THE THINGS THAT ARE
BETWEEN the claims of truth and a desire not to compromise other
people, the Vicar was in difficulties. He gave a jerk to the reins, and
murmured indistinct words.
"Barbara is not nervous." Phyllys caught the suggestion, only to
repudiate it. She sat bolt upright. "Barbara is never nervous."
Another murmur. This time she heard "mistake."
"No; there is no mistake. It is on purpose. She knew how happy I
was—how I wanted to stay. And she loves to make me miserable. It is
'her' doing."
The Vicar made no rejoinder. He cast a concerned glance at the set
face; commented to himself on the thunder-cloud overshadowing his
"Pride o' the Morning;" and chirruped to the cob. A fresh pull carried
them faster, till the increased gradient made slowness a necessity.
Then he jumped out, lightly for his years.
"Take the reins, child."
"No." She was already by his side. "Cobweb has weight enough with my
box."
He offered no protest, and they mounted a stiff rise in silence, the
Vicar keeping up an easy long-limbed swing, born of habit. No quickened
breath troubled him; and the reins hung loosely over one wrist, or were
flung upon the cob's back.
Phyllys, deep in thought, showed no signs of fatigue, though this came
at the end of a long journey. As they ascended, the widening view of
distant moors, the rich tints of the fell over which their road led,
spoke with the calming power which Nature has over some minds. Three
times she forgot herself, standing in contemplation. Each time the
Vicar halted, as if for Cobweb's sake; and the look which crept into
her face gladdened his heart. A fourth time this happened, and she
glanced towards him, smiling.
"I didn't know how lovely it was!" she said. "Must we hurry? I didn't
know how dearly I loved it all. Those wavy lines against the sky! And
the purples and greens—and the bracken!"
She remembered Colin's quotation,—"Drink it in with 'all' your
eyes,"—and into the words new meaning dawned. Eyes of the body; eyes of
the mind; eyes of the spirit. Through the eyes of the body, to the eyes
of the mind; through the eyes of the mind, to the eyes of the spirit.
Had Colin opened for her those inward eyes? She saw with them as never
before. Nature around was as it ever had been; but for her it held
fresh perfection, fresh meaning. She was enchained by the mouldings of
the hill-sides, the delicate fadings of one tint into another. Each
hummocked fell demanded hours of study. She would be able to give the
hours; and Colin had taught her how to use them.
Through the railway journey her thoughts had been much with Giles,
and the look in his face when they parted. Sorry as she had been to
leave, her sorrow was of a composite nature, made up of many elements.
She began to see a contrast between him and herself; to realise the
homogeneousness of his mental make. She wanted many things,—Castle
Hill, Colin, Art, freedom, fresh ideas—as well as Giles. He wanted one
thing—herself. She perceived this, after a fashion, without grasping
that his "want" meant something infinitely beyond mere "friendship."
She had a sense that Giles was giving her more than she could give him.
Her feelings towards him were mixed. His towards her were unblended.
Now, instead of thinking about him, she was thinking about Colin,
recalling what Colin had said, studying old scenes in the light of
Colin's teaching, wishing she could be in the studio with Colin. As at
this moment she might have been—but for Barbara.
Uprolled another wave of anger; and the Vicar saw. He had known it must
return. She was not yet victor.
She met his glance. "Why are people allowed to do such things?" she
asked abruptly. "Such a beautiful world!—And 'such' people in it!"
"Try to be fair," he said; irrelevantly some might have thought.
"But it is she who is not fair to me. She never was fair. It isn't that
I'm sorry to come back to you and Mrs. Hazel—or to Grannie! It is the
being made like this—forced!—without any choice. She has no right. I am
not a child now. And I did so count on the next few days—if it might
not be more, just those days. I was learning so much that was new and
lovely!"
"Yes. But the lessons we want to learn are not always those that the
Great Teacher sets us." He spoke in an everyday tone, not as one
preaching.
"It isn't—'that?' It is Barbara!"
"It is always 'that,' my child—no matter how the disappointment comes."
"If she had explained—if Grannie needed me. It is the being made that I
hate. Wouldn't you, in my place?"
"Yes," he said, and her face grew softer.
"I'm glad. Then it isn't altogether wrong to be vexed."
"No; perhaps not. But if I were you, I wouldn't waste too much time
over your cousin's share. If she has wronged you, she has to be
forgiven; and it is more dignified not to show offence. People make
foolish blunders; but one may credit them with a right intention."
"Ought one? Only, I'm sure she did mean unkindness." Then, with a laugh
of apology—"Perhaps I am as unfair to her as she is to me."
"Good!" They were now moving on. "To see in oneself that possibility is
a first step towards a right spirit. Nine-tenths of the disagreements
in this world arise from a want of fairness in judging others. We have
too often one rule for ourselves, another for other people." He flipped
off a dandelion-head with the tip of his whip. "One should be fair
towards everybody—" and he could not resist adding—"even Miss Pringle."
Phyllys' eyes twinkled. She knew that her cousin and her cousin's
friend were thorns in the Vicar's side. Whatever he did they opposed;
whatever he said they contradicted. But he met their opposition in
a large and manly way, and laughed at their contradiction. It was
more serious when they systematically upset his influence among the
cottagers; yet even there the Vicar was reasonable. He insisted that
though their methods were, from his point of view, entirely wrong,
their aims were good; and he would allow no wholesale condemnation.
Phyllys, aware of all this, realised the force of his advice.
"I'll try," she said. "Only Barbara isn't fair towards 'them!'"
"Towards—?"
"Giles and Colin—and Mrs. Keith. She thinks unjustly. She says they are
bad."
"And you have found them good?"
"Yes!" emphatically. Then, "Yes," more slowly. "I suppose there are
different sorts of goodness. I don't mean that they are—perfect."
"We need not expect from others what others don't find in us."
"Mrs. Keith puzzles me; still, in a way she is religious. I am sure she
is. And Giles—he doesn't say much, but I couldn't tell you how kind he
is, how he thinks of everybody. Of course—" and a fresh pause—"he has
faults."
"So have we!"
"Yes. And then—Colin—when he talks it isn't like anybody here. Not
like Miss Robins, one 'least' little bit. Or like—. No, I don't think
he says things in the way you do. Only you would like him. Colin feels
and understands. He is different from other people. And I think his
goodness—his religion—somehow has to be different, to fit his mind.
If I were to say that to Barbara, she would think it wicked. Is it? I
can't help feeling so when I'm with him."
"There are many developments of Christ-likeness."
"You don't think he must be wrong because he says things in a different
way from—what you would?"
The Vicar's smile was beautiful. It showed a new side of him. She
wondered—had Colin opened her eyes with regard to human beings as well
as inanimate Nature?
Mr. Hazel made another halt, letting the cob browse. He led Phyllys
to the edge, where a steep slope fell away towards a wide extent of
country, bounded by hills. Across the plain meandered a river, shining
like silver in sunlight. There were green meadows; and in one direction
lay ploughed fields. He drew her attention to each.
"The same sun shines upon all. But not all surfaces can respond equally
to his shining. Is it the fault of the brown earth that it remains
dull? He who made water and grass made earth also. Will He be unfair
in His expectations? Will He blame the soil because it cannot respond
to His light with green beauty like grass, or gleam and flash like
water? Would it be right of the river to condemn the grass because it
does not shine? Or of the grass to declare earth a failure because it
is not green? Or of the earth to condemn grass and water for giving a
different response from its own? In each case the make has much to say
to results. And—God made it."
Phyllys' face grew radiant.
"I never saw that before! Why did you not tell me? It would have been a
help."
"You were not ripe for it earlier. This visit has brought you on. You
are older." Then, after a break, "But to decide which of those about us
is, in the Divine sight, as earth or grass or water, lies beyond our
power."
Phyllys blushed. She had already been thinking that Barbara was like
dull earth.
"I'll try to be fair," she replied, and when they reached the Cottage
no trace remained of past billows. Barbara had expected a storm, and
though she would not admit the fact, she was a trifle relieved, even
touched, by "the child's" forbearance.