Not Like Other Girls Part 30

Mr. Drummond's const.i.tutional had lasted so long that Mattie grew quite frightened, and came down in her drab dressing-gown to wait for him. It was not a becoming costume, but it was warm and comfortable; but then Mattie never considered what became her. If any one had admired her, or cared how she looked or what she wore, or had taken an interest in her for her own sake, she would doubtless have developed an honest liking for pretty things. But what did it matter under the present circ.u.mstances? Mr. Drummond was lighting his chamber candle when Mattie rushed out on him,--a grotesque little figure, all capes and frills.

"Oh, Archie, how you frightened me! Where have you been?"

Archie shrugged his shoulders at this.

"I am not aware, Matilda,"--for in severe moods he would call her by her full name, a thing she especially disliked from him,--"I did not know before that I was accountable to you for my actions. Neither am I particularly obliged to you for spying upon me in this way." For the sight of Mattie at this time of night was peculiarly distasteful. Why was he to be watched in his own house?

"Oh, dear, Archie! How can you say such things? Spy on you, indeed!

when there is a storm coming up, and I was so anxious."

"I am very much obliged to you," returned Archie, ironically; "but, as you see I am safe, don't you think you had better take off that thing"--pointing to the obnoxious garment--"and go to bed?" And such was his tone that poor Mattie fled without a word, and cried a little in her dark room, because Archie would not be kind to her and let her love him, but was always finding fault with one trifle or other.

To-night it was her poor old dressing-gown, which had been her mother's, and had been considered good enough for Mattie. And then he had called her a spy. And here she gave a sob that caught Archie's ears as he pa.s.sed her door.

"Good-night, you little goose!" he called out, for the sound made him uncomfortable; and though the words were contemptuous, the voice was not, and Mattie at once dried her eyes and was comforted.

But before Archie went to sleep that night he made up his mind that it was his duty as a clergyman and a Christian to look over Phillis's wilfulness, and to befriend to the utmost of his power the strangers, widow and fatherless, that Providence had placed at his very gates.

"They are so very lonely, poor things!" he said to himself; "not a man about them. By the bye, I noticed she did not wear an engagement-ring." But which was the "she" he meant, was an enigma known only to himself. "Not a man about them!" he repeated, in a satisfied manner, for as yet the name of d.i.c.k had not sounded in his ear.

CHAPTER XXI.

BREAKING THE PEACE.

Nan went to Beach House to fetch her mother home, escorted by Laddie, who was growing a most rollicking and friendly little animal, and a great consolation to his mistress, whom he loved with all his doggish heart.

They all three came back in an old fly belonging to their late host, and found Phillis waiting for them on the door-step, who made her mother the following little speech:

"Now, mammie, you are to kiss us, and tell us what good industrious girls we have been; and then you are to shut your eyes and look at nothing, and then sit down in your old arm-chair, and try and make the best of everything."

"Welcome home, dearest mother," said Nan, softly kissing her. "Home is home, however poor it may be; and thank G.o.d for it," finished the girl, reverently.

"Oh, my darlings!" exclaimed the poor mother; and then she cried a little, and Dulce came up and put a rose-bud in her hand; and Dorothy executed an old-fashioned courtsey, and hoped that her mistress and the dear young ladies would try and make themselves as happy as possible.

"Happy, you silly old Dorothy! of course we mean to be as busy as bees, and as frolicsome as kittens!" returned Phillis, who had recovered her old sprightliness, and was ready to-day for a dozen Mrs.

Cheynes and all the clergy of the diocese. "Now, mammie, you are only to peep into this room: this is our work-room, and those are the curtains Mr. Drummond was kind enough to hang. In old days," continued Phillis, with mock solemnity, "the parson would have p.r.o.nounced a benediction; but the modern Anglican performs another function, and with much gravity ascends the steps, and hooks up the curtains of the new-comers."

"Oh, Phillis, how can you be so absurd! I am sure it was very good-natured of him. Come, mother, dear, we will not stand here listening to her nonsense." And Nan drew the mother to the parlor.

It was a very small room, but still snug and comfortable, and full of pretty things. Tea was laid on the little round table that would hardly hold five, as Nan once observed, thinking of d.i.c.k; and the evening's sunshine was stealing in, but not too obtrusively. Mrs.

Challoner tried not to think it dull, and endeavored to say a word of praise at the arrangements Dulce pointed out to her; but the thought of Glen Cottage, and her pretty drawing-room, and the veranda with its climbing roses, and the shady lawn with the seat under the acacia-trees, almost overpowered her. That they should come to this!

That they should be sitting in this mean little parlor, where there was hardly room to move, looking out at the little strip of gra.s.s, and the medlar-tree, and the empty greenhouse! Nan saw her mother's lip quiver, and adroitly turned the subject to their neighbors. She had so much to say about Mr. Drummond and his sister that Mrs. Challoner grew quite interested; nevertheless, it was a surprise even to Nan when Dorothy presently opened the door, and Mr. Drummond coolly walked in with a magnificent basket of roses in his hand.

Nan gravely introduced him to her mother, and the young man accosted her; but there was a little surprise on his face. He had taken it into his head that Mrs. Challoner would be a far older-looking and more homely person; but the stately-looking woman before him might have been an older and faded edition of Nan. Somehow, her appearance confused him; and he commenced with an apology for his intrusion:

"I ought not to have been so unceremonious. I am afraid, as you have just arrived, my visit will seem an intrusion; but my sister thought you would like some of our roses,"--he had obliged poor Mattie to say so,--"and, as we had cut some fine ones, we thought you ought to have them while they are fresh."

"Thank you; this is very kind and neighborly," returned Mrs.

Challoner; but, though her tone was perfectly civil, Nan thought her manner a little cold, and hastened to interpose with a few glowing words of admiration.

"The roses were lovely; they were finer than those at Longmead, or even at Fitzroy Lodge, though Lady Fitzroy prided herself on her roses." Archie p.r.i.c.ked up his ears at this latter name, which escaped quite involuntarily from Nan. "And was it not good of Miss Drummond to spare them so many, and of Mr. Drummond to carry them?" all of which Nan said with a sweet graciousness that healed the young man's embarra.s.sment in a moment.

"Yes, indeed!" echoed Mrs. Challoner, obedient, as usual, to her daughter's lead. "And you must thank your sister, Mr. Drummond, and tell her how fond my girls are of flowers." But, though Mrs. Challoner said this, the roses were not without thorns for her. Why had not Miss Drummond brought them herself? She was pleased indeed that, under existing circ.u.mstances, any one should be civil to her girls; but was there not a little patronage intended? She was not quite sure that she rejoiced in having such neighbors. Mr. Drummond was nice and gentlemanly, but he was far too young and handsome for an unmarried clergyman; at least, that was her old-fashioned opinion; and when one has three very good-looking daughters, and dreads the idea of losing one, one may be pardoned for distrusting even a basket of roses.

If Mr. Drummond perceived her slight coldness, he seemed quite determined to overcome it. He took small notice of Nan, who busied herself at once arranging the flowers under his eyes; even Phillis, who looked good and demure this evening, failed to obtain a word. He talked almost exclusively to Mrs. Challoner, plying her with artful questions about their old home, which he now learned was at Oldfield, and gaining sc.r.a.ps of information that enabled him to obtain a pretty clear insight into their present circ.u.mstances.

Mrs. Challoner, who was a soft hearted woman, was not proof against so much sympathy. She perceived that Mr. Drummond was sorry for them, and she began to warm a little towards him. His manner was so respectful, his words so discreet; and then he behaved so nicely, taking no notice of the girls, though Nan was looking so pretty, but just talking to her in a grave responsible way, as though he were a gray-haired man of sixty.

Phillis was not quite sure she approved of it: in the old days she had never been so excluded from conversation: she would have liked a word now and then. But Nan sat by quite contented: it pleased her to see her mother roused and interested.

When Mr. Drummond took his leave, she accompanied him to the door, and thanked him quite warmly.

"You have done her so much good, for this first evening is such a trial to her, poor thing!" said Nan, lifting her lovely eyes to the young man's face.

"I am so glad! I will come again," he said, rather incoherently. And as he went out of the green door he told himself that it was his clear duty to befriend this interesting family. He ought to have gone home and written to Grace, for it was long past the time when she always expected to hear from him. But the last day or two he had rather shirked this duty. It would be difficult to explain to Grace. She might be rather shocked, for she was a little prim in such things, being her mother's daughter. He thought he would ask Mattie to tell her about the Challoners, and that he was busy and would write soon; and when he had made up his mind to this, he went down to the sea-sh.o.r.e and amused himself by sitting on a breakwater and staring at the fishing-smacks,--which of course showed how very busy he was.

"I think I shall like Mr. Drummond," observed Mrs. Challoner, in a tolerant tone, when Nan had accompanied the young vicar to the door.

"He seems an earnest, good sort of young man."

"Yes, mammie dear. And I am sure he has fallen in love with you,"

returned Phillis, naughtily, "for he talked to no one else. And you are so young-looking and pretty that of course no one could be surprised if he did." But though Mrs. Challoner said, "Oh, Phillis!"

and looked dreadfully shocked in a proper matronly way, what was the use of that, when the mischievous girl burst out laughing in her face?

But the interruption had done them all good, and the evening pa.s.sed less heavily than they had dared to hope. And when Mrs. Challoner complained of fatigue and retired early, escorted by Dorothy, who was dying for a chat with her mistress, the three girls went out in the garden, and walked, after their old fashion, arm in arm up and down the lawn, with Nan in the middle; though Dulce pouted and pretended that the lawn was too narrow, and that Phillis was pushing her on the gravel path.

Their mother's window was open, and they could have heard s.n.a.t.c.hes of Dorothy's conversation if they had chosen to listen. Dulce stood still a moment, and wafted a little kiss towards her mother's room.

"Dear old mamsie! She has been very good this evening, has she not, Nan? She has only cried the least wee bit, when you kissed her."

"Yes, indeed. And somebody else has been good too. What do you say, Phillis? Has not Dulce been the best child possible?"

"Oh, Nan, I should be ashamed to be otherwise," returned Dulce, in such an earnest manner that it made her sisters laugh, "Do you think I could see you both so good and cheerful, making the best of things, and never complaining, even when the tears are in your eyes,--as yours are often, Nan, when you think no one is looking,--and not try and copy your example? I am dreadfully proud of you both,--that is what I am," continued the warm-hearted girl. "I never knew before what was in my sisters. And now I feel as though I want the whole world to come and admire my Phillis and Nan!"

"Little flatterer!" but Nan squeezed Dulce's arm affectionately. And Phillis said, in a joking tone,--

"Ah, it was not half so bad. This evening there was mother looking so dear and pretty: and there were you girls; and, though the nest is small, it feels warm and cosy. And if we could only forget Glen Cottage, and leave off missing the old faces, which I never shall--"

("Nor I," echoed Nan, with a deep sigh, fetched from somewhere)--"and root ourselves afresh, we should contrive not to be unhappy."

"I think it is our duty to cultivate cheerfulness," added Nan, seriously; and after this they fell to a discussion on ways and means.

As usual, Phillis was chief spokeswoman, but to Nan belonged the privilege of the casting vote.

The next few days were weary ones to Mrs. Challoner: there was still much to be done before the Friary could be p.r.o.nounced in order. The girls spent most of the daylight hours unpacking boxes, sorting and arranging their treasures, and, if the truth must be told, helping Dorothy to polish furniture and wash gla.s.s and china.

Mrs. Challoner, who was not strong enough for these household labors, found herself condemned to hem new dusters and mend old table-linen, to the tune of her own sad thoughts. Mr. Drummond found her sorting a little heap on the parlor table when he dropped in casually one morning,--this time with some very fine cherries that his sister thought Mrs. Challoner would enjoy.

When Mr. Drummond began his little speech he could have sworn that there were tears on the poor lady's cheeks; but when he had finished she looked up at him with a smile, and thanked him warmly, and then they had quite a nice chat together.