CHAPTER II. THE SOWING OF THE SEED
It was impossible for our house to remain long plunged in the depths of desolation, when once so sweet, amiable and lovely a girl as Lucia had come into it. Naturally of a most loving and sympathetic disposition, she had, at first, been greatly grieved at the sad loss she had herself sustained by the deaths of a loving aunt and uncle. The almost tragic nature of their deaths had also a naturally inspiring effect upon her, and she was as subdued and tearful almost as myself and Martha, but in less than a day she saw that if she were to be of any use she must overcome her own feelings, so as the better to raise our spirits. At first all our conversation was of the beloved parents, now, as I fondly thought, gone to eternal bliss in Heaven. Without stating her belief on this subject, Lucia rather encouraged mine; in fact she showed the greatest tact in gently leading my thoughts from the dark grave, and the darker secrets beyond it, to this world, and its multiplicity of pleasures and delights.
She insisted on our taking good long walks. The weather was open and pleasant. All nature seemed to be in accord with us-everything was well grown but had still to reach full development. We ourselves, Lucia and I, were in this condition too. It was impossible not to feel the effects of the lovely beauty of the country, of the sweet, fresh air and of the song of the birds, and with exercise came back a more elastic state of health, and as my body improved in health so did my mind. Lucia in old times had sneered at beetles and weeds and stones, and rubbish, as she called the results of my natural history rambles but now she appeared to take a delight in all I had to tell her about these things. I do not believe she knew a word of science, but she was so quick and intelligent, and seemed so anxious to learn, that I soon found myself growing quite excited in my eagerness to teach her, and if I referred to my dead parents it would be merely to tell Lucia what they had said about these matters, not to rail and lament as I had first done. So some three weeks passed, and July was upon us with hotter sun and warmer air. We used to be glad to find some glade in the woods, near a purling brook, where we could sit or lie down on the grass and talk. One day when thus situated Lucia said, 'Susan, do you intend to live here all your life?'
'Well,' I answered, 'I suppose so. Where should I go? and why should I not stay here?'
'Oh!' she said. 'Now, my dear, without meaning to be at all rude to you, I don't think I could live here much longer.'
'Oh, Lucia! You are not thinking, I hope, of going away yet! What should I do without you, my own darling cousin?' and I began to cry.
'There, there!' said she, putting her arm round my waist and kissing me. 'I would not have said that if I had had any idea it would make you cry, darling. What I meant was, this is such a lonely spot! You never see a soul here from morning to night. I declare I have been here nearly a month, and except old Penwick, I have not seen a single gentleman inside the house. Are there no families with young men living near enough to have discovered the lovely violet called Susan Aked who hides her beauteous charms in these secluded groves?'
She spoke half in earnest, half in jest, so I said, 'Now Lucia! Don't make fun of me. I may live in a very secluded spot, but I don't see why you should find fault with people for not taking notice of such an insignificant girl as myself.'
'But Susan, you are not insignificant. You are perfectly lovely, if you only knew it! Now, let me speak! If you saw more people you could not help noticing, if no one happened to tell you, that you are beautiful. Yes, beautiful! Your eyes are something perfect, and so is your face. You have lips which no man could resist longing to kiss! You have a lovely figure and a perfect bust-or one which will soon be perfect when your breasts have grown a little more full. As it is I can see plainly through your dress that the high, hideous, stiff stays you wear cover two most charming little globes. Ah! Why don't you get others, like mine for instance, which give all necessary support without preventing the rounded globes being seen? It is really a shame to spoil a bosom like yours, and a girl ought to take care of charms which have so powerful an influence over the imaginations of men.'
'Oh goodness, Lucia, how you do run on! Now do you think I care a straw for what men may think of me! As for my stays, poor mamma bought them for me, and I think she was a good enough judge of what I required.'
'Ah! Bless you, Susan, dear! Now I would not mind betting that, had poor Aunt Maria lived to see you in society, she would soon have looked to your being dressed so as to show off all your lovely points to advantage.'
'But suppose I don't care for society, and never wish to go into it?'
'Oh, but Susan! You are talking of what you know nothing about. In a girl like you society means great admiration, and who is there who does not like to be admired?'
'Well, I don't care about it for one!'
'My dear child, for you are a child and nothing else in spite of all your science and botany and stuff, you have been so buried here, that unknown to yourself, you have grown up in complete ignorance that there is a world of men and women about you, and that some day, perhaps not far off now, you will have to take your place in that world. When you do, you will, I venture to prophesy, very soon find out what a charm there is in being admired. But, as I asked you before, are there no young men in these parts?'
'No, Lucia, I don't believe there are. We lived so very quietly, that I suppose if there are any such creatures, they never found us out. Our parish is quite a small one, and, as you may have seen in church, there are very few people in it, and no gentry. Papa used to be called “The Squire.”
'And you actually contemplate without horror the idea of living here by yourself all your life?'
'Oh, no! I hope you will come sometimes and see me, Lucia. I shall ask Gladys, too. Besides, I have old Martha, and I have my birds, and beasts and flowers in the summer; my piano and my books in the winter, and my poor people to look after. You have no idea of how very busy I am usually.'
'But Martha won't be always with you. Gladys and I, I am sure, would be glad to come and stay with you sometimes; but, Susan dearest, I know Gladys well, and she would soon mope to death here where she would see no one of the opposite sex. Besides, her tastes are not half so countrified as mine, and I declare to you that, much as I love you, I do not think I could live here much longer without being tired of myself, and even of you. Women require men just as much as men require women. If you had some handsome, agreeable young squires down here it would be pleasant enough to spend the days flirting in the fields and woods with them, but there is not a soul!'
My goodness, Lucia, how you do care about men! Now I declare I should not mind it; I never saw another in my life!'
'That is because you have never known a town, my dear Susan. You have never known what it is to be wooed! You don't know the pleasure of courtship. You don't know what it is to have a man worshipping the very ground you have walked on. In fact you have never even dreamt of love.'
I was silent.
'Well,' she continued, 'now have you?' 'I really do not understand a word of what you are talking about, Lucia. To me a man is nothing, and as for love, except for the love of my parents, or of you, or of dear old Martha, I know nothing. You mean something, I am sure, of which I have never heard. Of course a husband loves his wife, a parent his child, but I can't see what there is in such love for anybody to rave about as you do!'
'Have you never read any novels, nor any love stories, Susan?' she went on.
'No! My father and mother said they were foolish stuff.'
'I have heard them say so. And have you not even Sir Walter Scott or Shakespeare in the house?'
'Shakespeare we have, I know; but it is locked up in papa's study, in the glass bookcase. I have never read it.'
'Ah! Then read Romeo and Juliet, and you may perhaps learn a secret or two.'
'The secret of love? But what is this curious secret, Lucia?'
'Well now, Susan, answer me. You are a girl, are you not?'
'Yes, of course I am.'
'Of course you are! But why “of course”?'
'Well, because I am, I suppose! I was born so. I don't know any other reason.'
'But there is a very good reason, if you only knew it. Why should you be formed different to a man, for instance? Can you tell me that, sweet Susan?'
