SUCH was Mr. Hardie at twenty-five, and his townspeople said: “If he
is so wise now he is a boy, what in Heaven's name will he be at
forty?” To sixty the provincial imagination did not attempt to follow
his wisdom. He was now past thirty, and behind the scenes of his bank
was still the able financier I have sketched. But in society he seemed
another man. There his characteristics were quiet courtesy,
imperturbability, a suave but impressive manner, vast information on
current events, and no flavor whatever of the shop.
He had learned the happy art, which might be called “the barrister's
art,” _hoc agendi,_ of throwing the whole man into a thing at one
time, and out of it at another. In the bank and in his own study he
was a devout worshiper of Mammon; in society, a courteous, polished,
intelligent gentleman, always ready to sift and discuss any worthy
topic you could start except finance. There was some affectation in
the cold and immovable determination with which he declined to say
three words about money. But these great men act habitually on a
preconceived system: this gives them their force.
If Lucy Fountain had been one of those empty girls that were so rife
at the time, the sterling value of his conversation would have
disgusted her, and his calm silence where there was nothing to be said
(sure proof of intelligence) would have passed for stupidity with her.
But she was intelligent, well used to bungling, straightforward
flattery, and to smile with arch contempt at it, and very capable of
appreciating the more subtle but less satirical compliment a man pays
a pretty girl by talking sense to her; and, as it happened, her foible
favored him no less than did her strong points. She attached too solid
a value to manner; and Mr. Hardie's manner was, to her fancy, male
perfection. It added to him in her estimation as much as David Dodd's
defects in that kind detracted from the value of his mind and heart.
To this favorable opinion Mr. Hardie responded in full.
He had never seen so graceful a creature, nor so young a woman so
courteous and high-bred.
He observed at once, what less keen persons failed to discover, that
she was seldom spontaneous or off her guard. He admired her the more.
He had no sympathy with the infantine in man or woman. “She thinks
before she speaks,” said he, with a note of admiration. On the other
hand, he missed a trait or two the young lady possessed, for they
happened to be virtues he had no eye for; but the sum total was most
favorable; in short, it was esteem at first sight.
As a cobweb to a cabbage-net, so fine was Mrs. Bazalgette's
reticulation compared with Uncle Fountain's. She invited Mr. Hardie to
stay a fortnight with her, commencing just one day before Lucy's
return. She arranged a round of gayety to celebrate the double event.
What could be more simple? Yet there was policy below. The whirl of
pleasure was to make Lucy forget everybody at Font Abbey; to empty her
heart, and pave Mrs. B.'s candidate's way to the vacancy. Then, she
never threw Mr. Hardie at Lucy's head, contenting herself with
speaking of him with veneration when Lucy herself or others introduced
his name. She was always contriving to throw the pair together, but no
mortal could see her hand at work in it. _Bref,_ a she-spider.
The first day or two she watched her niece on the sly, just to see
whether she regretted Font Abbey, or, in other words, Mr. Talboys.
Well acquainted with all the subtle signs by which women read one
another, she observed with some uneasiness that Lucy appeared somewhat
listless and pensive at times, when left quite to herself. Once she
found her with her cheek in her hand, and, by the way the young lady
averted her head and slid suddenly into distinct cheerfulness,
suspected there must have been tears in her eyes, but could not be
positive. Next, she noticed with satisfaction that the round of
gayety, including, as it did, morning rides as well as evening dances,
dissipated these little reveries and languors. She inferred that
either there was nothing in them but a sort of sediment of
_ennui,_ the natural remains of a visit to Font Abbey, or that,
if there was anything more, it had yielded to the active pleasures she
had provided, and to the lady's easy temper, and love of society, “the
only thing she loves, or ever will,” said Mrs. B., assuming prophecy.
“Aunt, how superior Mr. Hardie's conversation is. He interests one in
topics that are unbearable generally; politics now. I thought I
abhorred them, but I find it was only those little paltry Whig and
Tory squabbles that wearied me. Mr. Hardie's views are neither Whig
nor Tory; they are patriotic, and sober, and large-minded. He thinks
of the country. I can take some interest in what he calls politics.”
“And, pray, what is that?”
“Well, aunt, the liberation of commerce from its fetters for one
thing. I can contrive to be interested in that, because I know England
can be great only by commerce. Then the education of all classes,
because without that England cannot be enlightened or good.”
“He never says a word to me about such things,” said Mrs. Bazalgette;
“I suppose he thinks they are above poor me.” She delivered this with
so admirable an imitation of pique, that the courtier was deceived,
and applied butter to “a fox's wound.”
“Oh no, aunt. Consider; if that was it, he would not waste them on me,
who am so inferior to you in sagacity. More likely he says, 'This
young lady has not yet completed her education; I will sprinkle a
little good sense among her frivolous accomplishments.' Whatever the
motive, I am very much obliged to Mr. Hardie. A man of sense is so
refreshing after--(full stop). What do you think of his voice?”
“His voice? I don't remember anything about it.”
“Yes, you do--you must; it is a very remarkable one; so mellow, so
quiet, yet so modulated.”
“Well, I do remember now; it is rather a pleasant voice--for a man.”
“Rather a pleasant voice!” repeated Lucy, opening her eyes; “why, it
is a voice to charm serpents.”
“Ha! ha! It has not charmed him one yet, you see.”
This speech was not in itself pellucid; but these sweet ladies among
themselves have so few topics compared with men, and consequently beat
their little manor so often, that they seize a familiar idea, under
any disguise, with the rapidity of lightning.
“Oh, charmers are charm-proof,” replied Lucy; “that is the only reason
why. I am sure of that.” Then she reflected awhile. “It is his
natural voice, is it not? Did you ever hear him speak in any other?
Think.”
“Never.”
“Then he must be a good man. Apropos, is Mr. Hardie a good man, aunt?”
“Why, of course he is.”
“How do you know?”
“I never heard of any scandal against him.”
“Oh, I don't mean your negative goodness. You never heard anything
against _me_ out of doors.”
“Well, and are you not a good girl?”
“Me, aunt? Why, you know I am not.”
“Bless me, what have you done?”
“I have done nothing, aunt,” exclaimed Lucy, “and the good are never
nullities. Then I am not open, which is a great fault in a character.
But I can't help it! I can't! I can't!”
“Well, you need not break your heart for that. You will get over it
before you have been married a year. Look at me; I was as shy as any
of you at first going off, but now I can speak my mind; and a good
thing too, or what would become of me among the selfish set?”
“Meaning me, dear?”
“No. Divide it among you. Come, this is idle talk. Men's voices, and
whether they are good, bad, or indifferent, as if that mattered a pin,
provided their incomes are good and their manners endurable. I want a
little serious conversation with you.”
“Do you?” and Lucy colored faintly; “with all my heart.”
“We go to the Hunts' ball the day after to-morrow, Lucy; I suppose you
know that? Now what on earth am I to wear? that is the question. There
is no time to get a new dress made, and I have not got one--”
“That you have not worn at least once.”
“Some of them twice and three times;” and the B looked aghast at the
state of nudity to which she was reduced. Lucy sidled toward the door.
“Since you consult me, dear, I advise you to wear what I mean to wear
myself.”
“Ah! what a capital idea! then we shall pass for sisters. I dare say I
have got some old thing or other that will match yours; but you had
better tell me at once what you do mean to wear.”
“A gown, a pair of gloves, and a smirk”; and with this heartless
expression of nonchalance Lucy glided away and escaped the impending
shower.
“Oh, the selfishness of these girls!” cried the deserted one. “I have
got her a husband to her taste, so now she runs away from me to think
of him.”
The next moment she looked at the enormity from another point of view,
and then with this burst of injured virtue gave way to a steady
complacency.
“She is caught at last. She notices his very voice. She fancies she
cares for politics--ha! ha! She is gone to meditate on him--could not
bear any other topic--would not even talk about dress, a thing her
whole soul was wrapped up in till now. I have known her to go on for
hours at a stretch about it.”
There are people with memories so constructed that what they said, and
another did not contradict or even answer, seems to them, upon
retrospect, to have been delivered by that other person, and received
in dead silence by themselves.
Meantime Lucy was in her own room and the door bolted.
So she was the next day; and uneasy Mrs. Bazalgette came hunting her,
and tapped at the door after first trying the handle, which in Lucy's
creed was not a discreet and polished act.
“Nobody admitted here till three o'clock.”
“It is me, Lucy.”
“So I conclude,” said Lucy gayly. “'Me' must call again at three,
whoever it is.”
“Not I,” said Aunt Bazalgette, and flounced off in a pet.
At three Dignity dissolved in curiosity, and Mrs. Bazalgette entered
her niece's room in an ill-temper; it vanished like smoke at the sight
of two new dresses, peach-colored and _glacees,_ just finished,
lying on the bed. An eager fire of questions. “Where did you get them?
which is mine? who made them?”
“A new dressmaker.”
“Ah! what a godsend to poor us! Who is she?”
“Let me see how you like her work before I tell you. Try this one on.”
Mrs. Bazalgette tried on her dress, and was charmed with it. Lucy
would not try on hers. She said she had done so, and it fitted well
enough for her.
“Everything fits you, you witch,” replied the B. “I must have this
woman's address; she is an angel.”
Lucy looked pleased. “She is only a beginner, but desirous to please
you; and 'zeal goes farther than talent,' says Mr. Dodd.”
“Mr. Dodd! Ah! by-the-by, that reminds me--I am so glad you mentioned
his name. Where does the woman live?”
“The woman, or, as some consider her, the girl, lives at present with
a charming person called by the world Mrs. Bazalgette, but by the
dressmaker her sweet little aunt--” (kiss) (kiss) (kiss); and Lucy,
whose natural affection for this lady was by a certain law of nature
heated higher by working day and night for her in secret, felt a need
of expansion, and curled, round her like a serpent with a dove's
heart.
Mrs. Bazalgette did what you and I, manly reader, should have been apt
to omit. She extricated herself, not roughly, yet a little
hastily--like a water-snake gliding out of the other sweet serpent's
folds.* Sacred dress being present, she deemed caresses frivolous--and
ill-timed. “There, there, let me alone, child, and tell me all about
it directly. 'What put it into your head? Who taught you? Is this your
first attempt? Have you paid for the silk, or am I to? Do tell me
quick; don't keep me on thorns!”
* Here flashes on the cultivated mind the sprightly couplet,
“Oh, that I had my mistress at this bay,
To kiss and clip me--till I run away.”
SHAKESPEARE.--Venus and Adonis.
Lucy answered this fusillade in detail. “You know, aunt, dressmakers
bring us their failures, and we, by our hints, get them made into
successes.”
“So we do.”
“So I said to myself, 'Now why not bring a little intelligence to bear
at the beginning, and make these things right at once?' Well, I bought
several books, and studied them, and practiced cutting out, in large
sheets of brown paper first; next I ventured a small flight--I made
Jane a gown.”
“What! your servant?”
“Yes. I had a double motive; first attempts are seldom brilliant, and
it was better to fail in merino, and on Jane, than on you, madam, and
in silk. In the next place, Jane had been giving herself airs, and
objecting to do some work of that kind for me, so I thought it a good
opportunity to teach her that dignity does not consist in being
disobliging. The poor girl is so ashamed now: she comes to me in her
merino frock, and pesters me all day to let her do things for me. I am
at my wit's end sometimes to invent unreal distresses, like the
writers of fiction, you know; and, aunty, dear, you will not have to
pay for the stuff: to tell you the real truth, I overheard Mr.
Bazalgette say something about the length of your last dressmaker's
bill, and, as I have been very economical at Font Abbey, I found I had
eighteen pounds to spare, so I said nothing, but I thought we will
have a dress apiece that _nobody_ shall have to pay for.”
“Eighteen pounds? These two lovely dresses, lace, trimmings, and all,
for eighteen pounds!”
“Yes, aunt. So you see those good souls that make our dresses have
imposed upon us without ceremony: they would have been twenty-five
pounds apiece; now would they not?”
“At least. Well, you are a clever girl. I might as well try on yours,
as you won't.”
“Do, dear.”
She tried on Lucy's gown, and, as before, got two looking-glasses into
a line, twisted and twirled, and inspected herself north, south, east
and west, and in an hour and a half resigned herself to take the dress
off. Lucy observed with a sly smile that her gayety declined, and she
became silent and pensive.
“In the dead of the night, when with labor oppressed, All mortals
enjoy the sweet blessing of rest,” a phantom stood at Lucy's bedside
and fingered her. She awoke with a violent scream, the first note of
which pierced the night's dull ear, but the second sounded like a wail
from a well, being uttered a long way under the bedclothes. “Hush!
don't be a fool,” cried the affectionate phantom; and kneaded the
uncertain form through the bedclothes; “fancy screeching so at sight
of me!” Then gradually a single eye peeped timidly between two white
hands that held the sheets ready for defense like a shield.
“B--b--but you are all in white,” gulped Lucy, trembling all over; for
her delicate fibers were set quivering, and could not be stilled by a
word, fingered at midnight all in a moment by a shape.
“Why, what color should I be--in my nightgown?” snapped the specter.
“What color is yours?” and she gave Lucy a little angry pull--“and
everybody else's?”
“But at the dead of night, aunt, and without any warning--it's
terrible. Oh dear!” (another little gulp in the throat, exceeding
pretty).
“Lucy, be yourself,” said the specter, severely; “you used not to be
so selfish as to turn hysterical when your aunt came to you for
advice.”
Lucy had to do a little. “Forgive, blessed shade!” She apologized,
crushed down her obtrusive, egotistical tremors, and vibrated to
herself.
Placable Aunt Bazalgette accepted her excuses, and opened the business
that brought her there.
“I didn't leave my bed at this hour for nothing, you may be sure.”
“N--no, aunt.”
“Lucy,” continued Mrs. Bazalgette, deepening, “there is a weight on my
mind.”
Up sat Lucy in the bed, and two sapphire eyes opened wide and made
terror lovely.
“Oh, aunt, what have you been doing? It is remorse, then, that will
not let you sleep. Ah! I see! your flirtations--your flirtations--this
is the end of them.”
“My flirtations!” cried the other, in great surprise. “I never flirt.
I only amuse myself with them.” *
*In strict grammar this “them” ought to refer to
“flirtations;” but Lucy's aunt did not talk strict grammar.
Does yours?
“You--never--flirt? Oh! oh! oh! Mr. Christopher, Mr. Horne, Sir George
Healey, Mr. M'Donnell, Mr. Wolfenton, Mr. Vaughan--there! oh, and Mr.
Dodd!”
“Well, at all events, it's not for any of those fools I get out of my
bed at this time of night. I have a weight on my mind; so do be
serious, if you can. Lucy, I tried all yesterday to hide it from
myself, but I cannot succeed.”
“What, dear aunt?”
“That your gown fits me ever so much better than my own.” She sighed
deeply.
Lucy smiled slyly; but she replied, “Is not that fancy?”
“No, Lucy, no,” was the solemn reply; “I have tried to shut my eyes to
it, but I can't.”
“So it seems. Ha! ha!”
“Now do be serious; it is no laughing matter. How unfortunate I am!”
“Not at all. Take my gown; I can easily alter yours to fit me, if
necessary.”
“Oh, you good girl, how clever you are! I should never have thought of
that.” N. B--She had been thinking of nothing else these six hours.
“Go to bed, dear, and sleep in peace,” said Lucy, soothingly. “Leave
all to me.”
“No, I can't leave all to you. Now I am to have yours, I must try it
on.” It was hers now, so her confidence in its fitting was shaken.
Mrs. Bazalgette then lighted all the candles in the sconces, and
opened Lucy's drawers, and took out linen, and put on the dress with
Lucy's aid, and showed Lucy how it fitted, and was charmed, like a
child with a new toy.
Presently Lucy interrupted her raptures by an exclamation. Mrs.
Bazalgette looked round, and there was her niece inspecting the
ghostly robe which had caused her such a fright.
“Here are oceans of yards of lace on her very nightgrown!” cried Lucy.
“Well, does not every lady wear lace on her nightgown?” was the
tranquil reply. “What is that on yours, pray?”
“A little misery of Valenciennes an inch broad; but this is
Mechlin--superb! delicious! Well, aunt, you are a sincere votary of
the graces; you put on fine things because they are fine things, not
with the hollow motive of dazzling society; you wear Mechlin, not for
_eclat,_ but for Mechlin. Alas! how few, like you, pursue quite
the same course in the dark that they do in the world's eye.”
“Don't moralize, dear; unhook me!”
After breakfast Mrs. Bazalgette asked Lucy how long she could give her
to choose which of the two gowns to take, after all.
“Till eight o'clock.”
Mrs. Bazalgette breathed again. She had thought herself committed to
No. 2, and No. 1 was beginning to look lovely in consequence. At
eight, the choice being offered her with impenetrable nonchalance by
Lucy, she took Lucy's without a moment's hesitation, and sailed off
gayly to her own room to put it on, in which progress the ample
peach-colored silk held out in both hands showed like Cleopatra's
foresail, and seemed to draw the dame along.
Lucy, too, was happy--demurely; for in all this business the female
novice, “la ruse sans le savoir,” had outwitted the veteran. Lucy had
measured her whole aunt. So she made dress A for her, but told her she
was to have dress B. This at once gave her desires a perverse bent
toward her own property, the last direction they could have been
warped into by any other means; and so she was deluded to her good,
and fitted to a hair, soul and body.
Going to the ball, one cloud darkened for an instant the matron's
mind.
“I am so afraid they will see it only cost nine pounds.”
“Enfant!” replied Lucy, “aetat. 20.” At the ball Mr. Hardie and Lucy
danced together, and were the most admired couple.
The next day Mr. Hardie announced that he was obliged to curtail his
visit and go up to London. Mrs. Bazalgette remonstrated. Mr. Hardie
apologized, and asked permission to make out the rest of his visit on
his return. Mrs. B. accorded joyfully, but Lucy objected: “Aunt, don't
you be deluded into any such arrangement; Mr. Hardie is liable to
another fortnight. We have nothing to do with his mismanagement. He
comes to spend a fortnight with us: he tries, but fails. I am sorry
for Mr. Hardie, but the engagement remains in full force. I appeal to
you, Mr. Bazalgette, you are so exact.”
“I don't see myself how he can get out of it with credit,” said
Bazalgette, solemnly.
“I am happy to find that my duty is on the side of my inclination,”
said Mr. Hardie. He smiled, well pleased, and looked handsomer than
ever.
They all missed him more or less, but nobody more than Lucy. His
conversation had a peculiar charm for her. His knowledge of current
events was unparalleled; then there was a quiet potency in him she
thought very becoming in a man; and then his manner. He was the first
of our unfortunate sex who had reached beau ideal. One was harsh,
another finicking; a third loud; a fourth enthusiastic; a fifth timid;
and all failed in tact except Mr. Hardie. Then, other male voices were
imperfect; they were too insignificant or too startling, too bass or
too treble, too something or too other. Mr. Hardie's was a mellow
tenor, always modulated to the exact tone of good society. Like
herself, too, he never laughed loud, seldom out; and even his smiles,
like her own, did not come in unmeaning profusion, so they told when
they did come.
The Bazalgettes led a very quiet life for the next fortnight, for Mrs.
Bazalgette was husbanding invitations for Mr. Hardie's return.
Mrs. Bazalgette yawned many times during this barren period, but with
considerate benevolence she shielded Lucy from _ennui._ Lucy was
a dressmaker, gifted, but inexperienced; well, then, she would supply
the latter deficiency by giving her an infinite variety of alterations
to make in a multitude of garments. There are egotists who charge for
tuition, but she would teach her dear niece gratis. A mountain of
dresses rose in the drawing-room, a dozen metamorphoses were put in
hand, and a score more projected.
“She pulled down, she built up, she rounded the angular, and squared
the round.” And here Mr. Bazalgette took perverse views and
misbehaved. He was a very honest man, but not a refined courtier. He
seldom interfered with these ladies, one way or other, except to
provide funds, which interference was never snubbed; for was he not
master of the house in that sense? But, having observed what was going
on day after day in the drawing-room or workshop, he walked in and
behaved himself like a brute.
“How much a week does she give you, Lucy?” said he, looking a little
red.
Lucy opened her eyes in utter astonishment, and said nothing; her very
needle and breath were suspended.
Mrs. Bazalgette shrugged her shoulders to Lucy, but disdained words.
Mr. Bazalgette turned to his wife.
“I have often recommended economy to you, Jane, I need not say with
what success; but this sort of economy is not for your credit or mine.
If you want to add a dressmaker to your staff--with all my heart. Send
for one when you like, and keep her to all eternity. But this young
lady is our ward, and I will not have her made a servant of for your
convenience.”
“Put your work down, dear,” said Mrs. Bazalgette resignedly. “He does
not understand our affection, nor anything else except pounds,
shillings and pence.”
“Oh, yes I do. I can see through varnished selfishness for one thing.”
“You certainly ought to be a judge of the unvarnished article,”
retorted the lady.
“Having had it constantly under my eyes these twenty years,” rejoined
the gentleman.
“Oh, aunt! Oh, Mr. Bazalgette!” cried Lucy, rising and clasping her
hands; if you really love me, never let me be the cause of a
misunderstanding, or an angry word between those I esteem; it would
make me too miserable; and, dear Mr. Bazalgette, you must let people
be happy in their own way, or you will be sure to make them unhappy.
My aunt and I understand one another better than you do.”
“She understands you, my poor girl.”
“Not so well as I do her. But she knows I hate to be idle, and love to
do these bagatelles for her. It is my doing from the first, not hers;
she did not even know I could do it till I produced two dresses for
the Hunts' ball. So, you see--”
“That is another matter; all ladies play at work. But you are in for
_three months' hard labor._ Look at that heap of vanity. She is
making a lady's-maid of you. It is unjust. It is selfish. It is
improper. It is not for my credit, of which I am more jealous than
coquettes are of theirs; besides, Lucy, you must not think, because I
don't make a parade as she does, that I am not fond of you. I have a
great deal more real affection for you than she has, and so you will
find if we are ever put to the test.”
At this last absurdity Mrs. Bazalgette burst out laughing. But “la
rusee sans le savoir” turned toward the speaker, and saw that he spoke
with a certain emotion which was not ordinary in him. She instantly
went to him with both hands gracefully extended. “I do think you have
an affection for me. If you really have, show it me _some other
way,_ and not by making me unhappy.”
“Well, then, I will, Lucy. Look here; if Solomon was such a fool as to
argue with one of you young geese you would shut his mouth in a
minute. There, I am going; but you will always be the slave of one
selfish person or other; you were born for it.”
Thus impotently growling, the merchant prince retired from the field,
escorted with amenity by the courtier. In the passage she suddenly
dropped forward like a cypress-tree, and gave him her forehead to
kiss. He kissed it with some little warmth, and confided to her, in
friendly accents, that she was a fool, and off he went, grumbling
inarticulately, to his foreign loans and things.
The courtier returned to smooth her aunt in turn, but that lady
stopped her with a lofty gesture.
“My plan is to look on these monstrosities as horrid dreams, and go on
as if nothing had happened.”
Happy philosophy.
Lucy acquiesced with a smile, and in an instant both immortal souls
plunged and disappeared in silk, satin, feathers and point lace.
The afternoon post brought letters that furnished some excitement. Mr.
Hardie announced his return, and Captain Kenealy accepted an
invitation that had been sent to him two days before. But this was not
all. Mrs. Bazalgette, with something between a laugh and a crow,
handed Lucy a letter from Mr. Fountain, in which that diplomatic
gentleman availed himself of her kind invitation, and with elephantine
playfulness proposed, as he could not stay a month with her, to be
permitted to bring a friend with him for a fortnight. This friend had
unfortunately missed her through absence from his country-house at the
period of her visit to Font Abbey, and had so constantly regretted his
ill fortune that he (Fountain) had been induced to make this attempt
to repair the calamity. His friend's name was Talboys; he was a
gentleman of lineage, and in his numerous travels had made a
collection of foreign costumes which were really worth inspecting,
and, if agreeable to Mrs. Bazalgette, he should send them on before by
wagon, for no carriage would hold them.
Lucy colored on reading this letter, for it repeated a falsehood that
had already made her blush. The next moment, remembering how very
keenly her aunt must be eying her, and reading her, she looked
straight before her, and said coldly, “Uncle Fountain ought to be
welcome here for his courtesy to you at Font Abbey, but I think he
takes rather a liberty in proposing a stranger to you.”
“Rather a liberty? Say a very great liberty.”
“Well, then, aunt, why not write back that any friend of his would be
welcome, but that the house is full? You have only room for Uncle
Fountain.”
“But that is not true, Lucy,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, with sudden
dignity.
Lucy was staggered and abashed at this novel objection; recovering,
she whined humbly, “but it is very nearly true.”
It was plain Lucy did not want Mr. Talboys to visit them. This decided
Mrs. Bazalgette to let his dresses and him come. He would only be a
foil to Mr. Hardie, and perhaps bring him on faster. Her decision once
made on the above grounds, she conveyed it in characteristic colors.
“No, my love; where I give my affection, there I give my confidence. I
have your word not to encourage this gentleman's addresses, so why
hurt your uncle's feelings by closing my door to his friend? It would
be an ill compliment to you as well as to Mr. Fountain; he shall
come.”
Her postscript to Mr. Fountain ran thus:
“Your friend would have been welcome independently of the foreign
costumes; but as I am a very candid little woman, I may as well tell
you that, now you _have_ excited my curiosity, he will be a great
deal more welcome with them than without them.”
And here I own that I, the simpleminded, should never have known all
that was signified in these words but for the comment of John
Fountain, Esq.
“It is all right, Talboys,” said he. “My bait has taken. You must pack
up these gimcracks at once and send them off, or she'll smile like a
marble Satan in your face, and stick you full of pins and needles.”
The next day Mr. Bazalgette walked into the room, haughtily overlooked
the pyramid of dresses, and asked Lucy to come downstairs and see
something. She put her work aside, and went down with him, and lo! two
ponies--a cream-colored and a bay. “Oh, you loves!” cried the virgin,
passionately, and blushed with pleasure. Her heart was very
accessible--to quadrupeds.
“Now you are to choose which of these you will have.”
“Oh, Mr. Bazalgette!”
“Have you forgotten what you told me? 'Try and make me happy some
other way,' says you. Now I remembered hearing you say what a nice
pony you had at Font Abbey; so I sent a capable person to collect
ponies for you. These have both a reputation. Which will you have?”
“Dear, good, kind Uncle Bazalgette; they are ducks!”
“Let us hope not; a duck's paces won't suit you, if you are as fond of
galloping as other young ladies. Come, jump up, and see which is the
best brute of the two.”
“What, without my habit?”
“Well, get your habit on, then. Let us see how quick you can be.”
Off ran Lucy, and soon returned fully equipped. She mounted the ponies
in turn, and rode them each a mile or two in short distances. Finally
she dismounted, and stood beaming on the steps of the hall. The groom
held the ponies for final judgment.
“The bay is rather the best goer, dear,” said she, timidly.
“Miss Fountain chooses the bay, Tom.”
“No, uncle, I was going to ask you if I might have the cream-colored
one. He is so pretty.”
“Ha! ha! ha! here's a little goose. Why, they are to ride, not to
wear. Come, I see you are in a difficulty. Take them both to the
stable, Tom.”
“No, no, no,” cried Lucy. “Oh, Mr. Bazalgette, don't tempt me to be so
wicked.” Then she put both her fingers in her ears and screamed, “Take
the bay darling out of my sight, and leave the cream-colored love.”
And as she persisted in this order, with her fingers in her ears, and
an inclination to stamp with her little feet, the bay disappeared and
color won the day.
Then she dropped suddenly like a cypress toward Mr. Bazalgette, which
meant “you can kiss me.” This time it was her cheek she proffered, all
glowing with exercise and innocent excitement.
Captain Kenealy was the first arrival: a well-appointed soldier; eyes
equally bright under calm and excitement, mustache always clean and
glossy; power of assent prodigious. He looked so warlike, and was so
inoffensive, that he was in great request for miles and miles round
the garrison town of ----. The girls, at first introduction to him,
admired him, and waited palpitating to be torn from their mammas, and
carried half by persuasion, half by force, to their conqueror's tent;
but after a bit they always found him out, and talked before, and at,
and across this ornament as if it had been a bronze Mars, or a
mustache-tipped shadow. This the men viewing from a little distance
envied the gallant captain, and they might just as well have been
jealous of a hair-dresser's dummy.
One eventful afternoon, Mrs. Bazalgette and Miss Fountain walked out,
taking the gallant captain between them as escort. Reginald hovered on
the rear. Kenealy was charmingly equipped, and lent the party a
luster. If he did not contribute much to the conversation, he did not
interrupt it, for the ladies talked through him as if he had been a
column of red air. Sing, muse, how often Kenealy said “yaas” that
afternoon; on second thoughts, don't. I can weary my readers without
celestial aid: Toot! toot! toot! went a cheerful horn, and the
mail-coach came into sight round a corner, and rolled rapidly toward
them. Lucy looked anxiously round, and warned Master Reginald of the
danger now impending over infants. The terrible child went instantly
(on the “vitantes stulti vitia” principle) clean off the road
altogether into the ditch, and clayed (not pipe) his trousers to the
knee. As the coach passed, a gentleman on the box took off his hat to
the ladies and made other signs. It was Mr. Hardie.
Mrs. Bazalgette proposed to return home to receive him. They were
about a mile from the house. They had not gone far before the
rear-guard intermitted blackberrying for an instant, and uttered an
eldrich screech; then proclaimed, “Another coach! another coach!” It
was a light break coming gently along, with two showy horses in it,
and a pony trotting behind.
At one and the same moment Lucy recognized a four-footed darling, and
the servant recognized her. He drew up, touched his hat, and inquired
respectfully whether he was going right for Mr. Bazalgette's. Mrs.
Bazalgette gave him directions while Lucy was patting the pony, and
showering on him those ardent terms of endearment some ladies bestow
on their lovers, but this one consecrated to her trustees and
quadrupeds. In the break were saddles, and a side-saddle, and other
caparisons, and a giant box; the ladies looked first at it, and then
through Kenealy at one another, and so settled what was inside that
box.
They had not walked a furlong before a traveling-carriage and four
horses came dashing along, and heads were put out of the window, and
the postboys ordered to stop. Mr. Talboys and Mr. Fountain got out,
and the carriage was sent on. Introductions took place. Mrs.
Bazalgette felt her spirits rise like a veteran's when line of battle
is being formed. She was one of those ladies who are agreeable or
disagreeable at will. She decided to charm, and she threw her
enchantment over Messrs. Fountain and Talboys. Coming with hostile
views, and therefore guilty consciences, they had expected a cold
welcome. They received a warm, gay, and airy one. After a while she
maneuvered so as to get between Mr. Fountain and Captain Kenealy, and
leave Lucy to Mr. Talboys. She gave her such a sly look as she did it.
It implied, “You will have to tell me all he says to you while we are
dressing.”
Mr. Talboys inquired who was Captain Kenealy. He learned by her answer
that that officer had arrived to-day, and she had no previous
acquaintance with him.
Whatever little embarrassment Lucy might feel, remembering her
equestrian performance with Mr. Talboys and its cause, she showed
none. She began about the pony, and how kind of him it was to bring
it. “And yet,” said she, “if I had known, I would not have allowed you
to take the trouble, for I have a pony here.”
Mr. Talboys was sorry for that, but he hoped she would ride his now
and then, all the same.
“Oh, of course. My pony here is very pretty. But a new friend is not
like an old friend.”
Mr. Talboys was gratified on more accounts than one by this speech. It
gave him a sense of security. She had no friend about her now she had
known as long as she had him, and those three months of constant
intimacy placed him above competition. His mind was at ease, and he
felt he could pop with a certainty of success, and pop he would, too,
without any unnecessary delay.
The party arrived in great content and delectation at the gates that
led to the house. “Stay!” said Mrs. Bazalgette; “you must come across
the way, all of you. Here is a view that all our guests are expected
to admire. Those, that cry out 'Charming! beautiful! Oh, I never!' we
take them in and make them comfortable. Those that won't or can't
ejaculate--”
“You put them in damp beds,” said Mr. Fountain, only half in jest.
“Worse than that, sir--we flirt with them, and disturb the placid
current of their hearts forever and ever. Don't we, Lucy?”
“You know best, aunt,” said Lucy, half malice, half pout. The others
followed the gay lady, and, when the view burst, ejaculated to order.
But Mr. Fountain stood ostentatiously in the middle of the road, with
his legs apart, like him of Rhodes. “I choose the alternative,” cried
he. “Sooner than pretend I admire sixteen plowed fields and a hill as
much as I do a lawn and flower-beds, I elect to be flirted, and my
what do ye call 'em?--my stagnant current--turned into a whirlpool.”
Ere the laugh had well subsided, caused by this imitation of Hercules
and his choice, he struck up again, “Good news for you, young
gentleman; I smell a ball; here is a fiddle-case making for this
hospitable mansion.”
“No,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, “I never ordered any musician to come
here.”
A tall but active figure came walking light as a feather, with a large
carpet-bag on his back, a boy behind carrying a violin-case.
Lucy colored and lowered her eyes, but never said a word.
The young man came up to the gate, and then Mr. Talboys recognized
him.
He hesitated a single moment, then turned and came to the group and
took off his hat to the ladies. It was David Dodd!