CHAPTER XXVII

RENEWED FIGHTING

"IN the lives of most men there has been a week, at the memory of which ever afterwards a dark cloud comes down, and makes a possibly sunny world momentarily a place of gloom." So says that forceful writer, "Linesman."

Such a week had Giles known earlier; a week, followed by months of pain, but in itself sufficient when recalled to bring a cloud, making his "possibly sunny world a place of gloom." The sorest loss, the most passionate remorse, though they may promise to shadow life's future, do from the nature of things, in the course of time, sink into the background, and fail to quench all hope; forming indeed a burden, yet one to which the shoulders have grown used. But in the background the burden still is, at seasons making itself felt.

That week, the recollection of which could never grow dim, the results of which could never cease to be, belonged to boyhood.

Since then, recently, he had lived through another stringent week—in which he had awakened to his love for Phyllys, and to the fact that she was beloved by Colin. Which last discovery involved two other discoveries; first, that it was his duty to yield her up; and secondly, that he had not power to do so. In the strife, his sense of duty succumbed before the vehemence of his love.

But to be beaten is not always to be conquered. Nay, to be twice-beaten, thrice-beaten, may still lead to victory. With human beings generally, a defeat weakens the moral fibre, lessens the power to resist. Yet there does exist a stamp of soldier, notably in the British Army, with whom defeat seems to stiffen the moral fibre, to strengthen the will, so as to render more resistless his next onset.

Something of his struggle might have been visible to watching angels, themselves unseen of men, as Giles went to and fro those autumn days. He said nothing to anybody. It was not his way to talk about himself, to appeal for sympathy. He fought his bitter fight alone.

Not Colin, with his keen vision, not Mrs. Keith, with all her eagerness, could penetrate the surface, could lift the covering and gaze below. Colin might have begun to suspect, but that now he was much away. Though one outburst of wrath had suggested a good deal, passion thereafter had been held down, and even Colin was deceived by Giles' calm. He spent time as usual over the management of his property, rode and cycled, saw friends, was the busy country gentleman,—too composed, too solid and occupied, for those around to imagine that within was a long-continued conflict.

He had been worsted. He had retreated before the foe. Then, at a critical moment, Phyllys had been snatched away. He had time to recollect himself, time to be confronted afresh by his resolution. He took it up again, clenched his teeth, and—in Phyllys' absence—resolved anew.

This was not impossible, when her presence no longer enchained him, when Colin seemed languid, and Giles could conjecture why.

The thought of giving up Phyllys to another, though that other was Colin, shook him to the core; and it was a relief when Colin started for Edinburgh. Giles could get on better alone, thinking always of Phyllys, yet struggling not to think of her, striving to make up his mind that Colin should have the first chance.

A fresh shock came, in the shape of a letter from the latter, gay in tone, announcing that he had been at Midfell for a week, and had all but finished the bust of Phyllys.

"Not bad either, though I shouldn't be the one to say so!" he added.

He did not write like a lover; but of course he would not. His presence in Midfell spoke plainly enough.

Wrath again had Giles in its grip. To determine that Colin should be allowed a chance was one thing; to see Colin taking that chance, without a "with or by your leave," was another. He could face no human being that morning. He went off on his favourite horse for hours of misery; galloping across fields; refusing to think; conscious that he was once more overcome; yet aware that fresh power would dawn when he had rallied from the blow. He returned to dinner, a sombre meal, for Mrs. Keith was away; and so much the better. Her questions would have made the one straw too much.

At night he went out again, and paced the lanes till early morning, getting home in time for an hour in bed, whereby he avoided comment.

By post arrived a letter from Mrs. Keith, telling of her visit to Midfell, of her plan to take Phyllys abroad.

"I have a delightful suggestion to make," she wrote. "You must join us on Lake Thun. The Forsyths send you an invitation. Write and say how soon you can be there."

He understood, for he knew her wish, a wish which too well chimed in with his own desires. By this time he craved for Phyllys with a consuming passion. And Mrs. Keith, for reasons of her own, was bent on the same end. She cleared the path for him, and he had but to walk in it.

But, Colin! His past resolve!

He fought the battle again. He wrote to say that he would go, and he burnt the letter. Next day was a repetition. Another letter of acceptance was written, and destroyed. Then he achieved a third, declining the invitation. He sent this off, and felt that life held no more of joy.

Mrs. Keith cannonaded him with remonstrances, and he held to his point. He was too busy; a lame excuse; and he knew what Phyllys would think. Too busy! He spent hours, his head on his hands, thinking only of her.

Days passed thus, and a telegram arrived from Mrs. Keith, dated at Dover, saying: "Not well, will get home this afternoon, train arriving 5.5."

"In England!" Then Phyllys had gone to Midfell. Some complication must have arisen. The plea "Not well" made small impression. He was too much accustomed to hearing it. Mrs. Keith was not strong; but also she never hesitated to be "not well" for a purpose. She would look ill, no doubt, since she was a born actress.

Had she and Phyllys quarrelled? Impossible. A thrill tingled through his powerful frame. Was it possible that Phyllys might come too! He negatived this idea; nevertheless, he told the housekeeper to have the best spare room ready, just in case—But of course she had gone north.

When the hour came he was on the platform; and as the train drew up—as he glanced along the carriages—that tingling recurred.

For Phyllys was there.