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NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS
BY
ROSA N. CAREY
AUTHOR OF
"Aunt Diana," "Averil," "Lover or Friend," "Merle's Crusade,"
"Esther," "Mary St. John," "Queenie's Whim," "We Wifie," Etc., Etc.
CHICAGO
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
407-429 Dearborn Street
[Illustration]
M.A. DONOHUE & CO.
CHICAGO.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Five-o'clock Tea. 7
II. Dick objects to the Mountains. 14
III. Mr. Mayne makes Himself Disagreeable. 22
IV. Dick's Fête. 28
V. "I am Quite Sure of Him." 35
VI. Mr. Trinder's Visit. 41
VII. Phillis's Catechism. 48
VIII. "We should have to carry Parcels." 55
IX. A Long Day. 62
X. The Friary. 68
XI. "Tell us all about it, Nan." 77
XII. "Laddie" puts in an Appearance. 85
XIII. "I must have Grace." 91
XIV. "You can dare to tell me These Things." 99
XV. A Van in the Braidwood Road. 108
XVI. A Visit to the White House. 118
XVII. "A Friend in Need." 124
XVIII. Dorothy brings in the Best China. 132
XIX. Archie is in a Bad Humor. 139
XX. "You are Romantic." 147
XXI. Breaking the Peace. 154
XXII. "Trimmings, not Squails." 162
XXIII. "Bravo, Atalanta!" 167
XXIV. Mothers are Mothers. 174
XXV. Mattie's New Dress. 181
XXVI. "Oh, You are Proud!" 189
XXVII. A Dark Hour. 196
XXVIII. The Mysterious Stranger. 202
XXIX. Mrs. Williams's Lodger. 210
XXX. "Now we understand Each Other." 219
XXXI. Dick thinks of the City. 226
XXXII. "Dick is to be our Real Brother." 232
XXXIII. "This is Life and Death to Me." 240
XXXIV. Miss Mewlstone has an Interruption. 248
XXXV. "Barby, don't You recollect Me?" 255
XXXVI. Motes in the Sunshine. 262
XXXVII. "A Man has a Right to His Own Thoughts." 268
XXXVIII. About Nothing Particular. 277
XXXIX. "How do you do, Aunt Catherine?" 283
XL. Alcides. 292
XLI. Sir Harry Bides his Time. 299
XLII. "Come, now, I call that Hard." 307
XLIII. "I will write no such Letter." 315
XLIV. Mr. Mayne orders a Basin of Gruel. 321
XLV. An Uninvited Guest. 328
XLVI. A New Invasion of the Goths. 336
XLVII. "It was so Good of You to ask me Here." 343
XLVIII. Mrs. Sparsit's Poodle. 349
XLIX. Mattie in a New Character. 356
L. Phillis's Favorite Month. 362
NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS
CHAPTER I.
FIVE-O'CLOCK TEA.
Five-o'clock tea was a great institution in Oldfield.
It was a form of refreshment to which the female inhabitants of that
delightful place were strongly addicted. In vain did Dr. Weatherby,
the great authority in all that concerned the health of the
neighborhood, lift up his voice against the mild feminine
dram-drinking of these modern days, denouncing it in no measured
terms: the ladies of Oldfield listened incredulously, and, softly
quoting Cowper's lines as to the "cup that cheers and not inebriates,"
still presided over their dainty little tea-tables, and vied with one
another in the beauty of their china and the flavor of their
highly-scented Pekoe.
In spite of Dr. Weatherby's sneers and innuendoes, a great deal of
valuable time was spent in lingering in one or another of the pleasant
drawing-rooms of the place. As the magic hour approached, people
dropped in casually. The elder ladies sipped their tea and gossiped
softly; the younger ones, if it were summer-time, strolled out through
the open windows into the garden. Most of the houses had
tennis-grounds, and it was quite an understood thing that a game
should be played before they separated.
With some few exceptions, the inhabitants of Oldfield were wealthy
people. Handsome houses standing in their own grounds were dotted here
and there among the lanes and country roads. Some of the big houses
belonged to very big people indeed; but these were aristocrats who
only lived in their country houses a few months in the year, and whose
presence added more to the dignity than to the hilarity of the
neighborhood.
With these exceptions, the Oldfield people were highly gregarious and
hospitable; in spite of a few peculiarities, they had their good
points; a great deal of gossip prevailed, but it was in the main
harmless and good-natured. There was a wonderful simplicity of dress,
too, which in these days might be termed a cardinal virtue. The girls
wore their fresh cambrics and plain straw hats: no one seemed to
think it necessary to put on smart clothing when they wished to visit
their friends. People said this Arcadian simplicity was just as
studied: nevertheless, it showed perfection of taste and a just
appreciation of things.
The house that was considered the most attractive in Oldfield, and
where, on summer afternoons, the sound of youthful voices and laughter
were the loudest, was Glen Cottage, a small white house adjoining the
long village street, belonging to a certain Mrs. Challoner, who lived
here with her three daughters.
This may be accounted strange in the first instance, since the
Challoners were people of the most limited income,--an income so small
that nothing but the most modest of entertainments could be furnished
to their friends; very different from their neighbors at Longmead, the
large white house adjoining, where sumptuous dinners and regular
evening parties were given in the dark days when pleasures were few
and tennis impossible.
People said it was very good-natured of the Maynes; but then when
there is an only child in the case, an honest, pleasure-loving, gay
young fellow, on whom his parents dote, what is it they will not do to
please their own flesh and blood? and, as young Richard Mayne--or
Dick, as he was always called--loved all such festive gatherings, Mrs.
Mayne loved them too; and her husband tried to persuade himself that
his tastes lay in the same direction, only reserving certain groans
for private use, that Dick could not be happy without a houseful of
young people.
But no such entertainments were possible at Glen Cottage:
nevertheless, the youth of the neighborhood flocked eagerly into the
pleasant drawing-room where Mrs. Challoner sat tranquilly summer and
winter to welcome her friends, or betook themselves through the open
French windows into the old-fashioned garden, in which mother and
daughters took such pride.
On hot afternoons the tea-table was spread under an acacia-tree, low
wicker-chairs were brought out, and rugs spread on the lawn, and Nan
and her sisters dispensed strawberries and cream, with the delicious
home-made bread and butter; while Mrs. Challoner sat among a few
chosen spirits knitting and talking in her pleasant low-toned voice,
quite content that the burden of responsibility should rest upon her
daughters.
Mrs. Challoner always smiled when people told her that she ought to be
proud of her girls. No daughters were ever so much to their mother as
hers; she simply lived in and for them; she saw with their eyes,
thought with their thoughts,--was hardly herself at all, but Nan and
Phillis and Dulce, each by turns.
Long ago they had grown up to her growth. Mrs. Challoner's nature was
hardly a self-sufficing one. During her husband's lifetime she had
been braced by his influence and cheered by his example, and had
sought to guide her children according to his directions; in a word,
his manly strength had so supported her that no one, not even her
shrewd young daughters, guessed at the interior weakness.
When her stay was removed, Mrs. Challoner ceased to guide, and came
down to her children's level. She was more like their sister than
their mother, people said; and yet no mother was more cherished than
she.
Her very weakness made her sacred in her daughters' eyes; her
widowhood, and a certain failure of health, made her the subject of
their choicest care.
It could not be said that there was much amiss, but years ago a doctor
whom Mrs. Challoner had consulted had looked grave, and mentioned the
name of a disease of which certain symptoms reminded him. There was no
ground for present apprehension; the whole thing was very shadowy and
unsubstantial,--a mere hint,--a question of care; nevertheless the
word had been said, and the mischief done.
From that time Mrs. Challoner was wont to speak gloomily of her
health, as of one doomed. She was by nature languid and lymphatic, but
now her languor increased; always averse to effort, she now left all
action to her daughters. It was they who decided and regulated the
affairs of their modest household, and rarely were such wise young
rulers to be found in girls of their age. Mrs. Challoner merely
acquiesced, for in Glen Cottage there was seldom a dissentient voice,
unless it were that of Dorothy, who had been Dulce's nurse, and took
upon herself the airs of an old servant who could not be replaced.
They were all pretty girls, the three Misses Challoner, but Nan was
_par excellence_ the prettiest. No one could deny that fact who saw
them together. Her features were more regular than her sisters', and
her color more transparent. She was tall too, and her figure had a
certain willowy grace that was most uncommon; but what attracted
people most was a frankness and unconsciousness of manner that was
perfectly charming.
Phillis, the second sister, was not absolutely pretty, perhaps, but
she was nice-looking, and there was something in her expression that
made people say she was clever; she could talk on occasions with a
fluency that was quite surprising, and that would cast Nan into the
shade. "If I were only as clever as Phillis!" Nan would sigh.
Then there was Dulce, who was only just eighteen, and whom her sisters
treated as the family pet; who was light and small and nimble in her
movements, and looked even younger than she really was.
Nobody ever noticed if Dulce were pretty; and one questioned if her
features were regular or not, or cared to do such a thing. Only when
she smiled, the prettiest dimple came into her cheek, and her eyes had
a fearless child-like look in them; for the rest, she was just Dulce.
The good-looking daughters of a good-looking mother, as somebody
called them; and there was no denying Mrs. Challoner was still
wonderfully well preserved, and, in spite of her languor and invalid
airs, a very pretty woman.
Five-o'clock tea had long been over at the cottage this afternoon, and
a somewhat lengthy game of tennis had followed; after which the
visitors had dispersed as usual, and the girls had come in to prepare
for the half-past seven-o'clock dinner; for Glen Cottage followed the
fashion of its richer neighbors, and set out its frugal meal with a
proper accompaniment of flower-vases and evening toilet.
The three sisters came up the lawn together, but Nan carried her
racquet a little languidly; she looked a trifle grave.
Mrs. Challoner laid down her knitting and looked at them, and then she
regarded her watch plaintively.
"Is it late, mother?" asked Nan, who never missed any of her mother's
movements. "Ten minutes past seven! No wonder the afternoon seemed
long."
"No one found it long but Nan," observed Dulce, with an arch glance at
her sister at which Nan slightly colored, but took no further notice.
"By the bye," she continued, as though struck by a sudden
recollection, "what can have become of Dick this afternoon? he so
seldom fails us without telling us beforehand."
"That will soon be explained," observed Phillis, oracularly, as the
gate-bell sounded, and was immediately followed by sharp footsteps on
the gravel and the unceremonious entrance of a young man through the
open window.
"Better late than never," exclaimed two of the girls. Nan said, "Why,
what has made you play truant, Dick?" in a slightly injured voice. But
Mrs. Challoner merely smiled at him, and said nothing; young men were
her natural enemies, and she knew it. She was civil to them and
endured their company, and that was all.
Dick Mayne was not a formidable-looking individual; he was a strong,
thick-set young fellow, with broad shoulders, not much above middle
height, and decidedly plain, except in his mother's eyes; and she
thought even Dick's sandy hair beautiful.
But in spite of his plainness he was a pleasant, well-bred young
fellow, with a fund of good humor and drollery, and a pair of honest
eyes that people learned to trust. Every one liked him, and no one
ever said a word in his dispraise; and for the rest, he could
tyrannize as royally as any other young man who is his family's sole
blessing.
"It was all my ill luck," grumbled Dick. "Trevanion of Exeter came
over to our place, and of course the mater pressed him to stay for
luncheon, and then nothing would do but a long walk over Hillberry
Downs."
"Why did you not bring him here?" interrupted Dulce, with a pout. "You
tiresome Dick, when you must know what a godsend a strange young man
is in these wilds!"
"My dear!" reproved her mother.
"Oh, but it is true, mamma," persisted the outspoken Dulce. "Think how
pleased Carrie and Sophy Paine would have been at the sight of a fresh
face! it was horrid of you, sir!"
"I wanted him to come," returned the young man, in a deprecating
voice. "I told him how awfully jolly it always is here, and that he
would be sure to meet a lot of nice people, but there was no
persuading him: he wanted a walk and a talk about our fellows. That is
the worst of Trevanion, he always will have his own way."
"Never mind," returned Nan, pleasantly; she seemed to have recovered
her sprightliness all at once. "It is very good of you to come so
often; and we had Mr. Parker and his cousin to look after the
Paines."
"Oh, yes! we did very well," observed Phillis, tranquilly. "Mother,
now Dick has come so late, he had better stay."
"If I only may do so?" returned Dick; but his inquiry was directed to
Nan.
"Oh, yes, you may stay," she remarked, carelessly, as she moved away;
but there was a little pleased smile on her face that he failed to
see. She nodded pleasantly to him as he darted forward to open the
door. It was Nan who always dispensed the hospitalities of the house,
whose decision was unalterable. Dick had learned what it was to be
sent about his business; only once had he dared to remain without her
sovereign permission, and on that occasion he had been treated by her
with such dignified politeness that he would rather have been sent to
Coventry.
This evening the fates were propitious, and Dick understood that the
sceptre of favor was to be extended to him. When the girls had flitted
into the little dusky hall he closed the door, and sat down happily
bedside Mrs. Challoner, to whom he descanted eloquently of the
beauties of Hilberry and the virtues of Ned Trevanion.
Mrs. Challoner listened placidly as the knitting-needles flashed
between her long white fingers. She was very fond of Dick, after her
temperate fashion; she had known him from a child, and had seen him
grow up among them until he had become like a son of the house. Dick,
who had no brothers and sisters of his own, and whose parents had not
married until they were long past youth, had adopted brotherly airs
with the Challoner girls; they called each other by their Christian
names, and he reposed in them the confidences that young men are wont
to give to their belongings.
With Nan this easy familiarity had of late merged into something
different: a reserve, a timidity, a subtile suspicion of change had
crept into their intimacy. Nan felt that Dick's manner had altered,
but somehow she liked it better: his was always a sweet bountiful
nature, but now it seemed to have deepened into greater manliness.
Dick was growing older; Oxford training was polishing him. After each
one of his brief absences Nan saw a greater change, a more marked
deference, and secretly hoped that no one else noticed it. When the
young undergraduate wrote dutiful letters home the longest messages
were always for Nan; when he carried little offerings of flowers to
his young neighbors, Nan's bouquet was always the choicest; he
distinguished her, too, on all occasions by those small nameless
attentions which never fail to please.
Nan kept her own counsel, and never spoke of these things. She said
openly that Dick was very nice and very much improved, and that they
always missed him sadly during the Oxford terms; but she never
breathed a syllable that might make people suspect that this very
ordinary young man with the sandy hair was more to her than other
young men. Nevertheless Phillis and Dulce knew that such was the case,
and Mrs. Challoner understood that the most dangerous enemy to her
peace was this lively-spoken Dick.
Dick was very amusing, for he was an eloquent young fellow:
nevertheless Mrs. Challoner sighed more than once, and her attention
visibly wandered; seeing which, Dick good-humoredly left off talking,
and began inspecting the different articles in Nan's work-basket.
"I am afraid I have given your mother a headache," he said when they
were sitting round the circular table in the low, oddly-shaped
dining-room. There was a corner cut off, and the windows were in
unexpected places, which made it unlike other rooms; but Dick loved it
better than the great dining-room at Longmead; and somehow it never
had looked cosier to him than it did this evening. It was somewhat
dark, owing to the shade of the veranda: so the lamp was lighted, and
the pleasant scent of roses and lilies came through the open windows.
A belated wasp hovered round the specimen glasses that Nan had filled;
Dick tried to make havoc of the enemy with his table-napkin. The
girls' white dresses suited their fresh young faces. Nan had fastened
a crimson rose in her gown; Phillis and Dulce had knots of blue
ribbon. "Trevanion does not know what he lost by his obstinacy,"
thought Dick, as he glanced round the table.
"What were you and the mother discussing?" asked Dulce, curiously.
"Dick was telling me about his friend. He seemed a very superior young
man," returned Mrs. Challoner. "I suppose you have asked him for your
party next week?"
Dick turned very red at this question. "Mater asked him, you may trust
her for that. If it were not for father, I think she would turn the
whole house out of the windows: every day some one fresh is invited."
"How delightful! and all in your honor," exclaimed Dulce,
mischievously.
"That spoils the whole thing," grumbled the heir of the Maynes: "it
is a perfect shame that a fellow cannot come of age quietly, without
his people making this fuss. I begin to think I was a fool for my
pains to refuse the ball."
"Yes, indeed; just because you were afraid of the supper speeches,"
laughed Dulce, "when we all wanted it so."
"New mind," returned Dick, sturdily; "the mater shall give us one in
the winter, and we will have Godfrey's band, and I will get all our
fellows to come."
"That will be delightful," observed Nan, and her eyes sparkled,--already
she saw herself led out for the first dance by the son of the house,--but
Dulce interrupted her:
"But all the same I wish Dick had not been so stupid about it. No one
knows what may happen before the winter. I hate put-off things."
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,--eh, Miss Dulce?"
"Yes, indeed; that proverb is truer than people think," she replied,
with a wise nod of her head. "Don't you remember, Nan, when the
Parkers' dance was put off, and then old Mr. Parker died; and nearly
the same thing happened with the Normatons, only it was an uncle in
that case."
"Moral: never put off a dance, in case somebody dies."
"Oh, hush, please!" groaned Nan, in a shocked voice; "I don't like to
hear you talk about such dreadful things. After all, it is such
delicious weather that I am not sure a garden-party will not be more
enjoyable; and you know, Dulce, that we are to dance on the lawn if we
like."
"And supposing it should rain," put in that extremely troublesome
young person, at which suggestion Dick looked very gloomy.
"In that case I think we must persuade Mrs. Mayne to clear a room for
us," returned Nan, cheerfully. "If your mother consults me," she
continued, addressing Dick, who visibly brightened at this, "I shall
recommend her to empty the front drawing-room as much as possible.
There is the grand piano, or the band might come in-doors; there will
be plenty of room for the young people, and the non-dancers can be
drafted off into the inner drawing-room and conservatory."
"What a head you have!" exclaimed Dick, admiringly; and Phillis, who
had not joined in the argument, was pleased to observe that she was
quite of Nan's opinion: dancing was imperative, and if the lawns were
wet they must manage in-doors somehow. "It would never do for people
to be bored and listless," finished the young lady, sententiously, and
such was Phillis's cleverness that it was understood at once that the
oracle had spoken; but then it was never known for Nan and Phillis to
differ.
Things being thus amicably arranged, the rest of the conversation
flowed evenly on every other point, such as the arrangements of the
tennis-matches in the large meadow, and the exact position of the
marquees; but just as they were leaving the table Dick said another
word to Nan in a somewhat low voice:
"It is all very well, but this sort of thing does make a fellow feel
such a conceited fool."
"If I were you I would not think about it at all," she returned, in
her sensible way. "The neighborhood will expect something of the kind,
and we owe a little to other people; then it pleases your mother to
make a fuss, as you call it, and it would be too ungrateful to
disappoint her."
"Well, perhaps you are right," he returned, in a slightly mollified
tone, for he was a modest young fellow, and the whole business had
occasioned him some soreness of spirit. "Take it all in all, one has
an awful lot to go through in life: there are the measles, you know,
and whooping cough, and the dentist, and one's examination, and no end
of unpleasant things; but to be made by one's own mother to feel like
an idiot for a whole afternoon! Never mind; it can be got through
somehow," finished the young philosopher, with a sigh that sent Nan
into a fit of laughter.