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      Love Me Little, Love Me Long, by Charles Reade
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<pre>

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Love Me Little, Love Me Long, by Charles Reade

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Love Me Little, Love Me Long

Author: Charles Reade


Release Date: November, 2003 [Etext #4607]
This file was first posted on February 18, 2002
Last Updated: March 5, 2018

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG ***




Produced by James Rusk and David Widger





</pre>

    <div style="height: 8em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h1>
      LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG
    </h1>
    <h2>
      By Charles Reade
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      <b>CONTENTS</b>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PREFACE
    </h2>
    <p>
      SHOULD these characters, imbedded in carpet incidents, interest the public
      at all, they will probably reappear in more potent scenes. This design,
      which I may never live to execute, is, I fear, the only excuse I can at
      present offer for some pages, forming the twelfth chapter of this volume.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I.
    </h2>
    <p>
      NEARLY a quarter of a century ago, Lucy Fountain, a young lady of beauty
      and distinction, was, by the death of her mother, her sole surviving
      parent, left in the hands of her two trustees, Edward Fountain, Esq., of
      Font Abbey, and Mr. Bazalgette, a merchant whose wife was Mrs. Fountain's
      half-sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      They agreed to lighten the burden by dividing it. She should spend half
      the year with each trustee in turn, until marriage should take her off
      their hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our mild tale begins in Mr. Bazalgette's own house, two years after the
      date of that arrangement.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chit-chat must be your main clue to the characters. In life it is the
      same. Men and women won't come to you ticketed, or explanation in hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucy, you are a great comfort in a house; it is so nice to have some one
      to pour out one's heart to; my husband is no use at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt Bazalgette!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that way. You listen to my faded illusions, to the aspirations of a
      nature too finely organized, ah! to find its happiness in this rough,
      selfish world. When I open my bosom to him, what does he do? Guess now&mdash;whistles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I call that rude.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So do I; and then he whistles more and more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but, aunt, if any serious trouble or grief fell upon you, you would
      find Mr. Bazalgette a much greater comfort and a better stay than poor
      spiritless me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, if the house took fire and fell about our ears, he would come out of
      his shell, no doubt; or if the children all died one after another, poor
      dear little souls; but those great troubles only come in stories. Give me
      a friend that can sympathize with the real hourly mortifications of a too
      susceptible nature; sit on this ottoman, and let me go on. Where was I
      when Jones came and interrupted us? They always do just at the interesting
      point.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Fountain's face promptly wreathed itself into an expectant smile. She
      abandoned her hand and her ear, and leaned her graceful person toward her
      aunt, while that lady murmured to her in low and thrilling tones&mdash;his
      eyes, his long hair, his imaginative expressions, his romantic projects of
      frugal love; how her harsh papa had warned Adonis off the premises; how
      Adonis went without a word (as pale as death, love), and soon after, in
      his despair, flung himself&mdash;to an ugly heiress; and how this
      disappointment had darkened her whole life, and so on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps, if Adonis had stood before her now, rolling his eyes, and his
      phrases hot from the annuals, the flourishing matron might have sent him
      to the servants' hall with a wave of her white and jeweled hand. But the
      melody disarms this sort of brutal criticism&mdash;a woman's voice
      relating love's young dream; and then the picture&mdash;a matron still
      handsome pouring into a lovely virgin's ear the last thing she ought; the
      young beauty's eyes mimicking sympathy; the ripe beauty's soft, delicious
      accents&mdash;purr! purr! purr!
    </p>
    <p>
      Crash overhead! a window smashed aie! aie! clatter! clatter! screams of
      infantine rage and feminine remonstrance, feet pattering, and a general
      hullabaloo, cut the soft recital in two. The ladies clasped hands, like
      guilty things surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy sprang to her feet; the oppressed one sank slowly and gracefully
      back, inch by inch, on the ottoman, with a sigh of ostentatious
      resignation, and gazed, martyr-like, on the chandelier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you not go up to the nursery?&rdquo; cried Lucy, in a flutter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, dear,&rdquo; replied the other, faintly, but as cool as a marble slab; &ldquo;you
      go; cast some of your oil upon those ever-troubled waters and then come
      back and let us try once more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Fountain heard but half this sentence; she was already gliding up the
      stairs. She opened the nursery door, and there stood in the middle of the
      room &ldquo;Original Sin.&rdquo; Its name after the flesh was Master Reginald. It was
      half-past six, had been baptized in church, after which every child
      becomes, according to polemic divines of the day, &ldquo;a little soul of
      Christian fire&rdquo; until it goes to a public school. And there it straddled,
      two scarlet cheeks puffed out with rage, soft flaxen hair streaming,
      cerulean eyes glowing, the poker grasped in two chubby fists. It had poked
      a window in vague ire, and now threatened two females with extinction if
      they riled it any more.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two grown-up women were discovered, erect, but flat, in distant
      corners, avoiding the bayonet and trusting to their artillery.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;Wicked boy!&rdquo;
      &ldquo;Naughty boy!&rdquo; (grape.)
     &ldquo;Little ruffian!&rdquo; etc.
</pre>
    <p>
      And hints as to the ultimate destination of so sanguinary a soul (round
      shot).
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! here's miss. Oh, miss, we are so glad you are come up; don't go anigh
      him, miss; he is a tiger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Fountain smiled, and went gracefully on one knee beside him. This
      brought her angelic face level with the fallen cherub's. &ldquo;What is the
      matter, dear?&rdquo; asked she, in a tone of soft pity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tiger was not prepared for this: he dropped his poker and flung his
      little arm round his cousin's neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I love YOU. Oh! oh! oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear; then tell me, now&mdash;what is the matter? What have you been
      doing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noth&mdash;noth&mdash;nothing&mdash;it's th&mdash;them been na&mdash;a&mdash;agging
      me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nagging you?&rdquo; and she smiled at the word and a tiger's horror of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who has been nagging you, love?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Th&mdash;those&mdash;bit&mdash;bit&mdash;it.&rdquo; The word was unfortunately
      lost in a sob. It was followed by red faces and two simultaneous yells of
      remonstrance and objurgation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must ask you to be silent a minute,&rdquo; said Miss Fountain, quietly.
      &ldquo;Reginald, what do you mean by&mdash;by&mdash;nagging?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Reginald explained. &ldquo;By nagging he meant&mdash;why&mdash;nagging.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, what had they been doing to him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No; poor Reginald was not analytical, dialectical and critical, like
      certain pedanticules who figure in story as children. He was a terrible
      infant, not a horrible one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They won't fight and they won't make it up, and they keep nagging,&rdquo; was
      all could be got out of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come with me, dear,&rdquo; said Lucy, gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; assented the tiger, softly, and went out awestruck, holding her
      hand, and paddling three steps to each of her serpentine glides.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seated in her own room, tiger at knee, she tried topics of admonition.
      During these his eyes wandered about the room in search of matter more
      amusing, so she was obliged to bring up her reserve.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And no young lady will ever marry you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't want them to, cousin; I wouldn't let them; you will marry me,
      because you promised.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you know you did&mdash;upon your honor; and no lady or gentleman
      ever breaks their word when they say that; you told me so yourself,&rdquo; added
      he of the inconvenient memory.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! but there is another rule that I forgot to tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That no lady ever marries a gentleman who has a violent temper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don't they?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; they would be afraid. If you had a wife, and took up the poker, she
      would faint away, and die&mdash;perhaps!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, cousin, you would not <i>want</i> the poker taken to you; you never
      nag.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps that is because we are not married yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, then, when we are, shall you turn like the others?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impossible to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then&rdquo; (after a moment's hesitation), &ldquo;I'll marry you all the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! you forget; I shall be afraid until your temper mends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll mend it. It is mended now. See how good I am now,&rdquo; added he, with
      self-admiration and a shade of surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't call this mending it, for I am not the one that offended you;
      mending it is promising me never, never to call naughty names again. How
      would you like to be called a dog?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd kill 'em.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, you see&mdash;then how can you expect poor nurse to like it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't understand, cousin&mdash;Tom said to George the groom that Mrs.
      Jones was an&mdash;old&mdash;stingy&mdash;b&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't want to hear anything about Tom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is such a clever fellow, cousin. So I think, if Jones is an old one,
      those two that keep nagging me must be young ones. What do you think
      yourself?&rdquo; asked Reginald, appealing suddenly to her candor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And no doubt it was Tom that taught you this other vulgar word
      'nagging,'&rdquo; was the evasive reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, that was mamma.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy colored, wheeled quickly, and demanded severely of the terrible
      infant: &ldquo;Who is this Tom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! don't you know Tom?&rdquo; Reginald began to lose a grain of his respect
      for her. &ldquo;Why, he helps in the stables; oh, cousin, he is such a nice
      fellow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reginald, I shall never marry you if you keep company with grooms, and
      speak their language.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; sighed the victim, &ldquo;I'll give up Tom sooner than you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, dear; now I <i>am</i> flattered. One struggle more; we must go
      together and ask the nurses' pardon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must we? ugh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;and kiss them&mdash;and make it up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Reginald made a wry face; but, after a pause of solemn reflection, he
      consented, on condition that Lucy would keep near him, and kiss him
      directly afterward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall be sure to do that, because you will be a good boy then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Outside the door Reginald paused: &ldquo;I have a favor to ask you, cousin&mdash;a
      great favor. You see I am so very little, and you are so big; now the
      husband ought to be the biggest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite my own opinion, Reggy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, dear, now if you would be so kind as not to grow any older till I
      catch you up, I shall be so very, very, very much obliged to you, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will try, Reggy. Nineteen is a very good age. I will stay there as long
      as my friends will let me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, cousin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that is not what we have in hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The nurses were just agreeing what a shame it was of miss to take that
      little vagabond's part against them, when she opened the door. &ldquo;Nurse,
      here is a penitent&mdash;a young gentleman who is never going to use rude
      words, or be violent and naughty again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;La! miss, why, it is witchcraft&mdash;the dear child&mdash;soon up and
      soon down, as a boy should.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beg par'n, nurse&mdash;beg par'n, Kitty,&rdquo; recited the dear child, late
      tiger, and kissed them both hastily; and, this double formula gone
      through, ran to Miss Fountain and kissed her with warmth, while the nurses
      were reciting &ldquo;little angel,&rdquo; &ldquo;all heart,&rdquo; etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To take the taste out of my mouth,&rdquo; explained the penitent, and was left
      with his propitiated females; and didn't they nag him at short intervals
      until sunset! But, strong in the contemplation of his future union with
      Cousin Lucy, this great heart in a little body despised the pins and
      needles that had goaded him to fury before.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy went down to the drawing-room. She found Mrs. Bazalgette leaning with
      one elbow on the table, her hand shading her high, polished forehead; her
      grave face reflecting great mental power taxed to the uttermost. So Newton
      looked, solving Nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Fountain came in full of the nursery business, but, catching sight of
      so much mind in labor, approached it with silent curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The oracle looked up with an absorbed air, and delivered itself very
      slowly, with eye turned inward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid&mdash;I don't think&mdash;I quite like my new dress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That <i>is</i> unfortunate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would not matter; I never like anything till I have altered it; but
      here is Baldwin has just sent me word that her mother is dying, and she
      can't undertake any work for a week. Provoking! could not the woman die
      just as well after the ball?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, aunt!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And my maid has no more taste than an owl. What on earth am I to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wear another dress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What other can I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing can be prettier than your white mousseline de soie with the
      tartan trimming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I have worn that at four balls already; I won't be known by my
      colors, like a bird. I have made up my mind to wear the jaune, and I will,
      in spite of them all; that is, if I can find anybody who cares enough for
      me to try it on, and tell me what it wants.&rdquo; Lucy offered at once to go
      with her to her room and try it on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;no&mdash;it is so cold there; we will do it here by the fire.
      You will find it in the large wardrobe, dear. Mind how you carry it. Lucy!
      lots of pins.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette then rang the bell, and told the servant to say she was
      out if anyone called, no matter who.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime Lucy, impressed with the gravity of her office, took the dress
      carefully down from the pegs; and as it would have been death to crease
      it, and destruction to let its hem sweep against any of the inferior forms
      of matter, she came down the stairs and into the room holding this female
      weapon of destruction as high above her head as Judith waves the sword of
      Holofernes in Etty's immortal picture.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other had just found time to loosen her dress and lock one of the
      doors. She now locked the other, and the rites began. Well!!??
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It fits you like a glove.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really? tell the truth now; it is a sin to tell a story&mdash;about a new
      gown. What a nuisance one can't see behind one!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could fetch another glass, but you may trust my word, aunt. This point
      behind is very becoming; it gives distinction to the waist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Baldwin cuts these bodies better than Olivier; but the worst of her
      is, when it comes to the trimming you have to think for yourself. The
      woman has no mind; she is a pair of hands, and there is an end of her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must confess it is a little plain, for one thing,&rdquo; said Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you little goose, you don't think I am going to wear it like this.
      No. I thought of having down a wreath and bouquet from Foster's of violets
      and heart's-ease&mdash;the bosom and sleeves covered with blond, you know,
      and caught up here and there with a small bunch of the flowers. Then, in
      the center heart's-ease of the bosom, I meant to have had two of my
      largest diamonds set&mdash;hush!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The door-handle worked viciously; then came rap! rap! rap! rap!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tic&mdash;tic&mdash;tic; this is always the way. Who is there? Go away;
      you can't come here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I want to speak to you. What the deuce are you doing?&rdquo; said through
      the keyhole the wretch that owned the room in a mere legal sense.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are trying a dress. Come again in an hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confound your dresses! Who is we?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucy has got a new dress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt!&rdquo; whispered Lucy, in a tone of piteous expostulation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, if it is Lucy. Well, good-by, ladies. I am obliged to go to London at
      a moment's notice for a couple of days. You will have done by when I come
      back, perhaps,&rdquo; and off went Bazalgette whistling, but not best pleased.
      He had told his wife more than once that the drawing-rooms and
      dining-rooms of a house are the public rooms, and the bedrooms the private
      ones.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy colored with mortification. It was death to her to annoy anyone; so
      her aunt had thrust her into a cruel position.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Mr. Bazalgette!&rdquo; sighed she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fiddle de dee. Let him go, and come back in a better temper&mdash;set
      transparent; so then, backed by the violet, you know, they will imitate
      dewdrops to the life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charming! Why not let Olivier do it for you, as poor Baldwin cannot?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because Olivier works for the Claytons, and we should have that Emily
      Clayton out as my double; and as we visit the same houses&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And as she is extremely pretty&mdash;aunt, what a generalissima you are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretty! Snub-nosed little toad. No, she is not pretty. But she is
      eighteen; so I can't afford to dress her. No. I see I shall have to
      moderate my views for this gown, and buy another dress for the flowers and
      diamonds. There, take it off, and let us think it calmly over. I never act
      in a hurry but I am sorry for it afterward&mdash;I mean in things of real
      importance.&rdquo; The gown was taken off in silence, broken only by occasional
      sighs from the sufferer, in whose heart a dozen projects battled fiercely
      for the mastery, and worried and sore perplexed her, and rent her inmost
      soul fiercely divers ways.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Black lace, dear,&rdquo; suggested Lucy, soothingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. B. curled her arm lovingly round Lucy's waist. &ldquo;Just what I was
      beginning to think,&rdquo; said she, warmly. &ldquo;And we can't both be mistaken, can
      we? But where can I get enough?&rdquo; and her countenance, that the cheering
      coincidence had rendered seraphic, was once more clouded with doubt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you have yards of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but mine is all made up in some form or other, and it musses one's
      things so to pick them to pieces.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So it does, dear,&rdquo; replied Lucy, with gentle but genuine feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would only be for one night, Lucy&mdash;I should not hurt it, love&mdash;you
      would not like to fetch down your Brussels point scarf, and see how it
      would look, would you? We need not cut the lace, dear; we could tack it on
      again the next morning; you are not so particular as I am&mdash;you look
      well in anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy was soon seated denuding herself and embellishing her aunt. The
      latter reclined with grace, and furthered the work by smile and gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't ask me about the skirmish in the nursery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Their squabbles bore me, dear; but you can tell me who was the most in
      fault, if you think it worth while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reginald, then, I am afraid; but it is not the poor boy; it is the
      influence of the stable-yard; and I do advise and entreat you to keep him
      out of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impossible, my dear; you don't know boys. The stable is their paradise.
      When he grows older his father must interfere; meantime, let us talk of
      something more agreeable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; you shall go on with your story. You had got to his look of despair
      when your papa came in that morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I have no time for anybody's despair just now; I can think of nothing
      but this detestable gown. Lucy, I suspect I almost wish I had made them
      put another breadth into the skirt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Luncheon, ma'am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy begged her aunt to go down alone; she would stay and work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you must come to luncheon; there is a dish on purpose for you&mdash;stewed
      eels.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eels; why, I abhor them; I think they are water-serpents.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is it that is so fond of them, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is you, aunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So it is. I thought it had been you. Come, you must come down, whether
      you eat anything or not. I like somebody to talk to me while I am eating,
      and I had an idea just now&mdash;it is gone&mdash;but perhaps it will come
      back to me: it was about this abominable gown. O! how I wish there was not
      such a thing as dress in the world!!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While Mrs. Bazalgette was munching water-snakes with delicate zeal, and
      Lucy nibbling cake, came a letter. Mrs. Bazalgette read it with
      heightening color, laid it down, cast a pitying glance on Lucy, and said,
      with a sigh, &ldquo;Poor girl!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy turned a little pale. &ldquo;Has anything happened?&rdquo; she faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something is going to happen; you are to be torn away from here, where
      you are so happy&mdash;where we all love you, dear. It is from that
      selfish old bachelor. Listen: 'Dear madam, my niece Lucy has been due here
      three days. I have waited to see whether you would part with her without
      being dunned. My curiosity on that point is satisfied, and I have now only
      my affection to consult, which I do by requesting you to put her and her
      maid into a carriage that will be waiting for her at your door twenty-four
      hours after you receive this note. I have the honor to be, madam,' an old
      brute!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you can smile; but that is you all over; you don't care a straw
      whether you are happy or miserable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not you; you will leave this, where you are a little queen, and go and
      bury yourself three months with that old bachelor, and nobody will ever
      gather from your face that you are bored to death; and here we are asked
      to the Cavendishes' next Wednesday, and the Hunts' ball on Friday&mdash;you
      are such a lucky girl&mdash;our best invitations always drop in while you
      are with us&mdash;we go out three times as often during your months as at
      other times; it is your good fortune, or the weather, or something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear aunt, this was your own arrangement with Uncle Fountain. I used to
      be six months with each in turn till you insisted on its being three. You
      make me almost laugh, both you and Uncle Fountain; what <i>do</i> you see
      in me worth quarreling for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you what <i>he</i> sees&mdash;a good little spiritless thing&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am larger than you, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, in body&mdash;that he can make a slave of&mdash;always ready to
      nurse him and his foe, or to put down your work and to take up his&mdash;to
      play at his vile backgammon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Piquet, please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the difference?&mdash;to share his desolation, and take half his
      blue devils on your own shoulders, till he will hyp you so that to get
      away you will consent to marry into his set&mdash;the county set&mdash;some
      beggarly old family that came down from the Conquest, and has been going
      down ever since; so then he will let you fly&mdash;with a string: you must
      vegetate two miles from him; so then he can have you in to Backquette and
      write his letters: he will settle four hundred a year on you, and you will
      be miserable for life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Uncle Fountain, what a schemer he turns out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Men all turn out schemers when you know them, Miss Impertinence. Well,
      dear, I have no selfish views for you. I love my few friends too
      single-heartedly for that; but I <i>am</i> sad when I see you leaving us
      to go where you are not prized.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, aunt, I am prized at Font Abbey. I am overrated there as I am
      here. They all receive me with open arms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So is a hare when it comes into a trap,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, sharply,
      drawing upon a limited knowledge of grammar and field-sports.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;Uncle Fountain really loves me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As much as I do?&rdquo; asked the lady, with a treacherous smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very nearly,&rdquo; was the young courtier's reply. She went on to console her
      aunt's unselfish solicitude, by assuring her that Font Abbey was not a
      solitude; that dinners and balls abounded, and her uncle was invited to
      them all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You little goose, don't you see? all those invitations are for your sake,
      not his. If we could look in on him now we should find him literally in
      single cursedness. Those county folks are not without cunning. They say
      beauty has come to stay with the beast; we must ask the beast to dinner,
      so then beauty will come along with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What other pleasure awaits you at Font Abbey?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The pleasure of giving pleasure,&rdquo; replied Lucy, apologetically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that is your weakness, Lucy. It is all very well with those who won't
      take advantage; but it is the wrong game to play with all the world. You
      will be made a tool of, and a slave of, and use of. I speak from
      experience. You know how I sacrifice myself to those I love; luckily, they
      are not many.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so many as love you, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven forbid! but you are at the head of them all, and I am going to
      prove it&mdash;by deeds, not words.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy looked up at this additional feature in her aunt's affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must go to the great bear's den for three months, but it shall be the
      last time!&rdquo; Lucy said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will return never to quit us, or, at all events, not the
      neighborhood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&mdash;would be nice,&rdquo; said the courtier warmly, but hesitatingly;
      &ldquo;but how will you gain uncle's consent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By dispensing with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but the means, aunt?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A husband!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy started and colored all over, and looked askant at her aunt with
      opening eyes, like a thoroughbred filly just going to start all across the
      road. Mrs. Bazalgette laid a loving hand on her shoulder, and whispered
      knowingly in her ear: &ldquo;Trust to me; I'll have one ready for you against
      you come back this time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, please don't! pray don't!&rdquo; cried Lucy, clasping her hands in
      feeble-minded distress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In this neighborhood&mdash;one of the right sort.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am so happy as I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will be happier when you are quite a slave, and so I shall save you
      from being snapped up by some country wiseacre, and marry you into our own
      set.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Merchant princes,&rdquo; suggested Lucy, demurely, having just recovered her
      breath and what little sauce there was in her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, merchant princes&mdash;the men of the age&mdash;the men who could
      buy all the acres in the country without feeling it&mdash;the men who make
      this little island great, and a woman happy, by letting her have
      everything her heart can desire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean everything that money can buy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course. I said so, didn't I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So, then, you are tired of me in the house?&rdquo; remonstrated Lucy, sadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, ingrate; but you will be sure to marry soon or late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I will not, if I can possibly help it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you can't help it; you are not the character to help it. The first
      man that comes to you and says: 'I know you rather dislike me' (you could
      not hate anybody, Lucy,) 'but if you don't take me I shall die of a broken
      fiddlestick,' you will whine out, 'Oh, dear! shall you? Well, then, sooner
      than disoblige you, here&mdash;take me!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I so weak as this?&rdquo; asked Lucy, coloring, and the water coming into
      her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be offended,&rdquo; said the other, coolly; &ldquo;we won't call it weakness,
      but excess of complaisance; you can't say no to anybody.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet I have said it,&rdquo; replied Lucy, thoughtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you? When? Oh, to me. Yes; where I am concerned you have sometimes a
      will of your own, and a pretty stout one; but never with anybody else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The aunt then inquired of the niece, &ldquo;frankly, now, between ourselves,&rdquo;
       whether she had no wish to be married. The niece informed her in
      confidence that she had not, and was puzzled to conceive how the bare idea
      of marriage came to be so tempting to her sex. Of course, she could
      understand a lady wishing to marry, if she loved a gentleman who was
      determined to be unhappy without her; but that women should look about for
      some hunter to catch instead of waiting quietly till the hunter caught
      them, this puzzled her; and as for the superstitious love of females for
      the marriage rite in cases when it took away their liberty and gave them
      nothing amiable in return, it amazed her. &ldquo;So, aunt,&rdquo; she concluded, &ldquo;if
      you really love me, driving me to the altar will be an unfortunate way of
      showing it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While listening to this tirade, which the young lady delivered with great
      serenity, and concluded with a little yawn, Mrs. Bazalgette had two
      thoughts. The first was: &ldquo;This girl is not flesh and blood; she is made of
      curds and whey, or something else;&rdquo; the second was: &ldquo;No, she is a shade
      hypocriticaler than other girls&mdash;before they are married, that is
      all;&rdquo; and, acting on this latter conviction, she smiled a lofty
      incredulity, and fell to counting on her fingers all the moneyed bachelors
      for miles.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this Lucy winced with sensitive modesty, and for once a shade of
      vexation showed itself on her lovely features. The quick-sighted,
      keen-witted matron caught it, and instantly made a masterly move of
      feigned retreat. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; cried she, &ldquo;I will not tease you anymore, love;
      just promise me not to receive any gentleman's addresses at Font Abbey,
      and I will never drive you from my arms to the altar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I promise that,&rdquo; cried Lucy, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon your honor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my honor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kiss me, dear. I know you won't deceive me now you have pledged your
      honor. This solemn promise consoles me more than you can conceive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am so glad; but if you knew how little it costs me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All the better; you will be more likely to keep it,&rdquo; was the dry reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      The conversation then took a more tender turn. &ldquo;And so to-morrow you go!
      How dull the house will be without you! and who is to keep my brats in
      order now I have no idea. Well, there is nothing but meeting and parting
      in this world; it does not do to love people, does it? (ah!) Don't cry,
      love, or I shall give way; my desolate heart already brims over&mdash;no&mdash;now
      don't cry&rdquo; (a little sharply); &ldquo;the servants will be coming in to take
      away the things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you c&mdash;c&mdash;come and h&mdash;help me pack, dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me, love? oh no! I could not bear the sight of your things put out to go
      away. I promised to call on Mrs. Hunt this afternoon; and you must not
      stop in all day yourself&mdash;I cannot let your health be sacrificed; you
      had better take a brisk walk, and pack afterward.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, aunt. I will go and finish my drawing of Harrowden Church to
      take with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, don't go there; the meadows are wet. Walk upon the Hatton road; it is
      all gravel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; only it is so ugly, and I have nothing to do that way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I'll give you something to do,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, obligingly.
      &ldquo;You know where old Sarah and her daughter live&mdash;the last cottages on
      that road; I don't like the shape of the last two collars they made me;
      you can take them back, if you like, and lend them one of yours I admire
      so for a pattern.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I will, with pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall you come back through the garden? If you don't&mdash;never mind;
      but, if you do, you may choose me a bouquet. The servants are incapable of
      a bouquet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will; thank you, dear. How kind and thoughtful of you to give me
      something to occupy me now that I am a little sad.&rdquo; Mrs. Bazalgette
      accepted this tribute with a benignant smile, and the ladies parted.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning a traveling-carriage, with four smoking post-horses, came
      wheeling round the gravel to the front door. Uncle Fountain's factotum got
      down from the dicky, packed Lucy's imperial on the roof, and slung a box
      below the dicky; stowed her maid away aft, arranged the foot-cushion and a
      shawl or two inside, and, half obsequiously, half bumptiously, awaited the
      descent of his fair charge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, upstairs, came a sudden simultaneous attack of ardent lips, and a
      long, clinging embrace that would have graced the most glorious,
      passionate, antique love. Sculpture outdone, the young lady went down, and
      was handed into the carriage. Her ardent aunt followed presently, and
      fired many glowing phrases in at the window; and, just as the carriage
      moved, she uttered a single word quite quietly, as much as to say, Now,
      this I mean. This genuine word, the last Aunt Bazalgette spoke, had been,
      two hundred years before, the last word of Charles the First. Note the
      coincidences of history.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two postboys lifted their whips level to their eyes by one instinct,
      the horses tightened the traces, the wheels ground the gravel, and Lucy
      was whirled away with that quiet, emphatic post-dict ringing in her ears,
    </p>
    <p>
      Remember!
    </p>
    <p>
      Font Hill was sixty miles off: they reached it in less than six hours.
      There was Uncle Fountain on the hall steps to receive her, and the comely
      housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, ducking and smiling in the background. While the
      servants were unpacking the carriage, Mr. Fountain took Lucy to her
      bedroom. Mrs. Brown had gone on before to see for the third time whether
      all was comfortable. There was a huge fire, all red; and on the table a
      gigantic nosegay of spring flowers, with smell to them all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh how nice, after a journey!&rdquo; said Lucy, mowing down Uncle Fountain and
      Mrs. Brown with one comprehensive smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Brown flamed with complacency.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; cried her uncle; &ldquo;I suppose you expected a black fire and
      impertinent apologies by way of substitute for warmth; a stuffy room, and
      damp sheets, roasted, like a woodcock, twenty minutes before use.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, uncle, dear, I expected every comfort at Font Abbey.&rdquo; Brown retired
      with a courtesy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! What! you have found out that it is all humbug about old bachelors
      not knowing comfort? Do bachelors ever put their friends into damp sheets?
      No; that is the women's trick with their household science. Your sex have
      killed more men with damp sheets than ever fell by the sword.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet nobody erects monuments to us,&rdquo; put in Lucy, slyly.
    </p>
    <p>
      She missed fire. Uncle Fountain, like most Englishmen, could take in a pun
      by the ear, but wit only by the eye. &ldquo;Do you remember when Mrs. Bazalgette
      put you into the linen sponge, and killed you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Killed me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, as far as in her lay. We can but do our best; well, she did
      hers, and went the right way to work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see I survive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By a miracle. Dinner is at six.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but six in this house means sixty minutes after five and sixty
      minutes before seven. I mention this the first day because you are just
      come from a place where it means twenty minutes to seven; also let me
      observe that I think I have noticed soup and potatoes eat better hot than
      cold, and meat tastes nicer done to a turn than&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To a cinder?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! ha! and come with an appetite, please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle, no tyranny, I beg.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tyranny? you know this is Liberty Hall; only when I eat I expect my
      companion to-eat too; besides, there is nothing to be gained by humbug
      to-day. There will be only us two at dinner; and when I see young ladies
      fiddling with an asparagus head instead of eating their dinner, it don't
      fall into the greenhorn's notion&mdash;exquisite creature! all soul! no
      stomach! feeds on air, ideas, and quadrille music&mdash;no; what do you
      think I say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something flattering, I feel sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the contrary, something true. I say hypocrite! Been grubbing like a
      pig all day, so can't eat like a Christian at meal time; you can't humbug
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! so I see. That decides me to be candid&mdash;and hungry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I am off; I don't stick to my friends and bore them with my affairs
      like that egotistical hussy, Jane Bazalgette. I amuse myself, and leave
      them to amuse themselves; that is my notion of politeness. I am going to
      see my pigs fed, then into the village. I am building a new blacksmith's
      shop there (you must come and look at it the first thing to-morrow); and
      at six, if you want to find me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall peep behind the soup-tureen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And there I shall be, if I am alive.&rdquo; At dinner the old boy threw himself
      into the work with such zeal that soon after the cloth was removed, from
      fatigue and repletion, he dropped asleep, with his shoulder toward Lucy,
      but his face instinctively turned toward the fire. Lucy crept away on
      tiptoe, not to disturb him.
    </p>
    <p>
      In about an hour he bustled into the drawing-room, ordered tea, blew up
      the footman because the cook had not water boiling that moment, drank
      three cups, then brightened up, rubbed his hands, and with a cheerful,
      benevolent manner, &ldquo;Now, Lucy,&rdquo; cried he, &ldquo;come and help me puzzle out
      this tiresome genealogy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A smile of warm assent from Lucy, and the old bachelor and the blooming
      Hebe were soon seated with a mountain of parchments by their side, and a
      tree spreading before them.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not a finite tree like an elm or an oak; no, it was a banyan tree;
      covered an acre, and from its boughs little suckers dropped to earth, and
      turned to little trees, and had suckers in their turn, and &ldquo;confounded the
      confusion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Uncle Fountain's happiness depended, <i>pro tem,</i> on proving that he
      was a sucker from the great bough of the Fontaines of Melton; and why?
      Because, this effected, he had only to go along that bough by an
      established pedigree to the great trunk of the Funteyns of Salle, and the
      first Funteyn of Salle was said to be (and this he hoped to prove true)
      great-grandson of Robert de Fontibus, son of John de Fonte.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now Uncle Fountain could prove himself the shoot of George his father (a
      step at which so many pedigrees halt), who was the shoot of William, who
      was the shoot of Richard; but here came a gap of eighty years between him
      and that Fountain, younger son of Melton, to whom he wanted to hook on.
      Now the logic of women, children, and criticasters is a thing of gaps;
      they reason as marches a kangaroo; but to mathematicians, logicians, and
      genealogists, a link wanting is a chain broken. This blank then made Uncle
      Fountain miserable, and he cried out for help. Lucy came with her young
      eyes, her woman's patience, and her own complaisance. A great ditch yawned
      between a crocheteer and a rotten branch he coveted. Our Quinta Curtia
      flung herself, her eyesight, and her time into that ditch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Twelve o'clock came, and found them still wallowing in modern antiquity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bless me!&rdquo; cried Mr. Fountain when John brought up the bed-candles, &ldquo;how
      time flies when one is really employed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, indeed, uncle;&rdquo; and by a gymnastic of courtesy she first crushed and
      then so molded a yawn that it glided into society a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have spent a delightful evening, Lucy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks to you, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you will sleep well, child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure I shall, dear,&rdquo; said she, sweetly and inadvertently.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      A LARGE aspiration is a rarity; but who has not some small ambition, none
      the less keen for being narrow&mdash;keener, perhaps? Mrs. Bazalgette
      burned to be great by dress; Mr. Fountain, member of a sex with higher
      aims, aspired to be great in the county.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unluckily, his main property was in the funds. He had acres in &mdash;&mdash;shire;
      but so few that, some years ago, its lord lieutenant declined to make him
      an injustice of the peace. That functionary died, and on his death the
      mortified aspirant bought a coppice, christened it Springwood, and under
      cover of this fringe to his three meadows, applied to the new lord
      lieutenant as M'Duff approached M'Beth. The new man made him a magistrate;
      so now he aspired to be a deputy lieutenant, and attended all the boards
      of magistrates, and turnpike trusts, etc., and brought up votes and
      beer-barrels at each election, and, in, short, played all the cards in his
      pack, Lucy included, to earn that distinction.
    </p>
    <p>
      We may as well confess that there lurked in him a half-unconscious hope
      that some day or other, in some strange collision or combination of
      parties, a man profound in county business, zealous in county interests,
      personally obnoxious to nobody, might drop into the seat of county member;
      and, if this should be, would not he have the sense to hold his tongue
      upon the noisy questions that waste Parliament's time, and the nation's;
      but, on the first of those periodical attacks to which the wretched
      landowner is subject, wouldn't he speak, and show the difference between a
      mere member of the Commons and a member for the county?
    </p>
    <p>
      If anyone had asked this man plump which is the most important, England or
      &mdash;&mdash;shire, he would have certainly told you England; but our
      opinions are not the notions we repeat, and can defend by reasons or even
      by facts: our opinions are the notions we feel and act on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Could you have looked inside Mr. Fountain's head, you would have seen
      ideas corresponding to the following diagrams:
    </p>
    <p>
      [drawing]
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain courted the stomach of the county.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without this, he knew, an angel could not reach its heart; and here one of
      his eccentricities broke out. He drew a line, in his dictatorial way,
      between dinner and feeding parties. &ldquo;A dinner party is two rubbers. Four
      gentlemen and four ladies sit round a circular table; then each can hear
      what anyone says, and need not twist the neck at every word. Foraging
      parties are from fourteen to thirty, set up and down a plank, each
      separated from those he could talk to as effectually as if the ocean
      rolled between, and bawling into one person's ear amid the din of knives,
      forks, and multitude. I go to those long strings of noisy duets because I
      must, but I give <i>society</i> at home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The county people had just strength of mind to like the old boy's sociable
      dinners, though not to imitate them, and an invitation from him was very
      rarely declined when Lucy was with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      And she was in her glory. She could carry complaisance such a long way at
      Font Abbey&mdash;she was mistress of the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      She listened with a wonderful appearance of interest to county matters,
      i.e., to minute scandal and infinitesimal politics; to the county cricket
      match and archery meeting; to the past ball and the ball to come. In the
      drawing-room, when a cold fit fell on the coterie, she would glide to one
      egotist after another, find out the monotope, and set the critter Peter's,
      the Place de Concorde, the Square of St. Mark, Versailles, the Alhambra,
      the Apollo Belvidere, the Madonna of the Chair, and all the glories of
      nature and the feats of art could not warm. So, then, the fine gentleman
      began to act&mdash;to walk himself out as a person who had seen and could
      give details about anything, but was exalted far above admiring anything
      <i>(quel grand homme! rien ne peut lui plaire);</i> and on this, while the
      women were gazing sweetly on him, and revering his superiority to all
      great impressions, and the men envying, rather hating, but secretly
      admiring him too, she who had launched him bent on him a look of soft
      pity, and abandoned him to admiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Mr. Talboys,&rdquo; thought she, &ldquo;I fear I have done him an ill turn by
      drawing him out;&rdquo; and she glided to her uncle, who was sitting apart, and
      nobody talking to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys, started by Lucy, ambled out his high-pacing <i>nil admirantem</i>
      character, and derived a little quiet self-satisfaction. This was the
      highest happiness he was capable of; so he was not ungrateful to Miss
      Fountain, who had procured it him, and partly for this, partly because he
      had been kind to her and lent her a pony, he shook hands with her somewhat
      cordially at parting. As it happened, he was the last guest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have won that, man's heart, Lucy,&rdquo; cried Mr. Fountain, with a mixture
      of surprise and pride.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy made no reply. She looked quickly into his face to see if he was
      jesting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Writing, Lucy&mdash;so late?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only a few lines, uncle. You shall see them; I note the more remarkable
      phenomena of society. I am recalling a conversation between three of our
      guests this evening, and shall be grateful for your opinion on it. There!
      Read it out, please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Luttrell. &ldquo;We missed you at the archery meeting&mdash;ha! ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Willis. &ldquo;Mr. Willis would not let me go&mdash;he! he! he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. James. &ldquo;Well, at all events&mdash;he! he!&mdash;you will come to the
      flower show.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Willis. &ldquo;Oh yes!&mdash;he! he!&mdash;I am so fond of flowers&mdash;ha!
      ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Luttrell. &ldquo;So am I. I adore them&mdash;he! he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Willis. &ldquo;How sweetly Miss Malcolm sings&mdash;he! he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Luttrell. &ldquo;Yes, she shakes like a bird&mdash;ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. James. &ldquo;A little Scotch accent though&mdash;he! he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Luttrell. &ldquo;She is Scotch&mdash;he! he!&rdquo; (To John offering her tea.)
      &ldquo;No more, thank you&mdash;he! he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. James. &ldquo;Shall you go the Assize sermon?&mdash;ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Willis. &ldquo;Oh, yes&mdash;he! he!&mdash;the last was very dry&mdash;he!
      he! Who preaches it this term?&mdash;he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. James. &ldquo;The Bishop&mdash;he! he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Willis. &ldquo;Then I shall certainly go; he is such a dear preacher&mdash;he!
      he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just tell me what is the precise meaning of 'ha! ha!' and what of 'he!
      he!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The precise meaning? There you puzzle me, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean, what do you mean by them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I put 'ha! ha!' when they giggle, and 'he! he!' when they only
      chuckle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then this is a caricature, my lady?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, dear, you know I have no satire in me; it is taken down to the
      letter, and I fear I must trouble you for the solution.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, the solution is, they are three fools.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, uncle, begging your pardon, they are not,&rdquo; replied Lucy, politely but
      firmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, three d&mdash;d fools.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy winced at the participle, but was two polite to lecture her elder.
      &ldquo;They have not that excuse,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;they are all sensible women, who
      discharge the duties of life with discretion except society; and they can
      discriminate between grave and gay whenever they are not at a party; and
      as for Mrs. Luttrell, when she is alone with me she is a sweet, natural
      love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They cackled&mdash;at every word&mdash;like that&mdash;the whole
      evening!!??&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Except when you told that funny story about the Irish corporal who was
      attacked by a mastiff, and killed him with his halberd, and, when he was
      reproached by his captain for not being content to repel so valuable an
      animal with the butt end of his lance, answered&mdash;ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So, then, he answered 'Haw! haw!' did he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, uncle! No; he answered, 'So I would, your arnr, if he had run at me
      with his tail!' Now, that was genuine wit, mixed with quite enough fun to
      make an intelligent person laugh; and then you told it so drolly&mdash;ha!
      ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They did not laugh at <i>that?&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sat as grave as judges.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you tell me they are not fools.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must repeat, they have not that excuse. Perhaps their risibility had
      been exhausted. After laughing three hours <i>a propos de rien,</i> it is
      time to be serious out of place. I will tell you what they <i>did</i>
      laugh at, though. Miss Malcolm sang a song with a title I dare not
      attempt. There were two lines in it which I am going to mispronounce; but
      you are not Scotch, so I don't care for <i>you,</i> uncle, darling.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
      &ldquo;'He had but a saxpence; he break it in twa,
        And he gave me the half o't when he gaed awa.'
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They laughed at that; a general giggle went round.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I must confess, I don't see much to laugh at in that, Lucy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be odd if you did, uncle, dear; why, it is pathetic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pathetic? Oh, is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You naughty, cunning uncle, you know it is; it is pathetic, and almost
      heroic. Consider, dear: in a world where the very newspapers show how
      mercenary we all are, a poor young man is parted from his love. He has but
      one coin to go through the world with, and what does he do with it? Scheme
      to make the sixpence a crown, and to make the crown a pound? No; he breaks
      this one treasure in two, that both the poor things may have a silver
      token of love and a pledge of his return. I am sure, if the poet had been
      here, he would have been quite angry with us for laughing at that line.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep your temper. Why, this is new from you, Lucy; but you women of sugar
      can all cauterize your own sex; the theme inspires you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle, how dare you! Are you not afraid I shall be angry one of these
      days, dear!!? The gentlemen were equally concerned in this last enormity.
      Poor Jemmy, or Jammy, with his devotion and tenderness that soothed, and
      his high spirit that supported the weaker vessel, was as funny to our male
      as to our female guests&mdash;so there. I saw but one that understood him,
      and did not laugh at him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Talboys, for a pound.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Talboys? no! <i>You,</i> dear uncle; you did not laugh; I noticed it
      with all a niece's pride.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course I didn't. Can I hear a word these ladies mew? can I tell in
      what language even they are whining and miauling? I have given up trying
      this twenty years and more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I return to my question,&rdquo; said Lucy hastily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I to my solution; your three graces are three d&mdash;d fools. If you
      can account for it in any other way, do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, uncle dear. If you had happened to agree with me beforehand, I would;
      but as you do not, I beg to be excused. But keep the paper, and the next
      time listen to the talk and unmeaning laughter; you will find I have not
      exaggerated, and some day, dear, I will tell you how my mamma used to
      account for similar monstrosities in society.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is a mysterious little toad. Well, Lucy, for all this you enjoyed
      yourself. I never saw you in better spirits.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad you saw that,&rdquo; said Lucy, with a languid smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how Talboys came out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He did,&rdquo; sighed Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the young lady lighted softly on an ottoman, and sank gracefully back
      with a weary-o'-the-world air; and when she had settled down like so much
      floss silk, fixing her eye on the ceiling, and doling her words out
      languidly yet thoughtfully&mdash;just above a whisper, &ldquo;Uncle, darling,&rdquo;
       inquired she, &ldquo;where are the men we have all heard of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How should I know? What men?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are the men of sentiment, that can understand a woman, and win her
      to reveal her real heart, the best treasure she has, uncle dear?&rdquo; She
      paused for a reply; none coming, she continued with decreasing energy:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are the men of spirit? the men of action? the upright, downright
      men, that Heaven sends to cure us of our disingenuousness? Where are the
      heroes and the wits?&rdquo; (an infinitesimal yawn); &ldquo;where are the real men?
      And where are the women to whom such men can do homage without degrading
      themselves? where are the men who elevate a woman without making her
      masculine, and the women who can brighten and polish, and yet not soften
      the steel of manhood&mdash;tell me, tell me instantly,&rdquo; said she, with
      still greater languor and want of earnestness, and her eyes remained fixed
      on the ceiling in deep abstraction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are all in this house at this moment,&rdquo; said Mr. Fountain, coolly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who, dear? I fear I was not attending to you. How rude!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Horrid. I say the men and women you inquire for are all in this house of
      mine;&rdquo; and the old gentleman's eyes twinkled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle! Heaven forgive you, and&mdash;oh, fie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are, upon my soul.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then they must be in some part of it I have not visited. Are they in the
      kitchen?&rdquo; (with a little saucy sneer.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, they are in the library.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the lib&mdash;Ah! <i>le malin!&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They were never seen in the drawing-room, and never will be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet surely they must have lived in nature before they were embalmed in
      print,&rdquo; said Lucy, interrogating the ceiling again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The nearest approach you will meet to these paragons is Reginald
      Talboys,&rdquo; said Fountain, stoutly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle, I do love you;&rdquo; and Lucy rose with Juno-like slowness and dignity,
      and, leaning over the old boy, kissed him with sudden small fury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; asked he, eagerly, connecting this majestic squirt of affection
      with his last speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because you are such a nice, dear, <i>sarcastic</i> thing. Let us drink
      tea in the library to-morrow, then that will be an approach to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With this illegitimate full stop the conversation ended, and Miss Fountain
      took a candle and sauntered to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      In church next Sunday Lucy observed a young lady with a beaming face, who
      eyed her by stealth in all the interstices of devotion. She asked her
      uncle who was that pretty girl with a <i>nez retrousse.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A cocked nose? It must be my little friend, Eve Dodd. I didn't know she
      was come back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a pretty face to be in such&mdash;such a&mdash;such an impossible
      bonnet. It has come down from another epoch.&rdquo; This not maliciously, but
      with a sort of tender, womanly concern for beauty set off to the most
      disadvantage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, hang her bonnet! She is full of fun; she shall drink tea with us; she
      is a great favorite of mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They quickened their pace, and caught Eve Dodd just as she took a flying
      leap over some water that lay in her path, and showed a charming ankle. In
      those days female dress committed two errors that are disappearing: it
      revealed the whole foot by day, and hid a section of the bosom at night.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the usual greetings, Mr. Fountain asked Eve if she would come over
      and drink tea with him and his niece.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Dodd colored and cast a glance of undisguised admiration at Miss
      Fountain, but she said: &ldquo;Thank you, sir; I am much obliged, but I am
      afraid I can't come. My brother would miss me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&mdash;the sailor? Is he at home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir; came home last night&rdquo;; and she clapped her hands by way of
      comment. &ldquo;He has been with my mother all church-time; so now it is my
      turn, and I don't know how to let him out of my sight yet awhile.&rdquo; And she
      gave a glance at Miss Fountain, as much as to say, &ldquo;You understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Eve,&rdquo; said Mr. Fountain good-humoredly, &ldquo;we must not separate
      brother and sister,&rdquo; and he was turning to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps, uncle,&rdquo; said Lucy, looking not at Mr. Fountain, but at Eve&mdash;&ldquo;Mr.&mdash;Mr.&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;David Dodd is my brother's name,&rdquo; said Eve, quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. David Dodd might be persuaded to give us the pleasure of his company
      too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, if I may bring dear David with me,&rdquo; burst out the child of
      nature, coloring again with pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will add to the obligation,&rdquo; said Lucy, finishing the sentence in
      character.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So that is settled,&rdquo; said Mr. Fountain, somewhat dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they were walking home together, the courtier asked her uncle rather
      coldly, &ldquo;Who are these we have invited, dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are they? A pretty girl and a man she wouldn't come without.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who is the gentleman? What is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A marine animal&mdash;first mate of a ship.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;First mate? mate? Is that what in the novels is called boatswain's mate?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haw! haw! haw! I say, Lucy, ask him when he comes if he is the bosen's
      mate. How little Eve will blaze!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I shall ask him nothing of the kind. Do tell me! I know admirals&mdash;they
      swear&mdash;and captains, and, I think, lieutenants, and, <i>above all,</i>
      those little loves of midshipmen, strutting with their dirks and cocked
      hats, like warlike bantams, but I never met 'mates.' Mates?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is because you have only been introduced to the Royal Navy; but
      there is another navy not so ornamental, but quite as useful, called the
      East India Company's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am ashamed to say I never heard of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say not. Well, in this navy there are only two kinds of superior
      officers&mdash;the mates and the captain. There are five or six mates.
      Young Dodd has been first mate some time, so I suppose he will soon be a
      captain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will this&mdash;mate&mdash;swear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clearly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, now. I do not like swearing on a Sunday. That wicked old admiral
      used to make me shudder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; said Mr. Fountain, playing upon innocence, &ldquo;he swore by the Supreme
      Being, 'I bet sixpence.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Lucy, in a low, soft voice of angelic regret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! he was in the Royal Navy. But this is a merchantman; you don't think
      he will presume to break into the monopoly of the superior branch. He will
      only swear by the wind and weather. Thunder and squalls! Donner and
      blitzen! Handspikes and halyards! these are the innocent execrations of
      the merchant service&mdash;he! he! ho!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle, can you be serious?&rdquo; asked Lucy, somewhat coldly; &ldquo;if so, be so
      good as to tell me, is this gentleman&mdash;a&mdash;gentleman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; replied the other, coolly, &ldquo;he is what I call a nondescript; like
      an attorney, or a surgeon, or a civil engineer, or a banker, or a
      stock-broker, and all that sort of people. He can be a gentleman if he is
      thoroughly bent on it; you would in his place, and so should I; but these
      skippers don't turn their mind that way. Old families don't go into the
      merchant service. Indeed, it would not answer. There they rise by&mdash;by&mdash;mere
      maritime considerations.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, uncle,&rdquo; began Lucy, with dignified severity, &ldquo;permit me to say
      that, in inviting a nondescript, you showed&mdash;less consideration for
      me than&mdash;you&mdash;are in the habit&mdash;of doing, dearest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, have a headache, and can't come down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I certainly should; but, most unfortunately, I have an objection to
      tell fibs on a Sunday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are quite right; we should rest from our usual employments one
      day-ha! ha! and so go at it fresher to-morrow&mdash;haw! ho! Come, Lucy,
      don't you be so exclusive. Eve Dodd is a merry girl. She comes and amuses
      me when you are not here, and David, by all accounts, is a fine young
      fellow, and as modest as a girl of fifteen; they will make me laugh,
      especially Eve, and it would be hard at my age, I think, if I might not
      ask whom I like&mdash;to tea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So it would,&rdquo; put in Lucy, hastily; she added, coaxing, &ldquo;it shall have
      its own way&mdash;it shall have what makes it laugh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Long before eight o'clock the Fountains had forgotten that they had
      invited the Dodds.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not so Eve. She was all in a flutter, and hesitated between two dresses,
      and by some blessed inspiration decided for the plainest; but her
      principal anxiety was, not about herself, but about David's deportment
      before the Queen of Fashion, for such report proclaimed Miss Fountain.
      &ldquo;And those fine ladies are so satirical,&rdquo; said Eve to herself; &ldquo;but I will
      lecture him going along.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dinner time, and, by consequence, tea time, came earlier in those days;
      so, about eight o'clock, a tall, square-shouldered young fellow was
      walking in the moonlight toward Font Abbey, Eve holding his hand, and
      tripping by his side, and lecturing him on deportment very gravely while
      dancing around him and pulling him all manner of ways, like your solid
      tune with your gamboling accompaniment, a combination now in vogue. All of
      a sudden, without with your leave or by your leave, the said David caught
      this light fantastic object up in his arms, and carried it on one
      shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this she gave a little squeak; then, without a moment's interval,
      continued her lecture as if nothing had happened. She looked down from her
      perch like a hen from a ladder, and laid down the law to David with
      seriousness and asperity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And just please to remember that they are people a long way above us&mdash;at
      least above what we are now, since father fell into trouble; so don't you
      make too free; and Miss Fountain is the finest of all the fine ladies in
      the county.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I am sorry we are going.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you are not; she is a beautiful girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That alters the case.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it does not. Don't chatter so, David, interrupting forever, but
      listen and mind what I say, or I'll never take you anywhere again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you sure you are taking me now?&rdquo; asked David, dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not, Mr. David?&rdquo; retorted Eve, from his shoulder. &ldquo;Didn't I hear you
      tell how you took the <i>Combermere</i> out of harbor, and how you brought
      her into port; she didn't take you out and bring you home, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had me there, though.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; and, what is more, you are not skipper of the <i>Combermere</i> yet,
      and never will be; but I am skipper of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ashore&mdash;not a doubt of it,&rdquo; said David, with cool indifference. He
      despised terrestrial distinction, courting only such as was marine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I command you to let me down this instant. Do you hear, crew!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; objected David; &ldquo;if I put you overboard you can't command the
      vessel, and ten to one if the craft does not founder for want of
      seawomanship on the quarterdeck. However,&rdquo; added he, in a relenting tone,
      &ldquo;wait till we get to that puddle shining on ahead, and then I'll disembark
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, David, do let me down, that's a good soul. I am tired,&rdquo; added she,
      peevishly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tired! of what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of doing nothing, stupid; there, let me down, dear; won't you, darling!
      then take that, love&rdquo; (a box of the ear).
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I've got it,&rdquo; said David, dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep it, then, till the next. No, he won't let me down. He has got both
      my hands in one of his paws, and he will carry me every foot of the way
      now&mdash;I know the obstinate pig.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We all have our little characters, Eve. Well, I have got your wrists, but
      you have got your tongue, and that is the stronger weapon of the two, you
      know; and you are on the poop, so give your orders, and the ship shall be
      worked accordingly; likewise, I will enter all your remarks on
      good-breeding into my log.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here, unluckily, David tapped his forehead to signify that the log in
      question was a metaphorical one, the log of memory. Eve had him again
      directly. She freed a claw. &ldquo;So this is your log, is it?&rdquo; cried she,
      tapping it as hard as she could; &ldquo;well, it does sound like wood of some
      sort. Well, then, David, dear&mdash;you wretch, I mean&mdash;promise me
      not to laugh loud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I will not; it is odds if I laugh at all. I wish we were to moor
      alongside mother, instead of running into this strange port.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stuff! think of Miss Fountain's figure-head&mdash;nor tell too many
      stories&mdash;and, above all, for heaven's sake, do keep the poor dear old
      sea out of sight for once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, that stands to reason.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By this time they were at Font Abbey, and David deposited his fair burden
      gently on the stone steps of the door. She opened it without ceremony, and
      bustled into the dining-room, crying, &ldquo;I have brought David, sir; and here
      he is;&rdquo; and she accompanied David's bow with a corresponding movement of
      her hand, the knuckles downward.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old gentleman awoke with a start, rubbed his eyes, shook hands with
      the pair, and proposed to go up to Lucy in the drawing-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, it happened unluckily that Miss Fountain had been to the library and
      taken down one or two of those men and women who, according to her uncle,
      exist only on paper, and certain it is she was in charming company when
      she heard her visitors' steps and voices coming up the stairs. Had those
      visitors seen the vexed expression of her face as she laid down the book
      they would have instantly 'bout ship and home again; but that sour look
      dissolved away as they came through the open door.
    </p>
    <p>
      On coming in they saw a young lady seated on a sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      Apparently she did not see them enter. Her face <i>happened</i> to be
      averted; but, ere they had taken three steps, she turned her face, saw
      them, rose, and took two steps to meet them, all beaming with courtesy,
      kindness and quiet satisfaction at their arrival.
    </p>
    <p>
      She gave her hand to Eve.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is my brother, Miss Fountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Fountain instantly swept David a courtesy with such a grace and flow,
      coupled with an engaging smile, that the sailor was fascinated, and gazed
      instead of bowing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eve had her finger ready to poke him, when he recovered himself and bowed
      low.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eve played the accompaniment with her hand, knuckles down.
    </p>
    <p>
      They sat down. Cups of tea, etc., were brought round to each by John. It
      was bad tea, made out of the room. Catch a human being making good tea in
      which it is not to share.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain was only half awake.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eve was more or less awed by Lucy. David, tutored by Eve, held his tongue
      altogether, or gave short answers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This must be what the novels call a sea-cub!&rdquo; thought Miss Fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      The friends, Propriety and Restraint, presided over the innocent banquet,
      and a dismal evening set in.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first infraction of this polite tranquillity came, I blush to say,
      from the descendant of John de Fonte. He exploded in a yawn of magnitude;
      to cover this, the young lady began hastily to play her old game of
      setting people astride their topic, and she selected David Dodd for the
      experiment. She put on a warm curiosity about the sea, and ships, and the
      countries men visit in them. Then occurred a droll phenomenon: David
      flashed with animation, and began full and intelligent answers; then,
      catching his sister's eye, came to unnatural full stops; and so warmly and
      skillfully was he pressed that it cost him a gigantic effort to avoid
      giving much amusement and instruction. The courtier saw this hesitation,
      and the vivid flashes of intelligence, and would not lose her prey. She
      drew him with all a woman's tact, and with a warmth so well feigned that
      it set him on real fire. His instinct of politeness would not let him go
      on all night giving short answers to inquiring beauty. He turned his eye,
      which glowed now like a live coal, toward that enticing voice, and
      presently, like a ship that has been hanging over the water ever so long
      on the last rollers, with one gallant glide he took the sea, and towed
      them all like little cockle-boats in his wake. From sea to sea, from port
      to port, from tribe to tribe, from peril to peril, from feat to feat,
      David whirled his wonderstruck hearers, and held them panting by the
      quadruple magic of a tuneful voice, a changing eye, an ardent soul, and
      truth at first-hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      They sat thrilled and surprised, most of all Miss Fountain. To her, things
      great and real had up to that moment been mere vague outlines seen through
      a mist. Moreover, her habitual courtesy had hitherto drawn out pumps; but
      now, when least expected, all in a moment, as a spark fires powder, it let
      off a man.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sailor is a live book of travels. Check your own vanity (if you possibly
      can) and set him talking, you shall find him full of curious and
      profitable matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Fountains did not know this, and, even if they had, Dodd would have
      taken them by surprise; for, besides being a sailor and a sea-enthusiast,
      he was a fellow of great capacity and mental vigor.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had not skimmed so many books as we have, but I fear he had sucked
      more. However, his main strength did not lie there. He was not a paper
      man, and this&mdash;oh! men of paper and oh! C. R. in particular&mdash;gave
      him a tremendous advantage over you that Sunday evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man whose knowledge all comes from reading accumulates a great number
      of what?&mdash;facts? No, of the shadows of facts; shadows often so thin,
      indistinct and featureless, that, when one of the facts themselves runs
      against him in real life, he does not know his old friend, round about
      which he has written a smart leader in a journal and a ponderous trifle in
      the Polysyllabic Review.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this sailor had stowed into his mental hold not fact-shadows, but the
      glowing facts all alive, O. For thirteen years, man and boy, he had beat
      about the globe, with real eyes, real ears, and real brains ever at work.
      He had drunk living knowledge like a fish, and at fountainheads.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet, to utter intellectual wealth nobly, two things more are indispensable
      the gift of language and a tunable voice, which last does not always come
      by talking with tempests.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, David Dodd had sucked in a good deal of language from books and
      tongues; not, indeed, the Norman-French and demi-Latin and jargon of the
      schools, printed for English in impotent old trimestrials for the further
      fogification of cliques, but he had laid by a fair store of the best&mdash;of
      the monosyllables&mdash;the Saxon&mdash;the soul and vestal fire of the
      great English tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      So he was never at a loss for words, simple, clear, strong, like blasts of
      a horn.
    </p>
    <p>
      His voice at this period was mellow and flexible. He was a mimic, too; the
      brighter things he had seen, whether glories of nature or acts of man, had
      turned to pictures in this man's mind. He flashed these pictures one after
      another upon the trio; he peopled the soft and cushioned drawing-room with
      twenty different tribes and varieties of man, barbarous, semi-barbarous,
      and civilized; their curious customs, their songs and chants, and dances,
      and struts, and actual postures.
    </p>
    <p>
      The aspect of famous shores from the sea, glittering coasts, dark straits,
      volcanic rocks defying sea and sky, and warm, delicious islands clothed
      with green, that burst on the mariner's sight after rugged places and
      scowling skies.
    </p>
    <p>
      The adventures of one unlucky ship, the <i>Connemara,</i> on a single
      whaling cruise on the coast of Peru. The first slight signs of a gale,
      seen only by the careful skipper. The hasty preparations for it: all hands
      to shorten sail; then the moaning of the wind high up in the sky. All
      hands to reef sail now&mdash;the whirl and whoo of the gale as it came
      down on them. The ship careening as it caught her, the speaking-trumpet&mdash;the
      captain howling his orders through it amid the tumult.
    </p>
    <p>
      The floating icebergs&mdash;the ship among them, picking her way in and
      out a hundred deaths. Baffled by the unyielding wind off Cape Horn,
      sailing six weeks on opposite tacks, and ending just where they began,
      weather-bound in sight of the gloomy Horn. Then the terrors of a
      land-locked bay, and a lee shore; the ship tacking, writhing, twisting, to
      weather one jutting promontory; the sea and safety is on the other side of
      it; land and destruction on this&mdash;the attempt, the hope, the failure;
      then the stout-hearted, skillful captain would try one rare maneuver to
      save the ship, cargo, and crew. He would club-haul her, &ldquo;and if that
      fails, my lads, there is nothing but up mainsail, up helm, run her slap
      ashore, and lay her bones on the softest bit of rock we can pick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Long ere this the poor ship had become a live thing to all these four, and
      they hung breathless on her fate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he showed how a ship is club-hauled, and told how nobly the old <i>Connemara</i>
      behaved (ships are apt to when well handled&mdash;double-barreled guns
      ditto), and how the wind blew fiercer, and the rocks seemed to open their
      mouths for her, and how she hung and vibrated between safety and
      destruction, and at last how she writhed and slipped between Death's lips,
      yet escaped his teeth, and tossed and tumbled in triumph on the great but
      fair fighting sea; and how they got at last to the whaling ground, and
      could not find a whale for many a weary day, and the novices said: &ldquo;They
      were all killed before we sailed;&rdquo; and how, as uncommon ill luck is apt to
      be balanced by uncommon good luck, one fine evening they fell in with a
      whole shoal of whales at play, jumping clean into the air sixty feet long,
      and coming down each with a splash like thunder; even the captain had
      never seen such a game; and how the crew were for lowering the boats and
      going at them, but the captain would not let them; a hundred playful
      mountains of fish, the smallest weighing thirty ton, flopping down
      happy-go-lucky, he did not like the looks of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The boat will be at the mercy of chance among all those tails, and we are
      not lucky enough to throw at random. No; since the beggars have taken to
      dancing, for a change, let them dance all night; to-morrow they shall pay
      the piper.&rdquo; How, at peep of day, the man at the mast-head saw ten whales
      about two leagues off on the weather-bow; how the ship tacked and stood
      toward them; how she weathered on one of monstrous size, and how he and
      the other youngsters were mad to lower the boat and go after it, and how
      the captain said: &ldquo;Ye lubbers, can't ye see that is a right whale, and not
      worth a button? Look here away over the quarter at this whale. See how low
      she spouts. She is a sperm whale, and worth seven hundred pounds if she
      was only dead and towed alongside.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'That she shall be in about a minute,' cried one; and, indeed, we were
      all in a flame; the boat was lowered, and didn't I worship the skipper
      when he told me off to be one of her crew!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was that eager to be in at that whale's death, I didn't recollect there
      might be smaller brutes in danger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just before the oars fell into the water, the skipper looked down over
      the bulwarks, and says he to one of us that had charge of the rope that is
      fast to the boat at one end and to the harpoon at the other, 'Now, Jack
      you are a new hand; mind all I told you last night, or your mother will
      see me come ashore without you, and that will vex her; and, my lads,
      remember, if there is a single lubberly hitch in that line, you will none
      of you come up the ship's side again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'All right, captain,' says Jack, and we pulled off singing,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;'And spring to your oars, and, make your boat fly,
       And when you come near her beware of her eye,'
</pre>
    <p>
      till the coxswain bade us hold our lubberly tongues, and not frighten the
      whales; however, we soon found we wanted all our breath for our work, and
      more too.&rdquo; Then David painted the furious race after the whale, and how
      the boat gradually gained, and how at last, as he was grinding his teeth
      and pulling like mad, he heard a sound ahead like a hundred elephants
      wallowing; and now he hoped to see the harpooner leave his oar, and rise
      and fling his weapon; &ldquo;but that instant, up flukes, a tower of fish was
      seen a moment in the air, with a tail-fin at the top of it just about the
      size of this room we are sitting in, ladies, and down the whale sounded;
      then it was pull on again in her wake, according as she headed in
      sounding; pull for the dear life; and after a while the oarsmen saw the
      steerman's eyes, prying over the sea, turn like hot coals. The men caught
      fire at this, and put their very backbones into each stroke, and the boat
      skimmed and flew. Suddenly the steersman cried out fiercely, 'Stand up,
      harpoon! Up rose the harpooner, <i>his</i> eye like a hot coal now. The
      men saw nothing; they must pull fiercer than ever. The harpooner balanced
      his iron, swayed his body lightly, and the harpoon hissed from him. A soft
      thud&mdash;then a heaving of the water all round, a slap that sounded like
      a church tower falling flat upon an acre of boards, and drenched, and
      blinded, and half smothered us all in spray, and at the same moment away
      whirled the boat, dancing and kicking in the whale's foaming, bubbling
      wake, and we holding on like grim death by the thwarts, not to be spun out
      into the sea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Delightful!&rdquo; cried Miss Fountain; &ldquo;the waves bounded beneath you like a
      steed that knows its rider. Pray continue.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Miss Fountain. Now of course you can see that, if the line ran out
      too easy, the whale would leave us astern altogether, and if it jammed or
      ran too hard, she would tow us under water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course we see,&rdquo; said Eve, ironically; &ldquo;we understand everything by
      instinct. Hang explanations when I'm excited; go ahead, do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I won't explain how it is or why it is, but I'll just let you know
      that two or three hundred fathom of line are passed round the boat from
      stem to stern and back, and carried in and out between the oarsmen as they
      sit. Well, it was all new to me then; but when the boat began jumping and
      rocking, and the line began whizzing in and out, and screaming and smoking
      like&mdash;there now, fancy a machine, a complicated one, made of
      poisonous serpents, the steam on, and you sitting in the middle of the
      works, with not an inch to spare, on the crankest, rockingest, jumpingest,
      bumpingest, rollingest cradle that ever&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;David!&rdquo; said Eve, solemnly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo!&rdquo; sang out David.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, do!&rdquo; cried Lucy, slightly clasping her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If this little black ugly line was to catch you, it would spin you out of
      the boat like a shuttlecock; if it held you, it would cut you in two, or
      hang you to death, or drown you all at one time; and if it got jammed
      against anything alive or dead that could stand the strain, it would take
      the boat and crew down to the coral before you could wink twice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear!&rdquo; said Lucy; &ldquo;then I don't think I like it now; it is too
      terrible. Pray go on, Mr.&mdash;Mr.&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Miss Fountain, when a novice like me saw this black serpent
      twisting and twirling, and smoking and hissing in and out among us, I
      remembered the skipper's words, and I hailed Jack&mdash;it was he had laid
      the line&mdash;he was in the bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Jack,' said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Hallo!&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'For God's sake, are there any hitches in the line?' said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Not as I <i>knows</i> on,' says he, much cooler than you sit there; and
      that is a sailor all over. Well, she towed us about a mile, and then she
      was blown, and we hauled up on the line, and came up with her, and drove
      lances into her, till she spouted blood instead of salt water, and went
      into her flurry, and rolled suddenly over our way dead, and was within a
      foot of smashing us to atoms; but if she had it would only have been an
      accident, for she was past malice, poor thing. Then we took possession,
      planted our flagstaff in her spouting-hole, you know, and pulled back to
      the ship, and she came down and anchored to the whale, and then, for the
      first time, I saw the blubber stripped off a whale and hoisted by tackles
      into the ship's hold, which is as curious as any part of the business, but
      a dirtyish job, and not fit for the present company, and I dare say that
      is enough about whales.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! no! no!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, shall I tell you how one old whale knocked our boat clean
      into the air, bottom uppermost, and how we swam round her and managed to
      right her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And went back to the ship and had your tea in bed and your clothes
      dried?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Eve,&rdquo; replied David, with the utmost simplicity; &ldquo;we got in and to
      work again, and killed the whale in less than half an hour, and planted
      our flag on her, and away after another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he told them how they harpooned one right whale, and by good luck
      were able to make her fast to the stern of the ship. &ldquo;And, if you will
      believe me, Miss Fountain, though there was just a breath on and off right
      aft, and the foresail, jib and mizzen all set to catch it, she towed the
      ship astern a good cable's length, and the last thing was she broke the
      harpoon shaft just below the line, and away she swam right in the wind's
      eye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And there was an end of her and your nasty, cruel, harpoon, and&mdash;oh,
      I'm so pleased!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, there wasn't, Eve; we heard of both fish and harpoon again, but not
      for a good many years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Miss Fountain. It is curious, like many things that fall out at sea,
      but not so wonderful as her towing a ship of four hundred tons, with the
      foresail, mizzen, and jib all aback. Well, sir, did you ever hear of
      Nantucket? It is a port in the United States; and our harpooner happened
      to be there full four years after we lost this whale. Some Yankee whalers
      were treating him to the best of grog, and it was brag Briton, brag
      Yankee, according to custom whenever these two met. Well, our man had no
      more invention than a stone; so he was getting the worst of it till he
      bethought him of this whale; so he up and told how he had struck a right
      whale in the Pacific, and she had towed the ship with her sails aback, at
      least her foresail, mizzen, and jib, only he didn't tell it short like me,
      but as long as the Red Sea, with the day and the hour, the latitude
      (within four or five degrees, I take it), and what we had done a week
      before, and what we had not done, all by way of prologue, and for fear of
      weathering the horn&mdash;tic, tic&mdash;the point of the story too soon.
      When he had done there was a general howl of laughter, and they began to
      cap lies with him, and so they bantered him most cruelly, by all accounts;
      but at last a long silent chap, weather-beaten to the color of rosewood,
      put in his word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'What was the ship's name, mate?'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'The <i>Connemara</i>,' says he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'And what is your name?' So he told him, 'Jem Green.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The other brings a great mutton fist down on the table, and makes all the
      glasses dance. 'You stay at your moorings till I come back,' says he. 'I
      have got something belonging to you, Jem Green,' and he sheered off. The
      others lay to and passed the grog. Presently the long one comes back with
      a harpoon steel in his hand; there was <i>Connemara</i> stamped on it, and
      also 'James Green' graved with a knife. 'Is that yours?' 'Is my hand
      mine?' says Jem; 'but wasn't there a broken shaft to it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'There was,' says the Yankee harpooner; 'I cut it out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Well!' says Jem, 'that is the harpoon we were fast by to this very
      whale. Where did you kill her?'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'In the Greenland seas.' And he whips out his private log. 'Here you
      are,' says he; 'March 25, 1820, latitude so and so, killed a right whale;
      lost half the blubber, owing to the carcass sinking; cut an English
      harpoon out of her.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Avast there, mate!' cried Jem, and he whips, out <i>his</i> log;
      'overhaul that.' The other harpooner overhauled it. 'Mates, look, here,'
      says he; 'I reckon we hain't fathomed the critters yet. The Britisher
      struck her in the Pacific on the 5th of March, and we killed her off
      Greenland on the 25th, five thousand miles of water by the lowest
      reckoning.' By this time there were a dozen heads jammed together, like
      bees swarming, over the two logs. 'She got a wound in the Pacific!
      &ldquo;Hallo!&rdquo; says she; &ldquo;this is no sea for a lady to live in;&rdquo; so she up helm,
      and right away across the pole into the Atlantic, and met her death.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your story has an interest you little suspect, young gentleman. If this
      is true, the northwest passage is proved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That has been proved a hundred times, sir, and in a hundred ways; the
      only riddle is to find it. The man that tells you there is not a northwest
      passage is no sailor, and the fish that can't find it is not a whale; for
      there is not a young suckling no bigger than this room that does not know
      that passage as well as a mid on his first voyage knows the way to the
      mizzen-top through lubber's hole. How tired you must be of whales,
      ladies?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kill us one more, David. I love bloodshed&mdash;to hear of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, now, I don't think that can be Miss Fountain's taste, to look at
      her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then David told them how he had fallen in with a sperm whale, dead of
      disease, floating as high as a frigate; how, with a very light breeze, the
      skipper had crept down toward her; how, at half a mile distance the stench
      of her was severe, but, as they neared her, awful; then so intolerable
      that the skipper gave the crew leave to go below and close the lee ports.
      So there were but two men left on the brig's deck, and a ship's company
      that a hurricane would not have driven from their duty skulked before a
      foul smell; but such a smell! a smell that struck a chill and a loathing
      to the heart, and soul, and marrow-bone; a smell like the gases in a foul
      mine; &ldquo;it would have suffocated us in a few moments if we had been shut up
      along with it.&rdquo; Then he told how the skipper and he stuffed their noses
      and ears with cotton steeped in aromatic vinegar, and their mouths with
      pig-tail (by which, as it subsequently appeared, Lucy understood pork or
      bacon in some form unknown to her narrow experience), and lighted short
      pipes, and breached the brig upon the putrescent monster, and grappled to
      it, and then the skipper jumped on it, a basket slung to his back, and a
      rope fast under his shoulders in case of accident, and drove his spade in
      behind the whale's side-fin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His spade, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His whale-spade; it is as sharp as a razor;&rdquo; and how the skipper dug a
      hole in the whale as big as a well and four feet deep, and, after a long
      search, gave a shout of triumph, and picked out some stuff that looked
      like Gloucester cheese; and, when he had nearly filled his basket with
      this stuff, he slacked the grappling-iron, and David hauled him on board,
      and the carcass dropped astern, and the captain sang out for rum, and
      drank a small tumbler neat, and would have fainted away, spite of his
      precautions, but for the rum, and how a heavenly perfume was now on deck
      fighting with that horrid odor; and how the crew smelled it, and crept
      timidly up one by one, and how &ldquo;the Glo'ster cheese was a great favorite
      of yours, ladies. It was the king of perfumes&mdash;amber-gas; there is
      some of it in all your richest scents; and the knowing skipper had made a
      hundred guineas in the turn of the hand. So knowledge is wealth, you see,
      and the sweet can be got out of the sour by such as study nature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't preach, David, especially after just telling a fib. A hundred
      guineas!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am wrong,&rdquo;' said David.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very wrong, indeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There were eight pounds; and he sold it at a guinea the ounce to a
      wholesale chemist, so that looks to me like 128 pounds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then David left the whales, and encouraged by bright eyes and winning
      smiles, and warm questions, sang higher strains.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ships in dire distress at sea, yet saved by God's mercy, and the cool,
      invincible courage of captain and crew&mdash;great ships run ashore&mdash;the
      waves breaking them up&mdash;the rigging black with the despairing crew,
      eying the watery death that tumbled and gaped and roared for them below;
      and then little shore boats, manned by daring hearts, launched into the
      surf, and going out to the great ship and her peril, risking more life for
      the chance of saving life. And he did not present the bare skeletons of
      daring acts; those grand morgues, the journals, do that. There lie the dry
      bones of giant epics waiting Genius's hand to make them live. He gave them
      not only the broad outward facts&mdash;the bones; but those smaller
      touches that are the body and soul of a story, true or false, wanting
      which the deeds of heroes sound an almanac; above all, he gave them
      glimpses, not only of what men acted, but what they felt: what passed in
      the hearts of men perishing at sea, in sight of land, houses, fires on the
      hearth, and outstretched hands, and in the hearts of the heroes that ran
      their boats into the surf and Death's maw to save them, and of the lookers
      on, admiring, fearing, shivering, glowing, and of the women that sobbed
      and prayed ashore with their backs to the sea, just able to risk lover,
      husband, and son for the honor of manhood and the love of Christ, but not
      able to look on at their own flesh and blood diving so deep, and lost so
      long in cockle-shells between the hills of waves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such great acts, great feelings, great perils, and the gushes that crowned
      all of holy triumph when the boats came in with the dripping and saved,
      and man for a moment looked greater than the sea and the wind and death,
      this seaman poured hot from his own manly heart into quick and womanly
      bosoms, that heaved visibly, and glowed with admiring sympathy, and
      fluttered with gentle fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      And after a while, though not at first, David's yarns began to contain a
      double interest to one of the party&mdash;Miss Fountain. Those who live to
      please get to read character at sight, and David, though in these more
      noble histories he scarcely named himself, was laying a full-length
      picture of his own mind bare to these keen feminine eyes. As for old
      Fountain, he was charmed, and saw nothing more than David showed him
      outright. But the women sat flashing secret intelligence backward and
      forward from eye to eye after the manner of their sex.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you see?&rdquo; said one lady's eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied the other. &ldquo;He was concerned in this feat, though he does
      not say so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you agree with me? Then we are right,&rdquo; replied the first pair of
      speakers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There again: look; this sailor, whom he describes as a fellow that
      happened to be ashore at that foreign port with nothing better to do, and
      who went out with the English smugglers to save the brig when the natives
      durst not launch a boat?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Himself! not a doubt of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And so the blue and hazel lightning went dancing to and fro; ay, even when
      the tale took a sorrowful turn, and dimmed these bright orbs of
      intelligence, the lightning struggled through the dew, and David was read
      and discussed by gleams, and glances, and flashes, without a word spoken.
      And he, all unconscious that he sat between a pair of telegraphs, and
      heating more and more under his great recollections and his hearers'
      sympathy, inthralled them with his tuneful voice, his glowing face, his
      lion eye, and his breathing, burning histories. Heart to dare and do, yet
      heart to feel, and brain and tongue to tell a deed well, are rare allies,
      yet here they met.
    </p>
    <p>
      He mastered his hearers, and played on their breasts as David played the
      harp, and perhaps Achilles; Bochsa never, nor any of his tribe. He made
      the old man forget his genealogies, his small ambition, his gout, his
      years, and be a boy again an hour or two in thought, and blood, and early
      fire. He made the women's bosoms pant and swell, and seem to aspire to be
      the nests and cradles of heroes, and their eyes flash and glisten, and
      their cheeks flush and grow pale by turns; and the four little papered
      walls that confined them seemed to fall without noise, and they were away
      in thought out of a carpeted temple of wax, small talk, nonentity, and
      nonentities, away to sea-breezes that they almost felt in their hair and
      round their temples as their hearts rose and fell upon a broad swell of
      passion, perils, waves, male men, realities. The spell was at its height,
      when the sea-wizard's eye fell on the mantel-piece. Died in a moment his
      noble ardor: &ldquo;Why, it is eight bells,&rdquo; said he, servilely; then, doggedly,
      &ldquo;time to turn in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hang that clock!&rdquo; shouted Mr. Fountain; &ldquo;I'll have it turned out of the
      room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Said Lucy, with gentle enthusiasm, &ldquo;It must be beautiful to be a sailor,
      and to have seen the real world, and, above all, to be brave and strong
      like Mr. &mdash;&mdash;,. must it not, uncle?&rdquo; and she looked askant at
      David's square shoulders and lion eye, and for the first time in her life
      there crossed her an undefined instinct that this gentleman must be the
      male of her species.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As for his courage,&rdquo; said Eve, &ldquo;that we have only his own word for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David grinned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not even that,&rdquo; replied Lucy, &ldquo;for I observed he spoke but little of
      himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not notice that,&rdquo; said Eve, pertly; &ldquo;but as for his strength, he
      certainly is as strong as a great bear, and as rude. What do you think? my
      lord carried me all the way from the top of the green lane to your house,
      and I am no feather.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, a skein of silk,&rdquo; put in David.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I asked the gentleman politely to put me down, and he wouldn't, so then I
      boxed his ears.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how could you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, bless you, he never hits me again; he is too great a coward. And the
      great mule carried me all the more&mdash;carried me to your very door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I almost think&mdash;I believe I could guess why he carried you, if you
      will not be offended at my assuming the interpreter,&rdquo; said Lucy, looking
      at Eve and speaking at David. &ldquo;You have thin shoes on, Miss Dodd; now I
      remember the gravel ends at green lane, and the grass begins; so, from
      what we know of Mr. Dodd, perhaps he carried you that you might not have
      damp feet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing of the kind&mdash;yes, it was, though, by his coloring up. La!
      David, dear boy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is a man alongside for but to keep a girl out of mischief?&rdquo; said
      David, bruskly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray convert all your sex to that view,&rdquo; laughed Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      So now they were going. Then Mr. Fountain thanked David for the pleasant
      evening he had given them; then David blushed and stammered. He had a
      veneration for old age&mdash;another of his superstitions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her uncle's lead gave Lucy an opportunity she instantly seized. &ldquo;Mr. Dodd,
      you have taken us into a new world of knowledge; we never were so
      interested in our lives.&rdquo; At this pointblank praise David blushed, and was
      anything but comfortable, and began to back out of it all with a curt bow.
      Then, as the ladies can advance when a man of merit retreats, Lucy went
      the length of putting out her hand with a sweet, grateful smile; so he
      took it, and, in the ardor of encouraging so much spirit and modesty, she
      unconsciously pressed it. On this delicious pressure, light as it was, he
      raised his full brown eye, and gave her such a straightforward look of
      manly admiration and pleasure that she blushed faintly and drew back a
      little in her turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Davy, dear, how do you like the Fountains?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve, she is a clipper!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the old gentleman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was very friendly. What do <i>you</i> think of her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is an out-and-out woman of the world, and very agreeable, as
      insincere people generally are. I like her because she was so polite to
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that is your reading of her, is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The rest of the walk passed almost in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle, I am not sleepy to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is? that young rascal has set me on fire with his yarns. Who would
      have thought that awkward cub had so much in him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Awkward, but not a cub; say rather a black swan; and you know, uncle, a
      swan is an awkward thing on land, but when it takes the water it is
      glorious, and that man was glorious; but&mdash;Da&mdash;vid Do&mdash;dd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know whether he was glorious, but I know he amused me, and I'll
      have him to tea three times a week while he lasts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle, do you believe such an unfortunate combination of sounds is his
      real name?&rdquo; asked Lucy, gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, who would be mad enough to feign such a name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true; but now tell me&mdash;if he should ever, think of marrying
      with such a name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then there will be two David Dodd's in the world, Mr. and Mrs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think so; he will be merciful, and take her name instead of she
      his; he is so good-natured.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ordinary sponsors would have been content with Samuel or Nathan; but no,
      this one's must, call in 'apt alliteration's artful aid,' and have the two
      'd's.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy assented with a smile, and so, being no longer under the spell of the
      enthusiast and the male, the genealogist and the fine lady took the rise
      out of what Miss Fountain was pleased to call his impossible title,
    </p>
    <p>
      Da&mdash;vid Dodd.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      LUCY was not called on to write any more formal invitations to Mr.
      Talboys. Her uncle used merely to say to her: &ldquo;Talboys dines with us
      to-day.&rdquo; She made no remark; she respected her uncle's preference; besides&mdash;the
      pony! Of these trios Mr. Fountain was the true soul. He had to blow the
      coals of conversation right and left. It is very good of me not to compare
      him to the Tropic between two frigid zones. At first he took his nap as
      usual; for he said to himself: &ldquo;Now I have started them they can go on.&rdquo;
       Besides, he had seen pictures in the shop windows of an old fellow dozing
      and then the young ones &ldquo;popping.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dozing off with this idea uppermost, he used to wake with his eyes shut
      and his ears wide open; but it was to hear drowsy monosyllables dropping
      out at intervals like minute-guns, or to find Lucy gone and Talboys
      reading the coals. Then the schemer sighed, and took to strong coffee soon
      after dinner, and gave up his nap, and its loss impaired his temper the
      rest of the evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      He indemnified himself for these sleepless dinners by asking David Dodd
      and his sister to tea thrice a week on the off-nights; this joyous pair
      amused the old gentleman, and he was not the man to deny himself a
      pleasure without a powerful motive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, again so soon?&rdquo; hazarded Lucy, one day that he bade her invite
      them. &ldquo;I hardly know how to word my invitation; I have exhausted the
      forms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you say another word, I'll make them come every night. Am I to have no
      amusement?&rdquo; he added, in a deep tone of reproach; &ldquo;they make me laugh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! I forgot; forgive me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Little hypocrite; don't they you too, pray? Why, you are as dull as
      ditchwater the other evenings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me, dear, dull with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Miss Crocodile, dull with a pattern uncle and his friend&mdash;and
      your admirer.&rdquo; He watched her to see how she would take this last word.
      Catch her taking it at all. &ldquo;I am never dull with you, dear uncle,&rdquo; said
      she; &ldquo;but a third person, however estimable, is a certain restraint, and
      when that person is not very lively&mdash;&rdquo; Here the explanation came
      quietly to an untimely end, like those old tunes that finish in the middle
      or thereabouts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that is the very thing; what do I ask them for to-night but to thaw
      Talboys?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To thaw Talboys? he! he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy seemed so tickled by this expression that the old gentleman was sorry
      he had used it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean, they will make him laugh.&rdquo; Then, to turn it off, he said hastily,
      &ldquo;And don't forget the fiddle, Lucy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, dear, please let me forget that, and then perhaps they may
      forget to bring it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you pressed him to bring it; I heard you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did I?&rdquo; said Lucy, ruefully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure I thought you were mad after a fiddle, you seconded Eve so
      warmly; so that was only your extravagant politeness after all. I am glad
      you are caught. I like a fiddle, so there is no harm done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yes, reader, you have hit it. Eve, who openly quizzed her brother, but
      secretly adored him, and loved to display all his accomplishments, had
      egged on Mr. Fountain to ask David to bring his violin next time. Lucy had
      shivered internally. &ldquo;Now, of all the screeching, whining things that I
      dislike, a violin!&rdquo;&mdash;and thus thinking, gushed out, &ldquo;Oh, pray do, Mr.
      Dodd,&rdquo; with a gentle warmth that settled the matter and imposed on all
      around.
    </p>
    <p>
      This evening, then, the Dodds came to tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      They found Lucy alone in the drawing-room, and Eve engaged her directly in
      sprightly conversation, into which they soon drew David, and,
      interchanging a secret signal, plied him with a few artful questions, and&mdash;launched
      him. But the one sketch I gave of his manner and matter must serve again
      and again. Were I to retail to the reader all the droll, the spirited, the
      exciting things he told his hearers, there would be no room for my own
      little story; and we are all so egotistical! Suffice it to say, the living
      book of travels was inexhaustible; his observation and memory were really
      marvelous, and his enthusiasm, coupled with his accuracy of detail, had
      still the power to inthrall his hearers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said Lucy, &ldquo;now I see why Eastern kings have a story-teller
      always about them&mdash;a live story-teller. Would not you have one, Miss
      Dodd, if you were Queen of Persia?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me? I'd have a couple&mdash;one to make me laugh; one miserable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One would be enough if his resources were equal to your brother's. Pray
      go on, Mr. Dodd. It was madness to interrupt you with small talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David hung his head for a moment, then lifted it with a smile, and sailed
      in the spirit into the China seas, and there told them how the Chinamen
      used to slip on board his ship and steal with supernatural dexterity, and
      the sailors catch them by the tails, which they observing, came ever with
      their tails soaped like pigs at a village feast; and how some foolhardy
      sailors would venture into the town at the risk of their lives; and how
      one day they had to run for it, and when they got to the shore their boat
      was stolen, and they had to 'bout ship and fight it out, and one fellow
      who knew the natives had loaded the sailors' guns with currant jelly. Make
      ready&mdash;present&mdash;fire! In a moment the troops of the Celestial
      Empire smarted, and were spattered with seeming gore, and fled yelling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he told how a poor comrade of his was nabbed and clapped in prison,
      and his hands and feet were to be cut off at sunrise; himself at noon. It
      was midnight, and strict orders from the quarterdeck had been issued that
      no man should leave the ship: what was to be done? It was a moonlight
      night. They met, silent as death, between decks&mdash;daren't speak above
      a whisper, for fear the officers should hear them. His messmate was crying
      like a child. One proposed one thing, one another; but it was all
      nonsense, and we knew it was, and at sunrise poor Tom must die.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last up jumps one fellow, and cries, &ldquo;Messmates, I've got it; Tom isn't
      dead yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the moment Mr. Fountain and Mr. Talboys chose for coming into the
      drawing-room, of course. Mr. Fountain, with a shade of hesitation and
      awkwardness, introduced the Dodds to Mr. Talboys: he bowed a little
      stiffly, and there was a pause. Eve could not repress a little movement of
      nervous impatience. &ldquo;David is telling us one of his nonsensical stories,
      sir,&rdquo; said she to Mr. Fountain, &ldquo;and it is so interesting; go on, David.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, but,&rdquo; said David, modestly, &ldquo;it isn't everybody that likes these
      sea-yarns as you do, Eve. No, I'll belay, and let my betters get a word in
      now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are more merciful than most story-tellers, sir,&rdquo; said Talboys.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eve tossed her head and looked at Lucy, who with a word could have the
      story go on again. That young lady's face expressed general complacency,
      politeness, and <i>tout m'est egal.</i> Eve could have beat her for not
      taking David's part. &ldquo;Doubleface!&rdquo; thought she. She then devoted herself
      with the sly determination of her sex to trotting David out and making him
      the principal figure in spite of the new-corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, as fast as she heated him, Talboys cooled him. We are all great at
      something or other, small or great. Talboys was a first-rate freezer. He
      was one of those men who cannot shine, but can eclipse. They darken all
      but a vain man by casting a dark shadow of trite sentences on each
      luminary. The vain man insults them directly, and so gets rid of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Talboys kept coming across honest enthusiastic David with little remarks,
      each skillfully discordant with the rising sentiment. Was he droll,
      Talboys did a bit of polite gravity on him; was he warm in praise of some
      gallant action, chill irony trickled on him from T.
    </p>
    <p>
      His flashes of romance were extinguished by neat little dicta, embodying
      sordid and false, but current views of life. The gauze wings of eloquence,
      unsteeled by vanity, will not bear this repeated dabbing with prose glue,
      so David collapsed and Talboys conquered&mdash;&ldquo;spell&rdquo; benumbed &ldquo;charm.&rdquo;
       The sea-wizard yielded to the petrifier, and &ldquo;could no more,&rdquo; as the poets
      say. Talboys smiled superior. But, as his art was a purely destructive
      one, it ended with its victim; not having an idea of his own in his skull,
      the commentator, in silencing his text, silenced himself and brought the
      society to a standstill. Eve sat with flashing eyes; Lucy's twinkled with
      sly fun: this made Eve angrier. She tried another tack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You asked David to bring his fiddle,&rdquo; said she, sharply, &ldquo;but I suppose
      now&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has he brought it?&rdquo; asked Mr. Fountain, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he has; I made him&rdquo; (with a glance of defiance at Talboys).
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain rang the bell directly and sent for the fiddle. It came.
      David took it and tuned it, and made it discourse. Lucy leaned a little
      back in her chair, wore her &ldquo;<i>tout m'est egal</i> face,&rdquo; and Eve watched
      her like a cat. First her eyes opened with a mild astonishment, then her
      lips parted in a smile; after a while a faint color came and went, and her
      eyes deepened and deepened in color, and glistened with the dewy light of
      sensibility.
    </p>
    <p>
      A fiddle wrought this, or rather genius, in whose hand a jews-harp is the
      lyre of Orpheus, a fiddle the harp of David, a chisel a hewer of heroic
      forms, a brush or a pen the scepter of souls, and, alas! a nail a
      picklock.
    </p>
    <p>
      Inside every fiddle is a soul, but a coy one. The nine hundred and
      ninety-nine never win it. They play rapid tunes, but the soul of beautiful
      gayety is not there; slow tunes, very slow ones, wherein the spirit of
      whining is mighty, but the sweet soul of pathos is absent; doleful, not
      nice and tearful. Then comes the Heaven-born fiddler,* who can make
      himself cry with his own fiddle. David had a touch of this witchcraft.
      Though a sound musician and reasonably master of his instrument, he could
      not fly in a second up and down it, tickling the fingerboard and
      scratching the strings without an atom of tone, as the mechanical monkeys
      do that boobies call fine players.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * This is a definition of the Heaven-born fiddler by Pate
     Bailey, a gypsy tinker and celestial violinist. Being asked
     for a test of proficiency on that instrument, he replied
     that no man is a fiddler &ldquo;till he can gar himsel greet wi a
     feddle.&rdquo;

     &ldquo;Great Orpheus played so well he moved Old Nick,
      But these move nothing but their fiddlestick.&rdquo; *

     * See how unjust satire is! Don't they move their finger-
     nails?
</pre>
    <p>
      But he could make you laugh and crow with his fiddle, and could make you
      jump up, aetat. 60, and snap your fingers at old age and propriety, and
      propose a jig to two bishops and one master of the rolls, and, they
      declining, pity them without a shade of anger, and substitute three
      chairs; then sit unabashed and smiling at the past; and the next minute he
      could make you cry, or near it. In a word he could evoke the soul of that
      wonderful wooden shell, and bid it discourse with the souls and hearts of
      his hearers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime Lucy Fountain's face would have interested a subtle student of
      her sex.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her sensibility to music was great, and the feeling strains stole into her
      nature, and stirred the treasures of the deep to the surface. Eve, a keen
      if not a profound observer, was struck by the rising beauty of this
      countenance, over which so many moods chased one another. She said to
      herself: &ldquo;Well, David is right, after all; she is a lovely girl. Her
      features are nothing out of the way. Her nose is neither one thing nor the
      other, but her expression is beautiful. None of your wooden faces for me.
      And, dear heart, how her neck rises! La! how her color comes and goes!
      Well, I do love the fiddle myself dearly; and now, if her eyes are not
      brimming; I could kiss her! La! David,&rdquo; cried she, bursting the bounds of
      silence, &ldquo;that is enough of the tune the old cow died of; take and play
      something to keep our hearts up&mdash;do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eve's good-humor and mirth were restored by David's success, and now
      nothing would serve her turn but a duet, pianoforte and violin. Miss
      Fountain objected, &ldquo;Why spoil the violin?&rdquo; David objected too, &ldquo;I had
      hoped to hear the piano-forte, and how can I with a fiddle sounding under
      my chin?&rdquo; Eve overruled both peremptorily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Miss Dodd, what shall we select? But it does not matter; I feel
      sure Mr. Dodd can play <i>a livre ouvert.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not he,&rdquo; said Eve, hypocritically, being secretly convinced he could.
      &ldquo;Can you play 'a leevre ouvert,' David?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is it by, Miss Fountain?&rdquo; Lucy never moved a muscle.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a rummage a duet was found that looked promising, and the
      performance began. In the middle David stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! ha! David's broke down,&rdquo; shrieked Eve, concealing her uneasiness
      under fictitious gayety. &ldquo;I thought he would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; explained David to Miss Fountain, &ldquo;but you are out of
      time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I?&rdquo; said Lucy, composedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And have been, more or less, all through.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;David, you forget yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no; set me right, by all means, Mr. Dodd. I am not a hardened
      offender.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it not just possible the violin may be the instrument that is out of
      time?&rdquo; suggested Talboys, insidiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said David, simply, &ldquo;I was right enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us try again, Mr. Dodd. Play me a few bars first in exact time. Thank
      you. Now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All went merry as a marriage bell&rdquo; for a page and a half; then David,
      fiddling away, cried out, &ldquo;You are getting too fast; 'ri tum tiddy, iddy
      ri tum ti;&rdquo; then, by stamping and accenting very strongly, he kept the
      piano from overflowing its bounds. The piece ended. Eve rubbed her hands.
      &ldquo;Now you'll catch it, Mr. David!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid I gave you a great deal of trouble, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <i>&ldquo;En revanche,</i> you gave us a great deal of pleasure,&rdquo; put in Mr.
      Talboys.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy turned her head and smiled graciously. &ldquo;But piano-forte players play
      so much by themselves, they really forget the awful importance of time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I profit by your confession that they do sometimes play by themselves,&rdquo;
       said Mr. Talboys. &ldquo;Be merciful, and let us hear you by yourself.&rdquo;' Eve
      turned as red as fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      David backed the request sincerely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy played a piece composed expressly for the piano by a pianist of the
      day. David sat on her left hand and watched intently how she did it.
    </p>
    <p>
      When it was over, Talboys did a bit of rapture; Eve another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is playing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would not have believed it if I had not seen it done,&rdquo; said David.
      &ldquo;Eve, you should have seen her beautiful fingers thread in and out among
      the keys; it was like white fire dancing; and as for her hand, it is not
      troubled with joints like ours, I should say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The music, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said Lucy, severely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, the music! Well, I could hardly take on me to say. You see I heard it
      by the eye, and that was all in its favor; but I should say the music
      wasn't worth a button.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;David!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How you run off with one's words, Eve! I mean, played by anybody but her.
      Why, what was it, when you come to think? Up and down the gamut, and then
      down and up. No more sense in it than <i>a b c</i>&mdash;a scramble to the
      main-masthead for nothing, and back to no good. I'd as lief see you play
      on the table, Miss Fountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Moscheles!&rdquo; said Lucy, dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Revenge is in your power,&rdquo; said Talboys; &ldquo;play no more; punish us all for
      this one heretic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy reflected a moment; she then took from the canterbury a thick old
      book. &ldquo;This was my mother's. Her taste was pure in music, as in
      everything. I shall be sorry if you do not <i>all</i> like this,&rdquo; added
      she, softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was an old mass; full, magnificent chords in long succession, strung
      together on a clear but delicate melody. She played it to perfection: her
      lovely hands seemed to grasp the chords. No fumbling in the base; no
      gelatinizing in the treble. Her touch, firm and masterly, yet feminine,
      evoked the soul of her instrument, as David had of his, and she thought of
      her mother as she played. These were those golden strains from which all
      mortal dross seems purged. Hearing them so played, you could not realize
      that he who writ them had ever eaten, drunk, smoked, snuffed, and hated
      the composer next door. She who played them felt their majesty and purity.
      She lifted her beaming eye to heaven as she played, and the color receded
      from her cheek; and when her enchantment ended she was silent, and all
      were silent, and their ears ached for the departed charm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she looked round a mute inquiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Talboys applauded loudly.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the tear stood in David's eye, and he said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, David,&rdquo; said Eve, reproachfully, &ldquo;I'm sure if that does not please
      you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please me,&rdquo; cried David, a little fretfully; &ldquo;more shame for me if it
      does not. Please is not the word. It is angel music, I call it&mdash;ah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you need not break your heart for that: he is going to cry&mdash;ha!
      ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm no such thing,&rdquo; cried David, indignantly, and blew his nose&mdash;promptly,
      with a vague air of explanation and defiance.
    </p>
    <p>
      But why the male of my species blows its nose to hide its sensibility a
      deeper than I must decide.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys for some time had not been at his ease. He had been playing
      too, and an instrument he hated&mdash;second fiddle. He rose and joined
      Mr. Fountain, who was sitting half awake on a distant sofa.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha!&rdquo; thought Eve, exulting, &ldquo;we have driven him away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Judge her mortification when Lucy, after shutting the piano, joined her
      uncle and Mr. Talboys. Eve whispered David: &ldquo;Gone to smooth him down: the
      high and mighty gentleman wasn't made enough of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every one in their turn,&rdquo; said David, calmly; &ldquo;that is manners. Look! it
      is the old gentleman she is being kind to. She could not be unkind to
      anyone, however.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eve put her lips to David's ear: &ldquo;She will be unkind to you if you are
      ever mad enough to let her see what I see,&rdquo; said she, in a cutting
      whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you see? More than there is to see, I'll wager,&rdquo; said David,
      looking down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that is the way with young men, the moment they take a fancy; their
      sister is nothing to them, their best friend loses their confidence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't ye say that, Eve&mdash;now don't say that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, David, never mind me. I am cross. And if you saw a sore heart in
      store for anyone you had a regard for, wouldn't you be cross? Young men
      are so stupid, they can't read a girl no more than Hebrew. If she is civil
      and affable to them, oh, they are the man directly, when, instead of that,
      if it was so, she would more likely be shy and half afraid to come near
      them. David, you are in a fool's paradise. In company, and even in
      flirtation, all sorts meet and part again; but it isn't so with marriage.
      There 'it is beasts of a kind that in one are joined, and birds of a
      feather that came together.' Like to like, David. She is a fine lady and
      she will marry a fine gentleman, and nothing else, with a large income. If
      she knew what has been in your head this month past, she would open her
      eyes and ask if the man was mad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has a right to look down on me, I know,&rdquo; murmured David, humbly;
      &ldquo;but&rdquo; (his eye glowing with sudden rapture) &ldquo;she doesn't&mdash;she
      doesn't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look down on you! You are better company than she is, or anyone she can
      get in this-out-of-the-way place; it is her interest to be civil to you. I
      am too hard upon her. She is a lady&mdash;a perfect lady&mdash;and that is
      why she is above giving herself airs. No, David, she is not the one to
      treat us with disrespect, if we don't forget ourselves. But if ever you
      let her see that you are in love with her, you will get an affront that
      will make your cheek burn and my heart smart&mdash;so I tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! I never told you I was in love with her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never told me? Never told me? Who asked you to tell me? I have eyes, if
      you have none.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve,&rdquo; said David imploringly, &ldquo;I don't hear of any lover that she has. Do
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Eve carelessly. &ldquo;But who knows? She passes half the year a
      hundred miles from this, and there are young men everywhere. If she was a
      milkmaid, they'd turn to look at her with such a face and figure as that,
      much more a young lady with every grace and every charm. She has more than
      one after her that we never see, take my word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eve had no sooner said this than she regretted it, for David's face
      quivered, and he sighed like one trying to recover his breath after a
      terrible blow.
    </p>
    <p>
      What made this and the succeeding conversation the more trying and
      peculiar was, that the presence of other persons in the room, though at a
      considerable distance, compelled both brother and sister, though anything
      but calm, to speak <i>sotto voce.</i> But in the history of mankind more
      strange and incongruous matter has been dealt with in an undertone, and
      with artificial and forced calmness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor David!&rdquo; said Eve sorrowfully; &ldquo;you who used to be so proud, so
      high-spirited, be a man! Don't throw away such a treasure as your
      affection. For my sake, dear David, your sister's sake, who does love you
      so very, very dearly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I love you, Eve. Thank you. It was hard lines. Ah! But it is
      wholesome, no doubt, like most bitters. Yes. Thank you, Eve. I do admire
      her v-very much,&rdquo; and his voice faltered a little. &ldquo;But I am a man for all
      that, and I'll stand to my own words. I'll never be any woman's slave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is right, David.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not give hot for cold, nor my heart for a smile or two. I can't
      help admiring her, and I do hope she will be&mdash;happy&mdash;ah!&mdash;whoever
      she fancies. But, if I am never to command her, I won't carry a willow at
      my mast-head, and drift away from reason and manhood, and my duty to you,
      and mother, and myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! David, if you could see how noble you look now. Is it a promise,
      David? for I know you will keep your word if once you pass it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is my hand on it, Eve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The brother and sister grasped hands, and when David was about to withdraw
      his, Eve's soft but vigorous little hand closed tighter and kept it
      firmer, and so they sat in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now don't you be cross.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, dear. Eve is sad, not cross; what is it?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Eve&mdash;dear Eve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be afraid to speak your mind to me&mdash;why should you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, Eve, now, if she had not some little kindness for me, would
      she be so pleased with these thundering yarns I keep spinning her, as old
      as Adam, and as stale as bilge-water? You that are so keen, how comes it
      you don't notice her eyes at these times? I feel them shine on me like a
      couple of suns. They would make a statue pay the yarn out. Who ever
      fancied my chat as she does?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;David,&rdquo; said Eve, quietly, &ldquo;I have thought of all this; but I am
      convinced now there is nothing in it. You see, David, mother and I are
      used to your yarns, and so we take them as a matter of course; but the
      real fact is, they are very interesting and very enticing, and you tell
      them like a book. You came all fresh to this lady, and, as she is very
      quick, she had the wit to see the merit of your descriptions directly. I
      can see it myself <i>now.</i> All young women like to be amused, David,
      and, above all, <i>excited;</i> and your stories are very exciting; that
      is the charm; that is what makes her eyes fire; but if that puppy there,
      or that book-shelf yonder, could tell her your stories, she would look at
      either the puppy or the book-stand with just the same eyes she looks on
      you with, my poor David.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't say so, Eve. Let me think there is some little feeling for me
      inside those sweet eyes, that look so kind on me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And on me, and on everybody. It is her manner. I tell you she is so to
      all the world. She isn't the first I've met. Trust me to read a woman,
      David; what can you know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know nothing; but they tell me you can fathom one another better than
      any man ever could,&rdquo; said David, sorrowfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'David, just now you were telling as interesting a story as ever was. You
      had just got to the thrilling part.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, had I? What was I saying?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't tell you to the very word; I am not your sweetheart any more than
      she is; but one of the sailors was in danger of his life, and so on. You
      never told me the story before; I was not worth it. Well, just then does
      not that affected puppy choose his time to come meandering in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Puppy! I call him a fine gentleman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, there isn't so much odds. In he comes; your story is broken off
      directly. Does she care? No, she has got one of her own set; he is not a
      very bright one; he is next door to a fool. No matter; before he came, to
      judge by her crocodile eyes, she was hot after your story; the moment he
      did come, she didn't care a pin for you <i>nor</i> your story. I gave her
      more than one opening to bring it on again; not she. I tell you, you are
      nothing but a <i>pass</i> time;* you suit her turn so long as none of her
      own set are to be had. If she would leave you for such a jackanapes as
      that, what would she do for a real gentleman? such a man as she is a
      woman, for instance, and as if there weren't plenty such in her own set&mdash;oh,
      you goose!&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * I write this word as the lady thought proper to pronounce
     it.
</pre>
    <p>
      David interrupted her. &ldquo;I have been a vain fool, and it is lucky no one
      has seen it but you,&rdquo; and he hid his face in his hands a moment; then,
      suddenly remembering where he was, and that this was an attitude to
      attract attention, he tried to laugh&mdash;a piteous effort; then he
      ground his teeth and said: &ldquo;Let us go home. All I want now is to get out
      of the house. It would have been better for me if I had never set foot in
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! be calm, David, for Heaven's sake. I am only waiting to catch her
      eye, and then we'll bid them good-evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, I'll wait&rdquo;; and David fixed his eyes sadly and doggedly on the
      ground. &ldquo;I won't look at her if I can help it,&rdquo; said he, resolutely, but
      very sadly, and turned his head away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, David,&rdquo; whispered Eve.
    </p>
    <p>
      David rose mechanically and moved with his sister toward the other group.
      Miss Fountain turned at their approach. Somewhat to David's surprise, Eve
      retreated as quickly as she had advanced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are to stay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She made me a signal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not that I saw,&rdquo; said David, incredulously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! didn't you see her give me a look?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I did. But what has that to do with it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That look was as much as to say, Please stay a little longer; I have
      something to say to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good Heavens!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it is about a bonnet, David. I asked her to put me in the way of
      getting one made like hers. She does wear heavenly bonnets.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay. I did well to listen to you, Eve; you see I can't even read her face,
      much less her heart. I saw her look up, but that was all. How is a poor
      fellow to make out such craft as these, that can signal one another a
      whole page with a flash of the eye? Ah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, David, he is going. Was I right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys was, in fact, taking leave of Miss Fountain. The old gentleman
      convoyed his friend. As the door closed on them Miss Fountain's face
      seemed to catch fire. Her sweet complacency gave way to a half-joyous,
      half-irritated small energy. She came gliding swiftly, though not
      hurriedly, up to Eve. &ldquo;Thank you for seeing.&rdquo; Then she settled softly and
      gradually on an ottoman, saying, &ldquo;Now, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David looked puzzled. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; and he turned to his interpreter, Eve.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was Lucy who replied: &ldquo;'His messmate was crying like a child. At
      sunrise poor Tom must die. Then up rose one fellow' (we have not any idea
      who one fellow means in these narratives&mdash;have we, Miss Dodd?) 'and
      cried, &ldquo;I have it, messmates. Tom isn't dead yet.&rdquo;' Now, Mr. Dodd, between
      that sentence and the one that is to follow all that has happened in this
      room was a hideous dream. On that understanding we have put up with it. It
      is now happily dispersed, and we&mdash;go ahead again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see, Eve, she thinks she would like some more of that China yarn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her sentiments are not so tame. She longs for it, thirsts for it, and
      must and will have it&mdash;if you will be so very obliging, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
       The contrast between all this singular vivacity of Miss Fountain and the
      sudden return to her native character and manner in the last sentence
      struck the sister as very droll&mdash;seemed to the brother so winning,
      that, scarcely master of himself, he burst out: &ldquo;You shan't ask me twice
      for that, or anything I can give you;&rdquo; and it was with burning cheeks and
      happy eyes he resumed his tale of bold adventure and skill on one side, of
      numbers, danger and difficulty on the other. He told it now like one
      inspired, and both the young ladies hung panting and glowing on his words.
    </p>
    <p>
      David and Eve went home together.
    </p>
    <p>
      David was in a triumphant state, but waited for Eve to congratulate him.
      Eve was silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last David could refrain no longer. &ldquo;Why, you say nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Common sense is too good to be wasted; don't go so fast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. There&mdash;I heave to for convoy to close up. Would it be wasted on
      me? ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-night. There you go pelting on again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve, I can't help it. I feel all canvas, with a cargo of angels' feathers
      and sunshine for ballast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Moonshine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sun, moon, and stars, and all that is bright by night or day. I'll tell
      you what to do; you keep your head free, and come on under easy sail; I'll
      stand across your bows with every rag set and drawing, so then I shall be
      always within hail.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This sober-minded maneuver was actually carried out. The little corvette
      sailed steadily down the middle of the lane; the great merchantman went
      pitching and rolling across her bows; thus they kept together, though
      their rates of sailing were so different.
    </p>
    <p>
      Merry Eve never laughed once, but she smiled, and then sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      David did not heed her. All of a moment his heart vented itself in a
      sea-ditty so loud, and clear, and mellow, that windows opened, and out
      came nightcapped heads to hear him carol the lusty stave, making night
      jolly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, the weather being balmy, Mr. Fountain had walked slowly with Mr.
      Talboys in another direction. Mr. Talboys inquired, &ldquo;Who were these
      people?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, only two humble neighbors,&rdquo; was the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never met them anywhere. They are received in the neighborhood?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not in society, of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't understand you. Have not I just met them here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not the way to put it,&rdquo; said the old gentleman, a little
      confused. &ldquo;You did not meet them; you did me and my niece the honor to
      dine with us, and the Dodds dropped in to tea&mdash;quite another matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it not? I see you have been so long out of England you have forgotten
      these little distinctions; society would go to the deuce without them. We
      ask our friends, and persons of our own class, to dinner, but we ask who
      we like to tea in this county. Don't you like her? She is the prettiest
      girl in the village.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretty and pert.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! ha! that is true. She is saucy enough, and amusing in proportion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the man I alluded to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, David? ay, a very worthy lad. He is a downright modest,
      well-informed young man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't doubt his general merits, but let me ask you a serious question:
      his evident admiration of Miss Fountain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His ad-mi-ration of Miss Fountain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it agreeable to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a matter of consummate indifference to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not, I think, to her. She showed a submission to the cub's
      impertinence, and a desire to please instead of putting him down, that
      made me suspect. Do you often ask Mr. Dodd&mdash;what a name!&mdash;to
      tea?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear friend, I see that, with all your accomplishments, you have
      something to learn. You want insight into female character. Now I, who
      must go to school to you on most points, can be of use to you here.&rdquo; Then,
      seeing that Talboys was mortified at being told thus gently there was a
      department of learning he had not fathomed, he added: &ldquo;At all events, I
      can interpret my own niece to you. I have known her much longer than you
      have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys requested the interpreter to explain the pleasure his niece
      took in Mr. Dodd's fiddle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Part politeness, part sham. Why, she wanted not to ask them this evening,
      the fiddle especially. I'll give you the clue to Lucy; she is a female
      Chesterfield, and the droll thing is she is polite at heart as well. Takes
      it from her mother: she was something between an angel and a duchess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Politeness does not account for the sort of partiality she showed for
      these Dodds while I was in the room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pure imagination, my dear friend. I was there; and had so monstrous a
      phenomenon occurred I must have seen it. If you think she could really
      prefer their society to yours, you are as unjust to her as yourself. She
      may have concealed her real preference out of <i>finesse,</i> or perhaps
      she has observed that our inferiors are touchy, and ready to fancy we
      slight them for those of our own rank.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Talboys shrugged his shoulders; he was but half convinced. &ldquo;Her enthusiasm
      when the cub scraped the fiddle went beyond mere politeness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beyond other people's, you mean. Nothing on earth ever went beyond hers&mdash;ha!
      ha! ha! To-morrow night, if you like, we will have my gardener, Jack
      Absolom, in to tea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I thank you. I have no wish to go beyond Mr. and Miss Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, only for an experiment. The first minute Jack will be wretched, and
      want to sink through the floor; but in five minutes you will fancy Lucy
      will have made Jack Absolom at home in my drawing-room. He will be laying
      down the law about Jonquilles, and she all sweetness, curiosity, and
      enthusiasm outside&mdash;<i>ennui</i> in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can her eyes glisten out of politeness?&rdquo; inquired Talboys, with a subdued
      sneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They could shed tears, perhaps, for the same motive?&rdquo; said Talboys, with
      crushing irony.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! Hum! I'd back them at four to seven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys was silent, and his manner showed that he was a little
      mortified at a subject turning to joke which he had commenced seriously.
      He must stop this annoyance. He said severely, &ldquo;It is time to come to an
      understanding with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words, and, above all, at their solemn tone, the senior pricked
      his ears and prepared his social diplomacy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have visited very frequently at your house, Mr. Fountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never without being welcome, my dear sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have, I think, divined one reason of my very frequent visits here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not been vain enough to attribute them entirely to my own
      attractions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You approve the homage I render to that other attraction?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unfeignedly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I so fortunate as to have her suffrage, too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no better means of knowing than you have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed! I was in hopes you might have sounded her inclinations.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have scrupulously avoided it,&rdquo; replied the veteran. &ldquo;I had no right to
      compromise you upon mere conjecture, however reasonable. I awaited your
      authority to take any move in so delicate a matter. Can you blame me? On
      one side my friend's dignity, on the other a young lady's peace of mind,
      and that young lady my brother's daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were right, my dear sir; I see and appreciate your reserve, your
      delicacy, though I am about to remove its cause. I declare myself to you
      your niece's admirer; have I your permission to address her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have, and my warmest wishes for your success.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you. I think I may hope to succeed, provided I have a fair chance
      afforded me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will take care you shall have that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should prefer not to have others buzzing about the lady whose affection
      I am just beginning to gain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You pay this poor sailor an amazing compliment,&rdquo; said Mr. Fountain, a
      little testily; &ldquo;if he admires Lucy it can only be as a puppy is struck
      with the moon above. The moon does not respond to all this wonder by
      descending into the whelp's jaws&mdash;no more will my niece. But that is
      neither here nor there; you are now her declared suitor, and you have a
      right to stipulate; in short, you have only to say the word, and 'exeunt
      Dodds,' as the play-books say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dodds? I have no objection to the lady. Would it not be possible to
      invite her to tea alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite possible, but useless. She would not stir out without her brother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She seems a little person likely to give herself airs. Well, then, in
      that case, though as you say I am no doubt raising Mr. Dodd to a false
      importance, still&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say no more; we should indulge the whims of our friends, not attack them
      with reasons. You will see the Dodds no more in my house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, as to that, just as you please. Perhaps they would be as well out of
      it,&rdquo; said Talboys, with a sudden affectation of carelessness. &ldquo;I must not
      take you too far. Good-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go-o-d night!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Poor David. He was to learn how little real hold upon society has the man
      who can only instruct and delight it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain bustled home, rubbing his hands with delight. &ldquo;Aha!&rdquo; thought
      he; &ldquo;jealous! actually jealous! absurdly jealous! That is a good sign. Who
      would have thought so proud a man could be jealous of a sailor? I have
      found out your vulnerable point, my friend. I'll tell Lucy; how she will
      laugh. David Dodd! Now we know how to manage him, Lucy and I. If he
      freezes back again, we have but to send for David Dodd and his fiddle.&rdquo; He
      bustled home, and up into the drawing-room to tell Lucy Mr. Talboys had at
      last declared himself. His heart felt warm. He would settle six thousand
      pounds on Mrs. Talboys during his life and his whole fortune after his
      death.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found the drawing-room empty. He rang the bell. &ldquo;Where is Miss
      Fountain?&rdquo; John didn't know, but supposed she had gone to her room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't know? You never know anything. Send her maid to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The maid came and courtesied demurely at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell your mistress I want to speak to her directly&mdash;before she
      undresses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The maid went out, and soon returned to say that her mistress had retired
      to rest; but that, if he pleased, she would rise, and just make a
      demi-toilet, and come to him. This smooth and fair-sounding proposal was
      not, I grieve to say, so graciously received as offered. &ldquo;Much obliged,&rdquo;
       snapped old Fountain. &ldquo;Her <i>demi-toilette</i> will keep me another hour
      out of my bed, and I get no sleep after dinner now <i>among you.</i> Tell
      her to-morrow at breakfast time will do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      DAVID DODD was so radiant and happy for a day or two that Eve had not the
      heart to throw cold water on him again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Three days elapsed, and no invitation to Font Abbey; on this his happiness
      cooled of itself. But when day after day rolled by, and no Font Abbey, he
      was dashed, uneasy, and, above all, perplexed. What could be the reason?
      Had he, with his rough ways, offended her? Had she been too dignified to
      resent it at the time? Was he never to go to Font Abbey again? Eve's first
      feeling was unmixed satisfaction. We have seen already that she expected
      no good from this rash attachment. For a single moment her influence and
      reasons had seemed to wean David from it; but his violent agitation and
      joy at two words of kindly curiosity from Miss Fountain, and the instant
      unreasonable revival of love and hope, showed the strange power she had
      acquired over him. It made Eve tremble.
    </p>
    <p>
      But now the Fountains were aiding her to cure this folly. She had read
      them right, had described them to David aright. A wind of caprice had
      carried him and her into Font Abbey; another such wind was carrying them
      out. No event had happened. Mr. and Miss Fountain had been seen more than
      once in the village of late. &ldquo;They have dropped us, and thank Heaven!&rdquo;
       said Eve, in her idiomatic way.
    </p>
    <p>
      She pitied David deeply, and was kinder and kinder to him now, to show him
      she felt for him; but she never mentioned the Font Abbey people to him
      either to praise or blame them, though it was all she could do to suppress
      her satisfaction at the turn their insolent caprice had taken.
    </p>
    <p>
      That satisfaction was soon clouded. This time, instead of rousing himself
      and his pride, David sank into a moody despondency; varied by occasional
      fretfulness. His appetite went, and his bright color, and his elastic
      step. This silent sadness was so new in him, such a contrast to his
      natural temperature, large, genial, and ever cheerful, that Eve could not
      bear it. &ldquo;I must shake him out of this, at all hazards,&rdquo; thought she: yet
      she put off the experiment, and put it off, partly in hopes that David
      would speak first, partly because she saw the wound she would probe was
      deep, and she winced beforehand for her patient.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, prolonged doubt and suspense now goaded with their intolerable
      stings the active spirit that chill misgivings had at first benumbed.
      Spurred into action by these torments, David had already watched several
      days in the neighborhood of Font Abbey, determined to speak to Miss
      Fountain, and find out whether he had given her offense; for this was
      still his uppermost idea. Having failed in this attempt at an interview
      with her, he was now meditating a more resolute course, and he paced the
      little gravel-walk at home debating in himself the pros and cons. Raising
      his head suddenly, he saw his sister walking slowly at the other end of
      the path. She was coming toward him, but her eyes were bent thoughtfully
      on the ground. David slipped behind some bushes, not to have his
      unhappiness and his meditations interrupted. The lover and the lunatic
      have points in common.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been there some time when a grave little voice spoke quietly to him
      from the lawn. &ldquo;David, I want to speak to you.&rdquo; David came out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here am I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I knew where you were. Don't do that again, sir, please, or you'll
      catch it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I didn't think you saw me,&rdquo; said David, somewhat confusedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has that to do with it, stupid? David,&rdquo; continued she, assuming a
      benevolent, cheerful, and somewhat magnificent nonchalance, &ldquo;I sometimes
      wonder you don't come to me with your troubles. I might advise you as well
      as here and there one. But perhaps you think now, because I am naturally
      gay, I am not sensible. You mustn't go by that altogether. Manner is very
      deceiving. The most foolishly conducted men and women ever I met were as
      grave as judges, and as demure as cats after cream. Bless you, there is
      folly in every heart. Your slow ones bottle it up for use against the day
      wisdom shall be most needed. My sort let it fizz out at their mouths in
      their daily talk, and keep their good sense for great occasions, like the
      present.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have we drifted among the proverbs of Solomon?&rdquo; inquired David, dryly.
      &ldquo;No need to make so many tacks, Eve. Haven't I seen your sense and
      profited by it&mdash;I and one or two more? Who but you has steered the
      house this ten years, and commanded the lubberly crew?&rdquo; *
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * The reader must not be misled by the familiar phraseology
     of these two speakers to suppose that anything the least
     droll or humorous was intended by either of them at any part
     of this singular dialogue. Their hearts were sad and their
     faces grave.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then again, David, where the heart is concerned, young women are
      naturally in advance of young men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God knows. He made them both. I don't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, all the world knows it. And then, besides, I am five years older
      than you.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So mother says; but I don't know how to believe it. No one would say so
      to look at you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you, David. Folk that have small features look a deal younger
      than their years; and you know poor father used to say my face was the
      pattern of a flat-iron. So nobody gives me my age; but I am five good
      years older than you, only you needn't go and tell the town crier.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Eve?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, put all these together, and now, why not come to me for
      friendly advice and the voice of reason?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reason! reason! there are other lights besides reason.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jack-o'-lantern, eh? and Will-o'-the-wisp.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve, nobody can advise me that can't feel for me. Nobody can feel for me
      that doesn't know my pain; and you don't know that, because you were never
      in love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, then, if I had ever been in love, you would listen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I would to an angel from Heaven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And be advised by me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not? for then you'd be competent to advise; but now you haven't an
      idea what you are talking about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a pity! Don't you think it would be as well if you were not to speak
      to me so sulky?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ask your pardon; Eve. I did not mean to offend you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Davy, dear&mdash;for God's sake what is this chill that has come between
      you and me? You are a man. Speak out like a man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David turned his great calm, sorrowful eye full upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, Eve, if the truth must be told, I am disappointed in you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, David.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little. You are not the girl I took you for. You know which way my
      fancy lies, yet you keep steering me in the teeth of it; then you see how
      down-hearted I am this while, but not a word of comfort or hope comes from
      you, and me almost dried up for want of one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make one word of it, David&mdash;I am not a sister to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't say that, but you might be kinder; you are against me just when I
      want you with me the most.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now this is what I like,&rdquo; said Eve, cheerfully; &ldquo;this is plain speaking.
      So now it is my turn, my lad. Do you remember Balaam and his ass?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure,&rdquo; said David; but, used as he was to Eve's transitions, he couldn't
      help staring a little at being carried eastward ho so suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then what did the ass say when she broke silence at last?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you know, Eve; I take shame to say I don't remember her very words,
      but the tune of them I do. Why, she sang out, 'Avast there! it is first
      fault, so you needn't be so hasty with your thundering rope's end.&rdquo;'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! You'd make a nice commentator. You haven't taken it up one bit;
      you are as much in the dark as our parson. He preached on her the very
      Sunday you came home, and it was all I could do to help whipping up into
      the pulpit, and snatching away his book, and letting daylight in on them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David was scandalized at the very idea of such a breach of discipline.
      &ldquo;That is ridiculous,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;one can't have two skippers in a church
      any more than in a ship, brig, or bark. But you can let daylight in on
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean. To begin: the ass was in the right and Balaam in the wrong; so
      what becomes of your 'first fault?' She was frugal of her words, but every
      syllable was a needle; the worst is, some skins are so thick our needles
      won't enter 'em. Says she, 'This seven years you have known me; always
      true to the bridle and true to you. Did ever I disobey you before? Then
      why go and fancy I do it without some great cause that you can't see?'
      Then the man's eyes were open, and he saw it was destruction his old
      friend had run back from, and galled his foot to save his life; so of
      course he thanked her, and blessed her then. Not he. He was too much of a
      man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, I see; but what is the moral? for I have no heart to expound
      riddles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I'll tell you the moral sooner than you'll like, perhaps. The ass is
      a type, David. In Holy Writ you know almost everything is a type. When a
      thing means one thing and stands for another, that's a type.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ducks can swim&mdash;at least I've heard so. Now if you could tell me
      what she is a type of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, the ass? Don't you know? Why, of women, to be sure&mdash;of us poor
      creatures of burden, underrated and misunderstood all the world over. And
      Balaam he stands for men, and for you at the head of them,&rdquo; cried she,
      turning round with flashing eyes on David; &ldquo;you have known me and my true
      affection more than seven years, or seventeen. I carried you in my arms
      when you were a year old and I was six. You were my little curly-headed
      darling, and have been from that day to this. Did ever I cross you, or be
      cold or unkind to you, till the other day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Eve, no, no, no! Come sit beside me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then shouldn't you have said, 'Don't slobber <i>me;</i> I won't have it;
      you and I are bad friends.' Oughtn't you to have said, 'Eve could never
      give herself the pain of crossing me' (no, there isn't a man in the world
      with gumption enough to say that&mdash;that is a woman's thought); but at
      least you might have said, 'She sees rocks ahead that I can't.' (Balaam
      couldn't see the drawn sword ahead, but there it was.) it was for you to
      say, 'My sister Eve would not change from gay to grave all at once, and
      from indulging me in everything to thwarting me and vexing me, unless she
      saw some great danger threatening your peace of mind, your career in life,
      your very reason, perhaps.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been to blame, Eve; but speak out and let me know the worst. You
      have heard something against her character? Speak plain out, for Heaven's
      sake!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all very well of you to say speak plain out, but there are things
      girls don't like to speak about to any man. But after what you said, that
      you would listen to me if I&mdash;so it is my duty. You will see my face
      red enough in about a minute. Two years ago I couldn't have done this even
      for you. It is hard I must expose my own folly&mdash;my own crime.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Eve, lass, how you tremble! Drop it now! drop it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold your tongue!&rdquo; said Eve, sharply, but in considerable agitation. &ldquo;It
      is too late now, after something you have said to me. If I didn't speak
      out now, I should be like that bad man you told us of, who let out the
      beacon light when the wind was blowing hard on shore. Listen, David, and
      take my words to heart. The road you are on now I have been upon, only I
      went much farther on it than you shall go.&rdquo; She resumed after a short
      pause: &ldquo;You remember Henry Dyke?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, the young clergyman, who used to be always alongside you at our
      last anchorage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. He was just such a man as Miss Fountain is a woman. He was but a
      dish of skim-milk, yet he could poison my life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Eve told the story of her heart. She described her lover as he
      appeared to her in the early days of courtship, young, handsome, good,
      noble in sentiment, and warm and tender in manner. Halcyon days&mdash;not
      a speck to be seen on love's horizon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she delineated the fine gradations by which the illusion faded, too
      slowly and too late for her to withdraw the love she had conceived for his
      person at that time when person and mind seemed alike superior. She
      painted with the delicate touch of her sex the portrait of a man and a
      scholar born to please all the world, and incapable of condensing his
      affections; a pious flirt, no longer stimulated to genuine ardor by doubts
      of success, but too kind-hearted to pain her beyond measure when a little
      factitious warmth from time to time would give her hours of happiness,
      keep her, on the whole, content, and, above all, retain her his. Then she
      shifted the mirror to herself, the fiery and faithful one, and showed
      David what centuries of torture a good little creature like this Dyke,
      with its charming exterior, could make a quick, and ardent, and devoted
      nature suffer in a year or two. Came out in her narrative, link by link,
      the gentle delicious complacency of the first period, the chill airs that
      soon ruffled it, the glowing hopes, the misgivings that dashed them; then
      the diminution of confidence, more complexing and exasperating than its
      utter loss; the alternations of joy and doubt, the fever and the ague of
      the wounded spirit; then the gusts of hatred followed by deeper love;
      later still, the periodical irritation at hopes long deferred, and still
      gleams of bliss between the paroxysms, so that now, as the vulgar say in
      their tremendous Saxon, she &ldquo;spent her time between heaven and hell&rdquo;; last
      of all, the sickness and recklessness of the wornout and wearied heart
      over which melancholy or fury impended.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was at this crisis when, as she could now see on a calm retrospect, her
      mind was distempered, a new and terrible passion stepped upon the scene&mdash;jealousy.
      A friend came and whispered her, &ldquo;Mr. Dyke was courting another woman at
      the same time, and that other woman was rich.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;David, at that word a flash of lightning seemed to go through me, and
      show me the man as he really was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The mean scoundrel, to sell himself for money!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, David, he would not have sold himself, with his eyes open, any more
      than perhaps your Miss Fountain would; but what little heart he had he
      could give to any girl that was not a fright. He was a self-deceiver and a
      general lover, and such characters and their affections sink by nature to
      where their interest lies. Iron is not conscious, yet it creeps toward the
      loadstone. Well, while she was with me I held up and managed to question
      her as coldly as I speak to you now, but as soon as she left me I went off
      in violent hysterics.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Eve!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She had not been gone an hour when doesn't the Devil put it into <i>his</i>
      head to send me a long, affectionate letter, and in the postscript he
      invited himself to supper the same afternoon. Then I got up and dried my
      eyes, and I seemed to turn into stone with resolution. 'Come!' I said,
      'but don't think you shall ever go back to her. Your troubles and mine
      shall end to-night.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Eve, you turn pale with thinking of it. I fear you have had worse
      thoughts pass through your mind than any man is worth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;David, your blood was in my veins, and mine is in yours.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I didn't think so! The Lord deliver us from temptation! We don't know
      ourselves nor those we love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had driven me mad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mad, indeed. What! had you the heart to see the man bleed to death&mdash;the
      man you had loved&mdash;you, my little gentle Eve?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, no; no blood!&rdquo; said Eve, with a shudder. &ldquo;Laudanum!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I see your thought. No, I was not like the men in the newspapers,
      that kill the poor woman with a sure hand, and then give themselves a
      scratch. It was to be one spoonful for him, but two for me. I can't dwell
      on it&rdquo; (and she hid her face in her hands); &ldquo;it is too terrible to
      remember how far I was misled. Who, think you, saved us both?&rdquo; David could
      not guess.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little angel&mdash;my good angel, that came home from sea that very
      afternoon. When I saw your curly head, and your sweet, sunburned face come
      in at the door, guess if I thought of putting death in the pot after that?
      Ah! the love of our own flesh and blood, that is the love&mdash;God and
      good angels can smile on it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but go on,&rdquo; said David, impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is ended, David. They say a woman's heart is a riddle, and perhaps you
      will think so when I tell you that when he had brought me down to this,
      and hadn't died for it, I turned as cold as ice to him that minute, once
      and forever. I looked back at the precipice, and I hated him. Ay, from
      that evening he was like the black dog to my eye. I used to slip anywhere
      to hide out of his way&mdash;just as you did out of mine but now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can't you forget that? Well, to be sure. Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So then (now you may learn what these skim-milk cheeses are made of),
      when he found he was my aversion, he fell in love with me again as hot as
      ever; tried all he could think of to win me back; wrote a letter every
      day; came to me every other day; and when he saw it was all over for good
      between us he cried and bellowed till my hate all went, and scorn came in
      its place. Next time we met he played quite another part&mdash;the calm,
      heart-broken Christian; gave me his blessing; went down on his knees, and
      prayed a beautiful prayer, that took me off my guard and made me almost
      respect him; then went away, and quietly married the girl with money; and
      six months after wrote to me he was miserable, dated from the vicarage her
      parents had got him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, you know, if he wasn't a parson, d&mdash;n me if I'd turn in
      to-night till I'd rope's-ended that lubber!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As if I'd let you dirty your hands with such rubbish! I sent the note
      back to him with just one line, 'Such a fool as you are has no right to be
      a villain.' There, David, there is your poor sister's life. Oh, what I
      went through for that man! Often I said, is Heaven just, to let a poor,
      faithful, loving girl, who has done no harm, be played with on the hook,
      and tortured hot and cold, day after day, month after month, year after
      year, as I was? But now I see why it was permitted; it was for your sake,
      that you might profit by my sharp experience, and not fling your heart
      away on frozen mud, as I did;&rdquo; and, happy in this feminine theory of
      Divine justice, Eve rested on her brother a look that would have adorned a
      seraph, then took him gently round the neck and laid her little cheek flat
      to his.
    </p>
    <p>
      She felt as if she had just saved a beloved life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Who can estimate the value of a happiness so momentary, yet so holy?
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently looking up, she saw David's face illuminated. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; she
      asked joyously; &ldquo;you look pleased.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David was &ldquo;pleased because now he was sure she could feel for him, and
      would side with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I do; but, David, as it is all over between you and her&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All over? Am I dead then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eve gasped with astonishment: &ldquo;Why, what have I been telling you all this
      for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who should you tell your trouble to but your own brother? Why, Eve&mdash;ha!
      ha!&mdash;you don't really see any likeness between your case and mine, do
      you? You are not so blind as to compare her with that thundering muff?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are brother and sister, as we are,&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;Ever since I saw
      you looked her way, my eye has hardly been off her, and she is Henry Dyke
      in petticoats.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't thank you for saying that. Well, and if she is, what has that to
      do with it? I am not a woman. I am not forced to lie to waiting for a
      wind, as the girls are. I am a man. I can work for the wish of my heart,
      and, if it does not come to meet me, I can overhaul it.&rdquo; Eve was a little
      staggered by this thrust, but she was not one to show an antagonist any
      advantage he had obtained. &ldquo;David,&rdquo; said she, coldly, &ldquo;it must come to one
      of two things; either she will send you about your business in form, which
      is a needless affront for you and me both, or she will hold you in hand,
      and play with you and drive you <i>mad.</i> Take warning; remember what is
      in our blood. Father was as well as you are, but agitation and vexation
      robbed him of his reason for a while; and you and I are his children. Milk
      of roses creeps along in that young lady's veins, but fire gallops in
      ours. Give her up, David, as she has you. She has let you escape; don't
      fly back like a moth to the candle! You shan't, however; I won't let you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve,&rdquo; said David, quietly, &ldquo;you argue well, but you can't argue light
      into dark, nor night into day. She is the sun to me. I have seen her
      light; and now I can't live without it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He added, more calmly: &ldquo;It is her or none. I never saw a girl but this
      that I wanted to see twice, and I never shall.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it is that which frightens me for you, David. Often I have wished I
      could see you flirt a bit and harden your heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And break some poor girl's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, hang them! they always contrive to pass it on. What do I care for
      girls! they are not my brother. But no, David, I can't believe you will go
      against me and my judgment after the insult she has put on you. No more
      about it, but just you choose between my respect and this wild-goose
      chase.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I choose both,&rdquo; said David, quietly. &ldquo;Both you shan't have&rdquo;; and, with
      this, up bounced Eve, and stood before him bristling like a
      cat-o'mountain. David tried to soothe her&mdash;to coax her&mdash;in vain;
      her cheek was on fire, and her eyes like basilisks'. It was a picture to
      see the pretty little fury stand so erect and threatening, great David so
      humble and deprecating, yet so dogged. At last he took out his knife; it
      was not one of your stabbing-knives, but the sort of pruning-knife that no
      sailor went without in those days. &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said he, sadly, &ldquo;take and cut my
      head off&mdash;cut me to pieces, if you will&mdash;I won't wince or
      complain; and then you will get your way; but while I do live I shall love
      her, and I can't afford to lose her by sitting twiddling my thumbs,
      waiting for luck. I'll try all I know to win her, and if I lose her I
      won't blame her, but myself for not finding out how to please her; and
      with that I'll live a bachelor all my days for her, or else die, just as
      God wills&mdash;I shan't much care which.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I know you, you obstinate toad,&rdquo; said Eve, clinching her teeth and
      her little hand. Then she burst out furiously: &ldquo;Are you quite resolved?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite, dear Eve,&rdquo; said David, sadly&mdash;but somehow it was like a rock
      speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then there is my hand,&rdquo; said Eve, with an instant transition to amiable
      cheerfulness that dazzled a body like a dark lantern flying open. Used as
      David was to her, it stupefied him; he stared at her, and was all abroad.
      &ldquo;Well, what is the wonder now?&rdquo; inquired Eve; &ldquo;there are but two of us. We
      must be together somehow or another must we not? You won't be wise with
      me; well, then, I'll be a fool with you. I'll help you with this girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my dear Eve!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't gain much. Without me you hadn't the shadow of a chance, and
      with me you haven't a chance, that is all the odds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have! I have! you have taken away my breath with joy;&rdquo; and David was
      quite overcome with the turn Eve had taken in his favor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you need not thank me,&rdquo; said Eve, tossing her head with a hypocrisy
      all her own. &ldquo;It is not out of affection for you I do it, you may be very
      sure of that; but it looks so ridiculous to see my brother slipping out of
      my way behind a tree as soon as he sees me coming&mdash;oh! oh! oh! oh!&rdquo;
       And a violent burst of sobs and tears revealed how that incident had
      rankled in this stoical little heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      David, with the tear in his own eye, clasped her in his arms, and kissed
      her and coaxed her and begged her again and again to forgive him. This she
      did internally at the first word; but externally no; pouted and sobbed
      till she had exacted her full tribute, then cleared up with sudden
      alacrity and inquired his plans.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to call at Font Abbey, and find out whether I have offended
      her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eve demurred, &ldquo;That would never do. You would betray yourself and there
      would be an end of you. How good I am not to let you go. No, I'll call
      there. I shall quietly find out whether it is her doing that we have not
      been invited so long, or whose it is. You stay where you are. I won't be a
      minute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the minute was thirty-five, David came under her window and called
      her. She popped her head out: &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you doing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Putting on my bonnet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you have been an hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wouldn't have me go there a fright, would you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last she came down and started for Font Abbey, and David was left to
      count the minutes till her return. He paced the gravel sailor-wise, taking
      six steps and then turning, instead of going in each direction as far as
      he could. He longed and feared his sister's return. One hour&mdash;two
      hours elapsed; still he walked a supposed deck on the little lawn&mdash;six
      steps and then turn. At last he saw her coming in the distance; he ran to
      meet her; but when he came up with her he did not speak, but looked
      wistfully in her face, and tried hard to read it and his fate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, David, don't make a fool of yourself, or I won't tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no. I'll be calm, I will&mdash;be&mdash;calm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, for one thing, she is to drink tea with us this evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She? Who? What? Where? Oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V.
    </h2>
    <p>
      MR. FOUNTAIN sat at breakfast opposite his niece with a twinkle set in his
      eye like a cherry-clack in a tree, relishing beforehand her smiles, and
      blushes, and gratitude to him for having hooked and played his friend, so
      that now she had but to land him. &ldquo;I'll just finish this delicious cup of
      coffee,&rdquo; thought he, &ldquo;and then I'll tell you, my lady.&rdquo; While he was
      slowly sipping said cup, Lucy looked up and said graciously to him, &ldquo;How
      silly Mr. Talboys was last night&mdash;was he not, dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Talboys? silly? what? do you know? Why, what on earth do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silly is a harsh word&mdash;injudicious, then&mdash;praising me <i>a tort
      et a travers,</i> and was downright ill-bred&mdash;was discourteous to
      another of our guests, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confound Mr. Dodd! I wish I had never invited him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So do I. If you remember, I dissuaded you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do remember now. What! you don't like him, either?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There you are mistaken, dear. I esteem Mr. Dodd highly, and Miss Dodd,
      too, in spite of her manifest defects; but in making up parties, however
      small, we should choose our guests with reference to each other, not
      merely to ourselves. Now, forgive me, it was clear beforehand that Mr.
      Talboys and the Dodds, especially Miss Dodd, would never coalesce; hence
      my objection in inviting them; but you overruled me&mdash;with a rod of
      iron, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but why? Because you gave me such a bad reason; you never said a
      word about this incongruity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it was in my mind all the time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why didn't it come out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because&mdash;because something else would come out instead. As if one
      gave one's real reasons for things!! Now, uncle dear, you allow me great
      liberties, but would it have been quite the thing for me to lecture you
      upon the selection of your own <i>convives?&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you have ended by doing it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy colored. &ldquo;Not till the event proves&mdash;not till&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not till your advice is no longer any use.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy, driven into a corner, replied by an imploring look, which had just
      the opposite effect of argument. It instantly disarmed the old boy; he
      grinned superior, and spared his supple antagonist three sarcasms that
      were all on the tip of his tongue. He was rewarded for his clemency by a
      little piece of advice, delivered by his niece with a sort of hesitating
      and penitent air he did not understand one bit, eyes down upon the cloth
      all the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      It came to this. He was to listen to her suggestions with a prejudice in
      their favor if he could, and give them credit for being backed by good
      reasons; at all events, he was never to do them the injustice to suppose
      they rested on those puny considerations she might put forward in
      connection with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silly&rdquo; is a term carrying with it a certain promptness and decision;
      above all, it was a very remarkable word for Lucy to use. &ldquo;The girl is a
      martinet in these things,&rdquo; thought he; &ldquo;she can't forgive the least bit of
      impoliteness. I suppose he snubbed Jack Tar. What a crime! But I had
      better let this blow over before I go any farther.&rdquo; So he postponed his
      disclosure till to-morrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, before to-morrow came, he had thought it over again, and convinced
      himself it would be the wiser course not to interfere at all for the
      present, except by throwing the young people constantly together. He had
      lived long enough to see that, in nine cases out of ten, husband and wife
      might be defined &ldquo;a man and a woman that were thrown a good deal together&mdash;generally
      in the country.&rdquo; A marries B, and C D; but, under similar circumstances,
      i.e., thrown together, A would have married D, and C B. This applies to
      puppy dogs, male and female, as well as to boys and girls.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps a personal feeling had some little share, too, in bringing him to
      the above conclusion. He was a bit of a schemer&mdash;liked to play
      puppets. At present, his niece and friend were the largest and finest
      puppets he had on hand; the day he should bring them to a mutual, rational
      understanding, the puppet-strings would fall from his hands and the
      puppets turn independent agents. He represented to Talboys that Lucy was
      young and very innocent in some respects; that marriage did not seem to
      run in her head as in most girls'; that a precipitate avowal might startle
      her, and raise unnecessary difficulties by putting her on her guard too
      early in their acquaintance. &ldquo;You have no rival,&rdquo; he concluded; &ldquo;best win
      her quietly by degrees. Undermine the coy jade! she is worth it.&rdquo; Cool
      Talboys acquiesced. David had spurred him out of his pace one night; but
      David was put out of the way; the course was clear; and, as he could walk
      over it now, why gallop?
    </p>
    <p>
      Childish as his friend's jealousy of this poor sailor had seemed to Mr.
      Fountain, still, the idea once started, he could not help inspecting Lucy
      to see how she would take his sudden exclusion from these parties. Now
      Lucy missed the Dodds very much, and was surprised to see them invited no
      more. But it was not in her character to satisfy a curiosity of this sort
      by putting a point-blank question to the person who could tell her in two
      words. She was one of those thorough women whose instinct it is to find
      out little things, not to ask about them. When day after day passed by,
      and the Dodds were not invited, it flashed through her mind, first, that
      there must be some reason for this; secondly, that she had only to take no
      notice, and the reason, if any, would be sure to pop out. She half
      suspected Talboys, but gave him no sign of suspicion. With unruffled
      demeanor and tranquil patience, she watched demurely for disclosures from
      her uncle or from him like the prettiest little velvet panther conceivable
      lying flat in a blind path, deranging nobody, but waiting with amiable
      tranquillity for her friends to come her way.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, under the smooth surface of the little society at Font Abbey <i>finesse</i>
      was cannily at work. But the surface of every society is like the skin of
      a man&mdash;hides a deal of secret machinery.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here were two undermining a &ldquo;coy jade&rdquo; (perhaps, on the whole, Uncle
      Fountain, it might be more prudent in you not to call her that name again;
      you see she is my heroine, and I am a man that could cut you out of this
      story, and nobody miss you), and the coy jade watching for the miners like
      a sweet little velvet panther, and, to fling away metaphor, an honest
      heart set aching sore, hard by, for having come among such a lot.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      A FABLE tells us a fowler one day saw sitting in tree a wood-pigeon. This
      is a very shy bird, so he had to creep and maneuver to get within gunshot
      unseen, unheard. He stole from tree to tree, and muffled his footsteps in
      the long grass so adroitly that, just as he was going to pull the trigger,
      he stepped light as a feather on a venomous snake. It bit; he died.
    </p>
    <p>
      This is instructive and pointed, but a trifle severe.
    </p>
    <p>
      What befell Uncle Fountain, busy enmeshing his cock and hen pheasant,
      netting a niece and a friend, went to the same tune, but in a lower key,
      as befitted a domestic tale.*
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * &ldquo;Domestic,&rdquo; you are aware, is Latin for &ldquo;tame.&rdquo; Ex.,
     &ldquo;domestic fowl,&rdquo; &ldquo;domestic drama,&rdquo; &ldquo;story of domestic
     intereet,&rdquo; &ldquo;or chronicle of small beer,&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Among his letters at breakfast-time came one which he had no sooner read
      than he flung on the table and went into a fury. Lucy sat aghast; then
      inquired in tender anxiety what was the matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Angry explanations are apt to be dark ones. &ldquo;It is a confounded shame&mdash;it
      is a trick, child&mdash;it is a do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! what is that, uncle? 'a do'?&mdash;'a do'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, 'a do.' He knew I hated figures; can't bear the sight of them, and
      the cursed responsibility of adding them up right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But who knew all this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He came over here bursting with health, and asked me to be one of his
      executors&mdash;mind, one. I consented on a distinct understanding I was
      never to be called upon to act. He was twenty years my junior, and like so
      much mahogany. It was just a form; I did it to soothe a man who called
      himself my friend, and set his mind at rest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, uncle dear, I don't understand even now. Can it be possible that a
      friend has abused your good nature?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little,&rdquo; with an angry sneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has he betrayed your confidence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hasn't he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh dear! What has he done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Died, that is all,&rdquo; snarled the victim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, uncle! Poor man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor man, no doubt. But how about poor me? Why, it turns out I am sole
      executor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, dear uncle, how could the poor soul help dying?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not candid, Lucy,&rdquo; said Mr. Fountain, severely. &ldquo;Did ever I say
      he could help dying? But he could help coming here under false colors, a
      mahogany face, and trapping his friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle, what is the use&mdash;your trying to play the misanthrope with me,
      who know how good you are, in spite of your pretenses to the contrary? To
      hide your emotion from your poor niece, you go into a feigned fury, and
      all the time you know how sorry you are your poor friend is gone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course I am. He has secured one mourner. He might have died to all
      eternity if he hadn't nailed me first. See how selfish men are, and
      bad-hearted into the bargain. I believe that young fellow had been to a
      doctor, and found out he was booked in spite of his mahogany cheeks; so
      then he rides out here and wheedles an unguarded friend&mdash;I'm wired&mdash;I'm
      trapped&mdash;I'm snared.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy set herself to soothe her injured relative. &ldquo;You must say to
      yourself, <i>'C'est un petit matheur.'&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell myself a falsehood? What shall I gain by that? Let me tell you, it
      is these minor troubles that send a man to Bedlam. One breeds another,
      till they swarm and buzz you distracted, and sting you dead. <i>'Petit
      maiheur!''</i> it is a greater one than you have ever encountered since you
      have been under <i>my</i> wing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is, dear, it is; but I hope to encounter much greater ones before I am
      your age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The deuce you do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or else I shall die without ever having lived&mdash;a vegetable, not a
      human being.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bombast! a 'flower' your lovers will call you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And men of sense a 'weed.' But don't let us discuss me. What I wish to
      know is the nature of your annoyance, dear.&rdquo; He explained to her with a
      groan that he should have to wind up all the affairs of an estate of 8,000
      pounds a year, pay the annual and other encumbrances, etc., etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, but, dear, you will be quite at home in this, you have such a turn
      for business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For my own,&rdquo; shrieked the old bachelor, angrily, &ldquo;not for other people's.
      Why, Lucy, there will be half a dozen separate accounts, all of four
      figures. It is not as if executors were paid. And why are they not paid?
      There ought to be a law compelling the estates they administer to pay
      them, and handsomely. It never occurred to me before, but now I see the
      monstrous iniquity of amateur executors, amateur trustees, amateur
      guardians. They take business out of the hands of those who live by
      business. I sincerely regret my share in this injustice. If a snob works,
      he always expects to be paid! how much more a gentleman. He ought to be
      paid double&mdash;once for the work, and once for giving up his natural
      ease. Here am I, guardian gratis to a cub of sixteen&mdash;the worst age&mdash;done
      school, and not begun Oxford and governesses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tutors, you mean.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I? Is it the tutors the whelps fall in love with, little goose? Stop;
      I'll describe my 'interesting charge,' as the books call it. He has hair
      you could not tell from tow. He has no eyebrows&mdash;a little unfledged
      slippery horror. He used to come in to dessert, and turn all our stomachs
      except his silly father's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor orphan!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you speak to him he never answers&mdash;blushes instead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor child!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has read of eloquent blushes, and thinks there is no need to reply in
      words&mdash;blushing must be such an interesting and effective
      substitute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor boy, he wants a little judicious kindness. We will have him here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; cried the old gentleman, with horror. &ldquo;What! make Font Abbey a
      kennel!!! No, Lucy, no, this house is sacred; no nuisances admitted here.
      Here, on this single spot of earth, reigns comfort, and shall reign
      unruffled while I live. This is the temple of peace. If I must be worried,
      I must, but not beneath this hallowed roof.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This eloquence, delivered as it was with a sudden solemnity, told upon the
      mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Font Abbey,&rdquo; murmured Lucy, half closing her eyes, &ldquo;how well you
      describe it! Societies of the cosey; the walls seem padded, the carpets
      velvet, and the whole structure care-proof; all is quiet gayety and sweet
      punctuality. Here comfort and good humor move by clock-work; that is Font
      Abbey. Yet you are right; if you were to be seen in it no more, it would
      lose the life of its charm, dear Uncle Fountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, my dear&mdash;thank you. I do like to see my friends about me
      comfortable, and, above all, to be comfortable myself. The place is well
      enough, and I am bitterly sorry I must leave it, and sorry to leave you,
      my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave us? not immediately?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This very day. Why, the funeral is to be this week&mdash;a grand funeral&mdash;and
      I have to order it all. Then there are relatives to be invited&mdash;thirty
      letters&mdash;others to be asked to the reading of the will. It will be
      one hurry-scurry till we get the house clear of the corpse and the
      vultures; then at it I must go, head-foremost, into fathomless addition&mdash;subtraction&mdash;multiplication,
      and vexation. 'Oh, now forever farewell, something or other&mdash;farewell
      content!' You talk of misanthropy. I shall end there. Lucy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never&mdash;do&mdash;a good-natured thing&mdash;but&mdash;I&mdash;bitterly&mdash;repent
      it. By Jupiter! the coffee is cold; the first time that has befallen me
      since I turned off seven servants that battled that point of comfort with
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy suggested that the coffee might have cooled a little while he was
      being so kind as to answer her question at unusual length. Then she came
      round to him bringing a fresh supply of fragrant slow poison, and sat
      beside him and soothed him till his ire went down, and came the calm
      depression of a man who, accustomed for many years to do just what he
      liked, found himself suddenly obliged to do something he did not like&mdash;a
      thing out of the groove of his habits too.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sure enough, he left Font Abbey the same day, with a promise, exacted by
      Lucy, that he should make her the partner of all his vexations by writing
      to her every day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, Lucy,&rdquo; said the old Parthian, as he stepped into his
      traveling-carriage, &ldquo;my friend Talboys will miss me; pray be kind to him
      while I am away. He is a particular friend of mine. I may be wrong, but I
      do like men of known origin&mdash;of old family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you are right. I will be kind to him for your sake, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A slight cold confined Lucy to the house for three or four days after her
      uncle's departure (by the by, I think this must have been the reason of
      David's ill success in his endeavors to get an interview with her out of
      doors).
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus circumstanced, ladies rummage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy found in a garret a chest containing a quantity of papers and
      parchments, and the beautifulest dust. No such dust is made in these
      degenerate days. Some of these MSS. bore recent dates, and were easily
      legible, though not so easily intelligible, being written as Gratiano
      spake.* The writers had omitted to put the idea'd words into red ink, so
      they had to be picked out with infinite difficulty from the multitude of
      unidea'd ones.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * &ldquo;Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing . . . . his
     reasons are as three grains of wheat in two bushels of
     chaff.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Other of the MSS., more ancient, wore a double veil. They hid their sense
      in verbiage, and also in narrow Germanifled letters, farther deformed by
      contractions and ornamental flourishes, whose joint effect made a word
      look like a black daddy-long-legs, all sprawling fantastic limbs and the
      body a dot.
    </p>
    <p>
      The perusal of these pieces was slow and painful; it was like walking or
      slipping about among broken ruins overgrown with nettles. But then Uncle
      Fountain was so anxious to hook on to the Flunkeys&mdash;oh, Ciel! what am
      I saying?&mdash;the Funteyns, and his direct genealogical evidence had so
      completely broken down. She said to herself, &ldquo;Oh dear! if I could find
      something among these old writings, and show it him on his return.&rdquo; She
      had them all dusted and brought down, and a table-cloth laid on a long
      table in the drawing-room, and spelled them with a good-humored patience
      that belonged partly to her character, partly to her sex. A female who
      undertakes this sort of work does not skip as we should; the habit of
      needle-work in all its branches reconciles that portion of mankind to
      invisible progress in other matters.
    </p>
    <p>
      Besides this, they are naturally careful, and, above all, born to endure,
      they carry patience into nearly all they do.*
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * At about the third rehearsal of a new play our actresses
     bring the author's words into their heads, our actors are
     still all abroad, and at the first performance the breaks-
     down are sure to be among the males; the female jumenta
     carry their burden (be it of pig-lead) safe from wing to
     wing.
</pre>
    <p>
      Lucy made her way manfully through all the well-written circumlocution,
      and in a very short time considering; but the antique [Greek] tried her
      eyes too much at night, so she gave nearly her whole day to it, for she
      was anxious to finish all before her uncle's return. It was a curious
      picture&mdash;Venus immersed in musty records.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day she had studied and spelled four mortal hours, when a visitor was
      suddenly announced&mdash;Miss Dodd. That young lady came briskly in at the
      heels of the servant and caught Lucy at her work. After the first
      greeting, her eye rested with such undisguised curiosity on the &ldquo;mouldy
      records&rdquo; that Lucy told her in general terms what she was trying to do for
      her uncle. &ldquo;La!&rdquo; said Eve, &ldquo;you will ruin your eye-sight; why not send
      them over to us? I will make David read them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And his eyesight?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, bless you, he has a knack at reading old writing. He has made a study
      of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I thought I was not presuming too far on Mr. Dodd's good nature, I
      would send one or two of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do; and I will make him draw up a paper of the contents; I have seen him
      at this sort of work before now. But there, la! I suppose you know it is
      all vanity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do it to please my poor uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And very good you are. But what the better will the poor old gentleman
      be? We are here to act our own part well; we can't ride up to heaven on
      our great-grandfather.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These maxims were somewhat coldly received, so Eve shifted her ground.
      &ldquo;After all, I don't know why I should be the one to say that, for my own
      name is older than your uncle's a pretty deal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy looked puzzled; then suddenly fancying she had caught Eve's meaning,
      she said: &ldquo;That is true. Hail mother of mankind!!&rdquo; and bowed her head with
      graceful reverence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eve stared and colored, not knowing what on earth her companion meant. I
      am afraid it must be owned that Eve steadily eschewed books and always
      had. What little book-learning she had came to her filtered through David,
      and by this channel she accepted it willingly, even sought it at odd
      times, when there was no bread, pudding, dress, theology, scandal, or fun
      going on. She turned it off by a sudden inquiry where Mr. Fountain was;
      &ldquo;they told me in the village he was away.&rdquo; Now several circumstances
      combined to make Lucy more communicative than usual. First, she had been
      studying hard; and, after long study, when a lively person comes to us, it
      is a great incitement to talk. Pitiful by nature, I spare you the &ldquo;bent
      bow.&rdquo; Secondly, she was a little anxious lest her uncle's sudden neglect
      should have mortified Miss Dodd, and a neutral topic handled at length
      tends to replace friendly feeling without direct and unpleasant
      explanations. She therefore answered every question in full; told her that
      her uncle had lost a dear friend; that he was executor and guardian to the
      poor boy, now entirely an orphan. Her uncle, with his usual zeal on behalf
      of his friends; had gone off at once, and doubtless would not return till
      he had fulfilled in every respect the wishes of the deceased.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this general sketch she added many details, suppressing the misanthropy
      Mr. Fountain had exhibited or affected at the first receipt of the
      intelligence.
    </p>
    <p>
      In short, angelic gossip. Earthly gossip always backbites, you know. Eve
      missed something somehow, no doubt the human or backbiting element; still,
      it was gossip, sacred gossip, far dearer than Shakespeare to the female
      heart, and Eve's eyes glowed with pleasure and her tongue plied eager
      questions.
    </p>
    <p>
      With all this, such instinctive artists are these delicate creatures, both
      these ladies were secretly in ambush, Lucy to learn whether Eve and David
      were hurt or surprised at not being invited of late, and why she and he
      had not called since; Eve to find out what was the cause David and she had
      been so suddenly dropped: was it Lucy's doing or whose?
    </p>
    <p>
      Each lady being bent on receiving, not on making revelations, nothing
      transpired on either side. Seeing this, Eve became impatient and made a
      bold move.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Fountain,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;you are all alone. I wish you would come over
      to us this evening and have tea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy did not immediately reply. Eve saw her hesitation. &ldquo;It is but a poor
      place,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;to ask you to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will come,&rdquo; said the lady, directly. &ldquo;I will come with great pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will seven be too early for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, I don't dine now my uncle is away. I call luncheon dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps, six, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray let me come at your usual hour. Why derange your family for one
      person?&rdquo; Six o'clock was settled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must take some of this rubbish with me,&rdquo; said Eve; &ldquo;come along, my
      dears&rdquo;; and with an ample and mock enthusiastic gesture she caught up an
      armful of manuscripts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The servant shall take them over for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, bother the servant; I am my own servant&mdash;if you will lend me a
      pin or two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy drew six pins out from different parts of her dress. Eve noticed
      this, but said nothing. She pinned up her apron so as to make an enormous
      pocket, and went gayly off with the &ldquo;spoils of time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that what you call being calm, David? Let me alone&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would, Eve; you would, for love of me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who knows? Perhaps I might. I am more indulgent than kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve, do tell me all. Is she well? does she come of her own good will?
      Dear Eve!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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'&mdash;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&mdash;you have launched
      your heart on a deeper ocean than ever your ship sailed on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      David now kept asking in an excited way what they could do for her. &ldquo;What
      could they get to do her honor? Wouldn't she miss the luxuries of her fine
      place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I will; we have none good enough for her here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, David, tea under the catalpa, as we always do on fine nights.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't mean that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David recognized her superiority, obeyed and vanished.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the sun fiery&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Fiddle, David,&rdquo; said Eve, loftily, and straightway a simple
      mellow tune rang sweetly on the cheerful chords&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      A bright, dreamy hour; the soul and senses floated gently in color,
      fragrance, melody, and great calm. &ldquo;Each sound seemed but an echo of
      tranquillity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;timidly at first&mdash;but in a way it
      never had expanded at Font Abbey.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Did he always drink tea out of doors?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On fine nights in summer. Eve settled all such matters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you not a voice?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a voice, but no vote. She is skipper ashore.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, is she? Who taught her how delicious it is to drink tea out of
      doors?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David did not know&mdash;fancied it was her own idea. &ldquo;Did you really like
      it, Miss Fountain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like it, Mr. Dodd! It was Elysium. I never passed a sweeter evening in my
      life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David colored all over. &ldquo;I wish I could believe that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it the tulip-tree, or the violin, or was it your conversation, Mr.
      Dodd, I wonder?&rdquo; asked she demurely, looking mock-innocent in his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was your goodness to be so easily pleased,&rdquo; said Dodd, with a gush
      that made her color. She smiled, however. &ldquo;Well, that is one way of
      looking at things,&rdquo; said she. <i>&ldquo;Entre nous,</i> I think Miss Dodd was
      the enchantress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve is capital company, for that matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will never want one to love you a thousand times better than a
      brother can love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, shan't I?&rdquo; said the lady, and opened her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; and there is more than one that worships the ground you tread on at
      this moment; but you know that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, do I?&rdquo; She opened her eyes still wider.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;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&mdash;a hundred times harder and
      higher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; And David reproached
      himself for his unkindness.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt Bazalgette!&rdquo; cried Lucy, turning pale; &ldquo;oh, aunt, what will become
      of us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it? then why not put me there?&rdquo; Lucy colored a little. &ldquo;I think mine
      would suit you better, dear, because it is larger and airier, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see. As you please; you know I never make difficulties.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how long have you been here, aunt?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About three hours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three hours, and not send for me! I was only in the village. Did no one
      tell you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mighty-fine! but the truth is, she came to Font Abbey to pry. She had
      heard a vague report about Lucy and a gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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, &ldquo;which Mr. Thomas says
      he didn't think his master would do it for the king, mum!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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&mdash;it is
      all the same to her&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     *The ladies of the bedchamber will embellish. After all, it
     is their business.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And there you don't agree with her, Jane?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, mum&mdash;being as we are alone&mdash;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&mdash;'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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Lucy, any lovers yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, aunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take care, Lucy, a little bird whispers in my ear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it is a humming-bird,&rdquo; and Lucy pouted. &ldquo;Now, aunt, did you really
      come to Font Abbey to tease me about such nonsense as&mdash;as&mdash;gentlemen?&rdquo;
       and Lucy looked hurt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here's an actress for you,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;MY DEAR NIECE&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is an interesting boy, and has none of the rudeness and
      mischievousness they generally have&mdash;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&mdash;you understand
      me, miss.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                              &ldquo;Your affectionate uncle,

                              &ldquo;JOHN FOUNTAIN.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;It
      must be mere prejudice,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;or why do I love them both?&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Oxen and wain-ropes would not haul
      them, together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last chance aided her&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now her heart quaked a little. &ldquo;But, after all, Uncle Fountain is a
      gentleman,&rdquo; thought she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Work! that alters the case. Let me see it.&rdquo; She took for granted it was
      some useful work&mdash;something that could be worn when done. &ldquo;What! is
      this it&mdash;these dirty parchments? Oh! I see; it is for that selfish
      old man; who but he would set a lady to parchments!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bad guess,&rdquo; cried Lucy, joyously. &ldquo;I found them myself, and set myself
      to work on them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
       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. &ldquo;How unkind I am!&rdquo; said Lucy
      to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;They
      make her dresses better than they do mine; they take more pains.&rdquo; At last
      she found one that was new to her, though Lucy had worn it several times
      at Font Abbey.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where did she get this, Jane?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Present from the old gentleman, mum; he had it down from London for her
      all at one time with this shawl and twelve puragloves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I <i>must</i> wear it an hour or two,&rdquo; said she.
      &ldquo;Besides, it will save my own, knocking about in these country lanes.&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your haunt is in the back garden, miss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Walking, or what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      John would make henquiries.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is reading, miss; and she is sitting on the seat master 'ad made for
      <i>you,</i> miss.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well: thank you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any more commands, miss?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at present.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Jeames is not
      such a fool as he looks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, miss.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My uncle has sent it back, then? He is not coming to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      John would inquire of the coachman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our narrative must take a step to the rear, as an excellent writer,
      Private &mdash;&mdash;* 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.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * &ldquo;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.&rdquo;&mdash;<i>Times.</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;You will see my niece&mdash;a charming young lady, who will be
      kind to you, and you must make friends with her. She is very accomplished&mdash;paints.
      She plays like an angel, too. Ah! there she is. She has got the gown on I
      gave her&mdash;a compliment to me&mdash;a very pretty attention, Arthur,
      the day of my return. What is she doing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Arthur, with his young eyes, settled this question. &ldquo;The lady is asleep.
      See, she has dropped her book.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Arthur,&rdquo; said the senior, making himself young to please the boy,
      and to show him that, if he looked old, he was not worn out, &ldquo;would you
      like a bit of fun? We will startle her&mdash;we'll give her a kiss.&rdquo;
       Arthur hung back irresolute, and his cheeks were dyed with blushes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not you, you young rogue; you are not her uncle.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How dare you? What is the meaning of this insult?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How came you here?&rdquo; was the reply, in an equally angry tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can't a lady come into your little misery of a garden without being
      outraged?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It isn't the garden&mdash;it is only the back garden,&rdquo; cried the
      proprietor of Font Hill; <i>&ldquo;(blesse)</i> I'll swear that is my niece's
      gown; so you've invaded that, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt Bazalgette&mdash;Uncle Fountain, it was my fault,&rdquo; sighed a piteous
      voice. This was Lucy, who had just come on the scene. &ldquo;Dear uncle, forgive
      me; it was I who invited her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy's pathetic tones, which were fast degenerating into sobs, were
      agreeably interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;a trait that takes us
      into many follies, but keeps us out of others&mdash;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. &ldquo;Now, Arthur,&rdquo; he whispered, &ldquo;take a lesson from a
      gentleman of the old school. I hate this she-devil; but this is at my
      house, so&mdash;observe.&rdquo; He then strutted jauntily and feebly up to Mrs.
      Bazalgette: &ldquo;Madam, my niece says you are her guest; but permit me to
      dispute her title to that honor.&rdquo; Mrs. Bazalgette smiled agreeably. She
      wanted to stay a day or two at Font Abbey. The senior flourished out his
      arm. &ldquo;Let me show you what <i>we</i> call the garden here.&rdquo; She took his
      arm graciously. &ldquo;I shall be delighted, sir [pompous old fool!].&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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. &ldquo;This brook is not mine, strictly
      speaking,&rdquo; said her host; &ldquo;I borrowed it of my neighbor.&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;What is to become of my
      cows?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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: <i>primo,</i>
      she had said &ldquo;no&rdquo; so often the word gave her a sense of fatigue; <i>secundo,</i>
      she liked variety, and thought a change for the worse must be better than
      no change at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;none the worse,&rdquo; his
      own comment. These things could be done in the country&mdash;<i>jadis.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      It cost Mrs. Bazalgette a struggle to admire the garden and borrowed
      stream&mdash;they were so pretty. She made the struggle and praised all.
      Lucy, walking behind the pair, watched them with innocent satisfaction.
      &ldquo;How fast they are making friends,&rdquo; thought she, mistaking an armistice
      for an alliance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since the place is so fortunate as to please you, you will stay a week
      with me, madam, at least.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A week! No, Mr. Fountain; I really admire your courtesy too much to abuse
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all; you will oblige me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot bring myself to think so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may believe me. I have a selfish motive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, if you are in earnest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will explain. If you are my guest for a week, that will give me a claim
      to be yours in turn.&rdquo; And he bent a keen look upon the lady, as much as to
      say, &ldquo;Now I shall see whether you dare let me spy on you as you are doing
      on me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I propose an amendment,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, with a merry air of
      defiance: &ldquo;for every day I enjoy here you must spend two beneath my roof.
      On this condition, I will stay a week at Font Abbey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I consent,&rdquo; said Mr. Fountain, a little sharply. He liked the bargain. &ldquo;I
      must leave you to Lucy for a minute; I have some orders to give. I like <i>my</i>
      guests to be comfortable.&rdquo; With this he retired to his study and pondered.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; He then wrote a note to Talboys,
      telling him there was a guest at Font Abbey, a disagreeable woman, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; He sent this off by a servant, then
      pondered again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody at all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought you would perhaps not care to have our tete-a-tete interrupted
      yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but I should like to explore the natives too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will give uncle a hint, dear.&rdquo; The hint was given very delicately, but
      the malicious senior had a perverse construction ready immediately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So this is her mighty affection for you. Can't get through two days
      without strangers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle,&rdquo; said Lucy, imploringly, &ldquo;she is so used to society, and she has
      me all day; we ought to give her some little amusement at night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, for her to flirt with?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; he is a handsome fellow; he will serve her turn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For shame, uncle; what would Mr. Bazalgette say? Poor aunt, she is a
      coquette now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And has been this twenty years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now I was thinking&mdash;Mr. Talboys?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Talboys is not at home; she must be content with lower game. She shall
      bring down David.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy hesitated. &ldquo;I don't think she will like Mr. Dodd, and I am sure he
      will not like her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can you know that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is so honest. He will not understand a woman of the world and her
      little in&mdash;sin&mdash;No, I don't mean that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if he does not understand her he may like her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt, he has made me ask the Dodds to tea, and I am afraid you will not
      like them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if I don't we must try some more natives to-morrow. Who are they?&rdquo;
       Lucy told her. &ldquo;Pretty people to ask to meet me,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;Well, you
      managed nicely; it was your business to make friends with that lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With all my heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why didn't you do what she bid you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She gave me no orders that I heard,&rdquo; said the literal first mate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She gave you a plain hint, though.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To do what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To do what? stupid! Why, to make love to her, to be sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, she is a married woman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If she chooses to forget that, is it your business to remember it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if she was single, and the loveliest in the world, how could I court
      her when my heart is full of an angel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If your heart is full, your head is empty. Why, you see nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't see why I should belie my heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;don't slobber <i>me.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are such a dear girl to fight for me so a little against your
      judgment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David was cheered by this gracious revelation.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;a pleasing phenomenon, though somewhat
      unintelligible to this honest fellow, who had never microscoped the
      enigmatical sex.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette reproached Lucy: &ldquo;You never told me how handsome Mr. Dodd
      was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn't I?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. He is the handsomest man I ever saw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not observed that, but I think he is one of the worthiest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should not wonder,&rdquo; said the other lady, carelessly. &ldquo;It is clear you
      don't appreciate him here. You half apologized to me for inviting him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was because you are such a fashionable lady, and the Dodds have no
      such pretensions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Dodd is very natural too&mdash;is she not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very. Pertness and vulgarity are natural enough&mdash;to some people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My uncle likes her the best of the two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But surely, aunt, she is very arch and lively.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pert and fussy, you mean.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretty, at all events? Rather?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, with that snub nose!!?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy offered to invite other neighbors; Mrs. Bazalgette replied she didn't
      want to be bothered with rurality. &ldquo;You can ask Captain Dodd, if you like;
      there is no need to invite the sister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, I must; my uncle likes her the best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But <i>I</i> don't; and I am only here for a day or two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Dodd would be hurt. It would be unkind&mdash;discourteous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no. She watches him all the time like a little dragon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <i>&ldquo;Apres?</i> We have no sinister designs on Mr. Dodd, have we?&rdquo; and
      something unusually keen flashed upon Aunt Bazalgette out of the tail of
      the quiet Lucy's eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette looked cross. &ldquo;Nonsense, Lucy; so tiresome! Can't we have
      an agreeable person without tacking on a disagreeable one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt,&rdquo; said Lucy, pathetically, &ldquo;ask me anything else in the world, but
      don't ask me to be rude, for <i>I can't.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, you are bound to entertain her, since she is your choice, and
      leave me mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy acquiesced softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd seems to appreciate my aunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you think it is rather the other way?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is an insidious question, Miss Dodd. I shall make no admissions; but
      I warn you she is a very fascinating woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My brother is greatly admired by the ladies, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, since I praised my champion, you have a right to praise yours. But he
      will get the worst in that little encounter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why so?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because my sprightly aunt forgets the very names of her conquests when
      once she has thoroughly made them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She will never make this one; my brother carries an armor against
      coquettes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, indeed; and pray what may that be?&rdquo; inquired Lucy, a little
      quizzingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A true and deep attachment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
      &ldquo;I think you said your brother was engaged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I misunderstood you, then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; Eve uttered this monosyllable so dryly that Lucy drew back, and
      immediately turned the conversation into chit-chat.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      David came to Eve one morning with parchments in his hand and a merry
      smile. &ldquo;Eureka!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're another,&rdquo; said Eve, as quick as lightning, and upon speculation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have made Mr. Fountain's pedigree out,&rdquo; explained David.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't say so! won't he be pleased?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Do you think <i>she</i> will be pleased?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hardly. I have my own weaknesses, my lass; I've no need to adopt another
      man's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;Solomon, I mean&mdash;no, you shall keep this discovery back
      awhile; it may be wanted.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens, Eve, what cunning!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! no! no! no! no! If you leave the helm I shall go ashore directly&rdquo;&mdash;dismay
      of David; grim satisfaction of his imp.
    </p>
    <p>
      This matter settled, David asked Eve if she did not think Master Nelson
      (Mr. Fountain's new ward) was a very nice boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; and I see he has taken a wonderful fancy to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Eve was a little cross.
      David only laughed at her; but he hesitated about making a school-house of
      Font Abbey&mdash;it would look like intruding.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh! nonsense,&rdquo; said Eve; &ldquo;they will only be too glad to take advantage
      of your good-nature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is an orphan,&rdquo; said David, doggedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, the lesson was given at Font Abbey, and after it Master Nelson
      came bounding into the drawing-room to the ladies.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Arthur,&rdquo; said Lucy, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I have spoken to my guardian about it, and he was <i>so</i> pleased.
      He said that would save him a mathematical tutor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, then,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, &ldquo;Mr. Dodd is to teach mathematics
      gratis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend is a gentleman,&rdquo; was the timid reply. (Juveniles have a
      pomposity all their own, and exquisitely delicious.*) &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
       Mr. Arthur then relaxed his severity, and, condescending once more to the
      familiar, added: &ldquo;And he has made me a kite on mathematical principles&mdash;such
      a whacker&mdash;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&mdash;a knot means a mile, Lucy&mdash;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&mdash;will you? Oh
      yes! do come!&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Read the Oxford Essays.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse us, dear,&rdquo; said Lucy in the same breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Lucy,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, &ldquo;am I wrong about your uncle's
      selfishness! I have tried in vain ever since I came here to make you see
      it where <i>you</i> were the only sufferer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not quite in vain, aunt,&rdquo; said Lucy sadly; &ldquo;you have shown me defects in
      my poor uncle that I should never have discovered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette smiled grimly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only, as you hate him, and I love him, and always mean to love him,
      permit me to call his defects 'thought-lessness.' <i>You</i> can apply the
      harsh term 'selfish-ness' to the most good-natured, kind, indulgent&mdash;oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! ha! Don't cry, you silly girl. Thoughtless? a calculating old goose,
      who is eternally aiming to be a fox&mdash;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 <i>thought-less-ness</i>
      in getting a tutor gratis? Poor Mr. Dodd!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will answer for it, it is a pleasure to Mr. Dodd to be of service to
      his little friend,&rdquo; said Lucy, warmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you know a bore is a pleasure to Mr. Dodd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Lucy, what did you say to Arthur just now. You are contradicting <i>yourself.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a love of opposition I must have. Are you not tired of in-doors?
      Shall we go into the village?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I exhausted the village yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The garden?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, suppose we sketch the church together. There is a good
      light.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Let us go on the downs, Lucy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, aunt, it&mdash;it is a long walk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All the better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we said 'No.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has that to do with it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Oh, bother!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: <i>would</i> be put down, <i>would</i> walk, possible or
      not; <i>would</i> 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?
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy and Arthur walked behind. Arthur sighed. Lucy was <i>reveuse.</i>
      Arthur broke silence first. &ldquo;Lucy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When is she going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Arthur, for shame! I won't tell you. To-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucy,&rdquo; said Arthur, with a depth of feeling, &ldquo;she spoils everything!!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Next morning &mdash;&mdash; <i>come back?</i> What for? <i>I will have the
      goodness to tell you what she said in his ear?</i> Why, nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>You are a female reader?</i> Oh! that alters the case. To attempt to
      deceive you would be cowardly, immoral; it would fail. She sighed, &ldquo;My
      preserver!&rdquo; at which David had much ado not to laugh in her face. Then she
      murmured still more softly, &ldquo;You must come and see me at my home before
      you sail&mdash;will you not? I insist&rdquo; (in the tone of a supplicant),
      &ldquo;come, promise me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I will&mdash;with pleasure,&rdquo; said David, flushing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mind, it is a promise. Put me down. Lucy, come here and make him put me
      down. I <i>will not</i> be a burden to my friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THAT same evening, Mrs. Bazalgette, being alone with Lucy in the
      drawing-room, put her arm round that young lady's waist, and lovingly, not
      seriously, as a man might have been apt to do, reminded her of her
      honorable promise&mdash;not to be caught in the net of matrimony at Font
      Abbey. Lucy answered, without embarrassment, that she claimed no merit for
      keeping her word. No one had had the ill taste to invite her to break it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are either very sly or very blind,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Bazalgette, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt!&rdquo; said Lucy, piteously.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette, who, by many a subtle question and observation during the
      last week, had satisfied herself of Lucy's innocence, now set to work and
      laid Uncle Fountain bare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not speak in a hurry, Lucy; a hint came round to me a fortnight ago
      that you had an admirer here, and it turns out to be this Mr. Talboys.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Talboys?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Does that surprise you? Do you think a young gentleman would come to
      Font Abbey three nights in a week without a motive?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy reflected.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all over the place that you two are engaged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy colored, and her eyes flashed with something very like anger, but she
      held her peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask Jane else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! take my servant into my confidence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, there is a way of setting that sort of people chattering without
      seeming to take any notice. To tell the truth, I have done it for you. It
      is all over the village, and all over the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The proper person to ask must have been Uncle Fountain himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As if he would have told me the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is a gentleman, aunt, and would not have uttered a falsehood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doctrine of chivalry! He would have uttered half a dozen in one minute.
      Besides, why should I question a person I can read without. Your uncle,
      with his babyish cunning that everybody sees through, has given me the
      only proof I wanted. He has not had Mr. Talboys here once since I came.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cunning little aunt! Mr. Talboys happens not to be at home; uncle told me
      so himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Simple little niece, uncle told you a fib; Mr. Talboys is at home. And
      observe! until I came to Font Abbey, he was here three times a week. You
      admit that. I come; your uncle knows I am not so unobservant as you, and
      Mr. Talboys is kept out of sight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The proof that my uncle has deceived me,&rdquo; said Lucy, coldly, and with
      lofty incredulity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Read that note from Miss Dodd!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you in correspondence with Miss Dodd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is to say, she has thrust herself into correspondence with me&mdash;just
      like her assurance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The letter ran thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;DEAR MADAM&mdash;My brother requests me to say that, in compliance with
      your request, he called at the lodge of Talboys Park, and the people
      informed him Mr. Talboys had not left Talboys Park at all since Easter. I
      remain yours, etc.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy was dumfounded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suspected something, Lucy, so I asked Mr. Dodd to inquire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a singular commission to send him on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he takes long walks&mdash;cruises, he calls them&mdash;and he is so
      good-natured. Well, what do you think of your uncle's veracity now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy was troubled and distressed, but she mastered her countenance: &ldquo;I
      think he has sacrificed it for once to his affection for me. I fear you
      are right; my eyes are opened to many circumstances. But do&mdash;oh, pray
      do!&mdash;see his goodness in all this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The goodness of a story-teller.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He admires Mr. Talboys&mdash;he reveres him. No doubt he wished to secure
      his poor niece what he thinks a great match, and now you assign ill
      motives to him. Yes, I confess he has deviated from truth. Cruel! cruel!
      what can you give me in exchange if you rob me of my esteem for those I
      love!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This innocent distress, with its cause, were too deep for a lady whose
      bright little intelligence leaned toward cunning rather than wisdom. In
      spite of her niece's trouble, and the brimming eyes that implored
      forbearance, she drove the sting, merrily in again and again, till at last
      Lucy, who was not defending herself, but an absent friend, turned a little
      suddenly on her and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you think he says nothing against you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he is a backbiter, too, is he? I didn't know he had that vice. Ah!
      and, pray, what can he find to say against me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, people that hate one another can always find something ill-natured to
      say,&rdquo; retorted Lucy, with a world of meaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette turned red, and her little nose went up into the air at an
      angle of forty-five. She said, with majestic disdain: &ldquo;I don't hate the
      man&mdash;I don't condescend to hate him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then don't condescend to backbite him, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This home-thrust, coming from such a quarter, took away my Lady Disdain's
      very breath. She sat transfixed; then, upon reflection, got up a tear, and
      had to be petted.
    </p>
    <p>
      This sweet lady departed, flinging down her firebrand on those hospitable
      boards.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy, though she had defended her uncle, was not a little vexed that he
      had managed matters so as to get her talked of with Mr. Talboys. Her
      natural modesty and reserve prevented her from remonstrating; nor was
      there any positive necessity. She was one of those young ladies who seem
      born mistresses of the art of self-defense. Deriving the art not from
      experience, but from instinct, they are as adroit at seventeen as they are
      at twenty-seven; so a last year's bird constructs her first nest as
      cunningly as can a veteran feathered architect.
    </p>
    <p>
      Therefore, without a grain of discourtesy or tangible ill-temper, she
      quietly froze, and a small family with her, they could not tell how or
      why, for they had never even suspected this girl's power. You would have
      seemed to them as one that mocketh had you told them they owed their
      gayety, their good-humor, their happiness, and their conversational powers
      to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of these Talboys suffered the most. She brought him to a stand-still by a
      very simple process. She no longer patted or spurred him. To vary the
      metaphor, a man that has no current must be stirred or stagnate; Lucy's
      light hand stirred Talboys no more; Talboys stagnated. Mr. Fountain
      suffered next in proportion. He began to find that something was the
      matter, but what he had no idea. He did not observe that, though Lucy
      answered him as kindly as ever, she did not draw him out as heretofore,
      far less that she was vexed with him, and on her guard against him and
      everybody, like a <i>maitresse d'armes.</i> No. &ldquo;The days were drawing in.
      The air was heavy; no carbon in it. Wind in the east again!!!&rdquo; etc. So
      subtle is the influence of these silly little creatures upon creation's
      lords.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys did not take delicate hints. He continued his visits three
      times a week, and the coast was kept clear for him. On this Miss Fountain
      proceeded to overt acts of war. She brought a champion on the scene&mdash;a
      terrible champion&mdash;a champion so irresistible that I set any woman
      down as a coward who lets him loose upon a sex already so unequal to the
      contest as ours. What that champion's real name is I have in vain
      endeavored to discover, but he is <i>called</i> &ldquo;Headache.&rdquo; When this
      terrible ally mingled in the game&mdash;on the Talboys nights&mdash;dismay
      fell upon the wretched males that abode in and visited the once cheerful,
      cozy Font Abbey. Messrs. Fountain and Talboys put their heads together in
      grave, anxious consultations, and Arthur vented a yell of remonstrance. He
      found the lady one afternoon preparing indisposition. She was leaning
      languidly back, and the fire was dying out of her eye, and the color out
      of her cheek, and the blinds were drawn down. The poor boy burst in upon
      this prologue. &ldquo;Oh, Lucy,&rdquo; he cried, in piteous, foreboding tones, &ldquo;don't
      go and have a headache to-night. It was so jolly till you took to these <i>stupid</i>
      headaches.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am so sorry, Arthur,&rdquo; said Lucy, apologetically, but at bottom she was
      inexorable. The disease reached its climax just before dinner. All
      remedies failed, and there was nothing for it but to return to her own
      room, and read the last new tale of domestic interest&mdash;and principle&mdash;until
      sleep came to her relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      After dinner Arthur shot out with the retiring servants, and interred
      himself in the study, where he sought out with care such wild romances as
      give entirely false views of life, and found them, &ldquo;and so shut up in
      measureless content.&rdquo;&mdash;Macbeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The seniors consulted at their ease. They both appreciated the painful
      phenomenon, but they differed <i>toto coelo</i> as to the cause. Mr.
      Fountain ascribed it to the somber influence of Mrs. Bazalgette, and
      miscalled her, till Jane's hair stood on end: she happened to be the one
      at the keyhole that night. Mr. Talboys laid all the blame on David Dodd.
      The discussion was vigorous, and occupied more than two hours, and each
      party brought forward good and plausible reasons; and, if neither made any
      progress toward converting the other, they gained this, at least, that
      each corroborated himself. Now Mrs. Bazalgette was gone no direct
      reprisals on her were possible. Registering a vow that one day or other he
      would be even with her, the senior consented, though not very willingly,
      to co-operate with his friend against an imaginary danger. In answer to
      his remark that the Dodds were never invited to tea now, Mr. Talboys had
      replied: &ldquo;But I find from Mr. Arthur he visits the house every day on the
      pretense of teaching him mathematics&mdash;a barefaced pretense&mdash;a
      sailor teach mathematics!&rdquo; Mr. Fountain had much ado to keep his temper at
      this pertinacity in a jealous dream. He gulped his ire down, however, and
      said, somewhat sullenly: &ldquo;I really cannot consent to send my poor friend's
      son to the University a dunce, and there is no other mathematician near.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I find you one,&rdquo; said Talboys, hastily, &ldquo;will you relieve Mr. Dodd of
      his labors, and me of his presence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; said the other. Poor David!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then there is my friend Bramby. He is a second wrangler. He shall take
      Arthur, and keep him till Miss Fountain leaves us. Bramby will refuse me
      nothing. I have a living in my gift, and the incumbent is eighty-eight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The senior consented with a pitying smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bramby will take him next week,&rdquo; said Talboys, severely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain nodded his head. It was all the assent he could effect: and
      at that moment there passed through him the sacrilegious thought that the
      Conqueror must have imported an ass or two among his other forces, and
      that one of these, intermarrying with Saxon blood, had produced a mule,
      and that mule was his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      The same uneasy jealousy, which next week was to expel David from Font
      Abbey, impelled Mr. Talboys to call the very next day at one o'clock to
      see what was being done under cover of trigonometry. He found Mr. and Miss
      Fountain just sitting down to luncheon. David and Arthur were actually
      together somewhere, perhaps going through the farce of geometry. He was
      half vexed at finding no food for his suspicions. Presently, so spiteful
      is chance, the door opened, and in marched Arthur and David.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have made him stay to luncheon for once,&rdquo; said Arthur; &ldquo;he couldn't
      refuse me; we are to part so soon.&rdquo; Arthur got next to Lucy, and had David
      on his left. Mr. Talboys gave Mr. Fountain a look, and very soon began to
      play his battery upon David.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you naval officers find time to learn geometry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? don't you know it is a part of our education, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never heard that before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is odd; but perhaps you have spent all your life ashore&rdquo; (this in
      commiserating accents). David then politely explained to Mr. Talboys that
      a man who looked one day to command a ship must not only practice
      seamanship, but learn navigation, and that navigation was a noble art
      founded on the exact sciences as well as on practical experiences; that
      there did still linger upon the ocean a few of the old captains, who, born
      at a period when a ship, in making a voyage, used to run down her
      longitude first, and then begin to make her latitude, could handle a ship
      well, and keep her off a lee shore <i>if they saw it in time,</i> but
      were, in truth, hardly to be trusted to take her from port to port. &ldquo;We
      get a word with these old salts now and then when we are becalmed
      alongside, and the questions they put make us quite feel for them. Then
      they trust entirely to their instruments. They can take an observation,
      but they can't verify one. They can tack her and wear her (I have seen
      them do one when they should have done the other), and they can read the
      sky and the water better than we young ones; and while she floats they
      stick to her, and the greater the danger the louder the oaths&mdash;but
      that is all.&rdquo; He then assured them with modest fervor that much more than
      that was expected of the modern commander, particularly in the two capital
      articles of exact science and gentlemanly behavior. He concluded with
      considerable grace by apologizing for his enthusiastic view of a
      profession that had been too often confounded with the faults of its
      professors&mdash;faults that were curable, and that they would all, he
      hoped, live long enough to see cured. Then, turning to Miss Fountain, he
      said: &ldquo;And if I began by despising my business, and taking a small view of
      it, how should I ever hold sticks with my able competitors, who study it
      with zeal and admiration?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy. &ldquo;I don't quite understand all you have said, Mr. Dodd, but that last
      I think is unanswerable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fountain. &ldquo;I am sure of it. As the Duke of Wellington said the other day
      in the House of Lords, 'That is a position I defy any noble lord to
      assault with success'&mdash;haw! ho!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys averted his attack. &ldquo;Pray, sir,&rdquo; said he, with a sneer, &ldquo;may I
      ask, have nautical commanders a particular taste for education as well as
      science?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not that I know of. If you mean me, I am hungry to learn, and I find few
      but what can teach me something, and what little I know I am willing to
      impart, sir; give and take.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the direction of your teaching that seems to me so singular.
      Mathematics are horrible enough, and greatly to be avoided.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is news to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On <i>terra firma,</i> I mean.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this opening of the case Talboys versus Newton, Arthur shrugged his
      shoulders to Lucy and David, and went swiftly out as from the presence of
      an idiot. It was abominably rude. But, besides being ill-natured and a
      little shallow, Mr. Talboys was drawling out his words, and Arthur was
      sixteen&mdash;candid epoch, at which affectation in man or woman is
      intolerable to us; we get a little hardened to it long before sixty. Mr.
      Talboys bit his lip at this boyish impertinence, but he was too proud a
      man to notice it otherwise than by quietly incorporating the offender into
      his satire. &ldquo;But the enigma is why you read them with a stripling, of
      whose breeding we have just had a specimen&mdash;mathematics with a
      hob-ba-de-hoy? <i>Grand Dieu!</i> Do pray tell us, Mr. Dodd, why you come
      to Font Abbey every day; is it really to teach Master Orson mathematics
      and manners?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David did not sink into the earth as he was intended to.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I come to teach him algebra and geometry, what little I know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But your motive, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David looked puzzled, Lucy uneasy at seeing her guest badgered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask Miss Fountain why she thinks I do my best for Arthur,&rdquo; said David,
      lowering his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Talboys colored and looked at Fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it must be out of pure goodness,&rdquo; said Lucy, sweetly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys ignored her calmly. &ldquo;Pray enlighten us, Mr. Dodd. Now what is
      the real reason you walk a mile every day to do mathematics with that
      interesting and well-behaved juvenile?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very curious, sir,&rdquo; said David, grimly, his ire rising unseen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am&mdash;on this point.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, since you must be told what most men could see without help, it is&mdash;because
      he is an orphan; and because an orphan finds a brother in every man that
      is worth the shoe-leather he stands in. Can ye read the riddle now, ye
      lubber?&rdquo; and David started up haughtily, and, with contempt and wrath on
      his face, marched through the open window and joined his little friend on
      the lawn, leaving Fountain red with anger and Talboys white.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next thing was, Lucy rose and went quietly out of the room by the
      door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the last time he shall set his foot within my door. Provoking cub!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are convinced at last that he is a dangerous rival?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A rival? Nonsense and stuff!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why was she so agitated? She went out with tears in her eyes: I saw
      them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The poor girl was frightened, no doubt. We don't have fracases at Font
      Abbey. On this one spot of earth comfort reigns, and balmy peace, and
      shall reign unruffled while I live. The passions are not admitted here,
      sir. Gracious Heaven forbid! I'd as soon see a bonfire in the middle of my
      dining-room as Jealousy &amp; Co.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case you had better exclude the cause.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The cause is your imagination, my good friend; but I will give it no
      handle. I will exclude David Dodd until she has accepted you in form.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With this understanding the friends parted.
    </p>
    <p>
      After dinner that same day Arthur sat in the drawing-room with Lucy. He
      was reading, she working placidly. She looked off her work demurely at him
      several times. He was absorbed in a flighty romance. &ldquo;I have dropped my
      worsted, Arthur. It is by you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Arthur picked the ball up and brought it to her; then back to his romance,
      heart and soul. Another sidelong glance at him; then, after a long
      silence, &ldquo;Your book seems very interesting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll fling it against the wall if it does not mind,&rdquo; was the infuriated
      reply. &ldquo;Here are two fools quarreling, page after page, and can't see, or
      won't see, what everybody else can see, that it is an absurd
      misunderstanding. One word of common sense would put it all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why not put the book down and talk to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't. It won't let me. I must see how long the two fools will go on
      not seeing what everybody else sees.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will not the number of volumes tell you that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Signorina, don't you try to be satirical!&rdquo; said the sprightly youth;
      &ldquo;you'll only make a mess of it. What is the use dropping one drop of
      vinegar into such a great big honey pot?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a saucy boy,&rdquo; retorted Lucy, in tones of gentle approbation.
    </p>
    <p>
      A long silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Arthur, will you hold this skein for me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Arthur groaned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, dear. I will try and manage with a chair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No you won't, now; there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The victim was caught by the hands. But with fatal instinctive
      perverseness he sat in silent amazement watching Lucy's supple white hand
      disentangling impossibilities instead of chattering as he was intended to.
      Lucy gave a little sigh. Here was a dreadful business&mdash;obliged to
      elicit the information she had resolved should be forced upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the by, Arthur,&rdquo; said she, carelessly, &ldquo;did Mr. Dodd say anything to
      you on the lawn?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About what was said after you went out so ru&mdash;so suddenly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; why? what was said? Something about me? Tell me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, dear; as Mr. Dodd did not mention it, it is not worth while. You
      must not move your hands, please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Lucy, that is too bad. It is not fair to excite one's curiosity and
      then stop directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it is nothing. Mr. Talboys teased Mr. Dodd a little, that is all, and
      Mr. Dodd was not so patient as I have seen him on like occasions. There,
      <i>you</i> are disentangled at last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, signorina, let us talk sense. Tell me, which do you like best of all
      the gentlemen that come here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, dear; only keep your hands still.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None of your chaff, Lucy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chaff! what is that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Flattery, then. I hope it isn't that affected fool Talboys, for I hate
      hun.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot undertake to share your prejudices, Mr. Arthur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you actually like him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't dislike him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I pity your taste, that is all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Talboys has many good qualities; and if he was what you describe him,
      Uncle Fountain would not prize him as he does.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is something in that, Lucy; but I think my guardian and you are mad
      upon just that one point. Talboys is a fool and a snob.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Arthur,&rdquo; said Lucy, severely, &ldquo;if you speak so of my uncle's friends, you
      and I shall quarrel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't quarrel just now, if you can help it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won't I, though? Why not, pray?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because your skein is not wound yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you little black-hearted thing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know human nature, miss,&rdquo; said the urchin, pompously; &ldquo;I have read Miss
      Edgeworth!!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then made an appeal to her candor and good sense. &ldquo;Now don't you see my
      friend Mr. Dodd is worth them all put together?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't quite see that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is so noble, so kind, so clever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must own he is a trifle brusk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never. And, if he is, that is not like hurting people's feelings on
      purpose, and saying nasty, ill-natured things wrapped up in politeness
      that you daren't say out like a man, or you'd get kicked. He is a
      gentleman inside; that Talboys is only one outside; but you girls can't
      look below the surface.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have not read Miss Edgeworth. His hands are not so white as Mr.
      Talboys'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor his liver, either&mdash;oh, you goose! Which has the finest eyes?
      Why, you don't see such eyes as Mr. Dodd's every day. They are as large as
      yours, only his are dark.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be angry, dear. You must admit his voice is very loud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He can make it loud, but it is always low and gentle whenever he speaks
      to you. I have noticed that; so that is monstrous ungrateful of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, the skein is wound. Arthur!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a great mind to tell you something your friend Mr. Dodd said while
      you were out of the room&mdash;but no, you shall finish your story first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no; hang the story!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you only say that out of politeness. I have taken you from it so long
      already.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The impetuous boy jumped up, seized the volumes, dashed out, and presently
      came running back, crying: &ldquo;There, I have thrown them behind the bookcase
      for ever and ever. Now will you tell me what he said?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy smiled triumphantly. She could relish a bloodless victory over an
      inanimate rival. Then she said softly, &ldquo;Arthur, what I am going to tell
      you is in confidence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will be torn in pieces before I betray it,&rdquo; said the young chevalier.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy smiled at his extravagance, then began again very gravely: &ldquo;Mr.
      Talboys, who, with many good qualities, has&mdash;what shall I say?&mdash;narrow
      and artificial views compared with your friend&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! now you are talking sense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why interrupt me, dear?&mdash;began teasing him, and wanting to know
      the real reason he comes here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The real reason? What did the fool mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can I tell, Arthur, any more than you? Mr. Dodd evidently thought
      that some slur was meant on the purity of his friendship for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shame! shame! oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw his anger rising; for Mr. Dodd, though not irritable, is passionate&mdash;at
      least I think so. I tried to smooth matters. But no; Mr. Talboys persisted
      in putting this ungenerous question, when all of a sudden Mr. Dodd burst
      out, 'You wish to know why I love Arthur? Because he is an orphan; and
      because an orphan finds a brother in every man who is worth the
      shoe-leather he stands in. That is all the riddle, you lubber!!' It was
      terribly rude; but oh! Arthur, I must tell you your friend looked noble;
      he seemed to swell and rise to a giant as he spoke, and we all felt such
      little shrimps around him; and his lip trembled, and fire flashed from his
      eyes. How you would have admired him then; and he swept out of the room,
      and left us for his little friend, who is worthy of it all, since he
      stands up for him against us all. Arthur! why, he is crying! poor child!
      and do you think those words did not go to <i>my</i> heart as well? I am
      an orphan, too. Arthur, don't cry, love! oh! oh! oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Oh, magic of a word from a great heart! Such a word, uncouth and simple,
      but hot from a manly bosom, pierced silk and broadcloth as if they had
      been calico and fustian, and made a fashionable young lady and a bold
      school-boy take hands and cry together. But such sweet tears dry quickly;
      they dry almost as they flow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo!&rdquo; cried the mercurial prince; &ldquo;a sudden thought strikes me. You
      kept running him down a minute ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me?&rdquo; said Lucy, with a look of amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you know you did. Now tell me what was that for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To give you the pleasure of defending him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh. Hum? Lucy, you are not quite so simple as the others think; sometimes
      I can't make you out myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible? Well, you know what to do, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, read Miss Edgeworth over again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      ARTHUR was bundled off to a private tutor, and the Dodds invited to Font
      Abbey no more, and Talboys dined there three days a week. So far, David
      Dodd was in a poor and miserable position compared with Talboys, who
      visited Lucy at pleasure, and could close the very street door against a
      rival, real or imaginary. But the street door is not the door of the
      heart, and David had one little advantage over his powerful antagonist; it
      was a slender one, and he owed it to a subtle source&mdash;female tact.
      His sister had long been aware of Talboys. The gossip of the village had
      enlightened her as to his visits and supposed pretensions. She had
      deliberately withheld this information from her brother, for she said to
      herself: &ldquo;Men always make <i>such</i> fools of themselves when they are
      jealous. No. David shan't even know he has got a rival; if he did he would
      be wretched and live on thorns, and then he would get into passions, and
      either make a fool of himself in her eyes, or do something rash and be
      shown to the door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus far Eve, defending her brother. And with this piece of shrewdness she
      did a little more for him than she intended or was conscious of; for
      Talboys, either by feeble calculation or instinct of petty rivalry,
      constantly sneered at David before Lucy; David never mentioned Talboys'
      name to her. Now superior ignores, inferior detracts. Thus Talboys lowered
      himself and rather elevated David; moreover, he counteracted his own
      strongest weapon, the street door. After putting David out of sight, this
      judicious rival could not let him fade out of mind too; he found means to
      stimulate the lady's memory, and, as far as in him lay, made the absent
      present. May all my foes unweave their webs as cleverly! David knew
      nothing of this. He saw himself shut out from Paradise, and he was sad. He
      felt the loss of Arthur too. The orphan had been medicine to him. When a
      man is absorbed in a hopeless passion, to be employed every day in a good
      action has a magical soothing influence on the racked heart. Try this
      instead of suicide, despairing lover. It is a quack remedy; no M. D.
      prescribes it. Never you mind; in desperate ills a little cure is worth a
      deal of etiquette. Poor David had lost this innocent comfort&mdash;lost,
      too, the pleasure of going every day to the house she lived in. To be
      sure, when he used to go he seldom caught a glimpse of her, but he did now
      and then, and always enjoyed the hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see how it is,&rdquo; said he to Eve one day; &ldquo;I am not welcome to the master
      of the house. Well, he is the master; I shall not force my way where I am
      not welcome&rdquo;; but after these spirited words he hung his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nonsense,&rdquo; said Eve. &ldquo;It isn't him. There are mischief-makers
      behind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay? just you tell me who they are. I'll teach them to come across my
      hawse&rdquo;; and David's eyes flashed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you be silly,&rdquo; said Eve, and turned it off; &ldquo;and don't be so
      downhearted. Why, you are not half a man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more I am, Eve. What has come to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, indeed? just when everything goes swimmingly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve, how can you say so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, David, she leaves this in a few days for Mrs. Bazalgette's house.
      You tell me you have got a warm invitation there. Then make the play
      there, and, if you can't win her, say you don't deserve her, twiddle your
      thumb, and see a bolder lover carry her off. You foolish boy, she is only
      a woman; she is to be won. If you don't mind, some man will show you it
      was as easy as you think it is hard. Timid wooers make a mountain of a
      mole-hill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it is you who have kept me backing and filling all this time, Eve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course. Prudence at first starting, but that isn't to say courage is
      never to come in. First creep within the fortification wall; but, once
      inside, if you don't storm the city that minute, woe be unto you. Come,
      cheer up! it is only for a few days, and then she goes where you will have
      her all to yourself; besides, you shall have one sweet delicious evening
      with her all alone before she goes. What! have you forgotten the pedigree?
      Wasn't I right to keep that back? and now march and take a good long
      walk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her tongue was a spur. It made David's drooping manhood rear and prance&mdash;a
      trumpet, and pealed victory to come. David kissed her warmly and strode
      away radiant. She looked sadly after him.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had never spoken so hopefully, so encouragingly. The reason will
      startle such of my readers as have not taken the trouble to comprehend
      her. It was that she had never so thoroughly desponded. Such was Eve. When
      matters went smoothly, she itched to torment and take the gloss off David;
      but now the affair looked really desperate, so it would have been unkind
      not to sustain him with all her soul. The cause of her despondency and
      consequent cheerfulness shall now be briefly related. Scarce an hour ago
      she had met Miss Fountain in the village and accompanied her home. For
      David's sake she had diverted the conversation by easy degrees to the
      subject of marriage, in order to sound Miss Fountain. &ldquo;You would never
      give your hand without your heart, I am sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven forbid,&rdquo; was the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not even to a coronet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not even to a crown.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So far so good; but Miss Fountain went on to say that the heart was not
      the only thing to be consulted in a matter so important as marriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the only thing I would ever consult,&rdquo; said Eve. As Lucy did not
      reply, Eve asked her next what she would do if she loved a poor man. Lucy
      replied coldly that it was not her present intention to love anybody but
      her relations; that she should never love any gentleman until she had been
      married to him, or, correcting herself, at all events, been some time
      engaged to him, and she should certainly never engage herself to anyone
      who would not rather improve her position in society than deteriorate it.
      Eve met these pretty phrases with a look of contempt, as much as to say,
      &ldquo;While you speak I am putting all that into plain vulgar English.&rdquo; The
      other did not seem to notice it. &ldquo;To leave this interesting topic for a
      while,&rdquo; said she, languidly, &ldquo;let me consult you, Miss Dodd. I have not,
      as you may have noticed, great abilities, but I have received an excellent
      education. To say nothing of those <i>soi-disant</i> accomplishments with
      which we adorn and sometimes weary society, my dear mother had me well
      grounded in languages and history. Without being eloquent, I have a
      certain fluency, in which, they tell me, even members of Parliament are
      deficient, smoothly as their speeches read made into English by the
      newspapers. Like yourself, Miss Dodd, and all our sex, I am not destitute
      of tact, and tact, you know, is 'the talent of talents.' I feel,&rdquo; here she
      bit her lip, &ldquo;myself fit for public life. I am ambitious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you are, are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very; and perhaps you will kindly tell me how I had best direct that
      ambition. The army? No; marching against daisies, and dancing and flirting
      in garrison towns, is frivolous and monotonous too. It isn't as if war was
      raging, trumpets ringing, and squadrons charging. Your brother's
      profession? Not for the world; I am a coward&rdquo; [consistent]. &ldquo;Shall I lower
      my pretensions to the learned professions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't doubt your cleverness, but the learned professions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A woman has a tongue, you know, and that is their grand requisite. I
      interrupted you, Miss Dodd; pray forgive me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, let us go through them. To be a clergyman, what is required?
      To preach, and visit the sick, and feel for them, and understand what
      passes in the sorrowful hearts of the afflicted. Is that beyond our sex?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That last is far more beyond a man at most times; and oh, the discourses
      one has to sit out in church!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Portia made a very passable barrister, Miss Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, did she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you know she did; and as for medicine, the great successes there are
      achieved by honeyed words, with a long word thrown in here and there. I've
      heard my own mamma say so. Now which shall I be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose you are making fun of me,&rdquo; said Eve; &ldquo;but there is many a true
      word spoken in jest. You could be a better, parson, lawyer or doctor than
      nine out of ten, but they won't let us. They know we could beat them into
      fits at anything but brute strength and wickedness, so they have shut all
      those doors in us poor girls' faces.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There; you see,&rdquo; said Lucy archly, &ldquo;but two lines are open to our
      honorable ambition, marriage and&mdash;water-colors. I think marriage the
      more honorable of the two; above all, it is the more fashionable. Can you
      blame me, then, if my ambition chooses the altar and not the easel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So that is what you have been bringing me to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You came of your own accord,&rdquo; was the sly retort. &ldquo;Let me offer you some
      luncheon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thank you; I could not eat a morsel just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eve went away, her bright little face visibly cast down. It was not Miss
      Fountain's words only, and that new trait of hard satire, which she had so
      suddenly produced from her secret recesses. Her very tones were cynical
      and worldly to Eve's delicate sense of hearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor, poor David!&rdquo; she thought, and when she got to the door of the room
      she sighed; and as she went home she said more than once to herself, &ldquo;No
      more heart than a marble statue. Oh, how true our first thought is! I come
      back to mine&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy (sola). <i>&ldquo;Then</i> what right had she to come here and try to turn
      me inside out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X.
    </h2>
    <p>
      As the hour of Lucy's departure drew near, Mr. Fountain became anxious to
      see her betrothed to his friend, for fear of accidents. &ldquo;You had better
      propose to her in form, or authorize me to do so, before she goes to that
      Mrs. Bazalgette.&rdquo; This time it was Talboys that hung back. He objected
      that the time was not opportune. &ldquo;I make no advance,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;on the
      contrary, I seem of late to have lost ground with your niece.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;severe monopolists; shilly-shally is one of their
      monopolies. Throw yourself at her feet, and press her with ardor; she will
      clear up directly.&rdquo; The proposed attitude did not tempt the stiff Talboys.
      His pride took the alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! why, she has been hermetically sealed against him ever so
      long,&rdquo; cried Fountain, almost angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw his sister come out of your gate only the other day. Sisters are
      emissaries&mdash;dangerous ones, too. Who knows? her very coldness may be
      vexation that this man is excluded. Perhaps she suspects me as the cause.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are chimeras&mdash;wild chimeras. My niece cares nothing for such
      people as the Dodds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon; these low attachments are the strongest. It is a
      notorious fact.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;-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&mdash;she is
      a character I detest&mdash;she is a schemer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I to understand that Mrs. Bazalgette has views of her own for Miss
      Fountain?&rdquo; inquired Talboys, his jealousy half inclined to follow the new
      lead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In all probability.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, then it is mere surmise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys was hurt. &ldquo;Not care for the alliance? It was dear to him&mdash;all
      the dearer for the difficulties. He was attached to Miss Fountain&mdash;warmly
      attached; would do anything for her except run the risk of an affront&mdash;a
      refusal.&rdquo; Then followed a long discussion, the result of which was that he
      would not propose in form now, but <i>would</i> give proofs of his
      attachment such as no lady could mistake; <i>inter alia,</i> 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&mdash;and pop. The
      grandeur and boldness of this strategy staggered, rather than displeased,
      Mr. Fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! under her own roof?&rdquo; and he could not help rubbing his hands with
      glee and spite&mdash;&ldquo;under her own eye, and <i>malgre</i> her personal
      influence? Why, you are Nap. I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She will be quite out of the way of the Dodds there,&rdquo; said Talboys,
      slyly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The senior groaned. (&ldquo;'Mule I.' I should have said.&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      And so they cut and dried it all.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last evening came, and with it, just before dinner, a line by special
      messenger from Mr. Talboys. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After dinner, in the middle of her uncle's nap, in came Lucy, and,
      unheard-of occurrence&mdash;deed of dreadful note&mdash;woke him. She was
      radiant, and held a note from Eve. &ldquo;Good news, uncle; those good, kind
      Dodds! they are coming to tea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; 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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;DEAR MISS FOUNTAIN&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is a worthy young man,&rdquo; shouted Mr. Fountain. &ldquo;What o'clock is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very nearly eight. Oh, uncle, I am so glad. How pleased you will be!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;You are a shrewd young gentleman,&rdquo; cried Mr.
      Fountain, gleefully.
    </p>
    <p>
      David then asked him what were the names of his three meadows. The names
      of them? He didn't know they had any.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;What is that, Mr. David?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A map of the Melton estate, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, how on earth did you get that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An old shipmate of mine lives in that quarter&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From this you infer&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;my head&mdash;to
      a China orange&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;David, don't be vulgar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, Mr. Dodd&mdash;be yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <i>&ldquo;Probatum est,&rdquo;</i> shouted old Fountain, his eyes sparkling, his voice
      trembling with emotion. &ldquo;Miss Fontaine,&rdquo; said he, turning to Lucy,
      throwing a sort of pompous respect into his voice and manner, &ldquo;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'.&rdquo;
       David's heart took a chill as if an ice-arrow had gone through it. &ldquo;So
      join me to thank our young friend here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain held out his hand. David gave his mechanically in return,
      scarcely knowing what he did. &ldquo;You are a worthy and most intelligent young
      man, and you have made an old man as happy as a lord,&rdquo; said the old
      gentleman, shaking him warmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And there is my hand, too,&rdquo; said Lucy, putting out hers with a blush, &ldquo;to
      show you I bear you no malice for being more unselfish and more sagacious
      than us all.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he stood staring, David looked up, and caught that strange, that
      yellow look. Instantly a light broke in on him. &ldquo;So I should look,&rdquo; felt
      David, &ldquo;if I saw her hand in his.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But after dinner,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;my brother seemed fatigued. I treacherously
      recommended bed. You forgive me? The nabob instantly acted on my selfish
      hint. I mounted my horse, and <i>me voila.&rdquo;</i> 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;listened and writhed.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she did answer, as if to compensate for her hesitation, she said,
      with alacrity: &ldquo;I shall be delighted; it will vary the journey most
      agreeably; I will ride the pony you were so kind as to give me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The letters swam before David's eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy came to the table, and, standing close behind David&mdash;so close
      that he felt her pure cool breath mingle with his hair, said to her uncle:
      &ldquo;Mr. Talboys proposes to me to ride the first stage to-morrow; if I do,
      you must be of the party.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, must I? Well, I'll roll after you in my phaeton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;We must not keep you up the night before a journey,&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eve. &ldquo;Thank Heaven, we are safe out of the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David. &ldquo;I have got a rival.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eve. &ldquo;A pretty rival; she doesn't care a button for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David. &ldquo;He rides the first stage with her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eve. &ldquo;Well, what of that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David. &ldquo;I have got a rival.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hain't a-sin him, Sue; thee hadst better ask at the blacksmith's shop,&rdquo;
       said Joshua Grace.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Toward Royston?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, miss; but, la! he won't ever think to go all the way to Royston&mdash;without
      his breakfast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will do, Susan. I think I know what he is gone for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On the servant retiring, her assumed firmness left her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the road <i>she</i> 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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 <i>aid-de-camp</i> 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&mdash;Talboys himself. It was not the lady; oh dear
      no! it never is.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I'll risk it now,&rdquo; 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,
      &ldquo;At her at once!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Secret conference? hum!&rdquo; said Lucy, twisting her pony, and looking slyly
      back.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys rejoined her, and, after a while, began in strange, melodious
      accents, &ldquo;You will leave a blank&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall we canter?&rdquo; said Lucy, gayly, and off went the pony. Talboys
      followed, and at the next hill resumed the sentimental cadence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will leave a sad blank here, Miss Fountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No greater than I found,&rdquo; replied the lady, innocently (?). &ldquo;Oh, dear!&rdquo;
       she cried, with sudden interest, &ldquo;I am afraid I have dropped my comb.&rdquo; 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?]
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten times greater,&rdquo; moaned the honeyed Talboys; &ldquo;for then we had not seen
      you. Ah! my dear Miss Fountain&mdash;The devil! wo-ho, Goliah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Dear little naughty
      fellow!&rdquo; said she, patting him [&ldquo;I did it too hard&rdquo;].
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;Hallo!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy. &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The pony was off with a bound like a buck. She had found out the right
      depth of pin this time. &ldquo;Ah! where is my whip? I have dropped it; how
      careless!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confound that pony!&rdquo; cried Talboys; &ldquo;he used to be quiet enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don't scold him, dear, playful little love. He carries me like a
      wave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Pray groom him well, and feed him well, sir;
      he is a love.&rdquo; The ostler swore he would not wrong her ladyship's nag for
      the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy then expressed her desire to go forward without delay: &ldquo;Aunt will
      expect me.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus the coy virgin eluded the pair.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; he cried, with great animation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; was the despondent reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Refused?&rdquo; screeched the other; &ldquo;impossible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thank you,&rdquo; was the haughty reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What then? Did you change your mind? Didn't you propose after all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I <i>couldn't.</i> That d&mdash;d pony wouldn't keep still.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fountain groaned.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now Lucy, besides being singularly polite and kind, was <i>femme jusqu' au
      bout des ongles.</i> 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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A few hours, and you can bore me no more, Mr. Talboys. Now what must I do
      for you in return? <i>Seem not to be bored to-day? Mais c'est la moindre
      des choses. Seem to be pleased with your society?</i> 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy (sola). &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Lucy closed her own eyes and recalled her impression: &ldquo;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&mdash;sweet!&rdquo;
       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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy put her head out. &ldquo;Why, it is Mr. Dodd! Oh, Mr. Dodd, is there
      anything the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You look so pale.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I?&rdquo; and he flushed faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which way are you going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going home again now,&rdquo; said David, sorrowfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You came all this way to bid me good-by,&rdquo; and she arched her eyebrows and
      laughed&mdash;a little uneasily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It didn't seem a step. It will seem longer going back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think my arm would wither if I ill-used him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very good. I suppose it is because you are so brave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me brave? I don't feel so. Am I to tell him to drive on?&rdquo; and he looked
      at her with haggard and imploring eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her eyes fell before his.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-by, then,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      He cried with a choking voice to the postilion, &ldquo;Go ahead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The carriage went on and left him standing in the road, his head upon his
      breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy was alarmed. &ldquo;Mr. Dodd! let me out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He handed her out. The postboy was at a <i>nonplus;</i> 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! now you are pleased, Mr. Dodd; our misfortune will elicit your skill
      in emergencies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, it isn't that; it is&mdash;I never hoped to see you again so
      soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy colored, and her eyes sought the ground; the splice was soon made.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There!&rdquo; said David; &ldquo;I could have spent an hour over it; but you would
      have been vexed, and the bitter moment must have come at last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless you, Miss Fountain&mdash;oh! mayn't I say Miss Lucy to-day?&rdquo; he
      cried, imploringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course you may,&rdquo; said Lucy, the tears rising in her eyes at his sad
      face and beseeching look. &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Dodd, parting with those we esteem is
      always sad enough; I got away from the door without crying&mdash;for once;
      don't <i>you</i> make me cry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make you cry?&rdquo; cried David, as it he had been suspected of sacrilege;
      &ldquo;God forbid!&rdquo; He muttered in a choking voice, &ldquo;You give the word of
      command, for I can't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can go on,&rdquo; said her soft, clear voice; but first she gave David her
      hand with a gentle look&mdash;&ldquo;Good-by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But David could not speak to her. He held her hand tight in both his
      powerful hands. They seemed iron to her&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He followed the carriage to the brow of the hill, then sat down upon a
      heap of stones, and looked despairingly after it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime Lucy put her head in her hands and blushed, though she was all
      alone. &ldquo;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 <i>les convenances.</i>
      He has hurt my hand, he is so rough; I feel his clutch now; there, I
      thought so, it is all red&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two tears stole down her cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he would but go home and forget me!&rdquo; She glanced hastily back. David
      was climbing up a tree, active as a cat. &ldquo;He is like nobody else&mdash;he!
      he! Stay! is that to see the last of me&mdash;the very last? Poor soul!
      Madman, how will this end? What can come of it but misery to him, remorse
      to me?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is love.&rdquo; She half closed her eyes and smiled, repeating, &ldquo;This is
      love.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh how I despise all the others and their feeble flatteries!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven forgive me my mad, my wicked wish!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I <i>am</i> beloved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am adored.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am miserable!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           &ldquo;Methought that ostler did protest too much.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;clatter, clatter&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;her little hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      David laughed. This incident did him good&mdash;shook him up a bit. The
      pony groveled out of the ditch and cantered home, squeaking at intervals
      and throwing his heels.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The account disappointed Eve. &ldquo;All this is just a pack of nothing,&rdquo; said
      she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I begin to think,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! be quiet,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and let me think it over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay! ay!&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My own feelings are not sufficiently engaged for me to play the up-hill
      game of overcoming her disinclination.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Disinclination? The mere shyness of a modest girl. If she was to be 'won
      unsought,' she would not be worthy to be Mrs. Talboys.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her worth is indisputable,&rdquo; said Mr. Talboys, &ldquo;but that is no reason why
      I should force upon her my humble claims.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 <i>bete noir</i> 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he is in port by now,&rdquo; said David.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you usually ease the animal of that part of his burden, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said David, sullenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eve, who hated Mr. Talboys, and saw through his sneers, bit her lip and
      colored, but kept silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;I will explain, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys bowed and smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The reason my brother carries this side-saddle is that it belongs to a
      charming young lady&mdash;you have some little acquaintance with her&mdash;Miss
      Fountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Fountain!&rdquo; cried Talboys, in a tone from which all the irony was
      driven out by Eve's coup.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She begged David to ride her pony home; she would not trust him to
      anybody else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Talboys, stupefied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir, owing to&mdash;to&mdash;an accident, the saddle came off, and
      the pony ran home; so then David had only her saddle to take care of for
      her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, we escorted Miss Fountain to Royston, and we never saw Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, but you did not go beyond Royston,&rdquo; said Eve, with a cunning air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beyond Royston? where? and what was he doing there? Did he go all that
      way to take her orders about her pony?&rdquo; said Talboys, bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, as to that you must excuse me, sir,&rdquo; cried Eve, with a scornful
      laugh; &ldquo;that is being too inquisitive. Good-morning&rdquo;; and she carried
      David off in triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next moment Mr. Talboys spurred on, followed by the phaeton. Talboys'
      face was yellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>&ldquo;La langue d'une femme est son epee.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sheer off and repair damages, you lubber,&rdquo; said David, dryly, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not an inch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She might be vexed; it is not for me to boast of her kindness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Temper won't let a body see everything. I'll tell you what I have done,
      too&mdash;I've declared war.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you? Then run the Jack up to the mizzen-top, and let us fight it
      out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the way to look at it, David. Now don't you speak to me till we
      get home; let me think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the gate of Font Abbey, they parted, and Eve went home. David came to
      the stable yard and hailed, &ldquo;Stable ahoy!&rdquo; Out ran a little bandy-legged
      groom. &ldquo;The craft has gone adrift,&rdquo; cried David, &ldquo;but I've got the gear
      safe. Stow it away&rdquo;; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is you for capsizing in a calm,&rdquo; remarked David, with some surprise,
      and went his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Eve, have you thought?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It wants just five weeks to a day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does she take up her passengers at &mdash;&mdash; as usual?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Eve, yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Mrs. Bazalgette lives within a mile or two of &mdash;&mdash;. 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if she says 'No,' be man enough to tear her out of your heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys. &ldquo;Well, sir, what do you say now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain (hypocritically). &ldquo;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!&rdquo; He paused to see the effect of his
      poisoned shaft.
    </p>
    <p>
      Talboys. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, not immediately; it would look so odd. The old one would smell a
      rat directly. Suppose we say in a month's time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well; I shall have a clear stage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and I shall then use all my influence with her. Hitherto I have used
      none.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you. Mr. Dodd cannot penetrate there, I conclude.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then she will be Mrs. Talboys.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course she will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
      &ldquo;I must have been guilty of some imprudence&mdash;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 <i>say</i>
      anything to me, after all. No; he will go to sea, and forget his folly
      before he comes back.&rdquo; 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,
      &ldquo;Away idle thoughts,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;the meeting of the muslins,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The animated words Mrs. Bazalgette whispered into Lucy's ear at that
      moment of burning affection were as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have had it washed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy (unpacking her things in her bedroom). &ldquo;Who is Mr. Hardie, dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! don't you know? Mr. Hardie is the great banker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette's eye flashed, but she answered with apparent nonchalance:
      &ldquo;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. <i>Apropos,</i> 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You make me quite curious, aunt. Cannot you tell me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me? Oh, dear, no! Paper currency, foreign loans, government securities,
      gold mines, ten per cents, Mr. Peel, and why <i>one</i> breaks and <i>another</i>
      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&mdash;&rdquo; Come away, reader, for Heaven's sake!
    </p>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE man whom Mr. Bazalgette introduced so smoothly and off-hand to Lucy
      Fountain exercised a terrible influence over her life, as you will see by
      and by. This alone would make it proper to lay his antecedents before the
      reader. But he has independent claims to this notice, for he is a
      principal figure in my work. The history of this remarkable man's fortune
      is a study. The progress of his mind is another, and its past as well as
      its future are the very corner-stone of that capacious story which I am
      now building brick by brick, after my fashion where the theme is large. I
      invite my reader, therefore, to resist the natural repugnance which
      delicate minds feel to the ring of the precious metals, and for the sake
      of the coming story to accompany me into AN OLD BANK.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Hardies were goldsmiths in the seventeenth century; and when that
      business split, and the deposit and bill-of-exchange business went one
      way, and the plate and jewels another, they became bankers from father to
      son. A peculiarity attended them; they never broke, nor even cracked. Jew
      James Hardie conducted for many years a smooth, unostentatious and
      lucrative business. It professed to be a bank of deposit only, and not of
      discount. This was not strictly true. There never was a bank in creation
      that did not discount under the rose, when the paper represented
      commercial effects, and the indorsers were customers and favorites. But
      Mr. Hardie's main business was in deposits bearing no interest. It was of
      that nature known as &ldquo;the legitimate banking business,&rdquo; a title not, I
      think, invented by the customers, since it is a system destitute of that
      reciprocity which is the soul of all just and legitimate commercial
      relations.
    </p>
    <p>
      You shall lend me your money gratis, and I will lend it out at interest:
      such is legitimate banking&mdash;in the opinion of bankers.
    </p>
    <p>
      This system, whose decay we have seen, and whose death my young readers
      are like to see, flourished under old Hardie, green&mdash;as the public in
      whose pockets its roots were buried.
    </p>
    <p>
      Country gentlemen and noblemen, and tradesmen well-to-do, left floating
      balances varying from seven, five, three thousand pounds, down to a
      hundred or two, in his hands. His art consisted in keeping his
      countenance, receiving them with the air of a person conferring a favor,
      and investing the bulk of them in government securities, which in that day
      returned four and five per cent. As he did not pay one shilling for the
      use of the capital, he pocketed the whole interest. A small part of the
      aggregate balance was not invested, but remained in the bank coffers as a
      reserve to meet any accidental drain. It was a point of honor with the
      squires and rectors, who shared their incomes with him in a grateful
      spirit, never to draw their balances down too low; and more than once in
      this banker's career a gentleman has actually borrowed money for a month
      or two of the bank at four per cent, rather than exhaust his deposit, or,
      in other words, paid his debtor interest for the temporary use of his own
      everlasting property. Such capitalists are not to be found in our day;
      they may reappear at the Millennium.
    </p>
    <p>
      The banker had three clerks; one a youth and very subordinate, the other
      two steady old men, at good salaries, who knew the affairs of the bank,
      but did not chatter them out of doors, because they were allowed to talk
      about them to their employer; and this was a vent. The tongue must have a
      regular vent or random explosions&mdash;choose! Besides the above
      compliment paid to years of probity and experience, the ancient <i>regime</i>
      bound these men to the interest and person of their chief by other simple
      customs now no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      At each of the four great festivals of the Church they dined with Mr. and
      Mrs. Hardie, and were feasted and cordially addressed as equals, though
      they could not be got to reply in quite the same tone. They were never
      scorned, but a peculiar warmth of esteem and friendship was shown them on
      these occasions. One reason was, the old-fangled banker himself aspired to
      no higher character than that of a man of business, and were not these
      clerks men of business good and true? his staff, not his menials?
    </p>
    <p>
      And since I sneered just now at a vital simplicity, let me hasten to own
      that here, at least, it was wise, as well as just and worthy. Where men
      are forever handling heaps of money, it is prudent to fortify them doubly
      against temptation&mdash;with self-respect, and a sufficient salary.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is one thing not to be led into temptation (accident on which half the
      virtue in the world depends), another to live in it and overcome it; and
      in a bank it is not the conscience only that is tempted, but the senses.
      Piles of glittering gold, amiable as Hesperian fruit; heaps of silver
      paper, that seem to whisper as they rustle, &ldquo;Think how great we are, yet
      see how little; we are fifteen thousand pounds, yet we can go into your
      pocket; whip us up, and westward ho! If you have not the courage for that,
      at all events wet your finger; a dozen of us will stick to it. That pen in
      your hand has but to scratch that book there, and who will know? Besides,
      you can always put us back, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hundreds and thousands of men take a share in the country's public
      morality, legislate, build churches, and live and die respectable, who
      would be jail-birds sooner or later if their sole income was the pay of a
      banker's clerk, and their eyes, and hands, and souls rubbed daily against
      hundred-pound notes as his do. I tell you it is a temptation of
      forty-devil power.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not without reason, then, did this ancient banker bestow some respect and
      friendship on those who, tempted daily, brought their hands pure,
      Christmas after Christmas, to their master's table. Not without reason did
      Mrs. Hardie pet them like princes at the great festivals, and always send
      them home in the carriage as persons their entertainers delighted to
      honor. Herein I suspect she looked also, woman-like, to their security;
      for they were always expected to be solemnly, not improperly, intoxicated
      by the end of supper; no wise fuddled, but muddled; for the graceful
      superstition of the day suspected severe sobriety at solemnities as
      churlish and ungracious.
    </p>
    <p>
      The bank itself was small and grave, and a trifle dingy, and bustle there
      was none in it; but if the stream of business looked sluggish and narrow,
      it was deep and quietly incessant, and tended all one way&mdash;to enrich
      the proprietor without a farthing risked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Hardie had sat there forty years with other people's money overflowing
      into his lap as it rolled deep and steady through that little
      counting-house, when there occurred, or rather recurred, a certain
      phenomenon, which comes, with some little change of features, in a certain
      cycle of commercial changes as regularly as the month of March in the
      year, or the neap-tides, or the harvest moon, but, strange to say, at each
      visit takes the country by surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE nation had passed through the years of exhaustion and depression that
      follow a long war; its health had returned, and its elastic vigor was
      already reviving, when two remarkable harvests in succession, and an
      increased trade with the American continent, raised it to prosperity. One
      sign of vigor, the roll of capital, was wanting; speculation was fast
      asleep. The government of the day seems to have observed this with regret.
      A writer of authority on the subject says that, to stir stagnant
      enterprise, they directed &ldquo;the Bank of England to issue about four
      millions in advances to the state and in enlarged discounts.&rdquo; I give you
      the man's words; they doubtless carry a signification to you, though they
      are jargon in a fog to me. Some months later the government took a step
      upon very different motives, which incidentally had a powerful effect in
      loosening capital and setting it in agitation. They reduced to four per
      cent the Navy Five per Cents, a favorite national investment, which
      represented a capital of two hundred millions. Now, when men have got used
      to five per cent from a certain quarter, they cannot be content with four,
      particularly the small holders; so this reduction of the Navy Five per
      Cents unsettled several thousand capitalists, and disposed them to search
      for an investment. A flattering one offered itself in the nick of time.
      Considerable attention had been drawn of late to the mineral wealth of
      South America, and one or two mining companies existed, but languished in
      the hands of professed speculators. The public now broke like a sudden
      flood into these hitherto sluggish channels of enterprise, and up went the
      shares to a high premium.
    </p>
    <p>
      Almost contemporaneously, numerous joint-stock companies were formed, and
      directed toward schemes of internal industry. The small capitalists that
      had sold out of the Navy Five per Cents threw themselves into them all,
      and being bona fide speculators, drew hundreds in their train. Adventure,
      however, was at first restrained in some degree by the state of the
      currency. It was low, and rested on a singularly sound basis. Mr. Peel's
      Currency Bill had been some months in operation; by its principal
      provision the Bank of England was compelled on and after a certain date to
      pay gold for its notes on demand. The bank, anticipating a consequent rush
      for gold, had collected vast quantities of sovereigns, the new coin; but
      the rush never came, for a mighty simple reason. Gold is convenient in
      small sums, but a burden and a nuisance in large ones. It betrays its
      presence and invites robbers; it is a bore to lug it about, and a fearful
      waste of golden time to count it. Men run upon gold only when they have
      reason to distrust paper. But Mr. Peel's Bill, instead of damaging Bank of
      England paper, solidified it, and gave the nation a just and novel
      confidence in it. Thus, then, the large hoard of gold, fourteen to twenty
      millions, that the caution of the bank directors had accumulated in their
      coffers, remained uncalled for. But so large an abstraction from the
      specie of the realm contracted the provincial circulation. The small
      business of the country moved in fetters, so low was the metal currency.
      The country bankers petitioned government for relief, and government,
      listening to representations that were no doubt supported by facts, and
      backed by other interests, tampered with the principle of Mr. Peel's Bill,
      and allowed the country bankers to issue 1 pound and 2 pound notes for
      eleven years to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this step there were but six dissentients in the House of Commons, so
      little was its importance seen or its consequences foreseen. This piece of
      inconsistent legislation removed one restraint, irksome but salutary, from
      commercial enterprise at a moment when capital was showing some signs of a
      feverish agitation. Its immediate consequences were very encouraging to
      the legislator; the country bankers sowed the land broadcast with their
      small paper, and this, for the cause above adverted to, took <i>pro tem.</i>
      the place of gold, and was seldom cashed at all except where silver was
      wanted. On this enlargement of the currency the arms of the nation seemed
      freed, enterprise shot ahead unshackled, and unwonted energy and activity
      thrilled in the veins of the kingdom. The rise in the prices of all
      commodities which followed, inevitable consequence of every increase in
      the currency, whether real or fictitious, was in itself adverse to the
      working classes; but the vast and numerous enterprises that were
      undertaken, some in the country itself, some in foreign parts, to which
      English workmen were conveyed, raised the price of labor higher still in
      proportion; so no class was out of the sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      Men's faces shone with excitement and hope. The dormant hordes of misers
      crept out of their napkins and sepulchral strong-boxes into the warm air
      of the golden time. The mason's chisel chirped all over the kingdom, and
      the shipbuilders' * hammers rang all round the coast; corn was plenty,
      money became a drug, labor wealth, and poverty and discontent vanished
      from the face of the land. Adventure seemed all wings, and no lumbering
      carcass to clog it. New joint-stock companies were started in crowds as
      larks rise and darken the air in winter;** hundreds came to nothing, but
      hundreds stood, and of these nearly all reached a premium, small in some
      cases, high in most, fabulous in some; and the ease with which the first
      calls for cash on the multitudinous shares were met argued the vast
      resources that had hitherto slumbered in the nation for want of promising
      investments suited to the variety of human likings and judgments. The mind
      can hardly conceive any species of earthly enterprise that was not fitted
      with a company, oftener with a dozen, and with fifty or sixty where the
      proposed road to metal was direct. Of these the mines of Mexico still kept
      the front rank, but not to the exclusion of European, Australian and
      African ore.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Two hundred new vessels are said to have been laid on the
     stocks in one year.

     ** In two years 624 new companies were projected.
</pre>
    <p>
      That masterpiece of fiction, &ldquo;the Prospectus,&rdquo; * diffused its gorgeous
      light far and near, lit up the dark mine, and showed the minerals shining
      and the jewels peeping; shone broad over the smiling fields, soon to be
      plowed, reaped, and mowed by machinery; and even illumined the depths of
      the sea, whence the buried treasures of ancient and modern times were
      about to be recovered by the Diving-bell Company.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * There is a little unlicked anonymuncule going scribbling
     about, whose creed seems to be that a little camel, to be
     known, must be examined and compared with other quadrupeds,
     but that the great arts can be judged out of the depths of a
     penny-a-liner's inner consciousness, and to be rated and
     ranked need not be compared <i>inter se.</i> Applying the
     microscope to the method of the novelist, but diverting the
     glass from the learned judge's method in Biography, the
     learned historian's method in History, and the daily
     chronicler's method in dressing <i>res gestoe</i> for a journal,
     this little addle-pate has jumped to a comparative estimate,
     not based on comparison, so that all his blindfold
     vituperation of a noble art is chimera, not reasoning; it
     is, in fact, a retrograde step in science and logic. This is
     to evade the Baconian method, humble and wise, and crawl
     back to the lazy and self-confident system of the ancients,
     that kept the world dark so many centuries. It is [Greek]
     versus Induction. &ldquo;[Greek],&rdquo; ladies, is &ldquo;divination by means
     of an ass's skull.&rdquo; A pettifogger's skull, however, will
     serve the turn, provided that pettifogger has been bitten
     with an insane itch for scribbling about things so
     infinitely above his capacity as the fine arts. Avoid this
     sordid dreamer, and follow, in letters as in science, the
     Baconian method! Then you will find that all uninspired
     narratives are more or less inexact, and that one, and one
     only, Fiction proper, has the honesty to antidote its errors
     by professing inexactitude. You will find that the
     Historian, Biographer, Novelist, and Chronicler are all
     obliged <i>to paint upon their data</i> with colors the
     imagination alone can supply, and all do it&mdash;alive or dead.
     You will find that Fiction, as distinguished from neat
     mendacity, has not one form upon earth, but a dozen. You
     will find the most habitually, willfully, and inexcusably
     inaccurate, with the means of accuracy under its nose, that
     form of fiction called &ldquo;anonymous criticism,&rdquo; political and
     literary; the most equivocating, perhaps, is the
     &ldquo;imaginavit,&rdquo; better known at Lincoln's Inn as the
     &ldquo;affidavit.&rdquo; In the article of exaggeration, the mildest and
     tamest are perhaps History and the Novel, the boldest and
     most sparkling is the Advertisement, but the grandest,
     ablest, most gorgeous and plausibly exaggerating is surely
     the grave commercial prospectus, drawn up and signed by
     potent, grave and reverend seniors, who fear God, worship
     Mammon, revere big wigs right or wrong, and never read
     romances.
</pre>
    <p>
      One mine was announced with a &ldquo;vein of ore as pure and solid as a tin
      flagon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In another the prospectus offered mixed advantages. The ore lay in so
      romantic a situation, and so thick, that the eye could be regaled with a
      heavenly landscape, while the foot struck against neglected lumps of gold
      weighing from two pounds to fifty.
    </p>
    <p>
      This put the Bolanos mine on its mettle, and it announced, &ldquo;not mines, but
      mountains of silver.&rdquo; Here, then, men might chip metal instead of
      painfully digging it. With this, up went the shares till they reached 500
      premium.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Tialpuxahua was done at 199 premium.
     Anglo Mexican  10 pounds paid, went to 158 pounds premium.
     United Mexican 10   &ldquo;      &ldquo; ,     &ldquo;   155 pounds   &rdquo;
      Columbian      10   &ldquo;      &ldquo; ,     &ldquo;    82 pounds   &rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      But the Real del Monte, a mine of longer standing, on which 70 pounds was
      paid up, went to 550 premium, and at a later period, for I am not
      following the actual sequence of events, reached the enormous height of
      1350 premium.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Prospectus of the Equitable Loan Company lamented in paragraph one the
      imposition practiced on the poor, and denounced the pawnbrokers' 15 per
      cent. In paragraph four it promised 40 per cent to its shareholders.
    </p>
    <p>
      Philanthropy smiled in the heading, and Avarice stung in the tail. No
      wonder a royal duke and other good names figured in this concern. Another
      eloquent sheet appealed to the national dignity. Should a nation that was
      just now being intersected by forty canal companies, and lighted by thirty
      gas companies, and every life in it worth a button insured by a score of
      insurance companies, dwell in hovels? Here was a country that, after long
      ruling the sea, was now mining the earth, and employing her spoils nobly,
      lending money to every nation and tribe that would fight for
      constitutional liberty. Should the principal city of so sovereign a nation
      be a collection of dingy dwellings made with burned clay? No; let these
      perishable and ignoble, materials give way, and London be granite, or at
      least wear a granite front&mdash;with which up went the Red Granite
      Company.
    </p>
    <p>
      A railway was projected from Dover to Calais, but the shares never came
      into the market.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Rhine Navigation shares were snapped up directly. The original
      holders, having no faith in their own paper, sold large quantities
      directly for the account. But they had underrated the ardor of the public.
      At settling day the shares were at 28 premium, and the sellers found they
      had made a most original hedge; for &ldquo;the hedge&rdquo; is not a daring operation
      that grasps at large gains; it is a timid and cautious maneuver, whose
      humble aim is to lower the figures of possible loss or gain. To be ruined
      by a stroke of caution so shocked the directors' sense of justice that
      they forged new coupons in imitation of the old, and tried to pass them
      off. The fraud was discovered; a committee sat on it. Respectables quaked.
      Finally, a scapegoat was put forward and expelled the Stock Exchange, and
      with that the inquiry was hushed. It would have let too much daylight in
      on a host of &ldquo;good names&rdquo; in the City and on 'Change.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same time, the country threw itself with ardor into Transatlantic
      loans. This, however, was an existing speculation vastly dilated at the
      period we are treating, but created about five years earlier. Its
      antecedent history can be dispatched in a few words.
    </p>
    <p>
      England is said to be governed by a limited monarchy; but in case of a
      struggle between the two, her heart goes more with unlimited republic than
      with genuine monarchy. The Spanish colonies in South America found this
      out, and in their long battle for independence came to us for sympathy and
      cash. They often obtained both, and in one case something more; we lent
      Chili a million at six per cent, but we lent her ships, bayonets, and
      Cochrane gratis. This last, a gallant and amphibious dragoon, went to work
      in a style the slow Spaniard was unprepared for; blockaded the coast,
      overawed the Royalist party, and wrenched the state from the mother
      country, and settled it a republic. One of the first public acts of this
      Chilian republic was to borrow a million of us to go on with. Peru took
      only half a million at this period. Colombia, during the protracted
      struggle her independence cost her, obtained a sort of <i>carte blanche</i>
      loan from us at ten per cent. We were to deliver the stock in munitions of
      war, as called for, which, you will 'observe, was selling our loan; for at
      the bottom of all our romance lies business, business, business. Her
      freedom secured, the new state accommodated us by taking two millions of 5
      per cent stock at 84. In all, about ten millions nominal capital, eight
      millions cash, crossed the Atlantic while we were cool; but now that we
      were heated by three hundred joint-stock companies, and the fire fanned by
      seven hundred prospectuses, fresh loans were effected with a wider range
      of territory and on a more important scale.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Brazil now got . . . 3,200,000 l. in two loans;
     Colombia . . . . . . 4,750,000 l.;
     Peru . . . . . . . . 1,366,000 l. in two loans;
     Mexico . . . . . . . 6,400,000 l. in two loans;
     Buenos Ayres . . . . 1,000,000 l.;
</pre>
    <p>
      and Guatemala, a state we never heard of till she wanted money, took a
      million and a half. Besides these there were smaller loans, lent, not to
      nations, but to tribes. So hot was our money in our pockets that we tried
      200,000 pounds on Patagonia. But the savages could not be got to nail us,
      which was the more to be regretted, as we might have done a good stroke
      with them; could have sent the stock out in fisherman's boots, cocked
      hats, beads, Bibles, and army misfits.
    </p>
    <p>
      Europe found out there existed an island overflowing with faith and
      overburdened with money; she ran at us for a slice of the latter. We lent
      Naples two millions and a half at 5 per cent stock 92 1/2. Portugal a
      million and a half at 87. Austria three millions and a half at 82 1/2.
      Denmark three millions and a half at 3 per cent stock 75 1/2. Then came a
      <i>bonne bouche.</i> The subtle Greek had gathered from his western
      visitors a notion of the contents of Thucydides, and he came to us for
      sympathy and money to help him shake off the barbarians and their yoke,
      and save the wreck of the ancient temples. The appeal was shrewdly
      planned. England reads Thucydides, and skims Demosthenes, though Greece,
      it is presumed, does not. The impressions of our boyhood fasten upon our
      hearts, and our mature reason judges them like a father, not like a judge.
      To sweep the Tartar out of the Peloponnese, and put in his place a free
      press that should recall from the tomb that soul of freedom, and revive by
      degrees that tongue of music&mdash;who can play Solomon when such a
      proposal comes up for judgment?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give yourself no further concern about the matter,&rdquo; said the lofty
      Burdett, with a gentlemanlike wave of the hand; &ldquo;your country shall be
      saved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In a few weeks,&rdquo; said another statesman, &ldquo;Cochrane will be at
      Constantinople, and burn the port and its vessels. Having thus disarmed
      invasion, he will land in the Morea and clear it of the Turks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Greece borrowed in two loans 2,800,000 pounds at 5 per cent. Russia (droll
      juxtaposition!) drew up the rear. She borrowed three millions and a half,
      but upon far more favorable terms than, with all our romance, we accorded
      to &ldquo;Graeculus esuriens.&rdquo; The Greek stock ruled * from 56 1/2 to 59.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * A corruption from the French verb &ldquo;rouler.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Into these loans, and the multitudinous mines and miscellaneous
      enterprises, gas, railroad, canal, steam, dock, provision, insurance,
      milk, water, building, washing, money-lending, fishing, lottery,
      annuities, herring-curing, poppy-oil, cattle, weaving, bog draining,
      street-cleaning, house-roofing, old clothes exporting, steel-making,
      starch, silk-worm, etc., etc., etc., companies, all classes of the
      community threw themselves, either for investment or temporary
      speculation, on the fluctuations of the share-market. One venture was
      ennobled by a prince of the blood figuring as a director; another was
      sanctified by an archbishop; hundreds were solidified by the best
      mercantile names in the cities of London, Liverpool, and Manchester.
      Princes, dukes, duchesses, stags, footmen, poets, philosophers, divines,
      lawyers, physicians, maids, wives, widows, tore into the market, and
      choked the Exchange up so tight that the brokers could not get in nor out,
      and a bare passage had to be cleared by force and fines through a mass of
      velvet, fustian, plush, silk, rags, lace, and broadcloth, that jostled and
      squeezed each other in the struggle for gain. The shop-keeper flung down
      his scales and off to the share-market; the merchant embarked his funds
      and his credit; the clerk risked his place and his humble respectability.
      High and low, rich and poor, all hurried round the Exchange, like midges
      round a flaring gas-light, and all were to be rich in a day.
    </p>
    <p>
      And, strange to say, all seemed to win and none to lose; for nothing was
      at a discount except toil and self-denial, and the patient industry that
      makes men rich, but not in a day.
    </p>
    <p>
      One cold misgiving fell. The vast quantities of gold and silver that
      Mexico, mined by English capital and machinery, was about to pour into our
      ports, would so lower the price of those metals that a heavy loss must
      fall on all who held them on a considerable scale at their present values
      in relation to corn, land, labor and other properties and commodities.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must convert our gold,&rdquo; was the cry. Others more rash said: &ldquo;This is
      premature caution&mdash;timidity. There is no gold come over yet; wait
      till you learn the actual bulk of the first metallic imports.&rdquo; &ldquo;No, thank
      you,&rdquo; replied the prudent ones, &ldquo;it will be too late then; when once they
      have touched our shores, the fall will be rapid.&rdquo; So they turned their
      gold, whose value was so precarious, into that unfluctuating material,
      paper. This solitary fear was soon swallowed up in the general confidence.
      The king congratulated Parliament, and Parliament the king. Both houses
      rang with trumpet notes of triumph, a few of which still linger in the
      memories of living men.
    </p>
    <p>
      1. &ldquo;The cotton trade and iron trade were never so flourishing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      2. &ldquo;The exports surpassed by millions the highest figure recorded in'
      history.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      3. &ldquo;The hum of industry was heard throughout the fields.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      4. &ldquo;Joy beamed in every face.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      5. &ldquo;The country now reaped in honor and repose all it had sown in courage,
      constancy and wisdom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      6. &ldquo;Our prosperity extended to all ranks of men, enhanced by those arts
      which minister to human comfort, and those inventions by which man seems
      to have obtained a mastery over Nature through the application of her own
      powers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But one honorable gentleman informed the Commons that &ldquo;distress had
      vanished from the land,&rdquo; * and in addressing the throne acknowledged a
      novel embarrassment: &ldquo;Such,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;is the general prosperity of the
      country, that I feel at a loss how to proceed; whether to give precedence
      to our agriculture, which is the main support of the country, to our
      manufactures, which have increased to an unexampled extent, or to our
      commerce, which distributes them to the ends of the earth, finds daily new
      outlets for their distribution, and new sources of national wealth and
      prosperity.&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * &ldquo;The poor ye shall have always with you.&rdquo;&mdash;Chimerical
     Evangelist.
</pre>
    <p>
      Our old bank did not profit by the golden shower. Mr. Hardie was old, too,
      and the cautious and steady habits of forty years were not to be shaken
      readily. He declined shares, refused innumerable discounts, and loans upon
      scrip and invoices, and, in short, was behind the time. His bank came to
      be denounced as a clog on commerce. Two new banks were set up in the town
      to oil the wheels of adventure, on which he was a drag, and Hardie fell
      out of the game.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was not so old or cold as to be beyond the reach of mortification, and
      these things stung him. One day he said fretfully to old Skinner, &ldquo;It is
      hardly worth our while to take down the shutters now, for anything we do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One afternoon two of his best customers, who were now up to their chins in
      shares, came and solicited a heavy loan on their joint personal security.
      Hardie declined. The gentlemen went out. Young Skinner watched them, and
      told his father they went into the new bank, stayed there a considerable
      time, and came out looking joyous. Old Skinner told Mr. Hardie. The old
      gentleman began at last to doubt himself and his system.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The bank would last my time,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but I must think of my son. I
      have seen many a good business die out because the merchant could not keep
      up with the times; and here they are inviting me to be director in two of
      their companies&mdash;good mercantile names below me. It is very
      flattering. I'll write to Dick. It is just he should have a voice; but,
      dear heart! at his age we know beforehand he will be for galloping faster
      than the rest. Well, his old father is alive to curb him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was always the ambition of Mr. Richard Hardie to be an accomplished
      financier. For some years past he had studied money at home and abroad&mdash;scientifically.
      His father's connection had gained him a footing in several large
      establishments abroad, and there he sat and worked <i>en amateur</i> as
      hard as a clerk. This zeal and diligence in a young man of independent
      means soon established him in the confidence of the chiefs, who told him
      many a secret. He was now in a great London bank, pursuing similar
      studies, practical and theoretical.
    </p>
    <p>
      He received his father's letters sketching the rapid decline of the bank,
      and finally a short missive inviting him down to consider an enlarged plan
      of business. During the four days that preceded the young man's visit,
      more than one application came to Hardie senior for advances on scrip,
      cargoes coming from Mexico, and joint personal securities of good
      merchants that were in the current ventures. Old Hardie now, instead of
      refusing, detained the proposals for consideration. Meantime, he ordered
      five journals daily instead of one, sought information from every quarter,
      and looked into passing events with a favorable eye. The result was that
      he blamed himself, and called his past caution timidity. Mr. Richard
      Hardie arrived and was ushered into the bank parlor. After the first
      affectionate greetings old Skinner was called in, and, in a little
      pompous, good-hearted speech, invited to make one in a solemn conference.
      The compliment brought the tears into the old man's eyes. Mr. Hardie
      senior opened, showed by the books the rapid decline of business, pointed
      to the rise of two new banks owing to the tight hand he had held
      unseasonably, then invited the other two to say whether an enlarged system
      was not necessary to meet the times, and submitted the last, proposals for
      loans and discounts. &ldquo;Now, sir, let me have your judgment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After my betters, sir,&rdquo; was old Skinner's reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Dick, have you formed any opinion on this matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am extremely glad of it,&rdquo; said the old gentleman, very sincerely, but
      with a shade of surprise; &ldquo;out with it, Dick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man thus addressed by his father would not have conveyed to us
      the idea of &ldquo;Dick.&rdquo; His hair was brown; there were no wrinkles under his
      eyes or lines in his cheek, but in his manner there was no youth whatever.
      He was tall, commanding, grave, quiet, cold, and even at that age almost
      majestic. His first sentence, slow and firm, removed the paternal notion
      that a cipher or a juvenile had come to the council-table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;First, sir, let me return to you my filial thanks for that caution which
      you seem to think has been excessive. There I beg respectfully to differ
      with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad of it, Dick; but now you see it is time to relax, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two old men stared at one another. The senile youth proceeded: &ldquo;That
      some day or other our system will have to be relaxed is probable, but just
      now all it wants is&mdash;tightening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Dick? Skinner, the boy is mad. You can't have watched the signs of
      the times.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have, sir; and looked below the varnish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the point, then, Dick. There is a general proposal 'to relax our
      system.' The boy uses good words, Skinner, don't he? and here are six
      particulars over which you can cast your eye. Hand them to him, Skinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will take things in that order,&rdquo; said Richard, quietly running his eye
      over the papers. There was a moment's silence. &ldquo;It is proposed to connect
      the bank with the speculations of the day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not fairly stated, Dick; it is too broad. We shall make a
      selection; we won't go in the stream above ankle deep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is a resolution, sir, that has been often made but never kept&mdash;for
      this reason: you can't sit on dry land and calculate the force of the
      stream. It carries those who paddle in it off their feet, and then they
      must swim with it or&mdash;sink.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dick, for Heaven's sake, no poetry here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, sir,&rdquo; said old Skinner, &ldquo;remember, 'twas you brought the stream in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More fool I. 'Flow on, thou shining Dick'; only the more figures of
      arithmetic, and the fewer figures of speech, you can give old Skinner and
      me, the more weight you will carry with us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man colored a moment, but never lost his ponderous calmness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will give you figures in their turn, But we were to begin with the
      general view. Half-measures, then, are no measures; they imply a
      vacillating judgment; they are a vain attempt to make a pound of rashness
      and a pound of timidity into two pounds of prudence. You permit me that
      figure, sir; it comes from the summing-book. The able man of business
      fidgets. He keeps quiet, or carries something out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Old Skinner rubbed his hands. &ldquo;These are wise words, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, only clever ones. This is book-learning. It is the sort of wisdom you
      and I have outgrown these forty years. Why, at his age I was choke-full of
      maxims. They are good things to read; but act proverbs, and into the
      Gazette you go. My faith in any general position has melted away with the
      snow of my seventy winters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, then, if it was established that all adders bite, would you refuse
      to believe his adder would bite you, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dick, if a single adder bit me, it would go farther to convince me that
      the next adder would bite me too than if fifty young Buffons told me all
      adders bite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The senile youth was disconcerted for a single moment. He hesitated. The
      keys that the old man had himself said would unlock his judgment lay
      beside him on the table. He could not help glancing slyly at them, but he
      would not use them before their turn. His mind was methodical. His will
      was strong in all things. He put his hand in his side-pocket, and drew out
      a quantity of papers neatly arranged, tied, and indorsed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old men instantly bestowed a more watchful sort of attention on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This, gentlemen, is a list of the joint-stock companies created last
      year. What do you suppose is their number?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fifty, I'll be bound, Mr. Richard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More than that, Skinner. Say eighty.&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 &ldquo;Two hundred and forty-three, gentlemen. Of these some were
stillborn, but the majority hold the market. The capital proposed to
be subscribed on the sum total is two hundred and forty-eight
millions.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pheugh! Skinner!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The amount actually paid at present (chiefly in bank-notes) is stated at
      43,062,608 pounds, and the balance due at the end of the year on this set
      of ventures will be 204,937,392 pounds or thereabouts. The projects of <i>this
      year</i> have not been collected, but they are on a similar scale. Full a
      third of the general sum total is destined to foreign countries, either in
      loans or to work mines, etc., the return for which is uncertain and
      future. All these must come to nothing, and ruin the shareholders that
      way, or else must sooner or later be paid in specie, since no foreign
      nation can use our paper, but must sell it to the Bank of England. We
      stand, then, pledged to burst like a bladder, or to <i>export</i> in a few
      months thrice as much specie as we possess. To sum up, if the country
      could be sold to-morrow, with every brick that stands upon it, the
      proceeds would not meet the engagements into which these joint-stock
      companies have inveigled her in the course of twenty months. Viewed then,
      in gross, under the test, not of poetry and prospectus, but of arithmetic,
      the whole thing is a bubble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bubble?&rdquo; uttered both the seniors in one breath, and almost in a
      scream.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I am ready to test it in detail. Let us take three main features&mdash;the
      share-market, the foreign loans, and the inflated circulation caused by
      the provincial banks. Why do the public run after shares? Is it in the
      exercise of a healthy judgment? No; a cunning bait has been laid for human
      weakness. Transferable shares valued at 100 pounds can be secured and paid
      for by small instalments of 5 pounds or less. If, then, his 100 pound
      shares rise to 130 pounds each, the adventurer can sell at a nominal
      profit of 30 per cent, but a real profit of 600 per cent on his actual
      investment. This intoxicates rich and poor alike. It enables the small
      capitalist to operate on the scale that belongs, in healthy times, to the
      large capitalist; a beggar can now gamble like a prince; his farthings are
      accepted as counters for sovereigns; but this is a distinct feature of all
      the more gigantic bubbles recorded. Here, too, you see, is illusory credit
      on a vast scale, with its sure consequence, inflated and fictitious
      values; another bit of soap that goes to every bubble in history. Now for
      the Transatlantic loans. I submit them to a simple test. Judge nations
      like individuals. If you knew nothing of a man but that he had set up a
      new shop, would you lend him money? Then why lend money to new republics
      of whom you know nothing but that, born yesterday, they may die to-morrow,
      and that they are exhausted by recent wars, and that, where responsibility
      is divided, conscience is always subdivided?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well said, Richard, well said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If a stranger offered you thirty per cent, would you lend him your
      money?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; for I should know he didn't mean to pay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, these foreign negotiators offer nominally five per cent, but,
      looking at the price of the stock, thirty, forty, and even fifty per cent.
      Yet they are not so liberal as they appear; they could afford ninety per
      cent. You understand me, gentlemen. Would you lend to a man that came to
      you under an alias like a Newgate thief? Cast your eye over this
      prospectus. It is the Poyais loan. There is no such place as Poyais.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a loan to an anonymous swamp by the Mosquito River. But Mosquito
      suggests a bite. So the vagabonds that brought the proposal over put their
      heads together as they crossed the Atlantic, and christened the place
      Poyais; and now fools that are not fools enough to lend sixpence to
      Zahara, are going to lend 200,000 pounds to rushes and reeds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Richard, what are you talking about? 'The air is soft and balmy; the
      climate fructifying; the soil is spontaneous'&mdash;what does that mean?
      mum! mum! 'The water runs over sands of gold.' Why, it is a description of
      Paradise. And, now I think of it, is not all this taken from John Milton?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very likely. It is written by thieves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems there are tortoise-shell, diamonds, pearls&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the prospectus, but not in the morass. It is a good, straightforward
      morass, with no pretensions but to great damp. But don't be alarmed,
      gentlemen, our countrymen's money will not be swamped there. It will all
      be sponged up in Threadneedle Street by the poetic swindlers whose names,
      or aliases, you hold in your hand. The Greek, Mexican, and Brazilian loans
      may be translated from Prospectish into English thus: At a date when every
      sovereign will be worth five to us in sustaining shriveling paper and
      collapsing credit, we are going to chuck a million sovereigns into the
      Hellespont, five million sovereigns into the Gulf of Mexico, and two
      millions into the Pacific Ocean. Against the loans to the old monarchies
      there is only this objection, that they are unreasonable; will drain out
      gold when gold will be life-blood; which brings me, by connection, to my
      third item&mdash;the provincial circulation. Pray, gentlemen, do you
      remember the year 1793?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For some minutes past a dead silence and a deep, absorbed attention had
      received the young man's words; but that quiet question was like a great
      stone descending suddenly on a silent stream. Such a noise, agitation, and
      flutter. The old banker and his clerk both began to speak at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't we?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Lord, Mr. Richard, don't talk of 1793.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you know about 1793? You weren't born.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Richard, such a to-do, sir! 1800 firms in the Gazette. Seventy
      banks stopped.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nearer a hundred, Mr. Skinner. Seventy-one stopped in the provinces, and
      a score in London.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, sir, Mr. Richard knows everything, whether he was born or not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, he doesn't, you old goose; he doesn't know how you and I sat looking
      at one another, and pretending to fumble, and counting out slowly, waiting
      sick at heart for the sack of guineas that was to come down by coach. If
      it had not come we should not have broken, but we should have suspended
      payment for twenty-four hours, and I was young enough then to have cut my
      throat in the interval.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it came, sir&mdash;it came, and you cried, 'Keep the bank open till
      midnight!' and when the blackguards heard that, and saw the sackful of
      gold, they crept away; they were afraid of offending us. Nobody came anigh
      us next day. Banks smashed all round us like glass bottles, but Hardie
      &amp; Co. stood, and shall stand for ever and ever. Amen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who showed the white feather, Mr. Skinner? Who came creeping and
      sniveling, and took my hand under the counter, and pressed it to give me
      courage, and then was absurd enough to make apologies, as if sympathy was
      as common as dirt? Give me your hand directly, you old&mdash;Hallo!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless you, sir! God bless you! It is all right, sir. The bank is safe
      for another fifty years. We have got Master Richard, and he has got a
      head. O Gemini, what a head he has got, and the other day playing
      marbles!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and we are interrupting him with our nonsense. Go on, Richard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Richard had secretly but fully appreciated the folly of the interruption.
      His was a great mind, and moved in a sort of pecuniary ether high above
      the little weaknesses my reader has observed in Hardie senior and old
      Skinner. Being, however, equally above the other little infirmities of
      fretfulness and fussiness, he waited calmly and proceeded coolly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was the cause of the distress in 1793?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that was the puzzle&mdash;wasn't it, Skinner? We were never so
      prosperous as that year. The distress came over us like a thunder-storm
      all in a moment. Nobody knows the exact cause.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, sir, it is as well known as any point of history
      whatever. Some years of prosperity had created a spawn of country banks,
      most of them resting on no basis; these had inflated the circulation with
      their paper. A panic and a collapse of this fictitious currency was as
      inevitable as the fall of a stone forced against nature into the air.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There <i>were</i> a great many petty banks, Richard, and, of course,
      plenty of bad paper. I believe you are right. The causes of things were
      not studied in those days as they are now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All that we know now, sir, is to be found in books written long before
      1793.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Books! books!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir; a book is not dead paper except to sleepy minds. A book is a
      man giving you his best thoughts in his very best words. It is only the
      shallow reader that can't learn life from genuine books. I'll back him who
      studies them against the man who skims his fellow-creatures, and vice
      versa. A single page of Adam Smith, studied, understood, and acted on by
      the statesmen of your day, would have averted the panic of 1793. I have
      the paragraph in my note-book. He was a great man, sir; oblige me, Mr.
      Skinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, sir, certainly. 'Should the circulation of paper exceed the
      value of the gold and silver of which it supplies the place, many people
      would immediately perceive they had more of this paper than was necessary
      for transacting their business at home; and, as they could not send it
      abroad, bank paper only passing current where it is issued, there would be
      a run upon the banks to the extent of this superfluous paper.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Richard Hardie resumed. &ldquo;We were never so overrun with rotten banks as
      now. Shoemakers, cheesemongers, grocers, write up 'Bank' over one of their
      windows, and deal their rotten paper by the foolscap ream. The issue of
      their larger notes is colossal, and renders a panic inevitable soon or
      late; but, to make it doubly sure, they have been allowed to utter 1 pound
      and 2 pound notes. They have done it, and on a frightful scale. Then, to
      make it trebly sure, the just balance between paper and specie is
      disturbed in the other scale as well as by foreign loans to be paid in
      gold. In 1793 the candle was left unsnufled, but we have lighted it at
      both ends and put it down to roast. Before the year ends, every sovereign
      in the banks of this country may be called on to cash 30 pounds of paper&mdash;bank-paper,
      share-paper, foolscap-paper, waste-paper. In 1793, a small excess of paper
      over specie had the power to cause a panic and break some ninety banks;
      but our excess of paper is far larger, and with that fatal error we have
      combined foreign loans and three hundred bubble companies. Here, then,
      meet three bubbles, each of which, unaided, secures a panic. Events
      revolve, gentlemen, and reappear at intervals. The great French bubble of
      1719 is here to-day with the addition of two English tom-fooleries,
      foreign loans and 1 pound notes. Mr. Law was a great financier. Mr. Law
      was the first banker and the greatest. All mortal bankers are his pupils,
      though they don't know it. Mr. Law was not a fool; his critics are. Mr.
      Law did not commit one error out of six that are attributed to him by
      those who judge him without reading, far less studying, his written works.
      He was too sound and sober a banker to admit small notes. They were
      excluded from his system. He found France on the eve of bankruptcy; in
      fact, the state had committed acts of virtual bankruptcy. He saved her
      with his bank.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then came his two errors, one remedial, the other fatal. No. 1, he
      created a paper company and blew it up to a bubble. When the shares had
      reached the skies, they began to come down, like stones, by an inevitable
      law. No. 2, to save them from their coming fate, he propped them with his
      bank. Overrating the power of governments, and underrating Nature's, he
      married the Mississippi shares (at forty times their value) to his
      banknotes by edict. What was the consequence? The bank paper, sound in
      itself, became rotten by marriage. Nothing could save the share-paper. The
      bank paper, making common cause with it, shared its fate. Had John Law let
      his two tubs each stand on its own bottom, the shares would have gone back
      to what they came from&mdash;nothing; the bank, based as it was on specie,
      backed stoutly by the government, and respected by the people for great
      national services, would have weathered the storm and lasted to this day.
      But he tied his rickety child to his healthy child, and flung them into a
      stormy sea, and told them to swim together: they sank together. Now
      observe, sir, the fatal error that ruined the great financier in 1720 is
      this day proposed to us. We are to connect our bank with bubble companies
      by the double tie of loans and liability. John Law was sore tempted. The
      Mississippi Company was his own child as well as the bank. Love of that
      popularity he had drunk so deeply, egotism, and parental partiality,
      combined to obscure that great man's judgment. But, with us, folly stands
      naked on one side, bubbles in hand&mdash;common sense and printed
      experience on the other. These six specimen bubbles here are not <i>our</i>
      children. Let me see whose they are, aliases excepted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good, young gentleman, very good. Now it is my turn. I have got a
      word or two to say on the other side. The journals, which are so seldom
      agreed, are all of one mind about these glorious times. Account for that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can you know their minds, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By their leading columns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those are no clue.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! Do they think one thing and print another? Why should the
      independent press do that? Nonsense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, sir? Because they are bribed to print it, but they are not bribed to
      think it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bribed? The English press bribed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, not directly, like the English freeman. Oblige me with a journal or
      two, no matter which; they are all tarred with the same stick in time of
      bubble. Here, sir, are 50 pounds worth of bubble advertisements, yielding
      a profit of say 25 pounds on this single issue. In this one are nearer 100
      pounds worth of such advertisements. Now is it in nature that a newspaper,
      which is a trade speculation, should say the word that would blight its
      own harvest? This is the oblique road by which the English press is
      bribed. These leaders are mere echoes of to-day's advertisement sheet, and
      bidders for to-morrow's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The world gets worse every day, Skinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It gets no better,&rdquo; replied Richard, philosophically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Richard, here is our county member, and &mdash;&mdash;, staid, sober
      men both, and both have pledged their honor on the floor of the House of
      Commons to the sound character of some of these companies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They have, sir; but they will never redeem the said honor, for they are
      known to be bribed, and not obliquely, by those very companies.&rdquo; (The
      price current of M. P. honor, in time of bubble, ought to be added to the
      works of arithmetic.) &ldquo;Those two Brutuses get 500 pounds apiece per annum
      for touting those companies down at Stephen's. &mdash;&mdash; goes cheaper
      and more oblique. He touts, in the same place, for a gas company, and his
      house in the square flares from cellar to garret, gratis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good gracious! and he talked of the light of conscience in his very last
      speech. But this cannot apply to all. There is the archbishop; he can't
      have sold his name to that company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who knows? He is over head and ears in debt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the duke, <i>he</i> can't have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not? He is over head and ears in debt. Princes deep in debt by
      misconduct, and bishops deep in ditto by ditto, are half-honest, needy
      men; and half-honest, needy men are all to be bought and sold like hogs in
      Smithfield, especially in time of bubble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the world come to!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What it was a hundred years ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have got one pill left for him, Skinner. Here is the Chancellor of the
      Exchequer, a man whose name stands for caution, has pronounced a panegyric
      on our situation. Here are his words quoted in this leader; now listen:
      'We may safely venture to contemplate with instructive admiration the
      harmony of its proportions and the solidity of its basis.' What do you say
      to that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say it is one man's opinion versus the experience of a century.
      Besides, that is a quotation, and may be a fraudulent one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no. The speech was only delivered last Wednesday: we will refer to
      it. Mum! mum! Ah, here it is. 'The Chancellor of the Exchequer rose and&mdash;'
      mum! mum! ah&mdash;'I am of&mdash;o-pinion that&mdash;if, upon a fair
      review of our situation, there shall appear to be nothing hollow in its
      foundation, artificial in its superstructure, or flimsy in its general
      results, we may safely venture to contemplate with instructive admiration
      the harmony of its proportions and the solidity of its basis.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! ha! ha! I quite agree with cautious Bobby. If it is not hollow, it
      may be solid; if it is not a gigantic paper balloon, it may be a very fine
      globe, and vice versa, which vice versa he in his heart suspects to be the
      truth. You see, sir, the mangled quotation was a swindle, like the flimsy
      superstructures it was intended to prop. The genuine paragraph is a fair
      sample of Robinson, and of the art of withholding opinion by means of
      expression. But as quoted, by a fraudulent suppression of one half, the
      unbalanced half is palmed off as a whole, and an indecision perverted into
      a decision. I might just as fairly cite him as describing our situation to
      be 'hollow in its basis, artificial in its superstructure, flimsy in its
      general result.' Since you value names, I will cite you one man that has
      commented on the situation; not, like Mr. Robinson, by misty sentences,
      each neutralizing the other, but by consistent acts: a man, gentlemen,
      whose operations have always been numerous and courageous in less <i>prosperous</i>
      times, yet now he is <i>out of everything</i> but a single insurance
      company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is the gentleman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not a gentleman; it is a blackguard,&rdquo; said the exact youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You excite my curiosity. Who is the capitalist, then, that stands aloof?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nathan Meyer Rothschild.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Old Skinner started sitting. &ldquo;Rothschild hanging back. Oh, master, for
      Heavens sake don't let us try to be wiser than those devils of Jews. Mr.
      Richard, I bore up pretty well against your book-learning, but now you've
      hit me with a thunderbolt. Let us get in gold, and keep as snug as mice,
      and not lend one of them a farthing to save them from the gallows. Those
      Jews smell farther than a Christian can see. Don't let's have any more
      1793's, sir, for Heaven's sake. Listen to Mr. Richard; he has been abroad,
      and come back with a head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be quiet, Skinner. You seem to possess private information, Richard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I employ three myrmidons to hunt it; it will be useful by and by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may be now. Remark on these proposals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir, two of them are based on gold mines, shares at a fabulous
      premium. Now no gold mine can be worked to a profit by a company. <i>Primo:</i>
      Gold is not found in veins like other metals. It is an abundant metal made
      scarce to man by distribution over a wide surface. The very phrase gold
      mine is delusive. <i>Secundo:</i> Gold is a metal that cannot be worked to
      a profit by a company for this reason: workmen will hunt it for others so
      long as the daily wages average higher than the amount of metal they find
      per diem; but, that Rubicon once passed, away they run to find gold for
      themselves in some spot with similar signs; if they stay, it is to murder
      your overseers and seize your mine. Gold digging is essentially an
      individual speculation. These shares sell at 700 pounds apiece; a dozen of
      them are not worth one Dutch tulip-root. Ah! here is a company of another
      class, in which you have been invited to be director; they would have
      given you shares and made you liable.&rdquo; Mr. Richard consulted his
      note-book. &ldquo;This company, which 'commands the wealth of both Indies'&mdash;in
      perspective&mdash;dissolved yesterday afternoon for want of eight guineas.
      They had rented offices at eight guineas a week, and could not pay the
      first week. 'Turn out or pay,' said the landlord, a brute absorbed in the
      present, and with no faith in the glorious future. They offered him 1,500
      pounds worth of shares instead of his paltry eight guineas cash. On this
      he swept his premises of them. What a godsend you would have been to these
      Jeremy Diddlers, you and the ten thousand they would have bled you of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old banker turned pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that is nothing new, sir. <i>'To-morrow</i> the first lord of the
      treasury calls at my house, and brings me 11,261 pounds 14s. 11 3/4d.,
      which is due to me from the nation at twelve of the clock on that day; you
      couldn't lend me a shilling till then, could ye?' Now for the loans.
      Baynes upon Haggart want 2,000 pounds at 5 per cent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good names, Richard, surely,&rdquo; said old Hardie, faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They were; but there are no good names in time of bubble. The operations
      are so enormous that in a few weeks a man is hollowed out and his frame
      left standing. In such times capitalists are like filberts; they look all
      nut, but half of them are dust inside the shell, and only known by
      breaking. Baynes upon Haggart, and Haggart upon Baynes, the city is full
      of their paper. I have brought some down to show it to you. A discounter,
      who is a friend of mine, did it for them on a considerable scale at thirty
      per cent discount (cast your eye over these bills, Haggart on Baynes). But
      he has burned his fingers even at that, and knows it. So I am authorized
      to offer all these to you at fifty per cent discount.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! Richard!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If, therefore, you think of doing rotten apple upon rotten pear,
      otherwise Haggart upon Baynes, why do it at five per cent when it is to be
      had by the quire at fifty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take them out of my sight,&rdquo; said old Hardie, starting up&mdash;&ldquo;take them
      all out of my sight. Thank God I sent for you. No more discussion, no more
      doubt. Give me your hand, my son; you have saved the bank!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The conference broke up with these eager words, and young Skinner retired
      swiftly from the keyhole.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day Mr. Hardie senior came to a resolution which saddened poor
      old Skinner. He called the clerks in and introduced them to Mr. Richard as
      his managing partner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every dog has his day,&rdquo; said the old gentleman. &ldquo;Mine has been a long
      one. Richard has saved the bank from a fatal error; Richard shall conduct
      it as Hardie &amp; Son. Don't be disconsolate, Skinner; I'll look in on
      you now and then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hardie junior sent back all the proposals with a polite negative. He then
      proceeded on a two-headed plan. Not to lose a shilling when the panic he
      expected should come, and to make 20,000 pounds upon its subsiding. Hardie
      &amp; Son held Exchequer bills on rather a large scale. They were at half
      a crown premium. He sold every one and put gold in his coffers. He
      converted in the same way all his other securities except consols. These
      were low, and he calculated they would rise in any general depreciation of
      more pretentious investments. He drew out his balance, a large one, from
      his London correspondent, and put his gold in his coffers. He drew a large
      deposit from the Bank of England. Whenever his own notes came into the
      bank, he withdrew them from circulation. &ldquo;They may hop upon Hardie &amp;
      Son,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but they shan't run upon us, for I'll cut off their legs
      and keep them in my safe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One day he invited several large tradesmen in the town to dine with him at
      the bank. They came full of curiosity. He gave them a luxurious dinner,
      which pleased them. After dinner he exposed the real state of the nation,
      as he understood it. They listened politely, and sneered silently, but
      visibly. He then produced six large packets of his banknotes; each packet
      contained 3,000 pounds. Skinner, then present, enveloped these packets in
      cartridge-paper, and the guests were requested to seal them up. This was
      soon done. In those days a bunch of gigantic seals dangled and danced on
      the pit of every man's stomach. The sealed packets went back into the
      safe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Show us a sparkle o' gold, Mr. Richard,&rdquo; said Meredith, linen-draper and
      wag.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Skinner, oblige me by showing Mr. Meredith a little of your specie&mdash;a
      few anti-bubble pills, eh! Mr. Meredith.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Omnes. &ldquo;Ha! ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Presently a shout from Meredith: &ldquo;Boys, he has got it here by the bushel.
      All new sovereigns. Don't any of ye be a linen-draper, if you have got a
      chance to be a banker. How much is there here, Mr. Richard?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must consult the books to ascertain that, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must you? Then just turn your head away, Mr. Richard, and I'll put in a
      claw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Omnes. &ldquo;Haw! haw! ho!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Richard Hardie resumed. &ldquo;My precautions seem extravagant to you now, but
      in a few months you will remember this conversation, and it will lead to
      business.&rdquo; The rest of the evening he talked of anything, everything,
      except banking. He was not the man to dilute an impression.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hardie junior was so confident in his reading and his reasonings that he
      looked every day into the journals for the signs of a general collapse of
      paper and credit; instead of which, public confidence seemed to increase,
      not diminish, and the paper balloon, as he called it, dilated, not shrank;
      and this went on for months. His gold lay a dead and useless stock, while
      paper was breeding paper on every side of him. He suffered his share of
      those mortifications which every man must look to endure who takes a
      course of his own, and stems a human current. He sat somber and perplexed
      in his bank parlor, doing nothing; his clerks mended pens in the office.
      The national calamity so confidently predicted, and now so eagerly sighed
      for, came not.
    </p>
    <p>
      In other words, Richard Hardie was a sagacious calculator, but not a
      prophet; no man is till afterward, and then nine out of ten are. At last
      he despaired of the national calamity ever coming at all. So then, one
      dark November day, an event happened that proved him a shrewd calculator
      of probabilities in the gross, and showed that the records, of the past,
      &ldquo;studied&rdquo; instead of &ldquo;skimmed,&rdquo; may in some degree counterbalance youth
      and its narrow experience. Owing to the foreign loans, there were a great
      many bills out against this country. Some heavy ones were presented, and
      seven millions in gold taken out of the Bank of England and sent abroad.
      This would have trickled back by degrees; but the suddenness and magnitude
      of the drain alarmed the bank directors for the safety of the bank,
      subject as it was by Mr. Peel's bill to a vast demand for gold.
    </p>
    <p>
      Up to this period, though they had amassed specie themselves, they had
      rather fed the paper fever in the country at large, but now they began to
      take a wide and serious view of the grave contingencies around them. They
      contracted their money operations, refused in two cases to discount corn,
      and, in a word, put the screw on as judiciously as they could. But time
      was up. Public confidence had reached its culminating point. The sudden
      caution of the bank could not be hidden; it awoke prudence, and prudence
      after imprudence drew terror at its heels. There was a tremendous run upon
      the country banks. The smaller ones &ldquo;smashed all around like glass
      bottles,&rdquo; as in 1793; the larger ones made gigantic and prolonged efforts
      to stand, and generally fell at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many, whose books showed assets 40s. in the pound, suspended payment; for
      in a violent panic the bank creditors can all draw their balances in a few
      hours or days, but the poor bank cannot put a similar screw on its
      debtors. Thus no establishment was safe. Honor and solvency bent before
      the storm, and were ranked with rottenness; and, as at the same time the
      market price of securities sank with frightful rapidity, scarcely any
      amount of invested capital was safe in the unequal conflict.
    </p>
    <p>
      Exchequer bills went down to 60s. discount, and the funds rose and fell
      like waves in a storm.
    </p>
    <p>
      London bankers were called out of church to answer dispatches from their
      country correspondents.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Mint worked day and night, and coined a hundred and fifty thousand
      sovereigns per diem for the Bank of England; but this large supply went
      but a little way, since that firm had in reality to cash nearly all the
      country notes that were cashed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Post-chaises and four stood like hackney-coaches in Lombard Street, and
      every now and then went rattling off at a gallop into the country with
      their golden freight. In London, at the end of a single week, not an old
      sovereign was to be seen, so fiercely was the old coinage swept into the
      provinces, so active were the Mint and the smashers; these last drove a
      roaring trade; for paper now was all suspected, and anything that looked
      like gold was taken recklessly in exchange.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon the storm burst on the London banks. A firm known to possess half a
      million in undeniable securities could not cash them fast enough to meet
      the checks drawn on their counter, and fell. Next day, a house whose very
      name was a rock suspended for four days. An hour or two later two more
      went hopelessly to destruction. The panic rose to madness. Confidence had
      no longer a clue, nor names a distinction. A man's enemies collected three
      or four vagabonds round his door, and in another hour there was a run upon
      him, that never ceased till he was emptied or broken. At last, as, in the
      ancient battles, armies rested on their arms to watch a duel in which both
      sides were represented, the whole town watched a run upon the great house
      of Pole, Thornton &amp; Co. The Bank of England, from public motives,
      spiced of course with private interest, had determined to support Pole,
      Thornton &amp; Co., and so perhaps stem the general fury, for all things
      have their turning-point. Three hundred thousand pounds were advanced to
      Pole &amp; Co., who with this aid and their own resources battled through
      the week, but on Saturday night were drained so low that their fate once
      more depended on the Bank of England. Another large sum was advanced them.
      They went on; but, ere the next week ended, they succumbed, and universal
      panic gained the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Climax of all, the Bank of England notes lost the confidence of the
      public, and a frightful run was made on it. The struggle had been prepared
      for, and was gigantic on both sides. Here the great hall of the bank, full
      of panic-stricken citizens jostling one another to get gold for the notes
      of the bank; there, foreign nations sending over ingots and coin to the
      bank, and the Mint working night and day, Sunday and week-day, to turn
      them into sovereigns to meet the run. Sovereigns or else half-sovereigns
      were promptly delivered on demand. No hesitation or sign of weakness
      peeped out; but under this bold and prudent surface, dismay, sickness of
      heart, and the dread of a great humiliation. At last, one dismal evening,
      this establishment, which at the beginning of the panic had twenty
      millions specie, left off with about five hundred thousand pounds in coin,
      and a similar amount in bullion. A large freight of gold was on the seas,
      coming to their aid, and due, but not arrived; the wind was high; and in a
      few hours the people would be howling round their doors again. They sent a
      hasty message to the government, and implored them to suspend, by order in
      council, the operation of Mr. Peel's bill for a few days. A plump negative
      from Mr. Canning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, being driven to expedients, they bethought them of a chest of 1
      pound notes that they had luckily omitted to burn.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another message to the government, &ldquo;May we use these?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As a temporary expedient, yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The one-pound notes were whirling all over the country before daybreak,
      and, marvelous anomaly, which took Richard Hardie by surprise, they oiled
      the waves, the panic abated from that hour. The holders of country notes
      took the 1 pound B. E. notes as cash with avidity. The very sight of them
      piled on a counter stopped a run in more than one city.
    </p>
    <p>
      The demand for gold at the Bank of England continued, but less fiercely;
      and as the ingots still came tumbling in, and the Mint hailed sovereigns
      on them, their stock of specie rose as the demand declined, and they came
      out of their fiercest battle with honor. But, ere the tide turned, things
      in general came to a pass scarcely known in the history of civilized
      nations. Ladies and gentlemen took heirlooms to the pawnbrokers', and
      swept their tills of the last coin. Not only was wild speculation,
      hitherto so universal and ardent, snuffed out like a candle, but
      investment ceased and commerce came to a stand-still. Bank stock, East
      India stock, and, some days, consols themselves, did not go down; they
      went out, were blotted from the book of business. No man would give them
      gratis; no man would take them on any other terms. The brokers closed
      their books; there were no buyers nor sellers. Trade was coming to the
      same pass, except the retail business in eatables; and an observant
      statesman and economist, that watched the phenomenon, pronounced that in
      forty-eight hours more all dealings would have ceased between man and man,
      or returned to the rude and primitive form of barter, or direct exchange
      of men's several commodities, labor included.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finally, things crept into their places; shades of distinction were drawn
      between good securities and bad. Shares were forfeited, companies
      dissolved, bladders punctured, balloons flattened, bubbles burst, and
      thousands of families ruined&mdash;thousands of people beggared&mdash;and
      the nation itself, its paper fever reduced by a severe bleeding, lay sick,
      panting, exhausted, and discouraged for a year or two to await the eternal
      cycle&mdash;torpor, prudence, health, plethora, blood-letting; torpor,
      prudence, health, plethora, bloodletting, etc., etc., etc., etc., <i>in
      secula seculorum.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      The journals pitched into &ldquo;speculation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Three banks lay in the dust in the town of &mdash;&mdash;, and Hardie
      &amp; Son stood looking calmly down upon the ruins.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard Hardie had carried out his double-headed plan.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no run upon him&mdash;could not be one in the course of nature,
      his balances were so low, and his notes were all at home. He created
      artificially a run of a very different kind. He dined the same party of
      tradesmen&mdash;all but one, who could not come, being at supper after
      Polonius his fashion. After dinner he showed the packets still sealed, and
      six more unsealed. &ldquo;Here, gentlemen, is our whole issue.&rdquo; There was a huge
      wood fire in the old-fashioned room. He threw a packet of notes into it. A
      most respectable grocer yelled and lost color: victim of his senses, he
      thought sacred money was here destroyed, and his host a well-bred, and oh!
      how plausible, maniac. The others derided him, and packet after packet fed
      the flames. When two only were left, containing about five thousand pounds
      between them, Hardie junior made a proposal that they should advertise in
      their shop windows to receive Hardie's five-pound notes as five guineas in
      payment for their goods. Observing a natural hesitation, he explained that
      they would by this means, crush their competitors, and could easily clap a
      price on their goods to cover the odd shillings. The bargain was soon
      struck. Mr. Richard was a great man. All his guests felt in their secret
      souls and pockets&mdash;excuse the tautology&mdash;that some day or other
      they should want to borrow money of him. Besides, &ldquo;crush their
      competitors!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Next day Mr. Richard loosed his hand and let a flock of his own bank-notes
      fly (they were asked for earnestly every day). Some soon found their way
      to the shops in question. The next day still more took wing and buzzed
      about the shops. Presently other tradesmen, finding people rushed to the
      shops in question, began to bid against them for Hardie's notes, a result
      the long-headed youth had expected; and said notes went up to ten
      shillings premium. Too calm and cold to be betrayed into deserting his
      principles, he confined the issue within the bounds he had prescribed, and
      when they were all out seldom saw one of them again. By this means he
      actually lowered the Bank of England notes in public estimation, and set
      his own high above them in the town of &mdash;&mdash;. Deposits came in.
      Confidence unparalleled took the place of fear so far as he was concerned,
      and he was left free to work the other part of his plan.
    </p>
    <p>
      To the amazement and mystification of old Skinner, he laid out ten
      thousand pounds in Exchequer bills, and followed this up by other large
      purchases of paper, paper, nothing but paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hardie senior was nervous.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you true to your own theory, Richard?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The youth explained to him that blind confidence always ends in blind
      distrust, and then all paper becomes depreciated alike, but good paper is
      sure to recover. &ldquo;Sixty-two shillings discount, sir, is a ridiculous
      decline of Exchequer bills. We are at peace, and elastic, and the
      government is strong. My other purchases all rest upon certain
      information, carefully and laboriously amassed while the world was so busy
      blowing bubbles. I am now buying paper that is unjustly depreciated in
      Panic, i.e., in the second act of that mania of which Bubble is the first
      act.&rdquo; He added: &ldquo;When the herd buy, the price rises; when they sell, it
      falls. To buy with them and sell with them is therefore to buy dear and
      sell cheap. My game&mdash;and it is a game that reduces speculation to a
      certainty&mdash;is threefold:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;First, never, at any price or under any temptation, buy anything that is
      not as good as gold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Secondly, buy that sound article when the herd sells it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thirdly, sell it when the herd buys it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Richard,&rdquo; said the old man, &ldquo;I see what it is&mdash;you are a genius.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is no use your denying it, Richard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Common sense, sir, common sense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but common sense carried to such a height as you do is genius.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir, then I own to the genius of common sense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I admire you, Richard&mdash;I am proud of you; but the bank has stood one
      hundred and forty years, and never a genius in it;&rdquo; the old man sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hardie senior, having relieved his mind of this vague misgiving, never
      returned to it&mdash;probably never felt it again. It was one of those
      strange flashes that cross a mind as a meteor the sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old gentleman, having little to do, talked more than heretofore, and,
      like fathers, talked about his son, and, unlike sons, cried him up at his
      own expense. The world is not very incredulous; above all, it never
      disbelieves a man who calls himself a fool. Having then gained the public
      ear by the artifice of self-depreciation, he poured into it the praises of
      Hardie junior. He went about telling how he, an old man, was all but
      bubbled till this young Daniel came down and foretold all. Thus paternal
      garrulity combined for once with a man's own ability to place Richard
      Hardie on the pinnacle of provincial grandeur.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few years more and Hardie senior died. (His old clerk, Skinner, followed
      him a month later.)
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard Hardie, now sole partner and proprietor, assumed a mode of living
      unknown to his predecessors. He built a large, commodious house, and
      entertained in the first style. The best families in the neighborhood
      visited a man whose manner was quiet and stately, his income larger than
      their own, and his house and table luxurious without vulgar pretensions,
      and the red-hot gilding and glare with which the injudicious parvenu
      brands himself and furniture.
    </p>
    <p>
      The bank itself put on a new face. Twice as much glass fronted the street,
      and a skylight was let into the ceiling: there were five clerks instead of
      three; the new ones at much smaller salaries than the pair that had come
      down from antiquity.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      SUCH was Mr. Hardie at twenty-five, and his townspeople said: &ldquo;If he is so
      wise now he is a boy, what in Heaven's name will he be at forty?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had learned the happy art, which might be called &ldquo;the barrister's art,&rdquo;
       <i>hoc agendi,</i> 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this favorable opinion Mr. Hardie responded in full.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had never seen so graceful a creature, nor so young a woman so
      courteous and high-bred.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;She thinks before she
      speaks,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. <i>Bref,</i>
      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 <i>ennui,</i> 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, &ldquo;the only
      thing she loves, or ever will,&rdquo; said Mrs. B., assuming prophecy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, pray, what is that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He never says a word to me about such things,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette; &ldquo;I
      suppose he thinks they are above poor me.&rdquo; She delivered this with so
      admirable an imitation of pique, that the courtier was deceived, and
      applied butter to &ldquo;a fox's wound.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;(full
      stop). What do you think of his voice?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His voice? I don't remember anything about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you do&mdash;you must; it is a very remarkable one; so mellow, so
      quiet, yet so modulated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I do remember now; it is rather a pleasant voice&mdash;for a man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rather a pleasant voice!&rdquo; repeated Lucy, opening her eyes; &ldquo;why, it is a
      voice to charm serpents.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! ha! It has not charmed him one yet, you see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, charmers are charm-proof,&rdquo; replied Lucy; &ldquo;that is the only reason
      why. I am sure of that.&rdquo; Then she reflected awhile. &ldquo;It is his natural
      voice, is it not? Did you ever hear him speak in any other? Think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he must be a good man. Apropos, is Mr. Hardie a good man, aunt?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, of course he is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never heard of any scandal against him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't mean your negative goodness. You never heard anything against
      <i>me</i> out of doors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and are you not a good girl?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me, aunt? Why, you know I am not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bless me, what have you done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have done nothing, aunt,&rdquo; exclaimed Lucy, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Meaning me, dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you?&rdquo; and Lucy colored faintly; &ldquo;with all my heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That you have not worn at least once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some of them twice and three times;&rdquo; and the B looked aghast at the state
      of nudity to which she was reduced. Lucy sidled toward the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since you consult me, dear, I advise you to wear what I mean to wear
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A gown, a pair of gloves, and a smirk&rdquo;; and with this heartless
      expression of nonchalance Lucy glided away and escaped the impending
      shower.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, the selfishness of these girls!&rdquo; cried the deserted one. &ldquo;I have got
      her a husband to her taste, so now she runs away from me to think of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is caught at last. She notices his very voice. She fancies she cares
      for politics&mdash;ha! ha! She is gone to meditate on him&mdash;could not
      bear any other topic&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime Lucy was in her own room and the door bolted.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody admitted here till three o'clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is me, Lucy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I conclude,&rdquo; said Lucy gayly. &ldquo;'Me' must call again at three, whoever
      it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not I,&rdquo; said Aunt Bazalgette, and flounced off in a pet.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 <i>glacees,</i> just finished, lying on the
      bed. An eager fire of questions. &ldquo;Where did you get them? which is mine?
      who made them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A new dressmaker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! what a godsend to poor us! Who is she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me see how you like her work before I tell you. Try this one on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything fits you, you witch,&rdquo; replied the B. &ldquo;I must have this woman's
      address; she is an angel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy looked pleased. &ldquo;She is only a beginner, but desirous to please you;
      and 'zeal goes farther than talent,' says Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd! Ah! by-the-by, that reminds me&mdash;I am so glad you mentioned
      his name. Where does the woman live?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo; (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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette did what you and I, manly reader, should have been apt to
      omit. She extricated herself, not roughly, yet a little hastily&mdash;like
      a water-snake gliding out of the other sweet serpent's folds.* Sacred
      dress being present, she deemed caresses frivolous&mdash;and ill-timed.
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Here flashes on the cultivated mind the sprightly couplet,

      &ldquo;Oh, that I had my mistress at this bay,
       To kiss and clip me&mdash;till I run away.&rdquo;

                SHAKESPEARE.&mdash;Venus and Adonis.
</pre>
    <p>
      Lucy answered this fusillade in detail. &ldquo;You know, aunt, dressmakers bring
      us their failures, and we, by our hints, get them made into successes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So we do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;I made
      Jane a gown.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! your servant?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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 <i>nobody</i> shall have to pay for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eighteen pounds? These two lovely dresses, lace, trimmings, and all, for
      eighteen pounds!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At least. Well, you are a clever girl. I might as well try on yours, as
      you won't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the dead of the night, when with labor oppressed, All mortals enjoy
      the sweet blessing of rest,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Hush! don't be a
      fool,&rdquo; cried the affectionate phantom; and kneaded the uncertain form
      through the bedclothes; &ldquo;fancy screeching so at sight of me!&rdquo; Then
      gradually a single eye peeped timidly between two white hands that held
      the sheets ready for defense like a shield.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;B&mdash;b&mdash;but you are all in white,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what color should I be&mdash;in my nightgown?&rdquo; snapped the specter.
      &ldquo;What color is yours?&rdquo; and she gave Lucy a little angry pull&mdash;&ldquo;and
      everybody else's?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But at the dead of night, aunt, and without any warning&mdash;it's
      terrible. Oh dear!&rdquo; (another little gulp in the throat, exceeding pretty).
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucy, be yourself,&rdquo; said the specter, severely; &ldquo;you used not to be so
      selfish as to turn hysterical when your aunt came to you for advice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy had to do a little. &ldquo;Forgive, blessed shade!&rdquo; She apologized, crushed
      down her obtrusive, egotistical tremors, and vibrated to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Placable Aunt Bazalgette accepted her excuses, and opened the business
      that brought her there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't leave my bed at this hour for nothing, you may be sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N&mdash;no, aunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucy,&rdquo; continued Mrs. Bazalgette, deepening, &ldquo;there is a weight on my
      mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Up sat Lucy in the bed, and two sapphire eyes opened wide and made terror
      lovely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, aunt, what have you been doing? It is remorse, then, that will not
      let you sleep. Ah! I see! your flirtations&mdash;your flirtations&mdash;this
      is the end of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My flirtations!&rdquo; cried the other, in great surprise. &ldquo;I never flirt. I
      only amuse myself with them.&rdquo; *
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     *In strict grammar this &ldquo;them&rdquo; ought to refer to
     &ldquo;flirtations;&rdquo; but Lucy's aunt did not talk strict grammar.
     Does yours?
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&mdash;never&mdash;flirt? Oh! oh! oh! Mr. Christopher, Mr. Horne, Sir
      George Healey, Mr. M'Donnell, Mr. Wolfenton, Mr. Vaughan&mdash;there! oh,
      and Mr. Dodd!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, dear aunt?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That your gown fits me ever so much better than my own.&rdquo; She sighed
      deeply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy smiled slyly; but she replied, &ldquo;Is not that fancy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Lucy, no,&rdquo; was the solemn reply; &ldquo;I have tried to shut my eyes to it,
      but I can't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So it seems. Ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now do be serious; it is no laughing matter. How unfortunate I am!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all. Take my gown; I can easily alter yours to fit me, if
      necessary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you good girl, how clever you are! I should never have thought of
      that.&rdquo; N. B&mdash;She had been thinking of nothing else these six hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to bed, dear, and sleep in peace,&rdquo; said Lucy, soothingly. &ldquo;Leave all
      to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I can't leave all to you. Now I am to have yours, I must try it on.&rdquo;
       It was hers now, so her confidence in its fitting was shaken.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here are oceans of yards of lace on her very nightgrown!&rdquo; cried Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, does not every lady wear lace on her nightgown?&rdquo; was the tranquil
      reply. &ldquo;What is that on yours, pray?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little misery of Valenciennes an inch broad; but this is Mechlin&mdash;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 <i>eclat,</i> but for Mechlin.
      Alas! how few, like you, pursue quite the same course in the dark that
      they do in the world's eye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't moralize, dear; unhook me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After breakfast Mrs. Bazalgette asked Lucy how long she could give her to
      choose which of the two gowns to take, after all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Till eight o'clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy, too, was happy&mdash;demurely; for in all this business the female
      novice, &ldquo;la ruse sans le savoir,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Going to the ball, one cloud darkened for an instant the matron's mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am so afraid they will see it only cost nine pounds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enfant!&rdquo; replied Lucy, &ldquo;aetat. 20.&rdquo; At the ball Mr. Hardie and Lucy
      danced together, and were the most admired couple.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see myself how he can get out of it with credit,&rdquo; said
      Bazalgette, solemnly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am happy to find that my duty is on the side of my inclination,&rdquo; said
      Mr. Hardie. He smiled, well pleased, and looked handsomer than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Bazalgettes led a very quiet life for the next fortnight, for Mrs.
      Bazalgette was husbanding invitations for Mr. Hardie's return.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette yawned many times during this barren period, but with
      considerate benevolence she shielded Lucy from <i>ennui.</i> 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She pulled down, she built up, she rounded the angular, and squared the
      round.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much a week does she give you, Lucy?&rdquo; said he, looking a little red.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy opened her eyes in utter astonishment, and said nothing; her very
      needle and breath were suspended.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette shrugged her shoulders to Lucy, but disdained words. Mr.
      Bazalgette turned to his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put your work down, dear,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette resignedly. &ldquo;He does not
      understand our affection, nor anything else except pounds, shillings and
      pence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes I do. I can see through varnished selfishness for one thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You certainly ought to be a judge of the unvarnished article,&rdquo; retorted
      the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Having had it constantly under my eyes these twenty years,&rdquo; rejoined the
      gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, aunt! Oh, Mr. Bazalgette!&rdquo; 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She understands you, my poor girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is another matter; all ladies play at work. But you are in for <i>three
      months' hard labor.</i> 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this last absurdity Mrs. Bazalgette burst out laughing. But &ldquo;la rusee
      sans le savoir&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I do think you have an affection for
      me. If you really have, show it me <i>some other way,</i> and not by
      making me unhappy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The courtier returned to smooth her aunt in turn, but that lady stopped
      her with a lofty gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My plan is to look on these monstrosities as horrid dreams, and go on as
      if nothing had happened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Happy philosophy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy acquiesced with a smile, and in an instant both immortal souls
      plunged and disappeared in silk, satin, feathers and point lace.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rather a liberty? Say a very great liberty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that is not true, Lucy,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, with sudden dignity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy was staggered and abashed at this novel objection; recovering, she
      whined humbly, &ldquo;but it is very nearly true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her postscript to Mr. Fountain ran thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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 <i>have</i> excited my curiosity, he will be a great deal
      more welcome with them than without them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all right, Talboys,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;a
      cream-colored and a bay. &ldquo;Oh, you loves!&rdquo; cried the virgin, passionately,
      and blushed with pleasure. Her heart was very accessible&mdash;to
      quadrupeds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now you are to choose which of these you will have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Bazalgette!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear, good, kind Uncle Bazalgette; they are ducks!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, without my habit?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, get your habit on, then. Let us see how quick you can be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The bay is rather the best goer, dear,&rdquo; said she, timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Fountain chooses the bay, Tom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, uncle, I was going to ask you if I might have the cream-colored one.
      He is so pretty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, no,&rdquo; cried Lucy. &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Bazalgette, don't tempt me to be so
      wicked.&rdquo; Then she put both her fingers in her ears and screamed, &ldquo;Take the
      bay darling out of my sight, and leave the cream-colored love.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she dropped suddenly like a cypress toward Mr. Bazalgette, which
      meant &ldquo;you can kiss me.&rdquo; This time it was her cheek she proffered, all
      glowing with exercise and innocent excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &mdash;&mdash;. 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;yaas&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;vitantes stulti vitia&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;Another coach! another coach!&rdquo; It was a light break
      coming gently along, with two showy horses in it, and a pony trotting
      behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;You will have to tell me all he says to you while
      we are dressing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;And yet,&rdquo; said
      she, &ldquo;if I had known, I would not have allowed you to take the trouble,
      for I have a pony here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys was sorry for that, but he hoped she would ride his now and
      then, all the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, of course. My pony here is very pretty. But a new friend is not like
      an old friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The party arrived in great content and delectation at the gates that led
      to the house. &ldquo;Stay!&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette; &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You put them in damp beds,&rdquo; said Mr. Fountain, only half in jest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Worse than that, sir&mdash;we flirt with them, and disturb the placid
      current of their hearts forever and ever. Don't we, Lucy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know best, aunt,&rdquo; said Lucy, half malice, half pout. The others
      followed the gay lady, and, when the view burst, ejaculated to order.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Mr. Fountain stood ostentatiously in the middle of the road, with his
      legs apart, like him of Rhodes. &ldquo;I choose the alternative,&rdquo; cried he.
      &ldquo;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?&mdash;my stagnant current&mdash;turned into a whirlpool.&rdquo; Ere the
      laugh had well subsided, caused by this imitation of Hercules and his
      choice, he struck up again, &ldquo;Good news for you, young gentleman; I smell a
      ball; here is a fiddle-case making for this hospitable mansion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, &ldquo;I never ordered any musician to come here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy colored and lowered her eyes, but never said a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young man came up to the gate, and then Mr. Talboys recognized him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He hesitated a single moment, then turned and came to the group and took
      off his hat to the ladies. It was David Dodd!
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE new guest's manner of presenting himself with his stick over his
      shoulder, and his carpet-bag on his back, subjected him to a battery of
      stares from Kenealy, Talboys, Fountain, and abashed him sore.
    </p>
    <p>
      This lasted but a moment. He had one friend in the group who was too true
      to her flirtations while they endured, and too strong-willed, to let her
      flirtee be discouraged by mortal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it is Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; cried she, with enthusiasm, and she put forth both
      hands to him, the palms downward, with a smiling grace. &ldquo;Surely you know
      Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said she, turning round quickly to the gentlemen, with a smile
      on her lip, but a dangerous devil in her eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mistress of the house is all-powerful on these occasions. Messrs.
      Talboys and Fountain were forced to do the amiable, raging within; Lucy
      anticipated them; but her welcome was a cold one. Says Mrs. Bazalgette,
      tenderly, &ldquo;And why do you carry that heavy bag, when you have that great
      stout lad with you? I think it is his business to carry it, not yours&rdquo;;
      and her eyes scathed the boy, fiddle and all.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the time she was saying this David was winking to her, and making
      faces to her not to go on that tack. His conduct now explained his
      pantomime. &ldquo;Here, youngster,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you take these things in-doors,
      and here is your half-crown.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy averted her head, and smiled unobserved.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the lad was out of hearing, David continued: &ldquo;It was not worth
      while to mortify him. The fact is, I hired him to carry it; but, bless
      you, the first mile he began to go down by the head, and would have
      foundered; so we shifted our cargoes.&rdquo; This amused Kenealy, who laughed
      good-humoredly. On this, David laughed for company.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There,&rdquo; cried his inamorata, with rapture, &ldquo;that is Mr. Dodd all over;
      thinks of everybody, high or low, before himself.&rdquo; There was a grunt
      somewhere behind her; her quick ear caught it; she turned round like a
      thing on a pivot, and slapped the nearest face. It happened to be
      Fountain's; so she continued with such a treacle smile, &ldquo;Don't you
      remember, sir, how he used to teach your cub mathematics gratis?&rdquo; The
      sweet smile and the keen contemporaneous scratch confounded Mr. Fountain
      for a second. As soon as he revived he said stiffly, &ldquo;We can all
      appreciate Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having thus established her Adonis on a satisfactory footing, she broke
      out all over graciousness again, and, smiling and chatting, led her guests
      beneath the hospitable roof.
    </p>
    <p>
      But one of these guests did not respond to her cheerful strain. The Norman
      knight was full of bitterness. Mr. Talboys drew his friend aside and
      proposed to him to go back again. The senior was aghast. &ldquo;Don't be so
      precipitate,&rdquo; was all that he could urge this time. &ldquo;Confound the fellow!
      Yes, if that is the man she prefers to you, I will go home with you
      to-morrow, and the vile hussy shall never enter my doors again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In this mind the pair went devious to their dressing-rooms.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day a witty woman said of a man that &ldquo;he played the politician about
      turnips and cabbages.&rdquo; That might be retorted (by a snob and brute) on her
      own sex in general, and upon Mrs. Bazalgette in particular. This sweet
      lady maneuvered on a carpet like Marlborough on the south of France. She
      was brimful of resources, and they all tended toward one sacred object,
      getting her own way. She could be imperious at a pinch and knock down
      opposition; but she liked far better to undermine it, dissolve it, or
      evade it. She was too much of a woman to run straight to her <i>je-le-veux,</i>
      so long as she could wind thitherward serpentinely and by detour. She
      could have said to Mr. Hardie, &ldquo;You will take down Lucy to dinner,&rdquo; and to
      Mr. Dodd, &ldquo;You will sit next me&rdquo;; but no, she must mold her males&mdash;as
      per sample.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Mr. Fountain she said, &ldquo;Your friend, I hear, is of old family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Came in with the Conqueror, madam.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he shall take me down: that will be the first step toward conquering
      me&mdash;ha! ha!&rdquo; Fountain bowed, well pleased.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Mr. Hardie she said, &ldquo;Will you take down Lucy to-day? I see she enjoys
      your conversation. Observe how disinterested I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hardie consented with twinkling composure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before dinner she caught Kenealy, drew him aside, and put on a long face.
      &ldquo;I am afraid I must lose you to-day at dinner. Mr. Dodd is quite a
      stranger, and they all tell me I must put him at his ease.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yaas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, you had better get next Lucy, as you can't have me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yaas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, Captain Kenealy, you are my aid-de-camp. It is a delightful post,
      you know, and rather a troublesome one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yaas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must help me be kind to this sailor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yaas. He is a good fellaa. Carried the baeg for the little caed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, did he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And didn't maind been laughed at.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, that shows how intelligent you must be,&rdquo; said the wily one; &ldquo;the
      others could not comprehend the trait. Well, you and I must patronize him.
      Merit is always so dreadfully modest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yaas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This arrangement was admirable, but human; consequently, not without a
      flaw. Uncle Fountain was left to chance, like the flying atoms of
      Epicurus, and chance put him at Bazalgette's right hand save one. From
      this point his inquisitive eye commanded David Dodd and Mrs. Bazalgette,
      and raked Lucy and her neighbors, who were on the opposite side of the
      table. People who look, bent on seeing everything, generally see
      something; item, it is not always what they would like to see.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they retired to rest for the night, Mr. Fountain invited his friend to
      his room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall not have to go home. I have got the key to our antagonist. Young
      Dodd is <i>her</i> lover.&rdquo; Talboys shook his head with cool contempt.
      &ldquo;What I mean is that she has invited him for her own amusement, not her
      niece's. I never saw a woman throw herself at any man's head as she did at
      that sailor's all dinner. Her very husband saw it. He is a cool hand, that
      Bazalgette; he only grinned, and took wine with the sailor. He has seen a
      good many go the same road&mdash;soldiers, sailors, tinkers, tai&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Talboys interrupted him. &ldquo;I really must call you to order. You are
      prejudiced against poor Mrs. Bazalgette, and prejudice blinds everybody.
      Politeness required that she should show some attention to her neighbor,
      but her principal attention was certainly not bestowed on Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fountain was surprised. &ldquo;On whom, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, to tell the truth, on your humble servant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fountain stared. &ldquo;I observed she did not neglect you; but when she turned
      to Dodd her face puckered itself into smiles like a bag.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not see it, and I was nearer her than you,&rdquo; said Talboys coldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I was in front of her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, a mile off.&rdquo; There being no jurisconsult present to explain to these
      two magistrates that if fifty people don't see a woman pucker her face
      like a bag, and one does see her p. h. f. l. a. b., the affirmative
      evidence preponderates, they were very near coming to a quarrel on this
      grave point. It was Fountain who made peace. He suddenly remembered that
      his friend had never been known to change an opinion. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he,
      &ldquo;let us leave that; we shall have other opportunities of watching Dodd and
      her; meantime I am sorry I cannot convince you of my good news, for I have
      some bad to balance it. You have a rival, and he did not sit next Mrs.
      Bazalgette.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray may I ask whom he did sit next?&rdquo; sneered Talboys.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He sat&mdash;like a man who meant to win&mdash;by the girl herself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, then it is that sing-song captain you fear, sir?&rdquo; drawled Talboys.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir, no more than I dread the <i>epergne.</i> Try the other side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, Mr. Hardie? Why, he is a banker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And a rich one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She would never marry a banker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps not, if she were uninfluenced; but we are not at Talboys Court or
      Font Abbey now. We have fallen into a den of <i>parvenues.</i> That Hardie
      is a great catch, according to their views, and all Mrs. Bazalgette's
      influence with Lucy will be used in his favor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think not. She spoke quite slightingly of him to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did she? Then that puts the matter quite beyond doubt. Why should she
      speak slightingly of him? Bazalgette spoke to me of him with grave
      veneration. He is handsome, well behaved, and the girl talked to him
      nineteen to the dozen. Mrs. Bazalgette could not be sincere in underrating
      him. She undervalued him to throw dust in your eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not so easy to throw dust in my eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't say it is; but this woman will do it; she is as artful as a fox.
      She hoodwinked even me for a moment. I really did not see through her
      feigned politeness in letting you take her down to dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mistake her character entirely. She is coquettish, and not so
      well-bred as her niece, but artful she is not. In fact, there is almost a
      childish frankness about her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this stroke of observation Fountain burst out laughing bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Talboys turned pale with suppressed ire, and went on doggedly: &ldquo;You are
      mistaken in every particular. Mrs. Bazalgette has no fixed views for her
      niece, and I by no means despair of winning her to my side. She is
      anything but discouraging.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fountain groaned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Hardie is a new acquaintance, and Miss Fountain told me herself she
      preferred old friends to new. She looked quite conscious as she said it.
      In a word, Mr. Dodd is the only rival I have to fear&mdash;good-night;&rdquo;
       and he went out with a stately wave of the hand, like royalty declining
      farther conference. Mr. Fountain sank into an armchair, and muttered
      feebly, &ldquo;Good-night.&rdquo; There he sat collapsed till his friend's retiring
      steps were heard no more; then, springing wildly to his feet, he relieved
      his swelling mind with a long, loud, articulated roar of Anglo-Saxon,
      &ldquo;Fool! dolt! coxcomb! noodle! puppy! ass!!!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Did ye ever read &ldquo;Tully 'de Amicitia'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David Dodd was saved from misery by want of vanity. His reception at the
      gate by Miss Fountain was cool and constrained, but it did not wound him.
      For the last month life had been a blank to him. She was his sun. He saw
      her once more, and the bare sight filled him with life and joy. His was
      naturally a sanguine, contented mind. Some lovers equally ardent would
      have seen more to repine at than to enjoy in the whole situation; not so
      David. She sat between Kenealy and Hardie, but her presence filled the
      whole room, and he who loved her better than any other had the best right
      to be happy in the place that held her. He had only to turn his eyes, and
      he could see her. What a blessing, after a month of vacancy and darkness.
      This simple idolatry made him so happy that his heart overflowed on all
      within reach. He gave Mrs. Bazalgette answers full of kindness and arch
      gayety combined. He charmed an old married lady on his right. His was the
      gay, the merry end of the table, and others wished themselves up at it.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the ladies had retired, his narrative powers, <i>bonhomie</i> and
      manly frankness soon told upon the men, and peals of genuine laughter
      echoed up to the very drawing-room, bringing a deputation from the kitchen
      to the keyhole, and irritating the ladies overhead, who sat trickling
      faint monosyllables about their three little topics.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy took it philosophically. &ldquo;Now those are the good creatures that are
      said to be so unhappy without us. It was a weight off their minds when the
      door closed on our retiring forms&mdash;ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a restraint taken off them, my dear,&rdquo; said Mrs. Mordan, a starched
      dowager, stiffening to the naked eye as she spoke. &ldquo;When they laugh like
      that, they are always saying something improper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, the wicked things,&rdquo; replied Lucy, mighty calmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I knew what they are saying,&rdquo; said eagerly another young lady;
      then added, &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; and blushed, observing her error mirrored in all eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy the Clement instructed her out of the depths of her own experience in
      impropriety. &ldquo;They swear. That is what Mrs. Mordan means,&rdquo; and so to the
      piano with dignity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently in came Messrs. Fountain and Talboys. Mrs. Bazalgette asked the
      former a little crossly how he could make up his mind to leave the gay
      party downstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it was only that fellow Dodd. The dog is certainly very amusing, but
      'there's metal more attractive here.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Coffee and tea were fired down at the other gentlemen by way of hints; but
      Dodd prevailed over all, and it was nearly bedtime when they joined the
      ladies.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys had an hour with Lucy, and no rival by to ruffle him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day a riding-party was organized. Mr. Talboys decided in his mind
      that Kenealy was even less dangerous than Hardie, so lent him the quieter
      of his two nags, and rode a hot, rampageous brute, whose very name was
      Lucifer, so that will give you an idea. The grooms had driven him with a
      kicking-strap and two pair of reins, and even so were reluctant to drive
      him at all, but his steady companion had balanced him a bit. Lucy was to
      ride her old pony, and Mrs. Bazalgette the new. The horses came to the
      door; one of the grooms offered to put Lucy up. Talboys waved him loftily
      back, and then, strange as it may appear, David, for the first time in his
      life, saw a gentleman lift a lady into the saddle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy laid her right hand on the pommel and resigned her left foot; Mr.
      Talboys put his hand under that foot and heaved her smoothly into the
      saddle. &ldquo;That is clever,&rdquo; thought simple David; &ldquo;that chap has got more
      pith in his arm than one would think.&rdquo; They cantered away, and left him
      looking sadly after them. It seemed so hard that another man should have
      her sweet foot in his hand, should lift her whole glorious person, and
      smooth her sacred dress, and he stand by helpless; and then the
      indifference with which that man had done it all. To him it had been no
      sacred pleasure, no great privilege. A sense of loneliness struck chill on
      David as the clatter of her pony's hoofs died away. He was in the house;
      but in that house was a sort of inner circle, of which she was the center,
      and he was to be outside it altogether.
    </p>
    <p>
      Liable to great wrath upon great occasions, he had little of that small
      irritability that goes with an egotistical mind and feminine fiber, so he
      merely hung his head, blamed nobody, and was sad in a manly way. While he
      leaned against the portico in this dejected mood, a little hand pulled his
      coat-tail. It was Master Reginald, who looked up in his face, and said
      timidly, &ldquo;Will you play with me?&rdquo; The fact is, Mr. Reginald's natural
      audacity had received a momentary check. He had just put this same
      question to Mr. Hardie in the library, and had been rejected with
      ignominy, and recommended to go out of doors for his own health and the
      comfort of such as desired peaceable study of British and foreign
      intelligence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I will, my little gentleman,&rdquo; said David, &ldquo;if I know the game.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don't care what it is, so that it is fun. What is your name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;David Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what is yours?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, don't&mdash;you&mdash;know??? Why, Reginald George Bazalgette. I am
      seven. I am the eldest. I am to have more money than the others when papa
      dies, Jane says. I wonder when he will die.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When he does you will lose his love, and that is worth more than his
      money; so you take my advice and love him dearly while you have got him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I like papa very well. He is good-natured all day long. Mamma is so
      ill-tempered till dinner, and then they won't let me dine with her; and
      then, as soon as mamma has begun to be good-tempered upstairs in the
      drawing-room, my bedtime comes directly; it's abominable!!&rdquo; The last word
      rose into a squeak under his sense of wrong.
    </p>
    <p>
      David smiled kindly: &ldquo;So it seems we all have our troubles,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! have you any troubles?&rdquo; and Reginald opened his eyes in wonder. He
      thought size was an armor against care.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so many as most folk, thank God, but I have some,&rdquo; and David sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, if I was as big as you, I'd have no troubles. I'd beat everybody
      that troubled me, and I would marry Lucy directly&rdquo;; and at that beloved
      name my lord falls into a reverie ten seconds long.
    </p>
    <p>
      David gave a start, and an ejaculation rose to his lips. He looked down
      with comical horror upon the little chubby imp who had divined his
      thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Reginald soon undeceived him. &ldquo;She is to be my wife, you know. Don't
      you think she will make a capital one?&rdquo; Before David could decide this
      point for him, the kaleidoscopic mind of the terrible infant had taken
      another turn. &ldquo;Come into the stable-yard; I'll show you Tom,&rdquo; cried young
      master, enthusiastically. Finally, David had to make the boy a kite. When
      made it took two hours for the paste to dry; and as every ten minutes
      spent in waiting seemed an hour to one of Mr. Reginald's kidney, as the
      English classics phrase it, he was almost in a state of frenzy at last,
      and flew his new kite with yells. But after a bit he missed a familiar
      incident; &ldquo;It doesn't tumble down; my other kites all tumble down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More shame for them,&rdquo; said David, with a dash of contempt, and explained
      to him that tumbling down is a flaw in a kite, just as foundering at sea
      is a vile habit in a ship, and that each of these descents, however
      picturesque to childhood's eye, implies a construction originally
      derective, or some little subsequent mismanagement. It appeared by
      Reginald's retort that when his kite tumbled he had the tumultuous joy of
      flying it again, but, by its keeping the air like this, monotony reigned;
      so he now proposed that his new friend should fasten the string to the
      pump-handle, and play at ball with him beneath the kite. The good-natured
      sailor consented, and thus the little voluptuary secured a terrestrial and
      ever-varying excitement, while occasional glances upward soothed him with
      the mild consciousness that there was his property still hovering in the
      empyrean; amid all which, poor love-sick David was seized with a desire to
      hear the name of her he loved, and her praise, even from these small lips.
      &ldquo;So you are very fond of Miss Lucy?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Reginald, dryly, and said no more; for it is a
      characteristic of the awfu' bairn to be mute where fluency is required,
      voluble where silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder why you love her so much,&rdquo; said David, cunningly. Reginald's
      face, instead of brightening with the spirit of explanation, became
      instantly lack-luster and dough-like; for, be it known, to the everlasting
      discredit of human nature, that his affection and matrimonial intentions,
      as they were no secret, so they were the butt of satire from grown-up
      persons of both sexes in the house, and of various social grades; down to
      the very gardener, all had had a fling at him. But soon his natural
      cordiality gained the better of that momentary reserve. &ldquo;Well, I'll tell
      you,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;because you have behaved well all day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David was all expectation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like her because she has got red cheeks, and does whatever one asks
      her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Oh, breadth of statement! Why was not David one of your repeaters? He
      would have gone and told Lucy. I should have liked her to know in what
      grand primitive colors peach-bloom and queenly courtesy strike what Mr.
      Tennyson is pleased to call &ldquo;the deep mind of dauntless infancy.&rdquo; But
      David Dodd was not a reporter, and so I don't get my way; and how few of
      us do! not even Mr. Reginald, whose joyous companionship with David was
      now blighted by a footman. At sight of the coming plush, &ldquo;There, now!&rdquo;
       cried Reginald. He anticipated evil, for messages from the ruling powers
      were nearly always adverse to his joys. The footman came to say that his
      master would feel obliged if Mr. Dodd would step into his study a minute.
    </p>
    <p>
      David went immediately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, now!&rdquo; squeaked Reginald, rising an octave. &ldquo;I'm never happy for
      two hours together.&rdquo; This was true. He omitted to add, &ldquo;Nor unhappy for
      one.&rdquo; The dear child sought comfort in retaliation. He took stones and
      pelted the footman's retiring calves. His admirers, if any, will be glad
      to learn that this act of intelligent retribution soothed his deep mind a
      little.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Bazalgette had been much interested by David's conversation the last
      night, and, hearing he was not with the riding-party, had a mind to chat
      with him. David found him in a magnificent study, lined with books, and
      hung with beautiful maps that lurked in mahogany cylinders attached to the
      wall; and you pulled them out by inserting a brass-hooked stick into their
      rings, and hauling. Mr. Bazalgette began by putting him a question about a
      distant port to which he had just sent out some goods. David gave him full
      information. Began, seaman-like, with the entrance to the harbor, and told
      him what danger his captain should look out for in running in, and how to
      avoid it; and from that went to the character of the natives, their tricks
      upon the sailors, their habits, tastes, and fancies, and, entering with
      intelligence into his companion's business, gave him some very shrewd
      hints as to the sort of cargo that would tempt them to sell the very rings
      out of their ears. Succeeding so well in this, Mr. Bazalgette plied him on
      other points, and found him full of valuable matter, and, by a rare union
      of qualities, very modest and very frank. &ldquo;Now I like this,&rdquo; said Mr.
      Bazalgette, cheerfully. &ldquo;This is a return to old customs. A century or two
      ago, you know, the merchant and the captain felt themselves parts of the
      same stick, and they used to sit and smoke together before a voyage, and
      sup together after one, and be always putting their heads together; but of
      late the stick has got so much longer, and so many knots between the
      handle and the point, that we have quite lost sight of one another. Here
      we merchants sit at home at ease, and send you fine fellows out among
      storms and waves, and think more of a bale of cotton spoiled than of a
      captain drowned.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David. &ldquo;And we eat your bread, sir, as if it dropped from the clouds, and
      quite forget whose money and spirit of enterprise causes the ship to be
      laid on the stocks, and then built, and then rigged, and then launched,
      and then manned, and then sailed from port to port.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, if you eat our bread, we eat your labor, your skill, your
      courage, and sometimes your lives, I am sorry to say. Merchants and
      captains ought really to be better acquainted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; said David, &ldquo;now you mention it, you are the first merchant
      of any consequence I ever had the advantage of talking with.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The advantage is mutual, sir; you have given me one or two hints I could
      not have got from fifty merchants. I mean to coin you, Captain Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David laughed and blushed. &ldquo;I doubt it will be but copper coin if you do.
      But I am not a captain; I am only first mate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't say so! Why, how comes that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir, I went to sea very young, but I wasted a year or two in
      private ventures. When I say wasted, I picked up a heap of knowledge that
      I could not have gained on the China voyage, but it has lost me a little
      in length of standing; but, on the other hand, I have been very lucky; it
      is not every one that gets to be first mate at my age; and after next
      voyage, if I can only make a little bit of interest, I think I shall be a
      captain. No, sir, I wish I was a captain; I never wished it as now;&rdquo; and
      David sighed deeply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph!&rdquo; said Mr. Bazalgette, and took a note.
    </p>
    <p>
      He then showed David his maps. David inspected them with almost boyish
      delight, and showed the merchant the courses of ships on Eastern and
      Western voyages, and explained the winds and currents that compelled them
      to go one road and return another, and in both cases to go so wonderfully
      out of what seems the track as they do. <i>Bref,</i> the two ends of the
      mercantile stick came nearer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My study is always open to you, Mr. Dodd, and I hope you will not let a
      day pass without obliging me by looking in upon me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David thanked him, and went out innocently unconscious that he had
      performed an unparalleled feat. In the hall he met Captain Kenealy, who,
      having received orders to amuse him, invited him to play at billiards.
      David consented, out of good-nature, to please Kenealy. Thus the whole day
      passed, and <i>les facheux</i> would not let him get a word with Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      At dinner he was separated from her, and so hotly and skillfully engaged
      by Mrs. Bazalgette that he had scarcely time to look at his idol. After
      dinner he had to contest her with Mr. Talboys and Mr. Hardie, the latter
      of whom he found a very able and sturdy antagonist. Mr. Hardie had also
      many advantages over him. First, the young lady was not the least shy of
      Mr. Hardie, but the parting scene beyond Royston had put her on her guard
      against David, and her instinct of defense made her reserved with him.
      Secondly, Mrs. Bazalgette was perpetually making diversions, whose double
      object was to get David to herself and leave Lucy to Mr. Hardie.
    </p>
    <p>
      With all this David found, to his sorrow, that, though he now lived under
      the same roof with her, he was not so near her as at Font Abbey. There was
      a wall of etiquette and of rivals, and, as he now began to fear, of her
      own dislike between them. To read through that mighty transparent jewel, a
      female heart, Nauta had recourse&mdash;to what, do you think? To
      arithmetic. He set to work to count how many times she spoke to each of
      the party in the drawing-room, and he found that Mr. Hardie was at the
      head of the list, and he was at the bottom. That might be an accident;
      perhaps this was his black evening; so he counted her speeches the next
      evening. The result was the same. Droll statistics, but sad and convincing
      to the simple David. His spirits failed him; his aching heart turned cold.
      He withdrew from the gay circle, and sat sadly with a book of prints
      before him, and turned the leaves listlessly. In a pause of the
      conversation a sigh was heard in the corner. They all looked round, and
      saw David all by himself, turning over the leaves, but evidently not
      inspecting them.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sort of flash of satirical curiosity went from eye to eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      But tact abounded at one end of the room, if there was a dearth of it at
      the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>La rusee sans le savoir</i> made a sign to them all to take no notice;
      at the same time she whispered: &ldquo;Going to sea in a few days for two years;
      the thought will return now and then.&rdquo; Having said this with a look at her
      aunt, that, Heaven knows how, gave the others the notion that it was to
      Mrs. Bazalgette she owed the solution of David's fit of sadness, she
      glided easily into indifferent topics. So then the others had a momentary
      feeling of pity for David. Miss Lucy noticed this out of the tail of her
      eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      That night David went to bed thoroughly wretched. He could not sleep, so
      he got up and paced the deck of his room with a heavy heart. At last, in
      his despair, he said, &ldquo;I'll fire signals of distress.&rdquo; So he sat down and
      took a sheet of paper, and fired: &ldquo;Nothing has turned as I expected. She
      treats me like a stranger. I seem to drop astern instead of making any
      way. Here are three of us, I do believe, and all seem preferred to your
      poor brother; and, indeed, the only thing that gives me any hope is that
      she seems too kind to be in earnest, for it is not in her angelic nature
      to be really unkind; and what have I done? Eve, dear, such a change from
      what she was at Font Abbey, and that happy evening when she came and drank
      tea with us, and lighted our little garden up, and won your heart, that
      was always a little set against her. Now it is so different that I sit and
      ask myself whether all that is not a dream. Can anyone change so in one
      short month? I could not. But who knows? perhaps I do her wrong. You know
      I never could read her at home without your help, and, dear Eve, I miss
      you now from my side most sadly. Without you I seem to be adrift, without
      rudder or compass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, as he could not sleep, he dressed himself, and went out at four
      o'clock in the morning. He roamed about with a heavy heart; at last he
      bethought him of his fiddle. Since Lucy's departure from Font Abbey this
      had been a great solace to him. It was at once a depository and vent to
      him; he poured out his heart to it and by it; sometimes he would fancy,
      while he played, that he was describing the beauties of her mind and
      person; at others, regretting the sad fate that separated him from her;
      or, hope reviving, would see her near him, and be telling her how he loved
      her; and, so great an inspirer is love, he had invented more than one
      clear melody during the last month, he who up to that time had been
      content to render the thoughts of others, like most fiddlers and
      composers.
    </p>
    <p>
      So he said to himself, &ldquo;I had better not play in the house, or I shall
      wake them out of their first sleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He brought out his violin, got among some trees near the stable-yard, and
      tried to soothe his sorrowful heart. He played sadly, sweetly and
      dreamingly. He bade the wooden shell tell all the world how lonely he was,
      only the magic shell told it so tenderly and tunefully that he soon ceased
      to be alone. The first arrival was on four legs: Pepper, a terrier with a
      taste for sounds. Pepper arrived cautiously, though in a state of profound
      curiosity, and, being too wise to trust at once to his ears, avenue of
      sense by which we are all so much oftener deceived than by any other, he
      first smelled the musician carefully and minutely all round. What he
      learned by this he and his Creator alone know, but apparently something
      reassuring; for, as soon as he had thoroughly snuffed his Orpheus, he took
      up a position exactly opposite him, sat up high on his tail, cocked his
      nose well into the air, and accompanied the violin with such vocal powers
      as Nature had bestowed on him. Nor did the sentiment lose anything, in
      intensity at all events, by the vocalist. If David's strains were
      plaintive, Pepper's were lugubrious; and what may seem extraordinary, so
      long as David played softly the Cerberus of the stableyard whined
      musically, and tolerably in tune; but when he played loud or fast poor
      Pepper got excited, and in his wild endeavors to equal the violin vented
      dismal and discordant howls at unpleasantly short intervals. All this
      attracted David's attention, and he soon found he could play upon Pepper
      as well as the fiddle, raising him and subduing him by turns; only, like
      the ocean, Pepper was not to be lulled back to his musical ripple quite so
      quickly as he could be lashed into howling frenzy.
    </p>
    <p>
      While David was thus playing, and Pepper showing a fearful broadside of
      ivory teeth, and flinging up his nose and sympathizing loudly and with a
      long face, though not perhaps so deeply as he looked, suddenly rang behind
      David a chorus of human chuckles. David wheeled, and there were six young
      women's faces set in the foliage and laughing merrily. Though perfectly
      aware that David would look round, they seemed taken quite by surprise
      when he did look, and with military precision became instantly two files,
      for the four impudent ones ran behind the two modest ones, and there, by
      an innocent instinct, tied their cap-strings, which were previously
      floating loose, their custom ever in the early morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Play us up something merry, sir,&rdquo; hazarded one of the mock-modest ones in
      the rear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shan't I be taking you from your work?&rdquo; objected David dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, all work and no play is bad for the body,&rdquo; replied the minx, keeping
      ostentatiously out of sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Good-natured David played a merry tune in spite of his heart; and even at
      that disadvantage it was so spirit-stirring compared with anything the
      servants had heard, it made them all frisky, of which disposition Tom, the
      stable boy, who just then came into the yard, took advantage, and, leading
      out one of the housemaids by the polite process of hauling at her with
      both hands, proceeded to country dancing, in which the others soon
      demurely joined.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now all this was wormwood to poor David; for to play merriment when the
      heart is too heavy to be cheered by it makes that heart bitter as well as
      sad. But the good-natured fellow said to himself: &ldquo;Poor things, I dare say
      they work from morning till night, and seldom see pleasure but at a
      distance; why not put on a good face, and give them one merry hour.&rdquo; So he
      played horn-pipes and reels till all their hearts were on fire, and faces
      red, and eyes glittering, and legs aching, and he himself felt ready to
      burst out crying, and then he left off. As for <i>il penseroso</i> Pepper,
      he took this intrusion of merry music upon his sympathies very ill. He
      left singing, and barked furiously and incessantly at these ancient
      English melodies and at the dancers, and kept running from and running at
      the women's whirling gowns alternately, and lost his mental balance, and
      at last, having by a happier snap than usual torn off two feet of the
      under-housemaid's frock, shook and worried the fragment with insane snarls
      and gleaming eyes, and so zealously that his existence seemed to depend on
      its annihilation.
    </p>
    <p>
      David gave those he had brightened a sad smile, and went hastily in-doors.
      He put his violin into its case, and sealed and directed his letter to
      Eve. He could not rest in-doors, so he roamed out again, but this time he
      took care to go on the lawn. Nobody would come there, he thought, to
      interrupt his melancholy. He was doomed to be disappointed in that
      respect. As he sat in the little summer-house with his head on the table,
      he suddenly heard an elastic step on the dry gravel. He started peevishly
      up and saw a lady walking briskly toward him: it was Miss Fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      She saw him at the same instant. She hesitated a single half-moment; then,
      as escape was impossible, resumed her course. David went bashfully to meet
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-morning, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said she, in the most easy, unembarrassed way
      imaginable.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stammered a &ldquo;good-morning,&rdquo; and flushed with pleasure and confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked by her side in silence. She stole a look at him, and saw that,
      after the first blush at meeting her, he was pale and haggard. On this she
      dashed into singularly easy and cheerful conversation with him; told him
      that this morning walk was her custom&mdash;&ldquo;My substitute for rouge, you
      know. I am always the first up in this languid house; but I must not boast
      before you, who, I dare say, turn out&mdash;is not that the word?&mdash;at
      daybreak. But, now I think of it, no! you would have crossed my hawse
      before, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; using naval phrases to flatter him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was my ill-luck; I always cruised a mile off. I had no idea this bit
      of gravel was your quarter-deck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is, though, because it is always dry. You would not like a
      quarter-deck with that character, would you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, I should. I'd have my bowsprit always wet, and my quarter-deck
      always dry. But it is no use wishing for what we cannot have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is very true,&rdquo; said Lucy, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      David reflected on his own words, and sighed deeply.
    </p>
    <p>
      This did not suit Lucy. She plied him with airy nothings, that no man can
      arrest and impress on paper; but the tone and smile made them pleasing,
      and then she asked his opinion of the other guests in such a way as
      implied she took some interest in his opinion of them, but mighty little
      in the people themselves. In short, she chatted with him like an old
      friend, and nothing more; but David was not subtle enough in general, nor
      just now calm enough, to see on what footing all this cordiality was
      offered him. His color came back, his eye brightened, happiness beamed on
      his face, and the lady saw it from under her lashes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How fortunate I fell in with you here! You are yourself again&mdash;on
      your quarter-deck. I scarce knew you the last few days. I was afraid I had
      offended you. You seemed to avoid me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense, Mr. Dodd; what is there about you to avoid?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plenty, Miss Fountain; I am so inferior to your other friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was not aware of it, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I have heard your sex has gusts of caprice, and I thought the cold
      wind was blowing upon me; and that did seem very sad, just when I am going
      out, and perhaps shall never see your sweet face or hear your lovely voice
      again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't say that, Mr. Dodd, or you will make me sad in earnest. Your
      prudence and courage, and a kind Providence, will carry you safe through
      this voyage, as they have through so many, and on your return the
      acquaintance you do me the honor to value so highly will await you&mdash;if
      it depends on me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All this was said kindly and beautifully, and almost tenderly, but still
      with a certain majesty that forbade love-making&mdash;rendered it scarce
      possible, except to a fool. But David was not captious. He could not, like
      the philosopher, sift sunshine. For some days he had been almost separated
      from her. Now she was by his side. He adored her so that he could no
      longer <i>realize</i> sorrow or disappointment to come. They were
      uncertain&mdash;future. The light of her eyes, and voice, and face, and
      noble presence were here; he basked in them.
    </p>
    <p>
      He told her not to mind a word he had said. &ldquo;It was all nonsense. I am
      happier now&mdash;happier than ever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this Lucy looked grave and became silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      David, to amuse her, told her there was &ldquo;a singing dog aboard,&rdquo; and would
      she like to hear him?
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a happy diversion for Lucy. She assented gayly. David ran for his
      fiddle, and then for Pepper. Pepper wagged his tail, but, strong as his
      musical taste was, would not follow the fiddle. But at this juncture
      Master Reginald dawned on the stable-yard with a huge slice of bread and
      butter. Pepper followed him. So the party came on the lawn and joined
      Lucy. Then David played on the violin, and Pepper performed exactly as
      hereinbefore related. Lucy laughed merrily, and Reginald shrieked with
      delight, for the vocal terrier was mortal droll.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, setting Pepper aside, that is a very sweet air you are playing now,
      Mr. Dodd. It is full of soul and feeling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it?&rdquo; said David, looking wonderstruck; &ldquo;you know best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is the composer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David looked confused and said, &ldquo;No one of any note.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy shot a glance at him, keen as lightning. What with David's simplicity
      and her own remarkable talent for reading faces, his countenance was a
      book to her, wide open, Bible print. &ldquo;The composer's name is Mr. Dodd,&rdquo;
       said she, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I little thought you would be satisfied with it,&rdquo; replied David,
      obliquely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you doubted my judgment as well as your own talent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My talent! I should never have composed an air that would bear playing
      but for one thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what was that?&rdquo; said Lucy, affecting vast curiosity. She felt herself
      on safe ground now&mdash;the fine arts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You remember when you went away from Font Abbey, and left us all so
      heavy-hearted?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember leaving Font Abbey,&rdquo; replied Lucy, with saucy emphasis, and an
      air of lofty disbelief in the other incident.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I used to get my fiddle, and think of you so far away, and sweet
      sad airs came to my heart, and from my heart they passed into the fiddle.
      Now and then one seemed more worthy of you than the rest were, and then I
      kept that one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean you took the notes down,&rdquo; said Lucy coldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, there was no need; I wrote it in my head and in my heart. May I
      play you another of your tunes? I call them your tunes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy blushed faintly, and fixed her eyes on the ground. She gave a slight
      signal of assent, and David played a melody.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very beautiful,&rdquo; said she in a low voice. &ldquo;Play it again. Can you
      play it as we walk?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes.&rdquo; He played it again. They drew near the hall door. She looked up
      a moment, and then demurely down again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now will you be so good as to play the first one twice?&rdquo; She listened
      with her eyelashes drooping. &ldquo;Tweedle dee! tweedle dum! tweedle dee.&rdquo; &ldquo;And
      <i>now</i> we will go into breakfast,&rdquo; cried Lucy, with sudden airy
      cheerfulness, and, almost with the word, she darted up the steps, and
      entered the house without even looking to see whether David followed or
      what became of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stood gazing through the open door at her as she glided across the
      hall, swift and elastic, yet serpentine, and graceful and stately as Juno
      at nineteen.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           &ldquo;Et vera iucessu patuit lady.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      These Junones, severe in youthful beauty, fill us Davids with irrational
      awe; but, the next moment, they are treated like small children by the
      very first matron they meet; they resign their judgment at once to hers,
      and bow their wills to her lightest word with a slavish meanness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Creation's unmarried lords, realize your true position&mdash;girls govern
      you, and wives govern girls.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette, on Lucy's entrance, ran a critical eye over her, and
      scolded her like a six-year-old for walking in thin shoes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only on the gravel, aunt,&rdquo; said the divine slave, submissively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter; it rained last night. I heard it patter. You want to be laid
      up, I suppose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will put on thicker ones in future, dear aunt,&rdquo; murmured the celestial
      serf.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now Mrs. Bazalgette did not really care a button whether the servile angel
      wore thick soles or thin. She was cross about something a mile off that.
      As soon as she had vented her ill humor on a sham cause, she could come to
      its real cause good-temperedly. &ldquo;And, Lucy, love, do manage better about
      Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy turned scarlet. Luckily, Mrs. Bazalgette was evading her niece's eye,
      so did not see her telltale cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was quite thrown out last night; and really, as he does not ride with
      us, it is too bad to neglect him in-doors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, excuse me, aunt, Mr. Dodd is your protege. You did not even tell me
      you were going to invite him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, that I certainly did. Poor fellow, he was out of
      spirits last night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, but, aunt, surely you can put an admirer in good spirits when you
      think proper,&rdquo; said Lucy slyly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph! I don't want to attract too much attention. I see Bazalgette
      watching me, and I don't wish to be misinterpreted myself, or give my
      husband pain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She said this with such dignity that Lucy, who knew her regard for her
      husband, had much ado not to titter. But courtesy prevailed, and she said
      gravely: &ldquo;I will do whatever you wish me, only give me a hint at the time;
      a look will do, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ladies separated; they met again at the breakfast-room door. Laughter
      rang merrily inside, and among the gayest voices was Mr. Dodd's. Lucy gave
      Mrs. Bazalgette an arch look. &ldquo;Your patient seems better;&rdquo; and they
      entered the room, where, sure enough, they found Mr. Dodd the life and
      soul of the assembled party.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A letter from Mrs. Wilson, aunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, pray, who is Mrs. Wilson?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My nurse. She tells me 'it is five years since she has seen me, and she
      is wearying to see me.' What a droll expression, 'wearying.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said David Dodd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have heard the word before, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I can't say I have; but I know what it must mean.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lying becalmed at the equator, eh! Dodd?&rdquo; said Bazalgette,
      misunderstanding him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Wilson tells me she has taken a farm a few miles from this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Interesting intelligence,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she says she is coming over to see me one of these days, aunt,&rdquo; said
      Lucy, with a droll expression, half arch, half rueful. She added timidly,
      &ldquo;There is no objection to that, is there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None whatever, if she does not make a practice of it; only mind, these
      old servants are the greatest pests on earth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember now,&rdquo; said Lucy thoughtfully, &ldquo;Mrs. Wilson was always very
      fond of me. I cannot think why, though.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more can I,&rdquo; said Mr. Hardie, dryly; &ldquo;she must be a thoroughly
      unreasonable woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Hardie said this with a good deal of grace and humor, and a laugh went
      round the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean she only saw me at intervals of several years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Lucy, what an antiquity you are making yourself,&rdquo; said Fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Lucy was occupied with her puzzle. &ldquo;She calls me her nursling,&rdquo; said
      Lucy, <i>sotto voce,</i> to her aunt, but, of course, quite audibly to the
      rest of the company; &ldquo;her dear nursling;&rdquo; and says, &ldquo;she would walk fifty
      miles to see me. Nursling? hum! there is another word I never heard, and I
      do not exactly know&mdash;Then she says&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <i>&ldquo;Taisez-vous, petite sotte!&rdquo;</i> said Mrs. Bazalgette, in a sharp
      whisper, so admirably projected that it was intelligible only to the ear
      it was meant for.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy caught it and stopped short, and sat looking by main force calm and
      dignified, but scarlet, and in secret agony. &ldquo;I have said something
      amiss,&rdquo; thought Lucy, and was truly wretched.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We don't believe in Mrs. Wilson's affection on this side the table,&rdquo; said
      Mr. Hardie; &ldquo;but her revelations interest us, for they prove that Miss
      Fountain had a beginning. Now we had thought she rose from the foam like
      Venus, or sprung from Jove's brow like Minerva, or descended from some
      ancient pedestal, flawless as the Parian itself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, sir,&rdquo; cried Bazalgette, furiously, &ldquo;did you think our niece was
      built in a day? So fair a structure, so accomplished a&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you be quiet, good people?&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette. &ldquo;She was born, she
      was bred, she was brought up, in which I had a share, and she is a very
      good girl, if you gentlemen will be so good as not to spoil her for me
      with your flattery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There!&rdquo; said Lucy, courageously, enforcing her aunt's thunderbolt; and
      she leaned toward Mrs. Bazalgette, and shot back a glance of defiance,
      with arching neck, at Mr. Bazalgette.
    </p>
    <p>
      After breakfast she ran to Mrs. Bazalgette. &ldquo;What was it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nothing; only the gentlemen were beginning to grin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear! did I say anything&mdash;ridiculous?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, because I stopped you in time. Mind, Lucy, it is never safe to read
      letters out from people in that class of life; they talk about everything,
      and use words that are quite out of date. I stopped you because I know you
      are a simpleton, and so I could not tell what might pop out next.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, thank you, aunt&mdash;thank you,&rdquo; cried Lucy, warmly. &ldquo;Then I did not
      expose myself, after all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no; you said nothing that might not be proclaimed at St. Paul's Cross&mdash;ha!
      ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I a simpleton, aunt?&rdquo; inquired Lucy, in the tone of an indifferent
      person seeking knowledge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not you,&rdquo; replied this oblivious lady. &ldquo;You know a great deal more than
      most girls of your age. To be sure, girls that have been at a fashionable
      school generally manage to learn one or two things you have no idea of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naturally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you say&mdash;he! he! But you make up for it, my dear, in other
      respects. If the gentlemen take you for a pane of glass, why, all the
      better; meantime, shall I tell you your real character? I have only just
      discovered it myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, aunt, tell me my character. I should so like to hear it from
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should you?&rdquo; said the other, a little satirically; &ldquo;well, then, you are
      an INNOCENT FOX.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An in-no-cent fox; so run and get your work-box. I want you to run up a
      tear in my flounce.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy went thoughtfully for her workbox, murmuring ruefully, &ldquo;I am an
      innocent fox&mdash;I am an in-nocent fox.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not like her new character at all; it mortified her, and seemed
      self-contradictory as well as derogatory.
    </p>
    <p>
      On her return she could not help remonstrating: &ldquo;How can that be my
      character? A fox is cunning, and I despise cunning; and <i>I am sure</i> I
      am not <i>innocent,&rdquo;</i> added she, putting up both hands and looking
      penitent. With all this, a shade of vexation was painted on her lovely
      cheeks as she appealed against her epigram.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette (with the calm, inexorable superiority of matron
      despotism). &ldquo;You are an in-nocent fox!! Is your needle threaded? Here is
      the tear; no, not there. I caught against the flowerpot frame, and I'll
      swear I heard my gown go. Look lower down, dear. Don't give it up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All which may perhaps remind the learned and sneering reader of another
      fox&mdash;the one that &ldquo;had a wound, and he could not tell where.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They rode out to-day as usual, and David had the equivocal pleasure of
      seeing them go from the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy was one of the first down, and put her hand on the saddle, and looked
      carelessly round for somebody to put her up. David stepped hastily
      forward, his heart beating, seized her foot, never waited for her to
      spring, but went to work at once, and with a powerful and sustained effort
      raised her slowly and carefully like a dead weight, and settled her in the
      saddle. His gripe hurt her foot. She bore it like a Spartan sooner than
      lose the amusement of his simplicity and enormous strength, so drolly and
      unnecessarily exerted. It cost her a little struggle not to laugh right
      out, but she turned her head away from him a moment and was quit for a
      spasm. Then she came round with a face all candor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said she, demurely; and her eyes danced in her
      head. Her foot felt encircled with an iron band, but she bore him not a
      grain of malice for that, and away she cantered, followed by his longing
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      David bore the separation well. &ldquo;To-morrow morning I shall have her all to
      myself,&rdquo; said he. He played with Kenealy and Reginald, and chatted with
      Bazalgette. In the evening she was surrounded as usual, and he obtained
      only a small share of her attention. But the thought of the morrow
      consoled him. He alone knew that she walked before breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning he rose early, and sauntered about till eight o'clock,
      and then he came on the lawn and waited for her. She did not come. He
      waited, and waited, and waited. She never came. His heart died within him.
      &ldquo;She avoids me,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;it is not accident. I have driven her out of
      her very garden; she always walked here before breakfast (she said so)
      till I came and spoiled her walk; Heaven forgive me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David could not flatter himself that this interruption of her acknowledged
      habit was accidental. On the other hand, how kind and cheerful she had
      been with him on the same spot yesterday morning. To judge by her manner,
      his company on her quarter-deck was not unwelcome to her yet she kept her
      room to-day, from the window of which she could probably see him walking
      to and fro, longing for her. The bitter disappointment was bad enough, but
      here tormenting perplexity as to its cause was added, and between the two
      the pining heart was racked.
    </p>
    <p>
      This is the cruelest separation; mere distance is the mildest. Where land
      and sea alone lie between two loving hearts, they pine, but are at rest. A
      piece of paper, and a few lines traced by the hand that reads like a face,
      and the two sad hearts exult and embrace one another afresh, in spite of a
      hemisphere of dirt and salt water, that parts bodies but not minds. But to
      be close, yet kept aloof by red-hot iron and chilling ice, by rivals, by
      etiquette and cold indifference&mdash;to be near, yet far&mdash;this is to
      be apart&mdash;this, this is separation.
    </p>
    <p>
      A gush of rage and bitterness foreign to his natural temper came over Mr.
      Dodd. &ldquo;Since I can't have the girl I love, I will have nobody but my own
      thoughts. I cannot bear the others and their chat to-day. I will go and
      think of her, since that is all she will let me do&rdquo;; and directly after
      breakfast David walked out on the downs and made by instinct for the sea.
      The wounded deer shunned the lively herd.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies, as they sat in the drawing-room, received visits of a less
      flattering character than usual. Reginald kept popping in, inquiring,
      &ldquo;Where was Mr. Dodd?&rdquo; and would not believe they had not hid him
      somewhere. He was followed by Kenealy, who came in and put them but one
      question, &ldquo;Where is Dawd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We don't know,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette sharply; &ldquo;we have not been intrusted
      with the care of Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kenealy sauntered forth disconsolate. Finally Mr. Bazalgette put his head
      in, and surveyed the room keenly but in silence; so then his wife looked
      up, and asked him satirically if he did not want Mr. Dodd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course I do,&rdquo; was the gracious reply; &ldquo;what else should I come here
      for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he is lost; you had better put him in the 'Hue and Cry.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      La Bazalgette was getting jealous of her own flirtee: he attracted too
      much of that attention she loved so dear.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last Reginald, despairing of Dodd, went in search of another playmate&mdash;Master
      Christmas, a young gentleman a year older than himself, who lived within
      half a mile. Before he went he inquired what there was for his dinner,
      and, being informed &ldquo;roast mutton,&rdquo; was not enraptured; he then asked with
      greater solicitude what was the pudding, and, being told &ldquo;rice,&rdquo; betrayed
      disgust and anger, as was remembered when too late.
    </p>
    <p>
      At two o'clock, the day being fine, the ladies went for a long ride,
      accompanied by Talboys only. Kenealy excused himself: &ldquo;He must see if he
      could not find Dawd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette started in a pet; but, after the first canter, she set
      herself to bewitch Mr. Talboys, just to keep her hand in; she flattered
      him up hill and down dale. Lucy was silent and <i>distraite.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From that hill you look right down upon the sea,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette;
      &ldquo;what do you say? It is only two miles farther.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On they cantered, and, leaving the high road, dived into a green lane
      which led them, by a gradual ascent, to Mariner's Folly on the summit of
      the cliff. Mariner's Folly looked at a distance like an enormous bush in
      the shape of a lion; but, when you came nearer, you saw it was three
      remarkably large blackthorn-trees planted together. As they approached it
      at a walk, Mrs. Bazalgette told Mr. Talboys its legend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These trees were planted a hundred and fifty years ago by a retired
      buccaneer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt, now, it was only a lieutenant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be quiet, Lucy, and don't spoil me; I <i>call</i> him a buccaneer. Some
      say it is named his &ldquo;Folly,&rdquo; because, you must know, his ghost comes and
      sits here at times, and that is an absurd practice, shivering in the cold.
      Others more learned say it comes from a Latin word 'folio,' or some such
      thing, that means a leaf; the mariner's leafy screen.&rdquo; She then added with
      reckless levity, &ldquo;I wonder whether we shall find Buckey on the other side,
      looking at the ships through a ghostly telescope&mdash;ha! ha!&mdash;ah!
      ah! help! mercy! forgive me! Oh, dear, it is only Mr. Dodd in his jacket&mdash;you
      frightened me so. Oh! oh! There&mdash;I am ill. Catch me, somebody;&rdquo; and
      she dropped her whip, and, seeing David's eye was on her, subsided
      backward with considerable courage and trustfulness, and for the second
      time contrived to be in her flirtee's arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      I wish my friend Aristotle had been there; I think he would have been
      pleased at her [Greek] (presence of mind) in turning even her terror of
      the supernatural so quickly to account, and making it subservient to
      flirtation.
    </p>
    <p>
      David sat heart-stricken and hopeless, gazing at the sea. The hours passed
      by his heavy heart unheeded. The leafy screen deadened the light sound of
      the horses' feet on the turf, and, moreover, his senses were all turned
      inward. They were upon him, and he did not move, but still held his head
      in his hands and gazed upon the sea. At Mrs. Bazalgette's cries he started
      up, and looked confusedly at them all; but, when she did the feinting
      business, he thought she was going to faint, and caught her in his arms;
      and, holding her in them a moment as if she had been a child, he deposited
      her very gently in a sitting posture at the foot of one of the trees, and,
      taking her hand, slapped it to bring her to.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don't! you hurt me,&rdquo; cried the lady in her natural voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy, barbarous girl, never came to her aunt's assistance. At the first
      fright she seemed slightly agitated, but she now sat impassive on her
      pony, and even wore a satirical smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, dear aunt, when you have done, Mr. Dodd will put you on your horse
      again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On this hint David lifted her like a child, <i>malgre</i> a little squeak
      she thought it well to utter, and put her in the saddle again. She thanked
      him in a low, murmuring voice. She then plied David with a host of
      questions. &ldquo;How came he so far from home?&rdquo; &ldquo;Why had he deserted them all
      day?&rdquo; David hung his head, and did not answer. Lucy came to his relief:
      &ldquo;It would be as well if you would make him promise to be at home in time
      for dinner; and, by the way, I have a favor to ask of you, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A favor to ask of me?!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you know we all make demands upon your good-nature in turn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true,&rdquo; said La Bazalgette, tenderly. &ldquo;I don't know what will
      become of us all when he goes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy then explained &ldquo;that the masked ball suggested by Mr. Talboys'
      beautiful dresses was to be very soon, and she wanted Mr. Dodd to practice
      quadrilles and waltzes with her; it will be so much better with the violin
      and piano than with a piano alone, and you are such an excellent timist&mdash;will
      you, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I will,&rdquo; said David, his eyes sparkling with delight; &ldquo;thank you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, as I shall practice before the gentlemen join us, and it is four
      o'clock now, had you not better turn your back on the sea, and make the
      best of your way home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will be there almost as soon as you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed! what, on foot, and we on horseback?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay; but I can steer in the wind's eye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt, Mr. Dodd proposes a race home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With all my heart. How much start are we to give him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None at all,&rdquo; said David; &ldquo;are you ready? Then give way,&rdquo; and he started
      down the hill at a killing pace.
    </p>
    <p>
      The equestrians were obliged to walk down the hill, and when they reached
      the bottom David was going as the crow flies across some meadows half a
      mile ahead. A good canter soon brought them on a line with him, but every
      now and then the turns of the road and the hills gave him an advantage.
      Lucy, naturally kind-hearted, would have relaxed her pace to make the race
      more equal, but Talboys urged her on; and as a horse is, after all, a
      faster animal than a sailor, they rode in at the front gate while David
      was still two fields off.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, regretfully, &ldquo;we have beat him, poor fellow,
      but we won't go in till we see what has become of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As they loitered on the lawn, Henry the footman came out with a salver,
      and on it reposed a soiled note. Henry presented it with demure
      obsequiousness, then retired grinning furtively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is this&mdash;a begging-letter? What a vile hand! Look, Lucy; did
      you ever? Why, it must be some pauper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have a little mercy, aunt,&rdquo; said Lucy, piteously; &ldquo;that hand has been
      formed under my care and daily superintendence: it is Reginald's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that alters the case. What can the dear child have to say to me! Ah!
      the little wretch! Send the servants after him in every direction. Oh, who
      would be a mother!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The letter was written in lines with two pernicious defects. 1st. They
      were like the wooden part of a bow instead of its string. 2d. They yielded
      to gravity&mdash;kept tending down, down, to the righthand corner more and
      more. In the use of capitals the writer had taken the copyhead as his
      model. The style, however, was pithy, and in writing that is the first
      Christian grace&mdash;no, I forgot, it is the second; pellucidity is the
      first.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;Dear mama, me and johnny
     Cristmas are gone to the north
     Pole his unkle went twise we
     Shall be back in siks munths
     Please give my love to lucy and
     Papa and ask lucy to be kind to
     My ginnipigs i shall want them
     Wen i come back. too much
     Cabiges is not good for ginnipigs.
     Wen i come back i hope there
     Will be no rise left. it is very
     Unjust to give me those nasty
     Messy pudens i am not a child
     There filthy there abbommanabel.
     Johny says it is funy at the north
     Pole and there are bares
     and they
     Are wite.
     I remain

                 &ldquo;Your duteful son

                 &ldquo;Reginald George Bazalgette.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      This innocent missive set house and premises in an uproar. Henry was sent
      east through the dirt, <i>multa reluctantem,</i> in white stockings. Tom
      galloped north. Mrs. Bazalgette sat in the hall, and did well-bred
      hysterics for Kenealy and Talboys. Lucy pinned up her habit, and ran to
      the boundary hedge on the bare chance of seeing the figures of the truants
      somewhere short of the horizon. Lo, and behold, there was David Dodd
      crossing the very nearest field and coming toward her, an urchin in each
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy ran to meet them. &ldquo;Oh, you dear naughty children, what a fright you
      have given us! Oh, Mr. Dodd, how good of you! Where <i>did</i> you find
      them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Under that hedge, eating apples. They tell me they sailed for the North
      Pole this morning, but fell in with a pirate close under the land, so
      'bout ship and came ashore again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A pirate, Mr. Dodd? Oh, I see, a beggar&mdash;a tramp.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A deal worse than that, Miss Lucy. Now, youngster, why don't you spin
      your own yarn?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, tell me, Reggy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, dear, when I had written to mamma, and Johnny had folded it&mdash;because
      I can write but I can't fold it, and he can fold it but he can't write it&mdash;we
      went to the North Pole, and we got a mile; and then we saw that nasty
      Newfoundland dog sitting in the road waiting to torment us. It is Farmer
      Johnson's, and it plays with us, and knocks us down, and licks us, and
      frightens us, and we hate it; so we came home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! ha! good, prudent children. Oh, dear, you have had no dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes we had, Lucy, such a nice one: we bought such a lot of apples of
      a woman. I never had a dinner all apples before; they always spoil them
      with mutton and things, and that nasty, nasty rice&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hear to that!&rdquo; shouted David Dodd. &ldquo;They have been dining upon varjese&rdquo;
       (verjuice), &ldquo;and them growing children. I shall take them into the
      kitchen, and put some cold beef into their little holds this minute, poor
      little lambs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, do; and I will run and tell the good news.&rdquo; She ran across the
      lawn, and came into the hall red with innocent happiness and agitation.
      &ldquo;They are found, aunt, they are found; don't cry. Mr. Dodd found them
      close by, They have had no dinner, so that good, kind Mr. Dodd is taking
      them into the kitchen. I will send Master Christmas home with a servant.
      Shall I bring you Reggy to kiss?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no; wicked little wretch, to frighten his poor mother! Whip him,
      somebody, and put him to bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the evening, soon after the ladies had left the dining-room, the
      pianoforte was heard playing quadrilles in the drawing-room. David
      fidgeted on his seat a little, and presently rose and went for his violin,
      and joined Lucy in the drawing-room alone. Mrs. B. was trying on a dress.
      Between the tunes Lucy chatted with him as freely and kindly as ever.
      David was in heaven. When the gentlemen came up from the dining-room, his
      joy was interrupted, but not for long. The two musicians played with so
      much spirit, and the fiddle, in particular, was so hearty, that Mrs.
      Bazalgette proposed a little quiet dance on the carpet: and this drew the
      other men away from the piano, and left David and Lucy to themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stole a look more than once at his bright eyes and rich ruddy color,
      and asked herself, &ldquo;Is that really the same face we found looking wan and
      haggard on the sea? I think I have put an end to that, at all events.&rdquo; The
      consciousness of this sort of power is secretly agreeable to all men and
      all women, whether they mean to abuse it or no. She smiled demurely at her
      mastery over this great heart, and said to herself, &ldquo;One would think I was
      a witch.&rdquo; Later in the evening she eyed him again, and thought to herself,
      &ldquo;If my company and a few friendly words can make him so happy, it does
      seem very hard I should select him to shun for the few days he has to pass
      in England now; but then, if I let him think&mdash;I don't know what to do
      with him. Poor Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Fountain did not torment her bolder aspirants with alternate distance
      and familiarity. She rode out every fine day with Mr. Talboys, and was all
      affability. She sat next Mr. Hardie at dinner, and was all affability.
    </p>
    <p>
      Narrative has its limits and, to relate in some sequence the honest
      sailor's tortures in love with a tactician, I have necessarily omitted
      concurrent incidents of a still tamer character; but the reader may, by
      the help of his own intelligence, gather their general results from the
      following dialogues, which took place on the afternoon and evening of the
      terrible infant's escapade.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette. &ldquo;'Well, my dear friend, and how does this naughty girl of
      mine use you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Hardie. &ldquo;As well as I could expect, and better than I deserve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. B. &ldquo;Then she must be cleverer than any girl that ever breathed.
      However, she does appreciate your conversation; she makes no secret of
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. H. &ldquo;I have so little reason to complain of my reception that I will
      make my proposal to her this evening if you think proper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette started, and glanced admiration on a man of eight thousand
      a year, who came to the point of points without being either cajoled or
      spurred thither; but she shook her head. &ldquo;Prudence, my dear Mr. Hardie,
      prudence. Not just yet. You are making advances every day; and Lucy is an
      odd girl; with all her apparent tenderness, she is unimpressionable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is only virgin modesty,&rdquo; said Hardie, dogmatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fiddlestick,&rdquo; replied Mrs. B., good-humoredly. &ldquo;The greatest flirts I
      ever met with were virgins, as you call them. I tell you she is not
      disposed toward marriage as all other girls are until they have tasted its
      bitters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. H. &ldquo;If I know anything of character, she will make a very loving
      wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. B. (sharply). &ldquo;That means a nice little negro. Well, I think she
      might, when once caught; but she is not caught, and she is slippery, and,
      if you are in too great a hurry, she may fly off; but, above all, we have
      a dangerous rival in the house just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. H. &ldquo;What, that Mr. Talboys? I don't fear him. He is next door to a
      fool.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. B. &ldquo;What of that? Fools are dangerous rivals for a lady's favor. We
      don't object to fools. It depends on the employment. There is one office
      we are apt to select them for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. H. &ldquo;A husband, eh?&rdquo; The lady nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. B. &ldquo;I meant to marry a fool in Bazalgette, but I found my mistake.
      The wretch had only feigned absurdity. He came out in his true colors
      directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. H. &ldquo;A man of sense, eh? The sinister hypocrite! He only wore the caps
      and bells to allure unguarded beauty, and doffed them when he donned the
      wedding-suit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. B. &ldquo;Yes. But these are reminiscences so sweet that I shall be glad to
      return from them to your little affair. Seriously, then, Mr. Talboys is
      not to be overlooked, for this reason: he is well backed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By whom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By some one who has influence with Lucy&mdash;her nearest relation, Mr.
      Fountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! is he nearer to her than you are?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly; and she is fond of him to infatuation. One day I did but hint
      that selfishness entered into his character (he is eaten up with it), and
      that he told fibs; Mr. Hardie, she turned round on me like a tigress&mdash;Oh,
      how she made me cry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The keen hand, Hardie, smiled satirically, and after a pause answered with
      consummate coolness: &ldquo;I believe thus much, that she loves her uncle, and
      that his influence, exerted unscrupulously&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which it will be. He may be strong enough to spoil us, even though he
      should not be able to carry his own point; now trust me, my dear friend,
      Lucy's preference is clearly for you, but I know the weakness of my own
      sex, and, above all, I know Lucy Fountain. A mouse can help a lion in a
      matter of small threads, too small for his nobler and grander wisdom to
      see. Let me be your mouse for once.&rdquo; The little woman caught the great man
      with the everlasting hook, and the discussion ended in &ldquo;claw me and I will
      claw thee,&rdquo; and in the mutual self-complacency that follows that
      arrangement. <i>Vide</i> &ldquo;Blackwood,&rdquo; <i>passim.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. H. &ldquo;I really think she would accept me if I offered to-day; but I have
      so high an opinion of your sagacity and friendship for me, madam, that I
      will defer my judgment to yours. I must, however, make one condition, that
      you will not displace my plan without suggesting a distinct course of
      action for me to adopt in its place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This smooth proposal, made quietly but with twinkling eye, would have shut
      the mouth of nine advisers in ten, but it found the Bazalgette prepared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, the pleasure of having a man of ability to deal with!&rdquo; cried she,
      with enthusiasm. &ldquo;This is my advice, then: stay Mr. Fountain out. He must
      go in a day or two. His time is up, and I will drop a hint of fresh
      visitors expected. When he is gone, warm by degrees, and offer yourself
      either in person, or through Bazalgette, or me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In person, then, certainly. Of all foibles, employing another pair of
      eyes, another tongue, another person to make love for one is surely the
      silliest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am quite of your opinion,&rdquo; cried the lady, with a hearty laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain. &ldquo;So you are satisfied with the state of things?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys. &ldquo;Yes, I think I have beaten the sailor out of the field.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, but&mdash;this Hardie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hardie! a shopkeeper. I don't fear him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case, why not propose? I have been doing the preliminaries&mdash;sounding
      your praises.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys (tyrannically). &ldquo;I propose next Saturday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain. &ldquo;Very well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Talboys. &ldquo;In the boat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the boat? What boat? There's no boat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have asked her to sail with me from &mdash;&mdash; in a boat; there is
      a very nice little lugger-rigged one. I am having the seats padded and
      stuffed and lined, and an awning put up, and the boat painted white and
      gold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bravo! Cleopatra's galley.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you she looks forward to it with pleasure; she guesses why I
      want to get her into that boat. She hesitated at first, but at last
      consented with a look&mdash;a conscious look; I can hardly describe it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no need,&rdquo; cried Fountain. &ldquo;I know it; the jade turned all
      eyelashes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is rather exaggerated, but still&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But still I have described it&mdash;to a hair. Ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Talboys (gravely). &ldquo;Well, yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys, I am bound to own, was accurate. During the last day or two
      Lucy had taken a turn; she had been bewitching; she had flattered him with
      tact, but deliciously; had consulted him as to which of his beautiful
      dresses she should wear at the masked ball, and, when pressed to have a
      sail in the boat he was fitting for her, she ended by giving a demure
      assent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chorus of male readers, <i>&ldquo;Oh, les femmes, les femmes!&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      David Dodd had by nature a healthy as well as a high mind; but the fever
      and ague of an absorbing passion were telling on it. Like many a great
      heart before his day, his heart was tossed like a ship, and went up to
      heaven, and down again to despair, as a girl's humor shifted, or seemed to
      shift, for he forgot that there is such a thing as accident, and that her
      sex are even more under its dominion than ours. No; whatever she did must
      be spontaneous, voluntary, premeditated even, and her lightest word worth
      weighing, her lightest action worth anxious scrutiny as to its cause.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still he had this about him that the peevish and puny lover has not. Her
      bare presence was joy to him. Even when she was surrounded by other
      figures, he saw and felt but the one; the rest were nothings. But when she
      went out of his sight, some bright illusion seemed to fade into cold and
      dark reality. Then it fell on him like a weighty, icy hammer, that in
      three days he must go to sea for two years, and that he was no nearer her
      heart now than he was at Font Abbey. Was he even as near?
    </p>
    <p>
      So the next afternoon he thrust in before Talboys, and put Lucy on her
      horse by brute force, and griped her stout little boot, which she had
      slyly substituted for a shoe, and touched her glossy habit, and felt a
      thrill of bliss unspeakable at his momentary contact with her; but she was
      no sooner out of sight than a hollow ache seized the poor fellow, and he
      hung his head and sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, capting,&rdquo; said a voice in his ear. He looked up, and there stood
      Tom, the stable-boy, with both hands in his pockets. Tom was not there by
      his own proper movement, but was agent of Betsy, the under-housemaid.
    </p>
    <p>
      Female servants scan the male guests pretty closely too, without seeming
      to do it, and judge them upon lamentably broad principles&mdash;youth,
      health, size, beauty, and good temper. Oh, the coarse-minded critics!
      Hence it befell that in their eyes, especially after the fiddle business,
      David was a king compared with his rivals.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I look at him too long, I shall eat him,&rdquo; said the cook-maid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is a darling,&rdquo; said the upper housemaid.
    </p>
    <p>
      Betsy aforesaid often opened a window to have a sly look at him, and on
      one of these occasions she inspected him from an upper story at her
      leisure. His manner drew her attention. She saw him mount Lucy, and eye
      her departing form sadly and wistfully. Betsy glowered and glowered, and
      hit the nail on the head, as people will do who are so absurd as to look
      with their own eyes, and draw their own conclusions instead of other
      people's. After this she took an opportunity, and said to Tom, with a
      satirical air, &ldquo;How are you off for nags, your way?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, we have got enough for our corn,&rdquo; replied Tom, on the defensive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems you can't find one for the captain among you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you give a kiss if I make you out a liar?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sooner than break my arm. Come, you might, Tom. Now is it reasonable, him
      never to get a ride with her, and that useless lot prancing about with her
      all day long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don't you ride with 'em, capting?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no horse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have got a horse for you, sir&mdash;master's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would be taking a liberty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Liberty, sir! no; master would be so pleased if you would but ride him.
      He told me so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then saddle him, pray.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a-saddled him. You had better come in the stable-yard, capting;
      then you can mount and follow; you will catch them before they reach the
      Downs.&rdquo; In another minute David was mounted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you ride short or long, capting?&rdquo; inquired Tom, handling the
      stirrup-leather.
    </p>
    <p>
      David wore a puzzled look. &ldquo;I ride as long as I can stick on;&rdquo; and he
      trotted out of the stable-yard. As Tom had predicted, he caught the party
      just as they went off the turn-pike on to the grass. His heart beat with
      joy; he cantered in among them. His horse was fresh, squeaked, and bucked
      at finding himself on grass and in company, and David announced his
      arrival by rolling in among their horses' feet with the reins tight
      grasped in his fist. The ladies screamed with terror. David got up
      laughing; his horse had hoped to canter away without him, and now stood
      facing him and pulling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, ye don't,&rdquo; said David. &ldquo;I held on to the tiller-ropes though I did go
      overboard.&rdquo; Then ensued a battle between David and his horse, the one
      wanting to mount, the other anxious to be unencumbered with sailors. It
      was settled by David making a vault and sitting on the animal's neck, on
      which the ladies screamed again, and Lucy, half whimpering, proposed to go
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't think of it,&rdquo; cried David. &ldquo;I won't be beat by such a small craft
      as this&mdash;hallo!&rdquo; for, the horse backing into Talboys, that gentleman
      gave him a clandestine cut, and he bolted, and, being a little
      hard-mouthed, would gallop in spite of the tiller-ropes. On came the other
      nags after him, all misbehaving more or less, so fine a thing is example.
      When they had galloped half a mile the ground began to rise, and David's
      horse relaxed his pace, whereon David whipped him industriously, and made
      him gallop again in spite of remonstrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The others drew the rein, and left him to gallop alone. Accordingly, he
      made the round of the hill and came back, his horse covered with lather
      and its tail trembling. &ldquo;There,&rdquo; said he to Lucy, with an air of radiant
      self-satisfaction, &ldquo;he clapped on sail without orders from quarter-deck,
      so I made him carry it till his bows were under water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will kill my uncle's horse,&rdquo; was the reply, in a chilling tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven forbid!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at its poor flank beating.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David hung his head like a school-girl rebuked. &ldquo;But why did he clap on
      sail if he could not carry it?&rdquo; inquired he, ruefully, of his monitress.
    </p>
    <p>
      The others burst out laughing; but Lucy remained grave and silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      David rode along crestfallen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette brought her pony close to him, and whispered, &ldquo;Never mind
      that little cross-patch. <i>She</i> does not care a pin about the <i>horse;</i>
      you interrupted her flirtation, that is all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This piece of consolation soothed David like a bunch of stinging-nettles.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Mrs. Bazalgette was consoling David with thorns, Kenealy and Talboys
      were quizzing his figure on horseback.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sat bent like a bow and visibly sticking on: <i>item,</i> he had no
      straps, and his trousers rucked up half-way to his knee.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy's attention being slyly drawn to these phenomena by David's friend
      Talboys, she smiled politely, though somewhat constrainedly; but the
      gentlemen found it a source of infinite amusement during the whole ride,
      which, by the way, was not a very long one, for Miss Fountain soon
      expressed a wish to turn homeward. David felt guilty, he scarce knew why.
    </p>
    <p>
      The promised happiness was wormwood. On dismounting, she went to the lawn
      to tend her flowers. David followed her, and said bitterly, &ldquo;I am sorry I
      came to spoil your pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Fountain made no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought I might have one ride with you, when others have so many.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, of course, Mr. Dodd. If you like to expose yourself to ridicule, it
      is no affair of mine.&rdquo; The lady's manner was a happy mixture of frigidity
      and crossness. David stood benumbed, and Lucy, having emptied her
      flower-pot, glided indoors without taking any farther notice of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      David stood rooted to the spot. Then he gave a heavy sigh, and went and
      leaned against one of the pillars of the portico, and everything seemed to
      swim before his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently he heard a female voice inquire, &ldquo;Is Miss Lucy at home?&rdquo; He
      looked, and there was a tall, strapping woman in conference with Henry.
      She had on a large bonnet with flaunting ribbons, and a bushy cap
      infuriated by red flowers. Henry's eye fell upon these embellishments:
      &ldquo;Not at home,&rdquo; chanted he, sonorously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh, dear,&rdquo; said the woman sadly, &ldquo;I have come a long way to see her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at home, ma'am,&rdquo; repeated Henry, like a vocal machine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name is Wilson, young man,&rdquo; said she, persuasively, and the Amazon's
      voice was mellow and womanly, spite of her coal-scuttle full of field
      poppies. &ldquo;I am her nurse, and I have not seen her this five years come
      Martinmas;&rdquo; and the Amazon gave a gentle sigh of disappointment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at home, ma'am!&rdquo; rang the inexorable Plush.
    </p>
    <p>
      But David's good heart took the woman's part. &ldquo;She is at home, now,&rdquo; said
      he, coming forward. &ldquo;I saw her go into the house scarce a minute ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, thank you, sir,&rdquo; said Mrs. Wilson. But Mr. Plush's face was instantly
      puckered all over with signals, which David not comprehending, he said,
      &ldquo;Can I say a word with you, sir?&rdquo; and, drawing him on one side, objected,
      in an injured and piteous tone. &ldquo;We are not at home to such gallimaufry as
      that; it is as much as my place is worth to denounce that there bonnet to
      our ladies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bonnet be d&mdash;d,&rdquo; roared David, aloud. &ldquo;It is her old nurse. Come,
      heave ahead;&rdquo; and he pointed up the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anything to oblige you, captain,&rdquo; said Henry, and sauntered into the
      drawing-room; &ldquo;Mrs. Wilson, ma'am, for Miss Fountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well; my niece will be here directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy had just gone to her own room for some working materials.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had better come to an anchor on this seat, Mrs. Wilson,&rdquo; said David.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank ye kindly, young gentleman,&rdquo; said Mrs. Wilson; and she settled her
      stately figure on the seat. &ldquo;I have walked a many miles to-day, along of
      our horse being lame, and I am a little tired. You are one of the family,
      I do suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I am only a visitor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ain't ye now? Well, thank ye kindly, all the same. I have seen a worse
      face than yours, I can tell you,&rdquo; added she; for in the midst of it all
      she had found time to read countenances <i>more mulierurn.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I have seen a good many hundred worse than yours, Mrs. Wilson.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Wilson laughed. &ldquo;Twenty years ago, if you had said so, I might have
      believed you, or even ten; but, bless you, I am an old woman now, and can
      say what I choose to the men. Forty-two next Candlemas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the country they call themselves old at forty-two, because they feel
      young. In town they call themselves young at forty-two, because they feel
      old.
    </p>
    <p>
      David found that he had fallen in with a gossip; and, being in no humor
      for vague chat, he left Mrs. Wilson to herself, with an assurance that
      Miss Fountain would be down to her directly.
    </p>
    <p>
      In leaving her he went into worse company&mdash;his own thoughts; they
      were inexpressibly sad and bitter. &ldquo;She hates me, then,&rdquo; said he.
      &ldquo;Everybody is welcome to her at all hours, except me. That lady said it
      was because I interrupted her flirtation. Aha! well, I shan't interrupt
      her flirtation much longer. I shan't be in her way or anybody's long. A
      few short hours, and this bitter day will be forgotten, and nothing left
      me but the memory of the kindness she had for me once, or seemed to have,
      and the angel face I must carry in my heart wherever I go, by land or sea.
      The sea? would to God I was upon it this minute! I'd rather be at sea than
      ashore in the dirtiest night that ever blew.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had been walking to and fro a good half-hour, deeply dejected and
      turning bitter, when, looking in accidentally at the hall door, he caught
      sight of Mrs. Wilson sitting all alone where he had left her. &ldquo;Why, what
      on earth is the meaning of that?&rdquo; thought he; and he went into the hall
      and asked Mrs. Wilson how she came to be there all alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is what I have been asking myself a while past,&rdquo; was the dry reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you not seen her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir, I have not seen her, and, to my mind, it is doubtful whether I
      am to see her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I say you shall see her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, don't put yourself out, sir,&rdquo; said the woman, carelessly; &ldquo;I dare
      say I shall have better luck next time, if I should ever come to this
      house again, which it is not very likely.&rdquo; She added gently, &ldquo;Young folk
      are thoughtless; we must not judge them too hardly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thoughtless they may be, but they have no business to be heartless. I
      have a great mind to go up and fetch her down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't ye trouble, sir. It is not worth while putting you about for an old
      woman like me.&rdquo; Then suddenly dropping the mask of nonchalance which women
      of this class often put on to hide their sensibility, she said, very, very
      gravely, and with a sad dignity, that one would not have expected from her
      gossip and her finery, &ldquo;I begin to fear, sir, that the child I have
      suckled does not care to know me now she is a woman grown.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David dashed up the stairs with a red streak on his brow. He burst into
      the drawing-room, and there sat Mrs. Bazalgette overlooking, and Lucy
      working with a face of beautiful calm. She looked just then so very like a
      pure, tranquil Madonna making an altar-cloth, or something, that David's
      intention to give her a scolding was withered in the bud, and he gazed at
      her surprised and irresolute, and said not a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anything the matter?&rdquo; inquired Mrs. Bazalgette, attracted by the
      bruskness of his entry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, there is,&rdquo; said David sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy looked up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Fountain's old nurse has been sitting in the hall more than half an
      hour, and nobody has had the politeness to go near her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, is that all? Well, don't look daggers at me. There is Lucy; give her
      a lesson in good-breeding, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo; This was said a little satirically,
      and rather nettled David.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps it does not become me to set up for a teacher of that. I know my
      own deficiencies as well as anybody in this house knows them; but this I
      know, that, if an old friend walked eight miles to see me, it would not be
      good-breeding in me to refuse to walk eight yards to see her. And, another
      thing, everybody's time is worth something; if I did not mean to see her,
      I would have that much consideration to send down and tell her so, and not
      keep the woman wasting her time as well as her trouble, and vexing her
      heart into the bargain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is she, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo; asked Lucy quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is she?&rdquo; cried David, getting louder and louder. &ldquo;Why, she is
      cooling her heels in the hall this half hour and more. They hadn't the
      manners to show her into a room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go to her, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said Lucy, turning a little pale. &ldquo;Don't be
      angry; I will go directly&rdquo;; and, having said this with an abject
      slavishness that formed a miraculous contrast with her late crossness and
      imperious chilliness, she put down her work hastily and went out; only at
      the door she curved her throat, and cast back, Parthian-like, a glance of
      timid reproach, as much as to say, &ldquo;Need you have been so very harsh with
      a creature so obedient as this is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That deprecating glance did Mr. Dodd's business. It shot him with remorse,
      and made him feel a brute.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! ha! That is the way to speak to her, Mr. Dodd; the other gentlemen
      spoil her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was very unbecoming of me to speak to her harshly like that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh! nonsense; these girls like to be ordered about; it saves them the
      trouble of thinking for themselves; but what is to become of me? You have
      sent off my workwoman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will do her work for her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! can you sew?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the sailor that can't sew?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Delightful! Then please to sew these two thick ends together. Here is a
      large needle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David whipped out of his pocket a round piece of leather with strings
      attached, and fastened it to the hollow of his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a sailor's thimble.&rdquo; He took the work, held it neatly, and shoved
      the needle from behind through the thick material. He worked slowly and
      uncouthly, but with the precision that was a part of his character, and
      made exact and strong stitches. His task-mistress looked on, and, under
      the pretense of minute inspection, brought a face that was still arch and
      pretty unnecessarily close to the marine milliner, in which attitude they
      were surprised by Mr. Bazalgette, who, having come in through the open
      folding-doors, stood looking mighty sardonic at them both before they were
      even aware he was in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Omphale colored faintly, but Hercules gave a cool nod to the newcomer, and
      stitched on with characteristic zeal and strict attention to the matter in
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this Bazalgette uttered a sort of chuckle, at which Mrs. Bazalgette
      turned red. David stitched on for the bare life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came to offer to invite you to my study, but&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't come just now,&rdquo; said David, bluntly; &ldquo;I am doing a lady's work
      for her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I see,&rdquo; retorted Bazalgette, dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We all dine with the Hunts but you and Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette,
      &ldquo;so you will be <i>en tete-a-tete</i> all the evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All the better for us both.&rdquo; And with this ingratiating remark Mr.
      Bazalgette retired whistling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette heaved a gentle sigh: &ldquo;Pity me, my friend,&rdquo; said she,
      softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; inquired David, rather bluntly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Bazalgette is so harsh to me&mdash;ah!&mdash;to me, who longs so for
      kindness and gentleness that I feel I could give my very soul in exchange
      for them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The bait did not take.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is only his manner,&rdquo; said David, good-naturedly. &ldquo;His heart is all
      right; I never met a better. What sort of a knot is that you are tying?
      Why, that is a granny's knot;&rdquo; and he looked morose, at which she looked
      amazed; so he softened, and explained to her with benevolence the
      rationale of a knot. &ldquo;A knot is a fastening intended to be undone again by
      fingers, and not to come undone without them. Accordingly, a knot is no
      knot at all if it jams or if it slips. A granny's knot does both; when you
      want to untie it you must pick at it like taking a nail out of a board,
      and, for all that, sooner or later it always comes undone of itself; now
      you look here;&rdquo; and he took a piece of string out of his pocket, and tied
      her a sailor's knot, bidding her observe that she could untie it at once,
      but it could never come untied of itself. He showed her with this piece of
      string half a dozen such knots, none of which could either jam or slip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tie me a lover's knot,&rdquo; suggested the lady, in a whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay! ay!&rdquo; and he tied her a lover's knot as imperturbably as he had the
      reef knot, bowling-knot, fisherman's bend, etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is very interesting,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, ironically. She thought
      David might employ a tete-a-tete with a flirt better than this. &ldquo;What a
      time Lucy is gone!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All the better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; and she looked down in mock confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because poor Mrs. Wilson will be glad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette was piqued at this unexpected answer. &ldquo;You seem quite
      captivated with this Mrs. Wilson; it was for her sake you took Lucy to
      task. Apropos, you need not have scolded her, for she did not know the
      woman was in the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean Lucy was not in the room when Mrs. Wilson was announced. I was,
      but I did not tell her; the all-important circumstance had escaped my
      memory. Where are you running to now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where? why, to ask her pardon, to be sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. B. [Brute!]
    </p>
    <p>
      David ran down the stairs to look for Lucy, but he found somebody else
      instead&mdash;his sister Eve, whom the servant had that moment admitted
      into the hall. It was &ldquo;Oh, Eve!&rdquo; and &ldquo;Oh, David!&rdquo; directly, and an
      affectionate embrace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You got my letter, David?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then you will before long. I wrote to tell you to look out for me;
      I had better have brought the letter in my pocket. I didn't know I was
      coming till just an hour before I started. Mother insisted on my going to
      see the last of you. Cousin Mary had invited me to &mdash;&mdash;, so I
      shall see you off, Davy dear, after all. I thought I'd just pop in and let
      you know I was in the neighborhood. Mary and her husband are outside the
      gate in their four-wheel. I would not let them drive in, because I want to
      hear your story, and they would have bothered us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve, dear, I have no good news for you. Your words have come true. I have
      been perplexed, up and down, hot and cold, till I feel sometimes like
      going mad. Eve, I cannot fathom her. She is deeper than the ocean, and
      more changeable. What am I saying? the sea and the wind; they are to be
      read; they have their signs and their warnings; but she&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! there! that is the old song. I tell you it is only a girl&mdash;a
      creature as shallow as a puddle, and as easy to fathom, as you call it,
      only men are so stupid, especially boys. Now just you tell me all she has
      said, all she has done, and all she has looked, and I will turn her inside
      out like a glove in a minute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Cheered by this audacious pledge, David pumped upon Eve all that has
      trickled on my readers, and some minor details besides, and repeated
      Lucy's every word, sweet or bitter, and recalled her lightest action&mdash;<i>Meminerunt
      omnia amantes</i>&mdash;and every now and then he looked sadly into Eve's
      keen little face for his doom.
    </p>
    <p>
      She heard him in silence until the last fatal incident, Lucy's severity on
      the lawn. Then she put in a question. &ldquo;Were those her exact words?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I ever forget a syllable she says to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be angry. I forgot what a ninny she has made of you. Well, David,
      it is all as plain as my hand. The girl likes you&mdash;that is all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The girl likes me? What do you mean? How can you say that? What sign of
      liking is there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are two. She avoids you, and she has been rude to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And those are signs of liking, are they?&rdquo; said David, bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, of course they are, stupid. Tell me, now, does she shun this Captain
      Keely?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kenealy. No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does she shun Mr. Harvey?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hardie. No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does she shun Mr. Talboys?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh Eve, you break my heart&mdash;no! no! She shuns no one but poor
      David.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now think a little. Here are three on one sort of footing, and one on a
      different footing; which is likeliest to be <i>the man,</i> the one or the
      three? You have gained a point since we were all together. She <i>distinguishes</i>
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what a way to distinguish me. It looks more like hatred than love, or
      liking either.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to my eye. Why should she shun you? You are handsome, you are
      good-tempered, and good company. Why should she be shy of you? She is
      afraid of you, that is why; and why is she afraid of you? because she is
      afraid of her own heart. That is how I read her. Then, as for her snubbing
      you, if her character was like mine, that ought to go for nothing, for I
      snub all the world; but this is a little queen for politeness. I can't
      think she would go so far out of her way as to affront anybody unless she
      had an uncommon respect for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to that, now! I am on my beam-ends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now think a minute, David,&rdquo; said Eve, calmly, ignoring his late
      observation; &ldquo;did you ever know her snub anybody?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never. Did you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; and she never would, unless she took an uncommon interest in the
      person. When a girl likes a man, she thinks she has a right to ill-use him
      a little bit; he has got her affection to set against a scratch or two;
      the others have not. So she has not the same right to scratch them. La!
      listen to me teaching him A B C. Why, David, you know nothing; it's
      scandalous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eve's confidence communicated itself at last to David; but when he asked
      her whether she thought Lucy would consent to be his wife, her countenance
      fell in her turn. &ldquo;That is a very different thing. I am pretty sure she
      likes you; how could she help it? but I doubt she will never go to the
      altar with you. Don't be angry with me, Davy, dear. You are in love with
      her, and to you she is an angel. But I am of her own sex, and see her as
      she is; no matter who she likes, she will never be content to make a bad
      match, as they call it. She told me so once with her own lips. But she had
      no need to tell me; worldliness is written on her. David, David, you don't
      know these great houses, nor the fair-spoken creatures that live in them,
      with tongues tuned to sentiment, and mild eyes fixed on the main chance.
      Their drawing-rooms are carpeted market-places; you may see the stones
      bulge through the flowery pattern; there the ladies sell their faces, the
      gentlemen their titles and their money; and much I fear Miss Fountain's
      hand will go like the rest&mdash;to the highest bidder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I thought so, my love, deep as it is, would turn to contempt; I would
      tear her out of my heart, though I tore my heart out of my body.&rdquo; He
      added, &ldquo;I will know what she is before many hours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do, David. Take her off her guard, and make hot love to her; that is your
      best chance. It is a pity you are so much in love with her; you might win
      her by a surprise if you only liked her in moderation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How so, dear Eve?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The battle would be more even. Your adoring her gives her the upper hand
      of you. She is sure to say 'no' at first, and then I am afraid you will
      leave off, instead of going on hotter and hotter. The very look she will
      put on to check you will check you, you are so green. What a pity I can't
      take your place for half an hour. I would have her against her will. I
      would take her by storm. If she said 'no' twenty times, she should say
      'yes' the twenty-first; but you are afraid of her; fancy being afraid of a
      woman. Come, David, you must not shilly-shally, but attack her like a man;
      and, if she is such a fool she can't see your merit, forgive her like a
      man, and forget her like a man. Come, promise me you will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I promise you this, that if I lose her it shall not be for want of trying
      to win her; and, if she refuses me because I am not her fancy, I shall die
      a bachelor for her sake.&rdquo; Eve sighed. &ldquo;But if she is the mercenary thing
      you take her for&mdash;if she owns to liking me, but prefers money to
      love, then from that moment she is no more to me than a picture or a
      statue, or any other lovely thing that has no soul.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With these determined words he gave his sister his arm, and walked with
      her through the grounds to the road where her cousin was waiting for her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy found Mrs. Wilson in the hall. &ldquo;Come into the library, Mrs. Wilson,&rdquo;
       said she; &ldquo;I have only just heard you were here. Won't you sit down? Are
      you not well, Mrs. Wilson? You tremble. You are fatigued, I fear. Pray
      compose yourself. May I ring for a glass of wine for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, Miss Lucy,&rdquo; said the woman, smiling; &ldquo;it is only along of you
      coming to me so sudden, and you so grown. Eh! sure, can this fine young
      lady be the little girl I held in my lap but t'other day, as it seems?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was an agitation and ardor about Mrs. Wilson that, coupled with the
      flaming bonnet, made Miss Fountain uneasy. She thought Mrs. Wilson must be
      a little cracked, or at least flighty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray compose yourself, madam,&rdquo; said she, soothingly, but with that
      dignity nobody could assume more readily than she could. &ldquo;I dare say I am
      much grown since I last had the pleasure of seeing you; but I have not
      outgrown my memory, and I am happy to receive you, or any of our old
      servants that knew my dear mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I must not look for a welcome,&rdquo; said Mrs. Wilson, with feminine
      logic, &ldquo;for I was never your servant, nor your mamma's.&rdquo; Lucy opened her
      eyes, and her face sought an explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never took any money for what I gave you, so how could I be a servant?
      To see me a dangling of my heels in your hall so long, one would say I was
      a servant; but I am not a servant, nor like to be, please God, unless I
      should have the ill luck to bury my two boys, as I have their father. So
      perhaps the best thing I can do, miss, is to drop you my courtesy and walk
      back as I came.&rdquo; The Amazon's manner was singularly independent and calm,
      but the tell-tale tears were in the large gray honest eyes before she
      ended.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy's natural penetration and habit of attending to faces rather than
      words came to her aid. &ldquo;Wait a minute, Mrs. Wilson,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;I think
      there is some misunderstanding here. Perhaps the fault is mine. And yet I
      remember more than one nursery-maid that was kind enough to me; but I have
      heard nothing of them since.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Their blood is not in your veins as mine is, unless the doctors have
      lanced it out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never was bled in my life, if you mean that, madam. But I must ask you
      to explain how I can possibly have the&mdash;the advantage of possessing
      <i>your</i> blood in <i>my</i> veins.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Wilson eyed her keenly. &ldquo;Perhaps I had better tell you the story from
      first to last, young lady,&rdquo; said she quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you please,&rdquo; said the courtier, mastering a sigh; for in Mrs. Wilson
      there was much that promised fluency.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, miss, when you came into the world, your mamma could not nurse you.
      I do notice the gentry that eat the fat of the land are none the better
      for it; for a poor woman can do a mother's part by her child, but
      high-born and high-fed folk can't always; so you had to be brought up by
      hand, miss, and it did not agree with you, and that is no great wonder,
      seeing it is against nature. Well, my little girl, that was born just two
      days after you, died in my arms of convulsion fits when she was just a
      month old. She had only just been buried, and me in bitter grief, when
      doesn't the doctor call and ask me as a great favor, would I nurse Mrs.
      Fountain's child, that was pining for want of its natural food. I bade him
      get out of my sight. I felt as if no woman had a right to have a child
      living when my little darling was gone. But my husband, a just man as ever
      was, said, 'Take a thought, Mary; the child is really pining, by all
      accounts.' Well, I would not listen to him. But next Sunday, after
      afternoon church, my mother, that had not said a word till then, comes to
      me, and puts her hand on my shoulder with a quiet way she had. 'Mary,'
      says she, 'I am older than you, and have known more.' She had buried six
      of us, poor thing. Says she, scarce above a whisper, 'Suckle that failing
      child. It will be the better for her, and the better for you, Mary, my
      girl.' Well, miss, my mother was a woman that didn't interfere every
      minute, and seldom gave her reasons; but, if you scorned her advice, you
      mostly found them out to your cost; and then she was my mother; and in
      those days mothers were more thought of, leastways by us that were women
      and had suffered for our children, and so learned to prize the woman that
      had suffered for us. 'Well, then,' I said, 'if you say so, mother, I
      suppose I didn't ought to gainsay you, on the Lord His day.' For you see
      my mother was one that chose her time for speaking&mdash;eh! but she was
      wise. 'Mother,' says I, 'to oblige you, so be it'; and with that I fell to
      crying sore on my mother's neck, and she wasn't long behind me, you may be
      sure. Whiles we sat a crying in one another's arms, in comes John, and
      goes to speak a word of comfort. 'It is not that,' says my mother; 'she
      have given her consent to nurse Mrs. Fountain's little girl.' 'It is much
      to her credit,' says he: says he, 'I will take her up to the house
      myself.' 'What for?' says I; 'them that grants the favor has no call to
      run after them that asks it.' You see, Miss Lucy, that was my ignorance;
      we were small farmers, too independent to be fawning, and not high enough
      to weed ourselves of upishness. Your mamma, she was a real lady, so she
      had no need to trouble about her dignity; she thought only of her child;
      and she didn't send the child, but she came with it herself. Well, she
      came into our kitchen, and made her obeisance, and we to her, and mother
      dusted her a seat. She was pale-like, and a mother's care was in her face,
      and that went to my heart. 'This is very, very kind of you, Mrs. Wilson,'
      said she. Those were her words. 'Mayhap it is,' says I; and my heart felt
      like lead. Mother made a sign to your mamma that she should not hurry me.
      I saw the signal, for I was as quick as she was; but I never let on I saw
      it. At last I plucked up a bit of courage, and I said, 'Let me see it.' So
      mother took you from the girl that held you all wrapped up, and mother put
      you on my knees; and I took a good look at you. You had the sweetest
      little face that ever came into the world, but all peaked and pining for
      want of nature. With you being on my knees, my bosom began to yearn over
      you, it did. 'The child is starved,' said I; 'that is all its grief. And
      you did right to bring it' here.' Your mother clasps her hands, 'Oh, Mrs.
      Wilson,' says she, 'God grant it is not too late.' So then I smiled back
      to her, and I said, 'Don't you fret; in a fortnight you shan't know her.'
      You see I was beginning to feel proud of what I knew I could do for you. I
      was a healthy young woman, and could have nursed two children as easy as
      some can one. To make a long story short, I gave you the breast then and
      there; and you didn't leave us long in doubt whether cow's milk or
      mother's milk is God's will for sucklings. Well, your mamma put her hands
      before her face, and I saw the tears force their way between her fingers.
      So, when she was gone, I said to my mother, 'What was that for?' 'I shan't
      tell you,' says she. 'Do, mother,' says I. So she said, 'I wonder at your
      having to ask; can't you see it was jealousy-like. Do you think she has
      not her burden to bear in this world as well as you? How would you like to
      see another woman do a mother's part for a child of yours, and you sit
      looking on like a toy-mother? Eh! Miss Lucy, but I was vexed for her at
      that, and my heart softened; and I used to take you up to the great house,
      and spend nearly the whole day there, not to rob her of her child more
      than need be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mrs. Wilson! Oh, you kind, noble-hearted creature, surely Heaven will
      reward you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is past praying for, my dear. Heaven wasn't going to be long in debt
      to a farmer's wife, you may be sure; not a day, not an hour. I had hardly
      laid you to my breast when you seemed to grow to my heart. My milk had
      been tormenting me for one thing. My good mother had thought of that, I'll
      go bail; and of course you relieved me. But, above all, you numbed the
      wound in my heart, and healed it by degrees: a part of my love that lay in
      the churchyard seemed to come back like, and settle on the little helpless
      darling that milked me. At whiles I forgot you were not my own; and even
      when I remembered it, it was&mdash;I don't know&mdash;somehow&mdash;as if
      it wasn't so. I knew in my head you were none of mine, but what of that? I
      didn't feel it here. Well, miss, I nursed you a year and two months, and a
      finer little girl never was seen, and such a weight! And, of course, I was
      proud of you; and often your dear mother tried to persuade me to take a
      twenty-pound note, or ten; but I never would. I could not sell my milk to
      a queen. I'd refuse it, or I'd make a gift of it, and the love that goes
      with it, which is beyond price. I didn't say so to her in so many words,
      but I did use to tell her 'I was as much in her little girl's debt as she
      was in mine,' and so I was. But as for a silk gown, and a shawl, and the
      like, I didn't say 'No' to them; who ever does?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nurse!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lamb!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you ever forgive me for confounding you with a servant? I am so
      inexperienced. I knew nothing of all this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Miss Lucy, 'let that flea stick in the wall,' as the saying is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, dear Mrs. Wilson, now only think that your affection for me should
      have lasted all these years. You speak as if such tenderness was common. I
      fear you are mistaken there: most nurses go away and think no more of
      those to whom they have been as mothers in infancy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you know that, Miss Lucy? Who can tell what passes inside those
      poor women that are ground down into slaves, and never dare show their
      real hearts to a living creature? Certainly hirelings will be hirelings,
      and a poor creature that is forced to sell her breast, and is bundled off
      as soon as she has served the grand folks' turn, why, she behooves to
      steel herself against nature, and she knows that from the first; but
      whether she always does get to harden herself, I take leave to doubt. Miss
      Lucy; I knew an unfortunate girl that nursed a young gentleman, leastways
      a young nobleman it was, and years after that I have known her to stand
      outside the hedge for an hour to catch a sight of him at play on the lawn
      among the other children. Ay, and if she had a penny piece to spare she
      would go and buy him sugar-plums, and lay wait for him, and give them him,
      and he heir to thousands a year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor thing! Poor thing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Next to the tie of blood, Miss Lucy, the tie of milk is a binding
      affection. When you went to live twenty miles from us, I behooved to come
      in the cart and see you from time to time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember, nurse, I remember.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I came to our new farm hard by, you were away; but as soon as I
      heard you were come back, it was like a magnet drawing me. I could not
      keep away from you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven forbid you should; and I will come and see you, dear nurse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will ye, now? Do now. I have got a nice little parlor for you. It is a
      very good house for a farm-house; and there we can set and talk at our
      ease, and no fine servants, dressed like lords, coming staring in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy now proffered a timid request that Mrs. Wilson would take off her
      bonnet. &ldquo;I want to see your good kind face without any ornament.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hear to that, now, the darling;&rdquo; and off came the bonnet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now your cap.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't know; I hadn't time to do my hair as should be before
      coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does that matter with me? I must see you without that cap.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! don't you like my new cap? Isn't it a pretty cap? Why, I bought it
      a purpose to come and see you in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it is a very pretty cap in itself,&rdquo; said the courtier, &ldquo;but it does
      not suit the shape of your face. Oh, what a difference! Ah! now I see your
      heart in your face. Will you let me make you a cap?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you, now, Miss Lucy? I shall be so proud wearing it our house will
      scarce hold me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this juncture a footman came in with a message from Mrs. Bazalgette to
      remind Lucy that they dined out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must go and dress, nurse.&rdquo; She then kissed her and promised to ride
      over and visit her at her farm next week, and spend a long time with her
      quietly, and so these new old friends parted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy pondered every word Mrs. Wilson had said to her, and said to herself:
      &ldquo;What a child I am still! How little I know! How feebly I must have
      observed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The party at dinner consisted of Mr. Bazalgette, David, and Reginald, who,
      taking advantage of his mother's absence and Lucy's, had prevailed on the
      servants to let him dine with the grown-up ones. &ldquo;Halo? urchin,&rdquo; said Mr.
      Bazalgette, &ldquo;to what do we owe this honor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Papa,&rdquo; said Reginald, quaking at heart, &ldquo;if I don't ever begin to be a
      man what is to become of me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Reginald did not exhibit his full powers at dinner-time. He was
      greatest at dessert. Peaches and apricots fell like blackberries. He
      topped up with the ginger and other preserves; then he uttered a sigh, and
      his eye dwelt on some candied pineapple he had respited too long. Putting
      the pineapple's escape and the sigh together, Mr. Bazalgette judged that
      absolute repletion had been attained. &ldquo;Come, Reginald,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;run away
      now, and let Mr. Dodd and me have our talk.&rdquo; Before the words were even
      out of his mouth a howl broke from the terrible infant. He had evidently
      feared the proposal, and got this dismal howl all ready.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, papa! Oh! oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't make me go away with the ladies this time. Jane says I am not a man
      because I go away when the ladies go. And Cousin Lucy won't marry me till
      I am a man. Oh, papa, do let me be a man this once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let him stay, sir,&rdquo; said David.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he must go and play at the end of the room, and not interrupt our
      conversation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Reginald consented with rapture. He had got a new puzzle. He could
      play at it in a corner; all he wanted was to be able to stop Jane's mouth,
      should she ever jeer him again. Reginald thus disposed of, Mr. Bazalgette
      courted David to replenish his glass and sit round to the fire. The fire
      was huge and glowing, the cut glass sparkled, and the ruby wine glowed,
      and even the faces shone, and all invited genial talk. Yet David, on the
      eve of his departure and of his fate, oppressed with suspense and care,
      was out of the reach of those genial, superficial influences. He could
      only just mutter a word of assent here and there, then relapsed into his
      reverie, and eyed the fire thoughtfully, as if his destiny lay there
      revealed. Mr. Bazalgette, on the contrary, glowed more and more in manner
      as well as face, and, like many of his countrymen, seemed to imbibe
      friendship with each fresh glass of port.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last, under the double influence of his real liking for David and of
      the Englishman-thawing Portuguese decoction, he gave his favorite a
      singular proof of friendship. It came about as follows. Observing that he
      had all the talk to himself, he fixed his eyes with an expression of
      paternal benevolence on his companion, and was silent in turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      David looked up, as we all do when a voice ceases, and saw this mild gaze
      dwelling on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dodd, my boy, you don't say a word; what is the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am very bad company, sir, that is the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, fill your glass, then, and I'll talk for you. I have got something
      to say for you, young gentleman.&rdquo; David filled his glass and forced
      himself to attend; after a while no effort was needed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dodd,&rdquo; resumed the mature merchant, &ldquo;I need hardly tell you that I have a
      particular regard for you; the reason is, you are a young man of uncommon
      merit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Bazalgette! sir! I don't know which way to look when you praise me
      like that. It is your goodness; you overrate me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don't. I am a judge of men. I have seen thousands, and seen them
      too close to be taken in by their outside. You are the only one of my
      wife's friends that ever had the run of my study. What do you think of
      that, now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am very proud of it, sir; that is all I can find to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, young man, that same good opinion I have of you induces me to do
      something else, that I have never done for any of your predecessors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Bazalgette paused. David's heart beat. Quick as lightning it darted
      through his mind, &ldquo;He is going to ask a favor for me. Promotion? Why not?
      He is a merchant. He has friends in the Company.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to interfere in your concerns, Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very good, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, perhaps I am. I have to overcome a natural reluctance. But you are
      worth the struggle. I shall therefore go against the usages of the world,
      which I don't care a button for, and my own habits, which I care a great
      deal for, and give you, humph&mdash;a piece of friendly advice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David looked blank.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dodd, my boy, you are playing the fool in this house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David looked blanker.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not your fault; you are led into it by one of those sweet creatures
      that love to reduce men to the level of their own wisdom. You are in love,
      or soon will be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David colored all over like a girl, and his face of distress was painful
      to see.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You need not look so frightened; I am your friend, not your enemy. And do
      you really think others besides me have not seen what is going on? Now,
      Dodd, my dear fellow, I am an old man, and you are a young one. Moreover,
      I understand the lady, and you don't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true, sir; I feel I cannot fathom her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor fellow! Well, but I have known her longer than you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And on closer terms of intimacy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then listen to me. She is all very charming outside, and full of
      sensibility outside, but she has no more real feeling than a fish. She
      will go a certain length with you, or with any agreeable young man, but
      she can always stop where it suits her. No lady in England values position
      and luxury more than she does, or is less likely to sacrifice them to
      love, a passion she is incapable of. Here, then, is a game at which you
      run all the risk. No! leave her to puppies like Kenealy; they are her
      natural prey. You must not play such a heart as yours against a marble
      taw. It is not an even stake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David groaned audibly. His first thought was, &ldquo;Eve says the same of her.&rdquo;
       His second, &ldquo;All the world is against her, poor thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is she to bear the blame of my folly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not? She is the cause of your folly. It began with her setting her
      cap at you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir, you do her wrong. She is modesty itself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ta! ta! ta! you are a sailor, green as sea-weed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Bazalgette, as I am a gentleman, she never has encouraged me to love
      her as I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your statement, sir, is one which becomes a gentleman&mdash;under the
      circumstances. But I happen to have watched her. It is a thing I have
      taken the trouble to do for some time past. It was my interest in you that
      made me curious, and apprehensive&mdash;on your account.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, if you have watched her, you must have seen her avoid me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh! pooh! that was drawing the bait; these old stagers can all do
      that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Old stagers!&rdquo; and David looked as if blasphemy had been uttered.
      Bazalgette wore a grin of infinite irony.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be shocked,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;of course, I mean old in flirtation; no lady
      is old in years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>She</i> is not, at all events.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is agreed. There are legal fictions, and why not social ones?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't understand you, sir; and, in truth, it is all a puzzle to me. You
      don't seem angry with me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, of course not, my poor fellow; I pity you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet you discourage me, Mr. Bazalgette.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not from any selfish motive. I want to spare you the mortification
      that is in store for you. Remember, I have seen the <i>end</i> of about a
      dozen of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good Heavens! And what is the end of us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The cold shoulder without a day's warning, and another fool set in your
      place, and the house door slammed in your face, etc., etc. Oh, with her
      there is but one step from flirtation to detestation. Not one of her
      flames is her friend at this moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David hung his head, and his heart turned sick; there was a silence of
      some seconds, during which Bazalgette eyed him keenly. &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said David,
      at last, &ldquo;your words go through me like a knife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind. It is a friendly surgeon's knife, not an assassin's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet you say it is only out of regard for me you warn me so against her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I repeat it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, sir, if, by Heaven's mercy, you should be mistaken in her character&mdash;if,
      little as I deserve it, I should succeed in winning her regard&mdash;I
      might reckon on your permission&mdash;on your kind&mdash;support?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hardly,&rdquo; said Mr. Bazalgette, hastily. He then stared at the honest
      earnest face that was turned toward him. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you modest
      gentlemen have a marvelous fund of assurance at bottom. No, sir; with the
      exception of this piece of friendly advice I shall be strictly neutral. In
      return for it, if you should succeed, be so good as to take her out of the
      house, that is the only stipulation I venture to propose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should be sure to do that,&rdquo; cried David, lifting his eyes to Heaven
      with rapture; &ldquo;but I shall not have the chance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I keep telling you. You might as well hope to tempt a statue of the
      Goddess Flirtation. She infinitely prefers wealth and vanity to anything,
      even to vice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vice, sir! is that a term for us to apply to a lady like her, whom we are
      all unworthy to approach?&rdquo; and David turned very red.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, <i>you</i> need not quarrel with <i>me</i> about her, as <i>I</i>
      don't with <i>you.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quarrel with you, dear sir? I hope I feel your kindness, and know my duty
      better; but, sir, I am agitated, and my heart is troubled; and surely you
      go beyond reason. She is not old enough to have had so many lovers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph! she has made good use of her time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even could I believe that she, who seems to me an angel, is a coquette,
      still she cannot be hard and heartless as you describe her. It is
      impossible; it does not belong to her years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You keep harping on her age, Dodd. Do you know her age? If you do, you
      have the advantage of me. I have not seen her baptismal register. Have
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir, but I know what she says is her age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is only evidence of what is not her age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there is her face, sir; that is evidence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have never seen her face; it is always got up to deceive the public.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have seen it at the dawn, before any of you were up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that? Halo! the deuce&mdash;where?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the garden.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the garden? Oh, she does not jump off her down-bed on to a flowerbed.
      She had been an hour at work on that face before ever the sun or you got
      leave to look on it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll stake my head I tell her age within a year, Mr. Bazalgette.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No you will not, nor within ten years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is soon seen. I call her one-and-twenty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One-and-twenty! You are mad! Why, she has had a child that would be
      fifteen now if it had lived.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Lucy? A child? Fifteen years? What on earth do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do <i>you</i> mean? What has Miss Lucy to do with it? You know very
      well it is MY WIFE I am warning you against, not that innocent girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this David burst out in his turn. &ldquo;YOUR WIFE! and have you so vile an
      opinion of me as to think I would eat your bread and tempt your wife under
      your roof. Oh, Mr. Bazalgette, is this the esteem you profess for me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to the Devil!&rdquo; shouted Bazalgette, in double ire at his own blunder
      and at being taken to task by his own Telemachus; he added, but in a very
      different tone, &ldquo;You are too good for this world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The best things we say miss fire in conversation; only second-rate shots
      hit the mind through the ear. This, we will suppose, is why David derived
      no amusement or delectation from Mr. Bazalgette's inadvertent but
      admirable <i>bon-mot.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to the Devil! you are too good for this world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He merely rose, and said gravely, &ldquo;Heaven forgive you your unjust
      suspicions, and God bless you for your other kindness. Good-by!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, where on earth are you going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To stow away my things; to pack up, as they call it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come back! come back! why, what a terrible fellow you are; you make no
      allowances for metaphors. There, forgive me, and shake hands. Now sit
      down. I esteem you more than ever. You have come down from another age and
      a much better one than this. Now let us be calm, quiet, sensible,
      tranquil. Hallo!&rdquo; (starting up in agitation), &ldquo;a sudden light bursts on
      me. You are in love, and not with my wife; then it is my ward.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is too late to deny it, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is far more serious than the other,&rdquo; said Bazalgette, very gravely;
      &ldquo;the old one would have been sure to cure you of your fancy for her, soon
      or late, but Lucy! Now, just look at that young buffer's eyes glaring at
      us like a pair of saucers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not listening, papa; I haven't heard a word you and Mr. Dodd have
      said about naughty ladies. I have been such a good boy, minding my
      puzzle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish he may not have been minding ours instead,&rdquo; muttered his sire, and
      rang the bell, and ordered the servant to take away Master Reginald and
      bring coffee.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pair sipped their coffee in dead silence. It was broken at last by
      David saying sadly and a little bitterly, &ldquo;I fear, sir, your good opinion
      of me does not go the length of letting me come into your family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The merchant seemed during the last five minutes to have undergone some
      starching process, so changed was his whole manner now; so distant,
      dignified and stiff. &ldquo;Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I am in a difficult position.
      Insincerity is no part of my character. When I say I have a regard for a
      man, I mean it. But I am the young lady's guardian, sir. She is a minor,
      though on the verge of her majority, and I cannot advise her to a match
      which, in the received sense, would be a very bad one for her. On the
      other hand, there are so many insuperable obstacles between you and her,
      that I need not combat my personal sentiments so far as to act against
      you; it would, indeed, hardly be just, as I have surprised your secret
      unfairly, though with no unfair intention. My promise not to act hostilely
      implies that I shall not reveal this conversation to Mrs. Bazalgette; if I
      did I should launch the deadliest of all enemies&mdash;irritated vanity&mdash;upon
      you, for she certainly looks on you as her plaything, not her niece's; and
      you would instantly be the victim of her spite, and of her influence over
      Lucy, if she discovered you have the insolence to escape her, and pursue
      another of her sex. I shall therefore keep silence and neutrality.
      Meantime, in the character, not of her guardian, but of your friend, I do
      strongly advise you not to think seriously of her. She will never marry
      you. She is a good, kind, amiable creature, but still she is a girl of the
      world&mdash;has all its lessons at her finger ends. Bless your heart,
      these meek beauties are as ambitious as Lucifer, and this one's ambition
      is fed by constant admiration, by daily matrimonial discussions with the
      old stager, and I believe by a good offer every now and then, which she
      refuses, because she is waiting for a better. Come, now, it only wants one
      good wrench&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David interrupted him mildly: &ldquo;Then, sir,&rdquo; said he, thoughtfully; &ldquo;the
      upshot is that, if she says 'Yes,' you won't say 'No.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mature merchant stared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If,&rdquo; said he, and with this short sentence and a sardonic grin he broke
      off trying
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           &ldquo;To fetter flame with flaxen band.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      So nothing more was said or done that evening worth recording.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day, being the day of the masquerade, was devoted by the ladies
      to the making, altering, and trying on of dresses in their bedrooms. This
      turned the downstairs rooms so dark and unlovely that the gentlemen
      deserted the house one after the other. Kenealy and Talboys rode to see a
      cricket match ten miles off. Hardie drove into the town of &mdash;&mdash;
      and David paced the gravel walk in hopes that by keeping near the house he
      might find Lucy alone, for he was determined to know his fate and end his
      intolerable suspense.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had paced the walk about an hour when fortune seemed to favor his
      desires. Lucy came out into the garden. David's heart beat violently. To
      his great annoyance, Mr. Fountain followed her out of the house and called
      her. She stopped, and he joined her; and very soon uncle and niece were
      engaged in a conversation which seemed so earnest that David withdrew to
      another part of the garden not to interfere with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      He waited, and waited, and waited till they should separate; but no, they
      walked more and more slowly, and the conversation seemed to deepen in
      interest. David chafed. If he had known the nature of that conversation he
      would have writhed with torture as well as fretted with impatience, for
      there the hand of her he loved was sought in marriage before his eyes, and
      within a few steps of him. On such threads hangs human life. Had he been
      at the hall door instead of in the garden, he might have anticipated Mr.
      Fountain. As it was, Mr. Fountain stole the march on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      TO-MORROW Lucy had agreed to sail, and in the boat Mr. Talboys was to ask
      and win her band. But from the first Mr. Fountain had never a childlike
      confidence in the scheme, and his understanding kept rebelling more and
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'The man that means to pop, pops,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;one needn't go to sea&mdash;to
      pop. Terra firma is poppable on, if it is nothing else. These young
      fellows are like novices with a gun: the bird must be in a position or
      they can't shoot it&mdash;with their pop-guns. The young sparks in my day
      could pop them down flying. We popped out walking, popped out riding,
      popped dancing, popped psalm-singing. Talboys could not pop on horseback,
      because the lady's pony fidgeted, not his. Well, it will be so to-morrow.
      The boat will misbehave, or the wind will be easterly, and I shall be told
      southerly is the popping wind. The truth is, he is faint-hearted. His
      sires conquered England, and he is afraid of a young girl. I'll end this
      nonsense. He shall pop by proxy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In pursuance of this resolve, seeing his niece pass through the hall with
      her garden hat on, he called to her that he would get his hat and join
      her. They took one turn together almost in silence. Fountain was thinking
      how he should best open the subject, and Lucy waiting after her own
      fashion, for she saw by the old man's manner he had something to say to
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucy, my dear, I leave you in a day or two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So soon, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it depends on you whether I am to go away a happy or a disappointed
      old man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words, to which she was too cautious to reply in words, Lucy wore
      a puzzled air; but underneath it a keen observer might have noticed her
      cheek pale a little, a very little, and a quiver of suppressed agitation
      pass over her like a current of air in summer over a smooth lake.
    </p>
    <p>
      Receiving no answer, Mr. Fountain went on to remind her that he was her
      only kinsman, Mrs. Bazalgette being her relation by half-blood only; and
      told her that, looking on himself as her father, he had always been
      anxious to see her position in life secured before his own death.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been ambitious for you, my dear,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but not more so than
      your beauty and accomplishments, and your family name entitle us to be.
      Well, my ambition for you and my affection for you are both about to be
      gratified; at least, it now rests with you to gratify them. Will you be
      Mrs. Talboys?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy looked down, and said demurely, &ldquo;What a question for a third person
      to put!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should I put it if I had not a right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know.&rdquo;'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ought to know, Lucy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Talboys has authorized you, dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has.&rdquo;'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then this is a formal proposal from Mr. Talboy's?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course it is,&rdquo; said the old gentleman, fearlessly, for Lucy's manner
      of putting these questions was colorless; nobody would have guessed what
      she was at.
    </p>
    <p>
      She now drew her arm round her uncle's neck, and kissed him, which made
      him exult prematurely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, dear uncle,&rdquo; said she lovingly, &ldquo;you must tell Mr. Talboys that I
      thank him for the honor he does me, and that I decline.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Accept, you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No I don't&mdash;ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her laugh died rapidly away at sight of the effect of her words. Mr.
      Fountain started, and his face turned red and pale alternately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Refuse my friend&mdash;refuse Talboys in that way? Thoughtless girl, you
      don't know what you are doing. His family is all but noble. What am I
      saying? noble? why, half the House of Peers is sprung from the dregs of
      the people, and got there either by pettifogging in the courts of law, or
      selling consciences in the Lower House; and of the other half, that are
      gentlemen of descent, not two in twenty can show a pedigree like Talboys.
      And with that name a princely mansion&mdash;antiquity stamped on it&mdash;stands
      in its own park, in the middle of its vast estates, with title-deeds in
      black-letter, girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, uncle, all this is encumbered&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is false, whoever told you so. There is not a mortgage on any part of
      it&mdash;only a few trifling copyholds and pepper-corn rents.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You misunderstand me; I was going to say, it is encumbered with a
      gentleman for whom I could never feel affection, because he does not
      inspire me with respect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense! he inspires universal respect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must be by his estates, then, not his character. You know, uncle, the
      world is more apt to ask, 'What <i>has</i> he, then what <i>is</i> he?'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He <i>is</i> a polished gentleman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not a well-bred one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The best bred I ever saw.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you never looked in a glass, dear. No, dear uncle, I will tell you.
      Mr. Talboys has seen the world, has kept good society, is at his ease (a
      great point), and is perfect in externals. But his good manners are&mdash;what
      shall I say?&mdash;coat deep. His politeness is not proof against
      temptation, however petty. The reason is, it is only a spurious
      politeness. Real politeness is founded and built on the golden rule,
      however delicate and artificial its superstructure may be. But, leaving
      out of the question the politeness of the heart, he has not in any sense
      the true art of good-breeding; he has only the common traditions. Put him
      in a novel situation, with no rules and examples to guide him, he would be
      maladroit as a school-boy. He is just the counterpart of Mr. Dodd in that
      respect. Poor Mr. Dodd is always shocking one by violating the commonest
      rules of society; but every now and then he bursts out with a flash of
      natural courtesy so bright, so refined, so original, yet so worthy of
      imitation, that you say to yourself this is genius&mdash;the genius of
      good-breeding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain chafed with impatience during this tirade, in which he justly
      suspected an attempt to fritter away a serious discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come off your hobby, Lucy,&rdquo; cried he, &ldquo;and speak to me like a woman and
      like my niece. If this is your objection, overcome it for my sake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would, dear,&rdquo; said Lucy, &ldquo;but it is only one of my objections, and by
      no means the most serious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On being invited to come at once to the latter, Lucy hesitated. &ldquo;Would not
      that be unamiable on my part? Mr. Talboys has just paid me the highest
      compliment a gentleman can pay a lady; it is for me to decline him
      courteously, not abuse him to his friend and representative.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No humbug, Lucy, if you please; I am in no humor for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We should all be savages without a <i>little</i> of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am waiting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then pledge me your word of honor no word of what I now say to the
      disadvantage of poor Mr. Talboys shall ever reach him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may take your oath of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he is a detractor, a character I despise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who does he detract from? I never heard him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From all his superiors&mdash;in other words, from everybody he meets. Did
      you ever know him fail to sneer at Mr. Hardie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that is the offense, is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it is the same with others; there, the other day, Mr. Dodd joined us
      on horseback. He did not dress for the occasion. He had no straps on. He
      came in a hurry to have our society, not to cut a dash. But there was Mr.
      Talboys, who can only do this one thing well, and who, thanks to his
      servant, had straps on, sneering the whole time at Mr. Dodd, who has
      mastered a dozen far more difficult and more honorable accomplishments
      than putting on straps and sitting on horses. But he is always backbiting
      and sneering; he admires nothing and nobody.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has admired you ever since he saw you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! has he never sneered at me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never! ungrateful girl, never.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How humiliating! He takes me for his inferior. His superiors he always
      sneers at. If he had seen anything good or spirited in me, he could not
      have helped detracting from me. Is not this a serious reason&mdash;that I
      despise the person who now solicits my love, honor and obedience? Well,
      then, there is another&mdash;a stronger still. But perhaps you will call
      it a woman's reason.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. You don't like him&mdash;that is, you fancy you don't, and
      can't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, uncle, it is not that I don't like him. It is that I HATE HIM.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You hate him?&rdquo; and Mr. Fountain looked at her to see if it was his niece
      Lucy who was uttering words so entirely out of character.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am but a poor hater. I have but little practice; but, with all the
      power of hating I do possess, I hate that Mr. Talboys. Oh, how delicious
      it is to speak one's mind out nice and rudely. It is a luxury I seldom
      indulge in. Yes, uncle,&rdquo; said Lucy, clinching her white teeth, &ldquo;I hate
      that man, and I did hope his proposal would come from himself; then there
      would have been nothing to alloy my quiet satisfaction at mortifying one
      who is so ready to mortify others. But no, he has bewitched you; and you
      take his part, and you look vexed; so all my pleasure is turned to pain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all self-deception,&rdquo; gasped Fountain, in considerable agitation;
      &ldquo;you girls are always deceiving yourselves: you none of you hate any man&mdash;unless
      you love him. He tells me you have encouraged him of late. You had better
      tell me that is a lie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A lie, uncle; what an expression! Mr. Talboys is a gentleman; he would
      not tell a falsehood, I presume.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! it is true, then, you have encouraged him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, you see; the moment we come from the generalities to facts, what a
      simpleton you are proved to be. Come, now, did you or did you not agree to
      go in a boat with him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was a pretty strong measure, Lucy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very strong, I think. I can tell you I hesitated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now you see how you have mistaken your own feelings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy hung her head. &ldquo;Oh uncle, you call me simple&mdash;and look at you!
      fancy not seeing why I agreed to go&mdash;<i>dans cette galere.</i> It was
      that Mr. Talboys might declare himself, and so I might get rid of him
      forever. I saw that if I could not bring him to the point, he would dangle
      about me for years, and perhaps, at last, succeed in irritating me to
      rudeness. But now, of course, I shall stay on shore with my uncle
      to-morrow. <i>Qu'irais je faire dana cette galere?</i> you have done it
      all for me. Oh, my dear, dear uncle, I am so grateful to you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She showed symptoms of caressing Mr. Fountain, but he recoiled from her
      angrily. &ldquo;Viper! but no, this is not you. There is a deeper hand than you
      in all this. This is that Mrs. Bazalgette's doings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, indeed, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me a proof it is not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With pleasure; any proof that is in my power.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then promise me not to marry Mr. Hardie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear uncle, Mr. Hardie has never asked me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What right have I to say so? What right have I to constitute Mr. Hardie
      my admirer? I would not for all the world put it into any gentleman's
      power to say, 'Why say &ldquo;no,&rdquo; Miss Fountain, before I have asked you to say
      &ldquo;yes&rdquo;?' Oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, with this, Lucy put her face into her hands, but they were not large
      enough to hide the deep blush that suffused her whole face at the bare
      idea of being betrayed into an indelicacy of this sort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could he say that? how could he know?&rdquo; said Mr. Fountain, pettishly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle, I cannot, I dare not. You and my aunt hate one another; so you
      might be tempted to tell her, and she would be sure to tell him. Besides,
      I cannot; my very instinct revolts from it. It would not be modest. I love
      you, uncle. Let me know your wishes, and have some faith in my affection,
      but pray do not press me further. Oh, what have I done, to be spoken of
      with so many gentlemen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy was in evident agitation, and the blushes glowed more and more round
      her snowy hands and between her delicate fingers; and there is something
      so sacred about the modesty alarmed of an intelligent young woman&mdash;it
      is a feeling which, however fantastical, is so genuine in her, and so
      manifestly intense beyond all we can ourselves feel of the kind, that no
      man who is not utterly stupid or depraved can see it without a certain
      awe. Even Mr. Fountain, who looked on Lucy's distress as transcendent
      folly with a dash of hypocrisy, could not go on making her cheek burn so.
      &ldquo;There! there!&rdquo; cried he, &ldquo;don't torment yourself, Lucy. I will spare your
      fanciful delicacy, though you have no pity on me&mdash;on your poor old
      uncle, whose heart you will break if you decline this match.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At these words, and the old man's change from anger to sadness, Lucy
      looked up in dismay, and the vivid color died, like a retiring wave, out
      of her cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You look surprised, Lucy. What! do you think this will not be a
      heartbreaking disappointment to me? If you knew how I have schemed for it&mdash;what
      I have done and endured to bring it about! To quarter the arms of Fontaine
      and Talboys! I put by the 5,000 pounds directly, and as much more of my
      own, that you should not go into that noble family without a proper
      settlement. It was the dream of my heart; I could have died contented the
      next hour. More fool I to care for anybody but myself. Your selfish people
      escape these bitter disappointments. Well, it is a lesson. From this hour
      I will live for myself and care for nobody, for nobody cares for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These words, uttered with great agitation, and, I believe, with perfect
      sincerity, on his own unselfishness and hard fate, were terrible to Lucy.
      She wreathed her arms suddenly round him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, uncle,&rdquo; she cried, despairingly, &ldquo;kill me! send me to Heaven! send me
      to my mother, but don't stab me with such bitter words;&rdquo; and she trembled
      with an emotion so much more powerful and convulsing than his, in which
      temper had a large share, that she once more cowed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! there!&rdquo; he muttered, &ldquo;I don't want to kill you, child, God knows,
      or to hurt you in any way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy trembled, and tried to smile. The good nature, which was the upper
      crust of this man's character, got the better of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! there! don't distress yourself so. I know who I have to thank for
      all this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has not the power,&rdquo; said Lucy, in a faint voice, &ldquo;to make me
      ungrateful to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mind is more rapid than lightning. At this moment, in the middle of a
      sentence, it flashed across Lucy that her aunt had convinced her, sore
      against her will, that there was a strong element of selfishness in Mr.
      Fountain. &ldquo;But it is that he deceives himself,&rdquo; thought Lucy. &ldquo;He would
      sacrifice my happiness to his hobby, and think he has done it for love of
      me.&rdquo; Enlightened by this rapid reflection, she did not say to him as one
      of his own sex would, &ldquo;Look in your own heart, and you will see that all
      this is not love of me, but of your own schemes.&rdquo; Oh, dear, no, that would
      not have been the woman. She took him round the neck, and, fixing her
      sapphire eyes lovingly on his, she said, &ldquo;It is for love of me you set
      your heart on this great match? You wish to see me well settled in the
      world, and, above all, happy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course it is. I told you so. What other object can I have?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, if you saw me wretched, and degraded in my own eyes, your heart
      would bleed for your poor niece&mdash;too late. Well, uncle, I love you,
      too, and I save you this day from remorse. Oh, think what it must be to
      hate and despise a man, and link yourself body and soul to that man for
      life. Oh, think and shudder with me. I have a quick eye. I have seen your
      lip curl with contempt when that fool has been talking&mdash;ah! you
      blush. You are too much his superior in everything but fortune not to
      despise him at heart. See the thing as it is. Speak to me as you would if
      my mother stood here beside us, uncle, and to speak to me, you must look
      her in the face. Could you say to me before her, 'I love you; marry a man
      we both despise!'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain made no answer. He was disconcerted. Nothing is so easy to
      resist as logic solo. We see it, as a general rule, resisted with great
      success in public and private every day; but when it comes in good
      company, a voice of music, an angel face, gentle, persuasive caresses, and
      imploring eyes, it ceases to revolt the understanding. And so, caught in
      his own trap, foiled, baffled, soothed, caressed, all in one breath, Mr.
      Fountain hung his head, and could not immediately reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy followed up her advantage. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; cried she; &ldquo;say to me, 'I love you,
      Lucy; marry nobody; stay with your uncle, and find your happiness in
      contributing to his comfort.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the use my saying that, when I have got Mother Bazalgette against
      me, and her shopkeeper?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, uncle, you say it, and time will show whether your influence
      is small with me, and my affections small for you&rdquo;; and she looked in his
      face with glistening eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I do say it, and I suppose that means I must urge
      you no more about poor Talboys.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A shower of kisses descended upon him that moment. Moral: Lose no time in
      sealing a good bargain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, now, Lucy, you must do me a favor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, thank you! thank you! what is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! but it is about Talboys too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; faltered Lucy, &ldquo;if it is anything short of&mdash;&rdquo; (full
      stop).
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a long way short of that. Look here, Lucy, I must tell you the
      truth. He intends to ask your hand himself: he confided this to me, but he
      never authorized me to commit him as I have done, so that this
      conversation cannot be acted on: it must be a secret between you and me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear! and I thought I had got rid of him so nicely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be alarmed,&rdquo; groaned Fountain; &ldquo;such matches as this can always be
      dropped; the difficulty is to bring them on. All I ask of you, then, is
      not to make mischief between me and my friend, the proudest man in
      England. If you don't value his friendship, I do. You must not let him
      know I have got him insulted by a refusal. For instance, you had better go
      out sailing with him to-morrow as if nothing had passed. Will your
      affection for me carry you as far as that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The proposal was wormwood to Lucy. So she smiled and said eagerly: &ldquo;Is
      that all? Why, I will do it with pleasure, dear. It is not like being in
      the same boat with him for life, you know. Can you give me nothing more
      than that to do for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; it does not do to test people's affection too severely. You have
      shown me that. Go on with your walk, Lucy. I shall go in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I not come with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; my head aches with all this; if I don't mind I shall eat no dinner.
      Agitation and vexation, don't agree with me. I have carefully avoided them
      all my life. I must go in and lie down for an hour&rdquo;; and he left her
      rather abruptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked after him; her subtle eye noticed directly that he walked a
      little more feebly than usual. She ascribed this to his disappointment,
      justly perhaps, for at his age the body has less elastic force to resist a
      mental blow. The sight of him creeping away disappointed, and leaning
      heavier than usual on his stick, knocked at her cool but affectionate
      heart. She began to cry bitterly. When he was quite out of sight, she
      turned and paced the gravel slowly and sadly. It was new to her to refuse
      her uncle anything, still more strange to have to refuse him a serious
      wish. She was prepared, thoroughly prepared, for the proposal, but not to
      find the old man's heart so deeply set upon it. A wild impulse came over
      her to call him back and sacrifice herself; but the high spirit and
      intelligence that lay beneath her tenderness and complaisance stood firm.
      Yet she felt almost guilty, and very, very unhappy, as we call it at her
      age. She kept sighing; &ldquo;Poor uncle!&rdquo; and paced the gravel very slowly,
      hanging her sweet head, and crying as she went.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the end of the walk David Dodd stood suddenly before her. He came
      flurried on his own account, but stopped thunder-struck at her tears.
      &ldquo;What is the matter, Miss Lucy?&rdquo;' said he, anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nothing, Mr. Dodd;&rdquo; and they flowed afresh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can I do anything for you, Miss Lucy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won't you tell me what is the matter? Are you not friends with me
      to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was put out by a very foolish circumstance, Mr. Dodd, and it is one
      with which I shall not trouble you, nor any person of sense. I prefer to
      retain your sympathy by not revealing the contemptible cause of my babyish&mdash;There!&rdquo;
       She shook her head proudly, as if tears were to be dispersed like
      dewdrops. &ldquo;There!&rdquo; she repeated; and at this second effort she smiled
      radiantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is like the sun coming out after a shower,&rdquo; cried David rapturously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That reminds me I must be <i>going</i> in, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't say that, Miss Lucy. What for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To arrange another shower, one of pearls, on a dress I am to wear
      to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David sighed. &ldquo;Ah! Miss Lucy, at sight of me you always make for the hall
      door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy colored. &ldquo;Oh, do I? I really was not aware of that. Then I suppose I
      am afraid of you. Is that what you would insinuate? &ldquo;'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Miss Lucy, you are not afraid of me; but I sometimes fear&mdash;&rdquo; and
      he hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must blow very hard that day,&rdquo; said Lucy, with a world of politeness.
      Her tongue was too quick for him. He found it so, and announced the fact
      after his fashion. &ldquo;I can't tack fast enough to follow you,&rdquo; said he
      despondently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you are not required to follow me,&rdquo; replied this amiable eel, with
      hypocritical benignity; &ldquo;I am going to my aunt's room to do what I told
      you. I leave you in charge of the quarter-deck.&rdquo; So saying, she walked
      slowly up the steps, and left David standing sorrowfully on the gravel. At
      the top step Miss Lucy turned and inquired gently when he was to sail. He
      told her the ship was expected to anchor off the fort to-morrow, but she
      would not sail till she had got all her passengers on board.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Lucy, with an air of reflection. She then leaned in an easy
      posture against the wall, and, whether it was that she relented a little,
      or that, having secured her retreat, she was now indifferent to flight,
      certain it is that she did after her own fashion what many a daughter of
      Eve has done before her, and many a duchess and many a dairymaid will do
      after La Fountain and I are gone from earth. A minute ago it had been,
      &ldquo;She must go directly.&rdquo; The more opposition to her departure, the more
      inexorable the necessity for her going; opposition withdrawn, and the door
      open, she stayed no end.
    </p>
    <p>
      Full twenty minutes did that young lady stand there unsolicited, and chat
      with David Dodd in the kindest, sweetest, most amicable way imaginable.
    </p>
    <p>
      She little knew she had an auditor&mdash;a female auditor, keen as a lynx.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this day Reginald George Bazalgette, Esq., might have been defined &ldquo;a
      pest in search of a playmate.&rdquo; Tom had got a holiday. Lucy only came out
      of her workshop to be seized by Mr. Fountain. David, who was waiting in
      the garden for Lucy, begged Reginald to excuse him for once. The young
      gentleman had recourse as a <i>pis aller</i> to his mamma. He invaded her
      bedroom, and besought her piteously to play at battledoor. That lady,
      sighing deeply at being taken from her dress, consented. Her soul not
      being in it, she played very badly. Her cub did not fail to tell her so.
      &ldquo;Why, I can keep up a hundred with Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, we all know Mr. Dodd is perfection,&rdquo; said the lady with a sneer. She
      was piqued with David. He had gone and left her in a brutal way, to make
      his apologies to Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, he is not,&rdquo; said Reginald. &ldquo;I have found him out. He is as unjust as
      the rest of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me! and, pray, what has he done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you, mamma, if you will promise not to tell papa, because he
      told me not to listen, and I didn't listen, mamma, because, you know, a
      gentleman always keeps his word; but they talked so loud the words would
      come into my ear; I could not keep them out. Mamma, are there any naughty
      ladies here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then what did papa mean, warning Mr. Dodd against one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette began to listen as he wished.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he called her all the names. He said she was a statue of flirtation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who? Lucy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucy? no! the naughty lady&mdash;the one that had twelve husbands. He
      kept warning him, and warning him, and then Mr. Dodd and papa they began
      to quarrel almost, because Mr. Dodd said the naughty lady was quite young,
      and papa said she was ever so old. Mr. Dodd said she was twenty-one. But
      papa told him she must be more than that, because she had a child that
      would be fifteen years old; only it died. How old would sister Emily be if
      she was alive, mamma? La, mamma, how pretty you are: you have got red
      cheeks like Lucy&mdash;redder, oh, ever so much redder&mdash;and in
      general they are so pale before dinner. Let me kiss you, mamma. I do love
      the ladies when their cheeks are red.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! there! now go on, dear; tell me some more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very interesting, isn't it, dear mamma?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is amusing, at all events.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it is not amusing&mdash;at least, what came after, isn't: it is
      wicked, it is unjust, it is abominable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It turned out it wasn't the naughty lady Mr. Dodd was in love for, and
      who do you think he is in love of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not an idea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <h3>
      &ldquo;MY LUCY!!!&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense, child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, mamma, it is not. He owned it plump.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you quite sure, love?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my honor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did they say next?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, next papa began to talk his fine words that I don't know what the
      meaning of them is one bit. But Mr. Dodd, he could make them out, I
      suppose, for he said, 'So, then, the upshot is&mdash;' There, now, what is
      upshot? I don't know. How stupid grown-up people are; they keep using
      words that one doesn't know the meaning of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, love! tell me. What came <i>after</i> upshot?&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Bazalgette, soothingly, with great apparent calmness and flashing eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How kind you are to-day, mamma! That is twice you have called me love,
      and three times dear; only think. I should love you if you were always so
      kind, and your cheeks as red as they are now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind my cheeks. What did Mr. Dodd say? Try and remember&mdash;come&mdash;'The
      upshot was&mdash;'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The upshot was&mdash;what was the upshot? I forget. No, I remember; the
      upshot was, if Lucy said 'yes,' papa would not say 'no;' that meant to
      marry him. Now didn't you promise me her ever so long ago&mdash;the day
      you and I agreed if I went a whole day without being naughty once I should
      have her for ever and ever? and I did go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to Lucy's room, and tell her to come to me,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, in
      a stern, thoughtful voice, which startled poor Reginald, coming so soon
      after the <i>calinerie.</i> However, he told her it was no use his going
      to Lucy's room, for she was out in the garden; he had seen her there
      walking with Mr. Fountain. Reginald then ran to the window which commanded
      the garden, to look for Lucy. He had scarcely reached it when he began to
      squeak wildly, &ldquo;Come here! come here! come here!&rdquo; Mrs. Bazalgette was at
      the window in a moment, and lo! at the end of the garden, walking slowly
      side by side, were Lucy and Mr. Dodd.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ridiculous as it may appear, a pang of jealousy shot through the married
      flirt's heart that made her almost feel sick. This was followed at the
      interval of half a second by as pretty a flame of hatred as ever the <i>spretoe
      injuria formoe</i> lighted up in a coquette's heart. Doubt drove in its
      smaller sting besides, and at sight of the couple she resolved to have
      better evidence than Reginald's, especially as to Lucy's sentiments. The
      plan she hit upon was effective, but vulgar, and must not be witnessed by
      a boy of inconvenient memory and mistimed fluency. She got rid of him with
      high-principled dexterity. &ldquo;Reginald,&rdquo; said she, sadly, &ldquo;you are a naughty
      boy, a disobedient boy, to listen when your papa told you not, and to tell
      me a pack of falsehoods. I must either tell your papa, or I must punish
      you myself; I prefer to do it myself, he would whip you so&rdquo;; with this she
      suddenly opened her dressing-room door, and pushed the terrible infant in,
      and locked the door. She then told him through the keyhole he had better
      cease yelling, because, if he kept quiet, his punishment would only last
      half an hour, and she flew downstairs. There was a large hot-house with
      two doors, one of which came very near to the house door that opened into
      the garden. Mrs. Bazalgette entered the hothouse at the other end, and,
      hidden by the exotic trees and flowers, made rapidly for the door Lucy and
      David must pass. She found it wide open. She half shut it, and slipped
      behind it, listening like a hare and spying like a hawk through the
      hinges. And, strange as it may appear, she had an idea she should make a
      discovery. As the finished sportsman watches a narrow ride in the wood,
      not despairing by a snap-shot to bag his hare as she crosses it, though
      seen but for a moment, so the Bazalgette felt sure that, as the couple
      passed her ambush, something, either in the two sentences they might
      utter, or, more probably, in their tones and general manner, would reveal
      to one of her experience on what footing they were.
    </p>
    <p>
      A shrewd calculation! But things will be things. They take such turns, I
      might without exaggeration say twists, that calculation is baffled, and
      prophecy dissolved into pitch and toss. This thing turned just as not
      expected. <i>Primo,</i> instead of getting only a snap-shot, Mrs.
      Bazalgette heard every word of a long conversation; and, <i>secundo,</i>
      when she had heard it she could not tell for certain on what footing the
      lady and gentleman were. At first, from their familiarity, she inclined to
      think they were lovers; but, the more she listened, the more doubtful she
      seemed. Lucy was the chief speaker, and what she said showed an
      undisguised interest in her companion; but the subject accounted in great
      measure for that; she was talking of his approaching voyage, of the
      dangers and hardships of his profession, and of his return two years
      hence, his chances of promotion, etc. But here was no proof positive of
      love; they were acquaintances of some standing. Then Lucy's manner struck
      her as rather amicable than amorous. She was calm, kind, self-possessed,
      and almost voluble. As for David, he only got in a word here and there.
      When he did, there was something so different in his voice from anything
      he had ever bestowed on <i>her,</i> that she hated him, and longed to
      stick scissors into him from the rear, unseen. At last Lucy suddenly
      recollected, or seemed to recollect, she was busy, and retired hastily&mdash;so
      hastily that David saw too late his opportunity lost. But the music of her
      voice had so charmed him that he did not like to interrupt it even to
      speak of that which was nearest his heart. David sighed deeply, standing
      there alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette clinched her little fists and looked round for the means
      of vengeance. David went down on his knees. La Bazalgette glared through
      the crack, and wondered what on earth he was at now. Oh! he was praying.
      &ldquo;He loves her: he is eccentricity itself; so he is praying for her, and on
      <i>my</i> doorsteps&rdquo; (the householder wounded as well as the flirt). It
      was lucky she had not &ldquo;a thunderbolt in her eye&rdquo;&mdash;Shakespeare, or a
      celestial messenger of the wrong sort would have descended on the devout
      mariner. It was more than Mrs. Bazalgette could bear: she had now and
      then, not often, unladylike impulses. One of them had set her crouching
      behind the door of an outhouse, and listening through a crack; and now she
      had another, an irresistible one: it was, to take that empty flower-pot,
      fling it as hard as ever she could at the devotee, then shut the door
      quick, fly out at the other door, and leave her faithless swain in the
      agony of knowing himself detected and exposed by some unknown and
      undiscoverable enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a vengeance extemporized in less than half a second this was very
      respectable. Well, she clawed the flower-pot noiselessly, put her other
      hand on the door, cast a hasty glance at the means of retreat, and&mdash;things
      took another twist: she heard the rustle of a coming gown, and drew back
      again, and out came Lucy, and nearly ran over David, who was not on his
      knees after all, but down on his nose, prostrate Orientally. The fact is,
      Lucy, among her other qualities, good and bad, was a born housewife, and
      solicitously careful of certain odds and ends called property. She found
      she had dropped one of her gloves in the garden, and she came back in a
      state of disproportionate uneasiness to find it, and nearly ran over David
      Dodd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What <i>are</i> you doing, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David arose from his Oriental position, and, being a young man whose
      impulse always was to tell the simple truth, replied, &ldquo;I was kissing the
      place where you stood so long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not feel he had done anything extraordinary, so he gave her this
      information composedly; but her face was scarlet in an instant; and he,
      seeing that, began to blush too. For once Lucy's tact was baffled; she did
      not know what on earth to say, and she stood blushing like a girl of
      fifteen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she tried to turn it off.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd, how can you be so ridiculous?&rdquo; said she, affecting humorous
      disdain.
    </p>
    <p>
      But David was not to be put down now; he was launched.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not ridiculous for loving and worshiping you, for you are worthy of
      even more love than any human heart can hold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, hush, Mr. Dodd. I must not hear this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Lucy, I can't keep it any longer&mdash;you must, you shall hear me.
      You can despise my love if you will, but you <i>shall</i> know it before
      you reject it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd, you have every right to be heard, but let me persuade you not
      to insist. Oh, why did I come back?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The first moment I saw you, Miss Lucy, it was a new life to me. I never
      looked twice at any girl before. It is not your beauty only&mdash;oh, no!
      it is your goodness&mdash;goodness such as I never thought was to be found
      on earth. Don't turn your head from me; I know my defects; could I look on
      you and not see them? My manners are blunt and rude&mdash;oh, how
      different from yours! but you could soon make me a fine gentleman, I love
      you so. And I am only the first mate of an Indiaman; but I should be a
      captain next voyage, Miss Lucy, and a sailor like me has no expenses; all
      he has is his wife's. The first lady in the land will not be petted as you
      will, if you will look kindly on me. Listen to me,&rdquo; trying to tempt her.
      &ldquo;No, Miss Lucy, I have nothing to offer you worth your acceptance, only my
      love. No man ever loved woman as I love you; it is not love, it is
      worship, it is adoration! Ah! she is going to speak to me at last!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy presented at this moment a strange contrast of calmness and
      agitation. Her bosom heaved quickly, and she was pale, but her voice was
      calm, and, though gentle, decided.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know you love me, Mr. Dodd, and I feared this. I have tried to save you
      the mortification of being declined by one who, in many things, is your
      inferior. I have even been rude and unkind to you. Forgive me for it. I
      meant it kindly. I regret it now. Mr. Dodd, I thank you for the honor you
      do me, but I cannot accept your love.&rdquo; There was a pause, but David's
      tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. He was not surprised, yet he
      was stupefied when the blow came.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last he gasped out, &ldquo;You love some other man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy was silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Answer me, for pity's sake; give me something to help me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have no right to ask me such a question, but&mdash;I have no
      attachment, Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! then one word more. Is it because you cannot love me, or because I am
      poor, and only first mate of an Indiaman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>That</i> I will not answer. You have no right to question a lady why
      she&mdash;Stay! you wish to despise me. Well, why not, if that will cure
      you of this unfortunate&mdash;Think what you please of me, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo;
       murmured Lucy, sadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you know I can't,&rdquo; cried David, despairingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that you esteem me more than I deserve. Well, I esteem you, Mr.
      Dodd. Why, then, can we not be friends? You have only to promise me you
      will never return to this subject&mdash;come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me promise not to love you! What is the use? Me be your friend, and
      nothing more, and stand looking on at the heaven that is to be another's,
      and never to be mine? It is my turn to decline. Never. Betrothed lovers or
      strangers, but nothing between! It would drive me mad. Away from you, and
      out of sight of your sweet face, I may make shift to live, and go through
      my duty somehow, for my mother's and sister's sake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are wiser than I was, Mr. Dodd. Yes, we must part.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course we must. I have got my answer, and a kinder one than I deserve;
      and now what is the polite thing for me to do, I wonder?&rdquo; David said this
      with terrible bitterness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You frighten me,&rdquo; sighed Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you be frightened, sweet angel; there! I have been used to obey
      orders all my life, and I am like a ship tossed in the breakers, and you
      are calm&mdash;calm as death. Give me my orders, for God's sake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not for me to command you, Mr. Dodd. I have forfeited that right.
      But listen to her who still asks to be your friend, and she will tell you
      what will be best for you, and kindest and most generous to her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me about that last; the other is a waste of words.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will, then. Your sister is somewhere in the neighborhood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is at &mdash;&mdash;; how did you know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw her on your arm. I am glad she is so near&mdash;Oh, so glad! Bid my
      uncle and aunt good-by; make some excuse. Go to your sister at once. <i>She</i>
      loves you. She is better than I am, if you will but see us as we really
      are. Go to her at once,&rdquo; faltered Lucy, who disliked Eve, and Eve her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will! I will! I have thought too little of my own flesh and blood.
      Shall I go now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; murmured Lucy softly, trying to disarm the fatal word. &ldquo;Forget me&mdash;and&mdash;forgive
      me!&rdquo; and, with this last word scarce audible, she averted her face, and
      held out her hand with angelic dignity, modesty and pity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The kind words and the gentle action brought down the stout heart that had
      looked death in the face so often without flinching. &ldquo;Forgive you, sweet
      angel!&rdquo; he cried; &ldquo;I pray Heaven to bless you, and to make you as happy as
      I am desolate for your sake. Oh, you show me more and more what I lose
      this day. God bless you! God bless&mdash;&rdquo; and David's heart filled to
      choking, and he burst out sobbing despairingly, and the hot tears ran
      suddenly from his eyes over her hand as he kissed and kissed it. Then,
      with an almost savage feeling of shame (for these were not eyes that were
      wont to weep), he uttered one cry of despair and ran away, leaving her
      pale and panting heavily.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked piteously at her hand, wet with a hero's tears, and for the
      second time to-day her own began to gush. She felt a need of being alone.
      She wanted to think on what she had done. She would hide in the garden.
      She ran down the steps; lo! there was Mr. Hardie coming up the
      gravel-walk. She uttered a little cry of impatience, and dashed
      impetuously into the hot-house, driving the half-open door before her with
      her person as well as her arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      A scream of terror and pain issued from behind it, with a crash of
      pottery.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy wheeled round at the sound, and there was her aunt, flattened against
      the flower-frame.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy stood transfixed.
    </p>
    <p>
      But soon her look of surprise gave way to a frown; ay! and a somber one.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THAT ready-minded lady extricated herself from the pots, and wriggled out
      of the moral situation. &ldquo;I was a listener, dear! an unwilling listener;
      but now I do not regret it. How nobly you behaved!&rdquo; and with this she came
      at her with open arms, crying, &ldquo;My own dear niece.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her own dear niece recoiled with a shiver, and put up both her hands as a
      shield.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don't touch me, please. I never heard of a lady listening!!!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She then turned her back on her aunt in a somewhat uncourtier-like manner,
      and darted out of the place, every fiber of her frame strung up tight with
      excitement. She felt she was not the calm, dispassionate being of
      yesterday, and hurried to her own room and locked herself in.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette remained behind in a state of bitter mortification, and
      breathing fury on her small scale. But what could she do? David would be
      out of her reach in a few minutes, and Lucy was scarce vulnerable.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the absence of any definite spite, she thought she could not go wrong
      in thwarting whatever Lucy wished, and her wish had been that David should
      go. Besides, if she kept him in the house, who knows, she might pique him
      with Lucy, and even yet turn him her way; so she lay in wait for him in
      the hall. He soon appeared with his bag in his hand. She inquired, with
      great simplicity, where he was going. He told her he was going away. She
      remonstrated, first tenderly, then almost angrily. &ldquo;We all counted on you
      to play the violin. We can't dance to the piano alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am very sorry, but I have got my orders.&rdquo; Then this subtle lady said,
      carelessly, &ldquo;Lucy will be <i>au desespoir.</i> She will get no dancing.
      She said to me just now, 'Aunt, do try and persuade Mr. Dodd to stay over
      the ball. We shall miss him so.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When did she say that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just this minute. Standing at the door there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well; then I'll stay over the ball.&rdquo; And without a word more he
      carried his bag and violin-case up to his room again. Oh, how La
      Bazalgette hated him! She now resigned all hope of fighting with him, and
      contented herself with the pleasure of watching him and Lucy together. One
      would be wretched, and the other must be uncomfortable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy did not come down to dinner; she was lying down with headache. She
      even sent a message to Mrs. Bazalgette to know whether she could be
      dispensed with at the ball. Answer, &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo; At half-past eight she
      got up, put on her costume, took it off again, and dressed in white
      watered silk. Her assumption of a character was confined to wearing a
      little crown rising to a peak in front. Many of the guests had arrived
      when she glided into the room looking every inch a queen. David was
      dazzled at her, and awestruck at her beauty and mien, and at his own
      presumption.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her eye fell on him. She gave a little start, but passed on without a
      word. The carpets had been taken up, and the dancing began.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette arranged that Lucy and David should play pianoforte and
      violin until some lady could be found to take her part.
    </p>
    <p>
      I incline to think Mrs. Bazalgette, spiteful as mortified vanity is apt to
      be, did not know the depth of anguish her subtle vengeance inflicted on
      David Dodd.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was pale and stern with the bitter struggle for composure. He ground
      his teeth, fixed his eyes on the music-book, and plowed the merry tunes as
      the fainting ox plows the furrow. He dared not look at Lucy, nor did he
      speak to her more than was necessary for what they were doing, nor she to
      him. She was vexed with him for subjecting himself and her to unnecessary
      pain, and in the eye of society&mdash;her divinity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another unhappy one was Mr. Fountain. He sat disconsolate on a seat all
      alone. Mrs. Bazalgette fluttered about like a butterfly, and sparkled like
      a Chinese firework.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two young ladies, sisters, went to the piano to give Miss Fountain an
      opportunity of dancing. She danced quadrilles with four or five gentlemen,
      including her special admirers. She declined to waltz: &ldquo;I have a little
      headache; nothing to speak of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She then sat down to the piano again. &ldquo;I can play alone, Mr. Dodd; you
      have not danced at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not in the humor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This time they played some of the tunes they had rehearsed together that
      happy evening, and David's lip quivered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy eyed him unobserved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was this wise&mdash;to subject yourself to this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must obey orders, whatever it costs me&mdash;'ri tum ti tum ti tum ti
      tum.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who ordered you to neglect my advice?&mdash;'ri tum tum tum.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <i>&ldquo;You</i> did&mdash;'ri tum ti tum tiddy iddy.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A look of silent disdain: &ldquo;Ri tum, ti tum, tiddy iddy.&rdquo; (Ah! perdona for
      relating things as they happen, and not as your grand writers pretend they
      happen.)
    </p>
    <p>
      Between the quadrilles she asked an explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your aunt met me with my bag in my hand, and told me you wanted me to
      play to the company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he said this, David heard a sound like the click of a trigger. He
      looked up; it was Lucy clinching her teeth convulsively. But time was up:
      the woman of the world must go on like the prizefighter. The couples were
      waiting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ri tum ti tum ti tum ti tum tiddy iddy.&rdquo; For all that, she did not finish
      the tune. In the middle of it she said to David, &ldquo;'Ri tum ti tum&mdash;'
      can you get through this without me?&mdash;'ri tum.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I can get through life without you, I can surely get through this
      twaddle: 'ri tum ti tum ti tum ti tum tiddy iddy.'&rdquo; Lucy started from her
      seat, leaving David plowing solo. She started from her seat and stood a
      moment, looking like an angel stung by vipers. Her eye went all round the
      room in one moment in search of some one to blight. It surprised Mr.
      Hardie and Mrs. Bazalgette sitting together and casting ironical glances
      pianoward: &ldquo;So she has been betraying to Mr. Hardie the secret she gained
      by listening,&rdquo; thought Lucy. The pair were probably enjoying David's
      mortification, his misery.
    </p>
    <p>
      She walked very slowly down the room to this couple. She looked them long
      and full in the face with that confronting yet overlooking glance which
      women of the world can command on great occasions. It fell, and pressed on
      them both like lead, they could not have told you why. They looked at one
      another ruefully when she had passed them, and then their eyes followed
      her. They saw her walk straight up to her uncle, and sit down by him, and
      take his hand. They exchanged another uneasy look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle,&rdquo; said Lucy, speaking very quickly, &ldquo;you are unhappy. I am the
      cause. I am come to say that I promise you not to marry anyone my aunt
      shall propose to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear girl, then you won't marry that shopkeeper there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What need of names, still less of epithets? I will marry no friend of
      hers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! now you are my brother's daughter again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I love you no better than I did this morning; but the&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Celestial happiness diffused itself over old Fountain's face, and Lucy
      glided back to the piano just as the quadrille ended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me your arm, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said she, authoritatively. She took his arm,
      and made the tour of the room leaning on him, and chatting gayly.
    </p>
    <p>
      She introduced him to the best people, and contrived to appear to the
      whole room joyous and flattered, leaning on David's arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young fellows envied him so.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every now and then David felt her noble white arm twitch convulsively, and
      her fingers pinch the cloth of his sleeve where it was loose.
    </p>
    <p>
      She guided him to the supper-room. It was empty. &ldquo;Oblige me with a glass
      of water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He gave it her. She drank it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd, the advice I gave you with my own lips I never retracted. My
      aunt imposed upon you. It was done to mortify you. It has failed, as you
      may have observed. My head aches so, it is intolerable. When they ask you
      where I am, say I am unwell, and have retired to my room. I shall not be
      at breakfast; directly after breakfast go to your sister, and tell her
      your friend Lucy declined you, though she knows your value, and would not
      let you be mortified by nullities and heartless fools. Good-by, Mr. Dodd;
      try and believe that none of us you leave in this house are worth
      remembering, far less regretting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She vanished haughtily; David crept back to the ball-room. It seemed dark
      by comparison now she who lent it luster was gone. He stayed a few
      minutes, then heavy-hearted to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning he shook hands with Mr. Bazalgette, the only one who was
      up, kissed the terrible infant, who, suddenly remembering his many
      virtues, formally forgave him his one piece of injustice, and, as he came,
      so he went away, his bag on his shoulder and his violin-case in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went to Cousin Mary and asked for Eve. Cousin Mary's face turned red:
      &ldquo;You will find her at No. 80 in this street. She is gone into lodgings.&rdquo;
       The fact is, the cousins had had a tiff, and Eve had left the house that
      moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh! my sweet, my beloved heroines&mdash;you young vipers, when will you
      learn to be faultless, like other people? You have turned my face into a
      peony, blushing for you at every fourth page.
    </p>
    <p>
      David came into her apartment. He smiled sweetly, but sadly. &ldquo;Well, it is
      all over. I have offered, and been declined.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At seeing him so quiet and resigned, Eve burst out crying.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you cry, dear,&rdquo; said David. &ldquo;It is best so. It is almost a relief.
      Anything before the suspense I was enduring.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Eve, recovering her spirits by the help of anger, began to abuse Lucy
      for a cold-hearted, deceitful girl; but David stopped her sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a word against her&mdash;not a word. I should hate anyone that
      miscalled her. She speaks well of you, Eve; why need you speak ill of her?
      She and I parted friends, and friends let us be. There is no hate can lie
      alongside love in a true heart. No, let nobody speak of her at all to me.
      I shan't; my thoughts, they are my own. 'Go to your sister,' said she, and
      here I am; and I beg your pardon, Eve, for neglecting you as I have of
      late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, never mind <i>that,</i> David; <i>our</i> affection will outlast this
      folly many a long year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please God! Your hand in mine, Eve, my lamb, and let us talk of ourselves
      and mother: the time is short.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They sat hand in hand, and never mentioned Lucy's name again; and, strange
      to say, it was David who consoled Eve; for, now the battle was lost, her
      spirit seemed to have all deserted her, and she kept bursting out crying
      every now and then irrelevantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was three in the afternoon. David was sitting by the window, and Eve
      packing his chest in the same room, not to be out of his sight a minute,
      when suddenly he started up and cried, &ldquo;There she is,&rdquo; and an instinctive
      unreasonable joy illumined his face; the next moment his countenance fell.
    </p>
    <p>
      The carriage passed down the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember now,&rdquo; muttered David, &ldquo;I heard she was to go sailing, and Mr.
      Talboys was to be skipper of the boat. Ah! well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, let them sail, David. It is not your business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That it is not, Eve&mdash;nobody's less than mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve, there is plenty of wind blowing up from the nor'east.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there? I am afraid that will bring your ship down quick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but it is not that. I am afraid that lubber won't think of looking
      to windward.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense about the wind; it is a beautiful day. Come, David, it is no use
      lighting against nature. Put on your hat, then, and run down to the beach,
      and see the last of her; only, for my sake, don't let the others see you,
      to jeer you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And mind and be back to dinner at four. I have got a nice roast fowl for
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay ay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A little before four o'clock a sailor brought a note from David, written
      hastily in pencil. It was sent up to Eve. She read it, and clasped her
      hands vehemently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, David, she was born to be your destruction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      MR. FOUNTAIN, Miss Fountain, and Mr. Talboys started to go on the boating
      expedition. As they were getting into the boat, Mr. Fountain felt a little
      ill, and begged to be excused. Mr. Talboys offered to return with him. He
      declined: &ldquo;Have your little sail. I will wait at the inn for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This pantomime had, I blush to say, been arranged beforehand. Miss
      Fountain, we may be sure, saw through it, but she gave no sign. A lofty
      impassibility marked her demeanor, and she let them do just what they
      liked with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boat was launched, the foresail set, and Fountain remained on shore in
      anything but a calm and happy state.
    </p>
    <p>
      But friendships like these are not free from dross; and I must confess
      that among the feelings which crossed his mind was a hope that Talboys
      would pop, and be refused, as <i>he</i> had been. Why should he, Fountain,
      monopolize defeat? We should share all things with a friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, by one of those caprices to which her sex are said to be
      peculiarly subject, Lucy seemed to have given up all intention of carrying
      out her plan for getting rid of Mr. Talboys. Instead of leading him on to
      his fate, she interposed a subtle but almost impassable barrier between
      him and destruction; her manner and deportment were of a nature to freeze
      declarations of love upon the human lip. She leaned back languidly and
      imperially on the luxurious cushions, and listlessly eyed the sky and the
      water, and ignored with perfect impartiality all the living creatures in
      the boat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys endeavored in vain to draw her out of this languid mood. He
      selected an interesting subject of conversation to&mdash;himself; he told
      her of his feats yachting in the Mediterranean; he did not tell her,
      though, that his yacht was sailed by the master and not by him, her
      proprietor. In reply to all this Lucy dropped out languid monosyllables.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last Talboys got piqued and clapped on sail.
    </p>
    <p>
      There had not been a breath of air until half an hour before they started;
      but now a stiff breeze had sprung up; so they had smooth water and yet
      plenty of wind, and the boat cut swiftly through-the bubbling water.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She walks well,&rdquo; said the yachtsman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy smiled a gracious, though still rather too queenly assent. I think
      the motion was pleasing her. Lively motion is very agreeable to her sex.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is a very fast boat,&rdquo; said Mr. Talboys. &ldquo;I should like to try her
      speed. What do you say, Miss Fountain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With all my heart,&rdquo; said Lucy, in a tone that expressed her utter
      indifference.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is this lateen-rigged boat creeping down on our quarter; we will
      stand east till she runs down to us, and then we will run by her and
      challenge her.&rdquo; Accordingly Talboys stood east.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he did not get his race; for, somewhat to his surprise, the
      lateen-rigged boat, instead of holding her course, which was about
      south-southwest, bore up directly and stood east, keeping about half a
      mile to windward of Talboys.
    </p>
    <p>
      This puzzled Talboys. &ldquo;They are afraid to try it,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;If they are
      afraid of us sailing on a wind, they would not have much chance with us in
      beating to windward. A lugger can lie two points nearer the wind than a
      schooner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All this science was lost on Lucy. She lay back languid and listless.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboy's crew consisted of a man and a boy. He steered the boat
      himself. He ordered them to go about and sail due west. It was no sooner
      done than, lo and behold, the schooner came about and sailed west, keeping
      always half a mile to windward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That boat is following us, Miss Fountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; inquired she; &ldquo;is it my uncle coming after us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I see no one aboard but a couple of fishermen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are not fishermen,&rdquo; put in the boy; &ldquo;they are sailors&mdash;coastguard
      men, likely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Besides,&rdquo; said Mr. Talboys, &ldquo;your uncle would run down to us at once, but
      these keep waiting on us and dogging us. Confound their impudence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all fancy,&rdquo; said Lucy; &ldquo;run away as fast as you can that way,&rdquo; and
      she pointed down the wind, &ldquo;and you will see nobody will take the trouble
      to run after us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hoist the mainsail,&rdquo; cried Talboys.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had hitherto been sailing under the foresail only. In another minute
      they were running furiously before the wind with both sails set. The boat
      yawed, and Lucy began to be nervous; still, the increased rapidity of
      motion excited her agreeably. The lateen-schooner, sailing under her
      fore-sail only, luffed directly and stood on in the lugger's wake. Lucy's
      cheek burned, but she said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There,&rdquo; cried Talboys, &ldquo;now do you believe me? I think we gain on her,
      though.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are going three knots to her two, sir,&rdquo; said the old man, &ldquo;but it is
      by her good will; that is the fastest boat in the town, sailing on a wind;
      at beating to windward we could tackle her easy enough, but not at running
      free. Ah! there goes her mainsel up; I thought she would not be long
      before she gave us that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how beautiful!&rdquo; cried Lucy; &ldquo;it is like a falcon or an eagle sailing
      down on us; it seems all wings. Why don't we spread wings too and fly
      away?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, miss,&rdquo; explained the boatman, &ldquo;that schooner works her sails
      different from us; going down wind she can carry her mainsel on one side
      of the craft and her foresel on the other. By that she keeps on an even
      keel, and, what is more, her mainsel does not take the wind out of her
      foresel. Bless you, that little schooner would run past the fastest
      frigate in the king's service with the wind dead aft as we have got it
      now; she is coming up with us hand over head, and as stiff on her keel as
      a rock; this is her point of sailing, beating to windward is ours. Why, if
      they ain't reefing the foresel, to make the race even; and there go three
      reefs into her mainsel too.&rdquo; The old boatman scratched his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is aboard her, Dick? they are strangers to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By taking in so many reefs the lateen had lowered her rate of sailing, and
      she now followed in their wake, keeping a quarter of a mile to windward.
    </p>
    <p>
      Talboys lost all patience. &ldquo;Who is it, I wonder, that has the insolence to
      dog us so?&rdquo; and he looked keenly at Miss Fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not think herself bound to reply, and gazed with a superior air of
      indifference on the sky and the water.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will soon know,&rdquo; said Talboys.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does it matter?&rdquo; inquired Lucy. &ldquo;Probably somebody who is wasting
      his time as we are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The road we are on is as free to him as to us,&rdquo; suggested the old
      boatman, with a fine sense of natural justice. He added, &ldquo;But if you will
      take my advice, sir, you will shorten sail, and put her about for home. It
      is blowing half a gale of wind, and the sea will be getting up, and that
      won't be agreeable for the young lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gale of wind? Nonsense,&rdquo; said Talboys; &ldquo;it is a fine breeze.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, thank you, sir,&rdquo; said Lucy to the old man; &ldquo;I love the sea, but I
      should not like to be out in a storm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old boatman grinned. &ldquo;'Storm is a word that an old salt reserves for
      one of those hurricanes that blow a field of turnips flat, and teeth down
      your throat. You can turn round and lean your back against it like a post;
      and a carrion-crow making for the next parish gets fanned into another
      county. That is a storm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old boatman went forward grinning, and he and his boy lowered the
      mainsail. Then Talboys at the helm brought the boat's head round to the
      wind. She came down to her bearings directly, which is as much as to say
      that to Lucy she seemed to be upsetting.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy gave a little scream. The sail, too, made a report like the crack of
      a pistol.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, what is that?&rdquo; cried Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wind, mum,&rdquo; replied the boatman, composedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that purple line on the water, sir, out there, a long way beyond
      the other boat?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wind, mum.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems to move. It is coming this way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, mum, that is a thing that always makes to leeward,&rdquo; said the old
      fellow, grinning. &ldquo;I'll take in a couple of reefs before it comes to us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, the moment the lugger lowered her mainsail, the schooner,
      divining, as it appeared, her intention, did the same, and luffed
      immediately, and was on the new tack first of the two.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, my lass,&rdquo; said the old boatman, &ldquo;you are smartly handled, no doubt,
      but your square stern and your try-hanglar sail they will take you to
      leeward of us pretty soon, do what you can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The event seemed to justify this assertion; the little lugger was on her
      best point of sailing, and in about ten minutes the distance between the
      two boats was slightly but sensibly diminished. The lateen, no doubt,
      observed this, for she began to play the game of short tacks, and hoisted
      her mainsail, and carried on till she seemed to sail on her beam-ends, to
      make up, as far as possible, by speed and smartness for what she lost by
      rig in beating to windward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They go about quicker than we do,&rdquo; said Talboys.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course they do; they have not got to dip their sail, as we have, every
      time we tack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the true solution, but Mr. Talboys did not accept it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are not so smart as we ought to be. Now you go to the helm, and I and
      the boy will dip the lug.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old boatman took the helm as requested, and gave the word of command
      to Mr. Talboys. &ldquo;Stand <i>by</i> the foretack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Mr. Talboys, &ldquo;here I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let <i>go</i> the fore-tack&rdquo;; and, contemporaneously with the order, he
      brought the boat's head round.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now this operation is always a nice one, particularly in these small
      luggers, where the lug has to be dipped, that is to say, lowered, and
      raised again on the opposite side of the mast; for the lug should not be
      lowered a moment too soon, or the boat, losing her way, would not come
      round; nor a moment too late, lest the sail, owing to the new position the
      boat is taking under the influence of the rudder, should receive the wind
      while between the wind and the mast, and so the craft be taken aback, than
      which nothing can well happen more disastrous.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys, though not the accomplished sailor he thought himself, knew
      this as well as anybody, and with the boy's help he lowered the sail at
      the right moment; but, getting his head awkwardly in the way, the yard, in
      coming down, hit him on the nose and nearly knocked him on to his
      beam-ends. It would have been better if it had done so quite instead of
      bounding off his nose on to his shoulder and there resting; for, as it
      was, the descent of the sail being thus arrested half-way at the critical
      moment, and the boat's head coming round all the same, a gust of wind
      caught the sail and wrapped it tight round the mast to windward. The boy
      uttered a cry of terror so significant that Lucy trembled all over, and by
      an uncontrollable impulse leaned despairingly back and waved her white
      handkerchief toward the antagonist boat. The old boatman with an oath
      darted forward with an agility he could not have shown ashore.
    </p>
    <p>
      The effect on the craft was alarming. If the whole sail had been thus
      taken aback, she would have gone down like lead; for, as it was, she was
      driven on her side and at the same time driven back by the stern; the
      whole sea seemed to rise an inch above her gunwale; the water poured into
      her at every drive the gusts of wind gave her, and the only wonder seemed
      why the waves did not run clean over her.
    </p>
    <p>
      In vain the old boatman, cursing and swearing, tugged at the canvas to
      free it from the mast. It was wrapped round it like Dejanira's shirt, and
      with as fatal an effect; the boat was filling; and as this brought her
      lower in the water, and robbed her of much of her buoyancy, and as the
      fatal cause continued immovable, her destruction was certain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every cheek was blanched with fear but Lucy's, and hers was red as fire
      ever since she waved her handkerchief; so powerful is modesty with her
      sex. A true virgin can blush in death's very grasp.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the midst of this agitation and terror, suddenly the boat was hailed.
      They all looked up, and there was the lateen coming tearing down on them
      under all her canvas, both her broad sails spread out to the full, one on
      each side. She seemed all monstrous wing. The lugger being now nearly head
      to wind, she came flying down on her weather bow as if to run past her,
      then, lowering her foresail, made a broad sweep, and brought up suddenly
      between the lugger and the wind. As her foresail fell, a sailor bounded
      over it on to the forecastle, and stood there with one foot on the
      gunwale, active as Mercury, eye glowing, and a rope in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stand by to lower your mast,&rdquo; roared this sailor in a voice of thunder to
      the boatman of the lugger; and the moment the schooner came up into the
      wind athwart the lugger's bows he bounded over ten feet of water into her,
      and with a turn of the hand made the rope fast to her thwart, then hauling
      upon it, brought her alongside with her head literally under the
      schooner's wing.
    </p>
    <p>
      He and the old boatman then instantly unstepped the mast and laid it down
      in the boat, sail and all. It was not his great strength that enabled them
      to do this (a dozen of him could not have done it while the wind pressed
      on the mast); it was his address in taking all the wind out of the lug by
      means of the schooner's mainsail. The old man never said a word till the
      work was done; then he remarked, &ldquo;That was clever of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The new-comer took no notice whatever. &ldquo;Reef that sail, Jack,&rdquo; he cried;
      &ldquo;it will be in the lady's face by and by; and heave your bailer in here;
      their boat is full of water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so full as it would if you hadn't brought up alongside,&rdquo; said the old
      boatman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you want to frighten the lady?&rdquo; replied the sailor, in his driest and
      least courtier-like way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not frightened, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said Lucy. &ldquo;I was, but I am not now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come and help me get the water out of her, Jack. Stay! Miss Fountain had
      better step into the dry boat, meantime. Now, Jack, look alive; lash her
      longside aft.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This done, the two sailors, one standing on the lugger's gunwale, one on
      the schooner's, handed Miss Fountain into the schooner, and gave her the
      cushions of the lugger to sit upon. They then went to work with a will,
      and bailed half a ton of water out.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she was dry David jumped back into his own boat. &ldquo;Now, Miss Fountain,
      your boat is dry, but the sea is getting up, and I think, if I were you, I
      would stay where you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean to,&rdquo; said the lady, calmly. &ldquo;Mr. Talboys, <i>would</i> you mind
      coming into this boat? We shall be safer here; it&mdash;it is larger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The gentleman thus addressed was embarrassed between two mortifications,
      one on each side him. If he came into David's boat he would be second
      fiddle, he who had gone out of port first fiddle. If he stuck to the
      lugger Lucy would go off with Dodd, and he would look like a fool coming
      ashore without her. He hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      David got impatient. &ldquo;Come, sir,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;don't you hear the lady
      invite you? and every moment is precious.&rdquo; And he held out his hand to
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Talboys decided on taking it, and he even unbent so far as to jump
      vigorously&mdash;so vigorously that, David pulling him with force at the
      same moment, he came flying into the schooner like a cannon-ball, and,
      toppling over on his heels, went down on the seat with his head resting on
      the weather gunwale, and his legs at a right angle with his back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is one way of boarding a craft,&rdquo; muttered David, a little
      discontentedly; then to the old boatman: &ldquo;Here, fling us that tarpaulin. I
      say, here is more wind coming; are you sure you can work that lugger, you
      two?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will be ashore before you can, now there's nobody to bother us,&rdquo; was
      the prompt reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then cast loose; here we are, drifting out to sea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man cast the rope loose; David hauled it on board, and the
      schooner shot away from her companion and bore up north-north-west,
      leaving the luggar rocking from side to side on the rising waves. But the
      next minute Lucy saw her sail rise, and she bore up and stood northeast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-by to you, little horror,&rdquo; said Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall fall in with her a good many times more before we make the
      land,&rdquo; said David Dodd.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy inquired what he meant; but he had fallen to hauling the sheet aft
      and making the sail stand flatter, and did not answer her. Indeed, he
      seemed much more taken up with Jack than with her, and, above all,
      entirely absorbed in the business of sailing the boat.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was a little mortified at this behavior, and held her tongue. Talboys
      was sulky, and held his. It was a curious situation. In the hurry and
      bustle, none of the parties had realized it; but now, as the boat breasted
      the waves, and all was silent on board, they had time to review their
      position.
    </p>
    <p>
      Talboys grew gloomier and gloomier at the poor figure he cut. Lucy kept
      blushing at intervals as she reflected on the obligation she had laid
      herself under to a rejected lover. The rejected lover alone seemed to mind
      his business and nothing else; and, as he was almost ludicrously
      unconscious that he was doing a chivalrous action, a misfortune to which
      those who do these things are singularly liable, he did not gild the
      transaction with a single graceful speech, and permitted himself to be
      more occupied with the sails than with rescued beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Succeeding events, however, explained, and in some degree excused, this
      commonplace behavior.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next time they tacked some spray came flying in, and wetted all hands.
      Lucy laughed. The lugger had also tacked, and the two boats were now
      standing toward each other; when they met the lugger had weathered on them
      some sixty or seventy yards.
    </p>
    <p>
      A furious rain now came on almost horizontally, and the sailors arranged
      the tarpaulin so as to protect Mr. Talboys and Miss Fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you will be wet through yourself, Mr. Dodd. Will you not come under
      shelter too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who is to sail the boat?&rdquo; He added, &ldquo;I am glad to see the rain. I
      hope it will still the wind; if it doesn't, we shall have to try something
      else, that is all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray, when do you undertake to land us, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo; inquired Mr. Talboys,
      superciliously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir, if it does not blow any harder, about eight bells.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eight bells? Why, that means midnight,&rdquo; exclaimed Talboys.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wind and tide both dead against us,&rdquo; replied David, coolly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Dodd, tell me the truth: is there any danger?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Danger? Not that I see; but it is very uncomfortable, and unbecoming, for
      you to be beating to windward against the tide for so many hours, when you
      ought to be sitting on the sofa at home. However, next time you run out of
      port, I hope those that take charge of you will look to the almanac for
      the tide, and look to windward for the weather: Jack, the lugger lies
      nearer the wind than we do.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you take the helm a minute, Mr. Talboys? and <i>you</i> come forward
      and unbend this.&rdquo; The two sailors put their heads together amidships, and
      spoke in an undertone. &ldquo;The wind is rising with the rain instead of
      falling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Seems so, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir, it has been blowing harder and harder ever since we came out,
      and very steady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will turn out one of those dry nor'easters, Jack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shouldn't wonder, sir. I wish she was cutter-rigged, sir. A boat has no
      business to be any other rig but cutter; there ought to be a nact o'
      parliam't against these outlandish rigs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know; I have seen wonders done with this lateen rig in the
      Pacific.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The lugger forereaches on us, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little, but, for all that, I am glad she is on board our craft; we have
      got more beam, and, if it comes to the worst, we can run. The lugger can't
      with her sharp stern. I'll go to the helm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Just as David was stepping aft to take the helm, a wave struck the boat
      hard on the weather bow, close to the gunwale, and sent a bucket of salt
      water flying all over him; he never turned his head even&mdash;took no
      more notice of it than a rock does when the sea spits at it. Lucy shrieked
      and crouched behind the tarpaulin. David took the helm, and, seeing
      Talboys white, said kindly: &ldquo;Why don't you go forward, sir, and make
      yourself snug under the folksel deck? she is sure to wet us abaft before
      we can make the land.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No. Talboys resisted his inclination and the deadly nausea that was
      creeping over him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, but I like to see what is going on; and&rdquo; (with an heroic
      attempt at sea-slang) &ldquo;I like a wet boat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They now fell in with the lugger again lying on the opposite tack, and a
      hundred yards at least to windward.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just before they crossed her wake David sang out to Jack:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our masts&mdash;are they sound?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bran-new, sir; best Norway pine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What d'ye think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Think we are wasting time and daylight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then stand <i>by</i> the main sheet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <i>&ldquo;Slack</i> the main sheet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boat instantly fell off into the wind, and, as she went round, David
      stood up in the stern-sheets and waved his cap to the men on board the
      lugger, who were watching him. The old man was seen to shake his head in
      answer to the signal, and point to his lug-sail standing flat as a board,
      and the next moment they parted company, and the lateen was running
      close-reefed before the wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys was sitting collapsed in the lethargy that precedes
      seasickness. He started up. &ldquo;What are you doing?&rdquo; he shrieked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep quiet, sir, and don't bother,&rdquo; said David, with calm sternness, and
      in his deepest tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray don't interfere with Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; said Lucy; &ldquo;he must know best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't see what he is doing, then,&rdquo; cried Talboys, wildly; &ldquo;the madman
      is taking us out to sea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you taking us out to sea, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo; inquired Lucy, with dismay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am doing according to my judgment of tide and wind, and the abilities
      of the craft I am sailing,&rdquo; said David, firmly; &ldquo;and on board my own craft
      I am skipper, and skipper I will be. Go forward, sir, if you please, and
      don't speak except to obey orders.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Talboys, sick, despondent and sulky, went gloomily forward, coiled
      himself up under the forecastle deck, and was silent and motionless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't send me,&rdquo; cried Lucy, &ldquo;for I will not go. Nothing but your eye
      keeps up my courage. I don't mind the water,&rdquo; added she, hastily and a
      little timidly, anxious to meet every reason that could be urged for
      imprisoning her in the forecastle hold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are all right where you are, miss,&rdquo; said Jack, cheerfully; &ldquo;we shan't
      have no more spray come aboard us; it won't come in by the can full if it
      doesn't come by the ton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you belay your jaw?&rdquo; roared David, in a fury that Lucy did not
      comprehend at the time. &ldquo;What a set of tarnation babblers in one little
      boat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won't speak any more, Mr. Dodd; I won't speak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bless your heart, it isn't you I meant. 'Twould be hard if a lady might
      not put her word in. But a man is different. I do love to see a man belay
      his jaw, and wait for orders, and then do his duty; hoist the mainsel,
      you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shake out a couple of reefs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the lateen spread both her great wings like an albatross, and leaped
      and plunged, and flew before the mighty gale.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;THIS is nice. The boat does not upset or tumble as it did. It only
      courtesies and plunges. I like it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The sea has not got up yet, miss,&rdquo; said Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hasn't it? the waves seem very large.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord love you, wait till we have had four or five hours more of this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Belay your jaw, Jack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why so, Mr. Dodd?&rdquo; objected Lucy gently. &ldquo;I am not so weak as you think
      me. Do not keep the truth from me. I share the danger; let me share the
      sense of danger, too. You shall not blush for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Danger? There is not a grain of it, unless we make danger by inattention&mdash;and
      babbling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will not do that,&rdquo; said Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Equivoque missed fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not while you are on board,&rdquo; replied David, simply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy felt inclined to give him her hand. She had it out half-way; but he
      had lately asked her to marry him, so she drew it back, and her eyes
      rested on the bottom of the boat.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wind rose higher. The masts bent so that each sail had every possible
      reef taken in. Her canvas thus reduced she scudded as fast as before, such
      was now the fury of the gale. The sea rose so that the boat seemed to
      mount with each wave as high as the second story of a house, and go down
      again to the cellar at every plunge. Talboys, prostrated by seasickness in
      the forehold, lay curled but motionless, like a crooked log, and almost as
      indifferent to life or death. Lucy, pale but firm, put no more questions
      that she felt would not be answered, but scanned David Dodd's face
      furtively yet closely. The result was encouraging to her. His cheek was
      not pale, as she felt her own. On the contrary, it was slightly flushed;
      his eye bright and watchful, but lion-like. He gave a word or two of
      command to Jack every now and then very sharply, but without the slightest
      shade of agitation, and Jack's &ldquo;ay, ay&rdquo; came back as sharply, but
      cheerfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      The principal feature she discerned in both sailors was a very attentive,
      business-like manner. The romantic air with which heroes face danger in
      story was entirely absent; and so, being convinced by his yarns that David
      <i>was</i> a hero, she inferred that their situation could not be
      dangerous, but, as David himself had inferred, merely one in which
      watchfulness was requisite.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun went down red and angry. The night came on dark and howling. No
      moon. A murky sky, like a black bellying curtain above, and huge ebony
      waves, that in the appalling blackness seemed all crested with devouring
      fire, hemmed in the tossing boat, and growled, and snarled, and raged
      above, below, and around her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, in that awful hour, Lucy Fountain felt her littleness and the
      littleness of man. She cowered and trembled.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sailors, rough but tender nurses, wrapped shawls round her one above
      the other, &ldquo;to make her snug for the night,&rdquo; they said. They seemed to her
      to be mocking her. &ldquo;Snug? Who could hope to outlive such a fearful night?
      and what did it matter whether she was drowned in one shawl or a dozen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David being amidships, bailing the boat out, and Jack at the helm, she
      took the opportunity, and got very close to the latter, and said in his
      ear&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Jack, we are in danger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not exactly in danger, miss; but, of course, we must mind our eye. But I
      have often been where I have had to mind my eye, and hope to be again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Jack,&rdquo; said Lucy, shivering, &ldquo;what is our danger? Tell me the nature
      of it, then I shall not be so cowardly; will the boat break?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord bless you, no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will it upset?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No fear of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will not the sea swallow us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, miss. How can the sea swallow us? She rides like a cork, and there is
      the skipper bailing her out, to make her lighter still. No; I'll tell you,
      miss; all we have got to mind is two things; we must not let her broach
      to, and we must not get pooped.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But <i>why</i> must we not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Why?</i> Because we <i>mustn't.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I mean, what would be the consequence of&mdash;broaching to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack opened his eyes in astonishment. &ldquo;Why, the sea would run over her
      quarter, and swamp her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!! And if we get pooped?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall go to Davy Jones, like a bullet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is Davy Jones?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Old One, you know&mdash;down below. Leastways you won't go there,
      miss; you will go aloft, and perhaps the skipper; but Davy will have me;
      so I won't give him a chance, if I can help it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are we, Mr. Jack?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;British Channel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that; but whereabouts?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven knows; and no doubt the skipper, he knows; but I don't. I am only
      a common sailor. Shall I hail the skipper? he will tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, no. He is so angry if we speak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He won't be angry if you speak to him, miss,&rdquo; said Jack, with a sly grin,
      that brought a faint color into Lucy's cheek; &ldquo;you should have seen him,
      how anxious he was about you before we came alongside; and the moment that
      lubber went forward to dip the lug, says he, 'Jack, there will be
      mischief; up mainsail and run down to them. I have no confidence in that
      tall boy.' (He do seem a long, weedy, useless sort of lubber.) Lord bless
      you, miss, we luffed, and were running down to you long before you made
      the signal of distress with your little white flag.&rdquo; Lucy's cheeks got
      redder. &ldquo;No, miss, if the skipper speaks severe to you, Jack Painter is
      blind with one eye, and can't see with t'other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy's cheeks were carnation.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the next moment they were white, for a terrible event interrupted this
      chat. Two huge waves rolled one behind the other, an occurrence which
      luckily is not frequent; the boat, descending into the valley of the sea,
      had the wind taken out of her sails by the high wave that was coming. Her
      sails flapped, she lost her speed, and, as she rose again, the second wave
      was a moment too quick for her, and its combing crest caught her. The
      first thing Lucy saw was Jack running from the helm with a loud cry of
      fear, followed by what looked an arch of fire, but sounded like a lion
      rushing, growling on its prey, and directly her feet and ankles were in a
      pool of water. David bounded aft, swearing and splashing through it, and
      it turned into sparks of white fire flying this way and that. He seized
      the helm, and discharged a loud volley of curses at Jack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fling out ballast, ye d&mdash;d cowardly, useless lubber,&rdquo; cried he; and
      while Jack, who had recoiled into his normal state of nerves with almost
      ridiculous rapidity, was heaving out ballast, David discharged another
      rolling volley at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, pray don't!&rdquo; cried Lucy, trembling like an aspen leaf. &ldquo;Oh, think! we
      shall soon be in the presence of our Maker&mdash;of Him whose name you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not we,&rdquo; cried David, with broad, cheerful incredulity; &ldquo;we have lots
      more mischief to do&mdash;that lubber and I. And if he thinks he is going
      there, let him end like a man, not like a skulking lubber, running from
      the helm, and letting the craft come up in the wind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, it was the sea he ran from. Who would not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The lubber! If it had been a tiger or a bear I'd say nothing; but what is
      the use of trying to run from the sea? Should have stuck to his post, and
      set that thundering back of his up&mdash;it's broad enough&mdash;and kept
      the sea out of your boots. The sea, indeed! I have seen the sea come on
      board me, and clear the deck fore and aft, but it didn't come in the shape
      of a cupful o' water and a spoonful o' foam.&rdquo; Here David's wrath and
      contempt were interrupted by Jack singing waggishly at his work,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           &ldquo;Cease&mdash;rude Boreas&mdash;blustering&mdash;railer!!&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      At which sly hit David was pleased, and burst into a loud, boisterous
      laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy put her hands to her ears. &ldquo;Oh, don't! don't! this is worse than your
      blasphemies&mdash;laughing on the brink of eternity; these are not men&mdash;they
      are devils.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you hear that, Jack? Come, you behave!&rdquo; roared David.
    </p>
    <p>
      A faint snarl from Talboys. The water had penetrated him, and roused him
      from a state of sick torpor; he lay in a tidy little pool some eight
      inches deep.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boat was bailed and lightened, but Lucy's fears were not set at rest.
      What was to hinder the recurrence of the same danger, and with more fatal
      effect? She timidly asked David's permission to let her keep the sea out.
      Instead of snubbing her as she expected, David consented with a sort of
      paternal benevolence tinged with incredulity. She then developed her plan;
      it was, that David, Jack, and she should sit in a triangle, and hold the
      tarpaulin out to windward and fence the ocean out. Jack, being summoned
      aft to council, burst into a hoarse laugh; but David checked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is more in it than you see, Jack&mdash;more than she sees, perhaps.
      My only doubt is whether it is possible; but you can try.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy and Jack then tried to get the tarpaulin out to windward; instead of
      which, it carried them to leeward by the force of the wind. The mast
      brought them up, or Heaven knows where their new invention would have
      taken them. With infinite difficulty they got it down and kneeled upon it,
      and even then it struggled. But Lucy would not be defeated; she made Jack
      gather it up in the middle, and roll it first to the right, then to the
      left, till it became a solid roll with two narrow open edges. They then
      carried it abaft, and lowered it vertically over the stern-port; then
      suddenly turned it round, and sat down. &ldquo;Crack!&rdquo; the wind opened it, and
      wrapped it round the boat and the trio.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo!&rdquo; cried David, &ldquo;it is foul of the rudder;&rdquo; and, he whipped out his
      knife and made a slit in the stuff. It now clung like a blister.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, Mr. Dodd, will not that keep the sea out?&rdquo; asked Lucy,
      triumphantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At any rate, it may help to keep us ahead of the sea. Why, Jack, I seem
      to feel it lift her; it is as good as a mizzen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, oh, Mr. Dodd, there is another danger. We may broach to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can she broach to when I am at the helm? Here is the arm that won't
      let her broach to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I feel safe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are as safe as on your own sofa; it is the discomfort you are put to
      that worries me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't think so meanly of me, Mr. Dodd. If it was not for my cowardice, I
      should enjoy this voyage far more than the luxurious ease you think so
      dear to me. I despise it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd, now I am no longer afraid. I am, oh, so sleepy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No wonder&mdash;go to sleep. It is the best thing you can do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, sir. I am aware my conversation is not very interesting.&rdquo;
       Having administered this sudden bloodless scratch, to show that, at sea or
      ashore, in fair weather or foul, she retained her sex, Lucy disposed
      herself to sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      David, steering the boat with his left hand, arranged the cushion with his
      right. She settled herself to sleep, for an irresistible drowsiness had
      followed the many hours of excitement she had gone through. Twice the
      heavy plunging sea brought her into light contact with David. She
      instantly awoke, and apologized to him with gentle dismay for taking so
      audacious a liberty with that great man, commander of the vessel; the
      third time she said nothing, a sure sign she was unconscious.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then David, for fear she might hurt herself, curled his arm around her,
      and let her head decline upon his shoulder. Her bonnet fell off; he put it
      reverently on the other side the helm. The air now cleared, but the gale
      increased rather than diminished. And now the moon rose large and bright.
      The boat and masts stood out like white stone-work against the
      flint-colored sky, and the silver light played on Lucy's face. There she
      lay, all unconscious of her posture, on the man's shoulder who loved her,
      and whom she had refused; her head thrown back in sweet helplessness, her
      rich hair streaming over David's shoulder, her eyes closed, but the long,
      lovely lashes meeting so that the double fringe was as speaking as most
      eyes, and her lips half open in an innocent smile. The storm was no storm
      to her now. She slept the sleep of childhood, of innocence and peace; and
      David gazed and gazed on her, and joy and tenderness almost more than
      human thrilled through him, and the storm was no storm to him either; he
      forgot the past, despised the future, and in the delirium of his joy
      blessed the sea and the wind, and wished for nothing but, instead of the
      Channel, a boundless ocean, and to sail upon it thus, her bosom tenderly
      grazing him, and her lovely head resting on his shoulder, for ever, and
      ever, and ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus they sailed on two hours and more, and Jack now began to nod.
    </p>
    <p>
      All of a sudden Lucy awoke, and, opening her eyes, surprised David gazing
      at her with tenderness unspeakable. Awaking possessed with the notion that
      she was sleeping at home on a bed of down, she looked dumfounded an
      instant; but David's eyes soon sent the blood into her cheek. Her whole
      supple person turned eel-like, and she glided quickly, but not the least
      bruskly, from him; the latter might have seemed discourteous.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;what am I doing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have been getting a nice sleep, thank Heaven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and making use of you even in my sleep; but we all impose on your
      goodness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why did you awake? You were happy; you felt no care, and I was happy
      seeing you so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy's eyes filled. &ldquo;Kind, true friend,&rdquo; she murmured, &ldquo;how can I ever
      thank you as I ought? I little deserved that you should watch over my
      safety as you have done, and, alas! risk your own. Any other but you would
      have borne me malice, and let me perish, and said, 'It serves her right.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Malice! Miss Lucy. What for, in Heaven's name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For&mdash;for the affront I put upon you; for the&mdash;the honor I
      declined.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hate cannot lie alongside love in a true heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see it cannot in a noble one. And then you are so generous. You have
      never once recurred to that unfortunate topic; yet you have gained a right
      to request me&mdash;to reconsider&mdash;Mr. Dodd, you have saved my
      life!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! do you praise me because I don't take a mean advantage? That would
      not be behaving like a man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know that. You overrate your sex&mdash;and mine. We don't deserve
      such generosity. The proof is, we reward those who are not so&mdash;delicate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't trouble my head about your sex. They are nothing to me, and never
      will be. If you think I have done my duty like a man, and as much like a
      gentleman as my homely education permits, that is enough for me, and I
      shall sail for China as happy as anything on earth can make me now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy answered this by crying gently, silently, tenderly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't ye cry. Have I said something to vex you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you alarmed still?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no; I have such faith in you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then go to sleep again, like a lamb.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will; then I shall not tease you with my conversation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now there is a way to put it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I will, if you will take some repose. There, I will lash you to my
      arm with this handkerchief; then you can lie the other way, and hold on by
      the handkerchief&mdash;there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She closed her eyes and fell apparently to sleep, but really to thinking.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then David nudged Jack, and waked him. &ldquo;Speak low now, Jack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Land ahead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jack looked out, and there was a mountain of jet rising out of the sea,
      and, to a landsman's eye, within a stone's throw of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it the French coast, sir? I must have been asleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;French coast? no, Channel Island&mdash;smallest of the lot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better give it a wide berth, sir. We shall go smash like a teacup if we
      run on to one of them rocky islands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Jack,&rdquo; said David, reproachfully, &ldquo;am I the man to run upon a
      leeshore, and such a night as this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not likely. You will keep her head for Cherbourg or St. Malo, sir; it is
      our only chance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not our only chance, nor our best. We have been running a little
      ahead of this gale, Jack; there is worse in store for us; the sea is
      rolling mountains high on the French coast this morning, I know. We are
      like enough to be pooped before we get there, or swamped on some
      harbor-bar at last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir, we must take our chance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take our chance? What! with heads on our shoulders, and an angel on board
      that Heaven has given us charge of? No, I sha'n't take my chance. I shall
      try all I know, and hang on to life by my eyelids. Listen to me.
      'Knowledge is gold;' a little of it goes a long way. I don't know much
      myself, but I do know the soundings of the British Channel. I have made
      them my study. On the south side of this rocky point there is forty
      fathoms water close to the shore, and good anchorage-ground.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I wish we could jump over the thundering island, and drop on the lee
      side of it; but, as we can't, what's the use?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We may be able to round the point.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There will be an awful sea running off that point, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course there will. I mean to try it, for all that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So be it, sir; that is what I like to hear. I hate palaver. Let one give
      his orders, and the rest obey them. We are not above half a mile from it
      now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had better wake the landsman. We must have a third hand for this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said a woman's voice, sweet, but clear and unwavering. &ldquo;I shall be
      the third hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Curse it,&rdquo; cried David, &ldquo;she has heard us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every word. And I have no confidence in Mr. Talboys; and, believe me, I
      am more to be trusted than he is. See, my cowardice is all worn out. Do
      but trust me, and you shall find I want neither courage nor intelligence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David eyed her keenly, and full in the face. She met his glance calmly,
      with her fine nostrils slightly expanding, and her compressed lip curving
      proudly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all right, Jack. It is not a flash in the pan. She is as steady as
      a rock.&rdquo; He then addressed her rapidly and business-like, but with
      deference. &ldquo;You will stand by the helm on this side, and the moment I run
      forward, you will take the helm and hold it in this position. That will
      require all your strength. Come, try it. Well done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How the sea struggles with me! But I am strong, you see,&rdquo; cried Lucy, her
      brow flushed with the battle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good; you are strong, and, what is better, resolute. Now, observe
      me: this is port, this is starboard, and this is amidships.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see; but how am I to know which to do?&rdquo;'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall give you the word of command.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And all I have to do is to obey it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is all; but you will find it enough, because the sea will seem to
      fight you. It will shake the boat to make you leave go, and will perhaps
      dash in your face to make you leave go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forewarned, forearmed, Mr. Dodd. I will not let go. I will hold on by my
      eyelids sooner than add to your danger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jack, she is on fire; she gives me double heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So she does me. She makes it a pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were now near enough the point to judge what they had to do, and the
      appearance of the sea was truly terrible; the waves were all broken, and a
      surge of devouring fire seemed to rage and roar round the point, and
      oppose an impassable barrier between them and the inky pool beyond, where
      safety lay under the lee of the high rocks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't like it,&rdquo; said David. &ldquo;It looks to me like going through a strip
      of hell fire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it is narrow,&rdquo; said Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is our chance; and the tide is coming in. We will try it. She will
      drench us, but I don't much think she will swamp us. Are you ready, all
      hands?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! please wait a minute, till I do up my hair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take a minute, but no more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, it is done. Mr. Dodd, one word. If all should fail, and death be
      inevitable, tell me so just before we perish, and I shall have something
      to say to you. Now, I am ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jump forward, Jack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stand by to jibe the foresail.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See our sweeps all clear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David now handled the main sheet, and at the same time looked earnestly at
      Lucy, who met his eye with a look of eager attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Starboard a little. That will do. Steady&mdash;steady as you go,&rdquo; As the
      boat yielded to the helm, Jack gathered in on the sheet, took two turns
      round the cleat, and eased away till the sail drew its best: so far so
      good. Both sails were now on the same side of the boat, the wind on her
      port quarter; but now came the dangerous operation of coming to the wind,
      in a rough and broken sea, among the eddies of wind and tide so prevalent
      off headlands. David, with the main sheet in his right hand, directed Lucy
      with his left as well as his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Starboard the helm&mdash;starboard yet&mdash;now meet her&mdash;so!&rdquo; and,
      as she rounded to Jack and he kept hauling the sheets aft, and the boat,
      her course and trim altered, darted among the breakers like a brave man
      attacking danger. After the first plunge she went up and down like a
      pickax, coming down almost where she went up; but she held her course,
      with the waves roaring round her like a pack of hell-hounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      More than half the terrible strip was passed. &ldquo;Starboard yet,&rdquo; cried
      David; and she headed toward the high mainland under whose lee was calm
      and safety. Alas! at this moment a snorter of a sea broke under her
      broadside, and hove her to leeward like a cork, and a tide eddy catching
      her under the counter, she came to more than two points, and her canvas,
      thus emptied, shook enough to tear the masts out of her by the board.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Port your helm! PORT! PORT!&rdquo; roared David, in a voice like the roar of a
      wounded lion; and, in his anxiety, he bounded to the helm himself; but
      Lucy obeyed orders at half a word, and David, seeing this, sprang forward
      to help Jack flatten in the foresheet. The boat, which all through
      answered the helm beautifully, fell off the moment Lucy ported the helm,
      and thus they escaped the impending and terrible danger of her making
      sternway. &ldquo;Helm amidships!&rdquo; and all drew again: the black water was in
      sight. But will they ever reach it? She tosses like a cork. Bang! A
      breaker caught her bows, and drenched David and Jack to the very bone. She
      quivered like an aspen-leaf but held on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Starboard one point,&rdquo; cried David, sitting down, and lifting an oar out
      from the boat; but just as Lucy, in obeying the order, leaned a little
      over the lee gunwale with the tiller, a breaker broke like a shell upon
      the boat's broadside abaft, stove in her upper plank, and filled her with
      water; some flew and slapped Lucy in the face like an open hand. She
      screamed, but clung to the gunwale, and griped the helm: her arm seemed
      iron, and her heart was steel. While she clung thus to her work, blinded
      by the spray, and expecting death, she heard oars splash into the water,
      and mellow stentorian voices burst out singing.
    </p>
    <p>
      In amazement she turned, squeezed the brine out of her eyes, and looked
      all round, and lo! the boat was in a trifling bobble of a sea, and close
      astern was the surge of fire raging, and growling, and blazing in vain,
      and the two sailors were pulling the boat, with superhuman strength and
      inspiration, into a monster mill-pool that now lay right ahead, black as
      ink and smooth as oil, singing loudly as they rowed:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         &ldquo;Cheerily oh oh! (pull) cheerily oh oh! (pull)
          To port we go oh (pull), to port we go (pull).&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      FLARE!! a great flaming eye opened on them in the center of the universal
      blackness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look! look!&rdquo; cried Lucy; &ldquo;a fire in the mountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the lantern of a French sloop anchored close to the shore. The crew
      had heard the sailors' voices. At sight of it David and Jack cheered so
      lustily that Talboys crawled out of the water and glared vaguely. The
      sailors pulled under the sloop's lee quarter: a couple of ropes were
      instantly lowered, the lantern held aloft, ruby heads and hands clustered
      at the gangway, and in another minute the boat's party were all upon deck,
      under a hailstorm of French, and the boat fast to her stern.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE skipper of the ship, hearing a commotion on deck, came up, and, taking
      off his cap, made Lucy a bow in a style remote from an English sailor's.
      She courtesied to him, and, to his surprise, addressed him in Parisian
      French. When he learned she was from England, and had rounded that point
      in an open boat, he was astonished.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Diables d'Anglais!&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      The good-natured Frenchman insisted on Lucy taking sole possession of his
      cabin, in which was a cheerful stove. His crew were just as kind to David,
      Jack, and Talboys. This latter now resumed his right place&mdash;at the
      head of mankind; being the only one who could talk French, he interpreted
      for his companions. He improved upon my narrative in one particular: he
      led the Frenchmen to suppose it was he who had sailed the boat from
      England, and weathered the point. Who can blame him?
    </p>
    <p>
      Dry clothes were found them, and grog and beef.
    </p>
    <p>
      While employed on the victuals, a little Anglo-Frank, aged ten, suddenly
      rolled out of a hammock and offered aid in the sweet accents of their
      native tongue. The sound of the knives and forks had woke the urchin out
      of a deep sleep. David filled the hybrid, and then sent him to Lucy's
      cabin to learn how she was getting on. He returned, and told them the lady
      was sitting on deck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me,&rdquo; said David, &ldquo;she ought to be in her bed.&rdquo; He rose and went on
      deck, followed by Mr. Talboys. &ldquo;Had you not better rest yourself?&rdquo; said
      David.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thank you, Mr. Dodd; I had a delicious sleep in the boat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Talboys put in his word, and made her a rueful apology for the turn
      his pleasure-excursion had taken.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stopped him most graciously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the contrary, I have to thank you, indirectly, for one of the
      pleasantest evenings I ever spent. I never was in danger before, and it is
      delightful. I was a little frightened at first, but it soon wore off, and
      I feel I should shortly revel in it; only I must have a brave man near
      just to look at, then I gather courage from his eye; do I not now, Mr.
      Dodd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed you do,&rdquo; said David, simply enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy Fountain's appearance and manner bore out her words. Talboys was
      white; even David and Jack showed some signs of a night of watching and
      anxiety; but the young lady's cheek was red and fresh, her eye bright, and
      she shone with an inspired and sprightly ardor that was never seen, or
      never observed in her before. They had found the way to put her blood up,
      after all&mdash;the blood of the Funteyns. Such are thoroughbreds: they
      rise with the occasion; snobs descend as the situation rises. See that
      straight-necked, small-nosed mare stepping delicately on the turnpike:
      why, it is Languor in person, picking its way among eggs. Now the hounds
      cry and the horn rings. Put her at timber, stream, and plowed field in
      pleasing rotation, and see her now: up ears; open nostril; nerves steel;
      heart immovable; eye of fire; foot of wind. And ho! there! What stuck in
      that last arable, dead stiff as the Rosinantes in Trafalgar Square, all
      but one limb, which goes like a water-wagtail's? Why, by Jove! if it isn't
      the hero of the turnpike road: the gallant, impatient, foaming, champing,
      space-devouring, curveting cocktail.
    </p>
    <p>
      Out of consideration for her male companions' infirmities, and observing
      that they were ashamed to take needful rest while she remained on deck,
      Lucy at length retired to her cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      She slept a good many hours, and was awakened at last by the rocking of
      the sloop. The wind had fallen gently, but it had also changed to due
      east, which brought a heavy ground-swell round the point into their little
      haven. Lucy made her toilet, and came on deck blooming like a rose. The
      first person she encountered was Mr. Talboys. She saluted him cordially,
      and then inquired for their companions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, they are gone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gone! What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sailed half an hour ago. Look, there is the boat coasting the island. No,
      not that way&mdash;westward; out there, just weathering that point Don't
      you see?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are they making a tour of the island, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here the little Anglo-Frank put in his word. &ldquo;No, ma'ainselle, gone to
      catch sheep bound for ze East Indeeze.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gone! gone! for good?&rdquo; and Lucy turned very pale. The next moment
      offended pride sent the blood rushing to her brow. &ldquo;That is just like Mr.
      Dodd; there is not another gentleman in the world would have had the
      ill-breeding to go off like that to India without even bidding us
      good-morning or good-by. Did he bid <i>you</i> good-by, Mr. Talboys?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, now, it is insolent&mdash;it is barbarous.&rdquo; Her vexation at the
      affront David had put on Mr. Talboys soon passed into indignation. &ldquo;This
      was done to insult&mdash;to humiliate us. A noble revenge. You know we
      used sometimes to quiz him a little ashore, especially you; so now, out of
      spite, he has saved our lives, and then turned his back arrogantly upon us
      before we could express our gratitude; that is as much as to say he values
      us as so many dogs or cats, flings us our lives haughtily, and then turned
      his back disdainfully on us. Life is not worth having when given so
      insultingly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Talboys soothed the offended fair. &ldquo;I really don't think he meant to
      insult us; but you know Dodd; he is a good-natured fellow, but he never
      had the slightest pretension to good-breeding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you think,&rdquo; replied the lady, &ldquo;it would be as well to leave off
      detracting from Mr. Dodd now that he has just saved your life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Talboys opened his eyes. &ldquo;Why, you began it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Talboys, do not descend to evasion. What I say goes for nothing.
      Mr. Dodd and I are fast friends, and nobody will ever succeed in robbing
      me of my esteem for him. But you always hated him, and you seize every
      opportunity of showing your dislike. Poor Mr. Dodd! He has too many great
      virtues not to be envied&mdash;and hated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Talboys stood puzzled, and was at a loss which way to steer his tongue,
      the wind being so shifty. At last he observed a little haughtily that &ldquo;he
      never made Mr. Dodd of so much importance as all this. He owned he <i>had</i>
      quizzed him, but it was not his intention to quiz him any more; for I do
      feel under considerable obligations to Mr. Dodd; he has brought us safe
      across the Channel; at the same time, I own I should have been more
      grateful if he had beat against the wind and landed us on our native
      coast; the lugger is there long before this, and our boat was the best of
      the two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Absurd!&rdquo; replied Lucy, with cold hauteur. &ldquo;The lugger had a sharp stern,
      but ours was a square stern, so we were obliged to <i>run;</i> if we had
      <i>beat,</i> we should all have been drowned directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Talboys was staggered by this sudden influx of science; but he held his
      ground. &ldquo;There is something in that,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;but still, a&mdash;a&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, Mr. Talboys,&rdquo; said the young lady suddenly, assuming extreme
      languor after delivering a facer, &ldquo;pray do not engage me in an argument. I
      do not feel equal to one, especially on a subject that has lost its
      interest. Can you inform me when this vessel sails?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not till to-morrow morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then will you be so kind as to borrow me that little boat? it is dangling
      from the ship, so it must belong to it. I wish to land, and see whether he
      has cast us upon an in- or an uninhabited island.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sloop's boat speedily landed them on the island, and Lucy proposed to
      cross the narrow neck of land and view the sea they had crossed in the
      dark. This was soon done, and she took that opportunity of looking about
      for the lateen, for her mind had taken another turn, and she doubted the
      report that David had gone to intercept the East-Indiaman. A short glance
      convinced her it was true. About seven miles to leeward, her course
      west-northwest, her hull every now and then hidden by the waves, her white
      sails spread like a bird's, the lateen was flying through the foam at its
      fastest rate. Lucy gazed at her so long and steadfastly that Talboys took
      the huff, and strolled along the cliff.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Lucy turned to go back, she found the French skipper coming toward
      her with a scrap of paper in his hand. He presented it with a low bow; she
      took it with a courtesy. It was neatly folded, though not as letters are
      folded ashore, and it bore her address. She opened it and read:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was not worth while disturbing your rest just to see us go off. God
      bless you, Miss Lucy! The Frenchman is bound for &mdash;&mdash;, and will
      take you safe; and mind you don't step ashore till the plank is fast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yours, respectfully,
    </p>
    <h3>
      &ldquo;DAVID DODD.&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      That was all. She folded it back thoughtfully into the original folds, and
      turned away. When she had gone but a few steps she stopped and put her
      rejected lover's little note into her bosom, and went slowly back to the
      boat, hanging her sweet head, and crying as she went.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      MR. FOUNTAIN remained in the town waiting for his niece's return. Six
      o'clock came&mdash;no boat. Eight o'clock&mdash;no boat, and a heavy gale
      blowing. He went down to the beach in great anxiety; and when he got there
      he soon found it was shared to the full by many human beings. There were
      little knots of fishermen and sailors discussing it, and one poor woman,
      mother and wife, stealing from group to group and listening anxiously to
      the men's conjectures. But the most striking feature of the scene was an
      old white-haired man, who walked wildly, throwing his arms about. The
      others rather avoided him, but Mr. Fountain felt he had a right to speak
      to him; so he came to him, and told him &ldquo;his niece was on board; and you,
      too, I fear, have some one dear to you in danger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man replied sorrowfully that &ldquo;his lovely new boat was in danger&mdash;in
      such danger that he should never see her again;&rdquo; then added, going
      suddenly into a fury, that &ldquo;as to the two rascally bluejackets that were
      on board of her, and had borrowed her of his wife while he was out, all he
      wished was that they had been swamped to all eternity long ago, then they
      would not have been able to come and swamp his dear boat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Peppery old Fountain cursed him for a heartless old vagabond, and joined
      the group whose grief and anxiety were less ostentatious, being for the
      other boat that carried their own flesh and blood. But all night long that
      white-haired old man paced the shore, flinging his arms, weeping and
      cursing alternately for his dear schooner.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh holy love&mdash;of property! how venerable you looked in the moonlight,
      with your white hairs streaming! How well you imitated, how close you
      rivaled, the holiest effusions of the heart, and not for the first time
      nor the last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My daughter! my ducats! my ducats! my daughter!&rdquo; etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      The morning broke; no sign of either boat. The wind had shifted to the
      east, and greatly abated. The fishermen began to have hopes for their
      comrades; these communicated themselves to Mr. Fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was about one o'clock in the afternoon when this latter observed people
      streaming along the shore to a distant point. He asked a coastguard man,
      whom he observed scanning the place with a glass, &ldquo;What it was?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man lowered his voice and said, &ldquo;Well, sir, it will be something
      coming ashore, by the way the folk are running.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain got a carriage, and, urging the driver to use speed, was
      hastily conveyed by the road to a part whence a few steps brought him down
      to the sea. He thrust wildly in among the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make way,&rdquo; said the rough fellows: they saw he was one of those who had
      the best right to be there.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked, and there, scarce fifty yards from the shore, was the lugger,
      keel uppermost, drifting in with the tide. The old man staggered, and was
      supported by a beach man.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the wreck came within fifteen yards of the shore, she hung, owing to
      the under suction, and could get neither way. The cries of the women broke
      out afresh at this. Then half a dozen stout fellows swam in with ropes,
      and with some difficulty righted her, and in another minute she was hauled
      ashore.
    </p>
    <p>
      The crowd rushed upon her. She was empty! Not an oar, not a boat-hook&mdash;nothing.
      But jammed in between the tiller and the boat they found a purple veil.
      The discovery was announced loudly by one of the females, but the
      consequent outcry was instantly hushed by the men, and the oldest
      fisherman there took it, and, in a sudden dead and solemn silence, gave it
      with a world of subdued meaning to Mr. Fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      MR. FOUNTAIN'S grief was violent; the more so, perhaps, that it was not
      pure sorrow, but heated with anger and despair. He had not only lost the
      creature he loved better than anyone else except himself, but all his
      plans and all his ambition were upset forever. I am sorry to say there
      were moments when he felt indignant with Heaven, and accused its justice.
      At other times the virtues of her he had lost came to his recollection,
      and he wept genuine tears. Now she was dead he asked himself a question
      that is sometimes reserved for that occasion, and then asked with bitter
      regret and idle remorse at its postponement, &ldquo;What can I do to show my
      love and respect for her?&rdquo; The poor old fellow could think of nothing now
      but to try and recover her body from the sea, and to record her virtues on
      her tomb. He employed six men to watch the coast for her along a space of
      twelve miles, and he went to a marble-cutter and ordered a block of
      beautiful white marble. He drew up the record of her virtues himself, and
      spelled her &ldquo;Fontaine,&rdquo; and so settled that question by brute force.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh, you may giggle, but men are not most sincere when they are most
      reasonable, nor most reasonable when most sincere. When a man's heart is
      in a thing, it is in it&mdash;wise or nonsensical, it is all one; so it is
      no use talking.
    </p>
    <p>
      I lack words to describe the gloom that fell on Mr. Bazalgette's home when
      the sad tidings reached it. And, indeed, it would be trifling with my
      reader to hang many more pages with black when he and I both know Lucy
      Fontaine is alive all the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime the French sloop lay at her anchor, and Lucy fretted with
      impatience. At noon the next day she sailed, and, being a slow vessel, did
      not anchor off the port of &mdash;&mdash; till daybreak the day after.
      Then she had to wait for the tide, and it was nearly eleven o'clock when
      Lucy landed. She went immediately to the principal inn to get a
      conveyance. On the road, whom should she meet but Mr. Hardie. He gave a
      joyful start at sight of her, and with more heart than she could have
      expected welcomed her to life again. From him she learned all the proofs
      of her death. This made her more anxious to fly to her aunt's house at
      once and undeceive her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Hardie would not let her hire a carriage; he would drive her over in
      half the time. He beckoned his servant, who was standing at the inn door,
      and ordered it immediately. &ldquo;Meantime, Miss Fountain, if you will take my
      arm, I will show you something that I think will amuse you, though <i>we</i>
      have found it anything but amusing, as you may well suppose.&rdquo; Lucy took
      his arm somewhat timidly, and he walked her to the marble-cutter's shop.
      &ldquo;Look there,&rdquo; said he. Lucy looked and there was an unfinished slab on
      which she read these words:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
               Sacred to the Memory
                       OF
                  LUCY FONTAINE,
         WHO WAS DROWNED AT SEA ON THE
                10TH SEPT., 18&mdash;.

      As her beauty endeared her to all eyes,
         So her modesty, piety, docilit
</pre>
    <p>
      At this point in her moral virtues the chisel had stopped. Eleven o'clock
      struck, and the chisel went for its beer; for your English workman would
      leave the d in &ldquo;God&rdquo; half finished when strikes the hour of beer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fact is that the shopkeeper had newly set up, was proud of the
      commission, and, whenever the chisel left off, he whipped into the
      workshop and brought the slab out, <i>pro tem.,</i> into his window for an
      advertisement.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hardie pointed it out to Lucy with a chuckle. Lucy turned pale, and put
      her hand to her heart. Hardie saw his mistake too late, and muttered
      excuses.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy gave a little gasp and stopped him. &ldquo;Pray say no more; it is my
      fault; if people will feign death, they must expect these little tributes.
      My uncle has lost no time.&rdquo; And two unreasonable tears swelled to her eyes
      and trickled one after another down her cheeks; then she turned her back
      quickly on the thing, and Mr. Hardie felt her arm tremble. &ldquo;I think, Mr.
      Hardie,&rdquo; said she presently, with marked courtesy, &ldquo;I should, under the
      circumstances, prefer to go home alone. My aunt's nerves are sensitive,
      and I must think of the best way of breaking to her the news that I am
      alive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be best, Miss Fountain; and, to tell the truth, I feel myself
      unworthy to accompany you after being so maladroit as to give you pain in
      thinking to amuse you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Hardie,&rdquo; said Lucy, growing more and more courteous, &ldquo;you are not
      to be called to account for my weakness; that <i>would</i> be unjust. I
      shall have the pleasure of seeing you at dinner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, since you permit me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put Lucy into the carriage and off she drove. &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; thought Mr.
      Hardie, &ldquo;I have had an escape; what a stupid blunder for me to make! She
      is not angry, though, so it does not matter. She asked me to dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Said Lucy to herself: &ldquo;The man is a fool! Poor Mr. Dodd! <i>he</i> would
      not have shown me my tombstone&mdash;to amuse me.&rdquo; And she dismissed the
      subject from her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sent away the carriage and entered Mr. Bazalgette's house on foot.
      After some consideration she determined to employ Jane, a girl of some
      tact, to break her existence to her aunt. She glided into the drawing-room
      unobserved, fully expecting to find Jane at work there for Mrs.
      Bazalgette. But the room was empty. While she hesitated what to do next,
      the handle of the door was turned, and she had only just time to dart
      behind a heavy window-curtain, when it opened, and Mrs. Bazalgette walked
      slowly and silently in, followed by a woman. Mrs. Bazalgette seated
      herself and sighed deeply. Her companion kept a respectful silence. After
      a considerable pause, Mrs. Bazalgette said a few words in a voice so
      thoroughly subdued and solemn, and every now and then so stifled, that
      Lucy's heart yearned for her, and nothing but the fear of frightening her
      aunt into a hysterical fit kept her from flying into her arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I need not tell you,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, &ldquo;why I sent for you. You know
      the sad bereavement that has fallen on me, but you cannot know all I have
      lost in her. Nobody can tell what she was to all of us, but most of all to
      me. I was her darling, and she was mine.&rdquo; Here tears choked Mrs.
      Bazalgette's words, for a while. Recovering herself, she paid a tribute to
      the character of the deceased. &ldquo;It was a soul without one grain of
      selfishness; all her thoughts were for others, not one for herself. She
      loved us all&mdash;indeed, she loved some that were hardly worthy of so
      pure a creature's love; but the reason was, she had no eye for the faults
      of her friends; she pictured them like herself, and loved her own sweet
      image in them. <i>And</i> such a temper! and so free from guile. I may
      truly say her mind was as lovely as her person.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was, indeed, a sweet young lady,&rdquo; sighed the woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was an angel, Baldwin&mdash;an angel sent to bear us company a little
      while, and now she is a saint in Heaven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! ma'am, the best goes first, that is an old saying.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I have heard; but my niece was as healthy as she was lovely and good.
      Everything promised long life. I hoped she would have closed my eyes. In
      the bloom of health one day, and the next lying cold, stark, and
      drenched!! Oh, how terrible! Oh, my poor Lucy! oh! oh! oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the midst of life we are in death, ma'am. I am sure it is a warning to
      me, ma'am, as well as to my betters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It, is, indeed, Baldwin, a warning to all of us who have lived too much
      for vanities, to think of this sweet flower, snatched in a moment from our
      bosoms and from the world; we ought to think of it on our knees, and
      remember our own latter end. That last skirt you sent me was rather
      scrimped, my poor Baldwin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it, ma'am?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it does not matter; I shall never wear it now; and, under such a blow
      as this, I am in no humor to find fault. Indeed, with my grief I neglect
      my household and my very children. I forget everything; what did I send
      for you for?&rdquo; and she looked with lack-luster eyes full in Mrs. Baldwin's
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jane did not say, ma'am, but I am at your orders.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, of course; I am distracted. It was to pay the last tribute of respect
      to her dear memory. Ah! Baldwin, often and often the black dress is all;
      but here the heart mourns beyond the power of grief to express by any
      outward trappings. No matter; the world, the shallow world, respects these
      signs of woe, and let mine be the deepest mourning ever worn, and the
      richest. And out of that mourning I shall never go while I live.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, ma'am,&rdquo; said Baldwin soothingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you doubt me?&rdquo; asked the lady, with a touch of sharpness that did not
      seemed called for by Baldwin's humble acquiescence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, ma'am; it is a very natural thought under the present affliction,
      and most becoming the sad occasion. Well, ma'am, the deepest mourning, if
      you please, I should say cashmere and crape.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that would be deep. Oh, Baldwin, it is her violent death that kills
      me. Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cashmere and crape, ma'am, and with nothing white about the neck and
      arms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; oh yes; but will not that be rather unbecoming?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, ma'am&mdash;&rdquo; and Baldwin hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hardly see how I <i>could</i> wear that, it makes one look so old. Now
      don't you think black <i>glace</i> silk, and trimmed with love-ribbon,
      black of course, but scalloped&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would be very rich, indeed, ma'am, and very becoming to you; but,
      being so near and dear, it would not be so deep as you are desirous of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Baldwin, you don't attend to what I say; I told you I was never
      going out of mourning again, so what is the use of your proposing anything
      to me that I can't wear all my life? Now tell me, can I always wear
      cashmere and crape?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, ma'am, that is out of the question; and if it is for a permanency,
      I don't see how we could improve on <i>glace</i> silk, with crape, and
      love-ribbons. Would you like the body trimmed with jet, ma'am?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don't ask me; I don't know. If my darling had only died comfortably
      in her bed, then we could have laid out her sweet remains, and dressed
      them for her virgin tomb.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would have been a satisfaction, ma'am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A sad one, at the best; but now the very earth, perhaps, will never
      receive her. Oh yes, anything you like&mdash;the body trimmed with jet, if
      you wish it, and let me see, a gauze bodice, goffered, fastened to the
      throat. That is all, I think; the sleeves confined at the wrist just
      enough not to expose the arm, and yet look light&mdash;you understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, ma'am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She kissed me just before she went on that fatal excursion, Baldwin; she
      will never kiss me again&mdash;oh! oh! You must call on Dejazet for me,
      and bespeak me a bonnet to match; it is not to be supposed I can run about
      after her trumpery at such a time; besides, it is not usual.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, ma'am, you are in no state for it; I will undertake any purchases
      you may require.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, my good Baldwin; you are a good, kind, feeling, useful soul.
      Oh, Baldwin, if it had pleased Heaven to take her by disease, it would
      have been bad enough to lose her; but to be drowned! her clothes all
      wetted through and through; her poor hair drenched, too; and then the
      water is so cold at this time of year&mdash;oh! oh! Send me a cross of
      jet, and jet beads, with the dress, and a jet brooch, and a set of jet
      buttons, in case&mdash;besides&mdash;oh! oh! oh!&mdash;I expect every
      moment to see her carried home, all pale and wetted by the nasty sea&mdash;oh!
      oh!&mdash;and an evening dress of the same&mdash;the newest fashion. I
      leave it to you; don't ask me any questions about it, for I can't and
      won't go into that. I can try it on when it is made&mdash;oh! oh! oh!&mdash;it
      does not do to love any creature as I loved my poor lost Lucy&mdash;and a
      black fan&mdash;-oh! oh!&mdash;and a dozen pair of black kid gloves&mdash;oh!&mdash;and
      a mourning-ring&mdash;and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop, aunt, or your love for me will be your ruin!&rdquo; said Lucy, coldly,
      and stood suddenly before the pair, looking rather cynical.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, Lucy! alive! No, her ghost&mdash;ah! ah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be calm, aunt; I am alive and well. Now, don't be childish, dear; I have
      been in danger, but here I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette and Mrs. Baldwin flew together, and trembled in one
      another's arms. Lucy tried to soothe them, but at last could not help
      laughing at them. This brought Baldwin to her senses quicker than
      anything; but Mrs. Bazalgette, who, like many false women, was hysterical,
      went off into spasms&mdash;genuine ones. They gave her salts&mdash;in
      vain. Slapped her hands&mdash;in vain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Lucy cried to Baldwin, &ldquo;Quick! the tumbler; I must sprinkle her face
      and bosom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don't spoil my lilac gown!&rdquo; gasped the sufferer, and with a mighty
      effort she came to. She would have come back from the edge of the grave to
      shield silk from water. Finally she wreathed her arms round Lucy, and
      kissed her so tenderly, warmly and sobbingly, that Lucy got over the shock
      of her shallowness, and they kissed and cried together most joyously,
      while Baldwin, after a heroic attempt at jubilation, retired from the room
      with a face as long as your arm. <i>A bas les revenants!!</i> She went to
      the housekeeper's room. The housekeeper persuaded her to stay and take a
      bit of dinner, and soon after dinner she was sent for to Mrs. Bazalgette's
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy met her coming out of it. &ldquo;I fear I came <i>mal apropos,</i> Mrs.
      Baldwin; if I had thought of it, I would have waited till you had secured
      that munificent order.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am much obliged to you, miss, I am sure; but you were always a
      considerate young lady. You'll be glad to learn, miss, it makes no
      difference; I have got the order; it is all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is fortunate,&rdquo; replied Lucy, kindly, &ldquo;otherwise I should have been
      tempted to commit an extravagance with you myself. Well, and what is my
      aunt's new dress to be now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, the same, miss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same? why, she is not going into mourning on my return? ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;La bless you, miss, mourning? you can't call that mourning&mdash;<i>glace</i>
      silk and love-ribbons scalloped out, and cetera. Of course it was not my
      business to tell her so; but I could not help thinking to myself, if that
      is the way my folk are going to mourn for me, they may just let it alone.
      However, that is all over now; and your aunt sent for me, and says she,
      'Black becomes <i>me;</i> you will make the dresses all the same.'&rdquo; And
      Baldwin retired radiant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy put her hand to her bosom. &ldquo;Make the dresses all the same&mdash;all
      the same, whether I am alive or dead. No, I will not cry; no, I will not.
      Who is worth a tear? what is worth a tear? All the same. It is not to be
      forgotten&mdash;nor forgiven. Poor Mr. Dodd!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain learned the good news in the town, so his meeting with Lucy
      was one of pure joy. Mr. Talboys did not hear anything. He had business up
      in London, and did not stay ten minutes in &mdash;&mdash;.
    </p>
    <p>
      The house revived, and <i>jubilabat, jubilabat.</i> But after the first
      burst of triumph things went flat. David Dodd was gone, and was missed;
      and Lucy was changed. She looked a shade older, and more than one shade
      graver; and, instead of living solely for those who happened to be basking
      in her rays, she was now and then comparatively inattentive, thoughtful,
      and <i>distraite.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain watched her keenly; ditto Mrs. Bazalgette. A slight reaction
      had taken place in both their bosoms. &ldquo;Hang the girl! there were we
      breaking our hearts for her, and she was alive.&rdquo; She had &ldquo;<i>beguiled</i>
      them of their tears.&rdquo;&mdash;Othello. But they still loved her quite well
      enough to take charge of her fate.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sort of itch for settling other people's destinies, and so gaining a
      title to their curses for our pragmatical and fatal interference, is the
      commonest of all the forms of sanctioned lunacy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Moreover, these two had imbibed the spirit of rivalry, and each was
      stimulated by the suspicion that the other was secretly at work.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy's voluntary promise in the ballroom was a double sheet-anchor to Mr.
      Fountain. It secured him against the only rival he dreaded. Talboys, too,
      was out of the way just now, and the absence of the suitor is favorable to
      his success, where the lady has no personal liking for him. To work went
      our Machiavel again, heart and soul, and whom do you think he had the
      cheek, or, as the French say, the forehead, to try and win over?&mdash;Mrs.
      Bazalgette.
    </p>
    <p>
      This bold step, however, was not so strange as it would have been a month
      ago. The fact is, I have brought you unfairly close to this pair. When you
      meet them in the world you will be charmed with both of them, and
      recognize neither. There are those whose faults are all on the surface:
      these are generally disliked; there are those whose faults are all at the
      core: they charm creation. Mrs. Bazalgette is allowed by both sexes to be
      the most delightful, amiable woman in the county, and will carry that
      reputation to her grave. Fountain is &ldquo;the jolliest old buck ever went on
      two legs.&rdquo; I myself would rather meet twelve such agreeable humbugs&mdash;six
      of a sex&mdash;<i>at dinner</i> than the twelve apostles, and so would
      you, though you don't know it. These two, then, had long ere this found
      each other mighty agreeable. The woman saw the man's vanity, and flattered
      it. The man the woman's, and flattered it. Neither saw&mdash;am I to say?&mdash;his
      own or her own, or what? Hang language!!! In short, they had long ago
      oiled one another's asperities, and their intercourse was smooth and
      frequent: they were always chatting together&mdash;strewing flowers of
      speech over their mines and countermines.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain, then, who, in virtue of his sex, had the less patience,
      broke ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Mrs. Bazalgette, I would not have missed this visit for a
      thousand pounds. Certainly there is nothing like contact for rubbing off
      prejudices. I little thought, when I first came here, the principal
      attraction of the place would prove to be my fair hostess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know you were prejudiced, my dear Mr. Fountain. I can't say I ever had
      any against you, but certainly I did not know half your good qualities.
      However, your courtesy to me when I invaded you at Font Abbey prepared me
      for your real character; and now this visit, I trust, makes us friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! my dear Mrs. Bazalgette, one thing only is wanting to make you my
      benefactor as well as friend&mdash;if I could only persuade you to
      withdraw your powerful opposition to a poor old fellow's dream.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What poor old fellow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You? why, you are not so very old. You are not above fifty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! fair lady, you must not evade me. Come, can nothing soften you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know what you mean, Mr. Fountain&rdquo;; and the mellifluous tones
      dried suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are too sagacious not to know everything; you know my heart is set on
      marrying my niece to a man of ancient family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With all my heart. You have only to use your influence with her. If she
      consents, I will not oppose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You cruel little lady, you know it is not enough to withdraw opposition;
      I can't succeed without your kind aid and support.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Mr. Fountain, I am a great coward, but, really, I could almost
      venture to scold you a little. Is not a poor little woman to be allowed to
      set her heart on things as well as a poor old gentleman who does not look
      fifty? You know my poor little heart is bent on her marrying into our own
      set, yet you can ask me to influence her the other way&mdash;me, who have
      never once said a word to her for my own favorites! No; the fairest,
      kindest, and best way is to leave her to select her own happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fine thing it would be if young people were left to marry who they
      like,&rdquo; retorted Fountain. &ldquo;My dear lady, I would never have asked your aid
      so long as there was the least chance of her marrying Mr. Hardie; but, now
      that she has of her own accord declined him&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that? declined Mr. Hardie? when did he ever propose for her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You misunderstand me. She came to me and told me she would never marry
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When was that? I don't believe it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was in the ball-room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette reflected; then she turned very red. &ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; said
      she, &ldquo;don't build too much on that; for four months ago she made me a
      solemn promise she would never marry any lover you should find her, and
      she repeated that promise in your very house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't believe it, madam.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is polite, sir. Come, Mr. Fountain, you are agitated and cross, and
      it is no use being cross either with me or with Lucy. You asked my
      co-operation. You gentlemen can ask anything; and you are wise to do these
      droll things; that is where you gain the advantage over us poor cowards of
      women. Well, I will co-operate with you. Now listen. Lucy's <i>penchant</i>
      is neither for Mr. Hardie, nor Mr. Talboys, but for Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't mean it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, she does not care <i>much</i> for him; she has refused him to my
      knowledge, and would again; besides, he is gone to India, so there is an
      end of <i>him.</i> She seems a little languid and out of spirits; it may
      be because he <i>is</i> gone. Now, then, is the very time to press a
      marriage upon her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The very worst time, surely, if she is really such an idiot as to be
      fretting for a fellow who is away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette informed her new ally condescendingly that he knew nothing
      of the sex he had undertaken to tackle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When a cold-blooded girl like this, who has no strong attachment, is out
      of spirits, and all that sort of thing, then is the time she falls to any
      resolute wooer. She will yield if we both insist, and we <i>will</i>
      insist. Only keep your temper, and let nothing tempt you to say an unkind
      word to her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She then rang the bell, and desired that Miss Fountain might be requested
      to come into the drawing-room for a minute.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what are you going to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give her the choice of two husbands&mdash;Mr. Talboys or Mr. Hardie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She will take neither, I am afraid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, she will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! the one she dislikes the least.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Jove, you are right&mdash;you are an angel.&rdquo; And the old gentleman in
      his gratitude to her who was outwitting him, and vice versa, kissed Mrs.
      Bazalgette's hand with great devotion, in which act he was surprised by
      Lucy, who floated through the folding-doors. She said nothing, but her
      face volumes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sit down, love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, aunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sat down, and her eye mildly bored both relatives, like, if you can
      imagine a gentle gimlet, worked by insinuation, not force.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then the favored Fountain enjoyed the inestimable privilege of beholding a
      small bout of female fence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The accomplished actress of forty began.
    </p>
    <p>
      The novice held herself apparently all open with a sweet smile, the eye
      being the only weapon that showed point.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My love, your uncle and I, who were not always just to one another, have
      been united by our love for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I observed as I came in&mdash;ahem!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Henceforth we are one where your welfare is concerned, and we have
      something serious to say to you now. There is a report, dearest, creeping
      about that you have formed an unfortunate attachment&mdash;to a person
      beneath you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who told you that, aunt? Name, as they say in the House.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter; these things are commonly said without foundation in this
      wicked world; but, still, it is always worth our while to prove them
      false, not, of course, directly&mdash;<i>'qui s'excuse s'accuse''</i>&mdash;but
      indirectly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I agree with you, and I shall do so in my uncle's presence. You were
      present, aunt&mdash;though uninvited&mdash;when the gentleman you allude
      to offered me what I consider a great honor, and you heard me decline it;
      you are therefore fully able to contradict that report, whose source, by
      the by, you have not given me, and of course you will contradict it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette colored a little. But she said affectionately: &ldquo;These
      silly rumors are best contradicted by a good marriage, love, and that
      brings me to something more important. We have two proposals for you, and
      both of them excellent ones. Now, in a matter where your happiness is at
      stake, your uncle and I are determined not to let our private partialities
      speak. We do press you to select one of these offers, but leave you quite
      free as to which you take. Mr. Talboys is a gentleman of old family and
      large estates. Mr. Hardie is a wealthy, and able, and rising man. They are
      both attached to you; both excellent matches.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whichever you choose your uncle and I shall both feel that an excellent
      position for life is yours, and no regret that you did not choose our
      especial favorite shall stain our joy or our love.&rdquo; With this generous
      sentiment tears welled from her eyes, whereat Fountain worshiped her and
      felt his littleness.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Lucy was of her own sex, and had observed what an unlimited command of
      eye-water an hysterical female possesses. She merely bowed her head
      graciously, and smiled politely. Thus encouraged to proceed, her aunt
      dried her eyes with a smile, and with genial cheerfulness proceeded:
      &ldquo;Well, then, dear, which shall it be&mdash;Mr. Talboys?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy opened her eyes <i>so</i> innocently. &ldquo;My dear aunt, I wonder at that
      question from you. Did you not make me promise you I would never marry
      that gentleman, nor any friend of my uncle's?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And did you?&rdquo; cried Fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did,&rdquo; replied the penitent, hanging her head. &ldquo;My aunt was so kind to
      me about something or other, I forget what.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fountain bounced up and paced the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette lowered her voice: &ldquo;It is to be Mr. Hardie, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Hardie!!!&rdquo; cried Lucy, rather loudly, to attract her uncle's
      attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, the same objection applies there; I made my uncle a solemn
      promise not to marry any friend of yours, aunt. Poor uncle! I refused at
      first, but he looked so unhappy my resolution failed, and I gave my
      promise. I will keep it, uncle. Don't fear me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It caused Mrs. Bazalgette a fierce struggle to command her temper. Both
      she and Fountain were dumb for a minute; then elastic Mrs. Bazalgette
      said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were both to blame; you and I did not really know each other. The best
      thing we can do now is to release the poor girl from these silly promises,
      that stand in the way of her settlement in life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I agree, madam.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So do I. There, Lucy, choose, for we both release you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said Lucy gravely; &ldquo;but how can you? No unfair advantage was
      taken of me; I plighted my word knowingly and solemnly, and no human power
      can release persons of honor from a solemn pledge. Besides, just now you
      would release me; but you might not always be in the same mind. No, I will
      keep faith with you both, and not place my truth at the mercy of any human
      being nor of any circumstance. If that is all, please permit me to retire.
      The less a young lady of my age thinks or talks about the other sex, the
      more time she has for her books and her needle;&rdquo; and, having delivered
      this precious sentence, with a deliberate and most deceiving imitation of
      the pedantic prude, she departed, and outside the door broke instantly
      into a joyous chuckle at the expense of the plotters she had left looking
      moonstruck in one another's faces. If the new allies had been both
      Fountain, the apple of discord this sweet novice threw down between them
      would have dissolved the alliance, as the sly novice meant it to do; but,
      while the gentleman went storming about the room ripe for civil war, the
      lady leaned back in her chair and laughed heartily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Mr. Fountain, it is no use your being cross with a female, or she
      will get the better of you. She has outwitted us. We took her for a fool,
      and she is a clever girl. I'll&mdash;tell&mdash;you&mdash;what, she is a
      very clever girl. Never mind that, she is only a girl; and, if you will be
      ruled by me, her happiness shall be secured in spite of her, and she shall
      be engaged in less than a week.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fountain recognized his superior, and put himself under the lady's orders&mdash;in
      an evil hour for Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor girl's triumph over the forces was but momentary; her ground was
      not tenable. The person promised can release the person who promises&mdash;<i>volenti
      non fit injuria.</i> Lucy found herself attacked with female weapons, that
      you and I, sir, should laugh at; but they made her miserable. Cold looks;
      short answers; solemnity; distance; hints at ingratitude and perverseness;
      kisses intermitted all day, and the parting one at night degraded to a
      dignified ceremony. Under this impalpable persecution the young
      thoroughbred, that had steered the boat across the breakers, winced and
      pined.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not want a husband or a lover, but she could not live without
      being loved. She was not sent into the world for that. She began secretly
      to hate the two gentlemen that had lost her her relations' affection, and
      she looked round to see how she could get rid of them without giving fresh
      offense to her dear aunt and uncle. If she could only make it their own
      act! Now a man in such a case inclines to give the obnoxious parties a
      chance of showing themselves generous and delicate; he would reveal the
      whole situation to them, and indicate the generous and manly course; but
      your thorough woman cannot do this. It is physically as well as morally
      impossible to her. Misogynists say it is too wise, and not cunning enough.
      So what does Miss Lucy do but turn round and make love to Captain Kenealy?
      And the cold virgin being at last by irrevocable fate driven to
      love-making, I will say this for her, she did not do it by halves. She
      felt quite safe here. The good-natured, hollow captain was fortified
      against passion by self-admiration. She said to herself: &ldquo;Now here is a
      peg with a military suit hanging to it; if I can only fix my eyes on this
      piece of wood and regimentals, and make warm love to it, the love that
      poets have dreamed and romances described, I may surely hope to disgust my
      two admirers, and then they will abandon me and despise me. Ah! I could
      love them if they would only do that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Well, for a young lady that had never, to her knowledge, felt the tender
      passion, the imitation thereof which she now favored that little society
      with was a wonderful piece of representation. Was Kenealy absent, behold
      Lucy uneasy and restless; was he present; but at a distance, her eye
      demurely devoured him; was he near her, she wooed him with such a god-like
      mixture of fire, of tenderness, of flattery, of tact; she did so
      serpentinely approach and coil round the soldier and his mental cavity,
      that all the males in creation should have been permitted to defile past
      (like the beasts going into the ark), and view this sweet picture a
      moment, and infer how women would be wooed, and then go and do it. Effect:
    </p>
    <p>
      Talboys and Hardie mortified to the heart's core; thought they had
      altogether mistaken her character. &ldquo;She is a love-sick fool.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On Bazalgette: &ldquo;Ass! Dodd was worth a hundred of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On Kenealy: made him twirl his mustache.
    </p>
    <p>
      On Fountain: filled him with dismay. There remained only one to be
      hoodwinked.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           SCENA.
</pre>
    <p>
      A letter is brought in and handed to Captain Kenealy. He reads it, and
      looks a little&mdash;a very little&mdash;vexed. Nobody else notices it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy. &ldquo;What is the matter? Oh, what has occurred?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kenealy. &ldquo;Nothing particulaa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy. &ldquo;Don't deceive us: it is an order for you to join the horrid army.&rdquo;
       (Clasps her hands.) &ldquo;You are going to leave us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kenealy. &ldquo;No, it is from my tailaa. He waunts to be paed.&rdquo; (Glares
      astonished.)
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy. &ldquo;Pay the creature, and nevermore employ him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kenealy. &ldquo;Can't. Haven't got the money. Uncle won't daie. The begaa knows
      I can't pay him, that is the reason why he duns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy. &ldquo;He knows it? then what business has he to annoy you thus? Take my
      advice. Return no reply. That is not courteous. But when the sole motive
      of an application is impertinence, silent contempt is the course best
      befitting your dignity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kenealy (twirling his mustache). &ldquo;Dem the fellaa. Shan't take any notice
      of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette (to Lucy in passing). &ldquo;Do you think we are all fools?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <i>Ibi omnis effusus amor;</i> for La Bazalgette undeceived her ally and
      Mr. Hardie, and the screw was put harder still on poor Lucy. She was no
      longer treated like an equal, but made for the first time to feel that her
      uncle and aunt were her elders and superiors, and, that she was in revolt.
      All external signs of affection were withdrawn, and this was like docking
      a strawberry of its water. A young girl may have flashes of spirit,
      heroism even, but her mind is never steel from top to toe; it is sure to
      be wax in more places than one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody loves me now that poor Mr. Dodd is gone,&rdquo; sighed Lucy. &ldquo;Nobody
      ever will love me unless I consent to sacrifice myself. Well, why not? I
      shall never love any gentleman as others of my sex can love. I will go and
      see Mrs. Wilson.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So she ordered out her captain, and rode to Mrs. Wilson, and made her
      captain hold her pony while she went in. Mrs. Wilson received her with a
      tenor scream of delight that revived Lucy's heart to hear, and then it was
      nothing but one broad gush of hilarity and cordiality&mdash;showed her the
      house, showed her the cows, showed her the parlor at last, and made her
      sit down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, set ye down, set ye down, and let me have a downright good look at
      ye. It is not often I clap eyes on ye, or on anything like ye, for that
      matter. Aren't ye well, my dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are ye sure? Haven't ye ailed anything since I saw ye up at the house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, dear nurse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you are in care. Bless you, it is not the same face&mdash;to a
      stranger, belike, but not to the one that suckled you. Why, there is next
      door to a wrinkle on your pretty brow, and a little hollow under your eye,
      and your face is drawn like, and not half the color. You are in trouble or
      grief of some sort, Miss Lucy; and&mdash;who knows?&mdash;mayhap you be
      come to tell it your poor old nurse. You might go to a worse part. Ay!
      what touches you will touch me, my nursling dear, all one as if it was
      your own mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! <i>you</i> love me,&rdquo; cried Lucy; &ldquo;I don't know why you love me so; I
      have not deserved it of you, as I have of others that look coldly on me.
      Yes, you love me, or you would not read my face like this. It is true, I
      am a little&mdash;Oh, nurse, I am unhappy;&rdquo; and in a moment she was
      weeping and sobbing in Mrs. Wilson's arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Amazon sat down with her, and rocked to and fro with her as if she was
      still a child. &ldquo;Don't check it, my lamb,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;have a good cry;
      never drive a cry back on your heart&rdquo;; and so Lucy sobbed and sobbed, and
      Mrs. Wilson rocked her.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she had done sobbing she put up a grateful face and kissed Mrs.
      Wilson. But the good woman would not let her go. She still rocked with
      her, and said, &ldquo;Ay, ay, it wasn't for nothing I was drawed so to go to
      your house that day. I didn't know you were there; but I was drawed. I WAS
      WANTED. Tell me all, my lamb; never keep grief on your heart; give it a
      vent; put a part on't on me; I do claim it; you will see how much lighter
      your heart will feel. Is it a young man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, no; I hate young men; I wish there were no such things. But for
      them no dissension could ever have entered the house. My uncle and aunt
      both loved me once, and oh! they were so kind to me. Yes; since you permit
      me, I will tell you all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she told her a part.
    </p>
    <p>
      She told her the whole Talboys and Hardie part.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Wilson took a broad and somewhat vulgar view of the distress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Miss Lucy,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;if that is all, you can soon sew up their
      stockings. You don't depend on <i>them,</i> anyways: you are a young lady
      of property.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, am I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. I have heard your dear mother say often as all her money was
      settled on you by deed. Why, you must be of age, Miss Lucy, or near it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The day after to-morrow, nurse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There now! I knew your birthday could not be far off. Well, then, you
      must wait till you are of age, and then, if they torment you or put on
      you, 'Good-morning,' says you; 'if we can't agree together, let's agree to
      part,' says you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! leave my relations!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is their own fault. Good friends before bad kindred! They only want to
      make a handle of you to get 'em rich son-in-laws. You pluck up a sperrit,
      Miss Lucy. There's no getting through the world without a bit of a
      sperrit. You'll get put upon at every turn else; and if they don't vally
      you in that house, why, off to another; y'ain't chained to their door, I
      do suppose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, nurse, a young lady cannot live by herself: there is no instance of
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All wisdom had a beginning. 'Oh, shan't I spoil the pudding once I cut
      it?' quoth Jack's wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would people say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What could they say? You come to me, which I am all the mother you have
      got left upon earth, and what scandal could they make out of that, I
      should like to know? Let them try it. But don't let me catch it atween
      their lips, or down they do go on the bare ground, and their caps in
      pieces to the winds of heaven;&rdquo; and she flourished her hand and a massive
      arm with a gesture free, inspired, and formidable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! nurse, with you I should indeed feel safe from every ill. But, for
      all that, I shall never go beyond the usages of society. I shall never
      leave my aunt's house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't say as you will. But I shall get your room ready this afternoon,
      and no later.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, nurse, you must not do that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell'ee I shall. Then, whether you come or not, there 'tis. And when they
      put on you, you have no call to fret. Says you, 'There's my room awaiting,
      and likewise my welcome, too, at Dame Wilson's; I don't need to stand no
      more nonsense here than I do choose,' says you. Dear heart! even a little
      foolish, simple thought like that will help keep your sperrit up. You'll
      see else&mdash;you'll see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nurse, how wise you are! You know human nature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I am older than you, miss, a precious sight; and if I hadn't got
      one eye open at this time of day, why, when should I, you know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After this, a little home-made wine forcibly administered, and then much
      kissing, and Lucy rode away revivified and cheered, and quite another
      girl. Her spirits rose so that she proposed to Kenealy to extend their
      ride by crossing the country to &mdash;&mdash;. She wanted to buy some
      gloves.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yaas,&rdquo; said the assenter; and off they cantered.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the glove-shop who should Lucy find but Eve Dodd. She held out her
      hand, but Eve affected not to observe, and bowed distantly. Lucy would not
      take the hint. After a pause she said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you any news of Mr. Dodd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have,&rdquo; was the stiff reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He left us without even saying good-by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, after saving all our lives. Need I say that we are anxious, in our
      turn, to hear of his safety? It was still very tempestuous when he left us
      to catch the great ship, and he was in an open boat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My brother is alive, Miss Fountain, if that is what you wish to know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alive? is he not well? has he met with any accident? any misfortune? is
      he in the East Indiaman? has he written to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very curious: it is rather late in the day; but, if I am to speak
      about my brother, it must be at home, and not in an open shop. I can't
      trust my feelings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going home, Miss Dodd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I come with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you like: it is close by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy's heart quaked. Eve was so stern, and her eyes like basilisks'.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sit down, Miss Fountain, and I will tell you what you have done for my
      brother. I did not court this, you know; I would have avoided your eye if
      I could; it is your doing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Miss Dodd,&rdquo; faltered Lucy, &ldquo;and I should do it again. I have a right
      to inquire after his welfare who saved my life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, Miss Fountain, his saving your life has lost him his ship and
      ruined him for life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He came in sight of the ship; but the captain, that was jealous of him
      like all the rest, made all sail and ran from him: he chased her, and
      often was near catching her, but she got clear out of the Channel, and my
      poor David had to come back disgraced, ruined for life, and
      broken-hearted. The Company will never forgive him for deserting his ship.
      His career is blighted, and all for one that never cared a straw for him.
      Oh, Miss Fountain, it was an evil day for my poor brother when first he
      saw your face!&rdquo; Eve would have said more, for her heart was burning with
      wrath and bitterness, but she was interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy raised both her hands to Heaven, and then, bowing her head, wept
      tenderly and humbly.
    </p>
    <p>
      A woman's tears do not always affect another woman; but one reason is,
      they are very often no sign of grief or of any worthy feeling. The sex,
      accustomed to read the nicer shades of emotion, distinguishes tears of
      pique, tears of disappointment, tears of spite, tears various, from tears
      of grief. But Lucy's was a burst of regret so sincere, of sorrow and pity
      so tender and innocent that it fell on Eve's hot heart like the dew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! well,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;it was to be, it was to be; and I suppose I
      oughtn't to blame you. But all he does for you tells against himself, and
      that does seem hard. It isn't as if he and you were anything to one
      another; then I shouldn't grudge it so much. He has lost his character as
      a seaman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He valued it a deal more than his life. He was always ready to throw THAT
      away for you or anybody else. He has lost his standing in the <i>service.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see he has no interest, like some of them; he only got on by being
      better and cleverer than all the rest; so the Company won't listen to any
      excuses from him, and, indeed, he is too proud to make them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will never be captain of a ship now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain of a ship! Will he ever leave the bed of sickness he lies on?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The bed of sickness! Is he ill? Oh, what have I done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he ill? What! do you think my brother is made of iron? Out all night
      with you&mdash;then off, with scarce a wink of sleep; then two days and
      two nights chasing the <i>Combermere,</i> sometimes gaining, sometimes
      losing, and his credit and his good name hanging on it; then to beat back
      against wind, heartbroken, and no food on board&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it is too horrible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He staggered into me, white as a ghost. I got him to bed: he was in a
      burning fever. In the night he was lightheaded, and all his talk was about
      you. He kept fretting lest you should not have got safe home. It is always
      so. We care the most for those that care the least for us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he in the Indiaman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Miss Fountain, he is not in the Indiaman,&rdquo; cried Eve, her wrath
      suddenly rising again; &ldquo;he lies there, Miss Fountain, in that room, at
      death's door, and you to thank for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this stab Lucy uttered a cry like a wounded deer. But this cry was
      followed immediately by one of terror: the door opened suddenly, and there
      stood David Dodd, looking as white as his sister had said, but, as usual,
      not in the humor to succumb. &ldquo;Me at death's port, did you say?&rdquo; cried he,
      in a loud tone of cheerful defiance; &ldquo;tell that to the marines!!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I HEARD your voice, Miss Lucy; I would know it among a million; so I
      rigged myself directly. Why, what is the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; sobbed Lucy, &ldquo;she has told me all you have gone through,
      and I am the wicked, wicked cause!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David groaned. &ldquo;If I didn't think as much. I heard the mill going. Ah!
      Eve, my girl, your jawing-tackle is too well hung. Eve is a good sister to
      me, Miss Lucy, and, where I am concerned, let her alone for making a
      mountain out of a mole-hill. If you believe all she says, you are to
      blame. The thing that went to my heart was to see my skipper run out his
      stunsel booms the moment he saw me overhauling him; it was a dirty action,
      and him an old shipmate. I am glad now I couldn't catch her, for if I had
      my foot would not have been on the deck two seconds before his carcass
      would have been in the Channel. And pray, Eve, what has Miss Fountain got
      to do with that? the dirty lubber wasn't bred at her school, or he would
      not have served an old messmate so.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Belay all that, and let's hear something worth hearing. Now, Miss Lucy,
      you tell me&mdash;oh, Lord, Eve, I say, isn't the thundering old dingy
      room bright now?&mdash;you spin me your own yarn, if you will be so good.
      Here you are, safe and sound, the Lord be praised! But I left you under
      the lee of that thundering island: wasn't very polite, was it? but you
      will excuse, won't you? Duty, you know&mdash;a seaman must leave his
      pleasure for his duty. Tell me, now, how did you come on? Was the vessel
      comfortable? You would not sail till the wind fell? Had you a good voyage?
      A tiresome one, I am afraid: the sloop wasn't built for fast sailing. When
      did you land?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To this fire of eager questions Lucy was in no state to answer. &ldquo;Oh, no,
      Mr. Dodd,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;I can't. I am choking. Yes, Miss Dodd, I am the
      heartless, unfeeling girl you think me.&rdquo; Then, with a sudden dart, she
      took David's hand and kissed it, and, both her hands hiding her blushing
      face, she fled, and a single sob she let fall at the door was the last of
      her. So sudden was her exit, it left both brother and sister stupefied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve, she is offended,&rdquo; said David, with dismay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What if she is?&rdquo; retorted Eve; &ldquo;no, she is not offended; but I have made
      her feel at last, and a good job, too. Why should she escape? she has done
      all the mischief. Come, you go to bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not I; I have been long enough on my beam-ends. And I have heard her
      voice, and have seen her face, and they have put life into me. I shall
      cruise about the port. I have gone to leeward of John Company's favor, but
      there are plenty of coasting-vessels; I may get the command of one. I'll
      try; a seaman never strikes his flag while there's a shot in the locker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, put me up, Captain Kenealy! Oh, do pray make haste! don't dawdle
      so!&rdquo; Off cantered Lucy, and fanned her pony along without mercy. At the
      door of the house she jumped off without assistance, and ran to Mr.
      Bazalgette's study, and knocked hastily, and that gentleman was not a
      little surprised when this unusual visitor came to his side with some
      signs of awe at having penetrated his sanctum, but evidently driven by an
      overpowering excitement. &ldquo;Oh, Uncle Bazalgette! Oh, Uncle Bazalgette!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what is the matter? Why, the child is ill. Don't gasp like that,
      Lucy. Come, pluck up courage; I am sure to be on your side, you know. What
      is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uncle, you are always so kind to me; you know you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, am I? Noble old fellow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don't make me laugh! ha! ha! oh! oh! oh! ha! oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confound it, I have sent her into hysterics; no, she is coming round. Ten
      thousand million devils, has anybody been insulting the child in my house?
      They have. My wife, for a guinea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, no. It is about Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd? oho!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have ruined him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How have you managed that, my dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Lucy, all in a flutter, told Mr. Bazalgette what the reader has just
      learned.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked grave. &ldquo;Lucy,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;be frank with me. Is not Mr. Dodd in
      love with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I <i>will</i> be frank with <i>you,</i> dear uncle, because you are
      frank. Poor Mr. Dodd did love me once; but I refused him, and so his good
      sense and manliness cured him directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So, now that he no longer loves you, you love him; that is so like you
      girls.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, uncle; how ridiculous! If I loved Mr. Dodd, I could repair the
      cruel injuries I have done him with a single word. I have only to recall
      my refusal, and he&mdash;But I do not love Mr. Dodd. Esteem him I do, and
      he has saved my life; and is he to lose his health, and his character, and
      his means of honorable ambition for that? Do you not see how shocking this
      is, and how galling to my pride? Yes, uncle, I <i>have</i> been insulted.
      His sister told me to my face it was an evil day for him when he and I
      first met&mdash;that was at Uncle Fountain's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and what am I to do, Lucy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Uncle, what I thought was, if you would be so kind as to use your
      influence with the Company in his favor. Tell them that if he did miss his
      ship it was not by a fault, but by a noble virtue; tell them that it was
      to save a fellow creature's life&mdash;a young lady's life&mdash;one that
      did not deserve it from him, your own niece's; tell them it is not for
      your honor he should be disgraced. Oh, uncle, you know what to say so much
      better than I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bazalgette grinned, and straightway resolved to perpetrate a practical
      joke, and a very innocent one. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;the best way I can think
      of to meet your views will be, I think, to get him appointed to the new
      ship the Company is building.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy opened her eyes, and the blood rushed to her cheek. &ldquo;Oh uncle, do I
      hear right? a ship? Are you so powerful? are you so kind? do you love your
      poor niece so well as all this? Oh, Uncle Bazalgette!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no end to my power,&rdquo; said the old man, solemnly; &ldquo;no limit to my
      goodness, no bounds to my love for my poor niece. Are you in a hurry, my
      poor niece? Shall we have his commission down to-morrow, or wait a month?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-morrow? is it possible? Oh, yes! I count the minutes till I say to his
      sister, 'There, Miss Dodd, I have friends who value me too highly to let
      me lie under these galling obligations.' Dear, dear uncle, I don't mind
      being under them to you, because I love you&rdquo; (kisses).
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And not Mr. Dodd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, dear; and that is the reason I would rather give him a ship than&mdash;the
      only other thing that would make him happy. And really, but for your
      goodness, I should have been tempted to&mdash;ha! ha! Oh, I am so happy
      now. No; much as I admire my preserver's courage and delicacy and
      unselfishness and goodness, I don't love him; so, but for this, he MUST
      have been unhappy for life, and then I should have been miserable
      forever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perfectly clear and satisfactory, my dear. Now, if the commission is to
      be down to-morrow, you must not stay here, because I have other letters to
      write, to go by the same courier that takes my application for the ship.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you really think I will go till I have kissed you, Uncle
      Bazalgette?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On a subject so important, I hardly venture to give an opin&mdash;hallo!
      kissing, indeed? Why, it is like a young wolf flying at horseflesh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then that will teach you not to be kinder to me than anybody else is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy ran out radiant and into the garden. Here she encountered Kenealy,
      and, coming on him with a blaze of beauty and triumph, fired a resolution
      that had smoldered in him a day or two.
    </p>
    <p>
      He twirled his mustache and&mdash;popped briefly.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      AFTER the first start of rueful astonishment, the indignation of the just
      fired Lucy's eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      She scolded him well. &ldquo;Was this his return for all her late kindness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hinted broadly at the viper of Aesop, and indicated more faintly an
      animal that, when one bestows the choicest favors on it, turns and rends
      one. Then, becoming suddenly just to the brute creation, she said: &ldquo;No, it
      is only your abominable sex that would behave so perversely, so
      ungratefully.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't understand,&rdquo; drawled Kenealy, &ldquo;I thought you would laike it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you see, I don't laike it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seemed to be getting rather spooney on me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Spooney! what is that? one of your mess-room terms, I suppose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yaas; so I thought you waunted me to pawp.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain Kenealy, this subterfuge is unworthy of you. You know perfectly
      well why I distinguished you. Others pestered me with their attachments
      and nonsense, and you spared me that annoyance. In return, I did all in my
      power to show you the grateful friendship I thought you worthy of. But you
      have broken faith; you have violated the clear, though tacit understanding
      that subsisted between us, and I am very angry with you. I have some
      little influence left with my aunt, sir, and, unless I am much mistaken,
      you will shortly rejoin the army, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a boa! what a dem'd boa!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And don't swear; that is another foolish custom you gentlemen have; it is
      almost as foolish as the other. Yes, I'll tell my aunt of you, and then
      you will see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a boa! How horrid spaiteful you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I am rather vindictive. But my aunt is ten times worse, as her
      deserter shall find, unless&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unless whawt?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unless you beg my pardon directly.&rdquo; And at this part of the conversation
      Lucy was fain to turn her head away, for she found it getting difficult to
      maintain that severe countenance which she thought necessary to clothe her
      words with terror, and subjugate the gallant captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, I apolojaize,&rdquo; said Kenealy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I accept your apology; and don't do it again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won't, 'pon honaa. Look heah; I swear I didn't mean to affront yah; I
      don't waunt yah to mayrry me; I only proposed out of civility.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, then, it was not so black as it appeared. Courtesy is a good thing;
      and if you thought that, after staying a month in a house, you were bound
      by etiquette to propose to the marriageable part of it, it is pardonable,
      only don't do it again, <i>please.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll take caa&mdash;I'll take caa. I say your tempaa is not&mdash;quite&mdash;what
      those other fools think it is&mdash;no, by Jove;&rdquo; and the captain glared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense: I am only a little fiendish on this one point. Well, then,
      steer clear of it, and you will find me a good crechaa on every other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kenealy vowed he would profit by the advice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then there is my hand: we are friends again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't tell your aunt, nor the other fellaas?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain Kenealy, I am not one of your garrison ladies; I am a young
      person who has been educated; your extra civility will never be known to a
      soul: and you shall not join the army but as a volunteer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, dem me, Miss Fountain, if I wouldn't be cut in pieces to oblaige
      you. Just you tray me, and you'll faind, if I am not very braight, I am a
      man of honah. If those ether begaas annoy you, jaast tell me, and I'll
      parade 'em at twelve paces, dem me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must try and find some less insane vent for your friendly feelings; and
      what can I do for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yah couldn't go on pretending to be spooney on me, could yah?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no. What for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I laike it; makes the other begaas misable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What worthy sentiments! it is a sin to balk them. I am sure there is no
      reason why I should not appear to adore you in public, so long as you let
      me keep my distance in private; but persons of my sex cannot do just what
      they would like. We have feelings that pull us this way and that, and,
      after all this, I am afraid I shall never have the courage to play those
      pranks with you again; and that is a pity, since it amused you, and teased
      those that tease me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In short, the house now contained two &ldquo;holy alliances&rdquo; instead of one.
      Unfortunately for Lucy, the hostile one was by far the stronger of the
      two; and even now it was preparing a terrible coup.
    </p>
    <p>
      This evening the storm that was preparing blew good to one of a depressed
      class, which cannot fail to gratify the just.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette. &ldquo;Jane, come to my room a minute; I have something for
      you. Here is a cashmere gown and cloak; the cloak I want; I can wear it
      with anything; but you may have the gown.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, thank you, mum; it is beautiful, and a'most as good as new. I am
      sure, mum, I am very much obliged to you for your kindness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, you are a good girl, and a sensible girl. By the by, you might
      give me your opinion upon something. Does Miss Lucy prefer any one of our
      guests? You understand me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, mum, it is hard to say. Miss Lucy is as reserved as ever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I thought she might&mdash;ahem!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, mum, I do assure you, not a word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, but you are a shrewd girl; tell me what you think: now, for
      instance, suppose she was compelled to choose between, say Mr. Hardie and
      Mr. Talboys, which would it be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, mum, if you ask my opinion, I don't think Miss Lucy is the one to
      marry a fool; and by all accounts, there's a deal more in Mr. Hardies's
      head than what there isn't in Mr. Talboysese's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a clever girl. You shall have the cloak as well, and, if my niece
      marries, you shall remain in her service all the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you kindly, mum. I don't desire no better mistress, married or
      single; and Mr. Hardies is much respected in the town, and heaps o' money;
      so miss and me we couldn't do no better, neither of us. Your servant, mum,
      and thanks you for your bounty&rdquo;; and Jane courtesied twice and went off
      with the spoils.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the corridor she met old Fountain. &ldquo;Stop, Jane,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I want to
      speak to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At your service, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the first place, I want to give you something to buy a new gown&rdquo;; and
      he took out a couple of sovereigns. &ldquo;Where am I to put them? in your
      breast-pocket?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put them under the cloak, sir,&rdquo; murmured Jane, tenderly. She loved
      sovereigns.
    </p>
    <p>
      He put his hand under the heap of cashmere, and a quick little claw hit
      the coins and closed on them by almighty instinct.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now I want to ask your opinion. Is my niece in love with anyone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Mr. Fountains, if she is she don't show it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But doesn't she like one man better than another?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may take your oath of that, if we could but get to her mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which does she like best, this Hardie or Mr. Talboys? Come, tell me,
      now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir, you know Mr. Talboys is an old acquaintance, and like brother
      and sister at Font Abbey. I do suppose she have been a scare of times
      alone with him for one, with Mr. Hardie's. That she should take up with a
      stranger and jilt an old acquaintance, now is it feasible?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, of course not. It was a foolish question; you are a young woman of
      sense. Here's a 5 pound note for you. You must not tell I spoke to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now is it likely, sir? My character would be broken forever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you shall be with my niece when she is Mrs. Talboys.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I might do worse, sir, and so might she. He is respected far and wide,
      and a grand house, and a carriage and four, and everything to make a lady
      comfortable. Your servant, sir, and wishes you many thanks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And such as Jane was, all true servants are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ancients used to bribe the Oracle of Delphi. Curious.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Lucy's twenty-first birthday dawned, but it was not to her the gay
      exulting day it is to some. Last night her uncle and aunt had gone a step
      further, and, instead of kissing her ceremoniously, had evaded her. They
      were drawing matters to a climax: once of age, each day would make her
      more independent in spirit as in circumstances. This morning she hoped
      custom would shield her from unkindness for one day at least. But no, they
      made it clear there was but one way back to their smiles. Their
      congratulations at the breakfast-table were cold and constrained; her
      heart fell; and long before noon on her birthday she was crying. Thus
      weakened, she had to encounter a thoroughly prepared attack. Mr.
      Bazalgette summoned her to his study at one o'clock, and there she found
      him and Mrs. Bazalgette and Mr. Fountain seated solemnly in conclave. The
      merchant was adding up figures.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, now, business,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Dick has added them up: his figures are
      in that envelope; break the seal and open it, Lucy. If his total
      corresponds with mine, we are right; if not, I am wrong, and you will all
      have to go over it with me till we are right.&rdquo; A general groan followed
      this announcement. Luckily, the sum totals corresponded to a fraction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Mr. Bazalgette made Lucy a little speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, in laying down that office which your amiable nature has
      rendered so agreeable, I feel a natural regret on your account that the
      property my colleague there and I have had to deal with on your account
      has not been more important. However, as far as it goes, we have been
      fortunate. Consols have risen amazingly since we took you off land and
      funded you. The rise in value of your little capital since your mother's
      death is calculated on this card. You have, also, some loose cash, which I
      will hand over to you immediately. Let me see&mdash;eleven hundred and
      sixty pounds and five shillings. Write your name in full on that paper,
      Lucy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He touched a bell; a servant came. He wrote a line and folded it,
      inclosing Lucy's signature.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let this go to Mr. Hardie's bank immediately. Hardie will give you three
      per cent for your money. Better than nothing. You must have a check-book.
      He sent me a new one yesterday. Here it is; you shall have it. I wonder
      whether you know how to draw a check?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, then. You note the particulars first on this counter-foil,
      which thus serves in some degree for an account-book. In drawing the
      check, place the sum in letters close to these printed words, and the sum
      in figures close to the pound. For want of this precaution, the holder of
      the check has been known to turn a 10 pound check into 110 pounds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh how wicked!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mind what you say. Dexterity is the only virtue left in England; so we
      must be on our guard, especially in what we write with our name attached.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must say, Mr. Bazalgette, you are unwise to put such a sum of money
      into a young girl's hands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The young girl has been a woman an hour and ten minutes, and come into
      her property, movables, and cash aforesaid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you were her real friend, you would take care of her money for her
      till she marries.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The eighth commandment, my dear, the eighth commandment, and other
      primitive axioms: <i>suum cuique,</i> and such odd sayings: 'Him as keeps
      what isn't hisn, soon or late shall go to prison,' with similar apothegms.
      Total: let us keep the British merchant and the Newgate thief as distinct
      as the times permit. Fountain and Bazalgette, account squared, books
      closed, and I'm off!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, uncle, pray stay!&rdquo; said Lucy. &ldquo;When you are by me, Rectitude and
      Sense seem present in person, and I can lean on them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lean on yourself; the law has cut your leading-strings. Why patch 'em? It
      has made you a woman from a baby. Rise to your new rank. Rectitude and
      Sense are just as much wanted in the town of &mdash;&mdash;, where I am
      due, as they are in this house. Besides, Sense has spoken uninterrupted
      for ten minutes; prodigious! so now it is Nonsense's turn for the next ten
      hours.&rdquo; He made for the door; then suddenly returning, said: &ldquo;I will leave
      a grain of sense, etc., behind me. What is marriage? Do you give it up?
      Marriage is a contract. Who are the parties? the papas and mammas, uncles
      and aunts? By George, you would think so to hear them talk. No, the
      contract is between two parties, and these two only. It is a printed
      contract. Anybody can read it gratis. None but idiots sign a contract
      without reading it; none but knaves sign a contract which, having read,
      they find they cannot execute. Matrimony is a mercantile affair; very
      well, then, import into it sound mercantile morality. Go to market; sell
      well; but, d&mdash;n it all, deliver the merchandise as per sample, viz.,
      a woman warranted to love, honor and obey the purchaser. If you swindle
      the other contracting party in the essentials of the contract, don't
      complain when you are unhappy. Are shufflers entitled to happiness? and
      what are those who shuffle and prevaricate in a church any better than
      those who shuffle and prevaricate in a counting-house?&rdquo; and the brute
      bolted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My husband is a worthy man,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, languidly, &ldquo;but now
      and then he makes me blush for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our good friend is a humorist,&rdquo; replied Fountain, good-humoredly, &ldquo;and
      dearly loves a paradox&rdquo;; and they pooh-poohed him without a particle of
      malice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Mrs. Bazalgette turned to Lucy, and hoped that she did her the
      justice to believe she had none but affectionate motives in wishing to see
      her speedily established.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, aunt,&rdquo; said Lucy. &ldquo;Why should you wish to part with me? I give you
      but little trouble in your great house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trouble, child? you know you are a comfort to have in any house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This pleased Lucy; it was the first gracious word for a long time. Having
      thus softened her, Mrs. Bazalgette proceeded to attack her by all the
      weaknesses of her sex and age, and for a good hour pressed her so hard
      that the tears often gushed from Lucy's eyes over her red cheeks. The girl
      was worn by the length of the struggle and the pertinacity of the assault.
      She was as determined as ever to do nothing, but she had no longer the
      power to resist in words. Seeing her reduced to silence, and not exactly
      distinguishing between impassibility and yielding, Mrs. Bazalgette
      delivered the <i>coup-de-grace.</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must now tell you plainly, Lucy, that your character is compromised by
      being out all night with persons of the other sex. I would have spared you
      this, but your resistance compels those who love you to tell you all.
      Owing to that unfortunate trip, you are in such a situation that you <i>must</i>
      marry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The world is surely not so unjust as all this,&rdquo; sighed Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't know the world as I do,&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;And those who live in
      it cannot defy it. I tell you plainly, Lucy, neither your uncle nor I can
      keep you any longer, except as an engaged person. And even that engagement
      ought to be a very short one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, aunt? what, uncle? your house is no longer mine?&rdquo; and she buried
      her head upon the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Lucy,&rdquo; said Mr. Fountain, &ldquo;of course we would not have told you
      this yesterday. It would have been ungenerous. But you are now your own
      mistress; you are independent. Young persons in your situation can
      generally forget in a day or two a few years of kindness. You have now an
      opportunity of showing us whether you are one of that sort.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Mrs. Bazalgette put in her word. &ldquo;You will not lack people to
      encourage you in ingratitude&mdash;perhaps my husband himself; but if he
      does, it will make a lasting breach between him and me, of which you will
      have been the cause.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven forbid!&rdquo; said Lucy, with a shudder. &ldquo;Why should dear Mr.
      Bazalgette be drawn into my troubles? He is no relation of mine, only a
      loyal friend, whom may God bless and reward for his kindness to a poor
      fatherless, motherless girl. Aunt, uncle, if you will let me stay with
      you, I will be more kind, more attentive to you than I have been. Be
      persuaded; be advised. If you succeeded in getting rid of me, you might
      miss me, indeed you might. I know all your little ways so well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucy, we are not to be tempted to do wrong,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette,
      sternly. &ldquo;Choose which of these two offers you will accept. Choose which
      you please. If you refuse both, you must pack up your things, and go and
      live by yourself, or with Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Dodd? why is his name introduced? Was it necessary to insult me?&rdquo; and
      her eyes flashed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody wishes to insult you, Lucy. And I propose, madam, we give her a
      day to consider.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, uncle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With all my heart; only, until she decides, she must excuse me if I do
      not treat her with the same affection as I used, and as I hope to do
      again. I am deeply wounded, and I am one that cannot feign.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You need not fear me, aunt; my heart is turned to ice. I shall never
      intrude that love on which you set no value. May I retire?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette looked to Mr. Fountain, and both bowed acquiescence. Lucy
      went out pale, but dry-eyed; despair never looked so lovely, or carried
      its head more proudly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't like it,&rdquo; said Mr. Fountain. &ldquo;I am afraid we have driven the poor
      girl too hard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you afraid of, pray?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She looked to me just like a woman who would go and take an ounce of
      laudanum. Poor Lucy! she has been a good niece to me, after all;&rdquo; and the
      water stood in the old bachelor's eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette tapped him on the shoulder and said archly, but with a
      tone that carried conviction, &ldquo;She will take no poison. She will hate us
      for an hour; then she will have a good cry: to-morrow she will come to our
      terms; and this day next year she will be very much obliged to us for
      doing what all women like, forcing her to her good with a little
      harshness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      SAID Lucy as she went from the door, &ldquo;Thank Heaven, they have insulted
      me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This does not sound logical, but that is only because the logic is so
      subtle and swift. She meant something of this kind: &ldquo;I am of a yielding
      nature; I might have sacrificed myself to retain their affection; but they
      have roused a vice of mine, my pride, against them, so now I shall be
      immovable in right, thanks to my wicked pride. Thank Heaven, they have
      insulted me!&rdquo; She then laid her head upon her bed and moaned, for she was
      stricken to the heart. Then she rose and wrote a hasty note, and, putting
      it in her bosom, came downstairs and looked for Captain Kenealy. He proved
      to be in the billiard-room, playing the spotted ball against the plain
      one. &ldquo;Oh, Captain Kenealy, I am come to try your friendship; you said I
      might command you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yaas!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then <i>will</i> you mount my pony, and ride with this to Mrs. Wilson, to
      that farm where I kept you waiting so long, and you were not angry as
      anyone else would have been?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yaas!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not a soul must see it, or know where you are gone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All raight, Miss Fountain. Don't you be fraightened; I'm close as the
      grave, and I'll be there in less than haelf an hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but don't hurt my dear pony either; don't beat him; and, above all,
      don't come back without an answer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll bring you an answer in an hour and twenty minutes.&rdquo; The captain
      looked at his watch, and went out with a smartness that contrasted happily
      with his slowness of speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy went back to her own room and locked herself in, and with trembling
      hands began to pack up her jewels and some of her clothes. But when it
      came to this, wounded pride was sorely taxed by a host of reminiscences
      and tender regrets, and every now and then the tears suddenly gushed and
      fell upon her poor hands as she put things out, or patted them flat, to
      wander on the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she is thus sorrowfully employed, let me try and give an outline of
      the feelings that had now for some time been secretly growing in her,
      since without their co-operation she would never have been driven to the
      strange step she now meditated.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy was a very unselfish and very intelligent girl. The first trait had
      long blinded her to something; the second had lately helped to open her
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      If ever you find a person quick to discover selfishness in others, be sure
      that person is selfish; for it is only the selfish who come into habitual
      collision with selfishness, and feel how sharp-pointed a thing it is. When
      Unselfish meets Selfish, each acts after his kind; Unselfish gives way,
      Selfish holds his course, and so neither is thwarted, and neither finds
      out the other's character.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy, then, of herself, would never have discovered her relatives'
      egotism. But they helped her, and she was too bright not to see anything
      that was properly pointed out to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Fountain kept showing and proving Mrs. Bazalgette's egotism, and Mrs.
      Bazalgette kept showing and proving Mr. Fountain's egotism, Lucy ended by
      seeing both their egotisms, as clearly as either could desire; and, as she
      despised egotism, she lost her respect for both these people, and let them
      convince her they were both persons against whom she must be on her guard.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the direct result of their mines and countermines heretofore
      narrated, but not the only result. It followed indirectly, but inevitably,
      that the present holy alliance failed. Lucy had not forgotten the past;
      and to her this seemed not a holy, but an unholy, hollow, and empty
      alliance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They hate one another,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;but it seems they hate me worse, since
      they can hide their mutual dislike to combine against poor me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another thing: Lucy was one of those women who thirst for love, and,
      though not vain enough to be always showing they think they ought to be
      beloved, have quite secret <i>amour propre</i> enough to feel at the
      bottom of their hearts that they were sent here to that end, and that it
      is a folly and a shame not to love them more or less.
    </p>
    <p>
      If ever Madame Ristori plays &ldquo;Maria Stuarda&rdquo; within a mile of you, go and
      see her. Don't chatter: you can do that at home; attend to the scene; the
      worst play ever played is not so unimproving as chit-chat. Then, when the
      scaffold is even now erected, and the poor queen, pale and tearful,
      palpitates in death's grasp, you shall see her suddenly illumined with a
      strange joy, and hear her say, with a marvelous burst of feminine triumph,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           &ldquo;I have been <i>amata molto!!!&rdquo;</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      Uttered, under a scaffold, as the Italian utters it, this line is a
      revelation of womanhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      The English virgin of our humbler tale had a soul full of this feeling,
      only she had never learned to set the love of sex above other loves; but,
      mark you, for that very reason, a mortal insult to her heart from her
      beloved relatives was as mortifying, humiliating and unpardonable as is,
      to other high-spirited girls, an insult from their favored lover.
    </p>
    <p>
      What could she do more than she had done to win their love? No, their
      hearts were inaccessible to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They wish to get rid of me. Well, they shall. They refuse me their
      houses. Well, I will show them the value of their houses to me. It was
      their hearts I clung to, not their houses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A tap came to Lucy's door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is that? I am busy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, miss!&rdquo; said an agitated voice, &ldquo;may I speak to you&mdash;the
      captain!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What captain?&rdquo; inquired Lucy, without opening the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knealys, miss.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will come out to you. Now. Has Captain Kenealy returned already?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;La! no, miss. He haven't been anywhere as I know of. He had them about
      him as couldn't spare him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something is the matter, Jane. What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jane lowered her voice mysteriously. &ldquo;Well, miss, the captain is&mdash;in
      trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear, what has happened?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, the fact is, miss, the captain's&mdash;took&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot understand you. Pray speak intelligibly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Arrested, miss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain Kenealy arrested! Oh, Heaven! for what crime?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;La, miss, no crime at all&mdash;leastways not so considered by the
      gentry. He is only took in payment of them beautiful reg-mentals. However,
      black or red, he is always well put on. I am sure he looks just out of a
      band-box; and I got it all out of one of the men as it's a army tailor,
      which he wrote again and again, and sent his bill, and the captain he took
      no notice; then the tailor he sent him a writ, and the captain he took no
      notice; then the tailor he lawed him, but the captain he kep' on a taking
      no more notice nor if it was a dog a barking, and then a putting all them
      ere barks one after another in a letter, and sending them by the post; so
      the end is, the captain is arrested; and now he behooves to attend a bit
      to what is a going on around an about him, as the saying is, and so he is
      waiting to pay you his respects before he starts for Bridewell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My fatal advice! I ruin all my friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep dark,&rdquo; says he; &ldquo;don't tell a soul except Miss Fountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is he? Oh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jane offered to show her that, and took her to the stable yard. Arriving
      with a face full of tender pity and concern, Lucy was not a little
      surprised to find the victim smoking cigars in the center of his smoking
      captors. The men touched their hats, and Captain Kenealy said: &ldquo;Isn't it a
      boa, Miss Fountain? they won't let me do your little commission. In London
      they will go anywhere with a fellaa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;London ye knows,&rdquo; explained the assistant, &ldquo;but this here is full of hins
      and houts, and folyidge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, sir,&rdquo; cried Lucy to the best-dressed captor, &ldquo;surely you will not be
      so cruel as to take a gentleman like Captain Kenealy to prison?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very sorry, marm, but we 'ave no hoption: takes 'em every day; don't we,
      Bill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bill nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, sir, as it is only for money, can you not be induced by&mdash;by&mdash;money&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bill, lady's going to pay the debtancosts. Show her the ticket. Debt
      eighty pund, costs seven pund eighteen six.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! will you liberate him if I pay you eighty-eight pounds?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, marm, to oblige you we will; won't we, Bill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He winked. Bill nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then pray stay here a minute, and this shall be arranged to your entire
      satisfaction&rdquo;; and she glided swiftly away, followed by Jane, wriggling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite the lady, Bill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kevite. Captn is in luck. Hare ve to be at the vedding, capn?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dem your impudence! I'll cross-buttock yah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold your tongue, Bill&mdash;queering a gent. Draw it mild, captain.
      Debtancosts ain't paid yet. Here they come, though.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy returned swiftly, holding aloft a slip of paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, sir, that is a check for 90 pounds; it is the same thing as money,
      you are doubtless aware.&rdquo; The man took it and inspected it keenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very sorry, marm, but can't take it. It's a lady's check.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! is it not written properly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beautiful, marm. But when we takes these beautiful-wrote checks to the
      bank, the cry is always, 'No assets.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Uncle Bazalgette said everybody would give me money for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! is Mr. Bazalgette your uncle, marm? then you go to him, and get his
      check in place of yours, and the captain will be free as the birds in the
      hair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, thank you, sir,&rdquo; cried Lucy, and the next minute she was in Mr.
      Bazalgette's study. &ldquo;Uncle, don't be angry with me: it is for no unworthy
      purpose; only don't ask me; it might mortify another; but <i>would</i> you
      give me a check of your own for mine? They will not receive mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Bazalgette looked grave, and even sad; but he sat quietly down without
      a word, and drew her a check, taking hers, which he locked in his desk.
      The tears were in Lucy's eyes at his gravity and his delicacy. &ldquo;Some day I
      will tell you,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I have nothing to reproach myself, indeed&mdash;indeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make the rogue&mdash;or jade&mdash;give you a receipt,&rdquo; groaned
      Bazalgette.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, marm, this time. Captain, the world is hall before you where
      to chewse. But this is for ninety, marm;&rdquo; and he put his hand very slowly
      into his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do me the favor to keep the rest for your trouble, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trouble's a pleasure, marm. It is not often we gets a tip for taking a
      gent. Ve are funk shin hairies as is not depreciated, mam, and the more
      genteel we takes 'em the rougher they cuts; and the very women no more
      like you nor dark to light; but flies at us like ryal Bengal tigers,
      through taking of us for the creditors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Verehas we hare honly servants of the ke veen;&rdquo; suggested No. 2, hashing
      his mistress's English.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stow your gab, Bill, and mizzle. Let the captain thank the lady.
      Good-day, marm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my poor friend, what language! and my ill advice threw you into their
      company!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain Kenealy told her, in his brief way, that the circumstance was one
      of no import, except in so far as it had impeded his discharge of his duty
      to her. He then mounted the pony, which had been waiting for him more than
      half an hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it is five o'clock,&rdquo; said Lucy; &ldquo;you will be too late for dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dinner be dem&mdash;d,&rdquo; drawled the man of action, and rode off like a
      flash.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is to be, then,&rdquo; said Lucy, and her heart ebbed. It had ebbed and
      flowed a good many times in the last hour or two.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Kenealy reappeared in the middle of dinner. Lucy scanned his face,
      but it was like the outside of a copy-book, and she was on thorns. Being
      too late, he lost his place near her at dinner, and she could not whisper
      to him. However, when the ladies retired he opened the door, and Lucy let
      fall a word at his feet: &ldquo;Come up before the rest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Acting on this order, Kenealy came up, and found Lucy playing sad tunes
      softly on the piano and Mrs. Bazalgette absent. She was trying something
      on upstairs. He gave Lucy a note from Mrs. Wilson. She opened it, and the
      joyful color suffused her cheek, and she held out her hand to him; but, as
      she turned her head away mighty prettily at the same time, she did not see
      the captain was proffering a second document, and she was a little
      surprised when, instead of a warm grasp, all friendship and no love, a
      piece of paper was shoved into her delicate palm. She took it; looked
      first at Kenealy, then at it, and was sore puzzled.
    </p>
    <p>
      The document was in Kenealy's handwriting, and at first Lucy thought it
      must be intended as a mere specimen of caligraphy; for not only was it
      beautifully written, but in letters of various sizes. There were three
      gigantic vowels, I. O. U. There were little wee notifications of time and
      place, and other particulars of medium size. The general result was that
      Henry Kenealy O'd Lucy Fountain ninety pound for value received per loan.
      Lucy caught at the meaning. &ldquo;But, my dear friend,&rdquo; said she, innocently,
      &ldquo;you mistake. I did not lend it you; I meant to give it you. Will you not
      accept it? Are we not friends?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Much oblaiged. Couldn't do it. Dishonable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, pray do not let me wound your pride. I know what it is to have one's
      pride wounded; call it a loan if you wish. But, dear friend, what am I to
      do with this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you want the money, order your man of business to present it to me,
      and, if I don't pay, lock me up, for I shall deserve it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I understand. This is a memorandum&mdash;a sort of reminder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yaas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then clearly I am not the person to whom it should be given. No; if you
      want to be reminded of this mighty matter, put this in your desk; if it
      gets into mine, you will never see it again; I will give you fair warning.
      There&mdash;hide it&mdash;quick&mdash;here they come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They did come, all but Mr. Bazalgette, who was at work in his study. Mr.
      Talboys came up to the piano and said gravely, &ldquo;Miss Fountain, are you
      aware of the fate of the lugger&mdash;of the boat we went out in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Indeed I am. I have sent the poor widow some clothes and a little money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have only just been informed of it,&rdquo; said Mr. Talboys, &ldquo;and I feel
      under considerable obligations to Mr. Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The feeling does you credit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should you meet him, will you do me the honor to express my gratitude to
      him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would, with pleasure, Mr. Talboys, but there is no chance whatever of
      my seeing Mr. Dodd. His sister is staying in Market Street, No. 80, and if
      you would call on them or write to them, it would be a kindness, and I
      think they would both feel it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph!&rdquo; said Talboys, doubtfully. Here a servant stepped up to Miss
      Fountain. &ldquo;Master would be glad to see you in his study, miss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have got something for you, Lucy. I know what it is, so run away with
      it, and read it in your own room, for I am busy.&rdquo; He handed her a long
      sealed packet. She took it, trembling, and flew to her own room with it,
      like a hawk carrying off a little bird to its nest. She broke the enormous
      seal and took out the inclosure. It was David Dodd's commission. He was
      captain of the <i>Rajah,</i> the new ship of eleven hundred tons' burden.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she gazes at it with dilating eye and throbbing heart, I may as well
      undeceive the reader. This was not really effected in forty-eight hours.
      Bazalgette only pretended that, partly out of fun, partly out of nobility.
      Ever since a certain interview in his study with David Dodd, who was a man
      after his own heart, he had taken a note, and had worked for him with &ldquo;the
      Company;&rdquo; for Bazalgette was one of those rare men who reduce performance
      to a certainty long before they promise. His promises were like pie-crust
      made to be eaten, and eaten hot.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy came out of her room, and at the same moment issued forth from hers
      Mrs. Bazalgette in a fine new dress. It was that black <i>glace;</i> silk,
      divested of gloom by cheerful accessories, in which she had threatened to
      mourn eternally Lucy's watery fate. Fire flashed from the young lady's
      eyes at the sight of it. She went down to her uncle, muttering between her
      ivory teeth: &ldquo;All the same&mdash;all the same;&rdquo; and her heart flowed. The
      next minute, at sight of Mr. Bazalgette it ebbed. She came into his room,
      saying: &ldquo;Oh, Uncle Bazalgette, it is not to thank you&mdash;that I can
      never do worthily; it is to ask another favor. Do, pray, let me spend this
      evening with you; let me be where you are. I will be as still as a mouse.
      See, I have brought some work; or, if you <i>would</i> but let me help
      you. Indeed, uncle, I am not a fool. I am very quick to learn at the
      bidding of those I love. Let me write your letters for you, or fold them
      up, or direct them, or something&mdash;do, pray!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, the caprices of young ladies! Well, can you write large and plain?
      Not you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can <i>imitate</i> anything or anybody.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Imitate this hand then. I'll walk and dictate, you sit and write.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how nice!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Delicious! The first is to&mdash;Hetherington. Now, Lucy, this is a
      dishonest, ungrateful old rogue, who has made thousands by me, and now
      wants to let me into a mine, with nothing in it but water. It would suck
      up twenty thousand pounds as easily as that blotting-paper will suck up
      our signature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heartless traitor! monster!&rdquo; cried Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you ready?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; and her eye flashed and the pen was to her a stiletto.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bazalgette dictated, &ldquo;My dear Sir&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? to a cheat?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Custom, child. I'll have a stamp made. Besides, if we let them see we see
      through them, they would play closer and closer&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Sir&mdash;In answer to yours of date 11th instant, I regret to
      say&mdash;that circumstances prevent&mdash;my closing&mdash;with your
      obliging&mdash;and friendly offer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They wrote eight letters; and Lucy's quick fingers folded up prospectuses,
      and her rays brightened the room. When the work was done, she clung round
      Mr. Bazalgette and caressed him, and seemed strangely unwilling to part
      with him at all; in fact, it was twelve o'clock, and the drawing-room
      empty, when they parted.
    </p>
    <p>
      At one o'clock the whole house was dark except one room, and both windows
      of that room blazed with light. And it happened there was a spectator of
      this phenomenon. A man stood upon the grass and eyed those lights as if
      they were the stars of his destiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was David Dodd. Poor David! he had struck a bargain, and was to command
      a coasting vessel, and carry wood from the Thames to our southern ports.
      An irresistible impulse brought him to look, before he sailed, on the
      place that held the angel who had destroyed his prospects, and whom he
      loved as much as ever, though he was too proud to court a second refusal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She watches, too,&rdquo; thought David, &ldquo;but it is not for me, as I for her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At half past one the lights began to dance before his wearied eyes, and
      presently David, weakened by his late fever, dozed off and forgot all his
      troubles, and slept as sweetly on the grass as he had often slept on the
      hard deck, with his head upon a gun.
    </p>
    <p>
      Luck was against the poor fellow. He had not been unconscious much more
      than ten minutes when Lucy's window opened and she looked out; and he
      never saw her. Nor did she see him; for, though the moon was bright, it
      was not shining on him; he lay within the shadow of a tree. But Lucy did
      see something&mdash;a light upon the turnpike road about forty yards from
      Mr. Bazalgette's gates. She slipped cautiously down, a band-box in her
      hand, and, unbolting the door that opened on the garden, issued out,
      passed within a few yards of Dodd, and went round to the front, and
      finally reached the turnpike road. There she found Mrs. Wilson, with a
      light-covered cart and horse, and a lantern. At sight of her Mrs. Wilson
      put out the light, and they embraced; then they spoke in whispers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, darling, don't tremble; have you got much more?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, several things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at that, now! But, dear heart, I was the same at your age, and
      should be now, like enough. Fetch them all, as quick as you like. I am
      feared to leave Blackbird, or I'd help you down with 'em.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there nobody with you to take care of us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean&mdash;men folk? Not if I know it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right. You are wise. Oh, how courageous!&rdquo; And she went back for
      her finery. And certain it is she had more baggage than I should choose
      for a forced march.
    </p>
    <p>
      But all has an end&mdash;even a female luggage train; so at last she put
      out all her lights and came down, stepping like a fairy, with a large
      basket in her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now it happened that by this time the moon's position was changed, and
      only a part of David lay in the shade; his head and shoulders glittered in
      broad moonlight; and Lucy, taking her farewell of a house where she had
      spent many happy days, cast her eyes all around to bid good-by, and spied
      a man lying within a few paces, and looking like a corpse in the silver
      sheen. She dropped her basket; her knees knocked together with fear, and
      she flew toward Mrs. Wilson. But she did not go far, for the features,
      indistinct as they were by distance and pale light, struck her mind, and
      she stopped and looked timidly over her shoulder. The figure never moved.
      Then, with beating heart, she went toward him slowly and so stealthily
      that she would have passed a mouse without disturbing it, and presently
      she stood by him and looked down on him as he lay.
    </p>
    <p>
      And as she looked at him lying there, so pale, so uncomplaining, so
      placid, under her windows, this silent proof of love, and the thought of
      the raging sea this helpless form had steered her through, and all he had
      suffered as well as acted for her, made her bosom heave, and stirred all
      that was woman within her. He loved her still, then, or why was he here?
      And then the thought that she had done something for him too warmed her
      heart still more toward him. And there was nothing for her to repel now,
      for he lay motionless; there was nothing for her to escape&mdash;he did
      not pursue her; nothing to negative&mdash;he did not propose anything to
      her. Her instinct of defense had nothing to lay hold of; so, womanlike,
      she had a strong impulse to wake him and be kind to him&mdash;as kind as
      she could be without committing herself. But, on the other hand, there was
      shy, trembling, virgin modesty, and shame that he should detect her making
      a midnight evasion, and fear of letting him think she loved him.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she stood thus, with something drawing her on and something drawing
      her back, and palpitating in every fiber, Mrs. Wilson's voice was heard in
      low but anxious tones calling her. A feather turned the balanced scale.
      She must go. Fate had decided for her. She was called. Then the sprites of
      mischief tempted her to let David know she <i>had been</i> near him. She
      longed to put his commission into his pocket; but that was impossible. It
      was at the very bottom of her box. She took out her tablets, wrote the
      word &ldquo;Adieu,&rdquo; tore out half the leaf, and, bending over David, attached
      the little bit of paper by a pin to the tail of his coat. If he had been
      ever so much awake he could not have felt her doing it; for her hand
      touching him, and the white paper settling on his coat, was all done as
      lights a spot of down on still water from the bending neck of a swan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, dear Mrs. Wilson, we must not go yet. I will hold the horse, and you
      must go back for me for something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm agreeable. What is it? Why, what is up? How you do pant!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have made a discovery. There is a gentleman lying asleep there on the
      wet grass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lackadaisy! why, you don't say so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a friend; and he will catch his death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, of course he will. He will have had a drop too much, Miss Lucy. I'll
      wake him, and we will take him along home with us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, not for the world, nurse. I would not have him see what I am doing,
      oh, not for all the world!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In there, under the great tree.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you get into the cart, miss, and hold the reins&rdquo;; and Mrs. Wilson
      went into the grounds and soon found David.
    </p>
    <p>
      She put her hand on his shoulder, and he awoke directly, and looked
      surprised at Mrs. Wilson.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you better, sir?&rdquo; said the good woman. &ldquo;Why, if it isn't the handsome
      gentleman that was so kind to me! Now do ee go in, sir&mdash;do ee go in.
      You will catch your death o' cold.&rdquo; She made sure he was staying at the
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      David looked up at Lucy's windows. &ldquo;Yes, I will go home, Mrs. Wilson;
      there is nothing to stay for now&rdquo;; and he accompanied her to the cart. But
      Mrs. Wilson remembered Lucy's desire not to be seen; so she said very
      loud, &ldquo;I'm sure it's very lucky me and <i>my niece</i> happened to be
      coming home so late, and see you lying there. Well, one good turn deserves
      another. Come and see me at my farm; you go through the village of
      Harrowden, and anybody there will tell you where Dame Wilson do live. I <i>would</i>
      ask you to-night, but&mdash;&rdquo; she hesitated, and Lucy let down her veil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thank you, not now; my sister will be fretting as it is.
      Good-morning&rdquo;; and his steps were heard retreating as Mrs. Wilson mounted
      the cart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I should have liked to have taken him home and warmed him a bit,&rdquo;
       said the good woman to Lucy; &ldquo;it is enough to give him the rheumatics for
      life. However, he is not the first honest man as has had a drop too much,
      and taken 's rest without a feather-bed. Alack, miss, why, you are all of
      a tremble! What ails <i>you?</i> I'm a fool to ask. Ah! well, you'll soon
      be at home, and naught to vex you. That is right; have a good cry, do. Ay,
      ay, <i>'tis</i> hard to be forced to leave our nest. But all places are
      bright where love abides; and there's honest hearts both here and there,
      and the same sky above us wherever we wander, and the God of the
      fatherless above that; and better a peaceful cottage than a palace full of
      strife.&rdquo; And with many such homely sayings the rustic consoled her
      nursling on their little journey, not quite in vain.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      NEXT morning the house was in an uproar. Servants ran to and fro, and the
      fish-pond was dragged at Mr. Fountain's request. But on these occasions
      everybody claims a right to speak, and Jane came into the breakfast-room
      and said: &ldquo;If you please, mum, Miss Lucy isn't in the pond, for she have
      taken a good part of her clothes, and all her jewels.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This piece of common sense convinced everybody on the spot except Mrs.
      Bazalgette. That lady, if she had decided on &ldquo;making a hole in the water,&rdquo;
       would have sat on the bank first, and clapped on all her jewels, and all
      her richest dresses, one on the top of another. Finally, Mr. Bazalgette,
      who wore a somber air, and had not said a word, requested everybody to
      mind their own business. &ldquo;I have a communication from Lucy,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and
      I do not at present disapprove the step she has taken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All eyes turned with astonishment toward him, and the next moment all
      voices opened on him like a pack of hounds. But he declined to give them
      any further information. Between ourselves he had none to give. The little
      note Lucy left on his table merely begged him to be under no anxiety, and
      prayed him to suspend his judgment of her conduct till he should know the
      whole case. It was his strong good sense which led him to pretend he was
      in the whole secret. By this means he substituted mystery for scandal, and
      contrived that the girl's folly might not be irreparable.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same time he was deeply indignant with her, and, above all, with
      her hypocrisy in clinging round him and kissing him the very night she
      meditated flight from his house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must find the girl out and get her back;&rdquo; said he, and directly after
      breakfast he collected his myrmidons and set them to discover her retreat.
    </p>
    <p>
      The outward frame-work of the holy alliance remained standing, but within
      it was dissolving fast. Each of the allies was even now thinking how to
      find Lucy and make a separate peace. During the flutter which now
      subsided, one person had done nothing but eat pigeon-pie. It was Kenealy,
      captain of horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now eating pigeon-pie is not in itself a suspicious act, but ladies are so
      sharp. Mrs. Bazalgette said to herself, &ldquo;This creature alone is not a bit
      surprised (for Bazalgette is fibbing); why is this creature not surprised?
      humph! Captain Kenealy,&rdquo; said she, in honeyed tones, &ldquo;what would you
      advise us to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Advertaize,&rdquo; drawled the captain, as cool as a cucumber.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Advertise? What! publish her name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no names. I'll tell you;&rdquo; and he proceeded to drawl out very slowly,
      from memory, the following advertisement. N. B.&mdash;The captain was a
      great reader of advertisements, and of little else.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           &ldquo;WANDERAA, RETARN.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If L. F. will retarn&mdash;to her afflicted&mdash;relatives&mdash;she
      shall be received with open aams. And shall be forgotten and forgiven&mdash;and
      reunaited affection shall solace every wound.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the style. It always brings 'em back&mdash;dayvilish good paie&mdash;have
      some moa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Fountain and Mrs. Bazalgette raised an outcry against the captain's
      advice, and, when the table was calm again, Mrs. Bazalgette surprised them
      all by fixing her eyes on Kenealy, and saying quietly, &ldquo;You know where she
      is.&rdquo; She added more excitedly: &ldquo;Now don't deny it. On your honor, sir,
      have you no idea where my niece is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my honah, I have an idea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then tell me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd rayther not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps you would prefer to tell me in private?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; prefer not to tell at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then the whole table opened on him, and appealed to his manly feeling, his
      sense of hospitality, his humanity&mdash;to gratify their curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kenealy stretched himself out from the waist downward, and delivered
      himself thus, with a double infusion of his drawl:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See yah all dem&mdash;d first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At noon on the same day, by the interference of Mrs. Bazalgette, the
      British army was swelled with Kenealy, captain of horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      The whole day passed, and Lucy's retreat was not yet discovered. But more
      than one hunter was hemming her in.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day, being the second after her elopement with her nurse, at
      eleven in the forenoon, Lucy and Mrs. Wilson sat in the little parlor
      working. Mrs. Wilson had seen the poultry fed, the butter churned, and the
      pudding safe in the pot, and her mind was at ease for a good hour to come,
      so she sat quiet and peaceful. Lucy, too, was at peace. Her eye was clear;
      and her color coming back; she was not bursting with happiness, for there
      was a sweet pensiveness mixed with her sweet tranquillity; but she looked
      every now and then smiling from her work up at Mrs. Wilson, and the dame
      kept looking at her with a motherly joy caused by her bare presence on
      that hearth. Lucy basked in these maternal glances. At last she said:
      &ldquo;Nurse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you had never done anything for me, still I should know you loved me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should ye, now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes; there is the look in your eye that I used to long to see in my
      poor aunt's, but it never came.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Miss Lucy, I can't help it. To think it is really you setting there
      by my fire! I do feel like a cat with one kitten. You should check me
      glaring you out o' countenance like that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Check you? I could not bear to lose one glance of that honest tender eye.
      I would not exchange one for all the flatteries of the world. I am so
      happy here, so tranquil, under my nurse's wing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With this declaration came a little sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Wilson caught it. &ldquo;Is there nothing wanting, dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I do keep wishing for one thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I can't help my thoughts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you can help keeping them from me, nurse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my dear, I am like a mother; I watch every word of yours and every
      look; and it is my belief you deceive yourself a bit: many a young maid
      has done that. I do judge there is a young man that is more to you than
      you think for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who on earth is that, nurse?&rdquo; asked Lucy, coloring.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The handsome young gentleman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, they are all handsome&mdash;all my pests.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The one I found under your window, Miss Lucy; he wasn't in liquor; so
      what was he there for? and you know you were not at your ease till you had
      made me go and wake him, and send him home; and you were all of a tremble.
      I'm a widdy now, and can speak my mind to men-folk all one as women-folk;
      but I've been a maid, and I can mind how I was in those days. Liking did
      use to whisper me to do so and so; Shyness up and said, 'La! not for all
      the world; what'll he think?'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nurse, do you believe me capable of loving one who does not love me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Who said he doesn't love you? What was he there for? I stick to
      that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, nurse, dear, be reasonable; if Mr. Dodd loved me, would he go to
      sleep in my presence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! Miss Lucy, the poor soul was maybe asleep before you left your room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all the same. He slept while I stood close to him ever so long.
      Slept while I&mdash;If I loved anybody as these gentlemen pretend they
      love us, should I sleep while the being I adored was close to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are too hard upon him. 'The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.'
      Why, miss, we do read of Eutychus, how he snoozed off setting under Paul
      himself&mdash;up in a windy&mdash;and down a-tumbled. But parson says it
      wasn't that he didn't love religion, or why should Paul make it his
      business to bring him to life again, 'stead of letting un lie for a
      warning to the sleepy-headed ones. ''Twas a wearied body, not a heart cold
      to God,' says our parson.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, nurse, I take you at your word. If Eutychus had been Eutycha, and in
      love with St. Paul, Eutycha would never have gone to sleep, though St.
      Paul preached all day and all night; and if Dorcas had preached instead of
      St. Paul, and Eutychus been in love with her, he would never have gone to
      sleep, and you know it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this home-thrust Mrs. Wilson was staggered, but the next moment her
      sense of discomfiture gave way to a broad expression of triumph at her
      nursling's wit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! Miss Lucy,&rdquo; cried she, showing a broadside of great white teeth in a
      rustic chuckle, &ldquo;but ye've got a tongue in your head. Ye've sewed up my
      stocking, and 'tisn't many of them can do that.&rdquo; Lucy followed up her
      advantage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, nurse, even when he was wide awake and stood by the cart, no inward
      sentiment warned him of my presence; a sure sign he did not love me.
      Though I have never experienced love, I have read of it, and know all
      about it.&rdquo; [<i>Jus-tice des Femmes!</i>]
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Miss Lucy, have it your own way; after all, if he loves you he will
      find you out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course he would, and you will see he will do nothing of the kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I wish I knew where he was; I would pull him in at my door by the
      scruf of the neck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then I should jump out at the window. Come, try on your new cap,
      nurse, that I have made for you, and let us talk about anything you like
      except gentlemen. Gentlemen are a sore subject with me. Gentlemen have
      been my ruin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;La, Miss Lucy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you they have; why, have they not set my uncle's heart against
      me, and my aunt's, and robbed me of the affection I once had for both? I
      believe gentlemen to be the pests of society; and oh! the delight of being
      here in this calm retreat, where love dwells, and no gentleman can find
      me. Ah! ah! Oh! What is that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a heavy blow descended on the door. &ldquo;That is Jenny's <i>knock,&rdquo;</i>
      said Mrs. Wilson; dryly. &ldquo;Come in, Jenny.&rdquo; The servant, thus invited,
      burst the door open as savagely as she had struck it, and announced with a
      knowing grin, &ldquo;A GENTLEMAN&mdash;<i>for Miss Fountain!!&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      DAVID and Eve sat together at their little breakfast, and pressed each
      other to eat; but neither could eat. David's night excursion had filled
      Eve with new misgivings. It was the act of a madman; and we know the fears
      that beset her on that head, and their ground. He had come home shivering,
      and she had forced him to keep his bed all that day. He was not well now,
      and bodily weakness, added to his other afflictions, bore his spirit down,
      though nothing could cow it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When are you to sail?&rdquo; inquired Eve, sick-like.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In three days. Cargo won't be on board before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A coasting vessel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A man can do his duty in a coaster as well as a merchantman or a
      frigate.&rdquo; But he sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would to God you had never seen her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't blame her&mdash;blame me. I had good advice from my little sister,
      but I was willful. Never mind, Eve, I needn't to blush for loving her; she
      is worthy of it all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, think so, David, if you can.&rdquo; And Eve, thoroughly depressed,
      relapsed into silence. The postman's rap was heard, and soon after a long
      inclosure was placed in Eve's hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor little Eve did not receive many letters; and, sad as she was, she
      opened this with some interest; but how shall I paint its effect? She kept
      uttering shrieks of joy, one after another, at each sentence. And when she
      had shrieked with joy many times, she ran with the large paper round to
      David. &ldquo;You are captain of the <i>Rajah!</i> ah! the new ship! ah! eleven
      hundred tons! Oh, David! Oh, my heart! Oh! oh! oh!&rdquo; and the poor little
      thing clasped her arms round her brother's neck, and kissed him again and
      again, and cried and sobbed for joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      All men, and most women, go through life without once knowing what it is
      to cry for joy, and it is a comfort to think that Eve's pure and deep
      affection brought her such a moment as this in return for much trouble and
      sorrow. David, stout-hearted as he was, was shaken as the sea and the wind
      had never yet shaken him. He turned red and white alternately, and
      trembled. &ldquo;Captain of the <i>Rajah!</i> It is too good&mdash;it is too
      good! I have done nothing <i>for it&rdquo;;</i> and he was incredulous.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eve was devouring the inclosure. &ldquo;It is her doing,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;it is all
      her doing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who do you think? I am in the air! I am in heaven! Bless her&mdash;oh,
      God, bless her for this. Never speak against cold-blooded folk before me;
      they have twice the principle of us hot ones: I always said so. She is a
      good creature; she is a true friend; and you accused her of ingratitude!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I never did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did&mdash;<i>Rajah</i>&mdash;he! he! oh!&mdash;and I defended her.
      Here, take and read that: is that a commission or not? Now you be quiet,
      and let us see what she says. No, I can't; I cannot keep the tears out of
      my eyes. Do take and read it, David; I'm blind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David took the letter, kissed it, and read it out to Eve, and she kept
      crowing and shedding tears all the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;DEAR MISS DODD&mdash;I admire too much your true affection for your
      brother to be indifferent to your good opinion. Think of me as leniently
      as you can. Perhaps it gives me as much pleasure to be able to forward you
      the inclosed as the receipt of it, I hope, may give you.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would, I think, be more wise, and certainly more generous, not to let
      Mr. Dodd think he owes in any degree to me that which, if the world were
      just, would surely have been his long ago. Only, some few months hence,
      when it can do him no harm, I could wish him not to think his friend Lucy
      was ungrateful, or even cold in his service, who saved her life, and once
      honored her with so warm an esteem. But all this I confide to your
      discretion and your justice. Dear Miss Dodd, those who give pain to others
      do not escape it themselves, nor is it just they should. My insensibility
      to the merit of persons of the other sex has provoked my relatives; they
      have punished me for declining Mr. Dodd's inferiors with a bitterness Mr.
      Dodd, with far more cause, never showed me; so you see at each turn I am
      reminded of his superiority.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The result is, I am separated from my friends, and am living all alone
      with my dear old nurse, at her farmhouse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since, then, I am unhappy, and you are generous, you will, I think,
      forgive me all the pain I have caused you, and will let me, in bidding you
      adieu, subscribe myself,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                                 &ldquo;Yours affectionately,

                                 &ldquo;LUCY FOUNTAIN&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the letter of a sweet girl, David, with a noble heart; and she has
      taken a noble revenge of me for what I said to her the other day, and made
      her cry, like a little brute as I am. Why, how glum you look!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eve,&rdquo; said David, &ldquo;do you think I will accept this from her without
      herself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course you will. Don't be too greedy, David. Leave the girl in peace;
      she has shown you what she will do and what she won't. One such friend as
      this is worth a hundred lovers. Give me her dear little note.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While Eve was persuing it, David went out, but soon returned, with his
      best coat on, and his hat in his hand. Eve asked in some surprise where he
      was going in such a hurry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, David, now I come to read her letter quietly, it is a woman's
      letter all over; you may read it which way you like. What need had she to
      tell me she has just refused offers? And then she tells me she is all
      alone. That sounds like a hint. The company of a friend might he
      agreeable. Brush your coat first, at any rate; there's something white on
      it; it is a paper; it is pinned on. Come here. Why, what is this? It is
      written on. 'Adieu.'&rdquo; And Eve opened her eyes and mouth as well.
    </p>
    <p>
      She asked him when he wore the coat last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The day before yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were you in company of any girls?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But this is written by a girl, and it is pinned on by a girl; see how it
      is quilted in!! that's proof positive. Oh! oh! oh! look here. Look at
      these two 'Adieus'&mdash;the one in the letter and this; they are the same&mdash;precisely
      the same. What, in Heaven's name, is the meaning of this? Were you in her
      company that night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you swear that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I can't swear it, because I was asleep a part of the time; but waking
      in her company I was not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is her writing, and she pinned it on you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can that be, Eve?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know; I am sure she did, though. Look at this 'Adieu' and that;
      you'll never get it out of my head but what one hand wrote them both. You
      are so green, a girl would come behind you and pin it on you, and you
      never feel her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While saying these words, Eve slyly repinned it on him without his feeling
      or knowing anything about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      David was impatient to be gone, but she held him a minute to advise him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell her she must and shall. Don't take a denial. If you are cowardly,
      she will be bold; but if you are bold and resolute, she will knuckle down.
      Mind that; and don't go about it with such a face as that, as long as my
      arm. If she says 'No,' you have got the ship to comfort you. Oh! I am so
      happy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Eve,&rdquo; said David, &ldquo;if she won't give me herself, I'll never take her
      ship. I'd die a foretopman sooner;&rdquo; and, with these parting words, he
      renewed all his sister's anxiety. She sat down sorrowfully, and the
      horrible idea gained on her that there was mania in David's love for Lucy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      DAVID had one advantage over others that were now hunting Lucy. Mrs.
      Wilson had unwittingly given him pretty plain directions how to find her
      farmhouse; and as Eve, in the exercise of her discretion, or indiscretion,
      had shown David Lucy's letter, he had only to ride to Harrowden and
      inquire. But, on the other hand, his competitors were a few miles nearer
      the game, and had a day's start.
    </p>
    <p>
      David got a horse and galloped to Harrowden, fed him at the inn, and asked
      where Mrs. Wilson's farm was. The waiter, a female, did not know, but
      would inquire. Meantime David asked for two sheets of paper, and wrote a
      few lines on each; then folded them both (in those days envelopes were
      not), but did not seal them. Mrs. Wilson's farm turned out to be only two
      miles from Harrowden, and the road easy to find. He was soon there; gave
      his horse to one of the farm-boys, and went into the kitchen and asked if
      Miss Fountain lived there. This question threw him into the hands of
      Jenny, who invited him to follow her, and, unlike your powdered and
      noiseless lackey, pounded the door with her fist, kicked it open with her
      foot, and announced him with that thunderbolt of language which fell so
      inopportunely on Lucy's self-congratulations.
    </p>
    <p>
      The look Mrs. Wilson cast on Lucy was droll enough; but when David's
      square shoulders and handsome face filled up the doorway, a second look
      followed that spoke folios.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy rose, and with heightened color, but admirable self-possession,
      welcomed David like a valued friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Wilson's greeting was broad and hearty; and, very soon after she had
      made him sit down, she bounced up, crying: &ldquo;You will stay dinner now you
      be come, and I must see as they don't starve you.&rdquo; So saying, out she
      went; but, looking back at the door, was transfixed by an arrow of
      reproach from her nursling's eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy's reception of David, kind as it was, was not encouraging to one
      coming on David's errand, for there was the wrong shade of amity in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      In times past it would have cooled David with misgivings, but now he did
      not give himself time to be discouraged; he came to make a last desperate
      effort, and he made it at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Lucy, I have got the <i>Rajah,</i> thanks to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks to me, Mr. Dodd? Thanks to your own high character and merit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Miss Lucy, you know better, and I know better, and there is your own
      sweet handwriting to prove it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Dodd has showed you my letter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could she help it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a pity! how injudicious!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The truth is like the light; why keep it out? Yes; what I have worked
      for, and battled the weather so many years, and been sober and prudent,
      and a hard student at every idle hour&mdash;that has come to me in one
      moment from your dear hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a shame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bless you, Miss Lucy,&rdquo; cried David, not noting the remark.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy blushed, and the water stood in her eyes. She murmured softly: &ldquo;You
      should not say Miss Lucy; it is not customary. You should say Lucy, or
      Miss Fountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This <i>apropos</i> remark by way of a female diversion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then let me say Lucy to-day, for perhaps I shall never say that, or
      anything that is sweet to say again. Lucy, you know what I came for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, to receive my congratulations.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More than that, a great deal&mdash;to ask you to go halves in the <i>Rajah.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy's eyebrows demanded an explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is worth two thousand a year to her commander; and that is too much
      for a bachelor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy colored and smiled. &ldquo;Why, it is only just enough for bachelors to
      live upon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is too much for me alone under the circumstances,&rdquo; said David,
      gravely; and there was a little silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucy, I love you. With you the <i>Rajah</i> would be a godsend. She will
      help me keep you in the company you have been used to, and were made to
      brighten and adorn; but without you I cannot take her from your hand, and,
      to speak plain, I won't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Dodd!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Lucy; before I knew you, to command a ship was the height of my
      ambition&mdash;her quarter-deck my Heaven on earth; and this is a clipper,
      I own it; I saw her in the docks. But you have taught me to look higher.
      Share my ship and my heart with me, and certainly the ship will be my
      child, and all the dearer to me that she came to us from her I love. But
      don't say to me, 'Me you shan't have; you are not good enough for that;
      but there is a ship for you in my place.' I wouldn't accept a star out of
      the firmament on those terms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How unreasonable! On the contrary you should say, 'I am doubly fortunate:
      I escape a foolish, weak companion for life, and I have a beautiful ship.'
      But friendship such as mine for you was never appreciated; I do you
      injustice; you only talk like that to tease me and make me unhappy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Lucy, Lucy, did you ever know me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, now, forgive me; and own you are not in earnest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This will show you,&rdquo; said David, sadly; and he took out two letters from
      his bosom. &ldquo;Here are two letters to the secretary. In one I accept the
      ship with thanks, and offer to superintend her when her rigging is being
      set up; and in this one I decline her altogether, with my humble and
      sincere thanks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, you are very humble, sir,&rdquo; said Lucy. &ldquo;Now&mdash;dear friend&mdash;listen
      to reason. You have others&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse my interrupting you, but it is a rule with me never to reason
      about right and wrong; I notice that whoever does that ends by choosing
      wrong. I don't go to my head to find out my duty, I go to my heart; and
      what little manhood there is in me all cries out against me compounding
      with the woman I love, and taking a ship instead of her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How unkind you are! It is not as if I was under no obligations to you. Is
      not my life worth a ship? an angel like me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't see it so. It was a greater pleasure to me to save your life, as
      you call it, than it could be to you. I can't let that into the account. A
      woman is a woman, but a man is a man; and I will be under no obligation to
      you but one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What arrogance!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you be angry; I'll love you and bless you all the same. But I am a
      man, and a man I'll die, whether I die captain of a ship or of a foretop.
      Poor Eve!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See how power tries people, and brings out their true character. Since
      you commanded the <i>Rajah</i> you are all changed. You used to be
      submissive; now you must have your own way entirely. You will fling my
      poor ship in my face unless I give you&mdash;but this is really using
      force&mdash;yes, Mr. Dodd, this is using force. Somebody has told you that
      my sex yield when downright compulsion is used. It is true; and the more
      ungenerous to apply it;&rdquo; and she melted into a few placid tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      David did not know this sign of yielding in a woman, and he groaned at the
      sight and hung his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Advise me what I had better do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To this singular proposal, David, listening to the ill advice of the fiend
      Generosity, groaned out, &ldquo;Why should you be tormented and made cry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why indeed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing can change me; I advise you to cut it short.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, do you? very well. Why did you say 'poor Eve'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, poor thing! she cried for joy when she read your letter, but when I
      go back she will cry for grief;&rdquo; and his voice faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will cut this short, Mr. Dodd; give me that paper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The wicked one, where you refuse my <i>Rajah</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are no gentleman, sir, if you refuse a lady. Give it me this
      instant,&rdquo; cried Lucy, so haughtily and imperiously that David did not know
      her, and gave her the letter with a half-cowed air.
    </p>
    <p>
      She took it, and with both her supple white hands tore it with insulting
      precision exactly in half. &ldquo;There, sir and there, sir&rdquo; (exactly in four);
      &ldquo;and there&rdquo; (in eight, with malicious exactness); &ldquo;and there&rdquo;; and, though
      it seemed impossible to effect another separation, yet the taper fingers
      and a resolute will reduced it to tiny bits. She then made a gesture to
      throw them in the fire, but thought better of it and held them.
    </p>
    <p>
      David looked on, almost amused at this zealous demolition of a thing he
      could so easily replace. He said, part sadly, part doggedly, part
      apologetically, &ldquo;I can write another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you will not. Oh, Mr. Dodd, don't you see?!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked up at her eagerly. To his surprise, her haughty eagle look had
      gone, and she seemed a pitying goddess, all tenderness and benignity; only
      her mantling, burning cheek showed her to be woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      She faltered, in answer to his wild, eager look. &ldquo;Was I ever so rude
      before? What right have I to tear your letter unless I&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The characteristic full stop, and, above all, the heaving bosom, the
      melting eye, and the red cheek, were enough even for poor simple David.
      Heaven seemed to open on him. His burning kisses fell on the sweet hands
      that had torn his death-warrant. No resistance. She blushed higher, but
      smiled. His powerful arm curled round her. She looked a little scared, but
      not much. He kissed her sweet cheek: the blush spread to her very forehead
      at that, but no resistance. As the winged and rapid bird, if her feathers
      be but touched with a speck of bird-lime, loses all power of flight, so it
      seemed as if that one kiss, the first a stranger had ever pressed on
      Lucy's virgin cheek, paralyzed her eel-like and evasive powers; under it
      her whole supple frame seemed to yield as David drew her closer and closer
      to him, till she hid her forehead and wet eyelashes on his shoulder, and
      murmured:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could I let <i>you</i> be unhappy?!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Neither spoke for a while. Each felt the other's heart beat; and David
      drank that ecstasy of silent, delirious bliss which comes to great hearts
      once in a life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had he not earned it?
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      By some mighty instinct Mrs. Wilson knew when to come in. She came to the
      door just one minute after Lucy had capitulated, and, turning the handle,
      but without opening the door, bawled some fresh directions to Jenny: this
      was to enable Lucy to smooth her ruffled feathers, if necessary, and look
      Agnes. But Lucy's actual contact with that honest heart seemed to have
      made a change in her; instead of doing Agnes, she confronted (after a
      fashion of her own) the situation she had so long evaded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nurse!&rdquo; she cried, and wreathed her arms round her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't cry, my lamb! I can guess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cry? Oh no; I would not pay him so poor a compliment. It was to say,
      'Dear nurse, you must love Mr. Dodd as well as me now.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The dame received this indirect intelligence with hearty delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That won't cost me much trouble,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;He is the one I'd have
      picked out of all England for my nursling. When a young man is kind to an
      old woman, it is a good sign; but la! his face is enough for me: who ever
      saw guile in such a face as that. Aren't ye hungry by this time? Dinner
      will be ready in about a minute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nurse, can I speak to you a word?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was to inquire whether she would invite Miss Dodd.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She loves her brother very dearly, and it is cruel to separate them. Mr.
      Dodd will be nearly always here now, will he not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may take your davy of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a very few minutes a note was written, and Mrs. Wilson's eldest son, a
      handsome young farmer, started in the covered cart with his mother's
      orders &ldquo;to bring the young lady willy-nilly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The holy allies both openly scouted Kenealy's advice, and both slyly
      stepped down into the town and acted on it. Mr. Fountain then returned to
      Font Abbey. Their two advertisements appeared side by side, and
      exasperated them.
    </p>
    <p>
      After dinner Mrs. Wilson sent Lucy and David out to take a walk. At the
      gate they met with a little interruption; a carriage drove up; the
      coachman touched his hat, and Mrs. Bazalgette put her head out of the
      window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came to take you back, love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      David quaked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, aunt; but it is not worth while now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, casting a venomous look on David; &ldquo;I am too
      late, am I? Poor girl!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy soothed her aunt with the information that she was much happier now
      than she had been for a long time past. For this was a fencing-match.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I have a word in private with my niece?&rdquo; inquired Mrs. Bazalgette,
      bitterly, of David.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; said David stoutly; but his heart turned sick as he retired.
      Lucy saw the look of anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucy,&rdquo; said Mrs. Bazalgette, &ldquo;you left me because you are averse to
      matrimony, and I urged you to it; of course, with those sentiments, you
      have no idea of marrying that man there. I don't suspect you of such
      hypocrisy, and therefore I say come home with me, and you shall marry
      nobody; your inclination shall be free as air.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt,&rdquo; said Lucy, demurely, &ldquo;why didn't you come yesterday? I always said
      those who love me best would find me first, and you let Mr. Dodd come
      first. I am so sorry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then your pretended aversion to marriage was all hypocrisy, was it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy informed her that marriage was a contract, and the contracting
      parties two, and no more&mdash;the bride and bridegroom; and that to sign
      a contract without reading it is silly, and meaning not to keep it is
      wicked. &ldquo;So,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I read the contract over in the prayer-book this
      morning, for fear of accidents.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My reader may, perhaps, be amused at this admission; but Mrs. Bazalgette
      was disgusted, and inquired, &ldquo;What stuff is the girl talking now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is called common sense. Well, I find the contract is one I can carry
      out with Mr. Dodd, and with nobody else. I can love him a little, can
      honor him a great deal, and obey him entirely. I begin now. There he is;
      and if you feel you cannot show him the courtesy of making him one in our
      conversation, permit me to retire and relieve his solitude.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mighty fine; and if you don't instantly leave him and come home, you
      shall never enter my house again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unless sickness or trouble should visit your house, and then you will
      send for me, and I shall come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette (to the coachman).&mdash;&ldquo;Home!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucy made her a polite obeisance, to keep up appearances before the
      servants and the farm-people, who were gaping. She, whose breeding was
      inferior, flounced into a corner without returning it. The carriage drove
      off.
    </p>
    <p>
      David inquired with great anxiety whether something had not been said to
      vex her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not in the least,&rdquo; replied Lucy, calmly. &ldquo;Little things and little people
      can no longer vex me. I have great duties to think of and a great heart to
      share them with me. Let us walk toward Harrowden; we may perhaps meet a
      friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sure enough, just on this side Harrowden they met the covered cart, and
      Eve in it, radiant with unexpected delight. The engaged ones&mdash;for
      such they had become in those two miles&mdash;mounted the cart, and the
      two men sat in front, and Eve and Lucy intertwined at the back, and opened
      their hearts to each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eve. And you have taken the paper off again?
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucy. What paper? It was no longer applicable.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      I HAVE already noticed that Lucy, after capitulation, laid down her arms
      gracefully and sensibly. When she was asked to name a very early day for
      the wedding, she opposed no childish delay to David's happiness, for the
      <i>Rajah</i> was to sail in six weeks and separate them. So the license
      was got, and the wedding-day came; and all Lucy's previous study of the
      contract did not prevent her from being deeply affected by the solemn
      words that joined her to David in holy matrimony.
    </p>
    <p>
      She bore up, though, stoutly; for her sense of propriety and courtesy
      forbade her to cloud a festivity. But, when the post-chaise came to convey
      bride and bridegroom on their little tour, and she had to leave Mrs.
      Wilson and Eve for a whole week, the tears would not be denied; and, to
      show how perilous a road matrimony is, these two risked a misunderstanding
      on their wedding-day, thus: Lucy, all alone in the post-chaise with David,
      dissolved&mdash;a perfect Niobe&mdash;gushing at short intervals.
      Sometimes a faint explanation gurgled out with the tears: &ldquo;Poor Eve! her
      dear little face was working so not to cry. Oh! oh! I should not have
      minded so much if she had cried right out.&rdquo; Then, again, it was &ldquo;Poor Mrs.
      Wilson! I was only a week with her, for all her love. I have made a c&mdash;at's
      p&mdash;paw of her&mdash;oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, again, &ldquo;Uncle Bazalgette has never noticed us; he thinks me a h&mdash;h&mdash;ypocrite.&rdquo;
       But quite as often they flowed without any accompanying reason.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now if David had been a poetaster, he would have said: &ldquo;Why these tears?
      she has got me. Am I not more than an equivalent to these puny
      considerations?&rdquo; and all this salt water would have burned into his vanity
      like liquid caustic. If he had been a poet, he would have said: &ldquo;Alas! I
      make her unhappy whom I hoped to make happy&rdquo;; and with this he would have
      been sad, and so prolonged her sadness, and perhaps ended by sulking. But
      David had two good things&mdash;a kind heart and a skin not too thin: and
      such are the men that make women happy, in spite of their weak nerves and
      craven spirits.
    </p>
    <p>
      He gave her time; soothed her kindly; but did not check her weakness dead
      short.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last my Lady Chesterfield said to him, penitently, &ldquo;This is a poor
      compliment to you, Mr. Dodd&rdquo;; and then Niobized again, partly, I believe,
      with regret that she was behaving so discourteously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very natural,&rdquo; said David, kindly, &ldquo;but we shall soon see them all
      again, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Presently she looked in his radiant face, with wet eyes, but a half-smile.
      &ldquo;You amaze me; you don't seem the least terrified at what we have done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a bit,&rdquo; cried David, like a cheerful horn: &ldquo;I have been in worse
      peril than this, and so have you. Our troubles are all over; I see nothing
      but happiness ahead.&rdquo; He then drew a sunny picture of their future life,
      to all which she listened demurely; and, in short, he treated her little
      feminine distress as the summer sun treats a mist that tries to vie with
      it. He soon dried her up, and when they reached their journey's end she
      was as bright as himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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, &ldquo;I want to
      ask you a question, David: are you happy <i>too?&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      David answered promptly, but inarticulately; so his reply is lost to
      posterity. Conjecture alone survives.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I must
      trust to time and opportunity,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;DEAR MADAM&mdash;I have heard of your marriage with Mr. Dodd, and desire
      to offer both you and him my cordial congratulations.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your very faithful servant,
    </p>
    <h3>
      &ldquo;REGINALD TALBOYS.&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      Lucy was delighted with this note. &ldquo;Who says it was nothing to have been
      born a gentleman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     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&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this sight Eve pounced on the horrid scroll, and hurled it, with
      general acclamation, into the flames.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus that sweet infant revenged himself, and, like Sampson, hit hardest of
      all at parting&mdash;in tears and flame vanished from written fiction,
      and, I conclude, went back to Gavarni.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a letter from Mr. Fountain&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was another from Mrs. Bazalgette, written with cream&mdash;of tartar
      and oil&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bazalgette kept cool, and wrote, in oils, twice a year to Mrs. Dodd:
    </p>
    <h3>
      &ldquo;ET GARDAIT TOUT DOUCEMENT UNE HAINE IRRECONCILIABLE.&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      Lucy had to answer these letters. In signing one of them, she took a look
      at her new signature and smiled. &ldquo;What a dear, quaint little name mine
      is!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Lucy Dodd;&rdquo; and she kissed the signature.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           A Month after Marriage.
</pre>
    <p>
      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 <i>Rajah,</i> 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day Lucy came to David for information. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see it, love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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 <i>se crispent,</i> and I
      cannot sit still. It is very foolish. What does it mean? Can you tell me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh David, what nonsense! it is not that. Could I ever be vexed with my
      David?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, there is Eve; we'll ask her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you dare, sir!&rdquo; and Mrs. Dodd was carnation.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           Four years after the above events
</pre>
    <p>
      Two ladies were gossiping.
    </p>
    <p>
      1st Lady. &ldquo;What I like about Mrs. Dodd is that she is so truthful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      2d Lady. &ldquo;Oh, is she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      1st Lady. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two Qui his were talking in Leadenhall Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      1st Qui hi. &ldquo;Well, so you are going out again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      2d Qui hi. &ldquo;Yes; they have offered me a commissionership. I must make
      another lac for the children.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      1st Qui hi. &ldquo;When do you sail?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      2d Qui hi. &ldquo;By the first good ship. I should like a good ship.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      1st Qui hi. &ldquo;Well, then, you had better go out with Gentleman Dodd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      2d Qui hi. &ldquo;Gentleman Dodd? I should prefer Sailor Dodd. I don't want to
      founder off the Cape.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      1st Qui hi. &ldquo;Oh, but this is a first-rate sailor, and a first-rate fellow
      altogether.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      2d Qui hi. &ldquo;Then why do you call him 'Gentleman Dodd'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      1st Qui hi. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      2d Qui hi. &ldquo;Is it? Then I'll go out with 'Gentleman Dodd.'&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                          &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
</pre>
    <h3>
      TO MY MALE READERS.
    </h3>
    <p>
      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?)
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Dodd, in particular, however epigrammatic she may appear, is shallow:
      her criticism <i>peche par la base.</i> 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      No male will quite understand Lucy Fountain who does not take &ldquo;instinct&rdquo;
       and &ldquo;self-deception&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The End.
    </p>
    <div style="height: 6em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>







<pre>





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