As the hour of Lucy's departure drew near, Mr. Fountain became anxious
to see her betrothed to his friend, for fear of accidents. “You had
better propose to her in form, or authorize me to do so, before she
goes to that Mrs. Bazalgette.” This time it was Talboys that hung
back. He objected that the time was not opportune. “I make no
advance,” said he; “on the contrary, I seem of late to have lost
ground with your niece.”
“Oh, I've seen the sort of distance she has put on; all superficial,
my dear sir. I read it in your favor. I know the sex; they can't elude
me. Pique, sir--nothing on earth but female pique. She is bitter
against us for shilly-shallying. These girls hate shilly-shally in a
man. They are monopolists--severe monopolists; shilly-shally is one of
their monopolies. Throw yourself at her feet, and press her with
ardor; she will clear up directly.” The proposed attitude did not
tempt the stiff Talboys. His pride took the alarm.
“Thank you. It is a position in which I should not care to place
myself unless I was quite sure of not being refused. No, I will not
risk my proposal while she is under the influence of this Dodd; he is,
somehow or other, the cause of her coldness to me.”
“Good heavens! why, she has been hermetically sealed against him ever
so long,” cried Fountain, almost angrily.
“I saw his sister come out of your gate only the other day. Sisters
are emissaries--dangerous ones, too. Who knows? her very coldness may
be vexation that this man is excluded. Perhaps she suspects me as the
cause.”
“These are chimeras--wild chimeras. My niece cares nothing for such
people as the Dodds.”
“I beg your pardon; these low attachments are the strongest. It is a
notorious fact.”
“There is no attachment; there is nothing but civility, and the
affability of a well-bred superior to an inferior. Attachment! why,
there is not a girl in Europe less capable of marrying beneath her;
and she is too cold to flirt---but with a view to matrimonial
position. The worst of it is, that, while you fear an imaginary
danger, you are running into a real one. If we are defeated it will
not be by Dodd, but by that Mrs. Bazalgette. Why, now I think of it,
whence does Lucy's coldness date? From that viper's visit to my house.
Rely on it, if we are suffering from any rival influence, it is that
woman's. She is a dangerous woman--she is a character I detest--she is
a schemer.”
“Am I to understand that Mrs. Bazalgette has views of her own for Miss
Fountain?” inquired Talboys, his jealousy half inclined to follow the
new lead.
“In all probability.”
“Oh, then it is mere surmise.”
“No, it is not mere surmise; it is the reasonable conjecture of a man
who knows her sex, and human nature, and life. Since I have my views,
what more likely than that she has hers, if only to spite me? Add to
this her strange visit to Font Abbey, and the somber influence she has
left behind. And to this woman Lucy is going unprotected by any
positive pledge to you. Here is the true cause for anxiety. And if you
do not share it with me, it must be that you do not care about our
alliance.”
Mr. Talboys was hurt. “Not care for the alliance? It was dear to
him--all the dearer for the difficulties. He was attached to Miss
Fountain--warmly attached; would do anything for her except run the
risk of an affront--a refusal.” Then followed a long discussion, the
result of which was that he would not propose in form now, but
_would_ give proofs of his attachment such as no lady could
mistake; _inter alia,_ he would be sure to spend the last evening
with her, and would ride the first stage with her next day, squeeze
her hand at parting, and look unutterable. And as for the formal
proposal, that was only postponed a week or two. Mr. Fountain was to
pay his visit to Mrs. Bazalgette, and secretly prepare Miss Fountain;
then Talboys would suddenly pounce--and pop. The grandeur and boldness
of this strategy staggered, rather than displeased, Mr. Fountain.
“What! under her own roof?” and he could not help rubbing his hands
with glee and spite--“under her own eye, and _malgre_ her
personal influence? Why, you are Nap. I.”
“She will be quite out of the way of the Dodds there,” said Talboys,
slyly.
The senior groaned. (“'Mule I.' I should have said.”)
And so they cut and dried it all.
The last evening came, and with it, just before dinner, a line by
special messenger from Mr. Talboys. “He could not come that evening.
His brother had just arrived from India; they had not met for seven
years. He could not set him to dine alone.”
After dinner, in the middle of her uncle's nap, in came Lucy, and,
unheard-of occurrence--deed of dreadful note--woke him. She was
radiant, and held a note from Eve. “Good news, uncle; those good, kind
Dodds! they are coming to tea.”
“What?” and he wore a look of consternation. Recollecting, however,
that Talboys was not to be there, he was indifferent again. But when
he read the note he longed for his self-invited visitors. It ran thus:
“DEAR MISS FOUNTAIN--David has found out the genealogy. He says there
is no doubt you came from the Fountains of Melton, and he can prove
it. He has proved it to me, and I am none the wiser. So, as David is
obliged to go away to-morrow, I think the best way is for me to bring
him over with the papers to-night. We will come at eight, unless you
have company.”
“He is a worthy young man,” shouted Mr. Fountain. “What o'clock is
it?”
“Very nearly eight. Oh, uncle, I am so glad. How pleased you will be!”
The Dodds arrived soon after, and while tea was going on David spread
his parchments on the table and submitted his proofs. He had eked out
the other evidence by means of a series of leases. The three fields
that went with Font Abbey had been let a great many times, and the
landlord's name, Fountain in the latter leases, was Fontaine in those
of remoter date. David even showed his host the exact date at which
the change of orthography took place. “You are a shrewd young
gentleman,” cried Mr. Fountain, gleefully.
David then asked him what were the names of his three meadows. The
names of them? He didn't know they had any.
“No names? Why, there isn't a field in England that hasn't its own
name, sir. I noticed that before I went to sea.” He then told Mr.
Fountain the names of his three meadows, and curious names they were.
Two of them were a good deal older than William the Conqueror. David
wrote them on a slip of paper. He then produced a chart. “What is
that, Mr. David?”
“A map of the Melton estate, sir.”
“Why, how on earth did you get that?”
“An old shipmate of mine lives in that quarter--got him to make it for
me. Overhaul it, sir; you will find the Melton estate has got all your
three names within a furlong of the mansion house.”
“From this you infer--”
“That one of that house came here, and brought the E along with him
that has got dropped somehow since, and, being so far from his
birthplace, he thought he would have one or two of the old names about
him. What will you bet me he hasn't shot more than one brace of
partridges on those fields about Melton when he was a boy? So he
christened your three fields afresh, and the new names took; likely he
made a point of it with the people in the village. For all that, I
have found one old fellow who stands out against them to this day. His
name is Newel. He will persist in calling the field next to your house
Snap Witcheloe. 'That is what my grandfather allus named it,' says he,
'and that is the name it went by afore there was ever a Fountain in
this ere parish.' I have looked in the Parish Register, and I see
Newel's grandfather was born in 1690. Now, sir, all this is not
mathematical proof; but, when you come to add it to your own direct
proofs, that carry you within a cable's length of Port Fontaine, it is
very convincing; and, not to pay out too much yarn, I'll bet--my
head--to a China orange--”
“David, don't be vulgar.”
“Never mind, Mr. Dodd--be yourself.”
“Well, then, to serve Eve out, I'll bet her head (and that is a better
one than mine) to a China orange that Fontaine and Fountain are one,
and that the first Fontaine came over here from Melton more than one
hundred and thirty years ago, and less than one hundred and forty,
when Newel's grandfather was a young man.”
_“Probatum est,”_ shouted old Fountain, his eyes sparkling, his
voice trembling with emotion. “Miss Fontaine,” said he, turning to
Lucy, throwing a sort of pompous respect into his voice and manner,
“you shall never marry any man that cannot give you as good a home as
Melton, and quarter as good a coat of arms with you as your own, the
Founteyns'.” David's heart took a chill as if an ice-arrow had gone
through it. “So join me to thank our young friend here.”
Mr. Fountain held out his hand. David gave his mechanically in return,
scarcely knowing what he did. “You are a worthy and most intelligent
young man, and you have made an old man as happy as a lord,” said the
old gentleman, shaking him warmly.
“And there is my hand, too,” said Lucy, putting out hers with a blush,
“to show you I bear you no malice for being more unselfish and more
sagacious than us all.” Instantly David's cold chill fled
unreasonably. His cheeks burned with blushes, his eyes glowed, his
heart thumped, and the delicate white, supple, warm, velvet hand that
nestled in his shot electric tremors through his whole frame, when
glided, with well-bred noiselessness, through the open door, Mr.
Talboys, and stood looking yellow at that ardent group, and the
massive yet graceful bare arm stretched across the table, and the
white hand melting into the brown one.
While he stood staring, David looked up, and caught that strange, that
yellow look. Instantly a light broke in on him. “So I should look,”
felt David, “if I saw her hand in his.” He held Lucy's hand tight (she
was just beginning to withdraw it), and glared from his seat on the
newcomer like a lion ready to spring. Eve read and turned pale; she
knew what was in the man's blood.
Lucy now quietly withdrew her hand, and turned with smiling composure
toward the newcomer, and Mr. Fountain thrust a minor anxiety between
the passions of the rivals. He rose hastily, and went to Talboys, and,
under cover of a warm welcome, took care to let him know Miss Dodd had
been kind enough to invite herself and David. He then explained with
uneasy animation what David had done for him.
Talboys received all this with marked coldness; but it gave him time
to recover his self-possession. He shook hands with Lucy, all but
ignored David and Eve, and quietly assumed the part of principal
personage. He then spoke to Lucy in a voice tuned for the occasion, to
give the impression that confidential communication was not unusual
between him and her. He apologized, scarce above a whisper, for not
having come to dinner on her last day.
“But after dinner,” said he, “my brother seemed fatigued. I
treacherously recommended bed. You forgive me? The nabob instantly
acted on my selfish hint. I mounted my horse, and _me voila.”_ In
short, in two minutes he had retaliated tenfold on David. As for Lucy,
she was a good deal amused at this sudden public assumption of a
tenderness the gentleman had never exhibited in private, but a little
mortified at his parade of mysterious familiarity; still, for a
certain female reason, she allowed neither to appear, but wore an air
of calm cordiality, and gave Talboys his full swing.
David, seated sore against his will at another table, whither Mr.
Fountain removed him and parchments on pretense of inspecting the
leases, listened with hearing preternaturally keen--listened and
writhed.
His back was toward them. At last he heard Talboys propose in
murmuring accents to accompany her the first stage of her journey. She
did not answer directly, and that second was an age of anguish to poor
David.
When she did answer, as if to compensate for her hesitation, she said,
with alacrity: “I shall be delighted; it will vary the journey most
agreeably; I will ride the pony you were so kind as to give me.”
The letters swam before David's eyes.
Lucy came to the table, and, standing close behind David--so close
that he felt her pure cool breath mingle with his hair, said to her
uncle: “Mr. Talboys proposes to me to ride the first stage to-morrow;
if I do, you must be of the party.”
“Oh, must I? Well, I'll roll after you in my phaeton.”
At this moment Eve could bear no longer the anguish on David's beloved
face. It made her hysterical. She could hardly command herself. She
rose hastily, and saying, “We must not keep you up the night before a
journey,” took leave with David. As he shook hands with Lucy, his
imploring eye turned full on hers, and sought to dive into her heart.
But that soft sapphire eye was unfathomable. It was like those dark
blue southern waters that seem to reveal all, yet hide all, so deep
they are, though clear.
Eve. “Thank Heaven, we are safe out of the house.”
David. “I have got a rival.”
Eve. “A pretty rival; she doesn't care a button for him.”
David. “He rides the first stage with her.”
Eve. “Well, what of that?”
David. “I have got a rival.”
David was none of your lie-a-beds. He rose at five in summer, six in
winter, and studied hard till breakfast time; after that he was at
every fool's service. This morning he did not appear at the breakfast
table, and the servant had not seen him about. Eve ran upstairs full
of anxiety. He was not in his room. The bed had not been slept in; the
impress of his body outside showed, however, that he had flung himself
down on it to snatch an uneasy slumber.
Eve sent the girl into the village to see if she could find him or
hear tidings of him. The girl ran out without her bonnet, partaking
her mistress's anxiety, but did not return for nearly half an hour,
that seemed an age to Eve. The girl had lost some time by going to
Josh Grace for information. Grace's house stood in an orchard; so he
was the unlikeliest man in the village to have seen David. She set
against this trivial circumstance the weighty one that he was her
sweetheart, and went to him first.
“I hain't a-sin him, Sue; thee hadst better ask at the blacksmith's
shop,” said Joshua Grace.
Susan profited by this hint, and learned at the blacksmith's shop that
David had gone by up the road about six in the morning, walking very
fast. She brought the news to Eve.
“Toward Royston?”
“Yes, miss; but, la! he won't ever think to go all the way to
Royston--without his breakfast.”
“That will do, Susan. I think I know what he is gone for.”
On the servant retiring, her assumed firmness left her.
“On the road _she_ is to travel! and his rival with her. What mad
act is he going to do? Heaven have mercy on him, and me, and her!”
Eve knew what was in the man's blood. She sat trembling at home till
she could bear it no longer. She put on her bonnet, and sallied out on
the road to Royston, determined to stop the carriage, profess to have
business at Royston, and take a seat beside Mr. Fountain. She felt
that the very sight of her might prevent David from committing any
great rashness or folly. On reaching the high road, she observed a
fresh track of narrow wheels, that her rustic experience told her
could only be those of a four-wheeled carriage, and, making inquiries,
she found she was too late; carriage and riders had gone on before.
Her heart sank. Too late by a few minutes; but somehow she could not
turn back. She walked as fast as she could after the gay cavalcade, a
prey to one of those female anxieties we have all laughed at as
extravagant, proved unreasonable, and sometimes found prophetic.
Meantime Lucy and Mr. Talboys cantered gayly along; Mr. Fountain
rolled after in a phaeton; the traveling carriage came last. Lucy was
in spirits; motion enlivens us all, but especially such of us as are
women. She had also another cause for cheerfulness, that may perhaps
transpire. Her two companions and unconscious dependents were governed
by her mood. She made them larks to-day, as she had owls for some
weeks past, last night excepted. She would fall back every now and
then, and let Uncle Fountain pass her; then come dashing up to him,
and either pull up short with a piece of solemn information like an
_aid-de-camp_ from headquarters, or pass him shooting a shaft of
raillery back into his chariot, whereat he would rise with mock fury
and yell a repartee after her. Fountain found himself good
company--Talboys himself. It was not the lady; oh dear no! it never
is.
At last all seemed so bright, and Mr. Talboys found himself so
agreeable, that he suddenly recalled his high resolve not to pop in a
county desecrated by Dodds. “I'll risk it now,” said he; and he rode
back to Fountain and imparted his intention, and the senior nearly
bounded off his seat. He sounded the charge in a stage whisper,
because of the coachman, “At her at once!”
“Secret conference? hum!” said Lucy, twisting her pony, and looking
slyly back.
Mr. Talboys rejoined her, and, after a while, began in strange,
melodious accents, “You will leave a blank--”
“Shall we canter?” said Lucy, gayly, and off went the pony. Talboys
followed, and at the next hill resumed the sentimental cadence.
“You will leave a sad blank here, Miss Fountain.”
“No greater than I found,” replied the lady, innocently (?). “Oh,
dear!” she cried, with sudden interest, “I am afraid I have dropped my
comb.” She felt under her hat. [No, viper, you have not dropped your
comb, but you are feeling for a large black pin with a head to it.
There, you have found it, and taken it out of your hair, and got it
hid in your hand. What is that for?]
“Ten times greater,” moaned the honeyed Talboys; “for then we had not
seen you. Ah! my dear Miss Fountain--The devil! wo-ho, Goliah!”
For the pony spilled the treacle. He lashed out both heels with a
squeak of amazement within an inch of Mr. Talboys' horse, which
instantly began to rear, and plunge, and snort. While Talboys, an
excellent horseman, was calming his steed, Lucy was condoling with
hers. “Dear little naughty fellow!” said she, patting him [“I did it
too hard”].
“As I was saying, the blessing we have never enjoyed we do not miss;
but, now that you have shone upon us, what can reconcile us to lose
you, unless it be the hope that--Hallo!”
Lucy. “Ah!”
The pony was off with a bound like a buck. She had found out the right
depth of pin this time. “Ah! where is my whip? I have dropped it; how
careless!” Then they had to ride back for the whip, and by this means
joined Mr. Fountain. Lucy rode by his side, and got the carriage
between her and her beau. By this plan she not only evaded sentiment,
but matured by a series of secret trials her skill with her weapon.
Armed with this new science, she issued forth, and, whenever Mr.
Talboys left off indifferent remarks and sounded her affections, she
probed the pony, and he kicked or bolted as the case might require.
“Confound that pony!” cried Talboys; “he used to be quiet enough.”
“Oh, don't scold him, dear, playful little love. He carries me like a
wave.”
At this simple sentence Talboys' dormant jealousy contrived to revive.
He turned sulky, and would not waste any more tenderness, and
presently they rattled over the stones of Royston. Lucy commended her
pony with peculiar earnestness to the ostler. “Pray groom him well,
and feed him well, sir; he is a love.” The ostler swore he would not
wrong her ladyship's nag for the world.
Lucy then expressed her desire to go forward without delay: “Aunt will
expect me.” She took her seat in the carriage, bade a kind farewell to
both the gentlemen now that no tender answer was possible, and was
whirled away.
Thus the coy virgin eluded the pair.
Now her manner in taking leave of Talboys was so kind, so smiling (in
the sweet consciousness of having baffled him), that Fountain felt
sure it all had gone smoothly. They were engaged.
“Well?” he cried, with great animation.
“No,” was the despondent reply.
“Refused?” screeched the other; “impossible!”
“No, thank you,” was the haughty reply.
“What then? Did you change your mind? Didn't you propose after all?”
“I _couldn't._ That d--d pony wouldn't keep still.”
Fountain groaned.
Lucy, left to herself, gave a little sigh of relief. She had been
playing a part for the last twenty-four hours. Her cordiality with Mr.
Talboys naturally misled Eve and David, and perhaps a male reader or
two. Shall I give the clue? It may be useful to you, young gentlemen.
Well, then, her sex are compounders. Accustomed from childhood never
to have anything entirely their own way, they are content to give and
take; and, these terms once accepted, it is a point of honor and tact
with them not to let a creature see the irksome part of the bargain is
not as delicious as the other. One coat of their own varnish goes over
the smooth and the rough, the bitter and the sweet.
Now Lucy, besides being singularly polite and kind, was _femme
jusqu' au bout des ongles._ If her instincts had been reasons, and
her vague thoughts could have been represented by anything so definite
as words, the result might have appeared thus:
“A few hours, and you can bore me no more, Mr. Talboys. Now what must
I do for you in return? _Seem not to be bored to-day? Mais c'est la
moindre des choses. Seem to be pleased with your society?_ Why not?
it is only for an hour or two, and my seeming to like it will not
prolong it. My heart swells with happiness at the thought of escaping
from you, good bore; you shall share my happiness, good bore. It is so
kind of you not to bore me to all eternity.”
This was why the last night she sat like Patience on an ottoman
smiling on Talboys and racking David's heart; and this was why she
made the ride so pleasant to those she was at heart glad to leave,
till they tried sentiment on, and then she was an eel directly, pony
and all.
Lucy (sola). “That is over. Poor Mr. Talboys! Does he fancy he
has an attachment? No; I please and I am courted wherever I go, but I
have never been loved. If a man loved me I should see it in his face,
I should feel it without a word spoken. Once or twice I fancied I saw
it in one man's eyes: they seemed like a lion's that turned to a
dove's as they looked at me.” Lucy closed her own eyes and recalled
her impression: “It must have been fancy. Ought I to wish to inspire
such a passion as others have inspired? No, for I could never return
it. The very language of passion in romances seems so extravagant to
me, yet so beautiful. It is hard I should not be loved, merely because
I cannot love. Many such natures have been adored. I could not bear to
die and not be loved as deeply as ever woman was loved. I must be
loved, adored and worshiped: it would be so sweet--sweet!” She slowly
closed her eyes, and the long lovely lashes drooped, and a celestial
smile parted her lips as she fell into a vague, delicious reverie.
Suddenly the carriage stopped at the foot of a hill. She opened her
eyes, and there stood David Dodd at the carriage window.
Lucy put her head out. “Why, it is Mr. Dodd! Oh, Mr. Dodd, is there
anything the matter?”
“No.”
“You look so pale.”
“Do I?” and he flushed faintly.
“Which way are you going?”
“I am going home again now,” said David, sorrowfully.
“You came all this way to bid me good-by,” and she arched her eyebrows
and laughed--a little uneasily.
“It didn't seem a step. It will seem longer going back.”
“No, no, you shall ride back. My pony is at the White Horse; will you
not ride my pony back for me? then I shall know he will be kindly
used; a stranger would whip him.”
“I should think my arm would wither if I ill-used him.”
“You are very good. I suppose it is because you are so brave.”
“Me brave? I don't feel so. Am I to tell him to drive on?” and he
looked at her with haggard and imploring eyes.
Her eyes fell before his.
“Good-by, then,” said she.
He cried with a choking voice to the postilion, “Go ahead.”
The carriage went on and left him standing in the road, his head upon
his breast.
At the steepest part of the hill a trace broke, and the driver drew
the carriage across the hill and shouted to David. He came running up,
and put a large stone behind each wheel.
Lucy was alarmed. “Mr. Dodd! let me out.”
He handed her out. The postboy was at a _nonplus;_ but David
whipped a piece of cord and a knife out of his pocket, and began, with
great rapidity and dexterity, to splice the trace.
“Ah! now you are pleased, Mr. Dodd; our misfortune will elicit your
skill in emergencies.”
“Oh, no, it isn't that; it is--I never hoped to see you again so
soon.”
Lucy colored, and her eyes sought the ground; the splice was soon
made.
“There!” said David; “I could have spent an hour over it; but you
would have been vexed, and the bitter moment must have come at last.”
“God bless you, Miss Fountain--oh! mayn't I say Miss Lucy to-day?” he
cried, imploringly.
“Of course you may,” said Lucy, the tears rising in her eyes at his
sad face and beseeching look. “Oh, Mr. Dodd, parting with those we
esteem is always sad enough; I got away from the door without
crying--for once; don't _you_ make me cry.”
“Make you cry?” cried David, as it he had been suspected of
sacrilege; “God forbid!” He muttered in a choking voice, “You give the
word of command, for I can't.”
“You can go on,” said her soft, clear voice; but first she gave David
her hand with a gentle look--“Good-by.”
But David could not speak to her. He held her hand tight in both his
powerful hands. They seemed iron to her--shaking, trembling, grasping
iron. The carriage went slowly on, and drew her hand away. She shrank
into a corner of the carriage; he frightened her.
He followed the carriage to the brow of the hill, then sat down upon a
heap of stones, and looked despairingly after it.
Meantime Lucy put her head in her hands and blushed, though she was
all alone. “How dare he forget the distance between us? Poor fellow!
have not I at times forgotten it? I am worse than he. I lost my
self-possession; I should have checked his folly; he knows nothing of
_les convenances._ He has hurt my hand, he is so rough; I feel
his clutch now; there, I thought so, it is all red--poor fellow!
Nonsense! he is a sailor; he knows nothing of the world and its
customs. Parting with a pleasant acquaintance forever made him a
little sad.
“He is all nature; he is like nobody else; he shows every feeling
instead of concealing it, that is all. He has gone home, I hope.” She
glanced hastily back. He was sitting on the stones, his arms drooping,
his head bowed, a picture of despondency. She put her face in her
hands again and pondered, blushing higher and higher. Then the pale
face that had always been ruddy before, the simple grief and
agitation, the manly eye that did not know how to weep, but was so
clouded and troubled, and wildly sad; the shaking hands, that had
clutched hers like a drowning man's (she felt them still), the
quivering features, choked voice, and trembling lip, all these
recoiled with double force upon her mind: they touched her far more
than sobs and tears would have done, her sex's ready signs of shallow
grief.
Two tears stole down her cheeks.
“If he would but go home and forget me!” She glanced hastily back.
David was climbing up a tree, active as a cat. “He is like nobody
else--he! he! Stay! is that to see the last of me--the very last? Poor
soul! Madman, how will this end? What can come of it but misery to
him, remorse to me?
“This is love.” She half closed her eyes and smiled, repeating, “This
is love.
“Oh how I despise all the others and their feeble flatteries!”
“Heaven forgive me my mad, my wicked wish!
“I _am_ beloved.
“I am adored.
“I am miserable!”
As soon as the carriage was out of sight, David came down and hurried
from the place. He found the pony at the inn. The ostler had not even
removed his saddle.
“Methought that ostler did protest too much.”
David kissed the saddle and the pommels, and the bridle her hand had
held, and led the pony out. After walking a mile or two he mounted the
pony, to sit in her seat, not for ease. Walking thirty miles was
nothing to this athlete; sticking on and holding on with his chin on
his knee was rather fatiguing.
Meantime, Eve walked on till she was four miles from home. No David.
She sat down and cried a little space, then on again. She had just
reached an angle in the road, when--clatter, clatter--David came
cantering around with his knee in his mouth. Eve gave a joyful scream,
and up went both her hands with sudden delight. At the double shock to
his senses the pony thought his end was come, and perhaps the world's.
He shied slap into the hedge and stuck there--alone; for, his rider
swaying violently the reverse way, the girths burst, the saddle peeled
off the pony's back, and David sat griping the pommel of the saddle in
the middle of the road at Eve's feet, looking up in her face with an
uneasy grin, while dust rose around him in a little column. Eve
screeched, and screeched, and screeched; then fell to, with a face as
red as a turkey-cock's, and beat David furiously, and hurt--her little
hands.
David laughed. This incident did him good--shook him up a bit. The
pony groveled out of the ditch and cantered home, squeaking at
intervals and throwing his heels.
David got up, hoisted the side saddle on to his square shoulders, and,
keeping it there by holding the girths, walked with Eve toward Font
Abbey. She was now a little ashamed of her apprehensions; and,
besides, when she leathered David, she was, in her own mind, serving
him out for both frights. At all events, she did not scold him, but
kindly inquired his adventures, and he told her what he had done and
said, and what Miss Fountain had said.
The account disappointed Eve. “All this is just a pack of nothing,”
said she. “It is two lovers parting, or it is two common friendly
acquaintances; all depends on how it was done, and that you don't tell
me.” Then she put several subtle questions as to the looks, and tones
and manner of the young lady. David could not answer them. On this she
informed him he was a fool.
“So I begin to think,” said he.
“There! be quiet,” said she, “and let me think it over.”
“Ay! ay!” said he.
While he was being quiet and letting her think a carriage came rapidly
up behind them, with a horseman riding beside it; and, as the
pedestrians drew aside, an ironical voice fell upon them, and the
carriage and horseman stopped, and floured, them with dust.
Messrs. Talboys and Fountain took a stroll to look at the new jail
that was building in Royston, and, as they returned, Talboys, whose
wounded pride had now fermented, told Mr. Fountain plainly that he saw
nothing for it but to withdraw his pretensions to Miss Fountain.
“My own feelings are not sufficiently engaged for me to play the
up-hill game of overcoming her disinclination.”
“Disinclination? The mere shyness of a modest girl. If she was to be
'won unsought,' she would not be worthy to be Mrs. Talboys.”
“Her worth is indisputable,” said Mr. Talboys, “but that is no reason
why I should force upon her my humble claims.”
The moment his friend's pride began to ape humility, Fountain saw the
wound it had received was incurable. He sighed and was silent.
Opposition would only have set fire to opposition.
They went home together in silence. On the road Talboys caught sight
of a tall gentleman carrying a side-saddle, and a little lady walking
beside him. He recognized his _bete noir_ with a grim smile. Here
at least was one he had defeated and banished from the fair. What on
earth was the man doing? Oh, he had been giving his sister a ride on a
donkey, and they had met with an accident. Mr. Talboys was in a humor
for revenge, so he pulled up, and in a somewhat bantering voice
inquired where was the steed.
“Oh, he is in port by now,” said David.
“Do you usually ease the animal of that part of his burden, sir?”
“No,” said David, sullenly.
Eve, who hated Mr. Talboys, and saw through his sneers, bit her lip
and colored, but kept silence.
But Mr. Talboys, unwarned by her flashing eye, proceeded with his
ironical interrogatory, and then it was that Eve, reflecting that both
these gentlemen had done their worst against David, and that
henceforth the battlefield could never again be Font Abbey, decided
for revenge. She stepped forward like an airy sylph, between David and
his persecutor, and said, with a charming smile, “I will explain,
sir.”
Mr. Talboys bowed and smiled.
“The reason my brother carries this side-saddle is that it belongs to
a charming young lady--you have some little acquaintance with
her--Miss Fountain.”
“Miss Fountain!” cried Talboys, in a tone from which all the irony was
driven out by Eve's coup.
“She begged David to ride her pony home; she would not trust him to
anybody else.”
“Oh!” said Talboys, stupefied.
“Well, sir, owing to--to--an accident, the saddle came off, and the
pony ran home; so then David had only her saddle to take care of for
her.”
“Why, we escorted Miss Fountain to Royston, and we never saw Mr.
Dodd.”
“Ay, but you did not go beyond Royston,” said Eve, with a cunning air.
“Beyond Royston? where? and what was he doing there? Did he go all
that way to take her orders about her pony?” said Talboys, bitterly.
“Oh, as to that you must excuse me, sir,” cried Eve, with a scornful
laugh; “that is being too inquisitive. Good-morning”; and she carried
David off in triumph.
The next moment Mr. Talboys spurred on, followed by the phaeton.
Talboys' face was yellow.
_“La langue d'une femme est son epee.”_
“Sheer off and repair damages, you lubber,” said David, dryly, “and
don't come under our guns again, or we shall blow you out of the
water. Hum! Eve, wasn't your tongue a little too long for your teeth
just now?”
“Not an inch.”
“She might be vexed; it is not for me to boast of her kindness.”
“Temper won't let a body see everything. I'll tell you what I have
done, too--I've declared war.”
“Have you? Then run the Jack up to the mizzen-top, and let us fight it
out.”
“That is the way to look at it, David. Now don't you speak to me till
we get home; let me think.”
At the gate of Font Abbey, they parted, and Eve went home. David came
to the stable yard and hailed, “Stable ahoy!” Out ran a little
bandy-legged groom. “The craft has gone adrift,” cried David, “but
I've got the gear safe. Stow it away”; and as he spoke he chucked the
saddle a distance of some six yards on to the bandy-legged groom, who
instantly staggered back and sank on a little dunghill, and there sat,
saddled, with two eyes like saucers, looking stupefied surprise
between the pommels.
“It is you for capsizing in a calm,” remarked David, with some
surprise, and went his way.
“Well, Eve, have you thought?”
“Yes, David, I was a little hasty; that puppy would provoke a saint.
After all there is no harm done; they can't hurt us much now. It is
not here the game will be played out. Now tell me, when does your ship
sail?”
“It wants just five weeks to a day.”
“Does she take up her passengers at ---- as usual?”
“Yes, Eve, yes.”
“And Mrs. Bazalgette lives within a mile or two of ----. You have a
good excuse for accepting her invitation. Stay your last week in her
house. There will be no Talboys to come between you. Do all a man can
do to win her in that week.”
“I will.”
“And if she says 'No,' be man enough to tear her out of your heart.”
“I can't tear her out of my heart, but I will win her. I must win her.
I can't live without her. A month to wait!”
Mr. Talboys. “Well, sir, what do you say now?”
Mr. Fountain (hypocritically). “I say that your sagacity was
superior to mine; forgive me if I have brought you into a mortifying
collision. To be defeated by a merchant sailor!” He paused to see the
effect of his poisoned shaft.
Talboys. “But I am not defeated. I will not be defeated. It is
no longer a personal question. For your sake, for her sake, I must
save her from a degrading connection. I will accompany you to Mrs.
Bazalgette's. When shall we go?”
“Well, not immediately; it would look so odd. The old one would smell
a rat directly. Suppose we say in a month's time.”
“Very well; I shall have a clear stage.”
“Yes, and I shall then use all my influence with her. Hitherto I have
used none.”
“Thank you. Mr. Dodd cannot penetrate there, I conclude.”
“Of course not.”
“Then she will be Mrs. Talboys.”
“Of course she will.”
Lucy sighed a little over David's ardent, despairing passion, and his
pale and drawn face. Her woman's instinct enabled her to comprehend in
part a passion she was at this period of her life incapable of
feeling, and she pitied him. He was the first of her admirers she had
ever pitied. She sighed a little, then fretted a little, then
reproached herself vaguely. “I must have been guilty of some
imprudence--given some encouragement. Have I failed in womanly
reserve, or is it all his fault? He is a sailor. Sailors are like
nobody else. He is so simple-minded. He sees, no doubt, that he is my
superior in all sterling qualities, and that makes him forget the
social distance between him and me. And yet why suspect him of
audacity? Poor fellow, he had not the courage to _say_ anything
to me, after all. No; he will go to sea, and forget his folly before
he comes back.” Then she had a gust of egotism. It was nice to be
loved ardently and by a hero, even though that hero was not a
gentleman of distinction, scarcely a gentleman at all. The next moment
she blushed at her own vanity. Next she was seized with a sense of the
great indelicacy and unpardonable impropriety of letting her mind run
at all upon a person of the other sex; and shaking her lovely
shoulders, as much as to say, “Away idle thoughts,” she nestled and
fitted with marvelous suppleness into a corner of the carriage, and
sank into a sweet sleep, with a red cheek, two wet eyelashes, and a
half-smile of the most heavenly character imaginable. And so she
glided along till, at five in the afternoon, the carriage turned in at
Mr. Bazalgette's gates. Lucy lifted her eyes, and there was quite a
little group standing on the steps to receive her, and waving welcome
to the universal pet. There was Mr. Bazalgette, Mrs. Bazalgette, and
two servants, and a little in the rear a tall stranger of
gentleman-like appearance.
The two ladies embraced one another so rapidly yet so smoothly, and so
dovetailed and blended, that they might be said to flow together, and
make one in all but color, like the Saone and the Rhone. After half a
dozen kisses given and returned with a spirit and rapidity from which,
if we male spectators of these ardent encounters were wise, we might
slyly learn a lesson, Aunt Bazalgette suddenly darted her mouth at
Lucy's ear, and whispered a few words with an animation that struck
everybody present. Lucy smiled in reply. After “the meeting of the
muslins,” Mr. Bazalgette shook hands warmly, and at last Lucy was
introduced to his friend Mr. Hardie, who expressed in courteous terms
his hopes that her journey had been a pleasant one.
The animated words Mrs. Bazalgette whispered into Lucy's ear at that
moment of burning affection were as follows:
“You have had it washed!”
Lucy (unpacking her things in her bedroom). “Who is Mr. Hardie,
dear?”
“What! don't you know? Mr. Hardie is the great banker.”
“Only a banker? I should have taken him for something far more
distinguished. His manner is good. There is a suavity without
feebleness or smallness.”
Mrs. Bazalgette's eye flashed, but she answered with apparent
nonchalance: “I am glad you like him; you will take him off my hands
now and then. He must not be neglected; Bazalgette would murder us.
_Apropos,_ remind me to ask him to tell you Mr. Hardie's story,
and how he comes to be looked up to like a prince in this part of the
world, though he is only a banker, with only ten thousand a year.”
“You make me quite curious, aunt. Cannot you tell me?”
“Me? Oh, dear, no! Paper currency, foreign loans, government
securities, gold mines, ten per cents, Mr. Peel, and why _one_
breaks and _another_ doesn't! all that is quite beyond me.
Bazalgette is your man. I had no idea your mousseline-delame would
have washed so well. Why, it looks just out of the shop; it--” Come
away, reader, for Heaven's sake!