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—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.
“You are either very sly or very blind,” replied Mrs. Bazalgette, quietly.
“Aunt!” said Lucy, piteously.
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.
“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.”
“Mr. Talboys?”
“Yes. Does that surprise you? Do you think a young gentleman would come to Font Abbey three nights in a week without a motive?”
Lucy reflected.
“It is all over the place that you two are engaged.”
Lucy colored, and her eyes flashed with something very like anger, but she held her peace.
“Ask Jane else.”
“What! take my servant into my confidence?”
“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.”
“The proper person to ask must have been Uncle Fountain himself.”
“As if he would have told me the truth.”
“He is a gentleman, aunt, and would not have uttered a falsehood.”
“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.”
“Cunning little aunt! Mr. Talboys happens not to be at home; uncle told me so himself.”
“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.”
“The proof that my uncle has deceived me,” said Lucy, coldly, and with lofty incredulity.
“Read that note from Miss Dodd!”
“What! you in correspondence with Miss Dodd?”
“That is to say, she has thrust herself into correspondence with me—just like her assurance.”
The letter ran thus:
“DEAR MADAM—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.”
Lucy was dumfounded.
“I suspected something, Lucy, so I asked Mr. Dodd to inquire.”
“It was a singular commission to send him on.”
“Oh, he takes long walks—cruises, he calls them—and he is so good-natured. Well, what do you think of your uncle's veracity now?”
Lucy was troubled and distressed, but she mastered her countenance: “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—oh, pray do!—see his goodness in all this.”
“The goodness of a story-teller.”
“He admires Mr. Talboys—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!”
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:
“And do you think he says nothing against you?”
“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?”
“Oh, people that hate one another can always find something ill-natured to say,” retorted Lucy, with a world of meaning.
Mrs. Bazalgette turned red, and her little nose went up into the air at an angle of forty-five. She said, with majestic disdain: “I don't hate the man—I don't condescend to hate him.”
“Then don't condescend to backbite him, dear.”
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.
This sweet lady departed, flinging down her firebrand on those hospitable boards.
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.
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.
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 maitresse d'armes. No. “The days were drawing in. The air was heavy; no carbon in it. Wind in the east again!!!” etc. So subtle is the influence of these silly little creatures upon creation's lords.
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—a terrible champion—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 called “Headache.” When this terrible ally mingled in the game—on the Talboys nights—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. “Oh, Lucy,” he cried, in piteous, foreboding tones, “don't go and have a headache to-night. It was so jolly till you took to these stupid headaches.”
“I am so sorry, Arthur,” 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—and principle—until sleep came to her relief.
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, “and so shut up in measureless content.”—Macbeth.
The seniors consulted at their ease. They both appreciated the painful phenomenon, but they differed toto coelo 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: “But I find from Mr. Arthur he visits the house every day on the pretense of teaching him mathematics—a barefaced pretense—a sailor teach mathematics!” 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: “I really cannot consent to send my poor friend's son to the University a dunce, and there is no other mathematician near.”
“If I find you one,” said Talboys, hastily, “will you relieve Mr. Dodd of his labors, and me of his presence?”
“Certainly,” said the other. Poor David!
“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.”
The senior consented with a pitying smile.
“Bramby will take him next week,” said Talboys, severely.
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.
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.
“I have made him stay to luncheon for once,” said Arthur; “he couldn't refuse me; we are to part so soon.” 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.
“How do you naval officers find time to learn geometry?”
“What? don't you know it is a part of our education, sir?”
“I never heard that before.”
“That is odd; but perhaps you have spent all your life ashore” (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 if they saw it in time, but were, in truth, hardly to be trusted to take her from port to port. “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—but that is all.” 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—faults that were curable, and that they would all, he hoped, live long enough to see cured. Then, turning to Miss Fountain, he said: “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?”
Lucy. “I don't quite understand all you have said, Mr. Dodd, but that last I think is unanswerable.”
Fountain. “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'—haw! ho!”
Mr. Talboys averted his attack. “Pray, sir,” said he, with a sneer, “may I ask, have nautical commanders a particular taste for education as well as science?”
“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.”
“It is the direction of your teaching that seems to me so singular. Mathematics are horrible enough, and greatly to be avoided.”
“That is news to me.”
“On terra firma, I mean.”
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—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. “But the enigma is why you read them with a stripling, of whose breeding we have just had a specimen—mathematics with a hob-ba-de-hoy? Grand Dieu! Do pray tell us, Mr. Dodd, why you come to Font Abbey every day; is it really to teach Master Orson mathematics and manners?”
David did not sink into the earth as he was intended to.
“I come to teach him algebra and geometry, what little I know.”
“But your motive, Mr. Dodd?”
David looked puzzled, Lucy uneasy at seeing her guest badgered.
“Ask Miss Fountain why she thinks I do my best for Arthur,” said David, lowering his eyes.
Talboys colored and looked at Fountain.
“I think it must be out of pure goodness,” said Lucy, sweetly.
Mr. Talboys ignored her calmly. “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?”
“You are very curious, sir,” said David, grimly, his ire rising unseen.
“I am—on this point.”
“Well, since you must be told what most men could see without help, it is—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?” 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.
The next thing was, Lucy rose and went quietly out of the room by the door.
“It is the last time he shall set his foot within my door. Provoking cub!”
“You are convinced at last that he is a dangerous rival?”
“A rival? Nonsense and stuff!!”
“Then why was she so agitated? She went out with tears in her eyes: I saw them.”
“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 & Co.”
“In that case you had better exclude the cause.”
“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.”
With this understanding the friends parted.
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. “I have dropped my worsted, Arthur. It is by you.”
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, “Your book seems very interesting.”
“I'll fling it against the wall if it does not mind,” was the infuriated reply. “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.”
“Then why not put the book down and talk to me?”
“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.”
“Will not the number of volumes tell you that?”
“Signorina, don't you try to be satirical!” said the sprightly youth; “you'll only make a mess of it. What is the use dropping one drop of vinegar into such a great big honey pot?”
“You are a saucy boy,” retorted Lucy, in tones of gentle approbation.
A long silence.
“Arthur, will you hold this skein for me?”
Arthur groaned.
“Never mind, dear. I will try and manage with a chair.”
“No you won't, now; there.”
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—obliged to elicit the information she had resolved should be forced upon her.
“By the by, Arthur,” said she, carelessly, “did Mr. Dodd say anything to you on the lawn?”
“What about?”
“About what was said after you went out so ru—so suddenly.”
“No; why? what was said? Something about me? Tell me.”
“Oh, no, dear; as Mr. Dodd did not mention it, it is not worth while. You must not move your hands, please.”
“Now, Lucy, that is too bad. It is not fair to excite one's curiosity and then stop directly.”
“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, you are disentangled at last.”
“Now, signorina, let us talk sense. Tell me, which do you like best of all the gentlemen that come here?”
“You, dear; only keep your hands still.”
“None of your chaff, Lucy.”
“Chaff! what is that?”
“Flattery, then. I hope it isn't that affected fool Talboys, for I hate hun.”
“I cannot undertake to share your prejudices, Mr. Arthur.”
“Then you actually like him.”
“I don't dislike him.”
“Then I pity your taste, that is all.”
“Mr. Talboys has many good qualities; and if he was what you describe him, Uncle Fountain would not prize him as he does.”
“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.”
“Arthur,” said Lucy, severely, “if you speak so of my uncle's friends, you and I shall quarrel.”
“You won't quarrel just now, if you can help it.”
“Won't I, though? Why not, pray?”
“Because your skein is not wound yet.”
“Oh, you little black-hearted thing!”
“I know human nature, miss,” said the urchin, pompously; “I have read Miss Edgeworth!!!”
He then made an appeal to her candor and good sense. “Now don't you see my friend Mr. Dodd is worth them all put together?”
“I can't quite see that.”
“He is so noble, so kind, so clever.”
“You must own he is a trifle brusk.”
“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.”
“We have not read Miss Edgeworth. His hands are not so white as Mr. Talboys'.”
“Nor his liver, either—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.”
“Don't be angry, dear. You must admit his voice is very loud.”
“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.”
“There, the skein is wound. Arthur!”
“Well?”
“I have a great mind to tell you something your friend Mr. Dodd said while you were out of the room—but no, you shall finish your story first.”
“No, no; hang the story!”
“Ah! you only say that out of politeness. I have taken you from it so long already.”
The impetuous boy jumped up, seized the volumes, dashed out, and presently came running back, crying: “There, I have thrown them behind the bookcase for ever and ever. Now will you tell me what he said?”
Lucy smiled triumphantly. She could relish a bloodless victory over an inanimate rival. Then she said softly, “Arthur, what I am going to tell you is in confidence.”
“I will be torn in pieces before I betray it,” said the young chevalier.
Lucy smiled at his extravagance, then began again very gravely: “Mr. Talboys, who, with many good qualities, has—what shall I say?—narrow and artificial views compared with your friend—”
“Ah! now you are talking sense.”
“Then why interrupt me, dear?—began teasing him, and wanting to know the real reason he comes here.”
“The real reason? What did the fool mean?”
“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.”
“Shame! shame! oh!”
“I saw his anger rising; for Mr. Dodd, though not irritable, is passionate—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 my heart as well? I am an orphan, too. Arthur, don't cry, love! oh! oh! oh!”
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.
“Hallo!” cried the mercurial prince; “a sudden thought strikes me. You kept running him down a minute ago.”
“Me?” said Lucy, with a look of amazement.
“Why, you know you did. Now tell me what was that for.”
“To give you the pleasure of defending him.”
“Oh. Hum? Lucy, you are not quite so simple as the others think; sometimes I can't make you out myself.”
“Is it possible? Well, you know what to do, dear.”
“No, I don't.”
“Why, read Miss Edgeworth over again.”
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg