THE CUP FULL.
Jock was not allowed to come down to dinner that day, and Lucy, refusing
to leave him, sat with the culprit on her knee, their arms clasped about
each other, their hot cheeks touching. “Oh, if we could go away! if we
only had a little hut anywhere, you and me, in the loneliest place,
where we should never see any of these people more,” Lucy cried; and
Jock, though he was still in a state of wild excitement, calmed down a
little, and began to think of a desolate island, that favorite fancy of
childhood. “I should not be so clever as Hazel was--for he was a fellow
that knew everything; but couldn’t I build you a house, Lucy?” the
little fellow said, his wet eyes lighting up at the thought. He had read
“Foul Play” not long before. Jock was not fond of the modern novel; but
he made an exception in favor of Mr. Reade, as what boy of sense would
not do? With this forlorn fancy they consoled themselves as they sat
dinnerless, clinging to each other--a lonely pair. Mrs. Ford, half
alarmed at the success of her punishment, which was so much greater than
she expected, for, to do her justice, she wanted only a lawful
submission, and not to deprive a little delicate boy of a meal, came
upstairs several times to the door to ask if Jock would submit; but he
would not say he was sorry, which was what she required. “Why couldn’t
she let my Lucy alone? I would do it again,” he said, turning a deaf ear
to all Mrs. Ford’s moral addresses. All this time Lucy held him close,
kissing his little tear-wet cheeks, and crying over him, so that,
perhaps, his firmness was not wonderful. “You should not encourage him,
Lucy,” said Mrs. Ford. “Come down to your dinner. It is a shame to
encourage a little naughty boy; and you can’t go without your dinner.”
“If you had but one in all the world to stand up for you, only one,
would you go and forsake him?” cried Lucy, with floods of hot tears. And
then Mrs. Ford went down-stairs very uncomfortable, as are all enforcers
of domestic discipline, when the culprits will not give way. Against
this kind of resistance the very sternest of household despots fight in
vain, and Mrs. Ford was not a household despot, but only an ignorant,
well-meaning woman, driven to her wits’ end. If she were unkind now and
then, it was not that she ever meant to be unkind. She grew more and
more uncomfortable as time after time she returned beaten to the
dinner-table down-stairs, which she, herself, could not take any
pleasure in, because these two troublesome young persons were fasting
above.
This was a mournful meal in the house. Ford himself, satisfying his
usual good appetite in the natural way, was fallen upon by his wife,
and, so to speak, slaughtered at his own table. The dainty dishes she
had prepared specially for Lucy were sent away untouched, and the good
woman herself eat nothing. She did nothing but talk all through that
meal of Jock’s misdemeanor. “And Lucy spoils him so. She will not listen
to me. It is bad for the child--dreadfully bad for the child. He ought
to be at school, knocking about among other boys. And instead of that
she sits and cries and kisses him, and goes without her dinner. It’s
enough to kill the child,” cried Mrs. Ford, “at his age, and a delicate
boy, to eat nothing all day.”
“Then why don’t you let him come down and have his dinner?” said Ford,
his mouth full of a fugitive morsel.
“Oh, you never--you never understand anything! Am I the one to ruin that
child’s morals, and make him think he can do what he likes, for the sake
of a dinner? Not till he gives in and says he is sorry,” said Mrs. Ford,
pushing her plate away with angry emphasis; “but it is Lucy that makes
me unhappy,” she said; “anybody--anything else for the sake of that
boy.”
And it can not be denied that little Jock, at least, heard the rattle of
the plates and dishes as they were cleared away with a sinking of the
heart; but he would not give in. Lucy was less moved by it. She had
something of that contempt for dinners which is an attribute of the
female mind, and she was worn with excitement, cast down, and
discouraged in every way. She said to herself that she could not have
swallowed anything; the mere suggestion seemed to bring a lump in her
throat. She wanted to see nobody, to turn her face to the wall, to “give
in” altogether. Lucy could not have told what vague mysterious despair
was implied in the idea of “giving in,” but it seemed the end of all
things, the lowest depth of downfall. Notwithstanding this wild
desperation and desire to turn her back upon all the world, it was a
very welcome interruption when Katie Russell knocked softly at the door,
and came in with a subdued eagerness and haste which betrayed that she
had something to tell. Katie was not like her usual self any more than
Lucy was. There was a soft flush upon her face, an unusual excitement
and brightness in her eyes. She came in rapidly, with an “Oh, Lucy--”
then stopped short when she saw Jock, and the lamentable air of the
little group still clinging close together, whose mournful intercourse
she had interrupted. Katie burst forth into a little laugh of
excitement. “What’s the matter with you?” she said. Jock slid out of
Lucy’s arms, and Lucy rose up from her chair at this question. They were
glad enough to come to an end of the situation, though they had both
made up their mind to accept no comfort. And when Lucy had told the
story, Katie’s amusement and applause did her friend good in spite of
herself. “Bravo, Jock!” Katie cried, with another laugh, which her own
personal excitement and need of utterance had no small share in; and she
was so much delighted by Mrs. Rushton’s discomfiture that both sister
and brother began to feel more cheerful. “Oh, how I should have liked to
see her!” said Katie. And then her own affairs that were so urgent,
rushed into her mind with a fresh suffusion of her face and kindling of
her eyes. Lucy was not great in the art of reading looks, but she could
see that there was something in Katie’s mind that was in the most urgent
need of utterance--something fluttering on her very lips that had to be
said. “I have got free for the day,” she said, with a little quaver in
her voice. “Let us go somewhere or do something, Lucy, I can not stop
still in one place. I have something to tell you--”
“I saw it directly in your face--what is it? what is it?” Lucy said. But
it was not till she had gone to her room to get her hat, where Katie
followed her, that the revelation came. “Will you have me for a
relation?” the girl said, crossing her hands demurely, and making a
little courtesy of pretended humility; and then natural emotion regained
its power, and Katie laughed, and cried, and told her story. “And you
never guessed!” she said; “I thought you would know in a moment. Didn’t
you notice anything even yesterday? Ah, I know why; you were thinking of
your own affairs.”
“I was not thinking of any affairs,” said Lucy, with a sigh; “I was
tormented all day; but never mind--tell me. Philip! he has always seemed
so stolid, so serious.”
“And isn’t this serious?” said Katie. “Oh, you don’t half see all that
it means. Fancy! that he should turn his back upon all the world, and
choose me, a girl without a penny!”
“But--all the world? I don’t think Philip had so much in his power. What
did he turn his back upon? But I am very glad it is you,” Lucy said.
Still her face was serious. She had not forgotten, and she did not quite
understand the scene of last night.
Katie grew very serious, too. “I want to speak to you, Lucy,” she said.
“We are two girls who have always been fond of each other; we always
said we would stand by each other when we grew up. Lucy, look here, if
you ever _thought_ of Philip--if you ever once thought of him-- I would
cut off my little finger rather than stand in his way!”
Hot tears were in her eyes; but Lucy looked at her with serious
surprise, wondering, yet not moved. “I don’t know what you mean,” she
said.
“Oh, but you must know what I mean, Lucy! Perhaps you are not clever;
but everybody always said you had a great deal of sense. And you _know_
you are the greatest prize that ever was. How can you help knowing? And
Philip is one that you have known all your life. Oh, Lucy, tell me, tell
me true! Don’t you think I would make a sacrifice for _him_? It would
break my heart,” cried the girl, “but I would sacrifice myself and
Bertie, too, and never think twice--for _him_! Answer me, answer me
true--between you and me, that have always been fond of each other,
Lucy!” cried Katie, seizing her hands with sudden vehemence, “answer me
as if we were two little girl at school. Did you ever think of Philip?
Would you have had him if--if he had not liked me?”
Lucy drew her hands away with an energy which was violence in her, “I
think you are all trying to drive me out of my senses. I! think of
Philip or any one! I never did, I never will,” she cried, with sudden
tears. “I don’t want to have any one, or to think of any one, as you
say. Will you only let me alone, all you people? First one and then
another; and not even pretending,” the poor girl cried, with sobs, “that
it is for me.”
“I am not like that, Lucy,” Katie said, in mournful tones; for why
should Lucy cry, she asked herself, if it were not that she had “thought
of” Philip. “I am fond of you, and I know you would make any one happy.
It is not only for your money. Oh, I know, I know,” Katie cried; “what a
difference it would make to him if he married you! and what is pride
between you and me? Only say you care for him the very least in the
world--only say-- Lucy,” cried Katie, solemnly, “if it was so, though it
would break my heart, I would make poor Bertie take me off somewhere
this very day, to New Zealand or somewhere, and not leave a word or a
trace, and never see either of you more.”
Lucy had recovered a little spirit during this last assault upon her.
She had got to the lowest depth of humiliation, she thought, and
rebounded. The emergency gave her a force that was not usual to her. “I
once read a book like that,” she said; “a girl went away, because she
thought another girl cared for the gentleman. Don’t you think that would
be pleasant for the other girl? to think that she had made such an
exhibition of herself, and that the gentleman had been cheated into
caring for her? I-- I am sure I never made any exhibition of myself,”
Lucy cried, with rising warmth. “One is to me just like another. I am
very willing to be friends if they will let me alone; but as for Philip!
I am glad you like him,” she said, recovering her serenity with an
effort. “I am very glad you are going to marry him. And, Katie!” here a
sudden thought flashed into the mind of the heiress. If it, ever could
be made to appear natural to give money a way, surely here was the
occasion. She clapped her hands suddenly, with an unaffected simple
pleasure, which was all the more delightful that it was a flower
plucked, so to speak, from the very edge of a precipice. “They can not
say anything against that,” she cried; “it will be only like a wedding
present.” And satisfaction came back to Lucy’s heart.
“Oh, never mind about the wedding present--so long as you like it,
Lucy--that is the best,” cried the other; and then Katie’s confidences
took the more usual form. “Fancy, I have not seen him yet,” she said; “I
got the letter only this morning, and I answered it, you know. Don’t
you think a girl should give an answer straight off, and not keep him in
suspense? for I had always, always, you know, from the very beginning,
from that night when he came in--don’t you recollect? Now I see you
never can have thought of Philip, Lucy, for you don’t recollect a bit!
It was a beautiful letter; but it was a funny letter too. He said he
could not help himself. Oh, I understand it quite well! Of course he did
not want, if he could have helped it, to marry a girl without a penny in
the world.”
“Does that matter, when he is fond of you?” Lucy said.
“Ah! it is only when you are awfully rich that you can afford to be so
disinterested,” cried Katie. “Naturally, he did not want to marry a girl
with nothing. And you may say what you like, Lucy; but for a man to have
a chance of you and like me the best! There, I will never say another
word; but if it makes me vain can I help it? To choose me when he had
the chance of you!”
“He never had the chance of me,” cried Lucy, with returning indignation.
“What do you all take me for, I wonder? Am I like something in a raffle
in a bazaar? Can people take tickets for me, and draw numbers, and every
one have a chance? It is not like a friend to say so. And there is no
one, if you fail me, Katie, no one that I can trust.”
“You may trust me, to my very last breath,” cried Katie, with
indescribable favor. And Lucy felt, with a softening sensation of relief
and comfort, that surely here was a stronghold opening for her; Katie
and Philip. She could trust in them if in nobody else. Philip had been
the one honest among all the people round her. He had loved somebody
else, he had not been able to pretend that it was Lucy he loved. She
thought of the scene of the previous night with an uneasy mixture of
pleasure and pain. How strange that they should all think so much of
this money, which to Lucy conveyed so little comfort! But Philip had
escaped the snare. And now she thought there could be no doubt that she
had found a pair of friends whom she could trust.
Jock all this time waited down-stairs; but he was not impatient. Jane,
the house-maid, charged with a sandwich which Mrs. Ford herself had
prepared, waylaid him on the landing, and Jock wanted small persuading.
He was a boy who liked sandwiches; and to have his own way, and that
too, was enough to reconcile him to a little waiting. He had just time
to dispose of it while the girls lingered; and it was very good, and he
felt all the happier. He sallied forth a little in advance, as was his
habit when Lucy was not alone, his little nose in the air, his head in
the clouds. He did not pay any attention to the secrets the others were
whispering; why should he? At eight the superiority of sex is as acutely
felt as at any other age. Jock was loyal to his sister through every
fiber of his little being; still Lucy was only a girl when all was said.
It was a beautiful day after the yesterday’s rain. The blue of the sky
had a certain sharpness, as skies are apt to have when they have wept
much; but the air was light and soft, relieved of its burden of
moisture. It was Katie who was the directress of the little party,
though the others were not aware of it. She led them through the streets
till they reached a little ornamental park into which the High Street
fell at one end. Then suddenly in a moment, Katie gave her friend’s arm
a sudden pressure. “Oh, Lucy,” she cried, “have a little feeling for
_him_: you have so much for me, have a little for _him_,” and
disengaging herself, she ran on and seized Jock’s hand, who was marching
serenely in front. Lucy, astonished, paused for a moment, not knowing
how to understand this sudden desertion, and found her hand in the hand
of Bertie Russell, who had appeared she could not tell from whence.
“This is good fortune indeed,” he said; “what a happy chance for me that
you should take your walk here!”
Lucy felt her heart flutter like a bird fallen into a snare. It was not
that she was frightened for Bertie Russell, but it was that she had been
betrayed in the very tenderness of her trust. “Katie brought us,” she
said gravely. Katie, who was stimulating Jock to a race, had got almost
out of hearing, and the other two were left significantly alone. Lucy
felt her heart sink; was there another scene like that of yesterday to
be gone through again?
“Katie is perhaps more kind to me than she is to you, Miss Trevor,” said
Bertie; “she knew I wanted to tell you--various things; and she did not
realize, perhaps, that it would be so disagreeable to you.”
This troubled Lucy in her sensitive dislike to give pain. “Oh,” she
said, “Mr. Bertie, indeed I did not mean to be rude.”
“You could not be rude,” he said, with an audible sigh. “Those who have
not the gift to please have only themselves to blame. I wanted to call,
but your old lady does not like me, Miss Trevor. I heard this morning
from Mrs. Berry-Montagu. Did I tell you she had taken me up? She has
been in Scotland in her husband’s shooting-quarters, and she says Sir
Thomas Randolph is off to the East again.”
“To the East!” Lucy said: what did it mean? for a moment the sight
seemed to go out of her eyes, the world to swim round her. A great
giddiness came over her; was she going to be ill? she did not understand
what it was.
“Yes,” said Bertie’s voice, quite unconcerned; and, even in the midst of
this wonderful mist and darkness, it was a consolation to her that he
did not seem to perceive her condition. “When that mania of travel
seizes a man there is no fighting against it. Mrs. Montagu says that
Lady Randolph is in despair.”
“I should think she will not like it,” Lucy said. The light was
beginning slowly to come back. She saw the path under her feet, and the
shrubs that stood on either hand, and Bertie by her side whom she had
been so alarmed to see, but whom she thought nothing of now. What did it
mean? she was too much confused and confounded in all her faculties to
be able to tell. And she asked no questions. That was why Sir Tom had
not written, had not taken any notice. Lucy had thought herself very
wretched, abandoned by heaven and earth this morning, but how different
were her sensations now! An invisible prop had been taken away, which
had held her up without her own knowledge. She felt herself sink down to
the very dust, her limbs and her courage failing alike. And all the time
Bertie’s voice went on.
“I have been wandering about the town renewing my acquaintance with it,
and making notes. May I tell you about what I am going to do, Miss
Trevor? Perhaps it will only bore you? Well, if you will let me-- I am
about beginning my second book; and your advice did so much for me in
the first. I know how much of my success I owe to you.”
“Oh, no, no, Mr. Bertie,” said Lucy, “you only say so. I never gave you
any advice, you don’t owe anything to me.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, with a smile. “Perhaps the Madonna on the mast
does not save the poor Italian fisherman from the storm. You may think,
if you are a severe Protestant, that she has nothing to do with it, but
he kneels down and thanks our lady when he gets on shore, and you must
let me thank the saint of my invocation too.”
Lucy made no reply. She did not understand what he meant by all these
fine words, and if she had understood she did not care. What did it
matter? His voice was not much more to her than the organ playing
popular tunes in the street beyond. The two sounds made a sort of
half-ludicrous concert to her ears. She heard them and heard them not,
and went on in a maze, still giddy, not knowing where she was going,
keeping very still to command herself. Going to the East! all that, she
thought, had been over. He had gone to Scotland, from whence he was to
write, and she to him, if she wanted advice or anything! And he had
written to her, but not for a long time. And now he was going away
again, going away perhaps forever. This was what was going on in Lucy’s
mind while Bertie spoke. She had no feeling about Bertie now, or about
the betrayal of her trust by his sister. What did it matter? Sir Tom was
going--going to the East. Sometimes she felt disposed to grasp at
Bertie’s arm to steady herself, and sometimes there came over her an
almost irrestrainable impulse to break in, to say, “To the East! do you
mean that he is really, really going to the East?” It was only instinct
that saved her, not anything better. When the words came to her lips,
she became vaguely conscious that he was talking about something else.
Bertie, on his part, was too much occupied with his own idea to perceive
that Lucy was preoccupied also. He thought indeed that she was listening
to him with a sort of interested absorption, unresistingly--which,
indeed, was true enough. Katie and Jock sped on before, leaving him full
space and leisure for his suit. She was altogether at his mercy, walking
downcast by his side, listening timidly, too shy to make any reply. It
flashed across his mind that it was just thus that he would describe a
girl who was going to yield and make her lover happy--making him happy.
Yes, there could be no doubt of that; she would make him happy, as very
few had it in their power to do. The bliss Lucy could bestow would be
substantial bliss. What unappreciated efforts Bertie made! the hero of a
novel was never more eloquent. He compared Lucy to all manner of fine
things. And she heard him, and heard him not. It was very hard upon
Bertie. But when, beginning to feel discouraged by her silence, he went
back upon the recollections of her life in Grosvenor Street, Lucy woke
up from her abstraction. Even Mrs. Berry-Montagu restored her interest.
“May I send a message from you when I write to her?” he said. “She is
always inquiring after you. There are none of your acquaintances that do
not take an interest in you--unless, perhaps it might be an old man
about town, like Sir Tom.”
“Sir Thomas is always kind--there is no one so kind,” cried Lucy, with a
little excitement; “if you say he does not take any interest, it is
because you don’t know.”
“Oh, I did not mean any harm; but pardon me if I can not bear to see a
man like Sir Tom come near you, Miss Trevor. People show their feelings
in different ways. Mine--you don’t much care to hear about mine--take an
old-fashioned form. There are people who are not worthy to touch the hem
of your dress.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Russell. Sir Tom is better, far better,
than most of the people I know; and as for me, I am not sacred, I don’t
know why any one should think of the hem of my dress.”
“But you are sacred to me,” said Bertie, feeling that the moment was
come. “Pardon me if I go too far. But what else can a man say when he
has put himself under you as his saint, as his guiding star, since ever
he began to be worth anything; that is only since I knew you, Lucy. Of
course I know I am not half nor a quarter good enough for you. But ever
since you began to come to Hampstead you know what you have been to me;
you have inspired me, you have made me what I am. You thought, or the
Randolphs thought, that it was presumption to put your name upon my
book--”
“Oh, Mr. Bertie, why do you bring that up again? it is all over and
past. You made people talk of me and laugh at me, and put me in the
papers. It was dreadful! but it is all over, and I don’t want to hear of
it any more.”
“It was the best I had,” said Bertie, with not unnatural indignation.
“It was all I had, and queens have not scorned such offerings; but, if
you do not care for that, you might care for a man’s devotion, Lucy--you
might care for a--”
“Oh, Mr. Bertie, don’t, please don’t say any more.”
“I know how to take an answer,” he said; “I won’t persecute you as that
cub did yesterday; but I must know whether you mean it really--whether
you know what I mean. Lucy--you must let me call you so just once
more--is it only shyness? are you frightened? don’t you understand? or
do you know that, when I offered my book to you, I offered, like all the
poets, my heart, my life, my--”
“Lucy,” said Jock, suddenly rushing upon her, rushing between them and
pushing, with the mere force of his coming, the impassioned suitor away,
“Katie has met Philip, and they don’t want me. What are you doing,
talking so long? Philip looks so queer, I don’t know what is the matter
with him. And I want to go home. I hate a walk like this--there is no
fun in it. And I want to go home; come!” cried the child, hanging on to
her skirts. Bertie looked at him with a vindictive stare of rage and
disappointment. There was not another word to say.