Part 8 (1/2)

”Your father does not care much for music, I know,” she whispered, as she placed herself at the grand piano, while d.i.c.k leaned against it and watched her. It was naughty of Nan, but there was no denying that she found Mr. Mayne more aggravating than usual this evening.

”Come, come, Miss Nancy!” he called out,--he always called her that when he wished to annoy her, for Nan had a special dislike to her quaint, old-fas.h.i.+oned name; it had been her mother's and grandmother's name; in every generation there had been a Nancy Challoner,--”come, come, Miss Nancy! we cannot have you playing at hide-and-seek in this fas.h.i.+on. We want some music. Give us something rousing, to keep us all awake.” And Nan had reluctantly placed herself at the piano.

She did her little best according to orders, for she dared not offend d.i.c.k's father. None of the Challoners were accomplished girls. Dulce sang a little, and so did Nan, but Phillis could not play the simplest piece without bungling and her uncertain little warblings, which were sweet but hardly true, were reserved for church.

Dulce sang very prettily, but she could only manage her own accompaniments or a sprightly valse. Nan, who did most of the execution of the family, was a very fair performer from a young lady's point of view, and that is not saying much. She always had her piece ready if people wanted her to play. She sat down without nervousness and rose without haste. She had a choice little repertory of old songs and ballads, that she could produce without hesitation from memory,--”My mother bids me bind my hair,” or ”Bid your faithful Ariel fly,” and such-like old songs, in which there is more melody than in a hundred new ones, and which she sang in a simple, artless fas.h.i.+on that pleased the elder people greatly. Dulce could do more than this, but her voice had never been properly tutored, and she sang her bird-music in bird-fas.h.i.+on, rather wildly and shrilly, with small respect to rule and art, nevertheless making a pleasing noise, a young foreigner once told her.

When Nan had exhausted her little stock, Mr. Mayne peremptorily invited them to a round game; and the rest of the evening was spent in trying to master the mysteries of a new game, over the involved rules of which Mr. Mayne as usual, wrangled fiercely with everybody, while d.i.c.k shrugged his shoulders and shuffled his cards with such evident ill-humor that Nan hurried her sisters away half an hour before the usual time, in terror of an outbreak.

It was an utterly disappointing evening; and, to make matters worse, Mr. Mayne actually lit his cigar and strolled down the garden-paths, keeping quite close to Nan, and showing such obvious intention of accompanying them to the very gate of the cottage that there could be no thought of any sweet lingering in the dusk.

”I will be even with him,” growled d.i.c.k, who was in a state of suppressed irritation under this unexpected surveillance; and in the darkest part of the road he twitched Nan's sleeve to attract her attention, and whispered, in so low a voice that his father could not hear him, ”This is not good-bye. I will be round at the cottage to-morrow morning;” and Nan nodded hurriedly, and then turned her head to answer Mr. Mayne's last question.

If d.i.c.k had put all his feelings in his hand-shake, it could not have spoken to Nan more eloquently of the young man's wrath and chagrin and concealed tenderness. Nan shot him one of her swift straightforward looks in answer.

”Nevermind,” it seemed to say; ”we shall have to-morrow;” and then she bade them cheerfully good-night.

Dorothy met her in the hall, and put down her chamber-candlestick.

”Has the mother gone to bed yet, Dorothy?” questioned the young mistress, speaking still with that enforced cheerfulness.

”No, Miss Nan; she is still in there,” jerking her head in the direction of the drawing-room. ”Mr. Trinder called, and was with her a long time. I thought she seemed a bit poorly when I took in the lamp.”

”Mamsie is never fit for anything when that old ogre has been,” broke in Dulce, impatiently. ”He always comes and tells her some nightmare tale or other to prevent her sleeping. Now we shall not have the new gowns we set our hearts on, Nan.”

”Oh, never mind the gowns,” returned Nan, rather wearily.

What did it matter if they had to wear their old ones when d.i.c.k would not be there to see them? And Dorothy, who was contemplating her favorite nursling with the privileged tenderness of an old servant, chimed in with the utmost cheerfulness:

”It does not matter what she wears; does it, Miss Nan? She looks just as nice in an old gown as a new one; that is what I say of all my young ladies; dress does not matter a bit to them.”

”How long are you all going to stand chattering with Dorothy?”

interrupted Phillis, in her clear decided voice. ”Mother will wonder what conspiracy we are hatching, and why we leave her so long alone.”

And then Dorothy took up her candlestick, grumbling a little, as she often did, over Miss Phillis's masterful ways, and the girls went laughingly into their mother's presence.

Though it was summer-time, Mrs. Challoner's easy-chair was drawn up in front of the rug, and she sat wrapped in her white shawl, with her eyes fixed on the pretty painted fire-screen that hid the blackness of the coals. She did not turn her head or move as her daughters entered; indeed, so motionless was her att.i.tude that Dulce thought she was asleep, and went on tiptoe round her chair to steal a kiss. But Nan, who had caught sight of her mother's face, put her quickly aside.

”Don't, Dulce; mother is not well. What is the matter, mammie, darling?” kneeling down and bringing her bright face on a level with her mother's. She would have taken her into her vigorous young arms, but Mrs. Challoner almost pushed her away.

”Hush, children! Do be quiet, Nan; I cannot talk to you. I cannot answer questions to-night.” And then she s.h.i.+vered, and drew her shawl closer round her, and put away Nan's caressing hands, and looked at them all with a face that seemed to have grown pinched and old all at once, and eyes full of misery.

”Mammie, you must speak to us,” returned Nan, not a whit daunted by this rebuff, but horribly frightened all the time. ”Of course, Dorothy told us that Mr. Trinder has been here, and of course we know that it is some trouble about money.” Then, at the mention of Mr. Trinder's name, Mrs. Challoner s.h.i.+vered again.

Nan waited a moment for an answer: but, as none came, she went on in coaxing voice:

”Don't be afraid to tell us, mother darling; we can all bear a little trouble, I hope. We have had such happy lives, and we cannot go on being happy always,” continued the girl, with the painful conviction coming suddenly into her mind that the brightness of these days was over. ”Money is very nice, and one cannot do without it, I suppose; but as long as we are together and love each other----”

Then Mrs. Challoner fixed her heavy eyes on her daughter and took up the unfinished sentence: