“Yes, papa; Raymond. I used to play with him when I was little. He is quite grown up now. Mrs. Rushton was telling me about him--”
“Take my advice, Lucy,” said her father, interrupting her, “and don’t, however it may be pressed upon you, marry a man out of Farafield. Plenty will try for you--very likely Raymond himself. I thought there was something in Rushton’s eye--it was that made me think of it. Don’t marry a man from here. There’s nothing but paltry sort of people here.”
“Yes, papa,” said Lucy, calmly. She had given a great many other promises on this question of her marriage, with the same composure. There was no excitement in her own mind about the question. She did not care what pledges she gave. Her father, who was not without humor, perceived this, and fixed his eyes upon her with his usual chuckle.
“Yes, papa,” he said, mimicking her small voice. “Anything for a quiet life; you would promise me not to marry the mayor, or to marry the bishop, if I asked you, just in the same tone.”
“No, papa; I will promise _not_ to marry anybody you choose to mention, but the other thing would be more difficult. In the first place, I don’t know the bishop,” she added, with a smile.
“That is all very well,” said the old man; “but don’t you know, Lucy, that in a year or two your mind may change on that subject? You might fall in love, not with the bishop, but why not with Raymond Rushton, or any other boy about the place? And this is what I want to say to you, my dear. Don’t! That is to say, keep them at a distance, Lucy. Don’t let them come near enough to get hold of you. Take my word for it, though they may be nice enough in their way, Farafield people are small. They are petty people. They don’t know the world; and you, with your fortune, my dear, you belong to the world, not to a little place like this.”
“But you have lived all your life in Farafield.”
“Oh, yes; that is quite true. And I am just the same kind--petty, that is the word, Lucy--small. That is why I am living like this, making no change till it all comes into your hands. Living in a grand house, spending a deal of money, would go against me-- I should not like it. I should grudge every penny-- I should say to myself, ‘You old fool, John Trevor! what do you mean by spending all this upon yourself?’ I couldn’t do it. Carriages, and horses, and a number of servants would be the death of me.”