CHAPTER XXII.
HOW THE RUSSELLS GOT ON.
LUCY was permitted to take Jock to Hampstead by herself in Lady Randolph’s brougham next day. They had spent the morning buying things for him, a school-boy dressing-case, a little desk, various books, and an umbrella—possessions which, up to this time, had been considered too valuable for the child, of whom nobody took any special care. He went to his new home with such an abundance of property as elated even Jock, though he was not given to trivialities. He had a watch too, which was more than property, which was a kind of companion, a demi-living thing to console him when he should be dull; and the child bore up with great heroism in face of the inevitable parting. Indeed, Jock regarded the whole matter in an extremely practical common sense way. Lucy herself was disposed to be tearful during the long drive. She held him close to her side, with her arm round him. “You will be good, Jock,” she said; “you will not be silly, and read books, but do your lessons and your sums, and everything. Promise me that you will do your lessons, Jock.”
Jock eyed his sister with that indulgent contempt, which her want of discrimination often produced in him. “Of course I will do my lessons,” he said; “it is you who are silly. What else should I go away for? People must do lessons, it appears, before they grow up. If I didn’t mean to do them,” Jock said, with a full sense of his own power of deciding his fate, “I should stay at home— I shouldn’t go.”
This silenced Lucy for the moment; but she was not so confident as he was. “When you get dull, dear, and when there is nobody to talk to, and when you begin to feel lonely”—the tears got into Lucy’s eyes again as she added line after line to this picture— “then I am afraid, I am afraid you will begin to read, you will forget about everything else.”
Jock drew himself away from her arm with a little offense; he looked at her severely. “I am not just a baby—or a girl,” he said indignantly. Then he added, softening, “And I don’t mean to be dull. I will tell Mary a great deal. It will do her good. You don’t mind so much about things when you have a great many other things in your head.”
Once more this oracular utterance silenced his sister for the moment; and then with natural inconsistency she resented his philosophy. “I did not think you were so changeable. You are quite pleased to have Mary: you don’t care for leaving me. It is I that will be lonely, but you don’t mind a bit!” cried Lucy. Jock sighed with the impatience which his elders so often show when a woman is unreasonable. “Don’t you want me to learn lessons then?” he said.
But as this protest was uttered the carriage drew up before Mrs. Russell’s house, where all was expectation, though there was no peeping at windows or signs of excitement, as on the first visit. The drawing-room, which was like poor Mrs. Russell herself, limp and crumpled with the wear and tear of life rather than old, had been rubbed and dusted into such a measure of brightness as was possible. There was a pot of crocuses at the window, and tea upon the table; and the whole family were assembled to do honor to the visitor. There was nothing slipshod about Bertie now; his hair was carefully brushed, all the details of his appearance anxiously cared for. “For who can tell what may happen?” his mother said; “we never know what an hour may bring forth;” and inspired by this pious sentiment she had counseled Bertie, nothing loath, to buy himself a new necktie. His whole life might be altered by the becomingness of its tint and the success of its arrangement. Do not girls perpetually take these little precautions? and why not young men too? And they all stood up to receive Lucy, and regarded her with a kind of admiring adoration. “Give Miss Trevor this chair—it is the most comfortable.” “Mother, a little more cream for Miss Trevor, and some cake.” They could not do too much for her. “Katie is so happy that we have seen you; she writes to me this morning, that all will go well with us now we know her dear, dear Lucy.” “We have all known you by name so long,” Bertie added; “it has been familiar in our mouths as household words.” Lucy was abashed by all this homage; but how could she help being a little pleased too? Mary was the only one who did not chime in. “I suppose Katie thinks you lucky,” she said; “I don’t believe in luck myself.” And then Lucy made a little timid diversion, by asking about Mr. Bertie’s book. Was it finished yet? and would it soon be published? It is pleasant to be courted and applauded; but somewhat embarrassing when it goes too far.
“He has not got a publisher yet; is it not strange,” cried Mrs. Russell indignantly, “that, whatever genius you may have, or however beautifully you may write, it is all nothing, nothing at all without a publisher? He may be just an ignorant man, just a tradesman—not in the least able to understand; indeed, I hear that they are dreadful people, and cheat you on every side (and authors are a great deal too generous and too heedless, Miss Trevor, they allow themselves to be cheated); but however beautiful your book may be (and Bertie’s book is lovely), not one step can he move, not one thing can he do, till one of these common dreadful men—oh!” cried the indignant mother, “it is a disgrace to our age—it is a shame to the country—”
“They are necessary evils,” said Bertie with magnanimity; “we can’t do without them. You must not think it quite so bad, Miss Trevor, as my mother says. And after all one is independent of them as soon as one has got a hearing; ce n’est que le premier pas—”
“If Lady Randolph chose, she might easily get him an introduction,” said Mrs. Russell; “but it is out of sight out of mind, Miss Trevor. When you do not want anything, there are numbers of people ready to help you; but when you do— Lady Randolph might do it in a moment. It would not cost her anything; but she forgets; when you are out of the way everybody forgets.”
“We must not say that, mother. It was she who brought us our celestial visitor.”
“That is true, that is true,” Mrs. Russell cried.
Lucy did not know what to think or how to reply; she had never been called a celestial visitor before, and it was impossible not to be pleased by all this kindness and admiration. But then it was embarrassing, and she saw Mary in the background laugh. She felt half disposed to laugh too, and then to cry; but that was because she was parting with Jock, who, little monster, did not shed a tear. Lucy dried her own eyes almost indignantly; but even on her side the effect of the parting was broken by the assiduous attentions with which she was surrounded. She was so confused by having to take Bertie’s arm, and thus being conducted to the door, and put into the carriage, that she could not give Jock that last hug which she had intended. Mrs. Russell stood on the steps, and kissed her hand. “You will come soon again, come as often as you can. You will do us all good, as well as the little brother,” Mrs. Russell said. And Bertie put his head into the carriage to tell her that he would come himself and bring her news of Jock. They both spoke and looked as if Lucy were indeed a celestial visitor, a being of transcendent excellence and glory. She could not but be conscious of a bewildering sense of pleasure; but she was ashamed of so much devotion. She was not the least worthy of it. Could they be laughing at her? But why should any one be so cruel as to do that?
For the moment, however, all Lucy’s personal excitement in the consciousness of being able to change the circumstances of the poor lady, who had at first sight appealed so strongly to her sympathies, was subdued, and turned into the humiliation and shame of an officious person who has been offering unnecessary aid. She shrunk back into herself with a hot blush. Had she, perhaps, wanted to appear as a great benefactor in the eyes of the Russells? was it pride rather than pity? Lucy, though she had so little experience, was wise enough to know that undesired help is an insult, a thing that everybody resents. She was deeply disappointed and ashamed, not knowing how to excuse herself for her rash impulse of liberality, liberality which these high-spirited and hopeful people would most likely never have forgiven her for thinking of. She locked away her father’s memoranda again in the secret drawer.
“Oh, papa! papa!” she said to herself, “how could you think it would be so easy?”
He had thought money was everything, but it was not what he thought. Lucy was glad that she had not written to Mr. Chervil about it as she had intended, for most likely he would have laughed at her, or perhaps been angry. Evidently the only thing for her to do was to “read,” as Lady Randolph advised her, and try to learn German, and keep as quiet as possible. It was dull, very dull, without Jock, but Lucy was of a patient disposition, and reconciled herself gradually to her life.
On the whole, however, this life was a life full of pleasantness to which the most exacting young person might easily have reconciled herself. Lady Randolph was very kind—indeed, as time went on, she got to like Lucy very sincerely, appreciating the good qualities of a girl who brought so much into the establishment and took so little out, who gave no trouble at all, as the servants said, rather despising her for it. But Lady Randolph did not despise her. She knew the value of a companion who was always contented, and aspired after no forbidden pleasures of society, and did not so much as understand the A B C of flirting. Such a girl was of rare occurrence in the world, or, at least, so persons of experience, accustomed to think the worst of all classes of their fellow-creatures, said. A girl who was always willing to do what she was told, and who set up no will of her own, and had no confidential visitor, except Mr. Chervil, who was one of her legal guardians, was a charge with whom any chaperon might be pleased; provided all went as well next year, when Lucy came out; but Lady Randolph piously reflected that no one could tell what might happen before that. Lucy excited no strong feeling: there was little in her (except her fortune) to take hold of the imagination; but her quiet presence was always soothing and pleasant. Lady Randolph professed to go little into society that season, “saving herself up,” as she said, for the next, when it would be her more arduous duty to take Lucy out. But though she did not go out much, that did not prevent her from enjoying a great many dinner-parties, and even occasionally “looking in” upon some dear duchess’s ball; and Lucy spent many quiet evenings at home, in which her chief amusement was to hear the carriages of the people who were enjoying themselves roll up and down the street, and in wondering how she would like it next year, when she would be enjoying herself too. She did not at all dislike these quiet evenings, and, on the whole, her life passed very pleasantly as the spring grew into summer, and the season came to its prime. She rode in the morning, sometimes in the park, when Lady Randolph could find suitable companions for her, and often going as far as Hampstead, where Mary Russell looked out upon her from the school-room window with cheerful friendliness; and Bertie, not very sure of his skill, came out to put her on her horse when she was ready to go, and bit his young mustache with envy and anger against fate, which had denied him all such indulgences. Bertie, however, was buoyed up by a great confidence; his book was going through the press; he had got the opening he wanted; and presently, presently! he said to himself, his time of humiliation would be over. Lucy had no idea of the effect of her visits upon the household. The little pupils, who were not very answerable to Mary’s rule, hearing it often called in question, ran to the window when they heard the sound of the horses’ feet, and they too looked with envy upon little Jock, who now had a pony, and frequently went out with his sister. The little boys looked after Jock, some with admiring eyes, while others scowled at his unusual privileges.
“Why has that little beggar got a pony and us not?” the urchins would say indignantly; and Mrs. Russell was not, with all her refinement, much better than the boy who said this, who was the son of the grocer, taken on reciprocal terms, and whose presence was felt to be a humiliation to the establishment. Mrs. Russell never saw Lucy ride away without drying her eyes.
“To think my girls should be toiling while old Trevor’s daughter—” She looked out eagerly for Lucy’s coming, but this was the unfailing sentiment with which she greeted her. “The ways of Providence are inscrutable,” the poor lady said, “when I remember her mother, who was nothing but nursery-governess at the Brown-Joneses’, an old maid! when we used to call in mamma’s carriage.”
“If you were so much better off than her mother, she has a right to be better off than we are; it is only justice and fair play,” said Mary.
“Oh, child! child! hold your tongue, what can you know about it?” her mother said, with red eyes, while Bertie gnawed his mustache.
The young man stood and looked after Lucy, waiting to wave his hand to her as she turned the corner. She looked very well on horseback. If he had not felt that indignant envy of her, that sense that a trumpery bit of a girl had no right to be so much better off than he, he would have almost admired Lucy as she rode away. She was the representative of so many things that he did admire; wealth, luxurious case, an undeniable superiority to all care. That she should be set up on that pinnacle, high enough to impress the whole world with her greatness, while he, clever, and handsome, and well born, attracted attention from nobody, was one of those things which are so incredible in their inappropriateness as to fill the less fortunate with indignant astonishment; but presently, presently! the young man said to himself. Meantime he was very irregular in giving the little boys their Latin. The proofs took up a great deal of his time, and it was scarcely to be expected that a young author, on the verge of success and fame, could be as particular, in respect to hours, as a nameless pedagogue. Mrs. Russell fully felt the force of this argument. She did not see how Bertie could be expected to give himself up to the children every day. The Latin lessons came down to three times, then twice a week, and it was never quite certain when it might suit Mr. Russell to give them. “They shall have another half hour with me at their music, or, Mary, give them a little more geography; geography is very important, of far more consequence, at their age, than Latin,” the head of the establishment would say; and though the sight of Miss Trevor arriving on her fine horse, with her groom behind her, had a great effect upon the neighborhood, and the parents of the day-scholars were pleased to think that their little boys were at the same school as this fine young lady’s brother, yet after awhile there were remonstrances from these commonplace people. The boys, they complained, did not “get on.” “What do they mean by getting on? we are not bound to furnish intellects to our pupils,” Mrs. Russell said, assuming something of the same imperiousness which answered with Mrs. Stone; but, alas! it did not answer at Hampstead, and but for the hope of that book which was coming out directly, the poor lady would have seen a very dismal prospect before her. But the book was to make amends for everything, it was to bring both money and peace.
“There is another boy gone,” said little Jock. “I’m very glad, he was one that laughed when you talked of anything. I told him about Macbeth, and he laughed. He’s gone, that fellow; and Shuckwood’s going—”
“They seem all to be going,” said Lucy, alarmed.
“Oh, no, you know, there’s me. I’m the sheet-anchor, they say; but what is a sheet-anchor? She is often crying now,” said Jock; “I can’t tell why. It can’t be because of the fellows leaving. They are a set of little—cads.”
“Jock, where did you learn such words? you never spoke like that before.”
“Oh, it is being with those fellows,” said Jock. “If I were bigger I’d lick half of them; but I couldn’t lick half of them,” he added, reflectively, “for there’s only five now, and when Shuckwood is gone, and the one with the red hair, there will be three. But then one is me! there will only be two others left. You know, Lucy, Russell, the man himself, Mary’s brother, has made a book, and it’s all in print.”
“Yes, I know. I hope he will make some money by it, and make poor Mrs. Russell more happy.”
“Money!” This was an idea Jock could not fathom; he pondered it for a time, but did not arrive at any clear comprehension of it. “Will he go and knock at all the doors, and sell it like—the milkman?” asked the child, with much doubt in his tone. The milkman was striding cheerfully along with his pails, uttering a mysterious but friendly howl at every door, and furnishing Jock with the simile. He thought the milkman a very interesting person, but he did not realize Bertie Russell in the same trade. “I don’t think he would do it,” Jock said confidentially; “and if it was only one book, it would not be much good. I should like to be a peddler with a heap of books; then you could read the rest, and sell them when you had finished them. But, Lucy,” cried the child, “what I would like best of all would be to ride on, and on, and on, like this, and never stop, except at night, to lie on the grass, and tell stories, like that book about the knight and the squire, and the manciple. What is a manciple?” Jock asked, suddenly impressed by the charms of the unknown word.
“I can’t tell in the least, I never heard of it, Jock. Doesn’t it vex poor Mrs. Russell when the boys go?”
“When the fellows, leave? oh, I don’t know. I tell you they’re not much of fellows; I don’t see why she should care,” said the little ignoramus serenely. “I wish they were all gone, then Mary would have time to improve her mind.”
“Poor Mary! has she so much to do?”
“She is always having the fellows for something. When we have not Latin we have geography. And we don’t often have Latin. Russell, he’s busy, or he’s got a headache. The fellows say—”
“What little gossips! Tell me what Latin you have learned, Jock.”
“Oh, nothing at all. Penn-a, penna-ah—or perhaps it’s penn-ah—penn-a, I never can remember. It is far easier just to say pen, as you do, Lucy. And then we have counting; two times three is six, three times three— I’ll tell you that another time; the pony jumps about when I try to do arithmetic in my head.”
“But they are always very good to you, Jock? you are happy there?” This was the burden of all their talks, the constantly-recurring chorus.
This time Jock, who usually said, “Oh, yes,” with indifference to the question, laughed, which was rare with him.
“She says I am always to say Mr. Bertie is very kind,” says Jock. “That’s Russell, you know: the fellows all call him Russell. She says, when you ask, I am to say he takes great pains with me.”
Lucy was perplexed, but it was not right to show her perplexity, she thought.
“And does he?” she said.
“I don’t know what it means, he never says anything at all. Do you think, if we were to ride long enough, we could ride, ride, right into the sun, Lucy? there where it touches the heath—look! The sky must touch somewhere, if we could only ride as far.”
“Let us try,” said Lucy.
Jock’s revelations were very unsatisfactory. It was just as sensible, she thought to pursue the sunshine, and follow the point where the sky must touch, as to get any light thrown upon the one point which she was anxious to investigate. Lucy’s mind had been greatly exercised upon this subject. It was impossible to mistake the signs of growing poverty and squalor in the house, and she, who felt that she had in her hand the power of turning anxiety and trouble into ease, was greatly disturbed, not knowing what to do.
Mrs. Russell’s eyes were generally red now; but then they were weak, she said; and the house got to look more and more untidy. It was a begrimed little maid who opened the door, and the red-haired boy was gone, and the one who squinted, and the little fellow with the curls. Lucy went in with her brother, when they had finished their ride, and was met by the mistress of the house, all tremulous, clasping and unclasping her hands, with a nervous smile.
“You must rest a little, Miss Trevor,” she said, “after your long ride, and take something; won’t you take something? I have made a little space in the drawing-room,” she added, seeing, with the quick instinct of the unfortunate, that Lucy’s eye had been caught by the big vacancy in the room, which had never been too full of furniture; “my poor piano, it was too big, much too big. I did not like to part with it, it was a relic of the days when—my rooms were not so small,” she said, with a pretense at a smile. “But you will be glad to hear, Miss Trevor, we have heard of a much better house, when— I mean as soon as—we are quite sure about the book.”
“It will not be long now?” said Lucy. “Mr. Bertie told me the printing was very nearly done.”
“No, it will not be long. We might take it now, for that matter, for I don’t entertain any doubt on the subject. But Bertie is always so modest. Bertie insists that we must make quite sure. You see, Miss Trevor, a work like his, a work of imagination, succeeds at once, if it is going to succeed,” she added, with a little laugh. “Other kinds of books may take a long time to gain the public ear, but that—one knows directly. So I say to Bertie, we really might venture. It is just round the corner, Miss Trevor, a much larger, handsomer house. But, on the other hand, this is a long way from the center of everything. It might be better to move into Mayfair, or even Belgravia. He will want to be nearer the world. So, on the whole, we think it best to wait a little; and it does not do to move in the season, everything is so dear.”
“And the little boys?” said Lucy. Her mind was bewildered by the contrast between what she was hearing and the visible signs of misery around.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Russell, “as for Jock, you must not trouble yourself in the least. We are quite fond of him, he is such a little original. And Mary is very independent-minded; she will never take anything from her brother, though a better brother never existed! Mary will want something to occupy her, and so long as I have a roof over my head, little Jock shall never want a home. You may be quite easy on that point. I am telling Miss Trevor, Mary, that we are thinking of removing,” she said, as her daughter came in.
Mary did not look in high spirits.
“Are you, mamma? I should not mind the house, if other things were comfortable,” Mary said. Her eyes were heavy, as if she had been weeping, and she avoided Lucy’s look.
“That is because some of the little boys are going away,” said Mrs. Russell nervously. “Mary is always so anxious. We shall be glad to rid of them, my love, when Bertie’s book is out.”
Mary did not make any reply. She gave her shoulders an imperceptible shrug; and what between the daughter’s unresponsiveness and the mother’s tearful and restless profusion of words, Lucy did not know what to say. When she went out, Bertie appeared with his hat on, and a packet of papers in his hand, and walked by her as she rode slowly along the steep little street. “These are the last of the proofs,” he said to her, holding them up. “I am going to take them myself for luck. I hope you will think of me kindly, Miss Trevor, and wish me well.”
“Indeed, I will. I wish it may be—the greatest success that ever was.”
“Thanks; that should bring me good fortune. I want you to do me a favor too. Let me give it all the better chance by putting your happy name upon it. I am sure it is a happy name, a lucky name, bringing good,” he added fervently, “to all who invoke it.”
“Indeed, Mr. Russell,” said Lucy, troubled, “I do not know what you mean.”
“I want,” he said, “to dedicate it to you.”
“To me!” Lucy’s simple countenance grew crimson. She did not quite understand the half pleasure, half repugnance that seemed all at once to flood her veins to overflowing. The color rushed to her face. She was flattered; what girl would have been otherwise? But she was more embarrassed than flattered. “Oh, no, Mr. Russell, please not. It is too much. I have no right to such a compliment.”
“Then I don’t know who has,” he said. “You sought us out when we were very low, and gave us courage. That was the thing we wanted most. My mother is not encouraging, Miss Trevor. She is very good; but she is so anxious—so easily cast down.”
“She is in very great hopes now, Mr. Russell.”
“Oh, yes; poor mother—too great. I don’t know what she thinks is coming. A fortune—a king’s ransom. And she will be disappointed. I feel sure she will be disappointed—even if I succeed. I shall have to think of getting connections, forming friends, helping myself on in the world, instead of muddling always here.”
Then there was a moment of silence, and the sound of the horse’s hoofs on the stones came in, ringing in Lucy’s ears. And these words raised up echoes of their own. Lucy’s young soul got perplexed among them. But she said nothing, and after a moment he went on.
“Of course I will help them; but I must think of what is to be done next, and I must be in a place where I can see people—not out here. You are so reasonable, you will understand me, Miss Trevor. It is hard to be living among people who do not understand. I will bring you one of the first copies, if you will let me—the very first, if I have my way,” he said, looking up at her with a glow on his face. As she sat on her horse, swaying a little with the movement, she looked the most desirable thing in all the world to Bertie Russell. To think a girl the best thing you could become possessed of, the most valuable and precious, the highest prize to be aspired to, the creature who can bestow everything you most wish for—is not that being in love with her? If so, Bertie Russell was in love; and he looked at her as if he were so. Lucy’s cheek was a little flushed with surprise, with the confusion of her thoughts, and he interpreted this so as to chime in with the excitement he had himself given way to. It was a genuine excitement. Heavens! if he could but win that girl to be his! what more would there be to wish for? He put out his hand and gently touched and stroked her horse’s neck. This meant the most shy caress to herself, and Lucy felt it so, with a thrill of alarm she could not tell why.
“I am afraid I must go on now,” she said, feeling a blush come over her face again; and he took off his hat, and stood watching as she quickened her pace along the road, calling after her, “I may come then and bring the first copy?” His heart jumped up within him as he saw the color on Lucy’s face. Could she, in her turn, a simple girl not used to much attention, have fallen in love? If so, there would be nothing strange in that. A fine young fellow—a young man of genius about to blaze upon the world. Nothing could be more natural; but the idea made Bertie’s heart beat. It would be the most fortunate—the most desirable of all things. It opened up a perfect heaven of hope and blessedness before his feet. As for Lucy, she rode home with her heart quaking and trembling and full of many thoughts. She did not entertain any doubt of the success of the book, any more than the author of it did, or his mother. But what she had heard from both sides opened Lucy’s eyes. Poor Mrs. Russell! what wild fancy possessed her, making her so feverishly confident in the midst of all those signs of trouble? Youth is intolerant, yet, Lucy was reasonable. She saw some excuse for Bertie too. And now her duty seemed to her very clear. After all her vicissitudes of feeling, she had come back to the starting-point. This made her heart beat, not any thought of the handsome young author. She would have to tell Mrs. Russell herself of what she was about to do. It would be a difficult mission, Lucy thought to herself, with something of a panic; yet it must be done. And when she thought of the house over which such a cloud of trouble and anxiety and approaching ruin seemed to hang, and of Mrs. Russell’s excitement, and Mary’s pale cheeks, her heart smote her for delaying. She must not allow her guardian to hold her hand, or her own timid spirit to shrink from her work. Would it not be better to have it done before the moment came when this poor woman could be undeceived? While she rode back through the suburban roads, Bertie, subduing his pride, took the aid of an omnibus, and made his way to the publisher’s—his head in the air, his mind full of ecstatic visions. He composed a hundred dedications as he rolled and rumbled along, smiling to himself at the idea of the author of “Imogen” being seen on an omnibus. “Why not?” he asked himself. A man of genius, a future lord of society and the age, may go where he will without derogating from his dignity. If all went well, if all went as every indication proved it to be going, other vehicles than omnibuses were waiting for Bertie, golden chariots, cars of triumph. His present humility was a pleasantry at which he could not choose but smile.