WHO WILL GIVE WAY?
The conflict which Laura Martin had foreseen years ago was at last
begun between herself and Sidney, and she was prepared for it. But she
was not prepared to meet with two firm opponents in her husband and
Margaret. Her plans had been based on the assumption that these two,
Philip's mother and Phyllis's father, in their complete unworldliness
and contempt for money, would be on her side; and Sidney would be left
practically alone. But now the rector's eyes were open they saw
matters in a very clear light; and his soul was filled with shame. He
was invulnerable to all attacks; even to the tears of his precious
child, and to Laura's repeated assurances that Phyllis would break her
heart if she could not marry Philip. The rector was almost crushed
under this heavy trouble, but he did not yield his position for a
moment. He could not give his approval or consent to the marriage
until Sidney gave his. Nor would he have Philip coming to the rectory.
Margaret was equally firm. She knew Phyllis's nature thoroughly. The
girl was dear to her; for her wide charity, which strove to love all
that God loved--and did not God love every soul of man?--embraced this
child, whom she had known from her birth, with a special and very close
affection. But she knew her to be of the world--very emphatically of
the world. She believed her to be destitute of real spiritual life.
As a clergyman's daughter Phyllis was fairly orthodox, though with her,
as with many clergymen's children, there was a great lack of reverence
for sacred subjects; she made a jest of many things which, to Margaret,
were full of mystery and solemnity. But Margaret attached little
importance to outer forms and rites, and it was at the spirit of
Phyllis's life she looked. That spirit was distinctly selfish and
worldly. Margaret knew that she could not make Philip happy as his
wife, and she refused to sacrifice his future welfare to the
gratification of the moment. The question of Phyllis's fortune or
station never crossed Margaret's mind.
But Laura was not to be daunted. Philip and Phyllis were as obstinate
in maintaining their position as she could wish them to be. There was
no concealment now. Philip formally announced their engagement to his
personal friends and to the people at Apley. Sidney was amazed and
angry to discover how it was taken as a matter of course by these
nearest spectators of his domestic drama. They had witnessed the
side-play distinctly, while his own eyes were hoodwinked. Andrew
Goldsmith was the first to speak to him about it.
"They've grown up for one another, sir," he said, "and we've seen it
all along; and I trust they will be happy. But Rachel and me, we've
often thought of late how much better Miss Dorothy would have suited
him, if she'd only been in Miss Phyllis's place. Rachel says Miss
Dorothy is growing up to be the very copy of my lady, true to the life
of her. And what could we have wished more for Mr. Philip?"
"Goldsmith," answered Sidney, "I will tell you, and you may tell
others, that I disapprove of my son's engagement, and will never give
my consent to this marriage."
"But it's a hard thing to choose another man his wife, sir," urged
Andrew, who knew perfectly well the conflict now raging between the
Hall and the Rectory. "I've thought often enough of that when I've
been thinking of my poor girl. I was an austere father, though I loved
her as my own soul; and she was afraid to tell me who it was she loved.
It would have been better for her, if she'd lived ever so miserably, to
have our love to comfort her. Now we are lost to one another
altogether. If Miss Phyllis shouldn't make Mr. Philip very happy, he
would still have you, and his mother, and Mr. Hugh. Ah! I'd rather
see my Sophy a miserable wife than know nothing about her. There's an
aching void here in my heart, and must be forever in this world; and I
pray God you and my lady may never feel the same."
"You have not forgotten her yet," said Sidney in a tone of pain that
went straight to the old man's heart.
"Nor never shall," he answered; "first thing in the morning and last
thing at night, a voice says to me, 'Sophy!' Ay! I should have gone
crazy but for you and yours. It's the kindness and friendship you and
Miss Margaret have shown to me that has kept my reason for me. And my
reason says, 'Mr. Martin ought not to break with his first-born son
because he has chosen a wife for himself. No man can know the heart of
another man. And life is short; and death may cut us off at any
minute.' I don't say as I would give way so as to let them marry in a
hurry, for they are young and don't know their own minds yet. But set
them a time to wait, and let him serve for her as Jacob did for Rachel;
and if they love one another truly, and are faithful for the season you
fix upon, then give your consent to their being happy in their own way.
We can't be happy in other people's way."
"I will think of it, Goldsmith," Sidney promised.
He watched the old man going down the road toward the village street,
for they had returned to Apley, and his mind dwelt, almost
involuntarily, on the unknown tie which united them. Philip was
exactly of the age he himself was when he contracted his foolish and
secret marriage. He recalled his own hot passion for the pretty
village girl, and how impossible it would have been for any argument to
convince him that such love as his would quickly burn itself out, and
leave behind it only darkness, disgust, and misery. He had risked all,
when he had all to risk, to gratify his boyish infatuation. But Philip
would risk only the chance of poverty during his father's lifetime; and
Sidney knew well he could, if he would, raise money on his future
inheritance of an entailed estate. Moreover, Philip's love was given
to one of his own rank in life, a girl of equal cultivation with
himself. It was not a brilliant match, but no one would be surprised
at it. It seemed probable that he might in the end be compelled to
make some terms with his son; and would it not be politic to make them
at once?
He went slowly homeward, haunted by more vivid remembrances of his
early marriage than any that had troubled him for many years. The dead
past had buried its dead; but there is no stone rolled upon the
sepulcher to make us sure of no resurrection. Suppose Philip had been
Sophy's son! How widely different his training and his whole character
must have been! How different he himself would be at this moment, if
Sophy had been his constant, intimate companion in the place of
Margaret. He thought of it with a shudder of disgust. His love for
Margaret had never known decrease or ebb; it had grown stronger and
deeper every year, but there was an element of almost sacred awe
mingled with it. She was as much above him as Sophy had been below
him. Not that she felt this herself; there was always in her a
deference to his will which a prouder woman would not have shown. But
he recognized her as a purer, nobler, truer soul than himself. His
marriage with her was no more an equal one than his marriage with
Sophy. To-day he felt more nearly on a level with Sophy than with
Margaret.
She was standing in the pretty oriel window of her sitting room as he
approached the house, and smiled down upon him with something of
sadness in her smile, as he stood below looking up to her. She had
never seemed more lovely in his eyes, or more distant. After all their
married life of twenty-two years he knew himself a stranger to her, and
he felt that he could get no nearer to her. What icy barrier was it
existing between them, growing denser and stronger year after year, and
which could not be melted by the warmth of their love? For they loved
one another--Sidney did not doubt that; Margaret's first love had been
his. Yet there was a great gulf between them; and his spirit could not
go to her, nor hers come to him.
He went upstairs and received a fond welcome from her, as he sat down
beside her on a sofa. She laid her hand on his, and he lifted it to
his lips; and then he felt her kiss upon his forehead, a caressing,
almost maternal touch, such as she might have given to her son Philip.
Both of these beloved ones were wounded, and both came to her for
consolation. Sidney told her what old Andrew Goldsmith had been saying.
"Perhaps he is right," said Margaret thoughtfully; "we should remember
that Philip is something more than our son. He is a man and has rights
with which we ought not to interfere. Dearest, it is a bitter
disappointment to me to think of Phyllis as my boy's wife. But who can
tell? If she truly loves him it may be her salvation; and if he truly
loves her, no one else, not an angel from heaven, could be his wife as
she would be, and as I am yours. We may be striving against God's
will, whose love for Philip is infinitely greater and wiser than ours
can be."
"But, my darling," he remonstrated, "you speak of God's will; and all
this is but the outcome of Laura's machinations. That is only too
plain. If I believed it to be a simple, true, enduring love on both
sides, I would not oppose it so strongly. And it would be an extreme
mortification to let Laura triumph."
"We must not think of that," she said, smiling. "I have felt it, too,
Sidney; but the mortification has passed over. It is natural enough
they should love one another; they are both very attractive, and they
have seen no one else. Let us do as Andrew suggests, fix a time for
them to wait and test their attachment. And let Philip have a year or
two abroad, as you had when you were his age. His mind will be
enlarged. We have kept him too much at home; and home has been too
dear for him to care to wander from it. But he is not so happy now,
and he will be willing to go away for awhile."
"He shall," assented Sidney; "and I will make him promise not to
correspond with Phyllis during his absence."
But Philip would make no such promise. He maintained that it was an
unworthy course to adopt toward his future wife. He was willing to
wait any reasonable number of years that his parents thought right to
ask from him, but in no way would he separate himself from Phyllis. It
would be easier, he declared, to cut off his right hand, or pluck out
his right eye. He left home for a long and indefinite absence, and his
letters came to Phyllis as regularly and as frequently as to his
mother. To his father he did not write.