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 attitude 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 passion.
“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.