"Getting gradually stronger."

"Is your husband here?"

"No, he stopped with the boy; we could not both come away. I can only stay a short time. Will you come into the morning-room and let us have a talk there, where we shall be undisturbed?"

"You got my letter?" asked Philippa.

"Yes, that is why I came," answered Marion gravely. "Will you tell me all about it, dear?"

For answer Philippa flung her arms about her and held her close. There was something so comforting, so dear about Marion, that at the sight of her a flood of recollection flashed through the girl's mind of unnumbered kindnesses and loving counsel in the old days, a thousand links in the chain which bound them in friendship, and yet--now--how was she to make her understand?

Marion, with all the genius for loving-kindness which she undoubtedly possessed, held certain rigid and unwavering opinions. They were a part of her; without them she would not have been Marion--the Marion Philippa loved--and it was just her perfectly sane, normal outlook on life which made the stumbling-block, for it was not easy to her to take another person's point of view, or look, as it were, through another person's eyes.

And Marion herself, holding the girl tightly in all affection, and stroking the dark head with a tender touch, felt a sudden helplessness.

This was not the Philippa she had expected to see. She had read her letter with the utmost surprise, not to say consternation, and, womanlike, had read into the simple communication a very great deal that had not been in it at all.

That Philippa should feel affection for the man whom she had come to know under such extraordinary circ.u.mstances she could well believe; it was entirely in keeping with her estimate of the girl's character, and she had, in fact, said as much to her husband from the first.

"Philippa will love any one who wants her badly enough," she had said.

"It is simply her loving heart and her pity that lead her into it."

But that she should think of marriage was almost unbelievable; it could not be allowed.

She had imagined Philippa composed, even happy--indeed the girl had said as much when she wrote--uplifted by a sense of heroism which was possibly quite unconscious--ready to take a course to which her sympathy and her compa.s.sion impelled her, without any thought of what the consequences might be, so far as she herself was concerned.

As she, Marion, well knew, the bodily weakness of a man can be in itself a great attraction to a certain type of woman, and no doubt Phil had been carried off her feet by his very need of her--blinded by her emotions so that she could not see that they were misleading her, to say the least of it. And instead of this, she found a Philippa radiant, palpitating, blissful, with eyes that shone with gladness through a veil of dreams.

It was so utterly unexpected that it cut the ground of all her carefully prepared arguments away from underneath her feet. She drew Philippa to a couch and they sat down side by side.

There was silence for a while, and then the girl began recounting in a low voice the steps which one by one had led her to the present moment.

She did not find it easy. It was hard to forget that under Marion's kind and grave attention there must be, for all her love, the little barrier raised by the dissentient voice of her conscience. It had been much easier to be quite frank with Isabella, whose love for Francis swept aside every scruple, every obstacle, but with Marion it was different. It was not that she could not understand the power of love, or was incapable of sacrificing herself on love's altar; she was essentially a woman who knew love at its very best and strongest, and who would at any time have laid down her life for the beloved; but there was another thing more precious to her than life, and that was righteousness. She had in her some of the stuff of which martyrs were made, and she would have torn her heart out by the roots sooner than have stepped into happiness over the grave of a principle. And to her, at any rate, it was clear that in this case a very precious principle was being violated, for the whole matter hung upon a deception. Truth was right, and untruth was wrong, and her whole heart was bent upon bringing Philippa to a correct vision of right.

"My dearest," she said, as Philippa ceased speaking, "you say that he is better and stronger now. Well, then, tell him the truth."

"I cannot do that," replied the girl firmly. "It would only make him very unhappy, even if he were strong enough to bear it."

"It might make him unhappy just for the time," rejoined Marion quickly.

"But surely, oh, surely that would be better than the greater unhappiness of knowing you have deceived him. For he must find out.

You cannot possibly guard him against enlightenment. Why, any day when he is able to go out he might meet some one who would make some remark quite by chance which would betray you. He needs you, he is to a certain extent dependent on you; once he knew he would--in a little while if not at once--turn to you for comfort."

"I love him too much to hurt him."

"I believe you love him, and I am sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

"Because this love must bring you pain; but believe me, dearest Philippa, for his sake it would be kinder to tell him."

"I cannot see it," answered the girl rather hotly. "He is absolutely happy, absolutely contented. He knows I love him. The fact that he has made a mistake hurts n.o.body."

"There can be no blessing on a love which is not based on truth," said Marion gently.

"You speak as if I were defrauding some one. There is no one else to be considered. Phil is dead and gone, and the whole matter rests between him and me."

"You are defrauding him and you are defrauding yourself of the highest and best part of love, and what love should mean--confidence and trust!

Philippa, let me tell him. Let me tell him, and explain your pity which misled you and which grew into love for him."

"Oh no, no!" cried the girl quickly. "It is out of the question. It would be wicked--cruel!"

"I think I had better tell him," repeated Marion persuasively.

Philippa thought a moment. "If you do he would not believe you," she said, with a little note of triumph in her voice. "I should not be afraid. Of course it is quite impossible to think of such a thing on account of the distress it would cause him. He would only be afraid it was part of the old trouble--that he was dreaming or delirious. He would never believe you."

Marion recognised the truth in this, and withdrew from that line of attack. She thought for a moment of asking Philippa what her mother's opinion would be, but on reflection decided not to mention Lady Lawson.

Her intuition told her that she would hardly be the person to consider ethics, and would probably be quite willing that her daughter should follow her inclinations, always provided that the social and financial position of the man she wished to marry left nothing to be desired.

Philippa rose from her seat and took two or three steps across the room; then she turned and faced her friend.

"I cannot tell you, dear, how sorry I am that you and I should differ over this. But nothing you can say will make me alter my mind. I am absolutely positive that what I am doing is best for Francis, and I only wish I could make you think so too. Do you imagine that I would do anything that was not for his good--I who love him so much? Of course I wouldn't. I would not have promised to marry him if I had not cared for him. I could not have done such a thing. It would have been a dreadful position, and I can't bear to think of what it would have meant. But after all there is no reason to think of it now. I love him and I will be his most loving wife. My every thought shall be devoted to him and to taking care of him. I only wish you could see him. Perhaps then you would understand. But it is not possible. It is most important that he should not be worried or disturbed, and if he saw you he might worry because he did not remember you. I know there will be difficulties, but I am confident they can be overcome. We shall be married very quietly in a month or six weeks' time. I haven't written to my mother about it yet, but, of course, I will do so when it is definitely settled. Then I shall take Francis abroad to some quiet, sunny place, where he will not be in the least likely to see any one he knew before his illness. The doctor says that will be the best thing for him."

"I blame Dr. Gale very much," interrupted Marion.

"I don't think you need," rejoined Philippa with a little smile, "the poor man is quite penitent enough already. And, indeed, although he had something to do with it at first, he has nothing to do with it now.

He took much the same line as you do when it came to the question of marriage, but I explained to him that it was my affair, and no one else's. Marion, it is not as if I was a child. I am of an age to decide for myself. And, of course, the doctor was only thinking of me.

He knows well enough that it is the best possible thing for Francis.

Don't look so dreadfully unhappy!" she said in a lighter tone, for Marion's pretty round face was flushed and drawn and her eyes were full of tears. "Dear," she added affectionately, "if you knew how happy I was, I think you would rejoice, and not be so full of dismal forebodings. I love him and he loves me, and nothing else matters."

Marion's face paled. It was an effort to speak the words which had been on her lips for some moments, for to her it seemed that they must deal Philippa a blow which she would thankfully have spared her, a blow which must surely dissolve the girl's castle of dreams into dust. But she did not flinch.

"He does not love you," she said sternly.

Philippa started; then she gave a low laugh of content.

"Ah," she said with a tender smile, "you do not know--how should you?--how great a love he has for me."

"He does not love you. It is not you he loves," continued Marion relentlessly. "Oh, my dear! my dear! can you not see your mistake? It is you who do not understand. His love is not for you. Every word of love he speaks, every bit of the love in his heart belongs to another woman. He does not think of you. You are not in it at all, or if you are, you are only a supplanter taking what is not meant for you."

Marion was crying openly now, the tears coursing unheeded down her cheeks, but Philippa did not notice them. She did not seem to have heard, she was gazing out of the window, intent only on her thoughts, and from the expression on her face those thoughts were very tender, very sweet. And in the little pause that followed, Marion laid down her weapons, knowing they were useless. Her last shot had failed, and there was nothing in her armoury that would pierce the armour of the girl's conviction. She had no power to forbid. After all, Philippa was not a child, but a woman grown.

She dried her eyes rather surrept.i.tiously, and then got up and crossed to where her friend was standing, and put her arm through hers.

"I won't say any more," she said huskily, "because I don't think it is any use, and although we can't agree, which distresses me infinitely, our disagreement is not going to divide us. Nothing can hurt our friendship." In her heart she was already seeking to comfort Philippa for the pain which she was certain must come, but the girl knew nothing of that.

Philippa stooped and kissed her without speaking.

"d.i.c.kie is getting better every day," Marion went on. "Of course we shall have to be careful of him for a long time, but I quite hope we shall be home in a fortnight or three weeks. I shall be glad to be here. I do not think you ought to be alone--without any woman with you, I mean. It has been too unfortunate."

"I have made friends with Isabella Vernon," said Philippa. "Looking back, it seems incredible that the time has been so short--so much has happened. I seem to have known her for years."

"Who is Isabella Vernon?" asked Marion in surprise.