Not Like Other Girls Part 18

"Very likely they will only have one servant,--just Dorothy and no one else; and the girls will have to help in the house," returned his mother, thoughtfully. "That will not do them any harm, d.i.c.k: it always improves girls to make them useful. I dare say the Friary is a very small place, and then I am sure, with a little help, Dorothy will do very well."

"But, mother," pleaded d.i.c.k, who was somewhat comforted by this sensible view of the matter, "do write to Nan or Phillis and beg of them to give us fuller particulars." And, though Mrs. Mayne promised she would do so, and kept her word, d.i.c.k was not satisfied, but sat down and scrawled a long letter to Mrs. Challoner, so incoherent in its expressions of sympathy and regret that it quite mystified her; but Nan thought it perfect, and took possession of it, and read it every day, until it got quite thin and worn. One sentence especially pleased her. "I don't intend ever to cross the threshold of the cottage again," wrote d.i.c.k: "in fact, Oldfield will be hateful without you all. Of course I shall run down to Hadleigh at Christmas and look you up, and see for myself what sort of a place the Friary is. Tell Nan I will get her lots of roses for her garden so she need not trouble about that; and give them my love, and tell them how awfully sorry I am about it all."

Poor d.i.c.k! the news of his friends' misfortunes took off the edge of his enjoyment for a long time. Thanks to Nan's unselfishness, he did not in the least realize the true state of affairs; nevertheless, his honest heart was heavy at the thought of the empty cottage, and he was quite right in saying Oldfield had grown suddenly hateful to him, and, though he kept these thoughts to himself as much as possible, Mr.

Mayne saw that his son was depressed and ill at ease, and sent him away to the Swiss Tyrol, with a gay party of young people, hoping a few weeks' change would put the Challoners out of his head. Meanwhile Nan and her sisters worked busily, and their friends crowded round them, helping or hindering, according to their nature.

On the last afternoon there was a regular invasion of the cottage. The drawing-room carpet was up, and the room was full of packing-cases.

Carrie Paine had taken possession of one and her sister Sophy and Lily Twentyman had a turned-up box between them. Miss Sartoris and Gussie Scobell had wicker chairs. Dorothy had just brought in tea, and had placed before Nan a heterogeneous a.s.semblage of kitchen cups and saucers, mugs, and odds and ends of crockery, when Lady Fitzroy entered in her habit, accompanied by her sister, the Honorable Maud Burgoyne, both of whom seemed to enjoy the picnic excessively.

"Do let me have the mug," implored Miss Burgoyne: she was a pretty little brunette with a _nez retrousse_. "I have never drunk out of one since my nursery days. How cool it is, after the sunny roads! I think carpets ought to be abolished in the summer. When I have a house of my own, Evelyn, I mean to have Indian matting and nothing else in the warm weather."

"I am very fond of Indian matting," returned her sister, sipping her tea contentedly. "Fitzroy hoped to have looked in this afternoon, Mrs.

Challoner, to say good-bye, but there is an a.s.sault-at-arms at the Albert Hall, and he is taking my young brother Algernon to see it. He is quite inconsolable at the thought of losing such pleasant neighbors, and sent all sorts of pretty messages," finished Lady Fitzroy, graciously.

"Here is Edgar," exclaimed Carrie Paine; "he told us that he meant to put in an appearance; but I am afraid the poor boy will find himself _de trop_ among so many ladies."

Edgar was the youngest Paine,--a tall Eton boy, who looked as though he would soon be too big for jackets, and an especial friend of Nan's.

"How good of you to come and say good-bye, Gar!" she said summoning him to her side, as the boy looked round him blus.h.i.+ng and half terrified. "What have you got there under your jacket?"

"It is the puppy I promised you," returned Edgar, eagerly; "don't you know?--Nell's puppy? Father said I might have it." And he deposited a fat black retriever puppy at Nan's feet. The little beast made a clumsy rush at her and then rolled over on its back. Nan took it up in high delight, and showed it to her mother.

"Isn't it good of Gar, mother? and when we all wanted a dog so! We have never had a pet since poor old Juno died; and this will be such a splendid fellow when he grows up. Look at his head and curly black paws; and what a dear solemn face he has got!"

"I am glad you like him," replied Edgar, who was now perfectly at his ease. "We have christened him 'Laddie:' he is the handsomest puppy of the lot, and our man Jake says he is perfectly healthy." And then, as Nan cut him some cake, he proceeded to enlighten her on the treatment of this valuable animal.

The arrival of "Laddie" made quite a diversion, and, when the good-byes were all said, Nan took the little animal in her arms and went with Phillis for the last time to gather flowers in the Longmead garden, and when the twilight came on the three girls went slowly through the village, bidding farewell to their old haunts.

It was all very sad, and n.o.body slept much that night in the cottage.

Nan's tears were shed very quietly, but they fell thick and fast.

"Oh, d.i.c.k, it is hard--hard!" thought the poor girl, burying her face in the pillow; "but I have not let you know the day, so you will not be thinking of us. I would not pain you for worlds, d.i.c.k, not more than I can help." And then she dried her eyes and told herself that she must be brave for all their sakes to-morrow; but, for all her good resolutions, sleep would not come to her any more than it did to Phillis, who lay open-eyed and miserable until morning.

CHAPTER XIII.

"I MUST HAVE GRACE."

When the Rev. Archibald Drummond was nominated to the living of Hadleigh in Suss.e.x, it was at once understood by his family that he had achieved a decided success in life.

Hadleigh until very recently had been a perpetual curacy, and the perpetual curate in charge had lived in the large, shabby house with the green door on the Braidwood Road, as it was called. There had been some talk of a new vicarage, but as yet the first brick had not been laid, the building-committee had fallen out on the question of the site, and nothing had been definitely arranged: there was a good deal of talk, too, about the church restoration, but at the present moment nothing had been done.

Mr. Drummond had not been disturbed in his mind by the delay of the building-committee in the matter of the new vicarage, but on the topic of the church restoration he had been heard to say very bitter things,--far too bitter, it was thought, to proceed from the lips of such a new-comer. It is not always wise to be outspoken, and when Mr.

Drummond expressed himself a little too frankly on the ugliness of the sacred edifice, which until lately had been a chapel-of-ease, he had caused a great deal of dissatisfaction in the mind of his hearers; but when the young vicar, still strongly imbued with the beauties of Oxford architecture, had looked round blankly on the great square pews and galleries, and then at the wooden pulpit, and the Ten Commandments that adorned the east end, he was not quite so sure in his mind that his position was as enviable as that of other men.

Church architecture was his hobby, and, if the truth must be told, he was a little "High" in his views; without attaching himself to the Ultra-Ritualistic party, he was still strongly impregnated with many of their ideas; he preferred Gregorian to Anglican chants, and would have had no objection to incense if his diocesan could have been brought to appreciate it too.

An ornate service was decidedly to his taste. It was, therefore, a severe mortification when he found himself compelled to minister Sunday after Sunday in a building that was ugly enough for a conventicle, and to listen to the florid voices of a mixed choir, instead of the orderly array of men and boys in white surplices to which he had been accustomed. If he had been combative by nature,--one who loved to gird his armor about him and to plunge into every sort of _melee_,--he would have rejoiced after a fas.h.i.+on at the thought of the work cut out for him, of bringing order and beauty out of this chaos; but he was by nature too impatient. He would have condemned and destroyed instead of trying to renovate.

"Why not build a new church at once?" he said, with a certain youthful intolerance that made people angry. "Never mind the vicarage; the old house will last my time: but a place like this--a rising place--ought to have a church worthy of it. It will be money thrown away to restore this one," finished the young vicar, looking round him with sorely troubled eyes; and it was this outspoken frankness that had lost him popularity at first.

But, if the new vicar had secret cause for discontent in the Drummond family there was nothing but the sweetness of triumph.

"Archie has never given me a moment's trouble from his birth," his proud mother was wont to declare; and it must be owned that the young man had done very fairly for himself.

There had been plenty of anxiety in the Drummond household while Archibald was enjoying his first Oxford term. Things had come to a climax: his father, who was a Leeds manufacturer, had failed most utterly, and to a large amount. The firm of Drummond & Drummond, once known as a most respectable and reliable firm, had come suddenly, but not unexpectedly to the ground; and Archibald Drummond the elder had been compelled to accept a managers.h.i.+p in the very firm that, by compet.i.tion and underselling, had helped to ruin him.

It was a heavy trial to a man of Mr. Drummond's proud temperament; but he went through with it in a tough, dogged way that excited his wife's admiration. True, his bread was bitter to him for a long time, and the sweetness of life, as he told himself, was over for him; but he had a large family to maintain, sons and daughters growing up around him, and the youngest was not yet six months old; under such circ.u.mstances a man may be induced to put his pride in his pocket.

"Your father has grown quite gray, and has begun to stoop. It makes my heart quite ache to see him sometimes," Mrs. Drummond wrote to her eldest son; "but he never says a word to any of us. He just goes through with it day after day."

At that time Archie was her great comfort. He had begun to make his own way early in life, understanding from the first that his parents could do very little for him. He had worked well at school, and had succeeded in obtaining one or two scholars.h.i.+ps. When his university life commenced, and the household at Leeds became straitened in their circ.u.mstances, he determined not to enc.u.mber them with his presence.

He soon became known in his college as a reading-man and a steady worker; he was fortunate, too, in obtaining pupils for the long vacation. By and by he became a fellow and tutor of his college, and before he was eight-and-twenty the living of Hadleigh was offered to him. It was not at all a rich living,--not being worth more than three hundred a year,--and some of his Oxford friends would have dissuaded him from accepting it; but Archibald Drummond was not of their opinion. Oxford did not suit his const.i.tution; he was never well there. Suss.e.x air, and especially the sea-side, would give him just the tone he required. He liked the big old-fas.h.i.+oned house that would be allotted to him. He could take pupils and add to his income in that way; at present he had his fellows.h.i.+p. It was only in the event of his marriage that his income might not be found sufficient. At the present moment he had no matrimonial intentions: there was only one thing on which he was determined, and that was, that Grace must live with him and keep his house.

Grace was the sister next to him in age. Mattie,--or Matilda, as her mother often called her,--was the eldest of the family, and was two years older than Archibald. Between him and Grace there were two brothers, Fred and Clyde, and beyond Grace a string of girls ending in Dottie, who was not yet ten. Archibald used to forget their ages and mix them up in the most helpless way; he was never quite sure if Isabel were eighteen or twenty, or whether Clara or Susie came next.

He once forgot Laura altogether, and was only reminded of her existence by the shock of surprise at seeing the awkward-looking, ungainly girl standing before him, looking shyly up in his face.

Archibald was never quite alive to the blessing of having seven sisters, none of them with any pretension to beauty, unless it were Grace, though he was obliged to confess on his last visit to Leeds that Isabel was certainly pa.s.sable-looking. He tried to take a proper amount of interest in them and be serenely unconscious of their want of grace and polish; but the effort was too manifest, and neither Clara nor Susie nor Laura regarded their grave elder brother with any lively degree of affection. Mrs. Drummond was a somewhat stern and exacting mother, but she was never so difficult to please as when her eldest son was at home.

"Home is never so comfortable when Archie is in it," Susie would grumble to her favorite confidante, Grace. "Every one is obliged to be on their best behavior; and yet mother finds fault from morning to night. Dottie is crying now because she has been scolded for coming down to tea in a dirty pinafore."

"Oh, hush, Susie dear! you ought not to say such things," returned Grace, in her quiet voice.

Poor Grace! these visits of Archie were her only pleasures. The brother and sister were devoted to each other. In Archie's eyes not one of the others was to be compared to her; and in this he was perfectly right.

Grace Drummond was a tall, sweet-looking girl of two-and-twenty,--not pretty, except in her brother's opinion, but possessing a soft, fair comeliness that made her pleasant to look upon. In voice and manner she was extremely quiet,--almost grave; and only those who lived with her had any idea of the repressed strength and energy of her character, and the almost masculine clearness of intellect that lay under the soft exterior. One side of her nature was hidden from every one but her brother, and to him only revealed by intermittent flashes, and that was the pa.s.sionate absorption of her affection in him. To her parents she was dutiful and submissive, but when she grew up the yoke of her mother's will was felt to be oppressive. Her father's nature was more in sympathy with her own; but even with him she was reticent.

She was good to all her brothers and sisters, and especially devoted to Dottie; but her affection for them was so strongly pervaded by anxiety and the overweight of responsibility that its pains overbalanced its pleasures. She loved them, and toiled in their service from morning to night; but as yet she had not felt herself rewarded by any decided success. But in Archie her pride was equal to her love; she was critical, and her standard was somewhat high, but he satisfied her. What other people recognized as faults, she regarded as the merest blemishes. Without being absolutely faultless, which was of course impossible in a creature of flesh and blood, he was still as near perfection, she thought, as he could be. Perhaps her affection for him blinded her somewhat, and cast a sort of loving glamour over her eyes; for it must be owned that Archibald was by no means extraordinary in either goodness or cleverness. From a boy she had watched his career with dazzled eyes, rejoicing in every stroke of success that came to him as though it were her own. Her own life was dull and laborious, spent in the overcrowded house in Lowder Street, but she forgot it in following his. Now and then bright days came to her,--few in number, but absolutely golden, when this dearly-loved brother came on a brief visit,--when they had s.n.a.t.c.hes of delicious talk in the empty school-room at the top of the house, or he took her out with him for a long, quiet walk.

Mrs. Drummond always made some dry sarcastic remark when they came in, for she was secretly jealous of Archie's affection for Grace. Hers was rather a monopolizing nature, and she would willingly have had the first share in her son's affections. It somewhat displeased her to see him so wrapt up in the one sister to the exclusion of all the others, as she told him.

"I think you might have asked Matilda or Isabel to accompany you. The poor girls never see anything of you, Archie," she would say plaintively to her son. But to Grace she would speak somewhat sharply, bidding her fulfil some neglected duty, which another could as well have performed, and making her at once understand by her manner that she was to blame in leaving Mattie at home.

"Mother," Archibald said to her one day, when she had spoken with unusual severity, and the poor girl had retreated from the room, feeling as though she had been convicted of selfishness, "we must settle the matter about which I spoke to you last night. I have been thinking about it ever since. Mattie will not do at all. I must have Grace!"

Mrs. Drummond looked up from her mending, and her thin lips settled into a hard line that they always took when her mind was made up on a disagreeable subject. She had a pinafore belonging to Dottie in her hand; there was a jagged rent in it, and she sighed impatiently as she put it down; though she was not a woman who s.h.i.+rked any of her maternal duties, she had often been heard to say that her work was never done, and that her mending-basket was never empty.

"But if I cannot spare Grace," she said, rather shortly, as she meditated another lecture to the delinquent Dottie.

"But, mother, you must spare her!" returned her son, eagerly, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, and watching her rapid manipulations with apparent interest. "Look here; I am quite in earnest. I have set my heart on having Grace. She is just the one to manage a clergyman's household. She would be my right hand in the parish."

"She is our right hand too, Archie; but I suppose we are to cut it off, that it may benefit you and your parish."

Mrs. Drummond seldom spoke so sharply to her eldest son; but this request of his was grievous to her.

"I think Grace ought to be considered, too, in the matter," he returned, somwhat sullenly. "She works harder than any paid governess, and gets small thanks for her trouble."