THE STRANGER
"'Twas strange, 'twas passing strange.
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful."--_Othello_.
Before Philippa, dazed by the sudden light and the utter unexpectedness
of it all, could collect herself sufficiently to speak, he took both
her hands in his with a movement infinitely tender and possessive, and
drew her further into the room.
"They said you would not come. They lied. I knew they lied. Oh,
Phil! the joy to see you. My sweet! My sweet!"
The girl made an effort to withdraw her hands. What had happened?
What did it mean?
"Oh, no!" she stammered. "It is a mistake--I do not know---- You are
mistaking me for somebody else. I----"
He held her hands closer, closer, until they were pressed against his
breast.
"Mistake?" he echoed with a little sound--it was hardly a laugh--of
triumph and content.
"Mistake! Love makes no mistake!" and all the while his eyes burnt
into hers with an intensity of passion and of longing.
"But yes--" she faltered. It was difficult to find words against the
ardour of his gaze. "Yes, I am Philippa Harford. I must have mistaken
the room. Believe me, I am sorry----"
"Philippa Harford!" and again that little sound broke from him, half
sob, half sigh, and clearly indicative of infinite joy, a joy too deep
to be expressed in words. "My Phil!--as if I should not know! Sun in
my shadows--light in my darkness--darkness which surrounded and
overwhelmed, and in which I groped in vain, and only clung to you."
He spoke her name as if the very repetition of it told the sum of his
content. "Phil!--and I not know!--and my love's violets!" Releasing
one hand he touched the flowers she wore. "And the little heart--the
same! Your heart and mine!"
He led her, compelled against her will, unresisting to a sofa.
Philippa sank upon it overwhelmed and almost nerveless under the stress
of his emotion. He placed himself beside her, half sitting, half
kneeling at her feet.
"I do not know--was it yesterday I saw you, cool and sweet in your soft
primrose gown? or was it long ago before the shadows fell? Ah,
love--your eyes! your hair! And always in the darkness the sound of
your voice--the touch of your dear hand."
Philippa felt her senses reeling. With an effort she tore her eyes
from his and gazed round the room. What did it mean? What dream was
it? Was she waking or sleeping?
Beside the sofa stood a table, and on it an easel supporting a picture
of--oh no, it could not be herself!
She drew one hand--the other was still tightly clasped in his--across
her eyes as if to brush away a veil of unreality which seemed to hang
over everything, and looked again. But no, there was no mistaking
it--the dark hair drawn loosely back from the brow--her hair--her face
as she saw it daily in her mirror--even her dress; a touch of pale
yellow lightly indicated the folds of soft lace--the bunch of violets;
and there, in black letters of unmistakable clearness on the gilding of
the frame, the one word "Philippa."
On the table in front of the portrait was a bowl of violets--nothing
else--just as might stand the offering at some shrine.
Beyond this one great mystery the room itself was devoid of anything
out of the ordinary. The walls were panelled in white with touches of
a pale grey colour; there were a few pictures, not many. The two
windows were hung with a bright chintz of a somewhat old-fashioned
design which matched the coverings of chairs and sofa, but the curtains
were not drawn and the blinds were up.
From where she sat Philippa could see the moonlight flooding the
sleeping park-land, and in the distance a clump of elm-trees outlined
clear and lacy in the silver light.
Before one of the windows stood a large table littered with papers, a
tumbler of water holding some brushes, and a drawing-board. By the
fireplace was a comfortable chair, and on the floor beside it, as if
dropped by a sudden careless movement of the reader, a book face
downwards; and with the curious involuntary attention to detail to
which we are liable in moments of strain, she noticed, almost with
annoyance, that some of the pages were turned back and creased by the
fall.
The room told of nothing beyond an everyday homelike peace; there was
nothing to help her elucidate the mystery.
And all the while the man at her feet was pouring out a stream of
rapid, fervent words. "And still you did not come! Ah, love! the
long, long shadows--purple shadows--mysterious, unfathomable. No sun,
no warmth, excepting when I saw you in my dreams--distant, illusive.
No brightness, only darkness, until you came. But I knew you would
come. Dearest, love makes no mistake, does it? Such love as mine that
calling--calling--must draw you to me at the last. My beautiful Phil!
my dreams of you never equalled the dear nearness of you. The night is
past--the shadows are swept away, for the dawn has come--the dawn that
was so long in coming, for it could only break to the music of your
footfall. Phil, why do you look at me like that?" he queried suddenly.
"Is it possible that I have frightened you? God knows I did not mean
to. Or was it yesterday, sweetheart, did I hurt you? Truly, dear one,
I did not mean to. I said that you were cold--I did not blame you--I
did not think of blaming you; but my love for you is so great, so
overwhelming, that it is hard to be patient. I hunger so for the touch
of your lips. Forgive me, sweet, forgive me. See! now I will be calm."
He rose to his feet and stood before her at a little distance.
"Listen," he said, "I have something to tell you. Do you remember that
little song you used to sing to me, that I loved? Well, always in my
dreams when I saw you, you were coming to me like that.
"'Through soft grey clouds the kind May sun was breaking,
Setting ablaze the gold flower of the broom.'
Always with the violets at your breast in a flood of golden radiance.
Coming!--but you never came. Always sunlight where you are, my Phil,
even when the shadows were darkest. And now--you have come!"
As he stood before her Philippa was able for the first time to notice
the personal appearance of this man--this total stranger who was laying
his very heart bare to her bewilderment. He stood above the usual
height and was thin to emaciation, but with something virile and active
about him which belied the apparent delicacy of his frame. His face
was pale and worn, and his hair, which was quite white, accentuated the
darkness of his deep-set eyes. He was clean-shaven and his mouth was
perhaps rather hard, but it softened to tenderness as he spoke. His
whole form seemed to radiate with his feeling of joy in the reunion--a
strength of feeling dominating and triumphing over any bodily weakness.
As he moved his position slightly, the light fell more fully upon his
face, and she saw the line of a deep scar running from cheekbone to
temple. Instinctively she wondered what fearful wound he could have
sustained to leave a mark like that.
He was dressed for the evening, but wore a black velvet smoking jacket
in place of the formal dress coat. It was impossible to tell his age.
His figure might have been that of a man of five-and-twenty, but his
face and hair might signify another ten or even fifteen years.
He ceased speaking, and with his last words a feeling of sudden emotion
almost choked Philippa. It was as if the unreality of it all was
passing away, and the knowledge came to her that she, Philippa, was
listening to the outpourings of a man's inmost heart, of a love not
intended for her. She had no right to listen. What was she doing
here? She rose quickly.
"I must go now," she said, trying to control her voice and speak as if
nothing unusual had occurred. She was so bewildered, it seemed the
only way to treat the impossible situation. "I must go now. It is
getting late." Even as she spoke the words their utter banality
irritated her, but what could she do?
He moved forward. "Is it late?" he said. "Have I kept you too long?
But you will come again to-morrow?" He took her hands, which were
hanging nerveless at her sides--took them and held them close. "You
will come?" he whispered passionately. "Ah, dear love! the shadows
when you do not come!"
It was impossible to resist the appeal in his look and voice. "I will
come," she answered very low.
He raised her hands and kissed first one and then the other.
"Good-night," he said tenderly. "God guard you, my dear love!"
Philippa broke from him, and turning swiftly, opened the door and
passed out. Then she stopped abruptly, startled. On the threshold a
woman was standing, a woman of advanced years and rather stern
appearance. She wore a dark gown, and her grey hair was covered with a
cap of some soft white material. She moved aside to allow the girl to
pass, and then said in a cold and perfectly emotionless voice, "I will
show you to your room."
Philippa followed her, blindly, stumblingly, for her knees were shaking
now, and there was such an air of resentment in the other's demeanour
that it jarred upon her overstrung nerves.
In silence they passed down the long corridor until they arrived at
their destination. The woman flung the door open and switched on the
light. The fire was burning brightly, and Philippa recognised her own
belongings on the dressing-table, and her dressing-down and slippers
warming at the hearth, with a throb of relief. She walked in and then
turned and faced her guide, who looked at her, long and scrutinisingly,
opened her lips as if about to speak, and then shut them with a snap,
as if afraid that words might escape against her will--hesitated for a
moment, and then walked out and closed the door in silence.
Philippa sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. One
question was ringing through her brain. "What did it mean? What could
it mean?" The wildest and most impossible explanations presented
themselves to her fevered mind. Had she ever been here before? Was
she dreaming? Had she lost her memory? Had she ever seen him before?
Who had painted her portrait--and when? Then another thought struck
her: Was it possible that he was mad? But no, she dismissed it
immediately. There had been so sign of madness in his behaviour or his
actions. Excitement, yes, but quite controlled; and above all truth
and sincerity and passionate devotion. There was no mistaking that.
Whatever might be the explanation of the extraordinary happenings of
the evening, one thing was beyond all argument, beyond all doubt, and
that was the love this man bore to--whom? The woman whom he imagined
her to be--who was it? Philippa Harford! But _she_ was Philippa
Harford. The name was not so common that Philippa Harfords were to be
found readily to be confounded with one another. And the
portrait!--there was the very heart of the mystery--the primrose
gown--the violets. What was it he had said? "Love's violets!" and
"The dark, dark shadows since they had met." And
then--"yesterday,"--he had said they had met yesterday. What could it
mean?
She pressed her hands closer against her aching temples. What was the
secret of this extraordinary house? Was it all unreal? Had it never
happened at all? Was it supernatural--a fevered vision of the
brain--an apparition haunting the scenes of the past? Impossible!
And the woman? She at all events had been tangible and real. Why had
she looked at her with eyes that held hatred--nothing more nor less
than hatred, bitter and undisguised?
Who could she ask? whom could she turn to? For a moment she had a wild
impulse to peal the bell and call for--whom? Somebody--anybody--to
speak--to tell her she was awake--alive. Marion? but Marion was not
here. Marion had gone with the big soldier husband whose mere presence
in the house would, the girl felt, have been an assurance of security,
of sanity. Violets! What had Marion said? "There is a sad story
attached to violets at Bessacre." But she had not told her what it
was. Why had she left her? And then she remembered the earlier events
of the evening--Dickie--his illness--the telegram. It all seemed so
distant. Marion had been in trouble and had left her. Then gradually
the thought of her friend's anxiety had the result of restoring her to
a more normal condition of mind.
She rose to her feet and prepared herself mechanically for her bed.
When she laid her head at last upon the cool whiteness of her pillow,
and closed her weary eyes, sleep was far from her. She saw only one
face, heard only one voice. "Such love as mine
must--calling--calling--draw you to me at the last. My sweet! my
sweet!" Oh, the pity of it! the pity of it!
Was it a few minutes, or ages later--she could not tell--that suddenly
she heard a door bang violently--once--twice? She heard a hurried step
on the gravel below her window, and then a shout, and the sound of a
horse galloping faster and faster into the distance. Then even the
echo died away, and silence as of the dead remained. She strained her
ears, shivering with nervousness and fatigue, but could hear no more,
and after a while she sank into a troubled sleep.