplicant), “come, promise me.”
“That I will--with pleasure,” said David, flushing.
“Mind, it is a promise. Put me down. Lucy, come here and make him put
me down. I _will not_ be a burden to my friends.”