"Neither more nor less," said Philip, quoting his mother's words, "but differently. Of course his love for a girl like Dorothy must differ from his love for young men like Hugh and me."
"But more than me?" she persisted.
"Perhaps," he admitted reluctantly, "perhaps. But what then? I have only to say I love you, and it will be all right. No, no. He would make no objection; he could not, when I say I have always regarded you as my future wife. Besides, it will be years before Dorothy will think of falling in love. She will grow up for Hugh, perhaps."
"She is not so much younger than me," said Phyllis in a petulant voice.
"Years younger; a child, a baby!" he went on; "not to be compared with you for a moment. But why do we talk of her? You cannot think that Dorothy could ever take your place with me, Phyllis? I cannot remember a time when you were not dearer to me than anyone else—except my mother."
"I cannot bear any exceptions," she said, pouting.
But Philip kept silence. Yes; Phyllis was all he could wish for, and would be a charming wife, with her little capricious ways, and in spite of slight uncertainties of temper. She always stirred within him a sense of life, sometimes of ruffled life, perhaps; but there was no stagnation of feeling in her companionship. But would she ever possess, and, by possessing, diffuse, the sense of great peace which his mother's presence gave to him? He knew there were times when if he could not go to her, and open his heart fully to her wise and tender scrutiny, his life would be crippled and incomplete, and he would be as a man who had lost his eyesight, or the use of his right hand. But it was not so with Phyllis. She could walk merrily beside him along smooth and sunny roads; but when the thorny path came, what would she do?
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE RECTOR'S TROUBLE.
It was quite true that Sidney loved Dorothy next to Margaret. From the first she had been more at ease with him than with anyone else. He had liked to have Phyllis about the house, with her pretty girlish ways, and ready to sparkle with delight if he brought some dress or trinket for her from town. But Phyllis had a father of her own; and her daughter-like smiles and kisses belonged of right to George, not to himself. There was no other man to whom Dorothy owed any demonstration of girlish tenderness and devotion, or who could have felt he was yielding an indulgence, when she watched for his return home, and ran to meet him, greeting him with the frank and innocent delight of a little daughter. Often she was waiting for him at the lodge, with two or three of her great mastiffs about her; and he would leave the carriage to walk up the avenue, listening to her bright and quaint chatter. For she was talkative to him, however silent she might be to Philip. She was growing prettier every day; Sidney found her as pretty as Phyllis herself, and far more natural. He declared to himself that she was as like Margaret when she was a girl as if she had been Margaret's own child. Only one drop was lacking to make his cup of happiness full, and that was to see Dorothy the wife of his eldest son. This keen desire made him more clear-sighted with regard to Phyllis. He could not imagine how he could have been so blind hitherto to the danger of letting so close an intimacy exist between her and Philip. When Phyllis was not at the Hall, Philip was sure to be at the Rectory. Dorothy's shyness with him made Phyllis more his companion. As Sidney began to notice them more closely, he detected an air of appropriation in Phyllis's manner toward Philip which disturbed him greatly. How long had this been going on? It was useless to call Margaret's attention to the matter, as she would look upon it from quite a different point of view from his own. But his son and heir must make a better match than with a poor clergyman's daughter. He must put a stop at once to any such love affair, if it existed.