"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 pa.s.sionate 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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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. G.o.d'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 embarra.s.sment:

"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 pa.s.s, 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?"