RENOVARE DOLOREM
Theleaven was working.
One evening after tea Philip took a big breath and addressed his uncle.
"Uncle Joseph," he said, "I was talking to a little girl on Hampstead Heath to-day."
"More fool you," was the genial response. "What were you talking about?"
"You," said Philip, a little unexpectedly.
Uncle Joseph looked up.
"Oh," he said. "Why was I so honoured?"
Philip explained, in his deliberate fashion.
"She was that little girl we passed on Sunday," he said, "sitting on a gate. She smiled at me, and you told me it was only an instinct. A prebby—a prebby—"
Uncle Joseph assisted him.
"—predatory instinct. Well, I met her again one day, and I told her what you said. I explained that you knew all women were dangerous, and were the great stumbling-block to a man's work in life. Also parasites."
Uncle Joseph smiled grimly.
"Well, and what did she say to that?" he enquired.
"She said she would ask her mother about it."
Uncle Joseph nodded.
"They always do," he commented. "And what did Mother say?"
"Her mother said—" Philip hesitated.
"Go on," said Uncle Joseph quietly.
"She said that—that the reason why you thought that all women should be avoided was known only to one woman, and she wouldn't tell."
Colonel Meldrum rose to his feet, and laid his pipe upon the mantelpiece with a slight clatter. Philip eyed him curiously. There was a change in his appearance. He seemed to have grown older during the last ten seconds. The lines of his face were sharper, and his stiff shoulders drooped a little.
Then came a long and deathlike stillness. Uncle Joseph had turned his back, and was gazing into the glowing fire, with his head resting on his arms. Philip, feeling a little frightened, waited.
At last Uncle Joseph spoke.
"How old are you, boy?" he asked.
"Fourteen," said Philip.
There was another silence. Then Uncle Joseph spoke again.
"You should be old enough to understand now. Your friend's mother was right, Phil. Would you like to hear the story?"
"Yes, please," said Philip.
Uncle Joseph turned round.
"Why?" he asked curiously.
Philip replied with characteristic frankness.
"Because," he said, "it might make it easier for me to keep away from all women, like what you told me to do, if I knew the reason why I ought to."
"You are beginning to find it difficult, then?"
Philip, thinking of a blue cotton frock and a pair of brown eyes, nodded.
"Then I will try and make it easier for you," said Uncle Joseph. "It is my plain duty to do so, for if once you get into your head the notion that woman is man's better half and guiding angel, or any sentimental, insidious nonsense of that kind, you are doomed. Your father allowed himself to cherish such beliefs, and he died of a broken heart before he was thirty. You are your father's son."
"Who broke his heart?" asked Philip, looking up quickly. It was the first time that Uncle Joseph had ever mentioned his father to him.
"Your mother," said Uncle Joseph bluntly. "She broke another man's heart later on, but that is another story. Perhaps the other man deserved it, but your father, above all men, did not. Have we read Tennyson together?"
"Yes," said Philip. "'The Idylls of the King.'"
"You remember King Arthur?"
Philip nodded, beginning dimly to comprehend.
"Well, your mother was Guinevere."
Philip was silent for a while. Then he asked:—
"Is that why you say we must avoid all women?"
"Partly. There was my own case as well. When I was well over thirty, Philip, I fell in love. I had never loved any woman before, because my whole life and soul were bound up in the regiment. I fell in love with the regiment when I joined it as a little subaltern, and I worshipped it for sixteen years. In course of time they made me adjutant, which cures most men of such predilections, but it onlymade me feel as proud as a hen with eight hundred chickens. Then, just as I got my final step and became commanding officer, I met a girl and fell in love with her. It was in Calcutta. She was the spoiled beauty of that season, and I was the youngest colonel in the Indian Army, so everybody thought it a very suitable match.
"We did not get engaged for quite a long time, though. Oh, no! First of all, I had to learn to dance attendance. As I say, I had never been in love before, or even had any great experience of women. All my time had been lavished on the regiment. So I laboured under the delusion that if a man loved a woman, his proper course was to tell her so straight, and prove his words by devoting himself to her service. I have learned wisdom since then, but that was what I thought at the time."
"What ought you to have done, Uncle Joseph?" asked Philip curiously.
"I ought either to have bullied her, or gone and made love to another girl. Those are the only two arguments which a woman appreciates. But I made myself too cheap. This girl, as soon as she found that she was quite sure of me, began to play with me. She ordered me about in public, and I loved her so much that I obeyed her, and did not regard her behaviour as the least underbred or vulgar. She gave me rather degrading odd jobs to do, and I did them, proud to think that I was her squire. As for presents, if I gave her something that she did not chance to want or possessed already, it was declined with every manifestation of offended propriety, but if she did happen to requireanything, she told me to get it for her, and I did so gladly, for I felt that all these little trifles were gradually binding us together. I had not quite grasped a woman's idea of playing the game in those days, you see. I thought all this aloofness of hers was due to a young girl's reserve of character, and that, being too shy and timid to tell me in so many words that she cared for me, she was accepting all my devotion and my little offerings purposely and deliberately, in order to show me that, although she could not bring herself to say the word at present, she meant to do the square thing in the end. I loved her forthat, and tried to be patient. But once, when I, presuming on this theory of mine, suggested to her that she must care for me rather more than she gave me to understand, she flashed out at me and told me that I ought to be proud to serve her free gratis and for nothing, and that atrueknight never hoped for any reward from his lady otherwise than an occasional smile and word of thanks. On the whole, I think that was the most outrageous statement I have ever heard fall from the lips of a human being; but as uttered by her it actually sounded rather splendid! It made me feel quite ashamed of myself, Philip. I said I was a mercenary brute, and asked her to forgive me. This, after I had made an abject exhibition of myself, she ultimately did.
"For the next few months I had a pretty bad time of it. I loved her too much to keep away from her, but my self-respect was at zero. I had to put my pride in my pocket and undergo some humiliation nearly every day. To stand about for hours,waiting for a dance, perhaps to have it cut in the end; to dash off parade and change out of uniform and gallop away to a riding appointment, perhaps to find that she had forgotten all about it; to be compelled to laugh and look amused when she said uncharitable things about my best friends—that was my daily round, Philip. Yes, they were stiff days, and I saw they would get worse. When you find yourself gradually ceasing to respect a woman without ceasing to love her, then you are in for a demoralizing time, my son.
"But I endured it all. I summoned up fresh stocks of patience and philosophy. I told myself that she was only a child, and a spoiled child at that; and that she would shake down presently. When she was a little older and wiser, she would realise what humiliation she had often heaped upon me, and she would come and say she was sorry, in her pretty way, and ask me to forgive her; and I would do so, and we would live happily ever afterwards. Meanwhile I must be enormously patient.
"Then suddenly, without any sort of warning, just as I was reaching the limit of physical endurance,—there is a physical side to these things, Philip, as you may find some day,—she capitulated, and we became engaged. For a fortnight I lived in the clouds. I gave her all the presents I could think of, and then sat down and unfolded to her all my dreams and visions for the future. I told her how proud the regiment would be of her, and what a splendid regiment we would make of it between us. I confessed to her, just like a penitent child, that I had been neglecting the regiment oflate, all on her account. Now that the suspense and worry was over I meant to work double tides and make the old regiment twice as efficient as it had ever been. I told her I felt like a giant refreshed. With her beside me, there was no limit to things we might do with that regiment.
"Then Vivien—that was her name—interrupted me. She said, in her pretty imperious way:—
"'Joe dear, your regiment bores me. You never talk of anything else. In future I forbid you to mention it in my presence.' Then she kissed me, and took me off to a tea-fight."
Uncle Joseph, who had been striding about the room during this narration, suddenly halted and faced his nephew.
"Looking back now," he said, "it is plain to me that this was the point at which I ought to have made a stand. I should have taken Vivi firmly, and said to her: 'My dearest child,'—Uncle Joseph's voice dropped to a gentle, caressing murmur, but he recovered himself with a jerk,—'understand this. A man's work is his life. It is his father and his mother, and his meat and his drink, and the air he breathes; and the woman who marries him must be prepared to stand by his side and see him through it, and not to hang round his neck and get between him and what he has to do. She must sympathise with him when things go wrong, and share his satisfaction when they come right again. If she grows jealous of his work and tries to detach him from it, there will be a disaster. Therefore you must take me and my work together orforswear us both, for they cannot be divided.' That is what I should have said, Philip, for I knew it was true, even as she kissed me. But I didn't. I thought I should be able to educate her up to appreciation of my beloved regiment, and that her prejudice and selfishness would weaken in time.
"But I was wrong. It was I who weakened. I began by turning out less frequently at parade. I began to cut mess. I began to lose touch with the rank and file. Formerly it had been my pride to know the name of every man in my regiment, and something about him. Soon I found myself saluted by men on the parade-ground whose faces I did not recognise. Then I began to listen to Vivien's criticisms of my officers. She sneered at my subalterns, because some of them were hard up and could not keep polo ponies. She called them 'a fusty lot,'—half of them had seen active service before they were twenty-one,—and compared them unfavourably with the Viceroy's Staff. She appeared to regard my affection for them as a sort of slight to herself. She looked down on my splendid little Gurkhas, and said it was a pity I could not get command of a white regiment. And I, instead of telling her straight that she must never speak in that way of my men again, began by making a few lame excuses for them and ended by acquiescing in her opinions. I found myself patronising my own officers—some of the finest soldiers in the Service—and drifting into an attitude of superciliousness towards soldiering in general. And all this, Philip, arose from that ennobling passion, Love!
"Then, when the hot weather came, she went away to Simla. I was to follow her in a month. During that month I came to myself again. I realised, once and for all, that a man's duty comes first in this world, and straightway I saw life clearly and as a whole once more. The cloud that had settled over the regiment lifted again, and by the time I went on leave we were as happy a band as ever.
"I travelled up to the hills full of tremendous emotions, Philip. In the first place, I had not seen Vivien for over a month, and I was mad with the desire of setting eyes on her again. In the second place, I was determined to make it plain that she must not attempt to come between me and the regiment again. It was a delicate problem to tackle, I knew; but I still hugged the delusion that she was only a child and could be educated up to a wife's duties. But I saw a big fight ahead of me—a big fight!"
Uncle Joseph's voice dropped, and the light of battle died out of his eyes.
"What was the end of the fight?" asked Philip, apprehensively. He saw tragedy on the horizon.
Uncle Joseph laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.
"I need not have worried," he said. "There was no fight. When I got to Simla I discovered that she had been engaged to another man for nearly a fortnight."
Philip shrank back into his chair, stunned.
"She had not even written to tell me," continued Uncle Joseph. "She had allowed me to travelhalf across India to see her, and then—!... People told me he wasn't a bad fellow. A bit of a boor, but a good sort on the whole. He was heir to a title of some kind, I think. I never saw him—or her, after the one interview.... They were married about a month later.
"I went back to the regiment. I had that consolation, I told myself. Nothing stood between me and my work now. But I was wrong again. Nothing seemed worth while any more. Regimental routine wearied me to death, and presently I understood what had happened. In the old days I had loved the regiment because it wasmyregiment: latterly I had loved it because it washerregiment, and I wanted to make it a credit to her. Now that she was gone—cui bono? But I fought on—I would not give in. I was mechanical, but pretty thorough. I fulfilled every duty rigidly. The only difference was that, whereas the regiment had formerly been commanded by a Damascus blade, it was now commanded by a broomstick, and it went about its work correspondingly.
"Then, three months later, came a letter from your father. He was dying, Phil,—dying of a broken heart, if ever a man did. His story was the same as mine, only more shameful. He asked me to take charge of you. Then I saw light: my duty lay plain ahead of me. I would go home and devote the rest of my life to protecting my nephew from the monstrous danger of Woman. I sent in my papers, came home, and took charge of you; and here we are! I have spoken."
Uncle Joseph dropped unconcernedly back intohis armchair, and relit the ashes of his pipe. But his fingers were shaking.
Philip sat still and silent for a long time. Then he asked:—
"Was she very pretty, Uncle Joseph?"
"She was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," said Uncle Joseph simply.
Philip ventured on one more question.
"Is she alive now?"
Uncle Joseph shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know," he said. "I have dropped so thoroughly out of the world that the social history of the past ten years is a blank to me. I never have heard of her since I left India. I do not even know her husband's title."
Uncle Joseph turned to his nephew. A grim smile played about the ends of his mustache.
"And now, laddie," he enquired, "have I made things any easier for you?"
Philip flushed.
"What do you mean?" he muttered. But he knew only too well.
"I mean this," said Uncle Joseph. "Has my story made it any easier for you to relinquish your acquaintance with the small siren of Hampstead Heath?"
It was the first critical moment in Philip's life. Reason and Instinct—the truculent logic of his uncle and the gentle, chivalrous spirit of his father—fought for mastery within him. Instinct won, and he replied doggedly:—
"No. I'm sorry."
"So am I," said Uncle Joseph, rising to his feetagain. "However, you must be protected from yourself. Listen! You will drop your acquaintance with this little girl, and refrain from making any other friendships of a similar nature so long as you remain in my charge. It is an order. You understand?"
Philip bowed his head in silence. He had been brought up in a soldier's house, and when Uncle Joseph spoke in his orderly-room voice there was nothing more to be said on the matter.
That night, for the first time in his life, Philip cried himself to sleep. He had pledged his knightly word to keep tryst with a lady on Hampstead Heath the following afternoon, and now he would have to break it.
THE INCONSISTENCY OF UNCLE JOSEPH
Butno. Nothing of the kind.
It was a most amazing day altogether.
It was a Thursday. They paid the usual visit to the bank, after which Philip and his uncle parted company at Swiss Cottage Station, and Philip walked resolutely home. The Elysian Fields were closed to him. He wondered how long Peggy would wait, and what she would think when he did not come. He hoped that in her quaint, old-fashioned way she would take a leaf from her mother's book and "make allowances" for him.
Holly Lodge was deserted, for James Nimmo had washed up and gone round the corner, in accordance with his invariable custom of an afternoon, in order to recuperate exhausted nature by partaking of what he termed "a wee hauf." (Philip often wondered what he did with the other half.) Philip let himself in at the side door with his latchkey, and, sitting down before the library fire, endeavoured to divert his thoughts by reading "The Idylls of the King." He turned up "Merlin and Vivien," which he had not previously studied, and set to work upon it. He had a personal interest in the name of Vivien now.
Meanwhile, two people were converging upon Holly Lodge.
The first was Uncle Joseph, returning from the City an hour and a half before his time. His business had been cut short by the sudden illness of one of his almoners, and he found himself free to return home at half-past three. He sat in a comparatively empty District Railway carriage—the human tide was not due to ebb for nearly two hours yet—perusing the current number of the "Searchlight." It contained two interesting paragraphs.
The first said:—
For some time past readers of the"Searchlight"have been forwarding to me copies of a weekly appeal for cash issued by an enterprising organisation calling itself "The International Brotherhood of Kind Young Hearts." The modus operandi of the ingenious gentleman who conducts this precious enterprise is not without its merits. Evidently with the idea of appealing to every possible shade of sentimentality, the circular is furnished with a list of no less than fifteen charitable objects, and the dupes of the Brotherhood are requested to select the case, or cases, which excite their compassion most, and mark these upon the list when forwarding their donations. The objects for which contributions are invited are most artistically varied, ranging as they do from the maintenance of "A Home for Unwanted Doggies" to the rehabilitation of a repentant but slightly indefinite burglar; but I can assure prospective contributors, with the utmost confidence, that, however meticulously they may earmark their pet cases, their money will all find its way into one capacious pocket. The administration of this exceptionally ingenious scheme of flat-catching is evidently in capable and experienced hands. Last week, anxious to make the acquaintance of the master-mind, I despatched one of my trustiest representatives to the headquarters ofthe Brotherhood, hoping that Big Brother—or whatever the arch flat-catcher calls himself—might be found at home. The offices are situated in Pontifex Mansions, Shaftesbury Avenue, and consist of an undistinguished suite of apartments with the name of the Brotherhood painted upon the outer door, accompanied by a typewritten notice to the effect that the Secretary has gone to the country—a piece of information which is not altogether surprising. Here the scent abruptly ended, for enquiries elicited the news that the tenancy of the Brotherhood had terminated. Indeed, a new tenant was actually in possession when my representative called. We may, therefore, confidently expect Big Brother to break out shortly in a fresh place, probably with the name of his organisation slightly altered. As an alternative to "Kind Young Hearts," may I respectfully suggest "Fine Old Sharks"?
For some time past readers of the"Searchlight"have been forwarding to me copies of a weekly appeal for cash issued by an enterprising organisation calling itself "The International Brotherhood of Kind Young Hearts." The modus operandi of the ingenious gentleman who conducts this precious enterprise is not without its merits. Evidently with the idea of appealing to every possible shade of sentimentality, the circular is furnished with a list of no less than fifteen charitable objects, and the dupes of the Brotherhood are requested to select the case, or cases, which excite their compassion most, and mark these upon the list when forwarding their donations. The objects for which contributions are invited are most artistically varied, ranging as they do from the maintenance of "A Home for Unwanted Doggies" to the rehabilitation of a repentant but slightly indefinite burglar; but I can assure prospective contributors, with the utmost confidence, that, however meticulously they may earmark their pet cases, their money will all find its way into one capacious pocket. The administration of this exceptionally ingenious scheme of flat-catching is evidently in capable and experienced hands. Last week, anxious to make the acquaintance of the master-mind, I despatched one of my trustiest representatives to the headquarters ofthe Brotherhood, hoping that Big Brother—or whatever the arch flat-catcher calls himself—might be found at home. The offices are situated in Pontifex Mansions, Shaftesbury Avenue, and consist of an undistinguished suite of apartments with the name of the Brotherhood painted upon the outer door, accompanied by a typewritten notice to the effect that the Secretary has gone to the country—a piece of information which is not altogether surprising. Here the scent abruptly ended, for enquiries elicited the news that the tenancy of the Brotherhood had terminated. Indeed, a new tenant was actually in possession when my representative called. We may, therefore, confidently expect Big Brother to break out shortly in a fresh place, probably with the name of his organisation slightly altered. As an alternative to "Kind Young Hearts," may I respectfully suggest "Fine Old Sharks"?
In another part of the paper Dill delivered his weekly comments upon the progress of his Christmas funds.
Subscriptions for the Christmas Dinner and Toy Funds are coming in steadily, and I am beginning to entertain high hopes of closing this year's account without a deficit. I have again to thank numerous old friends, whose names will be found in the list below, for the faithfulness and regularity with which they come to my assistance. This week's list is headed by an anonymous contribution of a hundred pounds. The giver is a gentleman whom, though his name is known to few, I regard as one of the most generous, and perhaps the most practical, philanthropist of my acquaintance. I have never known him to subscribe to an undeserving cause, and I have never known him refuse a worthy appeal. His gifts are made upon the sole condition that his name is not published. I am not prone to gush, and I will therefore refrain from commenting upon this rather unusualpersistence in doing good by stealth. But I believe that deeds of this kind do not go unrewarded, and I can assure my anonymous friend that if he sets any store by the blessings of tired mothers and hungry children, they are his in abundance.
Subscriptions for the Christmas Dinner and Toy Funds are coming in steadily, and I am beginning to entertain high hopes of closing this year's account without a deficit. I have again to thank numerous old friends, whose names will be found in the list below, for the faithfulness and regularity with which they come to my assistance. This week's list is headed by an anonymous contribution of a hundred pounds. The giver is a gentleman whom, though his name is known to few, I regard as one of the most generous, and perhaps the most practical, philanthropist of my acquaintance. I have never known him to subscribe to an undeserving cause, and I have never known him refuse a worthy appeal. His gifts are made upon the sole condition that his name is not published. I am not prone to gush, and I will therefore refrain from commenting upon this rather unusualpersistence in doing good by stealth. But I believe that deeds of this kind do not go unrewarded, and I can assure my anonymous friend that if he sets any store by the blessings of tired mothers and hungry children, they are his in abundance.
Uncle Joseph smiled a wry smile, and turned to the financial article.
The second was a lady. She rang the bell at Holly Lodge just as Philip reached the last page of "Merlin and Vivien."
James Nimmo was still moistening earth's clay at the establishment round the corner, and Philip answered the door.
Before him, standing on the doorstep, he beheld a tall, beautiful, and gracious lady. She was dressed in deep black, and looked old—quite thirty-five; possibly forty. She had a rather sad face, Philip thought, but it lit up wonderfully when she smiled, which she did as soon as she beheld the stolid, sturdy little figure in the doorway.
"Is this Holly Lodge, little boy?" she asked.
"Ye—es," stammered Philip. Evidently his visitor purposed crossing the threshold, and rules upon that subject were inflexible.
The Beautiful Lady smiled again.
"I think I know who you are," she said. "You are called Tommy."
"Yes," admitted Philip apprehensively. "Only sometimes," he hastened to add.
"I expect you have a grander name for state occasions," said the Beautiful Lady.
Philip might have mentioned that he possessed several, but he had the good sense merely to nod his head.
"Are your parents at home?" continued the visitor.
"I am afraid there is nobody at home but me," replied Philip, nerving himself to shut the door.
"That is capital," said the Beautiful Lady. "It is you whom I want to talk to particularly. So I am going to ask you to entertain me until your father and mother come home. Will you?"
Unconscious of the length of the visit to which she had committed herself, the lady walked into the hall.
Philip swiftly reviewed the essential features of the situation. The most obvious and pressing was the fact that a female had gained admittance to Holly Lodge. The second followed as a corollary—she must be ejected before Uncle Joseph returned. That would not be for a couple of hours at least. Surely he could get rid of her by that time. He led the intruder into the library—there was no drawing-room at Holly Lodge—and begged her to be seated. Then he installed himself upon the edge of a chair on the other side of the fireplace and took feverish counsel within himself.
"You must be wondering who I am," said the Beautiful Lady pleasantly. "I ought to have introduced myself sooner. My name is Lady Broadhurst, and I live in Hampshire."
Philip remembered addressing the envelope now. He nodded politely.
"I know," he said. "Plumbley Royal."
"That is right," said Lady Broadhurst. "I have been puzzling as to why you should have thought of writing tome. Where did you come across my address, I wonder."
"It was in an old Red Book," said Philip.
"I see. Still, it is strange that you should have selected me," continued the Beautiful Lady musingly. She seemed perplexed, yet gratified, evidently suspecting the hand of Providence. Philip might have explained that the wonder would have lain less in his visitor's selection than in her omission,—he had sent a copy of Tommy Smith's letter to every widow in the book whose name began with B,—but his mind was working frantically behind a solemn countenance, and he did not answer. He was trying to put himself in Uncle Joseph's place. How would he have treated this intrusion? How would he have parried questions about Tommy Smith? How would he have substantiated the starving curate and his fireless home, in the face of the solid comfort of Holly Lodge and the absolute invisibility of the curate and his emaciated progeny? Would he have dressed up James Nimmo as a curate? Would he have sent out to Finchley Road for a lady to represent the curate's tearful consort? Would he have explained that the curate had just received preferment and gone to live at Berwick-on-Tweed? Possibly; but such feats of imposture were beyond the powers of a slow-witted, inherently honest philogynist of fourteen.
Lady Broadhurst was speaking again, in a low, musical voice, holding out her hands to the blazing fire. Philip noticed that these hands were long andthin, like Peggy's and unlike the hands of the women whom he sometimes encountered sitting in omnibuses or serving in shops. Her feet were tiny, too. In the glow of the fire her eyelashes looked long and wet.
"I was very much touched," she was saying, "by your letter. Your wanting a little girl for a sister came very near home to me; for I have just lost a little girl of my own. She was all I had, Tommy. She was taken from me three months ago.... I suppose we should take our losses as they come, without wincing or questioning the wisdom of God. But I was weak—and selfish. For a long time I refused to bow to his will. I cried out, and would not be comforted...."
The Beautiful Lady's eyes were really glistening now. Presently a tear splashed on to the long white hand. Philip felt strangely uncomfortable. He had been warned by his uncle more than once to beware, above all, of a woman's tears. "Her tears are the biggest gun in her battery," Uncle Joseph had said. But Philip forgot to feel suspicious. He was only intensely sorry for the lady.
Presently she began to speak again, not altogether to Philip.
"But I came to myself," she said. "I suddenly learned that all things work together for good—that there is no sorrow which does not bring its own consolation with it. One day I saw myself as I was—a querulous, self-centered, self-conscious, self-made martyr. I had forgotten that other people had their troubles too—troubles which I might do something to smooth away." She lookedup. "Do you know who taught me that lesson, Tommy?"
Philip shook his head apologetically.
"I'm afraid I don't," he said.
"It was you!"
"Me?" said Philip, a little dazed.
"Yes—you! It was your letter. When I read it I learned, all of a sudden, where the cure for sorrow lies. It lies in trying to help others. So I have come to see you and your parents, in the hope that I may be allowed to be of some small service to you all. I cannot give you a little sister to play with—"
The lady's voice broke suddenly, and Philip tactfully arose and put coal upon the fire.
"—but I may be able to help you in other ways. I am fairly well off, and I ask to be permitted to see that your father gets back to health and strength again. Do you think he would consent? He might like to go abroad for a little."
Philip began to feel horribly uncomfortable. He had already allowed his visitor to assume that she was in the dwelling of an indigent Clerk in Holy Orders, and that she was addressing Master Thomas Smith. Moreover, he had sat mute while she laid bare to him the tenderest secrets of a woman's heart, and the thought of what the end of the conversation must be made him feel a pitiful little cad. On the other hand, it was plainly advisable to establish some sort of working explanation, however lame, of the non-appearance of the Smith family. Once more, what would Uncle Joseph have done? He would probably have explained to this gracious being quite courteously but extremelyfirmly, that she was an incubus and a parasite, actuated by predatory instincts, and would have cast her from the house. But Philip felt utterly incapable of and entirely disinclined to such a drastic course of action. But plainly, something must be done. His head began to swim.
"Perhaps your father and mother would like to go away together for a few weeks," suggested the Beautiful Lady. A glow of cheerful kindness was creeping into her cheeks. "To the seaside, perhaps, or even to the south of France. They could take the baby with them, and you might come to me, Tommy. Could you accept me as your mother for a week or two, do you think?" There was a world of wistfulness in her voice. "Could you?"
Apparently not, for straightway the solemn-faced little boy before her flushed scarlet.
"I—I'm afraid you have been making a mistake," began Philip desperately. "I'm not Tommy Smith at all."
Lady Broadhurst looked puzzled.
"Not Tommy Smith? But you wrote me that letter, surely?"
"Yes, I wrote it," admitted Philip in a low voice.
"Then where is the mistake? You are not the baby, are you?"
"No, I'm not the baby either," said Philip miserably.
"But your father—"
"I haven't got any father—or mother, I'm afraid," said Philip, feeling more guilty than ever.
The lady paused, and contemplated him with quickened interest.
"You poor little lad!" she said, very softly.
"But whose house is this?"
"My uncle's."
Lady Broadhurst's face cleared.
"I see," she said. "You have no parents of your own, but live with your uncle and aunt. Naturally you would regard them as your father and mother, and speak of them as such. I understand now. But that shall make no difference. In fact I like the scrupulous way you tell me everything. If your uncle is ill—"
"He isn't ill," said Philip regretfully.
"Then he is better?" said Lady Broadhurst with a cheerful smile. "In that case he will be able to travel at once."
Philip gripped the arm of his chair. The bad time had come.
"My uncle isn't a—" he began.
He was going to say "curate," but at that moment, to his profound surprise and unspeakable relief, there fell upon his ears the music of a latchkey in a lock, followed by the banging of the front door. Uncle Joseph had returned, an hour and a half before his time.
Well, whatever happened now, the responsibility had slipped from Philip's shoulders. And in the midst of all the present turmoil of his senses one emotion overtopped all the others—a feeling of intense curiosity to behold the arch-expert in misogyny handling the situation.
It would be a sensational scene, Philip thought. And he was not disappointed.
"Hallo, there, Philip!" Uncle Joseph's voice rangout from the hall. "Are you in?" The library door stood ajar, and his words could be heard distinctly.
"Yes, Uncle Joseph!" called Philip.
"That is my uncle," he explained, turning politely to the Beautiful Lady. "He—"
But the words died on his lips. Lady Broadhurst was on her feet, deadly white, and shaking. One hand was at her heart, the other fumbled at the mantelpiece for support.
Uncle Joseph's voice rang out again, this time from the neighbourhood of the hatstand.
"I'm back sooner than I expected. Skip about and get me some tea, you young beggar!"
The Beautiful Lady's white lips parted, and she uttered a faint cry. But she did not move.
Philip went out into the hall. His uncle was hanging up his greatcoat.
"Well, young man?" he observed cheerfully.
"There is some one wanting to see you in the library, Uncle Joseph," said Philip falteringly.
"Oh! Who?"
"A—a lady."
Uncle Joseph's brow darkened instantly.
"A lady?" he said icily. "Who let her in?"
"I did. At least, she came in."
"Well, we can appraise responsibility later. Meanwhile—"
Uncle Joseph, very stiff and erect, strode across the hall and into the library.
There was a moment of dead silence, and then a great cry; then a rush of feet; then silence again—silence that could be felt.
What had happened? Philip wondered.
Then, at last, came voices.
"Vivien! Vivien! Vivien! My little Vivien, after all these years! Thank God for his infinite goodness and mercy! My Vivien! My little girl!"
"Joe! Joe! Dear, dear Joe! At last, at last! Hold me closer, dear! I can't believe it yet! I'm frightened—hold me closer! Oh, my dear, my dear!"
Then the voices blended into an indeterminate, cooing, soothing murmur.
Philip looked into the library.
Upon the hearthrug, with his back to the door, stood Uncle Joseph, misogynist. In his arms he held the Beautiful Lady, and he was passionately kissing her eyes, her hair, her lips.
Philip retired in good order and closed the door softly, leaving them together.
Once in the hall, he snatched up his cap and coat and slipped out of the front door. The afternoon light was fading.
There was still a chance, he thought.
He broke into a run.
THE HAMPSTEAD HEATH CONSPIRACY
Hewas right, but it was touch and go. Peggy was climbing down from her gate as Philip cantered up.
"Hallo, Pegs!" he said breathlessly.
Miss Falconer greeted him coldly.
"Hallo!" she replied. "Going for a walk?"
"What walk?" asked the bewildered Philip. "Didn't you expect to meet me?"
"Certainly not. Why should I? I wasn't thinking about you at all," replied Eve's daughter.
"But you promised to meet me here at half-past three," cried Philip in dismay.
"And now it's a quarter to five!" blazed Peggy, abandoning her strategical position, woman-like, in order to score a tactical point.
Sure enough, the sound of a church chime fell musically on their ears through the still evening air.
"I'm awfully sorry," said Philip.
"It doesn't matter at all," replied Peggy, still inflexible. "Good-night!"
"Good-night!" said Philip quietly. He was constitutionally incapable of forcing his society where it was not wanted. He turned to go. "It's a pity I'm late," he added regretfully. "The most exciting things have been happening, and I wanted to tell you about them."
The small damsel'shauteurmelted in an instant. She deliberately resumed her perch upon the gate.
"You can come and sit up here if you like," she intimated, holding out her hand.
Philip accepted the invitation with alacrity, but the touch of Peggy's froggy paw brought a look of concern into his face.
"I say," he said, "you are cold! Put on my greatcoat."
Peggy declined.
"You'll want it yourself," she said.
But Philip was insistent.
"You simply must," he urged. "You are shivering all over. You can give me a corner of it to sit on if you like."
The argument came to an end, and presently they were installed side by side upon the gate, like two sociable sparrows. Peggy, whose teeth were chattering, snuggled gratefully into the warmth of the big coat, while Philip balanced himself on the rail beside her, sitting on a very liberal allowance of corner.
"Are you comfortable now?" he asked.
"Yes," said Peggy gratefully. "I'm glad you came," she added with characteristic honesty.
"Why?" enquired Philip. He did not know that one must never ask a lady for her reasons.
But the little girl answered quite frankly:—
"I was getting frightened."
And she slipped her arm round Philip's neck.
If Philip had been to a boys' school he would have received this familiarity with open alarm or resentment. Being what he was, nothing but avery gallant little gentleman, he responded by putting his own arm in a protective fashion round his companion's slim shoulders.
"Now we are all right," he said comfortably.
"Tell me your news," commanded Peggy.
Philip related the whole amazing story. Peggy listened breathlessly, her eyes and lips forming three round O's. When the recital was finished, she remarked:—
"She must have been the lady Mother meant when she said that was the question only one woman could give the answer to only she never would."
"Yes," said Philip, catching the general sense of this unusual passage of syntax. "It was the same name—a funny name—Vivien."
"How do you know?" asked Peggy curiously.
"Uncle Joseph told me all about her," said Philip. "I forgot, you haven't heard that bit."
And at the pressing invitation of Miss Falconer, he recited the tale of Colonel Meldrum's love-affair.
Peggy's verdict came hot and emphatic.
"She was a beast to treat him like that."
"Well, she has come back to him in the end," said broader-minded Philip.
"Will they get married, do you think?" asked Peggy, all in a feminine flutter.
Philip pondered.
"I suppose so," he said at last. "But they are pretty old."
"If they do," continued Peggy, "what will happen to you?"
Philip pondered again. Life had suddenly turned a corner, and new vistas were opening before him.
"I don't know," he said slowly. "I don't want to go back home at all. For one thing, I don't see how I can. I have broken an order. I told Uncle Joseph about meeting you, and he forbade me to speak to you again so long as I lived under his roof. I shouldn't have come this afternoon—"
"Oh!" said Peggy reproachfully.
"You can't disobey an order," explained Philip gently. "But when I saw Uncle Joseph and the lady—like"—he coughed modestly—"like the way they were, I thought I might."
"He had broken his own orders," observed Miss Falconer jesuitically.
"Besides," continued Philip, "I am not going to live under his roof any longer. I hate it all so."
"Hate what?"
Philip recollected himself.
"The work I have to do," he said. "I used to like it once; but now—now I don't think it is very good work. Anyhow, I hate it. I can't go back to it. I only went on because—well, because of Uncle Joseph. He was very good to me, and I was some use to him."
"My dear, he won't want you now," said Peggy shrewdly.
Philip was conscious of a sudden thrill.
"Won't he?" he said. "I never thought of that. Then Ineedn'tgo back?"
"You'll have to go somewhere, though," observed his sage counsellor. "Where are you going to?"
"I should like to go about a bit. I have nevereven been to school. I don't know any other boys. I want to grow up and be a man, and travel about all over the world," said Philip, his eager spirit dashing off into futurity at once.
"I see," said Peggy, suddenly cold again.
"Yes," continued Philip. He was fairly soaring now. "Have you read 'The Idylls of the King'?"
Peggy shook her head blankly.
"No," she said. "Is it a story?"
"Yes. It's all about a Round Table, and some knights who met there. They used to ride out and do the most splendid things."
"What sort?" asked Peggy absently.
The sudden revelation of the eternal masculine in Philip, exemplified by his desire to roam, was jangling the chords of the eternal feminine in herself.
"Dangerous things," explained Philip enthusiastically.
"What for?"
"Well, they very often did them just out of bravery; but the very best things a knight did were always in honour of his Lady."
"Oh! Then you would require a Lady?" said Peggy, growing distinctly more attentive.
"Rather!" said Philip. "To serve, you know. Whenever a knight performed any great deed he wouldn't care anything about himself. He would just feel he had done it for his Lady, and she would reward him."
"How?"
Philip's brow wrinkled. He had not considered the point before. With him, service always came far above reward.
"Well," he said at last, "she would praise him, and go on being his Lady, and nobody else's."
At this point in the conversation Philip was conscious of a sudden constriction round his neck. Peggy appeared to be about to make some remark; but she relaxed her arm again, and enquired calmly:—
"When are you going to begin?"
"I shall have to grow up a bit first, I suppose," said the prospective Galahad regretfully. "But I don't want to go back to Uncle Joseph till then."
"Why should you?" urged the small temptress at his side. "He won't require you now that his Lady has come back to him. You are free to be anything you like."
"The difficult part," remarked the practical Philip, "will be to make a start at being anything. To begin with, I don't know where to go."
"Come to us," said Miss Falconer promptly.
Swiftly she sketched out her plans to her mesmerised companion.
"I will take you up to the house now," she said. "I will put you into the studio: Dad is never there after dark. You can stay all night—"
She paused, and turned to Philip enquiringly.
"You won't be frightened?" she enquired, half-apologetically.
"Knights are never frightened," replied Philip axiomatically.
"You can sleep on the model-throne," continued Peggy, taking all obstacles in her stride. "I will bring you in some supper, and no one will know. Then, when Mother comes to see me in bed, I shalltell her about you, and we will settle what to do next. But you mustn't—not onanyaccount—let Dad see you, or he would have one of his tempers. Come on!"
It was almost dark by this time, and Peggy's voice had sunk to an excited and ghostly whisper. She dropped off the gate, dislodging her companion—who it will be remembered had been accommodated with a seat upon a portion of her apparel—with some suddenness.
"We are rather late," she said. "I am not allowed to stay out after dark. Let's run! Give me your hand."
They trotted through the gloaming, and presently came to a house standing by itself, well back from the road. Breathing heavily, the two small conspirators stole round to the north side of the house, and presently came to a halt close under the wall. Above their heads, eight feet up, Philip could see a small window. It stood open.
"Take me on your back," said Peggy. "Stoop down."
Philip obeyed.
"Keepquitesteady!"
By dint of much struggling, the agile Miss Falconer succeeded in working her small but sharp knees on to Philip's shoulders.
"Now!" she whispered at length. "Stand up slowly, with your face to the wall!"
Philip straightened his back laboriously, his fair burden maintaining her balance by clinging to his hair with both hands.
"This is a splendid adventure!" she whispered.
"Rather!" gasped Philip, with tears in his eyes.
"Now I am going to stand on your shoulders," explained Peggy. "Bend forward a little, with your hands against the wall. Keep your head well down, or I may tread on it."
Two minutes after, the soles of the young lady's shoes removed themselves from Philip's shoulder-blades with a convulsive spring, and followed their owner in a harlequin dive through the open window. There was a dull thud on the floor inside, followed by a brief silence. Then there was the sound of some one moving in the dark, and presently a French window further along the wall swung open with a click, and Peggy, touzled but triumphant, dragged her guest into the house.
The window closed, and a flood of electric light swept away the darkness. Philip looked round curiously. He had never been in a studio before. The side of the room at which they had entered was built out in the form of a penthouse, and was roofed with glass. In the middle of the floor stood a small platform, covered with a rug. On the platform stood a sofa, and on the sofa reclined an eerie figure, like a gigantic Dutch doll. Half-finished canvasses—prospective wolf-scarers, no doubt—leaned against the walls. In a corner lay an untidy heap of robes and draperies.
Upon an easel close by the throne stood an almost completed picture. It represented an infant of improbably angelic aspect asleep in a cot, in company with two golliwogs, a mechanical monkey, and a teddy bear.
"That," remarked Peggy professionally, "is a wolf-scarer. It's called 'Strange Bedfellows.' It's very pretty. It's nearly finished. This thing here is a model-throne. You can sleep on it to-night. Nobody will disturb you. Dad never comes here until after ten in the morning, and none of the maids are allowed in the studio at all. You will be quite warm. I'll get you some of these robes and things out of the corner. Ooh!"
Philip, fascinated by his surroundings, had not yet had time to notice his hostess. Now he turned quickly. Miss Falconer was in a somewhat dishevelled condition. Her red tam-o'-shanter was white with plaster. Her frock was stained all down the front, and one of her stockings had been cut open right across the knee, displaying a crimson bruise which threatened to deepen into purple.
"You have hurt yourself!" cried Philip in great concern.
"I got a bit of a bump dropping through that window," admitted Peggy, indicating the aperture through which she had gained admission to her home. "But it doesn't hurt much, except when you bend your knee suddenly. Now I must go and have tea in the schoolroom. When I see Mother I shall tell her about you, and she will know what to do. If you hear anybody coming, turn out the light and creep under the model-throne. It is hollow underneath. I have often been there, playing at robbers with myself."
Philip turned up the overhanging drapery, and dubiously surveyed the grimy recesses of his last refuge.
"Supposing I get underneath," he enquired, "and it turns out to be only you?"
Peggy considered. Then her face dimpled. The game of conspirators was, indeed, exhilarating.
"I shall knock seven times on the floor with a stick," she announced, "before I come down the passage. Then you will know."
"That will be splendid," agreed Philip. "You are awfully clever," he added admiringly, as the directress of his fortunes turned to go.
Peggy swung round again, with her fingers on the doorhandle. A sudden rush of colour swept across her face and neck, and for a moment her wide brown eyes met Philip's. Then the lashes dropped again.
"I say, Phil," she said shyly, "I'll be your Lady if you like."
Next moment she was gone, and our knight, feeling that he had been somewhat remiss in not having made the suggestion himself, was left listening to the sound of his Lady's feet limping down the passage.
GENUS IRRITABILE
Montagu Falconerhad had a busy day. At breakfast he had sent for, and sworn at, the cook. The cook, who was a lady of spirit and accustomed to being sent for, had reserved her defence until the storm had spent itself, and then pointed out with admirable composure and undeniable truth that an omelette which is uneatable at a quarter to ten may have been—and in fact was—in perfect condition when placed upon the table at nine. She then withdrew in good order, parrying the intimation that she might take a month's notice, which hurtled through the door after her, with the rejoinder that she recognised no orders save those of her mistress.
When she had gone, Mrs. Falconer said calmly:—
"I wouldn't give cook notice quite so often, old man, if I were you. Some day she will take it, you know, and then where will you be? Don't forget her marrow-bones: they are the best in London."
In reply Montagu Falconer picked up the omelette between his finger and thumb and threw it into the fire, where it created an unpleasant smell.
After this promising beginning, he proceeded to his day's work. As he entered the studio he noticed a middle-aged woman pass the window,supporting one end of a basket, at the other end of which staggered a tumble-haired little girl. It was the laundress, with her daughter.
The daughter was not too well dressed. She wore a short and rather ragged frock, and had holes in her stockings. But she was a picturesque little figure, with a pretty face and wild coppery hair.
Mr. Falconer had intended to devote a sulphurous morning to the completion of "Strange Bedfellows." This prospect possibly accounted for the omelette incident, for Peggy's papa possessed what is indulgently called a temperament, which, being interpreted, means a dislike (from which many of us less highly-strung people also suffer) of performing uncongenial duties. But at the sight of the little girl, his professional instincts despatched him hot-foot through the French window into the garden. Here, with much shouting and redundancy of words, he secured from the dazed but gratified parent, in return for an unnecessarily generous fee, the services of her daughter as model for a head-study.
"I'll run 'er home and wash 'er face, sir," she announced, "and you shall 'ave 'er back in 'alf an hour."
She was better than her word. The little girl returned in twenty-five minutes. Not only was her face washed, but she wore her Sunday frock, together with a pair of sixteen-button boots of patent leather,—the patent upon which had palpably expired,—once evidently the property of a lady of fashion, and a tragic travesty of a toque. Under her arm she bore her mother's umbrella; and herwild mane was screwed into two tight pigtails, fastened at the tips with bows of magenta ribbon.
Montagu Falconer, blaring like a bull, cast her forth, weeping, to be intercepted and comforted with clandestine cake by Mrs. Falconer at the back door.
After this followed a savage onslaught, some two hours in duration, on "Strange Bedfellows," which infuriated its creator so much that at luncheon his wife was afforded a more than usually numerous series of opportunities for "making allowances."
In the afternoon there was a slight lull, for Montagu betook himself and his temperament for an airing on the Heath. He returned sheer drunk with the glories of an autumn sunset, to make a heavy and unwholesome tea. But in an evil moment he asked for his daughter, and it was discovered that she was not in the house. A hurricane sprang up in a moment, increasing to a typhoon when Miss Peggy arrived with a stained frock and a bruised knee.
She was despatched incontinently to bed, where cook and the housemaid and (later) her mother combined to tend her wounds and supply her with abundant, if surreptitious, refreshment.
After dinner Montagu Falconer found himself in possession of a fresh grievance. His wife had deserted him. As a rule she sat placidly upon the other side of the fire and listened while her husband derided the British Philistine and consigned the Members of the Royal Academy,seriatim,toperdition. But to-night even these simple pleasureswere denied him. His wife's chair stood empty. Probably she was upstairs, coddling that insubordinate brat, Peggy. Her own husband, of course, might shift for himself; he had no claim upon her consideration. He was at liberty to slave day and night to keep a roof over their heads; but when, shattered by the magnitude of his exertions, he returned to his own fireside for a few words of wifely recognition and encouragement, what did he find? An empty chair!
He laughed bitterly.
"I wonder," he said, "how high I might not have climbed if I had been properly understood!"
He was so engrossed with this gratifying speculation that he failed to hear seven portentous thumps upon the floor of the passage leading to the studio.
After another half-hour his sense of grievance took a still more pathetic turn. He was now the willing, patient, overdriven breadwinner, struggling to keep an impoverished household together. His part was to work, work, work, with none to say him nay. Happy thought! He would go and work now. Possibly if his wife found him, half-blind with fatigue, toiling at his easel at midnight, she might feel sorry. Anyhow, he would try it.
Feeling comparatively cheerful, and ignoring the fact that one does not usually paint by artificial light, the downtrodden breadwinner proceeded to the studio. He stepped softly, for he did not want his wife to hear him at present. She was to discover him later, when his stage effects had been properly worked up.
To his surprise he noted a light under the studio door. Who could it be? The servants were strictly forbidden to enter the sacred apartment at all. It seemed too much to hope that it might be cook. His eyes gleamed, and he turned the handle softly.
Philip was sitting upon the sofa on the model-throne, partaking of chicken-and-ham and cocoa with an air of romantic enjoyment. He had now been an inmate of the studio for four hours, but Peggy had not returned to him. Instead, a kindly, cheerful lady, with steady eyes and a humorous mouth, bearing sustenance upon a tray, had paid him a lengthy visit. To her Philip had recounted the full tale of Uncle Joseph, not omitting the Beautiful Lady, but suppressing the nature of Uncle Joseph's profession and his own part therein. This was unfortunate, for had he not done so Mrs. Falconer would have pointed out to him what he had so far failed to realise—namely, that as the Beautiful Lady had walked in at the door, Uncle Joseph's old life had flown out of the window, and that Aubrey Buck, Tommy Smith,et hoc genus omne, were no more.
"I will think things over in the night watches," said Mrs. Falconer, "and in the morning I will come and tell you what to do. Now, you queer little mortal, eat up your supper and go to sleep. As you have no mother, do you think I might give you one kiss?"
That was half an hour ago.
Philip was conscious of a slight draught upon the back of his neck, which was turned towards the door. Hardly had he realised this when he wasaware of an inarticulate roar; and into his field of vision there bounded a gentleman with a golden beard and a fiery eye, wearing a black velvet dinner-jacket. This was doubtless Pegs's father, and from external evidence he was suffering from one of his "tempers."
"What the Blazing Henry are you doing here?" bawled the gentleman.
Philip replied politely that he was having supper.
"Supper?" yelled Montagu Falconer. "How dare you have supper in my studio? How dare you bring your filthy food in here? Tell me that!" His eye fell upon the tray, suggesting a fresh outrage. "Where did that supper come from?" he demanded. "Where from, you mooncalf?"
"It came along that passage," replied the mooncalf, taking a drink of cocoa.
Peggy's papa waved his arms and raved.
"Curse you!" he shouted. "Don't drink cocoa in my presence! It is a beastly habit and a beastly beverage. It's my cocoa, too!"
"It was getting cold," explained Philip, in extenuation.
"And don't answer back!" bellowed the master of the house. "Don't answer back, or I'll brain you—like—like this!"
He snatched a mediæval mace from off the wall, and, to Philip's intense gratification, proceeded to pound an Etruscan vase into smithereens.
"Who are you?" he continued. "Who are you, to go filibustering all over my house? Who are you, to insinuate your disgusting presence into my kitchen and forage among my household stores?"
Philip, still keeping a hopeful eye on the mediæval mace, considered.
"I'm a boy," he said cautiously.
This eminently reasonable explanation only exasperated Mr. Falconer still further.
"No, you arenot!" he bawled. "You are a criminal! Do you know I have a wife and daughter—let alone a staff of young and innocent servants? Supposing one of them had seen you? You might have frightened them all out of their wits—you toad!"
Mr. Falconer stamped up and down the room, plainly meditating further acts of violence. Philip, realising that his host had not yet been taken into the confidence of his wife and daughter regarding the present situation, decided to be cautious.
Presently the fermenting Montagu came to a standstill.
"Why did you come here at all?" he demanded.
"I wanted somewhere to sleep," replied Philip.
Montagu uplifted clenched hands to heaven.
"Unutterable dolt!" he roared. "Do you imagine you are in a common lodging-house?"
"Oh, no, sir," Philip assured him. "I like your pictures awfully," he added, with a friendly smile.
This time Montagu Falconer first gaped at him, and then enquired:—
"Are you acrétin?"
Philip, who did not know what acrétinwas, shook his head dubiously, and said he was not sure. Mr. Falconer, after assuring him that there was no doubt on the matter whatever, continued his cross-examination.
"Where the devil have you come from? I suppose you knowthat!"
"I came from Hampstead," replied Philip.
"Do you live in that beastly spot?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"You have to live somewhere," thecrétinpointed out gently.
"Then why not go on living there, you unspeakable Yahoo? Why leave your antimacassars, and china dogs, and wool mats, and wax fruit, and—and harmoniums, and come bursting into a civilised household—eh?"
"I have run away from home," said Philip simply.