CHAPTER V
Next morning brought Phyl a letter. It came by the early post, so that shegot it in her bedroom before coming down.
Phyl had few correspondents and she looked at the envelope curiouslybefore opening it.
"Miss Berknowles, at Vernons. Charleston."
ran the address written in a large, boyish, yet individual hand. She knewat once and by instinct whom it was from.
"I'm coming to Charleston in a day or two, and I want to see you," ran theletter which had neither address nor date, "but I'm not coming toPinckneys. I'll be about town and sure to find you somewhere. I can't getyou out of my mind since last night. Tried to, but can't."
That was all. Phyl put the letter back in its envelope. She was not angry,she was disturbed. There was an assurance about Silas Grangerson dauntingin its simplicity and directness. Something that raised opposition to himin her heart, yet paralysed it. Instinct told her to avoid him, to drivehim from her mind, ay and something more than instinct. The spirit ofVernons, the calm sweet soul of the place, that seemed to hold the pastand the present, Juliet and herself, peace and happiness with the promiseof all good things in the future, this spirit rose up against SilasGrangerson as though he were the antagonist to happiness and peace, Julietand herself, the present and the past.
Rose up, without prevailing entirely.
Silas had impressed himself upon her mind in such a manner that she couldnot free herself from the impression. Young as she was, with the terriblyclear perception of the male character which all women possess indifferent degrees, she recognised that Silas was dangerous to that logicaland equitable state of existence we call happiness, not on account of hiswildness or his eccentricities, but because of some want inherent in hisnature, something that spoke vaguely in his words and his actions, in hishandsome face and in his careless and graceful manner.
All the same she could not free herself from the impression he had madeupon her, she could not drive him from her mind, he had in some wayparalysed her volition, called forces to his aid from some unknown part ofher nature, perhaps with those kisses which she still felt upon the veryface of her soul.
She came down to breakfast, and afterwards finding herself alone with MissPinckney, she took Silas's letter from her pocket and handed it to her.She had been debating in her own mind all breakfast time as to whether sheought to show the letter; the struggle had been between her instinct to dothe right thing, and a powerful antagonism to this instinct which was anew thing in her.
The latter won.
And then, lo and behold, when she found herself alone with Miss Pinckneyin the sunlit breakfast room, almost against her will and just as thoughher hand had moved of its own volition, she put it in her pocket andproduced the letter.
Miss Pinckney read it.
"Well, of all the crazy creatures!" said she. "Why, he has only met youonce. He's mad! No, he isn't--he's a Grangerson. I know them."
She stopped short and re-read the letter, turned it about and then laid itdown.
"Just as if he'd known you for years. And you scarcely spoke to him. Didhe _say_ anything to you as if he cared for you?"
"No, he didn't," said Phyl quite truthfully.
"Did he look at you as if he cared for you?"
"No," replied the other, dreading another question. But Miss Pinckney didnot put it. She could not conceive a man kissing a girl who had neverbetrayed his feelings for her by word or glance.
"Well, it gets me. It does indeed; acting like a dumb creature and thenwriting this-- Do you care for _him_?"
"I--I--no--you see, I don't know him--much."
"Well, he seems to know you pretty well, there's no doubt about one thing,Silas Grangerson can make up his mind pretty quick. He won't come toVernons, won't he? Well, maybe it's better for him not, for I've nopatience with oddities. That's what's wrong with him, he's an oddity, andit's those sort of people make the trouble in life--they're worse thanwhisky and cards for bringing unhappiness. Years and years and yearsago--I'm telling you this though I've never told it to any one else--SethGrangerson, Silas's father, seemed to care for me, not much, still heseemed to care. Then one day all at once he came into the room where Iwas, through the window, and told me to come off and get married to him,wanted me to go away right off. I was a fool in those days, but not all afool, and when he tried to put his arm round my waist, my hand went up andsmacked his face.
"We are good enough friends now, but I've often thought of what I escapedby not marrying him. You saw him and the life he's leading at that out ofthe way place, but you didn't see his obstinacy and his queerness, andSilas is ten times worse, more crazy--well, there, you're warned--but mindyou I don't want to be meddling. I've seen so many carefully preparedmarriages turn out pure miseries, and so many crazy matches turn outhappily, that I'm more than cautious in giving advice. Seems to me thatpeople before they are married are quite different creatures to what theyturn out after they are married."
"But I don't want to get married," said Phyl.
"No, but, seems to me, Silas does," replied the other.