Part 48 (2/2)

”Oh, nothing; only the gentlemen were beginning to grin.”

”Oh, dear! did I say anything--ridiculous?”

”No, because I stopped you in time. Mind, Lucy, it is never safe to read letters out from people in that cla.s.s of life; they talk about everything, and use words that are quite out of date. I stopped you because I know you are a simpleton, and so I could not tell what might pop out next.”

”Oh, thank you, aunt--thank you,” cried Lucy, warmly. ”Then I did not expose myself, after all.”

”No, no; you said nothing that might not be proclaimed at St. Paul's Cross--ha! ha!”

”Am I a simpleton, aunt?” inquired Lucy, in the tone of an indifferent person seeking knowledge.

”Not you,” replied this oblivious lady. ”You know a great deal more than most girls of your age. To be sure, girls that have been at a fas.h.i.+onable school generally manage to learn one or two things you have no idea of.”

”Naturally.”

”As you say--he! he! But you make up for it, my dear, in other respects. If the gentlemen take you for a pane of gla.s.s, why, all the better; meantime, shall I tell you your real character? I have only just discovered it myself.”

”Oh, yes, aunt, tell me my character. I should so like to hear it from you.”

”Should you?” said the other, a little satirically; ”well, then, you are an INNOCENT FOX.”

”Aunt!”

”An in-no-cent fox; so run and get your work-box. I want you to run up a tear in my flounce.”

Lucy went thoughtfully for her workbox, murmuring ruefully, ”I am an innocent fox--I am an in-nocent fox.”

She did not like her new character at all; it mortified her, and seemed self-contradictory as well as derogatory.

On her return she could not help remonstrating: ”How can that be my character? A fox is cunning, and I despise cunning; and _I am sure_ I am not _innocent,”_ added she, putting up both hands and looking penitent. With all this, a shade of vexation was painted on her lovely cheeks as she appealed against her epigram.

Mrs. Bazalgette (with the calm, inexorable superiority of matron despotism). ”You are an in-nocent fox!! Is your needle threaded? Here is the tear; no, not there. I caught against the flowerpot frame, and I'll swear I heard my gown go. Look lower down, dear. Don't give it up.”

All which may perhaps remind the learned and sneering reader of another fox--the one that ”had a wound, and he could not tell where.”

They rode out to-day as usual, and David had the equivocal pleasure of seeing them go from the door.

Lucy was one of the first down, and put her hand on the saddle, and looked carelessly round for somebody to put her up. David stepped hastily forward, his heart beating, seized her foot, never waited for her to spring, but went to work at once, and with a powerful and sustained effort raised her slowly and carefully like a dead weight, and settled her in the saddle. His gripe hurt her foot. She bore it like a Spartan sooner than lose the amus.e.m.e.nt of his simplicity and enormous strength, so drolly and unnecessarily exerted. It cost her a little struggle not to laugh right out, but she turned her head away from him a moment and was quit for a spasm. Then she came round with a face all candor.

”Thank you, Mr. Dodd,” said she, demurely; and her eyes danced in her head. Her foot felt encircled with an iron band, but she bore him not a grain of malice for that, and away she cantered, followed by his longing eyes.

David bore the separation well. ”To-morrow morning I shall have her all to myself,” said he. He played with Kenealy and Reginald, and chatted with Bazalgette. In the evening she was surrounded as usual, and he obtained only a small share of her attention. But the thought of the morrow consoled him. He alone knew that she walked before breakfast.

The next morning he rose early, and sauntered about till eight o'clock, and then he came on the lawn and waited for her. She did not come. He waited, and waited, and waited. She never came. His heart died within him. ”She avoids me,” said he; ”it is not accident. I have driven her out of her very garden; she always walked here before breakfast (she said so) till I came and spoiled her walk; Heaven forgive me.”

David could not flatter himself that this interruption of her acknowledged habit was accidental. On the other hand, how kind and cheerful she had been with him on the same spot yesterday morning. To judge by her manner, his company on her quarter-deck was not unwelcome to her yet she kept her room to-day, from the window of which she could probably see him walking to and fro, longing for her. The bitter disappointment was bad enough, but here tormenting perplexity as to its cause was added, and between the two the pining heart was racked.

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