Archie had been persuaded to remain until the following evening, and to take the night mail up to London. “You know you always sleep so soundly in a railway-carriage,” his mother had said, with her eyes full of pleading.

“Perhaps so; but all the same it is dreary work to be shunted on to a platform in the middle of the night, and to have to find your way across London to catch a Sussex train.” But, in spite of his grumbling he had remained. For once it was difficult to tear himself away from that happy family party.

But all through that night he scarcely closed his eyes, but sat staring at the swinging-lamp and his drowsy fellow-passengers, or out into the blank wall of darkness, too wide awake and full of thought to lose himself in his usual placid slumbers. The fortunes of the Drummond family seemed rising a little, he thought, with pleasure. How alert and full of energy his father had seemed when he had parted from him at the station! he had lost that subdued despondent look that had grown on him of late. Even his shoulders were a little less bowed, as though the burden did not press quite so heavily.

“All this makes a great difference to me, Archie,” he had said, as they had walked to and fro on the platform. “Two such wealthy sons-in-law ought to satisfy any father’s ambition. I can hardly believe yet that my little Mattie—whom her sisters always called ‘the old maid’—should have secured such a prize. If it had been Grace, now, one need not have wondered so much.”

“You may leave Grace out of your reckoning,” returned Archie, smiling assent to this, “and consider you have three out of your seven daughters provided for, for Grace will always 363 be my care. Whatever happens in the future, I think I can promise as much as that.”

“Ay, ay! I remember when she was a little thing she always called herself Archie’s wife. Well, well, the mother must bring on Clara now: it would be a shame to separate you two. Look, there is your train, my boy! Jump in, and God bless you! You will come down to the wedding of course, and bring Grace.”

“Archie’s wife.” It was these two words that were keeping him so wide awake in the rushing darkness. A dusky flush mounted to the young man’s forehead as he pondered over them.

He knew himself better now. Only a few weeks, scarcely more than a fortnight, had passed since Grace had given him that hint; but each day since then had done the work of years. Caught at the rebound indeed, and that so securely and strongly that the man’s heart could never waver from its fixed purpose again.

Now it was that he wondered at his blindness; that he began to question with a perfect anguish of doubt whether he should be too late; whether his vacillation and that useless dream of his would hinder the fulfilment of what was now his dearest hope.

Would he ever bring her to believe that he had never really loved before,—not, at least, as he could love now? Would he ever dare to tell her so, when she had known and understood that first stray fancy of his for Nan’s sweet face?

Now, as day after day he visited the cottage and talked apart with her mother, his eyes would follow Phillis wistfully. Once the girl had looked up from her work and caught that long, watchful glance; and then she had grown suddenly very pale, and a pained expression crossed her face, as though she had been troubled.

Since that night when the young vicar had stood bare-headed on the snowy steps, and had told Phillis laughingly that one day she would find out for herself that all men were masterful, and she had run down the steps flashing back that disdainful look at him, he had felt there was a change in her manner to him.

They had been such good friends of late; it had become a habit with him to turn to Phillis when he wanted sympathy. A silent, scarcely perceptible understanding had seemed to draw them together; but in one moment, at a word, a mere light jest of his that meant nothing, the girl had become all at once reserved, frozen up, impenetrable even to friendship.

In vain he strove to win her back to her old merry talk. Her frank recklessness of speech seemed over for the present. In his presence she was almost always silent,—not with any awkwardness of embarrassment, but with a certain maidenly reserve of bearing, as though she had marked out a particular line of conduct for herself. 364

When Grace was in the room, things were better: Phillis could not be otherwise than affectionate to her chosen friend. And when they were alone together, all Phillis’s bright playfulness seemed to return; but nothing would induce her to cross the threshold of the vicarage.

The evening after his return from Leeds, Archie, as usual, dropped in at the Friary; but this time he brought Grace with him. They were all gathered in the work-room, which had now become their favorite resort. On some pretext or other, the lamp had not been brought in; but they were all sitting round the fire, chatting in an idle desultory way.

Phillis was half hidden behind her mother’s chair: perhaps this was the reason why her voice had its old merry chord. She had welcomed Archie rather gravely,—hardly turning her face to him as she spoke; but as soon as she was in her corner again, she took up the thread of their talk in her usual frank way. But it was Grace that she addressed.

“Poor dear Harry! We have all been laughing a little at the notion of Alcides being in love. Somehow, it seems so droll that Mattie should turn out his Deianeira; but, after all, I think he has shown very good sense in his choice. Mattie will wear well.”

“You seem to agree with the ‘Vicar of Wakefield,’ Miss Challoner,” observed Archie, rather amused at this temperate praise. “Did not that excellent man choose his wife for the same reason that she choose her wedding-dress, with a view to durability?”

“Oh, there is a vast amount of wisdom in all that,” returned Phillis, with mock solemnity; for she did not mind what nonsense she talked in the darkness. “If life had nothing but fair-weather days, it might be excusable for a man to choose his wife for mere beauty; but when one thinks of fogs and east-winds, and smoky chimneys, and all such minor evils, they may need something a little more sustaining than a pink complexion. At least,” catching herself up, and hurrying on as though the real meaning of her words only just occurred to her, “though Mattie may not be beautiful outwardly, she is just the right sort of person for a regular east-windy day. Not even a smoky chimney and a fog together will put her out of temper.”

“I will recollect your advice when the time comes,” replied Archie rather audaciously at this, as he laughed and stroked his beard.

It pleased him to see the old fun brimming over again, fresh and sparkling; but, as he answered her in the same vein of pleasantry, she colored up in her dark corner and shrank back into herself, and all the rest of the evening he could hardly win a smile from her.

“My dear, I think Mr. Drummond comes very often,” Mrs. Challoner said to her eldest daughter that night. “He is very gentlemanly, and a most excellent young man: but I begin to 365 be afraid what these visits mean.” But Nan only laughed at this.

“Poor mother!” she said, stroking her face. “Don’t you wish you had us all safe at Glen Cottage again? There are so few young men at Oldfield.”

“I cannot bear young men,” was the somewhat irritable answer. “What is the use of having children, when just when they grow up to be a comfort to you, every one tries to deprive you of them? Dick has robbed me of you,”—and here Mrs. Challoner grew tearful,—“and Dulce is always with the Middletons; and I am not at all sure that Captain Middleton is not beginning to admire her.”

“Neither am I,” observed Nan, a little gravely; for, though they seldom talked of such things among themselves, “son Hammond’s” attentions were decidedly conspicuous, and Dulce was looking as shy and pretty as possible.

No; she could not give her mother any comfort there, for the solemn-faced young officer was clearly bent on mischief. Indeed, both father and son were making much of the little girl. But as regarded Mr. Drummond there could be no question of his intentions. The growing earnestness, the long wistful looks, were not lost on Nan who knew all such signs by experience. It was easy to understand the young vicar: it was Phillis who baffled her.

They had never had any secrets between them. From their very childhood, Nan had shared Phillis’s every thought. But once or twice when she had tried to approach the subject in the gentlest manner, Phillis had started away like a restive colt, and had answered her almost with sharpness:

“Nonsense, Nannie! What is it to me if Mr. Drummond comes a dozen times a day?” arching her long neck in the proudest way, but her throat contracting a little over the uttered falsehood; for she knew, none better, what these visits were to her. “Do you think I should take the trouble to investigate his motives? Don’t you know, Nan,” in her sweet whimsical voice, “that the masculine mind loves to conjugate the verb ‘to amuse’? Mr. Drummond is evidently bored by his own company; but there! the vagaries of men are innumerable. One might as well question the ebbing tide as inquire of these young divinities the reason of all their eccentric actions. He comes because we amuse him, and we like to see him because he amuses us: and when he bores us, we can tell him so, which is better than Canute and the waves, after all.” And of course, after this, Nan was compelled to drop the subject.

But she watched Phillis anxiously; for she saw that the girl was restless and ill at ease. The thoughtful gray eyes had a shadow in them. The bright spirits were quenched, and only kindled by a great effort; and, as the time for their leaving the Friary grew closer day by day, until the last week approached, she flagged more, and the shadow grew deeper. 366

“If he would only speak and end all this suspense!” thought Nan, who knew nothing of the real state of things, and imagined that Mr. Drummond had cared for Phillis from the first.

They had already commenced their packing. Sir Harry was back in his hotel, solacing himself with his cousin’s company, and writing brief letters to his homely little bride-elect, when one fine afternoon he met them and Grace just starting for the shore.

This was their programme on most afternoons, and of course they had not gone far before Captain Middleton and his father and sister joined them; and a little later on, just as they were entering the town, they overtook Mr. Drummond.

Phillis nodded to him in a friendly manner, and then walked on with Grace, taking no further notice; but when they were on the shore, admiring the fine sunset effect, Grace quietly dropped her arm and slipped away to join the others. Phillis stood motionless: her eyes were riveted on the grand expanse of sky and ocean. “It is so like life,” she said at last, not seeing who stood beside her, while all the others were walking on in groups of twos and threes, Dulce close to the colonel, as usual. “Do you see those little boats, Grace? one is sailing so smoothly in the sunlight, and the other scarcely stirring in the shadow,—brightness to some, you see, and shade to others; and beyond, that clear line of light, like the promise of eternity.”

“Don’t you think it lies within most people’s power to make their own lives happier?” returned Archie so quietly to this that she scarcely started. “The sunshine and shade are more evenly balanced than we know. To be sure, there are some lives like that day that is neither clear nor dark,—gray, monotonous lives, with few breaks and pleasures in them. But perhaps even that question may be happily solved when one looks out a little farther to the light beyond.”

“Yes, if one does not grow tired of waiting for the answer,” she said, a little dreamily. “There is so much that cannot be clear here.” And then she roused with a little difficulty from her abstraction, and looked around her. The others had all gone on: they were standing alone on the shingly beach, just above a little strip of yellow sand,—only they two. Was it for this reason that her eyes grew wide and troubled, and she moved away rather hurriedly? But he still kept close to her, talking quietly as he did so.

“Do you remember this place?” he said: “it reminds me of a picture I once saw. I think it was ‘Atalanta’s Race,’ only there was no Paris. It was just such as scene as this: there was the dark breakwater, and the long line of surf breaking on the shore, and the sun was shining on the water; and there was a girl running with her head erect, and she scarcely seemed to touch the ground, and she stopped just here,” resting his hand on the black, shiny timber. 367

“Do not,” she answered, in a low voice, “do not recall that day: it stings me even now to remember it.” And as the words “Bravo Atalanta!” recurred to her memory, the hot blush of shame mounted to her face.

“I have no need to recall it,” he returned, still more quietly, for her discomposure was great, “for I have never forgotten it. Yes, this is the place, not where I first saw you, but where I first began to know you. Phillis, that knowledge is becoming everything to me now!”

“Do not,” she said, again, but she could hardly bring out the words. But how wonderful it was to hear her name pronounced like that! “The others have gone on: we must join them.”

“May I not tell you what I think about you first?” he asked, very gently.

“Not now,—not yet,” she almost whispered; and now he saw that she was very pale, and her eyes were full of tears. “I could not bear it yet.” And then, as she moved farther away from him, he could see how great was her agitation.

It was a proof of his love and earnestness that he suffered the girl to leave him in this way, that he did not again rejoin her until they were close to the others. In spite of his impatience and his many faults, he was generous enough to understand her without another word. She had not repelled him; she had not silenced him entirely; she had not listened to him and then answered him with scorn. On the contrary, her manner had been soft and subdued, more winning than he had ever known it; and yet she had refused to hearken to his suit. “Not now,—not yet,” she had said, and he could see that her lip quivered, and her beautiful eyes were full of tears. It was too soon, that was what she meant; too soon for him to speak and for her to listen. She owed it to her own dignity that his affection should be put to greater proof than that. She must not be so lightly won; she must not stoop down from her maidenly pride and nobleness at his first words because she had grown to care for him. “It must not be so, however much the denial may cost me,” Phillis had said to herself. But as she joined the others, and came to Nan’s side, she could scarcely steady her voice or raise her eyes, for fear their shy consciousness would betray her. “At last,” and “at last!”—that was the refrain that was ringing so joyously in her heart. Well, and one day he should tell her what he would.

She thought she had silenced him entirely, but she forgot that men were masterful and had cunning ways of their own to compass their ends. Archie had recovered his courage; he had still a word to say, and he meant to say it; and just before the close of the walk, as they were in the darkest part of the Braidwood Road, just where the trees meet overhead, before one reaches the vicarage, Phillis found him again at her side.

“When may I hope that you will listen?” he said. “I am 368 not a patient man: you must remember that, and not make it too hard for me. I should wish to know how soon I may come.”

“Spring is very beautiful in the country,” she answered, almost too confused by this unexpected address to know what she was saying. “I think May is my favorite month, when the hawthorns are out.”

“Thank you, I will come in May.” And then Phillis woke up to the perception of what she had said. “Oh, no, I did not meant that,” she began, incoherently; but this time it was Archie who moved away, with a smile on his face and a certain vivid brightness in his eyes, and her stammered words were lost in the darkness.

The whole week was much occupied by paying farewell visits. On the last afternoon Phillis went down to the White House to say good-bye. It was one of Magdalene’s bad days; but the unquiet hour had passed, and left her, as usual, weak and subdued. Her husband was sitting beside her: as Phillis entered he rose with a smile on his lips. “That is right, Miss Challoner!” he said, heartily. “Magdalene always looks better the moment she hears your voice. Barby is unfortunately out, but I can leave her happily with you.”

“Is he not good?” exclaimed his wife, as soon as he had left them. “He has been sitting with me all the afternoon, my poor Herbert, trying to curb his restlessness, because he knows how much worse I am without him. Am I not a trying wife to him? and yet he says he could not do without me. There, it has passed: let us talk of something else. And so you are going to leave us?” drawing the fresh face down to hers, that she might kiss it again.

“Yes, to-morrow!” trying to stifle a sigh.

“There are some of us that will not know what to do without you. If I am not very much mistaken, there is one person who––” but here the girl laid her hand hurriedly on her lips. “What! I am not to say that? Well, I will try to be good. But all the same this is not good-bye. Tell your mother from me that she will not have her girls for long. Captain Middleton has lost his heart, and is bent on making that pretty little sister of yours lose hers to; and as for you, Phillis––” but here Phillis stooped, and silenced her this time by a kiss.

“Ah, well!” continued Magdalene, after a moment’s silence, as she looked tenderly into the fair face before her; “so you have finished your little bit of play-work, and are going back into your young-ladyhood again?”

“It was not play-work!” returned Phillis, indignantly: “you say that to provoke me. Do you know,” she went on, earnestly, “that if we should have had to work all our lives as dressmakers, Nan and I would have done it, and never given in. We were making quite a fine business of it. We had more orders then we could execute; and you call that play? Confess, now, that you repent of that phrase!” 369

“Oh, I was only teasing you,” returned Magdalene, smiling. “I know how brave you were, and how terribly in earnest. Yes, Phillis, you are right; nothing would have daunted you; you would have worked without complaint all your life long, but for that red-haired Alcides of yours.”

“Dear Harry! how much we owe to him!” exclaimed Phillis.

“No, dear, you will owe your happiness to yourself,—the happiness,” as the girl looked at her in surprise, “that is coming to you and Dulce. It was because you were not like other girls—because you were brave, self-reliant gentlewomen, afraid of nothing but dishonor; not fearful of small indignities, or of other people’s opinions, but just taking up the work that lay to your hands, and going through with it—that you have won his heart: and, seeing this, how could he help loving you as he does?” But to this Phillis made no answer.

The next day was rather trying to them all. Phillis’s cheerfulness was a little forced, and for some time after they had left the Friary—with Grace and Archie waving their farewells from the road—she was very silent.

But no sooner had they crossed the threshold of Glen Cottage than their girlhood asserted itself. The sight of the bright snug rooms, with their new furniture, the conservatory, with its floral treasures, and Sir Harry’s cheery welcome, as he stood in the porch with Mrs. Mayne, was too much even for Phillis’s equanimity. In a few minutes their laughing faces were peering out of every window and into every cupboard.

“Oh, the dear, beautiful home! Isn’t it lovely of Harry to bring us back!” cried Phillis, oblivious of everything at that moment but her mother’s satisfied face.

In a few days they had settled down into their old life. It was too early for tennis while snowdrops and crocuses were peeping out of the garden borders. But in the afternoon friends dropped in in the old way, and gathered round the Challoner tea-table; and very soon—for Easter fell early that year—Dick showed himself among them, and then, indeed, Nan’s cup of happiness was full.

But as April passed on Phillis began to grow a little silent again; and it became a habit with her to coax Laddie to take long walks with her, when Nan and Dulce were otherwise engaged. The exercise seemed to quiet her restlessness; and the spring sights and sounds, the budding hedgerows, and the twittering of the birds as they built their nests, and the fresh leafy green, unsoiled by summer heat and dust, seemed to refresh her flagging spirits.

It was the 1st of May, when one afternoon she called to Laddie, who was lying drowsily in the sunny porch. Nan, who was busily engaged in training the creeper round the pillars of the veranda, looked up in a little surprise:

“Are you going out again, Phil? And neither Dulce nor I 370 can come with you. Mrs. Mayne has some friends coming to five-o’clock tea, and she wants us to go over for an hour. It is so dull for you, dear, always to walk alone.”

“Oh no; I shall not be dull, Nannie,” returned Phillis, with an unsteady smile, for her spirits were a little fluctuating that afternoon. “I am restless, and want a good walk: so I shall just go to Sandy Lane, and be back in time to make tea for mother.” And then she waved her hand, and whistled to Laddie as she unlatched the little gate. It was a long walk. But, as usual, the quiet and the sweet air refreshed her, and by the time she reached Sandy Lane her eyes were brilliant with exercise, and a pretty pink tinge of color was in her cheeks. It is May-day,—the 1st of May. I wonder how soon he will come, she thought, as she leaned on the little gate where poor Dick had leaned that day.

There were footsteps approaching, but they made no sound over the sandy ruts. A tall man, with a fair beard and a clerical felt hat, was walking quickly up the road that leads from Oldfield; and as he walked his eyes were scanning the path before him, as though he were looking for some one. At the sight of the girl leaning against the gate his face brightened, and he slackened his steps a little, that he might not startle her. She was looking out across the country with a far-off, dreamy expression, and did not turn her head as he approached. It was Laddie who saw him first, and jumped up with a joyous bark to welcome him; and then she looked round, and for a moment her eyes grew wide and misty, for she thought it was a continuation of her dream.

“Laddie saw me first,” he said, stepping up quietly to her side,—for he still feared to startle her,—and his voice was very gentle. “Phillis, you must not look so surprised! Surely you expected me? It is the 1st of May!”

“Oh, I knew that,” she said; and then she turned away from him. But he had not dropped her hand, but was holding it very quietly and firmly. “But I could not tell the day; and––”

“Did you think I should wait an hour beyond the time you fixed?” he answered, very calmly. “May is your favorite month; and what could be more beautiful than May-day for the purpose I have in hand! Phillis, you will not go back from your promise now? You said you would listen to me in May.”

There was no answer to this; but, as Archie looked in her face, he read no repulse there. And so, in that quiet lane, with Laddie lying at their feet, he told all he had to tell.

“Are you sure you can trust me now, Phillis?” he asked, rather wistfully, when he had finished. “You know what I am, dear—a man with many faults.”

“Yes; now and forever,” she answered, without a moment’s hesitation. “I am not afraid—I never should have been afraid to trust you, I have faults of my own: so why should I wish 371 you to be perfect? I care for you as you are; you will believe that?” for there was almost a sad humility in his face as he pleaded with her that went to her heart.

“Oh, yes; I believe what you tell me. You are truth itself, my darling,—the bravest and truest woman I have ever met. You do not know how happy you have made me, or how different my life will be when I have you by my side. Phillis, do you know how glad Grace will be about this?”

“Will she?” returned Phillis, shyly. They were walking homeward now, hand in hand toward the sunset,—so, at least, it seemed to the girl. No one was in sight, only the quiet country round them bathed in the evening light, and they two alone. “Archie!” she exclaimed, suddenly, and her beautiful eyes grew wistful all at once, “you will not let this make any difference to Grace? She loves you so; and you are all she has at present. You must never let me stand between you two. I am not so selfish as that.”

“You could not be selfish if you tried, dearest. How I wish Grace could have heard you! No; you are right. We must not let her suffer from our happiness. But, Phillis, you know who must come first now.” And then, as she smiled in full understanding, he put her hand upon his arm, and held it there. His promised wife,—Archie’s wife! Ah, the Drummond star was rising now in earnest! His life lay before him, like the road they were now entering, white and untrodden and bathed in the sunlight. What if some clouds should come, and some shadows fall, if they might tread it together to the end? And so, growing silent with happiness, they walked home through the sunset, till the spring dusk and the village lights saw them standing together on the threshold of Glen Cottage, and the dear faces and loving voices of home closed around them and bade them welcome.

THE END