Nan knew that a great privilege was being conferred on her as she followed Lady Fitzroy into the grand nursery, where the tiny heir lay in his ba.s.sinette.

"Is he not just like Fitzroy?" exclaimed the proud young mother, as they stood looking down on the red crumpled features of the new-comer.

"Nurse says she has never seen such a striking likeness."

"He is a darling!" exclaimed Nan, who was, like other girls, a devout baby-worshipper; and then they discoursed very eloquently on his infantile beauties.

It was after this that Lady Fitzroy congratulated Nan on her engagement, and kissed her in quite a sisterly way.

"Fitzroy and I do not think him half good enough for you," she said, very prettily. "But no one who knows Mr. Mayne can fail to like him, he is so thoroughly genuine and nice. Will the engagement be a long one, Miss Challoner?"

"Not so very long," Nan returned, blushing. "d.i.c.k has to read for honors; but, when he has taken his degree, his father has promised to make things straight for us, while d.i.c.k reads for the bar."

"He is to be a barrister, then?" asked Lady Fitzroy, in surprise. "You must not think me inquisitive, but I thought Mr. Mayne was so very well off."

"So he is," replied Nan, smiling,--"quite rich, I believe; but d.i.c.k would not like an idle life, and during his father's lifetime he can only expect a moderate income."

"You will live in London, then?"

"Oh, yes; I suppose so;" was Nan's answer. "But we have not talked much about that yet. d.i.c.k must work hard for another year, and after that I believe things are to be settled." And then Lady Fitzroy kissed her again, and they went downstairs.

Nan wrote home that she was _feted_ like a queen, and that d.i.c.k grumbled sadly at having her so little to himself; but then d.i.c.k was much given to that sort of good-natured grumbling.

The visit was necessarily a very brief one, as term-time was approaching, and d.i.c.k had to go up to Oxford. On the last morning he took Nan for a walk down to Sandy Lane. Vigo and the other dogs were with them, and at the point where the four roads met, d.i.c.k stopped and leaned his arms over a gate.

"It will seem a long time to Easter, Nan," he said, rather lugubriously.

"Oh, no," she replied brightly to this; "you will have my letters,--such long ones, d.i.c.k,--and you know Mr. Mayne has promised to bring Phillis and me down for a couple of days. We are to stay at the Randolph, and of course we shall have afternoon tea in your rooms."

"Yes; I will ask Hamilton and some of the other fellows to meet you. I want all my friends to see you, Nan." And as d.i.c.k thought of the glory of this introduction, and of the envy of Hamilton and the other fellows, his brow cleared and his old spirits returned.

"I shall think of nothing but my work and those letters, Nan," were his last words. "I am determined that next summer shall see you my wife." His voice dropped over the last word almost shyly; but Nan saw a great brightness come into his eyes.

"You must not work too hard," was all her answer to this, as she moved gently away from him. But her heart beat a little faster at his words.

No; she would only have another summer at Glen Cottage. She knew that, and then the new life would lie before them, which she and d.i.c.k were to live together.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

MRS. SPARSIT'S POODLE.

While Nan was being _feted_ and petted at Longmead, Mattie's visit was dragging heavily to its close. Since the evening of the tea-party things had been more unsatisfactory than ever.

Archie and Grace were a good deal out. Grace was perpetually at the Friary, and Archie had resumed his old habit of dropping in there for a morning or evening chat. Sir Harry came almost daily, and often spent his disengaged hours with them; but Mattie never saw him for a moment alone. Grace was always in the room, and his conversation was chiefly addressed to her. When Mattie dropped sadly out of the talk, or sat silent in her corner, he did not in his old kind fashion try to include her in the conversation: indeed, he rarely noticed her, except in his brief leave-taking. It hurt Mattie inexpressibly to be thus ignored by her old friend, for from the first his cordiality had had a sunshiny influence over her,--he had been so good to her, so thoughtful for her comfort, before Grace came; but now he seemed to forget sometimes that such a person as Mattie even existed. Was it because Grace's fair, serious face had bewitched him, or was there anything on his mind? for more than once Mattie thought he seemed absent and ill at ease.

Mattie could not understand it at all. She was not a very acute little person, neither was she over-sensitive by nature, but this sudden coldness on Sir Harry's part was wounding and perplexing in the extreme. Had she done anything to offend him? Mattie wondered, or was he simply bored by her as most people were?

Once Archie had snubbed her very severely in his presence; something had put him out, and he had spoken to Mattie as though no one were present but their two selves. It was Grace who called him so gently to order, and made him feel ashamed of himself. Sir Harry did not even seem to notice it: he had a paper in his hand, and he went on reading it. But as Mattie left the room she heard him speaking to Grace in his usual way about some political question or other.

Mattie cried bitterly in her room that day. Somehow, she had never taken Archie's snubbing so much to heart before. How could he speak to her like that, she thought? What would Sir Harry think of her, and of him too? Archie's conscience p.r.i.c.ked him when he saw the traces of tears on Mattie's face that afternoon, and he was very kind to her all the remainder of the day; but he did not apologize for his words: no one ever did apologize to Mattie. But to his surprise, and Grace's too, Mattie's sad face did not clear.

It was her last afternoon but one at the vicarage, and Mattie was sitting alone. All the morning she and Grace had been packing together, for Grace, in her sensible way, had begged her sister not to leave things for the last day. It would tire her for her journey, she said; and the Challoners were coming to spend Mattie's last evening with her at the vicarage; and there were the Middletons probably coming for an afternoon visit, and so Mattie had better keep herself free for her friends. Mattie had a.s.sented to this, and she had been very grateful to Grace for all the help she had given her. Her boxes were ready for cording, and her little parting gifts for the servants laid ready labelled in her drawers, and nothing remained for her busy hands to do.

It was a cold, cheerless afternoon; a cutting north wind and a gray cloudy sky made the fireside all the more tempting by comparison; but Mattie knew there was one duty unfulfilled that she ought to perform.

She had promised to call and say good-bye to an old acquaintance of hers who lived at Rock Building.

Mrs. Chamberlain was not a favorite with most people: she was an invalid of somewhat uncertain temper, and most of her friends felt her society an infliction on their patience. Mattie, who was very good-natured, had often done kindly little offices for her, sitting with her for an hour or two at a time, and teaching her some new st.i.tch, to beguile her tedious and often painful days.

Mrs. Chamberlain would feel herself aggrieved if Mattie disappointed her. And she never had stayed at home for the weather; only she was lazy,--tired, perhaps, from her packing,--and reluctant to move.

Sir Harry was in the study, she knew: she had heard his voice some time ago. He often turned in there of his own accord or perhaps Archie had waylaid him and brought him in, for they were excellent friends now; Grace was there, of course, but Mattie had hesitated to join them: none of them wanted her, she said bitterly to herself.

A dim hope that Grace might come in search of her, or that even Sir Henry might saunter in by and by and ask for a cup of tea in his old way, had kept Mattie in her place; but now it was getting a little late, and perhaps after all Grace would ring, and have the tea in there, as she had done once before: and it was no use waiting. And so, when Mattie reached this point, she hurried upstairs and put on her hat and thick jacket, and then, after a moment's hesitation, opened the study door.

It was just the scene she pictured. Sir Harry was in the big chair in front of the blazing fire, and Grace in her low wicker seat, facing him, with a Chinese screen in her hand. Archie was standing on the rug, with his elbow against the narrow wooden mantelpiece, and all three were talking merrily. Sir Harry stopped in the middle of a laugh, as Mattie entered, and shook hands with her a little gravely.

"How comfortable you all look!" faltered Mattie. The words came in spite of her efforts not to say them.

"Then come and join us," returned Archie, with unusual affability.

"Grace was just wondering what you were doing."

"I was in the drawing-room alone. No, I cannot sit down, Archie, thank you. I am just going to bid old Mrs. Chamberlain good-bye: she is expecting me, and I must not disappoint her."

"Oh, but it is not fit for you," remonstrated Grace. "Sir Harry says the wind is piercing. Do put off your visit until to-morrow, Mattie, and we will go together."

"Fie, Miss Grace! never put off until to-morrow what can be done to-day," observed Sir Harry, in his joking voice. "What is it the copy-books say?--is it procrastination or money that is the root of all evil?"

"Sir Harry is quite right, and I must go," stammered Mattie, made quite desperate by this joke; he knew how the wind was sweeping over the gray sea, and yet he had not said a word about her remaining. Poor Mattie! a miserable choking feeling came into her throat, as she closed the door on another laugh and struggled along in the teeth of the wind. Another time she would not have minded it, for she was hardy by nature; but now the cold seemed to freeze her very heart; she looked quite blue and pinched when she entered Mrs. Chamberlain's drawing-room. It seemed to Mattie as though hours had pa.s.sed before she brought her visit to a close, and yet she had been sitting there only three quarters of an hour before she took her leave. The old lady was very gracious this afternoon; she pressed Mattie again and again to wait a little until Sallie brought up the tea and a nice hot cake she was baking. But Mattie steadily refused even these tempting delicacies: she was not cold any longer, she said; but it was growing late, or the afternoon was darker than usual. And then she wished her old friend good-bye,--oh, good-bye for such a long time, Mattie thought,--and sallied forth bravely into the wind gain.

It had lulled a little, but the scene before her was very desolate; just the gray expanse of sea, with the white line of surge breaking into the sh.o.r.e; and here and there a wave tossing up its foamy head in the distance. The air seemed full of that continuous low rolling and splashing of breakers on the beach: a sea-gull was flying inland; the Parade looked white and wind-bleached,--not a creature in sight but a coast-guard on duty, moving backwards and forwards in a rather forlorn manner, except----Here Mattie turned her head quickly: yes, a little beyond there was a man in a rough pilot's coat, looking out seaward,--a nautical man, Mattie thought, by the way he stood, as though summer gales were blowing about his ears.

Mattie pa.s.sed quite close to him, for the wind drifted her a little as she did so. He turned coolly round and confronted her.

"Sir Harry! Oh, I did not know you in the least," faltered Mattie, standing still in her surprise.

"I dare say not," he replied, quietly: "you have never seen me in this costume before, and I had my back turned towards you. I saw you coming, though, walking as unsteadily as a duck in a storm. What a time you have been, Miss Mattie! You ladies are so fond of a gossip."

"Were you waiting for me?" she asked, rather breathlessly, and then colored painfully at her question. How absurd! Of course he was not waiting for her; his hotel was just opposite, and he was probably taking a const.i.tutional before his dinner. "Mrs. Chamberlain pressed me to take tea with her," she went on, by way of saying something, "but I told her I would rather go home."

"Miss Grace was just ringing for tea when I left," he returned. "No wonder you look cold or like a starved robin, Miss Mattie. Why are you walking so fast? there is no hurry, is there? I think you owe me some amends for keeping me standing for an hour in this bitter wind. There!

why don't you take my arm and hold on, or you will be blown away?"

Mattie always did as she was bidden, and Sir Harry's tone was a little peremptory. He had been waiting for her, then; he had not quite forgotten her. Mattie began to feel a little less chilled and numb. If he would only say a kind word to her, she thought, she could go away more happily.

"I am thinking about that rejected cup of tea," he said, suddenly, when they had walked for a moment in silence: "it will be all cleared away at the vicarage, and you do look so cold, Miss Mattie."

"Oh, no, not very," she corrected.