CHAPTER XXVIII

NEW DEVELOPMENTS

WAS this to mean fresh defeat? With victory in view, was he to be hurled back?

Phyllys to stay a fortnight at Castle Hill! He to be, day after day, within sight, hearing, touch, yet debarred from winning her! Debarred by his own resolve in the past; by his fresh resolve in the present! If Colin failed, then would come his chance. But Colin would not fail. And meanwhile, a fortnight of this agony! To make matters worse, he read in Phyllys' face joy at their meeting. Despite Colin's absence, she was glad to be here.

Not glad only, but sweet to a degree which even he had not known in her before. She had developed of late. He saw this, as the old Vicar had seen it, though from a different point of view. He was conscious of something new in her; something which had not been there. He was also dimly aware of power; recognising as once earlier that he might do what he would with her, Colin being out of reach.

Giles was a strong man, a man of iron will, yet it might be questioned whether his strength would be equal to this strain. There are forces before which iron bends and snaps like tin. In her beloved presence he was weak, and he knew it. But in that very knowledge lay safety. Because he felt his own strength inadequate, he laid hold upon Divine strength.

These weeks of lonely battling had told upon even his powerful frame. Phyllys noted something unusual; a weight, a haggard look, recalling the imaginary Interlaken glimpse. Singular that he should then have appeared to her vision as she now found him, altered and aged. Though not indeed grey-haired, he was plainly in trouble. She had debated with herself whether to tell him of that fancy, and the first evening she said nothing.

She was up betimes next morning, and indulged in a ramble before breakfast. Coming back, she met him in a side-path.

"This is too soon after your journey," he said. He had no choice but to turn and walk by her side.

"I'm as fresh as possible. I don't think you are well."

"Quite, thanks."

"I fancied something might be worrying you, like Mrs. Keith. She so often seems worried. It's her way, is it not? But not your way!"

"Perhaps not."

"Was it not strange?—one day at Interlaken I thought I saw you. I could have declared it to be you! And you seemed bothered then too. You've not been in Switzerland, have you?—not even for one day!"

She put the question laughingly.

And he said—"No."

"It was droll; for we had found a letter for Mrs. Keith, lying at a little Thun hotel, in your handwriting. Not really, of course, but I felt sure it was yours, and it had been posted at Interlaken. And then—that I should seem to see you yourself there too—it was queer, as if chance likenesses were in the air."

Giles hardly followed her words. He was thinking of herself more than of what she said. She ventured another question:—

"I suppose Mrs. Keith has not some great sorrow; something that would make her unhappy?"

He showed surprise.

"She gets so easily upset, and sometimes it is as if she expected things to go awfully wrong. But you would know. I don't want to interfere, only I have been so sorry for her."

"She is excitable by nature. Nerves," explained Giles. "Nothing to be anxious about. She could hardly have any serious trouble, unknown to me. There is—" and he hesitated—"a tendency to exaggeration—to exaggerated views. One must allow for that. I am sure she is not aware of it herself."

He changed the subject abruptly.

"Colin was with you at Midfell?"

"Yes, he wanted to finish the bust. It is said to be a success. He ought to become a famous sculptor some day."

"No question as to his having the gift. The doubt is, whether he has health to use it."

"Midfell suited him. He was well all the time."

"Because he was happy." Giles' glance added, "Because with 'you!'"

Phyllys kept silence, and in suppressed tones the other continued—

"He may have a career before him. He ought to have. But much depends on whether he marries the right wife. Sympathy in his work would mean to him—everything."

Did Giles wish her to marry Colin? Phyllys held herself in, and spoke with indifference.

"Do you think Colin likely to marry? I don't. Sculpture will always be first with him; and a wife shouldn't come second."

"Ah, you know only one side of him yet."

"I've seen pretty much!" she murmured.

But Giles paid no attention. He had made up his mind that something had to be said, and he went on in the same monotonous undertone—

"If he should wish to marry, there would be no difficulty as to means. He and Mrs. Keith talk as if he were a poor man, dependent on Art. It is not so, really. What belongs to me belongs to him. What is mine is his. I had a feeling that I should like to say this to you."

She made no remark, and he went on patiently, trying to explain—

"It is not merely that we were brought up together—that we have been brothers. It is more. Years ago I made up my mind that, whatever he should wish, if it were in my power to give, he should have it—even though it might cost me—might cost me—"

The hesitation, the suppressed suffering, told more than he knew, let slip what he meant to hide.

She kept her face turned away, and said gently—

"Yes, I see. I think it is quite beautiful of you."

"Not beautiful at all. You mistake my meaning. It is a matter of simple duty."

"For you—perhaps," she murmured. "But Colin would be wrong to let you."

"If you knew everything, you would not say so. I owe him all—more than I can ever pay."

They were nearing the house, and only a few seconds remained. Phyllys' heart beat fast; for now she saw, now she knew, that Giles loved her. But with the knowledge came a woman-like instinct to hold back, a rush of shy reserve. She would not too quickly betray herself. She wanted him to know that he was mistaken—that Colin never could, never would, be anything to her. But how could she say it? He saw only a lowered hat-brim.

"It's breakfast-time," she murmured, as they reached the door.

The hat-brim was slightly lifted, and he caught one tiny flash of blue from between curling lashes.

It meant—what did it mean? Giles stood motionless, white as chalk. A rush of new hope almost unmanned him.

"Phyllys—" his voice broke as on the day he had rescued her from the bog, and when he tried to say more, he could not.

She forgot herself, and looked wonderingly up, full at him.

Then he too saw, he too knew—and the strong man visibly shook.

The wonder in her eyes gave place to a tender concern.

"You will not—misunderstand," he faltered. "I had thought—if it were for Colin's happiness—"

She unconsciously shook her head.

"'He' has never given me to understand—but if it were so—A fancy of mine, no doubt." Giles was trying to shield Colin, while yet making sure. "It might have been right to give him the first chance—to—leave home myself—"

"Please 'don't!'" she whispered, and ran indoors.

Giles did not follow. He had to meet joy as he had met pain—alone.