CHAPTER XXIII

COLIN'S CONQUESTS

COLIN conquered them all, "straight off," as the Vicar said, though with variations of speed, and apparently without effort.

First to succumb was the Vicar himself. He gave unqualified approval to the delicate-looking young fellow, whom nobody would have taken for more than two or three and twenty; and the Vicar's wife followed suit.

"He's the sweetest boy I ever saw," she declared with an enthusiasm which made her husband laugh.

"Giles knows nothing about my coming," he said. "I'm supposed to be in the Highlands, abjuring work. Don't betray confidence, please. I wrote yesterday, and needn't write again."

Phyllys supposed that he was under orders not to model, and that he intended to disobey.

Mrs. Wyverne next fell a victim. She was fascinated at first sight, like the Vicar. She had given in to Giles, partly out of respect to the head of her family, partly as a result of pains on his part. Colin took no pains. He was introduced, smiled, announced that he had come to complete a work of art, Phyllys being the subject, and opposition collapsed like a pricked bubble. The old lady could hardly take her eyes from him.

"I suppose you are counted like your mother," she said in unbelieving tones. "Not like what she was when she and I met; but, perhaps—"

"My mother says I am like everybody in turn, which is much the same as being like nobody."

"You certainly remind me of some one."

Phyllys wondered, but would not suggest—was Mrs. Wyverne conscious of his resemblance to the lost painting? She might have spoken her thought but for a second question—could Mrs. Wyverne have seen that other picture, hidden in the cabinet, if, indeed, it was another?

She took an opportunity to inquire whether the lost portrait had been found, and Colin replied in the negative. He showed little interest in the topic.

Barbara yielded more slowly. Colin was a man, and she detested men; he was an artist, and she despised Art. The bust aroused her righteous indignation; not altogether righteous, since jealousy of Phyllys had a share. Though not great in self-knowledge, she perhaps knew this. But she gave the reins to what she felt, and ruthlessly stigmatised sculpture as worldly, wasteful, an encouragement to vanity; not sparing words, till silence on his part grew impressive, and she met those blue eyes, looking not "at" but "into" her, with a depth of understanding which brought her to a dead halt.

"Yes," he said slowly, and waited.

She had no more to say. Did he read to the ground of her motives? Was she to him a transparency?

Then came his winning smile; a smile which few could withstand. It took her captive on the spot.

"Try for yourself," he said sweetly.

And the household stood open-mouthed to see Miss Pringle seated before the improvised modelling-stool which, with Mrs. Wyverne's permission, had been set up in the study. She clumsily fingered a lump of clay; she submitted to be lectured. The results of her fingering need not be described. The results of his manipulation were that he thenceforth dragged her, a helpless victim, at his chariot wheels.

"It's too comical for anything," declared the Vicar, his shoulders shaking. "Miss Pringle, of all people! That lad could make the trees run after him if he chose."

How much Colin laughed privately no one knew. He maintained in public his gentle and detached demeanour.

Difficulties were cleared away so far as might be from his path, the household uniting to supply his wants. He had the exclusive use of the little back-room; and a water-tap was outside his door. Phyllys was allowed to sit to him for two hours each day, Mrs. Wyverne being present with her knitting, while Barbara came in and out, hanging round in wordless admiration, never dreaming how her fidgety movements and creaking shoes tried the young sculptor.

She did not agree with his views; she counted still that Art was a delusion. But Colin Keith she confessed to be the one really agreeable man whom she had met on the face of the earth.

For a week all went well, and the bust made progress. Colin was unusually vigorous; perhaps from the light moor air which seemed to keep headache at bay. "I shall know where to go next time when I want change," he said. He looked his best; active, joyous, full of delight in his task, full also of bright expectancy in another direction, which the Vicar saw with gladness, and Mrs. Wyverne with anxiety.

Phyllys enjoyed having him. She delighted in his artistic talk; she chatted freely as she sat for her clay portrait; and the hours slid by. It was reflection of Castle Hill happiness.

But after days of work and intercourse, a change dawned. Mrs. Wyverne had one morning been called away, and Phyllys occupied the usual position.

"I've had to write at last to let them know where I am," he remarked. Then—"You are tired. Take it easy for five minutes. You must rest."

She had found it out herself earlier. A weariness had taken possession of her, a longing for something, she could not define what. All this seemed not worth while. She stood and stretched herself while he turned to do something with one of the little wooden instruments.

And the thought came—if Giles had been there instead of Colin!

It was like a wave of understanding poured over her. In a moment she saw that she was tired of having Colin only in place of Giles. She liked him, admired his gifts, enjoyed his conversation. But her real want was for Giles. She wanted him, not for his mental gifts, not for aught that he might say or do, but for himself. She wanted the strong manly presence, the intense devotion. "Was" it devotion? Did he care for her further than as a friend? How was she to know?

Colin by comparison was nothing. Suddenly she had grown satiated with Nature and Art, with his thoughts about both. He had fascinated her, and he might fascinate her again; but he could not give all she wanted. Not Nature, not Art, still less theories about either, could meet her claims. It was love that she needed; Giles' love.

To her artistic, her intellectual, her imaginative sides, Colin appealed. But these were not the whole Phyllys. A more powerful claim rose up and would not be silenced. Her inner self cried out for Giles—Giles with his faults, his temper, his difficulty of expression, his silence—just Giles Randolph as he was. When she could escape, she went to her own room, recognising that Giles was more to her than any other in the world. The discovery brought something of dread lest her love should be unreturned; yet it shed a new radiance on her life. She had not known the strength with which it was in her to love. A pent-up flood had burst its barriers, flowing in a rush throughout her being, and the loosened waters freshened everything they touched, glorifying the world around. All had become beautiful. Colin had poured new meanings into Nature and Art. But Giles had poured new light, new love, into the very springs of her existence. Life was transformed by this new knowledge. Even if he should never return what she felt for him, nothing could rob her of the power of loving.

Did he care? She put the question many times. A few days earlier she had believed herself to be more to him than he was to her. But in the light of this realisation, she saw him and herself from a fresh point of view. His reticence made it difficult to gauge what he felt. Yet things might be as she hoped.

There was a glow in her eyes that evening which awoke hope in Colin, and aroused Mrs. Wyverne to uneasiness.

She came late to Phyllys' room, and found her at the open window, her candle out. The old lady closed the window, sat down, and smoothed the soft hair with unwonted tenderness.

"Thee should be in bed, my child," she said, with her occasional reversion to the old-fashioned Quaker speech. "Thee should be asleep."

"Very soon, Grannie. The stars are lovely."

Mrs. Wyverne spoke abruptly. "Colin Keith is a pleasant youth; but I fear I have acted with imprudence. He and thee are friendly."

"Oh, very," assented Phyllys. "I like him so much. He is delightfully artistic."

"He is winsome, but, I fear, a man of this world only."

"No, indeed, I don't think that. He doesn't talk—men don't, you know. They are so afraid of saying what might be taken for cant, and they hate to make a show of goodness. He 'does' think of—that sort of thing. I am sure he is good; truly good."

Mrs. Wyverne shook a decisive head. Her rules were arbitrary, and would not include Colin.

"I should fear greatly for thy future, Phyllys, should he and thee desire to marry."

Phyllys's colour went up in the darkness.

"Oh, not the least chance!" she said. "We are only a sort of cousins. Not that kind of thing at all. He would not wish it, any more than I do."

Mrs. Wyverne's uneasiness was deepened, rather than mitigated.

Next day, to the astonishment of everybody, Mrs. Keith walked in.

She was in York, having arrived three days earlier, and she had been taken by surprise at the news of Colin's presence in Midfell, forwarded from home. It was extremely wrong of Colin, just when he had been ordered complete rest. He would suffer for it, &c.; and she had come to see about things herself.

That Colin showed gratification at her advent could hardly be said. He was, as always, courteous; but her arrival broke into a plan of his own. Last touches having been given to the bust of Phyllys, he was on the point of proposing to make a cast of Mrs. Wyverne's fine old head. Now he waited for developments.

They soon appeared. Mrs. Keith was primed with a scheme to circumvent him.

The friends with whom she was staying in York—an old school-chum and her husband—had lately bought a châlet on the borders of Lake Thun, and had asked her to return with them for a month. She brought also an invitation for Phyllys. Would Mrs. Wyverne spare her? Expense should be Mrs. Keith's concern; she promised every care; the excursion would be enjoyable for Phyllys; and for herself it would mean gain in the added cheerfulness of a young companion.

So much passed in public; and Phyllys' hopes of being allowed to go were faint. But a few words in private settled the question.

"No—not the least chance of Colin joining us," Mrs. Keith said, in response to a query. "He is due in Scotland; and the Forsyths scarcely know him."

This induced the old lady to give in, despite Barbara's remonstrances.