BITTER-SWEET
"Full from the fount of love's delicious joys
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings."--BYRON.
The low carriage jolted over the deep ruts left by the carts which had
carried the bracken the previous autumn, as the stout pony threw
himself into the collar with a will. On either side of the narrow lane
were high, sandy banks, riddled with rabbit-holes and crowned with a
tangle of brambles and briars. The leaves were just beginning to turn,
and the hips and haws had already clothed themselves in their winter
finery, and shone in flaming scarlet against the blue sky overhead.
There was a pleasant coolness in the air, and the birds twittered
merrily in tune with Nature's cheerful mood.
Francis was in excellent spirits, and Philippa, noticing the unwonted
colour in his cheeks, told herself that she had never seen him look so
well, and that surely the journey to the Magical Island might soon be
undertaken.
They were paying the long-talked-of visit to Bessmoor, and Philippa,
who had before now explored most of the roads near Bessacre, had chosen
this unfrequented lane in preference to the usual road which led
through the village; partly because of its beauty, and partly because
she had no wish that they should meet Isabella Vernon, who so often
walked upon the upper part of the moor.
She had seen her on the preceding day, and had given her a full account
of the invalid, but she did not intend that he should be confronted by
an old acquaintance if it could possibly be avoided. It was, of
course, possible that he would not recognise her, but safer to run no
risks.
Slowly they climbed the incline, the pony slipping and stumbling as the
sand crumbled away from under his feet.
"It is a hard pull for the poor old thing," said Philippa penitently;
"I ought not to have come this way."
"We'll give him a rest when we get to the top. It won't hurt him, but
it makes me feel as if I ought to get out and walk."
"You ought to do no such thing," she retorted quickly. "The very idea
is preposterous."
Francis laughed at her vehemence. "You need not think that you are
going to pamper me like this for the rest of my life. We shall be
taking long walks together, you and I, very soon. Oh, it is a joy to
be alive on such a day as this. Look at that rabbit scuttling away up
the lane. It reminds me----" He stopped and hesitated "I can't
remember--but I seem to---- Oh, drive on, Phil. Yes,"--he spoke
excitedly,--"it is coming back to me now--that tree and that gate."
They had reached the top of the hill where the lane ended at the edge
of the moor. There was a crooked oak-tree standing on the right at the
junction of two banks which divided some cultivated land from the
heath, and under the tree was a gate, broken from its hinges and lying
half upon the ground.
"Phil, darling, this is the place. I know now why you brought me here.
It was so dear of you to think of it." He laid his hand on hers, and
then lowered his voice as the groom who had been walking behind the
carriage came forward to the pony's head. "Hang the man!" he said
boyishly, "let him wait here while we go on a little further. I want
to talk to you. Oh, I can see you now. We had been walking up the
field. It was planted with turnips, and a rabbit ran out just here.
Then--oh, sweetheart, I am glad to have remembered. It is one more
memory of you. It was the happiest day of my life. You had on a
scarlet cap. I wish you had put it on to-day--I always loved you in
it."
A little chill of some inexplicable feeling ran through Philippa. It
was not dismay, for he had often alluded to some detail of Phil's
appearance which he recalled. She had never failed to satisfy him with
some light answer--she could not make it out. However, it was gone in
a moment, and she listened again to what he was saying.
"Don't think me silly, darling, but I had waited so long for you.
Surely you like to remember it too--the day you gave yourself to me. I
had given you my heart long before, and you have it still. Oh, I am
glad to have seen this place again."
"It is most beautiful," she agreed. "Look at the line of the sea--how
wonderfully blue it is. You can see the smoke of a steamer on the
horizon--over there." She pointed with the whip in her hand. "When I
was a child I used to watch the ships, and make up all sorts of stories
as to where they were going and the wonderful adventures they would
meet with--pirates and desert islands and shipwrecks and sea-serpents.
I think I must have had a very vivid imagination. But my stories
always ended up happily. After endless perils and hairbreadth escapes
my vessels sailed home laden with treasure. Where is that ship going,
and what sort of passengers does she carry? I wonder if they are all
very unhappy at leaving England, or full of hope about the new land
they are going to?"
"Perhaps they are bound for the Magical Island," Francis said, smiling.
"Is it north, south, east or west, that fairyland? And is it really
more beautiful than Bessmoor after all? Just think of it. If I hadn't
been ill we might be there now, and by this time I should have
discovered your secret. Tell me where it is, darling."
"No, no," she replied, laughing. "I won't tell you. You want to know
too much. You must be patient. It is to be a surprise for you."
"I wish we were sailing there now, in that ship over there," he said.
"But anyway I am sure of one thing, and that is that even on the
Magical Island we couldn't be happier than we are now."
"No, I don't think we could," assented Philippa, in a tone of great
contentment.
"I cannot say how glad I am that we should have come here for our first
drive together since all the shadows rolled away. It seems right,
somehow. Thank you, dear one, for bringing me. It is a perfect spot,
isn't it? It seems a worthy setting for the perfect joy which came to
me here. Phil, I wonder--when you promised to marry me--here--standing
by that gate--did you love me as much as you do now?"
Again that curious chill ran through the girl, but this time it was
much more definite, so strong that it gave her a feeling of physical
sickness. It was only with an effort that she could wrench her mind
free from the grip of it and answer calmly and with perfect truth, "I
have never loved you so well as I do to-day."
His arm pressed hers with a movement full of affection, and he smiled
into her eyes.
"We must be going back now. You will have been out long enough." So
saying she turned the pony round and they retraced their road.
"Oh, how it all comes back to me!" Francis continued. "You were so
full of life and spirits that day, I thought I should never get a
chance to say the words which were burning on my lips--to tell you what
I was longing you should know. I don't know which I love best, the
Phil who was always overflowing with fun and laughter, or the sweet
serious Phil of to-day."
He changed his tone instantly as he saw her face. "I was only speaking
in jest, dear one," he whispered. "I, too, can say as you said just
now, that I have never loved you so well as at this moment. But I have
a happy memory of the old Phil as she was before I was such an anxiety
to her that she almost forgot how to smile. But never mind, soon you
will forget all the sadness, and I will teach you your old trick of
laughter."
But Philippa did not speak. She was wrestling with the most
insupportable sensation of mingled misery and revolt, and she seemed to
hear words as clearly spoken as though the speaker were actually by her
side--"He does not love you. It is not you he loves."
A surge of anger blotted out the sunshine and darkened the whole world,
and through the darkness one lightning flash shot through the girl's
sick heart. This was jealousy. Suddenly she felt she could not bear
it--she could not sit there beside the man she loved and hear him talk
of other days which she had never known and of his love for another
woman. In a minute or two the storm passed, but it left her faint and
numb, with the beautiful veil which had enveloped her dream of bliss
torn to ribbons.
She fought desperately to recover her self-possession and succeeded to
a certain extent, but her hands were so cold that she could hardly feel
the reins, and in her ears there sounded the rushing of great waters.
Step by step the old pony trod down the steep, uneven track, and the
necessity for careful driving seemed sufficient excuse for her
preoccupation.
"We must come here again," said Francis thoughtfully. "It will help me
to remember;" and then, as though his thoughts had gone back to the
scene enacted long ago on the place they had just visited, he added
half to himself, "Dear little girl, with her happy face and clouds of
dark hair under a scarlet cap!"
Philippa suppressed a wild desire to scream aloud. The words were like
a knife turning in her heart at the moment; but to her relief he did
not speak again until they reached the house.
Keen and a footman were waiting for them at the door, and he was
carried up-stairs to rest as usual after his drive. Philippa followed,
and arranged his cushions and attended to his comfort in the way that
had become habitual to her, but she left him as quickly as she could
and sought the privacy of her own room. She wanted to be alone to
battle with the unexpected enemy which had in some unaccountable way
stormed the stronghold of her heart and threatened to lay it in ruins.
The words Marion had spoken--words which had been utterly unheeded at
the time--now battered for admission to the fortress and met with
slight resistance. "His love is not for you--every bit of the love in
his heart belongs to another woman." It was not true! It could not be
true! Francis loved her--now--to-day. What right had the woman who
had failed him to rob her, the living Philippa, of one corner of his
heart? For she wanted it all. She, by right of her love for him,
claimed his every thought, she could not spare one.
Phil had renounced her privilege, had thrown it aside as something of
no value, had broken the tie which bound her to Francis the first
moment that it galled. Could Philippa then be blamed if she had
riveted the chain afresh and possessed herself of what Phil had
discarded as worthless? Surely not. This was a point which Philippa
had considered thoroughly at the time of making her first decision. In
her first interview with Francis she had, as has been stated, blamed
herself for listening to words of love intended for another; but once
she had learned the rights of the whole affair she had altered her
opinion, and had deliberately set aside all thoughts of Phil. So
entirely had she identified herself with the woman whom Francis loved,
that she had ceased to allow her a separate individuality at all. She,
Philippa, was in effect that woman, as she was in reality the woman who
loved him. His allusions to Phil had never troubled her up to the
present, save, of course, that they required careful answering.
Marion's plain speaking had glanced off the armour of her security
without even denting it--why should she think of it now?
It was so dreadful to be jealous--she had always considered jealousy a
vulgar failing--and her face flushed with shame and humiliation that
she, who had always prided herself upon being above petty weakness,
should harbour so despicable a sentiment, and that of a dead woman.
And yet she could only acknowledge honestly that it was torture to her
to hear Francis speak of Phil in terms of such affection. Now that
this odious whisper had made itself heard, how could she submit to his
embrace? Could she ever forget? What could she do? Her deep,
passionate love craved for evidences of his in return. Was this
horrible ghost always to stand between them?
She paced up and down the room, striving with all her might to
straighten out this abominable coil. Of all the pains to which poor
human nature is liable, and not a few are self-inflicted, none is
sharper than jealousy. It has been well described as the child of love
and the parent of hate.
But for all that at the moment Philippa was suffering acutely, she was
by no means prepared to permit this vile thing to conquer. She would
fight it and root it out. It had come upon her so suddenly. What was
the cause? Was it merely a freak of that incomprehensible phenomenon
the human mind that had twisted the chain of her affection into so
mischievous a knot, or merely a figment of the brain springing from
inner consciousness to torment her with devilish ingenuity? or did the
fault lie with her in some simpler, more tangible way? Was it possible
that her love was not the great and boundless force that she had
imagined, but weak, in that it could not dispel and overcome any
thought that dimmed its purity--such a poor selfish thing that she
allowed an idea to influence her to its despite?
She had been so utterly happy--had she been thinking only of herself?
But no, Francis had been happy too. Had Marion been right when she had
accused her of defrauding not only herself, but him, of the best part
of what love should mean--confidence and trust--and was this her
punishment? And little by little, as she thought and puzzled over it
all, the scales fell from her eyes and she knew the truth. She knew
that she had "drugged her brain against realities, and lived in
dreams,"--dreams which had been, as most dreams are, strange compounds
of self-deception and hallucination, distorted, imaginary and futile.
And yet, while her hope and joy vanished like a vapour before the
searching heat of truth, one thing remained firm--her love for Francis.
Whatever mistakes she had made, whatever fancies she had taken for
fact, this was actual, pure and irrefutable. It seemed to her suddenly
that this was the only saving clause in the long list of errors, and
she saw the difference it would have made if Francis had known the
truth. No possible cloud could have come between them then, and all
the rosy dreams in which she had indulged might have proved waking joys.
And even now she could not see how she could have acted
differently--certainly not at the outset--it was impossible then to
undeceive Francis; but later, supposing that when she first became
aware of her love for him--supposing she had told him the truth then,
making clear her affection at the same time, could he not have borne
it? Had that been in reality her one hour of choice to which regret
now turned with longing? At the time she had been so engrossed in her
own rapture that she had passed it unheeding. And now, was it possible
to tell him? And if she did so, how could she explain, how vindicate
her own actions? She had taken his protestations, his tenderness under
a false pretence. How could she tell him now, when his memory was
groping back slowly and painfully, and he had already so much to bear
in the fuller knowledge of his limitations--when he had no one but her?
She could not do it. The only thing she could do was to go on, to
carry on what she had undertaken; and after all, if he did not love her
he was absolutely dependent on her. She must school herself to listen
to this talk of old days. It could be only for a time, for in the
future there would be so many new interests for him that he would cease
to think of the past. She would so fill his life that if she were only
patient, surely she might hope for the day when she could say that he
was hers in every thought. She would practise self-control and
self-abnegation, and perhaps after a time this dull heartache and sense
of loss would pass away.
Fortified by these excellent resolutions, she took up a book which she
and Francis were reading together and went to his sitting-room. As she
entered she saw him standing in front of a tall mahogany bookcase, the
bottom drawer of which was open and filled with papers. He held one in
his hand, but as he glanced up and saw her he replaced it and closed
the drawer without speaking. His face was very white, and she asked
him anxiously if he was tired.
"A little," he answered, "but not too tired for some reading."
He lay down, and Philippa drew a chair to her accustomed place and
began to read. She read steadily for a while, but presently she
noticed that Francis was paying no attention to the story, although he
had hitherto been interested in it, so she suggested some music. He
assented readily enough, and she went to the piano and played several
of his favourite pieces, but she could see he was not listening. She
took up a song with the intention of singing, but laid it down again,
feeling thankful that he had not asked for it, for the effort would
have been beyond her to-night. To-morrow she would be calmer and
stronger.
But the music soothed her and she sat on, playing from memory, passing
from one thing to another almost without heeding what she was doing.
Many times before she had played to Francis like this in the earlier
days when he had been too weak for sustained conversation, but never
had his silence lasted so long as to-night. It rather alarmed her at
last, and she rose and went to his side.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked. "Are you sure you are not feeling
ill?"
"What should be the matter?" he replied. "No, thank you, darling, I am
not feeling ill, but----" he passed his hand over his forehead with a
gesture of perplexity--"I seem to be thinking of so many things
to-night, that is all."
"Do not tire yourself with thinking," she said earnestly. "Put thought
aside until you are more fit for it--or let me do the thinking for you.
What is it that you want to know?"
"Oh, so many things," he answered, with an attempt at lightness. Then
rising he added: "Perhaps I am a little tired. Will you ring the bell
for Keen? I think I will go to bed. I am sorry, dearest, but I don't
feel like talking to-night. The fresh air has gone to my head, I
think; but I shall be all right after a night's rest."
He kissed her as usual and she left him, feeling reassured about him.
The expedition of the morning was enough to account for a little extra
fatigue.