Meanwhile Phyllys, reaching Garfield Station, nearly ten miles distant from Midfell, looked out for some familiar face. If no "lift" were to be had, a cab would be there; but this expense was, when possible, avoided, and those who owned vehicles seldom failed to place them at the disposal of others less well off.
Nor was she disappointed. As the train steamed in she caught a glimpse of the Vicarage pony-carriage; then found herself face to face with the Vicar. His ruddy face was framed in soft grey hair; a shapeless wide-awake sat far back on his broad head; tan gloves of unknown antiquity were gripped in one rugged veined hand; the other was outstretched in welcome; and a beaming but embarrassed smile lit up his features.
"Well, little Pride of the Morning," he said, "so here you are! Bright and well, eh? We are glad to have you back."
"But Grannie?" she questioned anxiously.
Mr. Hazel, recalling his wife's injunctions—injunctions primed by Miss Pringle—but forgetting what he had been told to say, smiled perplexedly.
"Oh! Ah! Yes; to be sure, yes! She was ailing yesterday; upset and out of sorts. They had to send for Mr. Jones, and he thought her—" The sentence died into a mumble. "But she is all right again to-day, so no need to worry your little head." The very remark which Barbara had stipulated should not be made. "Now for your luggage," and to escape questioning he marched to where her trunks lay. The smaller could be carried with them; the larger had to be sent next day. Mr. Hazel gave directions, and Phyllys stood by in silence.
She understood; his words had brought the truth before her in one sinister flash, and she grew white to the lips.
It was Barbara's doing! Barbara had summoned her home without cause. Barbara had cut short her happiness. But for Barbara she might still be at Castle Hill.
She saw the whole; yet at first she said nothing. She dared not let herself go. So strong was the wave of resentment which rolled up, that it all but had the mastery.
But she held herself in, following the Vicar, hearing his orders. She went out of the station, listened like one in a dream to his remarks, and patted kindly her old friend the Vicarage "pony," so-called—really a fine cob—who lifted his head in pleased response. And all the while that great wave was surging to and fro.
It frightened her; she had never felt so wrathful. Hers was a quick temper—quick to take fire, quick to burn itself out.
"A flash in the pan," her father had called it.
She had many a time been annoyed with Barbara, but never to this extent.
As they drove through the small town, calling at one or two shops, she was silent still, feeling rather than thinking, for her thoughts were in a maze. It seemed hard that she should not have had to the end her time of pleasure; the visit had meant so much.
And to have her joy cut short for nothing by Barbara's interference—she hardly knew how to endure it. Again and again passionate resentment all but mastered her.
Mr. Hazel, busy with reins and shopping, did not at first notice what was wrong. Gradually it dawned upon him that the bright smile was lacking, the merry voice still.
He waited, as it was his way to wait. Not till they had left the town, and had begun the first long ascent after, did the storm that was raging find expression. He put some question, and she turned a rigid face to him.
"Then Barbara has cheated me out of my pleasure! Grannie has 'not' been ill! There was no need for me to come home!"
CHAPTER XXI
THE THINGS THAT ARE
BETWEEN the claims of truth and a desire not to compromise other people, the Vicar was in difficulties. He gave a jerk to the reins, and murmured indistinct words.
"Barbara is not nervous." Phyllys caught the suggestion, only to repudiate it. She sat bolt upright. "Barbara is never nervous."
Another murmur. This time she heard "mistake."
"No; there is no mistake. It is on purpose. She knew how happy I was—how I wanted to stay. And she loves to make me miserable. It is 'her' doing."
The Vicar made no rejoinder. He cast a concerned glance at the set face; commented to himself on the thunder-cloud overshadowing his "Pride o' the Morning;" and chirruped to the cob. A fresh pull carried them faster, till the increased gradient made slowness a necessity. Then he jumped out, lightly for his years.
"Take the reins, child."
"No." She was already by his side. "Cobweb has weight enough with my box."
He offered no protest, and they mounted a stiff rise in silence, the Vicar keeping up an easy long-limbed swing, born of habit. No quickened breath troubled him; and the reins hung loosely over one wrist, or were flung upon the cob's back.
Phyllys, deep in thought, showed no signs of fatigue, though this came at the end of a long journey. As they ascended, the widening view of distant moors, the rich tints of the fell over which their road led, spoke with the calming power which Nature has over some minds. Three times she forgot herself, standing in contemplation. Each time the Vicar halted, as if for Cobweb's sake; and the look which crept into her face gladdened his heart. A fourth time this happened, and she glanced towards him, smiling.
"I didn't know how lovely it was!" she said. "Must we hurry? I didn't know how dearly I loved it all. Those wavy lines against the sky! And the purples and greens—and the bracken!"
She remembered Colin's quotation,—"Drink it in with 'all' your eyes,"—and into the words new meaning dawned. Eyes of the body; eyes of the mind; eyes of the spirit. Through the eyes of the body, to the eyes of the mind; through the eyes of the mind, to the eyes of the spirit. Had Colin opened for her those inward eyes? She saw with them as never before. Nature around was as it ever had been; but for her it held fresh perfection, fresh meaning. She was enchained by the mouldings of the hill-sides, the delicate fadings of one tint into another. Each hummocked fell demanded hours of study. She would be able to give the hours; and Colin had taught her how to use them.
Through the railway journey her thoughts had been much with Giles, and the look in his face when they parted. Sorry as she had been to leave, her sorrow was of a composite nature, made up of many elements. She began to see a contrast between him and herself; to realise the homogeneousness of his mental make. She wanted many things,—Castle Hill, Colin, Art, freedom, fresh ideas—as well as Giles. He wanted one thing—herself. She perceived this, after a fashion, without grasping that his "want" meant something infinitely beyond mere "friendship." She had a sense that Giles was giving her more than she could give him. Her feelings towards him were mixed. His towards her were unblended.
Now, instead of thinking about him, she was thinking about Colin, recalling what Colin had said, studying old scenes in the light of Colin's teaching, wishing she could be in the studio with Colin. As at this moment she might have been—but for Barbara.
Uprolled another wave of anger; and the Vicar saw. He had known it must return. She was not yet victor.
She met his glance. "Why are people allowed to do such things?" she asked abruptly. "Such a beautiful world!—And 'such' people in it!"
"Try to be fair," he said; irrelevantly some might have thought.
"But it is she who is not fair to me. She never was fair. It isn't that I'm sorry to come back to you and Mrs. Hazel—or to Grannie! It is the being made like this—forced!—without any choice. She has no right. I am not a child now. And I did so count on the next few days—if it might not be more, just those days. I was learning so much that was new and lovely!"
"Yes. But the lessons we want to learn are not always those that the Great Teacher sets us." He spoke in an everyday tone, not as one preaching.
"It isn't—'that?' It is Barbara!"
"It is always 'that,' my child—no matter how the disappointment comes."
"If she had explained—if Grannie needed me. It is the being made that I hate. Wouldn't you, in my place?"
"Yes," he said, and her face grew softer.
"I'm glad. Then it isn't altogether wrong to be vexed."
"No; perhaps not. But if I were you, I wouldn't waste too much time over your cousin's share. If she has wronged you, she has to be forgiven; and it is more dignified not to show offence. People make foolish blunders; but one may credit them with a right intention."
"Ought one? Only, I'm sure she did mean unkindness." Then, with a laugh of apology—"Perhaps I am as unfair to her as she is to me."
"Good!" They were now moving on. "To see in oneself that possibility is a first step towards a right spirit. Nine-tenths of the disagreements in this world arise from a want of fairness in judging others. We have too often one rule for ourselves, another for other people." He flipped off a dandelion-head with the tip of his whip. "One should be fair towards everybody—" and he could not resist adding—"even Miss Pringle."
Phyllys' eyes twinkled. She knew that her cousin and her cousin's friend were thorns in the Vicar's side. Whatever he did they opposed; whatever he said they contradicted. But he met their opposition in a large and manly way, and laughed at their contradiction. It was more serious when they systematically upset his influence among the cottagers; yet even there the Vicar was reasonable. He insisted that though their methods were, from his point of view, entirely wrong, their aims were good; and he would allow no wholesale condemnation. Phyllys, aware of all this, realised the force of his advice.
"I'll try," she said. "Only Barbara isn't fair towards 'them!'"
"Towards—?"
"Giles and Colin—and Mrs. Keith. She thinks unjustly. She says they are bad."
"And you have found them good?"
"Yes!" emphatically. Then, "Yes," more slowly. "I suppose there are different sorts of goodness. I don't mean that they are—perfect."
"We need not expect from others what others don't find in us."
"Mrs. Keith puzzles me; still, in a way she is religious. I am sure she is. And Giles—he doesn't say much, but I couldn't tell you how kind he is, how he thinks of everybody. Of course—" and a fresh pause—"he has faults."
"So have we!"
"Yes. And then—Colin—when he talks it isn't like anybody here. Not like Miss Robins, one 'least' little bit. Or like—. No, I don't think he says things in the way you do. Only you would like him. Colin feels and understands. He is different from other people. And I think his goodness—his religion—somehow has to be different, to fit his mind. If I were to say that to Barbara, she would think it wicked. Is it? I can't help feeling so when I'm with him."
"There are many developments of Christ-likeness."
"You don't think he must be wrong because he says things in a different way from—what you would?"
The Vicar's smile was beautiful. It showed a new side of him. She wondered—had Colin opened her eyes with regard to human beings as well as inanimate Nature?
Mr. Hazel made another halt, letting the cob browse. He led Phyllys to the edge, where a steep slope fell away towards a wide extent of country, bounded by hills. Across the plain meandered a river, shining like silver in sunlight. There were green meadows; and in one direction lay ploughed fields. He drew her attention to each.
"The same sun shines upon all. But not all surfaces can respond equally to his shining. Is it the fault of the brown earth that it remains dull? He who made water and grass made earth also. Will He be unfair in His expectations? Will He blame the soil because it cannot respond to His light with green beauty like grass, or gleam and flash like water? Would it be right of the river to condemn the grass because it does not shine? Or of the grass to declare earth a failure because it is not green? Or of the earth to condemn grass and water for giving a different response from its own? In each case the make has much to say to results. And—God made it."
Phyllys' face grew radiant.
"I never saw that before! Why did you not tell me? It would have been a help."
"You were not ripe for it earlier. This visit has brought you on. You are older." Then, after a break, "But to decide which of those about us is, in the Divine sight, as earth or grass or water, lies beyond our power."
Phyllys blushed. She had already been thinking that Barbara was like dull earth.
"I'll try to be fair," she replied, and when they reached the Cottage no trace remained of past billows. Barbara had expected a storm, and though she would not admit the fact, she was a trifle relieved, even touched, by "the child's" forbearance.
CHAPTER XXII
THINGS THAT SHOULD BE
IF Giles had lived through years in a week when he awoke to his love for Phyllys, Phyllys lived through months in three weeks, while striving to reduce a chaos of new ideas to what has been called "a workable philosophy of life."
Not that she, in so many words, put this before herself. She only tried "to get things straight," and even in that she failed. She was too young, life was too new, the "things" in question were too large, for immediate success. She did not yet know herself; and till we know ourselves, we cannot know those about us—those who make our "world"—or grapple with the problems of their and our existence.
From an artistic and contemplative atmosphere, from a home where the cult of beauty ranked foremost, from a new breadth of view and a new rush of thought, she was plunged in the old narrow circle, where what she best loved was condemned, where beauty was regarded as a snare, where the love of Nature was a synonym for wasted time, where Art was a delusion and a plaything for a dying world.
The contrast tried her. With the unbalanced eagerness of youth, she expected to find all good on one side, all evil on the other; and, like a child, impatient of consideration, she was as ready to condemn Barbara, Miss Robins, even her grandmother, as they were to condemn her friends.
Yet she had begun to see with wider eyes,—to realise that others too found difficulties, and that the same clues do not serve for all minds. She had begun to feel the need in herself of a kinder and fairer spirit. She had begun to appreciate the saintly goodness of her stern old grandmother, to perceive the true beauty which underlay superficial blemishes.
"It is all bewilderment," she had often said. But step by step she was being led to levels where she could look over dividing walls which once had shut her in.
She was gaining glimpses of the true unity which underlies diversity—that unity which meets in Christ. She was dimly seeing that all ideals of beauty centre in Him; that the highest types of beauty are reflected from Him. So these weeks meant much to her. She was learning tolerance from the bigotry of others, and sympathy through her own struggles. Such lessons once mastered, differences of opinion on lesser points fall into their right positions, and the pursuit of beauty rises to a higher level.
The old Vicar saw, and he would not meddle. He had faith in the Divine training of individuals; and he had learnt something of that quality, rare in human beings,—Divine patience. He would not hurry her faster than she could go safely. A word here, a sentence there, gave the needed touches. They were oftener together than in past days. Phyllys' absence had made a difference, setting her more at liberty. But the ruthless condemnation of people and things went on as of old; and Phyllys was far from having Divine patience.
Barbara, Miss Robins, even Mrs. Wyverne, with all her single-hearted devotion, knew nothing of the many-sidedness of truth. The simple fact that Christ is truth, and that in possessing Him a man possesses Divine truth, they recognised verbally; but the Impossibility that any human mind should grasp truth in its completeness, because no man can grasp God, they did not see. It was with them as with Giles on the foggy moor. Each walked in her tiny circle of mist, perceiving a patch of grass, a bush; while of the world, the Universe, beyond, nothing was visible.
Giles had known, though he could not see, that a world, a Universe, did exist. They, walking in their foggy circles, did not believe in aught beyond.
Yet, despite these limitations, Mrs. Wyverne lived a life which many of loftier conceptions might have envied; for it was a life of personal knowledge of God, of personal intercourse with her Heavenly Father, little hindered by the narrowness of her theories. The theories were on one plane; the life lived was on another. She fell into the error of severely judging those from whom she differed: yet even this she did as a high Christian duty, "verily thinking that she ought," and not from lack of love.
"They won't see! They won't understand," Phyllys one day broke out.
The Vicar, in his shabbiest coat, tended a large rose-bed, his pride and delight. Some fine blooms lingered still.
"I would put a 'can't' for the 'won't,'" he suggested.
"Barbara says there is no such thing as 'fineness' in human nature. I said Giles had a fine character. And he has! And she said that was wrong, for human nature is all failure and wickedness."
"Ah, we learn to know others by ourselves. She finds it so, does she?"
Phyllys laughed. The Vicar always brought her round.
"And when I told her that he was a really good man, she was horrified. She says no man is good."
"Miss Pringle is wiser than her Bible. She should hunt out the word with a Concordance."
"And she says the idea of singing prayers in Church is foolish—nobody can pray, singing. It is all outward show."
"Doubtless Miss Pringle cannot!" The Vicar chuckled, recalling grim sounds wont to issue from Mrs. Wyverne's pew. "She is not precisely musical."
"You don't think that?"
"Certainly not. Music, like any art, may become an avenue to higher things—but only with those capable of using it. To my mind, the highest uses of music are for the noblest purposes—above all, for God's children, addressing their Father in concert. But, my little girl, you can't make everybody see as you see. Some can pray, singing; some can only pray, speaking. Some can speak to God in poetry, some only in prose. Our Father in heaven hears all, understands all. No use to try to stuff our own opinions down other people's throats."
"Only, if one knows they are wrong—!"
"For the matter of that, Miss Pringle knows you are wrong."
"Must one never persuade them to think differently?"
"I've no vast faith in the power of argument." The Vicar stood, hoe in hand, looking down on his companion. "The great foundation-truths of Christianity have to be fought for. But breath and temper are often wasted on non-essentials. People have to work out doubtful points for themselves."
"Only Barbara 'was' wrong!"
"So are you and I on a hundred points. We hope to be set right in time; if not in this life, then in the next."
"Then oughtn't one to try to understand now?"
"Try your hardest; and be ready always for fresh teaching. But try much more to do, to be, to live! It signifies less whether you have a great deal of light than whether you make the best possible use of such light as you have."
She murmured a "Yes."
"Beyond all, don't condemn others for seeing on these lesser questions not so clearly, perhaps, as you are conscious of seeing yourself. They may be all the while more fully after God's own heart. An ounce of true humility is worth gallons of excellent opinions. A cupful of Christlike self-abnegation is worth an ocean of correct definitions."
He went back to his weeding, and presently a sound made Phyllys turn.
"Oh!" she exclaimed.
Colin stood on the gravel path with lifted cap and a light in his eyes.
"I have come to finish the bust," he said.
CHAPTER XXIII
COLIN'S CONQUESTS
COLIN conquered them all, "straight off," as the Vicar said, though with variations of speed, and apparently without effort.
First to succumb was the Vicar himself. He gave unqualified approval to the delicate-looking young fellow, whom nobody would have taken for more than two or three and twenty; and the Vicar's wife followed suit.
"He's the sweetest boy I ever saw," she declared with an enthusiasm which made her husband laugh.
"Giles knows nothing about my coming," he said. "I'm supposed to be in the Highlands, abjuring work. Don't betray confidence, please. I wrote yesterday, and needn't write again."
Phyllys supposed that he was under orders not to model, and that he intended to disobey.
Mrs. Wyverne next fell a victim. She was fascinated at first sight, like the Vicar. She had given in to Giles, partly out of respect to the head of her family, partly as a result of pains on his part. Colin took no pains. He was introduced, smiled, announced that he had come to complete a work of art, Phyllys being the subject, and opposition collapsed like a pricked bubble. The old lady could hardly take her eyes from him.
"I suppose you are counted like your mother," she said in unbelieving tones. "Not like what she was when she and I met; but, perhaps—"
"My mother says I am like everybody in turn, which is much the same as being like nobody."
"You certainly remind me of some one."
Phyllys wondered, but would not suggest—was Mrs. Wyverne conscious of his resemblance to the lost painting? She might have spoken her thought but for a second question—could Mrs. Wyverne have seen that other picture, hidden in the cabinet, if, indeed, it was another?
She took an opportunity to inquire whether the lost portrait had been found, and Colin replied in the negative. He showed little interest in the topic.
Barbara yielded more slowly. Colin was a man, and she detested men; he was an artist, and she despised Art. The bust aroused her righteous indignation; not altogether righteous, since jealousy of Phyllys had a share. Though not great in self-knowledge, she perhaps knew this. But she gave the reins to what she felt, and ruthlessly stigmatised sculpture as worldly, wasteful, an encouragement to vanity; not sparing words, till silence on his part grew impressive, and she met those blue eyes, looking not "at" but "into" her, with a depth of understanding which brought her to a dead halt.
"Yes," he said slowly, and waited.
She had no more to say. Did he read to the ground of her motives? Was she to him a transparency?
Then came his winning smile; a smile which few could withstand. It took her captive on the spot.
"Try for yourself," he said sweetly.
And the household stood open-mouthed to see Miss Pringle seated before the improvised modelling-stool which, with Mrs. Wyverne's permission, had been set up in the study. She clumsily fingered a lump of clay; she submitted to be lectured. The results of her fingering need not be described. The results of his manipulation were that he thenceforth dragged her, a helpless victim, at his chariot wheels.
"It's too comical for anything," declared the Vicar, his shoulders shaking. "Miss Pringle, of all people! That lad could make the trees run after him if he chose."
How much Colin laughed privately no one knew. He maintained in public his gentle and detached demeanour.
Difficulties were cleared away so far as might be from his path, the household uniting to supply his wants. He had the exclusive use of the little back-room; and a water-tap was outside his door. Phyllys was allowed to sit to him for two hours each day, Mrs. Wyverne being present with her knitting, while Barbara came in and out, hanging round in wordless admiration, never dreaming how her fidgety movements and creaking shoes tried the young sculptor.
She did not agree with his views; she counted still that Art was a delusion. But Colin Keith she confessed to be the one really agreeable man whom she had met on the face of the earth.
For a week all went well, and the bust made progress. Colin was unusually vigorous; perhaps from the light moor air which seemed to keep headache at bay. "I shall know where to go next time when I want change," he said. He looked his best; active, joyous, full of delight in his task, full also of bright expectancy in another direction, which the Vicar saw with gladness, and Mrs. Wyverne with anxiety.
Phyllys enjoyed having him. She delighted in his artistic talk; she chatted freely as she sat for her clay portrait; and the hours slid by. It was reflection of Castle Hill happiness.
But after days of work and intercourse, a change dawned. Mrs. Wyverne had one morning been called away, and Phyllys occupied the usual position.
"I've had to write at last to let them know where I am," he remarked. Then—"You are tired. Take it easy for five minutes. You must rest."
She had found it out herself earlier. A weariness had taken possession of her, a longing for something, she could not define what. All this seemed not worth while. She stood and stretched herself while he turned to do something with one of the little wooden instruments.
And the thought came—if Giles had been there instead of Colin!
It was like a wave of understanding poured over her. In a moment she saw that she was tired of having Colin only in place of Giles. She liked him, admired his gifts, enjoyed his conversation. But her real want was for Giles. She wanted him, not for his mental gifts, not for aught that he might say or do, but for himself. She wanted the strong manly presence, the intense devotion. "Was" it devotion? Did he care for her further than as a friend? How was she to know?
Colin by comparison was nothing. Suddenly she had grown satiated with Nature and Art, with his thoughts about both. He had fascinated her, and he might fascinate her again; but he could not give all she wanted. Not Nature, not Art, still less theories about either, could meet her claims. It was love that she needed; Giles' love.
To her artistic, her intellectual, her imaginative sides, Colin appealed. But these were not the whole Phyllys. A more powerful claim rose up and would not be silenced. Her inner self cried out for Giles—Giles with his faults, his temper, his difficulty of expression, his silence—just Giles Randolph as he was. When she could escape, she went to her own room, recognising that Giles was more to her than any other in the world. The discovery brought something of dread lest her love should be unreturned; yet it shed a new radiance on her life. She had not known the strength with which it was in her to love. A pent-up flood had burst its barriers, flowing in a rush throughout her being, and the loosened waters freshened everything they touched, glorifying the world around. All had become beautiful. Colin had poured new meanings into Nature and Art. But Giles had poured new light, new love, into the very springs of her existence. Life was transformed by this new knowledge. Even if he should never return what she felt for him, nothing could rob her of the power of loving.
Did he care? She put the question many times. A few days earlier she had believed herself to be more to him than he was to her. But in the light of this realisation, she saw him and herself from a fresh point of view. His reticence made it difficult to gauge what he felt. Yet things might be as she hoped.
There was a glow in her eyes that evening which awoke hope in Colin, and aroused Mrs. Wyverne to uneasiness.
She came late to Phyllys' room, and found her at the open window, her candle out. The old lady closed the window, sat down, and smoothed the soft hair with unwonted tenderness.
"Thee should be in bed, my child," she said, with her occasional reversion to the old-fashioned Quaker speech. "Thee should be asleep."
"Very soon, Grannie. The stars are lovely."
Mrs. Wyverne spoke abruptly. "Colin Keith is a pleasant youth; but I fear I have acted with imprudence. He and thee are friendly."
"Oh, very," assented Phyllys. "I like him so much. He is delightfully artistic."
"He is winsome, but, I fear, a man of this world only."
"No, indeed, I don't think that. He doesn't talk—men don't, you know. They are so afraid of saying what might be taken for cant, and they hate to make a show of goodness. He 'does' think of—that sort of thing. I am sure he is good; truly good."
Mrs. Wyverne shook a decisive head. Her rules were arbitrary, and would not include Colin.
"I should fear greatly for thy future, Phyllys, should he and thee desire to marry."
Phyllys's colour went up in the darkness.
"Oh, not the least chance!" she said. "We are only a sort of cousins. Not that kind of thing at all. He would not wish it, any more than I do."
Mrs. Wyverne's uneasiness was deepened, rather than mitigated.
Next day, to the astonishment of everybody, Mrs. Keith walked in.
She was in York, having arrived three days earlier, and she had been taken by surprise at the news of Colin's presence in Midfell, forwarded from home. It was extremely wrong of Colin, just when he had been ordered complete rest. He would suffer for it, &c.; and she had come to see about things herself.
That Colin showed gratification at her advent could hardly be said. He was, as always, courteous; but her arrival broke into a plan of his own. Last touches having been given to the bust of Phyllys, he was on the point of proposing to make a cast of Mrs. Wyverne's fine old head. Now he waited for developments.
They soon appeared. Mrs. Keith was primed with a scheme to circumvent him.
The friends with whom she was staying in York—an old school-chum and her husband—had lately bought a châlet on the borders of Lake Thun, and had asked her to return with them for a month. She brought also an invitation for Phyllys. Would Mrs. Wyverne spare her? Expense should be Mrs. Keith's concern; she promised every care; the excursion would be enjoyable for Phyllys; and for herself it would mean gain in the added cheerfulness of a young companion.
So much passed in public; and Phyllys' hopes of being allowed to go were faint. But a few words in private settled the question.
"No—not the least chance of Colin joining us," Mrs. Keith said, in response to a query. "He is due in Scotland; and the Forsyths scarcely know him."
This induced the old lady to give in, despite Barbara's remonstrances.
CHAPTER XXIV
A FAMILIAR HANDWRITING
PHYLLYS sat alone in the garden of Châlet S. Jacques, intent on the scene before her. Ah, but it was lovely!
Had she never come across Colin Keith, it would have been less to her than now; yet the underflow of her mind was towards Giles, not Colin. Which seemed, perhaps, ungrateful.
Ten days earlier she and Mrs. Keith, travelling with Mr. and Mrs. Forsyth, had reached this villa or "châlet," lately purchased as a summer resort by Mrs. Keith's friends. Here they would remain another ten days. After that, possibly, Mrs. Keith and she might move to another part of Switzerland before returning home.
The wailings of an ill-handled violin from the châlet behind disturbed her musing. Mr. Forsyth, kindest of men, never dreamt that his tuneless dirges could affect others unpleasantly. He was always happy, violin in hand. So was his wife, while she could talk. A ceaseless murmur travelled through the open window, underneath that which held the violin. The two elder ladies had been at work for an hour, discussing the latest fashion in toques and bodices; one of the two with her back to Nature's sublimity, the other with eyes on her knitting. Of course they had both looked out, and had said how pretty it was.
Phyllys was content to be left to her studies of that sublimity. They were always fearing she would be dull, with no young companions of her own age. She laughed at the notion. Dull!—with this to look upon! Dull!—with Giles to think about!
It could hardly be called a "lawn" on which she sat. It was more like a field, sloping downward. Two small trees sheltered her head; below the garden lay more grass-land; then the road which skirted the lake; then some rough wooden structures and a vegetable garden; then the lake; then the mountain amphitheatre.
Prominent in front, across the translucent blue-green water, stood a mountain of pyramidal shape, by name the "Niesen"—a useful friend to the neighbourhood, acting as weather barometer by the simple process of putting on and pulling off his cloud-cap. He had slipped it on and whisked it off three or four times this day, as if unable to make up his mind. A range of half-cumulous clouds was creeping along the sides; and above towered the hoary mass of the Blumlisalp, one keen-cut edge over a dull barrier of rock glowing like a piece of white enamel.
Far away to the left stood forth the three chief giants of the scene—the mighty Jungfrau, sharply outlined, pure and snowy, with grey hollows and shades; the white Mönch; and the rocky Eiger.
Phyllys drank it all in, finding each minute some new beauty, some fresh dent or fold, some perfect moulding, some wonderful contrast in light and shade, some unexpected harmony of form.
"One would never get to the end," she whispered; "not in years and years."
Doleful sounds ceased, and hardly had she congratulated herself, before she found Mr. Forsyth at her side; an elderly man, scarcely taller than herself, with eyes full of kindness and full also of anxious worry, echoed by horizontal lines on his retreating forehead. Not that he had anything to worry about, but that he never could resist worrying about nothing. He suffered from nervous depression, and found chief solace in his violin.
He came with a cautious step, as if picking his way; yet when he spoke, words tumbled fast, one upon another.
"Well, Miss Wyverne, tired of sitting here all alone! Pretty view, eh?—very pretty! I've been trying that tune over again—you know it."
Phyllys had vainly sought to pin a name to the concatenation of wails.
"Couldn't manage it yesterday. Goes better now. Just a matter of practice. We'll try again after dinner?"
And she smiled assent, though with an internal shiver at the prospect.
"First-rate thought of my wife, hiring that piano. A little music, always cheerful. Would you like a run into Thun—get tea, and come back for dinner?"
Phyllys jumped up. A "run" to any part of the lake was charming, and in a few minutes they were off, hurrying through the village of brown and yellow châlets, with their verandahs and overhanging eaves. It was about ten minutes' walk to the boat-station, and they were in time for the next steamer, zigzagging from side to side of the lake, in progress from Interlaken to Thun. She had been to the quaint old town more than once, but one could not go too often, and Mr. Forsyth made an excellent conductor. They wandered through the streets, visited the castle, admired the views, and enjoyed themselves.
"Pity Randolph refuses to come out! Great pity!" remarked Mr. Forsyth.
Phyllys had not heard this.
"Mrs. Keith was sure he would come. Can't understand it! She didn't want her own son—odd, rather!—come to think of it. Bent on having Randolph. My wife and I quite willing, of course—room enough for both. Mrs. Keith seems to have urged it—but letter this morning decisive. No—yesterday, was it? I've no memory. Says he has too much to do—can't get away. Mrs. Keith will have told you."
"No. Was I meant not to know it?"
"She told us—spoke openly. By-the-by—that wretched memory of mine!—she did say she wanted his coming to be a surprise. But now of course—no matter, since he can't come."
"It would have been nice if he could," she said.
A shadow had fallen; for this might mean much. If Mrs. Keith had tried to persuade Giles to join them, and had urged in vain, it looked as if he did not greatly care to see more of Phyllys. Was he so overwhelmingly busy that he could not spare a few days? She found it hard to believe. He was his own master.
"Getting tired, eh?" demanded Mr. Forsyth.
"O no," and she roused herself. "But ought we not to go back?"
He assured her there was no hurry, and they started for a fresh tramp. She did her best to seem interested, and to laugh at his little jokes; but the strain became severe. Soon she could not hide that she really was tired—with a heartsickness which he did not suspect. He grew concerned, and took her to the nearest inn, insisting on a fresh supply of tea, though they had had some earlier. She remonstrated in vain. He wandered into the passage, and came back, laughing.
"Now how is that?" he asked, holding out a letter. "Sent to this inn, of all places! 'To be kept till called for.' What chance that Mrs. Keith ever would call?"
Phyllys' heart gave a throb. "From Giles!" escaped her lips.
"Giles Randolph?" Mr. Forsyth examined the envelope. "Now you mention the fact, I 'have' seen his hand. Characteristic! But I say—" turning the letter round—"if so, he is in Switzerland. The postmark is Swiss—Interlaken."
Another throb, this time of hope.
"But you said he would not come."
"So Mrs. Keith assured me—yesterday—or was it the day before? I'm wretched at dates. He may have changed his mind. Though why he should stay at Interlaken, and should address a letter to Mrs. Keith at a Thun hotel beats me!" Mr. Forsyth passed a puzzled hand across his forehead. "Beats me!" he repeated.
Phyllys' colour was bright.
"Beats me utterly!" he said a third time. Then—"Fine fellow, Randolph."
"He and Colin are both nice."
"Well, yes—Colin rather handicapped, poor chap. But Randolph—very fine fellow. Good landlord—good shot—makes himself liked."
Phyllys had lost her tired look, and was eager to get home. They went to the boat-station, and caught the next steamer.
"We'll have a little fun with her," suggested Mr. Forsyth, as they mounted the hill. Phyllys smiled, full of the thought that Giles was near—perhaps already on the way to join them. He would come that evening. No doubt he meant to take them by surprise. On arrival, her colour was commented on by Mrs. Keith. "Swiss air is doing you good," she said.
"By-the-by, did you say Randolph was still at home," asked Mr. Forsyth—"not able to come out?"
She glanced towards Phyllys. "I hope he may join us—but yesterday I heard he was too busy. I have another letter to-day, saying the same." She tapped the floor with her foot. "I don't mean to let him off."
"What would you say—if he is already in Switzerland?"
She looked in astonishment. "Giles in Switzerland! Certainly not."
"But he must have come! He must have changed his mind,"—and Phyllys laughed with happiness. "He is at Interlaken."
"Nonsense. Why are you trying to take me in?" with a suspicious glance.
"We are not so unkind," Mr. Forsyth protested. "It is the oddest thing—we happened to go into an inn at Thun, and we found a letter for you, waiting. 'To be left till called for.'"
She made a movement—and tried to smile.
"I must have given the wrong address to some friend. How absurd!"
"But Giles knows your address." A strong sense of Mrs. Keith's untruthfulness took possession of Phyllys. She could conjecture no reason for false statements, yet that something of falsity underlay the other's last utterance was evident.
"I was not speaking of Giles—of course—" hurriedly.
"And this letter is from Giles. It is his own handwriting; and it has the Interlaken postmark. Giles must be at Interlaken."
Mrs. Keith received the envelope from Mr. Forsyth—turned it over—looked at the postmark—muttered something indistinct—then, to the amazement of all present, she fainted dead away.
CHAPTER XXV
GILES OR SOMEBODY
"MY dear, it is absolutely unimportant. You make such a fuss. I have told you before that I have a weak heart; and I must expect attacks of this kind. The fact is, I ought to be more careful; and these steep hills try me. I shall get a quiet day to-morrow."
Mrs. Keith spoke in feverish accents, her lips working. She seemed entirely unstrung. She had rallied from the faint, and had insisted on going to her own room, carrying the unopened letter, begging to be left alone. Phyllys, anxious and perplexed, crept in later, and found her on the sofa. A whisper of inquiry brought remonstrance.
"The attacks seem to come without cause, so I shall have to be more particular."
"Had" there been no cause—no connection between Giles' handwriting and the swoon? Yet, why should Giles' presence at Interlaken startle her, when she so wished him to come?
"And really," she went on, "they are of no consequence, so long as I do not over-exert myself. But I feel that I 'must' have a day of real rest, all to myself." She sighed, as if oppressed. "These dear good people are most kind, but I get so worn out with the perpetual talk. I want you to help me, dear. If you could contrive to have them off my hands for a day, it would be a mercy."
She fixed troubled eyes on the girl.
"I don't think they would like that."
"They would not mind. I have thought it out. We will persuade them to go to S. Beatenberg to-morrow; and at the last moment I shall slip out of it. You must give them no hint. I hate the idea of that funicular railway."
"But—if Giles were to come—only of course you will be here, so that will be all right."
Mrs. Keith seemed amazed. "Giles!" she said. "I wish he would."
"Perhaps he will look in to-night—if he is still at Interlaken." The other's bewildered face made her add, "The letter we brought from Thun—don't you remember? In Giles' handwriting."
Mrs. Keith broke into a loud laugh; then put her hand to her head.
"These fainting-fits leave me so confused. Yes; now I remember. You did say something of the kind. But, my dear, that is a mere business epistle—from 'quite' another quarter. A man with an altogether different name."
Phyllys felt sorely disappointed; and Mrs. Keith, pulling herself up, brought from her pocket a torn envelope.
"Now you can see. Not Giles' writing at all, though I grant there is a resemblance. One of those accidental likenesses, which have nothing to account for them. Giles is at home still, and the tiresome fellow seems determined not to come out. I am beginning to think—" and she smiled—"that my best plan will be to cut short the Swiss trip, and to take you there. Would you like to see Castle Hill again? Ah, I thought so. I have you for a month, and I do not mean to be cheated out of any part of it. We shall see to-morrow. These attacks leave one hardly fit for anything but home."
Castle Hill—and Giles! Had it not been for the thought of Giles, a cutting short of the Swiss trip would have meant dire disappointment. Things being as they were, Phyllys only hoped she did not betray too much gladness. She lowered her eyes for an examination of the envelope; and again the strong resemblance to Giles' writing impressed her. Certain letters were differently formed; but the remainder she could have declared in a Court of Justice to be his.
"A mere chance likeness, you see," Mrs. Keith said lightly; and Phyllys forebore to contradict.
The proposed excursion was taken up by their host and hostess, though not without hesitation on the score of Mrs. Keith's unfitness. It was a shock to Phyllys' sense of honesty, when the latter cheerfully assured them that she was "perfectly well," that "nothing would do her so much good as a trip up the mountain," and that she was "longing to try one of those charming mountain railways."
Next day proved fine, and Mrs. Keith went so far as to dress for the start. Not till the last moment did she draw back, sinking into a chair, faintly professing herself so much fatigued, that she hoped they would excuse her. No—she would not let Mrs. Forsyth remain at home. Rather than that, she would go, though it might mean another fainting-fit. All she needed was a quiet day on the sofa.
Reluctantly the Forsyths yielded, left her in charge of the Swiss maids, and went without her.
Not, however, to S. Beatenberg. No sooner were they on the steamer, than Mrs. Forsyth suggested a day at Interlaken, deferring the S. Beatenberg excursion until Mrs. Keith could form one of their party. She had so wanted to try the mountain railway!
Mr. Forsyth agreed, and it was not Phyllys' place to set them right. So instead of landing below S. Beatenberg, they steamed to the farther end of the lake, amid a goodly number of excursionists, though not so many as a few weeks earlier. It was a cool autumn day, and the woods were gay with red and gold.
At Interlaken they wandered along the Barnhofstrasse, poked in and out of shops, and picked up presents for friends at home. It was all too smart and fashionable, Phyllys decided, and not to be compared with the village where they stayed; yet she enjoyed it much. The Jungfrau, solemnly overlooking the town, had not here the aspect of a white guardian angel as when viewed from Châlet S. Jacques.
"More like a lump of chalk," suggested Mr. Forsyth, and though Phyllys repudiated the suggestion it recurred to her mind.
One way and another the hours slipped by. Late in the afternoon they had tea outside a shop, then went to the chief Promenade, the Hoheweg, where they encountered English friends. Mr. Forsyth disappeared with the gentleman of the party, and Mrs. Forsyth sat down for a talk with two elderly ladies.
Phyllys joined in for a while, then wandered a short distance, and gave herself up to the study of the Jungfrau. No look of "chalk" now! Something in the state of the morning atmosphere must have caused that aspect. The mountain-mass reared its mighty head in majestic style, and broad reaches of snow descended low like trailing skirts of white. Higher peaks were partly hidden by drifting clouds, but one and another appeared in turn: and each moment the mountain altered, the shapes of rifts and hollows changing as she gazed. A clear basin of snow, for a time visible, vanished utterly.
She watched with interest the Schynige Platte, where the Forsyths had promised to take her. In the far distance she could make out a tiny mountain-train creeping slowly up the steep sides, carrying a minute cloud of steam.
Glancing to make sure that she was not wanted, she received a nod from Mrs. Forsyth; and she wandered farther, getting among trees. It was evident that her friends were in no hurry to move. Suddenly her heart gave a throb, stopped, then beat furiously.
Could it be—Giles?
A big man, broad-shouldered, sat alone at a small table; his face turned half away. The shape of his powerful shoulders; the attitude; the manner in which he leaned his head on one hand; the grave immobility—all indicated Giles. He seemed to be deep in thought; lost to his surroundings.
She was not near enough to make out more. She stood partly behind a tree, gazing. Whether or not in consequence of her gaze, he turned, and she had a glimpse of his strong sunburnt profile.
"Giles!" she whispered.
Why had Mrs. Keith denied his presence?
But the face looked older than when she had seen him last; not thinner; not paler; only markedly older. She almost thought his hair had gained a touch of grey. Could he have been in some terrible trouble lately? Was there some mystery about him, hidden by Mrs. Keith, sufficient to account for his refusal to come to S. Jacques?
It was all bewilderment; and she began to wonder if she were dreaming. She put her hands over her eyes for three or four seconds. When she looked again, the figure was gone.