THOMAS AND LUCY.
When Lucy came home the night before, she found her grandmother sitting
by the fire, gazing reproachfully at the coals. The poor woman had
not yet reconciled herself to her altered position. Widdles was in
vain attempting to attract her attention; but, not being gifted with
speech like his gray brother in the next cage to his--whose morals, by
the way, were considerably reformed, thanks to his master's judicious
treatment of him--he had but few modes of bringing his wishes to bear
at a distance. He could only rattle his beak on the bars of his cage,
and give a rending shriek.
The immediate occasion of her present mood was Thomas's note, which
was over her head on the mantel-piece. Notes had occasionally passed
between him and Lucy, and she knew the handwriting. She regarded him
with the same feelings with which she regarded his father, but she knew
that Lucy did not share in these feelings. And forgetting that she
was now under Lucy's protection, she was actually vowing with herself
at the moment Lucy entered that if she had one word of other than
repudiation to say to Thomas, she would turn her out of the house.
_She_ was not going to encourage such lack of principle. She gave her
no greeting, therefore, when she entered; but Lucy, whose quick eye
caught sight of the note at once, did not miss it. She took the note
with a trembling hand, and hurried from the room. Then Mrs. Boxall
burst into a blaze.
"Where are you off to now, you minx?" she said.
"I am going to put my bonnet off, grannie," answered Lucy,
understanding well enough, and waiting no farther parley.
She could hardly open the note, which was fastened with a wafer, her
hands trembled so much. Before she had read it through she fell on
her knees, and thus, like Hezekiah, "spread it before the Lord," and
finished it so.
And now, indeed, was her captivity turned. She had nothing to say but.
"Thank God!" she had nothing to do but weep. True, she was a little
troubled that she could not reply: but when she made inquiry about
the messenger, to see if she could learn anything of where Tom was
to be found, Mr. Kitely, who, I have said, returned home immediately
after Mr. Fuller dismissed him (though in his anxiety he went back
and loitered about the church door), told her that young Worboise was
at that moment with Mr. Fuller in his vestry. He did not tell her how
he came to be there. Nothing, therefore, remained for her but to be
patient, and wait for what would come next. And the next thing was a
note from Mr. Fuller, telling her that Thomas was at his house, bidding
her be of good cheer, and saying that she should hear from him again
to-morrow. She did not sleep much that night.
But she had a good deal to bear from her grandmother before she reached
the haven of bed. First of all, she insisted on knowing what the young
villain had written to _her_ about. How _dared_ he?--and so on. Lucy
tried to pacify her, and said she would tell her about it afterward.
Then she broke out upon herself, saying she knew it was nothing to
Lucy what became of her. No doubt she would be glad enough to make her
own terms, marry her grandmother's money, and turn her out of doors.
But if she dared to say one word to the rascal after the way he had
behaved to her, one house should not hold them both, and that she told
her. But it is ungracious work recording the spiteful utterances of an
ill-used woman. They did not go very deep into Lucy, for she knew her
grandmother by this time. Also her hope for herself was large enough to
include her grandmother.
And soon as Thomas left him in the morning, Mr. Fuller wrote
again--only to say that he would call upon her in the evening. He did
not think it necessary to ask her to be at home; nor did he tell her
anything of Tom's story. He thought it best to leave that to himself.
Lucy was strongly tempted to send excuses to her pupils that morning
and remain at home, in case Thomas might come. But she concluded that
she ought to do her work, and leave possibilities where alone they
were determined. So she went and gave her lessons with as much care as
usual, and more energy.
When she got home she found that Mr. Fuller had been there, but had
left a message that he would call again. He was so delighted with
the result of his efforts with Tom, that he could not wait till the
evening. Still, he had no intention of taking the office of a mediator
between them. That, he felt, would be to intrude for the sake of making
himself of importance; and he had learned that one of the virtues of
holy and true service is to get out of the way as soon as possible.
About six o'clock he went again, and was shown into the bookseller's
back parlor, where he found both Lucy and her grandmother.
"Will you come out with me, Miss Burton, for an hour or so?" he said.
"I wonder at you, Mr. Fuller," interposed Mrs. Boxall--"a clergyman,
too!"
It is a great pity that people should so little restrain themselves
when they are most capable of doing so, that when they are old,
excitement should make them act like the fools that they are not.
Mr. Fuller was considerably astonished, but did not lose his
self-possession.
"Surely you are not afraid to trust her with me, Mrs. Boxall?" he said,
half merrily.
"I don't know that, sir. I hear of very strange goings-on at your
church. Service every day, the church always open, and all that! As if
folks had nothing to do but say their prayers."
"I don't think you would talk like that, Mrs. Boxall," said Mr. Fuller,
with no less point that he said it pleasantly, "if you had been saying
your prayers lately."
"You have nothing to do with my prayers, sir."
"Nor you with my church, Mrs. Boxall. But come--don't let us quarrel, I
don't wonder at your being put out sometimes, I'm sure; you've had so
much to vex you. But it hasn't been Lucy's fault; and I'm sure I would
gladly give you your rights if I could."
"I don't doubt it, sir," said the old lady, mollified. "Don't be long,
Lucy. And don't let that young limb of Satan talk you over. Mind what I
say to you."
Not knowing how to answer, without offending her grandmother, Lucy only
made haste to get her bonnet and cloak. Mr. Fuller took her straight to
his own house. The grimy, unlovely streets were, to Lucy's enlightened
eyes, full of a strange, beautiful mystery, as she walked along leaning
on her friend's arm. She asked him no questions, content to be led
toward what was awaiting her. It was a dark and cloudy night, but a
cool west wind, that to her feelings was full of spring, came down
Bagot Street, blowing away the winter and all its miseries. A new time
of hope was at hand. Away with it went all thought of Thomas's past
behavior. He was repentant. The prodigal had turned to go home, and
she would walk with him and help his homeward steps. She loved him,
and would love him more than ever. If there was more joy in heaven
over one such than over ninety-and-nine who were not such, why not
more joy in her soul? Her heart beat so violently as she crossed Mr.
Fuller's threshold, that she could hardly breathe. He took her into the
sitting-room, where a most friendly fire was blazing, and left her.
Still she had asked no questions. She knew that she was going to see
Thomas. Whether he was in the house or not, she did not know. She
hardly cared. She could sit there, she thought, for years waiting for
him; but every ring of the door-bell made her start and tremble. There
were so many rings that her heart had hardly time to quiet itself a
little from one before another set it beating again worse than ever. At
length there came a longer pause, and she fell into a dreamy study of
the fire. The door opened at length, and she thought it was Mr. Fuller,
and, not wishing to show any disquietude, sat still. A moment more, and
Thomas was kneeling at her feet. He had good cause to kneel. He did not
offer to touch her. He only said, in a choked voice, "Lucy," and bowed
his head before her. She put her hands on the bowed head before her,
drew it softly on her knees, gave one long, gentle, but irrepressible
wail like a child, and burst into a quiet passion of tears. Thomas
drew his head from her hands, sank on the floor, and lay sobbing, and
kissing her feet. She could not move to make him cease. But when she
recovered herself a little, after a measureless time to both of them,
she stopped, put her hands round upon his face, and drew him upward. He
rose, but only to his knees.
"Lucy, Lucy," he sobbed, "will you forgive me?"
He could not say more yet. She bent forward and kissed his forehead.
"I have been very wicked. I will tell you all about it--everything."
"No, no, Thomas. Only love me."
"I love you--oh! I love you with all my heart and soul. I don't deserve
to be allowed to love one of your hands; but if you will only let me
love you I will be your slave forever. I don't even ask you to love me
one little bit. If you will only let me love you!"
"Thomas," said Lucy, slowly, and struggling with her sobs, "my heart is
so full of love and gladness that it is like to break. I can't speak."
By degrees they grew calmer, but Thomas could not rest till she knew
all.
"Lucy," he said, "I can't be sure that all you give me is really mine
till I've told you everything. Perhaps you won't love me--not so
much--when you know all. So I must tell you."
"I don't care what it is, Thomas, for I am sure you won't again."
"_I will not_," said Thomas, solemnly. "But please, Lucy darling,
listen to me--for my sake, not for your own, for it will hurt you so."
"If it will make you easier, Thomas, tell me everything."
"I will--I will. I will hide nothing."
And Thomas did tell her everything. But Lucy cried so much, that when
he came to the part describing his adventures in London after he took
the money, he felt greatly tempted, and yielded to the temptation, to
try to give her the comical side as well. And at the very first hint
of fun in the description he gave of Jim Salter, Lucy burst into such
a fit of laughter, that Thomas was quite frightened, for it seemed
as if she would never stop. So that between the laughing and crying
Thomas felt like Christian between the quagmire and the pitfalls, and
was afraid to say anything. But at length the story was told; and
how Lucy did, besides laughing and crying, at every new turn of the
story--to show my reader my confidence in him I leave all that to his
imagination, assuring him only that it was all right between them. My
women readers will not require even this amount of information, for
they have the gift of understanding without being told.
When he came to the point of his father offering to provide for them if
he would give up Lucy, he hesitated, and said:
"Ought I to have done it, Lucy, for your sake?"
"For my sake, Tom! If you had said for granny's--But I know her well
enough to be absolutely certain that she would starve rather than
accept a penny from him, except as her right. Besides, I can make more
money in a year than he would give her, I am pretty sure. So if you
will keep me, Tom, I will keep her."
Here Lucy discovered that she had said something very improper, and hid
her face in her hands. But a knock came at the door, and then both felt
so shy that neither dared to say, _Come in_. Therefore Mr. Fuller put
his head in without being told, and said:
"Have you two young people made it up yet?"
"Have we, Tom?" said Lucy.
"I don't know," said Tom. "What was it, sir?"
Mr. Fuller laughed heartily, came near, put a hand on the head of each,
and said:
"God bless you. I too am glad at my very heart. Now you must come to
supper."
But at supper, which the good man had actually cleared his table to
have in the study that he might not disturb them so soon, Thomas had
a good many questions to ask. And he kept on asking, for he wanted to
understand the state of the case between Mrs. Boxall and his father.
All at once, at one reply, he jumped from his seat, looking very
strange.
"I must be off, Lucy. You won't hear from me for a day or two.
Good-bye, Mr. Fuller. I haven't time for a word," he said, pulling out
his watch. "Something may be done yet. It may all come to nothing.
Don't ask me any questions, I may save months."
He rushed from the room, and left Mr. Fuller and Lucy staring at each
other. Mr. Fuller started up a moment after and ran to the door, but
only to hear the outer door bang, and Thomas shout--"Cab ahoy!" in the
street. So there was nothing for it but to take Lucy home again. He
left her at Mr Kitely's door.
"Well, miss, what have you been about?" said her grandmother.
"Having a long talk with Thomas, grannie," answered Lucy.
"You have!" exclaimed Mrs. Boxall, who had expected nothing else,
rising slowly from her seat with the air of one about to pronounce a
solemn malediction.
"Yes, grannie; but he knew nothing till this very night of the way his
father has behaved to us."
"He made you believe that, did he?"
"Yes, grannie."
"Then you're a fool. He didn't know, did he? Then you'll never see him
again. He comes of a breed bad enough to believe anything of. You give
him up or I give you up."
"No, I won't, grannie," said Lucy, smiling in her face.
"You or I leave this house, then."
"_I_ won't, grannie."
"Then _I will_."
"Very well, grannie," answered Lucy, putting her arms round her, and
kissing her. "Shall I fetch your bonnet?"
Grannie vouchsafed no reply, but took her candle and went--up to bed.