Experimental Rig Design

Laura had heard with dismay that Sidney was bringing a rich young ward to live at Apley. But when Phyllis brought a report of Dorothy, after taking tea with her and Margaret alone, accurately describing her appearance and mimicking her manner, Laura's mind was set very much at ease. A timid and awkward country girl was not likely to supplant Phyllis with Philip or his parents. Both Sidney and Margaret took great pleasure in Phyllis's attractiveness; and Laura had made them feel that it was in a great measure due to her constant intercourse with themselves. She only hoped that Dorothy would not be too homely and unpolished to reconcile one of her own boys to marry her for her fortune. A girl with a quarter of a million as her portion set close to her own doors, almost in her own hands, excited Laura's imagination. How admirably she would do for Dick! But it would not do to let Dick know that he must woo her for her quarter of a million. This would be a far more difficult affair than Philip and Phyllis had been, and would require her most adroit management. George on her side, and Margaret on the other side, would not give Dorothy's fortune a thought; it would not appear any advantage to either of them to secure possession of this large sum of money. But Laura was shrewd enough to know that Sidney would be anxious to retain it in his own hands, and no way could be surer than making the heiress the wife of one of his sons. Hugh would not be too young; he was the same age as Dorothy, and she was as young and ignorant as a girl of twelve.

But it seemed impossible to get hold of Dorothy. She was shy, silent, and diffident, and clung, as Laura thought, very foolishly to Margaret. There was a speedy and startling transformation in her appearance as soon as Margaret could procure suitable dresses for her, and have her abundant, soft, dark hair arranged becomingly. Margaret saw no religion in slovenly or peculiar dress; and she took pleasure in seeing everything and every person appear at their best. Dorothy hardly recognized herself in a week's time; and the change in her own appearance fitting her for her surroundings made her feel more quickly at home; but she was very shy with Phyllis and her mother. Neither of them could become intimate with the quiet, retiring girl. Dorothy, like most girls, was more afraid of Phyllis than of anyone else; the very grace of her manner, conventional rather than natural, made her shrink within herself, and feel awkward and homely.

But there was no such feeling in Margaret's benign presence. The neglected girl's nature opened and unfolded under her influence like a flower in the sunlight. There was a strong sympathy between them on religious points. Dorothy had had no training except that of a constant and simple study of the Bible. Her father had allowed her but few books out of his large library, but those he had given to her

she knew almost by heart. She was studying diligently now under Margaret's direction, with the aid of teachers who came down from London to give her lessons. This education of Dorothy had an intense charm for Margaret; there had been nothing like it in Phyllis's training, which had naturally been left in her mother's hands. It was a never flagging delight to watch the girl growing day by day more intelligent and more beautiful in her presence; blossoming out into smiles, and caresses, and half timid merriment. It sent a thrill of pathetic pleasure to Margaret's heart when she heard Dorothy's first laugh.

"How much you think of Dorothy!" said Sidney to her one evening some months later, as they sat together on the terrace with Philip beside them.

"I cannot tell you how dear she is to me," answered Margaret.

"But not more than Phyllis—not as much as Phyllis?" said Philip jealously.

"Not more or less," she replied, "but differently. Dorothy is more like my own child. Phyllis has her father and mother; Dorothy has no one nearer to her than me. She has never been cared for before, and she returns my care with the simplest love."

"But Phyllis loves you as much as this child can do," persisted Philip.

"Not much more a child than Phyllis," said his father; "she is not two years younger."

"But she is only a schoolgirl," put in Philip, "a mere child compared with Phyllis. Still if she is in love with you and my mother I can overlook all her defects."

"Phyllis is not in love with me," replied Margaret, laughing, "and I admit that makes a difference.

We are blind to the faults of those who are in love with us. 'It is not granted to man to love and to be wise,' I suppose. But don't be afraid, my dear boy. I shall not love Phyllis less because I love Dorothy. We do not carve our hearts into slices, and give piece after piece away till there is nothing left. Rather every true love makes all our other love deeper."

"That is true, Margaret," said Sidney. "I have loved God and man more and better since I loved you."

He spoke earnestly, and in the agitated tone of deep feeling. Life was very full to him just then;

and he felt day by day that he was greatly favored by the God he worshiped. His heart expanded with a vivid glow of religious gratitude. What more was there that he could desire? His lot was prosperous and happy beyond that of any man's he knew. Sidney was apt to look at himself through other men's eyes. If he looked at himself as a rich man it was through the eyes of City men, who spoke to one another of him as one of the most successful men in the City. As a religious man he looked at himself through the eyes of Margaret and the rector, who seemed satisfied that he was truly a Christian like themselves. It would, then, have been a crying ingratitude if he had not loved God, who was crowning him with blessings, and man, whose general lot was less prosperous than his own.

There was only one more success to desire and to achieve, and that Margaret was unconsciously doing her utmost to attain for him. He must secure Dorothy and her large fortune for Philip.

"Philip," he said, "I see Dorothy yonder under the cedars. Go and tell her I am come home, and have brought something for her."

Sidney watched her and Philip with pleased eyes as they returned side by side along the terrace.

She was still a slight, childish-looking girl; but there was no affectation of childish graces in her. She looked up into Philip's face with a shy, half smiling admiration, which had a peculiar attractiveness in it. Philip was conscious of this for the first time, and saw a new beauty, or rather a promise of beauty, in the dark eyes and the quaint, smiling face lifted up to him. Her eyes had a depth in them he had not observed before; and even the nervous interlacing of her fingers, as she ventured to talk to him, did not seem so awkward a trick as it did when he first saw her. Phyllis had never been shy with him; and the shyness of a pretty girl has a wonderful charm. Not that he could compare her with Phyllis for a moment. He was carrying the book she had been reading under the cedars, and looking into it he saw that it was the "Pensées de Pascal" done into English.

"Do you like this book?" he asked in some surprise.

"Very much," she answered.

"But do you understand it?" he asked again.

"Not all," she said; "you see, I cannot read it in French. But when I don't understand I ask Mrs.

Martin. She lets me read with her two hours every day," she added, with a light in her eyes, and a tone of gladness in her low voice.

He wished it had been Phyllis who had read with his mother two hours a day. But Phyllis was too much of a butterfly to apply herself to anything for two hours at a time; and solid reading like this would be impossible to her. He was afraid that his father and mother both preferred Dorothy to his destined wife; and a disquieting shadow crossed his hitherto cloudless future as he saw the pleasure with which Sidney watched their approach.

Philip felt that there was a sort of disloyalty in thus thinking of Phyllis in comparison with any other girl; and as soon as he had found a chair for Dorothy, he strolled away, hastening his steps when he was out of sight of the terrace as he crossed the park to the Rectory grounds. There had been a clerical meeting at the Rectory, which had kept Phyllis at home with her mother. But now he caught sight of her standing on the other side of a sunk fence, which separated the garden from the park; and it seemed to Philip as if she felt she was being supplanted in the house which had always been a second home to her. He leaped lightly across the barrier and hastened to her side. As she looked up to him tears were glittering in her eyes.

"What is it, Phyllis?" he asked tenderly.

"You have not been to see me all day," she said in her most plaintive tones, "and it makes me sad.

How could I ever bear to lose you, Philip! You and I have been more to one another than any of the others; haven't we? I was thinking just then how we used to play together when we were quite little creatures. Do you remember?"

"I never forget it, Phyllis," he answered; "you have belonged to me as long as I can recollect.

How can you imagine you could ever lose me?"

"I am afraid of it sometimes," she whispered, with a sob that pierced him to the heart.

"My darling!" he cried, "that could never be! never! You used to be my little wife when we were children, and you will be my real wife as soon as I am old enough to marry. I suppose we are very young yet, my Phyllis; too young. We must wait at least till I come of age——"

"But I'm afraid of Dorothy," she said, with another sob. "My mother says your father is making up his mind you shall marry her, and your mother is just wrapped up in her. She cares very little for me now, and Dorothy is all the world to her."

"No, no!" he exclaimed, "my mother is not changeable; she loves you as much as ever. Of course Dorothy takes up a good deal of her time, for the poor child has been taught nothing. You cannot be jealous of her, Phyllis. Only think of all you are, and all you know, and compare yourself with a little untrained, awkward girl like Dorothy. Why, there is not a maid in our house who has not been taught more."

"But how fond your father is of her!" said Phyllis.

"And how fond she is of him!" replied Philip, laughing; "she has neither eyes nor ears for anyone else when he is by, except my mother. And she drinks in all he says upon every topic as if she understood it. I suppose she does in some measure, for she has some brains in that little head of hers.

But no man could resist such sweet flattery; and I believe he loves her next to my mother."

"More than you boys?" suggested Phyllis.

"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.