Sir Thomas, who shams Illness, is too sharp for Mrs. Mainwaring, who visits Him—­Affecting interview between Lucy and Lady Gourlay

Lucy Gourlay, anxious to relieve her father’s mind as much as it was in her power to do, wrote to him the day after the visit of Ensign Roberts and old Sam to Summerfield Cottage.  Her letter was affectionate, and even tender, and not written without many tears, as was evident by the blots and blisters which they produced upon the paper.  She fully corroborated the stranger’s explanation to her father; for although ignorant at the time that an interview had taken place between them, she felt it to be her duty toward all parties to prevent, as far as her testimony could go, the possibility of any misunderstanding upon the subject.  This letter was posted in Dublin, from an apprehension lest the local post-office might furnish a clew to her present abode.  The truth was, she feared that if her father could trace her out, he would claim her at once, and force her home by outrage and violence.  In this, however, she was mistaken; he had fallen upon quite a different and far more successful plan for that purpose.  He knew his daughter well, and felt that if ever she might be forced to depart from those strong convictions of the unhappiness that must result from a union between baseness and honor, it must be by an assumption of tenderness and affection toward her, as well as by a show of submission, and a concession of his own will to hers.  This was calculating at once upon her affection and generosity.  He had formed this plan before her letter reached him, and on perusing it, he felt still more determined to make this treacherous experiment upon her very virtues—­thus most unscrupulously causing them to lay the groundwork of her own permanent misery.

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.”