“Do you know, Prescott, I quite agree with you. I am. I am sick of this sort of life, and I want a change.”
“You were talking of buying a yacht, Frank. We are in June now. If you really mean to do anything in that way this year, it is time to be seeing about it.”
“Pooh! nonsense, man. You know what I mean. I want to go down into Staffordshire again, but I don't see what excuse to make.”
“I suppose the proper thing to do, Frank, is to write to Mr. Drake to ask his permission to pay your addresses to his niece.”
[87]
“What a fellow you are, Prescott! You do make the most ridiculous propositions of any man I ever met.”
“It is a pity you did not ask her before you came away, Frank,” Prescott said, after a pause.
“How could I, man?” Frank said irritably. “I was there little over three weeks, and I was not sure about myself for the first fortnight. If it had been summer, and we had had picnics and all that sort of thing, where you can manage to get alone with a girl and make your running, it would have been different; but in a house full of people I had no opportunities whatever. It was only that last week too that I had quite made up my own mind about it. You don't suppose a woman is like a peach, and that you only have to open your mouth for her to fall into it. Katie is a good deal too great a prize to jump at the first bait. Besides Katie and I fought so, and, I confess, I teazed her so much, that she got to look upon everything I said as chaff, and if I had told her I loved her, the chance was she would have laughed in my face, and serve me right too. [88] I don't think she had any idea I really cared for her, and I believe, upon my word, that at one time she positively disliked me. At any rate it was altogether out of the question my speaking at the time, and it would be just as absurd my writing to her now. Besides, writing about those sort of affairs is a mistake. Things that sound real and earnest enough when you say them, look mere sentimental bosh when they're put down on paper. No, upon my word, I don't see my way. It's little over two months since I left, and I can't offer to go down again, especially in June—there is no excuse that I can see. There is no hunting or shooting, if I did either, which I don't. What the deuce could I want to go down into Staffordshire in June for?” And Frank, in extreme perplexity, looked at Prescott for assistance.
“You have quite made up your mind, Frank?”
“Of course, my dear fellow, am I not telling you so?”
“Well, Frank, in that case what I should recommend is this. I should really write to Mr. Drake, not a formal letter, you know, but [89] a friendly straightforward one, say that you are desirous of paying your addresses to his niece, that in the confusion and the number of people in the house you had not the opportunity of doing so before. That you are perfectly unaware of her feelings towards you, and that you are desirous of being a short time in her society again before you speak to her, and you therefore ask him if he will again extend his hospitality to you. I think that is about the way to put it. You might ask him to say nothing to Miss O'Byrne respecting your visit, as it might cause an awkwardness between you.”
“By Jove, yes!” Frank said, “I would as soon do battle with a lioness as meet Katie O'Byrne, after our late encounters, if she knew for certain that I had come down to make formal love to her. No, no, Prescott, it would destroy my chance altogether. I must request absolutely that Katie shall know nothing about it. She may guess what she likes. She can't take a high ground because she guesses, but if she were officially informed of it, I should no more be able to hold my own with her than I should to fly. Altogether I think it is a very good [90] idea. Yes, I will write at once. Now, Prescott, you dictate it, you have a legal mind, you know, and I will write. But what do you say to writing to Teddy instead of to Mr. Drake? I can ask him to put it to his father, you know, and it will be less formal—eh?”
Prescott said that he saw no objection, and in that case he did not think he need dictate the letter. To this Frank agreed, and wrote as follows:—
“My dear Teddy,
“I dare say what I am going to tell you will surprise you; but, the fact is, I have really fallen awfully in love with Katie O'Byrne. Now, you see, last time I was down there I had not time to make my running. There was too much going on, you see, and too many people about. Now I do think, Teddy, I could make her happy if she could care for me. I want you to give me a chance. Will you speak to your father and mother and tell them what I wish, and ask them to allow me to try to make Katie in love with me. You can mention that, so far as means are concerned, I [91] have eight hundred a-year of my own, and Uncle Harry, you know Captain Bradshaw, has always treated me as his son, and no doubt at his death I shall come into a considerable fortune. Should they offer no objection, will you write and ask me to come down again for a fortnight, but above all, Teddy, do not let a word be said to either your sister or Kate. If Sarah knows it Katie is certain to find it out, and I could no more face her in that formal sort of way than I could fly. It would knock any chance I might have completely on head. Write soon, Teddy, for I shall be in an awfully nervous state till I hear from you. Be sure and keep it dark as to what I am coming down for—say you have asked me down to do some hunting, or something of that sort.
“Yours ever,
“Frank Maynard.”
Teddy Drake received this epistle at breakfast, and its contents threw him into a state of profound astonishment. He had not had the slightest idea of Frank's feelings towards Katie, and when he recovered from his astonishment [92] was most delighted. He had given one long whistle of surprise when he had arrived at the second line, but had read on to the end in silence without heeding the questions of the girls as to what was the matter with him.
“Now, Teddy, what is it?” Sarah asked as he finished. “What does Frank say, to surprise you so?” for Teddy had apprised them who his correspondent was before he had begun to read.
“Is it what does he say?” Teddy repeated, in order to gain time to invent an answer.
“Yes, of course, Teddy, how tiresome you are.”
“Frank is thinking of becoming a monk and joining a holy community.”
“No, don't be talking nonsense, Teddy.”
“Well, Sarah, he's talking of going out to Arabia and becoming a dancing dervish.”
“Don't ask him, Sarah,” Katie said indignantly; “if he doesn't choose to tell us, sure and we don't want to know. Come along, we will go and practise our duet.”
When they had left the room Teddy turned to his father and mother: “Frank has written to ask me to ask you to let him run down again, to make love to Katie.”
[93]
“Really, Teddy, you talk so much nonsense I do not know when you are speaking the truth,” Mr. Drake said, while Mrs. Drake uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“I am as serious as possible this time,” Teddy said, and he read out a portion of Frank's letter.
“I am very glad,” Mrs. Drake said, “and to think I had never guessed it. I am so glad, he is such a nice fellow, and it will be a very good thing for Katie. Don't you think so, Robert?”
“Yes, my dear, I do not see any objection in any way. Mr. Maynard is a little too rackety to suit me, but I do not know that that will be any objection in Katie's eyes. By all means, Teddy, write and ask him to come down; and try and don't do anything foolish, if you can help it, or speak about his coming. If you had not made a sort of mystery about his letter this morning we could have mentioned naturally enough that he was coming down for a short time for change of air, or we could have made some excuse or other. As it is it will be better to say nothing about it, and leave him to [94] explain matters for himself as best he can. Ask him to come down, say on Tuesday. There is the gig at the door, are you ready, Teddy?”
Upon reaching his office, Teddy Drake sat down to write to Frank Maynard.
“My dear Frank,
“I am delighted at hearing that you are smitten by the archer boy (isn't that the delicate way of putting it?) and especially that the person by whom you are so smitten is my cousin Katie. By the way, according to that way of putting it, Katie would be the archer boy, which is absurd. So my metaphor is wrong somewhere, but after reading it over several times, I can't for the life of me see where. However you see what I mean, and Katie and the archer boy have both somehow had to do with the business, but they've got mixed up together till I can't tell which is which. Seriously I am awfully glad, Frank. To think of your falling in love with Katie! I never dreamt of such a thing, and the elders are equally surprised. Now that you have told me about it, I fancy that Sarah may have [95] had some suspicion that there was a weakness somewhere, for sometimes when your name has been mentioned, she has been rather inclined to chaff Katie, which Katie has resented very seriously. My father sends word that he shall be very glad if you will come down and stay with us again, and named next Tuesday. Come by the ten o'clock train in the morning, it gets here at three. I will meet you at the station. I have read as much of your letter as was necessary to the elders, and they as well as myself are pleased at the thought of you and Katie coming together. We shall strictly obey your injunction, and say nothing to the girls about the object of your coming. Indeed we shall not say you are coming at all, for I was too surprised when I got your letter to invent any excuse at the time, and if I were to say anything about it now, they would think it was odd I did not mention it at the time, and would suspect something was up. If, however, you would rather not take them by surprise, write a line by return of post, and then I will say that you have written to say you are coming for a few days, on your way, say to Ireland. On reading over this letter I find it is barely [96] coherent, but I dare say you will understand it.
“Yours very truly,
“E. Drake.”
Katie O'Byrne had thought more often during these two months of Frank Maynard than was at all satisfactory to herself. She had so repeatedly asserted that she did not like him, that her assurances lost power even with herself. At last, however, she could no longer shut her eyes to the fact, but was forced to own that she had been deceiving herself all along, and that she did like, yes, like Frank Maynard very much. It was with deep mortification that Katie made this confession even to herself, because, in spite of what Sarah had said, she did not believe that Frank had ever thought of her, and because he had so teazed and made fun of her, that she told herself she ought to hate him. Still when she thought over that sentence about the sea, and the quiet tone in which he had said, “Yes, Katie, you will believe me some day,” the colour would mount up into her cheeks, and she would think that perhaps after all he did care for her. But [97] although Miss O'Byrne came at last to own to herself that she had been wrong, and that she liked Frank Maynard very, very much, she was by no means disposed to make the same concession to Sarah. So, whenever her cousin turned the conversation to the subject, said how she missed Frank, and wondered whether he would ever come again, Katie manifested such perfect indifference upon both points, that Sarah at last came to the conclusion that she had made a mistake, and that there was no chance of her ever winning the gloves.
On the Tuesday afternoon, the girls were together in the drawing-room, which looked over the lawn.
“Teddy has gone down to the station has he not?” Katie asked.
“Yes, he ordered the dog-cart to be at the office at three, in time to take him to meet the train. I wonder what he can be up to, for when he said so, he winked at mamma, and she shook her head and frowned, but smiled too; I wonder what it can be about?”
“Indeed and I don't know,” Katie said, “and I [98] don't suppose it's worth guessing about.”
“I don't know,” Sarah said, “there has been something going on for the last two or three days between Teddy and mamma, some quiet joke, and I am not sure papa is not in it too, for I have seen him smiling two or three times to himself, when there was nothing going on to smile at; and do you know, Katie, I have half an idea that it's something about you.”
“Faith, and I'm not curious, Sarah,” Katie said composedly, “Teddy will be back in a few minutes, and the secret will keep till then.”
Presently they heard the sound of wheels in the drive, and Sarah said, “Come along, Katie, we'll catch him in the hall, and see what he's brought,” and she went out followed by her cousin.
As they went into the large hall, the front door was opened, and Teddy entered followed by Frank Maynard. Sarah uttered an exclamation of surprise, and hurried forward to meet him; as she did so, Katie whispered indignantly, “Sarah, I hate you; I'll never forgive you.”
“Why, Frank,” Sarah said warmly, “this is a surprise, I am glad to see you again.”
“And I'm glad to be back again, Sarah.” Then [99] Frank turned to Katie, who was coming forward slowly, and rather reluctantly, for she felt that her cheeks were telling unmistakably that she was not uninterested in this unexpected arrival. Frank greeted her with, “How are you, Miss O'Byrne?—but I need not ask, it's charming you're looking any way.”
“Don't flatter yourself that it's from pleasure at seeing you again, Mr. Maynard.”
“Don't say that, Miss O'Byrne, it's downright cruel; I've been picturing you to myself sitting with your watch in your hand, counting the minutes to my arrival.”
“You are wrong, anyhow,” Katie said with indignant triumph, “for I did not even know you were coming. Teddy,” she said, turning to her cousin, “why did you not tell me Mr. Maynard was coming down?”
“I asked him not to say anything about it, Miss O'Byrne,” Frank said, seeing Katie was really indignant, “either to you or his sister, I thought it would be a surprise, and I hoped a pleasant one.”
“And really and truly did not you know, Sarah?” Katie asked, for up to this time she [100] believed that it had been a plot on the part of all the others to keep her in the dark, and that Sarah especially had endeavoured to surprise her by bringing her suddenly upon Frank.
“Really and truly, Katie, I had no more idea than you had.”
“Well,” Katie said, mollified, “in that case I forgive you, Teddy, I thought you were all tricking me. I didn't mean to be cross, Mr. Maynard,” she said frankly, “only I thought I was being made a fool of, and I hate that,” and she shook hands with him again and looked up unflinchingly at him with her honest eyes.
It was not until evening that, when Sarah was playing, Frank had an opportunity of speaking alone to Katie, “I am sorry I vexed you, Miss O'Byrne.”
“It was stupid of me to be vexed,” Katie said, “but I always hate surprises, and I thought Sarah had known it all along, and was trying to make me look ridiculous. I am sorry for it, Mr. Maynard.”
“Then you were not really sorry to see me again, Katie, it was not that?”
“No,” Katie said gently, “it was not that.”
[101]
“I have been looking forward so much to seeing you again,” Frank said.
“Oh, yes,” the girl answered, “I suppose you wanted some one to plague.”
“Do you really dislike being plagued, Katie, honestly now? I won't do it any more if you do.”
She was silent awhile, and then said, “I did not like it at first, but now I begin to understand you I don't mind; only I can't help being vexed, and then I am ashamed afterwards.”
“Yes, Katie,” Frank said, “I know I used to teaze you abominably; but you remember what I told you about the sea?”
“Well, Mr. Maynard, you talked so much nonsense, that I can hardly remember one part more than another.” Katie rose to go to the piano, but Frank could see by her face that she did remember it for all that.
Katie did not go into Sarah's room that night, but kissed her at the door. Sarah said, “Katie, dear, the kid gloves will be mine after all.” The cousin did not answer, but went on into her room and shut the door. She was happy, and felt that she need not check herself. Now [102] she really had cause to think that Frank loved her—and although she had laughingly turned off his words, she felt he was in earnest—she no longer struggled with her feelings, but acknowledged to herself, that all along she had loved him.
The next week passed very quietly. Frank still teazed Katie, and Katie fought sturdily, but she felt the battle was lost. There was no mistaking the quiet tone in which he sometimes spoke to her, so different from his general strain of light jesting with her, and the way in which he spoke to others. She fought because it was her nature to fight, but she was no longer indignant at his sallies—fought as a beaten enemy, surrounded and outnumbered fights, as a matter of honour and not of hope. She resisted occasionally, and tried to struggle against the influence he exerted over her. But the bird was in the net and knew it. She beat her wings and fluttered in vain; and ere the fortnight was over, Frank held her to his heart and her struggles were over. She was content to nestle there quietly, and answered as he wished to the question, “And do you believe me at last, dear Katie?”