CHAPTER XVI.
THE READING OF THE WILL.
LITTLE Jock 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at his father’s feet, and the world became suddenly very vacant and strange to him when the familiar figure was withdrawn.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 each other 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 a great 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 her rôle to 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 other principles. 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, very energetic 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 acknowledgment that 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. He was—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.