Part 6 (1/2)

”Well, Tom, I must say I am very glad of that,” Lady Randolph said gravely--and then there was a pause. ”I doubt whether Lucy would have liked her,” she added, after a moment. Then with another interval, ”I think, Lucy, my love, after that nice cup of tea, and my first sight of you, that I will go to my own room. I like a little rest before dinner--you know my lazy way.”

”And it's getting ridiculously dark in this room,” Sir Tom said, kicking a footstool out of the way. This little impatient movement was like one of those expletives that seem to relieve a man's mind, and both the ladies understood it as such, and knew that he was angry. Lucy, as she rose from her tea-table to attend upon her visitor, herself in a confused and painful mood, and vexed with what had been said to her, thought her husband was irritated by his aunt, and felt much sympathy with him, and anxiety to conduct Lady Randolph to her room before it should go any farther. But the elder lady understood it very differently. She went away, followed by Lucy through the great drawing-room, where a solitary lamp had been placed on a table to show the way. It had been the Dowager's own house in her day, and she did not require any guidance to her room. Nor did she detain Lucy after the conventional visit to see that all was comfortable.

”That I haven't the least doubt of,” Lady Randolph said, ”and I am at home, you know, and will ask for anything I want; but I must have my nap before dinner; and do you go and talk to your husband.”

Lucy could not resist one glance into the nursery, where little Tom, a little languid but so much better, was sitting on his nurse's knee before the fire, amused by those little fables about his fingers and toes which are the earliest of all dramatic performances. The sight of him thus content, and the sound of his laugh, was sweet to her in her anxiety. She ran downstairs again without disturbing him, closing so carefully the double doors that shut him out from all draughts, not without a wondering doubt as she did so, whether it was true, perhaps, that she was ”coddling” him, and if there was such a thing as wholesome neglect. She went quickly through the dim drawing-room to the warm ruddy flush of firelight that shone between the curtains from the smaller room, thinking nothing less than to find her husband, who was fond of an hour's repose in that kindly light before dinner. She had got to her old place in front of the fire before she perceived that Sir Tom's tall shadow was no longer there. Lucy uttered a little exclamation of disappointment, and then she perceived remorsefully another shadow, not like Sir Tom's, the long weedy boyish figure of her brother against the warm light.

”But you are here, Jock,” she said, advancing to him. Jock took hold of her arm, as he was so fond of doing.

”I shall never have you, now _she_ has come,” Jock said.

”Why not, dear? You were never fond of Lady Randolph--you don't know how good and kind she is. It is only when you like people that you know how nice they are,” Lucy said, all unconscious that a deeper voice than hers had announced that truth.

”Then I shall never know, for I don't like her,” said Jock uncompromising. ”You'll have to sit and gossip with her when you're not in the nursery, and I shall have no time to tell you, for the holidays last only a month.”

”But you can tell me everything in a month, you silly boy; and if we can't have our walks, Jock (for it's cold), there is one place where she will never come,” said Lucy, upon which Jock turned away with an exclamation of impatience.

His sister put her hand on his shoulder and looked reproachfully in his face.

”You too! You used to like it. You used to come and toss him up and make him laugh----”

”Oh, don't, Lucy! can't you see? So I would again, if he were like that.

How you can bear it!” said the boy, bursting away from her. And then Jock returned very much ashamed and horror-stricken, and took the hand that dropped by her side, and clumsily patted and kissed it, and held it between his own, looking penitently, wistfully, in her face all the while: but not knowing what to say.

Lucy stood looking down into the glowing fire, with her head drooping and an air of utter dejection in her little gentle figure. ”Do you think he looks so bad as that?” she said, in a broken voice.

”Oh, no, no; that is not what I mean,” the boy cried. ”It's--the little chap is not so jolly; he's--a little cross; or else he's forgotten me. I suppose it's that. He wouldn't look at me when I ran up. He's so little one oughtn't to mind, but it made me----your baby, Lucy! and the little beggar cried and wouldn't look at me.”

”Is that all?” said Lucy. She only half believed him, but she pretended to be deceived. She gave a little trembling laugh, and laid her head for a moment upon Jock's boyish breast, where his heart was beating high with a pa.s.sion of sorrow and tender love. ”Sometimes,” she said, leaning against him, ”sometimes I think I shall die. I can't live to see anything happen to him: and sometimes---- But he is ever so much better; don't you think he looks almost himself?” she said, raising her head hurriedly, and interrogating the scarcely visible face with her eyes.

”Looks! I don't see much difference in his looks, if he wouldn't be so cross,” said Jock, lying boldly, but with a tremor, for he was not used to it. And then he said hurriedly, ”But there's that clergyman, the father of the fellow on the foundation. I've found out all about him. I must tell you, Lucy. He is the very man. There is no call to think about it or put off any longer. What a thing it would be if he could have it by Christmas! I have got all the particulars--they look as if they were just made for us,” Jock cried.

CHAPTER X.

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.