“You was,” “those kind,” “between you and I,” would slip out, but these variations from the strictly conventional were looked upon as little eccentricities in which a man whose fortune went far above the million mark could well afford to indulge.
“James is so droll,” the aristocratic Mrs. Warren would say comfortably, resolutely closing her eyes to the fact that James’ early environment, and not his sense of humor, was responsible for his occasional lapses. For James’ father, old Sid Thornton, as he was always called, could not have boasted even a bowing acquaintance with the very people who were now not only falling over each other in their mad anxiety to entertain his son, but were even more than willing to find that same son a suitable wife among their own fair daughters. Old Sid Thornton’s homely boy, Jim, running away to sea, and Mr. James Thornton, back to the old town with a fortune at his disposal, and living in a mansion that was the admiration and envy of the whole county, were two totally different entities.
Temptingly did the mothers with marriageable daughters display their wares. But of all the number, and many of them were passing fair, Mr. James Thornton cast longing eyes on only one, and that was Nancy Warren. Frankly, he wanted to get married, settle down, perhaps go into politics when he had time; he wanted a mistress for that beautiful house on the hill, some one who would know how to preside at his table and dispense his hospitality; some one, in short, who would know, instinctively, all the little niceties which were as a sealed book to him, and the tall, fair, thoroughbred Miss Warren seemed ideally fitted for the post.
Encouraged thereto by the tactful Mrs. Warren, James had poured into her eager ears the secrets of his honest soul, and Mrs. Warren had listened with a sweet and ready sympathy that had caused James quite to forget a certain stinging snubbing he had received from the selfsame lady, because once, back in the dark ages—before Nancy had opened her blue eyes on this naughty world—when he was a gawky, freckle-faced boy of sixteen, he had dared to walk home from church with Mildred, the eldest daughter of the house of Warren.
That was long before Mrs. Warren had felt poverty’s vicious pinch, and before her life had become one continual struggle to make both ends meet. Somehow, her point of view had changed since then—points of view will change when the howl of the wolf is heard in the near distance, and yet one must smile and smile before one’s little world—and, all other things being equal, Mr. James Thornton’s home, garish with gold and onyx, and fairly shrieking with bad tapestries and faulty paintings and ponderous furniture, seemed as promising and fair a haven as she could possibly find for the youngest and only remaining daughter of the house of Warren. As for any little jarring notes in the decorative scheme of the Thornton abode, Mrs. Warren knew that she could trust Nancy to change all that, if she were once established there as the bride of Mr. James Thornton.
Now, Nancy had her share of the contrary spirit, and although she did not look altogether unfavorably upon the wooing of the affluent James, she took very good care that her mother should not suspect her state of mind. Perhaps that one unforgettable summer, of which her mother only dimly dreamed, made her despise herself for her tacit acquiescence, and she salved her accusing conscience with some outward show of opposition.
“Mr. Thornton is most kind, but his hands are positively beefy, mother,” complained Nancy, one day, her short upper lip curling a bit scornfully. Mrs. Warren had just finished a long dissertation on the virtues of Mr. James Thornton, and, merely incidentally, of course, had touched on the great advantages that would accrue to the girl who should become his wife.
“You ought to know, my dear,” Mrs. Warren replied, blandly, “that the sun of South Africa has a rather”—Mrs. Warren’s broad a had a supercilious cadence—“toughening effect on the skin. Hands or no hands, he has more to recommend him than any man of your acquaintance.” Mrs. Warren refrained from adding in what respect. “He is very much taken with you. Let him slip through your fingers and he’ll be snapped up by some one else before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’ Effie Paul”—Mrs. Warren began counting the pining ones on her fingers—“would give her old boots and shoes if she could annex him—she’s a calculating creature; I never liked her. Alice Wood needs only half a chance to throw herself at his feet just as she already has done at his head. Her conduct has been disgraceful.” Mrs. Warren sniffed the sniff of the virtuous and blameless. “There’s not a girl of your acquaintance who would not jump at the chance of becoming Mrs. James Thornton.”
“Did you ever read that story of Kipling’s where he says, ‘Regiments are like women—they will do anything for trinketry’?” inquired Nancy, calmly.
“Kipling may know a great deal about regiments, but he knows nothing about women,” said Mrs. Warren, severely. “I am surprised to hear a girl of your age advocating any such idea! I have a higher opinion of my sex, thank Heaven!” She assumed the air of an early Christian martyr.