THE SEAL TO SIR HUGO’S SUIT.
The prettiest episode of Sir Hugo’s wooing occurred when Lady Semple
suddenly struck out the bright idea of bringing down Lady Willoughby to
pay her a visit and judge for herself, when it was too late, of her
son’s choice.
Far from Sir Hugo’s offering any objection--as if he were ashamed of
what he was about, or had the slightest conception that his feelings
might undergo a change, or that anybody, even his mother, to whom he was
so strongly attached, had the smallest right to interfere with him in
his choice of a wife--he was charmed with the opportunity of introducing
the Drysdales, especially Eppie, to Lady Willoughby; and at the same
time, though he was his own master, and was not very down-hearted about
winning the day, he caught at the chance of securing his mother’s potent
voice on the side of his suit.
Sir Hugo had so talked himself into the belief of the transcendent
merits of the merchant princes of St. Mungo’s, he had so swallowed
wholesale the peculiarities of the Drysdale household, and then, with
his strong young mental and moral digestion, dismissed them without any
great effort, that he had for the moment ceased to be conscious of their
existence. He was only aware of a long list of commercial virtues, and
that young Eppie was the loveliest, most artless, most divine of mortal
maidens.
Sir Hugo met his mother unembarrassed and without apprehension--rather
triumphant in having done so well by himself and her. She was full of
pain at the thought of losing her son so soon, as it seemed to her; of
doubt of his youthful wisdom in this direction, when love--above all, a
boy’s love--was notoriously blind; of rising repulsion--good as she
was--at the trading middle-class into which he had strayed. He was only
eager to escort her to Drysdale Hall, and to present her, as his best
credentials, to his friends. To her mingled indignation, relief, and
reluctant amusement, she found her boy was making his own of this visit
of hers, which had been paid with another intention. In spite of Lady
Semple’s flowing accounts of the unobjectionable, indeed the very
delightful, young Glasgow heiress who had happily captivated Sir Hugo,
Lady Willoughby was come down on a mission of anxious inspection,
agitated inquiry, and, if need were, in her son’s interests, grieved but
determined opposition--powerless as she was to hinder his will--with the
hope, at least, of holding him back for a moment from wrecking his life
for a young man’s idle fancy. And here was he marshalling her as his
complacent mother who was lending her countenance to his infatuation!
Lady Willoughby became confused and nervous with the turn matters had
taken, but Sir Hugo offered an unmoved countenance. Auld Tam swaggered,
though not so briskly as of old, over his possessions. Mrs. Drysdale, in
the height of her timidity and her devotion to her child--the quality
which of all things would have touched the visitor, had she been capable
of measuring the large amount of fellow-feeling between the mistress of
the house and herself--was at once unduly fine and unduly humble, and
blundered hopelessly in her small affectations. It was all lost on the
couple’s future son-in-law, who smiled with cheerful unconcern, as if he
knew better, as if everything were right in the main. Neither young Tam
nor Claribel was of any use as interpreter and smoother-down of
grievances, though Lady Willoughby saw at a glance that they were, in
the language of her class, ‘civilized’ like other people. Lady Semple,
who had created the imbroglio, struck in energetically, and talked on
every subject under the sun, to no purpose.
It was, as it should have been, young Eppie--who was not exactly
civilized, and not like other girls of her age whom Lady Willoughby had
known--that, without intending it, came to the rescue, and prevented the
interview from proving an utter failure--nay, what was worse, an
irretrievable disaster. Yet, strange to say, Eppie had never shown
herself so refractory, so unmanageable. She was coy to the verge of
absurdity and provocation of the most indulgent of her friends. Eppie
declined absolutely to be trotted out by Lady Semple. The girls shrank
away from the perfectly gentle Lady Willoughby, who was nearly as much
put out, and a great deal sorer in heart than anybody else present,
though her years and her good breeding had taught her to control herself
and put the best face on a difficulty. Even in her unwillingness to
come forward and distinguish Eppie, her ladyship was yet desirous of
being quite courteous, if possible gracious, to everybody. She might be
there to forbid the banns, but it would be done in the most reasonable,
forbearing manner.
But little Eppie looked at Lady Willoughby, of whom the girl had spoken
reverently and tenderly, as if the lady was an aristocratic tyrant of
the old régime and the first water, come to annihilate the maiden for
beguiling her son.
‘It was all his doing,’ Eppie, standing at bay, kept saying to herself.
‘I would never have so much as looked at him--he who might have had
Clary or anybody; but he sought me out as if he liked me best, and how
could I withstand him?’
All the same she withstood Lady Willoughby, who was like her son. Eppie
turned her back upon her ladyship unmistakably; she would not be drawn
forward, but kept at a distance from the visitor, and left other people
to entertain her. Eppie answered her interrogator in monosyllables when
Lady Willoughby forced herself to address the little rustic beauty who
had won her son. Eppie did not so much as care that Sir Hugo began to
look vexed. She was unjust for the moment, but it was an innocent,
disinterested injustice. Let him take away his mother and leave Eppie to
hers, for with a sudden revulsion Eppie turned and clung to her mother,
held by her skirts, as it were, and would not be taken away from her.
It was this very attitude of rebellion and defiance, this simple
clinging to the ‘common woman,’ her mother, and ignoring the lady, Sir
Hugo’s mother, together with Eppie’s winsome, youthful loveliness, which
broke down Lady Willoughby’s defences. It was the old story of ‘My boy
Tammy’ over again, of the true woman who knew by unerring instinct that
her son could not be wrong in loving the ‘young thing’ whose heart was
so full of her ‘mammy,’ and by an answering sweet and noble impulse
ratified his choice.
Lady Willoughby commenced, not so much to unbend--for she was always
modest and meek--as to warm. She took no further notice of young Eppie,
but she smiled a wonderfully frank, kind smile upon mother Eppie and
auld Tam. She began to speak pleasantly, and in the most friendly
manner, of her son as of a person in whom they too were interested. She
looked around her with observant eyes, and took notice of all the things
he had written about and described to her, delicately indicating that,
though he might, if he would, take the most important step in life
without her consent, he had not taken it without her knowledge--he had
kept no secrets from his mother. She ended by making herself at home
during her short stay, and manifesting a sincere and flattering desire
to be better acquainted in the future with everything and everybody at
Drysdale Hall, for at present she was merely passing a day with the
Semples at Semple Barns on her way to another friend’s country-house--as
it happened, the home of the Honourable Lilias, who held Dick Semple in
her chains.
Then young Eppie stole from her mother’s side and went into the
conservatory, still refusing Sir Hugo’s attendance and assistance. She
gathered with her own hands, daring and defying the ogre of a
head-gardener, some of the most choice flowers, and arranged them as
only she and her mother knew how. Eppie came back when Lady Willoughby’s
foot was already on the step of the Semple Barns carriage, followed her
and made the peace-offering mutely, with changing colour and untutored
grace.
Lady Willoughby turned as lightly as if she had been only half her age,
accepted the flowers, and equally without a word, kissed and smiled on
the giver. That kiss and that smile were the sign of free forgiveness,
Lady Willoughby’s seal to her son’s suit which neither Sir Hugo’s wife
nor Sir Hugo’s mother were ever likely to forget.
‘She will do, Hugo,’ his mother confessed to him in private. ‘She would
have been a perfect love of a girl, whether she had been a princess or a
peasant. I do not know that I could have wished one better or half so
good for you, perhaps. But oh, my dear boy! it was running a terrible
risk for you to go out of your rank, and lose your heart without so much
as thinking what you were about. And I doubt there will be difficulties;
you will have to be very patient, very generous, very prudent, Hugo. I
am afraid you do not know yet what you are doing. Though she were the
sweetest, dearest girl in the world, when there is anything like a
_mésalliance_, there is a great deal to bear.’
‘Nonsense, mother. These merchant princes look down upon us poor “landed
gentry,” as they call us. They don’t need to covet matches with us.
Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Drysdale are excellent people, you must see that;
and I don’t care a rap for things,’ the young man went on in one of his
high flights, speaking rather incoherently. ‘I believe I am
thick-skinned. The risk has been well repaid, and, if you are satisfied,
it is all right; that is, if she will have me, if she will make up her
mind to exchange Drysdale Hall for Willoughby Court.’
Lady Willoughby did not answer. She had made great concessions, but she
would indeed have been a wonderful woman if, with her nurture, she could
have realized that to some people, and those not the worst in the world,
Drysdale Hall in its over-blown splendour might have attractions
superior to Willoughby Court with its fine flavour of old gentility.
After all, when Sir Hugo made his formal proposal, and asked Eppie’s
hand from her father, the young man was astonished and disappointed by
auld Tam’s returning him a doubtful, evasive answer. Tam Drysdale
expressed himself as much obliged, he ought to say honoured, by ‘Sir
Hugie’s’ offer. He was perfectly aware of the compliment which had been
paid to his daughter; but there was time enough to think of her
marriage; she was very young. He could not answer ‘Sir Hugie’ positively
at that moment, or indeed for some time to come--not even after Eppie’s
father should have ascertained her feelings on the subject.
All a lover’s eloquence and impatience were wasted in vain, in spite of
the fact that Sir Hugo had been accustomed to find himself treated as a
person of consequence all his life. Auld Tam would not stir from his
position. He was much obliged and highly honoured, etc., etc. He did not
desire to be ungracious or rude, but he could not give an absolute
answer at a moment’s notice. He must have time to think over matters.
Sir Hugo must wait. If little Eppie were not worth waiting for, then the
young gentleman had better let her alone and go his way. ‘Dod!’ he
might be thankful that he got no worse answer; he himself had been
forced to speer twice at auld Mercer, who knew him a hantle better than
he knew ‘Sir Hugie,’ before he got his Eppie.
Sir Hugo might have replied that the circumstances were different, and
that something more was due to him. But he refrained. He certainly
thought young Eppie worth waiting for, and after the first shock of
mortified pride and baffled ardour was surmounted, the ingenuous nature
and excellent temper of the young man came out in the good grace with
which he submitted to the uncalled-for period of uncertainty and
probation to which he was sentenced. Nobody could see any reason for the
trial, but Sir Hugo came off so far the victor by cleverly making stock
of auld Tam’s hesitation. Sir Hugo managed not only to secure the
sympathy and support of the bride and all the other members of her
family, but to prove to his mother and the connections of his house
acquainted with the affair, the truth of his assertion of the
disinterestedness and superiority of the merchant princes, and how
guiltless they were in the person of Mr. Drysdale of Drysdale Hall of
any anxiety to bestow a daughter on Sir Hugo Willoughby.
It was auld Tam’s own household that were most aggrieved by his conduct.
‘What does my father mean?’ demanded young Tam, with a fellow-feeling
for his brother bachelor in the ordeal he was made to pass through. ‘He
ought not to have suffered Sir Hugo to come so much here, if my father
intended to object at the last moment.’
‘He will get Eppie and all of us talked about,’ complained Claribel.
‘People will not understand. They will suppose Sir Hugo has drawn back,
or that there is some trouble with the settlements.’
‘Oh, does father not like him? What fault can father find with him? I’m
sure he likes father,’ poor Eppie pled piteously with her mother, till
what Mrs. Drysdale called her ‘corruption,’ her unregenerate nature, was
roused to remonstrate strongly in her turn with her husband.
‘Would you mar your bairn’s credit and happiness, Tam Drysdale, for a
freit [fancy] at this time of the day? Nobody feels more keenly than me
that she is going out from us, that we are giving her up to the fine
lad. But they’re a braw young couple. Eppie will be my leddy, and what
for no? If Providence has willed her promotion, my bit lassie is worthy
to wear a crown, like Queen Esther in the Auld Testament. We’ve no
earthly title to prevent it. What’s come ower you that you dinna see
that? What makes you sae thrawn [cross], lad?’
But neither did auld Tam yield to the wife of his bosom. He had always
the same answer to give--time enough. He must think. He would give his
consent, or it might be his denial, when it was fitting. If Sir Hugie
could not stay--let him go.