Here she began to cry, and Lucy cried, too.
“I did not mean it,” she said, fervently; “indeed, indeed, I did not mean it. If I said anything wrong, forgive me. It was because I did not know how to speak.”
“Well, dear,” said Mrs. Russell, drying her eyes, “perhaps it was so. You are very young, and you have not had much experience; and, as Bertie says, you have so much money, that it is no wonder if you think a great deal of it. But you shouldn’t, Miss Trevor, you shouldn’t. Money is of great use; but it is not everything.”
Here the poor lady paused and glanced round the room, in every point so dainty, all the details so perfect, everything fresh, well chosen, adapted to the corner it filled; and the flowers so abundant, and so sweet. “Oh,” she said, “it wants no arguing. Money tells for so much in this life. Look at my Mary. She is younger than you are, she is clever and good, yet look at her, and look at you. I think it will break my heart!” Lucy made no reply. After all it was not her fault that she had a great deal of money, that she was a great heiress. There was no reason why that fact should break Mrs. Russell’s heart. “If I had not had it,” she faltered, apologetically, “some one else would have had it. It would not have made any difference if it had been another girl or me.”
“Oh, yes, it would have made a great difference. When you don’t know the person, it never feels quite so hard. But I don’t blame you— I don’t blame you. I suppose every one would be rich if they could; or, at least, most people,” said Mrs. Russell, with a tone which seemed to imply that she herself would be the exception, and superior to the charms of wealth.
At this Lucy was silent, perhaps not feeling that she had ever wished to be poor; and yet who, she thought within herself, knew the burden of wealth as she did? it had brought her more trouble than pleasure as yet. She felt troubled and cast down, even though her girlish submission began to be modified by the faintest shy gleam of consciousness that there was something ludicrous in the situation, in her visitor’s disapproval, and her own humble half acknowledgment of the guilt of being rich.
“Miss Trevor,” Mrs. Russell said, with trembling lips, “though I wish you had not found it out, or that, if you did, you had not taken any notice of it, which is what one expects from one’s friends, I can not deny that you are right. We have lost almost everything,” she said, steadying her voice in dreary sincerity. “We have been fighting on from hand to mouth—sometimes not knowing where next week’s bills were to come from. Oh, more than that—not able to pay the week’s bills; getting into debt, and nothing, nothing coming in. I kept up, always hoping that Bertie— Bertie with his talents— Oh, you don’t know—nobody knows how clever he is! As soon as he got an opening— But now it seems all ended,” she added, her voice failing. “These people—oh, God, forgive them—they don’t know, perhaps, how wicked it is—these envious cruel people have half killed my boy; and I have not a penny, nothing, Miss Trevor, nothing; and the rent due, and the pupils all dropping away.”
Lucy rose and came to where the poor woman sat struggling with her emotion. It was not a case for words. She went and stood by her, crying softly, while Mrs. Russell leaned her crape-laden head upon the girl’s breast and sobbed. All her defenses were broken down. She grasped Lucy’s arm and clung to it as if it had been an anchor of salvation. “And I came,” she gasped, “to say, if you would really be so kind—oh, how can I ask it!—as to lend us the money you spoke of—only to lend it, Miss Trevor, till something better turns up—till Bertie gets something to do. He is willing to do anything now; or till Mary finds a situation. It can’t be but that we shall be able to pay you, somehow— And there is the furniture for security. Oh, I don’t know how to ask it. I never borrowed money before, nor wished for anything that was not my own. But, oh, Lucy, if you really, really have it to do what you like with— The best people are obliged to borrow sometimes,” Mrs. Russell added, looking up wistfully, with an attempt at a smile, “and there is nothing to be ashamed of in being poor.”
But this was an emergency for which Lucy’s straightforward nature was not prepared. She had the power to give she knew; but to lend she did not think she had any power. What was she to do? She had not imagination enough to conceive the possibility that borrowing does not always mean repaying. She hesitated and faltered. “Dear Mrs. Russell, it is there for you—if you would only take, take it altogether!” Lucy said, in supplicating tones.
“No,” said her visitor, firmly, “no, Lucy, do nor ask me. You will only make me go away very miserable—more miserable than I was when I came. If you will lend it to me I shall be very glad. I don’t hesitate to say it will be a great, great service—it will almost be saving our lives. I would offer to pay you interest, but I don’t think you would like that. I told Bertie so, and he said if I were to give you an I— O—U— I don’t understand it, Lucy, and you do not understand it, my dear; but he says that is the way.”