Читать книгу Not Like Other Girls - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 5

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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 8 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 9 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 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 10 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!” 11

“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.”

“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; 12 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 13 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 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 14 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.