THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
Phillis kept a sad silence: not for worlds would she have checked the
flow of tears that must have been so healing to the tortured brain.
Besides, what was there that she, so young and inexperienced, could
say in the presence of a grief so terrible, so overpowering? The whole
thing was inexplicable to Phillis. Why were the outworks of
conventionality so suddenly thrown down? Why was she, a stranger,
permitted to be a witness of such a revelation? As she sat there
speechless and sympathizing, a faint sound reached her ear,--the
rustle of a dress in the adjoining room,--footsteps that approached
warily, and then paused; a moment afterwards the door closed softly
behind them. Phillis looked round quickly, but could see nothing; and
the same instant a peal of thunder rolled over their heads.
Mrs. Cheyne started up with an hysterical scream, and caught hold of
Phillis. "Come," she said, almost wildly, "we will not stay here. The
children will not come to-night, for who could hear their voices in
such a storm? My little angels!--but they shall not see me like this.
Come, come!" And, taking the girl by the arm, she almost dragged her
from the room, and led the way with rapid and disordered footsteps to
a large luxurious chamber, furnished evidently as a dressing-room, and
only divided from the sleeping-room by a curtained archway.
As Mrs. Cheyne threw herself down in an arm-chair and hid her face in
her hands, the curtain was drawn back, and Miss Mewlstone came in with
an anxious, almost frightened expression on her good-natured
countenance. She hurried up to Mrs. Cheyne and took her in her arms as
though she were a child.
"Now, Magdalene, now, my dear," she said, coaxingly, "you will try to
be good and command yourself before this young lady. Look at her: she
is not a bit afraid of the storm:--are you, Miss Challoner? No, just
so; you are far too sensible."
"Oh, that is what you always tell me," returned Mrs. Cheyne, wrenching
herself free with some violence. "Be sensible,--be good,--when I am
nearly mad with the oppression and suffocation, here, and here,"
pointing to her head and breast. "Commonplaces, commonplaces; as well
stop a deluge with a teacup. Oh, you are an old fool, Barby: you will
never learn wisdom."
"My poor lamb! Barby never minds one word you say when you are like
this."
"Oh, I will beg your pardon to-morrow, or when the thunder stops.
Hark! there it is again," cowering down in her chair. "Can't you pray
for it to cease, Barby? Oh, it is too horrible! Don't you recollect
the night he rode away,--right into the storm, into the very teeth of
the storm? 'Good-bye, Magdalene; who knows when we may meet again?'
and I never looked at him, never kissed him, never broke the silence
by one word; and the thunder came, and he was gone," beating the air
with her hands.
"Oh, hush, my dear, hush! Let me read to you a little, and the fever
will soon pass. You are frightening the poor young lady with your wild
talk, and no wonder!"
"Pshaw! who minds the girl? Let her go or stop; what do I care? What
is the whole world to me, when I am tormented like this? Three years,
four years--more than a thousand days--of this misery! Oh, Barby! do
you think I have been punished enough? do you think where he is, up in
heaven with the children, that he forgives and pities me, who was such
a bad wife to him?"
As Miss Mewlstone paused a moment to wipe the tears that were flowing
over her old cheeks, Phillis's voice came to her relief.
"Oh, can you doubt it?" she said, in much agitation. "Dear Mrs.
Cheyne, can you have an instant's doubt? Do you think the dead carry
all these paltry earthly feelings into the bright place yonder?
Forgive you--oh, there is no need of forgiveness there; he will only
be loving you,--he and the children too."
"God bless you!" whispered Miss Mewlstone. "Hush, that is enough! Go,
my dear, go, and I will come to you presently. Magdalene, put your
poor head down here: I have thought of something that will do you
good." She waved Phillis away almost impatiently, and laid the poor
sufferer's head on her bosom, shielding it from the flashes that
darted through the room. Phillis could see her bending over her, and
her voice was as tender as though she were soothing a sick infant.
Phillis was trembling with agitation as she stole down the dark
corridor. Never in her happy young life had she witnessed or imagined
such a scene. The wild words, the half-maddened gestures, the look of
agony stamped on the pale, almost distorted features, would haunt her
for many a day. Oh, how the poor soul must have suffered before she
lost self-control and balance like this!
It was not the death of her children that had so utterly unnerved her.
It must have been that bitter parting with her husband, and the
remembrance of angry words never to be atoned for in this life, that
was cankering the root of her peace, and that brought about these
moods of despair.
Phillis thought of Coleridge's lines,--
"And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness on the brain,"--
as she took refuge in the dim drawing-room. Here, at least, there were
signs of human life and occupation. A little tea-table had been set in
one window, though the tea was cold. The greyhounds came and laid
their slender noses on her gown, and one small Italian one coiled
himself up on her lap. Miss Mewlstone's work-basket stood open, and a
tortoise shell kitten had helped itself to a ball of wool and was
busily unwinding it. The dogs were evidently frightened at the storm,
for they all gathered round Phillis, shivering and whining, as though
missing their mistress; and she had much ado to comfort them, though
she loved animals and understood their dumb language better than most
people.
It was not so very long, and yet it seemed hours before Miss Mewlstone
came down to her.
"Are you here, my dear?" she asked, in a loud whisper, for the room
was dark. "Ah, just so. We must have lights, and I must give you a
glass of wine or a nice hot cup of coffee." And, notwithstanding
Phillis's protest that she never took wine and was not in need of
anything, Miss Mewlstone rang the bell, and desired the footman to
bring in the lamp. "And tell Bishop to send up some nice hot coffee
and sandwiches as soon as possible. For young people never know what
they want, and you are just worried and tired to death with all you
have gone through,--not being an old woman and seasoned to it like
me," went on the good creature, and she patted Phillis's cheek
encouragingly as she spoke.
"But how is she? Oh, thank God, the storm has lulled at last!"
exclaimed the girl, breathlessly.
"Oh, yes; the storm is over. We have reason to dread storms in this
house," returned Miss Mewlstone, gravely. "She was quite exhausted,
and let Charlotte and me help her to bed. Now she has had her
composing-draught, and Charlotte will sit by her till I go up. I
always watch by her all night after one of these attacks."
"Is it a nervous attack?" asked Phillis, timidly, for she felt she was
treading on delicate ground.
"I believe Dr. Parkes calls it hysteria," replied Miss Mewlstone,
hesitating a little. "Ah, we have sad times with her. You heard what
she said, poor dear: she has been sorely tried."
"Was not her husband good to her, then?"
"I am sure he meant to be kind," returned Miss Mewlstone, sorrowfully,
"for he loved her dearly; but he was passionate and masterful, and was
one that would have his way. As long as it was only courtship, he
worshipped the ground she walked upon, as the saying is. But poor
Magdalene was not a good wife. She was cold when she ought to have
been caressing, stubborn when she might have yielded; and sarcasm
never yet healed a wound. Ah, here comes your coffee! Thank you,
Evans. Now, my dear, you must just eat and drink, and put some color
into those pale cheeks. Scenes like these are not good for young
creatures like you. But when Magdalene is in these moods, she would
not care if the whole world listened to her. To-morrow she will be
herself, and remember and be ashamed; and then you must not mind if
she be harder and colder than ever. She will say bitter things all the
more, because she is angered at her own want of self-control."
"I can understand that: that is just as I should feel," returned
Phillis, shuddering a little at the idea of encountering Mrs. Cheyne's
keen-edged sarcasms. "She will not like to see me any more; she will
think I had no right to witness such a scene."
"It is certainly a pity that I wrote that note," returned Mrs.
Mewlstone, reflectively. "I hoped that you would turn her thoughts,
and that we might avert the usual nervous paroxysm. When I opened the
door and saw you sitting together so peacefully beside the children's
beds, I expected a milder mood; but it was the thunder. Poor
Magdalene! She has never been able to control herself in a storm since
the evening Herbert left her, and we went in and found her lying
insensible in the library, in the midst of one of the worst storms I
have ever witnessed."
"That was when he said those cruel words to her!" ejaculated Phillis.
"Yes. Did she repeat them? How often I have begged her to forget them,
and to believe that he repented of them before an hour was over! Ah,
well! the sting of death lies in this: if she had had one word, one
little word, she would be a different woman, in spite of the
children's death. God's strokes are less cruel than men's strokes: the
reed may be bruised by them, but is not broken. She had a long illness
after the children were gone; it was too much,--too much for any
woman's heart to bear. You see, she wanted her husband to comfort her.
Dr. Parkes feared for her brain, but we pulled her through. Ah, just
so, my dear; we pulled her through!" finished Miss Mewlstone, with a
sigh.
"Oh, how good you are to her! she is happy to have such a friend!"
observed Phillis, enthusiastically.
Miss Mewlstone shook her head, and a tear rolled down her face.
"Oh, my dear, I am only an old fool, as she said just now. And, after
all, the company of a stupid old woman is not much to a proud bonnie
creature like that. Sometimes for days together she hardly opens her
lips to me; we sit together, eat together, drive together, and not a
word for Barby. But sometimes, poor dear! she will cling to me and
cry, and say her heart is breaking. And Solomon was right: but it was
not only a brother that is good for adversity. When she wants me, I am
here, and there is nothing I will not do for her, and she knows
it;--and that is about the long and short of it," finished Miss
Mewlstone, dismissing the subject with another sigh. And then she bade
Phillis finish her coffee and put on her hat. "For your mother will be
expecting you, and wondering what has become of you; and Phillips or
Evans must walk with you, for it is past nine o'clock, and such a
pretty young lady must not go unattended," concluded the simple
woman.
Phillis laughed and kissed her at this; but, though she said nothing
of her intentions, she determined to dismiss the servant as soon as
possible, and run on alone to the Friary. She had not forgotten her
encounter with Mr. Drummond on her last visit to the White House; but
to-night the storm would keep him in-doors.
Evans, the new footman, was desired to escort her; but in the middle
of the avenue Phillis civilly dismissed him.
"There is no need for two of us to get wet; and the rain is coming on
very heavily," she said.
The young man hesitated; but he was slow-witted and new to his duty,
and the young lady had a peremptory way with her, so he touched his
hat, and went back to the house.
"Such nonsense, having a liveried servant at my heels, when I am only
a dressmaker!" thought Phillis, scurrying down the avenue like a
chased rabbit.
Hitherto, the trees had sheltered her; but a glance at the open road
and the driving rain made her resolve to take refuge in the porch of
the cottage that stood opposite the gate. It was the place where Nan
and her mother had once lodged; and, though all the lights were
extinguished, and the people had retired to bed, she felt a
comfortable sense of safety as she unlatched the little gate. Not even
Mr. Drummond would discover her there.
But Phillis's satisfaction was of short duration: the foolish girl was
soon to repent of her foolhardiness in dismissing her escort. She
little knew that her words to Evans had been overheard, and that
behind the dripping shrubbery she had been watched and followed.
Scarcely had she taken refuge under the green porch, and placed her
wet umbrella to dry, before she heard the latch of the little gate
unclosed, and a tall dark figure came up the gravel-walk. It was not
Isaac Williams's portly form,--she could discern that in the
darkness,--and, for the moment, a thrill of deadly terror came upon
the incautious girl; but the next minute her natural courage returned
to her aid. The porch was just underneath the room where Isaac slept;
a call of 'help' would reach him at once; there was no reason for this
alarm at all. Nevertheless, she shrunk back a little as the stranger
came directly towards her, then paused as though in some
embarrassment:
"Pardon me, but you have poor shelter here. I am Mrs. Williams's
lodger. I could easily let you into the cottage. I am afraid the rain
comes through the trellis-work."
Phillis's heart gave a great thump of relief. In the first place, Mrs.
Williams's lodger must be a respectable person, and no dangerous
loafer or pickpocket; in the second place the refined cultured tones
of the stranger pleased her ear. Phillis had a craze on this point.
"You may be deceived in a face, but in a voice, never!" she would say;
and, as she told Nan afterwards, the moment that voice greeted her in
the darkness she felt no further fear.
"I have a dry corner here," she returned, quietly; "it is only a
thunder-shower, and I am close to home,--only down the road, and just
round the corner, past the vicarage."
"Past the vicarage!" in a tone of surprise: "why, there are no houses
there!"
"There is a very small one called the Friary," returned Phillis,
feeling herself color in the darkness, as she mentioned their humble
abode. There was no answer for a moment, and then her mysterious
neighbor continued:
"My good landlord seems to retire early; the whole place looks
deserted. They are very early risers, and perhaps that is the reason.
If you will allow me to pass, I will open the door and light a lamp in
my little parlor. Even if you prefer to remain in the porch, it will
look more cheerful." And, without waiting for her reply, he took a key
from his pocket, and let himself into the house.
Their voices had disturbed the owners of the cottage, and Phillis
overheard the following colloquy:
"Dear sakes alive! what a frightful storm! Is there anything you want,
Mr. Dancy?" in Mrs. Williams's shrill tones.
"Not for myself, Mrs. Williams; but there is a young lady sheltering
in the porch. I should be glad if you could come down and make her a
little comfortable. The floodgates of heaven seem open to-night."
"Dear, dear!" in a still more perplexed voice; "a young lady at this
time of night,--why, it must be half-after nine. Very well, Mr. Dancy;
beg her to come in and sit in your parlor a moment, and I will be
down."
But Phillis absolutely refused to comply with the invitation.
"I am not tired, and I am not a bit wet, and I like watching the rain.
This is a nice little porch, and I have taken refuge here before. We
all know Mrs. Williams very well."
"She is a good creature, if she were not always in a bustle," returned
Mr. Dancy. "There, the lamp is lighted: that looks more comfortable."
And as he spoke he came out into the little hall.
Phillis stole a curious glance at him.
He was a tall man, and was dressed somewhat strangely. A long
foreign-looking cloak and a broad-brimmed felt hat, which he had not
yet removed, gave him the look of an artist; but, except that he had a
beard and moustache, and wore blue spectacles, she could not gain the
slightest clue to his features. But his voice,--it pleased Phillis's
sensitive ear more every moment; it was pleasant,--rather foreign,
too,--and had a sad ring in it.
He leaned against the wall opposite to her, and looked out
thoughtfully at the driving rain.
"I think I saw you coming out from the White House," he observed
presently. "Are you a friend of Mrs. Cheyne? I hope," hesitating a
little, "that she is very well."
"Do you know her?" asked Phillis, in surprise.
"That is a very Irish way of answering my question; but you shall have
your turn first. Yes; I used to know her many years ago, and Herbert
Cheyne, too."
"Her poor husband! Oh! and did you like him?" rather breathlessly.
"Pretty fairly," was the indifferent reply. "People used to call him a
pleasant fellow, but I never thought much of him myself,--not but what
he was more sinned against than sinning, poor devil. Anyhow, he paid
dearly enough for his faults."
"Yes, indeed; and one must always speak leniently of the dead."
"Ah, that is what they say,--that he is dead. I suppose his widow put
on mourning, and made lamentation. She is well, you say, and
cheerful?"
"Oh, no! neither the one nor the other. I am not her friend; I only
know her just little; but she strikes me as very sad. She has lost her
children, and----"
"Ah!" Phillis thought she heard a strange sound, almost like a groan;
but of course it was fancy; and just then good Mrs. Williams came
bustling downstairs.
"Dear heart! why, if it is not Miss Challoner! To think of you, my
dear miss, being out so late, and alone! Oh, what ever will your ma
say?"
"My mother will scold me, of course," returned Phillis, laughing; "but
you must not scold me too, Mrs. Williams, though I deserve all I get.
Mrs. Mewlstone sent Evans with me, but I made him go back. Country
girls are fearless and it is only just a step to the Friary."
"The rain is stopping now, if you will permit me to escort you. Mrs.
Williams will be the voucher for my respectability," observed Mr.
Dancy, very gravely and without a smile; and, as Phillis seemed
inclined to put him off with an excuse, he continued, more seriously:
"Pardon me, but it is far too late, and the road far too lonely, for a
young lady to go unattended. If you prefer it, I will go to the White
House, and bring out the recreant Evans by force."
"Oh, no; there is no need for that," observed Phillis, hastily; and
Mrs. Williams interposed volubly:
"Goodness' sakes, Miss Challoner, you have no call to be afraid of Mr.
Dancy! Why, Mr. Frank Blunt, that nice young gentleman who lodged with
me ever so many years, recommended him to me as one of his best and
oldest friends. Your ma knew Mr. Blunt, for he was here with her, and
a nicer-spoken young gentleman she said she never saw."
"That will do, Mrs. Williams," returned Mr. Dancy, in rather a
peremptory tone; and then, turning to Phillis, he said, more civilly,
but still a little abruptly, as though he were displeased,--
"Well, Miss Challoner, do you feel inclined to trust yourself with me
for the few hundred yards, or shall I fetch Evans?" And Phillis,
feeling herself rebuked, unfurled her umbrella at once, and bade Mrs.
Williams good-night by way of answer.