Lucy had felt that it would be a difficult communication to make, but she had no fear of any refusal. She did not venture to look up, but kept her eyes fixed on the carpet, though she was very conscious, notwithstanding, of every movement her companion made. The girl was shy of the favor she was conferring, and frightened in anticipation of the thanks she, would probably receive; if only it could be settled and paid without any thanks! When her own voice stopped she became still more frightened. The silence was unbearable, and Lucy gave an alarmed glance toward the sofa. Mrs. Russell was gasping for breath, inflating her lungs, apparently, in vain, and struggling for utterance. This struggle ended in a hoarse and moaning cry.
“Oh, what have I done, what have I done, that it should come to this?”
“Mrs Russell! you are ill. Are you ill?” Lucy cried, alarmed.
“Oh, what have I done, what have I done, that it should come to this?” she moaned. “Am I a beggar that it should come to this? to offer me money in my own house? money, as if I were a beggar in the street? Oh, don’t say anything more, Miss Trevor, don’t say anything more.” Here she got up, clasping her hands wildly, and walked about the room like a creature distracted, as, indeed, between pride and shame, and wretchedness and folly, the poor woman almost was. “Oh, why didn’t I die! why didn’t I die when he died?” she cried. “It is more than I can bear. I, that was a Stonehouse, and married a Russell, to be treated like a beggar on the street. Oh, my God!” cried the excited creature, “have I not enough to bear without being insulted? I can starve, or I can die, but to be insulted—it is more than I can bear.”
Lucy was confounded. She stumbled to her feet, also, in overwhelming distress. She had meant no harm, heaven knows! She had not meant to wound the most delicate feeling. It was a view of the matter which had never occurred to her.
“I must have said something wrong—without meaning it,” she faltered. “I don’t know how to speak, but I did not mean to make you angry; oh, forgive me! please forgive me! I mean nothing but—”
“This is what it is to be poor,” Mrs Russell said. “Oh, I ought to thank you for it, that among other things, I never would have known all the bitterness of being poor but for this; and yet I never held out my hand to ask anything,” she cried, beginning to weep. “I never thrust my poverty on anybody. I did all I could to keep up—a good appearance; and to hope—” here the sobs burst forth again beyond restraint—“for better days.”
“What is the matter?” said Bertie pushing open the door. He was carelessly dressed in an old coat, his hair in disorder, his feet in slippers, he who had always decorated himself so carefully for Lucy’s eyes. He did not take the trouble to open the door with his hand, but pushed it rudely with his person, and gave Lucy a sullen nod and good-morning. “What are you making such a row about, mother?” he said.
“Oh, Bertie, Miss Trevor has come—to offer me charity!” she cried, “charity! She sees we are poor, and, because she is rich, she thinks she can treat me, me! like a beggar in the street, and offer me money, Oh, Bertie! Bertie! my boy!” the poor woman threw her arm round him, and began to sob on his shoulder, “what has your poor mother done that she should be humbled like this?”
“Charity!” he said; then looked at Lucy with an insolent laugh that brought the color to the girl’s face; “it is, perhaps, conscience money,” he cried. Then putting his mother away from him “Go and lie down, mamma, you have had excitement enough this morning. We are not beggars, whatever Miss Trevor may think.” Bertie’s eyes were red, too; he was still at the age when tears, though the man is ashamed of them, are not far from the eyes when trouble comes. “Naturally,” he said, “we all stand upon what we have got, and money is what you have got, Miss Trevor. Oh, it is a very good thing, it saves you from many annoyances. We have not very much of it, but we can do without charity.” His lip quivered, his heart was sore, and his pride cut to pieces. “Money is not everything, though, perhaps, you may be excused for thinking so,” he said. He wanted to retaliate on some one; the smarting of his eyelids, the quiver which he could not keep from his lips, the wounds of his pride still bleeding and fresh, all filled him with a kind of blind fury and desire to make some one else suffer. He would have liked to tear his Angel of Hope to pieces in the misery of his disappointment. Was it not her fault?