Phillis kept a sad silence: not for worlds would she have checked the flow of tears that must have been so healing to the tortured brain. Besides, what was there that she, so young and inexperienced, could say in the presence of a grief so terrible, so overpowering? The whole thing was inexplicable to Phillis. Why were the outworks of conventionality so suddenly thrown Mrs. Cheyne started up with an hysterical scream, and caught hold of Phillis. “Come,” she said, almost wildly, “we will not stay here. The children will not come to-night, for who could hear their voices in such a storm? My little angels!—but they shall not see me like this. Come, come!” And, taking the girl by the arm, she almost dragged her from the room, and led the way with rapid and disordered footsteps to a large luxurious chamber, furnished evidently as a dressing-room, and only divided from the sleeping-room by a curtained archway. As Mrs. Cheyne threw herself down in an arm-chair and hid her face in her hands, the curtain was drawn back, and Miss Mewlstone came in with an anxious, almost frightened expression on her good-natured countenance. She hurried up to Mrs. Cheyne and took her in her arms as though she were a child. “Now, Magdalene, now, my dear,” she said, coaxingly, “you will try to be good and command yourself before this young lady. Look at her: she is not a bit afraid of the storm:—are you, Miss Challoner? No, just so; you are far too sensible.” “Oh, that is what you always tell me,” returned Mrs. Cheyne, wrenching herself free with some violence. “Be sensible,—be good,—when I am nearly mad with the oppression and suffocation, here, and here,” pointing to her head and breast. “Commonplaces, commonplaces; as well stop a deluge with a teacup. Oh, you are an old fool, Barby: you will never learn wisdom.” “My poor lamb! Barby never minds one word you say when you are like this.” “Oh, I will beg your pardon to-morrow, or when the thunder stops. Hark! there it is again,” cowering down in her chair. “Can’t you pray for it to cease, Barby? Oh, it is too horrible! Don’t you recollect the night he rode away,—right into the storm, into the very teeth of the storm? ‘Good-bye, Magdalene; who knows when we may meet again?’ and I never looked at him, never kissed him, never broke the silence by one word; and the thunder came, and he was gone,” beating the air with her hands. “Oh, hush, my dear, hush! Let me read to you a little, and the fever will soon pass. You are frightening the poor young lady with your wild talk, and no wonder!” “Pshaw! who minds the girl? Let her go or stop; what do I care? What is the whole world to me, when I am tormented like this? Three years, four years—more than a thousand As Miss Mewlstone paused a moment to wipe the tears that were flowing over her old cheeks, Phillis’s voice came to her relief. “Oh, can you doubt it?” she said, in much agitation. “Dear Mrs. Cheyne, can you have an instant’s doubt? Do you think the dead carry all these paltry earthly feelings into the bright place yonder? Forgive you—oh, there is no need of forgiveness there; he will only be loving you,—he and the children too.” “God bless you!” whispered Miss Mewlstone. “Hush, that is enough! Go, my dear, go, and I will come to you presently. Magdalene, put your poor head down here: I have thought of something that will do you good.” She waved Phillis away almost impatiently, and laid the poor sufferer’s head on her bosom, shielding it from the flashes that darted through the room. Phillis could see her bending over her, and her voice was as tender as though she were soothing a sick infant. Phillis was trembling with agitation as she stole down the dark corridor. Never in her happy young life had she witnessed or imagined such a scene. The wild words, the half-maddened gestures, the look of agony stamped on the pale, almost distorted features, would haunt her for many a day. Oh, how the poor soul must have suffered before she lost self-control and balance like this! It was not the death of her children that had so utterly unnerved her. It must have been that bitter parting with her husband, and the remembrance of angry words never to be atoned for in this life, that was cankering the root of her peace, and that brought about these moods of despair. Phillis thought of Coleridge’s lines,—
as she took refuge in the dim drawing-room. Here, at least, there were signs of human life and occupation. A little tea-table had been set in one window, though the tea was cold. The greyhounds came and laid their slender noses on her gown, and one small Italian one coiled himself up on her lap. Miss Mewlstone’s work-basket stood open, and a tortoise shell kitten had helped itself to a ball of wool and was busily unwinding it. The dogs were evidently frightened at the storm, for they all gathered round Phillis, shivering and whining, as though missing their mistress; and she had much ado to comfort them, though she loved animals and understood their dumb language better than most people. It was not so very long, and yet it seemed hours before Miss Mewlstone came down to her. “Are you here, my dear?” she asked, in a loud whisper, for the room was dark. “Ah, just so. We must have lights, and I must give you a glass of wine or a nice hot cup of coffee.” And, notwithstanding Phillis’s protest that she never took wine and was not in need of anything, Miss Mewlstone rang the bell, and desired the footman to bring in the lamp. “And tell Bishop to send up some nice hot coffee and sandwiches as soon as possible. For young people never know what they want, and you are just worried and tired to death with all you have gone through,—not being an old woman and seasoned to it like me,” went on the good creature, and she patted Phillis’s cheek encouragingly as she spoke. “But how is she? Oh, thank God, the storm has lulled at last!” exclaimed the girl, breathlessly. “Oh, yes; the storm is over. We have reason to dread storms in this house,” returned Miss Mewlstone, gravely. “She was quite exhausted, and let Charlotte and me help her to bed. Now she has had her composing-draught, and Charlotte will sit by her till I go up. I always watch by her all night after one of these attacks.” “Is it a nervous attack?” asked Phillis, timidly, for she felt she was treading on delicate ground. “I believe Dr. Parkes calls it hysteria,” replied Miss Mewlstone, hesitating a little. “Ah, we have sad times with her. You heard what she said, poor dear: she has been sorely tried.” “Was not her husband good to her, then?” “I am sure he meant to be kind,” returned Miss Mewlstone, sorrowfully, “for he loved her dearly; but he was passionate and masterful, and was one that would have his way. As long as it was only courtship, he worshipped the ground she walked upon, as the saying is. But poor Magdalene was not a good wife. She was cold when she ought to have been caressing, stubborn when she might have yielded; and sarcasm never yet healed a wound. Ah, here comes your coffee! Thank you, Evans. Now, my dear, you must just eat and drink, and put some color into those pale cheeks. Scenes like these are not good for young creatures like you. But when Magdalene is in these moods, she would not care if the whole world listened to her. To-morrow she will be herself, and remember and be ashamed; and then you must not mind if she be harder and colder than ever. She will say bitter things all the more, because she is angered at her own want of self-control.” “I can understand that: that is just as I should feel,” returned Phillis, shuddering a little at the idea of encountering Mrs. Cheyne’s keen-edged sarcasms. “She will not like to see me any more; she will think I had no right to witness such a scene.” “It is certainly a pity that I wrote that note,” returned Mrs. Mewlstone, reflectively. “I hoped that you would turn her thoughts, and that we might avert the usual nervous paroxysm. When I opened the door and saw you sitting together so peacefully beside the children’s beds, I expected a milder mood; but it was the thunder. Poor Magdalene! She has never been able to control herself in a storm since the evening Herbert left her, and we went in and found her lying insensible in the library, in the midst of one of the worst storms I have ever witnessed.” “That was when he said those cruel words to her!” ejaculated Phillis. “Yes. Did she repeat them? How often I have begged her to forget them, and to believe that he repented of them before an hour was over! Ah, well! the sting of death lies in this: if she had had one word, one little word, she would be a different woman, in spite of the children’s death. God’s strokes are less cruel than men’s strokes: the reed may be bruised by them, but is not broken. She had a long illness after the children were gone; it was too much,—too much for any woman’s heart to bear. You see, she wanted her husband to comfort her. Dr. Parkes feared for her brain, but we pulled her through. Ah, just so, my dear; we pulled her through!” finished Miss Mewlstone, with a sigh. “Oh, how good you are to her! she is happy to have such a friend!” observed Phillis, enthusiastically. Miss Mewlstone shook her head, and a tear rolled down her face. “Oh, my dear, I am only an old fool, as she said just now. And, after all, the company of a stupid old woman is not much to a proud bonnie creature like that. Sometimes for days together she hardly opens her lips to me; we sit together, eat together, drive together, and not a word for Barby. But sometimes, poor dear! she will cling to me and cry, and say her heart is breaking. And Solomon was right: but it was not only a brother that is good for adversity. When she wants me, I am here, and there is nothing I will not do for her, and she knows it;—and that is about the long and short of it,” finished Miss Mewlstone, dismissing the subject with another sigh. And then she bade Phillis finish her coffee and put on her hat. “For your mother will be expecting you, and wondering what has become of you; and Phillips or Evans must walk with you, for it is past nine o’clock, and such a pretty young lady must not go unattended,” concluded the simple woman. Phillis laughed and kissed her at this; but, though she said nothing of her intentions, she determined to dismiss the servant as soon as possible, and run on alone to the Friary. She had not forgotten her encounter with Mr. Drummond on her last visit to the White House; but to-night the storm would keep him in-doors. Evans, the new footman, was desired to escort her; but in the middle of the avenue Phillis civilly dismissed him. “There is no need for two of us to get wet; and the rain is coming on very heavily,” she said. The young man hesitated; but he was slow-witted and new to his duty, and the young lady had a peremptory way with her, so he touched his hat, and went back to the house. “Such nonsense, having a liveried servant at my heels, when I am only a dressmaker!” thought Phillis, scurrying down the avenue like a chased rabbit. Hitherto, the trees had sheltered her; but a glance at the open road and the driving rain made her resolve to take refuge in the porch of the cottage that stood opposite the gate. It was the place where Nan and her mother had once lodged; and, though all the lights were extinguished, and the people had retired to bed, she felt a comfortable sense of safety as she unlatched the little gate. Not even Mr. Drummond would discover her there. But Phillis’s satisfaction was of short duration: the foolish girl was soon to repent of her foolhardiness in dismissing her escort. She little knew that her words to Evans had been overheard, and that behind the dripping shrubbery she had been watched and followed. Scarcely had she taken refuge under the green porch, and placed her wet umbrella to dry, before she heard the latch of the little gate unclosed, and a tall dark figure came up the gravel-walk. It was not Isaac Williams’s portly form,—she could discern that in the darkness,—and, for the moment, a thrill of deadly terror came upon the incautious girl; but the next minute her natural courage returned to her aid. The porch was just underneath the room where Isaac slept; a call of ‘help’ would reach him at once; there was no reason for this alarm at all. Nevertheless, she shrunk back a little as the stranger came directly towards her, then paused as though in some embarrassment: “Pardon me, but you have poor shelter here. I am Mrs. Williams’s lodger. I could easily let you into the cottage. I am afraid the rain comes through the trellis-work.” Phillis’s heart gave a great thump of relief. In the first place, Mrs. Williams’s lodger must be a respectable person, and no dangerous loafer or pickpocket; in the second place the refined cultured tones of the stranger pleased her ear. Phillis had a craze on this point. “You may be deceived in a face, but in a voice, never!” she would say; and, as she told Nan afterwards, the moment that voice greeted her in the darkness she felt no further fear. “I have a dry corner here,” she returned, quietly; “it is only a thunder-shower, and I am close to home,—only down the road, and just round the corner, past the vicarage.” “Past the vicarage!” in a tone of surprise: “why, there are no houses there!” “There is a very small one called the Friary,” returned Phillis, feeling herself color in the darkness, as she mentioned their humble abode. There was no answer for a moment, and then her mysterious neighbor continued: “My good landlord seems to retire early; the whole place looks deserted. They are very early risers, and perhaps that is the reason. If you will allow me to pass, I will open the door and light a lamp in my little parlor. Even if you prefer to remain in the porch, it will look more cheerful.” And, without waiting for her reply, he took a key from his pocket, and let himself into the house. Their voices had disturbed the owners of the cottage, and Phillis overheard the following colloquy: “Dear sakes alive! what a frightful storm! Is there anything you want, Mr. Dancy?” in Mrs. Williams’s shrill tones. “Not for myself, Mrs. Williams; but there is a young lady sheltering in the porch. I should be glad if you could come down and make her a little comfortable. The floodgates of heaven seem open to-night.” “Dear, dear!” in a still more perplexed voice; “a young lady at this time of night,—why, it must be half-after nine. Very well, Mr. Dancy; beg her to come in and sit in your parlor a moment, and I will be down.” But Phillis absolutely refused to comply with the invitation. “I am not tired, and I am not a bit wet, and I like watching the rain. This is a nice little porch, and I have taken refuge here before. We all know Mrs. Williams very well.” “She is a good creature, if she were not always in a bustle,” returned Mr. Dancy. “There, the lamp is lighted: that looks more comfortable.” And as he spoke he came out into the little hall. Phillis stole a curious glance at him. He was a tall man, and was dressed somewhat strangely. A long foreign-looking cloak and a broad-brimmed felt hat, which he had not yet removed, gave him the look of an artist; but, except that he had a beard and moustache, and wore blue spectacles, she could not gain the slightest clue to his features. But his voice,—it pleased Phillis’s sensitive ear more every moment; it was pleasant,—rather foreign, too,—and had a sad ring in it. He leaned against the wall opposite to her, and looked out thoughtfully at the driving rain. “I think I saw you coming out from the White House,” he observed presently. “Are you a friend of Mrs. Cheyne? I hope,” hesitating a little, “that she is very well.” “Do you know her?” asked Phillis, in surprise. “That is a very Irish way of answering my question; but you shall have your turn first. Yes; I used to know her many years ago, and Herbert Cheyne, too.” “Her poor husband! Oh! and did you like him?” rather breathlessly. “Pretty fairly,” was the indifferent reply. “People used to call him a pleasant fellow, but I never thought much of him myself,—not but what he was more sinned against than sinning, poor devil. Anyhow, he paid dearly enough for his faults.” “Yes, indeed; and one must always speak leniently of the dead.” “Ah, that is what they say,—that he is dead. I suppose his widow put on mourning, and made lamentation. She is well, you say, and cheerful?” “Oh, no! neither the one nor the other. I am not her friend; I only know her just little; but she strikes me as very sad. She has lost her children, and––” “Ah!” Phillis thought she heard a strange sound, almost like a groan; but of course it was fancy; and just then good Mrs. Williams came bustling downstairs. “Dear heart! why, if it is not Miss Challoner! To think of you, my dear miss, being out so late, and alone! Oh, what ever will your ma say?” “My mother will scold me, of course,” returned Phillis, laughing; “but you must not scold me too, Mrs. Williams, though I deserve all I get. Mrs. Mewlstone sent Evans with me, but I made him go back. Country girls are fearless and it is only just a step to the Friary.” “The rain is stopping now, if you will permit me to escort you. Mrs. Williams will be the voucher for my respectability,” observed Mr. Dancy, very gravely and without a smile; and, as Phillis seemed inclined to put him off with an excuse, he continued, more seriously: “Pardon me, but it is far too late, and the road far too lonely, for a young lady to go unattended. If you prefer it, I will go to the White House, and bring out the recreant Evans by force.” “Oh, no; there is no need for that,” observed Phillis, hastily; and Mrs. Williams interposed volubly: “Goodness’ sakes, Miss Challoner, you have no call to be afraid of Mr. Dancy! Why, Mr. Frank Blunt, that nice young gentleman who lodged with me ever so many years, recommended him to me as one of his best and oldest friends. Your ma knew Mr. Blunt, for he was here with her, and a nicer-spoken young gentleman she said she never saw.” “That will do, Mrs. Williams,” returned Mr. Dancy, in rather a peremptory tone; and then, turning to Phillis, he said, more civilly, but still a little abruptly, as though he were displeased,— “Well, Miss Challoner, do you feel inclined to trust yourself with me for the few hundred yards, or shall I fetch Evans?” And Phillis, feeling herself rebuked, unfurled her umbrella at once, and bade Mrs. Williams good-night by way of answer. |