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.