View source for Keeping up Appearances CHAPTER 6.

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<p>The more Lucy reflected upon what she had done, the more fearful was she that, in calling upon Mr. Burnside — she had done her uncle a serious injury. She did not like the<em>manner </em>in which her allusion to him had been received. Nearly the whole night she lay awake thinking of this, and chiding herself for having acted with great imprudence. In the event of any disaster attending her uncle's business, she felt that she should be placed in a most unhappy position; for she would not know, but that this disaster had been occasioned by her act. This distressed her exceedingly. After much reflection, she finally came to the undoubted conclusion that she ought no longer to remain <em>dependent </em>upon her uncle, seeing that she could not act in accordance with his wishes; and in refusing, too, to do so, put all his worldly goods in jeopardy.<br><br>
Another reason influenced her in this decision. It was this — the hope of being able to make some <em>return </em>for the kindness she had received at his hand. "If," thus she reasoned, "my uncle should lose all he possesses, and from affluence be reduced to poverty, it may occur, as it often has in similar cases, that no means of support will be left to him, at least for a time, and that both he and Aunt Agnes will be actually deprived of the <em>comforts</em>, it may be, the <em>necessaries </em>of life. In such an event, if I remained with them, I would only be felt as a burden. But, if I now seek to make use of the abilities I possess, for my own support, I may be then in a condition not only to maintain myself — but to aid them. I could teach music, or French and Spanish; or I could do ornamental needlework."<br><br>
Viewing the subject in this light, completely dispelled all lingering doubts from her mind as to how she ought to act. For a time, she entertained the idea of informing her aunt of the course she intended to pursue; but this, a little reflection told her, would do no good, and would cause the step she had firmly resolved to take to be attended with unnecessary pain. It was better, she believed, to sever the existing connection with a blow — and then firmly resist all efforts to reunite it.<br><br>
There was an old and very intimate friend of her mother's, a Mrs. Morton, who had always shown not only a warm interest in — but a good deal of affection for Lucy. Mrs. Morton was a widow lady in moderate circumstances. She had been brought up in, and all her life familiar with, good society. Her acquaintance was extensive and her influence considerable; for she was a woman of intelligence, great integrity of character, and benevolent feelings. She was one of the rare but beautiful instances we occasionally meet with of a truly green old age, in which all the warmer and more generous sympathies of the heart came fully into activity, instead of being overlaid and smothered by an <em>inordinate selfishness</em>, which had, in earlier years, concealed itself, for the sake of interest or the world's opinion, beneath heartless forms of good will. To Mrs. Morton, Lucy determined to go early on the ensuing day, submit the whole matter to her judgment, and be guided, as far as possible, by her advice in choosing the means of self-subsistence.<br><br>
When Mrs. Hartman called into her room on the next morning and asked for her decision, she merely replied that she had no answer to make. "I do not wish to say no, aunt," she said, "and I cannot say yes."<br><br>
"But your uncle expects a definite reply, Lucy. His mind is in great suspense. I am sure he has not slept an hour all night."<br><br>
"It grieves me, aunt, to hear you say so," Lucy replied in a choking voice. "But I cannot say <em>yes</em> — and I wish to be spared the pain of saying <em>no. </em>Tell him that I have no answer to make."<br><br>
Mrs. Hartman turned slowly from the chamber of her niece, and as slowly descended to rejoin her husband. She had been gone but a few moments, when Lucy felt that her reply was not as it should be; that it was her duty to give a <em>definite negative</em>. For the purpose of doing this, she followed quickly after her aunt, and reached the breakfast room just in time to hear her uncle's <em>bitter denunciation of her ingratitude</em>. The effect, as externally exhibited, has already been seen. In a little while after her uncle left the house, she returned to her room. Her resolution to put her design into immediate execution was at once taken. Instead of a consultation with Mrs. Morton, prior to the proposed step, she determined to confer with her after she had taken it. After preparing the two letters which have already been given to the reader, she put a few clothes up in a moderate sized bundle, and with this, and about two pounds in her purse, quietly left the residence of her uncle. Mrs. Hartman heard her go downstairs, and leave the house — but no suspicion crossed her mind.<br><br>
To Mrs. Morton, Lucy, with many tears, related all that had occurred, and asked for her counsel. After concluding, she said, earnestly —<br><br>
"Do you think, Mrs. Morton, that I did wrong in not accepting the offer of Mr. Burnside, even under all the circumstances attending that offer?"<br><br>
"Wrong, my child? No!" was the emphatic reply. "Marry Mr. Burnside! I would rather have seen you in your grave. No circumstances can justify a woman in marrying a man for whom she feels an internal repugnance; and it is no wonder that you felt such a repugnance to him. But I think you were wrong in going to him as you did. Such a step rarely does good, and may do much harm. That it will do harm in this case, I very much fear, for, if it has created in the mind of Mr. Burnside a <em>suspicion </em>of your uncle's tottering condition, it may so affect his business relations with him as to destroy all he has been seeking so eagerly to save."<br><br>
"This is what I have feared. This is what gives me the greatest pain. I was beside myself when I acted with such glaring imprudence."<br><br>
"It would have been much better for you to have waited until this morning, and then given a firm negative."<br><br>
"I believe it would have. But I was so eager to avert the dreaded calamity with which he was threatened, that, in my innocence, it seemed as if it were only necessary to make an appeal to Mr. Burnside to awaken all his generous sympathies."<br><br>
"Your <em>motives </em>were good, I know, Lucy. But the act showed how little you were acquainted with the world — how little you know of the utter disregard of others' interests that prevails among men of business. Had you made the communication you proposed to yourself to make, it would have destroyed your uncle, inevitably, within a week. Mr. Burnside would have declined all further transactions with him, and would have felt it his duty to himself to put all others on their guard whose losses in the event of his failure would be likely to affect him. You can easily see what would be the result. Like <em>leaven</em>, this lack of confidence would soon spread throughout the circle of his business relations, which, in the present state of your uncle's affairs, would produce the very evil you were so anxious to avert."<br><br>
"Oh, yes! I see it all clearly enough. What madness! what folly in me to do as I did!"<br><br>
"You cannot help it now, my child," returned Mrs. Morton kindly, "and we may be permitted to hope, that as nothing definite was <em>said</em>, no definite <em>action </em>on the part of Mr. Burnside will follow. I would not have pained you by showing so particularly the result likely to flow from the course you took, did I not think it right that you should clearly understand the impropriety of such a course. You may never again be in a similar position; still, a right comprehension of this matter can do you no harm."<br><br>
"Most earnestly do I pray," said Lucy, "that the evil my conduct has invoked, may not visit him. That step was wrong — I see it; I feel it. But is this last step wrong likewise? Oh! I cannot believe that it is. How could I any longer exist upon my uncle's bounty? I could not. Mrs. Morton! Indeed, I could not! His presence, nay, the very thought of him, would have been daily felt as a rebuke."<br><br>
"That you have done wrong in this," returned Mrs. Morton, "is not so clear. Still I do not feel altogether satisfied about it. I must see your uncle and aunt, and hear what they have to say."<br><br>
"But will you not, before you see them," urged Lucy, "try whether you cannot find me some employment? If I have this, I shall be able to act with much more freedom."<br><br>
"I will think it over. In the meantime tell me what you can <em>do </em>best, or what you would <em>prefer </em>to do."<br><br>
"I could give music lessons, or I could give instruction in French; or in drawing, painting, and ornamental needle-work. Do you not think that in some of these branches I might find employment?"<br><br>
"Very readily, I presume. But I would not like to see you going from family to family for the purpose of giving lessons in music, because it would subject you to constant, improper, and annoying questions in regard to your separation from your uncle and aunt, and subject them to many suspicions, perhaps more discreditable than even the truth, were it fully known. The <em>effect </em>your withdrawal from their house is likely to have upon them, is a matter for you to consider, as well as your own feelings. It cannot, I think — but do them a serious injury."<br><br>
"How can that possibly be, Mrs. Morton?"<br><br>
"How can you ask such a question, Lucy? Will not your separation from your uncle and aunt occasion all manner of questions, doubts, and suspicions, in the minds of their friends and acquaintances? Your act will place them in a very embarrassing position indeed. Bear this fully in mind before you take another step."<br><br>
"But how can I, after what has passed, go back again into my uncle's house?"<br><br>
"Perhaps the way will be made plain to you. Do nothing further until all is clear, and you can move onward, confident that you are right."<br><br>
"I will be guided by you," said Lucy, in a broken voice, leaning her head against Mrs. Morton, and weeping bitterly. On recovering herself, she added, in a low and subdued tone — "<em>Think </em>for me, for my mind is all bewildered. Whatever you advise I will do, for I will believe your voice to be the voice of my mother speaking to me from a better world. You have often told me that you were as sisters, and loved each other very tenderly. Oh! then be to me, in this extremity, as my own mother would have been."<br><br>
Mrs. Morton felt deeply this touching appeal. She drew the head of the unhappy girl to her bosom, and soothed her agitation by words of affection and encouragement.<br>
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