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
passed 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 circumstances.
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 assured 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.
"Perfectly quiet, and, I think, inclined to sleep," she answered. "I
have promised him to come again to-morrow."
"You might come for a little while both morning and afternoon if he
goes on all right. Will you see the nurse and arrange with her? She
will know which is his best time."
Philippa said she would do so, and the doctor went in for a final look
at his patient before leaving the house.
As the girl sat alone later in the evening, she pondered over the words
Francis had spoken. That his memory had not failed in any detail
within what might be termed the radius of his love story she was well
aware. It had been further proved to-day; he had mentioned her
singing. Fortunately that presented no difficulty to her, for,
although she did not possess a voice in any way remarkable, still, she
had been well trained and had sung a good deal in her father's
lifetime. He had also spoken of riding, and of her going to Scotland.
It might be that he remembered riding with her, and perhaps the first
Philippa had arranged a visit to Scotland--she could not tell. But
beyond this he had spoken of Bessacre and Bessmoor, giving the places
their correct names without hesitating. She had always understood that
the names of places presented the gravest difficulty to a memory in any
way troubled or imperfect. Did this mean that his mind was perfectly
clear upon all that had happened up to the time of the accident, but
that from that moment all was darkness? This was frequently so in
cases of concussion of the brain, as she knew, but against this
explanation was the fact that he had recognised both the doctor and
Mrs. Goodman. If he only remembered them as they were at the time of
his accident, surely he would have made some comment on their altered
appearance. It was this that puzzled--this that made the situation so
complex.
She made a little plan of campaign in her mind--of books she would read
with him, of various little things which she would order which might
amuse him. The way bristled with pitfalls if once she allowed herself
to consider them. Twenty years! How everything must have altered
since then! For instance, how much had the ordinary everyday sights
such as pass us every day without our giving them a thought changed in
that time! Twenty years ago the motor-car was unknown, electric light
was in its infancy. The Heathcotes had cars, but she remembered that
Francis' room looked out on a part of the garden and that the drive was
not visible from the windows. Therefore, although it was possible that
he might have heard the sound of a horn or siren, he would never
actually have seen a car. Electric light was installed in his room.
She had no idea when this had been done, but he must be quite
accustomed to it.
It was not until she began to sum them up that she realised how
innumerable are the changes wrought by a couple of decades--in our
habits, even in our speech. English 'as she is spoke' is a variable
quantity, and the jargon of to-day is forgotten to-morrow. Philippa
the first had mentioned in one of her letters that she was having "a
jolly time." Well, "jolly" as an adjective is as dead as the dodo, and
if the letter had been written by her to-day, she, being what she was,
would undoubtedly have used the word "ripping."
Her namesake smiled to herself as she thought of it. Fortunately here
again she was safe. Having lived so much abroad, and having spoken
fluently in several languages, she had not contracted the habit of
employing all the hundred-and-one words of current slang such as are on
the lips of most young people.
On the whole, she decided it was useless to consider possible pitfalls.
They did exist, but she must rely on her quickness and presence of
mind, and hope to escape them.
After a while she summoned Mrs. Goodman and asked her help in the
matter of songs. Could she tell her of any songs Francis had cared for
particularly? The old woman looked puzzled at first, but after some
reflection said that, in a lumber-room, there was a pile of music which
had been cleared out of the library years ago. He always had his piano
in the library, she explained, and it was there that he and Miss
Philippa used to play and sing together. "The same piano stands in the
morning-room now. I have so many things that were his. My lady told
me to throw away his bats and racquets and such things, but I couldn't
do it. And some of them he himself asked me to take care of for him,
many years ago in his school-days. He probably forgot all about them,
but they were safely kept. Will you come one day and see them, Miss
Phil?"
The girl promised readily. She was only too anxious to learn all she
could; every detail of his life, however seemingly unimportant, might
be of help to her.
The old woman sat talking for a time, and then Philippa suggested that
they should go together in search of the music.
Mrs. Goodman demurred, saying she feared the place might be dusty, for
it was long since she visited it, and no one else had access to it; but
Philippa laughingly overcame her scruples, and they mounted the stairs
together.
The sun was low and it was growing dusk when they entered a rambling
attic at the top of the house. It was filled with the heterogeneous
collection of odds and ends such as accumulate in any large
house--pieces of furniture, broken or too worn for use; pictures, some
with frames and some without; toys, a nursery chair, and who knows what
beside. Mrs. Goodman laid her hand on a rocking-horse which peered out
of the gloom like some weird monster, head upreared and snorting
fiercely.
"The Major told me nothing here need be disturbed," she said, with a
little quiver in her voice. "He was always so fond of his horse." But
in the latter part of her sentence it was clear that "he" was not the
Major. The old woman stroked the battered steed tenderly. "It doesn't
seem long since I saw him ride it," she went on; "sitting on it in his
little holland blouse as proud as a prince. He was very small then,
and as soon as he was old enough his mother gave him a pony. Gipsy,
its name was. I shall never forget his delight."
"Have you known him ever since he was born?" asked Philippa gently.
"Very nearly," was the reply. "I knew Lady Louisa before she was
married. My father was one of her father's oldest tenants. I was
married some years before my lady, and lost both my husband and child.
When Francis was born he wasn't very strong, and my lady engaged a
nurse for him with the best possible recommendations, but she was no
use and the child didn't thrive. My lady was very troubled about
him--he was her only one, you see--and when the nurse proved so
unsatisfactory she wrote to me and asked me to come.
"I remember her letter now. 'Will you come and help me to look after
him?' she wrote, 'for I would rather he had your affection, Jane, than
the wider experience of strangers. I know you will never neglect him,
and can trust you.' So I came. He was about a year old--a tiny,
weakly baby; but he throve wonderfully, although my lady used to say we
were like two hens with one chick. She was very wise and would not let
him be spoilt. His father died when he was about ten years old. He
was much older than Lady Louisa and had been twice married, as I think
I told you."
She paused for a few minutes and then resumed: "Francis was always so
happy. It was his nature. Very high-spirited, and as a child very
quick-tempered, but if he was angry it was just a flash, all over in a
minute."
"Who has been nursing him in his illness?" asked Philippa.
"At first, of course, he had trained nurses, but later, when he could
not be called ill in himself, he just had his own valet for some time.
But after a while, to Lady Louisa's great distress, some one spread a
report in the village that he was out of his mind, so she arranged that
his rooms were to be quite separate. They were never entered by the
house servants. I sent for a nephew of mine, a quiet, trustworthy man
who I knew could keep his tongue in his head, and for years he has
waited on him, and his wife has had charge of his rooms under my
supervision. I have been to see him every day and seen to his comfort,
but I am very old now and past work. If that were not so, should not I
be nursing him now?" she asked sadly. "It is difficult to stand aside
and watch others doing what you long to do yourself. But that must be
in old age. It is years since he crossed the threshold of his own
rooms, and I am sure there are people on the place now who don't know
he lives here--so quiet was it kept, by my lady's wish. Oh," she cried
tremulously, "if my dear lady could only be here to see the change in
him!"
"You have seen him to-day?" asked Philippa. "How did you think he was
looking?"
"He looks very ill," answered the old woman; "but he was quite his old
self. He had some little joke ready for me. He was always full of
fun. Isn't it wonderful? It seems just as if all those years had been
wiped right off, as you would wipe a slate."
"Did he speak of old times?"
"Not exactly, but he was just having his breakfast as I went in, and I
stood beside him while he ate it, and he laughed when I tried to help
him, and asked whether I shouldn't feed him with a spoon--whether I
thought he was a baby again. Then he spoke of you, and asked if I had
seen you and how you were."
They found the music presently, and Philippa possessed herself of a
quantity of it and carried it down-stairs to the morning-room to try it
over on the little piano which had belonged to Francis years before.
The instrument was rather thin in tone, and some of the notes were out
of tune, but Mrs. Goodman promised before she left her, to send for a
man from Renwick next morning to put it in order, so that it could be
taken up-stairs to the sitting-room.
Turning over the songs, which were, of course, quite out of date, and
mostly of the highly sentimental order which found favour in the early
eighties, Philippa's eye was arrested by some words which seemed to her
familiar. They were the ones Francis had quoted at their first
meeting. He had spoken of a song Phil had been in the habit of
singing, which seemed to him written for them. She tried it through.
The tune had a certain happy charm which once heard might easily linger
in the memory after the music was hushed. The words were these:--
"My heart met yours, when spring was all awaking,
Down in the valley where the violets bloom;
Through soft grey clouds the kind May sun was breaking,
Setting ablaze the gold flower of the broom.
Your heart met mine, and all the birds were singing,
Singing for joy that winter's day was done;
On every side the harebells pale were ringing
A bridal peal for joy--our hearts were one.
Our hearts are one, and nothing can dissever
The chain that binds us close; come good or ill,
The golden radiance floods life's pathway ever,
The scent of violets lingers round us still."
How many years was it since the simple words had been sung in that
house, and the notes of the old piano sounded to the lilting cadence of
its melody? And now, of the two who had sung it together, one was
gone, and the other--well, for the other some of the golden radiance
still shone after all the bitter years fate had meted out; and the
scent of the violets lingered still.
Philippa dropped her face until it touched the faded bunch upon her
breast. What is there about the scent of violets that always conjures
up thoughts of the past? They have beyond the scent of all other
flowers a power of memory. The scent of roses tells of long summer
days, of dreams soft and tender as light summer airs; lilies speak of
love and of love's crown; but it is violets that help us to regret.