Читать книгу Not Like Other Girls - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 14

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Nan would willingly have effected her escape too, but she was detained by the flowers that Dick had tossed so lightly into her lap. She was rather dismayed at her position, and her fingers trembled a little over their work. There was a breath—a sudden entering current—of antagonism and prejudice that daunted her. Lady Fitzroy cast an admiring look at the girl as she sat there with glowing cheeks and downcast lids.

“How pretty she is!” she said, in a low voice, as Mr. Mayne pointed out his favorite orchid. “She is like her mother; there is just the same quiet style, only I suspect Mrs. Challoner was even better looking in her time.”

“Humph! yes, I suppose so,” returned her host, in a dissatisfied tone. He had not brought Lady Fitzroy there to talk of the Challoners, but to admire his orchids. Then he shot another glance at Nan between his half-closed eyes, and a little spice of malice flavored his next words.

“Shall we sit here a moment? Let me see: you were asking me, Lady Fitzroy, about Dick’s prospects. I was talking to his mother about them the other day. I said to her then, Dick must settle in life well; he must marry money.”

“Indeed?” replied Lady Fitzroy, somewhat absently; she even indulged in a slight yawn behind her fan. She liked Dick well enough, as every one else did, but she was not partial to his father. How tiresome it was of Fitzroy to insist so much on their neighborly duties!

Mr. Mayne was not “one of them,” as she would have phrased it; he did not speak their language or lead their life; their manners and customs, their little tricks and turns of thought were hieroglyphics to him.

A man who had never had a grandfather—at least a grandfather worth knowing—whose father’s hands had dabbled in trade—actually trade—such a one might be a very worthy man, an excellent citizen, an exemplary husband and father, but it behooved a woman in her position not to descend too freely to his level.

“Percival is such a sad Radical,” she would say to herself; “he does not make sufficient distinction between people. I should wish to be neighborly, but I cannot bring myself to be familiar with these Maynes;” which was perhaps the reason why Lady Fitzroy was not as popular at Longmead and in other places as her good-natured husband. 36

“Oh, indeed?” she said, with difficulty repressing another slight yawn behind her fan, but speaking in a fatigued voice: but Mr. Mayne was too intent on his purpose to notice it.

“If Dick had brothers and sisters it would not matter so much; but when one has only a single hope—eh, Lady Fitzroy?—things must be a little different then.”

“He will have plenty of choice,” she returned, with an effort at graciousness. “Oldfield is rich in pretty girls:” and she cast another approving glance at poor Nan, but Mr. Mayne interrupted her almost rudely.

“Ah, as to that,” he returned, with a sneer, “we want no such nonsense for Dick. Here are the facts of the case. Here is an honest, good-tempered young fellow, but with no particular push in him; he has money, you say—yes, but not enough to give him the standing I want him to have. I am ambitious for Dick. I want him to settle in life well. Why, he might be called to the bar; he might enter Parliament; there is no limit to a man’s career nowadays. I will do what I can for him, but he must meet me half-way.”

“You mean,” observed Lady Fitzroy, with a little perplexity in her tone, “that he must look out for an heiress.” She was not in the secret, and she could not understand why her host was treating her to this outburst of confidence. “It was so disagreeable to be mixed up with this sort of thing,” as she told her husband afterwards. “I never knew him quite so odious before; and there was that pretty Miss Challoner sitting near us, and he never let me address a word to her.”

Nan began to feel she had had enough of it. She started up hastily as Lady Fitzroy said the last words, but the entrance of some more young people compelled her to stand inside a moment, and she heard Mr. Mayne’s answer distinctly: “Well, not an heiress exactly; but the girl I have in view for him has a pretty little sum of money, and the connection is all that could be wished; she is nice-looking, too, and is a bright, talking little body––” But here Nan made such a resolute effort to pass, that the rest of the sentence was lost upon her.

Dick, who was strolling up and down the lawn rather discontentedly, hurried up to her as she came out.

“They are playing a valse; come, Nan,” he said, holding out his hand to her with his usual eagerness; but she shook her head.

“I cannot dance; I am too tired: there are others you ought to ask.” She spoke a little ungraciously, and Dick’s face wore a look of dismay, as she walked away from him with quick even footsteps.

Tired! Nan tired! he had never heard of such a thing. What had put her out? The sweet brightness had died out of her eyes, and her cheeks were flaming. Should he follow her and have it out with her, there and then? But, as he hesitated, young Hamilton came over the grass and linked his arm in his. 37

“Come and introduce me to that girl in blue gauze, or whatever you call that flimsy manufacture. Come along, there’s a good fellow,” he said, coaxingly; and Dick’s opportunity was lost.

But he was wrong; for once in her life Nan was tired; the poor girl felt a sudden quenching of her bright elasticity that amounted to absolute fatigue.

She had spoken to Dick sharply; but that was to get rid of him and to recall him to a sense of his duty. Not for worlds would she be seen dancing with him, or even talking to him, again!

She sat down on a stump of a tree in the shrubbery, and wondered wearily what had taken it out of her so much. And then she recalled, sentence by sentence, everything that had passed in the conservatory.

She had found out quite lately that Mr. Mayne did not approve of her intimacy with Dick. His manner had somewhat changed to her, and several times he had spoken to her in a carping, fault-finding way—little cut-and-dried sentences of elderly wisdom that she had not understood at the time.

She had not pleased him of late, somehow, and all her little efforts and overtures had been lost upon him. Nan had been quite aware of this, but it had not troubled her much: it was a way he had, and he meant nothing by it. Most men had humors that must be respected, and Dick’s father had his. So she bore herself very sweetly towards him, treating his caustic remarks as jokes, and laughing pleasantly at them, never taking his hints in earnest; he would know better some day, that was all; but she had no idea of any deeply-laid plan against their happiness. She felt as though some one had struck her hard; she had received a blow that set all her nerves tingling. It was very funny, what he said; it was so droll that it almost made her laugh; and yet her eyes smarted, and her cheeks felt on fire.

“ ‘Dick must marry money.’ Why must he?—that was so droll. ‘Well, not an heiress exactly, but a pretty little sum of money, and a bright, taking little body.’ Who was this mysterious person whom he had in view, whose connections were so desirable, who was to be Dick’s future wife? Dick’s future wife!” repeated Nan, with an odd little quiver of her lip. “And was it not droll, settling it all for him like that?”

Nan fell into a brown study, and then woke up with a little gasp. It was all clear to her now, all these cut-and-dried sentences—all those veiled sneers and innuendoes.

They were poor—poor as church-mice—and Dick must marry money. Mr. Mayne had laid his plans for his son, and was watching their growing intimacy with disapproving eyes. Perhaps “the bright, taking little body” might accompany them to Switzerland; perhaps among the mountains Dick would forget her, and lend a ready acquiescence to his father’s plans. 38 Who was she? Had Nan ever seen her? Could she be here this afternoon, this future rival and enemy of her peace?

“Ah, what nonsense I am thinking!” she exclaimed to herself, starting up with a little shame and impatience at her own thoughts. “What has this all got to do with me? Let them settle it between them—money-bags and all. Dick is Dick, and after all, I am not afraid!” And Nan marched back to the company, with her head higher, and a great assumption of cheerfulness, and a little gnawing feeling of discomfort at her heart, to which she would not have owned for worlds.

Nan was the gayest of the gay that evening, but she would not dance again with Dick: she sent the poor boy away from her with a decision and peremptoriness that struck him with fresh dismay.

“You are not tired now, Nan; and have been waltzing ever so long with Cathcart and Hamilton.”

“Never mind about me to-night: you must go and ask Lady Fitzroy. No, I am not cross. Do you think I would be cross to you on your birthday? but all the same I will not have you neglect your duties. Go and ask her this moment, sir!” And Nan smiled in his face in the most bewitching way, and gave a little flutter to her fan. She accepted Mr. Hamilton’s invitation to a valse under Dick’s very eyes, and whirled away on his arm, while Dick stood looking at her ruefully.

Just at the very last moment Nan’s heart relented.

“Walk down to the gate with us,” she whispered, as she passed him on her way to the cloak-room.

Dick, who was by this time in a somewhat surly humor, make no sort of response; nevertheless Nan found him out on the gravel path waiting for them in company with Cathcart and Hamilton.

Nan shook off the latter rather cleverly, and took Dick’s arm, in cheerful unconsciousness of his ill-humor.

“It is so good of you to come with us. I wanted to get you a moment to myself, to congratulate you on the success of the evening. It was admirably managed; every one says so: even Lady Fitzroy was pleased, and her ladyship is a trifle fastidious. Have the band in-doors, and set them to dancing—that is what I said; and it has turned out a complete success,” finished Nan, with a little gush of enthusiasm; but she did not find Dick responsive.

“Oh! bother the success and all that!” returned that very misguided young man; “it was the slowest affair to me, I assure you, and I am thankful it is over. You have spoiled the evening to me, and that is what you have done,” grumbled Dick, in his most ominous voice.

“I spoiled your evening, you ungrateful boy!” replied Nan, innocently; but she smiled to herself in the darkness, and the reproach was sweet to her. They had entered the garden of Glen Cottage by this time, and Dick was fiercely marching her 39 down a side-path that led to the kitchen. The hall door stood open. Cathcart and Hamilton were chattering with the girls in the porch, while Mrs. Challoner went inside. They peered curiously into the summer dusk, as Dick’s impatient footsteps grated on the gravel path.

“I spoiled your evening!” repeated Nan, lifting her bright eyes with the gleam of fun still in them.

“Yes,” blurted out Dick. “Why have you kept me at such a distance all the evening? Why would you not dance with me? and you gave Hamilton three valses. It was not like you, Nan, to treat me so—and on my birthday too,” went on the poor fellow, with a pathos that brought another sort of gleam to Nan’s eyes, only she still laughed.

“Ah, you foolish boy!” she said, and gave his coat-sleeve a coaxing little pat. “I would rather have danced with you than Mr. Hamilton, though he does reverse beautifully, and I never knew any one who waltzed more perfectly.”

“Oh, I do not presume to rival Hamilton,” began Dick hotly, but she silenced him.

“Listen to me, you foolish Dick! I would have danced with you, and willingly, but I knew my duty better, or rather I knew yours. You were a public man to-day; the eyes of the county were upon you. You had to pay court to the big ladies, and to take no notice of poor little me. I sent you away for your own good, and because I valued your duty above my pleasure,” continued this heroic young person, in a perfectly satisfied tone.

“And you wanted to dance with me, Nan, and not with that goose of a Hamilton?” in a wheedling voice.

“Yes, Dick; but he is not a goose for all that: he is more of a swan in my opinion.”

“He is a conceited ass!” was the very unexpected reply, which was a little hard on Dick’s chum, who was in many ways a most estimable young man and vastly his superior. “Why are you laughing, when you know I hate prigs? and Hamilton is about the biggest I ever knew.” But this did not mend matters, and Nan’s laugh still rang merrily in the darkness.

“What are those two doing?” asked Phillis, trying to peep between the lilac-bushes, but failing to discover more than the white glimmer of Nan’s shawl.

Nan’s laugh, though it was full of sweet triumph, only irritated Dick; the lord of the evening was still too sore and humiliated by all these rebuffs and repulses to take the fun in good part.

“What is it that amuses you so?” he asked, rather crossly. “That is the worst of you girls; you are always so ready to make merry at a fellow’s expense. You are taking Hamilton’s part against me, Nan—I, who am your oldest friend, who have always been faithful to you ever since you were a child,” continued the young man, with a growing sense of aggravation. 40

“Oh, Dick!” and Nan’s voice faltered a little; she was rather touched at this.

Dick took instant note of the change of key, and went on in the same injured voice:

“Why should I look after all the big people and take no notice of you? Have I not made it my first duty to look after you as long as I can remember? Though the whole world were about us, would you not be the first and the principal to me?”

“Don’t, Dick,” she said, faintly, trying to repress him; “you must not talk in that way, and I must not listen to you; your father would not like it.” The words were sweet to her—precious beyond everything—but she must not have him speak them. But Dick, in his angry excitement, was not to be repressed.

“What does it matter what he likes? This is between you and me, Nan; no one shall meddle between us two.” But what imprudent speech Dick was about to add was suddenly quenched in light-pealing laughter. At this critical moment they were met and surrounded; before them was the red glow of Cathcart’s cigar, the whiteness of Phillis’s gown; behind were two more advancing figures. In another second the young people had joined hands: a dusky ring formed round the startled pair.

“Fairly caught!” cried Dulce’s sunshiny voice; the mischievous little monkey had no idea of the sport she was spoiling. None of the young people thought of anything but fun; Dick was just Dick, and he and Nan were always together.

Dick muttered something inaudible under his breath; but Nan was quite equal to the occasion; she was still palpitating a little with the pleasure Dick’s words had given her, but she confronted her tormentors boldly.

“You absurd creatures,” she said, “to steal a march on us like that! Dick and I were having a quarrel; we were fighting so hard that we did not hear you.”

“I enjoy a good fight above everything,” exclaimed Cathcart, throwing away his cigar. He was a handsome dark-eyed boy, with no special individuality, except an overweening sense of fun. “What’s the odds, Mayne? and who is likely to be the winner?”

“Oh, Nan, of course,” returned Dick, trying to recover himself. “I am the captive of her spear and of her bow: she is in possession of everything, myself included.”

The rest laughed at Dick’s jest, as they thought it; and Mr. Hamilton said, “Bravo, Miss Challoner! we will help to drag him at your chariot-wheels.” But Nan changed color in the darkness.

They went in after this, and the young men took their leave in the porch. Dick’s strong grip of the hand conveyed his meaning fully to Nan: “Remember, I meant it all,” it seemed to say to her. 41

“What did it matter? I am quite sure of him. Dick is Dick,” thought Nan, as she laid her head happily on the pillow.

As for Dick, he had a long ordeal before him ere he could make his escape to the smoking-room, where his friends awaited him. Mr. Mayne had a great deal to say to him about the day, and Dick had to listen and try to look interested.

“I am sure Dick behaved beautifully,” observed Mrs. Mayne, when the son and heir had at last lounged off to his companions.

“Well, yes; he did very well on the whole,” was the grudging response; “but I must say those Challoner girls made themselves far too conspicuous for my taste;” but to this his wife prudently made no reply.