For some considerable time past, the plastic heart of Philippa had been
undergoing its periodical regeneration. It now yearned in all sincerity
for the domestic life. Nigel’s devotion was so beautiful; his attitude
of reverential adoration was so supremely right and touching. It was
the forever profoundly necessary and inevitable attitude of the eternal
man towards the eternal woman. At this time she thought and talked much
about the sacred name of “wife.” So intense was her conviction that
the true meaning of life lay in the sacramental view of marriage, that
Robert and his claims sank into the background of her consciousness.
In her heart, which she pictured as a sort of solemn temple of purity,
Nigel was radiantly enthroned. Robert and his salary were but the steps
to the altar, necessary steps, for her eager feet were still shackled
by the weight of debts; by still more embarrassing encumbrances
belonging to the old life, when she still sat in darkness, and knew
not the light. For this reason, though Philippa strove to look upon her
obligation as a penitential discipline, it was still necessary to be
“nice to Robert.” As yet she could not afford to break to him, however
sorrowfully, that their paths must in future diverge; hers towards the
stars, and his--well, in fact, wherever he pleased. She was no longer
particularly interested in Robert’s path. It had ceased to concern
her. It was, however, of him she was thinking as she walked towards
Westminster one morning, on her way to her secretarial duties.
Poor Robert! But he had been very disappointing. In him she had not
found the satisfaction of those higher intellectual and spiritual needs
for which chiefly, of course, she had joined her life--for a certain
time--with his. In brooding over this regrettable fact, Philippa
honestly lost sight, for the moment, of any tangible advantage which
her friendship with him continued to involve. Her impulse was to sever
the connection at once. Then the memory of pressing money difficulties
brought her back with a shock to actualities, and the realization that
with however generous a sum coming in every quarter, it would take many
months of plain living and rigorous saving to free herself--for Nigel.
There was nothing for it, then. She must stifle aspirations, quiet the
beating of her wings, and continue to draw her salary. She sighed.
Robert was becoming very trying. His fortnight’s holiday had been a
great relief to her. It had enabled her, for one thing, to see a great
deal of Nigel, and thus to strengthen and confirm her new attitude
towards “life at its worthiest,” as she now expressed her emotions
concerning her future union with the poet.
This was the first morning after Robert’s return; it was in obedience
to a note received from him the preceding evening that she was now on
her way to Westminster to resume duties and to assume emotions which
had become alike distasteful. She wondered why she had ever thought
Robert charming. He bored her terribly now. She did not know which
bored her most, his fits of gloomy depression about his work, or his
increasingly rare fits of devotion to herself. That she welcomed even
while she dreaded, the knowledge that Robert’s passion for her was
decreasing, was a significant measure of her boredom. His infatuation
was passing; and she rejoiced, for this would make the break with him
easier. But it must not go too soon--not till, well--not till she was
free--for Nigel.
A church clock struck half-past ten, and she quickened her pace. She
was late, and it would not do to put Robert into a bad temper. His
note had been more affectionate than usual, the effect of absence, she
supposed, and she resigned herself to the thought of a love scene.
She wondered whether he would talk about Cecily. Lately he had begun
to talk about his wife, whose name had at first never been mentioned
between them. From his irritable remarks Philippa had for some time
gathered that, as with unaccustomed bluntness she put it to herself, he
was beginning to be jealous, and she wondered a little idly if, “when
things were over,” he and Cecily would be reunited. The matter did not
interest her greatly. Women were not very interesting to Philippa, and
her thoughts soon diverged to the consideration that she had a trying
morning before her, and that it was above all things necessary to keep
her temper. Naturally, Philippa’s temper was not very good, but in
proud humility she had often controlled it lately “for Nigel’s sake.”
The thought was a great stay and consolation. She was glad to discover
what might be endured with the sustaining inspiration of a really
noble love.
Robert was pacing the study when she entered, and she went towards him
with outstretched hands. He glanced at the clock.
“You were in no great hurry,” he said, coldly.
“Robert!” There was hurt, but tender reproach in her voice. “Your clock
is fast. I didn’t like to come before the time. I thought it might
seem----” She hesitated, as though confused.
“You’ve been quite on the safe side.”
“Robert, dear!”--she put her hands on his shoulders, and looked into
his eyes--“aren’t you going to kiss me?”
He put his lips to hers, and Philippa reflected that she might have
been married five or six years. She felt at the same time relieved and
impatient.
“Did you have a nice holiday?” she asked, taking off her hat. “It
doesn’t seem to have done you much good.” The last words were tinged
with a shade of acrimony as she glanced at him.
There were ugly lines about his face, and Philippa recalled with
satisfaction Nevern’s handsome profile. Robert was growing very
unattractive.
“I’ve been sleeping so badly,” he complained.
“Well, what shall I do first?” was Philippa’s comment as she seated
herself at her own writing-table in the window.
Robert moved to his desk, and stood fidgeting with a paper-knife before
he answered.
“So you don’t want to know anything about it?” he burst out at last.
“What I’ve been doing? Who was there? Anything, in fact.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “My dear Robert, any one would think you’d
been round the world, instead of a fortnight on the river.”
“You’d have been anxious enough a year ago,” he returned, bitterly.
She made an impatient exclamation. “How unreasonable you are! I come
in, longing to see you, and hear all about it, and you’re as cross as
two sticks. And now----”
In moments of irritation Philippa evinced a growing tendency to drop
into the colloquial, but the obvious justice of her remark appealed to
Robert.
“You’re quite right,” he said, penitently. “I’m unbearable.” He leaned
over the back of her chair, and drawing her head to him kissed her on
the forehead.
Philippa pulled herself together mentally and smiled.
“Give me the letters to write first,” she said, “and then you can
dictate.”
Robert went back to his desk and the morning’s work began. For some
time the click of the typewriter went on without interruption. Then
Philippa turned.
“What am I to say about this letter of Mr. Nevern’s?” she asked in a
casual tone.
Robert frowned at the name.
“What’s it about? I forget.”
“He encloses a poem, and asks your opinion upon it.”
“He’d be sorry if I gave it,” returned Robert, with a laugh.
Philippa waited in silence.
“Is that what I’m to say?” she inquired at last in a voice that
expressed nothing.
“Don’t be silly. Just write the usual note, of course. I’m much
struck by the grace and charm of his verses, and so forth. And don’t
mention the _Literary Review_, which is, of course, what he
wants mentioned. That’s the worst of having influence. One’s badgered
incessantly by a lot of incompetent fools.”
Philippa’s machine was at once set in motion. In a few minutes she had
written two notes. Two or three minutes later the postman’s knock
was heard, and Robert went out into the hall to get the letters. He
returned with two or three, and stood opening them by the chimney-piece.
Presently he gave a short, angry laugh.
“What’s that?” asked Philippa, without turning.
“Oh, nothing. Only a letter from Barker. He’s returning that last
story.” He crumpled up the envelope and threw it savagely into the fire.
“_The Survivor_?” asked Philippa, without much enthusiasm.
“Yes.” Robert was still glancing through the letter with worried,
angry eyes; presently he began to read snatches from it. “‘Too thin!
... interest not maintained ... scarcely up to the standard’--Rot!” He
dashed the letter down onto his desk. “What _do_ they want?”
“I’ve finished the letter,” remarked Philippa, after a silence.
For a moment Robert regarded the back of her head without speaking.
“You should try not to be so effusively sympathetic, Philippa,” he said
at last, sarcastically.
She turned her head and looked at him with a calmly provoking gaze.
“My dear Robert, if I were effusive over every one of your returned
manuscripts, I should be a wreck by this time. I thought you didn’t
care for popular success?”
“It isn’t that,” he ejaculated, too worried and depressed to heed her
tone. “I’m doing bad work. It’s no use to pretend I’m not.” He threw
himself moodily into a chair as he spoke.
“Then how do you account for the returned manuscripts?”
“Not the right sort of badness, I suppose,” he answered, with an
attempt at a laugh.
“Can’t you ask your wife for the recipe?” she inquired, letting herself
go now, with a sort of savage pleasure in her own foolishness.
Robert threw up his head sharply. “I thought we’d agreed to leave my
wife’s name out of our discussions.” And then, as though the words were
wrung from him, “What you say hasn’t even the merit of being true,” he
added. “Her work is good.”
Philippa’s eyes grew even colder.
“What a pity I’m deficient in the literary sense,” she remarked.
“I begin to think it’s not the only sense in which you are deficient,
Philippa,” he returned, with growing anger.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Really? Is politeness one of them, by any
chance? If so, we ought to exercise mutual forbearance.”
“I was not thinking of politeness. Decency was what I meant.”
She looked at him stonily. “Please explain yourself.”
“You seem to take a great pleasure in this man Nevern’s society. At
Lady Wilmot’s party, the evening before I went away----”
“Is that why you went away?” she asked.
There was a moment’s pause. “No,” said Robert, and knew he spoke the
truth.
She glanced at him inquiringly, but the moment’s check to the
conversation sobered her. Counsels of prudence began to prevail.
“Oh, Robert!” she sighed. “You don’t know how it hurts and surprises me
to find this in you. When you talk so, you put yourself on a level with
vulgar, chattering women like Lady Wilmot and Mrs. Carruthers, who are
always discussing your matrimonial affairs.”
Despite her effort at conciliation, the last remark was forced from
Philippa almost despite herself. She flung the missile, scarcely
knowing whether it would prove explosive, and with some curiosity
awaited results.
“What do they say?” demanded Robert, breathlessly.
For a moment she hesitated. “Mr. Mayne’s name is always mentioned, of
course,” she said at last, with a swift glance. “But what _does_
it matter, Robert?”
“Damned lot of gossips!” he exclaimed, below his breath.
Instantly Philippa became a prey to conflicting emotions. “My dear
Robert! You are surely not jealous of both of us? Or are you, perhaps?”
“Who spoke of being jealous?” demanded Robert.
“You did,” she retorted.
“Merely because I object to your making these very pronounced
friendships?”
“Aren’t you confusing me with your wife?” observed Philippa, with icy
incisiveness. “Your tone is quite marital.”
There was a moment’s electric silence. Then, with a sudden movement,
Philippa rose from the writing-table and came impulsively towards him.
“Robert, dear,” she begged, in her tenderest voice, “this is absurd.
Let us continue to trust each other, and not be vulgar about our
love.” She lifted her face pleadingly to his. It was an attitude which
she was conscious became her wonderfully. The long curve of her throat
never showed to better advantage than when her head was thrown back to
look into her lover’s eyes.
Insensibly Robert’s face softened. He kissed her, this time warmly.
Half an hour later, as she was putting on her hat to go, he said, in a
tone purposely gentle and conciliatory:
“You’d better show me that note to Nevern. It won’t do to offend him.
He’s a good fellow, though he _does_ write rot. Perhaps I could
get Field to look at some of his stuff--or Ridgway, possibly.”
Philippa turned over the pile of letters she had written, and found
what she was seeking.
“I want some long envelopes,” she remarked, handing the note to him as
she passed. “No, don’t trouble, dear, I’ll get them. They’re in the
cupboard in the hall.”
She went out, and Robert carelessly opened the letter she had left. He
glanced at the first word, and dropped the paper as though it burned
him. A dark flush began to spread slowly over his face as he stood
looking at it a moment, before he again snatched it up. He had the
letter in his hand when Philippa entered, standing with his back to the
door, and an elbow on the mantelpiece.
She put the envelopes in the table drawer, gathered up the pile of
notes, then turned and stood waiting.
“Will it do, dear?” she asked.
“Admirably,” said Robert, without moving.
She started.
“I have to apologize for opening the wrong letter,” he went on, almost
in the same breath. “Your official communication to Nevern is probably
among the letters in your hand.”
His cold, clear voice reached her senses like a voice in a dream.
Mechanically she glanced down at the envelopes she held, then back at
Robert’s immovable face. She grew slowly white to the lips. They were
stiff when she tried to move them. At last the words came.
“Robert,” she began in a whisper, “don’t think too badly of me. Let me
explain.” She paused, watching in a fascinated way his slow smile, as
he continued to look at her. Presently she could bear it no longer, and
dropped her eyes.
“Mr. Nevern has asked me to be his wife,” she said, desperately.
“Poor devil!” was Robert’s comment on the information.
There was another silence.
“Robert!” she implored, still in a whisper, dragging herself closer to
him. “Won’t you let me explain?”
He retreated a step.
“My dear Philippa,” he returned, with a laugh, “why explain the
obvious? It is all quite simple. I am a fool, and you are--a woman.”
He glanced at the clock. “It’s one o’clock. Don’t let me keep you.
Good-bye.” The quiet finality of his tone overwhelmed her. She turned
at once to go.
“One moment,” he said. “Your letter.” He folded it with precision,
replaced it in its envelope, and handed it to her politely.
Philippa took it silently, opened the door, and went out without a
backward glance.