“I wished her to be here,” she said.
“You always wish what is kind. I did not think it was you; but, Lucy, don’t you see—”
At this moment Sir John came up, placing himself so that the conversation was interrupted. As the mantel-piece was not near enough to be leant upon, he leaned upon one of the marble consoles behind which a big glass rose to the ceiling, reflecting his figure and the faces of the two in front of him.
“I have often noticed,” he said, “that when we have a mild rainy November, the cold is bitter in spring. Have you remarked that, Bertie? But, to be sure, you are not a country bird, you don’t know much about the weather; but you will learn, you will learn before you are my age.”
“It seems a simple enough conclusion, and I don’t mind accepting it as part of my creed,” said the Rector with a laugh, in which, however, there was some surprise mixed, for he did not understand what motive his uncle could have in placing himself there to make this very unimportant remark.
“They tell me the meet is to be here to-morrow,” said Sir John; “and some of the ladies are going to ride. I am very glad Lucy doesn’t hunt. You had better come up and make yourself useful, Bertie, now that there’s nobody in the house. I suppose you don’t ride now to speak of? Of course, there’s Durant; I don’t know what his fancy is. I never was a cross-country man myself. I was always fond of more serious pursuits. Your father now, my brother Tony, he was always fond of it—a sort of practical fellow. As for me, I always took a pleasure in more serious things.”
“You were born for Parliament, Sir,” said the Rector, half with veiled satire, half with a disposition to please his uncle, who had been kind enough, and from whom more kindness yet might come.
“Well, yes, perhaps you are right,” said Sir John; “that was more in my way; I always took an interest in public business. When I was a boy at Eton I used to read the debates as regularly as I do now—and I have never changed my principles or turned my coat, Bertie. That is something to say after thirty years of public life. I have never seen reason to modify my opinions as so many people do. One set of principles has been enough to guide me through life, and I cannot believe that any man wants more.”
“It is a very happy state of mind, Sir,” said the Rector, wondering more and more why his uncle had elected him to hear the characteristics of his wisdom. Lucy had cleverly stolen away to do her duty by the other guests, and only Lady Curtis was aware of her husband’s real meaning. She smiled within herself at his simple device to separate Lucy from a man who might put in the pretensions of a lover. But when Lucy, after stealing away from her cousin’s side, was to be seen a little while after at Durant’s, then it was Lady Curtis’s turn to look serious, and she herself moved from her own chair when she saw them talking, with a lively sense of the same need for interference which had moved her husband. When Lady Curtis joined them their conversation was simple enough, nothing to alarm any parent; but yet she remained there talking with something of her old brightness, until Lucy had left that end of the room, too, in turn, and had gone to carry consolation to old Mrs. Nuttenden in the corner, who was slightly deaf, and not amusing—with her efforts to amuse whom, nobody interfered.
Durant did not notice the gentle interference in the Rector’s case, but he felt it very distinctly in his own, and with a little pang said to himself, that he would give no occasion for this watchfulness, but would shorten his proposed stay as he had already intended to do. This was not because there was any failure of the kindness, even the affection with which he had been first received. Lady Curtis talked to him as she did to nobody else but Lucy, confided in him—called him Lewis, as she had done when he arrived, and discussed her son with him, with family freedom and trust, in a manner indeed which would have filled many young men with fond imaginations and made them feel themselves almost wooed. And Sir John was quite kind, though in a different way. He had always been slightly suspicious of Durant as one of those clever men who are never quite safe, and of whom you cannot be too sure what levelling and atheistical sentiments may accompany their intellectual gifts. One of my Lady’s sort of people, Sir John had always considered him, not a retainer of his own, but on the other side; yet because he was so associated with Arthur, Sir John’s heart had melted to him also. So that it was no failure of the most cordial welcome which made Durant feel it better to hasten away. He went to his room that night quite decided by the manner of the woman who called him by his Christian name, and looked at him with such motherly affection in her eyes. Was it Lady Curtis’s fault? He did not blame her. He said to himself, that had Lucy been his own sister, he would not have given her to a poor barrister without family, without connections, with burdens of his own upon his shoulders, and no honours to bestow. Why should he linger there? Now that Arthur was so far off from Oakley—now, above all, that Arthur was married, the most complete of severing influences, it was inevitable (he said) that his connection with Oakley must gradually drop off. They would not mean it—they would not wish it—yet it would come to pass; and why should he seek to prevent it? Was there not between them a great gulf fixed—that gulf which wealth might fill up, perhaps, which his old grandfather’s money might have thrown a golden bridge across, had it still existed; but which now gaped like the bottomless pit, and could never be crossed by any skill or effort of his. Should he stay only to impress this more and more upon himself? He made up his mind that very night.