“No, that I can not promise to do. I warn you I shall be holding out my own hand presently. On the contrary, I will keep people out of your knowledge. You will ruin all our principles,” he said.
“But when it is in the will,” cried Lucy. It is inconceivable how much lighter her heart felt since she had told him. There was a little flush on her cheeks, and her eye shone with a pleasant light. She could have gone on talking for hours now that the flood-gates were open. It was so easy to talk to Sir Tom. His very laugh was kind, he never found fault, or if he did, that was as pleasant as the rest; she had a kind of frank admiration of him, and trust in him, such as some girls feel for an elder brother. The unusual gleam of excitement in her face made the little quiet Lucy pretty and interesting, and Sir Thomas was flattered and piqued at once by the enthusiasm of affectionate faith which was in her eyes. It piqued him, and it pleased him—that he should have all this, and yet no more. He had got a great deal more in his life and looked for it, and the absence of it made him a little impatient.
“Well,” he, said, “you will go through the world like a good fairy, and I hope the good you will do will make up for the demoralization your want of principle will lead to. But before my principles are ruined, Lucy, good-bye. I must go. I have written my address there in your blotting-book, and if you want me, or if you want to ask me anything, be sure you do it. Thank you for taking me into your confidence. But now I must go away.”
Lucy got up to say good-bye, but her heart sunk. “Oh, must you go?” she said; “I am so sorry. While you were here the place was not quite so lonely. But I hope you will like the shooting very much,” she said with a sigh, and a sense of real self-sacrifice. Her eyes got moist in spite of herself; and Sir Thomas bent over her and kissed her forehead, or rather her hair, in spite of himself. He ought not to have done it, and he was half ashamed of having done it. “Good-bye, my little Lucy,” he cried. As for Lucy, she took this kiss “sedately” like the poet’s heroine. It seemed so natural, she liked him so much; she was glad he liked her a little, too.
CHAPTER XXXII.
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.”