Part 16 (1/2)
”To me? Why, he didn't do anything of the sort!”
”Lily Deacon!” cried Dolly, ”you know very well he did! Any why are you blus.h.i.+ng?”
”I'm not blus.h.i.+ng. I don't know him. How could that be? I-I only-”
”You only what?”
”Why, nothing!”
”Lily, you're concealing something!” cried Annie Lee.
”Oh, I'm not. Don't be so silly. It isn't anything at all. Only last Thursday, when I was coming home from Mrs. McTavish's I happened to take a short cut through the field there, and that hateful dog that belongs to Mr. Jenkins started to run after me, barking and growling the way he always does. I got over the stile, but he crawled under the fence, and followed me again. And I started to run, and he ran after me, and jumped up at me and frightened me to death. And Mr. Sheridan happened to be coming through the field. And he caught the dog, and told me I was a silly to run. And that's all.”
”My _dear_!” breathed Dolly, ”and is that all he said?”
”Oh, he just asked me if I was afraid of dogs, and I said only of some.
And he said he liked them, they were so intelligent. And-and then I said I hated cats, and he said he did too; and asked me if I liked horses-”
”How long did this keep up?” inquired Annie Lee.
”There are lots of animals,” said Jane. ”Did you find out how he liked cows and pigs and ducks and porcupines-”
”I think you are all mean to laugh!” cried Lily indignantly. ”It was perfectly natural to say _something_. And he was very nice and polite.”
”And what was the dog doing meanwhile?”
”The dog? What dog? Oh-I guess it must have gone home.”
”Well!” said Amelia, ”I must say, Lily, that I think it would have been quite enough if you had simply thanked him, and gone on your way. And _I_ think that Mr. Sheridan should hardly have asked you if you liked dogs when he had never been introduced to you.”
Lily, who was easily crushed, hung her head at this reproof, and did not attempt to defend herself. Now that she thought of it in the light that Amelia's words threw on it, it seemed nothing short of shocking that she had spoken in such a familiar vein with a young man to whom she had never been introduced. Why had she said anything about it? Now, it was all spoiled, that innocent little episode, which had given her so much pleasure just to think about. Jane, however, quickly came to her defense.
”How silly! I don't think anyone but a prig would be as proper as all that.”
”Jane!” remonstrated Elise, ”that isn't a very nice thing to say.”
”How do _you_ happen to know him Janey?” asked Annie Lee.
”Oh, I called on him,” replied Jane, nonchalantly.
”_Called_ on him!”
”Well, I thought someone ought to see what he was like. And he was very nice. What I've been wondering is what he does with himself all the time. He says he wants solitude, and that he doesn't want to have to see any people, but I think that's all nonsense. _I_ think he's bored to death with himself.”
”Do you know what?” said Annie Lee, ”I'm going to ask mother to invite him to our party. If he doesn't want to he doesn't have to come; but everyone else in Frederickstown _is_ invited, and its all so informal and everything, I don't see why we shouldn't ask him too. It would be perfectly all right, because I think father knows him. I _know_ father used to know Major Sheridan, because I've heard him talk about when they were in the Spanish American war.”
This idea became popular immediately. Even Amelia had no objections to make, and was in fact already making certain mental improvements on the costume she had planned.
But Lily was silent. Amelia's criticism of her behavior had wounded her to the quick, and with a sober face she began quietly to take off her finery, as if some of the fascination had evaporated from that das.h.i.+ng Spanish comb, and even from the thought of scarlet heels.
CHAPTER VIII-JANE LENDS A HAND
Mr. Sheridan, like Achilles, had been sulking for a remarkably long time. It is true that some men and women are able to nurse a grievance for life; but Mr. Sheridan was too young, and too healthy not to find himself, at the end of some eight weeks, thoroughly bored, restless and dissatisfied with himself. He was not ready to admit this yet, however.
He believed that he had proved conclusively that it was in every way the wisest thing to withdraw in lofty disgust from the arena of human affairs, and while his present course of life had the charm of novelty, he was unwilling to admit that he was possibly mistaken. For a time he rather enjoyed the role of the misanthrope, and cynic. But it was not his natural character, by any means, and notwithstanding the fact that he _believed_ that he did not want to have anything to do with anyone, he found his new role exceedingly tiresome to play day in and day out without an audience. Peterson, who was as bored as he, and who could not understand ”what had gotten into Mr. Tim,” was sour and unsympathetic; and finding the need of someone as confidant, absolutely imperative, the embittered recluse of five-and-twenty, resorted to writing long letters to his one-time boon companion, Philip Blackstone, in which he poured forth his uncomplimentary opinions of human nature, gave lengthy descriptions of his states of mind, and accounts of his mode of living.