CHAPTER XIV.
“YOU CAN DARE TO TELL ME THESE THINGS.”
Archibald Drummond had left his mother’s presence with a cloud on his brow. He had plenty of filial affection for her, but it was not the first time that he had found her too much for him. She had often angered him before by her treatment of Grace, but he had told himself that she was his mother, that a 100 man could have but one, and so he had brought himself to forgive her. But this time she had set herself against the cherished plan of years. He had always looked forward to the time when he could have Grace to live with him; they had made all sorts of schemes together, and all their talk had concentrated itself towards this point; the disappointment would place a sort of blankness before them; they would be working separately, far away from each other, and the distance would not be bridged for years.
He stood for a moment in the dark, narrow hall, thinking intently over all this, and then he went slowly upstairs. He knew where he should find Grace. His mother had paid an unwonted visit to the school-room during their walk, and on their return had expressed herself with some degree of sharpness on the disorder she had found there. Grace would be busily engaged in putting everything to rights. It was Clara’s business, but she had gone out, and had, as usual, forgotten all about it. Grace had taken the blame upon herself, of course: she was always shielding her younger sisters.
Everything was done when he entered the room, and Grace was sitting by the window, with her hands folded in her lap, indulging in a few minutes’ rare idleness. She looked up eagerly as her brother made his appearance.
The school-room was a large, bare-looking room at the top of the house, with two narrow windows looking out over a lively prospect of roofs and chimney-pots. Mrs. Drummond had done her utmost to give it an air of comfort, but it was, on the whole, a dull, uncomfortable apartment, in spite of the faded Turkey carpet, and the curtains that had once been so handsome, but had now merged into unwholesome neutral tints.
Laura, who was the wit of the family, had nicknamed it the Hospital, for it seemed to be a receptacle for all the maimed and rickety chairs of the household, footstools in a dilapidated condition, and odd pieces of lumber that had no other place. Archibald regarded it with a troubled gaze; somehow, its dinginess had never before so impressed him; and then as he looked at his sister the frown deepened on his face.
“Well, Archie?”
“Oh, Grace, it is no use! I have talked myself hoarse, but the mother is dead against it: one might as well try to move a rock. We shall have to make up our minds to bear our disappointment as well as we can.”
“I knew it was hopeless from the first,” returned Grace, slowly; but, as she spoke, a sort of dimness and paleness crept over her face, belying her words.