Love Me Little, Love Me Long | Page 6

for?"
"I will tell you what he sees--a good little spiritless thing--"
"I am larger than you, dear."
"Yes, in body--that he can make a slave of--always ready to nurse him
and his foe, or to put down your work and to take up his--to play at his
vile backgammon."
"Piquet, please."
"Where is the difference?--to share his desolation, and take half his
blue devils on your own shoulders, till he will hyp you so that to get
away you will consent to marry into his set--the county set--some
beggarly old family that came down from the Conquest, and has been
going down ever since; so then he will let you fly--with a string: you
must vegetate two miles from him; so then he can have you in to
Backquette and write his letters: he will settle four hundred a year on
you, and you will be miserable for life."
"Poor Uncle Fountain, what a schemer he turns out!"
"Men all turn out schemers when you know them, Miss Impertinence.
Well, dear, I have no selfish views for you. I love my few friends too
single-heartedly for that; but I am sad when I see you leaving us to go
where you are not prized."
"Indeed, aunt, I am prized at Font Abbey. I am overrated there as I am
here. They all receive me with open arms."
"So is a hare when it comes into a trap," said Mrs. Bazalgette, sharply,
drawing upon a limited knowledge of grammar and field-sports.

"No--Uncle Fountain really loves me."
"As much as I do?" asked the lady, with a treacherous smile.
"Very nearly," was the young courtier's reply. She went on to console
her aunt's unselfish solicitude, by assuring her that Font Abbey was not
a solitude; that dinners and balls abounded, and her uncle was invited
to them all.
"You little goose, don't you see? all those invitations are for your sake,
not his. If we could look in on him now we should find him literally in
single cursedness. Those county folks are not without cunning. They
say beauty has come to stay with the beast; we must ask the beast to
dinner, so then beauty will come along with him.
"What other pleasure awaits you at Font Abbey?"
"The pleasure of giving pleasure," replied Lucy, apologetically.
"Ah! that is your weakness, Lucy. It is all very well with those who
won't take advantage; but it is the wrong game to play with all the
world. You will be made a tool of, and a slave of, and use of. I speak
from experience. You know how I sacrifice myself to those I love;
luckily, they are not many."
"Not so many as love you, dear."
"Heaven forbid! but you are at the head of them all, and I am going to
prove it--by deeds, not words."
Lucy looked up at this additional feature in her aunt's affection.
"You must go to the great bear's den for three months, but it shall be
the last time!" Lucy said nothing.
"You will return never to quit us, or, at all events, not the
neighborhood."
"That--would be nice," said the courtier warmly, but hesitatingly; "but
how will you gain uncle's consent?"
"By dispensing with it."
"Yes; but the means, aunt?"
"A husband!"
Lucy started and colored all over, and looked askant at her aunt with
opening eyes, like a thoroughbred filly just going to start all across the
road. Mrs. Bazalgette laid a loving hand on her shoulder, and
whispered knowingly in her ear: "Trust to me; I'll have one ready for
you against you come back this time."
"No, please don't! pray don't!" cried Lucy, clasping her hands in

feeble-minded distress.
"In this neighborhood--one of the right sort."
"I am so happy as I am."
"You will be happier when you are quite a slave, and so I shall save
you from being snapped up by some country wiseacre, and marry you
into our own set."
"Merchant princes," suggested Lucy, demurely, having just recovered
her breath and what little sauce there was in her.
"Yes, merchant princes--the men of the age--the men who could buy all
the acres in the country without feeling it--the men who make this little
island great, and a woman happy, by letting her have everything her
heart can desire."
"You mean everything that money can buy."
"Of course. I said so, didn't I?"
"So, then, you are tired of me in the house?" remonstrated Lucy, sadly.
"No, ingrate; but you will be sure to marry soon or late."
"No, I will not, if I can possibly help it."
"But you can't help it; you are not the character to help it. The first man
that comes to you and says: 'I know you rather dislike me' (you could
not