_ CHAPTER XVIII. DOROTHY BRINGS IN THE BEST CHINA
"What a fool I made of myself yesterday! but to-day Richard is himself again," said Phillis, as she gathered up another muslin curtain in her arms ready to hand to Nan, who was mounted on some steps. It was only Monday afternoon, but the girls had done wonders: the work-room, as they called it, was nearly finished. The great carved wardrobe and mahogany table had been polished by Dorothy's strong hands. Mrs. Challoner's easy-chair and little work-table at one window looked quite inviting; the sewing-machine and Nan's rosewood davenport were in their places. A hanging cupboard of old china, and a few well-bound books, gave a little coloring and finish, and one or two fine old prints that had hung in the dining-room at Glen Cottage had been disposed with advantage on the newly-papered walls. An inlaid clock ticked on the mantelpiece, and some handsome ruby-colored vases stood on either side of it. Nan was quite right when she had glanced round her a few minutes ago in a satisfied manner and said no one need be ashamed of living in such a room.
"Our pretty things make it look almost too nice for the purpose," she continued, handling a precious relic, a Sevres cup and saucer, that had been her especial pride in old days. "I think you were wrong, Phil, not to have the china in the other room."
"No, indeed; I want people to see it and be struck with our taste," was Phillis's frank answer. "Think what pleasure it will give the poor ladies when their dresses are being tried on. Don't you remember the basket of wax fruit at Miss Slinders's, when we were small children? I thought it the loveliest work of art, and feasted my eyes all the time Miss Slinders was fitting my pink frock. Now, our pictures and china will refresh people's eyes in the same way."
Nan smiled and shook her head, as she dusted and arranged her treasures. The china was very dear to her,--far more than the books Phillis was arranging on the chiffonnier. The Dresden figures that Dick had given to her mother were among them. She did not care for strangers to look at them and appraise their value. They were home treasures,--sacred relics of their past. The last time she had dusted them, a certain young man of her acquaintance had walked through the open window whistling "Blue bonnets over the Border," and had taken up his station beside her, hindering her work with his chattering. Dulce was in the upper regions, unpacking a box in her mother's room. Mrs. Challoner was coming home the next day, and Dorothy and she were hard at work getting things in order.
When Phillis made her downright speech, Nan looked down from her lofty perch, and held out her arms for the curtain.
"Richard is always himself, my dear," she said, softly. "Do you know when you are down, Phil, I feel as though we are all at a stand-still, and there's no getting on at all? and then at one of your dear droll speeches the sunshine comes out again, and we are all as right as possible."
"Don't talk nonsense," was Phillis's blunt answer; but she could not help being pleased at the compliment. She looked up archly at Nan, as the mass of soft white drapery lay between them; and then they both broke into a laugh, just as two shadows seemed to glide past the window, and a moment afterwards the house-bell sounded. "Visitors!--oh, Nan!" And Phillis glanced down at the neat bib apron that she wore over her cambric dress.
"Don't be afraid; Dorothy will have too much sense to admit them," returned Nan, quite indifferently, as she went up a step higher to hang up the curtain.
Phillis was still holding it; but her manner was not quite so well assured. She thought she heard Dulce's voice in confabulation with the stranger. A moment afterwards Dulce came briskly into the room.
"Nan, Mr. Drummond and his sister have kindly called to see us. We are not in order, of course. Oh, dear!" as Nan looked down on them with startled eyes, not venturing to descend from her perch. "I ought not to have brought them in here," looking half mischievously and half guiltily at the young clergyman, who stood hat in hand on the threshold.
"It is I who ought not to have intruded," he began, in a perfect agony of embarrassment, blushing over his face like a girl as Nan looked down at him in much dignity, but Mattie, who was behind him, pushed forward in her usual bustling way.
"Oh, Miss Challoner, it is too bad! I told Archie that we ought not to come too soon----" but Phillis stopped her with an outstretched hand of welcome.
"What is too bad? I call it very kind and friendly of you both: one hardly expected to find such good neighbors. Nan, if that curtain is finished I think you had better come down. Take care; those steps are rickety: perhaps Mr. Drummond will help you."
"Let me do the other ones for you. I don't think those steps are safe!" exclaimed Archie, with sudden inspiration.
No one at home would have believed such a thing of him. Mattie's eyes grew quite round and fixed with astonishment at the sight. He had not even shaken hands with Nan, yet there he was, mounted in her place, slipping in the hooks with dexterous hands, while Nan quietly held up the curtain.
Months afterwards the scene came back on Archibald Drummond with a curious thrill half of pain and half of amusement. How had he done it? he wondered. What had made him all at once act in a way so unlike himself?--for, with the best intention, he was always a little stiff and constrained with strangers. Yet there he was laughing as though he had known them all his life, because Nan had rebuked him gravely for slipping two hooks into one ring. Months afterwards he recalled it all: Nan glancing up at him with quietly amused eyes, Phillis standing apart, looking quaint and picturesque in her bib-apron, Dulce with the afternoon sunshine lighting up her brown hair; the low old-fashioned room, with the great carved wardrobe, and the cupboard of dainty china; the shady little lawn outside, with Laddie rolling among the daisies. What made it suddenly start up in his memory like a picture one has seen and never quite forgotten?
"Thank you, Mr. Drummond. You have done it so nicely," said Nan, with the utmost gravity, as he lingered, almost unwilling to descend to conventionality again. Dulce and Phillis were busily engaged looping up the folds. "Now we will ask Dorothy to remove the steps and then we can sit down comfortably."
But here Archie interposed:
"Why need you call any one? Tell me where I shall put them." Mattie broke into a loud laugh. She could not help it. It was too droll of Archie. She must write and tell Grace.
Archie heard the laugh as he marched out of the room with his burden, and it provoked him excessively. He made some excuse about admiring Laddie, and went out on the lawn for a few minutes, accompanied by Nan. When they came back, the curtains were finished and the two girls were talking to Mattie. Mattie seemed quite at ease with them.
"We have such a dear old garden at the vicarage," she was saying, as her brother came into the room. "I am not much of a gardener myself but Archie works for hours at a time. He talks of getting a set of tennis down from town. We think it will help to bring people together. You must promise to come and play sometimes of an afternoon when you have got the cottage in order."
"Thank you," returned Phillis; and then Nan and she exchanged looks. A sort of blankness came over the sisters' faces,--a sudden dying out of the brightness and fun.
Mr. Drummond grew a little alarmed:
"I hope you will not disappoint my sister. She has few friends, and is rather lonely, missing so many sisters; and you are such close neighbors."
"Yes, we are close neighbors," returned Phillis. But her voice was a little less clear than usual; and, to Archie's astonishment,--for they all seemed talking comfortably together,--her face had grown suddenly pale. "But you must not think us unkind if we refuse your hospitality," she went on, looking straight at him, and not at Mattie. "Owing to painful circumstances, we have made up our minds that no such pleasure are in store for us. We must learn to do without things: must we not, Nan?"
"Yes, indeed," returned Nan, very gravely. And then the tears came into Dulce's eyes. Was Phillis actually going to tell them? She would have run away, only she was ashamed of such cowardice.
"I hope you do not mean to do without friends," stammered Archie. "That would be too painful to bear." He thought they were excusing themselves from partaking of their neighbors' hospitality because they were too poor to return it, and wanted to set them at their ease. "You may have reasons for wishing to be quiet. Perhaps Mrs. Challoner's health, and--and--parties are not always desirable," he went on, floundering, a little in his speech, and signing to Mattie to come to his help, which she did at once, breathlessly:
"Parties! Oh, dear, no! They are such a trouble and expense. But tennis and tea on the lawn is just nothing,--nothing at all. One can give a little fruit and some home-made cake. No one need scruple at that. Archie is not rich,--clergymen never are, you know,--but he means to entertain his friends as well as he can. I should like you to see Miss Middleton. She is a charming person. And the colonel is as nice as possible. We will just ask them to meet you in a quiet way, and, if your mother is not too much of an invalid, I hope she will give us the pleasure of her company, for when people are such close neighbors it is stupid to stand on ceremony," finished Mattie, bringing herself rapidly to a full stop.
"You are very kind. But you do not understand," returned Phillis. And then she stopped, and a gleam of fun came into her eyes. Her sharp ears had caught the rattle of cups and saucers. Actually, that absurd Dorothy was bringing in tea in the old way, making believe that they were entertaining their friends in Glen Cottage fashion! She must get out the truth somehow before the pretty purple china made its appearance. "Oh," she went on, with a sort of gulp, as though she felt the sudden touch of cold water, "you come here meaning kindly, and asking us to your house, and taking compassion upon us because we are strangers and lonely, and you do not know that we are poor, and that we have lost our money, and----" But here Mr. Drummond was absolutely rude enough to interrupt her:
"What does that matter, my dear Miss Challoner? Do you think that is of any consequence in mine or my sister's eyes? I suppose if I be your clergyman----" And then he stopped, and stroked his beard in an embarrassed way; for though Phillis's face was pale, there was laughter in her eyes.
"Oh, if this be a parochial visit," she began, demurely; "but you should not have talked of tennis, Mr. Drummond. How do you know we are not Roman Catholics, or Wesleyans, or even Baptists, or Bible Christians? We might have gone to your church out of curiosity on Sunday, or to see the fashions. There is not a Quaker cut about us; but, still, we might be Unitarians, and people would not find it out," continued Phillis, looking with much solemnity at the bewildered young Anglican.
The situation was too absurd; there was no knowing to what length Phillis's recklessness and sense of humor would have brought her, only Nan's good sense came to the rescue:
"Phillis is only in fun, Mr. Drummond. Of course we are Church-people: and of course we hope to attend your services. I am sure my mother will be pleased to see you, when you are kind enough to call. At Oldfield we were always good friends with our clergyman: he was such a dear old man."
"Do you mean to forbid my sister's visits, then?" asked Archie, looking anxiously at her sweet face; Nan looked so pretty, in spite of her discomposure.
"Oh, no! we do not mean to be so rude: do we, Phillis? We shall be so glad to see Miss Drummond; but--but," faltered Nan, losing breath a little, "we have been unfortunate, and must work for our living; and your sister perhaps would not care to visit dressmakers."
"What!" exclaimed Archie: he almost jumped out of his chair in his surprise.
Phillis had uttered a faint "Bravo, Nan!" but no one heard her. Dulce's cheeks were crimson, and she would not look at any one; but Nan, who had got out the dreaded word, went on bravely, and was well hugged by Phillis in private afterwards.
"We are not clever enough for governesses," continued Nan, with a charming smile, addressing Mattie, who sat and stared at her, "and there was nothing we dreaded so much as to separate: so, as we had capable fingers and were fond of work, my sister Phillis planned this for us. Now you see, Miss Drummond, why we could not accept your kind hospitality. Whatever we have been, we cannot expect people to visit us now. If you would be good enough to recommend us, and help us in our efforts to make ourselves independent, that is all we can ask of you."
"Well, I don't know," returned Mattie, bluntly: "as far as I am concerned, I am never ashamed of any honest calling. What do you say, Archie?"
"I say it is all very proper and laudable," he returned, hesitating; "but surely--surely there must be some other way more suitable to ladies in your position! Let me call again when your mother comes, and see if there is nothing that I can do or recommend better than this. Yes, I am sure if I can only talk to your mother, we could find some other way than this."
"Indeed, Mr. Drummond, you must do nothing of the kind," replied Phillis, in an alarmed voice: "the poor dear mother must not be disturbed by any such talk! You mean it kindly, but we have made up our own minds, Nan and I: we mean to do without the world and live in one of our own; and we mean to carry out our plan in defiance of everything and everybody; and, though you are our clergyman and we are bound to listen to your sermons, we cannot take your advice in this."
"But--but I would willingly act as a friend," began the young man, confusedly, looking not at her, but at Nan.
He was so bewildered, so utterly taken aback, he hardly knew what he said.
"Here comes Dorothy with the tea," interrupted Nan, pleasantly, as though dismissing the subject: "she has not forgotten our old customs. Friends always came around us in the afternoon. Mr. Drummond, perhaps you will make yourself useful and cut the cake. Dorothy, you need not have unpacked the best silver teapot." Nan was moving about in her frank hospitable way. Laddie was whining for cake, and breaking into short barks of impatience. "This is one of our Glen Cottage cakes. Susan always prides herself on the recipe," said Nan, calmly, as she pressed it on her guests.
Mr. Drummond almost envied his sister as she praised the cake and asked for the recipe. He had always found fault with her manners; but now nothing could be finer than her simplicity. Pure good nature and innate womanliness were teaching Mattie something better than tact. Nan had dropped a painful subject, and she would not revive it in her brother's presence. There would be plenty of time for her to call and talk it over with them quietly. Help them!--of course she would help them. They should have her new silk dress that Uncle Conway had just sent her. It was a risk, for perhaps they might spoil it; but such fine creatures should have a chance. At present she would only enjoy the nice tea, and talk to poor little frightened Dulce, who seemed unable to open her lips after her sister's disclosure.
Archie could not emulate her ease: a man is always at a disadvantage in such a case. His interest had sustained no shock: it was even stimulated by what he had just heard; but his sympathy seemed all at once congealed, and he could find no vent for it. In spite of his best efforts his manner grew more and more constrained every moment.
Nan looked at him more than once with reproachful sweetness. She thought they had lost caste in his eyes; but Phillis, who was shrewd and sharp-set in her wits, read him more truly. She knew--having already met a score of such--how addicted young Englishmen are to
mauvaise honte, and how they will hide acute sensibilities under blunt and stolid exteriors; and there was a certain softness in Mr. Drummond's eye that belied his stiffness. Most likely he was very sorry for them, and did not know how to show it; and in this she was right.
Mr. Drummond was very sorry for them; but he was still more grieved for himself. The Oxford fellow had not long been a parish priest, and he could not at all understand the position in which he found himself,--taking tea with three elegant young dressmakers who talked the purest English and had decided views on tennis and horticulture. He had just been congratulating himself on securing such companionship for his sister and himself. Being rather classical-minded, he had been calling them the gray-eyed Graces, and one of them at least "a daughter of the gods,--divinely tall and most divinely fair;" for where had he seen anything to compare with Nan's bloom and charming figure? Dressmakers!--oh, if only Grace were at hand, that he might talk to her, and gain her opinion how he was to act in such case! Grace had the stiff-necked Drummond pride as well as he, and would hesitate long behind the barriers of conventionality. No wonder, with all these thoughts passing through his mind, that Nan, with her bright surface talk, found him a little vague.
It was quite a relief to all the party when Mattie gave the signal for departure and the bell was rung for Dorothy to show them out.
"Well, Nan, what do you think of our visitors?" asked Phillis, when the garden-door had clanged noisily after them, and she had treated Nan to the aforesaid hugs; "for you were so brave, darling, and actually took the wind out of my sails!" exclaimed the enthusiastic Phillis. "Miss Drummond is not so bad, after all, is she, in spite of her dowdiness and fussy ways?"
"No; she means well; and so does her brother. He is very nice, only his self-consciousness spoils him," returned Nan, in a calm, discursive tone, as though they were discussing ordinary visitors.
It was impossible for these young girls to see that their ordinary language was not humble enough for their new circumstances. They would make mistakes at every turn, like Dorothy, who got out the best china and brewed her tea in the melon-shaped silver teapot.
Phillis opened her eyes rather widely at this. Nan was not often so observant. It was true: self-consciousness was a torment to Archibald Drummond, a Frankenstein of his own creation, that had grown imperceptibly with his growth to the fell measure of his manhood, as inseparable as the shadow from the substance. Phillis had recognized it at once; but then, as she said, no one was faultless; and then, he was so handsome. "Very handsome" chimed in Dulce, whose opinions were full-fledged in such matters.
"Is he? Well, I never cared for a man with a long fair beard," observed Nan, carelessly. Poor Archie! how his vanity would have suffered if he had heard her! for, in a masculine way, he prided himself excessively on the soft silky appendage that Grace had so often praised. A certain boyish countenance, with kindly honest eyes and a little sandy moustache, was more to Nan's taste than the handsome young Anglican.
"Oh, we all know Nan's opinion in such matters," said Dulce, slyly; and then Nan blushed, and suddenly remembered that Dorothy was waiting for her in the linen-closet, and hurried away, leaving her sisters to discuss their visitors to their hearts' content. _