"LADDIE" PUTS IN AN APPEARANCE.
"I think we have managed that as well as possible!" exclaimed Phillis,
when they found themselves outside the gates. "What a good thing
Adelaide and Mrs. Forbes and Lily were there! Now we need only call at
those three houses to say good-bye. How hot you look, Nan! and how
they all hemmed you in! I was obliged to come to your rescue, you were
so beset; but I think I have put them off the scent."
"Yes, for the present; but think, Phil, if Carrie really carries out
her intention, and all the Paine tribe and Adelaide come down to
Hadleigh next summer! No wonder I am hot; the bare idea suffocates
me."
"Something may turn up before then; it is no good looking so far
ahead," was the philosophical rejoinder. "Adelaide is rather
formidable, certainly, and, in spite of her good nature, one does not
feel at home with her. There is a flavor of money about her, I think;
she dresses, talks, and lives in such a gilded way one finds her
heavy; but she may get married before then. Mr. Dalrymple certainly
seemed to mean it when he was down here last winter, and he will be a
good match for her. But here we are at Fitzroy Square. I wonder what
sort of humor her ladyship will be in?"
Lady Fitzroy received them very graciously. She had just been
indulging in a slight dispute with her husband, and the interruption
was welcome to both of them; besides, she was always gracious to the
Challoners.
"You have just come in time, for we were boring each other
dreadfully," she said, in her pretty languid way, holding out a hand
to each of them. "Percival, will you ring the bell, please? I cannot
think why Thorpe does not bring up the tea as usual!"
Lord Fitzroy obeyed his wife's behest, and then he turned with a
relieved air to his old friend Phillis. She was the clever one; and
though some people called her quiet, that was because they did not
draw her out, or she had no sympathy with them. He had always found
her decidedly amusing and agreeable in the days of his bachelorhood.
He had married the beauty of a season, but the beauty was not without
her little crotchets and tempers; and though he was both fond and
proud of his wife, he found Phillis's talk a relief this afternoon.
But Phillis was a little _distraite_ on this occasion: she wanted to
hear what Nan was saying in a low voice across the room, and Thorpe
and his subordinate were setting the tea-table, and Lord Fitzroy would
place himself just before her.
"Now look here, Miss Challoner," he was saying, "I want to tell you
all about it;" but here Thorpe left the room, and Lady Fitzroy
interrupted them:
"Oh, Percival, what a pity! Do you hear?--we are going to lose our
nicest neighbors? Dear little Glen Cottage is to be empty in a week or
so!"
"Mr. Ralph Ibbetson will decide to take it, I think; and he and Miss
Blake are to be married on the 16th of next month," returned Nan,
softly.
"Ibbetson at Glen Cottage! that red-headed fellow! My dear Miss
Challoner, what sacrilege!--what desecration! What do you mean by
forsaking us in this fashion? Are you all going to be married? Has Sir
Francis died and left you a fortune? In the name of all that is
mysterious, what is the meaning of this?"
"If you will let a person speak, Percival," returned his wife, with
dignity, "you shall have an answer:" and then she looked up in his
handsome, good-natured face, and her manner softened insensibly. "Poor
dear Mrs. Challoner has had losses! Some one has played her false, and
they are obliged to leave Glen Cottage. But Hadleigh is a nice place,"
she went on, turning to Nan: "it is very select."
"Where did you say, Evelyn?" inquired her husband, eagerly. "Hadleigh,
in Sussex? Oh, that is a snug little place; no Toms and Harries go
down there on a nine hours' trip. I was there myself once, with the
Shannontons. Perhaps Lady Fitzroy and I may run down one day and have
a look at you," he continued, with a friendly look at Phillis. It was
only one of his good-natured speeches, but his wife took umbrage at
it.
"The sea never agrees with me. I thought you knew that, Percival!"
rather reproachfully; "but I dare say we shall often see you here,"
she went on, fearing Nan would think her ungracious. "You and the
Paines are so intimate that they are sure to have you for weeks
together; it is so pleasant revisiting an old neighborhood, is it not?
I know I always feel that with regard to Nuneaton."
"Nuneaton never suits my constitution. I thought you would have
remembered that, Evelyn," returned her husband, gravely; and then they
both laughed. Lord Fitzroy was not without a sense of humor, and often
restored amity by a joking word after this fashion, and then the
conversation proceeded more smoothly.
Nan and Phillis felt far more at their ease here than they had felt at
the Paines'. There were no awkward questions asked: Lady Fitzroy was
far too well bred for that. If she wondered at all how the Challoners
were to live after they had lost their money, she kept such remarks
for her husband's private ear.
"Those girls ought to marry well," observed Lord Fitzroy, when he
found himself alone again with his wife. "Miss Challoner is as pretty
a creature as one need see, but Miss Phillis has the most in her."
"How are they to meet people if they are going to bury themselves in a
little sea-side place?" she returned, regretfully. "Shall I put on my
habit now, Percy? do you think it will be cool enough for our ride?"
"Yes, run along, my pet, and don't keep me too long waiting."
Nevertheless, Lord Fitzroy did not object when his wife made room for
him a moment beside her on the couch, while she made it up to him for
her cross speeches, as she told him.
"There, little mother, it is all done!" exclaimed Phillis, in a tone
of triumph, as later on in the afternoon they returned to the cottage;
but in spite of her bravado, both the girls looked terribly jaded, and
Nan especially seemed out of spirits; but then they had been round the
Longmead garden, and had gathered some flowers in the conservatory,
and this alone would have been depressing work to Nan.
From that time they lived in a perpetual whirl, a bustle of activity
that grew greater; and not less, from day to day. Mrs. Challoner had
quietly but decidedly refused the Paines' invitation. Nan was right;
nothing would have induced her to leave her girls in their trouble:
she made light of their discomfort, forgot her invalid airs, and
persisted in fatiguing herself to an alarming extent.
"You must let me do things; I should be wretched to sit with my hands
before me, and not help you," she said with tears in her eyes, and
when they appealed in desperation to Dorothy, she took her mistress's
side:
"Working hurts less than worrying. Don't you be fretting about the
mistress too much, or watching her too closely. It will do her no
harm, take my word for it." And Dorothy was right.
But there was one piece of work that Nan set her mother to do before
they left the cottage.
"Mother," she said to her one day when they were alone together. "Mrs.
Mayne will be wondering why you do not answer her letter. I think you
had better write, and tell her a little about things. We must not put
it off any longer, or she will be hurt with us." And Mrs. Challoner
very reluctantly set about her unpleasant task.
But, after all, it was Nan who furnished the greater part of the
composition. Mrs. Challoner was rather verbose and descriptive in her
style. Nan cut down her sentences ruthlessly, and so pruned and
simplified the whole epistle that her mother failed to trace her own
handiwork: and at the last she added a postscript in her own pretty
handwriting.
Mrs. Challoner was rather dissatisfied with the whole thing.
"You have said so little, Nan! Mrs. Mayne will be quite affronted at
our reticence."
"What is the use of harrowing people's feelings?" was Nan's response.
It was quite true she had dwelt as little as possible on their
troubles.
The few opening sentences had related solely to their friends'
affairs.
"You will be sorry to hear," Mrs. Challoner wrote after this, "that I
have met with some severe losses. I dare say Mr. Mayne will remember
that my poor husband invested our little income in the business of his
cousin, Mark Gardiner. We have just heard the unwelcome news that
Gardiner & Fowler have failed for a large amount. Under these
circumstances, we think it more prudent to leave Glen Cottage as soon
as possible, and settle at Hadleigh, where we have a small house
belonging to us called the Friary. Fortunately for us, Mr. Trinder has
found us a tenant, who will take the remainder of the lease off our
hands. Do you remember Mr. Ralph Ibbetson, the Paines' cousin, that
rather heavy-looking young man, with reddish hair, who was engaged to
that pretty Miss Blake?--well, he has taken Glen Cottage; and I hope
you will find them nice neighbors. Tell Dick he must not be too sorry
to miss his old friends, but of course you will understand this is a
sad break to us. Settling down in a new place is never very pleasant;
and as my girls will have to help themselves, and we shall all have to
learn to do without things, it will be somewhat of a discipline to us;
but as long as we are together, we all feel, such difficulties can be
easily borne.
"Tell Mr. Mayne that, if I had foreseen how things were to turn out, I
would have conquered my indisposition, and not have forfeited my last
evening at Longmead."
And in the postscript Nan wrote hurriedly,--
"You must not be too sorry for us, dear Mrs. Mayne, for mother is as
brave as possible, and we are all determined to make the best of
things.
"Of course it is very sad leaving dear Glen Cottage, where we have
spent such happy, happy days; but, though the Friary is small, we
shall make it very comfortable. Tell Dick the garden is a perfect
wilderness at present, and that there are no roses,--only a splendid
passion-flower that covers the whole back of the house."
Nan never knew why she wrote this. Was it to remind him vaguely that
the time of roses was over, and that from this day things would be
different with them?
Nan was quite satisfied when she had despatched this letter. It told
just enough, and not too much. It sorely perplexed and troubled Dick;
and yet neither he nor his father had the least idea how things really
were with the Challoners.
"Didn't I tell you so, Bessie?" exclaimed Mr. Mayne, almost in a voice
of triumph, as he struck his hand upon the letter. "Paine was right
when he spoke of a shaky investment. That comes of women pretending to
understand business. A pretty mess they seem to have made of it!"
"Mother," said poor Dick, coming up to her when he found himself alone
with her for a moment, "I don't understand this letter. I cannot read
between the lines, somehow, and yet there seems something more than
meets the eye."
"I am sure it is bad enough," returned Mrs. Mayne, who had been
quietly crying over Nan's postscript. "Think of them leaving Glen
Cottage, and of these poor dear girls having to make themselves
useful!"
"It is just that that bothers me so," replied Dick, with a frowning
brow. "The letter tells us so little; it is so constrained in tone; as
though they were keeping something from us. Of course they have
something to live upon, but I am afraid it is very little."
"Very likely they will only have one servant,--just Dorothy and no one
else; and the girls will have to help in the house," returned his
mother, thoughtfully. "That will not do them any harm, Dick: it always
improves girls to make them useful. I dare say the Friary is a very
small place, and then I am sure, with a little help, Dorothy will do
very well."
"But, mother," pleaded Dick, who was somewhat comforted by this
sensible view of the matter, "do write to Nan or Phillis and beg of
them to give us fuller particulars." And, though Mrs. Mayne promised
she would do so, and kept her word, Dick was not satisfied, but sat
down and scrawled a long letter to Mrs. Challoner, so incoherent in
its expressions of sympathy and regret that it quite mystified her;
but Nan thought it perfect, and took possession of it, and read it
every day, until it got quite thin and worn. One sentence especially
pleased her. "I don't intend ever to cross the threshold of the
cottage again," wrote Dick: "in fact, Oldfield will be hateful without
you all. Of course I shall run down to Hadleigh at Christmas and look
you up, and see for myself what sort of a place the Friary is. Tell
Nan I will get her lots of roses for her garden so she need not
trouble about that; and give them my love, and tell them how awfully
sorry I am about it all."
Poor Dick! the news of his friends' misfortunes took off the edge of
his enjoyment for a long time. Thanks to Nan's unselfishness, he did
not in the least realize the true state of affairs; nevertheless, his
honest heart was heavy at the thought of the empty cottage, and he was
quite right in saying Oldfield had grown suddenly hateful to him, and,
though he kept these thoughts to himself as much as possible, Mr.
Mayne saw that his son was depressed and ill at ease, and sent him
away to the Swiss Tyrol, with a gay party of young people, hoping a
few weeks' change would put the Challoners out of his head. Meanwhile
Nan and her sisters worked busily, and their friends crowded round
them, helping or hindering, according to their nature.
On the last afternoon there was a regular invasion of the cottage. The
drawing-room carpet was up, and the room was full of packing-cases.
Carrie Paine had taken possession of one and her sister Sophy and Lily
Twentyman had a turned-up box between them. Miss Sartoris and Gussie
Scobell had wicker chairs. Dorothy had just brought in tea, and had
placed before Nan a heterogeneous assemblage of kitchen cups and
saucers, mugs, and odds and ends of crockery, when Lady Fitzroy
entered in her habit, accompanied by her sister, the Honorable Maud
Burgoyne, both of whom seemed to enjoy the picnic excessively.
"Do let me have the mug," implored Miss Burgoyne: she was a pretty
little brunette with a _nez retrousse_. "I have never drunk out of one
since my nursery days. How cool it is, after the sunny roads! I think
carpets ought to be abolished in the summer. When I have a house of my
own, Evelyn, I mean to have Indian matting and nothing else in the
warm weather."
"I am very fond of Indian matting," returned her sister, sipping her
tea contentedly. "Fitzroy hoped to have looked in this afternoon, Mrs.
Challoner, to say good-bye, but there is an assault-at-arms at the
Albert Hall, and he is taking my young brother Algernon to see it. He
is quite inconsolable at the thought of losing such pleasant
neighbors, and sent all sorts of pretty messages," finished Lady
Fitzroy, graciously.
"Here is Edgar," exclaimed Carrie Paine; "he told us that he meant to
put in an appearance; but I am afraid the poor boy will find himself
_de trop_ among so many ladies."
Edgar was the youngest Paine,--a tall Eton boy, who looked as though
he would soon be too big for jackets, and an especial friend of
Nan's.
"How good of you to come and say good-bye, Gar!" she said summoning
him to her side, as the boy looked round him blushing and half
terrified. "What have you got there under your jacket?"
"It is the puppy I promised you," returned Edgar, eagerly; "don't you
know?--Nell's puppy? Father said I might have it." And he deposited a
fat black retriever puppy at Nan's feet. The little beast made a
clumsy rush at her and then rolled over on its back. Nan took it up
in high delight, and showed it to her mother.
"Isn't it good of Gar, mother? and when we all wanted a dog so! We
have never had a pet since poor old Juno died; and this will be such a
splendid fellow when he grows up. Look at his head and curly black
paws; and what a dear solemn face he has got!"
"I am glad you like him," replied Edgar, who was now perfectly at his
ease. "We have christened him 'Laddie:' he is the handsomest puppy of
the lot, and our man Jake says he is perfectly healthy." And then, as
Nan cut him some cake, he proceeded to enlighten her on the treatment
of this valuable animal.
The arrival of "Laddie" made quite a diversion, and, when the
good-byes were all said, Nan took the little animal in her arms and
went with Phillis for the last time to gather flowers in the Longmead
garden, and when the twilight came on the three girls went slowly
through the village, bidding farewell to their old haunts.
It was all very sad, and nobody slept much that night in the cottage.
Nan's tears were shed very quietly, but they fell thick and fast.
"Oh, Dick, it is hard--hard!" thought the poor girl, burying her face
in the pillow; "but I have not let you know the day, so you will not
be thinking of us. I would not pain you for worlds, Dick, not more
than I can help." And then she dried her eyes and told herself that
she must be brave for all their sakes to-morrow; but, for all her good
resolutions, sleep would not come to her any more than it did to
Phillis, who lay open-eyed and miserable until morning.