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Not Like Other Girls
Chapter 39. "How Do You Do, Aunt Catherine?"
Rosa Nouchette Carey
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       _ CHAPTER XXXIX. "HOW DO YOU DO, AUNT CATHERINE?"
       One drizzling November morning, Mattie was standing at the hall door, looking out a little blankly through the open gateway at the prospect before her,--at the rotting leaves that lay heaped up in the road, and at the gray, humid sky,--when a very big man suddenly blocked up the entrance, and startled her dreadfully.
       Mattie afterwards described the occurrence very graphically to her brother:
       "He was the biggest man I ever saw in my life, Archie. He looked as strong as a navvy; and his shoulders reminded me of one of those men one sees in brewers' drays. And his face was so red, and his hair, too,--that dreadfully red color, you know, that no one admires; and his hands, and even his voice, were big."
       "What a fascinating description!" laughed Archie. "Upon my word, Mattie, you are rather tremendous in your language. Well, and what did the navvy say to you?"
       "Oh, he was not a navvy, really! Of course he was a gentleman. He could not help his big voice, and what he said was nice; but, I assure you, Archie, he nearly took my breath away;" and so on, and so on, to the end of her story.
       But it was enough to surprise any one whose nerves were not of the strongest, when one lives in a lonely country road, and the master of the house is out, to see a gigantic specimen of manhood, not very carefully dressed, and with hair like a red glory, come suddenly striding through one's open gate, without "by your leave," or waiting for any possible permission.
       Mattie dropped her umbrella,--for she was dressed in her waterproof, and her oldest hat, ready for her district-work; and the stranger picked it up, and handed it to her promptly, and then he removed his hat politely.
       "How do you do, cousin?" he said; and a broad, genial smile revealed a set of white teeth.
       Mattie retreated a step in genuine affright.
       "For you know, Archie," she explained afterwards, in her simple way, "we have no cousins worth mentioning, except Sophy Trinder, who is not our cousin at all, but mother's; and so you see it sounded so very odd."
       "Very odd indeed," muttered Archie.
       "If you please, Mr. Drummond--that is my brother--is out, and I am going out too," faltered Mattie, who was not a specially heroic little person, and who decidedly had not got her wits about her just then.
       "I do not want Mr. Drummond, whoever he may be. I never heard of him in my life. I only want my aunt and cousins. Which of them are you, eh? Why, you must be Nan, I suppose?" And the big man looked down at her with a sort of supercilious good nature. The name gave Mattie instant enlightenment.
       "Nan!--Oh, you must mean the Challoners!" she exclaimed, with a little gasp of surprise.
       "Yes, of course; I am a Challoner myself. Well, which of them are you, eh? You are a long time telling me your name." And the new-comer peered down at her still more curiously, as though he were surprised to find anything so small and ordinary-looking.
       Mattie never looked to advantage in her waterproof. More than once her brother had threatened to burn the old rag of a thing.
       "My name is Mattie Drummond," replied the bewildered Mattie, trying to speak with dignity,--she never would call herself Matilda, she hated it so,--"and I live with my brother, who is the clergyman of the parish. This is the vicarage: if you want the Friary, it is a little lower down the road."
       "Where?" he asked, striding to the gate; and then he came back again, taking the few steps at a single bound,--so at least it appeared to Mattie. "Why--why--there is no house at all--only a miserable cottage, and----"
       "That is the Friary," repeated Mattie, decidedly; "but it is not miserable at all: it is very nice and pretty. The Challoners are very poor, you know; but their house looks beautiful for all that."
       "Oh, yes; I know all about it. I have been down to that place, Oldfield, where they lived; and what I heard has brought me here like an express train. I say, Miss Mattie Drummond, if you will excuse ceremony in a fellow who has never seen his father's country before, and who has roughed it in the colonies, may I come in a moment and ask you a few questions about my cousins?"
       "Oh, by all means," returned Mattie, who was very good-natured and was now more at her ease. "You will be very welcome, Mr. Challoner."
       "Sir Henry Challoner, at your service," responded that singular individual with a twinkle of his eye, as Mattie became confused all at once. "You see," he continued, confidentially, as she led the way rather awkwardly to her brother's study, hoping fervently that Archie would come in, "I have been making up my mind to come to England for years, but somehow I have never been able to get away; but after my father's death--he was out in Australia with me--I was so lonely and cut up that I thought I would take a run over to the mother-country and hunt up my relations. He was not much of a father perhaps; but, as one cannot have a choice in such matters, I was obliged to put up with him;" which was perhaps the kindest speech Sir Francis's son could make under the circumstances.
       Mattie listened intelligently, but she was so slightly acquainted with the Challoners' past history that she did not know they possessed any relations. But she had no need to ask any questions: the new-comer seemed determined to give a full account of himself.
       "So do you see, Miss Drummond, having made my fortune by a stroke of good luck, and not knowing quite how to spend it--the father and mother both gone,--and having no wife or chick of my own, and being uncommon lonely under the circumstances, I thought I would just run over and have a look at my belongings. I have a sort of fancy for Aunt Catherine; she used to write me such pretty letters when I was a little chap in Calcutta, and tell me about Nan, and Phillis, and--what was the baby's name?--Dulce. I believe she and the poor old governor never hit it off: the old man had been a sad sinner in his day. But I never forgot those letters: and when he was gone, poor old boy! I said to myself, Now I will go and see Aunt Catherine."
       "And you went down to Oldfield, Sir Henry?"
       "Eh, what? meaning me, I suppose? but out there they called me Sir Harry, or Harry mostly, for what was the use of a title there? Oh, yes, I went down and found out all about them from a chatty little woman, rather like yourself, and she sent me on here."
       "Oh, dear, I am so glad!" exclaimed Mattie, who was now thoroughly herself: "they will be so pleased to see you, and you will think them all so charming. I am sure I never saw any one the least like them, except Grace, and she is not half so pretty as Nan; and as for Phillis, I admire her even more, she lights up so when she talks."
       "Aunt Catherine used to be beautiful," observed Sir Harry, gravely; for then and afterwards he insisted on that form of address. He was not English enough or sufficiently stiff for Henry, he would say.
       "Oh, dear, yes! she is quite lovely now,--at least Archie and I think so; and Dulce is the dearest little thing. I am ever so fond of them; if they were my own sisters I could not love them more," continued Mattie, with a little gush; but, indeed the girls' gentle high-bred ways had won her heart from the first.
       Sir Harry's eyes positively sparkled with delight; he had pleasant eyes which redeemed his other features, for it must be confessed he was decidedly plain.
       "I must shake hands with you, Miss Drummond," he said, stretching out a huge hand, with a diamond ring on it that greatly impressed Mattie. "We shall be good friends, I see that." And though poor Mattie winced with pain under that cordial grasp, she hid it manfully.
       "Did they tell you at Oldfield how poor they are?" she said, when this ceremony had been performed, and Sir Harry's face looked more like a sunset than ever with that benevolent glow on it.
       "Oh, yes," he returned, indifferently; "but all that is over now."
       "You know they have to work for their living; the girls are dressmakers," bringing out the news rather cautiously, for fear he should be shocked; a baronet must be sensitive on such points. But Sir Harry only laughed.
       "Well, they are plucky girls," he said, admiringly; "I like them for that." And then he asked, a little anxiously, if his aunt sewed gowns too,--that was how he put it,--and seemed mightily relieved to hear that she did very little but read to the girls.
       "I would not like to hear she was slaving herself at her age," he remarked, seriously. "Work will not hurt the girls: it keeps them out of mischief. But now I have come, we must put a stop to all this." And then he got up and threw back his shoulders, as though he were adjusting them to some burden; and Mattie, as she looked up at him, thought again of the brewer's dray.
       "I was afraid when he got off his chair he would touch the ceiling," she said, afterwards. "He quite stooped of his own accord going through the study doorway."
       When Sir Henry had shaken himself into order, and pulled an end of his rough red moustache, he said, quite suddenly,--
       "As you are a friend of the family, Miss Drummond, I think it would be as well if you would go with me to the Friary and introduce me in due form; for, though you would not believe it in a man of my size, I am painfully shy, and the notion of all these girls, unless I take them singly, is rather overwhelming." And, though this request took Mattie a little by surprise, she saw no reason for refusing to do him this kindness. So she assented willingly, for in her heart Mattie was fond of a scene. It gave her such a hold on Archie's attention afterwards; and, to do him justice, when the Challoners were on the tapis, he made a splendid listener.
       Sir Henry walked very fast, as though he were in a tremendous hurry; but he was nervous, poor fellow, and, though he did not like to own as much to a woman, he would almost have liked to run away, in spite of his coming all those thousands of miles to see his relations. He had pressed Mattie into the service to cover his confusion, but the little woman herself hardly saw how she was needed, for, instead of waiting for her introduction, or sending in his name or card by Dorothy, he just put them both aside and stepped into the first room that stood handy, guided by the sound of voices.
       "How do you do, Aunt Catherine?" he said, walking straight up to the terrified lady, who had never seen anything so big in her life. "I am Harry,--Harry Challoner, you know,--to whom you used to write when I was a little slip of a boy."
       A strange queen in a hive of bees could not have produced more confusion. Dulce stopped her sewing-machine so suddenly that her thread broke; Phillis, who was reading aloud, let her book fall with quite a crash; and Nan said, "Oh, dear!" and grew quite pale with surprise and disappointment: for a moment she thought it was Dick. As for Mrs. Challoner, who had a right to her nerves from years of injudicious spoiling and indulgence, and would not have been without her feelings for worlds, she just clasped her hands and murmured "Good heavens!" in the orthodox lady-like way.
       "Why, yes, Aunt Catherine, I am Harry; and I hope you have not forgotten the existence of the poor little beggar to whom you were so kind in the old Calcutta days." And his big voice softened involuntarily in the presence of this dignified aunt.
       "Oh, no, my dear!--no!" touched by his manner, and remembering the boyish scrawls that used to come to her, signed "Your affectionate nephew, Harry." "And are you indeed my nephew?--are you Harry?" And then she held out her slim hand, which he took awkwardly enough. "Girls, you must welcome your cousin. This is Nan, Harry, the one they always say is like me; and this is Phillis, our clever one; and this is my pet Dulce." And with each one did their cousin solemnly shake hands, but without a smile; indeed, his aspect became almost ludicrous, until he caught sight of his homely little acquaintance, Mattie, who stood an amused spectator of this family tableau, and his red, embarrassed face brightened a little.
       "Aunt Catherine was such an awfully grand creature, you know," as he observed to her afterwards, in a confidential aside: "her manners make a fellow feel nowhere. And as for my cousins, a prettier lot of girls I never saw anywhere; and of course, they are as jolly and up to larks as other girls; but just at first, you know, I had a bull-in-a-china-shop sort of feeling among them all."
       Mrs. Challoner, in spite of her fine manners, was far too nervous herself to notice her nephew's discomfort. She had to mention a name that was obnoxious to her, for of course she must ask after his father. She got him into a chair by her at length, where he stared into his hat to avoid the bright eyes that seemed to quiz him so unmercifully.
       "And how is Sir Francis?" she asked, uttering the name with languid interest.
       "My father! Oh, did you not know, Aunt Catherine?--he died out in Sydney a year ago. Poor old fellow! he had a terrible illness. There was no pulling him through it."
       Mrs. Challoner roused up at this:
       "Your father dead! Then, Harry, you have come to the title?"
       But her nephew burst into a boisterous laugh at this:
       "Yes,--a title and an old ruin. A precious heritage, is it not? Not that I care what people call me. The most important part is that another fellow--Dalton they call him--and I made a grand hit out in Sydney. When I saw the money flowing in, I just sent for the poor old governor to join me; and we did not have a bad time of it, until the gout took him off. And then I got sick of it all, and thought I would have a look at England and hunt up my relations."
       Sir Harry had blurted out this long speech as he still attentively regarded the lining of his hat; but, happening to look up, he caught Phillis's eyes, which were contemplating him. The mischievous look of fun in them was not to be resisted. Sir Harry first got redder, if possible; then his own eyes began to twinkle, and finally they both laughed. And after that the ice was broken, and they got on famously.
       The girls chattered to him like magpies. They made Mattie take off her hat and hideous old waterproof and stay to luncheon. Nan smoothed her hair, which was sadly ruffled, and Phillis settled her brooch and collar.
       There was only cold mutton in the larder; but what did that matter? Dulce ran out in the garden and picked dahlias for the table; and Nan took her mother's keys and drew from the recesses of a dim sweet-smelling press some dainty napkins and a fine old cloth that might have suited a princess. There was a bottle of rare Madeira that remained from their stock of wine; and Dorothy had made a batch of fresh dinner-rolls. Dorothy was always full of resources in an emergency.
       "Don't fash yourself, Miss Nan," she said, when her young mistress came into the kitchen. "The cold mutton can't be helped; but we have got angels in the larder, and I will just pop them into the oven."
       Sir Harry roared with laughter when Dorothy's speech was repeated to him. The little puddings were declared by Mattie to be delicious; but Sir Harry could scarcely eat his for laughing.
       "Who ever heard of baked angels, Aunt Catherine!" he exclaimed, after another explosion.
       "My dear, it is only a name," she returned, mildly. "Will you have another, Harry? And, Nan, you must pass your cousin the Madeira."
       They were all seated round the table in the small parlor. It was felt to be a triumph when Sir Harry contrived to seat himself without grazing himself seriously against the chiffonnier or knocking over a piece of the blue-and-gold china.
       "What a cosey little cabin of a place!" he said with critical approval; "but it is rather small to hold you all,--eh, Aunt Catherine?"
       "Yes: it is small after Glen Cottage," she sighed. "We had such a pretty drawing-room there."
       "And such a lovely garden!" added Dulce.
       "Oh, this crib in not fit for you? We will alter all that," he returned, complacently. "I am the head of the family now, and I must take my uncle's place. I am awfully rich, Aunt Catherine; so you have only got to tell me what you and the girls want, you know." And then he rubbed his hands as though he were pleased about something.
       But no one took any notice of this speech, hardly knowing how to treat it.
       When luncheon--which was, indeed, the family dinner--was over, the girls carried him off to the work-room, and showed him specimens of their skill.
       "Very nice; very well done," he observed, approvingly.
       "I am glad you showed such pluck; for why any woman should think it infra dig. to make a gown for another woman quite beats me. Why, bless you, in the colonies we fellows turned our hands to anything! Well, Aunt Catherine, they are plucky ones, these girls of yours. But we must put a stop to this sort of thing, you and I. I don't think my uncle would have liked it. And as I am in his place----" And here he thrust aside some amber satin with his great hands, with a movement full of suggestive possibilities.
       He took them all out to walk after that. Mrs. Challoner, indeed, begged to be excused,--the poor lady was already sadly fatigued, and longed for her nap,--but he would not dispense with Mattie's company.
       "We were acquaintances first," he said to her; "and I look upon you as a sort of cousin too, Miss Mattie." And poor little Mattie, who had never met with so much friendliness before, quite blushed and bridled with pleasure.
       Mr. Drummond, who was coming out of his own gate, stood as though transfixed as the procession came towards him. The four girls were walking all abreast, Mattie in the middle; and beside them stalked a huge man, in rough, rather outlandish attire, looking like a son of the Anakin, or a red-headed Goliath.
       Archie stood still in the middle of the road, and Mattie rushed up to him:
       "We are going for a walk. Oh, Archie, I wish you would come too! It would be such fun!"
       "Yes; do come!" cried unconscious Nan, seconding her out of pure good nature. "Mr. Drummond, this is our cousin, Sir Henry Challoner, who has just come from Australia; and we have never seen him before." And then the young clergyman shook hands with him very stiffly, and spoke a few conventional words.
       "They have not a man belonging to them," he had said to himself, triumphantly, and then that odious Dick had turned up and now this extraordinary-looking being who called himself Sir Henry Challoner.
       Archie took down the "Peerage" when he got home, for he could not be induced to join the merry party in their walk. He found the name there all right,--"Henry Fortescue Challoner, son of Sir Francis Challoner, son of Sir Henry Challoner," and so on. It was an old baronetcy,--one of the oldest in England,--but the estates had dwindled down to a half-ruined residence and a few fields. "Challoner Place," as it was called, was nothing but a heap of mouldering walls; but Mattie had whispered to him gleefully that he was "awfully rich, and the head of the family, and unmarried; and he did not mean to let his cousins make gowns anymore for other people, though they might do it for themselves."
       Mattie never forgot that walk. Never in her life had she enjoyed such fun. Archie, with his grave face and prim ways, would have spoiled the hilarity.
       First Sir Henry took his cousins to the hotel, where they heard him order his apartments and dinner: he evidently considered he had not dined; and there was a good deal of discussion about some game that he ordered, and a certain brand of champagne that was to his liking.
       "If they make me comfortable, I may stop on a goodish bit," he informed them, "until we have settled where my aunt would like to live. I shall run up to London every few days, and can do all your commissions. By the bye, I got some trinkets for you girls on my way down; we will haul them over when I come up for the cup of coffee Aunt Catherine promised me this evening."
       "Now, Harry, we don't want presents," remarked Phillis, taking him to task as easily as though she had known him all her life long.
       In spite of his bigness, his great burly figure and plain face, there was something very pleasant about him. He was rough and unpolished, his dress was careless and of colonial cut; and yet one could not fail to see he was a gentleman. His boyishness and fun would have delighted Dick, who was of the same calibre; only Dick was far cleverer, and had more in his little finger than this great lumbering Harry in his whole body.
       He was slow and clumsy, but his heart and intentions were excellent; he was full of tenderness for women, and showed a touching sort of chivalry in his intercourse with them. In some way, his manners were far finer than those of a New Bond Street gentleman; for he could not sneer at a woman, he believed in the goodness of the sex, in spite of much knowledge to the contrary, he could not tell a lie, and he only cheated himself. This was saying a good deal for the son of that very black sheep Sir Francis; but, as Sir Harry once simply observed, "his mother was a good woman:" if this were the case, her husband's vices must have shortened her life, for she died young.
       Phillis was glad when they turned their backs on the town: she found her cousin's long purse a difficulty: it seemed an impossibility to get him past the shops.
       First, he was sure Aunt Catherine was fond of champagne,--all ladies liked sweet sparkling things; but he would see about that at the hotel presently. Then his attention was attracted by some grouse hanging up at the poulterer's: Aunt Catherine must have some grouse, as he remembered the cold mutton. Phillis made no objection to the grouse, for she knew her mother's fondness for game; but she waxed indignant when partridges and a hare were added, and still more when Sir Harry ransacked the fruiterers for a supply of the rarest fruit the town could afford. After this, he turned his attention to cakes and bonbons; but here Dulce took his part, for she loved bonbons. Phillis caught Nan by the arm, and compelled her to leave them; but Mattie deserted her friends, and remained to watch the fun.
       Dulce grew frightened at last, and tried to coax her cousin away.
       "Oh, no more--no more?" she pleaded. "Phillis and Nan will be so angry with us."
       "I don't see anything more worth getting," returned her cousin, contemptuously. "What a place this is, to be sure! Never mind, Dulce; I am going up to London to-morrow, and I will bring you down as many bonbons as you like from the French place in Regent Street. I will bring Miss Mattie some too," he continued, as the girls hurried him along. "And, Dulce, just write out a list of what you girls want; and I will get them, as sure as my name is Harry." _
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Chapter 1. Five-O'clock Tea
Chapter 2. Dick Objects To The Mountains
Chapter 3. Mr. Mayne Makes Himself Disagreeable
Chapter 4. Dick's Fete
Chapter 5. "I Am Quite Sure Of Him"
Chapter 6. Mr. Trinder's Visit
Chapter 7. Phillis's Catechism
Chapter 8. "We Should Have To Carry Parcels"
Chapter 9. A Long Day
Chapter 10. The Friary
Chapter 11. "Tell Us All About It, Nan"
Chapter 12. "Laddie" Puts In An Appearance
Chapter 13. "I Must Have Grace"
Chapter 14. "You Can Dare To Tell Me These Things"
Chapter 15. A Van In The Braidwood Road
Chapter 16. A Visit To The White House
Chapter 17. "A Friend In Need"
Chapter 18. Dorothy Brings In The Best China
Chapter 19. Archie Is In A Bad Humor
Chapter 20. "You Are Romantic"
Chapter 21. Breaking The Peace
Chapter 22. "Trimmings, Not Squails"
Chapter 23. "Bravo, Atalanta!"
Chapter 24. Mothers Are Mothers
Chapter 25. Mattie's New Dress
Chapter 26. "Oh, You Are Proud!"
Chapter 27. A Dark Hour
Chapter 28. The Mysterious Stranger
Chapter 29. Mrs. Williams's Lodger
Chapter 30. "Now We Understand Each Other"
Chapter 31. Dick Thinks Of The City
Chapter 32. "Dick Is To Be Our Real Brother"
Chapter 33. "This Is Life And Death To Me"
Chapter 34. Miss Mewlstone Has An Interruption
Chapter 35. "Barby, Don't You Recollect Me?"
Chapter 36. Motes In The Sunshine
Chapter 37. "A Man Has A Right To His Own Thoughts"
Chapter 38. About Nothing Particular
Chapter 39. "How Do You Do, Aunt Catherine?"
Chapter 40. Alcides
Chapter 41. Sir Harry Bides His Time
Chapter 42. "Come, Now, I Call That Hard"
Chapter 43. "I Will Write No Such Letter"
Chapter 44. Mr. Mayne Orders A Basin Of Gruel
Chapter 45. An Uninvited Guest
Chapter 46. A New Invasion Of The Goths
Chapter 47. "It Was So Good Of You To Ask Me Here"
Chapter 48. Mrs. Sparsit's Poodle
Chapter 49. Mattie In A New Character
Chapter 50. Phillis's Favorite Month