CHAPTER I.
THE room was hung in green of varying shades from palest malachite and réséda to deepest olive and emerald. This verdant retreat was the outcome of an essay that had fallen into Philippa Ford's hands at the time of the purchase and restoration of the old Verplank mansion in New York. One statement was to the effect that a love of green indicated strong individuality, and this appealed at once to the girl, whose keenest desire in life was to enforce her personality. Being blonde and lissome, the little reception-room framed what she was pleased to style her beauty with an added elegance and refinement, at the same time proving advantageously unbecoming to many of her callers. Just now she looked really charming as she leaned among the divan cushions, daintily gowned in a creation of cream lace and lavender crêpe that made her seem some great pale-toned Parma violet in its setting of leaves.
"Do pour yourself some tea, dear girl," she murmured. "I'm too lazy to move, or I'd do it for you; besides, I am searching your long-lost countenance for the ravages of time, and I can't find one—not a ravage."
Victoria, sitting opposite, raised her gray eyes, in which a gleam of mischief sparkled. "Be sure you tell every one else that," she laughed.
Philippa squirmed. She had been mentally rehearsing a speech to her next interested caller. "The poor, dear Claudel girl is terribly haggard. I fear she has been trying to live on nothing over there. You know how Americans do." It was as if the "poor dear" had suddenly taken a peep at her brains. So, quickly assuming her sweetest tone of grieving affection, she ejaculated, "Oh, Vic! After all the years of our ideal friendship, how could you infer such a thing!"
"You are teased as easily as ever, I see," was all the answer she received, as the returned prodigal brushed cake crumbs from her well fitting 
"'REALLY? I THOUGHT YOU WERE MERE ACQUAINTANCES.'"
"It's a sweet frock," Philippa commented, dreamily, "and your toque is very smart; that forward tilt suits you. The hats this year are simply invented to annoy me. Everything over the eyes, and my style is the off-the-face flaring thing. Have you seen many people since you arrived—our people, I mean?"
Her friend shook her head slowly. "No, not many. Bob and Howard Dame met me at the wharf, and last night Morton Conway came up. Dear old thing! I was jolly glad to see him."
She was staring at the Dutch silver tea-caddy, and did not see the quick flush that mounted to the white temples of her hostess.
"A charming fellow, and one to whom I have become greatly attached," the lady remarked in the somewhat stilted language she affected when she remembered to do so.
Victoria's frank eyes sought her face at once with eagerness.
"Really? I thought you were mere acquaintances. I forget how long I have been away, and how many friendships have been made and unmade. No wonder you like him, though. Old Mort is the salt of the earth. A Don Quixote of most admirable intelligence. Indeed, I don't know another of whom I can speak in such unreserved praise, and seeing that I've known him all my life,—which amounts to a quarter of a century,—that is saying a great deal."
A green glint shot from Philippa's half-closed blue eyes—possibly the reflection of her surroundings, possibly the evidence of the whereabouts of a certain monster, as she recalled the common supposition of a former understanding between these two. Mentally, she was quickly calculating. Was Victoria in love with him? Had he ever had a tenderness for her? If either or both were the case, were her own fascinations superior? With marvellous accuracy she took count of stock, and concluded that Victoria would be a dangerous rival, but her belief in her own power made her confident of ultimate success, even if Morton were not already completely under her spell. However, with instinctive foresight she decided that she should precipitate matters and bring about the proposal she had been holding off with consummate skill for the past month. Engagements entailed obligations, but Morton Conway was too good a catch to lose, and Philippa felt instinctively that the only danger that menaced her supremacy was personified before her.
All this passed in a brain flash, with the swiftness and certainty of a lightning-calculator, while she idly punched the pillows into more alluring curves, and her society self supplied a small-talk item.
"Tilly Genadet is to be married next week; are you going to her wedding?"
"I think so," Miss Claudel replied, as she rose to her feet, and with various facial contortions proceeded to readjust her veil.
"You're not leaving now, are you, dear?" and Philippa uncurled herself. "It's only five o'clock."
"Yes, I'm off. Ethel Tracy sent a note over this morning asking me to drop in to dinner—just the family, you know. Good-bye. Come over to the studio any time. I'm sharing Mrs. Testly Durham's apartment, so you won't see my name on the board."
"Mrs. Testly Durham, the writer?" Philippa asked, eagerly.
"Yes. You seem surprised."
"Where did you meet her?"
"In Paris. We spent last winter in the same house."
"I'd like to know her."
"Well, call on me in the morning, and you'll find her at home. Good-bye again."
Philippa stepped to the window and watched her friend's odd but not inelegant figure as it descended the broad steps. "What should her relations with Victoria be?" she mused. Evidently she had new advantages and losses to adjust and balance. Victoria staying with Mrs. Testly Durham, the famous authoress, was a different thing from Victoria by herself in some studio. Then there was the Morton question. These suggestions hardly framed themselves as thoughts. She was unconscious of her own calculating meanness, tuft-hunting and snobbishness, and looked upon herself as a veritable paragon of sincerity, loyalty, and broad-minded independence.
She turned with a little sigh back to the green depths of the divan and contemplated her reflection in the tilted mirror opposite. Yes, gossip had for years prophesied Victoria's engagement to Morton. There must be fire where smoke is seen. She must make sure of Morton at once. It was a nuisance, particularly just now, when her flirtation with Valdeck was so interesting; but she could keep the secret from every one but Victoria. Once in a position to make a confidante of her, she could be sure that her manor would remain unpoached upon.
Suddenly the question presented itself definitely, why was she so afraid of Victoria? She had no real reason: only merest gossip held that the lifelong affection that existed between the two had ever been, or ever would be, anything more than intellectual fraternity. The answer came back from her other self: "Because Victoria has never appreciated me at my true worth." In fact, she more than suspected that she was not looked up to and approved of in this new quarter. If Victoria knew of the impending engagement, she was quite capable of making a desperate opposition. Philippa's heart hardened with a passing qualm of hate; she sat up suddenly and angrily. Almost she had admitted to herself that she was no fit mate for such a man, and that the effort that Victoria would undoubtedly make was founded on a quite accurate penetration of her real character. The momentary spasm of dislike that had gripped her returned a hundredfold stronger, steady and burning. She must lose the excitement of her present life, because her hand was forced; she must make sure of the brilliant future her marriage to Morton Conway would bring. The cards of that trick must be played and the mystery of her game dispelled; all because a long-absent member of her set had seen fit to return too soon.
A ring at the door-bell roused her. Hastily she smoothed her hair, and assumed a pose of absent-minded grace.
"Monsieur Valdeck," announced the butler, in a gentle tone of self-effacement.
The sea-green portières parted and the visitor advanced, extending a well-gloved hand in elaborate greeting.
Philippa smiled with animation and held up her jewelled fingers to the lingering and meaning kiss of the new arrival. She colored a little, which lent an unexpected ingénue expression to the consummate artificiality of her pose. The trick of blushing, really due to the physical perfection and delicacy of her skin, passed with all save Victoria and a few rather amusedly cynical men for a sympathetically emotional expression of her innocent young soul.
A short, rather troubled silence ensued, which he broke abruptly, tossing a square box into her lap.
"See the wonders of love, my lady. I divined what robe you would wear, and I matched it on my way here."
She thanked him with her eyes, and poutingly fumbled with the string.
"Permit me," he murmured, and leaning over her till his auburn hair touched her cheek, deliberately cut the ribbon with his tiny gold-handled penknife. He drew back slowly, as if her nearness held him like a magnet.
With a pretty gesture of admiration she drew from their wrappings a heavy bunch of Russian violets that instantly shed the perfume of their blossoms through the room.
"And now it grows and smells, I swear, not of itself, but thee," he quoted, smiling directly at her.
"That was when she sent the wreath back," Philippa laughed. "Shall I?"
"Do you want to break my heart?" he inquired, seriously.
She sniffed the bouquet, looking over the flowers with eyes now grown as violet as the blossoms. "I don't know. I think I might—"
"You ought to say, 'I know I have.'"
She shook her head. "No, not yet."
"You never believe," he sighed.
"No."
"Shall I never get my passport to your heart?"
She temporized. "Let me see, how should I make it out: 'Permit to travel in the heart of Philippa Ford, one Lucius Valdeck, native of Poland. Height, five feet, eleven inches. Black eyes and eyebrows, auburn hair. Weight, about—let's see—a hundred and seventy—"
"Much more—two hundred."
"Two hundred! Nonsense!"
"My heart is so heavy."
"Don't be a bore."
"Am I a bore?"
She nodded.
"What must I do to amuse?"
"Oh, tell me anything that's interesting—tell me about yourself."
He sobered. "I have already told you too much."
She leaned toward him sweetly. "You can trust me. I am a woman who can keep a secret."
"I believe it," he answered, in the same grave tone. "Otherwise I never would have breathed a word of my mission here."
"You know," she continued, laying her hand on his arm, "I am with you in all sympathy. I understand your noble wish to help your people. If you had been a Nihilist I never could have listened to you with such confidence. But your plan to raise your fellow countrymen by education, even if it has to be given in secret, is wholly good and wise and noble. It is the first really sensible effort I have heard of."
Taking her hand, he kissed it with respectful adoration. You give me courage, my lady."
Carried away by the situation, she went on with exaltation. "And if ever I can help you, let me know; you will always have a friend in me."
"What you have just promised I beg you to remember. Some day I may have to ask your favor," he said, slowly. Then, rising nervously, he peered into the empty hall.
"We are alone," she murmured, reassuringly; "you are quite safe."
He seated himself, relaxing to the luxurious fulness of the divan. "I forget I am in the land of the free, I have lived so long under the espionage of the police. And to think," he said, hotly, "that my only crime is the desire to help and educate my unfortunate people. The Russians, having taken away our lands and privileges, are now robbing us of our brains. Soon there will be nothing left but our music—and that they cannot kill." He spoke with passion, that found a quick response in the dramatic instincts of his hearer.
"In these days of indifference your patriotism fires one," she cried. "You make me want to help. I am so eager to know more. Oh, I wish you would tell me about your work and those who help you. Your stories the other night kept me awake thinking of the nightly gatherings in secret and danger, when your devoted comrades teach their own prohibited tongue and keep alive the individuality of the race that aliens would crush out. I could never have believed in such tyranny if you yourself had not told me. It is so uncalled for, so cruel!"
He nodded solemnly. "It is past belief, and if you questioned a Russian he would emphatically deny it, either because he was ignorant of the truth, or because he dare not admit it. Only those who have lived as I have and seen what I have, can realize what the suppression of the Poles really means. The power we are contending with is so great, so secret, so terrible—why, even here I am probably watched by their spies. I am known to be a contributor to the 'Educational Society'—indeed, that is why I came here. My usefulness at home was ruined by their having suspected my connection with the work. They cannot prevent my collecting funds in America, but they can and will try to prevent their ever reaching their destination."
"How do you manage?" Philippa begged.
He pulled himself up, as if his enthusiasm had already outrun his caution.
"That I cannot reveal, even to you. So don't ask me."
"Are there women connected with the work?" she inquired.
"Many; both teachers and outside workers. You see, the element we represent is as down on the bloody and incendiary doctrines of the Nihilists as it is on the oppression and cruelty of the Russians, consequently our membership enrolls many women, too wise and gentle to be drawn into anarchy and too devoted and clear-visioned to be entirely claimed by a life of frivolity. Oh, dear lady, I wish you could know some of them. I am sure you would find them congenial—almost your equals in heart, mind, and charm."
His verbose sentences and elaborate compliments somehow became him, and the foreign accent that accompanied his words was a charm in itself. Philippa caught herself vaguely wishing that the handsome enthusiast were a matrimonial possibility. If only he had Morton's money and social position! Ah, well, it was all nonsense; foreigners, however fascinating, were never certainties.
He had risen restlessly and wandered to the window. He glanced out, but turned hastily.
"Mr. Conway is crossing the street. Coming here, I suppose," he said, bitterly. "Tell me, before we are interrupted, will you go with me on Monday to Madame Despard's studio, in the Carnegie—a little reunion of grands esprits, a glimpse of Bohemia?"
Her face lighted. "Yes, indeed, I shall love it, I know."
A ring at the door-bell announced the new arrival.
"You like him?" Valdeck asked, half in question, half in challenge.
"He is my dearest friend, you know. I have often thought of him as a sort of Don Quixote plus intelligence," Philippa plagiarized, soulfully.
He looked admiration at her. "I love the way you paint a character in a single sentence."
"Mr. Conway," announced the butler.
Valdeck collected his hat, stick, and gloves, and bowed politely, the two men exchanged perfunctory greetings, and the graceful foreigner took his leave. The newcomer watched him with undisguised annoyance.
"Philippa, do you like that man?"
She smiled gleefully. "That's just what he asked about you."
This did not seem to soothe Morton's feelings. "You are so much in his society. How did you meet him?"
"He came from New Orleans with a letter of introduction from one of my old schoolmates, Clarissa Pointue—you know the Pointues of Louisiana who own Angel Island?"
"Victoria says that letters of introduction and confidences are alike—they had better not be given. By the way, she's back, you know."
"Have you seen her?" she asked, with assumed indifference, stretching her little trap.
"Of course. I went last night as soon as I knew where she was. She is one of my oldest and best friends, that rara avis, a woman-chum."
"She is a dear. She was here a few moments ago. If you had come a little earlier you would have been rewarded."
"By finding you two discussing the latest Parisian novelties, and having no satisfaction out of either of you."
"You see we are so intimate," she smiled. "She came over at once to see me; wasn't it dear of her?" She hoped Victoria would not by any chance mention the fact that Philippa, having seen her from the window, had sent the butler to stop her and insist on her dropping in for a moment. However, even if she did, it didn't amount to much. Philippa argued to herself that the more praise she lavished on her rival, the more would any derogatory remark of Victoria's concerning herself sound ungrateful and mean in Morton's ears. She went on, enthusiastically, "Her home-coming is such a joy to me. She is one of the few really loyal, honest women, trustworthy and genuine, who would burn off their hands rather than hurt a friend!"
Morton nodded appreciation. "A woman in a thousand, and I am as glad to see your affection for her as I am sorry to see you wasting yourself on a cad like Valdeck."
Philippa saw her chance and took it.
"You have no real reason to dislike him, Morton, and you know it!"
"Oh, haven't I?"
"It's just because he is here so much, and you're—you're—it hurts me to have you think—" She broke off with a plaintive note.
He had never seen her with the bars of her coquetry down, and his love of her flamed up with the vision of his hope. He came across quickly, leaning with both hands on the tea-table. "I'm foolish because I'm jealous, because—I love you, Philippa."
She fumbled with the sugar-tongs, her fair head bent. Forcibly he raised her reluctant chin and looked into her eyes. What he saw there stung through him like an electric shock.
"Oh, sweetheart! sweetheart!" he murmured, kissing her on her uplifted, unresisting mouth. "Why did you play with me so long?"
There was silence in the little boudoir. Then she disengaged herself from his enfolding arm and looked at him fondly. She pushed back his heavy brown hair, and fingered his cravat, as a child takes possession of a strange new toy.
"Morton," she said, in a very low voice, "I—I—don't want to announce it, dear. Aunt Lucy has her heart set on my marrying cousin Gabe, and she's been so good to me—I want to win her over to you without giving her annoyance. You understand, dear?"
"I hate the deceit of it," he answered, after a moment's uncomfortable silence. Her instant desire for concealment hurt him. Philippa looked pained. He felt like a blundering bore, and quickly added, "But it's just like you to feel that way about your aunt, and I love you for it."
She cuddled close to him, holding his hand in both hers and twisting his plain gold seal as if it engrossed her whole attention. "You see I'm an orphan. I haven't much money, just barely enough to give me necessaries. Aunt Lucy has done everything for me, you can't guess half, and if I suddenly turn against her—for she'll think it that—it will break her heart. She will call me ungrateful, and, Morton, you know I'm anything but that—I—I couldn't bear it." A childish quiver of her lips spoke louder than words, for the actress in her was "feeling her part," and her emotion was quite genuine.
"Whatever you think best I'll abide by; I couldn't love you so if I didn't trust you absolutely," he answered, softly.
The rattle and chink of a stopping carriage broke in on them.
"There she is now!" Philippa exclaimed, in a sharp whisper, withdrawing from his embrace and quickly smoothing her hair.
A slam, a ring, the approach of the butler, a gust of cold air that swung the curtains, and Mrs. Pendington Ford entered. A swift glance of her sharp gray eyes took in her niece's indifference, Morton's confusion, the dents in the pillows, and the disarray of the tea-things. Her eyes were pupilled by two points of interrogation as she glanced toward Philippa. but she greeted the caller with formal grace. There was something of the drum-major about the lady. One expected to see her swing her gold-knobbed parasol, toss it above her voluminous head-dress to catch it again and spin it solemnly on the tip of her too tightly gloved fingers. She was tall, stout, florid. If she had been born a century earlier she would have been a loud-mouthed, gambling duchess; now she suggested only the drum-major.
Seating herself upon the uttermost edge of a chair, the better to maintain the upright dignity of her carriage, she smiled slowly and wisely.
"My dear, a fresh cup, please. I am faint, positively. I drove round the Park and stopped at the Tredways. They must get their tea from a bargain-counter. I really could not touch it."
Philippa, with commendable sang-froid, concocted a well-rummed beverage.
"Victoria Claudel has just been here," she announced, gaily.
"Indeed!" Mrs. Pendington Ford's voice was not very cordial. "Where is she stopping?"
"She is sharing Mrs. Testly Durham's suite at the Carnegie."
"The writer?"
"Yes, Aunt Lucy. They are very intimate friends."
Victoria's stock went up six points, and the drum-major sipped her tea. "We must have them to dinner sometime, Philippa. Miss Claudel is an old friend of yours, is she not, Mr. Conway?"
"Since we were children," Morton replied, glad to have a direct question to answer, and feeling unable to cope with general conversation.
"I remember her mother," Mrs. Ford went on, "Miss Graves, of Philadelphia, a delightful girl. Her marriage to Mr. Claudel was considered quite a brilliant one, but unluckily, he was more of a scholar than a man of business—lost money constantly. It was really fortunate he died early, or the family would have been quite impoverished. As it was, the children and Victoria will only have barely enough to live on."
"The estate is to be settled now, I think," said Philippa. "Bob is of age, if I'm not mistaken."
"She came home on that account," Morton put in.
Mrs. Ford was benign as she rose to her feet. "Well, Philippa, dear, don't forget you must dress for the Bentley's dinner. You must excuse my rudeness, Mr. Conway, but she is such a scatterbrained girl that if she is having an interesting conversation she forgets her engagements, and is known as the late Miss Ford."
Morton blushed and glanced at his watch. "I am the one to beg indulgence; it's shockingly late,—I—"
Mrs. Ford smiled almost affectionately. "My dear man, don't apologize for paying us such a nice indirect compliment. Philippa, dear, you must invite Mr. Conway when we ask Victoria and Mrs. Testly Durham to dinner. You'll be sure to come, won't you?"
Morton muttered his thanks and took his leave.
As the street door closed the aunt and niece faced each other.
"It's done, then. My congratulations, dear." Approval beamed from the majestic presence.
Philippa punched a pillow and shrugged her shoulders.
"Yes."
"Well, it was about time you came to your senses and brought things to a crisis. I began to despair of you," Mrs. Ford coolly commented.
"I can take care of myself."
"No, my love, you can't, as I've noticed to my great regret. However, I shall announce the engagement with great pleasure."
"You'll do nothing of the sort!" Philippa's face grew crimson with annoyance.
"What are you up to now?" her aunt inquired, with obvious cynicism.
"Nothing. But I don't want it known yet; I've good reasons."
Mrs. Ford went to the core of the matter with brutal directness. "You have your good-for-nothing flirtation with that Valdeck on foot, that's what you have. Now, mark my words, you'll get into trouble; if you do, don't come to me. You are a fool if you take chances with Morton Conway. My advice is, announce your engagement at once, marry soon."
"Time enough to settle down," said Philippa, irritably.
"My dear," her aunt replied, "please remember that people usually have to settle up before they can settle down."
"Moralize all you please, aunty, dear," and Philippa took another tack, "but please don't go announcing till I tell you. I give you my word I'll not lose him."
Mrs. Ford spread her sails and swept up the stairs. "Very well," she said, over her shoulder; "but don't get too much mixed up with Valdeck."
"What have you against him? I thought you prided yourself on the charity of your judgment," sneered Philippa, as she followed in her aunt's rustling wake.
Mrs. Pendington Ford sighed. "I am charitable in my judgments, because one must have men for afternoon teas, but I wouldn't risk my queen to save a crook—I mean a rook—to play with. What will you wear to-night?"
Philippa considered. Valdeck would be asked, and he liked odd things. "The green spangled one," she answered.
"Oh, is he to be there?" the drum-major inquired, negligently, as she closed her bedroom door.
Philippa stamped her foot with vexation and fairly fled up-stairs to her own sanctuary. There she flung, or more properly speaking, disposed herself upon her lounge, and rapidly reviewed the past crowded hours. She was engaged—that she knew; she was in love—she imagined. How dreadfully unfortunate that the two statements were not the natural sequence of each other. Pity for herself swept over her. Alas, for money conditions! cruel, worldly considerations! but she must be strong, she must be wise, and keep this foolish passion in its place. She pictured herself amid the luxurious surroundings her future fortune would assure her, and promptly forgot her peine de cœur in the pleasant occupation. It was recalled, however, by the entry of her maid bearing a square envelope, directed in Valdeck's familiar hand, and a small box tied with a pink ribbon.
"Madame says," timidly suggested the servant, "that mademoiselle is not to waste time in dressing. What gown, mademoiselle?"
"Green spangles," Philippa answered, absently, as she ripped open the note.
"Most sweet lady," it began, "pardon my presumption, but your kindness to-day touched me greatly. Your offer to help, coming as it did, when I was racked by fears and perhaps needless nervousness, has been as medicine to me. You who are so kind add one more obligation to the many you have heaped on me, by accepting the little gift I send herewith. The pin was my mother's and my mother's mother's for generations. So it is rather the sentiment attached to it that makes it worthy of you than its paltry value. Pray accept this little keepsake in the spirit of the sender.
"PHILIPPA GAZED AT IT IN DELIGHT, THEN ... HASTILY HID THE JEWEL IN HER BOSOM."