DUTY VERSUS DESIRE
GILES had not meant to ask Phyllys for that walk.
After the studio scene, he had felt that his duty was to wait, until he
should know which way lay Colin's intentions. But when he met Phyllys
on the stairs, when he read pleasure in her smile, his resolution
melted like ice in sunshine, and the request slipped out.
Though he realised what his action meant, he did not draw back.
The evening passed unremarkably. Mr. Dugdale and his daughter came to
dinner; Colin could not appear, and the conversation was general. Giles
made futile efforts to hold aloof from Phyllys, and only succeeded in
seeing nobody else.
Through the night following he had no sleep. Two wakeful hours he spent
in bed; then he got up and dressed, and let himself out of the house to
walk fast and far in moonlight, fighting a tough battle.
He had to come to a decision. The earlier intention held now no force;
and its failure only served to show more truly how things stood.
On arrival he had made his way into the studio, as was his wont,
expecting to find Colin absorbed in his beloved occupation, caring for
naught else, wrapped up in the effort to reproduce in clay some form
of beauty. He had been told that Mrs. Keith was out; he had taken for
granted that Phyllys was with her. And when he stood within the studio
door it was to see—not Colin only, but Phyllys also; the two seated
together; Phyllys with downcast eyes and soft flush, and a look upon
the sweet face which "he" had never been able to evoke; while Colin's
gaze, and the light in those blue eyes, told the worst!
At the instant Giles' one sensation had been of furious wrath against
Colin for daring to interfere with "his" love—wrath that he would have
felt towards any man. Already in his secret soul he looked upon Phyllys
as his own.
But, in the silence of his room before luncheon, far more in the
dimness of the moonlit lanes at night, other counsels succeeded. Other
elements would not be defined. It was no simple matter of two men,
both in love with one girl, waiting to see which she might prefer. The
question really was—if Colin had set his heart on Phyllys, ought Giles
to seek her at all? Ought he not at once to give up the thought?
As an abstract question this carried no difficulty. To his mind the
duty was plain. If Colin loved Phyllys, the right step for him was to
leave the coast clear.
Years earlier, under peculiar circumstances, he had made a definite
resolve never to stand in the way of Colin's happiness; never to allow
himself any good which might react in the form of pain for Colin. He
had registered this vow in the recesses of his heart. It rose up and
faced him, while he hurried through lonely lanes, unable to see his
way. Cold moonlight, flooding fields on either side, seemed alive
with one word, "Remember!" Black tree-shadows, lying in patches at
his feet, echoed "Remember!" The creak of an elm-bough, swayed by the
breeze, groaned "Remember!" The cry of an owl sounded the same solemn
"Remember!"
He did remember. He would never forget the heartbreaking misery, the
awful load of woe, which had culminated in that resolve. If life should
last a hundred years, each incident of those days would remain vivid to
the last.
That he should ever in years to come, under any provocation, be
betrayed into wrath with Colin, had seemed to lie beyond possibility.
And until the day just ended he had not only shown no anger, but had
never been tempted to show it, towards Colin. He had found it easy to
preserve his self-control.
Now the testing-time had come. Now, in one moment, his resolve had
broken down. He had under stress given way to violent anger; and he
found that past resolution opposed by the full force of his will.
He was free to draw back. He had not yet avowedly sought Phyllys. Thus
far he had been, to the best of his knowledge, no more than cousin and
friend. Whatever he had felt at Midfell, he had not shown it. He would
do "her" no wrong by retiring, by giving to Colin the first innings.
He would wrong no one but himself. And, in the light of his past, he
knew it was right—a matter of simple justice—that he of all men should
refuse to stand between Colin and happiness. The question was not
"Ought he?" but "Could he?"
As he walked he made up his mind that he would do the thing that was
right; that he would carry out his early resolution; that he would
endure the cost.
Thus, during hours of moonlight, followed by darkness. But in the chill
light of dawn, as he tramped wearily to his room, tired, not with
bodily exertion but with mental strain, another spirit took possession.
Ho had meant to get off his walk with Phyllys. Better for him, safer
and wiser, not to go. Yet, when it came to the point, he made no
effort. He let things drift. He had the walk.
Then, for yielding, he was the weaker, as for yielding, one can hardly
fail to be. A paralysis seemed to lay hold upon him, though his had
always been reckoned a manly will. And when he sat by her side, on the
river-bank, he knew that, even for Colin's sake, he could not give her
up. He could not! There was a limit to what might be expected of a man;
and this reached beyond the limit.
In so short a space she had grown to be everything to him; to be his
love, his life. One month before she was but a name—Phyllys Wyverne,
younger grand-daughter of his old great-aunt, living in the wilds of
Yorkshire. He was vaguely interested in her, and he supposed that one
day they might meet again: but whether he saw her or not was of no
particular moment. Then they met; and his life was changed. Now nothing
in the world was of moment except the overwhelming desire to win her.
Give her up! See those two husband and wife! Her sweetness, all for
Colin! Her love, Colin's right! Himself, in measureless desolation!
He could not do it! The thing was impossible. The idea was preposterous.
Colin had been dear to him; more dear than a brother. But besides this
new passion, that quiet affection became as naught. Not that he did not
care for Colin still, but that Phyllys was everything to him: Phyllys
was his world, his universe.
True, even if he held aloof now, she might in the end reject Colin; and
he would then be free to seek her. But of this he had small hope. Colin
had seldom, if ever, sought to win affection, and sought in vain.
He felt his own position so far not unhopeful. Phyllys liked him; she
was cousinly, even confiding. To persevere might mean success.
And if success for him meant unhappiness, despair, for Colin! Again the
past rolled up. Again he saw his own resolve, and the causes which had
led to it.
"One may have strained ideas of duty," he muttered. "There is such a
thing as common sense in the affairs of life."
Yes; and there is also such a thing as putting self aside for the sake
of another.
This, too, he knew. But he saw once more her sweetness, and resistance
collapsed. He acknowledged himself beaten.