Chapter XXXVI: The Seal to Sir Hugo’s Suit

The prettiest episode of Sir Hugo’s wooing occurred when Lady Semple suddenly struck out the bright idea of bringing down Lady Willoughby to pay her a visit and judge for herself, when it was too late, of her son’s choice.

Far from Sir Hugo’s offering any objection--as if he were ashamed of what he was about, or had the slightest conception that his feelings might undergo a change, or that anybody, even his mother, to whom he was so strongly attached, had the smallest right to interfere with him in his choice of a wife--he was charmed with the opportunity of introducing the Drysdales, especially Eppie, to Lady Willoughby; and at the same time, though he was his own master, and was not very down-hearted about winning the day, he caught at the chance of securing his mother’s potent voice on the side of his suit.

Sir Hugo had so talked himself into the belief of the transcendent merits of the merchant princes of St. Mungo’s, he had so swallowed wholesale the peculiarities of the Drysdale household, and then, with his strong young mental and moral digestion, dismissed them without any great effort, that he had for the moment ceased to be conscious of their existence. He was only aware of a long list of commercial virtues, and that young Eppie was the loveliest, most artless, most divine of mortal maidens.

Sir Hugo met his mother unembarrassed and without apprehension--rather triumphant in having done so well by himself and her. She was full of pain at the thought of losing her son so soon, as it seemed to her; of doubt of his youthful wisdom in this direction, when love--above all, a boy’s love--was notoriously blind; of rising repulsion--good as she was--at the trading middle-class into which he had strayed. He was only eager to escort her to Drysdale Hall, and to present her, as his best credentials, to his friends. To her mingled indignation, relief, and reluctant amusement, she found her boy was making his own of this visit of hers, which had been paid with another intention. In spite of Lady Semple’s flowing accounts of the unobjectionable, indeed the very delightful, young Glasgow heiress who had happily captivated Sir Hugo, Lady Willoughby was come down on a mission of anxious inspection, agitated inquiry, and, if need were, in her son’s interests, grieved but determined opposition--powerless as she was to hinder his will--with the hope, at least, of holding him back for a moment from wrecking his life for a young man’s idle fancy. And here was he marshalling her as his complacent mother who was lending her countenance to his infatuation!

Lady Willoughby became confused and nervous with the turn matters had taken, but Sir Hugo offered an unmoved countenance. Auld Tam swaggered, though not so briskly as of old, over his possessions. Mrs. Drysdale, in the height of her timidity and her devotion to her child--the quality which of all things would have touched the visitor, had she been capable of measuring the large amount of fellow-feeling between the mistress of the house and herself--was at once unduly fine and unduly humble, and blundered hopelessly in her small affectations. It was all lost on the couple’s future son-in-law, who smiled with cheerful unconcern, as if he knew better, as if everything were right in the main. Neither young Tam nor Claribel was of any use as interpreter and smoother-down of grievances, though Lady Willoughby saw at a glance that they were, in the language of her class, ‘civilized’ like other people. Lady Semple, who had created the imbroglio, struck in energetically, and talked on every subject under the sun, to no purpose.

It was, as it should have been, young Eppie--who was not exactly civilized, and not like other girls of her age whom Lady Willoughby had known--that, without intending it, came to the rescue, and prevented the interview from proving an utter failure--nay, what was worse, an irretrievable disaster. Yet, strange to say, Eppie had never shown herself so refractory, so unmanageable. She was coy to the verge of absurdity and provocation of the most indulgent of her friends. Eppie declined absolutely to be trotted out by Lady Semple. The girls shrank away from the perfectly gentle Lady Willoughby, who was nearly as much put out, and a great deal sorer in heart than anybody else present, though her years and her good breeding had taught her to control herself and put the best face on a difficulty. Even in her unwillingness to come forward and distinguish Eppie, her ladyship was yet desirous of being quite courteous, if possible gracious, to everybody. She might be there to forbid the banns, but it would be done in the most reasonable, forbearing manner.

But little Eppie looked at Lady Willoughby, of whom the girl had spoken reverently and tenderly, as if the lady was an aristocratic tyrant of the old régime and the first water, come to annihilate the maiden for beguiling her son.

‘It was all his doing,’ Eppie, standing at bay, kept saying to herself. ‘I would never have so much as looked at him--he who might have had Clary or anybody; but he sought me out as if he liked me best, and how could I withstand him?’

All the same she withstood Lady Willoughby, who was like her son. Eppie turned her back upon her ladyship unmistakably; she would not be drawn forward, but kept at a distance from the visitor, and left other people to entertain her. Eppie answered her interrogator in monosyllables when Lady Willoughby forced herself to address the little rustic beauty who had won her son. Eppie did not so much as care that Sir Hugo began to look vexed. She was unjust for the moment, but it was an innocent, disinterested injustice. Let him take away his mother and leave Eppie to hers, for with a sudden revulsion Eppie turned and clung to her mother, held by her skirts, as it were, and would not be taken away from her.

It was this very attitude of rebellion and defiance, this simple clinging to the ‘common woman,’ her mother, and ignoring the lady, Sir Hugo’s mother, together with Eppie’s winsome, youthful loveliness, which broke down Lady Willoughby’s defences. It was the old story of ‘My boy Tammy’ over again, of the true woman who knew by unerring instinct that her son could not be wrong in loving the ‘young thing’ whose heart was so full of her ‘mammy,’ and by an answering sweet and noble impulse ratified his choice.

Lady Willoughby commenced, not so much to unbend--for she was always modest and meek--as to warm. She took no further notice of young Eppie, but she smiled a wonderfully frank, kind smile upon mother Eppie and auld Tam. She began to speak pleasantly, and in the most friendly manner, of her son as of a person in whom they too were interested. She looked around her with observant eyes, and took notice of all the things he had written about and described to her, delicately indicating that, though he might, if he would, take the most important step in life without her consent, he had not taken it without her knowledge--he had kept no secrets from his mother. She ended by making herself at home during her short stay, and manifesting a sincere and flattering desire to be better acquainted in the future with everything and everybody at Drysdale Hall, for at present she was merely passing a day with the Semples at Semple Barns on her way to another friend’s country-house--as it happened, the home of the Honourable Lilias, who held Dick Semple in her chains.

Then young Eppie stole from her mother’s side and went into the conservatory, still refusing Sir Hugo’s attendance and assistance. She gathered with her own hands, daring and defying the ogre of a head-gardener, some of the most choice flowers, and arranged them as only she and her mother knew how. Eppie came back when Lady Willoughby’s foot was already on the step of the Semple Barns carriage, followed her and made the peace-offering mutely, with changing colour and untutored grace.

Lady Willoughby turned as lightly as if she had been only half her age, accepted the flowers, and equally without a word, kissed and smiled on the giver. That kiss and that smile were the sign of free forgiveness, Lady Willoughby’s seal to her son’s suit which neither Sir Hugo’s wife nor Sir Hugo’s mother were ever likely to forget.

‘She will do, Hugo,’ his mother confessed to him in private. ‘She would have been a perfect love of a girl, whether she had been a princess or a peasant. I do not know that I could have wished one better or half so good for you, perhaps. But oh, my dear boy! it was running a terrible risk for you to go out of your rank, and lose your heart without so much as thinking what you were about. And I doubt there will be difficulties; you will have to be very patient, very generous, very prudent, Hugo. I am afraid you do not know yet what you are doing. Though she were the sweetest, dearest girl in the world, when there is anything like a _mésalliance_, there is a great deal to bear.’

‘Nonsense, mother. These merchant princes look down upon us poor “landed gentry,” as they call us. They don’t need to covet matches with us. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Drysdale are excellent people, you must see that; and I don’t care a rap for things,’ the young man went on in one of his high flights, speaking rather incoherently. ‘I believe I am thick-skinned. The risk has been well repaid, and, if you are satisfied, it is all right; that is, if she will have me, if she will make up her mind to exchange Drysdale Hall for Willoughby Court.’

Lady Willoughby did not answer. She had made great concessions, but she would indeed have been a wonderful woman if, with her nurture, she could have realized that to some people, and those not the worst in the world, Drysdale Hall in its over-blown splendour might have attractions superior to Willoughby Court with its fine flavour of old gentility.

After all, when Sir Hugo made his formal proposal, and asked Eppie’s hand from her father, the young man was astonished and disappointed by auld Tam’s returning him a doubtful, evasive answer. Tam Drysdale expressed himself as much obliged, he ought to say honoured, by ‘Sir Hugie’s’ offer. He was perfectly aware of the compliment which had been paid to his daughter; but there was time enough to think of her marriage; she was very young. He could not answer ‘Sir Hugie’ positively at that moment, or indeed for some time to come--not even after Eppie’s father should have ascertained her feelings on the subject.

All a lover’s eloquence and impatience were wasted in vain, in spite of the fact that Sir Hugo had been accustomed to find himself treated as a person of consequence all his life. Auld Tam would not stir from his position. He was much obliged and highly honoured, etc., etc. He did not desire to be ungracious or rude, but he could not give an absolute answer at a moment’s notice. He must have time to think over matters. Sir Hugo must wait. If little Eppie were not worth waiting for, then the young gentleman had better let her alone and go his way. ‘Dod!’ he might be thankful that he got no worse answer; he himself had been forced to speer twice at auld Mercer, who knew him a hantle better than he knew ‘Sir Hugie,’ before he got his Eppie.

Sir Hugo might have replied that the circumstances were different, and that something more was due to him. But he refrained. He certainly thought young Eppie worth waiting for, and after the first shock of mortified pride and baffled ardour was surmounted, the ingenuous nature and excellent temper of the young man came out in the good grace with which he submitted to the uncalled-for period of uncertainty and probation to which he was sentenced. Nobody could see any reason for the trial, but Sir Hugo came off so far the victor by cleverly making stock of auld Tam’s hesitation. Sir Hugo managed not only to secure the sympathy and support of the bride and all the other members of her family, but to prove to his mother and the connections of his house acquainted with the affair, the truth of his assertion of the disinterestedness and superiority of the merchant princes, and how guiltless they were in the person of Mr. Drysdale of Drysdale Hall of any anxiety to bestow a daughter on Sir Hugo Willoughby.

It was auld Tam’s own household that were most aggrieved by his conduct.

‘What does my father mean?’ demanded young Tam, with a fellow-feeling for his brother bachelor in the ordeal he was made to pass through. ‘He ought not to have suffered Sir Hugo to come so much here, if my father intended to object at the last moment.’

‘He will get Eppie and all of us talked about,’ complained Claribel. ‘People will not understand. They will suppose Sir Hugo has drawn back, or that there is some trouble with the settlements.’

‘Oh, does father not like him? What fault can father find with him? I’m sure he likes father,’ poor Eppie pled piteously with her mother, till what Mrs. Drysdale called her ‘corruption,’ her unregenerate nature, was roused to remonstrate strongly in her turn with her husband.

‘Would you mar your bairn’s credit and happiness, Tam Drysdale, for a freit [fancy] at this time of the day? Nobody feels more keenly than me that she is going out from us, that we are giving her up to the fine lad. But they’re a braw young couple. Eppie will be my leddy, and what for no? If Providence has willed her promotion, my bit lassie is worthy to wear a crown, like Queen Esther in the Auld Testament. We’ve no earthly title to prevent it. What’s come ower you that you dinna see that? What makes you sae thrawn [cross], lad?’

But neither did auld Tam yield to the wife of his bosom. He had always the same answer to give--time enough. He must think. He would give his consent, or it might be his denial, when it was fitting. If Sir Hugie could not stay--let him go.