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
passage 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 God'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 assumed
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 reasserted 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 passed, 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."
"My father was James Harford. He died a few years ago. I did not know
there was another Philippa."
"James Harford!" echoed the woman. "That would be Mr. Jim."
Philippa rose to her feet, and walking over to the dressing-table
returned with a photograph in her hand.
"This was my father," she said. "It is an old photograph."
Mrs. Goodman looked at it.
"Yes. Mr. Jim, we used to call him."
"You knew my father?"
"Aye, I knew him well. He was often here in the old days--they were
boys together. He was two years older than Mr. Francis. Miss Philippa
was his sister."
"My aunt?"
"Yes, she would be your aunt. And Mr. Francis loved her, and they were
to be married--and then came the accident----" Mrs. Goodman stopped
suddenly. "I can't bear to speak of it----"
"Try to tell me," urged Philippa. "Don't you see that I must know? I
have never heard of my aunt. I never knew that my father had a sister."
"He had one sister. They often stayed here together. She was some
years younger than he was, and he loved her dearly--until it happened."
"Until what happened?"
"The accident, and Mr. Francis' illness."
"Who is Mr. Francis?"
Mrs. Goodman dried her eyes and made a great effort at self-control.
"I will try and tell you the story from the beginning," she said. "Mr.
Francis is the Major's uncle. He is the son of Lady Louisa Heathcote,
my dear mistress, who was second wife to Richard Heathcote, the old
squire. He--the old squire--was twice married, and his first wife was
mother to William Heathcote, the Major's father. She was married to
him about ten years, and then she died, and five or six years after he
married Lady Louisa, my lady. Mr. Francis was her son, born in 1862.
He was seventeen years younger than his half-brother, Mr. William, who
was a soldier, and never lived much at home after his school-days. A
splendid boy he was, Mr. Francis, and a splendid man--until he was
six-and-twenty.
"I can see him now, as he started that morning. It was in June. I can
see him now as clearly as I saw him then, riding out of the stable
yard. I was watching him from my window. His horse was rearing and
plunging, but he never minded that, for he was a beautiful rider. Miss
Philippa, she was walking beside him, leading her great dog--a huge
brute it was, very wild, and difficult to hold, and I think Mr. Francis
must have known his horse was shy of it, for I heard him call to her!
'If you're coming down to the jumps, darling, don't bring the dog.
This animal is quite excited enough already.' I heard her answer him:
'Oh, that's all right!' Quite carelessly she spoke--and then they
passed out of sight. The last time I saw him ride." The old woman's
voice faltered and broke. "Half-an-hour later they carried him
in--that awful day!"
"What had happened?" asked Philippa gently, as the speaker paused.
"It was all through the dog. Mr. Francis had taken his horse once
round the jumps--he always schooled his horses down there in the lower
meadow--and then he came round the second time. He passed close to
where Miss Philippa was standing, and her dog was so wild at the horse
galloping past that it broke away from her, and tore like a mad thing
after him. It overtook him just as he reached a jump. Some of the
stablemen were watching from the top of the field, but they couldn't
see exactly what happened. Some said the dog leaped right up at the
horse, others that it merely frightened it and caused it to swerve, but
in a moment they were on the ground, with Mr. Francis lying half under
the horse.
"Before the men could reach the place the animal was up, but in its
struggles it had kicked him terribly about the head. His body was not
hurt. Dr. Gale soon came, and his father, the old doctor, too, and
they sent for great men from London, but they all thought that he must
die. My poor lady! I shall never forget her awful anxiety. He was
just all the world to her, was Mr. Francis. Night after night she and
I would sit outside his room, holding each other's hands like two
children afraid of the dark. He had splendid nurses, I will say that,
but they wouldn't have us in his room. I said it was cruel, but my
lady said No. She said it was not a time to consider any one but him
and what was good for him. She was a wonderfully brave lady, and wise."
"And Philippa?" asked the girl.
Mrs. Goodman hesitated, and into her face there crept the same dark
look of hostility which it had worn on the previous evening. At last
she answered coldly--
"Miss Philippa did not like illness."
"What do you mean?"
"She stayed a few days." Again the woman hesitated. Then her anger
mastered her and she spoke scornfully and with intense bitterness.
"She stayed a few days and then she left the house--said she could not
do any good by staying. And Mr. Francis lying between life and death!"
She covered her face with her wrinkled hands and began to weep again,
and it was some moments before she could proceed. When she did so, it
was in a low, hurried tone, as though she wanted to get to the end of
her story, as if the mere mention of the dreadful days which followed
was more than she could bear.
"The time passed, and doctors came and went, and at last he recovered
consciousness, but he wasn't the same. The first word he spoke was her
name. After that he asked for her unceasingly. I remember a doctor
coming--a very great man he was--and he said to my lady, 'I am hopeful,
decidedly hopeful, but your son must be kept quiet, and perfectly
contented. Where is this young lady he asks for? she must come
immediately. If he is not kept quiet I will not answer for the
consequences.'
"After he had gone, my lady turned to me. 'We will telegraph at once,'
she said, 'Surely she will come.'
"Well she came, and she went to his room. He had been calling her just
before, and when she came he did not know her. He was very ill that
day, and he was wandering, and when he saw her he talked some childish
nonsense about his boyhood.
"She didn't say a word as she came out, but that evening my lady spoke
to her, and told her that she must have patience, that he would be
better soon; but she only said, 'He is terribly disfigured.' Those
were her very words. Not a word for the pity of it, or of comfort for
his poor mother.
"The next morning his mind was clearer, and again he asked for her.
She went to him, but she wouldn't go in without my lady went with her.
He was lying quite still, but after a minute he opened his eyes and
said, 'Phil, darling! where have you been? There is a nest in the
holly-bush. I'll show it you after breakfast.' Of course it was just
rambling talk, but the doctors said that the fact of his knowing her
was a hopeful sign.
"She never spoke to him, or answered him as one must answer sick folk
when they have fancies. She went away again the next day. My lady
tried to reason with her--she thought she was frightened; but it was no
use, she wouldn't listen.
"Then, after a few more days, my lady wrote. I saw the letter. It was
pitiful, just a cry from her breaking heart imploring her to come back,
saying that without her Mr. Francis would never get well. She wrote
back saying that she would come when he was right in his mind. She
just seemed determined not to understand that his mind never could get
clear while he was fretting for her night and day. That is
two-and-twenty years ago last June, and he has waited for her coming
ever since."
"But I cannot understand it," said Philippa. "I cannot understand any
woman not coming to the man she loved, however crazed he was. He
wanted her!"
"Ah, that was just it!" answered Mrs. Goodman sadly. "I knew it all
along, but my lady would not believe it until she was forced to do so.
She never loved him; and it was proved at last, for about six months
later she wrote to my lady and said she considered herself free--that
of course it was dreadfully sad, but that she could not spend her life
engaged to a hopeless invalid. Just a month after that she was
married."
"Married!" echoed Philippa.
"She ran away with some man her family didn't approve of. She never
had a heart, hadn't Miss Philippa."
"Then why did she become engaged to Francis Heathcote--if she did not
care about him?"
"Well, you see, he was rich and very handsome, and there were plenty of
young ladies who would have been glad to marry him. He was madly in
love with her!"
"Where was my father in those days? Do you know?"
"He was abroad somewhere. My lady wrote to him, beseeching him to try
and get Miss Philippa to come back. That was soon after the accident.
He came to England, but he couldn't do any good. I did hear he
quarrelled with his sister over it, and wouldn't see her or speak to
her again. He was so fond of Mr. Francis.
"It is an old story now." The old woman sighed deeply. "I little
thought to speak of it again. My lady never named her, and I hated her
too much to wish to speak of her. She condemned my boy to years of
prison--aye, and worse than prison. Of course I hated her. Even when
I heard that she had died a few years after her marriage the hatred
didn't die. I couldn't help it. You can't help your feelings. But I
never spoke of her. If you can't say good of the dead you had best say
nothing. When I saw you last night I really thought it was her. God
forgive me! I think there was murder in my old heart! But now--you
have come--and he will be content."