POPULARITY.
Lucy found the picnic very amusing. She had never known any of the
delights of society; and the gay party in the Abbey ruins, and the
ride--though Emmie did not know in the least how to sit her pony, and
Raymond rode a tall and gaunt animal of extremely doubtful race, which
might have drawn a fly, or a hearse, for anything his appearance said to
the contrary--was pleasant all the same. The party was not very large,
but it included the best people in Farafield; and among others the
rector and his family, who were all very gracious to Lucy. “You must not
forget that I am partially your guardian,” the rector said. “If you
flirt I have a right to pull you up. If you distinguish one young fellow
more than another I shall probably ask what are your intentions? So
beware,” he cried, laughing and holding up a finger of warning. And all
the rectory girls were as friendly as if they had possessed a brother,
which unfortunately was not the case. “If there had been a boy among us,
of course he should have tried for the prize,” they all said with
cheerful frankness, which Mrs. Rushton did not relish.
Lucy, however, had a guardian who was more alarming than the rector. Out
of civility to her, Philip had been asked, and Philip conducted himself
in a way which called forth the dire displeasure of all who had any
intentions upon Lucy’s peace. He was always appearing wherever she went,
stalking continually across the scene, like a villain in a theater,
appearing suddenly when least expected. “What was the fellow afraid of?”
the rector said; “he had no chance; he was not even in the running.” But
he was Lucy’s cousin, and in this capacity he was privileged to push
forward, to make his way through a group, to call to her familiarly to
“come and see” something, or even to persuade her that the thing she was
invited to do on the other hand was impossible. “You can’t go there,
Lucy, the mud would be up to your knees; come this way and I’ll show you
all you want;” or, “You never will be able for that climb, I will show
you an easier way.” Thus Philip, who had been so irreproachable and
popular, made himself disagreeable in society for the first time.
Perhaps the chief cause of it was that Katie was there. He had taken
himself sharply to task after that, one evening of enchantment, which
was so new and so unusual that he had given way to it without an effort.
The more delicious it was, the more Philip had taken himself to task. He
tried to analyze it, and make out how it was that he had been so deeply
affected. A reasonable man, he said to himself, must be able to give an
account of all the mental processes he passed through; but here was a
mental process which was inexplicable. Every interest, every argument,
pointed to Lucy as the object of his thoughts. And now that he saw Lucy
among other people, and observed the court that was paid to her, it
became intolerable to Philip to think of a stranger who had had nothing
to do with the family, carrying her off and her fortune, which belonged
to the Rainys. He could not think of such a thing with composure. For
himself he liked Lucy well enough, and probably the most suitable
arrangement in the circumstances for both of them would have been the
_mariage de convénance_, which is not allowed as a natural expedient in
England, in name at least. But when he remembered the evening at the
Terrace, when he had been so foolish, Philip could not understand
himself. On various occasions he had attempted to analyze it--what, was
it? Lucy had blue eyes as well as Katie Russell, she was about the same
height. To be sure her hair did not curl, and during the course of his
analysis he recollected with dangerous distinctness the blowing out of
the curls in the soft evening breeze. But who could analyze a curl, or
understand how such an insignificant detail could give softness to the
air, and melody to the wind, and make the very stars in heaven look
their best? One of the rector’s daughters had a great many curls, far
more complete articles than the curls of Katie, but they did not produce
the same effect.
After this unsuccessful attempt at analysis, Philip kept himself away
from Katie, and kept watch upon his cousin. He was determined to
appropriate the one, and if he could help, not so much as to see the
other. It was the easiest way. But these two objects together made the
picnic a very harassing and painful pleasure to the young school-master.
When Raymond Rushton was pushed by his mother’s exertions to Lucy’s
side, Philip did not fail to do his best to hustle him politely away. He
was constantly at hand with an appeal to Lucy. At least he was
determined that everybody should see he had a claim upon her, and a
prior claim to all the rest of the world. But still he could not but
remain conscious of the presence of the other girl. In all the guarded
and careful intercourse which he had previously had with society in
Farafield, as a man on his promotion, and anxiously attentive to rules,
Philip had never asserted himself, never put himself into undue
prominence, never presumed upon the kindness of the friends who were at
the same time his patrons, before. But it could not be denied that he
made himself disagreeable about Lucy that afternoon; her name was
continually on his lips. He would let her have no rest. He stepped in
front of everybody, broke up all the groups of which she formed a part,
and followed her with vigilant watch everywhere. Had his relationship to
the heiress turned his head, or was it possible that he thought himself
worthy of all that fortune, that he thought she would choose him for the
partner of her splendor, the company asked each other? “I am sure it is
a thing to which Mr. Rushton for one would _never_ give his consent,”
said the giver of the feast. The rector was not quite so certain. “After
all it would be no _mésalliance_, for they are exactly in the same
position,” he said; but then it was well known the rector looked upon
his association with Lucy’s other guardians as more a joke than a
serious duty. Talks were going on about her in almost every group,
everybody was interested in the great heiress; people wished to be
introduced to her, as if the poor little girl had been a notability, and
so to be sure she was.
The riding party went off rather earlier than the others, and before the
whole party was got under way a considerable time elapsed. Philip had
insisted upon putting his cousin into her saddle himself; he was not
clever at so unusual an office, and he could not help feeling, when she
was gone, that he had not done himself any good by his assiduities. He
was as sensitive as a thermometer to the fluctuation of public opinion,
and he perceived at once that he had done himself harm. The company in
general were not unwilling to let him see that nobody particularly
wanted him, and that though they were kind and invited him, they did not
expect any very great advantage from his presence. Thus Philip spent the
interval in wandering about in a somewhat vague manner, not sought by
any one. He could never tell how it was that, at last he found himself
in one of the carriages by Katie Russell’s side. He had not done it, nor
had she done it, for Katie was greatly piqued by the persistent way in
which he had avoided her, and her pride was up in arms; but when he
turned his head and saw, in the gathering dusk, the little twist of the
curl which he had been so utterly unable to analyze, a sudden change of
sentiment, still farther beyond the reach of analysis, came over Philip.
How was it? nothing more illogical, more unreasonable, ever happened to
a philosophical school-master. Instead of the uncomfortable state of
effort in which he had spent the day, the young man’s soul glided back
in a moment into that curious lull of enchantment which had come over
him at the Terrace. Once more the very air grew balmy and caressing, the
earth smelled sweet, the night wind blew in his face like a caress, and
all the individual sounds about ran into one hum of happiness, and
satisfaction, and peace. No cause for it! only the fact, that it was
_that_ girl, and not another who sat, next him in the break, among all
the chattering and the laughter. Was there ever any cause so inadequate?
but this was how it was. The carriage stopped opposite the Terrace to
put down Katie. She had only a little way to walk from that point to the
White House, which shone faintly through the darkness with a few lights
in the windows. Philip did not quite know how, but somehow he had made
his peace with Katie, and he it was who jumped down to help her out, and
constituted himself her escort. They walked again side by side down the
same enchanted road.
“There is no mist to-night, and not so many stars,” he said; and Katie
answered, “No, not half so many stars,” showing, as he said to himself
afterward, that she remembered too. She was more serious now than after
that first evening at the Terrace, walking along very demurely by his
side, and owning that she was tired. “But we have had a very pleasant
day; don’t you think so, Mr. Rainy?” Katie asked; to which Philip
answered, “Ye-es,” with a little doubt.
“The drive back has been delightful,” he said, “the air is so soft. I
don’t know that I enjoyed so much the first part. It irritates me,
perhaps foolishly, to see the fuss all those people make about Lucy. It
was really too much for me to-day; I felt bound to put a stop to it as
far as I could. Lucy is a very nice girl, but to see them, you would
think there was nobody like her. It makes me angry. I dare say it is
very foolish, for Lucy is sensible enough to know that it is not herself
but her money that so much court is paid to. But the drive home was
worth all the rest put together,” Philip said, with fervor. This made
Katie’s head droop a little with shyness and pleasure.
“It was very nice,” she said, in more guarded tones, and with a little
sigh of content. “But, Mr. Rainy, you must not vex yourself about Lucy.
That is what she has to go through, just as I must go through my
governessing. She is sure to have everybody after her wherever she goes,
but she is so sensible it never makes any difference; she is not spoiled
a bit.”
“Do you think so? do you really think so? that will make my mind much
more easy about her,” said Philip. As if Katie was a judge! This was the
reflection she herself made: and Katie could scarcely help laughing,
under the shadow of night, at the sudden, importance of her own
judgment. But, after all, however young one may be, one feels that there
is a certain reasonableness in any reliance upon one’s opinion, and she
answered with a gravity that was not quite fictitious, that she was sure
of it, and did all she could to comfort Philip, who, on his part,
exaggerated his anxiety, and carefully refrained from all allusion to
that secret unwillingness to let the great Rainy fortune go to any one
else, which had moved him powerfully during the day. They took leave at
the door of the White House, as they had done before, but not till after
a pause and a lingering talk, always renewed upon some fresh subject by
Philip just as she held out her hand to say good-night. He had held that
hand quite two minutes in his, on the strength of some new and
interesting subject which suddenly occurred to him at the last moment,
when Katie, seized with a little panic, suddenly withdrew it and darted
away. “Good-night,” she said, from the door-step, nodding her head and
waving her hand as before, and once more Philip felt as if a curtain had
dropped, shutting out heaven and earth, when the door opened and shut,
and a gleam of light shone out, then disappeared. Analyze it! he could
not analyze it. He had never been so happy before, nor so sad, nor so
fortunate, nor so desolate; but how he could be so ridiculous as to be
moved in this way, Philip could not tell. He went back along the dark
road, going over every word she had said, and every look she had looked.
Lucy’s window shone all the way before him, the light in it glimmering
out from the dark front of the Terrace. It seemed to Philip that he
could not get rid of Lucy. He felt impatient of her, and of her window,
which seemed to call him, shining as with a signal-light. Its
importunity was such, that he decided at last to cross the road and call
at the door, and ask if she had got home in safety. It was an
unnecessary question, but he was excited and restless, half hating Lucy,
yet unable to overcome the still greater hatred he had, and terror, of
seeing her fall into some one else’s hands. When his voice was heard at
the door, Mrs. Ford rushed out of her parlor with great eagerness.
“Come in, Philip, come in,” she cried; “I heard the carriage stop, but
what have you been doing all this time? I just hoped it might be you;”
then she came close up to him and whispered, “Lucy came in in such good
spirits. She said you had been there; she said you had been very
attentive. If you would like to have a horse to ride to go with them, to
cut out that Raymond Rushton, don’t you hesitate, Philip; tell them to
send the bill to me.”
“Is that Philip?” Lucy asked from the stairs, almost before the whisper
was over. He was half flattered, half angry at the cordiality of his
reception. He walked upstairs to the drawing-room, feeling himself drawn
by a compulsion which annoyed him, yet pleased him. The room was very
bright with gaslight, the windows shut, as Mrs. Ford thought it right
they should always be at such a late hour. Lucy had been superintending
Jock, who was audible in his little room behind humming himself to
sleep. “I thought it was your voice, Philip,” she said. “Did you like
it? Thank you for being so kind to me, but I thought sometimes you did
not like it yourself.”
“I liked it well enough, but what I did not like was to see what a
position you have been put into, Lucy,” said her cousin; “that was why I
took so much trouble. It makes one think worse of human nature.”
“Because they are kind to me?” said Lucy, with surprise.
“Because they are--absurd,” said Philip. “You must see very well they
can not mean all that. I should think a sensible girl would be
disgusted. I wanted to show you what nonsense it all was, as if their
whole happiness depended on showing you that water-fall, or the abbey
tower or something. That was why I interfered.”
“I thought,” said Lucy, “it was out of kindness; and that everybody was
kind as well as you.”
“Kindness--that is all nonsense;” Philip felt, as he spoke, that of all
the mistakes of the day none was so great as his attempt to make Lucy
uncomfortable, and to throw suspicion upon all the attention she had
received, including his own; but he could not help himself. “You will
find out sooner or later what their motives are, and then you will
remember what I have said.”
Lucy looked at him very wistfully. “You ought to help me, Philip,” she
said, “instead of making it harder.”
“How do I make it harder? I only tell you that all that absurd adulation
must conceal some purpose or other. But I am always very willing to help
you, Lucy,” he said, softening; “that is what I tried to do to-day.”
When he had administered this lecture, Philip withdrew, bidding her
good-night, without saying anything about the other good-night which had
preceded this. “You may always rely upon me,” he said, as he went away.
“Thank you,” said Lucy, a little ruefully. He was her relation, and her
natural counselor; but how unlike, how very unlike to Sir Tom! She
sighed, discouraged in her enjoyment of this moment, feeling that Philip
was the best person to whom she could venture to confide any of those
Quixotic projects which her father’s will had made lawful and necessary.
He was the very best person who could tell her how much was necessary to
give ease of mind and leisure to a sick young barrister. Philip was the
only individual within her reach who could possibly have satisfied her,
or helped her on this point. She sighed as she assisted at the putting
out the gas. There was nobody but Sir Tom.
Philip did not feel much more comfortable as he went away; he felt that
he had done nothing but scold Lucy, and indeed his inclination was to
find fault with her, to punish her if he could for the contradiction of
circumstances. That she should be capable of taking away all that
fortune and bestowing it upon some one who was a stranger, who had
nothing to do with the Rainys and who would probably condescend to, if
he did not despise, the head of that family, Philip himself, was
intolerable to him. He felt that he ought to interfere, he ought to
prevent it, he ought to secure this wealth to himself. But then
something gave him a tug exactly in the opposite direction. If it had
but been Katie Russell who was the heiress! She was nobody; it would be
madness for him, a young man on his promotion, to marry thus as it were
in his own trade, and condemn himself to be nothing but a school-master
forever. Indeed it would be folly to marry at all--unless he married
Lucy. A young man who is not married has still metaphorically all the
world before him. He is very useful for a dinner-party, to fill up a
corner. In most cases he is more or less handy to have about the house,
to make himself of use. But a man who is married has come out from among
the peradventures, and has his place fixed in society, whatever it may
be. He has come to what promotion is possible, so far as society is
concerned--unless indeed he has the power to advance himself without the
aid of society. Katie Russell was a simple impossibility, Philip said to
himself angrily, and Lucy--she was also an impossibility. There seemed
nothing to be done all round but to rail against fate. When he had
settled this with a great deal of heat and irritation, he suddenly
dropped all at once into the serenest waters, into an absolute lull of
all vexation, into that state of semi-trance in which, though walking
along Farafield Streets, toward Kent’s Lane, he was at the same time
wandering on the edge of the common, with a soft rustle beside him of a
muslin dress, and everything soft, from the stars in the sky, and the
night air blowing in his face, to his own heart, which was very soft
indeed, melting with the tenderest emotion. It could not do any one any
harm to let himself go for this night only upon such a soft delightful
current. And thus after all the agitations of the day, he ended it with
his head in the clouds.