Love Me Little, Love Me Long Part 4

"Yet I have said it," replied Lucy, thoughtfully.

"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."

The aunt then inquired of the niece, "frankly, now, between ourselves," 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 s.e.x. Of course, she could understand a lady wis.h.i.+ng 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 superst.i.tious 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. "So, aunt," she concluded, "if you really love me, driving me to the altar will be an unfortunate way of showing it."

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: "This girl is not flesh and blood; she is made of curds and whey, or something else;" the second was: "No, she is a shade hypocriticaler than other girls--before they are married, that is all;" and, acting on this latter conviction, she smiled a lofty incredulity, and fell to counting on her fingers all the moneyed bachelors for miles.

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. "No," cried she, "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."

"I promise that," cried Lucy, eagerly.

"Upon your honor?"

"Upon my honor."

"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."

"I am so glad; but if you knew how little it costs me."

"All the better; you will be more likely to keep it," was the dry reply.

The conversation then took a more tender turn. "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--no--now don't cry" (a little sharply); "the servants will be coming in to take away the things."

"Will you c--c--come and h--help me pack, dear?"

"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--I cannot let your health be sacrificed; you had better take a brisk walk, and pack afterward."

"Thank you, aunt. I will go and finish my drawing of Harrowden Church to take with me."

"No, don't go there; the meadows are wet. Walk upon the Hatton road; it is all gravel."

"Yes; only it is so ugly, and I have nothing to do that way."

"But I'll give you something to do," said Mrs. Bazalgette, obligingly.

"You know where old Sarah and her daughter live--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."

"That I will, with pleasure."

"Shall you come back through the garden? If you don't--never mind; but, if you do, you may choose me a bouquet. The servants are incapable of a bouquet."

"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." Mrs. Bazalgette accepted this tribute with a benignant smile, and the ladies parted.

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 d.i.c.ky, packed Lucy's imperial on the roof, and slung a box below the d.i.c.ky; stowed her maid away aft, arranged the foot-cus.h.i.+on and a shawl or two inside, and, half obsequiously, half b.u.mptiously, awaited the descent of his fair charge.

Then, upstairs, came a sudden simultaneous attack of ardent lips, and a long, clinging embrace that would have graced the most glorious, pa.s.sionate, 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.

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,

Remember!

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.

"Oh how nice, after a journey!" said Lucy, mowing down Uncle Fountain and Mrs. Brown with one comprehensive smile.

Mrs. Brown flamed with complacency.

"What!" cried her uncle; "I suppose you expected a black fire and impertinent apologies by way of subst.i.tute for warmth; a stuffy room, and damp sheets, roasted, like a woodc.o.c.k, twenty minutes before use."

"No, uncle, dear, I expected every comfort at Font Abbey." Brown retired with a courtesy.

"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 s.e.x have killed more men with damp sheets than ever fell by the sword."

"Yet n.o.body erects monuments to us," put in Lucy, slyly.

She missed fire. Uncle Fountain, like most Englishmen, could take in a pun by the ear, but wit only by the eye. "Do you remember when Mrs.

Bazalgette put you into the linen sponge, and killed you?"

"Killed me?"

"Certainly, as far as in her lay. We can but do our best; well, she did hers, and went the right way to work."

"You see I survive."

"By a miracle. Dinner is at six."

"Very well, dear."

"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--"

"To a cinder?"

"Ha! ha! and come with an appet.i.te, please."

"Uncle, no tyranny, I beg."

"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--exquisite creature! all soul! no stomach! feeds on air, ideas, and quadrille music--no; what do you think I say?"

"Something flattering, I feel sure."

"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."

"Alas! so I see. That decides me to be candid--and hungry."