PHILIP.
Philip Rainy was, as his relation had been obliged to avow, an excellent
young man; there was nothing to be found fault with in his moral
character, and everything to be applauded in his manners and habits. He
had acquired his education in the most laborious way, at the cheapest
possible rate, and he had used it, since he was in a condition to do so,
in the most admirable manner. He was intelligent and amiable as well as
prudent and ambitious, and though he meant to establish a reputation for
himself, and a position among those who were considered best in
Farafield, yet he never forgot his family, whom he had left behind; nor,
though he did not think it necessary to brag that he had begun the world
in the lowliest way, did he ever, when it was called for, shrink from an
avowal of his origin, humble as that was. Why old Mr. Trevor should
dislike him, it would be difficult to say, or rather, though it might be
easy enough to divine the causes, it would be almost impossible to offer
any justification of them. Old Trevor disliked the young man because--he
was so altogether unexceptionable a young man. Every inducement that
could have led an old man to patronize and encourage a young one existed
here, and yet these very reasons why he should like Philip made his old
relation dislike him. He was too good, and, alas, too successful. He had
doubled the school in Kent’s Lane, which the old gentleman, distracted
by other occupations, had brought down very low, indeed; and this was
something which it was rather hard to forgive, though it was worthy of
nothing but praise. And he was Lucy’s cousin, on the side of the house
from which the fortune came, and perfectly suitable to Lucy in point of
age, and in almost every way. How much trouble it would have avoided,
how much ease and security it would have given, if Philip had been
placed in Lucy’s way, and an attachment encouraged between them! It
would have been the most natural thing in the world; it would have
restored the fortune to the name, it would have enriched the family of
the original possessor, it would have saved all the trouble of the will
which old Trevor was elaborating with so much care. Therefore, it was
that old Trevor detested Philip Rainy, or, at least, was so near
detesting him that only Christian principle prevented that climax of
feeling. As it was, with a distinct effort because the sentiment was
wrong, the old man restrained his conscious dislike of the young one
within the bounds of what he considered permissible hostility. But all
he could do could not entirely control that fierce impulse of
repugnance. He could not keep his voice from altering, his expression
from changing, when Philip Rainy’s name was mentioned. Perhaps at the
bottom of all his anxiety about Lucy’s fortune, and his desire to shape
and control her actions, was an underlying dread that Lucy’s fate might
be lying quite near, and might be decided at any moment before ever his
precautions could come into effect.
Philip himself had no conception how far the dislike of his uncle--as he
called old Trevor, without being in the least aware that this of itself
was an offense--went. He did not even know that it was only to himself
that the old man was so systematically ill-tempered. It was seldom he
saw old Trevor in the society of other people, and he took it for
granted, with much composure, that the sharpness of his gibes and the
keenness of his criticisms were natural, and employed against the world
in general as well as against himself. Being a young man determined to
rise in the world, it was not to be supposed that he had not taken the
whole question of his family connections into earnest consideration, or
that he was entirely unmoved by the consciousness that within his reach,
and accessible to him in many ways not possible for other men, was one
of the greatest prizes imaginable, an heiress, whose soft little hand
could raise him at once above all the chance of good or evil fortune,
and confer upon him a position far beyond anything that was within his
possibilities in any other way. On this latter point, however, he was
not at all clear; for Philip was young, and had not learned to know
these inexorable limits which hem in possibility. He thought he could do
a great many things by his unaided powers which he would have easily
seen to be impossible for any one else. He believed in occasions arising
which would give scope to his talents, and show the world what manner of
man it was which the irony of fate confined to the humble occupation of
a school-master in a little country town; and he entertained no doubt
that when the occasion came he would show himself worthy of it.
Therefore, he was not sure that Lucy’s fortune could do much more for
him than he could do for himself; but he was too sensible to ignore the
difference it would make in his start, the great assistance it would be
in his career. It would give him an advantage of ten years, he said to
himself, in the musings of that self-confidence which was so determined
and arrogant, yet so simple; a difference of ten years--that stands for
a great deal in a man’s life. To attain that at thirty which in ordinary
circumstances you would only attain at forty, is an advantage which is
worthy many sacrifices; but yet, at the same time, if you are sure of
attaining at forty, or by good luck at thirty-nine, the good fortune on
which your mind is set, it is not perhaps worth your while to make a
very serious sacrifice of your self-esteem or pride merely for the sake
of saving these ten years. This was why Philip maintained with ease so
dignified and worthy a position in respect to his heiress-cousin. She
would make a difference of ten years--but that was all; and besides
being a young man determined to get on in the world, he was a young man
who gave himself credit for fine feelings, and independence of mind, and
generosity of sentiment. He could not, at this early stage of his
existence, have come to a mercenary decision, and made up his mind to
marry for money. He did not see any necessity for it; he felt quite able
to encounter fate in his own person; therefore, though he did not refuse
to acknowledge that it would be a very good thing to marry an heiress,
and very pleasant if the woman with whom he fell in love should belong
to that class, he had not proposed to himself the idea either of trying
to fall in love with Lucy or attempting to secure her affections to
himself. The idea of her hovered before his mind as a possibility--but
there were many other possibilities hovering before Philip, and some
more enticing, more attractive, than any heiress. Therefore he did not
spoil his own prospects by perpetual visits, or by paying her anything
that could be called “attention” in the phraseology of the drawing-room.
His relations with her were no more than cousinly; he was very “nice;”
but then he was even more “nice” to little Jock, who was not his
relation at all, than to Lucy. It was part of his admirable character
that he was fond of children, and always good to them, so that no
suspicion could possibly attach to the very moderate amount of
intercourse which was conducted on so reasonable a footing. But the more
it was reasonable, the more it was cousinly, the more did old Trevor
dislike his child’s relation; he had not the slightest ground for
fault-finding, therefore his secret wrath was nursed in secret, and grew
and increased. It was all he could do to receive Philip with civility
when he came. He came in after dinner in a costume carefully adapted to
please, or at least to disarm all objections, a compromise between
morning and evening dress; he made judicious inquiries after the old
man’s health, not too much, as if there was anything special in his
solicitude, but as much as mingled politeness and family affection
required.
“I hope you are standing the cold pretty well, sir,” he said; “spring is
always so trying. I can bear the winter better myself; at all events,
one does not expect anything better in December, and one makes up one’s
mind to it.”
“At your age,” said old Trevor, “it was all the same to me, December or
July; I liked the one as much as the other. But I think we might find
something better to talk of than the weather; every idiot does that.”
“That is true,” said the young man, “it is always the first topic among
English people. With our uncertain climate--”
“I never was out, of England, for my part,” the old man interrupted him
sharply. “English climate is the only climate I know anything about. I
don’t pretend to be superior to it, like you folks that talk of Italy
and so forth. What have I got to do with Italy? It may be warmer, but
warm weather never agreed with me.”
“I have never been out of England, either,” said the young man, with
that persistence in the soft word that turns away wrath, which is of all
things in the world the most provoking to irritable people; and then he
changed the subject gently, but not to his own advantage. “I thought you
would like to hear, uncle, how well everything is going on in Kent’s
Lane. I am thinking of an assistant, the boys are getting beyond my
management; indeed, if things go on as they are doing, I shall soon have
enough to do managing, without teaching at all. I have heard of a very
nice fellow, a University man. Don’t you think that, on the whole, would
be an advantage? people think so much more nowadays--for the mere
teaching, you know, only for the teaching--of a man with a degree.”
“A man with a fiddlestick!” said old Trevor. “The question is, are you
going into competition with Eton and Harrow, Mr. Philip Rainy, or are
you the master of a commercial academy, that’s the question. The man
that founded that establishment hadn’t got a degree, no, nor would have
accepted one if they had gone on their knees to him. He knew his place,
and the sort of thing that was expected from him. Oh, surely, get your
man with a degree! or go and buy a degree for yourself (it’s a matter of
fees more than anything else, I have always heard), and starve when you
have got it. But I’d like you to hand over Kent’s Lane first to
somebody that will carry it on as it used to be.”
“I beg your pardon with all my heart, uncle,” cried the young man. “I
have not the least intention of abandoning Kent’s Lane. It’s my
sheet-anchor, all I have in the world; and I would not alter the
character you stamped upon it for any inducement. The only thing is,
that so much more attention is paid to the classics nowadays--”
“Curse nowadays, sir!” cried old Trevor, his countenance glowing with
anger. Then he pulled himself up, and recollected that such language was
far from becoming to his age and dignity, not to speak of his Christian
principles. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he added, in a subdued tone;
“I don’t want to curse anything. Still I don’t know what the times are
coming to with all these absurd novelties. The classics” (he had been
boasting of his Latin an hour before) “for a set of shop-keepers’ sons
that want to know how to add up their fathers’ books! It’s folly and
nonsense, that’s what it is. Even if you could do it, what’s the
advantage of snipping all classes out on the same pattern? It’s a great
deal better to have a little difference. Women, too--you’d clip them all
out like images in paper, the same shape as men. It’s a pity,” he added,
grimly, “that your classics and your degrees don’t do more for those
that have got them. Many an M. A. I’ve seen in my time tacked to the
names of the biggest fools I’ve ever known.”
“Still it is not necessary to be a big fool, sir, because you are an M.
A.,” said Philip, always mildly, but with a sigh. “It is a great
advantage to a man; I wish I had it. I know what you will say, better
men than I have not had it; but just because I am not a better man--”
For the first time old Trevor broke into his habitual chuckle.
“Give him some tea, Lucy,” he said. “I suppose you’re one of the
fashionable kind, and have your dinner when I used to have my supper.
That’s not the way to thrive, my lad.”
“What does it matter whether you call it dinner or supper, sir?” said
Philip; “and, pardon me, don’t you do the same?”
“It makes a deal of difference,” said the old man. “Parents like to hear
that you have your tea at six o’clock, and your supper at nine, like
themselves. They don’t like you to give yourself airs, as if you were
better than they are. You’re a clever fellow, Philip Rainy, and you
think you are getting on like a house on fire. But you’re a fool all the
same.”
“Papa, I wish you would not be so uncivil,” said Lucy, who had yet taken
no part in their talk.
“I tell you he’s a fool all the same. I kept Kent’s Lane a-going for
thirty years, and I ought to know. I’ve taught the best men in the town.
Oxford fellows, and Cambridge fellows, and all sorts, have come to me
for their mathematics, though I never had a degree; and I eat my dinner
at two, and my tea at six as regular as clock-work all the time. That’s
the way to do, if you mean to keep it up all your life, and lay by a
little money, and leave the place to your son after you. If Jock had
been older that’s what I should have made him do; that is the way to
succeed in Kent’s Lane.”
There was a little pause after this, for Philip was a little angry too,
and had not command for the moment of that soft word of which he made so
determined a use; and at the same time he was resolved not to quarrel
with Lucy’s father. He said, after a while, in as easy a tone as he
could assume:
“I wish you would let me have Jock. He is old enough for school now, and
whatever you want to do with him I could always begin his education; of
course, you will give him every advantage--”
“I will give him as good as I had myself, Philip, and as you had. Do you
think I am going to take Lucy’s money for that child? Not a penny! He
shall be bred up according to his own rank in life; and by the time he’s
a man, you’ll have grown too grand for the old place, and you can hand
it over to him.”
Philip opened his eyes in spite of himself.
“Then Lucy will be a great lady,” he said, half laughing, “and her
brother a little school-master in Kent’s Lane.”
Lucy, who was standing behind her father at the moment, began to make
the most energetic signs of dissent. She made her mouth into a puckered
circle of inarticulate “No-os,” and shook her head with vehement
contradiction. Just below, and all unconscious of this pantomime, the
old man grinned upon his visitor, delighted with the opportunity at once
of declaring his intentions, and of inflicting a salutary snub.
“That is exactly what I intend,” he said, “you have hit it. Even if it
hadn’t been just, it would have been a fine thing to do as an example;
but it is _just_ as well. Is a fine lady any better than a poor
school-master? Not a bit! Each one in the rank of life that is
appointed, and one as good as another; that’s always been my principle.
I wouldn’t have stepped out of my rank of life, or the habits of my rank
of life, not if you had given me thousands for it; not, I promise you,”
cried old Trevor, with a snarl, “for the sake of being asked to dinner
here and there, as some folks are; but being in my own rank of life I
thought myself as good as the king; and that’s why Lucy shall be a great
lady, and her brother a little school-master, whether or not he’s in
Kent’s Lane.”
“But he shall not be so, papa, if I can help it,” Lucy said.
“You won’t be able to help it, my pet,” said her father, relapsing Into
a chuckle, “not you, nor any one else; that’s one thing of which I can
make sure.”
The two young people looked at each other over his old head. They made
no telegraphic signs this time. Philip was for the moment overawed by
the old man’s determination, while Lucy, the most dutiful of daughters,
was mute, in a womanly confidence of somehow or other finding a way to
balk him. She had not in the least realized how life was to be bound and
limited by the imperious will of the father who grudged her nothing. But
Lucy accepted it all quite tranquilly, whatever it might be--except
this. When she went with her cousin to the door, she confided to him the
one exception to her purposes of obedience.
“Papa does not think what he is saying; I never believe him when he
talks like that. I to be rich and Jock poor! He only says it for fun,
Philip, don’t you think?”
“It does not look much like fun,” Philip said, with a rueful shake of
his head.
“Well! but old people--old people are very strange; they think a thing
is a joke that does not seem to us at all like a joke. I will do all
that papa wishes, but not about Jock.”
“And I hope you won’t let him persuade you to think,” said Philip,
lingering with her hand in his to say good-night, “that I am neglecting
my work, or giving myself airs, or--”
“Oh, that is only his fun,” said Lucy, nodding her head to him with a
pleasant smile as he went out into the night.
She was not pretty, he thought, as he walked away, but her face was very
soft and round and pleasant; her blue eyes very steady and peaceful,
with a calmness in them, which, in its way, represented power. Philip,
who was, though so steady, somewhat excitable, and apt to be fretted and
worried, felt that the repose in her was consolatory and soothing. She
would be good to come home to after a man had been baited and bullied in
the world. He had thought her an insignificant little girl, but to-night
he was not so sure that she was insignificant, and Philip did not know
anything, at all about the will and its iron rod.