_ CHAPTER XXXIII. "THIS IS LIFE AND DEATH TO ME"
Phillis found it difficult during the next few days to reconcile divided sympathies; a nice adjustment of conflicting feelings seemed almost impossible. Nan was so simply, so transparently happy, that no sister worthy of the name could refuse to rejoice with her: a creature so brimming over with gladness, with contented love, was certain to reflect heart-sunshine. On the other hand, there was Mr. Drummond! To be glad and sorry in a breath was as provoking to a feeling woman as the traveller's blowing hot and cold was to the satyr in the fable.
In trying to preserve an even balance Phillis became decidedly cross. She was one who liked a clear temperature,--neither torrid nor frigid. Too much susceptibility gave her an east-windy feeling; to be always at the fever-point of sympathy with one's fellow-creatures would not have suited her at all.
Nan, who possessed more sweetness of temper than keenness of psychological insight, could not understand what had come to Phillis. She was absent, a trifle sad, and yet full of retort. At times she seemed to brim over with a wordy wisdom that made no sort of impression.
One evening, as they were retiring to bed, Nan beckoned her into her little room, and shut the door. Then she placed a seat invitingly by the open window, which was pleasantly framed by jasmine; and then she took hold of Phillis's shoulders in a persuasive manner.
"Now, dear," she said, coaxingly, "you shall just tell me all about it."
Phillis looked up, a little startled. Then, as she met Nan's gentle, penetrative glance, she presented a sudden blank of non-comprehension, most telling on such occasions, and yawned slightly.
"What do you mean, Nannie?" in a somewhat bored tone.
"Come, dear, tell me," continued Nan, with cheerful pertinacity. "You are never dull or touchy without some good reason. What has been the matter the last few days? Are you vexed or disappointed about anything? Are you sure--quite sure you are pleased about Dick?"--the idea occurring to her suddenly that Phillis might not approve of their imprudent engagement.
"Oh, Nannie, how absurd you are!" returned Phillis, pettishly. "Have I not told you a dozen times since Wednesday how delighted I am that you have come to an understanding? Have I not sounded his praises until I was hoarse? Why, if I had been in love with Dick myself I could not have talked about him more."
"Yes, I know you have been very good, dear; but still I felt there was something."
"Oh, dear, no!" returned Phillis decidedly, and her voice was a little hard. "The fact is, you are in the seventh heaven yourself, and you expect us to be there too. Not that I wonder at you, Nannie, because Dick--dear old fellow--is ever so nice."
She threw in this last clause not without intention, and of course the tempting bait took at once.
"I never knew any one half so good," replied Nan, in a calmly satisfied tone. "You have hinted once or twice, Phil, that you thought him rather too young,--that our being the same age was a pity; but--do you know?--in Dick's case it does not matter in the least. No man double his age could have made his meaning more plain, or have spoken better to the purpose. He is so strong and self-reliant and manly: and with all his fun, he is so unselfish."
"He will make you a very good husband, Nan; I am sure of that."
"I think he will," returned Nan, with a far-away look in her eyes. She was recalling Dick's speech about the nest that he wanted to make cosey for some one. "Phil, dear," she went on, after this blissful pause, "I wish you had a Dick too."
"Good Gracious, Nannie!"
"I mean--you know what I mean,--some one to whom you are first, and who has a right to care for you; it gives such a meaning to one's life. Of course it will come in time; no one can look at you and not prophesy a happy future: it is only I who am impatient and want it to come soon."
Phillis wrinkled her brows thoughtfully over this speech: she seemed inclined to digest and assimilate it.
"I dare say you are right," she replied, after a pause. "Yes it would be nice, no doubt."
"When the real
he comes, you will find how nice it is," rejoined Nan, with sympathetic readiness. "Do you know, Phil, the idea has once or twice occurred to me that Mr. Drummond comes rather often!" But here Phillis shook off her hand and started from her chair.
"There is a moth singing its wings. Poor wee beastie! let me save it, if it be not too late." And she chased the insect most patiently until the blue-gray wings fluttered into her hand.
"There, I have saved him from utter destruction!" she cried triumphantly, leaning out into the darkness. "He has scorched himself, that is all;" then as she walked back to her sister, her head was erect, and there was a beautiful earnest look upon her face.
"Nannie, I don't want to find fault with you, but don't you remember how we used to pride ourselves, in the dear old days, in not being like other girls,--the Paines, for example, or even Adelaide Sartoris, who used to gossip so much about young men."
Nan opened her eyes widely at this, but made no answer.
"We must not be different now, because our life is narrower and more monotonous. I know, talking so much over our work, we have terrible temptations to gossip; but I can't bear to think that we should ever lower our standard, ever degenerate into the feeble girlishness we abhor. We never used to talk about young men, Nan, except Dick; and that did not matter. Of course we liked them in their places, and had plenty of fun, and tormented them a little; but you never made such a speech as that at Glen Cottage."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! What have I done?" exclaimed Nan, much distressed at this rebuke. "I do think you are right, Phil; and it was naughty of me to put such a thing into your head."
"You have put no idea into my head," replied Phillis, with crisp obstinacy. "There! I am only moralizing for my own good, as well as yours. Small beginnings make great endings. If we once began to gossip, we might end by flirting; and, Nan, if you knew how I hate that sort of thing!" And Phillis looked grand and scornful.
"Yes, dear; and I know you are right," returned Nan, humbly. She was not quite sure what she had done to provoke this outburst of high moral feeling: but she felt that Phillis was dreadfully in earnest. They kissed each other rather solemnly after that, and Phillis was suffered to depart in silence.
That night there was no wistful little prayer that Mr. Drummond might be comforted: Phillis had too many petitions to offer up on her own account. She was accusing herself of pride, and Pharisaism, and hypocrisy, in no measured terms. "Not like other girls! I am worse,--worse," she said to herself. And then, among other things, she asked for the gift of content,--for a quiet, satisfied spirit, not craving or embittered,--strength to bear her own and her friends' troubles, and far-looking faith to discern "God's perfectness round our uncompleteness,--round our restlessness His rest."
The following evening, as Phillis was sorting out patterns in the work-room, a note was brought to her from the White House. It was in Mrs. Cheyne's handwriting, and, like herself, strangely abrupt.
"Your visits are like angels' visits,--extremely rare," it began. "I am afraid I have frightened you away, as I have frightened the parson. I thought you had more wit than he to discern between mannerism and downright ill-humor. This evening the temperature is equable,--not the sign of a brooding cloud: so put on your hat, like a good girl, and come over. Miss Mewlstone and I will be prepared to welcome you."
"You had better go," observed Nan, who had read the note over her sister's shoulder: "you have worked so dreadfully hard all day, and it will be a little change."
"No one cares for east winds as a change," replied Phillis, dryly; nevertheless, she made up her mind that she would go. She was beginning to dread being summoned to the White House: she felt that Mrs. Cheyne alternately fascinated and repelled her. She was growing fond of Miss Mewlstone; but then, on these occasions, she had so little intercourse with her. The charitable instinct that was always ready to be kindled in Phillis's nature prompted her to pay these visits; and yet she always went reluctantly.
She had two encounters on the road, both of which she had foreseen with nice presentiment.
The first was with Mr. Drummond.
He was walking along slowly, with his eyes on the ground. A sort of flush came to his face when he saw Phillis; and then he stopped, and shook hands, and asked after them all comprehensively, yet with constraint in his voice. Phillis told him rather hurriedly that she was going to the White House: Mrs. Cheyne had sent for her.
Archie smiled:
"I am glad she does not send for me. I have not been there for a long time. Sarcasm is not an attractive form of welcome. It slams the door in a man's face. I hope you will not get some hard hits, Miss Challoner." And then he went on his way.
As she approached Mrs. Williams's cottage, Mr. Dancy was, as usual, leaning against the little gate. He stepped out in the road, and accosted her.
"I have not called on your mother," he began, rather abruptly. "After all, I thought it best not to trouble her just now. Can you spare me a few minutes? or are you going in there?" looking towards the White House.
"I am rather in a hurry," returned Phillis, surprised at his manner, it seemed so agitated. "I am already late, and Mrs. Cheyne will be expecting me."
"Very well: another time," he replied, stepping back without further ceremony; but until Phillis's figure disappeared in the trees he watched her, leaning still upon the little gate.
Mrs. Cheyne received her with a frosty smile; but, on the whole, her manner was more gracious than usual, and by and by it thawed completely.
She was a little captious at first, it was true, and she snubbed poor Miss Mewlstone decidedly once or twice,--but then Miss Mewlstone was used to being snubbed,--but with Phillis she was sparing of sarcasms. After a time she began to look kindly at the girl; then she bade her talk, rather peremptorily, because she liked her voice and found it pleasant to listen to her; and by and by Phillis grew more at her ease, and her girlish talk rippled on as smoothly as possible.
Mrs. Cheyne's face softened and grew strangely handsome as she listened: she was drawing Phillis out,--leading her to speak of the old life, and of all their youthful sources of happiness. Then she fell into a retrospect of her own young days, when she was a spoiled madcap girl and had all sorts of daring adventures.
Phillis was quite fascinated; she was even disappointed when Miss Mewlstone pointed out the lateness of the hour.
"I have enjoyed myself so much," she said, as she put on her hat.
"I meant you to enjoy yourself," returned Mrs. Cheyne, quietly, as she drew the girl's face down to hers. "I have given you such a bad impression that you look on me as a sort of moral bugbear. I can be very different, when I like, and I have liked to be agreeable to-night." And then this strange woman took up a rich cashmere shawl from the couch where she was lying, and folded it around Phillis's shoulders. "The evenings are chilly. Jeffreys can bring this back with her;" for Mrs. Cheyne had already decided that this time her maid should accompany Phillis to the cottage.
Phillis laughed in an amused fashion as she saw the reflection of herself in one of the mirrors: her figure looked quite queenly enveloped in the regal drapery. "She has forgotten all about the dressmaking," she thought to herself, as she tripped downstairs.
It was a lovely moonlight evening; the avenue was white and glistening in the soft light; the trees cast weird shadows on the grass. Phillis was somewhat surprised to see in the distance Mr. Dancy's tall figure pacing to and fro before the lodge-gate. He was evidently waiting for her; for as she approached he threw away his cigar and joined her at once. Jeffreys, who thought he was some old acquaintance, dropped behind very discreetly, after the manner of waiting-women.
"How long you have stayed this evening! I have been walking up and down for more than an hour, watching for you," he began, with curious abruptness.
This and no more did Jeffreys hear before she lingered out of earshot. The lady's maid thought she perceived an interesting situation, and being of a susceptible and sympathetic temperament, with a blighted attachment of her own, there was no fear of her intruding. Phillis looked around once, but Jeffreys was absorbed in her contemplations of the clouds.
"I thought you were never coming," he continued; and then he stopped all at once, and caught hold of the fringe of the shawl. "This is not yours: I am sure I have seen Magdalene in it. Pshaw! what am I saying? the force of old habit. I knew her once as Magdalene."
"It is dreadfully heavy, and, after all, the evening is so warm," returned Phillis, taking no notice of this incoherent speech.
"Let me carry it," he rejoined, with singular eagerness; "it is absurd, a wrap like that on such a night." And, while Phillis hesitated, he drew the shawl from her shoulders and hung it over his arm, and all the way his disengaged right hand rested on the folds, touching it softly from time to time, as though the mere feeling of the texture pleased him.
"How was she to-night?" he asked, coming a little closer to Phillis, and dropping his voice as he spoke.
"Who?--Mrs. Cheyne? Oh, she was charming! just a little cold and captious at first, but that is her way. But this evening she was bent on fascinating me, and she quite succeeded; she looked ill, though, but very, very beautiful."
"She never goes out. I cannot catch a glimpse of her," he returned, hurriedly. "Miss Challoner, I am going to startle--shock you, perhaps; but I have thought about it all until my head is dizzy, and there is no other way. Please give me your attention a moment," for Phillis, with a vague sense of uneasiness, had looked around for Jeffreys. "I must see you alone: I must speak to you where we shall not be interrupted. To call on your mother will be no good; you and only you can help me. And you are so strong and merciful--I can read that in your eyes--that I am sure of your sympathy, if you will only give me a hearing."
"Mr. Dancy! oh, what can you mean?" exclaimed Phillis. She was dreadfully frightened at his earnestness, but her voice was dignified, and she drew herself away with a movement full of pride and
hauteur. "You are a stranger to me; you have no right----"
"The good Samaritan was a stranger too. Have you forgotten that?" he returned, in a voice of grave rebuke. "Oh, you are a girl; you are thinking of your mother! I have shocked your sense of propriety, my child; for you seem a child to me, who have lived and suffered so much. Would you hesitate an instant if some poor famishing wretch were to ask you for food or water? Well, I am that poor wretch. What I have to tell you is a matter of life and death to me. Only a woman--only you--can help me; and you shrink because we have not had a proper introduction. My dear young lady, you have nothing to fear from me. I am unfortunate, but a gentleman,--a married man, if that will satisfy your scruples----"
"But my mother," faltered Phillis, not knowing what to say to this unfortunate stranger, who terrified and yet attracted her by turns.
Never had she heard a human voice so persuasive, and yet so agonized in its intensity. A conviction of the truth of his words seized upon her as she listened,--that he was unhappy, that he needed her sympathy for some purpose of his own, and yet that she herself had nothing to do with his purpose. But what would Nan say if she consented--if she acceded to such an extraordinary proposition--to appoint a meeting with a stranger?
"It is life and death to me; remember that!" continued Mr. Dancy, in that low, suppressed voice of agitation. "If you refuse on the score of mere girlish propriety, you will regret it. I am sure of that. Trust to your own brave heart, and let it answer for you. Will you refuse this trifling act of mercy,--just to let me speak to you alone, and tell you my story? When you have heard that, you will take things into your own hands."
Phillis hesitated, and grew pale with anxiety; but the instincts of her nature were stronger than her prudence. From the first she had believed in this man, and felt interested in him and his mysterious surroundings. "One may be deceived in a face, but never in a voice," she had said, in her pretty dictatorial way; and now this voice was winning her over to his side.
"It is not right; but what can I do? You say I can help you."--And then she paused. "To-morrow morning I have to take some work to Rock Building. I shall not be long. But I could go on the beach for half an hour. Nan would spare me. I might hear your story then."
She spoke rapidly, and rather ungraciously, as though she were dispensing largess to a troublesome mendicant; but Mr. Dancy's answer was humble in its intense gratitude.
"God bless you! I knew your kind heart was to be trusted There! I will not come any farther. Good-night; good-night, a thousand thanks!" And, before Phillis could reply, this strange being had left her side, and was laying the cashmere shawl in Jeffreys's arms slowly and tenderly, as though it were a child.
Phillis was glad that Dulce opened the door to her that night, for she was afraid of Nan's questioning glance. Nan was tired, and had retired early; and, as Dulce was sleepy too, Phillis was now left in peace. She passed the night restlessly, walking up at all sorts of untimely hours, her conscience pricking her into wakefulness. To her well-ordered nature there was something terrifying in the thought that she should be forced to take such a step.
"Oh, what would mother and Nan say?" was her one cry.
"I know I am dreadfully impulsive and imprudent, but Nan would think I am not to be trusted;" but she had passed her word, and nothing now would have induced her to swerve from it.
She ate her breakfast silently, and with a sense of oppression and guilt quite new to her. She grew inwardly hot whenever Nan looked at her, which she did continually and with the utmost affection. Before the meal was over, however, Miss Middleton and Mattie made their appearance, and in the slight bustle of entrance Phillis managed to effect her escape.
The hour that followed bore the unreality of a nightmare. Outwardly, Phillis was the grave, business-like dressmaker. The lady who had sent for her, and who was a stranger to Hadleigh, was much struck with her quiet self-possessed manners and lady-like demeanor.
"Her voice was quite refined," she said afterwards to her daughter. "And she had such a nice face and beautiful figure. I am sure she is a reduced gentlewoman, for her accent was perfect. I am quite obliged to Miss Milner for recommending us such a person, for she evidently understands her business. One thing I noticed, Ada,--the way in which she quietly laid down the parcel, and said it should be fetched presently. Any ordinary dressmaker in a small town like this would have carried it home herself."
Poor Phillis! she had laid down the parcel and drawn on her well-fitting gloves with a curious sinking at her heart: from the window of the house in Rock Building she could distinctly see Mr. Dancy walking up and down the narrow plat of grass before the houses, behind the tamarisk hedge, his foreign-looking cloak and slouch hat making him conspicuous.
"There is that queer-looking man again, mamma," exclaimed one of the young ladies, who was seated in the window. "I am sure he is some distinguished foreigner, he has such an air with him."
Phillis listened to no more, but hurried down the stairs and then prepared to cross the green with some degree of trepidation. She was half afraid that Mr. Dancy would join her at once, in the full view of curious eyes; but he knew better. He sauntered on slowly until she had reached the Parade and was going towards a part of the beach where there was only a knot of children wading knee-deep in the water, sailing a toy-boat. She stood and watched them dreamily, until the voice she expected sounded in her ear:
"True as steel! Ah, I was never deceived in a face yet. Where shall we sit, Miss Challoner? Yes, this is a quiet corner, and the children will not disturb us. Look at that urchin, with his bare brown legs and curly head: is he not a study? Ah, if he had lived--my----" And then he sighed, and threw himself on the beach.
"Well," observed Phillis, interrogatively. She was inclined to be short with him this morning. She had kept her word, and put herself into this annoying position; but there must be no hesitation, no beating about the bush, no loss of precious time. The story she had now to hear must be told, and with out delay.
Mr. Dancy raised his eyes as he heard the tone, and then he took off his spectacles as though he felt them an incumbrance. Phillis had a very good view of a pair of handsome eyes, with a lurking gleam of humor in them, which speedily died away into sadness.
"You are in a hurry; but I was thinking how I could best begin without startling you. But I may as well get it out without any prelude. Miss Challoner, to Mrs. Williams I am only Mr. Dancy; but my real name is Herbert Dancy Cheyne." _