"HOW DO YOU DO, AUNT CATHERINE?"
One drizzling November morning, Mattie was standing at the hall door,
looking out a little blankly through the open gateway at the prospect
before her,--at the rotting leaves that lay heaped up in the road, and
at the gray, humid sky,--when a very big man suddenly blocked up the
entrance, and startled her dreadfully.
Mattie afterwards described the occurrence very graphically to her
brother:
"He was the biggest man I ever saw in my life, Archie. He looked as
strong as a navvy; and his shoulders reminded me of one of those men
one sees in brewers' drays. And his face was so red, and his hair,
too,--that dreadfully red color, you know, that no one admires; and
his hands, and even his voice, were big."
"What a fascinating description!" laughed Archie. "Upon my word,
Mattie, you are rather tremendous in your language. Well, and what did
the navvy say to you?"
"Oh, he was not a navvy, really! Of course he was a gentleman. He
could not help his big voice, and what he said was nice; but, I assure
you, Archie, he nearly took my breath away;" and so on, and so on, to
the end of her story.
But it was enough to surprise any one whose nerves were not of the
strongest, when one lives in a lonely country road, and the master of
the house is out, to see a gigantic specimen of manhood, not very
carefully dressed, and with hair like a red glory, come suddenly
striding through one's open gate, without "by your leave," or waiting
for any possible permission.
Mattie dropped her umbrella,--for she was dressed in her waterproof,
and her oldest hat, ready for her district-work; and the stranger
picked it up, and handed it to her promptly, and then he removed his
hat politely.
"How do you do, cousin?" he said; and a broad, genial smile revealed a
set of white teeth.
Mattie retreated a step in genuine affright.
"For you know, Archie," she explained afterwards, in her simple way,
"we have no cousins worth mentioning, except Sophy Trinder, who is not
our cousin at all, but mother's; and so you see it sounded so very
odd."
"Very odd indeed," muttered Archie.
"If you please, Mr. Drummond--that is my brother--is out, and I am
going out too," faltered Mattie, who was not a specially heroic little
person, and who decidedly had not got her wits about her just then.
"I do not want Mr. Drummond, whoever he may be. I never heard of him
in my life. I only want my aunt and cousins. Which of them are you,
eh? Why, you must be Nan, I suppose?" And the big man looked down at
her with a sort of supercilious good nature. The name gave Mattie
instant enlightenment.
"Nan!--Oh, you must mean the Challoners!" she exclaimed, with a little
gasp of surprise.
"Yes, of course; I am a Challoner myself. Well, which of them are you,
eh? You are a long time telling me your name." And the new-comer
peered down at her still more curiously, as though he were surprised
to find anything so small and ordinary-looking.
Mattie never looked to advantage in her waterproof. More than once her
brother had threatened to burn the old rag of a thing.
"My name is Mattie Drummond," replied the bewildered Mattie, trying
to speak with dignity,--she never would call herself Matilda, she
hated it so,--"and I live with my brother, who is the clergyman of the
parish. This is the vicarage: if you want the Friary, it is a little
lower down the road."
"Where?" he asked, striding to the gate; and then he came back again,
taking the few steps at a single bound,--so at least it appeared to
Mattie. "Why--why--there is no house at all--only a miserable cottage,
and----"
"That is the Friary," repeated Mattie, decidedly; "but it is not
miserable at all: it is very nice and pretty. The Challoners are very
poor, you know; but their house looks beautiful for all that."
"Oh, yes; I know all about it. I have been down to that place,
Oldfield, where they lived; and what I heard has brought me here like
an express train. I say, Miss Mattie Drummond, if you will excuse
ceremony in a fellow who has never seen his father's country before,
and who has roughed it in the colonies, may I come in a moment and ask
you a few questions about my cousins?"
"Oh, by all means," returned Mattie, who was very good-natured and was
now more at her ease. "You will be very welcome, Mr. Challoner."
"Sir Henry Challoner, at your service," responded that singular
individual with a twinkle of his eye, as Mattie became confused all at
once. "You see," he continued, confidentially, as she led the way
rather awkwardly to her brother's study, hoping fervently that Archie
would come in, "I have been making up my mind to come to England for
years, but somehow I have never been able to get away; but after my
father's death--he was out in Australia with me--I was so lonely and
cut up that I thought I would take a run over to the mother-country
and hunt up my relations. He was not much of a father perhaps; but, as
one cannot have a choice in such matters, I was obliged to put up with
him;" which was perhaps the kindest speech Sir Francis's son could
make under the circumstances.
Mattie listened intelligently, but she was so slightly acquainted with
the Challoners' past history that she did not know they possessed any
relations. But she had no need to ask any questions: the new-comer
seemed determined to give a full account of himself.
"So do you see, Miss Drummond, having made my fortune by a stroke of
good luck, and not knowing quite how to spend it--the father and
mother both gone,--and having no wife or chick of my own, and being
uncommon lonely under the circumstances, I thought I would just run
over and have a look at my belongings. I have a sort of fancy for Aunt
Catherine; she used to write me such pretty letters when I was a
little chap in Calcutta, and tell me about Nan, and Phillis, and--what
was the baby's name?--Dulce. I believe she and the poor old governor
never hit it off: the old man had been a sad sinner in his day. But I
never forgot those letters: and when he was gone, poor old boy! I said
to myself, Now I will go and see Aunt Catherine."
"And you went down to Oldfield, Sir Henry?"
"Eh, what? meaning me, I suppose? but out there they called me Sir
Harry, or Harry mostly, for what was the use of a title there? Oh,
yes, I went down and found out all about them from a chatty little
woman, rather like yourself, and she sent me on here."
"Oh, dear, I am so glad!" exclaimed Mattie, who was now thoroughly
herself: "they will be so pleased to see you, and you will think them
all so charming. I am sure I never saw any one the least like them,
except Grace, and she is not half so pretty as Nan; and as for
Phillis, I admire her even more, she lights up so when she talks."
"Aunt Catherine used to be beautiful," observed Sir Harry, gravely;
for then and afterwards he insisted on that form of address. He was
not English enough or sufficiently stiff for Henry, he would say.
"Oh, dear, yes! she is quite lovely now,--at least Archie and I think
so; and Dulce is the dearest little thing. I am ever so fond of them;
if they were my own sisters I could not love them more," continued
Mattie, with a little gush; but, indeed the girls' gentle high-bred
ways had won her heart from the first.
Sir Harry's eyes positively sparkled with delight; he had pleasant
eyes which redeemed his other features, for it must be confessed he
was decidedly plain.
"I must shake hands with you, Miss Drummond," he said, stretching out
a huge hand, with a diamond ring on it that greatly impressed Mattie.
"We shall be good friends, I see that." And though poor Mattie winced
with pain under that cordial grasp, she hid it manfully.
"Did they tell you at Oldfield how poor they are?" she said, when this
ceremony had been performed, and Sir Harry's face looked more like a
sunset than ever with that benevolent glow on it.
"Oh, yes," he returned, indifferently; "but all that is over now."
"You know they have to work for their living; the girls are
dressmakers," bringing out the news rather cautiously, for fear he
should be shocked; a baronet must be sensitive on such points. But Sir
Harry only laughed.
"Well, they are plucky girls," he said, admiringly; "I like them for
that." And then he asked, a little anxiously, if his aunt sewed gowns
too,--that was how he put it,--and seemed mightily relieved to hear
that she did very little but read to the girls.
"I would not like to hear she was slaving herself at her age," he
remarked, seriously. "Work will not hurt the girls: it keeps them out
of mischief. But now I have come, we must put a stop to all this." And
then he got up and threw back his shoulders, as though he were
adjusting them to some burden; and Mattie, as she looked up at him,
thought again of the brewer's dray.
"I was afraid when he got off his chair he would touch the ceiling,"
she said, afterwards. "He quite stooped of his own accord going
through the study doorway."
When Sir Henry had shaken himself into order, and pulled an end of his
rough red moustache, he said, quite suddenly,--
"As you are a friend of the family, Miss Drummond, I think it would be
as well if you would go with me to the Friary and introduce me in due
form; for, though you would not believe it in a man of my size, I am
painfully shy, and the notion of all these girls, unless I take them
singly, is rather overwhelming." And, though this request took Mattie
a little by surprise, she saw no reason for refusing to do him this
kindness. So she assented willingly, for in her heart Mattie was fond
of a scene. It gave her such a hold on Archie's attention afterwards;
and, to do him justice, when the Challoners were on the _tapis_, he
made a splendid listener.
Sir Henry walked very fast, as though he were in a tremendous hurry;
but he was nervous, poor fellow, and, though he did not like to own as
much to a woman, he would almost have liked to run away, in spite of
his coming all those thousands of miles to see his relations. He had
pressed Mattie into the service to cover his confusion, but the little
woman herself hardly saw how she was needed, for, instead of waiting
for her introduction, or sending in his name or card by Dorothy, he
just put them both aside and stepped into the first room that stood
handy, guided by the sound of voices.
"How do you do, Aunt Catherine?" he said, walking straight up to the
terrified lady, who had never seen anything so big in her life. "I am
Harry,--Harry Challoner, you know,--to whom you used to write when I
was a little slip of a boy."
A strange queen in a hive of bees could not have produced more
confusion. Dulce stopped her sewing-machine so suddenly that her
thread broke; Phillis, who was reading aloud, let her book fall with
quite a crash; and Nan said, "Oh, dear!" and grew quite pale with
surprise and disappointment: for a moment she thought it was Dick. As
for Mrs. Challoner, who had a right to her nerves from years of
injudicious spoiling and indulgence, and would not have been without
her feelings for worlds, she just clasped her hands and murmured "Good
heavens!" in the orthodox lady-like way.
"Why, yes, Aunt Catherine, I am Harry; and I hope you have not
forgotten the existence of the poor little beggar to whom you were so
kind in the old Calcutta days." And his big voice softened
involuntarily in the presence of this dignified aunt.
"Oh, no, my dear!--no!" touched by his manner, and remembering the
boyish scrawls that used to come to her, signed "Your affectionate
nephew, Harry." "And are you indeed my nephew?--are you Harry?" And
then she held out her slim hand, which he took awkwardly enough.
"Girls, you must welcome your cousin. This is Nan, Harry, the one they
always say is like me; and this is Phillis, our clever one; and this
is my pet Dulce." And with each one did their cousin solemnly shake
hands, but without a smile; indeed, his aspect became almost
ludicrous, until he caught sight of his homely little acquaintance,
Mattie, who stood an amused spectator of this family tableau, and his
red, embarrassed face brightened a little.
"Aunt Catherine was such an awfully grand creature, you know," as he
observed to her afterwards, in a confidential aside: "her manners
make a fellow feel nowhere. And as for my cousins, a prettier lot
of girls I never saw anywhere; and of course, they are as jolly and
up to larks as other girls; but just at first, you know, I had a
bull-in-a-china-shop sort of feeling among them all."
Mrs. Challoner, in spite of her fine manners, was far too nervous
herself to notice her nephew's discomfort. She had to mention a name
that was obnoxious to her, for of course she must ask after his
father. She got him into a chair by her at length, where he stared
into his hat to avoid the bright eyes that seemed to quiz him so
unmercifully.
"And how is Sir Francis?" she asked, uttering the name with languid
interest.
"My father! Oh, did you not know, Aunt Catherine?--he died out in
Sydney a year ago. Poor old fellow! he had a terrible illness. There
was no pulling him through it."
Mrs. Challoner roused up at this:
"Your father dead! Then, Harry, you have come to the title?"
But her nephew burst into a boisterous laugh at this:
"Yes,--a title and an old ruin. A precious heritage, is it not? Not
that I care what people call me. The most important part is that
another fellow--Dalton they call him--and I made a grand hit out in
Sydney. When I saw the money flowing in, I just sent for the poor old
governor to join me; and we did not have a bad time of it, until the
gout took him off. And then I got sick of it all, and thought I would
have a look at England and hunt up my relations."
Sir Harry had blurted out this long speech as he still attentively
regarded the lining of his hat; but, happening to look up, he caught
Phillis's eyes, which were contemplating him. The mischievous look of
fun in them was not to be resisted. Sir Harry first got redder, if
possible; then his own eyes began to twinkle, and finally they both
laughed. And after that the ice was broken, and they got on famously.
The girls chattered to him like magpies. They made Mattie take off her
hat and hideous old waterproof and stay to luncheon. Nan smoothed her
hair, which was sadly ruffled, and Phillis settled her brooch and
collar.
There was only cold mutton in the larder; but what did that matter?
Dulce ran out in the garden and picked dahlias for the table; and Nan
took her mother's keys and drew from the recesses of a dim
sweet-smelling press some dainty napkins and a fine old cloth that
might have suited a princess. There was a bottle of rare Madeira that
remained from their stock of wine; and Dorothy had made a batch of
fresh dinner-rolls. Dorothy was always full of resources in an
emergency.
"Don't fash yourself, Miss Nan," she said, when her young mistress
came into the kitchen. "The cold mutton can't be helped; but we have
got angels in the larder, and I will just pop them into the oven."
Sir Harry roared with laughter when Dorothy's speech was repeated to
him. The little puddings were declared by Mattie to be delicious; but
Sir Harry could scarcely eat his for laughing.
"Who ever heard of baked angels, Aunt Catherine!" he exclaimed, after
another explosion.
"My dear, it is only a name," she returned, mildly. "Will you have
another, Harry? And, Nan, you must pass your cousin the Madeira."
They were all seated round the table in the small parlor. It was felt
to be a triumph when Sir Harry contrived to seat himself without
grazing himself seriously against the chiffonnier or knocking over a
piece of the blue-and-gold china.
"What a cosey little cabin of a place!" he said with critical
approval; "but it is rather small to hold you all,--eh, Aunt
Catherine?"
"Yes: it is small after Glen Cottage," she sighed. "We had such a
pretty drawing-room there."
"And such a lovely garden!" added Dulce.
"Oh, this crib in not fit for you? We will alter all that," he
returned, complacently. "I am the head of the family now, and I must
take my uncle's place. I am awfully rich, Aunt Catherine; so you have
only got to tell me what you and the girls want, you know." And then
he rubbed his hands as though he were pleased about something.
But no one took any notice of this speech, hardly knowing how to treat
it.
When luncheon--which was, indeed, the family dinner--was over, the
girls carried him off to the work-room, and showed him specimens of
their skill.
"Very nice; very well done," he observed, approvingly.
"I am glad you showed such pluck; for why any woman should think it
_infra dig._ to make a gown for another woman quite beats me. Why,
bless you, in the colonies we fellows turned our hands to anything!
Well, Aunt Catherine, they are plucky ones, these girls of yours. But
we must put a stop to this sort of thing, you and I. I don't think my
uncle would have liked it. And as I am in his place----" And here he
thrust aside some amber satin with his great hands, with a movement
full of suggestive possibilities.
He took them all out to walk after that. Mrs. Challoner, indeed,
begged to be excused,--the poor lady was already sadly fatigued, and
longed for her nap,--but he would not dispense with Mattie's company.
"We were acquaintances first," he said to her; "and I look upon you as
a sort of cousin too, Miss Mattie." And poor little Mattie, who had
never met with so much friendliness before, quite blushed and bridled
with pleasure.
Mr. Drummond, who was coming out of his own gate, stood as though
transfixed as the procession came towards him. The four girls were
walking all abreast, Mattie in the middle; and beside them stalked a
huge man, in rough, rather outlandish attire, looking like a son of
the Anakin, or a red-headed Goliath.
Archie stood still in the middle of the road, and Mattie rushed up to
him:
"We are going for a walk. Oh, Archie, I wish you would come too! It
would be such fun!"
"Yes; do come!" cried unconscious Nan, seconding her out of pure good
nature. "Mr. Drummond, this is our cousin, Sir Henry Challoner, who
has just come from Australia; and we have never seen him before." And
then the young clergyman shook hands with him very stiffly, and spoke
a few conventional words.
"They have not a man belonging to them," he had said to himself,
triumphantly, and then that odious Dick had turned up and now this
extraordinary-looking being who called himself Sir Henry Challoner.
Archie took down the "Peerage" when he got home, for he could not be
induced to join the merry party in their walk. He found the name there
all right,--"Henry Fortescue Challoner, son of Sir Francis Challoner,
son of Sir Henry Challoner," and so on. It was an old baronetcy,--one
of the oldest in England,--but the estates had dwindled down to a
half-ruined residence and a few fields. "Challoner Place," as it was
called, was nothing but a heap of mouldering walls; but Mattie had
whispered to him gleefully that he was "awfully rich, and the head of
the family, and unmarried; and he did not mean to let his cousins make
gowns anymore for other people, though they might do it for
themselves."
Mattie never forgot that walk. Never in her life had she enjoyed such
fun. Archie, with his grave face and prim ways, would have spoiled the
hilarity.
First Sir Henry took his cousins to the hotel, where they heard him
order his apartments and dinner: he evidently considered he had not
dined; and there was a good deal of discussion about some game that he
ordered, and a certain brand of champagne that was to his liking.
"If they make me comfortable, I may stop on a goodish bit," he
informed them, "until we have settled where my aunt would like to
live. I shall run up to London every few days, and can do all your
commissions. By the bye, I got some trinkets for you girls on my way
down; we will haul them over when I come up for the cup of coffee Aunt
Catherine promised me this evening."
"Now, Harry, we don't want presents," remarked Phillis, taking him to
task as easily as though she had known him all her life long.
In spite of his bigness, his great burly figure and plain face, there
was something very pleasant about him. He was rough and unpolished,
his dress was careless and of colonial cut; and yet one could not fail
to see he was a gentleman. His boyishness and fun would have delighted
Dick, who was of the same calibre; only Dick was far cleverer, and had
more in his little finger than this great lumbering Harry in his whole
body.
He was slow and clumsy, but his heart and intentions were excellent;
he was full of tenderness for women, and showed a touching sort of
chivalry in his intercourse with them. In some way, his manners were
far finer than those of a New Bond Street gentleman; for he could not
sneer at a woman, he believed in the goodness of the sex, in spite of
much knowledge to the contrary, he could not tell a lie, and he only
cheated himself. This was saying a good deal for the son of that very
black sheep Sir Francis; but, as Sir Harry once simply observed, "his
mother was a good woman:" if this were the case, her husband's vices
must have shortened her life, for she died young.
Phillis was glad when they turned their backs on the town: she found
her cousin's long purse a difficulty: it seemed an impossibility to
get him past the shops.
First, he was sure Aunt Catherine was fond of champagne,--all ladies
liked sweet sparkling things; but he would see about that at the hotel
presently. Then his attention was attracted by some grouse hanging up
at the poulterer's: Aunt Catherine must have some grouse, as he
remembered the cold mutton. Phillis made no objection to the grouse,
for she knew her mother's fondness for game; but she waxed indignant
when partridges and a hare were added, and still more when Sir Harry
ransacked the fruiterers for a supply of the rarest fruit the town
could afford. After this, he turned his attention to cakes and
bonbons; but here Dulce took his part, for she loved bonbons. Phillis
caught Nan by the arm, and compelled her to leave them; but Mattie
deserted her friends, and remained to watch the fun.
Dulce grew frightened at last, and tried to coax her cousin away.
"Oh, no more--no more?" she pleaded. "Phillis and Nan will be so angry
with us."
"I don't see anything more worth getting," returned her cousin,
contemptuously. "What a place this is, to be sure! Never mind, Dulce;
I am going up to London to-morrow, and I will bring you down as many
bonbons as you like from the French place in Regent Street. I will
bring Miss Mattie some too," he continued, as the girls hurried him
along. "And, Dulce, just write out a list of what you girls want; and
I will get them, as sure as my name is Harry."