"COME, NOW, I CALL THAT HARD."
Phillis was unusually silent during the remainder of the evening; but,
as she bade Nan good-night at the door of her little room, she
lingered a moment, shading the flame of her candle with her hand.
"Do you think Mattie will bring her sister round to see us,
to-morrow?" she asked, in a very low tone.
"Oh, yes,--I am sure I hope so," returned Nan, sleepily, not noticing
the restrained eagerness of Phillis's manner. "We can hardly call
first, under our present circumstances. Mr. Drummond knows that." And
Phillis withdrew, as though she were satisfied with the answer.
Nothing more was said on the subject; and they settled themselves to
their work as usual on the following morning, Dulce chattering and
singing snatches of songs,--for she was a most merry little soul,--Nan
cheerful and ready for conversation with any one; but Phillis withdrew
herself to the farthest window and stitched away in grave silence.
And, seeing such was her mood, her sisters wisely forbore to disturb
her.
At twelve o'clock the gate-bell sounded, and Dulce, who hailed any
interruption as a joyful reprieve, announced delightedly that Mattie
and a tall young lady were coming up the flagged walk; and in an
instant Phillis's work lay untouched on her lap.
"Are you all here? Oh, dear, I am so glad," exclaimed Mattie, bustling
into the room with a radiant face. "I have brought Grace to see you;
she arrived last night." And in a moment the young stranger was
surrounded and welcomed most cordially.
Phillis looked at her curiously for a moment: indeed, during the whole
visit her eyes rested upon Grace's face from time to time, as though
she were studying her. She had heard so much of this girl that she had
almost feared to be disappointed in her; but every moment her interest
increased.
Grace Drummond was not a pretty girl,--with the exception of Isabel
and the boys, the Drummond family had not the slightest pretension to
beauty,--but she was fair and tranquil-looking, and her expression was
gentle and full of character. She had very soft clear eyes, with a
trace of sadness in them; but her lips were thin--like her
mother's--and closed firmly, and the chin was a little massively cut
for a woman.
In looking at the lower part of this girl's face, a keen observer
would read the tenacity of a strong will; but the eyes had the
appealing softness that one sees in some dumb creatures.
They won Phillis at once. After the first moment, her reserved manner
thawed and became gracious; and before half an hour had passed she and
Grace were talking as though they had known each other all their
lives.
Nan watched them smilingly as she chatted with Mattie: she knew her
sister was fastidious in her likings, and that she did not take to
people easily. Phillis was pleasant to all her friends and
acquaintances: but she was rarely intimate with them, as Nan and Dulce
were wont to be. She held her head a little high, as though she felt
her own superiority.
"Phillis is very amusing and clever; but one does not know her as well
as Nan and Dulce," even Carrie Paine had been heard to say; and
certainly Phillis had never talked to Carrie as she did to this
stranger.
Grace was just as must charmed on her side. On her return, she
delighted and yet pained her brother by her warm praises of his
favorites.
"Oh, Archie!" she exclaimed, as they sat at luncheon in the old
wainscoted dining-room at the vicarage, "you are quite right in saying
the Challoners are not like any other girls. They are all three so
nice and pretty; but the second one--Miss Phillis--is most to my
taste."
Archie checked an involuntary exclamation, but Mattie covered it.
"Dear me, Grace!" she observed, innocently; "I rather wonder at your
saying that. Nan is by far the prettiest: is she not, Archie? Her
complexion and coloring are perfect."
"Oh, yes! If you are talking of mere looks, I cannot dispute that,"
returned Grace, a little impatiently; "but, in my opinion, there is
far more in her sister's face: she has the beauty of expression, which
is far higher than that of form or coloring. I should say she has far
more character than either of them."
"They are none of them wanting in that," replied Archie, breaking up
his bread absently.
"No; that's just what I say: they are perfectly unlike other girls.
They are so fresh, and simple, and unconscious, that it is quite a
pleasure to be with them: but if I were to choose a friend from among
them I should certainly select Miss Phillis." And to this her brother
made no reply.
"They are all so pleased about Tuesday," interrupted Mattie, at this
point,--"Nan was so interested and amused about my grand tea-party, as
she called it. They have all promised to come, only Mrs. Challoner's
cold will not allow her to go out this severe weather. And then we met
Sir Harry, and I introduced him to Grace, and he will be delighted to
come too. I wish you would let me ask Miss Middleton and her brother,
Archie; and then we should be such a nice little party."
"How can you be so absurd, Mattie?" returned Archie, with a touch of
his old irritability. "A nice confusion you would make, if you were
left to arrange things! You know the colonel's one object in life is
to prevent his son from having any intercourse with the Challoners;
and you would ask him to meet them the first evening after his arrival
in the place."
"Is the father so narrow in his prejudices as that?" asked Grace, who
had quite forgotten her own shocked feelings when she first heard that
Archie was visiting a family of dressmakers on equal terms.
"Oh, dear! I forgot," sighed Mattie, taking her brother's blame
meekly, as usual. "How very stupid of me! But would you not like the
Cheynes or the Leslies invited, Archie? Grace ought to be introduced
to some of the best people."
"You may leave Grace to me," returned her brother, somewhat haughtily:
"I will take care of her introductions. As for your tea-party, Mattie,
I shall be much obliged if you will keep it within its first
limits,--just the Challoners and Sir Harry. If any one be asked, it
ought to be Noel Frere: he has rather a dull time of it, living alone
in lodgings,"--the Rev. Noel Frere being a college chum of Archie's,
who had come down to Hadleigh to recruit himself by a month or two of
idleness. "Perhaps we had better have him, as there will be so many
ladies."
"Oh, yes,--of course! He is so nice and clever," observed Grace, not
noticing the shade on Mattie's face. "How pleased you must be to have
him staying here so long, Archie!--you two were always such
friends."
"He comes nearly every evening," returned Mattie, disconsolately. "He
may suit you, Grace, because you are clever yourself; but I am
dreadfully afraid of him, he is so dry and sarcastic. Must he really
be asked for Tuesday, Archie?"
"Yes, indeed: you ought to have thought of him first. I am sorry for
your bad taste, Mattie, if you do not like Frere: he is a splendid
fellow, though terribly delicate, I fear. Now, Gracie, if we have
finished luncheon, I should like you to put on your wraps, and I will
show you some of my favorite haunts; and perhaps we shall meet
Frere."
Grace hesitated for a moment. She thought Archie would have included
Mattie in his invitation; but he did nothing of the kind, and she knew
him too well to suggest such a thing.
"Good-bye, Mattie dear. I hope you will have some tea ready for us
when we come back," she said, kissing her sister affectionately; but
they neither of them noticed the pained wistfulness of Mattie's look
as the door closed upon them.
They were going out without her; and on Grace's first day, too. Archie
was going to show her the church, and the schools, and the model
cottages where his favorite old women lived,--all those places that
Mattie had visited and learned to love during the eight months she had
lived with her brother. In a few weeks she must say good-bye to them
all, and go back to the dull old house at Leeds, to be scolded by her
mother for her awkward ways, and to be laughed at and teased by her
brothers and sisters. Archie was bad enough sometimes, but then he was
Archie, and had a right to his bad humors; but with the boys and girls
it was less endurable. It was, "Oh, you stupid old Matt! Of course it
was all your fault;" or, "Mattie, you goose!" from Fred; or, "You
silly child, Mattie" from her father, who found her a less amusing
companion than Grace; and even Dottie would say, "Oh, it is only
Mattie: I never care if she scolds me."
The home atmosphere was a little depressing, Mattie thought, with a
sigh, dearly as she loved her young torments. She knew she would find
it somewhat trying after these eight months of comparative freedom.
True, Archie had snubbed her and kept her in order; but one tyrant is
preferable to many. At home the thirty-years-old Mattie was only one
of the many daughters,--the old maid of the family,--the unattractive
little wall-flower who was condemned to wither unnoticed on its stalk.
Here, in her brother's vicarage, she had been a person of consequence,
whom only the master of the house presumed to snub.
The maids liked their good-natured mistress, who never found fault
with them, and who was so bustling and clever a little housekeeper.
The poor people and the school-children liked Mattie too. "Our Miss
Drummond" they called her for a long time, rather to Grace's
discomfiture. "Ah, she is a rare one, when a body is low!" as old
Goody Saunders once said.
And Archie's friends respected the little woman, in spite of her
crudities and decidedly odd ways. Miss Middleton and the Challoners
were quite fond of her. So no wonder Mattie grew low at the thought of
leaving her friends.
Grace had come to take her place. Nevertheless, she had welcomed her
on the previous evening with the utmost cheerfulness and
unselfishness. She had shown her the house; she had introduced her to
the Challoners; she had overwhelmed her with a thousand little
attentions; and Grace had not been ungrateful.
"I am afraid this is hard for you, Mattie," Grace had said to her, as
the sisters were unpacking late the previous night. "I ought not be so
happy to come, when I know I am turning you out." And Mattie had
winked away a tear, and answered, quite cheerily,--
"Oh, no, Grace; you must not feel that. I have had a nice time, and
enjoyed myself so much with dear Archie, and now it is your turn; and,
you know, he has always wanted you from the first."
"Poor dear fellow!" murmured Grace; "but he looks thin, Mattie.
Perhaps I ought to be here, as he wants me; but I shall never keep his
house as beautifully as you have done. Mother would be astonished if
she saw it." And this piece of well-deserved praise went far to
console Mattie that night.
But she began to feel just a little sore at breakfast-time. Once or
twice, Archie decidedly ignored her, and turned to Grace; he even
brought her his gloves to mend, though Mattie had been his faithful
mender all these months.
"Come into the study, and we will have a talk, Grace," he had said,
and as Grace had involuntarily waited for her sister to accompany
them, he had-added, hastily: "Oh, Mattie is always busy at this time
with butchers and bakers! Come along, Grace:" and, though Mattie had
no such business on her hands, she dared not join them.
It was only when a parish meeting called the young vicar away that
Mattie bethought herself of the Challoners.
Poor Mattie! Low spirits were not much in her line. She had never
thought enough of herself to indulge in the luxury of wounded
susceptibility,--the atmosphere that surrounded her had been too rough
and bracing for that; but nevertheless this afternoon she longed to
indulge in a good cry. Happily, however, before the first tear had
begun to redden her eyelids--indeed, she hardly got her mouth into the
proper pucker--a vigorous pull at the bell warned her of an impending
visitor, and immediately afterwards Sir Harry marched into the room,
looking ruddier than ever with the cold air and exercise, his warm
coloring kindling a glow in the room.
His heavy footsteps shook the old flooring of the vicarage; but as he
greeted Mattie he looked round him, as though somewhat surprised to
find her alone.
"How do you do, Miss Mattie? Why, what have you done with your
sister?" he asked, in rather a disappointed tone. "I came to have a
chat with you both."
Another little sting for Mattie: he had only come to see Grace.
"She has gone out with Archie," she returned, in a subdued voice. "He
is showing her the church and the schools."
"I was up at the Friary just now," he said, carelessly, "and they were
all talking about your sister, praising her up to the skies. What an
odd capacity women have for falling in love with each other at first
sight! Phillis especially seemed very far gone. So I told them I would
just come and have a good look at this paragon: one cannot judge of a
person in a hat and veil."
"I am sure you will like Grace," replied Mattie, reviving a little at
the idea of her sister's perfections. "She is not pretty, exactly,
though Archie and I think her so; but she is so nice and clever. Oh,
you should hear those two talk! it is perfectly wonderful to listen to
them!"
"It strikes me you are a little left out in the cold, aren't you, Miss
Mattie?" asked Sir Harry, with one of his shrewd good-humored looks.
"Why did you not go out with them?"
"Oh, Archie never wants me when he has Grace," answered Mattie, with a
sudden pang at the truthfulness of this speech. "They have always been
so much to each other, those two."
"He would want you fast enough if Miss Grace--is that not her
name?--were to marry and leave him to shift for himself," was the
somewhat matter-of-fact answer.
But Mattie shook her head at this with a faint smile:
"Grace will never marry. She would not leave Archie."
"Oh, but that is nonsense, do you know?--sheer nonsense! Many girls
talk like that, but they change their mind in the end. Why, the parson
may marry himself. You don't suppose a good looking fellow like that
intends to be an old bachelor? And then what will Miss Grace do?"
"I don't know. I am afraid she will miss him dreadfully."
"Oh, but she will get over it all right. It does not do to make a fuss
over that sort of thing. Sentimentality between brothers and sisters
is all very well in its way, but it won't hold against a wife's or
husband's claims. I never had any myself, so I don't know; but I find
it precious lonely without them. That is why I have adopted my
cousins. A man must care for some one."
"Yes, indeed," echoed Mattie, with a sigh.
"I am afraid your people do not use you very well, Miss Mattie," he
went on, with cheerful sympathy that was quite a cordial in its way.
"You look a bit down this afternoon; a fellow would call it in the
blues, and he would be thinking of a cigar and brandy-and-soda. What a
pity women don't smoke! it is no end soothing to the spirits!"
"We have got afternoon tea," returned Mattie, beginning to smile at
this.
"Well, why don't you ring and order some?" he replied, quite
seriously. "Do, please, Miss Mattie, if it will put a little heart
into you. Why, I should like a cup myself uncommonly. There never was
such a fellow for afternoon tea." And then Mattie did ring the bell,
and, Sir Harry having stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze, and the
little brass kettle beginning to sing cheerily on its trivet, things
soon looked more comfortable.
"Now you are all right," he remarked, presently. "You look quite a
different sort of body now. When I first came in you reminded me of
Cinderella in a brown dress, sitting all alone, by a very black fire.
I do believe you were on the verge of crying. Now, weren't you, Miss
Mattie?" And Mattie, with much shame, owned to the impeachment.
"And what was it all about, eh?" he asked, with such a coaxing
peremptoriness that Mattie confessed that she was rather dull at the
thought that nobody wanted her, and that she must go home; and, on
being further pressed and questioned, out it all came,--Mattie's
shortcomings, her stupid ways, and the provocation she offered to home
criticism. Sir Harry listened and laughed, and every now and then
threw in a jesting remark; but so encouraging was his manner and so
evident his interest that Mattie found herself talking as she had
never done to any one but Miss Middleton. Before she had finished, Sir
Harry knew all about the household in Lowder Street, and had formed a
tolerable estimate of every member of the family,--the depressed
father; the care-worn and some what stern mother; the boys, clever and
handsome and flippant; the girls in all stages of awkwardness; and the
quiet, talented Grace, who was every one's right hand, and who had
come to the vicarage to dispossess Mattie.
"Come, now, I call that hard; I do, upon my word!" he repeated more
than once at the end of Mattie's little narrative. "Women have a lot
put upon them. I dare say if I had had sisters I should have bullied
them sometimes. Men are awful tyrants, aren't they, Miss Mattie?"
Mattie took this literally.
"I do not think you would be a tyrant, Sir Harry," she returned,
simply, and then wondered why he suddenly colored up to the roots of
his hair.
"Oh, there is no knowing," he replied, in an embarrassed tone. "I have
never had any one to bully. I think I shall try my hand on Dulce, only
she is such a little spit-fire. Well, I must be going," he went on,
straightening himself. "By the bye, I shall not see you again until
Tuesday; I have to run over to Oldfield about a lot of business I have
in hand. Do you know Oldfield?"
"Oh, no; but Nan and Phillis have described it so often that I seem as
though I have been there."
"It is a niceish place, and I am half inclined to settle there myself;
there is a house going that would just suit me."
Mattie's face lengthened: she did not like the idea of losing Sir
Harry, he had been so good-natured and kind to her.
"One would never see you if you live at Oldfield," she said, a little
sorrowfully; and again Sir Harry looked embarrassed.
"Oh, but you will be at Leeds, so it won't make much difference. But I
do not want to be parted from Aunt Catherine and the girls: there is a
great deal to arrange. Perhaps, before you go, I shall be able to tell
you that things are settled. Anyhow, good-bye till Tuesday." And then
he nodded to her in a friendly way, and Mattie returned to her
fireplace refreshed and comforted.
Archie and Grace came in presently, bringing another current of cold
air with them. They both looked bright and happy, as though they had
enjoyed their walk. Grace's pale cheeks had the loveliest tinge in
them.
"Have we left you too long alone, Mattie dear?" she asked, as she took
the cup of tea offered her. "How cosy this dear old room looks! and
what a beautiful fire!"
"Sir Harry has been emptying the coal-scuttle!" laughed Mattie. "What
a pity you missed him, Grace! he has been so amusing."
Grace smiled incredulously:
"Why, that great big Sir Harry Challoner whom you introduced this
morning! my dear Mattie, I am sure he could never be amusing. I was
not greatly prepossessed with him."
"Mattie's geese are all swans. I don't think much of him myself,"
broke in Archie, in a satirical voice. "I like quality better than
quantity. He is so big, I am sure his brains must suffer by
comparison. Now, there is Frere."
"Oh, yes, we met Mr. Frere!" interrupted Grace, eagerly; "and Archie
and he had such a talk: it was delightful only to listen to it. I
liked his ideas on ecclesiastical architecture, Archie." And then
followed an animated discussion between the sister and brother, about
a book of Ruskin's that they had both been reading. Mattie tried to
follow them; but she had not read Ruskin, and they soon left her miles
behind; indeed, after the first few minutes they seemed to have
forgotten her existence; but somehow Mattie did not feel so forlorn as
usual.
"Come, now, I call that hard," a sympathizing voice seemed to say in
her ear. Sir Harry's genial presence, his blunt, kindly speeches, had
done Mattie good: he had called her Cinderella, and made the fire
blaze for her, and had coaxed her in quite a brotherly manner to tell
him her little troubles and Mattie felt very grateful to him.
So she stared into the fire wistful and happy, while the others talked
over her head, and quite started when she heard her own name.
"We are forgetting Mattie; all this must be so dull for her," Grace
was saying, as she touched her shoulder caressingly. "Come upstairs
with me, dear: we can have a chat while we get ready for dinner. You
must not let your friends make themselves so much at home, you
extravagant child, for your fire is far too large for comfort;" but
Mattie turned away from it reluctantly as she followed her sister out
of the room.