“A hundred pounds!” he cried, with consternation in every tone.
Lucy laughed with the happiest case. There was no one with whom she was so much at home.
“It is only till to-morrow. I have written to Mr. Chervil to come, but he can not come till to-morrow,” she said.
“And you want a hundred pounds to-day?”
“If you please,” said Lucy, calmly; “if you will lend it to me. It would be a pleasure to have it to-day.”
Sir Tom’s face grew crimson with embarrassment; had he a hundred pounds to lend? he thought it very unlikely; and his wonder was still more profound. This little thing, not much more than a child; what on earth could she want, all at once, with a hundred pounds? He did not know what to say.
“My dear Miss Lucy,” he said (for though this title was incorrect, and against the rules of society, and servant-maidish, he had adopted it as less stiff and distant than Miss Trevor). “My dear Miss Lucy; of course I will do whatever you ask me. But let me ask you, from the uncle point of view, you know, is it right that you should want a hundred pounds all in a moment? Yes, you told me you had a great deal of money; but you have also a very small number of years. I don’t ask what you are going to do with it. We have exchanged opinions already, haven’t we? about the pleasure of throwing money away. But do you think it is right, and that your guardian will approve?”
“It is quite right,” said Lucy, gravely; “and my guardian can not help but approve, for it is in papa’s will, Sir Thomas. Thank you very much. I am not throwing it away. I am giving it back.”
“What does the little witch mean?” he asked himself, with consternation and bewilderment but what could be done? He went out straightway, and after awhile he managed to get her the hundred pounds. A baronet with a good estate and some reputation, even though he may have no money to speak of, can always manage that. And Lucy accepted it from him quite serenely, as if it had been a shade of Berlin wool, showing on her side no embarrassment, nor any sense that it was inappropriate that he should be her creditor. She gave him only a smile and a thank you, and apparently thought nothing more of it. Sir Thomas was fairly struck dumb with the adventure: but to Lucy, so far as he could make out, it was the most every-day occurrence. She sent her maid to Hampstead that evening—dressing for dinner by herself, a thing which Lucy, not trained to attendance, was always secretly relieved to do—with a basket of strawberries for Jock, and a letter for Mrs. Russell, and the girl’s face beamed when she came down-stairs. They took her to the opera that evening, where Lucy sat very tranquilly, veiled by the curtains of the box, and listened conscientiously, though she showed no signs of enthusiasm. She had a private little song of her own going on all the while in her heart.