In the meantime, Mrs. Mainwaring, having much confidence in the effect which a knowledge of her disclosure must, as she calculated, necessarily produce on the ambitious baronet, resolved to lose no time in seeing him. On the evening before she went, however, the following brief conversation took place between her and Lucy:
“My dear Lucy,” said she, “a thought has just struck me. Your situation, excepting always your residence with us, is one of both pain and difficulty. I am not a woman who has ever been much disposed to rely on my own judgment in matters of importance.”
“But there, my dear Mrs. Mainwaring, you do yourself injustice.”
“No, my dear child.”
“But what is your thought?” asked Lucy, who felt some unaccountable apprehension at what her friend was about to say.
“You tell me that neither you nor your aunt, Lady Gourlay, have ever met.”
“Never, indeed,” replied Lucy; “nor do I think we should know each other if we did.”
“Then suppose you were, without either favor or ceremony, to call upon her—to present yourself to her in virtue of your relationship—in virtue of her high character and admirable principles—in virtue of the painful position in which you are placed—to claim the benefit of her experience and wisdom, and ask her to advise you as she would a daughter.”
Lucy's eyes glistened with delight, and, stooping down, she imprinted a kiss upon the forehead of her considerate and kind friend.
“Thank you, my dear Mrs. Mainwaring,” she exclaimed: “a thousand thanks for that admirable suggestion. Many a time has my heart yearned to know that extraordinary woman, of whose virtues the world talks so much, and whose great and trusting spirit even sorrow and calamity cannot prostrate. Yes, I will follow your advice; I will call upon her; for, even setting aside all selfish considerations, I should wish to know her for her own worth.”