LOYAL PHYLLIS
Phyllis sat looking, with unseeing eyes, out upon the small courtyard
below her window for more than an hour. All day her brain had been
full of sweet, indefinite girlish dreams from which Bab's grief had
aroused her into most definitely unpleasant waking. She was a sensible
little body, and she knew that she was not yet fond enough of Tom to
make it tragic that she must find measures to break off his increasing
affection for her; nor was she conceited enough to believe that it
would be fatal to Tom's happiness for all time to drive him from her.
It was as though a vision of vague and beautiful possibilities had
arisen before her, from which she must turn away her eyes; it was not
that she was rejecting a present good, but that which might grow into a
very precious gift in the future. She shrank from the idea of a lover
yet, feeling too young and too content in her girlhood to tolerate
losing it, but Tom was a dear, good, splendid boy, and by and by,
possibly, when she was older and ready to be a woman--then who could
tell? Perhaps she would grow fonder of him--so fond that--
And at that point Phyllis had shyly stopped, even in her thoughts;
but it had been delicious to dream, thus vaguely, all day since Ruth
had told the mischievous secret. Now Phyllis felt, without a moment's
doubt, that she must dream no more.
If Bab already cared so much that Tom's preference for her cousin
could cost her such bitter tears, their source but ill concealed, then
Phyllis knew that her duty was to turn away from rose-colored visions
and try to bring about Bab's happiness.
She had a sorrowful feeling that when she had closed the front door
behind her, and walked in upon weeping Babbie, she had shut it upon her
first careless youth, and was beginning to grow up and face a grown-up
girl's puzzles. For in stories sometimes two friends were rivals, and
all sorts of catastrophes came from the situation, and one or both of
the heroines had a hard lot to bear. Well, she and Bab were never to be
rivals, that was certain; how absurd it all was, and how sensible Tom
would laugh if he could know her thoughts! But, after all, it was not
absurd, but the beginning of what might prove a real sorrow if some one
did not prevent it; and no one but she herself could remedy the matter,
if it could be done at all. Yes, she felt sure it could be done, and
that there was only one way to do it. If that way involved sacrifice
for herself, that did not make it less her duty. She would rather die
than stand in the way of Barbara's good, much rather die than be the
one to deprive either of her adopted sisters of anything essential to
her happiness; for they were dearer and more to be considered that they
were not her own sisters, but the children of the uncle and aunt to
whom she owed so much. Phyllis thought and thought, and it seemed to
her the only thing that she could do was to drop out of the little home
which was dearer to her, if possible, than to either of the others, and
go away for a while, until Tom should have grown sensible enough to see
how much nicer Bab really was than she. When that happy day had come
she would come back; she hoped it would not be long coming, for her
heart sickened within her at the thought of herself alone from home.
There was that dear old lady in Boston; she would write her, and ask
her if the place as companion she had promised her whenever she claimed
it were still open to her, and if it were she would pack her trunk and
slip out, and the blessed "square of Wyndhams," as they called the
happy four constituting their family, would be a four no longer.
Above all, Mrs. Wyndham must not guess the true reason of her going,
for she would never consent to Phyllis going away for Barbara's sake.
Jessamy? Yes, she would tell Jessamy, for she must have an assistant in
furthering her plans, both in getting away and in seeing that Barbara
was helped toward the happiness she might miss if let alone; for
Phyllis had heard that girls in love sometimes did such dreadful things
that they drove off the blessing they craved. She had known such cases,
she thought, then remembered that her experience was confined to the
book-shelves, and that the only case in point she had encountered was
Hetty Lambert's, in "The Virginians."
Phyllis had reached this stage of her meditations, and had wiped away
some quiet tears which would come as she planned giving up everything
she loved, even for a time, when the bell rang, and she rose to let in
Jessamy, radiant, lovely, at the end of a very happy day.
"Bab has a headache, and auntie is lying down," said Phyllis. "Is there
any news, Jessamy?"
"Mr. Lane thinks the prospect is good of our recovering something,"
said Jessamy, going into Phyllis's room to take off her hat. "He is
the nicest person! Beautiful manners, and decidedly good-looking--well
bred, you know," Jessamy added, as if she could say no more, as indeed
she could not, being the sort of girl she was. "I had a lovely day;
Mrs. Van Alyn is perfect. Why have you your hat on? Have you been out,
or are you going? It is nearly dinner-time. When did Ruth go?"
"Ruth went rather early; I forgot my hat. I walked with her a little
way, and have been sitting here, thinking, ever since," said Phyllis,
taking out her hat-pins and tossing her hat on the bed with a gesture
as though flowers and their getting tumbled were beneath her interest.
"Anything wrong, Phyl? You've been crying!" said Jessamy, turning from
the glass with a sharp look at her cousin. "What ails Bab? She never
has headaches."
"There's nothing very wrong, Jessamy; nothing we can't set right,"
said Phyllis. "It is a story too long to tell you now, but I'm going to
tell you as soon as we can get off somewhere together. It is a solemn
secret, mind, and you're not to tell a soul--not even auntie. Don't
appear to see anything queer about Bab to-night, and to-morrow come
with me into the park and we'll talk it out."
"Then it is about Bab?" said Jessamy, looking puzzled. "Bab, of all
people! She was all right when I went away; I don't see how I can wait
until to-morrow to hear the secret, Phyllis. It can't be very trifling,
when you show no interest in getting our money back."
"It is just a horrid little snarl, Amy, but nothing worse; you and I
will unravel it. Hush! I hear auntie, and Bab is moving about in her
room. Let's put the kettle on; there's nothing like the kitchen for
troubled minds! Don't you dare look thoughtful this evening, nor try
to guess what I've on my mind by studying me, or Bab will see. I am
going to tell you as soon as I can. Better change your dress, Jessamy;
I'll whisk on my apron, and get the water boiling," Phyllis added in a
louder tone, as her aunt came down the hall.
In spite of Phyllis's warning, Jessamy found her eyes wandering
from her face to Bab's all through dinner. One she saw was clouded,
discontented, very unlike its usually bright self; the other, grave,
but patient and sweet: neither helped her to a solution of the mystery
in the air.
There was no possibility of waiting for the morrow to hear Phyllis's
story. Curiosity made it more than easy for Jessamy to keep awake until
her mother and Bab were asleep, and, creeping to Phyllis's door, she
soon satisfied herself that her cousin was as wakeful as she was. "Get
on your wrapper and come into the kitchen, Phyl; I'm wild to hear what
you have to tell me," she said through a crack in the door.
Phyllis opened it at once. "I'll come," she said. "Don't make a sound."
Jessamy went down the hall in the dark, and Phyllis followed her in a
few moments, wrapped in her eiderdown wrapper, soundless knit slippers
on her feet, and Truce in her arms, for the kitten was her bedfellow,
and was so spoiled that he would have cried and aroused the household
if he had wakened to find himself alone.
"Now," said Jessamy, carefully and noiselessly closing the door behind
Phyllis, and taking the straight chair, having pulled the rocker
forward for her cousin, "now, tell me." Phyllis seated herself, tucking
her feet up on the round of the chair and pulling her wrapper down
around them, for the floor was cold. Truce immediately took up the post
under the tubs which he always assumed to look for the mice which never
came.
"Well, Jessamy," Phyllis began, "it is not the sort of news you expect,
no matter what you have guessed it to be. Babbie has fallen in love
with Tom."
"Bab?" exclaimed Jessamy, so loudly that Phyllis had to warn her to be
careful. "But that is impossible! Why, Tom is beginning to care for
you."
"How did you know that?" demanded Phyllis, sitting up straight. "Bab
said, too, she had thought so for some time. I never dreamed such a
thing until Ruth told us something to-day. It is all horrid, Jessamy,
and I wish we were back to our doll days."
"What did Ruth tell you? What makes you fancy such nonsense about Bab?"
asked Jessamy; but, as she spoke, the memory of Bab's curt manner when
she had spoken of Tom's caring for Phyllis came back to her with a pang
of foreboding.
Phyllis recounted, without interruption from Jessamy, the secret that
Ruth had discovered, and Bab's subsequent behavior. Then, without
waiting for comment from Jessamy, she said: "There's only one thing
for me to do, Jessamy; I'm going to slip out and leave Tom to love the
right girl, if he loves a Wyndham at all. I'm going to write to Boston
to Mrs. Dean, and ask if she will take me, as she said she would. I
shall stay there until the trouble blows over, and you will get a maid
to do the work, which would be too much for you without me; we could
afford it as it is, so we certainly can when I am earning money."
Jessamy rose and put her arms around Phyllis, kneeling at her side.
"My dear, good, unselfish Phyllis," she said, "if you won't let me
tell mama--and I think it is right not to, because it would worry her
dreadfully to think there was no way of keeping pain from one or the
other of her girls--you force me to act as I know she would if she were
told. Bab is not the only one to be considered; you have just as much
right to be happy as she. And there is Tom. It is you, not Bab, he has
turned to; is it just to give him no thought? And are you sure you
don't care a little bit for him, dear?"
"I have tried to be very honest, Jessamy," said Phyllis, slowly. "I
like Tom; I believe I could do more than like him by and by. Wait! But
I don't love him; I never thought of loving any one until to-day. I
liked to think of it--I'll confess that--but before the thought had
a chance to do any harm I found out about Babbie; wasn't it lucky,
Jessamy? As to Tom, it is only a boyish fancy, and he will get so much
the better bargain in getting Bab that there is no reason to be sorry
for him."
"Neither mama nor I would admit that, though Babbie is a splendid,
true, loving girl," said Jessamy. "But there never was but one Phyllis,
and you must know that if Bab is my own sister, you have always been
even dearer to me than she. I won't have you sacrifice yourself,
Phyllis, not for any, or all of us, so you may make up your mind this
moment that I will not help your plan out till I have thought a long
time. And how do you suppose we shall bear letting you go?"
"And how do you suppose I shall bear going?" retorted Phyllis. "Even
Trucie is dear, and I can't bear to leave him. But it is the only way
to bring things straight. As to sacrificing myself, if I were to be
happy at Bab's expense, I couldn't be happy--to make a fine bull. But
don't let us get sentimental and exaggerate the case, Jessamy. I am
just running away from a possibility; I might have something beautiful
in the end, if there were no reason why I should not have it; but again
I might never find it beautiful. In the meantime here is Babbie, really
unhappy, jealous of me, wanting positively what I might possibly have
wanted, but never could want now. Do you realize how dreadful it was
to have Bab, our own Bab, shrink away from me when I kissed her, and
to feel that she was actually jealous of me? Why, I wouldn't have such
a thing as that between our love, breaking up the fondest affection
three girls ever felt for one another, for all the splendid boys in
the world! So help me away, Jessamy; help me get auntie's consent, and
help me keep up heart to leave home for the first time in my life; for,
honestly, I am a coward at the thought of it. And, after I am gone,
help Barbara be happy."
"Do you ever think, my darling old Loyalty," said Jessamy, with a
hug, "that you may be throwing away a very precious thing--for I feel
sure you could care for Tom, and he is not a man to be met with every
day--throwing it away all for nothing? That you may wean him from you
without turning him to Bab, and that Bab herself may be passing through
a mere girlish fancy?"
Phyllis was silent a moment, then she said slowly: "I never once
thought of that, but I mustn't think of it now. I must do what is
right, and hope for the best. I don't think Babbie is the sort to
take silly, trifling little fancies, and you don't think so, either.
Tom must care for her, since he is goose enough not to care for you,
because he will never find any one to compare with you two. But if he
didn't love Bab at last, at least she would not think I had robbed her,
and I wouldn't have that thought to torture me, and we'd still have one
another; and I always did say, having that, nothing else mattered."
Jessamy drew the pretty head, with its soft rings of hair, down on
her shoulder, and kissed Phyllis with a tenderness that was almost
motherly. "You are the best, the truest girl that ever lived, Phyllis,
and I respect you even more than I love you. Bab ought to be thankful
on her knees for such generous love as yours, if she never gets any
other kind. You shall go, dear; I won't say one word against it, and
I'll help you all I can. If mama could know this she would be quite
overcome with your devotion to Bab. I only hope Bab will be worthy of
your love and truth."
"I'd do just as much for you, Jessamy," said Phyllis, looking up slyly
through the tears she was shedding on her cousin's blue jacket.
"Don't you imply I don't appreciate your love, miss," said Jessamy.
"Go to bed, Phylkins; you are cold. And go to sleep; perhaps you
have imagined more than the truth, and you won't go away, after all.
To think of your giving up a lover to Bab! It's rather romantic and
interesting, isn't it? This is the horrid penalty of being nineteen."
"Oh, dear me, yes; that's what I have been thinking all the afternoon.
I wish we were nine, don't you?" said Phyllis, fervently.
Jessamy hesitated. "There is something rather nice about growing up,
though," she said meditatively. "To be quite honest, Phyl, I think it
would be pleasant having lovers and admiration and all that, provided
we did not all fancy the same youth."
"Have you been tasting that pleasure, Jessamy Wyndham?" demanded
Phyllis, grown sharp in the experience of the past hours. "Was Mr. Lane
quick to recognize our princess's charms?"
"Don't be a goose, Phyllis; he was very polite, of course," said
Jessamy. "If we don't take care, we shall be as bad as the girls we
always have despised, who see a possible admirer in every young man
they meet. Go to bed, dearie, and go to sleep. It's a perfect shame
Bab's notions have to shadow your blessed, unselfish little face--when
you were going your ways so unconsciously and harmlessly, too! It isn't
her fault, but I really believe I should enjoy shaking Babbie a little,
especially if you go away."
"Poor, dear little Babbie! You don't know how bitterly she was crying
when I found her," said Phyllis, unrolling herself from the folds of
her wrapper. "It certainly isn't her fault, and I shall be happy if she
is. Come, Truchi-ki; bedtime, and past it, my golden-eyed kitten! No
mouselets here, so there's no use watching; they know too much to come
where kittens watch. It's rather nice to be a little white catkin, and
purr at a touch, isn't it, Jessamy?" she added, as she swung Truce to
her shoulder, where he immediately cuddled down to purr. "We used to
be little white, purring things too, not long ago; it is such a pity
not to stay so! Until the trouble came we never knew a care; and now,
just when we are getting so cozy, the baby has to fall in love! Isn't
it horrid? Good night; you're such a comfort, Amy-princess, with your
common sense and your partial judgments of me! I wonder if this kitchen
was ever the refuge of any other girl tenants in sentimental troubles?"
"Good night, loyal Phyllis; I can never love you nor thank you enough
for Bab, who is not likely to realize fully what you have done. I'm not
partial to you; I can't do you justice, but at least I know it," said
Jessamy, taking Phyllis and the kitten into a comprehensive embrace and
kissing her with her heart on her lips.
Tired out with their long talk, and chilled in the night air, Jessamy
and Phyllis soon fell asleep, and forgot the troubles hanging over them
in the dreamless rest of their years.
Phyllis wrote her letter to Mrs. Dean, and posted it without a word to
any one save Jessamy. There was no use in getting her aunt's permission
to go to Boston until she had found out whether the opportunity of
going were still open to her.
It was difficult to wait the answer, keep the secret, and behave in
the old way, as in the days when there were no secrets and, above
all, no consciousness of changes that were far from pleasant in what
Barbara had called "the squareness of the square." But though it was
not an easy task, Jessamy and Phyllis accomplished it fairly well,
and, fortunately, it did not require doing long. Mrs. Dean replied
very quickly to Phyllis's note, with unmistakable pleasure bidding her
welcome at the earliest possible time she could set out.
Mrs. Wyndham could not be brought to listen to the plan when it was
first broached to her; there was not the slightest need, she said,
of Phyllis's leaving home; indeed it was unwise for her to go until
she and Jessamy had first tested their hope of working together for
the magazines, for which Jessamy especially seemed suddenly so well
prepared. But Phyllis begged very hard to be allowed to try her
wings, pleading restlessness and a longing to see more of the world;
especially, she reminded her aunt, because no one could hope to write
well who lived in one narrow routine. Jessamy seconded her plea, and
said they should work together quite as effectually with Phyllis in
Boston, for she would send her stories home for Jessamy to illustrate,
and nothing would be lost by separation.
Mrs. Wyndham was a little hurt at first by Phyllis's insistence, and
then not a little suspicious; it was so improbable that a restless
desire to roam should come suddenly upon home-loving Phyllis in the
midst of her supreme content in their new housekeeping. Though she did
not suspect that Barbara had any connection with the plan, she did
surmise that Phyllis was running away from an unwelcome lover, and so
gave her consent reluctantly at last. Bab herself took the news with
dumb amazement at first, then evidently with an irreconcilable mixture
of emotions. It was past comprehending that Phyllis did not care for
Tom, and yet this sudden change of spirit, following Ruth's disclosure,
left no other solution. Bab did not believe that any one suspected
what it was costing her to think that even Phyllis was first in Tom's
esteem; she hoped that no one saw that Phyllis's going away was a
relief to her, and she hated herself that it should be so.
So it was settled that Phyllis was to go out into the world to try her
fortunes. She and Jessamy hunted up Violet, their former waitress, and
discovered, as they had expected, that for the sake of coming back to
the Wyndhams she would gladly undertake to do "gen'l house-woak, dough
she mos' in gen'lly didn't cah 'bout it."
Getting Violet back simplified the domestic problem, and there were
no more obstacles in Phyllis's path of duty, except its general
thorniness, and this she tried to keep to herself.
Tom had been in and out as usual during these days when Jessamy and
Phyllis were plotting against him, but of course was not told of
Phyllis's plans till they were complete.
Phyllis was in the park late one afternoon, when all her arrangements
had been settled, and even the day of her departure fixed upon as the
coming Monday. Only three days at home left her, she was thinking
sadly; but if she must go, delay could make it no easier, and, as she
looked up, she saw Tom coming toward her.
It was difficult to talk to Tom now, with her guilty consciousness of
so many complex feelings connected with him, but Phyllis managed to
smile with almost her old frankness, and say at once: "Oh, Tom, I'm
glad to see you and tell you myself my great news; I'm going away."
"Away! Where? For how long?" asked Tom, his face falling.
"To Boston, and 'it may be for years and it may be forever.' I'm going
to be independent, and live a little solitary life of my own," laughed
Phyllis, with affected gaiety.
"Phyllis!" exclaimed Tom, in such a shocked, grieved tone that Phyllis
hastily rattled on: "It may be spring fever, but I think it will last
longer than spring. I am not going to be tied down to pots and pans all
my life."
"That does not sound like you," said Tom. "How do you think the
others--how do you think I shall get on without you?"
"The others have one another; you have them. Frankly, Tom, I am so much
occupied in my own affairs I can't consider any one," said Phyllis.
"Why do you want to misrepresent yourself so?" demanded Tom,
indignantly. "I have known you long enough to know what a good friend
you are, and how much better--"
"I am not a very good friend; Jessamy and Bab--Bab especially--are
much more devoted to friends than I am," said Phyllis, who was new to
this sort of thing, and rather overdid trying to drive Tom from her. "I
hope that isn't rude, Tom, when you've been so good to me, but you've
the truest Wyndhams left."
"Are you going to write me?" asked Tom, swallowing as well as he could
this awkward implication that, after all, Phyllis had very little
interest in him.
"You won't be offended if I don't, will you? That is, not to you
personally; you will hear the letters I write home, and I shall want
messages from you, but I mean to work very hard, and there are three
people at home to write--and Ruth and Mrs. Van Alyn--and I must do my
duty by Aunt Henrietta, I suppose, so you won't think it strange if I
satisfy myself with messages to you. You know I shall think of you,"
added Phyllis, breaking down a little as she saw Tom's hurt and puzzled
face; it was rather hard to put him so far below all these others.
"I cannot think anything later half as strange as this sudden
announcement that you are going away, and your snubbing me," said Tom.
"I have no right to complain of what you choose to do, but it is not
easy to understand you, Phyllis; you were never like this before, and I
hoped you knew how much more than either of the other girls--"
"I am not snubbing you, Tom," said Phyllis, hastily. "I should be sorry
to lose your regard, but the whole truth--that is--you see--why, my
family and my hopes of doing something good in work--that's all I care
about. Don't you understand, Tom?"
"I think I do," said poor Tom, rather huskily. "You aren't very good at
making believe, and there's no kind of use in trying to make me think
less well of you. You don't want me to tell you how I feel about your
going away, but it is hard--" He stopped, and stooped to pat Nixie. Tom
was only a big boy after all, and he was dangerously near tears.
"Dear Tom, you make me feel a selfish brute, but indeed I like you,
and I wish we could all be together as before, and yet that I could do
what I want to do; but as that can't be, I must choose what I care most
for, so don't think much about me, since I am having my own way," said
Phyllis, holding to her purpose, though her own eyes were dim. "And
to prove how much I trust you, I am going to put dear Babbie in your
hands. She isn't quite well lately, though she is so brave and tries so
hard to make us all happy that she doesn't talk about herself. Won't
you take care of her for me, study her as a doctor, and cheer her up as
a friend? Babbie is the most loving, faithful soul in the world; I am
afraid she will miss me dreadfully. If you can get her all right again,
I'll be your friend fast enough; you'll have no occasion to complain of
me."
"I'll look after her," said Tom, "though I don't think there is
anything wrong with her. She shall not be lonely if I can help it. By
Jove, Phyllis, I wish you weren't quite so wrapped up in your family!"
"But I am; in comparison, there is no one in the world for me. Here we
are at home; are you not coming up?" said Phyllis.
"Not to-night. I'll be in to-morrow," said Tom, wringing the hand she
extended. "Good luck, Phyllis, and I'm just as much your friend, if you
don't feel interested in me."
And Phyllis, having succeeded in her efforts, toiled painfully
up-stairs, with the regret of her success.