CHAPTER XXXIII
COMING TO THE POINT
GILES had resolved to follow Colin's advice, and difficulties strengthened that determination.
All one day he had to be absent. Next morning he found himself eluded. He was aware of a change in Phyllys. She seemed constrained: no longer flushing with joy to see him. His hopes sank low; but he would not wait.
After luncheon she retreated to Mrs. Keith's boudoir, and busied herself with fancy work. Presently she glanced up—to find Mrs. Keith gone, and Giles in her place.
It was impossible to rush away, and he wasted no time. Before she could be sure whither his speech tended, he had offered her himself and all that he had. She whispered. "Please don't!" but the petition was vain. He had begun, and would finish. There was no outpouring. He never used twenty words, where ten would do. Yet, while saying little, he conveyed abundant meaning—pleading in short vehement phrases.
"Give me hope, Phyllys!"—for her face was almost hidden. "One word!"
That averted face struck a chill.
"Have I spoken too soon? Phyllys, tell me! This cannot be a surprise."
Still she would not or could not speak. The silence was more than he knew how to endure.
"It is life or death," he said hoarsely. "Life without you 'is' death. I did not know, till I saw you, what it was to live. Give me hope—if not now, for the future."
She had drawn her hand away, and he took it again! "Phyllys, my darling! My darling!—If you knew what you are to me! One word."
But when she lifted her head, she was joyless and pale, the cheeks drenched with tears.
"I 'can't!'" she said with a sob.
"Cannot—love me!"
"I can't say anything."
"You want time. Dearest, I will wait as long as you like. Only give me hope."
"No." She mastered herself. "It can't be. Not now."
"But—when you have had time. When you know me better. I can wait; if I may hope."
"I don't know. O I don't know. Don't ask me, please."
He sat beside her, dazed and pained.
"Please—try to forget."
"Forget you! Never!"
THAT AVERTED FACE STRUCK A CHILL.
He kept her hand and she did not draw it away.
"My darling, what can this mean? Not that you do not care for me! That you don't feel you might some day—"
"I can't tell. Perhaps—but not for years."
"But why wait? Every day is a year till you are mine. Why wait—if you think you might learn to love me! Would it take long?"
She burst into such heartbroken tears that he could not misunderstand, and joy leaped into his face. "My Phyllys! My own! You do love!"
She put him off with both hands. "No, no, no! I can say nothing! It is impossible. You must not think of me. I shall go home, and you must forget."
"Never! I am bound to you for life—till death—beyond death! There is a love which death cannot touch. My love for you is that sort. It will live while I live—in this world or in a dozen other worlds."
A faint wonder passed through her mind. If her surmise were true, if indeed his was a life of fraud, could he cheerfully speak of death? But he was a man; of course he could. He would carry out his deceit consistently.
Her heart rebelled anew. It could not be! He was "not" that sort! She would not, did not, believe it. Through all doubts and suspicions, how she loved! How she longed to give herself over to him! Even—with this risk, to take him. But she could not marry one whom she might not respect. There was nothing for it but to wait.
"You must not think of me," she said, and she stood up. "I can't say more. Some day, perhaps, if you should want it still, I might be able then; not now. And you are free."
"Free! But this is awful. Free till when?"
She could only sob. He took a sterner tone.
"You have not treated me fairly. You have given me reason to hope."
"I know," she whispered. "And if I had seen—"
"Then you thought you could. You did not see earlier—this that stands in the way. It is something new."
"Yes."
"Since when?"
She made no reply.
"I cannot conceive what obstacle exists, unless—Phyllys, do you 'not' care for me?"
He said the words masterfully, and she was again silent. To give a decisive "Yes" or a decisive "No" seemed to be equally out of the question. He gathered a grain of hope.
"One thing at least you will allow. I may speak again. How soon?"
"Oh, not for a long while, please!"
He caught her hand, and covered it with kisses.
She burst into fresh tears, and hurried away.
CHAPTER XXXIV
A FLARE-UP AND ITS SEQUELÆ
LITTLE more was seen of Giles that afternoon. But distressed though he was, he could not be called hopeless; for at least he knew with almost certainty that his love was returned. The obstacle, whatever it was, might be cleared away. He was unable to regard Phyllys' refusal as decisive.
Meeting her alone an hour later he said gravely—
"May we go on as before—no marked change. I will not worry you. But we are cousins still—friends, perhaps?"
She gave him a grieved glance, for it was hard to have to check him, and acquiesced.
Mrs. Keith was in one of her highly-strung conditions, unable to keep still. Phyllys wondered if something fresh had occurred. She was incessantly getting up to pace the room, to gaze out of the window. Even when the autumn day had drawn in, she still kept pulling aside the heavy curtain, looking into the dusk.
So strange was her manner that Phyllys was fain to question anew—"'Could' she be right in her brain, or had long trouble upset the mind's balance?"
Colin had been all day invisible. Not fleeing from the pain of seeing Phyllys; that was not his mode. He would have met her this day as the day before, would have talked and made himself agreeable, without a sign of what it meant to himself.
But he had in trouble a resource denied to less fortunate mortals. For weeks he had gone without power to model. Now, suddenly, in the thick of victorious strife, a "new idea" had come with its flash of compelling force. In the silence of night it declared itself, taking him captive.
Phyllys or no Phyllys, the new idea would not be denied. Sadness fled before it. In the absorption of shaping his vision through plastic clay, all else was forgotten or was remembered as a dream. From early morning till five in the afternoon he scarcely left his modelling-stool. Food was brought, and he swallowed or put it aside; messages were disregarded; friends wishing to see him were sent away. Nothing on earth mattered but to put into form, while the power lasted, this coinage of his imagination.
Hours flew as he worked, and when he stopped it was not from mental inability, but from physical exhaustion.
Resisting the impulse to fling himself on the sofa, he went to the drawing-room, wondering what others had been after. Their existence looked tame compared with his own. Still, he did remember Phyllys, and even murmured to himself, with an odd smile, that though she could never be his, he would have "this" still.
"All alone," he said as he went in.
Phyllys answered composedly. "Yes; Mrs. Keith had something to do upstairs. How tired you are!"
"Where's Giles?"
"He had to go out."
One swift glance deciphered her.
She poured out tea and brought it to him. It had been an endless day with her, not flying on wings as with him. She was glad to have anything to do.
Colin thanked her, refused eatables, drank the tea, and leant back, passing a hand over his face.
"Are you wise to work so hard?" she asked.
"It's the essence of wisdom."
"Not—really!"
"If one doesn't capture notions when they come, they—go!" he said tersely.
"I suppose I mustn't ask what the notion is."
"Something in low relief—historic. Too early a stage yet for words."
"But you see it yourself?"
"Yes."
"It's in the clay. You only have to set it free for other people."
"That's my aim."
"It always seems to me—ought you to talk?"
"It seems to you—?"
"Art with you is such a reality."
"It 'is' a reality."
She would have liked to carry on the subject, but it was kinder to leave him quiet, and she went to the window in Mrs. Keith's fashion. An exclamation all but left her lips at the sight of Giles under a great cedar near. It was Giles; she made out the lines of his solid figure, and pity welled in her heart. She knew how miserable he was, and it was she who had to make him so. If she might but comfort him! Tears came, and she stayed where she was, seeing nothing through the mist. When it cleared, he was gone.
Colin divined that she was in trouble, but he asked no questions, and when she returned, he did not seem to notice her face.
"Giles is there," she remarked. "I suppose he is coming in."
Mrs. Keith's voice sounded faintly in a long scream, shrill and drawn out like that of some wild animal in a trap. Colin was on his feet and in the hall before a word could be spoken, Phyllys flying after him. From the floor above came cries of fire and a smell of burning. Thither rushed the two, followed by butler and footman. Through the shut door of Mrs. Keith's bedroom issued low moaning.
The door was locked—a strong door, not easy to burst open. Colin flung himself against it, without success. He beckoned to the men; but before they could act in concert, the key was turned from within, and a big man emerged. Wreaths of smoke poured out, and darting flames were visible. He carried the helpless form of Mrs. Keith, having flung a wet towel round her face.
"Giles!" whispered Phyllys.
He must have gone to the front of the house, and have climbed in at the bedroom window over the porch. As this explanation flashed up, she recalled having seen there a light ladder.
"Take her—sharp!" He thrust the limp lady into her son's arms. "Not burnt—frightened. Water, quick—plenty of it!" in peremptory accents. "Keep this door shut, or you'll have the house in a blaze. Hurry, men; not a moment to lose!"
He banged the door to, and could be heard tearing down curtains within, while butler and footman rushed for cans of water, and Colin half dragged his mother to another room. Phyllys followed, disturbed by fears for Giles. Colin delayed a few seconds to assure himself that Mrs. Keith was not burnt, then asked, "Will you look after her? I must go. Send for Dr. Wallace if needful."
"Yes; don't wait. Giles may want you."
She found plenty to do, even with the efficient help of Mrs. Keith's maid. For some time the rescued lady was only half conscious, and when she revived, nervous terror overpowered her, causing renewed faintness.
Then Colin again made his appearance, used up and white.
"Do sit down," urged Phyllys. "Is the fire out?"
"Yes." He leant against the chimney-piece. "Much wrong?" with a glance towards the sofa.
"Only upset. Is anything burnt? Anybody hurt?"
"No one, luckily. Good many things burnt. We have been within an ace of something much worse."
"How did it happen?"
"There was an open box between bed and window, and a pile of clothes on the floor, which had caught first. They made a bonfire, and the breeze from the window must have carried the curtains within reach. Bedding pretty well destroyed—and all drapery in ashes. Two minutes more and the woodwork would have been in flames. I don't understand why she didn't give the alarm earlier."
"Is Giles there still?"
"Can't say. I've been filling cans at the cistern—sending the men to and fro. The room is swamped; more damage from water than even from fire, I suspect."
He made his way to the sofa, and asked—
"Better now?"
Mrs. Keith caught his hand.
"Colin, will you please attend to me? I can't get anybody to listen," she said fretfully. "Where is Giles? I want to see him. They tell me I must not go to my room, and I must go."
"Not yet. Keep quiet for a time."
He took a chair by her side, and inquired, "How did it happen?"
"I'm sure I don't know. How can I tell? It was all horrible confusion. I had put a candle on the floor, just for a moment—and the things must have caught. I was arranging—something—in the box. I didn't notice anything wrong, till there was a roar, and the whole pile had blazed up. I just rushed to the door, and it wouldn't open—and I forgot I had turned the key, and thought I was locked in and should be burnt to death. I must have lost my senses, and when I came to, I was on the floor, and the room seemed full of smoke and flames. I don't know whether I screamed. It was all horrible. I seemed to be going off again, and then somebody lifted me, and I heard Giles speak. But I don't feel sure of anything except those flames everywhere." She shuddered.
"Was it that box in your cupboard, ma'am?" asked the maid, evidently curious.
She bit her lip. "Yes, I—it was something I wanted to find. You asked me if you could get a ruffle out."
"Yes, ma'am, and you said the key was lost."
"Yes, but last night I found it again—and I had a fancy—" She broke off. "Colin, I don't want people to meddle with that box. I won't have it. There are things of my own in it—things I don't choose to have pulled about. I must go and see."
She was starting up, but the light touch of his hand restrained her. "Not now. You must keep quiet, and the room is not in a state for you at present. I'll see to anything."
"The box is to be put back into the cupboard 'immediately'—just as it is—nothing in it moved or taken out. I won't have it meddled with."
"That is easily done." He would not suggest that the contents probably existed no longer.
Phyllys made her escape, and they went together to the once pretty bedroom, now a scene of desolation. The smell of fire was strong; curtains and cretonne coverings had vanished; blackened remains of burnt material lay about; and water had been flung in streams over walls, floor, and furniture. In the centre stood Mr. Dugdale, surveying the wreck.
"'You' look considerably the worse!" he remarked to Colin.
Colin paid no heed. He was shoving an open and fire-blackened box into the cupboard. But it was empty.
"Everything burnt, I suppose," he said to Phyllys. "No need to say so yet—only excite her."
"What has become of the fellow who rescued your mother?" demanded Mr. Dugdale.
"What fellow? Giles carried her out of the room."
"Giles was not here till later. Says so himself. I'm told it was a stranger—on his way to call. By the time anybody had leisure to notice him, he was like a sweep, and he went off to make himself presentable—told John he would come later. One or two seem to have mistaken him for Giles."
"Oddly enough I did—but it was a mere glimpse."
"His voice was like," murmured Phyllys.
Colin left the room, and Mr. Dugdale, moving to examine the carved bedstead, a valuable piece of furniture, badly charred, uttered an exclamation.
"My goodness!" Then—"Didn't I say so?"
He stooped to lift a framed picture, which seemed to have been put aside, leaning against the wall. He held it up, gazing hard, and Phyllys waited.
"It's—IT!" He turned towards her a black-framed antique portrait in oils. She saw a fine delicate face, with familiar blue eyes.
"'Well!'" uttered Mr. Dugdale, as if words failed him.
Phyllys put a grave question. "Is that the lost picture?"
"Yes."
It was also the concealed painting, declared by Mrs. Keith to represent her only brother, Jock Reeves.
CHAPTER XXXV
THE OTHER MAN
NOTHING could keep Mrs. Keith quiet. She was unable to rest. Twenty minutes after Colin had left, she dismissed her maid, declaring herself well, and went to the scene of the conflagration, only to find the door locked. Extreme anxiety to know whether the hidden picture had escaped observation oppressed her; but she dared not make direct inquiries. She knew that the dresses on the floor had been consumed; but she also knew that, when the things caught fire, a thick woollen shawl still covered the picture, and her hope was that it might have been left undisturbed. She bitterly regretted now the fancy that had seized her to take one more look at the portrait.
If indeed it had been found, her role would be to profess ignorance of its presence in the box. Somebody else, not she, should bear the blame. She would not risk asking for the key of the door, but made her way to the library, where others were gathered, discussing the event of the day. Colin remonstrated with her for being about, putting her gently into an armchair, and Giles tried to turn the subject, seconded by Phyllys. Mr. Dugdale surveyed her with critical glances.
"Wonderful woman!" he said to himself. "Brass enough for anything!"
Yet she, like they, found it difficult to speak on any other topic but the fire. The dread which weighed upon her nailed her to it.
"I'm sure it is a marvel I was not burnt to death," she said. "Giles was so quick—if he had not been there, I must have been killed—perhaps the whole house burnt down."
"Unfortunately I can't take credit," remarked Giles. "I should like to discover who my 'doppel' can be."
Mrs. Keith was talking still, but she stopped. "'Not' you! How odd! I certainly thought—but I was too terrified to see, and the smoke was stifling."
"Sensible fellow, whoever he was, to throw a soaking towel round your face! First step everybody should take at a fire," observed Mr. Dugdale. "I'm told he had a pretty determined voice."
"Giles' voice," murmured Phyllys.
"If he was my build, probably a coal-heaver!"
"O no—a gentleman!"
"I wish he had stayed to be thanked."
"John tried to make him, but he was in such a state, he said he would look in later. Not hurt—only blackened," added Mr. Dugdale. "We owe him something for his energy. Three minutes' delay might have made all the difference."
Enter the stout butler, composed as always, but with curved eyebrows of intense amaze.
"The gentleman is here, sir, that got in at the window. He asks to see Mrs. Keith."
"Bring him in. We wish to thank him," spoke Giles.
Fear seized Mrs. Keith. The thought might have occurred earlier, but for the bewildering effects of her fright. She rose, and put out protesting hands; but all eyes were turned to the door, and she sank back, knowing that it was too late. With more than usual emphasis the butler gave forth—
"Mr. Jock Reeves!"
Solid of figure and heavy of step, in walked an elderly, but most exact reproduction of Giles. It was Giles in form, Giles in bearing, Giles when he spoke in voice—but Giles as he would become years later, more stout, with streaks of grey. Phyllys knew him instantly as the "Giles" of Interlaken.
He stopped, looked round, and smiled, as if in expectation of a welcome.
Nobody spoke. The circle seemed stricken dumb. Giles, Colin, Mr. Dugdale, Phyllys, were as if petrified. The three men knew not what to think. Phyllys read confirmation of her midnight suggestion. Mrs. Keith hardly breathed. This was the moment that had hung before her as an awful possibility through years.
Feature for feature he was Giles Randolph. And—his name was Jock Reeves. Brother to Mrs. Keith; uncle to Colin; no relative, not the most distant, of Giles.
He did not seem embarrassed by his reception, perhaps ascribing it to insular shyness. He cheerfully accosted Giles:—
"How d' you do, Colin? I've taken you all by surprise," with a jolly laugh. "You and I might be son and father! Glad to find my nephew so perfect a chip of the old block. Well, Cecil, my dear, I made up my mind to take the bull by the horns. Lucky I did and was at hand! You'll have guessed from my letter what I meant—eh?"
He addressed himself anew to Giles.
"I've put up for a good while with your mother's fantasies, Colin; but really, you know, it was getting beyond a joke! After a quarter of a century at the antipodes to be kept at arm's length from one's kith and kin—no reason but a fad! Couldn't stand it any longer, and that's a fact! So I thought I would see for myself what it all meant. I was in the garden, debating whom to ask for, when I saw a glare and heard Cecil shriek—and the quickest way was over the porch. I'm pretty active still—luckily. The fire was blazing—not three seconds to spare. Then of course I stayed to help, and when we had put it out, I was as black as a crow, and went to the inn, where I'd left my bag. Now I've come back—to see my sister and you young fellows. Not done wrongly, I hope?"
Giles murmured a negative, though the last words had been spoken to Colin.
"You, of course, are Randolph?" He placed a broad hand on Colin's shoulder. "About three feet high when I saw you last. No mistaking you for anything but a Randolph! Not the athletic type. You're the exact image of your uncle Jem—died early, you know. Well, Cecil, I hope you forgive me for not carrying out your eccentric instructions!"
So far he had talked carelessly, in Giles' voice, though with a "jollier" intonation. But the silence made itself felt. He paused.
After these years of unquestioning acceptance, in one moment light had flashed upon all three men, vividly, as with Phyllys before, casting a lurid glare upon past, present, future. No doubt the way for such illumination had been prepared. Many a perplexity, put down to Mrs. Keith's "oddity," now rose with convincing power. Mr. Dugdale's eyes expanded, and for once words failed him. Colin's face grew a shade more ivory-like. Giles flushed darkly crimson, whether with guilt Phyllys could not determine; and by comparison she cared for nothing beside. If "he" were true, if "he" had been in ignorance—all else signified little. The silence was brief, measured by seconds, yet it seemed long. To Mrs. Keith it meant an age of anguish!
For the worst had come. The blow which for twenty-seven years she had used every effort to avert, was fallen. At another time she might have carried matters with a high hand, might have tried to prove the likeness accidental. But the fire and the shock of her brother's appearance had shaken her nerve, and she could neither speak nor move. In previous imaginings of this scene, the one thing that she had not thought of was—silence. Astonishment, reproaches, exclamations, she had expected. The silence was more awful. Would it never end?
Colin broke it. In soft slow tones, dragging more than usual, he informed the newcomer—
"You are making a mistake; pardon me. I am Colin Keith. That is Giles Randolph."
The other spoke his incredulity by a laugh.
"It is true," chimed in a deeper voice. "'I' have always been Giles. 'He' has always been Colin." The form of expression betrayed his thought.
"No, my dear fellow! You don't bamboozle your uncle in that style! Not quite!"
Mr. Dugdale indulged in a whistle; an act so exceptional that it showed his state of mind. A cry from Mrs. Keith was smothered in her handkerchief.
More deliberately still Colin repeated, "'I' am Colin Keith, your nephew. This is Giles Randolph."
Reeves turned upon his heel with a gesture of disdain.
"I don't fathom your object in trying to take me in. But, I promise, you won't succeed. Look here!" He placed himself beside Giles, opposite the long mirror—both tall, substantial in make, upright, with red-brown complexion, straight features, and blue eyes dragged downward at the outer corners. Giles' sombreness was his own; otherwise the two were moulded after one model.
"Coincidence! Humbug! Look at us, and tell me so again! I believe," and he glanced round once more—"I believe you mean it. You are not humbugging me! But how you can have been taken in passes comprehension. Look there!" He pointed to the mirror. "Does it need telling? This is my nephew! You—" grasping Giles' arm—"'you' are Colin Keith. That other is Randolph! It is written in your faces—branded there! Mistake! No mistake is possible. Is 'that' what you have been up to, Cecil?"
She shivered under the accusing voice.
"Eh? Is that it?" he repeated.
Mr. Dugdale made a move. He went to a corner of the room, brought thence an oil-painting, and held it beside Colin. Hardly more remarkable was the resemblance between Giles and Mr. Reeves, than the resemblance between Colin and this Randolph ancestor.
"See?" demanded Mr. Dugdale. "Now we know why it has been hidden!"
"Now I know why I've been treated like a pariah!" muttered Reeves.
Giles strode across to Mrs. Keith, and she cowered before him.
Phyllys' heart bounded with joy; and then came self-reproach that she could be so happy when another was so miserable.
"Will you please to tell me the truth, Mrs. Keith? Am I—or is Colin—your son? Is my name Randolph or Keith?"
She shrank lower, till her bowed head rested on her knees; and in that shame-stricken form they read the answer. But he repeated—
"My name, if you please! Randolph—or Keith!"
And as if the word were dragged from her, against her will, she moaned, "Keith!"
Then she straightened herself, and made a feeble effort.
"I—I—couldn't help it," she stammered, and she laughed hysterically. "They—they—got mixed and I—I—when I found it out—"
"Mixed!" uttered Reeves scornfully.
One low murmur, "Mother!" had been heard from Colin.
But the crushing shame, the overwhelming distress, of Giles' look, drew all eyes, silenced all lips. He stood like a statue, with folded arms and bent head.
"I meant—I meant to tell," gasped Mrs. Keith. "I-I never meant it to go on!"
"And it has gone on! You have let it go on, all their lives! Colin for Giles! Giles for Colin! Though you are my sister, I say it is 'scandalous!'"
Reeves stopped.
Phyllys' hand was on his arm, and a soft voice whispered, "Please don't! Is she—quite like other people?"
"You don't understand—you can't!" Mrs. Keith spasmodically wailed. "It was—a mistake—a mistake—a mis—"
The strain became too great. She burst into a storm of hysterics and had to be carried from the room.
"I believe that girl is in the right," muttered Reeves. "Most charitable view to take, anyway—poor thing!"
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE COIL IN ITS BEGINNING
SOME twenty-eight years before the date of this tale James Randolph, the then owner of Castle Hill, with his wife, spent a winter in the south of France, being ordered there for health. At the same place, staying also, was his brother-in-law, Geoffry Keith. Keith's first wife, the sister of James, had died years earlier; and his second wife, "née" Cecil Reeves, was an attractive young woman.
Mrs. Randolph and Mrs. Keith became warm friends. Then, unexpectedly, Geoffry Keith died, leaving his widow totally unprovided for. Her child, Colin, was born before arrangements for her future could be discussed, and the Randolphs saw that she had everything she needed.
Six weeks after the birth of Colin Keith, Giles Randolph was born; and less than a month later Mrs. Randolph died. Her husband, distracted by the blow, decided to travel in the east. He implored the handsome young widow to take pity on his forlorn little child, and she responded with open arms.
"I shall be gone at least three years," he said, after explaining that, so long as she had charge of the boy, she should have annually the sum of eight hundred pounds. "By-and-by we must arrange something for your future, but I have no heart now for business. If you need more, write to Mr. Penrhyn. My boy must have the best of everything."
Mrs. Keith remained where she was till spring, then took the babes to Switzerland. She loved the Continent, and Randolph had left her free to follow her own devices. Mr. Penrhyn ran out to inspect the child, and wrote a good report to the father. "A pretty intelligent little chap, slight and pale, but healthy," he said.
Randolph never had this letter. An attack of fever carried him off, and Giles was an orphan.
Mr. Penrhyn already held the reins of government at Castle Hill. He was Giles' guardian, but no question existed about leaving the little boy where his father had placed him.
A second winter was passed in the south of France, the baby-boys flourishing. When spring arrived, they were about sixteen months old, bonny blue-eyed children—Giles slim and active, Colin sturdy and robust.
On account of gaieties which she did not like to miss, Mrs. Keith remained imprudently long in the south, and then she was met by the great temptation of her life; the fiery testing of will and principle which comes sooner or later to most, though with some it is spread, diluted, through many years, with others is concentrated into one tremendous pull. It came, as such trials often do, just so shaped as to make a fall easy.
Cecil Keith had not trained herself to be habitually true in word and deed, neither was she a woman of high integrity. James Randolph had not discovered this.
Giles, always sensitive to heat, failed in health, and was ordered to a cooler climate. Mrs. Keith started, travelling by easy stages for the sake of the little invalid; and when a day or two later the nurse fell ill, she was left behind. Mrs. Keith, feverishly anxious, would wait for nothing, but hurried on—perhaps too fast, for Giles grew worse. When two more stages had been accomplished, he sank so rapidly that she summoned a local German doctor, who told her all hope was at an end—Giles was dying.
He promised to call again in an hour or two; and she sat beside the bed, watching the small changed face, realising what this meant to herself. Giles dying, and the responsibility hers! For her own pleasure she had stayed in the south, when she ought to have gone north; and though it might be called only an error in judgment, she would be blamed.
Worse still—if Giles died, her income ceased. While he lived, she was comfortably off, and if he should grow to manhood, she might expect not to be left in the lurch. But his death meant the stoppage of her income. The estate would pass to a distant relative, and Mr. Penrhyn would be powerless.
She shrank with bitter dread from the thought of grinding poverty, and then came the temptation. At first a mere suggestion, almost formless, but it grew into shape. Why not transpose the boys' names? Why not put Colin for Giles, and Giles for Colin? If the little one recovered, the names could be reversed. If die he must, why should not her boy, as Giles, enjoy the wealth which otherwise must pass to strangers? It would mean ease for herself and him. And it need not be for always. Some day she would put things right—would slip out of it. She did not pause to consider how this might be possible.
The change looked simple. No one here knew her or the boys. Their nurse she could get rid of, sending a month's wages by post and dismissing her. Except Mr. Penrhyn and Mr. Dugdale, nobody from home had seen the children, and they not for months. Little ones alter so much in the first year or two that the exchange would never be detected. And if Giles got well, it would not last. It was a precautionary step only, in view of what might happen.
To the German doctor she had not mentioned that Giles was not her child; indeed, she recalled speaking of him as "my little boy." As to names, no difficulty existed. She had grown into the way of calling them "Mop" and "Top," seldom by their true names, and she could soon teach Colin to know himself as "Giles." It was all too fatally facile.
She did not look ahead, did not realise what the burden on her own conscience would be, but simply faced the present emergency, simply saw "wealth" and "poverty" thrown into the balance.
For an hour she wavered, and on the doctor's return she had not consciously made up her mind. But she had been playing with evil possibilities, and when he asked in German whether the two were twins, she found herself claiming the sick boy as her own, talking of the other as "her charge."
Terror then seized her. She had committed herself to a course of deceit, and no man could foretell whither it might lead.
Yet, when the doctor called a third time, she made no sign, took no step to undo what she had done.
All night the child seemed to be dying, but with morning there were tokens of a rally, and as hours passed this strengthened. The doctor would not believe himself mistaken, and still foretold a collapse, but he proved to be wrong. A young English doctor, Wallace by name, passing through the place, was called in to give a second opinion, and his was hopeful. He insisted upon a trained nurse, and telegraphed for one known to him. Mrs. Keith would have given much to avoid both doctor and nurse; but two or three English residents, hearing of a countrywoman in trouble, had called, and they arranged the whole, giving her no choice.
Of course doctor, nurse, and new acquaintances all believed Giles to be Colin, Colin to be Giles. The lie once told had to be repeated, and would have to be repeated, times without number.
At length the boy was pronounced out of danger, and Mrs. Keith found herself in a terrible position. It might be weeks before the little fellow could be moved. Moreover, soon after first arrival, she had written to Mr. Penrhyn, mentioning the severe illness of—not Giles but "Colin." She had woven a web around her own feet, and one way only of escape lay open, the way of confession.
To a proud nature, like hers, confession of such a deed seemed to lie beyond possibility.
She decided to wait, to see later what could be done. If the child grew well and strong, he must have his rights. In a few weeks she would get away from everybody, and would reverse her own work. Meanwhile, all she could do was to let things drift—a fatal policy!
The boy's recovery was tedious, and he clung to his new nurse, turning fractiously from Mrs. Keith. Mr. Wallace stayed longer than he had intended in the neighbourhood, and both he and the German doctor insisted on the child remaining where he was. Then Mr. Penrhyn appeared, and saw the children under their new names. He was not an astute man, and though he remarked how differently they had developed from what he would have expected, no suspicion entered his mind.
After this, reversion to the old order became a hundredfold more difficult, especially when Mr. Penrhyn, with new determination, insisted on the boy being brought to England and having a home near Castle Hill. Since he was guardian, Mrs. Keith dared not resist. It was evident that he no longer trusted her wisdom, after the mistake she had made in remaining so long in the south.
And still she said to herself that it was only for a while—that in time all must be put straight. Some way would open. Some opportunity would turn up. Speak now she "could" not! Shame herself in the eyes of her little world she "would" not! She did not see how perplexities would thicken, how her little world would widen, how explanation would become more impossible.
Thus soothing her conscience with the thought of "by-and-by," she became in a manner used to the state of affairs, though by fits and starts she underwent much misery. At seasons the deceit—the wrong to one child, the false position of the other—seemed awful beyond words. Then again for weeks she would acquiesce with a dull content, trying to persuade herself that things were just as well so, since Colin—the real Giles—was far from robust, and Giles—the real Colin—was vigorous in body and mind.
The little one's severe illness had altered him. In their infancy, though of different make, people had often said that the two might be taken for brothers. Nobody now spoke of them as alike, and this added to the extreme difficulty of reversion. No one who had seen them since that illness could be a second time deceived.
To make matters worse, the young doctor, Mr. Wallace, who had been called in to see the boy, took the practice at Castlemere, and thenceforward was always at hand. Perhaps it was hardly surprising, though he was not responsible, that Mrs. Keith detested him.
Thus coil within coil she was bound, and she drifted on till all idea of restitution was put off to a dim distance. Things were thus; and thus, she told herself, they had to remain.
In early days she had not been worried by fear of family likenesses. That came later, when she saw "Colin" fast expanding into a reproduction of the Randolph ancestor, inheriting the gift which she loathed, because she knew it to be a Randolph characteristic; when, too, she saw, year by year, her own son, known as Giles Randolph, growing into an exact copy of her brother, Jock Reeves, like in figure, in feature, in manner, in voice, even in handwriting. So marked was the latter resemblance that for years she had insisted on letters from her brother being addressed to her bankers', and forwarded to her under cover. Jock Reeves seldom wrote more than once a year, being a bad correspondent; and he had given in to the "whim," not troubling himself to oppose it.
But when he came home, and discovered that for no imaginable reason he was forbidden to present himself to her son or to Giles Randolph, matters became serious. She and her son were his only living relatives, and he had looked forward to being much with them. He was well off. He had planned spending the remainder of his years with her.
He had not written to announce his return to the old country. On first arrival in London, he learnt from her bankers that she was abroad, and that any letter coming from him was to be forwarded to a Thun address, there to wait till called for—a precaution doubtless taken because he usually wrote at about this date, for her birthday. Forthwith he travelled thither, took up his abode at Interlaken, sent a few lines to the address specified, and awaited a reply. That he had not long to wait was due to Mr. Forsyth's accidental discovery of his letter. It conveyed to Mrs. Keith her first intimation that the brother, whose advent she dreaded, was close at hand; a very "real" fainting-fit being the result.
A telegram from her next morning appointed an immediate meeting at Interlaken; and the outcome of this interview was that he found himself a tabooed individual, hysterically ordered never to show his face at Castle Hill, or to make the acquaintance of his nephew and his nephew's friend.
He demanded reasons in vain. For a time, he submitted, then came to the same conclusion as others—that she was "queer in the top-story;" and he decided to go to Castle Hill. If he should find the nephew and Randolph to be of her mind, he could but "sheer off."
With his appearance was levelled to the ground in one crash a structure of deceit, built up through twenty-seven years.
They had not been, could not be, happy years. They were shadowed by a perpetual dread. Hundreds of times she had bitterly regretted her own mad folly. But no way out of the tangled web had presented itself, save the one which she refused to face.
She did, indeed, keep in her mind a thought of final confession. Just at the last, when she had lived the life she preferred, when everybody would pity her, when she would not have to face earthly consequences—"then" she would speak out. It did not occur to her that she might not then be able to speak out, except in moments of fright, such as during the storm on the lake; and the impression made was wont to pass quickly.
More often she tried to think that it did not really matter; that Giles was quite as happy under the name of Colin; that his delicacy of health made him unfit for the position so ably filled by her son; that practically he had all he needed, since if he named a want it was supplied; that, after bringing up her own boy to ease and wealth, she would wrong him by speaking out. The latter was inconsistent with her proposed dying confession; but Mrs. Keith was not consistent. This way or that way she always reached the same conclusion, that the fiction must be continued.
One aim she had long had—to bring about a union between "Giles" and Phyllys. "Colin's" health was fragile. He might not be long-lived; and Phyllys stood next in succession. Should "Colin" die unmarried, the estate would by right pass to her; and if she were "Giles'" wife, she would then possess her own. It would matter little that she seemed in the eyes of the world to do so through her husband.
The incessant strain had told upon Mrs. Keith's health; and as time went by, hysterical tendencies amounted to something beyond hysteria. There was, no doubt, as more than one believed, a touch of "brain" in her excitement, in her powers of tortuous self-deception.
All these years, when recoiling with horror from the thought of exposure, the deepest dread in her mind had been lest Giles—her own boy, her Colin—should despise his mother. Anything rather than that! "His" contempt she could not endure.
But the look that broke her down, the look in those sombre blue eyes, with their drooping corners, which she loved, was not disdain. It was the overpowering shame, the bitter sorrow, that touched her heart; for she, his mother, had brought all this upon him, and she knew how her tale must look in the sight of the one being for whose sake she could almost have died. Not quite; a woman of her calibre dies—quite—for nobody. Self always ranks first. Still, she did love him passionately; and when she thought of her little child's clinging arms, and realised that she might have kept his loving trust in ever-growing measure to life's end, she could have cried with one of old, "My punishment is greater than I can bear."
CHAPTER XXXVII
READJUSTMENTS
MRS. KEITH hardly even attempted to regain self-control, but sobbed herself into a stupor, followed by sleep. Not till the morning did she again see her son; and no human being learnt the details of that interview. She came out of it subdued, humbled, softened; for the first time with a dawning of real contrition. Giles' deep distress, his patient acceptance of his new position, his forbearance towards her, made a profound impression upon one whose thought had always been for self. Now, viewing half a lifetime of deceit with her son's eyes, she was shamed to the heart.
A more difficult interview had to follow. She had promised to send for the other Colin—the true Giles—not denying that she had to ask his pardon. But this was infinitely harder. She did not love Colin as she loved Giles—for the avoidance of confusion it is better to use still the wrong names. From his childhood her knowledge of the great wrong done to him had caused a hardness and bitterness of feeling, against which she honestly fought, but which had too often mastered her.
To humble herself before her own son was one thing; to humble herself before Colin was another. Subdued and softened though she was, when he came in, another spirit rose up.
He murmured a slight greeting, took a seat, and waited.
"Giles wished," she began, and the words stuck in her throat. "I—I—know what you must feel, of course," she muttered hurriedly. "But I meant it for the best."
He made a gesture of acquiescence, gravely polite. Thus far he had said little, but had gone about with his look of "apartness" intensified, as if he were studying events from some outside region, with greater interest in their psychological aspect than in their bearing on himself. The change of relations was not less bewildering to him than to Giles, though met with outward calm. He did not pretend indifference; he had no thought of shirking his new responsibilities; and acutely as he felt for the real Colin, he had thus far rather implied than expressed sympathy. The fever of modelling possessed him still, and his one longing was to get away from everybody, though no one would have guessed the craving from his manner.
Silence lasted, and those clear compelling eyes almost forced Mrs. Keith to lift hers. She knew his power, and resisted it.
"I've tried—tried to be—fair to you," she faltered.
"I am sure you have, Mrs. Keith—as fair as possible, under the circumstances."
The use of her surname sounded strangely.
"Of course I know how you must feel," she went on, swallowing something down—was it distress at the thought that "he" would be her "son" no longer? Pain in that direction was unexpected; yet, after twenty-seven years, hardly to be wondered at.
"I shall leave Castle Hill at once, as soon as I can arrange where to go. Giles says the same. It doesn't matter—where?" She found herself in danger of a breakdown.
"I think it matters very much."
"No. Giles agrees. He was—very good to me!" and her eyes filled. "He says neither he nor I will be a burden on you—and we have been talking of plans. I shall not trouble you many days. Of course I know—exactly—all you feel!"
"You are sure!" he said gently.
She had to face his eyes. Resistance collapsed. She was obliged to look, and the pain and pity which she found there took her by surprise. She flushed, paled, trembled.
"Do you think it is nothing to lose a mother?" he asked. "You have been a good mother to me, as well as to Giles."
She burst into a passion of tears, touched to the quick. The words which Giles had urged her to speak were now poured forth. "I am sorry—indeed I am. It has been misery! Always knowing—always dreading to be found out! Any moment I would thankfully have told—only I never could—never had courage."
"It would have been happier for yourself."
"Will you ever forgive me?" she entreated brokenly.
He took her hand, not kissing her as he had been in the habit of doing, but with chivalrous compassion. Giles' distress had stirred her intensely, but this went farther.
"So wronged—so wronged!" was all she could sob.
"You have wronged Giles more than me. All these years you have deprived him of his mother."
She clung to his hand sobbing, and even bent her face to kiss it. "How you can be so good to me! I don't deserve it! I thought—I thought—you would hate and despise—"
"You will never think so again."
"If only I had known—if I could have guessed—I would have spoken out long ago." Her lips were again on his hand, when he tried to draw it away. "Colin, you 'have' been a dear son to me—all the while—and I—and I—"
"Don't you think we have said enough?" he asked.
"Yes—perhaps—no use saying more. Only—I do believe now that some day God will forgive me, too—now you and Giles have been so good. Do you think—perhaps He will?"
Colin bent and kissed her brow, as if he had been her son still. "Is Christ less merciful than man?" he murmured.
An hour later Giles was on his way to the library, to write necessary letters. He was oppressed by a dazed sense that in no corner of the house had he a right to stay. He was homeless, a waif astray on the waters of life. The shock to him had been tremendous, the upheaval of feeling immense. As yet he had been hardly able to think of aught else—even of Phyllys—though in the background of his mind existed a heavy consciousness that he could no longer hope to win her. All his life he had used another's wealth. He had now to make his way, to support his mother, with no profession, no adequate means of subsistence.
A few significant words had been spoken by Colin: "You have often said that what was yours was mine. This only means the same, reversed—that what is mine is yours."
But Giles could not allow such generosity on the part of one whom he had—unwittingly—long and deeply injured.
It was no light matter for one of his proud nature—he had inherited his mother's pride together with the Reeves' temper—to step in one moment from the position of benefactor to benefactee; to pass from the landed country gentleman to the impecunious adopted brother. It tried him beyond words. There was indeed one phase of the question which might have brought gratification; the fact that he would give up everything to Colin. But this was more than balanced by all that Colin had lost through him in years gone by.
He stood in the hall, thinking, on his way to the library. Mrs. Keith had to leave. That was beyond debate. Not that Colin would not forgive, but that she had forfeited all right to stay. And the sooner the better!
He too must depart, must bid farewell to the broad acres which he had held to be his own, must wander forth, "not knowing whither he went." That at least was clear. He had harmed Colin enough. "Time he should be quit of me and mine!" he muttered.
Opening the library-door, he was met by a silencing gesture. Colin lay asleep on the sofa, and Phyllys had been bathing his forehead. She retreated with Giles to the small ante-room.
"His head was so bad," she whispered. "I found him here, after he had been with Mrs. Keith, hardly able to speak. But he won't hear if we talk softly." She had something to say, and she went straight to the point. "I'm so sorry, Giles. If you could know how sorry! So ashamed of myself!"
He supposed her "sorrow" to mean sympathy for him in his changed position. The "ashamed" brought perplexity, though he only said, with a melancholy smile—
"You have to learn that my name is not Giles—that I am Colin Keith."
"So difficult to believe!"
"More than difficult. I find it all but impossible to believe that any one—" he stopped. "And she—my mother!"
"What a life hers must have been! And how extraordinary that it was never found out!"
"Too wildly improbable!"
"I have suspected—lately."
"You!" A deep flush overspread his face. Was this why she had refused him—because she foresaw that he might be a poor man? The conjecture no sooner arose than he crushed it down. He could not think unworthy things of Phyllys. That she could think unworthy things of him would, to his mind, have seemed equally impossible.
"I had the fancy. It explained so much that one couldn't understand. But that isn't all. That wasn't what I wanted to tell you," she went on, penitent and abashed. "Something much worse. Giles, I—I was afraid—that perhaps 'you' knew!"
"Knew what?"
"What she had done," very low. "That you were—not really Giles Randolph."
"You believed 'I' knew! 'I'—a party to the fraud! Good heavens!" and he looked at her in consternation. "You don't mean it!"
"It was horrid—horrid of me! But I—couldn't understand. Please forgive!"
"You could think me capable!"
She broke into a sob, tears dropping.
"What can have put such a notion into your head? Good heavens!" he repeated, dazed and scandalised. "You knew me so little!" He seemed more grieved than angry.
"I didn't—oh! I didn't really," she sobbed. "It was only what you had said yourself. I never could have dreamt such a thing, but for that—never! But I couldn't forget—'couldn't' understand."
"What did I say?" He spoke gravely, even with sternness.
She faltered some of the utterances which had so weighed upon her mind. "I ought to have known better. I ought to have been sure of you," she said sorrowfully.
"Then—this was why—!" he murmured.
"Yes," she whispered. "Will you forgive me—for ever thinking it 'could' be?"
The response she expected did not come. No touch of his hand, no renewal of his offer. He said dejectedly—
"There is no question of forgiveness. I laid myself open to misconstruction." After a moment's hesitation, he gave the clue which Phyllys had lacked. "What I meant was that Colin's ill-health lay at my door. That it was my doing. That I could never, through life, repay him for all he has lost through me."
"But—how?"
Giles alluded to the tale she had earlier heard of the cliff accident, in which Elsye Wallace was killed; and he seemed relieved not to have to relate the whole. "It was my doing. I was mad with temper and jealousy, thinking she cared more for him than for me. Some jest of his finished me off—not Colin's fault! I did not see how close they were to the edge, on slippery grass—and one push did it. I flung off as I gave the push, and there was a cry, and when I turned back they were gone—both! Never quite clear whether he overbalanced, and she went too, trying to save him; or whether she started back, and he went, trying to save her. But it was my doing. I killed 'her'—and ruined his health for life."
Phyllys' eyes were full again. "How dreadful!" she murmured. "How awful! It was enough to kill you too. Yet you never meant—"
"What of that? I 'did' it! And not a word of reproach from him. Only one wish—that nobody should be told."
"Was—nobody?"
"Her father, of course. He was—good!" with difficulty.
Giles looked in wonder on Phyllys' little hand laid on his knee. He had not expected to see it there.
"You are sorry for me? But—" he could not refrain from laying his hand on hers, and the touch of those soft fingers thrilled him. "Phyllys, I have no home now to offer. I am a penniless man. Even if you could accept me, you would have to wait years!"
"And if I don't mind waiting?"—with her sweetest smile.
"I should be wrong to let you. It is all too indefinite. I am leaving Castle Hill. He has endured too much through my mother. It must end."
"I beg your pardon," a voice said, and Colin came from the inner room. "Sorry to interrupt you, but I found myself hearing something not meant for me."
He dropped wearily into an armchair, and Phyllys held out a slip of paper. "Mr. Hazel has telegraphed for me to go home," she said. Her letter had followed the old Vicar to London and back to Midfell, whence the delay.
Colin read and returned it. "No hurry," he remarked. "About Giles' plans—no, don't go, Phyllys."
"You heard what I was saying. I will not be a burden on you. You have to take your position: so have I." Giles spoke in resolute tones. "Our paths will lie in different directions." A pause. "My mother and I will leave Castle Hill." Another pause. "I shall look-out for an Agency of some sort."
He had to raise his eyes, had to meet a quiet gaze, before which his determination threatened to become like wax in sunshine. "What do 'you' wish?" he asked.
Colin was pressing a hand over his rumpled hair. "Not that!" he said. "I must have your help."
"Of course, if you need me—"
"There must be a break. We will go different ways for a couple of months—then come together our true selves. Go to Midfell with Phyllys, and make the most of your time there."
"Say 'Yes,'" she whispered.
But he hesitated.
"I can't do without you, Giles—that is simple fact. You are good at business, and I am not. I must and will have leisure for modelling. As for accounts—twenty minutes of them make my head frantic. You shall be my coadjutor—referee—adviser—anything you like. One moment—" as the other was breaking into speech. "You called yourself penniless. I am writing to my lawyers to settle upon you and your heirs the sum of one thousand pounds a year. The letter would be off, if I could have written another page. All I ask is—stay and help me. I will make the position as little trying as maybe."
Giles' strong features worked.
"No," he said. "It is like you; but that won't do. I will stay as long as you need me—as your agent. You shall pay me a fair sum for the work I do; not a penny more. The letter must go into the fire. My mind is made up."
"So is mine!" murmured Colin. He smiled, perhaps recognising that he, in Giles' place, would have followed a like course.
"Well—for the present. Come in—" and Reeves appeared.
"Not interrupting, I hope," he said in Giles' voice.
"No—" and Colin went on with what he was saying. "For the present I give in. It will make no difference in the end. All that I have is yours—and, as you have more than once remarked, 'pride between you and me is a thing impossible.'" The tired eyes laughed. "Your mother will continue to receive her allowance."
"Certainly not. She will depend upon me."
"I beg your pardon," interposed Reeves. "My sister will keep house for 'me.' That was my object in coming home, and she agrees. You may put her out of your calculations."
"Not a bad plan!" mused Colin. "Then the 'allowance' shall accumulate at compound interest for her son and his heirs." He looked at Giles. "And when you can persuade Phyllys to come and be the perpetual sunshine of Castle Hill—"
She flushed up.
"But there was a barrier," confusedly muttered Giles.
"There is no barrier," asserted Colin.
"None!" echoed Phyllys.
They were wrong. A barrier did exist, though not in the mind of Phyllys. It resided in Mrs. Wyverne's fears for the future weal of her beloved grand-daughter. She found it hard to credit that a modern man, who lived a life outside her limitations, who did not employ those forms of religious phraseology in which she delighted, who would not find pleasure in Miss Robins' addresses or profit from Mr. Timkins' exhortations, could be a safe husband for "the child."
But the old Vicar, with his deeper insight and wider grasp, pleaded strenuously; and Phyllys' face spoke for her; and Giles spent two months at Midfell, laying siege to the old lady's heart. Although he was not "one of the family," and although the tale of his mother's duplicity had given her a shock, she did in time learn to differentiate between the characters of mother and son, and did arrive at the knowledge that a man might be a good man, in the best sense of the word, without seeing on every point eye to eye with herself.
Little though she knew it, this shake to her "personal infallibility" theory was one of the most wholesome lessons she had ever received. Her outlook was broadened, to the great gain of herself and those around. But Barbara failed to appreciate the gain; and Miss Robins counted permission given to Phyllys' engagement "a sad falling away."
When a certain happy day arrived, the bridegroom's "best man" might have said to the bridegroom, "You, after all, are the gainer! If broad acres are mine, Phyllys is yours!"
But that would have cast a shadow on the bridegroom's happiness. The words were not spoken; and they never would be spoken. Giles Randolph, owner of Castle Hill, was not a man to consult his own feelings before another's peace of mind. To Phyllys he was always the kindest of brothers; to Colin far more than a brother.
——————————————————————
THE NORTHUMBERLAND PRESS, THORNTON STREET, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE