When Mrs. Challoner had entered her little protest against her daughter’s acceptance of the invitation, Mrs. Mayne had risen and kissed her with some effusion as she took her leave.
“It is so nice of you to say this to me; of course I should have been pleased, delighted to have had Nan with us” (oh, Mrs. Mayne, fie for shame! when you want your boy to yourself), “but all the same I think you are so wise.”
“Poor child! I am afraid I am refusing her a great treat,” returned Mrs. Challoner, in a tone of regret. It was the first time since her husband’s death that she had ever decided anything without reference to her daughters; but for once her maternal fears were up in arms, and drove her to sudden resolution.
“Yes, but, as you observed, it would throw them so entirely together; and Dick is so young. Richard was only saying the other night that he hoped the boy would not fancy himself in love for the next two years, as he did not approve of such early engagements.”
“Neither do I,” returned Mrs. Challoner, quickly. “Nothing would annoy me more than for one of my daughters to entangle herself with so young a man. We know the world too well for that, Mrs. Mayne. Why, Dick may fall in and out of love half a dozen times before he really makes up his mind.”
“Ah, that is what Richard says,” returned Dick’s mother, with a sigh; in her heart she was not quite of her husband’s opinion. She remembered how that long waiting wasted her own youth,—waiting for what? For comforts that she would gladly have done without,—for a well-furnished house, when she would have lived happily in the poorest lodging with the Richard Mayne who had won her heart,—for whom she would have toiled and slaved with the self-abnegating devotion of a loving woman; only he feared to have it so.
“‘When poverty enters the door, love flies out of the window:’ we had better make up our minds to wait, Bessie. I can better work in single than double harness just now.” That was what he said to her, and Bessie waited,—not till she grew thin, but stout, and the spirit of her youth was gone; and it was a sober, middle-aged woman who took possession of the long-expected home.
Mrs. Mayne loved her husband, but during that tedious engagement her ardor had a little cooled, and it may be doubted whether the younger Richard was not dearer to her than his father; which was ungrateful, to say the least of it, as Mr. Mayne doted on his comely wife, and thought Bessie as handsome now as in the days when she came out smiling to welcome him, a slim young creature with youthful roses in her cheeks.
From this brief conversation it may be seen that none of the elders quite approved of this budding affection. Mrs. Challoner, 18 who belonged to a good old family, found it hard to forgive the Maynes’ lowliness of birth; and though she liked Dick, she thought Nan could do better for herself. Mr. Mayne pooh-poohed the whole thing so entirely that the women could only speak of it among themselves.
“Dick is a clever fellow; he ought to marry money,” he would say. “I am not a millionaire, and a little more would be acceptable;” and though he was always kind to Nan and her sisters, he was forever dealing sly hits at her. “Phillis has the brains of the family,” he would say: “that is the girl for my money. I call her a vast deal better looking than Nan, though people make such a fuss about the other one;” a speech he was never tired of repeating in his son’s presence, and at which Dick snapped his fingers metaphorically and said nothing.