Sir Tom did not insist upon knowing what it was; he made her sit down, and placed himself by her, still holding her hands.
“But something has been wrong,” he said. “My little girl is not in such trouble without some cause. Mrs. Ford tells me there was a disturbance this morning, and that Jock was naughty, and you went out without any dinner. Come, tell me—you can trust in me.”
Had she not heard over and over again that he was not to be trusted? Had she not believed, with the deepest sting of all, that Sir Tom had failed her? Lucy did not remember. “Oh, yes,” she said, from the bottom of her heart. It seemed so easy to tell everything now. And then the whole pent-up stream poured forth. The trouble of the morning could not be disclosed without leading to all the rest. Sometimes she cried as she spoke, sometimes almost laughed, the fact that he was there taking all the sting out of her troubles. And as for Sir Tom, though there was sometimes a gleam of indignation in him, he felt more disposed to laughter than to tears. Lucy’s troubles were very simple and transparent to him; she might have known that her fortune would tempt everybody—though the fact that she had not known, and that even proofs had not convinced her, was the thing which most profoundly touched Sir Tom’s experienced heart.
“You have had a pretty set of guardians,” he said; “these are all people that have had the charge of you, Lucy?” He did not at the moment recollect that Lady Randolph had the charge of her also, and had instantly, from the ends of the world, summoned himself. Then he said, “Lucy, listen to me; this is the sort of thing you will be subject to, I fear, wherever you go; and I don’t know what you will think of me when you hear what I am going to say. I know you have a grievance against me which you are to tell me by and by—”
“No, oh, no,” cried Lucy fervently; “I know now it must have been a mistake.”
He smiled, but the smile was not that of mere triumph. He was old enough to be touched by his own unexpected success, to be grateful to the young creature who had resisted all other claims upon her regard, to give her heart so unreservedly to him; and there was even more than this, a something which, at the moment, was very like love, which probably was the most passionate sentiment he was likely to entertain now, after all his experiences, for any one. He was “very fond of” Lucy. He understood her simple goodness, and regarded it with that soft, fraternal enthusiasm which a beloved child excites in us; and he was grateful to her, and deeply touched by her choice of himself, a choice of which he could have very little doubt. “And you have heard a great deal of harm of me—all these good people have said something. They have said Tom Randolph was not a man to be your friend.”
“I have not believed them,” said Lucy. “I know you better. I have not believed a word.”
“But you might have believed, Lucy. You must listen to me now, my dear. I have not been a good man, as you give me credit for being. I can not say of myself that I am fit to be the companion of a young, pure, good girl.”
“Oh, Sir Tom!” Lucy cried in indignant protestation. Words would not serve her to say more.
“Yes,” he said, shaking his head regretfully. “It is quite true. I who know myself best confess it to you, but still there is a little truth left in me. I am going to enter the lists with all these others, Lucy. I am going to ask you to set yourself free from all of them by marrying me.”