"Why, that great big Sir Harry Challoner whom you introduced this morning! my dear Mattie, I am sure he could never be amusing. I was not greatly prepossessed with him."

"Mattie's geese are all swans. I don't think much of him myself,"

broke in Archie, in a satirical voice. "I like quality better than quant.i.ty. He is so big, I am sure his brains must suffer by comparison. Now, there is Frere."

"Oh, yes, we met Mr. Frere!" interrupted Grace, eagerly; "and Archie and he had such a talk: it was delightful only to listen to it. I liked his ideas on ecclesiastical architecture, Archie." And then followed an animated discussion between the sister and brother, about a book of Ruskin's that they had both been reading. Mattie tried to follow them; but she had not read Ruskin, and they soon left her miles behind; indeed, after the first few minutes they seemed to have forgotten her existence; but somehow Mattie did not feel so forlorn as usual.

"Come, now, I call that hard," a sympathizing voice seemed to say in her ear. Sir Harry's genial presence, his blunt, kindly speeches, had done Mattie good: he had called her Cinderella, and made the fire blaze for her, and had coaxed her in quite a brotherly manner to tell him her little troubles and Mattie felt very grateful to him.

So she stared into the fire wistful and happy, while the others talked over her head, and quite started when she heard her own name.

"We are forgetting Mattie; all this must be so dull for her," Grace was saying, as she touched her shoulder caressingly. "Come upstairs with me, dear: we can have a chat while we get ready for dinner. You must not let your friends make themselves so much at home, you extravagant child, for your fire is far too large for comfort;" but Mattie turned away from it reluctantly as she followed her sister out of the room.

CHAPTER XLIII.

"I WILL WRITE NO SUCH LETTER."

The new year had not opened very auspiciously at Longmead, neither had the Christmas festivities been great.

d.i.c.k on his first return home had put on a great appearance of cheerfulness, and had carried himself much as usual; but Mr. Mayne had been glum, decidedly glum, and Mrs. Mayne had found it difficult to adjust the balance of her sympathy between d.i.c.k's voluble quicksilver on the one hand, and her husband's dead weight of ill humor on the other.

The truth was, Mr. Mayne's sharp eyes had discerned from the first moment of his son's entrance into the house that there was no change in his purpose.

To an outsider, d.i.c.k's behavior to his father was as nice as possible.

He still kept up his old jokes, rallying him on his matutinal activity, and saying a word about the "early worm," "so bad for the worm, poor beggar," observed d.i.c.k. And he sauntered after him into the poultry-yard, and had a great deal to say about some Spanish fowls that had been lately imported into Longmead and that were great sources of pride to Mr. Mayne.

d.i.c.k paid a great deal of dutiful attention to his father's hobbies: he put on his thickest boots every day after luncheon, that his father might enjoy the long walks in which he delighted. d.i.c.k used to sally forth whistling to his dogs when they went down Sandy Lane; he was careful to pause where the four roads met, that Mr. Mayne might enjoy his favorite view. In all these things d.i.c.k's behavior was perfect.

Nevertheless, on their return from one of these walks they each had a secret grievance to pour into Mrs. Mayne's ear.

d.i.c.k's turn would come first.

"Mother," he would say, as he lounged into the room where she sat knitting by the firelight and thinking of her boy--for just now she was heart and soul on d.i.c.k's side--and full of yearning for the sweet girl whom he wanted for his wife, "I don't know how long this sort of thing is going on, but I don't think I can put up with it much longer."

"Have you not had a nice walk with your father?" she asked, anxiously.

"Oh, yes; the walk was well enough. We had some trouble with Vigo, though, for he startled a pheasant in Lord Fitzroy's preserve, and then he bolted after a hare. I had quite a difficulty in getting him to heel."

"These walks do your father so much good, d.i.c.k."

"That is what you always say; but I do not think I can stand many more of them. He will talk of everything but the one subject, and that he avoids like poison. I shall have to bring him to book directly, and then there will be no end of a row. It is not the row I mind,"

continued d.i.c.k, rather ruefully; "but I hate putting him out and seeing him cut up rough. If he would only be sensible and give me my way in this, there is nothing I would not do to please him. You must talk to him; you must indeed, mother." And then Mrs. Mayne, with a sinking heart, promised that she would do what she could.

And after that it would be her husband's turn.

"I tell you what Bessie; I am not satisfied about that boy," he remarked, once, as he came in to warm his hands before going upstairs to dress for dinner. "I don't know from whom he gets his obstinacy,--not from either of us, I am sure of that,--but his cheerfulness does not deceive me. He means mischief; I can see that plainly."

"Oh, Richard! And d.i.c.k has been so nice to you ever since he came home. Why, he has not once asked to have any of his friends down to stay. And before this he was never content unless we filled the house.

He takes walks with you, and is as domesticated and quiet as possible, so different from other young fellows, who are always racketing about."

"That is just what bothers me," returned her husband, crossly. "You have no discernment, Bessie, or you would know what I mean. I should not care a straw if d.i.c.k were to cram the house with young fellows: that sort of larking is just natural at his age. Why, he quite pooh-poohed the idea of a dinner-party the other night, though I planned it for his pleasure. His mind is set on other things, and that is why I say he is up to mischief."

Mrs. Mayne sighed as she smoothed down her satin dress with her plump white hands; but she could not gainsay the truth of this speech: his father was right,--d.i.c.k's mind was set on other things.

"I wish you would let him talk to you," she began, timidly, remembering her promise. "Do, my dear; for I am sure d.i.c.k is very much in earnest."

"So am I very much in earnest," he returned, wrathfully; and his small eyes grew bright and irritable. "No, it is no use your looking at me in that way, Bessie. I am determined not to allow that boy to ruin his prospects for life. He will thank me one day for being firm; and so will you, though you do turn against your own husband."

This was too much for Mrs. Mayne's affectionate nature to bear.

"Oh, Richard, how can you talk so? and I have been a good wife to you all these years!" And here the poor woman began to sob. "You might make allowance for a mother's feelings; he is my boy as well as yours, and I would cut off my right hand to make him happy; and I do--I do think you are very hard upon him about Nan."

Mr. Mayne stared at her in speechless amazement. Bessie, his long-suffering Bessie,--the wife of his bosom, over whom he had a right to tyrannize,--even she had turned against him, and had taken his son's part. "Et tu, Brute!" he could have said, in his bitterness; but his wrath was too great.

"I tell you what," he said, rising from the seat that was no longer restful to him, and pointing his finger at her, "you and your boy together will be the death of me."

"Oh, Richard, how can you be so wicked?"

"Oh, I am wicked, am I? That is a nice wifely speech."

"Yes, you are, when you say such things to me!" she returned, plucking up spirit that amazed herself afterwards. "If you do not know when you have a good wife and son, I am sorry for you. I say again, I think you are making a grievous mistake, Richard. d.i.c.k's heart is set on the girl; and I don't wonder at it, a dear pretty creature like that. And if you cross him, and set him wrong, you will have to answer to both of us for the consequences." And then she, too, rose, trembling in every limb, and with her comely face very much flushed. Even a worm will turn, and Bessie Mayne had for once ventured to speak the truth to her husband.

She had the victory that night, for he was too much dumbfounded by her rebellion to indulge in his usual recriminations: he had never imagined before that Bessie owned a will of her own; but he felt now, with a pang of wounded self-love, that the younger Richard had proved a formidable rival.

His wife's heart relented when she saw his moody looks; but he would not be reconciled to her, in spite of her coaxing speeches.

"Come Richard,--come, my dear! you must not be so cross with me," she said to him later on that night. "We have been married three-and-twenty years, and have never had a serious quarrel; and I don't like your black looks at me."

"Then you should not anger me by taking that boy's part," was his only answer; and he could not be induced to say anything more conciliatory.

And the poor woman went to bed weeping.

Things were in this uncomfortable state, when, one morning, d.i.c.k thrust his head into the study where his father was jotting down some household accounts; for he managed all such minor details himself, much to his wife's relief.

"Are you particularly busy, father?--I want to have a talk with you."

Mr. Mayne looked up quickly, and his bushy eyebrows drew together.

"Well, yes, I am, d.i.c.k,--most particularly busy just now;" for there was a look on his son's face that made him feel disinclined for conversation.

"Oh, very well, then; I can leave it until after luncheon," was the cheerful response; then Mr. Mayne knew that d.i.c.k was determined to take the bull by the horns.

They went out after luncheon, taking the dogs with them, and turning their steps in the direction of Sandy Lane. For the first mile, d.i.c.k said very little; he had his eye on Vigo, who seemed to be inclined to bolt. But when they had reached the second mile-stone, he cleared his throat; and then Mr. Mayne knew that his trouble was beginning.

"Well, father," commenced d.i.c.k, "I think it is about time we had a little serious talk together about my future plans. Of course I want to know if I am to go down next term."

"I don't see that we need discuss that. You will read for your degree, of course."