"No, Archie; it does not bear talking about," she returned, so pa.s.sionately that he turned round to look at her. "I must not even think of it. I must try and shut it all out of my mind, or I shall be no good to any one. But it is hard--hard!" with a quiver of her lip.

"I call it a shame for my father and mother to sacrifice you in this way!" he burst out, moved to bitter indignation at the sight of her trouble. "I shall tell my father what I think about it pretty plainly!"

But this speech recalled Grace to her senses.

"Oh, no, dear! you must do no such thing: promise me you will not. It would be no good at all; and it would only make mother so angry. You know he always thinks as she does about things, so it would be no use. I suppose"--with an impatient sigh--"that I ought to feel myself complimented at knowing I cannot be spared. Some girls would be proud to feel themselves their mother's right hand; but to me it does not seem much of a privilege."

"Don't talk in that way, Grace: it makes me miserable to hear you. I am more sorry for you than I am for myself, and yet I am sorry for myself too. If it were not that my mother would be too deeply offended, I would refuse to have Mattie at all. We never have got on well together. She is a good little thing in her way, but her awkwardness and left-handed ways will worry me incessantly. And then we have not an idea in common----" but here Grace generously interposed:

"Poor old fellow! as though I did not know all that; but you must not vent it on poor Mattie. She is not to blame for our disappointment.

She would gladly give it up to me if she could. I know she will do her utmost to please you, Archie, and she is so good and amiable that you must overlook her little failings and make the best of her."

"It will be rather difficult work, I am afraid," returned her brother, grimly. "I shall always be drawing invidious comparisons between you both, and thinking what you would do in her place."

"All the same you must try and be good to her for my sake, for I am very fond of Mattie," she returned, gently; but he could not help feeling gratified at the a.s.surance that he would miss her. And then she put her hand on his coat-sleeve, and stroked it, a favorite caress with her. "It does not bear talking about: does it, Archie? It only makes it feel worse. I think it must be meant as a discipline for me, because I am so wicked, and that it would not do at all for me to be too happy." And here she pressed his arm, and looked up in his face, with an attempt at a smile.

"No, you are right: talking only makes it worse," he returned, hurriedly; and then he stooped--for he was a tall man--and kissed her on the forehead just between her eyes, and then walked to the door, whistling a light air.

Grace did not think him at all abrupt in thus breaking off the conversation. She had caught his meaning in a moment, and knew the whole business was so painful to him that he did not care to dwell on it. When the tea-bell rang, she prepared herself at once to accompany him downstairs.

It was Archibald's last evening at home, and all the family were gathered round the long tea-table. Since Mr. Drummond's misfortunes, late dinners had been relinquished, and more homely habits prevailed in the household. Mrs. Drummond had, indeed, apologized to her son more than once for the simplicity of their mode of life.

"You are accustomed to a late dinner, Archie. I wish I could have managed it for you; but your father objects to any alteration being made in our usual habits."

"He is quite right; and I should have been much distressed if you had thought such alteration necessary," returned her son, very much surprised at this reference to his father. For Mrs. Drummond rarely consulted her husband on such matters. In this case, however, she had done so, and Mr. Drummond had been unusually testy--indeed, affronted--at such a question being put to him.

"I don't know what you mean, Isabella," he had replied; "but I suppose what is good enough for me is good enough for Archie." And then Mrs.

Drummond knew she had made a mistake, for her husband had felt bitterly the loss of his late dinner. So Archie tried to fall in with the habits of his family, and to enjoy the large plum or seed-cake that invariably garnished the tea-table; and, though he ate but sparingly of the supper, which always gave him indigestion, Grace was his only confidante in the matter. Mr. Drummond, indeed, looked at his son rather sharply once or twice, as though he suspected him of fastidiousness. "I cannot compliment you on your appet.i.te," he would say, as he helped himself to cold meat; "but perhaps our home fare is not so tempting as Oxford living?"

"I always say your meat is unusually good," returned Archibald, amicably. "If there be any fault, it is in my appet.i.te; but that Hadleigh air will soon set right." But, though he answered his father after this tolerant fashion, he always added, in a mental aside, that nine-o'clock suppers were certainly barbarous inst.i.tutions, and peculiarly deleterious to the const.i.tution of an Oxford fellow.

Mrs. Drummond looked at them both somewhat keenly as they entered. In spite of her resolution, she was secretly uncomfortable at the thought that Archie was displeased with her: her daughter's vexation was a burden that could be more easily borne; but her maternal heart yearned for some token that her boy was not estranged from her. But no such consolation was to be vouchsafed to her. She had kept his usual place vacant beside her; Archie showed no intention of taking it. He placed himself by his father, and began talking to him of a change of ministry that was impending, and which would overthrow the Conservative party. Mrs. Drummond, who was one of those women who can never be made to take any interest in politics, was reduced to the necessity of talking to Mattie in an undertone, for the other boys never put in an appearance at this meal; but as she talked she took stock of Grace's pale, abstracted looks as she sat with her plate before her, not pretending to eat, and taking no notice of Susie and Laura, who chatted busily across her.

It was not a festive meal; on the contrary, there was an unusual air of restraint over the whole party. The younger members felt instinctively that there was something amiss. Archie looked decidedly glum; and there was an expression on the mother's face that they were not slow to interpret. No one could hear what it was she was saying to Mattie that made her look so red and nervous all at once; but presently she addressed herself abruptly to her husband:

"It is all settled, father. I have arranged with Archie that Matilda should go down to Hadleigh next month."

Archie stroked his beard, but did not look up or make any remark, though poor Mattie looked at him beseechingly across the table, as though imploring a word. His mother would carry her point; but he would not pretend for a moment that he was otherwise than displeased, or that Mattie would be welcome.

His silence attracted Mr. Drummond's attention.

"Oh, what, you have settled it, you say? I hope you are satisfied, Archie, and properly grateful to your mother for sparing Mattie. She is to go for a year. Well, it will be a grand change for her. I should not be surprised if you were to pick up a husband, Miss Mattie;" for Mr. Drummond was a man who, in spite of his cares, was not without his joke; but, as usual, it was instantly frowned down by his wife:

"I wonder at you, father, talking such nonsense before the children.

Why are you giggling, Laura? It is very unseemly and ill-behaved. I hope no daughter of mine has such unmaidenly notions. Mattie is going to Hadleigh to be a comfort to her brother, and to keep his house as a clergyman's house ought to be kept."

"And you are satisfied, Archie?" asked Mr. Drummond, not quite pleased at his wife's reprimand, and struck anew by his son's silence.

"I consider these questions somewhat unnecessary. You know my wishes, sir, on the subject, and my mother also," was the somewhat uncompromising remark; "but it appears that they are not to be met in this instance. I hope Mattie will be comfortable and not miss her sisters;" but he did not look at the poor girl, and the tears came into her eyes.

"Oh, Archie, I am so sorry! I never meant-----" she stammered; but her mother interrupted her:

"There is no occasion for you to be sorry about anything; you had far better be silent, Mattie. But you have no tact. Father, if you have finished your tea, I suppose you and Archie are going out." And then Archie rose from the table, and followed his father out of the room.

It was Isabel's business to put Dottie to bed. The other girls had to prepare their lessons for the next day, and went up to the school-room. Mattie made some excuse, and went with them, and Mrs.

Drummond and Grace were left alone.

Grace had some delicate work to finish, and she placed herself by the lamp. Her mother had returned to her mending-basket; but as the door closed upon Mattie, she cleared her throat, and looked at her daughter.

"Grace, I must say I am surprised at you!"

"Why, mother?" But Grace did not look up from the task she was running with such fine even st.i.tches.

"I am more than surprised!" continued Mrs. Drummond, severely. "I am disappointed to see in what a bad spirit you have received my decision. I did not think a daughter of mine would have been so blind to her sense of duty!"

"I have said nothing to make you think that."

"No, you have said nothing, but looks can be eloquent sometimes. I am not speaking of Archie, though I can see he is put out too, for he is a man, and men are not always reasonable; but that you should place yourself in such silent opposition to my wishes, it is that that shocks me."

There was an ominous sparkle in Grace's gray eyes, and then she deliberately put down her work on the table. She had hoped that her mother would have been contented with her victory, and not have spoken to her on the subject. But if she were so attacked, she would at least defend herself.

"You have no right to speak to me in this way, mother!"

"No right, Grace?" Mrs. Drummond could hardly believe her ears. Never once had a daughter of hers questioned her right in anything.

"No; for I have said nothing to bring all this upon me! I have been perfectly quiet, and have tried to bear the bitterness of my disappointment as well as I could. No one is answerable for their looks, and I, at least, will not plead guilty on that score."

"Grace, you are answering me very improperly."

"I cannot say that I think so, mother. I would have been silent, if you had permitted such silence; but when you drive me to speech, I must say what I feel to be the truth,--that I have not been well treated in this matter."

"Grace!" And Mrs. Drummond paused in awful silence. Never before had a recusant daughter braved her to her face.

"I have not been well treated," continued Grace, firmly, "in a thing that concerns me more than any one else. I have not even been consulted. You have arranged it all, mother, without reference to me or my feelings. Perhaps I ought to be grateful for being spared so painful a decision; but I think such a decision should have been permitted to me."

"You can dare to tell me such things to my very face!"

"Why should I not tell them?" returned Grace, meeting her mother's angry glance unflinchingly. "It seems to me that one should speak the truth to one's mother. You have treated me like a child; and I have a right to feel sore and indignant. Why did you not put the whole thing before me, and tell me that you and my father did not see how you could spare me? Do you really believe that I should have been so wanting to my sense of duty as to follow my own pleasure?"

"Grace, I insist upon your silence! I will not discuss the matter with you."

"If you insist upon silence, you must be obeyed, mother: but it is you who have raised the question between us. But when you attack me unjustly, I must defend myself."

"You are forgetting yourself strangely. Your words are most disrespectful and unbecoming in a daughter. You tell me to my face that I am unjust--I, your mother--because I have been compelled to thwart your wishes."

"No, no--not because of that!" returned Grace, in a voice of pa.s.sionate pain; "why will you misunderstand me so?--but because you have no faith in me. You treat me like a child. You dispute my privilege to decide in a matter that concerns my own happiness. You bid me work for you, and you give me no wage--not a word of praise; and because I remonstrate for once in my life, you insist on my silence."

"It seems that I am not to be obeyed."