"YOU ARE ROMANTIC."
Human nature is prone to argument; a person will often in the course
of a few moments bring himself or herself to the bar of conscience,
and accuse, excuse, and sum up the case in the twinkling of an eye.
On arriving at the lodge-gates Phillis began to take herself to task.
Conscience, that "makes cowards of us all," began its small inner
remonstrance; then followed self-flagellation and much belaboring of
herself with many remorseful terms. She was a pitiful thing compared
to Nan; she was conventional; there were no limits to her pride. Where
were that freedom and nobility of soul which she once fancied would
sweep over worldly prejudices, and carry her into purer air? She was
still choking in the fogs of mere earthly exhalations; no wonder Nan
was a little disappointed in her, though she was far too kind to say
so. Well, she was disappointed in herself.
By this time she had reached the hall door; and now she began to hold
up her head more boldly, and to look about her; when a very
solemn-looking butler confronted her, she said to herself, "It will be
all the same a hundred years hence, and I am determined this time not
to be beaten;" and then she asked for Mrs. Cheyne with something of
her old sprightliness, and nothing could exceed the graceful ease of
her entrance.
All the Challoners walked well. There was a purity of health about
them that made them delight in movement and every bodily exercise,--an
elasticity of gait that somehow attracted attention.
No girls danced better than they. And when they had the chance, which
was seldom, they could ride splendidly. Their skating was a joy to
see, and made one wish that the ice would last forever, that one could
watch such light, skimming practice; and as for tennis, no other girl
had a chance of being chosen for a partner unless the Challoners
good-naturedly held aloof, which ten times out of twelve they were
sure to do.
Phillis, who, from her pale complexion, was supposed to possess the
least vitality, delighted in exercise for its own sake. "It is a
pleasure only to be alive and to know it," was a favorite speech with
her on summer mornings, when the shadows were blowing lightly hither
and thither, and the birds had so much to say that it took them until
evening to finish saying it.
Mrs. Cheyne, who was lying on her couch, watched with admiring eyes
the girl's straightforward walk, so alert and business-like, so free
from fuss and consciousness, and held out her hand with a more
cordial welcome than she was accustomed to show her visitors.
It was a long room; and as the summer dusk was falling, and there was
only a shaded lamp beside Mrs. Cheyne, it was full of dim corners.
Nevertheless, Phillis piloted herself without hesitation to the
illuminated circle.
"This is good of you, Miss Challoner, to take me at my word. But where
is your sister? I wanted to look at her again, for it is long since I
have seen any one so pretty. Miss Mewlstone, this is the good
Samaritan who bound up my foot so cleverly."
"Ah, just so," returned Miss Mewlstone. And a soft, plump hand touched
Phillis's, and then she went on picking up stitches and taking no
further notice.
"Nan could not come," observed Phillis. "She had to run down to Beach
House to report progress to mother. We hope she is coming home
to-morrow. But, as you were so kind as to write, I thought I would
just call and inquire about your foot. And then it would be easier to
explain things than to write about it."
"Oh! so your mother is coming home!" returned Mrs. Cheyne, with so
much interest in her voice that Miss Mewlstone left off counting to
look at her. ("Just so, just so," Phillis heard her mutter.) "You must
have worked hard to get ready for her so soon. When my foot will allow
me to cross a room without hobbling, I will do myself the pleasure of
calling on her. But that will be neither this week nor the next, I am
afraid. But I shall see a good deal of you and your sister before
then," she concluded, with the graciousness of one who knows she is
conferring an unusual honor.
"I do not know," faltered Phillis. And then she sat upright, and
looked her hostess full in the face. "That will be for you to decide
when you hear what I have to say. But I fear"--with a very poor
attempt at a smile--"that we shall see very little of each other in
the future."
"Oh, there is a mystery, is there?" returned Mrs. Cheyne, with a
little scorn in her manner; and her mouth took one of the downward
curves that Mr. Drummond so thoroughly disliked. She had taken an odd
fancy to these girls, especially to Phillis, and had thought about
them a good deal during a sleepless, uneasy night. Their simplicity,
their straightforward unconsciousness, had attracted her in spite of
her cynicism. But at the first suspicion of mystery she withdrew into
herself rather haughtily. "Do speak out, I beg, Miss Challoner; for if
there be one thing that makes me impatient, it is to have anything
implied."
"I am quite of your opinion," replied Phillis, with equal haughtiness,
only it sat more strangely on her girlishness. "That is why I am here
to-night,--just to inquire after your foot and explain things."
"Well?" still more impatiently, for this woman was a spoiled child,
and hated to be thwarted, and was undisciplined and imperious enough
to ruin all her own chances of happiness.
"I told you that we were very poor," went on Phillis, in a sweet and
steady voice; "but that did not seem to impress you much, and I
thought how noble that was,"--catching her breath an instant; "but it
will make a difference and shock you dreadfully, as it did Mr.
Drummond, when I tell you we are dressmakers,--Nan and Dulce and I: at
least that will be our future occupation."
"Ah, just so!" ejaculated Miss Mewlstone; but she said it with her
lips far apart, and a mistiness came into her sleepy blue eyes.
Perhaps, though she was stout and middle-aged and breathed a little
too heavily at times, she remembered--long ago when she was young and
poor and had to wage a bitter war with the world--when she ate the dry
bread and drank the bitter water of dependence and felt herself ill
nourished by such unpalatable sustenance. "Oh, just so, poor thing!"
And a little round tear dripped on to the ball of scarlet fleecy
wool.
But Mrs. Cheyne listened to the announcement in far different mood.
There was an incredulous stare at Phillis, as though she suspected her
of a joke; and then she laughed, a dry, harsh laugh, that was not
quite pleasant to hear.
"Oh, this is droll, passing droll!" she said, and leaned back on her
cushions, and drew her Indian cashmere round her and frowned a
little.
"I am glad you find it so," returned Phillis, who was nonplussed at
this, and did not know what to say, and was a little angry in
consequence; and then she got up from her chair with a demonstration
of spirit. "I am glad you find it so; but to us it is sad
earnestness!"
"What! are you going?" asked Mrs. Cheyne, with a keen glance through
her half-shut eyes at poor Phillis standing so tall and straight
before her. "And you have not told me the reason for taking so strange
a step!"
"The reason lies in our poverty and paucity of resources," was
Phillis's curt reply.
"It is not to make a sensation, then? no, I did not mean that," as
Phillis shot an indignant glance at her,--"not exactly; but there is
no knowing what the emancipated girl will do. Of course I have no
right to question, who was a stranger to you four-and-twenty hours
ago, and had never heard the name of Challoner, except that it was a
good and an old name; but when one sees young things like you about to
forfeit caste and build up a barrier between yourselves and your
equals that the bravest will fear to pass, it seems as though one must
lift up one's voice in protest."
"Thank you; but it will be of no use," returned Phillis, coldly.
"You are determined to make other people's dresses?" And here her lip
curled a little, perhaps involuntarily.
"We must must make dresses or starve; for our fingers are cleverer
than our brains," replied Phillis, defiantly; for she knew nothing
about it, and her powers were so immature and unfledged that she had
never tried her wings, and had no notion whether she could fly or not,
and yet no girl had a clearer head. "We have chosen work that we know
we can do well, and we mean not to be ashamed of our occupation. In
the old days ladies used to spin and weave, and no one blamed them,
though they were noble; and if my work will bring me money, and keep
the mother comfortable, I see nothing that will prevent my doing it."
"Ah, you are romantic, Miss Challoner; you will soon be taught
matter-of-fact!"
"I am willing to learn anything, but I must choose my teachers,"
retorted Phillis, with a little heat, for the word "romantic," and the
satirical droop of Mrs. Cheyne's lip made her decidedly cross. "But I
must not detain you any more with our uninteresting affairs," dropping
a little courtesy, half in pique and half in mockery, for her spirits
were rising under this rough treatment.
"It is far from uninteresting; I have not heard anything so exciting
for a long time. Well, perhaps you had better go before I say anything
very rude, for I am terribly outspoken, and I think you are all silly
self-willed young people." Then, as Phillis bridled her neck like an
untamed colt, she caught hold of the girl's dress to detain her, and
the sharpness passed out of her eyes. "Now, don't go away and believe
that I think any worse of you for telling me this. I am a
cross-grained body, and contradiction makes me worse. I don't know how
I shall act: I must have time to consider this extraordinary bit of
news. But all the same, whatever I do, whether I know you or do not
know you, I shall always think you the very bravest girl I ever saw."
And then she let her go, and Phillis, with her head in the air and her
thoughts all topsy-turvy, marched out of the room.
But when she reached the end of the corridor there was a soft but
distinctly audible breathing behind her, and, as in Mr. Drummond's
case Miss Mewlstone's shadowy gray gown swept between her and the
door.
"Miss Mewlstone, how you startled me! but the carpets are so soft and
thick!"
"Yes, indeed! just so, my dear; but Phillips must be asleep as he does
not answer the bell, and so I thought I would let you out. You are
young to walk alone: shall I throw a shawl over my cap, and walk down
the road with you?"
"Not for worlds, my dear Miss Mewlstone;" but Phillis was quite
touched at this unexpected kindness. Miss Mewlstone did not look
sleepy now; her small blue eyes were wide open, and her round placid
face wore a most kindly expression, and there was a tremulous movement
of her hands, as though they were feeling after something. "It is
only such a little bit of road; and though the trees make it dark, I
am not the least afraid of going alone."
"Ah! just so. When we are young, we are brave; it is the old who are
afraid of the grasshopper. I like your spirit, my dear; and so does
she, though she is a little taken aback and disappointed; but anything
that interests and rouses her is welcome. Even this may do her good;
for it will give her something to think about besides her own
troubles."
"I have heard of her troubles----" began Phillis; but a moving door
arrested Miss Mewlstone's attention, and she interrupted her
hurriedly:
"Ah! there is Phillips at last. Just so; you shall hear from me again.
It is a gray satin,--one of her presents,--but I have never had it
made up; for what is the use, when we keep no company?" went on Miss
Mewlstone incoherently. "Oh! is that you, Phillips? Please go with
this young lady to the lodge-gate.--You shall make it after your own
fashion," she whispered in Phillis's ear; "and I am not as particular
as other people. There is Magdalene now. Ah! just so. Good-night, my
dear; and mind the scraper by the gate."
Phillis was almost sorry when the obsequious Phillips left her; for
the road certainly looked terribly dark. There was no moon, and the
stars chose to be invisible; and there was a hot thundery feeling in
the air that suggested a storm. And she moved aside with a slight
sensation of uneasiness--not fear, of course not fear--as a tall,
gloomy-looking figure bore swiftly down on her; for, even if a girl be
ever so brave, a very tall man walking fast on a dark night with a
slouching hat like a conspirator's is rather a terrifying object; and
how could she know that it was only Archie Drummond in his old
garden-hat, taking a constitutional?
But he brought himself up in front of her with a sudden jerk.
"Miss Challoner!--alone at this time of night!"
"Why, it is not ten; and I could not wait for Dorothy to fetch me,"
returned Phillis, bound to defend herself, and quite palpitating with
relief; not that she was afraid--not a bit of it!--but still, Mr.
Drummond's presence was very welcome.
"I suppose I shall do as well as Dorothy?" he returned veering round
with the greatest ease, just as though he were Dick, and bound to
escort a Challoner. "Challoners' Squire,"--that was Dick's name among
people.
"Oh poor Dick!" thought Phillis, with a sudden rush of tenderness for
her old playmate; and then she said, demurely but with a spice of
malice,--
"Thank you, Mr. Drummond. The road is so gloomy that I shall be glad
of your escort this evening, but we shall have to do without that sort
of thing now, for our business may often bring us out after dark, and
we must learn not to be too particular."
"Oh, this must not be!" he returned, decidedly; and, though it was too
dark to see his face, she knew by his voice that he was dreadfully
shocked. "I must see your mother and talk to her about this; for it
would never do for you to run such risks. I could not allow it for a
moment; and as your clergyman"--coming down from his high horse, and
stammering a little,--"I have surely--surely a right----" But Phillis
snapped him up in a moment, and pretty sharply too, for she had no
notion of a young man giving himself airs and torturing her.
"Oh, no right at all!" she assured him: "clergymen could only rebuke
evil-doers, to which class she and her sisters did not belong, thank
heaven!" to which Mr. Drummond devoutly said an "amen." "And would he
please tell her if dressmakers were always met two and two, like the
animals in the ark? and how would it sound when she or Nan had been
fitting on a dress, on a winter's evening, if they were to refuse to
leave the house until Dorothy fetched them? and how----" But here Mr.
Drummond checked her, and the darkness hid his smile.
"Now you are beyond me, Miss Challoner. In a matter of detail, a man,
even a parson, is often at fault. Is there no other way of managing
this odious business? Forgive me; the word slipped out by accident!
Could you not do the fitting, or whatever you call it, by daylight,
and stay at home quietly in the evening like other young ladies?"
"Of course not," returned Phillis, promptly. She had not the least
idea why it could not be done; indeed, if she had been perfectly
cool--which she was not, for Mrs. Cheyne had decidedly stroked her the
wrong way and ruffled her past endurance--she would have appreciated
the temperate counsel vouchsafed her, and acquiesced in it without a
murmur; but now she seemed bent on contradiction.
"Our opinions seem to clash to-night," returned Mr. Drummond,
good-humoredly, but feeling that the young lady beside him had
decidedly a will of her own. "She is very nice, but she is not as
gentle as her sister," he said to himself; which was hard on Phillis,
who, though she was not meek, being a girl of spirit, was wholesomely
sweet and sound to the heart's core.
"One may be supposed to know one's business best," she replied rather
dryly to this. And then, fearing that she might seem ungracious to a
stranger, who did not know her and her little ways, she went on in a
more cordial tone: "I am afraid you think me a little cross to-night;
but I have been having a stand-up fight, and am rather tired. Trying
to battle against other people's prejudices makes one irritable. And
then, because I am down and out of heart about things, our clergyman
thinks fit to lecture me on propriety."
"Only for your good. You must forgive me if I have taken too much upon
myself," returned Mr. Drummond, with much compunction. "You seem so
lonely,--no father or brother; at least--pardon me--I believe you have
no brother?"
"Oh, no; we have no brother," sighed Phillis. Their acquaintance was
in too early a stage to warrant her in bringing in Dick's name.
Besides, that sort of heterogeneous relationship is so easily
misconstrued. And then she added, "I see. You meant to be very kind,
and I was very ungrateful."
"I only wish I could find some way of helping you all," was his reply
to this. But it was said with such frank kindness that Phillis's brief
haughtiness vanished. They were standing at the gate of the Friary by
this time; but Mr. Drummond still lingered. It was Phillis who
dismissed him.
"Good-night, and many thanks," she said, brightly. "It is too late to
ask you in, for you see, even dressmakers have their notions of
propriety." And as she uttered this malicious little speech, the young
man broke into a laugh that was heard by Dorothy in her little
kitchen.
"Oh, that is too bad of you, Miss Challoner," he said, as soon as he
recovered himself; but, nevertheless, he liked the girl better for her
little joke.
Mr. Drummond's constitutional had lasted so long that Mattie grew
quite frightened, and came down in her drab dressing-gown to wait for
him. It was not a becoming costume, but it was warm and comfortable;
but then Mattie never considered what became her. If any one had
admired her, or cared how she looked or what she wore, or had taken an
interest in her for her own sake, she would doubtless have developed
an honest liking for pretty things. But what did it matter under the
present circumstances? Mr. Drummond was lighting his chamber candle
when Mattie rushed out on him,--a grotesque little figure, all capes
and frills.
"Oh, Archie, how you frightened me! Where have you been?"
Archie shrugged his shoulders at this.
"I am not aware, Matilda,"--for in severe moods he would call her by
her full name, a thing she especially disliked from him,--"I did not
know before that I was accountable to you for my actions. Neither am I
particularly obliged to you for spying upon me in this way." For the
sight of Mattie at this time of night was peculiarly distasteful. Why
was he to be watched in his own house?
"Oh, dear, Archie! How can you say such things? Spy on you, indeed!
when there is a storm coming up, and I was so anxious."
"I am very much obliged to you," returned Archie, ironically; "but, as
you see I am safe, don't you think you had better take off that
thing"--pointing to the obnoxious garment--"and go to bed?" And such
was his tone that poor Mattie fled without a word, and cried a little
in her dark room, because Archie would not be kind to her and let her
love him, but was always finding fault with one trifle or other.
To-night it was her poor old dressing-gown, which had been her
mother's, and had been considered good enough for Mattie. And then he
had called her a spy. And here she gave a sob that caught Archie's
ears as he passed her door.
"Good-night, you little goose!" he called out, for the sound made him
uncomfortable; and though the words were contemptuous, the voice was
not, and Mattie at once dried her eyes and was comforted.
But before Archie went to sleep that night he made up his mind that it
was his duty as a clergyman and a Christian to look over Phillis's
wilfulness, and to befriend to the utmost of his power the strangers,
widow and fatherless, that Providence had placed at his very gates.
"They are so very lonely, poor things!" he said to himself; "not a
man about them. By the bye, I noticed she did not wear an
engagement-ring." But which was the "she" he meant, was an enigma
known only to himself. "Not a man about them!" he repeated, in a
satisfied manner, for as yet the name of Dick had not sounded in his
ear.