It was evident that something must be done speedily to save Phillida
from a decline that might end in death, or from that chronic invalidism
which is almost worse. All sort of places were thought of, but the
destination was at last narrowed down to the vicinity of Hampton Roads,
as the utmost limit that any prudent expenditure would allow the
Callenders to venture upon. Even this would cost what ordinary caution
forbade them to spend, and Phillida held out stoutly against any trip
until the solicitude of her mother and sister bore down all objections.
Not long after Dr. Gunstone's visit, Mrs. Callender received a letter
from Mrs. Hilbrough expressing anxiety regarding Phillida, and
regretting that her husband's horror of diphtheria still prevented her
from calling. She continued:
"I very much wish to do something by which I can show my love for
Phillida. Won't you let me bear the expense of a trip southward, if you
think that will do good? If you feel delicate about it, consider it a
loan to be paid whenever it shall be convenient, but it would give me
great happiness if I might be allowed to do this little act of
affection."
Mrs. Callender showed the note to Phillida. "It would save our selling
the bonds," she said, "but I do not like to go in debt, and of course we
would repay it by degrees."
"It is a trifle to her," said Phillida, "and I think we might accept two
hundred dollars or more as a loan to be repaid."
"Well, if you think so, Phillida, but I do hate to be in debt."
Phillida sat thinking for a minute. Then her pale face colored.
"Did the letter come by mail?" she asked.
Mrs. Callender examined the envelope. "I thought it came from the
postman, but there is no postmark; Sarah brought it to me."
"Suppose you ask Sarah to come up," said Phillida.
On Sarah's arrival Phillida asked her who brought this letter.
"It wuz that young man with the short side whiskers just under his ears
and a cap that's got a front before and another one behind, so't I don't
see for the life of me how he gets it on right side before."
"The man that brought flowers when I was sick?"
"That very same, Miss."
"All right, Sarah. That'll do." Then when Sarah had gone Phillida leaned
her head back and said:
"It won't do, Mother. We can't accept it."
It was a tedious week after Dr. Gunstone's last visit before a trip was
finally determined on and a destination selected, and Mrs. Callender,
who had a genius for thoroughness, demanded yet another week in which to
get ready. Phillida, meanwhile, sat wearily waiting for to-morrow to
follow to-day.
"Mother," she said, one day, rousing herself from a reverie, "what a
good fellow Cousin Philip is, after all! I used to feel a certain
dislike for what seemed to me irresolution and inactivity in him. But
ever since I was taken sick he has been just like a brother to me."
"He has taken charge of us," said Mrs. Callender. "He has inquired about
board for us at Hampton, and he has worked out all the routes by rail
and steamboat."
Philip's kindness to his aunt's family was originally self-moved, but,
as Phillida convalesced, his mother contrived to send him with messages
to her, and even suggested to him that his company would be cheering to
his cousin. Philip sat and chatted with her an hour every day, but the
exercise did not raise his spirits in the least. For his mother
frequently hinted that if he had courage he would be more prompt to
avail himself of his opportunities in life. Philip could have no doubt
as to what his mother meant by opportunities in life, and he knew better
than any one else that he was prone to waste his haymaking sunshine in
timid procrastinations. But how to make love to Phillida? How offer his
odd personality to such a woman as she? His mother's severe hints about
young men who could not pluck ripe fruit hanging ready to their hand
spurred him, but whenever he was in Phillida's presence something of
preoccupation in her mental attitude held him back from tender words. He
thought himself a little ridiculous, and when he tried to imagine
himself making love he thought that he would be ten times more absurd.
If he could have got into his favorite position in an arm-chair and
could have steadied his nerves by synchronous smoking, as he was
accustomed to do whenever he had any embarrassing business matters to
settle, he might have succeeded in expressing to Phillida the smoldering
passion that made life a bitterness not to be sweetened even by Caxton
imprints and Bedford-bound John Smiths of 1624.
He always knew that if he should ever succeed in letting Phillida know
of his affection it would be by a sudden charge made before his
diffidence could rally to oppose him. He had once or twice in his life
done bold things by catching his dilatory temper napping. With this idea
he went every day to call on Phillida, hoping that a fit of desperation
might carry him at a bound over the barrier. At first he looked for some
very favorable opportunity, but after several visits he would have been
willing to accept one that offered the least encouragement.
There were but a few days left before Phillida's departure southward,
and if he should allow her to escape he would incur the bitter
reproaches of his own conscience, and, what seemed even worse, the
serious disapproval of Mrs. Gouverneur.
Phillida and her mother were to leave on Friday afternoon by the
Congressional Limited for Baltimore, and to take boat down the bay on
Saturday. Philip had arranged it all. It was now Tuesday, and the time
for "improving his opportunity in life" was short. On this Tuesday
afternoon he talked an hour to Phillida, but he could not possibly
cause the conversation to swing around so as to be able, even with
considerable violence, to make the transition he desired. He first let
her lead, and she talked to him about the East and the queer ways of the
yellow Mongolians she remembered. These memories of early childhood, in
the blessed period when care and responsibility had not yet disturbed
the spirit's freedom, brought her a certain relief from gnawing
reflections. When she tired it was his turn to lead, and he soon slipped
into his old grooves and entertained her with stories of the marvelous
prices fetched by Mazarin Bibles, and with accounts of people who had
discovered "fourteeners" in out-of-the-way places, and such like lore of
the old book-shop. All the time he was tormented by a despairing
under-thought that love-making was just as far from book-collecting as
it was from Phillida's Oriental memories. At length the under-thought
suppressed the upper ones, and he paused and looked out of the window
and drew his small form down on the chair, assuming his favorite
attitude, while he supported his right elbow with his left hand and
absent-mindedly held the fingers of the right hand near his lips as
though to support an imaginary cigar.
"Philip," said the invalid, embarrassed by the silence, "I envy you your
interest in books."
"You do?" Philip moved his right hand as he might have done in removing
a cigar from the mouth and turned to Phillida. "Why?"
"It saves you from being crushed by the immensities as you call them. I
suppose it has consoled you in many a trouble, and no doubt it has kept
you from the miseries of falling in love."
She laid her thin hand on the arm of her chair as she spoke.
"Kept me from falling in love," gasped Philip, aware that his
now-or-never had arrived, "how do you know that?"
"I never heard that you were in love with anybody. Excuse me if I have
trodden on forbidden ground."
"I have loved but one woman, and I'm such a coward that I never had the
courage to tell her," he said abruptly, at the same time restoring his
imaginary cigar to his mouth.
"That's a pity," she said.
"What a figure I'd cut as a lover! Little, lank, nervous, eccentric in
manner, peculiar in my opinions, lacking resolution to undertake
anything worth while, frittering away my time in gathering rare
books--what woman would think of me?"
"Philip, you have many excellent qualities, and I shouldn't wonder if
marriage would be good for you," said Phillida, in that motherly tone
that only a young woman can assume easily.
"You'd laugh at me as long as you live if I should tell you whom I have
dared to love without ever daring to confess." His face was averted as
he said this.
"You poor fellow," said Phillida, "you are always doubtful of yourself.
Come, I think you had better tell me; may be I can encourage you, and it
will give me something to think about and keep away thoughts that I
don't wish to think."
Philip drew a long breath and then said slowly and with a firm voice,
but with his eyes on the window fastenings:
"The woman I love and have loved for a long time is my Cousin Phillida."
"You are joking, Philip," said Phillida, but her voice died as she
spoke.
"Yes," said Philip, in his old desponding tone, "I knew it would seem
ridiculous to you. That's why I never spoke of it before."
He looked out of the window in silence, and presently became aware that
Phillida was weeping.
"O God! let me die," she murmured in a broken voice. "I am doomed to
work only misery in the world. Isn't it enough to have blighted the
happiness of Charley, whom I loved and still love in spite of myself?
Must I also plunge Philip into misery who has been more than a brother
to me? If I could only die and escape from this wretched life before I
do any further harm."
"I am sorry that I said anything, Phillida. Forget it. Forget it,
please." He said in an alarmed voice, rising as he spoke.
"Cousin," said Phillida, "you are the best friend I have. But you _must
not_ love me. There is nothing left for me. Nothing--but to die.
Good-by."
That evening Philip did not appear at dinner and his mother sent to
inquire the reason.
"Mr. Philip says he has a headache, and will not come down," said the
maid on her return.
After dinner the mother sought his room with a cup of coffee and a bit
of toast. Philip was lying on the lounge in his book-room with the gas
turned low.
"What's the matter, Philip? Is your throat sore? Are there any signs of
diphtheria?" demanded his mother anxiously.
"No, I am all right. A little out of sorts. Only just let me be quiet."
"Has anything gone wrong?"
"Nothing more than common."
"Something has worried you. Now, Philip, I can see plainly that you are
worrying about Phillida. Why don't you speak your mind if you care for
her, and have it over with?"
"It is over with, mother," said Philip.
"And she refused you?" said Mrs. Gouverneur, with rising indignation,
for she thought it rather a descent for Philip to offer himself to
Phillida or to anybody else.
"No, she didn't refuse me. I didn't formally offer myself. But I let her
know how I felt toward her. She'll never accept me."
"May be she will," said the mother. "Girls don't like to accept at the
first hint."
"No, she was kind and even affectionate with me, and broke her heart
over my confession that I loved her, so that I'm afraid I have done her
a great deal of harm."
"How do you know she will never accept you, you faint-hearted boy?"
"She let me see her whole heart. She loves Charley Millard as much as
ever, but, I think, for some reason she doesn't expect or wish a renewal
of the engagement. She called me the best friend she had in the world,
next to Charley Millard. That's an end of it. A good deal more of an end
of it than a flat refusal might have been."
"She's a foolish and perverse girl, who has compromised her family and
ruined her own prospects," said Mrs. Gouverneur. "Your aunt told me
to-day that Dr. Gunstone thinks she is going to die of her
disappointment about Charley unless the engagement can be renewed. But
Phillida has determined not to allow a renewal of it. She's always doing
something foolish. Now, eat a little dinner, or take your coffee at
least."
"Leave the things here, mother. May be I'll eat after a while."
Half an hour later Mrs. Gouverneur, uneasy regarding Philip, returned to
his library to find the food as she had left it.
On inquiry she learned that Philip had just gone out. Whither and for
what purpose he had sallied forth dinnerless she could not divine, and
the strangeness of his action did not reassure her. She was on the point
of speaking to her husband about it, but he had so little in common with
Philip, and was of a temper so fixed and stolid, that his advice would
not have availed anything. It never did avail anything certainly in the
first hour or two after dinner.