Not Like Other Girls Part 19

"She does her duty," returned Mrs. Drummond, coldly,--she very seldom praised any of her children,--"but not more than Mattie does hers. You are prejudiced strongly against your sister, Archie; you are not fair to her in any way. Mattie is a capital little housekeeper. She is economical, and full of clever contrivances. It is not as though I asked you to try Isabel. She is well enough, too, in her way, but a little flighty, and rather too pretty, perhaps--" but here a laugh from Archie grated on her ear.

"Too pretty!--what an absurd idea! The girl is pa.s.sable-looking, and I will not deny that she has improved lately; but, mother, there is not one of the girls that can be called pretty except Grace."

Mrs. Drummond winced at her son's outspoken words. The plainness of her daughters was a sore subject.

She had never understood why her girls were so ordinary-looking. She had been a handsome girl in her time, and was still a fine-looking woman. Her husband, too, had had a fair amount of good looks, and, though he stooped, was still admirable in her eyes. The boys, too, were thoroughly fine fellows. Fred was decidedly handsome, and so was Clyde; and as for her favorite Archie, Mrs. Drummond glanced up at him as he stood beside her.

He certainly looked a model young clergyman. His features were good, but the lower part of his face was quite hidden by the fair mustache and the soft silky beard. He had thoughtful gray eyes, which could look as severe as hers sometimes; and, though his shoulders were somewhat too sloping, there could be no fault found with his figure.

He was as nice-looking as possible, she thought, and no mother could have been better satisfied. But why, with the exception of Grace and Isabel, were her girls so deficient in outward graces? It could not be denied that they were very ordinary girls. Laura was overgrown and freckled, and had red hair; Susie was sickly-looking, and so short-sighted that they feared she would have to take to spectacles; and Clara was stolid and heavy-looking, one of those thick-set girls that dress never seems to improve. Dottie had a funny little face; but one could not judge of her yet. And Mattie,--Mrs. Drummond sighed again as she thought of her eldest daughter,--Mattie was thirty; and her mother felt she would never marry. It was not that she was so absolutely plain,--people who liked her said Mattie had a nice face,--but she was so abrupt, so uncouth in her awkwardness, such a stranger to the minor morals of life, that it would be a wonder indeed if she could find favor in any man's eyes.

"I do think you are too hard on your sisters," returned Mrs. Drummond, stung by her son's remark. "Isabel was very much admired at her first party last week. Mrs. Cochrane told me so, and so did Miss Blair." She could have added that her maternal interest had been strongly stirred by the mention of a certain Mr. Ellis Burton, who she had understood had paid a great deal of attention that evening to Isabel, and who was the eldest son of a wealthy manufacturer in Leeds. But Mrs. Drummond had some good old-fas.h.i.+oned notions, and one of these was never to speak on such delicate subjects as the matrimonial prospects of her daughters: indeed, she often thanked heaven she was not a match-making mother,--which was as well, under the circ.u.mstances.

"Well, well, we are not talking about Isabel," returned her son, impatiently. "The question is about Grace, mother. I really do wish very much that you and my father would stretch a point for me here. I want her more than I can say."

"But, Archie, you must be reasonable. Just think a moment. Your father cannot afford to send the girls to school, or to pay for a good finis.h.i.+ng governess. We have given Grace every advantage; and just as she is making herself really useful to me in the school-room, you want to deprive me of her services."

"You know I offered to pay for Clara's schooling," returned her son, reproachfully. "She is more than sixteen, is she not! Surely Mattie could teach the others?"

But Mrs. Drummond's clear, concise voice interrupted him:

"Archie, how can you talk such nonsense? You know poor Mattie was never good at book-learning. She would hardly do for Dottie. Ask Grace, if you doubt my word."

"Of course I do not doubt it, mother," in rather an aggravated voice, for he felt he was having the worst of the argument.

"Then why do you not believe me when I tell you the thing you ask is impossible?" replied his mother more calmly. "I am sorry for you if you are disappointed, Archie; but you undervalue Mattie,--you do indeed. She will make you a nice little housekeeper, and, though she is not clever, she is so amiable that nothing ever puts her out; and visiting the poor and sick-nursing are more in her line than in Grace's. Mrs. Blair finds her invaluable. She wanted her for one of her district visitors, and I said she had too much to do at home."

Archie shrugged his shoulders. Mrs. Blair was the wife of the vicar of All Saints', where the Drummonds attended, and from a boy she had been his pet aversion. She was a bustling, managing woman, and of course Mattie was just to her taste. He did not see much use in continuing the conversation; with all his affection for his mother,--and she was better loved by her sons than by her daughters,--he knew her to be as immovable as a rock when she had once made up her mind. He thought at first of appealing to his father on Grace's behalf, but abandoned this notion after a few minutes' reflection. His father was decided and firm in all matters relating to business, but for many years past he had abandoned the domestic reins to his wife's capable hands. Perhaps he had proved her worth and prudence; perhaps he thought the management of seven daughters too much for any man. Anyhow, he interfered less and less as the years went on; and if at any time he differed from his wife, she could always talk him over, as her son well knew.

When the subject had been first mooted in the household, he had said a word or two to his father, and had found him very reluctant to entertain the idea of parting with Grace. She was his favorite daughter, and he thought how he should miss her when he came home weary and jaded at night.

"I don't think it will do at all," he had said, in an undecided dissatisfied tone. "Won't one of the other girls serve your turn?

There's Mattie, or that little monkey Isabel, she is as pert and lively as possible. But Grace; why, she is every one's right hand.

What would the mother or the young ones do without her?"

No; it was no use appealing to his father, Archie thought, and might only make mischief in the house. He and Grace must make up their mind to a few more years' separation. He turned away after his mother's last speech, and finally left the room without saying another word.

There was a cloud on his face, and Mrs. Drummond saw that he was much displeased; but, though she sighed again as she took up a pair of Clyde's socks and inspected them carefully, there was no change in her resolution that Mattie, and not Grace, should go to the vicarage for the year's visit that was all Archie had asked.

There are mothers and mothers in this world,--some who are capable of sacrificing their children to Moloch, who will barter their own flesh and blood in return for some barren heritage or other. There are those who will exact from those dependent on them heavy t.i.thes of daily patience and uncomplaining drudgery; while others, who are "mothers indeed" give all, asking for nothing in return.

Mrs. Drummond was a good woman. She had many virtues and few faults.

She was lady-like, industrious and self-denying in her own personal comforts, an exemplary wife, and a tolerant mistress; but she was better understood by her sons than by her daughters.

Her maternal instincts were very strong, and no mother had more delighted in her nursery than she had in hers. As long as there was a baby in the house the tenderness of her love was apparent enough. She wore herself out tending her infants, and no one ever heard her say a harsh word in her nursery.

But as her children grew up, there was much clas.h.i.+ng of wills in the household. Her sons did not fear her in the least; but with her daughters it was otherwise. They felt the mother's strong will repressive; it threatened to dwarf their individuality and cramp that free growth that is so necessary to young things.

Dottie, who by virtue of being the last baby had had more than her fair amount of petting, was only just beginning to learn her lesson of unquestioning obedience; and, as she was somewhat spoiled, her lesson was hard one. But Laura and Susie and Clara had not yet found out that their mother loved them and wished to be their friend; they were timid and reserved with her, and took all their troubles to Grace. Even Mattie, who was her first-born, and who was old enough to be her mother's companion, quailed and blushed like a child under the dry caustic speeches at which Clyde and Fred only laughed.

"You don't understand the mother. Her bark is worse than her bite,"

Clyde would say to his sister sometimes. "She is an awfully clever woman, and it riles her to see herself surrounded by such a set of ninnies. Now, don't sulk, Belle. You know Mattie's a duffer compared to Grace; aren't you, Matt?"

At which truism poor Mattie would hang her head.

"Yes, Clyde; I know I am dreadfully stupid sometimes, and that makes mother angry."

Mrs. Drummond often complained bitterly of her daughters' want of confidence in her, but she never blamed herself for the barrier that seemed between them. She was forever a.s.serting maternal authority, when such questions might have been safely laid to rest between her and her grown-up daughters. Mrs. Challoner's oneness of sympathy with her girls, her lax discipline, her perfect equality, would have shocked a woman of Mrs. Drummond's calibre. She would not have tolerated or understood it for a moment.

"My girls must do as I wish," was a very ordinary speech in her mouth.

"I always do as my girls wish," Mrs. Challoner would have said. And, indeed, the two mothers were utterly dissimilar; but it may be doubted whether the Challoner household were not far happier than the family in Lowder Street.

CHAPTER XIV.

"YOU CAN DARE TO TELL ME THESE THINGS."

Archibald Drummond had left his mother's presence with a cloud on his brow. He had plenty of filial affection for her, but it was not the first time that he had found her too much for him. She had often angered him before by her treatment of Grace, but he had told himself that she was his mother, that a man could have but one, and so he had brought himself to forgive her. But this time she had set herself against the cherished plan of years. He had always looked forward to the time when he could have Grace to live with him; they had made all sorts of schemes together, and all their talk had concentrated itself towards this point; the disappointment would place a sort of blankness before them; they would be working separately, far away from each other, and the distance would not be bridged for years.

He stood for a moment in the dark, narrow hall, thinking intently over all this, and then he went slowly upstairs. He knew where he should find Grace. His mother had paid an unwonted visit to the school-room during their walk, and on their return had expressed herself with some degree of sharpness on the disorder she had found there. Grace would be busily engaged in putting everything to rights. It was Clara's business, but she had gone out, and had, as usual, forgotten all about it. Grace had taken the blame upon herself, of course: she was always s.h.i.+elding her younger sisters.

Everything was done when he entered the room, and Grace was sitting by the window, with her hands folded in her lap, indulging in a few minutes' rare idleness. She looked up eagerly as her brother made his appearance.

The school-room was a large, bare-looking room at the top of the house, with two narrow windows looking out over a lively prospect of roofs and chimney-pots. Mrs. Drummond had done her utmost to give it an air of comfort, but it was, on the whole, a dull, uncomfortable apartment, in spite of the faded Turkey carpet, and the curtains that had once been so handsome, but had now merged into unwholesome neutral tints.

Laura, who was the wit of the family, had nicknamed it the Hospital, for it seemed to be a receptacle for all the maimed and rickety chairs of the household, footstools in a dilapidated condition, and odd pieces of lumber that had no other place. Archibald regarded it with a troubled gaze; somehow, its dinginess had never before so impressed him; and then as he looked at his sister the frown deepened on his face.

"Well, Archie?"

"Oh, Grace, it is no use! I have talked myself hoa.r.s.e, but the mother is dead against it: one might as well try to move a rock. We shall have to make up our minds to bear our disappointment as well as we can."

"I knew it was hopeless from the first," returned Grace, slowly; but, as she spoke, a sort of dimness and paleness crept over her face, belying her words.

She was young, and in youth hope never dies. Beyond the gray daily horizon there is always a possible gleam, a new to-morrow; youth abounds in infinite surprises, in probabilities which are as large as they are vague. Grace told herself that she never hoped much from Archie's mission; yet when he came to her with his ill success plainly stamped upon his countenance, the dying out of her dream was bitter to her.

"I knew it was hopeless from the first," had been her answer, and then breath for further words failed her, and she sat motionless, with her hands clasped tightly together, while Archie placed himself on the window-seat beside her and looked out ruefully at the opposite chimneys.

Well, it was all over, this dearly-cherished scheme of theirs; she must go on now with the dull routine of daily duties, she must stoop her neck afresh to the yoke she had long found so galling; this school-room must be her world, she must not hope any longer for wider vistas, for more expansive horizons, for tasks that should be more congenial to her, for all that was now made impossible.

Mattie, not she, must go and keep Archie's house, and here for a moment she closed her eyes, the pain was so bitter; she thought of the old vicarage, of the garden where she and Archie were to have worked, of the shabby old study where he meant to write his sermons, while she was to sit beside him with her book or needlework, of the evenings when he had promised to read to her, of the walks they were to have taken together, of all the dear delightful plans they had made.

And now her mother had said them nay; it was Mattie who was to be his housekeeper, who would sit opposite to him and pour out his coffee, who would mend his socks and do all the thousand-and-one things that a woman delights in doing for the mankind dependent on her for comfort.

Mattie would visit his poor people, and teach in the schools, entertain his friends, and listen to his voice every Sunday; here tears slowly gathered under the closed eyelids. Yes, Mattie would do all that, but she would not be his chosen friend and companion; there would be no long charming talks for her in the study or the sunny garden; he would be as lonely, poor fellow, in his way as she would be in hers, and for this her mother was to blame.

"Well, Gracie, haven't you a word to say?" asked her brother, at last, surprised at her long silence.