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.