The Lucases of Lucas Lodge Read online

  ‘I dare say you are wondering at my manner just now. It was quite justified, however, for I have been wickedly deceived in the Fairheads.’

  ‘Deceived!’ said Maria.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘Be thankful that you have escaped it, Maria, and that you were not drawn in by them. You were wiser than I.’

  ‘But what can you mean?’ said Maria in wonder.

  Mary drew herself up.

  ‘Why, that I was foolish enough to notice Miss Fairhead when they first arrived here, and pay her attention. I am not one to boast, but I flatter myself that I am of some consequence in Meryton. However, with that consequence comes a duty—to myself and to others—to act with dignity at all times, and to associate only with those who can elevate it further, for what are we without our reputation? My kindness to the Fairheads has been repaid with nothing but scandal and disgrace, and so of course we cannot remain on the same terms of friendship as before.’

  ‘But surely you do not think they have acted maliciously?’ said Maria. ‘Mr. Fairhead was too trusting of his friend, that is all. He did nothing wicked, certainly.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Mary. ‘But there is ingratitude in all this; I feel it. I paid the Fairheads attention on the tacit understanding of good conduct on their part. They have failed in this—or at least, Mr. Thomas Fairhead has failed. Perhaps Louisa was less at fault, but I cannot but think there must have been something wanting from the parents, who have permitted their son to disgrace the family in such a manner, and so who can say what fault Miss Fairhead may be concealing from us? I am not wholly unfeeling—in my heart I long to overlook what has happened, and go on as we were before; however, my regard for myself will not allow it. No, say nothing, Maria,’ for she saw that Miss Lucas was about to protest. ‘I am upset—I am very upset, and wish only to forget what has happened. You will, I am sure, respect my wishes by refraining from referring to the matter again.’

  Maria could not oppose such a wish, and the walk continued in silence. The two ladies were both deep in thought—although their reflections were of very different natures. Mary was resolute in her determination to cut the Fairheads, for she had been sadly disappointed in Thomas Fairhead. Twelve thousand pounds would have been a pretty sum to add to her ten, and throughout the preceding months she had amused herself with thoughts of fine dresses, a household of servants, and the admiration of the neighbourhood. Her own fortune alone would be insufficient to furnish them with those necessities—and she dared not rely on the future, for the elder Mr. Fairhead was a hale, hearty man who threatened to live another twenty years or more. Mary longed for the independence of a marriage to a man of private means, and Thomas Fairhead had seemed to offer that, until he had been foolish enough to place his trust in Mr. Sands. Mary was vexed, for she was almost convinced that there had been some underhanded behaviour—was inclined to suspect, indeed, that her fortune had been an object to Thomas Fairhead all along, even while she considered his an object. Had they married, he would have taken her money and given it all to Mr. Sands, she was quite certain of it. As it was, she had had a lucky escape, but now the search must begin again—a melancholy prospect. Mary’s face grew peevish, and her thoughts were ones of dissatisfaction.

  As for Maria, she felt a lightness of heart which she knew not how to explain. She pitied the Fairheads as much as ever for their worries—and Thomas Fairhead in particular, for she was sure he must be miserable at the disappointment he had caused his family—and yet, when she thought of him free from Mary’s attentions, she felt her heart swell with joy. It seemed uncharitable to be happy that Mary had not got him, when Maria could not hope to have him herself—for Mr. Fairhead had no money, and Mr. Thripp’s return was imminent—but still she could not help but smile. There was no hope for her and Thomas Fairhead, but now she felt a new resolution strengthen within her, and she felt quite equal at last to refusing Mr. Thripp. She would thank him kindly for the honour he did her, but would say quite decidedly that she did not think they would suit, and then she would resign herself to remaining single. Her mother and father would be disappointed, but it could not be helped.

  TWENTY-TWO

  It was perhaps fortunate that Miss Lucas was never called upon to test her resolution, for there is no saying whether it would have held against the disappointed looks of her parents, and the reproachful remarks of Mr. Thripp. But the necessity never arose, for the very day after she had made the resolution to refuse Mr. Thripp, she met Thomas Fairhead while out on an errand in Meryton for Lady Lucas. He looked at her uncertainly and almost seemed inclined to pass on, and she immediately remembered Mary’s cold behaviour of the day before. Had he, then, believed her to be a party to it? She could not expect it of his pride that he should stop and speak to her, so she said nothing, but he immediately said in a low voice:

  ‘Will you not speak to me, Maria? Am I such a disgrace as to have forfeited your friendship?’

  ‘Oh! Not for the world!’ said Maria, stopping dead, and with those few artless words and a look that no-one could have mistaken, gave away more of her feelings than she had ever intended. ‘I beg your pardon. I did not mean that—I thought Mary—’

  Here she stopped, for she knew not how to excuse Mary’s rudeness.

  ‘I have offended Miss King, it seems,’ said Thomas, ‘and I am grieved for Louisa’s sake, but not nearly as much as I should be if I thought I had offended you.’

  ‘You have not offended me at all,’ said Maria. ‘I am only very sorry for what has happened, but I cannot think it was anything but a mistake. I am sure you did not mean anything wicked by it—indeed, I know you could not. I will never believe it of you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I have been foolish enough, and now I must live with the consequences. It is fortunate that I hurt only myself by my actions, for I should have been truly miserable had the money been anyone else’s but my own. As it is, I must bear the disappointment of my parents, who loved me and believed me to be the dutiful son I ought to have been, and that of my sister, who has lost a friend by it.’

  ‘I am sure your parents and your sister do not think the worse of you for what has happened,’ said Maria, but he shook his head.

  ‘They do think the worse of me, and rightly so,’ he said. ‘I have squandered a competence that ought to have allowed me to live comfortably, and have trusted a man of whom I ought to have been suspicious, for I knew very little of him. I do not wonder at their censure—although they have been kinder to me than I deserve.’

  Maria’s eyes said that she did not believe him to deserve anything less than kindness, but he did not notice, for he was looking at the ground. He had turned to walk with her, and they proceeded together for a little way. He was still looking anywhere but her, and at length he said, with a sort of smile:

  ‘But let us not speak of misery when there is good cheer to be had. I have not yet congratulated you on your future happiness. Let me do so at once, and wish you well, not only on my own behalf, but also on that of my sister.’

  Maria had suffered much from her own lack of perception and that of others, but she had sense enough to know that now was the moment to overcome her embarrassment and correct the misapprehension if she were ever to escape it.

  ‘I will not pretend not to understand you,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘I believe you are talking of Mr. Thripp. I know that certain people expect—but I cannot—could never—’

  She stopped in confusion, and Mr. Fairhead looked up with sudden animation, although he said nothing. Maria collected herself and tried again.

  ‘Pardon me, Mr. Fairhead, but I beg that if you were to hear any rumours with regard to myself and the gentleman in question, that you would contradict them at once, for they are wholly untrue and do nothing but cause me pain.’

  ‘Can it be so?’ he said in wonder. ‘For I have heard talk of it from more than one person, and there was one occasion on which I thought I saw you both—’

  Here he hesitated out of
embarrassment—and out of pity for Maria, who had turned the brightest shade of pink.

  ‘I do not say there was no wish on his part,’ she said at last, after a little struggle. ‘But much as I respect Mr. Thripp, I do not want to marry him. I am afraid there has been a very great misunderstanding in that respect, and I am sorry for it, for it has led to expectations on the part of many which—in short, if you would be charitable to both him and me you cannot too soon forget you ever heard of it.’

  Thomas looked as though he would like to ask more, but delicacy prevented him, while Maria could hardly say more without appearing an undutiful daughter, for much of her recent misery had been due to her parents’ credulity in believing the story.

  ‘If what you say is true, then I must beg your pardon,’ he said at last. ‘Not for the world would I cause you or him pain, and you may be sure that I will do everything in my power to prevent the rumour from spreading any further.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  They walked a little way in silence, then he said, again looking at the ground:

  ‘I will not test your patience by confiding to you all my recent unhappiness, since you can imagine only too well how I have suffered at having disappointed my parents as I have. And yet, strange to tell, I find now that I am not in a state of total misery, as by rights I ought to be.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Maria, and held her breath, for there was something in his tone that had caught her attention.

  ‘As an honourable man I ought not to speak,’ he said, ‘and yet somehow I cannot keep silent, even though it is too late now—even though there is no hope at all.’

  Here he ventured a look at her, but Maria could say nothing, only listen intently.

  ‘Will it surprise you to hear that what you have just told me about Mr. Thripp fills me with gladness?’ he went on. ‘I think it must not. And if things were otherwise—ah, but what use is it to talk in this fashion? I have been responsible for my own misfortune, and I ought to suffer for it.’

  So he said, and yet his actions at that moment did not seem those of a man who was inclined to take his punishment, for Maria’s eyes were so bright and compassionate, and her willingness to listen to him so evident, that in spite of himself he had turned to her and taken her hand as he spoke. She did not withdraw it and he took courage.

  ‘I should have spoken long ago had I not believed your affections to be otherwise engaged,’ he said. ‘But now I know you to be free—stay—I have no right to ask it, for I have nothing to offer. It might be many years—’

  ‘I have nothing else to wait for,’ said Maria eagerly. Although normally slow to comprehension, she had no trouble in understanding his meaning on this occasion, and she felt keenly all the urgency that was required of her at present, if she were ever to be happy. He heard her words, and looked at her with something like dawning hope.

  ‘But you are still young, and might marry well if you chose it,’ he said.

  ‘I do choose it,’ she said. ‘I have chosen it, and I do not think I could find a better.’

  She was surprised at her own boldness, and would have said more, except that a horse could now be heard approaching along the lane, and so she withdrew her hand and turned away from him. The horse and its rider passed, and Thomas immediately took her hand again. Maria felt as though she were in a happy dream, although she knew the way ahead was far from clear. He was equally cognisant of it.

  ‘But Maria, how can I ask for your promise when future events are so uncertain?’ he said. ‘I am at present quite dependent upon my father, but I will not ask anything of him, for it would be too much of an imposition after what I have done—just as I cannot ask anything of you, for I have nothing to give.’

  ‘I will pledge my faith,’ said Maria, ‘and ask for nothing in return except yours.’

  ‘How good you are!’ he cried, clasping her hand to his breast. ‘But are you certain? Think carefully before you speak, for I am but a poor man now, and shall be for many years.’

  ‘I am not afraid of that,’ said Maria stoutly. ‘Nay, I believe I shall not be afraid of anything if I am with you.’

  A joyful smile spread over his face.

  ‘Then I accept the exchange with all my heart,’ he said. ‘Or, rather, perhaps it had better wait until I have spoken to your father. I fear he will be less happy at the prospect than I am.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Maria, who in her happiness had not considered her parents. They believed her the property of Mr. Thripp, and she had no idea how they would take the news of her engagement to Thomas Fairhead—who was commonly thought to be engaged to Mary King. ‘My father is a very good man,’ she said after a moment’s thought, ‘and I am sure wishes only to see me happy. I hope he will not make any difficulties.’

  ‘Still, I would not be disrespectful. We must obtain his permission first,’ said Thomas. He relinquished her hand with reluctance. ‘Here is your hand. I return it to you until such time as it is fitting for me to take it again. I hope it will not be long.’

  Here Maria hinted that it might be as well to speak to Sir William at once, since Mr. Thripp was expected to return to Hertfordshire imminently, and so they agreed that he should do it that very day if it were at all possible. They therefore bent their steps towards Lucas Lodge, and Maria did her best to subdue the fluttering of her heart. Her feelings were very mixed. On the one hand she was filled with a most overpowering happiness that at last she and Thomas Fairhead had reached a good understanding, and that all mistakes had been rectified; on the other, she was in a state of trepidation as to what the future might hold—for despite what she had said, she suspected that Thomas was right, and that her father would not look favourably on the match. Moreover, it must be difficult for Sir William and Lady Lucas to give up all idea of welcoming Mr. Thripp as a son—but that was now become absolutely necessary, for whether she were to marry Thomas or no, she could not accept Mr. Thripp as a husband, and she must now steel herself to confess it to her parents.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Sir William’s astonishment on being applied to for his second daughter’s hand in marriage by Thomas Fairhead was great—so great that at first he knew not how to reply. The Fairheads were a very respectable family, and had things been otherwise, Sir William would have accepted Thomas as a son-in-law with great alacrity, and would only have wondered why he had not considered the young man a prospective husband for his daughter sooner. As it was, however, the story of how Thomas had foolishly allowed himself to be cheated out of his money was known to everyone in Meryton, and could not be lightly dismissed. But it was not simply a case of refusing his consent and having done with it, for there were wider considerations to think of: Sir William did not wish to offend Mr. Fairhead the elder by rejecting the application of Mr. Fairhead the younger; moreover, Thomas Fairhead had been so very open and honest about his mistake, that it was difficult not to take pity on him—for at least it had been due to his own generosity, rather than to any meaner purpose. There was some little money remaining, said Thomas, and he intended to use it to purchase a commission in the army. As an officer he would be posted away from home, and by taking this step might be considered to be doing something useful, while at the same time removing all reminder of himself and his unfortunate adventure from the country. It was his intention, he said, to make amends for his error by living quietly and virtuously, and he wished he might do it with Maria by his side, but if Sir William refused his permission then he would abide by the decision and make no opposition.

  Sir William said a few empty words, and at length sent Thomas away, saying that he would have to reflect upon it. But thinking was not something that came easily to Sir William, and he quickly found himself perplexed. For one thing, there was still the matter of Mr. Thripp’s proposal to be got over. They had all been expecting that he would come back and that Maria would accept him at last, but from what Thomas Fairhead had said, it seemed she had changed her mind. Unaccountable fickleness! How was
he to understand it? He called for Maria, who had been expecting the summons and went along to explain herself, not without some apprehension. It was a surprising interview for Sir William, for in the space of half an hour he discovered, amidst many tears and blushes from his daughter, that Maria did not want to marry Mr. Thripp—nay, that the very thought of it had given her much unhappiness these past two months—and that she loved Thomas Fairhead and was determined to marry him if she had to wait until she were forty to do it. Sir William was much taken aback by such words from his second daughter, who was generally an obliging creature, but he was even more astounded to discover that she believed him to have been the instigator of the scheme to marry her to Mr. Thripp. Her sense of duty had prevented her from reproaching him for it, but the discovery that she had been unhappy for several weeks gave him some pain, and he hastened to assure her that he would never have tried to forward the match had he known of her distress, and that he had first had a hint of it from an intimate friend of hers, Miss King. At that, Maria stared at him in astonishment, for she could hardly believe her ears, and he was forced to repeat it two or three times. What could Mary have been thinking of? It must surely have been an error on her part, for Maria could not believe that her friend would have done such a thing out of deliberate malice. Fortunately for Miss King, Maria was not the sort to look deeply into the motives of others, for she assumed everybody was as honest and uncomplicated as herself. On this occasion she merely resolved that next time she saw Mary she would set her right in her mistake, before the rumour spread any further and caused any more harm than it had already—although it was not to be supposed that once Miss Lucas had had a little more time to think about it, she would not at last feel some dawning of an idea as to what had really happened, for Mary certainly had wanted him for herself, in spite of her declaration never to marry, and it was not too great a step from that knowledge to the suspicion that the rumour about Mr. Thripp must have been a deliberate attempt to further her ends.