CHAPTER XXI
POOR RIP
"Since knowledge is but sorrow's spy
It is not safe to know."—DAVENANT.
The early post brought Philippa two letters next morning. One was from Marion, who wrote to say that their plans were suddenly changed, and that Philippa must not be surprised to receive a telegram at any moment announcing their immediate return; the truth being that Dickie, who up to now progressed well towards recovery, had begun to pine for his own belongings and his familiar surroundings, and that, with all the fretfulness of childhood in convalescence, he asked unceasingly to go home. His demand had become so persistent, in spite of all his parents could say or do to pacify him, that the doctor had said it might be wiser to take the risk of moving him sooner than was expedient rather than allow him to wear himself out with tears and unhappiness.
"He is not really naughty, dear little boy," so ran the mother's words, "but he cannot be content. He won't pay any attention to toys or games, and whatever I do to amuse him he turns away his head and his little lip quivers pathetically. 'Thank you very much,' he says wearily, 'but I don't want it. I want to go home.' So there is nothing to be done but move him as soon as possible—the sooner the better, I think, but the doctor wants to put it off a day or two if he can. Will you tell the servants to get the rooms ready, and I will let you know when we actually start? We shall motor all the way, as we can make up a bed for Dickie in the car; I am sure he will be perfectly quiet so soon as he knows he is really going home.
"Both Bill and I are most anxious that our coming should not disturb Francis in any way, and if you will let us know exactly what the doctor's wishes are we will see that they are carried out. If he thinks it wiser that Francis should not see us we will arrange our comings and goings so that we do not meet him. I gather from your letters that except for the time he spends out of doors, he is mostly in his own rooms, and if it is desirable we will keep away from that part of the house altogether. I shall be so glad to be home again—almost as glad as Dickie, I think, and I shall be glad to be at hand in case you need me in any way."
Marion wrote very affectionately, and did not in any way allude to their difference of opinion at their last meeting, but Philippa was a little distressed at the subject of her letter. She would so infinitely rather have continued alone with Francis, following their usual routine until their marriage. She had no doubt that Marion was right when she said that their coming need not disturb Francis in any way; but still it would not be quite the same as when they had the house to themselves. One cannot entirely ignore the presence of one's host and hostess, however self-effacing they may be, and in a sense it would be a danger, for now that Francis was able to walk he might at any time choose to depart from his custom and so come upon them without warning. However, it was impossible to make any contrary suggestion in the face of the reason which compelled their change of plans, and it only remained for her to be constantly on the watch to guard against any accidental meeting.
The other letter was from her mother, who wrote in her gayest style, describing all she was doing—the last party—the last fashion in dress—the craze of the moment—and the new dancer whose fascination both on and off the stage kept the gossips busy. She ended by asking Philippa for the address of a certain dressmaker in Paris whom she had previously employed. She had lost it, and would Philippa be an angel, underlined, and telegraph it to her at once, underlined, as she wanted it immediately.
At the bottom of the large sheet of notepaper was a postscript—"I am longing to know whether you are coming to us for the winter. We should simply love to have you. Do answer, dearest, because I want to make all sorts of arrangements and cannot settle anything until I know."
Philippa searched her address-book until she found what she wanted, and wrote out a telegram and gave it to the butler for dispatch. Then she returned to the writing-table and took up her pen, but she did not commence to write.
It was clearly high time that her mother should be told of her engagement, and of the fact that she was shortly going to be married; it was unkind to leave her in ignorance, and yet Philippa could not bring herself to write the news. It was so difficult to explain, and she knew the volley of questions which would descend upon her. It was even possible that Lady Lawson would come flying to England in order to assist at the ceremony, which was the last thing her daughter desired. All she wished for was that she and Francis might be married as quietly and as privately as possible—she intended to settle the details with Marion and her husband when they came—and then slip away to the Magical Island. Once there she could take hold of life with her two hands and mould it to her will.
She gave a little sigh as she thought of it, for now that she had awaked from her dreams into a world of realities she saw the future in a different light; but she was quite determined, she was going to wrest happiness—her own happiness and that of the man she loved—from the hands of fate. She was going straight forward. Never again would she allow herself a backward glance, lest the recollection of the glamour she had known weakened her with vain longings for what had been a dream. It had been a dream. She knew that now, but in the future she might find herself dreaming it again and know it true; for dreams do sometimes come true.
She gave up the attempt at last—it was impossible to write fully to her mother to-day. She would keep her precious secret a little longer.
To tell it to Lady Lawson was to blazon it out to the world at large, and that was more than she could bear.
She joined Francis after a while and found him looking better than on the previous evening. He declared himself perfectly well, and suggested that they should go for their drive as soon as possible.
"I am afraid it is still raining," she answered, going to the window; "but I can see a patch of blue sky, and the clouds are lifting a little. We shall have to wait until after luncheon."
"It rained very heavily in the night," said Francis.
"Did it disturb you? I hope not. Old Goodie told me you had had a good night."
"So I did, dearest, but I heard the rain nevertheless. I am afraid I was rather dull and stupid last evening. I am sorry."
"You were not dull and stupid, but I think you were tired."
He nodded. "My head felt rather tired. I found it difficult to collect my thoughts, and it worried me rather. Darling," he continued, coming closer to her, "forgive me if I am a nuisance sometimes, but—my memory is all wrong still—it must be, for so much seems strange to me. It seems as if there were blanks I cannot account for. But you are the same; and you will never change, will you?"
And Philippa answered him with all her heart: "I love you and I shall never change."
He put his arm round her and kissed her fondly. "That satisfies me—I want no more than that; and I will try and follow your advice and give up thinking."
"I wish you could. It would be better for you. And now let us settle down to a quiet morning, so that you will be quite rested and ready to go out if it is fine this afternoon."
"If the queen commands," he answered, with a little jesting smile. "The order shall be reversed this morning. You shall listen while I take a turn at reading."
A timely breeze sprang up about noon, and the sun, after wasting some time in playing an aggravating game of hide-and-seek behind the shifting masses of grey cloud, decided to come boldly out, to the great joy of the small birds who hopped on the lawn where the water hung like diamonds on every blade of grass. The sparrows chirruped with satisfaction as they pecked about for their midday meal, and the stout thrushes tugged at succulent worms which had poked their misguided heads through the soft damp earth regardless of probable and dire consequences.
In the swaying branches of the tree-tops the rooks used strong language—or it sounded like it—as they balanced themselves with clumsy ease and strove to straighten their ruffled plumage under circumstances which made toilet operations far from easy. The rabbits in the park popped their heads out of their holes and sniffed the air in an inquiring manner, as much as to say, "Is it safe to venture out?" and then, coming to the conclusion that it was, had a short quick scamper to stretch themselves after their slumbers.
The air was moist and fragrant as Philippa and Francis walked out of the front door to find the pony-carriage waiting for them.
"It is going to be a lovely afternoon," he said. "I want to drive in that direction to-day,"—he indicated it with his hand. "We haven't been there yet, and I know it leads to the village."
"Oh, do let us go up on the moor," said Philippa quickly.
"I want particularly to go to the village," he said in a low voice. "Do let us go there, darling. I want to see if I remember it."
At this moment Ford stepped forward. "Your telegram has come back, miss," he said. "The one you sent this morning. The woman at the post-office doesn't understand where it is to go to, and she can't read this word."
"What is it?" asked Francis, who had heard the man speaking.
"It is a telegram I sent this morning to—a friend in Russia, and there seems to be some muddle at the post-office about it."
"We will drive there, and then you can go in and explain it yourself." He stepped into the carriage as he spoke, and Keen arranged the rug over his knees.
Philippa hesitated. She did not want Francis to go into the village, and yet, since he himself had suggested it, it was difficult to find a good reason for opposing him.
"What is it about?" he asked again.
"Oh, it isn't of any great importance. It is only an address that some one asked me to send. It can quite well wait. I can attend to it when I come in."
"But why not take it? It won't take long."
"I will take it myself, miss, if you wish," said Ford, "if you will tell me the spelling of this word."
Philippa spelt it—"Nevskiy."
"No, no," interrupted Francis. "Come along. We'll do it ourselves."
There was a little impatience in his voice, and he was evidently tired of waiting, so she resigned herself to the inevitable and took her place at his side.
Francis chatted quite happily of unimportant matters as the pony trotted sedately down the drive, and when they reached the old red-brick lodge, Philippa wondered rather nervously whether the sight of it would draw any comment from him; but no—he only looked about him with quick, interested glance, as if wishful to see something familiar.
They turned to the left and entered the straggling village street, where quaint thatched-roofed cottages stood on either side. One or two little children were playing on the footpath, but other wise no one was to be seen, for the elder ones were at school, and most of the mothers had gone for their weekly visit to Renwick, for it was market day.
The pony slowed to a walk as the road mounted an incline, and after a few minutes they came in sight of the church, which stood on rather higher ground, with its square tower and grey flint walls wreathed in ivy. It was approached from the road by a flight of worn stone steps surmounted by a lych-gate, through which could be seen a flagged pathway leading to the church door.
"No," said Francis, in a tone of disappointment, "I do not remember it. I hoped I should. However," he added almost instantly, "we won't worry over anything to-day, but just enjoy our drive."
It seemed to Philippa that he had discovered that allusions to his lack of memory troubled her, for more than once that day he had checked himself and changed the subject, as though he did not wish to distress her, and she was thankful for it.
"It is very pretty, isn't it? The post-office is just opposite the church, and when we leave there we can drive straight on until we come to Bessmoor. You would like that, wouldn't you? You love the moor."
"Yes," he responded quickly; "I love it. Let us do that, by all means. The clouds have nearly all blown away, and it ought to be lovely to-day."
She pulled up at the cottage which served as post-office and general emporium of the village, and was in the act of handing the telegram to the groom when Francis stopped her.
"Why not take it yourself?" he said; "it will prevent any more muddle. There is no hurry I shall be quite happy sitting here."
She looked at him in surprise, for he had never shown himself so practical as to-day, but there seemed no reason why she should not leave him, so with a word of assent she got down and entered the door.
The front room of the low building served as the shop, and displayed a varied assortment of wares in most haphazard fashion. Along the rafters sides of bacon and farthing dips hung in close proximity to stout corduroys and wooden clogs, while in the corner a child's wicker cradle formed an excellent receptacle for the last batch of crisp brown loaves. The narrow counter was piled high with biscuit-tins, bottles of sweets, patent medicines and articles of clothing, arranged in a sort of orderly confusion.
There was no one to be seen, and Philippa rapped sharply on the wooden counter two or three times. At last an old woman appeared, a cherry-cheeked old dame with her white hair drawn neatly into the modest shelter of a black chenille net. The girl explained her errand, and was at once invited to step "into the back."
Making her way through a lane of sacks she reached the inner room, where all the business connected with His Majesty's mails was transacted.
"'Tis my daughter, miss, as sees to the post an' telegraph, but she's been druv to go to bed—wonderful queer she were—took bad about noon; but I make no doubt but what she'll be better by and by. Was it a telegram you wished to send? Then I'll call her. If it had been jus' a matter of a few stamps now, I could have settled that nicely, or one of them orders; but that there ticking machine, that's past me. But Maggie, she's wonderful quick at it. Stayed about as long as she could too, with terrible pains in her——"
Philippa broke the stream of the good woman's confidence.
"It will do very well later," she said, "when your daughter is better. She can send it when she comes down. I am sorry she is ill, but don't disturb her for me. I will just write out the words more clearly, as I understand there has been a doubt about the spelling."
She printed the words plainly on a fresh form and handed it to the old woman, who counted them slowly and laboriously with the stump of a pencil. "Eighteen words," she said. "That'll be a matter o' ninepence, I reckon."
"Oh no," corrected Philippa. "It is to St. Petersburg, in Russia. It will cost much more than that."
"Wouldn't that be a British Possession now?" was the doubtful reply. And Philippa, chafing at the delay, could only smile at the question, and answer regretfully that she was afraid it wasn't.
The woman stretched out her hand for the Postal Guide, but the print was small, and necessitated the careful adjustment of a pair of spectacles before it could be deciphered, and finally the girl found the place herself, reckoned the amount and put down the money.
"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, miss," said the old dame with a curtsy. "'Tis kind of you to say that can stand over till Maggie's better. She just dropped off for a bit of sleep, and thought as how she would be safe like, seein' that we don't get no mor'n four or five of them things in a week these days—not but what there's more when the Major's at home; and Mr. Taylor, up to Chancey Hall, he's a wonderful one for them, but he's not at home now—gone for to find lions and tigers in some heathen country, so they tell me. Not but what Maggie she'd 'a' come down if you'd wished, miss. It don' do for to leave the machine by rights. That's against rules, that is; but what's a body to do when she comes over that queer with shootin' pains, an' her head a-whizzin' like Farmer Brown's threshin' engine. I thank you kindly, miss, and good-day to you."
Philippa hurried out. She had wasted more than ten minutes over the affair, and Francis would be weary of waiting.
"I am so sorry," she cried penitently, "I have been so long, but——"
As she was in the act of urging the pony to proceed he put out his hand and stopped her.
"Turn round," he said. "We will go home now."
She looked at him and saw that his face was white and his mouth drawn and hard.
"What is the matter?" she asked anxiously. "Do you feel ill?"
"No," he said shortly, "I am not ill; but I do not want to drive any farther."
He said no more, and she, greatly wondering, did not like to press him further. She hurried the pony as much as possible along the road they had so lately come. "Had he remembered something?" she asked herself. What had happened in those few minutes? Something must have occurred to account for this sudden change. If he would only speak and tell her!
He was sitting with his head sunk on his chest, so that she could not see his face, and he was absolutely silent until after they had turned in at the lodge and were going up the drive. Then he turned to her.
"Is Isabella still here?" he asked.
"Isabella!" faltered Philippa, taken aback by the sudden question.
"Yes, Isabella. Does she still live here?"
"Yes; she lives here."
Then as they pulled up at the door he added, "Will you fetch her? Will you bring her to me, please? I want to see her."
"Certainly she shall come, dear, if you want her."
Ford came to the door in answer to the bell, and Francis descended. Philippa was about to follow him, when he stopped her. "Will you go and fetch her? Will you go now?"
"Won't you let me stay with you? I will send for her."
"No," he interrupted. "Please go and bring her—as quickly as you can."
"If you really wish it," she stammered, "I will go." She did not know Francis in this strange mood. "But may I not come and see you safely up-stairs first?"
"I wish it. I shall be all right. Please go." He spoke kindly but quite decidedly.
Philippa made one more effort.
"Let me at least stay until Keen comes to you." But he replied with a gesture which showed her further argument was useless, and she obeyed him without another word.
Ford had meanwhile gone in search of Keen and the carrying-chair, so that when Francis entered he was quite alone. He did not pause, but walked straight across the hall and up the stairs.
When Keen, who had been reading the local paper over a quiet pipe in the kitchen yard, arrived in all haste in answer to the summons, he failed at first to find his master, but then he saw him and hurried to his side.
Francis was standing at the head of the staircase as though he had stayed to rest a moment, and his eyes were fixed on a picture on the wall. He paid no heed to his servant's murmur of regret that he should not have been at hand when needed—he did not seem to hear. Then his lips moved. "Poor Rip!" he said, almost under his breath. "I know—now—what you must have felt—and I pity you——"
Keen, quite uncomprehending, followed the direction of his glance, and remarked with polite jocularity—
"Looks as if he wanted a new suit of clothes rather badly, sir; doesn't he, sir?"
Francis raised his head, and took the man's proffered arm; and as they moved away he said slowly—
"I think, Keen, that it was more than a suit of clothes he wanted—something much more than that."