PHIL GOES TO WARWICK HALL
Had it not been for that package of letters read aloud before the fire
on that stormy March night, this story might have had a very different
ending. But for them Phil never would have known what a winsome,
unselfish character the little Vicar had grown up to be. The casual
meetings of years could not have revealed her to him as did these
intimate glimpses of her daily life and thought, through her letters to
Joyce.
They showed her childishly jubilant in her delight when the first
month's salary was paid into her hands, and yet practical and womanly in
her plans for spending it. Like a child she was, too, in her laments
over some of the mistakes which her inexperience led her into with Brud
and Sister, yet he could see plainly underneath her whimsical words her
deep earnestness of purpose. At last she had recognized that this
opportunity to impress them with her high ideals was one of the King's
calls, and she was bending every energy to the keeping of that tryst.
It was this development of character which interested Phil, even more
than the news of the letters. Still there were a number of items which
gave him something to think about. Lieutenant Boglin had made a second
visit. Once she mentioned a book he had sent her, and another time a
rare butterfly to add to the new collection she was starting. Evidently
they had found several interests in common.
On his last visit she had taken him to Fernbank in the boat, and he had
captured a fine big hairy tarantula for her from among the roots of a
clump of maidenhair ferns. She had been able to enjoy the boat a great
deal more since the children had learned the meaning of the word obey.
She could take them with her now without fear of their rocking the boat,
and in consequence they had had many a delightful hour on the water that
had not been possible before.
"Do you know," said Phil, slowly, when he had listened awhile longer,
"it doesn't strike me that those are particularly doleful letters; at
any rate, anything to send you into an 'orgy of weeps.' I believe it is
nothing but the weather which gave you the spell of doldrums that you
were in when I came."
"Oh, but you haven't heard the latest ones," Joyce exclaimed. "Mamma's
reports of Jack's condition and Jack's own little pencilled scrawls. I
can read between the lines just what a desperate fight he is making, and
this last one from Mary simply knocked all the props out from under the
hope I had been clinging to."
She picked up the last envelope on the pile, postmarked March first, and
turned to the closing pages:
"'Jack is so much worse that I can scarcely think of anything else. We
are _so_ worried about him. He is in bed all the time now, and is
growing so thin and weak. He is very despondent,--something new for him.
It keeps us busy trying to think of things to tempt his appetite or to
arouse him out of his listlessness. He has always been so cheerful
before--so full of jokes and so responsive to any attempt to amuse him.
But now he doesn't seem to want to talk or to be read to or anything.
Once in a while he'll smile a wan little sort of smile when I repeat
some of the children's doings, but he isn't like himself any more.
Sometimes I believe he's just worn out with the long effort he's made to
be brave and keep up for our sake.
"'It is hard for me to keep my interest in the children keyed up to the
proper pitch any more, when all the time I am thinking how pitiful and
white he looks, lying back on his pillows. I am telling you exactly how
things are because I would want you to tell me if I were in your place
and you in mine. I can understand how hard it is for you to be so far
away where you can't see for yourself how he is, every hour. I'll try to
send a note or postal each day.
[Illustration: MARY WARE in TEXAS.
"Leaning against the mantel looked down at her thoughtfully"]
"'He's talked about you a lot, lately. Says you have the pioneer spirit
of all our old Colonial grandmothers, to stick to your post the way you
are doing for our sakes. He's constantly referring to things that
happened at the Wigwam, and to the people who used to come there,--Mr.
Ellested and the Lees and Phil,--especially Phil. I wish he could drop
in here to see us daily as he used to do in Arizona. Maybe Jack would
rouse up and take some interest in _him_. He doesn't take any now in the
people we have met here, although no one could be kinder than the
Rochesters and the Barnabys have been to us.'"
Joyce finished reading, and Phil rose to his feet and began pacing up
and down the long room, his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed on
the floor as if he were considering some weighty problem. Finally he
stopped, and leaning against the mantel, looked down at her,
thoughtfully, saying, "Joyce, I've about thought out a way to manage
it--to take in Bauer on my way to California, I mean. You told me once
that Aunt Emily calls me her 'other boy.' Well, you all are my other
family, and these glimpses you've given me of it make me homesick to see
them. I might be able to help matters some way. I'm almost sure I can
arrange to start several days before the rest of the party and go around
that way, so if you have any messages or things to send, get them
ready."
"Oh, Phil!" she cried, thankfully. "They'll be so glad--I know it will
do them a world of good to see you. Maybe you can cheer Jack up a bit.
So much depends on keeping him hopeful." Then she added, wistfully, "I
only wish you could put me in your pocket and take me along."
"I wish I could," he answered, cordially. Then more cordially still
after a moment's thought, "Why, that's the very thing! Come and go
along! Just cut loose for a short visit and let things here go hang! It
would mean more to them at home to see you again than the few dollars
you could pile up if you stayed on here."
"No," she contradicted, sadly, the light dying out of her eyes, which
had brightened at the mere thought of such a visit. "It's too long a
trip and too expensive, and--"
"But we can easily arrange all that," he interrupted, eagerly. "Under
the circumstances you ought to let me do for Jack's sister what Jack
would gladly do for mine were the circumstances reversed. _Please_,
Joyce."
She shook her head as he urged his plan, but her eyes filled with tears
and she said, brokenly, "You are a dear, generous boy to offer it, and
I'll remember it always, but Phil--don't you see--there's too much at
stake. I _can't_ leave now. Not only my work in hand would stop, but I'd
lose the orders that are constantly coming in, and I can't afford to
miss a penny that would add to Jack's comfort in any way. He may be
helpless for years and years, and Mary's salary will stop as soon as the
Mallorys leave Bauer this summer."
"Well, think about it, anyway," urged Phil, hopefully. "Maybe you'll see
things differently by daylight, and change your mind. I'll ring you up
in the morning."
"By the way," he said, a few minutes later, when he was slipping into
his overcoat, "don't write to Mary that there is a possibility of my
going to Bauer. If I should go I want to surprise her."
"Very well," agreed Joyce. "But I may write about Elsie's wedding and
say that you'll all be going West?"
"Oh, yes, she'll probably have cards herself soon, for Elsie has never
forgotten her one encounter with the little Vicar, and she wrote for her
address some time ago."
It was several days before Joyce saw Phil again. When he did come he was
in such a hurry that he did not wait for the elevator, which seemed to
be stuck somewhere in the basement. After several impatient rings he
started up the stairs, two steps at a time, and had reached the fifth
floor before the elevator overtook him. He was slightly out of breath,
but so intent on his errand that he never would have thought to step in
and ride the rest of the way, had it not stopped on the landing for
another passenger, as he was about to pass the cage.
The janitor was cleaning the halls of the top floor apartments, and the
door into Joyce's studio being open, Phil walked in without waiting to
ring. Joyce was at her easel hard at work. Her face lighted up when she
saw his, for it showed so plainly he was the bearer of good news.
"Daddy's going with me," were his first breathless words of greeting.
"We--" Then he paused as if some sudden recollection warned him to ask,
"What have you heard from home lately?"
She thought the question was prompted by his fear that it might not be
convenient for them to have guests in the house if Jack were so ill, so
she hastened to reassure him.
"Oh, I had the cheerfulest sort of letter from Mamma this morning,
written last Sunday, the very day I was crying my eyes out over them.
Isn't that always the way? Here it was so bleak and blustery that I
couldn't help imagining that they were as dismal as I. And all the time
it was as warm as summer in Bauer, the country a mass of wildflowers,
and they were having a perfectly delightful time with Gay Melville. And
guess who had gone up with her to spend the day there! Alex Shelby of
Kentucky!" she added, without an instant's pause for him to answer.
"Mamma wrote that she didn't know when she had had such an enjoyable
day. Dr. Shelby insisted on her going for a little outing with the girls
while he and Norman took care of Jack. Mary poled them up to Fernbank
in the boat, and when they got back they found that, in some
unaccountable way, Jack had been wonderfully cheered up. He seemed more
like himself than he had been for weeks. Mamma was so happy over that,
for even if he can never be any better physically it is a lot to be
thankful for to have his spirits kept up."
"Is that all?" asked Phil, when she paused at last.
"Yes. Why? Isn't that _enough_?"
"I only wanted to find out how much you knew before I broke _my_ news.
Now, listen to this! Alex Shelby wrote to Daddy that same night. You
know they met at Eugenia's wedding, and Shelby who was just beginning to
practise medicine then seemed to develop a case of hero-worship for
father. Shelby has taken a great interest in Jack's case ever since he
heard of the accident, and the reason he sent Aunt Emily out that
afternoon was that he might have a chance to examine Jack without her
knowing it. He didn't want to raise anybody's hopes if nothing can be
done. He thinks that the first operation did not go quite far enough.
There is still a pressure on the spinal cord which may be removed by a
very delicate bit of surgery. _I_ don't understand his technical terms,
but it's one of the most difficult things known to the medical
profession.
"Daddy says there are very few cases on record of its having been done
successfully, although it has been attempted several times. Personally
he knows of two cases. One was a football player in this country who had
his back broken, and one was a man in Germany who was injured in exactly
the same vertebræ where Jack's trouble lies. And--mark this now--_Daddy
helped with that operation_. The surgeon who performed it was a friend
of his, and called him in because it was such a rare and peculiar case."
Joyce was scarcely breathing now, as she listened. She was white to the
lips in her intense excitement.
"Oh, go _on_!" she exclaimed, unable to endure the suspense when he
paused. "Doctor Tremont thinks he can cure him?"
"No--" was the guarded response. "He is not sure. He doesn't say that.
But there is a chance, just one chance, and he is going to take it.
We're leaving in a few hours, so I haven't another moment to stay!"
Joyce, who had risen in her first excitement, dropped back on her stool
again, limp and trembling. She had thought so long of Jack's illness as
being hopeless that the possibility of a cure almost unnerved her with
the great joy of it. Phil went on, rapidly:
"Shelby told Jack of his hope, but evidently he said nothing to the rest
of the family, or they would have known the reason for Jack's return to
cheerfulness. Now, don't go to getting upset like that," he added,
holding out his hands for a cordial leave-taking. "I don't want to get
your hopes up too high, but I've always felt that Daddy could come as
near to working miracles as anyone living, and you just remember
this--he's going to work one this time, if mortal man can do it! You
see, he knows what the Wares were to me that year on the desert. He
hasn't forgotten how you all saved his motherless boy for him. That's
the way he puts it. Saved me from my besetting temptation and sent me
away to make a man of myself. If he can put Jack on his feet again he
will feel that he is only paying back a small part of his obligation to
you all--to say nothing of _my_ debt. Lord! I can't even talk about that
now! It's too big for me ever to tackle myself. But I just wanted you to
know how we both feel about it--"
He did not attempt to finish, but with a final strong handclasp he was
gone before Joyce could find her voice for more than a faltering
good-by.
For a little while after he left she sat before her easel, gazing
vacantly at the canvas with eyes which saw nothing. She could not settle
down to work again with so many exciting mental pictures rising up
before her: Jack, undergoing the operation at home. The awful suspense
and tension of that time of waiting until they could know the result,
and then--Jack, strong and well and swinging along with the vigorous
stride she remembered so well. Or would it be--She shut her eyes and
shuddered, putting away from her with an exclamation of horror the other
scene that persisted in presenting itself. She had never forgotten the
tramp of feet across the threshold of the little brown house in
Plainsville the day they carried her father away.
Presently she could bear it no longer, and pushing back her easel she
slipped off her apron and called to Mrs. Boyd that she was going out for
awhile. In her present tremor of nervousness she could not trust herself
to stop and explain. She felt that she could not bear to listen to the
little woman's platitudes, no matter how sympathetic they might be.
It was not till she was on the car, half-way out to Central Park, that
she remembered she had not told Phil of one other item of news in her
mother's letter. She wondered if he knew that Gay and Alex Shelby were
engaged. The reason that they had gone to Bauer was to announce it
themselves to the only people in that part of the world who knew and
loved Lloydsboro Valley. It was in that happy valley that their romance
had begun, and they both knew that Mrs. Ware had spent her girlhood
there, that Mary regarded it as her "Promised Land," and that Jack,
although his visit there had been limited to one day, had seen the
rose-covered cabin where Gay and her Knight of the Looking-glass had
first caught sight of each other, and where their married life was to
begin.
It was several hours before Joyce got back to the studio. The long
car-ride and the brisk walk in the park had helped her to regain her
usual outward composure, but she was far from being as calm as she
seemed. Alternate moods of hopefulness and foreboding kept her swinging
like a pendulum from exhilaration to a sickening sense of fear. She
could hardly fix her mind on her work, although her hands moved
feverishly.
Before starting back to work she hunted up one of Henrietta's railroad
time-tables, and fastened it to a corner of her canvas, so that she
could follow the course of the Texas-bound travellers. At intervals she
glanced from the clock to the card, thinking, "Now they are just leaving
the New York station," or, "Now they are pulling into Washington." Later
she found the time when they would be going aboard the New Orleans
sleeper, and from then on a thousand times her thoughts ran on ahead to
picture their reception in Bauer, and the events that would follow there
in quick succession. Her waking hours were filled with only one thought
till Phil's first telegram announced their arrival. Then she scarcely
ate or slept, so great was her anxiety as she waited his second message.
As Doctor Tremont and Phil pushed through the crowds at the New York
station, hurrying to reach the Washington-bound train, steaming on the
track, Phil recalled the last time he had passed through. It was in
March of the previous year, but later in the month, that he had come
down with Joyce to put Mary and Betty aboard the train, the morning
after they had heard about Jack's accident. It was at that stand that he
bought the fruit for them, here he had snatched up the magazines, and
there was where he had stood while the train pulled out, waiting for the
last glimpse of the little Vicar's face at the window, bravely smiling
in her efforts to "keep inflexible" for Joyce's sake.
The scene had been impressed vividly upon his memory, because of the way
the whole affair had touched his sympathies, and now he found himself,
after a year, recalling things that at the time he had barely noticed.
It was like taking a second look at a snapshot picture, and finding
details in the background to which he had paid no attention when first
focussing the camera. There was that wistful look in Betty's brown eyes,
for instance. They had been almost as full of trouble as Mary's. Their
appealing sadness came back to him now quite as forcibly as Mary's
tearful good-by smile.
He remembered the protecting way she had put her arm around her little
pupil. They had been such good comrades all through the vacation
pleasures which they had shared, that Christmas and Easter. He
remembered now how far back Betty's friendship with Joyce dated.
Suddenly it occurred to him that Betty, of all people, would be most
interested in what was about to occur in the Ware family. Whatever
followed the operation, whether it were grief or joy, she would share
with them.
Doctor Tremont had some business to attend to which would keep him busy
during the few hours they were obliged to stop over in Washington, and,
after a few moments' deliberation, Phil decided to go out to Warwick
Hall while he waited, instead of spending his time looking up an old
acquaintance, as he had intended doing.
There was another reason for calling on Betty, which he did not
acknowledge to himself as a reason, but it carried weight in helping him
to make a decision. That was the knowledge that she would have the
latest news of Lloyd Sherman. He had had six months in which to grow
accustomed to the idea that the little unset turquoise he had once given
her could never stand for anything more between them than the "true-blue
friendship stone." He had been so determined to make it more, that his
whole world seemed jolted out of its orbit when he heard of her
engagement to Rob Moore. He could not talk of it at first. Lately,
however, he had come to take a more philosophical view of the situation.
Several hours later, when Phil found himself in front of Warwick Hall,
the great castle-like building and beautifully kept grounds seemed as
familiar as if he had visited it before. The Lloydsboro valley girls had
sung its praises ever since he had known them. Lloyd herself had talked
much of it in the days when every subject she mentioned was
interesting, simply because she chose to talk about it. Mary Ware had
pictured it to him as a veritable paradise, and he had been pressed to
admire so many photographs of it on so many occasions that it was no
wonder it had a familiar look, every way he turned.
He would have been highly amused could he have known what a sensation he
was creating in the school, as he stood on the highest terrace, looking
down the flight of stately marble steps that led to the river. In the
first place, the sight of such an unusually attractive man, young,
handsome, and with an air of distinction, was a rarity in those parts.
That he should loiter down the walk instead of striding straight up to
the massive portal, aroused the curiosity of every girl who happened to
be near a window, and why he should pluck a leaf from the Abbotsford
ivy, overhanging the pergola, and then walk along the hedge of the
wonderful old garden until he could lean over and read the motto on the
ancient sun-dial, was more than any of them could fathom. There was a
flutter among those who had seen him, when presently the great knocker,
echoing through the hall, announced that he was ready to enter.
The pompous butler opened the door, and for the second time in his
history nearly fell backward, for the dignified young stranger who stood
there with the easy grace of at least a viscount, called out as if he
had known him always, "Oh, it's Hawkins."
When Phil raised his hand to the knocker he was smiling over Mary's
account of her first entrance through that door. He had teased her
unmercifully when he heard of her rehearsals for the purpose of
impressing the butler, and when the man instantly appeared just as Mary
had pictured him, he was so much like a stiff old portrait bowing from
the frame of the doorway, that the exclamation slipped from Phil in
surprise. Then he smiled again, thinking how inadvertently he had copied
Mary.
At first glance Hawkins thought he must be one of Madam Chartley's
relatives from England, and bowed again, obsequiously this time. But the
card laid on his silver tray was not for Madam. It was for Miss
Elizabeth Lewis, the youngest and most popular teacher in the Hall.
It was after recitation hours and Betty was not in her room, but she
came in presently from a walk, looking as girlish and rosy as the little
freshman who had been her companion. The March winds had given her
color, and blown her brown hair about her face in soft little curls.
Phil could see her through the curtained arch as she came into the hall
and took the card Hawkins presented on his tray. Her face lighted up
with pleasure, and she gave an exclamation of surprise, both of which
items Hawkins noticed. When she hurried into the reception-room he cast
a look of discreet curiosity after her. Then he turned away with a wise
wag of the head. Of course, one knew what to expect when the young
stranger called her by her first name in such a joyful tone as that, and
she responded cordially that it was such a lovely surprise to see "the
Best Man!"
All the wedding party had called Phil the Best Man, ever since Mary had
emphasized the name by her comically reverent use of it, and it seemed
quite natural that the next remark should be about her. Phil thought to
surprise Betty by saying, casually, "I've just stopped by to ask if you
want to send any message to Mary Ware. I'm on my own way to Bauer now."
But he was the one to be surprised, for her face paled and she
exclaimed, in a voice tense with suppressed excitement, "Oh, is your
father going, too? Has he really consented to attempt the operation?"
Then, in answer to his exclamation of astonishment that she should know
anything about it, she explained, while the color returned in a rush.
She had had a note from Jack that morning, just a scribbled line,
telling what Alex Shelby had written to Doctor Tremont, and what they
hoped would be the answer.
"He hasn't told the family yet," she explained, seeing from Phil's face
that he thought it queer she should know of it. "He didn't want them to
suffer the cruel disappointment it would be should they discover they
had been cherishing a false hope. But he just _had_ to tell somebody,
and he knew I'd understand how much recovery would mean to him, for he
used to write me so fully of his plans and ambitions before he was
hurt."
She closed her hands so tightly that the pink nails pressed into the
tender palms. "Oh, I _hope_ Alex hasn't been mistaken," she exclaimed.
"I can't think of anything so cruel as to hold out the heaven of such a
hope to him, only to have it dashed away."
"Daddy says there is one chance," answered Phil, "and he is going to
take it." Then, with a sudden understanding of the situation as he
watched her face, he began to comfort her with the same words he had
spoken to Joyce. "Daddy can come as near to working miracles as any man
living, and you just remember this, little girl. He's going to work one
this time if mortal man can do it!"
The ring of certainty in his voice made her look up at him with a smile
that was like an April day, such joy shone through the brown eyes, which
a moment before had been misty with tears. She did not know how much she
had revealed, but as she turned away Phil said to himself, "So _that's_
the way the land lies! I must give Daddy a hint of how much is at stake.
If he saves Jack it won't be for the Ware family alone."
Betty had been called aside a moment to speak to a visiting parent, and
when she came back to Phil, had fully recovered her composure.
"Come on," she said, gaily. "There are a few things I must show you. It
will never do for anybody to confess to Mary Ware that he has been to
Warwick Hall and missed seeing the things that she particularly adores."
It was a short pilgrimage she led him on; to meet Madam Chartley first,
then to see the great stained-glass window where the motto of Edryn, "I
keep tryste," flaunted itself in letters of light above the ruby heart
and the mailed hand, clasping the spear. Then outdoors they went, past
the peacocks on the terraces, down the marble steps to the river, where
pretty girls were walking arm in arm, and Phil was conscious of many
curious glances cast in his direction. Then they strolled through the
garden, where the crocuses and early March flowers were making a brave
showing, and out towards the golf links a little way. Betty's cheeks
were almost as red as the bright Tam O'Shanter cap she wore, and her
eyes shone with a happy, tender light as she talked of Mary and what the
school had meant to her. The pilgrimage, like the bundle of letters
which Joyce had read, was eloquent with suggestions of Mary at every
turn. He understood now as he had not before how much she had renounced
when she left without finishing the year. He began to appreciate the
greatness of her sacrifice, and, guided by Betty at his elbow, he began
to perceive what an influence such a place, with its ideals and its
refined, old-world fashion of living might exert on a girl like Mary
Ware.
There was not much opportunity to lead the conversation towards Lloyd,
with Betty constantly breaking off to say, "Oh, don't forget to mention
this to Mary," or, "Tell her you saw this and that." He learned very
little about her, save that she was well and happy. Betty had always
known, she said, that Rob was the one written in the stars for the
Princess Winsome. They knew each other so thoroughly and had such a
happy childhood in common, and in her opinion they had always been meant
for each other from the beginning.
It was growing late when they came back to the front door, but Betty
insisted on his coming in for a moment for a cup of tea, "Served from an
ancestral teacup," she insisted, "so that you can brag to Mary of it."
While they waited for it to be brought, Betty hastily summoned several
of the girls whom she wanted him to meet.
"You'll never remember their names," she said, laughingly, "and Mary
will make your life a burden with questions if you can't answer. Give me
a pencil and I'll scribble them down for you. Elise Walton, you'll
remember, of course, for she was the pretty child with the long, dark
curls, whom you used to meet so many times at The Beeches, the summer
Eugenia was married. You'll quite fall in love with her, I am sure, for
she is getting prettier every day, and you'll not need any memorandum to
keep her in mind when you've once heard her talk. A. O. Miggs will be
the little roly-poly dumpling of a girl, and Dorene Derwent, the one who
giggles so gurglingly. Cornie Dean you'll remember for the elaborate way
she does her hair, and the coy way she has of casting melting
side-glances. That's a habit she has acquired just in this last year, so
you might mention it to Mary. She'll be immensely interested in hearing
it. See, I have made marginal notes for each one, if you can understand
my abbreviations."
As she handed him the slip of paper the girls came in, all pleased to
meet "such a fascinating, Lord-Lochinvar looking man," as A. O.
described him afterward, and all overjoyed to find that he would be the
bearer of messages to Mary Ware. They sent so many that he laughingly
disclaimed all responsibility in case he should get them mixed in
transit. He had an odd feeling that he was on exhibition to these girls
as Mary's friend, and that he must do her credit. The few moments he
stayed with them he used to such advantage that he was straightway
written down in their opinion as the most fascinating man they had ever
met. When he took his leave it was with a flattering regret that made
each girl feel that she was the one who inspired it, and they went back
to their rooms to compare notes and to "rave over him," as Dorene
expressed it, for days.
The twilight was falling when he started back to the station. Betty
walked part of the way with him. Only once they referred to Jack again,
and that was not till they reached the bend in the driveway, where Betty
turned back. She put out her hand with wishes for a safe journey, and he
held it an instant to say, "I'm sure it's all going to end happily, and
you shall have the first telegram."