Oh, the misery in my poor little daughter's face to-day at dinner--the misery, Paul! I thought you were one to be trusted--your father's son too, to go and put such thoughts into the child's mind; you two talking together about that man wishing to marry her.'
I could not help remembering the pinafore, the childish garment which Phillis wore so long, as if her parents were unaware of her progress towards womanhood. Just in the same way the minister spoke and thought of her now, as a child, whose innocent peace I had spoiled by vain and foolish talk.
I knew that the truth was different, though I could hardly have told it now; but, indeed, I never thought of trying to tell; it was far from my mind to add one iota to the sorrow which I had caused. The minister went on walking, occasionally stopping to move things on the table, or articles of furniture, in a sharp, impatient, meaningless way, then he began again,--'So young, so pure from the world! how could you go and talk to such a child, raising hopes, exciting feelings--all to end thus; and best so, even though I saw her poor piteous face look as it did. I can't forgive you, Paul; it was more than wrong--it was wicked--to go and repeat that man's words.'
His back was now to the door, and, in listening to his low angry tones, he did not hear it slowly open, nor did he see Phillis. standing just within the room, until he turned round; then he stood still. She must have been half undressed; but she had covered herself with a dark winter cloak, which fell in long folds to her white, naked, noiseless feet. Her face was strangely pale: her eyes heavy in the black circles round them. She came up to the table very slowly, and leant her hand upon it, saying mournfully,--'Father, you must not blame Paul. I could not help hearing a great deal of what you were saying. He did tell me, and perhaps it would have been wiser not, dear Paul! But--oh, dear! oh, dear! I am so sick with shame!
He told me out of his kind heart, because he saw--that I was so very unhappy at his going away.
She hung her head, and leant more heavily than before on her supporting hand.
'I don't understand,' said her father; but he was beginning to understand.
Phillis did not answer till he asked her again. I could have struck him now for his cruelty; but then I knew all.
'I loved him, father!' she said at length, raising her eyes to the minister's face. 'Had he ever spoken of love to you? Paul says not!'
'Never.' She let fall her eyes, and drooped more than ever. I almost thought she would fall.
'I could not have believed it,' said he, in a hard voice, yet sighing the moment he had spoken. A dead silence for a moment. 'Paul! I was unjust to you. You deserved blame, but not all that I said.' Then again a silence.
I thought I saw Phillis's white lips moving, but it might have been the flickering of the candlelight--a moth had flown in through the open casement, and was fluttering round the flame; I might have saved it, but I did not care to do so, my heart was too full of other things. At any rate, no sound was heard for long endless minutes. Then he said,--'Phillis! did we not make you happy here? Have we not loved you enough?'
She did not seem to understand the drift of this question; she looked up as if bewildered, and her beautiful eyes dilated with a painful, tortured expression. He went on, without noticing the look on her face; he did not see it, I am sure.
'And yet you would have left us, left your home, left your father and your mother, and gone away with this stranger, wandering over the world.'
He suffered, too; there were tones of pain in the voice in which he uttered this reproach. Probably the father and daughter were never so far apart in their lives, so unsympathetic. Yet some new terror came over her, and it was to him she turned for help. A shadow came over her face, and she tottered towards her father; falling down, her arms across his knees, and moaning out,--'Father, my head! my head!' and then slipped through his quick-enfolding arms, and lay on the ground at his feet.
I shall never forget his sudden look of agony while I live; never! We raised her up; her colour had strangely darkened; she was insensible. I ran through the back-kitchen to the yard pump, and brought back water.
The minister had her on his knees, her head against his breast, almost as though she were a sleeping child. He was trying to rise up with his poor precious burden, but the momentary terror had robbed the strong man of his strength, and he sank back in his chair with sobbing breath.
'She is not dead, Paul! is she?' he whispered, hoarse, as I came near him.
I, too, could not speak, but I pointed to the quivering of the muscles round her mouth. Just then cousin Holman, attracted by some unwonted sound, came down. I remember I was surprised at the time at her presence of mind, she seemed to know so much better what to do than the minister, in the midst of the sick affright which blanched her countenance, and made her tremble all over. I think now that it was the recollection of what had gone before; the miserable thought that possibly his words had brought on this attack, whatever it might be, that so unmanned the minister. We carried her upstairs, and while the women were putting her to bed, still unconscious, still slightly convulsed, I slipped out, and saddled one of the horses, and rode as fast as the heavy-trotting beast could go, to Hornby, to find the doctor there, and bring him back. He was out, might be detained the whole night. I remember saying, 'God help us all!' as I sate on my horse, under the window, through which the apprentice's head had appeared to answer my furious tugs at the night-bell. He was a good-natured fellow.
He said,--'He may be home in half an hour, there's no knowing; but I daresay he will. I'll send him out to the Hope Farm directly he comes in. It's that good-looking young woman, Holman's daughter, that's ill, isn't it?'
'Yes.'
'It would be a pity if she was to go. She's an only child, isn't she?
