"Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed."—Gareth and Lynette.
Major William Heathcote stood, with his feet firmly planted rather wide apart, on the hearthrug of his library at Bessacre High House, in the proverbial attitude which Englishmen assume when they are giving their opinion with what may, without prejudice, be called decision. It is possible that he had taken up this attitude as being the nearest approach possible under the circumstances to the strategic position known as "back to the wall." His face was stern, and now and again he emphasised a remark by drumming with his right hand upon the palm of his left. His voice was not raised, but his words came cuttingly, and it was evident that they were prompted by something very near to cold anger.
The other occupant of the room, for there were only two, was Doctor Robert Gale, who was doing a quick quarter-deck march between the door and the window, his face set, his chin pushed forward, tugging persistently at his ragged beard, first with one hand and then with the other. He did not seem to be angry, merely impatient and very obstinate.
"I cannot permit it," the Major was saying, "The whole scheme is preposterous; it is grossly unfair—first of all on poor Francis himself——"
"Pshaw!" said the doctor.
"You talk about shock," continued the other without noticing the interruption, "but the shock will be much more severe when he finds out the truth—and secondly to Miss Harford. You had no right to suggest such a course. She is young, and a visitor in my house. Now do just think reasonably for a moment." The Major's voice took a more persuasive tone. "Granted that Miss Harford's sympathy leads her to agree with your suggestion, where is it going to end? How can you hope that such a course of deception can possibly bring any real happiness to poor Francis? Your medical mind sees nothing but the one point, which is—life at all cost—anything to prolong life—while there is life there is hope. I know all the clauses of your creed."
"Aye!" said the doctor, vehemently—he almost shouted the word—"you are right. It is my creed, and I'm here to carry it out. Any step that will prolong life it is my duty to take. And I know—I know—that any attempt to upset Francis Heathcote's belief that it is Philippa Harford come back again will result in his death. It will kill him."
He took his watch out of his pocket and noted the time, and as he did so the door opened and Philippa Harford the second walked into the room.
Major Heathcote moved to meet her. "You did not expect to see me," he said. "But I had a letter from the doctor here, telling me of Francis's—illness—and I came at once."
"How is your boy?" asked Philippa. "I do hope you and Marion are less anxious."
"He is doing pretty well, but there must be anxiety for some days yet, I fear," was his reply. "Certain complications have arisen which must make his recovery slow, but we have every reason to be hopeful. It is not, however, to talk about Dickie that I came to-day, but about yourself, and to express my sincere regret that you should have been placed in a position so complicated and so difficult while in my house. Will you sit down?"
Philippa seated herself. "I had an appointment with the doctor for eleven o'clock," she said quietly. "I hope I have not kept you waiting." She turned to Dr. Gale as she spoke.
He shook his head. He was watching the girl with the greatest attention, striving to read the verdict which he awaited with very evident anxiety. He could read nothing from her face. It told him nothing.
"Dr. Gale has told me," began the Major, speaking rather quickly, "of your meeting with Francis Heathcote, and the most unfortunate mistake he has made as to your identity. I cannot tell you how deeply grieved I am that this has happened. He has also told me of the very extraordinary change which that meeting has brought about in Francis' mental condition. Up to this point I can only be truly grateful to you for your kindness and sympathy with one whose life has been so pitiably wrecked, but beyond this—well, it is a very different matter. I understand the doctor has suggested to you that you should allow Francis to remain under this mistake—that you should visit him, and to all intents and purposesbethe person he takes you for. The reason he gives me for asking this of you is, that any unhappiness or mental disquiet would in his opinion be fatal to Francis in his present state of weakness. The doctor also tells me that he cannot in the least tell whether his patient will recover, even with all the care and affection which could be given him. Now I must most earnestly point out to you the difficulties—in fact the undesirability of your doing what has been suggested.
"God knows I pity poor Francis with all my heart. There is nothing I would not do to bring him a moment's happiness, but I cannot let you, a stranger, be drawn into the affair. It is quite impossible! I am sure that you, in your goodness of heart, would do anything in your power for any one who was suffering, but you do not realise what it means."
He paused, and waited for Philippa to speak, but finding that she sat silent, he continued.
"In the first place it is deception. Yes, it is," he repeated in answer to a mutter from the doctor. "It is deception. You allow him to believe what is not true. In plain words you act a lie. Can any possible good come from such a course? In the second, can you do it? Picture to yourself what it will be. You will be the affianced wife of a man whom you do not know, and if you are to act the part in such a way as to make it in the least realistic, you must be on more than friendly terms with him. You must show a certain warmth of manner, to say the least of it, in response to his demonstrations of affection. Philippa, you can't do it! You can't! Imagine yourself in such a position." Again he paused, and again she did not speak.
"I wish you would tell me what is in your mind. You know the whole sad story. Can it be possible that there is some quixotic notion in your head that it is for you to heal a wound for which one of your family was responsible? Oh, surely not! And yet, you women are so fond of anything like self-sacrifice that it is impossible to fathom the motives that drive you into folly: generous, well-meant folly, but folly all the same. You have no one here to advise you, and I beg you to be guided by me. You are not really called upon to do this thing. It is undesirable—it is not right."
He stopped speaking at last. It was useless to continue to argue with a person who could not apparently be moved by anything he said.
The doctor stepped forward. "Miss Harford," he said abruptly, "you have heard Major Heathcote's side of the question; you already know the other. As I told you before, we are in your hands. What are you going to do?" Strive as he would he could not keep the note of anxiety out of his voice.
Philippa's next words were a surprise to both men, but the doctor was the first to understand her intention, and his face brightened visibly.
She turned to the Major. "How long is it since you have seen—Francis?" she asked him.
"I——" he replied, rather taken aback, "I think it must be about a fortnight."
"Will you go and see him now—and then when you have spoken to him, will you come back to me here?"
"Certainly, if you wish it," he replied wonderingly.
The doctor led the way and the Major followed him, and they walked up-stairs without speaking.
Philippa moved to the window, and stood there looking out, her hands lightly clasped in front of her—motionless, her eyes gazing across the sunlit park.
And so she waited, until after the lapse of about ten minutes the two men returned.
As they entered the room she stepped quickly forward, and before either of them could speak she said—
"Before you say anything, I want to tell you that I have quite decided. Thank you," she made a gesture to the Major, "for all you said. I know you mean to be kind, in telling me of the difficulties, but I have quite decided. If it is a mistake—well, I am content to abide by it; but as it seems possible for me to bring a little happiness to Francis, I am going to do it."
This time it was the Major who did not answer. He was standing by the fireplace with his eyes on the hearthstone, and his face was working under the stress of some emotion. In his hand he held a small bunch of violets.
"God bless you," said the doctor softly. Then with a quick change of tone he added, "We'll save him yet. Please God we'll save him yet."
Then he drew Philippa to one side, and began to give her some instructions, and some professional details as to the condition of his patient, to which the girl listened attentively.
"At five o'clock this evening I'll come and take you to him," he said presently. "I can only allow you to stay a few moments, and I need hardly impress on you the strict necessity that he should not be allowed to excite himself in any way. But I do not think we shall have any trouble of that kind, for I have already warned him about it. I must go now. You may expect me at five this afternoon."
"I wish Marion were here." The Major turned to Philippa when they were left alone. "I think in a case like this a woman might know what to say to you. I have said all I can, haven't I?"
"You have said all you can, but—I think you saw for yourself, didn't you?"
He nodded. "Poor chap!" he said, with real feeling in his voice. "It is a wonderful change."
"He knew you?"
"Apparently; although, of course, he may have thought I was my father. We had the same name. He looks frightfully ill—more so than he did when he was walking about his rooms—but he spoke as sensibly as you or I."
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'That you, Bill?' when I came into the room. 'I've had rather a nasty turn, but I'm on the mend now. How is Phil? That ruffian has been keeping her away for a day or two, but he says I may see her soon now. Will you give her my dear love?' And then he looked round for the violets which were beside his bed. 'Give her these, will you, old fellow, and tell her I shall see her as soon as I can get on the soft side of old Rob.' He does not look to me as if he could live long."
"Then we will make him happy, until—as long as he lives. Do not trouble any more about it—my share of it, I mean. Just try and think of me as if I were really Phil, not Philippa any more. Will you help me?"
"I wish Marion were here," repeated the Major earnestly. "But it is impossible; she cannot leave the boy. And I cannot leave her, for she is nearly worn out with nursing and anxiety."
"I think it is really better that I should be here alone," returned Philippa. "It makes it all easier, I think."
"As you are going to carry this through," he said after a while, "I will give you some letters and papers I have, which may help you. I will fetch them."
He returned after a few minutes with a dispatch box in his hand, which he laid on a table beside her. "In this you will find Philippa Harford's letters, and also a number written by Francis when they were engaged. You had better read them. You have a right to do so. My grandmother put them all together and gave them to me. Poor old soul, I wonder what she would say if she were here to-day. I have no doubt she would see the matter in the same light as you do. What I should like to know is this: How much has Francis known of all that has passed in the last twenty years? Has he any notion of time? Has he noticed the alteration in people's appearance, I mean? Has he noticed that they have grown older? People he has seen constantly like Robert Gale and old Goodman. Does he know his mother is dead? Has he missed her? Oh, there are half-a-hundred things one wants to know."
"We can only hope that he will never ask," returned Philippa gently. "It will be much happier for him if he takes everything just as it is, and doesn't puzzle over anything. The doctor tells me he is not fit to talk very much—that he must be kept absolutely quiet. I am only to go and sit with him, and not to talk more than I can help. Will you give my best love to Marion, and do not let her worry about anything here? She has so much to trouble her as it is. I do hope you will be able to give me better news soon."
"Let me know if you want me, or if there is any change," he said as they parted. "I will come at any time."
Philippa spent the afternoon in her own room with the dispatch-box by her side, going systematically through the contents.
These consisted of two packets of letters, one very small, merely some half-dozen in all, tied round with a faded piece of pink ribbon—Phil's letters to Francis. The other a thick bundle held together by a piece of red tape—his letters to her.
A small cardboard box containing a ring—a half-hoop of diamonds—a glove, and a bunch of violets faded and dry almost beyond recognition, yet faintly fragrant. A pitiful collection truly, telling plainly of a love story of other days.
Philippa read the letters with a shrinking at her heart, and yet it was absolutely necessary that she should learn all there was to know as to the relations in which these two had stood, the one to the other—not before the public, but in their intimate revealings. Those of the man were closely written and long—outpourings of an affection which carried all before it. The earlier ones—for Philippa placed them in consecutive order—were full, brimful, of joy, of triumph and satisfaction; but in the later ones, while affection was in no way lessened, there was something of appeal—or so it seemed to her as she studied them. An undercurrent as it were of longing, a desire to make the recipient understand the depth of love—to get below the surface, to obtain some deeper expression of confidence in return.
This was particularly evident in one letter. The writer commenced by imploring pardon for some offence which had been unintentional. He dwelt upon the strength of his love—of his desire for her happiness. Would she ever understand what she was to him—what his love meant? and so on, and so on. A deep sincerity burnt in every line. And Philippa turned to the other packet, to find, if she could, the answer; for it was such a letter as must have drawn a reply in the same strain from the woman to whom it was addressed. It was an appeal from the heart, such as no woman with any love for the writer could withstand.
By comparing the dates she found it. It was a hurried scrawl, and read as follows—
"DEAREST FRANCIS,
"I have just had your letter. I never knew such an old boy as you are to worry your head about nothing. Of course I love you. Why do you want me to go on repeating it? But I can't stand heroics, or see any sense in them. I am having a jolly time here. We went to the Milchester races yesterday, and had a very good day. Forest has got a young chestnut that jumps like a stag, I wish you had been there to see it. It would make a first-class hunter, after you'd handled it a bit, and I could do with another if we are going to be at Bessacre next season.
"I shall see you on Friday. Post just going.
"Best love."PHIL."
Philippa wondered whether the heart of the man had taken comfort from the phrase, "I wish you had been there to see." It was rather like giving a crumb to one who demanded bread; but after all, she told herself, she had not known the writer, and many people have no aptitude for expressing their feelings on paper; and although the woman's letters were not particularly affectionate and showed a want of deep feeling, still, there was a certain insouciance, a gaiety about them which was far from unpleasing. It was only that as love-letters they were hardly satisfactory.
It also struck Philippa, as she thought them carefully over, that if her aunt had not felt for Francis the true love of a lover, that high essential essence which turns all to pure gold, she might easily have missed the appeal in them—might even have been frankly bored by them. To one whose heart could not respond to their very evident sincerity they might easily have appeared 'high-falutin'. She herself did not find them so, far from it—she found them inexpressibly touching; but then she knew the story of the man who had waited, and could not fail to be influenced by it.
On the whole, what she gleaned from the perusal of these records out of the past tended, she thought, to make her task the easier, for Phil had clearly disliked and discouraged any very demonstrative affection, and as to the rest she felt no anxiety. She was ready and able, she knew, to give Francis all he could need of cheerful companionship, to make the days pass happily, to minister to him in his weakness. She had some experience of sick people and their needs, a natural aptitude for nursing, and an instinct as to the right thing to say and do in response to their demands. Also there were the services of the trained nurse to fall back on, and on her would rest the actual responsibility of the case.
Again she told herself that all she had to do was to remember that she was playing a part; she had only to forget herself and centre her whole mind on the rôle she had undertaken. Above all, she must not look forward, for no amount of peering could throw light on what the future would bring; sufficient for her to make sure that her particular little square in life's patchwork, as Isabella had called it, was not left with frayed edges. She had a definite task to perform, that of bringing happiness into the last days of a fellow-creature.
So she thought, and so she reasoned, but whether her reasoning was sound she did not stop to consider. Nor if she had done so would she have found it easy to bring a level judgment to bear upon the matter. As she had said to Isabella, it was very difficult to know what was truth when it came to the motives that prompted actions, and there was in her inmost heart the echo of a voice which in some measure deafened her to the calm tones of cold reason.
"And to his eyeThere was but one beloved face on earthAnd that was shining on him."—BYRON.
Punctually at five o'clock Philippa walked out of her room and along the corridor. She was so perfectly familiar with the plan of the house by this time, that there was no likelihood of her mistaking the way which led to the room which she had only discovered by such a slight and, after all, very natural accident on a former occasion.
At the door she found Doctor Gale awaiting her. He came to meet her, scanning her appearance closely.
The girl had put on a soft, light gown, and in her breast, as once before, she had fastened the bunch of violets with the little pearl heart brooch. She had debated in her own mind as to whether she should put on the ring which she had found in the dispatch-box—as to whether it was necessary to dress the part with such a strict regard for detail; but a strong disinclination urged her against it, and yet at the time she had wondered why such a small thing should be so against the grain when others so much more important were unconsidered. It was very like the proverbial "straining at a gnat to swallow a camel." Be this as it might, she had replaced the ring where she found it and locked the box again.
"The likeness is extraordinary," muttered the doctor, half to himself.
He seemed nervous and ill at ease, as he opened the door of the sitting-room and preceded Philippa.
"I will go first if you will allow me," he said.
A screen had been placed at the entrance, and it was not until she had passed round it that Philippa realised she was in the presence of the man she had come to see. The sofa had been drawn forward and he was lying on it, propped up with pillows. The nurse was sitting beside him.
"I have redeemed my promise," said the doctor cheerfully. "I have brought Miss Harford to see you. But she must only stay a few minutes, and less than that if you don't obey orders and keep quiet."
It struck Philippa that he was speaking in order to give her time to decide on her first words, and needlessly so, for she was conscious of no trace of nervousness. She was looking straight at Francis, whose eyes were fixed upon her with the look of joy and welcome she had seen in them before, as she stepped quickly forward.
"Ah!" she said, "I did not expect to see you on the sofa. It must mean that you are better."
She spoke quite simply, and with just the warmth of manner one would use to an intimate friend under similar circumstances.
He held out his hands and she laid both hers in his. Then she turned and thanked the nurse who had vacated her chair, and sat down beside the couch.
Dr. Gale was addressing the nurse. "Go out and take a walk," he was saying. "I thought we should have rain this morning, but now the clouds have disappeared and the sun is shining."
As they left the room together, Francis raised Philippa's hands and kissed them, first one and then the other.
"The clouds have disappeared, and the sun is shining," he repeated softly; "for you are here. Oh, my sweet! what it is to see you again!"
"You are really feeling better?" she asked.
"Ever so much stronger," he assured her, "and the sight of you will complete the cure. I ought to be well shaken for giving you such a lot of trouble and anxiety, oughtn't I? But I'll make up for it, my darling; I promise I will. Give me just a little time to get quite well and strong; I shall not be a bother for long. Old Rob says he can make a job of me. Then you shall see what care I will take of you. You are looking thinner. It must have been a dull time for you, but we'll make up for it all by and by."
"You mustn't think of anything except getting well again," she said.
"You will stay here?" he asked, with a note of anxiety in his voice.
"The doctor said I might stay a few minutes."
"I don't mean that—I mean, you will stay at Bessacre."
"Certainly I will stay just as long as you want me," she answered quickly.
He leaned back on his pillows. "I was so afraid that you might not be able to stay—that you might have some other engagement. I had an idea that you were going to Scotland. It is sweet of you to stay with me. I must confess that the thought of losing you was troubling me."
"I have no intention of going to Scotland, I am going to stay here."
"And I may see you every day?"
"Every day, unless the doctor forbids."
"Oh, hang old Rob," he said gaily. "You have taken the very last load off my mind. Together we will rout him, you and I. Oh, Phil, my darling! how soon do you think I shall be able to get out of doors? I want to feel the fresh air of Bessmoor and ride for miles, just you and I together, with the wind in our faces."
"You must get stronger first, for you look as if the wind on Bessmoor would blow you away altogether."
"Yes, I don't feel quite like getting on a horse yet—or, in fact, like doing anything at all except sitting here with you. When will you sing to me again, Phil?"
"Any time you like," she replied. "But not to-day, because I think the authorities might object. Wait a day or two."
He lay for a while silent, evidently feeling more feeble than he cared to acknowledge, and Philippa watched him.
He was very pale now that the flush which had come into his face from the excitement of seeing her had faded, but knowing as she did that he was a man of over five-and-forty, he looked extraordinarily young.
His hair was white, it was true, but it had all the appearance of being prematurely so, and it seemed out of keeping with his skin, which was smooth and unlined. His eyes were clear and bright, almost like those of a boy; while there was a ring, a freshness in his voice which was much more in accord with early manhood than with maturity. His weakness was very evident to her observant eyes, but she saw also that he was by nature one of those in whom the spirit would always rise above bodily weakness, and in whom distress of mind would destroy more inevitably than bodily ailment. It was easy to see reason in the doctor's statement that in his present condition any disappointment would be fatal. He was upheld by his heart's joy in their reunion.
Certain words came into the girl's mind, although where she had heard them or read them she could not remember—
"Love is a flame, and at that flameI light my torch of life."
The torch was burning with a clear white light, but the end of light would mean also the end of life. Quite involuntarily she gave a little sigh for the pity of it all, and in a second he opened his eyes, which had been closed.
"Don't sigh, my sweet," he said tenderly; "I cannot bear you should be unhappy for a moment, especially when I know you are unhappy because of me."
"I am not unhappy," she replied. "Did I sigh? If so it was quite unconsciously. Perhaps you should rest a little now. Don't you think you could sleep? I think the doctor would feel I had been here long enough."
"You will come again soon?" he pleaded.
"To-morrow," she said, rising. "Now, mind, you are not to doubt or to worry yourself. I shall come to-morrow, and every day so long as you want me. To-morrow I will read to you if you ought not to talk, and I shall hope to see you ever so much stronger." She paused. This was the difficult moment, and she was quite aware of it.
He took her hands and kissed them as before, and then, stooping lower in response to the unspoken appeal which she read in his eyes, she kissed him on the forehead.
"Heart's dearest!" he murmured fondly. "How good you are to me!"
"Sleep well," she said, as lightly as she could as she stepped softly from the room.
The doctor was waiting outside. "Is he quiet?" he asked anxiously.
"Perfectly quiet, and, I think, inclined to sleep," she answered. "I have promised him to come again to-morrow."
"You might come for a little while both morning and afternoon if he goes on all right. Will you see the nurse and arrange with her? She will know which is his best time."
Philippa said she would do so, and the doctor went in for a final look at his patient before leaving the house.
As the girl sat alone later in the evening, she pondered over the words Francis had spoken. That his memory had not failed in any detail within what might be termed the radius of his love story she was well aware. It had been further proved to-day; he had mentioned her singing. Fortunately that presented no difficulty to her, for, although she did not possess a voice in any way remarkable, still, she had been well trained and had sung a good deal in her father's lifetime. He had also spoken of riding, and of her going to Scotland. It might be that he remembered riding with her, and perhaps the first Philippa had arranged a visit to Scotland—she could not tell. But beyond this he had spoken of Bessacre and Bessmoor, giving the places their correct names without hesitating. She had always understood that the names of places presented the gravest difficulty to a memory in any way troubled or imperfect. Did this mean that his mind was perfectly clear upon all that had happened up to the time of the accident, but that from that moment all was darkness? This was frequently so in cases of concussion of the brain, as she knew, but against this explanation was the fact that he had recognised both the doctor and Mrs. Goodman. If he only remembered them as they were at the time of his accident, surely he would have made some comment on their altered appearance. It was this that puzzled—this that made the situation so complex.
She made a little plan of campaign in her mind—of books she would read with him, of various little things which she would order which might amuse him. The way bristled with pitfalls if once she allowed herself to consider them. Twenty years! How everything must have altered since then! For instance, how much had the ordinary everyday sights such as pass us every day without our giving them a thought changed in that time! Twenty years ago the motor-car was unknown, electric light was in its infancy. The Heathcotes had cars, but she remembered that Francis' room looked out on a part of the garden and that the drive was not visible from the windows. Therefore, although it was possible that he might have heard the sound of a horn or siren, he would never actually have seen a car. Electric light was installed in his room. She had no idea when this had been done, but he must be quite accustomed to it.
It was not until she began to sum them up that she realised how innumerable are the changes wrought by a couple of decades—in our habits, even in our speech. English 'as she is spoke' is a variable quantity, and the jargon of to-day is forgotten to-morrow. Philippa the first had mentioned in one of her letters that she was having "a jolly time." Well, "jolly" as an adjective is as dead as the dodo, and if the letter had been written by her to-day, she, being what she was, would undoubtedly have used the word "ripping."
Her namesake smiled to herself as she thought of it. Fortunately here again she was safe. Having lived so much abroad, and having spoken fluently in several languages, she had not contracted the habit of employing all the hundred-and-one words of current slang such as are on the lips of most young people.
On the whole, she decided it was useless to consider possible pitfalls. They did exist, but she must rely on her quickness and presence of mind, and hope to escape them.
After a while she summoned Mrs. Goodman and asked her help in the matter of songs. Could she tell her of any songs Francis had cared for particularly? The old woman looked puzzled at first, but after some reflection said that, in a lumber-room, there was a pile of music which had been cleared out of the library years ago. He always had his piano in the library, she explained, and it was there that he and Miss Philippa used to play and sing together. "The same piano stands in the morning-room now. I have so many things that were his. My lady told me to throw away his bats and racquets and such things, but I couldn't do it. And some of them he himself asked me to take care of for him, many years ago in his school-days. He probably forgot all about them, but they were safely kept. Will you come one day and see them, Miss Phil?"
The girl promised readily. She was only too anxious to learn all she could; every detail of his life, however seemingly unimportant, might be of help to her.
The old woman sat talking for a time, and then Philippa suggested that they should go together in search of the music.
Mrs. Goodman demurred, saying she feared the place might be dusty, for it was long since she visited it, and no one else had access to it; but Philippa laughingly overcame her scruples, and they mounted the stairs together.
The sun was low and it was growing dusk when they entered a rambling attic at the top of the house. It was filled with the heterogeneous collection of odds and ends such as accumulate in any large house—pieces of furniture, broken or too worn for use; pictures, some with frames and some without; toys, a nursery chair, and who knows what beside. Mrs. Goodman laid her hand on a rocking-horse which peered out of the gloom like some weird monster, head upreared and snorting fiercely.
"The Major told me nothing here need be disturbed," she said, with a little quiver in her voice. "He was always so fond of his horse." But in the latter part of her sentence it was clear that "he" was not the Major. The old woman stroked the battered steed tenderly. "It doesn't seem long since I saw him ride it," she went on; "sitting on it in his little holland blouse as proud as a prince. He was very small then, and as soon as he was old enough his mother gave him a pony. Gipsy, its name was. I shall never forget his delight."
"Have you known him ever since he was born?" asked Philippa gently.
"Very nearly," was the reply. "I knew Lady Louisa before she was married. My father was one of her father's oldest tenants. I was married some years before my lady, and lost both my husband and child. When Francis was born he wasn't very strong, and my lady engaged a nurse for him with the best possible recommendations, but she was no use and the child didn't thrive. My lady was very troubled about him—he was her only one, you see—and when the nurse proved so unsatisfactory she wrote to me and asked me to come.
"I remember her letter now. 'Will you come and help me to look after him?' she wrote, 'for I would rather he had your affection, Jane, than the wider experience of strangers. I know you will never neglect him, and can trust you.' So I came. He was about a year old—a tiny, weakly baby; but he throve wonderfully, although my lady used to say we were like two hens with one chick. She was very wise and would not let him be spoilt. His father died when he was about ten years old. He was much older than Lady Louisa and had been twice married, as I think I told you."
She paused for a few minutes and then resumed: "Francis was always so happy. It was his nature. Very high-spirited, and as a child very quick-tempered, but if he was angry it was just a flash, all over in a minute."
"Who has been nursing him in his illness?" asked Philippa.
"At first, of course, he had trained nurses, but later, when he could not be called ill in himself, he just had his own valet for some time. But after a while, to Lady Louisa's great distress, some one spread a report in the village that he was out of his mind, so she arranged that his rooms were to be quite separate. They were never entered by the house servants. I sent for a nephew of mine, a quiet, trustworthy man who I knew could keep his tongue in his head, and for years he has waited on him, and his wife has had charge of his rooms under my supervision. I have been to see him every day and seen to his comfort, but I am very old now and past work. If that were not so, should not I be nursing him now?" she asked sadly. "It is difficult to stand aside and watch others doing what you long to do yourself. But that must be in old age. It is years since he crossed the threshold of his own rooms, and I am sure there are people on the place now who don't know he lives here—so quiet was it kept, by my lady's wish. Oh," she cried tremulously, "if my dear lady could only be here to see the change in him!"
"You have seen him to-day?" asked Philippa. "How did you think he was looking?"
"He looks very ill," answered the old woman; "but he was quite his old self. He had some little joke ready for me. He was always full of fun. Isn't it wonderful? It seems just as if all those years had been wiped right off, as you would wipe a slate."
"Did he speak of old times?"
"Not exactly, but he was just having his breakfast as I went in, and I stood beside him while he ate it, and he laughed when I tried to help him, and asked whether I shouldn't feed him with a spoon—whether I thought he was a baby again. Then he spoke of you, and asked if I had seen you and how you were."
They found the music presently, and Philippa possessed herself of a quantity of it and carried it down-stairs to the morning-room to try it over on the little piano which had belonged to Francis years before. The instrument was rather thin in tone, and some of the notes were out of tune, but Mrs. Goodman promised before she left her, to send for a man from Renwick next morning to put it in order, so that it could be taken up-stairs to the sitting-room.
Turning over the songs, which were, of course, quite out of date, and mostly of the highly sentimental order which found favour in the early eighties, Philippa's eye was arrested by some words which seemed to her familiar. They were the ones Francis had quoted at their first meeting. He had spoken of a song Phil had been in the habit of singing, which seemed to him written for them. She tried it through. The tune had a certain happy charm which once heard might easily linger in the memory after the music was hushed. The words were these:—
"My heart met yours, when spring was all awaking,Down in the valley where the violets bloom;Through soft grey clouds the kind May sun was breaking,Setting ablaze the gold flower of the broom.
Your heart met mine, and all the birds were singing,Singing for joy that winter's day was done;On every side the harebells pale were ringingA bridal peal for joy—our hearts were one.
Our hearts are one, and nothing can disseverThe chain that binds us close; come good or ill,The golden radiance floods life's pathway ever,The scent of violets lingers round us still."
How many years was it since the simple words had been sung in that house, and the notes of the old piano sounded to the lilting cadence of its melody? And now, of the two who had sung it together, one was gone, and the other—well, for the other some of the golden radiance still shone after all the bitter years fate had meted out; and the scent of the violets lingered still.
Philippa dropped her face until it touched the faded bunch upon her breast. What is there about the scent of violets that always conjures up thoughts of the past? They have beyond the scent of all other flowers a power of memory. The scent of roses tells of long summer days, of dreams soft and tender as light summer airs; lilies speak of love and of love's crown; but it is violets that help us to regret.
"The days are made on a loom whereof the warp and woof are past and future time."—EMERSON.
The improvement in Francis Heathcote's condition in the days which followed was, so the doctor and nurses declared, phenomenal. Robert Gale ceased to tug at his beard in angry perplexity, and melted into something which might almost have been called jocularity, as he watched the man gaining in health and strength. "Splendid! Splendid!" he would say, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. "Go on as you are going, and you'll see the last of me soon."
And as the days went by, peacefully and seemingly uneventfully, the time she spent with Francis became more and more the pivot on which Philippa's whole mind and thought turned. Day by day, almost hour by hour, he appeared to gain visibly in vigour. The cheerfulness and high spirits which had characterised him in an unusual degree before his accident, returned to him; and she marvelled increasingly at the almost boyish gaiety which he evinced at times. There were moments when she had perforce to remind herself of the long years of loneliness and deprivation through which he had passed. They seemed to have left no mark on him. And yet she could not think they were forgotten, for once—it was at her second visit to him—he spoke at some length of his illness. Not, however, with any bitterness or annoyance, but merely as one might mention a curious experience through which one had lived, and for which one was little or none the worse.
"It is all so muddled to me. Sometimes it seems as if I had waited years for the sight of your face, and then again it would seem only the day before that I had seen you. Sometimes I saw you so clearly that I thought you were in the room, only I never could get you to speak to me. And I never could touch you. The moment I thought you were coming nearer you went away altogether. That was what bothered me. I suppose it was imagination or some kind of delirium, but it was rather dreadful, for when I couldn't see you everything was swallowed up in a horrible darkness. It was only when you came that there was daylight at all, the rest was a dreadful night."
"Don't talk of it," she had begged him, "it is over now." And seeing that the subject distressed her he had not spoken of it again.
Philippa found no difficulty in amusing him, or distracting his attention from anything which her intuition warned her might lead to dangerous questioning. She sang to him, and read to him, choosing lighter stories from the magazines, and preferably those in which the plot was laid in other countries or in previous centuries. He showed no signs of bewilderment when such events as the Indian Mutiny or the French Revolution were mentioned, and the girl could not be sure whether he listened without comprehending, for the mere pleasure of hearing her voice and knowing her companionship, or whether some feeling of half-shamed reticence prevented his acknowledging that he had never heard of these things before.
Perhaps, again, the mention of them awoke echoes which had long been silent, and dragged forgotten facts out of oblivion to the light of day—just as one may enter a room which has been closely sealed for years, and see objects once familiar but long since absolutely forgotten, shrouded in dust and dim with disuse, but of which the sight instantly recalls every trifling association.
Sometimes he would comment upon the situations or characters in a story, frequently making fun of them and their peculiarities, and at others he would bid her lay down the book and talk to him instead. He found the greatest pleasure in the time they spent together, when Philippa would take up her embroidery and sit beside him, and he would lie on the sofa with his eyes on her, watching her every movement as her dexterous needle slipped rapidly through the canvas.
He was thoughtful of her, never omitting to question her as to whether she had been out, and constantly bidding her not to give up all her own amusements for his sake. He did not speak a great deal of his love, but his devotion showed itself plainly in a hundred different ways—in his deep gratitude for any slight service rendered—in his look of gladness when she came—in the inflexion of his voice, and so on. He seemed determined not to peril his new-found joy, or weary her by any protestations.
It was all quite easy, and Philippa was conscious of a great content, which she attributed to the reaction from her anxiety lest she should fail in the thing she had undertaken, and the natural pride which a nurse may legitimately feel when she sees a patient making strides on the road of convalescence.
She had received a letter from Marion, who wrote from a heart evidently torn with misgivings as to the wisdom of the course Philippa was pursuing. Her words were affectionate and guarded, but doubt and even disapproval could easily be read between the lines. She wrote of the grave dangers which must presently confront her friend, of the moment which must surely come when it would be impossible to go on without acknowledging the truth, and the word which might have been said at once would have to be spoken. She earnestly begged her to withdraw herself altogether, to leave the nursing of Francis Heathcote to others. The pain she would now cause would be nothing to the pain which would be his later when her daily presence had become a delightful habit with him—and so on, and so on. She reiterated the Major's regret that Philippa should have been drawn into the affair while a guest in their house, and particularly during their absence. Her pity for Francis was intense, but that did not alter her fixed opinion that Philippa was not doing the best or the kindest thing by assisting to deceive him; for that was what it really amounted to. She knew Philippa's power of sympathy, and her loving heart had no doubt blinded her to what was wise and right.
The girl read the letter carefully, but even if the arguments contained in it might have moved her to a different decision had they come earlier, they arrived too late to be of any value whatever. She told herself that it was only natural that Marion should feel as she did—that no one who was not on the spot, who had not seen Francis, could possibly judge of what was best for him—and that the wisdom of her decision had been amply proved by the marvellous improvement in his health. As for grave dangers in the future, they did not trouble her; she could only think of each moment as it came.
She answered the letter, assuring Marion of her affection, and regretting they could not see the matter in the same light, and repeating her conviction that had her friend been there she would undoubtedly have acted in the same way. Then she dismissed the question from her mind. This was not the moment for looking back and wondering what would have happened if she had acted differently.
If she had wondered at all, it was to marvel why she had hesitated, for now she could not see that any alternative had been practicable; but she was not one of those unfortunate people who are forever looking back, forever apprehensive, forever haunted by doubts as to whether they have done the right thing; on the contrary, she possessed sound stability of purpose and a power of acting on her own convictions, fearlessly accepting any responsibility they entailed.
It is true that in this affair she had found an unusual difficulty in arriving at a decision, but once having made up her mind, she was not likely to be affected by the opinion of others. Having chosen her path she would tread it without faltering. Her time was fully occupied with details which, although in themselves trifling, were of importance to her great objective—gathering flowers for Francis' room—collecting scraps of news—trying over new songs to sing to him—planning fresh ways to interest and amuse him.
And then, without warning, came some days of grave anxiety, for the advance which had been so steady seemed suddenly arrested, and Francis lost as much ground in a day as he had gained in a week. It was hard to account for it. The weather, which had been warm and sunny, had changed, and heavy storms of rain and a close thundery atmosphere prevailed. This might have affected the patient, or, did this relapse mean that his condition had been one of superficial strength induced by sheer power of will? The doctor resumed his usual ferocity of manner and refused to be questioned. For hours he and Philippa sat beside the bed, watching a feeble, flickering spark of life—so feeble that it seemed that every moment it must be extinguished; but gradually—very gradually—the distressing symptoms decreased, a little colour returned to the face which had looked so lifeless, and again hope grew strong.
At last there came a day when the doctor pronounced himself satisfied that, for the time at least, danger was over.
It was Francis himself who suggested a little later that Philippa should, as he put it, take a day off. Days and nights of watchfulness and unremitting care leave their mark even on the most robust, and although the girl denied that she felt any fatigue, it was evident to him that she was looking white and strained. The very idea that she should in any way suffer through her devotion to him distressed him so greatly that Philippa agreed, and it was arranged that she should spend the whole day in the open air, and that on the following day the plan should be reversed—she should spend it with him and the nurse should take a holiday.
"Why don't you ride?" Francis asked. "It must be weeks since you have been in the saddle. You, who spend half your days riding, of course you must miss it."
She made some evasive reply and he did not urge her further, to her relief; for she did not care particularly about riding, whereas it had been more than a pastime—indeed almost a passion—with Philippa the first.
The storms which had swept Bessmoor from end to end for many days in succession had passed over, leaving behind them just a few dark clouds, drifting in broken masses across a sky of deepest blue, and throwing deep shadows here and there across the moor—ever-varying elusive shadows which only accentuated the brilliancy of the sunshine where it fell upon the warm colours of the ling, which was just coming into blossom, for the blooming time of the bell heather was over.
There was a buoyancy and freshness in the air doubly welcome after the sultry depression which was in tune with Philippa's mood—in tune with the exhilaration of spirit of which she was conscious. The clouds had passed—the sun was shining—away with gloomy forebodings—Francis was really better. And having schooled herself to live only in the present and take no thought for the morrow, she was able to say, with no slight feeling of contentment, that all was well.
She had not seen Isabella Vernon since the day she had visited her cottage, and she had decided that since Francis had forbidden her presence in the house, she would spend the day with the woman whom she was beginning to call her friend.
She had thought a good deal of Isabella since their last meeting, and in some curious fashion her thoughts had brought her more intimately near. There seemed to be no particular reason why this should be so, for Philippa was not in the habit of tumbling into friendship; but in the long hours which she had spent beside Francis' bedside, Isabella had been constantly in her mind. Was it, perhaps, because she had been so closely connected with the past of the man, that past which was so inextricably fused with the present? Was it of that past that Isabella had spoken when she had emphatically repeated, "I do not want to forget!" And if this was so—— She could not tell. All she knew was that in some mysterious way it had become quite clear to her that Isabella had come into her life, and had come to stay.