“And so your alchemist turns out to be the father of my admirer, Mr. Alfred Layton. I can sincerely say your part of the family is the more profitable, for I should find it a very difficult problem to make five hundred pounds out of mine! Nor can I sufficiently admire the tact with which you rescued even so much from such a wreck! I esteem your cleverness the more, since—shall I confess it, dear papa?—I thought that the man of acids and alkalies would turn out to be the rogue and you the dupe! Let me hasten, therefore, to make the amende honorable, and compliment you on your new character of chemist.
“In your choice, too, of the mode of disembarrassing yourself of his company, you showed an admirable wisdom; and you very justly observe, these are not times when giving a dog a bad name will save the trouble of hanging him, otherwise an exposure of his treasonable principles might have sufficed. Far better was the method you selected, while, by making him out to be mad, you make yourself out to be benevolent. You have caught, besides, a very popular turn of the public mind at a lucky conjuncture. There is quite a vogue just now for shutting up one's mother-in-law, or one's wife, or any other disagreeable domestic ingredient, on the plea of insanity; and a very clever physician, with what is called 'an ingenious turn of mind,' will find either madness or arsenic in any given substance. You will, however, do wisely to come abroad, for the day will come of a reaction, and 'the lock-up' system will be converted into the 'let-loose,' and a sort of doomsday arrive when one will be confronted with very unwelcome acquaintances.”
As she had written thus far, a very gentle voice at her door whispered, “May I come in, dearest?”
“Oh, darling, is it you?” cried Mrs. Morris, throwing a sheet of paper over her half-written epistle. “I was just writing about you. My sweet May, I have a dear old godmother down in Devonshire who loves to hear of those who love me; and it is such a pleasure, besides, to write about those who are happy.”
“And you call me one of them, do you?” said the girl, with a deep sigh.
“I call you one who has more of what makes up happiness than any I have ever known. You are very beautiful,—nay, no blushing, it is a woman says it; so handsome, May, that it is downright shame of Fortune to have made you rich too. You should have been left to your beauty, as other people are left to their great connections, or their talents, or their Three per Cents; and then you are surrounded by those who love you, May,—a very commendable thing in a world which has its share of disagreeable people; and, lastly, to enjoy all these fair gifts, you have got youth.”
“I shall be nineteen on the fourth of next month, Lucy,” said the other, gravely; “and it was just about that very circumstance that I came to speak to you.”
Mrs. Morris knew thoroughly well what the speech portended, but she looked all innocence and inquiry.
“You are aware, Lucy, what my coming of age brings with it?” said the girl, half pettishly.
“That you become a great millionnaire, dearest,—a sort of female Rothschild, with funds and stocks in every land of the earth.”