"You'll tell me, won't you, that I am not temperamental. I think in your heart you rather despise my absolute fidelity to Richard.
You would call it cowlike, or something of that sort. There is a difference between us, Philippa, and that is why I am afraid to argue with you."
"What should you do," Philippa demanded, "if Richard failed you in some great thing?"
"I might suffer," Helen confessed, "but my love would be there all the same. Perhaps for that reason I should suffer the more, but I should never be able to see with those who judged him hardly."
"You think, then," Philippa persisted, "that I ought still to remain Henry's loving and affectionate wife, ready to take my place amongst the pastimes of his life - when he feels inclined, for instance, to wander from his dark lady-love to something petite and of my complexion, or when he settles down at home for a few days after a fortnight's sport on the sea and expects me to tell him the war news?"
"I don't think that I should do that," Helen admitted quietly, "but I am quite certain that I shouldn't run away with another man."
"Why not?"
"Because I should be punishing myself too much."
Philippa's eyes suddenly flashed.
"Helen," she said, "you are not such a fool as you try to make me think. Can't you see what is really at the back of it all in my mind? Can't you realise that, whatever the punishment it may bring, it will punish Henry more?"
"I see," Helen observed. "You are running away with Mr. Lessingham to annoy Henry?"
"Oh, he'll be more than annoyed!" Philippa laughed sardonically.
"He has terrible ideas about the sanctity of things that belong to him. He'll be remarkably sheepish for some time to come. He may even feel a few little stabs. When I have time, I am going to write him a letter which he can keep for the rest of his life. It won't please him!"
"Where are you - and Mr. Lessingham going to live?" Helen enquired.
"In America, to start with. I've always longed to go to the States."
"What shall you do," Helen continued, "if you don't get out of the country safely?"
"Mr. Lessingham seems quite sure that we shall," Philippa replied, "and he seems a person of many expedients. Of course, if we didn't, I should go back to Cheshire. I should have gone back there, anyway, before now, if Mr. Lessingham hadn't come."
"Well, it all seems very ******," Helen admitted. "I think Mr.
Lessingham is a perfectly delightful person, and I shouldn't wonder if you didn't now and then almost imagine that you were happy."
"You seem to be taking my going very coolly," Philippa remarked.
"I told you how I felt about it just now," Helen reminded her.
"Your going is like a great black cloud that I have seen growing larger and larger, day by day. I think that, in his way, **** will suffer just as much as Henry. We shall all be utterly miserable."
"Why don't you try and persuade me not to go, then?" Philippa demanded. "You sit there talking about it as though I were going on an ordinary country-house visit."
Helen raised her head, and Philippa saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
"Philippa dear," she said, "if I thought that all the tears that were ever shed, all the words that were ever dragged from one's heart, could have any real effect, I'd go on my knees to you now and implore you to give up this idea. But I think - you won't be angry with me, dear? - I think you would go just the same."
"You seem to think that I am obstinate," Philippa complained.
"You see, you are temperamental, dear," Helen reminded her. "You have a complex nature. I know very well that you need the daily=20 love that Henry doesn't seem to have been willing to give you lately, and I couldn't stop your turning towards the sun, you know.
Only - all the time there's that terrible anxiety - are you quite sure it is the sun?"
"You believe in Mr. Lessingham, don't you?" Philippa asked.
"I do indeed," Helen replied. "I am not quite sure, though, that I believe in you."
Philippa was a little startled.
"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "Exactly what do you mean by that, Helen?"
"I am not quite sure," Helen continued, "that when the moment has really come, and your head is upturned and your arms outstretched, and your feet have left this world in which you are now, I am not quite sure that you will find all that you seek."
"You think he doesn't love me?"
"I am not convinced," Helen replied calmly, "that you love him."
"Why, you idiot," Philippa declared feverishly, "of course I love him! I think he is one of the sweetest, most lovable persons I ever knew, and as to his being a Swede, I shouldn't care whether he were a Fiji Islander or a Chinese."
Helen nodded sympathetically.
"I agree with you," she said, "but listen. You know that I haven't uttered a single word to dissuade you. Well, then, grant me just one thing. Before you start off this evening, tell Mr. Lessingham the truth, whatever it may be, the truth which you haven't told me.
It very likely won't make any difference. Two people as nice as you and he, who are going to join their lives, generally do, I believe, find the things they seek. Still, tell him."
Philippa made no reply. Richard opened the door and lingered upon the threshold. Helen rose to her feet.
"I am coming, ****," she called out cheerfully. "There's a gorgeous fire in the gun room, and two big easy-chairs, and we'll have just the time I have been looking forward to all day. You'll tell me things, won't you?
She looked very sweet as she came towards him, her eyes raised to him, her face full of the one happiness. He passed his arm around her waist.
"I'll try, dear," he said. "You won't be lonely, Philippa?"
"I'll come and disturb you when I am," she promised.
The door closed. She stood gazing down into the fire, listening to their footsteps as they crossed the hall.
