A HARSH VOICE BROKE THE PAUSE, "SO—USING PHYLLYS
FOR A MODEL."
An abrupt consciousness dawned that this meant more than artistic interest. The indifference, the "apartness" had vanished. Her eyes fell before his.
Colin had never seen her thus, though he had for days analysed every line in her face.
This was no matter of lines; and though as sculptor, he thought less of colouring than of form, yet the pretty flush, the troubled curve of coral lips, the sweetness of downcast eyes, laid hold upon him. If she was a being of many facets, he was the same, and a facet of hers touched squarely a facet of his that moment.
"I have come upon the real Phyllys at last," he was saying; and his joy was only in part artistic.
Phyllys said nothing. She knew that he was reading her still; and she could not meet his gaze.
A harsh voice broke the pause. "So—using Phyllys for a model! How is that, pray?"
Phyllys looked up in amaze. This—Giles? This—her Midfell friend, her rescuer!
He went across to shake hands with her, absently, as if the act were mechanical; then stood between them, facing the fireplace, his back to the long room; tall, solid, upright. His hands were clenched, and the blaze of yellow light on his eyes was like that of a wild beast. Wrath transformed the whole face. Its deep red was exchanged for a mottled pallor.
Phyllys stiffened into girlish dignity. If Giles felt no pleasure at seeing her, she would show no pleasure at seeing him; and what could make him behave in such an extraordinary way?
Colin's first movement had been a start, but he replied in his lowest, most dragging voice—
"Yes; I'm making a study of her head. Not a successful one, I'm afraid. You didn't let us know you were coming to-day."
Giles turned from the speaker with a passionate movement, towards the bust of Elsye Wallace.
Phyllys recalled Colin's not wishing him to know of its existence; and she wondered—had he seen it on his first entrance?
But no! This evidently was his first glimpse; and the surprise was not a pleasant one. He stood gazing, his hands still clenched, his face set as in iron.
"That was not to have been seen," observed Colin.
The words, meant in explanation, put a finish to Giles' anger. He swung round, and strode blindly away, knocking against the heavy modelling-stand with such force that the bust of Phyllys was hurled to the ground. But he made no pause, and his step could be heard retreating along the passage.
Colin sat down, resting his brow on both hands.
"What an awful duffer I am!" he murmured.
"But nobody knew Giles was coming," ventured Phyllys.
"One might have expected it."
"I don't see why he is vexed."
Silence replied. She knew that, whatever there was to learn, she would not hear it from Colin.
"You won't work any more now, will you?"
"I don't think I can."
Another break.
"Had I better go? Mrs. Keith said she would want me."
He stood up to open the door, relieved, she thought, at the suggestion. Outside, remembering that she had left a book, she went back, to find Colin flung prone on the sofa. The bust still lay where it had fallen.
"Couldn't I get anything for you?" she asked. "Your head is bad!"
"Rather! No, nothing I want, thanks. Is that your book? I'll have a lazy hour."
Phyllys went again, feeling flat. This was not the manner of meeting with Giles that she had pictured. She was disappointed by his indifference; and his display of temper left an unpleasant impression. Could it be that he objected to Colin making a model of her head? But that would be childish! Why should he mind?
CHAPTER XV
AN INADVERTENT DISCOVERY
IT was one of those links in the chain of life, which present themselves unsought, which at the moment seem unimportant; yet which have a grave bearing upon one's after happiness.
Phyllys had no thought of making any discovery; indeed, she did not recognise it as such. Her mind was bent upon the disappointing nature of human friendships; though she did not use such phraseology, but only said to herself that things were "horrid." She was perplexed and uncomfortable; wondering what could have so upset Giles; wishing he would behave like his former self.
Little had been seen of him since his arrival. At luncheon he was sombre, and Phyllys treated him with dignity. Colin looked ill, ate nothing, and talked like a machine wound up; and since luncheon he too had been invisible.
Between five and six o'clock Phyllys was alone with Mrs. Keith. Rain fell heavily, keeping them in, and keeping callers away. Mrs. Keith knew nothing of the studio scene; but she had noted with dismay Phyllys' bearing at luncheon, towards both Giles and Colin, and she used this opportunity to descant on dear Giles' fine character, the beautiful devotion between him and Colin, and the manner in which, years earlier, he had been wont to deny himself amusement that he might spend hours beside Colin in a darkened room, making time pass for the invalid.
"If you had any idea how Colin used to suffer, you really wouldn't wonder at my anxiety," she observed. "For days together he could hardly endure a glimmer of light. One dreads what might bring that back. And Colin never can do anything without working himself into a state of excitement."
She reverted to the merits of Giles.
"There is something about him so grand, so unlike the common run of men. He has such control over himself. Colin is a dear fellow too; still, his is the smaller and weaker nature."
"I shouldn't have thought so; he seems to me anything but weak."
"That may be hardly the right word; and if he is small, it is only by comparison with Giles. Almost any man seems dwarfed beside him. Yes, even my own boy. Is that odd? Why should love be blind? I do not see Colin's faults the less, because he is dear to me. As for Giles' faults, really I find it hard to say what they are, except a hot temper, conquered long ago."
Phyllys was silent. Morning recollections supplied a commentary.
"Dear fellow, he is so unselfish," went on Mrs. Keith. "So wonderfully kind. Giles' wife, by-and-by, will be the happiest of women. As for Colin's wife, it is to be hoped that she will not mind his moods and trying ways."
But if Mrs. Keith wished to turn Phyllys from Colin to Giles, she went to work in a wrong fashion. Talk presently branched to Kathleen Alyn and her father, and Phyllys felt this to be a safer topic. She was learning caution.
"Kathleen is a fascinating woman," averred Mrs. Keith, beginning to outline an elaborate pattern upon a square of silk. "Everybody likes her. Mr. Dugdale can be disagreeable when he chooses."
"I should think most people could." Phyllys liked Mr. Dugdale.
"Tiresome!" muttered Mrs. Keith. "This silk will not do. I must get the other piece."
"What piece? Can I find it?"
Mrs. Keith raised absent eyes. She was thinking what a pretty tractable wife Phyllys might make for Giles. For reasons of her own, unknown to other people, she had set her heart on this consummation.
"Thanks very much, if it will not be a trouble. I don't want to disarrange these things by moving. It is a square of crimson silk, and you will see it on the shelf, just inside one of my black oak cabinets. There are two in my room, you know. The one that is unlocked, on the right side as you go in."
Phyllys ran upstairs, thinking still of Giles, and suddenly found herself face to face with him. He looked so solemn that she could not resist a smile, and his face relaxed.
"I have seen nothing of you yet," he observed. "But to-morrow—"
"Are you going out now?"
"I am obliged, unfortunately. But, if I might count on you in the morning for a walk—would you come? We have no fells or mountain streams; still, you shall see something pretty."
Phyllys demurred, for she had hitherto devoted the better part of her mornings to the studio. It would not do, however, to be at the beck and call of Colin. Her proud spirit rose in protest, all the more because she had felt his power.
"I should like a walk," she said demurely; and Giles' face, growing rigid under her hesitation, lighted anew. She could not but see the change.
"Then I may reckon on you," he said, and his look was eloquent.
Friends still! That was what it uttered.
She gave one slight flash, and ran off. With regard to him, as with regard to Colin, questioning arose. Was it with the one only artist-interest? Was it with the other only friendship?
Phyllys made no attempt to find a reply. She knew that it was delightful, after years of snubbing, to find herself the object of so much attention.
Reaching Mrs. Keith's bedroom, her recollections were confused. A black oak cabinet, unlocked—so much remained. Turning to the left, she pulled the door of the cabinet on that side, and it opened. Within she saw no crimson silk. A pile of shawls and cloaks had been heaped together in the space below; and she disturbed the pile, pulling it out, searching for the silk. So doing, she came on something behind; a half-length portrait in a black frame. A pair of blue eyes, dreamy, observant, met her own. "How like!" she exclaimed.
The style of dress belonged to a bygone period, and the face as a whole was hardly that of Colin. It was a resemblance less of form and colour than of the spirit which gleamed through.
"Some near relation," she conjectured. "But why keep it hidden here?"
Convinced that the silk was not within the cabinet, she restored the portrait, piled the clothes as before, and tried to shut the door.
Then she saw that it had been locked, and that the hasp had failed to catch. No key was visible. She recollected Mrs. Keith's words, "On the 'right' side as you go in." This cabinet stood on the left.
She went to the second cabinet, found that to be genuinely unlocked, and saw the crimson silk. She caught it up and ran downstairs.
"I'm sorry to have been so long," she said. "I opened the wrong cabinet by mistake. Somebody had locked it in a hurry, and had not shut it first. I forgot all about right and left, and wasted time hunting. I could not help noticing the oil-painting under the things. It has such a look of Colin. A young man, in a queer old-fashioned dress. I wondered whether it might be Colin's grandfather, and whether he was dressed for theatricals." She stopped; for Mrs. Keith's face had grown colourless.
"Are you faint?" she asked. "May I get anything for you?"
"Thanks, no; it is nothing. I shall be all right. So stupid of me!" And Mrs. Keith smiled. "I have had three or four such turns lately. I shall have to ask Dr. Wallace for a tonic; only I do so dislike the man. Well—" and she pressed her handkerchief to her lips—"now I am better. What were you saying, just before the faintness came on? Something about—how absurd of me to forget! My head is confused."
"Only about that old painting in your cabinet. I thought it must be some relative, because of the likeness to Colin," She would not suggest Mrs. Keith's husband, though the idea had occurred. A wife would hardly bury her husband's portrait beneath a pile of old clothes.
"Ah, to be sure—yes!—I remember. An old painting of my brother Jock—Colin's uncle. Not so old, of course, as it looks. The artist had a fancy to do it in that style. You are right about the dress. It was for theatricals. He was good at acting—very much in request. You found the silk?"
Phyllys gave it, remarking, "I had not heard of your brother."
"Really! But you would not. Jock has been so long in Australia, never coming home, that friends forget his existence."
"Had you not better rest?" asked the girl, pitying her blanched lips.
"It really is of no consequence. I am used to these turns, and I think nothing of them. One word, before any one comes. Phyllys, I am going to treat you as a friend."
Phyllys waited, and Mrs. Keith's lips worked nervously.
"That old portrait—no one except myself knows about it, and I 'particularly' wish that others should not know. There are reasons which I am not able to explain. It has—painful associations. The very sight of it makes me miserable for days."
"But Colin—" the girl said.
"Colin has no idea of its existence."
"Of course I will say nothing."
"That is what I was going to ask. If you had kept to my directions you would not have opened the wrong cabinet. Under the circumstances, I have a right to ask you never to mention the portrait. It would mean no end of talk and explanation—and pain to myself, which really I cannot stand. Will you give me your promise, on your word of honour?"
It seemed to Phyllys a considerable fuss about nothing; but she readily made answer, "Yes, of course. I promise never to say a word to anybody about the painting unless you give me leave. I'm sorry I went to the wrong cabinet."
"That does not matter, my dear. All I wish is to avoid tiresome and useless discussions. But I know I may depend upon you, and now we can dismiss the subject. I think I must have some sal volatile after all—I feel so queer still. Thanks, no—I had better go myself. It will do me good to move."
She mounted the wide staircase, stepping languidly till within her own room. Then her manner changed. She bolted the door, and went to the left-hand cabinet, finding it as described by Phyllys.
"How insane of me!" she muttered. She began to pile more clothes over the picture, but stopped.
"No; now it has been seen, it must not stay there."
Her eyes wandered round questfully, and she went to a large cupboard, within which was a heavy wooden box. This with difficulty she drew out. It contained several summer gowns of thin materials, too old-fashioned for use. She had a weakness for storing away disused articles of dress.
In the bottom she laid the portrait, face downward, finding just sufficient space. Over it she spread a woollen shawl; over that the gowns neatly folded; then she shut the lid, turned the key, and pushed the box to its former position.
Somebody was tapping at the door. She straightened herself, hid away the box-key in an inner drawer of her writing-table, locked the left-hand cabinet, and resumed her languid air before admitting Phyllys.
"Can't I help you?" asked the girl, with astonished eyes. "I came to see if you wanted anything—and I heard you pulling something heavy about."
"I had to look for a business letter. Nothing of importance; but it was rather out of reach. Thanks, no; I do not want anything. I am much better—quite myself again."
Phyllys was perplexed, remembering the energetic sounds which had drowned her raps.
CHAPTER XVI
LEVEL PLAINS
KATHLEEN ALYN, though not given to fancies, had taken a fancy to Phyllys. She had a large circle of acquaintances, but did not make friends.
Not that hers was a cold nature. On the contrary, she was famed for universal cordiality. Any human being who came was secure of a welcome. "Dear Mrs. Alyn is so sweetly affectionate," her lady admirers declared. "Kathleen is always interested," her father often said.
She would appear to each in turn, as if that person were the one being in the world for whom she cared; no whit the less one hour with Mrs. Brown, than the next with Mrs. Green. "Such a 'dear' woman!" would be said by the departing caller.
Some, of more critical tendency, noting the universality of her friendliness, questioned its worth, since that which is given to all loses its value for the few. Yet even they could not but admire the self-mastery which showed equal warmth to the acquaintance of to-day and the friend of years.
Only—as above said—she did not make friends. That discovery came next; and a step farther would convince the observer that Mrs. Alyn had no heart.
Had she not? Kathleen could be as "elusive" to the world as Phyllys to the sculptor.
"My daughter is one of the most fascinating women that ever trod this earth," Mr. Dugdale had been known to observe. "None the less, she is a humbug. A delightful humbug, I grant. She has cultivated the giving of sympathy, till she has reduced it to a fine art; and that which is Art ceases to be Nature. She has developed into a patent machine, warranted to produce so many gallons of sympathy per hour. Nothing can be more satisfactory—for those who are content with sympathy by the gallon!"
Despite this judgment, which he would have been the first to repudiate from any lips but his own, he went to her as often as he wished for an agreeable listener, which was not seldom.
Towards Phyllys she was disposed from the first to show an interest differing in kind from that paid out by the gallon. Phyllys had her faults, but she was true and dependable; and perhaps it was mainly this, combined with originality and charm, that appealed to the young widow, who gave much and received little, and who was at heart lonely, despite her popularity.
For if Kathleen were a humbug, she was so unknowingly; and beneath a stratum of unreality lay a heart which had loved and could love, though few came into touch with it.
She was feeling her loneliness the morning after Giles' return, not knowing of that return; and she sent her small boy, Gordon, to Castle Hill with a message, "Would Phyllys come to luncheon and spend the afternoon with her?"
Gordon arrived in time to hear that Phyllys had started with Giles some time before. He was a young man with independent views for his limited age, and he promptly resolved to follow them up, breathing no hint of his intentions, since he would certainly be forbidden. Having in a casual fashion asked the walkers' direction, he strolled out of sight, presumably on his way home, and then started at a trot.
But his legs were very short, and the chase proved a long one.
No question had arisen that morning as to studio-work, for Colin had not appeared. "One of his worst headaches," explained Mrs. Keith. "His own fault entirely, poor boy! If only he would have the sense not to be always at that ridiculous modelling!"
Phyllys fired up in his defence, with a promptitude which for once rendered Mrs. Keith dumb. Giles' face had darkened at the news of Colin's state; and he now looked at her strangely. She was soon ashamed of her little outburst.
What most vexed her was the calling of Colin "poor." Whether she liked him or Giles the more she could not decide; but no question existed about her admiration for Colin, whom she regarded as one gifted beyond the common run.
No more was said, and the walk came as a matter of course. It was a perfect morning, and she might have congratulated herself on being in the open air, instead of having to sit for two hours like a waxen image—only such congratulation seemed unkind to Colin. She felt it to be hard that whatever he set himself to do should be hampered by ill-health, and opposed by the one individual of whose sympathy he ought to have been sure. Giles had everything—good health, vigour of mind and body, wealth, position, and the favour of Colin's mother. And yet—Phyllys felt that, had the choice been offered to her whether to possess Giles' many gifts or Colin's one gift, she would have had no hesitation in choosing the latter.
"Anybody may be strong and rich," she thought. "But to have genius!—that is best of all—that is above everything." In her girlish judgment no doubt existed that Colin's power held the Divine spark which means so very much more than mere talent.
Presently she woke to her own abstraction, and consequent silence. A side-glance revealed the gravity of her companion's look. Their eyes met, and he said—
"You are thoughtful to-day."
She would not let slip her thoughts. He and she were friends; but she had her reservations. Who has not, with the dearest of friends? Two days earlier she might have chatted frankly of Colin and his pursuit; but now she was not able. She could not forget the experience of the day before, and Giles' anger. The latter had made her afraid of a false step; and she was still more afraid of awakening in herself renewed sensations of consciousness. It was safer to keep to the surface.
So she launched into light chatter about Castle Hill and Midfell; making little jests, laughing, and doing her best to make him laugh.
For the moment she succeeded. Her winsome ways captivated him anew; and his very silence, the reluctance of his smile, his absorption in what she said, all drew her out, making it easy to pour out her thoughts.
Yet she was keenly alive to the contrast between this morning and previous mornings. Being with Giles after being with Colin was like walking on a level plain after climbing a mountain peak. The simplicity, the whole-heartedness, were refreshing; but she found herself longing for the mountain-heights.
The two men were different in mind as in body. With Colin she had a sense of inferiority; a consciousness of being pulled to a higher level. She was fascinated, and afraid; not sure how far she understood; eager to understand more; delighted when he responded; ready at any moment to fall flat, if he treated a remark with indifference.
With Giles she had no especial sense of inferiority, unless in respect of muscles. She was aware of her power over him, aware that she could make him like her—perhaps as much as she willed. She knew she could touch his happiness: and she was dimly conscious now that something connected with herself made him unhappy.
Once, Giles had had the feeling that he could do what he chose with Phyllys. That had been a momentary sensation, true, but fleeting. In the studio, on his entrance, he had known that "Colin" could do what he willed with Phyllys; and the mad pain and wrath which carried him away would have opened his eyes, had they not been opened already, to the nature of his love.
To-day it was Phyllys who felt that she could do what she desired with Giles; that she could twist this powerful man, if she would, round her slim little finger.
The sense of command was delicious, as it generally is. And yet! When a vision arose of the studio, and of Colin's delicate absorbed face, with penetrative eyes searching her soul, she knew she would rather be there than here, even though she had no such sense of control over him, and could no more twist him round her finger than she could turn aside the winds of heaven in their paths.
Not that she preferred Colin to Giles. Giles was her friend. Colin had not even sought her friendship. But to some natures there is an even greater charm in the sense of being controlled by the personality of another, than in having control over another. And Colin attracted her. She wanted to watch him again at his work, to study his curiously dual nature, to learn from his murmured suggestions, to grasp his ideals, to breathe the mental and spiritual atmosphere which he breathed. Giles awoke in her no such cravings. She was not sure that he would understand what they meant.
Phyllys pulled herself up. This was heterodox. She remembered all that Giles had done; not only saving her life at risk to his own, which probably any man passing would have tried to do; but in cousinly kindness, day after day. She was forgetting anew to talk to him. Pretty apologetic eyes went in his direction.
"I am afraid you are tired," he said.
"I! I'm never tired!" she declared.
"We are there now, and you will be able to rest," he said, with a smile of melancholy.
He had promised "something pretty," and he kept his word. The spot to which he led her was beside a river, broad and swift; not chestnut-hued or broken by stones with swirls of white foam and gleams of golden light; yet a most fair scene, after a more ordinary type. An arched stone bridge spanned the stream; cows clustered under its shadow; and on the other side flags grew in abundance. On their own side of the water, which faithfully reflected the tint of heaven, a clump of willows sparkled in sunshine.
This was what Giles had pictured beforehand; and Phyllys exclaimed in admiration. He found her a seat, and she sank into silence, forgetting to talk, her cheek supported on one ungloved hand, her lashes dropped till they half-veiled her eyes.
It was the attitude which had inspired Colin's artistic sense. It inspired another sense in Giles.
He could not turn his gaze from her. Not that he was seeking, like Colin, to penetrate her soul. He was only enchained, taken captive, at her mercy. He was not analysing his own feelings. He was not good at self-analysing, and words never flowed with him, even in the secret chambers of his mind. But without words, without verbal definition, he realised to the tips of his fingers that to have Phyllys thus was happiness; that to have her always would be heaven. And then with a throb of pain, he realised that not to have her, never to possess her, would be—
He dared not face that possibility. It was enough to unman him. Cold drops broke out.
What was she musing about, as she sat there, sweet as a rosebud, not dreaming the passion of longing which shook the strong man at her side? She was not occupied with him. Yet his gaze drew her attention, and she looked up, with a sigh of pleasure.
"People who don't love beautiful things must lose a great deal of happiness."
Giles thought so too, feasting his eyes on a beauty which was not of inanimate Nature.
"Colin says beauty is Divine," she murmured; and the words gave him a shock. Though taken less by surprise than on the day before, he felt a flame of wrath through his frame.
He thought he had known before! Now he knew that he had only conjectured. It "was" then—Colin! Colin had stolen her from him. Colin—his more than brother! A wave of resentment rushed into the affection which had bound those two since infancy.
"Don't you think so?" she asked, turning towards him.
The smile died out. He could not control his face, and what she saw startled her.
"Are you vexed with anything I have said?"
"Never!" He strove to clear the thickness from his voice. "I never could be vexed with you. It is—only—" He had difficulty in speaking, and she looked with perplexed eyes. "Only—a passing thought—a recollection. If I was vexed, it was with somebody else—not you!" Then he mastered himself. "You were saying something about beauty being Divine. Colin's idea, was it not?"
"But you did not like that, so we can talk of something else," she said, with a touch of reserve which wounded him to the quick.
"I should like you to explain."
"Colin could explain better. You should ask him. Why—there is Gordon!" she cried. "Here we are, Gordon! Come along."
Gordon marched composedly up, with failing legs and his most aggressive six-foot air.
"I say, you have brought me an awful long way," he declared. "Mother says Phyllys has got to come to lunch with her to-day."
"Of course I will, and if we start directly, we shall be in time." She jumped up, almost too eagerly.
The sense of relief was patent, and it meant a fresh stab for Giles. He walked to the water's edge, to recover himself.
Gordon surveyed his broad back, then turned to Phyllys.
"I say—have a bite?" He extended benignly a red-cheeked apple, dented on one side.
"No, thanks. What made you come all this way, Gordon?"
"Mother wanted you. Course I came," said Gordon.
CHAPTER XVII
DUTY VERSUS DESIRE
GILES had not meant to ask Phyllys for that walk.
After the studio scene, he had felt that his duty was to wait, until he should know which way lay Colin's intentions. But when he met Phyllys on the stairs, when he read pleasure in her smile, his resolution melted like ice in sunshine, and the request slipped out.
Though he realised what his action meant, he did not draw back.
The evening passed unremarkably. Mr. Dugdale and his daughter came to dinner; Colin could not appear, and the conversation was general. Giles made futile efforts to hold aloof from Phyllys, and only succeeded in seeing nobody else.
Through the night following he had no sleep. Two wakeful hours he spent in bed; then he got up and dressed, and let himself out of the house to walk fast and far in moonlight, fighting a tough battle.
He had to come to a decision. The earlier intention held now no force; and its failure only served to show more truly how things stood.
On arrival he had made his way into the studio, as was his wont, expecting to find Colin absorbed in his beloved occupation, caring for naught else, wrapped up in the effort to reproduce in clay some form of beauty. He had been told that Mrs. Keith was out; he had taken for granted that Phyllys was with her. And when he stood within the studio door it was to see—not Colin only, but Phyllys also; the two seated together; Phyllys with downcast eyes and soft flush, and a look upon the sweet face which "he" had never been able to evoke; while Colin's gaze, and the light in those blue eyes, told the worst!
At the instant Giles' one sensation had been of furious wrath against Colin for daring to interfere with "his" love—wrath that he would have felt towards any man. Already in his secret soul he looked upon Phyllys as his own.
But, in the silence of his room before luncheon, far more in the dimness of the moonlit lanes at night, other counsels succeeded. Other elements would not be defined. It was no simple matter of two men, both in love with one girl, waiting to see which she might prefer. The question really was—if Colin had set his heart on Phyllys, ought Giles to seek her at all? Ought he not at once to give up the thought?
As an abstract question this carried no difficulty. To his mind the duty was plain. If Colin loved Phyllys, the right step for him was to leave the coast clear.
Years earlier, under peculiar circumstances, he had made a definite resolve never to stand in the way of Colin's happiness; never to allow himself any good which might react in the form of pain for Colin. He had registered this vow in the recesses of his heart. It rose up and faced him, while he hurried through lonely lanes, unable to see his way. Cold moonlight, flooding fields on either side, seemed alive with one word, "Remember!" Black tree-shadows, lying in patches at his feet, echoed "Remember!" The creak of an elm-bough, swayed by the breeze, groaned "Remember!" The cry of an owl sounded the same solemn "Remember!"
He did remember. He would never forget the heartbreaking misery, the awful load of woe, which had culminated in that resolve. If life should last a hundred years, each incident of those days would remain vivid to the last.
That he should ever in years to come, under any provocation, be betrayed into wrath with Colin, had seemed to lie beyond possibility. And until the day just ended he had not only shown no anger, but had never been tempted to show it, towards Colin. He had found it easy to preserve his self-control.
Now the testing-time had come. Now, in one moment, his resolve had broken down. He had under stress given way to violent anger; and he found that past resolution opposed by the full force of his will.
He was free to draw back. He had not yet avowedly sought Phyllys. Thus far he had been, to the best of his knowledge, no more than cousin and friend. Whatever he had felt at Midfell, he had not shown it. He would do "her" no wrong by retiring, by giving to Colin the first innings. He would wrong no one but himself. And, in the light of his past, he knew it was right—a matter of simple justice—that he of all men should refuse to stand between Colin and happiness. The question was not "Ought he?" but "Could he?"
As he walked he made up his mind that he would do the thing that was right; that he would carry out his early resolution; that he would endure the cost.
Thus, during hours of moonlight, followed by darkness. But in the chill light of dawn, as he tramped wearily to his room, tired, not with bodily exertion but with mental strain, another spirit took possession.
Ho had meant to get off his walk with Phyllys. Better for him, safer and wiser, not to go. Yet, when it came to the point, he made no effort. He let things drift. He had the walk.
Then, for yielding, he was the weaker, as for yielding, one can hardly fail to be. A paralysis seemed to lay hold upon him, though his had always been reckoned a manly will. And when he sat by her side, on the river-bank, he knew that, even for Colin's sake, he could not give her up. He could not! There was a limit to what might be expected of a man; and this reached beyond the limit.
In so short a space she had grown to be everything to him; to be his love, his life. One month before she was but a name—Phyllys Wyverne, younger grand-daughter of his old great-aunt, living in the wilds of Yorkshire. He was vaguely interested in her, and he supposed that one day they might meet again: but whether he saw her or not was of no particular moment. Then they met; and his life was changed. Now nothing in the world was of moment except the overwhelming desire to win her.
Give her up! See those two husband and wife! Her sweetness, all for Colin! Her love, Colin's right! Himself, in measureless desolation!
He could not do it! The thing was impossible. The idea was preposterous.
Colin had been dear to him; more dear than a brother. But besides this new passion, that quiet affection became as naught. Not that he did not care for Colin still, but that Phyllys was everything to him: Phyllys was his world, his universe.
True, even if he held aloof now, she might in the end reject Colin; and he would then be free to seek her. But of this he had small hope. Colin had seldom, if ever, sought to win affection, and sought in vain.
He felt his own position so far not unhopeful. Phyllys liked him; she was cousinly, even confiding. To persevere might mean success.
And if success for him meant unhappiness, despair, for Colin! Again the past rolled up. Again he saw his own resolve, and the causes which had led to it.
"One may have strained ideas of duty," he muttered. "There is such a thing as common sense in the affairs of life."
Yes; and there is also such a thing as putting self aside for the sake of another.
This, too, he knew. But he saw once more her sweetness, and resistance collapsed. He acknowledged himself beaten.
CHAPTER XVIII
A PAST EPISODE
"YOU are staying for some time at Castle Hill?" observed Kathleen Alyn, with her air of interest.
They were under a tree on the lawn; Mr. Dugdale having retreated to a basket-chair and a book within earshot. Giles had walked with Phyllys and Gordon to Brook-End Grange, and had stayed to luncheon. A business engagement then claimed him, and Mrs. Alyn would not hear of Phyllys going before six. Since Phyllys welcomed the delay, nothing remained for Giles but gloomily to depart alone.
"I'm afraid not. Mrs. Keith did ask me to stay longer, but Grannie gave leave only for three weeks." Phyllys did not hear her own sigh. "The days are going so awfully fast."
"You don't begin to feel home-sick yet?"
"No. Ought I?"
"It is natural that you should enjoy change. Midfell seems so out of the world."
"It 'is' out of the world. It belongs to two centuries ago. Everything and everybody is asleep."
"So even quiet Castle Hill seems gay by contrast."
"No, not gay, but awake—alive. One sees and learns here."
"You begin to know Giles and Colin by this time. I wonder which of the two strikes you, on an early acquaintance, as the finer character?"
"Is it an early acquaintance?" Phyllys felt as if she had known them always. "They are so unlike. One can hardly compare them."
"Colin is popular."
Mr. Dugdale was peering over the edge of his book. "So is Giles, among his own set. Which does Phyllys say she prefers?"
"I didn't say either," laughed Phyllys. "I like both—each in his own way."
"One feels so sorry for poor Colin," remarked Kathleen; and, as before, the word annoyed Phyllys.
"I can't see why one should be sorry for him. He is to be envied—not pitied. He is so much above ordinary men. I think he can afford not to be so—so—"
"Muscular," suggested Mr. Dugdale. "I see you rate a man's intellect above his biceps."
"Wouldn't you?"
"Some don't in this athletic age."
"But I do," decisively. "And Colin is a genius. That is a thousand times better than being able to walk thirty miles without feeling tired."
"Colin is to be congratulated. He has found some one to fight his battles," Mr. Dugdale lowered his book, and scanned Phyllys with quizzical eyes. She stood her ground.
"I mean it. I would rather be a genius than anything. Much rather than just be rich and strong."
"Not that Colin falls short in the length of his walks," murmured Mr. Dugdale. "It's rather in the extent of his mental exertions."
"That was what I meant—that he cannot use his powers," put in Kathleen. "He has always been hampered by ill-health, since he was sixteen."
"Not before?" asked Phyllys.
"No. He was delicate-looking, but wiry, and up to anything. Giles was the more robust, but Colin could outdo even Giles in endurance."
"Giles was not the more robust in their infancy," declared Mr. Dugdale.
"He was when I first knew them, father. But Colin had such spirit. He never flagged, and nothing ailed him till that unhappy accident."
"What was the accident?" asked Phyllys. "No one has told me."
"Your grandmother must know. You will hear no mention of it at Castle Hill. Mrs. Keith dislikes the subject; and neither Giles nor Colin allude to what happened. They were so devoted to poor little Elsye." A word from Phyllys made her add—"Did you not know Elsye Wallace was killed then?"
"No. Please tell me about it."
"She and the boys were always together. It was pretty to see them—she like a little queen, and they her devoted knights. A lovely child, full of fun, yet with that pathetic look in her eyes which you see on the memorial window. Quite unnatural, for there never was a happier being."
"But what was the accident?"
"They were at the seaside. Elsye had been poorly, and Mrs. Keith took her away for change, with the boys. Rather unusual, for she never liked Dr. Wallace, and I do not think she cared for Elsye. Still, it came about somehow—perhaps brought on by Giles. He was masterful even at sixteen, as you may imagine."
Phyllys assented.
"And he worshipped Elsye. It was adoration. Colin was fond of her, but not in the same vehement style. One day they were on the cliff, and I suppose were playing too near the edge. Nobody ever seemed to know how it happened, but Elsye and Colin fell over. There was a rough shingle beach below, with rock-boulders lying about. Elsye, I believe, slipped, and dragged Colin with her—and Giles was too late to save them. Elsye was undermost, and she never regained consciousness. Colin's head struck on a rock, and he was stunned; but at the time they did not think him so badly hurt. Everybody's attention was taken up with Elsye. She breathed for an hour or two, but died before her father could arrive."
"How dreadful for them!"
"It 'was' dreadful; all the more because one could not help feeling that the boys ought to have been more careful. When I saw them a fortnight later Giles seemed to have grown into a man—so grave and silent! Colin looked awfully ill, and we thought it was Elsye's death. But in time it came out that he was suffering fearfully from his head, and was making a fight to keep about as usual, that nobody might know. He soon had a breakdown, and was worse than if he had been taken in hand at first. He had fallen with the back of his head against a boulder, and the doctors said that the front part of the brain had been badly jarred against the skull by the concussion; so there was double injury. For more than two years he was ill; often kept for days in a dark room. The boy's patience was wonderful, and the pluck with which he would struggle to be well, the moment he was easier. Of course school was out of the question. He was hardly allowed to look at a book. Giles used to read to him when he could bear to listen—which was not for a long while. The marvel is that he has turned out so well, considering his disadvantages. Still, there always is a something about him not like other men. He lives a life of his own. And he is so dreamy—so mystical, if that is the right word."
"He is a genius," remarked Phyllys, as if that explained everything.
"Public school life would have done his genius no harm. I wish he could have had it."
"He didn't model—then?"
"Mrs. Keith snubbed him if he began. He always was trying. Of course, as a boy, he could not take his own way. She tried him at times—made him ill, when he might have been fairly well. The least worry brings on his headache, and she can't help worrying. Colin somehow excites her, while she never minds anything done by Giles."
"My dear, she is a woman with a temper; but her prosperity depends on keeping straight with Giles," said Mr. Dugdale.
"Yet I have seen him furious with her, for Colin's sake."
"Is Giles a man with a temper?" asked Phyllys.
"I should hardly call him so," Mrs. Alyn replied. "He is not touchy about little things—not quick to imagine slights. But if once he 'is' upset—"
She made a pause. Mr. Dugdale's book had risen to its former position, and he looked over its edge.
"My nephew Jack was at school with Giles. He once remarked that it took a jolly lot to put Giles into a wax; but when, by combined efforts, that feat had been accomplished, Jack's expression was, 'My eyes! We fellows take care to be in the treetops out of his reach.'"
"Yes; I suppose he 'could' be angry," murmured Phyllys.
"But never with Colin," added Kathleen.
Phyllys was silent. She knew better.
CHAPTER XIX
A VANISHED PORTRAIT
"ARE you really better? I'm glad."
Phyllys spoke warmly. Dinner was over, and she and Mrs. Keith had quitted the dining-room, leaving Giles with Mr. Dugdale, this evening, as often, a self-invited guest. Mrs. Keith was gone to her boudoir, and Phyllys found Colin in the drawing-room.
He had been three days invisible, prostrate with headache, and she had been told that he could not appear this evening. Here, however, he was, in the deep armchair, close to the oriel window. He stood up when she came in, despite an eager "Oh, don't!" but was glad to go back.
She sat down and scanned the ivory-tinted face.
"Ought you to have come down?" she asked, as one hand was pressed slowly over the fair hair, its slender fingers perceptibly thinner for three days of starvation and intense pain.
"Thanks, I'm all right now."
She glanced at a book on his knee, half-open, his hand between the leaves. "Have you been trying to read?"
"Not much. There's a paragraph by Kingsley that I thought you might like."
"May I see it?" She took the book and read eagerly the sentence indicated:—
"'Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful. Beauty is
God's handwriting; a wayside Sacrament. Welcome it in every fair face,
every fair sky, every fair flower, and thank for it Him, the Fountain
of all loveliness, and drink it in simply and earnestly with 'all' your
eyes. It is a charmed draught, a cup of blessing.'"
Phyllys's own face was very fair with thoughts evoked.
"I'm glad you've shown me that. It is just what one wants to feel—to do. If beauty really is—that—one can't be wrong in loving it."
"One might rather be wrong not to value it," he suggested.
"But—" and a pause—"there are ugly things in Nature."
"Many things that we stamp as ugly are not so. Part of our condemnation is conventional. Part is due to imperfect sight. We don't detect the exquisite finish—or the balancing of parts. What looks to us like ugliness may belong merely to roughness of outline, due to our blindness. Then, too, we fail to make out the true inwardness. The beauty of Divine handwriting may be there, yet the key is wanting, and we can't translate into the vernacular."
"You wouldn't say that there is beauty in everything!"
"No. But there is an enormous amount more of it than men see. It needs a trained eye and a brain awake. Form and colour are lost upon those who are Nature-blind and Art-blind. And for the most part you will find unlovely outlines—hardness, stiffness, angularity—in human conceptions, not in Divine."
"You like flat surfaces in sculpture," she suggested with quickness.
"Flat surfaces in sculpture—and in Nature—don't mean the rigid flatness of a sheet of iron. There are delicate mouldings—roundings—the melting, so to speak, of one surface into another. Nature's divisions, like Nature's tints, merge by gradations. You don't find squares and oblongs. In a rainbow no man living can define where one colour ends and the next begins."
She smiled acquiescence. Colin's words had power to set her thinking. She did not know how rarely he opened out like this; how studiously his true self was hidden. In Giles she saw the reserve of a man habitually silent; but she had not divined in Colin the deeper reserve of an apparent frankness which told nothing. Once in a way he was really frank with Phyllys; but she was almost the sole exception. He could seldom bring to the surface those things for which he most cared.
He murmured another quotation:
"'Nature is a poem written by God; and Art is man's translation of it!'
"I forget who said that. But if Nature is a Divine poem, the least we can do is to try to read it."
Phyllys repeated the words to herself.
"I wonder whether all sculptors feel as you do?" she questioned.
"I was not speaking from the sculptor's point of view." His voice had altered, becoming indifferent. Without looking up Phyllys knew that he and she were no longer alone.
Mrs. Keith had appeared, and was in one of her restless moods. She had not known that Colin meant to come down, and the fact seemed to annoy her. She could not sit still, but fidgeted from chair to chair, talking without a break.
There was a draught from the oriel window, and would Colin mind its being shut? No, she really couldn't have any window open. It was so chilly. If he wanted more air, why did he not stay in the study? Mr. Dugdale would be in directly, and Mr. Dugdale was such a fatiguing person, particularly if one was ill. But Colin never took advice, as all the world knew—much better for him if he would.
All this and more was endured with a calm which Phyllys had once taken for unshakeable serenity. She knew better now. She had learnt to decipher the dent in his forehead, the compression of his under-lip, the increased slowness of the dragging voice; and this evening his self-control was more severely tested than usual, from weakness.
But Mrs. Keith, whose one aim was to separate those two, to have Phyllys as a "close preserve" for Giles, saw nothing. She fidgeted and fussed till the door opened.
"Here they come!" And she started up. "Now we must have some music. I want Phyllys to play the Moonlight Sonata."
Giles interposed in curt tones, "Not to-night. Colin can't stand it."
Colin frowned slightly. "Pray make no difference for me," he said. "If you do, I must decamp."
"But we don't want music. Nobody wants it. We all want to talk," urged Phyllys.
She greeted Giles with a smile, and he came to her side, not speaking. Mrs. Keith was insisting energetically on music. Phyllys played so well, and she and Giles loved listening. Colin would not mind, she knew.
"Of course not. Shall I get the sonata?" asked Colin.
"Nonsense!" There was a roughness in the "timbre" of Giles' voice which Phyllys had heard before, and it always surprised her. "You must keep still."
Phyllys gave the speaker a reproachful glance; then turned to Colin. He submitted, but not as if obliged to do so. She noticed a curious reticent dignity in his manner. She met his eyes—blue depths, full of expression—and wondered whom he recalled. The hidden picture flashed up before her mind, and she forgot the question of music, gazing at him.
Somebody else gazed also. Mr. Dugdale's remark might have been an echo of her thoughts.
"Odd! That look again!"
"'Isn't' he like?" Phyllys all but said. The words were on her lips when she remembered that she had undertaken not to allude to the picture, and that nobody except herself and Mrs. Keith was supposed to be aware of its existence.
Yet plainly Mr. Dugdale was aware! What could Mrs. Keith have meant?
"Extraordinary!" continued the cool tones. "I've not taken a look at the old portrait for ages: but my memory is good. Colin brings it back."
"I don't understand," Colin said.
"The old painting in a corner of the gallery—used to hang in this room. You've developed an astonishing resemblance to it."
Mrs. Keith stood listening, her face hard set; her fingers clutched about her fan.
"You had that fancy before," she said. "Utterly ridiculous!"
For once she made a mistake. Had she acquiesced, the matter might have dropped. Opposition made Mr. Dugdale eager to prove his point.
"We'll compare him with the original. Come, Colin."
Colin did not stir. "Another time," he suggested.
"Oh, ah! I forgot your head. Well, I'll take a look myself. Never can imagine why that picture should have been banished to the darkest corner in the house!" he muttered as he went—not the first time he had made such a remark.
He was gone for some time, and Mrs. Keith moved restlessly, as if unable to sit still. Phyllys thought her looking old and haggard, and her mouth had a drawn look. No further mention was made of music; and when Mr. Dugdale returned, he said bluntly—"Been moved again! Where, pray?"
"The portrait not there?" asked Giles in surprise.
"Not that I can discover. I've looked all round."
"But of course it is there!" exclaimed Mrs. Keith, facing him indignantly. "It has not been moved."
"Not taken from the corner!"
"Certainly not! Unless Giles—"
Giles made a negative gesture.
"Of course I could not tell. Giles might have moved it, unknown to me. I have had no authority here for years." She spoke with a hard laugh.
"It was in its usual corner not long ago," observed Giles. "I remember seeing it."
"It is not there now," stated Mr. Dugdale in his most dogmatic manner.
"You are sure you have not overlooked it!"
"Come and see for yourself," and the two went off.
Mrs. Keith sat down. "How hot it is! I should like the window open."
Phyllys started up, but was forestalled by Colin. He remained at the casement, as if thankful for outer air.
Mrs. Keith moved again, wandering to the further end of the room.
And Phyllys asked in an undertone, "Why should Mr. Dugdale want to prove that you are like that picture?"
"I don't know." Colin spoke wearily, as if the discussion tried him. "Having once made the assertion, he sticks to it."
"You don't care whether you are or not!"
"Not a fig! Anybody may be like anybody." She could not rival his indifference, and waited in suspense till the two came back, Mr. Dugdale saying triumphantly—"Just as I told you! Vanished!"
"The picture gone! You really mean to say that it is not there!" Mrs. Keith drew near with amazed looks. "My dear Giles! You must be dreaming. Not there!"
"It is not in the gallery."
"But where 'can' it be?"
"That is the question. We have to find out."
"Certainly you must find out," broke in Mr. Dugdale. "A valuable painting can't be allowed to disappear."
Mrs. Keith gave an odd laugh. "But, Giles, it is impossible. The thing can't have walked off of itself."
"No. To-morrow morning I must question the servants."
"The servants would not dare! And they could have no object in moving it."
"They might know its value. Not that I suspect them. It is rather a question whether any one has been in and walked off with it."
Her face lighted up. "Giles! I remember now! That evening, when we heard steps about the house—you can't have forgotten! When we thought a thief might have got in."
"I found no signs of one."
"So you said; but one does not know. The picture was in its place before. I am sure, because that was the day Colin came home. Mr. Dugdale said something of the same sort about Colin's face, and before going to bed, I took a look at the portrait—out of curiosity. The likeness I found to be purely imaginary!"
Mr. Dugdale grunted dissent.
"Purely imaginary," she repeated. "Still, the painting was safe then. An hour or two later we heard sounds about—footsteps—what I always shall believe to have been a thief. Now we know what he carried off."
Giles seemed half convinced.
"I've never noticed the painting since that day—and it seems that you have not either," she added.
"I have not looked for it."
"It was in its place before. It is not in its place now. What other explanation is possible?"
"If it was taken then, I can't understand its not being missed sooner," objected Mr. Dugdale.
"Why should it be? Nobody has given it a thought."
Giles was silent. His glance had wandered to Colin, who seemed trying to decipher Phyllys. She looked up, met his eyes, and blushed. Giles' sombreness increased.
"Great mistake its ever having been removed from this room," Mr. Dugdale declared.
"A mistake possibly, but a natural one," protested Mrs. Keith. "The picture was out of its place. Well enough in a study or a gallery; but not in a drawing-room. Mr. Penrhyn did not mind."
"Mr. Penrhyn never minded anything."
"At all events, I acted for the best. One can't do more. Of course I never dreamt of thieves."
"I shall not rest till it is found," said Giles.
In Phyllys' mind a thought suggested itself. Could Mrs. Keith be a trifle "peculiar" mentally—a degree "touched in the upper story?" Did she suffer from delusions? Had she herself hidden the lost picture, honestly believing it to be, as she had stated, the portrait of her own brother? Or were there two portraits: the one of Giles' ancestor stolen by a thief; the other of Mrs. Keith's brother, its existence unknown? It would be odd that Colin should resemble both portraits; yet less odd than might appear at first sight, since one of the two was a likeness of his own uncle. Whichever might be the explanation, Mrs. Keith showed eccentricity.
"Poor thing!" mused Phyllys. "I dare say that is why Giles hardly ever contradicts what she says. Perhaps it is why Colin sometimes has to get the upper hand—not to give in too much."
The butler brought in a telegram addressed to herself, and she opened it in trepidation, telegrams at Midfell being rare.
"'Grandmother ill, come home to-morrow by early train,'" she read.
Her face changed, and she saw those around change also.
That of Mrs. Keith might have expressed relief. Giles had the look of one who has received a blow. Colin—was it her fancy that his pale face grew paler?
Then she knew that Mrs. Keith was talking—was exclaiming, inquiring, advising. Perhaps there was some mistake. Would Phyllys like to telegraph inquiries? It seemed such a pity to cut short her visit. She had intended dear Phyllys to stay at least another six weeks. One never could tell what telegrams meant—they were so curtly worded; still it might not be anything serious.
"Grannie must be very ill, or Barbara would not send for me," Phyllys said. "Could some one tell me the first train?"
"The 7.10," Colin observed gently.
"Is that too early? Thanks—then I will go by it. I had better put up my things to-night." She glanced from one to another. "I am so sorry. It has been a very happy time; and you have all been so good to me! But of course. I must leave."
She went upstairs, and Mrs. Keith followed immediately.
"Giles is looking out particulars," she said. "He will go with you to the Junction, and will put you into a through carriage for the north. Your packing shall be done for you, my dear. It is early still, and you can come down for another hour, perhaps—but of course you must get to bed in good time. We are all so sorry. I had written to Mrs. Wyverne to beg for a longer stay. No—I did not tell you. But you must come to us again, some day."
Phyllys tried to listen. She felt numbed; whether more at her grandmother's probable danger, or at the abrupt need to leave Castle Hill, she hardly knew. The former she did not yet grasp. The latter was a pressing pain. She wondered why the pain should be so acute.
Mrs. Keith moved about the room, restless still.
"About that picture," she said. "Odd—isn't it?" She broke into a laugh.
"I could not help remembering," murmured Phyllys. "Of course I said nothing, as I had promised."
Mrs. Keith wore a look of astonishment.
"You could not help remembering—what?"
"The portrait I saw in your cabinet—the one so like Colin! Don't you know?"—as Mrs. Keith seemed puzzled. "When I went to look for the piece of silk."
"My dear, how droll!" Mrs. Keith laughed again, rather loudly. "That you should think of the two together, I mean. It is quite comic. I am glad you did not say what you thought—though of course you could not, because you had promised."
"No—I remembered."
"Besides—that is my own concern—the likeness of my brother. Dear harum-scarum old Jock—how long it is since I saw him! But, as I told you, nobody knows of that picture, and it is worth nothing to anybody. This disappearance is another matter. The picture we cannot find is a family heirloom, by a famous artist, and is of great value. Mr. Dugdale's notion of its being like Colin is ridiculous. There is no resemblance." Her cheeks had red spots, as if she were angry. "He is such a fanciful man—always imagining things. The likeness that you saw is real enough—only what one might expect! But this notion of Mr. Dugdale's—if it were less absurd, one might be annoyed."
She stopped for a moment.
"The loss of that picture is a real misfortune. Giles will never rest till he has found it. He has all the persistency of the Randolph nature. Not much chance of his succeeding, I am afraid, for the thief has had plenty of time—most likely has sent the picture to America. But if you should be questioned, my dear—which is not likely, as you do not even know the painting—if you should be, please remember that there is no connection between the two things. You must guard yourself, in talking about the family heirloom, not to allude to my little affair—not to break your word."
Then she moved towards the door. "Now we will go down, and have a last chat."
CHAPTER XX
REVERSION TO A RUT
BARBARA PRINGLE stood outside a garden gate in Midfell, interviewing Miss Robins.
A black hat of no particular shape was jammed low upon Miss Pringle's forehead, and a brown blouse of no particular cut "topped" a short skirt of uncompromising apple-greenness. Miss Robins, standing hatless within the gate, had clothed herself in dust-colour, apparently with the aim of matching her own complexion, an aim in which she had succeeded, without resulting loveliness. But what signified looks to one at Miss Robins' mental altitude?
Past this cottage, as past Burn Cottage, swept the busy stream, rustling musical murmurs, telling things unspeakable by human tongues, though not unreadable by human ears, if those ears are attuned and attent. The ears of Miss Robins and Miss Pringle were neither attent nor attuned. Each good lady was too well occupied with her own and her neighbours' concerns to listen to Nature's whispers.
"No time to waste in such dawdling!" they would have said.
"Too much time wasted in gossip for leisure to study the Divine poem!" would have been Colin's version.
So widely different is the view taken by different people from different standpoints.
Behind and before, within sight of both ladies, lay long lines of moor fells, reaches of moorland, across which battalions of cloud-shadows travelled fast and heather-bloom mingled with the greens of grass and bracken. But they did not feast their eyes on Nature's tinting.
"I felt it my duty," Barbara remarked, and she spoke with a grim resolution which squared her jaw, and perhaps angered uneasiness below—"I felt it my duty to act. My grandmother has not been herself for some time; anybody must have seen. She has fretted ridiculously about Phyllys; not about her being away, but about the influences under which she is thrown. No doubt there is self-reproach. The child never ought to have gone. And really—the coolness of that woman—Mrs. Keith, I mean—asking if Phyllys might spend another six weeks at Castle Hill! The idea! Of course Phyllys put her up to it. That was what made my grandmother ill yesterday. I told Mr. Jones, and he said it was enough to account for her attack. He agreed that the wisest plan was to have Phyllys back; so I telegraphed on my own responsibility. I felt it to be my duty."
"Unquestionably; unequivocally!" purred Miss Robins. "And really, poor dear Mrs. Wyverne was very far from well; you could not have done otherwise."
"Yes, it was quite a sharp attack—she is not given to faintness. And at her age, you know! The fact is, one never knows what that sort of thing may mean. One has to be on the safe side." Barbara seemed to be carrying on an argument in defence of herself. "I did not mention to my grandmother what I had done till this morning's telegram arrived, saying when Phyllys would come, and by that time she was on her way."
"So she could not be stopped. How sensible of you! And Mrs. Wyverne was pleased—gratified?"
"She seemed worried lest Phyllys should be vexed. That shows the position of affairs," added Barbara with vagueness. "But as I said to her, 'What does vexation matter so long as we do what is right?'"
"Very true! Very true indeed!"
"Things will settle themselves when Phyllys is under proper control. I shall take care that she does not go to Castle Hill again in a hurry. One can see that her head is completely turned. She will come home able to think of nothing but her looks. I wish I could have gone to meet her myself to put things in a right light. But it was impossible, and when Mr. Hazel said he was driving over, and would bring her back, I had to agree. Mrs. Hazel says he hadn't thought of going till he knew about Phyllys." Miss Pringle drove the point of a protesting umbrella into the earth. "The way everybody jumps to do any earthly thing for that silly child—really it is too much!"
"She has a wheedling way with men," suggested Miss Robins, who, though a man-despiser, was not above a touch of jealousy towards a woman admired by men.
"Three other people have offered since to fetch Phyllys, and I wish any of them had spoken before Mr. Hazel. The Hazel influence for Phyllys is objectionable."
"The man is more than half a Jesuit at heart," declared Miss Robins.
"The most extraordinary thing is the way Giles Randolph has managed to wheedle my grandmother," said Barbara, frowning. No one but herself would have applied such a word to Giles. "He seems to do whatever he chooses with her."
"Fascination—captivation," murmured Miss Robins, in her favourite sing-song voice. "Your grandmother is so truly excellent a woman, it is inconceivable that she should have given in to the wiles of an unprincipled man, without regard to the welfare of Phyllys, but for some occult influence on his part. Really, no other explanation is possible. I only trust we shall not find Phyllys' character completely deteriorated through the baleful associations of Castle Hill and the contaminations of irreligious society."
Miss Robins was a lover of polysyllabic words.
"Not much chance, I'm afraid. The girl has no strength of principle; she cares for nothing but admiration. Well—" with a solemn satisfaction in her own forebodings—"we shall see. My own belief is that they have got hold of the girl, and that nothing now will break her loose. But I shall do my best."