Not Like Other Girls Part 50

"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 pet.i.tions 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 "G.o.d'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 gra.s.s. 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 grat.i.tude.

"G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed the night restlessly, walking up at all sorts of untimely hours, her conscience p.r.i.c.king 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 pa.s.sed her word, and nothing now would have induced her to swerve from it.