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figure was withdrawn.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.