Chapter XXVI: 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."