Part 47 (1/2)

This did not suit Lucy. She plied him with airy nothings, that no man can arrest and impress on paper; but the tone and smile made them pleasing, and then she asked his opinion of the other guests in such a way as implied she took some interest in his opinion of them, but mighty little in the people themselves. In short, she chatted with him like an old friend, and nothing more; but David was not subtle enough in general, nor just now calm enough, to see on what footing all this cordiality was offered him. His color came back, his eye brightened, happiness beamed on his face, and the lady saw it from under her lashes.

”How fortunate I fell in with you here! You are yourself again--on your quarter-deck. I scarce knew you the last few days. I was afraid I had offended you. You seemed to avoid me.”

”Nonsense, Mr. Dodd; what is there about you to avoid?”

”Plenty, Miss Fountain; I am so inferior to your other friends.”

”I was not aware of it, Mr. Dodd.”

”And I have heard your s.e.x has gusts of caprice, and I thought the cold wind was blowing upon me; and that did seem very sad, just when I am going out, and perhaps shall never see your sweet face or hear your lovely voice again.”

”Don't say that, Mr. Dodd, or you will make me sad in earnest. Your prudence and courage, and a kind Providence, will carry you safe through this voyage, as they have through so many, and on your return the acquaintance you do me the honor to value so highly will await you--if it depends on me.”

All this was said kindly and beautifully, and almost tenderly, but still with a certain majesty that forbade love-making--rendered it scarce possible, except to a fool. But David was not captious. He could not, like the philosopher, sift suns.h.i.+ne. For some days he had been almost separated from her. Now she was by his side. He adored her so that he could no longer _realize_ sorrow or disappointment to come. They were uncertain--future. The light of her eyes, and voice, and face, and n.o.ble presence were here; he basked in them.

He told her not to mind a word he had said. ”It was all nonsense. I am happier now--happier than ever.”

At this Lucy looked grave and became silent.

David, to amuse her, told her there was ”a singing dog aboard,” and would she like to hear him?

This was a happy diversion for Lucy. She a.s.sented gayly. David ran for his fiddle, and then for Pepper. Pepper wagged his tail, but, strong as his musical taste was, would not follow the fiddle. But at this juncture Master Reginald dawned on the stable-yard with a huge slice of bread and b.u.t.ter. Pepper followed him. So the party came on the lawn and joined Lucy. Then David played on the violin, and Pepper performed exactly as hereinbefore related. Lucy laughed merrily, and Reginald shrieked with delight, for the vocal terrier was mortal droll.

”But, setting Pepper aside, that is a very sweet air you are playing now, Mr. Dodd. It is full of soul and feeling.”

”Is it?” said David, looking wonderstruck; ”you know best.”

”Who is the composer?”

David looked confused and said, ”No one of any note.”

Lucy shot a glance at him, keen as lightning. What with David's simplicity and her own remarkable talent for reading faces, his countenance was a book to her, wide open, Bible print. ”The composer's name is Mr. Dodd,” said she, quietly.

”I little thought you would be satisfied with it,” replied David, obliquely.

”Then you doubted my judgment as well as your own talent.”

”My talent! I should never have composed an air that would bear playing but for one thing.”

”And what was that?” said Lucy, affecting vast curiosity. She felt herself on safe ground now--the fine arts.

”You remember when you went away from Font Abbey, and left us all so heavy-hearted?”

”I remember leaving Font Abbey,” replied Lucy, with saucy emphasis, and an air of lofty disbelief in the other incident.

”Well, I used to get my fiddle, and think of you so far away, and sweet sad airs came to my heart, and from my heart they pa.s.sed into the fiddle. Now and then one seemed more worthy of you than the rest were, and then I kept that one.”

”You mean you took the notes down,” said Lucy coldly.

”Oh no, there was no need; I wrote it in my head and in my heart. May I play you another of your tunes? I call them your tunes.”

Lucy blushed faintly, and fixed her eyes on the ground. She gave a slight signal of a.s.sent, and David played a melody.