She did her little best according to orders, for she dared not offend Dick’s father. None of the Challoners were accomplished girls. Dulce sang a little, and so did Nan, but Phillis could not play the simplest piece without bungling and her uncertain little warblings, which were sweet but hardly true, were reserved for church.
Dulce sang very prettily, but she could only manage her own accompaniments or a sprightly valse. Nan, who did most of the execution of the family, was a very fair performer from a young lady’s point of view, and that is not saying much. She always had her piece ready if people wanted her to play. She sat down without nervousness and rose without haste. She had a choice little repertory of old songs and ballads, that she could produce without hesitation from memory,—“My mother bids me bind my hair,” or “Bid your faithful Ariel fly,” and such-like old songs, in which there is more melody than in a hundred new ones, and which she sang in a simple, artless fashion that pleased the elder people greatly. Dulce could do more than this, but her voice had never been properly tutored, and she sang her bird-music in bird-fashion, rather wildly and shrilly, with small 44 respect to rule and art, nevertheless making a pleasing noise, a young foreigner once told her.
When Nan had exhausted her little stock, Mr. Mayne peremptorily invited them to a round game; and the rest of the evening was spent in trying to master the mysteries of a new game, over the involved rules of which Mr. Mayne as usual, wrangled fiercely with everybody, while Dick shrugged his shoulders and shuffled his cards with such evident ill-humor that Nan hurried her sisters away half an hour before the usual time, in terror of an outbreak.
It was an utterly disappointing evening; and, to make matters worse, Mr. Mayne actually lit his cigar and strolled down the garden-paths, keeping quite close to Nan, and showing such obvious intention of accompanying them to the very gate of the cottage that there could be no thought of any sweet lingering in the dusk.
“I will be even with him,” growled Dick, who was in a state of suppressed irritation under this unexpected surveillance; and in the darkest part of the road he twitched Nan’s sleeve to attract her attention, and whispered, in so low a voice that his father could not hear him, “This is not good-bye. I will be round at the cottage to-morrow morning;” and Nan nodded hurriedly, and then turned her head to answer Mr. Mayne’s last question.
If Dick had put all his feelings in his hand-shake, it could not have spoken to Nan more eloquently of the young man’s wrath and chagrin and concealed tenderness. Nan shot him one of her swift straightforward looks in answer.
“Nevermind,” it seemed to say; “we shall have to-morrow;” and then she bade them cheerfully good-night.
Dorothy met her in the hall, and put down her chamber-candlestick.
“Has the mother gone to bed yet, Dorothy?” questioned the young mistress, speaking still with that enforced cheerfulness.
“No, Miss Nan; she is still in there,” jerking her head in the direction of the drawing-room. “Mr. Trinder called, and was with her a long time. I thought she seemed a bit poorly when I took in the lamp.”