Half Brothers

CHAPTER XXII.

DOROTHY'S NEW HOME.

But even with Sidney as her companion and protector the long journey south was a great trial to Dorothy, who had only once before left her native place. She was very pale and nervous; he could see her little hands trembling when they did not lie clasped tightly together on her lap. The tears gathered under her drooping eyelids, and now and then rolled slowly down her cheeks. The change in her life had been too sudden and too great. Only a week ago she had been still a forlorn and neglected child, of whom no one took any thought. She had believed herself to be the daughter of a very poor man, who could afford her no advantages of education and training. Now she was told that she was heiress to a great fortune; and already the luxuries of wealth were beginning to surround her. She was traveling by an express train in a first-class carriage; and Sidney had bought a heap of newspapers and books to beguile the hours of her journey. She did not open one of them; her brain was too busy for her to read. Her heart, too, was beating with fear that had something akin to pleasure in it.

What would Mrs. Martin be like? She had never seen any man like Sidney; but she loved him, and felt grateful to him. She watched him shyly from under her long eyelashes, and thought how handsome and distinguished he looked; very different from her father, whose hair had been white and his face gray and morose as long as she could remember him. She admired her guardian with an intense admiration that would have amused him greatly had he known of it. But she was afraid of Mrs. Martin, and still more afraid of the boys of whom Sidney had spoken.

The well kept park, with its fine avenue of elm trees, lying round Apley Hall, was very different from the neglected wilderness of a garden surrounding the old Manor House; and the long front of the Hall itself, with its stone walls and mullioned windows, and the broad terrace of velvet-like lawn stretching before it, was very imposing to her eyes, and filled her with a strong feeling of dismay. She was not fit to live in such a place as this, and with such people as inhabited it. A crimson flush rose painfully to her pale face; the tears gathered again in her eyes as Sidney almost lifted her out of the carriage, for her dimmed eyes caught a vision of a beautiful woman coming down the steps to meet them, with an eager and graceful movement, as if she was hastening to welcome her. Dorothy, like a child, flung her arms round Margaret's neck, and hid her face on her shoulder, as she burst into a passion of tears.

"My poor girl! my poor little girl!" reiterated Margaret, pressing Dorothy closer to her, "you will be at home here very soon. We are going to make you fond of us, Dorothy."

"Oh!" she said, "I did not mean to be so foolish."

Margaret herself led her to her room, the one which Phyllis had always occupied when she stayed all night at the Hall. It was near to Margaret's own room; and she wished to have Dorothy near to her. Dorothy had never seen such a room before. There was a small white bed in one corner, hidden by an Indian screen; but in all other respects it was fitted up as a young lady's sitting room. The window sills were low and broad, and cushioned as seats; and as soon as Margaret left her she sat down on one of them, and gazed half frightened about her. There were books, and pictures, and flowers everywhere. A small cottage piano stood against the wall, and a writing table was placed in a good light, as if the occupant of the room was supposed to spend a good portion of her time in writing. How different it all was from the bare, uncarpeted, uncurtained chamber, in a lonely corner of the old Manor, where she had slept last night, and all the nights of all the years she could remember! She felt almost too shy to walk about this dainty nest and examine its numerous decorations. Most of the pictures were engravings of famous originals; and presently she realized that they were chiefly sacred subjects in which the central figure was that of our Lord. Three of them were photographs of bas-reliefs, representing his triumphal entrance into Jerusalem, the way to the Cross, and the procession of sad men and women carrying his dead body to the sepulcher. The predominant impression made upon her by the pleasant room was that produced by these representations of the life of the Saviour. The place seemed like a sacred vestibule to another world.

The sound of voices on the terrace below arrested her attention, and she peeped stealthily through one corner of the window. The light of the setting sun lay low upon it, casting long shadows across the close, smooth turf from some figures pacing to and fro under her windows. There was Margaret; and leaning on her arm was Phyllis, in some wonder of a white gown, with soft spots of color here and there, which to Dorothy's eyes looked the prettiest and daintiest of dresses. She was talking to Margaret playfully and lovingly, but glancing back now and then to smile upon Sidney, who was following them, and by whose side walked a young man as tall, as handsome, and as distinguished looking as himself. This, then, was one of his boys! Dorothy caught her breath, in a sob of mingled terror and admiration.

She stole away into a little dressing room, and looked long at herself, with grave concern and disapprobation, in the mirror, which gave to her, for the first time in her life, a full-length reflection of her face and figure. Her dress was clumsily made, and her dark hair was drawn tightly back from her face, and fastened up into a prim knot at the back of her head. She was smaller and shorter than the beautiful girl she had just seen. There was neither grace nor charm about her, she felt vaguely. Nothing in her former life had fitted her for the one she was just entering. It would have been better for her to have remained at Brackenburn.

She went back to the sitting room disturbed and unhappy; but a soothing and comforting presence seemed to be there. The terrace was deserted now; and only the long shadows of the trees fell across its soft sward. The low evening light gave a tranquil brightness to her room, which was neither hot nor garish; and in it she seemed to see more distinctly the many pictures, which more or less clearly told the story of the life of Christ.

"Oh, I must be good!" she said in a half whisper. "I will try to be good."

She heard a low knock at her door, and Margaret looked in, dressed for dinner.

"My dear," she said, "I thought you would be too tired to dine with us to-day, so you shall have dinner here alone, and Phyllis and I will come and take tea with you by and by. Will you like that, Dorothy?"

"Oh! I could not go down to-night," she answered eagerly.

"And my husband says he will come to see you," continued Margaret; "he looks upon you as his special charge. By and by you will be quite at home among us."

CHAPTER XXIII.

A WIFE FOR PHILIP.

Laura had heard with dismay that Sidney was bringing a rich young ward to live at Apley. But when Phyllis brought a report of Dorothy, after taking tea with her and Margaret alone, accurately describing her appearance and mimicking her manner, Laura's mind was set very much at ease. A timid and awkward country girl was not likely to supplant Phyllis with Philip or his parents. Both Sidney and Margaret took great pleasure in Phyllis's attractiveness; and Laura had made them feel that it was in a great measure due to her constant intercourse with themselves. She only hoped that Dorothy would not be too homely and unpolished to reconcile one of her own boys to marry her for her fortune. A girl with a quarter of a million as her portion set close to her own doors, almost in her own hands, excited Laura's imagination. How admirably she would do for Dick! But it would not do to let Dick know that he must woo her for her quarter of a million. This would be a far more difficult affair than Philip and Phyllis had been, and would require her most adroit management. George on her side, and Margaret on the other side, would not give Dorothy's fortune a thought; it would not appear any advantage to either of them to secure possession of this large sum of money. But Laura was shrewd enough to know that Sidney would be anxious to retain it in his own hands, and no way could be surer than making the heiress the wife of one of his sons. Hugh would not be too young; he was the same age as Dorothy, and she was as young and ignorant as a girl of twelve.

But it seemed impossible to get hold of Dorothy. She was shy, silent, and diffident, and clung, as Laura thought, very foolishly to Margaret. There was a speedy and startling transformation in her appearance as soon as Margaret could procure suitable dresses for her, and have her abundant, soft, dark hair arranged becomingly. Margaret saw no religion in slovenly or peculiar dress; and she took pleasure in seeing everything and every person appear at their best. Dorothy hardly recognized herself in a week's time; and the change in her own appearance fitting her for her surroundings made her feel more quickly at home; but she was very shy with Phyllis and her mother. Neither of them could become intimate with the quiet, retiring girl. Dorothy, like most girls, was more afraid of Phyllis than of anyone else; the very grace of her manner, conventional rather than natural, made her shrink within herself, and feel awkward and homely.

But there was no such feeling in Margaret's benign presence. The neglected girl's nature opened and unfolded under her influence like a flower in the sunlight. There was a strong sympathy between them on religious points. Dorothy had had no training except that of a constant and simple study of the Bible. Her father had allowed her but few books out of his large library, but those he had given to her she knew almost by heart. She was studying diligently now under Margaret's direction, with the aid of teachers who came down from London to give her lessons. This education of Dorothy had an intense charm for Margaret; there had been nothing like it in Phyllis's training, which had naturally been left in her mother's hands. It was a never flagging delight to watch the girl growing day by day more intelligent and more beautiful in her presence; blossoming out into smiles, and caresses, and half timid merriment. It sent a thrill of pathetic pleasure to Margaret's heart when she heard Dorothy's first laugh.

"How much you think of Dorothy!" said Sidney to her one evening some months later, as they sat together on the terrace with Philip beside them.

"I cannot tell you how dear she is to me," answered Margaret.

"But not more than Phyllis—not as much as Phyllis?" said Philip jealously.

"Not more or less," she replied, "but differently. Dorothy is more like my own child. Phyllis has her father and mother; Dorothy has no one nearer to her than me. She has never been cared for before, and she returns my care with the simplest love."

"But Phyllis loves you as much as this child can do," persisted Philip.

"Not much more a child than Phyllis," said his father; "she is not two years younger."

"But she is only a schoolgirl," put in Philip, "a mere child compared with Phyllis. Still if she is in love with you and my mother I can overlook all her defects."

"Phyllis is not in love with me," replied Margaret, laughing, "and I admit that makes a difference. We are blind to the faults of those who are in love with us. 'It is not granted to man to love and to be wise,' I suppose. But don't be afraid, my dear boy. I shall not love Phyllis less because I love Dorothy. We do not carve our hearts into slices, and give piece after piece away till there is nothing left. Rather every true love makes all our other love deeper."

"That is true, Margaret," said Sidney. "I have loved God and man more and better since I loved you."

He spoke earnestly, and in the agitated tone of deep feeling. Life was very full to him just then; and he felt day by day that he was greatly favored by the God he worshiped. His heart expanded with a vivid glow of religious gratitude. What more was there that he could desire? His lot was prosperous and happy beyond that of any man's he knew. Sidney was apt to look at himself through other men's eyes. If he looked at himself as a rich man it was through the eyes of City men, who spoke to one another of him as one of the most successful men in the City. As a religious man he looked at himself through the eyes of Margaret and the rector, who seemed satisfied that he was truly a Christian like themselves. It would, then, have been a crying ingratitude if he had not loved God, who was crowning him with blessings, and man, whose general lot was less prosperous than his own. There was only one more success to desire and to achieve, and that Margaret was unconsciously doing her utmost to attain for him. He must secure Dorothy and her large fortune for Philip.

"Philip," he said, "I see Dorothy yonder under the cedars. Go and tell her I am come home, and have brought something for her."

Sidney watched her and Philip with pleased eyes as they returned side by side along the terrace. She was still a slight, childish-looking girl; but there was no affectation of childish graces in her. She looked up into Philip's face with a shy, half smiling admiration, which had a peculiar attractiveness in it. Philip was conscious of this for the first time, and saw a new beauty, or rather a promise of beauty, in the dark eyes and the quaint, smiling face lifted up to him. Her eyes had a depth in them he had not observed before; and even the nervous interlacing of her fingers, as she ventured to talk to him, did not seem so awkward a trick as it did when he first saw her. Phyllis had never been shy with him; and the shyness of a pretty girl has a wonderful charm. Not that he could compare her with Phyllis for a moment. He was carrying the book she had been reading under the cedars, and looking into it he saw that it was the "Pensées de Pascal" done into English.

"Do you like this book?" he asked in some surprise.

"Very much," she answered.

"But do you understand it?" he asked again.

"Not all," she said; "you see, I cannot read it in French. But when I don't understand I ask Mrs. Martin. She lets me read with her two hours every day," she added, with a light in her eyes, and a tone of gladness in her low voice.

He wished it had been Phyllis who had read with his mother two hours a day. But Phyllis was too much of a butterfly to apply herself to anything for two hours at a time; and solid reading like this would be impossible to her. He was afraid that his father and mother both preferred Dorothy to his destined wife; and a disquieting shadow crossed his hitherto cloudless future as he saw the pleasure with which Sidney watched their approach.

Philip felt that there was a sort of disloyalty in thus thinking of Phyllis in comparison with any other girl; and as soon as he had found a chair for Dorothy, he strolled away, hastening his steps when he was out of sight of the terrace as he crossed the park to the Rectory grounds. There had been a clerical meeting at the Rectory, which had kept Phyllis at home with her mother. But now he caught sight of her standing on the other side of a sunk fence, which separated the garden from the park; and it seemed to Philip as if she felt she was being supplanted in the house which had always been a second home to her. He leaped lightly across the barrier and hastened to her side. As she looked up to him tears were glittering in her eyes.

"What is it, Phyllis?" he asked tenderly.

"You have not been to see me all day," she said in her most plaintive tones, "and it makes me sad. How could I ever bear to lose you, Philip! You and I have been more to one another than any of the others; haven't we? I was thinking just then how we used to play together when we were quite little creatures. Do you remember?"

"I never forget it, Phyllis," he answered; "you have belonged to me as long as I can recollect. How can you imagine you could ever lose me?"

"I am afraid of it sometimes," she whispered, with a sob that pierced him to the heart.

"My darling!" he cried, "that could never be! never! You used to be my little wife when we were children, and you will be my real wife as soon as I am old enough to marry. I suppose we are very young yet, my Phyllis; too young. We must wait at least till I come of age——"

"But I'm afraid of Dorothy," she said, with another sob. "My mother says your father is making up his mind you shall marry her, and your mother is just wrapped up in her. She cares very little for me now, and Dorothy is all the world to her."

"No, no!" he exclaimed, "my mother is not changeable; she loves you as much as ever. Of course Dorothy takes up a good deal of her time, for the poor child has been taught nothing. You cannot be jealous of her, Phyllis. Only think of all you are, and all you know, and compare yourself with a little untrained, awkward girl like Dorothy. Why, there is not a maid in our house who has not been taught more."

"But how fond your father is of her!" said Phyllis.

"And how fond she is of him!" replied Philip, laughing; "she has neither eyes nor ears for anyone else when he is by, except my mother. And she drinks in all he says upon every topic as if she understood it. I suppose she does in some measure, for she has some brains in that little head of hers. But no man could resist such sweet flattery; and I believe he loves her next to my mother."

"More than you boys?" suggested Phyllis.

"Neither more nor less," said Philip, quoting his mother's words, "but differently. Of course his love for a girl like Dorothy must differ from his love for young men like Hugh and me."

"But more than me?" she persisted.

"Perhaps," he admitted reluctantly, "perhaps. But what then? I have only to say I love you, and it will be all right. No, no. He would make no objection; he could not, when I say I have always regarded you as my future wife. Besides, it will be years before Dorothy will think of falling in love. She will grow up for Hugh, perhaps."

"She is not so much younger than me," said Phyllis in a petulant voice.

"Years younger; a child, a baby!" he went on; "not to be compared with you for a moment. But why do we talk of her? You cannot think that Dorothy could ever take your place with me, Phyllis? I cannot remember a time when you were not dearer to me than anyone else—except my mother."

"I cannot bear any exceptions," she said, pouting.

But Philip kept silence. Yes; Phyllis was all he could wish for, and would be a charming wife, with her little capricious ways, and in spite of slight uncertainties of temper. She always stirred within him a sense of life, sometimes of ruffled life, perhaps; but there was no stagnation of feeling in her companionship. But would she ever possess, and, by possessing, diffuse, the sense of great peace which his mother's presence gave to him? He knew there were times when if he could not go to her, and open his heart fully to her wise and tender scrutiny, his life would be crippled and incomplete, and he would be as a man who had lost his eyesight, or the use of his right hand. But it was not so with Phyllis. She could walk merrily beside him along smooth and sunny roads; but when the thorny path came, what would she do?

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE RECTOR'S TROUBLE.

It was quite true that Sidney loved Dorothy next to Margaret. From the first she had been more at ease with him than with anyone else. He had liked to have Phyllis about the house, with her pretty girlish ways, and ready to sparkle with delight if he brought some dress or trinket for her from town. But Phyllis had a father of her own; and her daughter-like smiles and kisses belonged of right to George, not to himself. There was no other man to whom Dorothy owed any demonstration of girlish tenderness and devotion, or who could have felt he was yielding an indulgence, when she watched for his return home, and ran to meet him, greeting him with the frank and innocent delight of a little daughter. Often she was waiting for him at the lodge, with two or three of her great mastiffs about her; and he would leave the carriage to walk up the avenue, listening to her bright and quaint chatter. For she was talkative to him, however silent she might be to Philip. She was growing prettier every day; Sidney found her as pretty as Phyllis herself, and far more natural. He declared to himself that she was as like Margaret when she was a girl as if she had been Margaret's own child. Only one drop was lacking to make his cup of happiness full, and that was to see Dorothy the wife of his eldest son. This keen desire made him more clear-sighted with regard to Phyllis. He could not imagine how he could have been so blind hitherto to the danger of letting so close an intimacy exist between her and Philip. When Phyllis was not at the Hall, Philip was sure to be at the Rectory. Dorothy's shyness with him made Phyllis more his companion. As Sidney began to notice them more closely, he detected an air of appropriation in Phyllis's manner toward Philip which disturbed him greatly. How long had this been going on? It was useless to call Margaret's attention to the matter, as she would look upon it from quite a different point of view from his own. But his son and heir must make a better match than with a poor clergyman's daughter. He must put a stop at once to any such love affair, if it existed.

There was no difficulty in taking a first step in pursuit of this object. The rector was accustomed to dine regularly at the Hall on a Monday night, which he looked upon as his leisure time. George greatly enjoyed these occasions, especially when Sidney and he were alone. They had been brought up by their uncle almost as brothers, and the old boyish love still lived in his heart. He had never seen any reason to dethrone Sidney from the first place he held in his esteem. George was one of the few fortunate mortals who had possessed an ideal all his life, and at fifty could still place faith in it. Sidney and his career had been a ceaseless pleasure and pride to him.

"George," said Sidney one Monday evening, as they lingered alone together in the comfortable dining room, "my boy Philip will be of age now in a few weeks."

"My boy Dick was of age a few weeks ago," replied George, with a smile.

"Ah, yes!" went on Sidney, "and a very fine fellow he is. He will distinguish himself in the world more than Philip will do. Your boys have genius, and will make their mark. It would be hardly fair if Philip had every advantage."

"Philip has riches," rejoined the rector, "but Margaret and I agree that money is not one of God's great gifts."

"But he has other gifts besides money," said Sidney.

"Many, many!" replied George warmly; "he has a noble, unselfish nature like Margaret's, and a steadfast, faithful heart. He is less worldly than my boys. I do not think he could make for himself a brilliant place in this world, any more than I could. But he would stand high in the kingdom of heaven, as his mother's son should do."

Sidney made no immediate answer. George had spoken the truth, but it was an unpalatable truth. Philip was all he could desire in a son, except that he had no ambition, and was absolutely contented with his position and prospects in the world.

"I hope," he said after a pause, "that Philip will make my little Dorothy my real daughter. He is young yet; too young to know his own mind. But under Margaret's training Dorothy is growing all I should wish in Philip's wife. And when I think of how happy my life has been made by Margaret I cannot help coveting the same happiness for my boy. You spoke of God's gifts, George. If God will give Philip a wife like Margaret it would be his best gift."

George leaned back in his chair, staring intently into the fire, with an expression of perplexity and trouble on his usually placid face. How it was he did not know, and now he was trying to find out; but there was a vague impression on his mind that long, long ago it had been an understood thing that Philip was to marry Phyllis. True, he could not recall any conversation on the subject; the children were too young. But it seemed to him that he had always been led to expect it. But who had so led him? Certainly not Sidney, for he clearly knew nothing of it, and had no idea of such a thing. Was it possible he had been mistaken? Could he have been merely dreaming a pleasant dream that his dear child's future welfare was secure? For nothing could have given him greater happiness than intrusting her to the care of a man he knew so well as Philip, who was in fact like one of his own sons. Phyllis had her faults, but they were trifles, said the indulgent father to himself; and she cared more for worldly advantages and worldly show than she ought; but Philip's unworldliness would check all that. He found this hope so firmly rooted in his heart that he could not believe it was only a dream of his own.

"Yes, Philip must marry Dorothy," pursued Sidney, in a tone of friendly confidence, "but it will be soon enough in four or five years' time. Then she will be all he can wish for. If I am not mistaken, Dorothy is not indifferent to him. I can see no brighter future for them both than to be man and wife. They are very equally matched in money."

"But if Philip loved someone else?" began the rector gently.

"He does not, he cannot," interrupted Sidney; "surely his mother and I would be the first to know it. He has no intimacy with any girl except Phyllis; and that is the intimacy of brother and sister. They love each other as brother and sister; nothing more."

"Phyllis thinks more of Philip than she does of her brothers," said the rector, with a sigh. If it was painful to him to be suddenly awakened from a dream, there was possibly the same pain in store for his little daughter also.

"Oh, it is nothing but a girl's fancy," answered Sidney lightly, "even if it is so. She has seen no other young men; and we must get her out more, away from this too quiet spot. Laura can easily manage that. She and Philip are quite too young to have set their hearts upon one another; so do not trouble yourself. And George, old friend, though I love your girl for her own sake as well as for yours, I could never receive her as Philip's wife."

"I don't say that Phyllis loves your son," said the rector, "or that he loves her. It is enough for me to know that it would displease you to set me on my guard lest such a misfortune should occur. I will set Laura on her guard too."

"No, no! much better not," replied Sidney, with one of the genial smiles which had never failed to win George's cordial assent to what he said; "we are two old simpletons to be so near quarreling about nothing. I simply confide to you my hopes for Philip as I always talk to you of my plans. They are all children yet; and will make up their minds and change them a dozen times in the next few years. Let us keep our gossip to ourselves. I do not tell Margaret. Why should you tease Laura?"

But the rector went home that night with an anxious and a troubled spirit. The more he considered it the more certain he felt that Philip and Phyllis believed that they were destined for one another. Laura always spoke, vaguely indeed, but with reiterated persistence, of the two together, as if there was no question of them ever being separated. The boys, too, seemed to think of nothing else; and Phyllis was always left to Philip as his special companion, when he came daily to the Rectory. There were small jests and hints, nods and shrugs, all meaning the same things, among the boys, when Philip made his appearance. He had himself never doubted their love for one another. But how this state of affairs had come about he did not know; it had grown up so slowly and surely. It was an inexpressible shock to him to discover that Sidney and Margaret knew nothing of it. Was it not dishonorable toward these, his dearest and oldest friends, to have thus allowed so close an intimacy to exist between his daughter and their son? Had he taken advantage of their noble, generous friendship, which had embraced his children almost as if they were their own? How deeply he was in their debt for all that made life tranquil and free from cares! And he was going to repay them by basely entrapping their eldest son and Sidney's heir into a marriage with his portionless daughter!

The rector was very miserable, and there was no one to whom he could confide his misery. Instinctively he shrank from confessing it to his wife; and of course he could not tell Margaret. It was a high delight to him to speak with Margaret of those spiritual experiences, which she seemed to comprehend almost without words, but which Laura altogether failed to understand. Of this painful and perplexing anxiety he could not speak. Once or twice he tried to approach the subject, hoping that Margaret might utter some word indicating that she, too, was aware of the attachment between Philip and Phyllis. But Margaret gave no sign that she had ever dreamed of such a thing. Though the idea of it seemed natural and familiar at the Rectory, it was quite unthought of at the Hall.

But one plain duty lay before him—to separate his little Phyllis from Philip as much as possible. He faintly hoped that he was mistaken, and that she had not already given her heart to him.

CHAPTER XXV.

COMING OF AGE.

There was great consternation in the tranquil Rectory, when the rector declared with unwonted decision that neither he, nor his wife, nor Phyllis would go north to the coming of age festivities of Philip. These revels had been talked of for years; and since Dorothy had come from Brackenburn she had been called upon to describe again and again the old Manor House and its surroundings. Philip and Phyllis looked forward to choosing the site of the new mansion together.

"You boys may go," said the rector; "you have been brought up as brothers with Philip, and if he wishes it, it is only due to him and his father that you should attend them. But no one else goes."

"What!" cried Dick in blunt astonishment; "not the future Mrs. Martin?"

"What do you mean?" asked the rector sternly.

"Why, Phyllis, of course!" he answered; and Phyllis laughed merrily, and blushed a little, but did not show any resentment.

"I will have no such jests made here," said the rector with increased sternness. "Philip and Phyllis are not children any longer."

"Children? no!" cried Dick; "and it is no jest either, father. They've always been promised to one another. Of course they are engaged."

"Secretly?" said the rector, unable to utter another word.

"Oh, it's an open secret," pursued Dick. "You ask Philip. Ask uncle or aunt Martin. Ask Dorothy. Ask Andrew Goldsmith. Everybody would say they knew it, except you, dear old father."

"No, your uncle and aunt do not know," he replied in a tone of deep depression and sadness. It seemed an unpardonable treachery that these two should have entered into an engagement without asking the consent of their parents. This base blow had been struck at Sidney in his home, and by those that were dear to him. "A man's foes shall be they of his own household," he said bitterly to himself, as he sat alone in his study, after leaving all the members of his family in a state of dismay and amazement. Philip came to him by and by, having been summoned by Phyllis, and declared that he had never thought of keeping his love a secret; that he was only waiting till he was of age to speak openly of it to his father and mother; and that he did not for a moment anticipate anything like disapproval from either of them. The rector was too unhappy to take courage or comfort. But he could not be shaken in his resolution that Phyllis should not join the party going north.

Philip's coming of age was to be celebrated merely by a gathering of the tenants at Brackenburn Manor, a festivity which could not have taken place at all but for the death of Mr. Churchill, an event which had left the old house at Sidney's disposal. They were strangers on their own estate, and had, therefore, no friendly neighbors to gather about them. Now that the rector so firmly refused all invitations, except for his sons, there was a small party only going northward. Oddly enough, Sidney invited Andrew Goldsmith to accompany them. It was a sudden impulse and freak for which he could not account to himself. Rachel Goldsmith was accompanying Margaret, as she still held the nominal post of her maid, and it did not seem altogether out of place to ask her brother Andrew.

"It'll be a rare treat to me," said the old saddler, "for I've loved Mr. Philip, as if he'd been my own flesh and blood, ever since my lady brought him to my house as a little babe. Ah! if he'd been Sophy's boy I couldn't have loved him more."

It was years since Sidney had heard Sophy's name; for, naturally, as time went on, the memory of her, and of her strange disappearance and silence, had withdrawn into the background of life, and only two or three hearts, that had been stricken sorely by her loss, kept her in remembrance. They had no hope now of finding her; but no day passed in which her father and Rachel did not think of her, and still wonder, with sad bewilderment, what could have become of her.

It was early in December: the few leaves left in the topmost branches of the trees were brown and sere. The wide moors rising behind Brackenburn were brown too, but there were purple and gray tints on them—dun, soft tints that looked very beautiful under the low sky and slowly drifting clouds. To Dorothy it was an unmingled pleasure to revisit, in this manner, her birthplace, and to see its empty rooms peopled by all those she had learned to love. The old familiar house, with its latticed windows shining through the luxuriant tendrils of ivy, which Sidney had left untrained, was quite unchanged; but when she entered through the broad porch into the large old hall, she uttered a cry of delight. It was a transformed and brilliant place; not the bare, barnlike entrance she remembered. Soft skins and rugs lay on the oak floor, and a large fire burned in the wide old chimney, which had always looked to her, when a child, like the mouth of a black cavern. On each side of the broad and shallow staircase there stood flowering plants on every step. The place was the same; yet, oh, how different! A rich color came into her face, and her dark eyes glowed with happy excitement. Margaret was tired, and Dorothy, feeling almost like mistress and hostess in her old home, conducted her to her room, where Rachel was awaiting her lady's arrival.

Margaret was not in her usual health and spirits. There was always mingled with her joy in Philip's birth, the memory of her father's death the day afterward, and the solemn recollection of her own strange experience of dying, as if she had actually passed out of this world, and been sent back to it. Life had never been to her, since that memorable time, the commonplace existence of her mere physical or intellectual being. She had lived more by the soul than by the mind or the body. These lower forms of life had possessed their fullness for her. She had enjoyed the perfect health of her physical nature, with all the rich pleasures coming through the senses, and she had in a greater measure taken delight in intellectual pursuits. But, pre-eminently, she had lived in the spirit, and just now her spirit was overshadowed. There was a conflict coming near from which it shrank.

She was troubled about Phyllis. The girl was dear to her from old associations and the intimacy of a lifetime; but she could not think of her as Philip's wife. No word had been spoken to her yet about this subject; but it had been in the air for the last fortnight, and she could not be unconscious of it. She had guessed the reason of the rector's firm resolution of not coming to Brackenburn, and not letting Laura and Phyllis come. Sidney had not spoken of it; but she thought he was troubled. But the most disquieting symptom of a coming storm was that Philip kept silence, even to her. He never mentioned Phyllis; but he was absent and low-spirited. This was the first sorrow, the first shadow of a cloud, coming over Margaret from her relationship with her husband and her son. Until now she had been able to speak as she thought before them, with quiet, unrestrained freedom. But there had sprung up, during the last few days, a novel feeling of restraint and embarrassment. Neither Sidney nor Philip uttered the name of Phyllis.

After Dorothy had seen Margaret comfortably established in her room, she stole quietly and quickly out of the house, and hastened on to the moors. There was yet half an hour of the short December day, and she could not wait for the morrow. At the first low knoll she turned round to look back upon the old Manor House, with its picturesque gables and large stacks of chimneys. She knew now better than she used to do how very beautiful it was. The sun was setting, and the low light shone full upon the small diamond panes of the many windows, and cast deep shadows from the eaves, and brought into stronger relief the antique carvings on the heavy beams of oak. She felt proud of the place—as proud as if it had been her own.

"Why did you never tell us how pretty it was?" asked Philip's voice; and turning round, she saw him coming up to her over the soundless turf.

"I never knew," she answered, almost stammeringly; "I never thought it was as lovely as this. Yet I've seen it from this very spot thousands of times. Why did it look so sad to me then, and so beautiful now?"

She looked up into his face as if it was a very knotty question for him to consider, and his grave expression relaxed a little as he answered her.

"You were not very happy here then," he suggested.

"I never knew a happy day till I knew your father," she replied; "and I've never known an unhappy one since. Is it happiness that makes a place look lovely?"

If it was so, thought Philip, this place could have no beauty for him. Phyllis was not there, and his heart was very heavy for her absence. And not only for her absence, but from a growing dread of meeting with an opposition he had not anticipated. It was significant to him of trouble that his father and mother never spoke of Phyllis in his presence; he did not know that they were equally silent with one another. Though it was the rector who had prevented her from coming north, he could not help guessing that it was his father who had, in some way, been the real hinderer. The rector could have no objection to himself as Phyllis's suitor, and he felt sure that he at least had looked upon him as her future husband. Phyllis, too, was certain of it, and so were the boys. He was only waiting till he came of age, and stepped into his right of free and independent manhood, to tell his father that he had chosen Phyllis as his wife.

"It is not only happiness that makes a place lovely," pursued Dorothy, after a pause, "it is being with people one loves. Do you see that window just touched by the end of a branch of those Scotch firs? Your mother is in that room. I cannot see her, of course; but that window is more beautiful to me because I know she is there. And I know all the rooms, and how they will be occupied; and the whole house is full of interest to my mind. So that even if it was an ugly place, it could not be altogether ugly to me."

There was a pleasant ring in her voice which was new to Philip's ear, He looked long and earnestly at the old house, which some day would belong to him, unless it was pulled down to make room for a finer mansion. It already belonged to him because it belonged to his father. It was a beautiful old place, with the gray stones of the strong wall surrounding it made warm with golden mosses; and the front of the house covered with undipped ivy-branches, hanging in glistening festoons from every point of vantage. Such a place could not be built or made. Why should he be such a Goth as to erect a brand-new mansion, which could possess no such charm and beauty until he, and generations of his sons, were moldering in their graves?

"Wouldn't it be a pity to pull it down?" asked Dorothy, as if she read his thoughts; "but Phyllis would find the rooms too small, and too low for her. I described it to her one day, and drew a sort of plan of it; and she said it was only a big rambling farmhouse, and you must build a much grander place, because Sir John Martin left a large sum of money to build it with. So I thought, was it quite impossible for me to buy it, and you build a house somewhere near it? Then we should always be neighbors; and it is very lonely here in the winter. Do you think Phyllis would like to live here in the winter?"

It was sweet to him to hear Phyllis's name spoken in this way; no one had uttered it in his presence for a fortnight except the boys, and they spoke it with a sort of jeer, as brothers sometimes do. Dorothy's gentle voice lingered shyly over it. He looked down into her shining eyes with a smile in his own.

"We must not talk of Phyllis living here yet," he said, "not till the day after to-morrow."

"Let us go a little higher up the moors," she said, "I know every little track, and beck, and dingle for miles round. When I lived here with my father, I used to sit an hour or two with him every day, on the other side of the table, reading aloud, and answering the questions he asked me. But he never talked to me, or took me on his knee, or kissed me; and I thought all fathers were the same. The rest of the day I had to myself, and I spent my time here, out of doors."

"And in the winter when there was snow or rain?" asked Philip.

"I read all day long," she went on. "See on the roof there, between two gables, is a little dormer window. There my secret room is. I really believe nobody knew of it but me; and I used to stay there till I was nearly starved and famished. But there was no one to ask me where I had been, or what I'd been doing."

"Poor child!" said Philip unconsciously. The color mounted to Dorothy's face, and she turned away from him a little.

"It is all different now," she continued, after a momentary silence, "you are all so kind and good to me. And I think sometimes that when my father died he too went to a place where everyone is good and kind to him and tries to make up to him for his life here; for he was more lonely and unhappy than I was. I was only a child, and he was a man. I should not like to feel that his death had made me so happy, if it has not made him happy too."

"My mother has always told us that death itself comes to us out of the love of God," said Philip.

He had followed Dorothy along a narrow track, and now they were out of sight of the house. A wide, undulating upland, whose limits were almost lost in the darkening sky, stretched as far as the eye could see. The sun was gone down, but a frosty light lingered in the west. The keen, sweet air played around them; and Dorothy drew in a deep breath, and stretched out her arms, with a caressing gesture, to the wide landscape. She looked more at home here than Phyllis would have done. Phyllis would have seen but little beauty in so wild and solitary a spot. Perhaps it was better that she had not seen her future home for the first time in the winter.

Philip retraced his steps, with Dorothy beside him, in a more tranquil frame of mind. She did not shun conversation about Phyllis; and though nothing was acknowledged between them, he was sure she knew of their love for one another. What was more likely than that Phyllis had told her?

They went back to the house slowly through the deepening twilight, Dorothy pointing out distant objects which neither of them could distinguish in the darkness, though she fancied she saw them, so familiar and so dear they were to her. He looked at the wide, open, dusky landscape, and the broad sky above them, and the picturesque old house, with light shining through the many windows, from Dorothy's point of view. But what would Phyllis think of it, with her dainty, fastidious ways, and her love of society?

As they passed through the great gates into the forecourt Andrew Goldsmith met them.

"Well, Mr. Philip!" he said, "I don't think much of your place. The saddle and harness room is almost in ruins; and the stables aren't fit for anything better than cart horses. It's not to be compared with Apley Hall; and the sooner you begin to build yourself a suitable mansion the better."

CHAPTER XXVI.

AT CROSS PURPOSES.

For the next two days Philip was fully occupied in riding with his father to call upon the principal tenants, who had been already invited to commemorate his coming of age. He was quite a stranger to them, and Sidney knew but little of them. They were mostly farmers; a fine, outspoken, independent race of north-country men, very different in their ways and manners from the same class on Margaret's estate in the south. Sidney made himself exceedingly popular with them; and Philip was almost surprised at his father's tone of easy friendliness with his tenants. But Sidney was, as he told himself, enjoying the happiest season of his very prosperous life. Putting aside that little trouble about Phyllis, which would prove no more than a boy's fancy, he gave the reins to his feelings of exultation and rejoicing. He was very proud of this handsome, athletic, well-bred young Englishman, who was his eldest son and heir, the apple of his eye through all these twenty-one years, since he welcomed his first-born into the world. He was secretly afraid of yielding to the tender recollections that crowded into his brain as his son rode beside him, and, therefore, he flung himself more fully into an open demonstration of his pleasure in introducing him to his future tenants. He told them that the Manor House would not be let again, but that Philip would soon be coming to dwell among them for a great part of the year, and take his position as a country squire. He could never quit the south and the near neighborhood of London himself, but, with his son living up here, he would naturally be often among them, and would get better acquainted with them.

The great dinner given to the tenants and the afternoon merry-making passed off well, as such festivities usually do. But Dorothy, not Philip, was the real center of interest. She had grown up under their observation, a neglected, forlorn, uncared-for child, thought little of by all of them; and suddenly, on her father's death, she had been made known to them as a great heiress. She was an astonishment to them all, especially to the women; the elegance of her dress, the frank and simple grace of her manner, her daughter-like familiarity with Mr. and Mrs. Martin amazed them. When she joined in an easy country dance, with Philip as her partner, there was only one thought in the mind of each of them: This poor little Cinderella was destined to marry the young son and heir.

If Andrew and Rachel Goldsmith had not known better they would have thought the same. Even Dick and the other boys, who had come north to be present at these festivities, said to one another that Phyllis was not missed. Dorothy was very much more the daughter of the house than Phyllis could ever have been. She was at home, and she felt as if the success of these rejoicings depended partly upon her. For the first time, too, she was free from the depressing influence of Phyllis's superiority; and Laura was not there, with her chilling, criticising gaze. No one could be insensible to the charm of Dorothy's gay spirits and sweet kindliness.

But as soon as the last guest was gone Philip went off alone up the moors. The moon was at the full, and poured a flood of light on the twinkling surface of the silent little tarns sleeping in the hollows. The frosty sky was shot with pale red lines in the north, and a thick bank of clouds, the edge of which was tinged with moonlight, stretched across the south. He did not wander out of sight of the black massive block of the old Manor, but all day he had longed to be alone, and here he was safely alone. The day he had been looking forward to, which had been talked of, in his hearing, for as long as he could remember, was come, and was almost gone. He felt distinctly older to-day than he was yesterday. No birthday had had a similar effect upon him. Yesterday he was a boy, bound to obey his father's will; to-day he was himself a man. Not wiser perhaps, not clearer-headed, or stronger in principle than yesterday; but free, with a more real liberty. His actions hereafter would be more definitely his own, for he would be acting more fully on his own responsibility, and at his own discretion. He had always loved his father profoundly, with a depth and distinctness rare in a boy; and Sidney had missed no opportunity of gaining and strengthening the affection of his sons. But of late Philip had learned to appreciate his mother's peculiar character more than he had done in his earlier youth; and if he had asked himself whom he now loved and trusted most implicitly his heart would have said his mother.

For he could not go to his father with the story of his love for Phyllis, and be sure of a patient hearing. He shrank from doing the duty that must at once be done. Until the last few weeks he had not felt any doubt of his father's and mother's consent to his marriage with Phyllis; but he felt now a vague presentiment that his father would say he had never thought of such a thing, and could not approve of it. Phyllis's unexpected absence from these rejoicings had marred the pleasure of the day to him, and filled him with anxiety. She ought to have been at his side, instead of Dorothy, laughing a little scoffingly at the speeches made; his own among them. He loved Phyllis's little sarcasms.

But why did he feel as if he had been guilty of concealment and disingenuousness; he, who was so jealous of his honor, and so proud of speaking to his father with utter singleness of heart? How was it that he became conscious, uneasily conscious, for the first time, that his love for Phyllis was possibly unknown to his parents? It was no secret at the Rectory, that he was sure of; unless the rector himself was ignorant of it. Why had he never spoken openly of it with his mother as he had done with Phyllis's mother? When did he begin to hide this thing from his parents? And why? He could not answer these questions to himself. He felt himself caught in a net, a very fine net, of circumstances; but how it had been woven about him he could not tell.

His mother was gone to her room when he returned to the house, being overtired; and Dorothy was with her. There was a dance going on among the servants in the great kitchen, and his cousins were there amusing themselves. All the rest of the house looked deserted and cheerless, with the disorder that follows upon any festivities. Philip recalled with surprise how happy he had felt, in spite of Phyllis's absence, only an hour or two ago. The cheers of his future tenants sounded again in his ears; and the proud gladness of his father, and tender gladness of his mother, came back to him with a sting of reproach; but still it was his reticence that troubled him. He did not fear any strong opposition to his wishes when they knew that his love for Phyllis was unchangeable. They could not have any objection to Phyllis.

Sidney was sitting in the corner of a huge fireplace, where a fire was burning cheerfully, and Philip sat down opposite to him. For once his father was absolutely unoccupied, musing with a smile upon his handsome face, as if he was reading all the happy past and the brilliant present in the leaping flames and glowing coals upon the hearth. There was no sign of old age upon him. In fact, he was still in the prime of life; strong, athletic, vigorous, with an air of intellectual keenness and power, which set him high above average men. Philip felt as proud of him as he did of Philip. He looked across at his son with a light in his eyes as undimmed as if he had been himself a boy.

"A man now!" he said, as if he welcomed him across the line that had lain between him and manhood; "a man like myself!"

"Yes, a man!" said Philip abruptly, "with a man's heart and a man's love like yours. Father, I love Phyllis as you love my mother."

Sidney was not prepared to receive the blow so soon and so suddenly; it was struck at him in the very zenith of his happiness. But he had expected it to fall sooner or later, and had laid his plan of action. He hoped that Philip was not yet involved in an engagement, and that it would be possible to temporize, to use such tactics as would set him free from the snare. His face clouded over a little, but he still gazed affectionately in his son's face.

"Of course, you have said nothing to her, as you have not spoken of it to me or your mother," he said.

"There was no need to say anything," answered Philip, stammering. "Why, father, she and I have been brought up for one another! I cannot remember the time when I did not think she would be my wife. Neither she nor I have thought of anyone else."

"Does your mother know this?" inquired his father in measured tones.

"I don't know," he replied; "I suppose not."

"Who, then?" asked Sidney.

"Oh! all of them; every one of them," he said, "except my mother and you. I thought you knew of it till a few weeks ago."

"Does the rector know?" pursued Sidney.

Philip paused a little.

"I cannot say yes for certain," he answered, "for the rector seems to live in another world from ours; but I never doubted it till he refused to let Phyllis come here with us. And I never meant to conceal it from my mother and you; it seemed such a settled matter, and you were both so fond of Phyllis. I cannot understand how or why this moment is so painful to me. I thought I could ask you for Phyllis as I have asked you for everything else I wanted all my life long."

"Did I ever refuse you anything that was for your good?" asked Sidney, his voice, which was always pleasant and persuasive, falling into softer tones.

"Never, father, never!" he answered eagerly.

"But I must refuse you this. Listen!" he said, as Philip was about to interrupt him. "Such an idea never entered your mother's mind or mine. The children at the Rectory were brought up with you as if you were one family. I had utter confidence in the rector and his wife. If I had seen anything to make me suspect an attachment between you and Phyllis, I should have separated you at once. Brought up for one another! I see it clearly at last. The plot has been artfully contrived, and cleverly carried out. You are the dupe of a cunning and worldly woman. I cast no blame upon Phyllis herself. But, my boy, Phyllis is born to be the wife of a rich man; she would make a bad wife for a poor one. Think for yourself if you could ask Phyllis to share poverty with you."

"But I shall not be a poor man!" exclaimed Philip. All day long circumstances had impressed upon him the fact that the career of a very rich man lay before him, and he was almost shocked by his father's words.

"You are a poor man until I die," said Sidney, rising and stretching himself to his full height. His tall and muscular frame was as vigorous and powerful as Philip's own, and his life at fifty was probably as good as his son's at one-and-twenty. "How soon would you wish me to die, Philip?" he asked in a mournful tone.

"Oh, father!" he cried; "how can you say such words? I could not bear the thought of you dying."

"But till then you are dependent upon me," continued Sidney, "and you cannot ask me to give you the means of bringing trouble on your mother and myself. I shall probably live another twenty-five or thirty years. Consider how Phyllis would like the life you could offer her. I do not say I would let you come to want; but if I allowed you no more than £800 or £1000 a year, would that satisfy her?"

Philip was silent. There was reason in what his father said. Phyllis would look upon £800 a year as poverty. As long as he could recollect, she had chafed and fretted about the narrow income of her father, and openly expressed her intention of not living as carefully and economically as her mother was compelled to do. Certainly Phyllis was not fit to be a poor man's wife, even if that poor man had an allowance of £800 or £1000 a year.

"But I have always thought of her as my wife," he broke out passionately; "and I cannot give her up. Think how happy you have been with my mother; and why should you deny me similar happiness?"

"Because Phyllis is nothing like your mother," answered Sidney, his eyes sparkling with anger. "Good Heavens! do you compare that empty-headed butterfly with my Margaret? Your mother would be happy in a cottage with her sons and her husband, as happy as she is now in her own house. If I thought for a moment that Phyllis would be such a wife to you as your mother is to me, I would consent willingly, though she could never be like a daughter to me. Phyllis would separate you from me. We should soon be as strangers to one another."

"No, no!" he said; "you have always seemed to love Phyllis, and so has my mother. What can you object to in her? Her father is your own nearest relation and friend. Everybody in Apley knows we have been always thrown together, as if we were some day to be married. Let me know your objections, your reasons. No one came between you and the woman you loved. Why should you not allow me to choose for myself?"

"Because you have not really chosen for yourself," answered his father. "Your nature has been played upon ever since your childhood. I can see it all now, and understand it. Phyllis is not to blame; but Phyllis's mother has laid her plot, and carried it out very successfully. Brought up for one another! Did your mother and I ever speak of your being brought up for Phyllis?"

"I cannot give her up now!" exclaimed Philip.

"Ask your mother if Phyllis would make you a true wife," urged his father.

"But I could not give her up," he reiterated. "It would break my poor Phyllis's heart. Every year of my life binds me to her; every feeling of honor as well as of love. No; it would be impossible. It is of no use to consult my mother. I will tell her I must marry Phyllis, and I will beg of her to look upon her as a daughter. In the sight of God I believe Phyllis is my wife, and I should not be free to marry anyone else. You will give your consent in time, father."

"Never!" his father answered with mingled anger and sadness. "You will be a poor man as long as I live. Tell Laura Martin she and her daughter must wait for my money till my death."