Carrie—unconscious, sleepy Carrie—laid herself down to rest that night
in her four-post bed, and slept the dreamless sleep of youth and health,
till the morning light stealing through the curtains disturbed her a
little, when she dreamt she was riding down Piccadilly in a coach and
four with Philip Meadowes, and wakened with a laugh.
And all this night, that had passed so quickly for Carrie, a man was
spurring along the miry roads towards London, bearing a letter that was
big with fate for her; while at Fairmeadowes Phil tossed about,
revolving something in his mind that did not seem to take shape very
easily; and Richard Meadowes too lay sleepless till the dawn.
Three sleepless men, ‘all along of Carrie,’ as Phil had so vulgarly put
it!
The cause of Phil’s sleeplessness was not far to seek, for, late that
night, Peter had brought him a curious and disquieting piece of news.
‘The master hath sent George a-ridin’ express to town this night, sir,’
he had said, and then, in a whisper, ‘bearing a letter, sir, with the
address “_To Dr. Sebastian Shepley_.” For George is no scholar, and came
to me to read the direction, sir, and there it was, so sure as I do
stand in my shoes.’
Phil, who was not without youthful affectations, pretended to receive
this intelligence with great unconcern; but when Peter had gone he
strode up and down the room in great agitation. Then he threw up the
window, and leant out into the velvety spring darkness. Thoughts
throbbed through his brain that the cool night air could do very little
to calm.
‘By Heaven!’ he said, speaking out into the darkness, ‘he’ll not outwit
me.’
So this was what his father’s sudden change of front had meant!—he
wished to throw the blame upon Dr. Shepley if Carrie was taken away. Oh
ho, that was very wily no doubt, ‘but not all the fathers in Britain
shall outwit me,’ said the arrogant Philip, and began to revolve schemes
in his busy, clever young head.
Towards morning he turned over on his pillow, and fell to sleep at last.
‘I can but try my luck,’ he murmured as his eyes closed.
The spring world was all a-dazzle with sunshine again after yesterday’s
rain, when Carrie came down-stairs. I regret to say that she came
down-stairs late, bidding the maid ‘not tell Lady Mallow’ with such a
charming smile that the austere elderly woman fibbed profusely to her
mistress a few minutes later. After breakfast, Carrie went out on to the
lawn, and stood, in apparent irresolution, looking round her. She smiled
to herself out of mere pleasure of heart, and strolled away down the
steps to the terrace, following her errant fancies. From the terrace
there was a wide view far over the country. Carrie stood still here,
shaded her eyes from the brilliant sunshine, and gazed intently in the
direction of Fairmeadowes.
Far away among the fields she saw some one walking by the river bank.
Carrie was irresolute no longer. She did not stay to put on her hat and
her gloves, nor stop to consider that she had not yet visited her aunt’s
sick-room—no, she did none of these things, but ran off down the
avenue, and, pushing through the hedge, walked with more sedateness
across the fields. In the distance, now, she could hear a long clear
whistle like a bird’s note. It came nearer and nearer, then Phil came up
through the long, reedy, flowering grasses by the riverside, with both
hands held out to her; his shining eyes seemed to speak for him.
‘I thought you were never coming, Carrie,’ he said, and took her hands
in his.
Hitherto their relations had been strictly unsentimental, now they had
suddenly become lovers; without a word of explanation they both
acknowledged it.
‘Come and sit down, Carrie, I have all the world to say to you,’ said
Phil, and he flung his arm round her as he spoke. To Carrie it seemed
the most natural thing that Phil should be in love with her—she had
known it indeed for ten days past—she was not the least surprised at
it, but what did surprise her now was to find that she too was in love,
and that it was so natural—she seemed to have loved Phil always. It was
no astonishing thing to her that she should sit here with Phil’s arm
round her, and hear him say all manner of things that only yesterday he
would never have dreamed of saying. What did astonish her was that he
had not said all this long ago! Why not yesterday? why not when they
first met? Had they ever been strangers? Had they not understood each
other always? It was ridiculous this sudden assumption of loverishness
on Phil’s part; they had been lovers from long long ago!
And from these happy thoughts Carrie was rudely wakened by what Phil was
saying. His voice was urgent, his looks were anxious; he was actually
telling her a story, in rather incoherent words, about both their
parents, and a woman and a fight, and she did not take it all in.
‘But what has all this to do with you and with me, Phil?’ she asked,
raising her face to his.
Phil turned and shook her ever so lightly.
‘Oh, you dear dull darling that you are,’ he cried; ‘do you not see they
will separate us?—take you away from me, Carrie—never allow you to see
me again?’
‘But I could not live without you,’ said simple Carrie, unaware that the
formula had been used before; it seemed quite an original argument to
her.
‘Nor I without you, of course,’ cried Phil—quite as unoriginal, in
spite of his quick wits (the poor and the rich in wits as in wealth meet
together in some things), ‘and for that reason you won’t refuse me what
I ask, Carrie—’tis the only plan—I’ve thought all the matter out, and
unless you will do it, your father will be here to-night, and will carry
you off to London, and you will never see my face again, as like as
not.’
‘Well?’ asked Carrie dubiously.
‘You’ll run away with me, and marry me. ’Tis as easy as the alphabet if
once we get to London.’
‘Oh, but my father,’ protested Carrie.
‘Well, it has come to this: you must choose betwixt him and me; he will
never allow you to marry me if he knows.’
‘But ’tis so sudden, Phil!—if I had even a day to consider the matter.’
‘You have scarce an hour,’ said Phil; ‘by now your father has that
letter, by another hour, if I mistake not, he will be on his way here;
by the evening he will have arrived. You must come with me now, now,
now—or——’
The unspoken alternative of separation struck coldly on Carrie’s ear.
Yet another love, older, steadier, plucked at her heart—she was torn
between the two.
‘Ah, Phil,’ she cried, ‘I cannot leave you, and I cannot grieve my
father. What am I to do? O what a sad thing trouble is—I have never
known it before!’
(I doubt if she ever had.)
Phil was not, perhaps, as diligent a Biblical student as he might have
been, but his researches in that direction came to his aid at this
moment.
‘Oh, you know, Carrie, there is Scripture for that,’ he said, ‘about
“leaving father and mother and cleaving to your wife”—that’s the rule
for men, and I dare swear it holds good for women too.’
‘Do you think so? But I would not grieve my father for the world,’
hesitated Carrie.
Phil grew impatient, for time was racing on, the sun was high in the
heavens now.
‘You must—you must; can you bear to think of never seeing me again? I’d
sooner miss the sun out of the sky than you, Carrie.’
Carrie seemed to herself to be whirled round and round in the eddies of
Phil’s passion; she could not gainsay him, and yet she trembled and held
back.
‘Yes—ah, yes—I would go to the world’s end with you, Phil,’ she said,
‘if it were not for fear to grieve my father.’ She rose and paced up and
down the bank in an agony of indecision, clasping her hands together and
then flinging them out with a gesture of helpless bewilderment. Never in
life before had Carrie been called upon to make a decision of any
importance, and now the two strongest affections of her heart warred
together for the victory.
Phil came and paced beside her, arguing, beseeching, coaxing her by
turns—till she turned at last in despair and laid her hands in his.
‘I will come with you,’ she said.
Phil did not allow the grass to grow under his feet.
‘Come then, so quickly as you can, Carrie,’ he cried, ‘for each moment
is precious. I shall return to Fairmeadowes and tell them I am gone out
for the day. You must go home and put on your habit, and get one of your
good aunt’s horses.’
‘I am not permitted to ride alone,’ said Carrie, who saw lions in the
way at every turn.
Phil laughed, and put his hand in his pocket. ‘Here, Carrie,’ he said,
‘give me your hand.’ Carrie all unsuspicious laid her hand in his.
‘That is what you must do to your aunt’s groom, my child; there never
was groom yet but understood that argument,’ said Phil.
‘All this, Phil?’ said Carrie, as she eyed the yellow coin.
‘All that, and say, as you give it, that he must come to Wyntown for the
horse at five o’ the clock.’
‘But he will wonder, Phil.’
‘Doubtless.—Oh, Carrie, but women waste time on trifles!’
Carrie was nettled by this remark, so she hastened off as fast as she
could through the long meadow hay, determined that Phil should not find
her so dilatory after all.
‘Meet me at the cross roads,’ Phil shouted, as he ran off in the
direction of Fairmeadowes.