# The Divine Phyllidia

Extracted from Leslie's magazine, 1903-04, pp. 621–628. Illustration by O. Toaspern may be omitted.
THE DIVINE PHYLLIDIA
By JEFFERY FARNOL
With drawings by O. TOASPERN
THE Cherub drifted into my room one evening with a woe begone expression on his usually placid face, and sinking into the most comfortable arm-chair, sat staring moodily into the empty fireplace.
"Liver?" I inquired in response to a long-drawn sigh.
"Don't you think you might try to be a little less objectionable?" he said reproachfully. "You see," he continued after a pause, "when a fellow wants to—to screw himself up to the point, you know, how the dickens can he when the girl as good as tells him she hates him—er—like the very—"
"Exactly," I put in. "It's not to be done, my dear chap."
"No, I was afraid not," said the Cherub; "that's why I came to ask your advice."
"Certainly," I said encouragingly. "Suppose you begin at the right end and tell me all about it."
Forthwith he plunged into a rambling account of his hopes and fears, what she said on this occasion, what she did on that, ending with the usual fulsome panegyric on her person and attributes.
As becomes a true cynic, I sniggered.
"I thought you ought perhaps give me a 'leg-up' with the affair," he said gloomily.
"My good chap," I said, "this sort of thing doesn't suit you; it never did—give it up. Love," I continued, warming to my theme, "love is a disease, an insidious disease, and should be treated as such. What you require is merely a change of air. Go down to your country place and you'll come back cured in a month."
The Cherub looked at me with a malevolent eye
"I only hope you'll get it jolly hard when it comes to your turn, that's all."
"I shall immediately resort to medicine," I returned.
"Oh, it's easy enough for you to sit there and talk lightly of the matter, just because you never happen to have been hit, but I call it beastly low," and the Cherub ran his fingers through his curls with an air of such utter dejection that even my cynicism was not proof against it. I reached down a favorite pipe, filled and handed it to him.
"Now," I began when it was well alight, "how long have you been in this state?"
"About a mouth now," he replied in a tone of dreary pleasure. We smoked for a while in silence.
"Tried flowers?" I inquired at length.
"Flowers!" he repeated.
"Certainly; they are the usual medium to start with I believe."
"Well," he hesitated, "I gave her a rose once."
"M—yes; but did you stick it in her hair?"
The Cherub gasped. "Lord, no!" he exclaimed.
"Ah! you should have done so—in an off-hand, matter-of-fact, brotherly sort of a way, of course, but with a suggestion of hidden passion, you know—just to let her know you mean it."
The Cherub's speechless admiration flattered me.
"Gad! You seem pretty well up to all the moves, considering you pose as a—"
"My dear Cherub," I broke in. "I look on these things from a purely philosophical standpoint."
The Cherub became preternaturally thoughtful.
"Look here, Gip," he said suddenly, "you must tackle her for me—sort of lay the groundwork, talk me up to her, you understand. I fancy I could manage things then. It would be quite easy," he continued: "they are staying with mother at Down."
"They?" I inquired.
"She and her cousin. You and I might run over for a day or two—be quite a merry little party."
"House-parties are an abomination," I said.
The Cherub assented, and reached down a time-table.
"There's a train leaving in an hour," he suggested.
"Well?"
"If we catch that we shall be there in time for dinner." Now it is one thing to sit in one's own rooms and describe the right and proper way to carry so delicate a matter to a successful issue, but quite another to face the haughty She one's self. My mind was made up in an instant.
"Such an idea is not to be thought of," I said decidedly. The Cherub's smile was anything but cherubic.
"Meaning, that theory is one thing, and practice another."
"My good chap, don't be a fool," I said, "of course I'd stand by you in the affair, but unfortunately I've promised to go fishing with Pattison this week."
"Put him off,—Pat won't mind,—urgent business,—called out of town, etc., you know the style," beamed the Cherub, thrusting a sheet of note-paper before me.
I groaned inwardly, and took up the pan. I am not a weak man as a rule, but what could one do in the face of such determination? Thus while I lied to Pattison, the Cherub busied himself throwing things into my grip; as I sealed the note, he was in the act of ramming in a dress coat.
"Hurry up," he panted, "or we shall miss that train."
"Tooth-brush in?" I inquired.
"It can't go in here," he cried excitedly,—"no room," and with a mighty effort he closed the grip.
"But my dear chap," I remonstrated.
"All right, I'll make a parcel of the rest," he said buckling the straps feverishly.
Thus exactly fifty-eight minutes later we were facing each other, somewhat out of breath, in the express for Down.
"By the way, you're not much of a hand at parcels, are you?" I said glancing at the bulging, misshapen object in the rack.
"Oh, I fancy it will be all right," he said easily, and leaning back he puffed at his pipe with a dreamy expression that warned me what was coming. Presently he sighed.
"She's wonderful, old chap," he exclaimed.
"Since I'm in for it, you might tell me her name and have done with it," I said.
"I call her the Divine Phyllidia," he replied.
"Look here, Cherub, do you expect me to lie about you with any success to a girl with a name like that?"
He looked a trifle uncomfortable. "Well, you needn't pitch it too steep, and 1'll back you up you know Gip."
After this we traveled some time in silence.
"Yes," he said suddenly, "she's wonderful, with eyes, black my boy as a moonless night, that flash at you, man, beneath low brows crowned with misty hair."
I did not even attempt to hide my smile.
When in due time we arrived at Down, there was of course no conveyance to be had for miles round, and the Cherub, taking the paper parcel gingerly under his arm—I had, with an eye to possible future contingencies prudently secured the grip before hand—elected to show me a short cut.
"By the way," I said, "looks a trifle unwell, that parcel."
"Oh! it will hang together all right until we get there, it isn't far you know, this way." So saying, he led the way down a maze of narrow lanes, and after climbing grassy banks and squeezing through numerous fences, we found ourselves in a small wood. Here the Cherub suddenly stood still and swore,—the parcel had gone wrong.
"Just what I expected," I sighed, "and by-the-by, what did you do with my tooth-brush?"
"Tooth-brush be hanged," he cried, struggling desperately with the parcel, "come and help me with the confounded thing." But instead of complying, fancying I heard voices, I stole towards a clump of bushes, and stealthily peered round.
Within a few inches of mine was a face, so close that I might almost have kissed it,—a piquant face it was, warm with the rich coloring of scarlet mouth and raven hair, I started back.
"I beg your pardon," I began, and lifted my hat,—as I did so something leaped thence to the grass at my feet,—it was my errant tooth-brush. I trod upon it immediately, but too late, for I heard a half-suppressed laugh behind me, and turning, I saw another face peeping at me over a bush, and this time the hair was red gold, and the laughing eyes wonderfully blue. I was standing there with my foot on my tooth-brush, looking from one to the other helplessly, when the Cherub appeared. I fancy that he must have had a bad time with that parcel, for it was (illegible text) in several places, from one of (illegible text) dangled a white flannel trouser leg.
"Phyllidia!" he gasped, and, dropping the parcel stood staring. In a moment Phyllidia was down on her knees, and began setting it to rights.
"This is outrageously packed," she laughed, "and just look Kate, tied with two boot laces."
The Cherub looked apologetic, "You see," he began, but meeting the cousin's blue eyes stopped.
"We were in rather a hurry packing, and the Cherub's idea of a parcel is decidedly quaint," I put in.
"And pray, is it your custom to carry tooth-brushes in your hat?" she inquired, flashing a laughing glance up at me as with a few dexterous touches she transformed the Cherub's bundle into a really respectable-looking affair.
"As a matter of fact," I said as we followed the other two toward the house. "I have always found a toothbrush a source of worry and anxiety. I never travel anywhere but I begin to try and recollect if I packed it, and if so where, and, after turning my things over, generally end by finding it in my vest pocket or tobacco-pouch. I don't remember that I ever carried it in my hat before."
On the lawn beneath the cedars we came upon Mrs. Dymott, reading, her pince-nez, with its broad, black ribbon, balanced upon the extreme tip of her nose in that way which, in my schoolboy days, had always caused me to wonder how it managed to stick on. She rose to meet us with many expressions of pleased surprise, kissing us both resoundingly in her old, motherly way.
"How you've grown!" she remarked, patting me affectionately on the shoulder, "though, to be sure, I haven't seen you since you left Harvard."
"And he's degenerated into an awful cynic since then," put in the Cherub.
"And carries tooth-brushes in his hat!" added Phyllidia.
"Still your tooth-brush," laughed Mrs. Dymott. "Do you remember, when you were quite little, losing it in the stables?"
"And fighting the boy because you found him cleaning the silver with it?" put in the Cherub again.
"I had settled convictions on the rights of property, even in those days," I said as we entered the house.
So that is the girl I have come to win for the Cherub, I said to myself as a little later I followed him upstairs, and somehow the idea seemed singularly repulsive, and I felt unreasonably angry with him.
"Well," he inquired, as we dressed for dinner, "what do you think of Phyllidia?"
"Well," I began guardedly, "she is—"
"Magnificent," he broke in, "and her eyes—what do you think of her eyes now?"
"Black as a moonless night," I repeated, fixing my collar, "'that flash at you, man, from under low brows crowned with misty hair.'"
The Cherub glanced at me sheepishly and changed the subject.
"Cousin's rather nice," he ventured.
"Charming," I answered, arranging my tie. "You had better be prepared," I continued, after a pause. "I shall commence operations for you at dinner to-night," and somehow I found myself sighing heavily.
And yet I did not after all, for, sitting with her voice in my ears and an occasional glance into her black-fringed eyes, I forgot the Cherub's very existence.
As the days passed my promise became a grisly phantom, haunting me in all places, my sleep became broken, and when I met the cherub's eye by accident I felt a traitor, and though I argued that he was unworthy of her, that such a mind as hers would be wasted on him, my conscience refused to be quieted. True he had ceased to worry me lately concerning the progress I had made, but his very avoidance of the subject served but to add coals of fire. I determined, therefore, to have it over once and for all at the very next opportunity.
That evening, sitting in a quiet corner of the drawing-room, chance favored me.
"I've been wondering why you call Mr. Dymott the 'Cherub'?" she inquired, glancing to where he and Kate were turning over some music at the piano.
"Oh, he got that at college," I began. "You see he was such a contrast to himself, so to speak, his golden curls and blue eyes were so—so very cherubic, you know, and his general character was so—er—so—"
"And what did they call you?"
"They called me—'Gip'," I said, grateful for the interruption.
"Gip," she repeated, and her eyes belied her solemn mouth. "I have a dog named Gip, the dearest old fellow. I really believe that, in his own way, he loves me better than anybody else in the whole world."
I shook my head. "I doubt it," I began unwarily, "though to be sure," I continued more cautiously. "there is a strange affinity between men and some animals, especially dogs; for instance, now I—" In another moment, despite my stern self-repression, I really believe I should have said more than I ought, for as she sat there beside me looking at me out of those deep eyes of hers, so close that her skirts brushed my knee, I had an almost overmastering desire to relegate the Cherub to the deepest limbo, and my fingers itched to clasp the hand lying so near my own. but at that instant Kate began playing, and I pulled myself up in time.
"Well," she said, under cover of the music. with a look that was almost expectant in her eyes.
"For instance," I repeated, "if I were a dog, I believe I could get to—to—love the Cherub—in time."
The corner of her red mouth quivered suspiciously, and I felt that she was laughing at me.
"You see," I continued. hurriedly, "he's such a—a splendid fellow,—er, not bad looking I mean, any woman might—er—"
"Love him," she said softly. without looking up.
“Er—yes,—that is, I suppose so,—though some people object to fair men I believe, think them—er—unstable and all that, but of course the Cherub,—"
"Is perfection," she said, opening and shutting her fan.
"Certainly."
Kate was playing a soft, dreamy air, and as I sat, watching Phyllidia's half-averted face, a bitter feeling took possession of me. Why should I do this thing? I asked myself. Why should I trample thus on my own heart? What right had the Cherub—? My hand closed suddenly over hers, I felt her start, and for one delicious moment I looked into her eyes, and read there,—what? Then her lashes drooped, her fingers slipped from mine, and the knowledge of my presumptuous folly overwhelmed me.
“I once saw a fire," I began, desperately, "such a fire as few have ever witnessed. Standing in the pale-faced crowd. I watched the vain endeavors of the firemen. Suddenly, high up at one of the windows, I saw something that turned me faint and sick. It was a child. l closed my eyes. When I looked again, a fire escape had been run up and a fireman was trying to fight his way to that blazing window,—but without success. A great murmuring sigh went up to the blood red heavens, for that little helpless child. Suddenly, a tall figure, conspicuous in the fire-glow, began to ascend, climbing with strong, firm steps. A great silence fell upon all, broken only by the roar of the flames. Nearer he got and nearer, once his sleeve puffed out in flame, but still he climbed, while—er—strong men held their breath. Then came a wild roar of exultation: he had reached the window, snatched the trembling child, and as I watched a thousand arms were stretched to welcome him, unharmed, save for his hands, and,—" I ended, turning to my companion, who had listened with bent head, "the marks are there to this day?—it was the Cherub." Why I told her all this—heaven knows, no one could have been more surprised than myself at my imaginative powers; perhaps the music inspired it, perhaps the sense of the wrong I had so nearly committed.
The music stopped, and seeing the Cherub approaching, I rose and slipping out upon the lawn, leaned there, staring up at the moon with a sense of duty nobly done. Yet it had been a near thing, the touch of her fingers thrilled me even then.
Despite my philosophy, my heart was strangely heavy as I shut myself into my room that night.
Anyhow, I had kept my word, I told myself, but at what a cost. Looking at the matter in at colder light I began to wish I had not made him quite so heroic,—true it was cheap melodrama,—but then women like that sort of thing, I told myself, with a cynical laugh. Of course the Cherub was not worthy of her but, I shrugged my shoulders, she might think so, and after all how could it affect me?
So l went to bed, but not to sleep, and dawn found me tossing restlessly. I heard the first sleepy notes of a bird beneath my window. and presently up came the sun, and with it the determination came to me that I would not stop to see their happiness. I rose, and having packed up, slipped from my room, and opening a side door, stepped out into the cool freshness of the morning.
At the edge of the grove I came upon a fallen tree and sitting down I lighted my pipe, and listened to the merry carol of the birds about me.
And as the smoke rose in the still air, I seemed to see the face of Phyllidia peeping at me through the blue wreaths, full of mischief and laughter as I had seen it first.
A bush rustled beside me, and glancing up I beheld, no dream-face this time, but Phyllidia herself standing before me fresh as the morning; she carried her hat in her hand, and her lustrous hair was braided low on her temples.
"Phyllidia," I said, using the name unconsciously.
She greeted me with a studied ease.
"You are down very early," I said, wondering why she did not always dress her hair so.
"Oh, I'm fond of the early morning; but you—what brings you down at such an unusual hour?"
"Well, you see," I answered, "I'm going back to town by the early train."
She evinced no emotion at my sudden departure.
"Then I'm glad I happened to find you," she said lightly, "because I want to ask you why you told me all that about Mr. Dymott last night, about the fire and the little child. You must have known it was totally untrue."
"Untrue?" I repeated, trying to look hurt, "you surely don't think—"
"His hands are quite unmarked, except for one small scar, and that he told me he did years ago with a ginger-ale bottle, and he told me, besides, that he had never seen a big fire in his life."
I could joyfully have kicked the Cherub at that moment.
"Let me explain," I began, "but first please sit down."
"Well?" she said, seeing that I yet hesitated.
"Well, you see, I came down to help the Cherub with the—ah—with the—the affair," I stammered.
"'The affair!'" she repeated, with raised brows, "What affair?"
"Oh, the affair, to—er—to propose, you know."
"To propose?" she echoed.
"Yes; you see, fact is, he's got no idea how to manage these things, and so—er—so he got me to—to promise to lend him a hand, you know."
"And, of course, you succeeded?" she asked, after a pause.
"I'm afraid so," I said bitterly—"that's why I'm going. I can't stop to see your happiness."
She glanced swiftly up. "My happiness?" she exclaimed.
"Yours, and his," I added. "I couldn't bear it—just at present—so I'm going."
For a moment she looked at me as if scarcely comprehending, then turned suddenly away, and I saw her shoulders heaving. "After all," I thought, "I misjudged her; my going does affect her, then, and it is some consolation to have such a woman shed tears over one."
"You will think of me sometimes, Phyllidia, in my loneliness when—when you are happy?" I said, leaning above her bowed head. She did not answer, and leaning nearer, I saw her face—and Phyllidia was laughing. Yes, there was no doubt of it, she was actually laughing, and seeing she was discovered she cast aside all dissimulation.
"And that," she cried, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief—"that was why you told me that wonderful story of the fire. Oh! it's too funny—it really is," and she went off into another peal of laughter.
I felt distinctly hurt and annoyed.
"I am glad you see it in that light," I said stiffly, "but to me it is a—a tragedy."
She seemed somewhat ashamed, I thought, at least she kept her face hidden. Mechanically I took out my pipe and began filling it.
"As it is," I continued with an effort, "you have my sincerest wishes for your future happiness, though, of course, the Cherub can never appreciate you as—as—" I stopped suddenly.
"As Gip does," she ended, peeping at me over her handkerchief. The pipe dropped from my fingers and I seized her hands, handkerchief and all.
"Phyllidia.“
"I didn't say which Gip," she added, and the droop of her lashes was divine. Then, without another word. I bent forward and kissed her.
Some one approached whistling "Chin, Chin, Chinaman," with astonishing power and volume.
"Now what the dickens is he doing at this time of day?" I exclaimed, "confound him!"
Phyllidia smiled. "Kate told me he was to show her over the farm," she answered naïvely.
"Kate," I cried with a sense of sudden awakening, "Why, then—good heavens!"
"Exactly," said Phyllidia, "and now do let me go——please. I wouldn't let any one see me just now for worlds—please," she pleaded.
“On one condition," I began, but she eluded my arm dexterously and disappeared into the grove.
I turned to meet the Cherub with a sense of offended virtue at his perfidy and the thought of what I had endured on his account.
Catching sight of me, he immediately dodged and tried to hide behind the nearest hush. With pitiless irony I demanded to know if he had taken to birds'-nesting, and thereupon he came forth looking a trifle uncomfortable.
“You're down awfully early," he began, but I brushed this aside.
"I have spoken," I began.
The Cherub's discomfort grew painful to witness, and he shuffled from one foot to the other in the old way I remembered of him when in hot water at school.
"You mean—"
"To Phyllidia," I nodded sternly.
"Oh—er—really. that's awfully nice of you dontcherknow,—but I—I fancy I made a mistake."
"A mistake," I repeated.
"Yes, you see, fact is," he stammered, avoiding my eye, "I thought,—that is, I fancy I was—a trifle premature."
"You begged me to speak, and I've done so," I said, with a sensation of virtue beaming in the very buttons of my coat.
The Cherub appeared utterly abashed.
"Oh Lord," he groaned, "what an infernal mess. I meant to tell you,—to explain things, but you've dodged me lately, and—and—it's Kate you know."
I shrugged shoulders. "I promised to do it, and I've done it." I repeated.
"With a vengeance," he added bitterly, "what did she say?"
I took out my pipe and lighted it carefully, ere I answered.
"She gave me to understand that she would marry me."
The Cherub sprang forward and fairly hugged me in his delight.
"Good old Gip," he cried. “I congratulate—"
But I broke away from him, and presently found the Divine Phyllidia in the grove.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1952, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 71 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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