A WIFE FOR PHILIP.
Laura had heard with dismay that Sidney was bringing a rich young ward
to live at Apley. But when Phyllis brought a report of Dorothy, after
taking tea with her and Margaret alone, accurately describing her
appearance and mimicking her manner, Laura's mind was set very much at
ease. A timid and awkward country girl was not likely to supplant
Phyllis with Philip or his parents. Both Sidney and Margaret took
great pleasure in Phyllis's attractiveness; and Laura had made them
feel that it was in a great measure due to her constant intercourse
with themselves. She only hoped that Dorothy would not be too homely
and unpolished to reconcile one of her own boys to marry her for her
fortune. A girl with a quarter of a million as her portion set close
to her own doors, almost in her own hands, excited Laura's imagination.
How admirably she would do for Dick! But it would not do to let Dick
know that he must woo her for her quarter of a million. This would be
a far more difficult affair than Philip and Phyllis had been, and would
require her most adroit management. George on her side, and Margaret
on the other side, would not give Dorothy's fortune a thought; it would
not appear any advantage to either of them to secure possession of this
large sum of money. But Laura was shrewd enough to know that Sidney
would be anxious to retain it in his own hands, and no way could be
surer than making the heiress the wife of one of his sons. Hugh would
not be too young; he was the same age as Dorothy, and she was as young
and ignorant as a girl of twelve.
But it seemed impossible to get hold of Dorothy. She was shy, silent,
and diffident, and clung, as Laura thought, very foolishly to Margaret.
There was a speedy and startling transformation in her appearance as
soon as Margaret could procure suitable dresses for her, and have her
abundant, soft, dark hair arranged becomingly. Margaret saw no
religion in slovenly or peculiar dress; and she took pleasure in seeing
everything and every person appear at their best. Dorothy hardly
recognized herself in a week's time; and the change in her own
appearance fitting her for her surroundings made her feel more quickly
at home; but she was very shy with Phyllis and her mother. Neither of
them could become intimate with the quiet, retiring girl. Dorothy,
like most girls, was more afraid of Phyllis than of anyone else; the
very grace of her manner, conventional rather than natural, made her
shrink within herself, and feel awkward and homely.
But there was no such feeling in Margaret's benign presence. The
neglected girl's nature opened and unfolded under her influence like a
flower in the sunlight. There was a strong sympathy between them on
religious points. Dorothy had had no training except that of a
constant and simple study of the Bible. Her father had allowed her but
few books out of his large library, but those he had given to her she
knew almost by heart. She was studying diligently now under Margaret's
direction, with the aid of teachers who came down from London to give
her lessons. This education of Dorothy had an intense charm for
Margaret; there had been nothing like it in Phyllis's training, which
had naturally been left in her mother's hands. It was a never flagging
delight to watch the girl growing day by day more intelligent and more
beautiful in her presence; blossoming out into smiles, and caresses,
and half timid merriment. It sent a thrill of pathetic pleasure to
Margaret's heart when she heard Dorothy's first laugh.
"How much you think of Dorothy!" said Sidney to her one evening some
months later, as they sat together on the terrace with Philip beside
them.
"I cannot tell you how dear she is to me," answered Margaret.
"But not more than Phyllis--not as much as Phyllis?" said Philip
jealously.
"Not more or less," she replied, "but differently. Dorothy is more
like my own child. Phyllis has her father and mother; Dorothy has no
one nearer to her than me. She has never been cared for before, and
she returns my care with the simplest love."
"But Phyllis loves you as much as this child can do," persisted Philip.
"Not much more a child than Phyllis," said his father; "she is not two
years younger."
"But she is only a schoolgirl," put in Philip, "a mere child compared
with Phyllis. Still if she is in love with you and my mother I can
overlook all her defects."
"Phyllis is not in love with me," replied Margaret, laughing, "and I
admit that makes a difference. We are blind to the faults of those who
are in love with us. 'It is not granted to man to love and to be
wise,' I suppose. But don't be afraid, my dear boy. I shall not love
Phyllis less because I love Dorothy. We do not carve our hearts into
slices, and give piece after piece away till there is nothing left.
Rather every true love makes all our other love deeper."
"That is true, Margaret," said Sidney. "I have loved God and man more
and better since I loved you."
He spoke earnestly, and in the agitated tone of deep feeling. Life was
very full to him just then; and he felt day by day that he was greatly
favored by the God he worshiped. His heart expanded with a vivid glow
of religious gratitude. What more was there that he could desire? His
lot was prosperous and happy beyond that of any man's he knew. Sidney
was apt to look at himself through other men's eyes. If he looked at
himself as a rich man it was through the eyes of City men, who spoke to
one another of him as one of the most successful men in the City. As a
religious man he looked at himself through the eyes of Margaret and the
rector, who seemed satisfied that he was truly a Christian like
themselves. It would, then, have been a crying ingratitude if he had
not loved God, who was crowning him with blessings, and man, whose
general lot was less prosperous than his own. There was only one more
success to desire and to achieve, and that Margaret was unconsciously
doing her utmost to attain for him. He must secure Dorothy and her
large fortune for Philip.
"Philip," he said, "I see Dorothy yonder under the cedars. Go and tell
her I am come home, and have brought something for her."
Sidney watched her and Philip with pleased eyes as they returned side
by side along the terrace. She was still a slight, childish-looking
girl; but there was no affectation of childish graces in her. She
looked up into Philip's face with a shy, half smiling admiration, which
had a peculiar attractiveness in it. Philip was conscious of this for
the first time, and saw a new beauty, or rather a promise of beauty, in
the dark eyes and the quaint, smiling face lifted up to him. Her eyes
had a depth in them he had not observed before; and even the nervous
interlacing of her fingers, as she ventured to talk to him, did not
seem so awkward a trick as it did when he first saw her. Phyllis had
never been shy with him; and the shyness of a pretty girl has a
wonderful charm. Not that he could compare her with Phyllis for a
moment. He was carrying the book she had been reading under the
cedars, and looking into it he saw that it was the "Pensées de Pascal"
done into English.
"Do you like this book?" he asked in some surprise.
"Very much," she answered.
"But do you understand it?" he asked again.
"Not all," she said; "you see, I cannot read it in French. But when I
don't understand I ask Mrs. Martin. She lets me read with her two
hours every day," she added, with a light in her eyes, and a tone of
gladness in her low voice.
He wished it had been Phyllis who had read with his mother two hours a
day. But Phyllis was too much of a butterfly to apply herself to
anything for two hours at a time; and solid reading like this would be
impossible to her. He was afraid that his father and mother both
preferred Dorothy to his destined wife; and a disquieting shadow
crossed his hitherto cloudless future as he saw the pleasure with which
Sidney watched their approach.
Philip felt that there was a sort of disloyalty in thus thinking of
Phyllis in comparison with any other girl; and as soon as he had found
a chair for Dorothy, he strolled away, hastening his steps when he was
out of sight of the terrace as he crossed the park to the Rectory
grounds. There had been a clerical meeting at the Rectory, which had
kept Phyllis at home with her mother. But now he caught sight of her
standing on the other side of a sunk fence, which separated the garden
from the park; and it seemed to Philip as if she felt she was being
supplanted in the house which had always been a second home to her. He
leaped lightly across the barrier and hastened to her side. As she
looked up to him tears were glittering in her eyes.
"What is it, Phyllis?" he asked tenderly.
"You have not been to see me all day," she said in her most plaintive
tones, "and it makes me sad. How could I ever bear to lose you,
Philip! You and I have been more to one another than any of the
others; haven't we? I was thinking just then how we used to play
together when we were quite little creatures. Do you remember?"
"I never forget it, Phyllis," he answered; "you have belonged to me as
long as I can recollect. How can you imagine you could ever lose me?"
"I am afraid of it sometimes," she whispered, with a sob that pierced
him to the heart.
"My darling!" he cried, "that could never be! never! You used to be my
little wife when we were children, and you will be my real wife as soon
as I am old enough to marry. I suppose we are very young yet, my
Phyllis; too young. We must wait at least till I come of age----"
"But I'm afraid of Dorothy," she said, with another sob. "My mother
says your father is making up his mind you shall marry her, and your
mother is just wrapped up in her. She cares very little for me now,
and Dorothy is all the world to her."
"No, no!" he exclaimed, "my mother is not changeable; she loves you as
much as ever. Of course Dorothy takes up a good deal of her time, for
the poor child has been taught nothing. You cannot be jealous of her,
Phyllis. Only think of all you are, and all you know, and compare
yourself with a little untrained, awkward girl like Dorothy. Why,
there is not a maid in our house who has not been taught more."
"But how fond your father is of her!" said Phyllis.
"And how fond she is of him!" replied Philip, laughing; "she has
neither eyes nor ears for anyone else when he is by, except my mother.
And she drinks in all he says upon every topic as if she understood it.
I suppose she does in some measure, for she has some brains in that
little head of hers. But no man could resist such sweet flattery; and
I believe he loves her next to my mother."
"More than you boys?" suggested Phyllis.
"Neither more nor less," said Philip, quoting his mother's words, "but
differently. Of course his love for a girl like Dorothy must differ
from his love for young men like Hugh and me."
"But more than me?" she persisted.
"Perhaps," he admitted reluctantly, "perhaps. But what then? I have
only to say I love you, and it will be all right. No, no. He would
make no objection; he could not, when I say I have always regarded you
as my future wife. Besides, it will be years before Dorothy will think
of falling in love. She will grow up for Hugh, perhaps."
"She is not so much younger than me," said Phyllis in a petulant voice.
"Years younger; a child, a baby!" he went on; "not to be compared with
you for a moment. But why do we talk of her? You cannot think that
Dorothy could ever take your place with me, Phyllis? I cannot remember
a time when you were not dearer to me than anyone else--except my
mother."
"I cannot bear any exceptions," she said, pouting.
But Philip kept silence. Yes; Phyllis was all he could wish for, and
would be a charming wife, with her little capricious ways, and in spite
of slight uncertainties of temper. She always stirred within him a
sense of life, sometimes of ruffled life, perhaps; but there was no
stagnation of feeling in her companionship. But would she ever
possess, and, by possessing, diffuse, the sense of great peace which
his mother's presence gave to him? He knew there were times when if he
could not go to her, and open his heart fully to her wise and tender
scrutiny, his life would be crippled and incomplete, and he would be as
a man who had lost his eyesight, or the use of his right hand. But it
was not so with Phyllis. She could walk merrily beside him along
smooth and sunny roads; but when the thorny path came, what would she
do?