“Ah! there is Phillips at last. Just so; you shall hear from me again. It is a gray satin,—one of her presents,—but I have never had it made up; for what is the use, when we keep no company?” went on Miss Mewlstone incoherently. “Oh! is that you, Phillips? Please go with this young lady to the lodge-gate.—You shall make it after your own fashion,” she whispered in Phillis’s ear; “and I am not as particular as other people. There is Magdalene now. Ah! just so. Good-night, my dear; and mind the scraper by the gate.”
Phillis was almost sorry when the obsequious Phillips left her; for the road certainly looked terribly dark. There was no moon, and the stars chose to be invisible; and there was a hot thundery feeling in the air that suggested a storm. And she moved aside with a slight sensation of uneasiness—not fear, of course not fear—as a tall, gloomy-looking figure bore swiftly down on her; for, even if a girl be ever so brave, a very tall man walking fast on a dark night with a slouching hat like a conspirator’s is rather a terrifying object; and how could she know that it was only Archie Drummond in his old garden-hat, taking a constitutional?
But he brought himself up in front of her with a sudden jerk.
“Miss Challoner!—alone at this time of night!”
“Why, it is not ten; and I could not wait for Dorothy to fetch me,” returned Phillis, bound to defend herself, and quite palpitating with relief; not that she was afraid—not a bit of it!—but still, Mr. Drummond’s presence was very welcome.
“I suppose I shall do as well as Dorothy?” he returned veering round with the greatest ease, just as though he were Dick, and bound to escort a Challoner. “Challoners’ Squire,”—that was Dick’s name among people.
“Oh poor Dick!” thought Phillis, with a sudden rush of tenderness for her old playmate; and then she said, demurely but with a spice of malice,—
“Thank you, Mr. Drummond. The road is so gloomy that I shall be glad of your escort this evening, but we shall have to do without that sort of thing now, for our business may often bring us out after dark, and we must learn not to be too particular.” 152
“Oh, this must not be!” he returned, decidedly; and, though it was too dark to see his face, she knew by his voice that he was dreadfully shocked. “I must see your mother and talk to her about this; for it would never do for you to run such risks. I could not allow it for a moment; and as your clergyman”—coming down from his high horse, and stammering a little,—“I have surely—surely a right––” But Phillis snapped him up in a moment, and pretty sharply too, for she had no notion of a young man giving himself airs and torturing her.
“Oh, no right at all!” she assured him: “clergymen could only rebuke evil-doers, to which class she and her sisters did not belong, thank heaven!” to which Mr. Drummond devoutly said an “amen.” “And would he please tell her if dressmakers were always met two and two, like the animals in the ark? and how would it sound when she or Nan had been fitting on a dress, on a winter’s evening, if they were to refuse to leave the house until Dorothy fetched them? and how––” But here Mr. Drummond checked her, and the darkness hid his smile.