It is not to be supposed, however, that, after all this, Lucy could settle with much tranquillity to her book, which was the history which she had been reading so conscientiously. When St. Clair had withdrawn he had taken with him the history-book (it was Mr. Froude’s version of that oft-told tale), which was as easy to read as any novel, and Lucy was left with her old text-book, which was as dry as facts could make it. She could not read, the book dropped upon her knee half a dozen times in half an hour, and the time of study was nearly over when some one came with a soft knock to the door. It was Miss Southwood, who came in with a shawl round her, and her close, old-fashioned bonnet tied over her ears. She came in somewhat breathless, and plunged into a few set phrases about the weather without a moment’s pause.
“What a dreadful day for your picnic! I could not help thinking of you through all that rain. Did you get very wet, Lucy? and you were riding, too. You must have got everything spoiled that you had on.”
“Oh, no, for we drove home; but it was not very pleasant.”
“Pleasant! I should think not. It was very foolish—what could you expect in October? Mrs. Rushton must have had some object. What did she mean by it? Ah, my dear, you were a great deal safer in Maria’s hands; that is a scheming woman,” cried Miss Southwood. Then she touched Lucy on the arm, and made signs at Jock on the rug; “wouldn’t you—” she said, making a gesture with her hand toward the door, “for I want to speak to you—by yourself.”
“You need not mind Jock,” said Lucy; “he is always there. When he has a book to read he never cares for anything else.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t trust to his not caring—little pitchers—and then you never know when they may open their mouths and blurt everything out. Come this way a little,” Miss Southwood said, leading Lucy to the window, and sinking her voice to a whisper. “I have a note to you from Maria; but, my dear, I wouldn’t give it you without saying, you must not take it by the letter, Lucy. For my part, I don’t agree with it at all. It ought to have been sent to you last night; but I am Frank’s aunt as well as Maria. I have a right to my say, too; and I don’t agree with it, I don’t at all agree with it,” Miss Southwood said, anxiously. She watched Lucy’s face with great concern while she opened the note, standing against the misty-white curtains at the window. The countenance of little Miss Southwood was shaded by the projecting eaves of her bonnet, but it was very full of anxiety, and the interval seemed long to her though the note was short. This is what Mrs. Stone said:
“Dear Lucy,— On thinking over the extraordinary proposal you made yesterday I think it right to recommend you to dismiss all idea of my nephew, Frank St. Clair, out of your mind. Your offer is very well meant, but it is impossible, and I trust he will never be so deeply wounded as he would be by hearing of the compensation which you have thought proper to suggest. I don’t wish to be unkind, but it is only your ignorance that makes the idea pardonable; I forgive, and will try to forget it; but I trust you will take precautions to prevent it from ever reaching the ears of Mr. St. Clair.
“Your friend,
“Maria Stone.”
This letter brought the tears to Lucy’s eyes. “I did not mean to be unkind. Oh, Miss Southwood, you did not think I wanted to insult any one.”
“It is all nonsense; of course you never meant to insult him,” said Miss Southwood, anxiously. “It is Maria who is cracked, I think. Money is never an insult—unless there is too little of it,” she added, cautiously. “Of course if you were to offer a gentleman the same as you would give to a common man— But my opinion, Lucy, is that Frank himself should be allowed to judge. We ought not to sacrifice his interest for our pride. It is he himself who ought to decide.”