But the letter was not written then; for how could Bessie keep her husband and his guest waiting for their tea after such an urgent message? And had she not first of all to listen to d.i.c.k's incoherent story, which she heard better from Sir Harry afterwards, who took great pains to explain it to the poor bewildered woman?

Mr. Mayne thought he had never seen Bessie look so handsome since the days he courted her, as she sat smiling at the head of the table in her velvet gown. And Sir Harry, too, was quite charmed with the soft, comely creature.

Later on, while the two elder gentlemen were chatting confidentially over their cigars and whisky-and-water, she did manage to write a few lines to Nan. But it was not much of a letter; for how was she to construct a decent sentence with that torment d.i.c.k hanging over the back of her chair and interrupting her every moment? But Nan was not ill pleased by the missive when she received it.

"My own dear girl," it said,--"my dearest girl,--for no daughter could ever be so dear to me as you will be, Nan, for my boy's sake, and because he loves you so." ("You are right there, mother!" struck in d.i.c.k, in a tone of ecstasy.) "Everything has come right, through Sir Henry's intercession and my Richard's goodness." ("Humph!" coughed d.i.c.k. "Well, it is not for the like of me to contradict you.")

"You are to come to us--at once--at once,"--underlined,--"for d.i.c.k will be going back to Oxford, so there is no time to lose; and you have not got any good of your engagement yet." ("Only just at that last moment," muttered her son at this.)

"My precious boy looks so happy that I could cry with joy to see him."

("Oh, shut up, mother! Nan knows all that.") "And his dear father looks as pleased as possible, and he sends his love." ("He did indeed, d.i.c.k," as an incredulous sound broke from his lips), "and he says bygones are bygones. And you are on no account to feel yourself awkward as regards him, for of course d.i.c.k's _fiancee_" ("Are you sure that is spelt right, d.i.c.k?") "will bring her own welcome. Is not that a sweet speech for my Richard to say? So you will come, my dear, will you not? And I remain, just what I always was, my Nan's loving friend,

"Bessie Mayne."

And then the letter was carefully consigned to d.i.c.k's pocket, and in due course of time was delivered into Nan's fair hands.

CHAPTER XLV.

AN UNINVITED GUEST.

During the next few days Grace and Phillis made great strides towards intimacy; and, as though some magnetic influence attracted each to each, they were to be found constantly together. Neither of them was a girl to indulge in gushing sentimentality; but Grace, whose refined intellectual nature had hitherto met with no response except from her brother, perceived at once Phillis's innate superiority and clear generous temperament. For the first time she felt feminine friendship a possibility, and hailed it as a new-found joy. Nan testified her pleasure on more than one occasion: jealousy never found a resting-place in a corner of her heart.

"I am so glad, Phillis," she observed, once, "that you and Grace Drummond like each other so much. You have never found any girl equal to you yet; and I was always too stupid to give you what you wanted."

"Oh, Nannie, as though I would change you for a dozen Grace Drummonds!" returned Phillis, stanch as ever to her domestic creed, that there never was and never could be such another as Nan.

"Oh, of course we shall always be the same to each other, you and I,"

returned Nan, seriously, "we are such old comrades, Phil; but then I have d.i.c.k, and it is only fair you should have some one too;" but she did not understand why Phillis suddenly sighed and turned away.

An amusing little incident happened to Phillis after this, which she greatly enjoyed. Colonel Middleton's avoidance of them had long been a sore point with her, as it was with Dulce.

"I feel almost like that wicked Haman," she said, once, in a serio-comic voice, "and as if he were my Mordecai. I shall never think we have achieved perfect success until I have forced him to shake hands with me." But Nan, who cared very little about such things, only laughed.

On Sunday morning Colonel Middleton marched up the aisle rather more pompously than usual, and there followed him a tall, very solemn-faced young man, with serious eyes that reminded them of Elizabeth.

"Son Hammond," whispered Phillis, who was not always as devout as she ought to be; and Dulce tried hard to compose her dimples.

Possibly the young officer was not as solemn as his looks, for he certainly paid more attention to the opposite pew than he did to his prayer-book; and as he walked home with his sister, Colonel Middleton being just then out of earshot, he questioned her rather closely on the subject:

"Who were those girls, Elizabeth? I mean the three who were just opposite us with their mother. Are they visitors or residents?" Then Elizabeth told him very briefly their name and occupation.

"Good gracious!" he returned, in a thunderstruck tone; and then all at once he burst out laughing, as though at a good joke:

"I call that a piece of splendid pluck. Do you know, I could see in a moment there was something out of the common about them? They are all very pretty,--at least good-looking,--and I liked their quiet style of dress. You must introduce me to-morrow."

"My dear Hammond, I can do nothing of the kind," returned Elizabeth, glancing round in an alarmed way. "Father has refused to have them at Brooklyn; and it will annoy him terribly if you were to take any notice of them." But to this Hammond turned a deaf ear, and, though he forbore to question her any further on that occasion, he had fully made up his mind that the introduction should take place as soon as possible.

As it fell out, accident favored him the very next day; for, as he was calling with his sister, at the White House, who should be announced the next minute but the Misses Challoner,--Phillis and Dulce, who had been bidden to afternoon tea!

Mrs. Cheyne kissed and welcomed them both. Then Captain Middleton was introduced; and they were soon chatting merrily together, to Elizabeth's secret amus.e.m.e.nt.

Captain Middleton made himself very agreeable to the two girls, as Dulce observed afterwards. She had never before been so deceived in a man's appearance,--for he was not solemn at all; and, though the serious brown eyes certainly inspected them rather critically from time to time, he proved himself a bright amusing companion, and fully bore out his father's and sister's encomiums.

The Middletons were easily induced to prolong their visit. Elizabeth felt herself a traitor to her father; but she could not refuse Hammond's imploring glance. And so they stayed, and all took their leave together.

Mr. Cheyne walked down to the gate with them. He had an errand in the town; and he and Elizabeth walked behind the young people, talking them over in a low voice.

Now, it so happened that Colonel Middleton was trudging down the Braidwood Road; and as he neared the White House he looked up, and there was his son walking contentedly with a Challoner girl on each side of him, and the three were laughing merrily.

It was Dulce who saw him first.

"There comes your father!" she said; and she began to blush as she had done on the day when he had left her at the gate of Brooklyn, talking to Elizabeth.

Hammond proved himself quite worthy of the occasion.

"Well met, father," he called out, cheerily, "We seem all going one way. I suppose no one needs any introduction? Of course you know my father, Miss Challoner?"

Then the colonel threw down his arms. He had fought very bravely on his son's behalf; but, after all his labors, his bristling defences and skilful retreats, Hammond had of his own free will delivered himself into the hands of the Philistines. What was the use of guarding an empty citadel?--his treasure was already in the enemy's grasp.

All this was written on the colonel's lugubrious face as he bowed stiffly and walked in sorrowful silence beside them, shaking his white head at intervals; but no one but Dulce took any notice of his sombre mood.

Dulce was very timid by nature. She was the least outspoken of the three, and always kept in the background, like a modest little flower that loved the shade; but she was very soft-hearted, and had great regard for people's feelings. And the old man's downcast looks pained her; for how was she to know that he was secretly pleased at this meeting?

"I hope--I wish--you did not mind knowing us so much. But it has not been our fault this afternoon," sighed Dulce, stammering and blushing over her words. "You will believe that, will you not, Colonel Middleton?"

If a cannon shot had been fired into the old warrior's ear, he could hardly have started more than he did at these childish words. He looked round. There was the little girl, looking up at him with the innocent eyes he remembered so well, and her mouth puckered a little as though she wanted to cry.

This was more than any man could bear, even if he had a harder heart than Colonel Middleton.

"My dear," he said, taking the little hand, "I have always wanted to know you; Elizabeth will tell you that. I lost my heart to your sisters the first day I saw them. I am sure we shall be good friends in time, if you will forgive an old man's pride." And then he patted her hand as though she had been an infant.

When Mr. Drummond sat down to dinner that evening, he astonished Mattie very much by saying,--

"You can ask the Middletons, after all, for your tea-party, if you like, Mattie. What wonderful sight do you think I saw just now? Why, the colonel himself coming out from the Friary, and all the three girls were round him, chattering as though they had known him all their life; and I am pretty sure that in spite of the dark, I saw 'son Hammond' behind him." And Mattie, glad of the permission, gave the invitation the next day.

Mattie grew a little alarmed as the evening approached. It was her first party and she knew Archie would be critical; but Grace proved herself a useful ally.

In spite of her efforts to keep in the background and leave Mattie in her position as mistress of her brother's house, she felt herself becoming insensibly its presiding spirit.

Archie was tolerably good-natured to Mattie; but the habits of a lifetime were too strong for him, and he still snubbed and repressed her at intervals. Mattie felt herself of no importance now that Grace had come: her duties were usurped before her eyes. Archie made a fresh demand on her forbearance every day.