Part 21 (2/2)

”Forgive me, Isabella,” she said with a little happy smile; ”forgive me for talking about myself, I don't know what made me do it. I think my heart was so full it just had to come out. Now let us talk of something else. How is the book getting on?”

”Not very well, I am afraid. I must confess it has not progressed much the last few days; partly because I have not been quite in the mood for it, which is a terrible confession of weakness, and partly because Mrs.

Palling has been on the war-path.

”First of all her beloved bees have been in a most unsettled frame of mind, or so she tells me--I can't say I have seen any sign of it myself--and she a.s.sures me that something is going to happen. At first she felt certain that it was the arrival of a visitor for which they strove to prepare her. I am quite sure that it must have been your coming that is the cause of it. No one ever invaded my solitude before, and the excitement was too much for her. But as day after day pa.s.sed and no stranger arrived, she changed her mind and is now equally certain that the restlessness of her household G.o.ds portends some fearful disaster. The awkward part of it is, that even she cannot make out what form it will take; she merely tells me gloomily that something is going to happen. She has tied a bunch of herbs over the door to keep illness away, and she has presented me with a little stone which she beseeches me to carry about with me to avert accident, but even these precautions haven't comforted her much. Whenever I return home I see her waiting anxiously at the gate with a face long enough to propitiate all the G.o.ds of misfortune, and when she sees me she finds it hard to believe that I am not dragging myself home to die of some hidden wound.

”But never mind! I have known the good woman suffer from these attacks of depression before. It will pa.s.s and she will be restored to her accustomed cheerfulness. I have already told her that her symptoms point to indigestion, to which she replied darkly that by some oversight the last pig was killed at the waning of the moon, and that possibly the pork was 'a bit unheartsome' in consequence. Come and see her some day if you can. I dare say the sight of you will appease the bees and restore her to sanity.”

”I will if I possibly can,” returned Philippa doubtfully. ”But you know, I do not like to go very far in case Francis might ask for me.

Could you not come and see me?”

Isabella hesitated. ”I do not think I will come to Bessacre unless you really want me--for anything particular, I mean. If I can be of any use to you, send for me, and I will come at once; but otherwise I think it will be better not.”

They parted soon afterwards, and Isabella trudged back to her home across the sunlit moor with slow and lagging step. Philippa's words had indeed ”knocked at her heart and found her thoughts at home,” and the old wound throbbed with a dull fierce ache. She, with her intimate knowledge of Francis, could picture to herself the whole course of recent events.

Had she not known him as a lover, wooing Phil with all the strength of his early manhood, all the force of the flood-tide of his love? Had she not seen him curbing that love lest any demonstration of too open affection might harm his cause with the woman who had not ”liked heroics,” wooing with innocent devices and tender subtlety? And she could almost hear the words he must have spoken when again he wooed.

Small wonder that Philippa's heart had awaked to his appeal. The fact of her own affection, although it did not entirely blind her, distorted her outlook. She only saw that Francis' peace of mind must be preserved at all costs, and it was not likely that she, who would have sacrificed herself gladly for his lightest good, could bring a clear judgment to bear upon the ethics of the case. Had she been in Philippa's place no question of abstract morality would have carried weight with her. She would have taken any action which would have saved him from distress, just as surely as she would have plunged into fire to rescue him.

She would never have stooped to casuistry or self-deception, but she would never have hesitated. She was not what may be called a religious woman as we understand the term. She believed with all her heart in a Supreme G.o.d whom she wors.h.i.+pped, but she could not agree to the restrictions which, it seemed to her, orthodoxy set upon His power, and she had no sympathy with women who trample heedlessly upon the feelings of others in a frantic effort to save their own souls. The truth being that Isabella, like so many of her s.e.x who lead solitary lives, had constructed for herself a curious philosophy out of the hotch-potch of maxims, theories, prejudices and principles which she called her opinions, and it had at any rate the merit of being a philosophy of self-sacrifice and self-control.

She realised that Philippa's new-found joy was built upon a delusion, that at any moment it might come tumbling about her ears, but that was hardly worth consideration, although it aroused in her a sense of pity.

She had said ”Love brings suffering,” and in the words she had recited a clause in her creed of life. Had she not been taught by bitter experience? Love brings suffering, yes; but that was no reason for shrinking from Love. The greater the value of anything, the greater the price which must be paid. This was not cynicism, but common sense; and it was only a coward who did not welcome the suffering as an intrinsic part of the wonderful whole, only a miser who would not pay the price.

She herself had paid it--ungrudgingly--in tears--in long years of loneliness--with empty hands. But with Philippa it was different.

Happy Philippa, who might know the delight of Love's service. It is never so hard to suffer in the forefront of the battle, it is the inaction that tortures.

CHAPTER XVIII

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 d.i.c.kie for a little while.”

”How is he?”

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