"Once again, that landscape painter!" exclaimed Bessie, with uplifted
hands, as soon as both he and Mrs. Curtis were out of earshot, "an
adventure at last."
"Not at all," said Rachel, gravely; "there was neither alarm nor
danger."
"Precisely; the romance minus the disagreeables. Only the sea monster
wanting. Young Alcides, and rock--you stood there for sacrifice, I was
the weeping Dardanian dames."
Even Grace could not help laughing at the mischief of the one, and the
earnest seriousness of the other.
"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."