It was indeed true that the Rev. Arthur Poppleton had spent the greater part of his afternoon in Miss Belinda Bassett's front parlor, and that Octavia had entertained him in such a manner that he had been beguiled into forgetting the clerical visits he had intended to make, and had finally committed himself by a promise to return a day or two later to play croquet. His object in calling had been to request Miss Belinda's assistance in a parochial matter. His natural timorousness of nature had indeed led him to put off making the visit for as long a time as possible. The reports he had heard of Miss Octavia Bassett had inspired him with great dread. Consequently he had presented himself at Miss Belinda's front door with secret anguish.
"Will you say," he had faltered to Mary Anne, "that it is Mr. Poppleton, to seeMissBassett—MissBelindaBassett?"
And then he had been handed into the parlor, the door had been closed behind him, and he had found himself shut up entirely alone in the room with Miss Octavia Bassett herself.
His first impulse was to turn, and flee precipitately: indeed, he even went so far as to turn, and clutch the handle of the door; but somehow a second thought arrived in time to lead him to control himself.
This second thought came with his second glance at Octavia.
She was not at all what he had pictured her. Singularly enough, no one had told him that she was pretty; and he had thought of her as a gaunt young person, with a determined and manly air. She struck him, on the contrary, as being extremely girlish and charming to look upon. She wore the pale pink gown; and as he entered he saw her give a furtive little dab to her eyes with a lace handkerchief, and hurriedly crush an open letter into her pocket. Then, seeming to dismiss her emotion with enviable facility, she rose to greet him.
"If you want to see aunt Belinda," she said, "perhaps you had better sit down. She will be here directly." He plucked up spirit to take a seat, suddenly feeling his terror take wing. He was amazed at his own courage.
"Th-thank you," he said. "I have the pleasure of"—There, it is true, he stopped, looked at her, blushed, and finished somewhat disjointedly. "Miss Octavia Bassett, I believe."
"Yes," she answered, and sat down near him.
When Miss Belinda descended the stairs, a short time afterward, her ears were greeted by the sound of brisk conversation, in which the Rev. Arthur Poppleton appeared to be taking part with before-unheard-of spirit. When he arose at her entrance, there was in his manner an air of mild buoyancy which astonished her beyond measure. When he re-seated himself, he seemed quite to forget the object of his visit for some minutes, and was thus placed in the embarrassing position of having to refer to his note-book.
Having done so, and found that he had called to ask assistance for the family of one of his parishioners, he recovered himself somewhat. As he explained the exigencies of the case, Octavia listened.
"Well," she said, "I should think it would make you quite uncomfortable, if you see things like that often."
"I regret to say I do see such things only too frequently," he answered.
"Gracious!" she said; but that was all.
He was conscious of being slightly disappointed at her apathy; and perhaps it is to be deplored that he forgot it afterward, when Miss Belinda had bestowed her mite, and the case was dismissed for the time being. He really did forget it, and was beguiled into making a very long call, and enjoying himself as he had never enjoyed himself before.
When, at length, he was recalled to a sense of duty by a glance at the clock, he had already before his eyes an opening vista of delights, taking the form of future calls, and games of croquet played upon Miss Belinda's neatly-shaven grass-plat. He had bidden the ladies adieu in the parlor, and, having stepped into the hall, was fumbling rather excitedly in the umbrella-stand for his own especially slender clerical umbrella, when he was awakened to new rapture by hearing Miss Octavia's tone again.
He turned, and saw her standing quite near him, looking at him with rather an odd expression, and holding something in her hand.
"Oh!" she said. "See here,—those people."
"I—beg pardon," he hesitated. "I don't quite understand."
"Oh, yes!" she answered. "Those desperately poor wretches, you know, with fever, and leaks in their house, and all sorts of disagreeable things the matter with them. Give them this, won't you?"
"This" was a pretty silk purse, through whose meshes he saw the gleam of gold coin.
"That?" he said. "You don't mean—isn't there a good deal—I beg pardon—but really"—
"Well, if they are as poor as you say they are, it won't be too much," she replied. "I don't suppose they'll object to it: do you?"
She extended it to him as if she rather wished to get it out of her hands.
"You'd better take it," she said. "I shall spend it on something I don't need, if you don't. I'm always spending money on things I don't care for afterward."
He was filled with remorse, remembering that he had thought her apathetic.
"I—I really thought you were not interested at all," he burst forth. "Pray forgive me. This is generous indeed."
She looked down at some particularly brilliant rings on her hand, instead of looking at him.
"Oh, well!" she said, "I think it must be simply horrid to have to do without things. I can't see how people live. Besides, I haven't denied myself any thing. It would be worth talking about if I had, I suppose. Oh! By the by, never mind telling any one, will you?"
Then, without giving him time to reply, she raised her eyes to his face, and plunged into the subject of the croquet again, pursuing it until the final moment of his exit and departure, which was when Mrs. Burnham and Miss Pilcher had been scandalized at the easy freedom of her adieus.
When Mr. Francis Barold called to pay his respects to Lady Theobald, after partaking of her hospitality, Mr. Burmistone accompanied him; and, upon almost every other occasion of his presenting himself to her ladyship, Mr. Burmistone was his companion.
It may as well be explained at the outset, that the mill-owner of Burmistone Mills was a man of decided determination of character, and that, upon the evening of Lady Theobald's tea, he had arrived at the conclusion that he would spare no effort to gain a certain end he felt it would add to his happiness to accomplish.
"I stand rather in awe of Lady Theobald, as any ordinary man would," he had said dryly to Barold, on their return to his house. "But my awe of her is not so great yet that I shall allow it to interfere with any of my plans."
"Have you any especial plan?" inquired Barold carelessly, after a pause.
"Yes," answered Mr. Burmistone,—"several. I should like to go to Oldclough rather often."
"I feel it the civil thing to go to Oldclough oftener than I like. Go with me."
"I should like to be included in all the invitations to tea for the next six months."
"I shall be included in all the invitations so long as I remain here; and it is not likely you will be left out in the cold. After you have gone the rounds once, you won't be dropped."
"Upon the whole, it appears so," said Mr. Burmistone. "Thanks."
So, at each of the tea-parties following Lady Theobald's, the two men appeared together. The small end of the wedge being inserted into the social stratum, the rest was not so difficult. Mrs. Burnham was at once surprised and overjoyed by her discoveries of the many excellences of the man they had so hastily determined to ignore. Mrs. Abercrombie found Mr. Burmistone's manner all that could be desired. Miss Pilcher expressed the highest appreciation of his views upon feminine education and "our duty to the young in our charge." Indeed, after Mrs. Egerton's evening, the tide of public opinion turned suddenly in his favor.
Public opinion did not change, however, as far as Octavia was concerned. Having had her anxiety set at rest by several encouraging paternal letters from Nevada, she began to make up her mind to enjoy herself, and was, it is to be regretted, betrayed by her youthful high spirits into the committing of numerous indiscretions. Upon each festal occasion she appeared in a new and elaborate costume: she accepted the attentions of Mr. Francis Barold, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that they should be offered; she joked—in what Mrs. Burnham designated "her Nevada way"—with the Rev. Arthur Poppleton, who appeared more frequently than had been his habit at the high teas. She played croquet with that gentleman and Mr. Barold day after day, upon the grass-plat, before all the eyes gazing down upon her from the neighboring windows; she managed to coerce Mr. Burmistone into joining these innocent orgies; and, in fact, to quote Miss Pilcher, there was "no limit to the shamelessness of her unfeminine conduct."
Several times much comment had been aroused by the fact that Lucia Gaston had been observed to form one of the party of players. She had indeed played with Barold, against Octavia and Mr. Poppleton, on the memorable day upon which that gentleman had taken his first lesson.
Barold had availed himself of the invitation extended to him by Octavia, upon several occasions, greatly to Miss Belinda's embarrassment. He had dropped in the evening after the curate's first call.
"Is Lady Theobald very fond of you?" Octavia had asked, in the course of this visit.
"It is very kind of her, if she is," he replied with languid irony.
"Isn't she fond enough of you to do any thing you ask her?" Octavia inquired.
"Really, I think not," he replied. "Imagine the degree of affection it requires! I am not fond enough of any one to do any thing they ask me."
Octavia bestowed a long look upon him.
"Well," she remarked, after a pause, "I believe you are not. I shouldn't think so."
Barold colored very faintly.
"I say," he said, "is that an imputation, or something of that character? It sounds like it, you know."
Octavia did not reply directly. She laughed a little.
"I want you to ask Lady Theobald to do something," she said.
"I am afraid I am not in such favor as you imagine," he said, looking slightly annoyed.
"Well, I think she won't refuse you this thing," she went on. "If she didn't loathe me so, I would ask her myself."
He deigned to smile.
"Does she loathe you?" he inquired.
"Yes," nodding. "She would not speak to me if it weren't for aunt Belinda. She thinks I am fast and loud. Doyouthink I am fast and loud?"
He was taken aback, and not for the first time, either. She had startled and discomposed him several times in the course of their brief acquaintance; and he always resented it, priding himself in private, as he did, upon his coolness and immobility. He could not think of the right thing to say just now, so he was silent for a second.
"Tell me the truth," she persisted. "I shall not care—much."
"I do not think you would care at all."
"Well, perhaps I shouldn't. Go on. Do you think I am fast?"
"I am happy to say I do not find you slow."
She fixed her eyes on him, smiling faintly.
"That means I am fast," she said. "Well, no matter. Will you ask Lady Theobald what I want you to ask her?"
"I should not say you were fast at all," he said rather stiffly. "You have not been educated as—as Lady Theobald has educated Miss Gaston, for instance."
"I should rather think not," she replied. Then she added, very deliberately, "She has had what you might call very superior advantages, I suppose."
Her expression was totally incomprehensible to him. She spoke with the utmost seriousness, and looked down at the table. "That is derision, I suppose," he remarked restively.
She glanced up again.
"At all events," she said, "there is nothing to laugh at in Lucia Gaston. Will you ask Lady Theobald? I want you to ask her to let Lucia Gaston come and play croquet with us on Tuesday. She is to play with you against Mr. Poppleton and me."
"Who is Mr. Poppleton?" he asked, with some reserve. He did not exactly fancy sharing his entertainment with any ordinary outsider. After all, there was no knowing what this little American might do.
"He is the curate of the church," she replied, undisturbed. "He is very nice, and little, and neat, and blushes all over to the toes of his boots. He came to see aunt Belinda, and I asked him to come and be taught to play."
"Who is to teach him?"
"I am. I have taught at least twenty men in New York and San Francisco."
"I hope he appreciates your kindness."
"I mean to try if I can make him forget to be frightened," she said, with a gay laugh.
It was certainly nettling to find his air of reserve and displeasure met with such inconsequent lightness. She never seemed to recognize the subtle changes of temperature expressed in his manner. Only his sense of what was due to himself prevented his being very chilly indeed; but as she went on with her gay chat, in utter ignorance of his mood, and indulged in some very pretty airy nonsense, he soon recovered himself, and almost forgot his private grievance.
Before going away, he promised to ask Lady Theobald's indulgence in the matter of Lucia's joining them in their game. One speech of Octavia's, connected with the subject, he had thought very pretty, as well as kind.
"I like Miss Gaston," she said. "I think we might be friends if Lady Theobald would let us. Her superior advantages might do me good. They might improve me," she went on, with a little laugh, "and I suppose I need improving very much. All my advantages have been of one kind."
When he had left her, she startled Miss Belinda by saying,—
"I have been asking Mr. Barold if he thought I was fast; and I believe he does—in fact, I am sure he does."
"Ah, my dear, my dear!" ejaculated Miss Belinda, "what a terrible thing to say to a gentleman! What will he think?"
Octavia smiled one of her calmest smiles.
"Isn't it queer how often you say that!" she remarked. "I think I should perish if I had to pull myself up that way as you do. I just go right on, and never worry. I don't mean to do any thing queer, and I don't see why any one should think I do."
Lucia was permitted to form one of the players in the game of croquet, being escorted to and from the scene by Francis Barold. Perhaps it occurred to Lady Theobald that the contrast of English reserve and maidenliness with the free-and-easy manners of young women from Nevada might lead to some good result.
"I trust your conduct will be such as to show that you at least have resided in a civilized land," she said. "The men of the present day may permit themselves to be amused by young persons whose demeanor might bring a blush to the cheek of a woman of forty, but it is not their habit to regard them with serious intentions."
Lucia reddened. She did not speak, though she wished very much for the courage to utter the words which rose to her lips. Lately she had found that now and then, at times when she was roused to anger, speeches of quite a clever and sarcastic nature presented themselves to her mind. She was never equal to uttering them aloud; but she felt that in time she might, because of course it was quite an advance in spirit to think them, and face, even in imagination, the probability of astounding and striking Lady Theobald dumb with their audacity.
"It ought to make me behave very well," she was saying now to herself, "to have before me the alternative of not being regarded with serious intentions. I wonder if it is Mr. Poppleton or Francis Barold who might not regard me seriously. And I wonder if they are any coarser in America than we can be in England when we try."
She enjoyed the afternoon very much, particularly the latter part of it, when Mr. Burmistone, who was passing, came in, being invited by Octavia across the privet hedge. Having paid his respects to Miss Belinda, who sat playing propriety under a laburnum-tree, Mr. Burmistone crossed the grass-plat to Lucia herself. She was awaiting her "turn," and laughing at the ardent enthusiasm of Mr. Poppleton, who, under Octavia's direction, was devoting all his energies to the game: her eyes were bright, and she had lost, for the time being, her timid air of feeling herself somehow in the wrong.
"I am glad to see you here," said Mr. Burmistone.
"I am glad to be here," she answered. "It has been such a happy afternoon. Every thing has seemed so bright and—and different!"
"'Different' is a very good word," he said, laughing.
"It isn't a very bad one," she returned, "and it expresses a good deal."
"It does indeed," he commented.
"Look at Mr. Poppleton and Octavia," she began.
"Have you got to 'Octavia'?" he inquired.
She looked down and blushed.
"I shall not say 'Octavia' to grandmamma."
Then suddenly she glanced up at him.
"That is sly, isn't it?" she said. "Sometimes I think I am very sly, though I am sure it is not my nature to be so. I would rather be open and candid."
"It would be better," he remarked.
"You think so?" she asked eagerly.
He could not help smiling.
"Do you ever tell untruths to Lady Theobald?" he inquired. "If you do, I shall begin to be alarmed."
"I act them," she said, blushing more deeply. "I really do—paltry sorts of untruths, you know; pretending to agree with her when I don't; pretending to like things a little when I hate them. I have been trying to improve myself lately, and once or twice it has made her very angry. She says I am disobedient and disrespectful. She asked me, one day, if it was my intention to emulate Miss Octavia Bassett. That was when I said I could not help feeling that I had wasted time in practising."
She sighed softly as she ended.
In the mean time Octavia had Mr. Poppleton and Mr. Francis Barold upon her hands, and was endeavoring to do her duty as hostess by both of them. If it had been her intention to captivate these gentlemen, she could not have complained that Mr. Poppleton was wary or difficult game. His first fears allayed, his downward path was smooth, and rapid in proportion. When he had taken his departure with the little silk purse in his keeping, he had carried under his clerical vest a warmed and thrilled heart. It was a heart which, it must be confessed, was of the most inexperienced and susceptible nature. A little man of affectionate and gentle disposition, he had been given from his earliest youth to indulging in timid dreams of mild future bliss,—of bliss represented by some lovely being whose ideals were similar to his own, and who preferred the wealth of a true affection to the glitter of the giddy throng. Upon one or two occasions, he had even worshipped from afar; but as on each of these occasions his hopes had been nipped in the bud by the union of their object with some hollow worldling, his dream had, so far, never attained very serious proportions. Since he had taken up his abode in Slowbridge, he had felt himself a little overpowered by circumstances. It had been a source of painful embarrassment to him, to find his innocent presence capable of producing confusion in the breasts of young ladies who were certainly not more guileless than himself. He had been conscious that the Misses Egerton did not continue their conversation with freedom when he chanced to approach the group they graced; and he had observed the same thing in their companions,—an additional circumspection of demeanor, so to speak, a touch of new decorum, whose object seemed to be to protect them from any appearance of imprudence.
"It is almost as if they were afraid of me," he had said to himself once or twice. "Dear me! I hope there is nothing in my appearance to lead them to"—
He was so much alarmed by this dreadful thought, that he had ever afterward approached any of these young ladies with a fear and trembling which had not added either to his comfort or their own; consequently his path had not been a very smooth one.
"I respect the young ladies of Slowbridge," he remarked to Octavia that very afternoon. "There are some very remarkable young ladies here,—very remarkable indeed. They are interested in the church, and the poor, and the schools, and, indeed, in every thing, which is most unselfish and amiable. Young ladies have usually so much to distract their attention from such matters."
"If I stay long enough in Slowbridge," said Octavia, "I shall be interested in the church, and the poor, and the schools."
It seemed to the curate that there had never been any thing so delightful in the world as her laugh and her unusual remarks. She seemed to him so beautiful, and so exhilarating, that he forgot all else but his admiration for her. He enjoyed himself so much this afternoon, that he was almost brilliant, and excited the sarcastic comment of Mr. Francis Barold, who was not enjoying himself at all.
"Confound it!" said that gentleman to himself, as he looked on. "What did I come here for? This style of thing is just what I might have expected. She is amusing herself with that poor little cad now, and I am left in the cold. I suppose that is her habit with the young men in Nevada."
He had no intention of entering the lists with the Rev. Arthur Poppleton, or of concealing the fact that he felt that this little Nevada flirt was making a blunder. The sooner she knew it, the better for herself; so he played his game as badly as possible, and with much dignity.
But Octavia was so deeply interested in Mr. Poppleton's ardent efforts to do credit to her teaching, that she was apparently unconscious of all else. She played with great cleverness, and carried her partner to the terminus, with an eager enjoyment of her skill quite pleasant to behold. She made little darts here and there, advised, directed, and controlled his movements, and was quite dramatic in a small way when he made a failure.
Mrs. Burnham, who was superintending the proceeding, seated in her own easy-chair behind her window-curtains, was roused to virtuous indignation by her energy.
"There is no repose whatever in her manner," she said. "No dignity. Is a game of croquet a matter of deep moment? It seems to me that it is almost impious to devote one's mind so wholly to a mere means of recreation."
"She seems to be enjoying it, mamma," said Miss Laura Burnham, with a faint sigh. Miss Laura had been looking on over her parent's shoulder. "They all seem to be enjoying it. See how Lucia Gaston and Mr. Burmistone are laughing. I never saw Lucia look like that before. The only one who seems a little dull is Mr. Barold."
"He is probably disgusted by a freedom of manner to which he is not accustomed," replied Mrs. Burnham. "The only wonder is that he has not been disgusted by it before."
The game over, Octavia deserted her partner. She walked lightly, and with the air of a victor, to where Barold was standing. She was smiling, and slightly flushed, and for a moment or so stood fanning herself with a gay Japanese fan.
"Don't you think I am a good teacher?" she asked at length.
"I should say so," replied Barold, without enthusiasm. "I am afraid I am not a judge."
She waved her fan airily.
"I had a good pupil," she said. Then she held her fan still for a moment, and turned fully toward him. "I have done something you don't like," she said. "I knew I had."
Mr. Francis Barold retired within himself at once. In his present mood it really appeared that she was assuming that he was very much interested indeed.
"I should scarcely take the liberty upon a limited acquaintance," he began.
She looked at him steadily, fanning herself with slow, regular movements.
"Yes," she remarked. "You're mad. I knew you were."
He was so evidently disgusted by this observation, that she caught at the meaning of his look, and laughed a little.
"Ah!" she said, "that's an American word, ain't it? It sounds queer to you. You say 'vexed' instead of 'mad.' Well, then, you are vexed."
"If I have been so clumsy as to appear ill-humored," he said, "I beg pardon. Certainly I have no right to exhibit such unusual interest in your conduct."
He felt that this was rather decidedly to the point, but she did not seem overpowered at all. She smiled anew.
"Anybody has a right to be mad—I mean vexed," she observed. "I should like to know how people would live if they hadn't. I am mad—I mean vexed—twenty times a day."
"Indeed?" was his sole reply.
"Well," she said, "I think it's real mean in you to be so cool about it when you remember what I told you the other day."
"I regret to say I don't remember just now. I hope it was nothing very serious."
To his astonishment she looked down at her fan, and spoke in a slightly lowered voice:—
"I told you that I wanted to be improved."
It must be confessed that he was mollified. There was a softness in her manner which amazed him. He was at once embarrassed and delighted. But, at the same time, it would not do to commit himself to too great a seriousness.
"Oh!" he answered, "that was a rather good joke, I thought."
"No, it wasn't," she said, perhaps even half a tone lower. "I was in earnest."
Then she raised her eyes.
"If you told me when I did any thing wrong, I think it might be a good thing," she said.
He felt that this was quite possible, and was also struck with the idea that he might find the task of mentor—so long as he remained entirely non-committal—rather interesting. Still, he could not afford to descend at once from the elevated stand he had taken.
"I am afraid you would find it rather tiresome," he remarked.
"I am afraidyouwould," she answered. "You would have to tell me of things so often."
"Do you mean seriously to tell me that you would take my advice?" he inquired.
"I mightn't take all of it," was her reply; "but I should take some—perhaps a great deal."
"Thanks," he remarked. "I scarcely think I should give you a great deal."
She simply smiled. "I have never had any advice at all," she said. "I don't know that I should have taken it if I had—just as likely as not I shouldn't; but I have never had any. Father spoiled me. He gave me all my own way. He said he didn't care, so long as I had a good time; and I must say I have generally had a good time. I don't see how I could help it—with all my own way, and no one to worry. I wasn't sick, and I could buy any thing I liked, and all that: so I had a good time. I've read of girls, in books, wishing they had mothers to take care of them. I don't know that I ever wished for one particularly. I can take care of myself. I must say, too, that I don't think some mothers are much of an institution. I know girls who have them, and they are always worrying."
He laughed in spite of himself; and though she had been speaking with the utmost seriousness andnaiveté, she joined him.
When they ceased, she returned suddenly to the charge.
"Now tell me what I have done this afternoon that isn't right," she said,—"that Lucia Gaston wouldn't have done, for instance. I say that, because I shouldn't mind being a little like Lucia Gaston—in some things."
"Lucia ought to feel gratified," he commented.
"She does," she answered. "We had a little talk about it, and she was as pleased as could be. I didn't think of it in that way until I saw her begin to blush. Guess what she said."
"I am afraid I can't."
"She said she saw so many things to envy in me, that she could scarcely believe I wanted to be at all like her."
"It was a very civil speech," said Barold ironically. "I scarcely thought Lady Theobald had trained her so well."
"She meant it," said Octavia. "You mayn't believe it, but she did. I know when people mean things, and when they don't."
"I wish I did," said Barold.
Octavia turned her attention to her fan.
"Well, I am waiting," she said.
"Waiting?" he repeated.
"To be told of my faults."
"But I scarcely see of what importance my opinion can be."
"It is of some importance to me—just now."
The last two words rendered him really impatient, and, it may be, spurred him up.
"If we are to take Lucia Gaston as a model," he said, "Lucia Gaston would possibly not have been so complaisant in her demeanor toward our clerical friend."
"Complaisant!" she exclaimed, opening her lovely eyes. "When I was actually plunging about the garden, trying to teach him to play. Well, I shouldn't call that being complaisant."
"Lucia Gaston," he replied, "would not say that she had been 'plunging' about the garden."
She gave herself a moment for reflection.
"That's true," she remarked, when it was over: "she wouldn't. When I compare myself with the Slowbridge girls, I begin to think I must say some pretty awful things."
Barold made no reply, which caused her to laugh a little again.
"You daren't tell me," she said. "Now, do I? Well, I don't think I want to know very particularly. What Lady Theobald thinks will last quite a good while. Complaisant!"
"I am sorry you object to the word," he said.
"Oh, I don't!" she answered. "I like it. It sounds so much more polite than to say I was flirting and being fast."
"Were you flirting?" he inquired coldly.
He objected to her ready serenity very much.
She looked a little puzzled.
"You are very like aunt Belinda," she said.
He drew himself up. He did not think there was any point of resemblance at all between Miss Belinda and himself.
She went on, without observing his movement.
"You think every thing means something, or is of some importance. You said that just as aunt Belinda says, 'What will they think?' It never occurs to me that they'll think at all. Gracious! Why should they?"
"You will find they do," he said.
"Well," she said, glancing at the group gathered under the laburnum-tree, "just now aunt Belinda thinks we had better go over to her; so, suppose we do it? At any rate, I found out that I was too complaisant to Mr. Poppleton."
When the party separated for the afternoon, Barold took Lucia home, and Mr. Burmistone and the curate walked down the street together.
Mr. Poppleton was indeed most agreeably exhilarated. His expressive little countenance beamed with delight.
"What a very charming person Miss Bassett is!" he exclaimed, after they had left the gate. "What a very charming person indeed!"
"Very charming," said Mr. Burmistone with much seriousness. "A prettier young person I certainly have never seen; and those wonderful gowns of hers"—
"Oh!" interrupted Mr. Poppleton, with natural confusion, "I—referred to Miss Belinda Bassett; though, really, what you say is very true. Miss Octavia Bassett—indeed—I think—in fact, Miss Octavia Bassett isquite, one might almost say evenmore, charming than her aunt."
"Yes," admitted Mr. Burmistone; "perhaps one might. She is less ripe, it is true; but that is an objection time will remove."
"There is such a delightful gayety in her manner!" said Mr. Poppleton; "such an ingenuous frankness! such a—a—such spirit! It quite carries me away with it,—quite."
He walked a few steps, thinking over this delightful gayety and ingenuous frankness; and then burst out afresh,—
"And what a remarkable life she has had too! She actually told me, that, once in her childhood, she lived for months in a gold-diggers' camp,—the only woman there. She says the men were kind to her, and made a pet of her. She has known the most extraordinary people."
In the mean time Francis Barold returned Lucia to Lady Theobald's safe keeping. Having done so, he made his adieus, and left the two to themselves. Her ladyship was, it must be confessed, a little at a loss to explain to herself what she saw, or fancied she saw, in the manner and appearance of her young relative. She was persuaded that she had never seen Lucia look as she looked this afternoon. She had a brighter color in her cheeks than usual, her pretty figure seemed more erect, her eyes had a spirit in them which was quite new. She had chatted and laughed gayly with Francis Barold, as she approached the house; and after his departure she moved to and fro with a freedom not habitual to her.
"He has been making himself agreeable to her," said my lady, with grim pleasure. "He can do it if he chooses; and he is just the man to please a girl,—good-looking, and with a fine, domineering air."
"How did you enjoy yourself?" she asked.
"Very much," said Lucia; "never more, thank you."
"Oh!" ejaculated my lady. "And which of her smart New York gowns did Miss Octavia Bassett wear?"
They were at the dinner-table; and, instead of looking down at her soup, Lucia looked quietly and steadily across the table at her grandmother.
"She wore a very pretty one," she said: "it was pale fawn-color, and fitted her like a glove. She made me feel very old-fashioned and badly dressed."
Lady Theobald laid down her spoon.
"She made you feel old-fashioned and badly dressed,—you!"
"Yes," responded Lucia: "she always does. I wonder what she thinks of the things we wear in Slowbridge." And she even went to the length of smiling a little.
"Whatshethinks of what is worn in Slowbridge!" Lady Theobald ejaculated. "She! may I ask what weight the opinion of a young woman from America—from Nevada—is supposed to have in Slowbridge?"
Lucia took a spoonful of soup in a leisurely manner.
"I don't think it is supposed to have any; but—but I don't think she minds that. I feel as if I shouldn't if I were in her place. I have always thought her very lucky."
"You have thought her lucky!" cried my lady. "You have envied a Nevada young woman, who dresses like an actress, and loads herself with jewels like a barbarian? A girl whose conduct toward men is of a character to—to chill one's blood!"
"They admire her," said Lucia simply, "more than they admire Lydia Egerton, and more than they admire me."
"Doyouadmire her?" demanded my lady.
"Yes, grandmamma," replied Lucia courageously. "I think I do."
Never had my lady been so astounded in her life. For a moment she could scarcely speak. When she recovered herself she pointed to the door.
"Go to your room," she commanded. "This is American freedom of speech, I suppose. Go to your room."
Lucia rose obediently. She could not help wondering what her ladyship's course would be if she had the hardihood to disregard her order. She really looked quite capable of carrying it out forcibly herself. When the girl stood at her bedroom window, a few minutes later, her cheeks were burning and her hands trembling.
"I am afraid it was very badly done," she said to herself. "I am sure it was; but—but it will be a kind of practice. I was in such a hurry to try if I were equal to it, that I didn't seem to balance things quite rightly. I ought to have waited until I had more reason to speak out. Perhaps there wasn't enough reason then, and I was more aggressive than I ought to have been. Octavia is never aggressive. I wonder if I was at all pert. I don't think Octavia ever means to be pert. I felt a little as if I meant to be pert. I must learn to balance myself, and only be cool and frank."
Then she looked out of the window, and reflected a little.
"I was not so very brave, after all," she said, rather reluctantly. "I didn't tell her Mr. Burmistone was there. I daren't have done that. I am afraid Iamsly—that sounds sly, I am sure."