Part 7 (2/2)
As for d.i.c.k, 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 d.i.c.k had to listen and try to look interested.
”I am sure d.i.c.k 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.
CHAPTER VI.
MR. TRINDER'S VISIT.
The next few days pa.s.sed far too quickly for Nan's pleasure, and d.i.c.k's last morning arrived. The very next day the Maynes were to start for Switzerland, and Longmead was to stand empty for the remainder of the summer. It was a dreary prospect for Nan, and in spite of her high spirits her courage grew somewhat low. Six months!
who could know what might happen before they met again? Nan was not the least bit superst.i.tious, neither was it her wont to indulge in useless speculations or forebodings; but she could not shake off this morning a strange uncanny feeling that haunted her in spite of herself--a presentiment that things were not going to be just as she would have them,--that d.i.c.k and she would not meet again in exactly the same manner.
”How silly I am!” she thought, for the twentieth time, as she brushed out her glossy brown hair and arranged it in her usual simple fas.h.i.+on.
Nan and her sisters were a little behind the times in some ways; they had never thought fit to curl their hair _en garcon_, or to mount a pyramid of tangled curls in imitation of a poodle; no pruning scissors had touched the light-springing locks that grew so prettily about their temples; in this, as in much else, they were unlike other girls, for they dared to put individuality before fas.h.i.+on, and good taste and a sense of beauty against the specious arguments of the mult.i.tude.
”How silly I am!” again repeated Nan. ”What can happen, what should happen, except that I shall have a dull summer, and shall be very glad when Christmas and d.i.c.k come together;” and then she shook her little basket of housekeeping keys until they jingled merrily, and ran downstairs with a countenance she meant to keep bright for the rest of the day.
They were to play tennis at the Paines' that afternoon, and afterwards the three girls were to dine at Longmead. Mrs. Challoner had been invited also; but she had made some excuse, and pleaded for a quiet evening. She was never very ready to accept these invitations; there was nothing in common between her and Mrs. Mayne; and in her heart she agreed with Lady Fitzroy in thinking the master of Longmead odious.
It was Mr. Mayne who had tendered this parting hospitality to his neighbors, and he chose to be much offended at Mrs. Challoner's refusal.
”I think it is very unfriendly of your mother, when we are such old neighbors, and on our last evening, too,” he said to Nan, as she entered the drawing-room that evening bringing her mother's excuses wrapped up in the prettiest words she could find.
”Mother is not quite well; she does not feel up to the exertion of dining out to-night,” returned Nan, trying to put a good face on it, but feeling as though things were too much for her this evening. It was bad enough for Mr. Mayne to insist on them all coming up to a long formal dinner, and spoiling their chances of a twilight stroll; but it was still worse for her mother to abandon them after this fas.h.i.+on.
The new novel must have had something to do with this sudden indisposition; but when Mrs. Challoner had wrapped herself up in her white shawl, always a bad sign with her, and had declared herself unfit for any exertion, what could a dutiful daughter do but deliver her excuses as gracefully as she could? Nevertheless, Mr. Mayne frowned and expressed himself ill pleased.
”I should have thought an effort could have been made on such an occasion,” was his final thrust, as he gave his arm ungraciously to Nan, and conducted her with ominous solemnity to the table.
It was not a festive meal, in spite of all Mrs. Mayne's efforts. d.i.c.k looked glum. He was separated from Nan by a vast silver epergne, that fully screened her from view. Another time she would have peeped merrily round at him and given him a sprightly nod or two; but how was she to do it when Mr. Mayne never relaxed his gloomy muscles, and when he insisted on keeping up a ceremonious flow of conversation with her on the subjects of the day?
When d.i.c.k tried to strike into their talk, he got so visibly snubbed that he was obliged to take refuge with Phillis.
”You young fellows never know what you are talking about,” observed Mr. Mayne, sharply, when d.i.c.k had hazarded a remark about the Premier's policy; ”you are a Radical one day, and a Conservative another. That comes of your debating societies. You take contrary sides, and mix up a balderdash of ideas, until you don't know whether you are standing on your head or your heels;” and it was after this that d.i.c.k found his refuge with Phillis.
It was little better when they were all in the drawing-room together.
If Mr. Mayne had invited them there for the purpose of keeping them all under his own eyes and making them uncomfortable, he could not have managed better. When d.i.c.k suggested a stroll in the garden, he said,--
”Pshaw! what nonsense proposing such a thing, when the dews are heavy and the girls will catch their deaths of cold!”
”We do it every evening of our life,” observed Nan, hardily; but even she dared not persevere in the face of this protest, though she exchanged a rebellious look with d.i.c.k that did him good and put him in a better humor.
They found their way into the conservatory after that, but were hunted out on pretence of having a little music; at least Nan would have it that it was pretence.
<script>