_ CHAPTER XIV. "YOU CAN DARE TO TELL ME THESE THINGS"
Archibald Drummond had left his mother's presence with a cloud on his brow. He had plenty of filial affection for her, but it was not the first time that he had found her too much for him. She had often angered him before by her treatment of Grace, but he had told himself that she was his mother, that a man could have but one, and so he had brought himself to forgive her. But this time she had set herself against the cherished plan of years. He had always looked forward to the time when he could have Grace to live with him; they had made all sorts of schemes together, and all their talk had concentrated itself towards this point; the disappointment would place a sort of blankness before them; they would be working separately, far away from each other, and the distance would not be bridged for years.
He stood for a moment in the dark, narrow hall, thinking intently over all this, and then he went slowly upstairs. He knew where he should find Grace. His mother had paid an unwonted visit to the school-room during their walk, and on their return had expressed herself with some degree of sharpness on the disorder she had found there. Grace would be busily engaged in putting everything to rights. It was Clara's business, but she had gone out, and had, as usual, forgotten all about it. Grace had taken the blame upon herself, of course: she was always shielding her younger sisters.
Everything was done when he entered the room, and Grace was sitting by the window, with her hands folded in her lap, indulging in a few minutes' rare idleness. She looked up eagerly as her brother made his appearance.
The school-room was a large, bare-looking room at the top of the house, with two narrow windows looking out over a lively prospect of roofs and chimney-pots. Mrs. Drummond had done her utmost to give it an air of comfort, but it was, on the whole, a dull, uncomfortable apartment, in spite of the faded Turkey carpet, and the curtains that had once been so handsome, but had now merged into unwholesome neutral tints.
Laura, who was the wit of the family, had nicknamed it the Hospital, for it seemed to be a receptacle for all the maimed and rickety chairs of the household, footstools in a dilapidated condition, and odd pieces of lumber that had no other place. Archibald regarded it with a troubled gaze; somehow, its dinginess had never before so impressed him; and then as he looked at his sister the frown deepened on his face.
"Well, Archie?"
"Oh, Grace, it is no use! I have talked myself hoarse, but the mother is dead against it: one might as well try to move a rock. We shall have to make up our minds to bear our disappointment as well as we can."
"I knew it was hopeless from the first," returned Grace, slowly; but, as she spoke, a sort of dimness and paleness crept over her face, belying her words.
She was young, and in youth hope never dies. Beyond the gray daily horizon there is always a possible gleam, a new to-morrow; youth abounds in infinite surprises, in probabilities which are as large as they are vague. Grace told herself that she never hoped much from Archie's mission; yet when he came to her with his ill success plainly stamped upon his countenance, the dying out of her dream was bitter to her.
"I knew it was hopeless from the first," had been her answer, and then breath for further words failed her, and she sat motionless, with her hands clasped tightly together, while Archie placed himself on the window-seat beside her and looked out ruefully at the opposite chimneys.
Well, it was all over, this dearly-cherished scheme of theirs; she must go on now with the dull routine of daily duties, she must stoop her neck afresh to the yoke she had long found so galling; this school-room must be her world, she must not hope any longer for wider vistas, for more expansive horizons, for tasks that should be more congenial to her, for all that was now made impossible.
Mattie, not she, must go and keep Archie's house, and here for a moment she closed her eyes, the pain was so bitter; she thought of the old vicarage, of the garden where she and Archie were to have worked, of the shabby old study where he meant to write his sermons, while she was to sit beside him with her book or needlework, of the evenings when he had promised to read to her, of the walks they were to have taken together, of all the dear delightful plans they had made.
And now her mother had said them nay; it was Mattie who was to be his housekeeper, who would sit opposite to him and pour out his coffee, who would mend his socks and do all the thousand-and-one things that a woman delights in doing for the mankind dependent on her for comfort.
Mattie would visit his poor people, and teach in the schools, entertain his friends, and listen to his voice every Sunday; here tears slowly gathered under the closed eyelids. Yes, Mattie would do all that, but she would not be his chosen friend and companion; there would be no long charming talks for her in the study or the sunny garden; he would be as lonely, poor fellow, in his way as she would be in hers, and for this her mother was to blame.
"Well, Gracie, haven't you a word to say?" asked her brother, at last, surprised at her long silence.
"No, Archie; it does not bear talking about," she returned, so passionately that he turned round to look at her. "I must not even think of it. I must try and shut it all out of my mind, or I shall be no good to any one. But it is hard--hard!" with a quiver of her lip.
"I call it a shame for my father and mother to sacrifice you in this way!" he burst out, moved to bitter indignation at the sight of her trouble. "I shall tell my father what I think about it pretty plainly!"
But this speech recalled Grace to her senses.
"Oh, no, dear! you must do no such thing: promise me you will not. It would be no good at all; and it would only make mother so angry. You know he always thinks as she does about things, so it would be no use. I suppose"--with an impatient sigh--"that I ought to feel myself complimented at knowing I cannot be spared. Some girls would be proud to feel themselves their mother's right hand; but to me it does not seem much of a privilege."
"Don't talk in that way, Grace: it makes me miserable to hear you. I am more sorry for you than I am for myself, and yet I am sorry for myself too. If it were not that my mother would be too deeply offended, I would refuse to have Mattie at all. We never have got on well together. She is a good little thing in her way, but her awkwardness and left-handed ways will worry me incessantly. And then we have not an idea in common----" but here Grace generously interposed:
"Poor old fellow! as though I did not know all that; but you must not vent it on poor Mattie. She is not to blame for our disappointment. She would gladly give it up to me if she could. I know she will do her utmost to please you, Archie, and she is so good and amiable that you must overlook her little failings and make the best of her."
"It will be rather difficult work, I am afraid," returned her brother, grimly. "I shall always be drawing invidious comparisons between you both, and thinking what you would do in her place."
"All the same you must try and be good to her for my sake, for I am very fond of Mattie," she returned, gently; but he could not help feeling gratified at the assurance that he would miss her. And then she put her hand on his coat-sleeve, and stroked it, a favorite caress with her. "It does not bear talking about: does it, Archie? It only makes it feel worse. I think it must be meant as a discipline for me, because I am so wicked, and that it would not do at all for me to be too happy." And here she pressed his arm, and looked up in his face, with an attempt at a smile.
"No, you are right: talking only makes it worse," he returned, hurriedly; and then he stooped--for he was a tall man--and kissed her on the forehead just between her eyes, and then walked to the door, whistling a light air.
Grace did not think him at all abrupt in thus breaking off the conversation. She had caught his meaning in a moment, and knew the whole business was so painful to him that he did not care to dwell on it. When the tea-bell rang, she prepared herself at once to accompany him downstairs.
It was Archibald's last evening at home, and all the family were gathered round the long tea-table. Since Mr. Drummond's misfortunes, late dinners had been relinquished, and more homely habits prevailed in the household. Mrs. Drummond had, indeed, apologized to her son more than once for the simplicity of their mode of life.
"You are accustomed to a late dinner, Archie. I wish I could have managed it for you; but your father objects to any alteration being made in our usual habits."
"He is quite right; and I should have been much distressed if you had thought such alteration necessary," returned her son, very much surprised at this reference to his father. For Mrs. Drummond rarely consulted her husband on such matters. In this case, however, she had done so, and Mr. Drummond had been unusually testy--indeed, affronted--at such a question being put to him.
"I don't know what you mean, Isabella," he had replied; "but I suppose what is good enough for me is good enough for Archie." And then Mrs. Drummond knew she had made a mistake, for her husband had felt bitterly the loss of his late dinner. So Archie tried to fall in with the habits of his family, and to enjoy the large plum or seed-cake that invariably garnished the tea-table; and, though he ate but sparingly of the supper, which always gave him indigestion, Grace was his only confidante in the matter. Mr. Drummond, indeed, looked at his son rather sharply once or twice, as though he suspected him of fastidiousness. "I cannot compliment you on your appetite," he would say, as he helped himself to cold meat; "but perhaps our home fare is not so tempting as Oxford living?"
"I always say your meat is unusually good," returned Archibald, amicably. "If there be any fault, it is in my appetite; but that Hadleigh air will soon set right." But, though he answered his father after this tolerant fashion, he always added, in a mental aside, that nine-o'clock suppers were certainly barbarous institutions, and peculiarly deleterious to the constitution of an Oxford fellow.
Mrs. Drummond looked at them both somewhat keenly as they entered. In spite of her resolution, she was secretly uncomfortable at the thought that Archie was displeased with her: her daughter's vexation was a burden that could be more easily borne; but her maternal heart yearned for some token that her boy was not estranged from her. But no such consolation was to be vouchsafed to her. She had kept his usual place vacant beside her; Archie showed no intention of taking it. He placed himself by his father, and began talking to him of a change of ministry that was impending, and which would overthrow the Conservative party. Mrs. Drummond, who was one of those women who can never be made to take any interest in politics, was reduced to the necessity of talking to Mattie in an undertone, for the other boys never put in an appearance at this meal; but as she talked she took stock of Grace's pale, abstracted looks as she sat with her plate before her, not pretending to eat, and taking no notice of Susie and Laura, who chatted busily across her.
It was not a festive meal; on the contrary, there was an unusual air of restraint over the whole party. The younger members felt instinctively that there was something amiss. Archie looked decidedly glum; and there was an expression on the mother's face that they were not slow to interpret. No one could hear what it was she was saying to Mattie that made her look so red and nervous all at once; but presently she addressed herself abruptly to her husband:
"It is all settled, father. I have arranged with Archie that Matilda should go down to Hadleigh next month."
Archie stroked his beard, but did not look up or make any remark, though poor Mattie looked at him beseechingly across the table, as though imploring a word. His mother would carry her point; but he would not pretend for a moment that he was otherwise than displeased, or that Mattie would be welcome.
His silence attracted Mr. Drummond's attention.
"Oh, what, you have settled it, you say? I hope you are satisfied, Archie, and properly grateful to your mother for sparing Mattie. She is to go for a year. Well, it will be a grand change for her. I should not be surprised if you were to pick up a husband, Miss Mattie;" for Mr. Drummond was a man who, in spite of his cares, was not without his joke; but, as usual, it was instantly frowned down by his wife:
"I wonder at you, father, talking such nonsense before the children. Why are you giggling, Laura? It is very unseemly and ill-behaved. I hope no daughter of mine has such unmaidenly notions. Mattie is going to Hadleigh to be a comfort to her brother, and to keep his house as a clergyman's house ought to be kept."
"And you are satisfied, Archie?" asked Mr. Drummond, not quite pleased at his wife's reprimand, and struck anew by his son's silence.
"I consider these questions somewhat unnecessary. You know my wishes, sir, on the subject, and my mother also," was the somewhat uncompromising remark; "but it appears that they are not to be met in this instance. I hope Mattie will be comfortable and not miss her sisters;" but he did not look at the poor girl, and the tears came into her eyes.
"Oh, Archie, I am so sorry! I never meant-----" she stammered; but her mother interrupted her:
"There is no occasion for you to be sorry about anything; you had far better be silent, Mattie. But you have no tact. Father, if you have finished your tea, I suppose you and Archie are going out." And then Archie rose from the table, and followed his father out of the room.
It was Isabel's business to put Dottie to bed. The other girls had to prepare their lessons for the next day, and went up to the school-room. Mattie made some excuse, and went with them, and Mrs. Drummond and Grace were left alone.
Grace had some delicate work to finish, and she placed herself by the lamp. Her mother had returned to her mending-basket; but as the door closed upon Mattie, she cleared her throat, and looked at her daughter.
"Grace, I must say I am surprised at you!"
"Why, mother?" But Grace did not look up from the task she was running with such fine even stitches.
"I am more than surprised!" continued Mrs. Drummond, severely. "I am disappointed to see in what a bad spirit you have received my decision. I did not think a daughter of mine would have been so blind to her sense of duty!"
"I have said nothing to make you think that."
"No, you have said nothing, but looks can be eloquent sometimes. I am not speaking of Archie, though I can see he is put out too, for he is a man, and men are not always reasonable; but that you should place yourself in such silent opposition to my wishes, it is that that shocks me."
There was an ominous sparkle in Grace's gray eyes, and then she deliberately put down her work on the table. She had hoped that her mother would have been contented with her victory, and not have spoken to her on the subject. But if she were so attacked, she would at least defend herself.
"You have no right to speak to me in this way, mother!"
"No right, Grace?" Mrs. Drummond could hardly believe her ears. Never once had a daughter of hers questioned her right in anything.
"No; for I have said nothing to bring all this upon me! I have been perfectly quiet, and have tried to bear the bitterness of my disappointment as well as I could. No one is answerable for their looks, and I, at least, will not plead guilty on that score."
"Grace, you are answering me very improperly."
"I cannot say that I think so, mother. I would have been silent, if you had permitted such silence; but when you drive me to speech, I must say what I feel to be the truth,--that I have not been well treated in this matter."
"Grace!" And Mrs. Drummond paused in awful silence. Never before had a recusant daughter braved her to her face.
"I have not been well treated," continued Grace, firmly, "in a thing that concerns me more than any one else. I have not even been consulted. You have arranged it all, mother, without reference to me or my feelings. Perhaps I ought to be grateful for being spared so painful a decision; but I think such a decision should have been permitted to me."
"You can dare to tell me such things to my very face!"
"Why should I not tell them?" returned Grace, meeting her mother's angry glance unflinchingly. "It seems to me that one should speak the truth to one's mother. You have treated me like a child; and I have a right to feel sore and indignant. Why did you not put the whole thing before me, and tell me that you and my father did not see how you could spare me? Do you really believe that I should have been so wanting to my sense of duty as to follow my own pleasure?"
"Grace, I insist upon your silence! I will not discuss the matter with you."
"If you insist upon silence, you must be obeyed, mother: but it is you who have raised the question between us. But when you attack me unjustly, I must defend myself."
"You are forgetting yourself strangely. Your words are most disrespectful and unbecoming in a daughter. You tell me to my face that I am unjust--I, your mother--because I have been compelled to thwart your wishes."
"No, no--not because of that!" returned Grace, in a voice of passionate pain; "why will you misunderstand me so?--but because you have no faith in me. You treat me like a child. You dispute my privilege to decide in a matter that concerns my own happiness. You bid me work for you, and you give me no wage--not a word of praise; and because I remonstrate for once in my life, you insist on my silence."
"It seems that I am not to be obeyed."
"Oh, yes; you will be obeyed, mother. After to-night I will not open my lips to offend you again. If I have said more than I ought to have said as a daughter, I will ask your pardon now; but I cannot take back one of my words. They are true,--true!"
"I must say your apology is tardy, Grace."
"Nevertheless, it is an apology; for, though you have hurt me, I must not forget you are my mother. I know my life will be harder after this, because of what I have said; and yet I would not take back one of my words!"
"I am more displeased with you than I can say," returned her mother, taking up her neglected work; and her mouth looked stern and hard.
Never had her aspect been so forbidding, and yet never had her daughter feared her less.
"Then, if you are displeased with me, I will go away," replied Grace, moving from her seat with gentle dignity. "I wish you had not compelled me to speak, mother, and then I should not have offended you: but as it is there is no help for it." And then she gathered up her work and walked slowly out of the room.
Mrs. Drummond sat moodily in the empty room that had somehow never seemed so empty before. Her attitude was as rigid and uncompromising as usual; but there was a perplexed frown on her brow. For the first time in her life one of her girls had dared to assert her own will and to speak the truth to her; and she was utterly nonplussed. It was not too much to say that she had received a blow. Her justice and sense of fairness had been questioned,--her very maternal authority impugned,--and that by one of her own children! Mattie, who was eight years older, would not have ventured to cross her mother's will. Grace had so dared; and she was bitterly angry with her. And yet she had never so admired her before.
How honestly and bravely she had battled for her rights! her gray eyes had shone with fire, her pale cheeks had glowed with the passion of her words: for once in her life the girl had looked superbly handsome.
"You have no faith in me; you treat me like a child." Well, she was right; it was no child, it was a proud woman who was flinging those hard words at her. For the first time Mrs. Drummond recognized the possibility of a will as strong as her own. In spite of all her authority, Grace had been a match for her mother: Mrs. Drummond knew this, and it added fuel to her bitterness.
"I know my life will be harder for what I have said." Ah, Grace was right there; it would be long before her mother would forgive her for all those words, true as they were; and yet in her heart she had never so feared and admired her daughter. Grace went up to her own room, where Dottie was asleep in a little bed very near her sister's: it was dark and somewhat cold, but the atmosphere was less frigid than the parlor downstairs. Grace's frame was trembling with the force of her emotion; her face was burning, and her hands cold. It was restful and soothing to put down her aching head on the hard window-ledge and close her eyes and think out the pain! It seemed hours before Isabel came to summon her to supper, but she made an excuse that she was not hungry, and refused to go downstairs.
"But you ate nothing at tea, and your head is aching!" persisted Isabel, who was a bright, good-natured girl, and, in spite of Archie's strictures, decidedly pretty. "Do let me bring you something. Mother will not know."
But Grace refused: she could not eat, and the sight of food would distress her.
"Why not go to bed at once, then?" suggested Isabel,--which was certainly sensible counsel. But Grace demurred to this; she knew Archie would be up presently to say good-night to her: so, when Isabel had gone, she lighted the candle, shading it carefully from Dottie's eyes, and then she bathed her hot face, and smoothed her hair, and took up her work again.
Archie found her quite calm and busy, but he was not so easily deceived.
"Now, Gracie, you have got one of your headaches: it is the disappointment and the bother, and my going away to-morrow. Poor little Gracie!"
"Oh, Archie, I feel as though I shall never miss you so much!" exclaimed the poor girl, throwing down her work and clinging to him. "When shall I see your dear face again?--not until Christmas?"
"And not then, I expect. I shall most likely run down some time in January, and then I shall try hard to take you back with me, just for a visit. Mattie will be dull, and wanting to see some of you, and I will not have one of the others until you have been."
"I don't believe mother will spare me even for that," returned Grace, with a sudden conviction that her mother's memory was retentive, and that she would be punished in that way for her sins of this evening; "but promise me, Archie, that you will come, if it be only for a few days."
"Oh, I will promise you that. I cannot last longer without seeing you, Grace!" And he stroked her soft hair as she still clung to him.
The next day Archibald bade his family good-bye: his manner had not changed toward his mother, and Mrs. Drummond thought his kiss decidedly cold.
"You will be good to Mattie, and try to make the poor girl happy; you will do at least as much as this," she said, detaining him as he was turning from her to see Grace.
"Oh, yes, I will be good to her," he returned, indifferently, "but I cannot promise that she will not find her life dull." And then he took Grace in his arms, and whispered to her to be patient, and that all would be well one day; and Mrs. Drummond, though she did not hear the whisper, saw the embrace and the long lingering look between the brother and sister, and pressed her thin lips together and went back to her parlor and mending-basket, feeling herself an unhappy mother, whose love was not requited by her children, and disposed to be harder than ever towards Grace, who had inflicted this pain on her. _