Cousin Phillis | Page 7

at
five o'clock on Monday morning he'll be guiding his plough in the
Hope Farm yonder just as well as if he could neither read nor write. But
your dinner will be getting cold, gentlemen.'
So we went back to table. After a while, Mr Holdsworth broke the
silence:--'If I were you, Manning, I'd look up these relations of yours.
You can go and see what they're like while we re waiting for Dobson's
estimates, and I'll smoke a cigar in the garden meanwhile.'
'Thank you, sir. But I don't know them, and I don't think I want to know
them.'
'What did you ask all those questions for, then?' said he, looking
quickly up at me. He had no notion of doing or saying things without a
purpose. I did not answer, so he continued,--'Make up your mind, and
go off and see what this farmer-minister is like, and come back and tell
me--I should like to hear.'
I was so in the habit of yielding to his authority, or influence, that I
never thought of resisting, but went on my errand, though I remember
feeling as if I would rather have had my head cut off. The landlord,

who had evidently taken an interest in the event of our discussion in a
way that country landlords have, accompanied me to the house-door,
and gave me repeated directions, as if I was likely to miss my way in
two hundred yards. But I listened to him, for I was glad of the delay, to
screw up my courage for the effort of facing unknown people and
introducing myself. I went along the lane, I recollect, switching at all
the taller roadside weeds, till, after a turn or two, I found myself close
in front of the Hope Farm. There was a garden between the house and
the shady, grassy lane; I afterwards found that this garden was called
the court; perhaps because there was a low wall round it, with an iron
railing on the top of the wall, and two great gates between pillars
crowned with stone balls for a state entrance to the flagged path leading
up to the front door. It was not the habit of the place to go in either by
these great gates or by the front door; the gates, indeed, were locked, as
I found, though the door stood wide open. I had to go round by a
side-path lightly worn on a broad grassy way, which led past the
court-wall, past a horse-mount, half covered with stone-crop and the
little wild yellow fumitory, to another door--'the curate', as I found it
was termed by the master of the house, while the front door, 'handsome
and all for show', was termed the 'rector'. I knocked with my hand upon
the 'curate' door; a tall girl, about my own age, as I thought, came and
opened it, and stood there silent, waiting to know my errand. I see her
now--cousin Phillis. The westering sun shone full upon her, and made a
slanting stream of light into the room within. She was dressed in dark
blue cotton of some kind; up to her throat, down to her wrists, with a
little frill of the same wherever it touched her white skin. And such a
white skin as it was! I have never seen the like. She had light hair,
nearer yellow than any other colour. She looked me steadily in the face
with large, quiet eyes, wondering, but untroubled by the sight of a
stranger. I thought it odd that so old, so full-grown as she was, she
should wear a pinafore over her gown.
Before I had quite made up my mind what to say in reply to her mute
inquiry of what I wanted there, a woman's voice called out, 'Who is it,
Phillis? If it is any one for butter-milk send them round to the back
door.'

I thought I could rather speak to the owner of that voice than to the girl
before me; so I passed her, and stood at the entrance of a room hat in
hand, for this side-door opened straight into the hall or house-place
where the family sate when work was done. There was a brisk little
woman of forty or so ironing some huge muslin cravats under the light
of a long vine-shaded casement window. She looked at me distrustfully
till I began to speak. 'My name is Paul Manning,' said I; but I saw she
did not know the name. 'My mother's name was Moneypenny,' said
I,--'Margaret Moneypenny.'
'And she married one John Manning, of Birmingham,' said Mrs
Holman, eagerly.
'And you'll be her son. Sit down! I am right glad to see you. To think of
your being Margaret's son! Why, she was almost