Part 10 (2/2)
And Jock watched all the day for an opportunity to get possession of her, and a.s.sail her on the other side of the question. She avoided him as persistently as he sought her, and with a panic which was very different from her usual happy confidence in him. But the moment came when she could elude him no longer. Lady Randolph had gone to her own room after her cup of tea, for that little nap before dinner which was essential to her good looks and pleasantness in the evening. Sir Tom, who was too much disturbed for the usual rules of domestic life, had not come in for that twilight talk which he usually enjoyed; and as Lucy found herself thus plunged into the danger she dreaded, she was hurrying after Lady Randolph, declaring that she heard baby cry, when Jock stepped into her way, and detained her, if not by physical, at least by moral force--
”Lucy,” he said, ”are you not going to tell me anything? I know you have got the letter, but you won't look at me, or speak a word.”
”Oh, Jock, how silly! why shouldn't I look at you? but I have so many things to do, and baby--I am sure I heard baby cry.”
”He is no more crying than I am. I saw him, and he was as jolly as possible. I want awfully to know about the Churchills, and what MTutor says.”
”Jock, I think Mr. Derwent.w.a.ter is rather grand in his writing. It looks as if he thought a great deal of himself.”
”No, he doesn't,” said Jock, hotly, ”not half enough. He's the best man we've got, and yet he can't see it. You needn't give me any information about MTutor,” added the young gentleman, ”for naturally I know all that much better than you. But I want to know about the Churchills. Lucy, is it all right?”
Lucy gave a little s.h.i.+ver though she was in front of the fire. She said, reluctantly, ”I think they seem very nice people, Jock.”
”I know they are,” said Jock, exultantly. ”Churchill in college is the nicest fellow I know. He read such a paper at the Poetical Society. It was on the Method of Sophocles; but of course you would not understand that.”
”No, dear,” said Lucy, mildly; and again she murmured something about the baby crying, ”I think indeed, Jock, I must go.”
”Just a moment,” said the boy, ”Now you are satisfied couldn't we drive into Farafield to-morrow and settle about it? I want to go with you, you and I together, and if old Rushton makes a row you can just call me.”
”But I can't leave Lady Randolph, Jock,” cried Lucy, driven to her wits'
end. ”It would be unkind to leave her, and a few days cannot do much harm. When she has gone away----”
”I shall be back at school. Let Sir Tom take her out for once. He might as well drive her in his new phaeton that he is so proud of. If it is fine she'll like that, and we can say we have some business.”
”Oh! Jock, don't press me so; a few days can't make much difference.”
”Lucy,” said Jock, sternly, ”do you think it makes no difference to keep a set of good people unhappy, just to save you a little trouble? I thought you had more heart than that.”
”Oh, let me go, Jock; let me go--that is little Tom, and he wants me,”
Lucy cried. She had no answer to make him--the only thing she could do was to fly.
CHAPTER XV.
ON BUSINESS.
Ten thousand pounds! These words have very different meanings to different people. Many of us can form little idea of what those simple syllables contain. They enclose as in a golden casket, rest, freedom from care, bounty, kindness, an easy existence, and an ending free of anxiety to many. To others they are nothing more than a cipher on paper, a symbol without any connection with themselves. To some it is great fortune, to others a drop in the ocean. A merchant will risk it any day, and think but little if the speculation is a failure. A prodigal will throw it away in a month, perhaps in a night. But the proportion of people to whom its possession would make all the difference between poverty and wealth far transcends the number of those who are careless of it. It is a pleasure to deal with such a sum of money even on paper.
To be concerned in giving it away, makes even the historian, who has nothing to do with it, feel magnificent and all-bounteous. Jock, who had as little experience to back him as any other boy of his age, felt a vague elation as he drove in by Lucy's side to Farafield. To confer a great benefit is always sweet. Perhaps if we a.n.a.lyse it, as is the fas.h.i.+on of the day, we will find that the pleasure of giving has a _fond_ of gratified vanity and self-consideration in it; but this weakness is at least supposed to be generous, and Jock was generous to his own consciousness, and full of delight at what was going to be done, and satisfaction with his own share in it. But Lucy's sensations were very different. She went with him with no goodwill of her own, like a culprit being dragged to execution. Duty is not always willing, even when we see it most clearly. Young Lady Randolph had a clear conviction of what she was bound to do, but she had no wish to do it, though she was so thoroughly convinced that it was inc.u.mbent upon her. Could she have pushed it out of her own recollection, banished it from her mind, she would have gladly done so. She had succeeded for a long time in doing this--excluding the consideration of it, and forgetting the burden bound upon her shoulders. But now she could forget it no longer--the thongs which secured it seemed to cut into her flesh. Her heart was sick with thoughts of the thing she must do, yet revolted against doing. ”Oh, papa, papa!” she said to herself, shaking her head at the grim, respectable house in which her early days had been pa.s.sed, as they drove past it to Mr. Rushton's office. Why had the old man put such a burden upon her? Why had not he distributed his money himself and left her poor if he pleased, with at least no unnatural charge upon her heart and life?
”Why do you shake your head?” said Jock, who was full of the keenest observation, and lost nothing.
He had an instinctive feeling that she was by no means so much interested in her duty as he was, and that it was his business to keep her up to the mark.
”Don't you remember the old house?” Lucy said, ”where we used to live when you were a child? Where poor papa died--where----”
”Of course I remember it. I always look at it when I pa.s.s, and think what a little a.s.s I used to be. But why did you shake your head? That's what I want to know.”
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