Lucy did not know what to think or how to reply; she had never been called a celestial visitor before, and it was impossible not to be pleased by all this kindness and admiration. But then it was embarrassing, and she saw Mary in the background laugh. She felt half disposed to laugh too, and then to cry; but that was because she was parting with Jock, who, little monster, did not shed a tear. Lucy dried her own eyes almost indignantly; but even on her side the effect of the parting was broken by the assiduous attentions with which she was surrounded. She was so confused by having to take Bertie’s arm, and thus being conducted to the door, and put into the carriage, that she could not give Jock that last hug which she had intended. Mrs. Russell stood on the steps, and kissed her hand. “You will come soon again, come as often as you can. You will do us all good, as well as the little brother,” Mrs. Russell said. And Bertie put his head into the carriage to tell her that he would come himself and bring her news of Jock. They both spoke and looked as if Lucy were indeed a celestial visitor, a being of transcendent excellence and glory. She could not but be conscious of a bewildering sense of pleasure; but she was ashamed of so much devotion. She was not the least worthy of it. Could they be laughing at her? But why should any one be so cruel as to do that?
For the moment, however, all Lucy’s personal excitement in the consciousness of being able to change the circumstances of the poor lady, who had at first sight appealed so strongly to her sympathies, was subdued, and turned into the humiliation and shame of an officious person who has been offering unnecessary aid. She shrunk back into herself with a hot blush. Had she, perhaps, wanted to appear as a great benefactor in the eyes of the Russells? was it pride rather than pity? Lucy, though she had so little experience, was wise enough to know that undesired help is an insult, a thing that everybody resents. She was deeply disappointed and ashamed, not knowing how to excuse herself for her rash impulse of liberality, liberality which these high-spirited and hopeful people would most likely never have forgiven her for thinking of. She locked away her father’s memoranda again in the secret drawer.
“Oh, papa! papa!” she said to herself, “how could you think it would be so easy?”
He had thought money was everything, but it was not what he thought. Lucy was glad that she had not written to Mr. Chervil about it as she had intended, for most likely he would have laughed at her, or perhaps been angry. Evidently the only thing for her to do was to “read,” as Lady Randolph advised her, and try to learn German, and keep as quiet as possible. It was dull, very dull, without Jock, but Lucy was of a patient disposition, and reconciled herself gradually to her life.
On the whole, however, this life was a life full of pleasantness to which the most exacting young person might easily have reconciled herself. Lady Randolph was very kind—indeed, as time went on, she got to like Lucy very sincerely, appreciating the good qualities of a girl who brought so much into the establishment and took so little out, who gave no trouble at all, as the servants said, rather despising her for it. But Lady Randolph did not despise her. She knew the value of a companion who was always contented, and aspired after no forbidden pleasures of society, and did not so much as understand the A B C of flirting. Such a girl was of rare occurrence in the world, or, at least, so persons of experience, accustomed to think the worst of all classes of their fellow-creatures, said. A girl who was always willing to do what she was told, and who set up no will of her own, and had no confidential visitor, except Mr. Chervil, who was one of her legal guardians, was a charge with whom any chaperon might be pleased; provided all went as well next year, when Lucy came out; but Lady Randolph piously reflected that no one could tell what might happen before that. Lucy excited no strong feeling: there was little in her (except her fortune) to take hold of the imagination; but her quiet presence was always soothing and pleasant. Lady Randolph professed to go little into society that season, “saving herself up,” as she said, for the next, when it would be her more arduous duty to take Lucy out. But though she did not go out much, that did not prevent her from enjoying a great many dinner-parties, and even occasionally “looking in” upon some dear duchess’s ball; and Lucy spent many quiet evenings at home, in which her chief amusement was to hear the carriages of the people who were enjoying themselves roll up and down the street, and in wondering how she would like it next year, when she would be enjoying herself too. She did not at all dislike these quiet evenings, and, on the whole, her life passed very pleasantly as the spring grew into summer, and the season came to its prime. She rode in the morning, sometimes in the park, when Lady Randolph could find suitable companions for her, and often going as far as Hampstead, where Mary Russell looked out upon her from the school-room window with cheerful friendliness; and Bertie, not very sure of his skill, came out to put her on her horse when she was ready to go, and bit his young mustache with envy and anger against fate, which had denied him all such indulgences. Bertie, however, was buoyed up by a great confidence; his book was going through the press; he had got the opening he wanted; and presently, presently! he said to himself, his time of humiliation would be over. Lucy had no idea of the effect of her visits upon the household. The little pupils, who were not very answerable to Mary’s rule, hearing it often called in question, ran to the window when they heard the sound of the horses’ feet, and they too looked with envy upon little Jock, who now had a pony, and frequently went out with his sister. The little boys looked after Jock, some with admiring eyes, while others scowled at his unusual privileges.
“Why has that little beggar got a pony and us not?” the urchins would say indignantly; and Mrs. Russell was not, with all her refinement, much better than the boy who said this, who was the son of the grocer, taken on reciprocal terms, and whose presence was felt to be a humiliation to the establishment. Mrs. Russell never saw Lucy ride away without drying her eyes.
“To think my girls should be toiling while old Trevor’s daughter—” She looked out eagerly for Lucy’s coming, but this was the unfailing sentiment with which she greeted her. “The ways of Providence are inscrutable,” the poor lady said, “when I remember her mother, who was nothing but nursery-governess at the Brown-Joneses’, an old maid! when we used to call in mamma’s carriage.”
“If you were so much better off than her mother, she has a right to be better off than we are; it is only justice and fair play,” said Mary.
“Oh, child! child! hold your tongue, what can you know about it?” her mother said, with red eyes, while Bertie gnawed his mustache.
The young man stood and looked after Lucy, waiting to wave his hand to her as she turned the corner. She looked very well on horseback. If he had not felt that indignant envy of her, that sense that a trumpery bit of a girl had no right to be so much better off than he, he would have almost admired Lucy as she rode away. She was the representative of so many things that he did admire; wealth, luxurious case, an undeniable superiority to all care. That she should be set up on that pinnacle, high enough to impress the whole world with her greatness, while he, clever, and handsome, and well born, attracted attention from nobody, was one of those things which are so incredible in their inappropriateness as to fill the less fortunate with indignant astonishment; but presently, presently! the young man said to himself. Meantime he was very irregular in giving the little boys their Latin. The proofs took up a great deal of his time, and it was scarcely to be expected that a young author, on the verge of success and fame, could be as particular, in respect to hours, as a nameless pedagogue. Mrs. Russell fully felt the force of this argument. She did not see how Bertie could be expected to give himself up to the children every day. The Latin lessons came down to three times, then twice a week, and it was never quite certain when it might suit Mr. Russell to give them. “They shall have another half hour with me at their music, or, Mary, give them a little more geography; geography is very important, of far more consequence, at their age, than Latin,” the head of the establishment would say; and though the sight of Miss Trevor arriving on her fine horse, with her groom behind her, had a great effect upon the neighborhood, and the parents of the day-scholars were pleased to think that their little boys were at the same school as this fine young lady’s brother, yet after awhile there were remonstrances from these commonplace people. The boys, they complained, did not “get on.” “What do they mean by getting on? we are not bound to furnish intellects to our pupils,” Mrs. Russell said, assuming something of the same imperiousness which answered with Mrs. Stone; but, alas! it did not answer at Hampstead, and but for the hope of that book which was coming out directly, the poor lady would have seen a very dismal prospect before her. But the book was to make amends for everything, it was to bring both money and peace.