Not Like Other Girls Part 27

Nan had dropped a painful subject, and she would not revive it in her brother's presence. There would be plenty of time for her to call and talk it over with them quietly. Help them!--of course she would help them. They should have her new silk dress that Uncle Conway had just sent her. It was a risk, for perhaps they might spoil it; but such fine creatures should have a chance. At present she would only enjoy the nice tea, and talk to poor little frightened Dulce, who seemed unable to open her lips after her sister's disclosure.

Archie could not emulate her ease: a man is always at a disadvantage in such a case. His interest had sustained no shock: it was even stimulated by what he had just heard; but his sympathy seemed all at once congealed, and he could find no vent for it. In spite of his best efforts his manner grew more and more constrained every moment.

Nan looked at him more than once with reproachful sweetness. She thought they had lost caste in his eyes; but Phillis, who was shrewd and sharp-set in her wits, read him more truly. She knew--having already met a score of such--how addicted young Englishmen are to _mauvaise honte_, and how they will hide acute sensibilities under blunt and stolid exteriors; and there was a certain softness in Mr.

Drummond's eye that belied his stiffness. Most likely he was very sorry for them, and did not know how to show it; and in this she was right.

Mr. Drummond was very sorry for them; but he was still more grieved for himself. The Oxford fellow had not long been a parish priest, and he could not at all understand the position in which he found himself,--taking tea with three elegant young dressmakers who talked the purest English and had decided views on tennis and horticulture.

He had just been congratulating himself on securing such companionship for his sister and himself. Being rather cla.s.sical-minded, he had been calling them the gray-eyed Graces, and one of them at least "a daughter of the G.o.ds,--divinely tall and most divinely fair;" for where had he seen anything to compare with Nan's bloom and charming figure? Dressmakers!--oh, if only Grace were at hand, that he might talk to her, and gain her opinion how he was to act in such case!

Grace had the stiff-necked Drummond pride as well as he, and would hesitate long behind the barriers of conventionality. No wonder, with all these thoughts pa.s.sing through his mind, that Nan, with her bright surface talk, found him a little vague.

It was quite a relief to all the party when Mattie gave the signal for departure and the bell was rung for Dorothy to show them out.

"Well, Nan, what do you think of our visitors?" asked Phillis, when the garden-door had clanged noisily after them, and she had treated Nan to the aforesaid hugs; "for you were so brave, darling, and actually took the wind out of my sails!" exclaimed the enthusiastic Phillis. "Miss Drummond is not so bad, after all, is she, in spite of her dowdiness and fussy ways?"

"No; she means well; and so does her brother. He is very nice, only his self-consciousness spoils him," returned Nan, in a calm, discursive tone, as though they were discussing ordinary visitors.

It was impossible for these young girls to see that their ordinary language was not humble enough for their new circ.u.mstances. They would make mistakes at every turn, like Dorothy, who got out the best china and brewed her tea in the melon-shaped silver teapot.

Phillis opened her eyes rather widely at this. Nan was not often so observant. It was true: self-consciousness was a torment to Archibald Drummond, a Frankenstein of his own creation, that had grown imperceptibly with his growth to the fell measure of his manhood, as inseparable as the shadow from the substance. Phillis had recognized it at once; but then, as she said, no one was faultless; and then, he was so handsome. "Very handsome" chimed in Dulce, whose opinions were full-fledged in such matters.

"Is he? Well, I never cared for a man with a long fair beard,"

observed Nan, carelessly. Poor Archie! how his vanity would have suffered if he had heard her! for, in a masculine way, he prided himself excessively on the soft silky appendage that Grace had so often praised. A certain boyish countenance, with kindly honest eyes and a little sandy moustache, was more to Nan's taste than the handsome young Anglican.

"Oh, we all know Nan's opinion in such matters," said Dulce, slyly; and then Nan blushed, and suddenly remembered that Dorothy was waiting for her in the linen-closet, and hurried away, leaving her sisters to discuss their visitors to their hearts' content.

CHAPTER XIX.

ARCHIE IS IN A BAD HUMOR.

"Oh, Archie, I was never more astonished in my life!" exclaimed Mattie, as she tried to adapt her uneven trot to her brother's long swinging footsteps; and then she glanced up in his face to read his mood: but Archie's features were inscrutable and presented an appalling blank. In his mind he was beginning his letter to Grace, and wondering what he should say to her about their new neighbors.

"Writing is such a nuisance when one wants to talk to a person," he thought, irritably.

"Oh, Archie, won't you tell me what we are to do?" went on Mattie, excitedly. She would not take Archie's silence as a hint that he wanted to keep his thoughts to himself. "Those poor girls! oh, how nice and pretty they all are, especially the eldest! and is not the youngest--Dulce, I think they called her--the very image of Isabel?"

"Isabel! not a bit. That is so like you, Mattie. You always see likenesses when other people cannot trace the faintest resemblance,"

for this remark was sure to draw out his opposition. Isabel was a silly flirting little thing in her brother's estimation, and, he thought, could not hold a candle to the youngest Miss Challoner.

"Oh dear! now I have made you cross!" sighed poor Mattie, who especially wanted to keep him in good humor. "And yet every one but you thinks Isabel so pretty. I am sure, from what Grace said in her last letter, that Mr. Ellis Burton means to propose to her."

"And I suppose you will all consider that a catch," sneered Archie.

"That is so like a parcel of women, thinking every man who comes to the house and makes a few smooth-tongued speeches--is, in fact, civil--must be after a girl. Of course you have all helped to instill this nonsense into the child's head."

"Dear me, how you talk, Archie!" returned Mattie, feeling herself snubbed as usual. Why, Archie had been quite excited about it only the other day, and had said quite seriously that with seven girls in a family, it would be a great blessing if Isabel could make such a match; for it was very unlikely that Laura and Susie, or even Clara, would do much for themselves in that way, unless they decidedly improved in looks.

"Well, it is nothing to me," he returned in a chilling manner; "we all know our own mind best. If an angular lantern-jawed fellow like Burton, who, by the bye, does not speak the best English, is to Isabel's taste, let her have him by all means: he is well-to-do, and I dare say will keep a carriage for her by and by: that is what you women think a great advantage," finished Archie, who certainly seemed bent on making himself disagreeable.

Mattie heaved another great sigh, but she did not dare to contradict him. Grace would have punished him on the spot by a dose of satire that would have brought him to reason and good nature in a moment; but Mattie ventured only on those laborious sighs which she jerked up from the bottom of her honest little heart.

Archie heard the sigh, and felt ashamed of his bad temper. He did not know himself why he felt so suddenly cross; some secret irritation was at work within him, and he could scarcely refrain from bidding Mattie quite roughly to hold her tongue and not tease him with her chatter.

If she expected him in his present state of mind, which was at once contradictory and aggressive, to talk to her about the Challoners, she must just make up her mind to be disappointed, for he could not bring himself to speak of them to her just now: he wanted to hold counsel with his own thoughts and with Grace. He would call at the Friary again and see Mrs. Challoner, and find out more of this strange matter; but as to talking it over with Mattie, he quite shrugged his shoulders as he swung open the green door.

"Are you going in?" faltered Mattie, as she noticed this movement.

"Well, yes; I have letters to write, and it is too hot for a longer walk," he returned, decidedly; and then, as Mattie stood hesitating and wistful in the middle of the road, he strode off, leaving the door to close noisily after him, and not caring to inquire into her further movements, such being the occasional graceless manners of brothers when sisterly friendship is not to their liking.

Mattie felt snubbed; but for the first time in her life, she did not take her snubbing meekly. It was too much to expect of her, who was only a woman and not one of Archie's divinities, that she should follow him into the house and hold her tongue just because he was pleased to refrain from speaking. Water must find its vent; and Mattie's tongue could not be silenced in this way. If Archie would not talk to her, Miss Middleton would: so at once she trotted off for Brooklyn, thereby incurring Archie's wrath if he could only have known her purpose; for gossip was to him as the sin of witchcraft, unless he stooped to it himself, and then it was amiable sociability.

Miss Middleton was listening to her father's reading as usual, but she welcomed Mattie with open arms, literally as well as metaphorically, for she kissed Mattie on either cheek, and then scolded her tenderly for looking so flushed and tired; "for somebody who is always looking after other people, and never has time to spare for herself, is growing quite thin; is she not, father? and we must write to Grace if this goes on," finished Miss Middleton, with one of her kind looks.

All this was cordial to poor Mattie, who, though she was used to snubbing, and took as kindly to it as a spaniel to water, yet felt herself growing rather like a thread-paper and shabby with every-day worries and never an encouraging word to inspirit her.

So she gave Elizabeth a misty little smile,--Mattie's smile was pretty, though her features were ordinary,--and then sat up straight and began to enjoy herself,--that is, to talk,--never noticing that Colonel Middleton looked at his paper in a crestfallen manner, not much liking the interruption and the cessation of his own voice.

"Oh, dear!" began Mattie: she generally prefaced her remarks by an "Oh, dear!" ("That was one of her jerky ways," as Archie said.) "I could not help coming straight to you, for Archie would not talk, and I felt I must tell somebody. Oh, dear, Miss Middleton! What do you think? We have just called at the Friary--and----" but here Colonel Middleton's countenance relaxed, and he dropped his paper.

"Those young ladies, eh? Come, Elizabeth, this is interesting. Well, what sort of place is the Friary, seen from the inside, eh, Miss Drummond?"

"Oh, it is very nice," returned Mattie, enthusiastically. "We were shown into such a pretty room, looking out on the garden. They have so many nice things,--pictures, and old china, and handsomely-bound books, and all arranged so tastefully. And before we went away, the old servant--she seems really quite a superior person--brought in an elegant little tea-tray: the cups and saucers were handsomer even than yours, Miss Middleton,--dark-purple and gold. Just what I admire so----"

"Ah, reduced in circ.u.mstances! I told you so, Elizabeth," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the colonel.

"I never saw Archie enjoy himself so much or seem so thoroughly at home anywhere. Somehow, the girls put us so at our ease. Though they were hanging up curtains when we went in,--and any one else would have been annoyed at our intruding so soon,--actually, before we were in the room a moment, Archie was on the steps, helping the eldest Miss Challoner fasten the hooks."

Miss Middleton exchanged an amused look with her father. Mattie's narrative was decidedly interesting.

"Oh, don't tell him I repeated that, for he is always calling me chatterbox!" implored Mattie, who feared she had been indiscreet, and that the colonel was not to be trusted, which was quite true as far as jokes were concerned. No one understood the art of teasing better than he, and the young vicar had already had a taste of his kindly satire.

"Archie only meant to be good-natured and put every one at their ease."

"Quite right. Mr. Drummond is always kind," returned Elizabeth, benignly. She had forgotten Mattie's frequent scoldings, and the poor little thing's tired face, or she would never have hazarded such a compromise with truth. But somehow Elizabeth always forgot people's weaknesses, especially when they were absent. It was so nice and easy to praise people; and if she always believed what she said, that was because her faith was so strong, and charity that is love was her second nature.

"Oh, yes, of course," returned Mattie, innocently. She was far too loyal a little soul to doubt Archie's kindness for a moment. Was he not the pride and ornament of the family,--the domestic pope who issued his bulls without possibility of contradiction? Whatever Archie did must be right. Was not that their domestic creed?--a little slavish, perhaps, but still so exquisitely feminine. Mattie was of opinion that--well, to use a mild term--irritability was a necessary adjunct of manhood. All men were cross sometimes. It behooved their womankind, then, to throw oil on the troubled waters,--to speak peaceably, and to refrain from sour looks, or even the shadow of a frown. Archie was never cross with Grace: therefore it must be she, Mattie, on whom the blame lay; she was such a silly little thing, And so on. There is no need to follow the self-accusation of one of the kindest hearts that ever beat.

"Did not your visit end as pleasantly as it began?" asked Elizabeth, who, though she was over-merciful in her judgments, was not without a good deal of sagacity and shrewdness. Something lay beyond the margin of Mattie's words, she could see that plainly; and then her father was getting impatient.

"Well, you see, that spoiled everything," returned Mattie, jumbling her narrative in the oddest manner. "Archie was so sorry, and so was I; and he got quite--you know his way when he feels uncomfortable. I thought Miss Challoner was joking at first,--that it was just a bit of make-believe fun,--until I saw how grave Miss Phillis, that is the second one, looked: and then the little one--at least, she is not little, but somehow one fancies she is--seemed as though she were going to cry."

"But what did Miss Challoner say to distress you and Mr. Drummond so?"

asked Elizabeth, trying patiently to elicit facts and not vague statements from Mattie.

"Oh, she said--no, please don't think I am exaggerating, for it is all true--that they had lost their money, and were very poor, and, that she and her sisters were dressmakers."

"Dressmakers!" shouted the colonel, and his ruddy face grew almost purple with the shock: his very moustache seemed to bristle.

"Dressmakers! my dear Miss Drummond, I don't believe a word of it!

Those girls! It is a hoax!--a bit of nonsense from beginning to end!"