Phillis felt rather shy and uncomfortable as she picked her way warily among the rain-pools in the semi-darkness. Her companion was inclined to be silent; most likely he considered her churlish in repelling his civil offers of help: so, to make amends, and set herself at her ease, she began to talk to him with an attempt at her old sprightliness.

“Do you know this neighborhood well, Mr. Dancy? Have you been long at Ivy Cottage?”

“Only a few days; but I know the place well enough,” he responded, quietly. “It depends upon circumstances how long I remain here.”

“Hadleigh is very quiet,” returned Phillis, quickly. “It does not offer many attractions to strangers, unless they have very moderate views of enjoyment. It is select, and the bathing is good, and the country tolerable; but when you have said that, you have said all in its favor.”

“I have always liked the place,” with a checked sigh. “Quiet,—that is what I want, and rest also. I have been rather a wanderer over the face of the earth, and one wants a little breathing-time occasionally, to recruit one’s exhausted energies. I like Ivy Cottage, and I like Mrs. Williams: both suit me for the present. Are you a visitor to Hadleigh,—a mere bird of passage like myself, Miss Challoner?”

“Oh, dear, no: we have come here to live.”

“And—and you are intimate with Mrs. Cheyne?” coming a little closer to her side in the darkness.

“Nothing of the kind,” retorted Phillis: “we are mere acquaintances. I do not feel to know her at all; she is not a person with whom one could get intimate all at once; she is a little difficult. Besides in our position––” And here she pulled herself up suddenly.

“Pardon me,” returned Mr. Dancy, in an interested voice, “perhaps I have no right to inquire, but your words are a little mysterious. Why should you not be intimate with Mrs. Cheyne?”

Phillis grew hot in the darkness. What right had he, a perfect stranger, to question her so closely? And yet, if he were interested in his old friends, perhaps he meant to call at the White House, and then he would hear all about them; and after all, perfect frankness always answered best in the long run. Phillis hesitated so long over her rejoinder that Mr. Dancy said, rather apologetically,— 211

“I see, I have been incautious; but you must not attribute my question to impertinent curiosity. I am anxious to learn all I can about a very old friend, of whom I have long lost sight, and I hoped that you might have been able to satisfy me.”

“Miss Middleton would tell you far more than I.”

“What! Elizabeth Middleton? Oh, no: she is far too much of a saint for me.”

“You know her, too!” exclaimed Phillis, in surprise. “No, I do not think you are curious, Mr. Dancy; it was only a little awkward for me to tell you about our acquaintance with Mrs. Cheyne. My sister and I rendered her a trifling service, and she took a fancy to us, and wished to be friends; but in our present position any close intimacy would be impossible, as we are only dressmakers.”

“Dressmakers!” It is impossible to describe the genuine astonishment, almost dismay, in Mr. Dancy’s voice. “Dressmakers! Pardon me, Miss Challoner, but when one has seen and spoken to a lady like yourself, it is almost incredible.”

This put Phillis on her mettle at once, and in a moment she laid by all her reserve:

“You have been a traveller, Mr. Dancy, and must have seen strange things by this time: it surely cannot be such a matter of surprise that when gentle-people are poor they must work for their bread. When one has ten clever fingers, it is better to use them than to starve. I am not ashamed of my position; my sisters and I are very independent; but, as we do not like to cause other people embarrassment, we prefer to lead hermit lives.”

Phillis’s silvery tones were rather fierce, but it was well that she did not see her companion’s expression of suppressed amusement; there was a little smothered laugh, too, that was turned into a cough.

“Are your sisters young like yourself?” he asked, rather abruptly.

“Oh, yes, we are all much of an age.”

“And you have parents?”

“Only one parent,” she corrected,—“a mother. Ah, here we are at the Friary! Many thanks for your escort, Mr. Dancy.”

“Many thanks for allowing me to escort you,” he returned, pointedly: “after what you have told me, I esteem it an honor, Miss Challoner. No, you have no need to be ashamed of your position; I wish more English ladies would follow such a noble example. Good-night. I trust we shall meet again.” And, lifting his felt hat, he withdrew, just as Nan appeared on the threshold, holding a lamp in her hand.

“You naughty girl, what has kept you so late?” she asked, as Phillis came slowly and meditatively up the flagged path.

“Hush, Nannie! Have they all gone to bed? Let me come into your room and talk to you. Oh, I have had such an evening!” 212 And thereupon she poured into her sister’s astonished ears the recital of her adventure,—the storm, the figure in the shubbery, the scene in the west corridor, the porch at Ivy Cottage, and the arrival of Mrs. Williams’s mysterious lodger.

“Oh, Phillis, I shall never trust you out of my sight again! How can you be so reckless,—so incautious? Mother would be dreadfully shocked if she knew it.”

“Mother must not know a single word: promise, Nan. You know how nervous she is. I will tell her, if you like, that I took refuge from the rain in Mrs. Williams’s porch, and that her lodger walked home with me; but I think it would be better to suppress the scene at the White House.”

Nan thought over this a moment, and then she agreed.

“It would make mother feel uneasy and timid in Mrs. Cheyne’s presence,” she observed. “She never likes that sort of hysterical attacks. We could not make her understand. Poor thing! I hope she is asleep by this time. Shall you go to-morrow, Phil, and ask after her?”

Phillis made a wry face at this, and owned she had had enough adventures to last her for a long time. But she admitted, too, that she would be anxious to know how Mrs. Cheyne would be.

“Yes, I suppose I must go and just ask after her,” she said, as she rose rather wearily and lighted her candle. “There is not the least chance of my seeing her. Good-night, Nannie! Don’t let all this keep you awake; but I do not expect to sleep a wink myself.”

Which dismal prophecy was not fulfilled, as Phillis dropped into a heavy slumber the moment her head touched the pillow.

But her dreams were hardly pleasant. She thought she was walking down the “ghost’s walk,” between the yews and cypresses, with Mr. Dancy, and that in the darkest part he threw off his cloak and felt hat, and showed the grinning skull of a skeleton, while a bony arm tried to seize her. She woke moaning with fright, to find Dulce’s long hair streaming over her face, and the birds singing in the sweet breezy dawn; after which she fell into a dreamless, refreshing sleep.

Phillis had to submit to rather a severe reproof from her mother, in return for her frankness. Mrs. Challoner’s prudery was up in arms the moment she heard of Mrs. Williams’s lodger.

“Mrs. Williams ought to have come with you herself; but a strange man at that time of night!—what would Mr. Drummond have said to you?”

“Whatever Mr. Drummond liked to say!” returned Phillis, pettishly, for this was stroking her already ruffled feelings decidedly the wrong way.

Phillis always turned captious whenever Mr. Drummond was mentioned; but she subsided into meekness again when her 213 mother fell to crying and bemoaning her hard fate and her darlings’ unprotected position.

“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 passed and repassed 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.” 214

“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-fashioned 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 assurance 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-fashioned 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 215 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 impassive 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 constituted, 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 embarrassing. 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.”

“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 216 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 217 more than once that Nan’s sweet face attracted him,—poor Mr. Drummond! I hope not, for he would not have a chance against Dick. 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 Dick,—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 passed 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 218 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.

If Mr. Dancy were aware of her close scrutiny, he took no notice of it. He leaned his arm against the wall and rested his head against it; and the thin brown hand was plainly visible, with a deep-red scar just above the wrist.

As Phillis had regarded it with sudden horror, wondering what had inflicted it, he suddenly aroused himself with an apology:

“There! it has passed: it never lasts long. Shall we walk on? I am so ashamed of detaining you in this way; but when a man has had a sunstroke––”

“Oh, that is sad!” returned Phillis, in a sympathizing voice. “Is that why you keep in-doors so much in the daylight? at least”—correcting herself in haste, for she had spoken without thought—“one never sees you about,” which was a foolish speech, and showed she took notice of his movements; but she could not betray Mr. Drummond.

“Some one else only comes out in the evening,” he rejoined, rather pointedly. “Who told you I kept in-doors in the daylight? Oh, I know!” the frown passing from his face, for he had spoken quickly and in annoyed fashion. “This sounds like a parson’s prating: I know the language of old. By the bye, did you set the clergy on my track?” turning the blue spectacles full on the embarrassed Phillis.

“I?—no indeed!” and then she went on frankly: “Mr. Drummond was at our house, and he told us that he always called on Mrs. Williams’s lodgers.”

“True, Miss Challoner; but how did his reverence know Mrs. Williams had a lodger?”

This was awkward, but Phillis steered her way through the difficulty with her usual dexterity.

“I mentioned to my mother that you were kind enough to see me home, and she repeated the fact to Mr. Drummond.”

“Thank you, Miss Challanor; now I understand. I wonder if your mother would be very shocked if a stranger intruded upon her? but you and I must have some more conversation together, and I do not see how it is to be managed in accordance with what you ladies call les convenances.”

“My mother––” began Phillis, demurely; and then she paused, and looked up at him in astonishment, “What, Mr. Dancy! you purpose to call on my mother, and yet you refused Mr. Drummond’s visit?” for the news of Archie’s defeat had already reached the Friary through Miss Mattie. 219

Mr. Dancy seemed rather nonplussed at this, and then he laughed:

“Ah, you are shrewd, Miss Challoner; there is no deceiving you! I have seen Mr. Drummond pass and repass often enough; and—pardon me, if he be a friend—I thought from the cut of his coat that he was prig, and I have a horror of clerical prigs.”

“He is not priggish in the least,” was Phillis’s annoyed rejoinder.

“No? Well, appearances are sometimes deceptive: perhaps I was too hasty in my dread of being bored. But here comes your sister, I think,—at least, I have seen you together: so I am leaving you in good hands.” And, before Phillis could reply, he had lifted his hat and turned away, just as Nan, whose vigilant eyes were upon him, was hurrying to join her sister.

“Oh, Phillis, was that Mr. Dancy?” she asked, in a reproachful voice, as she hurried up to her.

“Yes, Nannie, it was Mr. Dancy,” returned Phillis, composedly; “and I wish I could have introduced him to you, for I believe he is coming to call on mother.” And, when she had related this astounding piece of intelligence, she looked in Nan’s face and laughed, and, in high good humor, proceeded to relate their conversation.