A SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS.
Lucy's mind had sustained a certain shock when her husband appeared.
During her short married life there had not been a cloud, or a shadow of
a cloud, between them. But then there had been no question between them,
nothing to cause any question, no difference of opinion. Sir Tom had
taken all her business naturally into his hands. Whatever she wished she
had got--nay, before she expressed a wish it had been satisfied. He had
talked to her about everything, and she had listened with docile
attention, but without concealing the fact that she neither understood
nor wished to understand; and he had not only never chided her, but had
accepted her indifference with a smile of pleasure as the most natural
thing in the world. He had encouraged her in all her liberal charities,
shaking his head and declaring with a radiant face that she would ruin
herself, and that not even her fortune would stand it. But the one
matter which had given Lucy so much trouble before her marriage, and
which Jock had now brought back to her mind, was one that had never been
mentioned between them. He had known all about it, and her eccentric
proceedings and conflict with her guardians, backing her up, indeed,
with much laughter, and showing every symptom of amiable amusement; but
he had never given any opinion on the subject, nor made the slightest
allusion since to this grand condition of her father's will. In the
sunny years that were past Lucy had taken no notice of this omission.
She had not thought much on the subject herself. She had withdrawn from
it tacitly, as one is apt to do from a matter which has been productive
of pain and disappointment, and had been content to ignore that portion
of her responsibilities. Even when Jock forcibly revived the subject it
continued without any practical importance, and its existence was a
question between themselves to afford material for endless conversation
which had been pleasant and harmless. But when Sir Tom's hand was laid
on her shoulder, and his cheerful voice sounded in her ear, a sudden
shock was given to Lucy's being. It flashed upon her in a moment that
this question which she had been discussing with Jock had never been
mentioned between her and her husband, and with a sudden instinctive
perception she became aware that Sir Tom would look upon it with very
different eyes from theirs. She felt that she had been disloyal to him
in having a secret subject of consultation even with her brother. If he
heard he would be displeased, he would be taken by surprise, perhaps
wounded, perhaps made angry. In any wise it would introduce a new
element into their life. Lucy saw, with a sudden sensation of fright and
pain, an unknown crowd of possibilities which might pour down upon her,
were it to be communicated to Sir Tom that his wife and her brother were
debating as to a course of action on her part, unknown to him. All this
occurred in a moment, and it was not any lucid and real perception of
difficulties, but only a sudden alarmed compunctious consciousness that
filled her mind. She fled, as it were, from the circumstances which made
these horrors possible, hurrying back into her former attitude with a
penitential urgency. Jock, indeed, was very dear to her, but he was no
more than second, nay he was but third, in Lady Randolph's heart. Her
husband's supremacy he could not touch, and though he had been almost
her child in the old days, yet he was not, nor ever would be, her child
in the same ineffable sense as little Tom was, who was her very own, the
centre of her life. So she ran away (so to speak) from Jock with a real
panic, and clung to her husband, conciliating, nay almost wheedling him,
if we may use the word, with a curious feminine instinct, to make up to
him for the momentary wrong she had done, and which he was not aware of.
Sir Tom himself was a little surprised by the warmth of the reception
she gave him. Her interest in his shooting was usually very mild, for
she had never been able to get over a little horror she had, due,
perhaps, to her bourgeois training, of the slaughter of the birds. He
glanced at the pair with an unusual perception that there was something
here more than met the eye. "You have been egging her up to some
rebellion," he said; "Jock, you villain; you have been hatching treason
behind my back!" He said this with one of those cordial laughs which
nobody could refrain from joining--full of good humour and fun, and a
pleased consciousness that to teach Lucy to rebel would be beyond any
one's power. At any other moment she would have taken the accusation
with the tranquil smile which was Lucy's usual reply to her husband's
pleasantries; but this time her laugh was a little strained, and the
warmth of her denial, "No, no! there has been no treason," gave the
slightest jar of surprise to Sir Tom. It sounded like a false note in
the air; he did not understand what it could mean.
Jock went away the next day. He went with a basket of game for MTutor
and many nice things for himself, and all the attention and care which
might have been his had he been the heir instead of only the young
brother and dependent. Lucy herself drove in with him to Farafield to
see him off, and Sir Tom, who had business in the little town and meant
to drive back with his wife, appeared on the railway platform just in
time to say good-bye. "Now, Lucy, you will not forget," were Jock's last
words as he looked out of the window when the train was already in
motion. Lucy nodded and smiled, and waved her hand, but she did not make
any other reply. Sir Tom said nothing until they were driving along the
stubble fields in the afternoon sunshine. Lucy lay back in her corner
with that mingled sense of regret and relief with which, when we are
very happy at home, we see a guest go away--a gentle sorrow to part, a
soft pleasure in being once more restored to the more intimate circle.
She had not shaken off that impression of guiltiness, but now it was
over, and nothing further could be said on the subject for a long time
to come.
"What is it, Lucy, that you are not to forget?"
She roused herself up, and a warm flush of colour came to her face. "Oh,
nothing, Tom, a little thing we were consulting about. It was Jock that
brought it to my mind."
"I think it must be more than just a little thing. Mayn't I hear what
this secret is?"
"Oh, it is nothing, Tom," Lady Randolph repeated; and then she sat up
erect and said, "I must not deceive you. It is not merely a small
matter. Still it is just between Jock and me. It was about--papa's will,
Tom."
"Ah! that is a large matter. I don't quite see how that can be between
you and Jock, Lucy. Jock has very little to do with it. I don't want to
find fault, my dear, but I think as an adviser you will find me better
than Jock."
"I know you are far better, Tom. You know more than both of us put
together."
"That would not be very difficult," he said, with a smile.
Perhaps this calm acceptance of the fact nettled Lucy. At least she
said, with a little touch of spirit, "And yet I know something about our
kind of people better than you will ever do, Tom."
"Lucy, this is a wonderful new tone. Perhaps you may know better, but I
am doubtful if you understand the relation of things as well. What is
it, my dear?--that is to say, if you like to tell me, for I am not going
to force your confidence."
"Tom--oh dear Tom! It is not that. It is rather that it was something to
talk to Jock about. He remembers everything. When papa was making that
will----" here Lucy stopped and sighed. It had not been doing her a good
service to make her recollect that will, which had enough in it to make
her life wretched, though that as yet nobody knew. "He recollects it
all," she said. "He used to hear it read out. He remembers everything."
"I suppose, then," said Sir Tom, with a peculiar smile, "there is
something in particular which he thought you were likely to forget?"
Here Lucy sighed again. "I am afraid I had forgotten it. No, not
forgotten, but--I never knew very well what to do. Perhaps you don't
remember either. It is about giving the money away."
Sir Tom was a far more considerable person in every way than the little
girl who was his wife, and who was not clever nor of any great account
apart from her wealth; and she was devoted to him, so that he could have
very little fear how any conflict should end when he was on one side, if
all the world were on the other. But perhaps he had been spoiled by
Lucy's entire agreement and consent to whatever he pleased to wish, so
that his tone was a little sharp, not so good-humoured as usual, but
with almost a sneer in it when he replied quickly, not leaving her a
moment to get her breath, "I see; Jock having inspiration from the
fountain head, was to be your guide in that."
She looked at him alarmed and penitent, but reproachful. "I would have
done nothing, I could have done nothing, oh Tom! without you."
"It is very obliging of you Lucy to say so; nevertheless, Jock thought
himself entitled to remind you of what you had forgotten, and to offer
himself as your adviser. Perhaps MTutor was to come in, too," he said,
with a laugh.
Sir Tom was not immaculate in point of temper any more than other men,
but Lucy had never suffered from it before. She was frightened, but she
did not give way. The colour went out of her cheeks, but there was more
in her than mere insipid submission. She looked at her husband with a
certain courage, though she was so pale, and felt so profoundly the
displeasure which she had never encountered before.
"I don't think you should speak like that, Tom. I have done nothing
wrong. I have only been talking to my brother of--of--a thing that
nobody cares about but him and me in all the world."
"And that is----"
"Doing what papa wished," Lucy said in a low voice. A little moisture
stole into her eyes. Whether it came because of her father, or because
her husband spoke sharply to her, it perhaps would have been difficult
to say.
This made Sir Tom ashamed of his ill-humour. It was cruel to be unkind
to a creature so gentle, who was not used to be found fault with; and
yet he felt that for Lucy to set up an independence of any kind was a
thing to be crushed in the bud. A man may have the most liberal
principles about women, and yet feel a natural indignation when his own
wife shows signs of desiring to act for herself; and besides, it was not
to be endured that a boy and girl conspiracy should be hatched under his
very nose to take the disposal of an important sum of money out of his
hands. Such an idea was not only ridiculous in itself, but apt to make
him ridiculous, a man who ought to be strong enough to keep the young
ones in order. "My dear," he said, "I have no wish to speak in any way
that vexes you; but I see no reason you can have--at least I hope there
has been nothing in my conduct to give you any reason--to withdraw your
confidence from me and give it to Jock."
Lucy did not make him any reply. She looked at him pathetically through
the water in her eyes. If she had spoken she would have cried, and this
in an open carriage, with a village close at hand, and people coming and
going upon the road, was not to be thought of. By the time she had
mastered herself Sir Tom had cooled down, and he was ashamed of having
made Lucy's lips to quiver and taken away her voice.
"That was a very nasty thing to say," he said, "wasn't it, Lucy? I ought
to be ashamed of myself. Still, my little woman must remember that I am
too fond of her to let her have secrets with anybody but me."
And with this he took the hand that was nearest to him into both of his
and held it close, and throwing a temptation in her way which she could
not resist, led her to talk of the baby and forget everything else
except that precious little morsel of humanity. He was far cleverer than
Lucy; he could make her do whatever he pleased. No fear of any
opposition, any setting up of her own will against his. When they got
home he gave her a kiss, and then the momentary trouble was all over. So
he thought at least. Lucy was so little and gentle and fair, that she
appeared to her husband even younger than she was; and she was a great
deal younger than himself. He thought her a sort of child-wife, whom a
little scolding or a kiss would altogether sway. The kiss had been
quite enough hitherto. Perhaps, since Jock had come upon the scene, a
few words of admonition might prove now and then necessary, but it would
be cruel to be hard upon her, or do more than let her see what his
pleasure was.
But Lucy was not what Sir Tom thought. She could not endure that there
should be any shadow between her husband and herself, but her mind was
not satisfied with this way of settling an important question. She took
his kiss and his apology gratefully, but if anything had been wanted to
impress more deeply upon her mind the sense of a duty before her, of
which her husband did not approve, and in doing which she could not have
his help, it would have been this little episode altogether. Even little
Tom did not efface the impression from her mind. At dinner she met her
husband with her usual smile, and even assented when he remarked upon
the pleasantness of finding themselves again alone together. There had
been other guests besides Jock, so that the remark did not offend her;
but yet Lucy was not quite like herself. She felt it vaguely, and he
felt it vaguely, and neither was entirely aware what it was.
In the morning, at breakfast, Sir Tom received a foreign letter, which
made him start a little. He started and cried, "Hollo!" then, opening
it, and finding two or three closely-scribbled sheets, gave way to a
laugh. "Here's literature!" he said. Lucy, who had no jealousy of his
correspondents, read her own calm little letters, and poured out the
tea, with no particular notice of her husband's interjections. It did
not even move her curiosity that the letter was in a feminine hand, and
gave forth a faint perfume. She reminded him that his tea was getting
cold, but otherwise took no notice. One of her own letters was from the
Dowager Lady Randolph, full of advice about the baby. "Mrs. Russell
tells me that Katie's children are the most lovely babies that ever were
seen; but she is very fantastic about them; will not let them wear shoes
to spoil their feet, and other vagaries of that kind. I hope, my dear
Lucy, that you are not fanciful about little Tom," Lady Randolph wrote.
Lucy read this very composedly, and smiled at the suggestion. Fanciful!
Oh, no, she was not fanciful about him--she was not even silly, Lucy
thought. She was capable of allowing that other babies might be lovely,
though why the feet of Katie's children should be of so much importance
she allowed to herself she could not see. She was roused from these
tranquil thoughts by a little commotion on the other side of the table,
where Sir Tom had just thrown down his letter. He was laughing and
talking to himself. "Why shouldn't she come if she likes it?" he was
saying. "Lucy, look here, since you have set up a confidant, I shall
have one too," and with that Sir Tom went off into an immoderate fit of
laughing. The letter scattered upon the table all opened out, two large
foreign sheets, looked endless. Nobody had ever written so much to Lucy
in all her life. She could see it was largely underlined and full of
notes of admiration and interrogation, altogether an out-of-the-way
epistle. Was it possible that Sir Tom was a little excited as well as
amused? He put his roll upon a hot plate, and began to cut it with his
knife and fork in an absence of mind, which was not usual with him, and
at intervals of a minute or two would burst out with his long "Ha, ha,"
again. "That will serve you out, Lucy," he said, with a shout, "if I set
up a confidant too."