“The fairies have grown capricious, then. Has Tom told you nothing—I mean since he came back?”
“No; nothing.”
“Then let me tell it.”
In very few words, and with wonderfully little emotion, Trafford told the tale of his altered fortunes. Of course he did not reveal the reasons for which he had been disinherited, but loosely implied that his conduct had displeased his father, and with his mother he had never been a favorite. “Mine,” said he, “is the vulgar story that almost every family has its instance of,—the younger son, who goes into the world with the pretensions of a good house, and forgets that he himself is as poor as the neediest man in the regiment. They grew weary of my extravagance, and, indeed, they began to get weary of myself, and I am not surprised at it! and the end has come at last. They have cast me off, and, except my commission, I have now nothing in the world. I told Tom all this, and his generous reply was, 'Your poverty only draws you nearer to us.' Yes, Lucy, these were his words. Do you think that his sister could have spoken them?”
“'Before she could do so, she certainly should be satisfied on other grounds than those that touch your fortune,” said Lucy, gravely.
“And it was to give her that same satisfaction I came here,” cried he, eagerly. “I accepted Tom's invitation on the sole pledge that I could vindicate myself to you. I know what is laid to my charge, and I know too how hard it will be to clear myself without appearing like a coxcomb.” He grew crimson as he said this, and the shame that overwhelmed him was a better advocate than all his words. “But,” added he, “you shall think me vain, conceited,—a puppy, if you will,—but you shall not believe me false. Will you listen to me?”
“On one condition I will,” said she, calmly.
“Name your condition. What is it?”
“My condition is this: that when I have heard you out,—heard all that you care to tell me—if it should turn out that I am not satisfied—I mean, if it appear to me a case in which I ought not to be satisfied—you will pledge your word that this conversation will be our last together.”
“But, Lucy, in what spirit will you judge me? If you can approach the theme thus coldly, it gives me little hope that you will wish to acquit me.”