“Listen!” said Mr. Trevor. He was so eager to read that he had taken his MS. into his hands before his confidant was ready to hear, and waited, clearing his throat while Ford took his seat. Then without a pause, raising his hand to command attention, he began:
“In respect to the future residence of my daughter Lucy, up to the moment of her coming of age, I desire that her time should be divided between two homes which I have selected for her. It is my wish that she should pass the first six months of every year in the house and under the care of Lady Randolph, Park Street, London—”
Here Ford interrupted with an exclamation of astonishment. “Lady Randolph!” he said.
Trevor paused, and uttered his usual chuckle, but with a still livelier note of pleasure in it. “Ah!” he said. “Lady Randolph—that surprises you, Ford. We haven’t many titles among us, have we? But she’s a relation of poor Lucilla’s all the same; or at least she says so,” he added, with another chuckle. “There is nothing like money for opening people’s eyes.”
“A relation of Lucilla’s!” Ford’s amazement was not more genuine than the impression of awe made upon him by the name. “I never knew the Rainys had any rich relations. I suppose you mean Sir Thomas Randolph at the Hall, the lord of the manor, he that was member for the county when I first came here—the present Sir Thomas’s uncle—the—”
“That will do,” said the old man. “It’s not Sir Thomas, but it’s his wife, or his widow, to be exact. She says she is a relation—no, a connection of Lucilla’s—and she ought to know best. She has made me an offer to take charge of Lucy, and introduce her, as she calls it. I’ve been of use to my Lady Randolph in the way of business, and she wants to be of use to me. I don’t ask, for my part, if it’s altogether disinterested. It appears there was a Randolph that married beneath him; I can’t tell you how long ago. My lady,” said old Trevor dryly, “would not break her heart, perhaps, if another Randolph married beneath him, and into the same family too.”
“But,” said Ford, “that would be no reason for putting Lucy in her hands—a poor lamb in the way of the wolf.”
“One wolf is not a bad thing to keep off others; besides, my good fellow, I’ve taken every precaution. Wait till you see,” and he resumed his manuscript, with again a little preparatory clearing of his throat:
“The latter part of the year it is my wish that Lucy should spend in the house which has already been her home for some years, under the charge of her other relations, Richard Ford and Susan, his wife, who have been her fast friends since ever she can recollect, and to whom for this purpose I hereby give and bequeath the said house, No. 6 in the Terrace, in the parish of Farafield, in the hundred of—”
“Stop a bit!” said Ford feebly; he was overcome by his feelings. “‘Her fast friends,’” he repeated, “that’s just what we are. We’ve loved her like our own, that’s what we’ve always done, Susan and me. And as for Susan, many’s the time she has said, ‘Supposing anything was to happen, or any change to occur, what should we do without Lucy? It would be like losing a child of our own.’”