“Yes, Miss Trevor,” said the poor lady, hysterically. “He would never have done it had not you encouraged him—never! And now this is what is brought against him. Oh, they can not say a word against his talent,” she said; “not a word! They can not say the book is not beautiful; what they say is all about that, which was put into please you—and you have not the heart to stand up for him!” the mother cried. She was so much excited, and poured forth such tears and sobs, that Lucy found herself without a word to say. The trouble, no doubt, was real enough, but it was mixed with so much excitement and feverish exaggeration that the girl’s sympathetic heart was chilled; and yet she had so much to say. “But he must not put up with it,” cried Mrs. Russell; “he shall not put up with it if I can help it. He must write and tell them. And there is not one word of real criticism—not one word! Bertie himself says so; nothing but joking and jeering about the dedication. But I know whose hand that is—it is Lady Randolph who has done it. I knew she would interfere as soon as she thought—‘Bertie,’ I said, ‘don’t—don’t, for heaven’s sake! You will bring a hornet’s nest about your ears.’ But he always said ‘Mother, I must.’ And now to think that the girl herself, that has brought him into all this trouble, should not have the heart to stand up for him! Oh, it just shows what I’ve always said, the wickedness and hollowness of the world!”
Then there was a pause, through which was heard only the sound of Mrs. Russell’s sobbing. Lucy sat undecided, not knowing what to do. She was indignant, but more surprised than indignant at the accusation; and she was entirely unaccustomed to blame, and did not know how to defend herself. She sat with her heart beating and listened, now and then trying to remonstrate, to make an appeal, but in vain. At last, the moment came when her accuser had poured forth all she had to say. But this silence was almost as painful as the unexpected violence that preceded it. To be accused wrongfully, if terrible, has still some counterbalancing effect in the aroused amour-propre of the innocent victim; but to watch the voice of the accuser quenched by emotion, to hear the sobs dying off, then bursting out again, the red eyes wiped, then filling—all in a silence which her own lips were too much parched with agitation to permit her to break, was almost more hard upon Lucy. She had become very pale, and she did not know what to say. More entirely guiltless than she felt herself, no one could have been. She was so innocent that she had no defense to make; and the attack took from her all the thoughts of which her mind had been full. All the more the silence weighed upon her. It was terrible to sit there with her eyes on the floor, and say nothing. At last she managed to falter forth, “May I see Jock, Mrs. Russell, before I go?”
“I suppose you will want to remove him,” Mrs. Russell said. “Oh, I quite understand that! I expected nothing less. The brother of a rich heiress is out of place with a poor ruined family. Everything is forsaking us. Let him go, too—let him go, too!”
“Indeed,” said Lucy, recovering her composure a little. “I was not thinking of that. I meant only—”
“Never mind what you meant, Miss Trevor; it is better he should go. Things have gone too far now,” said the disturbed woman. “All the rest are going—we shall have to go ourselves. Oh, I thought it would not matter so long as my Bertie— God forgive them! God forgive them!” she said, with trembling lips. “I thought it would all come right, and everything succeed, when my boy— But we are ruined, ruined! I don’t know where we are to turn or what we are to do.”
“Mrs. Russell, will you let me say something to you?” Lucy said. This cry of distress had restored her to herself. “I meant to have said it before; it is not because of what has happened. It was all settled in my mind before; I was only waiting till I could arrange with my guardian. Mrs. Russell, papa left some money to be given away—”
Here she made a little pause for breath. Her companion made no remark, but sat, lying back in her chair, with her handkerchief to her eyes.
“It was a good deal of money,” said Lucy. “He told me I was not to throw it away, but to give enough to be of real use. I thought—that you would like to have some of it, Mrs. Russell; that—it might do you a little good.”
Mrs. Russell let her handkerchief drop, and stared at Lucy with her poor red eyes.
“If you would let me give you part of it— I can not tell how much would be enough; but if you would tell me, and we could consider everything. It is lying there for the use of—people who are in want of it. I hope you will take some of it. I should be very thankful to you,” said Lucy, with a little nervous emphasis. “It is there only to be given away.”