CHAPTER VI

'Love me, for I love you,' and answer me'Love me, for I love you.'—Christina Rossetti.

'Tis the night of the ball, dinner is over and the house party is collected in the hall, waiting the arrival of the guests. The fiddles are scraping away in the drawing-room, where the furniture having been taken away and the carpet removed, the floor looks inviting and 'is perfectly delicious' owns Philippa, having performed apas seulthereon, before anyone was down. She looks extremely pretty to-night in a quaint, little white satin dress, her hair fluffed all round her head, and tied up with pale green ribbons.

At this moment she is striving in vain to button up one of Chubby's gloves. 'It's awfully good of you,' he says. 'I can't think why they are so tight, what—'

'If I don't button it this time,' she replies, 'I really can't try any more, for I have not got my own on yet, and I know they'll begin to dance in a moment.'

'You'll let me have the first, won't you?' he says.

'Certainly,' she answers, all her attention absorbed in the button which is just half in the button-hole, one little poke and 'there it's done,' she says.

But alas! it isdoneindeed, for there is an ominous crack, and a large split is seen right across it.

'What a nuisance,' says Helmdon, gazing at the torn article.

'Oh I hope it wasn't my fault,' says Lippa.

'No; not at all, I assure you—'

'Don't waste time then looking at it, fetch another quickly,' and Philippa begins hastily to cover her own bare hands. 'Chubby,' she calls after him, 'they're beginning to dance. I can't keep this one for you, the next one will do just as well, won't it?'

'Quite,' is the reply as he ascends the stairs three steps at a time; while she becomes aware of two men making for her, Harkness and Dalrymple, the former she feels will reach her first, and she has no desire to dance with him: so she suddenly feels that she ought to be nearer her sister-in-law, and edging her way through the crowd gains her chaperon's side, a second before Jimmy comes up.

'May I have this?' he says eagerly, and receiving an affirmative, he leads her off to the ball-room, where the "Garden of Sleep" waltz is echoing through the well-lighted apartment, and the air is fragrant with the scent of many flowers. Already a goodly crowd is there, mammas, elderly spinsters, girls of all sizes and ages, in satin, silks, and tulle; old men, middle-aged men, young men and mere boys are all collected there. In a second Dalrymple and Philippa join in the giddy dance; for what is more giddifying (if I may use such a word), than waltzing in a room full of people who have not summoned up courage enough to begin, round and round they go, till Miss Seaton at length says, 'I think I really must stop although the best part of the tune is just coming. We can't be like the river, can we, going on forever:'

'Men may come and men may go,''But I go on forever.'

She murmurs more to herself than to him, as they make their way to the conservatory, and then, 'Do you like poetry?' she asks.

'Pretty well, I don't read much of it.'

'I am so fond of it,' replies Philippa, settling herself comfortably on a sofa surrounded by cushions, 'I could read it all day.'

'Ah, you see you have more time to do what you like, but when a fellow has been at work all day, he doesn't feel inclined for poetry, you've got nothing to do except to read and do fancy work, I suppose.'

'That's a mistake that all men make, they think that girls have nothing to do all day, when they have quite as much as men if not more; you don't know anything about them. And I think poetry is themostrestful thing to read when one's tired, you see our minds soar to higher things than yours, you study theRacing Calendarand the newspapers, don't you?'

'Generally, not always,' admits Jimmy.

'TheRacing Calendar,versusTennyson, Longfellow, or Mrs Browning; but I don't believe you're half listening to me,' says she, for he is gazing straight in front of him.

'I assure you I was,' he protests, 'I am in a crowd now, may I not muse on the "absent face that has fixed" me.'

'No, certainly not, you ought to be thinking of me,' this in a slightly aggrieved tone.

'How do you know I wasn't,' gazing at her earnestly.

'I'm not absent,' and then Philippa seeing what might be implied, blushes a rosy red, and rising says, 'We must go back now, I promised Lord Helmdon this dance, and he'll never find me here. Ah! there he is.'

'Are you so anxious to dance with him?' asks Jimmy in a would-be indifferent tone.

'Yes, of course,' she replies, 'I like him so much, don't you?'

'Oh, yes,' replies Dalrymple with equal indifference. And so the evening wears on and Miss Seaton is congratulating herself at having eluded Captain Harkness, when she suddenly finds him standing before her.

'Won't you give me a dance?' he says in his suave tone. 'I have been trying to speak to you all the evening—'

'Have you?' she replies, and not knowing quite how to get out of it. 'You may have the next one if you like,' she says.

'May I really? Then I shall find you somewhere about here?'

Lippa nods, and her partner, an aged baronet, claims her and they go through the intricacies of the lancers. Almost before the next dance has begun, Harkness appears; he dances beautifully and knows it too, but it is not long before he suggests a saunter in the garden.

Philippa consents, and forth they go into the cool night air. A hundred tiny lamps have been placed among the bushes, which shed a subdued light over the scene; charming corners have been arranged to sit in, while the splashing of the fountains mingles with the laughter and conversation of the company.

'What an interminable dance,' thinks Philippa, as having walked a good way round the garden, she finds herself once more outside the ball-room, and the same tune is still being played. She heaves a sigh of despair and raising her eyes meets those of Dalrymple, who is propping himself against a pillar. There is a look of reproach in them, and Lippa, though her conscience tells her she was unkind to him, feels an insane desire to make him jealous, and turns with an adorable smile to Harkness, not having heard a word of what he has just been saying; but he, thinking he has everything in his grasp, smiles, and leads her almost before she is aware, to a secluded corner.

'I—er I have been meaning to say something to you all this evening,' he begins, standing before her with his arms folded.

'Indeed,' replies Miss Seaton lightly, 'it can't be anything of great importance, or you would have said it before.'

'Not important,' this with a little more energy, 'why it is of vital importance; on it hangs the whole fate of my existence, Miss Seaton,' bending towards her, 'er—er Philippa, do you not know, have you not guessed that I love you, that to see you is necessary to my happiness, the first time I saw you—hear me,' as she makes as if to speak, 'you must know it, do you not see it in my eyes?' he is growing melodramatic and Lippa feels inclined to laugh, 'but one word, you love me, do you not, ah!' and he is about to seize her hand when she steps back from him saying,—

'I am afraid, Captain Harkness, you have made a mistake.'

'Mistake,' he replies, 'do you mean that you will not marry me.'

'Yes, I mean that I willnotmarry you.'

'Not marry me,' it is getting monotonous this repeating of her words, and she makes a movement of impatience, then all of a sudden his expression changes, 'I am afraid I put the question too soon,' he says, coming a little closer and taking hold of her hand, 'but do you love another?'

'Leave go,' she exclaims, 'I think you forget, what—'

'Who is it,' he goes on, not heeding her, 'is it Helmdon or Dalrymple?' he is so close that she can feel his breath on her cheek, 'ah, I can see by your eyes it is Dalrymple?'

This is too much, and with a sudden movement she raises her other hand and gives him a good box on the ear. He is so taken aback that he drops Lippa's hand, and she, thoroughly frightened, rushes down the path into the unlighted part of the garden, and falls headlong into the arms of Jimmy; who, consumed with despair, has sought refuge in solitude.

'I—er I beg your pardon,' says Philippa, starting back, 'I—I—' but sobs check her words.

'What is the matter?' asks he tenderly, his despair having vanished; the gentle tone of his voice makes her cry the more and so he does the thing that comes most naturally to him, without thinking of the consequences, for he puts his arm round her, and kisses her madly; and Lippa without resisting, leans her perturbed little head against his shoulder feeling unutterably happy.

'Why have you been running away from me all the evening?' he asks, when a perfect understanding has been made between them.

'I didn't,' she says indignantly, 'it was you who never came near me.'

A kiss is the answer to this, and then tenderly, 'But what were you crying about just now?'

'I was frightened rather—'

'What at, darling?' asks Jimmy, gazing down at the blushing face, which is being rubbed up and down against his coat sleeve.

'At—at what I'd done,' stammers Lippa.

'Something very dreadful, no doubt,' says he with a look that belies his words.

'Yes, you're quite right,' Miss Seaton answers, 'itwasdreadful. I can't think how I did it, shall I have to beg his pardon?'

'His! whose?' asks Jimmy quickly.

'Captain Harkness,' is the whispered reply, while she digs a hole in the gravel path with the heel of her white satin shoe. 'I boxed him on the ear, I hardly knew what I was doing at the moment, and now I can't think how I could do it—you see he'd asked me to marry him.'

'Is that the usual way you refuse your suitors?' says Jimmy laughing. 'What a mercy I had not to suffer the same fate.'

'Now if I remember rightly,' replies Miss Seaton gravely, 'you haven't asked me to marry you.'

'What have I done then?' asks Dalrymple.

'You've told me you loved me, but that isn't a bit the same, you know.'

'No, of course not, but, dearest, youwillmarry me?'

'Silly boy,' is the reply, while she suddenly reaches up and kisses him, and then disengaging herself from his detaining arm hurries back to the house, whither he follows her a little more slowly.

''Tis true, 'tis true, 'tis pity, and pity 'tis, 'tis true.'—Hamlet.

It is breakfast time, but at present nobody has put in an appearance; whoever is punctual the morning after a ball! The drawing-room looks dreadful, all empty and bare, and the candles burnt down in their sockets. 'Ugh!' Lippa shudders as she pokes her head in, just to have a look at the place where Jimmy bade her goodnight. She does even more, for she goes and lays her head against a place on the wall, where she remembers he leant against, and as she does so a happy contented smile hovers round her mouth, and then laughing at herself, she hurries to the dining-room.

'What, no one down yet!' she exclaims, gazing round the empty room.

'Yes; I am,' replies a voice from outside, and Paul appears at the open window. 'Good-morning, how early you are,' he says.

'Only punctual,' replies Philippa; 'isn't it a lovely day again. I can't think how the others can be so lazy. Come into the garden, do.'

Paul acquiesces. He has taken a great liking to Miss Seaton. 'Did you like the ball?' he asks.

'Oh, so much,' replies she, 'wasn't it lovely. I wish it could come all over again.'

'Do you?' he says.

'Well, perhaps not quite all,' she answers, blushing suddenly at the remembrance of her interview with Harkness.

'Which portion could you do without. The quarter of an hour before you ran into the shrubbery and nearly knocked me down?'

'Did I?' is the reply.

'Indeed youdid,' says Ponsonby, laughing, 'and you looked so fierce I was afraid to go after you and fled in the opposite direction, leaving you to vent your wrath on Dalrymple whom I had just left.'

'I am very glad you did,' says Lippa, with a little conscious laugh. 'Two's company, three's none.'

'Yes,' replies Paul, quietly, and then a pause ensues.

'Oughtn't I to have said that?' asks Philippa, suddenly looking up into his face. 'Because—well ... you see, if you'd been there—now, if I tell you something, promise to keep it a secret,' this very persuasively and slipping her arm through his.

'On my word and honour,' Paul answers.

'Well, Mr Dalrymple asked me—to—marry him—there!'

'What, Jimmy!' exclaims Paul. 'I'm so glad; he's quite the nicest fellow I know. I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart.'

'Thank you,' says Lippa, simply. 'But you won't tell anybody, will you? Nobody knows, not even Mabel—'

'But, my dear child, why did you tellme, of all people first?' asks he.

'I had to tell somebody, and I know George couldn't keep anything from Mabel, or Mabel from him.'

'I hope you will be very happy, but look, Lady Dadford is beckoning to us—'

'What early birds you are,' says her ladyship. 'I needn't ask if you are the worse for last night's dissipation, for you don't look it, either of you—'

'I'm sure Philippa will say that it did her an immense amount of good,' replies Paul, with a wink at Lippa, which makes her tremble in her shoes as to what may be coming next.

It has been arranged that the whole of the party should go for a picnic to a spot about five miles off. 'Just to get out of the way,' says Lord Dadford, 'while the house is being put straight again; sort yourselves, sort yourselves,' he adds, standing at the front door, surrounded by guests and vehicles. 'I reserve to myself the pleasure of driving Mrs Mankaster,' (the vicar's wife) for both he and his spouse, a portly lady, resplendent in stiff brown silk, have been invited to take part in the outing.

By degrees the carriages are filled and off they go, Lippa finding to her chagrin that she is seated by Paul in a dog-cart, Jimmy and Lady Anne behind, Lord Helmdon is on in front with some other people.

'I'm sorry for you,' says Ponsonby, 'but if you wish your secret to be kept from the others, you must not be seen too much together.'

Lippa sighs.

'So love-sick already,' says he laughing.

'How rude you are, I wasn't sighing a bit, I caught my breath.'

'Oh, I like that,' is the reply.

'I'm sure you can never have,' hesitatingly, 'been in love, have you?' and she glances up at him. 'I'm so sorry I said that,' she adds, noticing the pained look that comes into his eyes, and then a silence ensues.

'Look here, Lippa,' says he at length in rather a lower tone, 'don't you know, has no one told you that I was married five years ago.'

'Married?' exclaims Miss Seaton in astonishment, 'oh, I'm so sorry I said that.'

'It does not matter in the least,' he replies, 'but I should think no one has been more desperately in love than I was once.'

'She, your wife, is dead?' asks Lippa quietly.

'I would to Heaven she were,' is the quick reply. 'No, child, don't think of me as a lonely widower,' this with a laugh that is hard and grating, 'I'm worse than that.'

'Poor Paul,' says Lippa gently, while her eyes fill with tears, and she lays her hand on his unoccupied one, the hard look quits his handsome face, and he sighs.

'Good little soul,' he says possessing himself of it.

Meanwhile Dalrymple is devoured with curiosity as to what this earnest conversation can be about. He has listened patiently to Lady Anne, who has gone through all the books she has read lately, arguing on their merits and demerits, and now she is enlarging on the degenerating manners of the rising generation.

Jimmy puts in a 'Yes' or 'No,' or 'I quite agree with you,' every now and then, but for aught he knows he may be agreeing that red's white, and white is black. But at last he says something that does not suit Lady Anne for she says, 'Do you really mean to say you do?'

Jimmy feels caught; what in the name of fortunedoeshe really mean to say, he has not the faintest idea, so he says—

'I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid I did not quite hear what you said, I—er have rather a bad headache.' (Oh Jimmy, Jimmy).

'Have you?' replies Lady Anne. 'I hope it is not a very bad one, you ought to have stayed at home; the best thing of course to do is to lie down; and have you ever tried Menthol, white stuff that you rub on your forehead; and then there is a certain kind of powder, I can't remember what they are called. Ah! I have it,' and Lady Anne who has been fumbling in her pocket produces a salts bottle. 'There,' she says, 'I have nothing else to offer you.'

'Thanks very much,' says Dalrymple, and feeling bound to use it, takes a vigorous sniff, but it is strong and proves too much for him, for he is seized with a violent choking.

'What's the matter?' inquires Ponsonby, glancing round. 'Lady Anne, what have you been doing to him?'

'Oh, it's only my salts bottle, he has a headache, you know,' she replies, while Jimmy looks decidedly embarrassed.

The day passes off very pleasantly, nothing has been forgotten with regard to the luncheon, and the weather is lovely, there is just enough wind to rustle through the trees and prevent the air from being sultry, the spot chosen for the repast is at the top of a hill which is covered with fir trees and tall green bracken, innumerable paths lead up and down and all round it, and at the summit a clearing has been made, and a small picturesque cottage has been built, with small diamond paned windows and a balcony running round two sides; the inmates, an old man and woman, who can provide water, are profuse in their greetings begging the company to sit in the balcony, and Lippa tired and sleepy with last night's exertion excuses herself from the members of the party who set out for a ramble, and takes advantage of the balcony and gives herself up to sleep: more than once a little smile hovers round her lips, and Dalrymple who has turned back under pretext of renewed headache, watches her for some time, then fearing to awake her, lights a cigar and strolls away. What a great deal of trouble and misunderstanding he could have prevented in awaking her,—but how could he tell.

Sometime later Philippa with a sigh of content opens her eyes, she is still too sleepy to think of moving, so she remains quite still, presently the sound of voices breaks upon her ears, but she does not heed them. 'Oh—how—comfortable I am,' she thinks and is just dropping off to sleep again when she hears her name spoken!

'Philippa,' someone is saying. 'Yes; she is a dear little girl.'

'That's Mab's voice. She thinks me a dear little girl, does she,' comments Miss Seaton.

'Poor child; she is so like what her mother was at that age. Does she know about her?'

Lippa recognises Lady Dadford's voice, but it never enters her head that she ought not to listen.

'No,' replies Mabel. 'You see she was such a baby at the time, and afterwards George thought it better that she should remain under the belief that she is dead; she is so very sensitive—'

'I daresay your husband is right,' says Lady Dadford. 'It was all very sad. At first, you know, the doctors had hopes that her reason would come back, but they gave it up after a year. Does your—'

But Philippa hears no more. She has listened breathlessly, her colour coming and going—What does it all mean? Is it true, is it true? The mother she had always thought of as long since dead, is she alive andmad! Oh! 'What shall I do?' she asks herself, while her brain feels on fire. 'Mad? Then I might go mad too! Oh, horrible thought! Jimmy, Jimmy, what would you say if you knew? Oh, it is all cruel, cruel—' And then Philippa sits very still and ponders over many things, till the voices of the others laughing and talking come nearer and nearer. With an effort she rises. 'I must not show that anything has happened, but oh! if I must give up Jimmy,' and with a little sob she leans her head against the wall for a moment, then stepping forward, she meets the others.

'Are you rested?' asks Lord Helmdon. 'I do believe you have been asleep, what!'

'Yes,' replies Lippa. 'I have been fast asleep—'

'Dreaming,' suggests Miss Appleby, a young lady given to sentiment.

'Of me, I hope,' puts in Chubby.

'Now, whyyouof all people, I should like to know,' says Dalrymple, at which they all laugh.

Lippa is strangely silent on the way home and all the evening she avoids being alone with Dalrymple, but Jimmy gets uneasy and on saying Good-night adds in a low tone, 'Come into the garden early to-morrow, I want to talk to you.'

'Very well,' she replies, 'I have something to tell you too.' She says this so gravely, and flushes a little, that he ponders for some time on what she can have to tell him, and Philippa goes up to her bedroom, her head throbbing and with a wild desire to cry.

'Good-night, dear,' says Mabel, 'I am so tired I really cannot stay and talk to you to-night, and you, child, you look knocked up, go to bed at once.'

'Good-night,' replies Lippa, and having dispensed with the services of her maid she seems to have no intention of seeking her downy couch, she envelopes herself in a loose wrapper and drawing an armchair up to the window, appears to be contemplating the moon, but her thoughts are far far away from it.

Poor little Miss Seaton, a great battle is going on within her; she will let no one know what she has overheard this afternoon, unless she explains all to Dalrymple and lets him decide as to what ... but no, she will just tell him it is impossible for her to marry him, ten to one if he knew all he would laugh at her fears, and marrying her, would in a few years have to consign his wife to a lunatic asylum; it will be the right thing not to let him have a chance of marrying her; and coming to this conclusion, she tries to forget the man she loves, and her heart is filled with compassion for her mother, and then she remembers Ponsonby's life story. 'How strange,' she murmurs, 'in one day to have learnt all this; but oh, how shall I tell Jimmy, and he will think I love somebody else, but I must do the right thing, I must and I will.'

The clock strikes one as she rises with a little shiver, and is soon in bed, but it is sometime before her eyes close, and even after she is asleep sobs check her breathing. Dear, good little heart it is always hardest to do whatseemsright, and it seems too, as if it will never be rewarded, but surely, surely it is in the end....

Drip, drip, drip, is what Dalrymple hears as soon as he wakes. 'Wet,' he says to himself turning round, 'no good getting up yet, Philippa is sure not to.' For ten minutes he dozes, and then with two or three loud yawns he pulls himself together, and at length attired in a faultless suit he opens his door. It is still what he calls early, (being half-past eight) and he meets no one as he descends. Whistling gaily, he opens the door of the drawing-room, and finds Philippa there already, standing by the window. She turns as he goes up to her, and when he is about to embrace her she draws back.

'Good-morning,' she says, looking up at him for a moment and then gazing steadily at the carpet; the pattern of which she remembers long afterwards.

'Good-morning,' he replies blankly, and then thinking that perhaps she is shy, he puts his hand on her shoulder, saying, 'Lippa, dearest, what is the matter?' There is an amount of concern in his voice that is almost too much for her, but she has made up her mind to tell him it is impossible for her to marry him, and cost what it may she will do it.

'Mr Dalrymple,' she begins in a low but perfectly calm voice, 'if you remember I told you last night that I had something to say to you—'

'Certainly,' he says, 'that is why I came down so early; but why have you changed so since yesterday?'

'That is exactly it, I have changed since yesterday,' says she, 'I—er—I think I led you to imagine that I would marry you, but—'

'But,' he echoes, bending towards her, 'you have not changed your mind, have you?'

'Yes I have,' replies Philippa clasping her hands tightly behind her back.

'Do you mean it?' he asks in a bewildered tone.

'Yes,' this very low.

'May I ask why you have changed?' and Dalrymple draws himself up and his voice is cold and studiously polite. 'Is it money,—I am not very well off I know, but I did not think you were the kind of girl to mind that?'

'Ah, you see I am different from what you thought, it is a good thing we found it out before it was too late.'

Jimmy looks at her curiously, and then catches her in his arms. 'Oh my dearest,' he says, 'you can't mean it, you could not be so cruel—'

For a second Lippa feels she cannot hold out any longer, but it is only for a second, and then freeing herself from his embrace she says slowly and distinctly—'I mean all I have said.'

'I must go then,' says Jimmy, a world of sorrow in his honest brown eyes.

'Yes,' she replies, not daring to look up till she hears the door shut behind him, and then she realises all she has done: sent away the man she loves, the one man who is 'her world of all the men'; sent him away thinking she is cruel and mercenary. She chokes back the tears that start to her eyes; the others must not know, must not even suspect, but oh the aching at her heart.

It goes on raining steadily all day, and every one is dull and depressed, even Chubby. Dalrymple suddenly discovers that it is absolutely necessary for him to be back at the barracks as soon as possible, and bidding farewell, decamps.

Lady Anne, despite the weather, tramps off to the village to preside at a sewing-class. Philippa is forbidden by Mabel to put her nose out of doors, who then retires to Lady Dadford's private boudoir where she spends the afternoon.

'What shall we do?' asks Lord Helmdon, gazing helplessly round on the remaining guests. 'Miss Seaton, suggest something, do!'

'I can't think of anything,' answers Lippa, longing for some distraction to her thoughts.

'Don't you think a little music would be nice,' says Miss Appleby, 'nothing enlivens one so much on a wet day.'

'Let us have some by all means,' says Helmdon. 'I say Tommy, I'm sure you'll honour us with a song, eh, what?'

Tommy is a very juvenile young man, with light hair parted down the middle, a red face, and pince-nez.

'Anything you like,' he responds gaily.

'Come along then,' and away starts Chubby to the drawing-room followed by the others. 'Now, ladies and gentlemen,' he begins having opened the piano, 'I give you fair warning that every one of you will have to contribute to the entertainment.'

'Catch me,' says George Seaton, and on the earliest opportunity slips away to the smoking-room.

Miss Appleby is called upon to begin and sings a dear little song with very few words in it.

'Tommy, it's your turn next,' says Paul, 'I'll accompany you!'

'Oh, thanks awfully,' and settling his pince-nez firmly on his very small nose, sings with an air of sweet simplicity—'Because my mother told me so,' which sends Chubby into shrieks of laughter.

When Philippa's turn comes, she goes to the piano knowing that Paul is watching her, she feels he has guessed that something is up, so tries to mislead him by singing a merry song, but he is not taken in. Helmdon produces a banjo and sings several nigger songs lustily.

'Do you know, Chubby,' says Tommy, 'do you know that you are just made for that kind of music, you'd do so well at the Christy Minstrels.'

'Ah, my boy,' replies he, 'I'm glad you've found an occupation for me in which I should excel, for it is more than I have done myself; but I'm afraid the sameness would bore me. If I do anything I shall go in for music-hall singing, there one would have more scope for one's dramatic talent.'

By degrees they all disperse, some to play billiards, others to write letters, and Philippa is left alone, seated on one of the deep window sills, a book in her hand, but her eyes are fixed on the distant horizon, where the sun has suddenly appeared from behind the clouds, and is shedding a yellow haze over the dripping trees.

So absorbed is she that she does not hear Paul come. He goes up to where she is, and says, 'What has happened?'

She starts and turning round replies, 'Nothing,' while a tell-tale blush dyes her cheeks.

'Yes, there is,' he persists, 'why did Jimmy leave so suddenly?'

'He told Lady Dadford that he must get back to the Barracks to-night,' she replies.

'Do you think I believe that?' says Paul.

'Why shouldn't you?'

'Now child, I know that something is wrong,' and Paul sits down by her side, 'you told me yesterday you had promised to marry him, why has he gone away to-day; you have not already disagreed?'

'I don't see that you have any right to question me like this,' she answers evasively, 'but I suppose I had better tell you that I am not going to marry Mr Dalrymple,' she says it so firmly that Ponsonby can see that she is not joking.

'Why not?' he asks.

'For many reasons,' is the reply. 'For one he has not much to live on, and—there are circumstances which would make it impossible—'

'Whew!—may I ask if the circumstances prevent him from marrying you or you him.'

'I think there is no occasion for me to answer you,' replies Lippa coldly, 'and I will beg you will mention to no one what I have told you either yesterday or just now.'

'I shall write to Dalrymple to-night,' says he meditatively.

'I hope you will do no such thing,' and Miss Seaton rises hastily. 'I think it would be extremely out of place foryouto interfere in any way.'

There is a marked emphasis on the 'you' that makes Paul start while he bites fiercely the ends of his moustache, and Philippa walks quickly out of the room, rushes up to her own, and flinging herself on the bed gives way to tears. 'Oh dear, oh dear,' she sobs, 'why does everything go wrong and only a little time ago I wassohappy, and now I have hurt Paul's feelings, and ...'

'Paul!'

Ponsonby on his way to bed is surprised at hearing himself called.

'Yes,' he replies.

'I want to tell you something,' is the answer.

The gas has been turned out and all the other men are just turning in for the night.

'What do you want?' he says, going into the sitting-room, from whence the voice issues, a solitary candle burns on the table, and discloses Philippa.

'You here?' he exclaims surprised.

'Yes,' she says. 'I am afraid I vexed you this afternoon, and I wanted to tell you I was sorry, and ...—'

'Don't think about it again, but really you know you ought not to be here—'

'I only waited to tell you that,' she says, turning towards the door feeling utterly miserable, and the tears that she has tried to keep back break forth, and covering her face with her hands she cries as though her heart would break.

Paul goes up to her. 'Philippa, my dear,' he says very gently, 'there is something very wrong, can't you tell me why Jimmy went away—'

'No, no,' she sobs. 'I told him to go, but I can't tell you why—'

'How cold you are,' he says. 'Stop crying and go to bed at once, or you will make yourself ill.'

'Very well,' replies she, meekly. 'But you [sob] you won't tell Mabel—'

'I won't tell a soul.'

'And you're not vexed with me?'

'No; why should I be. Good-night.'

'Good-night,' such a sad little face she turns to him, that he stoops and kisses it.

'What a child she is,' he thinks, as he watches her down the passage. 'I wonder what induced her to throw Jimmy over. Couldn't have been better off as regards a husband. Money! as if that would ever enter into her head. Can't make it out at all. She likes him I can see.'

For some time, Paul puzzles his handsome head about Philippa, and then when sleep has come, he dreams of the woman he loved; she to whom he gave his love, his faith, his all, only to be abused; the woman who has blighted his life. Oh! it is a strange world. It is like a puzzle that everyone tries to make, but does not succeed because the principal parts are missing. Will they ever be found, the missing links, the pieces of the puzzle, the answer to the 'whys' and 'wherefores?'

'We run a race to-day, and find no halting place,All things we see be far within our scopeAnd still we peer beyond with craving face.'

In a few days they are back again in Brook Street, George, Mabel and Philippa. It is the beginning of September and anything more dreary and deserted than the parks could not be imagined. No one is in London. Who would be when the seaside is everything delightful and the moors are covered with heather and grouse? Philippa shudders as she looks out of her bedroom window into the mews, even that is deserted, a canary in a very small cage and a lean cat are the only living creatures to be seen.

'Well,' she says, 'it might almost be the city of the dead ...' here her meditations are interrupted by Teddy, who rushes in and flings his arms round her neck. 'How brown you are,' she exclaims.

'Yes, ain't I,' he answers. 'Me and Marie have been in the Square most of the days and it has been so hot, have you enjoyed yourself?'

'Yes, thank you,' replies Philippa.

'I don't think you have,' says Teddy, who is as sharp as a needle, 'because, well, you don't look very happy now.'

'That is just it perhaps, I am so sorry it is over.'

'Oh,' and Teddy goes to the window only half convinced, 'there's that canary,' he says, 'I watch him often and often, and never can see nobody feeding it. I asked Marie to let me go and see if it had got some seed; but she was cross and said I wasn't to—oh, Aunt Lippa, isn't it hot?'

'It is rather, but it must be nearly tea-time, let us have some tea and then go out.'

'Can't; Marie's gone to see her sister,' replies Teddy, trying to see himself in the knob at the end of the bedstead.

'Perhaps mother will come; but really Teddy do get off my bed, you are making it in such a mess,' and she rushes at him, seizing him in her arms, 'oh, what a dreadful little nephew you are.'

'Let go, let go,' he cries, between struggling and laughing, and then mischievously, 'You don't look half pretty now, you're quite red. I'll—tell Mr Dal—'

'Mr who?' asks Lippa, putting him down.

'Sha'n't tell you,' he says, making for the door, but Philippa is too quick for him, and placing her back against it, says in tones of mild reproof,

'Do you know, it is very rude to make personal remarks.'

'Is it?' he asks, 'well you see it was only to Mr Dalrymple, and I've known him for such a great many years, I met him yesterday, he was walking the same way as me, and—you've got a hair-pin coming out, Aunt Lippa.'

'Never mind that,' says she, adjusting the straying article, 'and—'

'Oh, him or I began, I don't 'xactly remember, but we talked about pretty persons, and he said he was glad he wasn't a pretty person, because they were nearly always nasty, and then I said they weren't, 'cos there's mother and you, and I said you're always pretty.'

'And what did he say?' asks Lippa.

'He said,' replies Teddy, in the gruffest voice he can assume, trying to imitate Jimmy, '"More's the pity," and now you see I can just tell him you don't look pretty a bit, when you're holding somebody in your arms.'

'You must not say anything of the kind,' says she; it would be useless to exact a promise from him, probably be the way to make him repeat the conversation word for word; but Philippa has found out what she wanted to know, namely, that Jimmy is in London, and it causes her for the moment exquisite pain, to feel that he is not so far away, for though the Metropolis is a large place, there is always the chance of meeting one's friends in the street.

After deep thought Philippa has made up her mind to tell no one, of all she has heard and of all that has happened in consequence. She can rely on Ponsonby keeping secret the little he knows of it; but what is hardest to bear is the having nothing to look forward to, for the future looks, oh, so dark and dreary. Sometimes she feels that it cannot be true, and she shrinks with horror from the remembrance of the fate that may be awaiting her. But Mabel does not notice that something has changed her; that her step is not so light as it was, or her laugh so gay. How little we know of each other, although living the same lives, seeing the same people and things; we have all got an inner existence which no one but ourselves knows anything about, it is so shadowy and unreal, that contact with the outer world would crush all the beauty and poetry of it.

'I think we might go to the sea somewhere,' says Mrs Seaton, one day as she and Philippa are sitting together under the trees in the park, while Teddy is hunting for caterpillars, 'it is really too unutterably dull here, and it would do that boy good to have a change, what do you say to a fortnight or three weeks at Folkestone?'

'It would be very nice, I should think,' replies Lippa, who is watching the ungainly not to say peculiar movements, of a stout elderly female who is taking equestrian exercise.

'We could get rooms at an hotel,' goes on Mabel, 'you know some cousins of mine are there; and George said that I might do anything I liked, while he's up in Scotland; do you really think it would be nice?'

'Yes, I do,' Lippa replies, feeling that one place is the same to her as another. The stout elderly female has bumped away, and she is staring straight in front of her, when suddenly the colour rushes to her face leaving it whiter than it was before.

'Why, there's Jimmy Dalrymple,' says Mabel, 'and I do believe he's not going to see us. I really think he might, it would be quite refreshing to talk to somebody else besides you—'

'Am I such a dull companion then?'

Mabel laughs good-naturedly.

There is not any doubt that Dalrymple will see them, for Master Seaton has observed him and rushing to the railings gesticulates violently, and the former attracted by some magnetic influence turns, hesitates for a moment and then crosses over.

'So glad to see you. Lippa and I were so afraid you were going to cut us,' says the unsuspecting Mabel. 'What are you doing in London now?'

'I have to be up at the barracks,' says he.

'Come and sit here, do, and tell us some news,' says she motioning him to the chair at her side.

Philippa has become deeply interested in one of her nephew's caterpillars, and beyond extending him a limp hand; pays no attention to Dalrymple, but her outward calm hides the tumult within, for her heart is throbbing violently.

At any other time and under any other circumstances, Dalrymple would be very willing to spend any length of time with Mabel, for he is very fond of pretty little Mrs Seaton and carrying on a mild flirtation with her would be the reverse of unpleasant to him, but to be so near the object of his affection, no, he couldn't do it, so excusing himself he raises his hat and passes on.

'He seems in a great hurry,' says Mabel turning to Lippa who is looking in exactly the opposite direction to the one Dalrymple has taken.

Her 'Yes,' and something in her expression opens Mabel's eyes to the fact that something is up, however she says nothing just then for Teddy would be sure to hear, but she intends to find out everything.

On the eve of their trip to Folkestone she begins to cross-examine her sister-in-law.

'Philippa, dear,' she says as soon as the coffee-cups have been taken away after their dinner and they are left alone. 'I am going to ask you something, which you must not mind, come nearer.'

Lippa who has been gazing out of the window into the gaslit street below turns slowly, and going up to Mrs Seaton sits down on a stool at her feet, she is looking very lovely in a pale blue tea-gown and the lamp-light falling on her golden hair.

'Well, Mab,' she says, 'is it a lecture or good advice, I'm not to mind?'

'Neither one nor the other,' is the reply, 'but I want to know if there is anything between you and—Mr Dalrymple. Well Lippa?' as there is no answer for a second—and then,

'Nothing,' she replies.

'Not at present perhaps,' suggested Mabel, 'but hasn't there been?'

'Why do you want to know?' asks Miss Seaton.

'Well, dear, you see it is awkward, as he comes here so often, and—'

'Like all other women you're dying of curiosity to know; own the truth!' and after a pause Lippa adds, apparently deeply interested in the point of her shoe, 'If you must know, he did ask me to marry him, but I said I couldn't,' here the shoe is drawn out of sight as though it had not found favour in its owner's eyes. Mabel is astonished, tries to see Lippa's face and not succeeding says,

'Do you mean that you do not like him?'

Not like him, oh, to be accused of that, not like him, when poor little soul she is desperately in love with him. Oh, Mabel! Mabel! why can't you guess? a few words from you would put everything right, and make two people happy, but such is life!

'He has not much to live on,' says Lippa evasively.

'Now, child, you don't think you are going to take me in like that,' and Mrs Seaton becomes quite vehement. 'What do you care about money, or know about it either.'

'I know there are girls who can fall in love,' is the answer. 'I knew one once who told me her idea of bliss was love in a cottage, but that wouldn't suit me at all. I shouldn't know how to get on without heaps of things that I could not have, if I married a poor man.' Lippa's fingers are doing great damage to the ribbons which are attached to her gown, and till they are reduced to a crumpled mess, she continues to take the beauty out of them, by folding and refolding them. Mabel is only half convinced and says no more to Philippa, but a long letter is written to dear George, begging him to come to them soon, and he enjoying himself vastly shooting and fishing does not come, and time passes on.

Philippa tries to forget Jimmy, and wonders how he is getting on, she has yet to learn that,—

Back to Index Next