[A]The poem of Ivan Ivanovitch had not been written in those days, and perhaps it might have been above Jock’s understanding.
[A]The poem of Ivan Ivanovitch had not been written in those days, and perhaps it might have been above Jock’s understanding.
“Go on, child, go on,” said old Trevor. “I think I’ve heard the story; but I don’t remember how she got out of it.”
“This is what Lucy will never listen to,” said Jock, solemnly; “she says it can’t be true; she says there never was a woman like that. She says she’ll beat me if I go on; but it is the real end to the story all the same. Well, you know, the woman was wild; shedidn’t know what she was doing. Just when they were going to crunch her with their teeth in her neck, she turned round, and she took up one of the children and flung it out into the middle of the wolves; and the little thing gave just one more cry (he was crying, you know, before), and the wolves caught him in their big teeth, and tore him, one a piece here, and another a piece there, hundreds and hundreds of them; and the old white horse galloped on and on.
“Well, but then that was only one,” said Jock, resuming after a pause; “when they had eaten that little thing all up, they were not half satisfied, and they said to each other, ‘Come on,’ and two minutes after, what should the woman hear but the whole mob of them after her again, and the sound of them panting and their breaths on her neck. And she took hold of another little child—”
“You needn’t tell me any more,” said the old man; “where did you get these dreadful stories; they turn one sick.”
“She threw them all out, the first, and the second, and the third,” cried the boy, making haste to complete his narrative, “and then she was saved herself. Lucy never gets further than the first; but you’ve heard the second. And she says it can’t be true; but it is true,” said Jock, severely; “many people have told it. I’ve read another story—”
“Hold your tongue, child,” said the old man.
Which Jock did at once. He was ready to come forward, to recount his experience, or instruct others by his large amount of miscellaneous reading whenever it was necessary, but he did not thrust his information upon unwilling ears. He turned round again promptly, and, laying his book down on the white rug, supported himself on his elbows and resumed his reading. Jock had a perfectly good conscience, and could hear any number of parables (though he was always suspicious of them) without turning a hair.
But old Trevor was not equally innocent; he trembled a little within himself at that story of remorseless self-preservation. The wolves were the image he had himself used, and when he remembered that he had looked forward to their struggle with amusement, and indeed done his utmost to draw them together, without much regard for the lamb who was to escape as she could from their clutches, a momentary tremor of conscience came over him. But it did not last long; impressions of this kind seldom do; and when he received a second visit in the evening, this time from Philip Rainy, who expressed much solicitude about his health, old Trevor had ceased to feel any compunctions about the fierce competition to which he was going to expose his child. But he was firmly determined that the first and most natural competitor, the man who was of the family, and had a sort of claim to everything that belonged to the name, should not be, so to speak, in the running at all.
“I am very well,” he said, “quite well, thank you; there is nothing the matter with me. If people say to the contrary, they’re lying, or at best they’re fools meddling in other folks’ affairs. It’s nothing to any one if I’m ill or well.”
“You must pardon me, uncle,” said Philip, “but it is something to me.”
The familiar grin came upon the old man’s face; but it was not accompanied with a chuckle of not unkindly mirth, as it had been in the case of Mrs. Stone’s nephew, in whose favor there was no such potent, argument.
“I don’t know what it should be to you,” he said, “Mr. Philip Rainy: if you had been waiting for my shoes I could have understood; but you’ve got ’em, you’ve got ’em, more fool I; and if you think there is anything more coming to you when I die, you’re mistaken, that’s all I’ve got to say. My will’s made—and there’s no legacies in it, not one. My money goes to them that have a right to it. There’s no fancy items to satisfy those that have gone out of their way, or thought they’d gone out of their way, to flatter an old man. So that it’s no good, no possible good, to take that friendly interest in me.”
Lucy, who was sitting by when this was said, started and got up from her knitting, and went once more behind her father, where she stood looking pitifully at Philip, clasping her hands together, and imploring him with her eyes not to be angry. That would have been inducement enough to bear with the old man’s brutal incivility, if there had been nothing more. He gave her a slight, almost imperceptible nod, reassuring her, and answered with a calmness which did him infinite credit, and indeed cost him a great effort.
“I am sorry you think so badly of me,” he said, “but I will not defend myself, I am waiting for no old shoes, heaven knows. I should like to be of use to my relations—to you or to Lucy. But if you will not let me, I must put up with it. And I will not stay longer now, since you have so poor an opinion of me. Good-night, I am going away; but I shall not cease to think about you, though I do not see you. You have been very kind to me, substantially kind,” said Philip, rising slowly with a lingering look at the father and daughter, “I owe all that I am, and something of what I may be, to you, and I want no more, Mr. Trevor, no legacies, nothingbut a way of showing my gratitude. If I am not to be allowed to do this, why, I must submit. Good-night.”
There was a quaver of real feeling in the young man’s voice. It was true enough, and if there was something more that was likewise true, thesuppressio veriis in some cases a very venial fault. As for Lucy, what with sympathy, and indignation and shame for her father’s conduct, she was more tenderly inclined toward Philip than she had ever been in her life. Thus opposition usually works. She cast an indignant look at her father, and a strenuous protest in the shape of an exclamation, “Papa!” which spoke volumes; and then in spite of his call to her to remain she followed Philip as he went down-stairs, appealing to him also, in a different way, with the tears in her eyes.
“You will not mind, Philip; but please don’t stop coming or quarrel because he is cross. He is ill, that is the reason, he is not himself; but I am sure you are too sensible to mind.”
Philip shook his head with a smile. “I fear I am not so sensible,” he said. “I do mind; but Lucy, if you will always speak to me as kindly I shall not mind what any one else may say,” he added, with fervor. He had never gone so far, or felt inclined to go so far before.
Lucy was surprised by this new tone, and looked at him, not with alarm, but with a mild astonishment. However, as it did not occur to her that there could be any special meaning in it, she gave him her hand kindly as usual, nay, a little more kindly, in that her father had used him so badly.
“It does not matter very much about me,” she said, “but I am very, very sorry papa has been so—strange. It is only because he is ill, very ill still. They all think he is better, but I don’t think so; his hand is so hot and trembling, and there is such a wild sort of brightness in his eyes. I am not easy about him, but very unhappy. I wish to-night was over,” she said, the tears falling in a little shower from her eyes.
“Lucy! let me stay; will you let me stay? He need not know that I am here, but I could sit up down-stairs and be ready to run for the doctor, or to do anything.”
“It is very good of you, Philip; but how would you be fit for your work if you sat up all night? No, no, I can not let you do that. And perhaps it will not be so bad; perhaps I am—silly,” said Lucy, with a dolorous attempt at a smile.
“What does the doctor say?” Philip asked.
He was very sorry for her in all truth and sincerity, besides having a sense that it would be very good for him to be thus identified with her, and show himself as her chief comforter and support at this serious moment of her life.
Mrs. Ford came out from her parlor as she heard the conversation outside. She was Philip’s relation too, and she had decided that nothing could be more suitable, if— But like so many other good women, she could not let well alone, and to Philip’s great vexation here came out, adding her portly presence to the scene.
“The doctor is quite satisfied,” said Mrs. Ford, “quitesatisfied. He is going on as nicely as possible; you must help me to persuade Lucy, Philip, that she must not sit up as she is talking of doing. Why should she sit up? I shall be there to do whatever is wanted, and to call her if it should be necessary. At her age it is a killing thing to sit up all night.”
“I have been begging her to let me stay and watch instead,” said Philip; “a chair in your parlor would be all I should want, and I should be ready to run for the doctor.”
“Oh, no, no,” Lucy said.
Mrs. Ford wavered for a moment, thinking that a young man was much more fit for this duty than her respectable husband, but finally decided that it was not to be thought of, remembering Mr. Trevor’s dislike to Philip; and then the bell was heard to ring, and Lucy ran upstairs anxiously. Mrs. Ford’s parting words, however, were very encouraging.
“Don’t you take any notice,” she said, “but come and see her, whether you see him or not. He will go some day or other, that’s certain, in one of these fits.”
“Poor little Lucy!” Philip said.
“Yes, it is true, it will be sad for her,” said Mrs. Ford, not half sure of what she was saying; “but yet Lucy will have a great deal to be thankful for, whatever happens,” she added, as she again bade him good-night.
Afterthis alarm, however, Mr. Trevor got better, and there was an interval of calm. Life resumed its usual routine, and all went on as before. During this interval, Frank St. Clair became Mr. Trevor’s constant visitor. He saw the old man almost every day, and there can be no doubt that he entertained and amused himmuch. Old Trevor even went so far as to talk to him about the will, that all-important document, which was the object of his existence—not, indeed, of its actual composition, but of its existence as a mysterious authority which was to guide the steps of his successors for years. They had a great many most interesting conversations about wills. Frank was not a great lawyer, but yet he could remember some cases which had made a noise in their day, and some which had kept families in great commotion and trouble without making much noise in the world; and he took a somewhat malicious pleasure in telling his new acquaintance alarming stories of wills that had been lost, then found again to the confusion of every rational arrangement; and of wills that had been suppressed, and of some which no one had paid any attention to, setting aside their stipulations entirely, almost before the testator was cold in his grave. This was very startling to old Trevor. He inquired into it with a wonderful look of anxiety on his face. There was one will, in particular, of which his informant told him, with malicious calm, in which there was question of a house which the testator had built for his daughter, and which he left to her under the condition that it should never be let or sold, but remain a home for her and her children forever. What had happened? the house had been let directly, the daughter not finding it convenient to live there, and it was now about to be sold. Yes, the will was perfectly sound, not contested by any one; had been proved in due form, and administered to, and all formalities fulfilled—except in this important particular of carrying it out. Old Trevor’s throat grew dry as he listened, the color went out of his face.
“But—but—but—” he said, “was it allowed—was it permitted? Why wasn’t it put a stop to? You must be making a mistake. Nobody can go against a will! A will! You forget what you’re saying—a will is part of the law.”
“Who was to put a stop to it?” said St. Clair, calmly, “Who was to interfere? There were several brothers and sisters, and none of them wanted the house to stand empty, though the father so willed it. Whose business was it to stand up for the will? There was no one to interfere.”
“That is the most wonderful thing I ever heard in my life, the most wonderful thing,” said the old man, stammering and stumbling. “I can not understand it. A will—and they paid no attention to it. I never heard of such a thing in my life.”
“Oh, I have heard of a great many such things,” said St. Clair, and he gave a little sketch—which, indeed, was interesting—ofcareful testaments set aside by the law, or made null by some trifling omission, or solemnly ignored by the very heirs they appointed. It was a cruel joke. Poor old Trevor did not get over it for a long time. He sat and thought of it all the rest of the day. Who was to interfere? who was to make sure that anybody would do as he had ordained—would take upon them the trouble of superintending all Lucy’s actions, and following out his code? He had Ford up when St. Clair left, and talked to him long on the subject, not betraying his fears, by cunningly endeavoring to pledge him, over and over, to the carrying out of his views. “You would not see my will neglected after I’m gone? If the others should be careless, or refuse the trouble, you’d always see justice done, Ford? I am sure I can trust in you whatever happens,” the old man said.
“The best thing to do is to get the will signed and sealed and delivered,” said Ford; “that is the first way of making it sure. So long as you are adding a little bit every day, you can never be certain. Yes, yes, you may trust in me, Mr. Trevor. I would never dare to go against a dead person’s will. I’d expect to be haunted every night of my life. You may trust in me; but I can’t answer for others. I have charge of half of the time, no more. I can’t answer for others— Lady Randolph will pay little attention to me.”
“Lady Randolph will pay attention to her own interests,” said the old man.
“Ah! that she will,” cried Ford, with energy. There was much more meaning in the tone than in the words; and the inference was not agreeable to old Trevor, who retired within himself, and sat for the rest of the afternoon with a very serious face ruminating how to invent safeguards for the will, which, however, he would not sign, as Ford suggested. “There’s something more I want to put in,” the old man said pettishly. “I’ll try to wind it all up to-morrow.” But as a matter of fact, he did not want to wind it all up, or conclude the document. When he did so, his occupation would be gone. It would be the conclusion of all things. With a natural shrinking he thrust this last action from him, notwithstanding the composure with which he had long regarded his own death as something necessary to the fulfillment of his intentions. But he did not feel disposed to put his final seal to it, and dismiss himself out of the world with a stroke of his pen. To-morrow was soon enough. When Lucy returned from school, she found him shivering by the fire. It was a cold day, but he was chilled by more than the weather; chilled in his vivacious spirit, which had done more to keep him warm than his good fire or warmly lined dressing gown.“No, I am not ill,” he said, in answer to her inquiries, “not at all poorly, only low, Lucy. If you and the rest should throw me overboard after I am gone; if it should turn out that I have taken all this trouble for nothing—thinking of you night and day, and planning for your good and your happiness—if it should be all for nothing, Lucy?”
“But how could that be,” said Lucy, with her usual calm, “when you have been so particular—when you have written it all down?”
“Yes, I have written it all down,” he said, “and it can’t come to nothing, if you will be a good girl, and take care that all your old father’s wishes are carried out.”
“Papa, I promise you, all you have arranged about me, and all your wishes for me, shall be carried out,” said Lucy, with a very slight emphasis upon the pronoun, which indicated a mental reservation, but her father did not notice this. His voice, already enfeebled, took a coaxing, beseeching tone.
“I’ll not fear anything, I’ll try not to fear anything, if you’ll give me your promise. Give me your promise, Lucy,” he said, and Lucy repeated with more effusion, when she saw the feverish uneasiness in which he was, the promise she had already made.
“Except about Jock,” she said, within herself; but even if she had said it aloud her father’s thoughts were too much bent on the general question to have remarked this. Ford, who was very anxious too, beckoned to her from behind the screen, and whispered, “Get him to sign it, ask him to sign it!” with the most energetic gesticulations; but how could Lucy press such a request upon her father? They were all anxious in the house that evening, and Mrs. Ford sat up all night, and her husband lay on the sofa in his clothes, fearing a midnight summons, but it was not till the next evening that the blow came. When their anxiety had been softened, and their precautions forgotten, the loud jar and tinkle of the bell once more woke little Jock in his little bed, and Ford from his comfortable slumbers; and this time it was no false alarm. Old Trevor was seized at last by the paralytic attack which had been, hovering over him for sometime. Ford going hastily for the doctor caught a bronchitis which kept him in bed for a week (just, his wife said, like a man—when he is most wanted), but the old man had his death-stroke. The house changed all at once, as sudden and dangerous illness always changes the abode it dwells in. All thought, all consideration were merged in the sick-room. For the first few days not even the affairs which he had left unsettled werethought of. The poor chilly blue-and-white drawing-room in which he had spent his days stood vacant, colder, and more commonplace than ever, yet with a pathos in its nakedness. The blotting-book, with the big blue folio projecting on every side, still lay on the writing-table where it had lain so long; but nobody touched it except the house-maid who dusted it daily, and was often tempted to take the sheaf of untidy papers to light her fire. What could it have mattered if she had lighted her fire with them? The work upon which the old man had spent so much of his fading life was of little importance now. No one thought of it except Ford, who at the worst of his bronchitis mourned over the uncompleted, document.
“Will he ever come to himself, doctor? Will he ever have the use of his faculties?” he moaned; but even this no one could tell.
The old man lay for more than a week in this state of unconsciousness; but after a time began to give faint indications of returning intelligence. He could not move nor speak, but his eyes regained a gleam of meaning, and very awful it was to see this reawakening, and to guess at the desires and feelings that awoke dimly, coursing like lights and shadows, a dumb language upon his countenance. One night Lucy felt that his eyes were fixed upon her with more meaning than before, and the three anxious people gathered round the bed, questioning and consulting each other.
He was like a prisoner, making faint half distinguishable gestures beyond the bars of his prison—questions on which deliverance might depend, but which the watchers could not understand. Presently the efforts increased, the powerless ashy old hand which lay on the coverlet, all the fingers in a helpless heap together, began to flicker in vague movement. Old Trevor’s eyes had not been remarkable for any force of expression, for nothing indeed, save for the keenness of his seeing when he was well. They had been small and sharp, and of a reddish gray, with puckered eyelids, making them smaller than they were by nature. Now they seemed to stand out enlarged and clear, and full of a spiritual force, which was partly weakness and partly the feverish dumb impotence of a desire to which he could not give words. They all gathered closely round, as anxious and not less helpless than he. Lucy in her inexperience was driven desperate by this crisis. She knelt down by the bedside, speaking to him wildly, clasping her hands, and beseeching, “What is it? What is it? Oh, papa, what is it? Try and speak to me,” she cried. This hopeless kind of interrogation went on for some time without any result, and they had all subsided again into thequietness of despair, when Lucy was suddenly enlightened by a movement of the old man’s crumpled fingers, which he had managed to curve as if holding a pen. “He wants to write,” she said, hurrying to find a pencil and paper, but these were rejected by an indignant gleam from the sufferer’s eyes.
“It is pen and ink he wants,” Lucy cried in desperation, yet tidy still; “dear papa, this will be easier, and will not make stains; not that! Oh, what is it, then you want? what is it he wants? can no one guess what it is?”
“It is of no use,” said Ford; “he wants to write, but he can’t, that’s the whole matter: he has something to tell us, but he can’t. It’s the will, he has never signed the will. Doctor, is he fit? would it be any good?”
The doctor had just come in, and stood shaking his head.
“Let him try,” he said; “I suppose it can’t do any harm, at least.”
They thought they saw a softening of satisfaction in the patient’s eyes, and Ford ran to get the papers, while they all gathered round more like conspirators about to drag some forced concession from the dying, than anxious attendants seeking every means of satisfying a last desire. Then the old man’s lips began to move. To his own consciousness he was evidently demanding something, struggling with his eyes almost bursting from his head. They raised him up, following the imperative demand made by his face, and put the familiar document before him. His eyes, they thought, brightened at the sight of it; something like a smile came upon his ashy and somewhat contorted countenance. Though he was supported like a log of wood by Ford and Lucy, yet his skeleton figure, raised erect, took an air of dominance and energy. He had reigned in a fantastic visionary world where everything was subject to his will when he had composed these papers, and something of the same sentiment was in his aspect now. He clutched the pen in that bundle of bony fingers, then gave a glance of triumph round upon them all, and dabbed down the pen upon the paper with that skeleton hand.
What had he put there? A blot, nothing more.
A perception that he had not succeeded, a gleam of anguish went over his face; and then grasping the pen with increased energy in a wildly renewed effort, he brought it down in a sea of ink, with a helpless daub as unmeaning as before. Then a groan came from his shriveled bosom; he let the pen drop, and dropped himself like a log of wood.
The doctor had been standing by all the time, shaking his head; he interfered now in a passionless, easy tone.
“There is no harm done,” he said; “it could not have stood had he succeeded; nobody could have said his mind was in a fit state. Don’t take it away, but wait and have patience. After this he may mend, most likely he will mend.”
“Papa,” cried Lucy, close to his ear, “do you hear that? You are not to mind, you will still be able to do it. Do you hear, papa?”
The old man made no response. Another groan, the very utterance of despair, broke from him. His eyes closed, his bony fingers fell on the coverlet, a collection of contracted joints, helpless as they had been before. He made a half fling of intended movement, without strength to carry his intention out. What he wanted was evidently to turn his head from the light, to turn the countenance to the wall; what image is there which speaks more eloquently of that despair which is moral death? The spectators stood by mournfully, with but half a sense of the full tragic meaning of the scene, yet vaguely impressed by it, feeling something of the horrible sense of failure, tragical, yet stupefying, which invaded all the half-awakened faculties of the chief sufferer. Even now they were but half aware of it, Lucy looking on with infinite pity and awe, struggling to assure the half deafened ear that it did not matter, that all would be well, while the Fords quickened by self-interest, realized with a dull dismay the loss, the misfortune, which would affect themselves. But the real tragedy remained concentrated in that worn-out old body and imprisoned soul. How much of his life was in those elaborate plans and settlements and he had failed at the last moment to give them the necessary warrant. The old man closed his eyes, and, so far as his will went, flung himself away from the light, turned his face to the wall, yet could not do even that, in the prostration of all his powers.
“If he can sleep, he may wake—himself,” the doctor said doubtfully. It was just as likely he might not wake at all. But the light was carefully shaded, and the nurse, who had no anxiety to disturb her, and the calm of professional serenity to keep her composed, took the place of the other watchers. The doctor, who was interested in an unusual “case,” and who was a young man, as yet without much practice, offered to Ford, who was excited and worn out, to remain, that there might be help at hand, and a professional guarantee in case of any new incident; and this being settled, sent all the other watchers to rest. Lucy, though she would fain have stayed with her father, fell asleep—how could she help it?after so many broken nights—the moment her young head touched the pillow. The Fords were more wakeful, and retired, more to consult together than to sleep, talking in whispers, though nothing they could have said on the upper floor could have reached the sick-room, and full of alarm and trouble as to the consequences of the future. Mrs. Ford, for her part, employed this moment of relief chiefly in crying and mourning over “their luck,” which no doubt would be enough to secure that the old man should die without signing the charter of their privileges. But even the whispering and weeping came to an end at last, and all was still in the house, where the doctor occupied the forsaken drawing-room, so bare and chilly, and the nurse watched in the silent chamber, and old Trevor lay between life and death.
The only one of the family who could not rest was little Jock. Who does not remember that sleeplessness of childhood which is more desolate and more restless in its contradiction of nature, and innocent vacancy than even the maturer misery of wakeful nights all rustling full of care and thought? Jock had been waked out of his first sleep by the muffled coming and going, the sound of subdued steps and whispering voices. He had heard a great deal which “the family” are never supposed to hear. He heard the doctor’s whispered conference with the Fords in the passage. “I can say nothing with certainty,” the doctor had said; “if he can sleep he may be himself in the morning, and able to attend to his business.” “Or he may pass away,” Mr. Ford had said; “at the dawning. That is the time when they get their release.” Pass away! Jock wondered, with a shiver, what it meant. Visions flitted before his eyes of his father’s figure, like that of Time, which he had seen on an old almanac, his gray locks flying behind him, and a long staff in his hand. Where would he go to in the dark, or at the dawning? Jock tried to turn his face to the wall, away from the long mysterious window, which attracted his gaze in spite of himself, and through which he almost expected to see some weird passenger step forth. His door was open, as he liked to have it, and the faint light shining through it usually afforded him a little consolation; but on this particular night, among his vague horrors, this too became a dangerous opening, through which some terrible figure might suddenly appear. He was obliged to turn round again, to keep both door and window within sight. And all kinds of visions flitted before him. The noise of a wagon far off on the road, across the common, suggested the dead-cart of the Plague, rolling heavily, stopping here and there to take up its horrible load. He seemed to hearthe bell tinkle, the heavy tramp of the attendants; and at any moment the child felt the door might be pushed open, and some one come to take him away, and toss him among all those confused limbs and dead faces. Or was it his father whom they would seize as he “passed away,” with his gray hair blown about by the winds. Then Jock’s imagination changed the theme, and he was in the valley of death with Christian, hearing all those horrible whispers on every side, and looking into the mouth of hell. He did everything he could to get to sleep; he counted, as far as his knowledge of numbers would go, and said to himself all the poetry he knew; but all was of no avail. When he began to see the walls of his little room grow more distinct round him in a faint blueness, Jock was not encouraged by the prospect of day-break. He thought of what Mr. Ford had said, and of the people who were “released” at the dawning, and he could not bear it any longer; he sprung from his bed, and rushed toward the light in the passage, a light which was more cheerful, more reassuring, than the pale beginning of the day. The door of his father’s room was ajar, and the light was burning within, and a faint glimmer as of firelight. Jock crept in, trembling and shivering, in his little white night-gown, like an incarnation of the white, cold, tremulous, infantile day.
Jock stole in very quietly, feeling protection in the warmth and stillness; he edged his way in the shadow of the curtains, drawing instinctively toward the fire, but afraid of being seen and turned out again. He was afraid, yet he was very curious and anxious about the bed, in which he knew his father was lying. The curtains at the head were thrown back, twisted and pushed out of the way to give more air; and there the pale gray head of the old man revealed itself on the pillow, lying motionless. Jock stopped short with a sob in his throat, and terror, too intense for expression, in his soul. His father had not “passed away;” but whether he was alive or dead, Jock could not tell. The nurse was dozing in the stillness, in her chair by the fire. The day was rising, penetrating, even here, between the closed curtains, with that chill, all-pervading blueness; it was the moment when every watch relaxes, when the strain is relieved, and weariness makes itself felt. Not a sound was to be heard, except now and then the ashes falling, and the breathing of the strange woman in the big chair, who was almost as alarming an object to Jock as his father. The child stood shivering, his mouth half open, to cry, the sob arrested, by pure terror, in his throat.
And whether it was that the sob escaped unawares, or that somesense of the presence of another living creature in the room, that subtle consciousness with which the atmosphere seems to penetrate itself, of a living and thinking soul in it, reached the old man on the bed, it is impossible to say; but while Jock stood watching, his father suddenly opened his eyes, and turned, ever so little, yet turned toward him. Jock was not aware that the old man had been up to this time unable to move, but his imagination was excited, and the instantaneous revival into awful life of the mute figure on the bed produced the strangest effect upon him. A wild scream burst from his lips; he ran out to the stairs crying wildly. “He has got his release,” Jock cried, not knowing what he said.
The cry woke the nurse, brought the young doctor, drowsy and confused, from the next room, and Lucy flying, all her fair locks about her shoulders, down-stairs. The Fords followed more slowly—the very maids were roused. But the release which the old man had got was not of the kind anticipated by his companions. He was liberated from the disease, which nobody had hoped; he had recovered his speech, though his utterance was greatly changed and impeded; and, though one side remained powerless, he retained the use of the other. He was even so much himself as to chuckle feebly, but quietly, when the doctor returned a few hours later, and pronounced him to be almost miraculously better. “I’ll trouble you, doctor, to witness it,” the old man said, babbling over the words, and looking with his enlarged but dimmed eyes at the papers by his bedside. “I’ve got something to add; but I’ll not put off and cheat myself, not put off and cheat myself again.” This they thought was what he said. And thus the will got signed at last.
He lingered for some time after, continually endeavoring to resume his old work, and now and then becoming sufficiently articulate to give full evidence of the perfect possession of his faculties. But within a week a third seizure carried off the old man without power of protest or remedy. His unexpressed intentions died with him, but the words, “I’ve something to add,” were the last he said.
LittleJock Trevor had never been a favorite with his father; there had been between them nothing of the caressing intercourse which generally exists between a very old father and a young child.He was not the pet or plaything of the old man, who had remorselessly sentenced him to as complete a separation as was possible from his sister. But, nevertheless, Jock had grown up literally at his father’s feet, and the world became suddenly very vacant and strange to him when the familiar figure was withdrawn. The little fellow did not understand life without this central point of stability and power in it; he had been used to the old man’s presence, to the half-comprehended talks which went on over his head, and to the background of that mysterious aged life filled with so many things beyond Jock’s understanding, which yet afforded depth and fullness to his strange perceptions of the mysterious world. He and his books had lain in the foreground in a varying atmosphere of visions, but behind had always been that pervading consciousness of something more important, a dimly apprehended world of fact. So it happened that, of all the household at the Terrace, it was little Jock who felt his father’s death the most deeply; his nerves had suffered from contact with that still more mysterious dying which he could not understand. He could not get out of his childish mind the impression made upon him by the sudden opening, in the dreadful silence of his father’s eyes. He who had spent all his life alone could be left alone no longer; he followed Lucy about wherever she went, holding tightly by her hand. There was no one to interfere, or to prevent the hitherto neglected child from becoming the chief interest of the house. He felt the loss far more, though it was to his immediate advantage, than Lucy did, who cried a little when she woke every morning at the recollection, but put on her crape with a certain melancholy pleasure in the completeness and “depth” of her mourning. Mrs. Ford, though she cried too, could not but admire and wonder at these black dresses covered with crape, which she felt it would have been a pleasure to old Mr. Trevor to see, so “deep” were they, and showing so much respect. It was almost like widows’ mourning, she declared, deeper far than that which ordinary mourners wore for a parent; but then, when you considered what Lucy had lost—and gained!
But little Jock got no satisfaction out of his hat-band; he found no comfort in anything but Lucy’s hand, which he clung to as his only anchor. He went to the funeral holding fast by her, half hidden in her dress. The by-standers were deeply touched by the sight of the young girl so composed and firm, and the poor little boy with his scared eyes. Many an eye was bent upon them as they stood by the grave, two creatures so close together that they looked but one, yet, as all the spectators knew, so far apart in reality, so unlike eachother in their prospects. Was it possible that she, a girl, was to have everything and he nothing, people asked each other with indignation; and, notwithstanding the fact that all Farafield knew it was Lucilla Rainy’s money which made Lucy Trevor an heiress, still it would have shocked public opinion less if the boy had inherited the larger share, though he was, as old Trevor was so feelingly aware, an insult to Lucilla Rainy. So strong is prejudice that the moral sense of the population would have felt it less had poor Lucilla’s money been appropriated to make an “eldest son” of her successor’s child.
The funeral had attracted a great following. The shop-keeping class, many of whom had received their education at old John Trevor’s school, and the upper class, of whom several had received lessons from him, and who were in general powerfully moved by the acquisition into their ranks of a new and unknown personage, a great heiress, who henceforward, they made no doubt, would take her fitting place among them, filled the church and church-yard, and looked on at the ceremony, if not with much sympathy, yet with great interest. Almost everybody, indeed, was there. A carriage from the Hall followed the procession from the house, and Lady Randolph herself arrived from the station before the service in the church was over, and followed to the grave, though no one had expected such a compliment, carefully dressed in black, and with a gauze veil which, Mrs. Ford remarked, was almost as “deep” as crape. It gave Lucy a certain satisfaction to see, though it was through her tears, the crowds of people: they were paying him due respect. In that, as in everything, respect was his due, and he was getting it in full measure. She felt that he himself would have been pleased had he been there: and it was very difficult to believe that somehow or other he was not there, seeing how everything went on. He would have chuckled over it had he seen it; he would have felt the compliment; and Lucy felt it. When, however, she saw how large a party accompanied her home after all was over, and understood that she was to go into the drawing-room and hear the will read among all these people, Lucy could not but feel that it was very “trying,” as Mrs. Ford said; but yet she did it dutifully, as she was told, not feeling that there was any choice left her, or that she could refuse to do whatever was thought necessary. It was difficult to disengage herself from Jock, and persuade him that it was best for him to lie down on the sofa down-stairs and allow himself to be read to. He consented at last, and then Lucy felt that the loss of his small hand clinging to hers took away agreat part of her strength; but she was not a girl who stopped to consider what she could or could not do. She did what she was told, always a more satisfactory rule.
There were a great many people in the room when Lucy went in, leaning, much against her will, on Mrs. Ford’s arm. She was quite able to walk by herself, and did not indeed like the careful and somewhat fussy support which was given her, but she put up with it, looking straight before her, not to meet the compassionating looks which Mrs. Ford thought it part of herrôleto address to the orphan. “Yes, my darling, it’s a great trial for you,” Mrs. Ford kept saying, “a great trial, my love, but you will be supported if you are brave; and I am sure you will be brave, my dearie-dear.” Now it was not Mrs. Ford’s custom to call Lucy her darling and her dearie-dear, which confused the girl; but all the same she resigned herself. Some one rose when she came in and folded her in a large embrace. Floods of black silk and waves of perfume seemed to pass over her head, and then she emerged, catching her breath a little. This was Lady Randolph, who was large, but handsome and comely, and filled up a great part of what space there was to spare. Seated at a little distance was Mrs. Stone, who showed her more delicate sense of Lucy’s “trial” only by giving her a look in which pity was tempered by encouragement, and a slight friendly nod. Besides these ladies, whom she identified at once, there seemed to Lucy to be a cloud of men. All were silent, looking at her as she came in; all were in black, black gloves making themselves painfully apparent on the hands of the ladies. It was before the time when black paws became the fashion on all occasions. Even Mr. Ford wore black gloves; it was an important part of the general “respect.” After awhile, even the men became comprehensible to Lucy. There was Mr. Rushton, the town clerk, and Mr. Chervil, from London, and another lawyer with a large blue bag, whom she did not know. Seated near these gentlemen, with an amiable, patronizing air which seemed to say, “I am very glad to countenance you, but what can I have to do here?” was, to the surprise of most of the company, the rector, who had so placed himself that, though he did not know what he was wanted for, he had the look of being a kind of chairman of the assembly; while near the door, sitting on the edge of his seat, holding his hat in one hand, and brushing it carefully with the other, was Mr. Williamson, the Dissenting minister. Mr. Williamson did not at all know how he was to be received in this company. They were all “church people,” even the Fords, though they had begun on otherprinciples. And John Trevor had just been buried, though he was a stanch old Nonconformist, with the ceremonials of the church. Mr. Williamson did not know whether to be defiant or conciliatory. Sometimes he smiled at his hat, smoothing it round and round. The hat-band had been taken off, and carefully folded by to take home to his wife; in this point he had taken example by the rector, who was very well used to the sort of thing, and did not like anything to be wasted. Clergymen’s wives are very well aware that hat-bands are always made of the richest of silk.
Mr. Rushton made a little explanation informing the company that their late worthy friend had wished them all to hear at least one part of his will, and to accept a trust which it had been his great desire to confide to them; and then the reading began. It is always a curious ceremonial, and often affords scope for the development of strong emotions; but in this case it was not so. There was great curiosity on the subject, but no anxiety. Once, indeed, when the testator requested each person present to accept fifty pounds for a ring, a little involuntary liveliness, a rustle of attention, ran through the room. Though Lady Randolph and Mrs. Stone, the rector, and Mr. Williamson, had nothing in common with each other, they exchanged an involuntary glance, and the corners of their mouths rose perceptibly. Fifty pounds is not much, but there are few people who would not be pleased to have such a little present made to them quite unexpectedly. Their mouths relaxed a little, there was a softening of expression, and it would be impossible to deny that Mr. Trevor rose several degrees in their opinion. But beyond this little wave of pleasurable sentiment there was no emotion called for, except surprise.
The will took a great deal of reading: it was a very long document, or succession of documents, for the very enumeration of the codicils took some time. These were all read in a clear monotonous voice which brought a softening haze of drowsiness on the assembly. Perhaps no individual present fully realized all the provisoes. Some of them were hid in technical language, some confused by being mixed up with long details of the money and property bequeathed. The first and chief body of the will, which bequeathed three thousand pounds in the funds to the testator’s son, and all the rest of his property to his daughter, “as the only heir and descendant of her mother, my wife, Lucilla Rainy, through whom the property came,” was brief and succinct enough. It had none of the rambling elaboration of the later additions. When John Trevor had executed it he had been still a strong man, veryenergetic in the management of, his own affairs, but not dominated by any master idea. It was plain justice, as he apprehended it, but he had not begun to frame the theories which filled his later days. As the will was read, the door opened and Philip Rainy came into the room. There was a slight general stir, a common movement, very faint, but universal in disapproval of the entrance of any intruder. Every one of those people, with no right that they knew of to be there, felt a thrill of indignation go over them at the sight of a stranger. What business had he to be present? But after the stir there was an equally general pause. Lady Randolph, the only one who did not know Philip, looked at the lawyers. But the lawyers made no response. The voice of the reader went on again, the hearers fell into their previous half drowse of attention; and the young man who had nothing at all to do with it, but who was the nearest relation of the orphans, stood in his black clothes leaning against the door. And there was not any drowse about Philip; he listened, and he made out every word.
When the codicils approached a conclusion, the drowse disappeared from the company in general. It began to introduce their own names, which is a sure way of interesting people. When the clause was read, which described the future course of Lucy’s life, how it was to be spent and where, there was a little stir among those who were immediately concerned. Lady Randolph sat up more erect in her chair, and held her head higher with a complacence and sense of importance which it would have been impossible to express more delicately; the Fords, less well-bred, looked at each other, and Mrs. Ford began to cry. The spectators all listened keenly; their surprise and their curiosity rose to a higher heat. Then came the appointment of the marriage committee, at which the little thrill which had been visible in the others communicated itself to all the company. Each individual sat up, straightened his or her back, holding up their several heads, and listened with a sense of importance and satisfaction, mingled with, in some of them, a perception of the ludicrous side of the arrangement; and after this there was little more.
During the whole of the proceedings Philip Rainy, undisturbed and undisturbing, stood up leaning against the door. It was all new to him, and much of it was far from agreeable; but he made no sign. He had no business to be there—all these strangers, he could not but feel with a little bitterness, had come by invitation, and had a right to the place they occupied; but he had nothing to do with it. Nevertheless it was something, it was a tacit acknowledgmentthat he had something to do with it that no one remonstrated or took any notice of his presence. And he took no notice, made no remark; but listened with the keenest attention. Yes, there was one on whom none of the provisions were lost, who never felt drowsy, but listened with his very ears tingling, and his mind concentrated upon what he heard; he missed nothing, the technical wording did not confuse him, each new particular stirred up his thoughts to a rapidity and energy of action such as he had never before been conscious of. He stood betraying nothing, looking at all the complacent assembly, which regarded him as an outsider; and as each new detail was read, swiftly, silently opposed to it in his mind a system of counteraction. All these people with their little glow and sense of satisfaction were to him like so many lay-figures round the table: dream-people not worth taking into consideration. But on the other side he seemed to see old Trevor chuckling, and waving a visionary hand at him. “There is not a loop-hole to let you in,” the old ghost seemed to say; and Philip ground his teeth, and said within him, “We shall see.”
As for the members of the marriage committee, those of them who were not previously aware of the charge committed to them were filled with amaze, and showed it each in his or her own way. Mrs. Stone and the Fords sat fast, with a half smile on their face, by way of showing that to them the idea was already familiar. But Lady Randolph was considerably disturbed. She pushed back her chair a little, and looked round with a certain dismay, her eyes opening wider, her lips parting, her breast heaving with a half sigh, half sob of surprise. “All these people!” she seemed to say, giving a second critical look round. The rector was still more surprised—if that were possible; but he took his surprise in a genial way. He began to laugh gently, under his breath as it were. He was not a relation, nor even a friend, and he was not called upon to be very serious on the death of old Trevor. He laughed, but quietly and decorously, only enough to express a certain puzzled consternation and sense of absurdity, yet consciousness that old Trevor had shown a certain good sense in choosing himself. As for Mr. Williamson, he was thunderstruck; he left off smoothing his hat; he, too, looked round him bewildered, as if for instruction. How had his name been placed on such a list? and he ended with a furtive glance at the rector, who was the member of the company who interested him most, when the voice of the reader stopped there was a curious momentary pause.
“This is a very astonishing arrangement,” said the rector, rubbing his hands; “an extremely strange arrangement. I don’t see how we are to carry it out. Don’t you think there is something a little odd— I mean, something eccentric—there always was a certain eccentricity, eh? don’t you know? in the character—”
“Our departed friend,” said Mr. Williamson, clearing his throat, “had full possession of his faculties. I saw him the day before his seizure; his intellects were as clear— I am ready to give my testimony anywhere—as clear—as yours, sir, or mine.”
It was not very distinctly indicated to whom this was addressed; the rector cast a slight glance at the speaker, as though he might have shrugged his shoulders; but he was too polite to do so. “But,” he went on, as though he had not been interrupted, “but this is too extraordinary; I scarcely knew Mr. Trevor; why he should make me one of the guardians of his daughter in such an important matter I can not understand; and associate me with”—he paused again, and then gave another glance round—“so many others—perhaps better qualified.”
“If Dr. Beresford means me—” Mr. Williamson began, with a flush on his face.
“I mean no one in particular— I mean everybody— I mean that the whole idea is preposterous. Why,” said the rector, bursting into a little laugh, “it is like an old play; it is like an invention in a romance; it is like—”
“Oh-h!” said Mrs. Ford, drawing in her breath. She had not intended to speak in such fine company; but this was too much for her; and it had always been believed by those who knew her most intimately that she was still a Dissenter in her heart. “Oh-h!” she said, with a little shudder. “When you consider that poor Mr. Trevor was carried out of this house, feet foremost, this very day, and before the first night that folks should laugh—”
The rector got very red. “I beg your pardon,” he said, sharply, not with an apologetic voice. Mr. Williamson began once more to smooth his hat. There was in him a suppressed smile from the sole of his shoe to the top of his head, and the rector was aware of it, but could not take any notice, which discomposed that dignified, clergyman more than if it had been a greater matter.
Mrs. Stone here interfered; naturally her sympathies were all with the Church; but she liked, at the same time, to show her superior acquaintance with the testator’s wishes. “If you will allow me,” she said, “I had the advantage of hearing from poor Mr. Trevor himself what he meant. He did not wish to deprive his dear daughter of the advice of one who would be her spiritual instructor. Hewas—not a Churchman; but he was a man of great judgment. He considered that the rector had a right to a voice in a matter so important. But,” said Mrs. Stone suddenly, seeing Lady Randolph eager to interfere, “perhaps this is scarcely a moment to discuss the matter; and in the presence of—”
“Not at all the moment,” said Lady Randolph, rising up and shaking out her flowing skirts. “These gentlemen must all be aware that Miss Trevor, in the meantime, is my first thought. Our presence is no longer necessary, I believe, my dear,” the great lady said, offering her arm to Lucy, who was thankful to be released. All the men stood up, the rector still red, and Mr. Williamson still smoothing his hat. The departure of the ladies had the air of a procession. Lucy was very timid and very sick at heart, longing to escape, to rest, to cry, and then to prepare herself quietly for whatever change might be coming; but she had no need of Lady Randolph’s arm. Even when the heart is breaking, a mourner may be quite able to walk; and Lucy was not heart-broken, only longing to cry a little, and give vent to her natural gentle sorrow for her poor old father. But Lady Randolph drew the girl’s hand within her arm, and held it there with her other hand, and whispered, “Lean upon me, my poor child.” Lucy did not lean, feeling no need of support, but otherwise obeyed. Philip Rainy opened the door for the darkly clothed procession. He too thought it right to assert himself. “I should like to see you, Lucy,” he said, “afterward,” taking no notice of the great lady, “about Jock.” The name, the suggestion, gave Lucy a shock of awakening. She stopped short, to Lady Randolph’s surprise and alarm, and turned round suddenly, withdrawing her hand from the soft constraint of that pressure upon it. They all paused, looking at her, almost in as great surprise as if something inanimate had detached itself from the wall and taken an independent step.
“Please, Mr. Rushton,” Lucy said timidly, but clearly, “there is one thing I want to say. I will do everything—everything that papa wishes; but about Jock—”
“About Jock?” they all came a little nearer, looking at her. Mrs. Stone put forth a hand to pat the girl’s shoulder soothingly, murmuring, “Yes, dear—yes, my love, another time,” with amiable moderation. But Lady Randolph would not permit any interference. She took her charge’s hand again. “My dear,” she said, “all these arrangements can be settled afterward by your friends.” Lady Randolph had no idea what was meant by Jock.
“But I must settle this first,” Lucy said. She was very pale,and very slight and girlish, looking like a shadow in her black clothes; but there was no mistaking her quiet determination. She stood quite still, making no fuss, with her eyes fixed upon the two lawyers. “I will do every thing,” she repeated, “only not about Jock.”
“That is what I am here for, Lucy,” said Philip Rainy. “I am your nearest relative. It is I who ought to have the care of Jock.”
At this point all turned their attention to Philip with sudden intelligence in their faces, and some with alarm. The nearest relative! Lucy, however, did nothing to confirm the position which Philip felt it expedient thus strongly, and at once, to assert. She looked at him with a faint smile, and shook her head.
“He has nobody really belonging to him but me. Mr. Rushton, please, I will do every thing else, but I can not give up Jock.”
“We’ll see about it; we’ll see about it, Lucy,” Mr. Rushton said. And then Lady Randolph, a little impatient, resumed her lead. “I can not let you exert yourself so much,” she said, with peremptory tenderness. “I must take you away; all this will be settled quite comfortably; but my first thought is for you. I must not let you overexert yourself. Lean upon me, my poor child?”
And thus, at last, the black-robed procession filed away.
Theladies went away, the men remained behind; most of them took their seats again with evident relief. However agreeable the two halves of humanity may be to each other in certain circumstances, it is a relief to both to get rid of each other when there is business on hand. The mutual contempt they have for each other’s modes of acting impedes hearty co-operation, and the presence of one interferes with the other’s freedom. The men took their seats and drew a long breath of relief, all but Philip, the unauthorized member of the party, who felt that with Lucy his only legal right to be here at all was gone.
“Well,” said the rector, intensifying that sigh of relief into a kind of snort of satisfaction, “now that we may speak freely, Rushton, you don’t expect that rubbish would bear the brunt of an English court of law? It is all romancing; the old fellow must have been laughing at you in his sleeve. Seven trustees to decide whomthe girl is to marry! His mind must have been gone; and you can’t imagine for a moment that this is a thing which can be carried out.”
“I don’t see why,” said Mr. Rushton calmly; “more absurd things have been carried out. He wants his girl to be looked after. She will have half the fortune-hunters in England after her, like flies after a honey-pot.”
All the men assembled looked at the town clerk, he was the only one among them who could possibly have any interest in the question. The rector appreciated this fact with unusual force; he had daughters only, whereas Raymond Rushton was a likely young fellow enough. They were all somewhat suspicious of each other, all except the personage who had read the documents, and took no part in the matter, and Mr. Chervil, a London attorney, with little time to spare, and not much interest in anything but the money, which was his trade.
“Of course there will be fortune-hunters after her. He ought,” said the rector, who was given to laying down the law, “to have appointed a couple of trustworthy guardians, as other people do, and left it in their hands. Such an arrangement as this, no one can help seeing, is positively absurd.”
Here Ford cleared his throat expressively, with a sound which drew all eyes toward him. But the good man, having thus protested inarticulately, was shy, and shrunk from speech. He retreated a step or two with involuntary precipitation. And the only defender old Trevor found was in Mr. Williamson, who, nevertheless, had no desire to pit himself against the rector: he would have liked, on the contrary, to be liberal and friendly, and to show himself superior to all petty feeling; but he could not help taking a special interest in everything his clerical brother, who did not admit his brotherhood, did or said. Opposition or friendship, it might be either one or the other, but indifference could not be between them. Accordingly, as soon as the rector had said anything, Mr. Williamson was instantly moved to say the reverse.
“We must not forget,” he said, putting down his hat on the floor, “that our late lamented friend was carried out of this place only to-day. To call his arrangements absurd so soon is surely, if I may say so, not in good taste.”
“Oh, as for good taste—” cried the rector imperatively, with a sneer upon his lips; but he stopped himself in time. He would not get into any altercation, he said to himself; it was bad enough to be confronted with Dissenters, to have one of these fanatics actuallysitting down with him at the same table, but to suffer himself to be led into a controversy! “As for that,” he said, “my mind is easy enough. But here is a very simple question—”
“Shall you serve, Dr. Beresford, or do you decline it?” Mr. Rushton said.
This was a question more simple still. The rector turned round and stared at the other with a confused and bewildered countenance. This was not at all what he meant. He paused for a moment, and reflected before he made any answer: would he serve, or did he decline it? Very simple, but not so easy to answer: would he have a finger in the pie, or give it up altogether? would he accept the mysterious position, and keep the dear privilege of control, and the power of saying who was not to marry Lucy Trevor, though he cared little for Lucy Trevor, or would he show his sense of the folly of the arrangement by rejecting any share in it? It was, though so simple, a difficult question, much more difficult than to set down the old man, who was not a Churchman, as a fool. It did not please him, however, to accept the latter alternative; he was a man who dearly liked to have a finger in every pie.
“Oh, ah! indeed! yes, to be sure. That is how you put it,” he said.
“Yes, that is the only way to put it,” said Mr. Rushton; “we can’t compel any one to accept the charge, but we have a few names behind with which to fill up, should any one object. My client was full of foresight,” he added, with a smile; “he was very long-headed, wrong-headed too, if you like, sometimes, but sharp as a needle. He thought his little girl a great prize.”
“And so she will be,” said the rector, almost with solemnity; and he was silent for a moment, as if in natural awe of Lucy’s greatness; but within himself he was mentally vowing that, if Rushton tried to run his boy for such large stakes, he, the rector, would take care that he did not have it all his own way. Dr. Beresford, though he was an excellent clergyman, was not above the use of slang now and then, nor was he too good for a resolution which had a little of the vindictive in it. “Must we be called together to be consulted?” he said, with a laugh; “there’s something of the kind in an old play. Will the candidate appear before us, and state his qualifications?” The rector again permitted himself to laugh, but nobody responded. Mr. Rushton, though he condemned the will in private, had sufficient professional feeling to decline to join in any open ridicule of it, and Ford, who felt himself in the dignified attitude of a mourner, allowed nothing to disturbhis seriousness. Mr. Williamson was smoothing his hat with disapproving gravity, polishing it heavily round and round, as though he found some carnal tendency in it which had to be repressed.
“In my opinion, there is nothing to laugh at,” he said; “it is a grave responsibility. The choice of a God-fearing Christian man to be the guide of the young lady, under Providence, and the trustee, as it were, of a great fortune—”
“Oh, not so bad as that; we have not got to choose him, only to blackball him,” said Mr. Rushton; “and if you think old Trevor intended that any husband should be the trustee of his daughter’s fortune, that is a mistake, I assure you. She has more power in her hands than ever a girl had; even now before she is of age she is allowed liberties—ah!” Mr. Rushton stopped short, for Philip Rainy had stepped forward with the evident intention of saying something. They all looked at Philip. He was well known to every one present—regarded favorably by the rector, as one who had seen the evil of his ways, and with a grudge by Mr. Williamson, as a deserter from the Nonconformist cause, and with careless friendliness by Mr. Rushton, as a man who was only a rising man, and to whom he was conscious of having himself given a helping hand. To Ford, Philip was a member of the family, who rather set himself above the family, and therefore was the object of certain restrained grudges, but yet was a Rainy after all; thus the feeling of the company about him was mingled. Nevertheless, when they suddenly turned upon him, and recalled themselves to a recollection of his presence and his position, and all that was in his favor, and the indications of nature, which pointed him out as so likely a candidate, they all instinctively forestalled the future, and on the spot blackballed Philip, who stood before them unconscious of his fate.
“I do not wish to intrude,” he said, “though if any one has a right to know about my cousins I have. I am their nearest relation. I am”—and here he put on a certain dignity, though the Rainys were not a noble race—“I believe, the head of the family since my father’s death. But what I want to say is this: if you, as his legal guardians, do not object, I should like to take charge of Jock.”
“Who is Jock?” said the rector, in an undertone. There was no one to answer but Mr. Williamson, who replied in the same tone, without looking at him. “The little boy.” It was the first distinct communication that had passed between them. Dr. Beresfordlooked at the Nonconformist with a humph of half-angry carelessness and turned away; but yet he could not help it, he had distinctly realized the presence of the minister of Bethesda, which was a great thorn in his side. On former occasions he had said, “I know nothing about that sort of people;” but that advantage was now taken from him. He had become acquainted with the man, though he was his natural enemy.
“Take charge of Jock? with all my heart,” said the lawyer. “You could not do anything that would please me more; he has been one of our difficulties. Look here, Chervil, here is the very best thing that could happen. Mr. Rainy, a relation, a—a gentleman in the scholastic profession;” here he stopped and made a little grimace. “There will be a moderate allowance for him” he continued, with a laugh; “all that is easy enough; but there’s his sister to be taken into consideration, you know.”
“If I have your consent, I think I can manage Lucy,” said Philip, calmly. He spoke with great distinctness, and he meant them all to understand him. It was as if a thunder-bolt had been thrown in their midst: a young fellow like this, nobody in particular, to call the heiress Lucy! Mr. Rushton called her so himself, and so did Ford, and the minister, but all at once such familiarity had come to sound profane. It was quite profane in young Rainy, a mere school-master, to speak so familiarly of that golden girl. They all drew back with a distinct shiver. As for the rector, he again ventured on a little laugh.
“You are a bold fellow, Rainy,” he said, “to talk of a young lady whom we all respect so much, by her Christian name.”
“I have known her all my life, doctor; we are cousins.” There was no idea of this great respect then. “I will speak to her at once.”
The way in which the matrimonial committee drew in their breath made a distinct sound in the room. Speak to her, good heavens! a school-master—a nobody! “You will remember,” said Ford, with solemnity, “that this is the day of her father’s funeral. To speak to her—about any such matters—”
“What matters?” Philip knew very well what they meant; but he liked to play upon their apprehensions. “You may be sure,” he said, with malicious gravity, “I shall say nothing to distress her. She knows me, and I think she has confidence in me.”
“And you forget,” said Mr. Chervil, who was cool, and had his wits about him, “that it’s only about little Jock.”
“To be sure, to be sure, it is not about anything very important,” said the committee, in full accord, “it’s only about little Jock.”
And then they all laughed, but not with a very good grace. There was no fault at all to be found with him, an honest, honorable, rising young man—and the girl had no right to anything better; but what was the use of appointing a committee of seven to watch over this momentous event, if Lucy’s fortune was to fall like a ripe apple from the tree into the mouth of Mr. Philip Rainy? The rector, who had thought the stipulations so absurd, and had asked, almost with indignation, whether any one could ever hope to carry them out, even he looked with indignation at Philip. It was like cutting the ground from under their feet, settling the whole business before it had even begun. It was a thing not to be tolerated at all. There was not a word more said by anybody about the unnecessariness of Mr. Trevor’s precautions after this specimen, as they all felt it, of the dangers to be gone through.
While this was going on upstairs, Lady Randolph led Lucy into Mrs. Ford’s sitting-room, “as if it had been her own,” that excellent woman said, though she was very willing, on the whole, that her parlor should be made use of, and indeed, for long after took special care of the chair upon which Lady Randolph had sat down. Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Stone followed. There was a pause after they had all seated themselves, for these two other personages were somewhat jealous in their eagerness to hear every syllable that fell from Lady Randolph’s lips, and Lady Randolph studiously ignored them. It was she who for the moment was mistress of the situation; she put Lucy tenderly upon the sofa, and drew a chair close to it.
“You are doing too much,” she said; “after all the excitement and grief you want rest, or we shall have you ill on our hands.”
“That is what I am always telling her, my lady,” said Mrs Ford.
Mrs. Stone smiled. “Lucy will not get ill,” she said, “her strength is intact; I don’t think Lady Randolph need have any fear on that account.”
But Mrs. Stone’s interference was not relished by any one. Lady Randolph glanced slightly at her but took no notice; while Mrs. Ford was somewhat irritated that Lucy should be thought robust and able to bear a great sorrow without suffering. They were all very anxious to persuade the girl to “put up her feet,” and take care of herself.
“A change, an entire change is what you want,” Lady Randolphsaid, “and indeed I think that is what we must do. It does not matter if you are not prepared; of course you will want a great many things, but they can be got better in London than anywhere else. I should like you to come with me at once.”
Lucy, who had been half reclining on the sofa cushions to please her new friend, here raised herself with an energy which was not at all in keeping with her supposed exhaustion. “At once!” she said with alarm, not perceiving at the moment that this was not complimentary to Lady Randolph. When she perceived it, Lucy’s politeness was put to a severe test. She had a little awe of her future guardian, and she was very dutiful, more disposed by nature to do what she was told than to rebel. She added faintly a gentle remonstrance. “I thought there would have been a little time to get ready; the dress-maker has only sent a few of the things; and then,” she said, as if the argument was final, “we have had no time at all to get Jock’s things in order. I would have to wait for Jock.”
“Jock!” said Lady Randolph, with the greatest surprise.
And then there was another pause. “I told you, Lucy,” said Mrs. Ford, “that her ladyship knew nothing about Jock, that she would never hear of taking a little boy into her house. A young lady is one thing, but a little boy—a little boy is quite different; I told you her ladyship would never hear of it.” In the satisfaction of having known it all the time, Mrs. Ford almost forgot the inconveniences or the position. Lucy sat bolt upright upon her sofa, disregarding all the fictions about necessary rest, and looked round upon them with a little spark in each of her blue eyes.
“My love,” says Mrs. Stone in a low tone, “you have always intended and wished to send Jock to school; you must not forget that—”
There was nothing hostile to the new reign in these two women, at least not in this respect. Their deprecation and soothing were quite sincere. But Lady Randolph was a woman who had all her wits about her. She watched every indication of the thorny new ground which she was treading with a watchful eye; and she saw that Lucy’s expression changed from that of quiet gravity and sadness into an energy which was almost impassioned. The girl’s hands caught at each other, her lips quivered, every feature moved. “He is all I have,” Lucy cried out suddenly, “everything I have! and he is such a little, little fellow. Oh, don’t mind petting me—what do I care for dresses or things? but I want Jock; oh, let me have Jock!”