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 passivity 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 254 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 identity 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 identity; 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.”