The Project Gutenberg EBook of Not Like Other Girls, by Rosa N. Carey This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Not Like Other Girls Author: Rosa N. Carey Release Date: March 31, 2009 [EBook #28463] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS *** Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Not Like Other Girls BY ROSA N. CAREY AUTHOR OF “Aunt Diana,” “Averil,” “Lover or Friend,” “Merle’s Crusade,” “Esther,” “Mary St. John,” “Queenie’s Whim,” “We Wifie,” Etc., Etc. CHICAGO M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 407-429 Dearborn Street CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Five-o’clock Tea. 7 II. Dick objects to the Mountains. 14 III. Mr. Mayne makes Himself Disagreeable. 22 IV. Dick’s Fête. 28 V. “I am Quite Sure of Him.” 35 VI. Mr. Trinder’s Visit. 41 VII. Phillis’s Catechism. 48 VIII. “We should have to carry Parcels.” 55 IX. A Long Day. 62 X. The Friary. 68 XI. “Tell us all about it, Nan.” 77 XII. “Laddie” puts in an Appearance. 85 XIII. “I must have Grace.” 91 XIV. “You can dare to tell me These Things.” 99 XV. A Van in the Braidwood Road. 108 XVI. A Visit to the White House. 118 XVII. “A Friend in Need.” 124 XVIII. Dorothy brings in the Best China. 132 XIX. Archie is in a Bad Humor. 139 XX. “You are Romantic.” 147 XXI. Breaking the Peace. 154 XXII. “Trimmings, not Squails.” 162 XXIII. “Bravo, Atalanta!” 167 XXIV. Mothers are Mothers. 174 XXV. Mattie’s New Dress. 181 XXVI. “Oh, You are Proud!” 189 XXVII. A Dark Hour. 196 XXVIII. The Mysterious Stranger. 202 XXIX. Mrs. Williams’s Lodger. 210 XXX. “Now we understand Each Other.” 219 XXXI. Dick thinks of the City. 226 XXXII. “Dick is to be our Real Brother.” 232 XXXIII. “This is Life and Death to Me.” 240 XXXIV. Miss Mewlstone has an Interruption. 248 XXXV. “Barby, don’t You recollect Me?” 255 XXXVI. Motes in the Sunshine. 262 XXXVII. “A Man has a Right to His Own Thoughts.” 268 XXXVIII. About Nothing Particular. 277 XXXIX. “How do you do, Aunt Catherine?” 283 XL. Alcides. 292 XLI. Sir Harry Bides his Time. 299 XLII. “Come, now, I call that Hard.” 307 XLIII. “I will write no such Letter.” 315 XLIV. Mr. Mayne orders a Basin of Gruel. 321 XLV. An Uninvited Guest. 328 XLVI. A New Invasion of the Goths. 336 XLVII. “It was so Good of You to ask me Here.” 343 XLVIII. Mrs. Sparsit’s Poodle. 349 XLIX. Mattie in a New Character. 356 L. Phillis’s Favorite Month. 362 NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS CHAPTER I. FIVE-O’CLOCK TEA. Five-o’clock tea was a great institution in Oldfield. It was a form of refreshment to which the female inhabitants of that delightful place were strongly addicted. In vain did Dr. Weatherby, the great authority in all that concerned the health of the neighborhood, lift up his voice against the mild feminine dram-drinking of these modern days, denouncing it in no measured terms: the ladies of Oldfield listened incredulously, and, softly quoting Cowper’s lines as to the “cup that cheers and not inebriates,” still presided over their dainty little tea-tables, and vied with one another in the beauty of their china and the flavor of their highly-scented Pekoe. In spite of Dr. Weatherby’s sneers and innuendoes, a great deal of valuable time was spent in lingering in one or another of the pleasant drawing-rooms of the place. As the magic hour approached, people dropped in casually. The elder ladies sipped their tea and gossiped softly; the younger ones, if it were summer-time, strolled out through the open windows into the garden. Most of the houses had tennis-grounds, and it was quite an understood thing that a game should be played before they separated. With some few exceptions, the inhabitants of Oldfield were wealthy people. Handsome houses standing in their own grounds were dotted here and there among the lanes and country roads. Some of the big houses belonged to very big people indeed; but these were aristocrats who only lived in their country houses a few months in the year, and whose presence added more to the dignity than to the hilarity of the neighborhood. With these exceptions, the Oldfield people were highly gregarious and hospitable; in spite of a few peculiarities, they had their good points; a great deal of gossip prevailed, but it was in the main harmless and good-natured. There was a wonderful simplicity of dress, too, which in these days might be termed a cardinal virtue. The girls wore their fresh cambrics and plain straw hats: no one seemed to think it necessary to put on smart clothing when they wished to visit their friends. People said this Arcadian simplicity was just as studied: nevertheless, it showed perfection of taste and a just appreciation of things. The house that was considered the most attractive in Oldfield, and where, on summer afternoons, the sound of youthful voices and laughter were the loudest, was Glen Cottage, a small white house adjoining the long village street, belonging to a certain Mrs. Challoner, who lived here with her three daughters. This may be accounted strange in the first instance, since the Challoners were people of the most limited income,—an income so small that nothing but the most modest of entertainments could be furnished to their friends; very different from their neighbors at Longmead, the large white house adjoining, where sumptuous dinners and regular evening parties were given in the dark days when pleasures were few and tennis impossible. People said it was very good-natured of the Maynes; but then when there is an only child in the case, an honest, pleasure-loving, gay young fellow, on whom his parents dote, what is it they will not do to please their own flesh and blood? and, as young Richard Mayne—or Dick, as he was always called—loved all such festive gatherings, Mrs. Mayne loved them too; and her husband tried to persuade himself that his tastes lay in the same direction, only reserving certain groans for private use, that Dick could not be happy without a houseful of young people. But no such entertainments were possible at Glen Cottage: nevertheless, the youth of the neighborhood flocked eagerly into the pleasant drawing-room where Mrs. Challoner sat tranquilly summer and winter to welcome her friends, or betook themselves through the open French windows into the old-fashioned garden, in which mother and daughters took such pride. On hot afternoons the tea-table was spread under an acacia-tree, low wicker-chairs were brought out, and rugs spread on the lawn, and Nan and her sisters dispensed strawberries and cream, with the delicious home-made bread and butter; while Mrs. Challoner sat among a few chosen spirits knitting and talking in her pleasant low-toned voice, quite content that the burden of responsibility should rest upon her daughters. Mrs. Challoner always smiled when people told her that she ought to be proud of her girls. No daughters were ever so much to their mother as hers; she simply lived in and for them; she saw with their eyes, thought with their thoughts, —was hardly herself at all, but Nan and Phillis and Dulce, each by turns. Long ago they had grown up to her growth. Mrs. Challoner’s nature was hardly a self-sufficing one. During her husband’s lifetime she had been braced by his influence and cheered by his example, and had sought to guide her children according to his directions; in a word, his manly strength had so supported her that no one, not even her shrewd young daughters, guessed at the interior weakness. When her stay was removed, Mrs. Challoner ceased to guide, and came down to her children’s level. She was more like their sister than their mother, people said; and yet no mother was more cherished than she. Her very weakness made her sacred in her daughters’ eyes; her widowhood, and a certain failure of health, made her the subject of their choicest care. It could not be said that there was much amiss, but years ago a doctor whom Mrs. Challoner had consulted had 8 9 looked grave, and mentioned the name of a disease of which certain symptoms reminded him. There was no ground for present apprehension; the whole thing was very shadowy and unsubstantial,—a mere hint,—a question of care; nevertheless the word had been said, and the mischief done. From that time Mrs. Challoner was wont to speak gloomily of her health, as of one doomed. She was by nature languid and lymphatic, but now her languor increased; always averse to effort, she now left all action to her daughters. It was they who decided and regulated the affairs of their modest household, and rarely were such wise young rulers to be found in girls of their age. Mrs. Challoner merely acquiesced, for in Glen Cottage there was seldom a dissentient voice, unless it were that of Dorothy, who had been Dulce’s nurse, and took upon herself the airs of an old servant who could not be replaced. They were all pretty girls, the three Misses Challoner, but Nan was par excellence the prettiest. No one could deny that fact who saw them together. Her features were more regular than her sisters’, and her color more transparent. She was tall too, and her figure had a certain willowy grace that was most uncommon; but what attracted people most was a frankness and unconsciousness of manner that was perfectly charming. Phillis, the second sister, was not absolutely pretty, perhaps, but she was nice-looking, and there was something in her expression that made people say she was clever; she could talk on occasions with a fluency that was quite surprising, and that would cast Nan into the shade. “If I were only as clever as Phillis!” Nan would sigh. Then there was Dulce, who was only just eighteen, and whom her sisters treated as the family pet; who was light and small and nimble in her movements, and looked even younger than she really was. Nobody ever noticed if Dulce were pretty; and one questioned if her features were regular or not, or cared to do such a thing. Only when she smiled, the prettiest dimple came into her cheek, and her eyes had a fearless child-like look in them; for the rest, she was just Dulce. The good-looking daughters of a good-looking mother, as somebody called them; and there was no denying Mrs. Challoner was still wonderfully well preserved, and, in spite of her languor and invalid airs, a very pretty woman. Five-o’clock tea had long been over at the cottage this afternoon, and a somewhat lengthy game of tennis had followed; after which the visitors had dispersed as usual, and the girls had come in to prepare for the half-past seven- o’clock dinner; for Glen Cottage followed the fashion of its richer neighbors, and set out its frugal meal with a proper accompaniment of flower-vases and evening toilet. The three sisters came up the lawn together, but Nan carried her racquet a little languidly; she looked a trifle grave. Mrs. Challoner laid down her knitting and looked at them, and then she regarded her watch plaintively. “Is it late, mother?” asked Nan, who never missed any of her mother’s movements. “Ten minutes past seven! No wonder the afternoon seemed long.” “No one found it long but Nan,” observed Dulce, with an arch glance at her sister at which Nan slightly colored, but took no further notice. “By the bye,” she continued, as though struck by a sudden recollection, “what can have become of Dick this afternoon? he so seldom fails us without telling us beforehand.” “That will soon be explained,” observed Phillis, oracularly, as the gate-bell sounded, and was immediately followed by sharp footsteps on the gravel and the unceremonious entrance of a young man through the open window. “Better late than never,” exclaimed two of the girls. Nan said, “Why, what has made you play truant, Dick?” in a slightly injured voice. But Mrs. Challoner merely smiled at him, and said nothing; young men were her natural enemies, and she knew it. She was civil to them and endured their company, and that was all. Dick Mayne was not a formidable-looking individual; he was a strong, thick-set young fellow, with broad shoulders, not much above middle height, and decidedly plain, except in his mother’s eyes; and she thought even Dick’s sandy hair beautiful. But in spite of his plainness he was a pleasant, well-bred young fellow, with a fund of good humor and drollery, and a pair of honest eyes that people learned to trust. Every one liked him, and no one ever said a word in his dispraise; and for the rest, he could tyrannize as royally as any other young man who is his family’s sole blessing. “It was all my ill luck,” grumbled Dick. “Trevanion of Exeter came over to our place, and of course the mater pressed him to stay for luncheon, and then nothing would do but a long walk over Hillberry Downs.” “Why did you not bring him here?” interrupted Dulce, with a pout. “You tiresome Dick, when you must know what a godsend a strange young man is in these wilds!” “My dear!” reproved her mother. “Oh, but it is true, mamma,” persisted the outspoken Dulce. “Think how pleased Carrie and Sophy Paine would have been at the sight of a fresh face! it was horrid of you, sir!” “I wanted him to come,” returned the young man, in a deprecating voice. “I told him how awfully jolly it always is here, and that he would be sure to meet a lot of nice people, but there was no persuading him: he wanted a walk and a talk about our fellows. That is the worst of Trevanion, he always will have his own way.” “Never mind,” returned Nan, pleasantly; she seemed to have recovered her sprightliness all at once. “It is very good of you to come so often; and we had Mr. Parker and his cousin to look after the Paines.” 10 11 “Oh, yes! we did very well,” observed Phillis, tranquilly. “Mother, now Dick has come so late, he had better stay.” “If I only may do so?” returned Dick; but his inquiry was directed to Nan. “Oh, yes, you may stay,” she remarked, carelessly, as she moved away; but there was a little pleased smile on her face that he failed to see. She nodded pleasantly to him as he darted forward to open the door. It was Nan who always dispensed the hospitalities of the house, whose decision was unalterable. Dick had learned what it was to be sent about his business; only once had he dared to remain without her sovereign permission, and on that occasion he had been treated by her with such dignified politeness that he would rather have been sent to Coventry. This evening the fates were propitious, and Dick understood that the sceptre of favor was to be extended to him. When the girls had flitted into the little dusky hall he closed the door, and sat down happily bedside Mrs. Challoner, to whom he descanted eloquently of the beauties of Hilberry and the virtues of Ned Trevanion. Mrs. Challoner listened placidly as the knitting-needles flashed between her long white fingers. She was very fond of Dick, after her temperate fashion; she had known him from a child, and had seen him grow up among them until he had become like a son of the house. Dick, who had no brothers and sisters of his own, and whose parents had not married until they were long past youth, had adopted brotherly airs with the Challoner girls; they called each other by their Christian names, and he reposed in them the confidences that young men are wont to give to their belongings. With Nan this easy familiarity had of late merged into something different: a reserve, a timidity, a subtile suspicion of change had crept into their intimacy. Nan felt that Dick’s manner had altered, but somehow she liked it better: his was always a sweet bountiful nature, but now it seemed to have deepened into greater manliness. Dick was growing older; Oxford training was polishing him. After each one of his brief absences Nan saw a greater change, a more marked deference, and secretly hoped that no one else noticed it. When the young undergraduate wrote dutiful letters home the longest messages were always for Nan; when he carried little offerings of flowers to his young neighbors, Nan’s bouquet was always the choicest; he distinguished her, too, on all occasions by those small nameless attentions which never fail to please. Nan kept her own counsel, and never spoke of these things. She said openly that Dick was very nice and very much improved, and that they always missed him sadly during the Oxford terms; but she never breathed a syllable that might make people suspect that this very ordinary young man with the sandy hair was more to her than other young men. Nevertheless Phillis and Dulce knew that such was the case, and Mrs. Challoner understood that the most dangerous enemy to her peace was this lively-spoken Dick. Dick was very amusing, for he was an eloquent young fellow: nevertheless Mrs. Challoner sighed more than once, and her attention visibly wandered; seeing which, Dick good-humoredly left off talking, and began inspecting the different articles in Nan’s work-basket. “I am afraid I have given your mother a headache,” he said when they were sitting round the circular table in the low, oddly-shaped dining-room. There was a corner cut off, and the windows were in unexpected places, which made it unlike other rooms; but Dick loved it better than the great dining-room at Longmead; and somehow it never had looked cosier to him than it did this evening. It was somewhat dark, owing to the shade of the veranda: so the lamp was lighted, and the pleasant scent of roses and lilies came through the open windows. A belated wasp hovered round the specimen glasses that Nan had filled; Dick tried to make havoc of the enemy with his table-napkin. The girls’ white dresses suited their fresh young faces. Nan had fastened a crimson rose in her gown; Phillis and Dulce had knots of blue ribbon. “Trevanion does not know what he lost by his obstinacy,” thought Dick, as he glanced round the table. “What were you and the mother discussing?” asked Dulce, curiously. “Dick was telling me about his friend. He seemed a very superior young man,” returned Mrs. Challoner. “I suppose you have asked him for your party next week?” Dick turned very red at this question. “Mater asked him, you may trust her for that. If it were not for father, I think she would turn the whole house out of the windows: every day some one fresh is invited.” “How delightful! and all in your honor,” exclaimed Dulce, mischievously. “That spoils the whole thing,” grumbled the heir of the Maynes: “it is a perfect shame that a fellow cannot come of age quietly, without his people making this fuss. I begin to think I was a fool for my pains to refuse the ball.” “Yes, indeed; just because you were afraid of the supper speeches,” laughed Dulce, “when we all wanted it so.” “New mind,” returned Dick, sturdily; “the mater shall give us one in the winter, and we will have Godfrey’s band, and I will get all our fellows to come.” “That will be delightful,” observed Nan, and her eyes sparkled,—already she saw herself led out for the first dance by the son of the house,—but Dulce interrupted her: “But all the same I wish Dick had not been so stupid about it. No one knows what may happen before the winter. I hate put-off things.” “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,—eh, Miss Dulce?” “Yes, indeed; that proverb is truer than people think,” she replied, with a wise nod of her head. “Don’t you remember, Nan, when the Parkers’ dance was put off, and then old Mr. Parker died; and nearly the same thing happened with 12 13 the Normatons, only it was an uncle in that case.” “Moral: never put off a dance, in case somebody dies.” “Oh, hush, please!” groaned Nan, in a shocked voice; “I don’t like to hear you talk about such dreadful things. After all, it is such delicious weather that I am not sure a garden-party will not be more enjoyable; and you know, Dulce, that we are to dance on the lawn if we like.” “And supposing it should rain,” put in that extremely troublesome young person, at which suggestion Dick looked very gloomy. “In that case I think we must persuade Mrs. Mayne to clear a room for us,” returned Nan, cheerfully. “If your mother consults me,” she continued, addressing Dick, who visibly brightened at this, “I shall recommend her to empty the front drawing-room as much as possible. There is the grand piano, or the band might come in-doors; there will be plenty of room for the young people, and the non-dancers can be drafted off into the inner drawing-room and conservatory.” “What a head you have!” exclaimed Dick, admiringly; and Phillis, who had not joined in the argument, was pleased to observe that she was quite of Nan’s opinion: dancing was imperative, and if the lawns were wet they must manage in- doors somehow. “It would never do for people to be bored and listless,” finished the young lady, sententiously, and such was Phillis’s cleverness that it was understood at once that the oracle had spoken; but then it was never known for Nan and Phillis to differ. Things being thus amicably arranged, the rest of the conversation flowed evenly on every other point, such as the arrangements of the tennis-matches in the large meadow, and the exact position of the marquees; but just as they were leaving the table Dick said another word to Nan in a somewhat low voice: “It is all very well, but this sort of thing does make a fellow feel such a conceited fool.” “If I were you I would not think about it at all,” she returned, in her sensible way. “The neighborhood will expect something of the kind, and we owe a little to other people; then it pleases your mother to make a fuss, as you call it, and it would be too ungrateful to disappoint her.” “Well, perhaps you are right,” he returned, in a slightly mollified tone, for he was a modest young fellow, and the whole business had occasioned him some soreness of spirit. “Take it all in all, one has an awful lot to go through in life: there are the measles, you know, and whooping cough, and the dentist, and one’s examination, and no end of unpleasant things; but to be made by one’s own mother to feel like an idiot for a whole afternoon! Never mind; it can be got through somehow,” finished the young philosopher, with a sigh that sent Nan into a fit of laughter. CHAPTER II. DICK OBJECTS TO THE MOUNTAINS. “Shall we have our usual stroll?” asked Phillis, as Nan and Dick joined her at the window. This was one of the customs at Glen Cottage. When any such fitting escort offered itself, the three girls would put on their hats, and, regardless of the evening dews and their crisp white dresses, would saunter, under Dick’s guidance through the quiet village, or down and up the country roads “just for a breath of air,” as they would say. It is only fair to Mrs. Challoner’s views of propriety to say that she would have trusted her three pretty daughters to no other young man but Dick; and of late certain prudential doubts had crossed her mind. It was all very well for Phillis to say Dick was Dick, and there was an end of it. After all, he belonged to the phalanx of her enemies, those shadowy invaders of her hearth that threatened her maternal peace. Dick was not a boy any longer; he had outgrown his hobbledehoy ways; the slight sandy moustache that he so proudly caressed was not a greater proof of his manhood than the undefinable change that had passed over his manners. Mrs. Challoner began to distrust these evening strolls, and to turn over in her own mind various wary pretexts for detaining Nan on the next occasion. “Just this once, perhaps, it does not matter,” she murmured to herself, as she composed herself to her usual nap. “We shall not be long, little mother; so you must not be dull,” Dulce had said, kissing her lightly over her eyes. This was just one of the pleasant fictions at the cottage,—one of those graceful little deceptions that are so harmless in families. Dulce knew of those placid after-dinner naps. She knew her mother’s eyes would only unclose when Dorothy brought in the tea-tray; but she was also conscious that nothing would displease her mother more than to notice this habit. When they lingered in-doors, and talked in whispers so as not to disturb her, Mrs. Challoner had an extraordinary 14 15 facility for striking into the conversation in a way that was somewhat confusing. “I don’t agree with you at all,” she would say, in a drowsy voice. “Is it not time for Dorothy to bring in the tea? I wish you would all talk louder. I must be getting a little deaf, I think, for I don’t hear half you say.” “Oh, it was only nonsense talk, mammie,” Dulce would answer; and the sisterly chit-chat would recommence, and her mother’s head nid-nodded on the cushions until the next interruption. “We shall not have many more of these strolls,” observed Dick, regretfully, as they all walked together through the village, and then branched off into a long country road, where the air blew freshly in their faces and low mists hung over the meadow land. Though it was not quite dark, there was a tiny moon, and the glimmer of a star or two; and there was a pleasant fragrance as of new-mown grass. They were all walking abreast, and keeping step, and Dick was in the middle, with Nan beside him. Dulce was hanging on to her arm, and every now and then breaking into little snatches of song. “How I envy you!” exclaimed Phillis. “Think of spending three whole months in Switzerland. Oh, you lucky Dick!” For the Maynes had decided to pass the long vacation in the Engadine. Some hints had been dropped that Nan should accompany them, but Mrs. Challoner had regarded the invitation with some disfavor, and Mrs. Mayne had not pressed the point. If only Nan had known! but her mother had in this matter kept her own counsel. “I don’t know about that,” dissented Dick; he was rather given to argue from the mere pleasure of opposition. “Mountains and glaciers are all very well in their way; but I think, on the whole, I would as soon be here. You see, I am so accustomed to mix with a lot of fellows, that I am afraid of finding the pater’s sole company rather slow.” “For shame!” remarked his usual monitress. But she spoke gently: in her heart she knew why Dick failed to find the mountains alluring. “Why could not one of you girls join us?” he continued, wrathfully. The rogue had fairly bullied the unwilling Mrs. Mayne into giving that invitation. “Do ask her, mother; she will be such a nice companion for you when the pater and I are doing our climbing; do, there’s a dear good soul!” he had coaxed. And the dear good soul, who was secretly jealous of Nan, and loved her about as much as mothers usually love an only son’s choice, had bewailed her hard fate in secret; and had then stepped over to the cottage with a bland and cheerful exterior, which grew more cheerful as Mrs. Challoner’s reluctance made itself felt. “It is not wise; it will throw them so much together,” Nan’s mother had said. “If it were only Phillis or Dulce; but you must have noticed––” “Oh, yes, I have noticed!” returned Mrs. Mayne, hastily. She was a stout, comely-looking woman, but beside Mrs. Challoner she looked like a housekeeper dressed in her mistress’s smart clothes. Mrs. Mayne’s dresses never seemed to belong to her; it could not be said that they fitted her ill, but there was a want of adaptability,—a lack of taste that failed to accord with her florid style of beauty. She had been a handsome woman when Richard Mayne married her, but a certain deepening of tints and broadening of contour had not improved the mistress of Longmead. Her husband was a decided contrast: he was a small, wiry man, with sharp features that expressed a great deal of shrewdness. Dick had got his sandy hair; but Richard Mayne the elder had not his son’s honest, kindly eyes. Mr. Mayne’s were small and twinkling; he had a way of looking at people between his half-closed lids, in a manner half sharp and half jocular. He was not vulgar, far from it; but he had a homely air about him that spoke of the self-made man. He was rather fond of telling people that his father had been in trade in a small way and that he himself had been the sole architect of his fortune. “Look at Dick,” he would say; “he would never have a penny, that fellow, unless I made it for him: he has come into the world to find his bread ready buttered. I had to be content with a crust as I could earn it. The lad’s a cut above us both, though he has the good taste to try and hide it.” This sagacious speech was very true. Dick would never have succeeded as a business man; he was too full of crotchets and speculations to be content to run in narrow grooves. The notion of money-making was abhorrent to him; the idea of a city life, with its hard rubs and drudgery, was utterly distasteful to him. “One would have to mix with such a lot of cads,” he would say. “English, pure and undefiled, is not always spoken. If I must work, I would rather have a turn at law or divinity; the three old women with the eye between them knows which.” It could not be denied that Dick winced a little at his father’s homely speeches; but in his heart he was both proud and fond of him, and was given to assert to a few of his closest friends “that, take it all in all, and looking at other fellows’ fathers, he was a rattling good sort, and no mistake.” When Mrs. Challoner had entered her little protest against her daughter’s acceptance of the invitation, Mrs. Mayne had risen and kissed her with some effusion as she took her leave. “It is so nice of you to say this to me; of course I should have been pleased, delighted to have had Nan with us” (oh, Mrs. Mayne, fie for shame! when you want your boy to yourself), “but all the same I think you are so wise.” “Poor child! I am afraid I am refusing her a great treat,” returned Mrs. Challoner, in a tone of regret. It was the first time since her husband’s death that she had ever decided anything without reference to her daughters; but for once her 16 17 maternal fears were up in arms, and drove her to sudden resolution. “Yes, but, as you observed, it would throw them so entirely together; and Dick is so young. Richard was only saying the other night that he hoped the boy would not fancy himself in love for the next two years, as he did not approve of such early engagements.” “Neither do I,” returned Mrs. Challoner, quickly. “Nothing would annoy me more than for one of my daughters to entangle herself with so young a man. We know the world too well for that, Mrs. Mayne. Why, Dick may fall in and out of love half a dozen times before he really makes up his mind.” “Ah, that is what Richard says,” returned Dick’s mother, with a sigh; in her heart she was not quite of her husband’s opinion. She remembered how that long waiting wasted her own youth,—waiting for what? For comforts that she would gladly have done without,—for a well-furnished house, when she would have lived happily in the poorest lodging with the Richard Mayne who had won her heart,—for whom she would have toiled and slaved with the self- abnegating devotion of a loving woman; only he feared to have it so. “‘When poverty enters the door, love flies out of the window:’ we had better make up our minds to wait, Bessie. I can better work in single than double harness just now.” That was what he said to her, and Bessie waited,—not till she grew thin, but stout, and the spirit of her youth was gone; and it was a sober, middle-aged woman who took possession of the long-expected home. Mrs. Mayne loved her husband, but during that tedious engagement her ardor had a little cooled, and it may be doubted whether the younger Richard was not dearer to her than his father; which was ungrateful, to say the least of it, as Mr. Mayne doted on his comely wife, and thought Bessie as handsome now as in the days when she came out smiling to welcome him, a slim young creature with youthful roses in her cheeks. From this brief conversation it may be seen that none of the elders quite approved of this budding affection. Mrs. Challoner, who belonged to a good old family, found it hard to forgive the Maynes’ lowliness of birth; and though she liked Dick, she thought Nan could do better for herself. Mr. Mayne pooh-poohed the whole thing so entirely that the women could only speak of it among themselves. “Dick is a clever fellow; he ought to marry money,” he would say. “I am not a millionaire, and a little more would be acceptable;” and though he was always kind to Nan and her sisters, he was forever dealing sly hits at her. “Phillis has the brains of the family,” he would say: “that is the girl for my money. I call her a vast deal better looking than Nan, though people make such a fuss about the other one;” a speech he was never tired of repeating in his son’s presence, and at which Dick snapped his fingers metaphorically and said nothing. When Dick wished that one of them were going to Switzerland, Nan sighed furtively. Dick was going away for three months, for the remainder of the long vacation. After next week they would not see him until Christmas,—nearly six months. A sense of dreariness, as new as it was strange, swept momentarily over Nan as she pondered this. The summer months would be grievously clouded. Dick had been the moving spirit of all the fun; the tennis-parties, the pleasant dawdling afternoons, would lose their zest when he was away. She remembered how persistently he had haunted their footsteps. When they paid visits to the Manor House, or Gardenhurst, or Fitzroy Lodge, Dick was sure to put in an appearance. People had nicknamed him the “Challoners’ Squire;” but now Nan must go squireless for the rest of the summer, unless she took compassion on Stanley Parker, or that dreadful chatterbox his cousin. The male population was somewhat sparse at Oldfield. There were a few Eton boys, and one or two in that delightful transition age when youth is most bashful and uninteresting,—a sort of unfledged manhood, when the smooth boyish cheek contradicts the deepened bass of the voice,—an age that has not ceased to blush, and which is full of aggravating idosyncrasies and unexpected angles. To be sure, Lord Fitzroy was a splendid specimen of a young guardsman, but he had lately taken to himself a wife; and Sir Alfred Mostyn, who was also somewhat attractive and a very pleasant fellow, and unattached at present, had a tiresome habit of rushing off to Norway, or St. Petersburg, or Niagara, or the Rocky Mountains, for what he termed sport, or a lark. “It seems we are very stupid this evening,” observed Phillis for Dick had waxed almost as silent as Nan. “I think the mother must nearly have finished her nap, so I propose we go back and have some tea;” and, as Nan languidly acquiesced they turned their faces towards the village again, Dulce still holding firmly to Nan’s arm. By and by Dick struck out in a fresh direction. “I say, don’t you wish we could have last week over again?” “Yes! oh, yes! was it not too delicious?” from the three girls; and Nan added, “I never enjoyed anything so much in my life,” in a tone so fervent that Dick was delighted. “What a brick your mother was, to be sure, to spare you all!” “Yes; and she was so dull, poor dear, all the time we were away. Dorothy gave us quite a pitiful account when we got home.” “It was a treat one ought to remember all one’s life,” observed Phillis, quite solemnly; and then ensued a most animated discussion. 18 19 The treat to which Phillis alluded had been simply perfect in the three girls’ eyes. Dick, who never forgot his friends, had so worked upon his mother that she had consented to chaperon the three sisters during Commemoration; and a consent being fairly coaxed out of Mrs. Challoner, the plan was put into execution. Dick, who was in the seventh heaven of delight, found roomy lodgings in the High Street, in which he installed his enraptured guests. The five days that followed were simply hours snatched out of fairyland to these four happy young creatures. No wonder envious looks were cast at Dick as he walked in Christ Church Meadows with Nan and Dulce, Phillis bringing up the rear somewhat soberly with Mrs. Mayne. “One pretty face would content most fellows,” his friends grumbled; “but when you come to three, and not his own sisters either, why, it isn’t fair on other folk.” And to Dick they said, “Come, it is no use being so awfully close. Of course we see what’s up: you are a lucky dog. Which is it, Mayne?—the pretty one with the pink and white complexion or the quiet one in gray, or the one with the mischievous eyes?” “Faix, they are all darlints and jewels, bless their purty faces!” drawled one young rogue, in his favorite brogue. “Here’s the top of the morning to ye, Mayne; and it is mavourneen with the brown eyes and the trick of the smile like the sunshine’s glint that has stolen poor Paddy’s heart.” “Oh, shut up, you fellows!” returned Dick, in a disgusted voice. “What is the good of your pretending to be Irish, Hamilton, when you are a canny Scotchman?” “Hoots, man, mind your clavers! You need not grizzle at a creature because he admires a wee gairl that is just beyond the lave,—a sonsie wee thing with a glint in her een like diamonds.” “Hamilton, will you leave off this foolery?” “Nae doubt, nae doubt; would his honor pe axing if he pe wrang in the head, puir thing? Never mind that, put pe giving me the skene-dhu, or I will fight with proud-swords like a gentleman for the bit lassie;” but here a wary movement on Dick’s part extinguished the torrent of Highland eloquence, and brought the canny Scotchman to the ground. Perfectly oblivious of all these compliments, the Challoners enjoyed themselves with the zest of healthy, happy English girls. They were simply indefatigable: poor Mrs. Mayne succumbed utterly before the fine days were over. They saw the procession of boats; they were at the flower-show at Worcester; Sunday afternoon found them in the Broad Walk; and the next night they were dancing at the University ball. They raved about the beauty of Magdalen cloisters; they looked down admiringly into the deer-park; Addison’s Walk became known to them, and the gardens of St. John’s. Phillis talked learnedly about Cardinal Wolsey as she stood in Christ Church hall: and in the theatre “the young ladies in pink” invoked the most continuous cheers. “Can they mean us?” whispered Dulce, rather alarmed, to their faithful escort Dick. “I don’t see any other pink dresses!” And Dick said, calmly,— “Well, I suppose so. Some of those fellows up there are such a trumpery lot.” So Dulce grew more reassured. But the greatest fun of all was the afternoon spent in Dick’s room, when all his special friends were bidden to five o’clock tea, over which Nan, in her white gown, presided so gracefully. What a dear, shabby old room it was, with old-fashioned window-seats, where one could look down into the quadrangle. Dick was an Oriel man, and thought his college superior even to Magdalen. It became almost too hot and crowded at last, so many were the invitations given; but then, as Dick said afterwards, “he was such a soft-hearted beggar that he could not refuse the fellows that pestered him for invitations.” Mrs. Mayne, looking very proud and happy, sat fanning herself in one of these windows. Phillis and Dulce were in the other attended by that rogue Hamilton and half a dozen more. Nan was the centre of another clique, who hemmed her and the tea-table in so closely that Dick had to wander disconsolately round the outskirts: there was no getting a look from Nan that afternoon. How hot it was! It was a grand coup when the door opened and the scout made his appearance carrying a tray of ices. “It is well to be Mayne!” half grumbled young Hamilton, as Dulce took one gratefully from his hand. “He is treating us like a prince, instead of the thin bread-and-butter entertainment he led us to expect. Put down that tea, Miss Challoner. I see iced claret-cup and strawberries in the corner. There is nothing like being an only child; doting parents are extremely useful articles. I am one of ten; would you believe it?” continued the garrulous youth. “When one has six brothers older than one’s self, I will leave you to imagine the consequences.” “How nice!” returned Dulce, innocently; “I have always so longed for a brother. If it had not been for Dick, we should have had no one to do things for us.” “Oh, indeed! Mayne is a sort of adopted brother!” observed her companion, looking at her rather sharply. 20 21 “We have always looked upon him as one. We do just as we like with him,—scold and tease him, and send him on our errands;” which intelligence fairly convinced the envious Hamilton that the youngest Miss Challoner was not his friend’s fancy. Dick always recalled that evening with a sense of pride. How well and gracefully Nan had fulfilled her duties! how pretty she had looked, in spite of her flushed cheeks! He had never seen a girl to compare with her,—not he! They were so full of these delightful reminiscences that they were at the cottage gate before they knew it; and then Dick astonished them by refusing to come in. He had quite forgotten, he said, but his mother had asked him to come home early, as she was not feeling just the thing. “Quite right; you must do as she wishes,” returned Nan, dismissing him far too readily, as he thought; but she said “Good-night!” with so kind a smile after that, that the foolish young fellow felt his pulses quicken. Dick lingered at the corner until the cottage door was closed, and then he raced down the Longmead shrubbery and set the house-bell pealing. “They are in the library, I suppose?” he asked of the butler who admitted him; and, on receiving an answer in the affirmative, he dashed unceremoniously into the room, while his mother held up her finger and smiled at the truant. “You naughty boy, to be so late; and now you have spoiled you father’s nap!” she said, pretending to scold him. “Tut! tut! what nonsense you talk sometimes!” said Mr. Mayne, rather crossly, as he stood on the hearth-rug rubbing his eyes. “I was not asleep, I will take my oath of that; only I wish Dick could sometimes enter a room without making people jump;” by which Dick knew that his father was in one of his contrary moods, when he could be very cross,— very cross indeed! CHAPTER III. MR. MAYNE MAKES HIMSELF DISAGREEABLE. The library at Longmead was a very pleasant room, and it was the custom of the family to retire thither on occasions when guests were not forthcoming, and Mr. Mayne could indulge in his favorite nap without fear of interruption. A certain simplicity, not to say homeliness, of manners prevailed in the house. It was understood among them that the dining-room was far too gorgeous for anything but occasions of ceremony. Mrs. Mayne, indeed, had had the good taste to cover the satin couches with pretty, fresh-looking cretonne, and had had arranged hanging cupboards of old china until it had been transformed into a charming apartment, notwithstanding which the library was declared to be the family-room, where the usual masculine assortment of litter could be regarded with indulgent eyes, and where papers and pamphlets lay in delightful confusion. Longmead was not a pretentious house—it was a moderate-sized residence, adapted to a gentleman of moderate means; but in summer no place could be more charming. The broad gravel walk before the house had a background of roses; hundreds of roses climbed up the railings or twined themselves about the steps: a tiny miniature lake, garnished with water-lilies, lay in the centre of the lawn; a group of old elm-trees was beside it; behind the house lay another lawn, and beyond were meadows where a few sheep were quietly grazing. Mr. Mayne, who found time hang a little heavily on his hands, prided himself a good deal on his poultry-yard and kitchen-garden. A great deal of his spare time was spent among his favorite Bantams and Dorkings, and in superintending his opinionated old gardener— on summer mornings he would be out among the dews in his old coat and planter’s hat, weeding among the gooseberry-bushes. “It is the early bird that finds the worm,” he would say, when Dick sauntered into the breakfast-room later on; for, in common with the youth of his generation, he had a wholesome horror of early rising, which he averred was one of the barbarous usages of the dark ages in which his elders had been bred. “I never took any interest in worms, sir,” returned Dick, helping himself to a tempting rasher that had just been brought in hot for the pampered youth. “By the bye, have you seen Darwin’s work on ‘The Formation of Vegetable Mould’? he declares that worms have played a more important part in the history of the world than most people would at first suppose: they were our earliest ploughmen.” “Oh, ah! indeed, very interesting!” observed his father, dryly; “but all the same, I beg to observe, no one succeeded in life who was not an early riser.” “A sweeping assertion, and one I might be tempted to argue, if it were not for taking up your valuable time,” retorted Dick, lazily, but with a twinkle in his eye. “I know my constitution better than to trust myself out before the world is properly aired and dried. I am thinking it is less a case of worms than of rheumatism some early birds will be catching;” to which Mr. Mayne merely returned an ungracious “Pshaw!” and marched off, leaving his son to enjoy his 22 23 breakfast in peace. When Dick entered the library on the evening in question, Mr. Mayne’s querulous observation as to the noisiness of his entrance convinced him at once that his father was in a very bad humor indeed, and that on this account it behooved him to be exceedingly cool. So he kissed his mother, who looked at him a little anxiously, and then sat down and turned out her work-basket, as he had done Nan’s two or three hours ago. “You are late after all, Dick,” she said, with a little reproach in her voice. It was hardly a safe observation, to judge by her husband’s cloudy countenance; but the poor thing sometimes felt her evenings a trifle dull when Dick was away. Mr. Mayne would take up his paper, but his eyes soon closed over it; that habit of seeking for the early worm rather disposed him to somnolent evenings, during which his wife knitted and felt herself nodding off out of sheer ennui and dulness. These were not the hours she had planned during those years of waiting; she had told herself that Richard would read to her or talk to her as she sat over her work, that they would have so much to say to each other; but now, as she regarded his sleeping countenance evening after evening, it may be doubted whether matrimony was quite what she expected, since its bliss was so temperate and so strongly infused with drowsiness. Dick looked up innocently. “Am I late, mother?” “Oh, of course not,” returned his father, with a sneer; “it is not quite time to ring for Nicholson to bring our candles. Bessie, I think I should like some hot water to-night; I feel a little chilly.” And Bessie rang the bell obediently, and without any surprise in her manner. Mr. Mayne often woke up chilly from his long nap. “Are you going to have a ‘drap of the cratur’?” asked his son, with alacrity. “Well, I don’t mind joining you, and that’s the truth, for we have been dawdling about, and I am a trifle chilly myself.” “You know I object to spirits for young men,” returned Mr. Mayne, severely: nevertheless he pushed the whiskey to Dick as soon as he had mixed his own glass, and his son followed his example. “I am quite of your opinion, father,” he observed, as he regarded the handsome cut-glass decanter somewhat critically; “but there are exceptions to every rule, and when one is chilly––” “I wish you would make an exception and stay away from the cottage sometimes,” returned Mr. Mayne, with ill- suppressed impatience. “It was all very well when you were all young things together, but it is high time matters should be different.” Dick executed a low whistle of surprise and dismay. He had no idea his father’s irritability had arisen from any definite cause. What a fool he had been to be so late! it might lead to some unpleasant discussion. Well, after all, if his father chose to be so disagreeable it was not his fault; and he was no longer a boy, to be chidden, or made to do this or that against his own will. Mr. Mayne was sufficiently shrewd to see that his son was somewhat taken aback by this sudden onslaught, and he was not slow to press his advantage. He had wanted to give Dick a bit of his mind for some time, and after all there is no time like the present. “Yes, it was all very well when you were a lot of children together,” he continued. “Of course, it is hard on you, Dick, having no brothers and sisters to keep you company; your mother and I were always sorry about that for your sake.” “Oh, don’t mention it,” interrupted Dick: “on the whole, I am best pleased as it is.” “But it would have been better for you,” returned his father, sharply: “we should not have had all this fooling and humbug if you had had sisters of your own.” “Fooling and humbug!” repeated Dick, hotly; “I confess, sir, I don’t quite understand to what you are referring.” He was growing very angry, but his mother flung herself between the combatants. “Don’t, my boy, don’t; you must not answer your father in that way. Richard, what makes you so hard on him to- night? It must be the gout, Dick: we had better send for Dr. Weatherby in the morning,” continued the anxious woman, with tears in her eyes, “for your dear father would never be so cross to you as this unless he were g...