The longest week must have an end; and so at last the eventful Monday morning arrived,—“Black Monday,” as Dulce called it, and then sighed as she looked out on the sunshine and the waving trees, and thought how delicious a long walk or a game of tennis would be, instead of stitch, stitch, stitching all day. But Dulce was an unselfish little soul, and kept all these thoughts to herself, and dressed herself quickly; for she had overslept herself, and Phillis had long been downstairs.

Nan was locking up the tea-caddy as she entered the parlor, and Phillis was standing by the table, drawing on her gloves, and her lips were twitching a little,—a way they had when Phillis was nervous.

Nan went up and kissed her, and gave her an encouraging pat.

“This is for luck, my dear; and mind you make the best of poor Miss Milner’s dumpy, roundabout little figure. There I have put the body-lining, and the measuring-tape, and a paper of pins in this little black bag; and I have not forgotten the scissors,—oh, dear, no! I have not forgotten the scissors,” went on Nan, with such surprising cheerfulness that Phillis saw through it, and was down on her in a moment.

“No, Nan; there! I declare I will not be such a goose. I am not nervous,—not one bit; it is pure fun, that’s what it is. Dulce, what a naughty child you are to oversleep yourself this morning, and I had not the heart to wake you, you looked so like a baby: and we never wake babies because they are sure to squall!”

“Oh, Phil, are you going to Miss Milner’s? I would have walked with you if I had had my breakfast; but I am so hungry.”

“I could not possibly wait,” returned Phillis; “punctuality is one of the first duties of—hem!—dressmakers; all orders executed promptly, and promises performed with undeviating regularity: those are my maxims. Eat a good breakfast, and then see if mammy wants any help, for Nan must be ready for me at the work-table, for she is our head cutter-out.” And then Phillis nodded briskly, and walked away.

By a singular chance, Mr. Drummond was watering his ferns in the front court as Phillis passed, and in spite of her reluctance, for somehow he was the last person she wanted to encounter that day, she was obliged to wish him good-morning.

“Good-morning! Yes, indeed, it is a glorious morning,” 163 observed Archie, brightly. “And may I ask where you are going so early?”

“Only to the Library,” returned Phillis, laconically; but the color mounted to her forehead. “We begin business to-day.”

And then Archie took up his watering-pot and refrained from any more questions. It was absurd, perhaps, but at the moment he had forgotten, and the remembrance was not pleasing.

Phillis felt quite brave after this, and walked into the Library as though the place belonged to her. When it came to details, Miss Milner was far more nervous than she.

She would keep apologizing to Phillis for making her stand so long, and she wanted to hold the pins and to pick up the scissors that Phillis had dropped; and when the young dressmaker consulted her about the trimmings, she was far too humble to intrude her opinions.

“Anything you think best, Miss Challoner, for you have such beautiful taste as never was seen; and I am sure the way you have fitted that body-lining is just wonderful, and would be a lesson to Miss Slasher for life. No, don’t put the pins in your mouth, there’s a dear.”

For, in her intense zeal, Phillis had thought herself bound to follow the manner of Mrs. Sloper, the village factotum, and she always did so, though Nan afterwards assured her that it was not necessary, and that in this particular they might be allowed to deviate from example.

But she was quite proud of herself when she had finished, for the material seemed to mould under her fingers in the most marvellous way, and she knew the fit would be perfect. She wanted to rush off at once and set to work with Nan; but Miss Milner would not let her off so easily. There was orange wine and seed-cake of her own making in the back parlor, and she had just one question—a very little question—to ask. And here Miss Milner coughed a little behind her hand to gain time and recover her courage.

“The little papers were about the shop, and Mrs. Trimmings saw one, and—and––” Here Phillis came promptly to her relief.

“And Mrs. Trimmings wants to order a dress, does she?” And Phillis bravely kept down the sudden sinking of heart at the news.

Mrs. Trimmings was the butcher’s wife,—the sister of that very Mrs. Squails of whom Dulce once made mention,—well known to be the dressiest woman in Hadleigh, who was much given to imitate her betters. The newest fashions, the best materials, were always to be found on Mrs. Trimmings’s portly figure.

“What could I do?” observed Miss Milner, apologetically: “the papers were about the shop, and what does the woman do but take one up? ‘I wonder what sort of dressmakers these are?’ she said, careless-like; ‘there is my new blue silk that 164 Andrew brought himself from London and paid five-and-sixpence a yard for in St. Paul’s Churchyard; and I daren’t let Miss Slasher have it, for she made such a mess of that French merino. She had to let it out at every seam before I could get into it, and it is so tight for me now that I shall be obliged to cut it up for Mary Anne. I wonder if I dare try these new people?”

“And what did you say, Miss Milner?”

“What could I do then, my dear young lady, but speak up and say the best I could for you? for though Mrs. Trimmings is not high,—not one of the gentry, I mean,—and has a rough tongue sometimes, still she knows what good stuff and good cutting-out means, and a word from her might do you a power of good among the townfolks, for her gowns are always after the best patterns.”

“All right!” returned Phillis, cheerfully: “one must creep before one runs, and, until the gentry employ us, we ought to think ourselves fortunate to work for the townpeople. I am not a bit above making a dress for Mrs. Trimmings, though I would rather make one for you, Miss Milner, because you have been so kind to us.”

“There, now! didn’t I say there never were such young ladies!” exclaimed Miss Milner, quite affected at this. “Well, if you are sure you don’t mind, Miss Challoner dear, will you please go to Mrs. Trimmings’s this morning? for though I told her my dress was to be finished first, still Trimmings’s isn’t a stone’s-throw from here; and you may as well settle a thing when you are about it.”

“And I will take the silk, Miss Milner, if you will kindly let me have a nice piece of brown paper.”

“Indeed and you will do no such thing, Miss Challoner; and there is Joseph going down with the papers to Mr. Drummond’s, and will leave it at the Friary as he passes.”

“Oh, thank you,” observed Phillis, gratefully. “Then I will pencil a word to my sister, to let her know why I am detained.” And she scrawled a line to Nan:

“Trimmings, not Squails: here beginneth the first chapter. Expect me when you see me, and do nothing until I come.”

There was no side-door at Trimmings’s, and Mrs. Trimmings was at the desk, jotting down legs of mutton, and entries of gravy-beef and suet, with a rapidity that would have tried the brain of any other woman than a butcher’s wife.

When Phillis approached, she looked up at her suavely, expecting custom.

“Just half a moment, ma’am,” she said, civilly. “Yes, Joe, wing-rib and half of suet to Mrs. Penfold, and a loin of lamb and sweet-bread for No. 12, Albert Terrace. Now, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

“I have only come about your dress, Mrs. Trimmings,” returned Phillis, in a very small voice; and then she tried not to laugh, as Mrs. Trimmings regarded her with a broad stare of 165 astonishment, which took her in comprehensively, hat, dress, and neat dogskin gloves.

“You might have taken up my pen and knocked me down with it,” was Mrs. Trimmings’s graphic description of her feelings afterwards, as she carved a remarkably fine loin of veal, with a knuckle of ham and some kidney-beans to go with it. “There was the colonel standing by the desk, Andrew; and he turned right round and looked at us both. ‘I’ve come about your dress, Mrs. Trimmings,’ she said, as pertlike as possible. Law, I thought I should have dropped, I was that taken aback.”

Phillis’s feelings were none of the pleasantest when Colonel Middleton turned round and looked at her. There was an expression almost of sorrow in the old man’s eyes, as he so regarded her, which made her feel hot and uncomfortable. It was a relief when Mrs. Trimmings roused from her stupefaction and bustled out of the desk.

“This way, miss,” she said, with a jerk of her comely head. But her tone changed a little, and became at once sharp and familiar. “I hope you understand your business, for I never could abide waste; and the way Miss Slasher cut into that gray merino,—and it only just meets, so to say,—and the breadths are as scanty as possible; and it would go to my heart to have a beautiful piece of silk spoiled, flve-and-sixpence a yard, and not a flaw in it.”

“If I thought I should spoil your dress I would not undertake it,” returned Phillis, gently. She felt she must keep herself perfectly quiet with this sort of people. “My sister and I have just made up some very pretty silk and cashmere costumes, and they fitted as perfectly as possible.”

“Oh, indeed!” observed Mrs. Trimmings, in a patronizing tone. She had no idea that the costumes of which Phillis spoke had been worn by the young dressmakers at one of Lady Fitzroy’s afternoon parties. She was not quite at her ease with Phillis; she thought her a little high-and-mighty in her manner. “A uppish young person,” as she said afterwards; “but her grand airs made no sort of difference to me, I can assure you.”

There was no holding pins or picking up scissors in this case. On the contrary, Mrs. Trimmings watched with a vigilant eye, and was ready to pounce on Phillis at the least mistake or oversight, seeing which Phillis grew cooler and more off-hand every moment. There was a great deal of haggling over the cut of the sleeve and arrangement of the drapery. “If you will kindly leave it to me,” Phillis said once; but nothing was further from Mrs. Trimmings’s intention. She had not a silk dress every day. And she had always been accustomed to settle all these points herself, while Miss Slasher had stood by humbly turning over the pages of her fashion-books, and calling her, at every sentence, “Ma’am,” a word that Phillis’s lips had not yet uttered. Phillis’s patience was almost tired out, when she was at last allowed to depart with a large brown-paper parcel under her 166 arm. Mrs. Trimmings would have wrapped it up in newspaper, but Phillis had so curtly refused to have anything but brown paper that her manner rather overawed the woman.

Poor Phillis! Yes, it had really come to pass, and here she was, actually walking through Hadleigh in the busiest time of the day, with a large, ugly-looking parcel and a little black bag! She had thought of sending Dorothy for the dress, but she knew what a trial it would have been to the old woman to see one of her young ladies reduced to this, and she preferred ladening herself to hurting the poor old creature’s feelings. So she walked out bravely in her best style. But nevertheless her shapely neck would turn itself now and then from side to side, as though in dread of some familiar face. And there were little pin-pricks all over her of irritation and mortified self-love. “A thing is all very well in theory, but it may be tough in practice,” she said to herself. And she felt an irresistible desire to return the offending dress to that odious Trimmings and tell her she would have nothing to do with her,—“a disagreeable old cat,” I am afraid Phillis called her, for one is not always charitable and civil-spoken in one’s thoughts.

“We are going the same way. May I carry that formidable-looking parcel for you?” asked a voice that was certainly becoming very familiar.

Poor Phillis started and blushed; but she looked more annoyed than pleased at the rencontre.

“Mr. Drummond, are you omnipresent?—one is forever encountering you!” she said, quite pettishly; but, when Archie only laughed, and tried to obtain possession of the parcel, she resisted, and would have none of his assistance.

“Oh, dear, no!” she said: “I could not think of such a thing! Fancy the vicar of Hadleigh condescending to carry home Mrs. Trimmings’s dress!”

“Mrs. Trimmings’s dress?” repeated Mr. Drummond, in a rapid crescendo. “Oh, Miss Challoner! I declare this beats everything!”

Phillis threw him a glance. She meant it to be cool, but she could not keep the sadness out of her eyes; they did so contradict the assumed lightness of her words:

“Miss Milner was far more considerate: she made Joseph carry hers to the Friary when he left your papers. Was he not a benevolent Joseph? Mrs. Trimmings wanted to wrap up her silk in newspaper; but I said to myself, ‘One must draw the line somewhere;’ and so I held out for brown paper. Do you think you could have offered to carry a parcel in newspaper, Mr. Drummond? Oh, by the bye, how can you condescend to walk with a dressmaker? But this is a quiet road, and no one will see you.”

“Pardon me if I contradict you, but there is Colonel Middleton looking over his garden palings this moment,” returned Mr. Drummond, who had just become painfully aware of the fact. 167

“Don’t you think you had better go and speak to him, then? for you see I am in no need of help,” retorted Phillis, who was sore all over, and wanted to get rid of him, and yet would have been offended if he had taken her at her word. But Mr. Drummond, who felt his position an uncomfortable one, and was dreadfully afraid of the colonel’s banter, was not mean enough to take advantage of her dismissal. He had joined himself to her company out of pure good nature, for it was a hot day and the parcel was heavy, but she would have none of his assistance.

So he only waved his hand to his friend, who took off his old felt hat very solemnly in return, and watched them with a grieved expression until they were out of sight.

“Now I will bid you good-bye,” he said, when they had reached the vicarage.

Phillis said nothing; but she held out her hand, and there was a certain brightness in her eyes that showed she was pleased.

“He is a gentleman, every inch of him; and I won’t quarrel with him any more,” she thought, as she walked up to the Friary. “Oh, how nice it would have been if we were still at Glen Cottage and he could see us at our best, and we were able to entertain him in our old fashion! How Carrie and the other girls would have liked him! and how jealous Dick would have been! for he never liked our bringing strange young men to the house, and always found fault with them if he could,” and here Phillis sighed, and for the moment Mrs. Trimmings was forgotten.