“Then who was this woman?” she said.
“Indeed, I did not ask her name. She was—sent to me. What do you think is right?” said Lucy, “to give people money, or a little pension, or—”
“A little pension, my dear child! a woman you know nothing about. No, no, give me her name, and I will have her case inquired into, and if she is deserving—”
“I don’t think it is anybody that is deserving, Mrs. Stone.”
“Lucy! my dear, you must not—you really must not, act in this independent way. What do you know about human nature? Nobody who is not deserving should be allowed to come near a child of your age.”
St. Clair laughed. “That might cut a great many ways,” he said. “Perhaps, in that case, you would have to banish most of the people Miss Trevor is in the habit of seeing.”
“You, for example.”
“That was what I was about to suggest,” he said, folding his hands with an air of great humility. This beguiled Lucy into a smile, as it was meant to do; and yet there was a certain sincerity in it—a sincerity which seemed somehow to make up for, and to justify in the culprit’s own eye, a good deal of deceit; though, indeed, St. Clair said to himself, like his aunt, that he was using no deceit; he was trying to get the love of a good and nice girl, one who would make an excellent wife; and what more entirely warrantable, lawful, laudable action could a young man do?
“You are making fun,” said Lucy, “but I am in great earnest. Papa, in his will, ordered me to give away a great deal of money. He did not say anything about deserving: and if people are in great want, in need—is it not as hard, almost worse, for the bad people than for the good?”
“My dear, that is very unsafe, very dangerous doctrine. In this way you would reward the bad for having ruined themselves.”