“One thousand is only fifty pounds a year,” said Lucy, “sometimes not that, I believe; it is not very much. What I had thought of was five or six thousand, to make two hundred and fifty pounds a year. Mrs. Ford used to say that two people could live upon that. It is not much, I know, but it would be better, would it not?” the girl said, persuasively, “to have a little every year, and always know you were going to have it, than to have a sum of money only once?”
Mrs. Russell looked at the simple young face, all glowing with renewed happiness, till she could look no longer, it seemed to dazzle her. She covered her face with her hands.
“Oh, Lucy, I do not know what to say to you. I have not deserved it, I have not deserved it,” she said.
At luncheon Lucy was a changed girl. She had never looked so happy, so bright; the clouds had blown entirely away from her face and her firmament. She had written a letter to her guardian as soon as Mrs. Russell, her head light and giddy with sudden relief from all her trouble, had gone back to Hampstead in the omnibus, to which she had to bend her pride, protesting mutely by every gesture that it was not a thing she had been used to. No more had been said about the paying back. The idea of an income had stunned this astonished woman, had almost had upon her the effect of an opiate, soothing away all her cares and troubles, wrapping her in a soft stupor of ease and happiness. Could it be true? She had given up, without any further murmur or protest, the conditions she brought with her, and which she had meant to insist upon. Lucy’s final proposal had taken away her breath; she had not said anything against it, she had made no remonstrance, no resistance. Her mind was confused with happiness and ease, and the yielding which these sensations bring with them. So poor a care-worn woman, distracted with trouble and anxiety, she had been when, with her veil over her face to hide the tears that would come against her will, she had been driven down the same long slope of road, sick with hope, and doubt, and terror, feeling every stoppage of the slow, lumbering machine a new agony, yet half glad of everything which delayed the interview she dreaded, the self-humiliation which she could not escape from. How different were her feelings now! She could not believe in the wonderful good fortune which had befallen her; it removed all capability of resistance, it seemed to trickle through all her veins down to her very feet, upward to nourish her confused brain, a subtle calm, an all-dissolving dew of happiness. Provided for! was it possible? was it possible? She did not believe it—the word is too weak, she was incapable of taking in the significance of it mentally at all; but it penetrated her and soothed her, and took all pain from her, giving her an all-pervading consciousness of rest.
As for Lucy, she listened to Sir Tom’s gossip with that eloquent interest and ready amusement which is the greatest flattery in the world. All his jokes were successful with her, her face responded to him almost before he spoke. Lady Randolph could scarcely believe her eyes; the success of her scheme was too rapid. There was terror in her self-gratulation. Would Tom care for such an easy conquest? and if the guardians could not be got to consent to a marriage, was it possible that this could go on for seven years? She would have preferred a more gradual progress. Meanwhile, Lucy took an opportunity to speak apart to this kind new friend of hers, while Lady Randolph was preparing for her usual drive.
“May I ask you something?” she said, after she had actually—no other word would describe the process—wheedled him up to the drawing-room after luncheon. It was not often Sir Thomas came to luncheon, and Lucy thought it providential.
“Ask me—anything in the world!” he said, with the kind smile which seemed, to Lucy to warm and open up all the corners of her heart. It got into the atmosphere like sunshine, and she felt herself open out in it like a flower.
She stood before him very gravely, with her hands folded together, her eyes raised to his, the utmost seriousness in her face, not at all unlike a girl at school, very innocent and modest, but much in earnest, asking for some momentary concession. He had almost put his hand paternally upon the little head, of whose looks he was beginning to grow fond, though, perhaps, in too elder-brotherly a way. It was while Sir Tom’s experienced heart was in this soft and yielding state that the little girl, raising her soft eyes, asked very distinctly,
“Then would you lend me a hundred pounds, if you please?”
Sir Thomas started as if he had been shot.