"I shall try and keep your friendship," she said; "but that will be easily done, Norman."
"Yes," he replied; "one of the traditions of our house is "truth in friendship, trust in love, honor in war." To be a true friend and a n.o.ble foe is characteristic of the Arleighs."
"I hope that you will never be a foe of mine," she rejoined, laughingly.
And that evening, thinking over the events of the day she flattered herself that she had made some little progress after all.
Chapter XIII.
The opportunity that Lord Arleigh looked for came at last. Philippa had some reason to doubt the honesty of a man whom she had been employing as agent. She was kind of heart, and did not wish to punish him, yet she felt sure that he had not done his duty by her. To speak to her solicitors about it would be, she felt, injurious to him, whether innocent or guilty. If innocent, it would create a prejudice against him; if guilty, they would wish to punish him. She resolved upon laying the matter before Lord Arleigh, and seeing what he thought of it.
He listened very patiently, examined the affair, and then told her that he believed she had been robbed.
"What shall I do?" she asked, looking at him earnestly.
"I know what you ought to do, Philippa. You ought to punish him."
"But he has a wife, Norman, and innocent little children; in exposing him I shall punish them, and they are innocent."
"That is one of the strangest of universal laws to me," said Lord Arleigh--"why the innocent always do, and always must, suffer for the guilty; it is one of the mysteries I shall never understand. Common sense tells me that you ought to expose this man--that he ought to be punished for what he has done. Yet, if you do, his wife and children will be dragged down into an abyss of misery. Suppose you make a compromise of matters and lecture him well."
He was half smiling as he spoke, but she took every word in serious earnest.
"Philippa," he continued, "why do you not marry? A husband would save you all this trouble; he would attend to your affairs, and shield you from annoyances of this kind."
"The answer to your question, "Why do I not marry?" Would form a long story," she replied, and then she turned the conversation.
But he was determined to keep his word, and pleaded with her for the duke. Another opportunity came that evening. It was Lady Peters"
birthday, and Philippa had invited some of her most intimate friends; not young people, but those with whom she thought her _chaperon_ would enjoy herself best. The result was a very pleasant dinner-party, followed by a very pleasant evening. Lord Arleigh could not be absent, for it was, in some measure, a family _fete_.
The guests did not remain very late, and Lady Peters, professing herself tired with the exertions she had made, lay down on a couch, and was soon asleep. Philippa stood by the window with the rose-silk hangings drawn.
"Come out on the balcony," she said to Lord Arleigh, "the room is very warm."
It was night, but the darkness was silver-gray, not black. The sky above was brilliant with the gleam of a thousand stars, the moon was shining behind some silvery clouds, the great ma.s.ses of foliage in the park were just stirred with the whisper of the night, and sweetest odors came from heliotrope and mignonnette; the brooding silence of the summer night lay over the land.
Philippa sat down, and Lord Arleigh stood by her side.
The moonlight falling on her beautiful face softened it into wondrous loveliness--it was pale, refined, with depths of pa.s.sion in the dark eyes, and tender, tremulous smiles on the scarlet lips. She wore some material of white and gold. A thin scarf was thrown carelessly over her white shoulders. When the wind stirred it blew the scarf against her face.
She might have been the very G.o.ddess of love, she looked so fair out in the starlight. If there had been one particle of love in Lord Arleigh"s heart, that hour and scene must have called it into life. For a time they sat in perfect silence. Her head was thrown back against a pillar round which red roses cl.u.s.tered and clung, and the light of the stars fell full upon her face; the dark eyes were full of radiance.
"How beautiful it is, Norman," she said, suddenly. "What music has ever equaled the whispers of the night-wind? It seems a sad pity after all that we are obliged to lead such conventional lives, and spend the greater part of them in warm, close rooms."
"You have a great love for out-of-door freedom," he remarked, laughingly.
"Yes, I love the fresh air. I think if any one asked me what I loved best on earth, I should say wind. I love it in all its moods--rough, caressing, tender, impetuous, calm, stormy. It is always beautiful.
Listen to it now, just sighing in the branches of those tall trees.
Could any music be sweeter or softer?"
"No," he replied, and then added, "The time and the scene embolden me, Philippa; there is something that I wish to say to you--something that I long have wished to say. Will you hear it now?"
A tremor like that of the leaves in the wind seemed to pa.s.s over her.
There was a startled expression in the dark eyes, a quiver of the crimson lips. Was it coming at last--this for which she had longed all her life? She controlled all outward signs of emotion and turned to him quite calmly.
"I am always ready to listen to you, Norman, and to hear what you have to say."
"You see, Philippa, the starlight makes me bold. If we were in that brilliantly-lighted drawing-room of yours, I should probably hesitate long before speaking plainly, as I am going to do now."
He saw her clasp her hands tightly, but he had no key to what was pa.s.sing in her mind. He drew nearer to her.
"You know, Philippa," he began, "that I have always been fond of you. I have always taken the same interest in you that I should have taken in a dearly-beloved sister of my own, if Heaven had given me one."
She murmured some few words which he did not hear.
"I am going to speak to you now," he continued, "just as though you were my own sister, have I your permission to do so, Philippa?"
"Yes," she replied.
"And you promise not to be angry about any thing that I may say?"
"I could never be angry with you, Norman," she answered.
"Then I want you to tell me why you will not marry the Duke of Hazlewood. You have treated me as your brother and your friend. The question might seem impertinent from another; from me it will not appear impertinent, not curious--simply true and kindly interest. Why will you not marry him, Philippa?"
A quick sharp spasm of pain pa.s.sed over her face. She was silent for a minute before she answered him, and then she said:
"The reason is very simple, Norman--because I do not love him."
"That is certainly a strong reason; but, Philippa, let me ask you now another question--why do you not love him?"
She could have retorted, "Why do you not love me?" but prudence forbade it.
"I cannot tell you. I have heard you say that love is fate. I should imagine it must be because the Duke of Hazlewood is not my fate."
He did not know what answer to make to that, it was so entirely his own way of thinking.
"But, Philippa," he resumed after a pause, "do you not think that you might love him if you tried?"
"I have never thought about it," was the quiet reply.
Lord Arleigh continued:
"In my idea he is one of the most charming men in England; I have never seen a more perfect type of what an English gentleman should be--he is n.o.ble, generous, brave, chivalrous. What fault do you find with him, Philippa?"