THIS visit 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 disposed for 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 difficulty that 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 should give back a 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 it back—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 sitting quiet 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’s rôle to 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 by the 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.