Part 5

Marion addressed her letter and wrote “Immediate” across the envelope, and placed it before the clock on the mantelshelf. “You will find Philip looking very badly,” she said, as she pulled on her gloves. “He has been in town all summer, working very hard--he has had no holiday at all. I don’t think he’s well. I have been a great deal worried about him,” she added. Her face was bent over the buttons of her glove, and when she raised her blue eyes to Helen they were filled with serious concern.

“Really,” Helen stammered, “I--I didn’t know--in his letters he seemed very cheerful.”

Marion shook her head and turned and stood looking thoughtfully out of the window. “He’s in a very hard place,” she began abruptly, and then stopped as though she had thought better of what she intended to say. Helen tried to ask her to go on, but could not bring herself to do so. She wanted to get away.

“I tell him he ought to leave London,” Marion began again; “he needs a change and a rest.”

“I should think he might,” Helen agreed, “after three months of this heat. He wrote me he intended going to Herne Bay or over to Ostend.”

“Yes, he had meant to go,” Marion answered. She spoke with the air of one who possessed the most intimate knowledge of Carroll’s movements and plans, and change of plans. “But he couldn’t,” she added. “He couldn’t afford it. Helen,” she said, turning to the other girl, dramatically, “do you know--I believe that Philip is very poor.”

Miss Cabot exclaimed incredulously, “Poor!” She laughed. “Why, what do you mean?”

“I mean that he has no money,” Marion answered, sharply. “These rooms represent nothing. He only keeps them on because he paid for them in advance. He’s been living on three shillings a day. That’s poor for him. He takes his meals at cabmen’s shelters and at Lockhart’s, and he’s been doing so for a month.”

Helen recalled with a guilty thrill the receipt of certain boxes of La France roses--cut long, in the American fashion--which had arrived within the last month at various country houses. She felt indignant at herself, and miserable. Her indignation was largely due to the recollection that she had given these flowers to her hostess to decorate the dinner-table.

She hated to ask this girl of things which she should have known better than any one else. But she forced herself to do it. She felt she must know certainly and at once.

“How do you know this?” she asked. “Are you sure there is no mistake?”

“He told me himself,” said Marion, “when he talked of letting the plays go and returning to America. He said he must go back; that his money was gone.”

“He is gone to America!” Helen said, blankly.

“No, he wanted to go, but I wouldn’t let him,” Marion went on. “I told him that some one might take his play any day. And this third one he has written, the one he finished this summer in town, is the best of all, I think. It’s a love-story. It’s quite beautiful.” She turned and arranged her veil at the glass, and as she did so, her eyes fell on the photographs of herself scattered over the mantelpiece, and she smiled slightly. But Helen did not see her--she was sitting down now, pulling at the books on the table. She was confused and disturbed by emotions which were quite strange to her, and when Marion bade her good-by she hardly noticed her departure. What impressed her most of all in what Marion had told her, was, she was surprised to find, that Philip was going away. That she herself had frequently urged him to do so, for his own peace of mind, seemed now of no consequence. Now that he seriously contemplated it, she recognized that his absence meant to her a change in everything. She felt for the first time the peculiar place he held in her life. Even if she had seen him but seldom, the fact that he was within call had been more of a comfort and a necessity to her than she understood.

That he was poor, concerned her chiefly because she knew that, although this condition could only be but temporary, it would distress him not to have his friends around him, and to entertain them as he had been used to do. She wondered eagerly if she might offer to help him, but a second thought assured her that, for a man, that sort of help from a woman was impossible.

She resented the fact that Marion was deep in his confidence; that it was Marion who had told her of his changed condition and of his plans. It annoyed her so acutely that she could not remain in the room where she had seen her so complacently in possession. And after leaving a brief note for Philip, she went away. She stopped a hansom at the door, and told the man to drive along the Embankment--she wanted to be quite alone, and she felt she could see no one until she had thought it all out, and had analyzed the new feelings.

So for several hours she drove slowly up and down, sunk far back in the cushions of the cab, and staring with unseeing eyes at the white enamelled tariff and the black dash-board.

She assured herself that she was not jealous of Marion, because, in order to be jealous, she first would have to care for Philip in the very way she could not bring herself to do.

She decided that his interest in Marion hurt her, because it showed that Philip was not capable of remaining true to the one ideal of his life. She was sure that this explained her feelings--she was disappointed that he had not kept up to his own standard; that he was weak enough to turn aside from it for the first pretty pair of eyes. But she was too honest and too just to accept that diagnosis of her feelings as final--she knew there had been many pairs of eyes in America and in London, and that though Philip had seen them, he had not answered them when they spoke. No, she confessed frankly, she was hurt with herself for neglecting her old friend so selfishly and for so long a time; his love gave him claims on her consideration, at least, and she had forgotten that and him, and had run after strange gods and allowed others to come in and take her place, and to give him the sympathy and help which she should have been the first to offer, and which would have counted more when coming from her than from any one else. She determined to make amends at once for her thoughtlessness and selfishness, and her brain was pleasantly occupied with plans and acts of kindness. It was a new entertainment, and she found she delighted in it. She directed the cabman to go to Solomons’s, and from there sent Philip a bunch of flowers and a line saying that on the following day she was coming to take tea with him. She had a guilty feeling that he might consider her friendly advances more seriously than she meant them, but it was her pleasure to be reckless: her feelings were running riotously, and the sensation was so new that she refused to be circumspect or to consider consequences. Who could tell, she asked herself with a quick, frightened gasp, but that, after all, it might be that she was learning to care? From Solomons’s she bade the man drive to the shop in Cranbourne Street where she was accustomed to purchase the materials she used in painting, and Fate, which uses strange agents to work out its ends, so directed it that the cabman stopped a few doors below this shop, and opposite one where jewelry and other personal effects were bought and sold. At any other time, or had she been in any other mood, what followed might not have occurred, but Fate, in the person of the cabman, arranged it so that the hour and the opportunity came together.

There were some old mezzotints in the window of the loan shop, a string of coins and medals, a row of new French posters; and far down to the front a tray filled with gold and silver cigarette-cases and watches and rings. It occurred to Helen, who was still bent on making restitution for her neglect, that a cigarette-case would be more appropriate for a man than flowers, and more lasting. And she scanned the contents of the window with the eye of one who now saw in everything only something which might give Philip pleasure. The two objects of value in the tray upon which her eyes first fell were the gold seal-ring with which Philip had sealed his letters to her, and, lying next to it, his gold watch! There was something almost human in the way the ring and watch spoke to her from the past--in the way they appealed to her to rescue them from the surroundings to which they had been abandoned. She did not know what she meant to do with them nor how she could return them to Philip; but there was no question of doubt in her manner as she swept with a rush into the shop. There was no attempt, either, at bargaining in the way in which she pointed out to the young woman behind the counter the particular ring and watch she wanted. They had not been left as collateral, the young woman said; they had been sold outright.

“Then any one can buy them?” Helen asked eagerly. “They are for sale to the public--to any one?”

The young woman made note of the customer’s eagerness, but with an unmoved countenance.

“Yes, miss, they are for sale. The ring is four pounds and the watch twenty-five.”

“Twenty-nine pounds!” Helen gasped.

That was more money than she had in the world, but the fact did not distress her, for she had a true artistic disregard for ready money, and the absence of it had never disturbed her. But now it assumed a sudden and alarming value. She had ten pounds in her purse and ten pounds at her studio--these were just enough to pay for a quarter’s rent and the rates, and there was a hat and cloak in Bond Street which she certainly must have. Her only assets consisted of the possibility that some one might soon order a miniature, and to her mind that was sufficient. Some one always had ordered a miniature, and there was no reasonable doubt but that some one would do it again. For a moment she questioned if it would not be sufficient if she bought the ring and allowed the watch to remain. But she recognized that the ring meant more to her than the watch, while the latter, as an old heirloom which had been passed down to him from a great-grandfather, meant more to Philip. It was for Philip she was doing this, she reminded herself. She stood holding his possessions, one in each hand, and looking at the young woman blankly. She had no doubt in her mind that at least part of the money he had received for them had paid for the flowers he had sent to her in Scotland. The certainty of this left her no choice. She laid the ring and watch down and pulled the only ring she possessed from her own finger. It was a gift from Lady Gower. She had no doubt that it was of great value.

“Can you lend me some money on that?” she asked. It was the first time she had conducted a business transaction of this nature, and she felt as though she were engaging in a burglary.

“We don’t lend money, miss,” the girl said, “we buy outright. I can give you twenty-eight shillings for this,” she added.

“Twenty-eight shillings,” Helen gasped; “why, it is worth--oh, ever so much more than that!”