Not Like Other Girls Part 4

"It strikes me you are taking things very much for granted," returned his son, trying to speak coolly, but flushing like a girl over his words. "I think you might wait, father, until I proposed bringing you home a daughter-in-law."

"I am only warning you, d.i.c.k, that the Challoner connection would be distasteful to me," replied Mr. Mayne, feeling that he had gone a little too far. "If you had brothers and sisters it would not matter half so much; but it would be too hard if my only son were to cross my wishes."

"Should you disinherit me, father?" observed d.i.c.k, cheerfully. He had recovered his coolness and pluck, and began to feel more equal to the occasion.

"We should see about that, but I hardly think it would be for your advantage to oppose me too much," returned his father with an ominous pucker of his eyebrows, which warned d.i.c.k, that it was hardly safe to chaff the old boy too much to-night.

"I think I will go to bed, Richard," put in poor Mrs. Mayne. She had wisely forborne to mix in the discussion, fearing that it would bring upon her the vials of her husband's wrath. Mr. Mayne was as choleric as a Welshman, and had a reserve force of sharp cynical sayings that were somewhat hard to bear. He was disposed to turn upon her on such occasions, and to accuse her of spoiling d.i.c.k and taking his part against his father; between the two Richards she sometimes had a very bad time indeed.

d.i.c.k lighted his mother's candle, and bade her good-night; but all the same she knew she had not seen the last of him. A few minutes afterwards there was a hasty tap at the bedroom door, and d.i.c.k thrust in his head.

"Come in, my dear; I have been expecting you," she said, with a pleased smile. He always came to her when he was ruffled or put out, and brought her all his grievances; surely this was the very meaning and essence of her motherhood,--this healing and comfort that lay in her power of sympathy.

When he was a little fellow, had she not extracted many a thorn and bound up many a cut finger? and now he was a man, would she be less helpful to him when he wanted a different kind of comfort?

"Come in, my son," she said, beckoning him to the low chair beside her, into which d.i.c.k threw himself with a petulant yawn.

"Mother, what made the pater so hard on me to-night? he cut up as rough as though I had committed some crime."

"I don't think he is quite himself to-night," returned Mrs. Mayne, in her soft, motherly voice. "I fancy he misses you, d.i.c.k, and is half jealous of the Challoners for monopolizing you. You are all we have, that's where it is," she finished, stroking the sandy head with her plump hand; but d.i.c.k jerked away from her with a little impatience.

"I think it rather hard that a fellow is to be bullied for doing nothing at all," replied d.i.c.k, with a touch of sullenness. "When the pater is in this humor it is no use saying anything to him; but you may as well tell him, mother, that I mean to choose my wife for myself."

"Oh, my dear, I dare not tell him anything of the kind," returned Mrs.

Mayne, in an alarmed voice; and then, as she glanced at her son, her terror merged into amus.e.m.e.nt. There was something so absurdly boyish in d.i.c.k's appearance, such a ludicrous contrast between the manliness of his speech and his smooth cheek; the little fringe of hirsute ornament, of which d.i.c.k was so proud, was hardly visible in the dim light; his youthful figure, more clumsy than graceful, had an unfledged air about it, nevertheless, the boldness of his words took away her breath.

"Every man has a right to his own choice in such a matter," continued d.i.c.k, loftily. "You may as well tell him, mother, that I intend to select my own wife."

"My dear, I dare not for worlds----" she began; and then she stopped, and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Why do you say this to me? there is plenty of time," she went on hastily; "that is what your father says, and I think he is right. You are too young for this sort of thing yet. You must see the world; you must look about you; you must have plenty of choice," continued the anxious mother. "I shall be hard to please, d.i.c.k, for I shall think no one good enough for my boy; that is the worst of having only one, and he the best son that ever lived,"

finished Mrs. Mayne, with maternal pride in her voice.

d.i.c.k took this effusion very coolly. He was quite used to all this sort of worship; he did not think badly of himself; he was not particularly humble-minded or given to troublesome introspection; on the whole, he thought himself a good fellow, and was not at all surprised that people appreciated him.

"There are such a lot of cads in the world, one is always glad to fall in with a different sort," he would say to himself. He was quite of his mother's opinion, that an honest, G.o.d-fearing young fellow, who spoke the truth and shamed the devil, who had no special vices but a dislike for early rising, who had tolerable brains, and more than his share of muscle, who was in the Oxford eleven, and who had earned his blue ribbon,--that such a one might be considered to set an example to his generation.

When his mother told him she would be hard to please, d.i.c.k looked a little wicked, and thought of Nan; but the name was not mentioned between them. Nevertheless, Mrs. Mayne felt with unerring maternal instinct that, in spite of his youth, d.i.c.k's choice was made, and sighed to herself at the thought of the evil days that were to come.

Poor woman, she was to have little peace that night! Hardly had d.i.c.k finished his grumble and sauntered away, before her husband's step was heard in his dressing-room.

"Bessie," he called out to her, "why do you allow that boy to keep you up so late at night? Do you know that it is eleven, and you are still fully dressed?"

"Is it so late, Richard?"

"Yes, of course," he snapped; "but that is the care you take of your health; and the way you cosset and spoil that boy is dreadful."

"I don't think d.i.c.k is easily spoiled," plucking up a little spirit to answer him.

"That shows how little you understand boys," returned her husband.

Evidently the whiskey, though it was the best Glenlivat, had failed to mollify him. It might be dangerous to go too far with d.i.c.k, for he had a way of turning around and defending himself that somewhat embarra.s.sed Mr. Mayne, but with his wife there would be no such danger. He would dominate her by his sharp speeches, and reduce her to abject submission in a moment, for Bessie was the meekest of wives.

"Take care how you side with him," he continued, in a threatening voice. "He thinks that I am not serious in what I said just now, and is for carrying it off with a high hand; but I tell you, and you had better tell him, that I was never more in earnest in my life. I won't have one of those Challoner girls for a daughter-in-law!"

"Oh, Richard! and Nan is such a sweet girl!" returned his wife, with tears in her eyes. She was awfully jealous of Nan, at times she almost dreaded her; but for her boy's sake she would have taken her now to her heart and defied even her formidable husband. "She is such a pretty creature, too; no one can help loving her."

"Pshaw!" returned her husband; "pretty creature indeed! that is just your soft-hearted nonsense. Phillis is ten times prettier, and has heaps more sense. Why couldn't d.i.c.k have taken a fancy to her?"

"Because I am afraid he cares for the other one," returned Mrs. Mayne, sadly. She had no wish to deceive her husband and she knew that the golden apple had rolled to Nan's feet.

"Stuff and rubbish!" he responded, wrathfully. "What is a boy of his age to know about such things? Tell him from me to put this nonsense out of his head for the next year or two; there is plenty of time to look out for a wife after that. But I won't have him making up his mind until he has left Oxford." And Mrs. Mayne, knowing that her husband had spoken his last word, thankfully withdrew, feeling that in her heart she secretly agreed with him.

CHAPTER IV.

d.i.c.k'S FeTE.

As Mr. Mayne's wrath soon evaporated, and d.i.c.k was a sweet-tempered fellow and bore no malice, this slight altercation produced no lasting effect, except that d.i.c.k, for the next few days, hurried home to his dinner, talked a good deal about Switzerland, and never mentioned a Challoner in his father's hearing.

"We must keep him in a good temper for the 25th," he said to his mother, with a touch of the Mayne shrewdness.

That day was rapidly approaching, and all sorts of festive preparations were going on at Longmead. d.i.c.k himself gravely superintended the rolling of the tennis-ground in the large meadow, and daubed himself plentifully with lime in marking out the courts, while Mr. Mayne stood with his hands in the pockets of his shooting-coat watching him. The two were a great deal together just then: d.i.c.k rather stuck to his father during one or two mornings; the wily young fellow knew that Nan was closeted with his mother, helping her with all sorts of feminine arrangements, and he was determined to keep them apart. Nan wondered a great deal why d.i.c.k did not come to interrupt or tease them as usual, and grew a little absent over Mrs.

Mayne's rambling explanations. When the gong sounded, no one asked her to stay to luncheon. Mrs. Mayne saw her put on her hat without uttering a single protest.

"It is so good of you to help me, dear," she said, taking the girl into her embrace. "You are quite sure people won't expect a sit-down supper?"

"Oh no; the buffet system is best," returned Nan, decidedly. "Half the people will not stay, and you need not make a fuss about the rest. It is an afternoon party, you must remember that; only people who are very intimate will remain for the fun of the thing. Tell Nicholson to have plenty of ices going; people care most for that sort of refreshment."

"Yes, dear; I will be sure to remember," returned her friend, meekly.

She was very grateful to Nan for these hints, and was quite willing to follow her guidance in all such matters; but when Nan proposed once sending for d.i.c.k to ask his opinion on some knotty point that baffled their women's wits, Mrs. Mayne demurred.

"It is a pity to disturb him; he is with his father; and we can settle these things by ourselves," she replied, not venturing to mar the present tranquillity by sending such a message to d.i.c.k. Mr. Mayne would have accompanied his son, and the consultation would hardly have ended peaceably. "Men have their hobbies. We had better settle all this together, you and I," she said hurriedly.

Nan merely nodded, and cut the Gordian knot through somewhat ruthlessly; but on that occasion she put on her hat before the gong sounded.

"You must be very busy, for one never has a glimpse of you in the morning," she could not help saying to d.i.c.k, as he came in that afternoon to escort them to Fitzroy Lodge.

"Well, yes, I am tolerably busy," he drawled. "I am never free to do things in the afternoons,"--a fact that Nan felt was unanswerable.

When Nan and her sisters woke on the morning of the memorable day, the bright sunshine of a cloudless June day set all their fears at rest.

If the sun smiled on d.i.c.k's fete, all would be well. If Nan's devotions were longer than usual that morning, no one was the wiser; if she added a little clause, calling down a blessing on a certain head, no one would be the poorer for such pure prayers; indeed, it were well if many such were uttered for the young men who go forth morning after morning into the temptations of life.

Such prayers might stretch like an invisible shield before the countless foes that environ such a one; fiery darts may be caught upon it; a deadly thrust may be turned away. What if the blessing would never reach the ear of the loved one, who goes out unconscious of sympathy? His guardian angel has heard it, and perchance it has reached the very gate of heaven.

Nan came down, smiling and radiant, to find d.i.c.k waiting for her in the veranda and chattering to Phillis and Dulce.

"Why, d.i.c.k!" she cried, blushing with surprise and pleasure, "to think of your being here on your birthday morning!"