POWER.
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.