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, mammie, 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 this latter 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. It would 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,--
"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 gentlemanly way 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 she fixed 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 freely as 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.