The next morning Agatha went over to Washington Square to let Philip
know that the trip southward had been postponed for a week or so. And
Philip knew that the trip southward would never take place at all, but
that drives with Charley in Central Park would prove much better for the
invalid.
"Oh, yes, it's all right then. I expected it," he said.
"Yes," said Agatha, "it's all right. I managed it myself, Cousin Philip.
I brought them together."
"Did you, Agatha?" he said with a queer smile. "That was clever."
"Yes, and they have not thanked me for it. Phillida wishes to see you.
She told me to tell you."
"I don't doubt she can wait," said Philip smiling, "seeing me is not
important to her just now. Give her my love and congratulations, and
tell her I'll come in the day before she starts to Hampton. There'll be
time enough before she gets off, Agatha." This last was said with a
laugh that seemed to Agatha almost happy.
Phillida's recovery was very rapid; it was all the effect of driving in
the Park. Perhaps also the near anticipation of a trip to Europe had
something to do with it, for Millard had engaged passage on the
_Arcadia_ the first week in June. To Mrs. Callender this seemed too
early; it gave the mother and her dressmaker no end of worry about the
wardrobe.
Two weeks after her reconciliation with Charley, Phillida demonstrated
her recovery by walking alone to her aunt's in Washington Square. She
asked at the door to see Mr. Philip, and when she learned that he was in
his book-room she sent to ask if she mightn't come up.
"Busy with my catalogue," said Philip as Phillida came in. He had been
busy making a catalogue of his treasures for two years, but he could not
get one to suit him. "I hate to print this till I get a complete 'De
Bry,' and that'll be many a year to come, I'm afraid. I couldn't afford
the cost of a complete set this year nor next, and it's hardly likely
that there'll be one for sale in ten years to come. But it will give me
something to look forward to."
All this he said hurriedly as though to prevent her saying something
else. While speaking he set a chair for Phillida, but she did not sit
down.
"Cousin Philip," she said, "you might just as well hear what I've got to
say first as last."
"Hear? Oh, I'm all attention," he said, "but sit down," and he set the
example, Phillida following it with hesitation.
"If you had pulled me out of the water," she began, "and saved my life,
you'd expect me to say 'thank you,' at least. Charley has told me all
about how you acted. We think you're just the noblest man we have ever
known."
"Ah, now, Phillida," protested Philip, quite bewildered for want of a
lighted cigar to relieve his embarrassment, "you make me feel like a
fool. I'm no hero; it isn't in me to play any grand parts. I shall be
known, after I'm dead, by the auction catalogue of my collection of rare
books, and by nothing else. 'The Gouverneur Sale' will long be
remembered by collectors. That sort of distinction fits me. But you and
Charley are making me ridiculous with all this talk."
"Phil, you dear fellow," said Phillida, passionately, rising and putting
her hands on his shoulder, "you saved me from life-long misery, and may
be from death, at a fearful sacrifice of your own feelings. I'll
remember it the longest day I live," and she leaned over and kissed him,
and then turned abruptly away to go down-stairs.
Philip trembled from head to foot as he rose and followed Phillida to
the top of the stairs, trying in vain to speak. At last he said huskily:
"Phillida, I want to explain. I am no hero. I had made a fool of myself
as I knew I should if I ever--ever spoke to you as I did that day. Now,
of all things I don't like to be ridiculous. I thought that evening if I
could be the means of bringing you two together it would take the curse
off, so to speak. I mean that it would make me cut a less ridiculous
figure than I did and restore my self-respect. I wanted to be able to
think of you and Charley happy together without calling myself bad
names, you know."
"Yes, yes," replied Phillida. "I know. You never did a generous thing in
your life without explaining it away. But I know you too well to be
imposed on. I shall always say to myself, 'There's one noble and
disinterested man under the sky, and that's my brave Cousin Philip.'
Good-by." And standing on the first step down she reached him her hand
over the baluster rail, looked at him with a happy, grateful face which
he never forgot, and pressed his hand, saying again, "Good-by, Philip,"
and then turned and went down-stairs.
And Philip went back and shut his library door and locked it, and was
vexed with himself because for half an hour he could not see to go on
with his cataloguing. And that evening his mother was pleased to hear
him whistling softly an air from the "Mikado"--he had not whistled
before in weeks. She was equally surprised when a little later he
consented to act as Charley's best man. To her it seemed that Philip
ought to feel as though he were a kind of pall-bearer at his own
funeral. But he was quite too gay for a pall-bearer. He and Agatha had
no end of fun at the wedding; she taking to herself all the credit for
having brought it about.
In the middle of the August following, Philip, having come to town from
Newport to attend to some affairs, found a notice from the custom-house
of a box marked with his address. He hated the trouble of going down
town to get it out of the hands of the United States. But when it was
opened he found on top a note from Millard explaining that he and
Phillida had chanced upon a complete set of "De Bry" at Quaritch's, and
that they thought it would be a suitable little present for their best
friend.
Philip closed the box and took it to Newport with him. He explained to
himself that he did this in order to get an opinion on the set from two
or three collectors whose acquaintance he had lately made in lounging
about the Redwood Library. But the fact was, his Newport season would
have been ruined had he left the volumes in town. The books were spread
out on his table, where they held a sort of levee; every book-fancier in
all Newport had to call and pay his respects to the rare volumes and to
the choice English bindings.
"A nice present that," said Philip's father, as he sipped his champagne
at dinner on the day after the son's return with the books. "I've been
looking them over; they must have cost, binding and all, a hundred
dollars, I should think, eh?"
"More than that," said Philip with a smile.
"About what?" demanded his father.
"Considering that the set includes both the Great and the Little
Voyages, it couldn't have cost less than twenty times your estimate,"
said Philip.
"Millard must be richer than I supposed," said the father. "A man ought
to have millions to make presents on that scale."
But after supper when Philip and his mother sat on the piazza she said:
"I never could tell how things were managed between Charley Millard and
Phillida. But since your books came I think I can guess who did it."
"Guess what you please, mother," he said, "I did improve my opportunity
once in my life."