The Greatest Heiress in England

by Mrs. Oliphant

There passed rapidly through Lucy’s mind as she spoke a review of the circumstances and people who had furnished her with so many varied experiences. First and greatest stood the Randolphs, and that other world of life in London, which she knew was waiting for her in the shut-up rooms, all shutters and brown-holland, in Lady Randolph’s house. She seemed to see these rooms, closed and dim, with rays of light coming in through the crevices, and everything covered up, in which her life was awaiting her. The other scenes flitted across her mind like shadows, the episode of the Russells, the facts of her present existence—all shadows; but Grosvenor Street was real, though all the shutters were shut. While this was passing through her mind, the others were giving her credit for visions very different. They glanced at each other again, and Mrs. Stone took her nephew’s arm and gave it a significant pressure. She was too much elated to be capable of much talk.

“We must see Lucy home,” she said. “It is getting late, and dear little Jock ought to be in bed. I am always glad to see my girls come back; but there is one thing I shall grudge, these evening strolls; they have been very sweet.”

“Then you have made up your mind, notwithstanding Miss Trevor’s intercession (for which I thank her on my knees), to send me away?”

“I can not send you away while you are necessary to the comfort of—these dear children,” Mrs. Stone said. There was a little break of emotion in her voice, and Lucy listened with some surprise. She was scarcely aware that she had interceded, yet in reality she was very glad that Mr. St. Clair should stay. She observed that he held her hand a moment longer than was necessary, as he bade her good-night, but she did not attach any meaning to this. It was an accident; she was too greatly indifferent to notice it at all.

And thus the tranquil days went on; the girls came back, but Mr. St. Clair did not go away. He was faithful to Jock and his lessons, and very sympathetic and kind to Lucy, though he did not at all understand the semi-abstraction into which she sometimes fell in his presence, and which was due to her anxious self-inquiries how she could propound to him the question of permanent help. Indeed this abstraction deceived St. Clair as much as his devotion was intended to deceive her. He was taken in his own toils, or, rather, he fell into the trap which little Jock had innocently laid for him. When Lucy looked at him, he thought that he could see the keen interest which the child had discovered in her eyes; and when she did not look at him, he thought she was averting her eyes in maiden bashfulness for fear of betraying herself; and he permitted himself to watch her with more and more tender and close observation. He was far cleverer and more experienced than Lucy, but her simplicity deceived him; and as he gave Jock his lesson and watched the tranquil figure of the girl sitting by, St. Clair felt, with a throb of excitement, that he was approaching a sort of fabulous termination, a success more great than anything he had ever actually believed in. For, as a matter of fact, he had never really believed in this chance which his aunt had set before him. He had “gone in for” Lucy as he would have “gone in for” any other temporary pursuit which furnished him with something to do, and satisfied the relatives on whom he was more dependent than was agreeable. But now suddenly the chase had become real, the chance a possibility, or more than a possibility. In such circumstances, what suitor could avoid a growing excitement? The moment the thing became possible, it became wildly exciting, a hurrying pursuit, a breathless effort. Thus while Lucy’s thoughts were gravely fixed upon what she considered the chief business of her life, St. Clair, on his side, pursued the object of his with an ardor which increased as the end of the pursuit seemed to draw near. His voice took tender inflections, his eyes gave forth glowing glances, his aspect became more and more that of a lover; but Lucy, preoccupied and inexperienced, saw nothing of this, and there was no one else to divine what the unlucky wooer meant, unless, indeed it might be Jock, who saw and heard so much more than any one supposed, so much more than he himself knew.

Side by side along with this pursuit was that of which Mrs. Ford more clearly perceived the danger, the wooing of Mrs. Rushton and her son Ray. Mrs. Ford’s instinct was just, it was the mother who was the more dangerous of the two. Ray, with his hands in his pockets, did not present much of the natural appearance of a hero, and he had still less of the energy and spontaneousness of a successful lover than he had of the appearance which wins or breaks hearts, but, nevertheless, by dint of unwearied exertions, he was kept more or less up to the mark. Lucy had another constant visitor, about whose “intentions” it was less easy to pronounce. Philip Rainy began to come very often to the Terrace; he scorned Ray Rushton, and he paid the compliment of a hearty dislike to St. Clair, he was suspicious of both, and of all others who appeared in the neighborhood; but this was in the true spirit of the dog in the manger, for his own purposes were more confused than ever, and he had no desire to make any effort to appropriate to himself the great prize. He stood by and looked on in a state of jealous watchfulness, sometimes launching a word of bitter criticism against his cousin; but unable to force himself to enter the lists, or take a single step to obtain what he could not make up his mind to resign. Sometimes Katie Russell would be with her friend, and then the young school-master went through such tumults of feeling as nobody had thought him capable of. He was the only one that had any struggle in his mind; but his was a hard one. Love or advantage, which was it to be? By this time it was very clear to him that they had no chance to be united in his case.

It was now October, but the weather was still warm, and it was still possible to play croquet on the lawn, amid an increased party of young people, the only kind of dissipation which Lucy’s mourning made practicable. Mrs. Rushton’s regrets were great that a dance was not possible, but she knew better than to attempt such a thing, and set all the gossips going. “Next year everything will be very different,” she said, “unless in the meantime some fairy prince comes and carries our Lucy away.”

“I am her guardian, and I will have nothing to say to any fairy prince,” Mr. Rushton said. They both gave a glance at their son as they spoke, who was a good-looking young fellow enough, but not much like a Prince Charmant. And Lucy smiled and accepted the joke quite calmly, knowing nothing of any such hero. She heard all his mother’s praise of Raymond quite unmoved, saying “Indeed,” and “That was very nice;” but without the faintest gleam of emotion. It was very provoking. Mrs. Rushton had made up her mind that Lucy was not a girl of much feeling, but yet would be insensibly moved by habits of association, and by finding one person always at her elbow wherever she moved. Raymond, in the meantime, had profited in a way beyond his hopes. He had got a horse, the better to accompany the heiress on her rides, and his money in his pocket was more abundant; but when his mother spurred him up to a greater display of devotion, the young man complained that he had not encouragement. “Encouragement!” Mrs. Rushton cried; “a girl with no one can tell how many thousands a year, and you want encouragement!” It seemed to her preposterous. Oh, that mothers could but do for sons what they are so lukewarm in doing for themselves! Mrs. Rushton did all that was possible. She told tales of her boy’s courage and unselfishness, which were enough to have dazzled any girl, and hinted and insinuated his bashful love in a hundred delicate ways. But Lucy remained obtuse to everything. She was not clever nor had she much imagination, and love had not yet acquired any place in her thoughts.

This was to be the last croquet-party of the season, and all that was fair and fashionable and eligible in Farafield was gathered on the lawn, round which the scarlet geraniums were blazing like a gorgeous border to a great shawl. Rarely had Lucy seen so gay a scene. When she had herself got through a game, which she did not particularly care for, she was allowed to place herself in one of the low basket-chairs near the tea-table, at which Mrs. Rushton was always seated. “Was there ever such a child?” Mrs. Rushton said; “she prefers to sit with us dowagers rather than to take her share in the game.”

“And what is still more wonderful,” said an old lady, who perhaps did not care to hear herself called a dowager, “your son Raymond seems of the same opinion, though he is a hot croquet-player, as we all know.”