“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!”