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.