"A FRIEND IN NEED."
Human nature is weak, and we are told there are mixed motives to be
found even in the holiest actions. Mr. Drummond never could be brought
to acknowledge even to himself the reason why he took so much pains to
compose his sermon for that Sunday. Without possessing any special
claim to eloquence, he had always been earnest and painstaking,
bestowing much labor on the construction and finish of his sentences,
which were in consequence more elaborate than original. At times, when
he took less pains and was simpler in style, he seldom failed to
satisfy his hearers. His voice was pleasant and well modulated, and
his delivery remarkably quiet and free from any tricks of gestures.
But on this occasion his subject baffled him; he wrote and rewrote
whole pages, and then grew discontented with his work. On the Sunday
in question he woke with the conviction that something out of the
common order of events distinguished the day from other days; but even
as this thought crossed his mind he felt ashamed of himself, and was
in consequence a little more dictatorial than usual at the
breakfast-table.
The inhabitants of Hadleigh were well accustomed to the presence of
strangers in their church. In the season there was a regular influx
of visitors that filled the lodging-houses to overflowing. Hadleigh
had always prided itself on its gentility, as a watering-place it was
select and exclusive; only the upper middle classes, and a sprinkling
of the aristocracy, were the habitual frequenters of the little town.
It was too quiet; it offered too few attractions to draw the crowds
that flocked to other places. Mr. Drummond's congregation was well
used by this time to see new faces in the strangers' pew;
nevertheless, a little thrill of something like surprise and
excitement moved a few of the younger members as Nan and her sisters
walked down the aisle, with their mother following them.
"The mother is almost as good-looking as her daughters," thought
Colonel Middleton, as he regarded the group through his gold-mounted
eye-glasses, and Miss Middleton looked up for an instant from her
prayer-book. Even Mrs. Cheyne roused from the gloomy abstraction which
was her usual approach to devotion, and looked long and curiously at
the three girlish faces before her. It was refreshing even to her to
see anything so fresh and bright-looking.
Nan and her sisters were perfectly oblivious of the sensation they
were making. Nan's pretty face was a trifle clouded: the strange
surroundings, the sight of all those people unknown to them, instead
of the dear, familiar faces that had always been before her, gave the
girl a dreary feeling of oppression and dismay. Her voice quavered
audibly as she sang, and one or two drops fell on her prayer-book as
she essayed to join in the petitions.
"Why is there not a special clause in the Litany for those who are
perplexed and in poverty? It is not only from murder and sudden death
one need pray to be delivered," thought Nan, with much sinking of
heart. "Oh, how helpless they were,--so young, and only girls, with a
great unknown world before them, and Dick away, ignorant of their
worst troubles, and too youthful a knight to win his spurs and pledge
himself to their service!"
Nan's sweet downcast face drew many eyes in the direction of the great
square pew in which they sat. Phillis intercepted some of these looks,
as her attention insensibly wandered during the service. It was wrong,
terribly wrong of course, but her thoughts would not concentrate
themselves on the lesson the young vicar was reading in his best
style. She was not heavy-hearted like Nan; on the contrary, little
thrills of excitement, of impatience, of repressed amusement, pervaded
her mind, as she looked at the strange faces round her "They would not
be long strange," she thought: "some of them would be her neighbors.
What would they say, all these people, when they knew----" And here
Phillis held her breath a moment. People were wondering even now who
they were. They had dressed themselves that morning, rehearsing their
parts, as it were, with studied simplicity. The gown Nan wore was as
inexpensive as a gown could be; her hat was a model of neatness and
propriety: nevertheless, Phillis groaned in spirit as she glanced at
her. Where had she got that style? She looked like a young princess
who was playing at Arcadia. Would people ever dare to ask her to work
for them? Would they not beg her pardon, and cry shame on themselves
for entertaining such a thought for a moment? Phillis almost envied
Nan, who was shedding salt tears on her prayer-book. She thought she
was absorbed in her devotions, while her own thoughts would wander so
sadly; and then a handsome face in the opposite pew attracted her
attention. Surely that must be Mrs. Cheyne, who lived in the White
House near them, of whom Nan had talked,--the poor woman who had lost
husband and children and who lived in solitary state. The sermon had
now commenced, but Phillis turned a deaf ear to the sentences over
which Mr. Drummond had expended so much labor: her attention was
riveted by the gloomy beautiful face before her, which alternately
attracted and repelled her.
As though disturbed by some magnetic influence, Mrs. Cheyne raised her
eyes slowly and looked at Phillis. Something in the girl's keen-eyed
glance seemed to move her strangely. The color crept into her pale
face, and her lip quivered: a moment afterwards she drew down her veil
and leaned back in her seat and Phillis, somewhat abashed, endeavored
fruitlessly to gather up the thread of the sermon.
"There! it is over! We have made our _debut_," she said, a little
recklessly, as they walked back to Beach House, where Mrs. Challoner
and Dulce were still staying. And as Nan looked at her, a little
shocked and mystified by this unusual flippancy, she continued in the
same excited way:
"Was it not strange Mr. Drummond choosing that text, 'Consider the
lilies'? He looked at us; I am sure he did, mother. It was quite a
tirade against dress and vanity; but I am sure no one could find fault
with us."
"It was a very good sermon, and I think he seems a very clever young
man," returned Mrs. Challoner, with a sigh, for the service had been a
long weariness for her. She had not been unmindful of the attention
her girls had caused; but if people only knew--And here the poor lady
had clasped her hands and put up petitions that were certainly not in
the Litany.
Phillis seemed about to say something, but she checked herself, and
they were all a little silent until they reached the house. This first
Sunday was an infliction to them all: it was a day of enforced
idleness. There was too much time for thought and room for regret. In
spite of all Phillis's efforts,--and she rattled on cheerily most of
the afternoon,--Mrs. Challoner got one of her bad headaches, from
worry, and withdrew to her room, attended by Dulce, who volunteered to
bathe her head and read her to sleep.
The church-bells were just ringing for the evening service, and Nan
rose, as usual, to put on her hat; but Phillis stopped her:
"Oh, Nan, do not let us go to church again this evening. I am terribly
wicked to-day, I know, but somehow I cannot keep my thoughts in order.
So what is the use of making the attempt? Let us take out our
prayer-books and sit on the beach: it is low tide, and a walk over the
sands would do us good after our dreadful week."
"If you are sure it would not be wrong," hesitated Nan, whose
conscience was a little hard to convince in such matters.
"No, no. And the run will do Laddie good. The poor little fellow has
been shut up in this room all day. We need not tell the mother. She
would be shocked, you know. But we never have stayed away from church
before, have we? And, to tell you the truth," continued Phillis, with
an unsteady laugh that betrayed agitation to her sister's ear, "though
I faced it very well this morning, I do not feel inclined to go
through it again. People stared so. And I could not help thinking all
the time, 'If they only knew!'--that was the thought that kept buzzing
in my head. If only Mr. Drummond and all those people knew!"
"What does it matter what people think?" returned Nan. But she said it
languidly. In her heart she was secretly dismayed at this sudden
failure of courage. Phillis had been quite bold and merry all the day,
almost reckless in her speeches.
"I am glad we came. This will do us both good," said Nan, gently, as
they left the parade behind them, and went slowly over the shelving
beach, with Laddie rolling like a clumsy black ball about their feet.
Just before them there was a pretty black-timbered cottage, covered
with roses, standing quite low on the shore, and beyond this was
nothing but shingly beach, and a stretch of wet, yellow sand, on which
the sun was shining. There was a smooth white boulder standing quite
alone, on which the girls seated themselves. The tide was still going
out; and the low wash of waves sounded pleasantly in their ears as
they advanced and then receded. A shimmer of silvery light played upon
the water, and a rosy tinge began to tint the horizon.
"How quiet and still it is!" said Phillis, in an awe-struck voice.
"When we are tired we must come here to rest ourselves. How prettily
those baby waves seem to babble! it is just like the gurgle of baby
laughter. And look at Laddie splashing in that pool: he is after that
poor little crab. Come here, you rogue!" But Laddie, intent upon his
sport, only cocked his ear restlessly and refused to obey.
"Yes, it is lovely," returned Nan. "There is quite a silvery path over
the water; by and by the sunset clouds will be beautiful. But what is
the matter, dear?" as Phillis sighed and leaned heavily against her;
and then, as she turned, she saw the girl's eyes were wet.
"Oh, Nan! shall we have strength for it? That is what I keep asking
myself to-day. No you must not look so frightened. I am brave enough
generally, and I do not mean to lose pluck; but now and then the
thought will come to me, Shall we have strength to go through with
it?"
"We must think of each other; that must keep us up," returned Nan,
whose ready sympathy fully understood her sister's mood. Only to Nan
would Phillis ever own her failure of courage or fears for the future.
But now and then the brave young heart needed comfort, and always
found it in Nan's sympathy.
"It was looking at your dear beautiful face that made me feel so
suddenly bad this morning," interrupted Phillis, with a sort of sob.
"It was not the people so much; they only amused and excited me, and I
kept thinking, 'If they only knew!' But, Nan, when I looked at
you--oh, why are you so nice and pretty, if you have got to do this
horrid work?"
"I am not a bit nicer than you and Dulce," laughed Nan, embracing her,
for she never could be made to understand that by most people she was
considered their superior in good looks. The bare idea made her angry.
"It is worse for you, Phillis, because you are so clever and have so
many ideas. But there! we must not go on pitying each other, or else,
indeed, we shall undermine our little stock of strength."
"But don't you feel terribly unhappy sometimes?" persisted Phillis.
Neither of them mentioned Dick, and yet he was in both their minds.
"Perhaps I do," returned Nan, simply; and then she added, with
quaintness that was pathetic, "You see, we are so unused to the
feeling, and it is over-hard at first: by and by we shall be more used
to not having our own way in things."
"I think I could give up that readily, if I could be sure you and
Dulce were not miserable," sighed Phillis.
"That is what I say," returned Nan. "Don't you see how simple and
beautiful that is? Thinking of each other gives us strength to go
through with it all. This evening trying to cheer you up has done me
good. I do not feel the least afraid of people to-night. Looking at
that sea and sky makes one feel the littleness and unreality of all
these worries. What does it matter--what does anything matter--if we
only do our duty and love each other, and submit to the Divine will?"
finished Nan, reverently, who seldom spoke of her deeper feelings,
even to Phillis.
"Nan, you are a saint," returned Phillis, enthusiastically. The
worried look had left her eyes; they looked clear and bright as usual.
"Oh, what a heathen I have been to-day! but, as Dulce is so fond of
saying, 'I am going to be good. I will read the evening Psalms to you,
in token of my resolution, if you like. But wait: is there not some
one coming across the sand! How eerie it looks, such a tall black
figure standing between the earth and sky!"
Phillis had good sight, or she would hardly have distinguished the
figure, which was now motionless, at such a distance. In another
moment she even announced that its draperies showed it to be a woman,
before she opened her book and commenced reading.
There is something very striking in a lonely central figure in a
scene, the outline cuts so sharply against the horizon. Nan's eyes
seemed riveted on it as she listened to Phillis's voice; it seemed to
her as immovable as a Sphinx, its rigidity lending a sort of
barrenness and forlornness to the landscape, a black edition of human
nature set under a violet and opal sky.
She almost started when it moved, at last, with a steady bearing, as
it seemed, towards them; then curiosity quickened into interest, and
she touched Phillis's arm, whispering breathlessly,--
"The Sphinx moves! Look--is not that Mrs. Cheyne, the lady who lives
at the White House near us, who always looks so lonely and unhappy?"
"Hush!" returned Phillis, "she will hear you;" and then Mrs. Cheyne
approached with the same swift even walk. She looked at them for a
moment, as she passed, with a sort of well-bred surprise in her air,
as though she marvelled to see them there; her black dress touched
Laddie, and he caught at it with an impotent bark.
The sisters must have made a pretty picture, as they sat almost
clinging together on the stone: one of Nan's little white hands rested
on Laddie's head, the other lay on Phillis's lap. Phillis glanced up
from her book, keen-eyed and alert in a moment; she turned her head to
look at the stranger that had excited her interest, and then rose to
her feet with a little cry of dismay.
"Oh, Nan, I am afraid she has hurt herself! She gave such a slip just
now. I wonder what has happened? She is leaning against the
breakwater, too. Shall we go and ask her if she feels ill or
anything?"
"You may go," was Nan's answer. Nevertheless, she followed Phillis.
Mrs. Cheyne looked up at them a little sharply as they came towards
her. Her face was gray and contracted with pain.
"I have slipped on a wet stone, and my foot has somehow turned on me,"
she said, quickly, as Phillis ran up to her. "It was very stupid. I
cannot think how it happened; but I have certainly sprained my ankle.
It gives me such pain. I cannot move."
"Oh, dear, I am so sorry!" returned Phillis, good-naturedly; and, in
the most natural manner, she knelt down on the beach, and took the
injured foot in her hands. "Yes, I can feel it is swelling dreadfully:
we must try and get your boot off before the attempt gets too
painful." And she commenced unfastening it with deft fingers.
"How am I to walk without my boot?" observed Mrs. Cheyne, a little
drily, as she looked down on the girl; but here Nan interposed in her
brisk sensible way:
"You must not walk; you must not think of such a thing. We will wet
our handkerchiefs in the salt water, and bind up your ankle as well as
we can; and then one of us will walk over to the White House for
assistance. Your servants could easily obtain a wheeled chair."
"You knew I lived at the White House, then?" returned Mrs. Cheyne,
arching her eyebrows in some surprise; but she offered no opposition
to Nan's plan. The removal of the boot had brought on a sensation of
faintness, and she sat perfectly still and quiet while the girls
swathed the foot in wet bandages.
"It is a little easier now," she observed, gratefully. "How neatly you
have done it! you must be used to such work. I am really very much
obliged to you both for your kindly help; and now I am afraid I must
trouble you further if I am ever to reach home."
"I will go at once," returned Nan, cheerfully; "but I will leave my
sister for fear you should feel faint again: besides, it is so
lonely."
"Oh, I am used to loneliness!" was the reply, as a bitter expression
crossed her face.
Phillis, who was still holding the sprained foot in her lap, looked up
in her eager way.
"I think one gets used to everything; that is a merciful dispensation;
but all the same I hope you will not send me away. I dearly like to be
useful; and at present my object is to prevent your foot coming into
contact with these stones. Are you really in less pain now?--you look
dreadfully pale."
"Oh, that is nothing!" she returned, with a smile so sudden and sweet
that it quite startled Phillis, for it lit up her face like sunshine;
but almost before she caught it, it was gone. "How good you are to me!
and yet I am a perfect stranger!" and then she added, as though with
an afterthought, "But I saw you in church this morning."
Phillis nodded: the question certainly required no answer.
"If I knew you better, I should ask why your eyes questioned me so
closely this morning. Do you know, Miss--Miss----" And here she
hesitated and smiled, waiting for Phillis to fill up the blank.
"My name is Challoner,--Phillis Challoner," replied Phillis, coloring
a little; and then she added, frankly, "I am afraid you thought me
rude, and that I stared at you, but my thoughts were all topsy-turvy
this morning and refused to be kept in order. One feels curious,
somehow, about the people among whom one has come to live."
"Have you come to live here?" asked Mrs. Cheyne, eagerly, and a gleam
of pleasure shot into her dark eyes,--"you, and your mother and
sisters?"
"Yes; we have just come to the Friary,--a little cottage standing on
the Braidwood Road."
Her manner became a little constrained and reserved as she said this:
the charming frankness disappeared.
"The Friary!" echoed Mrs. Cheyne; and then she paused for a moment,
and her eyes rested searchingly on Phillis. "That shabby little
cottage!" was the thought that filled up the outline of her words;
but, though she felt inward surprise and a momentary disappointment,
there was no change in the graciousness of her manner. Never before
had she so thawed to any one: but the girl's sweet ministry had won
her heart. "Then you will be near me,--just at my gates? We shall be
close neighbors. I hope you will come and see me, Miss Challoner."
Poor Phillis! the blood suddenly rushed over her face at this. How was
she to answer without appearing ungracious?--and yet at this moment
how could she explain?
"If you please, we are dressmakers." Oh, no! such words as these would
not get themselves said. It was too abrupt, too sudden, altogether:
she was not prepared for such a thing. Oh, why had she not gone to the
White House instead of Nan? Her officiousness had brought this on her.
She could not put the poor foot off her lap and get up and walk away
to cool her hot cheeks.
"Thank you; you are very good," she stammered, feeling herself an
utter fool: she,--Phillis,--the clever one!
Mrs. Cheyne seemed rather taken aback by the girl's sudden reserve and
embarrassment.
"I suppose you think I should call first, and thank you for your
kindness," she returned, quickly; "but I was afraid my foot would keep
me too long a prisoner. And, as we are to be neighbors, I hardly
thought it necessary to stand on ceremony; but if you would rather
wait----"
"Oh, no," replied Phillis, in despair; "we will not trouble you to do
that! Nan and I will call and ask after your foot, and then we will
explain. There is a little difficulty: you might not care to be
friends with us if you knew," went on Phillis with burning cheeks;
"but we will call and explain. Oh, yes, Nan and I will call!"
"Do; I shall expect you," returned Mrs. Cheyne, half amused and half
mystified at the girl's obvious confusion. What did the child mean?
They were gentle-people,--one could see that at a glance. They were in
reduced circumstances: they had come down to Hadleigh to retrench.
Well, what did that matter? People's wealth or poverty never affected
her; she would think none the less well of them for that; she would
call at the Friary and entertain them at the White House with as much
pleasure as though they lived in a palace. The little mystery piqued
her, and yet excited her interest. It was long since she had
interested herself so much in anything. To Miss Middleton she had
always been cold and uncertain. Mr. Drummond she treated with a
mixture of satire and haughtiness that aroused his ire. Phillis's
frankness and simplicity had won her for a moment to her earlier and
better self: she conceived an instantaneous liking for the girl who
looked at her with such grave kindly glances. "I shall expect you,
remember," she repeated, as Nan at that moment appeared in sight.
"Oh, yes, Nan and I will come," returned Phillis, slowly, and almost
solemnly; but an instant afterwards a flicker of amusement played
round her mouth. It was painful, of course; but, still, how droll it
was!
"How long you have been, Nan!" she exclaimed, a little unreasonably,
as Nan ran towards them, flushed and breathless from her haste.
"It has not been long to me," observed Mrs. Cheyne, pointedly. She
talked more to Nan than to Phillis after this, until the servants
appeared with the wheeled chair; but nevertheless her last words were
for Phillis. "Remember your promise," was all she said, as she held
out her hand to the girl; and Phillis tried to smile in answer, though
it was rather a failure after all.