LUCY'S ADVISERS.
Lady Randolph found her visit dull. It is true that there had been no
guests to speak of on previous Christmases since Sir Tom's marriage; but
the house had been more cheerful, and Lucy had been ready to drive, or
walk, or call, or go out to the festivities around. But now she was
absorbed by the nursing, and never liked to be an hour out of call. The
Dowager put up with it as long as she was able. She did not say anything
more on the subject for some days. It was not, indeed, until she had
been a week at the Hall that, being disturbed by the appeals of Lucy as
to whether she did not think baby was looking better than when she came,
she burst forth at last. They were sitting by themselves in the hour
after dinner when ladies have the drawing-room all to themselves. It is
supposed by young persons in novels to be a very dreary interval, but to
the great majority of women it is a pleasant moment. The two ladies sat
before the pleasant fire; Lucy with some fleecy white wool in her lap
with which she was knitting something for her child, Lady Randolph with
a screen interposed between her and the fire, doing nothing, an
operation which she always performed gracefully and comfortably. It
could not be said that the gentlemen were lingering over their wine.
Jock had retired to the library, where he was working through all the
long-collected literary stores of the Randolph family, with an
instinctive sense that his presence in the drawing-room was not desired.
Sir Tom had business to do, or else he was tired of the domestic calm.
The ladies had been sitting for some time in silence when Lady Randolph
suddenly broke forth--
"You know what I said to you the first evening, Lucy? I have not said a
word on the subject since--of course I didn't come down here to enjoy
your hospitality and then to find fault."
"Oh, Aunt Randolph! don't speak of hospitality; it is your own house."
"My dear, it is very pretty of you to say so. I hope I am not the sort
of person to take advantage of it. But I feel a sort of responsibility,
seeing it was I that brought you together first. Lucy, I must tell you.
You are not doing what you ought by Tom. Here he is, a middle-aged man,
you know, and one of the first in the county. People look to him for a
great many things: he is the member: he is a great landowner: he is
(thanks to you) very well off. And here is Christmas, and not a visitor
in the house but myself. Oh, there's Jock! a schoolboy home for his
holidays--that does not count; not a single dinner that I can hear
of----"
"Yes, aunt, on the 6th," said Lucy, with humility.
"On the 6th, and it is now the 27th! and no fuss at all made about
Christmas. My dear, you needn't tell me it's a bore. I know it is a
bore--everywhere wherever one goes; still, everybody does it. It is just
a part of one's responsibilities. You don't go to balls in Lent, and you
stand on your heads, so to speak, at Christmas. The country expects it
of you; and it is always a mistake to take one's own way in such
matters. You should have had, in the first place," said Lady Randolph,
counting on her fingers, "your house full; in the second, a ball, to
which everybody should have been asked. On these occasions no one that
could possibly be imagined to be gentlefolk should be left out. I would
even stretch a point--doctors and lawyers, and so forth, go without
saying, and those big brewers, you know, I always took in; and some
people go as far as the 'vet.,' as they call him. He was a very
objectionable person in my day, and that was where I drew the line; then
three or four dinners at the least."
"But, Aunt Randolph, how could we when baby is so poorly----"
"What has baby to do with it, Lucy? You don't have the child down to
receive your guests. With the door of his nursery shut to keep out the
noise (if you think it necessary: I shouldn't think it would matter)
what harm would it do him? He would never be a bit the wiser, poor
little dear. Yes, I dare say your heart would be with him many a time
when you were elsewhere; but you must not think of yourself."
"I did not mean to do so, aunt. I thought little Tom was my first duty."
"Now, I should have thought, my dear," said the Dowager, smiling
blandly, "that it would have been big Tom who answered to that
description."
"But, Tom----" Lucy paused, not knowing in what shape to put so obvious
a truth, "he is like me," she said. "He is far, far more anxious than he
lets you see. It is his--duty too."
"A great many other things are his duty as well; besides, there is so
much, especially in a social point of view, which the man never sees
till his wife points it out. That's one of the uses of a woman. She must
keep up her husband's popularity, don't you see? You must never let it
be said: 'Oh, Sir Tom! he is all very well in Parliament, but he does
nothing for the county.'"
"I never thought of that," said Lucy, with dismay.
"But you must learn to think of it, my love. Never mind, this is the
first Christmas since the election. But one dinner, and nothing else
done, not so much as a magic lantern in the village! I do assure you, my
dearest girl, you are very much to blame."
"I am very sorry," said Lucy, with a startled look, "but, dear aunt,
little Tom----"
"My dear Lucy! I am sure you don't wish everybody to get sick of that
poor child's very name."
Lucy sprang up from her chair at this outrage; she could not bear any
more. A flush of almost fury came upon her face. She went up to the
mantelpiece, which was a very fine one of carved wood, and leant her
head upon it. She did not trust herself to reply.
"Now, I know what you are thinking," said Lady Randolph blandly. "You
are saying to yourself, that horrid old woman, who never had a child,
how can she know?--and I don't suppose I do," said the clever Dowager
pathetically. "All that sweetness has been denied to me. I have never
had a little creature that was all mine. But when I was your age, Lucy,
and far older than you, I would have given anything--almost my life--to
have had a child."
Lucy melted in a moment, threw herself down upon the hearth-rug upon her
knees, and took Lady Randolph's hands in her own and kissed them.
"Oh, dear aunt, dear aunt!" she cried, "to think I should have gone on
so about little Tom and never remembered that you---- But we are all your
children," she said, in the innocence and fervour of her heart.
"Yes, my love." Lady Randolph freed one of her hands and put it up with
her handkerchief to her cheek. As a matter of fact she did not regret it
now, but felt that a woman when she is growing old is really much more
able to look after her own comforts when she has no children; and yet,
when she remembered how she had been bullied on the subject, and all the
reproaches that had been addressed to her as if it were her fault,
perhaps there was something like a tear. "That is why I venture to say
many things to you that I would not otherwise. Tom, indeed, is too old
to have been my son; but I have felt, Lucy, as if I had a daughter in
you." Then shaking off this little bit of sentiment with a laugh, the
Dowager raised Lucy and kissed her and put her into a chair by her own
side.
"Since we are about it," she said, "there is one other thing I should
like to talk to you about. Of course your husband knows a great deal
more of the world than you do, Lucy; but it is perhaps better that he
should not decide altogether who is to be asked. Men have such strange
notions. If people are amusing it is all they think of. Well, now, there
is that Contessa di Forno-Populo. I would not have her, Lucy, if I were
you."
"But it was she who was the special person," said Lucy, in amaze. "The
others were to come to meet her. She is an old friend."
"Oh, I know all about the old friendship," said Lady Randolph. "I think
Tom should be ashamed of himself. He knows that in other houses where
the mistress knows more about the world. Yes, yes, she is an old friend.
All the more reason, my dear, why you should have as little to say to
her as possible; they are never to be reckoned upon. Didn't you hear
what he called her. _La_ Forno-Populo? Englishmen never talk of a lady
like that if they have any great respect for her; but it can't be denied
that this lady has a great deal of charm. And I would just keep her at
arm's length, Lucy, if I were you."
"Dear Aunt Randolph, why should I do that?" said Lucy, gravely. "If she
is Tom's friend, she must always be welcome here. I do not know her,
therefore I can only welcome her for my husband's sake; but that is
reason enough. You must not ask me to do anything that is against Tom."
"Against Tom! I think you are a little goose, Lucy, though you are so
sensible. Is it not all for his sake that I am talking? I want you to
see more of the world, not to shut yourself up here in the nursery
entirely on his account. If you don't understand that, then words have
no meaning."
"I do understand it, aunt," said Lucy meekly. "Don't be angry; but why
should I be disagreeable to Tom's friend? The only thing I am afraid of
is, should she not speak English. My French is so bad----"
"Oh, your French will do very well; and you will take your own way, my
dear," said the elder lady, getting up. "You all do, you young people.
The opinion of others never does any good; and as Tom does not seem to
be coming, I think I shall take my way to bed. Good-night, Lucy.
Remember what I said, at all events, about the magic lantern. And if you
are wise you will have as little to do as possible with La Forno-Populo
as you can--and there you have my two pieces of advice."
Lucy was disturbed a little by her elder's counsel, both in respect to
the foreign lady, whom, however, she simply supposed Lady Randolph did
not like--and in regard to her own nursery tastes and avoidance of
society;--could that be why Tom sat so much longer in the dining-room
and did not come in to talk to his aunt? She began to think with a
little ache in her heart, and to remember that in her great
preoccupation with the child he had been left to spend many evenings
alone, and that he no longer complained of this. She stood up in front
of the fire and pressed her hot forehead to the mantel-shelf. How was a
woman to know what to do? Was not he that was most helpless and had most
need of her the one to devote her time to? There was not a thought in
her that was disloyal to Sir Tom. But what if he were to form the habit
of doing without her society? This was an idea that filled her with a
vague dread. Some one came in through the great drawing-room as she
stood thinking, and she turned round eagerly, supposing that it was her
husband; but it was only Jock, who had been on the watch to hear Lady
Randolph go upstairs.
"I never see you at all now, Lucy," cried Jock. "I never have a chance
but in the holidays, and now they're half over, and we have not had one
good talk. And what about poor Mr. Churchill, Lucy? I thought he was the
very man for you. He has got about a dozen children and no money.
Somebody else pays for Churchill, that's the fellow I told you of that's
on the foundation. I shouldn't have found out all that, and gone and
asked questions and got myself thought an inquisitive beggar, if it
hadn't been for your sake."
"Oh, Jock, I'm sure I am much obliged to you," said Lucy, dolefully;
"and I am so sorry for the poor gentleman. It must be dreadful to have
so many children and not to be able to give them everything they
require."
At this speech, which was uttered with something between impatience and
despair, and which made no promise of any help or succour, her brother
regarded her with a mixture of anger and disappointment.
"Is that all about it, Lucy?" he said.
"Oh, no, Jock! I am sure you are right, dear. I know I ought to bestir
myself and do something, but only---- How much do you think it would take
to make them comfortable? Oh, Jock, I wish that papa had put it all into
somebody's hands, to be done like business--somebody that had nothing
else to think of!"
"What have you to think of, Lucy?" said the boy, seriously, in the
superiority of his youth. "I suppose, you know, you are just too well
off. You can't understand what it is to be like that. You get angry at
people for not being happy, you don't want to be disturbed." He paused
remorsefully, and cast a glance at her, melting in spite of himself, for
Lucy did not look too well off. Her soft brow was contracted a little;
there was a faint quiver upon her lip. "If you really want to know,"
Jock said, "people can live and get along when they have about five
hundred a year. That is, as far as I can make out. If you gave them
that, they would think it awful luck."
"I wish I could give them all of it, and be done with it!"
"I don't see much good that would do. It would be two rich people in
place of one, and the two would not be so grand as you. That would not
have done for father at all. He liked you to be a great heiress, and
everybody to wonder at you, and then to give your money away like a
queen. I like it too," said Jock, throwing up his head; "it satisfies
the imagination: it is a kind of a fairy tale."
Lucy shook her head.
"He never thought how hard it would be upon me. A woman is never so well
off as a man. Oh, if it had been you, Jock, and I only just your
sister."
"Talking does not bring us any nearer a settlement," said Jock, with
some impatience. "When will you do it, Lucy? Have you got to speak to
old Rushton, or write to old Chervil, or what? or can't you just draw
them a cheque? I suppose about ten thousand or so would be enough. And
it is as easy to do it at one time as another. Why not to-morrow, Lucy?
and then you would have it off your mind."
This proposal took away Lucy's breath. She thought with a gasp of Sir
Tom and the look with which he would regard her--the laugh, the amused
incredulity. He would not be unkind, and her right to do it was quite
well established and certain. But she shrank within herself when she
thought how he would look at her, and her heart jumped into her throat
as she realised that perhaps he might not laugh only. How could she
stand before him and carry her own war in opposition to his? Her whole
being trembled even with the idea of conflict. "Oh, Jock, it is not just
so easily managed as that," she said faltering; "there are several
things to think of. I will have to let the trustees know, and it must
all be calculated."
"There is not much need for calculation," said Jock, "that is just about
it. Five per cent is what you get for money. You had better send the
cheque for it, Lucy, and then let the old duffers know of it afterwards.
One would think you were afraid!"
"Oh, no," said Lucy, with a slight shiver, "I am not afraid." And then
she added, with growing hesitation, "I must--speak to---- Oh! Is it you,
Tom?" She made a sudden start from Jock's side, who was standing close
by her, argumentative and eager, and whose bewildered spectatorship of
her guilty surprise and embarrassment she was conscious of through all.
"Yes, it is I," said Sir Tom, putting his hand upon her shoulders; "you
must have been up to some mischief, Jock and you, or you would not look
so frightened. What is the secret?" he said, with his genial laugh. But
when he looked from Jock, astonished but resentful and lowering, to
Lucy, all trembling and pale with guilt, even Sir Tom, who was not
suspicious, was startled. His little Lucy! What had she been plotting
that made her look so scared at his appearance? Or was it something that
had been told to her, some secret accusation against himself? This
startled Sir Tom also a little, and it was with a sudden gravity, not
unmingled with resentment, that he added, "Come! I mean to know what it
is."