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.