CHAPTER XV.A VAN IN THE BRAIDWOOD ROAD.
One bright July morning, Mattie Drummond walked rapidly up the Braidwood Road, and, unlatching the green door in the wall, let herself into the large square hall of the vicarage. This morning it looked invitingly cool, with its summer matting and big wicker-work chairs; but Mattie was in too great haste to linger; she only stopped to disencumber herself of the various parcels with which she was ladened, and then she knocked at the door of her brother’s study, and, without waiting for the reluctant “Come in” that always answered her hasty rap, burst in upon him.
It was now three months since Mattie had entered upon her new duties, and it must be confessed that Archie’s housekeeper had rather a hard time of it. As far as actual management went, Mattie fully justified her mother’s eulogiums in her household109arrangements: she was orderly and methodical,—far more so than Grace would have been in her place; the meals were always punctual and well served, the domestic machinery worked well and smoothly. Archie never had to complain of a missing button or a frayed wrist-band. Nevertheless, Mattie’s presence at the vicarage was felt by her brother as a sore burden. There was nothing in common between them, nothing that he cared to discuss with her, or on which he wished to know her opinion; he was naturally a frank, outspoken man, one that demanded sympathy from those belonging to him; but with Mattie he was reticent, and as far as possible restrained in speech.
One reason for this might be that Mattie, with all her virtues,—and she was really a most estimable little person,—was sadly deficient in tact. She never knew when she was treading on other people’s pet prejudices. She could not be made to understand that her presence was not always wanted, and that it was as well to keep silence sometimes.
She would intrude her advice when it was not needed, in her good-natured way; she had always interfered with everything and everybody. “Meddlesome Mattie” they had called her at home.
She was so wonderfully elastic, too, in her temperament, that nothing long depressed her. She took all her brother’s snubbings in excellent part: if he scolded her at dinner-time, and made the ready tears come to her eyes,—for it was not the least of Mattie’s sins that she cried easily and on every possible occasion,—she had forgotten it by tea-time, and would chatter to him as happily as ever.
She was just one of those persevering people who seem bound to be snubbed; one cannot help it. It was as natural to scold Mattie as it was to praise other people; and yet it was impossible not to like the little woman, though she had no fine feelings, as Archie said, and was not thin-skinned. Grace always spoke a good word for her; she was very kind to Mattie in her way,—though it must be owned that she showed her small respect as an elder sister. None of her brothers and sisters respected Mattie in the least; they laughed at her, and took liberties with her, presuming largely on her good nature. “It is only Mattie; nobody cares what she thinks,” as Clyde would often say. “Matt the Muddler,” as Frederick named her.
“I wonder what Mattie would say if any one ever fell in love with her?” Grace once observed in fun to Archie. “Do you know, I think she would be all her life, thanking her husband for the unexpected honor he had done her, and trying to prove to him that he had not made such a great mistake, after all.”
“Mattie’s husband! He must be an odd sort of person, I should think.” And then Archie laughed, in not the politest manner. Certainly Mattie was not appreciated by her family. She was not looking her best this morning when she went into110her brother’s study. She wore the offending plaid dress,—a particular large black-and-white check that he thought especially ugly. Her hat-trimmings were frayed, and the straw itself was burnt brown by the sun, and her hair was ill arranged and rough, for she never wasted much time on her own person, and, to crown the whole, she looked flushed and heated.
Archie, who was sitting at his writing-table in severely-cut ecclesiastical garments, looking as trim and well-appointed a young clergyman as one might wish to see, might be forgiven for the tone of ill-suppressed irritation with which he said,—
“Oh, Mattie! what a figure you look! I am positively ashamed that any one should see you. That hat is only fit to frighten the birds.”
“Oh, it will do very well for the mornings,” returned Mattie, perfectly undisturbed at these compliments. “Nobody looks at me: so what does it matter?” But this remark, which she made in all simplicity, only irritated him more.
“If you have no proper pride, you might at least consider my feelings. Do you think a man in my position likes his sister to go about like an old beggar-woman? You are enough to try any one’s patience, Mattie; you are, indeed!”
“Oh, never mind me and my things,” returned Mattie coaxingly; “and don’t go on writing just yet,” for Archie had taken up his pen again with a great show of being busy. “I want to tell you something that I know will interest you. There are some new people come to the Friary.”
“What on earth do you mean?—what Friary? I am sure I never heard of such a place.”
“Dear me, Archie, how cross you are this morning!” observed Mattie, in a cheerful voice, as she fidgeted the papers on the table. “Why, the Friary is that shabby little cottage just above us,—not a stone’s throw from this house.”
“Indeed? Well, I cannot say I am much interested in the movements of my neighbors. I am not a gossip like you, Mattie!”—another fling at poor Mattie. “I wish you would leave those papers alone. You know I never allow my things to be tidied, as you call it, and I am really very busy just now. I am in the middle of accounts, and I have to write to Grace and––”
“Well, I thought you would like to know.” And Mattie looked rather crestfallen and disappointed. “You talked so much about those young ladies some weeks ago, and seemed quite sorry not to see them again; and now––” but here Archie’s indifference vanished, and he looked up eagerly.
“What young ladies? Not those in Milner’s Library, who asked about the dressmaker?”
“The very same,” returned his sister, delighted at this change of manner. “Oh, I have so much to tell you that I must sit down,” planting herself comfortably on the arm of an easy-chair near him. Another time Archie would have rebuked her for111her unlady-like attitude, and told her, probably, that Grace never did such things; but now his interest was so excited that he let it pass for once. He even suffered her to take off her old hat and deposit it unreproved on the top of his cherished papers. “I was over at Crump’s this morning, to speak to Bobbie about weeding the garden, when I was surprised to see a railway-van unloading furniture at the Friary.”
“What an absurd name!”sotto vocefrom Archie: but he offered no further check to Mattie’s gossip.
“I asked Mrs. Crump, as a matter of course, the name of the new people; and she said it was Challoner. There was a mother and three daughters, she believed. She had seen two of them,—pretty, nice-spoken young creatures, and quite ladies. They had been down before to see the cottage and to have it done up. It looks quite a different place already,—nicely painted, and the shrubs trimmed. The door was open, and as I stood at Mrs. Crump’s window, peeping between her geraniums, I saw such a respectable gray-haired woman, like an upper servant, carrying something into the house; and a moment after one of those young ladies we saw in the Library—not the pretty one, but the other—came to the door and spoke to the men.”
“Are you sure you did not make a mistake, Mattie?” asked her brother, incredulously. “You are very short-sighted: perhaps you did not see correctly. How can those stylish-looking girls live in such a shabby place? I can hardly believe it possible.”
“Oh, it was the same, I am positive about that. She was in the same cambric dress you admired. I could see distinctly. I watched her for a long time; and then the pretty one came out and joined her. She is pretty, Archie, she has such a lovely complexion.”
“But are they poor?—they don’t look so. What on earth can it mean?” he asked, in a perplexed voice; but Mattie only shook her head, and went on:
“We must find out all about them by and by. They are worth knowing, I am sure of that. Poor?—well, they cannot be rich, certainly, to live in the Friary; but they are gentle-people, one can see that in a moment.”
“Of course! who doubted it?” was the somewhat impatient answer.
“Well, but that is not all,” went on Mattie, too delighted with her brother’s interest to try to curtail her story. “Of course I could not stand long watching them, so I did my errand and came away; and then I met Miss Middleton, and we walked down to the Library together to change those books. Miss Milner was talking to some ladies when we first went in and, as Miss Masham was not in the shop, we had to wait our turn, so I had a good look at them. The elder one was such a pretty, aristocratic-looking woman,—a little too languid, perhaps for112my taste; and the younger one was a little like Isabel, only nicer-looking. I shouldn’t have stared at them so much,—at least, I am afraid I stared,” went on Mattie, forgetting for the moment how often she had been taken to task for this very thing,—“but something Miss Milner said attracted my attention, ‘I am not to send it to the Friary, then, ma’am?’ ‘Well, no,’ the lady returned, rather hesitatingly. She had such a nice voice and manner, Archie. ‘My youngest daughter and I are at Beach House at present; I am rather an invalid, and the bustle would be too much for me. Dulce, we had better have these things sent to Beach House.’ And then the young lady standing by her said, ‘Oh, yes, mother; we shall want them this evening.’ And then they went out.”
“There is a third sister, then?” observed Archie, not pretending to disguise his interest in Mattie’s recital.
“Yes, there is a third one: she is certainly a little like Isabel; she has a dimple like hers, and is of the same height. I asked Miss Milner, when they were out of hearing, if their name were Challoner, and if they were the new people who were coming to live at the empty cottage on the Braidwood Road. I thought she did not seem much disposed to give me information. Yes, their name was Challoner, and they had taken the Friary; but they were quite strangers in the town, and no one knew anything about them. And then Miss Middleton chimed in; she said her father had noticed the young ladies some weeks ago, and had called her attention to them. They were very pretty girls, and had quite taken his fancy; he had not forgotten them, and had spoken of them that very morning. She supposed Mrs. Challoner must be a widow, and not very well off: did Miss Milner know. Would you believe it, Archie? Miss Milner got quite red, and looked confused. You know how she enjoys a bit of gossip generally; but the questions seemed to trouble her. ‘They were not at all well off, she knew that, but nicer young ladies she had never seen, or wished to see; and she hoped every one would be kind to them, and not forget they were real born ladies, in spite of––’ And here the old thing got more confused than ever, and came to a full stop, and begged to know how she could serve us.”
“It is very strange,—very strange indeed,” returned her brother, in a meditative voice; but, as Mattie had nothing more to tell him, he did not discuss the matter any further, only thanked her for her news, and civilly dismissed her on the plea that his business was at a stand-still.
But he did not resume his accounts for sometime after he was left alone. Instead of doing so, he walked to the window and looked out in a singularly absent manner. Mattie’s news was somewhat exciting. The idea of having such pleasant neighbors located within a stone’s throw of the vicarage was in itself disturbing to the imagination of a young man of eight-and-twenty, even though a clergyman. And then, it must be confessed,113Nan’s charming face and figure had never been forgotten: he had looked out for the sisters many times since his chance encounter with Phillis, and had been secretly disappointed at their total disappearance. And now they proved not mere visitors, but positively inhabitants of Hadleigh. He would meet them every day; and, as there was but one church in the place, they would of course be numbered among his flock. As their future clergyman he would have a right of entrance to the cottage.
“How soon do you think we ought to call upon them, Mattie?” he asked, when he was seated opposite to his sister at the luncheon-table. The accounts had not progressed very favorably, and the letter to Grace was not yet commenced. Mattie’s news had been a sad interruption to his morning’s work.
“Whom do you mean, Archie,” she returned, a little bewildered at this abrupt remark; and then, as he frowned at her denseness, she bethought herself of the new people. It was not often Archie asked her advice about anything, but on this occasion the young vicar felt himself incompetent to decide.
“I suppose you mean the new folk at the Friary,” she continued, carelessly. “Oh, they are only moving in to-day, and they will be in a muddle for a week, I should think. I don’t think we can intrude for ten days or so.”
“Not if you think it will be intrusive,” he returned, rather anxiously; “but they are strangers in the place, and all ladies—there does not seem to be a man belonging to them—would it not be neighborly, as we live so close, just to call, not in a formal way, you know, but just to volunteer help? There are little things you could do for them, Mattie; and, as a clergyman, they could not regard my visit as an intrusion, I should think. Do you not agree with me?” looking at his sister rather gravely.
“Well, I don’t know,” replied Mattie, bluntly: “I should not care for strangers prying into my concerns, if I were in their place. And yet, as you say, we are such close neighbors, and one would like to be kind to the poor things, for they must be lonely, settling in a strange new place. I’ll tell you what, Archie,” as his face fell at this matter-of-fact speech: “it is Thursday, and they will be sure to be at church on Sunday; we shall see them there, and that will be an excuse for us to call on Monday. We can say then that we are neighbors, and that we would not wait until they were all in order. We can offer to send them things from the vicarage, or volunteer help in many little ways. I think that would be best.”
“Yes, perhaps you are right, and we will wait until Monday,” returned Archie, taking off his soft felt hat. “Now I must go on my rounds, and not waste any more time chattering.” But, though he spoke with unusual good nature, he did not invite Mattie to be his companion, and the poor little woman betook herself to the solitary drawing-room and some plain sewing for the rest of the afternoon.114
The young clergyman stood for a moment irresolutely at the green door, and cast a longing glance in the direction of the Friary, where the van was still unloading, and then he bethought himself that, though Mattie had given orders about the weeding of the garden-paths, it would be as well to speak to Crump about the wire fence that was wanted for the poultry-yard; and as soon as he had made up his mind on this point he walked on briskly.
The last piece of furniture had just been carried in; but, as Mr. Drummond was picking his way through the straw and debris that littered the side-path, two girlish figures came out of the doorway full upon him.
He raised his hat involuntarily, but they drew back at once, and, as he went out, confused at this sudden rencontre, the sound of a light laugh greeted his ear.
“How annoying that we should always be meeting him!” observed Nan, innocently. “Don’t laugh, Phillis: he will hear you.”
“My dear, it must be fate,” returned Phillis solemnly. “I shall think it my duty to warn Dick if this goes on.” But, in spite of her mischievous speech, she darted a quick, interested look after the handsome young clergyman as he walked on. Both the girls stood in the porch for some minutes after they had made their retreat. They had come out to cool themselves and to get a breath of air, until a July sun and Mr. Drummond’s sudden appearance defeated their intention. They had no idea that they were watched from behind the screening geraniums in Mrs. Crump’s window. Both of them were enveloped in Dorothy’s bib-aprons, which hid their pretty rounded figures. Phillis’s cheeks were flushed, and her arms were bare to the dimpled elbows; and Nan’s brown hair was slightly dishevelled.
“We look just like cooks!” exclaimed Phillis, regarding her coarse apron with disfavor; but Nan stretched her arms with a little indifference and weariness.
“What does it matter how we look,—like cooks or housemaids? I am dreadfully tired; but we must go in and work, Phil. I wonder what has become of Dulce?” And then the charming vision disappeared from the young clergyman’s eyes, and he was free to fix his mind on the wire fence that was required for the poultry-yard.
As soon as he had accomplished his errand he set his face towards the vicarage, for he made up his mind suddenly that he would call on the Middletons, and perhaps on Mrs. Cheyne. The latter was a duty that he owed to his pastoral conscience; but there was no need for him to go to the Middletons’. Nevertheless, the father and daughter were his most intimate friends, and on all occasions he was sure of Miss Middleton’s sympathy. They lived at Brooklyn,—a low white house a little below the vicarage. It was a charming house, he always thought, so well arranged and well managed; and the garden—that was the115colonel’s special hobby—was as pretty as a garden could be. The drawing-room looked shady and comfortable, for the French windows opened into a cool veranda, fitted up with flower-baskets and wicker chairs; and beyond lay the trim lawn, with beds of blazing verbenas and calceolarias. Miss Middleton’s work-table was just within one of the windows; but the colonel, in his gray summer suit, reclined in a lounging-chair in the veranda. He was reading the paper to his daughter, and was just in the middle of last night’s debate; nevertheless, he threw it aside, well pleased at the interruption.
“I knew how I should find you occupied,” observed Mr. Drummond, as he exchanged a smile with Miss Middleton. He was fully aware that politics were not to her taste, and yet every afternoon she listened to such reading, well content even with the sound of her father’s voice.
Elizabeth Middleton was certainly a charming person. Phillis had called her the “gray-haired girl,” and the title suited her. She was not a girl by any means, having reached her six-and-thirtieth year; but her hair was as silvery as an old woman’s, gray and plentiful, and soft as silk, and contrasted strangely with her still youthful face.
Without being handsome, Elizabeth Middleton was beautiful. Her expression was sweet and restful, and attracted all hearts. People who were acquainted with her said she was the happiest creature they knew,—that she simply diffused sunshine by her mere presence; such a contrast, they would add, to her neighbor Mrs. Cheyne, who bore all her troubles badly and was of a proud, fretful disposition. But then Mrs. Cheyne had lost her husband and her two children, and led such a sad, lonely life; and no such troubles had fallen to Miss Middleton.
Elizabeth Middleton could afford to be happy, they said, for she was the delight of her father’s eyes. Her young half-brother, Hammond, who was with his regiment in India, was not nearly so dear to the old man; and of course that was why she had never married, that her father’s house might not be left desolate.
This is how people talked; but not a single person in Hadleigh knew that Elizabeth Middleton had had a great sorrow in her life.
She had been engaged for some years most happily, and with her father’s consent, to one of his brother officers. Captain Sedgwick was of good family, but poor; and they were waiting for his promotion, for at that time Colonel Middleton would have been unable to give his daughter any dowry. Elizabeth was young and happy, and she could afford to wait. No girl ever gloried in her lover more than she did in hers. Capel Sedgwick was not only brave and singularly handsome, but he bore a reputation through the whole regiment for having a higher standard of duty than most men.
Promotion came at last, and, just as Elizabeth was gayly making116preparations for her marriage, fatal tidings were brought to her. Major Sedgwick had gone to visit an old servant in the hospital who had been struck down with cholera; he had remained with him some time, and on his return to his bungalow the same fell disease had attacked him, and before many hours were over he was dead. The shock was a terrible one; in the first moments of her bitter loss, Elizabeth cried out that her misery was too great,—that all happiness was over for her in this world, and that she only prayed that she might be buried in the same grave with Capel.
The light had not yet come to the poor soul that felt itself afflicted past endurance and could find no reason for such pain. It could not be said that Elizabeth bore her trouble better than other girls would have borne theirs under like circumstances. She fretted and grew thin, and dashed herself wildly against the inevitable, only reproaching herself for her selfishness and want of submission when she looked at her father’s care-worn face.
But then came a time when light and peace revisited the wrecked heart,—when confused reasonings no longer beset the poor weak brain and filled it with dismay and doubt,—when the Divine will became her will, and there was no longer submission, but a most joyful surrender. And no one, and least of all she herself, knew when the darkness was vanquished by that clear uprising of pure radiance, or how those brooding wings of peace settled on her soul. From that time, every human being that came within her radius was welcome as a new object of love. To give and yet to give, and never to be satisfied, was a daily necessity of life to Elizabeth. “Now there is some one more to love,” she would say to herself, when a new acquaintance was brought to her; and, as the old adage is true that tells us love begets love, there was no more popular person in Hadleigh than Elizabeth Middleton. She had something to say in praise of every one; not that she was blind to the faults of her neighbors, but she preferred to be silent and ignore them.
And she was especially kind to Mattie. In the early days of their intimacy, the young vicar would often speak to her of his sister Grace and lament their enforced separation from each other. Miss Middleton listened sympathetically, with the same sweet attention that she gave to every man, woman, and child that laid claim to it; but once, when he had finished, she said, rather gravely,—
“Do you know, Mr. Drummond, that I think your mother was right?”
“Right in dooming Grace to such a life?” he said, pausing in utter surprise at her remark.
“Pardon me; it is not her mother who dooms her,” returned Miss Middleton, quickly, “but duty,—her own sense of right,—everything that is sacred. If Mrs. Drummond had not decided that she could not be spared, I am convinced from all you tell117me, that Grace would still have remained at home: her conscience would have been too strong for her.”
“Well, perhaps you are right,” he admitted, reluctantly. “Grace is a noble creature, and capable of any amount of self-sacrifice.”
“I am sure of it,” returned Miss Middleton, with sparkling eyes. “How I should like to know her! it would be a real pleasure and privilege; but I am very fond of your sister Mattie, too.”
“Fond of Mattie!” It was hardly brotherly, but he could not help that incredulous tone in his voice. How could such a superior woman as Miss Middleton be even tolerant of Mattie?
“Oh, yes,” she replied, quite calmly; “I have a great respect for your sister. She is so unselfish and amiable, and there is something so genuine in her. Before everything one wants truth,” finished Elizabeth, taking up her work.
Now, as the young clergyman entered the room, she stretched out her hand to him with her usual beaming smile.
“This is good of you, to come so soon again,” she said, making room for him between her father and herself. “But why have you not brought Mattie?” and Archie felt as though he had received a rebuke.
“She is finishing some work,” he returned, a little confused; “that is, what you ladies call work. It is not always necessary for the clergywoman to pay visits, is it?”
“The clergywoman, as you call her, is doing too much. I was scolding her this morning for not sparing herself more: I thought she was not looking quite well, Mr. Drummond.”
“Oh, Mattie is well enough,” he replied, carelessly. He had not come to talk about his sister: a far more interesting subject was in his mind. “Do you know, colonel,” he went on, with some animation, “that you and I have new neighbors? Do you remember the young ladies in the blue cambric dresses?” And at this question the colonel threw aside his paper at once.
“Elizabeth has been telling me. I remember the young ladies perfectly. I could not help noticing them. They walked so well,—heads up, and as neat and trim as though they were on parade; pretty creatures, both of them. Elizabeth pretends not to be interested, but she is quite excited. Look at her!”
“Nay, father, it is you who can talk of nothing else; but it will be very nice to have such pleasant neighbors. How soon do you think we may call on them?”
And then Archie explained, with some little embarrassment, that he and Mattie thought of calling the following Monday and offering their services.
“That is very thoughtful of Mattie. She is such a kind-hearted little creature, and is always ready to serve everybody.”118
And then they entered into a discussion on the new-comers that lasted so long that the tea-things made their appearance; and shortly afterwards Mr. Drummond announced that he must go and call on Mrs. Cheyne.
CHAPTER XVI.A VISIT TO THE WHITE HOUSE.
Hitherto Mr. Drummond had acknowledged his afternoon to be a success. He had obtained a glimpse of the new-comers through Mrs. Crump’s screen of geraniums, and had listened with much interest to Colonel Middleton’s innocent gossip, while Miss Middleton had poured out their tea. Indeed, his attention had quite flattered his host.
“Really, Drummond is a very intelligent fellow,” he observed to his daughter, when they were at last left alone,—“a very intelligent fellow, and so thoroughly gentlemanly.”
“Yes, he is very nice,” returned Elizabeth; “and he seems wonderfully interested in our new neighbors.” And here she smiled a little archly.
There was no doubt that Mr. Drummond had fully enjoyed his visit. Nevertheless, as he left Brooklyn, and set his face towards the White House, his manner changed, and his face became somewhat grave.
He had told himself that he owed it to his pastoral conscience to call on Mrs. Cheyne; but, notwithstanding this monition, he disliked the duty, for he always felt on these occasions that he was hardly up to his office, and that this solitary member of his flock was not disposed to yield herself to his guidance. He was ready to pity her if she would allow herself to be pitied; but any expression of sympathy seemed repugnant to her. Any one so utterly lonely, so absolutely without interest in existence, he had never seen or thought to see; and yet he could not bring himself to like her, or to say more than the mere commonplace utterances of society. Though he was her clergyman, and bound by the sacredness of his office to be specially tender to the bruised and maimed ones of his flock, he could not get her to acknowledge her maimed condition to him, or to do anything but listen to him with cold attention, when he hinted vaguely that all human beings are in need of sympathy. Perhaps she thought him too young, and feared to find his judgments immature and one-sided; but certainly his visits to the White House were failures. Mrs. Cheyne was still young enough and handsome enough to need some sort of chaperonage: and though she professed to mock at conventionality, she acknowledged its claims in this respect by securing the permanent services of Miss119Mewlstone—a lady of uncertain age and uncertain acquirements. It must be confessed that every one wondered at Mrs. Cheyne and her choice, for no one could be less companionable than Miss Mewlstone.
She was a stout, sleepy-looking woman, with a soft voice, and in placidity and a certain cosyness of exterior somewhat resembled a large white cat. Some people declared she absolutely purred, and certainly her small blue eyes were ready to close on all occasions. She always dressed in gray,—a very unbecoming color to a stout person,—and when not asleep or reading (for she was a great reader) she seemed always busy with a mass of soft fleecy wool. No one heard her ever voluntarily conversing with her patroness. They would drive together for hours, or pass whole evenings in the same room, scarcely exchanging a word. “Just so, my dear,” she would say, in return to any observation made to her by Mrs. Cheyne. “Just so Mewlstone,” a young wag once nicknamed her.
People stared incredulously when Mrs. Cheyne assured them her companion was a very superior woman. They thought it was only her satire, and did not believe her in the least. They would have stared still more if they had really known the extent of Miss Mewlstone’s acquirements.
“She seems so stupid, as though she cannot talk,” one of Mrs. Cheyne’s friends said.
“Oh, yes, she can talk, and very well too,” returned that lady, quietly, “but she knows that I do not care about it; her silence is her great virtue in my eyes. And then she has tact, and knows when to keep out of the way,” finished Mrs. Cheyne, with the utmost frankness; and, indeed, it may be doubted whether any other person would have retained her position so long at the White House.
Mrs. Cheyne was no favorite with the young pastor, nevertheless she was an exceedingly handsome woman. Before the bloom of her youth had worn off she had been considered absolutely beautiful. As regarded the form of her features, there was no fault to be found, but her expression was hardly pleasing. There was a hardness that people found a little repelling,—a bitter, dissatisfied droop of the lip, a weariness of gloom in the dark eyes, and a tendency to satire in her speech, that alienated people’s sympathy.
“I am unhappy, but pity me if you dare!” seemed to be written legibly upon her countenance; and those who knew her best held their peace in her presence, and then went away and spoke softly to each other of the life that seemed wasted and the heart that was so hardened with its trouble. “What would the world be if every one were to bear their sorrows so badly?” they would say. “There is something heathenish in such utter want of resignation. Oh, yes, it was very sad, her losing her husband and children, but it all happened four or five years ago; and you know”—And here people’s voices dropped a little ominously,120for there were vague hints afloat that things had not always gone on smoothly at the White House, even when Mrs. Cheyne had her husband. She had been an only child, and had married the only survivor of a large family. Both were handsome, self-willed young people; neither had been used to contradiction. In spite of their love for each other, there had been a strife of wills and misunderstandings from the earliest days of their marriage. Neither knew what giving up meant, and before many months were over the White House witnessed many painful scenes. Herbert Cheyne was passionate, and at times almost violent; but there was no malice in his nature. He stormed furiously and forgave easily. A little forbearance would have turned him into a sweet-natured man; but his wife’s haughtiness and resentment lasted long; she never acknowledged herself in the wrong, never made overtures of peace, but bore herself on every occasion as a sorely-injured wife, a state of things singularly provoking to a man of Herbert Cheyne’s irritable temperament.
There was injudicious partisanship as regarded their children: while Mrs. Cheyne idolized her boy, her husband lavished most of his attentions on the baby girl,—“papa’s girl,” as she always called herself in opposition to “mother’s boy.”
Mrs. Cheyne really believed she loved her boy best, but when diphtheria carried off her little Jane also, she was utterly inconsolable. Her husband was far away when it happened: he had been a great traveller before his marriage, and latterly his matrimonial relations with his wife had been so unsatisfactory that virtual separation had ensued. Two or three months before illness, and then death, had devastated the nursery at the White House, he had set out for a long exploring expedition in Central Africa.
“You make my life so unbearable that, but for the children, I would never care to set foot in my home again,” he had said to her, in one of his violent moods; and, though he repented of this speech afterwards, she could not be brought to believe that he had not meant it, and her heart had been hard against him even in their parting.
But before many months were over she would have given all she possessed—to her very life—to have recalled him to her side. She was childless, and her health was broken; but no such recall was possible. Vague rumors reached her of some miserable disaster: people talked of a missing Englishman. One of the little party had already succumbed to fever and hardship; by and by another followed; and the last news that reached them was that Herbert Cheyne lay at the point of death in the kraal of a friendly tribe. Since then the silence had been of the grave: not one of the party had survived to bring the news of his last moments: there had been illness and disaster from the first.
When Mrs. Cheyne recovered from the nervous disorder that121had attacked her on the receipt of this news, she put on widow’s mourning, and wore it for two years; then she sent for Miss Mewlstone, and set herself to go through with the burden of her life. If she found it heavy, she never complained: she was silent on her own as on other people’s troubles. Only at the sight of a child of two or three years of age she would turn pale, and draw down her veil, and if it ran up to her, as would sometimes happen, she would put it away from her angrily, pushing it away almost with violence, and no child was ever suffered to cross her threshold.
The drawing-room at the White House was a spacious apartment, with four long windows opening on the lawn. Mrs. Cheyne was sitting in her low chair, reading, with Miss Mewlstone at the farther end of the room, with her knitting-basket beside her; two or three grayhounds were grouped near her. They all rushed forward with furious barks as Mr. Drummond was announced, and then leaped joyously round him. Mrs. Cheyne put down her book, and greeted him with a frosty smile.
She had laid aside her widow’s weeds, but still dressed in black, the sombreness of her apparel harmonizing perfectly with her pale, creamy complexion. Her dress was always rich in material, and most carefully adjusted. In her younger days it had been an art with her,—almost a passion,—and it had grown into a matter of custom.
“You are very good to come again so soon, Mr. Drummond,” she said, as she gave him her hand. The words were civil, but a slight inflection on the word “soon” made Mr. Drummond feel a little uncomfortable. Did she think he called too often? He wished he had brought Mattie; only last time she had been so satirical, and had quizzed the poor little thing unmercifully; not that Mattie had found out that she was being quizzed.
“I hardly thought I should find you at home, it is so fine an afternoon; but I made the attempt, you see,” he continued, a little awkwardly.
“Your parochial conscience was uneasy, I suppose, because I was missing at church?” she returned, somewhat slyly. “You would make a capital overseer, Mr. Drummond,”—with a short laugh. “A headache is a good excuse, is it not? I had a headache, had I not, Miss Mewlstone?”
“Yes, my dear, just so,” returned Miss Mewlstone. She always called her patroness “my dear.”
“Miss Mewlstone gave me the heads of the sermon, so it was not quite labor lost, as regards one of your flock. I am afraid you think me a black sheep because I stay away so often,—a very black sheep, eh, Mr. Drummond?”
“It is not for me to judge,” he said, still more awkwardly. “Headaches are very fair excuses; and if one be not blessed with good health––”
“My health is perfect,” she returned, interrupting him ruthlessly. “I have no such convenient plea under which to shelter122myself. Miss Mewlstone suffers far more from headaches than I do. Don’t you, Miss Mewlstone?”
“Just so; yes, indeed, my dear,” proceeded softly from the other end of the room.
“I am sorry to hear it,” commenced Mr. Drummond, in a sympathizing tone of voice. But his tormentor again interrupted him.
“I am a sad backslider, am I not? I wonder if you have a sermon ready for me? Do you lecture your parishioners, Mr. Drummond, rich as well as poor? What a pity it is you are so young! Lectures are more suitable with gray hair; a hoary head might have some chance against my satire. A woman’s tongue is a difficult thing to keep in order, is it not? I dare say you find that with Miss Mattie?”
Mr. Drummond was literally on thorns. He had no repartee ready. She was secretly exasperating him as usual, making his youth a reproach, and rendering it impossible for him to be his natural frank self with her. In her presence he was always at a disadvantage. She seemed to take stock of his learning and to mock at the idea of his pastoral claims. It was not the first time she had called herself a black sheep, or had spoken of her scanty attendances at church. But as yet he had not dared to rebuke her; he had a feeling that she might fling back his rebuke with a jest, and his dignity forbade this. Some day he owed it to his conscience to speak a word to her,—to tell her of the evil effects of such an example; but the convenient season had not yet arrived.
He was casting about in his own mind for some weighty sentence with which to answer her; but she again broke in upon his silence:
“It seems that I am to escape to-day. I hope you are not a lax disciplinarian; that comes of being young. Youth is more tolerant, they say, of other people’s errors: it has its own glass houses to mind.”
“You are too clever for me, Mrs. Cheyne,” returned the young man, with a deprecating smile that might have disarmed her. “No, I have not come to lecture: my mission is perfectly peaceful, as befits this lovely afternoon. I wonder what you ladies find to do all day?” he continued, abruptly changing the subject, and trying to find something that would not attract her satire.
Mrs. Cheyne seemed a little taken aback by this direct question; and then she drew up her beautiful head a little haughtily, and laughed.
“Ah, you are cunning, Mr. Drummond. You found me disposed to take the offensive in the matter of church-going, and now you are on another track. There is a lecture somewhere in the background. How doth the little busy bee, etc. Now, don’t frown,”—as Mr. Drummond knitted his brows and really looked annoyed: “I will not refuse to be catechised.”123
“I should not presume to catechise you,” he returned, hastily. “I appeal to Miss Mewlstone if my question were not a very innocent one.”
“Just so; just so,” replied Miss Mewlstone; but she looked a little alarmed at this appeal. “Oh, very innocent; oh, very so.”
“With two against me I must yield,” returned Mrs. Cheyne, with a curl of her lip. “What do we do with our time, Miss Mewlstone? Your occupation speaks for itself: it is exquisitely feminine. Don’t tell Miss Mattie, Mr. Drummond, but I never work. I would as soon arm myself with a dagger as a needle or a pair of scissors. When I am not in the air, I paint. I only lay aside my palette for a book.”
“You paint!” exclaimed Archie, with sudden interest. It was the first piece of information he had yet gleaned.
“Yes,” she returned, indifferently: “one must do something to kill time, and music was never my forte. I sketch and draw and paint after my own sweet will. There are portfolios full of my sketches in there,”—with a movement of her hand towards a curtained recess. “No, I know what you are going to say: you will ask to see them; but I never show them to any one.”
“For what purpose, then, do you paint them?” were the words on his lips; but he forbore to utter them. But she read the question in his eyes.
“Did I not say one must kill time?” she returned, rather irritably: “the occupation is soothing: surely that is reason enough.”
“It is a good enough reason, I suppose,” he replied, reluctantly, for surely he must say a word here; “but one need not talk about killing time, with so much that one could do.”
Then there came a gleam of suppressed mischief in her eyes:
“Yes, I know: you may spare me that. I will listen to it all next Sunday, if you will, when you have it your own way, and one cannot sin against decorum and answer you. Yes, yes, there is so much to do, is there not?—hungry people to be fed, and sick to visit,—all sorts of disagreeables that people call duties. Ah, I am a sad sinner! I only draw for my own amusement, and leave the poor old world to get on without me. What a burden I must be on your conscience, Mr. Drummond,—heavier than all the rest of your parish. What, are you going already? and Miss Mewlstone has never given you any tea.”
Then Archie explained, very shortly, that he had partaken of that beverage at Brooklyn, and his leave-taking was rather more formal than usual. He was very much surprised, as he stood at the hall door, that always stood open in the summer, to hear the low sweep of a dress over the tessellated pavement behind him, and to see a white pudgy hand laid on his coat-sleeve.
“My dear Miss Mewlstone, how you startled me!”
“Just so; yes, I am afraid I did, Mr. Drummond; but I just wanted to say, never mind all that nonsense; come again: she124likes to see you; she does, indeed. It is only her way to talk so; she means no harm, poor dear,—oh, none at all!”
“Excuse me,” returned Archie, in a hurt voice, “but I think you are mistaken. Mrs. Cheyne does not care for my visits, and shows me she does not: if it were not my duty, I should not come so often.”
“No, no; just so, but all the same it rouses her and does her good. It is a bad day with her, poor dear!—the very day the darlings were taken ill, four years ago. Now, don’t go away and fancy things, don’t, there’s a dear young man; come as often as you can, and try and do her good.”
“Oh, if I only knew how that is to be done!” returned Archie, slowly; but he was mollified in spite of himself. There were tears in Miss Mewlstone’s little blue eyes: perhaps she was a good creature after all.
“I will come again, but not just yet,” he said, nodding to her good-humoredly; but as he walked down the road he told himself that Mrs. Cheyne had never before made herself so disagreeable, and that it would be long before he set foot in the White House again.