THE MIDFELL ATMOSPHERE
BREAKFAST over, Mrs. Wyverne sat in her usual place, darning a
tablecloth and entertaining a terribly early caller. Miss Robins
faced her solemnly. She was a solemn individual, impressed with the
importance of directing the duties of other people. In appearance she
had not much to boast of; but, as she was wont to ask, "Who cares for
looks?" Some unkind critics had been known to remark that Miss Robins
"had no looks."
Despite her superiority, she had not cast off the shackles of a mundane
curiosity about her neighbours; and she was bent on finding out what
the old lady meant to do with Phyllys. "So very Important, for the sake
of that poor empty-headed child, that she should act with wisdom,"
she observed to her devotee, Barbara. "If she does not hold that man
at arm's length, who can foretell the consequences?" Miss Robins was
nothing if not emphatic.
From an abstract point of view, Mrs. Wyverne would have supported Miss
Robins' opinion; but she never could lose sight of the fact that she
was herself one of the Randolphs of Castle Hill, being only sister to
Giles' grandfather. And though, as a matter of theory, she would have
maintained that questions of descent like questions of "looks" were
unimportant, it gave her no small pleasure to see again the head of her
family, and to find him in many respects what she would have wished.
"A singularly fine-looking man," she observed. "He gives the impression
of one who may be trusted."
Barbara, who, in imitation of her friend, was a systematic man-hater,
spoke tartly, "No men are to be trusted—least of all men without
religion."
"How do you know Giles has no religion?" asked Phyllys.
"He may make a profession. There is no reality in it."
"No. He carries the hall-mark of an essentially worldly nature." Miss
Robins was so pleased with the wording of her own sentence that she
made mental note of it for future use.
Phyllys opened indignant lips and shut them again. What was the use
of remonstrance? Nothing ever shook Barbara or Miss Robins in their
judgments upon others. Moreover, the latter was delivering herself of
an exhortation.
"He may be outwardly fine-looking, but what of that? What of mere
looks?" she inquired. "What signifies the body? That poor miserable
husk! The handsomest men in feature, the most agreeable in manner,
are often the most depraved. Dear Mrs. Wyverne, 'you' know the world
well enough to understand. Mere appearance—face, manner, dress,—how
unimportant these things!"
Mrs. Wyverne assented as in duty bound, though not without an inward
reservation.
"We are called upon to ignore the body. 'I' have learnt to ignore it,"
declared Miss Robins, with an air of fervent conviction. "All that
signifies is the spiritual part of one's self. The rest is dust and
ashes—'mere' dust and ashes."
She swayed impressively on her chair.
"If the body isn't of consequence, I wonder why one should care whether
one has hot or cold tea, or whether one's dinner is nicely cooked,"
questioned Phyllys, laying her finger on the other's weak point.
Miss Robins inspected her from a moral pinnacle. "That is different. To
care for one's health is a duty. I am speaking of the vanity of minding
about bodily appearance—whether one is good-looking or plain—seeking to
be admired. What do such things matter?"
"I should have said they mattered a good deal," declared Phyllys,
standing up. "I 'love' beautiful people. The world is beautiful,
and God made people as well as things. I can't see why He should
like 'things' to be lovely, and not care if people are hideous and
disagreeable." Then she fled, not escaping the comment, "Really,
Phyllys is sadly irrev—"
Ten minutes later she stood, lost in a dream, beside the stream as it
flowed through a field, three hundred yards distant from the house. It
swept here round a curve, its course being partly arrested by a bank of
shingle; and beyond the shingle, in its détour, it poured in a rustling
flow, bubbling soft whispers and singing to itself.
This hour after breakfast was Phyllys' most free time. At eleven
o'clock, if not sooner, Barbara would remorselessly summon her to
practise and read and darn. Time spent in the open air was wasted
in the elder cousin's estimation. Barbara believed in a brisk
constitutional, to and from a given point within a given time, for
health; but she never lounged under a tree, never dallied by a stream,
in dreamy thought. That with her meant "idleness."
With Phyllys it neither meant nor was idleness. She was not idle,
standing on the grass bank, motionless, her hands clasped behind her
back. She wore no hat, and a breeze stirred her hair, bringing forth
reddish gleams.
Her mind was at work. She loved Nature, loved the beauty of flower and
fell; read meanings in the voices of running water, rustling leaves,
singing birds. These things appealed to her artist-nature, and drew
her on to deeper thought. When she could escape from home and its
restraints, she was happy in what is called solitude, because in touch
with her surroundings.
Yet, even in her happiest hours, she was conscious of a want. She
craved for some one to understand what she felt, to enjoy the beauty
with her. She craved to find the inner meanings of life. There was such
an infinitude that she could not fathom; and clues were lacking.
This morning her thoughts were chiefly occupied with Giles.
Once before she had seen him, when a child of nine; and then for years
she had been abroad, travelling with her widowed mother, in search
of lost health, never to be regained. Since her mother's death she
had lived at Midfell, paying an occasional visit to friends of her
grandmother, but secluded from other influences. Often she had heard of
Giles and Colin, though not in terms of praise. Mrs. Wyverne had rather
implied than asserted condemnation; but according to Barbara, Giles and
his friends were one and all to be avoided, as a dainty person shuns
pitch; and to withhold Phyllys from their influence was a matter of
duty.
Which opinion, naturally, made Phyllys want to know them! For years her
dream of impossible delights had been—a visit to Castle Hill.
Now the unlikely had come about. She had seen Giles, had talked with
him had felt that she and he might become friends. She felt it still,
though vexed with herself for letting the thought so soon slip into
words.
And she might be again invited to Castle Hill. "If only I could go! To
know what it is to live! This is existence! And oh! to get away from
Barbara and Miss Robins. Even—for a time—from Grannie!"
The tinkle of a bell aroused her. She was often thus recalled. But
already! She did not realise how long she had stood there. Was the
whole of this lovely day to be wasted indoors? She walked back with a
lagging step.
Within doors the cloud on her face vanished. Barbara was not visible;
the grandmother wore a smile; and Giles stood waiting.
"Put on your stout boots, child, and have a wrap. Your cousin wishes to
take you for a walk."
The black fringes widened with delight.
"He does not know his way about, and Barbara is too busy," explained
Mrs. Wyverne, apologising to herself. She felt uneasy, but, the
managing grand-daughter being out of reach, her resolution had not been
proof against his will. After all, the two were cousins; and since she
had just granted her consent to three weeks at Castle Hill, a walk now
could make little difference. The decision seemed lifted out of her
hands; and despite her bewilderment, she looked with gratified eyes
upon the great-nephew whom she had so long refused to see.
"Must I be back at eleven, Grannie?"
"Not to-day, for once. Giles wishes to go to the head of the dale, if
you can walk so far."
"Oh, of course I can. That will be splendid. I have not been there for
ages upon ages."
"My dear, you should not make use of such exaggerated expressions."
Phyllys tried to wear a penitent face as she fled. "If Barbara should
come in!" was the fear. Barbara might upset all.
"Phyllys is a dear child, but too impulsive," the old lady
remarked. "It is desirable that she should be trained in habits of
self-restraint."
Giles refrained from saying what he thought.
Fortunately Barbara failed to appear, and the two set off at a brisk
rate. Phyllys was a quick walker, and she easily kept up with the pace
adopted by Giles. She was in a state of jubilant but veiled exultation.
While lacing her boots, she had resolved to behave with dignity; not to
allow her friendship to be regarded by him as a thing to be lightly won.
But miles of happiness lay before her, miles of fresh air, of freedom,
exercise, pleasant companionship. No need to dwell on what might lie
beyond. No need to anticipate Barbara's comments. When the time came
for their acidity, she would have had her day of delights; and none
could rob her of the memory.
Phyllys, as in duty bound, talked to interest her companion, perhaps
more from inclination than from duty; and she found in him an excellent
listener. She named for his information the various fells; those near
at hand, then more distant outlines, as they mounted higher. She
described the long cold winters and the deep snowdrifts. She chatted
of the sturdy self-respecting farmers, and of the welcome she had from
them and theirs.
"None of the people about are very poor," she remarked. "They work
hard and live carefully and lay by. That is the way in these northern
villages. People say how different it is in the south."
"When you come to Castle Hill, you will see for yourself."
"They will never let me go."
Then she did not yet know! He kept his counsel.
"The farmers and their wives really are my friends, and they are so
good and true—so real. Blunt, of course, but that is their way. I know
all the cottagers. No, not district-visiting. When I go to see them, it
is because I love to go, not because I ought. Barbara and Miss Robins
call because they want to do the people good. But when I go, they do
'me' good—without any trying."
"That might seem the better way." He was interested, but he wanted
to get her out of this sedate mood, to see again the long lashes
mischievously drooped.
"Barbara says one ought to be always trying to do good to somebody.
Don't you hate being done good to as a duty?"
"I'm not sure that I have had experience in that line."
"How nice! But I've had any amount. There's Mr. Timkins. He's not a
Yorkshireman; he is from the south, and he mends old shoes. He thinks
he can mend people too!" with a gleam of fun. "Miss Robins says she has
'the very highest opinion of him.' But I dislike his prosy preachings."
Phyllys stopped to pluck a flower, and surveyed it with eyes of loving
admiration.
"I suppose Mr. Timkins really is 'good,'" she remarked, with the air
of one unravelling a perplexity. "But so are other people who don't
think as he does. I never can understand why all good people must have
exactly the same opinions about every single thing. Can you?"
"Good gracious, no!"
"I've never been allowed to go to Castle Hill, because all of you
don't see things just the same as Grannie and Barbara. I'm hardly ever
allowed to know strangers who come to Midfell in the summer, for fear
they should do me harm. And I'm not a child now. It is time I should
begin to think for myself."
"You have not always lived here?"
"About ten years. Since I was thirteen. Of course I was old enough then
to understand, and not to forget afterwards. When people talk as they
do, and say all sorts of hard things about those who think differently
from themselves, I always know that my father and mother would have
felt with those people, and not with people here. Don't you see, it
rubs me the wrong way awfully sometimes."