HALCYON DAYS
"Love keeps his revels where there are but twain."--_Venus and Adonis_.
Even Dr. Gale, who constantly preached caution lest strength should be
over-taxed, could find no fault with Francis' progress during these
halcyon days of happiness.
There was a wide terrace on the sunny side of the house, just below his
rooms, and there, whenever the weather permitted, he and Philippa would
spend the warmest morning hours.
Francis was carried down-stairs in obedience to the doctor's orders,
but once on the level he was allowed to walk a little. Leaning on her
arm he was able to accomplish the length of the house, but that had up
to the present been all that he had been equal to.
On two or three occasions they had driven in a low four-wheeled
pony-chaise for half-an-hour or so, but they had not yet ventured
beyond the confines of the park.
Francis had expressed no surprise at anything he had seen, indeed he
had not appeared to notice any particular details, but he had
repeatedly spoken of his delight in being out of doors again, and had
said that he was looking forward to the day when he should see Bessmoor
again.
During the early afternoon he rested, and she joined him again later,
to spend the remainder of the day with him in his sitting-room, which
now held for her so many associations.
There had been a time when she had wondered what they would find to
talk about, what line of conversation could be pursued with one whose
mentality was bounded by such extraordinary limitations; whose outlook
was that of a man, with a man's rational intelligence and
consciousness, hampered by the retrospective knowledge of a little
child.
For the first few days of their companionship she had indeed known
moments of perplexity, moments during which she had racked her brain
for a suitable remark, a new idea to interest him; for talk is
difficult between new acquaintances when such matters as politics,
literature and current events are taboo, and personalities are to be
avoided; but since her mental attitude towards him had changed and love
had taken possession of her, this embarrassment had vanished.
Two people in the first fine rapture of mutual affection do not,
presumably, discuss any of the weighty matters which occupy the
attention of ordinary individuals, nor, it is safe to say, would their
conversation be of the smallest interest to any one but themselves. It
is possible that lovers spend a certain portion of their time in a
silence more expressive than words; for the rest, let those who have
been in a similar situation fill in the blanks--experience will have
taught them understanding.
That Francis realised his condition to some degree was evident, for he
occasionally asked for enlightenment on a point he did not understand;
also he would sometimes be puzzled over the meanings of words. He
would use one without thinking, and then hesitate, in doubt as to
whether it was the right one to convey his meaning. He would treat the
matter lightly, making a joke of it, but would be obviously relieved
when Philippa assured him that it was correct. And it was almost
invariably correct, for it seemed that although his memory failed him,
he drew unknowingly upon a subconscious power which worked
independently--a store of knowledge which existed in his brain, but of
which he had mislaid the key.
She was reading to him one day, a light story from a magazine, which
described an act of gallantry on the part of the soldier hero, and
ended in his death. It concluded with a sentence in which the
expression "facing fearful odds" was used. When she finished reading
Francis said suddenly--
'"And how can man die better, than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his gods?'"
She looked up to meet the utter bewilderment in his eyes. "Where on
earth did I get that from?" he asked with a little laugh. "I seem to
know the words."
She recited as much of the original poem as she could remember, and he
seemed interested for the moment, but apparently paid little heed to
this odd trick of his memory.
Nor had Philippa thought further of it. If she had not been so
entirely engrossed in love, to the blinding of her reasoning power and
common sense, she would have appreciated the episode at its true value,
for it was important, in that it proved that Dr. Gale had been right
when he had suggested that under the cloud which shadowed so much,
there was a force at work which they could not measure.
The quotation in itself was nothing, a mere tag of poetry as familiar
to every schoolboy as his ABC, but if the timely mention of it was a
sign that the cloud was dispersing further, what would be the next
train of thought to emerge from darkness and oblivion? Had Philippa
been more vigilant the occurrence would undoubtedly have afforded her
food for reflection.
There came at length an afternoon when for his amusement she described
a place which they should visit together, which should be for them both
a garden of enchantment; and lest he should wonder at her intimate
knowledge of a land which possibly her namesake had never seen, she
painted it in fanciful poetic words, leaving him uncertain whether she
was drawing entirely on her imagination or not.
There was, as a matter of fact, a villa on the shore of Lake Maggiore
which she had seen the previous year, and which had impressed itself
upon her memory as being the loveliest spot earth could show--a
veritable dreamland--and when she had turned her mind to the task of
finding some retreat, hidden safely from the eyes of curious
passers-by, and possessing all the necessary qualifications of climate
and comfort, it had at once struck her as the very place she sought.
She had laid her plans with eager care, no detail for his well-being
should be forgotten. It only now remained that she should receive a
reply in the affirmative to her letter of inquiry as to whether the
house was available.
Francis was sitting beside her watching the smiles come and go on her
expressive face as she grew more and more interested in her theme.
"Go on, dearest," he said, as she paused. "Tell me some more about
your paradise."
"There is a terrace in front of it where lilies and oleanders grow and
roses riot over an old stone wall, and the air is rich with the scent
of them. At one end is a tall cypress-tree, and the sunlight touches
the stem of it until it shines like fire against the green darkness of
its boughs. On the worn old stone pavement white pigeons strut and
preen themselves, puffing out their chests with the most absurd air of
self-satisfaction. There are steps down from the terrace, and at the
bottom there is a great bed of carnations, red and white and yellow,
and their fragrance meets you like a wall of perfume as you pass."
"There should be violets," he interrupted. "Where are your violets?
You could not be happy without them."
"Oh, of course there are violets," agreed Philippa, "masses of them,
but I am not at all sure that they flower at the same time as the roses
and lilies and carnations. I don't know much about gardening. Well,
you walk down the pathway into a grove of olive-trees--a shimmer of
pale silvery green, a sort of dim aisle in fairyland--until you come to
the water's edge. There is an old stone seat, and you can just sit and
look and look and drink it all in. No, not the water--the view, I
mean. Blue water, brilliant heavenly blue, and far away in the
distance a line of hills, faint and yet clear under a sky that is----
Oh, I don't know how to describe it. It is ridiculous to say it is
blue. You must try and imagine it for yourself. And I think--oh yes,
I am sure--there would be just a gleam of snowy whiteness on the top of
the hills."
"I don't believe you have ever seen it," said Francis teasingly. "You
are making it all up as you go along."
"Perhaps I am," she replied. "But I am sure I know where to find it."
"Then we will go and look for this Magical Island, sweetheart. It is
an island, I suppose? How do we reach it? In a fairy boat drawn by
swans?"
"Not quite. But it is fairyland when we get there."
"When shall we start, my darling? Phil, how soon can we go?"
"We must wait a little while."
"But need we wait for long?" he pleaded. "How soon will you marry me?"
"There is a long journey to the Magical Island--a long journey. But in
a few weeks perhaps we can begin to think about it."
He leaned towards her. "A few weeks! and I count the days until you
are really mine. How soon do you think Rob will let me travel?"
"I don't know. Let us ask him."
He nodded. "I will ask him. And then--you will not keep me waiting?"
"I will not keep you waiting," she said soberly.
He kissed her fondly, and then rose to his feet and stood looking down
at her as she stretched out her hand and drew a thread from the pile of
silks which lay on a table beside her.
"How industrious you are. Time was when you never touched a needle,
and now you are always at work."
"I am developing good habits, that is all. There is no saying what I
shall take to next; you must never be surprised."
"I know the cause, and I love you for it."
"What is the cause?"
"You only do it because you are obliged to spend so much time indoors
with me. You don't acknowledge it because you are so dear and sweet,
but I know well enough all you have given up for me."
"Wait until we get to the Magical Island where it is always warm. We
can be out there together all day long."
"Just you and I together?"
"Just you and I together," she repeated; "unless you want any one else."
"I want nothing and no one in the world but only you."
A little thrill ran through her at the thought of his utter dependence
on her, for she was literally his whole world.
He stood, but for her, absolutely isolated, absolutely alone--the
friends of his early life forgotten, wiped out as though they had never
been; but what matter since it made him more entirely hers?
Each day brought Philippa its draught of Love's elixir, and she drank
it lingeringly, unwilling to lose a drop. And in some curious way the
potion wrought a change in her. She adopted a new personality. It was
not that of Phil--the Phil she had undertaken to represent, for she
would have had recollections of old days to linger over with him--but a
new Phil, reborn in a wonderful present, with no past because he could
not share it, and with a future veiled in half-fearful, wholly
delicious mystery.
To-day, the glorious Now, was his and hers, they were together on the
hill where Hope stands smiling, and if, somewhere below that dizzy
altitude, there was a valley where Memory lurked, she could not see it
for the rainbow clouds of joy that wrapped her round.
Francis had walked to the uncurtained window and was standing looking
out, and after a while his voice broke in upon her thoughts.
"Come and look at the sunset, sweetheart."
The sky behind the clump of tall elms was tinged with tenderest rose,
and here and there wisps of greyish-purple cloud were floating across
the glow. All was very calm, very still, the silence broken only by
the low notes of the birds who sung their vesper hymn. Side by side
they watched the shadows creep softly over a drowsy earth.
"A sleeping world--a world of dreams," Francis said gently. "You and I
in a beautiful world of dreams."
She made no answer, and after a minute he added, "To-morrow it will
wake. Must we wake too, dear love?"
"Oh no," she cried quickly. "Why do you say that?"
"Somewhere out there," he continued thoughtfully, "there is a world of
action. I wonder if it will call to us?"
"If it calls we will not listen."
"I have lost count of much, I think. I seem to have lived long in
dreamland. Perhaps it is because I still feel weak, that at times
illusive, intangible thoughts come into my mind. I cannot hold them.
When I try to grasp them they are gone. It is rather a horrid feeling,
not to be able to master your own thoughts. There is so much that I
have forgotten--so much that seems blank. But, thank God, I have still
my memory of you. All through my illness you were the anchor to which
I clung when everything else drifted away from me."
It had become such a habit with Philippa to speak the word which would
turn him from any effort to remember, that she did it now almost
unconsciously. It was never very difficult, for he was only too ready
to follow any lead she gave him towards the subject of their
contentment in each other, or the safe topic of the existing moment.
"Do not try to remember, dearest. Think only that we are together."
She felt his arm go round her and she leaned towards him.
"You are my life," he said earnestly, "and nothing matters when you are
beside me. I think I have reason to be grateful to the long hours when
I was weak and ill. They have taught me what you really are--an angel
of tenderness and patience. It was a dark time, my darling, but the
remembrance only intensifies the present joy."
"Ah, yes," she repeated softly; "the present joy."
"And a future to be glorified by our love lies all before us. What is
a little weakness of body when weighed against all the precious
possessions which are mine?"
He held her closer until her head was resting on his breast. It seemed
to Philippa then that life could hold no moment more charged with utter
bliss than this--she and the man she loved, together in a vast
encircling peace.