The Stony Path

HE wild bit of Berkshire common was purple with heather, and lay under a blazing September noon, such as often results from a chilly, gray morning. The clatter of knives and forks and the popping of corks betokened a shooting-picnic. Mrs. Martin, very debonair in her smart linen suit, had driven over with her hostess and Nelly, and was sitting in the shade of a big boulder talking to one of the women who had been out with the guns, and were, without exception, hot, tired, and dressed in heavy tweeds. Some way from her was the hillock, where Nelly, in all the belated frilliness of a dark blue and purple muslin, full of crisp simplicity, with yet a touch of autumnal discretion about it, sat beneath a deep emerald green sunshade against a background of heather.

Suddenly Mrs. Martin looked up with a start. She had deposited her niece half an hour since with her ponderous host, and settled herself for a good gossip. It was decidedly startling to turn round on hearing a wild guffaw of laughter, and find her charge surrounded by seven men. On a tremendous peal of merriment, and at the obvious signs of an inclination shown by the two remaining mankind to join the group, Mrs. Martin, who knew that invitations come from the women of a family, firmly grasped her sunshade, and sallied across without more ado to join the merry party. She arrived in time to hear Nelly's voice giving a short lecture on the conditions of pheasant shooting. As Mrs. Martin was aware that this was Nelly's first appearance at a shoot, and equally aware that there could be no doubt of this left in her listeners' minds, after Nelly's extraordinary statements on the sport (the assumption that pheasants were shot sitting in the heather being the least egregious of her blunders), Mrs. Martin felt less triumph at the obvious amusement in the laughter than did her niece.

Nelly, indeed, was so elated, that she even bestowed a friendly smile on her chaperon, which was cruelly repaid by that lady's unshakable decision to return forthwith—and this in spite of the fact that the hostess had elected to stay with the guns, and joined in the plea that Nelly might stay, also, as she so ardently desired, a plea backed by the entire masculine force. Mrs. Martin's adamant resolution to write home-letters was matched by her equal resolution that Nelly should do the same, and, moreover, despatch them by the afternoon mail.

Nelly leaned back complacently when the carriage started on its homeward journey, and, with real sympathy, Mrs. Martin forebore [sic] to interrupt her. She was honestly regretful that she must dispel the illusions which she read in Nelly's exalté expression,

“How silly Captain Derrick's laugh is,” began Nelly presently.

“Most malicious,” rejoined Mrs, Martin, reluctantly taking her opportunity.

“Oh, I don't think so,” said Nelly. Mrs. Martin saw that the process of enlightenment would have to be strenuous. “I think he's rather kind,” continued her niece. “He simply insisted on holding my parasol.” Again a pleased smile spread over her features, and Mrs. Martin could not find it in her heart to proceed.

“It seems too ridiculous to think that three months ago I was still at school,” continued the débutante.

Mrs. Martin hesitated, and took the plunge.

“I'm afraid it's rather evident still, dear,” she said, hoping the words did not sound as cattish as she felt them.

“Do you think so? The man in the check coat said he thought I couldn't be a day younger than twenty-four,” returned Nelly, trying not to be unreasonably exultant.

“Which proves how absurdly young he must have thought you, before he offered it as a compliment. If he had thought you were twenty-four; the most he could have guessed in common courtesy would be nineteen.”

“After all, I do not see what age matters; it is knowledge of the world that counts,” said Nelly, beating a retreat in good order. Mrs. Martin lowered her sunshade and waited. By the beatific expression that was growing on Nelly's face, she felt sure that the supreme opportunity was coming.

It came. “It is nonsense to imagine that it is difficult to get on with men. One has only to be natural. I was just thinking of Milly Peyton, who was simply terrified at the idea of coming out and being left stranded with a photograph book. If any one is left like that, it must be the girl's fault. Look at me to-day. I did nothing. Of course, one must have a little wit,” concluded Nelly, as if virtue forced her to be candid, even at the risk of being boastful.

“I wondered how your little crowd collected,” said Mrs. Martin, with alluring indifference, but with a twinkle of real curiosity in her eyes. “I left you with Sir Charles. I thought him so very safe.”

“Oh, he's all right,” rejoined Nelly. “I was telling him my ideas about marriage” (Mrs. Martin gasped), “and the man in the check coat joined in. Then Captain Derrick came up, and we discussed the advantages of friendships with girls or married women.”

“My dear!” said Mrs. Martin, whitely. “With Captain Derrick?”

“Yes. They all plumped for girls, but I told them,” said Nelly, with affection, “that they mustn't judge by me until they had tried it with some charming woman like you. They all laughed so much that the nice boy with the blue eyes and the fat man—Mr. Parker, isn't it?—came up to know what was the matter. When Mr. Parker heard he called to Lord Archie and his friend, and I don't know how it was,” concluded Nelly modestly, “but they all stayed. I'm sure I didn't want them.”

The carriage was nearing the house. Mrs. Martin stepped firmly in medias res.

“My dear, you have had a very nice little social success to-day, in spite of the fact that they found your youth and inexperience amusing. But you mustn't overestimate it.”

“I don't imagine all those men are in love with me, if that's what you mean,” said Nelly, with exquisite dignity. “But it would be absurd to pretend that I don't see that they find me more attractive than the other women.”

“But they do not find you more attractive. That is exactly the point I wish to make,” said her chaperon, roused a little by Nelly's supreme complacency.

“Then why do they talk to me without the slightest invitation?” inquired Nelly.

Mrs. Martin pulled herself together for a convincing array of evidence, though she heartily wished that Nelly could be left to gloat over her little victory.

“First, because the extreme verdancy of your views attracted the men in your immediate neighborhood. Then, a little group collected round some one new always attracts the other men. Vanity makes every man like to be one of the group where the best entertainment is going on. Also, woman-hunting is a form of shikar, which no sportsman can resist, when he sees others joining in it. In nine cases out of ten the girl's attractions have nothing to do with her transient success at all.”

“Do you mean that I myself had nothing to do with it?” asked Nelly, in surprise and indignation.

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Martin, making her first mistake. “Nothing whatever.”

Nelly waited a moment. Then she returned, with some success, to the charge.

“I don't want to be vain; but in that case the way they all listened and looked was rather peculiar,” she replied, with justice.

“Not at all,” rejoined Mrs. Martin. “The youthfulness of your ideas and the confidence with which you expressed them would acount [sic] for that.”

“You only came up at the end,” protested Nelly, with some hauteur.

“And heard your instructive remark about the cowardice of a sport where wretched pheasants were shot sitting in the heather. That was quite sufficient, my dear. I do not want to worry or hurt you—I only want you to be more careful, and to realize that the undoubted success you have had to-day is not one to be encouraged too much, nor even one that means very much. I do not mean that the men were wholly malicious, for every one likes youth, but there was a distinct sting of amusement in their laughter. Also, it does not do for so young a girl to be surrounded by too many men. However innocent you may be, and I'm sure you are, dear, it makes the girl seem conspicuous and cheap. It does not do!”

There was a pause, while the carriage pulled up, and they got out. Mrs. Martin felt a sudden rush of penitence, which was somewhat dashed when Nelly said, without a tinge of malice or personal feeling:

“Of course, I know that it is your duty as my chaperon to say these things to me. I'm not a bit offended. Chaperons have to talk like that.”

Mrs. Martin, watching the serene figure as it went up-stairs, felt that the armor of youth is strong, and that it seems a dreadful thing to try and break through it and make it sensitive before its time.

Bridge was the order of the evening. When Mrs. Martin found Nelly alone in the drawing-room, reduced to the company of a bound volume of Swiss photographs, she wished devoutly that the path of knowledge need not be such a stony one.