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.