The Project Gutenberg eBook of The pride o' the morning
Title: The pride o' the morning
Author: Agnes Giberne
Release date: April 14, 2025 [eBook #75867]
Language: English
Original publication: London: S. W. Partridge & Co., Ltd, 1915
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
SHE SHRANK LOWER AND LOWER, TILL HER BOWED HEAD RESTED
ON HER KNEES.
The
Pride o' the Morning
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF "SUN, MOON AND STARS," "THE MIGHTY DEEP,"
"STORIES OF THE ABBEY PRECINCTS,"
"ROY: A TALE IN THE DAYS OF SIR JOHN MOORE," ETC.
"And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play:
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day."
WHITTIER.
London
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO., LTD.
OLD BAILEY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
III. MRS. WYVERNE'S GRAND-DAUGHTERS
VIII. MR. DUGDALE'S OUTSPOKENNESS
XXX. MRS. KEITH AND HER CORRESPONDENT
XXXII. A POSSIBLE COMPLICATION
XXXIV. A FLARE-UP AND ITS SEQUELÆ
XXXVI. THE COIL IN ITS BEGINNING
THE PRIDE O' THE MORNING
CHAPTER I
COLIN'S RETURN
A BEAM of sunshine from the far west came in at the oriel window of Castle Hill library. As its name might imply, Castle Hill stood somewhat high, at least for English Midlands. The house, an old one, often added to in the course of centuries, was two hundred feet above the village of Castlemere.
It had, therefore, benefits of breeze and light; and this lengthy irregular room, with its four windows, its carved black oak, its hangings of dull green and old gold, enjoyed the latest kisses of the monarch of day. The hour for those kisses was not yet come. Wavelets of ether, shimmering billions to each beat of the venerable clock, speeding across ninety-three millions of miles, still landed on wall and carpet.
Mrs. Keith's mind was occupied with other matters than scientific causes for everyday phenomena, as she paced the room with impatient steps, glancing in turn through each front window, in quest of the expected dog-cart.
She was a handsome woman, tall, with dark eyes of unusual size. The rich brown hair, which held many silver threads, was well-dressed, and she carried herself with a touch of conscious stateliness, which failed to hide her present restless mood. A fixed red spot on either cheek made the rest of her pale face paler; her lips worked; and she continuously clenched and unclenched her right hand.
Giles Randolph had risen when she rose, and he now stood in the oriel window, reading; a man of large build, six feet in height and robust in make. The face had strong outlines, with a straight solid nose, a good mouth under the heavy brown moustache, sombre blue eyes dragged downward at their outer corners, and a complexion of deep red-brown. In the features was something not easy to decipher. There was fibre of character, and a will to crush difficulty; yet that dim inscription seemed to speak of something in the past that had mastered him, and had given a bias to his life.
"Half-past six! He ought to be here. I can't think why he is not," Mrs. Keith was saying. "The train was due half-an-hour ago."
She took another turn.
"He must have missed it. How vexatious! When does the next come in? I do wish you would look it out for me."
Giles put down his book and walked to a side-table, where some fumbling ended in the remark—"I don't see Bradshaw."
"It's there, I know—on the top shelf of that bookcase."
He took down the volume, remarking in his deep voice, which contrasted with her somewhat querulous tones—"This train is often late."
"O don't be sensible, pray! I'm not in the mood for it."
Possibly her companion was at a loss how to be the reverse. He turned over the pages, and remarked, "In case Colin should have missed—"
"Yes, yes; I understand all that. The time of the train is what I want." Then came an apology. "I really don't mean to be cross, Giles. Somehow, I can't help it."
He looked at her kindly. "Of course—I understand. One knows what this must be to you—your own boy coming home!"
"Yes. That is—he may be different."
"No fear. Colin will be Colin still. Ah! Here is the page."
She had moved again and now stood behind him. A breeze of feeling swept over her face; something of protestation, for which nothing present seemed to account. Tears filled her eyes and were with difficulty blinked away; but she spoke in a tone of forced gaiety.
"You have no business to talk like that. To speak as if Colin were more to me than yourself. You know that you both are my boys—always have been and always will be."
He spoke soothingly. "At all events, if there has been any difference it has lain the other way—more indulgence for me, more strictness for him."
"O surely not!" That which he meant to comfort her proved exciting. "Don't say it, Giles! So hard as I have tried to make no difference—even in my love!"
"You have made none, beyond what was inevitable. Colin has the right to your greater love, and he is infinitely more lovable. Venetian glass can't be handled like granite. Come, you are not going to worry yourself! Things are all right."
"I hope so. I shouldn't like to think—" She left the sentence unfinished, and began anew—"I often wonder—'can' one hold oneself even? I know what you mean by 'greater strictness' and 'Venetian glass.' Just because he is my own, I have tried to be more severe with him, and his sweetness has made it impossible. He is so lovable, as you say."
"Of course your own boy is and must be more to you than all the world beside."
"Yes—true," she murmured.
"I should be the last ever to wish Colin to come second." Giles spoke pointedly; for Mrs. Keith's endeavours to give her ward his full rights had often resulted in giving her son less than his rights. "But here is the dog-cart."
Mrs. Keith's attempts at self-analysing were brushed aside. Colin was through the front door before they could leave the library, moving with an absence of hurry, yet forestalling them. He kissed his mother, shook hands with Giles, patted the old hound who followed him with sniffs and whines, exchanged some chaff with the stout butler which set that excellent retainer grinning with delight, and finally took possession of an armchair, asking and answering questions in a soft deliberate undertone, which was the precise antithesis of his mother's variable voice.
He and Giles were made after different models. A stranger might easily have set down the latter as a man of four-and-thirty, while few guessed Colin to have passed his twenty-third year. Yet less than six weeks had divided the birth of the one from the birth of the other; and each now had passed his twenty-eighth birthday.
Colin was the shorter, though he gained in apparent height from his slightness. His fair pale complexion and chiselled delicacy of feature contrasted with the powerful outlines of Giles, while the finely-developed forehead spoke of intellect. The blue eyes were singular, not unlike those of Giles in colour, observant, yet dreamy.
He had suffered severely in health from an accident in boyhood. A heavy blow on the head had resulted in disabling headaches, which for years prevented study. His high spirit had made him less of an invalid than might have been the case; still, education had been a negligible quantity, so far as any regular "curriculum" was concerned. He had read much by fits and starts, picking up any amount of general information, but steady work had been impossible. Foreign travel at last had been recommended, and much was expected from the three years of absence, now ended.
Glad to be back! Yes, certainly. Though he had enjoyed himself no end—thanks to Giles!—with a glance at the latter.
Then, presently—"Giles, I've been thinking—it is cool of me to talk of this as 'home.' As if I had a shadow of right!"
"You have every right."
"Not a particle. Now I am stronger, I don't mean to be dependent."
"Nonsense!" came emphatically.
And Mrs. Keith stood up.
"Going to dress for dinner," she murmured; and Colin showed surprise, since the hour was early. He did not protest, but when she had disappeared, his glance went to Giles.
"Nervous!" came in reply.
"What about?"
"I haven't a notion."
Colin dropped the subject, and reverted to what he had been saying. "That's all very well, you know; but I happen to have a trifle of self-respect. Call it pride, if you like."
"Between you and me pride is impossible."
"The future Mrs. Randolph—"
"Will feel as I feel, or she won't exist. What is mine is yours. And not a man in the Empire is less likely to marry."
"Bosh! Anyhow, I mean to work."
"You shall do what you can, without suffering for it. But for pleasure, not necessity."
"It's a moral necessity that I should be independent."
"And deprive me of the one thing—" A word of protest cut into the utterance. "Yes, I know! I promised not to say it again. No need; for you understand. I wish you also to understand that never while I live will Castle Hill cease to be your home."
"So be it! Meanwhile, I intend to work."
"At what?"
"Modelling, of course. Will the mater be exercised?" His words dropped slowly.
"I don't see why she should."
"She hates to see me fingering clay. I never can conceive why. It is the one thing I can do."
"Better for you, at any rate, than head-work."
"My dear fellow! Do you suppose sculpture is not head-work?"
"Better than books, I should have said. We must fit up a studio."
Colin murmured a "Thanks." He added, "I've done a lot of modelling lately—in Paris first, of course."
"Ah, that was what kept you so long."
"I went through a regular course. This winter I've had a fine time in Italy, studying the great masters. Plaster casts want a lot of practice. I've not made much way with them yet."
"Don't try for the present. Modelling in clay will give scope for your powers, and a practised moulder will do the casting better. For a wonder, I know just the man in Market Oakley—a young fellow with talent. I shall like to encourage him."
"I dare say! But the cost—"
"Will be my concern, till you can stand alone. When you are receiving hundreds for a bust, you shall pay for your own casting."
"Ah—when!! But I mean to stand alone."
"What are a few pounds between you and me?"
"Well, perhaps for a time!" reluctantly. "I had no end of encouragement abroad. Some of my attempts won great praise."
"Delighted to hear it," Giles said cordially. "What do you think of the old schoolroom for your studio? It is out of the way, and has no room over. You will want skylight windows, I fancy, and a tap of water, and a modelling-stool, and instruments. There's a small inner room, which will be useful. We will have it put in order at once. You must be properly equipped at the outset."
"Giles, you 'are' a good fellow!" murmured Colin.
CHAPTER II
MIDNIGHT MOVEMENTS
"HOW do you do?" a precise voice said.
It was not needful to announce Mr. Thomas Dugdale. He was as much at home in the house as its proper inmates. If a door were open, he walked in; if not, the butler opened it, but did not venture to treat him like a caller.
The greeting was meant for Colin. He never said, "How do you do?" to the others, since they met too often.
He was elderly, composed, critical, daintily neat every inch of him, from the smooth well-cut hair and the shaven face to the immaculate shoes, which never, on the muddiest day, became soiled. Extreme exactitude, inside and out, was his main characteristic. He lived alone in a small house on the estate, built by a former owner for his mother-in-law. Mr. Dugdale might have found a home with his widowed daughter, on a neighbouring property, but he preferred "freedom."
Dinner over, Colin usurped most of the talk, till Mr. Dugdale appeared.
Mrs. Keith looked often from one to the other of "her boys," as she called them, trying to impress upon both that neither was more to her than the other. They, man-like, would have taken the fact for granted. She could not let it alone. If she said "Dear Colin," she dragged in a "Dear Giles" within two minutes. If she laid an affectionate hand on Giles' shoulder, she gave a like caress to Colin. The balancing of affection became irksome, and Mr. Dugdale's entrance made a not unwelcome diversion.
"Tired of travelling?" he suggested. "Three years—enough for the most voracious appetite. What is to be the next step?"
"Settle down at home," Giles replied for him.
"Well—for a while. Give folks time to turn round." He took off the far-sighted glasses with which he had surveyed Colin, put them away, and with dainty finger-tips adjusted his near-sighted pince-nez, pulling forth a letter.
"Something to interest you here. A response to my letter. Signs of yielding, too. It takes the old lady six weeks to evolve an answer."
Mrs. Keith saw the writing. "Mrs. Wyverne!" she exclaimed.
Colin showed interest. "How about Phyllys?" he asked. "Something was said lately about getting her to visit us."
"Mrs. Wyverne ought to consent. Giles will be in that neighbourhood, and he means to try persuasion—not asking leave beforehand."
"Going to storm the fortress?" suggested Colin, with one of his noiseless laughs. "Mind you don't capture by mistake the ogress!"
"Not likely! Barbara must be a person to whom distance lends enchantment," remarked Giles.
"We have nothing to do with Miss Pringle. It is Phyllys whom we want. Certainly not Barbara!" Mrs. Keith knitted her brows.
Mr. Dugdale began to fold up his letter in disgust. "Barbara Pringle is an excellent person of her kind," he said stiffly. "Well-meaning and conscientious. Most people are well-meaning. But the bane of womanhood is to be always in the right. Barbara Pringle is always in the right. She never makes a mistake. Therefore she is monotonous and uninteresting."
"Let us devoutly hope that Phyllys sometimes blunders," laughed Colin. He saw the vanishing letter, and added, "But you were going to read us something."
"Nothing! Nothing!" Mr. Dugdale waved the subject aside with his hand. "Merely a passing idea. Barbara Pringle has usurped its place. Inadvertently I interrupted somebody—or somebody interrupted me. In either case, I apologise."
Glances were exchanged. Mr. Dugdale crossed his legs, and contemplated an empty fireplace.
"The Infinitely Little!" he mused. "It may be masculine; but it is more commonly feminine. Woman, when she is small, is very small indeed. When last I had the pleasure of seeing Barbara Pringle, I should have described her as an excellent example of the Infinitely Little. Good, no doubt; but narrow—painfully narrow. A woman whose whole Universe might be packed into an egg-shell."
"Think what her life has been," suggested Colin. "Forty years in a Yorkshire burrow."
"Narrowness is a matter of mental make, not of circumstances."
"No doubt; but circumstances tell upon one's mental make. A plant, whatever its make, can't develop without light and air. Miss Pringle has had neither."
"If she had, she could not have made use of them."
"And the family aim is to rescue Phyllys from a like fate. Giles should be equal to the old lady, even backed by the redoubtable Barbara."
"Barbara Pringle is a woman not easily managed."
"Ten years since you saw her," said Mrs. Keith.
Mr. Dugdale put his finger-tips together, and entered on a discussion of dates. He proved, to his own satisfaction, that not ten years, but precisely nine and a half, had elapsed since the date of his visit to the Yorkshire village, where lived old Mrs. Wyverne and her pair of grand-daughters. Then he stood up, his eyes bent upon Colin.
"Sorry—no. Can't stay longer. Busy; and so are you." He was still chafing under his supposed slight. "Ta-ta, everybody. Whom on earth has Colin grown like?"
"It's generally decided that I am like nobody," remarked the object of his scrutiny. "Not the mater, in any case."
"'I' should have said Colin was like everybody in turn," Mrs. Keith observed.
Mr. Dugdale, with wrinkled brows, pursued his quest.
"Can't imagine," he repeated. "It is a definite resemblance." He frowned anew, standing deep in thought. "I have it! That old portrait in oils, which used to hang here—I never could understand why it was banished to the gallery! It's one of the best things in the house!"
Mrs. Keith went into peals of laughter. She held her handkerchief to her lips, overpowered with merriment. Colin laughed sympathetically in his silent fashion, while the set gravity of Giles' features deepened.
"My 'dear' Mr. Dugdale! You really are 'too' comical! The idea of likening Colin to that ancient fogey! Young, was he?—Yes, I dare say he was—two hundred years ago! But it's too rich!—too funny!" Her laughter filled the room. She was not often noisy, but for once she let herself go.
"Oh, very well. Good-night. In future I shall keep my opinions to myself!" And Mr. Dugdale walked off, affronted. He could stand anything better than ridicule.
Giles went with him to the door, and on his return Mrs. Keith's merriment had subsided.
Colin was saying—
"I have reverted lately to my old love—sculpture."
There was a movement of annoyance. "I hope you are not going to take that up again!"
"If I have the gift, why not use it?" asked Colin, in level tones.
"You have not. It is a mere fancy."
"A fancy that has survived twenty years."
"You will never succeed." Her manner showed displeasure.
"But at least he can try," put in Giles.
"It will be utter waste of time."
"That was not the opinion of an expert. He said there was no doubt about my having the gift—if I could work hard enough."
"You won't. You will never keep up anything long."
The words brought a shadow to both faces, more especially to that of Giles.
"If you wish to find work, pray take up something worth doing." She was greatly in earnest, and the red spot in either cheek began to burn.
"This is worth doing, if Colin wishes it," said Giles gravely. He counted her opposition unkind.
The subject was dropped, but Mrs. Keith's face fell into a haggard set. She went to bed early, Colin retiring also, and Giles retreated to his private den beyond the billiard-room. Since he managed his own estate, without an agent, he was sufficiently busy. Papers had to be examined, letters had to be written; and this was his time of quiet.
More than two hours had gone by, when a consciousness came over him of something or somebody moving.
The servants would be gone to bed, since it was past midnight. He went out and listened, standing in a narrow passage, which at some distance to the left joined the central hall; and the whole house seemed to be in darkness, in absolute repose. But as he waited, he heard again that suggestion of a sound—hardly a creak—and then he saw a needle of light falling athwart one corner of the hall.
He took an unlighted candle and a box of matches, and groped his way thither; but the slender ray had vanished.
Again he listened, and could detect nothing. Mrs. Keith or one of the maids might be about: but what puzzled him was that the needle of light had seemed to travel from the long corridor on the first floor, known as the "gallery," its position and slant being in no other way explainable.
Not wishing to disturb sleepers by stumbling about in the dark, he lighted his candle and went upstairs. Mrs. Keith's room was fast shut; so was Colin's. He turned to the gallery, where a double row of old pictures, portraits and landscapes, adorned one wall, the other being broken by windows.
Another glimmer ahead. The gallery ran round two sides of the house, and this ray came from beyond the corner. He went faster, but on rounding the corner he saw nothing. If anybody had been there, the person must have gone through a door to the back staircase.
Thither also went Giles. He descended the back stairs, which ended on a part of the ground-floor divided by a swing-door from the main hall. Still no one was visible. He pushed the door open and passed through, to find himself in darkness. He could discover no presence except his own. Going once more up the front stairs, to make assurance doubly sure, he saw a light below Mrs. Keith's door, and tapped. She kept him waiting a good two minutes, then opened and faced him in surprise—her hair falling over a dressing-gown flung hurriedly on.
"Giles! Is anything wrong?"
"Some one is about, and I wanted to know if you had left your room."
"I! I was in bed, almost asleep—but I heard a step, and I lighted my candle. Then it was not 'your' step? Not thieves, I hope!" with frightened eyes.
"More likely one of the maids. Probably you heard my steps; but somebody else was on the move."
"I'll speak to the maids to-morrow. They have no business to be about so late. You are 'sure' it is not a thief—" her breath quickening.
"No need to feel anxious. I'm not going to bed yet, and I shall take a look at all the fastenings."
He said good-night, and went the round, but found no door or window unbolted.
CHAPTER III
MRS. WYVERNE'S GRAND-DAUGHTERS
"PHYLLYS BELINDA WYVERNE."
She wrote the words in large capitals with the point of a decrepit sunshade upon a patch of smooth sand by the wayside, and read them aloud.
"And that is Me," she murmured. "That always was Me. That always will be Me. Yet—when one comes to think of it—such a different Me now from what I used to be in the old, old days!"
So far as looks went, she might have been anywhere between seventeen and twenty-one.
"And such a different Me from what I might have been—if 'they' had lived!" she added.
She allowed a handful of dry sand to stream between her fingers, and Wiggles, the rough Skye-terrier, with bright eyes under a shaggy penthouse of hair, had the benefit of it. She broke into laughter at his indignant bark.
"Your temper is too easily upset, Wiggles. You should wait till you have something to bark at. There are worse things in life than a sprinkle of sand. Infinitely worse, dear Wiggles."
Above the sand-patch rose a steep bank, clothed with trees and underwood. She stood, her head thrown back, meditating an assault. She dearly loved climbing, and nobody was at hand to protest, except one who owned no right of protestation. She believed herself to be alone. Wiggles knew better; and for a second time he ran to inspect the intruder. A second time he decided that it was no case for a rousing alarum. He was a dog of discrimination.
Phyllys pursued her soliloquy in a voice which, though subdued, was full and bell-toned.
"On the whole I don't wish to be anybody else. But that is not to say that I would not rather be 'Somewhere' else! Wiggles—" and she broke into energy—"how I long—long—to get away! Right away—from everything and everybody! I feel as if I were shut up in prison for evermore—never to see, never to know, never to reach beyond this little round. I want things different—and people to understand."
She stopped to pat the dog, and he squirmed in rapturous response.
"One thing is clear," she remarked aloud. "I can't and I won't go to the meeting this evening. I'm old enough to judge for myself, though Barbara does treat me like a child. I'm not in the mood, and it never does me any good. I'll play truant till Grannie and Barbara are off—let the consequences be what they may."
The features of her unknown spectator relaxed with amusement. He was about to make a forward move, when checked by a spring on her part. She went lightly up the bank, as a sailor might have done, and swung herself into the branches of a medium-sized tree. He drew back, fearing to startle her if she should glance round in the midst of her acrobatic feat.
She settled herself on the fork of a bough, leant against the trunk, and sighed with content.
"This is something like! Imagine exchanging it for the stuffy schoolroom, and all the 'Ha's' and 'Ho's' and 'Hi's,'—worse still for Miss Robins and Mr. Timkins. Ah, Wiggles, my dear, if you knew what it was to have to do with a Timkins—and 'such' a Timkins!"
By this time her audience was smiling outright, though less easily moved to a smile than some men.
The bough on which she rested gave a creak. "I say!—I mustn't stay long. But it is delicious. Why does one grow too old to do what one likes?"
Silence was broken by the trills of a wren, pouring forth its little heart in song. A cricket chirped, and a large bumble-bee swung heavily by, and a dragonfly with iridescent wings swept to and fro in dashes after his prey.
"Wough!" objected Wiggles, feeling himself in the lurch.
"Hold your tongue, Wiggles. I'm coming soon."
Her gaze wandered over the expanse beyond the opposite wall; a wall of loose stones piled scientifically together, without aid from mortar. Grass-fields, divided by similar walls, sloped downward into a hollow, where lay the clustering stone houses of a village, well named Midfell, since all around, at distances varying from two to four miles, broad moor fells reared their summits. Their clear wide lines stood against a sky of pure blue, and the bright green of grass-land contrasted with the richer green of late July bracken, while other parts had begun faintly to blush with the glow of opening heather. All was grazing-land, varied only by uncultivated moor. No trace of corn could be seen.
It was a fair look-out; so calm that the whisper of a brooklet might be heard on its way to join the main stream which cut the village in half. Phyllys could see that stream from where she sat, and a stone bridge over it, beside which was her home. Now and again a low "moo" floated from one of the meadows, then the bark of a dog, and again a child's voice.
"Wough!" protested Wiggles anew.
He went for a third survey of the stranger, feeling himself responsible for his mistress' safety. There was a slight "Sh-sh!" and the stranger's eyes gazed into his. Wiggles knew that no harm lay behind those sombre blue orbs, and he wagged his tail.
"Good dog!" the stranger said aloud.
Phyllys overheard, and uttered an "Oh!" to herself. She had been well lectured on the fact that at twenty-three she was years too old for tree climbing, and she never now ventured on the amusement except in privacy. There was nothing for it but to wait till the other should have gone on. Owing to the nature of the ground a dignified descent was impossible. She would have to come with a drop, a run, and a leap—enjoyable enough, but not to be allowed before spectators.
"Pardon me," the intruder said, advancing to the foot of the bank, and lifting his straw hat. "I could not help hearing your name. As it happens that I am on my way to your house, perhaps I may venture to introduce myself. If we are not acquainted, we ought to be."
Phyllys paid but divided attention. She had discovered that her bough was unequal to its task, and was giving way. If only the interloper would hurry on and leave her to scramble down, all would be right. He showed no such intention.
"My name is Giles Randolph," he was remarking.
"I say!" whispered Phyllys, as her support yielded more pronouncedly. She clutched the trunk.
"I hardly think you are comfortable up there," the deep voice observed, while its owner steadied himself for instant action.
"It is most delightful," hardily asserted Phyllys. "But if you would please go on round the corner, I will come after you." She was chafing with impatience, for each moment was of importance, and he stood as if an earthquake would not dislodge him.
"I think you had better let me help you down."
"Help 'me!'"—with a laugh.
The slight jerk was fatal, and the bough snapped clean off, leaving her in peril. She strove to cling to a stem too large for her grasp, and hung over the road, which lay far enough beneath to mean, if she fell, at the least broken bones.
Three bounds carried him up the bank, and as she dropped, he caught her with outstretched arms. She was conscious at once of his rock-like strength and firmness. He set her on the bank, and holding her hand leaped down with her to the road.
"You managed splendidly," was her first remark. "But I 'could' have got down alone."
"I hope you might have been able—if I had not been here."
"Of course I could." She hesitated. "No—perhaps not, when the bough broke. But if I had not seen you, I should have been off in time."
He murmured an apology.
"Of course it was not your fault, only everybody says I am too old for climbing trees. What a pity the nicest things in life are just what one ought not to do!"
"Invariably?"
"Very often. Did you say you were Giles Randolph—my cousin? How curious! So many years since we have met!"
They stood face to face, each trying to make out the other. She noted with pleasure his powerful make, the strongly-knit frame, the sunburnt face and grave eyes. "I like him!" she said to herself.
And he liked her, though he did not say so, even to himself. Despite the second-cousinship, he had not seen Phyllys since her childhood, and he had never been to Midfell. Intercourse between the Castle Hill folks and the two grand-daughters had been discouraged by the kind but strict old grandmother, and during late years Barbara had used her influence to stiffen the family separation.
Phyllys was not what Giles had expected to find. Whether pretty or not might be a matter of opinion, but he thought her engaging. She was a trifle over middle height, lithe, and active. Her complexion was a pale brown, and the eyes were violet in hue, not large, but with thick black lashes, while the eyebrows were of a warm chestnut, matching the loosely-knotted hair. She had a trick of half closing her eyes, so that the upper and nether fringes all but met, and only a glimmer of blue crept through.
"We want you to pay us a visit at Castle Hill."
She flushed up. "Do you—really? That is what I have longed for. But Mrs. Keith—"
"Mrs. Keith is as anxious as anybody."
"Really!" in surprise. "But why? We are strangers."
Giles felt the puzzle insoluble.
"It isn't as if she and I were related," the girl added.
"No, she is only a connection even of mine. But she acted the part of a mother for years, and Colin and I are brothers."
"I should like to know Colin. Ought I to call him Mr. Keith? Everybody says Colin. How odd it was that Wiggles did not bark at you! He must have taken a fancy. I always say Wiggles is a reader of character."
Her face broke into a smile, the eyelashes curling with mischief.
Giles's smile was different. It could not be said to "break," but rather to dawn with reluctance. It was rare, but when it did appear, it transformed his face.
Phyllys was conscious of the change, though she only said, "Now shall I show you the way home?"
"You did not wish to hurry. I am sorry, but I overheard what you said."
"How could you help it? I was talking to Wiggles. Yes, I meant to stay away till it should be too late for the meeting."
"Shall we arrive later? I can see your grandmother to-morrow, if they will give me a bed at the village Inn." He had not intended to spend the night at Midfell, but decision was prompt.
"I should have to say that I had made myself late on purpose. And Grannie—" She came to a meaning pause.
"Then shall we go at once?"
"I suppose so," regretfully. She walked by his side down the narrow, rutted, stony road, where purple geraniums grew in abundance on the banks.
"Grannie and Barbara love those meetings," she remarked. "The Vicar doesn't. He calls them a sort of hodge-podge. But Barbara says I dislike them because I am irreligious."
The silence of Giles was more responsive than many people's talk, and it drew her out.
"Not that I'm really irreligious," she remarked, prodding the dust with her ancient sunshade. "It depends upon circumstances. When they sing 'O Paradise' in church on Sunday evening I feel any amount religious—almost as if it would be nice to die. But Barbara says that hymn is unsound."
"Indeed!"
"She says the Vicar is unsound too. He has such a kind face, and everybody loves him, except Barbara and Miss Robins and Mr. Timkins, and perhaps Grannie. I wonder why people with wrong views are nicer than people with right views."
"You find that they are?"
"Well, there is Mr. Timkins!" Another flash. "Miss Robins—she is Barbara's great friend and she gets up the meetings—she calls Mr. Timkins a saint. He is not my notion of a saint—not one least little scrap. He is one of my pet horrors. Grannie and Barbara and Miss Robins admire him, because they say he is so truly excellent. Do you believe in liking people only because they have right views and are truly good?"
"One might, in certain cases, admire the goodness without liking the individual."
"But wouldn't you rather be a great deal beloved than have sound views—if you could not do both, I mean? I think I would!"
Giles felt that she would never have to grieve over being unloved. Something in her stirred something in him which hitherto had lain dormant.
"And you don't think it is wrong to detest excellent people?" Then, with a laugh—"But that is hardly a fair question. I forgot what strangers you and I are!"
"I hope we shall not be strangers long."
"No. It does not feel now as if we were. I suppose that is because we are cousins. Perhaps some day you and I will be friends!"
She said the words smilingly, and he found his pulse throbbing in an unwonted fashion.
"I should very much like to be your friend."
"Would you? Ah, you don't know me yet. I'm always saying things I have to be sorry for. You would soon be disappointed in me."
Then adroitly she turned the subject, as if unwilling to commit herself further.
CHAPTER IV
THINGS PAST AND PRESENT
MRS. WYVERNE waited in the front sitting-room of Burn Cottage, looking out upon the stream, the murmur of which came pleasantly to her ears. She always took care to be ready some time before she had to start on any expedition, having reached an age when haste and flurry are undesirable.
She was stout and heavy in figure, but she held herself with dignity, and there was a Quaker-like serenity about her handsome old face. Her dress was of black silk, good as to material, plain in make, and her bonnet was a copy of the Quaker type. In earlier years she had been drawn to join for a while the Quaker community, and she still admired many of their methods.
By her side stood a small table, on which lay her spectacle case, her large-print Bible, her knitting basket, and her writing case. The centre of the room was filled by a round table, remnant of a bygone age. The walls were adorned with texts, some printed and framed in wood, some worked in silks on perforated cardboard, with fancy edgings of home manufacture. A row of devotional books, most of them printed fifty years earlier, with faded bindings, stood upon the quaint chiffonier.
Grace and charm had evidently not been the aim of those who saw to the interior of Burn Cottage.
The elder grand-daughter, Barbara Pringle, only child of Mrs. Wyverne's only daughter—between whom and the father of Phyllys a wide gap in age existed—had inherited nothing of the old lady's good looks. She was clumsily made, bony and uncouth, with lustreless hair, dressed in a flat and unbecoming style, features of an exaggerated type, and an uncomfortable expression. Her dress seemed to have been put together anyhow, with no effort after what might suit the individual; and results were in marked contrast with the dignified simplicity of the elder lady.
Barbara Pringle was a good woman, but not so good as she counted herself, which augured a lack of humility. One virtue she had—a supreme devotion to her grandmother, for whom she would have done anything. But out of this sprang an intense jealousy of anybody who should interfere with her monopoly. Since Phyllys naturally came in for a large share of grandmotherly affection, it followed that Barbara could see no good in Phyllys.
Barbara's was not a wide mind. Therein spoke Mr. Dugdale truly. Her natural make was contracted, and her opportunities had been few. Left an orphan at three, she had spent forty years at Midfell, and the two or three people for whom she cared could not uplift her to a broader view of life. Her method of weighing the worth of others was through the test of—not the lives that they lived, but the opinions which they held. Even this she failed to apply fairly in the case of Phyllys.
She did not know herself to be unfair. Few people discover that defect in themselves, and she was great at self-deception. Seldom if ever did she admit, even in her innermost consciousness, that rank jealousy underlay her persistent condemnation of the younger, more attractive, and more lovable cousin. She honestly believed in Phyllys' unmitigated perversity.
Things were hard for her. During more than thirty years she had had her own way, as the only grand-daughter at hand; had been exclusively necessary to the old lady, who to her had been mother, father, all in one.
Then Phyllys, the only child of Mrs. Wyverne's beloved son, was also left an orphan, and she too was adopted by the large-hearted though narrow-minded old lady. At first Barbara had not realised what this would mean.
Not till the charming wilful child of thirteen arrived, not till her winsomeness had been exerted over house and village, not till she had begun to reign supreme in the little world around, did jealousy spring in Barbara's heart. She failed to recognise the weed.
Scarcely the whole of their little world; for Barbara's chosen friend, Miss Robins, held out from the first against the young princess of hearts, but she was almost the sole exception.
Mrs. Wyverne did her best to discipline her darling, but the love which she poured upon Phyllys took precedence of all other affection. The forty years of Barbara's devotion became as nought beside one smile from Phyllys, one touch of her sweet lips, one glimpse of the thick black fringes which were so perfect a reproduction of her father's. How Mrs. Wyverne had loved that only son, mothers alone can know. He had been in some sort a sorrow to her. He had not thought with her on many points. He had disappointed her expectations. She had been wont to condemn him. But in spite of all, how she had loved him! No wonder her heart went forth to the child whose every look and gesture recalled the dead father.
It all came about naturally, but it meant trouble for the cousin.
So, being what she was, a good woman, but not in character noble or generous, Barbara took twisted views of the younger cousin's actions, constantly misjudging her. For instance—that Phyllys should not, at the present moment, have returned in time for the weekly meeting, got up by herself and Miss Robins, and good-humouredly tolerated by the Vicar, was a case of rank ill-doing.
"You told her to be back, grandmother."
"I really do not feel sure. Phyllys is aware of my wishes. I shall have to reprimand her."
Mrs. Wyverne drew out a huge old pinchbeck watch, then hunted for a letter.
"We shall be in time if we start in a few minutes." Being a trifle hard of hearing, she preferred the front row. "I had another letter from Mr. Dugdale this morning. He writes strongly on the duty of letting Phyllys become acquainted with Giles and his people."
Barbara spoke tartly. "I suppose by 'his people' you mean the Keiths. He and they are alike—people without religion. Bent upon nothing but pleasure. No doubt they go in for ceremonial observance, but as for anything deeper—If Phyllys gets among them she will be utterly spoilt."
Barbara, accustomed to have the upper hand in these questions, saw with amazement a look of indecision.
"It is out of the question," she added roughly. "There is no knowing what might come of it."
"I must do what is for the child's interests. Perhaps I have realised too keenly the other side of the question. She is twenty-three. I cannot always refuse to allow other relatives to see her. Giles Randolph has no one nearer to him than Phyllys."
"Than us, you mean?"
"Yes. But circumstances are different. If Giles should die unmarried, Phyllys would inherit the property."
"You would inherit it, grandmother."
"I should hold it in trust for Phyllys. Nothing would induce me to leave Midfell."
"Giles is a healthy man. Nothing less likely than his death."
"The healthiest are often the first taken."
Since Mr. Timkins had unctuously enlarged on this truth at the last meeting, Barbara was at a loss what to say.
"I must admit," the old lady continued, "that what Mr. Dugdale says, both in this and in his last letter, has tended to open my eyes to the fact that another side exists." She spoke with old-fashioned precision. "He is urgent about what her father would have desired."
"You are more likely to understand that than Mr. Dugdale."
Mrs. Wyverne was silent. In her heart she knew that she had not acted as her son would have wished.
"Besides, Phyllys has no notion about the property. Of course you do not mean to tell her." Barbara's frown grew more forbidding.
"There is no need to tell her at present."
"If she goes to Castle Hill, she will learn it. You ought to prevent that visit at all costs."
But Mrs. Wyverne did not bow to this decision. A long-dormant sense of family obligation had been stirred in her; yet more, a sense of how her son would have acted. While much under the control of her elder grand-daughter, she could assert her will when once convinced that such assertion was right. Duty held a paramount position in her life, though her views of duty might be lop-sided; and the strongest longing of her heart was to do the best that could be for Phyllys.
"Grannie," a musical voice broke in. "Here is Giles Randolph. He has come to see us."
Nothing could have been more apposite to the subject of Mrs. Wyverne's thoughts at that moment, and she took the intrusion philosophically. Two minutes sufficed for Giles' explanation. Being in the neighbourhood, he had promised to bring a message from Mrs. Keith, and had also granted himself the pleasure of seeing his great-aunt. He had walked across the moors from the station, and had overtaken Phyllys. Mrs. Wyverne, he heard, had an engagement; but he proposed staying a night at the inn, in hopes that she would spare him an hour next morning.