THE drive back to Hammersmith was not a particularly agreeable one. Philip began by maintaining a grave silence: he felt his dignity somewhat impaired by the almost peremptory summons to come home before the party was half over, without any reason given or time for consideration allowed; and he suspected that it might be due to some new jealousy on Marion’s part toward Perdita, which made him prefer to leave the conduct of the conversation in her hands. Lady Flanders’ parting observations had been peculiarly apt from this point of view, and Philip secretly owed her a grudge for them; the rather since, although his own conscience acquitted him well enough in the matter, there was no denying that Perdita’s language had been open to the charge of ambiguity. Marion, however, could not have been aware of this, and her suspicions, if she had any, must have been aroused by some communication from a third person. Now it was manifestly undesirable that any third person should be permitted to come between husband and wife at all, much more that the interference should have any weight ascribed to it, except as an interference. Marion was in the wrong, therefore, to begin with, be her own grievance what it might; and Philip deemed it incumbent on his self-respect to let her bring forward her explanations without any motion on his side to anticipate them.

As for Marion, she was silent at first from excitement, which, from whatever cause arising, always had a perverse or contradictory effect upon her demeanor; causing her to laugh at what was serious, and to be reticent when volubility would have seemed more natural. Moreover, having so much to say, she did not know what to say first; and the matter in hand being, from her point of view, of great importance, she desired to make as few mistakes as possible, especially at the beginning. She saw, too, that Philip was not in an especially good humor, and she wished to mitigate his displeasure before unloading her heart to him. She had, up to this time, full confidence in his love for her; but she was conscious that what she had to propose would be somewhat trying to his generosity; and she desired to start with as prosperous a breeze as possible.

Accordingly, she pulled off her glove within her muff (which was large enough to have allowed of much more extensive evolutions) and slipped her warm hand into Philip’s. He, however, had his gloves on, and was not expecting her demonstration; and between his unreadiness and his glove it did not succeed very well. To make matters worse, he said:

“Didn’t you bring your gloves with you, my dear? ’Tis a very cold night.”

“Oh, yes; but I didn’t feel cold,” she replied carelessly, returning her hand to her muff; and then, feeling that this was not a hopeful opening, she added: “It was too bad to take you away so early, Philip; but I thought you wouldn’t mind when you knew.”

Kensington roads were not so smoothly paved then as they are now, and the wheels rattling over the cobblestones prevented Philip from hearing what she said. He said, “What?” and she, with a sense of being rebuffed, only felt inclined to reply, “You seemed to be enjoying yourself so much, I was sorry to take you away.”

“The enjoyment was nothing, one way or the other,” he returned; “but it seemed rather absurd to make so sudden a retreat—don’t you think so?”

“You would not think it absurd if you knew my reasons: I could not help it,” said Marion quickly.

“Well, I am ready to hear them,” rejoined Philip, with an air of judicial impartiality.

Marion had some resentful reply on the tip of her tongue, but she checked herself in time. “I think I would rather wait till we get home,” she said at length. “We cannot talk comfortably in this noise.”

Philip signified his assent to this arrangement by folding his arms and leaning back in his corner of the carriage; and very few words more were exchanged between the new husband and wife during the rest of the drive: so that by the time they arrived at the house, both felt as if they had in some intangible way been injured. But Marion had the more elastic temper of the two, and she reminded herself that Philip had, after all, some reason to be out of sorts; and when she turned to him at last, in the solitude of their room, it was with a face smiling, though pale.

“Now, my Philip, you are going to be astonished!” she said. “In the first place, I have been reading a letter written to you.”

Philip looked a little blank, running through in his mind all the imaginable persons who might have written him letters which he would not have wished Marion to read; but he almost immediately replied, “Why didn’t you speak of it before we left home?”

“I put it in my pocket and didn’t read it till after we arrived: it was from Mr. Fillmore, Philip” (Philip’s brow relaxed) “and the reason I opened it was that I was expecting one from him and thought this was it. But it was not. It was about something ... I should never have expected. I hope you will think about it as I do. Oh, how happy I should be then!”

“Sit down, my dear,” said Philip. “What is the matter?”

“It is about that miserable legacy. It seems to haunt us like an evil spirit. What do you think, love—there was a codicil in the will, as I said, and the money is left in such a way that if I refuse it, it might come to you, unless you refuse it too. And I hope—”

“Come to me!” echoed Philip in amazement. “How is that?”

“It is the wording of the codicil that makes it so,” said Marion. “It says, ‘To my nearest acknowledged relative,’ or something of that sort, and that might be you.”

“It might be I, if it were not the Marquise Desmoines,” returned Philip, with a short laugh. “You forget her.”

“No, I didn’t forget her; but Mr. Fillmore says that she will not acknowledge that she is his daughter at all. And you are the next nearest to her.”

“I never in my life heard of twenty thousand pounds going begging in this fashion,” said Philip, bringing his hands down on the arms of the chair. “Anybody would think it was poisoned. So she maintains she is not his daughter?”

“It is very strange of her: there must be some reason besides what she says,” remarked Marion. “I remember when she stood by the bed where he was lying, poor dear, she called him ‘father;’ and though he could not hear her, I could.”

“Well, that is not legal proof, after all.”

“But the letters in the packet she gave me to keep—those would be legal.”

“They might or they might not. There’s no telling.”

“I will send them to her, so that it may be known.”

“No. She gave them to you to keep for her. You cannot return them with courtesy until she asks for them. And ’tis easy to understand why she should wish them to remain unread. If Mr. Grantley was really her father—”

“Philip, do you doubt it?”

“My belief is that he was everything that is honorable; but what I believe or not is nothing to the purpose. Of course, if he was her father, and an honest man, it follows that something must be very wrong with Sir Francis Bendibow—”

“I am sure of that!”

“Well, I know nothing about it; but what everybody does know is that Perdita is Bendibow’s adopted daughter, and is under a certain obligation—”

“He did not treat her well: she says so herself.”

“In society, Marion, there is a convention to take certain things for granted. The conventional supposition in this case is that she is under obligations to Bendibow. Why should she create a scandal about a matter that was settled, for good or evil, a score of years since? Who would gain by Bendibow’s being shamed? Those letters either contain the evidence of his shame, or they do not; and, in either case, it is reasonable enough that she should wish to let them alone.”

“I do not believe that that is her reason for refusing this legacy.”

“What in heaven’s name can it be then?”

“I think she.... But that is not what I want to say. Philip, do you mean to take this money?”

“If no one contests my right to it, I certainly shall,” said Philip, with his chin in his hand.

Marion’s heart beat hard. She had anticipated reluctance on her husband’s part, but not opposition so determined as this. She hesitated what to do next. That Perdita did not really doubt Grantley to have been her father, Marion was of course convinced. The recollection of what had passed on that tragic morning, when the Marquise had called her in to witness Bendibow’s exposure, and Marion herself had interposed, and with difficulty saved him, was only too distinct in her memory. Perdita had believed then, and there was no reason why she should doubt now. But on the other hand, Marion herself was responsible for Perdita’s present attitude. Marion had asked her not to open the packet, and Perdita—certainly from a generous motive—had complied. In the exaltation of that moment, the two women had kissed each other. Which had maintained the more consistent course since then—Perdita or Marion? Logically, Perdita. She had agreed, for Bendibow’s sake, and at Marion’s request, outwardly to ignore the fact that she was Grantley’s daughter: and how, on that understanding, could she act otherwise than she had done? There was no logical answer to this question; on the contrary, it was Marion who had receded from her position. And yet Marion could not admit herself unjust. Though Perdita had not altered her course, Marion was persuaded that she had changed her motives in pursuing it. It was no longer compassion for Sir Francis that swayed her, but designs upon Philip. It would be impossible to describe, or even to know, by precisely what means Marion had arrived at this conclusion. It is instinct, not reason, that warns a woman when to be jealous of another: and it seems as if she could perceive the purpose in the other’s heart, even before it has declared itself in any overt act. In such circumstances, however, the injured woman can do nothing but affirm her conviction: by the magnetism whereof, and by no other means, can she hope to influence the man. But he can always out-argue her, if he chooses.

Though she felt the premonition of defeat, therefore, Marion resolved not to give up the contest: the spirit of her father was aroused in her, and she was strengthened by the thought that she was fighting not only for herself, but in behalf of Philip’s higher self likewise.

“Don’t you think there is something more than legal rights to be considered?” she said at last. “Would you condescend to accept favors from a woman like Madame Desmoines?”

“I know nothing of Madame Desmoines that puts her below the level of other people: but there is no favor in the matter. She is doing what pleases her best, without any reference to me: and I simply accept things as they are.”

“She means to put you under an obligation to her, and to use the power that will give her. You say you can read the human heart, Philip: can’t you read so easy a thing as that? That was the reason I would not take the money; and if I would not, much less should you.”

“Was that your reason? It was not the one you gave, if I remember right.”

“I believed, then, that you were generous enough to spare me the affront of such an explanation,” said Marion haughtily. “But after all, it is more for your sake than mine ... it would look better for me to be obliged to her, than for you. And for you to accept what I refused is as much as to say that you disapproved what I did.”

“Well, perhaps I did. It doesn’t follow, because I let you have your way, that I thought you were acting sensibly. And ’tis certainly no reason why you should force me to make another such sacrifice on my own account. There’s a limit to everything!”

“It is the same now as it was then. And if you agreed from love of me then, you must love me less now, since you refuse.”

“This is too absurd, Marion. For some cause or other, or for no cause at all rather, you are jealous of Madame Desmoines. If I were to yield to you in this, it would be as much as to say that your jealousy had some foundation. It has none, and I won’t do it. You have no right to say that I don’t love you. If you were generous, you would not say it.”

“I don’t say that you care more for Madame Desmoines than you do for me, Philip; if I thought that, I would never trouble you again, in any way. But I know that she cares for you, and you might know it, too, if you would. I saw her face while she was talking with you at the party to-night. I could tell what was in her mind. Men never seem to see those things: though they get the benefit of them!”

“’Tis no use talking with you till you get your senses back, Marion: and this is not what we set out to discuss, either.”

Marion had something more to say about Madame Desmoines, but she managed to keep it back. She knew that if her temper got the mastery of her, there would be an end, not only of this discussion, but of many other things also; of her love and, practically, of her life. She feared lest she might hate her husband; and she feared still more lest she might despise him. She resumed in a voice low and shaken by the struggle of emotions in her heart.

“Let all the rest go; and why should you take this money, Philip? Do we need it more than we did yesterday? But for this strange chance, you would never have thought of it again. We have more than enough already for two years to come, if we live with any sort of economy. Thousands of people marry every day on less money than you have at this moment, and without your means of making more, and they succeed and are happy. There is nothing that makes a husband and wife love each other more than to fight their way through the world together—triumphing together, and suffering together if need be; but to feel that we are in the least dependent will drive us more and more apart. Oh, I am sure this money will only be a misfortune and a misery to us! Good cannot come of it. And what if we are poor? I have been poor all my life, and yet you married me!”

Philip listened to all this with a secret feeling of relief. Marion had now taken the ground where he was strong and she was weak. In depth of passion and fire of temper, he was less than her equal; and had she carried on her attack with those weapons, she might have come out victorious; for he was not prepared to go such lengths as she would have gone, had she given herself rein. But women like Marion are seldom aware of their own most formidable powers, and hence are so often worsted by those who are really less strong, but more ingenious and adaptable than they.

Moreover, there was on Philip’s side both human nature (as moral frailty is called in such connection) and a good deal of reason. In allowing Marion her will on the previous occasion, he had stretched abnegation to pretty nearly its limit in his case; and had so much the less at his disposal for the present emergency. If he had permitted himself to grumble his fill in the first instance, he would not have had so much stored discontent on hand for the second; and when he found Marion in the position of standing upon what she had gained and demanding as much again, he defined his objections as follows:

“There ought to be no question about our love for each other, Marion; we settled that once for all, before we were married. And your pride and prejudices are not involved, since it is to me and not to you that the legacy is now offered. I gave you leave to manage your own affairs as you judged best, and ’tis only fair you should give the same liberty to me. Now, it is quite plain that Grantley meant one or other of us to have this money; and if the wording of the codicil was made to apply also to Perdita, it was only lest the money, in the last resort, might not have to be thrown into the gutter. If I were to take the stand you wish me to, I should only be putting both you and myself in a childish and sentimental light. Everybody would laugh at us. Besides, there is the practical point of view. What right have we, in face of all the accidents and vicissitudes of life, to reject such a windfall? I might fall ill to-morrow, or my next poem might be a failure: we shall probably have children, and they must be provided for as well as ourselves. And ’tis a great thing, Marion, for a man who aspires to be a poet, to be put a little above the necessity of working for daily bread, and living from hand to mouth. Then again, ’tis my right as well as to my advantage to take a position in society suitable to the name I bear. A fortune, my dear, is something real and enduring; but sentimental scruples and prejudices pass away.”

Philip’s mind, during this harangue, was less comfortable than his language. Whatever reason might say, he felt that he was taking a lower level than Marion. He was too much of a poet not to be conscious of the unloveliness of the cause he was called on to defend. And now, at this last moment, there was the germ of a wish in his heart that Marion might somehow have her desire, and this load of pelf tumble away from both of them, and be forgotten.

But Marion, who had been sitting with her face averted, and her cheek leaning on her hand, now turned toward him with a look in which pain mingled with a curious smile.

“Don’t say any more, Philip,” she said, with a sort of dreary lightness. “I would rather do all you wish than hear any more reasons. Everything shall be as you please: I am your wife, and since you won’t be what I want, I will be what you want, and there’s an end of it! It will be easier for me, now the pinch is over, and I hope ’twill he pleasanter for you. It’s better, I suppose, that we should understand each other now than later. Heigho! Well, I’m sleepy. To-morrow we’ll begin to be rich; and let us see who does it best!”