Читать книгу Not Like Other Girls - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 12

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As Mr. Mayne’s wrath soon evaporated, and Dick was a sweet-tempered fellow and bore no malice, this slight altercation produced no lasting effect, except that Dick, for the next few days, hurried home to his dinner, talked a good deal about Switzerland, and never mentioned a Challoner in his father’s hearing.

“We must keep him in a good temper for the 25th,” he said to his mother, with a touch of the Mayne shrewdness.

That day was rapidly approaching, and all sorts of festive preparations were going on at Longmead. Dick himself gravely superintended the rolling of the tennis-ground in the large meadow, and daubed himself plentifully with lime in marking 29 out the courts, while Mr. Mayne stood with his hands in the pockets of his shooting-coat watching him. The two were a great deal together just then: Dick rather stuck to his father during one or two mornings; the wily young fellow knew that Nan was closeted with his mother, helping her with all sorts of feminine arrangements, and he was determined to keep them apart. Nan wondered a great deal why Dick did not come to interrupt or tease them as usual, and grew a little absent over Mrs. Mayne’s rambling explanations. When the gong sounded, no one asked her to stay to luncheon. Mrs. Mayne saw her put on her hat without uttering a single protest.

“It is so good of you to help me, dear,” she said, taking the girl into her embrace. “You are quite sure people won’t expect a sit-down supper?”

“Oh no; the buffet system is best,” returned Nan, decidedly. “Half the people will not stay, and you need not make a fuss about the rest. It is an afternoon party, you must remember that; only people who are very intimate will remain for the fun of the thing. Tell Nicholson to have plenty of ices going; people care most for that sort of refreshment.”

“Yes, dear; I will be sure to remember,” returned her friend, meekly.

She was very grateful to Nan for these hints, and was quite willing to follow her guidance in all such matters; but when Nan proposed once sending for Dick to ask his opinion on some knotty point that baffled their women’s wits, Mrs. Mayne demurred.

“It is a pity to disturb him; he is with his father; and we can settle these things by ourselves,” she replied, not venturing to mar the present tranquillity by sending such a message to Dick. Mr. Mayne would have accompanied his son, and the consultation would hardly have ended peaceably. “Men have their hobbies. We had better settle all this together, you and I,” she said hurriedly.

Nan merely nodded, and cut the Gordian knot through somewhat ruthlessly; but on that occasion she put on her hat before the gong sounded.

“You must be very busy, for one never has a glimpse of you in the morning,” she could not help saying to Dick, as he came in that afternoon to escort them to Fitzroy Lodge.

“Well, yes, I am tolerably busy,” he drawled. “I am never free to do things in the afternoons,”—a fact that Nan felt was unanswerable.

When Nan and her sisters woke on the morning of the memorable day, the bright sunshine of a cloudless June day set all their fears at rest. If the sun smiled on Dick’s fête, all would be well. If Nan’s devotions were longer than usual that morning, no one was the wiser; if she added a little clause, calling down a blessing on a certain head, no one would be the poorer for such pure prayers; indeed, it were well if many such were 30 uttered for the young men who go forth morning after morning into the temptations of life.

Such prayers might stretch like an invisible shield before the countless foes that environ such a one; fiery darts may be caught upon it; a deadly thrust may be turned away. What if the blessing would never reach the ear of the loved one, who goes out unconscious of sympathy? His guardian angel has heard it, and perchance it has reached the very gate of heaven.

Nan came down, smiling and radiant, to find Dick waiting for her in the veranda and chattering to Phillis and Dulce.

“Why, Dick!” she cried, blushing with surprise and pleasure, “to think of your being here on your birthday morning!”

“I only came to thank you and the girls for your lovely presents,” returned Dick, becoming rather incoherent and red at the sight of Nan’s blush. “It was so awfully good of you all, to work all those things for me;” for Nan had taken secret measurements in Dick’s room, and had embroidered a most exquisite mantelpiece valance, and Phillis and Dulce had worked the corners of a green cloth with wonderful daffodils and bulrushes to cover Dick’s shabby table: and Dick’s soul had been filled with ravishment at the sight of these gifts.

Nan would not let him go on, but all the same his happy face delighted her.

“No, don’t thank us, we liked doing it,” she returned, rather coolly. “You know we owed you something after all your splendid hospitality, and work is never any trouble to us.”

“But I never saw anything I liked better,” blurted out Dick. “All the fellows will be jealous of me. I am sure I don’t know what Hamilton will say. It was awfully good of you, Nan, and so it was of the others: and if I don’t make it up to you somehow, my name is not Dick:” and he smiled round at them as he spoke. “Fancy putting in all those stitches for me!” he thought to himself.

“We are so glad you are pleased,” returned Nan, with one of her sweet, straightforward looks; “that is what we wanted to give you—a little surprise on your birthday. Now you must tell us about your other presents.” And Dick, nothing loath, launched into eloquent descriptions of the silver-fitted dressing-case from his mother, and the gun and thorough-bred collie that had been his father’s gifts.

“He is such a fine fellow; I must show him to you this afternoon,” went on Dick, eagerly. “His name is Vigo, and he has such a superb head. Was it not good of the pater? he knew I had a fancy for a collie, and he has been in treaty for one ever so long. Is he not a dear old boy?” cried Dick, rapturously. But he did not tell his friends of the crisp bundle of bank-notes with which Mr. Mayne had enriched his son; only as Dick fingered them lovingly, he wondered what pretty foreign thing he could buy for Nan, and whether her mother would allow her to accept it. 31

After this Nan dismissed him somewhat peremptorily; he must go back to his breakfast, and allow them to do the same.

“Mind you come early,” were Dick’s last words as he waved his straw hat to them. How often the memory of that morning recurred to him as he stood solitarily and thoughtful, contemplating some grand sketch of Alpine scenery!

The snow peaks and blue glaciers melted away before his eyes; in their place rose unbidden a picture framed in green trellis-work, over which roses were climbing.

Fresh girlish faces smiled back at him; the brightest and kindest of glances met his. “Good-bye, Dick; a thousand good wishes from us all.” A slim white hand had gathered a rose-bud for him; how proudly he had worn it all that day! Stop, he had it still; it lay all crushed and withered in his pocket-book. He had written the date under it; one day he meant to show it to her. Oh, foolish days of youth, so prodigal of minor memories and small deeds of gifts, when a withered flower can hold the rarest scent, and in a crumpled roseleaf there is a whole volume of ecstatic meaning! Oh, golden days of youth, never to be surpassed!

Never in the memory of Oldfield had there been a more delicious day.

The sky was cloudless; long purple shadows lay under the elm-trees; a concert of bird-music sounded from the shrubberies: in the green meadows flags were waving, tent-draperies fluttering; the house-doors stood open, showing a flower-decked hall and vista of cool shadowy rooms.

Dick, looking bright and trim, wandering restlessly over the place, and Mr. Mayne fidgeted after him; while Mrs. Mayne sat fanning herself under the elm-trees and hoping the band would not be late.

No there it was turning in now at the stable-entrance, and playing “The girl I left behind me;” and there at the same moment was Nan coming up the lawn in her white gown, closely followed by her mother and sisters.

“Are we the first?” she asked, as Dick darted across the grass to meet her. “That is nice; we shall see all the people arrive. How inspiriting that music is, and how beautiful everything looks!”

“It is awfully jolly of you to be the first,” whispered Dick; “and how nice you look, Nan! You always do, you know, but to-day you are first-rate. Is this a new gown?” casting an approving look over Nan’s costume, which was certainly very fresh and pretty.

“Oh, yes; we have all new dresses in your honor, and we made them ourselves,” returned Nan, carelessly. “Mother has got her old silk, but for her it does not so much matter; at least that is what she says.”

“And she is quite right. She is always real splendid, as the Yankees say, whatever she wears,” returned Dick, wishing 32 secretly that his mother in her new satin dress looked half so well as Mrs. Challoner in her old one. But it was no use. Mrs. Mayne never set off her handsome dresses; with her flushed, good-natured face and homely ways, she showed to marked disadvantage beside Mrs. Challoner’s faded beauty. Mrs. Challoner’s gown might be antique, but nothing could surpass the quiet grace of her carriage, or the low pleasant modulations of her voice. Her figure was almost as slim as her daughters’, and she could easily have passed for their elder sister.

Lady Fitzroy, who was a Burgoyne by birth—and every one knows that for haughtiness and a certain exclusive intoleration none could match the Burgoynes—always distinguished Mrs. Challoner by the marked attention she paid her.

“A very lady-like woman, Percival. Certainly the most lady-like person in the neighborhood,” she would say to her husband, who was not quite so exclusive, and always made himself pleasant to his neighbors; and she would ask very graciously after her brother-in-law, Sir Francis Challoner. “He is still in India, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes; he is still in India,” Mrs. Challoner would reply, rather curtly. She had not the faintest interest in her husband’s brother, whom she had never seen more than twice in her life, and who was understood to be small credit to his family. The aforesaid Sir Francis Challoner had been the poorest of English baronets. His property had dwindled down until it consisted simply of a half ruined residence in the north of England.

In his young days Sir Francis had been a prodigal, and, like the prodigal in the parable, he had betaken himself into far countries, not to waste his substance, for he had none, but if possible to glean some of the Eastern riches.

Whether he had been successful or not Mrs. Challoner hardly knew. That he had married and settled in Calcutta—that he had a son named Harry, who had once written to her in round hand and subscribed himself as her affectionate nephew, Henry Ford Challoner—this she knew; but what manner of person Lady Challoner might be, or what sort of home her brother-in-law had made for himself, those points were enveloped in mystery.

“I suppose she is so civil to me because of your uncle Francis,” she used to say to her girls, which was attributing to Lady Fitzroy a degree of snobbishness that was quite undeserved. Lady Fitzroy really liked Mrs. Challoner and found intercourse with her very pleasant and refreshing. When one is perfectly well-bred, there is a subtile charm in harmony of voice and manner. Mrs. Challoner might have dressed in rags if she liked, and the young countess would still have aired her choicest smiles for her.

It was lucky Nan had those few words from Dick, for they fell apart after this, and were separated the greater portion of the afternoon. 33

Carriages began to drive in at the gates; groups of well-dressed people thronged the lawn, and were drafted off to the field where the band was playing.

Nan and her sisters had their work cut out for them; they knew everybody and they were free of the house. It was they who helped Dick arrange the tennis-matches, who pointed out to the young men of the party which was the tea-tent, and where the ices and claret-cup were to be found. They marshalled the elder ladies into pleasant nooks, where they could be sheltered from the sun and see all that was going on.

“No, thank you; I shall not play tennis this afternoon; there are too many of us, and I am so busy,” Nan said, dismissing one after another who came up to her. “If you want a partner, there is Carrie Paine, who is dying for a game.”

Dick, who was passing with Lady Fitzroy on his arm, whom he was hurrying somewhat unceremoniously across the field, threw her a grateful glance as he went by.

“What a sweet-looking girl that is!” said Lady Fitzroy, graciously, as she panted a little over her exertion.

“Who?—Nan? Yes; isn’t she a brick?—and the others too?” for Phillis and Dulce were just as self-denying in their labors. As Mr. Mayne said afterwards, “They were just everywhere, those Challoners, like a hive of swarming bees;” which, as it was said in a grumbling tone, was ungrateful, to say the least of it.

Dick worked like a horse too; he looked all the afternoon as though he had a tough job in hand that required the utmost gravity and despatch. He was forever hurrying elderly ladies across the field towards the refreshment-tent, where he deposited them, panting and heated, in all sorts of corners.

“Are you quite comfortable? May I leave you now? or shall I wait and take you back again?” asked Dick, who was eager for a fresh convoy.

“No, no; I would rather stay here a little,” returned Mrs. Paine, who was not desirous of another promenade with the hero of the day. “Go and fetch some one else, Dick: I am very well off where I am,” exchanging an amused glance with one of her friends, as Dick, hot and breathless, started off on another voyage of discovery.

Dick’s behavior had been simply perfect all the afternoon in his father’s eyes; but later on, when the band struck up a set of quadrilles, he committed his first solecism in manners: instead of asking Lady Fitzroy to dance with him, he hurried after Nan.

“This is our dance; come along,” he said, taking her unwilling hand; but she held back a moment.

“Are you sure? Is there not some one else you ought to choose?—Lady Fitzroy, for example?” questioned Nan, with admirable forethought.

“Bother Lady Fitzroy!” exclaimed Dick, under his breath; he had had quite enough of that lady. “Why are you holding 34 back, Nan, in this fashion?” a cloud coming over his face. “Haven’t you promised weeks ago to give me the first dance?” And Nan, seeing the cloud on his face, yielded without another word. Dick always managed to have his own way somehow.

“Dick! Dick!” cried his father, in a voice of agony, as they passed him.

“All in good time; coming presently,” returned the scapegrace, cheerfully. “Now, Nan, this is our place. We will have Hamilton and Dulce for our vis-a-vis. What a jolly day; and isn’t this first-rate?” exclaimed Dick, rubbing his hands, and feeling as though he were only just beginning to enjoy himself.

Nan was not quite so easy in her mind.

“Your father does not look very pleased. I am afraid, after all, you ought to have asked Lady Fitzroy,” she said, in a low voice; but Dick turned a deaf ear. He showed her the rose in his buttonhole; and when Nan told him it was withered, and wanted him to take it out, he gave her a reproachful look that made her blush.

They were very happy after this; and, when the dance was over, Dick gave her his arm, and carried her off to see Vigo, who was howling a deep mournful bass at the back of the gardener’s cottage.

Nan made friends with him, and stroked his black curly head, and looked lovingly into his deep melancholy eyes; and then, as her flowers were fading, they strolled off into the conservatory, where Dick gathered her a fresh bouquet and then sat down and watched her arrange it.

“What clever fingers you have got!” he said, looking at them admiringly, as Nan sorted the flowers in her lap; and at this unlucky moment they were discovered by Mr. Mayne, who was bringing Lady Fitzroy to see a favorite orchid.

He shot an angry suspicious glance at his son.

“Dick, your mother is asking for you,” he said, rather abruptly; but Dick growled something in an undertone, and did not move.

Nan gave him a frightened nudge. Why was he so imprudent?

“I cannot move, because of my flowers; do go, Dick. You must indeed, if your mother wants you;” and she looked at him in such a pleading way that Dick dared not refuse. It was just like his father to come and disturb his first happy moments and to order him off to go and do something disagreeable. He had almost a mind to brave it out, and remain in spite of him; but there was Nan looking at him in a frightened, imploring way.

“Oh, do go, Dick,” giving him a little impatient push in her agitation; “if your mother wants you, you must not keep her waiting.” But Nan in her heart knew, as Dick did in his, that the message was only a subterfuge to separate them.

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