Thatvery evening, notwithstanding her supposed fatigue, the little world of Farafield was roused to welcome Lucy. The rector and his wife, going out for a drive in the cool of the evening, drew up their pony at the door, and left a card and their kind regards, and hoped Miss Trevor was not tired with her journey; and a little later, when Lucy and Jock were preparing to stroll out as theyhad been in the habit of doing, upon the common, they were stopped by a visit from Mrs. Rushton and her son and daughter. “We always come out after dinner in the hot weather,” the visitor explained, “and it is so delightful to have an object for our walk. I hope you have had a good rest, my dear. What a pleasure,” said Mrs. Rushton, taking Lucy’s hands in hers, and looking at her with enthusiasm, “to see you at home again and looking so well!”
Lucy was confused by the warmth andeffusionof this unexpected greeting. Her guardian’s wife had never taken much notice of her in the old days; but she was pleased at the same time, for affection is always pleasant, and it was agreeable to find that she had more friends than she was aware of. Raymond, of whom she remembered nothing, except that she had seen him at the railway station, was an ordinary young man, still in his morning suit, by license of the summer, and the after-dinner walk; and wholly undistinguishable from any other young man in that universal garb. He said, “How d’ye do?” and taking his right hand out of his pocket, presented it to her, not without embarrassment. Lucy gave it him back at once with a great inclination to laugh. She felt herself a great deal older, and more experienced than Raymond, though he was two-and-twenty and had taken his degree.
“I hope you will not find Farafield dull,” said Mrs. Rushton; “we must do what we can to make you like us, Lucy. Have you seen a good deal of society in town? Oh, I know you could not go out; but Lady Randolph is always having company. I suppose you would meet her nephew, Sir Thomas. I hear he is expected at the Hall.”
“Yes,” said Lucy. “He is on his way to Scotland. He came down here with us to-day.”
“Oh, he is on his way to Scotland? Isn’t this a little out of the way to Scotland, Ray? I know whenwewent we had to go a hundred miles round, your father said, to get to that big junction; but we can’t always calculate on Sir Thomas. He is a gay deceiver; with that jolly laugh of his, didn’t you quite fall in love with him, Lucy? I always say he is the most dangerous man I know.”
“I like him very much,” Lucy said.
“And so does Ray. He is quite captivating to young people. He has always been so kind to Ray. One forgets the little stories that are current about him when one comes under the spell. Did you like his aunt equally well, Lucy? Opinions are divided on that score.”
“She was very kind to me,” said Lucy; “no one ever took somuch care of me. She did not talk of it, but one felt all round one—”
“But still you did not care for her? That is what I have always heard—very kind, and that sort of thing; but not attractive.”
“Indeed, I am very fond of Lady Randolph,” Lucy said, with a flush of annoyance. Her visitor laughed and coughed, confused and disconcerted, though Lucy could not tell why.
“Oh, I only say what I have heard!” she said. “I don’t know much of her myself. Sir Thomas is the only member of the family whom I know; and I always frankly admit I think him charming—whatever may be his little faults.”
All this time Raymond stood swaying about from one leg to another, with his hands in his pockets. He had received the best of educations, as his mother proudly declared; but this had not conferred ease of manner or social grace. Lucy could not help longing that he would sit down; but it seemed to be against the young man’s principles. He stood between her and the window, swaying about like a cloud upon the wind, but solid enough to shut out the light. Miss Rushton was a very big girl of sixteen in short frocks, who kept half behind her mother, and took shelter under her wing.
“And what are you going to do, my dear, now you have come back? I hope we shall see a great deal of you. You will find yourself a little lost here just for the first The Fords are excellent people, but you will find yourself a little lost. You must run over to us whenever you feel dull. To-morrow there is some croquet going on—are you fond of croquet? You must come early and have a game, and stay to dinner. In this hot weather we never dress for dinner, for we always have a walk in the cool of the evening. Is that a bargain?” said Mrs. Rushton graciously. “And you must bring little Jock. Do you walk with him as you used to do, Lucy? I think, as a girl, you were the very best sister in the world.”
“Jock and I ride,” said Lucy; “he was always fond of riding. Lady Randolph sent the horses and the groom, and Jock’s pony. She thought I might have them here.”
“Certainly, Lucy,” Mrs. Rushton said, with many nods of her head. “That I am sure your guardians would approve. And what a lucky thing for you, Ray! Now you can get up all sorts of delightful parties. Emmy is beginning to ride very nicely too, and you like it, don’t you, dear? They will be so glad to join. I am so delighted to have found something in which you can all join.”
“It will be very jolly,” said Raymond. That and “How d’ye do?” was all that he contributed to the conversation. And Emmy said nothing at all, except, in shy murmurs of assent, and stifled explosions of laughter when her mother said anything she thought amusing. The two young people preceded Mrs. Rushton down-stairs when she had said all she had to say; but she came back again, once more seized Lucy’s two hands, and added a parting word in her ear.
“I see that friend of yours, that Mrs. Stone, coming this way. She is very well in her own place, Lucy; oh, very nice! I thought she behaved badly to me about Emmy; but that is neither here nor there. Everybody speaks very highly of her—in her own place. But you must not let her get you into her hands, dear. She is dreadfully managing, and by hook or by crook she will have her own way. But you are in a different sphere altogether. Don’t forget, my dear Lucy, that you are in a different sphere. I felt that I must just say this. You know what an interest I take in you. Dear child!” said Mrs. Rushton with enthusiasm, giving Lucy a sudden and tender kiss of irrestrainable feeling; “who would not take an interest in you, so young and so nice and so lonely? Till to-morrow, dear—”
Mrs. Stone met Mrs. Rushton going down. “So it is true that Lucy has come back,” said that able tactician. “I heard a rumor, and was coming to inquire, when they told me she was here.”
“Just come. My husband being her guardian, I felt that she had a special claim upon me, poor dear child. I am afraid she is tired with her journey, and agitated with all the associations. I have only been there a moment; I would not stay. I felt it was kindness to postpone a longer visit.”
“Thank you for the hint,” said Mrs. Stone, calmly pursuing her way upstairs; and she too took Lucy into her arms, if not with enthusiasm, yet with the most affectionate interest; she kissed her, and then held her at arm’s length, and looked into her face, “You are very welcome back, my dear,” she said, “but, Lucy, there is something new in your face.”
“Is there?” said Lucy faintly. “I am a little tired; and then there are so many other things that are new.”
Mrs. Stone looked round the room, with such disdain of the shop upholstery as was natural to a woman who possessed a parlor furnished with Chippendales. She said, “Ah, I see they have been doing something here;” then added, “Lucy, you must not trifle with me; it is not that. But,” she said, “your hat is on thetable; you were going out? it is a sweet evening, and we can talk just as well on the common. Come, and we will discuss the whole matter out of doors.”
Lucy was grateful to be released, for the night was warm, and Jane, Mrs. Ford’s maid, had come up with a taper in her hand, and was threatening to light the gas. Mrs. Ford was determined that Lucy should want for nothing, and no consideration of time or season was permitted to interfere with the proper hours for doing everything in this well-regulated house. Therefore, though it was somewhat late for Jock, Lucy put on her hat gratefully, and suffered her hand to be drawn through the arm of her considerate friend, and drew a long and grateful breath as she got out upon the breezy sweep of the common, which even in the twilight showed a faint flush of the heather. “How sweet it is! this is the one thing which is unchanged,” she said.
“Do you find the place changed, Lucy?”
“Perhaps it is me, Mrs. Stone.”
“You should say I, my love. Yes, no doubt it is you, Lucy. It could not be otherwise; you have been in so different a sphere, and how could you help feeling it? I think I can understand you. Lady Randolph is—well, I don’t know what she is. I confess that I have a little prejudice against her.”
“Indeed, you should not have any prejudice,” said Lucy earnestly; “she is so good and so kind—oh, far too good and kind for anything I deserve.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Stone with a smile. “I understand; a woman with a great deal of tact, Lucy, who knows what is best for you, and takes her measures accordingly; oh, yes, I am quite sure Lady Randolph is highly refined, and a thorough lady, and would do nothing that was unbecoming, whereas our good Mrs. Ford is just— Mrs. Ford, and a very good woman. I think it would have been better, Lucy—we have all our little vanities—if your excellent father had sent you to me.”
“Yes,” said Lucy with a sigh; but there was no enthusiasm in the assent. Mrs. Stone was slightly disappointed. She gave the girl’s arm a soft pressure.
“You must let us help you to get through this second beginning: things will never be so bad again. You will get used to the alteration, and your interests will spring up. What are you doing about little Jock, my dear?”
“Nothing,” said Lucy; “he is still so little, and I have no one else. Do you think, really, I ought to send him, such a little fellow, away from me to somerealschool? He was at Mrs. Russell’s, but that was not like a real school, and I went to see him whenever I liked.”
“Ah! perhaps too often,” said Mrs. Stone, with another pressure of her young friend’s arm. “I have something to say about that after. But, Lucy, listen. I will tell you what I was thinking. Frank St. Clair, whom you may remember, my nephew, is coming to stay with me again. He is not very well, poor fellow! I will tell you his story some time. He has been unfortunate.”
“He who was so kind, who came to see papa?”
“Your father interested him so much, dear! He used to come back and tell me all the clever acute things he said. Yes, Frank St. Clair. This is one of my disappointments, Lucy, Frank was the pride of all our family. We all seemed to have a share in him; his father died young, his mother was poor, and we all helped. He was the cleverest boy I ever saw. At school he wasextraordinary; no one could stand against him, and you can imagine how proud we all were. Am I boring you with my story, Lucy?”
“How could you think so? I am like Jock about a story; there is nothing I like so much, especially if at the end there is was anything—anything that could be done.”
“I don’t know what you could do, my dear,” Mrs. Stone said, with a smile, “but your sympathy is sweet. He was not quite so successful at the University, there is such competition, but still he did very well, and also in his work at the bar. For he is a barrister,” said Mrs. Stone, with a thrill of pride in her voice, “he has been called, and was just at the beginning of his career, when his health failed. Can you imagine such a disappointment, such a commentary upon the vicissitudes of life! Just when he was in a position to justify all our hopes his health gave way.”
“I am so sorry,” Lucy looked up at her friend with the profoundest pity in her blue eyes, but something else besides, a spark of hidden interest, the gleam with which an explorer’s eyes shine when he finds some new sphere of discovery, a new world to conquer. Lucy had not been very happy in her first venture, but she jumped at the thought of a second venture, if it might be found practicable. It was she now who pressed Mrs. Stone’s arm, clinging closely to it “I am so sorry! I hope he may soon get better. Is there nothing that could be done?”
“Rest is all he wants, my dear, rest and a relief from anxiety, and something to do quietly, that will not strain him. As soon as I knew you were coming back I immediately thought of Jock.Poor Frank is very independent; he would be less unhappy if he had something to do. And it is providential for you, for Jock must begin to have something done for his education; I consider it quite providential for you.”
“If Mr. St. Clair would be so kind. But would he like it, a gentleman, and a lawyer, and so clever?” said Lucy, puzzled. “Jock is such a little, little fellow.”
“He will take Jock,” said Mrs. Stone, with tranquil assurance. “He would not take any little boy, of course, but Jock is exceptional, Jock is your brother, and you know my interest in you, Lucy. Yes, my dear, do not be afraid, Frank will take Jock. And now that this is settled—and I wanted to make your mind easy on the subject—let us talk of other things. What is all this story about the Russells, Lucy? You have not allowed Bertie to—he has not, I hope, really acquired any— It is so difficult to speak to you on such a subject, but you know I am a kind of guardian too. I should not approve of Bertie Russell. I could never give my consent—”
“To what?” said Lucy, with great surprise. “Is it about his book, Mrs. Stone? It was not my fault, indeed, it was not any one’s fault. I suppose he never thought that people would take any notice. It was just a mistake, a foolish thing to do. I think even Lady Randolph, though she was so angry, got to see that at last.”
“Then there is nothing more, Lucy; you can assure me, on your word, that there is nothing more?”
Lucy was more surprised than ever.
“What should there be more?” she said.
Mrs. Stone laughed, and made no reply.
“So Lady Randolph was angry,” she said. “I don’t wonder; so was I. We all have the same feeling toward you, Lucy,” and here Mrs. Stone laughed again, evidently perceiving a humorous aspect of the question which was unknown to Lucy. “We are all so—fond of you, my dear. Did you see much of the Randolph family when you were there?”
“Only Sir Tom.”
“Only Sir Tom! that makes you smile. By the way, he is all the Randolph family, I believe: and he isnice, Lucy? I have met him, and I thought him very pleasant; but he has not a very good character, I am afraid. He has been what people call wild; but now that he is getting old, no doubt he is mending his ways.”
Mrs. Stone gave Lucy a keen glance of inquiry as she said this;but as a matter of fact, Lucy at eighteen honestly thought Sir Thomas old, and made no protest, which satisfied her friend. She said, after a pause,
“Now I have a pleasant surprise to give you. Katie Russell is here; I am looking for a situation for her. She has finished her education, and I wish to place her in a thoroughly nice family.”
“Oh,” cried Lucy, with pained surprise, “I thought that Mrs. Russell— I thought thatnowthey were all to be at home.”
“Since she came into that money? Oh, no, it is not enough for that; besides, even if it were more than it is, Katie ought to do something to make a life for herself. It was a great godsend, the money, but it is not enough for any great change in their life.”
“I thought—it was enough to live on,” said Lucy, feeling a great flush of shame come over her face. It had not given her much satisfaction in any way, but to hear that it was a failure altogether struck her a very keen and unexpected blow.
“Oh, no, my dear, no,” said Mrs. Stone, all unaware of Lucy’s interest in the matter; “a pittance! merely enough to give them a little more comfort, joined to what they have.”
Lucy went home rather subdued after this interview. She did not see Katie, who was out with Miss Southwood, and she was rather glad to escape that meeting. She called Jock back from his wanderings among the heather, and led him home, with his little arms twined round hers. Lucy felt very much subdued, perhaps because she was tired. She drew little Jock very close to her, and felt something like the twilight dimness stealing into her mind.
“Are you tired?” she said; “you ought to be in bed. I think I am tired too; Jock, are you glad to be at home?”
“I don’t know if it’s home,” said Jock, looking up at her with his big eyes.
“Neither do I,” said Lucy drearily. “But it is all we have for home,” she added, with a sigh. “Anyhow, it is you and me, Jock; things can not be so very bad so long as there is you and me.”
To this Jock assented with a reservation.
“I suppose I shall have to go to school, Lucy; all the other fellows go to school.”
“I have got a tutor for you, dear; you will not have to go away. Mr. St. Clair, that used to come and see papa. It is providential, Mrs. Stone says.”
“What, that fat fellow in the black coat? I don’t mind,” saidJock. “I think he is a duffer, he’s so fat; but I don’t mind. You don’t know what that means, Lucy.”
“You should not say such naughty words; that is what you learned at school,” said Lucy, with disapproval. “I don’t think you learned anything else there.”
“Duffer is not a naughty word: it means just nothing; but I don’t mind him at all,” said Jock, with indulgence. He was quite willing to undergo the experiment. “I should like to have another try,” he said.
When they got to the house it was as dark as an August evening ever is, and Mrs. Ford, with a candle in her hand, was beginning to fasten up the windows and doors. She had again put on her stern aspect, and looked very severe and solemn, as she followed them upstairs. “It is a great deal too late for that child,” she said. “He ought to have been in bed an hour ago. So you have had visitors, Lucy? I think they might have been so civil as to ask for me. After all, though the house may be kept for your convenience, it’s me that am the mistress of it. And I expect civility, if there’s nothing more to be looked for. I do expect that.”
“I am very sorry, Aunt Ford.”
“You must be something more than sorry. You must let them see you won’t stand it. As for that Mrs. Rushton, I think she is insufferable. She wants to keep you in her set. And Raymond, what does he want here the first evening?Younever knew Ray Rushton; whatever they may say, don’t you put any faith in them, Lucy. She’s a designing woman; and I mistrust her, bringing her son the first day.”
“You tell me to put no faith in Mrs. Rushton, and she tells me to beware of Mrs. Stone, and they both shake their heads about Lady Randolph,” said Lucy, with a smile that was not happy. “If I am to do what you all tell me, don’t you think, Aunt Ford, I shall be very lonely? for these are all the friends I have.”
“My pet,” said Mrs. Ford, “don’t you be afraid; you’ll get friends in plenty; friends always turn up for a girl who is—a good girl,” she added, after a momentary pause. Perhaps she had not intended originally to conclude her sentence in this simple and highly moral way.
Lucyspent two or three days after this in comparative solitude. Her friends, both the Rushtons and Mrs. Stone, agreed in feeling that it would be indecorous to make any rush at her. It was a suggestion forced upon each of them by the too great eagerness of the other, and both concluded that it would be well to adopt a more dignified course, and to leave her to herself for the moment. Katie Russell had gone on a visit of two or three days’ duration, and Lucy found herself thus at full liberty to realize her loneliness. The weather, as it happened, was very hot, and Jock and she were shut up for the greater part of the day in the glaring room, where there was no provision for very hot weather, no sun-blinds or shutters, but everything open to the blazing sun in the day, and all lighted up with blazing gas at night. When after those long and weary days, little Jock went tired and cross to bed, unwilling to go, yet glad to get the day over, his sister sat alone in the pink drawing-room in the unshadowed flood of the gaslight, and thought with the tenderest longing of all she had left behind, and with a sinking at her heart beyond describing, of all that was before her. The Fords were in their parlor below, which they preferred, he reading his paper, she mending stockings tranquilly, at the table with its oil-cloth cover. Lucy had not required any derangement of their habits. She sat with them meekly at table, without asking for anything beyond what they chose to give her; but she had found at once that, after the repast was over, she was expected to return to her own luxurious apartment, the room which they were proudly conscious had cost more than any other room in Farafield, not to speak of the trouble that had been taken over it, and in which there was a piano and books, and all the things with which girls are supposed to be amused. Lucy had been called upon by two of the most important people in Farafield, she had taken several walks and one ride, and many substantial meals had been set before her at their comfortable table; what could any girl in her senses want more? And now she had that beautiful drawing-room to return to, where there was provision for both mind and body, sofas to repose upon and a piano to play, and books to read, and where she could certainly gratify herself with the consciousness of being mistress of a room which had not its equal in Farafield. Mrs. Ford saw no reason why she should give up her own evening leisure, the purring quiet of that final hour before bed-time, when she sat content after supper was over, and all the affairs of the day concluded. She did her duty by Lucy. She bought sweetbreads, and other delicacies, instead of the beefsteak which was so much cheaper, and which Ford liked just as well as the greatest dainty. She spared no expense upon her guest. She was ready to give her a cup of tea half a dozen times a day. She had planned a variety of puddings, that there might be something different at every meal; and, to conclude, she had given Lucy the best of advice. What could she be expected to do more?
But Lucy sat very disconsolate in front of the shining steel fire-place filled up with shavings, amid that blaze of gas, without even the little stir of a fire which might have given companionship at another season. She felt like a stranded sailor, like some one shipwrecked on a very clean, bright, polished desert island, where, however, there was not even the consolation of struggling for your living to keep you alive. She pondered all things that had happened, and that were going to happen. It had given her a painful sensation to hear Mrs. Stone speak of the Russells, and of the money which had come to them, which was just enough to enable them to live in comfort, as Lucy had intended. Had that been a failure, that first effort? And then she thought of the new claimant, the poor gentleman whom Mrs. Stone had hoped might be lord chancellor one day, and who was only able to be tutor to Jock. Surely it would be a right thing to give him enough to remove anxiety, as Mrs. Stone had said. And this time Lucy thought she would take care that there was enough, that no one should say it was a pittance. This idea made her face glow with as much shame as if she had cheated these poor people, to whom she had meant to be kind. How was she to know what was enough? especially for a gentleman. Oh, Lucy thought, if I could but ask some one! If some one would but tell me! But who was there whom she could consult on such a subject? Her guardians, instead of helping her, would certainly do all they could to hinder. They would put every kind of obstacle in her way. Instead of aiding her to make her calculations and ascertain how much was wanted, they would beat her down to the last penny, and try to persuade her that half of what she wanted to give would do. How difficult was this commission she held, this office of dispenser, almoner of posthumous bounty! Oh, if her father had but done it himself! he was old, hehad experience, he must have known much better than she could know. But here Lucy stopped short and bethought herself of the conclusion that had been forced upon her, that poor papa did not understand. The world in which her timid footsteps were finding out painfully unaccustomed tracks was one of which even his keen eyes had not found out the conditions. In her stumblings and gropings she had already discovered more than his threescore and ten years of keen, imperfect theory had taught him. And now it was her part to suffer all the inconveniences and vexations which in his ignorance he had fixed upon her life. It never occurred to Lucy to make any effort to escape from them, or even to remain quiescent and refrain from doing the difficult things he had left her to do. She was determined to execute his will in every detail. Should she die even of thisennuiand loneliness, she would yet bear it until the appointed moment; and, though she might have no more success than with the Russells, still she must flounder on. If she could only find somebody to help her, to give her a little guidance, to tell her how much, not how little, she ought to give? There was one indeed who might be a help to her, who would understand. But was it possible that even Sir Tom had deserted her? Three days, and he had not come to see her? At this thought there came into Lucy’s eyes something that felt very like a tear.
This, however, was the last of these silent days. In the morning Katie Russell burst upon her, all radiant with pleasure. “Oh, what a lucky girl you are!” Katie cried; “you have got all we used to talk of, Lucy, I never thought it would come true; but here you are, just looking the same as ever, though you have been living among swells; and come down to dazzle us all at Farafield, with beautiful horses, and heaps of money, and everybody after you. To think that all this should have happened to you, and nothing at all to me!”
Lucy did not like her friend’s tone. What had come over her that everything seemed to hurt her? “I don’t think very much has happened to me,” she said. “What has happened was all before I left here.”
Katie shook her head and her curly locks till she had almost shaken them off. “I know a great deal more than you think. I know what you were doing in London, and how you went riding about, and turning people’s heads. What a lucky girl you are, with everything that heart can desire! I don’t envy you, not wicked envy, because you are always as good as gold, and never give yourself airs; but youarea lucky girl. You don’t even knowhow different we poor ones are. I have never turned any one’s head,” said Katie, with a sigh.
“Do not talk of anything so silly,” said Lucy, blushing, she did not quite know why. “I think you are laughing at me; and to laugh at me is not kind, for I am not clever as you are, and can not make fun of you. Katie, tell me all about yourself, what you are doing; and tell me how they all are at Hampstead, and if they have got into the new house.”
“I am doing— I don’t know what I am doing,” said Katie, “dancing attendance on Mrs. Stone and old Southernwood. They are going to get me a situation in somenicefamily. I wish the nice family would turn up, for I am very tired waiting and wasting my holidays in this old place. It is nice being here? Oh, I know what you will say it is very nice, and I am very ungrateful; but though it is nice it is a school, Lucy and mamma does not want me at home, and I have got no other place to go. Lady Langton has been very kind; she asked me to go there for three days. But it’s dreary always coming back to school, for the White House is only school when all is said. They are all right at Hampstead, so far as I know. Did you hear what happened? Mamma has come into some money. It is not a very great sum, but it is a great help. It was some old relations, that no one had ever thought of, and mamma says it might just as well have been the double, for they weredreadfullyrich. But anyhow it has been a great help. With what she had before, I believe they have quite enough to live on now, without doing anything,” Katie said with a little pride.
To all this Lucy listened with a countenance void of all expression. She had been half afraid of her friend’s gratitude: but there was something in this complete ignorance which was very bewildering. And when she looked at her own generosity through Katie’s eyes, so to speak, and saw iton the other side, she felt, too, that “it might as well have been the double,” and contemplated her own action with a mixture of shame and regret, instead of the satisfaction which she had vainly felt at first. And this little discovery made her first wound smart all the more. A certain fear crept over her. She would have liked to stop her ears from further revelations had she been able. But as that was impossible, Lucy listened patiently, with a blank countenance, trying hard to dismiss all appearance of feeling from her face.
“Mamma would like me to stay at home too,” Katie continued “She can not bear me to be a governess. But I could not do it; stay at home and sink down into Hampstead tea-parties—oh, I couldnot do it! If I get into a good family, Maud and the others will stand by me, and I shall have some fun at least and see life. To have only enough to live on, and to live at Hampstead, is more than Icouldput up with. Bertie, he has gone into chambers; he doesn’t live with mamma now. I don’t blame him, do you, Lucy? It must have been so slow for him, a young man. And now he has some money of his own, of course he has himself to think of. He isalways”— Katie said slowly, watching her friend’s face—“always talking of you.”
Lucy did not make any response; but she was surprised by this unexpected change in the strain, and looked up involuntarily, with a half inquiry in her eyes.
“Oh, constantly!” said Katie, with a mixture of natural mischief and more serious purpose, not quite able to give up the pleasure of laughing at her companion, yet very seriously determined to help her brother. “He says you are cross about that dedication. How could you be cross about it? such a lovely dedication, making you into a famous person all at once! It is just the same as Dante did, and Petrarch, and all the poets, Bertie says. And it has brought him luck. Lucy, do you mind? He wants so much to come down here.”
“Why should I mind?” Lucy asked. Bertie Russell had floated out of her recollection; why should his movements concern her? even the dedication, and all the annoyance it had brought, affected her no more.
“That is quite true, why should you mind?” Katie said, with some pique. “One more or less doesn’t matter, when there are so many. He wants to come down and study the scenery for his next book. He means to lay the scene here; won’t it be exciting? People will be sure to say he has studied the characters too.”
“I don’t think there are many characters here,” Lucy said.
“Oh, don’t you think so? If I were to write a book I know whom I should put in; the Missis and little Southernwood, and that fat St. Clair; and old mademoiselle finding out everything about everybody. Oh, I should soon make up a book if I could write— I wish I could write,” cried Katie, with flashing eyes.
Was it really so? Was Katie vulgar too? Lucy felt herself shrink involuntarily. She asked herself whether, in the old school girl days, there had been chatter like this which had not disgusted her, or if Katie had deteriorated.
“Do not speak so,” she said; “Katie, it is not like you.”
“Oh, yes, it is quite like me. I always was wicked, you werethe good one, Lucy. I hope Bertie will take them all off; and I hope you will not be cross to him, Lucy; that would take all the heart out of him. Poor old Bertie! he thinks you are an angel, that is all he knows.”
“I am never cross,” said Lucy, wounded. What had happened to her? Had her eyes been anointed by that disenchanting touch which turns all the glories of fairyland into dross and tinsel? or was she really cross with everybody and out of tune? She could not tell herself which it was.
“You are cross now,” cried Katie, growing red; and then the hasty tears started to her eyes, and she complained that her friend was “changed.” What could Lucy say? either it was true, or it was Katie that was changed. “You are a great lady now,” the girl cried, “with grand friends and everything you wish for; and I am only a poor governess, not fit company for you.”
This reproach went to Lucy’s heart. She could not defend herself from such an accusation; it took her entirely without defense, without the power of saying anything for herself; and she had never had any quarrels in the old days. Thus the two girls parted, Katie running across the common with red eyes, in high dudgeon, though there was so little cause for it, while Lucy stood at the window looking after her piteously, and with an aching heart. Changed! yes, everything was changed, either within or without; but which poor Lucy could not tell. She scarcely knew how long she stood there, and she was so occupied with Katie and the pang of this parting with her that she did not see another visitor approaching from the town, though he was a very welcome visitor indeed. When she heard his voice coming up the stair her heart jumped with pleasure. He had not deserted her then, and gone away without seeing her. She turned round and opened the door of the drawing-room in the simplicity of her pleasure.
“I am so glad to see you,” she said with fervor; and Sir Tom came in smiling, with every appearance of being glad to see her too.
“I thought it best not to come too soon,” Sir Thomas said, “or your old lady did not like the looks of me, Miss Lucy. Perhaps, I thought, she might like me even worse than my looks; but this is luck to find you alone.”
“Oh, but I am always alone,” said Lucy, her countenance falling. “This is not like Grosvenor Street, Sir Thomas; most of the time I see nobody at all; and when people come they say that I am changed.”
“Somebody has been vexing you,” said Sir Thomas, with his sympathetic look. “Never you mind, no one who really knows you will think you changed; and I hope you are happy on the whole, among your old friends.”
Lucy shook her head.
“It is not that they are not kind,” she said; “they are all very kind—but they will not permit me to think that other people are kind too; every one bids me to beware of some one else. You laugh, but I could cry; and it makes me that I don’t know what to do.”
“They bid you beware of me? Well, I suppose that was to be expected,” Sir Thomas said, with a laugh.
“Oh, not only of you, but of each other; and Aunt Ford warns me against them all. Well, it is amusing, I suppose,” said Lucy, “but it does not amuse me,” and the tears came into her eyes.
“My dear little girl (I am an uncle, you know), things will mend,” said Sir Tom. “Come, tell me what they say of me. Did they say I was an extravagant fool, and had wasted all my living like a prodigal? Alas! that is true, Lucy. It may be uncharitable to say it, but the ladies are quite right; and if it were not for that excellent plan of the uncle, perhaps, as they tell you, it would be better for you to have nothing to do with me.”
“I do not believe that,” cried Lucy, almost with vehemence. And then she paused and looked at him anxiously, and, with a crimson color gradually coming over her face, asked in a low tone, “Sir Thomas, do not be angry; are youpoor?”
He grew red, too, with surprise, but then laughed.
“Well,” he said, “yes, for my position I certainly am. When a man has a great house to keep up, and a number of expenses, if he is not rich he must be poor.”
“Ah! but I don’t think that could be what papa meant,” cried Lucy, with a profound sigh.
“I can not tell, nor what you mean either, my little Lucy,” he said. “I feel very much like an old uncle to-day, so you must pardon the familiarity; you are so little, and so young, and I am soflêtri, with crows’-feet beyond counting. Lucy, I have come to bid you good-bye, I am going to Scotland, you know.”
“Oh!” said Lucy, her countenance falling. “I hoped—we hoped—you were not going directly. So long as you were near, I felt that there was some one— Must you really go, Sir Tom?”
Neither of them noticed at the moment the sudden familiarity into which they had fallen, and Lucy’s dismay was so candid thatit was all Sir Tom could do to keep from a caress, such as would have been very appropriate to his assumed character, but not very consistent with the partial guardianship he had been trusted with.
“It is very sweet of you to be sorry,” he said, rising and walking to the window, where he stood looking out for a moment with back to her, “but I am afraid I must go, at all events, it will be better for me to go. If you want anything very urgently, write to me, or send me a telegram; but I don’t suppose you will have any very pressing necessities,” he said, turning round with a smile.
“No,” said Lucy, very downcast; “oh; it is not that. I have not any necessities; I wish I had. It is just—it is only—one wants some one to speak to, some one to tell—”
She was so disappointed that there came a little quiver into her lips and quaver in her tone. Had he been right? Was it really true that she was no more in love with him than he was with his old aunt? Sir Thomas was only human, and an amiable vanity was warm in him. A pleasant little thrill of surprise and gratitude went through his heart. Was it perhaps possible? But Lucy made haste to add,
“You are the only person that I could tell something to—something that is on my mind. My guardians know, so it is not quite, quite a secret; but no one else knows; and when I go to them they always oppose me—at least they did everything they could against me the one time, and I thought if I could tell you, who are a gentleman, and have experience, it would be such a comfort, and perhaps you could guide me in doing what I have to do. Papa did not say I was to tell nobody. I am sure he would have liked me to have some one to stand by me, since you are so kind to me, Sir Tom.”
“You may calculate upon me, Miss Lucy. What is it? or do you want to tell me now, when I am going away?”
His tone was cooled, chilled. Lucy did not quite know how, but she felt it. Almost for the first time since she had known him, Sir Thomas looked at her with no wavering of expression in his face, no twinkle in his eye.
“It will perhaps—be a bore to you,” she said, chilled too, and hesitating.
“You learned that word in town,” he said, melting and relaxing into his habitual laugh. “Come, tell me; when I know, then I shall be able to advise, and you will find me infallible. Something guardians oppose? then I suppose it must be a desire you haveto be kind to other people, Lucy. They could not refuse you any little wants of your own.”
“How clever you are, Sir Tom!” said Lucy lighting up; “that is just what, it is. Papa left me a great deal of money— I believe it is really a great deal of money—to give away. Perhaps you may have noticed that I have been rude, very rude, in asking if people were—poor.”
“You askedmeso ten minutes ago,” he said.
“Oh, you must not think I meant— Sir Thomas, papa says in his will—and he has said it to me often—not to waste the money, giving a little here, and a little there, but when I could find out a fit occasion to provide for somebody, to put them quite above want.”
“And the thought crossed your sweet little soul,” he said, with one of his big laughs, “my dear child! to provide for me.”
“No! Oh, no! I never could have been so impertinent; indeed that was not what I meant; only it flashed across me how much better, if I could, to give it to some one I liked, than to some one I knew nothing about and didn’t care for; but then it was not to be people I cared for—only people who were poor.”
“Lucy, do you care for me?”
“Very much, Sir Tom,” she said, with a brightness quite unusual to her, turning upon him eyes which met his with perfect frankness and calm. Will it be believed that Sir Thomas was utterly disgusted by this quite candid, affectionate, innocent response?
“Ah! that is precisely what I said,” he muttered to himself, jumping up impatiently from his chair; then he laughed and sat down again.
“Well, well, tell me how I can help you. This money is to be spent on the deserving poor. In short, it is a charitable fund.”
“There is nothing about deserving. It is a great deal of money. It is nearly as much as the half of what I have got. What papa wished was that it should begiven back.”
“The half of what you have got!” Sir Thomas stared at her bewildered, in his mind making a rapid calculation that, with the half of what she had got, Lucy would no longer be the greatest heiress in England. He was not sorry. She would still have a great fortune. Somehow, indeed, it pleased and conciliated him that she should be put down from that high pedestal. This was his only reflection on the subject. “What are you to do? are you to establish institutions or build hospitals?” he said.
“Oh, no, nothing of that kind; only to provide for those that want, not for the very, very poor, at least not always; but for poorpeople who are not poor. Do you know what I mean, Sir Thomas?—for those who have been well off.”
“I understand: like me—poor ladies and poor gentlemen.”
“We were not ladies and gentlemen ourselves. It is not confined to them,” said Lucy, doubtfully; “families that are struggling to live, whether they are gentlemen, or whether they are not—clerks like my Uncle Rainy, or school-masters like papa. Do you consider it very insulting to offer people money, when you see that they want it very much?”
“Well, that depends,” said Sir Thomas, recovering his humorous look, “upon the person who offers and the person to whom it is offered. It happens so rarely that one has no experience on the subject.”
“Do you remember, Sir Thomas, when I borrowed that hundred pounds?” Lucy said. “That was for one—it was my first, my very first. She was very much offended, and then she said she would take it as a loan. I cheated her into it,” the girl said, with glee; “I told her I could not give any loans—papa never said anything about loans—but she could give it me back if she wished when I am my own mistress in seven years. Don’t you think she will forget before that time? It would be rather dreadful to have it back.”
“That depends also,” he said; “but I think it very likely that she will forget. Only take care, take care. Presents of a hundred pounds are very pleasant things. You will have crowds of claimants if you don’t mind.”
“A hundred pounds!” said Lucy; “oh, it was not an insignificant thing like that!”
“You think that insignificant? You have princely notions, it must be allowed. Might one ask—”
“I counted up very closely,” Lucy said. She was drawn along by the tide of her own confidences; “for it was no use giving a little bit that would be swallowed up directly, and do no good. You see it was a lady, and ladies are not so expensive as men. In that case, and it was my first, it was six thousand pounds.”
“Six thousand pounds!” Sir Thomas sprung to his feet in comical consternation, as if he had been struck by electricity. “My dear little girl,” he said, half tragically, half laughing, “do you know what you are doing? Are you sure this is in your father’s will? and do your guardians allow it? I feel my head going round and round. Six thousand pounds! to some one not related to you, a stranger!”
“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, earnestly, “or it would not be giving it back. My guardians oppose it as much as ever they can.”
“And I don’t wonder at it!” cried Sir Thomas. “I think I should oppose it, too; if I were one of them. My dear little Lucy, you are upsetting the very principles of political economy. Do you know what that means? You will demoralize everybody you come in contact with. Even I, though my instincts are not mendicant, it is all I can do not to hold out my hand for something. I shall be doing it if I stay much longer,” he said.
Lucy looked at him with a dubious, half alarmed look. She never was quite sure whether he was in jest or earnest, and the possibility, even the most distant possibility, that he could mean— Even Lucy’s imagination, however, could not go so far as that. He could read her doubt in her face, and laughed out.
“I warn you to take care,” he said. “You will be the ruin of all your friends; but, Lucy, Lucy, this is a very wonderful business; it is like a fairy tale. You gave away six thousand pounds, and were permitted to do so at your age? and you mean to do it again—and again?”
“Oh, as often as ever I can,” Lucy said, fervently. “I can not bear to think how many people may be in want of it, and that I don’t know them, and don’t know how to find them out. This makes me very unhappy when I think of it. Perhaps you will help me to find them—”
“No, that I can not promise to do. I warn you I shall be holding out my own hand presently. On the contrary, I will keep people out of your knowledge. You will ruin all our principles,” he said.
“But when it is in the will,” cried Lucy. It is inconceivable how much lighter her heart felt since she had told him. There was a little flush on her cheeks, and her eye shone with a pleasant light. She could have gone on talking for hours now that the flood-gates were open. It was so easy to talk to Sir Tom. His very laugh was kind, he never found fault, or if he did, that was as pleasant as the rest; she had a kind of frank admiration of him, and trust in him, such as some girls feel for an elder brother. The unusual gleam of excitement in her face made the little quiet Lucy pretty and interesting, and Sir Thomas was flattered and piqued at once by the enthusiasm of affectionate faith which was in her eyes. It piqued him, and it pleased him—that he should have all this, and yet no more. He had got a great deal more in his life and looked for it, and the absence of it made him a little impatient.
“Well,” he, said, “you will go through the world like a good fairy, and I hope the good you will do will make up for the demoralization your want of principle will lead to. But before my principles are ruined, Lucy, good-bye. I must go. I have written my address there in your blotting-book, and if you want me, or if you want to ask me anything, be sure you do it. Thank you for taking me into your confidence. But now I must go away.”
Lucy got up to say good-bye, but her heart sunk. “Oh, must you go?” she said; “I am so sorry. While you were here the place was not quite so lonely. But I hope you will like the shooting very much,” she said with a sigh, and a sense of real self-sacrifice. Her eyes got moist in spite of herself; and Sir Thomas bent over her and kissed her forehead, or rather her hair, in spite of himself. He ought not to have done it, and he was half ashamed of having done it. “Good-bye, my little Lucy,” he cried. As for Lucy, she took this kiss “sedately” like the poet’s heroine. It seemed so natural, she liked him so much; she was glad he liked her a little, too.
Lucywas greatly comforted by the visit of Sir Thomas. It made her sad to see him go away, and the consciousness that he was no longer within reach raised for the moment another cloud upon her horizon; but on the whole it was an exhilaration to her to have spoken to him, to have shared her secret with him. She had, as she said, tried to communicate it to Lady Randolph in the early days of their companionship; but it had been so very far from Lady Randolph’s thoughts that Lucy’s timid hint had made no impression on her mind. Neither would Sir Thomas have been capable of understanding had she spoken less plainly than she did; but Lucy at last had spoken very plainly, and he had understood. He had not given her any valuable advice. In such circumstances there is very little advice practicable; but he had understood, which is such a great matter. She knew no better what to do, how to turn, and how to distribute the money, than she had done at the first; but yet she was easier in her mind. She had talked it over, and it had done her good. Henceforward she was not alone in her possession of this secret. A secret is a very heavy burden to be borne alone, and, though Lucy had been restrained by many considerations from asking Sir Thomas’ advice on the special question which now occupied her mind, she was still consoled. In case of any break-down hewould not blame her; he would give her his sympathy. In case of any difficulty she could write to him, or even summon him to her aid. He liked her, which was a pleasure to think of—liked her as she liked him—though he was so much older, and of so much more importance in the world. All this was of great comfort to Lucy. She began to hold up her head, and to feel herself less abandoned. It was true he had gone away, but that did not matter so much; he would come back if she wanted his help; and in the meanwhile time was going, floating on noiselessly and swiftly, and by and by the Farafield chapter would be over. Mrs. Ford, who had watched for Sir Tom’s departure very jealously, and who had bounced out of the parlor to see him go away, and detected a little redness about Lucy’s eyes, was reassured by hearing her hum little tunes to herself in the latter part of the day, and talk to Jock with great animation about his new tutor, and all that was going to happen.
“She didn’t mind after all,” Mrs. Ford said; “how should she, a man old enough to be her father!” And thus everybody was pleased.
In the afternoon Katie Russell came in, all tearful and penitent, to beg Lucy’s pardon, and declare that “it was all me.” The pardon was accorded with great willingness and satisfaction, and Katie stayed and chattered, and made a lasting peace. She offended Lucy’s taste no longer; or else Lucy awoke to the fact that her friend was never entirely to her taste, and that toleration is the most essential of all qualities to friendship. Katie remained to tea. She told Jock a quite new story, which he had never heard before, and could not parallel out of his books; and she beguiled Lucy back into the old world of careless youth. Lucy’s youth had never been so thoughtless or so merry as that of many of her comrades. Even Katie, though she had known so many of the drawbacks of life, had, on the other hand, got a great deal more pleasure out of it than the heiress had ever known. Sometimes the pleasures and the pains go together, and it is a question whether those are best off who hold the middle way between, and have not much of either. Katie was a more lively companion than Lucy, with her serious upbringing, her sense of responsibility, and those cares which had been put so prematurely upon her young head, could ever have been. The pink drawing-room for the first time became mirthful, and light voices and laughter disturbed the quiet. “Just listen,” Mrs. Ford said: “Sir Thomas, for all such a great man as you think him, has not made much impression there.” Her husband, who had a very high opinion of the influence of Sir Thomas, uttered a “humph” of protestation from where he sat in his easy-chair by the fire-place. The grate full of shavings was not so pleasant as the grate with a good fire in it was in winter; but it was Ford’s place at all seasons. He said nothing but humph! having nothing to add to bolster up his opinion. But it would have been as surprising to him as to his wife had they known that it was he who was in the right, and that even Lucy’s laugh, her easier mind, her more cheerful face, owed something to the cheerful presence of Sir Tom, even though he had gone away.
At tea they were joined by another and unexpected visitor, at the sight of whom Mrs. Ford threw up her hands. “Philip,” she cried, “I thought you were abroad. How glad I am to see you! Dear, dear, how little one knows! I was thinking this very afternoon, when I saw a picture of the snowy mountains—there, now, Philip’s about there.”
“I have come back,” said Philip; “I was abroad all last month, but a great many things seemed to call me home. There is a bit to be built on at Kent’s Lane. And there was Lucy. Oh, how do you do? Youarehere! I thought,” he said with frankness which Mrs. Ford thought excessive, “that I must come back if Lucy was here.”
“I shall be here for six months,” said Lucy, calmly, “I am very glad to see you, Cousin Philip, but it is a pity you should have come back for me.”
“I don’t regret it,” said the young man; he did not resemble any of the others whom Lucy knew. He was not like St. Clair, or yet Raymond Rushton, who, though the one was fat and the other awkward, had still a certain naturalness and ease, as if they belonged to the position in which they were. Philip was a great deal more carefully adapted to his position in every respect than they were. He had just the clothes which a man in the country in the month of August ought to wear, and he had been absent, spending the first part of his holiday “abroad,” as most men in August would like to be. He had all the cleanness and neatness and trimness which are characteristic of a well bred Englishman. He was not fine; there was no superfluous glitter about him—not a link too much to his watch-chain, not an unnecessary button. In the very best taste! the only thing against him was that his appearance was too complete. He had the air of being respectful of his clothes, and very conscious of them. And he was always on his good behavior, very careful to commit no solecism, to do exactly what it was right to do. He came in with his hat in his hand, and clung to it, thoughall the time it was apparent in his countenance that he would much rather have left it in the hall. It was in such matters that Philip Rainy betrayed himself, for in his heart he felt that it would also have been much more sensible had he hung up his hat, and not encumbered himself with the care of it. He sat down on the haircloth sofa, not approaching his chair to the table round which all the others were seated. He had been brought up upon bread and butter, and was very well accustomed to the homely tea-table; but he felt he owed it to himself to keep up a position of independence, inferring the superior dignity of a late dinner even in vacation time, and a soul above tea.
“Nothing to eat?” said Ford. “I think you’re wrong, Philip; here is toast, and there are some nice slices of cold beef; and there’s cake, but there’s no substance in cake. It is good enough for girls, who live upon nothing; but a man, except to finish off with, wants something more solid. Have a bit of cold beef—that’s what I’m taking myself.”
“Let him alone,” said Mrs. Ford; “he don’t want to spoil his dinner. I hope you haven’t come home on some wild-goose chase or other, Philip. I hope you have a better reason than just to see Lucy; but, anyhow, you’re welcome. Lucy has been home only a few days, and she’s not spoiled, nor much changed, though she might be. I can not say that I think she’s much changed.”
“Lucy is not one to change,” the young man said; and he looked at her with an affectionate smile; but somehow, in the very act of going to her, this look was arrested by the little saucy face of Katie Russell, a face which was brighter and more mischievous, but not half so strong in moral beauty as that of Lucy. She caught him, looking at him as the most timid of young girls may look at a stranger, when under the care of a most decorous roof and a matron’s ample wings. The young man actually swerved a little aside, and stopped dead short in what he was saying. It was as if some one had given him a blow.
“I forgot to introduce you to Miss Russell,” said Mrs. Ford, catching the look, but not understanding it. “A cousin of ours, Mr. Rainy, Miss Russell. No, you are right about Lucy; but she has a great many temptations. There are folks about her that have their own ends to serve. She is one that many a person envies; but I for one don’t envy Lucy. I tell her sometimes I wonder how many of her fine friends would stand by her— My Lady This, and Mrs. That—if she were to lose her money;that’swhat they’re after.And she’s too trusting; the thing for her would be to keep herself to herself.”
“Indeed,” cried Katie Russell, with sparkling eyes, “it is very cruel and unkind of you to say so. Lucy knows very wellwedon’t love her for her money. What do I care for her money? I was fond of Lucy before I knew what money meant, and so I would be fond of her,” cried the girl, with a flush of passion, “if it were all tossed into the sea—and all my people,” she added, after a moment, “as well as me.”
Lucy had followed this little outburst with pleasure in her mild eyes, but the last words gave her a shock, as of the real penetrating into the poetical. Her mind was not quick enough to jump at the subtle mixture of semi-truth and semi-falsehood in it, but she felt, though she could not define. There was the bitterest kind of humor in the suggestion, but Katie, perhaps, did not know, and certainly did not, at the moment, mean anything different from what she said.
“Susan,” said Ford, with a nod to Philip, “wasn’t meaning anybody in particular. There is no occasion, Miss Russell, to take offense. Mrs. Ford was meaning—other persons that shall be nameless,” Ford added, with a wave of his hand.
“They are all wrong, Philip,” said Lucy. “I wish so very much people would not speak so. It takes all the pleasure out of my life. Lady Randolph never talked about my money, never warned me against any one. Please don’t do it, Aunt Ford!”
“I know,” said Mrs. Ford, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. “I’ve seen it from the very first in your face, Lucy. I’m not a fine lady, like your Lady Randolph; I can’t put a smooth face on everything and let you go sailing over a precipice as if it were nothing to me. I am only one that speaks out plain what is in my mind, and one that has known you from your cradle, and have no ends of my own, but your interest at heart. But to be plain and true’s not enough for you any longer. I’ve known it all this time, I’ve seen it in your face; but I didn’t think you would put it into words, and before strangers, and me Lucilla Rainy’s cousin, and one that has known you from your cradle, and nursed your father on his death-bed; oh, I never thought you could have the heart to put it into words!”
“Have I said anything wrong?” said Lucy, in great distress. She was bewildered by the sudden attack, and horrified by the scene, “before strangers;” for Lucy had all the instincts of respectability, and to see Mrs. Ford’s tears filled her with pain and involuntary compunction; but she was not so emotional as to loseher sense of justice. “I did not mean to say anything wrong,” she repeated, anxiously. Mrs. Ford’s tears were a little slow in coming; she sniffed, and she held her handkerchief to her face, which was red with anger and excitement, but she did not possess, at any time, a great command over tears.
Then Philip took up the part of peace-maker.
“You said yourself, two minutes ago, that Lucy was not changed,” he said. “Because you think she should be on her guard, you don’t want her to be unhappy; and if she does not like her friends, how can she be happy, Mrs. Ford? So good a friend as you are must know that. To be sure,” said Philip, “we of the Rainy family can’t help being a little anxious and fussy about our heiress, can we? We think more of her than other people can, and care more for her.”
“That is the truth, that is the very truth,” cried Mrs. Ford. And thus the incident blew over in professions that Lucy’s interest and happiness were all she thought of, on one side, and, on the other, that she meant to say nothing which could hurt Mrs. Ford’s feelings.
Philip went upstairs with the girls after this, into the pink drawing-room, where he sat all the evening, forgetting his dinner. He had come to see Lucy, but it was Katie Russell who took the conversation in hand; and as he was a very staid young man, not used to the lighter graces of conversation, Katie’s chatter and the perpetual variations of her pretty face were a sort of revelation to Philip. He was entirely carried beyond himself and all his purposes by this new being. Lucy sat tranquilly in her corner and assisted, but did little more. She was amused to see her grave cousin laughed at and subdued, and the evening flew over them, as evenings rarely fly in more edifying intercourse. The talk and laughter were at their height, when Katie, going to the piano to sing “just one more song,” suddenly discovered that it was too dark to see her music, and stopped short with a cry of dismay. “Why, it is dark! and I never noticed— What will Mrs. Stone think? I came over only for half an hour, and I am staying all the night. Lucy, good-bye, I must go now.”
“But you have promised me this song,” Philip said; “there are candles to be had.”
“And you are not going to run away like that. Jock and I will go home with you,” said Lucy, “and, perhaps, Philip will come, too.”
Philip thanked his cousin with his eyes, and the song was sung; and then the little party got under way. It was a warm still night,with a little autumnal mist softening all the edges of the horizon, and mild stars shining through with a kind yet pensive softness. Philip Rainy had been admirable in all the relations of life. He had done his duty by his parents, by his scholars, and by himself; he had combined a prudent sense of his own interests with justice to everybody, and kindness to those who had a claim upon him; and the life which lay behind him was one which any well-regulated young man might have looked back upon with pleasure. But all at once it seemed to the young school-master that it was the dreariest of desert tracks, and that up to this moment he had never lived at all. He had never understood before what the balmy atmosphere of a summer night meant, or how it was that the stars got soft, and came to bear a personal relation to the eyes that looked at them. What did it mean? He had come to see Lucy, but he barely perceived Lucy. All the world and all his interests seemed suddenly concentrated into the little circle in which that one little figure was standing. He stood beside her, drawn to her by a soft inexplainable influence. He walked beside her as in a dream, everything was sweet—the night air that lifted her bright hair and tossed it about her forehead; the gorse-bush that clung to her dress and had to be disengaged, every prickle giving him another delicious prick as he pulled them away. Whether he was dreaming, or whether he had gone clean out of his senses, or whether this was a new life of which he had never been conscious before, Philip did not know. When they arrived at the White House, which they did not do by honest, straightforward means, along the plain road that led to it, but by a quite unnecessary roundabout—an excursion led by Jock through all the narrowest byways—a sudden stop seemed to be put to this chapter of existence. He had a hand put into his for one second, a succession of merry nods, and farewells waved by the same hand, and then he stood with Lucy, come to himself, outside a blank door, a dropped curtain, a sudden conclusion. Philip stood gazing; he did not seem to have any energy even to turn round. Had it been suggested to him to lie down there and spend the night he would have thought the suggestion most reasonable. Had he been alone he would, no doubt, have lingered, for some time at least. Even as it was, he never knew how long a time—a minute, or an hour, or perhaps only an infinitesimal moment, too small to be reckoned on any watch—elapsed before, slowly coming to himself with the giddiness of a fall, he saw that he was with Lucy, and that she was turning to go home. Jock was roaming on in advance, a little moving solid speck in the vague dark, and Lucy moved on, softly andlightly, indeed, but with no enchantment about her steps. And then what she said was all of the old world, the antiquated dried-up Sahara of existence from which Philip had escaped for the first time in his life.
“It looks a little like rain,” Lucy said; “it is a good thing we are not far from home.”
“Ah! but it does not so much matter now,” Philip said, with a sigh. “She would have spoiled her pretty dress.”
“Yes; muslins go at once,” said Lucy; “it is the starch. I didn’t think it would rain when we came out. But we must not grumble—we have had a beautiful summer. Does Farafield seem just the same to you, Philip, when you come home?”
“Farafield! I never saw anything so sweet—the air is softer than I ever felt it in my life; and the common smells—like Paradise,” cried the young man in the sudden bewilderment which had come upon him, which he did not understand.
“Do you think so?” said Lucy, in great surprise; especially the last point was doubtful; but she thought it was the warmth of local enthusiasm, and blamed herself for her want of patriotism. “I like it very well,” she added, with hesitation; “but—afterone has been away the first time, then one sees all the difference. I don’t suppose I should feel the same again.”
Then there was a pause. Philip did not feel inclined to talk; his mind was quite abstracted out of its ordinary channel. As they went back he felt within himself a dual consciousness—he was walking withher, helping her over the stones, disengaging her dress from the prickles; and at the same time he was walking demurely with Lucy, who required no such services. The sensible young schoolmaster, had the question been suddenly put to him, could not, at the moment, have distinguished, which was true.
But Lucy, curiously enough, was seized with an inclination to open her mind to her cousin. She had come back to her natural condition, through the help of Sir Tom and Katie, and she wanted to be friendly. She said, “I am so glad that you have come home, Philip. You know—so much more than Aunt Ford knows. Perhaps if you will tell her that everybody is not thinking of my money—that it is not half so important as she thinks—she will believe you.”
“Your money!” Philip said, with a gasp—suddenly the stars disappeared out of the sky; the summer evening became less balmy; there was a moment of rapid gyration, either of the whole round world itself or of his head, he could not tell which; and he felt himself strike sharply with his foot upon a stone in the path, and came to earth and to common life again, limping and rubbing his ankle. “Confound it!” he said, under his breath; but perhaps it was his good angel that put that stone in his way. He came wholly and entirely to himself under the stimulus of that salutary pain.
“I hope you have not hurt yourself,” said Lucy, with her usual calm.
“Oh, it is nothing,” said Philip, ashamed. “The fact is, I came home sooner than I intended, thinking—that, perhaps, you might want some advice. For instance,” he said, grasping at the first idea which occurred to him, a sort of staff of the practical in this chaos of the vague and unknown where he had suddenly found himself stumbling, “about Jock—he is in my way— I might help you about Jock.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, with animation, “thank you, Philip, that is all arranged. I have got the most delightful plan settled. Mrs. Stone’s nephew, a poor gentleman who is in bad health; just when he was about succeeding so finely at the bar—and it is a great thing to succeed at the bar, isn’t it?—his health gave way; and he is so good as to be willing to come and teach Jock. I think it is so very kind.”
“Kind!” said Philip at last, thoroughly woke up. He opened his eyes wide and shook himself instinctively. This was what Mrs. Ford meant, and no wonder if she made a scene. “This is a strange step to take, Lucy,” he said, seriously. “I don’t know what it means. I should think, as a relative, and your father’s successor, and—engaged in tuition” (nature had brought the word schoolmaster to his lips, but unless you belong to the higher branches of the profession, you do not like to call yourself a school-master), “that I had the first claim.”
Lucy was greatly distressed. She had never considered the question before in this light. “Oh, Philip! I am so sorry. So you should have had, if I had ever thought! I beg your pardon a thousand times. But then,” she added, recovering her composure, “you have a great many boys—it does not matter to you; and this poor gentleman—”