CHAPTER XVI
HOPES FOR THE FUTURE
"Deeds condemned by prudence, have sometimes gone well."—MATTHEW ARNOLD.
"Ten years!" ejaculated Mrs. Goodman. "Ten years since he crossed the threshold, and then it was only to be carried to the Rose Room while his own rooms were repapered. Oh, that my old eyes should see him walk again!"
The old woman was anxiously watching a little procession which moved slowly along the wide corridor. Francis, with the doctor and Philippa, one on either side, was making his first venture in the way of exercise. Behind him hovered the nurse, and Keen, his devoted man-servant, ready to render immediate assistance should it be necessary.
It was in the same place many, many years before that he had essayed the first halting steps of babyhood, and she well remembered it. She recalled the exact spot where his mother had stood with her arms outstretched, her face alight with pride and affection, breathlessly intent upon every movement of the tiny swaying form setting out on its first journey. Such a short journey, with every obstacle removed that might hinder the safe passage of those unsteady feet. How many mothers have yearned to make as free from peril that longer journey along the road of life which awaits their little one!
Old Jane Goodman could see again the pretty child with the sunlight streaming from the mullioned windows on to his sunny curls—she could hear the baby laughter and the cry of triumph which meant the arrival into the safe refuge of his mother's arms. There was no detail of the occurrence that faithful heart could not recall. Time had no power to dull the recollection which love's alchemy kept clear and bright. Was he not still her boy—her lamb—for all her fourscore years and all the sorrow they had both known between that day and this? And the old walls which had rung to the sound of Francis' baby merriment echoed to his laughter again now. He was in the highest spirits, making a jest of everything, and scorning the idea of any need for caution.
Robert Gale called him to order at last, and threatened instant return if he would not be quiet.
"Don't fuss, man," was the gay rejoinder. "Did ever you see so long a face, Phil? The truth is that his job is over and he knows it. The prisoner is free, and the jailer in consequence out of employment. Disguise your feelings, Rob. I am sorry for you, but I don't intend to be ill again even for your sake. Go and try your pills and potions on some other unfortunate. I can't see nurse's face because she is behind me, but I have no doubt she is looking just as glum. You can't think how funny it feels to get out of those four walls and see something new. Hullo! What's that?"
They had paused for a moment at the head of the staircase, and his attention had been attracted by a small drawing hanging rather low down on the wall, close at hand. He stepped nearer to examine it.
It was a clever sketch in water-colour by a modern artist, and the draughtsmanship was superb. The subject was an old man with a long straggling beard and wearing tattered clothes, surrounded by a group of villagers and children. The creator had allowed his fancy full play, and the result, without being in any way a caricature, was full of a most merry and whimsical humour; and yet, by some stroke of his genius he had made the scene infinitely pathetic, and the central figure tragic and dignified for all his ragged attire. On the gold frame were printed the words "Rip van Winkle."
"Rip van Winkle," repeated Francis. "Who was he? Oh, don't tell me; I think I remember. Wasn't he the old Johnny who slept for a hundred years and woke up to find every one was dead and nobody knew him? He looks rather sad, poor old boy. The chap who did that knew how to draw, anyway."
He moved on to the next picture. "Oh, now we come to a gentleman in armour. Jolly uncomfortable that tin hat must have been."
"Supposing we sit here for a little while," suggested Philippa.
In the centre of the house the corridor widened into a square apartment known as the Guard Room, and tradition stated that the soldiers had here kept watch to ensure the safety of their sovereign, who had occupied a room close by, on the occasion of her famous visit to Bessacre High House.
The walls were panelled with oak and hung with portraits of dead-and-gone Heathcotes. A high oriel window threw good light upon the pictures, some of which were dark and dim with age.
Francis sat down on the window-seat and looked round him.
"Well, I can't call them a good-looking lot," he said, smiling. "What is the name of the man in the corner there in a flowing wig, Phil? I have forgotten all about them."
"Amyas Heathcote," read the girl. "He may not be good-looking, but he had a pretty taste in lace if one may judge by his ruffles."
"And a pretty taste in wives," said the doctor lightly, pointing to the picture hanging next. It represented a winsome dark-eyed woman in a brocaded frock, wearing a muslin cap over her powdered hair.
"I think she is beautiful," exclaimed Philippa. "You wait, my darling, until your portrait hangs here," said Francis quickly. "All the other Heathcote wives will be put into the shade then."
"He had a pretty taste in wine too," interrupted the doctor gruffly, "if one may judge by his complexion. I don't know anything of the gentleman, but I'll take my oath he died of apoplexy—unless the leeches killed him first with an over-dose of blood-letting. It seems to have been a playful habit of those days."
"Talking of leeches," said Philippa quite composedly, "reminds me of rather a good story I heard the other day. Only I'm speaking of the animals, not the doctors. A friend of mine told me that a few years ago her mother sent a linseed poultice and some leeches in a jar to a man in the village who was ill, and the doctor had ordered them to be applied. Some days later she visited the cottage and asked if the remedies had done any good. 'Well,' said his wife, 'he did enjoy the pudding, but try as he would he couldn't swallow them little fishes.'"
The doctor laughed, but his amusement struck Philippa as being a little forced and he had begun to tug at his beard, a sure sign with him that things were not going in the way he wished. She looked quickly at Francis, thinking that perhaps Robert Gale's professional eye had detected signs of over-exertion; but no, he did not appear in the least fatigued. And yet there was no doubt that the doctor was worried about something, for almost immediately he suggested that it was time for the invalid to return, and helping Francis to his feet he motioned to Philippa to give him the added support of her arm.
In vain Francis declared that the distance to the end of the corridor had yet to be accomplished, that he was perfectly fit for it. The older man was inexorable, and the little party retraced their steps.
"You will have your rest now, and Miss Philippa will take a walk," he said firmly. "There is no sense in doing too much the first day. It is always the same with convalescents, if you give them an inch they take an ell."
After seeing Francis comfortably settled to rest he walked with Philippa down to the library and shut the door behind him.
"What is it?" she asked quickly. "I think you are troubled about something. Is he not so well?"
"He's all right," said the doctor abruptly. "I am not anxious about him—now."
"Do you mean—that you think that he will live?"
She put the question breathlessly, and waited for his reply almost afraid to draw a breath, so great was her anxiety for his verdict. It was the question that had been ringing incessantly in her ears for days past, for, with the gradual increase of Francis' strength, a new hope had been born—a hope of which she hardly dared to think, and which had yet been ever present with her.
The answer was long in coming, but at last Robert Gale spoke.
"I can see no reason now why he should not—live—why he should not live out his life to the allotted span. He will never be robust, of course, but he has no disease. Even the heart-weakness has responded to treatment, or rather, I will say, to happiness, in a remarkable way."
For a moment the room and its contents danced before the girl's eyes and a sense of the greatest gladness warmed her through and through. All through the days that had passed since she had made the Great Discovery, since she became aware that she loved Francis Heathcote with every fibre of her being, there had been behind her new-found joy a sense of dread lest the dark Angel of Death should dissipate it with one sweep of his flaming sword. She had tried not to think of it, to steep herself heart and soul in the one joy of loving, to surrender herself entirely to the magic thrall of such a love as she had dreamed of but had never dared to think would be hers; and now, the doctor's verdict opened to her such a vista of delight for the future that her mind could hardly grasp it. What matter if Francis were never robust? would it not be her greatest happiness to guard him and give him all the care and devotion she could bestow? She asked no more than to be with him always. It would be her privilege to see that nothing endangered the health which had in a measure returned to him.
The doctor was walking up and down the room with short, quick steps, but for a while she did not realise that he was addressing her until she heard a sentence which arrested her attention.
"The situation is terribly difficult."
"Why is it difficult?" she asked.
"Oh," he answered with obvious irritation, "I know that it was my doing. It was the only course open to me at the time, and you've acted nobly. You have been wonderful. But now——" He was silent for a moment, and then he said half to himself, "I've set a wheel rolling, and now—I can't see how to stop it, and that's the truth."
But having received his assurance that all was well with the man she loved, Philippa was far too happy to be in sympathy with his mood.
"What is the matter?" she asked again, lightly. "You seem most depressed." What she wanted to say was, "For goodness' sake do stop pulling at your beard or you'll have it out by the roots."
"If I am depressed, you are certainly remarkably cheerful," he retorted sarcastically, coming to a halt in front of her and regarding her angrily from under his bushy eyebrows.
"I am exceedingly cheerful; and can you wonder at it after the news you have just given me?"
"You are either the most wonderful actress, young lady, or——" He stopped and changed his sentence. "Perhaps you see some way out?"
"Way out? What do you mean?"
"Good God!" he almost shouted at her, "can't you understand? How are you going to tell him?"
"I am not going to tell him."
"You are not going to tell him? But he is going to live. He isn't going to die. And what are you going to do when he speaks—of marriage? He hinted at it just now."
"He has spoken of marriage," said Philippa calmly. She had grown attached to the doctor and had lost all fear of his rough speech.
"Then you'll have to tell him."
"Oh no. I have promised to marry him as soon as ever he is strong enough."
"What?" The word came like a pistol-shot.
"I have promised to marry Francis as soon as ever he is strong enough," she repeated composedly.
The doctor dropped into a chair. "No, no," he said huskily. "My dear, it won't do. You have been splendid. I did not think any woman could do what you have done; but—no one could expect this of you—it is too great a sacrifice. Sooner than that I will tell him the whole story. Eh! you're a brave woman, but it has got to stop here."
"On the contrary, it is only just beginning. And it is out of your hands now. I cannot let you interfere. Nor can I really let you take any of the responsibility. I made my own choice, and I am going to abide by it, I am going to marry him."
The doctor dropped his face into his hands. "You don't know what you are talking about. It is impossible. How can you marry a man you—don't—care for."
"No," she replied softly, "I could not marry a man I did not care for; but I love Francis with all my heart—and that makes all the difference, doesn't it?" she ended with a gentle laugh.
He rose to his feet, and coming to her, laid a kindly hand upon her shoulder. "You are sure of this?" he asked. "You are sure you are not carried away by your sense of pity?"
"I am certain."
"He is old enough to be your father—and he will never be strong."
"That makes no difference."
"He thinks you are——"
"That also makes no difference. I love him and I shall make him happy. He need never know."
"It will not be easy."
"I do not mind. Doctor, do you remember the words you used yourself not so many weeks ago? You said he ought to have 'just a little happiness for all the years he has missed.' Well, he is going to have it."
"What will Mrs. Heathcote say?"
"I don't know. I have written to tell her that I am engaged to be married to Francis. I think she will be surprised."
He shook his head doubtfully. "You know what Francis is to me—but I cannot see this clearly. Above all I desire his happiness, but I can't quite see that this is the right way to get it."
"Don't be afraid," said Philippa. "Time will show you that I am right. Anyway, you will give me your promise not to interfere."
"I do not see that I can interfere," he said slowly. "You have taken the matter into your own hands."
"Promise me," she repeated.
"It may be for his happiness; but what about yours?"
"I am going to be happy too," she assured him. "Indeed I did not know that life could hold so much happiness, or so great a joy as I have now. Tell me," she added more lightly, "how long do you think we ought to keep the nurse?"
"There is no need for her now," he said in his usual professional manner. "Keen can look after him, with you and Mrs. Goodman to do the cosseting. I will get rid of her at the end of the week."
"He will be able to come down-stairs soon, and then I shall drive him out in the pony-carriage."
"It won't hurt him," he agreed, "provided he is carried down the stairs. If I could only tell how much he remembers!"
"That is what we cannot tell. Perhaps it is better to hope that he will never remember."
The doctor nodded. "I shall not be coming so often now. I have one or two other cases which require a good deal of attention, and you can send for me if it is necessary. Meanwhile I will look in every few days. He is less likely to think of his illness if I am not here to remind him of it. Have you heard when the Major is coming home?"
"No. In Marion's last letter she said that Dickie would be able to travel in a fortnight or so, but that he was ordered to the sea. So I don't know whether they will come home or not. She said that this coast was rather too bracing for him—at least she thought so."
"I expect you will hear something in the next day or two," said he rather grimly.
Philippa laughed. "Yes," she agreed, "I expect I shall."