_ CHAPTER XXI. BREAKING THE PEACE
Nan went to Beach House to fetch her mother home, escorted by Laddie, who was growing a most rollicking and friendly little animal, and a great consolation to his mistress, whom he loved with all his doggish heart.
They all three came back in an old fly belonging to their late host, and found Phillis waiting for them on the door-step, who made her mother the following little speech:
"Now, mammie, you are to kiss us, and tell us what good industrious girls we have been; and then you are to shut your eyes and look at nothing, and then sit down in your old arm-chair, and try and make the best of everything."
"Welcome home, dearest mother," said Nan, softly kissing her. "Home is home, however poor it may be; and thank God for it," finished the girl, reverently.
"Oh, my darlings!" exclaimed the poor mother; and then she cried a little, and Dulce came up and put a rose-bud in her hand; and Dorothy executed an old-fashioned courtsey, and hoped that her mistress and the dear young ladies would try and make themselves as happy as possible.
"Happy, you silly old Dorothy! of course we mean to be as busy as bees, and as frolicsome as kittens!" returned Phillis, who had recovered her old sprightliness, and was ready to-day for a dozen Mrs. Cheynes and all the clergy of the diocese. "Now, mammie, you are only to peep into this room: this is our work-room, and those are the curtains Mr. Drummond was kind enough to hang. In old days," continued Phillis, with mock solemnity, "the parson would have pronounced a benediction; but the modern Anglican performs another function, and with much gravity ascends the steps, and hooks up the curtains of the new-comers."
"Oh, Phillis, how can you be so absurd! I am sure it was very good-natured of him. Come, mother, dear, we will not stand here listening to her nonsense." And Nan drew the mother to the parlor.
It was a very small room, but still snug and comfortable, and full of pretty things. Tea was laid on the little round table that would hardly hold five, as Nan once observed, thinking of Dick; and the evening's sunshine was stealing in, but not too obtrusively. Mrs. Challoner tried not to think it dull, and endeavored to say a word of praise at the arrangements Dulce pointed out to her; but the thought of Glen Cottage, and her pretty drawing-room, and the veranda with its climbing roses, and the shady lawn with the seat under the acacia-trees, almost overpowered her. That they should come to this! That they should be sitting in this mean little parlor, where there was hardly room to move, looking out at the little strip of grass, and the medlar-tree, and the empty greenhouse! Nan saw her mother's lip quiver, and adroitly turned the subject to their neighbors. She had so much to say about Mr. Drummond and his sister that Mrs. Challoner grew quite interested; nevertheless, it was a surprise even to Nan when Dorothy presently opened the door, and Mr. Drummond coolly walked in with a magnificent basket of roses in his hand.
Nan gravely introduced him to her mother, and the young man accosted her; but there was a little surprise on his face. He had taken it into his head that Mrs. Challoner would be a far older-looking and more homely person; but the stately-looking woman before him might have been an older and faded edition of Nan. Somehow, her appearance confused him; and he commenced with an apology for his intrusion:
"I ought not to have been so unceremonious. I am afraid, as you have just arrived, my visit will seem an intrusion; but my sister thought you would like some of our roses,"--he had obliged poor Mattie to say so,--"and, as we had cut some fine ones, we thought you ought to have them while they are fresh."
"Thank you; this is very kind and neighborly," returned Mrs. Challoner; but, though her tone was perfectly civil, Nan thought her manner a little cold, and hastened to interpose with a few glowing words of admiration.
"The roses were lovely; they were finer than those at Longmead, or even at Fitzroy Lodge, though Lady Fitzroy prided herself on her roses." Archie pricked up his ears at this latter name, which escaped quite involuntarily from Nan. "And was it not good of Miss Drummond to spare them so many, and of Mr. Drummond to carry them?" all of which Nan said with a sweet graciousness that healed the young man's embarrassment in a moment.
"Yes, indeed!" echoed Mrs. Challoner, obedient, as usual, to her daughter's lead. "And you must thank your sister, Mr. Drummond, and tell her how fond my girls are of flowers." But, though Mrs. Challoner said this, the roses were not without thorns for her. Why had not Miss Drummond brought them herself? She was pleased indeed that, under existing circumstances, any one should be civil to her girls; but was there not a little patronage intended? She was not quite sure that she rejoiced in having such neighbors. Mr. Drummond was nice and gentlemanly, but he was far too young and handsome for an unmarried clergyman; at least, that was her old-fashioned opinion; and when one has three very good-looking daughters, and dreads the idea of losing one, one may be pardoned for distrusting even a basket of roses.
If Mr. Drummond perceived her slight coldness, he seemed quite determined to overcome it. He took small notice of Nan, who busied herself at once arranging the flowers under his eyes; even Phillis, who looked good and demure this evening, failed to obtain a word. He talked almost exclusively to Mrs. Challoner, plying her with artful questions about their old home, which he now learned was at Oldfield, and gaining scraps of information that enabled him to obtain a pretty clear insight into their present circumstances.
Mrs. Challoner, who was a soft hearted woman, was not proof against so much sympathy. She perceived that Mr. Drummond was sorry for them, and she began to warm a little towards him. His manner was so respectful, his words so discreet; and then he behaved so nicely, taking no notice of the girls, though Nan was looking so pretty, but just talking to her in a grave responsible way, as though he were a gray-haired man of sixty.
Phillis was not quite sure she approved of it: in the old days she had never been so excluded from conversation: she would have liked a word now and then. But Nan sat by quite contented: it pleased her to see her mother roused and interested.
When Mr. Drummond took his leave, she accompanied him to the door, and thanked him quite warmly.
"You have done her so much good, for this first evening is such a trial to her, poor thing!" said Nan, lifting her lovely eyes to the young man's face.
"I am so glad! I will come again," he said, rather incoherently. And as he went out of the green door he told himself that it was his clear duty to befriend this interesting family. He ought to have gone home and written to Grace, for it was long past the time when she always expected to hear from him. But the last day or two he had rather shirked this duty. It would be difficult to explain to Grace. She might be rather shocked, for she was a little prim in such things, being her mother's daughter. He thought he would ask Mattie to tell her about the Challoners, and that he was busy and would write soon; and when he had made up his mind to this, he went down to the sea-shore and amused himself by sitting on a breakwater and staring at the fishing-smacks,--which of course showed how very busy he was.
"I think I shall like Mr. Drummond," observed Mrs. Challoner, in a tolerant tone, when Nan had accompanied the young vicar to the door. "He seems an earnest, good sort of young man."
"Yes, mammie dear. And I am sure he has fallen in love with you," returned Phillis, naughtily, "for he talked to no one else. And you are so young-looking and pretty that of course no one could be surprised if he did." But though Mrs. Challoner said, "Oh, Phillis!" and looked dreadfully shocked in a proper matronly way, what was the use of that, when the mischievous girl burst out laughing in her face?
But the interruption had done them all good, and the evening passed less heavily than they had dared to hope. And when Mrs. Challoner complained of fatigue and retired early, escorted by Dorothy, who was dying for a chat with her mistress, the three girls went out in the garden, and walked, after their old fashion, arm in arm up and down the lawn, with Nan in the middle; though Dulce pouted and pretended that the lawn was too narrow, and that Phillis was pushing her on the gravel path.
Their mother's window was open, and they could have heard snatches of Dorothy's conversation if they had chosen to listen. Dulce stood still a moment, and wafted a little kiss towards her mother's room.
"Dear old mamsie! She has been very good this evening, has she not, Nan? She has only cried the least wee bit, when you kissed her."
"Yes, indeed. And somebody else has been good too. What do you say, Phillis? Has not Dulce been the best child possible?"
"Oh, Nan, I should be ashamed to be otherwise," returned Dulce, in such an earnest manner that it made her sisters laugh, "Do you think I could see you both so good and cheerful, making the best of things, and never complaining, even when the tears are in your eyes,--as yours are often, Nan, when you think no one is looking,--and not try and copy your example? I am dreadfully proud of you both,--that is what I am," continued the warm-hearted girl. "I never knew before what was in my sisters. And now I feel as though I want the whole world to come and admire my Phillis and Nan!"
"Little flatterer!" but Nan squeezed Dulce's arm affectionately. And Phillis said, in a joking tone,--
"Ah, it was not half so bad. This evening there was mother looking so dear and pretty: and there were you girls; and, though the nest is small, it feels warm and cosy. And if we could only forget Glen Cottage, and leave off missing the old faces, which I never shall--" ("Nor I," echoed Nan, with a deep sigh, fetched from somewhere)--"and root ourselves afresh, we should contrive not to be unhappy."
"I think it is our duty to cultivate cheerfulness," added Nan, seriously; and after this they fell to a discussion on ways and means. As usual, Phillis was chief spokeswoman, but to Nan belonged the privilege of the casting vote.
The next few days were weary ones to Mrs. Challoner: there was still much to be done before the Friary could be pronounced in order. The girls spent most of the daylight hours unpacking boxes, sorting and arranging their treasures, and, if the truth must be told, helping Dorothy to polish furniture and wash glass and china.
Mrs. Challoner, who was not strong enough for these household labors, found herself condemned to hem new dusters and mend old table-linen, to the tune of her own sad thoughts. Mr. Drummond found her sorting a little heap on the parlor table when he dropped in casually one morning,--this time with some very fine cherries that his sister thought Mrs. Challoner would enjoy.
When Mr. Drummond began his little speech he could have sworn that there were tears on the poor lady's cheeks; but when he had finished she looked up at him with a smile, and thanked him warmly, and then they had quite a nice chat together.
Mr. Drummond's visit was quite a godsend, she told him, for her girls were busy and had no time to talk to her; and "one's thoughts are not always pleasant companions," she added, with a sigh. And Mr. Drummond, who had caught sight of the tears, was at once sympathetic, and expressed himself in such feeling terms--for he was more at ease in the girls' absence--that Mrs. Challoner opened out in the most confiding way, and told him a great deal that he had been anxious to learn.
But she soon found out, to her dismay, that he disapproved of her girls' plans; for he told her so at once, and in the coolest manner. The opportunity for airing his views on the subject was far too good to be lost. Mrs. Challoner was alone; she was in a low, dejected mood; the rulers of the household were gathered in an upper chamber. What would Phillis have said, as she warbled a rather flat accompaniment to Nan's "Bonnie Dundee," which she was singing to keep up their spirits over a piece of hard work, if she had known that Mr. Drummond was at that moment in possession of her mother's ear?
"Oh, Mr. Drummond, this is very sad, if every one should think as you do about my poor girls! and Phillis does so object to being called romantic;" for he had hinted in a gentlemanly way that he thought the whole scheme was crude and girlish and quixotic to a degree.
"I hope you will not tell her, then," returned Mr. Drummond in a soothing tone, for Mrs. Challoner was beginning to look agitated. "I am afraid nothing I say will induce Miss Challoner to give up her pet scheme; but I felt, as your clergyman, it was my duty to let you know my opinion." And here Archie looked so very solemn that Mrs. Challoner, being a weak woman, and apt to overvalue the least expression of masculine opinion, grew more and more alarmed.
"Oh, yes!" she faltered; "it is very good--very nice of you to tell me this." Phillis would have laughed in his face and Mrs. Cheyne would have found something to say about his youth; but in Mrs. Challoner's eyes, though she was an older woman, Archie's solemnity and Oriental beard carried tremendous weight with them. He might be young, nevertheless she was bound to listen meekly to him, and to respect his counsel as one who had a certain authority over her. "Oh, you are very good! and if only my girls had not made up their minds so quickly! but now what can I do but feel very uncomfortable after you have told me this?"
"Oh, as to that, there is always time for everything; it is never too late to mend," returned Mr. Drummond, tritely. "I meant from the first to tell you what I thought, if I should ever have an opportunity of speaking to you alone. You see, we Oxford men have our own notions about things: we do not always go with the tide. If your daughters--" here he hesitated and grew red, for he was a modest, honest young fellow in the main--"pardon me, but I am only proposing an hypothesis--if they wanted to make a sensation and get themselves talked about, no doubt they would achieve a success, for the novelty----" But here he stopped, reduced to silence by the shocked expression of Mrs. Challoner's face.
"Mr. Drummond! my girls--make a sensation--be talked about?" she gasped; and all the spirit of her virtuous matronhood, and all the instinctive feeling that years of culture and ingrained refinement of nature had engendered, shone in her eyes. Her Nan and Phillis and Dulce to draw this on themselves!
Now, at this unlucky moment, when the maternal fires were all alight, who should enter but Phillis, wanting "pins, and dozens of them,--quickly, please," and still warbling flatly that refrain of "Bonnie Dundee!"
"Oh, Phillis! Oh, my darling child!" cried Mrs. Challoner, quite hysterically; "do you know what your clergyman says? and if he should say such things, what will be the world's opinion? No, Mr. Drummond, I did not mean to be angry. Of course you are telling us this for our good; but I do not know when I have been so shocked."
"Why, what is this?" demanded Phillis, calmly; but she fixed her eyes on the unlucky clergyman, who began to wish that that last speech had not been uttered.
"He says it is to make a sensation--to be talked about--that you are going to do this," gasped Mrs. Challoner, who was far too much upset to weigh words truly.
"What!" Phillis only uttered that very unmeaning monosyllable: nevertheless, Archie jumped from his seat as though he had been shot.
"Mrs. Challoner, really this is too bad! No, you must allow me to explain," as Phillis turned aside with a curling lip, as though she would leave them. He actually went between her and the door, as though he meant to prevent her egress forcibly. There is no knowing to what lengths he would have gone in his sudden agitation. "Only wait a moment, until I explain myself. Your mother has misunderstood me altogether. Never has such a thought entered my mind!"
"Oh," observed Phillis. But now she stood still and began to collect her pins out of her mother's basket. "Perhaps, as this is rather unpleasant, you will have the kindness to tell me what it was you said to my mother?" And she spoke like a young princess who had just received an insult.
"I desire nothing more," returned Archie, determined to defend himself at all costs. "I had been speaking to Mrs. Challoner about all this unfortunate business. She was good enough to repose confidence in me, and, as your clergyman, I felt myself bound to tell her exactly my opinions on the subject."
"I do not quite see the necessity; but no doubt you know best," was Phillis's somewhat sarcastic answer.
"At least, I did it for the best," returned the young man, humbly. "I pointed out things to Mrs. Challoner, as I told you I should. I warned her what the world would say,--that it would regard your plan as very singular and perhaps quixotic. Surely there is nothing in this to offend you?"
"You have not touched on the worst part of all," returned Phillis, with a little disdain in her voice. "About making a sensation, I mean."
"There it was that your mother so entirely misunderstood. What I said was this: If this dressmaking scheme were undertaken just to make a sensation, it would of course, achieve success, for I thought the novelty might take. And then I added that I was merely stating an hypothesis by way of argument, and then Mrs. Challoner looked shocked, and you came in."
"Is that all?" asked Phillis, coming down from her stilts at once, for she knew of old how her mother would confuse things sometimes; and, if this were the truth, she, Phillis, had been rather too hard on him.
"Yes. Do you see now any necessity for quarrelling with me?" returned Mr. Drummond, breathing a little more freely as the frown lessened on Phillis's face. He wanted to be friends with these girls, not to turn them against him.
"Well, no, I believe not," she answered, quite gravely. "And I am sure I beg your pardon if I was rude." But this Archie would not allow for a moment.
"But, Mr. Drummond, one word before peace is quite restored," went on Phillis, with something of her old archness, "or else I will fetch my sisters, and you will have three of us against you."
"Oh, do, Phillis, my dear," interrupted her mother; "let them come and hear what Mr. Drummond thinks."
"Mammy, how dare you!--how dare you be so contumacious, after all the trouble we have taken to set your dear fidgety mind at rest? Just look what you have done, Mr. Drummond," turning upon him. "Now I am not going to forgive you, and we will not trust the mother out of our sight, unless you promise not to say this sort of thing to her when we are not here to answer them."
"But, Miss Challoner, my pastoral conscience!" but his eyes twinkled a little.
"Oh, never mind that!" she retorted, mischievously. "I will give you leave to lecture us collectively, but not individually: that must not be thought about for a moment." She had not a notion what the queer expression on Mr. Drummond's face meant, and he did not know himself; but he had the strongest desire to laugh at this.
They parted after this the best of friends; and Phillis tasted the cherries, and pronounced them very good.
"You have quite forgiven me?" Mr. Drummond said, as she accompanied him to the door before rejoining her sisters. "You know I have promised not to do it again until the next time."
"Oh, we shall see about that!" returned Phillis, good-humoredly. "Forewarned is forearmed; and there is a triple alliance against you."
"Good heavens, what mockery it seems! I never saw such girls,--never!" thought Mr. Drummond, as he took long strides down the road. "But Mattie is right: they mean business, and nothing in the world would change that girl's determination if she had set herself to carry a thing out. I never knew a stronger will!" And in this he was tolerably right. _