CHAPTER XLIII.“I WILL WRITE NO SUCH LETTER.”
The new year had not opened very auspiciously at Longmead, neither had the Christmas festivities been great.
Dick on his first return home had put on a great appearance of cheerfulness, and had carried himself much as usual; but Mr. Mayne had been glum, decidedly glum, and Mrs. Mayne had found it difficult to adjust the balance of her sympathy between Dick’s voluble quicksilver on the one hand, and her husband’s dead weight of ill humor on the other.
The truth was, Mr. Mayne’s sharp eyes had discerned from the first moment of his son’s entrance into the house that there was no change in his purpose.
To an outsider, Dick’s behavior to his father was as nice as possible. He still kept up his old jokes, rallying him on his matutinal activity, and saying a word about the “early worm,” “so bad for the worm, poor beggar,” observed Dick. And he sauntered after him into the poultry-yard, and had a great deal to say about some Spanish fowls that had been lately imported into Longmead and that were great sources of pride to Mr. Mayne.
Dick paid a great deal of dutiful attention to his father’s hobbies: he put on his thickest boots every day after luncheon, that his father might enjoy the long walks in which he delighted. Dick used to sally forth whistling to his dogs when they went down Sandy Lane; he was careful to pause where the four roads met, that Mr. Mayne might enjoy his favorite view. In all these things Dick’s behavior was perfect. Nevertheless, on their return from one of these walks they each had a secret grievance to pour into Mrs. Mayne’s ear.
Dick’s turn would come first.
“Mother,” he would say, as he lounged into the room where she sat knitting by the firelight and thinking of her boy—for just now she was heart and soul on Dick’s side—and full of yearning for the sweet girl whom he wanted for his wife, “I316don’t know how long this sort of thing is going on, but I don’t think I can put up with it much longer.”
“Have you not had a nice walk with your father?” she asked, anxiously.
“Oh, yes; the walk was well enough. We had some trouble with Vigo, though, for he startled a pheasant in Lord Fitzroy’s preserve, and then he bolted after a hare. I had quite a difficulty in getting him to heel.”
“These walks do your father so much good, Dick.”
“That is what you always say; but I do not think I can stand many more of them. He will talk of everything but the one subject, and that he avoids like poison. I shall have to bring him to book directly, and then there will be no end of a row. It is not the row I mind,” continued Dick, rather ruefully; “but I hate putting him out and seeing him cut up rough. If he would only be sensible and give me my way in this, there is nothing I would not do to please him. You must talk to him; you must indeed, mother.” And then Mrs. Mayne, with a sinking heart, promised that she would do what she could.
And after that it would be her husband’s turn.
“I tell you what Bessie; I am not satisfied about that boy,” he remarked, once, as he came in to warm his hands before going upstairs to dress for dinner. “I don’t know from whom he gets his obstinacy,—not from either of us, I am sure of that,—but his cheerfulness does not deceive me. He means mischief; I can see that plainly.”
“Oh, Richard! And Dick has been so nice to you ever since he came home. Why, he has not once asked to have any of his friends down to stay. And before this he was never content unless we filled the house. He takes walks with you, and is as domesticated and quiet as possible, so different from other young fellows, who are always racketing about.”
“That is just what bothers me,” returned her husband, crossly. “You have no discernment, Bessie, or you would know what I mean. I should not care a straw if Dick were to cram the house with young fellows: that sort of larking is just natural at his age. Why, he quite pooh-poohed the idea of a dinner-party the other night, though I planned it for his pleasure. His mind is set on other things, and that is why I say he is up to mischief.”
Mrs. Mayne sighed as she smoothed down her satin dress with her plump white hands; but she could not gainsay the truth of this speech: his father was right,—Dick’s mind was set on other things.
“I wish you would let him talk to you,” she began, timidly, remembering her promise. “Do, my dear; for I am sure Dick is very much in earnest.”
“So am I very much in earnest,” he returned, wrathfully; and his small eyes grew bright and irritable. “No, it is no use your looking at me in that way, Bessie. I am determined not to317allow that boy to ruin his prospects for life. He will thank me one day for being firm; and so will you, though you do turn against your own husband.”
This was too much for Mrs. Mayne’s affectionate nature to bear.
“Oh, Richard, how can you talk so? and I have been a good wife to you all these years!” And here the poor woman began to sob. “You might make allowance for a mother’s feelings; he is my boy as well as yours, and I would cut off my right hand to make him happy; and I do—I do think you are very hard upon him about Nan.”
Mr. Mayne stared at her in speechless amazement. Bessie, his long-suffering Bessie,—the wife of his bosom, over whom he had a right to tyrannize,—even she had turned against him, and had taken his son’s part. “Et tu, Brute!” he could have said, in his bitterness; but his wrath was too great.
“I tell you what,” he said, rising from the seat that was no longer restful to him, and pointing his finger at her, “you and your boy together will be the death of me.”
“Oh, Richard, how can you be so wicked?”
“Oh, I am wicked, am I? That is a nice wifely speech.”
“Yes, you are, when you say such things to me!” she returned, plucking up spirit that amazed herself afterwards. “If you do not know when you have a good wife and son, I am sorry for you. I say again, I think you are making a grievous mistake, Richard. Dick’s heart is set on the girl; and I don’t wonder at it, a dear pretty creature like that. And if you cross him, and set him wrong, you will have to answer to both of us for the consequences.” And then she, too, rose, trembling in every limb, and with her comely face very much flushed. Even a worm will turn, and Bessie Mayne had for once ventured to speak the truth to her husband.
She had the victory that night, for he was too much dumbfounded by her rebellion to indulge in his usual recriminations: he had never imagined before that Bessie owned a will of her own; but he felt now, with a pang of wounded self-love, that the younger Richard had proved a formidable rival.
His wife’s heart relented when she saw his moody looks; but he would not be reconciled to her, in spite of her coaxing speeches.
“Come Richard,—come, my dear! you must not be so cross with me,” she said to him later on that night. “We have been married three-and-twenty years, and have never had a serious quarrel; and I don’t like your black looks at me.”
“Then you should not anger me by taking that boy’s part,” was his only answer; and he could not be induced to say anything more conciliatory. And the poor woman went to bed weeping.
Things were in this uncomfortable state, when, one morning, Dick thrust his head into the study where his father was jotting318down some household accounts; for he managed all such minor details himself, much to his wife’s relief.
“Are you particularly busy, father?—I want to have a talk with you.”
Mr. Mayne looked up quickly, and his bushy eyebrows drew together.
“Well, yes, I am, Dick,—most particularly busy just now;” for there was a look on his son’s face that made him feel disinclined for conversation.
“Oh, very well, then; I can leave it until after luncheon,” was the cheerful response; then Mr. Mayne knew that Dick was determined to take the bull by the horns.
They went out after luncheon, taking the dogs with them, and turning their steps in the direction of Sandy Lane. For the first mile, Dick said very little; he had his eye on Vigo, who seemed to be inclined to bolt. But when they had reached the second mile-stone, he cleared his throat; and then Mr. Mayne knew that his trouble was beginning.
“Well, father,” commenced Dick, “I think it is about time we had a little serious talk together about my future plans. Of course I want to know if I am to go down next term.”
“I don’t see that we need discuss that. You will read for your degree, of course.”
Mr. Mayne spoke fast and nervously; but Dick was quite cool,—at least, outwardly so.
“There is no ‘of course’ in the matter. I can only read for my degree on one condition.”
“And what is that, may I ask?” with rising choler in his voice.
“That you will have Nan down to Longmead, and that you and my mother sanction our engagement.”
“Never, sir! never!” in a vehement tone.
“Please don’t excite yourself, father. I think it is I who ought to be excited; but, you see, I am quite cool,—perfectly so. I am far too much in earnest to be otherwise. When a man’s future prospects are at stake, and his own father seems determined to thwart him, it is time to summon up all one’s energies. I hope you are not serious in what you say,—that you do absolutely refuse to sanction my engagement with Nan?”
“There is no engagement. If there were, I do absolutely refuse; nay, more, I am determined actively to oppose it.”
“I am sorry to find you have not changed your mind; for it makes all the difference to me, I assure you. Very well: then I must go in for a City life.”
“Do you threaten me, sir?”
“No, father, I would not be so undutiful; but it is a pity your throwing all that money away on my education if I am not to complete it. If I had taken a good degree, I might have turned out something; but never mind,—it can’t be helped now. Then you will be kind enough to write a letter of introduction to Stansfield & Stansfield?”319
“No, sir; I will write no such letter!” thundered Mr. Mayne; and Dick put his hands in his pocket and whistled. He felt himself losing patience; but, as he said afterwards, his father was in such an awful rage that it was necessary for one of them to keep cool. So, as soon as he recovered, he said, quite pleasantly,—
“Well, if you will not, you will not. We may take a horse to the water, but we can’t make him drink. And the time has not come yet for a son to order his own father, though we are pretty well advanced now.”
“I think we are, Dick.”
“I confess I am rather disappointed at not getting that letter. Mr. Stansfield would have attached some importance to it; but I dare say I shall get on with the old boy without it. I may as well tell you that I shall accept anything he likes to offer me,—even if it be only a clerkship at eighty pounds a year. After all, I am not worse off than you were at my age. You began at the bottom of the ladder: so I need not grumble.”
“Do you mean to say,” demanded his father, in a tone of grief, “that you really intend to throw me over, and not only me, but all your advantages, your prospects in life, for the sake of this girl?”
“I think it is you who are throwing me over,” returned his son, candidly. “Put yourself in my place. When you were a young man, father, would you have given up my mother, if my grandfather had wished you to do so?”
“The cases are different,—altogether different,” was the angry response. “I never would have married a dressmaker.”
“There are dressmakers and dressmakers: but at least myfianceeis a gentlewoman,” returned his son, hotly.
Dick meant nothing by this speech more than his words implied: he was far too good-natured for anarriere-pensee. But his father chose to consider himself insulted.
“You insolent young fellow!” he exclaimed, fuming. “Do you mean your mother was not as good as Miss Nancy, any day? I never did believe in those Challoners,—never, in spite of the mother’s airs. I tell you what, Dick, you are treating me shamefully; after all the money I have wasted on you, to turn round on me in this way and talk about the City. I wash my hands of you, sir. I will have nothing to do with introductions: you may go your way, but you will never see a penny of my money.” And he walked on with a very black look indeed.
“All right,” returned Dick. But he was not quite so cool now. “Thank you for all you have done for me, and for letting me know your future intentions. I am thinking it is a good thing Nan has learned her business, for, as we shall be tolerably poor, it will be handy for her to make her own gowns.”
“Very well, Dick.”
“I shall go up to Mr. Stansfield to-morrow; and the day after I suppose I had better write to the Dean. You may not320believe me, father,”—and here Dick’s lip quivered for the first time,—“but I am awfully sorry to cross you in this way; but my heart is so set on Nan that I could not possibly bring myself to live without her.” But to this Mr. Mayne made no reply, and they walked the remainder of the way in silence.
Mrs. Mayne’s heart grew sick with apprehension when she saw their faces at dinner.
Dick looked decidedly cross. To do him justice, the poor fellow was thoroughly miserable; but his aspect was cheerful compared to that of her husband.
Mr. Mayne would not speak; neither would he eat. And even the footman, who took away the untasted viands, looked at his master with fear and trembling, his countenance was so gloomy.
Dick did not seem to notice his father’s failure of appetite; but Mrs. Mayne was one of those women who are given to fancy that if a man refuse his dinner there is something serious the matter with him. And as the meal proceeded she cast piteous looks at her son, but Dick totally ignored them.
As soon as the servants had handed round the fruit, and had left the room, Mr. Mayne rose from the table, leaving his claret untasted, and shut himself into the library, first banging the door behind him, a sound that made his wife’s heart palpitate.
“Oh, Dick, what was happened to your father?” she asked, turning to her boy for comfort. But Dick was unusually sulky, and refused to answer.
“You had better ask him, mother, if you are anxious to know,” he replied, in a voice he very seldom used to her. “As for me, I am so sick of the whole thing, and feel myself so badly used, that I would rather not open my lips on the subject.”
Then Mrs. Mayne sighed, for she knew Dick had one of his obstinate fits on him, and that there would be no further word spoken by him that night.
Poor woman! She knew it was her duty to go into the library and speak a word of comfort to her husband. It might be that Dick had been contumacious, and had angered his father, and it might be her task to pour in the balm of sympathy. Even if he had been hard on her boy, she must not forget that he was her husband.
But as she opened the door she forgot her doubts in a moment. Mr. Mayne’s face was so pale, despite its blackness, that she was moved to instant pity.
“Oh, Richard, what is it?” she said, hurrying to him, “My dear, you must not take it to heart in this way.” And she took his forehead between her hands and kissed it with the old tenderness she had once felt for him, when they, too, had lived and worked for each other, and there was no Master Dick to plague them and rule over his mother’s heart.
“Bessie, that boy will be the death of me,” he groaned.321But, notwithstanding the despondency of these words, the comfort of his wife’s presence was visibly felt, and by and by he suffered her to coax the truth from him.
CHAPTER XLIV.MR. MAYNE ORDERS A BASIN OF GRUEL.
On the following morning Mr. Mayne did open his lips to address a word to his son:
“I shall be obliged to you, Dick, if you will postpone your intended visit to town, for this day at least;” for Dick had an “ABC” beside him, and was picking out a fast train while he ate his breakfast.
“All right,” replied Dick: “I can wait another four-and-twenty hours.” But though he yielded the point graciously enough, he did not look at his father, or say anything more on the subject; and as soon as his appetite was satisfied, he took up the “Times,” and lounged into his den. Shortly afterwards they heard him whistling to his dogs, and knew that he would not appear until luncheon.
Mrs. Mayne wished that her husband would follow his example; but he had put on his slippers, and showed no inclination to leave the fireside. He read his paper and dozed a good deal, and snapped up Bessie if she spoke to him: so, on the whole, Mrs. Mayne had rather a dull morning. When the luncheon-bell rang, he chose to put on invalid airs, and ordered a basin of gruel to be brought to him in the library. Mrs. Mayne who knew he was not ill, and that his indisposition was purely mental and imaginary, was yet wise enough to fall in with his whim.
“Your master would like his gruel nicely flavored, James,” she said to the footman. “Please ask Mrs. Simpkins to prepare it in the way he likes.” And then she placed his favorite little table beside him, and stirred the fire into a more cheerful blaze.
“Your father does not feel himself well enough to come in to luncheon, Dick,” she said to her son, probably for the benefit of the servant, who was waiting to remove the covers; and Dick, for the same reason, testified a proper amount of sympathy.
“He takes too long walks for a man of his age,” he said, applying himself vigorously to the dismemberment of a chicken. “Mother, I will trouble you for some of that game-pie.” And then he told her another anecdote about Vigo.
After luncheon Dick again disappeared, and Mrs. Mayne, who dreaded an afternoon’stete-a-tetewith her husband in his322present mood, went up to her own room, for some feminine business, or to take a nap. Mr. Mayne, a little mollified by the gruel, which had been flavored exactly to his liking with asoupconof rum, was just composing himself for another doze, when he was roused by the loud pealing of the hall bell, and the next moment the door was flung open by James, and Sir Henry Challoner was announced.
It was a dark wintry afternoon, and the library was somewhat sombre: the fire had died down, owing to Mr. Mayne’s drowsiness. In the dim light Sir Harry’s big burly figure looked almost gigantic. Mr. Mayne, with his little lean shoulders and sharp face, looked beside him much as a small gray-hound would beside a mastiff.
“How do you do?” began Sir Harry, in his loud voice. “I must apologize for my intrusion; but I think my name is well known to you, and needs no introduction. I have often heard of Mr. Mayne, I can assure you.”
“You do me too much honor,” returned that gentleman, stiffly; and he glanced at the card in his hand. There it was, “Sir Henry Challoner.” “But what the––” And here his favorite expletive rose to his lips.
“We can scarcely see each other’s faces,” observed Sir Harry, cheerfully. “Will you allow me to take the liberty, though I have not known you for seven years—and hardly for seven minutes!” And then he seized the poker, and broke up an obstinate piece of coal.
“Actually, in my own house, and before my own eyes,” as Mr. Mayne told his wife afterwards.
“There, now! I have made a glorious blaze. These are first-rate coals. Now we can have our talk comfortably together. You do not know me personally; but I dare say you have heard of my father,—Sir Francis Challoner? Poor old fellow! I am afraid too many people heard of him in his time.”
“Yes, sir: but, as it is hardly becoming of me to say to his son, I have never heard much good of him. If I remember rightly, he did poor Challoner a bad turn once.”
“Hush, my good friend!” And Sir Harry’s ruddy face looked a little disturbed. “I thought no one but myself and Aunt Catherine knew that story. It is rather hard on a man to have this sort of things brought up. And the poor old governor is dead now: so, if you will permit me to observe, bygones had better be bygones on that subject.”
“Oh, by all means, Sir Harry; but you introduced the matter yourself.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Mayne,” rather haughtily, “I introduced myself. I am the son of Sir Francis. Well, if you know so much, you will understand the sort of interest I take in my cousins and how I consider it my duty to make up to them for what they have lost.”
“Very proper, I am sure.”323
“As to that, duty is a pleasure. They are such awfully jolly girls, and so uncommonly plucky, that I am as proud of them as though they were my own sisters. Nan is so confoundedly pretty, too. I don’t wonder at your son’s taste. He must be a lucky fellow who gets Nan.”
“Sir!” vociferated Mr. Mayne; and Sir Harry immediately changed his tactics:
“That is a tidy place opposite you,—Gilsbank, I mean. I have been over there settling about the purchase. I am afraid Crauford is rather a screw: he wanted to drive too close a bargain. But I said, ‘No; you shall have your money down, right and tight, but not a farthing over.’ And I insisted on my right to change the name if I like. I have half a mind to call it ‘Challoner Place.’”
Mr. Mayne was wide awake now; his astonishment knew no bounds.
“You are going to buy Gilsbank!”
“I have bought it,” was the cool response; “and I am now in treaty for Glen Cottage. My aunt has a fancy for her old home; and, though it is not much of a place, it is big enough for her and the girls; and Ibbetson has done a good deal to improve it. You look surprised, Mr. Mayne; but I suppose a man must live somewhere!”
“Of course it is none of my business; but I thought Sir Francis was as poor as a church mouse. Mrs. Challoner was my informant; and she always led me to suppose so.”
“She was perfectly right. The poor old man never could keep money in his pocket: it always seemed to slip through his fingers. But that is not my case. I have been a lucky fellow all my life. I roughed it a bit in the colonies at first; but it did me no harm. And then we made a splendid hit out in Sydney,—coined money, in fact. I would not like to tell you what I made in one year: it seems blowing one’s trumpet, somehow. But I soon got sick of making it; and here I am, with a tidy fortune,—plenty for myself, and enough to set up my aunt and the girls comfortably without feeling the loss. And now, Mr. Mayne when they are back at Glen Cottage, I want to know what you will do about your son.”
To do Mr Mayne justice, he was far too perplexed to answer off-hand; in fact, he was almost rendered dumb by excessive astonishment. To borrow his own forcible expression, used to his wife afterwards, “he hardly knew where he was, things were so topsy-turvy.”
In the old days, before Dick had produced that wonderful moustache that was so long in growing, Mr. Mayne had been very partial to his neighbors at Glen Cottage. It is always pleasant to a man to patronize and befriend a pretty woman; and Mrs. Challoner was an exceedingly pretty woman. It was quite an occupation to a busy man like the master of Longmead324to superintend their garden and give his advice on all subjects that belong to a man’s province.
But for the last year, since Dick had so greatly developed in mental culture, his father had been growing very weary even of the name of Challoner; it had become a habit with him to decry them on every possible occasion. “What is in a name?” he would say, when some person would lament the dead-and-gone glories of Challoner Place. “There is not a soul belonging to them, except that disreputable Sir Francis; and he is as good as a beggar.”
But since Glen Cottage had given way to the Friary, and the dressmaking scheme had been carried out, his opposition had become perfectly frantic: he could have sworn at Dick for his senselessness, his want of pride, his lamentable deficiency in ambition. “Never, as long as my name is Richard Mayne, will I give in to that boy,” he had vowed inwardly.
And now there had suddenly started up, like a piece of gilded clap-trap, this amazing man of inches, calling himself their cousin, Sir Henry Challoner; a man who was absolutely tired of making money,—who called Gilsbank, a far finer house than Longmead, a tidy little place, and who could throw in Glen Cottage, that bijou residence, as a sort of dower-house for widowed Challoners; a man who would soon be talked about in Hadleigh, not because he was rich,—most of the Hadleigh families were rich,—but because he was restoring an ancient name to something of its old respectability.
Mr. Mayne was essentially a shrewd, far-sighted man. Like other self-made men, he attached great importance to good blood. In a moment he realized that Nan Challoner of the Friary was a very different person from Nan Challoner of Glen Cottage, the cousin of Sir Henry Challoner. Under the latter circumstances she would be received on equal terms at Fitzroy Lodge and at the other houses of the aristocracy. In marrying her, Dick would be at once on an intimate footing with those very people who only just tolerated his father.
“Well,” observed Sir Harry, after a lengthy pause, “what do you say about the matter, eh? Though I have accumulated a pretty sum of money, I do not pretend to be a millionaire; and of course, as I may settle down some day and have a family of my own, I must not treat my cousins as though they were my sisters. I think of allowing my aunt a sufficient income during her lifetime to keep up Glen Cottage, and I do not mind paying the girls three thousand pounds down on their wedding-day just for pin-money; but more than that cannot be expected of me.”
“Of course not,” returned Mr. Mayne; and then he hesitated. Three thousand pounds was not much of a fortune. Why, the girl he wanted for Dick had fifteen thousand, at least; but then Dick would not look at her; and even three thousand was better than nothing. “I had hoped better things for my son,” he went on, stiffly. “I always meant Dick to marry money.”325
“Oh, true, money is very good in its way; but then, you see, young fellows are not always to be coerced. I believe there is a very strong attachment between your son and my cousin Nan.”
“It has cost me a great deal of vexation,” replied Mr. Mayne very testily,—all the more that his resolution was wavering. “I do not wish to hurt your feelings, Sir Henry, but this confounded dressmaking of theirs––” But here Sir Harry stopped him by a most extraordinary facial contraction, which most certainly resembled a wink.
“Hush!” he exclaimed, in a very loud whisper. “It does not matter to me, of course; but if I were you, I would not mention this little fact to any one else. Girls are girls, and they will have their fling. A good steady husband, that is what they want, the best of them, to sober them when the right time comes. I mean to put a stop to this nonsense; but after all, a little bit of larking like that with a lot of high-spirited generous creatures, what does it matter in the long run? You just settle things with me off-hand, and I will come to terms with the young ladies. I am the head of the family, as they know.” And Sir Harry threw out his big chest with a sudden movement of importance and pride. “I am the head of the family: they will be pleased to remember that,” he repeated pompously.
It was just at this moment, when victory lay within his grasp, that Dick sauntered lazily into the room.
Dick was in an execrable humor: he was tired and worried, and his boots were muddy. And what was the use of being still contumacious, unless his obstinacy were to be a spectacle to men and gods,—unless he were to flaunt his ill humor in the face of his tyrant, and make his father’s soul wretched within him? Such is youthful reasoning, that hates to veil its feelings unobserved.
Dick had not perceived Sir Harry’s card, so he stared at the intruder a little coolly. Sir Harry returned his look with a glance of mingled surprise and amusement.
“Is this the young gentleman in question?” he asked, in a tone that roused Dick’s ire. To tell the truth, he was a little disappointed by Nan’s choice. It was not so much Dick’s want of good looks, but in Sir Harry eyes he appeared somewhat insignificant; and then a scowl is not always becoming to a face. Dick’s bright genial expression was wanting; he looked a little too like his father at this moment for Sir Harry’s taste.
“Do you mean me?” observed Dick, in a magnificent tone. “Is it I who am the young gentleman in question?—Father, will you have the goodness to introduce me to this gentleman with whom you have been talking me over?” And Dick twirled his moustache angrily.
Mr. Mayne looked at his son’s moody face, and his feelings underwent a sudden revulsion; but before he could speak Sir Harry stepped in nimbly before him:
“Well now, I like spirit—no one cares to be talked about behind326one’s back. Supposing we shake hands, you and I, as we are to be so nearly related. I am Nan’s guardian, her next of kin,—Sir Harry Challoner, at your service; and Nan sends her love and you are a lucky fellow, that is what you are!” exclaimed Sir Harry, genially, as he struck Dick a sounding blow on his shoulder. But Dick did not wince; and, though the diamond ring cut into his hand as they exchanged that grasp, no expression of pain crossed his face, which became all at once quite radiant.
Sir Harry hailed the metamorphosis with delight. Here was the real Dick emerging like a young sun-god from the clouds.
“Come, that is first-rate; I like the look of you better now,” he said, with an appreciative nod.
“Father, what does this mean?” faltered Dick.
“It means,” growled Mr. Mayne, for he could not get quite amiable all at once, though his heart was lightening in his bosom, “it means that I am an old fool, Dick, and that you are a young one.”
“No, father,—not really,—does it?” And Dick beamed still more.
“And it means that you are not to plague me any more about the City. But there! though you have behaved so badly to me, Dick, I forgive you. Sir Harry and I have been talking over things, and if you will work hard for your degree your mother shall ask the girl down here, and we will see about it, and that is all I can say at present. And so we may as well shake hands upon it too.”
But Dick did more than that; he threw his arm over his father’s shoulder with a movement that was almost caressing.
“Thank you, pater; you are a brick and no mistake!” was all the undemonstrative Briton’s tongue could say. But Mr. Mayne, as he looked in his boy’s face and felt that pressure on his shoulder, thought them sufficiently eloquent.
“There! get along with you, and have it out with your mother,” he growled. But, in spite of his surly tone, Mr. Mayne felt an amount of relief that astonished himself: to see Dick’s face happy again, to have no cloud between them, to know that no domestic discord would harass his soul and render gruel necessary to his well-being, was restoring him to his old self again. Sir Harry longed to throw back his head and indulge in a good laugh as he witnessed this little scene of reconciliation.
Mrs. Mayne, who was sitting somewhat sadly by her own fireside, thinking over that day’s discomfort, was quite taken aback by hearing Dick coming upstairs in his old way—three steps at a time—and then bursting into the room after a hasty knock at the door.
“Mother,” he cried, breathlessly, “Sir Harry Challoner is in the library—and pater wants you to come down and give them327some tea—and Sir Henry is going to stop to dinner—and the woodcock is to be cooked—and you are to get the best room ready. But first of all—like the dear, darling mother you are—you are to sit down and write a letter to Nan.”
But the letter was not written then; for how could Bessie keep her husband and his guest waiting for their tea after such an urgent message? And had she not first of all to listen to Dick’s incoherent story, which she heard better from Sir Harry afterwards, who took great pains to explain it to the poor bewildered woman?
Mr. Mayne thought he had never seen Bessie look so handsome since the days he courted her, as she sat smiling at the head of the table in her velvet gown. And Sir Harry, too, was quite charmed with the soft, comely creature.
Later on, while the two elder gentlemen were chatting confidentially over their cigars and whisky-and-water, she did manage to write a few lines to Nan. But it was not much of a letter; for how was she to construct a decent sentence with that torment Dick hanging over the back of her chair and interrupting her every moment? But Nan was not ill pleased by the missive when she received it.
“My own dear girl,” it said,—“my dearest girl,—for no daughter could ever be so dear to me as you will be, Nan, for my boy’s sake, and because he loves you so.” (“You are right there, mother!” struck in Dick, in a tone of ecstasy.) “Everything has come right, through Sir Henry’s intercession and my Richard’s goodness.” (“Humph!” coughed Dick. “Well, it is not for the like of me to contradict you.”)
“You are to come to us—at once—at once,”—underlined,—“for Dick will be going back to Oxford, so there is no time to lose; and you have not got any good of your engagement yet.” (“Only just at that last moment,” muttered her son at this.)
“My precious boy looks so happy that I could cry with joy to see him.” (“Oh, shut up, mother! Nan knows all that.”) “And his dear father looks as pleased as possible, and he sends his love.” (“He did indeed, Dick,” as an incredulous sound broke from his lips), “and he says bygones are bygones. And you are on no account to feel yourself awkward as regards him, for of course Dick’sfiancee” (“Are you sure that is spelt right, Dick?”) “will bring her own welcome. Is not that a sweet speech for my Richard to say? So you will come, my dear, will you not? And I remain, just what I always was, my Nan’s loving friend,
“Bessie Mayne.”
And then the letter was carefully consigned to Dick’s pocket, and in due course of time was delivered into Nan’s fair hands.328
CHAPTER XLV.AN UNINVITED GUEST.
During the next few days Grace and Phillis made great strides towards intimacy; and, as though some magnetic influence attracted each to each, they were to be found constantly together. Neither of them was a girl to indulge in gushing sentimentality; but Grace, whose refined intellectual nature had hitherto met with no response except from her brother, perceived at once Phillis’s innate superiority and clear generous temperament. For the first time she felt feminine friendship a possibility, and hailed it as a new-found joy. Nan testified her pleasure on more than one occasion: jealousy never found a resting-place in a corner of her heart.
“I am so glad, Phillis,” she observed, once, “that you and Grace Drummond like each other so much. You have never found any girl equal to you yet; and I was always too stupid to give you what you wanted.”
“Oh, Nannie, as though I would change you for a dozen Grace Drummonds!” returned Phillis, stanch as ever to her domestic creed, that there never was and never could be such another as Nan.
“Oh, of course we shall always be the same to each other, you and I,” returned Nan, seriously, “we are such old comrades, Phil; but then I have Dick, and it is only fair you should have some one too;” but she did not understand why Phillis suddenly sighed and turned away.
An amusing little incident happened to Phillis after this, which she greatly enjoyed. Colonel Middleton’s avoidance of them had long been a sore point with her, as it was with Dulce.
“I feel almost like that wicked Haman,” she said, once, in a serio-comic voice, “and as if he were my Mordecai. I shall never think we have achieved perfect success until I have forced him to shake hands with me.” But Nan, who cared very little about such things, only laughed.
On Sunday morning Colonel Middleton marched up the aisle rather more pompously than usual, and there followed him a tall, very solemn-faced young man, with serious eyes that reminded them of Elizabeth.
“Son Hammond,” whispered Phillis, who was not always as devout as she ought to be; and Dulce tried hard to compose her dimples.
Possibly the young officer was not as solemn as his looks, for he certainly paid more attention to the opposite pew than he329did to his prayer-book; and as he walked home with his sister, Colonel Middleton being just then out of earshot, he questioned her rather closely on the subject:
“Who were those girls, Elizabeth? I mean the three who were just opposite us with their mother. Are they visitors or residents?” Then Elizabeth told him very briefly their name and occupation.
“Good gracious!” he returned, in a thunderstruck tone; and then all at once he burst out laughing, as though at a good joke:
“I call that a piece of splendid pluck. Do you know, I could see in a moment there was something out of the common about them? They are all very pretty,—at least good-looking,—and I liked their quiet style of dress. You must introduce me to-morrow.”
“My dear Hammond, I can do nothing of the kind,” returned Elizabeth, glancing round in an alarmed way. “Father has refused to have them at Brooklyn; and it will annoy him terribly if you were to take any notice of them.” But to this Hammond turned a deaf ear, and, though he forbore to question her any further on that occasion, he had fully made up his mind that the introduction should take place as soon as possible.
As it fell out, accident favored him the very next day; for, as he was calling with his sister, at the White House, who should be announced the next minute but the Misses Challoner,—Phillis and Dulce, who had been bidden to afternoon tea!
Mrs. Cheyne kissed and welcomed them both. Then Captain Middleton was introduced; and they were soon chatting merrily together, to Elizabeth’s secret amusement.
Captain Middleton made himself very agreeable to the two girls, as Dulce observed afterwards. She had never before been so deceived in a man’s appearance,—for he was not solemn at all; and, though the serious brown eyes certainly inspected them rather critically from time to time, he proved himself a bright amusing companion, and fully bore out his father’s and sister’s encomiums.
The Middletons were easily induced to prolong their visit. Elizabeth felt herself a traitor to her father; but she could not refuse Hammond’s imploring glance. And so they stayed, and all took their leave together.
Mr. Cheyne walked down to the gate with them. He had an errand in the town; and he and Elizabeth walked behind the young people, talking them over in a low voice.
Now, it so happened that Colonel Middleton was trudging down the Braidwood Road; and as he neared the White House he looked up, and there was his son walking contentedly with a Challoner girl on each side of him, and the three were laughing merrily.
It was Dulce who saw him first.
“There comes your father!” she said; and she began to330blush as she had done on the day when he had left her at the gate of Brooklyn, talking to Elizabeth.
Hammond proved himself quite worthy of the occasion.
“Well met, father,” he called out, cheerily, “We seem all going one way. I suppose no one needs any introduction? Of course you know my father, Miss Challoner?”
Then the colonel threw down his arms. He had fought very bravely on his son’s behalf; but, after all his labors, his bristling defences and skilful retreats, Hammond had of his own free will delivered himself into the hands of the Philistines. What was the use of guarding an empty citadel?—his treasure was already in the enemy’s grasp.
All this was written on the colonel’s lugubrious face as he bowed stiffly and walked in sorrowful silence beside them, shaking his white head at intervals; but no one but Dulce took any notice of his sombre mood.
Dulce was very timid by nature. She was the least outspoken of the three, and always kept in the background, like a modest little flower that loved the shade; but she was very soft-hearted, and had great regard for people’s feelings. And the old man’s downcast looks pained her; for how was she to know that he was secretly pleased at this meeting?
“I hope—I wish—you did not mind knowing us so much. But it has not been our fault this afternoon,” sighed Dulce, stammering and blushing over her words. “You will believe that, will you not, Colonel Middleton?”
If a cannon shot had been fired into the old warrior’s ear, he could hardly have started more than he did at these childish words. He looked round. There was the little girl, looking up at him with the innocent eyes he remembered so well, and her mouth puckered a little as though she wanted to cry.
This was more than any man could bear, even if he had a harder heart than Colonel Middleton.
“My dear,” he said, taking the little hand, “I have always wanted to know you; Elizabeth will tell you that. I lost my heart to your sisters the first day I saw them. I am sure we shall be good friends in time, if you will forgive an old man’s pride.” And then he patted her hand as though she had been an infant.
When Mr. Drummond sat down to dinner that evening, he astonished Mattie very much by saying,—
“You can ask the Middletons, after all, for your tea-party, if you like, Mattie. What wonderful sight do you think I saw just now? Why, the colonel himself coming out from the Friary, and all the three girls were round him, chattering as though they had known him all their life; and I am pretty sure that in spite of the dark, I saw ‘son Hammond’ behind him.” And Mattie, glad of the permission, gave the invitation the next day.
Mattie grew a little alarmed as the evening approached. It331was her first party and she knew Archie would be critical; but Grace proved herself a useful ally.
In spite of her efforts to keep in the background and leave Mattie in her position as mistress of her brother’s house, she felt herself becoming insensibly its presiding spirit.
Archie was tolerably good-natured to Mattie; but the habits of a lifetime were too strong for him, and he still snubbed and repressed her at intervals. Mattie felt herself of no importance now that Grace had come: her duties were usurped before her eyes. Archie made a fresh demand on her forbearance every day.
“Why cannot you keep to the housekeeping, and let Grace do the schools and visitings?” he said, once. “It must come to her by and by, when you are gone; and I want her to begin as soon as possible. It will not do to let her think she has come too soon,” implying that good taste should lead Mattie to resign of her own account.
Poor Mattie! she had many a good cry in secret before that Tuesday. She could hardly help feeling pained to see how all-in-all those two were to each other, and the glad eagerness Grace threw into her work, knowing the reward of commendation she would reap. “It must be so strange never to be snubbed or scolded,—to do everything right,” Mattie thought.
Grace felt very sorry for her, and petted her a good deal. The dark little face had always a pained wistfulness on it now that touched her. She spoke kindly of Mattie to her brother on all possible occasions.
“I think Mattie is so generous in giving up to me as she does,” she observed, as Archie joined her in the drawing-room in expectation of their guests. Mattie had not yet made her appearance. She had been lighting the wax candles and trimming a refractory lamp that refused to burn, and had just run past her brother with blackened fingers and hot, tired face.
“Oh, yes, she is good enough,” he returned, indifferently, as he straightened a crooked candle; “but I wish she would not always be late. She has not begun to dress, and it is the time we appointed for the Challoners to come. Of all things I hate unpunctuality and fuss, and Mattie is always so fussy.”
Grace’s conscience pricked her. “I am afraid I left her too much to do,” she said, penitently. “Phillis asked me to go for a walk with them; but I ought not to have left her. I will go and help her now.”
But Archie objected:
“No, no; let her be. You must not leave me alone to receive them. How nice you look in that cream-colored dress, Grace! I thought it would suit you.” But, though his eyes rested on her as he spoke, he seemed rather absent. And when the door-bell rang a moment afterwards, a sudden flush came to his face.
It was very odd to feel that he was receiving Nan as his332guest. He had dreaded the ordeal greatly, but after the first moment it was not so bad. Grace, who had her suspicions and watched them closely, had them verified without doubt during the moment that followed the Challoners’ entrance; but no other eyes but hers would have read anything amiss in the young vicar’s gravely composed face.
Nan, who was looking beautiful, met him with her usual unconsciousness: though neither of them knew it, it was this very unconsciousness that was fast healing the wound. One cannot mourn long after a lost dream, and there had never been any reality in it. Not one of Nan’s thoughts had ever belonged to him for a moment: his existence, his individuality had never grazed the outer edge of her susceptibilities. Dick had encased her from childhood in armor of proof against all manhood. Archie felt this even as he touched her hand, and his lips gave her welcome.
“I am so sorry your mother could not come,” he said, politely. And then he turned to Phillis, who was regarding him with an odd, dubious look.
Archie felt the look, and his spirit rose in instant opposition.
“Do you know the Middletons are to be here, after all?” he said, moving a little into the background, for this girl had keen vision, and, as of old, her sympathy moved him strangely.
“Oh, then we shall be quite a party,” she returned, brightly. “It seems ages since we have been at one, and I feel disposed to enjoy myself. The very sight of wax candles is exhilarating. I am half afraid to touch coffee, for fear it will get into my head. And how sweet Grace looks in that dress!”
“Yourchef-d’œuvre!” he replied, rather wickedly.
“Oh, yes, I recognize my handiwork,” returned Phillis, nonchalantly. “I am quite as proud of it as an artist would be of a picture. Here comes Mattie; poor little thing! she seems tired, but she looks nice, too.”
Archie moved away after this, for the Middletons were announced; but he thought as he left her that he had never seen her look so handsome. Nan’s beauty had so blinded him that he had hardly been aware what a charming face Phillis really had: when she was pleased or excited she lighted up quite radiantly.
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Mattie, fussily coming up at that moment. “I don’t know what has become of your cousin; but Captain Middleton says all the trains have been snowed up.”
“If the train he is in has been snowed up, of course we must not expect to see him this evening,” was Phillis’s laughing reply. “Never mind; I dare say we shall all survive it; though Harry is such a good fellow, and I am immensely fond of him.”
“Oh, but the tea and coffee will be spoiled. I must go and pour it out now. Look, Grace is making signs to me.”
“Shall I come and help you?” was the ready response. “What a pretty little tea-table, Mattie, and how charmingly333snug it looks in the bay-window! The gentlemen will wait on us, of course. I like this way better than servants handing round lukewarm cups from the kitchen: it is not so grand, but it is cosier. Was it your arrangement, Mattie?”
“Oh, yes,” returned Mattie, in a disconsolate tone, as she took her place. “But, Phillis, are you really not anxious about your cousin? It is so dreadful to think of him snowed up all night, with nothing to eat and drink!”
Phillis laughed outright at this.
“My imagination will not conjure up such horrors. I believe Harry is at this moment sitting in the hotel discussing a good dinner before a blazing fire.” And, as Mattie looked injured at this, she continued, still more merrily: “My dear, are you such an ignoramus as to believe that any amount of wax candles and charming women will induce an Englishman to forego his dinner? He will come by and by; and if he gets cold coffee, he will have his deserts.” And then Mattie’s anxious face grew more cheerful.
The tea-table became the nucleus of the whole room before long. Even Mr. Frere, a tall scholarly-looking man, with spectacles and a very bald head, though he was still young, seemed drawn magnetically into the circle that closed round Phillis. The girl was so natural and sprightly, there was such buoyancy and brightness in her manner; and yet no man could ever have taken a liberty with her, or mistaken the source of that pure rippling fun. The light jesting tone, the unembarrassed manner, were as free from consciousness as though there were gray-headed dons round her. And yet, alas for Phillis! there was not a word uttered in a certain voice that did not reach her ear somehow; not a movement that was lost upon her, even when she chatted and laughed with those who stood round her.
Colonel Middleton was stanch to his little favorite, and sat on the couch between her and Grace, while Nan and Miss Middleton talked apart. Nan watched the tea-table smilingly. She did so love to see Phillis happy; it never occurred to her to feel herself a little neglected, or to wonder why the grave young master of the house so seldom addressed her: thoughts of this sort never entered Nan’s head.
But she grew a little silent by and by, and began to answer Elizabeth somewhat absently. She did not know what it meant, but a certain strong longing took possession of her,—a sort of craving to see Dick’s face and hear his voice. It was foolish, of course; and then she roused herself with difficulty.
“How late Harry is! I wonder if the train be really snowed up! Oh, that must be he!” as the door-bell sounded. “Mattie will be glad; she was so afraid the coffee would be cold.” For Mattie had poured this grievance into every one’s ears.
Of course it was Sir Harry. Yes, as the door opened, there were the broad, genial face and the massive shoulders that could334only belong to one person. And who was this young man following him,—a somewhat insignificant young man compared to this son of Anak,—a young man with sandy hair, with a trivial moustache, with a free, careless expression of good-nature that seemed somehow stamped on his features?
Nan did not speak or move in her corner; but she locked her hands together tightly, and a most wonderful blush came to her face; for the young man’s eyes had moved quickly round the room, with an eager expression in them, and had just rested upon her.
Nan sat immovable while Sir Harry, gave the necessary introduction in his loud, jovial voice:
“I am sorry to be late,—I am, ’pon my honor, Miss Mattie! but it could not be helped: could it, Mayne? Mr. Drummond, I have taken the liberty to bring a friend with me; he is my guest at present,—Mr. Richard Mayne. He has come down to Hadleigh to see some old acquaintances of his.”
“Dick! Oh, Dick!” the words would come out now. Miss Middleton had judiciously vacated the corner of the couch, and Dick had boldly placed himself there instead, after first touching Nan’s trembling hand. “What does it mean? Why have you startled me so?” she whispered, for they were in a snug corner, and no one was near them.
“I suppose a man has a right to come and look after his own belongings?” returned Dick, in the coolest possible manner. But his eyes were more eloquent than his words, as usual. “How lovely you are looking, Nan! I do believe you grow prettier every day. And are you glad to see me?—half or a quarter as glad as I am to see you?”
“I was thinking of you,” she returned, softly. “I was wondering what you were doing, and picturing you at Longmead; and then the door opened, and there you were, half hidden by Harry; and I thought I was dreaming.”
“Well, that was transmission of thought, don’t you see?—animal magnetism, and all that sort of thing. You thought of me because I was thinking of you; but you did not know that only the door divided us. Oh, Nan! isn’t it awfully jolly to be together again?”
“Yes; but I don’t understand it yet,” she replied. “Have you come without your father’s permission, Dick? Are you sure he will not be very angry?”
“Oh, no; the pater is all right. Sir Harry—what a brick that fellow is!—has talked him over, and he has given his consent to our engagement. Look here, Nan! what you have got to do is to pack up your things, and I am to take you down to-morrow. This is a note from mother, and you will see what she says.” And Nan’s gloved hand closed eagerly upon the precious missive.
The letter could not be read just then. Nan sent Dick away after that, though he would willingly have remained in his335corner during the remainder of the evening. He went off grumbling, to be civil to his hostess, and Nan remained behind trying to calm herself. It was “all right,” Dick had told her. She was to go down with him the next day to dear Longmead. Were their troubles really over? Well, she would hear all about it to-morrow. She must wait patiently until then.
Nan did not long remain alone. Archie, who had watched this little scene from the bay-window, suddenly took his opportunity and crossed the room.
Nan looked up at him with a happy smile.
“You have had a surprise this evening, have you not, Miss Challoner? Sir Harry has just been telling me all about it. You will permit me now to offer my congratulations?”
“Most certainly, Mr. Drummond.”
“I am so glad, for both your sakes, that things should be so comfortably settled,” he went on, placing himself beside her,—a movement that mightily displeased Dick, who had conceived a dislike to the handsome parson from the first. “A parent’s opposition is always a serious drawback in such cases; but Sir Harry tells me that Mr. Mayne has given his full consent.”
“I believe so,” returned Nan, blushing a little; “but I really hardly know any particulars. It is such a surprise to me altogether; but his mother has written to me, and I am expected down there.”
“You have my warmest wishes for your happiness,” continued Archie, gravely; and then Nan thanked him.
But here Dick interrupted them. He was still new to hisrole, and hardly had the assurance that belongs to the engaged man, who feels himself safely steering towards the desired haven of matrimony. It appeared to him that on this evening he ought not to lose sight of Nan for a moment. To see Mr. Drummond taking his place was too much for him, and he put down his untasted coffee.
“I am afraid it is rather cold,” observed Mattie, anxiously; but she spoke to deaf ears.
Dick was already half-way to the corner. Nan received him a little shyly; but Mr. Drummond at once took the hint.
“Oh, Dick, people will notice! you must take care,” remonstrated Nan.
She was preparing one of those gentle little lectures to which she sometimes treated him, and to which he was wont to listen with the utmost submission; but, to her intense surprise, he turned restive.
“That was all very well when things were not settled between us,” observed Dick, decidedly. “Now we are engaged, of course I shall assert my rights publicly. What does it matter if people notice? They will only think what a lucky fellow I am, and how they would like to be in my place. Do you think I was going to remain at the other end of the room while that parson was talking to you?” And then Nan all at once discovered336that, in spite of Dick’s boyish looks and easy temper, she had found her master,—that, like other men, he was capable of jealousy and insisted on an entire and undivided allegiance.
Nan was weak enough to like him all the better for this little touch of tyranny; and, after all, though she felt it a little hard on Mr. Drummond, who was so harmless and good-natured, the sense of this monopoly was very sweet to her.