Next morning brought Phyl a letter. It came by the early post, so that she
got it in her bedroom before coming down.
Phyl had few correspondents and she looked at the envelope curiously
before opening it.
"Miss Berknowles,
at Vernons. Charleston."
ran the address written in a large, boyish, yet individual hand. She knew
at once and by instinct whom it was from.
"I'm coming to Charleston in a day or two, and I want to see you," ran the
letter which had neither address nor date, "but I'm not coming to
Pinckneys. I'll be about town and sure to find you somewhere. I can't get
you out of my mind since last night. Tried to, but can't."
That was all. Phyl put the letter back in its envelope. She was not angry,
she was disturbed. There was an assurance about Silas Grangerson daunting
in its simplicity and directness. Something that raised opposition to him
in her heart, yet paralysed it. Instinct told her to avoid him, to drive
him from her mind, ay and something more than instinct. The spirit of
Vernons, the calm sweet soul of the place, that seemed to hold the past
and the present, Juliet and herself, peace and happiness with the promise
of all good things in the future, this spirit rose up against Silas
Grangerson as though he were the antagonist to happiness and peace, Juliet
and herself, the present and the past.
Rose up, without prevailing entirely.
Silas had impressed himself upon her mind in such a manner that she could
not free herself from the impression. Young as she was, with the terribly
clear perception of the male character which all women possess in
different degrees, she recognised that Silas was dangerous to that logical
and equitable state of existence we call happiness, not on account of his
wildness or his eccentricities, but because of some want inherent in his
nature, something that spoke vaguely in his words and his actions, in his
handsome face and in his careless and graceful manner.
All the same she could not free herself from the impression he had made
upon her, she could not drive him from her mind, he had in some way
paralysed her volition, called forces to his aid from some unknown part of
her nature, perhaps with those kisses which she still felt upon the very
face of her soul.
She came down to breakfast, and afterwards finding herself alone with Miss
Pinckney, she took Silas's letter from her pocket and handed it to her.
She had been debating in her own mind all breakfast time as to whether she
ought to show the letter; the struggle had been between her instinct to do
the right thing, and a powerful antagonism to this instinct which was a
new thing in her.
The latter won.
And then, lo and behold, when she found herself alone with Miss Pinckney
in the sunlit breakfast room, almost against her will and just as though
her hand had moved of its own volition, she put it in her pocket and
produced the letter.
Miss Pinckney read it.
"Well, of all the crazy creatures!" said she. "Why, he has only met you
once. He's mad! No, he isn't--he's a Grangerson. I know them."
She stopped short and re-read the letter, turned it about and then laid it
down.
"Just as if he'd known you for years. And you scarcely spoke to him. Did
he _say_ anything to you as if he cared for you?"
"No, he didn't," said Phyl quite truthfully.
"Did he look at you as if he cared for you?"
"No," replied the other, dreading another question. But Miss Pinckney did
not put it. She could not conceive a man kissing a girl who had never
betrayed his feelings for her by word or glance.
"Well, it gets me. It does indeed; acting like a dumb creature and then
writing this-- Do you care for _him_?"
"I--I--no--you see, I don't know him--much."
"Well, he seems to know you pretty well, there's no doubt about one thing,
Silas Grangerson can make up his mind pretty quick. He won't come to
Vernons, won't he? Well, maybe it's better for him not, for I've no
patience with oddities. That's what's wrong with him, he's an oddity, and
it's those sort of people make the trouble in life--they're worse than
whisky and cards for bringing unhappiness. Years and years and years
ago--I'm telling you this though I've never told it to any one else--Seth
Grangerson, Silas's father, seemed to care for me, not much, still he
seemed to care. Then one day all at once he came into the room where I
was, through the window, and told me to come off and get married to him,
wanted me to go away right off. I was a fool in those days, but not all a
fool, and when he tried to put his arm round my waist, my hand went up and
smacked his face.
"We are good enough friends now, but I've often thought of what I escaped
by not marrying him. You saw him and the life he's leading at that out of
the way place, but you didn't see his obstinacy and his queerness, and
Silas is ten times worse, more crazy--well, there, you're warned--but mind
you I don't want to be meddling. I've seen so many carefully prepared
marriages turn out pure miseries, and so many crazy matches turn out
happily, that I'm more than cautious in giving advice. Seems to me that
people before they are married are quite different creatures to what they
turn out after they are married."
"But I don't want to get married," said Phyl.
"No, but, seems to me, Silas does," replied the other.