CHAPTER XX.“YOU ARE ROMANTIC.”
Human nature is prone to argument; a person will often in the course of a few moments bring himself or herself to the bar of conscience, and accuse, excuse, and sum up the case in the twinkling of an eye.
On arriving at the lodge-gates Phillis began to take herself to task. Conscience, that “makes cowards of us all,” began its small inner remonstrance; then followed self-flagellation and much belaboring of herself with many remorseful terms. She was a pitiful thing compared to Nan; she was conventional; there were no limits to her pride. Where were that freedom and nobility of soul which she once fancied would sweep over worldly prejudices, and carry her into purer air? She was still choking in the fogs of mere earthly exhalations; no wonder Nan was a little disappointed in her, though she was far too kind to say so. Well, she was disappointed in herself.
By this time she had reached the hall door; and now she began to hold up her head more boldly, and to look about her; when a very solemn-looking butler confronted her, she said to herself, “It will be all the same a hundred years hence, and I am determined this time not to be beaten;” and then she asked for Mrs. Cheyne with something of her old sprightliness, and nothing could exceed the graceful ease of her entrance.
All the Challoners walked well. There was a purity of health about them that made them delight in movement and every bodily exercise,—an elasticity of gait that somehow attracted attention.
No girls danced better than they. And when they had the chance, which was seldom, they could ride splendidly. Their skating was a joy to see, and made one wish that the ice would last forever, that one could watch such light, skimming practice; and as for tennis, no other girl had a chance of being chosen for a partner unless the Challoners good-naturedly held aloof, which ten times out of twelve they were sure to do.
Phillis, who, from her pale complexion, was supposed to possess the least vitality, delighted in exercise for its own sake. “It is a pleasure only to be alive and to know it,” was a favorite speech with her on summer mornings, when the shadows were blowing lightly hither and thither, and the birds had so much to say that it took them until evening to finish saying it.
Mrs. Cheyne, who was lying on her couch, watched with admiring eyes the girl’s straightforward walk, so alert and business-like, so free from fuss and consciousness, and held out148her hand with a more cordial welcome than she was accustomed to show her visitors.
It was a long room; and as the summer dusk was falling, and there was only a shaded lamp beside Mrs. Cheyne, it was full of dim corners. Nevertheless, Phillis piloted herself without hesitation to the illuminated circle.
“This is good of you, Miss Challoner, to take me at my word. But where is your sister? I wanted to look at her again, for it is long since I have seen any one so pretty. Miss Mewlstone, this is the good Samaritan who bound up my foot so cleverly.”
“Ah, just so,” returned Miss Mewlstone. And a soft, plump hand touched Phillis’s, and then she went on picking up stitches and taking no further notice.
“Nan could not come,” observed Phillis. “She had to run down to Beach House to report progress to mother. We hope she is coming home to-morrow. But, as you were so kind as to write, I thought I would just call and inquire about your foot. And then it would be easier to explain things than to write about it.”
“Oh! so your mother is coming home!” returned Mrs. Cheyne, with so much interest in her voice that Miss Mewlstone left off counting to look at her. (“Just so, just so,” Phillis heard her mutter.) “You must have worked hard to get ready for her so soon. When my foot will allow me to cross a room without hobbling, I will do myself the pleasure of calling on her. But that will be neither this week nor the next, I am afraid. But I shall see a good deal of you and your sister before then,” she concluded, with the graciousness of one who knows she is conferring an unusual honor.
“I do not know,” faltered Phillis. And then she sat upright, and looked her hostess full in the face. “That will be for you to decide when you hear what I have to say. But I fear”—with a very poor attempt at a smile—“that we shall see very little of each other in the future.”
“Oh, there is a mystery, is there?” returned Mrs. Cheyne, with a little scorn in her manner; and her mouth took one of the downward curves that Mr. Drummond so thoroughly disliked. She had taken an odd fancy to these girls, especially to Phillis, and had thought about them a good deal during a sleepless, uneasy night. Their simplicity, their straightforward unconsciousness, had attracted her in spite of her cynicism. But at the first suspicion of mystery she withdrew into herself rather haughtily. “Do speak out, I beg, Miss Challoner; for if there be one thing that makes me impatient, it is to have anything implied.”
“I am quite of your opinion,” replied Phillis, with equal haughtiness, only it sat more strangely on her girlishness. “That is why I am here to-night,—just to inquire after your foot and explain things.”
“Well?” still more impatiently, for this woman was a spoiled149child, and hated to be thwarted, and was undisciplined and imperious enough to ruin all her own chances of happiness.
“I told you that we were very poor,” went on Phillis, in a sweet and steady voice; “but that did not seem to impress you much, and I thought how noble that was,”—catching her breath an instant; “but it will make a difference and shock you dreadfully, as it did Mr. Drummond, when I tell you we are dressmakers,—Nan and Dulce and I: at least that will be our future occupation.”
“Ah, just so!” ejaculated Miss Mewlstone; but she said it with her lips far apart, and a mistiness came into her sleepy blue eyes. Perhaps, though she was stout and middle-aged and breathed a little too heavily at times, she remembered—long ago when she was young and poor and had to wage a bitter war with the world—when she ate the dry bread and drank the bitter water of dependence and felt herself ill nourished by such unpalatable sustenance. “Oh, just so, poor thing!” And a little round tear dripped on to the ball of scarlet fleecy wool.
But Mrs. Cheyne listened to the announcement in far different mood. There was an incredulous stare at Phillis, as though she suspected her of a joke; and then she laughed, a dry, harsh laugh, that was not quite pleasant to hear.
“Oh, this is droll, passing droll!” she said, and leaned back on her cushions, and drew her Indian cashmere round her and frowned a little.
“I am glad you find it so,” returned Phillis, who was nonplussed at this, and did not know what to say, and was a little angry in consequence; and then she got up from her chair with a demonstration of spirit. “I am glad you find it so; but to us it is sad earnestness!”
“What! are you going?” asked Mrs. Cheyne, with a keen glance through her half-shut eyes at poor Phillis standing so tall and straight before her. “And you have not told me the reason for taking so strange a step!”
“The reason lies in our poverty and paucity of resources,” was Phillis’s curt reply.
“It is not to make a sensation, then? no, I did not mean that,” as Phillis shot an indignant glance at her,—“not exactly; but there is no knowing what the emancipated girl will do. Of course I have no right to question, who was a stranger to you four-and-twenty hours ago, and had never heard the name of Challoner, except that it was a good and an old name; but when one sees young things like you about to forfeit caste and build up a barrier between yourselves and your equals that the bravest will fear to pass, it seems as though one must lift up one’s voice in protest.”
“Thank you; but it will be of no use,” returned Phillis, coldly.
“You are determined to make other people’s dresses?” And here her lip curled a little, perhaps involuntarily.150
“We must must make dresses or starve; for our fingers are cleverer than our brains,” replied Phillis, defiantly; for she knew nothing about it, and her powers were so immature and unfledged that she had never tried her wings, and had no notion whether she could fly or not, and yet no girl had a clearer head. “We have chosen work that we know we can do well, and we mean not to be ashamed of our occupation. In the old days ladies used to spin and weave, and no one blamed them, though they were noble; and if my work will bring me money, and keep the mother comfortable, I see nothing that will prevent my doing it.”
“Ah, you are romantic, Miss Challoner; you will soon be taught matter-of-fact!”
“I am willing to learn anything, but I must choose my teachers,” retorted Phillis, with a little heat, for the word “romantic,” and the satirical droop of Mrs. Cheyne’s lip made her decidedly cross. “But I must not detain you any more with our uninteresting affairs,” dropping a little courtesy, half in pique and half in mockery, for her spirits were rising under this rough treatment.
“It is far from uninteresting; I have not heard anything so exciting for a long time. Well, perhaps you had better go before I say anything very rude, for I am terribly outspoken, and I think you are all silly self-willed young people.” Then, as Phillis bridled her neck like an untamed colt, she caught hold of the girl’s dress to detain her, and the sharpness passed out of her eyes. “Now, don’t go away and believe that I think any worse of you for telling me this. I am a cross-grained body, and contradiction makes me worse. I don’t know how I shall act: I must have time to consider this extraordinary bit of news. But all the same, whatever I do, whether I know you or do not know you, I shall always think you the very bravest girl I ever saw.” And then she let her go, and Phillis, with her head in the air and her thoughts all topsy-turvy, marched out of the room.
But when she reached the end of the corridor there was a soft but distinctly audible breathing behind her, and, as in Mr. Drummond’s case Miss Mewlstone’s shadowy gray gown swept between her and the door.
“Miss Mewlstone, how you startled me! but the carpets are so soft and thick!”
“Yes, indeed! just so, my dear; but Phillips must be asleep as he does not answer the bell, and so I thought I would let you out. You are young to walk alone: shall I throw a shawl over my cap, and walk down the road with you?”
“Not for worlds, my dear Miss Mewlstone;” but Phillis was quite touched at this unexpected kindness. Miss Mewlstone did not look sleepy now; her small blue eyes were wide open, and her round placid face wore a most kindly expression, and there was a tremulous movement of her hands, as though they151were feeling after something. “It is only such a little bit of road; and though the trees make it dark, I am not the least afraid of going alone.”
“Ah! just so. When we are young, we are brave; it is the old who are afraid of the grasshopper. I like your spirit, my dear; and so does she, though she is a little taken aback and disappointed; but anything that interests and rouses her is welcome. Even this may do her good; for it will give her something to think about besides her own troubles.”
“I have heard of her troubles––” began Phillis; but a moving door arrested Miss Mewlstone’s attention, and she interrupted her hurriedly:
“Ah! there is Phillips at last. Just so; you shall hear from me again. It is a gray satin,—one of her presents,—but I have never had it made up; for what is the use, when we keep no company?” went on Miss Mewlstone incoherently. “Oh! is that you, Phillips? Please go with this young lady to the lodge-gate.—You shall make it after your own fashion,” she whispered in Phillis’s ear; “and I am not as particular as other people. There is Magdalene now. Ah! just so. Good-night, my dear; and mind the scraper by the gate.”
Phillis was almost sorry when the obsequious Phillips left her; for the road certainly looked terribly dark. There was no moon, and the stars chose to be invisible; and there was a hot thundery feeling in the air that suggested a storm. And she moved aside with a slight sensation of uneasiness—not fear, of course not fear—as a tall, gloomy-looking figure bore swiftly down on her; for, even if a girl be ever so brave, a very tall man walking fast on a dark night with a slouching hat like a conspirator’s is rather a terrifying object; and how could she know that it was only Archie Drummond in his old garden-hat, taking a constitutional?
But he brought himself up in front of her with a sudden jerk.
“Miss Challoner!—alone at this time of night!”
“Why, it is not ten; and I could not wait for Dorothy to fetch me,” returned Phillis, bound to defend herself, and quite palpitating with relief; not that she was afraid—not a bit of it!—but still, Mr. Drummond’s presence was very welcome.
“I suppose I shall do as well as Dorothy?” he returned veering round with the greatest ease, just as though he were Dick, and bound to escort a Challoner. “Challoners’ Squire,”—that was Dick’s name among people.
“Oh poor Dick!” thought Phillis, with a sudden rush of tenderness for her old playmate; and then she said, demurely but with a spice of malice,—
“Thank you, Mr. Drummond. The road is so gloomy that I shall be glad of your escort this evening, but we shall have to do without that sort of thing now, for our business may often bring us out after dark, and we must learn not to be too particular.”152
“Oh, this must not be!” he returned, decidedly; and, though it was too dark to see his face, she knew by his voice that he was dreadfully shocked. “I must see your mother and talk to her about this; for it would never do for you to run such risks. I could not allow it for a moment; and as your clergyman”—coming down from his high horse, and stammering a little,—“I have surely—surely a right––” But Phillis snapped him up in a moment, and pretty sharply too, for she had no notion of a young man giving himself airs and torturing her.
“Oh, no right at all!” she assured him: “clergymen could only rebuke evil-doers, to which class she and her sisters did not belong, thank heaven!” to which Mr. Drummond devoutly said an “amen.” “And would he please tell her if dressmakers were always met two and two, like the animals in the ark? and how would it sound when she or Nan had been fitting on a dress, on a winter’s evening, if they were to refuse to leave the house until Dorothy fetched them? and how––” But here Mr. Drummond checked her, and the darkness hid his smile.
“Now you are beyond me, Miss Challoner. In a matter of detail, a man, even a parson, is often at fault. Is there no other way of managing this odious business? Forgive me; the word slipped out by accident! Could you not do the fitting, or whatever you call it, by daylight, and stay at home quietly in the evening like other young ladies?”
“Of course not,” returned Phillis, promptly. She had not the least idea why it could not be done; indeed, if she had been perfectly cool—which she was not, for Mrs. Cheyne had decidedly stroked her the wrong way and ruffled her past endurance—she would have appreciated the temperate counsel vouchsafed her, and acquiesced in it without a murmur; but now she seemed bent on contradiction.
“Our opinions seem to clash to-night,” returned Mr. Drummond, good-humoredly, but feeling that the young lady beside him had decidedly a will of her own. “She is very nice, but she is not as gentle as her sister,” he said to himself; which was hard on Phillis, who, though she was not meek, being a girl of spirit, was wholesomely sweet and sound to the heart’s core.
“One may be supposed to know one’s business best,” she replied rather dryly to this. And then, fearing that she might seem ungracious to a stranger, who did not know her and her little ways, she went on in a more cordial tone: “I am afraid you think me a little cross to-night; but I have been having a stand-up fight, and am rather tired. Trying to battle against other people’s prejudices makes one irritable. And then, because I am down and out of heart about things, our clergyman thinks fit to lecture me on propriety.”
“Only for your good. You must forgive me if I have taken too much upon myself,” returned Mr. Drummond, with much compunction. “You seem so lonely,—no father or brother; at least—pardon me—I believe you have no brother?”153
“Oh, no; we have no brother,” sighed Phillis. Their acquaintance was in too early a stage to warrant her in bringing in Dick’s name. Besides, that sort of heterogeneous relationship is so easily misconstrued. And then she added, “I see. You meant to be very kind, and I was very ungrateful.”
“I only wish I could find some way of helping you all,” was his reply to this. But it was said with such frank kindness that Phillis’s brief haughtiness vanished. They were standing at the gate of the Friary by this time; but Mr. Drummond still lingered. It was Phillis who dismissed him.
“Good-night, and many thanks,” she said, brightly. “It is too late to ask you in, for you see, even dressmakers have their notions of propriety.” And as she uttered this malicious little speech, the young man broke into a laugh that was heard by Dorothy in her little kitchen.
“Oh, that is too bad of you, Miss Challoner,” he said, as soon as he recovered himself; but, nevertheless, he liked the girl better for her little joke.
Mr. Drummond’s constitutional had lasted so long that Mattie grew quite frightened, and came down in her drab dressing-gown to wait for him. It was not a becoming costume, but it was warm and comfortable; but then Mattie never considered what became her. If any one had admired her, or cared how she looked or what she wore, or had taken an interest in her for her own sake, she would doubtless have developed an honest liking for pretty things. But what did it matter under the present circumstances? Mr. Drummond was lighting his chamber candle when Mattie rushed out on him,—a grotesque little figure, all capes and frills.
“Oh, Archie, how you frightened me! Where have you been?”
Archie shrugged his shoulders at this.
“I am not aware, Matilda,”—for in severe moods he would call her by her full name, a thing she especially disliked from him,—“I did not know before that I was accountable to you for my actions. Neither am I particularly obliged to you for spying upon me in this way.” For the sight of Mattie at this time of night was peculiarly distasteful. Why was he to be watched in his own house?
“Oh, dear, Archie! How can you say such things? Spy on you, indeed! when there is a storm coming up, and I was so anxious.”
“I am very much obliged to you,” returned Archie, ironically; “but, as you see I am safe, don’t you think you had better take off that thing”—pointing to the obnoxious garment—“and go to bed?” And such was his tone that poor Mattie fled without a word, and cried a little in her dark room, because Archie would not be kind to her and let her love him, but was always finding fault with one trifle or other. To-night it was her poor old dressing-gown, which had been her mother’s, and had been154considered good enough for Mattie. And then he had called her a spy. And here she gave a sob that caught Archie’s ears as he passed her door.
“Good-night, you little goose!” he called out, for the sound made him uncomfortable; and though the words were contemptuous, the voice was not, and Mattie at once dried her eyes and was comforted.
But before Archie went to sleep that night he made up his mind that it was his duty as a clergyman and a Christian to look over Phillis’s wilfulness, and to befriend to the utmost of his power the strangers, widow and fatherless, that Providence had placed at his very gates.
“They are so very lonely, poor things!” he said to himself; “not a man about them. By the bye, I noticed she did not wear an engagement-ring.” But which was the “she” he meant, was an enigma known only to himself. “Not a man about them!” he repeated, in a satisfied manner, for as yet the name of Dick had not sounded in his ear.
CHAPTER XXI.BREAKING THE PEACE.
Nan went to Beach House to fetch her mother home, escorted by Laddie, who was growing a most rollicking and friendly little animal, and a great consolation to his mistress, whom he loved with all his doggish heart.
They all three came back in an old fly belonging to their late host, and found Phillis waiting for them on the door-step, who made her mother the following little speech:
“Now, mammie, you are to kiss us, and tell us what good industrious girls we have been; and then you are to shut your eyes and look at nothing, and then sit down in your old arm-chair, and try and make the best of everything.”
“Welcome home, dearest mother,” said Nan, softly kissing her. “Home is home, however poor it may be; and thank God for it,” finished the girl, reverently.
“Oh, my darlings!” exclaimed the poor mother; and then she cried a little, and Dulce came up and put a rose-bud in her hand; and Dorothy executed an old-fashioned courtsey, and hoped that her mistress and the dear young ladies would try and make themselves as happy as possible.
“Happy, you silly old Dorothy! of course we mean to be as busy as bees, and as frolicsome as kittens!” returned Phillis, who had recovered her old sprightliness, and was ready to-day for a dozen Mrs. Cheynes and all the clergy of the diocese. “Now,155mammie, you are only to peep into this room: this is our work-room, and those are the curtains Mr. Drummond was kind enough to hang. In old days,” continued Phillis, with mock solemnity, “the parson would have pronounced a benediction; but the modern Anglican performs another function, and with much gravity ascends the steps, and hooks up the curtains of the new-comers.”
“Oh, Phillis, how can you be so absurd! I am sure it was very good-natured of him. Come, mother, dear, we will not stand here listening to her nonsense.” And Nan drew the mother to the parlor.
It was a very small room, but still snug and comfortable, and full of pretty things. Tea was laid on the little round table that would hardly hold five, as Nan once observed, thinking of Dick; and the evening’s sunshine was stealing in, but not too obtrusively. Mrs. Challoner tried not to think it dull, and endeavored to say a word of praise at the arrangements Dulce pointed out to her; but the thought of Glen Cottage, and her pretty drawing-room, and the veranda with its climbing roses, and the shady lawn with the seat under the acacia-trees, almost overpowered her. That they should come to this! That they should be sitting in this mean little parlor, where there was hardly room to move, looking out at the little strip of grass, and the medlar-tree, and the empty greenhouse! Nan saw her mother’s lip quiver, and adroitly turned the subject to their neighbors. She had so much to say about Mr. Drummond and his sister that Mrs. Challoner grew quite interested; nevertheless, it was a surprise even to Nan when Dorothy presently opened the door, and Mr. Drummond coolly walked in with a magnificent basket of roses in his hand.
Nan gravely introduced him to her mother, and the young man accosted her; but there was a little surprise on his face. He had taken it into his head that Mrs. Challoner would be a far older-looking and more homely person; but the stately-looking woman before him might have been an older and faded edition of Nan. Somehow, her appearance confused him; and he commenced with an apology for his intrusion:
“I ought not to have been so unceremonious. I am afraid, as you have just arrived, my visit will seem an intrusion; but my sister thought you would like some of our roses,”—he had obliged poor Mattie to say so,—“and, as we had cut some fine ones, we thought you ought to have them while they are fresh.”
“Thank you; this is very kind and neighborly,” returned Mrs. Challoner; but, though her tone was perfectly civil, Nan thought her manner a little cold, and hastened to interpose with a few glowing words of admiration.
“The roses were lovely; they were finer than those at Longmead, or even at Fitzroy Lodge, though Lady Fitzroy prided herself on her roses.” Archie pricked up his ears at this156latter name, which escaped quite involuntarily from Nan. “And was it not good of Miss Drummond to spare them so many, and of Mr. Drummond to carry them?” all of which Nan said with a sweet graciousness that healed the young man’s embarrassment in a moment.
“Yes, indeed!” echoed Mrs. Challoner, obedient, as usual, to her daughter’s lead. “And you must thank your sister, Mr. Drummond, and tell her how fond my girls are of flowers.” But, though Mrs. Challoner said this, the roses were not without thorns for her. Why had not Miss Drummond brought them herself? She was pleased indeed that, under existing circumstances, any one should be civil to her girls; but was there not a little patronage intended? She was not quite sure that she rejoiced in having such neighbors. Mr. Drummond was nice and gentlemanly, but he was far too young and handsome for an unmarried clergyman; at least, that was her old-fashioned opinion; and when one has three very good-looking daughters, and dreads the idea of losing one, one may be pardoned for distrusting even a basket of roses.
If Mr. Drummond perceived her slight coldness, he seemed quite determined to overcome it. He took small notice of Nan, who busied herself at once arranging the flowers under his eyes; even Phillis, who looked good and demure this evening, failed to obtain a word. He talked almost exclusively to Mrs. Challoner, plying her with artful questions about their old home, which he now learned was at Oldfield, and gaining scraps of information that enabled him to obtain a pretty clear insight into their present circumstances.
Mrs. Challoner, who was a soft hearted woman, was not proof against so much sympathy. She perceived that Mr. Drummond was sorry for them, and she began to warm a little towards him. His manner was so respectful, his words so discreet; and then he behaved so nicely, taking no notice of the girls, though Nan was looking so pretty, but just talking to her in a grave responsible way, as though he were a gray-haired man of sixty.
Phillis was not quite sure she approved of it: in the old days she had never been so excluded from conversation: she would have liked a word now and then. But Nan sat by quite contented: it pleased her to see her mother roused and interested.
When Mr. Drummond took his leave, she accompanied him to the door, and thanked him quite warmly.
“You have done her so much good, for this first evening is such a trial to her, poor thing!” said Nan, lifting her lovely eyes to the young man’s face.
“I am so glad! I will come again,” he said, rather incoherently. And as he went out of the green door he told himself that it was his clear duty to befriend this interesting family. He ought to have gone home and written to Grace, for it was long past the time when she always expected to hear from him. But the last day or two he had rather shirked this duty. It157would be difficult to explain to Grace. She might be rather shocked, for she was a little prim in such things, being her mother’s daughter. He thought he would ask Mattie to tell her about the Challoners, and that he was busy and would write soon; and when he had made up his mind to this, he went down to the sea-shore and amused himself by sitting on a breakwater and staring at the fishing-smacks,—which of course showed how very busy he was.
“I think I shall like Mr. Drummond,” observed Mrs. Challoner, in a tolerant tone, when Nan had accompanied the young vicar to the door. “He seems an earnest, good sort of young man.”
“Yes, mammie dear. And I am sure he has fallen in love with you,” returned Phillis, naughtily, “for he talked to no one else. And you are so young-looking and pretty that of course no one could be surprised if he did.” But though Mrs. Challoner said, “Oh, Phillis!” and looked dreadfully shocked in a proper matronly way, what was the use of that, when the mischievous girl burst out laughing in her face?
But the interruption had done them all good, and the evening passed less heavily than they had dared to hope. And when Mrs. Challoner complained of fatigue and retired early, escorted by Dorothy, who was dying for a chat with her mistress, the three girls went out in the garden, and walked, after their old fashion, arm in arm up and down the lawn, with Nan in the middle; though Dulce pouted and pretended that the lawn was too narrow, and that Phillis was pushing her on the gravel path.
Their mother’s window was open, and they could have heard snatches of Dorothy’s conversation if they had chosen to listen. Dulce stood still a moment, and wafted a little kiss towards her mother’s room.
“Dear old mamsie! She has been very good this evening, has she not, Nan? She has only cried the least wee bit, when you kissed her.”
“Yes, indeed. And somebody else has been good too. What do you say, Phillis? Has not Dulce been the best child possible?”
“Oh, Nan, I should be ashamed to be otherwise,” returned Dulce, in such an earnest manner that it made her sisters laugh, “Do you think I could see you both so good and cheerful, making the best of things, and never complaining, even when the tears are in your eyes,—as yours are often, Nan, when you think no one is looking,—and not try and copy your example? I am dreadfully proud of you both,—that is what I am,” continued the warm-hearted girl. “I never knew before what was in my sisters. And now I feel as though I want the whole world to come and admire my Phillis and Nan!”
“Little flatterer!” but Nan squeezed Dulce’s arm affectionately. And Phillis said, in a joking tone,—158
“Ah, it was not half so bad. This evening there was mother looking so dear and pretty: and there were you girls; and, though the nest is small, it feels warm and cosy. And if we could only forget Glen Cottage, and leave off missing the old faces, which I never shall—” (“Nor I,” echoed Nan, with a deep sigh, fetched from somewhere)—“and root ourselves afresh, we should contrive not to be unhappy.”
“I think it is our duty to cultivate cheerfulness,” added Nan, seriously; and after this they fell to a discussion on ways and means. As usual, Phillis was chief spokeswoman, but to Nan belonged the privilege of the casting vote.
The next few days were weary ones to Mrs. Challoner: there was still much to be done before the Friary could be pronounced in order. The girls spent most of the daylight hours unpacking boxes, sorting and arranging their treasures, and, if the truth must be told, helping Dorothy to polish furniture and wash glass and china.
Mrs. Challoner, who was not strong enough for these household labors, found herself condemned to hem new dusters and mend old table-linen, to the tune of her own sad thoughts. Mr. Drummond found her sorting a little heap on the parlor table when he dropped in casually one morning,—this time with some very fine cherries that his sister thought Mrs. Challoner would enjoy.
When Mr. Drummond began his little speech he could have sworn that there were tears on the poor lady’s cheeks; but when he had finished she looked up at him with a smile, and thanked him warmly, and then they had quite a nice chat together.
Mr. Drummond’s visit was quite a godsend, she told him, for her girls were busy and had no time to talk to her; and “one’s thoughts are not always pleasant companions,” she added, with a sigh. And Mr. Drummond, who had caught sight of the tears, was at once sympathetic, and expressed himself in such feeling terms—for he was more at ease in the girls’ absence—that Mrs. Challoner opened out in the most confiding way, and told him a great deal that he had been anxious to learn.
But she soon found out, to her dismay, that he disapproved of her girls’ plans; for he told her so at once, and in the coolest manner. The opportunity for airing his views on the subject was far too good to be lost. Mrs. Challoner was alone; she was in a low, dejected mood; the rulers of the household were gathered in an upper chamber. What would Phillis have said, as she warbled a rather flat accompaniment to Nan’s “Bonnie Dundee,” which she was singing to keep up their spirits over a piece of hard work, if she had known that Mr. Drummond was at that moment in possession of her mother’s ear?
“Oh, Mr. Drummond, this is very sad, if every one should think as you do about my poor girls! and Phillis does so object to being called romantic;” for he had hinted in a gentlemanly159way that he thought the whole scheme was crude and girlish and quixotic to a degree.
“I hope you will not tell her, then,” returned Mr. Drummond in a soothing tone, for Mrs. Challoner was beginning to look agitated. “I am afraid nothing I say will induce Miss Challoner to give up her pet scheme; but I felt, as your clergyman, it was my duty to let you know my opinion.” And here Archie looked so very solemn that Mrs. Challoner, being a weak woman, and apt to overvalue the least expression of masculine opinion, grew more and more alarmed.
“Oh, yes!” she faltered; “it is very good—very nice of you to tell me this.” Phillis would have laughed in his face and Mrs. Cheyne would have found something to say about his youth; but in Mrs. Challoner’s eyes, though she was an older woman, Archie’s solemnity and Oriental beard carried tremendous weight with them. He might be young, nevertheless she was bound to listen meekly to him, and to respect his counsel as one who had a certain authority over her. “Oh, you are very good! and if only my girls had not made up their minds so quickly! but now what can I do but feel very uncomfortable after you have told me this?”
“Oh, as to that, there is always time for everything; it is never too late to mend,” returned Mr. Drummond, tritely. “I meant from the first to tell you what I thought, if I should ever have an opportunity of speaking to you alone. You see, we Oxford men have our own notions about things: we do not always go with the tide. If your daughters—” here he hesitated and grew red, for he was a modest, honest young fellow in the main—“pardon me, but I am only proposing an hypothesis—if they wanted to make a sensation and get themselves talked about, no doubt they would achieve a success, for the novelty––” But here he stopped, reduced to silence by the shocked expression of Mrs. Challoner’s face.
“Mr. Drummond! my girls—make a sensation—be talked about?” she gasped; and all the spirit of her virtuous matronhood, and all the instinctive feeling that years of culture and ingrained refinement of nature had engendered, shone in her eyes. Her Nan and Phillis and Dulce to draw this on themselves!
Now, at this unlucky moment, when the maternal fires were all alight, who should enter but Phillis, wanting “pins, and dozens of them,—quickly, please,” and still warbling flatly that refrain of “Bonnie Dundee!”
“Oh, Phillis! Oh, my darling child!” cried Mrs. Challoner, quite hysterically; “do you know what your clergyman says? and if he should say such things, what will be the world’s opinion? No, Mr. Drummond, I did not mean to be angry. Of course you are telling us this for our good; but I do not know when I have been so shocked.”
“Why, what is this?” demanded Phillis, calmly; but she160fixed her eyes on the unlucky clergyman, who began to wish that that last speech had not been uttered.
“He says it is to make a sensation—to be talked about—that you are going to do this,” gasped Mrs. Challoner, who was far too much upset to weigh words truly.
“What!” Phillis only uttered that very unmeaning monosyllable: nevertheless, Archie jumped from his seat as though he had been shot.
“Mrs. Challoner, really this is too bad! No, you must allow me to explain,” as Phillis turned aside with a curling lip, as though she would leave them. He actually went between her and the door, as though he meant to prevent her egress forcibly. There is no knowing to what lengths he would have gone in his sudden agitation. “Only wait a moment, until I explain myself. Your mother has misunderstood me altogether. Never has such a thought entered my mind!”
“Oh,” observed Phillis. But now she stood still and began to collect her pins out of her mother’s basket. “Perhaps, as this is rather unpleasant, you will have the kindness to tell me what it was you said to my mother?” And she spoke like a young princess who had just received an insult.
“I desire nothing more,” returned Archie, determined to defend himself at all costs. “I had been speaking to Mrs. Challoner about all this unfortunate business. She was good enough to repose confidence in me, and, as your clergyman, I felt myself bound to tell her exactly my opinions on the subject.”
“I do not quite see the necessity; but no doubt you know best,” was Phillis’s somewhat sarcastic answer.
“At least, I did it for the best,” returned the young man, humbly. “I pointed out things to Mrs. Challoner, as I told you I should. I warned her what the world would say,—that it would regard your plan as very singular and perhaps quixotic. Surely there is nothing in this to offend you?”
“You have not touched on the worst part of all,” returned Phillis, with a little disdain in her voice. “About making a sensation, I mean.”
“There it was that your mother so entirely misunderstood. What I said was this: If this dressmaking scheme were undertaken just to make a sensation, it would of course, achieve success, for I thought the novelty might take. And then I added that I was merely stating an hypothesis by way of argument, and then Mrs. Challoner looked shocked, and you came in.”
“Is that all?” asked Phillis, coming down from her stilts at once, for she knew of old how her mother would confuse things sometimes; and, if this were the truth, she, Phillis, had been rather too hard on him.
“Yes. Do you see now any necessity for quarrelling with me?” returned Mr. Drummond, breathing a little more freely161as the frown lessened on Phillis’s face. He wanted to be friends with these girls, not to turn them against him.
“Well, no, I believe not,” she answered, quite gravely. “And I am sure I beg your pardon if I was rude.” But this Archie would not allow for a moment.
“But, Mr. Drummond, one word before peace is quite restored,” went on Phillis, with something of her old archness, “or else I will fetch my sisters, and you will have three of us against you.”
“Oh, do, Phillis, my dear,” interrupted her mother; “let them come and hear what Mr. Drummond thinks.”
“Mammy, how dare you!—how dare you be so contumacious, after all the trouble we have taken to set your dear fidgety mind at rest? Just look what you have done, Mr. Drummond,” turning upon him. “Now I am not going to forgive you, and we will not trust the mother out of our sight, unless you promise not to say this sort of thing to her when we are not here to answer them.”
“But, Miss Challoner, my pastoral conscience!” but his eyes twinkled a little.
“Oh, never mind that!” she retorted, mischievously. “I will give you leave to lecture us collectively, but not individually: that must not be thought about for a moment.” She had not a notion what the queer expression on Mr. Drummond’s face meant, and he did not know himself; but he had the strongest desire to laugh at this.
They parted after this the best of friends; and Phillis tasted the cherries, and pronounced them very good.
“You have quite forgiven me?” Mr. Drummond said, as she accompanied him to the door before rejoining her sisters. “You know I have promised not to do it again until the next time.”
“Oh, we shall see about that!” returned Phillis, good-humoredly. “Forewarned is forearmed; and there is a triple alliance against you.”
“Good heavens, what mockery it seems! I never saw such girls,—never!” thought Mr. Drummond, as he took long strides down the road. “But Mattie is right: they mean business, and nothing in the world would change that girl’s determination if she had set herself to carry a thing out. I never knew a stronger will!” And in this he was tolerably right.
162CHAPTER XXII.“TRIMMINGS, NOT SQUAILS.”
The longest week must have an end; and so at last the eventful Monday morning arrived,—“Black Monday,” as Dulce called it, and then sighed as she looked out on the sunshine and the waving trees, and thought how delicious a long walk or a game of tennis would be, instead of stitch, stitch, stitching all day. But Dulce was an unselfish little soul, and kept all these thoughts to herself, and dressed herself quickly; for she had overslept herself, and Phillis had long been downstairs.
Nan was locking up the tea-caddy as she entered the parlor, and Phillis was standing by the table, drawing on her gloves, and her lips were twitching a little,—a way they had when Phillis was nervous.
Nan went up and kissed her, and gave her an encouraging pat.
“This is for luck, my dear; and mind you make the best of poor Miss Milner’s dumpy, roundabout little figure. There I have put the body-lining, and the measuring-tape, and a paper of pins in this little black bag; and I have not forgotten the scissors,—oh, dear, no! I have not forgotten the scissors,” went on Nan, with such surprising cheerfulness that Phillis saw through it, and was down on her in a moment.
“No, Nan; there! I declare I will not be such a goose. I am not nervous,—not one bit; it is pure fun, that’s what it is. Dulce, what a naughty child you are to oversleep yourself this morning, and I had not the heart to wake you, you looked so like a baby: and we never wake babies because they are sure to squall!”
“Oh, Phil, are you going to Miss Milner’s? I would have walked with you if I had had my breakfast; but I am so hungry.”
“I could not possibly wait,” returned Phillis; “punctuality is one of the first duties of—hem!—dressmakers; all orders executed promptly, and promises performed with undeviating regularity: those are my maxims. Eat a good breakfast, and then see if mammy wants any help, for Nan must be ready for me at the work-table, for she is our head cutter-out.” And then Phillis nodded briskly, and walked away.
By a singular chance, Mr. Drummond was watering his ferns in the front court as Phillis passed, and in spite of her reluctance, for somehow he was the last person she wanted to encounter that day, she was obliged to wish him good-morning.
“Good-morning! Yes, indeed, it is a glorious morning,”163observed Archie, brightly. “And may I ask where you are going so early?”
“Only to the Library,” returned Phillis, laconically; but the color mounted to her forehead. “We begin business to-day.”
And then Archie took up his watering-pot and refrained from any more questions. It was absurd, perhaps, but at the moment he had forgotten, and the remembrance was not pleasing.
Phillis felt quite brave after this, and walked into the Library as though the place belonged to her. When it came to details, Miss Milner was far more nervous than she.
She would keep apologizing to Phillis for making her stand so long, and she wanted to hold the pins and to pick up the scissors that Phillis had dropped; and when the young dressmaker consulted her about the trimmings, she was far too humble to intrude her opinions.
“Anything you think best, Miss Challoner, for you have such beautiful taste as never was seen; and I am sure the way you have fitted that body-lining is just wonderful, and would be a lesson to Miss Slasher for life. No, don’t put the pins in your mouth, there’s a dear.”
For, in her intense zeal, Phillis had thought herself bound to follow the manner of Mrs. Sloper, the village factotum, and she always did so, though Nan afterwards assured her that it was not necessary, and that in this particular they might be allowed to deviate from example.
But she was quite proud of herself when she had finished, for the material seemed to mould under her fingers in the most marvellous way, and she knew the fit would be perfect. She wanted to rush off at once and set to work with Nan; but Miss Milner would not let her off so easily. There was orange wine and seed-cake of her own making in the back parlor, and she had just one question—a very little question—to ask. And here Miss Milner coughed a little behind her hand to gain time and recover her courage.
“The little papers were about the shop, and Mrs. Trimmings saw one, and—and––” Here Phillis came promptly to her relief.
“And Mrs. Trimmings wants to order a dress, does she?” And Phillis bravely kept down the sudden sinking of heart at the news.
Mrs. Trimmings was the butcher’s wife,—the sister of that very Mrs. Squails of whom Dulce once made mention,—well known to be the dressiest woman in Hadleigh, who was much given to imitate her betters. The newest fashions, the best materials, were always to be found on Mrs. Trimmings’s portly figure.
“What could I do?” observed Miss Milner, apologetically: “the papers were about the shop, and what does the woman do but take one up? ‘I wonder what sort of dressmakers these are?’ she said, careless-like; ‘there is my new blue silk that164Andrew brought himself from London and paid five-and-sixpence a yard for in St. Paul’s Churchyard; and I daren’t let Miss Slasher have it, for she made such a mess of that French merino. She had to let it out at every seam before I could get into it, and it is so tight for me now that I shall be obliged to cut it up for Mary Anne. I wonder if I dare try these new people?”
“And what did you say, Miss Milner?”
“What could I do then, my dear young lady, but speak up and say the best I could for you? for though Mrs. Trimmings is not high,—not one of the gentry, I mean,—and has a rough tongue sometimes, still she knows what good stuff and good cutting-out means, and a word from her might do you a power of good among the townfolks, for her gowns are always after the best patterns.”
“All right!” returned Phillis, cheerfully: “one must creep before one runs, and, until the gentry employ us, we ought to think ourselves fortunate to work for the townpeople. I am not a bit above making a dress for Mrs. Trimmings, though I would rather make one for you, Miss Milner, because you have been so kind to us.”
“There, now! didn’t I say there never were such young ladies!” exclaimed Miss Milner, quite affected at this. “Well, if you are sure you don’t mind, Miss Challoner dear, will you please go to Mrs. Trimmings’s this morning? for though I told her my dress was to be finished first, still Trimmings’s isn’t a stone’s-throw from here; and you may as well settle a thing when you are about it.”
“And I will take the silk, Miss Milner, if you will kindly let me have a nice piece of brown paper.”
“Indeed and you will do no such thing, Miss Challoner; and there is Joseph going down with the papers to Mr. Drummond’s, and will leave it at the Friary as he passes.”
“Oh, thank you,” observed Phillis, gratefully. “Then I will pencil a word to my sister, to let her know why I am detained.” And she scrawled a line to Nan:
“Trimmings, not Squails: here beginneth the first chapter. Expect me when you see me, and do nothing until I come.”
There was no side-door at Trimmings’s, and Mrs. Trimmings was at the desk, jotting down legs of mutton, and entries of gravy-beef and suet, with a rapidity that would have tried the brain of any other woman than a butcher’s wife.
When Phillis approached, she looked up at her suavely, expecting custom.
“Just half a moment, ma’am,” she said, civilly. “Yes, Joe, wing-rib and half of suet to Mrs. Penfold, and a loin of lamb and sweet-bread for No. 12, Albert Terrace. Now, ma’am, what can I do for you?”
“I have only come about your dress, Mrs. Trimmings,” returned Phillis, in a very small voice; and then she tried not to laugh, as Mrs. Trimmings regarded her with a broad stare of165astonishment, which took her in comprehensively, hat, dress, and neat dogskin gloves.
“You might have taken up my pen and knocked me down with it,” was Mrs. Trimmings’s graphic description of her feelings afterwards, as she carved a remarkably fine loin of veal, with a knuckle of ham and some kidney-beans to go with it. “There was the colonel standing by the desk, Andrew; and he turned right round and looked at us both. ‘I’ve come about your dress, Mrs. Trimmings,’ she said, as pertlike as possible. Law, I thought I should have dropped, I was that taken aback.”
Phillis’s feelings were none of the pleasantest when Colonel Middleton turned round and looked at her. There was an expression almost of sorrow in the old man’s eyes, as he so regarded her, which made her feel hot and uncomfortable. It was a relief when Mrs. Trimmings roused from her stupefaction and bustled out of the desk.
“This way, miss,” she said, with a jerk of her comely head. But her tone changed a little, and became at once sharp and familiar. “I hope you understand your business, for I never could abide waste; and the way Miss Slasher cut into that gray merino,—and it only just meets, so to say,—and the breadths are as scanty as possible; and it would go to my heart to have a beautiful piece of silk spoiled, flve-and-sixpence a yard, and not a flaw in it.”
“If I thought I should spoil your dress I would not undertake it,” returned Phillis, gently. She felt she must keep herself perfectly quiet with this sort of people. “My sister and I have just made up some very pretty silk and cashmere costumes, and they fitted as perfectly as possible.”
“Oh, indeed!” observed Mrs. Trimmings, in a patronizing tone. She had no idea that the costumes of which Phillis spoke had been worn by the young dressmakers at one of Lady Fitzroy’s afternoon parties. She was not quite at her ease with Phillis; she thought her a little high-and-mighty in her manner. “A uppish young person,” as she said afterwards; “but her grand airs made no sort of difference to me, I can assure you.”
There was no holding pins or picking up scissors in this case. On the contrary, Mrs. Trimmings watched with a vigilant eye, and was ready to pounce on Phillis at the least mistake or oversight, seeing which Phillis grew cooler and more off-hand every moment. There was a great deal of haggling over the cut of the sleeve and arrangement of the drapery. “If you will kindly leave it to me,” Phillis said once; but nothing was further from Mrs. Trimmings’s intention. She had not a silk dress every day. And she had always been accustomed to settle all these points herself, while Miss Slasher had stood by humbly turning over the pages of her fashion-books, and calling her, at every sentence, “Ma’am,” a word that Phillis’s lips had not yet uttered. Phillis’s patience was almost tired out, when she was at last allowed to depart with a large brown-paper parcel under her166arm. Mrs. Trimmings would have wrapped it up in newspaper, but Phillis had so curtly refused to have anything but brown paper that her manner rather overawed the woman.
Poor Phillis! Yes, it had really come to pass, and here she was, actually walking through Hadleigh in the busiest time of the day, with a large, ugly-looking parcel and a little black bag! She had thought of sending Dorothy for the dress, but she knew what a trial it would have been to the old woman to see one of her young ladies reduced to this, and she preferred ladening herself to hurting the poor old creature’s feelings. So she walked out bravely in her best style. But nevertheless her shapely neck would turn itself now and then from side to side, as though in dread of some familiar face. And there were little pin-pricks all over her of irritation and mortified self-love. “A thing is all very well in theory, but it may be tough in practice,” she said to herself. And she felt an irresistible desire to return the offending dress to that odious Trimmings and tell her she would have nothing to do with her,—“a disagreeable old cat,” I am afraid Phillis called her, for one is not always charitable and civil-spoken in one’s thoughts.
“We are going the same way. May I carry that formidable-looking parcel for you?” asked a voice that was certainly becoming very familiar.
Poor Phillis started and blushed; but she looked more annoyed than pleased at the rencontre.
“Mr. Drummond, are you omnipresent?—one is forever encountering you!” she said, quite pettishly; but, when Archie only laughed, and tried to obtain possession of the parcel, she resisted, and would have none of his assistance.
“Oh, dear, no!” she said: “I could not think of such a thing! Fancy the vicar of Hadleigh condescending to carry home Mrs. Trimmings’s dress!”
“Mrs. Trimmings’s dress?” repeated Mr. Drummond, in a rapid crescendo. “Oh, Miss Challoner! I declare this beats everything!”
Phillis threw him a glance. She meant it to be cool, but she could not keep the sadness out of her eyes; they did so contradict the assumed lightness of her words:
“Miss Milner was far more considerate: she made Joseph carry hers to the Friary when he left your papers. Was he not a benevolent Joseph? Mrs. Trimmings wanted to wrap up her silk in newspaper; but I said to myself, ‘One must draw the line somewhere;’ and so I held out for brown paper. Do you think you could have offered to carry a parcel in newspaper, Mr. Drummond? Oh, by the bye, how can you condescend to walk with a dressmaker? But this is a quiet road, and no one will see you.”
“Pardon me if I contradict you, but there is Colonel Middleton looking over his garden palings this moment,” returned Mr. Drummond, who had just become painfully aware of the fact.167
“Don’t you think you had better go and speak to him, then? for you see I am in no need of help,” retorted Phillis, who was sore all over, and wanted to get rid of him, and yet would have been offended if he had taken her at her word. But Mr. Drummond, who felt his position an uncomfortable one, and was dreadfully afraid of the colonel’s banter, was not mean enough to take advantage of her dismissal. He had joined himself to her company out of pure good nature, for it was a hot day and the parcel was heavy, but she would have none of his assistance.
So he only waved his hand to his friend, who took off his old felt hat very solemnly in return, and watched them with a grieved expression until they were out of sight.
“Now I will bid you good-bye,” he said, when they had reached the vicarage.
Phillis said nothing; but she held out her hand, and there was a certain brightness in her eyes that showed she was pleased.
“He is a gentleman, every inch of him; and I won’t quarrel with him any more,” she thought, as she walked up to the Friary. “Oh, how nice it would have been if we were still at Glen Cottage and he could see us at our best, and we were able to entertain him in our old fashion! How Carrie and the other girls would have liked him! and how jealous Dick would have been! for he never liked our bringing strange young men to the house, and always found fault with them if he could,” and here Phillis sighed, and for the moment Mrs. Trimmings was forgotten.