It was when the sun, shining into her room, reached her that an idea
occurred to Philippa which was like the up-springing of new life to her.
All was not yet lost. He did not love her--he had not thought of making
her his wife; but it did not follow that he would never do so. What had
not patience and perseverance accomplished before now? What had not love
won?
He had acknowledged that she was beautiful; he had owned to her often
how much he admired her. So much granted, was it impossible that he
should learn to love her? She told herself that she would take
courage--that she would persevere--that her great love must in time
prevail, and that she would devote her life unweariedly to it.
She would carefully hide all traces of pique or annoyance. She would
never let him find her dull or unhappy. Men liked to be amused. She
would do her best to entertain him; he would never have a moment's
vacancy in her society. She would find sparkling anecdotes, repartees,
witty, humorous stories, to amuse him. He liked her singing; she would
cultivate it more and more. She would study him, dress for him, live for
him, and him alone; she would have no other end, aim, thought, or
desire. She would herself be the source of all his amusement, so that he
should look for the every-day pleasures of his life to her--and, such
being the case, she would win him; she felt sure of it. Why had she been
so hopeless, so despairing? There was no real cause for it. Perhaps,
after all, he had looked upon the whole affair, not as a solemn
engagement, but as a childish farce. Perhaps he had never really thought
of her as his wife; but there would be an end to that thoughtlessness
now. What had passed on the previous day would arouse his attention, he
could never know the same indifference again.
So she rose with renewed hope. She shrank from the look of her face in
the glass. "Cold water and fresh air," she said to herself, with a
smile, "will soon remedy such paleness." And thus on that very day began
for her the new life--the life in which, no longer sure of her love, she
was to try to win it.
He would have loved her had he been able; but his own words were
true--"Love is fate."
There was nothing in common between them--no sympathy--none of those
mystical cords that, once touched, set two human hearts throbbing, and
never rest until they are one. He could not have been fonder of her than
he was, in a brotherly sense; but as for lover's love, from the first
day he had seen her, a beautiful, dark-eyed child, until the last he
had never felt the least semblance of it.
It was a story of failure. She strove as perhaps woman never before had
striven, and she succeeded in winning his truest admiration, his warmest
friendship; he felt more at home with her than any one else in the wide
world. But there it ended--she won no more.
It was not his fault; it was simply because the electric spark called
love had never been and never could be elicited between his soul and
hers. He would have done anything for her--he was her truest, best
friend; but he was not her lover.
She hoped against hope. Each day she counted the kind words he had said
to her; she noted every glance, every look, every expression. But she
could not find that she made any progress--nothing that indicated any
change from brotherly friendship to love. Still she hoped against hope,
the chances are that she would have died of a broken heart.
Then the season ended. She went back to Verdun Royal with Lady Peters,
and Lord Arleigh to Beechgrove. They wrote to each other at Christmas,
and met at Calverley, the seat of Lord Rineham. She contrived, even when
away from him, to fill his life. She was always consulting him on
matters of interest to her; she sought his advice continually, and about
everything, from the renewal of a lease to the making of a new
acquaintance. "I cannot do wrong," she would say to him, "if I follow
your advice." He was pleased and happy to be able to help the daughter
of his mother's dearest friend.
Her manner completely deceived him. If she had evinced the least pique
or discontent--if she had by word or look shown the least resentment--he
would have suspected that she cared for him, and would have been on his
guard. As it was, he would not have believed any one who had told him
she loved him.
The explanation had been made; there was no longer even a shadow between
them; they both understood that the weak, nonsensical tie was broken.
That they were the dearest of friends, and quite happy, would have been
Lord Arleigh's notion of matters. Philippa L'Estrange might have told a
different story.
The proposed party at Beechgrove did not come off. There were some
repairs needed in the eastern wing, and Lord Arleigh himself had so many
engagements, that no time could be found for it; but when the season
came round Philippa and he met again.
By this time some of Miss L'Estrange's admirers had come to the
conclusion that there was no truth in the report of the engagement
between herself and Lord Arleigh. Among these was his grace the Duke of
Hazlewood. He loved the beautiful, queenly girl who had so disdainfully
refused his coronet--the very refusal had made him care more than ever
for her. He was worldly-wise enough to know that there were few women in
London who would have refused him; and he said to himself that, if she
would not marry him, he would go unmarried to the grave. He was one of
the first to feel sure that there was no truth in the rumors that had
grieved him so the previous year. Miss L'Estrange and Lord Arleigh were
by force of circumstances great friends--nothing more, and this season
he determined to make a friend of the man he had detested as a rival.
When the Duke of Hazlewood made up his mind, he generally accomplished
his desire; he sought Lord Arleigh with such assiduity, he made himself
so pleasant and agreeable to him, that the master of Beechgrove soon
showed him his most cordial and sincere liking. Then they became warm
friends. The duke confided in Lord Arleigh--he told him the whole story
of his love for Miss L'Estrange.
"I know," he said, "that no one has so much influence over her as you. I
do not believe in the absurd stores told about an engagement between
you, but I see plainly that she is your friend, and that you are hers;
and I want you to use your influence with her in my favor."
Lord Arleigh promised to do so--and he intended to keep his promise;
they were on such intimate and friendly terms that he could venture upon
saying anything of that kind to her. She would not be displeased--on the
contrary, she would like his advice; it might even be that before now
she had wished to ask for it, but had not liked to do so--so completely
did these two play at cross-purposes and misunderstand each other.
It was easier to say to himself that he would speak to her as the duke
wished than to do it. He saw that any allusion to her lovers or admirers
made her ill at ease--she did not like it; even his laughing comments on
the homage paid to her did not please her.
"I do not like lovers," she said to him one day, "and I am tired of
admirers--I prefer friends."
"But," he opposed, laughingly, "if all that wise men and philosophers[2]
tell us is correct, there are no true friends."
He never forgot the light that shone in her face as she raised it to
his.
"I do not believe that," she returned; "there are true friends--you are
one to me."
The tenderness of her manner struck him forcibly. Something kinder and
softer stirred in his heart than had ever stirred before for her; he
raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
"You are right, Philippa" he said. "If ever a woman had a true, stanch
friend, I am and will be one to you."
From her heart to her lips rose the words: "Shall you never be more?"
Perhaps even her eyes asked the question more eloquently than her lips
could have done, for his face flushed, and she turned away with some
slight embarrassment.
"I shall try and keep your friendship," she said; "but that will be
easily done, Norman."
"Yes," he replied; "one of the traditions of our house is 'truth in
friendship, trust in love, honor in war.' To be a true friend and a
noble foe is characteristic of the Arleighs."
"I hope that you will never be a foe of mine," she rejoined, laughingly.
And that evening, thinking over the events of the day she flattered
herself that she had made some little progress after all.