MARION SPEAKS HER MIND
"And truth is this to me, and that to thee."--_Idylls of the King_.
"One that would neither misreport nor lie
Not to gain paradise."--_Queen Mary_.
TENNYSON
Philippa was sensible of a certain relief when the post brought no
reply to her letter to Marion. To say that she was dreading her
friend's answer would be over-stating the case, for the girl's present
frame of mind was far too exalted, too ecstatic, to admit of anything
so sobering as dread; but she could not help knowing that Marion would
entirely fail to understand her actions or the motives which prompted
them, and would be mystified and unhappy about her.
She had not the happy faculty which some people have of putting their
thoughts on paper, lucidly and clearly, and the letter had not been an
easy one to write. She had honestly tried to be frank, but when it
came to writing of her love, words seemed so bald, so inadequate, that
after several efforts she had given it up in despair, and merely stated
simple facts. And yet she would have liked Marion to know all. It
would have added to her happiness to have known that her friend
sympathised and shared in it.
She never for a moment considered the possibility of an answer in
person, and she was, in consequence, taken entirely by surprise when,
on the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Heathcote walked into the hall
where she was sitting.
Philippa sprang to her feet. "Oh," she cried, "I never thought you
would be able to come. How delightful!"
Marion returned her kiss warmly. "I felt I must see you," she said
affectionately, "and I was able to leave Dickie for a little while."
"How is he?"
"Getting gradually stronger."
"Is your husband here?"
"No, he stopped with the boy; we could not both come away. I can only
stay a short time. Will you come into the morning-room and let us have
a talk there, where we shall be undisturbed?"
"You got my letter?" asked Philippa.
"Yes, that is why I came," answered Marion gravely. "Will you tell me
all about it, dear?"
For answer Philippa flung her arms about her and held her close. There
was something so comforting, so dear about Marion, that at the sight of
her a flood of recollection flashed through the girl's mind of
unnumbered kindnesses and loving counsel in the old days, a thousand
links in the chain which bound them in friendship, and yet--now--how
was she to make her understand?
Marion, with all the genius for loving-kindness which she undoubtedly
possessed, held certain rigid and unwavering opinions. They were a
part of her; without them she would not have been Marion--the Marion
Philippa loved--and it was just her perfectly sane, normal outlook on
life which made the stumbling-block, for it was not easy to her to take
another person's point of view, or look, as it were, through another
person's eyes.
And Marion herself, holding the girl tightly in all affection, and
stroking the dark head with a tender touch, felt a sudden helplessness.
This was not the Philippa she had expected to see. She had read her
letter with the utmost surprise, not to say consternation, and,
womanlike, had read into the simple communication a very great deal
that had not been in it at all.
That Philippa should feel affection for the man whom she had come to
know under such extraordinary circumstances she could well believe; it
was entirely in keeping with her estimate of the girl's character, and
she had, in fact, said as much to her husband from the first.
"Philippa will love any one who wants her badly enough," she had said.
"It is simply her loving heart and her pity that lead her into it."
But that she should think of marriage was almost unbelievable; it could
not be allowed.
She had imagined Philippa composed, even happy--indeed the girl had
said as much when she wrote--uplifted by a sense of heroism which was
possibly quite unconscious--ready to take a course to which her
sympathy and her compassion impelled her, without any thought of what
the consequences might be, so far as she herself was concerned.
As she, Marion, well knew, the bodily weakness of a man can be in
itself a great attraction to a certain type of woman, and no doubt Phil
had been carried off her feet by his very need of her--blinded by her
emotions so that she could not see that they were misleading her, to
say the least of it. And instead of this, she found a Philippa
radiant, palpitating, blissful, with eyes that shone with gladness
through a veil of dreams.
It was so utterly unexpected that it cut the ground of all her
carefully prepared arguments away from underneath her feet. She drew
Philippa to a couch and they sat down side by side.
There was silence for a while, and then the girl began recounting in a
low voice the steps which one by one had led her to the present moment.
She did not find it easy. It was hard to forget that under Marion's
kind and grave attention there must be, for all her love, the little
barrier raised by the dissentient voice of her conscience. It had been
much easier to be quite frank with Isabella, whose love for Francis
swept aside every scruple, every obstacle, but with Marion it was
different. It was not that she could not understand the power of love,
or was incapable of sacrificing herself on love's altar; she was
essentially a woman who knew love at its very best and strongest, and
who would at any time have laid down her life for the beloved; but
there was another thing more precious to her than life, and that was
righteousness. She had in her some of the stuff of which martyrs were
made, and she would have torn her heart out by the roots sooner than
have stepped into happiness over the grave of a principle. And to her,
at any rate, it was clear that in this case a very precious principle
was being violated, for the whole matter hung upon a deception. Truth
was right, and untruth was wrong, and her whole heart was bent upon
bringing Philippa to a correct vision of right.
"My dearest," she said, as Philippa ceased speaking, "you say that he
is better and stronger now. Well, then, tell him the truth."
"I cannot do that," replied the girl firmly. "It would only make him
very unhappy, even if he were strong enough to bear it."
"It might make him unhappy just for the time," rejoined Marion quickly.
"But surely, oh, surely that would be better than the greater
unhappiness of knowing you have deceived him. For he must find out.
You cannot possibly guard him against enlightenment. Why, any day when
he is able to go out he might meet some one who would make some remark
quite by chance which would betray you. He needs you, he is to a
certain extent dependent on you; once he knew he would--in a little
while if not at once--turn to you for comfort."
"I love him too much to hurt him."
"I believe you love him, and I am sorry."
"Why are you sorry?"
"Because this love must bring you pain; but believe me, dearest
Philippa, for his sake it would be kinder to tell him."
"I cannot see it," answered the girl rather hotly. "He is absolutely
happy, absolutely contented. He knows I love him. The fact that he
has made a mistake hurts nobody."
"There can be no blessing on a love which is not based on truth," said
Marion gently.
"You speak as if I were defrauding some one. There is no one else to
be considered. Phil is dead and gone, and the whole matter rests
between him and me."
"You are defrauding him and you are defrauding yourself of the highest
and best part of love, and what love should mean--confidence and trust!
Philippa, let me tell him. Let me tell him, and explain your pity
which misled you and which grew into love for him."
"Oh no, no!" cried the girl quickly. "It is out of the question. It
would be wicked--cruel!"
"I think I had better tell him," repeated Marion persuasively.
Philippa thought a moment. "If you do he would not believe you," she
said, with a little note of triumph in her voice. "I should not be
afraid. Of course it is quite impossible to think of such a thing on
account of the distress it would cause him. He would only be afraid it
was part of the old trouble--that he was dreaming or delirious. He
would never believe you."
Marion recognised the truth in this, and withdrew from that line of
attack. She thought for a moment of asking Philippa what her mother's
opinion would be, but on reflection decided not to mention Lady Lawson.
Her intuition told her that she would hardly be the person to consider
ethics, and would probably be quite willing that her daughter should
follow her inclinations, always provided that the social and financial
position of the man she wished to marry left nothing to be desired.
Philippa rose from her seat and took two or three steps across the
room; then she turned and faced her friend.
"I cannot tell you, dear, how sorry I am that you and I should differ
over this. But nothing you can say will make me alter my mind. I am
absolutely positive that what I am doing is best for Francis, and I
only wish I could make you think so too. Do you imagine that I would
do anything that was not for his good--I who love him so much? Of
course I wouldn't. I would not have promised to marry him if I had not
cared for him. I could not have done such a thing. It would have been
a dreadful position, and I can't bear to think of what it would have
meant. But after all there is no reason to think of it now. I love
him and I will be his most loving wife. My every thought shall be
devoted to him and to taking care of him. I only wish you could see
him. Perhaps then you would understand. But it is not possible. It
is most important that he should not be worried or disturbed, and if he
saw you he might worry because he did not remember you. I know there
will be difficulties, but I am confident they can be overcome. We
shall be married very quietly in a month or six weeks' time. I haven't
written to my mother about it yet, but, of course, I will do so when it
is definitely settled. Then I shall take Francis abroad to some quiet,
sunny place, where he will not be in the least likely to see any one he
knew before his illness. The doctor says that will be the best thing
for him."
"I blame Dr. Gale very much," interrupted Marion.
"I don't think you need," rejoined Philippa with a little smile, "the
poor man is quite penitent enough already. And, indeed, although he
had something to do with it at first, he has nothing to do with it now.
He took much the same line as you do when it came to the question of
marriage, but I explained to him that it was my affair, and no one
else's. Marion, it is not as if I was a child. I am of an age to
decide for myself. And, of course, the doctor was only thinking of me.
He knows well enough that it is the best possible thing for Francis.
Don't look so dreadfully unhappy!" she said in a lighter tone, for
Marion's pretty round face was flushed and drawn and her eyes were full
of tears. "Dear," she added affectionately, "if you knew how happy I
was, I think you would rejoice, and not be so full of dismal
forebodings. I love him and he loves me, and nothing else matters."
Marion's face paled. It was an effort to speak the words which had
been on her lips for some moments, for to her it seemed that they must
deal Philippa a blow which she would thankfully have spared her, a blow
which must surely dissolve the girl's castle of dreams into dust. But
she did not flinch.
"He does not love you," she said sternly.
Philippa started; then she gave a low laugh of content.
"Ah," she said with a tender smile, "you do not know--how should
you?--how great a love he has for me."
"He does not love you. It is not you he loves," continued Marion
relentlessly. "Oh, my dear! my dear! can you not see your mistake? It
is you who do not understand. His love is not for you. Every word of
love he speaks, every bit of the love in his heart belongs to another
woman. He does not think of you. You are not in it at all, or if you
are, you are only a supplanter taking what is not meant for you."
Marion was crying openly now, the tears coursing unheeded down her
cheeks, but Philippa did not notice them. She did not seem to have
heard, she was gazing out of the window, intent only on her thoughts,
and from the expression on her face those thoughts were very tender,
very sweet. And in the little pause that followed, Marion laid down
her weapons, knowing they were useless. Her last shot had failed, and
there was nothing in her armoury that would pierce the armour of the
girl's conviction. She had no power to forbid. After all, Philippa
was not a child, but a woman grown.
She dried her eyes rather surreptitiously, and then got up and crossed
to where her friend was standing, and put her arm through hers.
"I won't say any more," she said huskily, "because I don't think it is
any use, and although we can't agree, which distresses me infinitely,
our disagreement is not going to divide us. Nothing can hurt our
friendship." In her heart she was already seeking to comfort Philippa
for the pain which she was certain must come, but the girl knew nothing
of that.
Philippa stooped and kissed her without speaking.
"Dickie is getting better every day," Marion went on. "Of course we
shall have to be careful of him for a long time, but I quite hope we
shall be home in a fortnight or three weeks. I shall be glad to be
here. I do not think you ought to be alone--without any woman with
you, I mean. It has been too unfortunate."
"I have made friends with Isabella Vernon," said Philippa. "Looking
back, it seems incredible that the time has been so short--so much has
happened. I seem to have known her for years."
"Who is Isabella Vernon?" asked Marion in surprise.
Philippa explained, and for a moment a hope shot through Marion's mind
that this woman might succeed where she had failed.
"What does she think of it all?" she asked rather nervously.
"She entirely agrees with me, because--you see--she has loved Francis
all her life, and she only thinks of him."
Marion sighed with disappointment. If that was the case any appeal for
interference from that quarter was useless.
"She would come if I wanted her," continued Philippa, "and I see her
fairly constantly." And with that Marion was forced to be content.
As she journeyed back again that evening her thoughts hovered anxiously
between her child in his weakness and her friend in her mistaken
contentment. If only it were possible to divide herself, she thought
piteously, between these two who both needed her so much! But, after
all, did Philippa need her? Not consciously, certainly, and yet Marion
told herself miserably that things would never have tangled themselves
into this knot if she had been at Bessacre. She could not leave
Dickie, for even his father could not satisfy him for any length of
time. It was his mother he clung to in the weariness of convalescence,
and it was out of the question to move him yet.
There was nothing to do but to let things take their course. For a
moment she had an idea of sending her husband home, but after all what
could Bill do? There was not much chance of his being able to persuade
Philippa where she had failed, and, indeed, Bill had already made one
effort in that direction, and was by no means over-anxious to undertake
a second attempt to stem the torrent of a woman's will.