His voice was a little thick, and the tears sprung into Lucy’s eyes.
“Oh, thank you, papa; thank you for telling me!” she said.
“That she was,” he went on after a little pause, “the best of women. And after we were married she had just as hard a life as ever. She was never well; and all your little brothers and sisters came—and went again. That’s very hard upon a woman, Lucy. A baby—who cares much about a baby? it does not seem anything to make a fuss about. There’s too many of them in the world; but to have them, and to lose them, is terrible work for a woman. We didn’t know about the money at first; and what’s money when things are going to the bad in that way? She never got what you may call the good of it. She was one of your giving people. Her hand was never out of her pocket as long as she had a penny in it: but she never rightly got the good of her money. In the first place, we didn’t know about it; and in the second place, why, you know there was me.”
“You?” Lucy looked at him with a question in her eyes.
“Yes,” said old Trevor, with a comical look of half real, half simulated penitence. “I wanted to tell you all this some time, to show you your duty—there was me, Lucy, I told you I was fond of money; and more still when I wasn’t used to it. I clutched it all, and wanted more; and she left it all to me, poor dear. She never even knew how much it was—she let me do whatever I pleased. I didn’t even always let her have what she wanted for her poor folks, Lucy,” he added ruefully, shaking his head; but there was something about the corner of his mouth which was not repentance. “I was a beast to her—that’s just what I was; but, poor thing, she never knew— She thought to the last we couldn’t afford any more. She left all the money matters to me.”
“She ought to have had her money for the poor, papa.”
“Yes, indeed; don’t I say so?” a half chuckle of triumph in his own successful craftiness mingled with the subdued tone appropriate to this confession. “And since she’s been dead,” he added, with a touch of complacency, “I’ve behaved badly by poor Lucilla. I acknowledge that I have behaved badly; and that is just why I am determined she shall have her revenge—”
“Her revenge!” Lucy looked at him aghast.
“Yes, her revenge; you, Lucy, a girl that shall be brought up a lady, that shall have everything of the best; that shall do as she pleases, and give with both hands. Ah, Lucilla, poor thing, would have liked that; she would have ruined me with giving,” he cried with a momentary tone of complaint; “but you, Lucy, you won’t be able to ruin yourself. You will always have plenty, you will be able to cut and come again as people say. Isn’t that what I have bred you up for since you were a baby? No, no, it isn’t I that could do it (and I wouldn’t if I could), nor Jock that shall have a penny. It is you that shall be the greatest heiress in England, and do the most for the poor, as Lucilla would have done. Please God she shall have her revenge.”
These strange words, which, though they were mixed with so quaint an admixture of comic self-consciousness, had yet passion in them, and odd kind of idealism and romance, passed over the placid head of Lucy without exciting any feeling but surprise. She was very much astonished. It was impossible to her to understand the vehemence of feeling, generous in its way, though checkered with so much that was not generous, in her father’s tone, and was totally at a loss how to reply. They were alone, and when they were alone the conversation almost always turned on the will, which was not an enlivening subject to Lucy. Certainly the diversion she had made of their mutual thoughts from their ordinary channel had been more amusing; but it had been perplexing too. A little tea-table was set out in the middle of the room, the “massive” silver tea-service which had been one of the few gratifications got by Lucy’s mother out of her fortune shining upon it, in full display for the benefit of Mrs. Stone, who was expected. Mr. Trevor was in a garrulous mood; he had prepared himself to talk while he waited for his visitor, and Lucy’s questions had been all that were wanted to loosen the flood-gates. While she sat opposite to him, wondering, pondering, occasionally looking up at him over her knitting, taking into her mind as best she could the information she had got, but not knowing what to say, he proceeded as if unable to stop himself, with a little gesture of excitement, his hand sawing the air.