But during these two months Sophy had been away from her office more than half the time. Then the doctor said she had better leave town for awhile. It was September, and it was desired that she should pass that month at Hastings. Now it should be explained that in such emergencies as this the department has provided a most kindly aid for young women. Some five or six at a time are sent out for a month to Hastings or to Brighton, and are employed in the telegraph offices in those towns. Their railway fares are paid for them, and a small extra allowance is made to them to enable them to live away from their homes. The privilege is too generally sought to be always at the command of her who wants it; nor is it accorded except on the doctor’s certificate. But in the September Sophy Wilson was sent down to Hastings.
In spite, however, of the official benevolence which greatly lightened the special burden which illness must always bring on those who have to earn their bread, and which in Sophy Wilson’s case had done so much for her, nevertheless the weight of the misfortune fell heavily on poor Lucy. Some little struggle had to be made as to clothes before the girl could be sent away from her home; and, though the sick one was enabled to support herself at Hastings, the cost of the London lodgings which should have been divided fell entirely upon Lucy. Then at the end of the month there came worse tidings. The doctor at Hastings declared that the girl was unfit to go back to her work—was, indeed, altogether unfit for such effort as eight hours’ continued attendance required from her. She wanted at any rate some period of perfect rest, and therefore she remained down at the seaside without the extra allowance which was so much needed for her maintenance.
Then the struggle became very severe with Lucy—so severe that she began to doubt whether she could long endure it. Sophy had her two shillings a day, the two-thirds of her wages, but she could not subsist on that. Something had to be sent to her in addition, and this something could only come from Lucy’s wages. So at least it was at first. In order to avoid debt she gave up her more comfortable room and went upstairs into a little garret. And she denied herself her accustomed dinner at the office, contenting herself with bread and cheese—or often simply with bread—which she could take in her pocket. And she washed her own clothes and mended even her own boots, so that still she might send a part of her earnings to the sick one.
“Is she better?” Abraham asked her one day.
“It is hard to know, Mr. Hall. She writes just as she feels at the moment. I am afraid she fears to return to the office.”
“Perhaps it does not suit her.”
“I suppose not. She thinks some other kind of life would be better for her. I dare say it would.”
“Could I do anything?” asked the man very slowly.
Could he do anything? well; yes. Lucy at least thought that he could do a great deal. There was one thing which, if he would do it, would make Sophy at any rate believe herself to be well. And this sickness was not organic—was not, as it appeared, due to any cause which could be specified. It had not as yet been called by any name—such as consumption. General debility had been spoken of both by the office doctor and by him at Hastings. Now Lucy certainly thought that a few words from Mr. Hall would do more than all the doctors in the way of effecting a cure. Sophy hated the telegraph office, and she lacked the strength of mind necessary for doing that which was distasteful to her. And that idea of a husband had taken such hold of her, that nothing else seemed to her to give a prospect of contentment. “Why don’t you go down and see her, Mr. Hall?” she said.
Then he was silent for awhile before he answered—silent and very thoughtful. And Lucy as the sound of her own words rested on her ears felt she had done wrong in asking such a question. Why should he go down, unless indeed he were in love with the girl and prepared to ask her to be his wife? If he were to go down expressly to visit her at Hastings unless he were so prepared, what false hopes he would raise; what damage he would do instead of good! How indeed could he possibly go down on such a mission without declaring to all the world that he intended to make the girl his wife? But it was necessary that the question should be answered. “I could do no good by that,” he said.
“No; perhaps not. Only I thought—”
“What did you think?” Now he asked a question and showed plainly by his manner that he expected an answer.
“I don’t know,” said Lucy blushing. “I suppose I ought not to have thought anything. But you seemed to be so fond of her.”
“Fond of her! Well; one does get fond of kind neighbours. I suppose you would think me impertinent, Miss Lucy,”—he had never made even this approach to familiarity before—“if I were to say that I am fond of both of you.”
“No indeed,” she replied, thinking that as a fondness declared by a young man for two girls at one and the same moment could not be interesting, so neither could it be impertinent.
“I don’t think I should do any good by going down. All that kind of thing costs so
