CHAPTER XXXI.DICK THINKS OF THE CITY.
When Dick had uttered this audacious speech, Mr. Mayne started back, and his expression of mingled wrath and dismay was so ludicrous that under any other circumstances his son would have found it difficult to keep his countenance.227
“What! what!” he almost shouted, losing all sense of politeness, and even of Nan’s presence; “you young fool, what do you mean by trumping up this nonsense and presuming to talk to me in this way?”
Dick thought it prudent to drop Nan’s hand,—and, indeed, the girl shrank away from them both in alarm at this outburst: nevertheless, his countenance and bearing maintained the same admirablesang-froid, as he confronted his angry parent:
“Now, father, what is the use of calling me names? When a fellow is of age, and knows his own mind, he does not care a pin for being called a fool. ‘Hard words break no bones,’ as our copy-leaves used to tell us,—no, I have not got that quite right; but that is about my meaning. Look here, father,” he continued, in a coaxing, boyish voice; “I have cared for Nan ever since she was a little creature so high,” again reverting to the infantile measurement. “I have always meant to marry her,—that is, if she would have me,” correcting himself, as Nan drew herself up a little proudly. “Money or no money, there is not another girl in England that I would have for a wife. I would wait for her if I had to wait half my life, just the same as she would wait for me; and so, as I said before, when a fellow has made up his mind, there is nothing more to say.” And here Dick pursed up his lips for a whistle, but thought better of it, and fell to twisting and untwisting the ends of his sandy moustache.
Nan’s downcast eyes revealed nothing. But if Dick could only have seen the happy look in them! What eloquence could ever have been so dear to her as that clear rough-and-ready statement of her lover’s feelings for her? “There is not another girl in England that I would have for a wife.” Could anything surpass the beauty of that sentence? Oh, how manly, how true he was, this Dick of hers!
“Oh, indeed! I am to say nothing, am I?” returned Mr. Mayne, with exquisite irony. “My son is to dictate to me; and I am to be silent! Oh, you young fool!” he muttered under his breath; but then for the moment words seemed to fail him.
In spite of the wrath that was boiling within him, and to which he did not dare give vent in Nan’s presence, in spite of the grief and disappointment that his son’s defiance had caused him, Dick’s bearing filled him with admiration and amazement.
This boy of his was worth something, he thought. He had a clear head of his own, and could speak to some purpose. Was a likely young fellow like this to be thrown away on that Challoner girl? Poor Nan! Pretty and blooming as she looked, Mr. Mayne felt almost as though he hated her. Why had she come between his boy and him? Had he a dozen sons, that he could spare one of them? Was not Dick his only one,—the son of his right hand, his sole hope and ambition? Mr. Mayne could have wept as these thoughts passed through his mind.228
It was at this moment that Nan thought it right to speak. Dick had had his say, but it was not for her to be silent.
“Mr. Mayne, please listen to me a moment,” she said, pleadingly. “No; I must speak to your father,” as Dick, much alarmed, tried to silence her. “He must not think hard things of us, and misunderstand us.”
“No, dear; indeed you had better be silent!” implored Dick, anxiously; but Nan for once turned a deaf ear to him.
“I must speak,” she persisted. “Mr. Mayne, it is quite true what Dick says: we have been together all our lives, and have grown to care for each other. I cannot remember the time,”—the tears coming into her bright eyes—“when Dick was not more to me than a brother; it is all of such long standing, it is far, far too late to stop it now.”
“We shall see about that, Miss Nancy,” muttered Mr. Mayne, between his teeth; but the girl did not seem to hear him.
“Dick took me by surprise just now. I ought to have been more on my guard, and not have given him that promise.”
“What promise?” demanded Mr. Mayne, harshly; and Nan hung her head, and returned, shyly,—
“That I would marry him some time; but indeed—indeed he made me say it, and I was so taken by surprise. No, Dick; you must let me finish,” for Dick was looking at her with piteous entreaty in his eyes. “I know we were wrong to say so much without your leave; but indeed I will do your son no harm. I cannot marry any one else, because I am engaged to him; but as far as he is concerned he is free. I will never marry him without your permission; he shall not come here if you do not wish; but do not be so angry with us;” and here her lip quivered. “If you did not mean this to happen, you should have kept us apart all these years.”
“Oh, hush, dear!” whispered Dick in her ear; but Mr Mayne almost thrust him aside, and laid a rough grasp on the girl’s wrist. “Never mind him: answer me one question. Are you serious in what you say, that you will never marry him without my permission?”
“Of course I will not,” answered Nan, quite shocked. “Dick would not ask me to do such a thing; he is far too honorable, and—and—no one would think of such a thing.”
“Very well; that is all I wanted to know;” and he released her, not over-gently: “the rest I can settle with Master Dick himself. Good-morning, Miss Nancy: under the circumstances I do not think I will wait to see your mother. I am not quite in the mood for ladies; perhaps, later on, I may have something to say to her.”
“Don’t you mean to shake hands with me, Mr. Mayne?” asked poor Nan, much distressed at the evil temper of Dick’s father; but there was no sign of softening.
“Yes; I will shake hands with you, and gladly, if you will promise to be sensible and send this boy of mine about his business.229Come now, Nan; own for my comfort that it is only a bit of boy-and-girl nonsense, that means nothing. I am not over-particular, and do not object to a bit of flirting with young folk.”
“You had better go with your father, Dick,” returned Nan, with much dignity, and quite ignoring this speech.
Dick seized the little hand that had been so rudely rejected, and kissed it under his father’s eyes.
“I will see you again somehow,” he whispered, and Nan was quite content with this promise. Dick would keep his word, she knew: he would not leave Hadleigh without seeing her.
A very unpleasant hour ensued for poor Dick. Mr. Mayne in one of his worst tempers; he had conducted himself to Nan in an ungentlemanly manner, and he knew it; as Dick said to himself,—
“It is very hard on a fellow when one’s father acts like a cad.”
Mr. Mayne had shown himself a cad. No gentleman by birth or breeding would have conducted himself in that offensive way. Bad temper had broken down the trammels of conventionality: never before in his life had Dick felt so utterly ashamed of his father. Mr. Mayne was conscious of his son’s criticism, and it made things worse.
It spoke well for Dick’s prudence and self-command that he let the storm of his father’s anger break over his head, and said no word. Mr. Mayne ranted and raved; I am afraid he even swore once or twice,—at least his language was undesirably strong,—and Dick walked beside him and held his peace. “Poor old boy, he is terribly cut up about this!” he thought once.
Mr. Drummond saw them coming along, and wondered at the energy of the older man. Was it the visit to the Friary that had put him out? and then he fell anew into cogitation. Who were these people who were so curious about the Challoners? At least that sulky young fellow had taken no apparent interest, for he had made an excuse to leave them; but the other one had persisted in very close investigation. Perhaps he was some relation,—an uncle, or a distant cousin; evidently he had some right or claim to be displeased. Archie determined to solve the mystery as soon as possible.
“Well, sir, have you nothing to say for yourself?” demanded Mr. Mayne, when he had fairly exhausted himself. He had disinherited Dick half a dozen times; he had deprived him of his liberal allowance; he had spoken of a projected voyage to New Zealand: and Dick had only walked on steadily, and thought of the cold trembling little hand he had kissed. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he vociferated.
Dick woke up at this.
“Oh, yes, I have plenty to say,” he returned cheerfully; “but two cannot talk at once, you know. It was right for230you to have the first innings, and all that; and I say, father,”—his filial feelings coming to the surface,—“I am awfully sorry, and so is Nan, to see you so vexed.”
“Speak for yourself,” was the wrathful answer. “Don’t mention that girl’s name in my hearing for the present.”
“Whose name?—Nan’s?” returned Dick, innocently. “I don’t see how we are to keep it out of the conversation, when the row is all about her. Look here, father: I say again I am awfully sorry you are vexed; but as N—she says, it is too late to mend matters now. I have made my choice, for better for worse, and I am sorry it does not please you.”
“Please me!” retorted Mr. Mayne; and then he added, venomously: “The girl said you would not marry without my permission; but I will never give it. Come, Dick, it is no use thwarting me in this: you are our only child and we have other plans for you. Pshaw! you are only a boy! You have not seen the world yet. There are dozens of girls far prettier than this Nan. Give this nonsense up, and there is nothing I will not do for you; you shall travel, have your liberty, do as you like for the next two or three years, and I will not worry you about marrying. Why, you are only one-and-twenty; and you have two more years of University life! What an idea,—a fine young fellow like you talking of tying yourself down to matrimony!”
“There is no use in my going back to Oxford, father,” returned Dick, steadily; “thank you kindly all the same, but, it would be sheer waste of money. I have made up my mind to go into the City; it is the fashionable thing nowadays. And one does not need Greek and Latin for that, though, of course, it is an advantage to a fellow, and gives him a standing; but, as I have to get my own living, I cannot afford the two years. Your old chums Stanfield & Stanfield would give me a berth at once.”
“Is the boy mad? What on earth do you mean by all this tomfoolery?” demanded Mr. Mayne, unable to believe his ears. His small gray eyes opened widely and irately on his son; but Dick took no notice. He walked on, with his shoulders looking rather square and determined; the corners of his mouth were working rebelliously: evidently he did not dare to look at his father for fear of breaking into incontrollable laughter. Really the dear old boy was getting too absurd; he—Dick—could not stand it much longer. “What in the name of all that is foolish do you mean, sir?” thundered Mr. Mayne.
Dick executed a low whistle, and then he said, in an aggrieved voice,—
“Well, father, I don’t call you very consistent. I suppose I know what being disinherited means? In plain language, you have told me about half a dozen times that if I stick to Nan I am not to expect a shilling of your money. Now, in my own mind, of course I call that precious hard on a fellow, considering231I have not been such a bad sort of son after all. But I am not going to quarrel with you about that: a man has a right to do as he likes with his own money.”
“Yes; but, Dick, you are going to be sensible, you know, and drop the girl?” in a wheedling sort of tone.
“Excuse me, father; I am going to do nothing of the kind,” returned Dick, with sudden firmness. “I am going to stick to her, as you did to my mother; and for just as long, if it must be so. I am not a bit afraid that you will not give your permission, if we only wait long enough to prove that we are in earnest. The only thing I am anxious about is how I am to get my living; and that is why I will not consent to waste any more time at the University. The bar is too uphill work; money is made quickest in the City: so, if you will be good enough to give me an introduction to Stanfield & Stanfield,—I know they are a rattling good sort of people,—that is all I will trouble you about at present.” And Dick drew in a long breath of relief after this weighty speech.
“Do you mean this, Dick?” asked Mr. Mayne, rather feebly.
They had reached the hotel now, and, as they entered the private room where their luncheon was awaiting them, he sat down as though he had grown suddenly old and tired, and rested his head on his hand, perhaps to hide the moisture that had gathered under his shaggy eyebrows.
“Yes, father, I do,” returned Dick; but he spoke very gently, and his hand touched his father’s shoulder caressingly. “Let me give you some wine: all this business has taken it out of you.”
“Yes, I have had a blow, Dick,—my only boy has given me a blow,” returned Mr. Mayne, pathetically; but as he took the wine his hand trembled.
“I am awfully sorry,” answered Dick, penitently: “if there were anything else you had asked me but this—but I cannot give up Nan.” And, as he pronounced the name, Dick’s eyes shone with pride and tenderness. He was a soft-hearted, affectionate young fellow, and this quarrel with his father was costing him a great deal of pain. In everything else he would have been submissive to his parents; but now he had a purpose and responsibility in his life: he had to be faithful to the girl whom he had won; he must think for her now as well as for himself. How sweet was this sense of dual existence, this unity of heart and aim!
Mr. Mayne fairly groaned as he read the expression on his son’s face. Dick’s youthful countenance was stamped with honest resolution. “I am going to stick to her, as you did to my mother.”—that was what he had said. If this were true, it was all over with Dick’s chances with the pretty little heiress; he would never look at her or her thirty thousand pounds; “but all the same he, Richard Mayne, would never consent to his son marrying a dressmaker. If she had only232not disgraced herself, if she had not brought this humiliation on them, he might have been brought to listen to their pleading in good time and at his own pleasure; but now, never!—never!” he muttered, and set his teeth hard.
“Dick,” he said, suddenly, for there had been utter silence for a space.
“Yes, father.”
“You have upset me very much, and made me very unhappy; but I wish you to say nothing to your mother, and we will talk about this again. Promise me one thing,—that you will go back to Oxford at least until Christmas.”
“What is the good of that, sir?” asked his son, dubiously.
“What is the good of anything? for you have taken every bit of pleasure out of my life; but at least you can do as much as this for me.”
“Oh, yes, father, if you wish it,” returned Dick, more cheerfully; “but all the same I have fixed upon a City life.”
“We will talk of that again,” replied his father; “and, Dick, we go home to-morrow, and, unless you promise me not to come down to Hadleigh between this and Christmas, I shall be obliged to speak to Mrs. Challoner.”
“Oh, there is no need for that,” returned Dick, sulkily.
“You give me your word?”
“Oh, yes,” pushing aside his chair with a kick. “It would be no use coming down to Hadleigh, for Nan would not speak to me. I know her too well for that. She has got such a conscience, you know. I shall write to her, but I do not know if she will answer my letters; but it does not matter: we shall both be true as steel. If you don’t want me any more, I think I will have a cigar on the beach, for this room is confoundedly hot.” And, without waiting for permission, Dick strode off, still sulky and fully aware that his father meant to follow him, for fear of his footsteps straying again down the Braidwood Road.
CHAPTER XXXII.“DICK IS TO BE OUR REAL BROTHER.”
Never was a father more devoted to his son’s company than Mr. Mayne was that day. Dick’s cigar was hardly alight before his father had joined him. When Dick grew weary of throwing stones aimlessly at imaginary objects, and voted the beach slow, Mr. Mayne proposed a walk with alacrity. They dined together,—not talking much, it is true, for Dick was still sulky, and his father tired and inclined to headache, but keeping up a show of conversation for the waiter’s benefit. But when that233functionary had retired, and the wine was on the table, Dick made no further effort to be agreeable, but placed himself in the window-seat and stared moodily at the sea, while his father watched him and drank his wine in silence.
Mr. Mayne was fighting against drowsiness valiantly.
Dick knew this, and was waiting for an opportunity to make his escape.
“Had we not better ring for lights and coffee?” asked his father, as he felt the first ominous sensations stealing over him.
“Not just yet. I feel rather disposed for a nap myself; and it is a shame to shut out the moonlight,” returned that wicked Dick, calling up a fib to his aid, and closing his eyes as he spoke.
The bait took. In another five minutes Mr. Mayne was nodding in earnest, and Dick on tiptoe had just softly closed the door behind him, and was taking his straw hat from its peg.
Nan was walking up and down the little dark lawn, feeling restless and out of sorts after the agitation of the morning, when she heard a low whistle at the other side of the wall, and her heart felt suddenly as light as a feather.
Dick saw her white gown as she came down the flagged path to the gate to let him in. The moonlight seemed to light it up with a sort of glory.
“You are a darling not to keep me waiting, for we have not a moment to lose,” he whispered, as she came up close to him. “He is asleep now, but he will wake up as soon as he misses me. Have you expected me before, Nan? But indeed I have not been left to myself a moment.”
“Oh, I knew all about it, my poor Dick,” she answered, looking at him so softly. “Phillis is reading to mother in the parlor, and Dulce is in the work-room. I have nowhere to ask you unless you come in and talk to them. But mother is too upset to see you, I am afraid.”
“Let us wait here,” returned Dick, boldly. “No one can hear what we say, and I must speak to you alone. No; I had better not see your mother to-night, and the girls would be in the way. Shall you be tired, dear, if you stand out here a moment talking to me? for I dare not wait long.”
“Oh, no, I shall not be tired,” answered Nan gently. Tired, when she had her own Dick near her!—when she could speak to him,—look at him!
“All right; but it is my duty to look after you, now you belong to me,” returned Dick, proudly. “Whatever happens,—however long we may be separated,—you must remember that—that you belong to me,—that you will have to account to me if you do not take care of yourself.”
Nan smiled happily at this, and then she said,—
“I have told mother all about it, and she is dreadfully distressed about your father’s anger. She cried so, and took his part, and said she did not wonder that he would not listen to us; he would feel it such a disgrace, his son wanting to marry a234dressmaker. She made me unhappy, too, when she put it all before me in that way,” and here Nan’s face paled perceptibly in the moonlight, “for she made me see how hard it is on him, and on your mother, too! Oh, Dick don’t you think you ought to listen to them, and not have anything more to do with me?”
“Nan, I am shocked at you!”
“But, Dick!”
“I tell you I am utterly shocked! You to say such a thing to my face, when we have been as good as engaged to each other all our lives! Who cares for the trumpery dressmaking? Not I!”
“But your father!” persisted Nan, but very faintly, for Dick’s eyes were blazing with anger.
“Not another word! Nan, how dare you—after what you have promised this morning! Have I not been worried and badgered enough, without your turning on me in this way? If you won’t marry me, you won’t; but I shall be a bachelor all my life for your sake!” and Dick, who was so sore, poor fellow, that he was ready to quarrel with her out of the very fulness of his love, actually made a movement as though to leave her, only Nan caught him by the arm in quite a frightened way.
“Dick! dear Dick!”
“Well?” rather sullenly.
“Oh, don’t leave me like this! It would break my heart! I did not mean to make you angry. I was only pleading with you for your own good. Of course I will keep my promise. Have I not been true to you all my life? Oh, Dick! how can you turn from me like this?” And Nan actually began to sob in earnest, only Dick’s sweet temper returned in a moment at the sight of her distress, and he fell to comforting her with all his might; and after this things went on more smoothly.
He told her about his conversation with his father, and how he had planned a city life for himself; but here Nan timidly interposed:
“Would that not be a pity, when you had always meant to study for the bar?”
“Not a bit of it,” was the confident answer. “That was my father’s wish, not mine. I don’t mind telling you in confidence that I am not at all a shining light. I am afraid I am rather a duffer, and shall not make my mark in the world. I have always thought desk-work must be rather a bore; but, after all, with a good introduction and a tolerable berth, one is pretty sure of getting on in the City. What I want is to make a little nest cosey for somebody, and as quick as possible,—eh, Nan?”
“I do not mind waiting,” faltered Nan. But she felt at this moment that no lover could have been so absolutely perfect as her Dick.
“Oh, that is what girls always say,” returned Dick, rather loftily. “They are never in a hurry. They would wait seven—ten years,—half a lifetime. But with us men it is different.235I am not a bit afraid of you. I know you will stick to me like a brick, and all that; and father will come round when he sees we are in earnest. But all the same I want to have you to myself as soon as possible. A fellow likes the feeling of working for his wife. I hate to think of these pretty fingers stitching away for other people. I want them to work for me: do you understand, Nan?’” And Nan, of course, understood.
Dick, poor fellow, had not much time for his love-making, he and Nan had too much business to settle. Nan had to explain to him that her mother was of opinion that under the present circumstances, nothing ought to be done to excite Mr. Mayne’s wrath. Dick might write to her mother sometimes, just to let them know how he was getting on; but between the young people themselves there must be no correspondence.
“Mother says it will not be honorable, and that we are not properly engaged.” And, though Dick combated this rather stoutly, he gave in at last, and agreed that, until the new year, he would not claim his rights, or infringe the sacred privacy of the Friary.
“And now I must go,” said Dick, with a great sigh; “and it is good-bye for months. Now, I do not mean to ask your leave,—for you are such a girl for scruples, and all that, and you might take it into your head to refuse me: so there!”
Dick’s words were mysterious; but he very soon made his meaning plain.
Nan said, “Oh, Dick!” but made no further protest. After all, whatever Mr. Mayne and her mother said, they were engaged.
As Dick closed the little gate behind him, he was aware of a tall figure looming in the darkness.
“Confound that parson! What does he mean by loafing about here?” he thought, feeling something like a pugnacious bull-dog at the prospect of a possible rival. “I forgot to ask Nan about him; but I dare say he is after one of the other girls.” But these reflections were nipped in the bud, as the short, sturdy form of Mr. Mayne was dimly visible in the road.
Dick chuckled softly: he could not help it.
“All right, dear old boy,” he said to himself; and then he stepped up briskly, and took his father’s arm.
“Do you call this honorable, sir?” began Mr. Mayne, in a most irascible voice.
“I call it very neat,” returned Dick, cheerfully. “My dear pater, everything is fair in love and war; and if you will nap at unseasonable times—but that comes of early rising, as I have often told you.”
“Hold your tongue, sir!” was the violent rejoinder. “It is a mean trick you have served me, and you know it. We will go back to-night; nothing will induce me to sleep in this place. You are not to be trusted. You told me a downright lie. You were humbugging me, sir, with your naps.”236
“I will plead guilty to a fib, if you like,” was Dick’s careless answer. “What a fuss you are making, father! Did you never tell one in your life? Now, what is the use of putting yourself out?—it is not good at your age, sir. What would my mother say? It might bring on apoplexy, after that port-wine.”
“Confound your impertinence!” rejoined Mr. Mayne, angrily; but Dick patted his coat-sleeve pleasantly:
“There, that will do. I think you have relieved your feelings sufficiently. Now we will go to business. I have seen Nan, and told her all about it; and she has had it out with her mother. Mrs. Challoner will not hear of our writing to each other; and I am not to show my face at the Friary without your permission. There is no fibbing or want of honor there: Nan is not the girl to encourage a fellow to take liberties.”
“Oh, indeed!” sneered Mr. Mayne; but he listened attentively for all that. And his gloomy eyebrows relaxed in the darkness. The girl was not behaving so badly, after all.
“So we said good-bye,” continued Dick, keeping the latter part of the interview to himself; “and in October I shall go back for the term, as I promised. We can settle about the other things after Christmas.”
“Oh, yes, we can talk about that by and by,” replied his father, hastily; and then he waxed cheerful all at once, and called his son’s attention to some new houses they were building. “After all, Hadleigh is not such a bad little place,” he observed; “and they gave us a very good dinner at the hotel. It is not every one who can cook fish like that.” And then Dick knew that the storm had blown over for the present, and that his father intended to make himself pleasant and ignore all troublesome topics.
Dick was a little tired when he went to bed; but, on the whole, he was not unhappy. It was quite true that the idea of a City life was repugnant to him, but the thought of Nan sweetened even that. Nothing else remained to him if his father chose to be disagreeable and withdraw his allowance, or threaten to cut him off with a shilling, as other fellows’ fathers did in novels.
“It is uncommonly unpleasant, having to wage war with one’s own father,” thought Dick, as he laid his sandy head on the pillow. “He is such an old trump, too, that it goes against the grain. But when it comes to his wanting to choose a wife for me, it is too much of a good thing: it is tyranny fit for the Middle Ages. Let him threaten if he likes. He will find I shall take his threats in earnest. After Christmas I will have it out with him again; and if he will not listen to reason, I will go up to Mr. James Stanfield myself, and then he will see that I mean what I say. Heigho! I am not such a lucky fellow as Hamilton always thinks me.” And at this juncture of his sad cogitations Dick forgot all about it, and fell asleep.237
Yes, Dick slept the sleep of the just. It was Mr. Drummond who was wakeful and uneasy that night. A vague sense of something wrong tormented him waking and sleeping.
Who was that sandy-headed young fellow who had been twice to the Friary that day. What business had he to be shutting the gate after him in that free-and-easy way at ten o’clock at night? He must find it out somehow; he must make an excuse for calling there, and put the question as indifferently as he could; but even when he made up his mind to pursue this course, Archie felt just as restless as ever.
He made his way to the cottage as early as possible. Phillis, who was alone in the work-room, colored a little as she saw him coming in at the gate. He came so often, he was so kind, so attentive to them all, and yet she had a dim doubt in her mind that troubled her at times. Was it for Nan’s sake that he came? Could she speak and undeceive him before things went too far with him? Yes, when the opportunity offered, she thought she could speak, even though the speaking would be painful to her.
Mr. Drummond looked round the room with a disappointed air as he entered, and then he came up to Phillis.
“You are alone?” he said, with a regretful accent in his voice; at least Phillis fancied she detected it. “How is that? Are your sisters out, or busy?”
“Oh, we are always busy,” returned Phillis, lightly; but, curiously enough, she felt a little sore at his tone. “Nan has gone down to Albert Terrace to take a fresh order, and Dulce is in the town somewhere with mother. Don’t you mean to sit down, Mr. Drummond? or is your business with mother? She will not be back just yet, but I could give her any message.” Phillis said this as she stitched away with energy; but one quick glance had shown her that Mr. Drummond was looking irresolute and ill at ease as he stood beside her.
“Thank you, but I must not stay and hinder you. Yes, my business was with your mother; but it is of no consequence, and I can call again.” Nevertheless, he sat down and deposited his felt hat awkwardly enough on the table. He liked Phillis, but he was a little afraid of her; she was shrewd, and seemed to have the knack of reading one’s thoughts. He was wondering how he should bring his question on thetapis; but Phillis, by some marvellous intuition that really surprised her, had already come to the conclusion that this visit meant something. He had seen Dick; perhaps he wanted to find out all about him. Certainly he was not quite himself to-day. Yes, that must be what he wanted. Phillis’s kind heart and mother-wit were always ready for an emergency.
“How full Hadleigh is getting!” she remarked, pleasantly, as she adjusted the trimming of a sleeve. “Do you know some old neighbors of ours from Oldfield turned up unexpectedly yesterday? They are going away to-day, though,” she added, with a little regret in her voice.238
Archie brightened up visibly at this.
“Oh, indeed!” he observed, with alacrity. “Not a very long visit. Perhaps they came down purposely to see you?”
“Yes, of course,” returned Phillis, confusedly. “They had intended staying some days at the hotel, but Mr. Mayne suddenly changed his mind, much to our and Dick’s disappointment; but it could not be helped.”
“Dick,” echoed Archie, a little surprised at this familiarity and then he added, somewhat awkwardly, “I think I saw the young man and his father at the Library yesterday; and last night as I was coming from the station I encountered him again at your gate.”
“Yes, that was Dick,” answered Phillis, stooping a little over her work. “He is not handsome, poor fellow! but he is as nice as possible. They live at Longmead; that is next door to our dear old Glen Cottage, and the gardens adjoin. We call him Dick because we have known him all our lives, and he has been a sort of brother to us.”
“Oh, yes, I see,” drawled Archie, slowly. “That sort of thing is very nice when you have not a man belonging to you. It is a little awkward sometimes, for people do not always see this sort of relationship. He seemed a nice sort of fellow, I should say,” he continued, in his patronizing way, stroking his beard complacently. After all, the sandy-headed youth was no possible rival.
“Oh, Dick is ever so nice,” answered Phillis, enthusiastically; “not good enough for—” and then she stopped and broke her thread. “I am glad we are so fond of him,” she continued, rather hurriedly, “because Dick is to be our real brother some day. He and Nan have cared for each other all their lives, and, though Mr. Mayne is dreadfully angry about it, they consider themselves as good as engaged, and mean to live down his opposition. They came to an understanding yesterday,” finished Phillis, who was determined to bring it all out.
“Oh, indeed!” returned Archie: “that must be a great relief, I am sure. There is your little dog whining at the door; may I let him in?” And, without waiting for an answer, Archie had darted out in pursuit of Laddie, but not before Phillis’s swift upward glance had shown her a face that had grown perceptibly paler in the last few minutes.
“Oh, poor fellow! I was right!” thought Phillis, and the tears rushed to her eyes. “It was best to speak. I see that now; and he will get over it if he thinks no one knows it. How I wish I could help him! but it will never do to show the least sympathy: I have no right.” And here Phillis sighed, and her gray eyes grew dark with pain for a moment. Archie was rather a long time absent; and then he came back with Laddie in his arms, and stood by the window.
“Your news has interested me very much,” he said, and his voice was quite steady. “I suppose, as this—this engagement239is not public, I had better not wish your sister joy, unless you do it for me.”
“Oh, no; there is no need of that,” returned Phillis, in a low voice. “Mother might not like my mentioning it; but I thought you might wonder about Dick, and––” here Phillis got confused.
“Thank you,” replied Archie, quietly; but now he looked at her. “You are very kind. Yes, it was best for me to know.” And then, as Phillis rose and gave him her hand, for he had taken up his hat as he spoke, she read at once that her caution had been in vain,—that he had full understanding why the news had been told to him, and to him only, and that he was grateful to her for so telling him.
Poor Phillis! she had accomplished her task; and yet as the door closed behind the young clergyman, two or three tears fell on her work. He was not angry with her; on the contrary, he had thanked her, and the grasp of his hand had been as cordial as ever. But, in spite of the steadiness of his voice and look, the arrow had pierced between the joints of his armor. He might not be fatally wounded,—that was not in the girl’s power to know; but that he was in some way hurt,—made miserable with a man’s misery,—of this she was acutely sensible; and the strangest longing to comfort him—to tell him how much she admired his fortitude—came over her, with a strong stinging pain that surprised her.
Archie had the longest walk that day that he had ever had in his life. He came in quite fagged and foot-sore to his dinner, and far too tired to eat. Mattie told him he looked ill and worn out; but, though he generally resented any such personal remarks, he merely told her very gently that he was tired, and that he would like a cup of coffee in his study, and not to be disturbed. And when she took in the coffee presently, she found him buried in the depths of his easy-chair, and evidently half asleep, and stole out of the room on tiptoe.
But his eyes opened very speedily as soon as the door closed upon her. It was not sleep he wanted, but some moral strength to bear a pain that threatened to be unendurable. How had that girl read his secret? Surely he had not betrayed himself! Nan had not discovered it, for her calmness and sweet unconsciousness had never varied in his presence. Never for an instant had her changing color testified to the faintest uneasiness. He understood the reason of her reserve now. Her thoughts had been with this Dick; and here Archie groaned and hid his face.
Not mortally hurt, perhaps; but still the pain and the sense of loss were very bitter to this young man, who had felt for weeks past that his life was permeated by the sweetness and graciousness of Nan’s presence. How lovely she had seemed to him,—the ideal girl of his dreams! It was love at first sight. He240knew that now. His man’s heart had been set on the hope of winning her, and now she was lost to him.
Never for one moment had she belonged to him, or could belong to him. “He and Nan have cared for each other all their lives,”—that was what her sister had told him; and what remained but for him to stamp out this craze and fever before it mastered him and robbed him of his peace?
“I am not the only man who has had to suffer,” thought Archie, as hours after he stumbled up to bed in the darkness. “At least, it makes it easier to know that no one shares my pain. These things are better battled out alone. I could not bear even Grace’s sympathy in this.” And yet as Archie said this to himself, he recalled without any bitterness the half-tender, half pitying look in Phillis’s eyes. “She was sorry for me. She saw it all; and it was kind of her to tell me,” thought the young man.
He had no idea that Phillis was at that moment whispering little wistful prayers in the darkness that he might soon be comforted.
Who knows how many such prayers are flung out into the deep of God’s mercy,—comfort for such a one whom we would fain comfort ourselves; feeble utterances and cries of pity; the stretching out of helpless hands, which nevertheless may bring down blessings? But so it shall be while men and women struggle and fall, and weep the tears common to humanity, “until all eyes are dried in the clear light of eternity, and the sorest heart shall then own the wisdom of the cross that had been laid upon them.”
CHAPTER XXXIII.“THIS IS LIFE AND DEATH TO ME.”
Phillis found it difficult during the next few days to reconcile divided sympathies; a nice adjustment of conflicting feelings seemed almost impossible. Nan was so simply, so transparently happy, that no sister worthy of the name could refuse to rejoice with her: a creature so brimming over with gladness, with contented love, was certain to reflect heart-sunshine. On the other hand, there was Mr. Drummond! To be glad and sorry in a breath was as provoking to a feeling woman as the traveller’s blowing hot and cold was to the satyr in the fable.
In trying to preserve an even balance Phillis became decidedly cross. She was one who liked a clear temperature,—neither torrid nor frigid. Too much susceptibility gave her an east-windy feeling; to be always at the fever-point of sympathy with one’s fellow-creatures would not have suited her at all.241
Nan, who possessed more sweetness of temper than keenness of psychological insight, could not understand what had come to Phillis. She was absent, a trifle sad, and yet full of retort. At times she seemed to brim over with a wordy wisdom that made no sort of impression.
One evening, as they were retiring to bed, Nan beckoned her into her little room, and shut the door. Then she placed a seat invitingly by the open window, which was pleasantly framed by jasmine; and then she took hold of Phillis’s shoulders in a persuasive manner.
“Now, dear,” she said, coaxingly, “you shall just tell me all about it.”
Phillis looked up, a little startled. Then, as she met Nan’s gentle, penetrative glance, she presented a sudden blank of non-comprehension, most telling on such occasions, and yawned slightly.
“What do you mean, Nannie?” in a somewhat bored tone.
“Come, dear, tell me,” continued Nan, with cheerful pertinacity. “You are never dull or touchy without some good reason. What has been the matter the last few days? Are you vexed or disappointed about anything? Are you sure—quite sure you are pleased about Dick?”—the idea occurring to her suddenly that Phillis might not approve of their imprudent engagement.
“Oh, Nannie, how absurd you are!” returned Phillis, pettishly. “Have I not told you a dozen times since Wednesday how delighted I am that you have come to an understanding? Have I not sounded his praises until I was hoarse? Why, if I had been in love with Dick myself I could not have talked about him more.”
“Yes, I know you have been very good, dear; but still I felt there was something.”
“Oh, dear, no!” returned Phillis decidedly, and her voice was a little hard. “The fact is, you are in the seventh heaven yourself, and you expect us to be there too. Not that I wonder at you, Nannie, because Dick—dear old fellow—is ever so nice.”
She threw in this last clause not without intention, and of course the tempting bait took at once.
“I never knew any one half so good,” replied Nan, in a calmly satisfied tone. “You have hinted once or twice, Phil, that you thought him rather too young,—that our being the same age was a pity; but—do you know?—in Dick’s case it does not matter in the least. No man double his age could have made his meaning more plain, or have spoken better to the purpose. He is so strong and self-reliant and manly: and with all his fun, he is so unselfish.”
“He will make you a very good husband, Nan; I am sure of that.”
“I think he will,” returned Nan, with a far-away look in her242eyes. She was recalling Dick’s speech about the nest that he wanted to make cosey for some one. “Phil, dear,” she went on, after this blissful pause, “I wish you had a Dick too.”
“Good Gracious, Nannie!”
“I mean—you know what I mean,—some one to whom you are first, and who has a right to care for you; it gives such a meaning to one’s life. Of course it will come in time; no one can look at you and not prophesy a happy future: it is only I who am impatient and want it to come soon.”
Phillis wrinkled her brows thoughtfully over this speech: she seemed inclined to digest and assimilate it.
“I dare say you are right,” she replied, after a pause. “Yes it would be nice, no doubt.”
“When the realhecomes, you will find how nice it is,” rejoined Nan, with sympathetic readiness. “Do you know, Phil, the idea has once or twice occurred to me that Mr. Drummond comes rather often!” But here Phillis shook off her hand and started from her chair.
“There is a moth singing its wings. Poor wee beastie! let me save it, if it be not too late.” And she chased the insect most patiently until the blue-gray wings fluttered into her hand.
“There, I have saved him from utter destruction!” she cried triumphantly, leaning out into the darkness. “He has scorched himself, that is all;” then as she walked back to her sister, her head was erect, and there was a beautiful earnest look upon her face.
“Nannie, I don’t want to find fault with you, but don’t you remember how we used to pride ourselves, in the dear old days, in not being like other girls,—the Paines, for example, or even Adelaide Sartoris, who used to gossip so much about young men.”
Nan opened her eyes widely at this, but made no answer.
“We must not be different now, because our life is narrower and more monotonous. I know, talking so much over our work, we have terrible temptations to gossip; but I can’t bear to think that we should ever lower our standard, ever degenerate into the feeble girlishness we abhor. We never used to talk about young men, Nan, except Dick; and that did not matter. Of course we liked them in their places, and had plenty of fun, and tormented them a little; but you never made such a speech as that at Glen Cottage.”
“Oh, dear! oh, dear! What have I done?” exclaimed Nan, much distressed at this rebuke. “I do think you are right, Phil; and it was naughty of me to put such a thing into your head.”
“You have put no idea into my head,” replied Phillis, with crisp obstinacy. “There! I am only moralizing for my own good, as well as yours. Small beginnings make great endings. If we once began to gossip, we might end by flirting; and,243Nan, if you knew how I hate that sort of thing!” And Phillis looked grand and scornful.
“Yes, dear; and I know you are right,” returned Nan, humbly. She was not quite sure what she had done to provoke this outburst of high moral feeling: but she felt that Phillis was dreadfully in earnest. They kissed each other rather solemnly after that, and Phillis was suffered to depart in silence.
That night there was no wistful little prayer that Mr. Drummond might be comforted: Phillis had too many petitions to offer up on her own account. She was accusing herself of pride, and Pharisaism, and hypocrisy, in no measured terms. “Not like other girls! I am worse,—worse,” she said to herself. And then, among other things, she asked for the gift of content,—for a quiet, satisfied spirit, not craving or embittered,—strength to bear her own and her friends’ troubles, and far-looking faith to discern “God’s perfectness round our uncompleteness,—round our restlessness His rest.”
The following evening, as Phillis was sorting out patterns in the work-room, a note was brought to her from the White House. It was in Mrs. Cheyne’s handwriting, and, like herself, strangely abrupt.
“Your visits are like angels’ visits,—extremely rare,” it began. “I am afraid I have frightened you away, as I have frightened the parson. I thought you had more wit than he to discern between mannerism and downright ill-humor. This evening the temperature is equable,—not the sign of a brooding cloud: so put on your hat, like a good girl, and come over. Miss Mewlstone and I will be prepared to welcome you.”
“You had better go,” observed Nan, who had read the note over her sister’s shoulder: “you have worked so dreadfully hard all day, and it will be a little change.”
“No one cares for east winds as a change,” replied Phillis, dryly; nevertheless, she made up her mind that she would go. She was beginning to dread being summoned to the White House: she felt that Mrs. Cheyne alternately fascinated and repelled her. She was growing fond of Miss Mewlstone; but then, on these occasions, she had so little intercourse with her. The charitable instinct that was always ready to be kindled in Phillis’s nature prompted her to pay these visits; and yet she always went reluctantly.
She had two encounters on the road, both of which she had foreseen with nice presentiment.
The first was with Mr. Drummond.
He was walking along slowly, with his eyes on the ground. A sort of flush came to his face when he saw Phillis; and then he stopped, and shook hands, and asked after them all comprehensively, yet with constraint in his voice. Phillis told him rather hurriedly that she was going to the White House: Mrs. Cheyne had sent for her.244
Archie smiled:
“I am glad she does not send for me. I have not been there for a long time. Sarcasm is not an attractive form of welcome. It slams the door in a man’s face. I hope you will not get some hard hits, Miss Challoner.” And then he went on his way.
As she approached Mrs. Williams’s cottage, Mr. Dancy was, as usual, leaning against the little gate. He stepped out in the road, and accosted her.
“I have not called on your mother,” he began, rather abruptly. “After all, I thought it best not to trouble her just now. Can you spare me a few minutes? or are you going in there?” looking towards the White House.
“I am rather in a hurry,” returned Phillis, surprised at his manner, it seemed so agitated. “I am already late, and Mrs. Cheyne will be expecting me.”
“Very well: another time,” he replied, stepping back without further ceremony; but until Phillis’s figure disappeared in the trees he watched her, leaning still upon the little gate.
Mrs. Cheyne received her with a frosty smile; but, on the whole, her manner was more gracious than usual, and by and by it thawed completely.
She was a little captious at first, it was true, and she snubbed poor Miss Mewlstone decidedly once or twice,—but then Miss Mewlstone was used to being snubbed,—but with Phillis she was sparing of sarcasms. After a time she began to look kindly at the girl; then she bade her talk, rather peremptorily, because she liked her voice and found it pleasant to listen to her; and by and by Phillis grew more at her ease, and her girlish talk rippled on as smoothly as possible.
Mrs. Cheyne’s face softened and grew strangely handsome as she listened: she was drawing Phillis out,—leading her to speak of the old life, and of all their youthful sources of happiness. Then she fell into a retrospect of her own young days, when she was a spoiled madcap girl and had all sorts of daring adventures.
Phillis was quite fascinated; she was even disappointed when Miss Mewlstone pointed out the lateness of the hour.
“I have enjoyed myself so much,” she said, as she put on her hat.
“I meant you to enjoy yourself,” returned Mrs. Cheyne, quietly, as she drew the girl’s face down to hers. “I have given you such a bad impression that you look on me as a sort of moral bugbear. I can be very different, when I like, and I have liked to be agreeable to-night.” And then this strange woman took up a rich cashmere shawl from the couch where she was lying, and folded it around Phillis’s shoulders. “The evenings are chilly. Jeffreys can bring this back with her;” for Mrs. Cheyne had already decided that this time her maid should accompany Phillis to the cottage.245
Phillis laughed in an amused fashion as she saw the reflection of herself in one of the mirrors: her figure looked quite queenly enveloped in the regal drapery. “She has forgotten all about the dressmaking,” she thought to herself, as she tripped downstairs.
It was a lovely moonlight evening; the avenue was white and glistening in the soft light; the trees cast weird shadows on the grass. Phillis was somewhat surprised to see in the distance Mr. Dancy’s tall figure pacing to and fro before the lodge-gate. He was evidently waiting for her; for as she approached he threw away his cigar and joined her at once. Jeffreys, who thought he was some old acquaintance, dropped behind very discreetly, after the manner of waiting-women.
“How long you have stayed this evening! I have been walking up and down for more than an hour, watching for you,” he began, with curious abruptness.
This and no more did Jeffreys hear before she lingered out of earshot. The lady’s maid thought she perceived an interesting situation, and being of a susceptible and sympathetic temperament, with a blighted attachment of her own, there was no fear of her intruding. Phillis looked around once, but Jeffreys was absorbed in her contemplations of the clouds.
“I thought you were never coming,” he continued; and then he stopped all at once, and caught hold of the fringe of the shawl. “This is not yours: I am sure I have seen Magdalene in it. Pshaw! what am I saying? the force of old habit. I knew her once as Magdalene.”
“It is dreadfully heavy, and, after all, the evening is so warm,” returned Phillis, taking no notice of this incoherent speech.
“Let me carry it,” he rejoined, with singular eagerness; “it is absurd, a wrap like that on such a night.” And, while Phillis hesitated, he drew the shawl from her shoulders and hung it over his arm, and all the way his disengaged right hand rested on the folds, touching it softly from time to time, as though the mere feeling of the texture pleased him.
“How was she to-night?” he asked, coming a little closer to Phillis, and dropping his voice as he spoke.
“Who?—Mrs. Cheyne? Oh, she was charming! just a little cold and captious at first, but that is her way. But this evening she was bent on fascinating me, and she quite succeeded; she looked ill, though, but very, very beautiful.”
“She never goes out. I cannot catch a glimpse of her,” he returned, hurriedly. “Miss Challoner, I am going to startle—shock you, perhaps; but I have thought about it all until my head is dizzy, and there is no other way. Please give me your attention a moment,” for Phillis, with a vague sense of uneasiness, had looked around for Jeffreys. “I must see you alone: I must speak to you where we shall not be interrupted. To call on your mother will be no good; you and only you can help246me. And you are so strong and merciful—I can read that in your eyes—that I am sure of your sympathy, if you will only give me a hearing.”
“Mr. Dancy! oh, what can you mean?” exclaimed Phillis. She was dreadfully frightened at his earnestness, but her voice was dignified, and she drew herself away with a movement full of pride andhauteur. “You are a stranger to me; you have no right––”
“The good Samaritan was a stranger too. Have you forgotten that?” he returned, in a voice of grave rebuke. “Oh, you are a girl; you are thinking of your mother! I have shocked your sense of propriety, my child; for you seem a child to me, who have lived and suffered so much. Would you hesitate an instant if some poor famishing wretch were to ask you for food or water? Well, I am that poor wretch. What I have to tell you is a matter of life and death to me. Only a woman—only you—can help me; and you shrink because we have not had a proper introduction. My dear young lady, you have nothing to fear from me. I am unfortunate, but a gentleman,—a married man, if that will satisfy your scruples––”
“But my mother,” faltered Phillis, not knowing what to say to this unfortunate stranger, who terrified and yet attracted her by turns.
Never had she heard a human voice so persuasive, and yet so agonized in its intensity. A conviction of the truth of his words seized upon her as she listened,—that he was unhappy, that he needed her sympathy for some purpose of his own, and yet that she herself had nothing to do with his purpose. But what would Nan say if she consented—if she acceded to such an extraordinary proposition—to appoint a meeting with a stranger?
“It is life and death to me; remember that!” continued Mr. Dancy, in that low, suppressed voice of agitation. “If you refuse on the score of mere girlish propriety, you will regret it. I am sure of that. Trust to your own brave heart, and let it answer for you. Will you refuse this trifling act of mercy,—just to let me speak to you alone, and tell you my story? When you have heard that, you will take things into your own hands.”
Phillis hesitated, and grew pale with anxiety; but the instincts of her nature were stronger than her prudence. From the first she had believed in this man, and felt interested in him and his mysterious surroundings. “One may be deceived in a face, but never in a voice,” she had said, in her pretty dictatorial way; and now this voice was winning her over to his side.
“It is not right; but what can I do? You say I can help you.”—And then she paused. “To-morrow morning I have to take some work to Rock Building. I shall not be long. But I could go on the beach for half an hour. Nan would spare me. I might hear your story then.”247
She spoke rapidly, and rather ungraciously, as though she were dispensing largess to a troublesome mendicant; but Mr. Dancy’s answer was humble in its intense gratitude.
“God bless you! I knew your kind heart was to be trusted There! I will not come any farther. Good-night; good-night, a thousand thanks!” And, before Phillis could reply, this strange being had left her side, and was laying the cashmere shawl in Jeffreys’s arms slowly and tenderly, as though it were a child.
Phillis was glad that Dulce opened the door to her that night, for she was afraid of Nan’s questioning glance. Nan was tired, and had retired early; and, as Dulce was sleepy too, Phillis was now left in peace. She passed the night restlessly, walking up at all sorts of untimely hours, her conscience pricking her into wakefulness. To her well-ordered nature there was something terrifying in the thought that she should be forced to take such a step.
“Oh, what would mother and Nan say?” was her one cry.
“I know I am dreadfully impulsive and imprudent, but Nan would think I am not to be trusted;” but she had passed her word, and nothing now would have induced her to swerve from it.
She ate her breakfast silently, and with a sense of oppression and guilt quite new to her. She grew inwardly hot whenever Nan looked at her, which she did continually and with the utmost affection. Before the meal was over, however, Miss Middleton and Mattie made their appearance, and in the slight bustle of entrance Phillis managed to effect her escape.
The hour that followed bore the unreality of a nightmare. Outwardly, Phillis was the grave, business-like dressmaker. The lady who had sent for her, and who was a stranger to Hadleigh, was much struck with her quiet self-possessed manners and lady-like demeanor.
“Her voice was quite refined,” she said afterwards to her daughter. “And she had such a nice face and beautiful figure. I am sure she is a reduced gentlewoman, for her accent was perfect. I am quite obliged to Miss Milner for recommending us such a person, for she evidently understands her business. One thing I noticed, Ada,—the way in which she quietly laid down the parcel, and said it should be fetched presently. Any ordinary dressmaker in a small town like this would have carried it home herself.”
Poor Phillis! she had laid down the parcel and drawn on her well-fitting gloves with a curious sinking at her heart: from the window of the house in Rock Building she could distinctly see Mr. Dancy walking up and down the narrow plat of grass before the houses, behind the tamarisk hedge, his foreign-looking cloak and slouch hat making him conspicuous.
“There is that queer-looking man again, mamma,” exclaimed one of the young ladies, who was seated in the window. “I248am sure he is some distinguished foreigner, he has such an air with him.”
Phillis listened to no more, but hurried down the stairs and then prepared to cross the green with some degree of trepidation. She was half afraid that Mr. Dancy would join her at once, in the full view of curious eyes; but he knew better. He sauntered on slowly until she had reached the Parade and was going towards a part of the beach where there was only a knot of children wading knee-deep in the water, sailing a toy-boat. She stood and watched them dreamily, until the voice she expected sounded in her ear:
“True as steel! Ah, I was never deceived in a face yet. Where shall we sit, Miss Challoner? Yes, this is a quiet corner, and the children will not disturb us. Look at that urchin, with his bare brown legs and curly head: is he not a study? Ah, if he had lived—my––” And then he sighed, and threw himself on the beach.
“Well,” observed Phillis, interrogatively. She was inclined to be short with him this morning. She had kept her word, and put herself into this annoying position; but there must be no hesitation, no beating about the bush, no loss of precious time. The story she had now to hear must be told, and with out delay.
Mr. Dancy raised his eyes as he heard the tone, and then he took off his spectacles as though he felt them an incumbrance. Phillis had a very good view of a pair of handsome eyes, with a lurking gleam of humor in them, which speedily died away into sadness.
“You are in a hurry; but I was thinking how I could best begin without startling you. But I may as well get it out without any prelude. Miss Challoner, to Mrs. Williams I am only Mr. Dancy; but my real name is Herbert Dancy Cheyne.”