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.”