"THIS IS LIFE AND DEATH TO ME."
Phillis found it difficult during the next few days to reconcile
divided sympathies; a nice adjustment of conflicting feelings seemed
almost impossible. Nan was so simply, so transparently happy, that no
sister worthy of the name could refuse to rejoice with her: a creature
so brimming over with gladness, with contented love, was certain to
reflect heart-sunshine. On the other hand, there was Mr. Drummond! To
be glad and sorry in a breath was as provoking to a feeling woman as
the traveller's blowing hot and cold was to the satyr in the fable.
In trying to preserve an even balance Phillis became decidedly cross.
She was one who liked a clear temperature,--neither torrid nor frigid.
Too much susceptibility gave her an east-windy feeling; to be always
at the fever-point of sympathy with one's fellow-creatures would not
have suited her at all.
Nan, who possessed more sweetness of temper than keenness of
psychological insight, could not understand what had come to Phillis.
She was absent, a trifle sad, and yet full of retort. At times she
seemed to brim over with a wordy wisdom that made no sort of
impression.
One evening, as they were retiring to bed, Nan beckoned her into her
little room, and shut the door. Then she placed a seat invitingly by
the open window, which was pleasantly framed by jasmine; and then she
took hold of Phillis's shoulders in a persuasive manner.
"Now, dear," she said, coaxingly, "you shall just tell me all about
it."
Phillis looked up, a little startled. Then, as she met Nan's gentle,
penetrative glance, she presented a sudden blank of non-comprehension,
most telling on such occasions, and yawned slightly.
"What do you mean, Nannie?" in a somewhat bored tone.
"Come, dear, tell me," continued Nan, with cheerful pertinacity. "You
are never dull or touchy without some good reason. What has been the
matter the last few days? Are you vexed or disappointed about
anything? Are you sure--quite sure you are pleased about Dick?"--the
idea occurring to her suddenly that Phillis might not approve of their
imprudent engagement.
"Oh, Nannie, how absurd you are!" returned Phillis, pettishly. "Have I
not told you a dozen times since Wednesday how delighted I am that you
have come to an understanding? Have I not sounded his praises until I
was hoarse? Why, if I had been in love with Dick myself I could not
have talked about him more."
"Yes, I know you have been very good, dear; but still I felt there was
something."
"Oh, dear, no!" returned Phillis decidedly, and her voice was a little
hard. "The fact is, you are in the seventh heaven yourself, and you
expect us to be there too. Not that I wonder at you, Nannie, because
Dick--dear old fellow--is ever so nice."
She threw in this last clause not without intention, and of course the
tempting bait took at once.
"I never knew any one half so good," replied Nan, in a calmly
satisfied tone. "You have hinted once or twice, Phil, that you thought
him rather too young,--that our being the same age was a pity; but--do
you know?--in Dick's case it does not matter in the least. No man
double his age could have made his meaning more plain, or have spoken
better to the purpose. He is so strong and self-reliant and manly: and
with all his fun, he is so unselfish."
"He will make you a very good husband, Nan; I am sure of that."
"I think he will," returned Nan, with a far-away look in her eyes.
She was recalling Dick's speech about the nest that he wanted to make
cosey for some one. "Phil, dear," she went on, after this blissful
pause, "I wish you had a Dick too."
"Good Gracious, Nannie!"
"I mean--you know what I mean,--some one to whom you are first, and
who has a right to care for you; it gives such a meaning to one's
life. Of course it will come in time; no one can look at you and not
prophesy a happy future: it is only I who am impatient and want it to
come soon."
Phillis wrinkled her brows thoughtfully over this speech: she seemed
inclined to digest and assimilate it.
"I dare say you are right," she replied, after a pause. "Yes it would
be nice, no doubt."
"When the real _he_ comes, you will find how nice it is," rejoined
Nan, with sympathetic readiness. "Do you know, Phil, the idea has once
or twice occurred to me that Mr. Drummond comes rather often!" But
here Phillis shook off her hand and started from her chair.
"There is a moth singing its wings. Poor wee beastie! let me save it,
if it be not too late." And she chased the insect most patiently until
the blue-gray wings fluttered into her hand.
"There, I have saved him from utter destruction!" she cried
triumphantly, leaning out into the darkness. "He has scorched himself,
that is all;" then as she walked back to her sister, her head was
erect, and there was a beautiful earnest look upon her face.
"Nannie, I don't want to find fault with you, but don't you remember
how we used to pride ourselves, in the dear old days, in not being
like other girls,--the Paines, for example, or even Adelaide Sartoris,
who used to gossip so much about young men."
Nan opened her eyes widely at this, but made no answer.
"We must not be different now, because our life is narrower and more
monotonous. I know, talking so much over our work, we have terrible
temptations to gossip; but I can't bear to think that we should ever
lower our standard, ever degenerate into the feeble girlishness we
abhor. We never used to talk about young men, Nan, except Dick; and
that did not matter. Of course we liked them in their places, and had
plenty of fun, and tormented them a little; but you never made such a
speech as that at Glen Cottage."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! What have I done?" exclaimed Nan, much distressed
at this rebuke. "I do think you are right, Phil; and it was naughty of
me to put such a thing into your head."
"You have put no idea into my head," replied Phillis, with crisp
obstinacy. "There! I am only moralizing for my own good, as well as
yours. Small beginnings make great endings. If we once began to
gossip, we might end by flirting; and, Nan, if you knew how I hate
that sort of thing!" And Phillis looked grand and scornful.
"Yes, dear; and I know you are right," returned Nan, humbly. She was
not quite sure what she had done to provoke this outburst of high
moral feeling: but she felt that Phillis was dreadfully in earnest.
They kissed each other rather solemnly after that, and Phillis was
suffered to depart in silence.
That night there was no wistful little prayer that Mr. Drummond might
be comforted: Phillis had too many petitions to offer up on her own
account. She was accusing herself of pride, and Pharisaism, and
hypocrisy, in no measured terms. "Not like other girls! I am
worse,--worse," she said to herself. And then, among other things, she
asked for the gift of content,--for a quiet, satisfied spirit, not
craving or embittered,--strength to bear her own and her friends'
troubles, and far-looking faith to discern "God's perfectness round
our uncompleteness,--round our restlessness His rest."
The following evening, as Phillis was sorting out patterns in the
work-room, a note was brought to her from the White House. It was in
Mrs. Cheyne's handwriting, and, like herself, strangely abrupt.
"Your visits are like angels' visits,--extremely rare," it began. "I
am afraid I have frightened you away, as I have frightened the parson.
I thought you had more wit than he to discern between mannerism and
downright ill-humor. This evening the temperature is equable,--not the
sign of a brooding cloud: so put on your hat, like a good girl, and
come over. Miss Mewlstone and I will be prepared to welcome you."
"You had better go," observed Nan, who had read the note over her
sister's shoulder: "you have worked so dreadfully hard all day, and it
will be a little change."
"No one cares for east winds as a change," replied Phillis, dryly;
nevertheless, she made up her mind that she would go. She was
beginning to dread being summoned to the White House: she felt that
Mrs. Cheyne alternately fascinated and repelled her. She was growing
fond of Miss Mewlstone; but then, on these occasions, she had so
little intercourse with her. The charitable instinct that was always
ready to be kindled in Phillis's nature prompted her to pay these
visits; and yet she always went reluctantly.
She had two encounters on the road, both of which she had foreseen
with nice presentiment.
The first was with Mr. Drummond.
He was walking along slowly, with his eyes on the ground. A sort of
flush came to his face when he saw Phillis; and then he stopped, and
shook hands, and asked after them all comprehensively, yet with
constraint in his voice. Phillis told him rather hurriedly that she
was going to the White House: Mrs. Cheyne had sent for her.
Archie smiled:
"I am glad she does not send for me. I have not been there for a long
time. Sarcasm is not an attractive form of welcome. It slams the door
in a man's face. I hope you will not get some hard hits, Miss
Challoner." And then he went on his way.
As she approached Mrs. Williams's cottage, Mr. Dancy was, as usual,
leaning against the little gate. He stepped out in the road, and
accosted her.
"I have not called on your mother," he began, rather abruptly. "After
all, I thought it best not to trouble her just now. Can you spare me a
few minutes? or are you going in there?" looking towards the White
House.
"I am rather in a hurry," returned Phillis, surprised at his manner,
it seemed so agitated. "I am already late, and Mrs. Cheyne will be
expecting me."
"Very well: another time," he replied, stepping back without further
ceremony; but until Phillis's figure disappeared in the trees he
watched her, leaning still upon the little gate.
Mrs. Cheyne received her with a frosty smile; but, on the whole, her
manner was more gracious than usual, and by and by it thawed
completely.
She was a little captious at first, it was true, and she snubbed poor
Miss Mewlstone decidedly once or twice,--but then Miss Mewlstone was
used to being snubbed,--but with Phillis she was sparing of sarcasms.
After a time she began to look kindly at the girl; then she bade her
talk, rather peremptorily, because she liked her voice and found it
pleasant to listen to her; and by and by Phillis grew more at her
ease, and her girlish talk rippled on as smoothly as possible.
Mrs. Cheyne's face softened and grew strangely handsome as she
listened: she was drawing Phillis out,--leading her to speak of the
old life, and of all their youthful sources of happiness. Then she
fell into a retrospect of her own young days, when she was a spoiled
madcap girl and had all sorts of daring adventures.
Phillis was quite fascinated; she was even disappointed when Miss
Mewlstone pointed out the lateness of the hour.
"I have enjoyed myself so much," she said, as she put on her hat.
"I meant you to enjoy yourself," returned Mrs. Cheyne, quietly, as she
drew the girl's face down to hers. "I have given you such a bad
impression that you look on me as a sort of moral bugbear. I can be
very different, when I like, and I have liked to be agreeable
to-night." And then this strange woman took up a rich cashmere shawl
from the couch where she was lying, and folded it around Phillis's
shoulders. "The evenings are chilly. Jeffreys can bring this back with
her;" for Mrs. Cheyne had already decided that this time her maid
should accompany Phillis to the cottage.
Phillis laughed in an amused fashion as she saw the reflection of
herself in one of the mirrors: her figure looked quite queenly
enveloped in the regal drapery. "She has forgotten all about the
dressmaking," she thought to herself, as she tripped downstairs.
It was a lovely moonlight evening; the avenue was white and glistening
in the soft light; the trees cast weird shadows on the grass. Phillis
was somewhat surprised to see in the distance Mr. Dancy's tall figure
pacing to and fro before the lodge-gate. He was evidently waiting for
her; for as she approached he threw away his cigar and joined her at
once. Jeffreys, who thought he was some old acquaintance, dropped
behind very discreetly, after the manner of waiting-women.
"How long you have stayed this evening! I have been walking up and
down for more than an hour, watching for you," he began, with curious
abruptness.
This and no more did Jeffreys hear before she lingered out of earshot.
The lady's maid thought she perceived an interesting situation, and
being of a susceptible and sympathetic temperament, with a blighted
attachment of her own, there was no fear of her intruding. Phillis
looked around once, but Jeffreys was absorbed in her contemplations of
the clouds.
"I thought you were never coming," he continued; and then he stopped
all at once, and caught hold of the fringe of the shawl. "This is not
yours: I am sure I have seen Magdalene in it. Pshaw! what am I saying?
the force of old habit. I knew her once as Magdalene."
"It is dreadfully heavy, and, after all, the evening is so warm,"
returned Phillis, taking no notice of this incoherent speech.
"Let me carry it," he rejoined, with singular eagerness; "it is
absurd, a wrap like that on such a night." And, while Phillis
hesitated, he drew the shawl from her shoulders and hung it over his
arm, and all the way his disengaged right hand rested on the folds,
touching it softly from time to time, as though the mere feeling of
the texture pleased him.
"How was she to-night?" he asked, coming a little closer to Phillis,
and dropping his voice as he spoke.
"Who?--Mrs. Cheyne? Oh, she was charming! just a little cold and
captious at first, but that is her way. But this evening she was bent
on fascinating me, and she quite succeeded; she looked ill, though,
but very, very beautiful."
"She never goes out. I cannot catch a glimpse of her," he returned,
hurriedly. "Miss Challoner, I am going to startle--shock you, perhaps;
but I have thought about it all until my head is dizzy, and there is
no other way. Please give me your attention a moment," for Phillis,
with a vague sense of uneasiness, had looked around for Jeffreys. "I
must see you alone: I must speak to you where we shall not be
interrupted. To call on your mother will be no good; you and only you
can help me. And you are so strong and merciful--I can read that in
your eyes--that I am sure of your sympathy, if you will only give me a
hearing."
"Mr. Dancy! oh, what can you mean?" exclaimed Phillis. She was
dreadfully frightened at his earnestness, but her voice was dignified,
and she drew herself away with a movement full of pride and _hauteur_.
"You are a stranger to me; you have no right----"
"The good Samaritan was a stranger too. Have you forgotten that?" he
returned, in a voice of grave rebuke. "Oh, you are a girl; you are
thinking of your mother! I have shocked your sense of propriety, my
child; for you seem a child to me, who have lived and suffered so
much. Would you hesitate an instant if some poor famishing wretch were
to ask you for food or water? Well, I am that poor wretch. What I have
to tell you is a matter of life and death to me. Only a woman--only
you--can help me; and you shrink because we have not had a proper
introduction. My dear young lady, you have nothing to fear from me. I
am unfortunate, but a gentleman,--a married man, if that will satisfy
your scruples----"
"But my mother," faltered Phillis, not knowing what to say to this
unfortunate stranger, who terrified and yet attracted her by turns.
Never had she heard a human voice so persuasive, and yet so agonized
in its intensity. A conviction of the truth of his words seized upon
her as she listened,--that he was unhappy, that he needed her sympathy
for some purpose of his own, and yet that she herself had nothing to
do with his purpose. But what would Nan say if she consented--if she
acceded to such an extraordinary proposition--to appoint a meeting
with a stranger?
"It is life and death to me; remember that!" continued Mr. Dancy, in
that low, suppressed voice of agitation. "If you refuse on the score
of mere girlish propriety, you will regret it. I am sure of that.
Trust to your own brave heart, and let it answer for you. Will you
refuse this trifling act of mercy,--just to let me speak to you alone,
and tell you my story? When you have heard that, you will take things
into your own hands."
Phillis hesitated, and grew pale with anxiety; but the instincts of
her nature were stronger than her prudence. From the first she had
believed in this man, and felt interested in him and his mysterious
surroundings. "One may be deceived in a face, but never in a voice,"
she had said, in her pretty dictatorial way; and now this voice was
winning her over to his side.
"It is not right; but what can I do? You say I can help you."--And
then she paused. "To-morrow morning I have to take some work to Rock
Building. I shall not be long. But I could go on the beach for half an
hour. Nan would spare me. I might hear your story then."
She spoke rapidly, and rather ungraciously, as though she were
dispensing largess to a troublesome mendicant; but Mr. Dancy's answer
was humble in its intense gratitude.
"God bless you! I knew your kind heart was to be trusted There! I will
not come any farther. Good-night; good-night, a thousand thanks!" And,
before Phillis could reply, this strange being had left her side, and
was laying the cashmere shawl in Jeffreys's arms slowly and tenderly,
as though it were a child.
Phillis was glad that Dulce opened the door to her that night, for she
was afraid of Nan's questioning glance. Nan was tired, and had retired
early; and, as Dulce was sleepy too, Phillis was now left in peace.
She passed the night restlessly, walking up at all sorts of untimely
hours, her conscience pricking her into wakefulness. To her
well-ordered nature there was something terrifying in the thought that
she should be forced to take such a step.
"Oh, what would mother and Nan say?" was her one cry.
"I know I am dreadfully impulsive and imprudent, but Nan would think I
am not to be trusted;" but she had passed her word, and nothing now
would have induced her to swerve from it.
She ate her breakfast silently, and with a sense of oppression and
guilt quite new to her. She grew inwardly hot whenever Nan looked at
her, which she did continually and with the utmost affection. Before
the meal was over, however, Miss Middleton and Mattie made their
appearance, and in the slight bustle of entrance Phillis managed to
effect her escape.
The hour that followed bore the unreality of a nightmare. Outwardly,
Phillis was the grave, business-like dressmaker. The lady who had sent
for her, and who was a stranger to Hadleigh, was much struck with her
quiet self-possessed manners and lady-like demeanor.
"Her voice was quite refined," she said afterwards to her daughter.
"And she had such a nice face and beautiful figure. I am sure she is a
reduced gentlewoman, for her accent was perfect. I am quite obliged to
Miss Milner for recommending us such a person, for she evidently
understands her business. One thing I noticed, Ada,--the way in which
she quietly laid down the parcel, and said it should be fetched
presently. Any ordinary dressmaker in a small town like this would
have carried it home herself."
Poor Phillis! she had laid down the parcel and drawn on her
well-fitting gloves with a curious sinking at her heart: from the
window of the house in Rock Building she could distinctly see Mr.
Dancy walking up and down the narrow plat of grass before the houses,
behind the tamarisk hedge, his foreign-looking cloak and slouch hat
making him conspicuous.
"There is that queer-looking man again, mamma," exclaimed one of the
young ladies, who was seated in the window. "I am sure he is some
distinguished foreigner, he has such an air with him."
Phillis listened to no more, but hurried down the stairs and then
prepared to cross the green with some degree of trepidation. She was
half afraid that Mr. Dancy would join her at once, in the full view of
curious eyes; but he knew better. He sauntered on slowly until she had
reached the Parade and was going towards a part of the beach where
there was only a knot of children wading knee-deep in the water,
sailing a toy-boat. She stood and watched them dreamily, until the
voice she expected sounded in her ear:
"True as steel! Ah, I was never deceived in a face yet. Where shall we
sit, Miss Challoner? Yes, this is a quiet corner, and the children
will not disturb us. Look at that urchin, with his bare brown legs and
curly head: is he not a study? Ah, if he had lived--my----" And then
he sighed, and threw himself on the beach.
"Well," observed Phillis, interrogatively. She was inclined to be
short with him this morning. She had kept her word, and put herself
into this annoying position; but there must be no hesitation, no
beating about the bush, no loss of precious time. The story she had
now to hear must be told, and with out delay.
Mr. Dancy raised his eyes as he heard the tone, and then he took off
his spectacles as though he felt them an incumbrance. Phillis had a
very good view of a pair of handsome eyes, with a lurking gleam of
humor in them, which speedily died away into sadness.
"You are in a hurry; but I was thinking how I could best begin without
startling you. But I may as well get it out without any prelude. Miss
Challoner, to Mrs. Williams I am only Mr. Dancy; but my real name is
Herbert Dancy Cheyne."