A BAD RECEPTION.
Lucy rode to Hampstead that morning, Sir Thomas, to her great surprise,
volunteering to go with her. He had some one in those regions whom he
too wished to see, he said. Lucy was not sure whether she was most
pleased or disconcerted by this companionship; but the ride was all the
more agreeable. He was, as usual, very kind; friendly, and brotherly--or
rather, as she thought, taking his own statement frankly, like an uncle,
an elder, experienced, but altogether delightful friend, to whom she
could say a great many things, which it would have been impossible to
say to one near her own age and condition.
Oddly enough Lucy was mysterious to Sir Thomas, the only person with
whom she felt inclined to be confidential. She hovered about the edge of
her secret, asking herself whether she should confide in him, half
betraying herself, then drawing back, more from shyness than want of
faith in him. She had known him so short a time, perhaps he would think
it bold and presuming of her to thrust her confidences upon him. This
hesitation on her part gave her an attraction which was not at all
natural to her. The touch of the little mystery added what was wanting
to the simplicity, and good sense, and straightforward reasonableness of
Lucy’s character. What was it that lay thus below the surface? Sir
Thomas asked himself. What did she want to confide to him? there was
certainly something; was it some entanglement or other, some girlish
engagement perhaps with this fellow, who had been base enough to expose
her to the remarks of the world? It seemed to Sir Tom that this was the
most natural secret, the most probable embarrassment that Lucy could
have; and with great vehemence of disdain and wrath, he thought of the
“cad” who had probably inveigled the girl into some sort of promise, and
then proceeded to brag of it before all the world. Thus Sir Thomas
Randolph, out of his much experience, entirely misconstrued these two
young persons who had no experience at all. Bertie Russell was not a
young man of very elevated character, but he was not a “cad;” neither,
very far from it, was Lucy a fool; but then Sir Tom--though he was full
of honest instincts and good feeling, and would not himself (though he
thought it no harm to lay siege to an heiress, when the chance fell in
his way) have done anything which could be stigmatized as the act of a
cad--still judged as the world judges, which is, after all, a
superficial way of estimating human action; and he was as entirely
wrong, and blundered as completely in the maze of his own inventions, as
the greatest simpleton could have done; which is one of the penalties of
worldly wisdom, though one which the wise are most slow to learn.
Notwithstanding, he made her ride very pleasant to Lucy. He talked upon
all sorts of subjects, not allowing her mind to dwell upon the annoyance
of the morning. And though this annoyance was not at all of the kind he
imagined, it was still good for her not to be left to invent little
speeches to be made to Mrs. Russell, or to imagine dialogues that might
never take place. Lucy’s mind had been in a good deal of excitement when
they set out. She had resolved to make the plunge, to announce her
intentions to Mrs. Russell and though there was nothing but good in
these intentions, still it requires almost as much courage to inform a
person who has no natural claim upon you that you mean to provide for
her as it does to interfere in any other way in the concerns of a
stranger; or at least, this was how Lucy felt. Her heart beat; had she
been a poor governess going to look for a situation she could not have
been more nervous about the result of the interview. But the summer
morning was exhilarating, and Sir Thomas talked to her all the way. He
told her of a great many other rides taken in very different
circumstances; he took her for little excursions, so to speak, into his
own life; he made her laugh, he led her out of herself. When she reached
Mrs. Russell’s door she had almost forgotten how momentous was the act
she was about to do. “I will come back for you,” Sir Tom cried waving
his hand. He did not come up the steep bit of a street. How kind he
was--not oppressing her with too much even of his own company! Lucy had
not known how she was to get rid of him when she reached the house.
The house looked more neglected than ever when Lucy went in. She could
not but notice that as soon as she appeared, the blind of the
dining-room, which faced the street, was hurriedly drawn down. She
could, it was true, command it as she sat there on her horse; but she
was wounded by the suggestion that she might intend to spy upon them, to
look at something which she was not wanted to see. In the hall, outside
the door of this closed room, a breakfast-tray was standing, though it
was noon. The grimy little maid was more grimy than ever. She showed
Lucy into the faded drawing-room where the blinds were drawn down for
the sun, which, however, streamed in at all the crevices, showing the
dust and the faded colors. There were flowers on the table in a trumpery
glass vase, all limp and dying. A shabby, miserable room, of which no
care was taken, and which looked like the abode of people who had lost
heart, and even ceased to care for appearances. Lucy’s heart sunk as she
looked round. She who was so tidy, with so much bourgeois orderliness in
her nature, felt all this much more than perhaps an observer with higher
faculties would have done. It looked as if it had not been “touched”
this morning, and it was with a pang of pity that Lucy regarded the
evident disorganization of a house in which the chief room, the woman’s
place, “had not been touched” at noon of a summer day. It almost brought
the tears to her eyes. And she had a long time to wait to note all the
dust, the bits of trimming torn off the curtains, the unmended holes in
the carpet. She even looked about furtively for a needle and thread; but
there were no implements of work to be seen, nothing but the fading
flowers all soiled with decay, a fine shabby book on the undusted table,
the common showy ornaments all astray on the mantel-piece. About a
quarter of an hour passed thus before Mrs. Russell came in, with eyes
redder than ever. Mrs. Russell could not be untidy though her room was.
She had the decorum of her class, whatever happened; but her black gown
was rusty, and the long streamers of her widow’s cap had been worn
longer than was compatible with freshness. She held herself very stiffly
as she came in and gave Lucy the tips of her fingers. The poorer she was
the more stately she became. There was in her attitude, in her
expression, a reproach against the world. That she should be thus poor,
thus unfortunate, was somebody’s fault.
“Your little brother is out, Miss Trevor, with the others. He thought
you had quite given him up, and were coming no more.”
“Oh, Jock could not think that.”
“Perhaps not Jock; but I certainly did, who have, I hope, some
experience of the world,” said the poor lady in her bitterness. “It is
quite natural; though I should have thought Lady Randolph had sufficient
knowledge of what is considered proper, to respect your recent mourning;
but all these old formalities are made light of nowadays. When one sees
girls dancing in crape! I wonder if they don’t feel as if they were
dancing over their relations’ graves.”
“Dear Mrs. Russell,” said Lucy, “I have not been dancing. I did not come
because--because-- It was Lady Randolph that was vexed. I am much
obliged, _very_ much obliged to Mr. Bertie for being so kind; but Lady
Randolph thought--”
“Yes, I never doubted it,” cried Bertie’s mother, with an outburst, “I
never doubted it! I told him it was imprudent at the time, and would
expose him to unjust suspicions; as if _he_ was one to scheme for
anybody’s money! much more likely her own nephew, her dear Sir Thomas,
whom she is always talking of! But Bertie would do it, he said where he
owed gratitude he never should be afraid to pay it. And to think that
the very person he wished to honor should turn against him; and now he
is ruined altogether--ruined in all his prospects!” the poor mother
cried amid a tempest of sobs.
“Ruined!” cried Lucy, aghast.
“He is lying there, in the next room, my poor boy. I thought he would
have died this morning--oh, it is cruel, cruel! He is quite crushed by
it. I tell him it is all a wicked plot, and that surely, surely, there
will be some honest man who will do him justice! But, though I say it, I
don’t put any faith in it, for where is there an honest critic?” cried
Mrs. Russell; “from all I hear there is not such a thing to be found.
They praise the people they know--people who court them and fawn on
them; but it isn’t in the Russell blood to do that. And the worst of
all,” she said, with a fresh flood of tears, “the worst of all--the
thing that has just been the last blow--is that you have not stood by
him, Lucy, you that kept on encouraging him, and have brought it all
upon him.”
“_I_ brought it all upon him!” Lucy’s consternation was almost beyond
words.
“Yes, Miss Trevor,” said the poor lady, hysterically. “He would never
have done it had not you encouraged him--never! And now this is what is
brought against him. Oh, they can not say a word against his talent,”
she said; “not a word! They can not say the book is not beautiful; what
they say is all about _that_, which was put into please _you_--and you
have not the heart to stand up for him!” the mother cried. She was so
much excited, and poured forth such tears and sobs, that Lucy found
herself without a word to say. The trouble, no doubt, was real enough,
but it was mixed with so much excitement and feverish exaggeration that
the girl’s sympathetic heart was chilled; and yet she had so much to
say. “But he must not put up with it,” cried Mrs. Russell; “he shall not
put up with it if I can help it. He must write and tell them. And there
is not one word of real criticism--not one word! Bertie himself says so;
nothing but joking and jeering about the dedication. But I know whose
hand that is--it is Lady Randolph who has done it. I knew she would
interfere as soon as she thought--‘Bertie,’ I said, ‘don’t--don’t, for
heaven’s sake! You will bring a hornet’s nest about your ears.’ But he
always said ‘Mother, I must.’ And now to think that the girl herself,
that has brought him into all this trouble, should not have the heart to
stand up for him! Oh, it just shows what I’ve always said, the
wickedness and hollowness of the world!”
Then there was a pause, through which was heard only the sound of Mrs.
Russell’s sobbing. Lucy sat undecided, not knowing what to do. She was
indignant, but more surprised than indignant at the accusation; and she
was entirely unaccustomed to blame, and did not know how to defend
herself. She sat with her heart beating and listened, now and then
trying to remonstrate, to make an appeal, but in vain. At last, the
moment came when her accuser had poured forth all she had to say. But
this silence was almost as painful as the unexpected violence that
preceded it. To be accused wrongfully, if terrible, has still some
counterbalancing effect in the aroused _amour-propre_ of the innocent
victim; but to watch the voice of the accuser quenched by emotion, to
hear the sobs dying off, then bursting out again, the red eyes wiped,
then filling--all in a silence which her own lips were too much parched
with agitation to permit her to break, was almost more hard upon Lucy.
She had become very pale, and she did not know what to say. More
entirely guiltless than she felt herself, no one could have been. She
was so innocent that she had no defense to make; and the attack took
from her all the thoughts of which her mind had been full. All the more
the silence weighed upon her. It was terrible to sit there with her eyes
on the floor, and say nothing. At last she managed to falter forth, “May
I see Jock, Mrs. Russell, before I go?”
“I suppose you will want to remove him,” Mrs. Russell said. “Oh, I quite
understand that! I expected nothing less. The brother of a rich heiress
is out of place with a poor ruined family. Everything is forsaking us.
Let him go, too--let him go, too!”
“Indeed,” said Lucy, recovering her composure a little. “I was not
thinking of that. I meant only--”
“Never mind what you meant, Miss Trevor; it is better he should go.
Things have gone too far now,” said the disturbed woman. “All the rest
are going--we shall have to go ourselves. Oh, I thought it would not
matter so long as my Bertie-- God forgive them! God forgive them!” she
said, with trembling lips. “I thought it would all come right, and
everything succeed, when my boy-- But we are ruined, ruined! I don’t know
where we are to turn or what we are to do.”
“Mrs. Russell, will you let me say something to you?” Lucy said. This
cry of distress had restored her to herself. “I meant to have said it
before; it is not because of what has happened. It was all settled in my
mind before; I was only waiting till I could arrange with my guardian.
Mrs. Russell, papa left some money to be given away--”
Here she made a little pause for breath. Her companion made no remark,
but sat, lying back in her chair, with her handkerchief to her eyes.
“It was a good deal of money,” said Lucy. “He told me I was not to throw
it away, but to give enough to be of real use. I thought--that you would
like to have some of it, Mrs. Russell; that--it might do you a little
good.”
Mrs. Russell let her handkerchief drop, and stared at Lucy with her poor
red eyes.
“If you would let me give you part of it-- I can not tell how much would
be enough; but if you would tell me, and we could consider everything.
It is lying there for the use of--people who are in want of it. I hope
you will take some of it. I should be very _thankful_ to you,” said
Lucy, with a little nervous emphasis. “It is there only to be given
away.”
Lucy had felt that it would be a difficult communication to make, but
she had no fear of any refusal. She did not venture to look up, but kept
her eyes fixed on the carpet, though she was very conscious,
notwithstanding, of every movement her companion made. The girl was shy
of the favor she was conferring, and frightened in anticipation of the
thanks she, would probably receive; if only it could be settled and paid
without any thanks! When her own voice stopped she became still more
frightened. The silence was unbearable, and Lucy gave an alarmed glance
toward the sofa. Mrs. Russell was gasping for breath, inflating her
lungs, apparently, in vain, and struggling for utterance. This struggle
ended in a hoarse and moaning cry.
“Oh, what have I done, what have I done, that it should come to this?”
“Mrs Russell! you are ill. Are you ill?” Lucy cried, alarmed.
“Oh, what have I done, what have I done, that it should come to this?”
she moaned. “Am I a beggar that it should come to this? to offer me
money in my own house? money, as if I were a beggar in the street? Oh,
don’t say anything more, Miss Trevor, don’t say anything more.” Here she
got up, clasping her hands wildly, and walked about the room like a
creature distracted, as, indeed, between pride and shame, and
wretchedness and folly, the poor woman almost was. “Oh, why didn’t I
die! why didn’t I die when _he_ died?” she cried. “It is more than I can
bear. I, that was a Stonehouse, and married a Russell, to be treated
like a beggar on the street. Oh, my God!” cried the excited creature,
“have I not enough to bear without being insulted? I can starve, or I
can die, but to be insulted--it is more than I can bear.”
Lucy was confounded. She stumbled to her feet, also, in overwhelming
distress. She had meant no harm, heaven knows! She had not meant to
wound the most delicate feeling. It was a view of the matter which had
never occurred to her.
“I must have said something wrong--without meaning it,” she faltered. “I
don’t know how to speak, but I did not mean to make you angry; oh,
forgive me! please forgive me! I mean nothing but--”
“This is what it is to be poor,” Mrs Russell said. “Oh, I ought to thank
you for it, that among other things, I never would have known all the
bitterness of being poor but for this; and yet I never held out my hand
to ask anything,” she cried, beginning to weep. “I never thrust my
poverty on anybody. I did all I could to keep up--a good appearance; and
to hope--” here the sobs burst forth again beyond restraint--“for better
days.”
“What is the matter?” said Bertie pushing open the door. He was
carelessly dressed in an old coat, his hair in disorder, his feet in
slippers, he who had always decorated himself so carefully for Lucy’s
eyes. He did not take the trouble to open the door with his hand, but
pushed it rudely with his person, and gave Lucy a sullen nod and
good-morning. “What are you making such a row about, mother?” he said.
“Oh, Bertie, Miss Trevor has come--to offer me charity!” she cried,
“charity! She sees we are poor, and, because she is rich, she thinks she
can treat me, me! like a beggar in the street, and offer me money, Oh,
Bertie! Bertie! my boy!” the poor woman threw her arm round him, and
began to sob on his shoulder, “what has your poor mother done that she
should be humbled like this?”
“Charity!” he said; then looked at Lucy with an insolent laugh that
brought the color to the girl’s face; “it is, perhaps, conscience
money,” he cried. Then putting his mother away from him “Go and lie
down, mamma, you have had excitement enough this morning. We are not
beggars, whatever Miss Trevor may think.” Bertie’s eyes were red, too;
he was still at the age when tears, though the man is ashamed of them,
are not far from the eyes when trouble comes. “Naturally,” he said, “we
all stand upon what we have got, and money is what you have got, Miss
Trevor. Oh, it is a very good thing, it saves you from many annoyances.
We have not very much of it, but we can do without charity.” His lip
quivered, his heart was sore, and his pride cut to pieces. “Money is not
everything, though, perhaps, _you_ may be excused for thinking so,” he
said. He wanted to retaliate on some one; the smarting of his eyelids,
the quiver which he could not keep from his lips, the wounds of his
pride still bleeding and fresh, all filled him with a kind of blind
fury and desire to make some one else suffer. He would have liked to
tear his Angel of Hope to pieces in the misery of his disappointment.
Was it not her fault?
As for Lucy, she stood like a culprit before the mother and the son,
looking at them with a pathetic protest in her eyes, like that with
which an innocent dumb creature appeals against fate. She was as much
surprised by all this storm of denunciation as a lamb is by the blow
that ends its life. When they were silent, and it was time for her to
speak, she opened her lips and drew a long troubled breath, but she
could say nothing for herself. What was there to say? She was too much
astonished even for indignation.
“I--will go, if you please, and wait for Jock in the street,” was all
she found herself able to say.
And just then the voices of the children, to her great relief, were
audible outside. Lucy hurried away, feeling for the moment more
miserable than she had ever been in her life before. There were but
three little boys now, and Mary, who had come in with them, was standing
a little in advance, listening, with an anxious face, to the sound of
the voices in the drawing-room. Mary was hostile, too; she looked at
Lucy with defiant eyes.
“Oh, is it really you, at last, Miss Trevor?” she said.
Poor Lucy felt her heart swell with the sting of so much unkindness. She
cried when Jock rushed forward and threw himself upon her.
“You are the same at least,” she said, with a sob, as she kissed him.
“May he come out with me? for I can not stay here any longer.”
The other girl, who did not know the meaning of all this, was shaken out
of her sullenness by the threatening of another calamity. Mary had
nothing to do with the quarrel. She grew, if possible, a little more
pale.
“Do you mean that he is to go--for good?” she said, looking wistfully at
the diminished band, only three, and there had been ten! It was all she
could do to keep from crying, too. “I have always tried to do the best I
could for him,” she said.