"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.

CHAPTER XXIX.

MRS. WILLIAMS'S LODGER.

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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sage 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,--

"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 embarra.s.sment, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt; 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 n.o.ble 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!" 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 mother fell to crying and bemoaning her hard fate and her darlings' unprotected position.