When Sir Henry had shaken himself into order, and pulled an end of his rough red moustache, he said, quite suddenly,—
“As you are a friend of the family, Miss Drummond, I think it would be as well if you would go with me to the Friary and introduce me in due form; for, though you would not believe it in a man of my size, I am painfully shy, and the notion of all these girls, unless I take them singly, is rather overwhelming.” And, though this request took Mattie a little by surprise, she saw no reason for refusing to do him this kindness. So she assented willingly, for in her heart Mattie was fond of a scene. It gave her such a hold on Archie’s attention afterwards; and, to do him justice, when the Challoners were on the tapis, he made a splendid listener.
Sir Henry walked very fast, as though he were in a tremendous hurry; but he was nervous, poor fellow, and, though he did not like to own as much to a woman, he would almost have liked to run away, in spite of his coming all those thousands of miles to see his relations. He had pressed Mattie into the service to cover his confusion, but the little woman herself hardly saw how she was needed, for, instead of waiting for her introduction, or sending in his name or card by Dorothy, he just put them both aside and stepped into the first room that stood handy, guided by the sound of voices.
“How do you do, Aunt Catherine?” he said, walking straight up to the terrified lady, who had never seen anything so big in her life. “I am Harry,—Harry Challoner, you know,—to whom you used to write when I was a little slip of a boy.”
A strange queen in a hive of bees could not have produced more confusion. Dulce stopped her sewing-machine so suddenly that her thread broke; Phillis, who was reading aloud, let her book fall with quite a crash; and Nan said, “Oh, dear!” and grew quite pale with surprise and disappointment: for a moment she thought it was Dick. As for Mrs. Challoner, who had a right to her nerves from years of injudicious spoiling and indulgence, and would not have been without her feelings for worlds, she just clasped her hands and murmured “Good heavens!” in the orthodox lady-like way.
“Why, yes, Aunt Catherine, I am Harry; and I hope you have not forgotten the existence of the poor little beggar to whom you were so kind in the old Calcutta days.” And his big 288 voice softened involuntarily in the presence of this dignified aunt.
“Oh, no, my dear!—no!” touched by his manner, and remembering the boyish scrawls that used to come to her, signed “Your affectionate nephew, Harry.” “And are you indeed my nephew?—are you Harry?” And then she held out her slim hand, which he took awkwardly enough. “Girls, you must welcome your cousin. This is Nan, Harry, the one they always say is like me; and this is Phillis, our clever one; and this is my pet Dulce.” And with each one did their cousin solemnly shake hands, but without a smile; indeed, his aspect became almost ludicrous, until he caught sight of his homely little acquaintance, Mattie, who stood an amused spectator of this family tableau, and his red, embarrassed face brightened a little.
“Aunt Catherine was such an awfully grand creature, you know,” as he observed to her afterwards, in a confidential aside: “her manners make a fellow feel nowhere. And as for my cousins, a prettier lot of girls I never saw anywhere; and of course, they are as jolly and up to larks as other girls; but just at first, you know, I had a bull-in-a-china-shop sort of feeling among them all.”
Mrs. Challoner, in spite of her fine manners, was far too nervous herself to notice her nephew’s discomfort. She had to mention a name that was obnoxious to her, for of course she must ask after his father. She got him into a chair by her at length, where he stared into his hat to avoid the bright eyes that seemed to quiz him so unmercifully.
“And how is Sir Francis?” she asked, uttering the name with languid interest.