“We must must make dresses or starve; for our fingers are cleverer than our brains,” replied Phillis, defiantly; for she knew nothing about it, and her powers were so immature and unfledged that she had never tried her wings, and had no notion whether she could fly or not, and yet no girl had a clearer head. “We have chosen work that we know we can do well, and we mean not to be ashamed of our occupation. In the old days ladies used to spin and weave, and no one blamed them, though they were noble; and if my work will bring me money, and keep the mother comfortable, I see nothing that will prevent my doing it.”
“Ah, you are romantic, Miss Challoner; you will soon be taught matter-of-fact!”
“I am willing to learn anything, but I must choose my teachers,” retorted Phillis, with a little heat, for the word “romantic,” and the satirical droop of Mrs. Cheyne’s lip made her decidedly cross. “But I must not detain you any more with our uninteresting affairs,” dropping a little courtesy, half in pique and half in mockery, for her spirits were rising under this rough treatment.
“It is far from uninteresting; I have not heard anything so exciting for a long time. Well, perhaps you had better go before I say anything very rude, for I am terribly outspoken, and I think you are all silly self-willed young people.” Then, as Phillis bridled her neck like an untamed colt, she caught hold of the girl’s dress to detain her, and the sharpness passed out of her eyes. “Now, don’t go away and believe that I think any worse of you for telling me this. I am a cross-grained body, and contradiction makes me worse. I don’t know how I shall act: I must have time to consider this extraordinary bit of news. But all the same, whatever I do, whether I know you or do not know you, I shall always think you the very bravest girl I ever saw.” And then she let her go, and Phillis, with her head in the air and her thoughts all topsy-turvy, marched out of the room.
But when she reached the end of the corridor there was a soft but distinctly audible breathing behind her, and, as in Mr. Drummond’s case Miss Mewlstone’s shadowy gray gown swept between her and the door.
“Miss Mewlstone, how you startled me! but the carpets are so soft and thick!”
“Yes, indeed! just so, my dear; but Phillips must be asleep as he does not answer the bell, and so I thought I would let you out. You are young to walk alone: shall I throw a shawl over my cap, and walk down the road with you?”
“Not for worlds, my dear Miss Mewlstone;” but Phillis was quite touched at this unexpected kindness. Miss Mewlstone did not look sleepy now; her small blue eyes were wide open, and her round placid face wore a most kindly expression, and there was a tremulous movement of her hands, as though they 151 were feeling after something. “It is only such a little bit of road; and though the trees make it dark, I am not the least afraid of going alone.”
“Ah! just so. When we are young, we are brave; it is the old who are afraid of the grasshopper. I like your spirit, my dear; and so does she, though she is a little taken aback and disappointed; but anything that interests and rouses her is welcome. Even this may do her good; for it will give her something to think about besides her own troubles.”
“I have heard of her troubles––” began Phillis; but a moving door arrested Miss Mewlstone’s attention, and she interrupted her hurriedly: