CHAPTER XI
VIOLETS
"And to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth
And 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 flame
I 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 ringing
A bridal peal for joy—our hearts were one.
Our hearts are one, and nothing can dissever
The 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.