The Greatest Heiress in England by Mrs. Oliphant - HTML preview

CHAPTER XLVI.
 THE END.

THERE was one thing which Sir Thomas got out of his matrimonial arrangements which was more than he expected, and that was a great deal of fun. After he had received, in the way above described, the angry submission of the two whom he chiefly feared, he had entered into the spirit of the thing, and determined that he would faithfully obey the will, and obtain the assent of all that marriage committee, who expected to make Lucy’s marrying so difficult a matter. He was even visited by some humorous compunctions as he went on. The entire failure of poor old Trevor’s precautions on this point awakened a kind of sympathetic regret in his mature mind. “Poor old fellow!” he said; “probably I was the last person he would have given his heiress to: most likely all these fences were made to keep me out,” he laughed; yet he felt a kind of sympathy for the old man, who, indeed, however, would have had no such objection to Sir Thomas as Sir Thomas thought. Next morning Lucy’s suitor went to the rector, who, to be sure, had it in his power to stop the whole proceedings, advanced as they were. But the rector had heard, by some of the subtle secret modes of communication which convey secrets, of something going on, and patted Sir Thomas on the shoulder.

“My dear Sir Tom,” he said, “I never for a moment attached any importance to the vote given to me. Why should I interfere with Miss Trevor’s marriage? Your father-in-law that is to be (if one can speak in the future tense of a person who is in the past) entertained some odd ideas. He was an excellent man, I have not a doubt on that point, but— Now what could I know about it, for instance? I know Lucy—she’s a very nice girl, my girls like what they have seen of her immensely; but I know nothing about her surroundings. I am inclined to think she is very lucky to have fallen into no worse hands than yours.”

“The compliment is dubious,” said Sir Tom, “but I accept it; and I may take it for granted that I have your consent?”

“Certainly, certainly, you have my consent. I never thought of it but as a joke. That old man— I beg your pardon—your father-in-law must have had queer ideas about many things. I hear he left his heiress great latitude about spending—allowed her, in short, to give away her money.”

“I wonder how you heard that?”

“Ah! upon my word I can scarcely tell you. Common talk. They say, by the way, she is going to give a fortune to Katie Russell on her marriage with young Rainy, the school-master; compensation, that! Rainy (who is a young prig, full of dissenting blood, though it suits him to be a churchman) no doubt thought he had a good chance for the heiress herself.”

“Don’t speak any worse than you can help of my future relations,” said Sir Tom, with a laugh: “it might make things awkward afterward;” upon which the rector perceived that he had gone half a step too far.

“Rainy is a very respectable fellow; there is not a word to be said against him. I wish I could say as much for all my own relations,” he said; “but, Randolph, as I am a kind of a guardian, you know, take my advice in one thing. It is all very fine to be liberal; but I would not let her throw her money away.”

Sir Tom made no direct reply. He shook the rector’s hand, and laughed. “I’ll tell Lucy you send her your blessing,” he said.

And then he went off in a different direction, from the fine old red-brick rectory, retired in its grove of trees, to the little, somewhat shabby street in which Mr. Williamson, the Dissenting minister, resided—if a man can be said to reside in a back street. The house was small and dingy, the door opening into a very narrow passage, hung with coats and hats, for Mr. Williamson, as was natural, had a large family. It was only after an interval of running up and down-stairs, and subdued calling of one member of the household after another, that the minister was unearthed and brought from the little back room, called his study, in his slippers and a very old coat, to receive the unlikely visitor. Sir Thomas Randolph! what could he want? There is always a certain alarm in a humble household attendant upon the unexpectedness of such a visit. Could anything have happened? Could some one have gone wrong, was the anxious question of the Williamsons, as the minister was roused, and gently pushed into the parlor, where Sir Thomas, surrounded by all the grim gentility of the household gods, was awaiting him. The mother and daughter were on tiptoe in the back room, not listening at the door certainly, but with excited ears ready for every movement. The vague alarm that they felt was reflected in the minister’s face. Sir Thomas Randolph! What could he want? It was a relief to Mr. Williamson when he heard what it was; but he was not so easy in his assent as the rector. He took a seat near the suitor, with an air of great importance replacing the vague distrust and fear that had been in his face.

“It is a great trust, Sir Thomas,” he said. “And I must be faithful. You will not expect me to do anything against my conscience. Lucy Trevor is a lamb of the flock, though spiritually no longer under my charge, her mother was an excellent woman, and our late friend, Mr. Trevor— This is an altogether unexpected application, you must allow me to think it over. I owe it to—to our late excellent friend who committed this trust to my unworthy hands.”

“I thought,” said Sir Tom, “that it was a matter of form merely; but,” he added, with a better inspiration, “I quite see how, to a delicate sense of duty like yours, it must take an aspect—”

“That is it, Sir Thomas—that is it,” Mr. Williamson said. “I must be faithful at whatever cost. Yourself now, you will excuse me; there are reports—”

“A great many, and at one time very well founded,” said Sir Thomas, with great seriousness, looking his judge in the face.

This took the good minister by surprise, and the steady look confused him. A great personage, the greatest man in the county, a baronet, a man whose poverty (for he was known to be poor) went beyond Mr. Williamson’s highest realization of riches! It gave the excellent minister’s bosom an expansion of solemn pride, and, at the same time, a thrill of alarm. Persecution is out of date, but to stand up in the presence of one of the great ones of the earth, and convict him of evil—this is still occasionally possible. Mr. Williamson rose to the grandeur of his position. Such an opportunity had never been given to him before, and might never be again.

“I am glad that you do not attempt to deny it, Sir Thomas; but at the same time there is a kind of bravado that boasts of evil-doing. I hope that is not the source of your frankness. The happiness of an innocent young girl is a precious trust, Sir Thomas. Unless we have guarantees of your change of life, and that you are taking a more serious view of your duties, how can I commit such a trust into your hands?”

“What kind of guarantees can I offer?” said Sir Thomas, with great seriousness. “I can not give securities for my good conduct, can I? I will cordially agree to anything that your superior wisdom and experience can suggest.”

“Do not speak of my wisdom, for I have none—experience, perhaps, I may have a little; and I think we must have guarantees.”

“With all my heart—if you will specify the kind,” Sir Thomas said.

But here the good minister was very much at a loss, for he did not in the least know what kind of guarantees could be given, or taken. He was not accustomed to have his word taken so literally. He cleared his throat, and a flush came over his countenance, and he murmured, “Ah!” and “Oh!” and all the other monosyllables in which English difficulty takes refuge. “You must be aware,” he said, “Sir Thomas—not that I mean to be disagreeable—that there are many things in your past life calculated to alarm the guardians.”

“But, my dear sir, when I confess it,” said Sir Thomas, “when I admit it! when I ask only—tell me what guarantees I can give—what I can do or say—”

“Guarantees are necessary—certainly guarantees are necessary,” said the minister, shaking his head; and then he gave to his attentive hearer a little sermon upon marriage, which was one of the good man’s favorite subjects. Sir Thomas listened with great gravity and sympathy. He subdued the twinkling in his eyes—he wanted to take advantage of the honorable estate. He said very little, and allowed his mentor to discourse freely. And nothing was said further about guarantees. Mr. Williamson gave his consent with effusion before the interview was over. “You have seen the folly of a careless life,” he said, “I can not but hope that your heart is touched, Sir Thomas, and that all the virtues of maturity will develop in you; and if my poor approval and blessing can do you any good, you have it. I am not of those who think much of, neither do I belong to a denomination which gives special efficacy to, any man’s benediction; but as Jacob blessed Joseph, I give you my blessing.” Then as his visitor rose content, and offered him his hand, an impulse of hospitality came over the good man. “My wife would say I was letting you go coldly, without offering you anything; but I believe it is quite out of fashion to drink wine in the morning—which is a very good thing, an excellent thing. But if you will come to tea—any afternoon, Sir Thomas. If you will bring Lucy to tea!”

Afterward, after the door was shut, the minister darted out again and called after his visitor, “My wife says if you would name an afternoon, or if Lucy would write to her what day we may expect you—not to make preparations,” said the minister, waving his hand, “but in case we should be out, or engaged.”

Sir Thomas promised fervently. “You shall certainly hear a day or two before we come,” he said, and walked away with a smile on his face. To be sure he never meant to go back to tea, but his conscience did not smite him. He had got off safe and sound without any guarantees.

“Now there is only my aunt’s consent to get,” he said, when he had gone back to the Terrace. “We have stuck to the very letter of the will, and you see all has gone well. I am going off to Fairhaven to-morrow. I know she is there.”

“But must you ask her consent? you know she will give it,” Lucy said.

“How do I know she will give it? Perhaps she would prefer to keep you to herself.” Lucy smiled at the thought; but Sir Thomas did not feel so sure. His aunt meant him to marry Lucy eventually; but that was a very different thing from carrying her off now.

When Sir Thomas went away, Lucy had a great many visitors. Even Mrs. Rushton came, embarrassed, but doing her best to look at her ease. “Why did you not tell me that this was going on, you silly child? I should have understood everything, I should have made allowances for everything. But, perhaps, he had never come to the point till the other day? Mr. Rushton and Raymond send you their very best wishes. And Emmie has hopes that after seeing so much of each other all the autumn, you will choose her for one of your brides-maids, Lucy. And I wish you every happiness, my dear,” Mrs. Rushton cried, kissing her with a little enthusiasm, having talked all her embarrassment away. Lucy was surprised by this change, but she was no casuist, and she did not inquire into it. It was a relief which she accepted thankfully. Mrs. Stone came also with her congratulations. “Lady Randolph was very wise to forestall everybody,” she said. “And, Lucy, I shall be very glad to have you near me, to watch how you go on in your new life. Never hesitate to come to me in a difficulty.” This was the way in which she took her pupil’s elevation. Had Lucy been raised to a throne, she would have made a similar speech to her. She would have felt that she could instruct her how to reign. As for Mr. St. Clair, Lucy still had much trouble to go through on his account. She was very reluctant to give up her scheme for his help, but at last, after a great many interviews with Miss Southwood, was got to perceive that the thing to be done was to make Sir Thomas “find an appointment” for her unfortunate suitor. “He can easily do it,” said Miss Southwood, with that innocent faith in influence which so many good people still retain.

Bertie Russell disappeared from Farafield on the day after the advent of Sir Thomas. He was the most angry of all Lucy’s suitors, and he put her this time into his book in colors far from flattering. But, fortunately, nobody knew her, and the deadly assault was never found out, not even by its immediate victim, for, like many writers of fiction, and, indeed, like most who are worth their salt, Bertie was not successful in the portraiture of real character. His fancy was too much for his malevolence, and his evil intentions thus did no harm.

Sir Thomas traveled as fast as expresses could take him to the house in which his aunt was paying one of her many autumn visits—for I need not say that she had returned from Homburg some time before. The house was called Fairhaven. It was the house of a distinguished explorer and discoverer; and the company assembled there included various members of Lady Randolph’s special “society.” When Sir Thomas walked into the room, where, all the male portion of the party being still in the covers, the ladies were seated at tea, his aunt rose to meet him, from out of a little group of her friends. Her privy council, that dread secret tribunal by which her life was judged, were all about her in the twilight and firelight. When his name was announced, to the great surprise of everybody, Lady Randolph rose up with a similar but much stronger sense of vague alarm than that which had moved the minister the previous day. “Tom!” she cried, with surprise which she tried to make joyful; but indeed she was frightened, not knowing what kind of news he might have come to tell. Mrs. Berry-Montagu who was sitting as usual with her back to the light, though there was so little of that, gave a little nod and glance aside to Lady Betsinda, who was seated high in a throne-like, antique chair, and did not care how strong the light was which fell on her old shiny black satin and yellow lace. “I told you!” said Mrs. Berry-Montagu. She thought all her friend’s hopes, so easily penetrated by those keen-eyed spectators, were about to be thrown to the ground, and the desire to observe “how she would bear it,” immediately stirred up those ladies to the liveliest interest. Sir Thomas, however, when he had greeted his aunt, sat down with his usual friendly ease, and had some tea. He was quite ready to answer all their questions, and he was not shy about his good news, but ready to unfold them whenever it might seem most expedient so to do.

“Straight from the Hall?” Lady Randolph said, with again a tremor. Did this mean that he had been making preparations for his setting out?

“I got there three days ago,” said Sir Tom; “poor old house, it is a pity to see it so neglected. It is not such a bad house—”

“A bad house! there is nothing like it in the county. If I could but see you oftener there, Tom,” his aunt cried in spite of herself.

Sir Tom smiled, pleased with the consciousness which had not yet lost its amusing aspect; but he did not make any reply.

“He likes his own way,” said Lady Betsinda; “I don’t blame him. If I were a young man—and he is still a young man— I’d take my swing. When he marries, then he’ll range himself, like all the rest, I suppose.”

“Lady Betsinda talks like a book—as she always does,” said Sir Tom, with his great laugh; “when I marry, everything shall be changed.”

“That desirable consummation is not very near at hand, one can see,” said Mrs. Berry-Montagu, out of the shadows, in her thin, fine voice.

Sir Tom laughed again. There was something frank, and hearty, and joyous in the sound of his big laugh; it tempted other people to laugh too, even when they did not know what it was about. And Lady Randolph did not in the least know what it was about, yet the laugh gained her in spite of herself.

“Apropos of marriage,” said Mrs. Montagu once more, “have you seen little Miss Trevor in your wilds, Sir Tom? Our young author has gone off there, on simulated duty of a domestic kind, but to try his best for the heiress, I am sure. Do you think he has a chance? I am interested,” said the little lady. “Come, the latest gossip! you must know all about it. In a country neighborhood every scrap is worth its weight in gold.”

“I know all about it,” said Sir Tom.

“That you may be sure he does; where does all the gossip come from but from the men? we are never so thorough. He’ll give you the worst of it, you may take my word for that. But I like that little Lucy Trevor,” cried old Lady Betsinda; “she was a nice, modest little thing. She never looked her money; she was more like a little girl at home, a little kitten to play with. I hope she is not going to have the author. I always warned you, Mary Randolph, not to let her have to do with authors, and that sort of people; but you never take my advice till it’s too late.”

“She is not going to marry the author,” said Sir Tom, with another laugh; and then he rose up, almost stumbling over the tea-table. “My dear ladies,” he said, “who are so much interested in Lucy Trevor, the fact is that the author never had the slightest chance. She is going to marry—me. And I have come, Aunt Mary, if you please, to ask if you will kindly give your consent? The other guardians have been good enough to approve of me,” he added, making her a bow, “and I hope I may not owe my disappointment to you.”

“The other guardians— Tom!” cried Lady Randolph, falling upon him and seizing him with both hands, “is this true?”

Sir Tom kissed her hand with a grace which he was capable of when he pleased, and drew it within his arm.

“I presume, then,” he said, as he led her away, “that I shall get your consent too.”

Thus old Mr. Trevor’s will was fulfilled. It was not fulfilled in the way he wished or thought of, but what then? He thought it would have kept his daughter unmarried, whereas her mourning for him was not ended when she became Lady Randolph—which she did very soon after the above scene, to the apparent content of everybody. Even Philip Rainy looked upon the arrangement with satisfaction. Taking Lucy’s fortune to redeem the great Randolph estate, and to make his little cousin the first woman in the county, was not like giving it “to another fellow;” which was the thing he had not been able to contemplate with patience. The popular imagination, indeed, was more struck with the elevation of little Lucy Trevor to be the mistress of the Hall than with Sir Thomas’s good fortune in becoming the husband of the greatest heiress in England. But when his settlements were signed, both the guardians, Mr. Chervil and Mr. Rushton, took the bridegroom-elect aside.

“We can not do anything for you about that giving-away clause,” Mr. Chervil said, shaking his head.

“But Sir Thomas is not the man I take him for, if he don’t find means to keep that in check,” said Mr. Rushton.

Sir Tom made no reply, and neither of these gentlemen could make out what was meant by the humorous curves about his lips and the twinkle in his eye.

THE END.