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 the purpose," 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 Nan looked 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.
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, if your 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 at any 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's presence. 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 to
_mauvaise 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?"
"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.