CHAPTER XIX
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, andknew 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 andrigorous 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 withthe 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 theLiterary 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. “Whatdothey 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 sensein 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, scarcelyknowing 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 whatdoesit 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 continueto 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 hedoeswrite 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 ita 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.