Sir Thomas Randolphgot up next morning with his usual good spirits a little heightened by something, he could not immediately recollect what. The doubt lasted only for a moment, but, perhaps, his happiness was not so instantaneously present to his mind as a new vexation would have been. But on his second waking moment, he jumped up from his bed and laughed. The red October sunshine was shining into his room; he went and looked out from his window upon the noble trees in his park, stretching far away in ruddy masses, all golden and red with the frosty, not fiery, finger (pardon, dear poet!) of autumn. As far as he could see (and a great deal further) the land was his; but oh, poor acres! how heavy with mortgages! how stiff with borrowings! heavier and stiffer than the native clay, of which there was too much about Farafield; but that was all over, this red, russet October morning; the house had a mistress, and the land was free. Was it a wrong toLucy that he thought of this so soon? He laughed, at first, at the astounding position in which he suddenly recollected himself to stand, as betrothed man, a happy and successful lover; and then there suddenly rushed into his mind the idea that the change would make him entirely independent, safe from all duns, free of all creditors, his own master on his own land. When, however, he went down-stairs and eat his solitary breakfast near the fire in the great paneled room, with its old tapestries and family portraits, the noblest room in the county, though as good as shut up for so many years, there came quite sweetly and delightfully into Sir Tom’s mind the idea, not of the hospitalities which now were possible, but of a little serious countenance, with two mild blue eyes, following his looks with a little strain of intelligence, not quite,quitesure all at once of his meaning, but always sure that he was right, and soon finding out what he meant, and lighting up with understanding all the more pleasant for the first surprise of uncertainty. When this little vision glanced across him, he put down his newspaper, which he had taken up mechanically, and smiled at it over the table. “Give me some tea, Lucy,” he said, with an amused, exhilarated, almost excited realization of what was going to be. “I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas?” said the solemn butler, just coming in; and then, will it be believed? Sir Tom, who had knocked about the world for so many years, Sir Tom, who had touched the borders of middle age, and gone through no small amount of experiences—blushed! He laughed afterward and resumed his paper; but that there had come over, between his big mustache and his quite unthinned and plentiful locks, a delightful youthful suffusion of warmth and color, it was impossible to deny. He felt it quite necessary to sound a trumpet forthwith, so much tickled was he with his own confusion, and pleased with himself. “Williams, I am going to be married,” he said. Williams was a man who had been all over the world with his master, who had himself gone through various transformations, had been a saucy valet, and an adventurer, and a dignified family servant by turns, and was not a man to be surprised at anything; but he stopped short in the middle of the room, and said, “Indeed, Sir Thomas!” in a tone more like bewilderment than any that ever had been heard from him before. “Did you ever hear such a joke?” said the master, thinking of his own blush, that unparalleled circumstance; and “It do indeed, Sir Thomas,” Mr. Williams gravely replied.
However, after this serious revelation there were more serious matters at hand. Sir Thomas had decided that he would go to Mr.Rushton in the morning, who was the real guardian, and with whom in any case he would have to do; whether it would be necessary in everything to observe the ordinances of the will, which Lucy, he knew, had declared her determination to stand by, and ask the consent of all that board of guardians to whom old Trevor had given the power of hampering and hindering Lucy’s marriage, was a thing he had not made up his mind upon; but with Mr. Rushton, at least, he must have to do. He drove into Farafield through the keen air of the bright, chill, sunshiny morning with great courage and confidence. It might be said that he was fortune-hunting too; but if he would receive a certain advantage from the heiress, it was certain that he had something to offer on his side which no woman would despise. To put her at the head of the noblest old house and the most notable family in the county was a balance on his side which made Lucy’s advantage no more than was desirable. Mr. Rushton, however, presented the air of a man perturbed and angry when Sir Thomas entered his office. A letter was lying on the table before him, the sight of which, it must be allowed, somewhat discomposed even Sir Tom. Was it Lucy’s handwriting? Had she taken it upon her to be the first to communicate to her legal guardian the change in her fortunes which had happened? If this had been the case, no doubt Sir Tom would have adapted himself to it, and concluded by finding it quite natural and becoming that a girl in so exceptional a position should take this upon herself. But in the meantime he felt just a little annoyed and disconcerted too.
“I see you are busy,” Sir Thomas said.
“No—not so much busy— I am always busy at this hour, and shall be, I hope, as long as my strength lasts; but not more than usual. The truth is,” said Mr. Rushton, with a suppressed snarl, “I’m provoked—and not much wonder if you knew all.”
Sir Thomas looked at the open letter in spite of himself. “May I ask if I have anything to do with your annoyance?” he said.
“You!” the lawyer opened his eyes wide, then laughed angrily. “No, I don’t suppose it can be you. She is not quite so silly as that.”
“Silly!” echoed Sir Thomas; “perhaps it will be better to tell you at once without any circumlocution what my errand is. I have come to tell you, Rushton, a piece of news which may surprise you—that I have made an offer to Miss Trevor, and that she has accepted me.”
Mr. Rushton said not a word; he was altogether taken aback.He stood with his mouth open, and his eyebrows forming large semicircles over his eyes, and stared at Sir Thomas without a word.
“This naturally,” said the hero of the occasion, with a laugh, “makes it—not quite safe—to criticise Miss Trevor to me.”
“Accepted—you!” He could scarcely get his breath, so bewildered was he. “Do you mean to say that you—want to marry Lucy Trevor!” Mr. Rushton said.
“Yes, in common with various other people,” said Sir Thomas, “some of whom you may have heard of; but the specialty in my case, is that she has accepted me. I thought it my duty to come to you at once as Miss Trevor’s guardian. I hope you do not object to me—you have known me long enough—as a suitor for her. I am rather old for her, perhaps, but otherwise I think—”
“Accepted you!” the lawyer repeated; and then he gave utterance to a hard laugh. “She is young, but she is a cool one,” he said. “Accepts you one minute, and writes to me to make a provision for an old lover, I suppose. Probably some one she has cast off for your sake—the minx! Sheisa cool one,” Mr. Rushton said.
“You forgot—what I have this minute told you, Rushton.”
“No, pardon me, I don’t forget,” said Lucy’s guardian. “She is only a girl as you may say, but it seems to me she is fooling us all. Look at that—read that,” he said, tossing the open letter at Sir Thomas, who, for his part, took it—how could he help it? with a little tremble of apprehension. This is what he read:
“Dear Mr. Rushton,— I think I have found some one else that is all that is required by papa’s will. This time it is a gentleman, and as he is not married, and has no children, it will not require so much. He is very clever, and has a good profession; but his health is not good, and he wants rest. This is just what papa would have wished, don’t you think so? Two or three thousand pounds would do, I think—and I will tell you everything about it and explain all, if you will come to me, or if I can go and see you. I have written to Mr. Chervil too.“Sincerely yours,Lucy Trevor.”
“Dear Mr. Rushton,— I think I have found some one else that is all that is required by papa’s will. This time it is a gentleman, and as he is not married, and has no children, it will not require so much. He is very clever, and has a good profession; but his health is not good, and he wants rest. This is just what papa would have wished, don’t you think so? Two or three thousand pounds would do, I think—and I will tell you everything about it and explain all, if you will come to me, or if I can go and see you. I have written to Mr. Chervil too.
“Sincerely yours,Lucy Trevor.”
“Did you ever hear anything like it?” said the lawyer, exasperated. “If there is still time, you will thank me for letting you know, Sir Thomas. Who can tell who this person is? and the moment you appear, no doubt much better worth the trouble—”
“Must I again remind you of what I said?” Sir Thomas repeated. “This has reference, so far as I can see, to a condition of the father’s will, which Miss Trevor has very much in her mind.”
“She has told you of it? There never was so mad a proviso.They have ‘a bee in their bonnet,’ as the Scotch say. And I’ve got to stand by and see a fine fortune scattered to the winds! That girl will drive me mad. I lose my head altogether when I think of her. The old man was always an eccentric, and he couldn’t take the money with him. You know a man doesn’t feel it, what he does by his will; but that any living creature, in their senses, should throw away good money! I believe that girl will drive me mad.”
“A la bonne heure,” said Sir Thomas, “you have nothing to do but transfer your charge to me.”
“Ah! you’ll put a stop to it? I see. A husband can do a great many things; that is what I thought, that was my idea when— There are a great many things to be taken into consideration, Sir Thomas,” Mr. Rushton said, recovering his self-possession. “Your proposal is one to be treated respectfully, but nevertheless in my ward’s interest—”
“I think those interests have been considerably risked already,” said Sir Thomas, gravely. “I do not think they are safe here; she is with people who do not know how to take care of her.”
“According to the will, Sir Thomas—”
“But it is not according to the will that she should have no guardianship at all, but be approached by every youth that happens to cross her path.”
Mr. Rushton winced; if his wife schemed, was it his fault? “Ah! I had heard something of that,” he said. “Some young fellow who followed her from town; it must be put a stop to.”
“It is put a stop to,” said Sir Thomas, “Miss Trevor has, as I tell you, accepted me.”
“That is the most effectual way, certainly, isn’t it?” Mr. Rushton said, discomfited. He rubbed his hands ruefully, and shifted from one foot to another. “It is a very serious question. I must go into it fully before I can pretend to say anything; you have a fine property, but it is heavily burdened, and a good position, an excellent position; but with her fortune my ward has a right to look very high indeed, Sir Thomas,” the lawyer said.
“You will not promise me your support?” said Sir Thomas. “I have a hard task before me, I understand, and the consent of a great many people to secure. And how about Miss Trevor’s letter?” he said, with a twinkle in his eye; “she will ask me what you said.”
Mr. Rushton grew crimson once more. “It is out of the question,” he cried; “the girl is mad, and she will drive me mad. Two or three thousands! only two or three thousand pounds! theother day she made away with six thousand— I declare before heaven she will bring down my gray hairs—no, that’s not what I mean to say. But you can’t treat money in this way, Sir Thomas, you can’t do it; it will make me ill, it will give me a fever, or something. The girl does not know what she is doing. Money! the one thing in the world that you can’t treat in this way.”
“But the will permits it?” said Sir Thomas, with a fictitious look of sympathy.
“Oh, the will, the will is mad too. I dare not take it into a court of law. It would not stand, it could not stand for a moment. And what would be the issue?” cried Mr. Rushton, almost weeping, “the money would be divided. The old man would be declared intestate, and the child, Jock, as they call him, would take his share. She would deserve it—upon my honor, she would deserve it—but it would cut the property to pieces all the same, and that would be worse than anything. It will drive me out of my senses; I can’t bear this anxiety much longer,” Mr. Rushton said.
Sir Thomas shook his head. “I don’t see how it is to be mended. She has set her heart on carrying out the will, and unless you can show that she has no right—”
“Right, there is no right in it!” Mr. Rushton cried. “She will find out she has me to deal with. I am not a fool like Chervil. I will not give in at the first word; I will make my stand. I will put down my foot.”
“But, my good fellow,” said Sir Thomas sympathetically, “first word or last word, what can it matter? What can you do against her? The will gives it, and the law allows it—you are helpless—you must give in to her at the last.”
“I won’t!” he said, “or else I’ll throw up the whole concern, it has been nothing but botheration and annoyance. And now my wife at me—and Ray. I’ll wash my hands of the whole matter. I’ll not have my life made a burden to me, not for old Trevor, nor for Lucy, nor for any will in the world.”
“Give her to me, and you will be free,” said Sir Thomas, looking at his excited opponent steadily, to conceal the laughter in his own eyes.
He came out of Mr. Rushton’s office an hour after, triumphant, and came along the market-place, and down the High Street, with a smile upon his face. Sir Tom felt that the ball was at his foot. An air of success and prosperity was about him, which vaguely impressed all the passers-by, and even penetrated through the shows in the shop-windows, and made everybody aware that somethingfortunate had happened. What had come to him? A fortune had been left him—he had been appointed Embassador somewhere, he had been made an Under-Secretary of State. All these suggestions were abroad in Farafield before night; for at this time it was quite early, and the people about were at comparative leisure, and free to remark on what they saw. Something had happened to Sir Tom, and it was something good. The town in general disapproved of many of his ways, but yet liked Sir Tom. It pleased the public to see him streaming along like a procession, with all his colors flying. He went on till he came to the Terrace, pervading the streets like a new gleam of sunshine; but then he stopped short, just as he was about to enter the gate-way. Lucy herself was at the window, looking for him. He paused as he was about to go in, then waved his hand to her, and turned the other way. Lucy followed him with her eyes, with astonishment, and disappointment, and consternation. Where could he be going across the common, away from her, though he saw her waiting for him? Sir Tom looked back once more, and waved his hand again when he was half way along the uneven road. He was bound for the White House. He recollected the letter of the will, which Lucy had vowed to keep, though Lucy herself had forgotten the marriage committee, and Mr. Rushton had this very morning openly scoffed at it. But Sir Thomas was confident in the successfulness of his success. Already of the six votes he had secured three. One more, and all was safe.
Mrs. Stone was in her parlor, like the queen in the ballad, and, like that royal lady, was engaged upon a light refection. She had been worried, and she had been crossed, and teaching is hungry work. The two sisters were strengthening themselves with cake and wine for their work, when Sir Thomas Randolph was suddenly shown into the Queen Anne parlor, taking them by surprise. Sir Tom was not a man to alarm any woman with the mildest claim to personal attractiveness, and he admired the handsome school-mistress, and was not without an eye to see that even the little Southernwood, with her little old-fashioned curls upon her cheek, had a pretty little figure still, and a complexion which a girl need not have despised. How Sir Tom made it apparent that he saw these personal advantages, it would be hard to say—yet he managed to do so; and in five minutes had made himself as comfortable as the circumstances permitted in one of the lofty Chippendale chairs, and was talking of most things in heaven and earth in his easy way. The ladies saw, as the people in the streets had seen, that some good fortune had happened to Sir Tom. But he was very wary in hisadvances, and it was not till a little stir in the passages gave him warning that the girls were flocking in again to their class-rooms, and the moment of leisure nearly over, that he ventured on the real object of his visit. It was more difficult than he had thought; he had his back to the window, and the room was not very light, which was a protection to him; but still he had to clear his throat more than once before he began.
“I have a selfish object in this early visit,” he said; “you will never divine it. I have come to throw myself on your charity. You have it in your power to make me or to mar me. I want you to give me your consent.”
“To what?” Mrs. Stone said, surprised. Was it for a general holiday? was it an indulgence for Lily Barrington, for whom he professed a partiality? What was it? perhaps aprotégéeof doubtful pedigree, whom he wished to put under her care.
Sir Thomas got up, keeping his back to the window. It was not half so easy as dealing with Mr. Rushton. “It is something about your little pupil, Lucy Trevor.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Stone got up too. “I want to hear nothing more of Lucy Trevor. I wash my hands of her,” she said.
“Ah?” said Miss Southernwood, coming a step closer. She divined immediately, though she was not half so clever as her sister, what it was.
“I am sorry she has displeased you,” said Sir Tom. “I want you to let me marry her, Mrs. Stone.”
“Marry her!” Mrs. Stone said, almost with a shriek; and then she drew herself up to a great deal more than her full height, as she knew, very well how to do. “I have taken an interest in her, and she has disappointed me,” she said; “and as to consenting or not consenting, all that is nonsense nowadays. It might have answered last century, but now it is obsolete.” Then she made him a stately courtesy. “I could have nothing to oppose to Sir Thomas Randolph, even, if I meant to oppose at all,” she said.
Miss Southernwood came up to him as the door closed on her sister.
“Was this what she meant all the time?” asked the milder woman. “It was you she was thinking of all the time? Well, I do not blame her, and I hope you may be very happy. But, Sir Thomas, tell Lucy that I rely upon her to do nothing more in the matter we were talking of. It could not be done, it would not be possible to have it done; but, surely, surely, you could make it up between you to poor Frank. There are so many appointments thatwould suit him, if he had good friends that would take a little trouble. I do think, Sir Thomas, that it might be made up to Frank.”
Miss Southernwood, after all, was the best partisan and most staunch supporter; but it was strange that she, who had not originated, nay, who had disapproved of her sister’s scheme in respect to Frank St. Clair, should be the one to insist upon a compensation to that discomfited hero.
Lucy was still standing at the window when Sir Tom came back. He made signs of great despondency when he came in sight and alarmed her.
“She will not give me her consent, though I made sure of it,” he said. “Lucy, what shall we do if we can not get Mrs. Stone’s consent?”
“Her consent?” said Lucy, with momentary surprise. Then she made her first rebellion against all she had hitherto considered most sacred. “I think we might do without it,” she said.
Therewas one thing which Sir Thomas got out of his matrimonial arrangements which was more than he expected, and that was a great deal of fun. After he had received, in the way above described, the angry submission of the two whom he chiefly feared, he had entered into the spirit of the thing, and determined that he would faithfully obey the will, and obtain the assent of all that marriage committee, who expected to make Lucy’s marrying so difficult a matter. He was even visited by some humorous compunctions as he went on. The entire failure of poor old Trevor’s precautions on this point awakened a kind of sympathetic regret in his mature mind. “Poor old fellow!” he said; “probably I was the last person he would have given his heiress to: most likely all these fences were made to keep me out,” he laughed; yet he felt a kind of sympathy for the old man, who, indeed, however, would have had no such objection to Sir Thomas as Sir Thomas thought. Next morning Lucy’s suitor went to the rector, who, to be sure, had it in his power to stop the whole proceedings, advanced as they were. But the rector had heard, by some of the subtle secret modes of communication which convey secrets, of something going on, and patted Sir Thomas on the shoulder.
“My dear Sir Tom,” he said, “I never for a moment attached any importance to the vote given to me. Why should I interfere with Miss Trevor’s marriage? Your father-in-law that is to be (if one can speak in the future tense of a person who is in the past) entertained some odd ideas. He was an excellent man, I have not a doubt on that point, but— Now what could I know about it, for instance? I know Lucy—she’s a very nice girl, my girls like what they have seen of her immensely; but I know nothing about her surroundings. I am inclined to think she is very lucky to have fallen into no worse hands than yours.”
“The compliment is dubious,” said Sir Tom, “but I accept it; and I may take it for granted that I have your consent?”
“Certainly, certainly, you have my consent. I never thought of it but as a joke. That old man— I beg your pardon—your father-in-law must have had queer ideas about many things. I hear he left his heiress great latitude about spending—allowed her, in short, to give away her money.”
“I wonder how you heard that?”
“Ah! upon my word I can scarcely tell you. Common talk. They say, by the way, she is going to give a fortune to Katie Russell on her marriage with young Rainy, the school-master; compensation, that! Rainy (who is a young prig, full of dissenting blood, though it suits him to be a churchman) no doubt thought he had a good chance for the heiress herself.”
“Don’t speak any worse than you can help of my future relations,” said Sir Tom, with a laugh: “it might make things awkward afterward;” upon which the rector perceived that he had gone half a step too far.
“Rainy is a very respectable fellow; there is not a word to be said against him. I wish I could say as much for all my own relations,” he said; “but, Randolph, as I am a kind of a guardian, you know, take my advice in one thing. It is all very fine to be liberal; but I would not let her throw her money away.”
Sir Tom made no direct reply. He shook the rector’s hand, and laughed. “I’ll tell Lucy you send her your blessing,” he said.
And then he went off in a different direction, from the fine old red-brick rectory, retired in its grove of trees, to the little, somewhat shabby street in which Mr. Williamson, the Dissenting minister, resided—if a man can be said to reside in a back street. The house was small and dingy, the door opening into a very narrow passage, hung with coats and hats, for Mr. Williamson, as wasnatural, had a large family. It was only after an interval of running up and down-stairs, and subdued calling of one member of the household after another, that the minister was unearthed and brought from the little back room, called his study, in his slippers and a very old coat, to receive the unlikely visitor. Sir Thomas Randolph! what could he want? There is always a certain alarm in a humble household attendant upon the unexpectedness of such a visit. Could anything have happened? Could some one have gone wrong, was the anxious question of the Williamsons, as the minister was roused, and gently pushed into the parlor, where Sir Thomas, surrounded by all the grim gentility of the household gods, was awaiting him. The mother and daughter were on tiptoe in the back room, not listening at the door certainly, but with excited ears ready for every movement. The vague alarm that they felt was reflected in the minister’s face. Sir Thomas Randolph! What could he want? It was a relief to Mr. Williamson when he heard what it was; but he was not so easy in his assent as the rector. He took a seat near the suitor, with an air of great importance replacing the vague distrust and fear that had been in his face.
“It is a great trust, Sir Thomas,” he said. “And I must be faithful. You will not expect me to do anything against my conscience. Lucy Trevor is a lamb of the flock, though spiritually no longer under my charge, her mother was an excellent woman, and our late friend, Mr. Trevor— This is an altogether unexpected application, you must allow me to think it over. I owe it to—to our late excellent friend who committed this trust to my unworthy hands.”
“I thought,” said Sir Tom, “that it was a matter of form merely; but,” he added, with a better inspiration, “I quite see how, to a delicate sense of duty like yours, it must take an aspect—”
“That is it, Sir Thomas—that is it,” Mr. Williamson said. “I must be faithful at whatever cost. Yourself now, you will excuse me; there are reports—”
“A great many, and at one time very well founded,” said Sir Thomas, with great seriousness, looking his judge in the face.
This took the good minister by surprise, and the steady look confused him. A great personage, the greatest man in the county, a baronet, a man whose poverty (for he was known to be poor) went beyond Mr. Williamson’s highest realization of riches! It gave the excellent minister’s bosom an expansion of solemn pride, and, at the same time, a thrill of alarm. Persecution is out of date, but to stand up in the presence of one of the great ones of the earth, andconvict him of evil—this is still occasionally possible. Mr. Williamson rose to the grandeur of his position. Such an opportunity had never been given to him before, and might never be again.
“I am glad that you do not attempt to deny it, Sir Thomas; but at the same time there is a kind of bravado that boasts of evil-doing. I hope that is not the source of your frankness. The happiness of an innocent young girl is a precious trust, Sir Thomas. Unless we have guarantees of your change of life, and that you are taking a more serious view of your duties, how can I commit such a trust into your hands?”
“What kind of guarantees can I offer?” said Sir Thomas, with great seriousness. “I can not give securities for my good conduct, can I? I will cordially agree to anything that your superior wisdom and experience can suggest.”
“Do not speak of my wisdom, for I have none—experience, perhaps, I may have a little; and I think we must have guarantees.”
“With all my heart—if you will specify the kind,” Sir Thomas said.
But here the good minister was very much at a loss, for he did not in the least know what kind of guarantees could be given, or taken. He was not accustomed to have his word taken so literally. He cleared his throat, and a flush came over his countenance, and he murmured, “Ah!” and “Oh!” and all the other monosyllables in which English difficulty takes refuge. “You must be aware,” he said, “Sir Thomas—not that I mean to be disagreeable—that there are many things in your past life calculated to alarm the guardians.”
“But, my dear sir, when I confess it,” said Sir Thomas, “when I admit it! when I ask only—tell me what guarantees I can give—what I can do or say—”
“Guarantees are necessary—certainly guarantees are necessary,” said the minister, shaking his head; and then he gave to his attentive hearer a little sermon upon marriage, which was one of the good man’s favorite subjects. Sir Thomas listened with great gravity and sympathy. He subdued the twinkling in his eyes—he wanted to take advantage of the honorable estate. He said very little, and allowed his mentor to discourse freely. And nothing was said further about guarantees. Mr. Williamson gave his consent witheffusionbefore the interview was over. “You have seen the folly of a careless life,” he said, “I can not but hope that your heart is touched, Sir Thomas, and that all the virtues of maturity will develop in you; and if my poor approval and blessing can doyou any good, you have it. I am not of those who think much of, neither do I belong to a denomination which gives special efficacy to, any man’s benediction; but as Jacob blessed Joseph, I give you my blessing.” Then as his visitor rose content, and offered him his hand, an impulse of hospitality came over the good man. “My wife would say I was letting you go coldly, without offering you anything; but I believe it is quite out of fashion to drink wine in the morning—which is a very good thing, an excellent thing. But if you will come to tea—any afternoon, Sir Thomas. If you will bring Lucy to tea!”
Afterward, after the door was shut, the minister darted out again and called after his visitor, “My wife says if you would name an afternoon, or if Lucy would write to her what day we may expect you—not to make preparations,” said the minister, waving his hand, “but in case we should be out, or engaged.”
Sir Thomas promised fervently. “You shall certainly hear a day or two before we come,” he said, and walked away with a smile on his face. To be sure he never meant to go back to tea, but his conscience did not smite him. He had got off safe and sound without any guarantees.
“Now there is only my aunt’s consent to get,” he said, when he had gone back to the Terrace. “We have stuck to the very letter of the will, and you see all has gone well. I am going off to Fairhaven to-morrow. I know she is there.”
“But must you ask her consent? you know she will give it,” Lucy said.
“How do I know she will give it? Perhaps she would prefer to keep you to herself.” Lucy smiled at the thought; but Sir Thomas did not feel so sure. His aunt meant him to marry Lucyeventually; but that was a very different thing from carrying her off now.
When Sir Thomas went away, Lucy had a great many visitors. Even Mrs. Rushton came, embarrassed, but doing her best to look at her ease. “Why did you not tell me that this was going on, you silly child? I should have understood everything, I should have made allowances for everything. But, perhaps, he had never come to the point till the other day? Mr. Rushton and Raymond send you their very best wishes. And Emmie has hopes that after seeing so much of each other all the autumn, you will choose her for one of your brides-maids, Lucy. And I wish you every happiness, my dear,” Mrs. Rushton cried, kissing her with a little enthusiasm, having talked all her embarrassment away. Lucy was surprised by this change, but she was no casuist, and she did not inquire into it. It was a relief which she accepted thankfully. Mrs. Stone came also with her congratulations. “Lady Randolph was very wise to forestall everybody,” she said. “And, Lucy, I shall be very glad to have you near me, to watch how you go on in your new life. Never hesitate to come to me in a difficulty.” This was the way in which she took her pupil’s elevation. Had Lucy been raised to a throne, she would have made a similar speech to her. She would have felt that she could instruct her how to reign. As for Mr. St. Clair, Lucy still had much trouble to go through on his account. She was very reluctant to give up her scheme for his help, but at last, after a great many interviews with Miss Southwood, was got to perceive that the thing to be done was to make Sir Thomas “find an appointment” for her unfortunate suitor. “He can easily do it,” said Miss Southwood, with that innocent faith in influence which so many good people still retain.
Bertie Russell disappeared from Farafield on the day after the advent of Sir Thomas. He was the most angry of all Lucy’s suitors, and he put her this time into his book in colors far from flattering. But, fortunately, nobody knew her, and the deadly assault was never found out, not even by its immediate victim, for, like many writers of fiction, and, indeed, like most who are worth their salt, Bertie was not successful in the portraiture of real character. His fancy was too much for his malevolence, and his evil intentions thus did no harm.
Sir Thomas traveled as fast as expresses could take him to the house in which his aunt was paying one of her many autumn visits—for I need not say that she had returned from Homburg some time before. The house was called Fairhaven. It was the house of a distinguished explorer and discoverer; and the company assembled there included various members of Lady Randolph’s special “society.” When Sir Thomas walked into the room, where, all the male portion of the party being still in the covers, the ladies were seated at tea, his aunt rose to meet him, from out of a little group of her friends. Her privy council, that dread secret tribunal by which her life was judged, were all about her in the twilight and firelight. When his name was announced, to the great surprise of everybody, Lady Randolph rose up with a similar but much stronger sense of vague alarm than that which had moved the minister the previous day. “Tom!” she cried, with surprise which she tried to make joyful; but indeed she was frightened, not knowing what kind of news he might have come to tell. Mrs. Berry-Montagu who was sitting as usual with her back to the light, thoughthere was so little of that, gave a little nod and glance aside to Lady Betsinda, who was seated high in a throne-like, antique chair, and did not care how strong the light was which fell on her old shiny black satin and yellow lace. “I told you!” said Mrs. Berry-Montagu. She thought all her friend’s hopes, so easily penetrated by those keen-eyed spectators, were about to be thrown to the ground, and the desire to observe “how she would bear it,” immediately stirred up those ladies to the liveliest interest. Sir Thomas, however, when he had greeted his aunt, sat down with his usual friendly ease, and had some tea. He was quite ready to answer all their questions, and he was not shy about his good news, but ready to unfold them whenever it might seem most expedient so to do.
“Straight from the Hall?” Lady Randolph said, with again a tremor. Did this mean that he had been making preparations for his setting out?
“I got there three days ago,” said Sir Tom; “poor old house, it is a pity to see it so neglected. It is not such a bad house—”
“A bad house! there is nothing like it in the county. If I could but see you oftener there, Tom,” his aunt cried in spite of herself.
Sir Tom smiled, pleased with the consciousness which had not yet lost its amusing aspect; but he did not make any reply.
“He likes his own way,” said Lady Betsinda; “I don’t blame him. If I were a young man—and he is still a young man— I’d take my swing. When he marries, then he’ll range himself, like all the rest, I suppose.”
“Lady Betsinda talks like a book—as she always does,” said Sir Tom, with his great laugh; “when I marry, everything shall be changed.”
“That desirable consummation is not very near at hand, one can see,” said Mrs. Berry-Montagu, out of the shadows, in her thin, fine voice.
Sir Tom laughed again. There was something frank, and hearty, and joyous in the sound of his big laugh; it tempted other people to laugh too, even when they did not know what it was about. And Lady Randolph did not in the least know what it was about, yet the laugh gained her in spite of herself.
“Aproposof marriage,” said Mrs. Montagu once more, “have you seen little Miss Trevor in your wilds, Sir Tom? Our young author has gone off there, on simulated duty of a domestic kind, but to try his best for the heiress, I am sure. Do you think he has a chance? I am interested,” said the little lady. “Come, the latestgossip! you must know all about it. In a country neighborhood every scrap is worth its weight in gold.”
“I know all about it,” said Sir Tom.
“That you may be sure he does; where does all the gossip come from but from the men? we are never so thorough. He’ll give you the worst of it, you may take my word for that. But I like that little Lucy Trevor,” cried old Lady Betsinda; “she was a nice, modest little thing. She never looked her money; she was more like a little girl at home, a little kitten to play with. I hope she is not going to have the author. I always warned you, Mary Randolph, not to let her have to do with authors, and that sort of people; but you never take my advice till it’s too late.”
“She is not going to marry the author,” said Sir Tom, with another laugh; and then he rose up, almost stumbling over the tea-table. “My dear ladies,” he said, “who are so much interested in Lucy Trevor, the fact is that the author never had the slightest chance. She is going to marry—me. And I have come, Aunt Mary, if you please, to ask if you will kindly give your consent? The other guardians have been good enough to approve of me,” he added, making her a bow, “and I hope I may not owe my disappointment to you.”
“The other guardians— Tom!” cried Lady Randolph, falling upon him and seizing him with both hands, “is this true?”
Sir Tom kissed her hand with a grace which he was capable of when he pleased, and drew it within his arm.
“I presume, then,” he said, as he led her away, “that I shall get your consent too.”
Thus old Mr. Trevor’s will was fulfilled. It was not fulfilled in the way he wished or thought of, but what then? He thought it would have kept his daughter unmarried, whereas her mourning for him was not ended when she became Lady Randolph—which she did very soon after the above scene, to the apparent content of everybody. Even Philip Rainy looked upon the arrangement with satisfaction. Taking Lucy’s fortune to redeem the great Randolph estate, and to make his little cousin the first woman in the county, was not like giving it “to another fellow;” which was the thing he had not been able to contemplate with patience. The popular imagination, indeed, was more struck with the elevation of little Lucy Trevor to be the mistress of the Hall than with Sir Thomas’s good fortune in becoming the husband of the greatest heiress in England. But when his settlements were signed, both the guardians, Mr. Chervil and Mr. Rushton, took the bridegroom-elect aside.
“We can not do anything for you about that giving-away clause,” Mr. Chervil said, shaking his head.
“But Sir Thomas is not the man I take him for, if he don’t find means to keep that in check,” said Mr. Rushton.
Sir Tom made no reply, and neither of these gentlemen could make out what was meant by the humorous curves about his lips and the twinkle in his eye.
THE END.