LEVEL PLAINS
KATHLEEN ALYN, though not given to fancies, had taken a fancy to
Phyllys. She had a large circle of acquaintances, but did not make
friends.
Not that hers was a cold nature. On the contrary, she was famed
for universal cordiality. Any human being who came was secure of a
welcome. "Dear Mrs. Alyn is so sweetly affectionate," her lady admirers
declared. "Kathleen is always interested," her father often said.
She would appear to each in turn, as if that person were the one being
in the world for whom she cared; no whit the less one hour with Mrs.
Brown, than the next with Mrs. Green. "Such a 'dear' woman!" would be
said by the departing caller.
Some, of more critical tendency, noting the universality of her
friendliness, questioned its worth, since that which is given to all
loses its value for the few. Yet even they could not but admire the
self-mastery which showed equal warmth to the acquaintance of to-day
and the friend of years.
Only—as above said—she did not make friends. That discovery came next;
and a step farther would convince the observer that Mrs. Alyn had no
heart.
Had she not? Kathleen could be as "elusive" to the world as Phyllys to
the sculptor.
"My daughter is one of the most fascinating women that ever trod this
earth," Mr. Dugdale had been known to observe. "None the less, she is a
humbug. A delightful humbug, I grant. She has cultivated the giving of
sympathy, till she has reduced it to a fine art; and that which is Art
ceases to be Nature. She has developed into a patent machine, warranted
to produce so many gallons of sympathy per hour. Nothing can be more
satisfactory—for those who are content with sympathy by the gallon!"
Despite this judgment, which he would have been the first to repudiate
from any lips but his own, he went to her as often as he wished for an
agreeable listener, which was not seldom.
Towards Phyllys she was disposed from the first to show an interest
differing in kind from that paid out by the gallon. Phyllys had her
faults, but she was true and dependable; and perhaps it was mainly
this, combined with originality and charm, that appealed to the young
widow, who gave much and received little, and who was at heart lonely,
despite her popularity.
For if Kathleen were a humbug, she was so unknowingly; and beneath a
stratum of unreality lay a heart which had loved and could love, though
few came into touch with it.
She was feeling her loneliness the morning after Giles' return, not
knowing of that return; and she sent her small boy, Gordon, to Castle
Hill with a message, "Would Phyllys come to luncheon and spend the
afternoon with her?"
Gordon arrived in time to hear that Phyllys had started with Giles some
time before. He was a young man with independent views for his limited
age, and he promptly resolved to follow them up, breathing no hint of
his intentions, since he would certainly be forbidden. Having in a
casual fashion asked the walkers' direction, he strolled out of sight,
presumably on his way home, and then started at a trot.
But his legs were very short, and the chase proved a long one.
No question had arisen that morning as to studio-work, for Colin had
not appeared. "One of his worst headaches," explained Mrs. Keith. "His
own fault entirely, poor boy! If only he would have the sense not to be
always at that ridiculous modelling!"
Phyllys fired up in his defence, with a promptitude which for once
rendered Mrs. Keith dumb. Giles' face had darkened at the news of
Colin's state; and he now looked at her strangely. She was soon ashamed
of her little outburst.
What most vexed her was the calling of Colin "poor." Whether she liked
him or Giles the more she could not decide; but no question existed
about her admiration for Colin, whom she regarded as one gifted beyond
the common run.
No more was said, and the walk came as a matter of course. It was a
perfect morning, and she might have congratulated herself on being
in the open air, instead of having to sit for two hours like a waxen
image—only such congratulation seemed unkind to Colin. She felt it
to be hard that whatever he set himself to do should be hampered by
ill-health, and opposed by the one individual of whose sympathy he
ought to have been sure. Giles had everything—good health, vigour of
mind and body, wealth, position, and the favour of Colin's mother. And
yet—Phyllys felt that, had the choice been offered to her whether to
possess Giles' many gifts or Colin's one gift, she would have had no
hesitation in choosing the latter.
"Anybody may be strong and rich," she thought. "But to have
genius!—that is best of all—that is above everything." In her girlish
judgment no doubt existed that Colin's power held the Divine spark
which means so very much more than mere talent.
Presently she woke to her own abstraction, and consequent silence. A
side-glance revealed the gravity of her companion's look. Their eyes
met, and he said—
"You are thoughtful to-day."
She would not let slip her thoughts. He and she were friends; but she
had her reservations. Who has not, with the dearest of friends? Two
days earlier she might have chatted frankly of Colin and his pursuit;
but now she was not able. She could not forget the experience of the
day before, and Giles' anger. The latter had made her afraid of a false
step; and she was still more afraid of awakening in herself renewed
sensations of consciousness. It was safer to keep to the surface.
So she launched into light chatter about Castle Hill and Midfell;
making little jests, laughing, and doing her best to make him laugh.
For the moment she succeeded. Her winsome ways captivated him anew; and
his very silence, the reluctance of his smile, his absorption in what
she said, all drew her out, making it easy to pour out her thoughts.
Yet she was keenly alive to the contrast between this morning and
previous mornings. Being with Giles after being with Colin was
like walking on a level plain after climbing a mountain peak. The
simplicity, the whole-heartedness, were refreshing; but she found
herself longing for the mountain-heights.
The two men were different in mind as in body. With Colin she had a
sense of inferiority; a consciousness of being pulled to a higher
level. She was fascinated, and afraid; not sure how far she understood;
eager to understand more; delighted when he responded; ready at any
moment to fall flat, if he treated a remark with indifference.
With Giles she had no especial sense of inferiority, unless in respect
of muscles. She was aware of her power over him, aware that she could
make him like her—perhaps as much as she willed. She knew she could
touch his happiness: and she was dimly conscious now that something
connected with herself made him unhappy.
Once, Giles had had the feeling that he could do what he chose with
Phyllys. That had been a momentary sensation, true, but fleeting. In
the studio, on his entrance, he had known that "Colin" could do what he
willed with Phyllys; and the mad pain and wrath which carried him away
would have opened his eyes, had they not been opened already, to the
nature of his love.
To-day it was Phyllys who felt that she could do what she desired with
Giles; that she could twist this powerful man, if she would, round her
slim little finger.
The sense of command was delicious, as it generally is. And yet! When a
vision arose of the studio, and of Colin's delicate absorbed face, with
penetrative eyes searching her soul, she knew she would rather be there
than here, even though she had no such sense of control over him, and
could no more twist him round her finger than she could turn aside the
winds of heaven in their paths.
Not that she preferred Colin to Giles. Giles was her friend. Colin had
not even sought her friendship. But to some natures there is an even
greater charm in the sense of being controlled by the personality of
another, than in having control over another. And Colin attracted her.
She wanted to watch him again at his work, to study his curiously dual
nature, to learn from his murmured suggestions, to grasp his ideals,
to breathe the mental and spiritual atmosphere which he breathed.
Giles awoke in her no such cravings. She was not sure that he would
understand what they meant.
Phyllys pulled herself up. This was heterodox. She remembered all
that Giles had done; not only saving her life at risk to his own,
which probably any man passing would have tried to do; but in cousinly
kindness, day after day. She was forgetting anew to talk to him. Pretty
apologetic eyes went in his direction.
"I am afraid you are tired," he said.
"I! I'm never tired!" she declared.
"We are there now, and you will be able to rest," he said, with a smile
of melancholy.
He had promised "something pretty," and he kept his word. The spot to
which he led her was beside a river, broad and swift; not chestnut-hued
or broken by stones with swirls of white foam and gleams of golden
light; yet a most fair scene, after a more ordinary type. An arched
stone bridge spanned the stream; cows clustered under its shadow;
and on the other side flags grew in abundance. On their own side of
the water, which faithfully reflected the tint of heaven, a clump of
willows sparkled in sunshine.
This was what Giles had pictured beforehand; and Phyllys exclaimed in
admiration. He found her a seat, and she sank into silence, forgetting
to talk, her cheek supported on one ungloved hand, her lashes dropped
till they half-veiled her eyes.
It was the attitude which had inspired Colin's artistic sense. It
inspired another sense in Giles.
He could not turn his gaze from her. Not that he was seeking, like
Colin, to penetrate her soul. He was only enchained, taken captive, at
her mercy. He was not analysing his own feelings. He was not good at
self-analysing, and words never flowed with him, even in the secret
chambers of his mind. But without words, without verbal definition,
he realised to the tips of his fingers that to have Phyllys thus was
happiness; that to have her always would be heaven. And then with a
throb of pain, he realised that not to have her, never to possess her,
would be—
He dared not face that possibility. It was enough to unman him. Cold
drops broke out.
What was she musing about, as she sat there, sweet as a rosebud, not
dreaming the passion of longing which shook the strong man at her side?
She was not occupied with him. Yet his gaze drew her attention, and she
looked up, with a sigh of pleasure.
"People who don't love beautiful things must lose a great deal of
happiness."
Giles thought so too, feasting his eyes on a beauty which was not of
inanimate Nature.
"Colin says beauty is Divine," she murmured; and the words gave him a
shock. Though taken less by surprise than on the day before, he felt a
flame of wrath through his frame.
He thought he had known before! Now he knew that he had only
conjectured. It "was" then—Colin! Colin had stolen her from him.
Colin—his more than brother! A wave of resentment rushed into the
affection which had bound those two since infancy.
"Don't you think so?" she asked, turning towards him.
The smile died out. He could not control his face, and what she saw
startled her.
"Are you vexed with anything I have said?"
"Never!" He strove to clear the thickness from his voice. "I never
could be vexed with you. It is—only—" He had difficulty in speaking,
and she looked with perplexed eyes. "Only—a passing thought—a
recollection. If I was vexed, it was with somebody else—not you!" Then
he mastered himself. "You were saying something about beauty being
Divine. Colin's idea, was it not?"
"But you did not like that, so we can talk of something else," she
said, with a touch of reserve which wounded him to the quick.
"I should like you to explain."
"Colin could explain better. You should ask him. Why—there is Gordon!"
she cried. "Here we are, Gordon! Come along."
Gordon marched composedly up, with failing legs and his most aggressive
six-foot air.
"I say, you have brought me an awful long way," he declared. "Mother
says Phyllys has got to come to lunch with her to-day."
"Of course I will, and if we start directly, we shall be in time." She
jumped up, almost too eagerly.
The sense of relief was patent, and it meant a fresh stab for Giles. He
walked to the water's edge, to recover himself.
Gordon surveyed his broad back, then turned to Phyllys.
"I say—have a bite?" He extended benignly a red-cheeked apple, dented
on one side.
"No, thanks. What made you come all this way, Gordon?"
"Mother wanted you. Course I came," said Gordon.