"We do not know
How she may soften at the sight o' the child."
If life was pleasant at Carnarvon Square, it was far more pleasant by
the banks of the river. Phillis expanded like a rose in June under the
sweet and gracious influences with which Agatha L'Estrange surrounded
her. Her straightforward way of speaking remained--the way that
reminded one of a very superior schoolboy who had _not_ been made
a prig at Rugby--but it was rounded off by something more of what we
call maidenly reserve. It should not be called reserve at all; it is
an atmosphere with which women have learned to surround themselves, so
that they show to the outward world like unto the haloed moon. Its
presence was manifested in a hundred little ways--she did not answer
quite so readily; she did not look into the face of a stranger quite
so frankly; she seemed to be putting herself more upon her
guard--strange that the chief charm of women should be a relic of
barbarous times, when the stronger sex were to be feared for their
strength and the way in which they often used it. Only with Jack
Dunquerque there was no change. With him she was still the frank,
free-hearted girl, the friend who opened all her heart, the maiden
who, alone of womankind, knew not the meaning of love.
Phillis was perfectly at home with Agatha L'Estrange. She carolled
about the house like a bird; she played and sang at her sweet will;
she made sketches by thousands; and she worked hard at the elements of
all knowledge. Heavens, by what arid and thirsty slopes do we climb
the hills of Learning! Other young ladies had made the house by the
river their temporary home, but none so clever, none so bright, none
so entirely lovable as this emancipated cloister-child. She was not
subdued, as most young women somehow contrive to become; she dared to
have an opinion and to assert it; she did not tremble and hesitate
about acting before it had been ascertained that action was correct;
she had not the least fear of compromising herself; she hardly knew
the meaning of proper and improper; and she who had been a close
prisoner all her life was suddenly transformed into a girl as free as
any of Diana's nymphs. Her freedom was the result of her ignorance;
her courage was the result of her special training, which had not
taught her the subjection of the sex; her liberty was not license,
because she did not, and could not, use it for those purposes which
schoolgirls learn in religious boarding-houses. She could walk with a
curate, and often did, without flirting with the holy young man; she
could make Jack Dunquerque take her for a row upon the river, and
think of nothing but the beauty of the scene, her own exceeding
pleasure, and the amiable qualities of her companion.
Of course, Agatha's friends called upon her. Among them were several
specimens of the British young lady. Phillis watched them with much
curiosity, but she could not get on with them. They seemed mostly to
be suffering from feeble circulation of the pulse; they spoke as if
they enjoyed nothing; those who were very young kindled into
enthusiasm in talking over things which Phillis knew nothing about,
such as dancing--Phillis was learning to dance, but did not yet
comprehend its fiercer joys--and sports in which the other sex took an
equal part. Their interest was small in painting; they cared for
nothing very strongly; their minds seemed for the most part as languid
as their bodies. This life at low ebb seemed to the girl whose blood
coursed freely, and tingled in her veins as it ran, a poor thing; and
she mentally rejoiced that her own education was not such as theirs.
On the other hand, there were points in which these ladies were
clearly in advance of herself. Phillis felt the cold ease of their
manner; that was beyond her efforts; a formal and mannered calm was
all she could assume to veil the intensity of her interest in things
and persons.
"But what do they like, Agatha?" she asked one day, after the
departure of two young ladies of the highest type.
"Well, dear, I hardly know. I should say that they have no strong
likings in any direction. After all, Phillis dear, those who have the
fewest desires enjoy the greatest happiness."
"No, Agatha, I cannot think that. Those who want most things can enjoy
the most. Oh, that level line! What can shake them off it?"
"They are happier as they are, dear. You have been brought up so
differently that you cannot understand. Some day they will marry. Then
the equable temperament in which they have been educated will stand
them in good stead with their husbands and their sons."
Phillis was silent, but she was not defeated.
Of course the young ladies did not like her at all.
They were unequal to the exertion of talking to a girl who thought
differently from all other girls. Phil to them, as to all people who
are weak in the imaginative faculty, was _impossible_.
But bit by bit the social education was being filled in, and Phillis
was rapidly becoming ready for the _début_ to which Agatha looked
forward with so much interest and pride.
There remained another kind of education.
Brought up alone, with only her maid of her own age, and only an old
man on whom to pour out her wealth of affection, this girl would, but
for her generous nature, have grown up cold and unsympathetic. She did
not. The first touch of womanly love which met her in her escape from
prison was the kiss which Agatha L'Estrange dropped unthinkingly upon
her cheek. It was the first of many kisses, not formal and unmeaning,
which were interchanged between these two. It is difficult to explain
the great and rapid change the simple caresses of another woman worked
in Phillis's mind. She became softer, more careful of what she said,
more thoughtful of others. She tried harder to understand people; she
wanted to be to them all what Agatha L'Estrange was to her.
One day, Agatha, returning from early church, whither Phillis would
not accompany her, heard her voice in the kitchen. She was singing and
laughing. Agatha opened the door and looked in.
Phillis was standing in the middle of a group. Her eyes were bright
with a sort of rapture; her lips were parted; her long hair was
tossing behind her; she was singing, talking, and laughing, all in a
breath.
In her arms she held the most wonderful thing to a woman which can be
seen on this earth.
A BABY.
The child of the butter-woman. The mother stood before Phillis, her
pleased red face beaming with an honest pride. Phillis's maid,
Antoinette, and Agatha's three servants, surrounded these two, the
principal figures. In the corner, grinning, stood the coachman. And
the baby crowed and laughed.
"Oh, the pretty thing! Oh, the pretty thing!" cried Phillis, tossing
the little one-year-old, who kicked and laughed and pulled at her
hair. "Was there ever such a lovely child? Agatha, come and see, come
and see! He talks, he laughs, he dances!"
"Ah, madame!" said Antoinette, wiping away a sympathetic tear. "Dire
que ma'amsell n'en a jamais vu? Mais non, mais non--pas memes des
poupees!"