Sir Tom made no direct reply. He shook the rector’s hand, and laughed. “I’ll tell Lucy you send her your blessing,” he said.
And then he went off in a different direction, from the fine old red-brick rectory, retired in its grove of trees, to the little, somewhat shabby street in which Mr. Williamson, the Dissenting minister, resided—if a man can be said to reside in a back street. The house was small and dingy, the door opening into a very narrow passage, hung with coats and hats, for Mr. Williamson, as was natural, had a large family. It was only after an interval of running up and down-stairs, and subdued calling of one member of the household after another, that the minister was unearthed and brought from the little back room, called his study, in his slippers and a very old coat, to receive the unlikely visitor. Sir Thomas Randolph! what could he want? There is always a certain alarm in a humble household attendant upon the unexpectedness of such a visit. Could anything have happened? Could some one have gone wrong, was the anxious question of the Williamsons, as the minister was roused, and gently pushed into the parlor, where Sir Thomas, surrounded by all the grim gentility of the household gods, was awaiting him. The mother and daughter were on tiptoe in the back room, not listening at the door certainly, but with excited ears ready for every movement. The vague alarm that they felt was reflected in the minister’s face. Sir Thomas Randolph! What could he want? It was a relief to Mr. Williamson when he heard what it was; but he was not so easy in his assent as the rector. He took a seat near the suitor, with an air of great importance replacing the vague distrust and fear that had been in his face.
“It is a great trust, Sir Thomas,” he said. “And I must be faithful. You will not expect me to do anything against my conscience. Lucy Trevor is a lamb of the flock, though spiritually no longer under my charge, her mother was an excellent woman, and our late friend, Mr. Trevor— This is an altogether unexpected application, you must allow me to think it over. I owe it to—to our late excellent friend who committed this trust to my unworthy hands.”
“I thought,” said Sir Tom, “that it was a matter of form merely; but,” he added, with a better inspiration, “I quite see how, to a delicate sense of duty like yours, it must take an aspect—”
“That is it, Sir Thomas—that is it,” Mr. Williamson said. “I must be faithful at whatever cost. Yourself now, you will excuse me; there are reports—”
“A great many, and at one time very well founded,” said Sir Thomas, with great seriousness, looking his judge in the face.
This took the good minister by surprise, and the steady look confused him. A great personage, the greatest man in the county, a baronet, a man whose poverty (for he was known to be poor) went beyond Mr. Williamson’s highest realization of riches! It gave the excellent minister’s bosom an expansion of solemn pride, and, at the same time, a thrill of alarm. Persecution is out of date, but to stand up in the presence of one of the great ones of the earth, and convict him of evil—this is still occasionally possible. Mr. Williamson rose to the grandeur of his position. Such an opportunity had never been given to him before, and might never be again.
“I am glad that you do not attempt to deny it, Sir Thomas; but at the same time there is a kind of bravado that boasts of evil-doing. I hope that is not the source of your frankness. The happiness of an innocent young girl is a precious trust, Sir Thomas. Unless we have guarantees of your change of life, and that you are taking a more serious view of your duties, how can I commit such a trust into your hands?”
“What kind of guarantees can I offer?” said Sir Thomas, with great seriousness. “I can not give securities for my good conduct, can I? I will cordially agree to anything that your superior wisdom and experience can suggest.”
“Do not speak of my wisdom, for I have none—experience, perhaps, I may have a little; and I think we must have guarantees.”