PECULIAR TO NEVADA.
Whether, or not, Lucia was right in accusing Octavia Bassett of being
clever, and thinking a great deal, is a riddle which those who are
interested in her must unravel as they read; but, whether the surmise was
correct or incorrect, it seemed possible that she had thought a little
after the interview. When Barold saw her next, he was struck by a slight
but distinctly definable change he recognized in her dress and coiffure.
Her pretty hair had a rather less "professional" appearance: he had the
pleasure of observing, for the first time, how very white her forehead
was, and how delicate the arch of her eyebrows; her dress had a novel air
of simplicity, and the diamond rings were nowhere to be seen.
"She's better dressed than usual," he said to himself. "And she's always
well dressed,--rather too well dressed, fact is, for a place like this.
This sort of thing is in better form, under the circumstances." It was
so much "better form," and he so far approved of it, that he quite
thawed, and was very amiable and very entertaining indeed.
Octavia was entertaining too. She asked several most interesting
questions.
"Do you think," she inquired, "that it is bad taste to wear diamonds?"
"My mother wears them--occasionally."
"Have you any sisters?"
"No."
"Any cousins--as young as I am?"
"Ya-as."
"Do they wear them?"
"I must admit," he replied, "that they don't. In the first place, you
know, they haven't any; and, in the second, I am under the impression
that Lady Beauchamp--their mamma, you know--wouldn't permit it if they
had."
"Wouldn't permit it!" said Octavia. "I suppose they always do as she
tells them?"
He smiled a little.
"They would be very courageous young women if they didn't," he remarked.
"What would she do if they tried it?" she inquired. "She couldn't beat
them."
"They will never try it," he answered dryly. "And though I have never
seen her beat them, or heard their lamentations under chastisement, I
should not like to say that Lady Beauchamp could not do any thing. She is
a very determined person--for a gentlewoman."
Octavia laughed.
"You are joking," she said.
"Lady Beauchamp is a serious subject for jokes," he responded. "My
cousins think so, at least."
"I wonder if she is as bad as Lady Theobald," Octavia reflected aloud.
"She says I have no right to wear diamonds at all until I am married. But
I don't mind Lady Theobald," she added, as a cheerful afterthought. "I am
not fond enough of her to care about what she says."
"Are you fond of any one?" Barold inquired, speaking with a languid air,
but at the same time glancing at her with some slight interest from under
his eyelids.
"Lucia says I am," she returned, with the calmness of a young person who
wished to regard the matter from an unembarrassed point of view. "Lucia
says I am affectionate."
"Ah!" deliberately. "Are you?"
She turned, and looked at him serenely.
"Should _you_ think so?" she asked.
This was making such a personal matter of the question, that he did not
exactly enjoy it. It was certainly not "good form" to pull a man up in
such cool style.
"Really," he replied, "I--ah--have had no opportunity of judging."
He had not the slightest intention of being amusing, but to his infinite
disgust he discovered as soon as he spoke that she was amused. She
laughed outright, and evidently only checked herself because he looked so
furious. In consideration for his feelings she assumed an air of mild but
preternatural seriousness.
"No," she remarked, "that is true: you haven't, of course."
He was silent. He did not enjoy being amusing at all, and he made no
pretence of appearing to submit to the indignity calmly.
She bent forward a little.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "you are mad again--I mean, you are vexed. I am
always vexing you."
There was a hint of appeal in her voice, which rather pleased him; but he
had no intention of relenting at once.
"I confess I am at a loss to know why you laughed," he said.
"Are you," she asked, "really?" letting her eyes rest upon him anxiously
for a moment. Then she actually gave vent to a little sigh. "We look at
things so differently, that's it," she said.
"I suppose it is," he responded, still chillingly.
In spite of this, she suddenly assumed a comparatively cheerful aspect. A
happy thought occurred to her.
"Lucia would beg your pardon," she said. "I am learning good manners from
Lucia. Suppose I beg your pardon."
"It is quite unnecessary," he replied.
"Lucia wouldn't think so," she said. "And why shouldn't I be as
well-behaved as Lucia? I beg your pardon."
He felt rather absurd, and yet somewhat mollified. She had a way of
looking at him, sometimes, when she had been unpleasant, which rather
soothed him. In fact, he had found of late, a little to his private
annoyance, that it was very easy for her either to soothe or disturb him.
And now, just as Octavia had settled down into one of the prettiest and
least difficult of her moods, there came a knock at the front door,
which, being answered by Mary Anne, was found to announce the curate of
St. James.
Enter, consequently, the Rev. Arthur Poppleton,--blushing, a trifle
timorous perhaps, but happy beyond measure to find himself in Miss
Belinda's parlor again, with Miss Belinda's niece.
Perhaps the least possible shade of his joyousness died out when he
caught sight of Mr. Francis Barold, and certainly Mr. Francis Barold was
not at all delighted to see him.
"What does the fellow want?" that gentleman was saying inwardly. "What
does he come simpering and turning pink here for? Why doesn't he go and
see some of his old women, and read tracts to them? That's _his_
business." Octavia's manner toward her visitor formed a fresh
grievance for Barold. She treated the curate very well indeed. She
seemed glad to see him, she was wholly at her ease with him, she made no
trying remarks to him, she never stopped to fix her eyes upon him in
that inexplicable style, and she did not laugh when there seemed nothing
to laugh at. She was so gay and good-humored that the Rev. Arthur
Poppleton beamed and flourished under her treatment, and forgot to
change color, and even ventured to talk a good deal, and make divers
quite presentable little jokes.
"I should like to know," thought Barold, growing sulkier as the others
grew merrier,--"I should like to know what she finds so interesting in
him, and why she chooses to treat him better than she treats me; for she
certainly does treat him better."
It was hardly fair, however, that he should complain; for, at times, he
was treated extremely well, and his intimacy with Octavia progressed
quite rapidly. Perhaps, if the truth were told, it was always himself who
was the first means of checking it, by some suddenly prudent instinct
which led him to feel that perhaps he was in rather a delicate position,
and had better not indulge in too much of a good thing. He had not been
an eligible and unimpeachable desirable _parti_ for ten years without
acquiring some of that discretion which is said to be the better part of
valor. The matter-of-fact air with which Octavia accepted his attentions
caused him to pull himself up sometimes. If he had been Brown, or Jones,
or even Robinson, she could not have appeared to regard them as more
entirely natural. When--he had gone so far, once or twice--he had deigned
to make a more than usually agreeable speech to her, it was received with
none of that charming sensitive tremor to which he was accustomed.
Octavia neither blushed, nor dropped her eyes.
It did not add to Barold's satisfaction to find her as cheerful and ready
to be amused by a mild little curate, who blushed and stammered, and was
neither brilliant, graceful, nor distinguished. Could not Octavia see the
wide difference between the two? Regarding the matter in this light, and
watching Octavia as she encouraged her visitor, and laughed at his jokes,
and never once tripped him up by asking him a startling question, did
not, as already has been said, improve Mr. Francis Barold's temper; and,
by the time his visit was over, he had lapsed into his coldest and most
haughty manner. As soon as Miss Belinda entered, and engaged Mr.
Poppleton for a moment, he rose, and crossed the little room to Octavia's
side.
"I must bid you good-afternoon," he said.
Octavia did not rise.
"Sit down a minute, while aunt Belinda is talking about red-flannel
nightcaps and lumbago," she said. "I wanted to ask you something. By the
way, what _is_ lumbago?"
"Is that what you wished to ask me?" he inquired stiffly.
"No. I just thought of that. Have you ever had it? and what is it like?
All the old people in Slowbridge have it, and they tell you all about it
when you go to see them. Aunt Belinda says so. What I wanted to ask you
was different"--
"Possibly Miss Bassett might be able to tell you," he remarked.
"About the lumbago? Well, perhaps she might. I'll ask her. Do you think
it bad taste in _me_ to wear diamonds?"
She said this with the most delightful seriousness, fixing her eyes upon
him with her very prettiest look of candid appeal, as if it were the most
natural thing in the world that she should apply to him for information.
He felt himself faltering again. How white that bit of forehead was! How
soft that blonde, waving fringe of hair! What a lovely shape her eyes
were, and how large and clear as she raised them!
"Why do you ask _me_?" he inquired.
"Because I think you are an unprejudiced person. Lady Theobald is not. I
have confidence in you. Tell me."
There was a slight pause.
"Really," he said, after it, "I can scarcely believe that my opinion can
be of any value in your eyes. I am--can only tell you that it is hardly
customary in--an--in England for young people to wear a profusion of
ornament."
"I wonder if I wear a profusion."
"You don't need any," he condescended. "You are too young, and--all that
sort of thing."
She glanced down at her slim, unringed hands for a moment, her expression
quite thoughtful.
"Lucia and I almost quarrelled the other day," she said--"at least, I
almost quarrelled. It isn't so nice to be told of things, after all. I
must say I don't like it as much as I thought I should."
He kept his seat longer than, he had intended; and, when he rose to go,
the Rev. Arthur Poppleton was shaking hands with Miss Belinda, and so it
fell out that they left the house together.
"You know Miss Octavia Bassett well, I suppose," remarked Barold, with
condescension, as they passed through the gate. "You clergymen are
fortunate fellows."
"I wish that others knew her as well, sir," said the little gentleman,
kindling. "I wish they knew her--her generosity and kindness of heart and
ready sympathy with misfortune!"
"Ah!" commented Mr. Barold, twisting his mustache with somewhat of an
incredulous air. This was not at all the sort of thing he had expected to
hear. For his own part, it would not have occurred to him to suspect her
of the possession of such desirable and orthodox qualities.
"There are those who--misunderstand her," cried the curate, warming with
his subject, "who misunderstand, and--yes, and apply harsh terms to her
innocent gayety and freedom of speech: if they knew her as I do, they
would cease to do so."
"I should scarcely have thought"--began Barold.
"There are many who scarcely think it,--if you will pardon my
interrupting you," said the curate. "I think they would scarcely believe
it if I felt at liberty to tell them, which I regret to say I do not. I
am almost breaking my word in saying what I cannot help saying to
yourself. The poor under my care are better off since she came, and there
are some who have seen her more than once, though she did not go as a
teacher or to reprove them for faults; and her way of doing what she did
was new to them, and perhaps much less serious than they were accustomed
to, and they liked it all the better."
"Ah!" commented Barold again. "Flannel under-garments, and--that sort
of thing."
"No," with much spirit, "not at all, sir; but what, as I said, they liked
much better. It is not often they meet a beautiful creature who comes
among them with open hands, and the natural, ungrudging way of giving
which she has. Sometimes they are at a loss to understand, as well as the
rest. They have been used to what is narrower and more--more exacting."
"They have been used to Lady Theobald," observed Barold, with a faint
smile.
"It would not become me to--to mention Lady Theobald in any disparaging
manner," replied the curate: "but the best and most charitable among us
do not always carry out our good intentions in the best way. I dare say
Lady Theobald would consider Miss Octavia Bassett too readily influenced
and too lavish."
"She is as generous with her money as with her diamonds perhaps," said
Barold. "Possibly the quality is peculiar to Nevada. We part here, Mr.
Poppleton, I believe. Good-morning."