"Suppose I take the matter into my own hands, Lucy, and say you shall help it."
"You will not do that," she said, the implied threat restoring her coldness and calmness, though her face turned as pale as the blossoms of the jessamine. "Things are bad enough as they are, but that would make them worse. I should leave your home for good and all--and should have to say why I do so."
She knew how to subdue him. This exposure, if she carried it out, might cost his brother's safety. Karl, feeling his helplessness most bitterly, dropped her hands, and went back to his post at the opposite side of the window.
"I have not said quite all I wish to say," he began, in a voice from which emotion had passed. "As I had the day in London before me, I thought I would look after a pony-chaise for you, Lucy, and I found a beauty. It will be home in a day or two."
"But you have not bought it?"
"Yes, I have."
"Oh, I'm sorry! I did not want one. But it was very kind of you to think of me, Karl," she added in her gratitude.
"And there's a pretty pony to match: a small, quiet, gentle creature. I hope you will like him. I cannot have you running about the place on foot, making yourself ill with the heat."
"Thank you; thank you. But I never drove in my life. I fear I should be a coward."
"I will drive you until you get used to him. That is, if you will permit me. Lucy, believe me, amidst all my care and trouble, your happiness lies next my heart."