"All thingsOf dearest value, hang on slender strings."—WALLER.
"So, my dear, it has come." These were Isabella's words of greeting.
For a moment Philippa hesitated; then she raised her eyes and met the other's look fearlessly.
"Yes," she said simply. "How did you know?"
Isabella took her arm and they walked on together.
"How did I know?" she repeated. "It is written on your face. I was waiting for it, you see."
"You were waiting for it?" repeated the girl wonderingly.
"Yes. I knew it must come. If for no other reason than that pity is akin to love; but more than that, I knew that if there was anything left in the older man of the Francis I used to know—any of his great charm and sweetness of character—you could not, being what you are, fail to love him."
"I did not know—indeed I did not know."
"No, I am certain of that. It is curious, isn't it"—Isabella spoke musingly—"how a little spark of love may fall, all unknown to ourselves, deep down in our heart, and smoulder there without smoke, until some sudden gust of emotion—sorrow—pleasure—anger—God knows what—fans it into a blaze that we cannot extinguish—into flames so high that they reach from earth to heaven and light the whole world for us? Yes, and not only the whole world, but all that unmapped country within us of which we know so little and in which we are so apt to lose ourselves."
"He asked me," said the girl. "I had known in a vague way that the question must come—and I think you knew it too, for that was what you meant the other day, wasn't it? And I was quite prepared. I meant to answer him. I meant to stick at nothing, to satisfy him whatever he asked—and I was going to lie. And as I spoke the words I knew that they were true, I knew that I loved him, Isabella. No, nothing to do with pity, although you may be right when you say that pity had something to do with it in the beginning—but love, such as I did not know was possible to me."
"And now," asked the older woman, gently, "are you glad or sorry?"
"Sorry!" she cried. "Sorry! How could I be sorry? I am glad."
"You welcome love?"
"I welcome it. It is so wonderful—so beautiful——"
"Love brings suffering."
"I am not afraid of suffering—for myself—only for him. If suffering comes, it can never take from me the joy I have known."
"The price of love is heavy."
"No matter the price, I will pay it gladly." There was no mistaking the gladness and the courage which rang in the words.
"Poor child! poor child!" said Isabella softly.
"Do not pity me. There is no need for pity," she said earnestly. "Isabella—if I lost him—to-morrow—still, I have known—but he is not going to die, he is going to live."
"The doctor thinks so?"
"Yes; he says there is no reason why he should not live out his allotted span of life—those were his words."
Isabella did not speak—she was thinking only of Francis, and not at all of the girl beside her. Which was best for him? Would it not be kinder, happier, if he died now before he knew? Her face was very grave and sad; so much so, indeed, that Philippa repeated the words she had spoken, "He will not die. And I have promised to marry him."
"The difficulties are enormous." The words broke from Isabella half against her will. Of what use to speak of difficulties to the girl whose mind refused to acknowledge the existence of any?
"I have planned it all," continued Philippa, without heeding Isabella's words. "We shall be married and go straight abroad. It would not be good for him to be in England for the winter. He needs brightness and warmth and sunshine, and I shall take him to some quiet place where he can have them—where there is no one he has ever known before, to disturb him, or make him worry because he does not remember."
"Do you think he tries to remember?"
"I do not know. He certainly remembers something of the past. I mentioned your name to him the other day, and he replied quite naturally and quite calmly, 'Dear old Isabella! she was always a good friend.' So you see he does remember."
A painful flush rose in Isabella's sallow cheeks, but she said no word. Was this the message she had waited for so long? Casual words repeated with a cruelty that was quite unconscious on Philippa's part.
She too was thinking only of Francis, and not at all of this woman who had loved him in silence for so long. But with the wound comfort came to Isabella in the knowledge of the meed of praise the words contained. It was something to know that Francis remembered her, and more to know that he recalled her as a good friend. What more could she expect? Then, taking her love and her longing with both hands, she laid them a sacrifice before the welfare of the man she loved, and made the renunciation of her one hope without a quiver in her voice.
"I think you are perfectly right," she said. "It is most important that he should not see—any one—he knew in the old days. It would only disturb and perplex him, and if you take him abroad you will be able to guard him from every danger of this kind."
"Yes," said Philippa eagerly, "that is what I feel. I shall try and explain it to Marion, but I am afraid it will not be easy to make her understand. If he sees the Major I am sure he will begin to wonder, and Marion and the child would puzzle him dreadfully. But right away in Italy, or somewhere he has never been before, there would be no danger of anything of the kind. He can start a fresh life altogether.
"I did not really want him to live, Isabella," she continued presently. "I thought it would be better for him to go out of it all, out of all the bewilderment and trouble; but that was before—I knew—I loved him. And now, you cannot wonder that I want him to live. My life shall be devoted to taking care of him. Oh, how I wish you could see him, Isabella! You would see that what I say is true. He is so happy, so light-hearted. I think he must be just what he used to be when he was a boy.
"I had a long talk with poor old Goodie last night. She is in the seventh heaven of delight because the nurse is leaving. She has been so jealous of her, poor old soul. You can hardly wonder at it, can you? She told me exactly what she and Keen had arranged. He is going to sleep in the next room because, as she said, much as she would like to be next to Francis, she did not wake as easily as she used to, and she might not hear him if he called; but she is to take in his early cup of tea so as to have a look at him before any one else. 'I know just how he likes it,' she assured me. 'Two lumps of sugar and a dash of cream.' Her devotion is quite pathetic, and she nearly made me cry last night when she invited me into her room and showed me all her most precious possessions. They had all to do with Francis. His first pair of gloves, such tiny things with fingers about an inch long, his baby shoes, his favourite playthings, beginning with a worsted rabbit and ending with his last tennis racquet. She had a cupboard full of them. And she was so proud of all his presents to her, particularly of a blue china mug which she told me he had bought for her with his own money when he was seven years old. The dear old woman couldn't stop talking of him, and I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. She showed me letters she had from him when he first went to school. The first one he wrote began 'Darling Goodie,' and ended up 'Your loving little Boy.' Well, it appears that she did not think this was a suitable way for him to address her, so she wrote and told him that he was not to write like that again, but to remember his position, and that God had made him her superior. He wrote back 'Darling Goodie,' and ended up 'Your loving little superior Boy.' I saw the letter written in a sprawling childish hand with a line of crosses for kisses at the bottom of the page. It was rather sweet, wasn't it?
"You never heard such stories as she told me. How he once dressed up in the coachman's livery and took the brougham to fetch his mother from Renwick. It was quite dark, and she got into the carriage without noticing anything. He drove home at a fearful pace, and galloped the horses right up the drive, and pulled up at the hall door with a tremendous jerk. His mother quite thought the coachman was drunk, and as she got out she said very sternly, 'You will come to me in the library immediately, Williams.' 'Yes, darling,' said Francis, and jumped off the box and gave her a great hug. It must have been very funny."
"You would think it particularly funny if you had known Lady Louisa," assented Isabella. But she said nothing of a girl who had crouched behind the gatepost, shivering with cold and excitement, to watch the success of the plot which had been hatched by two playmates in the fragrant fastness of the hayloft, which had been always their favourite hiding-place. To this day the scent of hay gave Isabella a delicious tremor, a thrill of the old joyful dread of discovery, which had been the charm of the innocent conspiracies of those far-off days. That it had been her fellow-conspirator who usually undertook the carrying out of the deeds of derring-do, and that upon her had fallen the humbler task of keeping guard against any possible surprise—covering his tracks—averting suspicion—even occasionally taking the blame, though this was without his knowledge,—made no difference to her intense enjoyment. The axiom that one must lead and the other must follow had been early instilled into her by her masculine comrade, and she for her part had been only too content to follow so long as it was he who led. She had forgotten nothing. If it came to stories about Francis as a boy, she could, had she so wished, have recounted as many as old Goodie, but she listened to the recital with a calmness that gave Philippa no hint of her real feelings.
"She showed me a lot of his drawings, too," Philippa said presently. "It seems rather curious that he has never spoken of that, for I think he had been painting the first day I saw him. Dr. Gale told me it was one of his occupations during all the years he was ill. Perhaps he will take it up later on—it will be an interest for him."
"He used to do a good deal of it at times before he was ill," said Isabella. "At one time he had an idea of taking it up seriously, but he was always too fond of being out of doors to stick to anything that kept him in. I remember one Long Vacation he arranged a studio in one of the barns, and declared he was going to work in deadly earnest; but after a while the longing to be out became too strong to be resisted and we heard no more of his career as an artist. No one ever had such a love of nature and sunshine and the open air as he had, and he loved the place so, every field and every tree."
"I wish I had known him then. Oh, Isabella, doesn't it seem extraordinary to think of all that has happened in these last few weeks? I was in such a stupid frame of mind when I came here—so self-centred and so dissatisfied—and now, everything is changed for me. First came all the interest and the intense pity I felt, and then, little by little, love grew without my knowing it until it filled my heart, and I know that whatever happens life can never be the same again to me. It seems so wonderful that everything can be changed in a moment. Does love always come like that? The realisation of it, I mean. I suppose not. Oh, I am sorry for the people who have never felt it. I can hardly believe that I am the same person who grumbled at life being empty a little while ago, for now it is so good to be alive." She stretched out her arms with a welcoming gesture that seemed to embrace the whole world. Then she turned quickly.
"Forgive me, Isabella," she said with a little happy smile; "forgive me for talking about myself, I don't know what made me do it. I think my heart was so full it just had to come out. Now let us talk of something else. How is the book getting on?"
"Not very well, I am afraid. I must confess it has not progressed much the last few days; partly because I have not been quite in the mood for it, which is a terrible confession of weakness, and partly because Mrs. Palling has been on the war-path.
"First of all her beloved bees have been in a most unsettled frame of mind, or so she tells me—I can't say I have seen any sign of it myself—and she assures me that something is going to happen. At first she felt certain that it was the arrival of a visitor for which they strove to prepare her. I am quite sure that it must have been your coming that is the cause of it. No one ever invaded my solitude before, and the excitement was too much for her. But as day after day passed and no stranger arrived, she changed her mind and is now equally certain that the restlessness of her household gods portends some fearful disaster. The awkward part of it is, that even she cannot make out what form it will take; she merely tells me gloomily that something is going to happen. She has tied a bunch of herbs over the door to keep illness away, and she has presented me with a little stone which she beseeches me to carry about with me to avert accident, but even these precautions haven't comforted her much. Whenever I return home I see her waiting anxiously at the gate with a face long enough to propitiate all the gods of misfortune, and when she sees me she finds it hard to believe that I am not dragging myself home to die of some hidden wound.
"But never mind! I have known the good woman suffer from these attacks of depression before. It will pass and she will be restored to her accustomed cheerfulness. I have already told her that her symptoms point to indigestion, to which she replied darkly that by some oversight the last pig was killed at the waning of the moon, and that possibly the pork was 'a bit unheartsome' in consequence. Come and see her some day if you can. I dare say the sight of you will appease the bees and restore her to sanity."
"I will if I possibly can," returned Philippa doubtfully. "But you know, I do not like to go very far in case Francis might ask for me. Could you not come and see me?"
Isabella hesitated. "I do not think I will come to Bessacre unless you really want me—for anything particular, I mean. If I can be of any use to you, send for me, and I will come at once; but otherwise I think it will be better not."
They parted soon afterwards, and Isabella trudged back to her home across the sunlit moor with slow and lagging step. Philippa's words had indeed "knocked at her heart and found her thoughts at home," and the old wound throbbed with a dull fierce ache. She, with her intimate knowledge of Francis, could picture to herself the whole course of recent events.
Had she not known him as a lover, wooing Phil with all the strength of his early manhood, all the force of the flood-tide of his love? Had she not seen him curbing that love lest any demonstration of too open affection might harm his cause with the woman who had not "liked heroics," wooing with innocent devices and tender subtlety? And she could almost hear the words he must have spoken when again he wooed. Small wonder that Philippa's heart had awaked to his appeal. The fact of her own affection, although it did not entirely blind her, distorted her outlook. She only saw that Francis' peace of mind must be preserved at all costs, and it was not likely that she, who would have sacrificed herself gladly for his lightest good, could bring a clear judgment to bear upon the ethics of the case. Had she been in Philippa's place no question of abstract morality would have carried weight with her. She would have taken any action which would have saved him from distress, just as surely as she would have plunged into fire to rescue him.
She would never have stooped to casuistry or self-deception, but she would never have hesitated. She was not what may be called a religious woman as we understand the term. She believed with all her heart in a Supreme God whom she worshipped, but she could not agree to the restrictions which, it seemed to her, orthodoxy set upon His power, and she had no sympathy with women who trample heedlessly upon the feelings of others in a frantic effort to save their own souls. The truth being that Isabella, like so many of her sex who lead solitary lives, had constructed for herself a curious philosophy out of the hotch-potch of maxims, theories, prejudices and principles which she called her opinions, and it had at any rate the merit of being a philosophy of self-sacrifice and self-control.
She realised that Philippa's new-found joy was built upon a delusion, that at any moment it might come tumbling about her ears, but that was hardly worth consideration, although it aroused in her a sense of pity.
She had said "Love brings suffering," and in the words she had recited a clause in her creed of life. Had she not been taught by bitter experience? Love brings suffering, yes; but that was no reason for shrinking from Love. The greater the value of anything, the greater the price which must be paid. This was not cynicism, but common sense; and it was only a coward who did not welcome the suffering as an intrinsic part of the wonderful whole, only a miser who would not pay the price.
She herself had paid it—ungrudgingly—in tears—in long years of loneliness—with empty hands. But with Philippa it was different. Happy Philippa, who might know the delight of Love's service. It is never so hard to suffer in the forefront of the battle, it is the inaction that tortures.
"And truth is this to me, and that to thee."—Idylls of the King.
"One that would neither misreport nor lieNot to gain paradise."—Queen Mary.TENNYSON
Philippa was sensible of a certain relief when the post brought no reply to her letter to Marion. To say that she was dreading her friend's answer would be over-stating the case, for the girl's present frame of mind was far too exalted, too ecstatic, to admit of anything so sobering as dread; but she could not help knowing that Marion would entirely fail to understand her actions or the motives which prompted them, and would be mystified and unhappy about her.
She had not the happy faculty which some people have of putting their thoughts on paper, lucidly and clearly, and the letter had not been an easy one to write. She had honestly tried to be frank, but when it came to writing of her love, words seemed so bald, so inadequate, that after several efforts she had given it up in despair, and merely stated simple facts. And yet she would have liked Marion to know all. It would have added to her happiness to have known that her friend sympathised and shared in it.
She never for a moment considered the possibility of an answer in person, and she was, in consequence, taken entirely by surprise when, on the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Heathcote walked into the hall where she was sitting.
Philippa sprang to her feet. "Oh," she cried, "I never thought you would be able to come. How delightful!"
Marion returned her kiss warmly. "I felt I must see you," she said affectionately, "and I was able to leave Dickie for a little while."
"How is he?"
"Getting gradually stronger."
"Is your husband here?"
"No, he stopped with the boy; we could not both come away. I can only stay a short time. Will you come into the morning-room and let us have a talk there, where we shall be undisturbed?"
"You got my letter?" asked Philippa.
"Yes, that is why I came," answered Marion gravely. "Will you tell me all about it, dear?"
For answer Philippa flung her arms about her and held her close. There was something so comforting, so dear about Marion, that at the sight of her a flood of recollection flashed through the girl's mind of unnumbered kindnesses and loving counsel in the old days, a thousand links in the chain which bound them in friendship, and yet—now—how was she to make her understand?
Marion, with all the genius for loving-kindness which she undoubtedly possessed, held certain rigid and unwavering opinions. They were a part of her; without them she would not have been Marion—the Marion Philippa loved—and it was just her perfectly sane, normal outlook on life which made the stumbling-block, for it was not easy to her to take another person's point of view, or look, as it were, through another person's eyes.
And Marion herself, holding the girl tightly in all affection, and stroking the dark head with a tender touch, felt a sudden helplessness. This was not the Philippa she had expected to see. She had read her letter with the utmost surprise, not to say consternation, and, womanlike, had read into the simple communication a very great deal that had not been in it at all.
That Philippa should feel affection for the man whom she had come to know under such extraordinary circumstances she could well believe; it was entirely in keeping with her estimate of the girl's character, and she had, in fact, said as much to her husband from the first. "Philippa will love any one who wants her badly enough," she had said. "It is simply her loving heart and her pity that lead her into it." But that she should think of marriage was almost unbelievable; it could not be allowed.
She had imagined Philippa composed, even happy—indeed the girl had said as much when she wrote—uplifted by a sense of heroism which was possibly quite unconscious—ready to take a course to which her sympathy and her compassion impelled her, without any thought of what the consequences might be, so far as she herself was concerned.
As she, Marion, well knew, the bodily weakness of a man can be in itself a great attraction to a certain type of woman, and no doubt Phil had been carried off her feet by his very need of her—blinded by her emotions so that she could not see that they were misleading her, to say the least of it. And instead of this, she found a Philippa radiant, palpitating, blissful, with eyes that shone with gladness through a veil of dreams.
It was so utterly unexpected that it cut the ground of all her carefully prepared arguments away from underneath her feet. She drew Philippa to a couch and they sat down side by side.
There was silence for a while, and then the girl began recounting in a low voice the steps which one by one had led her to the present moment. She did not find it easy. It was hard to forget that under Marion's kind and grave attention there must be, for all her love, the little barrier raised by the dissentient voice of her conscience. It had been much easier to be quite frank with Isabella, whose love for Francis swept aside every scruple, every obstacle, but with Marion it was different. It was not that she could not understand the power of love, or was incapable of sacrificing herself on love's altar; she was essentially a woman who knew love at its very best and strongest, and who would at any time have laid down her life for the beloved; but there was another thing more precious to her than life, and that was righteousness. She had in her some of the stuff of which martyrs were made, and she would have torn her heart out by the roots sooner than have stepped into happiness over the grave of a principle. And to her, at any rate, it was clear that in this case a very precious principle was being violated, for the whole matter hung upon a deception. Truth was right, and untruth was wrong, and her whole heart was bent upon bringing Philippa to a correct vision of right.
"My dearest," she said, as Philippa ceased speaking, "you say that he is better and stronger now. Well, then, tell him the truth."
"I cannot do that," replied the girl firmly. "It would only make him very unhappy, even if he were strong enough to bear it."
"It might make him unhappy just for the time," rejoined Marion quickly. "But surely, oh, surely that would be better than the greater unhappiness of knowing you have deceived him. For he must find out. You cannot possibly guard him against enlightenment. Why, any day when he is able to go out he might meet some one who would make some remark quite by chance which would betray you. He needs you, he is to a certain extent dependent on you; once he knew he would—in a little while if not at once—turn to you for comfort."
"I love him too much to hurt him."
"I believe you love him, and I am sorry."
"Why are you sorry?"
"Because this love must bring you pain; but believe me, dearest Philippa, for his sake it would be kinder to tell him."
"I cannot see it," answered the girl rather hotly. "He is absolutely happy, absolutely contented. He knows I love him. The fact that he has made a mistake hurts nobody."
"There can be no blessing on a love which is not based on truth," said Marion gently.
"You speak as if I were defrauding some one. There is no one else to be considered. Phil is dead and gone, and the whole matter rests between him and me."
"You are defrauding him and you are defrauding yourself of the highest and best part of love, and what love should mean—confidence and trust! Philippa, let me tell him. Let me tell him, and explain your pity which misled you and which grew into love for him."
"Oh no, no!" cried the girl quickly. "It is out of the question. It would be wicked—cruel!"
"I think I had better tell him," repeated Marion persuasively.
Philippa thought a moment. "If you do he would not believe you," she said, with a little note of triumph in her voice. "I should not be afraid. Of course it is quite impossible to think of such a thing on account of the distress it would cause him. He would only be afraid it was part of the old trouble—that he was dreaming or delirious. He would never believe you."
Marion recognised the truth in this, and withdrew from that line of attack. She thought for a moment of asking Philippa what her mother's opinion would be, but on reflection decided not to mention Lady Lawson. Her intuition told her that she would hardly be the person to consider ethics, and would probably be quite willing that her daughter should follow her inclinations, always provided that the social and financial position of the man she wished to marry left nothing to be desired.
Philippa rose from her seat and took two or three steps across the room; then she turned and faced her friend.
"I cannot tell you, dear, how sorry I am that you and I should differ over this. But nothing you can say will make me alter my mind. I am absolutely positive that what I am doing is best for Francis, and I only wish I could make you think so too. Do you imagine that I would do anything that was not for his good—I who love him so much? Of course I wouldn't. I would not have promised to marry him if I had not cared for him. I could not have done such a thing. It would have been a dreadful position, and I can't bear to think of what it would have meant. But after all there is no reason to think of it now. I love him and I will be his most loving wife. My every thought shall be devoted to him and to taking care of him. I only wish you could see him. Perhaps then you would understand. But it is not possible. It is most important that he should not be worried or disturbed, and if he saw you he might worry because he did not remember you. I know there will be difficulties, but I am confident they can be overcome. We shall be married very quietly in a month or six weeks' time. I haven't written to my mother about it yet, but, of course, I will do so when it is definitely settled. Then I shall take Francis abroad to some quiet, sunny place, where he will not be in the least likely to see any one he knew before his illness. The doctor says that will be the best thing for him."
"I blame Dr. Gale very much," interrupted Marion.
"I don't think you need," rejoined Philippa with a little smile, "the poor man is quite penitent enough already. And, indeed, although he had something to do with it at first, he has nothing to do with it now. He took much the same line as you do when it came to the question of marriage, but I explained to him that it was my affair, and no one else's. Marion, it is not as if I was a child. I am of an age to decide for myself. And, of course, the doctor was only thinking of me. He knows well enough that it is the best possible thing for Francis. Don't look so dreadfully unhappy!" she said in a lighter tone, for Marion's pretty round face was flushed and drawn and her eyes were full of tears. "Dear," she added affectionately, "if you knew how happy I was, I think you would rejoice, and not be so full of dismal forebodings. I love him and he loves me, and nothing else matters."
Marion's face paled. It was an effort to speak the words which had been on her lips for some moments, for to her it seemed that they must deal Philippa a blow which she would thankfully have spared her, a blow which must surely dissolve the girl's castle of dreams into dust. But she did not flinch.
"He does not love you," she said sternly.
Philippa started; then she gave a low laugh of content.
"Ah," she said with a tender smile, "you do not know—how should you?—how great a love he has for me."
"He does not love you. It is not you he loves," continued Marion relentlessly. "Oh, my dear! my dear! can you not see your mistake? It is you who do not understand. His love is not for you. Every word of love he speaks, every bit of the love in his heart belongs to another woman. He does not think of you. You are not in it at all, or if you are, you are only a supplanter taking what is not meant for you."
Marion was crying openly now, the tears coursing unheeded down her cheeks, but Philippa did not notice them. She did not seem to have heard, she was gazing out of the window, intent only on her thoughts, and from the expression on her face those thoughts were very tender, very sweet. And in the little pause that followed, Marion laid down her weapons, knowing they were useless. Her last shot had failed, and there was nothing in her armoury that would pierce the armour of the girl's conviction. She had no power to forbid. After all, Philippa was not a child, but a woman grown.
She dried her eyes rather surreptitiously, and then got up and crossed to where her friend was standing, and put her arm through hers.
"I won't say any more," she said huskily, "because I don't think it is any use, and although we can't agree, which distresses me infinitely, our disagreement is not going to divide us. Nothing can hurt our friendship." In her heart she was already seeking to comfort Philippa for the pain which she was certain must come, but the girl knew nothing of that.
Philippa stooped and kissed her without speaking.
"Dickie is getting better every day," Marion went on. "Of course we shall have to be careful of him for a long time, but I quite hope we shall be home in a fortnight or three weeks. I shall be glad to be here. I do not think you ought to be alone—without any woman with you, I mean. It has been too unfortunate."
"I have made friends with Isabella Vernon," said Philippa. "Looking back, it seems incredible that the time has been so short—so much has happened. I seem to have known her for years."
"Who is Isabella Vernon?" asked Marion in surprise.
Philippa explained, and for a moment a hope shot through Marion's mind that this woman might succeed where she had failed.
"What does she think of it all?" she asked rather nervously.
"She entirely agrees with me, because—you see—she has loved Francis all her life, and she only thinks of him."
Marion sighed with disappointment. If that was the case any appeal for interference from that quarter was useless.
"She would come if I wanted her," continued Philippa, "and I see her fairly constantly." And with that Marion was forced to be content.
As she journeyed back again that evening her thoughts hovered anxiously between her child in his weakness and her friend in her mistaken contentment. If only it were possible to divide herself, she thought piteously, between these two who both needed her so much! But, after all, did Philippa need her? Not consciously, certainly, and yet Marion told herself miserably that things would never have tangled themselves into this knot if she had been at Bessacre. She could not leave Dickie, for even his father could not satisfy him for any length of time. It was his mother he clung to in the weariness of convalescence, and it was out of the question to move him yet.
There was nothing to do but to let things take their course. For a moment she had an idea of sending her husband home, but after all what could Bill do? There was not much chance of his being able to persuade Philippa where she had failed, and, indeed, Bill had already made one effort in that direction, and was by no means over-anxious to undertake a second attempt to stem the torrent of a woman's will.
"Love keeps his revels where there are but twain."—Venus and Adonis.
Even Dr. Gale, who constantly preached caution lest strength should be over-taxed, could find no fault with Francis' progress during these halcyon days of happiness.
There was a wide terrace on the sunny side of the house, just below his rooms, and there, whenever the weather permitted, he and Philippa would spend the warmest morning hours.
Francis was carried down-stairs in obedience to the doctor's orders, but once on the level he was allowed to walk a little. Leaning on her arm he was able to accomplish the length of the house, but that had up to the present been all that he had been equal to.
On two or three occasions they had driven in a low four-wheeled pony-chaise for half-an-hour or so, but they had not yet ventured beyond the confines of the park.
Francis had expressed no surprise at anything he had seen, indeed he had not appeared to notice any particular details, but he had repeatedly spoken of his delight in being out of doors again, and had said that he was looking forward to the day when he should see Bessmoor again.
During the early afternoon he rested, and she joined him again later, to spend the remainder of the day with him in his sitting-room, which now held for her so many associations.
There had been a time when she had wondered what they would find to talk about, what line of conversation could be pursued with one whose mentality was bounded by such extraordinary limitations; whose outlook was that of a man, with a man's rational intelligence and consciousness, hampered by the retrospective knowledge of a little child.
For the first few days of their companionship she had indeed known moments of perplexity, moments during which she had racked her brain for a suitable remark, a new idea to interest him; for talk is difficult between new acquaintances when such matters as politics, literature and current events are taboo, and personalities are to be avoided; but since her mental attitude towards him had changed and love had taken possession of her, this embarrassment had vanished.
Two people in the first fine rapture of mutual affection do not, presumably, discuss any of the weighty matters which occupy the attention of ordinary individuals, nor, it is safe to say, would their conversation be of the smallest interest to any one but themselves. It is possible that lovers spend a certain portion of their time in a silence more expressive than words; for the rest, let those who have been in a similar situation fill in the blanks—experience will have taught them understanding.
That Francis realised his condition to some degree was evident, for he occasionally asked for enlightenment on a point he did not understand; also he would sometimes be puzzled over the meanings of words. He would use one without thinking, and then hesitate, in doubt as to whether it was the right one to convey his meaning. He would treat the matter lightly, making a joke of it, but would be obviously relieved when Philippa assured him that it was correct. And it was almost invariably correct, for it seemed that although his memory failed him, he drew unknowingly upon a subconscious power which worked independently—a store of knowledge which existed in his brain, but of which he had mislaid the key.
She was reading to him one day, a light story from a magazine, which described an act of gallantry on the part of the soldier hero, and ended in his death. It concluded with a sentence in which the expression "facing fearful odds" was used. When she finished reading Francis said suddenly—
'"And how can man die better, than facing fearful oddsFor the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his gods?'"
She looked up to meet the utter bewilderment in his eyes. "Where on earth did I get that from?" he asked with a little laugh. "I seem to know the words."
She recited as much of the original poem as she could remember, and he seemed interested for the moment, but apparently paid little heed to this odd trick of his memory.
Nor had Philippa thought further of it. If she had not been so entirely engrossed in love, to the blinding of her reasoning power and common sense, she would have appreciated the episode at its true value, for it was important, in that it proved that Dr. Gale had been right when he had suggested that under the cloud which shadowed so much, there was a force at work which they could not measure.
The quotation in itself was nothing, a mere tag of poetry as familiar to every schoolboy as his ABC, but if the timely mention of it was a sign that the cloud was dispersing further, what would be the next train of thought to emerge from darkness and oblivion? Had Philippa been more vigilant the occurrence would undoubtedly have afforded her food for reflection.
There came at length an afternoon when for his amusement she described a place which they should visit together, which should be for them both a garden of enchantment; and lest he should wonder at her intimate knowledge of a land which possibly her namesake had never seen, she painted it in fanciful poetic words, leaving him uncertain whether she was drawing entirely on her imagination or not.
There was, as a matter of fact, a villa on the shore of Lake Maggiore which she had seen the previous year, and which had impressed itself upon her memory as being the loveliest spot earth could show—a veritable dreamland—and when she had turned her mind to the task of finding some retreat, hidden safely from the eyes of curious passers-by, and possessing all the necessary qualifications of climate and comfort, it had at once struck her as the very place she sought.
She had laid her plans with eager care, no detail for his well-being should be forgotten. It only now remained that she should receive a reply in the affirmative to her letter of inquiry as to whether the house was available.
Francis was sitting beside her watching the smiles come and go on her expressive face as she grew more and more interested in her theme.
"Go on, dearest," he said, as she paused. "Tell me some more about your paradise."
"There is a terrace in front of it where lilies and oleanders grow and roses riot over an old stone wall, and the air is rich with the scent of them. At one end is a tall cypress-tree, and the sunlight touches the stem of it until it shines like fire against the green darkness of its boughs. On the worn old stone pavement white pigeons strut and preen themselves, puffing out their chests with the most absurd air of self-satisfaction. There are steps down from the terrace, and at the bottom there is a great bed of carnations, red and white and yellow, and their fragrance meets you like a wall of perfume as you pass."
"There should be violets," he interrupted. "Where are your violets? You could not be happy without them."
"Oh, of course there are violets," agreed Philippa, "masses of them, but I am not at all sure that they flower at the same time as the roses and lilies and carnations. I don't know much about gardening. Well, you walk down the pathway into a grove of olive-trees—a shimmer of pale silvery green, a sort of dim aisle in fairyland—until you come to the water's edge. There is an old stone seat, and you can just sit and look and look and drink it all in. No, not the water—the view, I mean. Blue water, brilliant heavenly blue, and far away in the distance a line of hills, faint and yet clear under a sky that is—— Oh, I don't know how to describe it. It is ridiculous to say it is blue. You must try and imagine it for yourself. And I think—oh yes, I am sure—there would be just a gleam of snowy whiteness on the top of the hills."
"I don't believe you have ever seen it," said Francis teasingly. "You are making it all up as you go along."
"Perhaps I am," she replied. "But I am sure I know where to find it."
"Then we will go and look for this Magical Island, sweetheart. It is an island, I suppose? How do we reach it? In a fairy boat drawn by swans?"
"Not quite. But it is fairyland when we get there."
"When shall we start, my darling? Phil, how soon can we go?"
"We must wait a little while."
"But need we wait for long?" he pleaded. "How soon will you marry me?"
"There is a long journey to the Magical Island—a long journey. But in a few weeks perhaps we can begin to think about it."
He leaned towards her. "A few weeks! and I count the days until you are really mine. How soon do you think Rob will let me travel?"
"I don't know. Let us ask him."
He nodded. "I will ask him. And then—you will not keep me waiting?"
"I will not keep you waiting," she said soberly.
He kissed her fondly, and then rose to his feet and stood looking down at her as she stretched out her hand and drew a thread from the pile of silks which lay on a table beside her.
"How industrious you are. Time was when you never touched a needle, and now you are always at work."
"I am developing good habits, that is all. There is no saying what I shall take to next; you must never be surprised."
"I know the cause, and I love you for it."
"What is the cause?"
"You only do it because you are obliged to spend so much time indoors with me. You don't acknowledge it because you are so dear and sweet, but I know well enough all you have given up for me."
"Wait until we get to the Magical Island where it is always warm. We can be out there together all day long."
"Just you and I together?"
"Just you and I together," she repeated; "unless you want any one else."
"I want nothing and no one in the world but only you."
A little thrill ran through her at the thought of his utter dependence on her, for she was literally his whole world.
He stood, but for her, absolutely isolated, absolutely alone—the friends of his early life forgotten, wiped out as though they had never been; but what matter since it made him more entirely hers?
Each day brought Philippa its draught of Love's elixir, and she drank it lingeringly, unwilling to lose a drop. And in some curious way the potion wrought a change in her. She adopted a new personality. It was not that of Phil—the Phil she had undertaken to represent, for she would have had recollections of old days to linger over with him—but a new Phil, reborn in a wonderful present, with no past because he could not share it, and with a future veiled in half-fearful, wholly delicious mystery.
To-day, the glorious Now, was his and hers, they were together on the hill where Hope stands smiling, and if, somewhere below that dizzy altitude, there was a valley where Memory lurked, she could not see it for the rainbow clouds of joy that wrapped her round.
Francis had walked to the uncurtained window and was standing looking out, and after a while his voice broke in upon her thoughts.
"Come and look at the sunset, sweetheart."
The sky behind the clump of tall elms was tinged with tenderest rose, and here and there wisps of greyish-purple cloud were floating across the glow. All was very calm, very still, the silence broken only by the low notes of the birds who sung their vesper hymn. Side by side they watched the shadows creep softly over a drowsy earth.
"A sleeping world—a world of dreams," Francis said gently. "You and I in a beautiful world of dreams."
She made no answer, and after a minute he added, "To-morrow it will wake. Must we wake too, dear love?"
"Oh no," she cried quickly. "Why do you say that?"
"Somewhere out there," he continued thoughtfully, "there is a world of action. I wonder if it will call to us?"
"If it calls we will not listen."
"I have lost count of much, I think. I seem to have lived long in dreamland. Perhaps it is because I still feel weak, that at times illusive, intangible thoughts come into my mind. I cannot hold them. When I try to grasp them they are gone. It is rather a horrid feeling, not to be able to master your own thoughts. There is so much that I have forgotten—so much that seems blank. But, thank God, I have still my memory of you. All through my illness you were the anchor to which I clung when everything else drifted away from me."
It had become such a habit with Philippa to speak the word which would turn him from any effort to remember, that she did it now almost unconsciously. It was never very difficult, for he was only too ready to follow any lead she gave him towards the subject of their contentment in each other, or the safe topic of the existing moment.
"Do not try to remember, dearest. Think only that we are together."
She felt his arm go round her and she leaned towards him.
"You are my life," he said earnestly, "and nothing matters when you are beside me. I think I have reason to be grateful to the long hours when I was weak and ill. They have taught me what you really are—an angel of tenderness and patience. It was a dark time, my darling, but the remembrance only intensifies the present joy."
"Ah, yes," she repeated softly; "the present joy."
"And a future to be glorified by our love lies all before us. What is a little weakness of body when weighed against all the precious possessions which are mine?"
He held her closer until her head was resting on his breast. It seemed to Philippa then that life could hold no moment more charged with utter bliss than this—she and the man she loved, together in a vast encircling peace.