GUARDIANS.
The ladies went away, the men remained behind; most of them took their
seats again with evident relief. However agreeable the two halves of
humanity may be to each other in certain circumstances, it is a relief
to both to get rid of each other when there is business on hand. The
mutual contempt they have for each other’s modes of acting impedes
hearty co-operation, and the presence of one interferes with the other’s
freedom. The men took their seats and drew a long breath of relief, all
but Philip, the unauthorized member of the party, who felt that with
Lucy his only legal right to be here at all was gone.
“Well,” said the rector, intensifying that sigh of relief into a kind of
snort of satisfaction, “now that we may speak freely, Rushton, you don’t
expect that rubbish would bear the brunt of an English court of law? It
is all romancing; the old fellow must have been laughing at you in his
sleeve. Seven trustees to decide whom the girl is to marry! His mind
must have been gone; and you can’t imagine for a moment that this is a
thing which can be carried out.”
“I don’t see why,” said Mr. Rushton calmly; “more absurd things have
been carried out. He wants his girl to be looked after. She will have
half the fortune-hunters in England after her, like flies after a
honey-pot.”
All the men assembled looked at the town clerk, he was the only one
among them who could possibly have any interest in the question. The
rector appreciated this fact with unusual force; he had daughters only,
whereas Raymond Rushton was a likely young fellow enough. They were all
somewhat suspicious of each other, all except the personage who had read
the documents, and took no part in the matter, and Mr. Chervil, a London
attorney, with little time to spare, and not much interest in anything
but the money, which was his trade.
“Of course there will be fortune-hunters after her. He ought,” said the
rector, who was given to laying down the law, “to have appointed a
couple of trustworthy guardians, as other people do, and left it in
their hands. Such an arrangement as this, no one can help seeing, is
positively absurd.”
Here Ford cleared his throat expressively, with a sound which drew all
eyes toward him. But the good man, having thus protested inarticulately,
was shy, and shrunk from speech. He retreated a step or two with
involuntary precipitation. And the only defender old Trevor found was in
Mr. Williamson, who, nevertheless, had no desire to pit himself against
the rector: he would have liked, on the contrary, to be liberal and
friendly, and to show himself superior to all petty feeling; but he
could not help taking a special interest in everything his clerical
brother, who did not admit his brotherhood, did or said. Opposition or
friendship, it might be either one or the other, but indifference could
not be between them. Accordingly, as soon as the rector had said
anything, Mr. Williamson was instantly moved to say the reverse.
“We must not forget,” he said, putting down his hat on the floor, “that
our late lamented friend was carried out of this place only to-day. To
call his arrangements absurd so soon is surely, if I may say so, not in
good taste.”
“Oh, as for good taste--” cried the rector imperatively, with a sneer
upon his lips; but he stopped himself in time. He would not get into any
altercation, he said to himself; it was bad enough to be confronted with
Dissenters, to have one of these fanatics actually sitting down with
him at the same table, but to suffer himself to be led into a
controversy! “As for that,” he said, “my mind is easy enough. But here
is a very simple question--”
“Shall you serve, Dr. Beresford, or do you decline it?” Mr. Rushton
said.
This was a question more simple still. The rector turned round and
stared at the other with a confused and bewildered countenance. This was
not at all what he meant. He paused for a moment, and reflected before
he made any answer: would he serve, or did he decline it? Very simple,
but not so easy to answer: would he have a finger in the pie, or give it
up altogether? would he accept the mysterious position, and keep the
dear privilege of control, and the power of saying who was not to marry
Lucy Trevor, though he cared little for Lucy Trevor, or would he show
his sense of the folly of the arrangement by rejecting any share in it?
It was, though so simple, a difficult question, much more difficult than
to set down the old man, who was not a Churchman, as a fool. It did not
please him, however, to accept the latter alternative; he was a man who
dearly liked to have a finger in every pie.
“Oh, ah! indeed! yes, to be sure. That is how you put it,” he said.
“Yes, that is the only way to put it,” said Mr. Rushton; “we can’t
compel any one to accept the charge, but we have a few names behind with
which to fill up, should any one object. My client was full of
foresight,” he added, with a smile; “he was very long-headed,
wrong-headed too, if you like, sometimes, but sharp as a needle. He
thought his little girl a great prize.”
“And so she will be,” said the rector, almost with solemnity; and he was
silent for a moment, as if in natural awe of Lucy’s greatness; but
within himself he was mentally vowing that, if Rushton tried to run his
boy for such large stakes, he, the rector, would take care that he did
not have it all his own way. Dr. Beresford, though he was an excellent
clergyman, was not above the use of slang now and then, nor was he too
good for a resolution which had a little of the vindictive in it. “Must
we be called together to be consulted?” he said, with a laugh; “there’s
something of the kind in an old play. Will the candidate appear before
us, and state his qualifications?” The rector again permitted himself to
laugh, but nobody responded. Mr. Rushton, though he condemned the will
in private, had sufficient professional feeling to decline to join in
any open ridicule of it, and Ford, who felt himself in the dignified
attitude of a mourner, allowed nothing to disturb his seriousness. Mr.
Williamson was smoothing his hat with disapproving gravity, polishing it
heavily round and round, as though he found some carnal tendency in it
which had to be repressed.
“In my opinion, there is nothing to laugh at,” he said; “it is a grave
responsibility. The choice of a God-fearing Christian man to be the
guide of the young lady, under Providence, and the trustee, as it were,
of a great fortune--”
“Oh, not so bad as that; we have not got to choose him, only to
blackball him,” said Mr. Rushton; “and if you think old Trevor intended
that any husband should be the trustee of his daughter’s fortune, that
is a mistake, I assure you. She has more power in her hands than ever a
girl had; even now before she is of age she is allowed liberties--ah!”
Mr. Rushton stopped short, for Philip Rainy had stepped forward with the
evident intention of saying something. They all looked at Philip. He was
well known to every one present--regarded favorably by the rector, as
one who had seen the evil of his ways, and with a grudge by Mr.
Williamson, as a deserter from the Nonconformist cause, and with
careless friendliness by Mr. Rushton, as a man who was only a rising
man, and to whom he was conscious of having himself given a helping
hand. To Ford, Philip was a member of the family, who rather set himself
above the family, and therefore was the object of certain restrained
grudges, but yet was a Rainy after all; thus the feeling of the company
about him was mingled. Nevertheless, when they suddenly turned upon him,
and recalled themselves to a recollection of his presence and his
position, and all that was in his favor, and the indications of nature,
which pointed him out as so likely a candidate, they all instinctively
forestalled the future, and on the spot blackballed Philip, who stood
before them unconscious of his fate.
“I do not wish to intrude,” he said, “though if any one has a right to
know about my cousins I have. I am their nearest relation. I am”--and
here he put on a certain dignity, though the Rainys were not a noble
race--“I believe, the head of the family since my father’s death. But
what I want to say is this: if you, as his legal guardians, do not
object, I should like to take charge of Jock.”
“Who is Jock?” said the rector, in an undertone. There was no one to
answer but Mr. Williamson, who replied in the same tone, without looking
at him. “The little boy.” It was the first distinct communication that
had passed between them. Dr. Beresford looked at the Nonconformist with
a humph of half-angry carelessness and turned away; but yet he could not
help it, he had distinctly realized the presence of the minister of
Bethesda, which was a great thorn in his side. On former occasions he
had said, “I know nothing about that sort of people;” but that advantage
was now taken from him. He had become acquainted with the man, though he
was his natural enemy.
“Take charge of Jock? with all my heart,” said the lawyer. “You could
not do anything that would please me more; he has been one of our
difficulties. Look here, Chervil, here is the very best thing that could
happen. Mr. Rainy, a relation, a--a gentleman in the scholastic
profession;” here he stopped and made a little grimace. “There will be a
moderate allowance for him” he continued, with a laugh; “all that is
easy enough; but there’s his sister to be taken into consideration, you
know.”
“If I have your consent, I think I can manage Lucy,” said Philip,
calmly. He spoke with great distinctness, and he meant them all to
understand him. It was as if a thunder-bolt had been thrown in their
midst: a young fellow like this, nobody in particular, to call the
heiress Lucy! Mr. Rushton called her so himself, and so did Ford, and
the minister, but all at once such familiarity had come to sound
profane. It was quite profane in young Rainy, a mere school-master, to
speak so familiarly of that golden girl. They all drew back with a
distinct shiver. As for the rector, he again ventured on a little laugh.
“You are a bold fellow, Rainy,” he said, “to talk of a young lady whom
we all respect so much, by her Christian name.”
“I have known her all my life, doctor; we are cousins.” There was no
idea of this great respect then. “I will speak to her at once.”
The way in which the matrimonial committee drew in their breath made a
distinct sound in the room. Speak to her, good heavens! a
school-master--a nobody! “You will remember,” said Ford, with solemnity,
“that this is the day of her father’s funeral. To speak to her--about
any such matters--”
“What matters?” Philip knew very well what they meant; but he liked to
play upon their apprehensions. “You may be sure,” he said, with
malicious gravity, “I shall say nothing to distress her. She knows me,
and I think she has confidence in me.”
“And you forget,” said Mr. Chervil, who was cool, and had his wits about
him, “that it’s only about little Jock.”
“To be sure, to be sure, it is not about anything very important,” said
the committee, in full accord, “it’s only about little Jock.”
And then they all laughed, but not with a very good grace. There was no
fault at all to be found with him, an honest, honorable, rising young
man--and the girl had no right to anything better; but what was the use
of appointing a committee of seven to watch over this momentous event,
if Lucy’s fortune was to fall like a ripe apple from the tree into the
mouth of Mr. Philip Rainy? The rector, who had thought the stipulations
so absurd, and had asked, almost with indignation, whether any one could
ever hope to carry them out, even he looked with indignation at Philip.
It was like cutting the ground from under their feet, settling the whole
business before it had even begun. It was a thing not to be tolerated at
all. There was not a word more said by anybody about the unnecessariness
of Mr. Trevor’s precautions after this specimen, as they all felt it, of
the dangers to be gone through.
While this was going on upstairs, Lady Randolph led Lucy into Mrs.
Ford’s sitting-room, “as if it had been her own,” that excellent woman
said, though she was very willing, on the whole, that her parlor should
be made use of, and indeed, for long after took special care of the
chair upon which Lady Randolph had sat down. Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Stone
followed. There was a pause after they had all seated themselves, for
these two other personages were somewhat jealous in their eagerness to
hear every syllable that fell from Lady Randolph’s lips, and Lady
Randolph studiously ignored them. It was she who for the moment was
mistress of the situation; she put Lucy tenderly upon the sofa, and drew
a chair close to it.
“You are doing too much,” she said; “after all the excitement and grief
you want rest, or we shall have you ill on our hands.”
“That is what I am always telling her, my lady,” said Mrs Ford.
Mrs. Stone smiled. “Lucy will not get ill,” she said, “her strength is
intact; I don’t think Lady Randolph need have any fear on that account.”
But Mrs. Stone’s interference was not relished by any one. Lady Randolph
glanced slightly at her but took no notice; while Mrs. Ford was somewhat
irritated that Lucy should be thought robust and able to bear a great
sorrow without suffering. They were all very anxious to persuade the
girl to “put up her feet,” and take care of herself.
“A change, an entire change is what you want,” Lady Randolph said, “and
indeed I think that is what we must do. It does not matter if you are
not prepared; of course you will want a great many things, but they can
be got better in London than anywhere else. I should like you to come
with me at once.”
Lucy, who had been half reclining on the sofa cushions to please her new
friend, here raised herself with an energy which was not at all in
keeping with her supposed exhaustion. “At once!” she said with alarm,
not perceiving at the moment that this was not complimentary to Lady
Randolph. When she perceived it, Lucy’s politeness was put to a severe
test. She had a little awe of her future guardian, and she was very
dutiful, more disposed by nature to do what she was told than to rebel.
She added faintly a gentle remonstrance. “I thought there would have
been a little time to get ready; the dress-maker has only sent a few of
the things; and then,” she said, as if the argument was final, “we have
had no time at all to get Jock’s things in order. I would have to wait
for Jock.”
“Jock!” said Lady Randolph, with the greatest surprise.
And then there was another pause. “I told you, Lucy,” said Mrs. Ford,
“that her ladyship knew nothing about Jock, that she would never hear of
taking a little boy into her house. A young lady is one thing, but a
little boy--a little boy is quite different; I told you her ladyship
would never hear of it.” In the satisfaction of having known it all the
time, Mrs. Ford almost forgot the inconveniences or the position. Lucy
sat bolt upright upon her sofa, disregarding all the fictions about
necessary rest, and looked round upon them with a little spark in each
of her blue eyes.
“My love,” says Mrs. Stone in a low tone, “you have always intended and
wished to send Jock to school; you must not forget that--”
There was nothing hostile to the new reign in these two women, at least
not in this respect. Their deprecation and soothing were quite sincere.
But Lady Randolph was a woman who had all her wits about her. She
watched every indication of the thorny new ground which she was treading
with a watchful eye; and she saw that Lucy’s expression changed from
that of quiet gravity and sadness into an energy which was almost
impassioned. The girl’s hands caught at each other, her lips quivered,
every feature moved. “He is all I have,” Lucy cried out suddenly,
“everything I have! and he is such a little, little fellow. Oh, don’t
mind petting me--what do I care for dresses or things? but I want Jock;
oh, let me have Jock!”
“Hush, hush, Lucy; hush, dear,” whispered Mrs. Stone, with sympathetic
looks, and Mrs. Ford put her handkerchief to her eyes and vowed,
sobbing, that she would take every care of him. They were both half
frightened by the sudden vehemence which was unlike Lucy. And at this
moment there was a knock at the door, and Philip Rainy put in his head.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but may I speak to Lucy for a moment? I
thought you would like to know that they have no objections, Lucy--not
the least objection. I am to have Jock. I told Mr. Rushton that I felt
sure you would trust him to me.”
Lucy felt that she had no longer any power of speech. She put her hands
together instinctively, and gave Lady Randolph a piteous look; her heart
swelled as if it would burst. Was it a judgment upon her for not being
heart-broken, as perhaps she ought to have been, for the loss of her
father? To have little Jock taken away from her was like tearing a piece
of herself away.
But Lady Randolph had all her wits about her. It was not likely, if the
sight of this comely young man who called the heiress Lucy, had alarmed
even the men upstairs, that a woman would be less alive to the danger.
She took Lucy’s hand into her own, and pressed them kindly between hers.
“I don’t know this gentleman, my dear,” she said, “and I don’t doubt he
is very kind; but I am sure it would be mistaken kindness to separate
these two poor children now. Just after one great loss, she is not in a
fit state to bear another wrench. No. I don’t know who Jock is, and I
have not much room in my little house; but you shall have your Jock, my
dear. I will not be the one to take him from you,” Lady Randolph said.
This was a thing which no one had so much as thought of. They all gazed
at her with wonder and admiration, while Lucy, in the sudden relief,
fell a-crying, more subdued and broken down than she had yet shown
herself. While the girl was being caressed and soothed, Mrs. Stone went
away, finding no room for her own ministrations. She said, “That is a
very clever woman,” to Philip Rainy at the door.