The Greatest Heiress in England

by Mrs. Oliphant

After awhile Lady Randolph found herself capable of smiling, when she was fully convinced of the girl’s innocence. “What a good thing you are not out, my dear. I can’t be sufficiently thankful you are not out. You see by this, Lucy, what a dangerous thing it is to be kind to anybody. You, with your prospects, can not be sufficiently careful. Have you ever thought that you are different from other girls? that there are reasons why I must take a great deal more care of you— I, who think girls ought always to be taken care of?” Lady Randolph said.

“I know that I have a great deal of money,” said Lucy quietly. “I suppose, Lady Randolph, that is what you mean?”

“My dear, if it were only in novels, you must have read that girls who have great fortunes are run after by all sorts of unworthy people; and innocent girls like you are apt to be deceived when people are civil. Lucy, my love, this is a great deal too broad a compliment,” said Lady Randolph, very solemnly, laying her hand upon the book; “you must not be taken in. No man who really cared for you, no nice man, would have held you up to the notice of society in this way.”

“Cared for me?” said Lucy, “but I never supposed he did that. Why should he care for me?”

Lady Randolph looked at her charge with great perplexity of mind. Was this innocence, or was such simplicity credible? Had the girl never heard of fortune-hunters? All girls in society were aware of the dangers which attended an heiress; but Lucy had not been brought up in society. She did not know what to think; finally, however, she determined that it was better, if they did not already exist there, to put no such ideas into the head of her ingénue. For Lady Randolph, who had no clew to the graver cares which occupied Lucy’s mind, had not thought of her, as yet, in any character except that of ingénue. She stopped herself in the half-completed sentence which she had begun before this reflection came to her aid. “He must want you to think he cares—it is a beginning of—” Here she stopped, and laughed uneasily. “No, no, I dare say I am wrong. It is my over-anxiety. Let us say it is only an indiscretion. Young men are always doing things which are gauche and inappropriate. And you have so much good sense, Lucy—” Lady Randolph got up and came behind Lucy’s chair, and gave her a hasty kiss. “I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You will not let your head be turned by fine words, as so many girls do?”

Lucy looked up with surprise: at the haste and almost agitated impulse of her careful guardian. Lady Randolph was dressed for her parties in black velvet and lace, with the rivière of diamonds which Lucy admired. She was a stately personage, imposing to behold, and yet, as she stood, somewhat excited, anxious, and deprecating by the side of the little fair-haired girl in her black frock, Lucy felt a conviction of her own superior importance which was painful and humiliating to her. The uneasy sparkle in the eye, the glance of anxiety in the face of the lady; who, in every natural point of view, was so much above herself, made her unhappy. How much money can do! Was it this, and this only which disturbed the balance between them, and made Lady Randolph’s profession of faith in her sound as apologetic? She rose to follow upstairs with a confused sensation of pain. She had been trained, indeed, to think her fortune the chief thing in the world, but not in this point of view. The drawing-room was dim and cool, the windows all open, the night air blowing in over the boxes of mignonette and geranium in the balconies. The sounds from without came softened through the soft air, but yet furnished a distant hum of life, an intimation of the great world around, the mass of human cares and troubles and enjoyments which were in full career. Lady Randolph placed Lucy in her own chair by the little table with the reading-lamp, and gave her Bertie’s book, with a smile. “No, I don’t think it will turn your head,” she said; “read it, my love, and you will tell me to-morrow what you think of it. How I wish I could take you with me! and how much more I shall enjoy going out next year when you are able to go with me, Lucy!” She gave her another kiss, with a little nervous enthusiasm, and left the girl seated there in the silence with many wonderings in her mind. Lucy sat and listened with the novel in her hand while the carriage came to the door, and Lady Randolph drove away. Other carriages passed, drew up in the street below, took up and set down other fine people going here and there into the sparkling crowds of society. Many an evening before, Lucy had stolen behind the curtain to watch them with a country-girl’s curiosity, pleased even to see the billowing train visible through a carriage-window, which betrayed the fine evening toilettes within. But this evening she did not move from her chair. There was so little light in the room that the windows mysteriously veiled in filmy drapery added something from the dim skies outside to the twilight within. A shaded lamp stood in the back drawing-room, making one spot of brightness on a table. Her reading-lamp, with its green shade, condensed all the light it gave upon her hand with the book in it, resting upon her knee. But her face was in the dimness, and so were her thoughts. She was not so angry with Bertie as Lady Randolph had been for his dedication. It was intended to be kind—what could it be but kind? Perhaps he had divined the attitude which, in intention at least, she had taken toward his family. Lucy’s thoughts had never turned the way of love-making. She had not as yet encountered any one who had touched her youthful fancy. It was no virtue on her part; she sat like one on the edge of the stream musing before she put her foot into the boat which might lead her—whither? But, in the meantime, the thoughts in her heart were all serious. Was she not pausing too long, lingering unduly upon the margin of her life—not doing the work which had been put into her hands to do?

Lucy had got so deep in these thoughts that she did not hear the noise and jar with which a hansom cab came to the door; or, at least, hearing it, paid no attention; for it is very difficult to discriminate in a street whether a carriage is stopping at number ten or number eleven, and hansom cabs were not commonly heard at Lady Randolph’s at night. Even the movement in the house did not rouse her; she had not the ease of a child in the family, though she was of so much importance in the house. She sat quite still, feeling by turns a refreshing breath steal over her from the windows, watching the flutter of the curtains, and the glimmer of the stars, which she could see through them, through the upper panes of the long windows; and vaguely amused by the suggestion furnished to her mind by the passing carriages, the consciousness of society behind. She was so well entertained by this, and by her own thoughts, which were many, that she had scarcely opened the book. She held it in her hand; she had looked again at the dedication, feeling half flattered, half annoyed, and had read a page or two. Then, more interested, as yet, in her own story, or in this pause, so full of meaning and suggestion, before it began, had closed again upon her fingers the new novel. Could anything in it be so wonderful as her own position, so full of that vague question which, in Lucy’s mind, was more a state than a query? She dallied with the book, feeling herself a more present and a more important heroine than any imaginary Imogen.

Lucy did not even hear the door open. It was opened very quietly far away in the dimness, at the other end of the room, and the new arrival stood looking in for at least a minute before he could make out whether any one was there. There was no light to show his own figure in the dark doorway, and he saw nothing except the lamp in the first room and the smaller one with its green shade, by which Lucy in her black dress was almost invisible. He paused for a minute, for he had been told that there was some one there. Then, with a bold step, he came in and closed the door audibly behind him. “Nobody, by Jove!” he said, an asseveration quite unnecessary; then threw himself into a chair which stood in front of the table on which was the larger lamp. The sensation with which Lucy woke up to the discovery that a stranger, a gentleman! had come into the room, not seeing her, any more than till the moment when he became audible she had seen him, was one of the most extraordinary she had ever experienced. She raised herself bolt upright in her chair, half in alarm; but Lady Randolph’s chairs, it need scarcely be said, did not creak, and Lucy’s dress was soft, with no rustle in it. “Nobody, by Jove!” the individual said; and nothing contradicted him. It seemed to Lucy that she instantly heard her own breathing, the beating of her watch, her foot upon the footstool, as she seemed to hear in exaggerated roundness and largeness of sound the thud with which he threw himself into that chair, the movement with which he drew it to the table, the grab he made across the table at a newspaper that lay there.

“Well, here’s the news at all events,” the stranger said. As he stooped over the newspaper, his head came within the circle of the lamp. Lucy scarcely dared to turn hers to look at him. There was the outline of a head, a mass of hair, a large well-defined nose, a couple of large hands grasping the paper. Lucy’s first impulse was half, but only half alarm; but she was not at all nervous, and speedily reminded herself that it was very unlikely any dangerous or unlawful stranger should be able thus to make his way past Robinson, the butler, and George, the page, into Lady Randolph’s drawing-room. There could not be anything to fear in him; but who was he, and how came he there? And what was Lucy to do? She sat as still as a mouse in Lady Randolph’s chair and watched. Was it quite honorable to watch a man who was not aware of your presence? But then how to get away? Lucy did not know what to do. She felt more disposed to laugh than anything else, but dared not. Perhaps after awhile he would go away. She held her breath and sat as still as a mouse. A gentleman! utterly unknown and appearing so suddenly in a feminine house—it was embarrassing; but certainly it was rather amusing too.

The stranger was not a quiet gentleman, whatever else he might be. How he pushed his chair about! how he flung the paper from one side to another, turning it over with resounding hums and hems! How could any one be so noisy? Lucy, who was afraid to stir, watched him, ever more and more amused. At last he tossed the paper back upon the table. “News! not a scrap!” he said to himself, and suddenly throwing a large pair of arms over his head, gave such a yawn as shook the fragile London house. Did Lucy laugh? She feared that the smallest ghost of a giggle did burst from her in spite of herself. It seemed to have caught his ear. He suddenly squared himself up, turned his chair round, and put on an aspect of listening. Lucy held her breath; he turned straight toward her and stared into the dimness. “By Jove!” he said again, to himself. The soft maze of curtains fluttered, the night air blew in. No doubt he thought it was these accidental sounds that had deceived him. But suspicion had evidently been roused in his mind. After a minute he rose, a large figure, making the house creak, and cautiously approached the window. He passed Lucy, who had shrunk back into her chair, and went beyond her to look out. One or two carriages were rolling along the street, and Lucy felt this was her opportunity, the way of retreat being now clear. She got up softly, with the utmost precaution, while he stood with his back to her, then turned to flee.