Bertie Russell disappeared from Farafield on the day after the advent of Sir Thomas. He was the most angry of all Lucy’s suitors, and he put her this time into his book in colors far from flattering. But, fortunately, nobody knew her, and the deadly assault was never found out, not even by its immediate victim, for, like many writers of fiction, and, indeed, like most who are worth their salt, Bertie was not successful in the portraiture of real character. His fancy was too much for his malevolence, and his evil intentions thus did no harm.
Sir Thomas traveled as fast as expresses could take him to the house in which his aunt was paying one of her many autumn visits—for I need not say that she had returned from Homburg some time before. The house was called Fairhaven. It was the house of a distinguished explorer and discoverer; and the company assembled there included various members of Lady Randolph’s special “society.” When Sir Thomas walked into the room, where, all the male portion of the party being still in the covers, the ladies were seated at tea, his aunt rose to meet him, from out of a little group of her friends. Her privy council, that dread secret tribunal by which her life was judged, were all about her in the twilight and firelight. When his name was announced, to the great surprise of everybody, Lady Randolph rose up with a similar but much stronger sense of vague alarm than that which had moved the minister the previous day. “Tom!” she cried, with surprise which she tried to make joyful; but indeed she was frightened, not knowing what kind of news he might have come to tell. Mrs. Berry-Montagu who was sitting as usual with her back to the light, though there was so little of that, gave a little nod and glance aside to Lady Betsinda, who was seated high in a throne-like, antique chair, and did not care how strong the light was which fell on her old shiny black satin and yellow lace. “I told you!” said Mrs. Berry-Montagu. She thought all her friend’s hopes, so easily penetrated by those keen-eyed spectators, were about to be thrown to the ground, and the desire to observe “how she would bear it,” immediately stirred up those ladies to the liveliest interest. Sir Thomas, however, when he had greeted his aunt, sat down with his usual friendly ease, and had some tea. He was quite ready to answer all their questions, and he was not shy about his good news, but ready to unfold them whenever it might seem most expedient so to do.
“Straight from the Hall?” Lady Randolph said, with again a tremor. Did this mean that he had been making preparations for his setting out?
“I got there three days ago,” said Sir Tom; “poor old house, it is a pity to see it so neglected. It is not such a bad house—”
“A bad house! there is nothing like it in the county. If I could but see you oftener there, Tom,” his aunt cried in spite of herself.
Sir Tom smiled, pleased with the consciousness which had not yet lost its amusing aspect; but he did not make any reply.
“He likes his own way,” said Lady Betsinda; “I don’t blame him. If I were a young man—and he is still a young man— I’d take my swing. When he marries, then he’ll range himself, like all the rest, I suppose.”
“Lady Betsinda talks like a book—as she always does,” said Sir Tom, with his great laugh; “when I marry, everything shall be changed.”
“That desirable consummation is not very near at hand, one can see,” said Mrs. Berry-Montagu, out of the shadows, in her thin, fine voice.
Sir Tom laughed again. There was something frank, and hearty, and joyous in the sound of his big laugh; it tempted other people to laugh too, even when they did not know what it was about. And Lady Randolph did not in the least know what it was about, yet the laugh gained her in spite of herself.