Phillis might have spared herself that little outburst to which she had given vent on the day of her cousin’s arrival. For, in spite of the lordly way in which he had claimed his prerogative as the only male Challoner, Sir Harry took no further steps to interfere with her liberty: indeed, as the days and even the weeks passed away, and nothing particular happened in them, she was even a little disappointed.

For it is one thing to foster heroic intentions, but quite 300 another when one has no choice in the matter. The heroism seemed lost, somehow, when no one took the trouble to combat her resolution. Phillis began to tire of her work,—nay, more, to feel positive disgust at it. The merry evenings gave her a distaste for her morning labors, and the daylight seemed sometimes as though it would never fade into dark, so as to give her an excuse for folding up her work.

These fits of impatience were intermittent, and she spoke of them to no one: in other respects the new cousin brought a great deal of brightness and pleasure into their daily life.

They all grew very fond of him. Mrs. Challoner, indeed, was soon heard to say that she almost loved him like a son,—a speech that reached Dick’s ears by and by and made him excessively angry. “I should like to kick that fellow,” he growled, as he read the words. But then Dick never liked interlopers. He had conceived a hatred of Mr. Drummond on the spot. Sir Harry took up his quarters at the same hotel where Dick and his father had spent that one dreary evening. He gave lavish orders and excited a great deal of attention and talk by his careless munificence. Without being positively extravagant he had a free-handed way of spending his money: as he often said, “he liked to see things comfortable about him.” And, as his notions of comfort were somewhat expensive, his host soon conceived a great respect for him,—all the more that he gave himself no airs, never talked about his wealth except to his cousins, and treated his title as though it were not of the slightest consequence to himself or any one else; indeed, he was decidedly modest in all matters pertaining to himself.

But, being a generous soul, he loved to give. Every few days he went up to London, and he never returned without bringing gifts to the Friary. Dulce, who was from the first his chief favorite, revelled in French bonbons; hampers of wine, of choice game, or fruit from Covent Garden, filled the tiny larder to overflowing. Silks and ribbons, and odds and ends of female finery, were sent down from Marshall & Snelgrove’s, or Swan & Edgar’s. In vain Mrs. Challoner implored him not to spoil the girls, who had never had so many pretty things in their lives, and hardly knew what to do with them. Sir Harry would not deny himself this pleasure; and he came up evening after evening, overflowing with health and spirits, to join the family circle in the small parlor and enliven them with his stories of colonial life.

People began to talk about him. He was too big and too prominent a figure to pass unnoticed in Hadleigh. The Challoners and their odd ways, and their cousin the baronet who was a millionaire and unmarried, were canvassed in many a drawing-room. “We always knew they were not just ‘nobodies,’” as one young lady observed; and another remarked, a little scornfully, “that she supposed Sir Henry Challoner would put a stop to all that ridiculous dressmaking now.” But when they 301 found that Nan and Phillis went about as usual, taking orders and fitting on dresses, their astonishment knew no bounds.

Sir Harry watched them with a secret chuckle. “He must put a stop to all that presently,” he said; but just at first it amused him to see it all. “It was so pretty and plucky of them,” he thought.

He would saunter into the work-room in the morning, and watch them for an hour together as he sat and talked to them. After the first they never minded him, and his presence made no difference to them. Nan measured and cut out, and consulted Phillis in her difficulties, as usual. Dulce sang over her sewing-machine, and Phillis went from one to the other with a grave, intent face. Sometimes she would speak petulantly to him, and bid him not whistle or tease Laddie: but that was when one of her fits of impatience was on her. She was generally gracious to him, and made him welcome.

When he was tired of sitting quiet, he would take refuge with Aunt Catherine in her little parlor, or go into the vicarage for a chat with Mattie and her brother: he was becoming very intimate there. Sometimes, but not often, he would call at the White House; but, though the Cheynes liked him, and Magdalene was amused at his simplicity, there was not much in common between them.

He had taken a liking to Colonel Middleton and his daughter, and would have found his way to Brooklyn over and over again, only the colonel gave him no encouragement. They had met accidentally in the grounds of the White House, and Mr. Cheyne had introduced them to each other; but the colonel bore himself very stiffly on that occasion and ever after when they met on the Parade and in the reading-room. In his heart he was secretly attracted by Sir Harry’s blunt ways and honest face; but he was a cousin of those Challoners, and intimacy was not to be desired: so their intercourse was limited to a brief word or two.

“Your father does not want to know me,” he said once, in his outspoken way, to Miss Middleton, when they met at the very gate of Brooklyn, and she had asked him, with some little hesitation, if he were coming in. “It is a pity,” he added, regretfully, “for I have taken a fancy to him: he seems a downright good sort, and we agree in politics.”

Elizabeth blushed; for once her courtesy and love of truth were sadly at variance.

“He does like you very much, Sir Harry,” she said; and then she hesitated.

“Only my cousins sew gowns,” he returned, with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, “so he must not encourage me,—eh, Miss Middleton?—as we are all in the same boat. Well, we must allow for prejudice. By and by we will alter all that.” And then he gave her a good-natured nod, and sauntered away to tell his old friend Mattie all about it; for he had a kindly 302 feeling towards the little woman, and made her his confidante on these occasions.

Phillis still called him Alcides, to his endless mystification: but she privately wondered when his labors were to begin. After that first afternoon he did not speak much of his future intentions: indeed, he was a little reserved with the girls, considering their intimacy; but to his aunt he was less reticent.

“Do you know, Aunt Catherine,” he said one day to her, “that that old house of yours—Glen Cottage, is it not?—will soon be in the market? Ibbetson wants to get off the remainder of the lease.”

Mrs. Challoner leaned back in her chair and put down her knitting:

“Are you sure, Harry? Then Adelaide was right: she told me in her last letter that Mrs. Ibbetson’s health was so bad that they thought of wintering at Hyeres, and that there was some talk of giving up the house.”

“Oh, yes, it is true,” he returned, carelessly; “Ibbetson told me so himself. It is a pretty little place enough, and they have done a good deal to it, even in a few months: they want to get off the lease, and rid themselves of the furniture, which seems to be all new. It appears they have had some money left to them unexpectedly; and now Mrs. Ibbetson’s health is so bad, he wants to try travelling, and thinks it a great pity to be hampered with a house at present. I should say the poor little woman is in a bad way, myself.”

“Dear me, how sad! And they have been married so short a time,—not more than six months. She comes of a weakly stock, I fear. I always said she looked consumptive, poor thing! Dear little Glen Cottage! and to think it will change hands so soon again!”

“You seem fond of it, Aunt Catherine,” for her tone was full of regret.

“My dear,” she answered, seriously, “I always loved that cottage so! The drawing-room and the garden were just to my taste; and then the girls were so happy there.”

“Would you not like a grander house to live in?” he asked, in the same indifferent tone. “I do not think it is half good enough for you and the girls.”

Mrs. Challoner opened her eyes rather widely at this: but his voice gave her no clue to his real meaning, and she thought it was just his joking way with her.

“It would seem a palace after this!” she returned, with a sigh. “Somehow, I never cared for great big houses, they are so much expense to keep up; and when one has not a man in the house––”

“Why, you have me, Aunt Catherine!” speaking up rather briskly.

“Yes, my dear; and you are a great comfort to us all. It is so nice to have some one to consult; and, though I would 303 not say so to Nan for the world, Dick is so young that I never could consult him.”

“By the bye, that reminds me I must have a look at that young fellow,” returned her nephew. “Let me see, the Oxford term is over, and he will be home again. Suppose I run over to Oldfield—it is no distance from town—and leave my card on Mr. Mayne senior?”

“You, Harry!” And Mrs. Challoner looked quite taken aback at the proposition.

“Well,” he remarked, candidly, “I think it is about time something was done: Nan looks awfully serious sometimes. What is the good of being the head of one’s family, if one is not to settle an affair like that? I don’t feel inclined to put up with any more nonsense in that quarter, I can tell you that, Aunt Catherine.”

“But, Harry,”—growing visibly alarmed,—“you do not know Mr. Mayne: he can make himself so excessively disagreeable.”

“So can most men when they like.”

“Yes; but not exactly in that way. I believe he is really very fond of Dick; but he wants to order his life in his own way, and no young man will stand that.”

“No, by Jove! that is rather too strong for a fellow. I should say Master Dick could not put up with that.”

“It seems my poor Nan is not good enough for his son, just because she had no money and has been obliged to make herself useful. Does it not seem hard, Harry?—my beautiful Nan! And the Maynes are just nobodies: why, Mr. Mayne’s father was only a shopkeeper in a very small way, and his wife’s family was no better!”

“Well, you must not expect me to understand all that,” replied her nephew, in a puzzled tone. “In the colonies, we did not think much about that sort of thing: it would not have done there to inquire too narrowly into a man’s antecedents. I knew capital fellows whose fathers had been butchers, and bakers, and candlestick-makers; and, bless me! what does it matter if the fellow is all right himself?” he finished; for the last Challoner was a decided Radical.

But Mrs. Challoner, who was mildly obstinate in such matters, would not yield her point:

“You would think differently if you had been educated at Eton. In England, it is necessary to discriminate among one’s acquaintances. I find no fault with Dick: he is as nice and gentlemanly as possible; but his father has not got his good-breeding; possibly he had not his advantages. But it is they—the Maynes—who would be honored by an alliance with one of my daughters.” And Mrs. Challoner raised her head and drew herself up with such queenly dignity that Sir Harry dared not argue the point.

“Oh, yes; I see,” he returned, hastily. “Well, I shall let 304 him know what you think. You need not be afraid I shall lower your dignity, Aunt Catherine. I meant to be rather high and mighty myself,—that is, if I could manage it.” And he broke into one of his huge laughs.

Mrs. Challoner was very fond of her nephew; but she was not a clever woman, and she did not always understand his hints. When they were alone together, he was perpetually making this sort of remarks to her in a half-serious, half-joking way, eliciting her opinions, consulting her tastes, with a view to his future plans.

With the girls he was provokingly reticent. Phillis and Dulce used to catechise him sometimes; but his replies were always evasive.

“Do you know, Harry,” Phillis said to him once, very gravely, “I think you are leading a dreadfully idle life? You do nothing absolutely all day but walk to and fro between the hotel and the Friary.”

“Come, now,” retorted her cousin, in an injured tone, “I call that confoundedly hard on a fellow who has come all these thousands of miles just to cultivate his relations and enjoy a little relaxation. Have I not worked hard enough all my life to earn a holiday now?”

“Oh, yes,” she returned, provokingly, “we all know how hard you have worked; but all the same it does not do to play at idleness too long. You are very much improved, Harry. Your tailor has done wonders for you; and I should not be ashamed to walk down Bond Street with you any afternoon, though the people do stare, because you are so big. But don’t you think it is time to settle down? You might take rooms somewhere. Lord Fitzroy knows of some capital ones in Sackville Street; Algie Burgoyne had them.”

“Well, no, thank you, Phillis: I don’t think I shall go in for rooms.”

“Well, then, a house: you know you are so excessively rich, Harry,” drawling out her words in imitation of his rather slow pronunciation.

“Oh, of course I shall take a house; but there is plenty of time for that.”

And when she pressed him somewhat eagerly to tell her in what neighborhood he meant to live, he only shrugged his shoulders, and remarked, carelessly, that he would have a look round at all sorts of places by and by.

“But do you mean to take a house and live all alone?” asked Dulce. “Won’t you find it rather dull?”

“What’s a fellow to do?” replied her cousin, enigmatically. “I suppose Aunt Catherine will not undertake the care of me?—I am too big, as you call it, for a houseful of women!”

“Well, yes; perhaps you are,” she replied, contemplating him thoughtfully. “We should not know quite what to do with you.” 305

“I wish I could get rid of a few of my superfluous inches,” he remarked, dolorously; “for people seem to find me sadly in the way sometimes.”

But Dulce said, kindly,—

“Oh, no, Harry; we never find you in the way: do we, mammie? We should be dreadfully dull without you now. I can hear you whistling a quarter of a mile off, and it sounds so cheerful. If there were only a house big enough for you next door, that would do nicely.”

“Oh. I dare say I shall not be far off: shall I, Aunt Catherine?” for, to his aunt’s utter bewilderment, he had established a sort of confidence between them, and expected her to understand all his vague hints. “You will not speak about this to the girls; this is just between you and me,” he would say to her, when sometimes she had not a notion what he meant.

“I don’t understand you, Harry,” she said, once. “Why did you stop me just now when I was going to tell Phillis about the Ibbetsons leaving Glen Cottage? She would have been so interested.”

“You must keep that to yourself a little while, Aunt Catherine: it will be such a surprise to the girls, you know. Did I tell you about the new conservatory Ibbetson has built? It leads out of the drawing-room, and improves the room wonderfully, they say.”

“My dear Harry! what an expense! That is just what Mr. Mayne was always wanting us to do; and Nan was so fond of flowers. It was just what the room needed to make it perfect.” And Mrs. Challoner folded her hands, with a sigh at the remembrance of the house she had loved so dearly.

“They say Gilsbank is for sale,” remarked her nephew, rather suddenly, after this.

“What! Gilsbank, where old Admiral Hawkins lived? Nan saw the announcement of his death the other day, and she said then the place would soon be put up for sale. Poor old man! He was a martyr to gout.”

“I had a look at it the other day,” he replied, coolly. “Why, it is not a hundred yards from your old cottage. There is a tidy bit of land, and the house is not so bad, only it wants doing up; but the furniture—that is for sale too—is very old-fashioned and shabby.”

“Are you thinking of it for yourself?” asked his aunt, in surprise. “Why, Gilsbank is a large place; it would never do for a single man. You would find the rooms Phillis proposed far handier.”

“Why, Aunt Catherine!” in a tone of strong remonstrance. “You don’t mean to condemn me to a life of single blessedness because of my size?”

“Oh, Harry, of course not! My dear boy, what an idea!”

“And some one may be found in time who could put up even with red hair.” 306

“Oh, yes; that need not be an obstacle.” But she looked at him with vague alarm. Of whom could he be thinking?

He caught her expression, and threw back his head with one of his merry laughs:

“Oh, no, Aunt Catherine; you need not be afraid. I am not going to make love to one of my cousins; I know your views on the subject, and that would not suit my book at all. I am quite on your side there.”

“Surely you will tell me, my dear, if you are serious?”

“Oh, yes, when I have anything to tell; but I think I will have a good look round first.” And then, of his own accord, he changed the subject. He was a little sparing of his hints after that, even to his aunt.

It was shortly after this that he came into the Friary one evening and electrified his cousins by two pieces of news. He had just called at the vicarage, he said; but he had not gone in, for Miss Mattie had run downstairs in a great bustle to tell him her sister Grace had just arrived. Her brother had been down to Leeds and brought her up with him. Phillis put down her work; her face had become suddenly rather pale.

“Grace has come,” she half whispered to herself. And then she added aloud, “Poor Mattie will be glad, and sorry too! She will like to have her sister with her for the New Year; but in a few weeks she will have to pack up her own things and go home. And she was only saying the other day that she has never been so happy in her life as she has been here.”

“Why can’t she stay, then?” asked Sir Harry, rather abruptly. “I don’t hold with people making themselves miserable for nothing: that does not belong to my creed.”

“Oh, poor Mattie has not a choice in the matter,” returned Nan, who had grown very fond of her little neighbor. “Though she is thirty, she must still do as other people bid her. They cannot both be spared from home,—at least, I believe not,—and so her mother has recalled her.”

“Oh, but that is nonsense!” replied Sir Harry, rather crossly for him. “Girls are spared well enough when they are married. And I thought the Drummonds were not well off. Did not Phillis tell me so?”

“They are very badly off; but then, you see, Mr. Drummond does not want two sisters to take care of his house; and, though he tries to be good to Mattie, he is not so fond of her as he is of his sister Grace; and they have always planned to live together, and so poor Mattie has to go.”

“Yes, and I must say I am sorry for the poor little woman,” observed Mrs. Challoner. “There is a large family of girls and boys,—I think Mr. Drummond told us he had seven sisters,—and Mattie seems left out in the cold among them all: they laugh at her oddities, and quiz her most unmercifully; even Mr. Drummond does, and Nan scolds him for it; but he has not 307 been so bad lately. It is rather hard that none of them seem to want her.”

“You forget Grace is very good to her, mother,” broke in Phillis, somewhat eagerly. “Mattie always says so.”

“By the by, I must have a look at this paragon. Is not her name among those in my pocket-book?” returned her cousin, wickedly. “I saw Miss Sartoris at Oldfield that day, and she was too grand for my taste. Why, a fellow would never dare to speak to her. I have scored that one off the list, Phillis.”

“My dears, what have you been saying to Harry?”

“Oh, nothing, mammie,” returned Dulce, hastily, fearing her mother would be shocked. “Phillis was only in her nonsense-mood; but Harry is such a goose, and will take things seriously. I wish you would let me have your pocket-book a moment, and I would tear out the page.” But Sir Harry returned it safely to his pocket.

“What was your other piece of news?” asked Nan, in her quiet voice, when all this chatter had subsided.

“Oh, I had almost forgotten it myself! only Miss Middleton charged me to tell you that ‘son Hammond’ has arrived by the P. and O. Steamer the ‘Cerberus,’ and that she and her father were just starting for Southampton to meet him.”