SCENA.
A letter is brought in and handed to Captain Kenealy. He reads it, and looks a little—a very little—vexed. Nobody else notices it.
Lucy. “What is the matter? Oh, what has occurred?”
Kenealy. “Nothing particulaa.”
Lucy. “Don't deceive us: it is an order for you to join the horrid army.” (Clasps her hands.) “You are going to leave us.”
Kenealy. “No, it is from my tailaa. He waunts to be paed.” (Glares astonished.)
Lucy. “Pay the creature, and nevermore employ him.”
Kenealy. “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.”
Lucy. “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.”
Kenealy (twirling his mustache). “Dem the fellaa. Shan't take any notice of him.”
Mrs. Bazalgette (to Lucy in passing). “Do you think we are all fools?”
Ibi omnis effusus amor;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 All external signs of affection were withdrawn, and this was like docking a strawberry of its water.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.
“Nobody loves me now that poor Mr. Dodd is gone,” sighed Lucy. “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.”
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—showed her the house, showed her the cows, showed her the parlor at last, and made her sit down.
“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?”
“Oh yes.”
“Are ye sure? Haven't ye ailed anything since I saw ye up at the house?”
“No, dear nurse.”
“Then you are in care. Bless you, it is not the same face—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—who knows?—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.”
“Ah!youlove me,” cried Lucy; “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—Oh, nurse, I am unhappy;” and in a moment she was weeping and sobbing in Mrs. Wilson's arms.
The Amazon sat down with her, and rocked to and fro with her as if she was still a child. “Don't check it, my lamb,” said she; “have a good cry; never drive a cry back on your heart”; and so Lucy sobbed and sobbed, and Mrs. Wilson rocked her.
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, “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?”
“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.”
And she told her a part.
She told her the whole Talboys and Hardie part.
Mrs. Wilson took a broad and somewhat vulgar view of the distress.
“Why, Miss Lucy,” said she, “if that is all, you can soon sew up their stockings. You don't depend onthem,anyways: you are a young lady of property.”
“Oh, am I?”
“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.”
“The day after to-morrow, nurse.”
“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.”
“What! leave my relations!!”
“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.”
“But, nurse, a young lady cannot live by herself: there is no instance of it.”
“All wisdom had a beginning. 'Oh, shan't I spoil the pudding once I cut it?' quoth Jack's wife.”
“What would people say?”
“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;” and she flourished her hand and a massive arm with a gesture free, inspired, and formidable.
“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.”
“I don't say as you will. But I shall get your room ready this afternoon, and no later.”
“No, nurse, you must not do that.”
“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—you'll see.”
“Oh, nurse, how wise you are! You know human nature.”
“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?”
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 ——. She wanted to buy some gloves.
“Yaas,” said the assenter; and off they cantered.
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:
“Have you any news of Mr. Dodd?”
“I have,” was the stiff reply.
“He left us without even saying good-by.”
“Did he?”
“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.”
“My brother is alive, Miss Fountain, if that is what you wish to know.”
“Alive? is he not well? has he met with any accident? any misfortune? is he in the East Indiaman? has he written to you?”
“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.”
“Are you going home, Miss Dodd?”
“Yes.”
“Shall I come with you?”
“If you like: it is close by.”
Lucy's heart quaked. Eve was so stern, and her eyes like basilisks'.
“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.”
“Yes, Miss Dodd,” faltered Lucy, “and I should do it again. I have a right to inquire after his welfare who saved my life.”
“Well, then, Miss Fountain, his saving your life has lost him his ship and ruined him for life.”
“Oh!”
“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!” Eve would have said more, for her heart was burning with wrath and bitterness, but she was interrupted.
Lucy raised both her hands to Heaven, and then, bowing her head, wept tenderly and humbly.
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.
“Ah! well,” she cried, “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.”
“Oh dear!”
“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 theservice.”
“Oh!”
“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.”
“He will never be captain of a ship now?”
“Captain of a ship! Will he ever leave the bed of sickness he lies on?”
“The bed of sickness! Is he ill? Oh, what have I done?”
“Is he ill? What! do you think my brother is made of iron? Out all night with you—then off, with scarce a wink of sleep; then two days and two nights chasing theCombermere,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—”
“Oh, it is too horrible.”
“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.”
“Is he in the Indiaman?”
“No, Miss Fountain, he is not in the Indiaman,” cried Eve, her wrath suddenly rising again; “he lies there, Miss Fountain, in that room, at death's door, and you to thank for it.”
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. “Me at death's port, did you say?” cried he, in a loud tone of cheerful defiance; “tell that to the marines!!”
“I HEARD your voice, Miss Lucy; I would know it among a million; so I rigged myself directly. Why, what is the matter?”
“Oh, Mr. Dodd,” sobbed Lucy, “she has told me all you have gone through, and I am the wicked, wicked cause!”
David groaned. “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.
“Belay all that, and let's hear something worth hearing. Now, Miss Lucy, you tell me—oh, Lord, Eve, I say, isn't the thundering old dingy room bright now?—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—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?”
To this fire of eager questions Lucy was in no state to answer. “Oh, no, Mr. Dodd,” she cried, “I can't. I am choking. Yes, Miss Dodd, I am the heartless, unfeeling girl you think me.” 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.
“Eve, she is offended,” said David, with dismay.
“What if she is?” retorted Eve; “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.”
“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.”
“Here, put me up, Captain Kenealy! Oh, do pray make haste! don't dawdle so!” 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. “Oh, Uncle Bazalgette! Oh, Uncle Bazalgette!”
“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?”
“Uncle, you are always so kind to me; you know you are.”
“Oh, am I? Noble old fellow!”
“Oh, don't make me laugh! ha! ha! oh! oh! oh! ha! oh!”
“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.”
“No, no, no. It is about Mr. Dodd.”
“Mr. Dodd? oho!”
“I have ruined him.”
“How have you managed that, my dear?”
Then Lucy, all in a flutter, told Mr. Bazalgette what the reader has just learned.
He looked grave. “Lucy,” said he, “be frank with me. Is not Mr. Dodd in love with you?”
“Iwillbe frank withyou,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.”
“So, now that he no longer loves you, you love him; that is so like you girls.”
“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—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, Ihavebeen insulted. His sister told me to my face it was an evil day for him when he and I first met—that was at Uncle Fountain's.”
“Well, and what am I to do, Lucy?”
“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—a young lady's life—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.”
Bazalgette grinned, and straightway resolved to perpetrate a practical joke, and a very innocent one. “Well,” said he, “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.”
Lucy opened her eyes, and the blood rushed to her cheek. “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!”
“There is no end to my power,” said the old man, solemnly; “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?”
“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” (kisses).
“And not Mr. Dodd?”
“No, dear; and that is the reason I would rather give him a ship than—the only other thing that would make him happy. And really, but for your goodness, I should have been tempted to—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.”
“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.”
“And do you really think I will go till I have kissed you, Uncle Bazalgette?”
“On a subject so important, I hardly venture to give an opin—hallo! kissing, indeed? Why, it is like a young wolf flying at horseflesh.”
“Then that will teach you not to be kinder to me than anybody else is.”
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.
He twirled his mustache and—popped briefly.
AFTER the first start of rueful astonishment, the indignation of the just fired Lucy's eyes.
She scolded him well. “Was this his return for all her late kindness?”
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: “No, it is only your abominable sex that would behave so perversely, so ungratefully.”
“Don't understand,” drawled Kenealy, “I thought you would laike it.”
“Well, you see, I don't laike it.”
“You seemed to be getting rather spooney on me.”
“Spooney! what is that? one of your mess-room terms, I suppose.”
“Yaas; so I thought you waunted me to pawp.”
“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.”
“What a boa! what a dem'd boa!”
“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.”
“What a boa! How horrid spaiteful you are.”
“Well, I am rather vindictive. But my aunt is ten times worse, as her deserter shall find, unless—”
“Unless whawt?”
“Unless you beg my pardon directly.” 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.
“Well, then, I apolojaize,” said Kenealy.
“And I accept your apology; and don't do it again.”
“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.”
“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,please.”
“I'll take caa—I'll take caa. I say your tempaa is not—quite—what those other fools think it is—no, by Jove;” and the captain glared.
“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.”
Kenealy vowed he would profit by the advice.
“Then there is my hand: we are friends again.”
“You won't tell your aunt, nor the other fellaas?”
“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.”
“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.”
“I must try and find some less insane vent for your friendly feelings; and what can I do for you?”
“Yah couldn't go on pretending to be spooney on me, could yah?”
“Oh, no, no. What for?”
“I laike it; makes the other begaas misable.”
“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.”
In short, the house now contained two “holy alliances” 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.
This evening the storm that was preparing blew good to one of a depressed class, which cannot fail to gratify the just.
Mrs. Bazalgette. “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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Well, mum, it is hard to say. Miss Lucy is as reserved as ever.”
“Oh, I thought she might—ahem!”
“No, mum, I do assure you, not a word.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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”; and Jane courtesied twice and went off with the spoils.
In the corridor she met old Fountain. “Stop, Jane,” said he, “I want to speak to you.”
“At your service, sir.”
“In the first place, I want to give you something to buy a new gown”; and he took out a couple of sovereigns. “Where am I to put them? in your breast-pocket?”
“Put them under the cloak, sir,” murmured Jane, tenderly. She loved sovereigns.
He put his hand under the heap of cashmere, and a quick little claw hit the coins and closed on them by almighty instinct.
“Now I want to ask your opinion. Is my niece in love with anyone?”
“Well, Mr. Fountains, if she is she don't show it.”
“But doesn't she like one man better than another?”
“You may take your oath of that, if we could but get to her mind.”
“Which does she like best, this Hardie or Mr. Talboys? Come, tell me, now.”
“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?”
“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.”
“Now is it likely, sir? My character would be broken forever.”
“And you shall be with my niece when she is Mrs. Talboys.”
“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.”
“And such as Jane was, all true servants are.”
The ancients used to bribe the Oracle of Delphi. Curious.
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.
“Come, now, business,” said he. “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.” A general groan followed this announcement. Luckily, the sum totals corresponded to a fraction.
Then Mr. Bazalgette made Lucy a little speech.
“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—eleven hundred and sixty pounds and five shillings. Write your name in full on that paper, Lucy.”
He touched a bell; a servant came. He wrote a line and folded it, inclosing Lucy's signature.
“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?”
“No, uncle.”
“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.”
“Oh how wicked!”
“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.”
“I must say, Mr. Bazalgette, you are unwise to put such a sum of money into a young girl's hands.”
“The young girl has been a woman an hour and ten minutes, and come into her property, movables, and cash aforesaid.”
“If you were her real friend, you would take care of her money for her till she marries.”
“The eighth commandment, my dear, the eighth commandment, and other primitive axioms:suum cuique,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!”
“Oh, uncle, pray stay!” said Lucy. “When you are by me, Rectitude and Sense seem present in person, and I can lean on them.”
“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 ——, 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.” He made for the door; then suddenly returning, said: “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—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?” and the brute bolted.
“My husband is a worthy man,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, languidly, “but now and then he makes me blush for him.”
“Our good friend is a humorist,” replied Fountain, good-humoredly, “and dearly loves a paradox”; and they pooh-poohed him without a particle of malice.
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.
“Oh no, aunt,” said Lucy. “Why should you wish to part with me? I give you but little trouble in your great house.”
“Trouble, child? you know you are a comfort to have in any house.”
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 thecoup-de-grace.
“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 youmustmarry.”
“The world is surely not so unjust as all this,” sighed Lucy.
“You don't know the world as I do,” was the reply. “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.”
“What, aunt? what, uncle? your house is no longer mine?” and she buried her head upon the table.
“Well, Lucy,” said Mr. Fountain, “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.”
Here Mrs. Bazalgette put in her word. “You will not lack people to encourage you in ingratitude—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.”
“Heaven forbid!” said Lucy, with a shudder. “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.”
“Lucy, we are not to be tempted to do wrong,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, sternly. “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.”
“Mr. Dodd? why is his name introduced? Was it necessary to insult me?” and her eyes flashed.
“Nobody wishes to insult you, Lucy. And I propose, madam, we give her a day to consider.”
“Thank you, uncle.”
“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.”
“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?”
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.
“I don't like it,” said Mr. Fountain. “I am afraid we have driven the poor girl too hard.”
“What are you afraid of, pray?”
“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;” and the water stood in the old bachelor's eyes.
Mrs. Bazalgette tapped him on the shoulder and said archly, but with a tone that carried conviction, “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.”