“Hush, father! you are putting Mattie out,” returned Elizabeth, mildly. It was one of her idiosyncrasies to call people as soon as possible by their Christian names, though no one but her father and brother ever called her Elizabeth. Perhaps her gray hair, and a certain soft dignity that belonged to her, forbade such freedom. “Dear father, we must let Mattie speak.” But even Elizabeth let her work lie unheeded in her lap in the engrossing interest of the subject.
“I do not mean they have been dressmakers all this time, but this is their plan for the future. Miss Challoner said they were not clever enough for governesses, and that they did not want to separate. But that is what they mean to do,—to make dresses for people who are not half so good as themselves.”
“Preposterous! absurd!” groaned the colonel. “Where is their mother? What can the old lady be thinking about?” Mrs. Challoner was not an old lady by any means; but then the choleric colonel had never seen her, or he would not have applied that term to the aristocratic-looking gentlewoman whom Mattie had admired in Miss Milner’s shop.
“I had a good look round the room afterwards,” went on Mattie, letting this pass. “They had got a great carved wardrobe,—I thought that funny in a sitting-room; but of course it was for the dresses,”—another groan from the colonel,—“and 144 there was a sewing-machine, and a rosewood davenport for accounts, and a chiffonnier of course for the pieces. Oh, they mean business; and I should not be surprised if they understand their work well,” went on Mattie, warming up to her subject and thinking of the breadths of green silk that reposed so snugly between silver paper in her drawers at the vicarage,—the first silk dress she had ever owned, for the Drummond finances did not allow of such luxuries,—the new color, too; such a soft, invisible, shadowy green, like an autumn leaf shrivelled by the sun’s richness. “Oh, if they should spoil it!” thought Mattie, with a sigh, as the magnitude of her intended sacrifice weighed heavily upon her mind.
“It is sheer girlish nonsense,—I might say foolery; and the mother must be a perfect idiot!” began the colonel, angrily.
He was an excitable man; and his wrath at the intelligence was really very great. He had taken a fancy to the new-comers, and was prepared to welcome them heartily in his genial way; but now his old-fashioned prejudices were grievously wounded. It was against his nice code of honor that women should do anything out of the usual beaten groove: innovations that would make them conspicuous were heinous sins in his eyes.
“Come, Mattie, you and I will have a chat about this by ourselves,” observed Elizabeth, cheerfully, as she noticed her father’s vexation. He would soon cool down if left to himself: she knew that well. “Suppose we go down to Miss Milner, and hear what she has to say: you may depend upon it that it was this that made her so reserved with us the other day.”
“Oh, do you think so?” exclaimed Mattie; but she was charmed at the idea of fresh gossip. And then they set off together.
Miss Milner seemed a little surprised to see them so soon, for Mattie had already paid her a visit that day; but at Miss Middleton’s first words a look of annoyance passed over her good-natured face.
“Dear, dear! to think of that leaking out already,” she said, in a vexed voice; “and I have not spoken to a soul, because the young ladies asked me to keep their secret a few days longer. ‘You must give us till next Monday,’ one of them said this very morning: ‘by that time we shall be in order, and then we can set to work.’”