CHAPTER XV.

TO-MORROW Lucy had agreed to sail, and in the boat Mr. Talboys was to ask and win her band.  But from the first Mr. Fountain had never a childlike confidence in the scheme, and his understanding kept rebelling more and more.

“’The man that means to pop, pops,” said he; “one needn’t go to sea—­to pop.  Terra firma is poppable on, if it is nothing else.  These young fellows are like novices with a gun:  the bird must be in a position or they can’t shoot it—­with their pop-guns.  The young sparks in my day could pop them down flying.  We popped out walking, popped out riding, popped dancing, popped psalm-singing.  Talboys could not pop on horseback, because the lady’s pony fidgeted, not his.  Well, it will be so to-morrow.  The boat will misbehave, or the wind will be easterly, and I shall be told southerly is the popping wind.  The truth is, he is faint-hearted.  His sires conquered England, and he is afraid of a young girl.  I’ll end this nonsense.  He shall pop by proxy.”

In pursuance of this resolve, seeing his niece pass through the hall with her garden hat on, he called to her that he would get his hat and join her.  They took one turn together almost in silence.  Fountain was thinking how he should best open the subject, and Lucy waiting after her own fashion, for she saw by the old man’s manner he had something to say to her.

“Lucy, my dear, I leave you in a day or two.”

“So soon, uncle.”

“And it depends on you whether I am to go away a happy or a disappointed old man.”

At these words, to which she was too cautious to reply in words, Lucy wore a puzzled air; but underneath it a keen observer might have noticed her cheek pale a little, a very little, and a quiver of suppressed agitation pass over her like a current of air in summer over a smooth lake.

Receiving no answer, Mr. Fountain went on to remind her that he was her only kinsman, Mrs. Bazalgette being her relation by half-blood only; and told her that, looking on himself as her father, he had always been anxious to see her position in life secured before his own death.

“I have been ambitious for you, my dear,” said he, “but not more so than your beauty and accomplishments, and your family name entitle us to be.  Well, my ambition for you and my affection for you are both about to be gratified; at least, it now rests with you to gratify them.  Will you be Mrs. Talboys?”

Lucy looked down, and said demurely, “What a question for a third person to put!”

“Should I put it if I had not a right?”

“I don’t know."’

“You ought to know, Lucy.”

“Mr. Talboys has authorized you, dear?”

“He has."’

“Then this is a formal proposal from Mr. Talboy’s?”

“Of course it is,” said the old gentleman, fearlessly, for Lucy’s manner of putting these questions was colorless; nobody would have guessed what she was at.