I found Lucy in her own little parlour, at the low window which opened to the terrace. The willows were sweeping their long branches over the sighing water, and in spite of the May sunshine over all, and the universal joy without, there was a look of sadness here. I involuntarily restrained my quick step as I reached the window, and Lucy looked up from her habitual work with her usual kindly and gentle smile.
“Look here, Lucy! I have brought you news,” said I, “news worth seeing. Come, don’t read them in a dull room this May-day. Come out into the sunshine and read them here.”
Lucy rose eagerly.
“What is it? is it about Hew, Adam, or—” She paused; a wavering painful colour came upon her cheek, and her fingers played nervously with the work she had laid down.
“Lucy, you do not think I could bring you anything but good news to-day. Come out and read Charlie’s first speech. His pleadings on his first brief, you know—you heard all about that.”
I fancied I saw a slight shiver of her frame. She had not heard it! but in a moment after Lucy stept out upon the terrace and took the paper and read. I thought her figure seemed taller and more distinct against the shadowy background of willows, as she stood there before me with the paper in her hand. There was something in it of firm pride and endurance which struck me as new—some greater emotion than I had ever known.
“Did Charlie send you this, Adam?” she asked, as she gave it back to me.
“Yes, Lucy,” said I humbly, feeling myself guilty of giving her great pain when I had expected to bring her pleasure; “it came last night.”
There was a slight, almost imperceptible shiver again, and a wandering of the fingers towards each other, as though they would fain be clasped together in the instinctive gesture of grief.
“Wait for me a moment, Adam,” said Lucy; “I have something to say to you.”