"DICK IS TO BE OUR REAL BROTHER."
Never was a father more devoted to his son's company than Mr. Mayne
was that day. Dick's cigar was hardly alight before his father had
joined him. When Dick grew weary of throwing stones aimlessly at
imaginary objects, and voted the beach slow, Mr. Mayne proposed a walk
with alacrity. They dined together,--not talking much, it is true, for
Dick was still sulky, and his father tired and inclined to headache,
but keeping up a show of conversation for the waiter's benefit. But
when that functionary had retired, and the wine was on the table,
Dick made no further effort to be agreeable, but placed himself in the
window-seat and stared moodily at the sea, while his father watched
him and drank his wine in silence.
Mr. Mayne was fighting against drowsiness valiantly.
Dick knew this, and was waiting for an opportunity to make his
escape.
"Had we not better ring for lights and coffee?" asked his father, as
he felt the first ominous sensations stealing over him.
"Not just yet. I feel rather disposed for a nap myself; and it is a
shame to shut out the moonlight," returned that wicked Dick, calling
up a fib to his aid, and closing his eyes as he spoke.
The bait took. In another five minutes Mr. Mayne was nodding in
earnest, and Dick on tiptoe had just softly closed the door behind
him, and was taking his straw hat from its peg.
Nan was walking up and down the little dark lawn, feeling restless and
out of sorts after the agitation of the morning, when she heard a low
whistle at the other side of the wall, and her heart felt suddenly as
light as a feather.
Dick saw her white gown as she came down the flagged path to the gate
to let him in. The moonlight seemed to light it up with a sort of
glory.
"You are a darling not to keep me waiting, for we have not a moment to
lose," he whispered, as she came up close to him. "He is asleep now,
but he will wake up as soon as he misses me. Have you expected me
before, Nan? But indeed I have not been left to myself a moment."
"Oh, I knew all about it, my poor Dick," she answered, looking at him
so softly. "Phillis is reading to mother in the parlor, and Dulce is
in the work-room. I have nowhere to ask you unless you come in and
talk to them. But mother is too upset to see you, I am afraid."
"Let us wait here," returned Dick, boldly. "No one can hear what we
say, and I must speak to you alone. No; I had better not see your
mother to-night, and the girls would be in the way. Shall you be
tired, dear, if you stand out here a moment talking to me? for I dare
not wait long."
"Oh, no, I shall not be tired," answered Nan gently. Tired, when she
had her own Dick near her!--when she could speak to him,--look at
him!
"All right; but it is my duty to look after you, now you belong to
me," returned Dick, proudly. "Whatever happens,--however long we may
be separated,--you must remember that--that you belong to me,--that
you will have to account to me if you do not take care of yourself."
Nan smiled happily at this, and then she said,--
"I have told mother all about it, and she is dreadfully distressed
about your father's anger. She cried so, and took his part, and said
she did not wonder that he would not listen to us; he would feel it
such a disgrace, his son wanting to marry a dressmaker. She made me
unhappy, too, when she put it all before me in that way," and here
Nan's face paled perceptibly in the moonlight, "for she made me see
how hard it is on him, and on your mother, too! Oh, Dick don't you
think you ought to listen to them, and not have anything more to do
with me?"
"Nan, I am shocked at you!"
"But, Dick!"
"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 Dick'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 Dick, 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.
"Dick! dear Dick!"
"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, Dick! how can you turn from me like this?" And Nan actually
began to sob in earnest, only Dick'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 Dick.
"Oh, that is what girls always say," returned Dick, 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 stitching away for other people. I want them to work for me:
do you understand, Nan?'" And Nan, of course, understood.
Dick, 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 circumstances, nothing
ought to be done to excite Mr. Mayne's wrath. Dick 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 Dick 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 Dick, 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!"
Dick's words were mysterious; but he very soon made his meaning
plain.
Nan said, "Oh, Dick!" but made no further protest. After all, whatever
Mr. Mayne and her mother said, they were engaged.
As Dick 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, sturdy form of Mr. Mayne was dimly visible in
the road.
Dick 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 Dick, 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 Dick'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 Dick
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 Dick, 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 Dick knew that the storm had blown over for the
present, and that his father intended to make himself pleasant and
ignore all troublesome topics.
Dick 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 Dick, 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 Dick forgot all about it, and fell asleep.
Yes, Dick 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 stitched 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 Dick; 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 trimming 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 Dick's disappointment; but it could not be
helped."
"Dick," 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 Dick," 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 Dick 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.
"Oh, Dick is ever so nice," answered Phillis, enthusiastically; "not
good enough for--" and then she stopped and broke her thread. "I am
glad we are so fond of him," she continued, rather hurriedly, "because
Dick is to be our real brother some day. He and Nan have cared for
each other all their lives, and, though Mr. Mayne is dreadfully angry
about it, they consider themselves as good as engaged, and mean to
live down his opposition. They came to an understanding yesterday,"
finished Phillis, who was determined to bring it all out.
"Oh, indeed!" returned Archie: "that must be a great relief, I am
sure. There is your little dog whining at the door; may I let him in?"
And, without waiting for an answer, Archie had darted out in pursuit
of Laddie, but not before Phillis's swift upward glance had shown her
a face that had grown perceptibly paler in the last few minutes.
"Oh, poor fellow! I was right!" thought Phillis, and the tears rushed
to her eyes. "It was best to speak. I see that now; and he will get
over it if he thinks no one knows it. How I wish I could help him! but
it will never do to show the least sympathy: I have no right." And
here Phillis sighed, and her gray eyes grew dark with pain for a
moment. Archie was rather a long time absent; and then he came back
with Laddie in his arms, and stood by the window.
"Your news has interested me very much," he said, and his voice was
quite steady. "I suppose, as this--this engagement is not public, I
had better not wish your sister joy, unless you do it for me."
"Oh, no; there is no need of that," returned Phillis, in a low voice.
"Mother might not like my mentioning it; but I thought you might
wonder about Dick, and----" here Phillis got confused.
"Thank you," replied Archie, quietly; but now he looked at her. "You
are very kind. Yes, it was best for me to know." And then, as Phillis
rose and gave him her hand, for he had taken up his hat as he spoke,
she read at once that her caution had been in vain,--that he had full
understanding why the news had been told to him, and to him only, and
that he was grateful to her for so telling him.
Poor Phillis! she had accomplished her task; and yet as the door
closed behind the young clergyman, two or three tears fell on her
work. He was not angry with her; on the contrary, he had thanked her,
and the grasp of his hand had been as cordial as ever. But, in spite
of the steadiness of his voice and look, the arrow had pierced between
the joints of his armor. He might not be fatally wounded,--that was
not in the girl's power to know; but that he was in some way
hurt,--made miserable with a man's misery,--of this she was acutely
sensible; and the strangest longing to comfort him--to tell him how
much she admired his fortitude--came over her, with a strong stinging
pain that surprised her.
Archie had the longest walk that day that he had ever had in his life.
He came in quite fagged and foot-sore to his dinner, and far too tired
to eat. Mattie told him he looked ill and worn out; but, though he
generally resented any such personal remarks, he merely told her very
gently that he was tired, and that he would like a cup of coffee in
his study, and not to be disturbed. And when she took in the coffee
presently, she found him buried in the depths of his easy-chair, and
evidently half asleep, and stole out of the room on tiptoe.
But his eyes opened very speedily as soon as the door closed upon her.
It was not sleep he wanted, but some moral strength to bear a pain
that threatened to be unendurable. How had that girl read his secret?
Surely he had not betrayed himself! Nan had not discovered it, for her
calmness and sweet unconsciousness had never varied in his presence.
Never for an instant had her changing color testified to the faintest
uneasiness. He understood the reason of her reserve now. Her thoughts
had been with this Dick; and here Archie groaned and hid his face.
Not mortally hurt, perhaps; but still the pain and the sense of loss
were very bitter to this young man, who had felt for weeks past that
his life was permeated by the sweetness and graciousness of Nan's
presence. How lovely she had seemed to him,--the ideal girl of his
dreams! It was love at first sight. He knew that now. His man's heart
had been set on the hope of winning her, and now she was lost to him.
Never for one moment had she belonged to him, or could belong to him.
"He and Nan have cared for each other all their lives,"--that was what
her sister had told him; and what remained but for him to stamp out
this craze and fever before it mastered him and robbed him of his
peace?
"I am not the only man who has had to suffer," thought Archie, as
hours after he stumbled up to bed in the darkness. "At least, it makes
it easier to know that no one shares my pain. These things are better
battled out alone. I could not bear even Grace's sympathy in this."
And yet as Archie said this to himself, he recalled without any
bitterness the half-tender, half pitying look in Phillis's eyes. "She
was sorry for me. She saw it all; and it was kind of her to tell me,"
thought the young man.
He had no idea that Phillis was at that moment whispering little
wistful prayers in the darkness that he might soon be comforted.
Who knows how many such prayers are flung out into the deep of God's
mercy,--comfort for such a one whom we would fain comfort ourselves;
feeble utterances and cries of pity; the stretching out of helpless
hands, which nevertheless may bring down blessings? But so it shall be
while men and women struggle and fall, and weep the tears common to
humanity, "until all eyes are dried in the clear light of eternity,
and the sorest heart shall then own the wisdom of the cross that had
been laid upon them."