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 embarrassment:
“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!” 208