Part 22 (2/2)
”Not at present.” 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.
”Jeames is not such a fool as he looks.”
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.
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.
”Yes, miss.
”My uncle has sent it back, then? He is not coming to-day?”
John would inquire of the coachman.
”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.” On this news Lucy rose hastily, s.n.a.t.c.hed 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.
Our narrative must take a step to the rear, as an excellent writer, Private ----* 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.
*”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.”--_Times._
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. ”You will see my niece--a charming young lady, who will be kind to you, and you must make friends with her. She is very accomplished--paints. She plays like an angel, too.
Ah! there she is. She has got the gown on I gave her--a compliment to me--a very pretty attention, Arthur, the day of my return. What is she doing?”
Arthur, with his young eyes, settled this question. ”The lady is asleep. See, she has dropped her book.” And; in fact, the whole att.i.tude was lax and not ungraceful. Her right hand hung down, and the domestic story, its duty done, reposed beneath.
”Now, Arthur,” said the senior, making himself young to please the boy, and to show him that, if he looked old, he was not worn out, ”would you like a bit of fun? We will startle her--we'll give her a kiss.” Arthur hung back irresolute, and his cheeks were dyed with blushes.
”Not you, you young rogue; you are not her uncle.” 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 pa.s.sion.
”How dare you? What is the meaning of this insult?”
”How came you here?” was the reply, in an equally angry tone.
”Can't a lady come into your little misery of a garden without being outraged?”
”It isn't the garden--it is only the back garden,” cried the proprietor of Font Hill; _”(blesse)_ I'll swear that is my niece's gown; so you've invaded that, too.”
”Aunt Bazalgette--Uncle Fountain, it was my fault,” sighed a piteous voice. This was Lucy, who had just come on the scene. ”Dear uncle, forgive me; it was I who invited her.”
Lucy's pathetic tones, which were fast degenerating into sobs, were agreeably interrupted.
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--a trait that takes us into many follies, but keeps us out of others--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. ”Now, Arthur,” he whispered, ”take a lesson from a gentleman of the old school. I hate this she-devil; but this is at my house, so--observe.” He then strutted jauntily and feebly up to Mrs. Bazalgette: ”Madam, my niece says you are her guest; but permit me to dispute her t.i.tle to that honor.” Mrs. Bazalgette smiled agreeably. She wanted to stay a day or two at Font Abbey. The senior flourished out his arm. ”Let me show you what _we_ call the garden here.” She took his arm graciously. ”I shall be delighted, sir [pompous old fool!].”
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--prettier than her own; had gra.s.sy slopes, a fountain, a grotto, variegated beds, and beds a blaze of one color (a fas.h.i.+on not common at that time); item, a brook with waterlilies on its bosom.
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