Part 43 (2/2)
”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 d.i.c.k. 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 d.i.c.k,--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 pa.s.sed 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.
<script>