And so there was something of a quarrel. Sophy declared that such a life as theirs was too hard for her, and that some kind of amusement was necessary. Unless she were allowed some delight she must go mad, she must die, she must throw herself off Waterloo Bridge. Lucy, remembering her duty, remembering how imperative it was that she should endeavour to do good to the one human being with whom she was closely concerned, forgave her, and tried to comfort her;—forgave her even though at last she refused to be guided by her monitress. For Sophy did go to the Music Hall with Alec Murray,—reporting, but reporting falsely, that they were accompanied by the friend and the friend’s sister. Lucy, poor Lucy, was constrained by certain circumstances to disbelieve this false assertion. She feared that Sophy had gone with Alec alone,—as was the fact. But yet she forgave her friend. How are we to live together at all if we cannot forgive each other’s offences?
CHAPTER II.
ABRAHAM HALL.
As there was no immediate repetition of the offence the forgiveness soon became complete, and Lucy found the interest of her life in her endeavours to be good to this weak child whom chance had thrown in her way. For Sophy Wilson was but a weak child. She was full of Alec Murray for awhile, and induced Lucy to make the young man’s acquaintance. The lad was earning twelve shillings a week, and if these two poor young creatures chose to love each other and get themselves married, it would be respectable, though it might be unfortunate. It would at any rate be the way of the world, and was a natural combination with which she would have no right to interfere. But she found that Alec was a mere boy, and with no idea beyond the enjoyment of a bright scarf and a penny cigar, with a girl by his side at a Music Hall. “I don’t think it can be worth your while to go much out of your way for his sake,” said Lucy.
“Who is going out of her way? Not I. He’s as good as anybody else, I suppose. And one must have somebody to talk to sometimes.” These last words she uttered so plaintively, showing so plainly that she was unable to endure the simple unchanging dulness of a life of labour, that Lucy’s heart was thoroughly softened towards her. She had the great gift of being not the less able to sympathize with the weakness of the weak because of her own abnormal strength. And so it came to pass that she worked for her friend,—stitching and mending when the girl ought to have stitched and mended for herself,—reading to her, even though but little of what was read might be understood,—yielding to her and assisting her in all things, till at last it came to pass that in truth she loved her. And such love and care were much wanted, for the elder girl soon found that the younger was weak in health as well as weak in spirit. There were days on which she could not,—or at any rate did not go to her office. When six months had passed by Lucy had not once been absent since she had begun her new life.
“Have you seen that man who has come to look at our house?” asked Sophy one day as they were walking down to the office. Lucy had seen a strange man, having met him on the stairs. “Isn’t he a fine fellow?”
“For anything that I know. Let us hope that he is very fine,” said Lucy laughing.
“He’s about as handsome a chap as I think I ever saw.”
“As for being a chap the man I saw must be near forty.”
“He is a little old I should say, but not near that. I don’t think he can have a wife or he wouldn’t come here. He’s an engineer, and he has the care of a steam-engine in the City Road,—that great printing place. His name is Abraham Hall, and he’s earning three or four pounds a week. A man like that ought to have a wife.”
“How did you learn all about him?”