Why did she cry? Lucy stood by wondering, yet troubled, while her visitor threw herself into a chair and wept. “Oh,” she cried, “I that thought you were a lady! But what is bred in the bone will come out. To offer a favor, and then to expose a person—who is much better born and more a gentleman than yourself!”
This new blow entirely overwhelmed Lucy. She did not know what to reply. Whatever happened she began to think, she must always be in the wrong. She was not a lady, she had no delicacy of feeling; had not Mrs. Russell said so before? Lucy felt herself sink into unimaginable depths. They all despised her, or, what was worse, thought of her money, shutting their hearts against herself, and she was so willing, so anxious that they should have her money, so little desirous to get any credit from it. After awhile she laid her hand softly upon her visitor’s shoulder. “Miss Southwood,” she said, in her soft little deprecating voice, “if you would only think for a moment I am only a girl, I do not keep it myself. They only let me have a little, just a little, when I want it. It is in the will that my guardians must know, and help me to decide. Dear Miss Southwood, don’t be angry, for I can not— I can not do anything else. It is no disgrace not to have money, and no credit or pleasure to have it,” Lucy said, with a deep sigh, “no one can know that so well as me.”
“You little goose,” said Miss Southwood, “why, it is everything to you! who do you think would have taken any notice of you, who would have made a pet of you, but for your money? I mean, of course,” she said, with a compunction, seeing the effect her words produced, “except steady old friends like Maria and me.”
Poor little Lucy had grown very pale; her limbs trembled under her, her blue eyes got a wistful look which went to the heart of the woman who had not, so opaque are some intelligences, intended to be unkind. Miss Southwood, even now, did not quite see how she had been unkind. It was as plain as daylight to her that old John Trevor’s daughter had no claim whatever upon the consideration of ladies and gentlemen, except on account of her money; which was not to say that she might not, however, have friends in a humbler class, who might care for her, for herself alone. As for Lucy, she dropped down upon a chair, and said no more, her heart was as heavy as lead. Wherever she turned was not this dismal burden taken up and repeated, “Your money, and your money alone”?
“Oh, no, it does not matter. Must I write to Mr. Chervil, or must it all be given up?” said Lucy, faintly, “and Mr. St. Clair—”
“If you think so much of him, why—why can’t you make up your mind and have him?” cried his aunt. “It is not anything so much out of the way, when one knows all the circumstances; for you will not really have such a great fortune after all. Lucy, would it not be much better—”
Lucy shook her head; she did not feel herself capable of words, and Miss Southwood was about to begin another and an eloquent appeal, when there was once more a summons at the door, and some one was heard audibly coming upstairs. A minute after Mrs. Rushton appeared at the drawing-room door. She was flushed and preoccupied, and came in quickly, not waiting for the maid; but when she saw Miss Southwood she made a marked and sudden pause.
“I beg your pardon. I thought I should find you alone, Miss Trevor, at this early hour.”
“I am just going,” Miss Southwood said; and she kissed Lucy affectionately, partly by way of blowing trumpets of defiance to the rival power. “Don’t conclude about what we were speaking of till I see you again; be sure you wait till I see you again,” she said as she went away. Mrs. Rushton had not sat down, she was evidently full of some subject of importance. She scarcely waited till her predecessor had shut the door.
“I have come to say a few words to you which I fear will scarcely be pleasant, Miss Trevor,” she said.