CHAPTER XVII.“A FRIEND IN NEED.”
Human nature is weak, and we are told there are mixed motives to be found even in the holiest actions. Mr. Drummond never could be brought to acknowledge even to himself the reason why he took so much pains to compose his sermon for that Sunday. Without possessing any special claim to eloquence, he had always been earnest and painstaking, bestowing much labor on the construction and finish of his sentences, which were in consequence more elaborate than original. At times, when he took less pains and was simpler in style, he seldom failed to satisfy his hearers. His voice was pleasant and well modulated, and his delivery remarkably quiet and free from any tricks of gestures.
But on this occasion his subject baffled him; he wrote and rewrote whole pages, and then grew discontented with his work. On the Sunday in question he woke with the conviction that something out of the common order of events distinguished the day from other days; but even as this thought crossed his mind he felt ashamed of himself, and was in consequence a little more dictatorial than usual at the breakfast-table.
The inhabitants of Hadleigh were well accustomed to the presence of strangers in their church. In the season there was125a regular influx of visitors that filled the lodging-houses to overflowing. Hadleigh had always prided itself on its gentility, as a watering-place it was select and exclusive; only the upper middle classes, and a sprinkling of the aristocracy, were the habitual frequenters of the little town. It was too quiet; it offered too few attractions to draw the crowds that flocked to other places. Mr. Drummond’s congregation was well used by this time to see new faces in the strangers’ pew; nevertheless, a little thrill of something like surprise and excitement moved a few of the younger members as Nan and her sisters walked down the aisle, with their mother following them.
“The mother is almost as good-looking as her daughters,” thought Colonel Middleton, as he regarded the group through his gold-mounted eye-glasses, and Miss Middleton looked up for an instant from her prayer-book. Even Mrs. Cheyne roused from the gloomy abstraction which was her usual approach to devotion, and looked long and curiously at the three girlish faces before her. It was refreshing even to her to see anything so fresh and bright-looking.
Nan and her sisters were perfectly oblivious of the sensation they were making. Nan’s pretty face was a trifle clouded: the strange surroundings, the sight of all those people unknown to them, instead of the dear, familiar faces that had always been before her, gave the girl a dreary feeling of oppression and dismay. Her voice quavered audibly as she sang, and one or two drops fell on her prayer-book as she essayed to join in the petitions.
“Why is there not a special clause in the Litany for those who are perplexed and in poverty? It is not only from murder and sudden death one need pray to be delivered,” thought Nan, with much sinking of heart. “Oh, how helpless they were,—so young, and only girls, with a great unknown world before them, and Dick away, ignorant of their worst troubles, and too youthful a knight to win his spurs and pledge himself to their service!”
Nan’s sweet downcast face drew many eyes in the direction of the great square pew in which they sat. Phillis intercepted some of these looks, as her attention insensibly wandered during the service. It was wrong, terribly wrong of course, but her thoughts would not concentrate themselves on the lesson the young vicar was reading in his best style. She was not heavy-hearted like Nan; on the contrary, little thrills of excitement, of impatience, of repressed amusement, pervaded her mind, as she looked at the strange faces round her “They would not be long strange,” she thought: “some of them would be her neighbors. What would they say, all these people, when they knew––” And here Phillis held her breath a moment. People were wondering even now who they were. They had dressed themselves that morning, rehearsing their parts, as it were, with studied simplicity. The gown Nan wore was as inexpensive as126a gown could be; her hat was a model of neatness and propriety: nevertheless, Phillis groaned in spirit as she glanced at her. Where had she got that style? She looked like a young princess who was playing at Arcadia. Would people ever dare to ask her to work for them? Would they not beg her pardon, and cry shame on themselves for entertaining such a thought for a moment? Phillis almost envied Nan, who was shedding salt tears on her prayer-book. She thought she was absorbed in her devotions, while her own thoughts would wander so sadly; and then a handsome face in the opposite pew attracted her attention. Surely that must be Mrs. Cheyne, who lived in the White House near them, of whom Nan had talked,—the poor woman who had lost husband and children and who lived in solitary state. The sermon had now commenced, but Phillis turned a deaf ear to the sentences over which Mr. Drummond had expended so much labor: her attention was riveted by the gloomy beautiful face before her, which alternately attracted and repelled her.
As though disturbed by some magnetic influence, Mrs. Cheyne raised her eyes slowly and looked at Phillis. Something in the girl’s keen-eyed glance seemed to move her strangely. The color crept into her pale face, and her lip quivered: a moment afterwards she drew down her veil and leaned back in her seat and Phillis, somewhat abashed, endeavored fruitlessly to gather up the thread of the sermon.
“There! it is over! We have made ourdebut,” she said, a little recklessly, as they walked back to Beach House, where Mrs. Challoner and Dulce were still staying. And as Nan looked at her, a little shocked and mystified by this unusual flippancy, she continued in the same excited way:
“Was it not strange Mr. Drummond choosing that text, ‘Consider the lilies’? He looked at us; I am sure he did, mother. It was quite a tirade against dress and vanity; but I am sure no one could find fault with us.”
“It was a very good sermon, and I think he seems a very clever young man,” returned Mrs. Challoner, with a sigh, for the service had been a long weariness for her. She had not been unmindful of the attention her girls had caused; but if people only knew—And here the poor lady had clasped her hands and put up petitions that were certainly not in the Litany.
Phillis seemed about to say something, but she checked herself, and they were all a little silent until they reached the house. This first Sunday was an infliction to them all: it was a day of enforced idleness. There was too much time for thought and room for regret. In spite of all Phillis’s efforts,—and she rattled on cheerily most of the afternoon,—Mrs. Challoner got one of her bad headaches, from worry, and withdrew to her room, attended by Dulce, who volunteered to bathe her head and read her to sleep.
The church-bells were just ringing for the evening service, and127Nan rose, as usual, to put on her hat; but Phillis stopped her:
“Oh, Nan, do not let us go to church again this evening. I am terribly wicked to-day, I know, but somehow I cannot keep my thoughts in order. So what is the use of making the attempt? Let us take out our prayer-books and sit on the beach: it is low tide, and a walk over the sands would do us good after our dreadful week.”
“If you are sure it would not be wrong,” hesitated Nan, whose conscience was a little hard to convince in such matters.
“No, no. And the run will do Laddie good. The poor little fellow has been shut up in this room all day. We need not tell the mother. She would be shocked, you know. But we never have stayed away from church before, have we? And, to tell you the truth,” continued Phillis, with an unsteady laugh that betrayed agitation to her sister’s ear, “though I faced it very well this morning, I do not feel inclined to go through it again. People stared so. And I could not help thinking all the time, ‘If they only knew!’—that was the thought that kept buzzing in my head. If only Mr. Drummond and all those people knew!”
“What does it matter what people think?” returned Nan. But she said it languidly. In her heart she was secretly dismayed at this sudden failure of courage. Phillis had been quite bold and merry all the day, almost reckless in her speeches.
“I am glad we came. This will do us both good,” said Nan, gently, as they left the parade behind them, and went slowly over the shelving beach, with Laddie rolling like a clumsy black ball about their feet. Just before them there was a pretty black-timbered cottage, covered with roses, standing quite low on the shore, and beyond this was nothing but shingly beach, and a stretch of wet, yellow sand, on which the sun was shining. There was a smooth white boulder standing quite alone, on which the girls seated themselves. The tide was still going out; and the low wash of waves sounded pleasantly in their ears as they advanced and then receded. A shimmer of silvery light played upon the water, and a rosy tinge began to tint the horizon.
“How quiet and still it is!” said Phillis, in an awe-struck voice. “When we are tired we must come here to rest ourselves. How prettily those baby waves seem to babble! it is just like the gurgle of baby laughter. And look at Laddie splashing in that pool: he is after that poor little crab. Come here, you rogue!” But Laddie, intent upon his sport, only cocked his ear restlessly and refused to obey.
“Yes, it is lovely,” returned Nan. “There is quite a silvery path over the water; by and by the sunset clouds will be beautiful. But what is the matter, dear?” as Phillis sighed and leaned heavily against her; and then, as she turned, she saw the girl’s eyes were wet.128
“Oh, Nan! shall we have strength for it? That is what I keep asking myself to-day. No you must not look so frightened. I am brave enough generally, and I do not mean to lose pluck; but now and then the thought will come to me, Shall we have strength to go through with it?”
“We must think of each other; that must keep us up,” returned Nan, whose ready sympathy fully understood her sister’s mood. Only to Nan would Phillis ever own her failure of courage or fears for the future. But now and then the brave young heart needed comfort, and always found it in Nan’s sympathy.
“It was looking at your dear beautiful face that made me feel so suddenly bad this morning,” interrupted Phillis, with a sort of sob. “It was not the people so much; they only amused and excited me, and I kept thinking, ‘If they only knew!’ But, Nan, when I looked at you—oh, why are you so nice and pretty, if you have got to do this horrid work?”
“I am not a bit nicer than you and Dulce,” laughed Nan, embracing her, for she never could be made to understand that by most people she was considered their superior in good looks. The bare idea made her angry. “It is worse for you, Phillis, because you are so clever and have so many ideas. But there! we must not go on pitying each other, or else, indeed, we shall undermine our little stock of strength.”
“But don’t you feel terribly unhappy sometimes?” persisted Phillis. Neither of them mentioned Dick, and yet he was in both their minds.
“Perhaps I do,” returned Nan, simply; and then she added, with quaintness that was pathetic, “You see, we are so unused to the feeling, and it is over-hard at first: by and by we shall be more used to not having our own way in things.”
“I think I could give up that readily, if I could be sure you and Dulce were not miserable,” sighed Phillis.
“That is what I say,” returned Nan. “Don’t you see how simple and beautiful that is? Thinking of each other gives us strength to go through with it all. This evening trying to cheer you up has done me good. I do not feel the least afraid of people to-night. Looking at that sea and sky makes one feel the littleness and unreality of all these worries. What does it matter—what does anything matter—if we only do our duty and love each other, and submit to the Divine will?” finished Nan, reverently, who seldom spoke of her deeper feelings, even to Phillis.
“Nan, you are a saint,” returned Phillis, enthusiastically. The worried look had left her eyes; they looked clear and bright as usual. “Oh, what a heathen I have been to-day! but, as Dulce is so fond of saying, ‘I am going to be good. I will read the evening Psalms to you, in token of my resolution, if you like. But wait: is there not some one coming across the sand!129How eerie it looks, such a tall black figure standing between the earth and sky!”
Phillis had good sight, or she would hardly have distinguished the figure, which was now motionless, at such a distance. In another moment she even announced that its draperies showed it to be a woman, before she opened her book and commenced reading.
There is something very striking in a lonely central figure in a scene, the outline cuts so sharply against the horizon. Nan’s eyes seemed riveted on it as she listened to Phillis’s voice; it seemed to her as immovable as a Sphinx, its rigidity lending a sort of barrenness and forlornness to the landscape, a black edition of human nature set under a violet and opal sky.
She almost started when it moved, at last, with a steady bearing, as it seemed, towards them; then curiosity quickened into interest, and she touched Phillis’s arm, whispering breathlessly,—
“The Sphinx moves! Look—is not that Mrs. Cheyne, the lady who lives at the White House near us, who always looks so lonely and unhappy?”
“Hush!” returned Phillis, “she will hear you;” and then Mrs. Cheyne approached with the same swift even walk. She looked at them for a moment, as she passed, with a sort of well-bred surprise in her air, as though she marvelled to see them there; her black dress touched Laddie, and he caught at it with an impotent bark.
The sisters must have made a pretty picture, as they sat almost clinging together on the stone: one of Nan’s little white hands rested on Laddie’s head, the other lay on Phillis’s lap. Phillis glanced up from her book, keen-eyed and alert in a moment; she turned her head to look at the stranger that had excited her interest, and then rose to her feet with a little cry of dismay.
“Oh, Nan, I am afraid she has hurt herself! She gave such a slip just now. I wonder what has happened? She is leaning against the breakwater, too. Shall we go and ask her if she feels ill or anything?”
“You may go,” was Nan’s answer. Nevertheless, she followed Phillis.
Mrs. Cheyne looked up at them a little sharply as they came towards her. Her face was gray and contracted with pain.
“I have slipped on a wet stone, and my foot has somehow turned on me,” she said, quickly, as Phillis ran up to her. “It was very stupid. I cannot think how it happened; but I have certainly sprained my ankle. It gives me such pain. I cannot move.”
“Oh, dear, I am so sorry!” returned Phillis, good-naturedly; and, in the most natural manner, she knelt down on the beach, and took the injured foot in her hands. “Yes, I can feel it is swelling dreadfully: we must try and get your boot off before130the attempt gets too painful.” And she commenced unfastening it with deft fingers.
“How am I to walk without my boot?” observed Mrs. Cheyne, a little drily, as she looked down on the girl; but here Nan interposed in her brisk sensible way:
“You must not walk; you must not think of such a thing. We will wet our handkerchiefs in the salt water, and bind up your ankle as well as we can; and then one of us will walk over to the White House for assistance. Your servants could easily obtain a wheeled chair.”
“You knew I lived at the White House, then?” returned Mrs. Cheyne, arching her eyebrows in some surprise; but she offered no opposition to Nan’s plan. The removal of the boot had brought on a sensation of faintness, and she sat perfectly still and quiet while the girls swathed the foot in wet bandages.
“It is a little easier now,” she observed, gratefully. “How neatly you have done it! you must be used to such work. I am really very much obliged to you both for your kindly help; and now I am afraid I must trouble you further if I am ever to reach home.”
“I will go at once,” returned Nan, cheerfully; “but I will leave my sister for fear you should feel faint again: besides, it is so lonely.”
“Oh, I am used to loneliness!” was the reply, as a bitter expression crossed her face.
Phillis, who was still holding the sprained foot in her lap, looked up in her eager way.
“I think one gets used to everything; that is a merciful dispensation; but all the same I hope you will not send me away. I dearly like to be useful; and at present my object is to prevent your foot coming into contact with these stones. Are you really in less pain now?—you look dreadfully pale.”
“Oh, that is nothing!” she returned, with a smile so sudden and sweet that it quite startled Phillis, for it lit up her face like sunshine; but almost before she caught it, it was gone. “How good you are to me! and yet I am a perfect stranger!” and then she added, as though with an afterthought, “But I saw you in church this morning.”
Phillis nodded: the question certainly required no answer.
“If I knew you better, I should ask why your eyes questioned me so closely this morning. Do you know, Miss—Miss––” And here she hesitated and smiled, waiting for Phillis to fill up the blank.
“My name is Challoner,—Phillis Challoner,” replied Phillis, coloring a little; and then she added, frankly, “I am afraid you thought me rude, and that I stared at you, but my thoughts were all topsy-turvy this morning and refused to be kept in order. One feels curious, somehow, about the people among whom one has come to live.”
“Have you come to live here?” asked Mrs. Cheyne, eagerly,131and a gleam of pleasure shot into her dark eyes,—“you, and your mother and sisters?”
“Yes; we have just come to the Friary,—a little cottage standing on the Braidwood Road.”
Her manner became a little constrained and reserved as she said this: the charming frankness disappeared.
“The Friary!” echoed Mrs. Cheyne; and then she paused for a moment, and her eyes rested searchingly on Phillis. “That shabby little cottage!” was the thought that filled up the outline of her words; but, though she felt inward surprise and a momentary disappointment, there was no change in the graciousness of her manner. Never before had she so thawed to any one: but the girl’s sweet ministry had won her heart. “Then you will be near me,—just at my gates? We shall be close neighbors. I hope you will come and see me, Miss Challoner.”
Poor Phillis! the blood suddenly rushed over her face at this. How was she to answer without appearing ungracious?—and yet at this moment how could she explain?
“If you please, we are dressmakers.” Oh, no! such words as these would not get themselves said. It was too abrupt, too sudden, altogether: she was not prepared for such a thing. Oh, why had she not gone to the White House instead of Nan? Her officiousness had brought this on her. She could not put the poor foot off her lap and get up and walk away to cool her hot cheeks.
“Thank you; you are very good,” she stammered, feeling herself an utter fool: she,—Phillis,—the clever one!
Mrs. Cheyne seemed rather taken aback by the girl’s sudden reserve and embarrassment.
“I suppose you think I should call first, and thank you for your kindness,” she returned, quickly; “but I was afraid my foot would keep me too long a prisoner. And, as we are to be neighbors, I hardly thought it necessary to stand on ceremony; but if you would rather wait––”
“Oh, no,” replied Phillis, in despair; “we will not trouble you to do that! Nan and I will call and ask after your foot, and then we will explain. There is a little difficulty: you might not care to be friends with us if you knew,” went on Phillis with burning cheeks; “but we will call and explain. Oh, yes, Nan and I will call!”
“Do; I shall expect you,” returned Mrs. Cheyne, half amused and half mystified at the girl’s obvious confusion. What did the child mean? They were gentle-people,—one could see that at a glance. They were in reduced circumstances: they had come down to Hadleigh to retrench. Well, what did that matter? People’s wealth or poverty never affected her; she would think none the less well of them for that; she would call at the Friary and entertain them at the White House with as much pleasure as though they lived in a palace. The little mystery piqued her, and yet excited her interest. It was long132since she had interested herself so much in anything. To Miss Middleton she had always been cold and uncertain. Mr. Drummond she treated with a mixture of satire and haughtiness that aroused his ire. Phillis’s frankness and simplicity had won her for a moment to her earlier and better self: she conceived an instantaneous liking for the girl who looked at her with such grave kindly glances. “I shall expect you, remember,” she repeated, as Nan at that moment appeared in sight.
“Oh, yes, Nan and I will come,” returned Phillis, slowly, and almost solemnly; but an instant afterwards a flicker of amusement played round her mouth. It was painful, of course; but, still, how droll it was!
“How long you have been, Nan!” she exclaimed, a little unreasonably, as Nan ran towards them, flushed and breathless from her haste.
“It has not been long to me,” observed Mrs. Cheyne, pointedly. She talked more to Nan than to Phillis after this, until the servants appeared with the wheeled chair; but nevertheless her last words were for Phillis. “Remember your promise,” was all she said, as she held out her hand to the girl; and Phillis tried to smile in answer, though it was rather a failure after all.
CHAPTER XVIII.DOROTHY BRINGS IN THE BEST CHINA.
“What a fool I made of myself yesterday! but to-day Richard is himself again,” said Phillis, as she gathered up another muslin curtain in her arms ready to hand to Nan, who was mounted on some steps. It was only Monday afternoon, but the girls had done wonders: the work-room, as they called it, was nearly finished. The great carved wardrobe and mahogany table had been polished by Dorothy’s strong hands. Mrs. Challoner’s easy-chair and little work-table at one window looked quite inviting; the sewing-machine and Nan’s rosewood davenport were in their places. A hanging cupboard of old china, and a few well-bound books, gave a little coloring and finish, and one or two fine old prints that had hung in the dining-room at Glen Cottage had been disposed with advantage on the newly-papered walls. An inlaid clock ticked on the mantelpiece, and some handsome ruby-colored vases stood on either side of it. Nan was quite right when she had glanced round her a few minutes ago in a satisfied manner and said no one need be ashamed of living in such a room.
“Our pretty things make it look almost too nice for the133purpose,” she continued, handling a precious relic, a Sevres cup and saucer, that had been her especial pride in old days. “I think you were wrong, Phil, not to have the china in the other room.”
“No, indeed; I want people to see it and be struck with our taste,” was Phillis’s frank answer. “Think what pleasure it will give the poor ladies when their dresses are being tried on. Don’t you remember the basket of wax fruit at Miss Slinders’s, when we were small children? I thought it the loveliest work of art, and feasted my eyes all the time Miss Slinders was fitting my pink frock. Now, our pictures and china will refresh people’s eyes in the same way.”
Nan smiled and shook her head, as she dusted and arranged her treasures. The china was very dear to her,—far more than the books Phillis was arranging on the chiffonnier. The Dresden figures that Dick had given to her mother were among them. She did not care for strangers to look at them and appraise their value. They were home treasures,—sacred relics of their past. The last time she had dusted them, a certain young man of her acquaintance had walked through the open window whistling “Blue bonnets over the Border,” and had taken up his station beside her, hindering her work with his chattering. Dulce was in the upper regions, unpacking a box in her mother’s room. Mrs. Challoner was coming home the next day, and Dorothy and she were hard at work getting things in order.
When Phillis made her downright speech, Nan looked down from her lofty perch, and held out her arms for the curtain.
“Richard is always himself, my dear,” she said, softly. “Do you know when you are down, Phil, I feel as though we are all at a stand-still, and there’s no getting on at all? and then at one of your dear droll speeches the sunshine comes out again, and we are all as right as possible.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” was Phillis’s blunt answer; but she could not help being pleased at the compliment. She looked up archly at Nan, as the mass of soft white drapery lay between them; and then they both broke into a laugh, just as two shadows seemed to glide past the window, and a moment afterwards the house-bell sounded. “Visitors!—oh, Nan!” And Phillis glanced down at the neat bib apron that she wore over her cambric dress.
“Don’t be afraid; Dorothy will have too much sense to admit them,” returned Nan, quite indifferently, as she went up a step higher to hang up the curtain.
Phillis was still holding it; but her manner was not quite so well assured. She thought she heard Dulce’s voice in confabulation with the stranger. A moment afterwards Dulce came briskly into the room.
“Nan, Mr. Drummond and his sister have kindly called to see us. We are not in order, of course. Oh, dear!” as Nan134looked down on them with startled eyes, not venturing to descend from her perch. “I ought not to have brought them in here,” looking half mischievously and half guiltily at the young clergyman, who stood hat in hand on the threshold.
“It is I who ought not to have intruded,” he began, in a perfect agony of embarrassment, blushing over his face like a girl as Nan looked down at him in much dignity, but Mattie, who was behind him, pushed forward in her usual bustling way.
“Oh, Miss Challoner, it is too bad! I told Archie that we ought not to come too soon––” but Phillis stopped her with an outstretched hand of welcome.
“What is too bad? I call it very kind and friendly of you both: one hardly expected to find such good neighbors. Nan, if that curtain is finished I think you had better come down. Take care; those steps are rickety: perhaps Mr. Drummond will help you.”
“Let me do the other ones for you. I don’t think those steps are safe!” exclaimed Archie, with sudden inspiration.
No one at home would have believed such a thing of him. Mattie’s eyes grew quite round and fixed with astonishment at the sight. He had not even shaken hands with Nan, yet there he was, mounted in her place, slipping in the hooks with dexterous hands, while Nan quietly held up the curtain.
Months afterwards the scene came back on Archibald Drummond with a curious thrill half of pain and half of amusement. How had he done it? he wondered. What had made him all at once act in a way so unlike himself?—for, with the best intention, he was always a little stiff and constrained with strangers. Yet there he was laughing as though he had known them all his life, because Nan had rebuked him gravely for slipping two hooks into one ring. Months afterwards he recalled it all: Nan glancing up at him with quietly amused eyes, Phillis standing apart, looking quaint and picturesque in her bib-apron, Dulce with the afternoon sunshine lighting up her brown hair; the low old-fashioned room, with the great carved wardrobe, and the cupboard of dainty china; the shady little lawn outside, with Laddie rolling among the daisies. What made it suddenly start up in his memory like a picture one has seen and never quite forgotten?
“Thank you, Mr. Drummond. You have done it so nicely,” said Nan, with the utmost gravity, as he lingered, almost unwilling to descend to conventionality again. Dulce and Phillis were busily engaged looping up the folds. “Now we will ask Dorothy to remove the steps and then we can sit down comfortably.”
But here Archie interposed:
“Why need you call any one? Tell me where I shall put them.” Mattie broke into a loud laugh. She could not help it. It was too droll of Archie. She must write and tell Grace.135
Archie heard the laugh as he marched out of the room with his burden, and it provoked him excessively. He made some excuse about admiring Laddie, and went out on the lawn for a few minutes, accompanied by Nan. When they came back, the curtains were finished and the two girls were talking to Mattie. Mattie seemed quite at ease with them.
“We have such a dear old garden at the vicarage,” she was saying, as her brother came into the room. “I am not much of a gardener myself but Archie works for hours at a time. He talks of getting a set of tennis down from town. We think it will help to bring people together. You must promise to come and play sometimes of an afternoon when you have got the cottage in order.”
“Thank you,” returned Phillis; and then Nan and she exchanged looks. A sort of blankness came over the sisters’ faces,—a sudden dying out of the brightness and fun.
Mr. Drummond grew a little alarmed:
“I hope you will not disappoint my sister. She has few friends, and is rather lonely, missing so many sisters; and you are such close neighbors.”
“Yes, we are close neighbors,” returned Phillis. But her voice was a little less clear than usual; and, to Archie’s astonishment,—for they all seemed talking comfortably together,—her face had grown suddenly pale. “But you must not think us unkind if we refuse your hospitality,” she went on, looking straight at him, and not at Mattie. “Owing to painful circumstances, we have made up our minds that no such pleasure are in store for us. We must learn to do without things: must we not, Nan?”
“Yes, indeed,” returned Nan, very gravely. And then the tears came into Dulce’s eyes. Was Phillis actually going to tell them? She would have run away, only she was ashamed of such cowardice.
“I hope you do not mean to do without friends,” stammered Archie. “That would be too painful to bear.” He thought they were excusing themselves from partaking of their neighbors’ hospitality because they were too poor to return it, and wanted to set them at their ease. “You may have reasons for wishing to be quiet. Perhaps Mrs. Challoner’s health, and—and—parties are not always desirable,” he went on, floundering, a little in his speech, and signing to Mattie to come to his help, which she did at once, breathlessly:
“Parties! Oh, dear, no! They are such a trouble and expense. But tennis and tea on the lawn is just nothing,—nothing at all. One can give a little fruit and some home-made cake. No one need scruple at that. Archie is not rich,—clergymen never are, you know,—but he means to entertain his friends as well as he can. I should like you to see Miss Middleton. She is a charming person. And the colonel is as nice as possible. We will just ask them to meet you in a quiet way, and, if136your mother is not too much of an invalid, I hope she will give us the pleasure of her company, for when people are such close neighbors it is stupid to stand on ceremony,” finished Mattie, bringing herself rapidly to a full stop.
“You are very kind. But you do not understand,” returned Phillis. And then she stopped, and a gleam of fun came into her eyes. Her sharp ears had caught the rattle of cups and saucers. Actually, that absurd Dorothy was bringing in tea in the old way, making believe that they were entertaining their friends in Glen Cottage fashion! She must get out the truth somehow before the pretty purple china made its appearance. “Oh,” she went on, with a sort of gulp, as though she felt the sudden touch of cold water, “you come here meaning kindly, and asking us to your house, and taking compassion upon us because we are strangers and lonely, and you do not know that we are poor, and that we have lost our money, and––” But here Mr. Drummond was absolutely rude enough to interrupt her:
“What does that matter, my dear Miss Challoner? Do you think that is of any consequence in mine or my sister’s eyes? I suppose if I be your clergyman––” And then he stopped, and stroked his beard in an embarrassed way; for though Phillis’s face was pale, there was laughter in her eyes.
“Oh, if this be a parochial visit,” she began, demurely; “but you should not have talked of tennis, Mr. Drummond. How do you know we are not Roman Catholics, or Wesleyans, or even Baptists, or Bible Christians? We might have gone to your church out of curiosity on Sunday, or to see the fashions. There is not a Quaker cut about us; but, still, we might be Unitarians, and people would not find it out,” continued Phillis, looking with much solemnity at the bewildered young Anglican.
The situation was too absurd; there was no knowing to what length Phillis’s recklessness and sense of humor would have brought her, only Nan’s good sense came to the rescue:
“Phillis is only in fun, Mr. Drummond. Of course we are Church-people: and of course we hope to attend your services. I am sure my mother will be pleased to see you, when you are kind enough to call. At Oldfield we were always good friends with our clergyman: he was such a dear old man.”
“Do you mean to forbid my sister’s visits, then?” asked Archie, looking anxiously at her sweet face; Nan looked so pretty, in spite of her discomposure.
“Oh, no! we do not mean to be so rude: do we, Phillis? We shall be so glad to see Miss Drummond; but—but,” faltered Nan, losing breath a little, “we have been unfortunate, and must work for our living; and your sister perhaps would not care to visit dressmakers.”
“What!” exclaimed Archie: he almost jumped out of his chair in his surprise.
Phillis had uttered a faint “Bravo, Nan!” but no one heard her. Dulce’s cheeks were crimson, and she would not look at137any one; but Nan, who had got out the dreaded word, went on bravely, and was well hugged by Phillis in private afterwards.
“We are not clever enough for governesses,” continued Nan, with a charming smile, addressing Mattie, who sat and stared at her, “and there was nothing we dreaded so much as to separate: so, as we had capable fingers and were fond of work, my sister Phillis planned this for us. Now you see, Miss Drummond, why we could not accept your kind hospitality. Whatever we have been, we cannot expect people to visit us now. If you would be good enough to recommend us, and help us in our efforts to make ourselves independent, that is all we can ask of you.”
“Well, I don’t know,” returned Mattie, bluntly: “as far as I am concerned, I am never ashamed of any honest calling. What do you say, Archie?”
“I say it is all very proper and laudable,” he returned, hesitating; “but surely—surely there must be some other way more suitable to ladies in your position! Let me call again when your mother comes, and see if there is nothing that I can do or recommend better than this. Yes, I am sure if I can only talk to your mother, we could find some other way than this.”
“Indeed, Mr. Drummond, you must do nothing of the kind,” replied Phillis, in an alarmed voice: “the poor dear mother must not be disturbed by any such talk! You mean it kindly, but we have made up our own minds, Nan and I: we mean to do without the world and live in one of our own; and we mean to carry out our plan in defiance of everything and everybody; and, though you are our clergyman and we are bound to listen to your sermons, we cannot take your advice in this.”
“But—but I would willingly act as a friend,” began the young man, confusedly, looking not at her, but at Nan.
He was so bewildered, so utterly taken aback, he hardly knew what he said.
“Here comes Dorothy with the tea,” interrupted Nan, pleasantly, as though dismissing the subject: “she has not forgotten our old customs. Friends always came around us in the afternoon. Mr. Drummond, perhaps you will make yourself useful and cut the cake. Dorothy, you need not have unpacked the best silver teapot.” Nan was moving about in her frank hospitable way. Laddie was whining for cake, and breaking into short barks of impatience. “This is one of our Glen Cottage cakes. Susan always prides herself on the recipe,” said Nan, calmly, as she pressed it on her guests.
Mr. Drummond almost envied his sister as she praised the cake and asked for the recipe. He had always found fault with her manners; but now nothing could be finer than her simplicity. Pure good nature and innate womanliness were teaching Mattie something better than tact. Nan had dropped a painful subject, and she would not revive it in her brother’s138presence. There would be plenty of time for her to call and talk it over with them quietly. Help them!—of course she would help them. They should have her new silk dress that Uncle Conway had just sent her. It was a risk, for perhaps they might spoil it; but such fine creatures should have a chance. At present she would only enjoy the nice tea, and talk to poor little frightened Dulce, who seemed unable to open her lips after her sister’s disclosure.
Archie could not emulate her ease: a man is always at a disadvantage in such a case. His interest had sustained no shock: it was even stimulated by what he had just heard; but his sympathy seemed all at once congealed, and he could find no vent for it. In spite of his best efforts his manner grew more and more constrained every moment.
Nan looked at him more than once with reproachful sweetness. She thought they had lost caste in his eyes; but Phillis, who was shrewd and sharp-set in her wits, read him more truly. She knew—having already met a score of such—how addicted young Englishmen are tomauvaise honte, and how they will hide acute sensibilities under blunt and stolid exteriors; and there was a certain softness in Mr. Drummond’s eye that belied his stiffness. Most likely he was very sorry for them, and did not know how to show it; and in this she was right.
Mr. Drummond was very sorry for them; but he was still more grieved for himself. The Oxford fellow had not long been a parish priest, and he could not at all understand the position in which he found himself,—taking tea with three elegant young dressmakers who talked the purest English and had decided views on tennis and horticulture. He had just been congratulating himself on securing such companionship for his sister and himself. Being rather classical-minded, he had been calling them the gray-eyed Graces, and one of them at least “a daughter of the gods,—divinely tall and most divinely fair;” for where had he seen anything to compare with Nan’s bloom and charming figure? Dressmakers!—oh, if only Grace were at hand, that he might talk to her, and gain her opinion how he was to act in such case! Grace had the stiff-necked Drummond pride as well as he, and would hesitate long behind the barriers of conventionality. No wonder, with all these thoughts passing through his mind, that Nan, with her bright surface talk, found him a little vague.
It was quite a relief to all the party when Mattie gave the signal for departure and the bell was rung for Dorothy to show them out.
“Well, Nan, what do you think of our visitors?” asked Phillis, when the garden-door had clanged noisily after them, and she had treated Nan to the aforesaid hugs; “for you were so brave, darling, and actually took the wind out of my sails!” exclaimed the enthusiastic Phillis. “Miss Drummond is not so bad, after all, is she, in spite of her dowdiness and fussy ways?”139
“No; she means well; and so does her brother. He is very nice, only his self-consciousness spoils him,” returned Nan, in a calm, discursive tone, as though they were discussing ordinary visitors.
It was impossible for these young girls to see that their ordinary language was not humble enough for their new circumstances. They would make mistakes at every turn, like Dorothy, who got out the best china and brewed her tea in the melon-shaped silver teapot.
Phillis opened her eyes rather widely at this. Nan was not often so observant. It was true: self-consciousness was a torment to Archibald Drummond, a Frankenstein of his own creation, that had grown imperceptibly with his growth to the fell measure of his manhood, as inseparable as the shadow from the substance. Phillis had recognized it at once; but then, as she said, no one was faultless; and then, he was so handsome. “Very handsome” chimed in Dulce, whose opinions were full-fledged in such matters.
“Is he? Well, I never cared for a man with a long fair beard,” observed Nan, carelessly. Poor Archie! how his vanity would have suffered if he had heard her! for, in a masculine way, he prided himself excessively on the soft silky appendage that Grace had so often praised. A certain boyish countenance, with kindly honest eyes and a little sandy moustache, was more to Nan’s taste than the handsome young Anglican.
“Oh, we all know Nan’s opinion in such matters,” said Dulce, slyly; and then Nan blushed, and suddenly remembered that Dorothy was waiting for her in the linen-closet, and hurried away, leaving her sisters to discuss their visitors to their hearts’ content.
CHAPTER XIX.ARCHIE IS IN A BAD HUMOR.
“Oh, Archie, I was never more astonished in my life!” exclaimed Mattie, as she tried to adapt her uneven trot to her brother’s long swinging footsteps; and then she glanced up in his face to read his mood: but Archie’s features were inscrutable and presented an appalling blank. In his mind he was beginning his letter to Grace, and wondering what he should say to her about their new neighbors. “Writing is such a nuisance when one wants to talk to a person,” he thought, irritably.
“Oh, Archie, won’t you tell me what we are to do?” went on Mattie, excitedly. She would not take Archie’s silence as a hint that he wanted to keep his thoughts to himself. “Those140poor girls! oh, how nice and pretty they all are, especially the eldest! and is not the youngest—Dulce, I think they called her—the very image of Isabel?”
“Isabel! not a bit. That is so like you, Mattie. You always see likenesses when other people cannot trace the faintest resemblance,” for this remark was sure to draw out his opposition. Isabel was a silly flirting little thing in her brother’s estimation, and, he thought, could not hold a candle to the youngest Miss Challoner.
“Oh dear! now I have made you cross!” sighed poor Mattie, who especially wanted to keep him in good humor. “And yet every one but you thinks Isabel so pretty. I am sure, from what Grace said in her last letter, that Mr. Ellis Burton means to propose to her.”
“And I suppose you will all consider that a catch,” sneered Archie. “That is so like a parcel of women, thinking every man who comes to the house and makes a few smooth-tongued speeches—is, in fact, civil—must be after a girl. Of course you have all helped to instill this nonsense into the child’s head.”
“Dear me, how you talk, Archie!” returned Mattie, feeling herself snubbed as usual. Why, Archie had been quite excited about it only the other day, and had said quite seriously that with seven girls in a family, it would be a great blessing if Isabel could make such a match; for it was very unlikely that Laura and Susie, or even Clara, would do much for themselves in that way, unless they decidedly improved in looks.
“Well, it is nothing to me,” he returned in a chilling manner; “we all know our own mind best. If an angular lantern-jawed fellow like Burton, who, by the bye, does not speak the best English, is to Isabel’s taste, let her have him by all means: he is well-to-do, and I dare say will keep a carriage for her by and by: that is what you women think a great advantage,” finished Archie, who certainly seemed bent on making himself disagreeable.
Mattie heaved another great sigh, but she did not dare to contradict him. Grace would have punished him on the spot by a dose of satire that would have brought him to reason and good nature in a moment; but Mattie ventured only on those laborious sighs which she jerked up from the bottom of her honest little heart.
Archie heard the sigh, and felt ashamed of his bad temper. He did not know himself why he felt so suddenly cross; some secret irritation was at work within him, and he could scarcely refrain from bidding Mattie quite roughly to hold her tongue and not tease him with her chatter. If she expected him in his present state of mind, which was at once contradictory and aggressive, to talk to her about the Challoners, she must just make up her mind to be disappointed, for he could not bring himself to speak of them to her just now: he wanted to hold counsel with his own thoughts and with Grace. He would call at the141Friary again and see Mrs. Challoner, and find out more of this strange matter; but as to talking it over with Mattie, he quite shrugged his shoulders as he swung open the green door.
“Are you going in?” faltered Mattie, as she noticed this movement.
“Well, yes; I have letters to write, and it is too hot for a longer walk,” he returned, decidedly; and then, as Mattie stood hesitating and wistful in the middle of the road, he strode off, leaving the door to close noisily after him, and not caring to inquire into her further movements, such being the occasional graceless manners of brothers when sisterly friendship is not to their liking.
Mattie felt snubbed; but for the first time in her life, she did not take her snubbing meekly. It was too much to expect of her, who was only a woman and not one of Archie’s divinities, that she should follow him into the house and hold her tongue just because he was pleased to refrain from speaking. Water must find its vent; and Mattie’s tongue could not be silenced in this way. If Archie would not talk to her, Miss Middleton would: so at once she trotted off for Brooklyn, thereby incurring Archie’s wrath if he could only have known her purpose; for gossip was to him as the sin of witchcraft, unless he stooped to it himself, and then it was amiable sociability.
Miss Middleton was listening to her father’s reading as usual, but she welcomed Mattie with open arms, literally as well as metaphorically, for she kissed Mattie on either cheek, and then scolded her tenderly for looking so flushed and tired; “for somebody who is always looking after other people, and never has time to spare for herself, is growing quite thin; is she not, father? and we must write to Grace if this goes on,” finished Miss Middleton, with one of her kind looks.
All this was cordial to poor Mattie, who, though she was used to snubbing, and took as kindly to it as a spaniel to water, yet felt herself growing rather like a thread-paper and shabby with every-day worries and never an encouraging word to inspirit her.
So she gave Elizabeth a misty little smile,—Mattie’s smile was pretty, though her features were ordinary,—and then sat up straight and began to enjoy herself,—that is, to talk,—never noticing that Colonel Middleton looked at his paper in a crestfallen manner, not much liking the interruption and the cessation of his own voice.
“Oh, dear!” began Mattie: she generally prefaced her remarks by an “Oh, dear!” (“That was one of her jerky ways,” as Archie said.) “I could not help coming straight to you, for Archie would not talk, and I felt I must tell somebody. Oh, dear, Miss Middleton! What do you think? We have just called at the Friary—and––” but here Colonel Middleton’s countenance relaxed, and he dropped his paper.
“Those young ladies, eh? Come, Elizabeth, this is interesting.142Well, what sort of place is the Friary, seen from the inside, eh, Miss Drummond?”
“Oh, it is very nice,” returned Mattie, enthusiastically. “We were shown into such a pretty room, looking out on the garden. They have so many nice things,—pictures, and old china, and handsomely-bound books, and all arranged so tastefully. And before we went away, the old servant—she seems really quite a superior person—brought in an elegant little tea-tray: the cups and saucers were handsomer even than yours, Miss Middleton,—dark-purple and gold. Just what I admire so––”
“Ah, reduced in circumstances! I told you so, Elizabeth,” ejaculated the colonel.
“I never saw Archie enjoy himself so much or seem so thoroughly at home anywhere. Somehow, the girls put us so at our ease. Though they were hanging up curtains when we went in,—and any one else would have been annoyed at our intruding so soon,—actually, before we were in the room a moment, Archie was on the steps, helping the eldest Miss Challoner fasten the hooks.”
Miss Middleton exchanged an amused look with her father. Mattie’s narrative was decidedly interesting.
“Oh, don’t tell him I repeated that, for he is always calling me chatterbox!” implored Mattie, who feared she had been indiscreet, and that the colonel was not to be trusted, which was quite true as far as jokes were concerned. No one understood the art of teasing better than he, and the young vicar had already had a taste of his kindly satire. “Archie only meant to be good-natured and put every one at their ease.”
“Quite right. Mr. Drummond is always kind,” returned Elizabeth, benignly. She had forgotten Mattie’s frequent scoldings, and the poor little thing’s tired face, or she would never have hazarded such a compromise with truth. But somehow Elizabeth always forgot people’s weaknesses, especially when they were absent. It was so nice and easy to praise people; and if she always believed what she said, that was because her faith was so strong, and charity that is love was her second nature.
“Oh, yes, of course,” returned Mattie, innocently. She was far too loyal a little soul to doubt Archie’s kindness for a moment. Was he not the pride and ornament of the family,—the domestic pope who issued his bulls without possibility of contradiction? Whatever Archie did must be right. Was not that their domestic creed?—a little slavish, perhaps, but still so exquisitely feminine. Mattie was of opinion that—well, to use a mild term—irritability was a necessary adjunct of manhood. All men were cross sometimes. It behooved their womankind, then, to throw oil on the troubled waters,—to speak peaceably, and to refrain from sour looks, or even the shadow of a frown. Archie was never cross with Grace: therefore it must be she, Mattie, on whom the blame lay; she was such a silly little thing,143And so on. There is no need to follow the self-accusation of one of the kindest hearts that ever beat.
“Did not your visit end as pleasantly as it began?” asked Elizabeth, who, though she was over-merciful in her judgments, was not without a good deal of sagacity and shrewdness. Something lay beyond the margin of Mattie’s words, she could see that plainly; and then her father was getting impatient.
“Well, you see, that spoiled everything,” returned Mattie, jumbling her narrative in the oddest manner. “Archie was so sorry, and so was I; and he got quite—you know his way when he feels uncomfortable. I thought Miss Challoner was joking at first,—that it was just a bit of make-believe fun,—until I saw how grave Miss Phillis, that is the second one, looked: and then the little one—at least, she is not little, but somehow one fancies she is—seemed as though she were going to cry.”
“But what did Miss Challoner say to distress you and Mr. Drummond so?” asked Elizabeth, trying patiently to elicit facts and not vague statements from Mattie.
“Oh, she said—no, please don’t think I am exaggerating, for it is all true—that they had lost their money, and were very poor, and, that she and her sisters were dressmakers.”
“Dressmakers!” shouted the colonel, and his ruddy face grew almost purple with the shock: his very moustache seemed to bristle. “Dressmakers! my dear Miss Drummond, I don’t believe a word of it! Those girls! It is a hoax!—a bit of nonsense from beginning to end!”
“Hush, father! you are putting Mattie out,” returned Elizabeth, mildly. It was one of her idiosyncrasies to call people as soon as possible by their Christian names, though no one but her father and brother ever called her Elizabeth. Perhaps her gray hair, and a certain soft dignity that belonged to her, forbade such freedom. “Dear father, we must let Mattie speak.” But even Elizabeth let her work lie unheeded in her lap in the engrossing interest of the subject.
“I do not mean they have been dressmakers all this time, but this is their plan for the future. Miss Challoner said they were not clever enough for governesses, and that they did not want to separate. But that is what they mean to do,—to make dresses for people who are not half so good as themselves.”
“Preposterous! absurd!” groaned the colonel. “Where is their mother? What can the old lady be thinking about?” Mrs. Challoner was not an old lady by any means; but then the choleric colonel had never seen her, or he would not have applied that term to the aristocratic-looking gentlewoman whom Mattie had admired in Miss Milner’s shop.
“I had a good look round the room afterwards,” went on Mattie, letting this pass. “They had got a great carved wardrobe,—I thought that funny in a sitting-room; but of course it was for the dresses,”—another groan from the colonel,—“and144there was a sewing-machine, and a rosewood davenport for accounts, and a chiffonnier of course for the pieces. Oh, they mean business; and I should not be surprised if they understand their work well,” went on Mattie, warming up to her subject and thinking of the breadths of green silk that reposed so snugly between silver paper in her drawers at the vicarage,—the first silk dress she had ever owned, for the Drummond finances did not allow of such luxuries,—the new color, too; such a soft, invisible, shadowy green, like an autumn leaf shrivelled by the sun’s richness. “Oh, if they should spoil it!” thought Mattie, with a sigh, as the magnitude of her intended sacrifice weighed heavily upon her mind.
“It is sheer girlish nonsense,—I might say foolery; and the mother must be a perfect idiot!” began the colonel, angrily.
He was an excitable man; and his wrath at the intelligence was really very great. He had taken a fancy to the new-comers, and was prepared to welcome them heartily in his genial way; but now his old-fashioned prejudices were grievously wounded. It was against his nice code of honor that women should do anything out of the usual beaten groove: innovations that would make them conspicuous were heinous sins in his eyes.
“Come, Mattie, you and I will have a chat about this by ourselves,” observed Elizabeth, cheerfully, as she noticed her father’s vexation. He would soon cool down if left to himself: she knew that well. “Suppose we go down to Miss Milner, and hear what she has to say: you may depend upon it that it was this that made her so reserved with us the other day.”
“Oh, do you think so?” exclaimed Mattie; but she was charmed at the idea of fresh gossip. And then they set off together.
Miss Milner seemed a little surprised to see them so soon, for Mattie had already paid her a visit that day; but at Miss Middleton’s first words a look of annoyance passed over her good-natured face.
“Dear, dear! to think of that leaking out already,” she said, in a vexed voice; “and I have not spoken to a soul, because the young ladies asked me to keep their secret a few days longer. ‘You must give us till next Monday,’ one of them said this very morning: ‘by that time we shall be in order, and then we can set to work.’”
“It was Miss Challoner who told me herself,” observed Mattie, in a deprecating manner. “My brother and I called this afternoon: you see, being the clergyman, and such close neighbors, he thought we might be of some use to the poor things.”
“Poor things indeed!” ejaculated Miss Milner. “I cannot tell you how bad I felt,” she went on, her little gray curls bobbing over her high cheek-bones with every word, “when that dear young lady put down her head there”—pointing to a spot about as big as a half-crown on the wooden counter—“and cried145like a baby. ‘Oh, how silly I am!’ she said, sobbing-like; ‘and what would my sisters say to me? But you are so kind, Miss Milner; and it does seem all so strange and horrid.’ I made up my mind, then and there,” finished the good woman, solemnly, “that I would help them to the best of my powers. I have got their bits of advertisements to put about the shop; and there’s my new black silk dress, that has laid by since Christmas, because I knew Miss Slasher would spoil it; not but what they may ruin it finely for me; but I mean to shut my eyes and take the risk,” with a little smile of satisfaction over her own magnanimity.
Elizabeth stretched out her hand across the counter.
“Miss Milner, you are a good creature,” she said, softly. “I honor you for this. If people always helped each other and thought so little of a sacrifice, the world would be a happier place.” And then, without waiting for a reply from the gratified shopwoman, she went out of the library with a thoughtful brow.
“Miss Milner has read me a lesson,” she said, by and by, when Mattie had marvelled at her silence a little. “Conventionality makes cowards of the best of us. I am not particularly worldly-minded,” she went on, with a faint smile, “but all the same I must plead guilty to feeling a little shocked myself at your news; but when I have thought a little more about it, I dare say I shall see things by a truer light, and be as ready to admire these girls as I am now to wonder at them.” And after this she bade Mattie a kindly good-bye.
Meanwhile, Phillis was bracing herself to undergo another ordeal. Mr. Drummond and his sister had only just left the cottage when a footman from the White House brought a note for her. It was from Mrs. Cheyne, and was worded in a most friendly manner.
She thanked the sisters gracefully for their timely help on the previous evening, and, though making light of her accident, owned that it would keep her a prisoner to her sofa for a few days; and then she begged them to waive ceremony and come to her for an hour or two that evening.
“I will not ask you to dinner, because that will perhaps inconvenience you, as you must be tired or busy,” she wrote; “but if one or both of you would just put on your hats and walk up in the cool of the evening to keep Miss Mewlstone and myself company, it would be a real boon to us both.” And then she signed herself “Magdalene Cheyne.”
Phillis wore a perplexed look on her face as she took the note to Nan, who was still in the linen-closet.
“Very kind; very friendly,” commented Nan, when she had finished reading it; “but I could not possibly go, Phil. As soon as I have done this I have promised to sit with mother. She has been alone all day. You could easily send an excuse, for Mrs. Cheyne must know we are busy.”146
“I don’t feel as though an excuse will help us here,” returned Phillis, slowly. “When an unpleasant thing has to be done, it is as well to get it over: thinking about it only hinders one’s sleep.”
“But you will surely not go alone!” demanded Nan, in astonishment. “You are so tired, Phil: you have been working hard all day. Give it up, dear, and sit and rest in the garden a little.”
“Oh, no,” returned Phillis, disconsolately. “I value my night’s rest too much to imperil it so lightly: besides, I owe it to myself for a penance for being such a coward this afternoon.” And then, without waiting for any further dissuasion, she carried off the letter and wrote a very civil but vague reply, promising to walk up in the evening and inquire after the invalid; and then she dismissed the messenger, and went up to her room with a heavy heart.
Dulce came to help her, like a dutiful sister, and chattered on without intermission.
“I suppose you will put on your best dress?” she asked, as she dived down into the recesses of a big box.
Phillis, who was sitting wearily on the edge of her bed, roused up at this:
“My best blue silk and cashmere, that we wore last at Fitzroy Lodge? Dulce, how can you be so absurd! Anything will do,—the gray stuff, or the old foulard. No, stop; I forgot: the gray dress is better made and newer in cut. We must think of that. Oh, what a worry it is going out when one is tired to death!” she continued, with unusual irritation.
Dulce respected her sister’s mood, and held her peace, though she knew the gray dress was the least becoming to Phillis, who was pale, and wanted a little color to give her brightness.
“There, now, you look quite nice,” she said, in a patronizing voice, as Phillis put on her hat and took her gloves. Phillis nodded her thanks rather sadly, and then bethought herself and came back and kissed her.
“Thank you, dear Dulce; I am not nearly so tired now; but it is getting late, and I must run off.” And so she did until she had turned the corner, and then, in spite of herself, her steps became slower and more lagging.147