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