While she gazes at it with dilating eye and throbbing heart, I may as well undeceive the reader. This was not really effected in forty-eight hours. Bazalgette only pretended that, partly out of fun, partly out of nobility. Ever since a certain interview in his study with David Dodd, who was a man after his own heart, he had taken a note, and had worked for him with “the Company;” for Bazalgette was one of those rare men who reduce performance to a certainty long before they promise. His promises were like pie-crust made to be eaten, and eaten hot.
Lucy came out of her room, and at the same moment issued forth from hers Mrs. Bazalgette in a fine new dress. It was that black glace; silk, divested of gloom by cheerful accessories, in which she had threatened to mourn eternally Lucy's watery fate. Fire flashed from the young lady's eyes at the sight of it. She went down to her uncle, muttering between her ivory teeth: “All the same—all the same;” and her heart flowed. The next minute, at sight of Mr. Bazalgette it ebbed. She came into his room, saying: “Oh, Uncle Bazalgette, it is not to thank you—that I can never do worthily; it is to ask another favor. Do, pray, let me spend this evening with you; let me be where you are. I will be as still as a mouse. See, I have brought some work; or, if you would but let me help you. Indeed, uncle, I am not a fool. I am very quick to learn at the bidding of those I love. Let me write your letters for you, or fold them up, or direct them, or something—do, pray!”
“Oh, the caprices of young ladies! Well, can you write large and plain? Not you.”
“I can imitate anything or anybody.”
“Imitate this hand then. I'll walk and dictate, you sit and write.”
“Oh, how nice!”
“Delicious! The first is to—Hetherington. Now, Lucy, this is a dishonest, ungrateful old rogue, who has made thousands by me, and now wants to let me into a mine, with nothing in it but water. It would suck up twenty thousand pounds as easily as that blotting-paper will suck up our signature.”
“Heartless traitor! monster!” cried Lucy.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes,” and her eye flashed and the pen was to her a stiletto.