The Lucases of Lucas Lodge

by Clara Benson

  ‘As your brother, he is almost as a brother to me,’ said Mary, ‘and I do not like that you be unhappy at his low spirits.’

  ‘Only a brother?’ said Louisa. ‘Oh, Mary, shall I never then persuade you to think of him in any other way?’

  Mary cast her eyes down and tried to blush.

  ‘I do not say—’ she began, and hesitated. ‘That is, I respect him greatly, and find him very agreeable. No-one, on meeting him, could ever think him anything less, as you must be aware. But you know my vow never to marry, Louisa. How foolish would I seem in the eyes of the world were I to break it!’

  ‘Upon my word,’ said Louisa. ‘If Thomas likes you and you return his affection, then I should rather say you would be foolish not to break it, if he asks you, and I think the world would agree with me entirely!’

  ‘But he has not asked me, and so I think we would be well advised not to talk of it so long as it is mere speculation. I am not one of those women who like to boast of their conquests, for I never presume to have made any, and although I cannot deny that I have once or twice discerned certain signs of admiration in your brother, who can say whether they meant anything? Too often we women are inclined to interpret such signs as meaning more than they really do, and while I am not so falsely modest as to deny that a man might perhaps feel an affection for me, neither do I rush to claim that everyone I meet is in love with me.’

  ‘Well, I will not urge you,’ said Louisa, ‘but if you say you have seen signs of admiration in Thomas then I must believe it, for he is honourable and sincere, and the last man in the world to pretend more than he really feels.’

  The conversation then dropped, and Mary was left to reflect on the progress she had made in the affections of Thomas Fairhead—which, she flattered herself, was not small, for she had lately had the happy thought of taking Maria Lucas’s behaviour as a model when in his presence. While she herself did not admire the artless type—for to her it seemed too akin to ignorance—it was evident that he did, and so she did her best to affect an ingenuous manner, consoling herself that it need not be for long, and that once his affections were fairly engaged, she could be herself once again.

  As for Thomas, he was in the exact frame of mind to appreciate a soft voice and an air of undemanding sympathy, and he soon found that Miss King had a side to her which he had never before suspected her of possessing, for she appeared now to want nothing more than to listen to him and agree with everything he said—quite a contrast to when he had first known her, when she had seemed far too much of a wit for him to feel comfortable in her presence. Gradually, in a shorter time than he might have supposed, he began to admit that he might not be absolutely inconsolable, and that there were other women in Hertfordshire whose company was pleasant enough. He did not wish to fall in love again, but he was not the sort to allow himself to be eaten up with regret, and so he accepted Mary’s attentions with no thought beyond forgetting his sorrows by enjoying an hour or two of entertaining converse from a pretty woman.

  Mary, meanwhile, was pleased at her success, and began to drop artful hints among her acquaintance about the happy secret which must remain untold for the present—for she thought that with a little effort, Thomas’s heart might not unreasonably be conquered in the space of a month or two. Within a very few weeks, therefore, the people of Meryton began to talk of having seen Miss King out walking with Mr. Fairhead again, and of having heard from someone in the know that Mr. Fairhead admired Miss King; and it was not long before many people were looking forward with pleasurable anticipation to the thought of two weddings—for in her haste to spread the rumour of her own impending happiness, Mary had also found herself quite unable to keep the news about Mr. Thripp and Maria Lucas to herself.

  Poor Maria, meanwhile, was left to get over her disappointment as best she could, for she had no-one to whom to confide her misery at having found love only to lose it again immediately. Her only consolation lay in the news that Mr. Thripp had fallen ill with pleurisy while staying with his friends, and so his return would be delayed for some weeks—although her relief at his indisposition troubled her conscience greatly and did little to make her more cheerful. Her spirits were not improved by her mother’s insistence on relaying to her every little piece of news she heard about Thomas Fairhead and Miss King—for Lady Lucas was exceedingly discomposed at the idea that Mary King should have apparently acted so decisively and quickly in winning the heart of Mr. Fairhead, while her own daughter was still wavering over Mr. Thripp’s proposal after more than a month, and could not help telling Maria so repeatedly. Maria, for her part, listened to her mother’s reproofs and felt chastened, but could not help entertaining a forlorn hope that the rumours about Mary and Mr. Fairhead were untrue, or had been exaggerated, for if they were true, and if Mr. Fairhead really did intend to marry Mary, she thought she would never be happy again.

  TWENTY

  Christmas came and went and Mr. Thripp still did not return, for his friends would not hear of his travelling until he was quite recovered. While Sir William and Lady Lucas fretted that Maria had lost her chance, Maria grasped at his continued absence as her only source of consolation, for she had little other reason to rejoice. Mary had once again stopped calling upon her, and the rumours were growing ever stronger that she would soon cease to be Miss King, for Mr. Fairhead the elder had hinted to Mr. Wilcox that he suspected his son of a preference for a young lady, and only wondered why Thomas was so hesitant to speak. He would not interfere, he said, for the young people must be left to themselves in these matters, but there could be no objection to the lady in question. Mr. Wilcox repeated the story to Mrs. Long, who repeated it to Mrs. Philips, and soon Meryton was almost as anxious for the marriage as Miss King could be herself—much to her gratification, for she knew that the expectations of everyone around them could not but work upon him, and she was in great hopes that if he knew the whole of Meryton wished for it, he might be brought to the point at last from sheer obligingness. Maria, meanwhile, sighed at home, and seemed so disconsolate that her mother and father began to wonder whether she were missing the attentions of Mr. Thripp, despite her apparent initial unwillingness. Lady Lucas’s spirits began to rise a little, and she listened eagerly to every report of Mr. Thripp’s health that reached them, hoping that he might soon return to claim their daughter for his own.

  But Fate likes nothing better than to confound expectations, and on seeing which way the wind was blowing she began to work her mischief. So it was that Lady Lucas received a visit shortly after breakfast one day from Mrs. Long, who had come out early with the avowed intention of passing on the news before Mrs. Philips could do it.

  ‘Oh, dear Lady Lucas!’ she said. ‘Have you heard what has happened at Netherfield Park? ’Tis the most extraordinary thing!’

  ‘What is it?’ said Lady Lucas in surprise.

  Maria, who was sitting by her mother, coloured, as she immediately thought that Thomas Fairhead must have spoken and been accepted by Mary, but Mrs. Long’s next words astounded her.

  ‘Why, only that Mr. Thomas Fairhead has lost all his money!’

  ‘What?’ cried Lady Lucas and Maria together.

  ‘Yes, it is quite certain. He lent it to a friend of his, who said he needed it urgently for a personal matter, and then lost every last farthing of it in some ill-advised speculation. It is quite shocking, and his parents are quite beside themselves, for it was his own private fortune and now he has nothing!’

  Mrs. Long’s intelligence was soon ascertained to be true. Some twelve months before, Thomas Fairhead had been persuaded by his friend Mr. Sands to lend him a large sum, for Mr. Sands had heard of an opportunity which promised to double the money put into it, but was a little short of funds. It was to remain confidential, he told Thomas, for if everyone were to find out about it then the returns would not be nearly so great, but Thomas might join in it if he liked, and of course, Mr. Sands would pay the loan back with interest as soon as the investment came to fru
ition. Thomas declined with thanks, but if he was wise enough not to put his money into a scheme which he did not understand, he was not so wise in the choice of whom he lent his money to. He had never looked further than his friend’s easy assurance and boasts of his own capability, and he took little persuading to lend Mr. Sands a sum which, had his father known of it, would have caused him some consternation, and might have enabled him to prevent the mishap, for he knew of his son’s overly trusting nature and would certainly have dissuaded him from the investment.

  For the first few months, Thomas had had no cause to regret what he had done, for Mr. Sands assured him that his money was safe, and that there was no doubt of the investment’s returning double what had been put in, or even more, and so Thomas was sure of receiving his money very soon; however, he went on, to be absolutely sure of success, just a little more money was needed. The company was illiquid, and there had been some slight difficulty in paying out what was owed. It was all perfectly legitimate, but assistance was necessary to put everything in regular train once again. Thomas, unsuspecting, paid what was asked of him once, twice, thrice, and more, confident in his friend’s ability, and trusting that he would soon repay the loan.

  The date of the first repayment arrived, without any indication from Mr. Sands that he remembered anything about it, although he was staying at Netherfield Park at the time and might have been expected to honour his obligations without being reminded, since there was such a very large sum of money in the balance. However, he said nothing, and so Thomas was forced to remind him gently of it, which ought to have prompted Sands to make the payment—and surely would have done so, had he not been called home on family business that very day. Thomas could not insist upon receiving payment under such circumstances, for the business on which Sands had departed was of an urgent nature; however, he trusted that the money would be forthcoming very soon. By January it was evident that something was amiss, for Thomas had received one excuse after another, and began to worry that Mr. Sands was in difficulties. It was at this moment that the enormity of what he had done began to become clear to him, and he felt ashamed as he realized how little he knew of his friend, and how easily he had been persuaded to part with his money. Thomas said nothing to his family, but each day, when no letter, no cheque arrived, his fears grew, and he began to read the newspapers with more interest than they had ever commanded before, looking for news of the company in which his friend had invested. For two weeks he heard nothing, but at last the intelligence he had dreaded came, when his father, looking up from the newspaper, remarked upon the dreadful calamity which was now being reported, in which hundreds of people had lost their money in an unwise speculation. At that Thomas went deadly white and almost snatched the paper from his father’s hands, but there was no need for him to read it, for he already knew what it would say: the venture had collapsed, and with it all hopes that those who had invested in it would ever see a return. Thomas made one last attempt to communicate with Mr. Sands, but received a reply only to the effect that his friend was gone abroad and was not expected back soon. At that, Thomas knew it was all up; there was nothing for it but to confess to his father and hope for the best.

  The news that his son had thrown his money away in such a manner came as a great blow to Mr. Fairhead, and for some time he sat there, quite shocked, and unable to speak a word, for it had never occurred to him that Thomas was so little to be trusted with his own fortune, or such easy prey to a plausible scoundrel. Thomas, ashamed and distressed, could say in his own defence only that he had meant well, but he knew he had no other excuse, for he was fully aware that he had been stupid—blind and stupid, and that he did not deserve forgiveness.

  When the news was relayed to his mother and sister, he felt worse than before, for his mother’s tears tore at his heart, while Louisa’s reproachful ‘Oh, Tom,’ expressed more than a thousand words from anyone else could have. In a fit of contrition, he declared that he would go to London to try and find out what had become of the money, for he was acquainted with some friends of Mr. Sands, who might know something. His father would not hear of him going alone, and insisted upon accompanying him—less out of a desire to be of assistance, than out of a suspicion that his son would not be prevented from throwing good money after bad in his pursuit of reparation, for there was still a small sum left. But their quest proved fruitless; Mr. Sands’s friends could not or would not help—indeed, some of them complained that they, too, had lent him money which had not yet been repaid, so there was nothing to be gained from importuning them further. The elder Mr. Fairhead then applied to his friends in the city, who shook their heads when he mentioned the investment, and said they should not have touched it themselves, for there was no doubt it was destined to end badly.

  When it became clear that there was nothing to be done, Thomas begged his father’s forgiveness, and vowed he would go away, so as not to be a burden upon the family. Mr. Fairhead, who was a sincere Christian at heart, looked at his beloved son’s contrite face and evident agony of guilt, and could not but be affected by them. He spoke sternly but compassionately, although by now there was no need to bring home to Thomas the enormity of his mistake, for he was already fully aware of it. There was to be no talk of Thomas’s going away. He must come home and they would see what could be done, for at such times as these, it was more necessary than ever to rely upon family for support. Mr. Fairhead could not in all honesty say that he was not disappointed in his son, or that his faith in Thomas’s good sense had not been severely shaken, but he would not have it said that he had disowned his own flesh and blood for an error of judgment which had sprung from a spirit of generosity rather than mere selfishness. On hearing this, Thomas felt all the more guilty at having received his father’s forgiveness, owned that he had trusted too much in his own perception, where he ought to have looked to others for advice, and promised with all his heart that he would do everything in his power to right the wrong—although what he could do now was doubtful, since there seemed no way of recovering what had been lost.

  So Thomas and his father returned home to Netherfield Park, to rest and to think, away from the bustle and noise of London. It had been a hard lesson for Thomas, but his father trusted at least that something might come of it in the form of an improvement in good sense, even if all hope now seemed lost in the matter of the money. Thomas must now acknowledge the fact that his prospects were not what they had been, and that he must moderate his expectations as to his future comfort in life, at least as long as his father was alive—for, in spite of his forgiveness, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Fairhead would be unwise enough to reward his son’s foolishness by giving him an independence. No; Thomas had been the author of his own misfortune, and he must now live with it.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Maria had barely got over her wonder and consternation at Thomas Fairhead’s misadventure when, to her surprise, she received a visit from Miss King, who greeted her as though their friendship had never been interrupted, and seemed quite as pleased as she had ever been to pass the morning at Lucas Lodge. Maria’s astonishment was all the greater when Mary called again the next day, and two days after that, and altogether showed every sign of wishing to restore their friendship to all its former intimacy. Miss King made no mention of Louisa, or of the unfortunate events which had befallen the Fairheads, and Maria knew not how to account for it, for she had been quite certain that Mary would be full of the news and only too ready to speak of it—for did not it affect her too, as the presumed future bride of Thomas Fairhead? Maria dared not ask about Mr. Fairhead himself, and so the subject seemed closed to them, although she longed to know whether he were very despondent, and wished that he might not be made too miserable by what had happened.

  ‘Let us walk out,’ said Mary one day when Maria had come to call on her at her aunt and uncle’s. ‘I am tired of sitting indoors, and you see the sun has nearly melted all the frost.’

  Maria had no objection, and the two ladies i
ssued forth. It was a fine day, though cold, and they walked quickly to warm up.

  ‘And so I hear Mr. Thripp is to return on Saturday,’ said Mary with an arch smile. ‘He has stayed away much longer than we expected, and I confess I feared his illness was more serious than we all believed. It seems, however, that he is quite recovered now, and will not stay away any longer. But you do not need me to tell you this, of course, Maria, for I dare say you have much more detailed intelligence than I, and from Mr. Thripp himself. Only let me say that you cannot doubt my joy at your happiness, for happy you must surely be at his return.’

  Since Maria was not happy at the prospect of Mr. Thripp’s return, she made no reply, but merely coloured, allowing Mary to interpret the blush as she chose. Her heart sank, however, for of late she had almost got into the way of forgetting Mr. Thripp and the threat which hung over her head, and the news of his expected return had come as a most unwelcome reminder. She wished to talk of something else, lest Mary disturb her by praising Mr. Thripp for the duration of their walk, and was casting about for a new subject when she suddenly saw Thomas Fairhead, evidently back from London, walking with his sister and approaching them at no great distance. The four young people regarded one another with varying degrees of embarrassment—or, rather, three of them were embarrassed, for Mary appeared quite easy and unconcerned.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Fairhead,’ she said, before anybody else could speak. ‘I trust you are well. Good morning, Mr. Fairhead. Come, Maria.’

  She then prepared to pass on. Her manner was so formal and cold that Maria was bereft of all power of thought, and could do nothing but stand frozen in astonishment. A glance at the Fairheads revealed their surprise and mortification at Miss King’s manner, although they said nothing, but merely turned and continued on their way in silence. Maria stood for a second, wishing she might run after them and make some amends for Mary’s rudeness, but the moment passed before she could make her decision, and so in some consternation she hurried after Mary. Before she could ask all the questions that were burning in her mind, Mary said calmly: