MOTHERS ARE MOTHERS.
"Mr. Drummond! Oh dear! is one never to be free from pastoral
supervision?" muttered Phillis, half sulkily, when she roused from her
stupefaction and had breath to take the offensive. And what would he
think of her? But that was a question to be deferred until later, when
nightmares and darkness and troublesome thoughts harass the unwary
soul. "Like a dog, he hunts in dreams," she might have said to
herself, quoting from "Locksley Hall." But she did nothing of the
kind,--only looked at the offending human being with such an outraged
dignity in her bearing that Mr. Drummond nearly committed himself by
bursting out laughing.
He refrained with difficulty, and said rather dryly,--
"That was a good race; but I saw you would win from the first; and you
jumped that stone splendidly. I suppose you know the story of
Atalanta?"
"Oh, yes," responded Phillis, gloomily; but she could not help showing
off her knowledge all the same; and she had always been so fond of
heathen mythology, and had even read translations of Homer and Virgil.
"She had a she-bear for a nurse, and was eventually turned into a
lion; and I always thought her very stupid for being such a baby and
stopping to pick up the golden apple."
"Nevertheless, the subject is a charming one for a picture," returned
Archie, with admirable readiness, for he saw Phillis was greatly hurt
by this untoward accident, and he liked the girl all the better for
her spirit. He would not have discovered himself at all, only in
another moment she must have seen him; and if she would only have
believed how fully he entered into the fun, and how graceful and
harmless he thought it, there would have been no pang of wounded
self-esteem left. But girls, especially if they be worthy of the name,
are so sensitive and prickly on such matters.
Dulce had basely deserted her sister, and, at the sight of the
clerical felt hat, had fled to Nan's side for protection.
"Oh, never mind," Nan had said, consoling her: "it is only Mr.
Drummond. And he will know how it was, and that we thought there was
not a creature in sight." Nevertheless, she felt a little sorry in her
heart that such a thing had happened. It would spoil Phillis's mirth,
for she was very proud; and it might shock their mother.
"Oh, he will think us such tomboys for grown-up young ladies!" sighed
Dulce, who was only just grown up.
"Never mind what he thinks," returned Nan, walking fast, for she was
anxious to come to Phillis's relief. She joined them very quietly, and
held out her hand to Archie as though nothing had happened.
"Is this a favorite walk of yours, Mr. Drummond? We thought we had it
all to ourselves, and so the girls had a race. They will be dreadfully
troubled at having a spectator; but it might be worse, for you already
know us well enough not to misconstrue a little bit of fun."
"I am glad you judge me so truly," returned Archie, with a gleam of
pleasure in his eyes. Phillis certainly looked uncommonly handsome, as
she stood there, flushed and angry. But how sweet and cool Nan
looked!--not a hair ruffled nor a fold of her dress out of order;
whereas Dulce's brown locks were all loose about her shoulders, shaken
down by the exercise. Nevertheless, at that moment Phillis looked the
most striking.
"I am afraid my sudden appearance has put your sister out dreadfully.
I assure you I would have made myself into thin air if I could," went
on Archie, penitently; "but all the same it was impossible not to
applaud the winner. I felt inclined to wave my hat in the air, and
cry, 'Bravo, Atalanta!' half a dozen times. You made such pretty
running, Miss Challoner; and I wish Grace could have seen it."
The last word acted like magic on Phillis's cloudy brow. She had
passed over two delicately-implied compliments with a little scorn.
Did he think her, like other girls, to be mollified by sugar-plums and
sweet speeches? He might keep all that for the typical young lady of
Hadleigh. At Oldfield the young men knew her better.
It must be owned that the youth of that place had been slightly in awe
of Phillis. One or two had even hinted that they thought her
strong-minded. "She has stand-off ways, and rather laughs at a fellow,
and makes one feel sometimes like a fool," they said; which did not
prove much, except that Phillis showed herself above nonsense, and
had a knowledge of shams, and would not be deceived, and, being the
better horse of the two, showed it; and no man likes to be taken down
in his class.
As Phillis would not flirt,--not understanding the art, but Dulce
proved herself to be a pretty apt pupil,--they left off trying to make
her, and talked sensibly to her instead, which she liked better. But,
though more than one had admired her, no one had ventured to persuade
himself or her that he was in love; but for that there was plenty of
time, Phillis not being the sort of girl to remain long without a
lover.
So when she heard Grace's name she pricked up her ears, and the proud
look left her face; and she said, a little archly, but in a way that
pleased Mr. Drummond,--
"All the same, I am glad your sister was not here, for she would think
Dulce and me such tomboys!" using Dulce's very expression.
Archie shook his head very decidedly at this.
"Ah! you do not know Grace, and how she loves a bit of fun; only she
never gets it, poor girl!" sighing in a marked manner, for he saw how
interested Phillis looked. "If you could only hear her laugh; but
please sit down a moment and rest yourselves," continued the artful
young man, who had not dared to purpose such a thing before.
Nan hesitated; but a glance at Phillis's hot face decided her.
"Just for five minutes," she said, "and then we must go back to
mother;" for she had already determined that they must cut their walk
short for the purpose of getting rid of Mr. Drummond.
And then they sat down on the beach, and Dulce retired behind the
breakwater to take off her hat and tuck up her hair; while Archie,
taking no notice, leaned against the other side, and felt well
contented with his position,--three such pretty girls, and all the
world well away!
"Is Grace your favorite sister?" asked Phillis, suddenly, as she
menaced Laddie with a small pebble.
This was a lucky opening for Archie. He was never seen to more
advantage than when he was talking about Grace. There was no
constraint or consciousness about him at such times, but he would
speak with a simple earnestness that made people say, "What a good
fellow he is!"
"Oh, she has always been that, you know," he said, brightly, "ever
since she was a little thing, and I used to carry her about in my
arms, and string horse-chestnuts for her, when she was the funniest,
merriest little creature, and so clever. I suppose when a man has
seven sisters he may be allowed to have a favorite among them? and
there is not one of them to compare with Grace."
"Seven sisters!" repeated Nan, with a smile; and then she added "you
are very lucky, Mr. Drummond."
Archie shrugged his shoulders at this: he had never quite recognized
his blessings in this respect. Isabel and Dottie might be tolerated,
but he could easily have dispensed with Susie and Laura and Clara; he
had a knack of forgetting their existence when he was absent from
them, and when he was at home he did not always care to be reminded of
their presence. He was one of those men who are very exacting to their
women-kind, who resent it as a personal injury if they fail in good
looks or are not pleasant to the eye. He did not go so far as to say
to himself that he could dispense with poor Mattie too, but he
certainly acted on most occasions as though he thought so.
"Are you not fond of all your sisters?" asked Phillis, rather
maliciously, for she had remarked the shrug.
"Oh, as to that," replied the young man, coloring a little, "one
cannot expect to be interested in a lot of school-girls. I am afraid I
know very little about the four youngest, except that they are working
Grace to death. Just fancy, Miss Challoner!" he continued, addressing
Nan, and quite disregarding Phillis's sympathetic looks. "Grace has
actually no life of her own at all; she teaches those girls, sits with
them, walks with them, helps them mend their clothes, just like a
daily or rather a nursery governess, except that she is not paid, and
has no holidays. I cannot think how my mother can find it in her heart
to work her so hard!" finished Archie, excited to wrath at the
remembrance of Grace's wrongs.
"Well, do you know," returned Nan, thoughtfully, as he seemed to
expect an answer to this, and Phillis for a wonder was silent, "I
cannot think your sister an object of pity. Think what a good and
useful life she is leading! She must be a perfect treasure to her
mother; and I dare say they all love her dearly."
"The girls do," was the somewhat grudging response: "they follow her
about like four shadows, and even Isabel can do nothing without her
advice. When I am at home I can scarcely get her for a moment to
myself; it is 'Grace, come here,' and 'Grace, please do this for me,'
until I wonder she is not worn out."
"Oh, how happy she must be!" responded Nan, softly, for to her no lot
seemed sweeter than this. To be the centre and support of a large
family circle,--the friend and trusted confidante of each! What a
wonderful creature this Grace must be! and how could he speak of her
in that pitying tone? "No life of her own!" Well, what life could she
want better than this? To be the guide and teacher of her younger
sisters, and to be loved by them so dearly! "Oh, I think she is to be
envied! her life must be so full of interest," she said, addressing
the astonished Archie, who had certainly never taken this view of it.
And when she had said this, she gave a slight signal to her sisters,
which they understood at once; and then they paced slowly down the
beach, with their faces towards the town, talking as they went.
They did not walk four abreast, as they used to do in the Oldfield
lanes; but Nan led the way with Mr. Drummond, and Phillis and Dulce
dropped behind.
Archie was a little silent; but presently he said, quite frankly, as
though he had known her for years,--but from the first moment he had
felt strangely at home with these girls,--
"Do you know, you have thrown a fresh light on a vexed subject? I have
been worrying myself dreadfully about Grace. I wanted her to live with
me because there was more sympathy between us than there ever will be
between my sister Mattie and myself. We have more in common, and think
the same on so many subjects; and I knew how happy I could have made
her."
"Yes, I see," returned Nan; and she looked up at him in such an
interested way that he found no difficulty in going on:
"We had planned for years to live together; but when I accepted the
living, and the question was mooted in the family council, my mother
would not hear of it for a moment. She said Grace could not possibly
be spared."
"Well, I suppose not, after what you have told me. But it must have
been a great disappointment to you both," was Nan's judicious reply.
"I have never ceased to regret my mother's decision," he returned,
warmly; "and as for Grace, I fear she has taken the disappointment
grievously to heart."
"Oh, I hope not!"
"Isabel writes to my sister Mattie that Grace is looking thin and pale
and has lost her appetite, and she thinks the mother is getting uneasy
about her; and I cannot help worrying myself about it, and thinking
how all this might have been averted."
"I think you are wrong in that," was the unexpected answer. "When one
has acted rightly to the very best of one's power, it is of no use
worrying about consequences."
"How do you mean?" asked Archie, very much surprised at the decided
tone in which Nan spoke. He had thought her too soft in manners to
possess much energy and determination of character; but he was
mistaken.
"It would be far worse if your sister had not recognized her duty and
refused to remain at home. One cannot find happiness if one moves out
of one's allotted niche; but of course you know all this better than
I, being a clergyman. And, oh! how beautifully you spoke to us last
Sunday!" finished Nan, remembering all at once that she was usurping
his place and preaching a little sermon of her own.
"Never mind that," he replied, impatiently: "tell me what you mean.
There is something behind your speech: you think I am wrong in pitying
poor Grace so much?"
"If you ask me so plainly, I must say yes, though perhaps I am not
competent to judge; but, from what you tell me, I think you ought not
to pity her at all. She is fulfilling her destiny. Is she not doing
the work given her to do? and what can any girl want more? You should
trust your mother, I think, Mr. Drummond; for she would not willingly
overwork her. Mothers are mothers: you need not be afraid," said Nan,
looking up in her clear honest way.
"Thank you; you have taken a weight off my mind," returned Archie,
more moved by this than he cared to own. That last speech had gone
home: he must trust his mother. In a moment scales seemed to fall from
the young man's eyes as he walked along gravely, and silently by Nan.
"Why, what manner of girls could these be?" he thought; "frolicsome as
kittens, and yet possessing the wisdom of mature womanhood?" And those
few simple words of Nan abided long with him.
What if he and Grace were making a mistake, and there was no hardship
in her case at all, but only clear duty, and a most high privilege, as
Nan hinted? What if his mother were right, and only they were wrong?
The idea was salutary, but hardly pleasant; for he had certainly aided
and abetted Grace in her discontent, and had doubtless increased her
repinings at her dull surroundings. Surely Grace's talents had been
given her for a purpose; else why was she so much cleverer than the
others,--so gifted with womanly accomplishments? And that clear head
of hers,--she had a genius for teaching, he had never denied that. Was
his mother, a sensible large-sighted woman in her way, to be secretly
condemned as a tyrant, and wanting in maternal tenderness for Grace,
because she had made use of this gifted daughter for the good of her
other children, and had refused to part with her at Archie's request?
Archie began to feel uncomfortable, for conscience was waxing warm
within him; and there had been a grieved hurt tone in his mother's
letters of late, as though she had felt herself neglected by him.
"Mothers are mothers: you need not be afraid," Nan had said, with
simple wholesome faith in the instincts of motherhood; and the words
had come home to him with the strongest power.
His poor harassed mother,--what a hard life hers had been! Archie
began to feel his heart quite tender towards her; perhaps she was a
little severe and exacting with the girls, but they none of them
understood her in the least, "for her bark was always worse than her
bite," thought Archie; and girls, at least the generality of them, are
sometimes aggravating.
He thought of the weary times she must have had with his father,--for
Mr. Drummond could make himself disagreeable to his wife when things
went wrong with him, and the sullen fortitude with which he bore his
reversal of fortune gave small opening to her tenderness; the very
way in which he shirked all domestic responsibilities, leaving on her
shoulders the whole weight of the domestic machinery and all the
home-management, had hardened and embittered her.
A large family and small means, little support from her husband,--who
interfered less and less with domestic matters,--all this had no doubt
fostered the arbitrary will that governed the Drummond household. If
her husband had only kept her in check,--if he had supported her
authority, and not left her to stand alone,--she would have been, not
a better woman, for Archie knew his mother was good, but she would
have been softer and more lovable, and her children would have seen
deeper into her heart.
Some such thoughts as these passed through Archie's mind as he walked
beside Nan; but he worked them out more carefully when he was alone
that night. Just before they reached the Friary, he had started
another subject; for, turning to Phillis and Dulce, whom he had
hitherto ignored, he asked them whether he might enroll one or all of
them among his Sunday-school teachers.
Phillis's eyes sparkled at this.
"Oh, Nan, how delightful! it will remind us of Oldfield."
"Yes, indeed:" chimed in Dulce, who had left her infant-class with
regret; but, to their surprise, Nan demurred.
"At Oldfield things were very different," she said, decidedly: "we
played all the week, and it was no hardship to teach the dear children
on Sunday; but now we shall have to work so hard that we shall be glad
of one day's rest."
"But surely you might spare us one hour or two in the afternoon?"
returned Archie, putting on what Grace called "his clerical face."
"In the afternoons mother will be glad of our company, and sometimes
we shall indulge in a walk. No, Mr. Drummond, our week-days are too
full of work, and we shall need all the rest we can get on Sunday."
And, with a smile, Nan dismissed the subject.
Phillis spoke regretfully of it when he had left them.
"It would have been so nice," she pleaded; but Nan was inexorable.
"You can go if you like, Phil; but I think mother is entitled to that
one afternoon in the week, and I will not consent to any parish work
on that account; and then I am sure we shall often be so tired." And
Nan's good sense, as usual, carried the day.
After that they all grouped round the window in the little parlor, and
repeated to their mother every word of their conversation with Mr.
Drummond.
Mrs. Challoner grew alarmed and tearful in a moment.
"Oh, my darlings, promise me to be more careful for the future!" she
pleaded. "Of course it was only fun, Phillis and he will not think
anything of it. Still, in a strange place, where no one knows
you----"
"Dulce and I will never run a race again, I think I can promise you
that," replied Phillis, very grimly, who felt that "Bravo, Atalanta!"
would haunt her in her dreams.
"And--and I would not walk about with Mr. Drummond, though he is our
clergyman and a very gentlemanly person. People might talk: and in
your position, my poor dears"--Mrs. Challoner hesitated, for she was
very nice in her scruples, and not for worlds would she have hinted to
her daughters that Mr. Drummond was young and unmarried, and a very
handsome man in the bargain: "You see, I cannot always be with you,
and, as you have to work for your living, and cannot be guarded like
other girls, you have all the more need to be circumspect. You don't
think me over strict, do you, darlings?"
"No, dear mother, you are perfectly right," returned Nan, kissing her.
"I knew how you would feel, and so we came home directly to get rid of
him: it would never do for the vicar of the parish to be seen walking
about with dressmakers."
"Don't, Nan!" exclaimed Phillis, with a shudder. Nevertheless, as she
turned away she remembered how she had enjoyed that walk down the
Braidwood Road that very morning, when he offered to carry home Mrs.
Trimmings's dress and she would not let him.