CHAPTER XXVI.
A RECEPTION OF A DIFFERENT KIND.
LUCY rode 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 or complication 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 toiling conscientiously 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 how to 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 to lend us the money you spoke of—only to lend it, 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 I was when I came. If you will lend it 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 will give it 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—wheedled him 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 am giving 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.