"Promise me that you will speak to her at once," he said, as he walked beside her rather feebly; and his gait became all at once like that of an old man. But Phillis fenced this remark very discreetly.

"This afternoon or this evening, when I get the chance," she said, very decidedly: "if I am to help you, it must be as I think best, and at my own time. Do not think me unkind, for I am doing this for your own good: it would not help you if your wife were to be brought to the brink of a nervous illness. Leave it to me. Miss Mewlstone will serve us best, and she will know." And then she took her hand from his arm, and bade him drop behind a little, that she might not be seen in the town walking with him. "Good-bye! keep up your courage. I will help you all I can," she said, with a kindly smile, as he reluctantly obeyed her behest. She was his good angel, but he must not walk any longer in her shadow: angels do their good deeds invisibly, as Phillis hoped to do hers. He thought of this as he watched her disappearing in the distance.

Phillis walked rapidly towards the cottage. Archie, who was letting himself in at his own door, saw the girl pa.s.s, carrying her head high, and stepping lightly as though she were treading on air. "Here comes Atalanta," he said to himself; but, though a smile came over his tired face, he made no effort to arrest her. The less he saw of any of them the better, he thought, just now.

Nan looked up reproachfully as the truant entered the work-room, and Mrs. Challoner wore her gravest expression; evidently she had prepared a lecture for the occasion. Phillis looked at them both with sparkling eyes.

"Listen to me, Nan and mother. Oh, I am glad Dulce is not here, she is so young and giddy; and she might talk--No, not a word from either of you, until I have had my turn." And then she began her story.

Nan listened with rapt speechless attention, but Mrs. Challoner gave vent to little pitying moans and exclamations of dismay.

"Oh, my child!" she kept saying, "to think of your being mixed up in such an adventure! How could you be so imprudent and daring? Mrs.

Williams's lodger--a strange man! in that outlandish cloak, too! and you walked home with him that dark night! Oh, Phillis, I shall never be at peace about you again!" and so on.

Phillis bore all this patiently, for she knew she had been incautious: and when her mother's excitement had calmed down a little, she unfolded to them her plan.

"I must see Miss Mewlstone quite alone; and that unfinished French merino will be such a good excuse, Nan. I will take the body with me this afternoon, and beg her to let me try it on; the rest must come afterwards, but this will be the best way of getting her to myself."

And, as Nan approved of this scheme, and Mrs. Challoner did not dissent, Phillis had very soon made up her parcel, and was walking rapidly towards the White House.

As she turned in at the gates she could see a shadow on the blind in Mrs. Williams's little parlor, and waved her hand towards it. He was watching her, she knew: she longed to go back and give him a word of encouragement and exhortation to patience; but some one, Mr. Drummond perhaps, might see her, and she dare not venture.

She sent her message by Jeffreys, and Miss Mewlstone soon came trotting into the room; but she wore a slightly-disturbed expression on her good-natured face.

She had been reading the third volume of a very interesting novel, and had most unwillingly laid down her book at the young dressmaker's unseasonable request. Like many other stout people, Miss Mewlstone was more addicted to pa.s.sivity than activity after her luncheon; and, being a creature of habit, this departure from her usual rules flurried her.

"Dear, dear! to think of your wanting to try on that French merino again!" she observed; "and the other dress fitted so beautifully, and no trouble at all. And there has Miss Middleton being calling just now, and saying they are expecting her brother Hammond home from India in November; and it is getting towards the end of September now. I was finishing my book, but I could not help listening to her,--she has such a sweet voice. Ah, just so--just so. But aren't you going to open your parcel, my dear?"

"Never mind the dress," returned Phillis, quickly. "Dear Miss Mewlstone, I was sorry to disturb you; but it could not be helped.

Don't look at the parcel: that is only an excuse. My business is far more important. I want you to put on your bonnet, and come with me just a little way across the road. There is some one's ident.i.ty that you must prove."

Phillis was commencing her task in a somewhat lame fashion; but Miss Mewlstone was still too much engrossed with her novel to notice her visitor's singular agitation.

"Ah, just so--just so," she responded; "that is exactly what the last few chapters have been about. The real heir has turned up, and is trying to prove his own ident.i.ty; only he is so changed that no one believes him. It is capitally worked out. A very clever author, my dear----"

But Phillis interrupted her a little eagerly:

"Is that your tale, dear Miss Mewlstone? How often people say truth is stranger than fiction! Do you know, I have heard a story in real life far more wonderful than that? Some one was telling me about it just now. There was a man whom every one, even his own wife, believed to be dead; but after four years of incredible dangers and hardships--oh, such hardships!--he arrived safely in England, and took up his abode just within sight of his old house, where he could see his wife and find out all about her without being seen himself. He put on some sort of disguise, I think, so that people could not find him out."

"That must be a make-up story, I think," returned Miss Mewlstone, a little provokingly; but her head was still full of her book. Poor woman! she wanted to get back to it. She looked at Phillis and the parcel a little plaintively. "Ah, just so,--a very pretty story, but improbable,--very improbable, my dear."

"Nevertheless, it is true!" returned Phillis, so vehemently that Miss Mewlstone's little blue eyes opened more widely. "Never mind your book. I tell you I have business so important that nothing is of consequence beside it. Where is Mrs. Cheyne? She must not know we are going out."

"Going out!" repeated Miss Mewlstone, helplessly. "My dear, I never go out after luncheon, as Magdalene knows."

"But you are going out with me," replied Phillis, promptly. "Dear Miss Mewlstone, I know I am perplexing and worrying you; but what can I do?

Think over what I have just said,--about--about that improbable story, as you called it; and then, you will not be so dreadfully startled.

You must come with me now to Mrs. Williams's cottage: I want you to see her lodger."

"Her lodger!" Miss Mewlstone was fully roused now; and, indeed, Phillis's pale face and suppressed eager tones were not without their due effect. Had the girl taken leave of her senses? Why, the ladies at the White House led the lives of recluses. Why should she be asked to call upon any stranger, but especially a gentleman,--Mrs. Williams's lodger? "My dear," she faltered, "you are very strange this afternoon.--Magdalene and I seldom call on any one, and certainly not on gentlemen."

"You must come with me," replied Phillis, half crying with excitement.

She found her task so difficult. Miss Mewlstone was as yielding as a feather bed in appearance, and yet it was impossible to move her. "He calls himself Mr. Dancy; but now he says that is not all his name: let me whisper it in your ear, if it will not startle you too much. Think of Mrs. Cheyne, and try and command yourself. Mrs. Williams's lodger says that he is Herbert Cheyne,--poor Mrs. Cheyne's husband!"

x.x.xV.

"BARBY, DON'T YOU RECOLLECT ME?"

"I do not believe it!--stuff and nonsense! You are crazy, child, to come to me with this trumped-up story! The man is an impostor. I will have the police to him. For heaven's sake don't let Magdalene hear this nonsense!"

Phillis recoiled a few steps, speechless with amazement. Miss Mewlstone's face was crimson; her small eyes were sparkling with angry excitement: all her softness and gentle inanity had vanished.

"Give me a bonnet,--shawl,--anything, and I will put this matter straight in a moment. Where is Jeffreys? Ring the bell, please, Miss Challoner! I must speak to her."

Phillis obeyed without a word.

"Ah, just so. Jeffreys," resuming her old purring manner as the maid appeared, "this young lady has a friend in trouble, and wants me to go down to the cottage with her. Keep it from your mistress if you can, for she hates hearing of anything sad; say we are busy,--I shall be in to tea,--anything. I know you will be discreet, Jeffreys."

"Yes, ma'am," returned Jeffreys, adjusting the shawl over Miss Mewlstone's shoulders; "but this is your garden-shawl, surely?"

"Oh, it does not matter; it will do very well. Now Miss Challoner, I am ready." And so noiseless and rapid were her movements that Phillis had much to do to keep up with her.

"Won't you listen to me?" she pleaded. "Dear Miss Mewlstone, it is no made-up story; it is all true;" but to her astonishment, Miss Mewlstone faced round upon her in a most indignant manner:

"Be silent, child! I cannot, and will not, hear any more. How should you know anything about it? Have you ever seen Herbert Cheyne? You are the tool of some impostor. But I will guard Magdalene; she shall not be driven mad. No, no, poor dear! she shall not, as long as she has old Bathsheba to watch over her." And Phillis, in despair, very wisely held her peace. After all she was a stranger: had she any proof but Mr. Dancy's word?

Just towards the last, Miss Mewlstone's pace slackened; and her hand shook so, as she tried to unlatch the little gate, that Phillis was obliged to come to her a.s.sistance. The cottage door stood open as usual, but there was no tall figure lurking in the background,--no shadow on the blind.

"We had better go in there," whispered Phillis, pointing to the closed door of the parlor; and Miss Mewlstone, without knocking, at once turned the handle and went in, while Phillis followed trembling.

"Well, sir," said Miss Mewlstone, sternly, "I have come to know what you mean by imposing your story on this child."

Mr. Dancy, who was standing with his back to them, leaning for support against the little mantle-shelf, did not answer for a moment; and then he turned slowly round, and looked at her.

"Oh, Barby!" he said; "don't you recollect me?" And then he held out his thin hands to her imploringly, and added "Dear old Barby! but you are not a bit changed."

"Herbert--why, good heavens! Ah, just so--just so," gasped the poor lady, rather feebly, as she sat down, feeling her limbs were deserting her, and every sc.r.a.p of color left her face. Indeed, she looked so flabby and lifeless that Phillis was alarmed and flew to her a.s.sistance; only Mr. Cheyne waved her aside rather impatiently.

"Let her be; she is all right. She knows me, you see: so I cannot be so much altered. Barby," he went on, in a coaxing voice, as he knelt beside her and chafed her hands, "you thought I was an impostor, and were coming to threaten me: were you not? But now you see Miss Challoner was in the right. Have you not got a word for me? Won't you talk to me about Magdalene? We have got to prepare her, you know."

Then, as he spoke his wife's name, and she remembered her sacred charge, the faithful creature suddenly fell on his neck in piteous weeping.

"Oh, the bonnie face," she wept, "that has grown so old, with the sorrow and the gray hair! My dear, this will just kill her with joy, after all her years of bitter widowhood." And then she cried again, and stroked his face as though he were a child, and then wrung her hands for pity at the changes she saw. "It is the same face, and yet not the same," she said, by and by. "I knew the look of your eyes, my bonnie man, for all they were so piercing with sadness. But what have they done to you, Herbert?--for it might be your own ghost,--so thin; and yet you are brown, too; and your hair!" And she touched the gray locks over the temples with tender fluttering fingers.

"Magdalene never liked gray hairs," he responded, with a sigh. "She is as beautiful as ever, I hear; but I have not caught a glimpse of her.

Tell me, Barby,--for I have grown timorous with sorrow,--will she hate the sight of such a miserable scarecrow?"