A LOST LOVE.
Philip rejoiced at being set free from an irksome and almost hopeless
task. He had been absent from home for many months; and though he had
written often to Phyllis from Brackenburn, her replies had been growing
more and more meager and unsatisfactory. Her brother Dick drew his
attention to the fact that half of Phyllis's missives were written on
post cards, and might be read by all the world. They came very near a
quarrel; Dick's depreciatory tone in speaking of his only sister always
amazed Philip.
As soon as possible after his arrival at the Hall he hurried down to
the Rectory. It was usual for Phyllis to be awaiting him at the Hall;
but after his long absence she probably preferred to welcome him alone.
He had not seen Phyllis's father and mother since he lost his
inheritance, but he did not anticipate any change in them because his
circumstances were so greatly altered. The rector received him with
more than usual cordiality and tenderness. He put his arm
affectionately about Philip's shoulders.
"I'm pleased with you, my boy," he said; "you are fighting a good
fight, and coming out the victor."
Philip grasped the rector's hand tightly. His mother had never seemed
to recognize the real hardship of his position; and his father made
worse of it than it actually was. The rector spoke of it as a fight in
which he would win the victory, and yet suffer some loss in doing so.
"You are a man now," resumed the rector, "a man I approve of and honor
with all my heart. It will be a glad day to me when I give you my
richest gift--Phyllis."
"A richer gift than anything I can lose," said Philip.
Philip left the rector's study one of the happiest men in the world,
and went away to the drawing room, where Phyllis and her mother were
sure to be found at this hour of the night. He heard the voices of the
boys in their smoke room, and congratulated himself on the chance of
Phyllis being alone with her mother. It was just what he had hoped for.
But Phyllis was so entangled and encumbered with some fancywork when he
opened the door, that she could not spring forward delightedly to meet
him. She sat still; and he stooped over her and pressed his lips to
her soft cheek, and then turned to kiss her mother, who also did not
greet him with her accustomed rapture.
"How could you run away from your mother so soon after getting home?"
she inquired reproachfully.
"Did you think I could keep away till to-morrow?" he rejoined. "My
mother knew I was coming here, and she is not jealous of Phyllis. She
knows I love Phyllis as much as herself, though differently. I do not
love my mother less because Phyllis is so dear to me."
He lingered on the name Phyllis, slightly emphasizing it, with a
delicate caress in the tone of his voice. The color flushed her pale
and grave face, and her sight grew a little misty; but she went on with
her embroidery as if she did not hear him.
"Now, Philip," said Laura, "sit down, and let us talk sensibly.
Everything is so changed, so shockingly changed by this sad discovery.
Your father made a false step, and cannot retrace it; but it alters all
your position and your prospects."
"Yes," he assented.
"I want you to look at it as the world looks at it," pursued Laura.
"After all, we are living in this world, not in the next, as your
mother fancies. You are now comparatively a poor man; you are, in
fact, a penniless man, for you are altogether dependent upon your
father. Formerly you were the heir, and no caprice of your father's,
or any failure in his business, could deprive you of the inheritance.
You were quite secure of the future. But now you have not a penny,
either in possession or prospect, which does not depend upon your
father. And city businesses are so uncertain; you may be rolling in
wealth one day and a bankrupt the next. Suppose your father failed, he
would be all right for his life, and Martin would be all right, and so
would Hugh. But where would you be?"
Philip made no answer. His eyes were fastened upon Phyllis, whose
fingers went on busily with their work as if she had heard her mother's
words over and over again.
"So far as I can see," continued Laura, "you are in a dreadfully
precarious position--in such a position as would make an older man
reflect seriously before he thought of marriage. What can you offer to
a wife? A most uncertain prospect; possibly, even probably, absolute
penury. Penury! You come to Phyllis, and say, 'Give me your love,
which is most precious to me, and, in return, I will share with you my
poverty and troubles.' It seems to me a strange way of showing
affection."
"But am I in a different position to your sons, who have to make their
own way in the world?" asked Philip in a slightly faltering voice.
He moved his seat to the sofa on which Phyllis was sitting, and took
possession of her hand, which lay in his, limp and listless, making no
return to its warm clasp.
"No," answered Laura; "but they know they must marry girls with money.
If Phyllis had a fortune I should not say a word. But your father
refused his consent to your marrying a girl without a fortune; you know
that only too well, Philip. I am not quite so worldly as that. But
Phyllis, poor girl, cannot marry a poor man; she is not fit to cope
with poverty, as I have done. I know the rector will not be wise
enough, or firm enough, to refuse you as your father rejected Phyllis.
But I am her mother, and I have an equal right to a voice in the
matter. I cannot see her throw herself into life long difficulties
through a foolish fancy that you love one another. You are both far
too young to know your own minds."
"I was wrong in saying I was in the same position as my cousins," said
Philip, in growing agitation; "you know that both my father and mother
are rich. It is true I am not the heir of either of them, but they
have a large income; and I feel sure that if I desire it they will make
me such an allowance as will provide all rational comforts and
enjoyments to my wife."
"An allowance that must cease with their lives," replied Laura, "and
nothing is more uncertain than life. I do not wish to alarm you, my
dear Philip, but your father is much, very much shaken by this
unfortunate discovery of yours. You must not count upon him living to
old age. I have talked all this over with Phyllis, and she agrees with
me."
"No, no," he said vehemently; "you may make her say so, but I will
never believe it! Phyllis, who has been my little wife as long as I
can remember; Phyllis, who has grown up for me--whom I loved as soon as
I loved anyone! No; she will never forsake me. She would become my
wife if I had only the poorest cottage to give to her as a home."
He clasped her hand between his own with a grasp from which she could
not free it, though she made a feeble effort to do so. Then she lifted
up her tear-filled eyes, and looked very sadly into his eager face.
"I never could marry a poor man," she said. "O Philip! why did your
father own he was married to Sophy Goldsmith? Nobody could have proved
it, and nobody would have believed it; and then, you know, there would
not have been all this fuss."
"Phyllis!" he cried, "you don't know what you are saying."
He dropped her hand and turned away from her. These few words of hers
were horrible to him. All that her mother said passed by him almost as
if it had no meaning. Some time ago he had begun to doubt the
disinterested nature of her affection for him; but he had no more
doubted Phyllis than he did the rector. But at this moment her
worldliness was more frank and outspoken than her mother's. There was
an unabashed openness about it that staggered him, if she knew what she
was saying. But she could not know; it was incredible that she could
comprehend the baseness of her speech. He turned back to her again.
"Phyllis," he said earnestly, "tell me truly, do you agree to what your
mother says?"
"Quite," she answered. "We have talked it over again and again, and I
agree with her. We should have been very happy together, but now I can
only be sorry for you."
He went away without another word, stunned and bewildered. The boys
were still laughing and talking in the smoke room, and the rector was
reading in his study. It seemed to Philip as if he was dreaming some
vexatious and incredible dream. This was his other home, as familiar
to him as his father's house. He had scarcely known any difference
between Hugh and the other boys, whose merry racket was in his ears.
But now a sentence of banishment had been pronounced against him. He
could never come in and out again with the free, happy fellowship of
former times. It was many months since he had crossed the old
threshold; it would be many months before he crossed it again.
He went home and told his mother briefly, in as few words as possible;
and she said little to him, for she saw his grief was too fresh for
consolation. Moreover, she was not herself grieved, and she knew it
would be vain to touch his sorrow with an unsympathetic hand. Sidney
was more pleased than by anything which had happened since Philip's
engagement to Phyllis. It was a good thing for him to discover his
mistake in time.
"Let us go to London," said Margaret, "and make a home for Philip for
the next three months. If we stay here either he will not come down,
or he must meet Phyllis and her mother; for we could not break off all
our intercourse with the rector. Dorothy has never been in London for
more than a day or two, and we can find plenty to do during the winter.
And, Sidney, let us go and keep Christmas at Brackenburn."