CHAPTER XLIX.MATTIE IN A NEW CHARACTER.
The family at Lowder Street were all gathered together when the travellers made their appearance. There was a general shout of delight when Archie’s face peered in at them from the dusky hall over Mattie’s shoulder. Mrs. Drummond’s thin face flushed with the unexpected pleasure.
“Oh, Archie! my dear boy, I never thought you would surprise us in this way!” she said, throwing down her work with tremulous hands. She kissed Mattie affectionately; but that dark glow of tenderness in her eyes was for Archie. In spite of her ordinary undemonstrativeness, she seldom spoke to him without that involuntary softening of her voice. However much she loved357her other children, her maternal passion was reserved for her first-born son.
“How naughty of you to steal a march on us in this manner!” she said, playfully. “We have only prepared a meat-tea for Mattie, because I knew she would not mind; but if you had telegraphed I would have had dinner ready for you, Archie.”
“Stuff! nonsense! why need he have telegraphed? I suppose what is good enough for Mattie and the rest of us is good enough for Archie!”
Mr. Drummond spoke testily as he put down the paper. These hints about the late dinners always nettled him. His renunciation of them years ago had been a heavy piece of self-denial, for he was a man rather fond of creature comforts; he had done it for his children’s sake; but it was more than flesh and blood could bear that this renounced luxury should be served for his son’s benefit. Was he not as good as Archie, though he had not been to a University and become fellow of his college?
“Father is quite right,” returned Archie, cheerfully. “I would not telegraph, because I wanted to surprise you; and I knew you were such a good manager, mother, that you would have plenty of aired sheets ready for my bed. Of course what is good enough for Mattie is right for me. As we are both as hungry as hunters, we shall do justice to anything you have prepared.”
“There is only some cold meat and some ham and eggs,” observed Mrs. Drummond, a little plaintively. She did not dare anger her husband further by proposing even a chop, for she knew how touchy he was about Archie’s fastidiousness; but if she could have had her own way she would have killed the fatted calf for this dearest son. Nothing was too good for him in her eyes; and yet for the sake of tranquillity she dared not even hazard the question of a chop.
“Cold meat,—that is just what I should like,” replied Archie, with excellentsang-froid. He detested that stock-dish of the Lowder Street larder, ham and eggs. The eggs were dubious, he considered,—not actually new-laid, but a little suggestive of lime. “But there! you must not give me all your attention, mother,” he continued. “I have brought Mattie home, you see, and you have never told her even how she looks.”
“She looks very well,” replied Mrs. Drummond. In spite of her anxiety about Archie, she had been looking at her daughter more than once with puzzled eyes. There was something different about her, she thought. It was hardly like Mattie to come in so quietly among them all and take her place beside her father. Mattie seldom did anything without a fuss: it was her ordinary way to stand among them chattering as fast as her tongue would go, until some one reminded her that it was time for her to take off her hat and jacket or358she would be late for tea. But to-night Mattie had hardly opened her lips, except to answer her father’s questions about the journey. She had kissed her sisters very quietly, and had asked after Isabel, and had then proposed of her own accord to go upstairs.
“Clara, go up with your sister. No, not Laura; you will all get chattering, and then we shall be kept waiting. Isabel is upstairs, Archie: she has come in to sit with us this evening, as Ellis has to go to a business dinner. He will call for her on his way.”
“I am very glad she is here,” returned Archie, “for I have to go back by the early train to-morrow. Ah, there she is. Well, how are you, Belle?” greeting her affectionately as she came up to him rather shyly. Archie could hardly help smiling at the contrast between Isabel’s brilliant evening toilet and his other sister’s brown stuff dress. It was a little trying to his gravity to see her putting on such pretty little airs of matronly dignity. Mrs. Ellis Burton was an important person now; that was sufficiently obvious; the plump little figure was most lavishly adorned. But the round childish face was certainly very pretty; and, as every other sentence brought in “Ellis,” and as Ellis’s opinion appeared always right in her eyes, Archie deduced that his sister was satisfied with her choice.
“Oh, dear, Mattie! how droll it is to see you home again!” exclaimed Susie, who was noted for making awkward speeches. “And how funny you look beside Isabel!”
“We are very glad to have her back,” returned Mrs. Drummond, in her repressive tones. She was just refilling her teapot from the urn, but she found opportunity to shake her head at Susie. “People do not generally look smart in their travelling-dress; but I think she looks very nice. Had you not a commoner gown, my dear? That looks almost too good for the purpose;” for Mrs. Drummond’s sense of economy was a little shocked by perceiving that Mattie’s gown was a new one.
“It is very well made,” observed Isabel, critically. “I am so glad, Mattie, that you have given up that hideous plaid: it never suited you.”
“If I had been you, I would have travelled in it,” persisted Mrs. Drummond, who never could remember that Mattie was over thirty and might possibly have opinions of her own.
Archie listened to all this with great amusement.
“Don’t you think it is about time I started a pleasanter subject, Mattie?” he asked, laughing. “Have you finished your tea, my dear? for I do not want to spoil your appetite; but time is getting on, and––” here he glanced at the clock.
Every one stared at this, for Archie had never spoken in exactly that way to Mattie before; and, as he did so, Mattie’s cheeks were burning. But what was their surprise when Archie suddenly rose from his seat and laid his hand kindly on Mattie’s shoulder!359
“She is too shy to tell you herself; I have come all these miles to do it for her. Isabel, you need not look so consequential. Ellis is a good fellow, I dare say, but our little Mattie has done better for herself than even you. Mother, you have achieved a success in one of your seven daughters: let me introduce to you the future Lady Challoner!” And then, still keeping his hand upon her shoulder, he looked blandly round on them all.
“Well, I am sure!” from Isabel, half pouting; but no one else spoke except Mr. Drummond:
“What does this mean, Archie? Can’t you speak for yourself, my girl? Is this a joke? Does he mean something amusing?” asked the father; but his lip quivered a little: if it should be true,—if it were no joke!
“It is just as Archie says!” replied Mattie, timidly, not daring to raise her eyes. “Sir Harry asked me to marry him, and I said yes, because—because he was always so good to me.” And here Mattie laughed a little hysterically. “And I did not think you would object, father.”
“Me object!” replied Mr. Drummond, oblivious of grammar just then. “Why, my little Mattie, what news is this? Come here and kiss me, my girl. I am proud of you; I am delighted to think a daughter of mine is going to make such a splendid match. Why don’t you speak to her, my dear?” addressing his wife, with some excitement. “Bless my soul,—Lady Challoner, my plain little Mattie Lady Challoner! Is it possible? Why, you were telling us, Archie, what a Crœsus this Sir Henry was, and how he had just bought quite a fine place for himself.”
“Mattie, come here.” Her children could hardly recognize their mother’s voice, it was so broken, and the tears were running down her cheeks, though not one of them remembered seeing her cry before. Mattie never felt her triumph greater, never understood the magnificence of her own success, until she saw those tears, and felt the presence of her mother’s arms round her. Never since the child Mattie had had to make way for the new-born brother, and had toddled away with the never-forgotten words, “Mammy’s arms are full; no room for Mattie now,” had she laid her head upon that mother’s shoulder to indulge in the good cry that was needed to relieve her. Isabel looked almost affronted as she twirled her diamond rings round her plump fingers. When she and Ellis had been engaged, her mother had not made all this fuss. And Mattie was such an old thing; and it was so ridiculous; and her father seemed on the verge of crying too. “But then,” as Susie said afterwards, “Belle did not like her consequence to be set aside; and she and Ellis were just nobodies at all.”
No one enjoyed the scene so much as Archie: that was how his mother ought to be with her girls. Nevertheless, he interrupted them ruthlessly:360
“Don’t make your eyes too red, Mattie: remember who will be in by and by.” And as she started up at this and began to smooth her rumpled hair, he explained to them generally that they had not travelled alone; Sir Harry had accompanied them to Leeds, and was at present dining, he believed at the Star Hotel, where he had bespoken a room. “He thought it best to make himself known personally to you; and, as Mattie raised no objection, he announced his intention of calling this evening––” but before Archie could finish his sentence, or the awe-struck domestic announce him properly, Sir Harry himself was among them all, shaking hands with everybody, down to Dottie.
And, really, for a shy man he did his part very well: he seemed to take his welcome for granted, and beamed on them all most genially.
“I suppose the parson has already introduced me,” he said, when Mr. Drummond senior held out his hand, “What a lot of you there are!” he continued, as he reached Dottie, who, dreadfully frightened at his size, tried to hide behind Susie. Dottie compared him in her own mind to one of their favorite giants. “He was so dreadfully like Fee-fo-fum in ‘Jack the Giant-Killer,’” she pouted, when Mattie afterwards took her to task, “when he kissed me I thought he was going to eat me up.”
Mattie’s dark little face lit up with shy happiness when she saw him sit down beside her mother and talk to her in his frank pleasant way. In her eyes he was nothing less than an angel of light. True, the room had never looked so small and shabby as it looked to-night, but what did that matter to Mattie?—the poor little Cinderella in the brown gown had found her prince. By and by the pumpkin-coach would fetch her to a grand house, she would have jewels and fine clothes,—everything that the heart of woman could desire; but it may be doubted if such thoughts ever crossed Mattie’s mind. That he had chosen her, this was the miracle; that she was never to be scolded, and laughed at, and teased; that he had stooped to her, this noble, great-hearted man, to raise her from her humbleness; that he could care for her, in spite of her plainness and her many faults. No wonder if such happiness almost beautified Mattie, as she sat a little apart, surrounded by her young sisters.
Mrs. Drummond’s stern face glowed with pleasure when Sir Harry in a few simple words spoke to her of his pride in winning her daughter. Could it be her homely, old-fashioned little Mattie of whom he was speaking, whose unselfishness and goodness he praised so highly! “I have never known a more beautiful nature: she does not seem to me to have an unkind thought of any one. All my cousins love her. If you will trust her to me, I think I can promise, as far as a man can, that her life shall be a happy one.” No wonder if the mother’s eyes filled with joyous tears at such words as these.
“Mattie, dear,” said Sir Harry to her the next day, when they361found themselves alone,—a rather difficult thing to achieve in the crowded household, but Mrs. Drummond had just left the room,—“I have been talking to your mother. She is a sensible woman, and she thinks in six weeks everything can be ready. What do you say?”
“If mother thinks so, I suppose she is right,” returned Mattie, very much confused by this sudden appeal to her opinion. Sir Harry had already importuned for a speedy marriage, and she had in much trepidation referred him to her mother, feeling herself unequal to the task of answering him.
“Yes, your mother is a sensible woman,” continued Sir Harry, taking no notice of her confusion. “She knows that a great house full of servants is more than a man can manage alone; and so, as I told her that Gilsbank was ready, and its master waiting, she was quite of my opinion that there should be no delay. You see, Mattie,” in a tone of great gentleness, “though I am very fond of you, I cannot help feeling stifled in a small house full of people. There is no getting you to myself, or being comfortable; and a man of my size feels out of place among a lot of girls. So if you are willing, as of course you are,” very coaxingly, “and I am willing, we may as well get the thing over. It takes a good deal out of a fellow to go through this sort of thing properly, and I don’t fancy I hit it off well: so we will say this day six weeks. And to-morrow you will be a good little woman, and let me go back to my comfortable quarters at Hadleigh, for one breathes only smoke here; and how you have always borne it all these years is a mystery to me.”
So Mattie let him go cheerfully. She had never been selfish in her life, and of course she spoke no word to dissuade him; but, though she had but few letters from him, and those of the briefest possible kind,—for Sir Harry was not fond of penmanship,—those six weeks were far from being unhappy. How could they be, when they were all so good to her, Mattie thought?—when her opinion was deferred to even by her mother, and when her brothers and sisters treated her with such respect and affection?
Mattie had no sense of the ludicrous, or she would have laughed at the change in Clyde’s tone, or at the way Fred boxed Dottie’s ears for speaking rudely to Mattie: in their eyes the future Lady Challoner was a person of the utmost importance. The boys vied with each other in waiting on her; the girls were always ready with their little services. Mattie felt herself almost overwhelmed sometimes.
“Oh, mother, ask them not to do it!” she said, one day, with tears in her eyes. “I am only Mattie; I am not different; I never shall be different. I shall want to wait on you all my life,—on you and all of them!”
“It is for them to wait on you more!” returned her mother, gravely. “I am afraid they have not always been good to you, and they want to make up for it.”362
But not all the attentions she received could move Mattie from her own humble estimate of herself; and yet in some ways, if she could have seen herself, she would have owned there was a difference. Mattie no longer fussed and fidgeted: always sweet-natured, she grew placid in her new happiness.
“I consider myself a fortunate fellow, for I have the dearest little wife in the world,” Sir Harry said to her a few days after they were married, when Mattie had, as usual, said something disparaging of herself. “Never mind what you think, so long as I am satisfied; and it is very rude of you to be always finding fault with my choice,—ay, Lady Challoner!”
CHAPTER L.PHILLIS’S FAVORITE MONTH.
Archie had been persuaded to remain until the following evening, and to take the night mail up to London. “You know you always sleep so soundly in a railway-carriage,” his mother had said, with her eyes full of pleading.
“Perhaps so; but all the same it is dreary work to be shunted on to a platform in the middle of the night, and to have to find your way across London to catch a Sussex train.” But, in spite of his grumbling he had remained. For once it was difficult to tear himself away from that happy family party.
But all through that night he scarcely closed his eyes, but sat staring at the swinging-lamp and his drowsy fellow-passengers, or out into the blank wall of darkness, too wide awake and full of thought to lose himself in his usual placid slumbers. The fortunes of the Drummond family seemed rising a little, he thought, with pleasure. How alert and full of energy his father had seemed when he had parted from him at the station! he had lost that subdued despondent look that had grown on him of late. Even his shoulders were a little less bowed, as though the burden did not press quite so heavily.
“All this makes a great difference to me, Archie,” he had said, as they had walked to and fro on the platform. “Two such wealthy sons-in-law ought to satisfy any father’s ambition. I can hardly believe yet that my little Mattie—whom her sisters always called ‘the old maid’—should have secured such a prize. If it had been Grace, now, one need not have wondered so much.”
“You may leave Grace out of your reckoning,” returned Archie, smiling assent to this, “and consider you have three out of your seven daughters provided for, for Grace will always363be my care. Whatever happens in the future, I think I can promise as much as that.”
“Ay, ay! I remember when she was a little thing she always called herself Archie’s wife. Well, well, the mother must bring on Clara now: it would be a shame to separate you two. Look, there is your train, my boy! Jump in, and God bless you! You will come down to the wedding of course, and bring Grace.”
“Archie’s wife.” It was these two words that were keeping him so wide awake in the rushing darkness. A dusky flush mounted to the young man’s forehead as he pondered over them.
He knew himself better now. Only a few weeks, scarcely more than a fortnight, had passed since Grace had given him that hint; but each day since then had done the work of years. Caught at the rebound indeed, and that so securely and strongly that the man’s heart could never waver from its fixed purpose again.
Now it was that he wondered at his blindness; that he began to question with a perfect anguish of doubt whether he should be too late; whether his vacillation and that useless dream of his would hinder the fulfilment of what was now his dearest hope.
Would he ever bring her to believe that he had never really loved before,—not, at least, as he could love now? Would he ever dare to tell her so, when she had known and understood that first stray fancy of his for Nan’s sweet face?
Now, as day after day he visited the cottage and talked apart with her mother, his eyes would follow Phillis wistfully. Once the girl had looked up from her work and caught that long, watchful glance; and then she had grown suddenly very pale, and a pained expression crossed her face, as though she had been troubled.
Since that night when the young vicar had stood bare-headed on the snowy steps, and had told Phillis laughingly that one day she would find out for herself that all men were masterful, and she had run down the steps flashing back that disdainful look at him, he had felt there was a change in her manner to him.
They had been such good friends of late; it had become a habit with him to turn to Phillis when he wanted sympathy. A silent, scarcely perceptible understanding had seemed to draw them together; but in one moment, at a word, a mere light jest of his that meant nothing, the girl had become all at once reserved, frozen up, impenetrable even to friendship.
In vain he strove to win her back to her old merry talk. Her frank recklessness of speech seemed over for the present. In his presence she was almost always silent,—not with any awkwardness of embarrassment, but with a certain maidenly reserve of bearing, as though she had marked out a particular line of conduct for herself.364
When Grace was in the room, things were better: Phillis could not be otherwise than affectionate to her chosen friend. And when they were alone together, all Phillis’s bright playfulness seemed to return; but nothing would induce her to cross the threshold of the vicarage.
The evening after his return from Leeds, Archie, as usual, dropped in at the Friary; but this time he brought Grace with him. They were all gathered in the work-room, which had now become their favorite resort. On some pretext or other, the lamp had not been brought in; but they were all sitting round the fire, chatting in an idle desultory way.
Phillis was half hidden behind her mother’s chair: perhaps this was the reason why her voice had its old merry chord. She had welcomed Archie rather gravely,—hardly turning her face to him as she spoke; but as soon as she was in her corner again, she took up the thread of their talk in her usual frank way. But it was Grace that she addressed.
“Poor dear Harry! We have all been laughing a little at the notion of Alcides being in love. Somehow, it seems so droll that Mattie should turn out his Deianeira; but, after all, I think he has shown very good sense in his choice. Mattie will wear well.”
“You seem to agree with the ‘Vicar of Wakefield,’ Miss Challoner,” observed Archie, rather amused at this temperate praise. “Did not that excellent man choose his wife for the same reason that she choose her wedding-dress, with a view to durability?”
“Oh, there is a vast amount of wisdom in all that,” returned Phillis, with mock solemnity; for she did not mind what nonsense she talked in the darkness. “If life had nothing but fair-weather days, it might be excusable for a man to choose his wife for mere beauty; but when one thinks of fogs and east-winds, and smoky chimneys, and all such minor evils, they may need something a little more sustaining than a pink complexion. At least,” catching herself up, and hurrying on as though the real meaning of her words only just occurred to her, “though Mattie may not be beautiful outwardly, she is just the right sort of person for a regular east-windy day. Not even a smoky chimney and a fog together will put her out of temper.”
“I will recollect your advice when the time comes,” replied Archie rather audaciously at this, as he laughed and stroked his beard.
It pleased him to see the old fun brimming over again, fresh and sparkling; but, as he answered her in the same vein of pleasantry, she colored up in her dark corner and shrank back into herself, and all the rest of the evening he could hardly win a smile from her.
“My dear, I think Mr. Drummond comes very often,” Mrs. Challoner said to her eldest daughter that night. “He is very gentlemanly, and a most excellent young man: but I begin to365be afraid what these visits mean.” But Nan only laughed at this.
“Poor mother!” she said, stroking her face. “Don’t you wish you had us all safe at Glen Cottage again? There are so few young men at Oldfield.”
“I cannot bear young men,” was the somewhat irritable answer. “What is the use of having children, when just when they grow up to be a comfort to you, every one tries to deprive you of them? Dick has robbed me of you,”—and here Mrs. Challoner grew tearful,—“and Dulce is always with the Middletons; and I am not at all sure that Captain Middleton is not beginning to admire her.”
“Neither am I,” observed Nan, a little gravely; for, though they seldom talked of such things among themselves, “son Hammond’s” attentions were decidedly conspicuous, and Dulce was looking as shy and pretty as possible.
No; she could not give her mother any comfort there, for the solemn-faced young officer was clearly bent on mischief. Indeed, both father and son were making much of the little girl. But as regarded Mr. Drummond there could be no question of his intentions. The growing earnestness, the long wistful looks, were not lost on Nan who knew all such signs by experience. It was easy to understand the young vicar: it was Phillis who baffled her.
They had never had any secrets between them. From their very childhood, Nan had shared Phillis’s every thought. But once or twice when she had tried to approach the subject in the gentlest manner, Phillis had started away like a restive colt, and had answered her almost with sharpness:
“Nonsense, Nannie! What is it to me if Mr. Drummond comes a dozen times a day?” arching her long neck in the proudest way, but her throat contracting a little over the uttered falsehood; for she knew, none better, what these visits were to her. “Do you think I should take the trouble to investigate his motives? Don’t you know, Nan,” in her sweet whimsical voice, “that the masculine mind loves to conjugate the verb ‘to amuse’? Mr. Drummond is evidently bored by his own company; but there! the vagaries of men are innumerable. One might as well question the ebbing tide as inquire of these young divinities the reason of all their eccentric actions. He comes because we amuse him, and we like to see him because he amuses us: and when he bores us, we can tell him so, which is better than Canute and the waves, after all.” And of course, after this, Nan was compelled to drop the subject.
But she watched Phillis anxiously; for she saw that the girl was restless and ill at ease. The thoughtful gray eyes had a shadow in them. The bright spirits were quenched, and only kindled by a great effort; and, as the time for their leaving the Friary grew closer day by day, until the last week approached, she flagged more, and the shadow grew deeper.366
“If he would only speak and end all this suspense!” thought Nan, who knew nothing of the real state of things, and imagined that Mr. Drummond had cared for Phillis from the first.
They had already commenced their packing. Sir Harry was back in his hotel, solacing himself with his cousin’s company, and writing brief letters to his homely little bride-elect, when one fine afternoon he met them and Grace just starting for the shore.
This was their programme on most afternoons, and of course they had not gone far before Captain Middleton and his father and sister joined them; and a little later on, just as they were entering the town, they overtook Mr. Drummond.
Phillis nodded to him in a friendly manner, and then walked on with Grace, taking no further notice; but when they were on the shore, admiring the fine sunset effect, Grace quietly dropped her arm and slipped away to join the others. Phillis stood motionless: her eyes were riveted on the grand expanse of sky and ocean. “It is so like life,” she said at last, not seeing who stood beside her, while all the others were walking on in groups of twos and threes, Dulce close to the colonel, as usual. “Do you see those little boats, Grace? one is sailing so smoothly in the sunlight, and the other scarcely stirring in the shadow,—brightness to some, you see, and shade to others; and beyond, that clear line of light, like the promise of eternity.”
“Don’t you think it lies within most people’s power to make their own lives happier?” returned Archie so quietly to this that she scarcely started. “The sunshine and shade are more evenly balanced than we know. To be sure, there are some lives like that day that is neither clear nor dark,—gray, monotonous lives, with few breaks and pleasures in them. But perhaps even that question may be happily solved when one looks out a little farther to the light beyond.”
“Yes, if one does not grow tired of waiting for the answer,” she said, a little dreamily. “There is so much that cannot be clear here.” And then she roused with a little difficulty from her abstraction, and looked around her. The others had all gone on: they were standing alone on the shingly beach, just above a little strip of yellow sand,—only they two. Was it for this reason that her eyes grew wide and troubled, and she moved away rather hurriedly? But he still kept close to her, talking quietly as he did so.
“Do you remember this place?” he said: “it reminds me of a picture I once saw. I think it was ‘Atalanta’s Race,’ only there was no Paris. It was just such as scene as this: there was the dark breakwater, and the long line of surf breaking on the shore, and the sun was shining on the water; and there was a girl running with her head erect, and she scarcely seemed to touch the ground, and she stopped just here,” resting his hand on the black, shiny timber.367
“Do not,” she answered, in a low voice, “do not recall that day: it stings me even now to remember it.” And as the words “Bravo Atalanta!” recurred to her memory, the hot blush of shame mounted to her face.
“I have no need to recall it,” he returned, still more quietly, for her discomposure was great, “for I have never forgotten it. Yes, this is the place, not where I first saw you, but where I first began to know you. Phillis, that knowledge is becoming everything to me now!”
“Do not,” she said, again, but she could hardly bring out the words. But how wonderful it was to hear her name pronounced like that! “The others have gone on: we must join them.”
“May I not tell you what I think about you first?” he asked, very gently.
“Not now,—not yet,” she almost whispered; and now he saw that she was very pale, and her eyes were full of tears. “I could not bear it yet.” And then, as she moved farther away from him, he could see how great was her agitation.
It was a proof of his love and earnestness that he suffered the girl to leave him in this way, that he did not again rejoin her until they were close to the others. In spite of his impatience and his many faults, he was generous enough to understand her without another word. She had not repelled him; she had not silenced him entirely; she had not listened to him and then answered him with scorn. On the contrary, her manner had been soft and subdued, more winning than he had ever known it; and yet she had refused to hearken to his suit. “Not now,—not yet,” she had said, and he could see that her lip quivered, and her beautiful eyes were full of tears. It was too soon, that was what she meant; too soon for him to speak and for her to listen. She owed it to her own dignity that his affection should be put to greater proof than that. She must not be so lightly won; she must not stoop down from her maidenly pride and nobleness at his first words because she had grown to care for him. “It must not be so, however much the denial may cost me,” Phillis had said to herself. But as she joined the others, and came to Nan’s side, she could scarcely steady her voice or raise her eyes, for fear their shy consciousness would betray her. “At last,” and “at last!”—that was the refrain that was ringing so joyously in her heart. Well, and one day he should tell her what he would.
She thought she had silenced him entirely, but she forgot that men were masterful and had cunning ways of their own to compass their ends. Archie had recovered his courage; he had still a word to say, and he meant to say it; and just before the close of the walk, as they were in the darkest part of the Braidwood Road, just where the trees meet overhead, before one reaches the vicarage, Phillis found him again at her side.
“When may I hope that you will listen?” he said. “I am368not a patient man: you must remember that, and not make it too hard for me. I should wish to know how soon I may come.”
“Spring is very beautiful in the country,” she answered, almost too confused by this unexpected address to know what she was saying. “I think May is my favorite month, when the hawthorns are out.”
“Thank you, I will come in May.” And then Phillis woke up to the perception of what she had said. “Oh, no, I did not meant that,” she began, incoherently; but this time it was Archie who moved away, with a smile on his face and a certain vivid brightness in his eyes, and her stammered words were lost in the darkness.
The whole week was much occupied by paying farewell visits. On the last afternoon Phillis went down to the White House to say good-bye. It was one of Magdalene’s bad days; but the unquiet hour had passed, and left her, as usual, weak and subdued. Her husband was sitting beside her: as Phillis entered he rose with a smile on his lips. “That is right, Miss Challoner!” he said, heartily. “Magdalene always looks better the moment she hears your voice. Barby is unfortunately out, but I can leave her happily with you.”
“Is he not good?” exclaimed his wife, as soon as he had left them. “He has been sitting with me all the afternoon, my poor Herbert, trying to curb his restlessness, because he knows how much worse I am without him. Am I not a trying wife to him? and yet he says he could not do without me. There, it has passed: let us talk of something else. And so you are going to leave us?” drawing the fresh face down to hers, that she might kiss it again.
“Yes, to-morrow!” trying to stifle a sigh.
“There are some of us that will not know what to do without you. If I am not very much mistaken, there is one person who––” but here the girl laid her hand hurriedly on her lips. “What! I am not to say that? Well, I will try to be good. But all the same this is not good-bye. Tell your mother from me that she will not have her girls for long. Captain Middleton has lost his heart, and is bent on making that pretty little sister of yours lose hers to; and as for you, Phillis––” but here Phillis stooped, and silenced her this time by a kiss.
“Ah, well!” continued Magdalene, after a moment’s silence, as she looked tenderly into the fair face before her; “so you have finished your little bit of play-work, and are going back into your young-ladyhood again?”
“It was not play-work!” returned Phillis, indignantly: “you say that to provoke me. Do you know,” she went on, earnestly, “that if we should have had to work all our lives as dressmakers, Nan and I would have done it, and never given in. We were making quite a fine business of it. We had more orders then we could execute; and you call that play? Confess, now, that you repent of that phrase!”369
“Oh, I was only teasing you,” returned Magdalene, smiling. “I know how brave you were, and how terribly in earnest. Yes, Phillis, you are right; nothing would have daunted you; you would have worked without complaint all your life long, but for that red-haired Alcides of yours.”
“Dear Harry! how much we owe to him!” exclaimed Phillis.
“No, dear, you will owe your happiness to yourself,—the happiness,” as the girl looked at her in surprise, “that is coming to you and Dulce. It was because you were not like other girls—because you were brave, self-reliant gentlewomen, afraid of nothing but dishonor; not fearful of small indignities, or of other people’s opinions, but just taking up the work that lay to your hands, and going through with it—that you have won his heart: and, seeing this, how could he help loving you as he does?” But to this Phillis made no answer.
The next day was rather trying to them all. Phillis’s cheerfulness was a little forced, and for some time after they had left the Friary—with Grace and Archie waving their farewells from the road—she was very silent.
But no sooner had they crossed the threshold of Glen Cottage than their girlhood asserted itself. The sight of the bright snug rooms, with their new furniture, the conservatory, with its floral treasures, and Sir Harry’s cheery welcome, as he stood in the porch with Mrs. Mayne, was too much even for Phillis’s equanimity. In a few minutes their laughing faces were peering out of every window and into every cupboard.
“Oh, the dear, beautiful home! Isn’t it lovely of Harry to bring us back!” cried Phillis, oblivious of everything at that moment but her mother’s satisfied face.
In a few days they had settled down into their old life. It was too early for tennis while snowdrops and crocuses were peeping out of the garden borders. But in the afternoon friends dropped in in the old way, and gathered round the Challoner tea-table; and very soon—for Easter fell early that year—Dick showed himself among them, and then, indeed, Nan’s cup of happiness was full.
But as April passed on Phillis began to grow a little silent again; and it became a habit with her to coax Laddie to take long walks with her, when Nan and Dulce were otherwise engaged. The exercise seemed to quiet her restlessness; and the spring sights and sounds, the budding hedgerows, and the twittering of the birds as they built their nests, and the fresh leafy green, unsoiled by summer heat and dust, seemed to refresh her flagging spirits.
It was the 1st of May, when one afternoon she called to Laddie, who was lying drowsily in the sunny porch. Nan, who was busily engaged in training the creeper round the pillars of the veranda, looked up in a little surprise:
“Are you going out again, Phil? And neither Dulce nor I370can come with you. Mrs. Mayne has some friends coming to five-o’clock tea, and she wants us to go over for an hour. It is so dull for you, dear, always to walk alone.”
“Oh no; I shall not be dull, Nannie,” returned Phillis, with an unsteady smile, for her spirits were a little fluctuating that afternoon. “I am restless, and want a good walk: so I shall just go to Sandy Lane, and be back in time to make tea for mother.” And then she waved her hand, and whistled to Laddie as she unlatched the little gate. It was a long walk. But, as usual, the quiet and the sweet air refreshed her, and by the time she reached Sandy Lane her eyes were brilliant with exercise, and a pretty pink tinge of color was in her cheeks. It is May-day,—the 1st of May. I wonder how soon he will come, she thought, as she leaned on the little gate where poor Dick had leaned that day.
There were footsteps approaching, but they made no sound over the sandy ruts. A tall man, with a fair beard and a clerical felt hat, was walking quickly up the road that leads from Oldfield; and as he walked his eyes were scanning the path before him, as though he were looking for some one. At the sight of the girl leaning against the gate his face brightened, and he slackened his steps a little, that he might not startle her. She was looking out across the country with a far-off, dreamy expression, and did not turn her head as he approached. It was Laddie who saw him first, and jumped up with a joyous bark to welcome him; and then she looked round, and for a moment her eyes grew wide and misty, for she thought it was a continuation of her dream.
“Laddie saw me first,” he said, stepping up quietly to her side,—for he still feared to startle her,—and his voice was very gentle. “Phillis, you must not look so surprised! Surely you expected me? It is the 1st of May!”
“Oh, I knew that,” she said; and then she turned away from him. But he had not dropped her hand, but was holding it very quietly and firmly. “But I could not tell the day; and––”
“Did you think I should wait an hour beyond the time you fixed?” he answered, very calmly. “May is your favorite month; and what could be more beautiful than May-day for the purpose I have in hand! Phillis, you will not go back from your promise now? You said you would listen to me in May.”
There was no answer to this; but, as Archie looked in her face, he read no repulse there. And so, in that quiet lane, with Laddie lying at their feet, he told all he had to tell.
“Are you sure you can trust me now, Phillis?” he asked, rather wistfully, when he had finished. “You know what I am, dear—a man with many faults.”
“Yes; now and forever,” she answered, without a moment’s hesitation. “I am not afraid—I never should have been afraid to trust you, I have faults of my own: so why should I wish371you to be perfect? I care for you as you are; you will believe that?” for there was almost a sad humility in his face as he pleaded with her that went to her heart.
“Oh, yes; I believe what you tell me. You are truth itself, my darling,—the bravest and truest woman I have ever met. You do not know how happy you have made me, or how different my life will be when I have you by my side. Phillis, do you know how glad Grace will be about this?”
“Will she?” returned Phillis, shyly. They were walking homeward now, hand in hand toward the sunset,—so, at least, it seemed to the girl. No one was in sight, only the quiet country round them bathed in the evening light, and they two alone. “Archie!” she exclaimed, suddenly, and her beautiful eyes grew wistful all at once, “you will not let this make any difference to Grace? She loves you so; and you are all she has at present. You must never let me stand between you two. I am not so selfish as that.”
“You could not be selfish if you tried, dearest. How I wish Grace could have heard you! No; you are right. We must not let her suffer from our happiness. But, Phillis, you know who must come first now.” And then, as she smiled in full understanding, he put her hand upon his arm, and held it there. His promised wife,—Archie’s wife! Ah, the Drummond star was rising now in earnest! His life lay before him, like the road they were now entering, white and untrodden and bathed in the sunlight. What if some clouds should come, and some shadows fall, if they might tread it together to the end? And so, growing silent with happiness, they walked home through the sunset, till the spring dusk and the village lights saw them standing together on the threshold of Glen Cottage, and the dear faces and loving voices of home closed around them and bade them welcome.