LUCY'S TROUBLES.
The evening after the affair with the sheet went off quietly, as did
many days and many evenings. Mrs. Dosett was wise enough to forget
the little violence and to forget also the feeling which had been
displayed. When Lucy first asked for some household needlework, which
she did with a faltering voice and shame-faced remembrance of her
fault, her aunt took it all in good part and gave her a task somewhat
lighter as a beginning than the handling of a sheet. Lucy sat at it
and suffered. She went on sitting and suffering. She told herself
that she was a martyr at every stitch she made. As she occupied the
seat opposite to her aunt's accustomed chair she would hardly speak
at all, but would keep her mind always intent on Ayala and the joys
of Ayala's life. That they who had been born together, sisters, with
equal fortunes, who had so closely lived together, should be sundered
so utterly one from the other; that the one should be so exalted and
the other so debased! And why? What justice had there been? Could it
be from heaven or even from earth that the law had gone forth for
such a division of the things of the world between them?
"You have got very little to say to a person?" said Aunt Dosett, one
morning. This, too, was a reproach. This, too, was scolding. And yet
Aunt Dosett had intended to be as pleasant as she knew how.
"I have very little to say," replied Lucy, with repressed anger.
"But why?"
"Because I am stupid," said Lucy. "Stupid people can't talk. You
should have had Ayala."
"I hope you do not envy Ayala her fortune, Lucy?" A woman with any
tact would not have asked such a question at such a time. She should
have felt that a touch of such irony might be natural, and that
unless it were expressed loudly, or shown actively, it might be left
to be suppressed by affection and time. But she, as she had grown
old, had taught herself to bear disappointment, and thought it wise
to teach Lucy to do the same.
"Envy!" said Lucy, not passionately, but after a little pause for
thought. "I sometimes think it is very hard to know what envy is."
"Envy, hatred, and malice," said Mrs. Dosett, hardly knowing what she
meant by the use of the well-worn words.
"I do know what hatred and malice are," said Lucy. "Do you think I
hate Ayala?"
"I am sure you do not."
"Or that I bear her malice?"
"Certainly not."
"If I had the power to take anything from her, would I do it? I love
Ayala with my whole heart. Whatever be my misery I would rather bear
it than let Ayala have even a share of it. Whatever good things she
may have I would not rob her even of a part of them. If there be joy
and sorrow to be divided between us I would wish to have the sorrow
so that she might have the joy. That is not hatred and malice." Mrs.
Dosett looked at her over her spectacles. This was the girl who had
declared that she could not speak because she was too stupid! "But,
when you ask me whether I envy her, I hardly know," continued Lucy.
"I think one does covet one's neighbour's house, in spite of the
tenth commandment, even though one does not want to steal it."
Mrs. Dosett repented herself that she had given rise to any
conversation at all. Silence, absolute silence, the old silence which
she had known for a dozen years before Lucy had come to her, would
have been better than this. She was very angry, more angry than she
had ever yet been with Lucy; and yet she was afraid to show her
anger. Was this the girl's gratitude for all that her uncle was doing
for her,--for shelter, food, comfort, for all that she had in the
world? Mrs. Dosett knew, though Lucy did not, of the little increased
pinchings which had been made necessary by the advent of another
inmate in the house; so many pounds of the meat in the week, and so
much bread, and so much tea and sugar! It had all been calculated.
In genteel houses such calculation must often be made. And when by
degrees,--degrees very quick,--the garments should become worn which
Lucy had brought with her, there must be something taken from the
tight-fitting income for that need. Arrangements had already been
made of which Lucy knew nothing, and already the two glasses of port
wine a day had been knocked off from poor Mr. Dosett's comforts. His
wife had sobbed in despair when he had said that it should be so. He
had declared gin and water to be as supporting as port wine, and the
thing had been done. Lucy inwardly had been disgusted by the gin and
water, knowing nothing of its history. Her father, who had not always
been punctual in paying his wine-merchant's bills, would not have
touched gin and water, would not have allowed it to contaminate his
table! Everything in Mr. Dosett's house was paid for weekly.
And now Lucy, who had been made welcome to all that the genteel house
could afford, who had been taken in as a child, had spoken of her
lot as one which was all sorrowful. Bad as it is,--this living in
Kingsbury Crescent,--I would rather bear it myself than subject Ayala
to such misery! It was thus that she had, in fact, spoken of her new
home when she had found it necessary to defend her feelings towards
her sister. It was impossible that her aunt should be altogether
silent under such treatment. "We have done the best for you that is
in our power, Lucy," she said, with a whole load of reproach in her
tone.
"Have I complained, aunt?"
"I thought you did."
"Oh, no! You asked me whether I envied Ayala. What was I to say?
Perhaps I should have said nothing, but the idea of envying Ayala was
painful to me. Of course she--"
"Well?"
"I had better say nothing more, aunt. If I were to pretend to be
cheerful I should be false. It is as yet only a few weeks since papa
died." Then the work went on in silence between them for the next
hour.
And the work went on in solemn silence between them through the
winter. It came to pass that the sole excitement of Lucy's life
came from Ayala's letters,--the sole excitement except a meeting
which took place between the sisters one day. When Lucy was taken to
Kingsbury Crescent Ayala was at once carried down to Glenbogie, and
from thence there came letters twice a week for six weeks. Ayala's
letters, too, were full of sorrow. She, too, had lost her mother,
her father, and her sister. Moreover, in her foolish petulance she
said things of her Aunt Emmeline, and of the girls, and of Sir
Thomas, which ought not to have been written of those who were
kind to her. Her cousin Tom, too, she ridiculed,--Tom Tringle, the
son-and-heir,--saying that he was a lout who endeavoured to make eyes
at her. Oh, how distasteful, how vulgar they were after all that
she had known. Perhaps the eldest girl, Augusta, was the worst. She
did not think that she could put up with the assumed authority of
Augusta. Gertrude was better, but a simpleton. Ayala declared herself
to be sad at heart. But then the sweet scenery of Glenbogie, and the
colour of the moors, and the glorious heights of Ben Alchan, made
some amends. Even in her sorrow she would rave about the beauties of
Glenbogie. Lucy, as she read the letters, told herself that Ayala's
grief was a grief to be borne, a grief almost to be enjoyed. To sit
and be sad with a stream purling by you, how different from the
sadness of that dining-room in the Crescent. To look out upon the
glories of a mountain, while a tear would now and again force itself
into the eye, how much less bitter than the falling of salt drops
over a tattered towel.
Lucy, in her answers, endeavoured to repress the groans of her
spirit. In the first place she did acknowledge that it did not become
her to speak ill of those who were, in truth, her benefactors; and
then she was anxious not to declare to Ayala her feeling of the
injustice by which their two lots had been defined to them. Though
she had failed to control herself once or twice in speaking to her
aunt she did control herself in writing her letters. She would never,
never, write a word which should make Ayala unnecessarily unhappy. On
that she was determined. She would say nothing to explain to Ayala
the unutterable tedium of that downstairs parlour in which they
passed their lives, lest Ayala should feel herself to be wounded by
the luxurious comforts around her.
It was thus she wrote. Then there came a time in which they were to
meet,--just at the beginning of November. The Tringles were going to
Rome. They generally did go somewhere. Glenbogie, Merle Park, and the
house in Queen's Gate, were not enough for the year. Sir Thomas was
to take them to Rome, and then return to London for the manipulation
of the millions in Lombard Street. He generally did remain nine
months out of the twelve in town, because of the millions, making his
visits at Merle Park very short; but Lady Tringle found that change
of air was good for the girls. It was her intention now to remain at
Rome for two or three months.
The party from Scotland reached Queen's Gate late one Saturday
evening, and intended to start early on the Monday. To Ayala, who had
made it quite a matter of course that she should see her sister, Lady
Tringle had said that in that case a carriage must be sent across.
It was awkward, because there were no carriages in London. She had
thought that they had all intended to pass through London just as
though they were not stopping. Sunday, she had thought, was not to
be regarded as being a day at all. Then Ayala flashed up. She had
flashed up some times before. Was it supposed that she was not going
to see Lucy? Carriage! She would walk across Kensington Gardens, and
find the house out all by herself. She would spend the whole day with
Lucy, and come back alone in a cab. She was strong enough, at any
rate, to have her way so far, that a carriage, wherever it came from,
was sent for Lucy about three in the afternoon, and did take her back
to Kingsbury Crescent after dinner.
Then at last the sisters were together in Ayala's bed-room. "And now
tell me about everything," said Ayala.
But Lucy was resolved that she would not tell anything. "I am so
wretched!" That would have been all; but she would not tell her
wretchedness. "We are so quiet in Kingsbury Crescent," she said; "you
have so much more to talk of."
"Oh, Lucy, I do not like it."
"Not your aunt?"
"She is not the worst, though she sometimes is hard to bear. I
can't tell you what it is, but they all seem to think so much of
themselves. In the first place they never will say a word about
papa."
"Perhaps that is from feeling, Ayey."
"No, it is not. One would know that. But they look down upon papa,
who had more in his little finger than they have with all their
money."
"Then I should hold my tongue."
"So I do,--about him; but it is very hard. And then Augusta has a way
with me, as though she had a right to order me. I certainly will not
be ordered by Augusta. You never ordered me."
"Dear Ayey!"
"Augusta is older than you,--of course, ever so much. They make her
out twenty-three at her last birthday, but she is twenty-four. But
that is not difference enough for ordering,--certainly between
cousins. I do hate Augusta."
"I would not hate her."
"How is one to help one's-self? She has a way of whispering to
Gertrude, and to her mother, when I am there, which almost kills me.
'If you'll only give me notice I'll go out of the room at once,' I
said the other day, and they were all so angry."
"I would not make them angry if I were you, Ayey."
"Why not?"
"Not Sir Thomas, or Aunt Emmeline."
"I don't care a bit for Sir Thomas. I am not sure but he is the most
good-natured, though he is so podgy. Of course, when Aunt Emmeline
tells me anything I do it."
"It is so important that you should be on good terms with them."
"I don't see it at all," said Ayala, flashing round.
"Aunt Emmeline can do so much for you. We have nothing of our
own,--you and I."
"Am I to sell myself because they have got money! No, indeed! No one
despises money so much as I do. I will never be other to them than if
I had the money, and they were the poor relations."
"That will not do, Ayey."
"I will make it do. They may turn me out if they like. Of course, I
know that I should obey my aunt, and so I will. If Sir Thomas told
me anything I should do it. But not Augusta." Then, while Lucy was
thinking how she might best put into soft words advice which was so
clearly needed, Ayala declared another trouble. "But there is worse
still."
"What is that?"
"Tom!"
"What does Tom do?"
"You know Tom, Lucy?"
"I have seen him."
"Of all the horrors he is the horridest."
"Does he order you about?"
"No; but he--"
"What is it, Ayey?"
"Oh! Lucy, he is so dreadful. He--"
"You don't mean that he makes love to you?"
"He does. What am I to do, Lucy?"
"Do they know it?"
"Augusta does, I'm sure; and pretends to think that it is my fault.
I am sure that there will be a terrible quarrel some day. I told him
the day before we left Glenbogie that I should tell his mother. I did
indeed. Then he grinned. He is such a fool. And when I laughed he
took it all as kindness. I couldn't have helped laughing if I had
died for it."
"But he has been left behind."
"Yes, for the present. But he is to come over to us some time after
Christmas, when Uncle Tringle has gone back."
"A girl need not be bothered by a lover unless she chooses, Ayey."
"But it will be such a bother to have to talk about it. He looks at
me, and is such an idiot. Then Augusta frowns. When I see Augusta
frowning I am so angry that I feel like boxing her ears. Do you know,
Lucy, that I often think that it will not do, and that I shall have
to be sent away. I wish it had been you that they had chosen."
Such was the conversation between the girls. Of what was said
everything appertained to Ayala. Of the very nature of Lucy's life
not a word was spoken. As Ayala was talking Lucy was constantly
thinking of all that might be lost by her sister's imprudence. Even
though Augusta might be disagreeable, even though Tom might be a
bore, it should all be borne,--borne at any rate for a while,--seeing
how terrible would be the alternative. The alternative to Lucy seemed
to be Kingsbury Crescent and Aunt Dosett. It did not occur to her to
think whether in any possible case Ayala would indeed be added to the
Crescent family, or what in that case would become of herself, and
whether they two might live with Aunt Dosett, and whether in that
case life would not be infinitely improved. Ayala had all that money
could do for her, and would have such a look-out into the world from
a wealthy house as might be sure at last to bring her some such
husband as would be desirable. Ayala, in fact, had everything before
her, and Lucy had nothing. Wherefore it became Lucy's duty to warn
Ayala, so that she should bear with much, and throw away nothing. If
Ayala could only know what life might be, what life was at Kingsbury
Crescent, then she would be patient, then she would softly make a
confidence with her aunt as to Tom's folly, then she would propitiate
Augusta. Not care for money! Ayala had not yet lived in an ugly room
and darned sheets all the morning. Ayala had never sat for two hours
between the slumbers of Uncle Dosett and the knitting of Aunt Dosett.
Ayala had not been brought into contact with gin and water.
"Oh, Ayala!" she said, as they were going down to dinner together,
"do struggle; do bear it. Tell Aunt Emmeline. She will like you to
tell her. If Augusta wants you to go anywhere, do go. What does it
signify? Papa and mamma are gone, and we are alone." All this she
said without a word of allusion to her own sufferings. Ayala made a
half promise. She did not think she would go anywhere for Augusta's
telling; but she would do her best to satisfy Aunt Emmeline. Then
they went to dinner, and after dinner Lucy was taken home without
further words between them.
Ayala wrote long letters on her journey, full of what she saw, and
full of her companions. From Paris she wrote, and then from Turin,
and then again on their immediate arrival at Rome. Her letters were
most imprudent as written from the close vicinity of her aunt and
cousin. It was such a comfort that that oaf Tom had been left behind.
Uncle Tringle was angry because he did not get what he liked to eat.
Aunt Emmeline gave that courier such a terrible life, sending for him
every quarter of an hour. Augusta would talk first French and then
Italian, of which no one could understand a word. Gertrude was so
sick with travelling that she was as pale as a sheet. Nobody seemed
to care for anything. She could not get her aunt to look at the
Campanile at Florence, or her cousins to know one picture from
another. "As for pictures, I am quite sure that Mangle's angels would
do as well as Raffael's." Mangle was a brother academician whom their
father had taught them to despise. There was contempt, most foolish
contempt, for all the Tringles; but, luckily, there had been no
quarrelling. Then it seemed that both in Paris and in Florence Ayala
had bought pretty things, from which it was to be argued that her
uncle had provided her liberally with money. One pretty thing had
been sent from Paris to Lucy, which could not have been bought for
less than many franks. It would not be fair that Ayala should take so
much without giving something in return.
Lucy knew that she too should give something in return. Though
Kingsbury Crescent was not attractive, though Aunt Dosett was not to
her a pleasant companion, she had begun to realise the fact that it
behoved her to be grateful, if only for the food she ate, and for the
bed on which she slept. As she thought of all that Ayala owed she
remembered also her own debts. As the winter went on she struggled to
pay them. But Aunt Dosett was a lady not much given to vacillation.
She had become aware at first that Lucy had been rough to her, and
she did not easily open herself to Lucy's endearments. Lucy's life at
Kingsbury Crescent had begun badly, and Lucy, though she understood
much about it, found it hard to turn a bad beginning to a good
result.