“Ah! but it does not so much matter now,” Philip said, with a sigh. “She would have spoiled her pretty dress.”
“Yes; muslins go at once,” said Lucy; “it is the starch. I didn’t think it would rain when we came out. But we must not grumble—we have had a beautiful summer. Does Farafield seem just the same to you, Philip, when you come home?”
“Farafield! I never saw anything so sweet—the air is softer than I ever felt it in my life; and the common smells—like Paradise,” cried the young man in the sudden bewilderment which had come upon him, which he did not understand.
“Do you think so?” said Lucy, in great surprise; especially the last point was doubtful; but she thought it was the warmth of local enthusiasm, and blamed herself for her want of patriotism. “I like it very well,” she added, with hesitation; “but—after one has been away the first time, then one sees all the difference. I don’t suppose I should feel the same again.”
Then there was a pause. Philip did not feel inclined to talk; his mind was quite abstracted out of its ordinary channel. As they went back he felt within himself a dual consciousness—he was walking with her, helping her over the stones, disengaging her dress from the prickles; and at the same time he was walking demurely with Lucy, who required no such services. The sensible young schoolmaster, had the question been suddenly put to him, could not, at the moment, have distinguished, which was true.
But Lucy, curiously enough, was seized with an inclination to open her mind to her cousin. She had come back to her natural condition, through the help of Sir Tom and Katie, and she wanted to be friendly. She said, “I am so glad that you have come home, Philip. You know—so much more than Aunt Ford knows. Perhaps if you will tell her that everybody is not thinking of my money—that it is not half so important as she thinks—she will believe you.”
“Your money!” Philip said, with a gasp—suddenly the stars disappeared out of the sky; the summer evening became less balmy; there was a moment of rapid gyration, either of the whole round world itself or of his head, he could not tell which; and he felt himself strike sharply with his foot upon a stone in the path, and came to earth and to common life again, limping and rubbing his ankle. “Confound it!” he said, under his breath; but perhaps it was his good angel that put that stone in his way. He came wholly and entirely to himself under the stimulus of that salutary pain.
“I hope you have not hurt yourself,” said Lucy, with her usual calm.
“Oh, it is nothing,” said Philip, ashamed. “The fact is, I came home sooner than I intended, thinking—that, perhaps, you might want some advice. For instance,” he said, grasping at the first idea which occurred to him, a sort of staff of the practical in this chaos of the vague and unknown where he had suddenly found himself stumbling, “about Jock—he is in my way— I might help you about Jock.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, with animation, “thank you, Philip, that is all arranged. I have got the most delightful plan settled. Mrs. Stone’s nephew, a poor gentleman who is in bad health; just when he was about succeeding so finely at the bar—and it is a great thing to succeed at the bar, isn’t it?—his health gave way; and he is so good as to be willing to come and teach Jock. I think it is so very kind.”