Love Me Little, Love Me Long Part 6

"I mean, what do you mean by them?"

"Oh, I put 'ha! ha!' when they giggle, and 'he! he!' when they only chuckle."

"Then this is a caricature, my lady?"

"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."

"Well, the solution is, they are three fools."

"No, uncle, begging your pardon, they are not," replied Lucy, politely but firmly.

"Well, then, three d--d fools."

Lucy winced at the participle, but was two polite to lecture her elder. "They have not that excuse," said she; "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."

"They cackled--at every word--like that--the whole evening!!??"

"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 b.u.t.t end of his lance, answered--ha! ha!"

"So, then, he answered 'Haw! haw!' did he?"

"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--ha! ha!"

"They did not laugh at _that?"_

"Sat as grave as judges."

"And you tell me they are not fools."

"I must repeat, they have not that excuse. Perhaps their risibility had been exhausted. After laughing three hours _a propos de rien,_ it is time to be serious out of place. I will tell you what they _did_ laugh at, though. Miss Malcolm sang a song with a t.i.tle I dare not attempt. There were two lines in it which I am going to misp.r.o.nounce; but you are not Scotch, so I don't care for _you,_ uncle, darling.

"'He had but a saxpence; he break it in twa, And he gave me the half o't when he gaed awa.'

"They laughed at that; a general giggle went round."

"Well, I must confess, I don't see much to laugh at in that, Lucy."

"It would be odd if you did, uncle, dear; why, it is pathetic."

"Pathetic? Oh, is it?"

"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."

"Keep your temper. Why, this is new from you, Lucy; but you women of sugar can all cauterize your own s.e.x; the theme inspires you."

"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--so there. I saw but one that understood him, and did not laugh at him."

"Talboys, for a pound."

"Mr. Talboys? no! _You,_ dear uncle; you did not laugh; I noticed it with all a niece's pride."

"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."

"I return to my question," said Lucy hastily.

"And I to my solution; your three graces are three d--d fools. If you can account for it in any other way, do."

"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."

"Here is a mysterious little toad. Well, Lucy, for all this you enjoyed yourself. I never saw you in better spirits."

"I am glad you saw that," said Lucy, with a languid smile.

"And how Talboys came out."

"He did," sighed Lucy.

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--just above a whisper, "Uncle, darling," inquired she, "where are the men we have all heard of?"

"How should I know? What men?"

"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?"

She paused for a reply; none coming, she continued with decreasing energy:

"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?" (an infinitesimal yawn); "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--tell me, tell me instantly," said she, with still greater languor and want of earnestness, and her eyes remained fixed on the ceiling in deep abstraction.

"They are all in this house at this moment," said Mr. Fountain, coolly.

"Who, dear? I fear I was not attending to you. How rude!!"

"Horrid. I say the men and women you inquire for are all in this house of mine;" and the old gentleman's eyes twinkled.

"Uncle! Heaven forgive you, and--oh, fie!"

"They are, upon my soul."

"Then they must be in some part of it I have not visited. Are they in the kitchen?" (with a little saucy sneer.)

"No, they are in the library."

"In the lib--Ah! _le malin!"_

"They were never seen in the drawing-room, and never will be."

"Yet surely they must have lived in nature before they were embalmed in print," said Lucy, interrogating the ceiling again.

"The nearest approach you will meet to these paragons is Reginald Talboys," said Fountain, stoutly.