CHAPTER XXI
Carrie—unconscious, sleepy Carrie—laid herself down to rest that night in her four-post bed, and slept the dreamless sleep of youth and health, till the morning light stealing through the curtains disturbed her a little, when she dreamt she was riding down Piccadilly in a coach and four with Philip Meadowes, and wakened with a laugh.
And all this night, that had passed so quickly for Carrie, a man was spurring along the miry roads towards London, bearing a letter that was big with fate for her; while at Fairmeadowes Phil tossed about, revolving something in his mind that did not seem to take shape very easily; and Richard Meadowes too lay sleepless till the dawn.
Three sleepless men, ‘all along of Carrie,’ as Phil had so vulgarly put it!
The cause of Phil’s sleeplessness was not far to seek, for, late that night, Peter had brought him a curious and disquieting piece of news.
‘The master hath sent George a-ridin’ express to town this night, sir,’ he had said, and then, in a whisper, ‘bearing a letter, sir, with the address “To Dr. Sebastian Shepley.” For George is no scholar, and came to me to read the direction, sir, and there it was, so sure as I do stand in my shoes.’
Phil, who was not without youthful affectations, pretended to receive this intelligence with great unconcern; but when Peter had gone he strode up and down the room in great agitation. Then he threw up the window, and leant out into the velvety spring darkness. Thoughts throbbed through his brain that the cool night air could do very little to calm.
‘By Heaven!’ he said, speaking out into the darkness, ‘he’ll not outwit me.’
So this was what his father’s sudden change of front had meant!—he wished to throw the blame upon Dr. Shepley if Carrie was taken away. Oh ho, that was very wily no doubt, ‘but not all the fathers in Britain shall outwit me,’ said the arrogant Philip, and began to revolve schemes in his busy, clever young head.
Towards morning he turned over on his pillow, and fell to sleep at last.
‘I can but try my luck,’ he murmured as his eyes closed.
The spring world was all a-dazzle with sunshine again after yesterday’s rain, when Carrie came down-stairs. I regret to say that she came down-stairs late, bidding the maid ‘not tell Lady Mallow’ with such a charming smile that the austere elderly woman fibbed profusely to her mistress a few minutes later. After breakfast, Carrie went out on to the lawn, and stood, in apparent irresolution, looking round her. She smiled to herself out of mere pleasure of heart, and strolled away down the steps to the terrace, following her errant fancies. From the terrace there was a wide view far over the country. Carrie stood still here, shaded her eyes from the brilliant sunshine, and gazed intently in the direction of Fairmeadowes.
Far away among the fields she saw some one walking by the river bank. Carrie was irresolute no longer. She did not stay to put on her hat and her gloves, nor stop to consider that she had not yet visited her aunt’s sick-room—no, she did none of these things, but ran off down the avenue, and, pushing through the hedge, walked with more sedateness across the fields. In the distance, now, she could hear a long clear whistle like a bird’s note. It came nearer and nearer, then Phil came up through the long, reedy, flowering grasses by the riverside, with both hands held out to her; his shining eyes seemed to speak for him.
‘I thought you were never coming, Carrie,’ he said, and took her hands in his.
Hitherto their relations had been strictly unsentimental, now they had suddenly become lovers; without a word of explanation they both acknowledged it.
‘Come and sit down, Carrie, I have all the world to say to you,’ said Phil, and he flung his arm round her as he spoke. To Carrie it seemed the most natural thing that Phil should be in love with her—she had known it indeed for ten days past—she was not the least surprised at it, but what did surprise her now was to find that she too was in love, and that it was so natural—she seemed to have loved Phil always. It was no astonishing thing to her that she should sit here with Phil’s arm round her, and hear him say all manner of things that only yesterday he would never have dreamed of saying. What did astonish her was that he had not said all this long ago! Why not yesterday? why not when they first met? Had they ever been strangers? Had they not understood each other always? It was ridiculous this sudden assumption of loverishness on Phil’s part; they had been lovers from long long ago!
And from these happy thoughts Carrie was rudely wakened by what Phil was saying. His voice was urgent, his looks were anxious; he was actually telling her a story, in rather incoherent words, about both their parents, and a woman and a fight, and she did not take it all in.
‘But what has all this to do with you and with me, Phil?’ she asked, raising her face to his.
Phil turned and shook her ever so lightly.
‘Oh, you dear dull darling that you are,’ he cried; ‘do you not see they will separate us?—take you away from me, Carrie—never allow you to see me again?’
‘But I could not live without you,’ said simple Carrie, unaware that the formula had been used before; it seemed quite an original argument to her.
‘Nor I without you, of course,’ cried Phil—quite as unoriginal, in spite of his quick wits (the poor and the rich in wits as in wealth meet together in some things), ‘and for that reason you won’t refuse me what I ask, Carrie—’tis the only plan—I’ve thought all the matter out, and unless you will do it, your father will be here to-night, and will carry you off to London, and you will never see my face again, as like as not.’
‘Well?’ asked Carrie dubiously.
‘You’ll run away with me, and marry me. ’Tis as easy as the alphabet if once we get to London.’
‘Oh, but my father,’ protested Carrie.
‘Well, it has come to this: you must choose betwixt him and me; he will never allow you to marry me if he knows.’
‘But ’tis so sudden, Phil!—if I had even a day to consider the matter.’
‘You have scarce an hour,’ said Phil; ‘by now your father has that letter, by another hour, if I mistake not, he will be on his way here; by the evening he will have arrived. You must come with me now, now, now—or——’
The unspoken alternative of separation struck coldly on Carrie’s ear. Yet another love, older, steadier, plucked at her heart—she was torn between the two.
‘Ah, Phil,’ she cried, ‘I cannot leave you, and I cannot grieve my father. What am I to do? O what a sad thing trouble is—I have never known it before!’
(I doubt if she ever had.)
Phil was not, perhaps, as diligent a Biblical student as he might have been, but his researches in that direction came to his aid at this moment.
‘Oh, you know, Carrie, there is Scripture for that,’ he said, ‘about “leaving father and mother and cleaving to your wife”—that’s the rule for men, and I dare swear it holds good for women too.’
‘Do you think so? But I would not grieve my father for the world,’ hesitated Carrie.
Phil grew impatient, for time was racing on, the sun was high in the heavens now.
‘You must—you must; can you bear to think of never seeing me again? I’d sooner miss the sun out of the sky than you, Carrie.’
Carrie seemed to herself to be whirled round and round in the eddies of Phil’s passion; she could not gainsay him, and yet she trembled and held back.
‘Yes—ah, yes—I would go to the world’s end with you, Phil,’ she said, ‘if it were not for fear to grieve my father.’ She rose and paced up and down the bank in an agony of indecision, clasping her hands together and then flinging them out with a gesture of helpless bewilderment. Never in life before had Carrie been called upon to make a decision of any importance, and now the two strongest affections of her heart warred together for the victory.
Phil came and paced beside her, arguing, beseeching, coaxing her by turns—till she turned at last in despair and laid her hands in his.
‘I will come with you,’ she said.
Phil did not allow the grass to grow under his feet.
‘Come then, so quickly as you can, Carrie,’ he cried, ‘for each moment is precious. I shall return to Fairmeadowes and tell them I am gone out for the day. You must go home and put on your habit, and get one of your good aunt’s horses.’
‘I am not permitted to ride alone,’ said Carrie, who saw lions in the way at every turn.
Phil laughed, and put his hand in his pocket. ‘Here, Carrie,’ he said, ‘give me your hand.’ Carrie all unsuspicious laid her hand in his.
‘That is what you must do to your aunt’s groom, my child; there never was groom yet but understood that argument,’ said Phil.
‘All this, Phil?’ said Carrie, as she eyed the yellow coin.
‘All that, and say, as you give it, that he must come to Wyntown for the horse at five o’ the clock.’
‘But he will wonder, Phil.’
‘Doubtless.—Oh, Carrie, but women waste time on trifles!’
Carrie was nettled by this remark, so she hastened off as fast as she could through the long meadow hay, determined that Phil should not find her so dilatory after all.
‘Meet me at the cross roads,’ Phil shouted, as he ran off in the direction of Fairmeadowes.