TEMPERS.
IF Archie had been a little less angry, I do not think he would have
seriously entertained the idea of going to Woodbine Cottage that
afternoon, despite his threat. For it was not commonly his way to run
straight in the teeth of his mother's wishes.
But being for once thoroughly vexed, he marched off in that direction,
determined to assert his independence.
When near the cottage, it occurred to him that the Dunns would not yet
have finished their dinner. So he went for a good round first, walking
fast, and doing his best to keep up his indignation at fever-heat.
This proved not quite easy. Archie could get into a passion, and could
say or do angry words or deeds; but he never could remain long annoyed.
Mrs. Stuart, after being vexed, would spend hours in a sullen mood. Not
so Archie. He never could sulk.
By the time he had performed a certain round, and was drawing once
more near to Woodbine Cottage, he began to wonder whether he really
would go in. He did not like to remember his mother sitting alone
at home,—alone, and doubtless unhappy. The thought made him feel
uncomfortable. What if he were to return, and try to put her into a
better humour?
But perhaps, if he did, she would still refuse to speak. Or if she
spoke, she might insist on his promising never to see the Dunns.
"No, no; I'm not going to do that," Archie said, almost aloud.
Then, looking up, he found himself close to the gate of Woodbine
Cottage; and he saw Dunn issuing therefrom, with a little boy and girl,
one on each side of him.
"How d'ye do again?" Dunn said kindly. "I'm off with these young 'uns
to the Sunday school. It's their first time of going, and they're a
morsel shy,—eh, Dick and Susie?"
"I'm not shy," asserted Dick; "I could take care of Susie."
"So you could, I don't doubt; but Susie don't think so. You'll find my
wife inside, if you've a thought of going in," added Dunn to Archie.
"Well, I did half think of it," said Archie hesitatingly. "She told me
to come some time, you know."
"So she did, lad,—you're quite right. We're not much of folks for
gadding in and out of neighbours' houses all Sunday; but you're
different to anybody and everybody. You've made your self, in a sort,
one of us. She will be glad enough to see you, I make no doubt. Come
along, Susie and Dick,—we mustn't be late. Yes, yes; go in, Stuart."
And Archie went,—not fully resolved yet in his own mind, but hardly
knowing now how to get out of it.
Susan Dunn herself opened the door, and led Archie into the cosy
parlour, which was always used on Sundays. But Nancy was not there, as
Archie had expected and hoped. A book lay open on the table, and Susan
had plainly been alone, reading.
"Sit down, won't you?" she said, in a kind manner. "I'm so glad to see
you here at last. You meant to come before, didn't you? My husband's
gone to see the children to Sunday school. It's a new place to them,
and Susie was afraid. And Nannie's gone to the Rectory. She wanted to
hear of a Bible class on Sunday afternoons, that she could go to; and
I asked Mr. Wilmot this morning if there wasn't one. I met him just a
little while before we all came on you, and I asked him, and he said
Nannie was to go and talk it over with Miss Wilmot. We are glad of
that, for somebody told us Miss Wilmot was a very sweet young lady."
"Yes, so she is," observed Archie. "She comes to see mother once in a
way."
Susan looked at Archie, then out of the window, then back again at
Archie.
"Your mother don't come to see me?" she said at length.
Archie reddened somewhat. "I wish she would, Mrs. Dunn. I've tried my
best. I can't get her to come."
"Don't she want to know us?"
Archie said "No," involuntarily. Then it struck him that perhaps Susan
might feel conscientiously bound to carry out Mrs. Stuart's wish, and
might cease to encourage his calling at Woodbine Cottage. "It doesn't
mean anything," he added in some haste. "Mother's got her own notions,
you see; and if she's said a thing, she sticks to it like a leech.
She's got her friends, and I've got mine. We pull along pretty well
together. Sometimes she's angry, and won't speak to me,—like to-day.
But it's not worth bothering about. She's always sure to come round
after a while."
"Has she been vexed to-day?" asked Susan, with a look of trouble and
pity.
"Oh, it's her way, you know," Archie said, assuming a careless air.
"She don't mean anything by it, and I don't take it for more than it's
worth. She wouldn't say a word to me at dinner, so I just walked off
and left her alone. Oh, she'll come round."
Susan was evidently distressed. "I wouldn't," she said in an
undertone,—"I wouldn't do that,—not again."
"But I couldn't sit it out. Nobody could," protested Archie.
"She didn't mean anything by it. You say that yourself," pleaded Susan.
"And she's your mother, and she's been a good mother to you,—hasn't
she? I wouldn't leave her to sit alone, Archie,—may I call you Archie?"
"Yes, do, please," put in Archie.
"I wouldn't leave her there alone,—I wouldn't really," said Susan
again, chiming in with the remonstrances of the young man's own heart.
"Well, I won't," said Archie, after a pause. "I'll go back presently,
and see if she won't like a walk."
"Yes, do. That'll be nice," said Susan. "And if she's put out once in a
way, I wouldn't be put out too! I daresay she's had a deal of trouble
to fight against, and that don't always smooth the temper."
"Well, yea, she's had troubles," admitted Archie. "And she's got
a temper too, no mistake about that. And she'd like to keep me in
leading-strings still, as if I was six years old."
"You're not in leading-strings," said Susan, with a little smile. "But
I do think you're bound to do all you can to please her."
Archie said, "I s'pose so," not very cheerfully. He did not mean to
count himself bound to shun the Dunns. He liked them increasingly, and
he lingered on, hoping for one more glimpse of Nancy. The lingering was
in vain, for Nancy did not appear, and presently Susan said, "I don't
like to seem to hurry you. But won't your mother get impatient?"
"Well, p'raps she will," admitted Archie. Thereupon, he said good-bye,
and walked off.