"Thank God I was in time!" he faltered, and the break in his voice made her look up.
"I can't thank you—" she tried to say, and because a lump in her throat choked her, she laughed. "What a state we are both in!"
The laugh grated on her own hearing, but not on his, for he read in the strain of its unnatural tone a fresh effort of her undaunted courage. She stood gazing towards where she had fallen. "If you had not come just when you did, I should have been—"
"Don't!" he entreated.
She gave him a wistful glance. "Isn't it strange? Just one step wrong, and everything nearly at an end. No going to Castle Hill!"
He knew this was not lightness. Her limbs shook, and she was ashen. "Come," he said, and he led her farther. "The question is how we are to get to Midfell."
"I know about where we are. There's a path near—if we could find it. It leads straight to the village,—and to a farm half way, where we might stop."
"A good plan. Wiggles will lead us; he brought me to you."
"Did he?" in surprise. "I shouldn't have thought he could." A cold nose was thrust into her hand, and she surprised herself by bursting into tears. "Dear old Wiggles," she sobbed, and then—"I'm sorry to be stupid."
"It's all right; don't mind. Try not to think about things yet."
He slipped the string once more through Wiggles' collar, and looked at her with solicitude. "You are sure you can walk?"
"Of course I can!" indignantly. "Please don't tell Barbara I cried. It's only—if you knew what it was—"
"I know. Not many girls would have shown such pluck," and the admiration in his voice brought a smile to her lips. "You were splendidly brave. Of course you are shaken now. Suppose you try to make Wiggles understand that we want to go home."
This acted as a diversion, and she was soon her usual self, though pale. Giles explained how it was that he had come to Midfell; and Wiggles proved a reliable guide, so that in no long time they reached the farm, where they were glad to get rid of encasing mud. A man was despatched to bring clean clothing for both, and later they reached Burn Cottage, where extreme anxiety had reigned.
The old lady listened in agitated thankfulness to the tale of her grandchild's narrow escape; and her gratitude to Giles knew no bounds. She held his hand in her soft withered palms, tears in her eyes, words trembling on her lips. She folded her restored darling in a close embrace—no common action for one so undemonstrative—and prayed and wept over her. Phyllys shed tears also, and realised how dear the old grandmother was, despite certain misunderstandings.
What Barbara felt at this outcome of her scheming did not so fully appear. A word of blame with regard to Phyllys' "stupidity" in not keeping clear of the bog received settlement at the hand of Giles.
"Phyllys ought not to have been allowed to go at all," he said; and Barbara understood. She fumed, but was silent.
This event put the presence of Giles in Midfell on a new footing. The cousin to whom Mrs. Wyverne owed Phyllys' life could not be held at arms' length. Let his opinions be what they might, he had earned a right to come in and out. For once, Barbara and Miss Robins were powerless to touch the old lady's determination. Her thankful joy was too deep not to find expression.
During his week at the Inn, he made the best of his opportunity. He and Phyllys strolled about the fields together, had long walks together, talked together endlessly,—though in such talks hers was the lion's share, and he acted the part of charmed listener. He was not a man of many words.
These days of intercourse settled the question for him. Before the week ended, he loved Phyllys, loved her with his whole being. She was not, perhaps, his first fancy, but she was his first true love. She might be his last.
He had no thought, however, of showing in haste what he felt. His attentions were simple and cousin-like in kind; and no one guessed the truth. He knew that he had to win Phyllys, and that the winning might not prove easy.
She was friendly, even affectionate, and delighted with his companionship. He could see that she never forgot what she owed to him; but he had no wish that she should marry out of gratitude; and he would not take her at a disadvantage.
With all her frankness, Phyllys was not easy to read. The very readiness with which she had taken to him, and the easy gladness with which day after day she met him, were, he knew, not hopeful symptoms.
Had she been more shy, less responsive, he might have felt more sanguine. Hopeful he did feel, but hardly of immediate results; and his chief fear was lest he should be drawn into a too hasty betrayal of his love.
That she liked him as a cousin he saw. Whether she would like him equally as a lover was another question. He had to proceed cautiously.
CHAPTER XI
CASTLE HILL PERPLEXITIES
AT the appointed hour for Phyllys' arrival, Mrs. Keith went to the station.
And together they drove through the town, the elder lady exchanging bows with acquaintances by the way. Phyllys took everything in with interested eyes.
Leaving Market Oakley behind, they bowled swiftly along the smooth high-road till Castlemere was reached; then by a lodge-gate they entered the private grounds leading to Castle Hill.
Once indoors Mrs. Keith unbent. Thus far she had merely made herself agreeable. Now her gloved hands held those of Phyllys, and she looked tenderly in the girl's face. After a momentary hesitation, real or assumed, she bent for a kiss.
Phyllys was touched, and a wonder stirred within her. Why should Mrs. Keith be so affectionate? That Giles should have liked to know her had seemed natural, since he was near of kin; but that Mrs. Keith should care was puzzling.
Then she recalled her late peril, and the fact that Giles had rescued her. This might give Mrs. Keith a peculiar feeling. Or perhaps Mrs. Keith was so fond of Giles as to be gladdened by anything that gave him pleasure. Phyllys smiled over the latter solution, and Mrs. Keith kissed her again.
"My dear, I am delighted to get you here. We have wanted it for years. Giles particularly."
"It is delightful to come."
This little scene took place in the ante-room, between hall and drawing-room; and as they entered the latter a slight gasp broke from Phyllys.
It was large and many-windowed, with nooks and retreats, a ceiling artistically designed and coloured, fine paintings on the walls, a broad general harmony of outline and tinting, and a delicate beauty of contrast in details, which at once appealed to Phyllys. She thought of the prim little sitting-room at home, its stiff squareness, its ponderous furniture, its framed texts.
"Ah!" murmured Mrs. Keith.
"I never saw anything like it!"
"Unusual, is it not? I am glad you can appreciate. Now you will like some tea. Where can Colin be?" She rang the bell. "Tell Mr. Keith we are here," she said to the butler.
"Mr. Keith desired not to be disturbed, ma'am. Tea was taken by his wish to the studio."
A fretted look came, and one cup clicked against another. "Nonsense! What nonsense!" Mrs. Keith's brows drew together.
"Does Colin paint?" asked Phyllys. "Mr. Keith, I mean."
"He is 'Colin,' not 'Mr. Keith,' to you, my dear. Yes, he dabbles in painting; and lately he has taken an absurd fancy for messing with wet clay, trying to model. Sheer waste of time, for he has no gift in that direction."
The resentful tone in which she alluded to Colin's pursuit was in contrast with the note of her next remark.
"Such a pity Giles is still away. Yes,—" seeing with pleasure Phyllys' disappointment—"he was to have got home yesterday. But the friend with whom he has been shooting in the Highlands fell ill, and cannot travel. Giles has stayed to take care of him. So like Giles! Always thinking of others before himself! And I know what a disappointment it must be to him. Till he arrives, you must put up with Colin and me."
Phyllys tried to hide what she felt. This was indeed a "Waterloo without a Wellington." She hoped she had succeeded, but was not sure. Those fine restless eyes seemed to see a great deal; and so surely as she glanced up she met them. The scrutiny was kind, however, and conveyed approval.
This first evening at Castle Hill was very unlike what Phyllys had pictured. One figure, large and quiet, with straight gaze and few utterances, had never been absent from previous visions; but while others, hazy in anticipation, were taking shape, that was the one lacking.
Not for long! She found consolation in this thought, and also in Mrs. Keith's assurances that her disappointment was shared by Giles. She could not know that he had given Mrs. Keith no right to make such an assertion, for she had yet to learn the liberal manner in which her hostess was wont to draw upon a vivid imagination.
She did find, to her surprise, that nothing was known by Mrs. Keith of her bog adventure or of the part played by Giles. She told the tale simply not without a shivering aversion which she could not yet conquer. Mrs. Keith showed excitement.
"My dear, what an awful thing! Too dreadful! If Giles had not been near! Yes, he saved your life! How thankful he must have been! No, he said nothing in his letters. But he would not. That is Giles all over—never speaking of what he has done himself. But you and he will never forget. It seems quite a link between you." She shot a glance to see if this was appreciated. Phyllys took it quietly.
Till the dinner-gong sounded, nothing was heard of Colin. Then the butler announced, "Mr. Keith is sorry not to come to dinner."
Mrs. Keith made a sharp turn. "Why?"
"Mr. Keith does not wish for any dinner, ma'am."
"Absurd!" she muttered. Then to Phyllys, with a constrained smile, "You and I must make the most of each other. Colin is treating us cavalierly."
"He must be very fond of modelling," the girl said, as they went through the hall.
"A great deal too fond. Such a waste of time."
"Do you think so? My father used to love it. They said he was a born sculptor."
She had an odd impression that her words had administered a blow. Tightening lips and drawn brows showed strong feeling. Not till they were seated did a reply come, with evident unconsciousness of the interval.
"There are so many things better worth doing."
Phyllys wisely resolved to avoid a discussion.
Mrs. Wyverne, despite opposition from Barbara and exhortations from Miss Robins, on the score of encouraging vanity, had taken care that her grandchild should not do her discredit. Phyllys had one evening frock, which she wore now, pretty, and in good taste. Perhaps she felt its prettiness a trifle thrown away under present circumstances; yet she enjoyed herself.
The great dining-room, with its ancestral portraits, its heavy silver candelabra, its antique furniture, its well-laid table, its flowers, its butler and footman waiting in deferential silence, all laid pleasant hold upon her. She had no sense of embarrassment. Everything seemed natural and as should be. Travelling abroad in childhood, and being much among grown-up people before the age of thirteen, had given her an ease which she could not have acquired in Midfell alone, despite the old lady's excellent manners.
Great as was the contrast between Castle Hill arrangements and those of Burn Cottage, she behaved as if all her life used to the former. Mrs. Keith, narrowly observant, was more and more satisfied. The slight upset to her equanimity, whatever it had meant, passed off, and she talked continuously.
When they returned to the drawing-room, Mr. Dugdale appeared, making at once for Phyllys.
"I knew your father well," was his first remark. "Wyverne and I were friends. He was one of the best men it has ever been my good fortune to come across."
Had Mr. Dugdale set himself to win her liking, he could have chosen no wiser method. For years she had lived among those who condemned her father—Barbara "in toto;" the old lady, not without deep motherly love, yet with grief and regret, because on certain religious points he had not seen with herself. And here was one who had known him, had understood him. Her heart went out towards the elderly man, with his cool cynical manner. Let him be what he might, he had cared for her father. Mr. Dugdale adjusted his pince-nez, and examined her with interest. Then Colin came in.
"Sorry to have been so unsociable. I hope you forgive me," he said, as he shook hands with Phyllys. He spoke in a low dragging voice, and found a seat where his face was in shade.
"Why did you not come to dinner?" his mother asked in displeasure.
"I thought you would excuse me for once,"—cheerfully.
"And of course you have eaten nothing since luncheon. Just like him—" turning to Mr. Dugdale. "Colin never can do anything in moderation. This fad of his will undo the whole good of his time abroad. It is ridiculous."
"Fad!" repeated Mr. Dugdale, with meaning.
Colin fenced quietly, beating off the attack with a half languid but graceful good-humour, which Phyllys thought charming. Then attention was distracted, Mr. Dugdale falling into a discussion with Mrs. Keith on some trivial point of difference. Colin moved to a chair near Phyllys, and she had for the first time a distinct view.
Unlike Giles, certainly. He looked very tired, and there were purple shades below the eyes, which had a fixed inwardness of expression. A hand was lifted between them and the nearer lamp.
"So Giles stole a march upon us, making your acquaintance in the north."
"If he had not, I should not be here now." Somehow she did not at once feel at home with Colin as with Giles. He awakened a shy side of her, seldom visible. Giles from the first had drawn her out. Colin unconsciously repressed her. It might have been his ease of bearing, his calm aloofness. Giles possessed a cultivated ease; but Colin's was an intrinsic ease, which perhaps nothing could disturb. In Giles it was an acquired possession; in Colin it seemed to be a part of himself.
"Ah, then we must be grateful to him."
"I think I am." She tried to speak naturally. "Pity he cannot get home yet."
"Yes; I'm sorry." A pause, and Phyllys pulled herself together. The feeling of bashfulness was absurd. "Mrs. Keith says you are fond of modelling."
A shade of interest dawned. "Do you know anything of it?"
"My father used to model in clay."
"Then you understand the grip it takes upon one."
"Yes; I used to see that. He was a busy clergyman, and had very little spare time. But when he could get to it, he was happy. I was only ten years old when he died; still one doesn't forget."
"Perhaps you will take a look at my studio to-morrow."
"May I? That will be delightful. Are you doing statues?"
"Busts chiefly. I may take to statuettes by-and-by. Portrait-sculpture seems to be my line."
"My father did only small things. I used to stand and watch him, and the clay looked so tempting! I longed to try. They were afraid it might make me rheumatic."
"No uncommon result. So far I have been lucky."
"Have you worked hard to-day?" she asked, noting that he talked mechanically, like a machine wound up.
"Rather."
"Till after dinner?"
"I gave in before that."
"You look as if—" She hesitated, doubtful how far she might venture. The doubt had not assailed her with Giles, yet of the two, Colin was the more gentle. He responded to what she had not said.
"One can't stick to work without paying for it; but the game is worth the candle."
"I wonder if it is!"
The heavy blue eyes, still with that curious oppressed "inward" look, met hers, but could not gaze. "You are a trifle too keen-sighted. Don't betray me, please."
"Wouldn't it be better for you not to talk?"
He took her at her word, and soon beat a retreat.
The others did not notice until he was gone; and Mrs. Keith drew her lips together. "At it again!" was written on her face.
"Had she really not seen?" wondered Phyllys.
CHAPTER XII
COLIN AND HIS WORK
COLIN did not appear next morning till breakfast was ended; and a cup of tea met his wants. Mrs. Keith was short in manner, as if still offended; but her vexation seemed powerless to ruffle him. Phyllys wondered whether he felt it more than he showed.
She scanned him with interest. A gift to delve below the surface was hers, but as yet it had not been developed; and while he interested, he baffled her.
Everything in this new world claimed attention: Colin not least. The contrast was great between his slender outlines and dilettante ease, and the muscular vigour of Giles. That she would like Colin she felt sure; not as she liked Giles, yet perhaps not less. The intellectual development of his face, the dreamy abstraction which seemed a part of himself, laid hold on her imagination. He resembled no one she had hitherto come across. It would be difficult, she thought, to view him with indifference. He might be liked or disliked; he could not be ignored. Her eyes were again and again drawn in his direction; and each time she found herself to be the object of his study.
The night before he had seen a pretty girl in a neat frock, hazily indistinct. Things were apt to grow hazy, when overpowering headache had him in its grasp. He would often talk on, while unable to see across the room.
To-day, though not at his best, he could use his faculties, and he recognised that Phyllys was out of the common. The rounded outlines of her slim figure, the flow of hair about her well-shaped head, the subtleties of moulding in cheek and chin, the sweet expressiveness of eyes half hidden under dense fringes, the changeful suggestions of light and shade—these found their way to his brain, touching him as artist, not as man. He scrutinised her, not as a girl of flesh and blood, but as a subject for statuary.
Breakfast over, he strolled through the French window, and indulged in a cigarette; but when Mrs. Keith disappeared, Phyllys heard at her side the soft dragging voice, which at first she had supposed to mean physical weakness, but which she found to be habitual.
"Will you come with me?" he said.
On reaching the room, lately transformed into a studio, she gave one of her little gasps of pleasure. It appealed to her artistic instincts—hers by inheritance and early cultivation, not slain by ten years of systematic asphyxiation.
Two skylight windows had been made, with arrangements for modifying light from either, and a heavy curtain was partly drawn across the side-window. Near the stove at one end of the long room, on a square of carpet, were a sofa and an armchair. The space remaining was boarded and bare. At the centre stood a modelling-stand, heavy and four-legged, with a revolving top, upon which was something hidden by cloths.
Framed photographs of antique sculptures adorned the walls, varied by fine bas-reliefs. Several statues occupied small pedestals; and on a side-table lay plaster casts of limbs and hands, together with odd little wooden tools, which she touched with pleasure, for they recalled old days.
"And this?" she questioned, pausing beside a closed door. "Is this part of the studio?"
"If I should take to plaster-casting, that will be my casting-room. At present I use it for odds and ends."
He opened the door, and showed a large wooden box, lined with zinc and half-full of damp clay, prepared for use; also a water-tap with its sink, and a watering-pot with a fine rose. "One must have everything ready."
"You don't do the casting yourself, then, or cutting in marble?"
"I have tried my hand at both. Here—" as they returned to the larger room—"a bit of low relief, for practice. Not worth much. Carving in marble is slow work. At present I give my attention to modelling in clay."
He took her round, pointing out some casts that he had brought from Italy, imitations from historic masterpieces. They lingered over a bust after the Venus of Milo; then over the copy of an ancient dilapidated torso, which Phyllys surveyed with dubious eyes.
"I don't think I care about that. It might be anything."
"Ah, but it is grand. The work of a great sculptor. See the moulding, how squarely it is put in. Look at those flat surfaces, and the relation of each to the whole. The main question in sculpture is not so much what a man works at as how he works at it." Then a pause, and a slow smile. "For the matter of that, the same may be said of all Art—painting, music, writing. Now I will show you something that you will appreciate."
He lifted down a bas-relief in pure white plaster, a reduction from Donatelli's S. Cecilia, exquisite in delicacy of modelling.
Phyllys clasped her hands with a gesture of delight, pretty because unconscious, as she drank in the beauty of that refined angelic face.
Colin altered the slant of it. "See—if the light falls in a full glare you hardly make out anything. Now, if I put it so that shadows are thrown, you have the effect—you get the soul of it."
He held the thing motionless, till with a sigh she murmured, "It is 'too' lovely. I'm sure of one thing—it can't be wrong to love what is beautiful."
He looked at her curiously.
"Barbara and Miss Robins say it is wrong to care about looks—any sort of looks—things or people. They say it is vanity and waste of time."
"But true beauty is Divine."
"Is it?" wistfully. "They say it is a snare."
"Do they? Perhaps they have not eyes to see. True beauty is uplifting; but only when one has power to see its inwardness."
"I'm glad to think it is not wrong," she murmured. "I do love things that are beautiful. Won't you show me something you did yourself when you were abroad?"
"I left all behind me. Nothing worth bringing. Here is one attempt since my return."
He led her to a corner of the studio, where stood in shade a head of bronzed plaster upon a stand.
"Giles!" was her exclamation. "How like! Oh, how like!" She viewed it from different positions. "It is his very self. And how wonderfully you have given the look in his eyes. Only a little hollow for each eye—and yet they are 'his!'"
"Sure proof that character and expression reside more in the surroundings than in the eyes themselves."
"And you did this since you came home?"
"Yes. I'd awfully hard work to get him to sit; but he gave in now and then. When he went north, I had to do my best with photographs. No, I didn't attempt the moulding."
Phyllys' next move was towards the centre modelling-table. She had noticed that he kept clear of that, and her curiosity was roused. "May I see what you are doing now?" she asked.
And after a momentary hesitation, he removed the damp cloths, laying bare a child's head in clay, life-size, nearly completed.
It was a lovable little face, half-sad, yet with a tender shy peace. The luxuriant hair was cut low on the forehead, and fell around in heavy waves; and the effect of dark eyes was admirably given, under drooping lids.
"Who is it?"
"Elsye Wallace. She died many years ago."
"You have done it from memory?"
"Partly from memory. Partly from an oil-painting and some photographs."
"I heard a Dr. Wallace spoken of yesterday."
"He is our medical man. Elsye was his only child."
Phyllys gave her attention to the bust, scanning it from various directions. "I like it!" came at length. "I can't tell you how much I like it. Of course I don't know—I'm no judge—but she seems almost to 'live.' You make me love her, as if I had known the real Elsye. Were you fond of her? Do you mind telling me?"
"Yes; we knew her well."
Phyllys looked up. "You ought to go on," she said earnestly. "You 'will' go on?"
"You are encouraging."
"But you don't want encouraging. You know you can do it."
"Nobody knows it always."
"You won't let anybody make you leave off?" She was thinking of his mother.
"No. I shall not be stopped."
A chair was near, and Phyllys sat down, resting her cheek on one hand, gazing earnestly. A smile broke over her face.
"You little darling!" she murmured.
Colin stood back, his attention diverted from his own work to Phyllys. A longing seized him to make a sketch in clay of that pretty girl-head. His fingers ached to reproduce the soft flow of hair, the delicate moulding of brow and lips. She had the precise pose which he would want; and he hardly dared to breathe for fear of making her move. He was trying to learn every curve by heart, that he might be able to replace her. When, in response to observation, she turned, she caught a gleam of that gaze from under the penthouse of slender fingers.
He at once explained. "I am wondering whether you would let me make a study of your head."
"Mine But why? Yes, if you like. That would be rather fun."
"You promise?"
"I should like it if—Will Mrs. Keith mind?"
"I want an unconditional promise."
Phyllys looked troubled.
"She has always opposed my modelling. I think you will admit that a man must choose for himself?"
"Then it is not a new idea?"
"Nearly as old as I am myself."
Phyllys wondered, recalling contrary assertions.
"I promise," she at length said. "But why should Mrs. Keith care?"
"Can't imagine. Neither can Giles."
He was replacing the wet cloths, and she said, "You won't try to work at that to-day? You know you can't."
He finished what he was doing, then replied, "But when Giles comes home you must please see less. I don't betray myself to him, if I can help it."
"Why should he not know?"
"It bothers him. My stupid headaches are a hindrance to work, and he knows how much I want to get on. So please don't draw his attention. That is all. And—" after a pause—"don't name to him this bust."
"I won't, if you would rather I should not."
"I would rather you should not. Now, shall we go?"
In the hall they were joined by Mrs. Keith, who showed some annoyance on hearing where Phyllys had been.
"I have hunted for you all over the house," she complained.
"Phyllys is going to let me make a model of her head."
Mrs. Keith's movement was of protest. "You won't do anything so ridiculous!"
"I can hardly imagine anything less ridiculous."
"Phyllys has come here to enjoy herself."
"But indeed I shall enjoy that," urged Phyllys. "I love anything to do with modelling."
Mrs. Keith's face darkened. "I would rather it should be given up," she said.
Colin made no verbal reply. The gaze of mother and son met, and Phyllys was conscious of a trial of strength between the two. Mrs. Keith's restless dark orbs stared into the quiet blue eyes, which, with all their courtesy, spoke absolute non-submission. Silence lasted hardly three seconds, but in that space he rose superior.
Phyllys was startled by his look of invincible resolution. Had it been Giles she would have felt no surprise. But Colin—the embodiment rather of charm than of strength—that in him should be found, underlying the charm, a force of will which, though endlessly gentle, would have at all costs its own way, she had not expected.
Mrs. Keith's eyes sank, and she spoke sullenly. "Of course you will do as you choose. 'My' wishes are of no importance."
"Of very great importance; but one has sometimes to follow one's own judgment. Some day I hope you will see with me. Shall I show Phyllys the church this morning?"
"No. She is coming with me."
"Then I will go for a ride—" in unruffled calm; and he vanished.
"A great pity! He will only make himself ill again," said Mrs. Keith. "I have such a dread of another breakdown. He is a dear fellow." She glanced quickly at Phyllys. "But I must have you appreciate Giles also."
The girl smiled—a small subtle smile. She did not count that she was in danger of undervaluing Giles. Already she had told herself that she disapproved of Colin's manner to his mother during those three seconds. To anybody else it would not have mattered; but to his mother! She was sure that Giles would never so have contested in Colin's place. None the less, she liked Colin, and she could not see why Mrs. Keith should so persistently oppose his favourite occupation.
CHAPTER XIII
THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH
NEXT day, being Sunday, brought to light fresh aspects of the new world in which Phyllys was plunged.
To her the change had come as a veritable plunge, involving such sensations of shock and breathlessness as a dip in the sea will produce. The novelty of it all gripped her imagination. After years of repression, of squeezing in a Procrustean bed, she found herself in an atmosphere of ease and refinement, in a house where beauty was valued, contrasting with the home where only abstract principle was exalted, and things lovely were eschewed as evil. Something of intoxication was the outcome.
Her hour in the studio had awakened new thought, new feeling. The masterpieces shown by Colin had touched her more deeply than might be understood by one possessing no love of art. In Phyllys this love was inherited, and in childhood it had received careful cultivation.
All the ten years at Midfell, though trained to outward submission, she had fought against the dictums which went in the teeth of her parents' teaching. To some extent she had been moulded by persistent pressure, had taken shape and colour, as a plant under training can be educated into new forms. But, like such a plant, she had a strong tendency to "revert" on the first chance; and here was her chance. The spell of present surroundings was great, and she "reverted" quickly to experiences of earlier days, never forgotten, though of late pushed out of her mind.
Colin fascinated her. His personal beauty—a type of beauty due less to outline of feature, though that outline was fine, than to expression—and his "apartness" from common life were both so unlike aught she had ever come across that she could not dismiss him from her thoughts. And even though she had not quite approved of his manner to his mother, yet his serenity under that mother's resistance to his cherished aim won her admiration.
"I like him," she said to herself more than once. He was different from Giles; and Giles was her friend. Colin might in time become her friend; but this she doubted. She could not got to know him so quickly as she had got to know Giles.
As they walked to church on Sunday morning following the private short-cut, where sunbeams made a swaying pattern of leaf-shadows on a mossy carpet, her attention wandered to him much. She listened for what he might say; she watched for what he might do. Each word and action on his part, though subdued, had in it something suggestive. Giles had not affected her thus. When with Giles she was mainly conscious of her own power over him. When with Colin she was mainly conscious of his power over her.
Midfell Church and its services were plain, almost with an excess of simplicity; less from any wish on the part of Mr. Hazel than from a need to avoid startling the unsophisticated Midfell intellect by "innovations," a word which held terror for the Wyvernes and their coterie. Had such simplicity not been maintained, Phyllys would not have been allowed to enter the porch.
Here things were otherwise, and she was carried back to childhood's days—to her father's church. Here was precisely what old Mrs. Wyverne had dreaded for her grandchild, and had condemned in her son. Not only an aged historic building, great in architectural beauty; but also more of completeness, more of cultivated perfection of form and sound, more of that which for years had been decried in the hearing of Phyllys as unsound, unspiritual, a form of godliness without life, perilous to true religion.
Did it indeed mean peril? Was it perforce mere form, without life? Did no reality underlie the beauty of structure and of sound?
Beauty there was; a perfection of rendering seldom reached in a country village; a well-trained choir; an organ of mellow tone, finely handled. There was, too, the outward seeming of deep reverence, in hushed stillness, in heads bowed reverently during prayers, in low voices joining in the responses. No hurried slurring on the part of Vicar or congregation, no shrill shouting on the part of the choir. All was controlled and appropriate, a worthy expression of the Church's adoration of her Divine Master. The Vicar, a college friend of Giles Randolph, seemed to be a man of unusual intensity of feeling, if the bent head and earnest face spoke truly.
Who would venture to say that in the plain services of Midfell Church, love and devotion and reverence were less than here, though differently shown? But also, who should dare to assert that love and devotion and reverence here were less, because allowed fuller expression? Only, surely, a Barbara Wyverne or one like-minded would roughly thus tread on holy ground, would carelessly so condemn. The Father of all, looking into each heart, reads and values at their true worth the love, the devotion, the reverence, whether uttered in this manner or expressed in that manner before His footstool.
To Phyllys, the surroundings, the spiritual atmosphere, the solemn hush, the stirring music, appealing to her impressionable nature, meant joy and comfort and a new realization of the Divine Presence. That Presence is made known to men through many different channels and by various modes. For years Phyllys had not felt her father and mother so near, because for years she had not felt God so near. Their nearness was involved in His; for they were in Him, with Him. Tears filled her eyes as she knelt. She knew that this Church might be to her as a gate of heaven.
Her late terrible experience on the moor had deepened the sense of spiritual need, and here might be what would satisfy that need. "O I am glad to have come," she whispered.
Presently, standing up, she noted Mrs. Keith's manner as peculiar. Those fine eyes, troubled and restless, were gazing at the east window, as if in protest, and the lips moved beseechingly.
Did this mean prayer? Something had stirred the elder woman, as she had been stirred; only in Mrs. Keith it looked like sorrow, not joy. But what could Mrs. Keith have to grieve her, in her beautiful home, with the most winning of sons, with Giles as a second son ready to give all she wished?—Except indeed in so insignificant a desire as related to Colin's modelling.
Phyllys floated into a train of thought, which landed her beside a chestnut-tinted stream, with golden glimmers in white wavelets, and Giles by her side. Thence by a transition she was in the bog, sinking, horror-stricken, in black slime, and once more she felt the grip of his hand. "But for him—!" she whispered.
Twenty minutes later she and Mrs. Keith stood in the empty church, Colin having gone home.
Architecture claimed attention, and Mrs. Keith pointed out the Norman arches, the solid columns, the stalls and their carved canopies, the aged rood-screen, the new seats of dark oak throughout the building.
"Giles had it restored as soon as he came of age," she said. "It was his first thought. Before that we had a three-decker, and hideous galleries, and pews one could hardly see over, and whitewash everywhere. He had the roof opened out as you see it now, and everything put right. His whole heart was in the work. No, there is very little old glass. The east window had been added early in the century, and it was too frightful for words. So Giles gave this and one other. Lovely, is it not?"
They passed to the "one other" in the north aisle; a memorial window, exquisite in design, the central figure that of a child borne up on angels' wings. The child's face drew from Phyllys an exclamation.
Mrs. Keith made a sound of inquiry, but Phyllys drew in. It might be that Colin would not wish his mother, any more than Giles, to know what he was doing. She went near, and read, "In Memory of E. W."
"Dr. Wallace's child. She died when the boys were sixteen. An occasional playmate." Mrs. Keith spoke coldly.
"And she was—how old?"
"About thirteen. When the church was restored, Giles put this to her memory. Unnecessarily, I thought."
"She must have been lovely. Was Giles fond of her?"
"She was pretty. Both boys liked her. She died very suddenly."
"And her father is your doctor?"
"He is everybody's doctor. I do not care for him. I am afraid my dislikes are as pronounced as my likes."
"So many years ago?" thought Phyllys. And an "occasional playmate" only! Both Giles and Colin must be very unforgetting. She decided that a friendship with the former might last a lifetime.
CHAPTER XIV
SCULPTOR AND SITTER
FOR two hours daily did Colin lay claim upon Phyllys, and she granted what he asked, albeit not easily. Mrs. Keith had ceased from protestation, but many obstacles were put in the way, though in a fashion hardly to be defined.
Phyllys found her first morning in the studio enchanting. Colin was at his best, ready for talk and quietly gay. She had begged to watch the process from the beginning; and she gazed with delight at his deft handling of the clay, as he filled in and covered over the light framework of lead piping, shaped roughly the shoulders over cross-pieces of wood designed for their support, and added lumps which with firm touches he formed into nose, chin, ears, giving each in turn a general resemblance to her own. It seemed that his task would be a bagatelle, he advanced so fast. When she said so, he broke into a laugh.
"This is preparation, not work. If you had not asked to come, it would have been done before I troubled you."
He went to and fro between the large and small room, bringing handfuls of the moist clay, remarking once, "A great sculptor would have a boy to keep him supplied."
"You will be a great sculptor some day," she declared confidently.
The opinion had no weight, yet he smiled. He was in a frame to be easily pleased. For one thing the sun shone; for another, he was free from headache; for a third, he felt that his sitter would bring inspiration. With all his outward placidity, Colin was an artist in temperament; a weather barometer; a creature of moods.
"Do all sculptors work as fast as you?"
"There are different modes. Not only one excellent way. Some do it slowly, adding pellets, not lumps. Each has to follow the method by which he can produce the best results. The broader and quicker method suits me."
"You seem to build it up," she murmured.
"That is the essence of clay-modelling. It is a literal building up. In marble sculpture one has the reverse—carving away material, and leaving the figure exposed."
"You mean it was there all the time, shut up in prison, and it had to be set free," she suggested, with a happy little laugh.
That brought his eyes upon her. "Precisely. But only a sculptor can see it there, before he cuts away the mass that hides it."
Colin had made a rough clay sketch of Phyllys in the attitude which first attracted him, and this rendered it easy to place her anew in the same position. She had to gaze at a bust, and could no longer watch his manipulations: so time passed slowly. A quarter of an hour seemed like a full hour; and to maintain the position was difficult. She tried to find entertainment in chatting about Midfell, but his murmurs of assent acted as a check, and she sank into silence, which soon meant an expression utterly "dead."
He had to arouse himself that he might arouse her.
This day all went well, and he proved merciful, allowing frequent rests.
In days following the work advanced more slowly; nay, even stood still. He could not satisfy himself.
He would stand, doing nothing, gazing at his sitter, with an air of calm aloofness, as if trying to read her soul. The aloofness prevented self-consciousness. Sometimes she wondered what it was that he saw or wished to see. Sometimes she had a sense that he saw deeper than other men—than Giles, for example. But all the while she recognised that she was his "sitter" pure and simple. He was studying a model for artistic purposes. He was not troubling himself to know Phyllys Wyverne for her own sake.
Then, when fifty minutes of endurance were ended, he would move, would hope she was not tired, would offer her the armchair, would ask whether she minded a cigarette, would change in a moment from the artist to the host. She found in him a dual nature; not like that of Giles, simple, homogeneous, the same throughout. One hour he was sculptor; another hour he was man.
Perhaps she admired him more as sculptor, and liked him more as man; but the combination had power.
By the fifth day things were going ill. Colin was not pleased with his work. He foresaw that this bust would be less of a success than that of Elsye Wallace; and the harder he toiled, the less he got on. He was gaining a worn look, his features becoming sharply drawn. Phyllys longed to advise a day's holiday, but did not venture.
A rap at the door made him lift troubled eyes, and a box was brought in from the moulder, containing, as he knew, the cast of Elsye.
"Put it down," he murmured, and bent anew to his modelling. It was characteristic that he should bestow his whole energy on the task in hand, and should have no thought to spare for that last completed. But presently, finding his sitter hopelessly "flat," he suggested an adjournment, and took out the cast.
"It's lovely," Phyllys said. "Are you not glad? Don't you feel proud?" She stretched her arms and sat down, while Colin threw himself into the armchair. "Isn't it perfect?"
"I don't know."
"Ought you to do any more to-day?"
There was a brief laugh. "Certainly I ought—if I can. That's the question."
"It seems getting on so nicely," she ventured.
"It's a dead failure," he replied shortly.
"I suppose people don't know their own faces. It seems to me all right."
"It's not you! I can't get at yourself."
Phyllys smiled, not ill-pleased. "But you don't expect to put my real self straight off into a lump of clay?"
"If not, I'm no sculptor."
Phyllys' next remark was commonplace. "You've got my nose and mouth all right."
He laughed again. "If that were all! The veriest tyro could do so much. An artist aims higher."
Her eyes questioned him.
"True Art means more than a copy," he murmured. "It means interpretation; not copying. There's a lack of soul in what I have done. You have an elusive personality. I can't get at your true inwardness. Yet I'm not usually a duffer at character-reading."
"That reminds me—" and Phyllys spoke eagerly—"I wanted to ask you, what did you mean one day by the 'inwardness' of beauty? Do you remember?"
She had to recall to him what had passed.
"I meant the 'soul' of it. There is a soul to every outward form of beauty."
"I don't think I understand."
He roused himself to explain. "In Art each body has a soul. That is to say—in Nature, with which Art deals, which Art interprets. One has to get at that soul, before interpretation is possible. A superficial resemblance is nothing. Every thought of man may find outward expression, in word or in shape; and the outward expression is the body; the thought from which it sprang is the soul. Every thought of God may—perhaps must—find expression in word or in form; and there again, that which is manifest is the body, but the Divine underlying thought is the 'soul' of that which is manifested. If once you realise this, I don't think you will be in danger of undervaluing beauty."
"I don't think I am," she said. Then, smiling—"I'm glad it isn't easy to know me at first sight."
"Much of you is easy; but you have many facets. When I think I have reached the true Phyllys, I find myself mistaken. One day you are one thing, next day another. My aim is to get to the background."
"I wonder how you mean to do it," she laughed.
She had recalled him to his purpose. He leant forward, examining her with a penetrative gaze. She met it firmly, determined on resistance. She would be as elusive as she chose.
But those blue eyes had power. They differed from Giles' eyes; and they were reaching deep. If this was a trial of strength, she knew that he was gaining the mastery. She could not veil from him what he meant to see. Despite her will-refusal, he was getting into touch with her "inward" self. He was stronger than she. She knew it and resented the fact, yet was oddly glad.