“Are you going in?” faltered Mattie, as she noticed this movement.
“Well, yes; I have letters to write, and it is too hot for a longer walk,” he returned, decidedly; and then, as Mattie stood hesitating and wistful in the middle of the road, he strode off, leaving the door to close noisily after him, and not caring to inquire into her further movements, such being the occasional graceless manners of brothers when sisterly friendship is not to their liking.
Mattie felt snubbed; but for the first time in her life, she did not take her snubbing meekly. It was too much to expect of her, who was only a woman and not one of Archie’s divinities, that she should follow him into the house and hold her tongue just because he was pleased to refrain from speaking. Water must find its vent; and Mattie’s tongue could not be silenced in this way. If Archie would not talk to her, Miss Middleton would: so at once she trotted off for Brooklyn, thereby incurring Archie’s wrath if he could only have known her purpose; for gossip was to him as the sin of witchcraft, unless he stooped to it himself, and then it was amiable sociability.
Miss Middleton was listening to her father’s reading as usual, but she welcomed Mattie with open arms, literally as well as metaphorically, for she kissed Mattie on either cheek, and then scolded her tenderly for looking so flushed and tired; “for somebody who is always looking after other people, and never has time to spare for herself, is growing quite thin; is she not, father? and we must write to Grace if this goes on,” finished Miss Middleton, with one of her kind looks.
All this was cordial to poor Mattie, who, though she was used to snubbing, and took as kindly to it as a spaniel to water, yet felt herself growing rather like a thread-paper and shabby with every-day worries and never an encouraging word to inspirit her.
So she gave Elizabeth a misty little smile,—Mattie’s smile was pretty, though her features were ordinary,—and then sat up straight and began to enjoy herself,—that is, to talk,—never noticing that Colonel Middleton looked at his paper in a crestfallen manner, not much liking the interruption and the cessation of his own voice.
“Oh, dear!” began Mattie: she generally prefaced her remarks by an “Oh, dear!” (“That was one of her jerky ways,” as Archie said.) “I could not help coming straight to you, for Archie would not talk, and I felt I must tell somebody. Oh, dear, Miss Middleton! What do you think? We have just called at the Friary—and––” but here Colonel Middleton’s countenance relaxed, and he dropped his paper.
“Those young ladies, eh? Come, Elizabeth, this is interesting. 142 Well, what sort of place is the Friary, seen from the inside, eh, Miss Drummond?”
“Oh, it is very nice,” returned Mattie, enthusiastically. “We were shown into such a pretty room, looking out on the garden. They have so many nice things,—pictures, and old china, and handsomely-bound books, and all arranged so tastefully. And before we went away, the old servant—she seems really quite a superior person—brought in an elegant little tea-tray: the cups and saucers were handsomer even than yours, Miss Middleton,—dark-purple and gold. Just what I admire so––”
“Ah, reduced in circumstances! I told you so, Elizabeth,” ejaculated the colonel.