"I have met him just now. He stopped and introduced himself. We had quite a long talk outside of Mrs. Williams's cottage. I called upon him there, you know, but he had good reasons for refusing my visits.

Mrs. Cheyne, you must allow me to congratulate you most earnestly. You will own now that Providence has been good to you."

"I will own that and everything," returned Magdalene, joyously. "I will own, if you like, that I treated you shamefully, and took a pleasure in tormenting you; and you were so patient,--oh, so patient, Mr. Drummond! I could have called you back sometimes and apologized, but I would not. In my bitter moments I felt it was such a relief to mock at people."

"Never mind all that. Let bygones be bygones. I wish I could have served you better." And then, as he changed the subject, and spoke feelingly about the miracle of her husband's restoration, Mrs. Cheyne looked at him rather wistfully.

"Oh, how good you are!" she said, softly. "Do you know, the world seems full of good people to me now; and yet once it appeared too bad a place for any one to live in. We create our own atmosphere,--at least so Herbert tells me. But you are looking thin, Mr.

Drummond,--thin and pale. You must be working too hard."

"Oh, as to that, hard work never hurts any one," he replied, carelessly; but there was something forced in his tone.

Phillis, who had been sitting apart quite silently, raised her eyes involuntarily from her work. Was it her fancy, or had some undefinable change pa.s.sed over him? They had seen him so little of late. Since all this had happened at the White House he had called once or twice; and once Nan had been there, and he had spoken to her much as usual. No one would have detected any difference in his manner, except that he was a little grave and preoccupied. Nan had not noticed anything; but then she was singularly blind in such matters. Had she not vaguely hinted that his visits were on Phillis's account?--that mere hint conveying exquisite pain to Phillis.

Now, as she stole a glance at him, the conviction was strong within her that the arrow had gone deep. He certainly looked a little thin and care-worn, and something of a young man's vigor and hopefulness seemed temporarily impaired. But, as it happened, that girlish scrutiny was not unperceived by Archie. In a moment he was on the alert. His eyes challenged hers boldly, and it was Phillis who flushed and looked conscious.

It was as though he said to her, "Ah! you think you know all about it.

But you need not trouble yourself to be sorry for me; you do not know what a man's strength can do. And I am determined to bear this by myself, and to myself; for in silence there is power."

It certainly seemed as though a new strength had come to Archie. He had been a man who was p.r.o.ne to speak much of his feelings. Irritable and sensitive, he had demanded much sympathy from his womankind. His was a nature that craved support in his work; but now, not even to Grace, could he speak of this trouble that had befallen him.

Was it a trouble, after all, this vague shadow that lay about his path? No one but he himself knew the sweetness and graciousness of the dream that had come to him. It had only been a dream, after all; and now he was awake. The vision he had conjured up to himself had faded into unreality. She was not his second self: never by look or word had he wooed her; she was only the woman he could have loved. This was how he put it; and now he would bury this faint hope that was still-born,--that had never had breathed into it the breath of life.

And if for a little while his future should be cloudy and bereft of its sunshine, was he the only one to whom "some days must be dark and dreary"?

Phillis's unspoken sympathy drooped under this stern repression; and yet in her heart she reverenced him all the more for this moral strength,--for there is nothing a true woman abhors more than weakness in a man. After this silent rebuff, Archie took himself well in hand, and began to speak of other things: he told Mrs. Cheyne, being certain now of her interest, of his sister's intended marriage, and how he and Mattie were going down to the wedding.

"He is a very good fellow, this intended brother-in-law of mine,--a sort of rough diamond; but hardly good enough for Isabel," he said.

"Oh, yes, he is very rich. My poor little sister will have her head turned by all her magnificence; for his parents are so generous: they quite load her with gifts." And he smiled to himself at the notion of the little sister, just fresh from her narrow school-room life, rejoicing over her trousseau and her handsome house, and driving away from the church in her own carriage. No wonder his father and mother were pleased. As for the bridegroom-elect, Archie spoke of him with half-contemptuous amus.e.m.e.nt: "Oh, he was a good fellow,--no one wished to deny that;" but there was a want of culture and polish that grated upon the susceptibilities of the Oxford fellow.

Phillis listened with undivided interest--especially when he mentioned Grace.

"Mattie and I are in hopes that we shall bring her back with us; but, at all events, my mother has promised to spare her at Christmas." This time he addressed himself to Phillis.

"Oh, that will be nice for you!" she returned a little eagerly. "You have told us so much about her that I quite long to know her."

"I should say you would suit each other perfectly," he replied, as he rose to take his leave. "Sometimes you remind me of her, Miss Challoner; and yet you are not really alike. Good-bye, if I do not see you again before we go to Leeds." And Phillis gave him her hand, and a cordial smile.

But when he had gone out of the room, his hostess accompanying him--for she had a word for his private ear,--Phillis sat down, and thought over those last words with a strange feeling of pleasure: "Sometimes you remind me of her, Miss Challoner." Was it possible that he could trace any resemblance between her and this dearly-beloved sister, this Grace, whom he seemed to regard as absolute perfection?

"Oh, I hope she will come! I am sure we shall be such friends," she said to herself: and from this time Phillis looked anxiously for Grace Drummond's arrival.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

"A MAN HAS A RIGHT TO HIS OWN THOUGHTS."

There were great rejoicings in the house in Lowder Street on the occasion of Isabel Drummond's marriage.

There is always something pathetic in the first wedding in a family,--the first severing of the family circle,--the first break, the first ingathering of new interest. But when there are small means, and seven portionless daughters, very few of whom can be said to be gifted with good looks, a wealthy son-in-law must indeed be regarded as a direct blessing from Providence.

That Mr. Drummond did so regard it, was evident from the jovial good humor that had replaced his usual moody and irritable manner; while his wife's beaming face, softened by maternal tenderness for the child who would no longer share the daily life with them, was a surprising spectacle to those acquainted with Mrs. Drummond's ordinary reserve and somewhat severe bearing. But it is not too much to say that on this occasion Mrs. Drummond was a happy woman.

The tide of fortune, long so adverse to their interests, seemed turning in their favor at last. Archie had done great things for himself, and the mother's eyes rested on him proudly as he performed the marriage ceremony for his young sister, the gravity of his priestly office setting him apart, as it were, for her reverence as well as love. That Isabel had done great things for herself also could not be denied. But there were other causes for content in the mother's heart.

Both the boys were doing well. Clyde had been articled to a lawyer, an old friend of Mr. Drummond's, and had won golden opinions from his chief, who p.r.o.nounced him an intelligent, likely lad, and as sharp as a needle. Fred had lately obtained a clerkship in an old-established house in Leeds, and was also doing well, and his salary was a great boon to the straitened household. Grace, too, was doing her duty vigorously, and no longer vexed her mother's soul by her drooping looks of uncomplaining discontent,--that silent protest of many, that is so irritating to the home-rule. True, it might be only the quiescence of despair, but at least she veiled it decently under a show of Spartan cheerfulness. The fox of bitterness might gnaw, but she drew the mantle of her pride closer round her. She might suffer and pine, like a caged lark in her narrow cage, but at least no one, not even Archie, and least of all her mother, should guess the extent of her sufferings. So there was peace in Lowder Street. A truce had silently proclaimed itself between the two strong wills of the household; and, touched by a submission that somehow appealed to her generosity, Mrs. Drummond was secretly revolving schemes for her daughter's future happiness.

"Mothers are mothers," as Nan had once sweetly said, and Mrs. Drummond was no exception to the rule. She could be hard to her own flesh and blood; she could exact obedience that was difficult to yield, and sacrifices that cost tears in plenty; but she was a just woman, and, when the right time came, she knew how to reward such obedience.

But there was still another drop that filled the maternal cup of content almost to overflowing, and of this she spoke to Grace, as they were together in the mother's room, folding up the bridal finery. The little bride had just driven off, all tears and smiles. Archie and the boys had started off for a long walk. Mattie was with her sisters in the small ugly enclosure they called a garden; and Grace and her mother had gone up to shake out the satin dress and lay it between tissue-paper.

"I hope she will be happy, poor little dear!" observed Grace, touching tenderly the Brussels-lace veil; for Isabel had been her first pupil and charge. "I do think and believe Ellis is really very fond of her."

"Without doubt he is. His manners were all your father and I could wish. What a magnificent present, and how thoughtful, his bringing those diamond ear-drops just the last moment! Isabel has such pretty little ears. He is as proud of her as he can be. And really she looked quite lovely. Take care how you fold that veil, Grace. It is a perfect beauty."

"Yes, mother," returned Grace, meekly.

She was ready to drop with fatigue, for she had been up since six, and had dressed all her sisters one after another in their pretty bridesmaids' dresses, Mattie's skill as a lady's-maid being distrusted even by Dottie. But Mrs. Drummond was not satisfied, and took the lace out of her hand.

"And, Grace, did you ever see any one so improved as Mattie? Her visit to Hadleigh is doing wonders for her. Last evening I could hardly help looking at her. She holds herself so much better, and her dresses are so pretty and well made. I never knew before that her figure was so nice."

"Yes, indeed; she is wonderfully improved," returned Grace.

But she said the words mechanically. Her mother's speech had touched a sore place in her memory. She knew who had transformed Mattie's dowdiness into comeliness and neatness. She might be an ordinary little woman in the world's opinion, but in the eyes of her family she was quite another Mattie. Those tasteful dresses had been made by those Challoners of whom Mattie spoke so much and Archie so little.

Mrs. Drummond, who had not noticed her daughter's sudden abstraction, went on in the same satisfied tone:

"She is not pretty, of course,--no one could ever call Mattie that at the best of times,--but now she has left off making a fright of herself, and hunching her shoulders with every word, she is quite pa.s.sable-looking. I am glad you talked her out of being a bridesmaid.

She would have looked absurd among the girls. But that green surah just suited her. It was good of Archie to buy her such a pretty dress; and yours that came from Hadleigh was even prettier, and wonderfully well made, considering they had only a pattern gown."

"Yes; it fitted admirably;" but Grace spoke without enthusiasm.

Archie, who knew her tastes, had chosen a soft, creamy stuff which he informed Mattie must be trimmed with no end of lace. Phillis had received and executed the order with such skill and discernment that a most ravishing costume had been produced. But Grace, who had her own ideas on the subject of those "Challoner girls," had received the gift somewhat coldly, and had even seemed displeased when her father pinched her ear and told her that Archie's gown had transformed her into a princess fit for a fairy-tale. "And there is always a prince in that, my dear,--eh, Gracie?" continued the lucky father, who could afford to laugh when one of the seven daughters had got a husband. But Grace would have nothing to do with the jest. She even got up a little frown, like her mother's on similar occasions.

"Archie is so generous, dear old fellow!" continued Mrs. Drummond, breaking out afresh after a minute's interval, as she skilfully manipulated the veil. "That is what I always say. There never was such a son or brother. Do you think he is overworking, Grace, or that Mattie really looks after him well? But he strikes me as a little thin,--and--yes--perhaps a little grave."

Grace's lips closed with an expression of pain. But her mother was looking at her and she must answer.

"Well, if you ask me, mother," she returned, a little huskily, "I do not think Archie looks very well, or in his usual spirits; but I am sure Mattie takes good care of him," she continued, with careful veracity.

"Humph! I am sorry to find you endorsing my opinion," replied Mrs.

Drummond, thoughtfully. "I hoped you would say it was my fancy. He has not said anything to you that makes you uneasy?" with a touch of her old sharpness, remembering that Grace, and not she, was Archie's confidante; but Grace replied so quickly and decidedly, "Oh, no, mother; we have not exchanged a word together since he and Mattie arrived," that her maternal jealousy was allayed.

But the next night, when she was alone with him for a few minutes, she was struck afresh by the gravity of his look as he sat by the window, pretending to read, but for the last half-hour he had not turned his page.

"A penny for your thoughts, my son!" she said, so archly and abruptly that Archie started, and his brow grew crimson at finding himself watched.

"Oh, they were nothing particular," he stammered; and then he said something about the fineness of the evening, and the possibility of his father coming in in time for a long walk.