The opportunity that Lord Arleigh looked for came at last. Philippa had
some reason to doubt the honesty of a man whom she had been employing as
agent. She was kind of heart, and did not wish to punish him, yet she
felt sure that he had not done his duty by her. To speak to her
solicitors about it would be, she felt, injurious to him, whether
innocent or guilty. If innocent, it would create a prejudice against
him; if guilty, they would wish to punish him. She resolved upon laying
the matter before Lord Arleigh, and seeing what he thought of it.
He listened very patiently, examined the affair, and then told her that
he believed she had been robbed.
"What shall I do?" she asked, looking at him earnestly.
"I know what you ought to do, Philippa. You ought to punish him."
"But he has a wife, Norman, and innocent little children; in exposing
him I shall punish them, and they are innocent."
"That is one of the strangest of universal laws to me," said Lord
Arleigh--"why the innocent always do, and always must, suffer for the
guilty; it is one of the mysteries I shall never understand. Common
sense tells me that you ought to expose this man--that he ought to be
punished for what he has done. Yet, if you do, his wife and children
will be dragged down into an abyss of misery. Suppose you make a
compromise of matters and lecture him well."
He was half smiling as he spoke, but she took every word in serious
earnest.
"Philippa," he continued, "why do you not marry? A husband would save
you all this trouble; he would attend to your affairs, and shield you
from annoyances of this kind."
"The answer to your question, 'Why do I not marry?' Would form a long
story," she replied, and then she turned the conversation.
But he was determined to keep his word, and pleaded with her for the
duke. Another opportunity came that evening. It was Lady Peters'
birthday, and Philippa had invited some of her most intimate friends;
not young people, but those with whom she thought her _chaperon_ would
enjoy herself best. The result was a very pleasant dinner-party,
followed by a very pleasant evening. Lord Arleigh could not be absent,
for it was, in some measure, a family _fête_.
The guests did not remain very late, and Lady Peters, professing herself
tired with the exertions she had made, lay down on a couch, and was soon
asleep. Philippa stood by the window with the rose-silk hangings drawn.
"Come out on the balcony," she said to Lord Arleigh, "the room is very
warm."
It was night, but the darkness was silver-gray, not black. The sky above
was brilliant with the gleam of a thousand stars, the moon was shining
behind some silvery clouds, the great masses of foliage in the park were
just stirred with the whisper of the night, and sweetest odors came from
heliotrope and mignonnette; the brooding silence of the summer night lay
over the land.
Philippa sat down, and Lord Arleigh stood by her side.
The moonlight falling on her beautiful face softened it into wondrous
loveliness--it was pale, refined, with depths of passion in the dark
eyes, and tender, tremulous smiles on the scarlet lips. She wore some
material of white and gold. A thin scarf was thrown carelessly over her
white shoulders. When the wind stirred it blew the scarf against her
face.
She might have been the very goddess of love, she looked so fair out in
the starlight. If there had been one particle of love in Lord Arleigh's
heart, that hour and scene must have called it into life. For a time
they sat in perfect silence. Her head was thrown back against a pillar
round which red roses clustered and clung, and the light of the stars
fell full upon her face; the dark eyes were full of radiance.
"How beautiful it is, Norman," she said, suddenly. "What music has ever
equaled the whispers of the night-wind? It seems a sad pity after all
that we are obliged to lead such conventional lives, and spend the
greater part of them in warm, close rooms."
"You have a great love for out-of-door freedom," he remarked,
laughingly.
"Yes, I love the fresh air. I think if any one asked me what I loved
best on earth, I should say wind. I love it in all its moods--rough,
caressing, tender, impetuous, calm, stormy. It is always beautiful.
Listen to it now, just sighing in the branches of those tall trees.
Could any music be sweeter or softer?"
"No," he replied, and then added, "The time and the scene embolden me,
Philippa; there is something that I wish to say to you--something that I
long have wished to say. Will you hear it now?"
A tremor like that of the leaves in the wind seemed to pass over her.
There was a startled expression in the dark eyes, a quiver of the
crimson lips. Was it coming at last--this for which she had longed all
her life? She controlled all outward signs of emotion and turned to him
quite calmly.
"I am always ready to listen to you, Norman, and to hear what you have
to say."
"You see, Philippa, the starlight makes me bold. If we were in that
brilliantly-lighted drawing-room of yours, I should probably hesitate
long before speaking plainly, as I am going to do now."
He saw her clasp her hands tightly, but he had no key to what was
passing in her mind. He drew nearer to her.
"You know, Philippa," he began, "that I have always been fond of you. I
have always taken the same interest in you that I should have taken in a
dearly-beloved sister of my own, if Heaven had given me one."
She murmured some few words which he did not hear.
"I am going to speak to you now," he continued, "just as though you were
my own sister, have I your permission to do so, Philippa?"
"Yes," she replied.
"And you promise not to be angry about any thing that I may say?"
"I could never be angry with you, Norman," she answered.
"Then I want you to tell me why you will not marry the Duke of
Hazlewood. You have treated me as your brother and your friend. The
question might seem impertinent from another; from me it will not appear
impertinent, not curious--simply true and kindly interest. Why will you
not marry him, Philippa?"
A quick sharp spasm of pain passed over her face. She was silent for a
minute before she answered him, and then she said:
"The reason is very simple, Norman--because I do not love him."
"That is certainly a strong reason; but, Philippa, let me ask you now
another question--why do you not love him?"
She could have retorted, "Why do you not love me?" but prudence forbade
it.
"I cannot tell you. I have heard you say that love is fate. I should
imagine it must be because the Duke of Hazlewood is not my fate."
He did not know what answer to make to that, it was so entirely his own
way of thinking.
"But, Philippa," he resumed after a pause, "do you not think that you
might love him if you tried?"
"I have never thought about it," was the quiet reply.
Lord Arleigh continued:
"In my idea he is one of the most charming men in England; I have never
seen a more perfect type of what an English gentleman should be--he is
noble, generous, brave, chivalrous. What fault do you find with him,
Philippa?"
"I?" she asked, looking up at him in wonder. "My dear Norman, I have
never found fault with the duke in my life."
"Then why can you not love him?"
"That is a very different thing. I find no fault with him; on the
contrary, I agree with you that he is one of the noblest of men, yet I
have never thought of marrying him."
"But, Philippa"--and with kindly impressiveness he laid one hand on her
shoulder--"why do you not think of marrying him? Between you and myself
there can be no compliments, no flattery. I tell you that of all the
women in England you are the most fitted to be the Duchess of
Hazlewood--and you would be a beautiful duchess, too. Think of the
position you would occupy--second only to royalty. I should like to see
you in such a position--you would fill it grandly. Think of the power,
the influence, the enormous amount of good you could do; think of it
all, Philippa?"
He did not see the sudden, sharp quiver of pain that passed over the
beautiful face, nor how pale it grew in the starlight.
"I am thinking," she answered, quietly--"I am listening attentively to
all that you say."
She drew the light scarf more closely around her shoulders and shuddered
as though a chill breeze had passed over her.
"Are you cold, dear?" he asked kindly.
"Cold! How could I be on this warm starlit night? Go on, Norman; let me
hear all that you have to say."
"I am trying to persuade you to accept what seems to me one of the
happiest lots ever offered to woman. I want to see you the Duke of
Hazlewood's wife. I cannot imagine any man more calculated to win a
woman's love, or to please her fancy, than he is. He is young, handsome,
noble in face and figure as he is in heart and soul; and he is clever
and gifted."
"Yes," she allowed, slowly, "he is all that, Norman."
"Some day or other he will be the leading spirit in the land; he will
be the head of a great party."
"That I believe," she agreed.
"And he loves you so well, Philippa; I have never seen a man more
devoted. How many years has he loved you now--two or three? And he tells
me that he shall go unmarried to the grave unless you consent to be his
wife."
"Did he tell you that? He must indeed be attached to me," she observed.
"Norman, did he ask you to say all this to me?"
"He asked me to plead his cause," replied Lord Arleigh.
"Why did he ask you to do so?"
"Because--believing us to be what we really are, Philippa, tried and
true friends--he thought I should have some influence over you."
"Clever duke!" she said. "Norman, are you well versed in modern poetry?"
He looked up in blank surprise at the question--it was so totally
unexpected.
"In modern poetry?" he repeated. "Yes, I think I am. Why, Philippa?"
"I will tell you why," she said, turning her beautiful face to him. "If
you will be patient, I will tell you why."
She was silent for a few minutes, and then Lord Arleigh said:
"I am patient enough, Philippa; will you tell me why?"
The dark eyes raised to his had in them a strange light--a strange depth
of passion.
"I want to know if you remember the beautiful story of Priscilla, the
Puritan maiden," she said, in a tremulous voice--the loveliest maiden of
Plymouth?"
"You mean the story of Miles Standish," he corrected. "Yes, I remember
it, Philippa."
"That which a Puritan maiden could do, and all posterity sing her
praises for, surely I--a woman of the world--may do without blame. Do
you remember, Norman, when John Alden goes to her to do the wooing which
the stanch soldier does not do for himself--do you remember her answer?
Let me give you the verse--
"'But, as he warmed and glowed in his simple and eloquent language,
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival,
Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes overrunning with laughter,
Said in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?"'"
The sweet musical voice died away in the starlight, the wind stirred the
crimson roses--silence, solemn and deep, fell over Lord Arleigh and his
companion. Philippa broke it.
"Surely you, in common with all of us, admire the Puritan maiden,
Norman?"
"Yes, I do admire her," he answered; "she is one of my favorite
heroines."
"So she is of mine; and I love her the more for the womanly outburst of
honest truth that triumphed over all conventionality. Norman, what she,
the 'loveliest maiden in Plymouth,' the beloved of Miles Standish, said
to John Alden, I say to you--'Why don't you speak for yourself?'"
There was infinite tenderness in his face as he bent over her--infinite
pain in his voice as he spoke to her.
"John Alden loved Priscilla," he said, slowly--"she was the one woman in
all the world for him--his ideal--his fate, but I--oh Philippa, how I
hate myself because I cannot answer you differently! You are my friend,
my sister, but not the woman I must love as my wife."
"When you urged me a few minutes since to marry your friend, you asked
me why I could not love him, seeing that he had all lovable qualities.
Norman, why can you not love me?"
"I can answer you only in the same words--I do not know. I love you with
as true an affection as ever man gave to woman; but I have not for you a
lover's love. I cannot tell why, for you are one of the fairest of fair
women."
"Fair, but not your 'ideal woman,'" she said, gently.
"No, not my 'ideal woman,'" he returned; "my sister, my friend--not my
love."
"I am to blame," she said, proudly; "but again I must plead that I am
like Priscilla. While you are pleading the cause of another, the truth
came uppermost; you must forgive me for speaking so forcibly. As the
poem says:
"'There are moments in life when the heart is so full of emotions
That if, by chance, it be shaken, or into its depths, like a pebble,
Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,
Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.'"
"My dearest Philippa, you have not been to blame," he said; "you judge
yourself so hardly always."
"It is the fate of a woman to be silent," she said again. "Still, I am
glad that I have spoken. Norman, will you tell me what your ideal of
woman is like, that I may know her when I see her?"
"Nay," he objected, gently, "let us talk of something else."
But she persisted.
"Tell me," she urged, "that I may know in what she differs from me."
"I do not know that I can tell you," he replied. "I have not thought
much of the matter."
"But if any one asked you to describe your ideal of what a woman should
be, you could do it," she pursued.
"Perhaps so, but at best it would be but an imperfect sketch. She must
be young, fair, gentle, pure, tender of heart, noble in soul, with a
kind of shy, sweet grace; frank, yet not outspoken; free from all
affectation, yet with nothing unwomanly; a mixture of child and woman.
If I love an ideal, it is something like that."
"And she must be fair, like all the ladies Arleigh, with eyes like the
hyacinth, and hair tinged with gold, I suppose, Norman?"
"Yes; I saw a picture once in Borne that realized my notion of true
womanly loveliness. It was a very fair face, with something of the
innocent wonder of a child mixed with the dawning love and passion of
noblest womanhood."
"You admire an _ingénue_. We have both our tastes; mine, if I were a
man, would incline more to the brilliant and handsome."
She would have added more, but at that moment Lady Peters drew aside the
silken hanging.
"My dear children," she said, "I should ill play my part of chaperon if
I did not remind you of the hour. We have been celebrating my birthday,
but my birthday is past and gone--it is after midnight."
Lord Arleigh looked up in wonder.
"After midnight? Impossible! Yet I declare my watch proves that it is.
It is all the fault of the starlight, Lady Peters; you must blame that."
Lady Peters went out to them.
"I do not wonder at your lingering here," she said. "How calm and sweet
the night is! It reminds me of the night in 'Romeo and Juliet.' It was
on such a night _Jessica_--"
Philippa held up her hands in horror.
"No more poetry to-night, dear Lady Peters; we have had more than
enough."
"Is that true, Lord Arleigh? Have you really had more than enough?"
"I have not found it so," he replied. "However, I must go. I wish time
would sometimes stand still; all pleasant hours end so soon. Good-night,
Lady Peters."
But that most discreet of _chaperons_ had already re-entered the
drawing-room--it was no part of her business to be present when the two
friends said good-night.
"Good-night, Philippa," he said, in a low, gentle voice, bending over
her.
The wind stirred her perfumed hair until it touched his cheek, the
leaves of the crimson roses fell in a shower around her. She raised her
beautiful pale face to his--the unspeakable love, the yearning sorrow on
it, moved him greatly. He bent down and touched her brow with his lips.
"Good-night, Philippa, my sister--my friend," he said.
Even by the faint starlight he saw a change pass over her face.
"Good-night," she responded. "I have more to say to you, but Lady Peters
will be horrified if you remain any longer. You will call to-morrow, and
then I can finish my conversation?"
"I will come," he replied, gravely.
He waited a moment to see if she would pass into the drawing-room before
him, but she turned away and leaned her arms on the stone balustrade.
It was nearly half an hour afterward when Lady Peters once more drew
aside the hangings.
"Philippa," she said, gently, "you will take cold out there."
She wondered why the girl paused some few minutes before answering; then
Miss L'Estrange said, in a low, calm voice:
"Do not wait for me, Lady Peters; I am thinking and do not wish to be
interrupted."
But Lady Peters did not seem quite satisfied.
"I do not like to leave you sitting there," she said, "the servants will
think it strange."
"Their thoughts do not concern me," she returned, haughtily.
"Good-night, Lady Peters; do not interrupt me again, if you please."
And the good-tempered _chaperon_ went away, thinking to herself that
perhaps she had done wrong in interrupting the _tete-a-tete_.
"Still I did it for the best," she said to herself; "and servants will
talk."
Philippa L'Estrange did not move. Lady Peters thought she spoke in a
calm, proud voice. She would have been surprised could she have seen the
beautiful face all wet with tears; for, Philippa had laid her head on
the cold stone, and was weeping such tears as women weep but once in
life. She sat there not striving to subdue the tempest of emotion that
shook her, giving full vent to her passion of grief, stretching out her
hands and crying to her lost love.
It was all over now. She had stepped down from the proud height of her
glorious womanhood to ask for his love, and he had told her that he had
none to give her. She had thrown aside her pride, her delicacy. She had
let him read the guarded secret of her heart, only to hear his
reply--that she was not his ideal of womanhood. She had asked for
bread--he had given her a stone. She had lavished her love at his
feet--he had coolly stepped aside. She had lowered her pride,
humiliated herself, all in vain.
"No woman," she said to herself, "would ever pardon such a slight or
forgive such a wrong."
At first she wept as though her heart would break--tears fell like rain
from her eyes, tears that seemed to burn as they fell; then after a time
pride rose and gained the ascendancy. She, the courted, beautiful woman,
to be so humiliated, so slighted! She, for whose smile the noblest in
the land asked in vain, to have her almost offered love so coldly
refused! She, the very queen of love and beauty, to be so spurned!
When the passion of grief had subsided, when the hot angry glow of
wounded pride died away, she raised her face to the night-skies.
"I swear," she said, "that I will be revenged--that I will take such
vengeance on him as will bring his pride down far lower than he has
brought mine. I will never forgive him. I have loved him with a devotion
passing the love of woman. I will hate more than I have loved him. I
would have given my life to make him happy. I now consecrate it to
vengeance. I swear to take such revenge on him as shall bring the name
of Arleigh low indeed."
And that vow she intended to keep.
"If ever I forget what has passed here," she said to herself, "may
Heaven forget me!"
To her servants she had never seemed colder or haughtier than on this
night, when she kept them waiting while she registered her vow.
What shape was her vengeance to take?
"I shall find out," she thought; "it will come in time."