CHAPTER XI

CASTLE HILL PERPLEXITIES

AT the appointed hour for Phyllys' arrival, Mrs. Keith went to the station.

And together they drove through the town, the elder lady exchanging bows with acquaintances by the way. Phyllys took everything in with interested eyes.

Leaving Market Oakley behind, they bowled swiftly along the smooth high-road till Castlemere was reached; then by a lodge-gate they entered the private grounds leading to Castle Hill.

Once indoors Mrs. Keith unbent. Thus far she had merely made herself agreeable. Now her gloved hands held those of Phyllys, and she looked tenderly in the girl's face. After a momentary hesitation, real or assumed, she bent for a kiss.

Phyllys was touched, and a wonder stirred within her. Why should Mrs. Keith be so affectionate? That Giles should have liked to know her had seemed natural, since he was near of kin; but that Mrs. Keith should care was puzzling.

Then she recalled her late peril, and the fact that Giles had rescued her. This might give Mrs. Keith a peculiar feeling. Or perhaps Mrs. Keith was so fond of Giles as to be gladdened by anything that gave him pleasure. Phyllys smiled over the latter solution, and Mrs. Keith kissed her again.

"My dear, I am delighted to get you here. We have wanted it for years. Giles particularly."

"It is delightful to come."

This little scene took place in the ante-room, between hall and drawing-room; and as they entered the latter a slight gasp broke from Phyllys.

It was large and many-windowed, with nooks and retreats, a ceiling artistically designed and coloured, fine paintings on the walls, a broad general harmony of outline and tinting, and a delicate beauty of contrast in details, which at once appealed to Phyllys. She thought of the prim little sitting-room at home, its stiff squareness, its ponderous furniture, its framed texts.

"Ah!" murmured Mrs. Keith.

"I never saw anything like it!"

"Unusual, is it not? I am glad you can appreciate. Now you will like some tea. Where can Colin be?" She rang the bell. "Tell Mr. Keith we are here," she said to the butler.

"Mr. Keith desired not to be disturbed, ma'am. Tea was taken by his wish to the studio."

A fretted look came, and one cup clicked against another. "Nonsense! What nonsense!" Mrs. Keith's brows drew together.

"Does Colin paint?" asked Phyllys. "Mr. Keith, I mean."

"He is 'Colin,' not 'Mr. Keith,' to you, my dear. Yes, he dabbles in painting; and lately he has taken an absurd fancy for messing with wet clay, trying to model. Sheer waste of time, for he has no gift in that direction."

The resentful tone in which she alluded to Colin's pursuit was in contrast with the note of her next remark.

"Such a pity Giles is still away. Yes,—" seeing with pleasure Phyllys' disappointment—"he was to have got home yesterday. But the friend with whom he has been shooting in the Highlands fell ill, and cannot travel. Giles has stayed to take care of him. So like Giles! Always thinking of others before himself! And I know what a disappointment it must be to him. Till he arrives, you must put up with Colin and me."

Phyllys tried to hide what she felt. This was indeed a "Waterloo without a Wellington." She hoped she had succeeded, but was not sure. Those fine restless eyes seemed to see a great deal; and so surely as she glanced up she met them. The scrutiny was kind, however, and conveyed approval.

This first evening at Castle Hill was very unlike what Phyllys had pictured. One figure, large and quiet, with straight gaze and few utterances, had never been absent from previous visions; but while others, hazy in anticipation, were taking shape, that was the one lacking.

Not for long! She found consolation in this thought, and also in Mrs. Keith's assurances that her disappointment was shared by Giles. She could not know that he had given Mrs. Keith no right to make such an assertion, for she had yet to learn the liberal manner in which her hostess was wont to draw upon a vivid imagination.

She did find, to her surprise, that nothing was known by Mrs. Keith of her bog adventure or of the part played by Giles. She told the tale simply not without a shivering aversion which she could not yet conquer. Mrs. Keith showed excitement.

"My dear, what an awful thing! Too dreadful! If Giles had not been near! Yes, he saved your life! How thankful he must have been! No, he said nothing in his letters. But he would not. That is Giles all over—never speaking of what he has done himself. But you and he will never forget. It seems quite a link between you." She shot a glance to see if this was appreciated. Phyllys took it quietly.

Till the dinner-gong sounded, nothing was heard of Colin. Then the butler announced, "Mr. Keith is sorry not to come to dinner."

Mrs. Keith made a sharp turn. "Why?"

"Mr. Keith does not wish for any dinner, ma'am."

"Absurd!" she muttered. Then to Phyllys, with a constrained smile, "You and I must make the most of each other. Colin is treating us cavalierly."

"He must be very fond of modelling," the girl said, as they went through the hall.

"A great deal too fond. Such a waste of time."

"Do you think so? My father used to love it. They said he was a born sculptor."

She had an odd impression that her words had administered a blow. Tightening lips and drawn brows showed strong feeling. Not till they were seated did a reply come, with evident unconsciousness of the interval.

"There are so many things better worth doing."

Phyllys wisely resolved to avoid a discussion.

Mrs. Wyverne, despite opposition from Barbara and exhortations from Miss Robins, on the score of encouraging vanity, had taken care that her grandchild should not do her discredit. Phyllys had one evening frock, which she wore now, pretty, and in good taste. Perhaps she felt its prettiness a trifle thrown away under present circumstances; yet she enjoyed herself.

The great dining-room, with its ancestral portraits, its heavy silver candelabra, its antique furniture, its well-laid table, its flowers, its butler and footman waiting in deferential silence, all laid pleasant hold upon her. She had no sense of embarrassment. Everything seemed natural and as should be. Travelling abroad in childhood, and being much among grown-up people before the age of thirteen, had given her an ease which she could not have acquired in Midfell alone, despite the old lady's excellent manners.

Great as was the contrast between Castle Hill arrangements and those of Burn Cottage, she behaved as if all her life used to the former. Mrs. Keith, narrowly observant, was more and more satisfied. The slight upset to her equanimity, whatever it had meant, passed off, and she talked continuously.

When they returned to the drawing-room, Mr. Dugdale appeared, making at once for Phyllys.

"I knew your father well," was his first remark. "Wyverne and I were friends. He was one of the best men it has ever been my good fortune to come across."

Had Mr. Dugdale set himself to win her liking, he could have chosen no wiser method. For years she had lived among those who condemned her father—Barbara "in toto;" the old lady, not without deep motherly love, yet with grief and regret, because on certain religious points he had not seen with herself. And here was one who had known him, had understood him. Her heart went out towards the elderly man, with his cool cynical manner. Let him be what he might, he had cared for her father. Mr. Dugdale adjusted his pince-nez, and examined her with interest. Then Colin came in.

"Sorry to have been so unsociable. I hope you forgive me," he said, as he shook hands with Phyllys. He spoke in a low dragging voice, and found a seat where his face was in shade.

"Why did you not come to dinner?" his mother asked in displeasure.

"I thought you would excuse me for once,"—cheerfully.

"And of course you have eaten nothing since luncheon. Just like him—" turning to Mr. Dugdale. "Colin never can do anything in moderation. This fad of his will undo the whole good of his time abroad. It is ridiculous."

"Fad!" repeated Mr. Dugdale, with meaning.

Colin fenced quietly, beating off the attack with a half languid but graceful good-humour, which Phyllys thought charming. Then attention was distracted, Mr. Dugdale falling into a discussion with Mrs. Keith on some trivial point of difference. Colin moved to a chair near Phyllys, and she had for the first time a distinct view.

Unlike Giles, certainly. He looked very tired, and there were purple shades below the eyes, which had a fixed inwardness of expression. A hand was lifted between them and the nearer lamp.

"So Giles stole a march upon us, making your acquaintance in the north."

"If he had not, I should not be here now." Somehow she did not at once feel at home with Colin as with Giles. He awakened a shy side of her, seldom visible. Giles from the first had drawn her out. Colin unconsciously repressed her. It might have been his ease of bearing, his calm aloofness. Giles possessed a cultivated ease; but Colin's was an intrinsic ease, which perhaps nothing could disturb. In Giles it was an acquired possession; in Colin it seemed to be a part of himself.

"Ah, then we must be grateful to him."

"I think I am." She tried to speak naturally. "Pity he cannot get home yet."

"Yes; I'm sorry." A pause, and Phyllys pulled herself together. The feeling of bashfulness was absurd. "Mrs. Keith says you are fond of modelling."

A shade of interest dawned. "Do you know anything of it?"

"My father used to model in clay."

"Then you understand the grip it takes upon one."

"Yes; I used to see that. He was a busy clergyman, and had very little spare time. But when he could get to it, he was happy. I was only ten years old when he died; still one doesn't forget."

"Perhaps you will take a look at my studio to-morrow."

"May I? That will be delightful. Are you doing statues?"

"Busts chiefly. I may take to statuettes by-and-by. Portrait-sculpture seems to be my line."

"My father did only small things. I used to stand and watch him, and the clay looked so tempting! I longed to try. They were afraid it might make me rheumatic."

"No uncommon result. So far I have been lucky."

"Have you worked hard to-day?" she asked, noting that he talked mechanically, like a machine wound up.

"Rather."

"Till after dinner?"

"I gave in before that."

"You look as if—" She hesitated, doubtful how far she might venture. The doubt had not assailed her with Giles, yet of the two, Colin was the more gentle. He responded to what she had not said.

"One can't stick to work without paying for it; but the game is worth the candle."

"I wonder if it is!"

The heavy blue eyes, still with that curious oppressed "inward" look, met hers, but could not gaze. "You are a trifle too keen-sighted. Don't betray me, please."

"Wouldn't it be better for you not to talk?"

He took her at her word, and soon beat a retreat.

The others did not notice until he was gone; and Mrs. Keith drew her lips together. "At it again!" was written on her face.

"Had she really not seen?" wondered Phyllys.