by Grant Allen
“Oh, no; this is how it ought to be,” Faith answered, now quite at home. And she delivered the lines in excellent French as Mlle. Clarice herself might have said them, only with infinitely more appreciation of their literary vigor.
Nea was astonished. “You speak splendidly,” she said. “I’d give anything myself to be able to speak that way.”
“Oh, I’ve spoken ever since I was two years old,” Faith answered offhand — for, to her, it seemed the most commonplace accomplishment on earth to be able to talk like the French lady’s maid. But to Nea it was proof of a consummate education.
After dinner they rose and went into the drawing room, Faith feeling rather awkward once more, now, as to how to proceed, and keeping her eyes firmly fixed on everything Nea did for guidance.
Presently Paul and his friend came in. Faith walked toward the door with what self-possession she could, most conscious of her gait as she crossed the room and kissed her brother. Then she turned and was introduced to the blond young man. Why, what a curious thing Paul should never have told her! The blond young man was extremely handsome.
Paul had always described Thistleton as a very good fellow and all that sort of thing, but had never enlarged in the least upon his personal appearance; and Faith had somehow imbibed the idea that the blond young man was stumpy and unpleasant. Perhaps it was because she had heard he was rich, and had therefore vaguely mixed him up in her own mind with the Gorgius Midas junior of M. Du Maurier’s sketches in Punch. But certainly, when she saw a fine, well-built young fellow of six feet one, with intelligent eyes, and a pleasing, ingenuous, frank countenance, she failed to recognize in him altogether the Thistleton of whom her brother had told her. The blond young man took her fancy at once; so much so that she felt shy at the idea of talking to him.
For to Faith it was a very great ordeal indeed, this sudden introduction to a society into which, till this moment, she had never penetrated. The very size and roominess of the apartments — though the Douglases’ house was by no means a large one — the brilliancy of the gas, the lightness of the costume, the flowers and decorations, the fluffiness, and airiness, and bright color of everything, fairly took her breath away. She felt herself moving in a new world of gauze and glitter. And then to be seated in these novel surroundings, to undertake conversation of an unrehearsed kind with unknown strangers, it was almost more than Faith’s equanimity was proof against. But she bore up bravely, nevertheless, for very shame, and answered at first, almost as in a dream, all that the blond young man said to her.
Thistleton, however, had no such difficulties, for he was born rich; and he talked away so easily and pleasantly to the national schoolmistress about things she really took an interest in and understood that at the end of an hour she was hardly afraid of him, especially as he seemed so fond of Paul, and so proud and pleased about his Marlborough Essay.
“I wanted to bet him ten to one in fivers he’d get it,” Thistleton remarked, all radiant; “but he wouldn’t bet. He knew he was sure of it, and he wasn’t going to hedge. And all the House was awfully glad of it. Why, the dean himself called him up and congratulated him!”
As for Paul, he talked most of the time to Nea, with occasional judicious interventions on Mrs. Douglas’ part, who was never so pleased as when she could make young people happy.
When they took their departure that evening Faith said to her hostess, “What a very nice young man that Mr. Thistleton is!” As a matter of fact, it was the very first opportunity she had ever had of talking to any young man of decent education and gentlemanly manners on equal terms, except her own brother and she was naturally pleased with him.
Mrs. Douglas shrugged her shoulders a little bit — almost as naturally as Mme. Ceriolo.
“Do you think so?” she said. “Well, he’s nice enough, I suppose; but his manners haven’t that repose that stamps the caste of Vere de Vere, somehow. He’s a trifle too boisterous for my taste, you know. Good-hearted, of course, and all that sort of thing, but not with the stamp of blue blood about him.”
“Oh, nonsense, my dear Eleanor,” the professor ejaculated with a good round mouth. “The young fellow’s as well-behaved as most earls in England, and, if it comes to that, a great deal better.”
“I’m so glad you say so, Mr. Douglas,” Faith put in with a smile—” that it’s nonsense, I mean — for I should have been afraid to.”
“Well, but really, Faith,” Mrs. Douglas retorted, “he isn’t fit to hold a candle any day to your brother Paul.”
“I should think not, indeed!” Nea exclaimed immediately with profound conviction. “Why, Mr. Gascoyne’s just worth a thousand of him!”
Faith turned with a grateful look to Nea for that kindly sentence; and yet she would have liked the praise of Paul all the better if it hadn’t been contrasted with the dispraise of Mr. Thistleton, For her part, she thought him a most delightful young man, and was only sorry he was so dreadfully rich, and therefore, of course, if one got to know him better, no doubt nasty.
They parted in the passage outside Faith’s bedroom, and Nea, as she said “Good-night, dear,” to her new friend, leant forward to kiss her. Faith hesitated for a moment: she wasn’t accustomed to cheapen her embraces in the usual feline feminine manner, and as yet she didn’t feel sure of Nea; but next instant she yielded, and pressed her companion’s hand. “Thank you so much,” she said with tears in her eyes, and darted into her room. But Nea didn’t even so much as know for what she thanked her.
Faith meant for not having been “grand” and crushed her. To herself she was always the national schoolmistress.
But Nea saw in her only a graceful, handsome, well-bred girl, and Paul Gascoyne’s sister.
So ended Faith Gascoyne’s first equally dreaded and longed-for evening in good society.
Outside the Douglases’ door Thistleton paused and looked at his friend.
“Why, Gascoyne,” he said, “you never told me what a beautiful girl your sister was, and so awfully clever!”
Paul smiled. “As a rule,” he said, “men don’t blow the trumpet for their own female relations.”
Thistleton accepted the explanation in silence, and walked along mute for two or three minutes. Then he began again, almost as if to himself: “But this one,” he said, “is so exceptionally beautiful.”
Paul was aware of an uncomfortable sensation at the base of his throat, and diverted the conversation to the chances of a bump on the first night of the races.
CHAPTER XIX.
IDYLS OF YOUTH.
To Faith those ten delicious days at Oxford were a dream fulfilled — pure gold every one of them. How glorious were those strolls round Magdalen cloisters; those fresh morning walks in Christ Church Meadows; those afternoon lounges in the cool nooks of Wadham Gardens! How grand the tower of Merton loomed up in moonlight; how noble was the prospect of the crowded High, with the steeple of St. Mary’s and Land’s porch in the middle distance, viewed from the stone steps of Queen’s or University! How she loved each moldering pinnacle of Oriel, each vaulted boss in the great roof of Christ Church! What delightful afternoon teas in Tom Quad; what luxurious breakfasts in the New Buildings at Balliol! To the national schoolmistress, fresh from the din of the infants and the narrow precincts of Plowden’s Court, the height and breadth and calm and glory of those majestic colleges were something unknown, unpictured, unfancied. Even after all Paul had told her, it eclipsed and effaced her best ideal. She had only one pang — that she must so soon leave it all.
And what a grand phantasmagoria it produced in her mind, that whirling week of unparalleled excitement! In the morning to view the Bodleian or the Radcliffe, to walk under the chestnuts on the Cherwell bank, or to admire from the bridge the soaring tower of Magdalen. At midday to lunch in some undergraduate’s quarters, or with bearded dons in some paneled common room: for Mrs. Douglas was known to be the best of hostesses, and whoever saw Oxford under her auspices was sure not to lack for entertainment or for entertainment
s. In the afternoon to float down the river to Iffley in a tub pair, or to lounge on padded punts under the broad shade of Addison’s walk; or to drink tea in rooms looking out over the Renaissance court of St. John’s; or to hear the anthem trilled from sweet boyish throats in New College Chapel. In the evening to dine at home or abroad in varied company; to listen to some concert in the hall of Exeter; or to see the solemn inner quad of Jesus incongruously decked out with Japanese lanterns and hanging lights for a Cymric festival. A new world seemed to open out all at once before her: a world all excitement, pleasure, and loveliness.
To most girls brought up in quiet, cultivated homes, a visit to Oxford is one long whirl of dissipation. To Faith, brought up in the cabman’s cottage, it was a perfect revelation of art, life, and beauty. It sank into her soul like first love. If you can imagine a bird’s-eye view of Florence, Paris, and educated society rolled into one, that is something like what those ten days at Oxford were to Faith Gascoyne.
Every night Nea Blair went out with her, and every night, to Faith’s immense surprise, Nea wore the same simple cashmere dress she had worn at Mrs. Douglas’ that first evening. It made Faith feel a great deal more at home with her; and after three days, indeed, she got quite over her fear of Nea. Nea was so gentle, so sweet, so kind, it was impossible for anybody long to resist her. By the third evening they were sworn friends, and when Faith went up with her after the little carpet-dance to bed, it was actually with her arm round the “grand girl’s” waist that she mounted the staircase.
On the morning of their fourth day at Oxford they were walking in the High with Mrs. Douglas — on their way to visit the reredos at All Souls — when just outside the doors of the Mitre, Nea was suddenly stopped by a golden-haired apparition.
“Oh, my, momma!” the apparition exclaimed in a fine Pennsylvanian twang, “if here aint Nea Blair, as large as life and twice as natral! Well, now, I do call that jest lovely! To think we should meet you here again, Nea! But I felt it somehow; I said to momma this morning as we were unloading the baggage down at the cars, ‘I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if Nea Blair’s at Oxford.’ I knew you were coming up this summer term, you know, to visit friends, and I kind of guessed we should probably synchronize.”
“Nea, my dear,” Mrs. Douglas remarked with chilly dignity, “will you introduce your acquaintances.”
For Mrs. Douglas’s British back was considerably stiffened by the newcomer’s obvious lack of the Vere de Vere emotional temperament.
“This is Miss Boyton,” Nea said, presenting her; “she was with us at Mentone. And this is Mrs. Boyton.”
For where Isabel was, there her mother sank naturally into the background.
“Yes; and, my dear, we’ve only jest arrived! We wired to Mr. Thistleton to engage rooms for us at the Mitre. There’s another hotel at Oxford, he told us — the Randolph — but it doesn’t sound so mediaeval and English and aristocratic as the Mitre. And now we’ve come out to look around a bit and see the city.”
“Oh, you’re Mr. Thistleton’s guests, are you?” Faith asked, with a faint undercurrent of suspicion, for she didn’t half like this sudden intrusion of the golden-haired Pennsylvanian upon her special undergraduate. Though she had only been three days at Oxford, Thistleton had already been most marked in his politeness, and Faith, though innocent as a child of ulterior designs upon the rich young man, didn’t want to have his immediate kind attention diverted upon others.
“Yes, indeed,” Isabel answered. “We’ve gotten our own rooms for ourselves at the Mitre, of course, but we expect Mr. Thistleton to walk us around and give us a good time while we stop in Oxford. Mamma and I are looking forward to enjoying ourselves all the time. Oh, don’t the place look jest lovely?”
“It is lovely,” Nea said; “I always enjoy it so much.
But why did you telegraph to Mr. Thistleton, instead of Mr. Gascoyne? We saw so much more of Mr. Gascoyne at Mentone.”
“Well, to tell you the truth,” Isabel answered, “I didn’t jest feel like asking Mr. Gascoyne: while that young Thistleton fellow — he’s a real good sort, but only a boy, you know, so I didn’t mind asking him.”
“This is Mr. Gascoyne’s sister,” Nea said, with a slight wave toward Faith, who stood irresolute in the background. “She’s stopping with me at Mrs. Douglas’. We’re going just now to see one of the colleges — All Souls.
“Well, I don’t mind if we catch on to it,” Isabel answered briskly. “We’ve jest come out to see what the place is like, and one college’ll do for us, I presoom, as well as another. According to the guide the city must be full of them.”
Mrs. Douglas knocked under with condescending tact. She recollected that Nea had told her Miss Boyton was rich; and, after all, there are always lots of nice young men lying about loose who’d be glad to pick up with a rich and pretty American.
“If your mamma and you would like to join our party,” she said with her best second-class smile (Mrs. Douglas’ smiles were duly graduated for all ranks of society), “I’m sure we shall be delighted. Any friends of Nea’s are always welcome to us.”
So from that moment forth the Boytons were duly accepted as part and parcel of Mrs. Douglas’ set during that crowded race week. They went everywhere with Faith and Nea, and shared in much of the undergraduate feasts which Mrs. Douglas offered vicariously for her young friends’ amusement. Undergraduate Oxford loves anything fresh, and Isabel Boyton’s freshness, at any rate, was wholly beyond dispute. Before the week was out, the golden-haired Pennsylvanian had become a feature in Christ Church, and even betting was offered in Peckwater whether or not Gascoyne would marry her.
The same evening Mrs. Douglas gave her first dinner party for her two guests, and as they sat in the drawing room, just before the earliest outsider arrived, Mrs. Douglas turned to Faith (Nea hadn’t yet come down) and remarked parenthetically:
“Oh, by the way, Mr. Thistleton will take you in to dinner, my dear. He’ll go after your brother Paul, and then Mr. Wade’ll take in Nea.”
Faith shrank back a little alarmed.
“Oh, but tell me, Mrs. Douglas,” she cried, somewhat shamefaced, “why mayn’t I go last? I don’t want to go in before Nea.”
Mrs. Douglas shook her head in most decided disapproval. “It can’t be helped, my child,” she said. “It’s not my arrangement. I’ve got nothing on earth to do with settling the table of precedence. It’s the Lord Chamberlain who has long ago decided once for all that your brother Paul, as a baronet’s son, walks in before young Thistleton, and that you, as a baronet’s daughter, walk in before Nea.”
Faith gave a little gesture of extreme dissatisfaction. This playing at baronetcy was to her most distasteful.
“I can’t bear it,” she cried. “Do, dear Mrs. Douglas, as a special favor, let Nea at least go in before me.”
But Mrs. Douglas was inflexible. “No, no,” she said, “none of your nasty Radical leveling ways for me, turning society topsy-turvy with your new fangled ideas, and all just to suit your own unbridled fancy. People of quality must behave as such. If you happen to be born a baronet’s daughter you must take precedence of a country parson’s girl. Noblesse oblige. That’s the price you have to pay for being born in an exalted station in life. You must fulfill the duties that belong to your place in society.”
So, with a very bad grace, poor Faith yielded.
When Nea came down, Faith observed with surprise that she was wearing even now the same simple cashmere dress as on the first night of her visit. Faith had expected that for this special function at least Nea would have appeared arrayed, like Solomon, in all her glory. But, no; the plain cashmere was still to the front, invariable as Faith’s own delicate foulard. A curious thought flashed across Faith’s mind; could the “grand girl” herself, as she still sometimes thought her, have brought but one evening dress in her box, just as she herself had done?
For, after all, Faith began to observe that, in a deeper sense than she had at first expected, we a
re all in the last resort built of much the same mold, and that the differences of high and low are a great deal more mere differences of accent, speech, and dress than of intellect or emotion.
That evening Mr. Thistleton, she thought, was more attentive to her than ever; and when she spoke to him once about the golden-haired apparition that had flashed upon them in the High Street from the Mitre that morning he only laughed good-naturedly, and remarked, with tolerant contempt, that Miss Boyton was “real racy” of American soil, and that her mamma was a most amiable and unobtrusive old Egyptian mummy.
“You saw a good deal of her at Mentone, I suppose,” Faith said, looking up at him from her ottoman in the niche.
“Yes, and heard a good deal of her, too,” Thistleton answered, smiling. “She wasn’t born to blush unseen, that excellent Miss Boyton. Wherever she goes she makes herself felt. She’s amusing, that’s all: one endures her because one gets such lots of fun out of her.”
“But she’s very rich, Paul says,” Faith murmured abstractedly.
“Oh, they grow ’em very rich in America, I fancy,” the blond young man replied with careless ease. “So do we in Yorkshire, too; we don’t set much store by that up in the North, you know. People are all rolling in money with us in Sheffield. To be rich up there is positively vulgar, as far as that goes. The distinguished thing in the North is to be poor, but cultured. It’s almost as fashionable as being poor, but honest, used once to be in Sunday school literature.”
“Still, she’s pretty, don’t you think, in her own way?” Faith asked, pleading Miss Boyton’s case out of pure perversity.
“She’s pretty enough, if you go in for prettiness,” the blond young man retorted with a glance of admiration at Faith’s own raven hair and great speaking eyes. “I don’t myself — I don’t like women to be pretty.”
“Don’t like them to be pretty!” Faith repeated, aghast.
