A GREAT TEMPTATION.
The important communication made to her by Mr. Trevor made a great
impression upon the mind of Mrs. Stone, but it was an impression of a
confusing kind, disturbing all her previous plans and thoughts. It had
been her intention, ever since Lucy was placed in her care, to take a
decided part in the shaping of the girl’s life. Her imagination had been
roused by the situation altogether--a young creature, simple, pliable
and unformed, with no relations who had any real right to guide her, and
with a great fortune--what might not be made of such a charge! It was
not with any covetous inclination to employ her pupil’s wealth to her
own advantage that Mrs. Stone had determined by every means in her power
to acquire an influence over Lucy. She was much too high-minded, too
proud, for anything of the sort. No doubt there was an alloy, if not of
selfishness, at least of self-regard, in her higher motive, but the
worst she would have done would have been to carry out some pet projects
of her own by Lucy’s help, not to enrich herself. She thought, perhaps,
or rather, without thinking was aware, that her own importance would be
increased by her influence over the heiress; but nothing in the shape of
personal aggrandizement was present to her thoughts, even by inference.
Mr. Trevor’s communication, however, disturbed her mind in the most
uncomfortable way. When you are contemplating a vague influence of a
general kind to be gradually and with trouble acquired, it is
demoralizing to have a definite power suddenly thrust into your hands;
and it is hardly possible to refrain from exercising that power were it
but for the sake of the novelty and unexpected character of it, _en
attendant_ the larger influence to be acquired hereafter. As Mrs. Stone
sat in front of Mr. Trevor’s fire listening to him, with a ringing in
her ears of sudden excitement, holding her cup of tea in her hand, with
external calm, yet feeling every pulse flutter, there suddenly appeared
before her bewildered eyes, not written on the wall like Belshazzar’s
warning, but hanging in the air without any material support, like an
illuminated scroll, in big luminous letters, the name which her sister
had suggested; the name of Frank-- F R A N K--but bigger, a great deal
bigger, than any capitals, dazzling her eyes with the glow in them. Her
first feeling was alarm and a kind of horror. It was all she could do to
restrain the outcry that rose to her lips. She started so that she
spilled her tea, which was hot, so that she started still more; but upon
this little accident she put the best face possible.
“It is nothing, my love, nothing,” she said, when Lucy hastened to her
rescue; “only a little awkwardness on my part, and my old black silk
won’t hurt.” She looked up with a smile in Lucy’s face, when lo! the
appearance sailed into the air over Lucy’s head, and hung there
magically, almost touching the girl’s fair hair. “How awkward I am,”
Mrs. Stone cried, looking quite pale and spilling more tea. She thought
it was something diabolical, a piece of witchcraft; but it can not be
supposed that it was an easy matter to drive it out of her thoughts. She
scarcely knew what happened afterward, till she had bidden the Trevors
good-night, and found herself in the muddy bit of road which led to the
White House, and got rid, in the darkness, of that startling legend. Was
it diabolical, or was it a suggestion from heaven? Perhaps it would have
been more near the mark if she had remembered that it was a suggestion
from Miss Southwood, which she had crushed with infinite scorn when it
was made; but Mrs. Stone did not, or would not, remember this. The night
was damp and foggy, and the lights of her own house appeared to her all
blurred and hazy, with prismatic halos round them, like so many sickly
moons, and the intermediate bit of road was fitfully lighted by the
lantern carried by her maid, which shone in the dark puddles and
glistening wet herbage. But Mrs. Stone was scarcely conscious where she
was, as she picked her way lightly from one bit of solid path to
another; her mind was so full that she might have been in Regent Street,
or on a Swiss mountain. Frank! was it a diabolical suggestion, or a
revelation from heaven?
All was quiet in the White House when its mistress got in. It was ten
o’clock, and the doves were in their nests, which, to be sure, is but an
ornamental way of saying that all the girls had gone to bed. The light
burned low in the hall, as it burned all night, for Miss Southwood
thought light was “a protection” to a lonely house; and the open door of
the drawing-room, in which it was the custom of the ladies to sit with
their pupils after tea, showed something of the disorderly look of a
room deserted for the night, notwithstanding the tidiness with which all
the little work-baskets were put out of the way. Besides that open door,
however, was another still shining with firelight and lamplight, where a
little supper-tray had just been placed on the table, and a pretty
silver cover and crystal decanter, not to speak of a delicate fragrance
of cooking, showed that the mistress of the house was pleasantly
provided for. No mystery was made of this little supper, which everybody
knew was Mrs. Stone’s favorite meal; but all the girls had a curiosity
about it, and the governesses felt themselves injured that they were not
privileged to share its delights. Mrs. Stone, however, stoutly defended
her privacy at this hour of repose. She sat down with a sigh of relief,
opposite to her sister, who presided at the little white-covered table.
“You are tired,” said Miss Southwood, sympathetically, “and that girl
has forgotten as usual to put the claret to fire. But this bird is very
well cooked, and the bread-crumbs are brown and crisp, just as you like
them. Why was it he sent for you? something quite trifling, I suppose. I
wonder how parents can reconcile themselves to the trouble they give.”
“It was not a trifle, it was about Lucy’s marriage,” said the other, “or
rather about preventing Lucy’s marriage, I think. I am to have a finger
in the pie.”
“_You!_ Old Mr. Trevor is very queer, I know; is he going to take up
that odious French system, and arrange it without any reference to the
girl? But surely, Maria, you would never countenance an iniquity like
that?”
“Iniquity! are you sure it is an iniquity? In some points of view I
approve of it greatly. Do you think I could not choose better husbands
for the girls than they will ever choose for themselves? How is a girl
to exercise any judgment in the matter? She takes the first man that
comes, perhaps, or the first fool she thinks nice-looking, and what is
there sacred in that?”
“I thought you were always the one to stand up for love,” said Miss
Southwood. “I never pretend to know anything about it myself.”
“Oh, when there is _love_,” said Mrs. Stone, “that is another thing. But
what do they know about love? It is fancy, it is not love; how should
they know?”
“I am sure _I_ can’t tell,” answered the unmarried sister, very
demurely, “don’t ask me to give any opinion; you are the one that ought
to know; and I have always heard you say, and understood you to
uphold--”
“Yes, yes, yes!” cried the other, impatiently; “when a thing has been
said once, one is held to it forever, in this unintelligent way. You
never consider how unlike one case is to another, or take the
circumstances into account. Besides, all I said referred to a sentiment
already formed. I would never tear two young people asunder that were
fond of each other, because one was rich and the other poor; that is a
thing I could never be guilty of. But this is a very different matter.
To take care that a girl like Lucy Trevor does not make a foolish
choice, or even,” said Mrs. Stone, with a certain solemnity and
deliberateness of utterance, “to direct her thoughts to some one
eminently suitable--”
Miss Southwood looked at her with eager eyes. After the manner in which
her suggestion had been received at their former interview, she did not
venture to repeat it; but she knew by experience that a suggestion is
sometimes very badly received to-day, and accepted, as a matter of
course, or even energetically acted upon, to-morrow; so she said
nothing, but with eager though concealed scrutiny watched her sister’s
looks. Finding, however, that Mrs. Stone said nothing more, but
pensively eat her chicken, she resumed, after awhile, her inquiries.
“I suppose Mr. Trevor has been consulting you,” she said, “and I am sure
it was the very best thing he could do. But, after all, Lucy is only
seventeen, poor little thing! and a good girl, with no nonsense about
her. Does he want to marry her off so young, the poor child?”
“I think,” said Mrs. Stone, reflectively, turning her chair to the fire,
“he does not want her to marry at all.”
“Oh!” cried Miss Southwood in dismay. She had not married herself, she
professed at once, when the subject was mentioned, her entire
incompetence to give any opinion; but the idea that a girl’s friends
should wish her _not_ to many filled her mind with amazement beyond
words. The _naïveté_ of her conviction on this point betrayed itself in
her unfeigned wonder. She could not believe it. “I suppose,” she said,
“that he wants to keep the money in the family; and that means that he
will marry her to her cousin, that young man, that Mr. Rainy.”
“Her cousin! you mean the certificated school-master, the Dissenter.”
“Oh, he is not a Dissenter; we met him at the rectory; he is a very
rising young man, and clever, and--”
“You may save yourself, the trouble of enumerating his good qualities. I
can’t tell how you know them; but Lucy shall never marry the
school-master. I will refuse my consent.”
“You will refuse your consent? and what will that matter?” Miss
Southwood said.
Mrs. Stone made no particular answer. She put her feet upon the
comfortable velvet cushion before the fire, and smiled. She did not care
to enter upon explanations, but she had made up her mind. The fire was
bright, the bird had been good, and her modest glass of claret was
excellent. She was altogether in a balmy humor, willing to enjoy the
many comforts of her life, and to feel benevolently toward her neighbor.
“I think you are right,” she said, “and perhaps I am prejudiced. He is a
rising young man. We have met him two or three times at the rectory, so
he can not be a Dissenter; but he is not a gentleman either. How should
he be, being one of those Rainys? I shouldn’t wonder if it was to keep
him out.”
“If what was to keep him out?”
“By the way,” said Mrs. Stone, “I have a letter to write. Don’t let me
keep you out of bed, Ellen. I am very much behind in family
correspondence. Have any of the St. Clairs ever been at the White House
since we came here? I can’t recollect.”
“Not one,” said Miss Southwood, with a beating heart. “Not one; and I
have often thought, Maria, considering all things, and that they have no
father, poor things, and are not very well off--and so nice, both
sisters and brothers--”
“One does not want so many arguments. Frank may come and pay us a visit
if he likes,” said Mrs. Stone, with much amiability. But it was not till
the morning, when she came down first, as she always did, and put the
letter, which had been left on Mrs. Stone’s private writing-table, ready
for the early post, in the letter-bag, that Miss Southwood had the
satisfaction of seeing that it was addressed to the favorite nephew,
whose name she had not ventured to pronounce for a second time. Mrs.
Stone had not been inattentive to the vision, the intimation, whether
from heaven or the other place. He was to come and try his fortune in
those lists.
Miss Southwood went about her occupations all day as if she trod on air;
but she kept her lips tightly shut, and never asked a question. She was
discretion itself. As for Mrs. Stone, after she had done it, many doubts
suggested themselves. It was not for nothing, not by mere vice of
temperament that she obeyed her own impulses so readily. Like all
impulsive people, she was subject to cold fits as well is hot; but like
many other impulsive people, she had learned that it was her best policy
to obey the first imperious movement of nature. The thing was done, at
all events, before the struggle of judgment began. And the answer she
made to her own objections was a mysterious one. “Why not I as well as
Lady Randolph?” was what she said to herself.