On the next morning there came an event which robbed Lizzie’s departure of some of the importance which might otherwise have been attached to it. The post-office, with that accuracy in the performance of its duties for which it is conspicuous among all offices, caused Lucy’s letter to be delivered to her while the members of the family were sitting round the breakfast table. Lizzie, indeed, was not there. She had expressed her intention of breakfasting in her own room, and had requested that a conveyance might be ready to take her to the 11:30 train. Augusta had been with her, asking whether anything could be done for her. “I care for nothing now, except my child,” Lizzie had replied. As the nurse and the lady’s maid were both in the room, Augusta, of course, could say nothing further. That occurred after prayers, and while the tea was being made. When Augusta reached the breakfast-room, Lucy was cutting up the loaf of bread, and at the same moment the old butler was placing a letter immediately under her eyes. She saw the handwriting and recognised it, but yet she finished cutting the bread. “Lucy, do give me that hunchy bit,” said Nina.
“Hunchy is not in the dictionary,” said Cecilia.
“I want it in my plate, and not in the dictionary,” said Nina.
Lucy did as she was asked, but her hand trembled as she gave the hunch, and Lady Fawn saw that her face was crimson. She took the letter and broke the envelope, and as she drew out the sheet of paper, she looked up at Lady Fawn. The fate of her whole life was in her hands, and there she was standing with all their eyes fixed upon her. She did not even know how to sit down, but, still standing, she read the first words, and at the last, “Dear, dear Lucy,”—“Yours ever and always, if you will have me, F. G.” She did not want to read any more of it then. She sat down slowly, put the precious paper back into its envelope, looked round upon them all, and knew that she was crimson to the roots of her hair, blushing like a guilty thing.
“Lucy, my dear,” said Lady Fawn—and Lucy at once turned her face full upon her old friend—“you have got a letter that agitates you.”
“Yes—I have,” she said.
“Go into the book-room. You can come back to breakfast when you have read it, you know.” Thereupon Lucy rose from her seat, and retired with her treasure into the book-room. But even when she was there she could not at once read her letter. When the door was closed and she knew that she was alone she looked at it, and then clasped it tight between her hands. She was almost afraid to read it lest the letter itself should contradict the promise which the last words of it had seemed to convey to her. She went up to the window and stood there gazing out upon the gravel road, with her hand containing the letter pressed upon her heart. Lady Fawn had told her that she was preparing for herself inexpressible misery;—and now there had come to her joy so absolutely inexpressible! “A man to tell you that he loves you, and yet not ask you to be his wife!” She repeated to herself Lady Fawn’s words—and then those other words, “Yours ever and always, if you will have me!” Have him, indeed! She threw from her, at once, as vain and wicked and false, all idea of coying her love. She would leap at his neck if he were there, and tell him that for years he had been almost her god. And of course he knew it. “If I will have him! Traitor!” she said to herself, smiling through her tears. Then she reflected that after all it would be well that she should read the letter. There might be conditions;—though what conditions could he propose with which she would not comply? However, she seated herself in a corner of the room and did read the letter. As she read it, she hardly understood it all;—but she understood what she wanted to understand. He asked her to share with him his home. He had spoken to her that day without forethought;—but mustn’t such speech be the truest and the sweetest of all speeches? “And now I write to you to ask you to be my wife.” Oh, how wrong some people can be in their judgments! How wrong Lady Fawn had been in hers about Frank Greystock! “For the last year or two I have lived with this hope before me.” “And so have I,” said Lucy. “And so have I;—with that and no other.” “Too great confidence! Traitor,” she said again, smiling and weeping, “yes, traitor; when of course you knew it.” “Is his happiness in my hands? Oh—then he shall be happy.” “Of course I will tell Lady Fawn at once;—instantly. Dear Lady Fawn! But yet she has been so wrong. I suppose she will let him come here. But what does it matter, now that I know it?” “Yours ever and always—if you will have me.—F. G.” “Traitor, traitor, traitor!” Then she got up and walked about the room, not knowing what she did, holding the letter now between her hands, and then pressing it to her lips.
She was still walking about the room when there came a low tap at the door, and Lady Fawn entered. “There is nothing the matter, Lucy?” Lucy stood stock still, with her treasure still clasped, smiling, almost laughing, while the tears ran down her cheeks. “Won’t you eat your breakfast, my dear?” said Lady Fawn.
“Oh, Lady Fawn—oh, Lady Fawn!” said Lucy, rushing into her friend’s arms.
“What is it, Lucy? I think our little wise one has lost her wits.”
“Oh, Lady Fawn, he has
