Thedays that followed were full of this big person. Lucy found his company so pleasant that she lingered, to her own great consternation, talking to him, till Lady Randolph returned; no, not talking very much to him, but yet telling him various things aboutherself, which she was greatly surprised to recollect afterward, and hearing him talk, which he did with a frankness and freedom equally unusual to her. When she heard Lady Randolph’s brougham draw up at the door, Lucy fairly jumped from her chair in alarm and wonder. What would Lady Randolph say? would she be angry? A sentiment of honor alone kept her from running away; and her look of innocent panic greatly amused Sir Tom.
“Are you afraid?” he said, with that great but harmonious laugh which softly shook the house. “Is she so hard upon you? Never mind, she is fond of me, though you would not think it, and there will be a general amnesty to-night.”
“Oh, I am not afraid,” Lucy said, with a smile. But she said to herself, what will Lady Randolph think? the dedication first, and now to sit up and chatter to a gentleman! But Lady Randolph’s voice had never been so soft, nor her countenance so genial. She was so glad to see “Tom” that she saw everything in the most favorable light. At least this was the interpretation Lucy put upon her cloudless graciousness.
“Don’t hurry away,” she said, “or Tom will think you are glad to escape now your post of entertainer is over;” and she kissed Lucy with a warm, natural tenderness which went to the girl’s heart. She went upstairs, indeed, altogether in a state of unusual and pleasant commotion. She had never met anybody in her life like Sir Tom. He told her of a hundred places he had been at, of his long journeys, and acquaintance with all sorts of things and people; bringing in the wide atmosphere of a big world into the four walls, which was all the sphere Lucy knew. How pleasant it was! It had stirred her altogether, with curiosity and interest, and amusement and admiration, yet with the amiable derision of a tidy, orderly girl for the man’s faculty of disarranging everything, which made the balance a little more even. He had seen every kind of wonder, but he could not sit down in a chair without ruffling up all its cover, and hooking on its ornaments to his buttons. This made her laugh, and disposed her to take care of Sir Tom, and pilot him to safe chairs, on which there were no antimacassars. She had felt perfectly at her ease with him, almost more than with Mr. Rushton, for instance, whom she had known at home; and the little agitation of his arrival, and the novelty of him generally, drove all her other ideas out of Lucy’s head. After she had gone to bed even, she could not but smile in the darkness to hear his big step coming upstairs, and his cheerful good-night to his aunt, which sounded up and down the narrow London staircase, so that everybody in the house shared it. “Good-night, Sir Tom,” Lucy said within herself and laughed. The house felt more safe, better taken care of, with this new-comer in it. It was enlivening to think that he would be there in the morning, with his cheery voice. “Provided he does not upset the house,” Lucy said to herself. She had not been aware that she had so much love of fun in her. As for Lady Randolph, she was glad to see Sir Tom. He was all she had to represent her family, and she was as fond of him as a mother. Perhaps the relationship of aunt made her accept his roving and lawlessness with more composure than a mother would have done, and they were the best friends in the world. When Lucy left the drawing-room, Lady Randolph gave her nephew a keen and anxious look; but it was not till some time after that the new inmate was talked of. Then it was Sir Tom himself who opened the subject:
“That’s a jolly little girl you’ve got.”
“Oh, Tom!” his aunt cried, throwing all her breath into that exclamation; “I am so glad to hear you say so.”
He laughed. “Do you suppose I am thinking of ulterior steps?” he said; “but I like her. Sheisa jolly little girl.”
And Lady Randolph, too, went to bed very happy, thinking Sir Tom’s big “good-night,” as it went booming up the staircase, as pleasant as any music. Her heart swelled as with the most generous of sentiments; she thought if she could but see the old Hall revived by new money, the rich new life-blood of gold untold, such as would soon be in Lucy’s possession, poured into the family veins, she thought she would die happy. And what could Lucy’s dearest friend desire better for her? Mrs. Russell, poor lady, thought the same thing of her son.
And next day, and for some days after, the house was like a new place. He went and came, out to his clubs, to the world outside, and back again, bringing news, public and private, bringing the breath of the general existence, in a manner entirely novel to Lucy. She had heard a great many stories of contemporary life in Lady Randolph’s drawing-room before, scraps of politics, which she paid no attention to, and tales of this one and the other, whom she did not know or care for; but whether it was something in the personality of Sir Tom, or that he told these stories better, or that the larger life which he brought into the house harmonized them and gave them a human attraction, it would be hard to say; but it is certain that they assumed a totally different character to Lucy. Somehow they did not seem gossip from his lips. Lady Betsindasuggested scandal in every line of her eager old face; but who could call that gossip which fell from the bearded lips of the good-natured adventurer, the man who had friends everywhere, among American Indians and African savages, as well as in the clubs? It is impossible to tell what a difference he made in the house, his very step on the stair brought variety, change, a difference, a relief from monotony, to which no one could remain insensible. The river of life had flowed slowly, partially frost-bound by chills to come in Lady Randolph’s veins, and not loosed from the spring icicles in Lucy’s; but when this torrent of full existence, warm and mature, came in, the stream was at once in flood, neither partial age nor developing youth being beyond its influence. Lucy was so much amused, so occupied with the change in the house, that the Russells and their concerns faded from her recollection. “Imogen” was put away on a side-table; and she had never required to make use of that subject for conversation: Have you seen the new novel? There was a much more easy one at hand: “Do you know Sir Thomas?” was now the question with which she took the initiative; and Lucy found a power of language she had never dreamed of possessing, in describing his travels and the things he had brought home. Sir Thomas had shot a lion—actually a lion—and had brought back its magnificent skin as a trophy. She got a little pink tinge on her cheeks, which was very becoming, as she described it. This gave her quite a littlesuccèsamong Lady Randolph’s visitors, who had hitherto found her very elementary; and already there were jokes about Pygmalion and Galatea, and about the sunshine, which made buds open and birds sing. Lady Randolph, looking on watchfully, would have preferred that the spell had not worked quite so quickly. But as for Lucy she was delighted by her own awakening, and pleased to find herself enjoying everything, even the talk. The house was so much more cheerful now Sir Tom was in it. She put off her usual visit to Jock for a whole week. To be sure there were various reasons for that, for Lucy did not know how to meet Bertie Russell after the dedication, and felt that to speak of it, even to his mother, was difficult. What could she say? It was very “kind,” but then it was, as Lady Randolph said, “too broad.” Lucy did not like to think of it. She did not know how to meet the young man who had called her an Angel of Hope, and addressed her, even in print, as Lucy; and yet when they met she would be obliged to say something to him. Her embarrassment on this point had been greatly increased by the fact that Sir Tom had found the dedication out, and had “made fun” of it. He was mischievous, though Lucydid not like to think he was unkind. Sometimes he would refer to the Angel of Hope in a way which covered her with confusion, alarming her with a possibility of betrayal; but it was only to tease her, and she did not, on the whole, dislike Sir Tom’s teasing. On one of these occasions, however, she was so much frightened that she remonstrated. “Please,” she said, “do not tell any one it is me. Perhaps, after all, it is not me; Lucy is not an uncommon name. And oh, Sir Thomas,ifyou please, do not talk of it when any one is here.”
“I am afraid it must be you,” Sir Thomas said, “there could not be two with the same characteristics; but you may trust me, Miss Lucy, I will not tell, no, not for anything that might be offered me. Wild horses—”
“You are laughing at me,” she said.
“Would you have me cry? But I should like to punch the young fellow’s head. He had no right to do it. It was like a cad to do it; even in gratitude, he ought not to have exposed you to anything that might be disagreeable; besides, Miss Lucy, it is taking a base advantage of other fellows who can not write books.”
Lucy was not quite sure what he meant by this, but she replied very gravely,
“I am afraid it is the only thing he can do. Do not laugh, please, it is very serious. I am very anxious to know how it turns out.”
“Then you take a great deal of interest in him?”
“I take a great deal of interest inthat. They all depend upon it; and also for other things. Do you think he will make much money by it, Sir Thomas?”
“I have not an idea; the only thing I know about literature is that I was offered something if I would write my travels. I have been in a good many out-of-the-way places, you know, and then I am pretty well known; but, unfortunately, I could not, so that money got lost, more’s the pity.”
“It was a great pity,” said Lucy, with feeling. “How strange it seems, you who can not write are offered money for it, and he who can write is kept so uncertain! It seems always to be like that. There is myself, with a great deal too much money, and so many people with none at all.”
Sir Thomas laughed; the frankness of the heiress amused him beyond measure.
“Have you a great deal too much money?” he said.
“Yes, did you not know? But it will not be so much,” Lucy said, with an involuntary burst of confidence, “after awhile.”
This puzzled him quite as much as anything he could say puzzled her. He did not know what to make of it, for there was no jest, but perfect and candid gravity in Lucy’s tone. He thought it best, however, to take it as a mere girlish levity and threat of extravagance to come.
“Do you mean to make it go then?” he said. “Don’t! Take my advice; I have a good right to give it, for I have paid for my experience. Don’t throw your money away as I have done.”
“Have you thrown it away? I am very sorry. I—wonder—” Lucy looked at him doubtfully, almost wistfully. Was she going to offer him some of hers? he asked himself. He was at once amused and touched, and full of expectation as to what she would say next; but Lucy changed her tone. “I will not throw it away,” she said, quietly. “Papa directed me, before he died, what to do with it. It is a great responsibility;” and here she paused and looked at him once more. Was she going to confide some secret to him? Sir Thomas was very much puzzled, indeed, more than he remembered ever to have been puzzled by any girl. He was a man over thirty, a man of large experience, but this young creature was a novelty to him.
“I should like to see how you will spend your fortune,” he said. “I shall watch what you do with it. Mine went before I took time to consider the responsibility. Marriage is not the only thing that one does in haste and repents at leisure. I am very sorry now, I can tell you, that I was such a fool when I was young.”
“I—wonder—” Lucy said again, softly, to herself. She could not help longing to tell somebody her secret, somebody that would feel a little sympathy for her—why not this big, kind, genial stranger, who was quite unlike all the rest of her people? who would surely understand, she thought. But Sir Thomas did not in the least understand. He thought she would have liked to give him some of her money, and, indeed, for his own part, he would not have had the slightest objection to accept the whole of it, as his aunt had planned and hoped; but a portion would be impossible. He laughed, looking at her, in his turn, with kindness in his amusement.
“Are you meditating some benevolence?” he said. “But, Miss Lucy, benevolence is a very doubtful virtue. You must reflect well, and take the advice of your business people. You must not be too ready to give away. You see, though I have not known you long,I am disposed to take upon me the tone of a mentor already, an uncle experienced and elderly, or something of that sort.”
“Indeed, that is just what I should like,” Lucy said, simply.
This was a dreadful dash of cold water in his face. It is one thing to call yourself experienced and elderly, and quite another to be taken at your word. He laughed again, but this time at himself, and accepted the position with a curious sense of its inappropriateness which was all the more vivid because she did not seem to see it to be inappropriate at all.
“Well,” he said, “that’s a bargain. When you want to do anything angelically silly, and throw away your money, you are to come and consult me.”
“Do you really mean it?” said Lucy, with most serious eyes.
“I really mean it, and there is my hand upon it,” he said. She put her hand into his with gentle confidence, and he held it for a moment, looking at the slender fingers. Lucy, as has been said, had, though she had no right to it, a pretty hand. “What a little bit of a thing,” he said, “to have so much to give away.”
“Yes,” Lucy said, with a long breath that was scarcely a sigh, and without the vestige of a blush of embarrassment, “it is a great responsibility.” She was as sincere and serious as if she had been an old woman, Sir Thomas felt, and he laughed and let the little hand drop. His fatherly flirtation, a mode which he had known to be very efficacious, had no more effect than if he had been a hundred. This failure tickled his sense of humor, far more than success would have pleased him otherwise.
“That girl is a little original,” he said, when he talked her over with Lady Randolph; but, meantime, it was very certain that they were the best of friends.
They were seated at breakfast on Saturday morning, rather more than a week after his arrival. Lucy had been making up her mind that she could make no further excuse to herself, but must go to Hampstead that day, and was trying, as she drank her coffee, to compose little speeches fit for the occasion. Sir Thomas was half hidden behind the newspaper, and Lady Randolph cast a glance now and then, as she finished her breakfast, at the pages of a weekly review, supposed to be the mostspirituelof its kind, the first in fashion and in force.
“Oh!” she cried, suddenly. “Lucy, here is something interesting; here is a notice of ‘Imogen.’ You must take it out to the Russells; for once Cecilia has been as good as her word.” Lucy was in the midst of a carefully turned sentence by which she meantto assure Mrs. Russell that she felt Bertie’s “kindness.” She looked up with lively interest—then, “Good heavens!” Lady Randolph cried.
“What is the matter, aunt?” said Sir Tom; he put out his big hand and took it from before her, with the license of his privileged position. “We others are most anxious to hear, and you keep it to yourself. Shall I read it aloud, Miss Lucy?”
“No! no!” Lady Randolph cried, putting out her hand. She was pale with fright and trouble, but Sir Tom did not pay any attention; he did not notice her looks, and what was there in Bertie Russell to make anything that could be said about his book alarming to these ladies? He took it up lightly.
“I must see this Russell,” he said, “that you are so much interested in. What right has the fellow to make you anxious?” he was looking at Lucy, who was, indeed, curious and interested, but no more. “Now, if you are not good,” he said, looking at her, “I shall keep you in suspense.”
But Lucy did not accept the challenge. She smiled in reply, with her usual tranquillity.
“It is Mrs. Russell who will be in suspense,” she said; and with a little friendly nod at her he began to read. It was the kind of review for which this organ of the highest literature was famous. This was what Sir Thomas read:
“‘We have so often had occasion to point out to the female manufacturer of novels the disadvantages which attend her habitual unacquaintance with the simplest rules of her art, that it is a sort of relief to find upon the title-page of the most recent example of this class of productions a name which is not feminine. The occurrence is rare. In this branch of industry, at least, men have shown a chivalrous readiness to leave the laurels growing low, and therefore within the reach of the weaker vessel, to the gathering of woman. She has here had the chance, so often demanded, of proving her powers, and she has not been reluctant to avail herself of it. Almost as appropriately feminine as Berlin wool, or the more fashionable crewels, the novel of domestic life has acquired a stamp of virtuous tedium, or unvirtuous excitement, which are equally feminine, and we sigh in vain for a larger rendering even of the levities of existence, a treatment more broad, a touch more virile.’
“There’s for you, Miss Lucy,” said Sir Tom, pausing; “how do you like that, my excellent aunt? He puts your sex in their right place. There’s a man now who feels his natural superiority, who contemplates you allde haut en bas—”
“Oh, don’t read any more, Tom; it is not worth your while to read anymore.”
“Ah, you are hit!” he said, “Hurrah! the iron has entered into your soul.”
“‘Half a dozen pages of “Imogen” will, however’ (he continued, reading), ‘be enough to make any reader pause who is moved by this natural sentiment. What! he will ask himself, was there no little war in hand demanding recruits? no expedition to discover the undiscoverable? even no stones to break on the road-side, which could have given Mr. Albert Russell a bit of manly work to do—that he must take up with this industry reserved for the incompetent?’”
Here Lucy uttered a long drawn “Oh!” of alarm. It had not occurred to her ignorance that there could be any malice in it.
“‘We must give him credit, however, for a courage and liberality beyond that of his feminine contemporaries in the freedom with which he has mixed up what is apparently a personal romance of his own with this production of his genius. Whether the young lady who is poetically addressed as the Angel of Hope will relish the homage so publicly paid to her is a different matter. We can but hope that, since the art he has adopted is little likely, we fear, to reward his exertions, the other patronesses to whom he devotes himself may be more kind, and that the owner of the pretty Christian name which is presented without the conventionality of a Miss or Mistress—’
“Hallo!” said Sir Tom. He had been reading on, without any particular attention to what he read, until the recollection of what it meant suddenly flashed upon him. He grew very red, put down the paper, and looked at his companions. “By Jove!” he cried.
“I told you not to read it,” cried Lady Randolph. “Never mind, Lucy, my love, nobody will know it is you. Oh, I could kill the presumptuous, impertinent— And that woman is worse!” she cried, with vehemence. “She who knew all about it; I will never forgive her. She shall never enter this house.”
“Woman?” said Sir Thomas, “what woman? By Jove!” here he got up and buttoned his coat, “whoever the fellow is he shall have my opinion of him before he is much older.”
“Sit down, Tom, sit down. If it was a fellow whom you could knock down there would be no great harm done; no fellow ever wrotethat,” cried Lady Randolph, with that fine contempt of masculine efforts which is peculiar to women. “Oh, I know the hand! I know every stroke! But never mind, never mind, my dear child,nobody will connect you with it; unless the ‘Age’ gets hold of it, and gives us all a paragraph: there is nothing more likely,” she cried with tears of anger and annoyance. As for Sir Thomas, he paced about the room in great perturbation, saying, “By Jove!” under his breath.
“A woman! then there is nothing to be done,” he said. “Oh, no; you can’t knock her down, more’s the pity! or call her out. But, Tom, if you will think, it is just as well, it is far better; we can’t have any talk got up about that innocent child.”
“Lady Randolph, is it me you are thinking of? What harm can it do me?” said Lucy, who had grown pale, but was puzzled and frightened, and did not quite understand why all this excitement should be.
“What harm, indeed!” cried Lady Randolph, “so long as you don’t mind it, my darling! She is the only one that has sense among us, Tom.”
“That is all very well,” Sir Tom said. “She is too young to understand; it is meant for an insult. There’s the harm of women getting their fingers into every pie. You can’t kick them. By Jove! isn’t there any other way that one can serve her out?”
“Sir Thomas,” said Lucy, “you laughed at me about it yourself.”
“So I did; I am ready to laugh at you, my dear little girl, any moment; but I should like to see another man do it,” he cried.
Lady Randolph looked at him in dismay. What could he mean?—to speak with such kindly familiarity, as if she were his cousin, at the least. (Though Lady Randolph professed to be a connection, yet this link was not even known to Sir Tom.) Would not the heiress be alarmed? would not she suspect and divine? She turned her eyes furtively toward Lucy, more troubled than before.
But Lucy took it all very calmly. She showed no consciousness of too much or too little in her new friend’s address. She smiled at him with grateful confidence, without even a blush. What was there to blush for? Then her face clouded over a little.
“Will it hurt the book? Will he get no money for it?” she said.
Lucyrode to Hampstead that morning, Sir Thomas, to her great surprise, volunteering to go with her. He had some one in those regions whom he too wished to see, he said. Lucy was not surewhether she was most pleased or disconcerted by this companionship; but the ride was all the more agreeable. He was, as usual, very kind; friendly, and brotherly—or rather, as she thought, taking his own statement frankly, like an uncle, an elder, experienced, but altogether delightful friend, to whom she could say a great many things, which it would have been impossible to say to one near her own age and condition.
Oddly enough Lucy was mysterious to Sir Thomas, the only person with whom she felt inclined to be confidential. She hovered about the edge of her secret, asking herself whether she should confide in him, half betraying herself, then drawing back, more from shyness than want of faith in him. She had known him so short a time, perhaps he would think it bold and presuming of her to thrust her confidences upon him. This hesitation on her part gave her an attraction which was not at all natural to her. The touch of the little mystery added what was wanting to the simplicity, and good sense, and straightforward reasonableness of Lucy’s character. What was it that lay thus below the surface? Sir Thomas asked himself. What did she want to confide to him? there was certainly something; was it some entanglement or other, some girlish engagement perhaps with this fellow, who had been base enough to expose her to the remarks of the world? It seemed to Sir Tom that this was the most natural secret, the most probable embarrassment that Lucy could have; and with great vehemence of disdain and wrath, he thought of the “cad” who had probably inveigled the girl into some sort of promise, and then proceeded to brag of it before all the world. Thus Sir Thomas Randolph, out of his much experience, entirely misconstrued these two young persons who had no experience at all. Bertie Russell was not a young man of very elevated character, but he was not a “cad;” neither, very far from it, was Lucy a fool; but then Sir Tom—though he was full of honest instincts and good feeling, and would not himself (though he thought it no harm to lay siege to an heiress, when the chance fell in his way) have done anything which could be stigmatized as the act of a cad—still judged as the world judges, which is, after all, a superficial way of estimating human action; and he was as entirely wrong, and blundered as completely in the maze of his own inventions, as the greatest simpleton could have done; which is one of the penalties of worldly wisdom, though one which the wise are most slow to learn. Notwithstanding, he made her ride very pleasant to Lucy. He talked upon all sorts of subjects, not allowing her mind to dwell upon the annoyance of the morning. And thoughthis annoyance was not at all of the kind he imagined, it was still good for her not to be left to invent little speeches to be made to Mrs. Russell, or to imagine dialogues that might never take place. Lucy’s mind had been in a good deal of excitement when they set out. She had resolved to make the plunge, to announce her intentions to Mrs. Russell and though there was nothing but good in these intentions, still it requires almost as much courage to inform a person who has no natural claim upon you that you mean to provide for her as it does to interfere in any other way in the concerns of a stranger; or at least, this was how Lucy felt. Her heart beat; had she been a poor governess going to look for a situation she could not have been more nervous about the result of the interview. But the summer morning was exhilarating, and Sir Thomas talked to her all the way. He told her of a great many other rides taken in very different circumstances; he took her for little excursions, so to speak, into his own life; he made her laugh, he led her out of herself. When she reached Mrs. Russell’s door she had almost forgotten how momentous was the act she was about to do. “I will come back for you,” Sir Tom cried waving his hand. He did not come up the steep bit of a street. How kind he was—not oppressing her with too much even of his own company! Lucy had not known how she was to get rid of him when she reached the house.
The house looked more neglected than ever when Lucy went in. She could not but notice that as soon as she appeared, the blind of the dining-room, which faced the street, was hurriedly drawn down. She could, it was true, command it as she sat there on her horse; but she was wounded by the suggestion that she might intend to spy upon them, to look at something which she was not wanted to see. In the hall, outside the door of this closed room, a breakfast-tray was standing, though it was noon. The grimy little maid was more grimy than ever. She showed Lucy into the faded drawing-room where the blinds were drawn down for the sun, which, however, streamed in at all the crevices, showing the dust and the faded colors. There were flowers on the table in a trumpery glass vase, all limp and dying. A shabby, miserable room, of which no care was taken, and which looked like the abode of people who had lost heart, and even ceased to care for appearances. Lucy’s heart sunk as she looked round. She who was so tidy, with so much bourgeois orderliness in her nature, felt all this much more than perhaps an observer with higher faculties would have done. It looked as if it had not been “touched” this morning, and it was with a pang of pity that Lucy regarded the evident disorganization of a house inwhich the chief room, the woman’s place, “had not been touched” at noon of a summer day. It almost brought the tears to her eyes. And she had a long time to wait to note all the dust, the bits of trimming torn off the curtains, the unmended holes in the carpet. She even looked about furtively for a needle and thread; but there were no implements of work to be seen, nothing but the fading flowers all soiled with decay, a fine shabby book on the undusted table, the common showy ornaments all astray on the mantel-piece. About a quarter of an hour passed thus before Mrs. Russell came in, with eyes redder than ever. Mrs. Russell could not be untidy though her room was. She had the decorum of her class, whatever happened; but her black gown was rusty, and the long streamers of her widow’s cap had been worn longer than was compatible with freshness. She held herself very stiffly as she came in and gave Lucy the tips of her fingers. The poorer she was the more stately she became. There was in her attitude, in her expression, a reproach against the world. That she should be thus poor, thus unfortunate, was somebody’s fault.
“Your little brother is out, Miss Trevor, with the others. He thought you had quite given him up, and were coming no more.”
“Oh, Jock could not think that.”
“Perhaps not Jock; but I certainly did, who have, I hope, some experience of the world,” said the poor lady in her bitterness. “It is quite natural; though I should have thought Lady Randolph had sufficient knowledge of what is considered proper, to respect your recent mourning; but all these old formalities are made light of nowadays. When one sees girls dancing in crape! I wonder if they don’t feel as if they were dancing over their relations’ graves.”
“Dear Mrs. Russell,” said Lucy, “I have not been dancing. I did not come because—because— It was Lady Randolph that was vexed. I am much obliged,verymuch obliged to Mr. Bertie for being so kind; but Lady Randolph thought—”
“Yes, I never doubted it,” cried Bertie’s mother, with an outburst, “I never doubted it! I told him it was imprudent at the time, and would expose him to unjust suspicions; as ifhewas one to scheme for anybody’s money! much more likely her own nephew, her dear Sir Thomas, whom she is always talking of! But Bertie would do it, he said where he owed gratitude he never should be afraid to pay it. And to think that the very person he wished to honor should turn against him; and now he is ruined altogether—ruined in all his prospects!” the poor mother cried amid a tempest of sobs.
“Ruined!” cried Lucy, aghast.
“He is lying there, in the next room, my poor boy. I thought he would have died this morning—oh, it is cruel, cruel! He is quite crushed by it. I tell him it is all a wicked plot, and that surely, surely, there will be some honest man who will do him justice! But, though I say it, I don’t put any faith in it, for where is there an honest critic?” cried Mrs. Russell; “from all I hear there is not such a thing to be found. They praise the people they know—people who court them and fawn on them; but it isn’t in the Russell blood to do that. And the worst of all,” she said, with a fresh flood of tears, “the worst of all—the thing that has just been the last blow—is that you have not stood by him, Lucy, you that kept on encouraging him, and have brought it all upon him.”
“Ibrought it all upon him!” Lucy’s consternation was almost beyond words.
“Yes, Miss Trevor,” said the poor lady, hysterically. “He would never have done it had not you encouraged him—never! And now this is what is brought against him. Oh, they can not say a word against his talent,” she said; “not a word! They can not say the book is not beautiful; what they say is all aboutthat, which was put into pleaseyou—and you have not the heart to stand up for him!” the mother cried. She was so much excited, and poured forth such tears and sobs, that Lucy found herself without a word to say. The trouble, no doubt, was real enough, but it was mixed with so much excitement and feverish exaggeration that the girl’s sympathetic heart was chilled; and yet she had so much to say. “But he must not put up with it,” cried Mrs. Russell; “he shall not put up with it if I can help it. He must write and tell them. And there is not one word of real criticism—not one word! Bertie himself says so; nothing but joking and jeering about the dedication. But I know whose hand that is—it is Lady Randolph who has done it. I knew she would interfere as soon as she thought—‘Bertie,’ I said, ‘don’t—don’t, for heaven’s sake! You will bring a hornet’s nest about your ears.’ But he always said ‘Mother, I must.’ And now to think that the girl herself, that has brought him into all this trouble, should not have the heart to stand up for him! Oh, it just shows what I’ve always said, the wickedness and hollowness of the world!”
Then there was a pause, through which was heard only the sound of Mrs. Russell’s sobbing. Lucy sat undecided, not knowing what to do. She was indignant, but more surprised than indignant at the accusation; and she was entirely unaccustomed to blame, anddid not know how to defend herself. She sat with her heart beating and listened, now and then trying to remonstrate, to make an appeal, but in vain. At last, the moment came when her accuser had poured forth all she had to say. But this silence was almost as painful as the unexpected violence that preceded it. To be accused wrongfully, if terrible, has still some counterbalancing effect in the arousedamour-propreof the innocent victim; but to watch the voice of the accuser quenched by emotion, to hear the sobs dying off, then bursting out again, the red eyes wiped, then filling—all in a silence which her own lips were too much parched with agitation to permit her to break, was almost more hard upon Lucy. She had become very pale, and she did not know what to say. More entirely guiltless than she felt herself, no one could have been. She was so innocent that she had no defense to make; and the attack took from her all the thoughts of which her mind had been full. All the more the silence weighed upon her. It was terrible to sit there with her eyes on the floor, and say nothing. At last she managed to falter forth, “May I see Jock, Mrs. Russell, before I go?”
“I suppose you will want to remove him,” Mrs. Russell said. “Oh, I quite understand that! I expected nothing less. The brother of a rich heiress is out of place with a poor ruined family. Everything is forsaking us. Let him go, too—let him go, too!”
“Indeed,” said Lucy, recovering her composure a little. “I was not thinking of that. I meant only—”
“Never mind what you meant, Miss Trevor; it is better he should go. Things have gone too far now,” said the disturbed woman. “All the rest are going—we shall have to go ourselves. Oh, I thought it would not matter so long as my Bertie— God forgive them! God forgive them!” she said, with trembling lips. “I thought it would all come right, and everything succeed, when my boy— But we are ruined, ruined! I don’t know where we are to turn or what we are to do.”
“Mrs. Russell, will you let me say something to you?” Lucy said. This cry of distress had restored her to herself. “I meant to have said it before; it is not because of what has happened. It was all settled in my mind before; I was only waiting till I could arrange with my guardian. Mrs. Russell, papa left some money to be given away—”
Here she made a little pause for breath. Her companion made no remark, but sat, lying back in her chair, with her handkerchief to her eyes.
“It was a good deal of money,” said Lucy. “He told me I was not to throw it away, but to give enough to be of real use. I thought—that you would like to have some of it, Mrs. Russell; that—it might do you a little good.”
Mrs. Russell let her handkerchief drop, and stared at Lucy with her poor red eyes.
“If you would let me give you part of it— I can not tell how much would be enough; but if you would tell me, and we could consider everything. It is lying there for the use of—people who are in want of it. I hope you will take some of it. I should be verythankfulto you,” said Lucy, with a little nervous emphasis. “It is there only to be given away.”
Lucy had felt that it would be a difficult communication to make, but she had no fear of any refusal. She did not venture to look up, but kept her eyes fixed on the carpet, though she was very conscious, notwithstanding, of every movement her companion made. The girl was shy of the favor she was conferring, and frightened in anticipation of the thanks she, would probably receive; if only it could be settled and paid without any thanks! When her own voice stopped she became still more frightened. The silence was unbearable, and Lucy gave an alarmed glance toward the sofa. Mrs. Russell was gasping for breath, inflating her lungs, apparently, in vain, and struggling for utterance. This struggle ended in a hoarse and moaning cry.
“Oh, what have I done, what have I done, that it should come to this?”
“Mrs Russell! you are ill. Are you ill?” Lucy cried, alarmed.
“Oh, what have I done, what have I done, that it should come to this?” she moaned. “Am I a beggar that it should come to this? to offer me money in my own house? money, as if I were a beggar in the street? Oh, don’t say anything more, Miss Trevor, don’t say anything more.” Here she got up, clasping her hands wildly, and walked about the room like a creature distracted, as, indeed, between pride and shame, and wretchedness and folly, the poor woman almost was. “Oh, why didn’t I die! why didn’t I die whenhedied?” she cried. “It is more than I can bear. I, that was a Stonehouse, and married a Russell, to be treated like a beggar on the street. Oh, my God!” cried the excited creature, “have I not enough to bear without being insulted? I can starve, or I can die, but to be insulted—it is more than I can bear.”
Lucy was confounded. She stumbled to her feet, also, in overwhelming distress. She had meant no harm, heaven knows! Shehad not meant to wound the most delicate feeling. It was a view of the matter which had never occurred to her.
“I must have said something wrong—without meaning it,” she faltered. “I don’t know how to speak, but I did not mean to make you angry; oh, forgive me! please forgive me! I mean nothing but—”
“This is what it is to be poor,” Mrs Russell said. “Oh, I ought to thank you for it, that among other things, I never would have known all the bitterness of being poor but for this; and yet I never held out my hand to ask anything,” she cried, beginning to weep. “I never thrust my poverty on anybody. I did all I could to keep up—a good appearance; and to hope—” here the sobs burst forth again beyond restraint—“for better days.”
“What is the matter?” said Bertie pushing open the door. He was carelessly dressed in an old coat, his hair in disorder, his feet in slippers, he who had always decorated himself so carefully for Lucy’s eyes. He did not take the trouble to open the door with his hand, but pushed it rudely with his person, and gave Lucy a sullen nod and good-morning. “What are you making such a row about, mother?” he said.
“Oh, Bertie, Miss Trevor has come—to offer me charity!” she cried, “charity! She sees we are poor, and, because she is rich, she thinks she can treat me, me! like a beggar in the street, and offer me money, Oh, Bertie! Bertie! my boy!” the poor woman threw her arm round him, and began to sob on his shoulder, “what has your poor mother done that she should be humbled like this?”
“Charity!” he said; then looked at Lucy with an insolent laugh that brought the color to the girl’s face; “it is, perhaps, conscience money,” he cried. Then putting his mother away from him “Go and lie down, mamma, you have had excitement enough this morning. We are not beggars, whatever Miss Trevor may think.” Bertie’s eyes were red, too; he was still at the age when tears, though the man is ashamed of them, are not far from the eyes when trouble comes. “Naturally,” he said, “we all stand upon what we have got, and money is what you have got, Miss Trevor. Oh, it is a very good thing, it saves you from many annoyances. We have not very much of it, but we can do without charity.” His lip quivered, his heart was sore, and his pride cut to pieces. “Money is not everything, though, perhaps,youmay be excused for thinking so,” he said. He wanted to retaliate on some one; the smarting of his eyelids, the quiver which he could not keep from his lips, the wounds of his pride still bleeding and fresh, all filled him witha kind of blind fury and desire to make some one else suffer. He would have liked to tear his Angel of Hope to pieces in the misery of his disappointment. Was it not her fault?
As for Lucy, she stood like a culprit before the mother and the son, looking at them with a pathetic protest in her eyes, like that with which an innocent dumb creature appeals against fate. She was as much surprised by all this storm of denunciation as a lamb is by the blow that ends its life. When they were silent, and it was time for her to speak, she opened her lips and drew a long troubled breath, but she could say nothing for herself. What was there to say? She was too much astonished even for indignation.
“I—will go, if you please, and wait for Jock in the street,” was all she found herself able to say.
And just then the voices of the children, to her great relief, were audible outside. Lucy hurried away, feeling for the moment more miserable than she had ever been in her life before. There were but three little boys now, and Mary, who had come in with them, was standing a little in advance, listening, with an anxious face, to the sound of the voices in the drawing-room. Mary was hostile, too; she looked at Lucy with defiant eyes.
“Oh, is it really you, at last, Miss Trevor?” she said.
Poor Lucy felt her heart swell with the sting of so much unkindness. She cried when Jock rushed forward and threw himself upon her.
“You are the same at least,” she said, with a sob, as she kissed him. “May he come out with me? for I can not stay here any longer.”
The other girl, who did not know the meaning of all this, was shaken out of her sullenness by the threatening of another calamity. Mary had nothing to do with the quarrel. She grew, if possible, a little more pale.
“Do you mean that he is to go—for good?” she said, looking wistfully at the diminished band, only three, and there had been ten! It was all she could do to keep from crying, too. “I have always tried to do the best I could for him,” she said.
Lucyrode home without waiting for Sir Thomas, with a heavy heart. She said very little when she got back. To Lady Randolph’s questions she had scarcely anything to reply. In Lady Randolph’s eyes the chief person to be considered was Lucy, whose name had been so cruelly brought before the public. When it did occur to her that the poor young author might be cast down by the cruel comments upon his first production, it is to be feared that the verdict “served him right,” was the one that occurred first to her mind. Only in the course of the afternoon, when Lucy’s increased gravity had made a distinct impression upon her, did she express any feeling on this point. “Of course I am sorry for his mother,” she said; “a silly woman, no energy, no resource in her; but it will wound her of course. How are they getting on with their school? That little girl, Mary, that was the only one that seemed to me to be good for anything. Are they getting on any better with their school?”
Lucy shook her head. She could not muster courage to speak, the tears were in her eyes.
“Ah!” said Lady Randolph. Lucy’s emotion had a very disturbing effect upon her: but it moved her not to compassion for Mrs. Russell, but to suspicion against Bertie. “I never thought it would come to much,” she said. “It seems so easy to start anything like that. They had their furniture, and what more did they want? Indian children! one would think it rained Indian children; every poor lady with no money thinks she can manage to make a living out of them—without calculating that everybody in India, or almost everybody, has poor relations of their own.”
But she was kind, notwithstanding her severity. There are few people who are not more or less kind to absolute suffering. Though she thought Mrs. Russell silly, and considered that her son had been served rightly (if cruelly), and was impatient of the foolish hopes on which their little establishment had been founded, still she could not be satisfied to leave the poor lady whom she had known in her better days to want. “I will speak to Tom,” she said. “If Bertie could but get some situation, far better than writing nonsensical books, something in the Customs, or perhaps the post-office. I believe there are a great many young men of good families in places like that—where he could get a settled income, and be able to help his mother.”
Lucy made no reply to this suggestion. She brightened a little in the evening, when Sir Tom came in bringing all his news with him; but she was not herself. When she was safe in her room at night, she cried plentifully, like a child as she was, over her failure. Perhaps her heart had never been so sore. Sorrow, such as she had felt for her father, is a different thing—there had been no cross orcomplication in that; but in this all her life seemed to be compromised. This dearest legacy that had been left her, the power of making others happy, was it to be a failure in her hands? She had never contemplated such a probability. In all the books she had read (and these are a girl’s only medium of knowledge) there had been no such incident. There had been indeed records of profuse gratitude; followed by unkindness and indifference; but these had never alarmed Lucy. Gratitude had been the only thing she feared, and that the recipients of the bounty should forget it was her chief hope. But this unexpected rebuff threw Lucy down to the earth from those heights of happy and simple beneficence. Was it her fault? she asked herself; had she offered it unkindly, shown any ungenerous feeling? She examined every word she had said—at least as far as she could recollect them, but she had been so much agitated, so overwhelmed by the excitement and passion of the others, that she could not recollect much that she had said. All night long in her dreams she was pleading with people who would not take her gifts, and blaming herself for not knowing how to offer them. And when she woke in the morning, Was it my fault? was the first question that occurred to her. It seemed to assail the very foundations of her life. Was not this her first duty, and if she could not discharge it, what was to become of her? What would be the value of all the rest?
She was sitting in the sitting-room in the morning, somewhat disconsolate, pondering these questions. A bright, still morning of midsummer, all the windows open, and shaded by the pretty striped blinds outside, which kept out the obtrusive sunshine, yet showed it brilliant over all the world below; the windows were full of flowers, those city plants always at the fullest perfection, which know no vicissitudes of growth or decay, but fill the luxurious rooms with one continuous bloom, by grace, not of nature, but the gardener. It was the hour when Lucy was supposed to “read.” She had not herself any great eagerness for education; but no woman who respects herself can live in the same house with a young girl nowadays without taking care to provide that she shall “read.” Lucy had need enough, it must be allowed, to improve her mind; but that mind, so far as the purely intellectual qualities were concerned, did not count for very much in her being. To be more or less well-informed does not affect very much, one way or other, the character, though we fear to utter any dogmatism on such a subject. She was reading history, poor child; she had a number of books open before her, a large atlas, and was toilingconscientiously through a number of battles. Into the very midst of these battles, her thoughts of the earlier morning, which were so much more interesting to her, would intrude, and indeed she had paused after the Battle of Lepanto, and was asking herself, not who was Don John of Austria, or what other great personages had figured there, which was what she ought to have done, but whether it could possibly be her fault, and in what other form she could have put it to succeed better, when suddenly, without any warning, a knock came to her door. She sat very bolt upright at once, and thought of Don John before she said “Come in.” Perhaps it was the lady who was so kind as to read with her—perhaps it was Lady Randolph. She said, “Come in,” and with no displeasure at all, but much consolation, closed her book. She was not sorry to part company with Don John.
To her great surprise, when the door opened it was neither Lady Randolph nor the lady who directed her reading, but Mrs. Russell, with the heavy crape veil hanging over her bonnet, her eyes still very red, and her countenance very pale. Lucy rose hastily from her chair, repeating her “Come in,” with the profoundest astonishment, but eagerness. Could it be Jock who was ill? could it be— Mrs. Russell smiled a somewhat ghastly smile, and looked with an anxious face at the surprised girl. She took the chair Lucy gave her, threw back her veil, and the little mantle from her shoulders, which was crape, too, and looked suffocating. Then she prepared for the interview by taking out her handkerchief. Tears were inevitable, however it might turn out.
“You will be surprised to see me,” Mrs. Russell said.
Lucy assented, breathless. “Is there, anything the matter with Jock?” she said.
“It is natural you should think of your own first,” said the visitor, with, a little forced smile. “Oh, very natural. We always think of our own first. No, Miss Trevor, there is nothing the matter with Jock. What should be the matter with him? He is very well cared for. My poor Mary gives herself up to the care of him. She lies awake with him and his stories. Mary is a— She is the best daughter that ever was—” the mother said, with fervor. Now, Mary was generally in the background among the Russells, and Lucy was perplexed more and more.
“It is by Mary’s advice I have come,” Mrs. Russell said, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. “It has been very difficult for me, very difficult to make up my mind to come, Miss Trevor. Mary says she is sure you meant—kindly—yesterday. I don’t know howto refer to yesterday. Everything that passed is written here,” she said, putting her hand upon her breast, “as if it were in fire—as if it were in fire! Oh, Miss Trevor! you don’t know what it is when a woman has kept up a good position all her life, and always been able to hold her head high—you don’t know what it is when she has to give in, and allow herself to be spoken to as one of the poor!”
Here she began to cry, and Lucy cried, too.
“I did not mean it,” she said, fervently; “indeed, indeed, I did not mean it. If I said anything wrong, forgive me. It was because I did not know how to speak.”
“Well, dear,” said Mrs. Russell, drying her eyes, “perhaps it was so. You are very young, and you have not had much experience; and, as Bertie says, you have so much money, that it is no wonder if you think a great deal of it. But you shouldn’t, Miss Trevor, you shouldn’t. Money is of great use; but it is not everything.”
Here the poor lady paused and glanced round the room, in every point so dainty, all the details so perfect, everything fresh, well chosen, adapted to the corner it filled; and the flowers so abundant, and so sweet. “Oh,” she said, “it wants no arguing. Money tells for so much in this life. Look at my Mary. She is younger than you are, she is clever and good, yet look at her, and look at you. I think it will break my heart!” Lucy made no reply. After all it was not her fault that she had a great deal of money, that she was a great heiress. There was no reason why that fact should break Mrs. Russell’s heart. “If I had not had it,” she faltered, apologetically, “some one else would have had it. It would not have made any difference if it had been another girl or me.”
“Oh, yes, it would have made a great difference. When you don’t know the person, it never feels quite so hard. But I don’t blame you— I don’t blame you. I suppose every one would be rich if they could; or, at least, most people,” said Mrs. Russell, with a tone which seemed to imply that she herself would be the exception, and superior to the charms of wealth.
At this Lucy was silent, perhaps not feeling that she had ever wished to be poor; and yet who, she thought within herself, knew the burden of wealth as she did? it had brought her more trouble than pleasure as yet. She felt troubled and cast down, even though her girlish submission began to be modified by the faintest shy gleam of consciousness that there was something ludicrous in the situation, in her visitor’s disapproval, and her own humble half acknowledgment of the guilt of being rich.
“Miss Trevor,” Mrs. Russell said, with trembling lips, “though I wish you had not found it out, or that, if you did, you had not taken any notice of it, which is what one expects from one’s friends, I can not deny that you are right. We have lost almost everything,” she said, steadying her voice in dreary sincerity. “We have been fighting on from hand to mouth—sometimes not knowing where next week’s bills were to come from. Oh, more than that—not able to pay the week’s bills; getting into debt, and nothing, nothing coming in. I kept up, always hoping that Bertie— Bertie with his talents— Oh, you don’t know—nobody knows how clever he is! As soon as he got an opening— But now it seems all ended,” she added, her voice failing. “These people—oh, God, forgive them—they don’t know, perhaps, how wicked it is—these envious cruel people have half killed my boy; and I have not a penny, nothing, Miss Trevor, nothing; and the rent due, and the pupils all dropping away.”
Lucy rose and came to where the poor woman sat struggling with her emotion. It was not a case for words. She went and stood by her, crying softly, while Mrs. Russell leaned her crape-laden head upon the girl’s breast and sobbed. All her defenses were broken down. She grasped Lucy’s arm and clung to it as if it had been an anchor of salvation. “And I came,” she gasped, “to say, if you would really be so kind—oh, how can I ask it!—as tolendus the money you spoke of—only tolendit, Miss Trevor, till something better turns up—till Bertie gets something to do. He is willing to do anything now; or till Mary finds a situation. It can’t be but that we shall be able to pay you, somehow— And there is the furniture for security. Oh, I don’t know how to ask it. I never borrowed money before, nor wished for anything that was not my own. But, oh, Lucy, if you really, really have it to do what you like with— The best people are obliged to borrow sometimes,” Mrs. Russell added, looking up wistfully, with an attempt at a smile, “and there is nothing to be ashamed of in being poor.”
But this was an emergency for which Lucy’s straightforward nature was not prepared. She had the power to give she knew; but to lend she did not think she had any power. What was she to do? She had not imagination enough to conceive the possibility that borrowing does not always mean repaying. She hesitated and faltered. “Dear Mrs. Russell, it is there for you—if you would only take, take it altogether!” Lucy said, in supplicating tones.
“No,” said her visitor, firmly, “no, Lucy, do nor ask me. You will only make me go away very miserable—more miserable than Iwas when I came. If you willlendit to me I shall be very glad. I don’t hesitate to say it will be a great, great service—it will almost be saving our lives. I would offer to pay you interest, but I don’t think you would like that. I told Bertie so, and he said if I were to give you an I— O—U— I don’t understand it, Lucy, and you do not understand it, my dear; but he says that is the way.”
“There was nothing about lending, I think, in the will,” said Lucy, very doubtfully; “but,” she added, after a moment, with a sudden gleam of cheerfulness, “I will tell you how we can do it. I am to be quite free to do what I please in seven years—”
“In seven years!” poor Mrs. Russell’s face seemed to draw out and lengthen, as she said these words, until it was almost as long as the period, though it did not seem easy to see by what means the fact could affect her present purpose. Lucy nodded very cheerfully. She had quite regained her courage and satisfaction with her fate.
“I willgiveit you for seven years,” she said, going back to her seat, “and then you can give it me back again; there will be no need for I— O—what? or anything of the sort. We will be sure to pay each other, if we remember—”
“I shall be sure to remember, Miss Trevor,” said Mrs. Russell, almost sternly; “a matter of business like this is not a thing not to be forgot.”
“Then that is all settled,” cried Lucy, quite gayly. “Oh, I am so glad! I have been so unhappy since I was at Hampstead. I thought it must be my fault.”
“Not altogether your fault,” said Mrs. Russell. “Oh, you must not blame yourself too much, my dear, there was something on both sides; you were a little brusque, and perhaps thinking too much of your money. I should says that was the weak point in your character; and we were proud—we are too proud—that is our besetting sin,” she said, with an air of satisfaction.
Mrs. Russell dried the last lingering tears from the corners of her eyes, everything had become tranquil and sweet in the atmosphere once so laden with tragic elements; but still there was an anxious contraction in her forehead, and she looked wistfully at the girl who had so much in her hands.
“I know,” said Lucy, “you would like it directly, and I will try to get it at once. I will send it to you, if I can, to-night; but perhaps not to-night, it might be too late; to-morrow I think I could be quite sure. And then we must fix how much,” said Lucy, with something of that intoxication of liberality which children often display—children, but, alas! few people who have much to give. “How many thousand pounds would do?”
Mrs. Russell was stupefied, her eyes opened mechanically to their fullest width, her lips parted with consternation.
“Thousand pounds!” she echoed, aghast. The poor soul had thought of fifty, and a hundred had seemed to her something too magnificent to be dreamed of.
“One thousand is only fifty pounds a year,” said Lucy, “sometimes not that, I believe; it is not very much. What I had thought of was five or six thousand, to make two hundred and fifty pounds a year. Mrs. Ford used to say that two people could live upon that. It is not much, I know, but it would be better, would it not?” the girl said, persuasively, “to have a little every year, and always know you were going to have it, than to have a sum of money only once?”
Mrs. Russell looked at the simple young face, all glowing with renewed happiness, till she could look no longer, it seemed to dazzle her. She covered her face with her hands.
“Oh, Lucy, I do not know what to say to you. I have not deserved it, I have not deserved it,” she said.
At luncheon Lucy was a changed girl. She had never looked so happy, so bright; the clouds had blown entirely away from her face and her firmament. She had written a letter to her guardian as soon as Mrs. Russell, her head light and giddy with sudden relief from all her trouble, had gone back to Hampstead in the omnibus, to which she had to bend her pride, protesting mutely by every gesture that it was not a thing she had been used to. No more had been said about the paying back. The idea of an income had stunned this astonished woman, had almost had upon her the effect of an opiate, soothing away all her cares and troubles, wrapping her in a soft stupor of ease and happiness. Could it be true? She had given up, without any further murmur or protest, the conditions she brought with her, and which she had meant to insist upon. Lucy’s final proposal had taken away her breath; she had not said anything against it, she had made no remonstrance, no resistance. Her mind was confused with happiness and ease, and the yielding which these sensations bring with them. So poor a care-worn woman, distracted with trouble and anxiety, she had been when, with her veil over her face to hide the tears that would come against her will, she had been driven down the same long slope of road, sick with hope, and doubt, and terror, feeling every stoppage of the slow, lumbering machine a new agony, yet half glad of everything which delayed the interview she dreaded, the self-humiliation which she could not escape from. How different were her feelings now! She could not believe in the wonderful good fortune which had befallen her; it removed all capability of resistance, it seemed to trickle through all her veins down to her very feet, upward to nourish her confused brain, a subtle calm, an all-dissolving dew of happiness. Provided for! was it possible? was it possible? She did not believe it—the word is too weak, she was incapable of taking in the significance of it mentally at all; but it penetrated her and soothed her, and took all pain from her, giving her an all-pervading consciousness of rest.
As for Lucy, she listened to Sir Tom’s gossip with that eloquent interest and ready amusement which is the greatest flattery in the world. All his jokes were successful with her, her face responded to him almost before he spoke. Lady Randolph could scarcely believe her eyes; the success of her scheme was too rapid. There was terror in her self-gratulation. Would Tom care for such an easy conquest? and if the guardians could not be got to consent to a marriage, was it possible that this could go on for seven years? She would have preferred a more gradual progress. Meanwhile, Lucy took an opportunity to speak apart to this kind new friend of hers, while Lady Randolph was preparing for her usual drive.
“May I ask you something?” she said, after she had actually—no other word would describe the process—wheedledhim up to the drawing-room after luncheon. It was not often Sir Thomas came to luncheon, and Lucy thought it providential.
“Ask me—anything in the world!” he said, with the kind smile which seemed, to Lucy to warm and open up all the corners of her heart. It got into the atmosphere like sunshine, and she felt herself open out in it like a flower.
She stood before him very gravely, with her hands folded together, her eyes raised to his, the utmost seriousness in her face, not at all unlike a girl at school, very innocent and modest, but much in earnest, asking for some momentary concession. He had almost put his hand paternally upon the little head, of whose looks he was beginning to grow fond, though, perhaps, in too elder-brotherly a way. It was while Sir Tom’s experienced heart was in this soft and yielding state that the little girl, raising her soft eyes, asked very distinctly,
“Then would you lend me a hundred pounds, if you please?”
Sir Thomas started as if he had been shot.
“A hundred pounds!” he cried, with consternation in every tone.
Lucy laughed with the happiest case. There was no one with whom she was so much at home.
“It is only till to-morrow. I have written to Mr. Chervil to come, but he can not come till to-morrow,” she said.
“And you want a hundred pounds to-day?”
“If you please,” said Lucy, calmly; “if you will lend it to me. It would be a pleasure to have it to-day.”
Sir Tom’s face grew crimson with embarrassment; had he a hundred pounds to lend? he thought it very unlikely; and his wonder was still more profound. This little thing, not much more than a child; what on earth could she want, all at once, with a hundred pounds? He did not know what to say.
“My dear Miss Lucy,” he said (for though this title was incorrect, and against the rules of society, and servant-maidish, he had adopted it as less stiff and distant than Miss Trevor). “My dear Miss Lucy; of course I will do whatever you ask me. But let me ask you, from the uncle point of view, you know, is it right that you should want a hundred pounds all in a moment? Yes, you told me you had a great deal of money; but you have also a very small number of years. I don’t ask what you are going to do with it. We have exchanged opinions already, haven’t we? about the pleasure of throwing money away. But do you think it is right, and that your guardian will approve?”
“It is quite right,” said Lucy, gravely; “and my guardian can not help but approve, for it is in papa’s will, Sir Thomas. Thank you very much. I am not throwing it away. I amgiving it back.”
“What does the little witch mean?” he asked himself, with consternation and bewilderment but what could be done? He went out straightway, and after awhile he managed to get her the hundred pounds. A baronet with a good estate and some reputation, even though he may have no money to speak of, can always manage that. And Lucy accepted it from him quite serenely, as if it had been a shade of Berlin wool, showing on her side no embarrassment, nor any sense that it was inappropriate that he should be her creditor. She gave him only a smile and a thank you, and apparently thought nothing more of it. Sir Thomas was fairly struck dumb with the adventure: but to Lucy, so far as he could make out, it was the most every-day occurrence. She sent her maid to Hampstead that evening—dressing for dinner by herself, a thing which Lucy, not trained to attendance, was always secretly relieved to do—with a basket of strawberries for Jock, and a letter for Mrs. Russell, and the girl’s face beamed when she came down-stairs.They took her to the opera that evening, where Lucy sat very tranquilly, veiled by the curtains of the box, and listened conscientiously, though she showed no signs of enthusiasm. She had a private little song of her own going on all the while in her heart.