CHAPTER XLVI.A NEW INVASION OF THE GOTHS.
It was the most successful evening—every one said so; but, somehow, Mattie had not enjoyed it. She supposed she was tired; that lamp had worried her; but, though every one had been very pleasant, and had said nice things to her,—even that formidable Mr. Frere,—Mattie felt something had been lacking. She had been very pleased to see Sir Harry, and he had come up to her at once and spoken to her in his usual genial manner; but after the first few minutes, during which he had drunk his coffee standing beside her, she did not remember that he had again addressed her. After that, he had made his way to Grace, and did not stir for a long time.
Mattie had Colonel Middleton on her hands then; but her eyes would stray to that part of the room. How pretty Grace looked in that soft creamy dress, with the dainty lace ruffles that Archie had sent her! Her face generally wanted color and animation, but to-night she was quite rosy by comparison. She seemed to find Sir Harry amusing, for she looked up at him very brightly. And then Archie joined them: he would not bede tropthere, he knew. And the three talked as though they never meant to leave off.
When Sir Harry came to take his leave, he said, a little abruptly,—
“I like that sister of yours, Miss Mattie. She is sensible for a girl; and yet she knows how to laugh. Clever girls are generally a little priggish, do you know? But one need not be afraid of Miss Grace.” And Mattie knew that from Sir Harry this was high praise.
“Every one likes Grace,” she faltered.
“I am not surprised at that,” was the ready response; and then he shook hands and thanked her for the pleasant evening. He did not even look at her as he spoke, Mattie remembered afterwards: he was watching Nan, who was smiling on Dick’s arm.337
The young vicar stood bare-headed on the snowy door-step, as his guests merrily trooped out together. Dick and Nan came first: Nan had a scarlet hood over her bright hair, and Dick was grumbling over the lightness of her cloak, and was wrapping his gray overcoat round her.
“Nonsense, Nan! I insist upon it! and you know nothing gives me cold!” Dick was saying, in his authoritative way; and then of course Nan yielded.
“‘Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,’” sang Phillis, mockingly, who was following them under Captain Middleton’s escort. “Don’t you think engaged people are sometimes very masterful?” She spoke, of course, to her companion; but he had turned to warn his father and Dulce of an awkward step, and Archie intercepted the sentence:
“Most men are masterful, Miss Challoner. You will find that out some day for yourself.” He meant nothing by this little speech, and he was rather taken aback by the sudden hot blush that came to the girl’s face, and the almost angry light in her eyes, as she turned away from him and ran down the slippery steps, to Captain Middleton’s alarm.
“‘On yonder lea, on yonder lea,’” they heard her humming gayly; and Hammond caught the refrain, and finished it in a fine manly bass, while Archie stood still under the wintry sky. Why had she looked like that at him? What was there in his lightly-uttered speech to offend her?
Grace was standing alone when he re-entered the drawing-room. Most of the wax candles were extinguished, but the soft glow of the firelight irradiated the farthest corner of the room.
“What a glorious fire!” he said, warming his chilly hands at it, and then throwing himself into the easy-chair that Grace silently placed for him. “And where is Mattie? Really, she did very well to-night.”
“You must tell her to-morrow, she will be so pleased; she seems tired, and her head aches, so I advised her to go to bed.” And, though Archie did not say openly that he approved of this sensible advice, he implied it by the way he drew a low chair forward for Grace,—so close beside him that she could rest her arm upon the cushioned elbow of his.
They remained comfortably silent for along time: it was Grace who spoke first.
“Archie,” she said, rather nervously, but her eyes had a settled purpose in them, “shall you be angry if I disobey you, dear, and speak again on a certain subject?”
“What subject?” he asked, rather surprised by her manner. He had not a notion to what she was referring; he did not know how during that long silence their thoughts had been couching the same point, and that all this time she was seeking courage to speak to him.
“I know your secret, Archie; I discovered it to-night.”
“My secret!” he returned, in utter amazement. “I have338no secret, Gracie.” And then, as he caught her meaning, a cloud came to his brow. “But this is nonsense!” he continued harshly,—“pure nonsense; put it out of your head.”
“I saw it to-night,” she went on, in a very low voice, undisturbed by his evident displeasure. “She is good and sweet, and quite lovely, Archie, and that young man is not half worthy of her; but she has no thought but for him.”
“Do you think I do not know that?” he returned, in an exasperated tone. “Grace, I will not have you talk in this way. I am cured,—quite cured: it was nothing but a passing folly.”
“A folly that made you very unhappy, my poor Archie; but—hush! you must not interrupt me—I am not going to talk about her.”
“Oh, that is well,” he returned, in a relieved tone.
“I was sorry—just a little sorry—at first, because I knew how much it had cost you; but this evening I could have found it in my heart to be angry with you,—yes, even with you. ‘Oh, the blindness of these men!’ I thought: ‘why will they trample on their own happiness?’”
“Are you speaking of me?” he asked, in a bewildered tone.
“Of whom should I be speaking?” she answered; and her voice had a peculiar meaning in it. “You are my dear brother,—my dearest brother; but you are no more sensible than other men.”
“I suppose not,” he returned, staring at her; “I suppose not.”
“Many men have done what you are doing,” she went on, quietly. “Many have wanted what belonged to another, and have turned their backs upon the blessing that might have been theirs. It is the game of cross-purposes. Do you remember that picture, Archie,—the lovely print you longed to buy—the two girls and the two men? There was the pretty demure maiden in front, and at the back a girl with a far sweeter face to my mind, watching the gloomy-looking fellow who is regarding his divinity from afar. There was a face here to-night that brought that second girl strongly to my mind; and I caught an expression on it once––” Here Archie violently started.
“Hush! hush! what are you implying? Grace, you are romancing; you do not mean this?”
“As there is a heaven above us, I do mean it, Archie.”
“Then, for God’s sake, not another word!” And then he rose from his seat, and stood on the rug.
“You are not really angry with me?” she urged, frightened at his vehemence.
“No; I am not angry. I never am angry with you, Grace, as you know; but all the same there are some things that never should be said.” And, when he had thus gravely rebuked her speech, he kissed her forehead, and muttering some excuse about the lateness of the hour, left the room.339
Grace crept away to her chamber a little discomfited by this rebuff, gently as it had been given; but if she had only guessed the commotion those few hinted words had raised in her brother’s mind!
He had understood her; in one moment he had understood her. As though by a lightning-flash of intelligence, the truth had dawned upon him; and if an electric shock had passed through his frame and set all his nerves tingling he could not have been more deeply shaken.
Was that what she thought, too, when she had turned away from him with that quiet look of scorn on her face! Did she know of any possible blessing that might have been his, only that he had turned his back upon it, crying out childishly for a shadowy happiness? Did she mutter to herself also, “Oh, the blindness of these men!”?
There is an old saying, greatly credited by the generality of people, that hearts are often caught at the rebound,—that in their painful tossings from uneven heights and depths, and that sad swinging over uncertain abysses, some are suddenly attracted and held fast; and there is sufficient proof to warrant the truth of this adage.
The measurements of pain are unequal: different natures hold different capacities. A trouble that seems very real at the time, and full of stings, may be found later on to be largely alloyed by wounded self-love and frustrated vanity. Sound it with the plumb-line of experience, of time, of wakening hopefulness, and it may sink fathoms, and by and by end in nothingness, or perhaps more truly in just a sense of salt bitterness between the teeth, as when one plunges in a waning tide.
Not that Archie realized all this as he paced his room that night: no; he was very strangely moved and excited. Something, he knew not what, had again stirred the monotony of his life. He had been sick and sad for a long time; for men are like children, and fret sometimes after the unattainable, if their hearts be set upon it. And yet, though he forbore to question himself too closely that night, how much of his pain had been due to wounded vanity and crossed wilfulness!
It was long before he could sleep, for the sudden broadening of the prospective of his future kept him wide awake and restless. It was as though he had been straining his eyes to look down a long, gray vista, where he saw things dimly, and that suddenly there was a low light on the horizon,—not brilliant, not even clear; but it spoke of approaching daybreak. By and by the path would be more plainly visible.
There was great excitement at the Friary on the next day. They had found it hard to get rid of Dick the previous night; but Sir Harry, who read his aunt’s tired face rightly, had carried him off almost by sheer force, after a lengthy leave-taking with Nan in the passage.
It was only Mrs. Challoner who was tired. Poor woman!340she was fairly worn out by the violence of her conflicting feeling,—by sympathy with Nan in her happiness, with pleasure in Dick’s demonstrative joy, and sorrow at the thought of losing her child. The girl herself was far too much excited for sleep.
She and Phillis did all the packing for the next day, and it was not until Dulce sleepily warned them of the lateness of the hour that they consented to separate; and then Nan sat by the parlor fire a long time alone, enjoying the luxury of undisturbed meditation.
But the next morning, just as they had gone into the work-room,—not to settle to any business,—that was impossible under the present exciting circumstances,—but just to fold up and despatch a gown that had been finished for Mrs. Squails, while Dulce put the finishing-touches to Mrs. Cheyne’s tweed dress, Nan announced in a glad voice that their cousin and Dick were at the gate; “and I am so thankful we packed last night,” she continued, “for Dick will not let me have a free moment until we start.”
“You should keep him in better order,” observed Phillis, tersely: “if you give him his own way so much, you will not have a will of your own when you are married: will she, mother?” Mrs. Challoner smiled a little feebly in answer to this: she could not remember the time when she had had a will of her own.
Nan went out shyly to meet them; but she could not understand her reception at all. Dick’s grasp of her hand was sufficiently eloquent, but he said nothing; and Nan thought he was trying not to laugh, for there was a gleam of fun in his eyes, though he endeavored to look solemn. Sir Harry’s face, too, wore an expression of portentous gravity.
“Are you all in the work-room, Nan?” he asked, in a tone as though they were assembled at a funeral.
“Yes; mother and all,” answered Nan, brightly. “What is the matter with you both? You look dreadfully solemn.”
“Because we have a little business before us,” returned Sir Harry, wrinkling his brows and frowning at Dick. “Come, Mayne, if you are ready.”
“Wait a minute, Nan. I will speak to you afterwards,” observed that young gentleman, divesting himself of his gray overcoat; and Nan, very much puzzled, preceded them into the room.
“How do you do, Aunt Catherine? Good-morning, girls,” nodded Sir Harry; and then he looked at Dick. And what were they both doing? Were they mad? They must have taken leave of their senses; for Dick had raised his foot gently,—very gently,—and Mrs. Squails’s red merino gown lay in the passage. At the same moment, Sir Harry’s huge hand had closed over the tweed, and, by a dexterous thrust, had flung it as far as the kitchen. And now Dick was bundling out the sewing-machine.341
“Dick! oh, Dick!” in an alarmed voice from Dulce. And Phillis flew to the great carved wardrobe, that Sir Harry was ransacking; while Nan vainly strove to rescue the fashion-books that Dick was now flinging into the fender.
“Oh, you great Goth! You stupid, ridiculous Harry!” observed Phillis, scornfully, while the rolls of silk and satin and yards of trimming were tossed lightly into a heap ofdebris.
Laddie was growling and choking over the buttons. Dorothy afterwards carried away a whole shovelful of pins and hooks and eyes.
Nan sat down by her mother and folded her hands on her lap. When men were masterful, it was time for maidens to sit still. Dulce really looked frightened; but Phillis presently broke into a laugh.
“This is a parable of nature,” she said. “Mammie, does your head ache? Would you like to go into the next room?”
“There, we have about done!” observed Sir Harry. “The place is pretty well clear: isn’t it, Mayne?” And, as Dick nodded a cheerful assent, he shut the door of the wardrobe, locked it, and, with much solemnity, put the key in his pocket. “Now for my parable,” he said. “Aunt Catherine, you will excuse a bit of a spree, but one must take the high hand with these girls. I have bundled out the whole lot of trumpery; but, as head of this family, I am not going to stand any more of this nonsense.”
“Oh, indeed!” put in Phillis. “I hope Mrs. Squails will take her creased gown! Dulce, the sewing-machine is right on the top of it,—a most improving process, certainly.”
“Now, Phillis, you will just shut up with your nonsense! As head of the family, I am not going to stand any more of this sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?” asked Mrs. Challoner, timidly. “My dears, I thought it was only fun; but I do believe your cousin is in earnest.”
“I am quite in earnest, Aunt Catherine,” returned Sir Harry, sitting down beside her, and taking her hand. “I hope our bit of larking has not been too much for you; but that fellow vowed it would be a good joke.” Here Dick’s eyes twinkled. “If Mrs. Squails’s gown is spoiled, I will buy her another; but on your peril, girls, if you put a stitch in any but your own from this day forward!”
“Please your honor, kindly,” whined Phillis, dropping a courtesy, “and what will your honor have us do?”
“Do!” and then he broke into a laugh. “Oh, I will tell you that presently. All I know is, Nan is engaged to my friend Mayne here; and I have promised his father, on my word as a gentleman and head of this family, that this dressmaking humbug shall be given up.”
“You had no right to give such a promise,” returned342Phillis, offended at this; but Nan’s hand stole into Dick’s. She understood now.
“But, Harry, my dear,” asked Mrs. Challoner, “what would you have them do?”
“Oh, play tennis,—dance,—flirt, if they like! How do young ladies generally occupy their time? Don’t let us talk about such petty details as this. I want to tell you about my new house. You all know Gilsbank? Well, it is ‘Challoner Place’ now.”
“You have bought it, Harry?”
“Yes; I have bought it,” he returned, coolly. “And what is more, I hope to settle down there in another month’s time. How soon do you think you will be ready to move, Aunt Catherine?”
“My dear!” in a voice of mild astonishment. But Dulce clapped her hands: she thought she guessed his meaning. “Are we to live with you, Harry? Do you really mean to take us with you?”
“Of course I shall take you with me; but not to Challoner Place. That would be rather close quarters; and—and—I may make different arrangements,” rather sheepishly. “Aunt Catherine, Glen Cottage will be all ready for you and the girls. I have settled about the furniture; and Mrs. Mayne will have fires lighted whenever you like to come down. Why, aunt,—dear Aunt Catherine,” as he felt her thin hand tremble in his, and the tears started to her eyes, “did you not tell me how much you loved your old home? And do you think, when you have no son to take care of you, that I should ever let you be far from me?”
“Confound you!” growled Dick. “Is not a son-in-law as good as a son any day.”
But no one heard this but Nan.
Mrs. Challoner was weeping for joy, and Dulce was keeping her company; but Phillis walked up to her cousin with a shamefaced look:
“I am sorry I called you a Goth, Harry. I ought to have remembered Alcides. You are as good as gold. You are a dear generous fellow. And I love you for it; and so do Nan and Dulce. And I was not a bit cross, really; but you did look such a great goose, turning out that wardrobe.” But, though she laughed at the remembrance, the tears were in Phillis’s eyes.
Dick was nobody after this: not that he minded that. How could they help crowding round this “big hero” of theirs who had performed such wonders?
Gilsbank turned into Challoner Place; Glen Cottage, with its conservatory and brand-new furniture, theirs again,—their own,—their very own (for Sir Harry intended to buy that too as soon as possible); Nan engaged to her dearest Dick, and all the neighborhood prepared to welcome them back!343
“If you please, Miss Phillis, Mrs. Squails desires her compliments, and she is waiting for her dress.”
We forbare to repeat Sir Harry’s answer. Nevertheless, with Dick’s help, the unfortunate gown was extricated, and privately ironed by Dorothy.
“That is a good morning’s work of yours,” observed Phillis, quietly looking down at the heap at her feet. “Dorothy, it seems Sir Harry is master here. If any more orders come for us, you may as well say, ‘The Misses Challoner have given up business.’”
CHAPTER XLVII.“IT WAS SO GOOD OF YOU TO ASK ME HERE.”
Mrs. Challoner heaved a gentle little sigh when in the afternoon the fly carried off Nan and Dick to the station: it brought to her mind another day that would come far too soon. Phillis spoke out this thought boldly as she ran back to the cottage.
“I wanted to throw an old shoe for luck, mammie,” she said, laughing, “only I knew Nan would be so dreadfully shocked. How happy they looked! And Dick was making such a fuss over her, bringing out his plaid to wrap her in. Certainly he is much improved, and looks five years older.”
Perhaps Dick shared Mrs. Challoner’s thought too, for an expression of deep gravity crossed his face as he sat down by Nan,—a look that was tender, and yet wistful, as he took her hand.
“Oh, Nan! it does seem so nice to have you all to myself for a little,—just you and I, alone, and all the rest of the world outside somewhere! Do you know it is possible to be almost too happy!” And Dick sighed from the very fulness of content.
Nan gave a merry little laugh at this.
“Oh, no: to me it seems only natural to be happy. When things were at their worst I knew that they would come right some day; and I could not be quite miserable, even then. It was hard, of course; but when one is young, one ought not to mind a little waiting. And we have not waited long, have we, dear?” But to this Dick demurred.
“It was the longest term I ever passed,” he returned, seriously. “When a fellow is in that sort of unsettled state, one cannot measure time in the ordinary way. Well, the ordeal is over, thank heaven!” And then he paused, and continued, a little thoughtfully: “What I have to do now is to work hard and do my best to deserve you. I shall never be worthy of you, Nan; I know that.”344
“I think you quite worthy of me,” she answered, softly, and now there were tears in her eyes.
“Oh, no; no fellow could be that,” he replied, decidedly. “I am well enough in my way, and compared with other men I am not so bad,” continued Dick, who had a sufficiently good opinion of his own merits, in spite of the humility of his speech; “but as to coming up to you, Nan, by a long way, why, the thing is impossible! But I tell you this, it helps a fellow to keep right and steady when he believes in the goodness of the girl belonging to him.”
“You must not make me vain,” she half whispered, and her lips trembled a little at his praise. But he disregarded this remonstrance, and went on:
“You have kept me right all my life. How could I ever do a mean or a shabby action to make you ashamed of me? When I was tempted once or twice,—for idle young fellows will be tempted,—I used to say to myself, No, Nan would not approve if she knew it. And I held tight to this thought, and I am glad now that I can look in your dear face and tell you this. It makes me feel so happy.” And indeed Dick’s face was radiant.
They were almost sorry when the journey was over; they had so much to say to each other. The wintry landscape was growing gray and indistinct as they reached their destination, and, though Nan peered anxiously into the darkness for a glimpse of each well-remembered spot, she could only just discern the dim outline of Glen Cottage before the carriage turned in at the gates of Longmead.
Mr. Mayne had determined to pay his intended daughter-in-law all becoming honors, and as soon as the carriage wheels were heard he had the hall door thrown back to show the bright, welcoming light, and he himself descended the flight of steps to the terrace. “Just as though I were a royal personage,” laughed Nan. But she was a little nattered by the compliment.
Most girls would have felt the awkwardness of the situation, but not Nan. The moment Dick assisted her out of the carriage she walked up to his father, and put up her face to be kissed in the most natural way. “It was so good of you to ask me here; and I am so glad to come,” she said, simply.
“There, there! run in out of the cold,” was all his answer; and he patted her hand a little awkwardly. But, though his voice had its usual gruffness, his manner was otherwise kind. “How are you, Dick? I hope Roper did not keep you waiting at the station, for you are a quarter of an hour behind your time.” And then he took his son’s arm and walked up the steps again.
Nan, meanwhile, had run through the hall and into the warm, softly-lighted drawing-room, and there she soon found herself in Mrs. Mayne’s motherly arms. When the gentlemen came in they interrupted quite a little scene, for Mrs. Mayne was actually crying over the girl, and Nan was kissing her.345
“Don’t you think you had better stop that sort of thing, Bessie,” observed her husband, drily, “and get Nan a cup of tea? You would like some tea, my dear, would you not?” in a more gracious voice.
Of course Nan said she would like some, just to show her appreciation of his thoughtfulness; and then Dick said he should like some too, and his father quizzed him a little as he rang the bell. And as Mrs. Mayne obediently dried her eyes at her husband’s behest, they were soon very happy and comfortable. When Nan’s cup was empty, Dick darted to take it, that it might be replenished; but his father was before him.
All that evening Mr. Mayne waited on Nan, quite ignoring his son’s claims. He had a special brand of champagne served that Nan had once said she liked; and he reminded her of this, and pressed her to partake of it.
“This is to your health, my dear,” he said, lifting his glass of port to his lips when the servants had withdrawn; “and to yours too, Dick.” And then Nan blushed very becomingly, and Dick thanked him a little gravely.
“I do think the old boy has fallen in love with you himself, for he has not let me come near you all the evening,” whispered Dick later on that night, pretending to grumble, but in reality looking very happy.
“He has been so good to me,” returned the girl; and she repeated this for Mrs. Mayne’s benefit, when at last the two women found themselves free to indulge in a little talk. Nan had coaxed her friend to sit beside her fire for a few minutes, and then she had knelt down beside her, wrapping her arms round her in the most affectionate way.
“Dear, dear Mrs. Mayne, how nice all this is! and how good Mr. Mayne has been to me all this evening!”
“My Richard never does things by halves,” returned Mrs. Mayne, proudly. “People cannot always understand him, because his manner is a little rough sometimes; but I know, and none better, his real goodness of heart. Why, he is so pleased with himself and you and Dick this evening that he hardly knows how to contain himself; but he is a little awkward in showing it.”
“Oh, no; I did not think him awkward at all.”
“I must say you behaved beautifully, Nan, never seeming as though you remembered that there had been anything amiss, but just taking everything as he meant it. Of course I knew how you would act: I was not afraid that I should be disappointed.”
“Of course I could not do otherwise.”
“And Dick, too, behaved so well, keeping in the background just to give his father full freedom. I must say I was pleased with him, too, for most young men are so thoughtless; but then his behavior to his father has been perfect throughout.”
“I knew it would be,” whispered Nan.346
“I am sure it made my heart ache to see him. Sometimes he would come in whistling and pretending to be his old self, so light-hearted and cheerful; and all the time he was fretting himself to death, as I told Richard. Richard was terribly trying sometimes,—you know his way,—but the boy bore it so well. It was not till the last, when they had that walk, and Dick was goaded into positive anger, that he ever lost his temper in the least. I will say this, Nan, that though my Dick may not be much to look at, he has the sweetest temper and the kindest heart.” And so the simple woman ran on, and Nan listened, well pleased.
When Mr. Mayne came up to his dressing-room that evening, his wife stole in after him, and laid her hands on his shoulder as he stood thoughtfully contemplating the fire.
“Well, Richard, won’t you own she is lovely now?”
“Humph! yes; I suppose people would call her pretty,” he returned, in his grudging way. “But I tell you what, Bessie,” suddenly kindling into animation, “she is better than handsome; she is out and out good, and she will make a man of Dick.”
“God bless him, and her too!” whispered the mother, as she withdrew softly, but not before she caught the sound of an “Amen” uttered distinctly in her husband’s voice.
Nan made Dick take her to all their old haunts the next morning; but first of all they went to Glen Cottage. Nan ran through all the rooms with almost a child’s glee: nothing could exceed her delight when Dick showed her the drawing-room, with the new conservatory opening out of it.
“It always was a pretty room,” she said, glancing round her; “but the conservatory and the new furniture have quite transformed it. How charmed mother and the girls will be! The whole house looks better than when we were in it.”
“Nonsense!” returned Dick, stoutly. “There never was a house to compare with it. I always loved it; and so did you, Nan. What a summer we shall have here, when I am reading up for honors in the long vacation! I mean to work pretty hard; for when a fellow has such an object as that––” And then he looked at Nan meaningly; but she was not to be beguiled into that subject.
They were so happy, and so young, that they could afford to wait a little; and she did not wish Dick to speak yet of that day that was looming in the distance.
She could only be sure of one summer at Glen Cottage; but what a time they would have! She stood for a long while looking out on the lawn and calling up possible visions of summer afternoons. The tennis-ground was marked out already in her imagination; the tea-table in its old place under the trees; there was her mother knitting in her favorite wicker-chair; there were Dulce and Phillis, surrounded by their friends
“Come away, Nan. Are you moon-struck, or dreaming?”347questioned Dick, drawing her arm through his. “Do you remember what we have to do before luncheon? And Vigo looks so impatient for his run.” But even Dick paused for a moment in the veranda to show Nan the rose she had picked for him just there, and which still lay in his pocket-book.
All her old friends crowded round Nan to welcome her back; and great were the rejoicings when they heard that Glen Cottage was to be in the Challoners’ possession again. Carrie Paine and Adelaide Sartoris called first. Carrie embraced Nan with tearful effusion: she was an honest, warm-hearted creature. But Adelaide looked at her a little curiously.
“Oh, my dear, the scandal that has been talked about you all!” she said, in a mysterious tone. “Carrie and I would not believe it: would we, Car? We told people to hold their tongues, and not talk such nonsense.”
“Never mind that now, Addie,” returned Nan, cheerfully. She felt she must be careful of what she said, for Dick’s sake. “We have had our worries, and have worked as better people have before us; but now it is all over.”
“But is it true that your cousin, Sir Henry Challoner, has bought Gilsbank?” broke in Carrie. “Tell us about him, dear. Addie thought she saw him once. Is he a tall man, with red hair?”
“Very red hair,” responded Nan, laughing.
“Then I did see him,” replied Miss Sartoris, decidedly. “He is quite a giant, Nan; but he looks very good-natured.”
Miss Sartoris was just engaged to a dapper little colonel in the Hussars, so she could afford to be quizzical on the subject of Sir Harry’s inches; but Carrie, who was at present unattached, was a little curious about the future master of Gilsbank.
After this, Nan called at Fitzroy Lodge, and Dick went with her. Lady Fitzroy, who was looking very pretty and delicate, welcomed Nan with the greatest kindness. When Lord Fitzroy came in with the rest of the gentlemen from hunting, he questioned Nan very closely about their new neighbor, Sir Henry Challoner, and made a great many kind inquiries after his favorite, Miss Phillis.
“So we are to have you all back, eh,” he queried, pleasantly. “Well, I call that good news. I am bound that Evelyn is as pleased to hear it as I am.”
“I am very much pleased,” returned Lady Fitzroy graciously. “And you must tell your mother so, with my love. Percival, will you ring for some more hot water, please? I shall not be long: but I am going to take Miss Challoner upstairs to see our boy.”
Nan knew that a great privilege was being conferred on her as she followed Lady Fitzroy into the grand nursery, where the tiny heir lay in his bassinette.
“Is he not just like Fitzroy?” exclaimed the proud young348mother, as they stood looking down on the red crumpled features of the new-comer. “Nurse says she has never seen such a striking likeness.”
“He is a darling!” exclaimed Nan, who was, like other girls, a devout baby-worshipper; and then they discoursed very eloquently on his infantile beauties.
It was after this that Lady Fitzroy congratulated Nan on her engagement, and kissed her in quite a sisterly way.
“Fitzroy and I do not think him half good enough for you,” she said, very prettily. “But no one who knows Mr. Mayne can fail to like him, he is so thoroughly genuine and nice. Will the engagement be a long one, Miss Challoner?”
“Not so very long,” Nan returned, blushing. “Dick has to read for honors; but, when he has taken his degree, his father has promised to make things straight for us, while Dick reads for the bar.”
“He is to be a barrister, then?” asked Lady Fitzroy, in surprise. “You must not think me inquisitive, but I thought Mr. Mayne was so very well off.”
“So he is,” replied Nan, smiling,—“quite rich, I believe; but Dick would not like an idle life, and during his father’s lifetime he can only expect a moderate income.”
“You will live in London, then?”
“Oh, yes; I suppose so;” was Nan’s answer. “But we have not talked much about that yet. Dick must work hard for another year, and after that I believe things are to be settled.” And then Lady Fitzroy kissed her again, and they went downstairs.
Nan wrote home that she wasfêtedlike a queen, and that Dick grumbled sadly at having her so little to himself; but then Dick was much given to that sort of good-natured grumbling.
The visit was necessarily a very brief one, as term-time was approaching, and Dick had to go up to Oxford. On the last morning he took Nan for a walk down to Sandy Lane. Vigo and the other dogs were with them, and at the point where the four roads met, Dick stopped and leaned his arms over a gate.
“It will seem a long time to Easter, Nan,” he said, rather lugubriously.
“Oh, no,” she replied brightly to this; “you will have my letters,—such long ones, Dick,—and you know Mr. Mayne has promised to bring Phillis and me down for a couple of days. We are to stay at the Randolph, and of course we shall have afternoon tea in your rooms.”
“Yes; I will ask Hamilton and some of the other fellows to meet you. I want all my friends to see you, Nan.” And as Dick thought of the glory of this introduction, and of the envy of Hamilton and the other fellows, his brow cleared and his old spirits returned.
“I shall think of nothing but my work and those letters, Nan,” were his last words. “I am determined that next summer349shall see you my wife.” His voice dropped over the last word almost shyly; but Nan saw a great brightness come into his eyes.
“You must not work too hard,” was all her answer to this, as she moved gently away from him. But her heart beat a little faster at his words. No; she would only have another summer at Glen Cottage. She knew that, and then the new life would lie before them, which she and Dick were to live together.
CHAPTER XLVIII.MRS. SPARSIT’S POODLE.
While Nan was beingfêtedand petted at Longmead, Mattie’s visit was dragging heavily to its close. Since the evening of the tea-party things had been more unsatisfactory than ever.
Archie and Grace were a good deal out. Grace was perpetually at the Friary, and Archie had resumed his old habit of dropping in there for a morning or evening chat. Sir Harry came almost daily, and often spent his disengaged hours with them; but Mattie never saw him for a moment alone. Grace was always in the room, and his conversation was chiefly addressed to her. When Mattie dropped sadly out of the talk, or sat silent in her corner, he did not in his old kind fashion try to include her in the conversation: indeed, he rarely noticed her, except in his brief leave-taking. It hurt Mattie inexpressibly to be thus ignored by her old friend, for from the first his cordiality had had a sunshiny influence over her,—he had been so good to her, so thoughtful for her comfort, before Grace came; but now he seemed to forget sometimes that such a person as Mattie even existed. Was it because Grace’s fair, serious face had bewitched him, or was there anything on his mind? for more than once Mattie thought he seemed absent and ill at ease.
Mattie could not understand it at all. She was not a very acute little person, neither was she over-sensitive by nature, but this sudden coldness on Sir Harry’s part was wounding and perplexing in the extreme. Had she done anything to offend him? Mattie wondered, or was he simply bored by her as most people were?
Once Archie had snubbed her very severely in his presence; something had put him out, and he had spoken to Mattie as though no one were present but their two selves. It was Grace who called him so gently to order, and made him feel ashamed of himself. Sir Harry did not even seem to notice it: he had a paper in his hand, and he went on reading it. But as Mattie350left the room she heard him speaking to Grace in his usual way about some political question or other.
Mattie cried bitterly in her room that day. Somehow, she had never taken Archie’s snubbing so much to heart before. How could he speak to her like that, she thought? What would Sir Harry think of her, and of him too? Archie’s conscience pricked him when he saw the traces of tears on Mattie’s face that afternoon, and he was very kind to her all the remainder of the day; but he did not apologize for his words: no one ever did apologize to Mattie. But to his surprise, and Grace’s too, Mattie’s sad face did not clear.
It was her last afternoon but one at the vicarage, and Mattie was sitting alone. All the morning she and Grace had been packing together, for Grace, in her sensible way, had begged her sister not to leave things for the last day. It would tire her for her journey, she said; and the Challoners were coming to spend Mattie’s last evening with her at the vicarage; and there were the Middletons probably coming for an afternoon visit, and so Mattie had better keep herself free for her friends. Mattie had assented to this, and she had been very grateful to Grace for all the help she had given her. Her boxes were ready for cording, and her little parting gifts for the servants laid ready labelled in her drawers, and nothing remained for her busy hands to do.
It was a cold, cheerless afternoon; a cutting north wind and a gray cloudy sky made the fireside all the more tempting by comparison; but Mattie knew there was one duty unfulfilled that she ought to perform. She had promised to call and say good-bye to an old acquaintance of hers who lived at Rock Building.
Mrs. Chamberlain was not a favorite with most people: she was an invalid of somewhat uncertain temper, and most of her friends felt her society an infliction on their patience. Mattie, who was very good-natured, had often done kindly little offices for her, sitting with her for an hour or two at a time, and teaching her some new stitch, to beguile her tedious and often painful days.
Mrs. Chamberlain would feel herself aggrieved if Mattie disappointed her. And she never had stayed at home for the weather; only she was lazy,—tired, perhaps, from her packing,—and reluctant to move.
Sir Harry was in the study, she knew: she had heard his voice some time ago. He often turned in there of his own accord or perhaps Archie had waylaid him and brought him in, for they were excellent friends now; Grace was there, of course, but Mattie had hesitated to join them: none of them wanted her, she said bitterly to herself.
A dim hope that Grace might come in search of her, or that even Sir Henry might saunter in by and by and ask for a cup of tea in his old way, had kept Mattie in her place; but now it351was getting a little late, and perhaps after all Grace would ring, and have the tea in there, as she had done once before: and it was no use waiting. And so, when Mattie reached this point, she hurried upstairs and put on her hat and thick jacket, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, opened the study door.
It was just the scene she pictured. Sir Harry was in the big chair in front of the blazing fire, and Grace in her low wicker seat, facing him, with a Chinese screen in her hand. Archie was standing on the rug, with his elbow against the narrow wooden mantelpiece, and all three were talking merrily. Sir Harry stopped in the middle of a laugh, as Mattie entered, and shook hands with her a little gravely.
“How comfortable you all look!” faltered Mattie. The words came in spite of her efforts not to say them.
“Then come and join us,” returned Archie, with unusual affability. “Grace was just wondering what you were doing.”
“I was in the drawing-room alone. No, I cannot sit down, Archie, thank you. I am just going to bid old Mrs. Chamberlain good-bye: she is expecting me, and I must not disappoint her.”
“Oh, but it is not fit for you,” remonstrated Grace. “Sir Harry says the wind is piercing. Do put off your visit until to-morrow, Mattie, and we will go together.”
“Fie, Miss Grace! never put off until to-morrow what can be done to-day,” observed Sir Harry, in his joking voice. “What is it the copy-books say?—is it procrastination or money that is the root of all evil?”
“Sir Harry is quite right, and I must go,” stammered Mattie, made quite desperate by this joke; he knew how the wind was sweeping over the gray sea, and yet he had not said a word about her remaining. Poor Mattie! a miserable choking feeling came into her throat, as she closed the door on another laugh and struggled along in the teeth of the wind. Another time she would not have minded it, for she was hardy by nature; but now the cold seemed to freeze her very heart; she looked quite blue and pinched when she entered Mrs. Chamberlain’s drawing-room. It seemed to Mattie as though hours had passed before she brought her visit to a close, and yet she had been sitting there only three quarters of an hour before she took her leave. The old lady was very gracious this afternoon; she pressed Mattie again and again to wait a little until Sallie brought up the tea and a nice hot cake she was baking. But Mattie steadily refused even these tempting delicacies: she was not cold any longer, she said; but it was growing late, or the afternoon was darker than usual. And then she wished her old friend good-bye,—oh, good-bye for such a long time, Mattie thought,—and sallied forth bravely into the wind gain.
It had lulled a little, but the scene before her was very desolate; just the gray expanse of sea, with the white line of surge breaking into the shore; and here and there a wave tossing352up its foamy head in the distance. The air seemed full of that continuous low rolling and splashing of breakers on the beach: a sea-gull was flying inland; the Parade looked white and wind-bleached,—not a creature in sight but a coast-guard on duty, moving backwards and forwards in a rather forlorn manner, except––Here Mattie turned her head quickly: yes, a little beyond there was a man in a rough pilot’s coat, looking out seaward,—a nautical man, Mattie thought, by the way he stood, as though summer gales were blowing about his ears.
Mattie passed quite close to him, for the wind drifted her a little as she did so. He turned coolly round and confronted her.
“Sir Harry! Oh, I did not know you in the least,” faltered Mattie, standing still in her surprise.
“I dare say not,” he replied, quietly: “you have never seen me in this costume before, and I had my back turned towards you. I saw you coming, though, walking as unsteadily as a duck in a storm. What a time you have been, Miss Mattie! You ladies are so fond of a gossip.”
“Were you waiting for me?” she asked, rather breathlessly, and then colored painfully at her question. How absurd! Of course he was not waiting for her; his hotel was just opposite, and he was probably taking a constitutional before his dinner. “Mrs. Chamberlain pressed me to take tea with her,” she went on, by way of saying something, “but I told her I would rather go home.”
“Miss Grace was just ringing for tea when I left,” he returned. “No wonder you look cold or like a starved robin, Miss Mattie. Why are you walking so fast? there is no hurry, is there? I think you owe me some amends for keeping me standing for an hour in this bitter wind. There! why don’t you take my arm and hold on, or you will be blown away?”
Mattie always did as she was bidden, and Sir Harry’s tone was a little peremptory. He had been waiting for her, then; he had not quite forgotten her. Mattie began to feel a little less chilled and numb. If he would only say a kind word to her, she thought, she could go away more happily.
“I am thinking about that rejected cup of tea,” he said, suddenly, when they had walked for a moment in silence: “it will be all cleared away at the vicarage, and you do look so cold, Miss Mattie.”
“Oh, no, not very,” she corrected.
“But I say that you do,” he persisted, in quite a determined manner: “you are cold, and tired, and miserable,—there!”
“I—I am not particularly miserable,” but there were tears in Mattie’s voice, as she uttered this little fib. “I don’t quite like going away and saying good-bye to people.”
“Won’t your people be kind to you?” Then changing his tone, “I tell you what, Miss Mattie, no one is in a hurry for353you at home, and I don’t see why we should not enjoy ourselves. You remember my old friend Mrs. Sparsit, who lives up at Rose Cottage,—you know I saved her poodle from drowning one rough day, when some boys got hold of it: well, Mrs. Sparsit and I are first-rate friends, and I will ask her to give us some tea.”
“Oh, no,” faltered Mattie, quite shocked at this; for what would Grace say? “I only know Mrs. Sparsit a very little.”
“What does that matter?” returned Sir Harry, obstinately: “I am always dropping in myself for a chat. Now, it is no use your making any objection, Miss Mattie, for I have got a lot to say to you, and I don’t mean to part with you yet. They will only think you are still at Rock Building, and I suppose you are old enough to act without Miss Grace’s advice sometimes.”
Mattie hung her head without replying to this. What a feeble, helpless sort of creature he must think her! his voice seemed to express a good-humored sort of contempt. Well, he was right; she was old enough to do as she pleased, and she would like very much to go with him to Mrs. Sparsit’s. It was rather a reckless proceeding, perhaps; but Mattie was too down and miserable to argue it out, so she walked beside Sir Harry in a perfectly unresisting manner. Perhaps this was the last time she would enjoy his company for a long time: she must make the most of it.
“We need not walk quite so fast,” he said, checking her, for she was hurrying again. “Look here, Miss Mattie, I want to ask you a queer sort of question, if only this confounded wind will let me make myself heard. Please don’t laugh; I don’t want to be laughed at, for I am quite in earnest. But have you any special objection to red hair?—I mean, do you particularly dislike it?”
Mattie opened her eyes rather widely at this. “No, I rather like it,” she returned, without a moment’s hesitation, and quite in the dark as to his possible meaning.
“Oh, that is all right,” he returned, cheerfully. “You won’t believe it, Miss Mattie, but, though I am such a great big fellow, I am as bashful as anything; and I have always had a fancy that no one would have me because of my red hair.”
“What an idea!” observed Mattie, with a little laugh, for she thought this so droll, and had not the dimmest idea of his real purpose in asking her such a question.
“Don’t laugh, please,” he remonstrated, “for I am quite serious; I never was more serious in my life; for this sort of thing is so awkward for a fellow. Then, Miss Mattie, you won’t say ‘No’ to me?”
Mattie stared; but Sir Harry’s face, red and embarrassed as it was, gave her no clue to his meaning.
“I don’t think you understand me,” he said, a little impatiently; “and yet I am sure I am putting it very plainly. You354don’t object to me, do you, Miss Mattie? I am sure I will do my best to make you happy. Gilsbank is a pretty place, and we shall have Aunt Catherine and the girls near us. We shall all be as merry as larks, if you will only promise to marry me, for I have liked you from the first; I have indeed, Miss Mattie.”
Sir Harry was a gentleman, in spite of his rough ways. He understood in a moment, when Mattie’s answer to this was a very feeble clutch at his arm, as though her strength were deserting her. What with the sudden surprise of these words, and the force of the wind, the poor little woman felt herself reeling.
“Stand here for a moment, and I will shelter you from the wind. No, don’t speak; just hold on, and keep quiet: there is no hurry. No one shall scold you, if I can help it. I am afraid”—speaking as gently as to a child—“that I have been a little rough and sudden with you. Do you feel faint? I never saw you look so pale. What a thoughtless brute I have been!”
“No,—oh, no,” panted Mattie; “only I am so giddy, and—so happy.” The last words were half whispered, but he caught them. “Are you sure you really mean this, Sir Harry?”
“As sure as that the wind blows,” he returned, cheerfully. “Well, that’s settled. You and I are to be in the same boat for good and all,—eh, Miss Mattie? Now let us walk on; and I won’t say another word until we reach Mrs. Sparsit’s.”
Perhaps he had taken this resolution because he saw that Mattie found speech impossible. Her very footsteps tottered as she struggled against the opposing wind. Only the arm on which she leaned seemed to give her strength; and yet Mattie no longer shivered in the cutting blast. She was no longer cold, and numb, and desolate. Something wonderful and incredible and altogether unreal had befallen her,—something that had turned her dizzy with happiness, and which she could not in the least believe. All she knew was that he had told her that no one should scold her now.
“Here we are!” exclaimed Sir Harry, stopping at a trim little cottage, with a side-view of the sea; “and, by Jove, there is the poodle himself at the window. How do you do, Mrs. Sparsit?” as a pleasant, wrinkled dame appeared on the threshold. “You know Miss Drummond, I believe? though not as well as you know me. How is Popples? Oh, there you are, old fellow,—ready to give me your paw, as usual! Look at him, Miss Mattie! Now, Mrs. Sparsit,” in a coaxing voice, “this lady is dreadfully tired; and I know your kettle is boiling––” but here Mrs. Sparsit interrupted him:
“Oh, yes, indeed, Sir Harry; and you shall have some tea directly. Dear me, Miss Drummond, you do look poorly, to be sure! Let me stir the fire a little, and draw out the couch. Bettie has gone out to see her sick mother, Sir Harry; but if you don’t mind my leaving you a minute, while I just brew the355tea––” And without waiting for his answer, the worthy creature bustled off to her tiny kitchen, leaving Popples to entertain her guests.
Sir Harry closed the door, and then he helped Mattie to divest herself of her warm jacket, and placed her in a snug corner of the old-fashioned couch.
“You will be all right directly,” he said, as he sat down beside her. “The wind was too strong; and I was a little sudden: wasn’t I, Mattie?” And now the color began to come into Mattie’s face.
Sir Harry found plenty to tell her as Mrs. Sparsit brewed the tea and prepared the hot buttered cakes.
Mattie shed tears of pure happiness when she heard from his own lips how good and unselfish and amiable he thought her, and how he had liked her from the first in a sort of way,—“not quite the right way, you know,” explained Sir Harry, candidly; “but every one was so hard on you, and you bore it so well, and were such a good little woman, that I quite longed to stand your friend; and we were friends,—were we not, Mattie? And then somehow it came to me what a nice little wife you would make; and so––” but here Mattie timidly interrupted him:
“But Grace,—I thought you liked Grace best!”
Sir Harry laughed outright at this; but he had the grace to look ashamed of himself:
“So I did like her very much; but I was only trying you, Mattie. I was not sure how much you liked me; but you seemed such a miserable little Cinderella among them all that I could hardly keep it up. If they snub you now, they will have to answer to me.” And at this moment Mrs. Sparsit entered with the tea-tray.
Dinner was nearly over at the vicarage when Mattie’s step was heard in the hall. Archie, who was the soul of punctuality, frowned a little when the sound reached his ear.
“This is too bad of Mattie,” he said, rather fretfully. “She has no right to put us to such inconvenience. I suppose we must have the fish up again?”
“Miss Drummond desires that you will go on with your dinner, sir,” observed the maid, entering at that moment. “She has had a late tea, and will not require anything more.”
“Very strange!” fumed Archie; but he was a little pacified by the message. But Grace slightly elevated her eyebrows with an expression of surprise. Such independence was new in Mattie.
The brother and sister had adjourned to the drawing-room, and Archie was about to ring for his coffee, before Mattie made her appearance.
Grace uttered a little exclamation when she saw her sister:
“My dear Mattie, we have no visitors coming in this evening! Why have you put on your best gown? You extravagant356child!” for Mattie had come into the room rustling in her green silk dress, and her little dark face glowing from the wind. “She looked almost pretty,” as Grace said afterwards; but at her sister’s quizzical observation Mattie blushed and seemed confused.
“It is no use saving it,” she began. “Sir Harry is coming in by and by. And, oh, Archie! he told me to say it, but I don’t know how to do it.” And then, to Archie’s intense surprise,—for she had never done such a thing in her life,—she suddenly threw her arms round his neck. “Oh, Archie! he says you are never to scold me again,—any of you,” she sobbed, “because I belong to him now. And he—Sir Harry, I mean—is so good to me; and I am so happy. And won’t you wish me joy, both of you? And what—what will mother say?” finished Mattie, as though this were the climax of everything.
“Good heavens, Mattie!” gasped Archie; but he did not shake her off: on the contrary, he kissed her very kindly. “Do you mean you are going to marry Sir Harry Challoner?”
“He means to marry me,” returned Mattie, smiling, in spite of her tears; and then Grace came forward, and took her in her arms.
“I am so glad, dear Mattie,” she whispered, soothingly. “Of course we none of us expected it; and we are all very much surprised. Oh, dear! how happy mother will be!”
“I tell you what,” exclaimed Archie, in great excitement, “I will take you down myself to Lowder Street, and see what she says. They will all be out of their senses with joy; and, upon my word, Mattie, I never was so pleased about anything in my life. He is a right-down good fellow, I am sure of that; and you are not such a bad little thing yourself, Mattie. There!”