MRS. WILLIAMS'S LODGER.
Phillis felt rather shy and uncomfortable as she picked her way warily
among the rain-pools in the semi-darkness. Her companion was inclined
to be silent; most likely he considered her churlish in repelling his
civil offers of help: so, to make amends, and set herself at her ease,
she began to talk to him with an attempt at her old sprightliness.
"Do you know this neighborhood well, Mr. Dancy? Have you been long at
Ivy Cottage?"
"Only a few days; but I know the place well enough," he responded,
quietly. "It depends upon circumstances how long I remain here."
"Hadleigh is very quiet," returned Phillis, quickly. "It does not
offer many attractions to strangers, unless they have very moderate
views of enjoyment. It is select, and the bathing is good, and the
country tolerable; but when you have said that, you have said all in
its favor."
"I have always liked the place," with a checked sigh. "Quiet,--that is
what I want, and rest also. I have been rather a wanderer over the
face of the earth, and one wants a little breathing-time occasionally,
to recruit one's exhausted energies. I like Ivy Cottage, and I like
Mrs. Williams: both suit me for the present. Are you a visitor to
Hadleigh,--a mere bird of passage like myself, Miss Challoner?"
"Oh, dear, no: we have come here to live."
"And--and you are intimate with Mrs. Cheyne?" coming a little closer
to her side in the darkness.
"Nothing of the kind," retorted Phillis: "we are mere acquaintances. I
do not feel to know her at all; she is not a person with whom one
could get intimate all at once; she is a little difficult. Besides in
our position----" And here she pulled herself up suddenly.
"Pardon me," returned Mr. Dancy, in an interested voice, "perhaps I
have no right to inquire, but your words are a little mysterious. Why
should you not be intimate with Mrs. Cheyne?"
Phillis grew hot in the darkness. What right had he, a perfect
stranger, to question her so closely? And yet, if he were interested
in his old friends, perhaps he meant to call at the White House, and
then he would hear all about them; and after all, perfect frankness
always answered best in the long run. Phillis hesitated so long over
her rejoinder that Mr. Dancy said, rather apologetically,--
"I see, I have been incautious; but you must not attribute my question
to impertinent curiosity. I am anxious to learn all I can about a very
old friend, of whom I have long lost sight, and I hoped that you might
have been able to satisfy me."
"Miss Middleton would tell you far more than I."
"What! Elizabeth Middleton? Oh, no: she is far too much of a saint for
me."
"You know her, too!" exclaimed Phillis, in surprise. "No, I do not
think you are curious, Mr. Dancy; it was only a little awkward for me
to tell you about our acquaintance with Mrs. Cheyne. My sister and I
rendered her a trifling service, and she took a fancy to us, and
wished to be friends; but in our present position any close intimacy
would be impossible, as we are only dressmakers."
"Dressmakers!" It is impossible to describe the genuine astonishment,
almost dismay, in Mr. Dancy's voice. "Dressmakers! Pardon me, Miss
Challoner, but when one has seen and spoken to a lady like yourself,
it is almost incredible."
This put Phillis on her mettle at once, and in a moment she laid by
all her reserve:
"You have been a traveller, Mr. Dancy, and must have seen strange
things by this time: it surely cannot be such a matter of surprise
that when gentle-people are poor they must work for their bread. When
one has ten clever fingers, it is better to use them than to starve. I
am not ashamed of my position; my sisters and I are very independent;
but, as we do not like to cause other people embarrassment, we prefer
to lead hermit lives."
Phillis's silvery tones were rather fierce, but it was well that she
did not see her companion's expression of suppressed amusement; there
was a little smothered laugh, too, that was turned into a cough.
"Are your sisters young like yourself?" he asked, rather abruptly.
"Oh, yes, we are all much of an age."
"And you have parents?"
"Only one parent," she corrected,--"a mother. Ah, here we are at the
Friary! Many thanks for your escort, Mr. Dancy."
"Many thanks for allowing me to escort you," he returned, pointedly:
"after what you have told me, I esteem it an honor, Miss Challoner.
No, you have no need to be ashamed of your position; I wish more
English ladies would follow such a noble example. Good-night. I trust
we shall meet again." And, lifting his felt hat, he withdrew, just as
Nan appeared on the threshold, holding a lamp in her hand.
"You naughty girl, what has kept you so late?" she asked, as Phillis
came slowly and meditatively up the flagged path.
"Hush, Nannie! Have they all gone to bed? Let me come into your room
and talk to you. Oh, I have had such an evening!" And thereupon she
poured into her sister's astonished ears the recital of her
adventure,--the storm, the figure in the shubbery, the scene in the
west corridor, the porch at Ivy Cottage, and the arrival of Mrs.
Williams's mysterious lodger.
"Oh, Phillis, I shall never trust you out of my sight again! How can
you be so reckless,--so incautious? Mother would be dreadfully shocked
if she knew it."
"Mother must not know a single word: promise, Nan. You know how
nervous she is. I will tell her, if you like, that I took refuge from
the rain in Mrs. Williams's porch, and that her lodger walked home
with me; but I think it would be better to suppress the scene at the
White House."
Nan thought over this a moment, and then she agreed.
"It would make mother feel uneasy and timid in Mrs. Cheyne's
presence," she observed. "She never likes that sort of hysterical
attacks. We could not make her understand. Poor thing! I hope she is
asleep by this time. Shall you go to-morrow, Phil, and ask after
her?"
Phillis made a wry face at this, and owned she had had enough
adventures to last her for a long time. But she admitted, too, that
she would be anxious to know how Mrs. Cheyne would be.
"Yes, I suppose I must go and just ask after her," she said, as she
rose rather wearily and lighted her candle. "There is not the least
chance of my seeing her. Good-night, Nannie! Don't let all this keep
you awake; but I do not expect to sleep a wink myself."
Which dismal prophecy was not fulfilled, as Phillis dropped into a
heavy slumber the moment her head touched the pillow.
But her dreams were hardly pleasant. She thought she was walking down
the "ghost's walk," between the yews and cypresses, with Mr. Dancy,
and that in the darkest part he threw off his cloak and felt hat, and
showed the grinning skull of a skeleton, while a bony arm tried to
seize her. She woke moaning with fright, to find Dulce's long hair
streaming over her face, and the birds singing in the sweet breezy
dawn; after which she fell into a dreamless, refreshing sleep.
Phillis had to submit to rather a severe reproof from her mother, in
return for her frankness. Mrs. Challoner's prudery was up in arms the
moment she heard of Mrs. Williams's lodger.
"Mrs. Williams ought to have come with you herself; but a strange man
at that time of night!--what would Mr. Drummond have said to you?"
"Whatever Mr. Drummond liked to say!" returned Phillis, pettishly, for
this was stroking her already ruffled feelings decidedly the wrong
way.
Phillis always turned captious whenever Mr. Drummond was mentioned;
but she subsided into meekness again when her mother fell to crying
and bemoaning her hard fate and her darlings' unprotected position.
"Oh, what would your dear father have said?" she cried, in such utter
misery of tone that Phillis began kissing her, and promising that she
would never, never be out so late again, and that on no account would
she walk up the Braidwood Road in the evening with a strange man who
wore an outlandish cloak and a felt hat that only wanted a feather to
remind her of Guy Fawkes, only Guy Fawkes did not wear blue
spectacles.
When Phillis had at last soothed her mother,--always a lengthy
process, for Mrs. Challoner, like other sensitive and feeble natures,
could only be quieted by much talk,--she fell to her work in vigorous
silence; but by a stroke of ill luck, Mr. Drummond chose to make
another pastoral visitation; and, to her secret chagrin, her mother at
once repeated the whole story.
"Mrs. Williams's lodger saw Miss Phillis home! Why, I did not know
Mrs. Williams had a lodger!" returned Mr. Drummond, in a perplexed
voice.
This made matters worse.
"I suppose Mrs. Williams is not bound to let the vicarage know
directly she lets her rooms?" observed Phillis, rather impatiently;
for she was vexed with her mother for repeating all this.
"No, of course not; but I was at Ivy Cottage myself yesterday, and
Mrs. Williams knows I always call on her lodgers, and she never
mentioned the fellow's existence to me."
"Fellow, indeed!" observed Phillis, _sotto voce_; for she had a vivid
remembrance of the stranger's commanding presence and pleasant voice.
"When did he come?" inquired the young vicar, curiously, "He must keep
himself pretty close by daylight; for I have passed and repassed Ivy
Cottage at least half a dozen times a day, and have never caught a
glimpse of any one;" to which Phillis replied reluctantly that he had
not been there long,--that he wanted rest and quiet, and was most
likely an invalid.
"And his name is Dancy, you say?"
Phillis bowed. She was far too much taken up in her work to volunteer
unnecessary words; and all this maternal fuss and fidget was odious to
her.
"Then I will go and call upon him this very afternoon," returned
Archie, with cheerful alacrity. He had no idea that his curiosity on
the subject was disagreeable to the girl: so he and Mrs. Challoner
discussed the matter fully, and at some length. "I don't like the
description of your mysterious stranger, Miss Challoner," he said,
laughing, as he stood up to take his leave. "When novelists want to
paint a villain, they generally bring in a long cloak and beard, and
sometimes a disguising pair of blue spectacles. Well, I will catch him
by daylight, and see what I can make of him."
"You may disguise a face, but you cannot disguise a voice," returned
Phillis, bluntly. "I do not want to see Mr. Dancy to know he is a
gentleman and a true man." And this speech, that piqued Archie, though
he did not know why, made him all the more bent on calling on Mrs.
Williams's lodger.
But Mr. Drummond's curiosity was destined to be baffled. Mrs. Williams
turned very red when she heard the vicar's inquiries.
"You never told me you had let your rooms," he said, reproachfully;
"and yet you know I always make a practice of calling on your
lodgers."
"'Deed and it is very kind and thoughtful of you, too," returned the
good woman, dropping an old-fashioned courtesy; "and me that prizes my
clergyman's visits and thinks no end of them! But Mr. Dancy he says to
me, 'Now, my good Mrs. Williams, I have come here for quiet,--for
absolute quiet; and I do not want to see or hear of any one. Tell no
tales about me, and leave me in peace; and then we shall get on
together.' And it was more than I ventured to give you the hint,
hearing him speak so positive; for he is a bit masterful, and no
mistake."
"Well, never mind; a clergyman never intrudes, and I will thank you to
take Mr. Dancy my card," returned Archie, impatiently; but his look of
assurance soon faded when Mrs. Williams returned with her lodger's
compliments, and he was very much obliged to Mr. Drummond for his
civility, but he did not wish to receive visitors.
Phillis was a little contrary all the remainder of the day: she was
not exactly cross,--all the Challoners were sweet-tempered,--but
nothing quite suited her. Mrs. Challoner had proposed going that
evening into the town with her youngest daughter to execute some
commissions.
Just before they started Phillis observed rather shortly that she
should call at the White House to make inquiries after Mrs. Cheyne,
and that she would came back to the Friary to fetch Nan for a country
walk. "If I do not appear in half an hour, you must come in search of
me," finished Phillis, with a naughty curl of her lip, to which Nan
with admirable tact returned no answer, but all the same she fully
intended to carry out the injunction; for Nan had imbibed her mother's
simple old-fashioned notions, and a lurking dislike of Mrs. Williams's
lodger had already entered her mind.
As Phillis did not enjoy her errand, she put on the best face she
could, and hurried down the Braidwood Road as though her feet were
winged like a female Mercury; and Mr. Dancy, who happened to be
looking over the wire blind in the little parlor, much admired the
girl's free swift gait as she sped down the avenue. Evans, the young
footman, admitted her, and conducted her at once to the drawing-room;
and great was Phillis's surprise and discomposure when she saw Mrs.
Cheyne sitting alone reading by one of the windows, with her
greyhounds grouped around her.
She started slightly at the announcement of Phillis's name, and, as
she came forward to greet her, a dark flush crossed her face for a
moment; then her features settled into their usual impassive calm,
only there was marked coldness in her voice.
"Good-evening. Miss Challoner: you have chosen a fine evening for your
visit. Let me beg of you never again to venture to the White House in
such a storm."
Phillis stammered out something about hoping that she was better, but
she interrupted her almost abruptly:
"Much better, thank you. I am afraid you found me decidedly strange
yesterday. I had what people call a nervous attack: electricity in the
air, a brooding storm, brings it on. It is a pity one should be so
childish as to dread thunder; but we are oddly constituted, some of
us." She shrugged her shoulders, as though to dismiss the subject, and
stroked the head of the greyhound that lay at her feet.
Poor Phillis found her position decidedly embarrassing. To be sure,
Miss Mewlstone had warned her of the reception that she might expect;
but all the same she found it very unpleasant. She must not abridge
her visit so much as to excite suspicion; and yet it seemed impossible
to carry on a comfortable conversation with Mrs. Cheyne in this
freezing mood, and, as Phillis could think of nothing to say, she
asked after Miss Mewlstone.
"Oh, she is very well," Mrs. Cheyne answered, indifferently. "Nothing
ever ails Barby: she is one of those easy-going people who take life
as they find it, without fuss and grumbling."
"I think she is very nice and sympathetic," hazarded Phillis.
"Oh, yes Miss Mewlstone has a feeling heart," returned Mrs. Cheyne;
but she said it in a sarcastic voice. "We have all our special
endowments. Miss Mewlstone is made by nature to be a moral feather bed
to break other people's awkward tumbles. She hinders broken bones, and
interposes a soft surface of sympathy between unlucky folks. There is
not much in common between us, but all the same old Barby is a sort of
necessity to me. We are a droll household at the White House, Miss
Challoner, are we not,--Barby and the greyhounds and I?--oh, quite a
happy family!" And she gave a short laugh, very much the reverse of
merriment.
Phillis began to feel that it was time to go.
"Well, how does the dressmaking progress?" asked her hostess,
suddenly. "Miss Middleton tells me the Challoner fit is quite the rage
in Hadleigh."
"We have more orders than we can execute," returned Phillis, curtly.
"Humph! that sounds promising. I hope your mother is careful of you,
and forbids any expenditure of midnight oil, or you will be reduced to
a thread-paper. As I have told you you are not the same girl that you
were when you came to the relief of my injured ankle."
"I feel tolerably substantial, thank you," returned Phillis,
ungraciously, for, in common with other girls, she hated to be pitied
for her looks, and she had a notion that Mrs. Cheyne only said this to
plague her. "Nan is our head and task mistress. We lead regular lives,
have stated hours for work, take plenty of exercise and on the whole,
are doing as well as possible."
"There speaks the Challoner spirit."
"Oh, yes; that never fails us. But now Nan will be waiting for me, and
I only called just to inquire after you."
"And you did not expect to see me. Well, come again when I am in a
better humor for conversation. If you stay longer now I might not be
sparing of my sarcasms. By the by, what has become of our young vicar?
Tell him he has not converted me yet, and I quite miss his pastoral
visits. Do you know," looking so keenly at Phillis that she blushed
with annoyance, "a little bird tells me that our pastor has undertaken
the supervision of the Friary. Which is it, my dear, that he is trying
to convert?"
The tone and manner were intolerable to Phillis.
"I don't understand you, Mrs. Cheyne," she returned, with superb
youthful haughtiness. "Mr. Drummond is a kind neighbor, and so is Miss
Mattie. You may keep these insinuations for him, if you will." Then
she would have escaped without another glance at her tormentor, but
Mrs. Cheyne detained her:
"There, never mind. I will take back my naughty speech. It was rude
and impertinent of me, I know that. But I like you all the better for
your spirit; and, my dear, take care of yourself and your pretty
sisters, for he is not worthy of one of you."
"Oh, Mrs. Cheyne! for shame!" And Phillis's gray eyes sparkled with
lively indignation.
"He is a very ordinary good young man; and you and your sisters are
real metal, and worth your weight in gold. There! go away, child; and
come and see me again, for it does me good to torment you!" And the
singular woman drew the girl into her arms suddenly and kissed her
forehead, and then pushed her away. "To-morrow, or the next day, but
not to-night," she said, hurriedly. "I should make you cross fifty
times if you stay longer to-night." And Phillis was too thankful to be
released to linger any longer; but her cheeks were burning as she
walked down the avenue.
"Why do people always put these things into girls' heads?" she said to
herself. "A young man cannot come into the house, cannot say pleasant
words, or do kind neighborly actions, but one must at once attribute
motives of this kind. I have not been free from blame myself in this
matter, for I have feared more than once that Nan's sweet face
attracted him,--poor Mr. Drummond! I hope not, for he would not have a
chance against Dick. I wonder if I ought to say a word?--if it would
be premature or unnecessary? But I should hate him to be
unhappy,"--here Phillis sighed, and then threw up her head proudly: "I
might say just a word, mentioning Dick,--for he does not know of his
existence. I wonder if he would take the hint. I could do it very
cleverly, I know. I hate to see people burning their fingers for
nothing: I always want to go to their rescue. He is tiresome, but he
is very nice. And, heigh-ho! what a crooked world we live in!--nothing
goes quite straight in it." And Phillis sighed again.
"Miss Challoner!" The voice sounded so near her that Phillis gave a
great start. She had nearly reached the gate, and there was Mr. Dancy
walking beside her, just as though he had emerged from the ground; and
yet Phillis had not heard a sound. "Have I startled you?" he
continued, gravely. "You were in such a brown study that I had to call
you by your name to rouse you. There is nothing wrong at the White
House, I hope?"
"Oh, no! Mrs. Cheyne is better: her nervous attack has quite passed
off."
"Magdalene suffering from a nervous attack?" and then Mr. Dancy
stopped, and bit his lip. "Excuse me, I knew her before she was
married, when she was Magdalene Davenport--before she and poor Herbert
Cheyne unfortunately came together. I doubt whether things have not
happened for the best; there!--I mean," as Phillis looked at him in
some perplexity, "that there is little fear of her being an
inconsolable widow."
"How can you say such a thing!" returned Phillis, indignantly. "That
is the way with you men, you judge so harshly of women. Mrs. Cheyne is
singular in her ways. She wears no mourning, and yet a more unhappy
creature never existed on this earth. Not inconsolable!--and yet no
one dares to speak a word of comfort to her, so great is her misery."
"Excuse me one moment: I have been ill, and am still subject to fits
of giddiness. A mere vertigo; nothing more." But he said the words
gasping for breath, and looked so deadly pale that Phillis felt quite
frightened as she stood beside him.
They had been walking a few steps down the Braidwood Road, and Phillis
had looked out anxiously for Nan, who had not yet appeared in sight.
But now Mr. Dancy had come to an abrupt pause, and was leaning for
support against the low wall that shut in the grounds of the White
House. Phillis looked at him a little curiously, in spite of her
sympathy. He still wore his loose cloak, though the evening was warm;
but he had loosened it, and taken off his felt hat for air.
In figure he was a tall, powerful-looking man, only thin and almost
emaciated, as though from recent illness. His features were handsome,
but singularly bronzed and weather-beaten, as though from constant
exposure to sun and wind; and even the blue spectacles could not hide
a pair of keen blue eyes. By daylight Phillis could see that his brown
beard and moustache were tinged with gray, and the hair on the temples
was almost white; and yet he seemed still in the prime of life. It was
a far handsomer face than Archie Drummond's; but the deep lines and
gray hair spoke of trouble more than age, and one thing especially
impressed Phillis,--the face was as refined as the voice.
If Mr. Dancy were aware of her close scrutiny, he took no notice of
it. He leaned his arm against the wall and rested his head against it;
and the thin brown hand was plainly visible, with a deep-red scar just
above the wrist.
As Phillis had regarded it with sudden horror, wondering what had
inflicted it, he suddenly aroused himself with an apology:
"There! it has passed: it never lasts long. Shall we walk on? I am so
ashamed of detaining you in this way; but when a man has had a
sunstroke----"
"Oh, that is sad!" returned Phillis, in a sympathizing voice. "Is that
why you keep in-doors so much in the daylight? at least"--correcting
herself in haste, for she had spoken without thought--"one never sees
you about," which was a foolish speech, and showed she took notice of
his movements; but she could not betray Mr. Drummond.
"Some one else only comes out in the evening," he rejoined, rather
pointedly. "Who told you I kept in-doors in the daylight? Oh, I know!"
the frown passing from his face, for he had spoken quickly and in
annoyed fashion. "This sounds like a parson's prating: I know the
language of old. By the bye, did you set the clergy on my track?"
turning the blue spectacles full on the embarrassed Phillis.
"I?--no indeed!" and then she went on frankly: "Mr. Drummond was at
our house, and he told us that he always called on Mrs. Williams's
lodgers."
"True, Miss Challoner; but how did his reverence know Mrs. Williams
had a lodger?"
This was awkward, but Phillis steered her way through the difficulty
with her usual dexterity.
"I mentioned to my mother that you were kind enough to see me home,
and she repeated the fact to Mr. Drummond."
"Thank you, Miss Challanor; now I understand. I wonder if your mother
would be very shocked if a stranger intruded upon her? but you and I
must have some more conversation together, and I do not see how it is
to be managed in accordance with what you ladies call _les
convenances_."
"My mother----" began Phillis, demurely; and then she paused, and
looked up at him in astonishment, "What, Mr. Dancy! you purpose to
call on my mother, and yet you refused Mr. Drummond's visit?" for the
news of Archie's defeat had already reached the Friary through Miss
Mattie.
Mr. Dancy seemed rather nonplussed at this, and then he laughed:
"Ah, you are shrewd, Miss Challoner; there is no deceiving you! I have
seen Mr. Drummond pass and repass often enough; and--pardon me, if he
be a friend--I thought from the cut of his coat that he was prig, and
I have a horror of clerical prigs."
"He is not priggish in the least," was Phillis's annoyed rejoinder.
"No? Well, appearances are sometimes deceptive: perhaps I was too
hasty in my dread of being bored. But here comes your sister, I
think,--at least, I have seen you together: so I am leaving you in
good hands." And, before Phillis could reply, he had lifted his hat
and turned away, just as Nan, whose vigilant eyes were upon him, was
hurrying to join her sister.
"Oh, Phillis, was that Mr. Dancy?" she asked, in a reproachful voice,
as she hurried up to her.
"Yes, Nannie, it was Mr. Dancy," returned Phillis, composedly; "and I
wish I could have introduced him to you, for I believe he is coming to
call on mother." And, when she had related this astounding piece of
intelligence, she looked in Nan's face and laughed, and, in high good
humor, proceeded to relate their conversation.