A NEW ADVISER.
Lucy was 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 he would 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? You _are_ here! 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, though all 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’s_ what 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 well _we_ don’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 lose her 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
and lightly, 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--_after_ one 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 with _her_,
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--”
“Poor gentlemen ought not to come to you,” said Philip, with
indignation. “A barrister, a man in bad health--what has he to do with a
small boy? Jock ought to have come to me. I proposed it before you went
to London; it is the best thing for him. I think that your father meant
him to be my successor in Kent’s Lane.”
“Oh, no, no! never that,” said Lucy.
“Is it so much beneath Jock?” Philip said, with a touch of natural
bitterness. “But anyhow, it is I that ought to have the charge of him. I
do not want to be unkind, Lucy; but I think I begin to see what Mrs.
Ford means about your family.”
“Philip!” cried Lucy, indignant; and then she added, almost crying, “You
are all so unjust; and if you say so, too, what am I to do?”
“I will not say anything; but it is what I can not help thinking,” said
Philip, with the stateliness of offense. It seemed to him, he could
scarcely tell how, that he was being defrauded, not of Jock, who was a
trifle, but of all share or interest in Lucy’s future. He had come back
on purpose to look after her, to keep her out of trouble. While he had
been away it had been more and more clear to him that to share Lucy’s
fortune was in a manner his right. It would save him at least ten years,
it would secure his position at once, and he had a right. He had come to
the Terrace that evening full of this idea; and he had played the
fool--he could not but allow that he had played the fool. What were
poetry and the stars and the mild influences of the Pleiades to him? He
was a Rainy, and there was no one who had so much right to share the
great Rainy fortune. The energy of opposition awoke him, which nothing
else, perhaps, could have done. “You will forgive me,” he said, “but you
are only a young girl, and you can not be expected to understand. And it
is quite true what Aunt Ford said, there are always a herd of harpies
after a young girl with a large fortune. You should take the advice of
those who belong to you. You should first consult your true friends.”
Lucy was confounded; she did not know how to reply. Was not Sir Thomas
her true friend? He had not been angry with her when she told him about
that famous scheme for giving the money back. Some floating idea that
Philip would have been able to help her in that respect, that he might
have suggested what, for instance, she should give to St. Clair, had
been in her mind. But Lucy promptly shut up her impulse of confession.
She withdrew a little from his side. He was not ignorant like the
Fords--he was a kind of natural adviser. “But what is the use of
speaking to any one who does not understand?” Lucy said. So they
traversed the rest of the way in silence, Philip occasionally making a
severe remark in the same vein, yet feeling, as he did so, that every
word he said was a sacrifice of his vantage-ground. He wanted to change
his tactics when he saw the evident mistake of strategy he had made. But
such matters are not within our own control; when a false key is struck
it is not easy to get free of it. Philip was ready to curse himself for
his folly; but at the same time his folly and his wrong key-note and the
misadventure of the evening altogether gave him a sense of almost
aversion to his cousin. “What a contrast!” he said to himself. Thus
Lucy, whose simplicity was captivating to such a man of the world as Sir
Tom, made the Farafield schoolmaster indignant and impatient beyond
measure. Sir Thomas would have been in no sort of danger from little
Katie. Thus the world goes on, without any regard to the suitable or
possible. They said “good-night” very coolly to each other, and Lucy ran
upstairs vexed and troubled--for to be disapproved of wounded her. As
for Mrs. Ford, she came out of the parlor, where she now seemed to lie
in wait for occurrences, when she heard them come to the door. “Come
soon again, Philip,” she whispered, “there’s a good lad. I think the
whole town is after her. You are the one that ought to get it all. You
will be kindly welcome if you come every day.”
“I have not a notion what it is you want me to get,” said Philip,
crossly, as he strode away.