“Who?—Mrs. Cheyne? Oh, she was charming! just a little cold and captious at first, but that is her way. But this evening she was bent on fascinating me, and she quite succeeded; she looked ill, though, but very, very beautiful.”
“She never goes out. I cannot catch a glimpse of her,” he returned, hurriedly. “Miss Challoner, I am going to startle—shock you, perhaps; but I have thought about it all until my head is dizzy, and there is no other way. Please give me your attention a moment,” for Phillis, with a vague sense of uneasiness, had looked around for Jeffreys. “I must see you alone: I must speak to you where we shall not be interrupted. To call on your mother will be no good; you and only you can help 246 me. And you are so strong and merciful—I can read that in your eyes—that I am sure of your sympathy, if you will only give me a hearing.”
“Mr. Dancy! oh, what can you mean?” exclaimed Phillis. She was dreadfully frightened at his earnestness, but her voice was dignified, and she drew herself away with a movement full of pride and hauteur. “You are a stranger to me; you have no right––”
“The good Samaritan was a stranger too. Have you forgotten that?” he returned, in a voice of grave rebuke. “Oh, you are a girl; you are thinking of your mother! I have shocked your sense of propriety, my child; for you seem a child to me, who have lived and suffered so much. Would you hesitate an instant if some poor famishing wretch were to ask you for food or water? Well, I am that poor wretch. What I have to tell you is a matter of life and death to me. Only a woman—only you—can help me; and you shrink because we have not had a proper introduction. My dear young lady, you have nothing to fear from me. I am unfortunate, but a gentleman,—a married man, if that will satisfy your scruples––”
“But my mother,” faltered Phillis, not knowing what to say to this unfortunate stranger, who terrified and yet attracted her by turns.
Never had she heard a human voice so persuasive, and yet so agonized in its intensity. A conviction of the truth of his words seized upon her as she listened,—that he was unhappy, that he needed her sympathy for some purpose of his own, and yet that she herself had nothing to do with his purpose. But what would Nan say if she consented—if she acceded to such an extraordinary proposition—to appoint a meeting with a stranger?
“It is life and death to me; remember that!” continued Mr. Dancy, in that low, suppressed voice of agitation. “If you refuse on the score of mere girlish propriety, you will regret it. I am sure of that. Trust to your own brave heart, and let it answer for you. Will you refuse this trifling act of mercy,—just to let me speak to you alone, and tell you my story? When you have heard that, you will take things into your own hands.”
Phillis hesitated, and grew pale with anxiety; but the instincts of her nature were stronger than her prudence. From the first she had believed in this man, and felt interested in him and his mysterious surroundings. “One may be deceived in a face, but never in a voice,” she had said, in her pretty dictatorial way; and now this voice was winning her over to his side.
“It is not right; but what can I do? You say I can help you.”—And then she paused. “To-morrow morning I have to take some work to Rock Building. I shall not be long. But I could go on the beach for half an hour. Nan would spare me. I might hear your story then.” 247
She spoke rapidly, and rather ungraciously, as though she were dispensing largess to a troublesome mendicant; but Mr. Dancy’s answer was humble in its intense gratitude.