A VAN IN THE BRAIDWOOD ROAD.
One bright July morning, Mattie Drummond walked rapidly up the
Braidwood Road, and, unlatching the green door in the wall, let
herself into the large square hall of the vicarage. This morning it
looked invitingly cool, with its summer matting and big wicker-work
chairs; but Mattie was in too great haste to linger; she only stopped
to disencumber herself of the various parcels with which she was
ladened, and then she knocked at the door of her brother's study, and,
without waiting for the reluctant "Come in" that always answered her
hasty rap, burst in upon him.
It was now three months since Mattie had entered upon her new duties,
and it must be confessed that Archie's housekeeper had rather a hard
time of it. As far as actual management went, Mattie fully justified
her mother's eulogiums in her household arrangements: she was orderly
and methodical,--far more so than Grace would have been in her place;
the meals were always punctual and well served, the domestic machinery
worked well and smoothly. Archie never had to complain of a missing
button or a frayed wrist-band. Nevertheless, Mattie's presence at the
vicarage was felt by her brother as a sore burden. There was nothing
in common between them, nothing that he cared to discuss with her, or
on which he wished to know her opinion; he was naturally a frank,
outspoken man, one that demanded sympathy from those belonging to him;
but with Mattie he was reticent, and as far as possible restrained in
speech.
One reason for this might be that Mattie, with all her virtues,--and
she was really a most estimable little person,--was sadly deficient in
tact. She never knew when she was treading on other people's pet
prejudices. She could not be made to understand that her presence was
not always wanted, and that it was as well to keep silence sometimes.
She would intrude her advice when it was not needed, in her
good-natured way; she had always interfered with everything and
everybody. "Meddlesome Mattie" they had called her at home.
She was so wonderfully elastic, too, in her temperament, that nothing
long depressed her. She took all her brother's snubbings in excellent
part: if he scolded her at dinner-time, and made the ready tears come
to her eyes,--for it was not the least of Mattie's sins that she cried
easily and on every possible occasion,--she had forgotten it by
tea-time, and would chatter to him as happily as ever.
She was just one of those persevering people who seem bound to be
snubbed; one cannot help it. It was as natural to scold Mattie as it
was to praise other people; and yet it was impossible not to like the
little woman, though she had no fine feelings, as Archie said, and was
not thin-skinned. Grace always spoke a good word for her; she was very
kind to Mattie in her way,--though it must be owned that she showed
her small respect as an elder sister. None of her brothers and sisters
respected Mattie in the least; they laughed at her, and took liberties
with her, presuming largely on her good nature. "It is only Mattie;
nobody cares what she thinks," as Clyde would often say. "Matt the
Muddler," as Frederick named her.
"I wonder what Mattie would say if any one ever fell in love with
her?" Grace once observed in fun to Archie. "Do you know, I think she
would be all her life, thanking her husband for the unexpected honor
he had done her, and trying to prove to him that he had not made such
a great mistake, after all."
"Mattie's husband! He must be an odd sort of person, I should think."
And then Archie laughed, in not the politest manner. Certainly Mattie
was not appreciated by her family. She was not looking her best this
morning when she went into her brother's study. She wore the
offending plaid dress,--a particular large black-and-white check that
he thought especially ugly. Her hat-trimmings were frayed, and the
straw itself was burnt brown by the sun, and her hair was ill arranged
and rough, for she never wasted much time on her own person, and, to
crown the whole, she looked flushed and heated.
Archie, who was sitting at his writing-table in severely-cut
ecclesiastical garments, looking as trim and well-appointed a young
clergyman as one might wish to see, might be forgiven for the tone of
ill-suppressed irritation with which he said,--
"Oh, Mattie! what a figure you look! I am positively ashamed that any
one should see you. That hat is only fit to frighten the birds."
"Oh, it will do very well for the mornings," returned Mattie,
perfectly undisturbed at these compliments. "Nobody looks at me: so
what does it matter?" But this remark, which she made in all
simplicity, only irritated him more.
"If you have no proper pride, you might at least consider my feelings.
Do you think a man in my position likes his sister to go about like an
old beggar-woman? You are enough to try any one's patience, Mattie;
you are, indeed!"
"Oh, never mind me and my things," returned Mattie coaxingly; "and
don't go on writing just yet," for Archie had taken up his pen again
with a great show of being busy. "I want to tell you something that I
know will interest you. There are some new people come to the
Friary."
"What on earth do you mean?--what Friary? I am sure I never heard of
such a place."
"Dear me, Archie, how cross you are this morning!" observed Mattie, in
a cheerful voice, as she fidgeted the papers on the table. "Why, the
Friary is that shabby little cottage just above us,--not a stone's
throw from this house."
"Indeed? Well, I cannot say I am much interested in the movements of
my neighbors. I am not a gossip like you, Mattie!"--another fling at
poor Mattie. "I wish you would leave those papers alone. You know I
never allow my things to be tidied, as you call it, and I am really
very busy just now. I am in the middle of accounts, and I have to
write to Grace and----"
"Well, I thought you would like to know." And Mattie looked rather
crestfallen and disappointed. "You talked so much about those young
ladies some weeks ago, and seemed quite sorry not to see them again;
and now----" but here Archie's indifference vanished, and he looked up
eagerly.
"What young ladies? Not those in Milner's Library, who asked about the
dressmaker?"
"The very same," returned his sister, delighted at this change of
manner. "Oh, I have so much to tell you that I must sit down,"
planting herself comfortably on the arm of an easy-chair near him.
Another time Archie would have rebuked her for her unlady-like
attitude, and told her, probably, that Grace never did such things;
but now his interest was so excited that he let it pass for once. He
even suffered her to take off her old hat and deposit it unreproved on
the top of his cherished papers. "I was over at Crump's this morning,
to speak to Bobbie about weeding the garden, when I was surprised to
see a railway-van unloading furniture at the Friary."
"What an absurd name!" _sotto voce_ from Archie: but he offered no
further check to Mattie's gossip.
"I asked Mrs. Crump, as a matter of course, the name of the new
people; and she said it was Challoner. There was a mother and three
daughters, she believed. She had seen two of them,--pretty,
nice-spoken young creatures, and quite ladies. They had been down
before to see the cottage and to have it done up. It looks quite a
different place already,--nicely painted, and the shrubs trimmed. The
door was open, and as I stood at Mrs. Crump's window, peeping between
her geraniums, I saw such a respectable gray-haired woman, like an
upper servant, carrying something into the house; and a moment after
one of those young ladies we saw in the Library--not the pretty one,
but the other--came to the door and spoke to the men."
"Are you sure you did not make a mistake, Mattie?" asked her brother,
incredulously. "You are very short-sighted: perhaps you did not see
correctly. How can those stylish-looking girls live in such a shabby
place? I can hardly believe it possible."
"Oh, it was the same, I am positive about that. She was in the same
cambric dress you admired. I could see distinctly. I watched her for a
long time; and then the pretty one came out and joined her. She is
pretty, Archie, she has such a lovely complexion."
"But are they poor?--they don't look so. What on earth can it mean?"
he asked, in a perplexed voice; but Mattie only shook her head, and
went on:
"We must find out all about them by and by. They are worth knowing, I
am sure of that. Poor?--well, they cannot be rich, certainly, to live
in the Friary; but they are gentle-people, one can see that in a
moment."
"Of course! who doubted it?" was the somewhat impatient answer.
"Well, but that is not all," went on Mattie, too delighted with her
brother's interest to try to curtail her story. "Of course I could not
stand long watching them, so I did my errand and came away; and then I
met Miss Middleton, and we walked down to the Library together to
change those books. Miss Milner was talking to some ladies when we
first went in and, as Miss Masham was not in the shop, we had to wait
our turn, so I had a good look at them. The elder one was such a
pretty, aristocratic-looking woman,--a little too languid, perhaps
for my taste; and the younger one was a little like Isabel, only
nicer-looking. I shouldn't have stared at them so much,--at least, I
am afraid I stared," went on Mattie, forgetting for the moment how
often she had been taken to task for this very thing,--"but something
Miss Milner said attracted my attention, 'I am not to send it to the
Friary, then, ma'am?' 'Well, no,' the lady returned, rather
hesitatingly. She had such a nice voice and manner, Archie. 'My
youngest daughter and I are at Beach House at present; I am rather an
invalid, and the bustle would be too much for me. Dulce, we had better
have these things sent to Beach House.' And then the young lady
standing by her said, 'Oh, yes, mother; we shall want them this
evening.' And then they went out."
"There is a third sister, then?" observed Archie, not pretending to
disguise his interest in Mattie's recital.
"Yes, there is a third one: she is certainly a little like Isabel; she
has a dimple like hers, and is of the same height. I asked Miss
Milner, when they were out of hearing, if their name were Challoner,
and if they were the new people who were coming to live at the empty
cottage on the Braidwood Road. I thought she did not seem much
disposed to give me information. Yes, their name was Challoner, and
they had taken the Friary; but they were quite strangers in the town,
and no one knew anything about them. And then Miss Middleton chimed
in; she said her father had noticed the young ladies some weeks ago,
and had called her attention to them. They were very pretty girls, and
had quite taken his fancy; he had not forgotten them, and had spoken
of them that very morning. She supposed Mrs. Challoner must be a
widow, and not very well off: did Miss Milner know. Would you believe
it, Archie? Miss Milner got quite red, and looked confused. You know
how she enjoys a bit of gossip generally; but the questions seemed to
trouble her. 'They were not at all well off, she knew that, but nicer
young ladies she had never seen, or wished to see; and she hoped every
one would be kind to them, and not forget they were real born ladies,
in spite of----' And here the old thing got more confused than ever,
and came to a full stop, and begged to know how she could serve us."
"It is very strange,--very strange indeed," returned her brother, in a
meditative voice; but, as Mattie had nothing more to tell him, he did
not discuss the matter any further, only thanked her for her news, and
civilly dismissed her on the plea that his business was at a
stand-still.
But he did not resume his accounts for sometime after he was left
alone. Instead of doing so, he walked to the window and looked out in
a singularly absent manner. Mattie's news was somewhat exciting. The
idea of having such pleasant neighbors located within a stone's throw
of the vicarage was in itself disturbing to the imagination of a young
man of eight-and-twenty, even though a clergyman. And then, it must be
confessed, Nan's charming face and figure had never been forgotten:
he had looked out for the sisters many times since his chance
encounter with Phillis, and had been secretly disappointed at their
total disappearance. And now they proved not mere visitors, but
positively inhabitants of Hadleigh. He would meet them every day; and,
as there was but one church in the place, they would of course be
numbered among his flock. As their future clergyman he would have a
right of entrance to the cottage.
"How soon do you think we ought to call upon them, Mattie?" he asked,
when he was seated opposite to his sister at the luncheon-table. The
accounts had not progressed very favorably, and the letter to Grace
was not yet commenced. Mattie's news had been a sad interruption to
his morning's work.
"Whom do you mean, Archie," she returned, a little bewildered at this
abrupt remark; and then, as he frowned at her denseness, she bethought
herself of the new people. It was not often Archie asked her advice
about anything, but on this occasion the young vicar felt himself
incompetent to decide.
"I suppose you mean the new folk at the Friary," she continued,
carelessly. "Oh, they are only moving in to-day, and they will be in a
muddle for a week, I should think. I don't think we can intrude for
ten days or so."
"Not if you think it will be intrusive," he returned, rather
anxiously; "but they are strangers in the place, and all ladies--there
does not seem to be a man belonging to them--would it not be
neighborly, as we live so close, just to call, not in a formal way,
you know, but just to volunteer help? There are little things you
could do for them, Mattie; and, as a clergyman, they could not regard
my visit as an intrusion, I should think. Do you not agree with me?"
looking at his sister rather gravely.
"Well, I don't know," replied Mattie, bluntly: "I should not care for
strangers prying into my concerns, if I were in their place. And yet,
as you say, we are such close neighbors, and one would like to be kind
to the poor things, for they must be lonely, settling in a strange new
place. I'll tell you what, Archie," as his face fell at this
matter-of-fact speech: "it is Thursday, and they will be sure to be at
church on Sunday; we shall see them there, and that will be an excuse
for us to call on Monday. We can say then that we are neighbors, and
that we would not wait until they were all in order. We can offer to
send them things from the vicarage, or volunteer help in many little
ways. I think that would be best."
"Yes, perhaps you are right, and we will wait until Monday," returned
Archie, taking off his soft felt hat. "Now I must go on my rounds, and
not waste any more time chattering." But, though he spoke with unusual
good nature, he did not invite Mattie to be his companion, and the
poor little woman betook herself to the solitary drawing-room and some
plain sewing for the rest of the afternoon.
The young clergyman stood for a moment irresolutely at the green door,
and cast a longing glance in the direction of the Friary, where the
van was still unloading, and then he bethought himself that, though
Mattie had given orders about the weeding of the garden-paths, it
would be as well to speak to Crump about the wire fence that was
wanted for the poultry-yard; and as soon as he had made up his mind on
this point he walked on briskly.
The last piece of furniture had just been carried in; but, as Mr.
Drummond was picking his way through the straw and debris that
littered the side-path, two girlish figures came out of the doorway
full upon him.
He raised his hat involuntarily, but they drew back at once, and, as
he went out, confused at this sudden rencontre, the sound of a light
laugh greeted his ear.
"How annoying that we should always be meeting him!" observed Nan,
innocently. "Don't laugh, Phillis: he will hear you."
"My dear, it must be fate," returned Phillis solemnly. "I shall think
it my duty to warn Dick if this goes on." But, in spite of her
mischievous speech, she darted a quick, interested look after the
handsome young clergyman as he walked on. Both the girls stood in the
porch for some minutes after they had made their retreat. They had
come out to cool themselves and to get a breath of air, until a July
sun and Mr. Drummond's sudden appearance defeated their intention.
They had no idea that they were watched from behind the screening
geraniums in Mrs. Crump's window. Both of them were enveloped in
Dorothy's bib-aprons, which hid their pretty rounded figures.
Phillis's cheeks were flushed, and her arms were bare to the dimpled
elbows; and Nan's brown hair was slightly dishevelled.
"We look just like cooks!" exclaimed Phillis, regarding her coarse
apron with disfavor; but Nan stretched her arms with a little
indifference and weariness.
"What does it matter how we look,--like cooks or housemaids? I am
dreadfully tired; but we must go in and work, Phil. I wonder what has
become of Dulce?" And then the charming vision disappeared from the
young clergyman's eyes, and he was free to fix his mind on the wire
fence that was required for the poultry-yard.
As soon as he had accomplished his errand he set his face towards the
vicarage, for he made up his mind suddenly that he would call on the
Middletons, and perhaps on Mrs. Cheyne. The latter was a duty that he
owed to his pastoral conscience; but there was no need for him to go
to the Middletons'. Nevertheless, the father and daughter were his
most intimate friends, and on all occasions he was sure of Miss
Middleton's sympathy. They lived at Brooklyn,--a low white house a
little below the vicarage. It was a charming house, he always thought,
so well arranged and well managed; and the garden--that was the
colonel's special hobby--was as pretty as a garden could be. The
drawing-room looked shady and comfortable, for the French windows
opened into a cool veranda, fitted up with flower-baskets and wicker
chairs; and beyond lay the trim lawn, with beds of blazing verbenas
and calceolarias. Miss Middleton's work-table was just within one of
the windows; but the colonel, in his gray summer suit, reclined in a
lounging-chair in the veranda. He was reading the paper to his
daughter, and was just in the middle of last night's debate;
nevertheless, he threw it aside, well pleased at the interruption.
"I knew how I should find you occupied," observed Mr. Drummond, as he
exchanged a smile with Miss Middleton. He was fully aware that
politics were not to her taste, and yet every afternoon she listened
to such reading, well content even with the sound of her father's
voice.
Elizabeth Middleton was certainly a charming person. Phillis had
called her the "gray-haired girl," and the title suited her. She was
not a girl by any means, having reached her six-and-thirtieth year;
but her hair was as silvery as an old woman's, gray and plentiful, and
soft as silk, and contrasted strangely with her still youthful face.
Without being handsome, Elizabeth Middleton was beautiful. Her
expression was sweet and restful, and attracted all hearts. People who
were acquainted with her said she was the happiest creature they
knew,--that she simply diffused sunshine by her mere presence; such a
contrast, they would add, to her neighbor Mrs. Cheyne, who bore all
her troubles badly and was of a proud, fretful disposition. But then
Mrs. Cheyne had lost her husband and her two children, and led such a
sad, lonely life; and no such troubles had fallen to Miss Middleton.
Elizabeth Middleton could afford to be happy, they said, for she was
the delight of her father's eyes. Her young half-brother, Hammond, who
was with his regiment in India, was not nearly so dear to the old man;
and of course that was why she had never married, that her father's
house might not be left desolate.
This is how people talked; but not a single person in Hadleigh knew
that Elizabeth Middleton had had a great sorrow in her life.
She had been engaged for some years most happily, and with her
father's consent, to one of his brother officers. Captain Sedgwick was
of good family, but poor; and they were waiting for his promotion, for
at that time Colonel Middleton would have been unable to give his
daughter any dowry. Elizabeth was young and happy, and she could
afford to wait. No girl ever gloried in her lover more than she did in
hers. Capel Sedgwick was not only brave and singularly handsome, but
he bore a reputation through the whole regiment for having a higher
standard of duty than most men.
Promotion came at last, and, just as Elizabeth was gayly making
preparations for her marriage, fatal tidings were brought to her.
Major Sedgwick had gone to visit an old servant in the hospital who
had been struck down with cholera; he had remained with him some time,
and on his return to his bungalow the same fell disease had attacked
him, and before many hours were over he was dead. The shock was a
terrible one; in the first moments of her bitter loss, Elizabeth cried
out that her misery was too great,--that all happiness was over for
her in this world, and that she only prayed that she might be buried
in the same grave with Capel.
The light had not yet come to the poor soul that felt itself afflicted
past endurance and could find no reason for such pain. It could not be
said that Elizabeth bore her trouble better than other girls would
have borne theirs under like circumstances. She fretted and grew thin,
and dashed herself wildly against the inevitable, only reproaching
herself for her selfishness and want of submission when she looked at
her father's care-worn face.
But then came a time when light and peace revisited the wrecked
heart,--when confused reasonings no longer beset the poor weak brain
and filled it with dismay and doubt,--when the Divine will became her
will, and there was no longer submission, but a most joyful surrender.
And no one, and least of all she herself, knew when the darkness was
vanquished by that clear uprising of pure radiance, or how those
brooding wings of peace settled on her soul. From that time, every
human being that came within her radius was welcome as a new object of
love. To give and yet to give, and never to be satisfied, was a daily
necessity of life to Elizabeth. "Now there is some one more to love,"
she would say to herself, when a new acquaintance was brought to her;
and, as the old adage is true that tells us love begets love, there
was no more popular person in Hadleigh than Elizabeth Middleton. She
had something to say in praise of every one; not that she was blind to
the faults of her neighbors, but she preferred to be silent and ignore
them.
And she was especially kind to Mattie. In the early days of their
intimacy, the young vicar would often speak to her of his sister Grace
and lament their enforced separation from each other. Miss Middleton
listened sympathetically, with the same sweet attention that she gave
to every man, woman, and child that laid claim to it; but once, when
he had finished, she said, rather gravely,--
"Do you know, Mr. Drummond, that I think your mother was right?"
"Right in dooming Grace to such a life?" he said, pausing in utter
surprise at her remark.
"Pardon me; it is not her mother who dooms her," returned Miss
Middleton, quickly, "but duty,--her own sense of right,--everything
that is sacred. If Mrs. Drummond had not decided that she could not be
spared, I am convinced from all you tell me, that Grace would still
have remained at home: her conscience would have been too strong for
her."
"Well, perhaps you are right," he admitted, reluctantly. "Grace is a
noble creature, and capable of any amount of self-sacrifice."
"I am sure of it," returned Miss Middleton, with sparkling eyes. "How
I should like to know her! it would be a real pleasure and privilege;
but I am very fond of your sister Mattie, too."
"Fond of Mattie!" It was hardly brotherly, but he could not help that
incredulous tone in his voice. How could such a superior woman as Miss
Middleton be even tolerant of Mattie?
"Oh, yes," she replied, quite calmly; "I have a great respect for your
sister. She is so unselfish and amiable, and there is something so
genuine in her. Before everything one wants truth," finished
Elizabeth, taking up her work.
Now, as the young clergyman entered the room, she stretched out her
hand to him with her usual beaming smile.
"This is good of you, to come so soon again," she said, making room
for him between her father and herself. "But why have you not brought
Mattie?" and Archie felt as though he had received a rebuke.
"She is finishing some work," he returned, a little confused; "that
is, what you ladies call work. It is not always necessary for the
clergywoman to pay visits, is it?"
"The clergywoman, as you call her, is doing too much. I was scolding
her this morning for not sparing herself more: I thought she was not
looking quite well, Mr. Drummond."
"Oh, Mattie is well enough," he replied, carelessly. He had not come
to talk about his sister: a far more interesting subject was in his
mind. "Do you know, colonel," he went on, with some animation, "that
you and I have new neighbors? Do you remember the young ladies in the
blue cambric dresses?" And at this question the colonel threw aside
his paper at once.
"Elizabeth has been telling me. I remember the young ladies perfectly.
I could not help noticing them. They walked so well,--heads up, and as
neat and trim as though they were on parade; pretty creatures, both of
them. Elizabeth pretends not to be interested, but she is quite
excited. Look at her!"
"Nay, father, it is you who can talk of nothing else; but it will be
very nice to have such pleasant neighbors. How soon do you think we
may call on them?"
And then Archie explained, with some little embarrassment, that he and
Mattie thought of calling the following Monday and offering their
services.
"That is very thoughtful of Mattie. She is such a kind-hearted little
creature, and is always ready to serve everybody."
And then they entered into a discussion on the new-comers that lasted
so long that the tea-things made their appearance; and shortly
afterwards Mr. Drummond announced that he must go and call on Mrs.
Cheyne.