“I am very well,” he said, “quite well, thank you; there is nothing the matter with me. If people say to the contrary, they’re lying, or at best they’re fools meddling in other folks’ affairs. It’s nothing to any one if I’m ill or well.”
“You must pardon me, uncle,” said Philip, “but it is something to me.”
The familiar grin came upon the old man’s face; but it was not accompanied with a chuckle of not unkindly mirth, as it had been in the case of Mrs. Stone’s nephew, in whose favor there was no such potent, argument.
“I don’t know what it should be to you,” he said, “Mr. Philip Rainy: if you had been waiting for my shoes I could have understood; but you’ve got ’em, you’ve got ’em, more fool I; and if you think there is anything more coming to you when I die, you’re mistaken, that’s all I’ve got to say. My will’s made—and there’s no legacies in it, not one. My money goes to them that have a right to it. There’s no fancy items to satisfy those that have gone out of their way, or thought they’d gone out of their way, to flatter an old man. So that it’s no good, no possible good, to take that friendly interest in me.”
Lucy, who was sitting by when this was said, started and got up from her knitting, and went once more behind her father, where she stood looking pitifully at Philip, clasping her hands together, and imploring him with her eyes not to be angry. That would have been inducement enough to bear with the old man’s brutal incivility, if there had been nothing more. He gave her a slight, almost imperceptible nod, reassuring her, and answered with a calmness which did him infinite credit, and indeed cost him a great effort.
“I am sorry you think so badly of me,” he said, “but I will not defend myself, I am waiting for no old shoes, heaven knows. I should like to be of use to my relations—to you or to Lucy. But if you will not let me, I must put up with it. And I will not stay longer now, since you have so poor an opinion of me. Good-night, I am going away; but I shall not cease to think about you, though I do not see you. You have been very kind to me, substantially kind,” said Philip, rising slowly with a lingering look at the father and daughter, “I owe all that I am, and something of what I may be, to you, and I want no more, Mr. Trevor, no legacies, nothing but a way of showing my gratitude. If I am not to be allowed to do this, why, I must submit. Good-night.”
There was a quaver of real feeling in the young man’s voice. It was true enough, and if there was something more that was likewise true, the suppressio veri is in some cases a very venial fault. As for Lucy, what with sympathy, and indignation and shame for her father’s conduct, she was more tenderly inclined toward Philip than she had ever been in her life. Thus opposition usually works. She cast an indignant look at her father, and a strenuous protest in the shape of an exclamation, “Papa!” which spoke volumes; and then in spite of his call to her to remain she followed Philip as he went down-stairs, appealing to him also, in a different way, with the tears in her eyes.
“You will not mind, Philip; but please don’t stop coming or quarrel because he is cross. He is ill, that is the reason, he is not himself; but I am sure you are too sensible to mind.”
Philip shook his head with a smile. “I fear I am not so sensible,” he said. “I do mind; but Lucy, if you will always speak to me as kindly I shall not mind what any one else may say,” he added, with fervor. He had never gone so far, or felt inclined to go so far before.
Lucy was surprised by this new tone, and looked at him, not with alarm, but with a mild astonishment. However, as it did not occur to her that there could be any special meaning in it, she gave him her hand kindly as usual, nay, a little more kindly, in that her father had used him so badly.