CHAPTER XXI

THE THINGS THAT ARE

BETWEEN the claims of truth and a desire not to compromise other people, the Vicar was in difficulties. He gave a jerk to the reins, and murmured indistinct words.

"Barbara is not nervous." Phyllys caught the suggestion, only to repudiate it. She sat bolt upright. "Barbara is never nervous."

Another murmur. This time she heard "mistake."

"No; there is no mistake. It is on purpose. She knew how happy I was—how I wanted to stay. And she loves to make me miserable. It is 'her' doing."

The Vicar made no rejoinder. He cast a concerned glance at the set face; commented to himself on the thunder-cloud overshadowing his "Pride o' the Morning;" and chirruped to the cob. A fresh pull carried them faster, till the increased gradient made slowness a necessity. Then he jumped out, lightly for his years.

"Take the reins, child."

"No." She was already by his side. "Cobweb has weight enough with my box."

He offered no protest, and they mounted a stiff rise in silence, the Vicar keeping up an easy long-limbed swing, born of habit. No quickened breath troubled him; and the reins hung loosely over one wrist, or were flung upon the cob's back.

Phyllys, deep in thought, showed no signs of fatigue, though this came at the end of a long journey. As they ascended, the widening view of distant moors, the rich tints of the fell over which their road led, spoke with the calming power which Nature has over some minds. Three times she forgot herself, standing in contemplation. Each time the Vicar halted, as if for Cobweb's sake; and the look which crept into her face gladdened his heart. A fourth time this happened, and she glanced towards him, smiling.

"I didn't know how lovely it was!" she said. "Must we hurry? I didn't know how dearly I loved it all. Those wavy lines against the sky! And the purples and greens—and the bracken!"

She remembered Colin's quotation,—"Drink it in with 'all' your eyes,"—and into the words new meaning dawned. Eyes of the body; eyes of the mind; eyes of the spirit. Through the eyes of the body, to the eyes of the mind; through the eyes of the mind, to the eyes of the spirit. Had Colin opened for her those inward eyes? She saw with them as never before. Nature around was as it ever had been; but for her it held fresh perfection, fresh meaning. She was enchained by the mouldings of the hill-sides, the delicate fadings of one tint into another. Each hummocked fell demanded hours of study. She would be able to give the hours; and Colin had taught her how to use them.

Through the railway journey her thoughts had been much with Giles, and the look in his face when they parted. Sorry as she had been to leave, her sorrow was of a composite nature, made up of many elements. She began to see a contrast between him and herself; to realise the homogeneousness of his mental make. She wanted many things,—Castle Hill, Colin, Art, freedom, fresh ideas—as well as Giles. He wanted one thing—herself. She perceived this, after a fashion, without grasping that his "want" meant something infinitely beyond mere "friendship." She had a sense that Giles was giving her more than she could give him. Her feelings towards him were mixed. His towards her were unblended.

Now, instead of thinking about him, she was thinking about Colin, recalling what Colin had said, studying old scenes in the light of Colin's teaching, wishing she could be in the studio with Colin. As at this moment she might have been—but for Barbara.

Uprolled another wave of anger; and the Vicar saw. He had known it must return. She was not yet victor.

She met his glance. "Why are people allowed to do such things?" she asked abruptly. "Such a beautiful world!—And 'such' people in it!"

"Try to be fair," he said; irrelevantly some might have thought.

"But it is she who is not fair to me. She never was fair. It isn't that I'm sorry to come back to you and Mrs. Hazel—or to Grannie! It is the being made like this—forced!—without any choice. She has no right. I am not a child now. And I did so count on the next few days—if it might not be more, just those days. I was learning so much that was new and lovely!"

"Yes. But the lessons we want to learn are not always those that the Great Teacher sets us." He spoke in an everyday tone, not as one preaching.

"It isn't—'that?' It is Barbara!"

"It is always 'that,' my child—no matter how the disappointment comes."

"If she had explained—if Grannie needed me. It is the being made that I hate. Wouldn't you, in my place?"

"Yes," he said, and her face grew softer.

"I'm glad. Then it isn't altogether wrong to be vexed."

"No; perhaps not. But if I were you, I wouldn't waste too much time over your cousin's share. If she has wronged you, she has to be forgiven; and it is more dignified not to show offence. People make foolish blunders; but one may credit them with a right intention."

"Ought one? Only, I'm sure she did mean unkindness." Then, with a laugh of apology—"Perhaps I am as unfair to her as she is to me."

"Good!" They were now moving on. "To see in oneself that possibility is a first step towards a right spirit. Nine-tenths of the disagreements in this world arise from a want of fairness in judging others. We have too often one rule for ourselves, another for other people." He flipped off a dandelion-head with the tip of his whip. "One should be fair towards everybody—" and he could not resist adding—"even Miss Pringle."

Phyllys' eyes twinkled. She knew that her cousin and her cousin's friend were thorns in the Vicar's side. Whatever he did they opposed; whatever he said they contradicted. But he met their opposition in a large and manly way, and laughed at their contradiction. It was more serious when they systematically upset his influence among the cottagers; yet even there the Vicar was reasonable. He insisted that though their methods were, from his point of view, entirely wrong, their aims were good; and he would allow no wholesale condemnation. Phyllys, aware of all this, realised the force of his advice.

"I'll try," she said. "Only Barbara isn't fair towards 'them!'"

"Towards—?"

"Giles and Colin—and Mrs. Keith. She thinks unjustly. She says they are bad."

"And you have found them good?"

"Yes!" emphatically. Then, "Yes," more slowly. "I suppose there are different sorts of goodness. I don't mean that they are—perfect."

"We need not expect from others what others don't find in us."

"Mrs. Keith puzzles me; still, in a way she is religious. I am sure she is. And Giles—he doesn't say much, but I couldn't tell you how kind he is, how he thinks of everybody. Of course—" and a fresh pause—"he has faults."

"So have we!"

"Yes. And then—Colin—when he talks it isn't like anybody here. Not like Miss Robins, one 'least' little bit. Or like—. No, I don't think he says things in the way you do. Only you would like him. Colin feels and understands. He is different from other people. And I think his goodness—his religion—somehow has to be different, to fit his mind. If I were to say that to Barbara, she would think it wicked. Is it? I can't help feeling so when I'm with him."

"There are many developments of Christ-likeness."

"You don't think he must be wrong because he says things in a different way from—what you would?"

The Vicar's smile was beautiful. It showed a new side of him. She wondered—had Colin opened her eyes with regard to human beings as well as inanimate Nature?

Mr. Hazel made another halt, letting the cob browse. He led Phyllys to the edge, where a steep slope fell away towards a wide extent of country, bounded by hills. Across the plain meandered a river, shining like silver in sunlight. There were green meadows; and in one direction lay ploughed fields. He drew her attention to each.

"The same sun shines upon all. But not all surfaces can respond equally to his shining. Is it the fault of the brown earth that it remains dull? He who made water and grass made earth also. Will He be unfair in His expectations? Will He blame the soil because it cannot respond to His light with green beauty like grass, or gleam and flash like water? Would it be right of the river to condemn the grass because it does not shine? Or of the grass to declare earth a failure because it is not green? Or of the earth to condemn grass and water for giving a different response from its own? In each case the make has much to say to results. And—God made it."

Phyllys' face grew radiant.

"I never saw that before! Why did you not tell me? It would have been a help."

"You were not ripe for it earlier. This visit has brought you on. You are older." Then, after a break, "But to decide which of those about us is, in the Divine sight, as earth or grass or water, lies beyond our power."

Phyllys blushed. She had already been thinking that Barbara was like dull earth.

"I'll try to be fair," she replied, and when they reached the Cottage no trace remained of past billows. Barbara had expected a storm, and though she would not admit the fact, she was a trifle relieved, even touched, by "the child's" forbearance.