score.
Yet when, in the autumn but one following the Easter of her first visitto Palden, she found herself again at Dorriford, she could hardlybelieve that two whole years had elapsed since the day when Mrs Lermontkissed her so affectionately, and made her promise to return to them assoon as she could do so.
She was again within a day or two of leaving them, after a quiet butpleasant fortnight with Maida--poor Maida, she was no stronger inhealth, possibly a shade more fragile than when she and Philippa hadlast met. But as ever, the fact of her invalidism was never obtruded onthose about her, even, on the contrary, to a great extent ignored.
They--the two cousins--had been strolling for a little, a very littleonly was all Miss Lermont was able for now--up and down the alreadyleaf-strewn drive. The day was mild and calm, a typical autumn day.
Suddenly Maida spoke.
"Do you remember, Philippa," she said--"it has just come back to me--thelast time you were here, our standing in the porch and watching theBertrams drive away?"
Philippa smiled. There was no bitterness in her smile, though it wasperhaps a little sad.
"Yes," she said, with a little bending of her head as she spoke, "yes, Iremember."
Maida glanced at her.
"You are changed since then," she went on.
"It is two years ago," said Philippa. "Two years may alter one a gooddeal--even less time than that--for I recollect your saying at Cannes,within six months of the time I was here, that I had changed."
"I remember it, too," said her cousin. "But now I should express itdifferently. At Cannes you were _changing_; you seemed unsettled anduncertain, though in some ways matured, and--do not be hurt at theword--softened. But now you _are_ changed, the process is completed."
"I hope for the better?" inquired Philippa. She spoke lightly, butthere was an undercurrent of earnestness in her words, too.
"To my mind, if it is not impertinent of me to give my opinion," saidMaida, gently, "very certainly _yes_. You are just what I pictured youwould be as a full-grown woman, though--"
"Don't stop short. I like to know all you feel about me. It does megood."
"I was going to say I scarcely saw how anything but the discipline ofsorrow could make you _quite_ what I wanted you to be, my darling," MissLermont replied. And the unwonted expression of affection touchedPhilippa. "And I trembled at the thought. I am cowardly aboutsuffering for those I love. Yet how short-sighted we are! Here youare, with all the softening, and mellowing, and widening I hoped for,done--and yet--no special suffering has, so far as I know, fallen toyour share. Don't think me inquisitive," she added, hastily. "I don'twant you to tell me anything you would rather not."
Philippa hesitated.
"I have often thought of telling you the whole history of my life duringthe six or eight months after I was last here," she said. "All myexperiences--my personal experiences, I mean--seemed compressed intothat time. Since then things have gone on very monotonously, though Ihave not been either dull or unhappy. You see it was so clear to methat it was my duty to stay at home and help papa again, after Charleyso unexpectedly got that splendid piece of work in India. And withEvelyn settled at home so comfortably and no anxiety about her, thingsjust settled down somehow. These last eighteen months have been mostuneventful."
"You might have varied them by a _little_ visit to us," said Maida.
"Truly I could not," Philippa replied, earnestly. "The one time I couldhave come, you remember Mrs Lermont was ill and you were fully engaged.I have only been to Palden once--that was last winter--for ten days."
"Is not Evelyn vexed with you for not going more frequently?"
"No," said Philippa. "She knows I could not help it. Now, of course--with Charley back--I shall be comparatively free. But--I don't care togo much to Palden."
"I think I know why," said Maida. "Has it not to do with what you haveoften thought of telling me? And _are_ you going to tell it to me?"
"On the whole," said Philippa, "if you will not think me capricious, I_think_ I would rather not. Some day, perhaps."
"As you like, dear, exactly and entirely as you like. But--if I may askyou something?"
"Of course you may."
"I would like to know--I cannot quite master my curiosity, you see, andindeed it is more interest in you than curiosity--I _would_ like to knowwhy you refused Bernard Gresham. For I am sure you did refuse him."
"Yes, I did," said Philippa, simply. "And I do not at all mind tellingyou why. It was just because I became entirely convinced that he and Iwere thoroughly unsuited to each other."
Maida made a little gesture of agreement.
"I should not express it quite as you do," she said. "_I_ should say hewas not worthy of you--not that I think ill of him in any way, but he issimply on a different level altogether. At first, I will own to you, Iwas disappointed when I saw it was not going to be. I was `worldly'_for_ you, Philippa. But I saw more of him again at Cannes last winter,and--I lost all feeling of disappointment. Even when I thought that youhad refused to marry out of exaggerated ideas as to your duties athome--even _then_ I did not regret it."
Philippa shook her head.
"No," she said, "home things had nothing to do with it. At the time Irefused him there was no special need of me at home. And my parents aretoo unselfish to have allowed a sacrifice of that kind; something elsewould have been arranged. No; I have given you my full reason. But--how I came to find out what I did--that," with a slight smile, "is mysecret. And my great reason for not telling you the whole story is thatI know mamma would _rather_ I did not tell it, even to you."
"She knows everything?"
"Everything," said Philippa, "and she does so `understand.' And neverfor one moment have I regretted what I did. But Evey," she went on,"poor Evey, is still a little sore about it. She does not know _quite_the whole, as mamma does."
"Thank you, dear, for telling me all you have done," said Maida. Andthen after a little pause: "Do you think you will never marry, Philippa?Has it left that feeling?"
"No, not exactly," said the girl, frankly. "You see, after all, it was_not_ him I cared for; it was something I believed, or thought Ibelieved him to be. I don't _think_ I shall ever marry, however. Isuppose, though it sounds rather conceited to say so, that it would bedifficult for me ever to feel quite sure I was not making a mistake."
She looked down at Miss Lermont as she spoke--Maida was by this timeindoors and on her couch again--with a half-questioning look in hereyes.
"Don't exaggerate that idea," her friend replied, rather abruptly."After all, every woman is in the same case? And remember you have notseen many men; your life has been to some extent isolated. Don't beginto think there are hardly any happy marriages. It is a trick of the dayto talk so."
Philippa's face grew rather red.
"Don't snub me so severely," she said. "Put a little of my hesitationdown to humility."
Miss Lermont laughed.
"Ah, well," she said. "If the time ever comes when your hesitationvanishes, promise to let me know at once."
Philippa was to leave Dorriford the next day. That morning brought hera letter from her brother Charley.
"I am only writing," he said, "to make sure of your keeping to yourtrain. I am going up to town for a night, and will meet you at thejunction to-morrow on my way home again. And, by-the-by, I am halfthinking of asking a friend to stay two or three days with us. I hadnot time to tell you about him before you left home,"--for CharleyRaynsworth had only returned from the East a day or two beforePhilippa's visit to the Lermonts--"we had so much to talk about. He isa civil engineer whom I saw a good deal of in India, and he came home afew weeks ago for good. His name is Gresham--he says he met you atMerle once. Do you remember him? I am sure my father and all of youwill like him."
Philippa's breath came quick and short for a moment on reading thesewords.
"How strange," she thought, "that Charley and he should have been throw
ntogether! `Met me at Merle'--yes, indeed--_that day_! Once I see him Idaresay it will seem all right. But just at present I feel almost moreself-conscious about our last meeting than about the time at Wyverston.I wonder," she added to herself, "if dear Solomon has been in Indiatoo!"
There was still a little flush of excitement on her face when she ranup-stairs to say good-bye to her cousin Maida, whose slowly increasingweakness was steadily but surely diminishing the hours which she waseach day able to spend down-stairs.
"How well you are looking this morning, dear! Are you so