"Oh, d.i.c.k is ever so nice," answered Phillis, enthusiastically; "not good enough for--" and then she stopped and broke her thread. "I am glad we are so fond of him," she continued, rather hurriedly, "because d.i.c.k is to be our real brother some day. He and Nan have cared for each other all their lives, and, though Mr. Mayne is dreadfully angry about it, they consider themselves as good as engaged, and mean to live down his opposition. They came to an understanding yesterday,"

finished Phillis, who was determined to bring it all out.

"Oh, indeed!" returned Archie: "that must be a great relief, I am sure. There is your little dog whining at the door; may I let him in?"

And, without waiting for an answer, Archie had darted out in pursuit of Laddie, but not before Phillis's swift upward glance had shown her a face that had grown perceptibly paler in the last few minutes.

"Oh, poor fellow! I was right!" thought Phillis, and the tears rushed to her eyes. "It was best to speak. I see that now; and he will get over it if he thinks no one knows it. How I wish I could help him! but it will never do to show the least sympathy: I have no right." And here Phillis sighed, and her gray eyes grew dark with pain for a moment. Archie was rather a long time absent; and then he came back with Laddie in his arms, and stood by the window.

"Your news has interested me very much," he said, and his voice was quite steady. "I suppose, as this--this engagement is not public, I had better not wish your sister joy, unless you do it for me."

"Oh, no; there is no need of that," returned Phillis, in a low voice.

"Mother might not like my mentioning it; but I thought you might wonder about d.i.c.k, and----" here Phillis got confused.

"Thank you," replied Archie, quietly; but now he looked at her. "You are very kind. Yes, it was best for me to know." And then, as Phillis rose and gave him her hand, for he had taken up his hat as he spoke, she read at once that her caution had been in vain,--that he had full understanding why the news had been told to him, and to him only, and that he was grateful to her for so telling him.

Poor Phillis! she had accomplished her task; and yet as the door closed behind the young clergyman, two or three tears fell on her work. He was not angry with her; on the contrary, he had thanked her, and the grasp of his hand had been as cordial as ever. But, in spite of the steadiness of his voice and look, the arrow had pierced between the joints of his armor. He might not be fatally wounded,--that was not in the girl's power to know; but that he was in some way hurt,--made miserable with a man's misery,--of this she was acutely sensible; and the strangest longing to comfort him--to tell him how much she admired his fort.i.tude--came over her, with a strong stinging pain that surprised her.

Archie had the longest walk that day that he had ever had in his life.

He came in quite f.a.gged and foot-sore to his dinner, and far too tired to eat. Mattie told him he looked ill and worn out; but, though he generally resented any such personal remarks, he merely told her very gently that he was tired, and that he would like a cup of coffee in his study, and not to be disturbed. And when she took in the coffee presently, she found him buried in the depths of his easy-chair, and evidently half asleep, and stole out of the room on tiptoe.

But his eyes opened very speedily as soon as the door closed upon her.

It was not sleep he wanted, but some moral strength to bear a pain that threatened to be unendurable. How had that girl read his secret?

Surely he had not betrayed himself! Nan had not discovered it, for her calmness and sweet unconsciousness had never varied in his presence.

Never for an instant had her changing color testified to the faintest uneasiness. He understood the reason of her reserve now. Her thoughts had been with this d.i.c.k; and here Archie groaned and hid his face.

Not mortally hurt, perhaps; but still the pain and the sense of loss were very bitter to this young man, who had felt for weeks past that his life was permeated by the sweetness and graciousness of Nan's presence. How lovely she had seemed to him,--the ideal girl of his dreams! It was love at first sight. He knew that now. His man's heart had been set on the hope of winning her, and now she was lost to him.

Never for one moment had she belonged to him, or could belong to him.

"He and Nan have cared for each other all their lives,"--that was what her sister had told him; and what remained but for him to stamp out this craze and fever before it mastered him and robbed him of his peace?

"I am not the only man who has had to suffer," thought Archie, as hours after he stumbled up to bed in the darkness. "At least, it makes it easier to know that no one shares my pain. These things are better battled out alone. I could not bear even Grace's sympathy in this."

And yet as Archie said this to himself, he recalled without any bitterness the half-tender, half pitying look in Phillis's eyes. "She was sorry for me. She saw it all; and it was kind of her to tell me,"

thought the young man.

He had no idea that Phillis was at that moment whispering little wistful prayers in the darkness that he might soon be comforted.

Who knows how many such prayers are flung out into the deep of G.o.d's mercy,--comfort for such a one whom we would fain comfort ourselves; feeble utterances and cries of pity; the stretching out of helpless hands, which nevertheless may bring down blessings? But so it shall be while men and women struggle and fall, and weep the tears common to humanity, "until all eyes are dried in the clear light of eternity, and the sorest heart shall then own the wisdom of the cross that had been laid upon them."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

"THIS IS LIFE AND DEATH TO ME."

Phillis found it difficult during the next few days to reconcile divided sympathies; a nice adjustment of conflicting feelings seemed almost impossible. Nan was so simply, so transparently happy, that no sister worthy of the name could refuse to rejoice with her: a creature so br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with gladness, with contented love, was certain to reflect heart-sunshine. On the other hand, there was Mr. Drummond! To be glad and sorry in a breath was as provoking to a feeling woman as the traveller's blowing hot and cold was to the satyr in the fable.

In trying to preserve an even balance Phillis became decidedly cross.

She was one who liked a clear temperature,--neither torrid nor frigid.

Too much susceptibility gave her an east-windy feeling; to be always at the fever-point of sympathy with one's fellow-creatures would not have suited her at all.

Nan, who possessed more sweetness of temper than keenness of psychological insight, could not understand what had come to Phillis.

She was absent, a trifle sad, and yet full of retort. At times she seemed to brim over with a wordy wisdom that made no sort of impression.

One evening, as they were retiring to bed, Nan beckoned her into her little room, and shut the door. Then she placed a seat invitingly by the open window, which was pleasantly framed by jasmine; and then she took hold of Phillis's shoulders in a persuasive manner.

"Now, dear," she said, coaxingly, "you shall just tell me all about it."

Phillis looked up, a little startled. Then, as she met Nan's gentle, penetrative glance, she presented a sudden blank of non-comprehension, most telling on such occasions, and yawned slightly.

"What do you mean, Nannie?" in a somewhat bored tone.

"Come, dear, tell me," continued Nan, with cheerful pertinacity. "You are never dull or touchy without some good reason. What has been the matter the last few days? Are you vexed or disappointed about anything? Are you sure--quite sure you are pleased about d.i.c.k?"--the idea occurring to her suddenly that Phillis might not approve of their imprudent engagement.

"Oh, Nannie, how absurd you are!" returned Phillis, pettishly. "Have I not told you a dozen times since Wednesday how delighted I am that you have come to an understanding? Have I not sounded his praises until I was hoa.r.s.e? Why, if I had been in love with d.i.c.k myself I could not have talked about him more."

"Yes, I know you have been very good, dear; but still I felt there was something."

"Oh, dear, no!" returned Phillis decidedly, and her voice was a little hard. "The fact is, you are in the seventh heaven yourself, and you expect us to be there too. Not that I wonder at you, Nannie, because d.i.c.k--dear old fellow--is ever so nice."

She threw in this last clause not without intention, and of course the tempting bait took at once.

"I never knew any one half so good," replied Nan, in a calmly satisfied tone. "You have hinted once or twice, Phil, that you thought him rather too young,--that our being the same age was a pity; but--do you know?--in d.i.c.k's case it does not matter in the least. No man double his age could have made his meaning more plain, or have spoken better to the purpose. He is so strong and self-reliant and manly: and with all his fun, he is so unselfish."

"He will make you a very good husband, Nan; I am sure of that."

"I think he will," returned Nan, with a far-away look in her eyes.

She was recalling d.i.c.k's speech about the nest that he wanted to make cosey for some one. "Phil, dear," she went on, after this blissful pause, "I wish you had a d.i.c.k too."

"Good Gracious, Nannie!"

"I mean--you know what I mean,--some one to whom you are first, and who has a right to care for you; it gives such a meaning to one's life. Of course it will come in time; no one can look at you and not prophesy a happy future: it is only I who am impatient and want it to come soon."

Phillis wrinkled her brows thoughtfully over this speech: she seemed inclined to digest and a.s.similate it.

"I dare say you are right," she replied, after a pause. "Yes it would be nice, no doubt."

"When the real _he_ comes, you will find how nice it is," rejoined Nan, with sympathetic readiness. "Do you know, Phil, the idea has once or twice occurred to me that Mr. Drummond comes rather often!" But here Phillis shook off her hand and started from her chair.

"There is a moth singing its wings. Poor wee beastie! let me save it, if it be not too late." And she chased the insect most patiently until the blue-gray wings fluttered into her hand.

"There, I have saved him from utter destruction!" she cried triumphantly, leaning out into the darkness. "He has scorched himself, that is all;" then as she walked back to her sister, her head was erect, and there was a beautiful earnest look upon her face.

"Nannie, I don't want to find fault with you, but don't you remember how we used to pride ourselves, in the dear old days, in not being like other girls,--the Paines, for example, or even Adelaide Sartoris, who used to gossip so much about young men."

Nan opened her eyes widely at this, but made no answer.

"We must not be different now, because our life is narrower and more monotonous. I know, talking so much over our work, we have terrible temptations to gossip; but I can't bear to think that we should ever lower our standard, ever degenerate into the feeble girlishness we abhor. We never used to talk about young men, Nan, except d.i.c.k; and that did not matter. Of course we liked them in their places, and had plenty of fun, and tormented them a little; but you never made such a speech as that at Glen Cottage."