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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances.

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 a.s.sured 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.