Not Like Other Girls Part 22

"Are you sure you did not make a mistake, Mattie?" asked her brother, incredulously. "You are very short-sighted: perhaps you did not see correctly. How can those stylish-looking girls live in such a shabby place? I can hardly believe it possible."

"Oh, it was the same, I am positive about that. She was in the same cambric dress you admired. I could see distinctly. I watched her for a long time; and then the pretty one came out and joined her. She is pretty, Archie, she has such a lovely complexion."

"But are they poor?--they don't look so. What on earth can it mean?"

he asked, in a perplexed voice; but Mattie only shook her head, and went on:

"We must find out all about them by and by. They are worth knowing, I am sure of that. Poor?--well, they cannot be rich, certainly, to live in the Friary; but they are gentle-people, one can see that in a moment."

"Of course! who doubted it?" was the somewhat impatient answer.

"Well, but that is not all," went on Mattie, too delighted with her brother's interest to try to curtail her story. "Of course I could not stand long watching them, so I did my errand and came away; and then I met Miss Middleton, and we walked down to the Library together to change those books. Miss Milner was talking to some ladies when we first went in and, as Miss Masham was not in the shop, we had to wait our turn, so I had a good look at them. The elder one was such a pretty, aristocratic-looking woman,--a little too languid, perhaps for my taste; and the younger one was a little like Isabel, only nicer-looking. I shouldn't have stared at them so much,--at least, I am afraid I stared," went on Mattie, forgetting for the moment how often she had been taken to task for this very thing,--"but something Miss Milner said attracted my attention, 'I am not to send it to the Friary, then, ma'am?' 'Well, no,' the lady returned, rather hesitatingly. She had such a nice voice and manner, Archie. 'My youngest daughter and I are at Beach House at present; I am rather an invalid, and the bustle would be too much for me. Dulce, we had better have these things sent to Beach House.' And then the young lady standing by her said, 'Oh, yes, mother; we shall want them this evening.' And then they went out."

"There is a third sister, then?" observed Archie, not pretending to disguise his interest in Mattie's recital.

"Yes, there is a third one: she is certainly a little like Isabel; she has a dimple like hers, and is of the same height. I asked Miss Milner, when they were out of hearing, if their name were Challoner, and if they were the new people who were coming to live at the empty cottage on the Braidwood Road. I thought she did not seem much disposed to give me information. Yes, their name was Challoner, and they had taken the Friary; but they were quite strangers in the town, and no one knew anything about them. And then Miss Middleton chimed in; she said her father had noticed the young ladies some weeks ago, and had called her attention to them. They were very pretty girls, and had quite taken his fancy; he had not forgotten them, and had spoken of them that very morning. She supposed Mrs. Challoner must be a widow, and not very well off: did Miss Milner know. Would you believe it, Archie? Miss Milner got quite red, and looked confused. You know how she enjoys a bit of gossip generally; but the questions seemed to trouble her. 'They were not at all well off, she knew that, but nicer young ladies she had never seen, or wished to see; and she hoped every one would be kind to them, and not forget they were real born ladies, in spite of----' And here the old thing got more confused than ever, and came to a full stop, and begged to know how she could serve us."

"It is very strange,--very strange indeed," returned her brother, in a meditative voice; but, as Mattie had nothing more to tell him, he did not discuss the matter any further, only thanked her for her news, and civilly dismissed her on the plea that his business was at a stand-still.

But he did not resume his accounts for sometime after he was left alone. Instead of doing so, he walked to the window and looked out in a singularly absent manner. Mattie's news was somewhat exciting. The idea of having such pleasant neighbors located within a stone's throw of the vicarage was in itself disturbing to the imagination of a young man of eight-and-twenty, even though a clergyman. And then, it must be confessed, Nan's charming face and figure had never been forgotten: he had looked out for the sisters many times since his chance encounter with Phillis, and had been secretly disappointed at their total disappearance. And now they proved not mere visitors, but positively inhabitants of Hadleigh. He would meet them every day; and, as there was but one church in the place, they would of course be numbered among his flock. As their future clergyman he would have a right of entrance to the cottage.

"How soon do you think we ought to call upon them, Mattie?" he asked, when he was seated opposite to his sister at the luncheon-table. The accounts had not progressed very favorably, and the letter to Grace was not yet commenced. Mattie's news had been a sad interruption to his morning's work.

"Whom do you mean, Archie," she returned, a little bewildered at this abrupt remark; and then, as he frowned at her denseness, she bethought herself of the new people. It was not often Archie asked her advice about anything, but on this occasion the young vicar felt himself incompetent to decide.

"I suppose you mean the new folk at the Friary," she continued, carelessly. "Oh, they are only moving in to-day, and they will be in a muddle for a week, I should think. I don't think we can intrude for ten days or so."

"Not if you think it will be intrusive," he returned, rather anxiously; "but they are strangers in the place, and all ladies--there does not seem to be a man belonging to them--would it not be neighborly, as we live so close, just to call, not in a formal way, you know, but just to volunteer help? There are little things you could do for them, Mattie; and, as a clergyman, they could not regard my visit as an intrusion, I should think. Do you not agree with me?"

looking at his sister rather gravely.

"Well, I don't know," replied Mattie, bluntly: "I should not care for strangers prying into my concerns, if I were in their place. And yet, as you say, we are such close neighbors, and one would like to be kind to the poor things, for they must be lonely, settling in a strange new place. I'll tell you what, Archie," as his face fell at this matter-of-fact speech: "it is Thursday, and they will be sure to be at church on Sunday; we shall see them there, and that will be an excuse for us to call on Monday. We can say then that we are neighbors, and that we would not wait until they were all in order. We can offer to send them things from the vicarage, or volunteer help in many little ways. I think that would be best."

"Yes, perhaps you are right, and we will wait until Monday," returned Archie, taking off his soft felt hat. "Now I must go on my rounds, and not waste any more time chattering." But, though he spoke with unusual good nature, he did not invite Mattie to be his companion, and the poor little woman betook herself to the solitary drawing-room and some plain sewing for the rest of the afternoon.

The young clergyman stood for a moment irresolutely at the green door, and cast a longing glance in the direction of the Friary, where the van was still unloading, and then he bethought himself that, though Mattie had given orders about the weeding of the garden-paths, it would be as well to speak to Crump about the wire fence that was wanted for the poultry-yard; and as soon as he had made up his mind on this point he walked on briskly.

The last piece of furniture had just been carried in; but, as Mr.

Drummond was picking his way through the straw and debris that littered the side-path, two girlish figures came out of the doorway full upon him.

He raised his hat involuntarily, but they drew back at once, and, as he went out, confused at this sudden rencontre, the sound of a light laugh greeted his ear.

"How annoying that we should always be meeting him!" observed Nan, innocently. "Don't laugh, Phillis: he will hear you."

"My dear, it must be fate," returned Phillis solemnly. "I shall think it my duty to warn d.i.c.k if this goes on." But, in spite of her mischievous speech, she darted a quick, interested look after the handsome young clergyman as he walked on. Both the girls stood in the porch for some minutes after they had made their retreat. They had come out to cool themselves and to get a breath of air, until a July sun and Mr. Drummond's sudden appearance defeated their intention.

They had no idea that they were watched from behind the screening geraniums in Mrs. Crump's window. Both of them were enveloped in Dorothy's bib-ap.r.o.ns, which hid their pretty rounded figures.

Phillis's cheeks were flushed, and her arms were bare to the dimpled elbows; and Nan's brown hair was slightly dishevelled.

"We look just like cooks!" exclaimed Phillis, regarding her coa.r.s.e ap.r.o.n with disfavor; but Nan stretched her arms with a little indifference and weariness.

"What does it matter how we look,--like cooks or housemaids? I am dreadfully tired; but we must go in and work, Phil. I wonder what has become of Dulce?" And then the charming vision disappeared from the young clergyman's eyes, and he was free to fix his mind on the wire fence that was required for the poultry-yard.

As soon as he had accomplished his errand he set his face towards the vicarage, for he made up his mind suddenly that he would call on the Middletons, and perhaps on Mrs. Cheyne. The latter was a duty that he owed to his pastoral conscience; but there was no need for him to go to the Middletons'. Nevertheless, the father and daughter were his most intimate friends, and on all occasions he was sure of Miss Middleton's sympathy. They lived at Brooklyn,--a low white house a little below the vicarage. It was a charming house, he always thought, so well arranged and well managed; and the garden--that was the colonel's special hobby--was as pretty as a garden could be. The drawing-room looked shady and comfortable, for the French windows opened into a cool veranda, fitted up with flower-baskets and wicker chairs; and beyond lay the trim lawn, with beds of blazing verbenas and calceolarias. Miss Middleton's work-table was just within one of the windows; but the colonel, in his gray summer suit, reclined in a lounging-chair in the veranda. He was reading the paper to his daughter, and was just in the middle of last night's debate; nevertheless, he threw it aside, well pleased at the interruption.

"I knew how I should find you occupied," observed Mr. Drummond, as he exchanged a smile with Miss Middleton. He was fully aware that politics were not to her taste, and yet every afternoon she listened to such reading, well content even with the sound of her father's voice.

Elizabeth Middleton was certainly a charming person. Phillis had called her the "gray-haired girl," and the t.i.tle suited her. She was not a girl by any means, having reached her six-and-thirtieth year; but her hair was as silvery as an old woman's, gray and plentiful, and soft as silk, and contrasted strangely with her still youthful face.

Without being handsome, Elizabeth Middleton was beautiful. Her expression was sweet and restful, and attracted all hearts. People who were acquainted with her said she was the happiest creature they knew,--that she simply diffused suns.h.i.+ne by her mere presence; such a contrast, they would add, to her neighbor Mrs. Cheyne, who bore all her troubles badly and was of a proud, fretful disposition. But then Mrs. Cheyne had lost her husband and her two children, and led such a sad, lonely life; and no such troubles had fallen to Miss Middleton.

Elizabeth Middleton could afford to be happy, they said, for she was the delight of her father's eyes. Her young half-brother, Hammond, who was with his regiment in India, was not nearly so dear to the old man; and of course that was why she had never married, that her father's house might not be left desolate.

This is how people talked; but not a single person in Hadleigh knew that Elizabeth Middleton had had a great sorrow in her life.

She had been engaged for some years most happily, and with her father's consent, to one of his brother officers. Captain Sedgwick was of good family, but poor; and they were waiting for his promotion, for at that time Colonel Middleton would have been unable to give his daughter any dowry. Elizabeth was young and happy, and she could afford to wait. No girl ever gloried in her lover more than she did in hers. Capel Sedgwick was not only brave and singularly handsome, but he bore a reputation through the whole regiment for having a higher standard of duty than most men.

Promotion came at last, and, just as Elizabeth was gayly making preparations for her marriage, fatal tidings were brought to her.

Major Sedgwick had gone to visit an old servant in the hospital who had been struck down with cholera; he had remained with him some time, and on his return to his bungalow the same fell disease had attacked him, and before many hours were over he was dead. The shock was a terrible one; in the first moments of her bitter loss, Elizabeth cried out that her misery was too great,--that all happiness was over for her in this world, and that she only prayed that she might be buried in the same grave with Capel.

The light had not yet come to the poor soul that felt itself afflicted past endurance and could find no reason for such pain. It could not be said that Elizabeth bore her trouble better than other girls would have borne theirs under like circ.u.mstances. She fretted and grew thin, and dashed herself wildly against the inevitable, only reproaching herself for her selfishness and want of submission when she looked at her father's care-worn face.

But then came a time when light and peace revisited the wrecked heart,--when confused reasonings no longer beset the poor weak brain and filled it with dismay and doubt,--when the Divine will became her will, and there was no longer submission, but a most joyful surrender.

And no one, and least of all she herself, knew when the darkness was vanquished by that clear uprising of pure radiance, or how those brooding wings of peace settled on her soul. From that time, every human being that came within her radius was welcome as a new object of love. To give and yet to give, and never to be satisfied, was a daily necessity of life to Elizabeth. "Now there is some one more to love,"

she would say to herself, when a new acquaintance was brought to her; and, as the old adage is true that tells us love begets love, there was no more popular person in Hadleigh than Elizabeth Middleton. She had something to say in praise of every one; not that she was blind to the faults of her neighbors, but she preferred to be silent and ignore them.

And she was especially kind to Mattie. In the early days of their intimacy, the young vicar would often speak to her of his sister Grace and lament their enforced separation from each other. Miss Middleton listened sympathetically, with the same sweet attention that she gave to every man, woman, and child that laid claim to it; but once, when he had finished, she said, rather gravely,--

"Do you know, Mr. Drummond, that I think your mother was right?"

"Right in dooming Grace to such a life?" he said, pausing in utter surprise at her remark.

"Pardon me; it is not her mother who dooms her," returned Miss Middleton, quickly, "but duty,--her own sense of right,--everything that is sacred. If Mrs. Drummond had not decided that she could not be spared, I am convinced from all you tell me, that Grace would still have remained at home: her conscience would have been too strong for her."

"Well, perhaps you are right," he admitted, reluctantly. "Grace is a n.o.ble creature, and capable of any amount of self-sacrifice."

"I am sure of it," returned Miss Middleton, with sparkling eyes. "How I should like to know her! it would be a real pleasure and privilege; but I am very fond of your sister Mattie, too."

"Fond of Mattie!" It was hardly brotherly, but he could not help that incredulous tone in his voice. How could such a superior woman as Miss Middleton be even tolerant of Mattie?

"Oh, yes," she replied, quite calmly; "I have a great respect for your sister. She is so unselfish and amiable, and there is something so genuine in her. Before everything one wants truth," finished Elizabeth, taking up her work.

Now, as the young clergyman entered the room, she stretched out her hand to him with her usual beaming smile.

"This is good of you, to come so soon again," she said, making room for him between her father and herself. "But why have you not brought Mattie?" and Archie felt as though he had received a rebuke.

"She is finis.h.i.+ng some work," he returned, a little confused; "that is, what you ladies call work. It is not always necessary for the clergywoman to pay visits, is it?"

"The clergywoman, as you call her, is doing too much. I was scolding her this morning for not sparing herself more: I thought she was not looking quite well, Mr. Drummond."

"Oh, Mattie is well enough," he replied, carelessly. He had not come to talk about his sister: a far more interesting subject was in his mind. "Do you know, colonel," he went on, with some animation, "that you and I have new neighbors? Do you remember the young ladies in the blue cambric dresses?" And at this question the colonel threw aside his paper at once.