ROPES OF GOSSAMER
"Deep in my heart the tender secret dwells,
Lonely and lost to light for evermore
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,
Then trembles into silence as before."
Isabella did not move, but Philippa could see that her breath was
coming fast as though she had been running; otherwise she gave no sign
of having heard.
"He has been very ill," continued the girl, "but he is better now."
The older woman rose suddenly from her seat and moved a few steps
forward, and stood with her back towards her companion and with one
hand on the oaken pillar as though to steady herself.
"Is he--conscious?" she asked in a low voice.
"He recognises the doctor and his old nurse, but we cannot tell how
much he remembers about his long illness."
"Is he--happy?"
"I think he is perfectly happy," replied Philippa slowly.
There was a short silence, and then Isabella resumed her seat.
Philippa glanced at her and then turned away her eyes, but she answered
the unspoken question she had read in her friend's face.
"It is impossible to say. The doctor cannot tell. At first he thought
it would be only a matter of days or perhaps weeks; but now the
improvement has been very great, and it seems as though if all goes
well he might live some time. You see, his memory returned quite
suddenly, and the shock was very great. It was almost too much for his
strength. We can only go on from day to day. It is useless to look
forward."
At last Isabella spoke. "You must forgive me," she said brokenly, and
with an evident effort to regain her composure. "But it is a long time
since I have heard his name. I thank you for telling me, but--there is
something I cannot understand. What are you doing here--you--a child,
with a face and form of the past?"
"I met him quite by accident. I went into his room, mistaking it for
my own, on the first evening after my arrival. I came to stay with
Marion Heathcote, who is an old friend of mine."
"And he?"
"He thinks I am----"
Isabella nodded. "It was the sight of you recalled his memory?"
"Yes."
"And you have not undeceived him?"
"It was not possible to tell him of his mistake. He was too weak."
"Tell me some more, please."
And Philippa told her, beginning from the beginning. She told her of
the doctor's plea--of Jane Goodman's words--of all the phases of his
recent illness--only of his words of love to her she did not speak.
And during the recital Isabella watched her with a look of deep
scrutiny, but she did not interrupt. Only when the story was all told
she said--
"I wonder why you did it?"
"There was nothing else to be done. You would have done the same
yourself," replied Philippa simply.
"Yes," cried Isabella, with a little cry that was more than half a sob;
"you are right. I should have done the same myself; but--I have loved
Francis Heathcote all my life. I should have done the same; but I did
not have the chance--did I? After all these years----
"Listen," she continued, as she leaned forward resting her chin on her
clasped hand, while into her eyes there crept the look of one who is
blind to what is actually before her, but entranced with some inward
vision visible to herself alone. "Listen, and I will tell you what I
can about that past which died so long ago and which is yet alive
to-day. When I was a girl, scarcely more than a child, I came to live
with an aunt in Bessacre village. My mother was dead, and my father,
who was one of those delightful but utterly unpractical people that the
world calls rolling stones, was seldom or never in England.
"My aunt was a woman rather hard to describe. My father used to say
that she had the brains of a rabbit and the tongue of a viper, and
perhaps that best explains her. She meant to be kind, I think, but she
was without exception the silliest and most empty-headed person I have
ever known. I do not say this unkindly; she gave me what she could,
and it was very little--just clothes and food; but of sympathy or human
understanding not a particle. And so it followed that I was very
lonely, which may in part account for what I have to tell.
"Francis Heathcote and I were about the same age, and during the
holidays we played a great deal together, and all the happiness of
those childish years I owe to him. We were allowed a good deal of
freedom, and there is hardly a stone or a tree in the park that does
not hold some memory of delight for me.
"Then of course came his college days, and he was more seldom at home,
but even so something of the old comradeship remained to us. And
then--one summer--circumstances threw us more closely together again.
I was at the age for dreams, and as I told you before, more than half a
fool, and God knows what ropes I wove out of gossamer--until--Phil came.
"She was very beautiful, and I expect you know the rest. One thing I
can honestly say, I was never jealous of her--I could not wonder that
Francis loved her. Every one revelled in her beauty, even I who
watched my ropes melt away into nothingness as the dew of the morning
before the sun's rays. I watched their courtship. It was some time
before he won her, and--Francis used to tell me all his hopes and
fears--I think I was some use to him at that time--a sort of
safety-valve." She gave a little whimsical smile. "It wasn't always
quite easy to listen to his rhapsodies about the girl he loved, but,
after all, it meant that we were together, and that was a great deal to
me. I do not think the world ever held any one more keen, more eager
than he was--so full of the joy of living, so ardent in his love. How
his whole face used to light up when he spoke of her! Every one loved
him, rich and poor alike. And then came his accident--you know all
about it?" Philippa made a gesture of assent. "And there, so far as I
am concerned, the story ended. All my remembrance lies in the happy
days when we were boy and girl together--when we grew to manhood and
womanhood almost before we realised it. I never spoke to him again--I
cannot say I did not see him, for I saw him driving once with Lady
Louisa. He did not know me."
"Have you never been to the High House since?"
"Only once. It was after I heard that Phil--that his engagement was
broken off. It is not a visit that I care to remember. I think I was
half crazed with grief for him. Anyway, I felt that I could bear it no
longer, and I went and practically forced myself into Lady Louisa's
presence. I did not know her very well, she was not the sort of woman
any one ever knew well--very cold in manner and reserved--and I had
always been afraid of her, but I forgot my fear that day. I have a
horrid recollection of being very foolish--of begging her upon my knees
to let me do some little thing, even the smallest, for him--and finally
of creeping out of the house humbled and despairing, with my whole
world in pieces. It had been pretty well shattered before that. I
don't know that Lady Louisa was unkind to me, but if she was she had
every excuse; and, poor soul, I know how she must have felt--like a
tigress defending her young. For it was then that all sorts of rumours
were rife about him. People said that he was hopelessly mad--that he
had tried to murder her--that he had been taken away to an asylum--and
heaven knows how many more lies. And of course she must have thought,
and with good reason, that I was an hysterical idiot. Well, I
quarrelled with my aunt over it--not the interview, she knew nothing of
that, but over the gossip. You can imagine what food for talk in the
village, and most of it was her fault, and I was maddened by it.
"This went on for two years. I could not bear to go away, and yet
there was no use in staying, for little by little all news of him
ceased. Those servants who were known to have gossiped were dismissed,
and their places filled by others who could be trusted to be silent.
"The old nurse, who would, I know, have told me, never went outside the
grounds, and all the talk had so disgusted me that, with all my longing
to know, I don't think I could have questioned a servant.
"Then my aunt died suddenly, and I had to leave. I had no money, and
in consequence no choice in the matter. I joined my father, who was at
that time in Canada, and remained with him, travelling all over the
world wherever his fancy took him until his death three years ago. By
that time I had made enough money by my books to know that a livelihood
was assured to me, and I came here.
"I could not discover for some time whether he was alive or dead. I
heard that Lady Louisa had died a few months before, and I wouldn't ask
any direct questions out of respect for her. If she had managed to
keep the whole pitiful story a secret, to bury it in oblivion, what
right had I to drag it to light again--to make her and him the subject
of idle tittle-tattle, for that was what it amounted to? She was at
rest beyond the reach of tongues, and in a way that made it worse, for
she wasn't there to guard him from lies.
"At last one day I went to see her grave in the churchyard, and then I
knew. Have you seen it?"
"No," answered Philippa. "The doctor asked me the same question, and
whether I knew what was written on it."
"Her grave is just inside the lych-gate at the top of the steps. Over
it is a plain white marble cross with her name and the dates, and these
are the words on the base of it--
"'I leave my best beloved in His care,
And go because He calls me--He whose voice
I cannot disobey; praying that He
Who heard the widow's prayer in Galilee
Will hear mine now, and bring you soon to me
Where tears and pains are not; that we may stand
Before His throne together, hand in hand.'
I think that if her heart had not broken before it must have broken
when she had to leave him."
"The doctor told me that she wrote the words and asked that they should
be placed on her tombstone," said Philippa. "Poor soul!"
"I did not know that," returned Isabella, "but I have sometimes thought
that she must have hoped that Francis would see them some day; but her
hope has been vain."
"Why did you not go straight to Marion--to Mrs. Heathcote, I mean, and
ask her?" asked Philippa. "Marion is so kind, she would have told you
all she could. Or Doctor Gale? Did you not know him? Why could you
not have asked him?"
"I hardly know why I did not do so, but I know that it was impossible
to me. It is not as if I had ever--as if I had any right--I was a
stranger. It is true that I knew Robert Gale in the old days, but look
at the years that have passed. He would probably not have remembered
me, and how could I have explained? It would have been like tearing my
inmost heart out and laying it on the table for him to dissect as he
chose. My story was my own--I have hugged it very close--until you
came. And yet I think I always knew that some day, through no effort
of mine, the veil would be lifted. I was certain of it, and in that
certainty I could wait with some degree of patience until the moment
came. Sometimes I must confess I have wondered whether it would be in
this world or the next--and I didn't want it in some other sphere, but
here in the old world, among the scenes and sights he loved. I have
waited for some message. Will it ever come, I wonder! Shall I ever
see his face again? For a moment I thought it had come when I met
you--in all outward seeming, the Phil I used to know. I knew she was
dead--I saw it in the papers; and then to meet you! Honestly, my
senses reeled.
"Then of course it became clear that you were of another generation. I
think I did not realise how far I had left my youth behind until I knew
you. And still you did not mention him--and God knows I wanted to
question--but I saw that if I wanted all the truth I must wait a little
longer. I saw you were not one of those who blurt out all their
affairs to a passing stranger--that first I must win your trust and, if
I could, your affection."
Philippa laid her hand on Isabella's with a mute gesture and she
clasped it tightly.
"So I set myself to wait again with all the patience I could muster.
You may wonder why I told you about Ian Verity; perhaps it seems to you
a small thing--but it was all I had, all that I valued outside the
story that I am telling you now, and I gave you my confidence, craving
yours in return. It was nothing to you. But now you have broken the
silence."
"How does he look?" she asked suddenly. "I have always remembered him
as he used to be, and yet, of course, he must be changed."
"His hair is white," said Philippa gently; "but he looks young in spite
of that. He is so slim and upright--not like a man of his age."
"And his face?" Isabella asked the question almost in a whisper.
"He bears a dreadful scar, but I do not think it alters his expression.
It leaves his features quite untouched."
Isabella drew a long breath. "Ah!" she murmured, "how often I have
dreaded lest he should be dreadfully disfigured. His face was so
beautiful," she added pathetically.
They sat for a long time hand in hand, each occupied with her own
thoughts. Outside the rain dripped with a plaintive sound, but
overhead the sparrows twittered cheerfully under the eaves. The clouds
were drifting away to the west like some dark horde driven from the
field by the shimmering spears of the sunlight which pierced them. A
tender expanse of blue sky spoke a promise of fairer weather, a promise
repeated by the satisfied hum of the bees who had once more ventured
out to pursue their daily labours. The air was full of sweet
scents--fragrant earth and fragrant blossom made all the sweeter by the
cleansing shower.
To Philippa in the fullness of her youthful strength and beauty there
was something profoundly touching in the simple way in which Isabella
had recounted the story of her life. There was a nobility in the
confession. This woman--no longer young, with her grey hair and plain
rugged features--stating quite honestly that all the love of her youth
had been supported on ropes of gossamer, woven when she was at an age
for dreams.
What is the age for dreams? Ah, who can tell? Let us pray that to
those who dream the awakening comes not too soon; and that when it
comes, as in this world it must, they may preserve a measure of the
dream radiance to light them to that greater awakening when all tears
shall be wiped away.
Isabella had made no appeal for sympathy, had not suggested that there
was any room for pity. She did not wish to forget.
Into Philippa's heart there crept a faint realisation of the infinite
power and the infinite patience of a great love, and with it a longing,
half wistful, half eager, that she too might one day know its thrall.
Francis Heathcote had loved, and his love had survived years of
darkness and longing, but there had been plighted vows and lovers'
sweet delights to weld the chain of his affection; but Isabella had
known none of these, and yet she had lived in Love's bondage--bound by
ropes of gossamer. She was roused at last by her friend's voice.
"You will need great courage," Isabella said thoughtfully.
"Why shall I need courage?" the girl asked simply.
When the reply came it was no answer to her question, for the older
woman only repeated the doctor's words--"A little happiness for all
that he has missed."
Philippa made a little quick movement. "Yes! That is just it. He
shall have a little happiness if it is in my power to give it him. You
understand, don't you, Isabella? It is really easy to make him
happy--he asks so little and is so grateful for all that is done. And
he is happy now--really happy, I mean. Oh, I know his happiness is
founded on a mistake, but does that matter? Surely not when you think
of all the years he has passed in misery. I do want him to live long
enough to have the 'little happiness,' just to blot out all that he has
suffered. I am so desperately sorry for him that there is nothing I
would not do to bring some joy into his life, even if it is only very
short."
Isabella nodded. "I understand, but it will need courage. My dear, it
may be easy now. He has found you again--that for the moment is
sufficient; but, will his devotion content him to the end? What if he
asks a question that you cannot answer?"
"I shall answer," replied the girl with quiet firmness. "I promise you
that by no act or word of mine shall he be disappointed. I am going to
carry it through, Isabella. He has had enough of sorrow."
Once again Isabella scanned the girl's face with a quick glance, but
the sweet grey eyes which met hers were full of eager friendly
sympathy--and nothing more.