“Don’t hurry away,” she said, “or Tom will think you are glad to escape now your post of entertainer is over;” and she kissed Lucy with a warm, natural tenderness which went to the girl’s heart. She went upstairs, indeed, altogether in a state of unusual and pleasant commotion. She had never met anybody in her life like Sir Tom. He told her of a hundred places he had been at, of his long journeys, and acquaintance with all sorts of things and people; bringing in the wide atmosphere of a big world into the four walls, which was all the sphere Lucy knew. How pleasant it was! It had stirred her altogether, with curiosity and interest, and amusement and admiration, yet with the amiable derision of a tidy, orderly girl for the man’s faculty of disarranging everything, which made the balance a little more even. He had seen every kind of wonder, but he could not sit down in a chair without ruffling up all its cover, and hooking on its ornaments to his buttons. This made her laugh, and disposed her to take care of Sir Tom, and pilot him to safe chairs, on which there were no antimacassars. She had felt perfectly at her ease with him, almost more than with Mr. Rushton, for instance, whom she had known at home; and the little agitation of his arrival, and the novelty of him generally, drove all her other ideas out of Lucy’s head. After she had gone to bed even, she could not but smile in the darkness to hear his big step coming upstairs, and his cheerful good-night to his aunt, which sounded up and down the narrow London staircase, so that everybody in the house shared it. “Good-night, Sir Tom,” Lucy said within herself and laughed. The house felt more safe, better taken care of, with this new-comer in it. It was enlivening to think that he would be there in the morning, with his cheery voice. “Provided he does not upset the house,” Lucy said to herself. She had not been aware that she had so much love of fun in her. As for Lady Randolph, she was glad to see Sir Tom. He was all she had to represent her family, and she was as fond of him as a mother. Perhaps the relationship of aunt made her accept his roving and lawlessness with more composure than a mother would have done, and they were the best friends in the world. When Lucy left the drawing-room, Lady Randolph gave her nephew a keen and anxious look; but it was not till some time after that the new inmate was talked of. Then it was Sir Tom himself who opened the subject:
“That’s a jolly little girl you’ve got.”
“Oh, Tom!” his aunt cried, throwing all her breath into that exclamation; “I am so glad to hear you say so.”
He laughed. “Do you suppose I am thinking of ulterior steps?” he said; “but I like her. She is a jolly little girl.”
And Lady Randolph, too, went to bed very happy, thinking Sir Tom’s big “good-night,” as it went booming up the staircase, as pleasant as any music. Her heart swelled as with the most generous of sentiments; she thought if she could but see the old Hall revived by new money, the rich new life-blood of gold untold, such as would soon be in Lucy’s possession, poured into the family veins, she thought she would die happy. And what could Lucy’s dearest friend desire better for her? Mrs. Russell, poor lady, thought the same thing of her son.
And next day, and for some days after, the house was like a new place. He went and came, out to his clubs, to the world outside, and back again, bringing news, public and private, bringing the breath of the general existence, in a manner entirely novel to Lucy. She had heard a great many stories of contemporary life in Lady Randolph’s drawing-room before, scraps of politics, which she paid no attention to, and tales of this one and the other, whom she did not know or care for; but whether it was something in the personality of Sir Tom, or that he told these stories better, or that the larger life which he brought into the house harmonized them and gave them a human attraction, it would be hard to say; but it is certain that they assumed a totally different character to Lucy. Somehow they did not seem gossip from his lips. Lady Betsinda suggested scandal in every line of her eager old face; but who could call that gossip which fell from the bearded lips of the good-natured adventurer, the man who had friends everywhere, among American Indians and African savages, as well as in the clubs? It is impossible to tell what a difference he made in the house, his very step on the stair brought variety, change, a difference, a relief from monotony, to which no one could remain insensible. The river of life had flowed slowly, partially frost-bound by chills to come in Lady Randolph’s veins, and not loosed from the spring icicles in Lucy’s; but when this torrent of full existence, warm and mature, came in, the stream was at once in flood, neither partial age nor developing youth being beyond its influence. Lucy was so much amused, so occupied with the change in the house, that the Russells and their concerns faded from her recollection. “Imogen” was put away on a side-table; and she had never required to make use of that subject for conversation: Have you seen the new novel? There was a much more easy one at hand: “Do you know Sir Thomas?” was now the question with which she took the initiative; and Lucy found a power of language she had never dreamed of possessing, in describing his travels and the things he had brought home. Sir Thomas had shot a lion—actually a lion—and had brought back its magnificent skin as a trophy. She got a little pink tinge on her cheeks, which was very becoming, as she described it. This gave her quite a little succès among Lady Randolph’s visitors, who had hitherto found her very elementary; and already there were jokes about Pygmalion and Galatea, and about the sunshine, which made buds open and birds sing. Lady Randolph, looking on watchfully, would have preferred that the spell had not worked quite so quickly. But as for Lucy she was delighted by her own awakening, and pleased to find herself enjoying everything, even the talk. The house was so much more cheerful now Sir Tom was in it. She put off her usual visit to Jock for a whole week. To be sure there were various reasons for that, for Lucy did not know how to meet Bertie Russell after the dedication, and felt that to speak of it, even to his mother, was difficult. What could she say? It was very “kind,” but then it was, as Lady Randolph said, “too broad.” Lucy did not like to think of it. She did not know how to meet the young man who had called her an Angel of Hope, and addressed her, even in print, as Lucy; and yet when they met she would be obliged to say something to him. Her embarrassment on this point had been greatly increased by the fact that Sir Tom had found the dedication out, and had “made fun” of it. He was mischievous, though Lucy did not like to think he was unkind. Sometimes he would refer to the Angel of Hope in a way which covered her with confusion, alarming her with a possibility of betrayal; but it was only to tease her, and she did not, on the whole, dislike Sir Tom’s teasing. On one of these occasions, however, she was so much frightened that she remonstrated. “Please,” she said, “do not tell any one it is me. Perhaps, after all, it is not me; Lucy is not an uncommon name. And oh, Sir Thomas, if you please, do not talk of it when any one is here.”
“I am afraid it must be you,” Sir Thomas said, “there could not be two with the same characteristics; but you may trust me, Miss Lucy, I will not tell, no, not for anything that might be offered me. Wild horses—”
“You are laughing at me,” she said.
“Would you have me cry? But I should like to punch the young fellow’s head. He had no right to do it. It was like a cad to do it; even in gratitude, he ought not to have exposed you to anything that might be disagreeable; besides, Miss Lucy, it is taking a base advantage of other fellows who can not write books.”
Lucy was not quite sure what he meant by this, but she replied very gravely,