"A MAN HAS A RIGHT TO HIS OWN THOUGHTS."
There were great rejoicings in the house in Lowder Street on the
occasion of Isabel Drummond's marriage.
There is always something pathetic in the first wedding in a
family,--the first severing of the family circle,--the first break,
the first ingathering of new interest. But when there are small means,
and seven portionless daughters, very few of whom can be said to be
gifted with good looks, a wealthy son-in-law must indeed be regarded
as a direct blessing from Providence.
That Mr. Drummond did so regard it, was evident from the jovial good
humor that had replaced his usual moody and irritable manner; while
his wife's beaming face, softened by maternal tenderness for the
child who would no longer share the daily life with them, was a
surprising spectacle to those acquainted with Mrs. Drummond's ordinary
reserve and somewhat severe bearing. But it is not too much to say
that on this occasion Mrs. Drummond was a happy woman.
The tide of fortune, long so adverse to their interests, seemed
turning in their favor at last. Archie had done great things for
himself, and the mother's eyes rested on him proudly as he performed
the marriage ceremony for his young sister, the gravity of his
priestly office setting him apart, as it were, for her reverence as
well as love. That Isabel had done great things for herself also could
not be denied. But there were other causes for content in the mother's
heart.
Both the boys were doing well. Clyde had been articled to a lawyer, an
old friend of Mr. Drummond's, and had won golden opinions from his
chief, who pronounced him an intelligent, likely lad, and as sharp as
a needle. Fred had lately obtained a clerkship in an old-established
house in Leeds, and was also doing well, and his salary was a great
boon to the straitened household. Grace, too, was doing her duty
vigorously, and no longer vexed her mother's soul by her drooping
looks of uncomplaining discontent,--that silent protest of many, that
is so irritating to the home-rule. True, it might be only the
quiescence of despair, but at least she veiled it decently under a
show of Spartan cheerfulness. The fox of bitterness might gnaw, but
she drew the mantle of her pride closer round her. She might suffer
and pine, like a caged lark in her narrow cage, but at least no one,
not even Archie, and least of all her mother, should guess the extent
of her sufferings. So there was peace in Lowder Street. A truce had
silently proclaimed itself between the two strong wills of the
household; and, touched by a submission that somehow appealed to her
generosity, Mrs. Drummond was secretly revolving schemes for her
daughter's future happiness.
"Mothers are mothers," as Nan had once sweetly said, and Mrs. Drummond
was no exception to the rule. She could be hard to her own flesh and
blood; she could exact obedience that was difficult to yield, and
sacrifices that cost tears in plenty; but she was a just woman, and,
when the right time came, she knew how to reward such obedience.
But there was still another drop that filled the maternal cup of
content almost to overflowing, and of this she spoke to Grace, as they
were together in the mother's room, folding up the bridal finery. The
little bride had just driven off, all tears and smiles. Archie and the
boys had started off for a long walk. Mattie was with her sisters in
the small ugly enclosure they called a garden; and Grace and her
mother had gone up to shake out the satin dress and lay it between
tissue-paper.
"I hope she will be happy, poor little dear!" observed Grace, touching
tenderly the Brussels-lace veil; for Isabel had been her first pupil
and charge. "I do think and believe Ellis is really very fond of
her."
"Without doubt he is. His manners were all your father and I could
wish. What a magnificent present, and how thoughtful, his bringing
those diamond ear-drops just the last moment! Isabel has such pretty
little ears. He is as proud of her as he can be. And really she looked
quite lovely. Take care how you fold that veil, Grace. It is a perfect
beauty."
"Yes, mother," returned Grace, meekly.
She was ready to drop with fatigue, for she had been up since six, and
had dressed all her sisters one after another in their pretty
bridesmaids' dresses, Mattie's skill as a lady's-maid being distrusted
even by Dottie. But Mrs. Drummond was not satisfied, and took the lace
out of her hand.
"And, Grace, did you ever see any one so improved as Mattie? Her visit
to Hadleigh is doing wonders for her. Last evening I could hardly help
looking at her. She holds herself so much better, and her dresses are
so pretty and well made. I never knew before that her figure was so
nice."
"Yes, indeed; she is wonderfully improved," returned Grace.
But she said the words mechanically. Her mother's speech had touched a
sore place in her memory. She knew who had transformed Mattie's
dowdiness into comeliness and neatness. She might be an ordinary
little woman in the world's opinion, but in the eyes of her family she
was quite another Mattie. Those tasteful dresses had been made by
those Challoners of whom Mattie spoke so much and Archie so little.
Mrs. Drummond, who had not noticed her daughter's sudden abstraction,
went on in the same satisfied tone:
"She is not pretty, of course,--no one could ever call Mattie that at
the best of times,--but now she has left off making a fright of
herself, and hunching her shoulders with every word, she is quite
passable-looking. I am glad you talked her out of being a bridesmaid.
She would have looked absurd among the girls. But that green surah
just suited her. It was good of Archie to buy her such a pretty dress;
and yours that came from Hadleigh was even prettier, and wonderfully
well made, considering they had only a pattern gown."
"Yes; it fitted admirably;" but Grace spoke without enthusiasm.
Archie, who knew her tastes, had chosen a soft, creamy stuff which he
informed Mattie must be trimmed with no end of lace. Phillis had
received and executed the order with such skill and discernment that a
most ravishing costume had been produced. But Grace, who had her own
ideas on the subject of those "Challoner girls," had received the gift
somewhat coldly, and had even seemed displeased when her father
pinched her ear and told her that Archie's gown had transformed her
into a princess fit for a fairy-tale. "And there is always a prince
in that, my dear,--eh, Gracie?" continued the lucky father, who could
afford to laugh when one of the seven daughters had got a husband. But
Grace would have nothing to do with the jest. She even got up a little
frown, like her mother's on similar occasions.
"Archie is so generous, dear old fellow!" continued Mrs. Drummond,
breaking out afresh after a minute's interval, as she skilfully
manipulated the veil. "That is what I always say. There never was such
a son or brother. Do you think he is overworking, Grace, or that
Mattie really looks after him well? But he strikes me as a little
thin,--and--yes--perhaps a little grave."
Grace's lips closed with an expression of pain. But her mother was
looking at her and she must answer.
"Well, if you ask me, mother," she returned, a little huskily, "I do
not think Archie looks very well, or in his usual spirits; but I am
sure Mattie takes good care of him," she continued, with careful
veracity.
"Humph! I am sorry to find you endorsing my opinion," replied Mrs.
Drummond, thoughtfully. "I hoped you would say it was my fancy. He has
not said anything to you that makes you uneasy?" with a touch of her
old sharpness, remembering that Grace, and not she, was Archie's
confidante; but Grace replied so quickly and decidedly, "Oh, no,
mother; we have not exchanged a word together since he and Mattie
arrived," that her maternal jealousy was allayed.
But the next night, when she was alone with him for a few minutes, she
was struck afresh by the gravity of his look as he sat by the window,
pretending to read, but for the last half-hour he had not turned his
page.
"A penny for your thoughts, my son!" she said, so archly and abruptly
that Archie started, and his brow grew crimson at finding himself
watched.
"Oh, they were nothing particular," he stammered; and then he said
something about the fineness of the evening, and the possibility of
his father coming in in time for a long walk.
But Mrs. Drummond was not to be put off so easily. She left her seat,
where she had been sewing as usual, and came and stood beside him a
moment. He would have jumped up and given her his own chair, but she
pressed his shoulder gently, as though to forbid the movement.
"I like to stand, Archie. Yes, it is a lovely evening; but I think you
ought to ask Grace, and not your father, to accompany you. Grace was
always your companion, you know, and you must not drop old habits too
suddenly." Then Archie saw that his avoidance of Grace had been
marked.
"Very well, I will ask her," he returned; but he showed none of his
old alacrity and spirit in claiming his favorite.
Mrs. Drummond noticed this; and the shade of anxiety on her face grew
deeper.
"Archie, you are not quite your old self with Grace; and I am sure she
feels it. What has come between you, my dear?"
"Why, nothing, mother;" and here he attempted a laugh. "Grace and I
never quarrel, as you know."
"I was not speaking of quarrelling," she returned, in a graver voice;
"but you do not seek her out as you used. Before, when you arrived,
you always disappointed me by shutting yourself up in the school-room,
where no one could get at you; and now Grace tells me she has not had
a word with you these four days."
"Has Grace complained of me, then?"
"You know Grace never complains of you. It was not said in any
fault-finding way. We agreed you were not quite yourself, or in your
usual spirits; and I asked her the reason. Tell me, my son, is there
anything troubling you?" Archie sat silent. Mrs. Drummond was so
rarely demonstrative to her children that even this well-beloved son
had never heard before such chords of tenderness in his mother's
voice; and, looking up, he saw that her keen gray eyes were softened
and moist with tears. "You are not quite yourself, Archie,--not quite
happy?" she went on.
Then he took counsel with himself; and after a moment he answered
her:
"No, mother; you are right. I am not--not quite myself nor quite
happy; but I mean to be both presently." And then he looked up in her
face pleadingly, with an expression of entreaty that went to her
heart, and continued: "But my own mother will not pain me by
unnecessary questions that I could not answer." And then she knew that
his will was that she should be silent.
"Very well," she returned, with a sigh. "But you will tell me one
thing, will you not, my dear! Is it--is it quite hopeless?" her
mother's instinct, like that of the Eastern Caliph, immediately
suggesting a woman in the case.
"Quite--quite hopeless!--as dead as this!" bringing down his hand on a
large defunct moth. "Talking will not bring to life, or help a man, to
carry a real burden."
Then, as she kissed him, she knew that his pain had been very great,
but that he meant to bear it with all the strength he could bring.
Grace went up to prepare for her walk that evening with no very
pleasurable anticipations. Her mother had given her Archie's message
in due form, as she sat somewhat sadly by the school-room window,
mending a frock Dottie had just torn.
"Archie wants you to go out with him, Grace," Mrs. Drummond said, as
she came in, in her usual active bustling way. "The grass never grew
under her feet," as she was often pleased to observe. "Loitering and
lagging make young bones grow prematurely old," she would say, coining
a new proverb for the benefit of lazy Susie. "Never measure your
footsteps when you are about other people's business," she would say
to Laura, who hated to be hunted up from her employment for any
errand. "He thinks of going over to Blackthorn Farm, as it is so fine;
and the walk will do you good," continued Mrs. Drummond, with a keen
look at her daughter's pale face. "Give me Dottie's frock: that little
monkey is always getting into mischief." But Grace yielded her task
reluctantly.
"Are you sure he wishes me to go, mother?"
"Quite sure," was the brief answer; but she added no more.
Silence was ever golden to this busy, hard-working mother. She was
generally sparing of words. Grace, who saw that her mother was bent on
her going, made no further demur; but, as she put on her
walking-things, she told herself that Archie was only making a virtue
of necessity. He was so little eager for her society that he had not
sought her himself, but had sent her a message. Ever since his return,
no light-springing footsteps had been heard on the uncarpeted stairs
leading to the school-room. He had forsaken their old haunt, where
they had once talked so happily, sitting hand in hand on the old
window-seat.
Grace felt herself grievously wounded. For months a barrier had been
between her and Archie. He had written seldom; and his letters, when
they came, told her nothing. In manner he was kindness itself. That
there was no change in his affection was evident; but the key to his
confidence was mislaid. He had withdrawn himself into some inner
citadel, where he seemed all at once inaccessible, and her sisterly
soul was vexed within her.
He met her at the door with his usual smile of welcome.
"That is right, Grace; you have not kept me long waiting," he said,
pleasantly, as she came towards him; and then, as they walked down
Lowder Street, he commenced talking at once. He had so much to tell
her, he said; and here Grace's pulses began to throb expectantly; but
the eager light died out of her face when he went on to detail a long
conversation he had had with his mother the previous night. Was that
all? she thought. Was the longed-for confidence still to be withheld?
Archie did not seem to notice her silence: he rattled on volubly.
"I think we were hard on the mother, Gracie, you and I," he said.
"After all, I believe she was right in not giving us our own way in
the spring."
"I am glad you think so," replied Grace, coldly. Archie winced at her
tone, but recovered himself, and went on gayly:
"It does one good sometimes to have one's wishes crossed; and, after
all, it was only fair that poor Mattie, being the eldest, should have
her turn. She does her best, poor little soul! and, though I find her
terribly trying sometimes, I can hold out pretty patiently until
Christmas; and then mother herself suggested that you should take her
place at the vicarage."
"I! oh, no, Archie!" And here the color flushed over Gracie's face,
and her eyes filled with tears. The news was so unexpected,--so
overwhelming. Another time the sweetness of it would have filled her
with rapture. But now! "Oh, no, no!" she cried, in so vehement a tone
that her brother turned in surprise, and something of her meaning came
home to him.
"Wait a moment," he said, deprecatingly. "I have not finished yet what
I want to say. Mother said Mattie was greatly improved by her visit,
and that she was infinitely obliged to me for yielding to her wish.
She told me plainly that it was impossible to have spared you
before,--that you were her right hand with the girls, and that even
now your loss would be great."
"I do not mean to leave mother," returned Grace, in a choked voice.
"Not if I want you and ask you to come?" he replied, with reproachful
tenderness, "Why, Grace, what has become of our old compact?"
"You do not need me now," she faltered, hardly able to speak without
weeping.
"We will talk of that by and by," was the somewhat impatient answer.
"Just at this minute I want to tell you all the mother said on the
subject. Facts before feelings, please," with a touch of sarcasm; but
he pointed it with a smile. "You see, Grace, Isabel's marriage makes a
difference. There is one girl off my father's hands. And then the boys
are doing so well. Mother thinks that in another three months Clara
may leave the school-room; she will be seventeen then, and, as Ellis
has promised her a course of music-lessons, to develop her one talent,
you may consider her off your hands."
"Clara will never do me credit," returned his sister, mournfully: "she
works steadily and takes pains, but she was never as clever as
Isabel."
"No; she is no shining light, as mother owns; but she will play
beautifully, if she be properly trained. Well, as to the other girls,
it appears that my father has decided to accept my offer of sending
Susie to a first-class boarding-school; and, as he has determined to
do the same for Laura, there is only Dottie for Mattie to manage or
mismanage. So you see, Gracie, your school-room drudgery is over.
Mother herself, by her own will, has opened the prison-doors."
He spoke in a light jesting tone, but Grace answered, almost
passionately,--
"I tell you no, Archie! I no longer wish it so; it is too late: things
are now quite different."
"What do you mean?" he returned, with a long steady look that seemed
to draw out her words in spite of her resolve not to speak them.
"I mean that things are changed--that you no longer need me, or wish
me to live with you."
"I need you more," he returned, calmly; "perhaps I have never needed
you so much. As for living with me, is it your desire to condemn me to
an existence of perfect loneliness?--for after Christmas Mattie leaves
me. You are mysterious, Grace; you are not your old self."
"Oh, it is you that are not yourself!" she retorted, in a tone of
grief. "Why have you avoided me? why do you withhold your confidence?
why do your letters tell me nothing? and then you come and are still
silent."
"What is it that you would have me tell you?" he asked; but this time
he did not look her in the face.
"I would know this thing that has come between us and robbed me of
your confidence. You are ill at ease; you are unhappy, Archie! You
have never kept a trouble from me before: it was always I who shared
your hopes and fears."
"You may still share them. I am not changed, as you imagine Grace. All
that I can tell you I will, even if you demand it in that
'money-or-your-life' style, as you are doing now," trying to turn it
off with a jest.
"Oh, Archie!"
"Well, what of Archie, now?"
"That you should laugh away my words! you have never done that
before."
"Very well, I will be serious; nay, more, I will be solemn. Grace, I
forbid you ever to mention this thing again, on pain of my bitter
displeasure!"
Then, as she looked at him, too much startled to answer, he went on:
"A man has a right to his own thoughts, if he choose to keep them to
himself and his Maker. There are some things with which even you may
not meddle, Grace. What if my life holds a grief which I would bury
from all eyes but my own? would you tear up the clods with unhallowed
fingers? To no living person but my Saviour"--and here Archie looked
up with reverent eyes--"will I speak of this thing." Then she clung to
his arm, and tears flowed over her cheeks.
"Oh, Archie! forgive me! forgive me! I never meant to hurt you like
this; I will not say another word!"
"You have not hurt me," he returned, striving after his old manner,
"except in refusing to live with me. I am lonely enough, God knows!
and a sister who understands me, and with whom I could have sympathy,
would be a great boon."
"Then I will come," she replied; drying her eyes. "If you want me, I
will come, Archie."
"I do want you; and I have never told you anything but the truth. But
you must come and be happy, my dear. I want you, yourself, and not a
grave, reticent creature who has gone about the house the last few
days, looking at me askance, as though I had committed some deadly
sin."
Then the dimple showed itself in Grace's cheek.
"Have I really been so naughty, Archie?"
"Yes, you have been a very shadowy sort of Grace; but I give you full
absolution, only don't go and do it any more." And, as she looked at
him with her eyes full of sorrowful yearning, he went on, hastily:
"Oh, I am all right, and least said is soonest mended. I am like the
dog in Æsop's fable, who mistook the shadow for the substance. A poor
sort of dog, that fellow. Well, is your poor little mind at rest,
Grace?" And the tone in which she said "Yes" seemed to satisfy him,
for he turned their talk into another channel.
When Mrs. Drummond saw her daughter's face that evening, she knew the
cloud had passed between the brother and sister.
Grace followed her to her room that night,--a thing she had not done
for months.
"Mother, I must thank you for being so good to us," she began,
impulsively, as soon as she had crossed the threshold.
"How have I been good to you, Grace?" observed her mother, calmly, as
she unfastened her brooch. "Of course, I have always tried to be good
to my children, although they do not seem to think so."
"Ah, but this is very special goodness: and I am more grateful than I
can say. Are you sure you will be able to spare me, mother?"
"After Christmas?--oh, yes: things will be possible then. If I
remember rightly, I had to endure some very bitter words from you on
this very subject. I hope you will do justice to my judgment at that
time."
"Yes, mother," with downcast eyes. "I am afraid Archie and I were very
wilful."
"You were wilful, Grace,"--for Mrs. Drummond never suffered any one to
find fault with her son in her hearing,--"you who ought to have known
better. And yet I do believe that, but for my determination to enforce
the right thing, you would have left your post, and all your duties,
because Archie wanted you."
"I was wrong. I see that plainly."
"Yes, you were wrong: for a long time you bore yourself towards me as
no daughter ought to bear herself to her mother. You angered me
sorely, Grace, because I saw you were hardening yourself against me,
only because I insisted that no child of mine should neglect her
duty."
"Mother, surely I am humbling myself now?"
"True; but how long have I waited for this confession? Night after
night I have said to myself, 'Surely Grace will come and tell me that
she feels herself in the wrong!' But no such words came. At last I
ceased to hope for them; and now at this eleventh hour you can hardly
expect me to show much joy at hearing them spoken."
Then Grace's head drooped, and she was silent. She knew she deserved
all these hard words, bitter as they were to bear; but Mrs. Drummond
had said her say.
"Well, well, better late than never; and we will say no more about it.
Next time you will understand me better, Grace."
Then, as her mother kissed her, Grace knew that her sin was condoned.
Nevertheless, as she left the room a few minutes later, her heart was
not quite so light in her bosom; she felt that her mother had been
just, but hardly generous.
"I thought mothers forgave more easily," she said to herself, in
somewhat aggrieved fashion. She had no idea that her mother was
equally disappointed.
Mrs. Drummond was a hard, but not an unloving woman; and she would
have liked more demonstration from her daughters. If Grace, for
example, instead of all these words, had thrown herself into her arms
and owned herself in the wrong, with a child-like pleading for
forgiveness, Mrs. Drummond would have felt herself satisfied, and
would have pressed her to her bosom with a loving word or two that
Grace would have remembered when her mother was in her grave. But such
outward forms of tenderness were not possible to Mrs. Drummond's
daughters: for in such matters we must reap as we sow; and Mrs.
Drummond's manner hardly merited softness. For there are mothers and
mothers; and the world must produce its Drummonds and its Challoners
until the end of time.