“Then, if you are displeased with me, I will go away,” replied Grace, moving from her seat with gentle dignity. “I wish you had not compelled me to speak, mother, and then I should not have offended you: but as it is there is no help for it.” And then she gathered up her work and walked slowly out of the room.
Mrs. Drummond sat moodily in the empty room that had somehow never seemed so empty before. Her attitude was as rigid and uncompromising as usual; but there was a perplexed frown on her brow. For the first time in her life one of her girls had dared to assert her own will and to speak the truth to her; and she was utterly nonplussed. It was not too much to say that she had received a blow. Her justice and sense of fairness had been questioned,—her very maternal authority impugned,—and that by one of her own children! Mattie, who was eight years older, would not have ventured to cross her 107 mother’s will. Grace had so dared; and she was bitterly angry with her. And yet she had never so admired her before.
How honestly and bravely she had battled for her rights! her gray eyes had shone with fire, her pale cheeks had glowed with the passion of her words: for once in her life the girl had looked superbly handsome.
“You have no faith in me; you treat me like a child.” Well, she was right; it was no child, it was a proud woman who was flinging those hard words at her. For the first time Mrs. Drummond recognized the possibility of a will as strong as her own. In spite of all her authority, Grace had been a match for her mother: Mrs. Drummond knew this, and it added fuel to her bitterness.
“I know my life will be harder for what I have said.” Ah, Grace was right there; it would be long before her mother would forgive her for all those words, true as they were; and yet in her heart she had never so feared and admired her daughter. Grace went up to her own room, where Dottie was asleep in a little bed very near her sister’s: it was dark and somewhat cold, but the atmosphere was less frigid than the parlor downstairs. Grace’s frame was trembling with the force of her emotion; her face was burning, and her hands cold. It was restful and soothing to put down her aching head on the hard window-ledge and close her eyes and think out the pain! It seemed hours before Isabel came to summon her to supper, but she made an excuse that she was not hungry, and refused to go downstairs.
“But you ate nothing at tea, and your head is aching!” persisted Isabel, who was a bright, good-natured girl, and, in spite of Archie’s strictures, decidedly pretty. “Do let me bring you something. Mother will not know.”
But Grace refused: she could not eat, and the sight of food would distress her.
“Why not go to bed at once, then?” suggested Isabel,—which was certainly sensible counsel. But Grace demurred to this; she knew Archie would be up presently to say good-night to her: so, when Isabel had gone, she lighted the candle, shading it carefully from Dottie’s eyes, and then she bathed her hot face, and smoothed her hair, and took up her work again.
Archie found her quite calm and busy, but he was not so easily deceived.
“Now, Gracie, you have got one of your headaches: it is the disappointment and the bother, and my going away to-morrow. Poor little Gracie!”