Whether or not, as time passed, she was absolutely happy, she did not pause to inquire.  The devotion of her newly-adopted children was so unstinting, and they kept her so continually busy, that she had not time for self-reproach.  It was a disappointment to her that the Jillinghams had no prospect of a family, and her chagrin would have been increased had she known that already a boy and girl had been born to the rightful heirs at Harbridge.  But such news was carefully kept from her; she was rigorously cut off from all communication with her son.  There was no safety otherwise against mischance; the strange processes of the old creature’s mind were inscrutable; she might in one spasm of an awakened conscience undo all.  For the Jillinghams were still absolutely dependent upon her; she could turn them out of house and home whenever she pleased.  A small settlement was all the real property Phillipa had secured.  Although with right royal generosity Mrs. Purling gave her favourites a liberal allowance, and promised them everything when she was gone, yet was she like a crustacean in the tenacity of her grip upon her own.  This close-fistedness was exceedingly distasteful to Mr. Jillingham.  He had an appetite for gold not easily appeased, and four or five thousand a year was to him but a mouthful to be swallowed at one gulp.

Openly of course he continued on his best behaviour, but behind the scenes he permitted himself to grumble loudly at the old lady’s meanness and miserly ways.

“I cannot understand you, Gilbert.  I cannot see what you do with all the money you get,” said Phillipa reproachfully one day when they were alone, and Gilly was enlarging upon his favourite theme.  “You live at free quarters, you have no expenses and ought to have no debts.”

“Have you no debts, pray?”

“None that you are ignorant of.”

“Look here, Phillipa; listen to me.  I spend what I please, how I please.  I shall give no account of it to you, nor to any one else in the world.”

“It is not necessary.  I had rather not be told.  I do not care to know,” said Phillipa, womanlike, forgetting that she had begun by wishing to be informed.  She had her own suspicions, but forbore to question further, lest she might be brought face to face with the outrages she feared he put upon her.

“She will take to counting the potatoes next.  It’s most contemptible.  A mean old brute—­”

“I shall not listen to you, Gilbert.  You owe her everything.”

“Do I?  I wonder what my tailor would say to that or Reuben Isaac Melchisedec?  I’ve more than one creditor; they are a prolific and, I am sorry to say, a long-lived race.”

“I hope Mrs. Purling may live to be a hundred years at least—­”

“I don’t.  I’d rather she was choked by one of those pills you tell me she takes every morning and night.”

There was something in his tone which made Phillipa look at him hard.  Was it possible that he contemplated any terrible wickedness?  The mere apprehension made her blood run cold.