Thisvisit made a turning-point in Lucy’s life. She returned home very thoughtful, more serious than usual—a result which seemed very easily comprehensible to her experienced friend. To part with her little brother was another trial for the girl; what wonder that it should bring back the grief that was still so fresh? Lucy said nothing about it; which was quite like her, for she was not a girl who made much show of her feelings. But it was not either her past sorrow—or the present “trial” of parting with Jock that moved Lucy—something else worked in her mind. The very sight of the poor household with all its anxieties, the struggle for existence which was going on, the hopes most likely to produce nothing but disappointment, struck a new chord in her. She was more familiar with the level of commonplace existence on which they were struggling to hold their place than with the soft and costly completeness of life on Lady Randolph’s lines. The outside aspect of the house had carried her back to the Terrace; the busied and somewhat agitated maid who opened the door, unaccustomed to such fine company, the flutter and flurry of expectation throughout the house, no one knowing who it was who had come, but all expecting some event out of the way, had made Lucy smile with sympathy, yet blush to think that such an insignificant personage as herself was the stranger received with so much excitement. So far Lucy knew and recognized the state of feeling in the house; but she had never known that struggle of poverty which was everywhere visible, and it went to her heart. This occupied all her thoughts as she went back; and when she got home she disappeared into her own room for a long time, somewhat to the surprise of Lady Randolph, who, as so often happens, was specially disposedfor her young companion’s society. Lucy sent even Jock away. She dispatched him with Elizabeth, her maid, to buy something he would want before going to school; and bringing her little old-fashioned desk to her little sitting-room, sat down with it before the fire. It was a cold day, though bright, and Lucy thought, with pain that was almost personal, of the sputtering of the newly lighted fire in Mrs. Russell’s cold drawing-room, and of all the signs of poverty about. Why should people be so different? She opened the desk, which was full of little relics of her girlhood; little rubbishy drawings which the other girls, at Mrs. Stone’s, had done for her; and even little French exercises and virtuous essays of her own, all religiously put away. The desk was a very common little article, opening in two unequal divisions, so as to form a blue velvet slope on which to write; a thing much more adapted to be laid out upon one of the little tables in the Terrace drawing-room than to have a place here, where everything was so much more refined.
But all Lucy’s little secrets reposed under that blue velvet; and in a drawer which shut with a spring, and was probably called secret, there was a packet of much more importance than Lucy’s little souvenirs. She opened it with tremulous care. It was a bundle of memoranda in her father’s handwriting, done up with a bit of string, as was his way. He had tied them up himself, directing her to read them over frequently. Lucy had never touched the sacred packet up to this moment; her awe had been greater than her curiosity. Indeed, there had been little ground for curiosity, for she had heard him read, as they were written, all these scraps which were the studies for his great work of art, the will, into which old Mr. Trevor had concentrated his mind and the meaning of his life. She had heard them, listening very dutifully; but yet it was as if she had not heard at all, so lightly had they floated over her—so little had she thought of them. She had been entirely acquainted with all his plans for her, and all the serious occupations he had planned out; but she had taken them calmly for granted, as things not affecting her for the moment. Now, however, quite suddenly, Lucy realized that she was not a helpless person, but powerful for aid and assistance to her fellow-creatures even now, young as she was. She gave but one glance, half-smiling, to Maude Langton’s drawings, and Lily Barrington’s pincushion, and the pen-wiper made for her by Katie Russell; then took out her little bundle of scrappy papers, the string of which she untied carefully and with difficulty, with a reverent thought of the old man whose withered fingers had drawn it so tight. It was with some difficultythat Lucy found, among the many memoranda in her hands, the one she sought. They were all embodied in the will. She found the stipulations about her residence, half in high-life, half in what Mr. Trevor called a middling way. And about her marriage, an event so distant and improbable that Lucy smiled again in maiden calm, wholly fancy free, as the world met her eye. At last here it was. She shut the others carefully into the desk, and began to read. And it was so remarkable a document that it will not be amiss if we give it here. This, as we have said, was but the memorandum, the rough draught, afterward put into more formal language in the will itself:
“The fortune which my daughter Lucy is to inherit, having been made by her uncle James Rainy, as may be said, out of nothing—that is to say, without any but the smallest bit of money to begin with, all by his own industry and clear-headedness—and very honestly made, though perhaps not without being to the detriment here and there of another person, not so clever as he was—it is my desire that his heiress shouldgive backa part of it to her fellow-creatures, from whom it came. For, however honestly money is made, it is quite clear, to anybody that will examine the question, that if it is nothing more than buying in the cheapest market and selling in the dearest, it must always be taking something off the comfort of other people. The best of men can’t do less than this; and I am sure James Rainy was one of the best of men. But as it came out of nothing, and out of the pockets of other people, I think it but right that James Rainy’s niece should give itback—a part of it, that is to say. I wish it clearly to be understood that the half of the Rainy property, whatever it may amount to when I die—and I hope I have been able to add a little by great attention to business, and giving up my whole thoughts to it—is to be kept intact, and not to be touched in any way, making a very good fortune for Lucy and her heirs forever. But the other half she shall be free to dispose of, giving it back to the community, out of which it came. Foreigners are not to be eligible, though part of it was no doubt made out of foreigners; but the kind that come fluttering about rich folks in England, and carrying off a great deal of our money, are not the kind among whom James Rainy made his fortune, and I say again foreigners are not to be eligible. Most people would say that, having a great deal of money to give away, the thing to do would be to establish hospitals, and give large subscriptions; but I don’t believe in subscriptions for my part. Besides that is the common way. What I want Lucy to do is to give the money to individuals or families whom she comes across, those that really want it. I wish her to remember that I don’t tell her to do this in order to please herself, nor to make herself look like a great personage, nor to get applause or even gratitude. Applause she is not to get, since this part of my will I require to be kept secret as far as possible, and every gift to be kept an absolute secret from all but my executors, and the receivers of the bounty; and gratitude she must not expect. It is a poor thing to look for it, and I don’t much believe in it for my part. What she has to do is a simple duty, having a great deal more money than she can ever know what to do with. And she is not to give little dribbles of money which encourage pauperism; but when she sees a necessity to give enough, liberally, and without grudging. If it’s to a man to set him up in business, or help him on in whatever his trade may be; and if it’s a woman, to give her an income that she can live on, and bring up her children upon, with economy and good management. I don’t want any one to get damage by what she gives, as happens when you give a ten-pound note, or a fifty, or even a hundred. Let her give them enough—she has plenty to draw upon—according to their position and what they are used to; capital that can be of real use in business, or an income that can be managed, and made the most of. It is giving the money back to those from whom it came. I also require that my daughter Lucy should be left the fullest liberty of choice. She must satisfy my executors that the case is a necessitous one; but nothing more. She is not bound to give guarantees of any kind, or a good character even, or testimonials from other people. The thing is to be between herself and those she gives to. She will make many mistakes, but she is very sensible, and she will learn in time.
“I further stipulate that my said daughter Lucy is to enter upon the possession of this right as soon as I am dead, whether she is of age at that period or not. I expect of her obedience to all my rules for seven years, as far as regards herself; but in this particular she is to be perfectly free, and no one is to have any power of control over her—neither her guardians, nor her husband when she gets one. This is my last wish and desire.”
She had known vaguely that this was how it was; but when Lucy had heard the paper read by her father’s own lips, she had not paid very much attention to it. It was so far away—so unlike anything that lay in her placid girlish life, which, at that time, had no power whatever in it, except to buy Jock a new book now and then out of her pocket-money. Lucy fancied she could see herself sittingquiet and unmoved over her knitting, listening as a matter of duty, not thinking much of what it was that papa wrote down in these interminable papers. How placidly she had taken it all! It had been nothing to her; though she had received from him a certain gravity of reflection, and sense of the incumbrances and responsibilities of her wealth, yet that had come chiefly since his death, and she recalled the easy calm of her own mind before that event with surprise. Now, as she read these words over again, which had floated so calmly over her before, a thrill of warm life and excitement ran through her being. She had it in her power to change all that, to make poor Mrs. Russell comfortable, to lift her up above all necessity. Was it possible? Lucy’s heart began to beat, her mind trembled at the suggestion—it made her head giddy. That nervous, tremulous woman so full of self-betrayals, letting the spectators see against her will how anxious she was, how full of fear, even in professing herself to be full of hope. Was it possible that a word from Lucy would smooth away half of her incipient wrinkles, correct the anxious lines round the corners of her eyes, and calm her whole agitated being? Lucy felt her head go round and round with that sense of delightful incomprehensible power. She could do it, there was no doubt or question; and how willing she would be to do it, how glad, how eager? She put her papers back again, with her whole frame tingling and in commotion. A girl is seldom so excited, except by something about a lover, some shadow of the new life coming over her, some revelation of the mysteries and sweetness to come; but Lucy had never been awakened on this subject. She knew nothing about love, and cared less, if that can be believed, but the very breath was taken away from her and her head made giddy by this sudden consciousness of power.
Next day Lucy had a visitor, in the morning, before there was any question of visitors, when she and Jock were seated alone. It was Mary Russell, with a little flush on her face, and somewhat, breathless, who appeared behind the maid when the door opened. Mary was the plainest one of the family, a girl with a round cheerful face, and no special beauty of any kind—not like her handsome brother, who had the air of a man of fashion, or Katie, who was one of the prettiest, girls at Mrs. Stone’s. It was not Mary’srôleto be pretty; she was the useful one of the family. In most cases there is one member of a household specially devoted to this part; and if it had happened that Mary had grown up beautiful, as sometimes happens, no doubt her claims would have been steadily ignored bythe rest of the family, who thought of her in no such light. She was the one who did what the others did not like to do. She came in with a little hesitation, with a blush and shy air of deprecating anxiety. The blush deepened as she met Lucy’s surprised look; she sat down with an awkwardness that was not natural to her. She was scarcely seventeen, younger than Lucy; but had already learned so much of the darker side of life. Yet there was in Mary none of the self-contrasts nor the anxious adulation of her mother. She had so much to do, she had not time to think how much worse off she was than this other girl, her contemporary in life.
“I came to see—when it would suit you to send— Master Trevor,” Mary said, faltering a little. “Mamma feared—that perhaps you might be discouraged by seeing that the house was not— But I will see that he is very well taken care of, and—regular with his lessons. I am always with them. It is a holiday to-day, that is why I have come out.”
(The family had taken fright after Lucy had gone; they had doubted the possibility of so much good fortune coming their way; they had trembled with apprehension lest a letter should reach them next morning informing them that some other school had been recommended to Lady Randolph, or that Miss Trevor feared that the air of the heath would be too keen for her little brother; and Mary had, as usual, put herself in the breach. “I will go and find out,” she had said; “they can not eat me, at the very worst.” This was Mary’s way; the rest of the house waited and fretted, and made all around them miserable, but she preferred to cut the knot.)
“You see, Miss Trevor,” she continued, “mamma is very anxious to get a good connection. I do not care so much, for my part; but it is gentlemen’s sons she wants, and she thinks that if we were known to have your brother—”
“But I am nobody,” said Lucy, “and Jock is— Papa was only a school-master himself. He was not even a good school-master. He taught the common people; and I don’t think that having Jock would make much difference.”
Mary looked at her with wistful eyes.
“He is your brother,” she said.
“But, indeed, indeed, I am nobody,” cried Lucy, “scarcely a lady at all, only allowed to live here, and be well thought of, because I have a great deal of money. I am not so good as you are; even Katie, though she was known to be poor, they said at school, ‘She is one of the Russells.’ Now that could never be said of me; I am not one of the anybodies,” Lucy said, with a little smile.“I have nothing but my money,” she added, eying Mary with great earnestness; “it is good for something; there are some things, indeed, that it can do;” here she paused, and looked at the other girl again very doubtfully, almost anxiously. Mary did not know what it meant. She had come as a supplicant, wistfully desirous of making a good impression upon the rich and fortunate heiress. Only to be connected in the most superficial way with this favorite of fortune would do them good, her mother thought. But she was deeply puzzled by Lucy’s look at her, which was wistful too.
“Yes, there is a great deal that it can do,” said Mary. “When one has so very, very much, it is as good as being born a princess. It is better to be of a good family when you have only a little, but when you are as rich as—as an ‘Arabian Night,’ what does it matter? Other boys would come from other prosperous places if it were known that you had brought your brother.”
“I wish,” cried Lucy, “oh! I wish that I could do more than that.”
Mary’s cheeks grew crimson; she tried to laugh.
“That is all we want, Miss Trevor. We want only a good connection, and to get our school known.”
In a moment the characters of the two girls had changed; it was the heiress that was the supplicant. She looked very anxiously in the other’s eyes, who, on her side, understood somehow, though she knew nothing about it.
“We are getting on,” said Mary, with that flush of generous pride and courage; “oh, I am not afraid we shall get on! There may be a struggle at the beginning, everybody has a struggle, but we have only got to stand firm, and not to give in. Mamma gets frightened, but I am not a bit frightened; besides, she is not strong, and when people are not strong everything tells upon them. Of course we shall have a struggle—how could it be otherwise—there are so many poor people in the world; but in the end all will come right; and, Miss Trevor,” she added, with a little flush of excitement, “if you don’t think our house is good enough, never mind. We should like to know, but I don’t wish to urge you, if you are not satisfied. We don’t want any to come who is not satisfied; all the same we shall get on.”
Lucy looked at her almost with envy.
“Yes,” she said, shaking her head, following out her own thoughts. “I suppose it is true that there are a great many poor people in the world.”
“Oh, so many!” Mary said; “poor women struggling and struggling to live. Though we are struggling ourselves, it makes my heart sore; there are so many worse off than we are. But we must get on, whatever happens. I tell mamma so. What is the use of fretting, I say, all will come right in the end; but she can not keep her heart up. It is because she is not strong,” Mary said, a tear coming furtively to her eyes.
“I know what papa meant now,” said Lucy. “I had never thought of it. It is a sin for one to have so much, and others nothing. If it could only be taken and divided, and everybody made comfortable—so much to you, and so much to me, and every one the same—how much better, how much happier! but how am I to do it?” she said, clasping her hands.
Mary stood opening her blue eyes, then laughed, with youthful and frankness, though far from free of tears. “How strange that you should say that! I thought it was only poor people and Radicals that said that. You can’t be a Radical, Miss Trevor? But it would be no good,” said the sensible girl, shaking her head; “even I have seen enough to be sure of that. If we had all the same one day, there would be rich and poor again the next. It is in people’s nature. But this is a long way off from what I came to ask you,” she said, dropping her voice, with a little sigh.
Jock had been in the room all the time. He was one of the children whom no one ever notices, who hear everything, and bide their time. He came forward all at once, startling Mary, who turned to him in alarm, with a little cry. “Are you fond of the ‘Arabian Nights’?” he said. “I am not so very fond of them now—they are for when you are quite little, when you don’t know anything. When I come, I will tell you quantities of things, if you like. I can tell you all Shakespeare. I told Lucy; she does not know much,” Jock said, with genial contempt.
“Perhaps you will think I don’t know very much; but I shall teach you your lessons,” said Mary, with tremulous satisfaction, yet a little pedagogic assertion of her own superiority. Jock looked at her with attention, studying this new specimen of the human race.
“You must not think he is naughty,” said Lucy, interposing eagerly. “He is a very good boy. Though he is so little, he knows a great deal. And he always understands. You may think he is a trouble with his stories, and the fairy books he has read. But he is no trouble,” his sister cried, “he is the greatest comfort. I don’t know what I should have done without Jock; and I am sure you will like him too. We are going to get him his things this afternoon, and to-morrow I am to bring him,” Lucy added, in her usual tranquil tones.
“Then that is all right,” said Mary. She thought it was all her doing—that the question had been a doubtful one, and that it was the decided step she had taken which had secured this important little scholar. He was to pay better than any of the rest, and he was, it might be hoped, the first of a better connection. Mary got up to go home with a satisfaction in her supposed success, which was almost triumph. She did not envy Lucy, though she was an heiress. She saw a long perspective of new boys filing before her, and a handsome house and big playgrounds, and an orderly prosperous establishment. These were the things that were worth wishing for, Mary Russell thought. As for Bertie and his book, she shrugged her youthful shoulders at them. But she believed in herself, and in the little boys to come. “We shall have a struggle,” she repeated, with a smile, “as everybody has; but we shall get on.” She did not envy Lucy; but Lucy, perhaps, feeling the tables turned, was not so magnanimous. She was half vexed that the success of the Russells was so certain, and that here was no case for her to interfere. Alas, there was nothing for her to do but to wring her hands and stand helpless upon her mountain of money, while all those poor people whom Mary knew struggled unaided, yet “got on” at last, without any help of hers.
Lucywas permitted to take Jock to Hampstead by herself in Lady Randolph’s brougham next day. They had spent the morning buying things for him, a school-boy dressing-case, a little desk, various books, and an umbrella—possessions which, up to this time, had been considered too valuable for the child, of whom nobody took any special care. He went to his new home with such an abundance of property as elated even Jock, though he was not given to trivialities. He had a watch too, which was more than property, which was a kind of companion, a demi-living thing to console him when he should be dull; and the child bore up with great heroism in face of the inevitable parting. Indeed, Jock regarded the whole matter in an extremely practical common sense way. Lucy herself was disposed to be tearful during the long drive.She held him close to her side, with her arm round him. “You will be good, Jock,” she said; “you will not be silly, and read books, but do your lessons and your sums, and everything. Promise me that you will do your lessons, Jock.”
Jock eyed his sister with that indulgent contempt, which her want of discrimination often produced in him. “Of course I will do my lessons,” he said; “it is you who are silly. What else should I go away for? People must do lessons, it appears, before they grow up. If I didn’t mean to do them,” Jock said, with a full sense of his own power of deciding his fate, “I should stay at home— I shouldn’t go.”
This silenced Lucy for the moment; but she was not so confident as he was. “When you get dull, dear, and when there is nobody to talk to, and when you begin to feel lonely”—the tears got into Lucy’s eyes again as she added line after line to this picture— “then I am afraid, I am afraid you will begin to read, you will forget about everything else.”
Jock drew himself away from her arm with a little offense; he looked at her severely. “I am not just a baby—or a girl,” he said indignantly. Then he added, softening, “And I don’t mean to be dull. I will tell Mary a great deal. It will do her good. You don’t mind so much about things when you have a great many other things in your head.”
Once more this oracular utterance silenced his sister for the moment; and then with natural inconsistency she resented his philosophy. “I did not think you were so changeable. You are quite pleased to have Mary: you don’t care for leaving me. It is I that will be lonely, but you don’t mind a bit!” cried Lucy. Jock sighed with the impatience which his elders so often show when a woman is unreasonable. “Don’t youwantme to learn lessons then?” he said.
But as this protest was uttered the carriage drew up before Mrs. Russell’s house, where all was expectation, though there was no peeping at windows or signs of excitement, as on the first visit. The drawing-room, which was like poor Mrs. Russell herself, limp and crumpled with the wear and tear of life rather than old, had been rubbed and dusted into such a measure of brightness as was possible. There was a pot of crocuses at the window, and tea upon the table; and the whole family were assembled to do honor to the visitor. There was nothing slipshod about Bertie now; his hair was carefully brushed, all the details of his appearance anxiously cared for. “For who can tell what may happen?” his mother said; “wenever know what an hour may bring forth;” and inspired by this pious sentiment she had counseled Bertie, nothing loath, to buy himself a new necktie. His whole life might be altered by the becomingness of its tint and the success of its arrangement. Do not girls perpetually take these little precautions? and why not young men too? And they all stood up to receive Lucy, and regarded her with a kind of admiring adoration. “Give Miss Trevor this chair—it is the most comfortable.” “Mother, a little more cream for Miss Trevor, and some cake.” They could not do too much for her. “Katie is so happy that we have seen you; she writes to me this morning, that all will go well with us now we know her dear, dear Lucy.” “We have all known you by name so long,” Bertie added; “it has been familiar in our mouths as household words.” Lucy was abashed by all this homage; but how could she help being a little pleased too? Mary was the only one who did not chime in. “I suppose Katie thinks you lucky,” she said; “I don’t believe in luck myself.” And then Lucy made a little timid diversion, by asking about Mr. Bertie’s book. Was it finished yet? and would it soon be published? It is pleasant to be courted and applauded; but somewhat embarrassing when it goes too far.
“He has not got a publisher yet; is it not strange,” cried Mrs. Russell indignantly, “that, whatever genius you may have, or however beautifully you may write, it is all nothing, nothing at all without a publisher? He may be just an ignorant man, just a tradesman—not in the least able to understand; indeed, I hear that they are dreadful people, and cheat you on every side (and authors are a great deal too generous and too heedless, Miss Trevor, they allow themselves to be cheated); but however beautiful your book may be (and Bertie’s book is lovely), not one step can he move, not one thing can he do, till one of these common dreadful men—oh!” cried the indignant mother, “it is a disgrace to our age—it is a shame to the country—”
“They are necessary evils,” said Bertie with magnanimity; “we can’t do without them. You must not think it quite so bad, Miss Trevor, as my mother says. And after all one is independent of them as soon as one has got a hearing;ce n’est que le premier pas—”
“If Lady Randolph chose, she might easily get him an introduction,” said Mrs. Russell; “but it is out of sight out of mind, Miss Trevor. When you do not want anything, there are numbers of people ready to help you; but when you do— Lady Randolph might do it in a moment. It would not cost her anything; but she forgets; when you are out of the way everybody forgets.”
“We must not say that, mother. It was she who brought us our celestial visitor.”
“That is true, that is true,” Mrs. Russell cried.
Lucy did not know what to think or how to reply; she had never been called a celestial visitor before, and it was impossible not to be pleased by all this kindness and admiration. But then it was embarrassing, and she saw Mary in the background laugh. She felt half disposed to laugh too, and then to cry; but that was because she was parting with Jock, who, little monster, did not shed a tear. Lucy dried her own eyes almost indignantly; but even on her side the effect of the parting was broken by the assiduous attentions with which she was surrounded. She was so confused by having to take Bertie’s arm, and thus being conducted to the door, and put into the carriage, that she could not give Jock that last hug which she had intended. Mrs. Russell stood on the steps, and kissed her hand. “You will come soon again, come as often as you can. You will do us all good, as well as the little brother,” Mrs. Russell said. And Bertie put his head into the carriage to tell her that he would come himself and bring her news of Jock. They both spoke and looked as if Lucy were indeed a celestial visitor, a being of transcendent excellence and glory. She could not but be conscious of a bewildering sense of pleasure; but she was ashamed of so much devotion. She was not the least worthy of it. Could they be laughing at her? But why should any one be so cruel as to do that?
For the moment, however, all Lucy’s personal excitement in the consciousness of being able to change the circumstances of the poor lady, who had at first sight appealed so strongly to her sympathies, was subdued, and turned into the humiliation and shame of an officious person who has been offering unnecessary aid. She shrunk back into herself with a hot blush. Had she, perhaps, wanted to appear as a great benefactor in the eyes of the Russells? was it pride rather than pity? Lucy, though she had so little experience, was wise enough to know that undesired help is an insult, a thing that everybody resents. She was deeply disappointed and ashamed, not knowing how to excuse herself for her rash impulse of liberality, liberality which these high-spirited and hopeful people would most likely never have forgiven her for thinking of. She locked away her father’s memoranda again in the secret drawer.
“Oh, papa! papa!” she said to herself, “how could you think it would be so easy?”
He had thought money was everything, but it was not what hethought. Lucy was glad that she had not written to Mr. Chervil about it as she had intended, for most likely he would have laughed at her, or perhaps been angry. Evidently the only thing for her to do was to “read,” as Lady Randolph advised her, and try to learn German, and keep as quiet as possible. It was dull, very dull, without Jock, but Lucy was of a patient disposition, and reconciled herself gradually to her life.
On the whole, however, this life was a life full of pleasantness to which the most exacting young person might easily have reconciled herself. Lady Randolph was very kind—indeed, as time went on, she got to like Lucy very sincerely, appreciating the good qualities of a girl who brought so much into the establishment and took so little out, who gave no trouble at all, as the servants said, rather despising her for it. But Lady Randolph did not despise her. She knew the value of a companion who was always contented, and aspired after no forbidden pleasures of society, and did not so much as understand the A B C of flirting. Such a girl was of rare occurrence in the world, or, at least, so persons of experience, accustomed to think the worst of all classes of their fellow-creatures, said. A girl who was always willing to do what she was told, and who set up no will of her own, and had no confidential visitor, except Mr. Chervil, who was one of her legal guardians, was a charge with whom any chaperon might be pleased; provided all went as well next year, when Lucy came out; but Lady Randolph piously reflected that no one could tell what might happen before that. Lucy excited no strong feeling: there was little in her (except her fortune) to take hold of the imagination; but her quiet presence was always soothing and pleasant. Lady Randolph professed to go little into society that season, “saving herself up,” as she said, for the next, when it would be her more arduous duty to take Lucy out. But though she did not go out much, that did not prevent her from enjoying a great many dinner-parties, and even occasionally “looking in” upon some dear duchess’s ball; and Lucy spent many quiet evenings at home, in which her chief amusement was to hear the carriages of the people who were enjoying themselves roll up and down the street, and in wondering how she would like it next year, when she would be enjoying herself too. She did not at all dislike these quiet evenings, and, on the whole, her life passed very pleasantly as the spring grew into summer, and the season came to its prime. She rode in the morning, sometimes in the park, when Lady Randolph could find suitable companions for her, and often going as far as Hampstead, where Mary Russell looked out uponher from the school-room window with cheerful friendliness; and Bertie, not very sure of his skill, came out to put her on her horse when she was ready to go, and bit his young mustache with envy and anger against fate, which had denied him all such indulgences. Bertie, however, was buoyed up by a great confidence; his book was going through the press; he had got the opening he wanted; and presently, presently! he said to himself, his time of humiliation would be over. Lucy had no idea of the effect of her visits upon the household. The little pupils, who were not very answerable to Mary’s rule, hearing it often called in question, ran to the window when they heard the sound of the horses’ feet, and they too looked with envy upon little Jock, who now had a pony, and frequently went out with his sister. The little boys looked after Jock, some with admiring eyes, while others scowled at his unusual privileges.
“Why has that little beggar got a pony and us not?” the urchins would say indignantly; and Mrs. Russell was not, with all her refinement, much better than the boy who said this, who was the son of the grocer, taken on reciprocal terms, and whose presence was felt to be a humiliation to the establishment. Mrs. Russell never saw Lucy ride away without drying her eyes.
“To thinkmygirls should be toiling while old Trevor’s daughter—” She looked out eagerly for Lucy’s coming, but this was the unfailing sentiment with which she greeted her. “The ways of Providence are inscrutable,” the poor lady said, “when I remember her mother, who was nothing but nursery-governess at the Brown-Joneses’, an old maid! when we used to call in mamma’s carriage.”
“If you were so much better off than her mother, she has a right to be better off than we are; it is only justice and fair play,” said Mary.
“Oh, child! child! hold your tongue, what can you know about it?” her mother said, with red eyes, while Bertie gnawed his mustache.
The young man stood and looked after Lucy, waiting to wave his hand to her as she turned the corner. She looked very well on horseback. If he had not felt that indignant envy of her, that sense that a trumpery bit of a girl had no right to be so much better off than he, he would have almost admired Lucy as she rode away. She was the representative of so many things that he did admire; wealth, luxurious case, an undeniable superiority to all care. That she should be set up on that pinnacle, high enough to impress the whole world with her greatness, while he, clever, and handsome,and well born, attracted attention from nobody, was one of those things which are so incredible in their inappropriateness as to fill the less fortunate with indignant astonishment; but presently, presently! the young man said to himself. Meantime he was very irregular in giving the little boys their Latin. The proofs took up a great deal of his time, and it was scarcely to be expected that a young author, on the verge of success and fame, could be as particular, in respect to hours, as a nameless pedagogue. Mrs. Russell fully felt the force of this argument. She did not see how Bertie could be expected to give himself up to the children every day. The Latin lessons came down to three times, then twice a week, and it was never quite certain when it might suit Mr. Russell to give them. “They shall have another half hour with me at their music, or, Mary, give them a little more geography; geography is very important, of far more consequence, at their age, than Latin,” the head of the establishment would say; and though the sight of Miss Trevor arriving on her fine horse, with her groom behind her, had a great effect upon the neighborhood, and the parents of the day-scholars were pleased to think that their little boys were at the same school as this fine young lady’s brother, yet after awhile there were remonstrances from these commonplace people. The boys, they complained, did not “get on.” “What do they mean by getting on? we are not bound to furnish intellects to our pupils,” Mrs. Russell said, assuming something of the same imperiousness which answered with Mrs. Stone; but, alas! it did not answer at Hampstead, and but for the hope of that book which was coming out directly, the poor lady would have seen a very dismal prospect before her. But the book was to make amends for everything, it was to bring both money and peace.
“There is another boy gone,” said little Jock. “I’m very glad, he was one that laughed when you talked of anything. I told him about Macbeth, and he laughed. He’s gone, that fellow; and Shuckwood’s going—”
“They seem all to be going,” said Lucy, alarmed.
“Oh, no, you know, there’s me. I’m the sheet-anchor, they say; but what is a sheet-anchor? She is often crying now,” said Jock; “I can’t tell why. It can’t be because of the fellows leaving. They are a set of little—cads.”
“Jock, where did you learn such words? you never spoke like that before.”
“Oh, it is being with those fellows,” said Jock. “If I were bigger I’d lick half of them; but I couldn’t lick half of them,” he added, reflectively, “for there’s only five now, and when Shuckwood is gone, and the one with the red hair, there will be three. But then one is me! there will only be two others left. You know, Lucy, Russell, the man himself, Mary’s brother, has made a book, and it’s all in print.”
“Yes, I know. I hope he will make some money by it, and make poor Mrs. Russell more happy.”
“Money!” This was an idea Jock could not fathom; he pondered it for a time, but did not arrive at any clear comprehension of it. “Will he go and knock at all the doors, and sell it like—the milkman?” asked the child, with much doubt in his tone. The milkman was striding cheerfully along with his pails, uttering a mysterious but friendly howl at every door, and furnishing Jock with the simile. He thought the milkman a very interesting person, but he did not realize Bertie Russell in the same trade. “I don’t think he would do it,” Jock said confidentially; “and if it was only one book, it would not be much good. I should like to be a peddler with a heap of books; then you could read the rest, and sell them when you had finished them. But, Lucy,” cried the child, “what I would like best of all would be to ride on, and on, and on, like this, and never stop, except at night, to lie on the grass, and tell stories, like that book about the knight and the squire, and the manciple. What is a manciple?” Jock asked, suddenly impressed by the charms of the unknown word.
“I can’t tell in the least, I never heard of it, Jock. Doesn’t it vex poor Mrs. Russell when the boys go?”
“When the fellows, leave? oh, I don’t know. I tell you they’re not much of fellows; I don’t see why she should care,” said the little ignoramus serenely. “I wish they were all gone, then Mary would have time to improve her mind.”
“Poor Mary! has she so much to do?”
“She is always having the fellows for something. When we have not Latin we have geography. And we don’t often have Latin. Russell, he’s busy, or he’s got a headache. The fellows say—”
“What little gossips! Tell me what Latin you have learned, Jock.”
“Oh, nothing at all. Penn-a, penna-ah—or perhaps it’s penn-ah—penn-a, I never can remember. It is far easier just to say pen, as you do, Lucy. And then we have counting; two times three is six, three times three— I’ll tell you that another time; the pony jumps about when I try to do arithmetic in my head.”
“But they are always very good to you, Jock? you are happythere?” This was the burden of all their talks, the constantly-recurring chorus.
This time Jock, who usually said, “Oh, yes,” with indifference to the question, laughed, which was rare with him.
“She says I am always to say Mr. Bertie is very kind,” says Jock. “That’s Russell, you know: the fellows all call him Russell. She says, when you ask, I am to say he takes great pains with me.”
Lucy was perplexed, but it was not right to show her perplexity, she thought.
“And does he?” she said.
“I don’t know what it means, he never says anything at all. Do you think, if we were to ride long enough, we could ride, ride, right into the sun, Lucy? there where it touches the heath—look! The skymusttouch somewhere, if we could only ride as far.”
“Let us try,” said Lucy.
Jock’s revelations were very unsatisfactory. It was just as sensible, she thought to pursue the sunshine, and follow the point where the sky must touch, as to get any light thrown upon the one point which she was anxious to investigate. Lucy’s mind had been greatly exercised upon this subject. It was impossible to mistake the signs of growing poverty and squalor in the house, and she, who felt that she had in her hand the power of turning anxiety and trouble into ease, was greatly disturbed, not knowing what to do.
Mrs. Russell’s eyes were generally red now; but then they were weak, she said; and the house got to look more and more untidy. It was a begrimed little maid who opened the door, and the red-haired boy was gone, and the one who squinted, and the little fellow with the curls. Lucy went in with her brother, when they had finished their ride, and was met by the mistress of the house, all tremulous, clasping and unclasping her hands, with a nervous smile.
“You must rest a little, Miss Trevor,” she said, “after your long ride, and take something; won’t you take something? I have made a little space in the drawing-room,” she added, seeing, with the quick instinct of the unfortunate, that Lucy’s eye had been caught by the big vacancy in the room, which had never been too full of furniture; “my poor piano, it was too big, much too big. I did not like to part with it, it was a relic of the days when—my rooms were not so small,” she said, with a pretense at a smile. “But you will be glad to hear, Miss Trevor, we have heard of a much better house, when— I mean as soon as—we are quite sure about the book.”
“It will not be long now?” said Lucy. “Mr. Bertie told me the printing was very nearly done.”
“No, it will not be long. We might take it now, for that matter, for I don’t entertain any doubt on the subject. But Bertie is always so modest. Bertie insists that we must make quite sure. You see, Miss Trevor, a work like his, a work of imagination, succeeds at once, if it is going to succeed,” she added, with a little laugh. “Other kinds of books may take a long time to gain the public ear, but that—one knows directly. So I say to Bertie, we really might venture. It is just round the corner, Miss Trevor, a much larger, handsomer house. But, on the other hand, this is a long way from the center of everything. It might be better to move into Mayfair, or even Belgravia. He will want to be nearer the world. So, on the whole, we think it best to wait a little; and it does not do to move in the season, everything is so dear.”
“And the little boys?” said Lucy. Her mind was bewildered by the contrast between what she was hearing and the visible signs of misery around.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Russell, “as for Jock, you must not trouble yourself in the least. We are quite fond of him, he is such a little original. And Mary is very independent-minded; she will never take anything from her brother, though a better brother never existed! Mary will want something to occupy her, and so long as I have a roof over my head, little Jock shall never want a home. You may be quite easy on that point. I am telling Miss Trevor, Mary, that we are thinking of removing,” she said, as her daughter came in.
Mary did not look in high spirits.
“Are you, mamma? I should not mind the house, if other things were comfortable,” Mary said. Her eyes were heavy, as if she had been weeping, and she avoided Lucy’s look.
“That is because some of the little boys are going away,” said Mrs. Russell nervously. “Mary is always so anxious. We shall be glad to rid of them, my love, when Bertie’s book is out.”
Mary did not make any reply. She gave her shoulders an imperceptible shrug; and what between the daughter’s unresponsiveness and the mother’s tearful and restless profusion of words, Lucy did not know what to say. When she went out, Bertie appeared with his hat on, and a packet of papers in his hand, and walked by her as she rode slowly along the steep little street. “These are the last of the proofs,” he said to her, holding them up. “I am going totake them myself for luck. I hope you will think of me kindly, Miss Trevor, and wish me well.”
“Indeed, I will. I wish it may be—the greatest success that ever was.”
“Thanks; that should bring me good fortune. I want you to do me a favor too. Let me give it all the better chance by putting your happy name upon it. I am sure it is a happy name, a lucky name, bringing good,” he added fervently, “to all who invoke it.”
“Indeed, Mr. Russell,” said Lucy, troubled, “I do not know what you mean.”
“I want,” he said, “to dedicate it to you.”
“To me!” Lucy’s simple countenance grew crimson. She did not quite understand the half pleasure, half repugnance that seemed all at once to flood her veins to overflowing. The color rushed to her face. She was flattered; what girl would have been otherwise? But she was more embarrassed than flattered. “Oh, no, Mr. Russell, please not. It is too much. I have no right to such a compliment.”
“Then I don’t know who has,” he said. “You sought us out when we were very low, and gave us courage. That was the thing we wanted most. My mother is not encouraging, Miss Trevor. She is very good; but she is so anxious—so easily cast down.”
“She is in very great hopes now, Mr. Russell.”
“Oh, yes; poor mother—too great. I don’t know what she thinks is coming. A fortune—a king’s ransom. And she will be disappointed. I feel sure she will be disappointed—even if I succeed. I shall have to think of getting connections, forming friends, helping myself on in the world, instead of muddling always here.”
Then there was a moment of silence, and the sound of the horse’s hoofs on the stones came in, ringing in Lucy’s ears. And these words raised up echoes of their own. Lucy’s young soul got perplexed among them. But she said nothing, and after a moment he went on.
“Of course I will help them; but I must think of what is to be done next, and I must be in a place where I can see people—not out here. You are so reasonable, you will understand me, Miss Trevor. It is hard to be living among people who do not understand. I will bring you one of the first copies, if you will let me—the very first, if I have my way,” he said, looking up at her with a glow on his face. As she sat on her horse, swaying a little with the movement, she looked the most desirable thing in all the world to Bertie Russell. To think a girl the best thing you could becomepossessed of, the most valuable and precious, the highest prize to be aspired to, the creature who can bestow everything you most wish for—is not that being in love with her? If so, Bertie Russell was in love; and he looked at her as if he were so. Lucy’s cheek was a little flushed with surprise, with the confusion of her thoughts, and he interpreted this so as to chime in with the excitement he had himself given way to. It was a genuine excitement. Heavens! if he could but win that girl to be his! what more would there be to wish for? He put out his hand and gently touched and stroked her horse’s neck. This meant the most shy caress to herself, and Lucy felt it so, with a thrill of alarm she could not tell why.
“I am afraid I must go on now,” she said, feeling a blush come over her face again; and he took off his hat, and stood watching as she quickened her pace along the road, calling after her, “I may come then and bring the first copy?” His heart jumped up within him as he saw the color on Lucy’s face. Could she, in her turn, a simple girl not used to much attention, have fallen in love? If so, there would be nothing strange in that. A fine young fellow—a young man of genius about to blaze upon the world. Nothing could be more natural; but the idea made Bertie’s heart beat. It would be the most fortunate—the most desirable of all things. It opened up a perfect heaven of hope and blessedness before his feet. As for Lucy, she rode home with her heart quaking and trembling and full of many thoughts. She did not entertain any doubt of the success of the book, any more than the author of it did, or his mother. But what she had heard from both sides opened Lucy’s eyes. Poor Mrs. Russell! what wild fancy possessed her, making her so feverishly confident in the midst of all those signs of trouble? Youth is intolerant, yet, Lucy was reasonable. She saw some excuse for Bertie too. And now her duty seemed to her very clear. After all her vicissitudes of feeling, she had come back to the starting-point. This made her heart beat, not any thought of the handsome young author. She would have to tell Mrs. Russell herself of what she was about to do. It would be a difficult mission, Lucy thought to herself, with something of a panic; yet it must be done. And when she thought of the house over which such a cloud of trouble and anxiety and approaching ruin seemed to hang, and of Mrs. Russell’s excitement, and Mary’s pale cheeks, her heart smote her for delaying. She must not allow her guardian to hold her hand, or her own timid spirit to shrink from her work. Would it not be better to have it done before the moment came when this poor woman could be undeceived? While she rode back through thesuburban roads, Bertie, subduing his pride, took the aid of an omnibus, and made his way to the publisher’s—his head in the air, his mind full of ecstatic visions. He composed a hundred dedications as he rolled and rumbled along, smiling to himself at the idea of the author of “Imogen” being seen on an omnibus. “Why not?” he asked himself. A man of genius, a future lord of society and the age, may go where he will without derogating from his dignity. If all went well, if all went as every indication proved it to be going, other vehicles than omnibuses were waiting for Bertie, golden chariots, cars of triumph. His present humility was a pleasantry at which he could not choose but smile.
A veryshort time after this Lucy received the parcel of books which had been promised her. The season was growing to its height, and no time had been lost in putting the three volumes into the flimsy cloth binding which places the English novel on a platform of respectability, elevated far above its contemporary of other nations. The author did not bring her the first copy with his own hands, as he had vowed to do. Bertie had been afraid—he had done a thing which was perhaps too daring, and he did not venture to appear in his own person, to meet, perhaps, the storm of Lady Randolph’s displeasure, perhaps the alarmed reproachfulness of Lucy herself. He sent it instead, and awaited the reply with a heart which could scarcely beat higher with any personal excitement than it did with the tumult of hope and fear with which he awaited the issue of his first publication. It seemed to the inexperienced young fellow that the issues of life and death were in it, and that his fate would be fixed one way or another, and that without remedy. His doubt of Lucy’s reception of his offering, therefore, added but a slight element the more to a tumult of feeling already almost too great to be controlled. He brought it himself to the door, but would not go in; leaving a message that the parcel was to be given to Miss Trevor at once. Lady Randolph and she, for a wonder, were dining alone, and the parcel was undone when the dessert was placed on the table, and lay there in a very fashionably artistic binding, of no particular color, with “Imogen” scrawled in large uneven letters on the side. The ladies both tookit up with great interest. A new book, though so many of the community have ceased to regard it as anything but a bore, is still interesting more or less to every little feminine circle that knows the author. Lady Randolph was going out to a succession of parties after dinner, and among them to a great intellectual gathering, where all the wits were to be assembled. “I must tell Mrs. Montagu about it,” she said; “I must speak to everybody about it. It is very attentive of the young man to send it at once. We must do what we can for him, Lucy. We must ask for it at all the libraries, and tell everybody to ask for it, and I will speak to the critics. I will speak to Cecilia,” she said, taking up the first volume. But after a momentary interval, a change came over Lady Randolph’s face. She uttered the invariable English monosyllable “Oh!” in startled and troubled tones; then turned upon her companion hastily:
“Did you know of this, Lucy? My dear, my dear, how wrong! how imprudent! Why did not you mention it to me?”
Lucy was eating her strawberries very quietly, looking with a pleased expectation at the two other volumes of the book. It seemed to her a fine thing to be an author, to have actually written all that; and she was a little proud in her own person of knowing all about him, and felt that she would now have something to talk about when Lady Randolph’s visitors tried her, as they were in the habit of doing, on divers subjects. When they talked to her about Lady Mary’s small and early party, or the duchess’s great assembly, Lucy had often found it embarrassing to repeat her humble confessions of ignorance to one after another, and to admit that she had not been there or there; and did not understand the allusions which were being made; and she did not know enough about music to speak of the opera, nor about pictures to prattle about the Exhibitions, as she heard other girls do; but now she would have something to say. “Have you seen the new novel? It is written by a gentleman we know.” With that to talk about, Lucy felt that she might even take the initiative andbeginthe conversation with any one who did not look very clever and alarming, and this gave her a serene satisfaction. Also she was to spend the evening all by herself, and a new story was a nice companion. She was aroused from these agreeable thoughts by that “Oh-h!” uttered upon two or three notes by Lady Randolph, and looked up to see her friend’s countenance entirely changed, severe as she had never seen it before. “Did you know of this? Why did you not mention it to me?” Lady Randolph said. She was holding out the book for Lucy’s inspection, and the girl looked at it with instinctive alarm, yet all the calm of innocence. This was what she read:
TO THE ANGEL OF HOPE,LUCY,TO WHOSE NAME IN REVERENCEI PREFIX NO TITLE.THIS FIRST EFFORT OF A MINDWHICH HER GENTLE ENCOURAGEMENTHAS INSPIRED WITH CONFIDENCEIS INSCRIBED.
Lucy’s eyes grew round with amazement, her lips dropped apart with consternation. She looked from the book to Lady Randolph, and then to the book again. After a moment, the color rushed to her face. “Lucy! Oh, you do not suppose he meansme?” she said aghast.
“Whom could he mean else? Did you know anything about it? Lucy, don’t let me think I am deceived in you,” Lady Randolph said, with great vehemence. She was more excited than seemed necessary; but then, no doubt, she had a very serious sense of responsibility, in regard to a ward so precious.
“I am very sorry,” said Lucy; “I suppose I do know; he said he would dedicate the book to me, and I said, oh, no, don’t do that; but then we spoke of something else, and I thought of it no more.”
After awhile Lady Randolph found herself capable of smiling, when she was fully convinced of the girl’s innocence. “What a good thing you are notout, my dear. I can’t be sufficiently thankful you are not out. You see by this, Lucy, what a dangerous thing it is to be kind to anybody. You, with your prospects, can not be sufficiently careful. Have you ever thought that you are different from other girls? that there are reasons why I must take a great deal more care of you— I, who think girls ought always to be taken care of?” Lady Randolph said.
“I know that I have a great deal of money,” said Lucy quietly. “I suppose, Lady Randolph, that is what you mean?”
“My dear, if it were only in novels, you must have read that girls who have great fortunes are run after by all sorts of unworthy people; and innocent girls like you are apt to be deceived when people are civil. Lucy, my love, this is a great deal too broad a compliment,” said Lady Randolph, very solemnly, laying her handupon the book; “you must not be taken in. No man who really cared for you, noniceman, would have held you up to the notice of society in this way.”
“Cared for me?” said Lucy, “but I never supposed he did that. Why should he care for me?”
Lady Randolph looked at her charge with great perplexity of mind. Was this innocence, or was such simplicity credible? Had the girl never heard of fortune-hunters? All girls in society were aware of the dangers which attended an heiress; but Lucy had not been brought up in society. She did not know what to think; finally, however, she determined that it was better, if they did not already exist there, to put no such ideas into the head of heringénue. For Lady Randolph, who had no clew to the graver cares which occupied Lucy’s mind, had not thought of her, as yet, in any character except that ofingénue. She stopped herself in the half-completed sentence which she had begun before this reflection came to her aid. “He must want you to think he cares—it is a beginning of—” Here she stopped, and laughed uneasily. “No, no, I dare say I am wrong. It is my over-anxiety. Let us say it is only an indiscretion. Young men are always doing things which aregaucheand inappropriate. And you have so much good sense, Lucy—” Lady Randolph got up and came behind Lucy’s chair, and gave her a hasty kiss. “I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You will not let your head be turned by fine words, as so many girls do?”
Lucy looked up with surprise: at the haste and almost agitated impulse of her careful guardian. Lady Randolph was dressed for her parties in black velvet and lace, with therivièreof diamonds which Lucy admired. She was a stately personage, imposing to behold, and yet, as she stood, somewhat excited, anxious, and deprecating by the side of the little fair-haired girl in her black frock, Lucy felt a conviction of her own superior importance which was painful and humiliating to her. The uneasy sparkle in the eye, the glance of anxiety in the face of the lady; who, in every natural point of view, was so much above herself, made her unhappy. How much money can do! Was it this, and this only which disturbed the balance between them, and made Lady Randolph’s profession of faith in her sound as apologetic? She rose to follow upstairs with a confused sensation of pain. She had been trained, indeed, to think her fortune the chief thing in the world, but not in this point of view. The drawing-room was dim and cool, the windows all open, the night air blowing in over the boxes of mignonette and geranium inthe balconies. The sounds from without came softened through the soft air, but yet furnished a distant hum of life, an intimation of the great world around, the mass of human cares and troubles and enjoyments which were in full career. Lady Randolph placed Lucy in her own chair by the little table with the reading-lamp, and gave her Bertie’s book, with a smile. “No, I don’t think it will turn your head,” she said; “read it, my love, and you will tell me to-morrow what you think of it. How I wish I could take you with me! and how much more I shall enjoy going out next year when you are able to go with me, Lucy!” She gave her another kiss, with a little nervous enthusiasm, and left the girl seated there in the silence with many wonderings in her mind. Lucy sat and listened with the novel in her hand while the carriage came to the door, and Lady Randolph drove away. Other carriages passed, drew up in the street below, took up and set down other fine people going here and there into the sparkling crowds of society. Many an evening before, Lucy had stolen behind the curtain to watch them with a country-girl’s curiosity, pleased even to see the billowing train visible through a carriage-window, which betrayed the fine evening toilettes within. But this evening she did not move from her chair. There was so little light in the room that the windows mysteriously veiled in filmy drapery added something from the dim skies outside to the twilight within. A shaded lamp stood in the back drawing-room, making one spot of brightness on a table. Her reading-lamp, with its green shade, condensed all the light it gave upon her hand with the book in it, resting upon her knee. But her face was in the dimness, and so were her thoughts. She was not so angry with Bertie as Lady Randolph had been for his dedication. It was intended to be kind—what could it be but kind? Perhaps he had divined the attitude which, in intention at least, she had taken toward his family. Lucy’s thoughts had never turned the way of love-making. She had not as yet encountered any one who had touched her youthful fancy. It was no virtue on her part; she sat like one on the edge of the stream musing before she put her foot into the boat which might lead her—whither? But, in the meantime, the thoughts in her heart were all serious. Was she not pausing too long, lingering unduly upon the margin of her life—not doing the work which had been put into her hands to do?
Lucy had got so deep in these thoughts that she did not hear the noise and jar with which a hansom cab came to the door; or, at least, hearing it, paid no attention; for it is very difficult to discriminate in a street whether a carriage is stopping at number ten or number eleven, and hansom cabs were not commonly heard at Lady Randolph’s at night. Even the movement in the house did not rouse her; she had not the ease of a child in the family, though she was of so much importance in the house. She sat quite still, feeling by turns a refreshing breath steal over her from the windows, watching the flutter of the curtains, and the glimmer of the stars, which she could see through them, through the upper panes of the long windows; and vaguely amused by the suggestion furnished to her mind by the passing carriages, the consciousness of society behind. She was so well entertained by this, and by her own thoughts, which were many, that she had scarcely opened the book. She held it in her hand; she had looked again at the dedication, feeling half flattered, half annoyed, and had read a page or two. Then, more interested, as yet, in her own story, or in this pause, so full of meaning and suggestion, before it began, had closed again upon her fingers the new novel. Could anything in it be so wonderful as her own position, so full of that vague question which, in Lucy’s mind, was more a state than a query? She dallied with the book, feeling herself a more present and a more important heroine than any imaginary Imogen.
Lucy did not even hear the door open. It was opened very quietly far away in the dimness, at the other end of the room, and the new arrival stood looking in for at least a minute before he could make out whether any one was there. There was no light to show his own figure in the dark doorway, and he saw nothing except the lamp in the first room and the smaller one with its green shade, by which Lucy in her black dress was almost invisible. He paused for a minute, for he had been told that there was some one there. Then, with a bold step, he came in and closed the door audibly behind him. “Nobody, by Jove!” he said, an asseveration quite unnecessary; then threw himself into a chair which stood in front of the table on which was the larger lamp. The sensation with which Lucy woke up to the discovery that a stranger,a gentleman!had come into the room, not seeing her, any more than till the moment when he became audible she had seen him, was one of the most extraordinary she had ever experienced. She raised herself bolt upright in her chair, half in alarm; but Lady Randolph’s chairs, it need scarcely be said, did not creak, and Lucy’s dress was soft, with no rustle in it. “Nobody, by Jove!” the individual said; and nothing contradicted him. It seemed to Lucy that she instantly heard her own breathing, the beating of her watch, herfoot upon the footstool, as she seemed to hear in exaggerated roundness and largeness of sound thethudwith which he threw himself into that chair, the movement with which he drew it to the table, the grab he made across the table at a newspaper that lay there.
“Well, here’s the news at all events,” the stranger said. As he stooped over the newspaper, his head came within the circle of the lamp. Lucy scarcely dared to turn hers to look at him. There was the outline of a head, a mass of hair, a large well-defined nose, a couple of large hands grasping the paper. Lucy’s first impulse was half, but only half alarm; but she was not at all nervous, and speedily reminded herself that it was very unlikely any dangerous or unlawful stranger should be able thus to make his way past Robinson, the butler, and George, the page, into Lady Randolph’s drawing-room. There could not be anything to fear in him; but who was he, and how came he there? And what was Lucy to do? She sat as still as a mouse in Lady Randolph’s chair and watched. Was it quite honorable to watch a man who was not aware of your presence? But then how to get away? Lucy did not know what to do. She felt more disposed to laugh than anything else, but dared not. Perhaps after awhile he would go away. She held her breath and sat as still as a mouse. Agentleman!utterly unknown and appearing so suddenly in a feminine house—it was embarrassing; but certainly it was rather amusing too.
The stranger was not a quiet gentleman, whatever else he might be. How he pushed his chair about! how he flung the paper from one side to another, turning it over with resounding hums and hems! How could any one be so noisy? Lucy, who was afraid to stir, watched him, ever more and more amused. At last he tossed the paper back upon the table. “News! not a scrap!” he said to himself, and suddenly throwing a large pair of arms over his head, gave such a yawn as shook the fragile London house. Did Lucy laugh? She feared that the smallest ghost of a giggle did burst from her in spite of herself. It seemed to have caught his ear. He suddenly squared himself up, turned his chair round, and put on an aspect of listening. Lucy held her breath; he turned straight toward her and stared into the dimness. “By Jove!” he said again, to himself. The soft maze of curtains fluttered, the night air blew in. No doubt he thought it was these accidental sounds that had deceived him. But suspicion had evidently been roused in his mind. After a minute he rose, a large figure, making the house creak, and cautiously approached the window. He passed Lucy, who had shrunk back into her chair, and went beyond her to look out. Oneor two carriages were rolling along the street, and Lucy felt this was her opportunity, the way of retreat being now clear. She got up softly, with the utmost precaution, while he stood with his back to her, then turned to flee.
Alas! Lucy’s calculations failed her; her foot caught the footstool, her book fell out of her hand with a noise that sounded like an earthquake, the stranger turned upon her as quick as lighting; and there she stood, blushing, laughing, confused, prettier than Lucy Trevor had ever looked in her life before.
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she cried; and he said, “by Jove!” taking out of his pockets the hands which had been thrust down to their depths.
“It is I who ought to beg your pardon,” he said. “I am afraid I have frightened you. Robinson told me I should find—some one here; but the room seemed empty. I hope you will begin our acquaintance by giving me your forgiveness. I am Tom Randolph, the nephew of the house.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy, regaining her composure and seriousness, “and I am Lucy Trevor, whom Lady Randolph is so kind as to take care of. It is I who ought to apologize, for I saw you— I saw you directly; but I did not know what to do.”
“You must have thought it very alarming, a savage like myself coming in and taking possession. I am much obliged to you for taking it so quietly. My aunt is out, I hear. I wonder when she has you to bear her company, Miss Trevor, that now and then she can’t make up her mind to stay at home.”
“Oh, but society has claims,” said Lucy, repeating the words she had heard so often with matter-of-fact and quite believing simplicity. To her horror and surprise the new-comer replied with a laugh:
“We have all heard that, and let us hope, Miss Trevor, that the votaries of society are rewarded for their devotions. You don’t share theculte?” he said.
“I! I am notout, and besides I am in mourning,” said Lucy, looking at her crape.
“I beg your pardon; won’t you take your seat again, and let me feel my sins forgiven? Did I interrupt your reading? A new novel is much more interesting than an old—or, let us say, a middle-aged savage.”
Sir Thomas Randolph saw Lucy look at him when he said this: already did she want to make sure that the savage was not more than middle-aged? He thought so, and he was satisfied.
“It is not that I care for the novel; I had not begun it yet. It is written,” said Lucy, trying her new subject, “by a—gentleman we know; but, perhaps, as you have just come home, you may want dinner, or something, Mr.— I mean Sir Thomas?”
“You have heard of me, I see.”
“Oh, yes; Lady Randolph so often speaks of you; but I am not much used to people with titles,” Lucy said.
“Do you call mine a title? not much of that. We are commoners, you know; and I hear that whenever there is anything very wicked wanted in a novel, it is always found in a baronet; that is hard upon us, Miss Trevor. I wonder if there is a wicked baronet in the novel you have got there.”
“I have not read it yet; it is written,” said Lucy, hesitating, “by a gentleman we know. Lady Randolph is going to speak to everybody about it, and we hope it will be very successful.”
Lucy could not keep herself from showing a little consciousness. He took it up and she was very much alarmed lest he should see the dedication. She had never thought it would affect her, yet here, already, she had quite entered into Lady Randolph’s feelings. Fortunately he did not see it, though he turned over the volume in his large hands. He was large, all over, as different as it was possible to conceive from Bertie, who was slight and dainty, almost like a girl. Lucy was not sure that she had ever seen a man before so near, or spoken to one of this kind. He was so unlike the other people of her acquaintance that she could not help giving curious looks at him under the shade of the lamp. He did not keep still for a moment, but threw his bigness about so that it filled the room, sometimes getting up and walking up and down, taking up the chairs as if they were toys. He was a creature of a new species. She did not feel toward him as Miranda did to Ferdinand, who was probably an elegant stripling of the Bertie kind, but she was interested in the new being, who was not beautiful; he was so unlike anything she had ever seen before.