“In my opinion, there is nothing to laugh at,” he said; “it is a grave responsibility. The choice of a God-fearing Christian man to be the guide of the young lady, under Providence, and the trustee, as it were, of a great fortune--”
“Oh, not so bad as that; we have not got to choose him, only to blackball him,” said Mr. Rushton; “and if you think old Trevor intended that any husband should be the trustee of his daughter’s fortune, that is a mistake, I assure you. She has more power in her hands than ever a girl had; even now before she is of age she is allowed liberties--ah!” Mr. Rushton stopped short, for Philip Rainy had stepped forward with the evident intention of saying something. They all looked at Philip. He was well known to every one present--regarded favorably by the rector, as one who had seen the evil of his ways, and with a grudge by Mr. Williamson, as a deserter from the Nonconformist cause, and with careless friendliness by Mr. Rushton, as a man who was only a rising man, and to whom he was conscious of having himself given a helping hand. To Ford, Philip was a member of the family, who rather set himself above the family, and therefore was the object of certain restrained grudges, but yet was a Rainy after all; thus the feeling of the company about him was mingled. Nevertheless, when they suddenly turned upon him, and recalled themselves to a recollection of his presence and his position, and all that was in his favor, and the indications of nature, which pointed him out as so likely a candidate, they all instinctively forestalled the future, and on the spot blackballed Philip, who stood before them unconscious of his fate.
“I do not wish to intrude,” he said, “though if any one has a right to know about my cousins I have. I am their nearest relation. I am”--and here he put on a certain dignity, though the Rainys were not a noble race--“I believe, the head of the family since my father’s death. But what I want to say is this: if you, as his legal guardians, do not object, I should like to take charge of Jock.”
“Who is Jock?” said the rector, in an undertone. There was no one to answer but Mr. Williamson, who replied in the same tone, without looking at him. “The little boy.” It was the first distinct communication that had passed between them. Dr. Beresford looked at the Nonconformist with a humph of half-angry carelessness and turned away; but yet he could not help it, he had distinctly realized the presence of the minister of Bethesda, which was a great thorn in his side. On former occasions he had said, “I know nothing about that sort of people;” but that advantage was now taken from him. He had become acquainted with the man, though he was his natural enemy.