“Now, Bessie, I entreat that you will not make
a ridiculous story of a most simple affair,”
implored Rachel.
“I promise not to make one, but don’t
blame me if it makes itself.”
“It cannot, unless some of us tell the story.”
“What, do you expect the young Alcides to hold
his tongue? That is more than can be hoped of
mortal landscape painter.”
“I wish you would not call him so. I am
sure he is a clergyman.”
“Landscape painter, I would lay you anything
you please.”
“Nay,” said Grace, “according to
you, that is just what he ought not to be.”
“I do not understand what diverts you so much,”
said Rachel, growing lofty in her displeasure.
“What matters it what the man may be?”
“That is exactly what we want to see,”
returned Bessie.
Poor Rachel, a grave and earnest person like her,
had little chance with one so full of playful wit
and fun as Bessie Keith, to whom her very dignity
and susceptibility of annoyance made her the better
game. To have involved the grave Rachel in such
a parody of an adventure was perfectly irresistible
to her, and to expect absolute indifference to it
would, as Grace felt, have been requiring mere stupidity.
Indeed, there was forbearance in not pushing Rachel
further at the moment; but proceeding to tell the tale
at Myrtlewood, whither Grace accompanied Bessie, as
a guard against possible madcap versions capable of
misconstruction.
“Yes,” said Rachel to herself, “I
see now what Captain Keith regrets. His sister,
with all her fine powers and abilities, has had her
tone lowered to the hateful conventional style of
wit that would put me to the blush for the smallest
mishap. I hope he will not come over till it
is forgotten, for the very sight of his disapproval
would incite her further. I am glad the Colonel
is not here. Here, of course, he is in my imagination.
Why should I be referring everything to him; I, who
used to be so independent? Suppose this nonsense
gave him umbrage? Let it. I might then
have light thrown on his feelings and my own.
At any rate, I will not be conscious. If this
stranger be really worth notice, as I think he is,
I will trample on her ridicule, and show how little
I esteem it.”
THE NEW SPORT
“‘Sire,’ I replied, ’joys
prove cloudlets,
Men are the merest Ixions.’
Here the King whistled aloud, ’Let’s,
Heigho, go look at our lions!’
Such are the sorrowful chances
If you talk fine to King Francis.”—R.
Browning.
The day after Rachel’s adventure with Don a
card came into the drawing-room, and therewith a message
that the gentleman had availed himself of Mrs. Curtis’s
kind permission, and was sketching the Spinster’s
Needles, two sharp points of red rock that stood out
in the sea at the end of the peninsula, and were specially
appropriated by Rachel and Grace.
