22CHAPTER 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 the23history 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 sheerennuiand 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 Dick24as 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 eight25years; 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 be26for 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.27
“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, but28with 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 marking29out 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 were30uttered 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.31
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, wishing32secretly 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.33
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 holding34back, 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 ourvis-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.
35CHAPTER 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.36
“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.37
“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.38Who 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 her39down 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.40
“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.41
“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.