Lucy. No, no! I do not, and I sometimes wonder at myself: I like to be with him, he is so gay and so attentive; but, when he begins to speak of love, I don’t know why—but a face comes between his and mine, the face of my dear brother Harry, and then I almost detest him.
Mrs. L. You do not believe him guilty of the charge made by Harry?
Lucy. I do not know what to believe: I only know I wish he would never speak of love to me; but still—
Mrs. L. Well, Lucy?
Lucy. We are poor, very poor: this life we now lead cannot last much longer. Some day this place must be given up; then what will become of father, you—all of us? Dilly works hard to keep the wolf from our door, and I am but a poor drone in the hive. Mr. Hastings is rich: were I his wife, this place might be secured, father made comfortable, and you and Dilly happy.
Mrs. L. And yet you do not love him?
Lucy. No, no: I cannot while this uncertainty exists about Harry.
Mrs. L. Then do not marry him. A marriage without love is a blasphemy; and a marriage with Fred Hastings could not be a happy one. Give him his answer, plainly and fairly, and leave our fate to be adjusted by a higher and wiser power. Hark! here’s Dilly: do not speak of this before her; it would make her unhappy.
Dilly. (Outside, C.) Ha! Ha! Ha! what a queer old doctor! you make me laugh so, my sides ache, you’re so funny. (Enter C., supporting Doctor. Lucy runs and places arm-chair C., in which they seat him.) There, I’ve given you a good long walk; now be a good boy, be quiet, and entertain me. (Sits on stool at L. of Doctor. Lucy kneels, R.)
Doctor. Ah, Dilly, you’re a funny girl—a little rogue—you want to keep me all to yourself.