Not Like Other Girls
by Rosa Nouchette Carey · English · Gutenberg #28463 · 1,032,309 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Not Like Other Girls
Author: Rosa Nouchette Carey
Release date: March 31, 2009 [eBook #28463]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28463
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS ***
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS
BY
ROSA N. CAREY
AUTHOR OF
"Aunt Diana," "Averil," "Lover or Friend," "Merle's Crusade,"
"Esther," "Mary St. John," "Queenie's Whim," "We Wifie," Etc., Etc.
CHICAGO
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
407-429 Dearborn Street
[Illustration]
M.A. DONOHUE & CO.
CHICAGO.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Five-o'clock Tea. 7
II. Dick objects to the Mountains. 14
III. Mr. Mayne makes Himself Disagreeable. 22
IV. Dick's Fête. 28
V. "I am Quite Sure of Him." 35
VI. Mr. Trinder's Visit. 41
VII. Phillis's Catechism. 48
VIII. "We should have to carry Parcels." 55
IX. A Long Day. 62
X. The Friary. 68
XI. "Tell us all about it, Nan." 77
XII. "Laddie" puts in an Appearance. 85
XIII. "I must have Grace." 91
XIV. "You can dare to tell me These Things." 99
XV. A Van in the Braidwood Road. 108
XVI. A Visit to the White House. 118
XVII. "A Friend in Need." 124
XVIII. Dorothy brings in the Best China. 132
XIX. Archie is in a Bad Humor. 139
XX. "You are Romantic." 147
XXI. Breaking the Peace. 154
XXII. "Trimmings, not Squails." 162
XXIII. "Bravo, Atalanta!" 167
XXIV. Mothers are Mothers. 174
XXV. Mattie's New Dress. 181
XXVI. "Oh, You are Proud!" 189
XXVII. A Dark Hour. 196
XXVIII. The Mysterious Stranger. 202
XXIX. Mrs. Williams's Lodger. 210
XXX. "Now we understand Each Other." 219
XXXI. Dick thinks of the City. 226
XXXII. "Dick is to be our Real Brother." 232
XXXIII. "This is Life and Death to Me." 240
XXXIV. Miss Mewlstone has an Interruption. 248
XXXV. "Barby, don't You recollect Me?" 255
XXXVI. Motes in the Sunshine. 262
XXXVII. "A Man has a Right to His Own Thoughts." 268
XXXVIII. About Nothing Particular. 277
XXXIX. "How do you do, Aunt Catherine?" 283
XL. Alcides. 292
XLI. Sir Harry Bides his Time. 299
XLII. "Come, now, I call that Hard." 307
XLIII. "I will write no such Letter." 315
XLIV. Mr. Mayne orders a Basin of Gruel. 321
XLV. An Uninvited Guest. 328
XLVI. A New Invasion of the Goths. 336
XLVII. "It was so Good of You to ask me Here." 343
XLVIII. Mrs. Sparsit's Poodle. 349
XLIX. Mattie in a New Character. 356
L. Phillis's Favorite Month. 362
NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS
CHAPTER I.
FIVE-O'CLOCK TEA.
Five-o'clock tea was a great institution in Oldfield.
It was a form of refreshment to which the female inhabitants of that
delightful place were strongly addicted. In vain did Dr. Weatherby,
the great authority in all that concerned the health of the
neighborhood, lift up his voice against the mild feminine
dram-drinking of these modern days, denouncing it in no measured
terms: the ladies of Oldfield listened incredulously, and, softly
quoting Cowper's lines as to the "cup that cheers and not inebriates,"
still presided over their dainty little tea-tables, and vied with one
another in the beauty of their china and the flavor of their
highly-scented Pekoe.
In spite of Dr. Weatherby's sneers and innuendoes, a great deal of
valuable time was spent in lingering in one or another of the pleasant
drawing-rooms of the place. As the magic hour approached, people
dropped in casually. The elder ladies sipped their tea and gossiped
softly; the younger ones, if it were summer-time, strolled out through
the open windows into the garden. Most of the houses had
tennis-grounds, and it was quite an understood thing that a game
should be played before they separated.
With some few exceptions, the inhabitants of Oldfield were wealthy
people. Handsome houses standing in their own grounds were dotted here
and there among the lanes and country roads. Some of the big houses
belonged to very big people indeed; but these were aristocrats who
only lived in their country houses a few months in the year, and whose
presence added more to the dignity than to the hilarity of the
neighborhood.
With these exceptions, the Oldfield people were highly gregarious and
hospitable; in spite of a few peculiarities, they had their good
points; a great deal of gossip prevailed, but it was in the main
harmless and good-natured. There was a wonderful simplicity of dress,
too, which in these days might be termed a cardinal virtue. The girls
wore their fresh cambrics and plain straw hats: no one seemed to
think it necessary to put on smart clothing when they wished to visit
their friends. People said this Arcadian simplicity was just as
studied: nevertheless, it showed perfection of taste and a just
appreciation of things.
The house that was considered the most attractive in Oldfield, and
where, on summer afternoons, the sound of youthful voices and laughter
were the loudest, was Glen Cottage, a small white house adjoining the
long village street, belonging to a certain Mrs. Challoner, who lived
here with her three daughters.
This may be accounted strange in the first instance, since the
Challoners were people of the most limited income,--an income so small
that nothing but the most modest of entertainments could be furnished
to their friends; very different from their neighbors at Longmead, the
large white house adjoining, where sumptuous dinners and regular
evening parties were given in the dark days when pleasures were few
and tennis impossible.
People said it was very good-natured of the Maynes; but then when
there is an only child in the case, an honest, pleasure-loving, gay
young fellow, on whom his parents dote, what is it they will not do to
please their own flesh and blood? and, as young Richard Mayne--or
Dick, as he was always called--loved all such festive gatherings, Mrs.
Mayne loved them too; and her husband tried to persuade himself that
his tastes lay in the same direction, only reserving certain groans
for private use, that Dick could not be happy without a houseful of
young people.
But no such entertainments were possible at Glen Cottage:
nevertheless, the youth of the neighborhood flocked eagerly into the
pleasant drawing-room where Mrs. Challoner sat tranquilly summer and
winter to welcome her friends, or betook themselves through the open
French windows into the old-fashioned garden, in which mother and
daughters took such pride.
On hot afternoons the tea-table was spread under an acacia-tree, low
wicker-chairs were brought out, and rugs spread on the lawn, and Nan
and her sisters dispensed strawberries and cream, with the delicious
home-made bread and butter; while Mrs. Challoner sat among a few
chosen spirits knitting and talking in her pleasant low-toned voice,
quite content that the burden of responsibility should rest upon her
daughters.
Mrs. Challoner always smiled when people told her that she ought to be
proud of her girls. No daughters were ever so much to their mother as
hers; she simply lived in and for them; she saw with their eyes,
thought with their thoughts,--was hardly herself at all, but Nan and
Phillis and Dulce, each by turns.
Long ago they had grown up to her growth. Mrs. Challoner's nature was
hardly a self-sufficing one. During her husband's lifetime she had
been braced by his influence and cheered by his example, and had
sought to guide her children according to his directions; in a word,
his manly strength had so supported her that no one, not even her
shrewd young daughters, guessed at the interior weakness.
When her stay was removed, Mrs. Challoner ceased to guide, and came
down to her children's level. She was more like their sister than
their mother, people said; and yet no mother was more cherished than
she.
Her very weakness made her sacred in her daughters' eyes; her
widowhood, and a certain failure of health, made her the subject of
their choicest care.
It could not be said that there was much amiss, but years ago a doctor
whom Mrs. Challoner had consulted had looked grave, and mentioned the
name of a disease of which certain symptoms reminded him. There was no
ground for present apprehension; the whole thing was very shadowy and
unsubstantial,--a mere hint,--a question of care; nevertheless the
word had been said, and the mischief done.
From that time Mrs. Challoner was wont to speak gloomily of her
health, as of one doomed. She was by nature languid and lymphatic, but
now her languor increased; always averse to effort, she now left all
action to her daughters. It was they who decided and regulated the
affairs of their modest household, and rarely were such wise young
rulers to be found in girls of their age. Mrs. Challoner merely
acquiesced, for in Glen Cottage there was seldom a dissentient voice,
unless it were that of Dorothy, who had been Dulce's nurse, and took
upon herself the airs of an old servant who could not be replaced.
They were all pretty girls, the three Misses Challoner, but Nan was
_par excellence_ the prettiest. No one could deny that fact who saw
them together. Her features were more regular than her sisters', and
her color more transparent. She was tall too, and her figure had a
certain willowy grace that was most uncommon; but what attracted
people most was a frankness and unconsciousness of manner that was
perfectly charming.
Phillis, the second sister, was not absolutely pretty, perhaps, but
she was nice-looking, and there was something in her expression that
made people say she was clever; she could talk on occasions with a
fluency that was quite surprising, and that would cast Nan into the
shade. "If I were only as clever as Phillis!" Nan would sigh.
Then there was Dulce, who was only just eighteen, and whom her sisters
treated as the family pet; who was light and small and nimble in her
movements, and looked even younger than she really was.
Nobody ever noticed if Dulce were pretty; and one questioned if her
features were regular or not, or cared to do such a thing. Only when
she smiled, the prettiest dimple came into her cheek, and her eyes had
a fearless child-like look in them; for the rest, she was just Dulce.
The good-looking daughters of a good-looking mother, as somebody
called them; and there was no denying Mrs. Challoner was still
wonderfully well preserved, and, in spite of her languor and invalid
airs, a very pretty woman.
Five-o'clock tea had long been over at the cottage this afternoon, and
a somewhat lengthy game of tennis had followed; after which the
visitors had dispersed as usual, and the girls had come in to prepare
for the half-past seven-o'clock dinner; for Glen Cottage followed the
fashion of its richer neighbors, and set out its frugal meal with a
proper accompaniment of flower-vases and evening toilet.
The three sisters came up the lawn together, but Nan carried her
racquet a little languidly; she looked a trifle grave.
Mrs. Challoner laid down her knitting and looked at them, and then she
regarded her watch plaintively.
"Is it late, mother?" asked Nan, who never missed any of her mother's
movements. "Ten minutes past seven! No wonder the afternoon seemed
long."
"No one found it long but Nan," observed Dulce, with an arch glance at
her sister at which Nan slightly colored, but took no further notice.
"By the bye," she continued, as though struck by a sudden
recollection, "what can have become of Dick this afternoon? he so
seldom fails us without telling us beforehand."
"That will soon be explained," observed Phillis, oracularly, as the
gate-bell sounded, and was immediately followed by sharp footsteps on
the gravel and the unceremonious entrance of a young man through the
open window.
"Better late than never," exclaimed two of the girls. Nan said, "Why,
what has made you play truant, Dick?" in a slightly injured voice. But
Mrs. Challoner merely smiled at him, and said nothing; young men were
her natural enemies, and she knew it. She was civil to them and
endured their company, and that was all.
Dick Mayne was not a formidable-looking individual; he was a strong,
thick-set young fellow, with broad shoulders, not much above middle
height, and decidedly plain, except in his mother's eyes; and she
thought even Dick's sandy hair beautiful.
But in spite of his plainness he was a pleasant, well-bred young
fellow, with a fund of good humor and drollery, and a pair of honest
eyes that people learned to trust. Every one liked him, and no one
ever said a word in his dispraise; and for the rest, he could
tyrannize as royally as any other young man who is his family's sole
blessing.
"It was all my ill luck," grumbled Dick. "Trevanion of Exeter came
over to our place, and of course the mater pressed him to stay for
luncheon, and then nothing would do but a long walk over Hillberry
Downs."
"Why did you not bring him here?" interrupted Dulce, with a pout. "You
tiresome Dick, when you must know what a godsend a strange young man
is in these wilds!"
"My dear!" reproved her mother.
"Oh, but it is true, mamma," persisted the outspoken Dulce. "Think how
pleased Carrie and Sophy Paine would have been at the sight of a fresh
face! it was horrid of you, sir!"
"I wanted him to come," returned the young man, in a deprecating
voice. "I told him how awfully jolly it always is here, and that he
would be sure to meet a lot of nice people, but there was no
persuading him: he wanted a walk and a talk about our fellows. That is
the worst of Trevanion, he always will have his own way."
"Never mind," returned Nan, pleasantly; she seemed to have recovered
her sprightliness all at once. "It is very good of you to come so
often; and we had Mr. Parker and his cousin to look after the
Paines."
"Oh, yes! we did very well," observed Phillis, tranquilly. "Mother,
now Dick has come so late, he had better stay."
"If I only may do so?" returned Dick; but his inquiry was directed to
Nan.
"Oh, yes, you may stay," she remarked, carelessly, as she moved away;
but there was a little pleased smile on her face that he failed to
see. She nodded pleasantly to him as he darted forward to open the
door. It was Nan who always dispensed the hospitalities of the house,
whose decision was unalterable. Dick had learned what it was to be
sent about his business; only once had he dared to remain without her
sovereign permission, and on that occasion he had been treated by her
with such dignified politeness that he would rather have been sent to
Coventry.
This evening the fates were propitious, and Dick understood that the
sceptre of favor was to be extended to him. When the girls had flitted
into the little dusky hall he closed the door, and sat down happily
bedside Mrs. Challoner, to whom he descanted eloquently of the
beauties of Hilberry and the virtues of Ned Trevanion.
Mrs. Challoner listened placidly as the knitting-needles flashed
between her long white fingers. She was very fond of Dick, after her
temperate fashion; she had known him from a child, and had seen him
grow up among them until he had become like a son of the house. Dick,
who had no brothers and sisters of his own, and whose parents had not
married until they were long past youth, had adopted brotherly airs
with the Challoner girls; they called each other by their Christian
names, and he reposed in them the confidences that young men are wont
to give to their belongings.
With Nan this easy familiarity had of late merged into something
different: a reserve, a timidity, a subtile suspicion of change had
crept into their intimacy. Nan felt that Dick's manner had altered,
but somehow she liked it better: his was always a sweet bountiful
nature, but now it seemed to have deepened into greater manliness.
Dick was growing older; Oxford training was polishing him. After each
one of his brief absences Nan saw a greater change, a more marked
deference, and secretly hoped that no one else noticed it. When the
young undergraduate wrote dutiful letters home the longest messages
were always for Nan; when he carried little offerings of flowers to
his young neighbors, Nan's bouquet was always the choicest; he
distinguished her, too, on all occasions by those small nameless
attentions which never fail to please.
Nan kept her own counsel, and never spoke of these things. She said
openly that Dick was very nice and very much improved, and that they
always missed him sadly during the Oxford terms; but she never
breathed a syllable that might make people suspect that this very
ordinary young man with the sandy hair was more to her than other
young men. Nevertheless Phillis and Dulce knew that such was the case,
and Mrs. Challoner understood that the most dangerous enemy to her
peace was this lively-spoken Dick.
Dick was very amusing, for he was an eloquent young fellow:
nevertheless Mrs. Challoner sighed more than once, and her attention
visibly wandered; seeing which, Dick good-humoredly left off talking,
and began inspecting the different articles in Nan's work-basket.
"I am afraid I have given your mother a headache," he said when they
were sitting round the circular table in the low, oddly-shaped
dining-room. There was a corner cut off, and the windows were in
unexpected places, which made it unlike other rooms; but Dick loved it
better than the great dining-room at Longmead; and somehow it never
had looked cosier to him than it did this evening. It was somewhat
dark, owing to the shade of the veranda: so the lamp was lighted, and
the pleasant scent of roses and lilies came through the open windows.
A belated wasp hovered round the specimen glasses that Nan had filled;
Dick tried to make havoc of the enemy with his table-napkin. The
girls' white dresses suited their fresh young faces. Nan had fastened
a crimson rose in her gown; Phillis and Dulce had knots of blue
ribbon. "Trevanion does not know what he lost by his obstinacy,"
thought Dick, as he glanced round the table.
"What were you and the mother discussing?" asked Dulce, curiously.
"Dick was telling me about his friend. He seemed a very superior young
man," returned Mrs. Challoner. "I suppose you have asked him for your
party next week?"
Dick turned very red at this question. "Mater asked him, you may trust
her for that. If it were not for father, I think she would turn the
whole house out of the windows: every day some one fresh is invited."
"How delightful! and all in your honor," exclaimed Dulce,
mischievously.
"That spoils the whole thing," grumbled the heir of the Maynes: "it
is a perfect shame that a fellow cannot come of age quietly, without
his people making this fuss. I begin to think I was a fool for my
pains to refuse the ball."
"Yes, indeed; just because you were afraid of the supper speeches,"
laughed Dulce, "when we all wanted it so."
"New mind," returned Dick, sturdily; "the mater shall give us one in
the winter, and we will have Godfrey's band, and I will get all our
fellows to come."
"That will be delightful," observed Nan, and her eyes sparkled,--already
she saw herself led out for the first dance by the son of the house,--but
Dulce interrupted her:
"But all the same I wish Dick had not been so stupid about it. No one
knows what may happen before the winter. I hate put-off things."
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,--eh, Miss Dulce?"
"Yes, indeed; that proverb is truer than people think," she replied,
with a wise nod of her head. "Don't you remember, Nan, when the
Parkers' dance was put off, and then old Mr. Parker died; and nearly
the same thing happened with the Normatons, only it was an uncle in
that case."
"Moral: never put off a dance, in case somebody dies."
"Oh, hush, please!" groaned Nan, in a shocked voice; "I don't like to
hear you talk about such dreadful things. After all, it is such
delicious weather that I am not sure a garden-party will not be more
enjoyable; and you know, Dulce, that we are to dance on the lawn if we
like."
"And supposing it should rain," put in that extremely troublesome
young person, at which suggestion Dick looked very gloomy.
"In that case I think we must persuade Mrs. Mayne to clear a room for
us," returned Nan, cheerfully. "If your mother consults me," she
continued, addressing Dick, who visibly brightened at this, "I shall
recommend her to empty the front drawing-room as much as possible.
There is the grand piano, or the band might come in-doors; there will
be plenty of room for the young people, and the non-dancers can be
drafted off into the inner drawing-room and conservatory."
"What a head you have!" exclaimed Dick, admiringly; and Phillis, who
had not joined in the argument, was pleased to observe that she was
quite of Nan's opinion: dancing was imperative, and if the lawns were
wet they must manage in-doors somehow. "It would never do for people
to be bored and listless," finished the young lady, sententiously, and
such was Phillis's cleverness that it was understood at once that the
oracle had spoken; but then it was never known for Nan and Phillis to
differ.
Things being thus amicably arranged, the rest of the conversation
flowed evenly on every other point, such as the arrangements of the
tennis-matches in the large meadow, and the exact position of the
marquees; but just as they were leaving the table Dick said another
word to Nan in a somewhat low voice:
"It is all very well, but this sort of thing does make a fellow feel
such a conceited fool."
"If I were you I would not think about it at all," she returned, in
her sensible way. "The neighborhood will expect something of the kind,
and we owe a little to other people; then it pleases your mother to
make a fuss, as you call it, and it would be too ungrateful to
disappoint her."
"Well, perhaps you are right," he returned, in a slightly mollified
tone, for he was a modest young fellow, and the whole business had
occasioned him some soreness of spirit. "Take it all in all, one has
an awful lot to go through in life: there are the measles, you know,
and whooping cough, and the dentist, and one's examination, and no end
of unpleasant things; but to be made by one's own mother to feel like
an idiot for a whole afternoon! Never mind; it can be got through
somehow," finished the young philosopher, with a sigh that sent Nan
into a fit of laughter.
CHAPTER II.
DICK OBJECTS TO THE MOUNTAINS.
"Shall we have our usual stroll?" asked Phillis, as Nan and Dick
joined her at the window.
This was one of the customs at Glen Cottage. When any such fitting
escort offered itself, the three girls would put on their hats, and,
regardless of the evening dews and their crisp white dresses, would
saunter, under Dick's guidance through the quiet village, or down and
up the country roads "just for a breath of air," as they would say.
It is only fair to Mrs. Challoner's views of propriety to say that she
would have trusted her three pretty daughters to no other young man
but Dick; and of late certain prudential doubts had crossed her mind.
It was all very well for Phillis to say Dick was Dick, and there was
an end of it. After all, he belonged to the phalanx of her enemies,
those shadowy invaders of her hearth that threatened her maternal
peace. Dick was not a boy any longer; he had outgrown his hobbledehoy
ways; the slight sandy moustache that he so proudly caressed was not a
greater proof of his manhood than the undefinable change that had
passed over his manners.
Mrs. Challoner began to distrust these evening strolls, and to turn
over in her own mind various wary pretexts for detaining Nan on the
next occasion.
"Just this once, perhaps, it does not matter," she murmured to
herself, as she composed herself to her usual nap.
"We shall not be long, little mother; so you must not be dull," Dulce
had said, kissing her lightly over her eyes. This was just one of the
pleasant fictions at the cottage,--one of those graceful little
deceptions that are so harmless in families.
Dulce knew of those placid after-dinner naps. She knew her mother's
eyes would only unclose when Dorothy brought in the tea-tray; but she
was also conscious that nothing would displease her mother more than
to notice this habit. When they lingered in-doors, and talked in
whispers so as not to disturb her, Mrs. Challoner had an extraordinary
facility for striking into the conversation in a way that was somewhat
confusing.
"I don't agree with you at all," she would say, in a drowsy voice. "Is
it not time for Dorothy to bring in the tea? I wish you would all talk
louder. I must be getting a little deaf, I think, for I don't hear
half you say."
"Oh, it was only nonsense talk, mammie," Dulce would answer; and the
sisterly chit-chat would recommence, and her mother's head nid-nodded
on the cushions until the next interruption.
"We shall not have many more of these strolls," observed Dick,
regretfully, as they all walked together through the village, and then
branched off into a long country road, where the air blew freshly in
their faces and low mists hung over the meadow land. Though it was not
quite dark, there was a tiny moon, and the glimmer of a star or two;
and there was a pleasant fragrance as of new-mown grass.
They were all walking abreast, and keeping step, and Dick was in the
middle, with Nan beside him. Dulce was hanging on to her arm, and
every now and then breaking into little snatches of song.
"How I envy you!" exclaimed Phillis. "Think of spending three whole
months in Switzerland. Oh, you lucky Dick!"
For the Maynes had decided to pass the long vacation in the Engadine.
Some hints had been dropped that Nan should accompany them, but Mrs.
Challoner had regarded the invitation with some disfavor, and Mrs.
Mayne had not pressed the point. If only Nan had known! but her mother
had in this matter kept her own counsel.
"I don't know about that," dissented Dick; he was rather given to
argue from the mere pleasure of opposition. "Mountains and glaciers
are all very well in their way; but I think, on the whole, I would as
soon be here. You see, I am so accustomed to mix with a lot of
fellows, that I am afraid of finding the pater's sole company rather
slow."
"For shame!" remarked his usual monitress. But she spoke gently: in
her heart she knew why Dick failed to find the mountains alluring.
"Why could not one of you girls join us?" he continued, wrathfully.
The rogue had fairly bullied the unwilling Mrs. Mayne into giving that
invitation.
"Do ask her, mother; she will be such a nice companion for you when
the pater and I are doing our climbing; do, there's a dear good soul!"
he had coaxed. And the dear good soul, who was secretly jealous of
Nan, and loved her about as much as mothers usually love an only son's
choice, had bewailed her hard fate in secret; and had then stepped
over to the cottage with a bland and cheerful exterior, which grew
more cheerful as Mrs. Challoner's reluctance made itself felt.
"It is not wise; it will throw them so much together," Nan's mother
had said. "If it were only Phillis or Dulce; but you must have
noticed----"
"Oh, yes, I have noticed!" returned Mrs. Mayne, hastily. She was a
stout, comely-looking woman, but beside Mrs. Challoner she looked like
a housekeeper dressed in her mistress's smart clothes. Mrs. Mayne's
dresses never seemed to belong to her; it could not be said that they
fitted her ill, but there was a want of adaptability,--a lack of taste
that failed to accord with her florid style of beauty.
She had been a handsome woman when Richard Mayne married her, but a
certain deepening of tints and broadening of contour had not improved
the mistress of Longmead. Her husband was a decided contrast: he was a
small, wiry man, with sharp features that expressed a great deal of
shrewdness. Dick had got his sandy hair; but Richard Mayne the elder
had not his son's honest, kindly eyes. Mr. Mayne's were small and
twinkling; he had a way of looking at people between his half-closed
lids, in a manner half sharp and half jocular.
He was not vulgar, far from it; but he had a homely air about him that
spoke of the self-made man. He was rather fond of telling people that
his father had been in trade in a small way and that he himself had
been the sole architect of his fortune. "Look at Dick," he would say;
"he would never have a penny, that fellow, unless I made it for him:
he has come into the world to find his bread ready buttered. I had to
be content with a crust as I could earn it. The lad's a cut above us
both, though he has the good taste to try and hide it."
This sagacious speech was very true. Dick would never have succeeded
as a business man; he was too full of crotchets and speculations to be
content to run in narrow grooves. The notion of money-making was
abhorrent to him; the idea of a city life, with its hard rubs and
drudgery, was utterly distasteful to him. "One would have to mix with
such a lot of cads," he would say. "English, pure and undefiled, is
not always spoken. If I must work, I would rather have a turn at law
or divinity; the three old women with the eye between them knows
which."
It could not be denied that Dick winced a little at his father's
homely speeches; but in his heart he was both proud and fond of him,
and was given to assert to a few of his closest friends "that, take it
all in all, and looking at other fellows' fathers, he was a rattling
good sort, and no mistake."
When Mrs. Challoner had entered her little protest against her
daughter's acceptance of the invitation, Mrs. Mayne had risen and
kissed her with some effusion as she took her leave.
"It is so nice of you to say this to me; of course I should have been
pleased, delighted to have had Nan with us" (oh, Mrs. Mayne, fie for
shame! when you want your boy to yourself), "but all the same I think
you are so wise."
"Poor child! I am afraid I am refusing her a great treat," returned
Mrs. Challoner, in a tone of regret. It was the first time since her
husband's death that she had ever decided anything without reference
to her daughters; but for once her maternal fears were up in arms, and
drove her to sudden resolution.
"Yes, but, as you observed, it would throw them so entirely together;
and Dick is so young. Richard was only saying the other night that he
hoped the boy would not fancy himself in love for the next two years,
as he did not approve of such early engagements."
"Neither do I," returned Mrs. Challoner, quickly. "Nothing would annoy
me more than for one of my daughters to entangle herself with so young
a man. We know the world too well for that, Mrs. Mayne. Why, Dick may
fall in and out of love half a dozen times before he really makes up
his mind."
"Ah, that is what Richard says," returned Dick's mother, with a sigh;
in her heart she was not quite of her husband's opinion. She
remembered how that long waiting wasted her own youth,--waiting for
what? For comforts that she would gladly have done without,--for a
well-furnished house, when she would have lived happily in the poorest
lodging with the Richard Mayne who had won her heart,--for whom she
would have toiled and slaved with the self-abnegating devotion of a
loving woman; only he feared to have it so.
"'When poverty enters the door, love flies out of the window:' we had
better make up our minds to wait, Bessie. I can better work in single
than double harness just now." That was what he said to her, and
Bessie waited,--not till she grew thin, but stout, and the spirit of
her youth was gone; and it was a sober, middle-aged woman who took
possession of the long-expected home.
Mrs. Mayne loved her husband, but during that tedious engagement her
ardor had a little cooled, and it may be doubted whether the younger
Richard was not dearer to her than his father; which was ungrateful,
to say the least of it, as Mr. Mayne doted on his comely wife, and
thought Bessie as handsome now as in the days when she came out
smiling to welcome him, a slim young creature with youthful roses in
her cheeks.
From this brief conversation it may be seen that none of the elders
quite approved of this budding affection. Mrs. Challoner, who
belonged to a good old family, found it hard to forgive the Maynes'
lowliness of birth; and though she liked Dick, she thought Nan could
do better for herself. Mr. Mayne pooh-poohed the whole thing so
entirely that the women could only speak of it among themselves.
"Dick is a clever fellow; he ought to marry money," he would say. "I
am not a millionaire, and a little more would be acceptable;" and
though he was always kind to Nan and her sisters, he was forever
dealing sly hits at her. "Phillis has the brains of the family," he
would say: "that is the girl for my money. I call her a vast deal
better looking than Nan, though people make such a fuss about the
other one;" a speech he was never tired of repeating in his son's
presence, and at which Dick snapped his fingers metaphorically and
said nothing.
When Dick wished that one of them were going to Switzerland, Nan
sighed furtively. Dick was going away for three months, for the
remainder of the long vacation. After next week they would not see him
until Christmas,--nearly six months. A sense of dreariness, as new as
it was strange, swept momentarily over Nan as she pondered this. The
summer months would be grievously clouded. Dick had been the moving
spirit of all the fun; the tennis-parties, the pleasant dawdling
afternoons, would lose their zest when he was away.
She remembered how persistently he had haunted their footsteps. When
they paid visits to the Manor House, or Gardenhurst, or Fitzroy Lodge,
Dick was sure to put in an appearance. People had nicknamed him the
"Challoners' Squire;" but now Nan must go squireless for the rest of
the summer, unless she took compassion on Stanley Parker, or that
dreadful chatterbox his cousin.
The male population was somewhat sparse at Oldfield. There were a few
Eton boys, and one or two in that delightful transition age when youth
is most bashful and uninteresting,--a sort of unfledged manhood, when
the smooth boyish cheek contradicts the deepened bass of the
voice,--an age that has not ceased to blush, and which is full of
aggravating idosyncrasies and unexpected angles.
To be sure, Lord Fitzroy was a splendid specimen of a young guardsman,
but he had lately taken to himself a wife; and Sir Alfred Mostyn, who
was also somewhat attractive and a very pleasant fellow, and
unattached at present, had a tiresome habit of rushing off to Norway,
or St. Petersburg, or Niagara, or the Rocky Mountains, for what he
termed sport, or a lark.
"It seems we are very stupid this evening," observed Phillis for Dick
had waxed almost as silent as Nan. "I think the mother must nearly
have finished her nap, so I propose we go back and have some tea;"
and, as Nan languidly acquiesced they turned their faces towards the
village again, Dulce still holding firmly to Nan's arm. By and by Dick
struck out in a fresh direction.
"I say, don't you wish we could have last week over again?"
"Yes! oh, yes! was it not too delicious?" from the three girls; and
Nan added, "I never enjoyed anything so much in my life," in a tone so
fervent that Dick was delighted.
"What a brick your mother was, to be sure, to spare you all!"
"Yes; and she was so dull, poor dear, all the time we were away.
Dorothy gave us quite a pitiful account when we got home."
"It was a treat one ought to remember all one's life," observed
Phillis, quite solemnly; and then ensued a most animated discussion.
The treat to which Phillis alluded had been simply perfect in the
three girls' eyes. Dick, who never forgot his friends, had so worked
upon his mother that she had consented to chaperon the three sisters
during Commemoration; and a consent being fairly coaxed out of Mrs.
Challoner, the plan was put into execution.
Dick, who was in the seventh heaven of delight, found roomy lodgings
in the High Street, in which he installed his enraptured guests.
The five days that followed were simply hours snatched out of
fairyland to these four happy young creatures. No wonder envious looks
were cast at Dick as he walked in Christ Church Meadows with Nan and
Dulce, Phillis bringing up the rear somewhat soberly with Mrs. Mayne.
"One pretty face would content most fellows," his friends grumbled;
"but when you come to three, and not his own sisters either, why, it
isn't fair on other folk." And to Dick they said, "Come, it is no use
being so awfully close. Of course we see what's up: you are a lucky
dog. Which is it, Mayne?--the pretty one with the pink and white
complexion or the quiet one in gray, or the one with the mischievous
eyes?"
"Faix, they are all darlints and jewels, bless their purty faces!"
drawled one young rogue, in his favorite brogue. "Here's the top of
the morning to ye, Mayne; and it is mavourneen with the brown eyes and
the trick of the smile like the sunshine's glint that has stolen poor
Paddy's heart."
"Oh, shut up, you fellows!" returned Dick, in a disgusted voice. "What
is the good of your pretending to be Irish, Hamilton, when you are a
canny Scotchman?"
"Hoots, man, mind your clavers! You need not grizzle at a creature
because he admires a wee gairl that is just beyond the lave,--a sonsie
wee thing with a glint in her een like diamonds."
"Hamilton, will you leave off this foolery?"
"Nae doubt, nae doubt; would his honor pe axing if he pe wrang in the
head, puir thing? Never mind that, put pe giving me the skene-dhu, or
I will fight with proud-swords like a gentleman for the bit lassie;"
but here a wary movement on Dick's part extinguished the torrent of
Highland eloquence, and brought the canny Scotchman to the ground.
Perfectly oblivious of all these compliments, the Challoners enjoyed
themselves with the zest of healthy, happy English girls. They were
simply indefatigable: poor Mrs. Mayne succumbed utterly before the
fine days were over.
They saw the procession of boats; they were at the flower-show at
Worcester; Sunday afternoon found them in the Broad Walk; and the next
night they were dancing at the University ball.
They raved about the beauty of Magdalen cloisters; they looked down
admiringly into the deer-park; Addison's Walk became known to them,
and the gardens of St. John's. Phillis talked learnedly about Cardinal
Wolsey as she stood in Christ Church hall: and in the theatre "the
young ladies in pink" invoked the most continuous cheers.
"Can they mean us?" whispered Dulce, rather alarmed, to their faithful
escort Dick. "I don't see any other pink dresses!"
And Dick said, calmly,--
"Well, I suppose so. Some of those fellows up there are such a
trumpery lot."
So Dulce grew more reassured.
But the greatest fun of all was the afternoon spent in Dick's room,
when all his special friends were bidden to five o'clock tea, over
which Nan, in her white gown, presided so gracefully.
What a dear, shabby old room it was, with old-fashioned window-seats,
where one could look down into the quadrangle. Dick was an Oriel man,
and thought his college superior even to Magdalen.
It became almost too hot and crowded at last, so many were the
invitations given; but then, as Dick said afterwards, "he was such a
soft-hearted beggar that he could not refuse the fellows that pestered
him for invitations."
Mrs. Mayne, looking very proud and happy, sat fanning herself in one
of these windows. Phillis and Dulce were in the other attended by that
rogue Hamilton and half a dozen more. Nan was the centre of another
clique, who hemmed her and the tea-table in so closely that Dick had
to wander disconsolately round the outskirts: there was no getting a
look from Nan that afternoon.
How hot it was! It was a grand _coup_ when the door opened and the
scout made his appearance carrying a tray of ices.
"It is well to be Mayne!" half grumbled young Hamilton, as Dulce took
one gratefully from his hand. "He is treating us like a prince,
instead of the thin bread-and-butter entertainment he led us to
expect. Put down that tea, Miss Challoner. I see iced claret-cup and
strawberries in the corner. There is nothing like being an only child;
doting parents are extremely useful articles. I am one of ten; would
you believe it?" continued the garrulous youth. "When one has six
brothers older than one's self, I will leave you to imagine the
consequences."
"How nice!" returned Dulce, innocently; "I have always so longed for a
brother. If it had not been for Dick, we should have had no one to do
things for us."
"Oh, indeed! Mayne is a sort of adopted brother!" observed her
companion, looking at her rather sharply.
"We have always looked upon him as one. We do just as we like with
him,--scold and tease him, and send him on our errands;" which
intelligence fairly convinced the envious Hamilton that the youngest
Miss Challoner was not his friend's fancy.
Dick always recalled that evening with a sense of pride. How well and
gracefully Nan had fulfilled her duties! how pretty she had looked, in
spite of her flushed cheeks! He had never seen a girl to compare with
her,--not he!
They were so full of these delightful reminiscences that they were at
the cottage gate before they knew it; and then Dick astonished them by
refusing to come in. He had quite forgotten, he said, but his mother
had asked him to come home early, as she was not feeling just the
thing.
"Quite right; you must do as she wishes," returned Nan, dismissing him
far too readily, as he thought; but she said "Good-night!" with so
kind a smile after that, that the foolish young fellow felt his pulses
quicken.
Dick lingered at the corner until the cottage door was closed, and
then he raced down the Longmead shrubbery and set the house-bell
pealing.
"They are in the library, I suppose?" he asked of the butler who
admitted him; and, on receiving an answer in the affirmative, he
dashed unceremoniously into the room, while his mother held up her
finger and smiled at the truant.
"You naughty boy, to be so late; and now you have spoiled you father's
nap!" she said, pretending to scold him.
"Tut! tut! what nonsense you talk sometimes!" said Mr. Mayne, rather
crossly, as he stood on the hearth-rug rubbing his eyes. "I was not
asleep, I will take my oath of that; only I wish Dick could sometimes
enter a room without making people jump;" by which Dick knew that his
father was in one of his contrary moods, when he could be very
cross,--very cross indeed!
CHAPTER III.
MR. MAYNE MAKES HIMSELF DISAGREEABLE.
The library at Longmead was a very pleasant room, and it was the
custom of the family to retire thither on occasions when guests were
not forthcoming, and Mr. Mayne could indulge in his favorite nap
without fear of interruption.
A certain simplicity, not to say homeliness, of manners prevailed in
the house. It was understood among them that the dining-room was far
too gorgeous for anything but occasions of ceremony. Mrs. Mayne,
indeed, had had the good taste to cover the satin couches with pretty,
fresh-looking cretonne, and had had arranged hanging cupboards of old
china until it had been transformed into a charming apartment,
notwithstanding which the library was declared to be the family-room,
where the usual masculine assortment of litter could be regarded with
indulgent eyes, and where papers and pamphlets lay in delightful
confusion.
Longmead was not a pretentious house--it was a moderate-sized
residence, adapted to a gentleman of moderate means; but in summer no
place could be more charming. The broad gravel walk before the house
had a background of roses; hundreds of roses climbed up the railings
or twined themselves about the steps: a tiny miniature lake, garnished
with water-lilies, lay in the centre of the lawn; a group of old
elm-trees was beside it; behind the house lay another lawn, and beyond
were meadows where a few sheep were quietly grazing. Mr. Mayne, who
found time hang a little heavily on his hands, prided himself a good
deal on his poultry-yard and kitchen-garden. A great deal of his spare
time was spent among his favorite Bantams and Dorkings, and in
superintending his opinionated old gardener--on summer mornings he
would be out among the dews in his old coat and planter's hat, weeding
among the gooseberry-bushes.
"It is the early bird that finds the worm," he would say, when Dick
sauntered into the breakfast-room later on; for, in common with the
youth of his generation, he had a wholesome horror of early rising,
which he averred was one of the barbarous usages of the dark ages in
which his elders had been bred.
"I never took any interest in worms, sir," returned Dick, helping
himself to a tempting rasher that had just been brought in hot for the
pampered youth. "By the bye, have you seen Darwin's work on 'The
Formation of Vegetable Mould'? he declares that worms have played a
more important part in the history of the world than most people
would at first suppose: they were our earliest ploughmen."
"Oh, ah! indeed, very interesting!" observed his father, dryly; "but
all the same, I beg to observe, no one succeeded in life who was not
an early riser."
"A sweeping assertion, and one I might be tempted to argue, if it were
not for taking up your valuable time," retorted Dick, lazily, but with
a twinkle in his eye. "I know my constitution better than to trust
myself out before the world is properly aired and dried. I am thinking
it is less a case of worms than of rheumatism some early birds will be
catching;" to which Mr. Mayne merely returned an ungracious "Pshaw!"
and marched off, leaving his son to enjoy his breakfast in peace.
When Dick entered the library on the evening in question, Mr. Mayne's
querulous observation as to the noisiness of his entrance convinced
him at once that his father was in a very bad humor indeed, and that
on this account it behooved him to be exceedingly cool.
So he kissed his mother, who looked at him a little anxiously, and
then sat down and turned out her work-basket, as he had done Nan's two
or three hours ago.
"You are late after all, Dick," she said, with a little reproach in
her voice. It was hardly a safe observation, to judge by her husband's
cloudy countenance; but the poor thing sometimes felt her evenings a
trifle dull when Dick was away. Mr. Mayne would take up his paper, but
his eyes soon closed over it; that habit of seeking for the early worm
rather disposed him to somnolent evenings, during which his wife
knitted and felt herself nodding off out of sheer _ennui_ and dulness.
These were not the hours she had planned during those years of
waiting; she had told herself that Richard would read to her or talk
to her as she sat over her work, that they would have so much to say
to each other; but now, as she regarded his sleeping countenance
evening after evening, it may be doubted whether matrimony was quite
what she expected, since its bliss was so temperate and so strongly
infused with drowsiness.
Dick looked up innocently. "Am I late, mother?"
"Oh, of course not," returned his father, with a sneer; "it is not
quite time to ring for Nicholson to bring our candles. Bessie, I think
I should like some hot water to-night; I feel a little chilly." And
Bessie rang the bell obediently, and without any surprise in her
manner. Mr. Mayne often woke up chilly from his long nap.
"Are you going to have a 'drap of the cratur'?" asked his son, with
alacrity. "Well, I don't mind joining you, and that's the truth, for
we have been dawdling about, and I am a trifle chilly myself."
"You know I object to spirits for young men," returned Mr. Mayne,
severely: nevertheless he pushed the whiskey to Dick as soon as he
had mixed his own glass, and his son followed his example.
"I am quite of your opinion, father," he observed, as he regarded the
handsome cut-glass decanter somewhat critically; "but there are
exceptions to every rule, and when one is chilly----"
"I wish you would make an exception and stay away from the cottage
sometimes," returned Mr. Mayne, with ill-suppressed impatience. "It
was all very well when you were all young things together, but it is
high time matters should be different."
Dick executed a low whistle of surprise and dismay. He had no idea his
father's irritability had arisen from any definite cause. What a fool
he had been to be so late! it might lead to some unpleasant
discussion. Well, after all, if his father chose to be so disagreeable
it was not his fault; and he was no longer a boy, to be chidden, or
made to do this or that against his own will.
Mr. Mayne was sufficiently shrewd to see that his son was somewhat
taken aback by this sudden onslaught, and he was not slow to press his
advantage. He had wanted to give Dick a bit of his mind for some time,
and after all there is no time like the present.
"Yes, it was all very well when you were a lot of children together,"
he continued. "Of course, it is hard on you, Dick, having no brothers
and sisters to keep you company; your mother and I were always sorry
about that for your sake."
"Oh, don't mention it," interrupted Dick: "on the whole, I am best
pleased as it is."
"But it would have been better for you," returned his father, sharply:
"we should not have had all this fooling and humbug if you had had
sisters of your own."
"Fooling and humbug!" repeated Dick, hotly; "I confess, sir, I don't
quite understand to what you are referring." He was growing very
angry, but his mother flung herself between the combatants.
"Don't, my boy, don't; you must not answer your father in that way.
Richard, what makes you so hard on him to-night? It must be the gout,
Dick: we had better send for Dr. Weatherby in the morning," continued
the anxious woman, with tears in her eyes, "for your dear father would
never be so cross to you as this unless he were going to be ill."
"Stuff and nonsense, Bessie! Dr. Weatherby indeed!" but his voice was
less wrathful. "What is it but fooling, I should like to know, for
Dick to be daundering his time away with a parcel of girls as he does
with these Challoners!"
"I suppose you were never a young man yourself, sir."
"Oh, yes, I was, my boy," and the corners of Mr. Mayne's mouth relaxed
in spite of his efforts to keep serious. "I fell in love with your
mother, and stuck to her for seven or eight years; but I did not make
believe that I was brother to a lot of pretty girls, and waste all my
time dancing attendance on them and running about on their errands."
"You ought to have taken a lesson out of my book," returned his son,
readily.
"No, I ought to have done no such thing, sir!" shouted back Mr. Mayne,
waxing irate again. It could not be denied that Dick could be
excessively provoking when he liked. "Don't I tell you it is time this
sort of thing was stopped? Why, people will begin to talk, and say you
are making up to one of them, it is not right, Dick; it is not,
indeed," with an attempted pathos.
"I don't care that for what people say," returned the young fellow,
snapping his fingers. "Is it not a pity you are saying all this to me
just when I am going away and am not likely to see any of them for the
next six months? You are very hard on me to-night, father; and I can't
think what it is all about."
Mr. Mayne was silent a moment, revolving his son's pathetic speech. It
was true he had been cross, and had said more than he had meant to
say. He had not wished to hinder Dick's innocent enjoyments; but if he
were unknowingly picking flowers at the edge of a precipice, was it
not his duty as a father to warn him?
"I think I have been a little hard, my lad," he said, candidly, "but
there, you and your mother know my bark is worse than my bite. I only
wanted to warn you; that's all, Dick."
"Warn me!--against what, sir?" asked the young man, quickly.
"Against falling in love, really, with one of the Challoner girls!"
returned Mr. Mayne, trying to evade the fire of Dick's eyes, and
blustering a little in consequence. "Why, they have not a penny, one
of them, and, if report be true, Mrs. Challoner's money is very
shakily invested. Paine told me so the other day. He said he should
never wonder if a sudden crash came any minute."
"Is this true, Richard?"
"Paine declares it is; and think of Dick saddling himself with the
support of a whole family!"
"It strikes me you are taking things very much for granted," returned
his son, trying to speak coolly, but flushing like a girl over his
words. "I think you might wait, father, until I proposed bringing you
home a daughter-in-law."
"I am only warning you, Dick, that the Challoner connection would be
distasteful to me," replied Mr. Mayne, feeling that he had gone a
little too far. "If you had brothers and sisters it would not matter
half so much; but it would be too hard if my only son were to cross my
wishes."
"Should you disinherit me, father?" observed Dick, cheerfully. He had
recovered his coolness and pluck, and began to feel more equal to the
occasion.
"We should see about that, but I hardly think it would be for your
advantage to oppose me too much," returned his father with an ominous
pucker of his eyebrows, which warned Dick, that it was hardly safe to
chaff the old boy too much to-night.
"I think I will go to bed, Richard," put in poor Mrs. Mayne. She had
wisely forborne to mix in the discussion, fearing that it would bring
upon her the vials of her husband's wrath. Mr. Mayne was as choleric
as a Welshman, and had a reserve force of sharp cynical sayings that
were somewhat hard to bear. He was disposed to turn upon her on such
occasions, and to accuse her of spoiling Dick and taking his part
against his father; between the two Richards she sometimes had a very
bad time indeed.
Dick lighted his mother's candle, and bade her good-night; but all the
same she knew she had not seen the last of him. A few minutes
afterwards there was a hasty tap at the bedroom door, and Dick thrust
in his head.
"Come in, my dear; I have been expecting you," she said, with a
pleased smile. He always came to her when he was ruffled or put out,
and brought her all his grievances; surely this was the very meaning
and essence of her motherhood,--this healing and comfort that lay in
her power of sympathy.
When he was a little fellow, had she not extracted many a thorn and
bound up many a cut finger? and now he was a man, would she be less
helpful to him when he wanted a different kind of comfort?
"Come in, my son," she said, beckoning him to the low chair beside
her, into which Dick threw himself with a petulant yawn.
"Mother, what made the pater so hard on me to-night? he cut up as
rough as though I had committed some crime."
"I don't think he is quite himself to-night," returned Mrs. Mayne, in
her soft, motherly voice. "I fancy he misses you, Dick, and is half
jealous of the Challoners for monopolizing you. You are all we have,
that's where it is," she finished, stroking the sandy head with her
plump hand; but Dick jerked away from her with a little impatience.
"I think it rather hard that a fellow is to be bullied for doing
nothing at all," replied Dick, with a touch of sullenness. "When the
pater is in this humor it is no use saying anything to him; but you
may as well tell him, mother, that I mean to choose my wife for
myself."
"Oh, my dear, I dare not tell him anything of the kind," returned Mrs.
Mayne, in an alarmed voice; and then, as she glanced at her son, her
terror merged into amusement. There was something so absurdly boyish
in Dick's appearance, such a ludicrous contrast between the manliness
of his speech and his smooth cheek; the little fringe of hirsute
ornament, of which Dick was so proud, was hardly visible in the dim
light; his youthful figure, more clumsy than graceful, had an
unfledged air about it, nevertheless, the boldness of his words took
away her breath.
"Every man has a right to his own choice in such a matter," continued
Dick, loftily. "You may as well tell him, mother, that I intend to
select my own wife."
"My dear, I dare not for worlds----" she began; and then she stopped,
and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Why do you say this to me? there
is plenty of time," she went on hastily; "that is what your father
says, and I think he is right. You are too young for this sort of
thing yet. You must see the world; you must look about you; you must
have plenty of choice," continued the anxious mother. "I shall be hard
to please, Dick, for I shall think no one good enough for my boy; that
is the worst of having only one, and he the best son that ever lived,"
finished Mrs. Mayne, with maternal pride in her voice.
Dick took this effusion very coolly. He was quite used to all this
sort of worship; he did not think badly of himself; he was not
particularly humble-minded or given to troublesome introspection; on
the whole, he thought himself a good fellow, and was not at all
surprised that people appreciated him.
"There are such a lot of cads in the world, one is always glad to fall
in with a different sort," he would say to himself. He was quite of
his mother's opinion, that an honest, God-fearing young fellow, who
spoke the truth and shamed the devil, who had no special vices but a
dislike for early rising, who had tolerable brains, and more than his
share of muscle, who was in the Oxford eleven, and who had earned his
blue ribbon,--that such a one might be considered to set an example to
his generation.
When his mother told him she would be hard to please, Dick looked a
little wicked, and thought of Nan; but the name was not mentioned
between them. Nevertheless, Mrs. Mayne felt with unerring maternal
instinct that, in spite of his youth, Dick's choice was made, and
sighed to herself at the thought of the evil days that were to come.
Poor woman, she was to have little peace that night! Hardly had Dick
finished his grumble and sauntered away, before her husband's step was
heard in his dressing-room.
"Bessie," he called out to her, "why do you allow that boy to keep you
up so late at night? Do you know that it is eleven, and you are still
fully dressed?"
"Is it so late, Richard?"
"Yes, of course," he snapped; "but that is the care you take of your
health; and the way you cosset and spoil that boy is dreadful."
"I don't think Dick is easily spoiled," plucking up a little spirit to
answer him.
"That shows how little you understand boys," returned her husband.
Evidently the whiskey, though it was the best Glenlivat, had failed to
mollify him. It might be dangerous to go too far with Dick, for he had
a way of turning around and defending himself that somewhat
embarrassed Mr. Mayne, but with his wife there would be no such
danger. He would dominate her by his sharp speeches, and reduce her to
abject submission in a moment, for Bessie was the meekest of wives.
"Take care how you side with him," he continued, in a threatening
voice. "He thinks that I am not serious in what I said just now, and
is for carrying it off with a high hand; but I tell you, and you had
better tell him, that I was never more in earnest in my life. I won't
have one of those Challoner girls for a daughter-in-law!"
"Oh, Richard! and Nan is such a sweet girl!" returned his wife, with
tears in her eyes. She was awfully jealous of Nan, at times she almost
dreaded her; but for her boy's sake she would have taken her now to
her heart and defied even her formidable husband. "She is such a
pretty creature, too; no one can help loving her."
"Pshaw!" returned her husband; "pretty creature indeed! that is just
your soft-hearted nonsense. Phillis is ten times prettier, and has
heaps more sense. Why couldn't Dick have taken a fancy to her?"
"Because I am afraid he cares for the other one," returned Mrs. Mayne,
sadly. She had no wish to deceive her husband and she knew that the
golden apple had rolled to Nan's feet.
"Stuff and rubbish!" he responded, wrathfully. "What is a boy of his
age to know about such things? Tell him from me to put this nonsense
out of his head for the next year or two; there is plenty of time to
look out for a wife after that. But I won't have him making up his
mind until he has left Oxford." And Mrs. Mayne, knowing that her
husband had spoken his last word, thankfully withdrew, feeling that in
her heart she secretly agreed with him.
CHAPTER IV.
DICK'S FÊTE.
As Mr. Mayne's wrath soon evaporated, and Dick was a sweet-tempered
fellow and bore no malice, this slight altercation produced no lasting
effect, except that Dick, for the next few days, hurried home to his
dinner, talked a good deal about Switzerland, and never mentioned a
Challoner in his father's hearing.
"We must keep him in a good temper for the 25th," he said to his
mother, with a touch of the Mayne shrewdness.
That day was rapidly approaching, and all sorts of festive
preparations were going on at Longmead. Dick himself gravely
superintended the rolling of the tennis-ground in the large meadow,
and daubed himself plentifully with lime in marking out the courts,
while Mr. Mayne stood with his hands in the pockets of his
shooting-coat watching him. The two were a great deal together just
then: Dick rather stuck to his father during one or two mornings; the
wily young fellow knew that Nan was closeted with his mother, helping
her with all sorts of feminine arrangements, and he was determined to
keep them apart. Nan wondered a great deal why Dick did not come to
interrupt or tease them as usual, and grew a little absent over Mrs.
Mayne's rambling explanations. When the gong sounded, no one asked her
to stay to luncheon. Mrs. Mayne saw her put on her hat without
uttering a single protest.
"It is so good of you to help me, dear," she said, taking the girl
into her embrace. "You are quite sure people won't expect a sit-down
supper?"
"Oh no; the buffet system is best," returned Nan, decidedly. "Half the
people will not stay, and you need not make a fuss about the rest. It
is an afternoon party, you must remember that; only people who are
very intimate will remain for the fun of the thing. Tell Nicholson to
have plenty of ices going; people care most for that sort of
refreshment."
"Yes, dear; I will be sure to remember," returned her friend, meekly.
She was very grateful to Nan for these hints, and was quite willing to
follow her guidance in all such matters; but when Nan proposed once
sending for Dick to ask his opinion on some knotty point that baffled
their women's wits, Mrs. Mayne demurred.
"It is a pity to disturb him; he is with his father; and we can settle
these things by ourselves," she replied, not venturing to mar the
present tranquillity by sending such a message to Dick. Mr. Mayne
would have accompanied his son, and the consultation would hardly have
ended peaceably. "Men have their hobbies. We had better settle all
this together, you and I," she said hurriedly.
Nan merely nodded, and cut the Gordian knot through somewhat
ruthlessly; but on that occasion she put on her hat before the gong
sounded.
"You must be very busy, for one never has a glimpse of you in the
morning," she could not help saying to Dick, as he came in that
afternoon to escort them to Fitzroy Lodge.
"Well, yes, I am tolerably busy," he drawled. "I am never free to do
things in the afternoons,"--a fact that Nan felt was unanswerable.
When Nan and her sisters woke on the morning of the memorable day, the
bright sunshine of a cloudless June day set all their fears at rest.
If the sun smiled on Dick's fête, all would be well. If Nan's
devotions were longer than usual that morning, no one was the wiser;
if she added a little clause, calling down a blessing on a certain
head, no one would be the poorer for such pure prayers; indeed, it
were well if many such were uttered for the young men who go forth
morning after morning into the temptations of life.
Such prayers might stretch like an invisible shield before the
countless foes that environ such a one; fiery darts may be caught upon
it; a deadly thrust may be turned away. What if the blessing would
never reach the ear of the loved one, who goes out unconscious of
sympathy? His guardian angel has heard it, and perchance it has
reached the very gate of heaven.
Nan came down, smiling and radiant, to find Dick waiting for her in
the veranda and chattering to Phillis and Dulce.
"Why, Dick!" she cried, blushing with surprise and pleasure, "to think
of your being here on your birthday morning!"
"I only came to thank you and the girls for your lovely presents,"
returned Dick, becoming rather incoherent and red at the sight of
Nan's blush. "It was so awfully good of you all, to work all those
things for me;" for Nan had taken secret measurements in Dick's room,
and had embroidered a most exquisite mantelpiece valance, and Phillis
and Dulce had worked the corners of a green cloth with wonderful
daffodils and bulrushes to cover Dick's shabby table: and Dick's soul
had been filled with ravishment at the sight of these gifts.
Nan would not let him go on, but all the same his happy face delighted
her.
"No, don't thank us, we liked doing it," she returned, rather coolly.
"You know we owed you something after all your splendid hospitality,
and work is never any trouble to us."
"But I never saw anything I liked better," blurted out Dick. "All the
fellows will be jealous of me. I am sure I don't know what Hamilton
will say. It was awfully good of you, Nan, and so it was of the
others: and if I don't make it up to you somehow, my name is not
Dick:" and he smiled round at them as he spoke. "Fancy putting in all
those stitches for me!" he thought to himself.
"We are so glad you are pleased," returned Nan, with one of her sweet,
straightforward looks; "that is what we wanted to give you,--a little
surprise on your birthday. Now you must tell us about your other
presents." And Dick, nothing loath, launched into eloquent
descriptions of the silver-fitted dressing-case from his mother, and
the gun and thorough-bred collie that had been his father's gifts.
"He is such a fine fellow; I must show him to you this afternoon,"
went on Dick, eagerly. "His name is Vigo, and he has such a superb
head. Was it not good of the pater? he knew I had a fancy for a
collie, and he has been in treaty for one ever so long. Is he not a
dear old boy?" cried Dick, rapturously. But he did not tell his
friends of the crisp bundle of bank-notes with which Mr. Mayne had
enriched his son; only as Dick fingered them lovingly, he wondered
what pretty foreign thing he could buy for Nan, and whether her mother
would allow her to accept it.
After this Nan dismissed him somewhat peremptorily; he must go back to
his breakfast, and allow them to do the same.
"Mind you come early," were Dick's last words as he waved his straw
hat to them. How often the memory of that morning recurred to him as
he stood solitarily and thoughtful, contemplating some grand sketch of
Alpine scenery!
The snow peaks and blue glaciers melted away before his eyes; in their
place rose unbidden a picture framed in green trellis-work, over which
roses were climbing.
Fresh girlish faces smiled back at him; the brightest and kindest of
glances met his. "Good-bye, Dick; a thousand good wishes from us all."
A slim white hand had gathered a rose-bud for him; how proudly he had
worn it all that day! Stop, he had it still; it lay all crushed and
withered in his pocket-book. He had written the date under it; one day
he meant to show it to her. Oh, foolish days of youth, so prodigal of
minor memories and small deeds of gifts, when a withered flower can
hold the rarest scent, and in a crumpled roseleaf there is a whole
volume of ecstatic meaning! Oh, golden days of youth, never to be
surpassed!
Never in the memory of Oldfield had there been a more delicious day.
The sky was cloudless; long purple shadows lay under the elm-trees; a
concert of bird-music sounded from the shrubberies: in the green
meadows flags were waving, tent-draperies fluttering; the house-doors
stood open, showing a flower-decked hall and vista of cool shadowy
rooms.
Dick, looking bright and trim, wandering restlessly over the place,
and Mr. Mayne fidgeted after him; while Mrs. Mayne sat fanning herself
under the elm-trees and hoping the band would not be late.
No there it was turning in now at the stable-entrance, and playing
"The girl I left behind me;" and there at the same moment was Nan
coming up the lawn in her white gown, closely followed by her mother
and sisters.
"Are we the first?" she asked, as Dick darted across the grass to meet
her. "That is nice; we shall see all the people arrive. How
inspiriting that music is, and how beautiful everything looks!"
"It is awfully jolly of you to be the first," whispered Dick; "and how
nice you look, Nan! You always do, you know, but to-day you are
first-rate. Is this a new gown?" casting an approving look over Nan's
costume, which was certainly very fresh and pretty.
"Oh, yes; we have all new dresses in your honor, and we made them
ourselves," returned Nan, carelessly. "Mother has got her old silk,
but for her it does not so much matter; at least that is what she
says."
"And she is quite right. She is always real splendid, as the Yankees
say, whatever she wears," returned Dick, wishing secretly that his
mother in her new satin dress looked half so well as Mrs. Challoner in
her old one. But it was no use. Mrs. Mayne never set off her handsome
dresses; with her flushed, good-natured face and homely ways, she
showed to marked disadvantage beside Mrs. Challoner's faded beauty.
Mrs. Challoner's gown might be antique, but nothing could surpass the
quiet grace of her carriage, or the low pleasant modulations of her
voice. Her figure was almost as slim as her daughters', and she could
easily have passed for their elder sister.
Lady Fitzroy, who was a Burgoyne by birth,--and every one knows that
for haughtiness and a certain exclusive intoleration none could match
the Burgoynes,--always distinguished Mrs. Challoner by the marked
attention she paid her.
"A very lady-like woman, Percival. Certainly the most lady-like person
in the neighborhood," she would say to her husband, who was not quite
so exclusive, and always made himself pleasant to his neighbors; and
she would ask very graciously after her brother-in-law, Sir Francis
Challoner. "He is still in India, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes; he is still in India," Mrs. Challoner would reply, rather
curtly. She had not the faintest interest in her husband's brother,
whom she had never seen more than twice in her life, and who was
understood to be small credit to his family. The aforesaid Sir Francis
Challoner had been the poorest of English baronets. His property had
dwindled down until it consisted simply of a half ruined residence in
the north of England.
In his young days Sir Francis had been a prodigal, and, like the
prodigal in the parable, he had betaken himself into far countries,
not to waste his substance, for he had none, but if possible to glean
some of the Eastern riches.
Whether he had been successful or not Mrs. Challoner hardly knew. That
he had married and settled in Calcutta,--that he had a son named
Harry, who had once written to her in round hand and subscribed
himself as her affectionate nephew, Henry Ford Challoner--this she
knew; but what manner of person Lady Challoner might be, or what sort
of home her brother-in-law had made for himself, those points were
enveloped in mystery.
"I suppose she is so civil to me because of your uncle Francis," she
used to say to her girls, which was attributing to Lady Fitzroy a
degree of snobbishness that was quite undeserved. Lady Fitzroy really
liked Mrs. Challoner and found intercourse with her very pleasant and
refreshing. When one is perfectly well-bred, there is a subtile charm
in harmony of voice and manner. Mrs. Challoner might have dressed in
rags if she liked, and the young countess would still have aired her
choicest smiles for her.
It was lucky Nan had those few words from Dick, for they fell apart
after this, and were separated the greater portion of the afternoon.
Carriages began to drive in at the gates; groups of well-dressed
people thronged the lawn, and were drafted off to the field where the
band was playing.
Nan and her sisters had their work cut out for them; they knew
everybody and they were free of the house. It was they who helped Dick
arrange the tennis-matches, who pointed out to the young men of the
party which was the tea-tent, and where the ices and claret-cup were
to be found. They marshalled the elder ladies into pleasant nooks,
where they could be sheltered from the sun and see all that was going
on.
"No, thank you; I shall not play tennis this afternoon; there are too
many of us, and I am so busy," Nan said, dismissing one after another
who came up to her. "If you want a partner, there is Carrie Paine, who
is dying for a game."
Dick, who was passing with Lady Fitzroy on his arm, whom he was
hurrying somewhat unceremoniously across the field, threw her a
grateful glance as he went by.
"What a sweet-looking girl that is!" said Lady Fitzroy, graciously, as
she panted a little over her exertion.
"Who?--Nan? Yes; isn't she a brick?--and the others too?" for Phillis
and Dulce were just as self-denying in their labors. As Mr. Mayne said
afterwards, "They were just everywhere, those Challoners, like a hive
of swarming bees;" which, as it was said in a grumbling tone, was
ungrateful, to say the least of it.
Dick worked like a horse too; he looked all the afternoon as though he
had a tough job in hand that required the utmost gravity and despatch.
He was forever hurrying elderly ladies across the field towards the
refreshment-tent, where he deposited them, panting and heated, in all
sorts of corners.
"Are you quite comfortable? May I leave you now? or shall I wait and
take you back again?" asked Dick, who was eager for a fresh convoy.
"No, no; I would rather stay here a little," returned Mrs. Paine, who
was not desirous of another promenade with the hero of the day. "Go
and fetch some one else, Dick: I am very well off where I am,"
exchanging an amused glance with one of her friends, as Dick, hot and
breathless, started off on another voyage of discovery.
Dick's behavior had been simply perfect all the afternoon in his
father's eyes; but later on, when the band struck up a set of
quadrilles, he committed his first solecism in manners: instead of
asking Lady Fitzroy to dance with him, he hurried after Nan.
"This is our dance; come along," he said, taking her unwilling hand;
but she held back a moment.
"Are you sure? Is there not some one else you ought to choose?--Lady
Fitzroy, for example?" questioned Nan, with admirable forethought.
"Bother Lady Fitzroy!" exclaimed Dick, under his breath; he had had
quite enough of that lady. "Why are you holding back, Nan, in this
fashion?" a cloud coming over his face. "Haven't you promised weeks
ago to give me the first dance?" And Nan, seeing the cloud on his
face, yielded without another word. Dick always managed to have his
own way somehow.
"Dick! Dick!" cried his father, in a voice of agony, as they passed
him.
"All in good time; coming presently," returned the scapegrace,
cheerfully. "Now, Nan, this is our place. We will have Hamilton and
Dulce for our _vis-a-vis_. What a jolly day; and isn't this
first-rate?" exclaimed Dick, rubbing his hands, and feeling as though
he were only just beginning to enjoy himself.
Nan was not quite so easy in her mind.
"Your father does not look very pleased. I am afraid, after all, you
ought to have asked Lady Fitzroy," she said, in a low voice; but Dick
turned a deaf ear. He showed her the rose in his buttonhole; and when
Nan told him it was withered, and wanted him to take it out, he gave
her a reproachful look that made her blush.
They were very happy after this; and, when the dance was over, Dick
gave her his arm, and carried her off to see Vigo, who was howling a
deep mournful bass at the back of the gardener's cottage.
Nan made friends with him, and stroked his black curly head, and
looked lovingly into his deep melancholy eyes; and then, as her
flowers were fading, they strolled off into the conservatory, where
Dick gathered her a fresh bouquet and then sat down and watched her
arrange it.
"What clever fingers you have got!" he said, looking at them
admiringly, as Nan sorted the flowers in her lap; and at this unlucky
moment they were discovered by Mr. Mayne, who was bringing Lady
Fitzroy to see a favorite orchid.
He shot an angry suspicious glance at his son.
"Dick, your mother is asking for you," he said, rather abruptly; but
Dick growled something in an undertone, and did not move.
Nan gave him a frightened nudge. Why was he so imprudent?
"I cannot move, because of my flowers; do go, Dick. You must indeed,
if your mother wants you;" and she looked at him in such a pleading
way that Dick dared not refuse. It was just like his father to come
and disturb his first happy moments and to order him off to go and do
something disagreeable. He had almost a mind to brave it out, and
remain in spite of him; but there was Nan looking at him in a
frightened, imploring way.
"Oh, do go, Dick," giving him a little impatient push in her
agitation; "if your mother wants you, you must not keep her waiting."
But Nan in her heart knew, as Dick did in his, that the message was
only a subterfuge to separate them.
CHAPTER V.
"I AM QUITE SURE OF HIM."
Nan would willingly have effected her escape too, but she was detained
by the flowers that Dick had tossed so lightly into her lap. She was
rather dismayed at her position, and her fingers trembled a little
over their work. There was a breath--a sudden entering current--of
antagonism and prejudice that daunted her. Lady Fitzroy cast an
admiring look at the girl as she sat there with glowing cheeks and
downcast lids.
"How pretty she is!" she said, in a low voice, as Mr. Mayne pointed
out his favorite orchid. "She is like her mother; there is just the
same quiet style, only I suspect Mrs. Challoner was even better
looking in her time."
"Humph! yes, I suppose so," returned her host, in a dissatisfied tone.
He had not brought Lady Fitzroy there to talk of the Challoners, but
to admire his orchids. Then he shot another glance at Nan between his
half-closed eyes, and a little spice of malice flavored his next
words.
"Shall we sit here a moment? Let me see: you were asking me, Lady
Fitzroy, about Dick's prospects. I was talking to his mother about
them the other day. I said to her then, Dick must settle in life well;
he must marry money."
"Indeed?" replied Lady Fitzroy, somewhat absently; she even indulged
in a slight yawn behind her fan. She liked Dick well enough, as every
one else did, but she was not partial to his father. How tiresome it
was of Fitzroy to insist so much on their neighborly duties!
Mr. Mayne was not "one of them," as she would have phrased it; he did
not speak their language or lead their life; their manners and
customs, their little tricks and turns of thought were hieroglyphics
to him.
A man who had never had a grandfather,--at least a grandfather worth
knowing,--whose father's hands had dabbled in trade,--actually
trade,--such a one might be a very worthy man, an excellent citizen,
an exemplary husband and father, but it behooved a woman in her
position not to descend too freely to his level.
"Percival is such a sad Radical," she would say to herself; "he does
not make sufficient distinction between people. I should wish to be
neighborly, but I cannot bring myself to be familiar with these
Maynes;" which was perhaps the reason why Lady Fitzroy was not as
popular at Longmead and in other places as her good-natured husband.
"Oh, indeed?" she said, with difficulty repressing another slight yawn
behind her fan, but speaking in a fatigued voice: but Mr. Mayne was
too intent on his purpose to notice it.
"If Dick had brothers and sisters it would not matter so much; but
when one has only a single hope--eh, Lady Fitzroy?--things must be a
little different then."
"He will have plenty of choice," she returned, with an effort at
graciousness. "Oldfield is rich in pretty girls:" and she cast another
approving glance at poor Nan, but Mr. Mayne interrupted her almost
rudely.
"Ah, as to that," he returned, with a sneer, "we want no such nonsense
for Dick. Here are the facts of the case. Here is an honest,
good-tempered young fellow, but with no particular push in him; he has
money, you say,--yes, but not enough to give him the standing I want
him to have. I am ambitious for Dick. I want him to settle in life
well. Why, he might be called to the bar; he might enter Parliament;
there is no limit to a man's career nowadays. I will do what I can for
him, but he must meet me half-way."
"You mean," observed Lady Fitzroy, with a little perplexity in her
tone, "that he must look out for an heiress." She was not in the
secret, and she could not understand why her host was treating her to
this outburst of confidence. "It was so disagreeable to be mixed up
with this sort of thing," as she told her husband afterwards. "I never
knew him quite so odious before; and there was that pretty Miss
Challoner sitting near us, and he never let me address a word to
her."
Nan began to feel she had had enough of it. She started up hastily as
Lady Fitzroy said the last words, but the entrance of some more young
people compelled her to stand inside a moment, and she heard Mr.
Mayne's answer distinctly: "Well, not an heiress exactly; but the girl
I have in view for him has a pretty little sum of money, and the
connection is all that could be wished; she is nice-looking, too, and
is a bright, talking little body----" But here Nan made such a
resolute effort to pass, that the rest of the sentence was lost upon
her.
Dick, who was strolling up and down the lawn rather discontentedly,
hurried up to her as she came out.
"They are playing a valse; come, Nan," he said, holding out his hand
to her with his usual eagerness; but she shook her head.
"I cannot dance; I am too tired: there are others you ought to ask."
She spoke a little ungraciously, and Dick's face wore a look of
dismay, as she walked away from him with quick even footsteps.
Tired! Nan tired! he had never heard of such a thing. What had put her
out? The sweet brightness had died out of her eyes, and her cheeks
were flaming. Should he follow her and have it out with her, there and
then? But, as he hesitated, young Hamilton came over the grass and
linked his arm in his.
"Come and introduce me to that girl in blue gauze, or whatever you
call that flimsy manufacture. Come along, there's a good fellow," he
said, coaxingly; and Dick's opportunity was lost.
But he was wrong; for once in her life Nan was tired; the poor girl
felt a sudden quenching of her bright elasticity that amounted to
absolute fatigue.
She had spoken to Dick sharply; but that was to get rid of him and to
recall him to a sense of his duty. Not for worlds would she be seen
dancing with him, or even talking to him, again!
She sat down on a stump of a tree in the shrubbery, and wondered
wearily what had taken it out of her so much. And then she recalled,
sentence by sentence, everything that had passed in the conservatory.
She had found out quite lately that Mr. Mayne did not approve of her
intimacy with Dick. His manner had somewhat changed to her, and
several times he had spoken to her in a carping, fault-finding
way,--little cut-and-dried sentences of elderly wisdom that she had
not understood at the time.
She had not pleased him of late, somehow, and all her little efforts
and overtures had been lost upon him. Nan had been quite aware of
this, but it had not troubled her much: it was a way he had, and he
meant nothing by it. Most men had humors that must be respected, and
Dick's father had his. So she bore herself very sweetly towards him,
treating his caustic remarks as jokes, and laughing pleasantly at
them, never taking his hints in earnest; he would know better some
day, that was all; but she had no idea of any deeply-laid plan against
their happiness. She felt as though some one had struck her hard; she
had received a blow that set all her nerves tingling. It was very
funny, what he said; it was so droll that it almost made her laugh;
and yet her eyes smarted, and her cheeks felt on fire.
"'Dick must marry money.' Why must he?--that was so droll. 'Well, not
an heiress exactly, but a pretty little sum of money, and a bright,
taking little body.' Who was this mysterious person whom he had in
view, whose connections were so desirable, who was to be Dick's future
wife? Dick's future wife!" repeated Nan, with an odd little quiver of
her lip. "And was it not droll, settling it all for him like that?"
Nan fell into a brown study, and then woke up with a little gasp. It
was all clear to her now, all these cut-and-dried sentences,--all
those veiled sneers and innuendoes.
They were poor,--poor as church-mice,--and Dick must marry money. Mr.
Mayne had laid his plans for his son, and was watching their growing
intimacy with disapproving eyes. Perhaps "the bright, taking little
body" might accompany them to Switzerland; perhaps among the mountains
Dick would forget her, and lend a ready acquiescence to his father's
plans. Who was she? Had Nan ever seen her? Could she be here this
afternoon, this future rival and enemy of her peace?
"Ah, what nonsense I am thinking!" she exclaimed to herself, starting
up with a little shame and impatience at her own thoughts. "What has
this all got to do with me? Let them settle it between
them,--money-bags and all. Dick is Dick, and after all, I am not
afraid!" And Nan marched back to the company, with her head higher,
and a great assumption of cheerfulness, and a little gnawing feeling
of discomfort at her heart, to which she would not have owned for
worlds.
Nan was the gayest of the gay that evening, but she would not dance
again with Dick: she sent the poor boy away from her with a decision
and peremptoriness that struck him with fresh dismay.
"You are not tired now, Nan; and have been waltzing ever so long with
Cathcart and Hamilton."
"Never mind about me to-night: you must go and ask Lady Fitzroy. No, I
am not cross. Do you think I would be cross to you on your birthday?
but all the same I will not have you neglect your duties. Go and ask
her this moment, sir!" And Nan smiled in his face in the most
bewitching way, and gave a little flutter to her fan. She accepted Mr.
Hamilton's invitation to a valse under Dick's very eyes, and whirled
away on his arm, while Dick stood looking at her ruefully.
Just at the very last moment Nan's heart relented.
"Walk down to the gate with us," she whispered, as she passed him on
her way to the cloak-room.
Dick, who was by this time in a somewhat surly humor, make no sort of
response; nevertheless Nan found him out on the gravel path waiting
for them in company with Cathcart and Hamilton.
Nan shook off the latter rather cleverly, and took Dick's arm, in
cheerful unconsciousness of his ill-humor.
"It is so good of you to come with us. I wanted to get you a moment to
myself, to congratulate you on the success of the evening. It was
admirably managed; every one says so: even Lady Fitzroy was pleased,
and her ladyship is a trifle fastidious. Have the band in-doors, and
set them to dancing,--that is what I said; and it has turned out a
complete success," finished Nan, with a little gush of enthusiasm; but
she did not find Dick responsive.
"Oh! bother the success and all that!" returned that very misguided
young man; "it was the slowest affair to me, I assure you, and I am
thankful it is over. You have spoiled the evening to me, and that is
what you have done," grumbled Dick, in his most ominous voice.
"I spoiled your evening, you ungrateful boy!" replied Nan, innocently;
but she smiled to herself in the darkness, and the reproach was sweet
to her. They had entered the garden of Glen Cottage by this time, and
Dick was fiercely marching her down a side-path that led to the
kitchen. The hall door stood open. Cathcart and Hamilton were
chattering with the girls in the porch, while Mrs. Challoner went
inside. They peered curiously into the summer dusk, as Dick's
impatient footsteps grated on the gravel path.
"I spoiled your evening!" repeated Nan, lifting her bright eyes with
the gleam of fun still in them.
"Yes," blurted out Dick. "Why have you kept me at such a distance all
the evening? Why would you not dance with me? and you gave Hamilton
three valses. It was not like you, Nan, to treat me so,--and on my
birthday too," went on the poor fellow, with a pathos that brought
another sort of gleam to Nan's eyes, only she still laughed.
"Ah, you foolish boy!" she said, and gave his coat-sleeve a coaxing
little pat. "I would rather have danced with you than Mr. Hamilton,
though he does reverse beautifully, and I never knew any one who
waltzed more perfectly."
"Oh, I do not presume to rival Hamilton," began Dick hotly, but she
silenced him.
"Listen to me, you foolish Dick! I would have danced with you, and
willingly, but I knew my duty better, or rather I knew yours. You were
a public man to-day; the eyes of the county were upon you. You had to
pay court to the big ladies, and to take no notice of poor little me.
I sent you away for your own good, and because I valued your duty
above my pleasure," continued this heroic young person, in a perfectly
satisfied tone.
"And you wanted to dance with me, Nan, and not with that goose of a
Hamilton?" in a wheedling voice.
"Yes, Dick; but he is not a goose for all that: he is more of a swan
in my opinion."
"He is a conceited ass!" was the very unexpected reply, which was a
little hard on Dick's chum, who was in many ways a most estimable
young man and vastly his superior. "Why are you laughing, when you
know I hate prigs? and Hamilton is about the biggest I ever knew." But
this did not mend matters, and Nan's laugh still rang merrily in the
darkness.
"What are those two doing?" asked Phillis, trying to peep between the
lilac-bushes, but failing to discover more than the white glimmer of
Nan's shawl.
Nan's laugh, though it was full of sweet triumph, only irritated Dick;
the lord of the evening was still too sore and humiliated by all these
rebuffs and repulses to take the fun in good part.
"What is it that amuses you so?" he asked, rather crossly. "That is
the worst of you girls; you are always so ready to make merry at a
fellow's expense. You are taking Hamilton's part against me, Nan,--I,
who am your oldest friend, who have always been faithful to you ever
since you were a child," continued the young man, with a growing sense
of aggravation.
"Oh, Dick!" and Nan's voice faltered a little; she was rather touched
at this.
Dick took instant note of the change of key, and went on in the same
injured voice:
"Why should I look after all the big people and take no notice of you?
Have I not made it my first duty to look after you as long as I can
remember? Though the whole world were about us, would you not be the
first and the principal to me?"
"Don't, Dick," she said, faintly, trying to repress him; "you must not
talk in that way, and I must not listen to you; your father would not
like it." The words were sweet to her,--precious beyond
everything,--but she must not have him speak them. But Dick, in his
angry excitement, was not to be repressed.
"What does it matter what he likes? This is between you and me, Nan;
no one shall meddle between us two." But what imprudent speech Dick
was about to add was suddenly quenched in light-pealing laughter. At
this critical moment they were met and surrounded; before them was the
red glow of Cathcart's cigar, the whiteness of Phillis's gown; behind
were two more advancing figures. In another second the young people
had joined hands: a dusky ring formed round the startled pair.
"Fairly caught!" cried Dulce's sunshiny voice; the mischievous little
monkey had no idea of the sport she was spoiling. None of the young
people thought of anything but fun; Dick was just Dick, and he and Nan
were always together.
Dick muttered something inaudible under his breath; but Nan was quite
equal to the occasion; she was still palpitating a little with the
pleasure Dick's words had given her, but she confronted her tormentors
boldly.
"You absurd creatures," she said, "to steal a march on us like that!
Dick and I were having a quarrel; we were fighting so hard that we did
not hear you."
"I enjoy a good fight above everything," exclaimed Cathcart, throwing
away his cigar. He was a handsome dark-eyed boy, with no special
individuality, except an overweening sense of fun. "What's the odds,
Mayne? and who is likely to be the winner?"
"Oh, Nan, of course," returned Dick, trying to recover himself. "I am
the captive of her spear and of her bow: she is in possession of
everything, myself included."
The rest laughed at Dick's jest, as they thought it; and Mr. Hamilton
said, "Bravo, Miss Challoner! we will help to drag him at your
chariot-wheels." But Nan changed color in the darkness.
They went in after this, and the young men took their leave in the
porch. Dick's strong grip of the hand conveyed his meaning fully to
Nan: "Remember, I meant it all," it seemed to say to her.
"What did it matter? I am quite sure of him. Dick is Dick," thought
Nan, as she laid her head happily on the pillow.
As for Dick, he had a long ordeal before him ere he could make his
escape to the smoking-room, where his friends awaited him. Mr. Mayne
had a great deal to say to him about the day, and Dick had to listen
and try to look interested.
"I am sure Dick behaved beautifully," observed Mrs. Mayne, when the
son and heir had at last lounged off to his companions.
"Well, yes; he did very well on the whole," was the grudging response;
"but I must say those Challoner girls made themselves far too
conspicuous for my taste;" but to this his wife prudently made no
reply.
CHAPTER VI.
MR. TRINDER'S VISIT.
The next few days passed far too quickly for Nan's pleasure, and
Dick's last morning arrived. The very next day the Maynes were to
start for Switzerland, and Longmead was to stand empty for the
remainder of the summer. It was a dreary prospect for Nan, and in
spite of her high spirits her courage grew somewhat low. Six months!
who could know what might happen before they met again? Nan was not
the least bit superstitious, neither was it her wont to indulge in
useless speculations or forebodings; but she could not shake off this
morning a strange uncanny feeling that haunted her in spite of
herself--a presentiment that things were not going to be just as she
would have them,--that Dick and she would not meet again in exactly
the same manner.
"How silly I am!" she thought, for the twentieth time, as she brushed
out her glossy brown hair and arranged it in her usual simple
fashion.
Nan and her sisters were a little behind the times in some ways; they
had never thought fit to curl their hair _en garcon_, or to mount a
pyramid of tangled curls in imitation of a poodle; no pruning scissors
had touched the light-springing locks that grew so prettily about
their temples; in this, as in much else, they were unlike other girls,
for they dared to put individuality before fashion, and good taste and
a sense of beauty against the specious arguments of the multitude.
"How silly I am!" again repeated Nan. "What can happen, what should
happen, except that I shall have a dull summer, and shall be very glad
when Christmas and Dick come together;" and then she shook her little
basket of housekeeping keys until they jingled merrily, and ran
downstairs with a countenance she meant to keep bright for the rest of
the day.
They were to play tennis at the Paines' that afternoon, and afterwards
the three girls were to dine at Longmead. Mrs. Challoner had been
invited also; but she had made some excuse, and pleaded for a quiet
evening. She was never very ready to accept these invitations; there
was nothing in common between her and Mrs. Mayne; and in her heart she
agreed with Lady Fitzroy in thinking the master of Longmead odious.
It was Mr. Mayne who had tendered this parting hospitality to his
neighbors, and he chose to be much offended at Mrs. Challoner's
refusal.
"I think it is very unfriendly of your mother, when we are such old
neighbors, and on our last evening, too," he said to Nan, as she
entered the drawing-room that evening bringing her mother's excuses
wrapped up in the prettiest words she could find.
"Mother is not quite well; she does not feel up to the exertion of
dining out to-night," returned Nan, trying to put a good face on it,
but feeling as though things were too much for her this evening. It
was bad enough for Mr. Mayne to insist on them all coming up to a long
formal dinner, and spoiling their chances of a twilight stroll; but it
was still worse for her mother to abandon them after this fashion.
The new novel must have had something to do with this sudden
indisposition; but when Mrs. Challoner had wrapped herself up in her
white shawl, always a bad sign with her, and had declared herself
unfit for any exertion, what could a dutiful daughter do but deliver
her excuses as gracefully as she could? Nevertheless, Mr. Mayne
frowned and expressed himself ill pleased.
"I should have thought an effort could have been made on such an
occasion," was his final thrust, as he gave his arm ungraciously to
Nan, and conducted her with ominous solemnity to the table.
It was not a festive meal, in spite of all Mrs. Mayne's efforts. Dick
looked glum. He was separated from Nan by a vast silver epergne, that
fully screened her from view. Another time she would have peeped
merrily round at him and given him a sprightly nod or two; but how was
she to do it when Mr. Mayne never relaxed his gloomy muscles, and when
he insisted on keeping up a ceremonious flow of conversation with her
on the subjects of the day?
When Dick tried to strike into their talk, he got so visibly snubbed
that he was obliged to take refuge with Phillis.
"You young fellows never know what you are talking about," observed
Mr. Mayne, sharply, when Dick had hazarded a remark about the
Premier's policy; "you are a Radical one day, and a Conservative
another. That comes of your debating societies. You take contrary
sides, and mix up a balderdash of ideas, until you don't know whether
you are standing on your head or your heels;" and it was after this
that Dick found his refuge with Phillis.
It was little better when they were all in the drawing-room together.
If Mr. Mayne had invited them there for the purpose of keeping them
all under his own eyes and making them uncomfortable, he could not
have managed better. When Dick suggested a stroll in the garden, he
said,--
"Pshaw! what nonsense proposing such a thing, when the dews are heavy
and the girls will catch their deaths of cold!"
"We do it every evening of our life," observed Nan, hardily; but even
she dared not persevere in the face of this protest, though she
exchanged a rebellious look with Dick that did him good and put him in
a better humor.
They found their way into the conservatory after that, but were hunted
out on pretence of having a little music; at least Nan would have it
that it was pretence.
"Your father does not care much for music, I know," she whispered, as
she placed herself at the grand piano, while Dick leaned against it
and watched her. It was naughty of Nan, but there was no denying that
she found Mr. Mayne more aggravating than usual this evening.
"Come, come, Miss Nancy!" he called out,--he always called her that
when he wished to annoy her, for Nan had a special dislike to her
quaint, old-fashioned name; it had been her mother's and grandmother's
name; in every generation there had been a Nancy Challoner,--"come,
come, Miss Nancy! we cannot have you playing at hide-and-seek in this
fashion. We want some music. Give us something rousing, to keep us all
awake." And Nan had reluctantly placed herself at the piano.
She did her little best according to orders, for she dared not offend
Dick's father. None of the Challoners were accomplished girls. Dulce
sang a little, and so did Nan, but Phillis could not play the simplest
piece without bungling and her uncertain little warblings, which were
sweet but hardly true, were reserved for church.
Dulce sang very prettily, but she could only manage her own
accompaniments or a sprightly valse. Nan, who did most of the
execution of the family, was a very fair performer from a young lady's
point of view, and that is not saying much. She always had her piece
ready if people wanted her to play. She sat down without nervousness
and rose without haste. She had a choice little repertory of old songs
and ballads, that she could produce without hesitation from
memory,--"My mother bids me bind my hair," or "Bid your faithful Ariel
fly," and such-like old songs, in which there is more melody than in a
hundred new ones, and which she sang in a simple, artless fashion that
pleased the elder people greatly. Dulce could do more than this, but
her voice had never been properly tutored, and she sang her bird-music
in bird-fashion, rather wildly and shrilly, with small respect to
rule and art, nevertheless making a pleasing noise, a young foreigner
once told her.
When Nan had exhausted her little stock, Mr. Mayne peremptorily
invited them to a round game; and the rest of the evening was spent in
trying to master the mysteries of a new game, over the involved rules
of which Mr. Mayne as usual, wrangled fiercely with everybody, while
Dick shrugged his shoulders and shuffled his cards with such evident
ill-humor that Nan hurried her sisters away half an hour before the
usual time, in terror of an outbreak.
It was an utterly disappointing evening; and, to make matters worse,
Mr. Mayne actually lit his cigar and strolled down the garden-paths,
keeping quite close to Nan, and showing such obvious intention of
accompanying them to the very gate of the cottage that there could be
no thought of any sweet lingering in the dusk.
"I will be even with him," growled Dick, who was in a state of
suppressed irritation under this unexpected surveillance; and in the
darkest part of the road he twitched Nan's sleeve to attract her
attention, and whispered, in so low a voice that his father could not
hear him, "This is not good-bye. I will be round at the cottage
to-morrow morning;" and Nan nodded hurriedly, and then turned her head
to answer Mr. Mayne's last question.
If Dick had put all his feelings in his hand-shake, it could not have
spoken to Nan more eloquently of the young man's wrath and chagrin and
concealed tenderness. Nan shot him one of her swift straightforward
looks in answer.
"Nevermind," it seemed to say; "we shall have to-morrow;" and then she
bade them cheerfully good-night.
Dorothy met her in the hall, and put down her chamber-candlestick.
"Has the mother gone to bed yet, Dorothy?" questioned the young
mistress, speaking still with that enforced cheerfulness.
"No, Miss Nan; she is still in there," jerking her head in the
direction of the drawing-room. "Mr. Trinder called, and was with her a
long time. I thought she seemed a bit poorly when I took in the
lamp."
"Mamsie is never fit for anything when that old ogre has been," broke
in Dulce, impatiently. "He always comes and tells her some nightmare
tale or other to prevent her sleeping. Now we shall not have the new
gowns we set our hearts on, Nan."
"Oh, never mind the gowns," returned Nan, rather wearily.
What did it matter if they had to wear their old ones when Dick would
not be there to see them? And Dorothy, who was contemplating her
favorite nursling with the privileged tenderness of an old servant,
chimed in with the utmost cheerfulness:
"It does not matter what she wears; does it, Miss Nan? She looks just
as nice in an old gown as a new one; that is what I say of all my
young ladies; dress does not matter a bit to them."
"How long are you all going to stand chattering with Dorothy?"
interrupted Phillis, in her clear decided voice. "Mother will wonder
what conspiracy we are hatching, and why we leave her so long alone."
And then Dorothy took up her candlestick, grumbling a little, as she
often did, over Miss Phillis's masterful ways, and the girls went
laughingly into their mother's presence.
Though it was summer-time, Mrs. Challoner's easy-chair was drawn up in
front of the rug, and she sat wrapped in her white shawl, with her
eyes fixed on the pretty painted fire-screen that hid the blackness of
the coals. She did not turn her head or move as her daughters entered;
indeed, so motionless was her attitude that Dulce thought she was
asleep, and went on tiptoe round her chair to steal a kiss. But Nan,
who had caught sight of her mother's face, put her quickly aside.
"Don't, Dulce; mother is not well. What is the matter, mammie,
darling?" kneeling down and bringing her bright face on a level with
her mother's. She would have taken her into her vigorous young arms,
but Mrs. Challoner almost pushed her away.
"Hush, children! Do be quiet, Nan; I cannot talk to you. I cannot
answer questions to-night." And then she shivered, and drew her shawl
closer round her, and put away Nan's caressing hands, and looked at
them all with a face that seemed to have grown pinched and old all at
once, and eyes full of misery.
"Mammie, you must speak to us," returned Nan, not a whit daunted by
this rebuff, but horribly frightened all the time. "Of course, Dorothy
told us that Mr. Trinder has been here, and of course we know that it
is some trouble about money." Then, at the mention of Mr. Trinder's
name, Mrs. Challoner shivered again.
Nan waited a moment for an answer: but, as none came, she went on in
coaxing voice:
"Don't be afraid to tell us, mother darling; we can all bear a little
trouble, I hope. We have had such happy lives, and we cannot go on
being happy always," continued the girl, with the painful conviction
coming suddenly into her mind that the brightness of these days was
over. "Money is very nice, and one cannot do without it, I suppose;
but as long as we are together and love each other----"
Then Mrs. Challoner fixed her heavy eyes on her daughter and took up
the unfinished sentence:
"Ah, if we could only be together!--if I were not to be separated from
my children! it is that--that is crushing me!" and then she pressed
her dry lips together, and folded her hands with a gesture of despair;
"but I know that it must be, for Mr. Trinder has told me everything.
It is no use shutting our eyes and struggling on any longer; for we
are ruined--ruined!" her voice sinking into indistinctness.
Nan grew a little pale. If they were ruined, how would it be with her
and Dick! And then she thought of Mr. Mayne, and her heart felt faint
within her. Nan, who had Dick added to her perplexities, was hardly
equal to the emergency; but it was Phillis who took the domestic helm
as it fell from her sister's hand.
"If we be ruined, mother," she said, briskly, "it is not half so bad
as having you ill. Nan, why don't you rub her hands! she is shivering
with cold, or with the bad news, or something. I mean to set Dorothy
at defiance, and to light a nice little fire, in spite of the clean
muslin curtains. When one is ill or unhappy, there is nothing so
soothing as a fire," continued Phillis as she removed the screen and
kindled the dry wood, not heeding Mrs. Challoner's feeble
remonstrances.
"Don't, Phillis: we shall not be able to afford fires now;" and then
she became a little hysterical. But Phillis persisted, and the red
glow was soon coaxed into a cheerful blaze.
"That looks more comfortable. I feel chilly myself; these summer
nights are sometimes deceptive. I wonder what Dorothy will say to us;
I mean to ask her to make us all some tea. No, mamma, you are not to
interfere; it will do you good, and we don't mean to have you ill if
we can help it." And then she looked meaningly at Nan, and withdrew.
There was no boiling water, of course, and the kitchen fire was raked
out; and Dorothy was sitting in solitary state, looking very grim.
"It is time for folks to be in their beds, Miss Phillis," she said,
very crossly. "I don't hold with tea myself so late: it excites
people, and keeps them awake."
"Mother is not just the thing, and a cup of tea will do her good.
Don't let us keep you up, Dorothy," replied Phillis, blandly. "I have
lighted the drawing-room-fire, and I can boil the kettle in there. If
mother has got a chill, I would not answer for the consequences."
Dorothy grew huffy at the mention of the fire, and would not aid or
abet her young lady's "fad," as she called it.
"If you don't want me, I think I will go to bed, Miss Phillis. Susan
went off a long time ago." And, as Phillis cheerfully acquiesced in
this arrangement, Dorothy decamped with a frown on her brow, and left
Phillis mistress of the situation.
"There, now, I have got rid of the cross old thing," she observed, in
a tone of relief, as she filled the kettle and arranged the little
tea-tray.
She carried them both into the room, poising the tray skilfully in her
hand. Nan looked up in a relieved way as she entered. Mrs. Challoner
was stretching out her chilled hands to the blaze. Her face had lost
its pinched unnatural expression; it was as though the presence of
her girls fenced her in securely, and her misfortune grew more shadowy
and faded into the background. She drank the tea when it was given to
her, and even begged Nan to follow her example. Nan took a little to
please her, though she hardly believed its solace would be great; but
Phillis and Dulce drank theirs in a business-like way, as though they
needed support and were not ashamed to own it. It was Nan who put down
her cup first, and leaned her cheek against her mother's hand.
"Now, mother dear, we want to hear all about it. Does Mr. Trinder say
we are really so dreadfully poor?"
"We have been getting poorer for along time," returned her mother,
mournfully; "but if we had only a little left us I would not complain.
You see, your father would persist in these investments in spite of
all Mr. Trinder could say, and now his words have come true." But this
vague statement did not satisfy Nan; and patiently, and with
difficulty, she drew from her mother all that the lawyer had told
her.
Mr. Challoner had been called to the bar early in life, but his career
had hardly been a successful one. He had held few briefs, and, though
he worked hard, and had good capabilities, he had never achieved
fortune; and as he lived up to his income, and was rather fond of the
good things of this life, he got through most of his wife's money,
and, contrary to the advice of older and wiser heads, invested the
remainder in the business of a connection who only wanted capital to
make his fortune and Mr. Challoner's too.
It was a grievous error; and yet, if Mr. Challoner had lived, those
few thousands would hardly have been so sorely missed. He was young in
his profession, and if he had been spared, success would have come to
him as to other men; but he was cut off unexpectedly in the prime of
life, and Mrs. Challoner gave up her large house at Kensington, and
settled at Glen Cottage with her three daughters, understanding that
life was changed for her, and that they should have to be content with
small means and few wants.
Hitherto they had had sufficient; but of late there had been dark
whispers concerning that invested money; things were not quite square
and above-board; the integrity of the firm was doubted. Mr. Trinder,
almost with tears in his eyes, begged Mrs. Challoner to be prudent and
spend less. The crash which he had foreseen, and had vainly tried to
avert, had come to-night. Gardiner & Fowler were bankrupt, and their
greatest creditor, Mrs. Challoner, was ruined.
"We cannot get our money. Mr. Trinder says we never shall. They have
been paying their dividends correctly, keeping it up as a sort of
blind, he says: but all the capital is eaten away. George Gardiner,
too, your father's cousin, the man he trusted above every one,--he to
defraud the widow and the fatherless, to take our money--my children's
only portion--and to leave us beggared." And Mrs. Challoner, made
tragical by this great blow, clasped her hands and looked at her girls
with two large tears rolling down her face.
"Mother, are you sure? is it quite as bad as that?" asked Nan; and
then she kissed away the tears, and said something rather brokenly
about having faith, and trying not to lose courage; then her voice
failed her, and they all sat quiet together.
CHAPTER VII.
PHILLIS'S CATECHISM.
A veil of silence fell over the little party. After the first few
moments of dismay, conjecture, and exclamation, there did not seem to
be much that any one could say. Each girl was busy with her own
thoughts and private interpretation of a most sorrowful enigma. What
were they to do? How were they to live without separation, and without
taking a solitary plunge into an unknown and most terrifying world?
Nan's frame of mind was slightly monotonous. What would Dick say, and
how would this affect certain vague hopes she had lately cherished?
Then she thought of Mr. Mayne, and shivered, and a sense of coldness
and remote fear stole over her.
One could hardly blame her for this sweet dual selfishness, that was
not selfishness. She was thinking less of herself than of a certain
vigorous young life that was becoming strongly entwined with hers. It
was all very well to say that Dick was Dick; but what could the most
obstinate will of even that most obstinate young man avail against
such a miserable combination of adverse influences,--"when the stars
in their courses fought against Sisera"? And at this juncture of her
thoughts she could feel Phillis's hand folding softly over hers with a
most sisterly pressure of full understanding and sympathy. Phillis had
no Dick to stand sentinel over her private thoughts; she was free to
be alert and vigilant for others. Nevertheless, her forehead was
puckered up with hard thinking, and her silence was so very expressive
that Dulce sat and looked at her with grave unsmiling eyes, the
innocent child-look in them growing very pathetic at the
speechlessness that had overtaken them. As for Mrs. Challoner, she
still moaned feebly from time to time, as she stretched her numb hands
towards the comforting warmth. They were fine delicate hands, with the
polished look of old ivory, and there were diamond rings on them that
twinkled and shone as she moved them in her restlessness.
"They shall all go; I will keep nothing," she said, regarding them
plaintively; for they were heirlooms, and highly valued as relics of a
wealthy past. "It is not this sort of thing that I mind. I would live
on a crust thankfully, if I could only keep my children with me." And
she looked round at the blooming faces of her girls with eyes brimming
over with maternal fondness.
Poor Dulce's lips quivered, and she made a horrified gesture.
"Oh, mamsie, don't talk so. I never could bear crusts, unless they
were well buttered. I like everything to be nice, and to have plenty
of it,--plenty of sunshine, and fun, and holiday-making, and friends;
and--and now you are talking as though we must starve, and never have
anything to wear, and go nowhere and be miserable forever?" And here
Dulce broke into actual sobs; for was she not the petted darling? and
had she not had a life so gilded by sunshine that she had never seen
the dark edge of a single cloud? So that even Nan forgot Dick for a
moment, and looked at her young sister pityingly; but Phillis
interposed with bracing severity:
"Don't talk such nonsense, Dulce. Of course we must eat to live, and
of course we must have clothes to wear. Aren't Nan and I thinking
ourselves into headaches by trying to contrive how even the crusts you
so despise are to be bought?" which was hardly true as far as Nan was
concerned, for she blushed guiltily over this telling point in
Phillis's eloquence. "It only upsets mother to talk like this." And
then she touched the coals skilfully, till they spluttered and blazed
into fury. "There is the Friary, you know," she continued, looking
calmly round on them, as though she felt herself full of resources.
"If Dulce chooses to make herself miserable about the crusts, we have,
at least, a roof to shelter us."
"I forgot the Friary," murmured Nan, looking at her sister with
admiration; and, though Mrs. Challoner said nothing, she started a
little as though she had forgotten it too. But Dulce was not to be
comforted.
"That horrid, dismal, pokey old cottage!" she returned, with a shrill
rendering of each adjective. "You would have us go and live in that
damp, musty, fusty place?"
Phillis gave a succession of quick little nods.
"I don't think it particularly dismal, or Nan either," she returned,
in her brisk way. Phillis always answered for Nan, and was never
contradicted. "It is not dear Glen Cottage, of course, but we could
not begin munching our crusts here," she continued, with a certain
grim humor. Things were apparently at their worst; but at least
she,--Phillis,--the clever one, as she had heard herself called, would
do her best to keep the heads of the little family above water. "It is
a nice little place enough if we were only humble enough to see it;
and it is not damp, and it is our own," running up the advantages as
well as she could.
"The Friary!" commented her mother, in some surprise: "to think of
that queer old cottage coming into your head! And it so seldom lets.
And people say it is dear at forty pounds a year; and it is so dull
that they do not care to stay."
"Never mind all that, mammy," returned Phillis, with a grave
business-like face. "A cottage, rent-free, that will hold us, is not
to be despised; and Hadleigh is a nice place, and the sea always suits
you. There is the house, and the furniture, that belongs to us; and we
have plenty of clothes for the present. How much did Mr. Trinder think
we should have in hand?"
Then her mother told her, but still mournfully, that they might
possibly have about a hundred pounds. "But there are my rings and that
piece of point-lace that Lady Fitzroy admired so----" but Phillis
waved away that proposition with an impatient frown.
"There is plenty of time for that when we have got through all the
money. Not that a hundred pounds would last long, with moving, and
paying off the servants, and all that sort of thing."
Then Nan, who had worn all along an expression of admiring confidence
in Phillis's resources, originated an idea of her own.
"The mother might write to Uncle Francis, perhaps;" but at this
proposition Mrs. Challoner sat upright and looked almost offended.
"My dear Nan, what a preposterous idea! Your uncle Francis!"
"Well, mammy, he is our uncle; and I am sure he would be sorry if his
only brother's children were to starve."
"You are too young to know any better," returned Mrs. Challoner,
relapsing into alarmed feebleness; "you are not able to judge. But I
never liked my brother-in-law,--never; he was not a good man. He was
not a person whom one could trust," continued the poor lady, trying to
soften down certain facts to her innocent young daughters.
Sir Francis Challoner had been a black sheep,--a very black sheep
indeed: one who had dyed himself certainly to a most sable hue; and
though, for such prodigals, there may be a late repentance and much
killing of fatted calves, still Mrs. Challoner was right in refusing
to intrust herself and her children to the uncertain mercies of such a
sinner.
Now, Nan knew nothing about the sin; but she did think that an uncle
who was a baronet threw a certain reflected glory or brightness over
them. Sir Francis might be that very suspicious character, a black
sheep; he might be landless, with the exception of that ruined
tenement in the North; nevertheless, Nan loved to know that he was of
their kith and kin. It seemed to settle their claims to
respectability, and held Mr. Mayne in some degree of awe; and he knew
that his own progenitors had not the faintest trace of blue blood, and
numbered more aldermen than baronets.
It would have surprised and grieved Nan, especially just now, if she
had known that no such glory remained to her,--that Sir Francis
Challoner had long filled the cup of his iniquities, and lay in his
wife's tomb in some distant cemetery, leaving a certain red-headed Sir
Harry to reign in his stead.
"I don't think we had better talk anymore," observed Phillis, somewhat
brusquely: and then she exchanged meaning looks with Nan. The two
girls were somewhat dismayed at their mother's wan looks; her
feebleness and uncertainty of speech, the very vagueness of her
lamentations, filled them with sad forebodings for the future. How
were they to leave her, when they commenced that little fight with the
world? She had leaned on them so long that her helplessness had become
a matter of habit.
Nan understood her sister's warning glance, and she made no further
allusion to Sir Francis; she only rose with assumed briskness, and
took her mother in charge.
"Now I am going to help you to bed, mammy darling," she said,
cheerfully. "Phillis is quite right: we will not talk any more
to-night; we shall want all our strength for to-morrow. We will just
say our prayers, and try and go to sleep, and hope that things may
turn out better than we expect." And, as Mrs. Challoner was too
utterly spent to resist this wise counsel, Nan achieved her pious
mission with some success. She sat down by the bedside and leaned her
head against her mother's pillow, and soon had the satisfaction of
hearing the even breathing that proved that the sleeper had forgotten
her troubles for a little while.
"Poor dear mother! how exhausted she must have been!" thought Nan, as
she closed the door softly. She was far too anxious and wide awake
herself to dream of retiring to rest. She was somewhat surprised to
find her sisters' room dark and empty as she passed. They must be
still downstairs, talking over things in the firelight: they were as
little inclined for sleep as she was. Phillis's carefully decocted tea
must have stimulated them to wakefulness.
The room was still bright with firelight. Dulce was curled up in her
mother's chair, and had evidently been indulging in what she called "a
good cry." Phillis, sombre and thoughtful, was pacing the room, with
her hands clasped behind her head,--a favorite attitude of hers when
she was in any perplexity. She stopped short as Nan regarded her with
some astonishment from the threshold.
"Oh, come in, Nan: it will be such a relief to talk to a sensible
person. Dulce is so silly, she does nothing but cry."
"I can't help it," returned Dulce, with another sob; "everything is so
horrible, and Phillis will say such dreadful things."
"Poor little soul!" said Nan, in a sympathetic voice, sitting down on
the arm of the chair and stroking Dulce's hair; "it is very hard for
her and for us all," with a pent-up sigh.
"Of course it is hard," retorted Phillis, confronting them rather
impatiently from the hearth-rug; "it is bitterly hard. But it is not
worse for Dulce than for the rest of us. Crying will not mend matters,
and it is a sheer waste of tears. As I tell her, what we have to do
now is to make the best of things, and see what is to be done under
the circumstances."
"Yes, indeed," repeated Nan, meekly; but she put her arm round Dulce,
and drew her head against her shoulder. The action comforted Dulce,
and her tears soon ceased to flow.
"I am thinking about mother," went on Phillis, pondering her words
slowly as she spoke; "she does look so ill and weak. I do not see how
we are to leave her."
Mrs. Challoner's moral helplessness and dread of responsibility were
so sacred in her daughters' eyes that they rarely alluded to them
except in this vague fashion. For years they had shielded and petted
her, and given way to her little fads and fancies, until she had
developed into a sort of gentle hypochondriac.
"Mother cannot bear this; we always keep these little worries from
her," Nan had been accustomed to say; and the others had followed her
example.
The unspoken thought lay heavy upon them now. How were they to prevent
the rough winds of adversity from blowing too roughly upon their
cherished charge? The roof, and perhaps the crust, might be theirs;
but how were they to contrive that she should not miss her little
comforts? They would gladly work; but how, and after what fashion?
Phillis was the first to plunge into the unwelcome topic, for Nan felt
almost as helpless and bewildered as Dulce.
"We must go into the thing thoroughly," began Phillis, drawing a chair
opposite to her sisters. She was very pale, but her eyes had a certain
brightness of determination. She looked too young for that quiet
care-worn look that had come so suddenly to her; but one felt she
could be equal to any emergency. "We are down-hearted, of course; but
we have plenty of time for all that sort of thing. The question is,
how are we to live?"
"Just so," observed Nan, rather dubiously; and Dulce gave a little
gasp.
"There is the Friary standing empty; and there is the furniture; and
there will be about fifty pounds, perhaps less, when every thing is
settled. And we have clothes enough to last some time, and----" here
Dulce put her hands together pleadingly, but Phillis looked at her
severely, and went on: "Forty or fifty pounds will soon be spent, and
then we shall be absolutely penniless; we have no one to help us.
Mother will not hear of writing to Uncle Francis; we must work
ourselves or starve."
"Couldn't we let lodgings?" hazarded Dulce, with quavering voice; but
Phillis smiled grimly.
"Let lodgings at the Friary! why, it is only big enough to hold us. We
might get a larger house in Hadleigh; but no, it would be ruinous to
fail, and perhaps we should not make it answer. I cannot fancy mother
living in the basement story; she would make herself wretched over it.
We are too young. I don't think that would answer, Nan: do you?"
Nan replied faintly that she did not think it would. The mere
proposition took her breath away. What would Mr. Mayne say to that?
Then she plucked up spirit and went into the question vigorously.
There were too many lodging-houses in Hadleigh now; it would be a
hazardous speculation, and one likely to fail; they had not sufficient
furniture for such a purpose, and they dare not use up their little
capital too quickly. They were too young, too, to carry out such a
thing, Nan did not add "and too pretty," though she colored and
hesitated here. Their mother could not help them; she was not strong
enough for housework or cooking. She thought that plan must be given
up.
"We might be daily governesses, and live at home," suggested Dulce,
who found a sort of relief in throwing out feelers in every direction.
Nan brightened up visibly at this, but Phillis's moody brow did not
relax for a moment.
"That would be nice," acquiesced Nan, "and then mother would not find
the day so long if we came home in the evening; she could busy herself
about the house, and we could leave her little things to do, and she
would not find the hours so heavy. I like that idea of yours, Dulce;
and we are all so fond of children."
"The idea is as nice as possible," replied Phillis, with an ominous
stress on the noun, "if we could only make it practicable."
"Phil is going to find fault," pouted Dulce, who knew every inflection
of Phillis's voice.
"Oh, dear, no, nothing of the kind!" she retorted, briskly. "Nan is
quite right: we all dote on children. I should dearly like to be a
governess myself; it would be more play than work; but I am only
wondering who would engage us."
"Who?--oh, anybody!" returned Nan, feeling puzzled by the smothered
satire of Phillis's speech. "Of course we are not certificated, and I
for one could only teach young children; but----" here Phillis
interrupted her:
"Don't think me horrid if I ask you and Dulce some questions, but
do--do answer me just as though I were going through the Catechism: we
are only girls, but we must sift the whole thing thoroughly. Are we
fit for governesses? what can you and I and Dulce teach?"
"Oh, anything!" returned Nan, still more vaguely.
"My dear Nanny, anything won't do. Come, I am really in earnest; I
mean to catechise you both thoroughly."
"Very well," returned Nan, in a resigned voice; but Dulce looked a
little frightened. As for Phillis, she sat erect, with her finger
pointed at them in a severely ominous fashion.
"How about history, Nan? I thought you could never remember dates; you
used to jumble facts in the most marvellous manner. I remember your
insisting that Anne of Cleves was Louis XII.'s second wife; and you
shocked Miss Martin dreadfully by declaring that one of Marlborough's
victories was fought at Cressy."
"I never could remember historical facts," returned Nan, humbly.
"Dulce always did better than I; and so did you, Phillis. When I teach
the children I can have the book before me." But Phillis only shook
her head at this, and went on:
"Dulce was a shade better, but I don't believe she could tell me the
names of the English sovereigns in proper sequence;" but Dulce
disdained to answer. "You were better at arithmetic, Nan. Dulce never
got through her rule of three; but you were not very advanced even at
that. You write a pretty hand, and you used to talk French very
fluently."
"Oh, I have forgotten my French!" exclaimed Nan, in a panic-stricken
voice. "Dulce, don't you remember me quite settled to talk in French
over our work three times a week, and we have always forgotten it; and
we were reading Madame de Sevigne's 'Letters' together, and I found
the book the other day quite covered with dust."
"I hate French," retuned Dulce, rebelliously. "I began German with
Phillis, and like it much better."
"True, but we are only beginners," returned the remorseless Phillis:
"it was very nice, of course, and the Taugenichts' was delicious; but
think how many words in every sentence you had to hunt out in the
dictionary. I am glad you feel so competent, Dulce; but I could not
teach German myself, or French either. I don't remember enough of the
grammar; and I do not believe Nan does either, though she used to
chatter so to Miss Martin."
"Did I not say she would pick our idea to pieces?" returned Dulce,
with tears in her eyes.
"My dear little sister don't look so dreadfully pathetic. I am quite
as disheartened and disappointed as you are. Nan says she has
forgotten her French, and she will have to teach history with an open
book before her; we none of us draw--no, Dulce please let me finish
our scanty stock of accomplishments. I only know my notes,--for no one
cares to hear me lumber through my pieces,--and I sing at church. You
have the sweetest voice Dulce, but it is not trained; and I cannot
compliment you on your playing. Nan sings and plays very nicely, and
it is a pleasure to listen to her; but I am afraid she knows little
about the theory of music, harmony and thorough-bass: you never did
anything in that way, did you, Nan?"
Nan shook her head sadly. She was too discomfited for speech. Phillis
looked at them both thoughtfully; her trouble was very real, but she
could not help a triumphant inflection in her voice.
"Dear Nan, please do not look so unhappy. Dulce, you shall not begin
to cry again. Don't you remember what mother was reading to us the
other day, about the country being flooded with incompetent
governesses,--half-educated girls turned loose on the world to earn
their living? I can remember one sentence of that writer, word for
word: 'The standard of education is so high at the present day, and
the number of certificated reliable teachers so much increased, that
we can afford to discourage the crude efforts to teach, or un-teach,
our children.' And then he goes on to ask, 'What has become of womanly
conscientiousness, when such ignorance presses forward to assume such
sacred responsibilities? Better the competent nurse than the
incompetent governess.' 'Why do not these girls,' he asks, 'who,
through their own fault or the fault of circumstances, are not
sufficiently advanced to educate others--why do they not rather
discharge the exquisitely feminine duties of the nursery? What an
advantage to parents to have their little ones brought into the
earliest contact with refined speech and cultivated manners,--their
infant ears not inoculated by barbarous English!'" but here Phillis
was arrested in her torrent of reflected wisdom by an impatient
exclamation from Dulce.
"Oh, Nan, do ask her to be quiet! She never stops when she once
begins. How can we listen to such rubbish, when we are so wretched?
You may talk for hours, Phil, but I never, never will be a nurse!" And
Dulce hid her face on Nan's shoulder in such undisguised distress that
her sisters had much ado to comfort her.
CHAPTER VIII.
"WE SHOULD HAVE TO CARRY PARCELS."
It was hard work to tranquillize Dulce.
"I never, never will be a nurse!" she sobbed out at intervals.
"You little goose, who ever thought of such a thing? Why will you
misunderstand me so?" sighed Phillis, almost in despair at her
sister's impracticability. "I am only trying to prove to you and Nan
that we are not fit for governesses."
"No, indeed; I fear you are right there," replied poor Nan, who had
never realized her deficiences before. They were all bright, taking
girls, with plenty to say for themselves, lady-like, and well-bred.
Who would have thought that, when weighed in the balance, they would
have been found so wanting? "I always knew I was a very stupid person;
but you are different,--you are so clever, Phil."
"Nonsense, Nanny! It is a sort of cleverness for which there is no
market. I am fond of reading. I remember things, and do a great deal
of thinking; but I am destitute of accomplishments: my knowledge of
languages is purely superficial. We are equal to other girls,--just
young ladies, and nothing more; but when it comes to earning our
bread-and-butter----" Here Phillis paused, and threw out her hands
with a little gesture of despair.
"But you work so beautifully; and so does Nan," interrupted Dulce, who
was a little comforted, now she knew Phillis had no prospective
nurse-maid theory in view. "I am good at it myself," she continued,
modestly, feeling that, in this case, self-praise was allowable. "We
might be companions,--some nice old lady who wants her caps made, and
requires some one to read to her," faltered Dulce, with her child-like
pleading look.
Nan gave her a little hug; but she left the answer to Phillis, who
went at once into a brown study, and only woke up after a long
interval.
"I am looking at it all round," she said, when Nan at last pressed for
her opinion; "it is not a bad idea. I think it very possible that
either you or I, Nan,--or both, perhaps,--might find something in that
line to suit us. There are old ladies everywhere; and some of them are
rich and lonely and want companions."
"You have forgotten me?" exclaimed Dulce, with natural jealousy, and a
dislike to be overlooked, inherent in most young people. "And it is I
who have always made mammy's caps and you know how Lady Fitzroy
praised the last one."
"Yes, yes; we know all that," returned Phillis, impatiently. "You are
as clever as possible with your fingers; but one of us must stop with
mother, and you are the youngest, Dulce; that is what I meant by
looking at it all round. If Nan and I were away, it would never do for
you and mother to live at the Friary. We could not afford a servant,
and we should want the forty pounds a year to pay for bare
necessaries; for our salary would not be very great. You would have to
live in lodgings,--two little rooms, that is all; and even then I am
afraid you and mother would be dreadfully pinched, for we should have
to dress ourselves properly in other people's houses."
"Oh, Phillis, that would not do at all!" exclaimed Nan, in a voice of
despair. She was very pale by this time: full realization of all this
trouble was coming to her, as it had come to Phillis. "What shall we
do? Who will help us to any decision? How are you and I to go away and
live luxuriously in other people's houses, and leave mother and Dulce
pining in two shabby little rooms, with nothing to do, and perhaps not
enough to eat, and mother fretting herself ill, and Dulce losing her
bloom? I could not rest; I could not sleep for thinking of it. I would
rather take in plain needlework, and live on dry bread if we could
only be together, and help each other."
"So would I," returned Phillis, in an odd, muffled voice.
"And I too," rather hesitatingly from Dulce.
"If we could only live at the Friary, and have Dorothy to do all the
rough work," sighed Nan, with a sudden yearning towards even that very
shabby ark of refuge: "if we could only be together, and see each
other every day, things would not be quite so dreadful."
"I am quite of your opinion," was Phillis's curt observation: but
there was a sudden gleam in her eyes.
"I have heard of ladies working for fancy-shops; do you think we could
do something of that kind?" asked Nan, anxiously. "Even mother could
help us in that; and Dulce does work so beautifully. It is all very
well to say we have no accomplishments," went on Nan, with apathetic
little laugh, "but you know that no other girls work as we do. We have
always made our own dresses. And Lady Fitzroy asked me once who was
our dressmaker, because she fitted us so exquisitely; and I was so
proud of telling her that we always did our own, with Dorothy to
help----"
"Nan," interrupted Phillis, eagerly, and there was a great softness in
her whole mien, and her eyes were glistening,--"dear Nan, do you love
us all so that you could give up the whole world for our sakes,--for
the sake of living together, I mean?"
Nan hesitated. Did the whole world involve Dick, and could even her
love for her sisters induce her voluntarily to give him up? Phillis,
who was quick-witted, read the doubt in a moment, and hastened to
qualify her words:
"The outside world, I mean,--mere conventional acquaintances, not
friends. Do you think you could bear to set society at defiance, to
submit to be sent to Coventry for our sakes; to do without it, in fact
to live in a little world of our own and make ourselves happy in it?"
"Ah, Phillis, you are so clever, and I don't understand you," faltered
Nan. It was not Dick she was to give up; but what could Phillis mean?
"We are all fond of society; we are like other girls, I suppose. But
if we are to be poor and work for our living, I dare say people will
give us up."
"I am not meaning that," returned her sister, earnestly; "it is
something far harder, something far more difficult, something that
will be a great sacrifice and cost us all tremendous efforts. But if
we are to keep a roof over our heads, if we are to live together in
anything like comfort, I don't see what else we can do, unless we go
out as companions and leave mother and Dulce in lodgings."
"Oh, no, no; pray don't leave us!" implored Dulce, feeling that all
her strength and comfort lay near Nan.
"I will not leave you, dear, if I can possibly help it," returned Nan,
gently. "Tell us what you mean, Phillis, for I see you have some sort
of plan in your head. There is nothing,--nothing," she continued, more
firmly, "that I would not do to make mother and Dulce happy. Speak
out; you are half afraid that I shall prove a coward, but you shall
see."
"Dear Nan, no; you are as brave as possible. I am rather a coward
myself. Yes; I have a plan; but you have yourself put it into my head
by saying what you did about Lady Fitzroy."
"About Lady Fitzroy?"
"Yes; your telling her about our making our own dresses. Nan, you are
right: needlework is our forte; nothing is a trouble to us. Few girls
have such clever fingers, I believe; and then you and Dulce have such
taste. Mrs. Paine once told me that we were the best-dressed girls in
the neighborhood, and she wished Carrie looked half as well. I am
telling you this, not from vanity, but because I do believe we can
turn our one talent to account. We should be miserable governesses; we
do not want to separate and seek situations as lady helps or
companions; we do not mean to fail in letting lodgings; but if we do
not succeed as good dressmakers, never believe me again."
"Dressmakers!" almost shrieked Dulce. But Nan, who had expressed
herself willing to take in plain needlework, only looked at her sister
with mute gravity; her little world was turned so completely upside
down, everything was so unreal, that nothing at this moment could have
surprised her.
"Dressmakers!" she repeated, vaguely.
"Yes, yes," replied Phillis, still more eagerly. The inspiration had
come to her in a moment, full-fledged and grown up, like Minerva from
the head of Jupiter. Just from those chance words of Nan's she had
grasped the whole thing in a moment. Now, indeed she felt that she was
clever; here at least was something striking and original; she took no
notice of Dulce's shocked exclamation; she fixed her eyes solemnly on
Nan. "Yes, yes; what does it matter what the outside world says? We
are not like other girls; we never were; people always said we were so
original. Necessity strikes out strange paths some times. We could not
do such a thing here; no, no, I never could submit to that myself," as
Nan involuntarily shuddered; "but at Hadleigh, where no one knows us,
where we shall be among strangers. And then, you see, Miss Monks is
dead."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! what does she mean?" cried Dulce, despairingly;
"and what do we care about Miss Monks, if the creature be dead, or
about Miss Anybody, if we have got to do such dreadful things?"
"My dear," returned Phillis, with compassionate irony, "if we had to
depend upon you for ideas----" and here she made an eloquent pause.
"Our last tenant for the Friary was Miss Monks, and Miss Monks was a
dressmaker; and, though perhaps I ought not to say it, it does seem a
direct leading of Providence, putting such a thought into my head."
"I am afraid Dulce and I are very slow and stupid," returned Nan,
putting her hair rather wearily from her face: her pretty color had
quite faded during the last half-hour. "I think if you would tell us
plainly, exactly what you mean, Phillis, we should be able to
understand everything better."
"My notion is this," began Phillis, slowly: "remember, I have not
thought it quite out, but I will give you my ideas just as they occur
to me. We will not say anything to mother just yet, until we have
thoroughly digested our plan. You and I, Nan, will run down to the
Friary, and reconnoitre the place, judge of its capabilities, and so
forth; and when we come back we will hold a family council."
"That will be best," agreed Nan, who remembered, with sudden feelings
of relief, that Dick and his belongings would be safe in the Engadine
by that time. "But, Phillis, do you really and truly believe that we
could carry out such a scheme?"
"Why not?" was the bold answer. "If we can work for ourselves, we can
for other people. I have a presentiment that we shall achieve a
striking success. We will make the old Friary as comfortable as
possible," she continued, cheerfully. "The good folk of Hadleigh will
be rather surprised when they see our pretty rooms. No horse-hair
sofa; no crochet antimacassars or hideous wax flowers; none of the
usual stock-in-trade. Dorothy will manage the house for us; and we
will all sit and work together, and mother will help us, and read to
us. Aren't you glad, Nan, that we all saved up for that splendid
sewing-machine?"
"I do believe there is something, after all, in what you say," was
Nan's response; but Dulce was not so easily won over.
"Do you mean to say that we shall put up a brass plate on the door,
with 'Challoner, dressmaker,' on it?" she observed, indignantly. A red
glow mounted to Nan's forehead; and even Phillis looked disconcerted.
"I never thought of that: well, perhaps not. We might advertise at the
Library, or put cards in the shops. I do not think mother would ever
cross the threshold if she saw a brass plate."
"No, no; I could not bear that," said Nan, faintly. A dim vision of
Dick standing at the gate, ruefully contemplating their name--her
name--in juxtaposition with "dressmaker," crossed her mind directly.
"But we should have to carry parcels, and stand in people's halls, and
perhaps fit Mrs. Squails, the grocer's wife,--that fat old thing, you
know. How would you like to make a dress for Mrs. Squails, Phil?"
asked Dulce, with the malevolent desire of making Phillis as
uncomfortable as possible; but Phillis, who had rallied from her
momentary discomfiture, was not to be again worsted.
"Dulce, you talk like a child; you are really a very silly little
thing. Do you think any work can degrade us or that we shall not be as
much gentlewomen at Hadleigh as we are here?"
"But the parcels?" persisted Dulce.
"I do not intend to carry any," was the imperturbable reply, "Dorothy
will do that; or we will hire a boy. As for waiting in halls, I don't
think any one will ask me to do that, as I should desire to be shown
into a room at once; and as for Mrs. Squails, if the poor old woman
honors me with her custom, I will turn her out a gown that shall be
the envy of Hadleigh."
Dulce did not answer this, but the droop of her lip was piteous; it
melted Phillis at once.
"Oh, do cheer up, you silly girl!" she said, with a coaxing face.
"What is the good of making ourselves more miserable than we need? If
you prefer the two little rooms with mother, say so; and Nan and I
will look out for old ladies at once."
"No! no! Oh, pray don't leave me!" still more piteously.
"Well, what will you have us do? we cannot starve; and we don't mean
to beg. Pluck up a little spirit, Dulce; see how good Nan is! You have
no idea how comfortable we should be!" she went on, with judicious
word-painting. "We should all be together,--that is the great thing.
Then we could talk over our work; and in the afternoon, when we felt
dreary, mother could read some interesting novel to us,"--a tremulous
sigh from Nan at this point.
What a contrast to the afternoons at Glen Cottage,--tennis, and
five-o'clock tea, and the company of their young friends! Phillis
understood the sigh, and hurried on.
"It will not be always work. We will have long country walks in the
evening; and then, there will be the garden and the sea-shore. Of
course we must have exercise and recreation, I am afraid we shall have
to do without society, for no one will visit ladies under such
circumstances; but I would rather do without people than without each
other, and so would Nan."
"Yes, indeed!" broke in Nan; and now the tears were in her eyes.
Dulce grew suddenly ashamed of herself. She got up in a little flurry,
and kissed them both.
"I was very naughty; but I did not mean to be unkind. I would rather
carry parcels, and stand in halls,--yes, and even make gowns for Mrs.
Squails,--than lose you both. I will be good. I will not worry you any
more, Phil, with my nonsense; and I will work; you will see how I will
work," finished Dulce, breathlessly.
"There's a darling!" said Nan; and then she added, in a tired voice,
"But it is two o'clock; and Dick is coming this morning to say
good-bye; and I want to ask you both particularly not to say a word to
him about this. Let him go away and enjoy himself, and think we are
going on as usual; it would spoil his holiday; and there is always
time enough for bad news," went on Nan, with a little tremble of her
lip.
"Dear Nan, we understand," returned Phillis, gently; "and you are
right, as you always are. And now to bed,--to bed," she continued, in
a voice of enforced cheerfulness; and then they all kissed each other
very quietly and solemnly, and crept up as noiselessly as possible to
their rooms.
Phillis and Dulce shared the same room; but Nan had a little chamber
to herself very near her mother's: a door connected the two rooms. Nan
closed this carefully, when she had ascertained that Mrs. Challoner
was still sleeping, and then sat down by the window, and looked out
into the gray glimmering light that preceded the dawn.
Sleep; how could she sleep with all these thoughts surging through her
mind, and knowing that in a few hours Dick would come and say
good-bye? and here Nan broke down, and had such a fit of crying as she
had not had since her father died,--nervous, uncontrollable tears,
that it was useless to stem in her tired, overwrought state.
They exhausted her, and disposed her for sleep. She was so chilled and
weary that she was glad to lie down in bed at last and close her eyes;
and she had scarcely done so before drowsiness crept over her, and she
knew no more until she found the sunshine flooding her little room,
and Dorothy standing by her bed asking rather crossly why no one
seemed disposed to wake this beautiful morning.
"Am I late? Oh, I hope I am not late!" exclaimed Nan, springing up in
a moment. She dressed herself in quite a flurry, for fear she should
keep any one waiting. It was only at the last moment she remembered
the outburst of the previous night, and wondered with some dismay what
Dick would think of her pale cheeks and the reddened lines round her
eyes, and only hoped that he would not attribute them to his going
away. Nan was only just in time, for as she entered the breakfast-room
Dick came through the veranda and put in his head at the window.
"Not at breakfast yet? and where are the others?" he asked in some
surprise, for the Challoners were early people, and very regular in
their habits.
"We sat up rather late last night, talking," returned Nan, giving him
her hand without looking at him, and yet Dick showed to advantage this
morning in his new tweed travelling suit.
"Well, I have only got ten minutes. I managed to give the pater the
slip: he will be coming after me, I believe, if I stay longer. This is
first-rate, having you all to myself this last morning. But what's up,
Nan? you don't seem quite up to the mark. You are palish, you know,
and----" here Dick paused in pained embarrassment. Were those traces
of tears? had Nan really been crying? was she sorry about his going
away? And now there was an odd lump in Dick's throat.
Nan understood the pause and got frightened.
"It is nothing. I have a slight headache; there was a little domestic
worry that wanted putting to right," stammered Nan; "it worried me,
for I am stupid at such things, you know."
She was explaining herself somewhat lamely, and to no purpose, for
Dick did not believe her in the least. "Domestic worry!" as though she
cared for such rubbish as that; as though any amount could make her
cry,--her, his bright, high spirited Nan! No; she had been fretting
about their long separation, and his father's unkindness, and the
difficulties ahead of them.
"I want you to give me a rose," he said, suddenly, _a propos_ of
nothing, as it seemed; but looking up, Nan caught a wistful gleam in
his eyes, and hesitated. Was it not Dick who had told her that
anecdote about the queen, or was it Lothair? and did not a certain
meaning attach to this gift? Dick was forever picking roses for her;
but he had never given her one, except with that meaning look on his
face.
"You are hesitating," he said, reproachfully; "and on my last morning,
when we shall not see each other for months;" And Nan moved towards
the veranda slowly, and gathered a crimson one without a word, and put
it in his hand.
"Thank you," he said, quite quietly; but he detained the hand as well
as the rose for a moment. "One day I will show you this again, and
tell you what it means if you do not know; and then we shall see, ah,
Nan, my----" He paused as Phillis's step entered the room, and said
hurriedly, in a low voice, "Good-bye; I will not go in again. I don't
want to see any of them, only you,--only you. Good-bye: take care of
yourself for my sake, Nan." And Dick looked at her wistfully, and
dropped her hand.
"Has he gone?" asked Phillis, looking up in surprise as her sister
came through the open window; "has he gone without finding anything
out?"
"Yes, he has gone, and he does not know anything," replied Nan, in a
subdued voice, as she seated herself behind the urn. It was over now,
and she was ready for anything. "Take care of yourself for my sake,
Nan!"--that was ringing in her ears; but she had not said a word in
reply. Only the rose lay in his hand,--her parting gift, and perhaps
her parting pledge.
CHAPTER IX.
A LONG DAY.
Nan never recalled the memory of that "long gray day," as she inwardly
termed it, without a shiver of discomfort.
Never but once in her bright young life had she known such a day, and
that was when her dead father lay in the darkened house, and her
widowed mother had crept weeping into her arms as to her only
remaining refuge; but that stretched so far back into the past that it
had grown into a vague remembrance.
It was not only that Dick was gone, though the pain of that separation
was far greater than she would have believed possible, but a moral
earthquake had shattered their little world, involving them in utter
chaos.
It was only yesterday that she was singing ballads in the Longmead
drawing-room,--only yesterday; but to-day everything was changed. The
sun shone, the birds sang, every one ate and drank and moved about as
usual. Nan talked and smiled, and no stranger would have guessed that
much was amiss; nevertheless, a weight lay heavy on her spirits, and
Nan knew in her secret heart that she could never be again the same
light-hearted, easy-going creature that she was yesterday.
Later on, the sisters confessed to each other that the day had been
perfectly interminable; the hours dragged on slowly; the sun seemed as
though it never meant to set; and to add to their trouble, their
mother looked so ill when she came downstairs, wrapped in her soft
white shawl in spite of the heat, that Nan thought of sending for a
doctor, and only refrained at the remembrance that they had no right
to such luxuries now except in cases of necessity.
Then Dorothy was in one of her impracticable moods, throwing cold
water on all her young mistress's suggestions, and doing her best to
disarrange the domestic machinery. Dorothy suspected a mystery
somewhere; her young ladies had sat up half the night, and looked pale
and owlish in the morning. If they chose to keep her in the dark and
not take her into their confidence, it was their affair; but she meant
to show them what she thought of their conduct. So she contradicted
and snapped, until Nan told her wearily that she was a disagreeable
old thing, and left her and Susan to do as they liked. She knew Mr.
Trinder was waiting for her in the dining-room, and, as Mrs. Challoner
was not well enough to see him, she and Phillis must entertain him.
He had slept at a friend's house a few miles from Oldfield, and was to
lunch at Glen Cottage and take the afternoon train to London.
He was not sorry when he heard that Mrs. Challoner was too indisposed
to receive him. In spite of his polite expressions of regret, he had
found the poor lady terribly trying on the previous evening. She was a
bad manager, and had muddled her affairs, and she did not seem to
understand half of what he told her; and her tears and lamentations
when she had realized the truth had been too much for the soft hearted
old bachelor, though people did call him a woman-hater.
"But I never could bear to see a woman cry; it is as bad as watching
an animal in pain," he half growled, as he drew out his red
pocket-handkerchief and used it rather noisily.
It was easier work to explain everything to these two bright, sensible
girls. Phillis listened and asked judicious questions; but Nan sat
with downcast face, plaiting the table-cloth between her restless
fingers, and thinking of Dick at odd intervals.
She took it all in, however, and roused up in earnest when Mr. Trinder
had finished his explanations, and Phillis began to talk in her turn;
she was actually taking the old lawyer into her confidence, and
detailing their scheme in the most business-like way.
"The mother does not know yet,--this is all in confidence; but Nan and
I have made up our minds to take this step," finished the young
philosopher, calmly.
"Bless my soul," ejaculated Mr. Trinder,--he had given vent to this
expression at various intervals, but had not further interrupted her.
"Bless my soul! my dear young ladies, I think--but excuse me if I am
too abrupt, but you must be dreaming."
Phillis shook her head smilingly; and as Dorothy came into the room
that moment to lay the luncheon, she proposed a turn in the garden,
and fetched Mr. Trinder's hat herself, and guided him to a side-walk,
where they could not be seen from the drawing-room windows. Nan
followed them, and tried to keep step with Mr. Trinder's shambling
footsteps, as he walked between the girls with a hot perplexed face,
and still muttering to himself at intervals.
"It is all in confidence," repeated Phillis, in the same calm voice.
"And you are actually serious? you are not joking?"
"Do your clients generally joke when they are ruined?" returned
Phillis, with natural exasperation. "Do you think Nan and I are in
such excellent spirits that we could originate such a piece of
drollery? Excuse me, Mr. Trinder, but I must say I do not think your
remark quite well timed." And Phillis turned away with a little
dignity.
"No, no! now you are put out, and no wonder!" returned Mr. Trinder,
soothingly; and he stood quite still on the gravel path, and fixed his
keen little eyes on the two young creatures before him,--Nan, with her
pale cheeks and sad eyes, and Phillis, alert, irritated, full of
repressed energy. "Dear, dear! what a pity!" groaned the old man; "two
such bonnie lasses and to think a little management and listening to
my advice would have kept the house over your heads, if only your
mother would have hearkened to me!"
"It is too late for all that now, Mr. Trinder," replied Phillis,
impatiently: "isn't it waste of time crying over spilt milk when we
must be taking our goods to market? We must make the best of our
little commodities," sighed the girl. "If we were only clever and
accomplished, we might do better; but now----" and Phillis left her
sentence unfinished, which was a way she had, and which people thought
very telling.
"But, my dear young lady, with all your advantages, and----" Here
Phillis interrupted him rather brusquely.
"What advantages? do you mean we had a governess? Well, we had three,
one after the other; and they were none of them likely to turn out
first-rate pupils. Oh, we are well enough, compared to other girls: if
we had not to earn our own living, we should not be so much amiss.
But, Nan, why don't you speak? why do you leave me all the hard work?
Did you not tell us last night that you were not fit for a
governess?"
Nan felt rather ashamed of her silence after this. It was true that
she was leaving all the onus of their plan on Phillis, and it was
certainly time for her to come to her rescue. So she quietly but
rather shyly endorsed her sister's speech, and assured Mr. Trinder
that they had carefully considered the matter from every point of
view, and, though it was a very poor prospect and involved a great
deal of work and self-sacrifice, she, Nan, thought that Phillis was
right, and that it was the best--indeed the only--thing they could do
under the circumstances.
"For myself, I prefer it infinitely to letting lodgings," finished
Nan: and Phillis looked at her gratefully.
But Mr. Trinder was obstinate and had old-fashioned views, and argued
the whole thing in his dictatorial masculine way. They sat down to
luncheon, and presently sent Dorothy away,--a piece of independence
that bitterly offended that crabbed but faithful individual,--and
wrangled busily through the whole of the meal.
Mr. Trinder never could remember afterwards whether it was lamb or
mutton he had eaten; he had a vague idea that Dulce had handed him the
mint-sauce, and that he had declined it and helped himself to salad.
The doubt disturbed him for the first twenty miles of his homeward
journey. "Good gracious! for a man not to know whether he is eating
lamb or mutton!" he soliloquized, as he vainly tried to enjoy his
usual nap; "but then I never was so upset in my life. Those pretty
creatures, and Challoners too,--bless my soul!" And here the lawyer's
cogitations became confused and misty.
Nan, who had more than once seen tears in the lawyer's shrewd little
gray eyes, had been very gentle and tolerant over the old man's
irritability; but Phillis had resented his caustic speeches somewhat
hotly. Dulce, who was on her best behavior, was determined not to
interfere or say a word to thwart her sisters: she even went so far as
to explain to Mr. Trinder that they would not have to carry parcels,
as Phillis meant to hire a boy. She had no idea that this magnanimous
speech was in a figurative manner the last straw that broke the
camel's back. Mr. Trinder pushed back his chair hastily, made some
excuse that his train must be due, and beat a retreat an hour before
the time, unable to pursue such a painful subject any longer.
Nan rose, with a sigh of relief, as soon as the door closed upon their
visitors, and took refuge in the shady drawing-room with her mother,
whom she found in a very tearful, querulous state, requiring a great
deal of soothing. They had decided that no visitors were to be
admitted that afternoon.
"You may say your mistress is indisposed with a bad headache, Dorothy,
and that we are keeping the house quiet," Nan remarked, with a little
dignity, with the remembrance of that late passage of arms.
"Very well, Miss Nan," returned the old servant. However, she was a
little cowed by Nan's manner: such an order had never before been
given in the cottage. Mrs. Challoner's headaches were common events in
every-day life, and had never been known before to interfere with
their afternoon receptions. A little eau de Cologne and extra petting,
a stronger cup of tea served up to her in her bedroom, had been the
only remedies; the girls had always had their tennis as usual, and the
sound of their voices and laughter had been as music in their mother's
ears.
"Very well, Miss Nan," was all Dorothy ventured to answer; but she
withdrew with a face puckered up with anxiety. She took in the
tea-tray unbidden at an earlier hour than usual; there were Dulce's
favorite hot cakes, and some rounds of delicately-buttered toast, "for
the young ladies have not eaten above a morsel at luncheon," said
Dorothy in explanation to her mistress.
"Never mind us," returned Nan, with a friendly nod at the old woman:
"it has been so hot to-day," And then she coaxed her mother to eat,
and made believe herself to enjoy the repast while she wondered how
many more evenings they would spend in the pretty drawing-room on
which they had expended so much labor.
Nan had countermanded the late dinner, which they all felt would be a
pretence and mockery; and as Mrs. Challoner's headache refused to
yield to the usual remedies, she was obliged to retire to bed as soon
as the sun set, and the three girls went out in the garden, and walked
up and down the lawn with their arms interlaced, while Dorothy watched
them from the pantry window, and wiped away a tear or two, as she
washed up the tea-things.
"How I should like a long walk?" exclaimed Dulce, impatiently. "It is
so narrow and confined here; but it would never do: we should meet
people."
"No, it would never do," agreed her sisters, feeling a fresh pang that
such avoidance was necessary. They had never hidden anything before,
and the thought that this mystery lay between them and their friends
was exquisitely painful.
"I feel as though I never cared to see one of them again!" sighed poor
Nan, for which speech she was rather sharply rebuked by Phillis.
They settled a fair amount of business before they went to bed that
night; and when Dorothy brought in the supper-tray, bearing a little
covered dish in triumph, which she set down before Nan, Nan looked at
her with grave, reproachful eyes, in there was a great deal of
kindness.
"You should not do this, Dorothy," she said, very gently: "we cannot
afford such delicacies now."
"It is your favorite dish, Miss Nan," returned Dorothy, quite ignoring
this remark. "Susan has cooked it to a nicety; but it will be spoiled
if it is not eaten hot." And she stood over them, while Nan dispensed
the dainty. "You must eat it while it is hot," she kept saying, as she
fidgeted about the room, taking up things and putting them down again.
Phillis looked at Nan with a comical expression of dismay.
"Dorothy, come here," she exclaimed, at last, pushing away her plate.
"Don't you see that Susan is wasting all her talents on us, and that
we can't eat to-day?"
"Every one can eat if they try, Miss Phillis," replied Dorothy,
oracularly. "But a thing like that must be hot, or it is spoiled."
"Oh, never mind about it being hot," returned Phillis, beginning to
laugh. She was so tired, and Dorothy was such a droll old thing; and
how were even stewed pigeons to be appetizing under the
circumstances?
"Oh, you may laugh," began Dorothy, in an offended tone; but Phillis
took hold of her and nearly shook her.
"Oh, what a stupid old thing you are! Don't you know what a silly,
aggravating old creature you can be when you like? If I laugh, it is
because everything is so ludicrous and wretched. Nan and Dulce are not
laughing."
"No, indeed," put in Dulce; "we are far, far too unhappy!"
"What is it, Miss Nan?" asked Dorothy, sidling up to her in a coaxing
manner. "I am only an old servant, but it was me that put Miss Dulce
in her father's arms,--'the pretty lamb,' as he called her, and she
with a skin like a lily. If there is trouble, you would not keep it
from her old nurse, surely?"
"No, indeed, Dorothy: we want to tell you," returned Nan touched by
this appeal; and then she quietly recapitulated the main points that
concerned their difficulties,--their mother's loss, their future
poverty, the necessity for leaving Glen Cottage and settling down at
the Friary.
"We shall all have to work," finished Nan, with prudent vagueness, not
daring to intrust their plan to Dorothy: "the cottage is small, and,
of course, we can only keep one servant."
"I dare say I shall be able to manage if you will help me a little,"
returned Dorothy, drying her old eyes with the corner of her apron.
"Dear, dear! to think of such an affliction coming upon my mistress
and the dear young ladies! It is like an earthquake or a flood, or
something sudden and unexpected,--Lord deliver us! And to think of my
speaking crossly to you Miss Nan, and you with all this worry on your
mind!"
"We will not think of that," returned Nan, soothingly. "Susan's
quarter will be up shortly, and we must get her away as soon as
possible. My great fear is that the work may be too much for you, poor
Dorothy; and that--that--we may have to keep you waiting sometimes for
your wages," she added, rather hesitatingly fearing to offend
Dorothy's touchy temper, and yet determined to put the whole matter
clearly before her.
"I don't think we need talk about that," returned Dorothy, with
dignity. "I have not saved up my wages for nineteen years without
having a nest-egg laid up for rainy days. Wages,--when I mention the
word, Miss Nan," went on Dorothy, waxing somewhat irate, "it will be
time enough to enter upon that subject. I haven't deserved such a
speech; no, that I haven't," went on Dorothy, with a sob. "Wages,
indeed!"
"Now, nursey, you shan't be cross with Nan," cried Dulce, throwing her
arms round the old woman; for, in spite of her eighteen years, she was
still Dorothy's special charge. "She's quite right; it may be an
unpleasant subject, but we will not have you working for us for
nothing."
"Very well, Miss Dulce," returned Dorothy, in a choked voice preparing
to withdraw; but Nan caught hold of the hard work-worn hand, and held
her fast.
"Oh, Dorothy, you would not add to our trouble now, when we are so
terribly unhappy! I never meant to hurt your feelings by what I said.
If you will only go to the Friary and help us to make the dear mother
comfortable, I, for one, will be deeply grateful."
"And you will not talk of wages?" asked Dorothy, mollified by Nan's
sweet, pleading tones.
"Not until we can afford to do so," returned Nan, hastily, feeling
that this was a safe compromise, and that they should be eked out
somehow. And then, the stewed pigeons being regarded as a failure,
Dorothy consented to remove the supper tray, and the long day was
declared at an end.
CHAPTER X.
THE FRIARY.
Oldfield was rather mystified by the Challoners' movements. There were
absolutely three afternoons during which Nan and her sisters were
invisible. There was a tennis-party at the Paines' on one of these
days, but at the last minute they had excused themselves. Nan's
prettily-worded note was declared very vague and unsatisfactory, and
on the following afternoon there was a regular invasion of the
cottage,--Carrie Paine, and two of the Twentyman girls, and Adelaide
Sartoris and her young brother Albert.
They found Dulce alone, looking very sad and forlorn.
Nan and Phillis had gone down to Hadleigh that morning, she explained
in rather a confused way: they were not expected back until the
following evening.
On being pressed by Miss Sartoris as to the reason of this sudden
trip, she added, rather awkwardly, that it was on business; her mother
was not well,--oh, very far from well; and they had to look at a house
that belonged to them, as the tenant had lately died.
This was all very plausible; but Dulce's manner was so constrained,
and she spoke with such hesitation, that Miss Sartoris was convinced
that something lay behind. They went out in the garden, however, and
chose sides for their game of tennis; and, though Dulce had never
played so badly in her life, the fresh air and exercise did her good,
and at the end of the afternoon she looked a little less drooping.
It was felt to be a failure, however, by the whole party; and when tea
was over, there was no mention of a second game. "No, we will not stay
any longer," observed Isabella Twentyman, kissing the girl with much
affection. "Of course we understand that you will be wanting to sit
with your mother."
"Yes, and if you do not come in to-morrow we shall quite know how it
is," added Miss Sartoris, good-naturedly, for which Dulce thanked her
and looked relieved.
She stood at the hall door watching them as they walked down the
village street, swinging their racquets and talking merrily.
"What happy girls!" she thought, with a sigh. Miss Sartoris was an
heiress, and the Twentymans were rich, and every one knew that Carrie
and Sophy Paine would have money. "None of them will have to work,"
said poor Dulce sorrowfully to herself: "they can go on playing tennis
and driving and riding and dancing as long as they like." And then she
went up to her mother's room with lagging footsteps and a cloudy
brow.
"You may depend upon it there is something amiss with those
Challoners," said Miss Sartoris, as soon as they were out of sight of
the cottage; "no one has seen anything of them for the last three or
four days, and I never saw Dulce so unlike herself."
"Oh, I hope not," returned Carrie, gravely, who had heard enough from
her father to guess that there was pecuniary embarrassment at the
bottom. "Poor little thing, she did seem rather subdued. How many
people do you expect to muster to-morrow, Adelaide?" and then Miss
Sartoris understood that the subject was to be changed.
While Dulce was trying to entertain her friends, Nan and Phillis were
reconnoitring the Friary.
They had taken an early train to London, and had contrived to reach
Hadleigh a little before three. They went first to Beach House,--a
small unpretending house on the Parade, kept by a certain Mrs. Mozley,
with whom they had once lodged after Dulce had the measles.
The good woman received them with the utmost cordiality. Her place was
pretty nearly filled, she told them proudly; the drawing-room had been
taken for three months, and an elderly couple were in the
dining-room.
"But there is a bedroom I could let you have for one night," finished
Mrs. Mozley, "and there is the little side parlor where you could have
your tea and breakfast." And when Nan had thanked her, and suggested
the addition of chops to their evening meal, they left their modest
luggage and set out for the Friary.
Phillis would have gone direct to their destination, but Nan pleaded
for one turn on the Parade. She wanted a glimpse of the sea, and it
was such a beautiful afternoon.
The tide was out, and the long black breakwaters were uncovered; the
sun was shining on the wet shingles and narrow strip of yellow sand.
The sea looked blue and unruffled, with little sparkles and gleams of
light, and white sails glimmered on the horizon. Some boatmen were
dragging a boat down the beach; it grated noisily over the pebbles. A
merry party were about to embark,--a tall man in a straw hat, and two
boys in knickerbockers. Their sisters were watching them. "Oh, Reggie,
do be careful!" Nan heard one of the girls say, as he waded knee-deep
into the water.
"Come, Nan, we ought not to dawdle like this!" exclaimed Phillis,
impatiently; and they went on quickly, past the long row of
old-fashioned white houses with the green before them and that sweet
Sussex border of soft feathery tamarisk, and then past the
cricket-field, and down to the whitewashed cottage of the Preventive
Station; and then they turned back and walked towards the Steyne, and
after that Nan declared herself satisfied.
There were plenty of people on the Parade, and most of them looked
after the two girls as they passed. Nan's sweet bloom and graceful
carriage always attracted notice; and Phillis, although she generally
suffered from comparison with her sister, was still very
uncommon-looking.
"I should like to know who those young ladies are," observed a
military-looking man with a white moustache, who was standing at the
Library door waiting for his daughter to make some purchases. "Look at
them, Elizabeth: one of them is such a pretty girl, and they walk so
well."
"Dear father, I suppose they are only some new-comers: we shall see
their names down in the visitors' list by and by;" and Miss Middleton
smiled as she took her father's arm, for she was slightly lame. She
knew strangers always interested him, and that he would make it his
business for the next few days to find out everything about them.
"Did you see that nice-looking woman?" asked Phillis, when they had
passed. "She was quite young, only her hair was gray: fancy, a
gray-haired girl!"
"Oh, she must be older than she looks," returned Nan, indifferently.
She was not looking at people: she was far too busily engaged
identifying each well-remembered spot.
There was the shabby little cottage, where she and her mother had once
stayed after an illness of Mrs. Challoner's. What odd little rooms
they had occupied, looking over a strip of garden-ground full of
marigolds! "Marigolds-all-in-a-row Cottage," she had named it in her
home letters. It was nearly opposite the White House where Mrs. Cheyne
lived. Nan remembered her,--a handsome, sad-looking woman, who always
wore black, and drove out in such handsome carriages.
"Always alone; how sad!" Nan thought; and she wondered, as they walked
past the low stone walls with grassy mounds slopping from them, and a
belt of shrubbery shutting out views of the house, whether Mrs. Cheyne
lived there still.
They had reached a quiet country corner now; there was a clump of
trees, guarded by posts and chains; a white house stood far back.
There were two or three other houses, and a cottage dotted down here
and there. The road looked shady and inviting. Nan began to look about
her more cheerfully.
"I am glad it is so quiet, and so far away from the town, and that our
neighbors will not be able to overlook us."
"I was just thinking of that as a disadvantage," returned Phillis,
with placid opposition. "It is a pity, under the circumstances, that
we are not nearer the town." And after that Nan held her peace.
They were passing an old-fashioned house with a green door in the
wall, when it suddenly opened, and a tall, grave looking young man, in
clerical attire, came out quickly upon them, and then drew back to let
them pass.
"I suppose that is the new vicar?" whispered Phillis, when they had
gone a few steps. "You know poor old Dr. Musgrave is dead, and most
likely that is his successor."
"I forgot that was the vicarage," returned Nan. But happily she did
not turn round to look at it again; if she had done so, she would have
seen the young clergyman still standing by the green door watching
them. "It is a shabby, dull old house in front; but I remember that
when mother and I returned Mrs. Musgrave's call we were shown into
such a dear old-fashioned drawing-room, with windows looking out on
such a pleasant garden. I quite fell in love with it."
"Well, we shall be near neighbors," observed Phillis, somewhat
shortly, as she paused before another green door, set in a long blank
wall; "for here we are at the Friary, and I had better just run over
the way and get the key from Mrs. Crump."
Nan nodded, and then stood like an image of patience before the
shabby green door. Would it open and let them into a new untried life?
What sort of fading hopes, of dim regrets, would be left outside when
they crossed the threshold? The thought of the empty rooms, not yet
swept and garnished, made her shiver: the upper windows looked blankly
at her, like blind, unrecognizing eyes. She was quite glad when
Phillis joined her again, swinging the key on her little finger, and
humming a tune in forced cheerfulness.
"What a dull, shut-in place! I think the name of Friary suits it
exactly," observed Nan, disconsolately, as they went up the little
flagged path, bordered with lilac-bushes. "It feels like a miniature
convent or prison: we might have a grating in the door, and answer all
outsiders through it."
"Nonsense!" returned Phillis, who was determined to take a bright view
of things. "Don't go into the house just yet, I want to see the
garden." And she led the way down a gloomy side-path, with unclipped
box and yews, that made it dark and decidedly damp. This brought them
to a little lawn, with tall, rank grass that might have been mown for
hay, and some side-beds full of old fashioned flowers, such as lupins
and monkshood, pinks and small pansies; a dreary little greenhouse,
with a few empty flower-pots and a turned-up box was in one corner,
and an attempt at a rockery, with a periwinkle climbing over it, and
an undesirable number of oyster-shells.
An old medlar tree, very warped and gnarled, was at the bottom of the
lawn, and beyond this a small kitchen-garden, with abundance of
gooseberry and currant-bushes, and vast resources in the shape of
mint, marjoram, and lavender.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! what a wretched little place after our dear old
Glen Cottage garden!" And in spite of her good resolutions, Nan's eyes
grew misty.
"Comparisons are odious," retorted Phillis, briskly. "We have just to
make the best of things,--and I don't deny they are horrid,--and put
all the rest away, between lavender, on the shelves of our memory."
And she smiled grimly as she picked one of the gray spiky flowers.
And then, as they walked round the weedy paths, she pointed out how
different it would look when the lawn was mown, and all the weeds and
oyster-shells removed, and the box and yews clipped, and a little
paint put on the greenhouse.
"And look at that splendid passion-flower, growing like a weed over
the back of the cottage," she remarked, with a wave of her hand: "it
only wants training and nailing up. Poor Miss Monks has neglected the
garden shamefully; but then she was always ailing."
They went into the cottage after this. The entry was rather small and
dark. The kitchen came first: it was a tolerable-sized apartment, with
two windows looking out on the lilacs and the green door and the blank
wall.
"I am afraid Dorothy will find it a little dull," Nan observed,
rather ruefully. And again she thought the name of Friary was well
given to this gruesome cottage; but she cheered up when Phillis opened
cupboards and showed her a light little scullery, and thought that
perhaps they could make it comfortable for Dorothy.
The other two rooms looked upon the garden: one had three windows, and
was really a very pleasant parlor.
"This must be our work-room," began Phillis, solemnly, as she stood in
the centre of the empty room, looking round her with bright knowing
glances. "Oh, what an ugly paper, Nan! but we can easily put up a
prettier one. The smaller room must be where we live and take our
meals: it is not quite so cheerful as this. It is so nice having this
side-window; it will give us more light, and we shall be able to see
who comes in at the door."
"Yes, that is an advantage," assented Nan. She was agreeably surprised
to find such a good-sized room in the cottage; it was decidedly low,
and the windows were not plate-glass, but she thought that on summer
mornings they might sit there very comfortably looking out at the lawn
and the medlar-tree.
"We shall be glad of these cupboards," she suggested, after a pause,
while Phillis, took out sundry pieces of tape from her pocket and
commenced making measurements in a business-like manner. "Our work
will make such a litter, and I should like things to be as tidy as
possible. I am thinking," she continued, "we might have mother's great
carved wardrobe in the recess behind the door. It is really a
magnificent piece of furniture, and in a work-room it would not be so
out of place; we could hang up the finished and unfinished dresses in
it out of the dust. And we could have the little drawing-room
chiffonnier between the windows for our pieces, and odds and ends in
the cupboards. It is a pity our table is round; but perhaps it will
look all the more comfortable. The sewing-machine must be in the
side-window," added Nan, who was quite in her element now, for she
loved all housewifely arrangements; "and mother's easy-chair and
little table must stand by the fireplace. My davenport will be useful
for papers and accounts."
"It is really a very convenient room," returned Phillis, in a
satisfied voice, when they had exhausted its capabilities; and, though
the second parlor was small and dull in comparison, even Nan dropped
no disparaging word.
Both of them agreed it would do very well. There was a place for the
large roomy couch that their mother so much affected, and their
favorite chairs and knick-knacks would soon make it look cosey: and
after this they went upstairs hand in hand.
There were only four bedrooms, and two of these were not large; the
most cheerful one was, of course, allotted to their mother, and the
next in size must be for Phillis and Dulce. Nan was to have a small
one next to her mother.
The evening was drawing on by the time they had finished their
measurements and left the cottage. Nan, who was tired and wanted her
tea, was for hurrying on to Beach House; but Phillis insisted on
calling at the Library. She wanted to put some questions to Miss
Milner. To-morrow they would have the paper-hanger, and look out for a
gardener, and there was Mrs. Crump to interview about cleaning down
the cottage.
"Oh, very well," returned Nan, wearily, and she followed Phillis into
the shop, where good-natured bustling Miss Milner came to them at
once.
Phillis put the question to her in a low voice, for there were other
customers exchanging books over the counter. The same young clergyman
they had before noticed had just bought a local paper, and was waiting
evidently for a young lady who was turning over some magazines quite
close to them.
"Do we know of a good dressmaker in the place?" repeated Miss Milner,
in her loud cheerful voice, very much to Nan's discomfort, for the
clergyman looked up from his paper at once. "Miss Monks was a
tolerable fit, but, poor thing! she died a few weeks ago; and Mrs.
Slasher, who lives over Viner's the haberdasher's, cannot hold a
candle to her. Miss Masham there,"--pointing to a smart ringleted
young person, evidently her assistant,--"had her gown ruined by her:
hadn't you, Miss Masham?"
Miss Masham simpered, but her reply was inaudible; but the young lady
who was standing near them suddenly turned round:
"There is Mrs. Langley, who lives just by. I shall be very happy to
give these ladies her address, for she is a widow with little
children, and I am anxious to procure her work--" and then she looked
at Nan, and hesitated; "that is, if you are not very particular," she
added, with sudden embarrassment, for even in her morning dress there
was a certain style about Nan that distinguished her from other
people.
"Thank you, Miss Drummond," returned Miss Milner, gratefully. "Shall I
write down the address for you, ma'am?"
"Yes,--no,--thank you very much, but perhaps it does not matter,"
returned Nan, hurriedly, feeling awkward for the first time in her
life. But Phillis, who realized all the humor of the situation,
interposed:
"The address will do us no harm, and we may as well have it, although
we should not trouble Mrs. Langley. I will call in again, Miss Milner,
to-morrow morning, and then I will explain what it is we really want.
We are in a hurry now," continued Phillis, loftily, turning away with
a dignified inclination of her head toward the officious stranger.
Phillis was not prepossessed in her favor. She was a dark, wiry little
person, not exactly plain, but with an odd, comical face; and she was
dressed so dowdily and with such utter disregard of taste that Phillis
instinctively felt Mrs. Langley was not to be dreaded.
"What a queer little body! Do you think she belongs to him?" she asked
Nan, as they walked rapidly toward Beach House.
"What in the world made you strike in after that fashion?" demanded
the young man, as he and his companion followed more slowly in the
strangers' footsteps. "That is just your way, Mattie, interfering and
meddling in other folks' affairs. Why cannot you mind your own
business sometimes," he continued, irritably, "instead of putting your
foot into other people's?"
"You are as cross as two sticks this afternoon, Archie," returned his
sister, composedly. She had a sharp little pecking voice that seemed
to match her, somehow; for she was not unlike a bright-eyed bird, and
had quick pouncing movements. "Wait a moment: my braid has got torn,
and is dragging."
"I wish you would think a little more of my position, and take greater
pains with your appearance," returned her brother, in an annoyed
voice. "What would Grace say to see what a fright you make of
yourself? It is a sin and a shame for a woman to be untidy or careless
in her dress; it is unfeminine! it is unlady-like!" hurling each
separate epithet at her.
Perhaps Miss Drummond was used to these compliments, for she merely
pinned her braid without seeming the least put out.
"I think I am a little shabby," she remarked, tranquilly, as they at
last walked on. "Perhaps Mrs. Langley had better make me a dress too,"
with a laugh, for, in spite of her sharp voice, she was an
even-tempered little body; but this last remark only added fuel to his
wrath.
"You really have less sense than a child. The idea of recommending a
person like Mrs. Langley to those young ladies,--a woman who works for
Miss Masham!"
"They were very plainly dressed, Archie," returned poor Mattie, who
felt this last snub acutely; for, if there was one thing upon which
she prided herself, it was her good sense. "They had dark print
dresses,--not as good as the one I have on,--and nothing could be
quieter."
"Oh, you absurd little goose!" exclaimed her brother, and he burst
into a laugh, for the drollery of the comparison restored him to
instant good humor. "If you cannot see the difference between that
frumpish gown of yours, with its little bobtails and fringes, and
those pretty dresses before us, I must say you are as blind as a bat,
Mattie."
"Oh, never mind my gown," returned Mattie, with a sigh.
She had had these home-thrusts to meet and parry nearly every day,
ever since she had come to keep house for this fastidious brother. She
was a very active, bustling little person, who had done a great deal
of tough work in her day, but she never could be made to see that
unless a woman add the graces of life to the cardinal virtues she is,
comparatively speaking, a failure in the eyes of the other sex.
So, though Mattie was a frugal housekeeper, and worked from morning to
night in his service,--the veriest little drudge that was ever
seen,--she was a perpetual eyesore to her brother, who loved feminine
grace and repose,--whose tastes were fastidious and somewhat
arbitrary. And so it was poor Mattie had more censure than praise, and
wrote home piteous letters complaining that nothing she did seemed to
satisfy Archie, and that her mother had made a great mistake in
sending her, and not Grace, to preside over his bachelor
establishment.
"Oh, Phillis, how shall we have courage to publish our plan?"
exclaimed Nan, when they were at last discussing the much-needed tea
and chops in the little parlor at Beach House.
The window was wide open. The returning tide was coming in with a
pleasant ripple and wash over the shingle. The Parade was nearly
empty; but some children's voices sounded from the green space before
the houses. The brown sail of a fishing craft dipped into the horizon.
It was so cool, so quiet, so restful; but Nan's eyes were weary, and
she put the question wistfully.
Phillis looked into the teapot to gain a moment's reprieve; the
corners of her mouth had an odd pucker in them.
"I never said it was not hard," she burst out at last. "I felt like a
fool myself while I was speaking to Miss Milner; but then that
clergyman was peeping at us between the folds of his paper. He seemed
a nice-looking, gentlemanly sort of man. Do you think that queer
little lady in the plaid dress could be his wife? Oh, no; I remember
Miss Milner addressed her as Miss Drummond. Then she must be his
sister: how odd!"
"Why should it be odd?" remarked Nan, absently, who had not
particularly noticed them.
"Oh, she was such a dowdy little thing, not a bit nice-looking, and he
was quite handsome, and looked rather distinguished. You know I always
take stock of people, and make up my mind about them at once. And then
we are to be such close neighbors."
"I don't suppose we shall see much of them," was Nan's somewhat
depressed reply; and then, as they had finished their tea they placed
themselves at the open window, and began to talk about the business of
next day; and, in discussing cupboards and new papers, Nan forgot her
fatigue, and grew so interested that it was quite late before they
thought of retiring to rest.
CHAPTER XI.
"TELL US ALL ABOUT IT, NAN."
Nan overslept herself, and was rather late the next morning; but as
she entered the parlor, with an exclamation of penitence for her
tardiness, she found her little speech was addressed to the empty
walls. A moment after, a shadow crossed the window, and Phillis came
in.
She went up to Nan and kissed her, and there was a gleam of fun in her
eyes.
"Oh, you lazy girl!" she said; "leaving me all the hard work to do. Do
you know, I have been around to the Library, and have had it all out
with Miss Milner; and in the Steyne I met the clergyman again,
and--would you believe it; he looked quite disappointed because you
were not there!"
"Nonsense!" returned Nan, sharply. She never liked this sort of joking
speeches: they seemed treasonable to Dick.
"Oh, but he did," persisted Phillis, who was a little excited and
reckless after her morning's work. "He threw me a disparaging glance,
which said, as plainly as possible, 'Why are you not the other one?'
That comes from having a sister handsomer than one's self."
"Oh, Phillis! when people always think you so nice, and when you are
so clever!"
Phillis got up and executed a little courtesy in the prettiest way,
and then she sank down upon her chair in pretended exhaustion.
"What I have been through! But I have come out of it alive. Confess,
now, there's a dear, that you could not have done it!"
"No; indeed," with an alarmed air. "Do you really mean to say that you
actually told Miss Milner what we meant to do?"
"I told her everything. There, sit down and begin your breakfast, Nan,
or we shall never be ready. I found her alone in the shop. Thank
goodness, that Miss Masham was not there. I have taken a dislike to
that simpering young person, and would rather make a dress for Mrs.
Squails any day than for her. I told her the truth, without a bit of
disguise. Would you believe it, the good creature actually cried about
it! she quite upset me too. 'Such young ladies! dear, dear: one does
not often see such,' she kept saying over and over again. And then she
put out her hand and stroked my dress, and said, 'Such a beautiful
fit, too; and to think you have made it yourself! such a clever young
lady! Oh, dear! whatever will Mr. Drummond and Miss Mattie say?'
Stupid old thing! as though we cared what he said!"
"Oh, Phillis! and she cried over it?"
"She did indeed. I am not exaggerating. Two big round tears rolled
down her cheeks. I could have kissed her for them. And then she made
me sit down in the little room behind the shop, where she was having
her breakfast, and poured me out a cup of tea and----" But here Nan
interrupted her, and there was a trace of anxiety in her manner.
"Poured you out a cup of tea! Miss Milner! And you drank it!"
"Of course I drank it; it was very good, and I was thirsty."
But here Nan pounced upon her unexpectedly, and dragged her to the
window.
"Your fun is only make-believe: there is no true ring about it. Let me
see your eyes. Oh, Phil, Phil! I thought so! You have been crying,
too!"
Phillis looked a little taken aback. Nan was too sharp for her. She
tried to shake herself free a little pettishly.
"Well, if I choose to make a fool of myself for once in my life, you
need not be silly about it; the old thing was so upsetting, and--and
it was so hard to get it out." Phillis would not have told for worlds
how utterly she had broken down over that task of hers; how the
stranger's sympathy had touched so painful a chord that, before she
knew what she was doing, she had laid her head down on the counter and
was crying like a baby,--all the more that she had so bravely pent up
her feelings all these days that she might not dishearten her
sisters.
But, as Nan petted and praised her, she did tell how good Miss Milner
had been to her.
"Fancy a fat old thing like that having such fine feelings," she said,
with an attempt to recover her sprightliness. "She was as good as a
mother to me,--made me sit in the easy-chair, and brought me some
elder-flower water to bathe my eyes, and tried to cheer me up by
saying that we should have plenty of work. She has promised not to
tell any one just yet about us; but when we are really in the Friary
she will speak to people and recommend us: and--" here Phillis gave a
little laugh--"we are to make up a new black silk for her that her
brother has just sent her. Oh, dear, what will mother say to us, Nan?"
And Phillis looked at her in an alarmed, beseeching way, as though in
sore need of comfort.
Nan looked grave; but there was no hesitation in her answer:
"I am afraid it is too late to think of that now, Phil: it has to be
done, and we must just go through with it."
"You are right, Nanny darling, we must just go through with it,"
agreed Phillis; and then they went on with their unfinished breakfast,
and after that the business of the day began.
It was late in the evening when they reached home. Dulce who was at
the gate looking out for them, nearly smothered them with kisses.
"Oh, you dear things! how glad I am to get you back," she said,
holding them both. "Have you really only been away since yesterday
morning? It seems a week at least."
"You ridiculous child! as though we believe that! But how is mother?"
"Oh, pretty well: but she will be better now you are back. Do you
know," eying them both very gravely, "I think it was a wise thing of
you to go away like that? it has shown me that mother and I could not
do without you at all: we should have pined away in those lodgings; it
has quite reconciled me to the plan," finished Dulce, in a loud
whisper that reached her mother's ears.
"What plan? What are you talking about, Dulce? and why do you keep
your sisters standing in the hall?" asked Mrs. Challoner, a little
irritably. But her brief nervousness vanished at the sight of their
faces: she wanted nothing more, she told herself, but to see them
round her, and hear their voices.
She grew quite cheerful when Phillis told her about the new papers,
and how Mrs. Crump was to clean down the cottage, a
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