Volume One—Chapter Nineteen.
Signs of the Times.
“Well, Mrs. Bolter,” drawled Chumbley, “who’s going to carry off the prize?”
“What prize?” cried the little lady, sharply.
“The fair Helen,” said the young man, with a smile.
“You, I should say,” said Mrs. Bolter, with more asperity in her tone.
“Chaff!” said Chumbley; and he went on, slowly, “Won’t do, Mrs. Doctor; I’m too slow for her. She had me in silken strings for a week like a pet poodle; but I soon got tired and jealous of seeing her pet other puppies instead of me, and I was not allowed to bite them, so—”
“Well?” said the doctor’s wife, for he had stopped.
“I snapped the string and ran away, and she has never forgiven me.”
“Harry Chumbley,” said the doctor’s wife, shaking her finger at him, “don’t you ever try to make me believe again that you are stupid, because, sir, it will not do.”
“I never pretend to be,” said the young man, with a sluggish laugh, “I’m just as I was made—good, bad and indifferent. I don’t think I’m more stupid than most men. I’m awfully lazy though—too lazy to play the idiot or the lover, or to put up with a flirting young lady’s whims; but I say, Mrs. Doctor.”
“Well?” said the lady.
“I don’t want to be meddlesome, but really if I were you, being the regular methodical lady of the station, I should speak seriously to Helen Perowne about flirting with that nigger.”
“Has she been flirting with him to-night?” said the lady eagerly.
“Awfully,” said Chumbley—“hot and strong. We fellows can stand it, you know, and if we get led on and then snubbed, why it makes us a bit sore, and we growl and try to lick the place, and—there’s an end of it.”
“Yes—yes—exactly,” said the lady, thoughtfully.
“But it’s my belief,” continued Chumbley, spreading his words out so as to cover a good deal of space, while he made himself comfortable by stretching out his long legs, lowering himself back, and placing his hands under his head—a very ungraceful position, which displayed a gap between his vest and the top of his trousers—“it’s my belief, I say, that if Beauty there goes on playing with the Beast in his plaid sarong, and making his opal eyeballs roll into the idea that she cares for him, which she doesn’t a single pip—”
“Go on, I’m listening,” said the doctor’s lady.
“All right—give me time, Mrs. Bolter; but that’s about all I was going to say, only that I think if she leads him on as she is doing now there will not be an end of it. That’s all.”
“Well, busy little Grey,” said the Resident, merrily, as he seated himself beside the earnest-eyed Scottish maiden, “what is the new piece of needlework now?”
“Only a bit of embroidery, Mr. Harley,” she replied, giving him a quick, animated glance, and the look of trouble upon her face passing away.
“Ha!” he said, taking up the piece of work and examining it intently, “what a strange thing it is that out in these hot places, while we men grow lazier, you ladies become more industrious. Look at Chumbley for instance, he’s growing fatter and slower every day.”
“Oh, but he’s very nice, and frank, and natural,” said Grey with animation.
“Yes,” said the Resident, “he’s a good fellow. I like Chumbley. But look at the work in that embroidery now—thousands and thousands of stitches. Why what idiots our young fellows are!”
“Why, Mr. Harley?” said the girl, wonderingly.
“Why, my child? Because one or the other of them does not make a swoop down and persuade you to let him carry you off.”
“Are you all so tired of me already?” said Grey, smiling.
“Tired of you? Oh, no, little one, but it seems to me that you are such a quiet little mouse that they all forget your very existence.”
“I am happy enough with my father, and very glad to join him once more, Mr. Harley.”
“Happy? Of course you are; that seems to be your nature. I never saw a girl so sweet, and happy, and contented.”
“Indeed!” said Grey, blushing. “How can I help being happy when everyone is so kind?”
“Kind? Why, of course. Why, let me see,” said the Resident, “how time goes; what a number of years it seems since I took you to England and played papa to you?”
“Yes, it does seem a long time ago,” said Grey, musingly.
“I never thought that the little girl I petted would ever grow into such a beautiful young lady. Perhaps that is why papa Stuart did not ask me to bring you back.”
“Mr. Harley!” exclaimed Grey, and a look of pain crossed her face.
“Why, what have I done?” he said.
“Hurt me,” she said, simply. “I like so to talk to you that it troubles me when you adopt that complimentary style.”
“Then I won’t do it again,” he said, earnestly. “We won’t spoil our old friendship with folly.”
“How well you remember, Mr. Harley,” said the girl, smiling again.
“Remember? Of course I do, my dear. Don’t you recollect what jolly feeds of preserved ginger and mango you and I used to have? Ah, it was too bad of you to grow up into a little woman!”
“I don’t think we are any the less good friends, Mr. Harley,” said the girl, looking trustingly up in his face.
“Not a bit,” he said. “Do you know, my dear, I think more and more every day that I am going to grow into a staid old bachelor; and if I do I shall have to adopt you as daughter or niece.”
“Indeed, Mr. Harley.”
“Yes, indeed, my dear. Nineteen, eh? and I am forty-four. Heigho! how time goes!”
“I had begun to think, Mr. Harley—” said Grey, softly. “May I go on?”
“Go on? Of course, my dear. What had you begun to think?”
“That you would marry Helen.”
“Ye-es, several people thought so on shipboard,” he said, dreamily. “Nineteen—twenty-one—forty-four. I’m getting quite an old man now, my dear. Hah!” he said, starting, “I daresay Mademoiselle Helen will have plenty of offers.”
“Yes,” said Grey; “but she should meet with someone firm and strong as well as kind.”
“Like your humble servant?” he said, smiling.
“Yes,” said Grey, looking ingenuously in his face. “Helen is very sweet and affectionate at heart, only she is so fond of being admired.”
“A weakness she will outgrow,” said the Resident, calmly. “I like to hear you talk like that, Grey. You are not jealous, then, of the court that is paid to her?”
“I, jealous?” said Grey, smiling. “Do I look so?”
“Not