Not Like Other Girls Part 48

"But, d.i.c.k!"

"I tell you I am utterly shocked! You to say such a thing to my face, when we have been as good as engaged to each other all our lives! Who cares for the trumpery dressmaking? Not I!"

"But your father!" persisted Nan, but very faintly, for d.i.c.k's eyes were blazing with anger.

"Not another word! Nan, how dare you--after what you have promised this morning! Have I not been worried and badgered enough, without your turning on me in this way? If you won't marry me, you won't; but I shall be a bachelor all my life for your sake!" and d.i.c.k, who was so sore, poor fellow, that he was ready to quarrel with her out of the very fulness of his love, actually made a movement as though to leave her, only Nan caught him by the arm in quite a frightened way.

"d.i.c.k! dear d.i.c.k!"

"Well?" rather sullenly.

"Oh, don't leave me like this! It would break my heart! I did not mean to make you angry. I was only pleading with you for your own good. Of course I will keep my promise. Have I not been true to you all my life? Oh, d.i.c.k! how can you turn from me like this?" And Nan actually began to sob in earnest, only d.i.c.k's sweet temper returned in a moment at the sight of her distress, and he fell to comforting her with all his might; and after this things went on more smoothly.

He told her about his conversation with his father, and how he had planned a city life for himself; but here Nan timidly interposed:

"Would that not be a pity, when you had always meant to study for the bar?"

"Not a bit of it," was the confident answer. "That was my father's wish, not mine. I don't mind telling you in confidence that I am not at all a shining light. I am afraid I am rather a duffer, and shall not make my mark in the world. I have always thought desk-work must be rather a bore; but, after all, with a good introduction and a tolerable berth, one is pretty sure of getting on in the City. What I want is to make a little nest cosey for somebody, and as quick as possible,--eh, Nan?"

"I do not mind waiting," faltered Nan. But she felt at this moment that no lover could have been so absolutely perfect as her d.i.c.k.

"Oh, that is what girls always say," returned d.i.c.k, rather loftily.

"They are never in a hurry. They would wait seven--ten years,--half a lifetime. But with us men it is different. I am not a bit afraid of you. I know you will stick to me like a brick, and all that; and father will come round when he sees we are in earnest. But all the same I want to have you to myself as soon as possible. A fellow likes the feeling of working for his wife. I hate to think of these pretty fingers st.i.tching away for other people. I want them to work for me: do you understand, Nan?'" And Nan, of course, understood.

d.i.c.k, poor fellow, had not much time for his love-making, he and Nan had too much business to settle. Nan had to explain to him that her mother was of opinion that under the present circ.u.mstances, nothing ought to be done to excite Mr. Mayne's wrath. d.i.c.k might write to her mother sometimes, just to let them know how he was getting on; but between the young people themselves there must be no correspondence.

"Mother says it will not be honorable, and that we are not properly engaged." And, though d.i.c.k combated this rather stoutly, he gave in at last, and agreed that, until the new year, he would not claim his rights, or infringe the sacred privacy of the Friary.

"And now I must go," said d.i.c.k, with a great sigh; "and it is good-bye for months. Now, I do not mean to ask your leave,--for you are such a girl for scruples, and all that, and you might take it into your head to refuse me: so there!"

d.i.c.k's words were mysterious; but he very soon made his meaning plain.

Nan said, "Oh, d.i.c.k!" but made no further protest. After all, whatever Mr. Mayne and her mother said, they were engaged.

As d.i.c.k closed the little gate behind him, he was aware of a tall figure looming in the darkness.

"Confound that parson! What does he mean by loafing about here?" he thought, feeling something like a pugnacious bull-dog at the prospect of a possible rival. "I forgot to ask Nan about him; but I dare say he is after one of the other girls." But these reflections were nipped in the bud, as the short, st.u.r.dy form of Mr. Mayne was dimly visible in the road.

d.i.c.k chuckled softly: he could not help it.

"All right, dear old boy," he said to himself; and then he stepped up briskly, and took his father's arm.

"Do you call this honorable, sir?" began Mr. Mayne, in a most irascible voice.

"I call it very neat," returned d.i.c.k, cheerfully. "My dear pater, everything is fair in love and war; and if you will nap at unseasonable times--but that comes of early rising, as I have often told you."

"Hold your tongue, sir!" was the violent rejoinder. "It is a mean trick you have served me, and you know it. We will go back to-night; nothing will induce me to sleep in this place. You are not to be trusted. You told me a downright lie. You were humbugging me, sir, with your naps."

"I will plead guilty to a fib, if you like," was d.i.c.k's careless answer. "What a fuss you are making, father! Did you never tell one in your life? Now, what is the use of putting yourself out?--it is not good at your age, sir. What would my mother say? It might bring on apoplexy, after that port-wine."

"Confound your impertinence!" rejoined Mr. Mayne, angrily; but d.i.c.k patted his coat-sleeve pleasantly:

"There, that will do. I think you have relieved your feelings sufficiently. Now we will go to business. I have seen Nan, and told her all about it; and she has had it out with her mother. Mrs.

Challoner will not hear of our writing to each other; and I am not to show my face at the Friary without your permission. There is no fibbing or want of honor there: Nan is not the girl to encourage a fellow to take liberties."

"Oh, indeed!" sneered Mr. Mayne; but he listened attentively for all that. And his gloomy eyebrows relaxed in the darkness. The girl was not behaving so badly, after all.

"So we said good-bye," continued d.i.c.k, keeping the latter part of the interview to himself; "and in October I shall go back for the term, as I promised. We can settle about the other things after Christmas."

"Oh, yes, we can talk about that by and by," replied his father, hastily; and then he waxed cheerful all at once, and called his son's attention to some new houses they were building. "After all, Hadleigh is not such a bad little place," he observed; "and they gave us a very good dinner at the hotel. It is not every one who can cook fish like that." And then d.i.c.k knew that the storm had blown over for the present, and that his father intended to make himself pleasant and ignore all troublesome topics.

d.i.c.k was a little tired when he went to bed; but, on the whole, he was not unhappy. It was quite true that the idea of a City life was repugnant to him, but the thought of Nan sweetened even that. Nothing else remained to him if his father chose to be disagreeable and withdraw his allowance, or threaten to cut him off with a shilling, as other fellows' fathers did in novels.

"It is uncommonly unpleasant, having to wage war with one's own father," thought d.i.c.k, as he laid his sandy head on the pillow. "He is such an old trump, too, that it goes against the grain. But when it comes to his wanting to choose a wife for me, it is too much of a good thing: it is tyranny fit for the Middle Ages. Let him threaten if he likes. He will find I shall take his threats in earnest. After Christmas I will have it out with him again; and if he will not listen to reason, I will go up to Mr. James Stanfield myself, and then he will see that I mean what I say. Heigho! I am not such a lucky fellow as Hamilton always thinks me." And at this juncture of his sad cogitations d.i.c.k forgot all about it, and fell asleep.

Yes, d.i.c.k slept the sleep of the just. It was Mr. Drummond who was wakeful and uneasy that night. A vague sense of something wrong tormented him waking and sleeping.

Who was that sandy-headed young fellow who had been twice to the Friary that day. What business had he to be shutting the gate after him in that free-and-easy way at ten o'clock at night? He must find it out somehow; he must make an excuse for calling there, and put the question as indifferently as he could; but even when he made up his mind to pursue this course, Archie felt just as restless as ever.

He made his way to the cottage as early as possible. Phillis, who was alone in the work-room, colored a little as she saw him coming in at the gate. He came so often, he was so kind, so attentive to them all, and yet she had a dim doubt in her mind that troubled her at times.

Was it for Nan's sake that he came? Could she speak and undeceive him before things went too far with him? Yes, when the opportunity offered, she thought she could speak, even though the speaking would be painful to her.

Mr. Drummond looked round the room with a disappointed air as he entered, and then he came up to Phillis.

"You are alone?" he said, with a regretful accent in his voice; at least Phillis fancied she detected it. "How is that? Are your sisters out, or busy?"

"Oh, we are always busy," returned Phillis, lightly; but, curiously enough, she felt a little sore at his tone. "Nan has gone down to Albert Terrace to take a fresh order, and Dulce is in the town somewhere with mother. Don't you mean to sit down, Mr. Drummond? or is your business with mother? She will not be back just yet, but I could give her any message." Phillis said this as she st.i.tched away with energy; but one quick glance had shown her that Mr. Drummond was looking irresolute and ill at ease as he stood beside her.

"Thank you, but I must not stay and hinder you. Yes, my business was with your mother; but it is of no consequence, and I can call again."

Nevertheless, he sat down and deposited his felt hat awkwardly enough on the table. He liked Phillis, but he was a little afraid of her; she was shrewd, and seemed to have the knack of reading one's thoughts. He was wondering how he should bring his question on the _tapis_; but Phillis, by some marvellous intuition that really surprised her, had already come to the conclusion that this visit meant something. He had seen d.i.c.k; perhaps he wanted to find out all about him. Certainly he was not quite himself to-day. Yes, that must be what he wanted.

Phillis's kind heart and mother-wit were always ready for an emergency.

"How full Hadleigh is getting!" she remarked, pleasantly, as she adjusted the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g of a sleeve. "Do you know some old neighbors of ours from Oldfield turned up unexpectedly yesterday? They are going away to-day, though," she added, with a little regret in her voice.

Archie brightened up visibly at this.

"Oh, indeed!" he observed, with alacrity. "Not a very long visit.

Perhaps they came down purposely to see you?"

"Yes, of course," returned Phillis, confusedly. "They had intended staying some days at the hotel, but Mr. Mayne suddenly changed his mind, much to our and d.i.c.k's disappointment; but it could not be helped."

"d.i.c.k," echoed Archie, a little surprised at this familiarity and then he added, somewhat awkwardly, "I think I saw the young man and his father at the Library yesterday; and last night as I was coming from the station I encountered him again at your gate."

"Yes, that was d.i.c.k," answered Phillis, stooping a little over her work. "He is not handsome, poor fellow! but he is as nice as possible.

They live at Longmead; that is next door to our dear old Glen Cottage, and the gardens adjoin. We call him d.i.c.k because we have known him all our lives, and he has been a sort of brother to us."

"Oh, yes, I see," drawled Archie, slowly. "That sort of thing is very nice when you have not a man belonging to you. It is a little awkward sometimes, for people do not always see this sort of relationship. He seemed a nice sort of fellow, I should say," he continued, in his patronizing way, stroking his beard complacently. After all, the sandy-headed youth was no possible rival.