THE SON AND HEIR.
It was four years before Phyllis came to live at home again; and the
transformation was complete. The tom-boy of fourteen, with her excess
of animal spirits, had developed into a bright and dainty girl of
eighteen, with a grace and bloom about her like that of a flower just
opening to the light. Her face was prettier, and her figure more
graceful than even her mother had expected them to be. She could sing
well, with a sweet, clear voice, that suggested the spontaneous
joyousness of a song-bird. She seemed fond of reading; but she was
still fonder of active pursuits. Sidney, who had taken little notice
of her as a child, felt the charm of this bright, companionable young
girl, who made Apley so much more lively when he came down from his
busy London life. Hugh was now at Eton, and Philip was at Oxford with
his cousin Dick. There was nothing to suggest caution or anxiety; and
Phyllis spent more time at the Hall than she did at the Rectory. She
owned frankly that she felt more at home there than in her father's
house; and she fell into the position of a daughter quite naturally.
She was introduced to London society under Margaret's wing; and
received there the finishing touches to her education.
When Philip came home, he fancied he saw in his cousin Phyllis
precisely the woman he would choose to make his wife.
She had grown up for him. The idea that this bright, lovely young girl
had been destined for him from her birth, gave to him a feeling of
perfect, undisturbed possession, precluding the necessity of claiming
her, any more than the necessity of claiming his mother. Their lives
were so blended and interwoven that it seemed impossible for them to be
separated. There was no need of speech between them. They knew they
loved one another; and that when the right hour came they would marry
amid the general satisfaction and gladness of all their friends. Until
then they lived for one another in the simplest and purest happiness.
So Philip felt; and Laura was quite content that he should say nothing
about his love, while he was still under age.
There was no actual concealment, however. Phyllis was seldom alone
with him, for Hugh and her own brothers were constantly with them.
When they wished for quiet converse, they sought it usually in
Margaret's presence. She saw them reading together, singing together,
walking arm in arm about the gardens and park; but then Phyllis read,
and sang, and walked with all of the other young men, when any of them
claimed her companionship. Margaret saw no difference in her manner or
ways; if there was any difference, she was a shade more serious with
Philip than the rest; but then Philip himself was the most thoughtful
of all the youthful band.
In the training of her sons, Margaret had done her utmost to make them
understand her views of life. Wealth and position, she pointed out to
them, were among the poorest and smallest of the gifts of God;
sometimes, seeing that wicked men can gain them by evil means, not the
gift of God at all. Birth was not a much higher thing, though that,
indeed, must be the gift of God, since they had no choice as to the
circumstances, or the family, into which they were born. Better than
these were the gifts of intellect; and Dick, who had a genius for
mathematics, and Stephen, with an equally strong bent for science,
possessed nobler powers than they did. Any great talent was better
than silver and gold, or rank. Good temper alone was worth more than
all the riches they could possess; and Phyllis's brightness and
sweetness placed her higher than a duke's daughter who did not possess
the same qualities.
"You will find the richest men among the poorest," she told them. "If
a man is brave, true, unselfish, serviceable to his fellow-men, he is
higher in the sight of God, though he may not own a penny, than the
wealthiest man in the world. God cannot regard gold and land as
riches."
"You pride yourselves on your birth?" she asked them; "you forget that
you did not choose it--God gave it to you. It is a poor gift in
itself, and perhaps you are the servants to whom the Lord could only
intrust one or two pounds instead of ten. But do not lay it aside, and
hide it in a napkin; use it worthily, and in the next life, or perhaps
in this life, God will give you more and better gifts."
"The best gifts are those we get directly from God," she taught them,
"and you must ask him for them yourselves--for no man can ask or seek
these blessings for you--no other hand can knock at the gate till it is
opened to you--and, what your spirit asks, the spirit of God gives.
You are nearer to God than to me. You are dearer to his heart than to
mine."
Sometimes Sidney, sitting by, while Margaret was teaching her boys,
would smile to himself at her want of worldly wisdom. When she told
them the loss of money was the smallest loss they could suffer, and
asked them whether they would rather lose their sight, and never more
see the faces of those they loved; or their hearing, and never again
listen to dear voices and the glad and solemn sounds of music; or lose
their friends by death, her and their father; and the boys would
declare with eagerness that they would a thousand times rather face the
world penniless than be bereft of any of these great gifts--then Sidney
would say to himself how much greater would be the pity of rich men
toward himself if he lost his large fortune, than if he lost sight, or
hearing, or sons, or even this dear wife of his, with her unworldly
spirit, who was in truth more precious to him than all gold and lands!
It was sweet to hear Margaret talk in this way, but she spoke a
language that had no meaning in the City.
Philip took a fairly good place at Oxford, but Dick far surpassed him.
There had been no emulation between the young men, and Philip felt no
grudge against Dick for his triumph and the distinction he earned.
Dick's success had been very great, and both the Hall and the Rectory
celebrated it with much rejoicing. Sidney, who had borne all the cost
of the education of George's sons, was greatly pleased. But he was not
less pleased that Philip had not distinguished himself in the same way.
There was no need for his son and heir to win high honors at the
university; he did not wish to see him a great mathematician or a fine
classical scholar. That was all very well for Dick and Stephen, and
the other boys, who had to earn their own living by sheer force of
brain. For Philip it was more essential that he should be an all-round
man.
In this Sidney was satisfied. Philip could do all things customary to
young men of his station and prospects, but he did not specially excel
in any of them. In his father's eyes there was in him a slight touch
of listlessness, the listlessness of certainty. There was a lack of
something to strive for, which had been no characteristic of his own.
Sidney could still recall the strain of anxiety to retain his uncle's
favor, and the sacrifices he had made, and was ready to make, to secure
his vast fortune falling to himself. It could not be the same with his
son. The large estate in Yorkshire, which was entailed upon him,
secured his future, and deprived him at the same time of the stimulus
of uncertainty. It was the same with his younger boy, Hugh. Their
mother had taught them so to value wealth and position that they had no
ambition to increase either, while their ancestors had taken care they
should not be compelled to work for their living. It was a knot in the
silken thread of their lives which Sidney could not untie, and was
equally powerless to cut through.