THEY had been married a week. A slight change, but quite distinct to
an observer of her sex, bloomed in Lucy's face and manner. A new
beauty was in her face--the blossom of wifehood. Her eyes, though not
less modest, were less timid than before; and now they often met
David's full, and seemed to sip affection at them. When he came near
her, her lovely frame showed itself conscious of his approach. His
queen, though he did not know it, was his vassal. They sat at table at
a little inn, twenty miles from Harrowden, for they were on their
return to Mrs. Wilson. Lucy went to the window while David settled the
bill. At the window it is probable she had her own thoughts, for she
glided up behind David, and, fanning his hair with her cool, honeyed
breath, she said, in the tone of a humble inquirer seeking historical
or antiquarian information, “I want to ask you a question, David: are
you happy _too?”_
David answered promptly, but inarticulately; so his reply is lost to
posterity. Conjecture alone survives.
One disappointment awaited Lucy at Mrs. Wilson's. There were several
letters for both David and her, but none from Mr. Bazalgette. She knew
by that she had lost his respect. She could not blame him, for she saw
how like disingenuousness and hypocrisy her conduct must look to him.
“I must trust to time and opportunity,” she said, with a sigh. She
proposed to David to read all her letters, and she would read all his.
He thought this a droll idea; but nothing that identified him with his
royal vassal came amiss. The first letter of Lucy's that David opened
was from Mr. Talboys.
“DEAR MADAM--I have heard of your marriage with Mr. Dodd, and desire
to offer both you and him my cordial congratulations.
“I feel under considerable obligation to Mr. Dodd; and, should my
house ever have a mistress, I hope she will be able to tempt you both
to renew our acquaintance under my roof, and so give me once more that
opportunity I have too little improved of showing you both the sincere
respect and gratitude with which I am,
“Your very faithful servant,
“REGINALD TALBOYS.”
Lucy was delighted with this note. “Who says it was nothing to have
been born a gentleman?”
The second letter was from Reginald No. 2; and, if I only give the
reader a fragment of it, I still expect his gratitude, all one as if I
had disinterred a fragment of Orpheus or Tiresias.
Dear lucy.
It is very ungust of you to go and
Mary other peeple wen you
Promised me. but it is mr. dod.
So i dont so much mind i like
Mr. dod. he is a duc. and they all
Say i am too litle and jane says
Sailors always end by been
Drouned so it is only put off.
But you reely must keep your
Promise to me. wen i am biger
And mr. Dod is drouned. my
Ginny pigs--
Here a white hand drew the pleasing composition out of David's hand,
and dropped it on the floor; two piteous, tearful eyes were bent on
him, and a white arm went tenderly round his neck to save him from the
threatened fate.
At this sight Eve pounced on the horrid scroll, and hurled it, with
general acclamation, into the flames.
Thus that sweet infant revenged himself, and, like Sampson, hit
hardest of all at parting--in tears and flame vanished from written
fiction, and, I conclude, went back to Gavarni.
There was a letter from Mr. Fountain--all fire and fury. She was never
to write or speak to him any more. He was now looking out for a youth
of good family to adopt and to make a Fontaine of by act of
Parliament, etc., etc. A fusillade of written thunderbolts.
There was another from Mrs. Bazalgette, written with cream--of tartar
and oil--of vitriol. She forgave her niece and wished her every
happiness it was possible for a young person to enjoy who had deceived
her relations and married beneath her. She felt pity rather than
anger; and there was no reason why Mr. and Mrs. Dodd should not visit
her house, as far as she was concerned; but Mr. Bazalgette was a man
of very stern rectitude, and, as she could not make sure that he would
treat them with common courtesy after what had passed, she thought a
temporary separation might be the better course for all parties.
I may as well take this opportunity of saying that these two egotists
carried out the promise of their respective letters. Mr. Fountain
blustered for a year or two, and then showed manifest signs of
relenting.
Mrs. Bazalgette kept cool, and wrote, in oils, twice a year to Mrs.
Dodd:
“ET GARDAIT TOUT DOUCEMENT UNE HAINE IRRECONCILIABLE.”
Lucy had to answer these letters. In signing one of them, she took a
look at her new signature and smiled. “What a dear, quaint little name
mine is!” said she. “Lucy Dodd;” and she kissed the signature.
A Month after Marriage.
The Dodds took a house in London and Eve came up to them. David was
nearly all day superintending the ship, but spent the whole evening
with his wife at home. Zeal always produces irritation. The servant
that is anxious for his employer's interest is sure to get into a
passion or two with the deadness, indifference and heartless injustice
of the genuine hireling. So David was often irritated and worried, and
in hot water, while superintending the _Rajah,_ but the moment he
saw his own door, away he threw it all, and came into the house like a
jocund sunbeam. Nothing wins a woman more than this, provided she is
already inclined in the man's favor. As the hour that brought David
approached, Lucy's spirits and Eve's used both to rise by
anticipation, and that anticipation his hearty, genial temper never
disappointed.
One day Lucy came to David for information. “David, there is a
singular change in me. It is since we came to London. I used to be a
placid girl; now I am a fidget.”
“I don't see it, love.”
“No; how should you, dear? It always goes away when you come. Now
listen. When five o'clock comes near, I turn hot and restless, and can
hardly keep from the window; and if you are five minutes after your
time, I really cannot keep from the window; and my nerves _se
crispent,_ and I cannot sit still. It is very foolish. What does it
mean? Can you tell me?”
“Of course I can. I am just the same when people are unpunctual. It is
inexcusable, and nothing is so vexing. I ought to be--”
“Oh David, what nonsense! it is not that. Could I ever be vexed with
my David?”
“Well, then, there is Eve; we'll ask her.”
“If you dare, sir!” and Mrs. Dodd was carnation.
Four years after the above events
Two ladies were gossiping.
1st Lady. “What I like about Mrs. Dodd is that she is so truthful.”
2d Lady. “Oh, is she?”
1st Lady. “Yes, she is indeed. Certainly she is not a woman that
blurts out unpleasant things without any necessity; she is kind and
considerate in word and deed, but she is always true. She has got an
eye that meets you like a little lion's eye, and a tongue without
guile. I do love Mrs. Dodd dearly.”
Two Qui his were talking in Leadenhall Street.
1st Qui hi. “Well, so you are going out again.”
2d Qui hi. “Yes; they have offered me a commissionership. I must make
another lac for the children.”
1st Qui hi. “When do you sail?”
2d Qui hi. “By the first good ship. I should like a good ship.”
1st Qui hi. “Well, then, you had better go out with Gentleman Dodd.”
2d Qui hi. “Gentleman Dodd? I should prefer Sailor Dodd. I don't want
to founder off the Cape.”
1st Qui hi. “Oh, but this is a first-rate sailor, and a first-rate
fellow altogether.”
2d Qui hi. “Then why do you call him 'Gentleman Dodd'?”
1st Qui hi. “Oh, because he is so polite. He won't stand an oath
within hearing of his quarter-deck, and is particularly kind and
courteous to the passengers, especially to the ladies. His ship is
always full.”
2d Qui hi. “Is it? Then I'll go out with 'Gentleman Dodd.'”
--------------
TO MY MALE READERS.
I SEE with some surprise that there still linger in the field of
letters writers who think that, in fiction, when a personage speaks
with an air of conviction, the sentiments must be the author's own.
(When two of his personages give each other the lie, which represents
the author? both?)
I must ask you to shun this error; for instance, do not go and take
Eve Dodd's opinion of my heroine, or Mrs. Bazalgette's, for mine.
Miss Dodd, in particular, however epigrammatic she may appear, is
shallow: her criticism _peche par la base._ She talks too much as
if young girls were in the habit of looking into their own minds, like
little metaphysicians, and knowing all that goes on there; but, on the
contrary, this is just what women in general don't do, and young women
can't do.
No male will quite understand Lucy Fountain who does not take
“instinct” and “self-deception” into the account. But with those two
dews and your own intelligence, you cannot fail to unravel her, and
will, I hope, thank me in your hearts for leaving you something to
study, and not clogging my sluggish narrative with a mass of comment
and explanation.
The End.
End of Project Gutenberg's Love Me Little, Love Me Long, by Charles Reade