CHAPTER XII.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
“AND so Christopher went away to look for the great strong man that King Maximus was afraid of; but I forgot, his name was not Christopher then, but only Offero, a heathen; you know what a heathen is, Jock?”
“I should think I did know; but go on, go on with the story, I never read this in any book.”
“Well! Then Christopher wandered about everywhere over all the country, asking for the strange man. He did not know whether it was a giant like himself, or a king like Maximus, or what it was; but he went over the seas and up among the hills and into all the towns, looking for him.”
“That is far too like a fairy tale for a Sunday,” said Mrs. Ford sitting behind in her big arm-chair. “My dear, if he had gone to the chief people in the country, the ways of the towns, or the authorities, they would soon have told him—that is, if he knew his name; and even in a fairy tale few people are so stupid as to set out in search of any one without knowing his name.”
Mrs. Ford was a trifle, just a trifle jealous. Lucy was not at all in the habit of interfering with her prerogative; but she did not like it. The “Pilgrim’s Progress” she felt was much better entertainment on a Sunday night for any child.
“Oh, but this was not a person that the mayors and the magistrates knew. Listen, Jock, his name was Satan. Now, do you know who that great strong man was?”
“I thought as much, and it’s all an allegory,” said Jock, who was blasé and tired of parables. “I like a story best when it doesn’t mean anything; but go on, Lucy, all the same.”
“I don’t think it’s an allegory. Katie Russell read it out of a book about the saints. I believe it is a true story, only very, very long ago; many things happened long ago that don’t happen now. I don’t suppose the queen has a big giant like Christopher in all her armies; but still there was once a Christopher, Jock.”
Jock accepted the explanation with a little wave of his hand. He was glad, very glad, especially on Sunday, of anything new, but at the same time he was critical, and at the first suggestion of an allegory stood on his guard.
“Well,” said Lucy, resuming, “when Christopher had wandered about for a long time he met with a band of knights and their servants, traveling about as they used to do in those days, and at their head there was one all in black armor, with a helmet covering his head and his face.”
“You mean, I suppose,” said Jock, somewhat cynically, “with his visor down.”
“I suppose so,” said Lucy, a little confused, “but you know I am not so clever about these things as you are. I’m afraid you don’t care about my story, Jock.”
“Oh, yes, I care about it; but unless there were enemies about, and he was afraid, he never would have had his visor down; and if he were afraid, Christopher would have known he couldn’t be much; but I like your story all the same,” Jock added, with great politeness; and he liked the rôle of critic, which was novel, too.
“He did not want to show his face,” said Lucy, considerably cowed, “because if people had seen him it would have been known what kind of a being he was, and he looked a very great prince with all his followers round him. So when Christopher heard that this was Satan he went to him and offered his service, and he was one of his soldiers for a long time, I can’t tell how long, but he did not like it at all, Jock, they did so many cruel things. At last one day, one very hot day in summer, they were all marching along, and there were two roads to the place where they were going; one road led through a wood, and that was a pleasant shady way, and the other was the high road, which was dusty and scorching, and not a bit of shelter; and you may suppose how astonished Christopher was when the captain refused to go by the pleasant way, though it was the shortest, too.”
“What was that for?” said Jock, excited mildly by an incident which he had not foreseen.
“He would not tell for a long time; first he said it was one thing and then another, but none of these reasons was the true one. At last Christopher so pressed and pressed that he got into a passion, and it all came out. ‘You great big blundering stupid giant,’ he cried, ‘don’t you know there is a cross in the wood?’ But Christopher did not know what the cross meant; and then the black knight was obliged to tell him that he dared not pass the cross, because of One,” here Lucy’s voice sunk into reverential tones, “who had been crucified upon it, and had won the battle, and had made even that dreadful black spirit, that cruel Satan, tremble and fly.”
Jock was impressed, too, and there was a little pause, and in the ruddy twilight round the fire the two young creatures looked solemnly at each other; and a faint sound, something between a sigh and a sob, came from kind Mrs. Ford, over their heads, who was much touched and weeping-ripe at the turn, to her so unexpected, which the story had taken.
“And what did he do then?” asked Jock, not without awe.
“Oh, Jock! he dashed his great big fist in the black captain’s face, and shouted out, ‘I knew you were a coward, you are so cruel. The Man who hung upon the cross, He is my Master. I will go and seek Him till I die.’”
Then there was another little pause— Lucy, too, in the excitement of her story telling, having got a lump in her throat—and Mrs. Ford sobbed once more for pleasure.
“It is a beautiful story,” she said; “I am very glad that the poor giant is going to be converted at the last.”
“Ah, but now comes the difficult part,” said Jock, “how was he to find him? It was only a wooden image that was upon that cross; he might seek and seek, like the knights in the ‘Morte d’Arthur.’ but how was he to find Him? that is what I want to know.”
“Lucy, my dear, I think your papa wants you,” said Ford, coming in at this point, a little more uneasy than usual, by dint of Mr. Rushton’s warning. “He is sitting all alone, and he has just had his gas lighted.” He came out to the door of the parlor to wait for her, as she rose and disengaged herself from her little brother, who caught her dress to detain her. Ford, at the door, put his hand on Lucy’s arm. “Do you think he has been looking worse? don’t let me frighten you, Lucy, but can you see any appearance as if he were sinking?”
“Do you mean papa? No,” cried Lucy, with a start of alarm. “Is he ill? I will go to him directly. What is the matter?”
He had talked to her so much of his death that the girl’s heart leaped into the excited throbbing which accompanies every great rallying of the forces of nature. All her strength might be required now, at once, without preparation. Her throat grew dry, and the blood rushed to her face.
“Oh, I don’t think there is anything more than ordinary,” said Ford; “but Mr. Rushton thought him looking bad. He gave me a fright; and then, of course, my dear, at his time of life—”
Lucy drew her arm away, and went softly upstairs. Many daughters before now have had to smooth the way before a dying father, and there was nothing required of her in this way that was above her strength; but it was not with her in other things as with others. She was aware how great the change was which would open upon her the moment this aged life had reached its term and all the strange unknown conditions which would surround her. It was not possible for Lucy to thrust away the thought, and comfort herself with indefinite hopes. For years her thoughts had been directed to the catastrophe which was to be so momentous for her; she had never been allowed to ignore it. Her heart still beat loudly at the thought of that which might be coming now—which certainly must come before long. Her father was the center of all her present living—beyond him lay the unknown; but when she went upstairs he was sitting quite cheerfully, as he had been sitting any time these ten years—almost since ever Lucy could remember—in his arm-chair, neither paler nor sadder, nor with any tragical symptoms in him, looking over, with the same air of satisfaction, the same large manuscripts in which, with his own small neat handwriting, he had written down his whole mind. He looked up as she came in, and gave her his usual little nod of welcome; and Lucy’s heart immediately settled down in to its usual calm. She took her usual seat beside him. All was as it had been for years in the familiar room; it was not, however, the familiar room which took any character from its inmates—or rather perhaps it embodied too entirely the character of its old master, who required nothing except his chimney-corner, and had no eye or taste for those niceties which reign in a lady’s sitting-room, even when not a Queen Anne parlor of the newest old-fashion, like that of Mrs. Stone. Lucy had never been used to anything else, yet it repressed all emotion in her when she came into this unemotional place. Die! why should any one ever die? Would not to-day be as yesterday forever, and every hour the same?
“I have had Rushton here,” said the old man; “how fat that man is getting at his age! I don’t suppose he’s fifty yet. I am glad I am not one of the fat kind, Lucy; it must be such a trouble. And to think I remember him a slim boy, not much higher than you are. Hasn’t he got a son?”
“Yes, papa; Raymond. I used to play with him when I was little. He is quite grown up now. Mrs. Rushton was telling me about him—”
“Take my advice, Lucy,” said her father, interrupting her, “and don’t, however it may be pressed upon you, marry a man out of Farafield. Plenty will try for you—very likely Raymond himself. I thought there was something in Rushton’s eye—it was that made me think of it. Don’t marry a man from here. There’s nothing but paltry sort of people here.”
“Yes, papa,” said Lucy, calmly. She had given a great many other promises on this question of her marriage, with the same composure. There was no excitement in her own mind about the question. She did not care what pledges she gave. Her father, who was not without humor, perceived this, and fixed his eyes upon her with his usual chuckle.
“Yes, papa,” he said, mimicking her small voice. “Anything for a quiet life; you would promise me not to marry the mayor, or to marry the bishop, if I asked you, just in the same tone.”
“No, papa; I will promise not to marry anybody you choose to mention, but the other thing would be more difficult. In the first place, I don’t know the bishop,” she added, with a smile.
“That is all very well,” said the old man; “but don’t you know, Lucy, that in a year or two your mind may change on that subject? You might fall in love, not with the bishop, but why not with Raymond Rushton, or any other boy about the place? And this is what I want to say to you, my dear. Don’t! That is to say, keep them at a distance, Lucy. Don’t let them come near enough to get hold of you. Take my word for it, though they may be nice enough in their way, Farafield people are small. They are petty people. They don’t know the world; and you, with your fortune, my dear, you belong to the world, not to a little place like this.”
“But you have lived all your life in Farafield.”
“Oh, yes; that is quite true. And I am just the same kind—petty, that is the word, Lucy—small. That is why I am living like this, making no change till it all comes into your hands. Living in a grand house, spending a deal of money, would go against me— I should not like it. I should grudge every penny— I should say to myself, ‘You old fool, John Trevor! what do you mean by spending all this upon yourself?’ I couldn’t do it. Carriages, and horses, and a number of servants would be the death of me.”
“I don’t think I shall like them any better, papa; and if it is waste for you it would also be waste for me.”
“Not at all, not at all,” he said; “you have been brought up to it; and it will be your duty, for property has duties, Lucy. It is just as necessary that you should spend a great deal on your living, and keep up a great show, as it is that you should give a great deal to the poor.”
“But why then, papa, if you think that am I to live here with the Fords, who do not understand anything of the kind, half of the year?”
“Aha, Lucy!” he said, “that is just my principle, you know; that is what you don’t understand as yet. You are to live with Lady Randolph and the Fords six months each for—unless you can get them all to consent to let you marry somebody before that time—as long as you are a girl, my dear; this is the very crown of my plan, Lucy, without which the other would not be good for much,” he said, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and pausing to tantalize her. As it was Sunday Lucy had not her knitting, so that she had nothing to do but to look at him, with perfect placid composure as usual, showing no scrap of excitement.
“Do you mean it is to be only for a time, papa?”
“For—seven years,” he said, “seven years from the time of my death. It is to be hoped that my death will not be very long of coming, or you will be too old to enjoy your freedom. But there is not much fear of that; even if you were thirty before it came, thirty is the finest time of life. You know a great deal by that time, you are not so easily taken in, and you are still fresh and in all your glory. Never mind if fools begin to call you an old maid; a woman is not an old maid at thirty, she is at her best. She can pick and choose, especially when she has a fortune like yours. And by that time you will have got out of the young set—the ball-room set; you will have learned to know people of importance. Yes,” he said, chuckling, “that is the crown of my plan for you, Lucy—for seven years you will be under a little restraint; Mrs. Ford on one hand, Lady Randolph on the other, two people. I flatter myself, just as unlike as can be; and all the men that have a chance will be after you; but none of them will be able to marry you without the consent, you know,” he went on, chuckling once more, “of all these people; which I confess, Lucy, I take to be next to impossible. And then, my dear—then, in seven years complete freedom—freedom to do whatever you like—to marry whom you like—to be your own guardian—your own adviser. It is worth waiting for, Lucy—well worth waiting for. What a prospect!” cried the old man, in an ecstasy, “a well-trained mind used to control, an inexhaustible fortune, nothing to do but to pick and choose among the best people, and still under thirty years of age! By that time you will have learned to be content with nothing less than the best.”
Nothing could be more curious than the pleased excitement of the old man, looking forward to this climax of mortal felicity which he had carefully arranged for his child, and the perfect calm of the child herself, who neither realized nor appreciated that blessedness. She said, after awhile, with a soft little sigh, which was half weariness and half a sense of the dreariness of the prospect,
“I should think it would be very nice—for a man, papa.”
“For a man! nonsense, Lucy; that is just an old fashioned notion. A woman who is thirty, and has a great fortune, and is free to please herself, is as good as any man.”
This was not exactly Lucy’s point of view, but she had no gift for argument. She thought it was time to take refuge in a little harmless gossip, which was the only thing that now and then gave her the possibility of an escape from the will.
“Mrs. Stone has a visitor,” she said, “a gentleman come to see her. Mademoiselle thinks it very wrong to have a gentleman where there are so many girls. He is Mrs. Stone’s nephew; his name is Mr. Frank St. Clair. It is quite a pretty name, isn’t it, papa? and he is good-looking, though Katie says it is the barber’s-stock style. How I know is, that Katie and I went to Mrs. Stone’s parlor to tea. She never asks more than two girls on Sunday, and it shows she is pleased with you when she asks you. We all like to be asked to the parlor to tea.”
“Ah!” said old Trevor. He laughed, and looked at Lucy with a great many nods of his gray head. “Mrs. Stone is generally pleased with you, eh, Lucy? She is a sensible woman; she knows what’s what, as well as any one, I know. And so she has had her nephew down already. She is a clever woman, a prompt woman. I have a great opinion of Mrs. Stone.”
“Do you know him, then?” said Lucy, with a little surprise. “She said she could not pretend to entertain him at the White House, which is given up to education, and that it would be nice for him to be able to come and talk to you.”
At this Mr. Trevor chuckled more and more; he rubbed his hands with glee.
“She is quite capable of it,” he cried, delighted, “quite capable of it. She is a clever woman, Lucy. I have always had a great admiration for Mrs. Stone.”
“Capable of what?” said Lucy, almost angry. She, for her part, had a great admiration for Mrs. Stone. She had a girl’s belief in and loyalty to, the elder woman, who yet was not too old to be out of sympathy with girls. She admired her mature beauty, her dress, everything about her, and to hear Mrs. Stone laughed at was painful to Lucy. It affected that esprit de corps which is next to self-regard, or sometimes even goes before it. She fell, her own moral standing involved when any one questioned, or seemed to question, the superiority of her leader. It was almost the only occasion on which any latent gleam of temper came to Lucy’s mild eyes.
Mr. Trevor laughed again.
“You don’t understand it, my dear,” he said, “it’s a joke between Mrs. Stone and me. She is capable of making me a party to my own defeat,” he said, with a new series of chuckles, “of bringing me into the conspiracy against myself. That’s what I call clever, Lucy; oh, she’s a very able woman! but let us hope this time she won’t be so successful as she deserves. Forewarned is forearmed; I know now what I’ve got to look forward to, and I hope she won’t find me an easy prey, my dear, thanks to you.”
“I can not in the least, tell what you mean, papa,” said Lucy, with dignity, “and if it is anything against Mrs. Stone, I don’t want to know; and I hope she will be successful, whatever she wishes to do—though I don’t know what it is,” the girl added, with vehemence quite unusual to her. It brought the color to her usually pale cheek. She got up from her chair with angry haste. “I am going to get ready for dinner,” she said, “and if I have said anything to set you against Mrs. Stone, I did not mean it, and I am very sorry. It must be my fault, for I am quite sure there is nothing wrong in anything she wants to do.”
It was as if Lucy flounced out of the room, so different was it from her usual calm, though even now her demeanor was quiet enough. But her father was not much affected by the girl’s vehemence. He sat looking after her, and chuckled, watching her gray gown whisk—nay, almost whisk—the word was too violent to be employed to any movement of Lucy’s—round the corner of the big screen, and thought to himself how wise he had been, and how clever in choosing an instructress for Lucy of whom she thought so well. Mrs. Stone’s design, which he thought he had found out, amused, and, indeed, pleased him, too. He liked to see that this fortune, of which he thought so much, produced a corresponding effect upon others, and, indeed, would have been disappointed if there had been nobody “after” it during his life-time. This was the first, and he chuckled over the advent of the suitor, whom he determined to play and amuse himself with. That Mrs. Stone should have begun to scheme already did not displease, rather flattered him, especially as it gave him a fresh evidence of his penetration in finding her out, and confidence in his own power of baffling her. Another man might have been taken in, but not he. There he sat complacent, while Lucy changed her gray gown for a blue one.
All these habits and customs of a life more refined than his own, the old man had done his best to train his daughter into. For a time he had even gone so far as to put himself into an evening coat for Lucy’s sake, but increasing weakness had persuaded him to give up that penitential ceremony. Still he exacted, rigorously and religiously, that she should dress for dinner, and would indeed have made her come down with bare shoulders every evening to the homely meal, but for the interference of Mrs. Stone, who had declared it “old-fashioned,” with great energy, to the complete annihilation of poor old Trevor, who had thought himself certain of this important special feature of high life.