AT CROSS PURPOSES.
For the next two days Philip was fully occupied in riding with his
father to call upon the principal tenants, who had been already invited
to commemorate his coming of age. He was quite a stranger to them, and
Sidney knew but little of them. They were mostly farmers; a fine,
outspoken, independent race of north-country men, very different in
their ways and manners from the same class on Margaret's estate in the
south. Sidney made himself exceedingly popular with them; and Philip
was almost surprised at his father's tone of easy friendliness with his
tenants. But Sidney was, as he told himself, enjoying the happiest
season of his very prosperous life. Putting aside that little trouble
about Phyllis, which would prove no more than a boy's fancy, he gave
the reins to his feelings of exultation and rejoicing. He was very
proud of this handsome, athletic, well-bred young Englishman, who was
his eldest son and heir, the apple of his eye through all these
twenty-one years, since he welcomed his first-born into the world. He
was secretly afraid of yielding to the tender recollections that
crowded into his brain as his son rode beside him, and, therefore, he
flung himself more fully into an open demonstration of his pleasure in
introducing him to his future tenants. He told them that the Manor
House would not be let again, but that Philip would soon be coming to
dwell among them for a great part of the year, and take his position as
a country squire. He could never quit the south and the near
neighborhood of London himself, but, with his son living up here, he
would naturally be often among them, and would get better acquainted
with them.
The great dinner given to the tenants and the afternoon merry-making
passed off well, as such festivities usually do. But Dorothy, not
Philip, was the real center of interest. She had grown up under their
observation, a neglected, forlorn, uncared-for child, thought little of
by all of them; and suddenly, on her father's death, she had been made
known to them as a great heiress. She was an astonishment to them all,
especially to the women; the elegance of her dress, the frank and
simple grace of her manner, her daughter-like familiarity with Mr. and
Mrs. Martin amazed them. When she joined in an easy country dance,
with Philip as her partner, there was only one thought in the mind of
each of them: This poor little Cinderella was destined to marry the
young son and heir.
If Andrew and Rachel Goldsmith had not known better they would have
thought the same. Even Dick and the other boys, who had come north to
be present at these festivities, said to one another that Phyllis was
not missed. Dorothy was very much more the daughter of the house than
Phyllis could ever have been. She was at home, and she felt as if the
success of these rejoicings depended partly upon her. For the first
time, too, she was free from the depressing influence of Phyllis's
superiority; and Laura was not there, with her chilling, criticising
gaze. No one could be insensible to the charm of Dorothy's gay spirits
and sweet kindliness.
But as soon as the last guest was gone Philip went off alone up the
moors. The moon was at the full, and poured a flood of light on the
twinkling surface of the silent little tarns sleeping in the hollows.
The frosty sky was shot with pale red lines in the north, and a thick
bank of clouds, the edge of which was tinged with moonlight, stretched
across the south. He did not wander out of sight of the black massive
block of the old Manor, but all day he had longed to be alone, and here
he was safely alone. The day he had been looking forward to, which had
been talked of, in his hearing, for as long as he could remember, was
come, and was almost gone. He felt distinctly older to-day than he was
yesterday. No birthday had had a similar effect upon him. Yesterday
he was a boy, bound to obey his father's will; to-day he was himself a
man. Not wiser perhaps, not clearer-headed, or stronger in principle
than yesterday; but free, with a more real liberty. His actions
hereafter would be more definitely his own, for he would be acting more
fully on his own responsibility, and at his own discretion. He had
always loved his father profoundly, with a depth and distinctness rare
in a boy; and Sidney had missed no opportunity of gaining and
strengthening the affection of his sons. But of late Philip had
learned to appreciate his mother's peculiar character more than he had
done in his earlier youth; and if he had asked himself whom he now
loved and trusted most implicitly his heart would have said his mother.
For he could not go to his father with the story of his love for
Phyllis, and be sure of a patient hearing. He shrank from doing the
duty that must at once be done. Until the last few weeks he had not
felt any doubt of his father's and mother's consent to his marriage
with Phyllis; but he felt now a vague presentiment that his father
would say he had never thought of such a thing, and could not approve
of it. Phyllis's unexpected absence from these rejoicings had marred
the pleasure of the day to him, and filled him with anxiety. She ought
to have been at his side, instead of Dorothy, laughing a little
scoffingly at the speeches made; his own among them. He loved
Phyllis's little sarcasms.
But why did he feel as if he had been guilty of concealment and
disingenuousness; he, who was so jealous of his honor, and so proud of
speaking to his father with utter singleness of heart? How was it that
he became conscious, uneasily conscious, for the first time, that his
love for Phyllis was possibly unknown to his parents? It was no secret
at the Rectory, that he was sure of; unless the rector himself was
ignorant of it. Why had he never spoken openly of it with his mother
as he had done with Phyllis's mother? When did he begin to hide this
thing from his parents? And why? He could not answer these questions
to himself. He felt himself caught in a net, a very fine net, of
circumstances; but how it had been woven about him he could not tell.
His mother was gone to her room when he returned to the house, being
overtired; and Dorothy was with her. There was a dance going on among
the servants in the great kitchen, and his cousins were there amusing
themselves. All the rest of the house looked deserted and cheerless,
with the disorder that follows upon any festivities. Philip recalled
with surprise how happy he had felt, in spite of Phyllis's absence,
only an hour or two ago. The cheers of his future tenants sounded
again in his ears; and the proud gladness of his father, and tender
gladness of his mother, came back to him with a sting of reproach; but
still it was his reticence that troubled him. He did not fear any
strong opposition to his wishes when they knew that his love for
Phyllis was unchangeable. They could not have any objection to Phyllis.
Sidney was sitting in the corner of a huge fireplace, where a fire was
burning cheerfully, and Philip sat down opposite to him. For once his
father was absolutely unoccupied, musing with a smile upon his handsome
face, as if he was reading all the happy past and the brilliant present
in the leaping flames and glowing coals upon the hearth. There was no
sign of old age upon him. In fact, he was still in the prime of life;
strong, athletic, vigorous, with an air of intellectual keenness and
power, which set him high above average men. Philip felt as proud of
him as he did of Philip. He looked across at his son with a light in
his eyes as undimmed as if he had been himself a boy.
"A man now!" he said, as if he welcomed him across the line that had
lain between him and manhood; "a man like myself!"
"Yes, a man!" said Philip abruptly, "with a man's heart and a man's
love like yours. Father, I love Phyllis as you love my mother."
Sidney was not prepared to receive the blow so soon and so suddenly; it
was struck at him in the very zenith of his happiness. But he had
expected it to fall sooner or later, and had laid his plan of action.
He hoped that Philip was not yet involved in an engagement, and that it
would be possible to temporize, to use such tactics as would set him
free from the snare. His face clouded over a little, but he still
gazed affectionately in his son's face.
"Of course, you have said nothing to her, as you have not spoken of it
to me or your mother," he said.
"There was no need to say anything," answered Philip, stammering.
"Why, father, she and I have been brought up for one another! I cannot
remember the time when I did not think she would be my wife. Neither
she nor I have thought of anyone else."
"Does your mother know this?" inquired his father in measured tones.
"I don't know," he replied; "I suppose not."
"Who, then?" asked Sidney.
"Oh! all of them; every one of them," he said, "except my mother and
you. I thought you knew of it till a few weeks ago."
"Does the rector know?" pursued Sidney.
Philip paused a little.
"I cannot say yes for certain," he answered, "for the rector seems to
live in another world from ours; but I never doubted it till he refused
to let Phyllis come here with us. And I never meant to conceal it from
my mother and you; it seemed such a settled matter, and you were both
so fond of Phyllis. I cannot understand how or why this moment is so
painful to me. I thought I could ask you for Phyllis as I have asked
you for everything else I wanted all my life long."
"Did I ever refuse you anything that was for your good?" asked Sidney,
his voice, which was always pleasant and persuasive, falling into
softer tones.
"Never, father, never!" he answered eagerly.
"But I must refuse you this. Listen!" he said, as Philip was about to
interrupt him. "Such an idea never entered your mother's mind or mine.
The children at the Rectory were brought up with you as if you were one
family. I had utter confidence in the rector and his wife. If I had
seen anything to make me suspect an attachment between you and Phyllis,
I should have separated you at once. Brought up for one another! I
see it clearly at last. The plot has been artfully contrived, and
cleverly carried out. You are the dupe of a cunning and worldly woman.
I cast no blame upon Phyllis herself. But, my boy, Phyllis is born to
be the wife of a rich man; she would make a bad wife for a poor one.
Think for yourself if you could ask Phyllis to share poverty with you."
"But I shall not be a poor man!" exclaimed Philip. All day long
circumstances had impressed upon him the fact that the career of a very
rich man lay before him, and he was almost shocked by his father's
words.
"You are a poor man until I die," said Sidney, rising and stretching
himself to his full height. His tall and muscular frame was as
vigorous and powerful as Philip's own, and his life at fifty was
probably as good as his son's at one-and-twenty. "How soon would you
wish me to die, Philip?" he asked in a mournful tone.
"Oh, father!" he cried; "how can you say such words? I could not bear
the thought of you dying."
"But till then you are dependent upon me," continued Sidney, "and you
cannot ask me to give you the means of bringing trouble on your mother
and myself. I shall probably live another twenty-five or thirty years.
Consider how Phyllis would like the life you could offer her. I do not
say I would let you come to want; but if I allowed you no more than
£800 or £1000 a year, would that satisfy her?"
Philip was silent. There was reason in what his father said. Phyllis
would look upon £800 a year as poverty. As long as he could recollect,
she had chafed and fretted about the narrow income of her father, and
openly expressed her intention of not living as carefully and
economically as her mother was compelled to do. Certainly Phyllis was
not fit to be a poor man's wife, even if that poor man had an allowance
of £800 or £1000 a year.
"But I have always thought of her as my wife," he broke out
passionately; "and I cannot give her up. Think how happy you have been
with my mother; and why should you deny me similar happiness?"
"Because Phyllis is nothing like your mother," answered Sidney, his
eyes sparkling with anger. "Good Heavens! do you compare that
empty-headed butterfly with my Margaret? Your mother would be happy in
a cottage with her sons and her husband, as happy as she is now in her
own house. If I thought for a moment that Phyllis would be such a wife
to you as your mother is to me, I would consent willingly, though she
could never be like a daughter to me. Phyllis would separate you from
me. We should soon be as strangers to one another."
"No, no!" he said; "you have always seemed to love Phyllis, and so has
my mother. What can you object to in her? Her father is your own
nearest relation and friend. Everybody in Apley knows we have been
always thrown together, as if we were some day to be married. Let me
know your objections, your reasons. No one came between you and the
woman you loved. Why should you not allow me to choose for myself?"
"Because you have not really chosen for yourself," answered his father.
"Your nature has been played upon ever since your childhood. I can see
it all now, and understand it. Phyllis is not to blame; but Phyllis's
mother has laid her plot, and carried it out very successfully.
Brought up for one another! Did your mother and I ever speak of your
being brought up for Phyllis?"
"I cannot give her up now!" exclaimed Philip.
"Ask your mother if Phyllis would make you a true wife," urged his
father.
"But I could not give her up," he reiterated. "It would break my poor
Phyllis's heart. Every year of my life binds me to her; every feeling
of honor as well as of love. No; it would be impossible. It is of no
use to consult my mother. I will tell her I must marry Phyllis, and I
will beg of her to look upon her as a daughter. In the sight of God I
believe Phyllis is my wife, and I should not be free to marry anyone
else. You will give your consent in time, father."
"Never!" his father answered with mingled anger and sadness. "You will
be a poor man as long as I live. Tell Laura Martin she and her
daughter must wait for my money till my death."