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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


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRIDE O' THE MORNING ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.


[Illustration: 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

                           [Illustration]

CHAPTER

      I. COLIN'S RETURN

     II. MIDNIGHT MOVEMENTS

    III. MRS. WYVERNE'S GRAND-DAUGHTERS

     IV. THINGS PAST AND PRESENT

      V. THE MIDFELL ATMOSPHERE

     VI. A BURNISHED STREAM

    VII. A STERN CHASE

   VIII. MR. DUGDALE'S OUTSPOKENNESS

     IX. A MOORLAND DEATH-TRAP

      X. DIREFUL REALISATIONS

     XI. CASTLE HILL PERPLEXITIES

    XII. COLIN AND HIS WORK

   XIII. THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH

    XIV. SCULPTOR AND SITTER

     XV. AN INADVERTENT DISCOVERY

    XVI. LEVEL PLAINS

   XVII. DUTY VERSUS DESIRE

  XVIII. A PAST EPISODE

    XIX. A VANISHED PORTRAIT

     XX. REVERSION TO A RUT

    XXI. THE THINGS THAT ARE

   XXII. THINGS THAT SHOULD BE

  XXIII. COLIN'S CONQUESTS

   XXIV. A FAMILIAR HANDWRITING

    XXV. GILES OR SOMEBODY

   XXVI. AN UNQUIET MIND

  XXVII. RENEWED FIGHTING

 XXVIII. NEW DEVELOPMENTS

   XXIX. THE LOST HEIRLOOM

    XXX. MRS. KEITH AND HER CORRESPONDENT

   XXXI. GILES AND HIS HOPES

  XXXII. A POSSIBLE COMPLICATION

 XXXIII. COMING TO THE POINT

  XXXIV. A FLARE-UP AND ITS SEQUELÆ

   XXXV. THE OTHER MAN

  XXXVI. THE COIL IN ITS BEGINNING

 XXXVII. READJUSTMENTS



                      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.

[Illustration: "GRANNIE, HERE IS GILES RANDOLPH."]

Giles used so few words that it was remarkable how much he conveyed.
Mrs. Wyverne was not glad to see him, and she refrained from saying
that she was; but her charming smile served in place of that which she
would have condemned as an untruth. Barbara, declining to smile, waited
in glum silence.

"I am sorry that we cannot offer to take you in here," observed
Mrs. Wyverne; and the involuntary word "sorry" caused her some
after-twinges. "The Cottage is small, and we have no spare room. But
you will be comfortable at the inn." Then she weighed carefully her
conflicting duties, and decided to remain at home. Barbara and Phyllys
would go without her to the meeting.

There was no escape for Phyllys. Her face fell; but it was evident
that the old lady wished for a tête-à-tête with Giles. Barbara, curtly
nodding goodbye, marched off, and Phyllys followed. She had learnt
obedience in a strict school, and though inwardly rebellious she made
no outward sign.

Then Giles bent his faculties to the task of winning the old lady. Now
that he had seen Phyllys, he was anxious for his own sake, at least
as much as for the sake of gratifying Mrs. Keith, to bring about the
proposed visit. He did not know that the path to success had been
made smoother by Mr. Dugdale; but he did realise that it might be a
difficult path.

However, when Giles chose to be liked, he did not often fail in his aim.



CHAPTER V

THE MIDFELL ATMOSPHERE

BREAKFAST over, Mrs. Wyverne sat in her usual place, darning a
tablecloth and entertaining a terribly early caller. Miss Robins
faced her solemnly. She was a solemn individual, impressed with the
importance of directing the duties of other people. In appearance she
had not much to boast of; but, as she was wont to ask, "Who cares for
looks?" Some unkind critics had been known to remark that Miss Robins
"had no looks."

Despite her superiority, she had not cast off the shackles of a mundane
curiosity about her neighbours; and she was bent on finding out what
the old lady meant to do with Phyllys. "So very Important, for the sake
of that poor empty-headed child, that she should act with wisdom,"
she observed to her devotee, Barbara. "If she does not hold that man
at arm's length, who can foretell the consequences?" Miss Robins was
nothing if not emphatic.

From an abstract point of view, Mrs. Wyverne would have supported Miss
Robins' opinion; but she never could lose sight of the fact that she
was herself one of the Randolphs of Castle Hill, being only sister to
Giles' grandfather. And though, as a matter of theory, she would have
maintained that questions of descent like questions of "looks" were
unimportant, it gave her no small pleasure to see again the head of her
family, and to find him in many respects what she would have wished.

"A singularly fine-looking man," she observed. "He gives the impression
of one who may be trusted."

Barbara, who, in imitation of her friend, was a systematic man-hater,
spoke tartly, "No men are to be trusted—least of all men without
religion."

"How do you know Giles has no religion?" asked Phyllys.

"He may make a profession. There is no reality in it."

"No. He carries the hall-mark of an essentially worldly nature." Miss
Robins was so pleased with the wording of her own sentence that she
made mental note of it for future use.

Phyllys opened indignant lips and shut them again. What was the use
of remonstrance? Nothing ever shook Barbara or Miss Robins in their
judgments upon others. Moreover, the latter was delivering herself of
an exhortation.

"He may be outwardly fine-looking, but what of that? What of mere
looks?" she inquired. "What signifies the body? That poor miserable
husk! The handsomest men in feature, the most agreeable in manner,
are often the most depraved. Dear Mrs. Wyverne, 'you' know the world
well enough to understand. Mere appearance—face, manner, dress,—how
unimportant these things!"

Mrs. Wyverne assented as in duty bound, though not without an inward
reservation.

"We are called upon to ignore the body. 'I' have learnt to ignore it,"
declared Miss Robins, with an air of fervent conviction. "All that
signifies is the spiritual part of one's self. The rest is dust and
ashes—'mere' dust and ashes."

She swayed impressively on her chair.

"If the body isn't of consequence, I wonder why one should care whether
one has hot or cold tea, or whether one's dinner is nicely cooked,"
questioned Phyllys, laying her finger on the other's weak point.

Miss Robins inspected her from a moral pinnacle. "That is different. To
care for one's health is a duty. I am speaking of the vanity of minding
about bodily appearance—whether one is good-looking or plain—seeking to
be admired. What do such things matter?"

"I should have said they mattered a good deal," declared Phyllys,
standing up. "I 'love' beautiful people. The world is beautiful,
and God made people as well as things. I can't see why He should
like 'things' to be lovely, and not care if people are hideous and
disagreeable." Then she fled, not escaping the comment, "Really,
Phyllys is sadly irrev—"


Ten minutes later she stood, lost in a dream, beside the stream as it
flowed through a field, three hundred yards distant from the house. It
swept here round a curve, its course being partly arrested by a bank of
shingle; and beyond the shingle, in its détour, it poured in a rustling
flow, bubbling soft whispers and singing to itself.

This hour after breakfast was Phyllys' most free time. At eleven
o'clock, if not sooner, Barbara would remorselessly summon her to
practise and read and darn. Time spent in the open air was wasted
in the elder cousin's estimation. Barbara believed in a brisk
constitutional, to and from a given point within a given time, for
health; but she never lounged under a tree, never dallied by a stream,
in dreamy thought. That with her meant "idleness."

With Phyllys it neither meant nor was idleness. She was not idle,
standing on the grass bank, motionless, her hands clasped behind her
back. She wore no hat, and a breeze stirred her hair, bringing forth
reddish gleams.

Her mind was at work. She loved Nature, loved the beauty of flower and
fell; read meanings in the voices of running water, rustling leaves,
singing birds. These things appealed to her artist-nature, and drew
her on to deeper thought. When she could escape from home and its
restraints, she was happy in what is called solitude, because in touch
with her surroundings.

Yet, even in her happiest hours, she was conscious of a want. She
craved for some one to understand what she felt, to enjoy the beauty
with her. She craved to find the inner meanings of life. There was such
an infinitude that she could not fathom; and clues were lacking.

This morning her thoughts were chiefly occupied with Giles.

Once before she had seen him, when a child of nine; and then for years
she had been abroad, travelling with her widowed mother, in search
of lost health, never to be regained. Since her mother's death she
had lived at Midfell, paying an occasional visit to friends of her
grandmother, but secluded from other influences. Often she had heard of
Giles and Colin, though not in terms of praise. Mrs. Wyverne had rather
implied than asserted condemnation; but according to Barbara, Giles and
his friends were one and all to be avoided, as a dainty person shuns
pitch; and to withhold Phyllys from their influence was a matter of
duty.

Which opinion, naturally, made Phyllys want to know them! For years her
dream of impossible delights had been—a visit to Castle Hill.

Now the unlikely had come about. She had seen Giles, had talked with
him had felt that she and he might become friends. She felt it still,
though vexed with herself for letting the thought so soon slip into
words.

And she might be again invited to Castle Hill. "If only I could go! To
know what it is to live! This is existence! And oh! to get away from
Barbara and Miss Robins. Even—for a time—from Grannie!"

The tinkle of a bell aroused her. She was often thus recalled. But
already! She did not realise how long she had stood there. Was the
whole of this lovely day to be wasted indoors? She walked back with a
lagging step.

Within doors the cloud on her face vanished. Barbara was not visible;
the grandmother wore a smile; and Giles stood waiting.

"Put on your stout boots, child, and have a wrap. Your cousin wishes to
take you for a walk."

The black fringes widened with delight.

"He does not know his way about, and Barbara is too busy," explained
Mrs. Wyverne, apologising to herself. She felt uneasy, but, the
managing grand-daughter being out of reach, her resolution had not been
proof against his will. After all, the two were cousins; and since she
had just granted her consent to three weeks at Castle Hill, a walk now
could make little difference. The decision seemed lifted out of her
hands; and despite her bewilderment, she looked with gratified eyes
upon the great-nephew whom she had so long refused to see.

"Must I be back at eleven, Grannie?"

"Not to-day, for once. Giles wishes to go to the head of the dale, if
you can walk so far."

"Oh, of course I can. That will be splendid. I have not been there for
ages upon ages."

"My dear, you should not make use of such exaggerated expressions."

Phyllys tried to wear a penitent face as she fled. "If Barbara should
come in!" was the fear. Barbara might upset all.

"Phyllys is a dear child, but too impulsive," the old lady
remarked. "It is desirable that she should be trained in habits of
self-restraint."

Giles refrained from saying what he thought.

Fortunately Barbara failed to appear, and the two set off at a brisk
rate. Phyllys was a quick walker, and she easily kept up with the pace
adopted by Giles. She was in a state of jubilant but veiled exultation.
While lacing her boots, she had resolved to behave with dignity; not to
allow her friendship to be regarded by him as a thing to be lightly won.

But miles of happiness lay before her, miles of fresh air, of freedom,
exercise, pleasant companionship. No need to dwell on what might lie
beyond. No need to anticipate Barbara's comments. When the time came
for their acidity, she would have had her day of delights; and none
could rob her of the memory.

Phyllys, as in duty bound, talked to interest her companion, perhaps
more from inclination than from duty; and she found in him an excellent
listener. She named for his information the various fells; those near
at hand, then more distant outlines, as they mounted higher. She
described the long cold winters and the deep snowdrifts. She chatted
of the sturdy self-respecting farmers, and of the welcome she had from
them and theirs.

"None of the people about are very poor," she remarked. "They work
hard and live carefully and lay by. That is the way in these northern
villages. People say how different it is in the south."

"When you come to Castle Hill, you will see for yourself."

"They will never let me go."

Then she did not yet know! He kept his counsel.

"The farmers and their wives really are my friends, and they are so
good and true—so real. Blunt, of course, but that is their way. I know
all the cottagers. No, not district-visiting. When I go to see them, it
is because I love to go, not because I ought. Barbara and Miss Robins
call because they want to do the people good. But when I go, they do
'me' good—without any trying."

"That might seem the better way." He was interested, but he wanted
to get her out of this sedate mood, to see again the long lashes
mischievously drooped.

"Barbara says one ought to be always trying to do good to somebody.
Don't you hate being done good to as a duty?"

"I'm not sure that I have had experience in that line."

"How nice! But I've had any amount. There's Mr. Timkins. He's not a
Yorkshireman; he is from the south, and he mends old shoes. He thinks
he can mend people too!" with a gleam of fun. "Miss Robins says she has
'the very highest opinion of him.' But I dislike his prosy preachings."

Phyllys stopped to pluck a flower, and surveyed it with eyes of loving
admiration.

"I suppose Mr. Timkins really is 'good,'" she remarked, with the air
of one unravelling a perplexity. "But so are other people who don't
think as he does. I never can understand why all good people must have
exactly the same opinions about every single thing. Can you?"

"Good gracious, no!"

"I've never been allowed to go to Castle Hill, because all of you
don't see things just the same as Grannie and Barbara. I'm hardly ever
allowed to know strangers who come to Midfell in the summer, for fear
they should do me harm. And I'm not a child now. It is time I should
begin to think for myself."

"You have not always lived here?"

"About ten years. Since I was thirteen. Of course I was old enough then
to understand, and not to forget afterwards. When people talk as they
do, and say all sorts of hard things about those who think differently
from themselves, I always know that my father and mother would have
felt with those people, and not with people here. Don't you see, it
rubs me the wrong way awfully sometimes."



CHAPTER VI

A BURNISHED STREAM

"IS this what you call the Dale-head?" asked Giles.

"Perhaps more properly higher up. But I think we mean the whole of the
valley, as far as you can see, and beginning here. Isn't it pretty?"

It was more than pretty. She used a word inadequate.

They were seated by the river, on its grass bank. Not the little
Midfell stream, but a more important watercourse; a river to which the
Midfell stream was a tributary.

It flowed between steep banks; and the colour of the water was that of
a burnished red-brown chestnut. Hundreds of stones, large enough to
act as small breakwaters, lay scattered on the river-bed; and around
each separate stone curled a perpetual wave, foam-white, with a gleam
of golden light shining as from a fairy-lamp at its centre. This was
repeated times without number.

Behind them and in front were rounded fells, like a series of
land-waves struck into immobility, forming the sides of the valley; and
every fell differed from its neighbour. Here was one shaded in purple
and brown; there another bright grassy-green; yet another dark from
base to summit with masses of bracken; a fourth clad in patches of
dull red, purple rather than crimson, from early heather-bloom; and a
round-topped hill which had donned a veil of blue gauze. To the left,
higher up, might be seen a solitary farmhouse; a rough pathway, deluged
with stones, winding thither.

"They would give us milk at the farm," remarked Phyllys. But, with a
smile, he produced sandwiches and a cup.

"I don't know any place like this," murmured Phyllys, after their
simple luncheon. She was in a state of measureless content.

Giles said little, and she hardly looked at him; yet she knew that he
felt with her. That was the one thing she had lacked and longed for;
and it made all the difference.

"Nor I." He had been thinking how like her hair was to the burnished
chestnut of the water. "One hardly expects such a spot in England. Few
of us know our own country."

Phyllys lay back, resting her head on folded arms, and looking at the
sky. It gave Giles a fuller view than he had yet gained of her eyes. He
forgot fell and river in the contemplation.

"I wonder," she murmured, "whether other worlds are half as lovely
as this. I wonder whether they have stuffy meetings in Jupiter and
Mars—and horrid good people making speeches about the badness of other
good people?"

"Jupiter is probably too warm."

She went into a chime of laughter.

"I forgot! I ought to have known." She sat up suddenly. "Tell me about
your home."

"You would find it flat." He refrained still from letting her know how
soon she would see for herself. "No fells. No mountain-torrents."

"And the house?"

"Respectably old. There was a castle—once. Only a wall of it remains."

"And Mrs. Keith and 'Colin' live there with you. He is not really your
cousin, I suppose?"

Giles explained the connection. Thomas Randolph, his grandfather, had
one son and one daughter, James and Annie. The son, James, married;
and his wife died soon after the birth of their only child—"myself,"
interjected Giles—the widower dying a little later, thus leaving an
infant possessor of the Castle Hill property. The daughter, Annie,
married Geoffry Keith, and she too died early; after which her husband
married again, his second wife being a Miss Cecil Reeves. They had one
little boy, named Colin.

"So at best he can only be called my step-cousin. But when my mother
was taken, Mrs. Keith had entire charge of me; and on the death of
my father that arrangement became permanent. Colin and I have been
brothers from babyhood."

"I understand now. It always puzzled me. And was he not ill for a long
time? Somebody said he had an accident when he was a boy, and didn't
get over it for years."

"Yes." A stern set came to Giles' face, darkening it as a landscape is
darkened by a cloud passing over the sun.

Phyllys was perplexed.

"Barbara is as much your cousin as I am," she remarked, saying the
first thing that came into her head. "I suppose you would have asked
her first to visit Castle Hill!"—"Heaven forbid!" was on Giles'
lips—"But she never goes anywhere, so I come next."

"I think you come first," he said drily, and she laughed.

"If only I had the least hope of going!"

"I don't think it will be long before we meet again." His manner said
that he intended it should not be. "Till then, I hope you will remember
that you offered me your friendship."

Her colour went up. "But that was silly. We were strangers. I spoke
without thinking."

"It would disappoint me if you took your words back."

"It was too soon. I am always saying things in a hurry, and then
wishing I had not." She twisted a grass-blade round her fingers. "Does
one ever quite get over doing that?"

He ignored the question. "Don't you think we know one another well
enough now?"

"Of course I've rather wanted a friend—sometimes," she admitted. "The
only one I had went away. There are Mr. and Mrs. Hazel, but Barbara
tries to keep me from them. And they are much older. But people ought
to wait till they are sure."

"You do not feel sure yet?"

The steady purposefulness of his gaze held her spellbound. It was not
that he saw deeply, but that he stirred deep feeling in her. For a
moment he had a curious sense that he might do what he willed with
Phyllys.

It did not last. She dropped her eyes, and the spell was broken. He did
not really as yet will anything further. Their mutual knowledge each
of the other was small; and he only felt that he wished to know her
better. Besides, he was a man of punctilious honour, and she had been
confided to his care.

So they reverted to surface topics, and no more was said about
friendship. The word to Giles meant little. If he wanted anything, he
wanted more; but it served as a stepping-stone to intimacy. To Phyllys
it meant, for the moment, a good deal—more than would have been guessed
from her next careless remark—"I was afraid this morning it was going
to be a wet day. That would have been provoking."

"There was an early shower, I believe."

"Just the Pride o' the Morning."

He looked an inquiry.

"It's a saying about here. When a little early shower comes, not
meaning a wet day, they say, 'Oh, it's just the Pride o' the Morning.'
Mr. Hazel sometimes calls 'me' that!"—smiling.

The name sounded far from inappropriate, yet he was conscious of
revolt, as he inquired, "Who is Mr. Hazel?"

"Our Vicar. Such a kind man. But I know why he calls me so. It was one
day—"

"Yes."

"I don't very often give in, but things were worrying. And I had a
silly little cry in the meadow. He came upon me, and he said it was
just an early shower—'just the pride o' the morning.' He told me one
must not expect to have everything always smooth, but he hoped mine was
going to be a happy life. And since then when we meet, he often says,
'Well, little Pride of the Morning, how goes the world with you now?'"

"I should like to know your Vicar."

"Would you? Barbara doesn't like him. And Grannie—sometimes—says he's
too fond of ceremonies."

"I am sure I should like him."


Not till well on in the afternoon did they once more stand at the
garden gate of Burn Cottage, within which sat the handsome old lady,
with a look of trouble on her face. She had been during the interim
sedulously lectured by her elder grand-daughter for lapse of principle;
and her own conscience was not happy.

After all these years keeping the undesirable nephew out of reach, and
tabooing his acquaintance for Phyllys, it was a degree startling that
she should have succumbed at the first touch. To Barbara, over whom
Giles had exercised no attraction—perhaps could not if he would!—the
change of front was inexplicable. She had no imagination, and she could
not picture those memories of Phyllys' father, first stirred by Mr.
Dugdale, then called into life by Giles. In her eyes the consent was
simply an act of weakness and folly. She neither knew nor cared what
her grandmother's motives might be. She disliked the idea of Phyllys
going to Castle Hill, and she never dreamt of searching into her own
sub-surface workings, to find the hidden jealousy.

Having been long used to submit to the joint dictum of Barbara and
Miss Robins, Mrs. Wyverne could not meet their condemnation with
indifference. She took herself seriously to task for allowing the walk
and consenting to the visit.

Still, consent was consent. When, after Giles' departure, a fresh
attack was made upon her by the combined forces of the two women, she
refused to withdraw permission.

"I cannot alter now," she said. "The matter is settled and I have given
my word. If I have yielded wrongfully, I trust I may be forgiven. And I
hope that Phyllys, when away from home, will not be led into evil."

Phyllys kissed her grandmother, in token of right intentions. What
could she say? The idea of being "led into evil" by Giles was absurd.
Though she did not yet know him well, she had not a particle of doubt
as to his goodness.



CHAPTER VII

A STERN CHASE

WITH concealed rapture Phyllys heard of the promised visit to Castle
Hill; and nothing was further from her expectations than to set eyes
again on Giles before going. She hardly even wished to do so. There was
so much to do and to think about during the next three weeks.

With Giles things were otherwise. He found himself unable to rest
without another glimpse.

He did not yet say to himself that Phyllys might be more than cousin.
He only knew that he could not get her out of his thoughts; that no
sooner was he away from Midfell than he wanted to get back.

For five days he held out, determined not to act upon impulse. Then
a member of his host's family fell seriously ill; and visitors took
themselves off. Giles had a shooting engagement in the Highlands a
week later, and nothing between. He resolved to spend the time at
Midfell, asking no man's leave. The grandmother and cousin might not
be delighted, but that he would risk; and he posted a line to Mrs.
Wyverne, stating his intentions, remarking on the pleasure it would be
to see them again.

The letter brought dismay. Mrs. Wyverne said nothing to Phyllys, still
looking on her younger grand-daughter as a child; but she consulted
with Barbara. Both recognised that nothing could be done. Giles had as
clear a right as any human being to put up at the village Inn, if he
chose, and to study the country. Though Mrs. Wyverne might demur, and
Barbara might frown, they could not interfere.

"But of course you will not have him in and out all day long, turning
everything upside down," the latter said with disgust. "Phyllys will
be completely upset. Better to get her out of the way this afternoon,
so that you can have a few words alone with him. You will have to be
firm!" The speaker set her teeth. "I will make an errand for Phyllys,
and we will say nothing to her, or she may refuse to go. You see, he
intends to call directly he arrives."

Mrs. Wyverne made no objection, and Phyllys, to her surprise, was asked
to take a long walk to an outlying farm, where she loved to go, but was
not often permitted. She had been only once without a companion, and
the idea was charming. Barbara seldom suggested anything so much to her
taste. To fetch a warm shawl, left there, was the ostensible motive.
Phyllys laughingly remarked that she would have a good "forenoon
drinking," the local colloquialism for a mid-morning lunch, and would
get something to eat at the farm. Barbara objected, not wishing her to
get back early. After "dinner" would be best, she said. The days were
long, and Phyllys could do her morning tasks.

"All right," agreed the girl. "I shall have a rest, and come back by
the moor. It will be fun, won't it, Wiggles?"

Wiggles wagged an appreciative tail.

Not till she had left the house did Barbara note an ominous thickness
upon the surrounding fells. It occurred to her that she ought to have
warned Phyllys to return by the road, but it was now too late; so she
dismissed the question from her mind. After all, Phyllys was old enough
to be sensible.


Early in the afternoon, as Barbara had predicted, Giles Randolph walked
in.

He greeted his great-aunt kindly, his cousin politely; and his eyes
went in search of some one else.

"Where is Phyllys?" came soon.

And Barbara thrust in a reply before Mrs. Wyverne could speak. "Gone on
the moors," she said, purposely vague, under a suspicion that he would
wish to follow.

She over-reached herself.

"The moors—to-day? With whom, may I ask?"

"Phyllis goes everywhere. She is used to it, and the dog is ample
protection."

"You do not mean that she is alone!"

His concern annoyed Barbara.

"Of course, she will not go far. Phyllys knows what she is about. She
merely meant to cross part of a hill on her way back."

"From where?"

He had to put the question a second time, and facts were dragged out
with difficulty. "Thackers' Farm. Yes, I know the direction. I had
better go after her. The moors will be foggy."

"A touch of mist." Barbara spoke in vexed accents.

"It will be more than a touch of mist in an hour or two."

His manner aroused Mrs. Wyverne to uneasiness. She was too old an
inhabitant of Midfell not to understand what a fog on the fells meant.
"I did not know it," she said; "or that Phyllys meant to cross the
moor. Surely you told her not to do so, Barbara. Not—alone!"

"She ought to have sense enough to judge for herself." Barbara frowned
and bit her lips.

"The child is so fearless," murmured Mrs. Wyverne.

"I will start at once, and I hope to reach the farm before she leaves
it. You may trust me to look after her. If I do not meet her on the
road, I shall overtake her on the moor. The fog perhaps is not much
now, but it may thicken." As he reached the door, he turned. "You told
Phyllys I was coming?"

The direct words claimed a direct answer. Mrs. Wyverne, forgetful in
small matters, looked at Barbara, who had to admit that Phyllys did not
know. A slight smile stirred Giles' lips. Phyllys had not of her own
free will avoided him.


One or two inquiries in the village as to the route made all clear,
and he was off at his best pace—a pace few men could rival. By road
the distance was over five miles; and he made little of them, spurred
by observation of the grey-capped fells. He knew enough of moorland to
be aware that a fog, exceptional in density, covered the heights; and
he was anxious, if possible, to intercept Phyllys at the farm. But on
arrival, he found she had started fifteen minutes earlier; and since he
had not met her, she must have gone the other way. The old farmer heard
this with a shake of his head.

"Noa, I doan't knaw," he said. "I'm a negligent lad not to ha' ma-ade
her go by t' ro-ad. Miss Phyllys ought to ha' knawed better."

"Miss Phyllys is not easily frightened," remarked Giles. "Will you tell
me the way she has gone?"

He wasted no time, and was off again. A rough lane, besprinkled with
stones, led to the edge of the moor; after which he had a grass track
to guide him. It led upward, crossing a high spur, shortening the
distance to Midfell by more than a mile.

No mistake here about the "mistiness." Every dozen yards the air grow
thicker, as he widened his distance from the edge.

That Phyllys should not have retreated on finding the state of things
perplexed him. Yet, had she done so, he must have met her. He wondered,
was she one of those people who, once resolved on a course of action,
stick to that course, whatever happens? He would not have credited her
with obstinacy. He did credit her with unusual fearlessness.

The track, though faint, was distinct; visible by different shades of
colouring in the turf, the impress of passing feet. It was clearer
than many such tracks, being used a good deal in fine weather between
Midfell and a village on the other side. Here and there it was
broken by a rough outcrop of rock; but despite the fog, Giles had no
difficulty in picking it up again. And Phyllis was accustomed to such
walking. She might have thought it wiser to keep steadily on, rather
than to retrace her steps.

No voice of man or beast, of bird or insect, interrupted the silence.
No stir in the air moved the heavy white curtain which hung around,
shutting him in a contracted circle which moved with him as he went.
The great moor-billows stretched away, he knew, for miles; but he could
not see them. Landscape and sky were blotted out.

And Phyllys was alone in this! He walked rapidly, expecting every
minute to descry a slim figure ahead. Not far ahead, for beyond a few
yards, he could make out nothing. Now and again a shadowy form heaved
into view, raising his hopes; and each time it grew into a furze-bush,
dank and wet.

Moro than once he stopped, noting what looked like a short-cut to the
lower level over Midfell, though no track was apparent. Phyllys might
have ventured on some such short-cut. Yet, no—acquainted as she was
with the country, she would understand the risk of quitting her path.
The farmer had assured him that there was but the one way. He thought
less of faint side-tracks, branching at right angles towards upper
heights. These plainly led from Midfell, and would not have tempted
Phyllys.

Still no signs of her! He pressed on, in deepening uneasiness; and
sooner than might have seemed possible, he reached the verge, where a
steep descent led downward to the top of a hill behind the village.

Here, being nearer the moor-edge, the air was clearer, and he could see
some way. But—no Phyllys!

She could not so far have distanced him. No girl, even with the start
she had had, could have failed to be overtaken at the pace he had come.
With sickening dread, he realised that she was still upon the moors,
that she had left the track.

"Nonsense!" he said, pulling himself together. "Too soon to be sure.
She may have come faster than I imagine. She 'may' have missed her way,
and be waiting near."

He turned to retrace his steps. If indeed she had advanced so far as
this, she would easily manage to get home. His business now was to be
sure that she had not failed; and while he encouraged himself his heart
sank anew.

To be lost on the moor in a dense fog! Too well he knew what that would
imply. Fifty men, searching, might search in vain. A night alone on the
moors for 'her!' The thought brought a stab of actual pain.

Walking more slowly, he called at intervals in his strong base voice,
listening with the hope that she might respond.

No sound, no whisper, reached his ears. It was deadly still. As he went
farther, the fog again grew dense, more dense than before, since the
afternoon was advanced. The dank white curtain closed him in.

He made up his mind to return most of the way, shouting at intervals.
Then he would again traverse the path to Midfell, and would see whether
she had reached home. If not, a party of men including himself should
scour the hills.

For this those who knew the country were necessary. To quit the track
now, with nothing to guide him, would only mean losing himself also,
being powerless to help her.

Yet if indeed she were here, alone on these desolate moors!—the very
idea was unendurable.

He felt this keenly, as he paced the turf, raising his cry of "Phyllys!
Are you there, Phyllys?"

How familiar, how dear the name seemed! He could hardly believe that
ten days earlier she had been nothing to him or he to her. Was he
anything to her now? Perhaps not—yet. She had been ready to like him,
as cousin and friend. But Phyllys and he would not be "friends" only.
They would be much more or much less.

On this deserted and fog-robed fell, he seemed to be growing intimate
with her, as he might not in weeks of common acquaintance. He was shut
out from all the world, except Phyllys; but she too was here. Though
apart, they were together; both on the moor; she needing him; he bent
on helping her. He did not now say that "perhaps" she was there. It had
grown to be a certainty.

Were their spirits in touch, though bodily they were separate? He
was by no means an imaginative or sentimental man. But, looking at
the white wall, he saw her face—not smiling or mischievous; full of
distress; imploring his aid.

He made a forward start, half distracted. She was on the moor. She
"was" lost. And how was he to know where?

"Phyllys! Phyllys!" again he shouted, with the full strength of his
lungs.

Something clammy touched his hand.

"Wiggles!" with an immense revulsion of joy. Where Wiggles was, Phyllys
could not be far.

"Where is she, Wiggles? Phyllys, where are you?"

No human voice made reply. Wiggles whined, jumping on him, licking his
hand, taking hold of his trouser.

"Where is she, Wiggles?" he asked, every nerve in him tense. There
could no longer be any doubt. She would not have left Wiggles behind.
That Wiggles should have left her seemed singular; but he might be a
dog prone to wander. He might—this flashed up, as Wiggles again laid
hold upon his trouser—have come for help.

"You must take me to her," he said, addressing the dog as he might
have addressed a child. He drew a cord from his pocket, and passed it
through the collar. "Now—lead!"

Wiggles seemed uncertain what to do. He sniffed the air, and whined
afresh. Was it that he did not know Phyllys' whereabouts? Or was he
stupid? Many affectionate little dogs are not brilliant in an emergency.

Giles put matters to the test. He set off at a resolute pace, as if for
Midfell.

That settled it. Wiggles refused to go. He struggled, protested,
howled, sat down. He might be dragged, but he would not walk. Giles
ceased to pull, and Wiggles moved in a new direction, gaining
confidence as he found Giles with him. He led away from the track,
across the turf, and Giles followed, urging him on, trying to keep note
of his bearings, though unsuccessfully. That troubled him little. If he
could reach Phyllys, all else was of small importance.

"Phyllys—Phyllys!" he called again.

And out of the dead stillness rang an agonised cry. He knew the voice.

"I'm here! Where are you?"

"O come! O save me!" she screamed, her bell-like tones for once thin
and shrill with horror.

He dashed headlong in the direction whence the sound travelled.



CHAPTER VIII

MR. DUGDALE'S OUTSPOKENNESS

THE model village of Castlemere had a fine aged church of grey stone,
with solid square tower and the sweetest chime of bells in the county.
A comfortable Rectory adjoined the churchyard; and picture cottages,
inhabited by well-to-do tenants, clustered around. Giles Randolph was a
liberal landlord.

Castle Hill House, half-a-mile distant, was united to the village by
a private road, running through park and avenue; and nearly two miles
from Castlemere, in the other direction, flourished a country town,
Market Oakley by name.

At the better end of the town, its "west-end," so to speak, was the
parish of S. John's, impinging in one direction on the extensive parish
of Castlemere. Outside Market Oakley, in this direction, was Brook-End
Grange, the home of Mr. Dugdale's daughter, Kathleen Alyn, a young
widow, with one little boy.

She stood on the lawn, her gown flowing round her in a fashion peculiar
to herself. Whatever she wore flowed, and did not hang or drag.
The gown was perfect in make, for she never employed a second-rate
dressmaker; and her fair hair was equally perfect in arrangement, for
she always had a first-rate maid. Though she owned no good looks worth
mentioning, few people observed her once only. There was repose in her
bearing; and she was markedly graceful.

No hat sheltered her head. She would run out thus—though "run"
is hardly the word for her gradual movements—into the charming,
old-fashioned garden, at any moment, at any time of the year, even
in winter with deep snow upon the ground. Now the stiff box hedges
contrasted with abundant leafage; and the quaint borders were crammed
with flowers.

She was intently observing; a queer little smile on her lips.

Some yards off was a small boy in knickerbockers, red-haired,
snub-nosed, extremely pleased with himself. Beside him on the gravel
path lay a birdtrap, and in front, on his own private bed or "garden,"
reposed the dead bodies of three birds, two sparrows and a chaffinch.

It seemed that a funeral function was in progress. He had dug five neat
graves in a row, and had deposited two birds in two of them. As Mrs.
Alyn watched, he took a third, consigned it to receptacle number three,
shovelled in the earth, and chanted a short requiem—

   "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
    What the little worms can't eat the big ones must."

A variety of feelings struggled on the mother's face, amusement among
them. The boy, absorbed in his occupation, saw nothing. Bird number
four was laid to rest, and again came the chant—

   "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
    What the little worms—"

"Gordon," she said.

Gordon dropped his trowel, and turned.

"What is all this, sonny?"

"Gardener said the birds was just eating everything up."

"Where did you find so many dead ones?"

"I didn't. I caught 'em."

"Killed them! In the trap?"

Gordon's under-lip pouted.

"And the words you were singing—who told you them?"

"Nobody. It's a funeral."

She found it difficult to keep her face serious. Stooping to pick up
Number Five, she said, "Poor little bird! And it might be still alive
and happy, enjoying the sunshine. I wouldn't have believed that my boy
could be cruel."

She upset the trap with her foot, and walked away, her skirt swaying in
undulatory style. Gordon stared after her. The worst thing that could
happen in his little life was to have his mother displeased.

He shovelled the earth into the untenanted fifth hole; then, with a
careless six-foot air, he marched towards the house, where Mrs. Alyn
stood in the porch, still handling the hapless bundle of feathers.

"Going out, mum?"

"No, sonnie."

"Won't you take me for a walk?"

"No, sonnie."

Gordon's under-lip quivered.

"I didn't mean to be cruel—course! I promise, I won't kill no more
birds."

For Gordon to give in without a struggle meant much. She bent down, and
he flung two arms round her neck, anxiously glancing to make sure of no
witnesses.

But witnesses there were, and he pulled himself erect.

Mr. Dugdale and Mrs. Keith came up the path; the former, as usual,
bland, neat, precise; the latter excited.

"How do you do, Kathleen? I am on my way to the station, to change my
books, and I thought I would look in on you for a few minutes. I have
left the carriage outside—your father was just coming in, so I got out
to walk with him. I suppose you would not care to drive to the station.
You don't subscribe to Smith's."

"Certainly I should like it." Kathleen always enjoyed what other people
wanted; and part of her attractiveness was due to this fact. "Shall I
get my hat?"

"Well, on second thoughts I hardly know if it is worth while. I shall
have to go straight home. Has Colin told you about his absurd fad? I
wish Giles would not encourage it."

"Modelling?"

"Messing about with wet clay. Such ridiculous nonsense! Four huge
packing-cases have come from Italy, with casts that he bought there.
He never said a word in writing. I can't conceive why he should be so
secretive; and I can't imagine what put the notion into his head."

"Nature!" spoke Mr. Dugdale at her side. "It is inborn."

She turned with a nervous movement of her hands, as if repudiating
something.

"I never had the smallest taste that way. Nor any of my family."

"That may be. A genius is often a family freak—not to be accounted for
by ordinary rules of heredity. No doubt traceable, if one had the means
of tracing it, to some distant ancestor. You ought to be thankful for
Colin's gift—no matter how he came by it."

She asked "Why?" Her fine eyes going to his face, as if in search for
some sub-meaning. She was handsomer than Kathleen Alyn; yet the greater
charm rested with the younger woman. There was a lack of repose in Mrs.
Keith; and she seemed to be perpetually on the watch for something to
controvert.

"At the least it is a harmless occupation; and he needs something to
do. Desk-work, of course, is out of the question."

"I don't see it, now he is stronger. Besides—" She stopped.

"He will never be strong enough for head-work. I don't mean strength
in the muscular sense. His brain wouldn't stand the tension. You were
going to say—besides—what?"

"There is no need that he should work."

"I don't agree with you. No self-respecting man will consent to be a
burden on another."

"Colin is not a burden." Her eyes flashed resentfully. "It is Giles'
delight to give him a home."

Kathleen made danger-signals from behind, but Mr. Dugdale failed to
read them. Although himself a man prone to take offence, he was apt to
say the wrong thing, thereby giving offence to others; and he never
could imagine why offence should be taken.

"My dear lady, it may be Giles' delight to support half the
neighbourhood; but half the neighbourhood has no right to be supported
by him. Neither has Colin. The two are not related; and if they were, I
should still say he ought to work for himself. Eh, Kathleen? Yes?"

Mrs. Keith drew up a haughty head.

"I suppose you consider me to be living on charity too," she said
coldly.

"Certainly not; that is different," Mr. Dugdale interposed; but she
went on, refusing to listen—

"I am extremely obliged! All those years that I lived for Giles do not
count! Goodbye, Kathleen. It is later than I thought. I must go on."

Mrs. Alyn offered no protest. She signed to her father to remain where
he was, slipped an affectionate arm within Mrs. Keith's, and walked
down the carriage-drive. When she returned, a slight smile was on her
lips.

"Now you 'have' put your foot in it, father!"

"Eh? Have I? My dear, I merely spoke the truth. I merely suggested
what everybody is saying. Colin ought to do something. His choice is
circumscribed; but really there is no reason why he should live a life
of dependence. I'm glad he has the spirit to refuse it for himself."

"Colin has any amount of spirit. I only hope he will not bring on
another breakdown. It would be a thousand pities."

"He will do well enough if he isn't fussed. I never can fathom Mrs.
Keith," mused Mr. Dugdale, with knitted brows. "Whatever one expects
her to do, she is certain to do the opposite. I should have thought,
with her proud nature—Proud! Yes! A pikestaff isn't 'in' it beside
her!—I should have thought she would be charmed at the most distant
prospect of Colin making his own way in life. I'd have staked my credit
on it! Yet all she wants, apparently, is to keep him in blissful
idleness! Can't understand it, for my part. I imagined I knew something
of women: but they are a riddle and a delusion to the end of the
chapter."

"I hope you don't count me a delusion."

He looked oddly at her. "I had the training of you."

Kathleen could not help laughing.

"There's another puzzle. Why has Mrs. Keith set her mind on getting
Phyllys to Castle Hill? You wish it, and I wish it. Her father and I
were friends. Giles might wish it too. But Mrs. Keith has talked and
worried, bothered and insisted! And why? She has no connection with the
girl."

"Perhaps she thinks it will add to the liveliness of Castle Hill."

"If that were all, she could invite a dozen young women. Giles never
says No to her—"

"He has gone against her in the modelling."

Mr. Dugdale waved a protesting hand.

"You are a woman too, my dear! Even you cannot let a man finish his
sentence before springing an opposite view. I was about to say that
Giles never says No to Mrs. Keith, unless saying Yes to her means No to
Colin."

"Perhaps she has an idea that Phyllys might make a good wife for Colin."

"Absurd! She has never seen the girl."

"According to Giles 'the girl' is worth seeing."

"That is recent. Mrs. Keith set her mind years ago on getting hold of
her. However, I give it up. Woman's ways are beyond me."

He spread forth deprecating hands; then made a new start. "'Lived for
Giles!' Nonsense! She lived for herself and Colin. Took care of Giles
by the way—and was well paid for it too! The allowance was absurd! It
has been a paying concern for Mrs. Keith from first to last."

"At any rate she did her best for Giles."

"Mrs. Keith knows on which side of her bread lies the butter. I don't
blame her. There are advantages in worldly wisdom—for its possessor.
But when she talks in the high-falutin' style of all she has been and
done, as if, forsooth, 'she' were the family benefactor and Giles her
humble debtor—no, I can't stand that. Some day I shall speak out."

"Better not. Giles would not thank you. So long as things go smoothly,
why stir up the mud?"

Mr. Dugdale struck his hands together.

"I have it! I vow, it never occurred to me before. Phyllys is the next
in succession. If anything happened to Giles, she would sooner or later
reign here. Unless Giles should have made provision for Mrs. Keith in
his will—"

"Which of course he has done!"

"There is no 'of course' in connection with any man's will. The most
unlikely arrangements are made; the most likely are left unmade. Mrs.
Keith means to provide for contingencies. Gloriously far-sighted!" Then
he turned to inspect a hairy caterpillar, reposing on the grubby palm
of his little grandson.


Mrs. Keith, driving to the station, smoothed her ruffled plumage as
best she might. Mr. Dugdale had a knack of ruffling her.

When Giles' mother died, and he was given over into the care of Mrs.
Keith, then a young newly-made widow with one baby-boy, Mr. Randolph
undertook to pay her, so long as she should have charge of his child, a
yearly income of eight hundred pounds. On the death soon after of the
father, the boy's guardian continued the payment; and Giles himself,
since coming of age, although she could no longer be reckoned "in
charge" of him, had made her the same allowance. These facts were known
to Mr. Dugdale; and Mrs. Keith knew that he knew them. She did not
really suspect him of having meant to say anything unkind. She had lost
her temper, because his manner ruffled her.

Nobody, who observed this handsome well-dressed woman, seated in a
luxurious landau, would have imagined her to be in any sense "living
upon charity."

And she was not, in her own opinion. She had for years been a "mother"
to Giles. She had given the best of her time, thought, and affection to
both boys; to Giles not less than Colin. She had earned an income, now
hers so long that she seemed to possess a right to it. Charity, indeed!
But the word had been foolishly her own, not Mr. Dugdale's; and this
she now recognised, regretting her unreasonable annoyance.

As regarded Colin, she knew that Mr. Dugdale had only "voiced" what
everybody would think. A young man should certainly endeavour to make
his own way in life. In the present case there were, it is true,
peculiar circumstances which, if known to Mr. Dugdale, would tend to
put a different complexion on the whole. But Mr. Dugdale did not know
these circumstances—never would know them, she said to herself! It
would have been more sensible if she had fallen in with his utterances.
Of course she too wished Colin to do something, to find some pursuit,
even though she knew that it was Giles' greatest pleasure to provide
for him.

Some pursuit,—only, "not" modelling!—"not" sculpture! Anything, rather!



CHAPTER IX

A MOORLAND DEATH-TRAP

THOUGH Phyllys could hardly be called obstinate, she liked to carry
out her intentions. On the way to Thacker's farm she saw a thickness
clothing the fells, but it made no great impression on her mind. From
morning to night she thought now of little but the promised visit to
Castle Hill.

After tea and a chat with the farmer and his wife, she spoke of return.

"I should like to stay for hours," she said, "if it were only to see
the cows 'provened.'" She loved to use local colloquialisms, and
the old man chuckled, pleased with her pretty ways. "Oh, and I must
go along the fother'em and take a look at the stalls. Have you any
calves?—Any stirks? You see, I know all about it!"—merrily.

At length she was off; and rather by a mechanical movement, than of
intent, she turned towards the moor, carrying over one shoulder the
heavy shawl.

Not till on the lower slopes of the fell did she note how heavy was the
grey pall that hid the heights. As yet she approached only its dragging
fringes, but she had to ascend, and it was getting on for five o'clock.
The fog would thicken as evening advanced.

But, as Giles had said, she was not easily frightened. She found the
shawl heavy; and she would have to go all the way back to the farm
before beginning the long round by the road. She had only to keep to
the track. When she reached the other side, descending towards Midfell,
she would soon leave fog behind.

"Shall we go on, Wiggles?" she asked. "It looks rather horrid up there.
But turning back would be still more horrid. Shall we make a dash for
it?"

Wiggles wagged his tail.

"Ready for anything, are you not, you old dear? I'll try!" And she
murmured, touching in turn each coat-button, "Will go!—Won't go!—Will
go!—Won't go!" Till the last was reached. "The 'will' has it. Come
along."

Having decided, she pressed forward, and was surprised to find how much
farther the way seemed in these conditions than in sunlight.

Still, she was on the path, and she was all right.

The fog at first was not so dense as when, later, Giles retraced his
steps, but it was dense enough to be unpleasant; and more than once she
regretted not having chosen the road. She met no human being, and heard
no voice. Dim outlines of bushes dawned as she walked, and disappeared
again. She advanced at a good pace; and presently, growing used to the
gloom, she fell into a muse upon the coming joys of Castle Hill.

Giles would be there; and to know more of Giles would be charming. She
liked him. He was just the sort of friend she wanted; caring for the
things she cared for; ready to hear, prompt to understand. Then there
would be Mrs. Keith and Colin. She might not like the latter so much
as Giles; still the fact that Giles thought much of Colin proved that
there was good in him. About Mrs. Keith she was doubtful. Giles had
been reserved; but she had detected a something in his manner which
suggested lack of admiration.

However, since Mrs. Keith had wanted Phyllys to go to Castle Hill, she
would be grateful.

It would be such an escape! She would be in a new world, free to see
with her own eyes, to hear with her own ears, to form her own ideas,
to observe, to learn, to feel, without home trammels. She would be no
longer in a stiff groove, where everybody was expected to think the
same as everybody else, under penalty of condemnation.

How dense the fog was! Absorbed in anticipations, she had not noted
surroundings, but had followed the track in a mechanical fashion. Now
she realised that it was time to have reached the brow of the fell.

Wiggles drew her attention. He was close to heel, not running about
as was his wont. When she looked, he sat down, as if unwilling to go
farther.

"Why, Wiggles, are you tired?"

She went on, and he followed, then again sat down, with a whine.

Phyllys knew that in keeping to the track she was all right, fog or no
fog. She had but to go on. But a doubt assailed her. This "was" the
track, of course—this shadowy line. She bent to look more closely, and
stood up, grave in face.

Not the right path. It was a mere sheep-track, probably leading to the
top of the fell. In sheer absence of mind she had quitted the path to
Midfell—perhaps at one of the rocky breaks—and had turned along this
instead.

Vexed at her carelessness, she hurriedly retraced her steps, following
the feeble little line. Soon she was brought to a standstill; for it
died out, and she searched in vain for a continuation. The ground here
was stony, and doubtless a continuation did exist; but she could not
find it.

Phyllys kept her head. She stood still, striving to grasp her situation.

No easy matter this, to the most experienced man, in such a fog, with
all landmarks blotted out. She did not understand fully the risks
involved. Had she felt more afraid, she might have allowed Wiggles to
act as her guide; but she was naturally confident, and the idea did not
so much as occur to her. Wiggles, satisfied that she no longer aimed
for the summit, awaited her pleasure.

"All right," she said aloud, having made up her mind whereabouts she
stood. She pictured the way that she had—must have—come. She placed the
hills mentally, localised Midfell, and decided on her direction. Then
she started briskly, and Wiggles followed—reluctantly still, as if not
happy.

No sign of the vanished track appeared, but she went on in good
spirits, convinced that she was nearing the ridge behind Midfell,
expecting each minute to find the path. According to her reasoning,
this was a certainty. If the top of the fell lay "there," and the
village of Midfell "there," then the track along the hillside "must"
cut across somewhere in front.

She failed to gauge the momentous character of that word "if."

That she should have lost all count of the true positions of hill-top
and of village; that north and south, east and west, should be as one
to her consciousness; that in the fog she should not know whether
she was going uphill or downhill; that when she supposed herself to
be following a straight line, she was describing a semi-circle which
brought her indeed within half-a-mile of the lost track, but to a part
of the fell which beyond every other ought to have been avoided—all
this was miles from her imagination.

It did occur as curious that the fog should thicken instead of
lessening as she—according to her belief—neared the moor-edge. But the
advance of evening might account for so much. The track must now be
close, and she hurried on, shivering with the clammy atmosphere. The
heavy shawl still hung over her left shoulder; and lifting its front
folds she flung them over her right shoulder, for warmth.

She was growing anxious, and because she would not give in to the
feeling, she hurried on more recklessly, not noting how Wiggles hung
back.

Ah, here was boggy ground. "I must keep clear of that," she thought,
being used to such patches on the moors. Many a time she had crossed
them, springing from root to root of heather, deftly avoiding insecure
parts.

A yelp made her glance round. Nose in air, with cocked ear, Wiggles had
made out something which failed to reach her duller senses. Then he was
off, regardless of her recall. Perhaps he knew that disobedience had
become a duty.

Phyllys hesitated, but she could not follow, for he was out of sight,
swallowed up in the white curtain. She supposed that he had caught
sight of some small creature, and had started in chase. He would be
back directly, and would find her.

She scanned her limited circle of visibility. In front and to the
right lay an expanse of green—bright green, so far as anything could
be bright in such an atmosphere. It was mottled with red and yellow,
variegated moss-hues; and dotted with clumps of rushes. Here and
there grew the white-tufted cotton-grass; and wiry bog-grass of an
olive-green with red tintings might be seen in abundance. Despite the
dulness, these colours, which in sunshine would have been ominously
brilliant, suggested a need for caution.

She could not see far. She did not suspect that this was no mere patch
of boggy soil—that a wide reach of treacherous slime, with only a thin
coating of moss and grass, a death-trap for the unwary, lay around. On
a clear day she would have read tokens of peril in the very brightness
of colouring, which alike concealed and revealed the deadly danger. But
though she had been in sunshine to this place, and had been warned of
the trap which that fair surface offered, she never dreamt that she was
now on its verge.

It was just a bit of "saft" ground, as they call it in Scotland, and
she was not troubled. She went on again, more swiftly than before,
eager to cross it, then to wait for Wiggles. One moment later she would
have heard Giles' voice shouting—but—

A false step; and she plunged in, over both ankles. It took her by
surprise. The effort to save herself might have proved successful,
had she been going cautiously. But the impetus of her run made it
impossible to stop; and as she tried to leap to what looked like a firm
spot, she caught her foot in a tangle of rushes.

She fell far forward, spread-eagle fashion, sliding on with the
struggle to save herself, down into the horrible slimy bog, which
yielded beneath her.

Phyllys was a girl of high courage, but in that moment of terrible
helplessness and sinking, the soft, sucking, sticky grip upon her limbs
and the sense of nothing to cling to, nothing to hold by, nothing to
pull against, brought a sickening agony of terror.



CHAPTER X

DIREFUL REALISATIONS

SHE knew what it meant. Thought at such a time is rapid; and as she
went down, as she felt the black slime rising around her, she knew she
was in a quaking bog, that bog upon the fell against which she had
been often warned; that bog which, had she been questioned one minute
sooner, she would have averred to be at least half-a-mile away, in the
most unfrequented part of the moor.

And she was in it—lying face downward upon its treacherous surface; the
bright deceptive moss giving way like paper under her weight, the dark
half-liquid peat covering her limbs.

Had this been winter, had the accident happened after any spell of
heavy rain, no hope for Phyllys could have existed. At such seasons
the whole swamp was a lake of foul watery mud, in which she would have
instantly sunk, and from the first plunge nothing more would have been
seen or heard of the hapless girl. Strong men, lost on the moors after
dark, had so met their end; and as she fell, she remembered the last—a
traveller who had inadvertently leaped upon the smooth surface, and had
disappeared from sight.

But the weather lately had been dry, and the peat-mud was in a
semi-liquid, tenacious condition, capable of bearing up a prone body
for at least several minutes.

One other pressing peril was met. Falling thus, she might have met with
immediate suffocation, but that her heavy shawl, thrown from the front
over both shoulders, dropped upon the bog outspread below her face,
guarding nose and mouth from the smothering grip of the mud.

At the first moment, as she realised what had occurred, she fought
wildly, desperately, to escape. But she had gone too far, sliding
beyond reach of firm ground, and she had nothing to hold by. She was
powerless to drag her feet from the gripping black stuff. She had
nothing to grasp, nothing which would give her a purchase, and each
effort sent her deeper. It seemed that she was being slowly dragged
under.

She tried to shriek for help, but voice was gone. Breath and strength
failed with horror. Again she strove to raise herself, and again she
sank lower. Her only hope lay in keeping still.

The position in which she lay was the best she could have chosen—her
weight distributed, the shawl under her face. But she could not
long remain thus. In a little while the black mud would rise up and
overpower her.

Afraid to stir, prone and helpless, every nerve was alive, every
faculty wide awake. Thoughts flashed like lightning one upon another;
past, present, future intermingled. She strove to be calm, to pray for
help. She knew that death meant life beyond, and she was conscious of
a definite clinging to the One Great Name, which alone has power in
man's last extremity. She tried to think of re-union with the father
and mother whom she loved. But she was so young, and life in this
world held much of promise, and she wanted to learn more, to do more,
to understand more, before the final passage. She shrank from such a
passage as this. Suffocation, alone in a horrible bog, mantled over by
the white fog-pall, was ghastly.

"O God, save me!—Save!" she panted.

A shout reached her ears. Somebody was coming. She tried to call, and
it seemed that her voice went no distance. If she could keep up till
help came!—but the slime was creeping higher. She saw it, felt it. It
was making its way round the borders of her shawl. She watched with
fascinated eyes. Soon the shawl would be sucked under; then the mud
would reach her lips; then—nobody would know what had become of her.

Would Giles be sorry? She thought so, and she sobbed a little. The man
whose voice she had heard must have gone by; it seemed hours since the
sound reached her. Had she been told that not five minutes had passed
since her fall, she would have counted the words wild.

Another shout roused her from despair. She called, "O come! O save me!"
And the mud began to pour in a slow stream over the shawl.

Led by Wiggles, Giles had aimed for the swamp, and suddenly Phyllys
knew his voice. Her courage revived, for if anybody could save her, he
could. She felt no surprise at his appearance.

"Where are you?" he called.

"In the bog. Take care; don't get in too!"

He had to approach with caution; but he made her out, lying nearly
submerged, head and shoulders alone visible above the dark surface.

Had he not been compelled to give his whole mind to the problem of
rescue, the horror of her condition would have overwhelmed him. He
realised how awfully critical it was, how great the need for action.
But he also realised that to rush recklessly in would only seal her
fate.

"Keep still; don't move," he urged. "I'll have you out. Don't be
afraid."

He measured the space at a glance, and tested the boggy earth with his
stick, to find a spot which would bear his weight. Whatever he felt,
he was composed, and she now made no sound, but lay motionless on her
loathsome bed. The white brave face—so much as he could see of it,
which was little—went to his heart.

Three steps, taken in a direct line, would have carried him within
reach; but those steps were impossible. A few feet farther he found a
tongue of firm ground jutting into the bog, and this brought him nearer
to where she lay. Not yet within touch—a single long step would do the
business, but he sought in vain for standing ground.

She was sinking—visibly—and his dread was that she might go under. Few
though the moments were since his arrival, he saw a change.

The mud here was drier, less soft than farther out. He pulled off his
coat, spread it upon the boggy surface, and went down full length,
creeping gingerly towards her.

"Don't struggle; keep still and trust yourself to me," he said.

Never in after-life would Phyllys forget what the first grip of his
hand meant after the past interminable horror. She obeyed him, and did
not struggle—at what a cost of will she alone knew. For still the slime
was around, and during one terrible moment it seemed that Giles was
sinking, that her last hope was gone.

But slowly he drew her towards himself; then worked his way to firmer
turf, where his feet rested; and as he went, he pulled her with him.

He was on it at last, kneeling deep sunk in "saft" earth, but not drawn
under. Another moment, and he had regained his feet; another, and they
were on solid ground.

"Come this way—farther," he said.

He stood still, breathing hard, and Phyllys said nothing. She could
not speak at first, the awfulness of what she had escaped rendering
her dumb. She was a mass of black mud, except the head; and Giles was
clothed in the same.

"Thank God I was in time!" he faltered, and the break in his voice made
her look up.

"I can't thank you—" she tried to say, and because a lump in her throat
choked her, she laughed. "What a state we are both in!"

The laugh grated on her own hearing, but not on his, for he read in the
strain of its unnatural tone a fresh effort of her undaunted courage.
She stood gazing towards where she had fallen. "If you had not come
just when you did, I should have been—"

"Don't!" he entreated.

She gave him a wistful glance. "Isn't it strange? Just one step wrong,
and everything nearly at an end. No going to Castle Hill!"

He knew this was not lightness. Her limbs shook, and she was ashen.
"Come," he said, and he led her farther. "The question is how we are to
get to Midfell."

"I know about where we are. There's a path near—if we could find it. It
leads straight to the village,—and to a farm half way, where we might
stop."

"A good plan. Wiggles will lead us; he brought me to you."

"Did he?" in surprise. "I shouldn't have thought he could." A cold
nose was thrust into her hand, and she surprised herself by bursting
into tears. "Dear old Wiggles," she sobbed, and then—"I'm sorry to be
stupid."

"It's all right; don't mind. Try not to think about things yet."

He slipped the string once more through Wiggles' collar, and looked at
her with solicitude. "You are sure you can walk?"

"Of course I can!" indignantly. "Please don't tell Barbara I cried.
It's only—if you knew what it was—"

"I know. Not many girls would have shown such pluck," and the
admiration in his voice brought a smile to her lips. "You were
splendidly brave. Of course you are shaken now. Suppose you try to make
Wiggles understand that we want to go home."

This acted as a diversion, and she was soon her usual self, though
pale. Giles explained how it was that he had come to Midfell; and
Wiggles proved a reliable guide, so that in no long time they reached
the farm, where they were glad to get rid of encasing mud. A man was
despatched to bring clean clothing for both, and later they reached
Burn Cottage, where extreme anxiety had reigned.

The old lady listened in agitated thankfulness to the tale of her
grandchild's narrow escape; and her gratitude to Giles knew no bounds.
She held his hand in her soft withered palms, tears in her eyes, words
trembling on her lips. She folded her restored darling in a close
embrace—no common action for one so undemonstrative—and prayed and
wept over her. Phyllys shed tears also, and realised how dear the old
grandmother was, despite certain misunderstandings.

What Barbara felt at this outcome of her scheming did not so fully
appear. A word of blame with regard to Phyllys' "stupidity" in not
keeping clear of the bog received settlement at the hand of Giles.

"Phyllys ought not to have been allowed to go at all," he said; and
Barbara understood. She fumed, but was silent.

This event put the presence of Giles in Midfell on a new footing.
The cousin to whom Mrs. Wyverne owed Phyllys' life could not be held
at arms' length. Let his opinions be what they might, he had earned
a right to come in and out. For once, Barbara and Miss Robins were
powerless to touch the old lady's determination. Her thankful joy was
too deep not to find expression.

During his week at the Inn, he made the best of his opportunity. He and
Phyllys strolled about the fields together, had long walks together,
talked together endlessly,—though in such talks hers was the lion's
share, and he acted the part of charmed listener. He was not a man of
many words.

These days of intercourse settled the question for him. Before the week
ended, he loved Phyllys, loved her with his whole being. She was not,
perhaps, his first fancy, but she was his first true love. She might be
his last.

He had no thought, however, of showing in haste what he felt. His
attentions were simple and cousin-like in kind; and no one guessed the
truth. He knew that he had to win Phyllys, and that the winning might
not prove easy.

She was friendly, even affectionate, and delighted with his
companionship. He could see that she never forgot what she owed to him;
but he had no wish that she should marry out of gratitude; and he would
not take her at a disadvantage.

With all her frankness, Phyllys was not easy to read. The very
readiness with which she had taken to him, and the easy gladness with
which day after day she met him, were, he knew, not hopeful symptoms.

Had she been more shy, less responsive, he might have felt more
sanguine. Hopeful he did feel, but hardly of immediate results; and his
chief fear was lest he should be drawn into a too hasty betrayal of his
love.

That she liked him as a cousin he saw. Whether she would like him
equally as a lover was another question. He had to proceed cautiously.



CHAPTER XI

CASTLE HILL PERPLEXITIES

AT the appointed hour for Phyllys' arrival, Mrs. Keith went to the
station.

And together they drove through the town, the elder lady exchanging
bows with acquaintances by the way. Phyllys took everything in with
interested eyes.

Leaving Market Oakley behind, they bowled swiftly along the smooth
high-road till Castlemere was reached; then by a lodge-gate they
entered the private grounds leading to Castle Hill.

Once indoors Mrs. Keith unbent. Thus far she had merely made herself
agreeable. Now her gloved hands held those of Phyllys, and she looked
tenderly in the girl's face. After a momentary hesitation, real or
assumed, she bent for a kiss.

Phyllys was touched, and a wonder stirred within her. Why should Mrs.
Keith be so affectionate? That Giles should have liked to know her had
seemed natural, since he was near of kin; but that Mrs. Keith should
care was puzzling.

Then she recalled her late peril, and the fact that Giles had rescued
her. This might give Mrs. Keith a peculiar feeling. Or perhaps Mrs.
Keith was so fond of Giles as to be gladdened by anything that gave
him pleasure. Phyllys smiled over the latter solution, and Mrs. Keith
kissed her again.

"My dear, I am delighted to get you here. We have wanted it for years.
Giles particularly."

"It is delightful to come."

This little scene took place in the ante-room, between hall and
drawing-room; and as they entered the latter a slight gasp broke from
Phyllys.

It was large and many-windowed, with nooks and retreats, a ceiling
artistically designed and coloured, fine paintings on the walls, a
broad general harmony of outline and tinting, and a delicate beauty of
contrast in details, which at once appealed to Phyllys. She thought
of the prim little sitting-room at home, its stiff squareness, its
ponderous furniture, its framed texts.

"Ah!" murmured Mrs. Keith.

"I never saw anything like it!"

"Unusual, is it not? I am glad you can appreciate. Now you will like
some tea. Where can Colin be?" She rang the bell. "Tell Mr. Keith we
are here," she said to the butler.

"Mr. Keith desired not to be disturbed, ma'am. Tea was taken by his
wish to the studio."

A fretted look came, and one cup clicked against another. "Nonsense!
What nonsense!" Mrs. Keith's brows drew together.

"Does Colin paint?" asked Phyllys. "Mr. Keith, I mean."

"He is 'Colin,' not 'Mr. Keith,' to you, my dear. Yes, he dabbles in
painting; and lately he has taken an absurd fancy for messing with wet
clay, trying to model. Sheer waste of time, for he has no gift in that
direction."

The resentful tone in which she alluded to Colin's pursuit was in
contrast with the note of her next remark.

"Such a pity Giles is still away. Yes,—" seeing with pleasure Phyllys'
disappointment—"he was to have got home yesterday. But the friend with
whom he has been shooting in the Highlands fell ill, and cannot travel.
Giles has stayed to take care of him. So like Giles! Always thinking of
others before himself! And I know what a disappointment it must be to
him. Till he arrives, you must put up with Colin and me."

Phyllys tried to hide what she felt. This was indeed a "Waterloo
without a Wellington." She hoped she had succeeded, but was not sure.
Those fine restless eyes seemed to see a great deal; and so surely
as she glanced up she met them. The scrutiny was kind, however, and
conveyed approval.

This first evening at Castle Hill was very unlike what Phyllys had
pictured. One figure, large and quiet, with straight gaze and few
utterances, had never been absent from previous visions; but while
others, hazy in anticipation, were taking shape, that was the one
lacking.

Not for long! She found consolation in this thought, and also in Mrs.
Keith's assurances that her disappointment was shared by Giles. She
could not know that he had given Mrs. Keith no right to make such an
assertion, for she had yet to learn the liberal manner in which her
hostess was wont to draw upon a vivid imagination.

She did find, to her surprise, that nothing was known by Mrs. Keith
of her bog adventure or of the part played by Giles. She told the
tale simply not without a shivering aversion which she could not yet
conquer. Mrs. Keith showed excitement.

"My dear, what an awful thing! Too dreadful! If Giles had not been
near! Yes, he saved your life! How thankful he must have been! No,
he said nothing in his letters. But he would not. That is Giles all
over—never speaking of what he has done himself. But you and he will
never forget. It seems quite a link between you." She shot a glance to
see if this was appreciated. Phyllys took it quietly.

Till the dinner-gong sounded, nothing was heard of Colin. Then the
butler announced, "Mr. Keith is sorry not to come to dinner."

Mrs. Keith made a sharp turn. "Why?"

"Mr. Keith does not wish for any dinner, ma'am."

"Absurd!" she muttered. Then to Phyllys, with a constrained smile,
"You and I must make the most of each other. Colin is treating us
cavalierly."

"He must be very fond of modelling," the girl said, as they went
through the hall.

"A great deal too fond. Such a waste of time."

"Do you think so? My father used to love it. They said he was a born
sculptor."

She had an odd impression that her words had administered a blow.
Tightening lips and drawn brows showed strong feeling. Not till they
were seated did a reply come, with evident unconsciousness of the
interval.

"There are so many things better worth doing."

Phyllys wisely resolved to avoid a discussion.

Mrs. Wyverne, despite opposition from Barbara and exhortations from
Miss Robins, on the score of encouraging vanity, had taken care that
her grandchild should not do her discredit. Phyllys had one evening
frock, which she wore now, pretty, and in good taste. Perhaps she felt
its prettiness a trifle thrown away under present circumstances; yet
she enjoyed herself.

The great dining-room, with its ancestral portraits, its heavy silver
candelabra, its antique furniture, its well-laid table, its flowers,
its butler and footman waiting in deferential silence, all laid
pleasant hold upon her. She had no sense of embarrassment. Everything
seemed natural and as should be. Travelling abroad in childhood, and
being much among grown-up people before the age of thirteen, had given
her an ease which she could not have acquired in Midfell alone, despite
the old lady's excellent manners.

Great as was the contrast between Castle Hill arrangements and those
of Burn Cottage, she behaved as if all her life used to the former.
Mrs. Keith, narrowly observant, was more and more satisfied. The slight
upset to her equanimity, whatever it had meant, passed off, and she
talked continuously.

When they returned to the drawing-room, Mr. Dugdale appeared, making at
once for Phyllys.

"I knew your father well," was his first remark. "Wyverne and I were
friends. He was one of the best men it has ever been my good fortune to
come across."

Had Mr. Dugdale set himself to win her liking, he could have chosen
no wiser method. For years she had lived among those who condemned
her father—Barbara "in toto;" the old lady, not without deep motherly
love, yet with grief and regret, because on certain religious points
he had not seen with herself. And here was one who had known him, had
understood him. Her heart went out towards the elderly man, with his
cool cynical manner. Let him be what he might, he had cared for her
father. Mr. Dugdale adjusted his pince-nez, and examined her with
interest. Then Colin came in.

"Sorry to have been so unsociable. I hope you forgive me," he said,
as he shook hands with Phyllys. He spoke in a low dragging voice, and
found a seat where his face was in shade.

"Why did you not come to dinner?" his mother asked in displeasure.

"I thought you would excuse me for once,"—cheerfully.

"And of course you have eaten nothing since luncheon. Just like him—"
turning to Mr. Dugdale. "Colin never can do anything in moderation.
This fad of his will undo the whole good of his time abroad. It is
ridiculous."

"Fad!" repeated Mr. Dugdale, with meaning.

Colin fenced quietly, beating off the attack with a half languid but
graceful good-humour, which Phyllys thought charming. Then attention
was distracted, Mr. Dugdale falling into a discussion with Mrs. Keith
on some trivial point of difference. Colin moved to a chair near
Phyllys, and she had for the first time a distinct view.

Unlike Giles, certainly. He looked very tired, and there were purple
shades below the eyes, which had a fixed inwardness of expression. A
hand was lifted between them and the nearer lamp.

"So Giles stole a march upon us, making your acquaintance in the north."

"If he had not, I should not be here now." Somehow she did not at
once feel at home with Colin as with Giles. He awakened a shy side of
her, seldom visible. Giles from the first had drawn her out. Colin
unconsciously repressed her. It might have been his ease of bearing,
his calm aloofness. Giles possessed a cultivated ease; but Colin's was
an intrinsic ease, which perhaps nothing could disturb. In Giles it was
an acquired possession; in Colin it seemed to be a part of himself.

"Ah, then we must be grateful to him."

"I think I am." She tried to speak naturally. "Pity he cannot get home
yet."

"Yes; I'm sorry." A pause, and Phyllys pulled herself together. The
feeling of bashfulness was absurd. "Mrs. Keith says you are fond of
modelling."

A shade of interest dawned. "Do you know anything of it?"

"My father used to model in clay."

"Then you understand the grip it takes upon one."

"Yes; I used to see that. He was a busy clergyman, and had very little
spare time. But when he could get to it, he was happy. I was only ten
years old when he died; still one doesn't forget."

"Perhaps you will take a look at my studio to-morrow."

"May I? That will be delightful. Are you doing statues?"

"Busts chiefly. I may take to statuettes by-and-by. Portrait-sculpture
seems to be my line."

"My father did only small things. I used to stand and watch him, and
the clay looked so tempting! I longed to try. They were afraid it might
make me rheumatic."

"No uncommon result. So far I have been lucky."

"Have you worked hard to-day?" she asked, noting that he talked
mechanically, like a machine wound up.

"Rather."

"Till after dinner?"

"I gave in before that."

"You look as if—" She hesitated, doubtful how far she might venture.
The doubt had not assailed her with Giles, yet of the two, Colin was
the more gentle. He responded to what she had not said.

"One can't stick to work without paying for it; but the game is worth
the candle."

"I wonder if it is!"

The heavy blue eyes, still with that curious oppressed "inward" look,
met hers, but could not gaze. "You are a trifle too keen-sighted. Don't
betray me, please."

"Wouldn't it be better for you not to talk?"

He took her at her word, and soon beat a retreat.

The others did not notice until he was gone; and Mrs. Keith drew her
lips together. "At it again!" was written on her face.

"Had she really not seen?" wondered Phyllys.



CHAPTER XII

COLIN AND HIS WORK

COLIN did not appear next morning till breakfast was ended; and a cup
of tea met his wants. Mrs. Keith was short in manner, as if still
offended; but her vexation seemed powerless to ruffle him. Phyllys
wondered whether he felt it more than he showed.

She scanned him with interest. A gift to delve below the surface was
hers, but as yet it had not been developed; and while he interested, he
baffled her.

Everything in this new world claimed attention: Colin not least. The
contrast was great between his slender outlines and dilettante ease,
and the muscular vigour of Giles. That she would like Colin she felt
sure; not as she liked Giles, yet perhaps not less. The intellectual
development of his face, the dreamy abstraction which seemed a part
of himself, laid hold on her imagination. He resembled no one she had
hitherto come across. It would be difficult, she thought, to view him
with indifference. He might be liked or disliked; he could not be
ignored. Her eyes were again and again drawn in his direction; and each
time she found herself to be the object of his study.

The night before he had seen a pretty girl in a neat frock, hazily
indistinct. Things were apt to grow hazy, when overpowering headache
had him in its grasp. He would often talk on, while unable to see
across the room.

To-day, though not at his best, he could use his faculties, and he
recognised that Phyllys was out of the common. The rounded outlines
of her slim figure, the flow of hair about her well-shaped head, the
subtleties of moulding in cheek and chin, the sweet expressiveness of
eyes half hidden under dense fringes, the changeful suggestions of
light and shade—these found their way to his brain, touching him as
artist, not as man. He scrutinised her, not as a girl of flesh and
blood, but as a subject for statuary.

Breakfast over, he strolled through the French window, and indulged
in a cigarette; but when Mrs. Keith disappeared, Phyllys heard at her
side the soft dragging voice, which at first she had supposed to mean
physical weakness, but which she found to be habitual.

"Will you come with me?" he said.

On reaching the room, lately transformed into a studio, she gave
one of her little gasps of pleasure. It appealed to her artistic
instincts—hers by inheritance and early cultivation, not slain by ten
years of systematic asphyxiation.

Two skylight windows had been made, with arrangements for modifying
light from either, and a heavy curtain was partly drawn across the
side-window. Near the stove at one end of the long room, on a square of
carpet, were a sofa and an armchair. The space remaining was boarded
and bare. At the centre stood a modelling-stand, heavy and four-legged,
with a revolving top, upon which was something hidden by cloths.

Framed photographs of antique sculptures adorned the walls, varied by
fine bas-reliefs. Several statues occupied small pedestals; and on a
side-table lay plaster casts of limbs and hands, together with odd
little wooden tools, which she touched with pleasure, for they recalled
old days.

"And this?" she questioned, pausing beside a closed door. "Is this part
of the studio?"

"If I should take to plaster-casting, that will be my casting-room. At
present I use it for odds and ends."

He opened the door, and showed a large wooden box, lined with zinc and
half-full of damp clay, prepared for use; also a water-tap with its
sink, and a watering-pot with a fine rose. "One must have everything
ready."

"You don't do the casting yourself, then, or cutting in marble?"

"I have tried my hand at both. Here—" as they returned to the larger
room—"a bit of low relief, for practice. Not worth much. Carving in
marble is slow work. At present I give my attention to modelling in
clay."

He took her round, pointing out some casts that he had brought from
Italy, imitations from historic masterpieces. They lingered over a bust
after the Venus of Milo; then over the copy of an ancient dilapidated
torso, which Phyllys surveyed with dubious eyes.

"I don't think I care about that. It might be anything."

"Ah, but it is grand. The work of a great sculptor. See the moulding,
how squarely it is put in. Look at those flat surfaces, and the
relation of each to the whole. The main question in sculpture is not
so much what a man works at as how he works at it." Then a pause, and
a slow smile. "For the matter of that, the same may be said of all
Art—painting, music, writing. Now I will show you something that you
will appreciate."

He lifted down a bas-relief in pure white plaster, a reduction from
Donatelli's S. Cecilia, exquisite in delicacy of modelling.

Phyllys clasped her hands with a gesture of delight, pretty because
unconscious, as she drank in the beauty of that refined angelic face.

Colin altered the slant of it. "See—if the light falls in a full glare
you hardly make out anything. Now, if I put it so that shadows are
thrown, you have the effect—you get the soul of it."

He held the thing motionless, till with a sigh she murmured, "It is
'too' lovely. I'm sure of one thing—it can't be wrong to love what is
beautiful."

He looked at her curiously.

"Barbara and Miss Robins say it is wrong to care about looks—any sort
of looks—things or people. They say it is vanity and waste of time."

"But true beauty is Divine."

"Is it?" wistfully. "They say it is a snare."

"Do they? Perhaps they have not eyes to see. True beauty is uplifting;
but only when one has power to see its inwardness."

"I'm glad to think it is not wrong," she murmured. "I do love things
that are beautiful. Won't you show me something you did yourself when
you were abroad?"

"I left all behind me. Nothing worth bringing. Here is one attempt
since my return."

He led her to a corner of the studio, where stood in shade a head of
bronzed plaster upon a stand.

"Giles!" was her exclamation. "How like! Oh, how like!" She viewed it
from different positions. "It is his very self. And how wonderfully you
have given the look in his eyes. Only a little hollow for each eye—and
yet they are 'his!'"

"Sure proof that character and expression reside more in the
surroundings than in the eyes themselves."

"And you did this since you came home?"

"Yes. I'd awfully hard work to get him to sit; but he gave in now and
then. When he went north, I had to do my best with photographs. No, I
didn't attempt the moulding."

Phyllys' next move was towards the centre modelling-table. She had
noticed that he kept clear of that, and her curiosity was roused. "May
I see what you are doing now?" she asked.

And after a momentary hesitation, he removed the damp cloths, laying
bare a child's head in clay, life-size, nearly completed.

It was a lovable little face, half-sad, yet with a tender shy peace.
The luxuriant hair was cut low on the forehead, and fell around in
heavy waves; and the effect of dark eyes was admirably given, under
drooping lids.

"Who is it?"

"Elsye Wallace. She died many years ago."

"You have done it from memory?"

"Partly from memory. Partly from an oil-painting and some photographs."

"I heard a Dr. Wallace spoken of yesterday."

"He is our medical man. Elsye was his only child."

Phyllys gave her attention to the bust, scanning it from various
directions. "I like it!" came at length. "I can't tell you how much I
like it. Of course I don't know—I'm no judge—but she seems almost to
'live.' You make me love her, as if I had known the real Elsye. Were
you fond of her? Do you mind telling me?"

"Yes; we knew her well."

Phyllys looked up. "You ought to go on," she said earnestly. "You
'will' go on?"

"You are encouraging."

"But you don't want encouraging. You know you can do it."

"Nobody knows it always."

"You won't let anybody make you leave off?" She was thinking of his
mother.

"No. I shall not be stopped."

A chair was near, and Phyllys sat down, resting her cheek on one hand,
gazing earnestly. A smile broke over her face.

"You little darling!" she murmured.

Colin stood back, his attention diverted from his own work to Phyllys.
A longing seized him to make a sketch in clay of that pretty girl-head.
His fingers ached to reproduce the soft flow of hair, the delicate
moulding of brow and lips. She had the precise pose which he would
want; and he hardly dared to breathe for fear of making her move. He
was trying to learn every curve by heart, that he might be able to
replace her. When, in response to observation, she turned, she caught a
gleam of that gaze from under the penthouse of slender fingers.

He at once explained. "I am wondering whether you would let me make a
study of your head."

"Mine But why? Yes, if you like. That would be rather fun."

"You promise?"

"I should like it if—Will Mrs. Keith mind?"

"I want an unconditional promise."

Phyllys looked troubled.

"She has always opposed my modelling. I think you will admit that a man
must choose for himself?"

"Then it is not a new idea?"

"Nearly as old as I am myself."

Phyllys wondered, recalling contrary assertions.

"I promise," she at length said. "But why should Mrs. Keith care?"

"Can't imagine. Neither can Giles."

He was replacing the wet cloths, and she said, "You won't try to work
at that to-day? You know you can't."

He finished what he was doing, then replied, "But when Giles comes home
you must please see less. I don't betray myself to him, if I can help
it."

"Why should he not know?"

"It bothers him. My stupid headaches are a hindrance to work, and he
knows how much I want to get on. So please don't draw his attention.
That is all. And—" after a pause—"don't name to him this bust."

"I won't, if you would rather I should not."

"I would rather you should not. Now, shall we go?"


In the hall they were joined by Mrs. Keith, who showed some annoyance
on hearing where Phyllys had been.

"I have hunted for you all over the house," she complained.

"Phyllys is going to let me make a model of her head."

Mrs. Keith's movement was of protest. "You won't do anything so
ridiculous!"

"I can hardly imagine anything less ridiculous."

"Phyllys has come here to enjoy herself."

"But indeed I shall enjoy that," urged Phyllys. "I love anything to do
with modelling."

Mrs. Keith's face darkened. "I would rather it should be given up," she
said.

Colin made no verbal reply. The gaze of mother and son met, and Phyllys
was conscious of a trial of strength between the two. Mrs. Keith's
restless dark orbs stared into the quiet blue eyes, which, with all
their courtesy, spoke absolute non-submission. Silence lasted hardly
three seconds, but in that space he rose superior.

Phyllys was startled by his look of invincible resolution. Had it been
Giles she would have felt no surprise. But Colin—the embodiment rather
of charm than of strength—that in him should be found, underlying the
charm, a force of will which, though endlessly gentle, would have at
all costs its own way, she had not expected.

Mrs. Keith's eyes sank, and she spoke sullenly. "Of course you will do
as you choose. 'My' wishes are of no importance."

"Of very great importance; but one has sometimes to follow one's own
judgment. Some day I hope you will see with me. Shall I show Phyllys
the church this morning?"

"No. She is coming with me."

"Then I will go for a ride—" in unruffled calm; and he vanished.

"A great pity! He will only make himself ill again," said Mrs. Keith.
"I have such a dread of another breakdown. He is a dear fellow." She
glanced quickly at Phyllys. "But I must have you appreciate Giles also."

The girl smiled—a small subtle smile. She did not count that she was
in danger of undervaluing Giles. Already she had told herself that she
disapproved of Colin's manner to his mother during those three seconds.
To anybody else it would not have mattered; but to his mother! She was
sure that Giles would never so have contested in Colin's place. None
the less, she liked Colin, and she could not see why Mrs. Keith should
so persistently oppose his favourite occupation.



CHAPTER XIII

THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH

NEXT day, being Sunday, brought to light fresh aspects of the new world
in which Phyllys was plunged.

To her the change had come as a veritable plunge, involving such
sensations of shock and breathlessness as a dip in the sea will
produce. The novelty of it all gripped her imagination. After years of
repression, of squeezing in a Procrustean bed, she found herself in an
atmosphere of ease and refinement, in a house where beauty was valued,
contrasting with the home where only abstract principle was exalted,
and things lovely were eschewed as evil. Something of intoxication was
the outcome.

Her hour in the studio had awakened new thought, new feeling. The
masterpieces shown by Colin had touched her more deeply than might be
understood by one possessing no love of art. In Phyllys this love was
inherited, and in childhood it had received careful cultivation.

All the ten years at Midfell, though trained to outward submission,
she had fought against the dictums which went in the teeth of her
parents' teaching. To some extent she had been moulded by persistent
pressure, had taken shape and colour, as a plant under training can
be educated into new forms. But, like such a plant, she had a strong
tendency to "revert" on the first chance; and here was her chance. The
spell of present surroundings was great, and she "reverted" quickly to
experiences of earlier days, never forgotten, though of late pushed out
of her mind.

Colin fascinated her. His personal beauty—a type of beauty due
less to outline of feature, though that outline was fine, than to
expression—and his "apartness" from common life were both so unlike
aught she had ever come across that she could not dismiss him from her
thoughts. And even though she had not quite approved of his manner to
his mother, yet his serenity under that mother's resistance to his
cherished aim won her admiration.

"I like him," she said to herself more than once. He was different from
Giles; and Giles was her friend. Colin might in time become her friend;
but this she doubted. She could not got to know him so quickly as she
had got to know Giles.

As they walked to church on Sunday morning following the private
short-cut, where sunbeams made a swaying pattern of leaf-shadows on a
mossy carpet, her attention wandered to him much. She listened for what
he might say; she watched for what he might do. Each word and action on
his part, though subdued, had in it something suggestive. Giles had not
affected her thus. When with Giles she was mainly conscious of her own
power over him. When with Colin she was mainly conscious of his power
over her.

Midfell Church and its services were plain, almost with an excess of
simplicity; less from any wish on the part of Mr. Hazel than from
a need to avoid startling the unsophisticated Midfell intellect by
"innovations," a word which held terror for the Wyvernes and their
coterie. Had such simplicity not been maintained, Phyllys would not
have been allowed to enter the porch.

Here things were otherwise, and she was carried back to childhood's
days—to her father's church. Here was precisely what old Mrs. Wyverne
had dreaded for her grandchild, and had condemned in her son. Not only
an aged historic building, great in architectural beauty; but also more
of completeness, more of cultivated perfection of form and sound, more
of that which for years had been decried in the hearing of Phyllys as
unsound, unspiritual, a form of godliness without life, perilous to
true religion.

Did it indeed mean peril? Was it perforce mere form, without life? Did
no reality underlie the beauty of structure and of sound?

Beauty there was; a perfection of rendering seldom reached in a
country village; a well-trained choir; an organ of mellow tone, finely
handled. There was, too, the outward seeming of deep reverence, in
hushed stillness, in heads bowed reverently during prayers, in low
voices joining in the responses. No hurried slurring on the part of
Vicar or congregation, no shrill shouting on the part of the choir. All
was controlled and appropriate, a worthy expression of the Church's
adoration of her Divine Master. The Vicar, a college friend of Giles
Randolph, seemed to be a man of unusual intensity of feeling, if the
bent head and earnest face spoke truly.

Who would venture to say that in the plain services of Midfell Church,
love and devotion and reverence were less than here, though differently
shown? But also, who should dare to assert that love and devotion and
reverence here were less, because allowed fuller expression? Only,
surely, a Barbara Wyverne or one like-minded would roughly thus tread
on holy ground, would carelessly so condemn. The Father of all, looking
into each heart, reads and values at their true worth the love, the
devotion, the reverence, whether uttered in this manner or expressed in
that manner before His footstool.

To Phyllys, the surroundings, the spiritual atmosphere, the solemn
hush, the stirring music, appealing to her impressionable nature, meant
joy and comfort and a new realization of the Divine Presence. That
Presence is made known to men through many different channels and by
various modes. For years Phyllys had not felt her father and mother so
near, because for years she had not felt God so near. Their nearness
was involved in His; for they were in Him, with Him. Tears filled her
eyes as she knelt. She knew that this Church might be to her as a gate
of heaven.

Her late terrible experience on the moor had deepened the sense of
spiritual need, and here might be what would satisfy that need. "O I am
glad to have come," she whispered.

Presently, standing up, she noted Mrs. Keith's manner as peculiar.
Those fine eyes, troubled and restless, were gazing at the east window,
as if in protest, and the lips moved beseechingly.

Did this mean prayer? Something had stirred the elder woman, as she had
been stirred; only in Mrs. Keith it looked like sorrow, not joy. But
what could Mrs. Keith have to grieve her, in her beautiful home, with
the most winning of sons, with Giles as a second son ready to give all
she wished?—Except indeed in so insignificant a desire as related to
Colin's modelling.

Phyllys floated into a train of thought, which landed her beside a
chestnut-tinted stream, with golden glimmers in white wavelets, and
Giles by her side. Thence by a transition she was in the bog, sinking,
horror-stricken, in black slime, and once more she felt the grip of his
hand. "But for him—!" she whispered.

Twenty minutes later she and Mrs. Keith stood in the empty church,
Colin having gone home.

Architecture claimed attention, and Mrs. Keith pointed out the Norman
arches, the solid columns, the stalls and their carved canopies, the
aged rood-screen, the new seats of dark oak throughout the building.

"Giles had it restored as soon as he came of age," she said. "It
was his first thought. Before that we had a three-decker, and
hideous galleries, and pews one could hardly see over, and whitewash
everywhere. He had the roof opened out as you see it now, and
everything put right. His whole heart was in the work. No, there is
very little old glass. The east window had been added early in the
century, and it was too frightful for words. So Giles gave this and one
other. Lovely, is it not?"

They passed to the "one other" in the north aisle; a memorial window,
exquisite in design, the central figure that of a child borne up on
angels' wings. The child's face drew from Phyllys an exclamation.

Mrs. Keith made a sound of inquiry, but Phyllys drew in. It might be
that Colin would not wish his mother, any more than Giles, to know what
he was doing. She went near, and read, "In Memory of E. W."

"Dr. Wallace's child. She died when the boys were sixteen. An
occasional playmate." Mrs. Keith spoke coldly.

"And she was—how old?"

"About thirteen. When the church was restored, Giles put this to her
memory. Unnecessarily, I thought."

"She must have been lovely. Was Giles fond of her?"

"She was pretty. Both boys liked her. She died very suddenly."

"And her father is your doctor?"

"He is everybody's doctor. I do not care for him. I am afraid my
dislikes are as pronounced as my likes."

"So many years ago?" thought Phyllys. And an "occasional playmate"
only! Both Giles and Colin must be very unforgetting. She decided that
a friendship with the former might last a lifetime.



CHAPTER XIV

SCULPTOR AND SITTER

FOR two hours daily did Colin lay claim upon Phyllys, and she
granted what he asked, albeit not easily. Mrs. Keith had ceased from
protestation, but many obstacles were put in the way, though in a
fashion hardly to be defined.

Phyllys found her first morning in the studio enchanting. Colin
was at his best, ready for talk and quietly gay. She had begged to
watch the process from the beginning; and she gazed with delight at
his deft handling of the clay, as he filled in and covered over the
light framework of lead piping, shaped roughly the shoulders over
cross-pieces of wood designed for their support, and added lumps which
with firm touches he formed into nose, chin, ears, giving each in turn
a general resemblance to her own. It seemed that his task would be a
bagatelle, he advanced so fast. When she said so, he broke into a laugh.

"This is preparation, not work. If you had not asked to come, it would
have been done before I troubled you."

He went to and fro between the large and small room, bringing handfuls
of the moist clay, remarking once, "A great sculptor would have a boy
to keep him supplied."

"You will be a great sculptor some day," she declared confidently.

The opinion had no weight, yet he smiled. He was in a frame to be
easily pleased. For one thing the sun shone; for another, he was
free from headache; for a third, he felt that his sitter would bring
inspiration. With all his outward placidity, Colin was an artist in
temperament; a weather barometer; a creature of moods.

"Do all sculptors work as fast as you?"

"There are different modes. Not only one excellent way. Some do it
slowly, adding pellets, not lumps. Each has to follow the method by
which he can produce the best results. The broader and quicker method
suits me."

"You seem to build it up," she murmured.

"That is the essence of clay-modelling. It is a literal building up. In
marble sculpture one has the reverse—carving away material, and leaving
the figure exposed."

"You mean it was there all the time, shut up in prison, and it had to
be set free," she suggested, with a happy little laugh.

That brought his eyes upon her. "Precisely. But only a sculptor can see
it there, before he cuts away the mass that hides it."

Colin had made a rough clay sketch of Phyllys in the attitude which
first attracted him, and this rendered it easy to place her anew in the
same position. She had to gaze at a bust, and could no longer watch
his manipulations: so time passed slowly. A quarter of an hour seemed
like a full hour; and to maintain the position was difficult. She tried
to find entertainment in chatting about Midfell, but his murmurs of
assent acted as a check, and she sank into silence, which soon meant an
expression utterly "dead."

He had to arouse himself that he might arouse her.

This day all went well, and he proved merciful, allowing frequent rests.

In days following the work advanced more slowly; nay, even stood still.
He could not satisfy himself.

He would stand, doing nothing, gazing at his sitter, with an air of
calm aloofness, as if trying to read her soul. The aloofness prevented
self-consciousness. Sometimes she wondered what it was that he saw or
wished to see. Sometimes she had a sense that he saw deeper than other
men—than Giles, for example. But all the while she recognised that she
was his "sitter" pure and simple. He was studying a model for artistic
purposes. He was not troubling himself to know Phyllys Wyverne for her
own sake.

Then, when fifty minutes of endurance were ended, he would move, would
hope she was not tired, would offer her the armchair, would ask whether
she minded a cigarette, would change in a moment from the artist to the
host. She found in him a dual nature; not like that of Giles, simple,
homogeneous, the same throughout. One hour he was sculptor; another
hour he was man.

Perhaps she admired him more as sculptor, and liked him more as man;
but the combination had power.

By the fifth day things were going ill. Colin was not pleased with his
work. He foresaw that this bust would be less of a success than that
of Elsye Wallace; and the harder he toiled, the less he got on. He
was gaining a worn look, his features becoming sharply drawn. Phyllys
longed to advise a day's holiday, but did not venture.

A rap at the door made him lift troubled eyes, and a box was brought in
from the moulder, containing, as he knew, the cast of Elsye.

"Put it down," he murmured, and bent anew to his modelling. It was
characteristic that he should bestow his whole energy on the task in
hand, and should have no thought to spare for that last completed.
But presently, finding his sitter hopelessly "flat," he suggested an
adjournment, and took out the cast.

"It's lovely," Phyllys said. "Are you not glad? Don't you feel proud?"
She stretched her arms and sat down, while Colin threw himself into the
armchair. "Isn't it perfect?"

"I don't know."

"Ought you to do any more to-day?"

There was a brief laugh. "Certainly I ought—if I can. That's the
question."

"It seems getting on so nicely," she ventured.

"It's a dead failure," he replied shortly.

"I suppose people don't know their own faces. It seems to me all right."

"It's not you! I can't get at yourself."

Phyllys smiled, not ill-pleased. "But you don't expect to put my real
self straight off into a lump of clay?"

"If not, I'm no sculptor."

Phyllys' next remark was commonplace. "You've got my nose and mouth all
right."

He laughed again. "If that were all! The veriest tyro could do so much.
An artist aims higher."

Her eyes questioned him.

"True Art means more than a copy," he murmured. "It means
interpretation; not copying. There's a lack of soul in what I have
done. You have an elusive personality. I can't get at your true
inwardness. Yet I'm not usually a duffer at character-reading."

"That reminds me—" and Phyllys spoke eagerly—"I wanted to ask you, what
did you mean one day by the 'inwardness' of beauty? Do you remember?"

She had to recall to him what had passed.

"I meant the 'soul' of it. There is a soul to every outward form of
beauty."

"I don't think I understand."

He roused himself to explain. "In Art each body has a soul. That
is to say—in Nature, with which Art deals, which Art interprets.
One has to get at that soul, before interpretation is possible. A
superficial resemblance is nothing. Every thought of man may find
outward expression, in word or in shape; and the outward expression is
the body; the thought from which it sprang is the soul. Every thought
of God may—perhaps must—find expression in word or in form; and there
again, that which is manifest is the body, but the Divine underlying
thought is the 'soul' of that which is manifested. If once you realise
this, I don't think you will be in danger of undervaluing beauty."

"I don't think I am," she said. Then, smiling—"I'm glad it isn't easy
to know me at first sight."

"Much of you is easy; but you have many facets. When I think I have
reached the true Phyllys, I find myself mistaken. One day you are one
thing, next day another. My aim is to get to the background."

"I wonder how you mean to do it," she laughed.

She had recalled him to his purpose. He leant forward, examining her
with a penetrative gaze. She met it firmly, determined on resistance.
She would be as elusive as she chose.

But those blue eyes had power. They differed from Giles' eyes; and they
were reaching deep. If this was a trial of strength, she knew that he
was gaining the mastery. She could not veil from him what he meant
to see. Despite her will-refusal, he was getting into touch with her
"inward" self. He was stronger than she. She knew it and resented the
fact, yet was oddly glad.

[Illustration: A HARSH VOICE BROKE THE PAUSE, "SO—USING PHYLLYS
 FOR A MODEL."]

An abrupt consciousness dawned that this meant more than artistic
interest. The indifference, the "apartness" had vanished. Her eyes fell
before his.

Colin had never seen her thus, though he had for days analysed every
line in her face.

This was no matter of lines; and though as sculptor, he thought less
of colouring than of form, yet the pretty flush, the troubled curve
of coral lips, the sweetness of downcast eyes, laid hold upon him. If
she was a being of many facets, he was the same, and a facet of hers
touched squarely a facet of his that moment.

"I have come upon the real Phyllys at last," he was saying; and his joy
was only in part artistic.

Phyllys said nothing. She knew that he was reading her still; and she
could not meet his gaze.

A harsh voice broke the pause. "So—using Phyllys for a model! How is
that, pray?"

Phyllys looked up in amaze. This—Giles? This—her Midfell friend, her
rescuer!

He went across to shake hands with her, absently, as if the act were
mechanical; then stood between them, facing the fireplace, his back to
the long room; tall, solid, upright. His hands were clenched, and the
blaze of yellow light on his eyes was like that of a wild beast. Wrath
transformed the whole face. Its deep red was exchanged for a mottled
pallor.

Phyllys stiffened into girlish dignity. If Giles felt no pleasure at
seeing her, she would show no pleasure at seeing him; and what could
make him behave in such an extraordinary way?

Colin's first movement had been a start, but he replied in his lowest,
most dragging voice—

"Yes; I'm making a study of her head. Not a successful one, I'm afraid.
You didn't let us know you were coming to-day."

Giles turned from the speaker with a passionate movement, towards the
bust of Elsye Wallace.

Phyllys recalled Colin's not wishing him to know of its existence; and
she wondered—had he seen it on his first entrance?

But no! This evidently was his first glimpse; and the surprise was not
a pleasant one. He stood gazing, his hands still clenched, his face set
as in iron.

"That was not to have been seen," observed Colin.

The words, meant in explanation, put a finish to Giles' anger. He
swung round, and strode blindly away, knocking against the heavy
modelling-stand with such force that the bust of Phyllys was hurled
to the ground. But he made no pause, and his step could be heard
retreating along the passage.

Colin sat down, resting his brow on both hands.

"What an awful duffer I am!" he murmured.

"But nobody knew Giles was coming," ventured Phyllys.

"One might have expected it."

"I don't see why he is vexed."

Silence replied. She knew that, whatever there was to learn, she would
not hear it from Colin.

"You won't work any more now, will you?"

"I don't think I can."

Another break.

"Had I better go? Mrs. Keith said she would want me."

He stood up to open the door, relieved, she thought, at the suggestion.
Outside, remembering that she had left a book, she went back, to find
Colin flung prone on the sofa. The bust still lay where it had fallen.

"Couldn't I get anything for you?" she asked. "Your head is bad!"

"Rather! No, nothing I want, thanks. Is that your book? I'll have a
lazy hour."

Phyllys went again, feeling flat. This was not the manner of meeting
with Giles that she had pictured. She was disappointed by his
indifference; and his display of temper left an unpleasant impression.
Could it be that he objected to Colin making a model of her head? But
that would be childish! Why should he mind?



CHAPTER XV

AN INADVERTENT DISCOVERY

IT was one of those links in the chain of life, which present
themselves unsought, which at the moment seem unimportant; yet which
have a grave bearing upon one's after happiness.

Phyllys had no thought of making any discovery; indeed, she did not
recognise it as such. Her mind was bent upon the disappointing nature
of human friendships; though she did not use such phraseology, but
only said to herself that things were "horrid." She was perplexed and
uncomfortable; wondering what could have so upset Giles; wishing he
would behave like his former self.

Little had been seen of him since his arrival. At luncheon he was
sombre, and Phyllys treated him with dignity. Colin looked ill, ate
nothing, and talked like a machine wound up; and since luncheon he too
had been invisible.

Between five and six o'clock Phyllys was alone with Mrs. Keith. Rain
fell heavily, keeping them in, and keeping callers away. Mrs. Keith
knew nothing of the studio scene; but she had noted with dismay
Phyllys' bearing at luncheon, towards both Giles and Colin, and she
used this opportunity to descant on dear Giles' fine character, the
beautiful devotion between him and Colin, and the manner in which,
years earlier, he had been wont to deny himself amusement that he might
spend hours beside Colin in a darkened room, making time pass for the
invalid.

"If you had any idea how Colin used to suffer, you really wouldn't
wonder at my anxiety," she observed. "For days together he could hardly
endure a glimmer of light. One dreads what might bring that back. And
Colin never can do anything without working himself into a state of
excitement."

She reverted to the merits of Giles.

"There is something about him so grand, so unlike the common run of
men. He has such control over himself. Colin is a dear fellow too;
still, his is the smaller and weaker nature."

"I shouldn't have thought so; he seems to me anything but weak."

"That may be hardly the right word; and if he is small, it is only
by comparison with Giles. Almost any man seems dwarfed beside him.
Yes, even my own boy. Is that odd? Why should love be blind? I do not
see Colin's faults the less, because he is dear to me. As for Giles'
faults, really I find it hard to say what they are, except a hot
temper, conquered long ago."

Phyllys was silent. Morning recollections supplied a commentary.

"Dear fellow, he is so unselfish," went on Mrs. Keith. "So wonderfully
kind. Giles' wife, by-and-by, will be the happiest of women. As for
Colin's wife, it is to be hoped that she will not mind his moods and
trying ways."

But if Mrs. Keith wished to turn Phyllys from Colin to Giles, she went
to work in a wrong fashion. Talk presently branched to Kathleen Alyn
and her father, and Phyllys felt this to be a safer topic. She was
learning caution.

"Kathleen is a fascinating woman," averred Mrs. Keith, beginning to
outline an elaborate pattern upon a square of silk. "Everybody likes
her. Mr. Dugdale can be disagreeable when he chooses."

"I should think most people could." Phyllys liked Mr. Dugdale.

"Tiresome!" muttered Mrs. Keith. "This silk will not do. I must get the
other piece."

"What piece? Can I find it?"

Mrs. Keith raised absent eyes. She was thinking what a pretty tractable
wife Phyllys might make for Giles. For reasons of her own, unknown to
other people, she had set her heart on this consummation.

"Thanks very much, if it will not be a trouble. I don't want to
disarrange these things by moving. It is a square of crimson silk, and
you will see it on the shelf, just inside one of my black oak cabinets.
There are two in my room, you know. The one that is unlocked, on the
right side as you go in."

Phyllys ran upstairs, thinking still of Giles, and suddenly found
herself face to face with him. He looked so solemn that she could not
resist a smile, and his face relaxed.

"I have seen nothing of you yet," he observed. "But to-morrow—"

"Are you going out now?"

"I am obliged, unfortunately. But, if I might count on you in the
morning for a walk—would you come? We have no fells or mountain
streams; still, you shall see something pretty."

Phyllys demurred, for she had hitherto devoted the better part of her
mornings to the studio. It would not do, however, to be at the beck and
call of Colin. Her proud spirit rose in protest, all the more because
she had felt his power.

"I should like a walk," she said demurely; and Giles' face, growing
rigid under her hesitation, lighted anew. She could not but see the
change.

"Then I may reckon on you," he said, and his look was eloquent.

Friends still! That was what it uttered.

She gave one slight flash, and ran off. With regard to him, as
with regard to Colin, questioning arose. Was it with the one only
artist-interest? Was it with the other only friendship?

Phyllys made no attempt to find a reply. She knew that it was
delightful, after years of snubbing, to find herself the object of so
much attention.

Reaching Mrs. Keith's bedroom, her recollections were confused. A black
oak cabinet, unlocked—so much remained. Turning to the left, she pulled
the door of the cabinet on that side, and it opened. Within she saw no
crimson silk. A pile of shawls and cloaks had been heaped together in
the space below; and she disturbed the pile, pulling it out, searching
for the silk. So doing, she came on something behind; a half-length
portrait in a black frame. A pair of blue eyes, dreamy, observant, met
her own. "How like!" she exclaimed.

The style of dress belonged to a bygone period, and the face as a whole
was hardly that of Colin. It was a resemblance less of form and colour
than of the spirit which gleamed through.

"Some near relation," she conjectured. "But why keep it hidden here?"

Convinced that the silk was not within the cabinet, she restored the
portrait, piled the clothes as before, and tried to shut the door.

Then she saw that it had been locked, and that the hasp had failed to
catch. No key was visible. She recollected Mrs. Keith's words, "On the
'right' side as you go in." This cabinet stood on the left.

She went to the second cabinet, found that to be genuinely unlocked,
and saw the crimson silk. She caught it up and ran downstairs.

"I'm sorry to have been so long," she said. "I opened the wrong cabinet
by mistake. Somebody had locked it in a hurry, and had not shut it
first. I forgot all about right and left, and wasted time hunting.
I could not help noticing the oil-painting under the things. It has
such a look of Colin. A young man, in a queer old-fashioned dress. I
wondered whether it might be Colin's grandfather, and whether he was
dressed for theatricals." She stopped; for Mrs. Keith's face had grown
colourless.

"Are you faint?" she asked. "May I get anything for you?"

"Thanks, no; it is nothing. I shall be all right. So stupid of me!" And
Mrs. Keith smiled. "I have had three or four such turns lately. I shall
have to ask Dr. Wallace for a tonic; only I do so dislike the man.
Well—" and she pressed her handkerchief to her lips—"now I am better.
What were you saying, just before the faintness came on? Something
about—how absurd of me to forget! My head is confused."

"Only about that old painting in your cabinet. I thought it must be
some relative, because of the likeness to Colin," She would not suggest
Mrs. Keith's husband, though the idea had occurred. A wife would hardly
bury her husband's portrait beneath a pile of old clothes.

"Ah, to be sure—yes!—I remember. An old painting of my brother
Jock—Colin's uncle. Not so old, of course, as it looks. The artist had
a fancy to do it in that style. You are right about the dress. It was
for theatricals. He was good at acting—very much in request. You found
the silk?"

Phyllys gave it, remarking, "I had not heard of your brother."

"Really! But you would not. Jock has been so long in Australia, never
coming home, that friends forget his existence."

"Had you not better rest?" asked the girl, pitying her blanched lips.

"It really is of no consequence. I am used to these turns, and I think
nothing of them. One word, before any one comes. Phyllys, I am going to
treat you as a friend."

Phyllys waited, and Mrs. Keith's lips worked nervously.

"That old portrait—no one except myself knows about it, and I
'particularly' wish that others should not know. There are reasons
which I am not able to explain. It has—painful associations. The very
sight of it makes me miserable for days."

"But Colin—" the girl said.

"Colin has no idea of its existence."

"Of course I will say nothing."

"That is what I was going to ask. If you had kept to my directions you
would not have opened the wrong cabinet. Under the circumstances, I
have a right to ask you never to mention the portrait. It would mean no
end of talk and explanation—and pain to myself, which really I cannot
stand. Will you give me your promise, on your word of honour?"

It seemed to Phyllys a considerable fuss about nothing; but she readily
made answer, "Yes, of course. I promise never to say a word to anybody
about the painting unless you give me leave. I'm sorry I went to the
wrong cabinet."

"That does not matter, my dear. All I wish is to avoid tiresome and
useless discussions. But I know I may depend upon you, and now we can
dismiss the subject. I think I must have some sal volatile after all—I
feel so queer still. Thanks, no—I had better go myself. It will do me
good to move."

She mounted the wide staircase, stepping languidly till within her own
room. Then her manner changed. She bolted the door, and went to the
left-hand cabinet, finding it as described by Phyllys.

"How insane of me!" she muttered. She began to pile more clothes over
the picture, but stopped.

"No; now it has been seen, it must not stay there."

Her eyes wandered round questfully, and she went to a large cupboard,
within which was a heavy wooden box. This with difficulty she drew out.
It contained several summer gowns of thin materials, too old-fashioned
for use. She had a weakness for storing away disused articles of dress.

In the bottom she laid the portrait, face downward, finding just
sufficient space. Over it she spread a woollen shawl; over that the
gowns neatly folded; then she shut the lid, turned the key, and pushed
the box to its former position.

Somebody was tapping at the door. She straightened herself, hid away
the box-key in an inner drawer of her writing-table, locked the
left-hand cabinet, and resumed her languid air before admitting Phyllys.

"Can't I help you?" asked the girl, with astonished eyes. "I came to
see if you wanted anything—and I heard you pulling something heavy
about."

"I had to look for a business letter. Nothing of importance; but it
was rather out of reach. Thanks, no; I do not want anything. I am much
better—quite myself again."

Phyllys was perplexed, remembering the energetic sounds which had
drowned her raps.



CHAPTER XVI

LEVEL PLAINS

KATHLEEN ALYN, though not given to fancies, had taken a fancy to
Phyllys. She had a large circle of acquaintances, but did not make
friends.

Not that hers was a cold nature. On the contrary, she was famed
for universal cordiality. Any human being who came was secure of a
welcome. "Dear Mrs. Alyn is so sweetly affectionate," her lady admirers
declared. "Kathleen is always interested," her father often said.

She would appear to each in turn, as if that person were the one being
in the world for whom she cared; no whit the less one hour with Mrs.
Brown, than the next with Mrs. Green. "Such a 'dear' woman!" would be
said by the departing caller.

Some, of more critical tendency, noting the universality of her
friendliness, questioned its worth, since that which is given to all
loses its value for the few. Yet even they could not but admire the
self-mastery which showed equal warmth to the acquaintance of to-day
and the friend of years.

Only—as above said—she did not make friends. That discovery came next;
and a step farther would convince the observer that Mrs. Alyn had no
heart.

Had she not? Kathleen could be as "elusive" to the world as Phyllys to
the sculptor.

"My daughter is one of the most fascinating women that ever trod this
earth," Mr. Dugdale had been known to observe. "None the less, she is a
humbug. A delightful humbug, I grant. She has cultivated the giving of
sympathy, till she has reduced it to a fine art; and that which is Art
ceases to be Nature. She has developed into a patent machine, warranted
to produce so many gallons of sympathy per hour. Nothing can be more
satisfactory—for those who are content with sympathy by the gallon!"

Despite this judgment, which he would have been the first to repudiate
from any lips but his own, he went to her as often as he wished for an
agreeable listener, which was not seldom.

Towards Phyllys she was disposed from the first to show an interest
differing in kind from that paid out by the gallon. Phyllys had her
faults, but she was true and dependable; and perhaps it was mainly
this, combined with originality and charm, that appealed to the young
widow, who gave much and received little, and who was at heart lonely,
despite her popularity.

For if Kathleen were a humbug, she was so unknowingly; and beneath a
stratum of unreality lay a heart which had loved and could love, though
few came into touch with it.

She was feeling her loneliness the morning after Giles' return, not
knowing of that return; and she sent her small boy, Gordon, to Castle
Hill with a message, "Would Phyllys come to luncheon and spend the
afternoon with her?"

Gordon arrived in time to hear that Phyllys had started with Giles some
time before. He was a young man with independent views for his limited
age, and he promptly resolved to follow them up, breathing no hint of
his intentions, since he would certainly be forbidden. Having in a
casual fashion asked the walkers' direction, he strolled out of sight,
presumably on his way home, and then started at a trot.

But his legs were very short, and the chase proved a long one.

No question had arisen that morning as to studio-work, for Colin had
not appeared. "One of his worst headaches," explained Mrs. Keith. "His
own fault entirely, poor boy! If only he would have the sense not to be
always at that ridiculous modelling!"

Phyllys fired up in his defence, with a promptitude which for once
rendered Mrs. Keith dumb. Giles' face had darkened at the news of
Colin's state; and he now looked at her strangely. She was soon ashamed
of her little outburst.

What most vexed her was the calling of Colin "poor." Whether she liked
him or Giles the more she could not decide; but no question existed
about her admiration for Colin, whom she regarded as one gifted beyond
the common run.

No more was said, and the walk came as a matter of course. It was a
perfect morning, and she might have congratulated herself on being
in the open air, instead of having to sit for two hours like a waxen
image—only such congratulation seemed unkind to Colin. She felt it
to be hard that whatever he set himself to do should be hampered by
ill-health, and opposed by the one individual of whose sympathy he
ought to have been sure. Giles had everything—good health, vigour of
mind and body, wealth, position, and the favour of Colin's mother. And
yet—Phyllys felt that, had the choice been offered to her whether to
possess Giles' many gifts or Colin's one gift, she would have had no
hesitation in choosing the latter.

"Anybody may be strong and rich," she thought. "But to have
genius!—that is best of all—that is above everything." In her girlish
judgment no doubt existed that Colin's power held the Divine spark
which means so very much more than mere talent.

Presently she woke to her own abstraction, and consequent silence. A
side-glance revealed the gravity of her companion's look. Their eyes
met, and he said—

"You are thoughtful to-day."

She would not let slip her thoughts. He and she were friends; but she
had her reservations. Who has not, with the dearest of friends? Two
days earlier she might have chatted frankly of Colin and his pursuit;
but now she was not able. She could not forget the experience of the
day before, and Giles' anger. The latter had made her afraid of a false
step; and she was still more afraid of awakening in herself renewed
sensations of consciousness. It was safer to keep to the surface.

So she launched into light chatter about Castle Hill and Midfell;
making little jests, laughing, and doing her best to make him laugh.

For the moment she succeeded. Her winsome ways captivated him anew; and
his very silence, the reluctance of his smile, his absorption in what
she said, all drew her out, making it easy to pour out her thoughts.

Yet she was keenly alive to the contrast between this morning and
previous mornings. Being with Giles after being with Colin was
like walking on a level plain after climbing a mountain peak. The
simplicity, the whole-heartedness, were refreshing; but she found
herself longing for the mountain-heights.

The two men were different in mind as in body. With Colin she had a
sense of inferiority; a consciousness of being pulled to a higher
level. She was fascinated, and afraid; not sure how far she understood;
eager to understand more; delighted when he responded; ready at any
moment to fall flat, if he treated a remark with indifference.

With Giles she had no especial sense of inferiority, unless in respect
of muscles. She was aware of her power over him, aware that she could
make him like her—perhaps as much as she willed. She knew she could
touch his happiness: and she was dimly conscious now that something
connected with herself made him unhappy.

Once, Giles had had the feeling that he could do what he chose with
Phyllys. That had been a momentary sensation, true, but fleeting. In
the studio, on his entrance, he had known that "Colin" could do what he
willed with Phyllys; and the mad pain and wrath which carried him away
would have opened his eyes, had they not been opened already, to the
nature of his love.

To-day it was Phyllys who felt that she could do what she desired with
Giles; that she could twist this powerful man, if she would, round her
slim little finger.

The sense of command was delicious, as it generally is. And yet! When a
vision arose of the studio, and of Colin's delicate absorbed face, with
penetrative eyes searching her soul, she knew she would rather be there
than here, even though she had no such sense of control over him, and
could no more twist him round her finger than she could turn aside the
winds of heaven in their paths.

Not that she preferred Colin to Giles. Giles was her friend. Colin had
not even sought her friendship. But to some natures there is an even
greater charm in the sense of being controlled by the personality of
another, than in having control over another. And Colin attracted her.
She wanted to watch him again at his work, to study his curiously dual
nature, to learn from his murmured suggestions, to grasp his ideals,
to breathe the mental and spiritual atmosphere which he breathed.
Giles awoke in her no such cravings. She was not sure that he would
understand what they meant.

Phyllys pulled herself up. This was heterodox. She remembered all
that Giles had done; not only saving her life at risk to his own,
which probably any man passing would have tried to do; but in cousinly
kindness, day after day. She was forgetting anew to talk to him. Pretty
apologetic eyes went in his direction.

"I am afraid you are tired," he said.

"I! I'm never tired!" she declared.

"We are there now, and you will be able to rest," he said, with a smile
of melancholy.

He had promised "something pretty," and he kept his word. The spot to
which he led her was beside a river, broad and swift; not chestnut-hued
or broken by stones with swirls of white foam and gleams of golden
light; yet a most fair scene, after a more ordinary type. An arched
stone bridge spanned the stream; cows clustered under its shadow;
and on the other side flags grew in abundance. On their own side of
the water, which faithfully reflected the tint of heaven, a clump of
willows sparkled in sunshine.

This was what Giles had pictured beforehand; and Phyllys exclaimed in
admiration. He found her a seat, and she sank into silence, forgetting
to talk, her cheek supported on one ungloved hand, her lashes dropped
till they half-veiled her eyes.

It was the attitude which had inspired Colin's artistic sense. It
inspired another sense in Giles.

He could not turn his gaze from her. Not that he was seeking, like
Colin, to penetrate her soul. He was only enchained, taken captive, at
her mercy. He was not analysing his own feelings. He was not good at
self-analysing, and words never flowed with him, even in the secret
chambers of his mind. But without words, without verbal definition,
he realised to the tips of his fingers that to have Phyllys thus was
happiness; that to have her always would be heaven. And then with a
throb of pain, he realised that not to have her, never to possess her,
would be—

He dared not face that possibility. It was enough to unman him. Cold
drops broke out.

What was she musing about, as she sat there, sweet as a rosebud, not
dreaming the passion of longing which shook the strong man at her side?
She was not occupied with him. Yet his gaze drew her attention, and she
looked up, with a sigh of pleasure.

"People who don't love beautiful things must lose a great deal of
happiness."

Giles thought so too, feasting his eyes on a beauty which was not of
inanimate Nature.

"Colin says beauty is Divine," she murmured; and the words gave him a
shock. Though taken less by surprise than on the day before, he felt a
flame of wrath through his frame.

He thought he had known before! Now he knew that he had only
conjectured. It "was" then—Colin! Colin had stolen her from him.
Colin—his more than brother! A wave of resentment rushed into the
affection which had bound those two since infancy.

"Don't you think so?" she asked, turning towards him.

The smile died out. He could not control his face, and what she saw
startled her.

"Are you vexed with anything I have said?"

"Never!" He strove to clear the thickness from his voice. "I never
could be vexed with you. It is—only—" He had difficulty in speaking,
and she looked with perplexed eyes. "Only—a passing thought—a
recollection. If I was vexed, it was with somebody else—not you!" Then
he mastered himself. "You were saying something about beauty being
Divine. Colin's idea, was it not?"

"But you did not like that, so we can talk of something else," she
said, with a touch of reserve which wounded him to the quick.

"I should like you to explain."

"Colin could explain better. You should ask him. Why—there is Gordon!"
she cried. "Here we are, Gordon! Come along."

Gordon marched composedly up, with failing legs and his most aggressive
six-foot air.

"I say, you have brought me an awful long way," he declared. "Mother
says Phyllys has got to come to lunch with her to-day."

"Of course I will, and if we start directly, we shall be in time." She
jumped up, almost too eagerly.

The sense of relief was patent, and it meant a fresh stab for Giles. He
walked to the water's edge, to recover himself.

Gordon surveyed his broad back, then turned to Phyllys.

"I say—have a bite?" He extended benignly a red-cheeked apple, dented
on one side.

"No, thanks. What made you come all this way, Gordon?"

"Mother wanted you. Course I came," said Gordon.



CHAPTER XVII

DUTY VERSUS DESIRE

GILES had not meant to ask Phyllys for that walk.

After the studio scene, he had felt that his duty was to wait, until he
should know which way lay Colin's intentions. But when he met Phyllys
on the stairs, when he read pleasure in her smile, his resolution
melted like ice in sunshine, and the request slipped out.

Though he realised what his action meant, he did not draw back.

The evening passed unremarkably. Mr. Dugdale and his daughter came to
dinner; Colin could not appear, and the conversation was general. Giles
made futile efforts to hold aloof from Phyllys, and only succeeded in
seeing nobody else.

Through the night following he had no sleep. Two wakeful hours he spent
in bed; then he got up and dressed, and let himself out of the house to
walk fast and far in moonlight, fighting a tough battle.

He had to come to a decision. The earlier intention held now no force;
and its failure only served to show more truly how things stood.

On arrival he had made his way into the studio, as was his wont,
expecting to find Colin absorbed in his beloved occupation, caring for
naught else, wrapped up in the effort to reproduce in clay some form
of beauty. He had been told that Mrs. Keith was out; he had taken for
granted that Phyllys was with her. And when he stood within the studio
door it was to see—not Colin only, but Phyllys also; the two seated
together; Phyllys with downcast eyes and soft flush, and a look upon
the sweet face which "he" had never been able to evoke; while Colin's
gaze, and the light in those blue eyes, told the worst!

At the instant Giles' one sensation had been of furious wrath against
Colin for daring to interfere with "his" love—wrath that he would have
felt towards any man. Already in his secret soul he looked upon Phyllys
as his own.

But, in the silence of his room before luncheon, far more in the
dimness of the moonlit lanes at night, other counsels succeeded. Other
elements would not be defined. It was no simple matter of two men,
both in love with one girl, waiting to see which she might prefer. The
question really was—if Colin had set his heart on Phyllys, ought Giles
to seek her at all? Ought he not at once to give up the thought?

As an abstract question this carried no difficulty. To his mind the
duty was plain. If Colin loved Phyllys, the right step for him was to
leave the coast clear.

Years earlier, under peculiar circumstances, he had made a definite
resolve never to stand in the way of Colin's happiness; never to allow
himself any good which might react in the form of pain for Colin. He
had registered this vow in the recesses of his heart. It rose up and
faced him, while he hurried through lonely lanes, unable to see his
way. Cold moonlight, flooding fields on either side, seemed alive
with one word, "Remember!" Black tree-shadows, lying in patches at
his feet, echoed "Remember!" The creak of an elm-bough, swayed by the
breeze, groaned "Remember!" The cry of an owl sounded the same solemn
"Remember!"

He did remember. He would never forget the heartbreaking misery, the
awful load of woe, which had culminated in that resolve. If life should
last a hundred years, each incident of those days would remain vivid to
the last.

That he should ever in years to come, under any provocation, be
betrayed into wrath with Colin, had seemed to lie beyond possibility.
And until the day just ended he had not only shown no anger, but had
never been tempted to show it, towards Colin. He had found it easy to
preserve his self-control.

Now the testing-time had come. Now, in one moment, his resolve had
broken down. He had under stress given way to violent anger; and he
found that past resolution opposed by the full force of his will.

He was free to draw back. He had not yet avowedly sought Phyllys. Thus
far he had been, to the best of his knowledge, no more than cousin and
friend. Whatever he had felt at Midfell, he had not shown it. He would
do "her" no wrong by retiring, by giving to Colin the first innings.
He would wrong no one but himself. And, in the light of his past, he
knew it was right—a matter of simple justice—that he of all men should
refuse to stand between Colin and happiness. The question was not
"Ought he?" but "Could he?"

As he walked he made up his mind that he would do the thing that was
right; that he would carry out his early resolution; that he would
endure the cost.

Thus, during hours of moonlight, followed by darkness. But in the chill
light of dawn, as he tramped wearily to his room, tired, not with
bodily exertion but with mental strain, another spirit took possession.

Ho had meant to get off his walk with Phyllys. Better for him, safer
and wiser, not to go. Yet, when it came to the point, he made no
effort. He let things drift. He had the walk.

Then, for yielding, he was the weaker, as for yielding, one can hardly
fail to be. A paralysis seemed to lay hold upon him, though his had
always been reckoned a manly will. And when he sat by her side, on the
river-bank, he knew that, even for Colin's sake, he could not give her
up. He could not! There was a limit to what might be expected of a man;
and this reached beyond the limit.

In so short a space she had grown to be everything to him; to be his
love, his life. One month before she was but a name—Phyllys Wyverne,
younger grand-daughter of his old great-aunt, living in the wilds of
Yorkshire. He was vaguely interested in her, and he supposed that one
day they might meet again: but whether he saw her or not was of no
particular moment. Then they met; and his life was changed. Now nothing
in the world was of moment except the overwhelming desire to win her.

Give her up! See those two husband and wife! Her sweetness, all for
Colin! Her love, Colin's right! Himself, in measureless desolation!

He could not do it! The thing was impossible. The idea was preposterous.

Colin had been dear to him; more dear than a brother. But besides this
new passion, that quiet affection became as naught. Not that he did not
care for Colin still, but that Phyllys was everything to him: Phyllys
was his world, his universe.

True, even if he held aloof now, she might in the end reject Colin; and
he would then be free to seek her. But of this he had small hope. Colin
had seldom, if ever, sought to win affection, and sought in vain.

He felt his own position so far not unhopeful. Phyllys liked him; she
was cousinly, even confiding. To persevere might mean success.

And if success for him meant unhappiness, despair, for Colin! Again the
past rolled up. Again he saw his own resolve, and the causes which had
led to it.

"One may have strained ideas of duty," he muttered. "There is such a
thing as common sense in the affairs of life."

Yes; and there is also such a thing as putting self aside for the sake
of another.

This, too, he knew. But he saw once more her sweetness, and resistance
collapsed. He acknowledged himself beaten.



CHAPTER XVIII

A PAST EPISODE

"YOU are staying for some time at Castle Hill?" observed Kathleen Alyn,
with her air of interest.

They were under a tree on the lawn; Mr. Dugdale having retreated to a
basket-chair and a book within earshot. Giles had walked with Phyllys
and Gordon to Brook-End Grange, and had stayed to luncheon. A business
engagement then claimed him, and Mrs. Alyn would not hear of Phyllys
going before six. Since Phyllys welcomed the delay, nothing remained
for Giles but gloomily to depart alone.

"I'm afraid not. Mrs. Keith did ask me to stay longer, but Grannie gave
leave only for three weeks." Phyllys did not hear her own sigh. "The
days are going so awfully fast."

"You don't begin to feel home-sick yet?"

"No. Ought I?"

"It is natural that you should enjoy change. Midfell seems so out of
the world."

"It 'is' out of the world. It belongs to two centuries ago. Everything
and everybody is asleep."

"So even quiet Castle Hill seems gay by contrast."

"No, not gay, but awake—alive. One sees and learns here."

"You begin to know Giles and Colin by this time. I wonder which of the
two strikes you, on an early acquaintance, as the finer character?"

"Is it an early acquaintance?" Phyllys felt as if she had known them
always. "They are so unlike. One can hardly compare them."

"Colin is popular."

Mr. Dugdale was peering over the edge of his book. "So is Giles, among
his own set. Which does Phyllys say she prefers?"

"I didn't say either," laughed Phyllys. "I like both—each in his own
way."

"One feels so sorry for poor Colin," remarked Kathleen; and, as before,
the word annoyed Phyllys.

"I can't see why one should be sorry for him. He is to be envied—not
pitied. He is so much above ordinary men. I think he can afford not to
be so—so—"

"Muscular," suggested Mr. Dugdale. "I see you rate a man's intellect
above his biceps."

"Wouldn't you?"

"Some don't in this athletic age."

"But I do," decisively. "And Colin is a genius. That is a thousand
times better than being able to walk thirty miles without feeling
tired."

"Colin is to be congratulated. He has found some one to fight his
battles," Mr. Dugdale lowered his book, and scanned Phyllys with
quizzical eyes. She stood her ground.

"I mean it. I would rather be a genius than anything. Much rather than
just be rich and strong."

"Not that Colin falls short in the length of his walks," murmured Mr.
Dugdale. "It's rather in the extent of his mental exertions."

"That was what I meant—that he cannot use his powers," put in Kathleen.
"He has always been hampered by ill-health, since he was sixteen."

"Not before?" asked Phyllys.

"No. He was delicate-looking, but wiry, and up to anything. Giles was
the more robust, but Colin could outdo even Giles in endurance."

"Giles was not the more robust in their infancy," declared Mr. Dugdale.

"He was when I first knew them, father. But Colin had such spirit. He
never flagged, and nothing ailed him till that unhappy accident."

"What was the accident?" asked Phyllys. "No one has told me."

"Your grandmother must know. You will hear no mention of it at Castle
Hill. Mrs. Keith dislikes the subject; and neither Giles nor Colin
allude to what happened. They were so devoted to poor little Elsye."
A word from Phyllys made her add—"Did you not know Elsye Wallace was
killed then?"

"No. Please tell me about it."

"She and the boys were always together. It was pretty to see them—she
like a little queen, and they her devoted knights. A lovely child, full
of fun, yet with that pathetic look in her eyes which you see on the
memorial window. Quite unnatural, for there never was a happier being."

"But what was the accident?"

"They were at the seaside. Elsye had been poorly, and Mrs. Keith took
her away for change, with the boys. Rather unusual, for she never liked
Dr. Wallace, and I do not think she cared for Elsye. Still, it came
about somehow—perhaps brought on by Giles. He was masterful even at
sixteen, as you may imagine."

Phyllys assented.

"And he worshipped Elsye. It was adoration. Colin was fond of her, but
not in the same vehement style. One day they were on the cliff, and I
suppose were playing too near the edge. Nobody ever seemed to know how
it happened, but Elsye and Colin fell over. There was a rough shingle
beach below, with rock-boulders lying about. Elsye, I believe, slipped,
and dragged Colin with her—and Giles was too late to save them. Elsye
was undermost, and she never regained consciousness. Colin's head
struck on a rock, and he was stunned; but at the time they did not
think him so badly hurt. Everybody's attention was taken up with Elsye.
She breathed for an hour or two, but died before her father could
arrive."

"How dreadful for them!"

"It 'was' dreadful; all the more because one could not help feeling
that the boys ought to have been more careful. When I saw them a
fortnight later Giles seemed to have grown into a man—so grave and
silent! Colin looked awfully ill, and we thought it was Elsye's death.
But in time it came out that he was suffering fearfully from his head,
and was making a fight to keep about as usual, that nobody might know.
He soon had a breakdown, and was worse than if he had been taken in
hand at first. He had fallen with the back of his head against a
boulder, and the doctors said that the front part of the brain had
been badly jarred against the skull by the concussion; so there was
double injury. For more than two years he was ill; often kept for days
in a dark room. The boy's patience was wonderful, and the pluck with
which he would struggle to be well, the moment he was easier. Of course
school was out of the question. He was hardly allowed to look at a
book. Giles used to read to him when he could bear to listen—which was
not for a long while. The marvel is that he has turned out so well,
considering his disadvantages. Still, there always is a something
about him not like other men. He lives a life of his own. And he is so
dreamy—so mystical, if that is the right word."

"He is a genius," remarked Phyllys, as if that explained everything.

"Public school life would have done his genius no harm. I wish he could
have had it."

"He didn't model—then?"

"Mrs. Keith snubbed him if he began. He always was trying. Of course,
as a boy, he could not take his own way. She tried him at times—made
him ill, when he might have been fairly well. The least worry brings on
his headache, and she can't help worrying. Colin somehow excites her,
while she never minds anything done by Giles."

"My dear, she is a woman with a temper; but her prosperity depends on
keeping straight with Giles," said Mr. Dugdale.

"Yet I have seen him furious with her, for Colin's sake."

"Is Giles a man with a temper?" asked Phyllys.

"I should hardly call him so," Mrs. Alyn replied. "He is not touchy
about little things—not quick to imagine slights. But if once he 'is'
upset—"

She made a pause. Mr. Dugdale's book had risen to its former position,
and he looked over its edge.

"My nephew Jack was at school with Giles. He once remarked that it took
a jolly lot to put Giles into a wax; but when, by combined efforts,
that feat had been accomplished, Jack's expression was, 'My eyes! We
fellows take care to be in the treetops out of his reach.'"

"Yes; I suppose he 'could' be angry," murmured Phyllys.

"But never with Colin," added Kathleen.

Phyllys was silent. She knew better.



CHAPTER XIX

A VANISHED PORTRAIT

"ARE you really better? I'm glad."

Phyllys spoke warmly. Dinner was over, and she and Mrs. Keith had
quitted the dining-room, leaving Giles with Mr. Dugdale, this evening,
as often, a self-invited guest. Mrs. Keith was gone to her boudoir, and
Phyllys found Colin in the drawing-room.

He had been three days invisible, prostrate with headache, and she had
been told that he could not appear this evening. Here, however, he was,
in the deep armchair, close to the oriel window. He stood up when she
came in, despite an eager "Oh, don't!" but was glad to go back.

She sat down and scanned the ivory-tinted face.

"Ought you to have come down?" she asked, as one hand was pressed
slowly over the fair hair, its slender fingers perceptibly thinner for
three days of starvation and intense pain.

"Thanks, I'm all right now."

She glanced at a book on his knee, half-open, his hand between the
leaves. "Have you been trying to read?"

"Not much. There's a paragraph by Kingsley that I thought you might
like."

"May I see it?" She took the book and read eagerly the sentence
indicated:—

   "'Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful. Beauty is
God's handwriting; a wayside Sacrament. Welcome it in every fair face,
every fair sky, every fair flower, and thank for it Him, the Fountain
of all loveliness, and drink it in simply and earnestly with 'all' your
eyes. It is a charmed draught, a cup of blessing.'"

Phyllys's own face was very fair with thoughts evoked.

"I'm glad you've shown me that. It is just what one wants to feel—to
do. If beauty really is—that—one can't be wrong in loving it."

"One might rather be wrong not to value it," he suggested.

"But—" and a pause—"there are ugly things in Nature."

"Many things that we stamp as ugly are not so. Part of our condemnation
is conventional. Part is due to imperfect sight. We don't detect
the exquisite finish—or the balancing of parts. What looks to us
like ugliness may belong merely to roughness of outline, due to our
blindness. Then, too, we fail to make out the true inwardness. The
beauty of Divine handwriting may be there, yet the key is wanting, and
we can't translate into the vernacular."

"You wouldn't say that there is beauty in everything!"

"No. But there is an enormous amount more of it than men see. It needs
a trained eye and a brain awake. Form and colour are lost upon those
who are Nature-blind and Art-blind. And for the most part you will find
unlovely outlines—hardness, stiffness, angularity—in human conceptions,
not in Divine."

"You like flat surfaces in sculpture," she suggested with quickness.

"Flat surfaces in sculpture—and in Nature—don't mean the rigid flatness
of a sheet of iron. There are delicate mouldings—roundings—the melting,
so to speak, of one surface into another. Nature's divisions, like
Nature's tints, merge by gradations. You don't find squares and
oblongs. In a rainbow no man living can define where one colour ends
and the next begins."

She smiled acquiescence. Colin's words had power to set her thinking.
She did not know how rarely he opened out like this; how studiously his
true self was hidden. In Giles she saw the reserve of a man habitually
silent; but she had not divined in Colin the deeper reserve of an
apparent frankness which told nothing. Once in a way he was really
frank with Phyllys; but she was almost the sole exception. He could
seldom bring to the surface those things for which he most cared.

He murmured another quotation:

   "'Nature is a poem written by God; and Art is man's translation of it!'

"I forget who said that. But if Nature is a Divine poem, the least we
can do is to try to read it."

Phyllys repeated the words to herself.

"I wonder whether all sculptors feel as you do?" she questioned.

"I was not speaking from the sculptor's point of view." His voice had
altered, becoming indifferent. Without looking up Phyllys knew that he
and she were no longer alone.

Mrs. Keith had appeared, and was in one of her restless moods. She had
not known that Colin meant to come down, and the fact seemed to annoy
her. She could not sit still, but fidgeted from chair to chair, talking
without a break.

There was a draught from the oriel window, and would Colin mind its
being shut? No, she really couldn't have any window open. It was so
chilly. If he wanted more air, why did he not stay in the study? Mr.
Dugdale would be in directly, and Mr. Dugdale was such a fatiguing
person, particularly if one was ill. But Colin never took advice, as
all the world knew—much better for him if he would.

All this and more was endured with a calm which Phyllys had once taken
for unshakeable serenity. She knew better now. She had learnt to
decipher the dent in his forehead, the compression of his under-lip,
the increased slowness of the dragging voice; and this evening his
self-control was more severely tested than usual, from weakness.

But Mrs. Keith, whose one aim was to separate those two, to have
Phyllys as a "close preserve" for Giles, saw nothing. She fidgeted and
fussed till the door opened.

"Here they come!" And she started up. "Now we must have some music. I
want Phyllys to play the Moonlight Sonata."

Giles interposed in curt tones, "Not to-night. Colin can't stand it."

Colin frowned slightly. "Pray make no difference for me," he said. "If
you do, I must decamp."

"But we don't want music. Nobody wants it. We all want to talk," urged
Phyllys.

She greeted Giles with a smile, and he came to her side, not speaking.
Mrs. Keith was insisting energetically on music. Phyllys played so
well, and she and Giles loved listening. Colin would not mind, she knew.

"Of course not. Shall I get the sonata?" asked Colin.

"Nonsense!" There was a roughness in the "timbre" of Giles' voice which
Phyllys had heard before, and it always surprised her. "You must keep
still."

Phyllys gave the speaker a reproachful glance; then turned to Colin.
He submitted, but not as if obliged to do so. She noticed a curious
reticent dignity in his manner. She met his eyes—blue depths, full of
expression—and wondered whom he recalled. The hidden picture flashed up
before her mind, and she forgot the question of music, gazing at him.

Somebody else gazed also. Mr. Dugdale's remark might have been an echo
of her thoughts.

"Odd! That look again!"

"'Isn't' he like?" Phyllys all but said. The words were on her lips
when she remembered that she had undertaken not to allude to the
picture, and that nobody except herself and Mrs. Keith was supposed to
be aware of its existence.

Yet plainly Mr. Dugdale was aware! What could Mrs. Keith have meant?

"Extraordinary!" continued the cool tones. "I've not taken a look at
the old portrait for ages: but my memory is good. Colin brings it back."

"I don't understand," Colin said.

"The old painting in a corner of the gallery—used to hang in this room.
You've developed an astonishing resemblance to it."

Mrs. Keith stood listening, her face hard set; her fingers clutched
about her fan.

"You had that fancy before," she said. "Utterly ridiculous!"

For once she made a mistake. Had she acquiesced, the matter might have
dropped. Opposition made Mr. Dugdale eager to prove his point.

"We'll compare him with the original. Come, Colin."

Colin did not stir. "Another time," he suggested.

"Oh, ah! I forgot your head. Well, I'll take a look myself. Never can
imagine why that picture should have been banished to the darkest
corner in the house!" he muttered as he went—not the first time he had
made such a remark.

He was gone for some time, and Mrs. Keith moved restlessly, as if
unable to sit still. Phyllys thought her looking old and haggard, and
her mouth had a drawn look. No further mention was made of music; and
when Mr. Dugdale returned, he said bluntly—"Been moved again! Where,
pray?"

"The portrait not there?" asked Giles in surprise.

"Not that I can discover. I've looked all round."

"But of course it is there!" exclaimed Mrs. Keith, facing him
indignantly. "It has not been moved."

"Not taken from the corner!"

"Certainly not! Unless Giles—"

Giles made a negative gesture.

"Of course I could not tell. Giles might have moved it, unknown to me.
I have had no authority here for years." She spoke with a hard laugh.

"It was in its usual corner not long ago," observed Giles. "I remember
seeing it."

"It is not there now," stated Mr. Dugdale in his most dogmatic manner.

"You are sure you have not overlooked it!"

"Come and see for yourself," and the two went off.

Mrs. Keith sat down. "How hot it is! I should like the window open."

Phyllys started up, but was forestalled by Colin. He remained at the
casement, as if thankful for outer air.

Mrs. Keith moved again, wandering to the further end of the room.

And Phyllys asked in an undertone, "Why should Mr. Dugdale want to
prove that you are like that picture?"

"I don't know." Colin spoke wearily, as if the discussion tried him.
"Having once made the assertion, he sticks to it."

"You don't care whether you are or not!"

"Not a fig! Anybody may be like anybody." She could not rival his
indifference, and waited in suspense till the two came back, Mr.
Dugdale saying triumphantly—"Just as I told you! Vanished!"

"The picture gone! You really mean to say that it is not there!"
Mrs. Keith drew near with amazed looks. "My dear Giles! You must be
dreaming. Not there!"

"It is not in the gallery."

"But where 'can' it be?"

"That is the question. We have to find out."

"Certainly you must find out," broke in Mr. Dugdale. "A valuable
painting can't be allowed to disappear."

Mrs. Keith gave an odd laugh. "But, Giles, it is impossible. The thing
can't have walked off of itself."

"No. To-morrow morning I must question the servants."

"The servants would not dare! And they could have no object in moving
it."

"They might know its value. Not that I suspect them. It is rather a
question whether any one has been in and walked off with it."

Her face lighted up. "Giles! I remember now! That evening, when we
heard steps about the house—you can't have forgotten! When we thought a
thief might have got in."

"I found no signs of one."

"So you said; but one does not know. The picture was in its place
before. I am sure, because that was the day Colin came home. Mr.
Dugdale said something of the same sort about Colin's face, and before
going to bed, I took a look at the portrait—out of curiosity. The
likeness I found to be purely imaginary!"

Mr. Dugdale grunted dissent.

"Purely imaginary," she repeated. "Still, the painting was safe then.
An hour or two later we heard sounds about—footsteps—what I always
shall believe to have been a thief. Now we know what he carried off."

Giles seemed half convinced.

"I've never noticed the painting since that day—and it seems that you
have not either," she added.

"I have not looked for it."

"It was in its place before. It is not in its place now. What other
explanation is possible?"

"If it was taken then, I can't understand its not being missed sooner,"
objected Mr. Dugdale.

"Why should it be? Nobody has given it a thought."

Giles was silent. His glance had wandered to Colin, who seemed trying
to decipher Phyllys. She looked up, met his eyes, and blushed. Giles'
sombreness increased.

"Great mistake its ever having been removed from this room," Mr.
Dugdale declared.

"A mistake possibly, but a natural one," protested Mrs. Keith. "The
picture was out of its place. Well enough in a study or a gallery; but
not in a drawing-room. Mr. Penrhyn did not mind."

"Mr. Penrhyn never minded anything."

"At all events, I acted for the best. One can't do more. Of course I
never dreamt of thieves."

"I shall not rest till it is found," said Giles.

In Phyllys' mind a thought suggested itself. Could Mrs. Keith be a
trifle "peculiar" mentally—a degree "touched in the upper story?" Did
she suffer from delusions? Had she herself hidden the lost picture,
honestly believing it to be, as she had stated, the portrait of her own
brother? Or were there two portraits: the one of Giles' ancestor stolen
by a thief; the other of Mrs. Keith's brother, its existence unknown?
It would be odd that Colin should resemble both portraits; yet less odd
than might appear at first sight, since one of the two was a likeness
of his own uncle. Whichever might be the explanation, Mrs. Keith showed
eccentricity.

"Poor thing!" mused Phyllys. "I dare say that is why Giles hardly ever
contradicts what she says. Perhaps it is why Colin sometimes has to get
the upper hand—not to give in too much."

The butler brought in a telegram addressed to herself, and she opened
it in trepidation, telegrams at Midfell being rare.

"'Grandmother ill, come home to-morrow by early train,'" she read.

Her face changed, and she saw those around change also.

That of Mrs. Keith might have expressed relief. Giles had the look of
one who has received a blow. Colin—was it her fancy that his pale face
grew paler?

Then she knew that Mrs. Keith was talking—was exclaiming, inquiring,
advising. Perhaps there was some mistake. Would Phyllys like to
telegraph inquiries? It seemed such a pity to cut short her visit. She
had intended dear Phyllys to stay at least another six weeks. One never
could tell what telegrams meant—they were so curtly worded; still it
might not be anything serious.

"Grannie must be very ill, or Barbara would not send for me," Phyllys
said. "Could some one tell me the first train?"

"The 7.10," Colin observed gently.

"Is that too early? Thanks—then I will go by it. I had better put up my
things to-night." She glanced from one to another. "I am so sorry. It
has been a very happy time; and you have all been so good to me! But of
course. I must leave."

She went upstairs, and Mrs. Keith followed immediately.

"Giles is looking out particulars," she said. "He will go with you to
the Junction, and will put you into a through carriage for the north.
Your packing shall be done for you, my dear. It is early still, and you
can come down for another hour, perhaps—but of course you must get to
bed in good time. We are all so sorry. I had written to Mrs. Wyverne to
beg for a longer stay. No—I did not tell you. But you must come to us
again, some day."

Phyllys tried to listen. She felt numbed; whether more at her
grandmother's probable danger, or at the abrupt need to leave Castle
Hill, she hardly knew. The former she did not yet grasp. The latter was
a pressing pain. She wondered why the pain should be so acute.

Mrs. Keith moved about the room, restless still.

"About that picture," she said. "Odd—isn't it?" She broke into a laugh.

"I could not help remembering," murmured Phyllys. "Of course I said
nothing, as I had promised."

Mrs. Keith wore a look of astonishment.

"You could not help remembering—what?"

"The portrait I saw in your cabinet—the one so like Colin! Don't you
know?"—as Mrs. Keith seemed puzzled. "When I went to look for the piece
of silk."

"My dear, how droll!" Mrs. Keith laughed again, rather loudly. "That
you should think of the two together, I mean. It is quite comic. I am
glad you did not say what you thought—though of course you could not,
because you had promised."

"No—I remembered."

"Besides—that is my own concern—the likeness of my brother. Dear
harum-scarum old Jock—how long it is since I saw him! But, as I told
you, nobody knows of that picture, and it is worth nothing to anybody.
This disappearance is another matter. The picture we cannot find is
a family heirloom, by a famous artist, and is of great value. Mr.
Dugdale's notion of its being like Colin is ridiculous. There is no
resemblance." Her cheeks had red spots, as if she were angry. "He is
such a fanciful man—always imagining things. The likeness that you
saw is real enough—only what one might expect! But this notion of Mr.
Dugdale's—if it were less absurd, one might be annoyed."

She stopped for a moment.

"The loss of that picture is a real misfortune. Giles will never rest
till he has found it. He has all the persistency of the Randolph
nature. Not much chance of his succeeding, I am afraid, for the thief
has had plenty of time—most likely has sent the picture to America.
But if you should be questioned, my dear—which is not likely, as you
do not even know the painting—if you should be, please remember that
there is no connection between the two things. You must guard yourself,
in talking about the family heirloom, not to allude to my little
affair—not to break your word."

Then she moved towards the door. "Now we will go down, and have a last
chat."



CHAPTER XX

REVERSION TO A RUT

BARBARA PRINGLE stood outside a garden gate in Midfell, interviewing
Miss Robins.

A black hat of no particular shape was jammed low upon Miss Pringle's
forehead, and a brown blouse of no particular cut "topped" a short
skirt of uncompromising apple-greenness. Miss Robins, standing hatless
within the gate, had clothed herself in dust-colour, apparently with
the aim of matching her own complexion, an aim in which she had
succeeded, without resulting loveliness. But what signified looks to
one at Miss Robins' mental altitude?

Past this cottage, as past Burn Cottage, swept the busy stream,
rustling musical murmurs, telling things unspeakable by human tongues,
though not unreadable by human ears, if those ears are attuned and
attent. The ears of Miss Robins and Miss Pringle were neither attent
nor attuned. Each good lady was too well occupied with her own and her
neighbours' concerns to listen to Nature's whispers.

"No time to waste in such dawdling!" they would have said.

"Too much time wasted in gossip for leisure to study the Divine poem!"
would have been Colin's version.

So widely different is the view taken by different people from
different standpoints.

Behind and before, within sight of both ladies, lay long lines of moor
fells, reaches of moorland, across which battalions of cloud-shadows
travelled fast and heather-bloom mingled with the greens of grass and
bracken. But they did not feast their eyes on Nature's tinting.

"I felt it my duty," Barbara remarked, and she spoke with a grim
resolution which squared her jaw, and perhaps angered uneasiness
below—"I felt it my duty to act. My grandmother has not been herself
for some time; anybody must have seen. She has fretted ridiculously
about Phyllys; not about her being away, but about the influences under
which she is thrown. No doubt there is self-reproach. The child never
ought to have gone. And really—the coolness of that woman—Mrs. Keith,
I mean—asking if Phyllys might spend another six weeks at Castle Hill!
The idea! Of course Phyllys put her up to it. That was what made my
grandmother ill yesterday. I told Mr. Jones, and he said it was enough
to account for her attack. He agreed that the wisest plan was to have
Phyllys back; so I telegraphed on my own responsibility. I felt it to
be my duty."

"Unquestionably; unequivocally!" purred Miss Robins. "And really, poor
dear Mrs. Wyverne was very far from well; you could not have done
otherwise."

"Yes, it was quite a sharp attack—she is not given to faintness. And
at her age, you know! The fact is, one never knows what that sort of
thing may mean. One has to be on the safe side." Barbara seemed to be
carrying on an argument in defence of herself. "I did not mention to
my grandmother what I had done till this morning's telegram arrived,
saying when Phyllys would come, and by that time she was on her way."

"So she could not be stopped. How sensible of you! And Mrs. Wyverne was
pleased—gratified?"

"She seemed worried lest Phyllys should be vexed. That shows the
position of affairs," added Barbara with vagueness. "But as I said to
her, 'What does vexation matter so long as we do what is right?'"

"Very true! Very true indeed!"

"Things will settle themselves when Phyllys is under proper control. I
shall take care that she does not go to Castle Hill again in a hurry.
One can see that her head is completely turned. She will come home able
to think of nothing but her looks. I wish I could have gone to meet her
myself to put things in a right light. But it was impossible, and when
Mr. Hazel said he was driving over, and would bring her back, I had to
agree. Mrs. Hazel says he hadn't thought of going till he knew about
Phyllys." Miss Pringle drove the point of a protesting umbrella into
the earth. "The way everybody jumps to do any earthly thing for that
silly child—really it is too much!"

"She has a wheedling way with men," suggested Miss Robins, who, though
a man-despiser, was not above a touch of jealousy towards a woman
admired by men.

"Three other people have offered since to fetch Phyllys, and I wish any
of them had spoken before Mr. Hazel. The Hazel influence for Phyllys is
objectionable."

"The man is more than half a Jesuit at heart," declared Miss Robins.

"The most extraordinary thing is the way Giles Randolph has managed to
wheedle my grandmother," said Barbara, frowning. No one but herself
would have applied such a word to Giles. "He seems to do whatever he
chooses with her."

"Fascination—captivation," murmured Miss Robins, in her favourite
sing-song voice. "Your grandmother is so truly excellent a woman, it
is inconceivable that she should have given in to the wiles of an
unprincipled man, without regard to the welfare of Phyllys, but for
some occult influence on his part. Really, no other explanation is
possible. I only trust we shall not find Phyllys' character completely
deteriorated through the baleful associations of Castle Hill and the
contaminations of irreligious society."

Miss Robins was a lover of polysyllabic words.

"Not much chance, I'm afraid. The girl has no strength of principle;
she cares for nothing but admiration. Well—" with a solemn satisfaction
in her own forebodings—"we shall see. My own belief is that they have
got hold of the girl, and that nothing now will break her loose. But I
shall do my best."


Meanwhile Phyllys, reaching Garfield Station, nearly ten miles distant
from Midfell, looked out for some familiar face. If no "lift" were to
be had, a cab would be there; but this expense was, when possible,
avoided, and those who owned vehicles seldom failed to place them at
the disposal of others less well off.

Nor was she disappointed. As the train steamed in she caught a glimpse
of the Vicarage pony-carriage; then found herself face to face with
the Vicar. His ruddy face was framed in soft grey hair; a shapeless
wide-awake sat far back on his broad head; tan gloves of unknown
antiquity were gripped in one rugged veined hand; the other was
outstretched in welcome; and a beaming but embarrassed smile lit up his
features.

"Well, little Pride of the Morning," he said, "so here you are! Bright
and well, eh? We are glad to have you back."

"But Grannie?" she questioned anxiously.

Mr. Hazel, recalling his wife's injunctions—injunctions primed by Miss
Pringle—but forgetting what he had been told to say, smiled perplexedly.

"Oh! Ah! Yes; to be sure, yes! She was ailing yesterday; upset and out
of sorts. They had to send for Mr. Jones, and he thought her—" The
sentence died into a mumble. "But she is all right again to-day, so
no need to worry your little head." The very remark which Barbara had
stipulated should not be made. "Now for your luggage," and to escape
questioning he marched to where her trunks lay. The smaller could be
carried with them; the larger had to be sent next day. Mr. Hazel gave
directions, and Phyllys stood by in silence.

She understood; his words had brought the truth before her in one
sinister flash, and she grew white to the lips.

It was Barbara's doing! Barbara had summoned her home without cause.
Barbara had cut short her happiness. But for Barbara she might still be
at Castle Hill.

She saw the whole; yet at first she said nothing. She dared not let
herself go. So strong was the wave of resentment which rolled up, that
it all but had the mastery.

But she held herself in, following the Vicar, hearing his orders. She
went out of the station, listened like one in a dream to his remarks,
and patted kindly her old friend the Vicarage "pony," so-called—really
a fine cob—who lifted his head in pleased response. And all the while
that great wave was surging to and fro.

It frightened her; she had never felt so wrathful. Hers was a quick
temper—quick to take fire, quick to burn itself out.

"A flash in the pan," her father had called it.

She had many a time been annoyed with Barbara, but never to this extent.

As they drove through the small town, calling at one or two shops, she
was silent still, feeling rather than thinking, for her thoughts were
in a maze. It seemed hard that she should not have had to the end her
time of pleasure; the visit had meant so much.

And to have her joy cut short for nothing by Barbara's interference—she
hardly knew how to endure it. Again and again passionate resentment all
but mastered her.

Mr. Hazel, busy with reins and shopping, did not at first notice what
was wrong. Gradually it dawned upon him that the bright smile was
lacking, the merry voice still.

He waited, as it was his way to wait. Not till they had left the town,
and had begun the first long ascent after, did the storm that was
raging find expression. He put some question, and she turned a rigid
face to him.

"Then Barbara has cheated me out of my pleasure! Grannie has 'not' been
ill! There was no need for me to come home!"



CHAPTER XXI

THE THINGS THAT ARE

BETWEEN the claims of truth and a desire not to compromise other
people, the Vicar was in difficulties. He gave a jerk to the reins, and
murmured indistinct words.

"Barbara is not nervous." Phyllys caught the suggestion, only to
repudiate it. She sat bolt upright. "Barbara is never nervous."

Another murmur. This time she heard "mistake."

"No; there is no mistake. It is on purpose. She knew how happy I
was—how I wanted to stay. And she loves to make me miserable. It is
'her' doing."

The Vicar made no rejoinder. He cast a concerned glance at the set
face; commented to himself on the thunder-cloud overshadowing his
"Pride o' the Morning;" and chirruped to the cob. A fresh pull carried
them faster, till the increased gradient made slowness a necessity.
Then he jumped out, lightly for his years.

"Take the reins, child."

"No." She was already by his side. "Cobweb has weight enough with my
box."

He offered no protest, and they mounted a stiff rise in silence, the
Vicar keeping up an easy long-limbed swing, born of habit. No quickened
breath troubled him; and the reins hung loosely over one wrist, or were
flung upon the cob's back.

Phyllys, deep in thought, showed no signs of fatigue, though this came
at the end of a long journey. As they ascended, the widening view of
distant moors, the rich tints of the fell over which their road led,
spoke with the calming power which Nature has over some minds. Three
times she forgot herself, standing in contemplation. Each time the
Vicar halted, as if for Cobweb's sake; and the look which crept into
her face gladdened his heart. A fourth time this happened, and she
glanced towards him, smiling.

"I didn't know how lovely it was!" she said. "Must we hurry? I didn't
know how dearly I loved it all. Those wavy lines against the sky! And
the purples and greens—and the bracken!"

She remembered Colin's quotation,—"Drink it in with 'all' your
eyes,"—and into the words new meaning dawned. Eyes of the body; eyes of
the mind; eyes of the spirit. Through the eyes of the body, to the eyes
of the mind; through the eyes of the mind, to the eyes of the spirit.
Had Colin opened for her those inward eyes? She saw with them as never
before. Nature around was as it ever had been; but for her it held
fresh perfection, fresh meaning. She was enchained by the mouldings of
the hill-sides, the delicate fadings of one tint into another. Each
hummocked fell demanded hours of study. She would be able to give the
hours; and Colin had taught her how to use them.

Through the railway journey her thoughts had been much with Giles,
and the look in his face when they parted. Sorry as she had been to
leave, her sorrow was of a composite nature, made up of many elements.
She began to see a contrast between him and herself; to realise the
homogeneousness of his mental make. She wanted many things,—Castle
Hill, Colin, Art, freedom, fresh ideas—as well as Giles. He wanted one
thing—herself. She perceived this, after a fashion, without grasping
that his "want" meant something infinitely beyond mere "friendship."
She had a sense that Giles was giving her more than she could give him.
Her feelings towards him were mixed. His towards her were unblended.

Now, instead of thinking about him, she was thinking about Colin,
recalling what Colin had said, studying old scenes in the light of
Colin's teaching, wishing she could be in the studio with Colin. As at
this moment she might have been—but for Barbara.

Uprolled another wave of anger; and the Vicar saw. He had known it must
return. She was not yet victor.

She met his glance. "Why are people allowed to do such things?" she
asked abruptly. "Such a beautiful world!—And 'such' people in it!"

"Try to be fair," he said; irrelevantly some might have thought.

"But it is she who is not fair to me. She never was fair. It isn't that
I'm sorry to come back to you and Mrs. Hazel—or to Grannie! It is the
being made like this—forced!—without any choice. She has no right. I am
not a child now. And I did so count on the next few days—if it might
not be more, just those days. I was learning so much that was new and
lovely!"

"Yes. But the lessons we want to learn are not always those that the
Great Teacher sets us." He spoke in an everyday tone, not as one
preaching.

"It isn't—'that?' It is Barbara!"

"It is always 'that,' my child—no matter how the disappointment comes."

"If she had explained—if Grannie needed me. It is the being made that I
hate. Wouldn't you, in my place?"

"Yes," he said, and her face grew softer.

"I'm glad. Then it isn't altogether wrong to be vexed."

"No; perhaps not. But if I were you, I wouldn't waste too much time
over your cousin's share. If she has wronged you, she has to be
forgiven; and it is more dignified not to show offence. People make
foolish blunders; but one may credit them with a right intention."

"Ought one? Only, I'm sure she did mean unkindness." Then, with a laugh
of apology—"Perhaps I am as unfair to her as she is to me."

"Good!" They were now moving on. "To see in oneself that possibility is
a first step towards a right spirit. Nine-tenths of the disagreements
in this world arise from a want of fairness in judging others. We have
too often one rule for ourselves, another for other people." He flipped
off a dandelion-head with the tip of his whip. "One should be fair
towards everybody—" and he could not resist adding—"even Miss Pringle."

Phyllys' eyes twinkled. She knew that her cousin and her cousin's
friend were thorns in the Vicar's side. Whatever he did they opposed;
whatever he said they contradicted. But he met their opposition in
a large and manly way, and laughed at their contradiction. It was
more serious when they systematically upset his influence among the
cottagers; yet even there the Vicar was reasonable. He insisted that
though their methods were, from his point of view, entirely wrong,
their aims were good; and he would allow no wholesale condemnation.
Phyllys, aware of all this, realised the force of his advice.

"I'll try," she said. "Only Barbara isn't fair towards 'them!'"

"Towards—?"

"Giles and Colin—and Mrs. Keith. She thinks unjustly. She says they are
bad."

"And you have found them good?"

"Yes!" emphatically. Then, "Yes," more slowly. "I suppose there are
different sorts of goodness. I don't mean that they are—perfect."

"We need not expect from others what others don't find in us."

"Mrs. Keith puzzles me; still, in a way she is religious. I am sure she
is. And Giles—he doesn't say much, but I couldn't tell you how kind he
is, how he thinks of everybody. Of course—" and a fresh pause—"he has
faults."

"So have we!"

"Yes. And then—Colin—when he talks it isn't like anybody here. Not
like Miss Robins, one 'least' little bit. Or like—. No, I don't think
he says things in the way you do. Only you would like him. Colin feels
and understands. He is different from other people. And I think his
goodness—his religion—somehow has to be different, to fit his mind.
If I were to say that to Barbara, she would think it wicked. Is it? I
can't help feeling so when I'm with him."

"There are many developments of Christ-likeness."

"You don't think he must be wrong because he says things in a different
way from—what you would?"

The Vicar's smile was beautiful. It showed a new side of him. She
wondered—had Colin opened her eyes with regard to human beings as well
as inanimate Nature?

Mr. Hazel made another halt, letting the cob browse. He led Phyllys
to the edge, where a steep slope fell away towards a wide extent of
country, bounded by hills. Across the plain meandered a river, shining
like silver in sunlight. There were green meadows; and in one direction
lay ploughed fields. He drew her attention to each.

"The same sun shines upon all. But not all surfaces can respond equally
to his shining. Is it the fault of the brown earth that it remains
dull? He who made water and grass made earth also. Will He be unfair
in His expectations? Will He blame the soil because it cannot respond
to His light with green beauty like grass, or gleam and flash like
water? Would it be right of the river to condemn the grass because it
does not shine? Or of the grass to declare earth a failure because it
is not green? Or of the earth to condemn grass and water for giving a
different response from its own? In each case the make has much to say
to results. And—God made it."

Phyllys' face grew radiant.

"I never saw that before! Why did you not tell me? It would have been a
help."

"You were not ripe for it earlier. This visit has brought you on. You
are older." Then, after a break, "But to decide which of those about us
is, in the Divine sight, as earth or grass or water, lies beyond our
power."

Phyllys blushed. She had already been thinking that Barbara was like
dull earth.

"I'll try to be fair," she replied, and when they reached the Cottage
no trace remained of past billows. Barbara had expected a storm, and
though she would not admit the fact, she was a trifle relieved, even
touched, by "the child's" forbearance.



CHAPTER XXII

THINGS THAT SHOULD BE

IF Giles had lived through years in a week when he awoke to his love
for Phyllys, Phyllys lived through months in three weeks, while
striving to reduce a chaos of new ideas to what has been called "a
workable philosophy of life."

Not that she, in so many words, put this before herself. She only
tried "to get things straight," and even in that she failed. She was
too young, life was too new, the "things" in question were too large,
for immediate success. She did not yet know herself; and till we know
ourselves, we cannot know those about us—those who make our "world"—or
grapple with the problems of their and our existence.

From an artistic and contemplative atmosphere, from a home where the
cult of beauty ranked foremost, from a new breadth of view and a new
rush of thought, she was plunged in the old narrow circle, where what
she best loved was condemned, where beauty was regarded as a snare,
where the love of Nature was a synonym for wasted time, where Art was a
delusion and a plaything for a dying world.

The contrast tried her. With the unbalanced eagerness of youth, she
expected to find all good on one side, all evil on the other; and,
like a child, impatient of consideration, she was as ready to condemn
Barbara, Miss Robins, even her grandmother, as they were to condemn her
friends.

Yet she had begun to see with wider eyes,—to realise that others too
found difficulties, and that the same clues do not serve for all minds.
She had begun to feel the need in herself of a kinder and fairer
spirit. She had begun to appreciate the saintly goodness of her stern
old grandmother, to perceive the true beauty which underlay superficial
blemishes.

"It is all bewilderment," she had often said. But step by step she was
being led to levels where she could look over dividing walls which once
had shut her in.

She was gaining glimpses of the true unity which underlies
diversity—that unity which meets in Christ. She was dimly seeing that
all ideals of beauty centre in Him; that the highest types of beauty
are reflected from Him. So these weeks meant much to her. She was
learning tolerance from the bigotry of others, and sympathy through
her own struggles. Such lessons once mastered, differences of opinion
on lesser points fall into their right positions, and the pursuit of
beauty rises to a higher level.

The old Vicar saw, and he would not meddle. He had faith in the Divine
training of individuals; and he had learnt something of that quality,
rare in human beings,—Divine patience. He would not hurry her faster
than she could go safely. A word here, a sentence there, gave the
needed touches. They were oftener together than in past days. Phyllys'
absence had made a difference, setting her more at liberty. But the
ruthless condemnation of people and things went on as of old; and
Phyllys was far from having Divine patience.

Barbara, Miss Robins, even Mrs. Wyverne, with all her single-hearted
devotion, knew nothing of the many-sidedness of truth. The simple fact
that Christ is truth, and that in possessing Him a man possesses Divine
truth, they recognised verbally; but the Impossibility that any human
mind should grasp truth in its completeness, because no man can grasp
God, they did not see. It was with them as with Giles on the foggy
moor. Each walked in her tiny circle of mist, perceiving a patch of
grass, a bush; while of the world, the Universe, beyond, nothing was
visible.

Giles had known, though he could not see, that a world, a Universe, did
exist. They, walking in their foggy circles, did not believe in aught
beyond.

Yet, despite these limitations, Mrs. Wyverne lived a life which many of
loftier conceptions might have envied; for it was a life of personal
knowledge of God, of personal intercourse with her Heavenly Father,
little hindered by the narrowness of her theories. The theories were on
one plane; the life lived was on another. She fell into the error of
severely judging those from whom she differed: yet even this she did as
a high Christian duty, "verily thinking that she ought," and not from
lack of love.

"They won't see! They won't understand," Phyllys one day broke out.

The Vicar, in his shabbiest coat, tended a large rose-bed, his pride
and delight. Some fine blooms lingered still.

"I would put a 'can't' for the 'won't,'" he suggested.

"Barbara says there is no such thing as 'fineness' in human nature.
I said Giles had a fine character. And he has! And she said that was
wrong, for human nature is all failure and wickedness."

"Ah, we learn to know others by ourselves. She finds it so, does she?"

Phyllys laughed. The Vicar always brought her round.

"And when I told her that he was a really good man, she was horrified.
She says no man is good."

"Miss Pringle is wiser than her Bible. She should hunt out the word
with a Concordance."

"And she says the idea of singing prayers in Church is foolish—nobody
can pray, singing. It is all outward show."

"Doubtless Miss Pringle cannot!" The Vicar chuckled, recalling grim
sounds wont to issue from Mrs. Wyverne's pew. "She is not precisely
musical."

"You don't think that?"

"Certainly not. Music, like any art, may become an avenue to higher
things—but only with those capable of using it. To my mind, the highest
uses of music are for the noblest purposes—above all, for God's
children, addressing their Father in concert. But, my little girl, you
can't make everybody see as you see. Some can pray, singing; some can
only pray, speaking. Some can speak to God in poetry, some only in
prose. Our Father in heaven hears all, understands all. No use to try
to stuff our own opinions down other people's throats."

"Only, if one knows they are wrong—!"

"For the matter of that, Miss Pringle knows you are wrong."

"Must one never persuade them to think differently?"

"I've no vast faith in the power of argument." The Vicar stood, hoe in
hand, looking down on his companion. "The great foundation-truths of
Christianity have to be fought for. But breath and temper are often
wasted on non-essentials. People have to work out doubtful points for
themselves."

"Only Barbara 'was' wrong!"

"So are you and I on a hundred points. We hope to be set right in time;
if not in this life, then in the next."

"Then oughtn't one to try to understand now?"

"Try your hardest; and be ready always for fresh teaching. But try much
more to do, to be, to live! It signifies less whether you have a great
deal of light than whether you make the best possible use of such light
as you have."

She murmured a "Yes."

"Beyond all, don't condemn others for seeing on these lesser questions
not so clearly, perhaps, as you are conscious of seeing yourself. They
may be all the while more fully after God's own heart. An ounce of true
humility is worth gallons of excellent opinions. A cupful of Christlike
self-abnegation is worth an ocean of correct definitions."

He went back to his weeding, and presently a sound made Phyllys turn.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.

Colin stood on the gravel path with lifted cap and a light in his eyes.

"I have come to finish the bust," he said.



CHAPTER XXIII

COLIN'S CONQUESTS

COLIN conquered them all, "straight off," as the Vicar said, though
with variations of speed, and apparently without effort.

First to succumb was the Vicar himself. He gave unqualified approval
to the delicate-looking young fellow, whom nobody would have taken for
more than two or three and twenty; and the Vicar's wife followed suit.

"He's the sweetest boy I ever saw," she declared with an enthusiasm
which made her husband laugh.

"Giles knows nothing about my coming," he said. "I'm supposed to be in
the Highlands, abjuring work. Don't betray confidence, please. I wrote
yesterday, and needn't write again."

Phyllys supposed that he was under orders not to model, and that he
intended to disobey.

Mrs. Wyverne next fell a victim. She was fascinated at first sight,
like the Vicar. She had given in to Giles, partly out of respect to
the head of her family, partly as a result of pains on his part. Colin
took no pains. He was introduced, smiled, announced that he had come
to complete a work of art, Phyllys being the subject, and opposition
collapsed like a pricked bubble. The old lady could hardly take her
eyes from him.

"I suppose you are counted like your mother," she said in unbelieving
tones. "Not like what she was when she and I met; but, perhaps—"

"My mother says I am like everybody in turn, which is much the same as
being like nobody."

"You certainly remind me of some one."

Phyllys wondered, but would not suggest—was Mrs. Wyverne conscious of
his resemblance to the lost painting? She might have spoken her thought
but for a second question—could Mrs. Wyverne have seen that other
picture, hidden in the cabinet, if, indeed, it was another?

She took an opportunity to inquire whether the lost portrait had been
found, and Colin replied in the negative. He showed little interest in
the topic.

Barbara yielded more slowly. Colin was a man, and she detested men; he
was an artist, and she despised Art. The bust aroused her righteous
indignation; not altogether righteous, since jealousy of Phyllys had
a share. Though not great in self-knowledge, she perhaps knew this.
But she gave the reins to what she felt, and ruthlessly stigmatised
sculpture as worldly, wasteful, an encouragement to vanity; not sparing
words, till silence on his part grew impressive, and she met those blue
eyes, looking not "at" but "into" her, with a depth of understanding
which brought her to a dead halt.

"Yes," he said slowly, and waited.

She had no more to say. Did he read to the ground of her motives? Was
she to him a transparency?

Then came his winning smile; a smile which few could withstand. It took
her captive on the spot.

"Try for yourself," he said sweetly.

And the household stood open-mouthed to see Miss Pringle seated before
the improvised modelling-stool which, with Mrs. Wyverne's permission,
had been set up in the study. She clumsily fingered a lump of clay;
she submitted to be lectured. The results of her fingering need not be
described. The results of his manipulation were that he thenceforth
dragged her, a helpless victim, at his chariot wheels.

"It's too comical for anything," declared the Vicar, his shoulders
shaking. "Miss Pringle, of all people! That lad could make the trees
run after him if he chose."

How much Colin laughed privately no one knew. He maintained in public
his gentle and detached demeanour.

Difficulties were cleared away so far as might be from his path, the
household uniting to supply his wants. He had the exclusive use of
the little back-room; and a water-tap was outside his door. Phyllys
was allowed to sit to him for two hours each day, Mrs. Wyverne being
present with her knitting, while Barbara came in and out, hanging round
in wordless admiration, never dreaming how her fidgety movements and
creaking shoes tried the young sculptor.

She did not agree with his views; she counted still that Art was a
delusion. But Colin Keith she confessed to be the one really agreeable
man whom she had met on the face of the earth.

For a week all went well, and the bust made progress. Colin was
unusually vigorous; perhaps from the light moor air which seemed to
keep headache at bay. "I shall know where to go next time when I want
change," he said. He looked his best; active, joyous, full of delight
in his task, full also of bright expectancy in another direction, which
the Vicar saw with gladness, and Mrs. Wyverne with anxiety.

Phyllys enjoyed having him. She delighted in his artistic talk; she
chatted freely as she sat for her clay portrait; and the hours slid by.
It was reflection of Castle Hill happiness.

But after days of work and intercourse, a change dawned. Mrs. Wyverne
had one morning been called away, and Phyllys occupied the usual
position.

"I've had to write at last to let them know where I am," he remarked.
Then—"You are tired. Take it easy for five minutes. You must rest."

She had found it out herself earlier. A weariness had taken possession
of her, a longing for something, she could not define what. All this
seemed not worth while. She stood and stretched herself while he turned
to do something with one of the little wooden instruments.

And the thought came—if Giles had been there instead of Colin!

It was like a wave of understanding poured over her. In a moment she
saw that she was tired of having Colin only in place of Giles. She
liked him, admired his gifts, enjoyed his conversation. But her real
want was for Giles. She wanted him, not for his mental gifts, not for
aught that he might say or do, but for himself. She wanted the strong
manly presence, the intense devotion. "Was" it devotion? Did he care
for her further than as a friend? How was she to know?

Colin by comparison was nothing. Suddenly she had grown satiated with
Nature and Art, with his thoughts about both. He had fascinated her,
and he might fascinate her again; but he could not give all she wanted.
Not Nature, not Art, still less theories about either, could meet her
claims. It was love that she needed; Giles' love.

To her artistic, her intellectual, her imaginative sides, Colin
appealed. But these were not the whole Phyllys. A more powerful claim
rose up and would not be silenced. Her inner self cried out for
Giles—Giles with his faults, his temper, his difficulty of expression,
his silence—just Giles Randolph as he was. When she could escape, she
went to her own room, recognising that Giles was more to her than any
other in the world. The discovery brought something of dread lest her
love should be unreturned; yet it shed a new radiance on her life. She
had not known the strength with which it was in her to love. A pent-up
flood had burst its barriers, flowing in a rush throughout her being,
and the loosened waters freshened everything they touched, glorifying
the world around. All had become beautiful. Colin had poured new
meanings into Nature and Art. But Giles had poured new light, new love,
into the very springs of her existence. Life was transformed by this
new knowledge. Even if he should never return what she felt for him,
nothing could rob her of the power of loving.

Did he care? She put the question many times. A few days earlier she
had believed herself to be more to him than he was to her. But in the
light of this realisation, she saw him and herself from a fresh point
of view. His reticence made it difficult to gauge what he felt. Yet
things might be as she hoped.

There was a glow in her eyes that evening which awoke hope in Colin,
and aroused Mrs. Wyverne to uneasiness.

She came late to Phyllys' room, and found her at the open window, her
candle out. The old lady closed the window, sat down, and smoothed the
soft hair with unwonted tenderness.

"Thee should be in bed, my child," she said, with her occasional
reversion to the old-fashioned Quaker speech. "Thee should be asleep."

"Very soon, Grannie. The stars are lovely."

Mrs. Wyverne spoke abruptly. "Colin Keith is a pleasant youth; but I
fear I have acted with imprudence. He and thee are friendly."

"Oh, very," assented Phyllys. "I like him so much. He is delightfully
artistic."

"He is winsome, but, I fear, a man of this world only."

"No, indeed, I don't think that. He doesn't talk—men don't, you know.
They are so afraid of saying what might be taken for cant, and they
hate to make a show of goodness. He 'does' think of—that sort of thing.
I am sure he is good; truly good."

Mrs. Wyverne shook a decisive head. Her rules were arbitrary, and would
not include Colin.

"I should fear greatly for thy future, Phyllys, should he and thee
desire to marry."

Phyllys's colour went up in the darkness.

"Oh, not the least chance!" she said. "We are only a sort of cousins.
Not that kind of thing at all. He would not wish it, any more than I
do."

Mrs. Wyverne's uneasiness was deepened, rather than mitigated.


Next day, to the astonishment of everybody, Mrs. Keith walked in.

She was in York, having arrived three days earlier, and she had been
taken by surprise at the news of Colin's presence in Midfell, forwarded
from home. It was extremely wrong of Colin, just when he had been
ordered complete rest. He would suffer for it, &c.; and she had come to
see about things herself.

That Colin showed gratification at her advent could hardly be said. He
was, as always, courteous; but her arrival broke into a plan of his
own. Last touches having been given to the bust of Phyllys, he was on
the point of proposing to make a cast of Mrs. Wyverne's fine old head.
Now he waited for developments.

They soon appeared. Mrs. Keith was primed with a scheme to circumvent
him.

The friends with whom she was staying in York—an old school-chum and
her husband—had lately bought a châlet on the borders of Lake Thun,
and had asked her to return with them for a month. She brought also an
invitation for Phyllys. Would Mrs. Wyverne spare her? Expense should be
Mrs. Keith's concern; she promised every care; the excursion would be
enjoyable for Phyllys; and for herself it would mean gain in the added
cheerfulness of a young companion.

So much passed in public; and Phyllys' hopes of being allowed to go
were faint. But a few words in private settled the question.

"No—not the least chance of Colin joining us," Mrs. Keith said, in
response to a query. "He is due in Scotland; and the Forsyths scarcely
know him."

This induced the old lady to give in, despite Barbara's remonstrances.



CHAPTER XXIV

A FAMILIAR HANDWRITING

PHYLLYS sat alone in the garden of Châlet S. Jacques, intent on the
scene before her. Ah, but it was lovely!

Had she never come across Colin Keith, it would have been less to her
than now; yet the underflow of her mind was towards Giles, not Colin.
Which seemed, perhaps, ungrateful.

Ten days earlier she and Mrs. Keith, travelling with Mr. and Mrs.
Forsyth, had reached this villa or "châlet," lately purchased as a
summer resort by Mrs. Keith's friends. Here they would remain another
ten days. After that, possibly, Mrs. Keith and she might move to
another part of Switzerland before returning home.

The wailings of an ill-handled violin from the châlet behind disturbed
her musing. Mr. Forsyth, kindest of men, never dreamt that his tuneless
dirges could affect others unpleasantly. He was always happy, violin
in hand. So was his wife, while she could talk. A ceaseless murmur
travelled through the open window, underneath that which held the
violin. The two elder ladies had been at work for an hour, discussing
the latest fashion in toques and bodices; one of the two with her back
to Nature's sublimity, the other with eyes on her knitting. Of course
they had both looked out, and had said how pretty it was.

Phyllys was content to be left to her studies of that sublimity. They
were always fearing she would be dull, with no young companions of
her own age. She laughed at the notion. Dull!—with this to look upon!
Dull!—with Giles to think about!

It could hardly be called a "lawn" on which she sat. It was more like a
field, sloping downward. Two small trees sheltered her head; below the
garden lay more grass-land; then the road which skirted the lake; then
some rough wooden structures and a vegetable garden; then the lake;
then the mountain amphitheatre.

Prominent in front, across the translucent blue-green water, stood a
mountain of pyramidal shape, by name the "Niesen"—a useful friend to
the neighbourhood, acting as weather barometer by the simple process
of putting on and pulling off his cloud-cap. He had slipped it on and
whisked it off three or four times this day, as if unable to make up
his mind. A range of half-cumulous clouds was creeping along the sides;
and above towered the hoary mass of the Blumlisalp, one keen-cut edge
over a dull barrier of rock glowing like a piece of white enamel.

Far away to the left stood forth the three chief giants of the
scene—the mighty Jungfrau, sharply outlined, pure and snowy, with grey
hollows and shades; the white Mönch; and the rocky Eiger.

Phyllys drank it all in, finding each minute some new beauty, some
fresh dent or fold, some perfect moulding, some wonderful contrast in
light and shade, some unexpected harmony of form.

"One would never get to the end," she whispered; "not in years and
years."

Doleful sounds ceased, and hardly had she congratulated herself, before
she found Mr. Forsyth at her side; an elderly man, scarcely taller than
herself, with eyes full of kindness and full also of anxious worry,
echoed by horizontal lines on his retreating forehead. Not that he had
anything to worry about, but that he never could resist worrying about
nothing. He suffered from nervous depression, and found chief solace in
his violin.

He came with a cautious step, as if picking his way; yet when he spoke,
words tumbled fast, one upon another.

"Well, Miss Wyverne, tired of sitting here all alone! Pretty view,
eh?—very pretty! I've been trying that tune over again—you know it."

Phyllys had vainly sought to pin a name to the concatenation of wails.

"Couldn't manage it yesterday. Goes better now. Just a matter of
practice. We'll try again after dinner?"

And she smiled assent, though with an internal shiver at the prospect.

"First-rate thought of my wife, hiring that piano. A little music,
always cheerful. Would you like a run into Thun—get tea, and come back
for dinner?"

Phyllys jumped up. A "run" to any part of the lake was charming, and
in a few minutes they were off, hurrying through the village of brown
and yellow châlets, with their verandahs and overhanging eaves. It was
about ten minutes' walk to the boat-station, and they were in time for
the next steamer, zigzagging from side to side of the lake, in progress
from Interlaken to Thun. She had been to the quaint old town more than
once, but one could not go too often, and Mr. Forsyth made an excellent
conductor. They wandered through the streets, visited the castle,
admired the views, and enjoyed themselves.

"Pity Randolph refuses to come out! Great pity!" remarked Mr. Forsyth.

Phyllys had not heard this.

"Mrs. Keith was sure he would come. Can't understand it! She didn't
want her own son—odd, rather!—come to think of it. Bent on having
Randolph. My wife and I quite willing, of course—room enough for both.
Mrs. Keith seems to have urged it—but letter this morning decisive.
No—yesterday, was it? I've no memory. Says he has too much to do—can't
get away. Mrs. Keith will have told you."

"No. Was I meant not to know it?"

"She told us—spoke openly. By-the-by—that wretched memory of mine!—she
did say she wanted his coming to be a surprise. But now of course—no
matter, since he can't come."

"It would have been nice if he could," she said.

A shadow had fallen; for this might mean much. If Mrs. Keith had tried
to persuade Giles to join them, and had urged in vain, it looked
as if he did not greatly care to see more of Phyllys. Was he so
overwhelmingly busy that he could not spare a few days? She found it
hard to believe. He was his own master.

"Getting tired, eh?" demanded Mr. Forsyth.

"O no," and she roused herself. "But ought we not to go back?"

He assured her there was no hurry, and they started for a fresh tramp.
She did her best to seem interested, and to laugh at his little jokes;
but the strain became severe. Soon she could not hide that she really
was tired—with a heartsickness which he did not suspect. He grew
concerned, and took her to the nearest inn, insisting on a fresh supply
of tea, though they had had some earlier. She remonstrated in vain. He
wandered into the passage, and came back, laughing.

"Now how is that?" he asked, holding out a letter. "Sent to this inn,
of all places! 'To be kept till called for.' What chance that Mrs.
Keith ever would call?"

Phyllys' heart gave a throb. "From Giles!" escaped her lips.

"Giles Randolph?" Mr. Forsyth examined the envelope. "Now you mention
the fact, I 'have' seen his hand. Characteristic! But I say—" turning
the letter round—"if so, he is in Switzerland. The postmark is
Swiss—Interlaken."

Another throb, this time of hope.

"But you said he would not come."

"So Mrs. Keith assured me—yesterday—or was it the day before? I'm
wretched at dates. He may have changed his mind. Though why he should
stay at Interlaken, and should address a letter to Mrs. Keith at a Thun
hotel beats me!" Mr. Forsyth passed a puzzled hand across his forehead.
"Beats me!" he repeated.

Phyllys' colour was bright.

"Beats me utterly!" he said a third time. Then—"Fine fellow, Randolph."

"He and Colin are both nice."

"Well, yes—Colin rather handicapped, poor chap. But Randolph—very fine
fellow. Good landlord—good shot—makes himself liked."

Phyllys had lost her tired look, and was eager to get home. They went
to the boat-station, and caught the next steamer.

"We'll have a little fun with her," suggested Mr. Forsyth, as they
mounted the hill. Phyllys smiled, full of the thought that Giles was
near—perhaps already on the way to join them. He would come that
evening. No doubt he meant to take them by surprise. On arrival, her
colour was commented on by Mrs. Keith. "Swiss air is doing you good,"
she said.

"By-the-by, did you say Randolph was still at home," asked Mr.
Forsyth—"not able to come out?"

She glanced towards Phyllys. "I hope he may join us—but yesterday I
heard he was too busy. I have another letter to-day, saying the same."
She tapped the floor with her foot. "I don't mean to let him off."

"What would you say—if he is already in Switzerland?"

She looked in astonishment. "Giles in Switzerland! Certainly not."

"But he must have come! He must have changed his mind,"—and Phyllys
laughed with happiness. "He is at Interlaken."

"Nonsense. Why are you trying to take me in?" with a suspicious glance.

"We are not so unkind," Mr. Forsyth protested. "It is the oddest
thing—we happened to go into an inn at Thun, and we found a letter for
you, waiting. 'To be left till called for.'"

She made a movement—and tried to smile.

"I must have given the wrong address to some friend. How absurd!"

"But Giles knows your address." A strong sense of Mrs. Keith's
untruthfulness took possession of Phyllys. She could conjecture no
reason for false statements, yet that something of falsity underlay the
other's last utterance was evident.

"I was not speaking of Giles—of course—" hurriedly.

"And this letter is from Giles. It is his own handwriting; and it has
the Interlaken postmark. Giles must be at Interlaken."

Mrs. Keith received the envelope from Mr. Forsyth—turned it over—looked
at the postmark—muttered something indistinct—then, to the amazement of
all present, she fainted dead away.



CHAPTER XXV

GILES OR SOMEBODY

"MY dear, it is absolutely unimportant. You make such a fuss. I have
told you before that I have a weak heart; and I must expect attacks of
this kind. The fact is, I ought to be more careful; and these steep
hills try me. I shall get a quiet day to-morrow."

Mrs. Keith spoke in feverish accents, her lips working. She seemed
entirely unstrung. She had rallied from the faint, and had insisted on
going to her own room, carrying the unopened letter, begging to be left
alone. Phyllys, anxious and perplexed, crept in later, and found her on
the sofa. A whisper of inquiry brought remonstrance.

"The attacks seem to come without cause, so I shall have to be more
particular."

"Had" there been no cause—no connection between Giles' handwriting and
the swoon? Yet, why should Giles' presence at Interlaken startle her,
when she so wished him to come?

"And really," she went on, "they are of no consequence, so long as I
do not over-exert myself. But I feel that I 'must' have a day of real
rest, all to myself." She sighed, as if oppressed. "These dear good
people are most kind, but I get so worn out with the perpetual talk. I
want you to help me, dear. If you could contrive to have them off my
hands for a day, it would be a mercy."

She fixed troubled eyes on the girl.

"I don't think they would like that."

"They would not mind. I have thought it out. We will persuade them to
go to S. Beatenberg to-morrow; and at the last moment I shall slip out
of it. You must give them no hint. I hate the idea of that funicular
railway."

"But—if Giles were to come—only of course you will be here, so that
will be all right."

Mrs. Keith seemed amazed. "Giles!" she said. "I wish he would."

"Perhaps he will look in to-night—if he is still at Interlaken." The
other's bewildered face made her add, "The letter we brought from
Thun—don't you remember? In Giles' handwriting."

Mrs. Keith broke into a loud laugh; then put her hand to her head.

"These fainting-fits leave me so confused. Yes; now I remember. You
did say something of the kind. But, my dear, that is a mere business
epistle—from 'quite' another quarter. A man with an altogether
different name."

Phyllys felt sorely disappointed; and Mrs. Keith, pulling herself up,
brought from her pocket a torn envelope.

"Now you can see. Not Giles' writing at all, though I grant there is
a resemblance. One of those accidental likenesses, which have nothing
to account for them. Giles is at home still, and the tiresome fellow
seems determined not to come out. I am beginning to think—" and she
smiled—"that my best plan will be to cut short the Swiss trip, and to
take you there. Would you like to see Castle Hill again? Ah, I thought
so. I have you for a month, and I do not mean to be cheated out of any
part of it. We shall see to-morrow. These attacks leave one hardly fit
for anything but home."

Castle Hill—and Giles! Had it not been for the thought of Giles, a
cutting short of the Swiss trip would have meant dire disappointment.
Things being as they were, Phyllys only hoped she did not betray too
much gladness. She lowered her eyes for an examination of the envelope;
and again the strong resemblance to Giles' writing impressed her.
Certain letters were differently formed; but the remainder she could
have declared in a Court of Justice to be his.

"A mere chance likeness, you see," Mrs. Keith said lightly; and Phyllys
forebore to contradict.

The proposed excursion was taken up by their host and hostess, though
not without hesitation on the score of Mrs. Keith's unfitness. It was a
shock to Phyllys' sense of honesty, when the latter cheerfully assured
them that she was "perfectly well," that "nothing would do her so much
good as a trip up the mountain," and that she was "longing to try one
of those charming mountain railways."


Next day proved fine, and Mrs. Keith went so far as to dress for the
start. Not till the last moment did she draw back, sinking into a
chair, faintly professing herself so much fatigued, that she hoped
they would excuse her. No—she would not let Mrs. Forsyth remain at
home. Rather than that, she would go, though it might mean another
fainting-fit. All she needed was a quiet day on the sofa.

Reluctantly the Forsyths yielded, left her in charge of the Swiss
maids, and went without her.

Not, however, to S. Beatenberg. No sooner were they on the steamer,
than Mrs. Forsyth suggested a day at Interlaken, deferring the S.
Beatenberg excursion until Mrs. Keith could form one of their party.
She had so wanted to try the mountain railway!

Mr. Forsyth agreed, and it was not Phyllys' place to set them right. So
instead of landing below S. Beatenberg, they steamed to the farther end
of the lake, amid a goodly number of excursionists, though not so many
as a few weeks earlier. It was a cool autumn day, and the woods were
gay with red and gold.

At Interlaken they wandered along the Barnhofstrasse, poked in and out
of shops, and picked up presents for friends at home. It was all too
smart and fashionable, Phyllys decided, and not to be compared with
the village where they stayed; yet she enjoyed it much. The Jungfrau,
solemnly overlooking the town, had not here the aspect of a white
guardian angel as when viewed from Châlet S. Jacques.

"More like a lump of chalk," suggested Mr. Forsyth, and though Phyllys
repudiated the suggestion it recurred to her mind.


One way and another the hours slipped by. Late in the afternoon they
had tea outside a shop, then went to the chief Promenade, the Hoheweg,
where they encountered English friends. Mr. Forsyth disappeared with
the gentleman of the party, and Mrs. Forsyth sat down for a talk with
two elderly ladies.

Phyllys joined in for a while, then wandered a short distance, and
gave herself up to the study of the Jungfrau. No look of "chalk" now!
Something in the state of the morning atmosphere must have caused that
aspect. The mountain-mass reared its mighty head in majestic style,
and broad reaches of snow descended low like trailing skirts of white.
Higher peaks were partly hidden by drifting clouds, but one and another
appeared in turn: and each moment the mountain altered, the shapes of
rifts and hollows changing as she gazed. A clear basin of snow, for a
time visible, vanished utterly.

She watched with interest the Schynige Platte, where the Forsyths had
promised to take her. In the far distance she could make out a tiny
mountain-train creeping slowly up the steep sides, carrying a minute
cloud of steam.

Glancing to make sure that she was not wanted, she received a nod from
Mrs. Forsyth; and she wandered farther, getting among trees. It was
evident that her friends were in no hurry to move. Suddenly her heart
gave a throb, stopped, then beat furiously.

Could it be—Giles?

A big man, broad-shouldered, sat alone at a small table; his face
turned half away. The shape of his powerful shoulders; the attitude;
the manner in which he leaned his head on one hand; the grave
immobility—all indicated Giles. He seemed to be deep in thought; lost
to his surroundings.

She was not near enough to make out more. She stood partly behind a
tree, gazing. Whether or not in consequence of her gaze, he turned, and
she had a glimpse of his strong sunburnt profile.

"Giles!" she whispered.

Why had Mrs. Keith denied his presence?

But the face looked older than when she had seen him last; not thinner;
not paler; only markedly older. She almost thought his hair had gained
a touch of grey. Could he have been in some terrible trouble lately?
Was there some mystery about him, hidden by Mrs. Keith, sufficient to
account for his refusal to come to S. Jacques?

It was all bewilderment; and she began to wonder if she were dreaming.
She put her hands over her eyes for three or four seconds. When she
looked again, the figure was gone.

[Illustration: SUDDENLY HER HEART GAVE A THROB.]

She went slowly back, in a dazed condition, questioning whether it
had been a trick of the imagination. She wished now that she had gone
nearer, to make sure. Yet, no! For if Giles were there, and chose to
avoid her presence, it was not for Phyllys to go after him.

To the Forsyths she said nothing of what she had seen or imagined.

On arrival they found that Mrs. Keith had retired to her room. "Madame"
had been a long time away, the Swiss girl said, when questioned. She
had twice been out in the morning, and had received two telegrams; and
then she had said that she would get fresh air on the lake.

She had returned but lately—by the boat preceding that which had
brought back Monsieur and Madame and Mademoiselle. Yes, surely, Madame
had returned by that boat, for she would not all these hours have
walked about Hilterfingen and Oberhofen, not once entering the châlet.

Mrs. Forsyth and Phyllys made their way to the bedroom, to find Mrs.
Keith hard at work, packing. Her cheeks were flushed; her manner showed
excitement.

"Yes, I went out," she said. "I thought it might do me good. My nerves
seem all to pieces, and I could not keep still. So I took the boat to
Interlaken and back—for the sake of the air. You there—too!" with a
start. "Then you gave up S. Beatenberg. What a pity! No, I did not see
you. I was—no time ashore. Just for a cup of tea."

"I think you would have been better quiet," remarked Mrs. Forsyth.

"Perhaps. It may have been a mistake. But something in Swiss air
does not suit me. I seem to be a wreck of myself—" and she laughed
nervously. "So I have decided to go home. To start to-morrow. Phyllys
will not object—and you must not think me ungrateful. I have made up my
mind."

Had she seen Giles? Phyllys all but asked the question; and then
something in that unhappy face, with its haggard flush, held her
silent. As once before, the wonder arose—"was" Mrs. Keith perfectly
sane? Could it be that her brain was ever so slightly "touched"?
Phyllys decided not to risk exciting her further.



CHAPTER XXVI

AN UNQUIET MIND

NO persuasions would induce Mrs. Keith to put off her departure more
than one night. The Forsyths had a fight to gain that concession.

"But I must and will have a clear day for the Schynige Platte," Mrs.
Forsyth declared to her husband. "Phyllys has been promised that
excursion from the first."

She gained her point; though, probably, if Mrs. Keith had guessed what
her consent would involve, it would not have been granted. When she
was further enlightened, too late to draw back, she hotly combated the
plan, then insisted on being one of the party.

Phyllys was allowed no voice. She still kept silence about her supposed
glimpse of Giles; and Mrs. Keith talked confidently of finding him at
Castle Hill. Phyllys had begun to distrust her own eyesight. If he were
at Interlaken, he would surely have appeared. If, on the contrary,
he were at Castle Hill, she could not regret going there—unless her
appearance would be unwelcome; but as she recalled the past, she could
not believe that. Her "friend" would not be untrue, though he might
never be more than "friend." She was gaining hope.

A lurid sunset made them anxious about next day. Heavy clouds clothed
the mountain tops; and the Niesen had donned a dark cap and short
mantle. But the sun shone brightly over Thun, and shed crimson upon the
lower slopes and lake. Strangers could not decipher what this meant.

Phyllys, an early riser, did not fail next morning. She sprang out of
bed and went to the open window, with chestnut hair falling loose over
her frilled nightdress.

It was a sight worth waking for—the pale lake lying in shadow,
the pyramidal Niesen mass rising darkly beyond. Further shone the
snow-peaks of the Blumlisalp and tips of the Jungfrau range with a
silver glow from the coming sun. The tint could hardly be otherwise
described. It was not rose or gold, nor was it ordinary "cold"
silver, but a pale rose-silver, if such a colour exists. She watched
breathlessly, kneeling, lost in admiration; unknowing whether the
sight appealed more to her artistic or her spiritual self. It made her
think of Colin and his ideals. It made her think of Giles. It lifted
her heart to the Divine Source of all earthly and heavenly beauty. She
whispered her prayers softly, looking with bodily and mental eyes on
that indescribable light, while her spiritual eyes were uplifted to her
Father in heaven.

Then the ascending monarch of day crushed out the delicate tinting, and
flooded heights and vales with gold.

By half-past six Phyllys was down to breakfast, as was Mr. Forsyth,
but the elder ladies were later. Had they not arranged to drive to the
boat-station, they would have failed to catch the steamer.

A sharp air assailed them on the lake, and Mrs. Keith looked blue, by
no means in condition for exertion. She held to her point, however, and
refused to turn back.

Phyllys could have been in dancing spirits. The beauty of lake and
mountain, the charms of the coming ascent, the prospect of Castle Hill,
the hopes that her fears would prove groundless and that Giles would
be in the future all he had been in the past—these buoyed her up;
and the one wet blanket was Mrs. Keith's unhappiness. As they neared
Interlaken, she did indeed force a cheerful manner; but when they
landed her eyes were everywhere, nervously on the look-out. Phyllys
could not but notice this, could not but conjecture explanations.

From Interlaken they went by train to a station at the base of the
mountain, where they entered the tiny mountain-train.

Mrs. Keith would not be hurried, and they nearly lost their first
chance. Though late in the season, enough tourists appeared to fill
the train—but they managed to pack in; Mrs. Keith close to a window;
Phyllys beside her; the Forsyths in front, whence they could lean
back to talk. As the gradient became more steep, the engine puffed
vigorously.

"Schynige Platte—not far from seven thousand feet high," announced
Mr. Forsyth, dividing his attention between his Guide-book and
Phyllys. "Subtract from that the eighteen hundred feet altitude of the
lake—leaves a respectable amount still to climb! Engine worked with a
cog-wheel—very safe—all precautions taken. Ascent lasts about an hour
and a half—or less. I beg your pardon—" at a gasp from Mrs. Keith.

"I thought it lasted twenty minutes!"—in dismay.

"Dear me, no. You are thinking of S. Beatenberg. This is a longer
affair."

"It won't seem any time at all—there is so much to see," murmured
Phyllys.

As they rose, the landscape widened by leaps and bounds. From one side,
then from the other, they gazed over a growing expanse. The Lake of
Thun lay far beneath. The Lake of Brienz had shrunk to a puddle of
greenish water. There was an overmastering sense of loftiness, as they
looked into sheer depths, across valleys, over precipitous walls of
rock falling from the very verge of the line on which they travelled.
Moat of the travellers took the journey composedly. It was the correct
thing to do; everybody did it; and nobody expected to be the worse.
To Phyllys the outlook was too wonderful to whisper of fear. But she
became aware that the lady on her other side was growing nervous, and
that Mrs. Keith trembled like a leaf.

Three or four tunnels had to be gone through, and the breaking out from
each into a broader world was grand. Ascent by rail has an unromantic
sound; yet no man, climbing slowly on foot or on mule-back, gains these
marvellous upward leaps.

The nervous lady fidgeted anew. "Well, one comfort is," she remarked,
"if anything 'did' go wrong, it wouldn't be a case of getting mangled
only. It would be—the end!"

"My dear, don't talk nonsense. Nothing is going wrong," a man's voice
made reply.

Mrs. Keith clutched the window, and Phyllys slipped a hand through her
arm. "It's all right," the girl said cheerily. "Nothing to be afraid
of. These trains go all through the summer."

She met the haggard eyes, with a look in them which she would not
easily forget. A look of shrinking dread.

"But—if it 'did'—" she heard.

They stopped at a small station, and Mrs. Keith started up. Phyllys
caught her hand.

"This isn't the top yet."

"Sit down, Mrs. Keith. A little longer. We are two-thirds up," added
Mrs. Forsyth.

But she dragged her hand from Phyllys, and pushed her way out. "I
must—I can't stand this any longer," she panted. "It—terrifies me! I
can't stand it!"

Remonstrances were useless. She stood on the platform, her face a
mottled pallor.

"I can't—I tell you, I can't—I won't!" she declared. "I haven't the
nerve for it. No use asking me. I'll never again get into a funicular
train after to-day. You are all to go on without me, and you can take
me up as you come back. I shall be all right till then. No, I won't
have any of you. I won't allow it."

So imperious was her manner, that resistance was impossible. Mr.
Forsyth had sprung out, but she almost pushed him back, with
insistence, in the face of his polite desire to stay. He had to yield,
and she was left standing on the platform.

Since she refused their help, all they could do was to put aside
the thought of her, and to enjoy the views. Another tunnel was gone
through; and as they emerged, the Jungfrau burst upon them in dazzling
radiance.

The last station was reached, and a walk of twenty minutes took them
to the top. A party of loud-voiced Germans, who had kept up a rattle
during the ascent, now did their best to mar the solemn grandeur of
Nature. Phyllys and the Forsyths moved to a distance, where they might
study the scene in quiet.

Far below, branching different ways, lay the Lauterbrunen and the
Grundelwald Valleys; and in front, from right to left, swept a range
of snowy heights and towering peaks, including the three giants daily
scanned from Châlet S. Jacques—the Jungfrau, the Mönch, the Eiger—a
lordly trio. These and other mountains of the Bernese Oberland seemed
to have placed themselves in a stately order, on view. It was a perfect
day; some clouds floating, but all the greater heights sharp in
definition. Through a binocular Phyllys could see the very crevasses in
the Grundelwald glacier, the châlets dotting the Grundelwald valley.

When the time came to return, they kept a look-out for Mrs. Keith at
the station; but she was not visible. Mr. Forsyth left the train to
inquire.

"She has set off to walk down," he said on return, with a lined
forehead. "Very unwise! Of course she's not equal to it. Over four
miles! I must go after her. She might have a fainting-fit."

No time to discuss the question, for the train was starting. Mrs.
Forsyth could not resist a murmur of—"Really too bad!"

The small engine, which had puffed and snorted on its upward way, kept
silence in descent. Down and down they slipped—winding to and fro from
edge to edge; the mountains gaining in height as they slid into valleys
between; the distant views contracting, the horizon narrowing.

Nothing below was seen or heard of Mrs. Keith or Mr. Forsyth; and Mrs.
Forsyth decided on going at once to Interlaken, there to await their
appearance. It was surely impossible that Mrs. Keith could yet have
walked the whole way.

The wait was a long one. Mrs. Forsyth and Phyllys had tea, then hovered
about the boat-station, till patience was exhausted. When the absent
pair drove up, Mrs. Keith, drooping and feeble, seemed not to realise
the trouble she had given. Mr. Forsyth had overtaken her not far from
the foot of the mountain, and she had been so ill as to make a halt
needful. She was barely able now to drag one foot after the other. They
helped her on board—Mr. Forsyth moving away for a talk with his wife.

"Not at all grateful for my going after her, I assure you," he
murmured. "You'd have been astonished if you had seen the pace at
which she was going—before she saw me. After that, all weakness and
faintness. My dear, your friend is rather—eccentric, to say the
least! However, not a word of this. She is bent on starting for home
to-morrow."

Phyllys had taken a seat close to Mrs. Keith, and the latter said, "You
are a kind girl!"

"I am sorry you are feeling so ill. Would it not be better to put off
our journey home?"

"No, certainly not. Everything is arranged. I cannot wait a day longer.
My nerves seem all to rags!"—and she tried to laugh.

The laugh turned into a shudder. "Was that thunder? I have a horror of
a storm in a boat—all the iron about!"

Phyllys had hoped that she would not notice. A change had developed
after the brilliant day; and lurid cloud-masses covered the summits,
broken by yellow streaks.

"I don't like that. How long shall we be? An hour? More than an hour!
Ask somebody if the storm will hold off so long. Find out—pray!"

Phyllys went obediently, though aware that "somebody" was not likely
to have positive information. She came back to her seat, remarking, "I
dare say it won't be much."

"What does Mr. Forsyth think?"

"He says it looks rather threatening."

They ploughed their way, zigzagging from side to side of the lake;
and the cloud-capped heights grew more densely black. Another rumble
sounded, winning a shiver from Mrs. Keith.

"If it gets worse, I shall land. I won't be stopped."

But for a while the storm held off; and when it broke, she seemed
paralysed.

The Niesen, always a prominent object, showed now no pyramidal form.
From summit to base it was one mass of black vapours. From within that
darkness rolled heavy reverberating peals, each louder and longer than
the last, issuing with solemn echoes from the shrouding canopy. Thus
far no lightning had been seen. The battle of forces was carried on
behind a curtain.

Then a dazzling double-forked arrow leaped forth, with a crashing roar,
which drowned Mrs. Keith's scream. She clutched at Phyllys' wrist,
holding it with a force which gave pain. Mr. Forsyth came to ask if she
would go into the cabin, but she shook her head, moaning.

"No, no! The boat may go down. We may all go down."

Another resplendent flash, lighting up the scene with rose-colour; and
another burst of heaven's artillery. Mrs. Keith hid her face, while
Phyllys watched, fascinated. The black-clothed pyramid, the issuing
sword-flashes, the rolling peals, had an impressive solemnity, which
brought to mind the giving of the law from Mount Sinai in days of old.

At a pause in the lengthened reverberations, she heard, "If only one
could—!"

Phyllys slipped an arm round her companion.

"If one could live the past over again!"

Should she say anything? But—what to say?

"Phyllys,—if death came, would God have mercy? If one had not meant—"

"Had not meant to do wrong?"

"Yes. That is—had not intended. Circumstances sometimes—"

"But circumstances never can 'make' one do wrong," the girl said
staunchly.

"In the past. I mean, in the past. One can't help the past."

"One may confess and try to make amends."

"Too long ago."

"I don't think it can be too long." Phyllys thought of Zacchaeus coming
to the Divine Giver of pardon, with "fourfold restitution" on his lips.

Another dazzling sword of light; another echoing crash; and the
reverberations rolled from mountain to mountain.

Mrs. Keith stooped forward, shaken by a sob.

"But if one cannot—cannot—confess—will He have mercy?"

"He knows if you really cannot. If it is for the sake of others—not
your own sake—that you don't speak." Afterwards she wondered what made
her say this. "I think one should always tell—if not publicly, at least
to some one. And then one might be helped."

No reply came. Mrs. Keith remained in the same position till they
reached their station. By that time the storm was lessening, and she
walked from the boat with little help, her face averted from Phyllys.
The girl wondered—had she given offence?

On reaching the châlet, a fresh effort was made to induce Mrs. Keith to
put off her journey, but she was obdurate. She meant to go; she would
go. She was fit only for home.

Then, in her own room,—"Did I talk nonsense in the boat, Phyllys?
Lightning affects my head so strangely. I never know what I am saying
while a storm lasts."

Phyllys looked at her with serious eyes. "I don't know," she said. "It
didn't sound at the time like nonsense."

"I've no doubt it was, if it makes you so terrifically grave. Well,
thank goodness, this is nearly the end. I shall never attempt another
funicular railway, and I have had enough of Switzerland. Now you must
go to bed. Most of your packing is done, I suppose. You said you would
see to it yesterday evening. That is right. I long to be safe at my
beloved Castle Hill."

And the next day they started.



CHAPTER XXVII

RENEWED FIGHTING

"IN the lives of most men there has been a week, at the memory of which
ever afterwards a dark cloud comes down, and makes a possibly sunny
world momentarily a place of gloom." So says that forceful writer,
"Linesman."

Such a week had Giles known earlier; a week, followed by months of
pain, but in itself sufficient when recalled to bring a cloud, making
his "possibly sunny world a place of gloom." The sorest loss, the most
passionate remorse, though they may promise to shadow life's future,
do from the nature of things, in the course of time, sink into the
background, and fail to quench all hope; forming indeed a burden, yet
one to which the shoulders have grown used. But in the background the
burden still is, at seasons making itself felt.

That week, the recollection of which could never grow dim, the results
of which could never cease to be, belonged to boyhood.

Since then, recently, he had lived through another stringent week—in
which he had awakened to his love for Phyllys, and to the fact that
she was beloved by Colin. Which last discovery involved two other
discoveries; first, that it was his duty to yield her up; and secondly,
that he had not power to do so. In the strife, his sense of duty
succumbed before the vehemence of his love.

But to be beaten is not always to be conquered. Nay, to be
twice-beaten, thrice-beaten, may still lead to victory. With human
beings generally, a defeat weakens the moral fibre, lessens the power
to resist. Yet there does exist a stamp of soldier, notably in the
British Army, with whom defeat seems to stiffen the moral fibre, to
strengthen the will, so as to render more resistless his next onset.

Something of his struggle might have been visible to watching angels,
themselves unseen of men, as Giles went to and fro those autumn days.
He said nothing to anybody. It was not his way to talk about himself,
to appeal for sympathy. He fought his bitter fight alone.

Not Colin, with his keen vision, not Mrs. Keith, with all her
eagerness, could penetrate the surface, could lift the covering and
gaze below. Colin might have begun to suspect, but that now he was much
away. Though one outburst of wrath had suggested a good deal, passion
thereafter had been held down, and even Colin was deceived by Giles'
calm. He spent time as usual over the management of his property, rode
and cycled, saw friends, was the busy country gentleman,—too composed,
too solid and occupied, for those around to imagine that within was a
long-continued conflict.

He had been worsted. He had retreated before the foe. Then, at a
critical moment, Phyllys had been snatched away. He had time to
recollect himself, time to be confronted afresh by his resolution. He
took it up again, clenched his teeth, and—in Phyllys' absence—resolved
anew.

This was not impossible, when her presence no longer enchained him,
when Colin seemed languid, and Giles could conjecture why.

The thought of giving up Phyllys to another, though that other was
Colin, shook him to the core; and it was a relief when Colin started
for Edinburgh. Giles could get on better alone, thinking always of
Phyllys, yet struggling not to think of her, striving to make up his
mind that Colin should have the first chance.

A fresh shock came, in the shape of a letter from the latter, gay in
tone, announcing that he had been at Midfell for a week, and had all
but finished the bust of Phyllys.

"Not bad either, though I shouldn't be the one to say so!" he added.

He did not write like a lover; but of course he would not. His presence
in Midfell spoke plainly enough.

Wrath again had Giles in its grip. To determine that Colin should
be allowed a chance was one thing; to see Colin taking that chance,
without a "with or by your leave," was another. He could face no human
being that morning. He went off on his favourite horse for hours of
misery; galloping across fields; refusing to think; conscious that he
was once more overcome; yet aware that fresh power would dawn when he
had rallied from the blow. He returned to dinner, a sombre meal, for
Mrs. Keith was away; and so much the better. Her questions would have
made the one straw too much.

At night he went out again, and paced the lanes till early morning,
getting home in time for an hour in bed, whereby he avoided comment.

By post arrived a letter from Mrs. Keith, telling of her visit to
Midfell, of her plan to take Phyllys abroad.

"I have a delightful suggestion to make," she wrote. "You must join us
on Lake Thun. The Forsyths send you an invitation. Write and say how
soon you can be there."

He understood, for he knew her wish, a wish which too well chimed
in with his own desires. By this time he craved for Phyllys with a
consuming passion. And Mrs. Keith, for reasons of her own, was bent on
the same end. She cleared the path for him, and he had but to walk in
it.

But, Colin! His past resolve!

He fought the battle again. He wrote to say that he would go, and
he burnt the letter. Next day was a repetition. Another letter of
acceptance was written, and destroyed. Then he achieved a third,
declining the invitation. He sent this off, and felt that life held no
more of joy.

Mrs. Keith cannonaded him with remonstrances, and he held to his point.
He was too busy; a lame excuse; and he knew what Phyllys would think.
Too busy! He spent hours, his head on his hands, thinking only of her.

Days passed thus, and a telegram arrived from Mrs. Keith, dated at
Dover, saying: "Not well, will get home this afternoon, train arriving
5.5."

"In England!" Then Phyllys had gone to Midfell. Some complication must
have arisen. The plea "Not well" made small impression. He was too much
accustomed to hearing it. Mrs. Keith was not strong; but also she never
hesitated to be "not well" for a purpose. She would look ill, no doubt,
since she was a born actress.

Had she and Phyllys quarrelled? Impossible. A thrill tingled through
his powerful frame. Was it possible that Phyllys might come too! He
negatived this idea; nevertheless, he told the housekeeper to have the
best spare room ready, just in case—But of course she had gone north.

When the hour came he was on the platform; and as the train drew up—as
he glanced along the carriages—that tingling recurred.

For Phyllys was there.



CHAPTER XXVIII

NEW DEVELOPMENTS

WAS this to mean fresh defeat? With victory in view, was he to be
hurled back?

Phyllys to stay a fortnight at Castle Hill! He to be, day after day,
within sight, hearing, touch, yet debarred from winning her! Debarred
by his own resolve in the past; by his fresh resolve in the present! If
Colin failed, then would come his chance. But Colin would not fail. And
meanwhile, a fortnight of this agony! To make matters worse, he read in
Phyllys' face joy at their meeting. Despite Colin's absence, she was
glad to be here.

Not glad only, but sweet to a degree which even he had not known in her
before. She had developed of late. He saw this, as the old Vicar had
seen it, though from a different point of view. He was conscious of
something new in her; something which had not been there. He was also
dimly aware of power; recognising as once earlier that he might do what
he would with her, Colin being out of reach.

Giles was a strong man, a man of iron will, yet it might be questioned
whether his strength would be equal to this strain. There are forces
before which iron bends and snaps like tin. In her beloved presence
he was weak, and he knew it. But in that very knowledge lay safety.
Because he felt his own strength inadequate, he laid hold upon Divine
strength.

These weeks of lonely battling had told upon even his powerful frame.
Phyllys noted something unusual; a weight, a haggard look, recalling
the imaginary Interlaken glimpse. Singular that he should then have
appeared to her vision as she now found him, altered and aged. Though
not indeed grey-haired, he was plainly in trouble. She had debated with
herself whether to tell him of that fancy, and the first evening she
said nothing.

She was up betimes next morning, and indulged in a ramble before
breakfast. Coming back, she met him in a side-path.

"This is too soon after your journey," he said. He had no choice but to
turn and walk by her side.

"I'm as fresh as possible. I don't think you are well."

"Quite, thanks."

"I fancied something might be worrying you, like Mrs. Keith. She so
often seems worried. It's her way, is it not? But not your way!"

"Perhaps not."

"Was it not strange?—one day at Interlaken I thought I saw you. I could
have declared it to be you! And you seemed bothered then too. You've
not been in Switzerland, have you?—not even for one day!"

She put the question laughingly.

And he said—"No."

"It was droll; for we had found a letter for Mrs. Keith, lying at a
little Thun hotel, in your handwriting. Not really, of course, but
I felt sure it was yours, and it had been posted at Interlaken. And
then—that I should seem to see you yourself there too—it was queer, as
if chance likenesses were in the air."

Giles hardly followed her words. He was thinking of herself more than
of what she said. She ventured another question:—

"I suppose Mrs. Keith has not some great sorrow; something that would
make her unhappy?"

He showed surprise.

"She gets so easily upset, and sometimes it is as if she expected
things to go awfully wrong. But you would know. I don't want to
interfere, only I have been so sorry for her."

"She is excitable by nature. Nerves," explained Giles. "Nothing to
be anxious about. She could hardly have any serious trouble, unknown
to me. There is—" and he hesitated—"a tendency to exaggeration—to
exaggerated views. One must allow for that. I am sure she is not aware
of it herself."

He changed the subject abruptly.

"Colin was with you at Midfell?"

"Yes, he wanted to finish the bust. It is said to be a success. He
ought to become a famous sculptor some day."

"No question as to his having the gift. The doubt is, whether he has
health to use it."

"Midfell suited him. He was well all the time."

"Because he was happy." Giles' glance added, "Because with 'you!'"

Phyllys kept silence, and in suppressed tones the other continued—

"He may have a career before him. He ought to have. But much depends on
whether he marries the right wife. Sympathy in his work would mean to
him—everything."

Did Giles wish her to marry Colin? Phyllys held herself in, and spoke
with indifference.

"Do you think Colin likely to marry? I don't. Sculpture will always be
first with him; and a wife shouldn't come second."

"Ah, you know only one side of him yet."

"I've seen pretty much!" she murmured.

But Giles paid no attention. He had made up his mind that something had
to be said, and he went on in the same monotonous undertone—

"If he should wish to marry, there would be no difficulty as to means.
He and Mrs. Keith talk as if he were a poor man, dependent on Art. It
is not so, really. What belongs to me belongs to him. What is mine is
his. I had a feeling that I should like to say this to you."

She made no remark, and he went on patiently, trying to explain—

"It is not merely that we were brought up together—that we have been
brothers. It is more. Years ago I made up my mind that, whatever he
should wish, if it were in my power to give, he should have it—even
though it might cost me—might cost me—"

The hesitation, the suppressed suffering, told more than he knew, let
slip what he meant to hide.

She kept her face turned away, and said gently—

"Yes, I see. I think it is quite beautiful of you."

"Not beautiful at all. You mistake my meaning. It is a matter of simple
duty."

"For you—perhaps," she murmured. "But Colin would be wrong to let you."

"If you knew everything, you would not say so. I owe him all—more than
I can ever pay."

They were nearing the house, and only a few seconds remained. Phyllys'
heart beat fast; for now she saw, now she knew, that Giles loved her.
But with the knowledge came a woman-like instinct to hold back, a rush
of shy reserve. She would not too quickly betray herself. She wanted
him to know that he was mistaken—that Colin never could, never would,
be anything to her. But how could she say it? He saw only a lowered
hat-brim.

"It's breakfast-time," she murmured, as they reached the door.

The hat-brim was slightly lifted, and he caught one tiny flash of blue
from between curling lashes.

It meant—what did it mean? Giles stood motionless, white as chalk. A
rush of new hope almost unmanned him.

"Phyllys—" his voice broke as on the day he had rescued her from the
bog, and when he tried to say more, he could not.

She forgot herself, and looked wonderingly up, full at him.

Then he too saw, he too knew—and the strong man visibly shook.

The wonder in her eyes gave place to a tender concern.

"You will not—misunderstand," he faltered. "I had thought—if it were
for Colin's happiness—"

She unconsciously shook her head.

"'He' has never given me to understand—but if it were so—A fancy of
mine, no doubt." Giles was trying to shield Colin, while yet making
sure. "It might have been right to give him the first chance—to—leave
home myself—"

"Please 'don't!'" she whispered, and ran indoors.

Giles did not follow. He had to meet joy as he had met pain—alone.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE LOST HEIRLOOM

IN the gallery stood Phyllys, gazing at a vacant space once occupied
by an ancestral portrait. She knew the spot, though during a former
visit her attention had not been drawn to it. Colin, under pressure
of modelling, had failed to take her round. Then had come her summons
home, with the discovery that the picture had vanished.

She hardly wondered that the loss had not been more quickly found out.
The oak-panelled wall was so dark, the pictures around so resembled it
in tint, the corner itself was so much in shade,—that the disappearance
might easily go unnoticed. As she thus cogitated, a step made her turn.

"Fine afternoon," remarked Mr. Dugdale. "Kathleen wants you for a
drive. She will call at half-past three."

He was cool, neat, precise as always, but in his face was a glimmer of
something not often visible. He liked Phyllys as he liked few; partly
for her own sake, partly for her father's.

"Swiss trip cut short in a hurry," was his next remark. "How came that
about?"

"Mrs. Keith did not care to stay longer."

"So I hear. Can't discover any reason."

"I don't know why it was. She seemed upset—and one day she had a
fainting-fit."

"Real?"—with a glance.

"Yes, quite real."

"She's given to nervous attacks," as if in apology.

Phyllys looked towards the corner. "That picture has never been found!"

"No. Extraordinary!" and he knitted his brows.

"But if the thief took it—"

Mr. Dugdale raised his eyebrows.

"Humbug!"

"You don't think it was a thief?"

He glanced round to see that they were alone, and lowered his voice.
"That's all humbug. No more a thief than I am. I'd wager a hundred
pounds it is Mrs. Keith's own doing. Don't repeat what I say. There 'd
be no end of a rumpus."

Phyllys was startled, despite her own suspicions. "But why? What could
make her?"

"Mrs. Keith has done many things for which reasons are hard to find.
Odd woman—always was! Never could conceive what made Giles' father give
him into her charge. Must have been demented."

"'She' must?" inquiringly.

He gave a short laugh. "I meant Giles' father. But she—well, you are
not far out there."

"She has been a good mother to Giles."

"Taken care of his health. As for the lads' moral training, it's a
marvel to me how they have turned out so well. Precept enough! But as
for example!"

"What was the picture like?" asked Phyllys. She had often wished for an
opportunity to ask this.

"Young fellow, in the dress of two hundred years ago. Pleasant
face—blue eyes—look of Colin. That is why she has hidden it—if she
has, which I, for one, don't doubt. Can't say this to Colin or Giles.
I'm telling you in confidence." There was in Mr. Dugdale a feminine
element, apparent at this moment.

Phyllys assented. He seemed to be describing the hidden
oil-painting—the likeness of Mrs. Keith's brother.

"Why should she mind its being like Colin?"

"No accounting for feminine vagaries. But in this case a clue does
exist. She has always set herself against Colin's modelling—no
reason!—it's like the schoolboys and Dr. Fell. Since things are so, she
detests being told that Colin is like the young fellow in the portrait,
simply because 'he' was a sculptor—and a successful one in his day,
though not of lasting fame. Which accounts for the resemblance—not so
much feature as expression."

"The spirit of sculpture in both," suggested Phyllys.

"That may be! However, years ago she made up her mind that Colin should
not model; and, having made up her mind, she sticks to it like a leech.
Therefore, anything that encourages him in his love of sculpture
she hates like poison. Consequently, when she detected a growing
likeness, she banished the portrait from the drawing-room. Then,
finding attention drawn to the resemblance, she made away with it.
Bless you—no!—even she wouldn't venture to destroy it. But I haven't a
doubt—not a doubt!—she's got it somewhere under lock and key. And what
is more, I'm certain Giles suspects the same—which is why he refuses to
have the police."

"Doesn't he want it found?"

"He doesn't want his private affairs to be the talk of the county.
Mind, he says nothing. All this is conjecture. I'm telling you
because—" and a pause—"I think you ought to know; and you might have
influence with Mrs. Keith." His look said, "You know something already."

Phyllys admired his astuteness, but felt herself powerless. "It seems
such an extraordinary thing," she said. "A picture belonging to
somebody else."

Mr. Dugdale tapped his forehead with a forefinger.

"Is she—really?"

"That is my theory again. Nothing else explains."

"Explains—?"

"The muddle she makes of life. The way in which she snubs her own son,
and fawns on Giles. The fact that not a word she says can be relied
on. There's a moral twist in her. She will contradict herself a dozen
times a day, if it suits her purpose. All the same, she knows what she
is about. She's the oddest mixture I ever came across of cleverness
and—really one might almost call it semi-insanity. Only there is method
in the madness."

"What sort of man is her brother?"

"Jock Reeves? Never saw him. Rather a scamp, I imagine, in his
youth—banished to Australia—family pleased to get him out of the way.
So Mrs. Keith says. 'Dear Jock' she calls him. Never seems to write to
'dear Jock,' or to hear from him; and not the smallest anxiety to get
him home."

"Have you seen a likeness of him?" Phyllys was picturing still the
hidden portrait, declared by Mrs. Keith to represent her brother in
theatricals.

"Good while ago. Big-made, substantial fellow, rather jolly-looking—not
Mrs. Keith's style."

Giles approached in time for the last words, and Phyllys said, "We are
talking about Mrs. Keith's brother. Did you ever see him?"

"Just before he went out. I remember a big man, as Mr. Dugdale says,
with a hearty laugh. Very jolly, and good to us little fellows."

"Not at all Colin's style!" thought Phyllys.


She pondered much that afternoon and evening on the enigmatical ways of
Mrs. Keith.

That the hidden portrait was the lost heirloom it was impossible
longer to doubt,—that it was "not," as professed by Mrs. Keith, the
likeness of her only brother, but of a young sculptor, ancestor to
Giles, who had lived two centuries earlier, and whose gift, resembling
that of Colin, had apparently developed in him something of the
same type of features and expression. Mrs. Keith's extreme dislike
to the resemblance arose, doubtless, from her aversion to sculpture
as a pursuit for her son. An illogical aversion, yet very real.
Unreasonableness seemed in her to be a leading characteristic; perhaps
connected with that touch of brain-weakness which Phyllys had begun to
suspect, and of which Mr. Dugdale spoke frankly.

"A kind of brain-oddity!" decided Phyllys. "But what shoals of lies she
has told!"

Then a rebound. In past days Phyllys had been weary of the little
Midfell home. She had found Barbara unendurable, had craved escape from
Mrs. Wyverne's narrow judgments. Now, in fuller understanding of Mrs.
Keith, her mind leaped back to the grandmother, with a sense of repose
in that strong solid goodness, in the certainty that she need never
fear there to find aught of exaggeration, double meaning, falsity.
She recalled, with loving respect, Mrs. Wyverne's sturdy truth and
religious devotion—a devotion lived out in daily life, marred by no
such terrible inconsistencies. Mrs. Keith made a show of religion, but
did not live up to it.

At this juncture, the girl could almost have exclaimed, "Let me go back
to the old life, with its limitations, and its reality!"

But other elements existed. She could never again live the old life as
in the past. In many ways she had expanded beyond it. She might meet
its limitations more patiently, because able to value more truly what
it held of real worth; yet those limitations, the spirit of narrowness,
the contracted outlook, would try her more severely than of old.

And—there was Giles! She could not put Giles aside.

Needless that she should, she told herself, smiling. Giles had his
faults, but he was true! There was in his character a rock-like
stability, good to lean upon. She recalled the grasp of his hand, as he
drew her from the bog, and she recognised that grip to be symbolical of
the strong upholding which might, perhaps, be hers for life should she
one day give herself to him.

Midfell village with all its simplicity, the kind old grandmother with
all her honesty and goodness, could not satisfy her deeper needs. Giles
only was able, she whispered to herself.

And she hardly yet realised, though in a manner she had begun to know,
that the deepest needs of her nature not even Giles could satisfy.

When she went to bed she considered all this over again, arriving at
the same conclusions with respect to Giles; and dismissing Mrs. Keith
as hopelessly eccentric. It was useless to try to understand her. What
a mercy Colin had not grown-up like his mother!

She was dropping asleep, letting entanglements glide away. Giles' face
came up, and she smiled. Then she forgot herself, and came to, and
floated off again, when, like a flash of lightning, an extraordinary
conjecture seized her.

It was a conjecture so vivid, so startling, so far-reaching, that in a
moment she was wide awake, sitting up in bed.

"Nonsense! Nonsense!" she said aloud.

But the possibility grew. It laid hold upon her imagination. Looking
back, she saw scene after scene, heard utterance after utterance, more
or less perplexing at the time—all now met, unravelled, explained, by
this scathing suggestion—all lending support to it!

"No, no, 'no!'" she said. "I'll never let myself think such a thing
again! It's out of the question."

The resolve was powerless. She could not stop thinking. Again and
again that dread possibility leapt up, and "would" be faced, "would"
assert itself. It cast a lurid light on past, present, future! It made
perplexities clear. It set her head whirling.

It could not be. It was too madly impossible. She said these words over
and over, but they had no force. She could not divest herself of a
growing belief that things were so. And yet, to imagine that she alone
should see, that everybody else had been blind! Preposterous!

She tried to laugh. "It's a nightmare! I'll go to sleep and forget!"

But sleep had fled.



CHAPTER XXX

MRS. KEITH AND HER CORRESPONDENT

TWO or three evenings later Mrs. Keith stood at her open bedroom
window. Giles, before her return, had invited to dinner the Vicar and
Dr. Wallace. She always set herself against attentions being paid to
the doctor; but once in a while Giles put his foot down. He had done so
now, and she had to give in. Mr. Dugdale also was coming.

She was in one of her restless moods; frequent moods of late. She had
dressed early and dismissed her maid, planning a time alone. When
successful, she wished she had failed.

Solitude was abhorrent to her; yet she did not go down. Difficulties
had to be faced. At any moment they might assume an acute form, and it
was needful to consider how she should meet the danger. She lived on
the edge of a volcano.

After years of immunity from fear, of running away from conscience, of
shutting her eyes to realities, she found herself in a net of her own
weaving. Less and less, as weeks went by, could she see her way out.
Knot after knot was being tied, so it seemed to her, by a relentless
hand. More truly, she had herself fastened those knots in the past; and
the net had ever since imprisoned her, though so loosely that she could
ignore its existence. Now that unseen hand was tightening it.

She could not escape. No loophole presented itself. One mode she did
know—the mode of the "Gordian knot." But from that she shrank with
loathing.

"I would sooner die!" she said, setting her teeth; and she failed to
see, as in Switzerland she had seen, what such a death must mean. She
clenched her hand. "He must not come! He shall not come!"

A letter had arrived that afternoon, not in the ordinary way,
but forwarded under cover from her London bankers, being marked
"Immediate." It was written by one whom she ought to have welcomed to
Castle Hill; whom, for no fault of his own, she was determined to keep
away. The writer, in a tone of grave remonstrance, argued against this
resolve, trying to make it clear that she wronged herself and him.

"He shall 'not' come!" she repeated aloud, with energy.

She turned from the window, through which blew a cold breeze. There
were lights on the table; and she drew from her pocket two envelopes.
With impatient fingers she took out a sheet, found it to be the one she
did not want, and drew forth the other, which she read, not for the
second or third time.

"He ought to be sure that I would not act so without reason. He ought
to understand. My motives are no concern of his! I told him it had
to be; and that should be enough. After all these years, what can it
signify? At any cost, stay away he 'must!'"

Standing before the mirror, in her brocaded silk, she knew what his
arrival on the scene would mean. She saw him come in; pictured the
faces around; heard the inevitable exclamations; realised to the tips
of her fingers what would be felt, thought, uttered; and with that
vision sick terror seized her. She leant against the table, on the
verge of fainting.

"I could not bear it! I would rather die. The very idea is maddening.
'Right.' But right or wrong I could not! There are things too
impossible. And after all—that 'one' false step should bring me to
this! One step, which seemed at the time nothing! To have one's life
ruined! It would be cruel."

She put up both hands to her throat, where a lump seemed to rise.
If she sometimes pretended to be ill, she also suffered much from
overwrought nerves. Crimson flushed her face, fading into pallor, and
noises sang in her ears.

"Am I going off again?" she muttered. She had presence of mind to take
the letter, which had fallen from her shaking hand, and to thrust
it into her pocket. The second letter she put mechanically into its
envelope, then it dropped from her grasp, and she staggered to the
armchair, lying back with shut eyes.

A slight tap made her reply, "Come in."

And Phyllys appeared in a new frock of pale blue, a present from Mrs.
Keith. There was a touch of constraint in her manner, though she tried
to be as usual. She would not accept, but could not forget, that
strange midnight suggestion.

"I want you to see how nice my dress looks," she said. "But you are
ill."

"A touch of faintness. Not much. Some eau-de-cologne, please."

Phyllys went to the dressing-table, beside which lay on the floor an
envelope. She picked it up and laid it on the table, with the addressed
side uppermost: "Colin Keith, Esquire." Evidently meant to go by the
evening post. Then she poured the liquid on Mrs. Keith's palm, and
dabbed it behind her ears.

"You must keep quiet," she said. "It is early still. Nobody will
come for twenty minutes." But contradicting herself—"Why, there is a
carriage already."

She went to the window.

"Not a carriage, but a railway fly."

Mrs. Keith sat upright, and faintness vanished. If this were the worst,
she would brace herself to meet it.

"Colin has come!" exclaimed Phyllys.

"Nonsense! He is in Scotland."

"I saw him plainly, in the light from the door."

Mrs. Keith leant back, shaking like a leaf. The momentary terror,
courageously met, had been awful; and reaction was severe. She had felt
certain that the deferred possibility of years, nay, of decades of
years, was a present reality.

Another tap at the door was accompanied by a slow—"Mother here?"

Phyllys' "Yes" was prompt, and he entered before Mrs. Keith could speak.

"You did not expect me," he said. "Just in time for dinner." He kissed
Mrs. Keith on a cheek coldly presented, and Phyllys wondered if he felt
the lack of welcome. He said a kind word about her apparent exhaustion,
though, as Phyllys could not help noting, it aroused no anxiety. Then,
when she would have moved, he murmured, "Pray don't go. I'm off."

As he passed the dressing-table, he saw the envelope addressed to
himself, and took it. "Save the postman that trouble! From Giles," he
remarked, and drew the sheet out, as it happened with the fourth page
towards himself. "No!" in surprise. "I could have declared it to be
his writing. Oddly like!" He turned to the first page, and a singular
expression came.

"What are you doing there?" Mrs. Keith asked irritably.

"This is yours; not mine," and he came nearer. "You must have put it by
mistake into the wrong envelope."

"What?" The word cracked out like a pistol-shot. She jumped up. "What
are you talking about?"

He placed the letter in her hands. "I saw the address, and took it—but
it is for yourself. I suppose you have another for me."

She snatched and thrust it into her pocket; then turned upon Colin a
look not to be forgotten. It seemed to be the concentration of hate.

"How dare you meddle with letters of mine?" she demanded furiously.

"I beg your pardon. I thought it was mine."

"And of course you have read it."

She could not face those quiet eyes.

"You do not really think so. I saw the signature, and that it was to
you."

"Nothing more?"

"Is not that a needless question?"

She turned away, and said passionately, "I might be left in peace this
one half-hour!"

Without another word he went, followed by Phyllys, who, in the passage,
could not resist a glance of sympathy.

He said in an undertone, "Please forget. She means nothing."

"I suppose she can't help it."

"There's a good deal of nervous excitement," he said evasively.

"Do you think it is—perhaps—her head?"

"Giles and I have long thought so. People are apt in such cases, as you
know, to turn against those who are nearest. This is between ourselves."

Phyllys, as she moved away, wished that she could have believed the
same.



CHAPTER XXXI

GILES AND HIS HOPES

THE dinner, kept up to the mark by Mr. Dugdale, went off as small
dinners commonly do.

Mrs. Keith was well-dressed, but she could not have been complimented
on her looks. Her face was pale with a spotted pallor, drawn, and
lined. Colin noted her appearance as unusual. His eyes travelled often
in her direction, and his gaze showed only concern; but the concern
terrified her.

Giles observed no difference, for his mind was occupied elsewhere.
Since the first morning he had been much with Phyllys, yet he could
not flatter himself with having made great way. For Colin's sake, as
well as his own, now that he had gathered the other's supposed quest to
be hopeless, he would fain have brought matters to a point. Phyllys,
however, was in an "elusive" mood; entirely charming, but by no means
to be promptly won. She held him at bay and fascinated him, at one and
the same time.

Colin's return was unexpected. He had meant to stay in the north
longer. The avowed cause, something to do with modelling, did not
satisfy Giles, who suspected Phyllys to be the true reason. He seemed
to be in good spirits, but looked ill, as always after travelling.
Phyllys ascribed his looks to his mother's reception, which reception
now held in her mind a new and sinister meaning. That midnight
suspicion haunted her.

Small-talk had not been included in Giles' composition; and the Vicar
did not love chit-chat; while the Doctor was uncomfortably conscious of
his hostess' dislike. But Mr. Dugdale kept the ball going.

Not long after Mrs. Keith and Phyllys left the table, they were joined
by Colin; and when he appeared, the elder lady walked off, leaving him
alone with the girl—an unusual move on her part, but she could not
longer face his scrutiny.

"Have you come straight from Scotland?" Phyllys asked. "You look
awfully tired."

"Dining-room atmosphere. No—I slept at York."

He seemed indisposed to talk, and she left him mercifully alone; but
soon there was a murmured—"What brought the Swiss plan to grief?"

"Mrs. Keith wanted to get home."

"Any reason?"

She decided that Mrs. Keith's son had a right to ask, and she related
to him, as to Giles, about the letter found at Thun, her supposed
glimpse of Giles at Interlaken, and Mrs. Keith's fainting-fit. He
listened with interest.

"I see you connect fainting-fit and letter."

"Mrs. Keith said it was not that."

"She must have advice. If one could contrive it, a London specialist."

"A specialist for—?"

"Brain—" very low.

"You think that explains all?"

"I'm not up to thinking anything definitely this evening." Then came a
change of topic, and Phyllys found him to be speaking of Giles. "One
of the best fellows that ever lived," he said. "Honestly, I believe
there's nothing in the world he wouldn't give me if he could!"

Phyllys' reply was impulsive. "Yes. He said so. 'At any cost!' I
wondered what he meant. He said he owed you so much."

She was aware of a drawing back. "Unfortunately the debt lies the other
way."

"Giles must know," she insisted. "He told me he never could repay
what he owed to you. He did not explain—and of course it is not my
business." But it might be her business one day, she thought, if things
came about as seemed not impossible.

"He likes to put things strongly. Sounds effective. Don't make too much
of it." Colin's tone was evasive. "Some boyish escapade in his mind."

"It didn't sound so."

"Giles was talking nonsense."

Was he? Phyllys knew him to be a man not addicted to careless speech.
What he had said he meant.

Perhaps Colin did not wish to be questioned further, for he moved away.


Giles was still a prisoner in his own dining-room. The Vicar and Dr.
Wallace had plunged into a discussion, and, like most men not possessed
of the faculty of small-talk, when they did set forth upon the waters
of a debate, they floated far. Their host had to sit it out as best he
might.

When at length freed, he found Phyllys alone with Mrs. Keith, and not
till the end of the evening did he come across Colin, lying on the
library sofa.

"Here—by yourself!" he said involuntarily. "Your head?" He shut the
door and came near, looking down on the pale chiselled face. "What
brought you back so soon?"

"Erratic disposition. If the moulding won't do!"

"You meant to stay longer."

"Perhaps—yes. Why don't you try conclusions with—" and a
pause—"Phyllys?"

He was smiling with his most detached air. Giles remained grave.

"How long have you known?"

"Lately. For a time I was not sure."

"You think—there is hope for me?" He stood upright, waiting in suspense
for the reply. Few looking on would have guessed the greater force of
will and character to belong to that slight recumbent figure.

Colin laughed. "As if you didn't know! Go ahead, and don't
shilly-shally! That's my advice. Speak out at once."

"Thanks. I will."

Giles went to his little sanctum, and Colin turned his face from the
light, bearing pain quietly. Not pain of body alone. Giles had won his
way earlier to victory through defeat; but in Colin's case there was
no defeat, and no man knew of his strife. He loved; and at one time he
had hoped; but when he read what Phyllys was to Giles, he drew back. He
would not stand—if he might—in the way of Giles' happiness.



CHAPTER XXXII

A POSSIBLE COMPLICATION

ONCE more at her open window, gazing, not at dim fell-outlines against
a starry sky, but into the darkness of a Midland garden, with ancestral
trees under a clouded heaven, knelt Phyllys.

Another thought had come, another suggestion, touching her more acutely
than the first.

That earlier flash of light on Mrs. Keith's past, lurid in aspect, had
been a weight upon her spirits, the supposition burdening her with
a fear lest one day it might be her duty to speak out. Still, she
was with Giles; she was sure of his love; she felt confidence in his
rectitude; she knew that, whatever might happen, he was dependable.
Nothing, she had told herself, could shake that security.

And she had not dreamt of this new doubt.

The other suspicion had struck at the root of much in her future; but
it had not affected her relations with Giles, had not threatened her
happiness. This, if true, would sweep away the foundations of all that
made for earthly joy.

If Giles went, everything went.

Hitherto no thought of blame to him had occurred. He was the
unconscious partner in another's evil deed; no less ignorant than the
rest of the world. Provisionally she had condemned one person, hoping
that her conjecture was mistaken; seeking for extenuating circumstances
should the conjecture prove true.

But if Giles were implicated, if for years "he" had acquiesced, there
could be for him no extenuating circumstances.

Recalling her chat with Colin, she glanced to an earlier conversation
with Giles, and words recurred spoken of Colin:—

"He and Mrs. Keith talk as if Colin were a poor man, dependent on
Art. It is not so, really. What belongs to me belongs to him. What is
mine is his . . . You mistake my meaning. It is a matter of simple
duty . . . Years ago I made up my mind that, whatever he might wish,
he should have it—even though it might cost me—might cost me—You would
not think so if you knew everything! I owe to Colin all—more than I can
ever repay."

He had spoken this earnestly—from his heart. And Colin could say he had
been talking nonsense.

Then the new conjecture came, dagger-like—

"'Did Giles know?'"

Colin did not. No such suspicion had occurred to him. But was Giles in
ignorance?

"What belongs to me belongs to him! What is mine is his! . . . If you
knew everything! . . . I owe to Colin more than I can ever repay!"

Some boyish escapade to win words like these from a man of Giles'
stamp! The explanation would not hold water. Another lay only too
ready. Colin could make the assertion in all honesty; but Phyllys knew
that Giles had not talked nonsense, had not alluded to some boyish
folly. He had meant every word. He had not intended her to understand;
but she did understand. She saw the whole, with daylight clearness.

She laid her face on the window-sill, clutching it in her distress.
"Giles, you too untrue!" she whispered, and scalding tears fell.

Then the thought of her own future; the all but certainty that he would
ask her to be his wife. How could she? Marry a man whose life was a
lie, whose career had been one long fraud, who for years had connived
at that which stabbed the very soul of honour, nay, of common honesty!

"If" things were so! But it might be a mistake. His words might bear
some different interpretation. Even though her first surmise should
prove correct, "he" might have had no hand in it, "he" might be
innocent. She resolved that, without ample proof, she would hold him
incapable of such conduct. She would wait for further light; but she
would not allow him to propose until she knew.

She would have to go home. She could not stay here, in hourly
intercourse, loving and knowing herself beloved, unable to meet his
advances. It would be hard to go, but from every point of view it would
be safer.

With her early cup of tea was brought a letter from Barbara, the
opening sentences of which read like a response to her resolution. Mrs.
Wyverne disapproved of Phyllys being at Castle Hill without leave.

   "If you care to know what I think, I say you ought to come back at
once," tartly wrote Barbara. "You ought to consider grandmother's
feelings. She looks quite worried, and we shall have her ill, at this
rate."

The sharp words glanced aside, scarcely heeded. Phyllys welcomed the
letter as helping her out of difficulty. At any cost—and the cost
would be severe—she felt that she must put off giving Giles a decisive
answer. She must allow no chance for a private talk. In view of
Barbara's former telegram, she could not feel anxious; but the words
would serve as a plea. To her dismay there was a postscript—

   "After all, you can't come at present. Ben Lane is ill with scarlet
fever, and Grannie will not hear of having you. So we must wait."

This made a complication. Phyllys went down to breakfast, pale,
"distraite," unlike herself.

Afterwards she wrote an impulsive note to Mr. Hazel, asking him to
bring about her recall.

   "Don't tell anybody, please," she begged, "only if you could have me
telegraphed for, it would be best. They are so kind here; still, just
now I ought to get away, and I can't tell you why. Please help me."

She ran with the note herself, to catch an early post, and wondered
whether she had asked her kind old friend to do a thing impossible.

"Good morning," aroused her from a dream, and she found herself looking
at Colin. "Giles was hunting for you. He is called off for the day on
business—awful nuisance for him. Would you like to see the cast of your
head? You've not been to my studio yet."

She laughed. "Considering that you came home last night—"

"I forgot. Come now, if you have nothing better to do."

Phyllys complied, relieved to hear that Giles was out of reach.
Anything to gain time.

The bust was on a pedestal, near that of Elsye, side by side with
that of Giles. Phyllys noted the latter fact. She stood gazing at the
successful reproduction of her own pretty outlines.

"Grannie would love to see it some day."

"You like it?"

"Yes. Didn't I say so? But I'm no judge."

"Some day if you will sit to me again, I'll do another for Mrs.
Wyverne."

"Like this?"

"Too much to ask! It might be better—or worse."

"You could not make a copy, I suppose?"

"I'm no good at copying."

"And if you took me a third and fourth time—they would all be
different."

"Yes. If you sat to a class of students, and a dozen heads were
modelled, no two would be the same. Taken from the same Phyllys, at the
same time, under the same conditions—several might be good likenesses,
yet all would differ."

"Curious," she murmured.

"Each modeller sees with different eyes—according to his own capacity
for seeing, and his own mental make. What we see is always in part a
reflection of what we are in ourselves. A dozen artists copying you
would see each a different Phyllys—all to some extent the true Phyllys,
but no two the same. The Phyllys that I see is not the Phyllys that
Giles sees. The Giles whom I see is not the Giles whom you see."

He was interesting her with his old power; and his words sent her in
recollection to a chat with the old Vicar of Midfell.

"It's like the light on different surfaces," she murmured; and a word
from Colin drew a fuller statement.

"That is just it." He grasped the thought instantly. "Different
surfaces give forth what they are able to receive—what, in common
language, they can 'see.'"

"Then, what one 'sees' one seems to others."

"That practically is the outcome."

"And people blame one another for not seeing more."

"Whence sprang the persecutions of the Middle Ages. The soil was for
ever trying to smother the water, and the water to drown the grass."

"We don't persecute now."

"No. Modern martyrdom with us is a sorry armchair business. But we
belabour one another with hard words—for not being able all to see
Divine Light in the same fashion."

"'You' don't say hard words of others, even when you don't think like
them."

He smiled, and murmured—

   "Shall one like me—
    Judge hearts—like yours?"

The response in her face made him turn to a table and open a small
book, pointing to the page. She read—

   "Time was when I believed that wrong
      In other to detect
    Was part of genius all a gift,
      To cherish, not reject;
    Now better taught by Thee, O Lord,
      This truth dawns on my mind,
    The beet effects of Heavenly Light
      Is—Earth's false eyes to blind."

She murmured, "Ah!" Colin's quotations always seemed to be just the
right thing.



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!"

[Illustration: 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.



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