REVERSION TO A RUT
BARBARA PRINGLE stood outside a garden gate in Midfell, interviewing
Miss Robins.
A black hat of no particular shape was jammed low upon Miss Pringle's
forehead, and a brown blouse of no particular cut "topped" a short
skirt of uncompromising apple-greenness. Miss Robins, standing hatless
within the gate, had clothed herself in dust-colour, apparently with
the aim of matching her own complexion, an aim in which she had
succeeded, without resulting loveliness. But what signified looks to
one at Miss Robins' mental altitude?
Past this cottage, as past Burn Cottage, swept the busy stream,
rustling musical murmurs, telling things unspeakable by human tongues,
though not unreadable by human ears, if those ears are attuned and
attent. The ears of Miss Robins and Miss Pringle were neither attent
nor attuned. Each good lady was too well occupied with her own and her
neighbours' concerns to listen to Nature's whispers.
"No time to waste in such dawdling!" they would have said.
"Too much time wasted in gossip for leisure to study the Divine poem!"
would have been Colin's version.
So widely different is the view taken by different people from
different standpoints.
Behind and before, within sight of both ladies, lay long lines of moor
fells, reaches of moorland, across which battalions of cloud-shadows
travelled fast and heather-bloom mingled with the greens of grass and
bracken. But they did not feast their eyes on Nature's tinting.
"I felt it my duty," Barbara remarked, and she spoke with a grim
resolution which squared her jaw, and perhaps angered uneasiness
below—"I felt it my duty to act. My grandmother has not been herself
for some time; anybody must have seen. She has fretted ridiculously
about Phyllys; not about her being away, but about the influences under
which she is thrown. No doubt there is self-reproach. The child never
ought to have gone. And really—the coolness of that woman—Mrs. Keith,
I mean—asking if Phyllys might spend another six weeks at Castle Hill!
The idea! Of course Phyllys put her up to it. That was what made my
grandmother ill yesterday. I told Mr. Jones, and he said it was enough
to account for her attack. He agreed that the wisest plan was to have
Phyllys back; so I telegraphed on my own responsibility. I felt it to
be my duty."
"Unquestionably; unequivocally!" purred Miss Robins. "And really, poor
dear Mrs. Wyverne was very far from well; you could not have done
otherwise."
"Yes, it was quite a sharp attack—she is not given to faintness. And
at her age, you know! The fact is, one never knows what that sort of
thing may mean. One has to be on the safe side." Barbara seemed to be
carrying on an argument in defence of herself. "I did not mention to
my grandmother what I had done till this morning's telegram arrived,
saying when Phyllys would come, and by that time she was on her way."
"So she could not be stopped. How sensible of you! And Mrs. Wyverne was
pleased—gratified?"
"She seemed worried lest Phyllys should be vexed. That shows the
position of affairs," added Barbara with vagueness. "But as I said to
her, 'What does vexation matter so long as we do what is right?'"
"Very true! Very true indeed!"
"Things will settle themselves when Phyllys is under proper control. I
shall take care that she does not go to Castle Hill again in a hurry.
One can see that her head is completely turned. She will come home able
to think of nothing but her looks. I wish I could have gone to meet her
myself to put things in a right light. But it was impossible, and when
Mr. Hazel said he was driving over, and would bring her back, I had to
agree. Mrs. Hazel says he hadn't thought of going till he knew about
Phyllys." Miss Pringle drove the point of a protesting umbrella into
the earth. "The way everybody jumps to do any earthly thing for that
silly child—really it is too much!"
"She has a wheedling way with men," suggested Miss Robins, who, though
a man-despiser, was not above a touch of jealousy towards a woman
admired by men.
"Three other people have offered since to fetch Phyllys, and I wish any
of them had spoken before Mr. Hazel. The Hazel influence for Phyllys is
objectionable."
"The man is more than half a Jesuit at heart," declared Miss Robins.
"The most extraordinary thing is the way Giles Randolph has managed to
wheedle my grandmother," said Barbara, frowning. No one but herself
would have applied such a word to Giles. "He seems to do whatever he
chooses with her."
"Fascination—captivation," murmured Miss Robins, in her favourite
sing-song voice. "Your grandmother is so truly excellent a woman, it
is inconceivable that she should have given in to the wiles of an
unprincipled man, without regard to the welfare of Phyllys, but for
some occult influence on his part. Really, no other explanation is
possible. I only trust we shall not find Phyllys' character completely
deteriorated through the baleful associations of Castle Hill and the
contaminations of irreligious society."
Miss Robins was a lover of polysyllabic words.
"Not much chance, I'm afraid. The girl has no strength of principle;
she cares for nothing but admiration. Well—" with a solemn satisfaction
in her own forebodings—"we shall see. My own belief is that they have
got hold of the girl, and that nothing now will break her loose. But I
shall do my best."
Meanwhile Phyllys, reaching Garfield Station, nearly ten miles distant
from Midfell, looked out for some familiar face. If no "lift" were to
be had, a cab would be there; but this expense was, when possible,
avoided, and those who owned vehicles seldom failed to place them at
the disposal of others less well off.
Nor was she disappointed. As the train steamed in she caught a glimpse
of the Vicarage pony-carriage; then found herself face to face with
the Vicar. His ruddy face was framed in soft grey hair; a shapeless
wide-awake sat far back on his broad head; tan gloves of unknown
antiquity were gripped in one rugged veined hand; the other was
outstretched in welcome; and a beaming but embarrassed smile lit up his
features.
"Well, little Pride of the Morning," he said, "so here you are! Bright
and well, eh? We are glad to have you back."
"But Grannie?" she questioned anxiously.
Mr. Hazel, recalling his wife's injunctions—injunctions primed by Miss
Pringle—but forgetting what he had been told to say, smiled perplexedly.
"Oh! Ah! Yes; to be sure, yes! She was ailing yesterday; upset and out
of sorts. They had to send for Mr. Jones, and he thought her—" The
sentence died into a mumble. "But she is all right again to-day, so
no need to worry your little head." The very remark which Barbara had
stipulated should not be made. "Now for your luggage," and to escape
questioning he marched to where her trunks lay. The smaller could be
carried with them; the larger had to be sent next day. Mr. Hazel gave
directions, and Phyllys stood by in silence.
She understood; his words had brought the truth before her in one
sinister flash, and she grew white to the lips.
It was Barbara's doing! Barbara had summoned her home without cause.
Barbara had cut short her happiness. But for Barbara she might still be
at Castle Hill.
She saw the whole; yet at first she said nothing. She dared not let
herself go. So strong was the wave of resentment which rolled up, that
it all but had the mastery.
But she held herself in, following the Vicar, hearing his orders. She
went out of the station, listened like one in a dream to his remarks,
and patted kindly her old friend the Vicarage "pony," so-called—really
a fine cob—who lifted his head in pleased response. And all the while
that great wave was surging to and fro.
It frightened her; she had never felt so wrathful. Hers was a quick
temper—quick to take fire, quick to burn itself out.
"A flash in the pan," her father had called it.
She had many a time been annoyed with Barbara, but never to this extent.
As they drove through the small town, calling at one or two shops, she
was silent still, feeling rather than thinking, for her thoughts were
in a maze. It seemed hard that she should not have had to the end her
time of pleasure; the visit had meant so much.
And to have her joy cut short for nothing by Barbara's interference—she
hardly knew how to endure it. Again and again passionate resentment all
but mastered her.
Mr. Hazel, busy with reins and shopping, did not at first notice what
was wrong. Gradually it dawned upon him that the bright smile was
lacking, the merry voice still.
He waited, as it was his way to wait. Not till they had left the town,
and had begun the first long ascent after, did the storm that was
raging find expression. He put some question, and she turned a rigid
face to him.
"Then Barbara has cheated me out of my pleasure! Grannie has 'not' been
ill! There was no need for me to come home!"