Chapter XXVII: 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.