“But, mamma! Yes, it was her ignorance; and she said—that was what you were telling us, Mr. Durant? that she would be glad to think there was no chance of this now?”
“Lucy,” said her mother, taking no notice of Durant, “the one thing that could vex me most in this would be that you, out of perverse youthful generosity, should take up the part of champion to this girl. Yes, you are beginning, I have noticed it. But I cannot bear this, it is the only thing wanting to fill up my cup.”
“I will not, mother dear. I will do nothing to vex you. You shall not have to struggle with me too. Has there ever been a time when we have not been in sympathy? But still we must be just,” said Lucy, with her arm round her mother’s waist. She said the last words almost in a whisper. They stood clinging together, relieved against the warm light from the fire. All the rest of the room had fallen into darkness, the windows but so many stripes of a pale glimmer, no real light coming from them, all gloom about, only this glow of warmth showing the two who held together. Durant had nothing to do with that warmth and union. He sat behind in the dark, neither taking any notice of him. And in his heart there was a certain bitterness. He had left his own concerns at their appeal. He had taken a great deal of trouble, and this was all the acknowledgment. He felt very sore and wounded in his heart.
Then lights were brought into the room, lamps which made two partial circles of illumination; and the presence of the servant who brought them, necessitated a few words on ordinary subjects. Lady Curtis resumed her seat with that anxious hypocrisy by which we show our respect for the curious world below stairs, and asked Mr. Durant if he meant to remain in town, or if he was going back to the country. And he told her, not without meaning, that having come to town, though a little earlier than he intended, he meant to stay. There was a pause when they were alone again, and then Durant rose to go away.
“I am afraid I have not succeeded in doing what you expected of me,” he said, somewhat drearily. “I did the best I could, and if you like I will go again, though I shall get but a poor reception. I am unfortunate,” he added, with a faint smile, which had its meaning too.
“Mamma,” said Lucy, “you are not going to let Mr. Durant go, thinking we are ungrateful to him! That can never be—when he has taken so much trouble.”
“Trouble when one has failed does not count for much,” he said, smiling. “It is unkind to talk to me of being grateful or ungrateful; am I not as much, I mean almost as much, very nearly as much, interested in Arthur as yourselves? as if he were my brother,” he said with vehemence. “He has been so; I can never think of him otherwise whatever happens.”
“And whatever happens you will always think of him so?” cried Lucy, for the moment forgetting her reserve. “Oh promise me, Mr. Durant! Even if this makes a difference to us, it will make none to you? If he is so wrong, if he is so foolish that we have to turn from him, you will not? It will make no change to you?”
“None!” he said, fervently. “None! I will stand by him whatever happens. You may trust me—especially now.”
Lucy knew that he meant especially since she had asked him, and got a sudden soft suffusion of colour which tinted her to her very hair; but Lady Curtis thought he meant, and how justly! especially now when there was need of every friendship to stand by her son. She answered him with a struggle between the gratitude which she ought to feel, and the annoyed disappointment and distress that filled her heart.