Sir Thomas Randolph got up next morning with his usual good spirits a little heightened by something, he could not immediately recollect what. The doubt lasted only for a moment, but, perhaps, his happiness was not so instantaneously present to his mind as a new vexation would have been. But on his second waking moment, he jumped up from his bed and laughed. The red October sunshine was shining into his room; he went and looked out from his window upon the noble trees in his park, stretching far away in ruddy masses, all golden and red with the frosty, not fiery, finger (pardon, dear poet!) of autumn. As far as he could see (and a great deal further) the land was his; but oh, poor acres! how heavy with mortgages! how stiff with borrowings! heavier and stiffer than the native clay, of which there was too much about Farafield; but that was all over, this red, russet October morning; the house had a mistress, and the land was free. Was it a wrong to Lucy that he thought of this so soon? He laughed, at first, at the astounding position in which he suddenly recollected himself to stand, as betrothed man, a happy and successful lover; and then there suddenly rushed into his mind the idea that the change would make him entirely independent, safe from all duns, free of all creditors, his own master on his own land. When, however, he went down-stairs and eat his solitary breakfast near the fire in the great paneled room, with its old tapestries and family portraits, the noblest room in the county, though as good as shut up for so many years, there came quite sweetly and delightfully into Sir Tom’s mind the idea, not of the hospitalities which now were possible, but of a little serious countenance, with two mild blue eyes, following his looks with a little strain of intelligence, not quite, quite sure all at once of his meaning, but always sure that he was right, and soon finding out what he meant, and lighting up with understanding all the more pleasant for the first surprise of uncertainty. When this little vision glanced across him, he put down his newspaper, which he had taken up mechanically, and smiled at it over the table. “Give me some tea, Lucy,” he said, with an amused, exhilarated, almost excited realization of what was going to be. “I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas?” said the solemn butler, just coming in; and then, will it be believed? Sir Tom, who had knocked about the world for so many years, Sir Tom, who had touched the borders of middle age, and gone through no small amount of experiences—blushed! He laughed afterward and resumed his paper; but that there had come over, between his big mustache and his quite unthinned and plentiful locks, a delightful youthful suffusion of warmth and color, it was impossible to deny. He felt it quite necessary to sound a trumpet forthwith, so much tickled was he with his own confusion, and pleased with himself. “Williams, I am going to be married,” he said. Williams was a man who had been all over the world with his master, who had himself gone through various transformations, had been a saucy valet, and an adventurer, and a dignified family servant by turns, and was not a man to be surprised at anything; but he stopped short in the middle of the room, and said, “Indeed, Sir Thomas!” in a tone more like bewilderment than any that ever had been heard from him before. “Did you ever hear such a joke?” said the master, thinking of his own blush, that unparalleled circumstance; and “It do indeed, Sir Thomas,” Mr. Williams gravely replied.
However, after this serious revelation there were more serious matters at hand. Sir Thomas had decided that he would go to Mr. Rushton in the morning, who was the real guardian, and with whom in any case he would have to do; whether it would be necessary in everything to observe the ordinances of the will, which Lucy, he knew, had declared her determination to stand by, and ask the consent of all that board of guardians to whom old Trevor had given the power of hampering and hindering Lucy’s marriage, was a thing he had not made up his mind upon; but with Mr. Rushton, at least, he must have to do. He drove into Farafield through the keen air of the bright, chill, sunshiny morning with great courage and confidence. It might be said that he was fortune-hunting too; but if he would receive a certain advantage from the heiress, it was certain that he had something to offer on his side which no woman would despise. To put her at the head of the noblest old house and the most notable family in the county was a balance on his side which made Lucy’s advantage no more than was desirable. Mr. Rushton, however, presented the air of a man perturbed and angry when Sir Thomas entered his office. A letter was lying on the table before him, the sight of which, it must be allowed, somewhat discomposed even Sir Tom. Was it Lucy’s handwriting? Had she taken it upon her to be the first to communicate to her legal guardian the change in her fortunes which had happened? If this had been the case, no doubt Sir Tom would have adapted himself to it, and concluded by finding it quite natural and becoming that a girl in so exceptional a position should take this upon herself. But in the meantime he felt just a little annoyed and disconcerted too.
“I see you are busy,” Sir Thomas said.
“No—not so much busy— I am always busy at this hour, and shall be, I hope, as long as my strength lasts; but not more than usual. The truth is,” said Mr. Rushton, with a suppressed snarl, “I’m provoked—and not much wonder if you knew all.”
Sir Thomas looked at the open letter in spite of himself. “May I ask if I have anything to do with your annoyance?” he said.
“You!” the lawyer opened his eyes wide, then laughed angrily. “No, I don’t suppose it can be you. She is not quite so silly as that.”
“Silly!” echoed Sir Thomas; “perhaps it will be better to tell you at once without any circumlocution what my errand is. I have come to tell you, Rushton, a piece of news which may surprise you—that I have made an offer to Miss Trevor, and that she has accepted me.”
Mr. Rushton said not a word; he was altogether taken aback. He stood with his mouth open, and his eyebrows forming large semicircles over his eyes, and stared at Sir Thomas without a word.
“This naturally,” said the hero of the occasion, with a laugh, “makes it—not quite safe—to criticise Miss Trevor to me.”
“Accepted—you!” He could scarcely get his breath, so bewildered was he. “Do you mean to say that you—want to marry Lucy Trevor!” Mr. Rushton said.