Courtship -- Fiction; England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Mate selection -- Fiction
She hinted broadly at the viper of Aesop, and indicated more faintly
an animal that, when one bestows the choicest favors on it, turns and
rends one. Then, becoming suddenly just to the brute creation, she
said: “No, it is only your abominable sex that would behave so
perversely, so ungratefully.”
“Don't understand,” drawled Kenealy, “I thought you would laike it.”
“Well, you see, I don't laike it.”
“You seemed to be getting rather spooney on me.”
“Spooney! what is that? one of your mess-room terms, I suppose.”
“Yaas; so I thought you waunted me to pawp.”
“Captain Kenealy, this subterfuge is unworthy of you. You know
perfectly well why I distinguished you. Others pestered me with their
attachments and nonsense, and you spared me that annoyance. In return,
I did all in my power to show you the grateful friendship I thought
you worthy of. But you have broken faith; you have violated the clear,
though tacit understanding that subsisted between us, and I am very
angry with you. I have some little influence left with my aunt, sir,
and, unless I am much mistaken, you will shortly rejoin the army,
sir.”
“What a boa! what a dem'd boa!”
“And don't swear; that is another foolish custom you gentlemen have;
it is almost as foolish as the other. Yes, I'll tell my aunt of you,
and then you will see.”
“What a boa! How horrid spaiteful you are.”
“Well, I am rather vindictive. But my aunt is ten times worse, as her
deserter shall find, unless--”
“Unless whawt?”
“Unless you beg my pardon directly.” And at this part of the
conversation Lucy was fain to turn her head away, for she found it
getting difficult to maintain that severe countenance which she
thought necessary to clothe her words with terror, and subjugate the
gallant captain.
“Well, then, I apolojaize,” said Kenealy.
“And I accept your apology; and don't do it again.”
“I won't, 'pon honaa. Look heah; I swear I didn't mean to affront yah;
I don't waunt yah to mayrry me; I only proposed out of civility.”
“Come, then, it was not so black as it appeared. Courtesy is a good
thing; and if you thought that, after staying a month in a house, you
were bound by etiquette to propose to the marriageable part of it, it
is pardonable, only don't do it again, _please.”_
“I'll take caa--I'll take caa. I say your tempaa is not--quite--what
those other fools think it is--no, by Jove;” and the captain glared.
“Nonsense: I am only a little fiendish on this one point. Well, then,
steer clear of it, and you will find me a good crechaa on every
other.”
Kenealy vowed he would profit by the advice.
“Then there is my hand: we are friends again.”
“You won't tell your aunt, nor the other fellaas?”
“Captain Kenealy, I am not one of your garrison ladies; I am a young
person who has been educated; your extra civility will never be known
to a soul: and you shall not join the army but as a volunteer.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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