Cousin Phillis (14 page)

'What is the matter, minister? Has anything gone wrong?'

He started as if from a dream. Phillis hung her head, and caught her
breath in terror at the answer she feared. But he, looking round with a
sweeping glance, turned his broad, wise face up to his anxious wife,
and forced a smile, and took her hand in a reassuring manner.

'I am blaming myself, dear. I have been overcome with anger this
afternoon. I scarcely knew what I was doing, but I turned away Timothy
Cooper. He has killed the Ribstone pippin at the corner of the orchard;
gone and piled the quicklime for the mortar for the new stable wall
against the trunk of the tree—stupid fellow! killed the tree
outright—and it loaded with apples!'

'And Ribstone pippins are so scarce,' said sympathetic cousin Holman.

'Ay! But Timothy is but a half-wit; and he has a wife and children. He
had often put me to it sore, with his slothful ways, but I had laid it
before the Lord, and striven to bear with him. But I will not stand it
any longer, it's past my patience. And he has notice to find another
place. Wife, we won't talk more about it.' He took her hand gently off
his shoulder, touched it with his lips; but relapsed into a silence as
profound, if not quite so morose in appearance, as before. I could not
tell why, but this bit of talk between her father and mother seemed to
take all the factitious spirits out of Phillis. She did not speak now,
but looked out of the open casement at the calm large moon, slowly
moving through the twilight sky. Once I thought her eyes were filling
with tears; but, if so, she shook them off, and arose with alacrity
when her mother, tired and dispirited, proposed to go to bed
immediately after prayers. We all said good-night in our separate ways
to the minister, who still sate at the table with the great Bible open
before him, not much looking up at any of our salutations, but
returning them kindly. But when I, last of all, was on the point of
leaving the room, he said, still scarcely looking up,—

'Paul, you will oblige me by staying here a few minutes. I would fain
have some talk with you.'

I knew what was coming, all in a moment. I carefully shut—to the door,
put out my candle, and sate down to my fate. He seemed to find some
difficulty in beginning, for, if I had not heard that he wanted to
speak to me, I should never have guessed it, he seemed so much absorbed
in reading a chapter to the end. Suddenly he lifted his head up and
said,—

'It is about that friend of yours, Holdsworth! Paul, have you any
reason for thinking he has played tricks upon Phillis?' I saw that his
eyes were blazing with such a fire of anger at the bare idea, that I
lost all my presence of mind, and only repeated,—

'Played tricks on Phillis!'

'Ay! you know what I mean: made love to her, courted her, made her
think that he loved her, and then gone away and left her. Put it as you
will, only give me an answer of some kind or another—a true answer, I
mean—and don't repeat my words, Paul.'

He was shaking all over as he said this. I did not delay a moment in
answering him,—

'I do not believe that Edward Holdsworth ever played tricks on Phillis,
ever made love to her; he never, to my knowledge, made her believe that
he loved her.'

I stopped; I wanted to nerve up my courage for a confession, yet I
wished to save the secret of Phillis's love for Holdsworth as much as I
could; that secret which she had so striven to keep sacred and safe;
and I had need of some reflection before I went on with what I had to
say.

He began again before I had quite arranged my manner of speech. It was
almost as if to himself,—'She is my only child; my little daughter!
She is hardly out of childhood; I have thought to gather her under my
wings for years to come her mother and I would lay down our lives to
keep her from harm and grief.' Then, raising his voice, and looking at
me, he said, 'Something has gone wrong with the child; and it seemed to
me to date from the time she heard of that marriage. It is hard to
think that you may know more of her secret cares and sorrows than I
do,—but perhaps you do, Paul, perhaps you do,—only, if it be not a
sin, tell me what I can do to make her happy again; tell me.'

'It will not do much good, I am afraid,' said I, 'but I will own how
wrong I did; I don't mean wrong in the way of sin, but in the way of
judgment. Holdsworth told me just before he went that he loved Phillis,
and hoped to make her his wife, and I told her.'

There! it was out; all my part in it, at least; and I set my lips tight
together, and waited for the words to come. I did not see his face; I
looked straight at the wall Opposite; but I heard him once begin to
speak, and then turn over the leaves in the book before him. How
awfully still that room was I The air outside, how still it was! The
open windows let in no rustle of leaves, no twitter or movement of
birds—no sound whatever. The clock on the stairs—the minister's hard
breathing—was it to go on for ever? Impatient beyond bearing at the
deep quiet, I spoke again,—

'I did it for the best, as I thought.'

The minister shut the book to hastily, and stood up. Then I saw how
angry he was.

'For the best, do you say? It was best, was it, to go and tell a young
girl what you never told a word of to her parents, who trusted you like
a son of their own?'

He began walking about, up and down the room close under the open
windows, churning up his bitter thoughts of me.

'To put such thoughts into the child's head,' continued he; 'to spoil
her peaceful maidenhood with talk about another man's love; and such
love, too,' he spoke scornfully now—a love that is ready for any young
woman. Oh, the misery in my poor little daughter's face to-day at
dinner—the misery, Paul! I thought you were one to be trusted—your
father's son too, to go and put such thoughts into the child's mind;
you two talking together about that man wishing to marry her.'

I could not help remembering the pinafore, the childish garment which
Phillis wore so long, as if her parents were unaware of her progress
towards womanhood. Just in the same way the minister spoke and thought
of her now, as a child, whose innocent peace I had spoiled by vain and
foolish talk. I knew that the truth was different, though I could
hardly have told it now; but, indeed, I never thought of trying to
tell; it was far from my mind to add one iota to the sorrow which I had
caused. The minister went on walking, occasionally stopping to move
things on the table, or articles of furniture, in a sharp, impatient,
meaningless way, then he began again,—

'So young, so pure from the world! how could you go and talk to such a
child, raising hopes, exciting feelings—all to end thus; and best so,
even though I saw her poor piteous face look as it did. I can't forgive
you, Paul; it was more than wrong—it was wicked—to go and repeat that
man's words.'

His back was now to the door, and, in listening to his low angry tones,
he did not hear it slowly open, nor did he see Phillis, standing just
within the room, until he turned round; then he stood still. She must
have been half undressed; but she had covered herself with a dark
winter cloak, which fell in long folds to her white, naked, noiseless
feet. Her face was strangely pale: her eyes heavy in the black circles
round them. She came up to the table very slowly, and leant her hand
upon it, saying mournfully,—

'Father, you must not blame Paul. I could not help hearing a great deal
of what you were saying. He did tell me, and perhaps it would have been
wiser not, dear Paul! But—oh, dear! oh, dear! I am so sick with shame!
He told me out of his kind heart, because he saw—that I was so very
unhappy at his going away. She hung her head, and leant more heavily
than before on her supporting hand.

'I don't understand,' said her father; but he was beginning to
understand. Phillis did not answer till he asked her again. I could
have struck him now for his cruelty; but then I knew all.

'I loved him, father!' she said at length, raising her eyes to the
minister's face. 'Had he ever spoken of love to you? Paul says not!'

'Never.' She let fall her eyes, and drooped more than ever. I almost
thought she would fall.

'I could not have believed it,' said he, in a hard voice, yet sighing
the moment he had spoken. A dead silence for a moment. 'Paul! I was
unjust to you. You deserved blame, but not all that I said.' Then again
a silence. I thought I saw Phillis's white lips moving, but it might
have been the flickering of the candlelight—a moth had flown in
through the open casement, and was fluttering round the flame; I might
have saved it, but I did not care to do so, my heart was too full of
other things. At any rate, no sound was heard for long endless minutes.
Then he said,—'Phillis! did we not make you happy here? Have we not
loved you enough?'

She did not seem to understand the drift of this question; she looked
up as if bewildered, and her beautiful eyes dilated with a painful,
tortured expression. He went on, without noticing the look on her face;
he did not see it, I am sure.

'And yet you would have left us, left your home, left your father and
your mother, and gone away with this stranger, wandering over the
world.' He suffered, too; there were tones of pain in the voice in
which he uttered this reproach. Probably the father and daughter were
never so far apart in their lives, so unsympathetic. Yet some new
terror came over her, and it was to him she turned for help. A shadow
came over her face, and she tottered towards her father; falling down,
her arms across his knees, and moaning out,—

'Father, my head! my head!' and then slipped through his
quick-enfolding arms, and lay on the ground at his feet.

I shall never forget his sudden look of agony while I live; never! We
raised her up; her colour had strangely darkened; she was insensible. I
ran through the back-kitchen to the yard pump, and brought back water.
The minister had her on his knees, her head against his breast, almost
as though she were a sleeping child. He was trying to rise up with his
poor precious burden, but the momentary terror had robbed the strong
man of his strength, and he sank back in his chair with sobbing breath.

'She is not dead, Paul! is she?' he whispered, hoarse, as I came near
him. I, too, could not speak, but I pointed to the quivering of the
muscles round her mouth. Just then cousin Holman, attracted by some
unwonted sound, came down. I remember I was surprised at the time at
her presence of mind, she seemed to know so much better what to do than
the minister, in the midst of the sick affright which blanched her
countenance, and made her tremble all over. I think now that it was the
recollection of what had gone before; the miserable thought that
possibly his words had brought on this attack, whatever it might be,
that so unmanned the minister. We carried her upstairs, and while the
women were putting her to bed, still unconscious, still slightly
convulsed, I slipped out, and saddled one of the horses, and rode as
fast as the heavy-trotting beast could go, to Hornby, to find the
doctor there, and bring him back. He was out, might be detained the
whole night. I remember saying, 'God help us all!' as I sate on my
horse, under the window, through which the apprentice's head had
appeared to answer my furious tugs at the night-bell. He was a
good-natured fellow. He said,—

'He may be home in half an hour, there's no knowing; but I daresay he
will. I'll send him out to the Hope Farm directly he comes in. It's
that good-looking young woman, Holman's daughter, that's ill, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'It would be a pity if she was to go. She's an only child, isn't she?
I'll get up, and smoke a pipe in the surgery, ready for the governor's
coming home. I might go to sleep if I went to bed again.'

'Thank you, you're a good fellow!' and I rode back almost as quickly as
I came. It was a brain fever. The doctor said so, when he came in the
early summer morning. I believe we had come to know the nature of the
illness in the night-watches that had gone before. As to hope of
ultimate recovery, or even evil prophecy of the probable end, the
cautious doctor would be entrapped into neither. He gave his
directions, and promised to come again; so soon, that this one thing
showed his opinion of the gravity of the case.

By God's mercy she recovered, but it was a long, weary time first.
According to previously made plans, I was to have gone home at the
beginning of August. But all such ideas were put aside now, without a
word being spoken. I really think that I was necessary in the house,
and especially necessary to the minister at this time; my father was
the last man in the world, under such circumstances, to expect me home.

I say, I think I was necessary in the house. Every person (1 had almost
said every creature, for all the dumb beasts seemed to know and love
Phillis) about the place went grieving and sad, as though a cloud was
over the sun. They did their work, each striving to steer clear of the
temptation to eye-service, in fulfilment of the trust reposed in them
by the minister. For the day after Phillis had been taken ill, he had
called all the men employed on the farm into the empty barn; and there
he had entreated their prayers for his only child; and then and there
he had told them of his present incapacity for thought about any other
thing in this world but his little daughter, lying nigh unto death, and
he had asked them to go on with their daily labours as best they could,
without his direction. So, as I say, these honest men did their work to
the best of their ability, but they slouched along with sad and careful
faces, coming one by one in the dim mornings to ask news of the sorrow
that overshadowed the house; and receiving Betty's intelligence, always
rather darkened by passing through her mind, with slow shakes of the
head, and a dull wistfulness of sympathy. But, poor fellows, they were
hardly fit to be trusted with hasty messages, and here my poor services
came in. One time I was to ride hard to Sir William Bentinck's, and
petition for ice out of his ice-house, to put on Phillis's head.
Another it was to Eltham I must go, by train, horse, anyhow, and bid
the doctor there come for a consultation, for fresh symptoms had
appeared, which Mr Brown, of Hornby, considered unfavour able. Many an
hour have I sate on the window-seat, half-way up the stairs, close by
the old clock, listening in the hot stillness of the house for the
sounds in the sick-room. The minister and I met often, but spoke
together seldom. He looked so old—so old! He shared the nursing with
his wife; the strength that was needed seemed to be given to them both
in that day. They required no one else about their child. Every office
about her was sacred to them; even Betty only went into the room for
the most necessary purposes. Once I saw Phillis through the open door;
her pretty golden hair had been cut off long before; her head was
covered with wet cloths, and she was moving it backwards and forwards
on the pillow, with weary, never-ending motion, her poor eyes shut,
trying in the old accustomed way to croon out a hymn tune, but
perpetually breaking it up into moans of pain. Her mother sate by her,
tearless, changing the cloths upon her head with patient solicitude. I
did not see the minister at first, but there he was in a dark corner,
down upon his knees, his hands clasped together in passionate prayer.
Then the door shut, and I saw no more. One day he was wanted; and I had
to summon him. Brother Robinson and another minister, hearing of his
'trial', had come to see him. I told him this upon the stair-landing in
a whisper. He was strangely troubled.