But there was much that Philip did not learn until long afterward, and which even Mag did not understand, for she never more than dimly guessed that in marrying her, Philip Norton had literally given up everything which had hitherto made his life worth living. His parents had died when he was very young, and he had been adopted by his uncle and aunt, a childless couple who had set their entire affections and hopes upon their promising young nephew. His hasty and unsuitable marriage had wellnigh broken their hearts, and immediately upon hearing of it they wrote to him imploring him, as he was not yet of age, to have the marriage annulled, offering to settle a comfortable allowance upon his wife if she would consent to live apart from him. It is needless to say that Philip Norton rejected their offers with scorn, and as they would not receive his wife, he requested that in future all communications between them should cease. His monthly remittances, which were forwarded to him as usual, he returned unopened, too proud to accept the aid which he so sorely needed; for his pictures sold but slowly and brought pitifully small prices. Indeed, his work at this time was sadly lacking in inspiration, for he no longer worked with the love of his art, which had once been the motive power of his labor, but with the painful effort born of a wearing anxiety to earn the money which should free him from the galling dependence upon his hard-working father-in-law which became day by day more unbearable.
He felt keenly, too, the separation from his friends, and especially did he miss the companionship of Frederick Ashden; yet he had himself insisted upon a cessation of their intercourse.
“I know what you will say of my marriage,” he wrote to his friend, “and as I do not wish to hear it from you, I think it best that in future we should not meet. Our paths in life will henceforth diverge very widely. I have chosen mine and am happy in the choice; may yours be equally happy. God bless you, and farewell!—Philip.”
Mag realized in a dim way that her husband had given up much in abandoning his career and settling down to the narrow life with her and her father in their humble home; but, passionately as she loved him, she was able to enter into but few of his thoughts, and he soon began sadly to realize this, and many other things which he would scarcely confess to himself. He was harassed, too, by fears for the future; Mag shared his anxiety, and then one day she spoke the fatal words of reproach which had driven her young husband to his death, and for which her life since that day had been one long, vain regret.
There was one thing which Philip learned from his mother which troubled him greatly. His father’s uncle and adopted father, a clergyman, had, within two years, received the appointment to a neighboring parish, and shortly after his arrival he had written very kindly to Mag, as indeed he had done before, begging that she would let bygones be bygones, and allow him to assist her in any way in his power, especially in the education of her son. Mag had treated this as she had done the former offers, with silent disdain; but when she told Philip he flushed painfully.
“I am sure my father’s people meant it kindly,” he said timidly, “and oh! mother dear, if only they could know ye I am sure that they would love ye like everyone else.”
But Mag stopped him almost angrily.
“Hush, Philip!” she said; “not for the whole world would I have those proud people know what a poor, humble, ignorant woman my Philip had chosen for his wife. No, I will not accept help from such as them; so never speak of it again.”
And Philip, remorseful and abashed, never did.