THE
GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND.
_A NOVEL._
BY MRS. OLIPHANT.
NEW YORK:
GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER,
17 TO 27 VANDEWATER STREET.
MRS. OLIPHANT’S WORKS
CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION):
NO. PRICE.
45 A Little Pilgrim 10
177 Salem Chapel 20
205 The Minister’s Wife 30
321 The Prodigals, and their Inheritance 10
337 Memoirs and Resolutions of Adam Graeme of Mossgray,
including some Chronicles of the Borough of Fendie 20
345 Madam 20
351 The House on the Moor 20
357 John 20
370 Lucy Crofton 10
371 Margaret Maitland 20
377 Magdalen Hepburn: A Story of the Scottish Reformation 20
402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the Life of Mrs. Margaret
Maitland of Sunnyside 20
410 Old Lady Mary 10
527 The Days of My Life 20
528 At His Gates 20
568 The Perpetual Curate 20
569 Harry Muir 20
603 Agnes. First half 20
603 Agnes. Second half 20
604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern Life. First half 20
604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern Life. Second half 20
605 Ombra 20
645 Oliver’s Bride 10
655 The Open Door, and The Portrait 10
687 A Country Gentleman 20
703 A House Divided Against Itself 20
710 The Greatest Heiress in England 20
THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND.
CHAPTER I.
NO. 6 IN THE TERRACE.
A country town, quiet, simple, and dull, chiefly of old construction,
but with a few new streets and scattered villas of modern flimsiness, a
river flowing through it, dulled and stilled with the frost; trees
visible in every direction, blocking up the horizon and making a
background, though only with a confused anatomy of bare branches, to the
red houses; not many people about the streets, and these cold, subdued,
only brightening a little with the idea that if the frost “held” there
might be skating to-morrow. On one side the High Street trended down a
slight slope toward the river, on the other ran vaguely away into a
delta of small streets, which, in their turn, led to the common, on the
edge of which lay the new district of Farafield. All towns it is said
have a tendency to stray and expand themselves toward the west, and this
is what had happened here. The little new streets, roads, crescents, and
places all strayed toward the setting sun. The best and biggest of
these, and at the same time the furthest off of all, was the Terrace, a
somewhat gloomy row of houses, facing toward the common, and commanding
across the strip of garden which kept them in dignified seclusion from
the road a full view of the broken expanse of gorse and heather over
which the sunsets played, affording to these monotonous windows a daily
spectacle far more splendid than any official pomp. There were but
twelve of these houses, ambitiously built to look like one great
“Elizabethan mansion.” Except one or two large old-fashioned substantial
houses in the market-place, these were the largest and most pretentious
dwellings in the town; the proud occupants considered the pile as a very
fine specimen of modern domestic architecture, and its gentility was
undoubted. It was the landlord’s desire that nobody who worked for his
or her living should enter these sacred precincts. It is difficult to
keep so noble a resolution in a country where so many occupations which
are not conspicuous to the common eye live and grow; but still it was an
exalted aim.
In this town there was a street, and in this street there was a house,
and in this house there was a room. After this fairy-tale fashion we may
be permitted to begin this history. The house, which was called No. 6 in
the Terrace, was in no way remarkable externally among its neighbors;
but within the constitution of the family was peculiar. The nominal
master of the house was a retired clerk of the highest respectability,
with his equally respectable wife. But it was well known that this
excellent couple existed (in the Terrace) merely as ministers to the
comfort of an old man who inhabited the better part of the house, and
whose convenience was paramount over all its other arrangements. There
was a link of relationship, it was understood, between the Fords and old
Mr. Trevor, and though there was no great disparity of social condition
between them, yet there was the great practical difference that old
Trevor was very rich, and the Fords had no more than sufficient for
their homely wants--wants much more humble than those of the ordinary
residents in the Terrace, who were the _élite_ of the town. This gave a
tone of respect to their intercourse on one side, and a kind of
superiority on the other. The Fords were of the opinion that old Mr.
Trevor had greatly the best of the bargain. He had none of the troubles
of a house upon his shoulders, and he had all its advantages. The
domestic arrangements which cost Mrs. Ford so much thought cost him
nothing but money; he had no care, no annoyance about anything, neither
taxes to pay nor servants to look after, and everything went on like
clock-work; his tastes were considered in every way, and all things were
made subservient to him. When coals or meat rose in value, or when one
of the three servants (each more troublesome than the other, as it is
the nature of maids to be) was disagreeable, what did it matter to old
Mr. Trevor? And when that question arose about the borough rate, what
had he to say to it? Nothing, absolutely nothing! all this daily burden
was on the shoulders of Richard Ford and Susan his wife; whereas Mr.
Trevor had nothing to do but to put his hand into his pocket, to some
people the easiest exercise. He had the best of everything, the chief
rooms, and the most unwearied attendance; and not only for him but for
his two children, who were a still more anxious charge, as Mrs. Ford
expressed it, was every good thing provided. Sometimes the excellent
couple grumbled, and sometimes felt it hard that, being relations, there
should be so much difference; but, on the whole, both parties were
aware that their own comforts profited by the conjunction, and the
household machinery worked smoothly, with as few jars and as much
harmony as is possible to man.
At the time this history begins, Mr. Trevor was seated in the
drawing-room, the best room in the house. The Fords occupied the front
parlor below, where the furniture was moderate and homely; but all the
skill of the upholsterer had been displayed above. The room had two long
windows looking out over the common, not at this moment a very cheerful
prospect. There was nothing outside but mist and dampness, made more
dismal by incipient frost, and full of the sentiment of cold, a chill
that went to your heart. The prospect inside was not much adapted to
warm or cheer in such circumstances. The windows were cut down to the
floor, as is usual in suburban houses, and though the draught had been
shut out as much as possible by list and stamped leather, and by the
large rugs of silky white fur which lay in front of each window, yet
there were still little impertinent whiffs of air blowing about. And the
moral effect was still more chilly. It was not an artistic room,
according to the fashion of the present day, or one indeed in which any
taste to speak of had been shown. The walls were white with gilded
ornaments, the curtains were blue, the carpet showed large bouquets of
flowers upon a light ground. There were large prints, very large, and
not very interesting, royal marriages and christenings, hanging, one in
the center of each wall. Thus it will be seen there was nothing to
distinguish it from a hundred other unremarkable and unattractive
apartments of the ordinary British kind. A large folding screen was
disposed round the door to keep out the draught, and the folding-doors
which led into Mr. Trevor’s bedroom behind were veiled with curtains of
the same blue as those of the windows. The old man was seated by a large
fire in a comfortable easy-chair, with a writing-table within reach of
his hand. Mr. Trevor was not a man of imposing presence; he was little
and very thin, wrapped in a dark-colored dressing-gown, with a high
collar in which he seemed pilloried, and a brown wig which imparted a
very aged juvenility to his small and wrinkled face. Gray hairs
harmonize and soften wrinkles; but the smooth chin and bright brown
locks of this little old man gave him a somewhat elfish appearance,
something like that of an elderly bird. He sat with a pen in his hand
making notes upon a large document opened out upon the writing-table,
and his action and a little unconscious chirp to which he gave vent now
and then increased his resemblance to an alert sparrow. And indeed, it
might have been a claw which Mr. Trevor was holding up with a quill in
it, and his little air of triumphant success and self-content, his head
held on one side, and the dab he made from time to time upon his paper,
gave him very much the air of a sparrow. He had laid down his “Times,”
which hung in a much crumpled condition, like a table-cover, over a
small round table on his other hand, in order to make this sudden note,
whatever it might be, and as he made it he chuckled. The paper on which
he wrote was large blue paper, like that employed by lawyers, and had an
air of formality and importance. It was smoothed out over a big
blotting-book, not long enough quite to contain it, and had a dog’s-ear
at the lower corner, which proved a frequent recurrence on the part of
the writer to this favorite manuscript. When he had written all that
occurred to him, Mr. Trevor put down his pen and resumed the “Times;”
but the interest of the previous occupation carried the day even over
that invaluable newspaper, which is as good as a trade to idle persons.
He had not gone down a column before he paused, rested his paper on his
knee, and chuckled again. Then he leaned over the writing-table and read
the note he had made, which was tolerably long; then, with his “Times”
in his hand, rose and went to the door, losing himself behind the
screen. There he stood for a moment, wrapping his dressing-gown around
his thin legs with a shiver, and called for “Ford! Ford!” Presently a
reply came, muffled by the distance, from the room below. “I’ve put in
another clause,” the old man called over the stair.
Ford below opened the door of his parlor to listen.
“Bless me! have you indeed, Mr. Trevor?” he replied, with less
enthusiasm.
“Come up, come up, and you shall hear it,” said the other, fidgeting
with excitement. Then he returned to his easy-chair, laughing to himself
under his breath. He bent over the document and read it again. “They’ll
keep her straight, they’ll keep her straight among them,” he said to
himself. “She’ll be clever if she goes wrong after all this,” and then
he sat down again, chuckling and tucking the “Times” like a napkin over
his knees.
All this time he had not been alone; but his companion was not one who
claimed much notice. There was spread before the fire a large
milky-white rug, like those that stopped the draught from the windows;
and upon this, half-buried in the fur, lay a small boy in knickerbockers
absorbed in a book. The child was between seven and eight; he was
dressed in a blue velveteen suit, somewhat shabby. He was small even
for his small age. His face was a little pale face, with fair and rather
lanky locks. Sometimes he would lie on his back with his book supported
upon his chest--sometimes the other way, with the book on the rug, and
his head a little raised, leaning on his hands. This was his attitude at
present; he took no notice of his father, nor his father of him; he was
a kind of postscript to old Mr. Trevor’s life; no one had expected him,
no one had wanted him; when he chose to come into the world it was at
his own risk, so to speak. He had been permitted to live, and had been
called John--a good, safe, serviceable name, but no special
encouragement of any other kind had been given to him, to pursue the
thankless path of existence. Nevertheless, little Jock had done so in a
dogged sort of way. He had been delicate, but he had always gone on all
the same. Lately he had found the best of all allies and defenders in
his sister, but no one else took much notice of him, nor he of them; and
his father and he paid no attention to each other. Mr. Trevor took care
not to stumble over him, being thoroughly accustomed to his presence;
and as for little Jock, he never stirred. He was on the rug in the body,
but in soul he was in the forest of Ardennes, or tilting on the Spanish
roads with Don Quixote. It was wonderful, some people thought, that such
a baby should read at all, or reading, that he should have any books
above the level of those that are written in three syllables. But the
child had no baby-books, and therefore he took what he could get. Are
not the baby-books a snare and delusion, keeping children out of their
inheritance? How can they understand Shakespeare, you will say? and I
suppose Jock did not understand; yet that great person pervaded the very
air about this little person, so that it glowed and shone. Only his
shoulders, raised a little way out of the white silky fluff of the rug,
betrayed the immovable creature, and his book was almost lost altogether
in it. There he lay, thinking nothing of how his life was to run, or of
the influences which might be developing round him. There was not a
piece of furniture in the room which counted for less with Mr. Trevor
than little Jock.
Ford was a long time coming; he had some business of his own on hand,
which though not half so important, was, on the whole, more interesting
to him than Mr. Trevor’s business; and then he had a little
argumentation with Mrs. Ford before he could get away.
“What is it now?” Mrs. Ford said fretfully, “what does he make such a
fuss about? Sure there’s nothing so very wonderful in making a will. I’d
say, ‘I leave all I have to my two children,’ and there would be an end
of it. He makes as much of it as if it was a book that he was writing.
Many a book has been written with less fuss.”
“My dear,” said Ford, “there are many people who can write books and can
not make a will; indeed the most of them have no need to, if all we hear
is true. And you don’t give a thought to the interests-- I may say the
colossal interests--that are involved.”
“Pooh!” said Mrs. Ford, “I think of our own interests if you please,
which are all I care for. Is he going to leave us anything? that is what
I want to know.”
“I am sorry you are so mercenary, my dear.”
“I am not mercenary, Mr. Ford; but I like to see an inch before me, and
know what is to become of me. He’s failing fast, any one can see that;
and if we’re left with the lease of a big house on our hands--” This was
the danger that afflicted Mrs. Ford at all moments, and robbed her of
her peace.
“Stuff!” Ford said. He knew a great deal about the important literary
composition which the old gentleman was concocting; but “he was not at
liberty” to mention what he knew. Sometimes it made him laugh secretly
within himself to think how differently she would talk if she too knew.
But then that is the case in most matters. He went upstairs at last
deliberately, counting (as it seemed) every step, while Mr. Trevor sat
impatient in his great chair, full of the enthusiasm of his own work,
and thinking every minute an hour till he could show his friend, who was
entirely in his confidence, who almost seemed like his _collaborateur_,
the last stroke he had made. It was the _magnum opus_ of Mr. Trevor’s
life, the work by which he hoped to be remembered, to attain that
immortality in the recollection of other men which all men desire. For a
long time he had been working at it, a little bit at a time as it
occurred to him. He was not like the thriftless literary persons to whom
Ford compared him, who write whether they have anything to say or not,
whether the fountain is welling forth freely or has to be pumped up drop
by drop. Mr. Trevor composed his great work under the most favorable
conditions. He had it by him constantly, night and day, and when
something occurred to him, if it were in the middle of the night, he
would get up and wrap his dressing-gown round his shrunken person and
put it down. He did not forget it either sleeping or waking. It was a
resource for his imagination, an occupation for his life. Also it was
likely to prove a considerable source of occupation to others after his
death, if nobody stepped in to nick it into shape.
When he heard Ford’s step on the stairs he began to chuckle again,
already enjoying the surprise and admiration which he felt his last new
idea must call forth. Ford was a very good literary confidant. He would
find fault with a trifle now and then, which made his general
approbation all the more valuable, as showing that there was
discrimination in it. Mr. Trevor put away the “Times” from his knees,
and drew the blotting-book with its precious contents a little nearer.
He waited with as much impatience as a lover would show for the
appearance of his love. And he had time to take off his spectacles,
clean them carefully, rubbing them with his handkerchief, and put them
on again with great deliberation before Ford, after very carefully and
audibly closing the door behind him, appeared at last on the inner side
of the screen which kept out the draught, that draught which rushed up
the narrow ravine of the staircase as up an Alpine _couloir_ white with
snow.