READJUSTMENTS
MRS. KEITH hardly even attempted to regain self-control, but sobbed
herself into a stupor, followed by sleep. Not till the morning did
she again see her son; and no human being learnt the details of that
interview. She came out of it subdued, humbled, softened; for the first
time with a dawning of real contrition. Giles' deep distress, his
patient acceptance of his new position, his forbearance towards her,
made a profound impression upon one whose thought had always been for
self. Now, viewing half a lifetime of deceit with her son's eyes, she
was shamed to the heart.
A more difficult interview had to follow. She had promised to send for
the other Colin—the true Giles—not denying that she had to ask his
pardon. But this was infinitely harder. She did not love Colin as she
loved Giles—for the avoidance of confusion it is better to use still
the wrong names. From his childhood her knowledge of the great wrong
done to him had caused a hardness and bitterness of feeling, against
which she honestly fought, but which had too often mastered her.
To humble herself before her own son was one thing; to humble herself
before Colin was another. Subdued and softened though she was, when he
came in, another spirit rose up.
He murmured a slight greeting, took a seat, and waited.
"Giles wished," she began, and the words stuck in her throat. "I—I—know
what you must feel, of course," she muttered hurriedly. "But I meant it
for the best."
He made a gesture of acquiescence, gravely polite. Thus far he
had said little, but had gone about with his look of "apartness"
intensified, as if he were studying events from some outside region,
with greater interest in their psychological aspect than in their
bearing on himself. The change of relations was not less bewildering
to him than to Giles, though met with outward calm. He did not pretend
indifference; he had no thought of shirking his new responsibilities;
and acutely as he felt for the real Colin, he had thus far rather
implied than expressed sympathy. The fever of modelling possessed him
still, and his one longing was to get away from everybody, though no
one would have guessed the craving from his manner.
Silence lasted, and those clear compelling eyes almost forced Mrs.
Keith to lift hers. She knew his power, and resisted it.
"I've tried—tried to be—fair to you," she faltered.
"I am sure you have, Mrs. Keith—as fair as possible, under the
circumstances."
The use of her surname sounded strangely.
"Of course I know how you must feel," she went on, swallowing something
down—was it distress at the thought that "he" would be her "son" no
longer? Pain in that direction was unexpected; yet, after twenty-seven
years, hardly to be wondered at.
"I shall leave Castle Hill at once, as soon as I can arrange where to
go. Giles says the same. It doesn't matter—where?" She found herself in
danger of a breakdown.
"I think it matters very much."
"No. Giles agrees. He was—very good to me!" and her eyes filled.
"He says neither he nor I will be a burden on you—and we have been
talking of plans. I shall not trouble you many days. Of course I
know—exactly—all you feel!"
"You are sure!" he said gently.
She had to face his eyes. Resistance collapsed. She was obliged to
look, and the pain and pity which she found there took her by surprise.
She flushed, paled, trembled.
"Do you think it is nothing to lose a mother?" he asked. "You have been
a good mother to me, as well as to Giles."
She burst into a passion of tears, touched to the quick. The words
which Giles had urged her to speak were now poured forth. "I am
sorry—indeed I am. It has been misery! Always knowing—always dreading
to be found out! Any moment I would thankfully have told—only I never
could—never had courage."
"It would have been happier for yourself."
"Will you ever forgive me?" she entreated brokenly.
He took her hand, not kissing her as he had been in the habit of
doing, but with chivalrous compassion. Giles' distress had stirred her
intensely, but this went farther.
"So wronged—so wronged!" was all she could sob.
"You have wronged Giles more than me. All these years you have deprived
him of his mother."
She clung to his hand sobbing, and even bent her face to kiss it. "How
you can be so good to me! I don't deserve it! I thought—I thought—you
would hate and despise—"
"You will never think so again."
"If only I had known—if I could have guessed—I would have spoken out
long ago." Her lips were again on his hand, when he tried to draw it
away. "Colin, you 'have' been a dear son to me—all the while—and I—and
I—"
"Don't you think we have said enough?" he asked.
"Yes—perhaps—no use saying more. Only—I do believe now that some day
God will forgive me, too—now you and Giles have been so good. Do you
think—perhaps He will?"
Colin bent and kissed her brow, as if he had been her son still. "Is
Christ less merciful than man?" he murmured.
An hour later Giles was on his way to the library, to write necessary
letters. He was oppressed by a dazed sense that in no corner of the
house had he a right to stay. He was homeless, a waif astray on the
waters of life. The shock to him had been tremendous, the upheaval
of feeling immense. As yet he had been hardly able to think of aught
else—even of Phyllys—though in the background of his mind existed
a heavy consciousness that he could no longer hope to win her. All
his life he had used another's wealth. He had now to make his way,
to support his mother, with no profession, no adequate means of
subsistence.
A few significant words had been spoken by Colin: "You have often said
that what was yours was mine. This only means the same, reversed—that
what is mine is yours."
But Giles could not allow such generosity on the part of one whom he
had—unwittingly—long and deeply injured.
It was no light matter for one of his proud nature—he had inherited his
mother's pride together with the Reeves' temper—to step in one moment
from the position of benefactor to benefactee; to pass from the landed
country gentleman to the impecunious adopted brother. It tried him
beyond words. There was indeed one phase of the question which might
have brought gratification; the fact that he would give up everything
to Colin. But this was more than balanced by all that Colin had lost
through him in years gone by.
He stood in the hall, thinking, on his way to the library. Mrs. Keith
had to leave. That was beyond debate. Not that Colin would not forgive,
but that she had forfeited all right to stay. And the sooner the better!
He too must depart, must bid farewell to the broad acres which he had
held to be his own, must wander forth, "not knowing whither he went."
That at least was clear. He had harmed Colin enough. "Time he should be
quit of me and mine!" he muttered.
Opening the library-door, he was met by a silencing gesture. Colin lay
asleep on the sofa, and Phyllys had been bathing his forehead. She
retreated with Giles to the small ante-room.
"His head was so bad," she whispered. "I found him here, after he had
been with Mrs. Keith, hardly able to speak. But he won't hear if we
talk softly." She had something to say, and she went straight to the
point. "I'm so sorry, Giles. If you could know how sorry! So ashamed of
myself!"
He supposed her "sorrow" to mean sympathy for him in his changed
position. The "ashamed" brought perplexity, though he only said, with a
melancholy smile—
"You have to learn that my name is not Giles—that I am Colin Keith."
"So difficult to believe!"
"More than difficult. I find it all but impossible to believe that any
one—" he stopped. "And she—my mother!"
"What a life hers must have been! And how extraordinary that it was
never found out!"
"Too wildly improbable!"
"I have suspected—lately."
"You!" A deep flush overspread his face. Was this why she had refused
him—because she foresaw that he might be a poor man? The conjecture
no sooner arose than he crushed it down. He could not think unworthy
things of Phyllys. That she could think unworthy things of him would,
to his mind, have seemed equally impossible.
"I had the fancy. It explained so much that one couldn't understand.
But that isn't all. That wasn't what I wanted to tell you," she went
on, penitent and abashed. "Something much worse. Giles, I—I was
afraid—that perhaps 'you' knew!"
"Knew what?"
"What she had done," very low. "That you were—not really Giles
Randolph."
"You believed 'I' knew! 'I'—a party to the fraud! Good heavens!" and he
looked at her in consternation. "You don't mean it!"
"It was horrid—horrid of me! But I—couldn't understand. Please forgive!"
"You could think me capable!"
She broke into a sob, tears dropping.
"What can have put such a notion into your head? Good heavens!" he
repeated, dazed and scandalised. "You knew me so little!" He seemed
more grieved than angry.
"I didn't—oh! I didn't really," she sobbed. "It was only what you
had said yourself. I never could have dreamt such a thing, but for
that—never! But I couldn't forget—'couldn't' understand."
"What did I say?" He spoke gravely, even with sternness.
She faltered some of the utterances which had so weighed upon her mind.
"I ought to have known better. I ought to have been sure of you," she
said sorrowfully.
"Then—this was why—!" he murmured.
"Yes," she whispered. "Will you forgive me—for ever thinking it 'could'
be?"
The response she expected did not come. No touch of his hand, no
renewal of his offer. He said dejectedly—
"There is no question of forgiveness. I laid myself open to
misconstruction." After a moment's hesitation, he gave the clue which
Phyllys had lacked. "What I meant was that Colin's ill-health lay at my
door. That it was my doing. That I could never, through life, repay him
for all he has lost through me."
"But—how?"
Giles alluded to the tale she had earlier heard of the cliff accident,
in which Elsye Wallace was killed; and he seemed relieved not to have
to relate the whole. "It was my doing. I was mad with temper and
jealousy, thinking she cared more for him than for me. Some jest of his
finished me off—not Colin's fault! I did not see how close they were
to the edge, on slippery grass—and one push did it. I flung off as I
gave the push, and there was a cry, and when I turned back they were
gone—both! Never quite clear whether he overbalanced, and she went too,
trying to save him; or whether she started back, and he went, trying to
save her. But it was my doing. I killed 'her'—and ruined his health for
life."
Phyllys' eyes were full again. "How dreadful!" she murmured. "How
awful! It was enough to kill you too. Yet you never meant—"
"What of that? I 'did' it! And not a word of reproach from him. Only
one wish—that nobody should be told."
"Was—nobody?"
"Her father, of course. He was—good!" with difficulty.
Giles looked in wonder on Phyllys' little hand laid on his knee. He had
not expected to see it there.
"You are sorry for me? But—" he could not refrain from laying his hand
on hers, and the touch of those soft fingers thrilled him. "Phyllys,
I have no home now to offer. I am a penniless man. Even if you could
accept me, you would have to wait years!"
"And if I don't mind waiting?"—with her sweetest smile.
"I should be wrong to let you. It is all too indefinite. I am leaving
Castle Hill. He has endured too much through my mother. It must end."
"I beg your pardon," a voice said, and Colin came from the inner room.
"Sorry to interrupt you, but I found myself hearing something not meant
for me."
He dropped wearily into an armchair, and Phyllys held out a slip of
paper. "Mr. Hazel has telegraphed for me to go home," she said. Her
letter had followed the old Vicar to London and back to Midfell, whence
the delay.
Colin read and returned it. "No hurry," he remarked. "About Giles'
plans—no, don't go, Phyllys."
"You heard what I was saying. I will not be a burden on you. You have
to take your position: so have I." Giles spoke in resolute tones. "Our
paths will lie in different directions." A pause. "My mother and I will
leave Castle Hill." Another pause. "I shall look-out for an Agency of
some sort."
He had to raise his eyes, had to meet a quiet gaze, before which his
determination threatened to become like wax in sunshine. "What do 'you'
wish?" he asked.
Colin was pressing a hand over his rumpled hair. "Not that!" he said.
"I must have your help."
"Of course, if you need me—"
"There must be a break. We will go different ways for a couple of
months—then come together our true selves. Go to Midfell with Phyllys,
and make the most of your time there."
"Say 'Yes,'" she whispered.
But he hesitated.
"I can't do without you, Giles—that is simple fact. You are good at
business, and I am not. I must and will have leisure for modelling. As
for accounts—twenty minutes of them make my head frantic. You shall
be my coadjutor—referee—adviser—anything you like. One moment—" as
the other was breaking into speech. "You called yourself penniless. I
am writing to my lawyers to settle upon you and your heirs the sum of
one thousand pounds a year. The letter would be off, if I could have
written another page. All I ask is—stay and help me. I will make the
position as little trying as maybe."
Giles' strong features worked.
"No," he said. "It is like you; but that won't do. I will stay as long
as you need me—as your agent. You shall pay me a fair sum for the work
I do; not a penny more. The letter must go into the fire. My mind is
made up."
"So is mine!" murmured Colin. He smiled, perhaps recognising that he,
in Giles' place, would have followed a like course.
"Well—for the present. Come in—" and Reeves appeared.
"Not interrupting, I hope," he said in Giles' voice.
"No—" and Colin went on with what he was saying. "For the present I
give in. It will make no difference in the end. All that I have is
yours—and, as you have more than once remarked, 'pride between you and
me is a thing impossible.'" The tired eyes laughed. "Your mother will
continue to receive her allowance."
"Certainly not. She will depend upon me."
"I beg your pardon," interposed Reeves. "My sister will keep house for
'me.' That was my object in coming home, and she agrees. You may put
her out of your calculations."
"Not a bad plan!" mused Colin. "Then the 'allowance' shall accumulate
at compound interest for her son and his heirs." He looked at Giles.
"And when you can persuade Phyllys to come and be the perpetual
sunshine of Castle Hill—"
She flushed up.
"But there was a barrier," confusedly muttered Giles.
"There is no barrier," asserted Colin.
"None!" echoed Phyllys.
They were wrong. A barrier did exist, though not in the mind of
Phyllys. It resided in Mrs. Wyverne's fears for the future weal of her
beloved grand-daughter. She found it hard to credit that a modern man,
who lived a life outside her limitations, who did not employ those
forms of religious phraseology in which she delighted, who would not
find pleasure in Miss Robins' addresses or profit from Mr. Timkins'
exhortations, could be a safe husband for "the child."
But the old Vicar, with his deeper insight and wider grasp, pleaded
strenuously; and Phyllys' face spoke for her; and Giles spent two
months at Midfell, laying siege to the old lady's heart. Although he
was not "one of the family," and although the tale of his mother's
duplicity had given her a shock, she did in time learn to differentiate
between the characters of mother and son, and did arrive at the
knowledge that a man might be a good man, in the best sense of the
word, without seeing on every point eye to eye with herself.
Little though she knew it, this shake to her "personal infallibility"
theory was one of the most wholesome lessons she had ever received. Her
outlook was broadened, to the great gain of herself and those around.
But Barbara failed to appreciate the gain; and Miss Robins counted
permission given to Phyllys' engagement "a sad falling away."
When a certain happy day arrived, the bridegroom's "best man" might
have said to the bridegroom, "You, after all, are the gainer! If broad
acres are mine, Phyllys is yours!"
But that would have cast a shadow on the bridegroom's happiness. The
words were not spoken; and they never would be spoken. Giles Randolph,
owner of Castle Hill, was not a man to consult his own feelings before
another's peace of mind. To Phyllys he was always the kindest of
brothers; to Colin far more than a brother.
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