_ CHAPTER XVI. A VISIT TO THE WHITE HOUSE
Hitherto Mr. Drummond had acknowledged his afternoon to be a success. He had obtained a glimpse of the new-comers through Mrs. Crump's screen of geraniums, and had listened with much interest to Colonel Middleton's innocent gossip, while Miss Middleton had poured out their tea. Indeed, his attention had quite flattered his host.
"Really, Drummond is a very intelligent fellow," he observed to his daughter, when they were at last left alone,--"a very intelligent fellow, and so thoroughly gentlemanly."
"Yes, he is very nice," returned Elizabeth; "and he seems wonderfully interested in our new neighbors." And here she smiled a little archly.
There was no doubt that Mr. Drummond had fully enjoyed his visit. Nevertheless, as he left Brooklyn, and set his face towards the White House, his manner changed, and his face became somewhat grave.
He had told himself that he owed it to his pastoral conscience to call on Mrs. Cheyne; but, notwithstanding this monition, he disliked the duty, for he always felt on these occasions that he was hardly up to his office, and that this solitary member of his flock was not disposed to yield herself to his guidance. He was ready to pity her if she would allow herself to be pitied; but any expression of sympathy seemed repugnant to her. Any one so utterly lonely, so absolutely without interest in existence, he had never seen or thought to see; and yet he could not bring himself to like her, or to say more than the mere commonplace utterances of society. Though he was her clergyman, and bound by the sacredness of his office to be specially tender to the bruised and maimed ones of his flock, he could not get her to acknowledge her maimed condition to him, or to do anything but listen to him with cold attention, when he hinted vaguely that all human beings are in need of sympathy. Perhaps she thought him too young, and feared to find his judgments immature and one-sided; but certainly his visits to the White House were failures. Mrs. Cheyne was still young enough and handsome enough to need some sort of chaperonage: and though she professed to mock at conventionality, she acknowledged its claims in this respect by securing the permanent services of Miss Mewlstone--a lady of uncertain age and uncertain acquirements. It must be confessed that every one wondered at Mrs. Cheyne and her choice, for no one could be less companionable than Miss Mewlstone.
She was a stout, sleepy-looking woman, with a soft voice, and in placidity and a certain cosyness of exterior somewhat resembled a large white cat. Some people declared she absolutely purred, and certainly her small blue eyes were ready to close on all occasions. She always dressed in gray,--a very unbecoming color to a stout person,--and when not asleep or reading (for she was a great reader) she seemed always busy with a mass of soft fleecy wool. No one heard her ever voluntarily conversing with her patroness. They would drive together for hours, or pass whole evenings in the same room, scarcely exchanging a word. "Just so, my dear," she would say, in return to any observation made to her by Mrs. Cheyne. "Just so Mewlstone," a young wag once nicknamed her.
People stared incredulously when Mrs. Cheyne assured them her companion was a very superior woman. They thought it was only her satire, and did not believe her in the least. They would have stared still more if they had really known the extent of Miss Mewlstone's acquirements.
"She seems so stupid, as though she cannot talk," one of Mrs. Cheyne's friends said.
"Oh, yes, she can talk, and very well too," returned that lady, quietly, "but she knows that I do not care about it; her silence is her great virtue in my eyes. And then she has tact, and knows when to keep out of the way," finished Mrs. Cheyne, with the utmost frankness; and, indeed, it may be doubted whether any other person would have retained her position so long at the White House.
Mrs. Cheyne was no favorite with the young pastor, nevertheless she was an exceedingly handsome woman. Before the bloom of her youth had worn off she had been considered absolutely beautiful. As regarded the form of her features, there was no fault to be found, but her expression was hardly pleasing. There was a hardness that people found a little repelling,--a bitter, dissatisfied droop of the lip, a weariness of gloom in the dark eyes, and a tendency to satire in her speech, that alienated people's sympathy.
"I am unhappy, but pity me if you dare!" seemed to be written legibly upon her countenance; and those who knew her best held their peace in her presence, and then went away and spoke softly to each other of the life that seemed wasted and the heart that was so hardened with its trouble. "What would the world be if every one were to bear their sorrows so badly?" they would say. "There is something heathenish in such utter want of resignation. Oh, yes, it was very sad, her losing her husband and children, but it all happened four or five years ago; and you know"--And here people's voices dropped a little ominously, for there were vague hints afloat that things had not always gone on smoothly at the White House, even when Mrs. Cheyne had her husband. She had been an only child, and had married the only survivor of a large family. Both were handsome, self-willed young people; neither had been used to contradiction. In spite of their love for each other, there had been a strife of wills and misunderstandings from the earliest days of their marriage. Neither knew what giving up meant, and before many months were over the White House witnessed many painful scenes. Herbert Cheyne was passionate, and at times almost violent; but there was no malice in his nature. He stormed furiously and forgave easily. A little forbearance would have turned him into a sweet-natured man; but his wife's haughtiness and resentment lasted long; she never acknowledged herself in the wrong, never made overtures of peace, but bore herself on every occasion as a sorely-injured wife, a state of things singularly provoking to a man of Herbert Cheyne's irritable temperament.
There was injudicious partisanship as regarded their children: while Mrs. Cheyne idolized her boy, her husband lavished most of his attentions on the baby girl,--"papa's girl," as she always called herself in opposition to "mother's boy."
Mrs. Cheyne really believed she loved her boy best, but when diphtheria carried off her little Jane also, she was utterly inconsolable. Her husband was far away when it happened: he had been a great traveller before his marriage, and latterly his matrimonial relations with his wife had been so unsatisfactory that virtual separation had ensued. Two or three months before illness, and then death, had devastated the nursery at the White House, he had set out for a long exploring expedition in Central Africa.
"You make my life so unbearable that, but for the children, I would never care to set foot in my home again," he had said to her, in one of his violent moods; and, though he repented of this speech afterwards, she could not be brought to believe that he had not meant it, and her heart had been hard against him even in their parting.
But before many months were over she would have given all she possessed--to her very life--to have recalled him to her side. She was childless, and her health was broken; but no such recall was possible. Vague rumors reached her of some miserable disaster: people talked of a missing Englishman. One of the little party had already succumbed to fever and hardship; by and by another followed; and the last news that reached them was that Herbert Cheyne lay at the point of death in the kraal of a friendly tribe. Since then the silence had been of the grave: not one of the party had survived to bring the news of his last moments: there had been illness and disaster from the first.
When Mrs. Cheyne recovered from the nervous disorder that had attacked her on the receipt of this news, she put on widow's mourning, and wore it for two years; then she sent for Miss Mewlstone, and set herself to go through with the burden of her life. If she found it heavy, she never complained: she was silent on her own as on other people's troubles. Only at the sight of a child of two or three years of age she would turn pale, and draw down her veil, and if it ran up to her, as would sometimes happen, she would put it away from her angrily, pushing it away almost with violence, and no child was ever suffered to cross her threshold.
The drawing-room at the White House was a spacious apartment, with four long windows opening on the lawn. Mrs. Cheyne was sitting in her low chair, reading, with Miss Mewlstone at the farther end of the room, with her knitting-basket beside her; two or three grayhounds were grouped near her. They all rushed forward with furious barks as Mr. Drummond was announced, and then leaped joyously round him. Mrs. Cheyne put down her book, and greeted him with a frosty smile.
She had laid aside her widow's weeds, but still dressed in black, the sombreness of her apparel harmonizing perfectly with her pale, creamy complexion. Her dress was always rich in material, and most carefully adjusted. In her younger days it had been an art with her,--almost a passion,--and it had grown into a matter of custom.
"You are very good to come again so soon, Mr. Drummond," she said, as she gave him her hand. The words were civil, but a slight inflection on the word "soon" made Mr. Drummond feel a little uncomfortable. Did she think he called too often? He wished he had brought Mattie; only last time she had been so satirical, and had quizzed the poor little thing unmercifully; not that Mattie had found out that she was being quizzed.
"I hardly thought I should find you at home, it is so fine an afternoon; but I made the attempt, you see," he continued, a little awkwardly.
"Your parochial conscience was uneasy, I suppose, because I was missing at church?" she returned, somewhat slyly. "You would make a capital overseer, Mr. Drummond,"--with a short laugh. "A headache is a good excuse, is it not? I had a headache, had I not, Miss Mewlstone?"
"Yes, my dear, just so," returned Miss Mewlstone. She always called her patroness "my dear."
"Miss Mewlstone gave me the heads of the sermon, so it was not quite labor lost, as regards one of your flock. I am afraid you think me a black sheep because I stay away so often,--a very black sheep, eh, Mr. Drummond?"
"It is not for me to judge," he said, still more awkwardly. "Headaches are very fair excuses; and if one be not blessed with good health----"
"My health is perfect," she returned, interrupting him ruthlessly. "I have no such convenient plea under which to shelter myself. Miss Mewlstone suffers far more from headaches than I do. Don't you, Miss Mewlstone?"
"Just so; yes, indeed, my dear," proceeded softly from the other end of the room.
"I am sorry to hear it," commenced Mr. Drummond, in a sympathizing tone of voice. But his tormentor again interrupted him.
"I am a sad backslider, am I not? I wonder if you have a sermon ready for me? Do you lecture your parishioners, Mr. Drummond, rich as well as poor? What a pity it is you are so young! Lectures are more suitable with gray hair; a hoary head might have some chance against my satire. A woman's tongue is a difficult thing to keep in order, is it not? I dare say you find that with Miss Mattie?"
Mr. Drummond was literally on thorns. He had no repartee ready. She was secretly exasperating him as usual, making his youth a reproach, and rendering it impossible for him to be his natural frank self with her. In her presence he was always at a disadvantage. She seemed to take stock of his learning and to mock at the idea of his pastoral claims. It was not the first time she had called herself a black sheep, or had spoken of her scanty attendances at church. But as yet he had not dared to rebuke her; he had a feeling that she might fling back his rebuke with a jest, and his dignity forbade this. Some day he owed it to his conscience to speak a word to her,--to tell her of the evil effects of such an example; but the convenient season had not yet arrived.
He was casting about in his own mind for some weighty sentence with which to answer her; but she again broke in upon his silence:
"It seems that I am to escape to-day. I hope you are not a lax disciplinarian; that comes of being young. Youth is more tolerant, they say, of other people's errors: it has its own glass houses to mind."
"You are too clever for me, Mrs. Cheyne," returned the young man, with a deprecating smile that might have disarmed her. "No, I have not come to lecture: my mission is perfectly peaceful, as befits this lovely afternoon. I wonder what you ladies find to do all day?" he continued, abruptly changing the subject, and trying to find something that would not attract her satire.
Mrs. Cheyne seemed a little taken aback by this direct question; and then she drew up her beautiful head a little haughtily, and laughed.
"Ah, you are cunning, Mr. Drummond. You found me disposed to take the offensive in the matter of church-going, and now you are on another track. There is a lecture somewhere in the background. How doth the little busy bee, etc. Now, don't frown,"--as Mr. Drummond knitted his brows and really looked annoyed: "I will not refuse to be catechised."
"I should not presume to catechise you," he returned, hastily. "I appeal to Miss Mewlstone if my question were not a very innocent one."
"Just so; just so," replied Miss Mewlstone; but she looked a little alarmed at this appeal. "Oh, very innocent; oh, very so."
"With two against me I must yield," returned Mrs. Cheyne, with a curl of her lip. "What do we do with our time, Miss Mewlstone? Your occupation speaks for itself: it is exquisitely feminine. Don't tell Miss Mattie, Mr. Drummond, but I never work. I would as soon arm myself with a dagger as a needle or a pair of scissors. When I am not in the air, I paint. I only lay aside my palette for a book."
"You paint!" exclaimed Archie, with sudden interest. It was the first piece of information he had yet gleaned.
"Yes," she returned, indifferently: "one must do something to kill time, and music was never my forte. I sketch and draw and paint after my own sweet will. There are portfolios full of my sketches in there,"--with a movement of her hand towards a curtained recess. "No, I know what you are going to say: you will ask to see them; but I never show them to any one."
"For what purpose, then, do you paint them?" were the words on his lips; but he forbore to utter them. But she read the question in his eyes.
"Did I not say one must kill time?" she returned, rather irritably: "the occupation is soothing: surely that is reason enough."
"It is a good enough reason, I suppose," he replied, reluctantly, for surely he must say a word here; "but one need not talk about killing time, with so much that one could do."
Then there came a gleam of suppressed mischief in her eyes:
"Yes, I know: you may spare me that. I will listen to it all next Sunday, if you will, when you have it your own way, and one cannot sin against decorum and answer you. Yes, yes, there is so much to do, is there not?--hungry people to be fed, and sick to visit,--all sorts of disagreeables that people call duties. Ah, I am a sad sinner! I only draw for my own amusement, and leave the poor old world to get on without me. What a burden I must be on your conscience, Mr. Drummond,--heavier than all the rest of your parish. What, are you going already? and Miss Mewlstone has never given you any tea."
Then Archie explained, very shortly, that he had partaken of that beverage at Brooklyn, and his leave-taking was rather more formal than usual. He was very much surprised, as he stood at the hall door, that always stood open in the summer, to hear the low sweep of a dress over the tessellated pavement behind him, and to see a white pudgy hand laid on his coat-sleeve.
"My dear Miss Mewlstone, how you startled me!"
"Just so; yes, I am afraid I did, Mr. Drummond; but I just wanted to say, never mind all that nonsense; come again: she likes to see you; she does, indeed. It is only her way to talk so; she means no harm, poor dear,--oh, none at all!"
"Excuse me," returned Archie, in a hurt voice, "but I think you are mistaken. Mrs. Cheyne does not care for my visits, and shows me she does not: if it were not my duty, I should not come so often."
"No, no; just so, but all the same it rouses her and does her good. It is a bad day with her, poor dear!--the very day the darlings were taken ill, four years ago. Now, don't go away and fancy things, don't, there's a dear young man; come as often as you can, and try and do her good."
"Oh, if I only knew how that is to be done!" returned Archie, slowly; but he was mollified in spite of himself. There were tears in Miss Mewlstone's little blue eyes: perhaps she was a good creature after all.
"I will come again, but not just yet," he said, nodding to her good-humoredly; but as he walked down the road he told himself that Mrs. Cheyne had never before made herself so disagreeable, and that it would be long before he set foot in the White House again. _