“Well, my dear, it has not been a very long life. We must find you a nice maid. Of course you will not go out this year; but there will be plenty of things to interest you. Are you very fond of music? or anything else? You must tell me what you like best.”
“I can play—a little, Lady Randolph, not anything to speak of,” said Lucy, with the instinct of a school-girl. She did not even think of music in any higher sense.
“Then that is not your spécialité; have you a spécialité, Lucy? Perhaps it is art?”
“I can draw—a very little, Lady Randolph.”
Lucy’s questioner laughed. “Then I am in hopes,” she said, “great hopes, that you are a real, honest, natural, ignorant girl, like what we used to be. Don’t say you are scientific, Lucy; I could not understand that.”
“I am very sorry,” said Lucy, with confusion; “Mrs. Stone gave me every advantage, but I never was quick at learning. I am not even a great reader, Lady Randolph; I don’t know what you will think of me.”
“If that is all, Lucy, I think I can put up even with that.”
“But Jock is!” cried Lucy, seizing the opportunity with sudden temerity. “You would not believe what he has read—every kind of history and poetry, though he is so little. And he has never had any advantages. Papa always thought me the most important, because of my money; but now,” said Lucy, with a little excitement, “now! It is the only thing in which I will ever go against him— I told him so always; so I hope it is not wicked to do it now; what I want most is to make something of Jock.”
Now Lady Randolph was not interested in Jock. Her warmth of sympathy was a little chilled by this outburst, and the chill reacted upon her companion. “We shall have plenty of time to talk of this,” Lady Randolph said; “it is getting late; and you have had a very exhausting day. I think the first thing to be done is to have a good night’s rest.”
Next day there was a great gathering at Farafield station, when the carriage from the Hall drove up with Lady Randolph and her charge. The Fords had arrived, bringing Jock, a pallid little figure all black, in unimaginable depths of mourning, and with a most anxious little countenance; for Jock had spent a miserable night—not crying, as is the case generally with children, but framing a hundred terrors in his imagination, and half believing that Lucy had been spirited away, and would come back for him no more. The convulsive clutch which he made at her hand, and the sudden relaxation of all the lines of his eager little face as he recovered his sheet-anchor, his sole support and companion, went to Lucy’s heart. She was almost as glad to see him. It was natural to feel him hanging upon her, trotting in her very footsteps, not letting her go for a moment. Philip Rainy was also there to bid his cousin good-bye; and in the sight of everybody he took her by the arm and led her apart, and had a few minutes’ earnest conversation with Lucy. This talk was almost exclusively about Jock, but it was looked upon with great surprise and jealousy by several pairs of eyes. For Mrs. Stone had also come to the station to bid her pupil farewell, and she was accompanied by her nephew, Mr. St. Clair, who stood looking his handsomest, and holding his head high over the group in the pleasant consciousness of being much the tallest and most imposing personage among them. There was also a group of school-girls, under the charge of mademoiselle, all ready to bestow kisses and good-wishes, and a few easy tears upon Lucy. And Mr. Rushton had come to see his ward off, with his wife and their son Raymond in attendance. All the elder people looked on Philip Rainy with suspicion; but all the more did he hold Lucy by the sleeve, talking to her, and keeping the rest of her friends waiting. When she did get to the carriage at last it was through a tumult of leave-takings, which made the very guards and porters tearful. Mrs. Ford stood crying, saying, “God bless you!” at intervals; and Mrs. Stone folded her pupil in a close embrace. “Remember, Lucy, that you are coming back in six months, according to your good father’s will; and I hope you will not have forgotten your old friends,” she said, with a mixture of affection and authority. Mr. St. Clair stood with his hat off, smiling and bowing. “May I say good-bye, too? And good luck!” he said, enveloping Lucy’s black glove in his large soft white hand. He was the tallest and the biggest there, and that always makes an impression upon a girl’s imagination. Then the Rushtons came forward and took her into their group. “I felt that I must come to give you my very best wishes,” Mrs. Rushton said; “and here is Raymond, your old playfellow, who hopes you remember him, Lucy. He only came home last night, but he would come to see you off.” Then the girls all rushed at their comrade, whom they all envied, though some of them were sorry for her. “You will be sure to write,” they cried, with one voice and a succession of hugs. “And, oh, Lucy!” cried Katie Russell, “please go and see mamma!” It was with difficulty that she was helped into the carriage after all these encounters, a little disheveled; smiling and crying, and with Jock all hidden and wound up in her skirts. But the person who extricated her and put her into the carriage was Philip, who held steadily to his superior rights. He was the last to touch her hand, and he said, “Remember!” as the train began to move, as solemnly as did the solemn king on the scaffold. This cost Philip more than one dinner-party, and may almost be said to have damaged his prospects at Farafield. “Did you ever see such presumption,” Mrs. Rushton said, “pushing in before you, her guardian?” And he was not asked to the Rushtons for a long time after, not till they were in absolute despair for a stray man to fill a corner. It was like the dispersion of a congregation from some special service to see all the people streaming away. And Lucy was the subject of a hundred fears and doubts. They shook their heads over her, all but the school-girls, who thought it would be too delightful to be Lucy. It was thus that Lucy set out upon the world.