Part 43 (1/2)
”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 pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 a.s.surance 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 impa.s.sive 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 const.i.tuted, 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 embarra.s.sing. 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.”