Not Like Other Girls Part 77

"Perhaps so; but all the same it is dreary work to be shunted on to a platform in the middle of the night, and to have to find your way across London to catch a Suss.e.x train." But, in spite of his grumbling he had remained. For once it was difficult to tear himself away from that happy family party.

But all through that night he scarcely closed his eyes, but sat staring at the swinging-lamp and his drowsy fellow-pa.s.sengers, or out into the blank wall of darkness, too wide awake and full of thought to lose himself in his usual placid slumbers. The fortunes of the Drummond family seemed rising a little, he thought, with pleasure. How alert and full of energy his father had seemed when he had parted from him at the station! he had lost that subdued despondent look that had grown on him of late. Even his shoulders were a little less bowed, as though the burden did not press quite so heavily.

"All this makes a great difference to me, Archie," he had said, as they had walked to and fro on the platform. "Two such wealthy sons-in-law ought to satisfy any father's ambition. I can hardly believe yet that my little Mattie--whom her sisters always called 'the old maid'--should have secured such a prize. If it had been Grace, now, one need not have wondered so much."

"You may leave Grace out of your reckoning," returned Archie, smiling a.s.sent to this, "and consider you have three out of your seven daughters provided for, for Grace will always be my care. Whatever happens in the future, I think I can promise as much as that."

"Ay, ay! I remember when she was a little thing she always called herself Archie's wife. Well, well, the mother must bring on Clara now: it would be a shame to separate you two. Look, there is your train, my boy! Jump in, and G.o.d bless you! You will come down to the wedding of course, and bring Grace."

"Archie's wife." It was these two words that were keeping him so wide awake in the rus.h.i.+ng darkness. A dusky flush mounted to the young man's forehead as he pondered over them.

He knew himself better now. Only a few weeks, scarcely more than a fortnight, had pa.s.sed since Grace had given him that hint; but each day since then had done the work of years. Caught at the rebound indeed, and that so securely and strongly that the man's heart could never waver from its fixed purpose again.

Now it was that he wondered at his blindness; that he began to question with a perfect anguish of doubt whether he should be too late; whether his vacillation and that useless dream of his would hinder the fulfilment of what was now his dearest hope.

Would he ever bring her to believe that he had never really loved before,--not, at least, as he could love now? Would he ever dare to tell her so, when she had known and understood that first stray fancy of his for Nan's sweet face?

Now, as day after day he visited the cottage and talked apart with her mother, his eyes would follow Phillis wistfully. Once the girl had looked up from her work and caught that long, watchful glance; and then she had grown suddenly very pale, and a pained expression crossed her face, as though she had been troubled.

Since that night when the young vicar had stood bare-headed on the snowy steps, and had told Phillis laughingly that one day she would find out for herself that all men were masterful, and she had run down the steps flas.h.i.+ng back that disdainful look at him, he had felt there was a change in her manner to him.

They had been such good friends of late; it had become a habit with him to turn to Phillis when he wanted sympathy. A silent, scarcely perceptible understanding had seemed to draw them together; but in one moment, at a word, a mere light jest of his that meant nothing, the girl had become all at once reserved, frozen up, impenetrable even to friends.h.i.+p.

In vain he strove to win her back to her old merry talk. Her frank recklessness of speech seemed over for the present. In his presence she was almost always silent,--not with any awkwardness of embarra.s.sment, but with a certain maidenly reserve of bearing, as though she had marked out a particular line of conduct for herself.

When Grace was in the room, things were better: Phillis could not be otherwise than affectionate to her chosen friend. And when they were alone together, all Phillis's bright playfulness seemed to return; but nothing would induce her to cross the threshold of the vicarage.

The evening after his return from Leeds, Archie, as usual, dropped in at the Friary; but this time he brought Grace with him. They were all gathered in the work-room, which had now become their favorite resort.

On some pretext or other, the lamp had not been brought in; but they were all sitting round the fire, chatting in an idle desultory way.

Phillis was half hidden behind her mother's chair: perhaps this was the reason why her voice had its old merry chord. She had welcomed Archie rather gravely,--hardly turning her face to him as she spoke; but as soon as she was in her corner again, she took up the thread of their talk in her usual frank way. But it was Grace that she addressed.

"Poor dear Harry! We have all been laughing a little at the notion of Alcides being in love. Somehow, it seems so droll that Mattie should turn out his Deianeira; but, after all, I think he has shown very good sense in his choice. Mattie will wear well."

"You seem to agree with the 'Vicar of Wakefield,' Miss Challoner,"

observed Archie, rather amused at this temperate praise. "Did not that excellent man choose his wife for the same reason that she choose her wedding-dress, with a view to durability?"

"Oh, there is a vast amount of wisdom in all that," returned Phillis, with mock solemnity; for she did not mind what nonsense she talked in the darkness. "If life had nothing but fair-weather days, it might be excusable for a man to choose his wife for mere beauty; but when one thinks of fogs and east-winds, and smoky chimneys, and all such minor evils, they may need something a little more sustaining than a pink complexion. At least," catching herself up, and hurrying on as though the real meaning of her words only just occurred to her, "though Mattie may not be beautiful outwardly, she is just the right sort of person for a regular east-windy day. Not even a smoky chimney and a fog together will put her out of temper."

"I will recollect your advice when the time comes," replied Archie rather audaciously at this, as he laughed and stroked his beard.

It pleased him to see the old fun br.i.m.m.i.n.g over again, fresh and sparkling; but, as he answered her in the same vein of pleasantry, she colored up in her dark corner and shrank back into herself, and all the rest of the evening he could hardly win a smile from her.

"My dear, I think Mr. Drummond comes very often," Mrs. Challoner said to her eldest daughter that night. "He is very gentlemanly, and a most excellent young man: but I begin to be afraid what these visits mean." But Nan only laughed at this.

"Poor mother!" she said, stroking her face. "Don't you wish you had us all safe at Glen Cottage again? There are so few young men at Oldfield."

"I cannot bear young men," was the somewhat irritable answer. "What is the use of having children, when just when they grow up to be a comfort to you, every one tries to deprive you of them? d.i.c.k has robbed me of you,"--and here Mrs. Challoner grew tearful,--"and Dulce is always with the Middletons; and I am not at all sure that Captain Middleton is not beginning to admire her."

"Neither am I," observed Nan, a little gravely; for, though they seldom talked of such things among themselves, "son Hammond's"

attentions were decidedly conspicuous, and Dulce was looking as shy and pretty as possible.

No; she could not give her mother any comfort there, for the solemn-faced young officer was clearly bent on mischief. Indeed, both father and son were making much of the little girl. But as regarded Mr. Drummond there could be no question of his intentions. The growing earnestness, the long wistful looks, were not lost on Nan who knew all such signs by experience. It was easy to understand the young vicar: it was Phillis who baffled her.

They had never had any secrets between them. From their very childhood, Nan had shared Phillis's every thought. But once or twice when she had tried to approach the subject in the gentlest manner, Phillis had started away like a restive colt, and had answered her almost with sharpness:

"Nonsense, Nannie! What is it to me if Mr. Drummond comes a dozen times a day?" arching her long neck in the proudest way, but her throat contracting a little over the uttered falsehood; for she knew, none better, what these visits were to her. "Do you think I should take the trouble to investigate his motives? Don't you know, Nan," in her sweet whimsical voice, "that the masculine mind loves to conjugate the verb 'to amuse'? Mr. Drummond is evidently bored by his own company; but there! the vagaries of men are innumerable. One might as well question the ebbing tide as inquire of these young divinities the reason of all their eccentric actions. He comes because we amuse him, and we like to see him because he amuses us: and when he bores us, we can tell him so, which is better than Canute and the waves, after all." And of course, after this, Nan was compelled to drop the subject.

But she watched Phillis anxiously; for she saw that the girl was restless and ill at ease. The thoughtful gray eyes had a shadow in them. The bright spirits were quenched, and only kindled by a great effort; and, as the time for their leaving the Friary grew closer day by day, until the last week approached, she flagged more, and the shadow grew deeper.

"If he would only speak and end all this suspense!" thought Nan, who knew nothing of the real state of things, and imagined that Mr.

Drummond had cared for Phillis from the first.

They had already commenced their packing. Sir Harry was back in his hotel, solacing himself with his cousin's company, and writing brief letters to his homely little bride-elect, when one fine afternoon he met them and Grace just starting for the sh.o.r.e.

This was their programme on most afternoons, and of course they had not gone far before Captain Middleton and his father and sister joined them; and a little later on, just as they were entering the town, they overtook Mr. Drummond.

Phillis nodded to him in a friendly manner, and then walked on with Grace, taking no further notice; but when they were on the sh.o.r.e, admiring the fine sunset effect, Grace quietly dropped her arm and slipped away to join the others. Phillis stood motionless: her eyes were riveted on the grand expanse of sky and ocean. "It is so like life," she said at last, not seeing who stood beside her, while all the others were walking on in groups of twos and threes, Dulce close to the colonel, as usual. "Do you see those little boats, Grace? one is sailing so smoothly in the sunlight, and the other scarcely stirring in the shadow,--brightness to some, you see, and shade to others; and beyond, that clear line of light, like the promise of eternity."

"Don't you think it lies within most people's power to make their own lives happier?" returned Archie so quietly to this that she scarcely started. "The suns.h.i.+ne and shade are more evenly balanced than we know. To be sure, there are some lives like that day that is neither clear nor dark,--gray, monotonous lives, with few breaks and pleasures in them. But perhaps even that question may be happily solved when one looks out a little farther to the light beyond."

"Yes, if one does not grow tired of waiting for the answer," she said, a little dreamily. "There is so much that cannot be clear here." And then she roused with a little difficulty from her abstraction, and looked around her. The others had all gone on: they were standing alone on the s.h.i.+ngly beach, just above a little strip of yellow sand,--only they two. Was it for this reason that her eyes grew wide and troubled, and she moved away rather hurriedly? But he still kept close to her, talking quietly as he did so.

"Do you remember this place?" he said: "it reminds me of a picture I once saw. I think it was 'Atalanta's Race,' only there was no Paris.

It was just such as scene as this: there was the dark breakwater, and the long line of surf breaking on the sh.o.r.e, and the sun was s.h.i.+ning on the water; and there was a girl running with her head erect, and she scarcely seemed to touch the ground, and she stopped just here,"

resting his hand on the black, s.h.i.+ny timber.

"Do not," she answered, in a low voice, "do not recall that day: it stings me even now to remember it." And as the words "Bravo Atalanta!"

recurred to her memory, the hot blush of shame mounted to her face.

"I have no need to recall it," he returned, still more quietly, for her discomposure was great, "for I have never forgotten it. Yes, this is the place, not where I first saw you, but where I first began to know you. Phillis, that knowledge is becoming everything to me now!"

"Do not," she said, again, but she could hardly bring out the words.

But how wonderful it was to hear her name p.r.o.nounced like that! "The others have gone on: we must join them."

"May I not tell you what I think about you first?" he asked, very gently.

"Not now,--not yet," she almost whispered; and now he saw that she was very pale, and her eyes were full of tears. "I could not bear it yet."

And then, as she moved farther away from him, he could see how great was her agitation.

It was a proof of his love and earnestness that he suffered the girl to leave him in this way, that he did not again rejoin her until they were close to the others. In spite of his impatience and his many faults, he was generous enough to understand her without another word.

She had not repelled him; she had not silenced him entirely; she had not listened to him and then answered him with scorn. On the contrary, her manner had been soft and subdued, more winning than he had ever known it; and yet she had refused to hearken to his suit. "Not now,--not yet," she had said, and he could see that her lip quivered, and her beautiful eyes were full of tears. It was too soon, that was what she meant; too soon for him to speak and for her to listen. She owed it to her own dignity that his affection should be put to greater proof than that. She must not be so lightly won; she must not stoop down from her maidenly pride and n.o.bleness at his first words because she had grown to care for him. "It must not be so, however much the denial may cost me," Phillis had said to herself. But as she joined the others, and came to Nan's side, she could scarcely steady her voice or raise her eyes, for fear their shy consciousness would betray her. "At last," and "at last!"--that was the refrain that was ringing so joyously in her heart. Well, and one day he should tell her what he would.

She thought she had silenced him entirely, but she forgot that men were masterful and had cunning ways of their own to compa.s.s their ends. Archie had recovered his courage; he had still a word to say, and he meant to say it; and just before the close of the walk, as they were in the darkest part of the Braidwood Road, just where the trees meet overhead, before one reaches the vicarage, Phillis found him again at her side.

"When may I hope that you will listen?" he said. "I am not a patient man: you must remember that, and not make it too hard for me. I should wish to know how soon I may come."

"Spring is very beautiful in the country," she answered, almost too confused by this unexpected address to know what she was saying. "I think May is my favorite month, when the hawthorns are out."