CHAPTER IV

FRANCIS

"The eternal landscape of the past."--TENNYSON.

The next morning Philippa rose late and had breakfast in her own room.

The night had brought no counsel, she was undecided as to the line of action she should take, and physically weary. She felt it impossible to ask questions of her maid, who might have gained information in the housekeeper's room; equally impossible to summon Ford the butler, excellent and confidential servant as he appeared to be. It was not a subject upon which she could touch, however distantly, with a subordinate. It had affected her too deeply, and yet she must know more.

She had no doubt but that the woman she had seen could enlighten her fully, but she was ignorant of her position in the house, and even had this not been the case, she shrank from demanding anything from one so obviously hostile to her.

She could not forget that she had made a definite promise to return; she wondered now how she could have done so, and yet at the time it had been impossible to deny the insistent appeal. She would keep that promise--on so much she was determined--but as to the manner of keeping it she could not tell.

Finally, a desire to be out of the house and under the open sky overcame her. She would go for a walk, and perhaps on her return something would guide her as to her next move.

Accompanied by her maid, who appeared to have mastered the topography of the corridors, she descended to the hall, and then she realised her mistake of the previous evening. Marion's instructions had been to turn twice to the right, a movement easy and successful this morning, but of course in ascending to her room the direction was reversed, and she should have turned twice to the left. A simple mistake, out of all proportion to the events which had followed upon it.

"I knew I should lose my way last night, miss," said Walker. "Them backstairs is bewildering; but I thought to myself, I'll be even with them somehow, so I just tied my handkerchief on a table-leg in the pa.s.sage as I went down, and counted the doors, and when I came up and saw my handkerchief I knew I was all right. The head housemaid came up-stairs with me and she was most amused."

"I think it was very clever of you," said Philippa. "I wish I had done the same."

"I hope you'll have a pleasant walk, miss," said Walker, and with that she disappeared.

Philippa went to the front door, and stood on the step breathing in the freshness of the morning. The sun was shining brightly, the dew lay heavy on the lawns, and here and there a faint veil of mist was hovering, soon to be dispersed by the warmth of the new day. All Nature seemed refreshed and cleansed by the healing and rejuvenating power of the night.

The girl herself in her simple suit of white serge looked as fresh as the morning, although a careful observer might have noticed a shadow telling of mental disquiet under the clear steadfast eyes. "Exercise,"

she told herself, "that is the thing for me. I will explore this lovely garden."

She descended the steps and walked down the broad terrace which ran along the south side of the house. She had only gone a few yards when a sudden call behind her made her turn. A maid-servant ran to her--a young girl, evidently one of the under-servants. She was breathless with hurry or with fright, Philippa could not tell which, and almost incoherent. "Oh, miss," she cried, "please come! Please come at once!

Mrs. Goodman wants you."

Philippa did not wait for any further explanation, but returned immediately. At a small door on the terrace stood the woman who had been her guide a few hours before, her face ashen, her eyes suffused with tears, her whole appearance tragic in the extreme. She seized Philippa by the hand and led her swiftly away. Between the sobs that were shaking her the girl made out a few words:

"Come--quickly--for G.o.d's sake!--he wants you. My boy! my boy!"

With a speed which seemed remarkable for one of her age she ran up the stairs, stumbling and sobbing as she went. Philippa put out an arm to steady her, feeling conscious of no surprise, no wonder, nothing seemed to matter except the urgent need for haste.

At last they reached the room, which she recognised. There were the same flowered chintzes, there was her portrait on the table.

A sound of voices came from an adjoining apartment, and the woman stopped to listen, raising her finger with a gesture commanding silence.

Suddenly a voice rang out, clear and peremptory. "Please ask Miss Harford to come here. Where is Goody? She will understand."

Then she ran forward, her hand on Philippa's arm, through the connecting door into the inner room. A strong pungent smell of restoratives filled the air. The figure on the bed was sitting upright, motioning to one side the nurse and an elderly man, presumably the doctor, who were trying in vain to soothe him. The next moment his strength failed--he fell backward on the pillows, and his face a.s.sumed a livid death-like hue.

"Too late! too late!" murmured Mrs. Goodman in a tone of anguish.

The doctor, who had been occupied in his attentions on the invalid, glanced up and met Philippa's eyes. He recoiled as if in surprise or horror, but in an instant his professional calm rea.s.serted itself.

No sound broke the stillness of the room except the laboured breathing of the poor old woman. Philippa gazed at the still white face, perfectly still, perfectly white, and apparently lifeless. The nurse raised herself with a sigh which seemed to intimate that all further effort was useless.

The slow minutes pa.s.sed, and with each moment a greyer shadow crept like a veil over the face of the dying man.

Suddenly Mrs. Goodman spoke, sharply, and in a voice that sounded strident in the silence.

"Speak to him! call him!" she said.

A clutch of emotion strangled Philippa; her one conscious feeling was pity--pity overwhelming and profound. Pity for the soul going out into the Great Unknown, lonely, unsatisfied, craving something which it seemed that only she could supply. She fell on her knees beside the bed, and laid her warm hands on the frail white ones which were growing cold, so cold.

She felt some one remove her hat, and then again came the prompting insistent voice at her elbow.

"Call him! _Call him!_----Francis!"

And then she called--all her sorrow for the sick and suffering, all her potential motherhood ringing in her young voice.

"Francis!" Then louder, "Francis! Can you hear me? Francis! It is Philippa!" Again the breathless silence. Then, intent only on the task of gaining a response, she slipped her arm under the pillow, and leaning her face closer and closer, she called again and again. Did an eyelid flicker? Was it imagination, or was the deathly pallor changing slightly? Were the shadows round the drawn mouth less dark?

The doctor with his fingers on the pulse bent forward. "Again!" he said gruffly. "Once more!"

And again the girl's voice rang through the silent room in urgent appeal: "Francis! Francis!"

One long breath--another--and the eyes opened--vague, unseeing, turning this way and that until they found what they sought, and in them slowly dawned the light of recognition. A little later--low, very low--a whisper, in which content and joy triumphed over weakness--clear enough to the anxious listeners: "Phil! Darling!"

Two hours later Philippa went to her room. The doctor had gone, to return at evening; the invalid was sleeping, for the moment all was as well as could be expected, and it was considered probable that he would sleep for some hours. Her limbs were stiff and cramped from the position in which she had remained, fearing that the slightest movement on her part would snap the frail thread which we call life. When it became evident that the sleep was sound and strengthening she had crept away.

Presently Mrs. Goodman entered, bearing a tray of food and a telegram.

"You must need food," she said. "I have brought it, and I have said you are not to be disturbed." Her voice was strained and trembling, but quite kindly.

Philippa opened the telegram. "Operation to-morrow--hopeful--will wire again." For a moment she could not think what it meant, then she remembered; but somehow it seemed trivial, of no importance. Nothing mattered just now but the explanation which must surely come. All else was far away, outside the radius of her mind.

The woman pressed food and wine upon her, and stood beside her as she ate. Then she removed the tray and placed in on a table, and returned to Philippa's side. Her face was working grievously, her limbs were shaking. Then, quite suddenly, she sat down and burst into tears--the slow, laboured weeping of the aged.

Philippa drew her chair closer, and laying a hand on her shoulder she waited, knowing instinctively that the tears would bring healing, and that the overstrained nerves must find relief before words would come.

At last she grew quieter, and said brokenly, "He knew me! You heard him! 'Goody! Goody will understand!' I that have nursed him and tended him from babyhood! And never to know me--never to know his old Goody all these weary years! At last! At last! Oh! if my lady were but here to see!"

"Will you try and realise that I know nothing?" Philippa said gently.

"I lost my way last night and went into the wrong room, and found--him.

I do not even know who he is, but he seemed to expect me. Try and tell me what it all means."

"First, will you please tell me who you are?" said Mrs. Goodman.

"I am Philippa Harford."

"Aye, Philippa Harford! How little I thought ever to speak that name again! You are Philippa Harford, that I know--it is written clearly on your face for all to see; but you are not the Miss Philippa I knew, although I had not imagined that two faces could be so much alike."