“My husband is a worthy man,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, languidly, “but now and then he makes me blush for him.”
“Our good friend is a humorist,” replied Fountain, good-humoredly, “and dearly loves a paradox”; and they pooh-poohed him without a particle of malice.
Then Mrs. Bazalgette turned to Lucy, and hoped that she did her the justice to believe she had none but affectionate motives in wishing to see her speedily established.
“Oh no, aunt,” said Lucy. “Why should you wish to part with me? I give you but little trouble in your great house.”
“Trouble, child? you know you are a comfort to have in any house.”
This pleased Lucy; it was the first gracious word for a long time. Having thus softened her, Mrs. Bazalgette proceeded to attack her by all the weaknesses of her sex and age, and for a good hour pressed her so hard that the tears often gushed from Lucy's eyes over her red cheeks. The girl was worn by the length of the struggle and the pertinacity of the assault. She was as determined as ever to do nothing, but she had no longer the power to resist in words. Seeing her reduced to silence, and not exactly distinguishing between impassibility and yielding, Mrs. Bazalgette delivered the coup-de-grace.
“I must now tell you plainly, Lucy, that your character is compromised by being out all night with persons of the other sex. I would have spared you this, but your resistance compels those who love you to tell you all. Owing to that unfortunate trip, you are in such a situation that you must marry.”
“The world is surely not so unjust as all this,” sighed Lucy.
“You don't know the world as I do,” was the reply. “And those who live in it cannot defy it. I tell you plainly, Lucy, neither your uncle nor I can keep you any longer, except as an engaged person. And even that engagement ought to be a very short one.”
“What, aunt? what, uncle? your house is no longer mine?” and she buried her head upon the table.