POOR RIP
"Since knowledge is but sorrow's spy
It is not safe to know."--DAVENANT.
The early post brought Philippa two letters next morning. One was from
Marion, who wrote to say that their plans were suddenly changed, and
that Philippa must not be surprised to receive a telegram at any moment
announcing their immediate return; the truth being that Dickie, who up
to now progressed well towards recovery, had begun to pine for his own
belongings and his familiar surroundings, and that, with all the
fretfulness of childhood in convalescence, he asked unceasingly to go
home. His demand had become so persistent, in spite of all his parents
could say or do to pacify him, that the doctor had said it might be
wiser to take the risk of moving him sooner than was expedient rather
than allow him to wear himself out with tears and unhappiness.
"He is not really naughty, dear little boy," so ran the mother's words,
"but he cannot be content. He won't pay any attention to toys or
games, and whatever I do to amuse him he turns away his head and his
little lip quivers pathetically. 'Thank you very much,' he says
wearily, 'but I don't want it. I want to go home.' So there is
nothing to be done but move him as soon as possible--the sooner the
better, I think, but the doctor wants to put it off a day or two if he
can. Will you tell the servants to get the rooms ready, and I will let
you know when we actually start? We shall motor all the way, as we can
make up a bed for Dickie in the car; I am sure he will be perfectly
quiet so soon as he knows he is really going home.
"Both Bill and I are most anxious that our coming should not disturb
Francis in any way, and if you will let us know exactly what the
doctor's wishes are we will see that they are carried out. If he
thinks it wiser that Francis should not see us we will arrange our
comings and goings so that we do not meet him. I gather from your
letters that except for the time he spends out of doors, he is mostly
in his own rooms, and if it is desirable we will keep away from that
part of the house altogether. I shall be so glad to be home
again--almost as glad as Dickie, I think, and I shall be glad to be at
hand in case you need me in any way."
Marion wrote very affectionately, and did not in any way allude to
their difference of opinion at their last meeting, but Philippa was a
little distressed at the subject of her letter. She would so
infinitely rather have continued alone with Francis, following their
usual routine until their marriage. She had no doubt that Marion was
right when she said that their coming need not disturb Francis in any
way; but still it would not be quite the same as when they had the
house to themselves. One cannot entirely ignore the presence of one's
host and hostess, however self-effacing they may be, and in a sense it
would be a danger, for now that Francis was able to walk he might at
any time choose to depart from his custom and so come upon them without
warning. However, it was impossible to make any contrary suggestion in
the face of the reason which compelled their change of plans, and it
only remained for her to be constantly on the watch to guard against
any accidental meeting.
The other letter was from her mother, who wrote in her gayest style,
describing all she was doing--the last party--the last fashion in
dress--the craze of the moment--and the new dancer whose fascination
both on and off the stage kept the gossips busy. She ended by asking
Philippa for the address of a certain dressmaker in Paris whom she had
previously employed. She had lost it, and would Philippa be an angel,
underlined, and telegraph it to her at once, underlined, as she wanted
it immediately.
At the bottom of the large sheet of notepaper was a postscript--"I am
longing to know whether you are coming to us for the winter. We should
simply love to have you. Do answer, dearest, because I want to make
all sorts of arrangements and cannot settle anything until I know."
Philippa searched her address-book until she found what she wanted, and
wrote out a telegram and gave it to the butler for dispatch. Then she
returned to the writing-table and took up her pen, but she did not
commence to write.
It was clearly high time that her mother should be told of her
engagement, and of the fact that she was shortly going to be married;
it was unkind to leave her in ignorance, and yet Philippa could not
bring herself to write the news. It was so difficult to explain, and
she knew the volley of questions which would descend upon her. It was
even possible that Lady Lawson would come flying to England in order to
assist at the ceremony, which was the last thing her daughter desired.
All she wished for was that she and Francis might be married as quietly
and as privately as possible--she intended to settle the details with
Marion and her husband when they came--and then slip away to the
Magical Island. Once there she could take hold of life with her two
hands and mould it to her will.
She gave a little sigh as she thought of it, for now that she had
awaked from her dreams into a world of realities she saw the future in
a different light; but she was quite determined, she was going to wrest
happiness--her own happiness and that of the man she loved--from the
hands of fate. She was going straight forward. Never again would she
allow herself a backward glance, lest the recollection of the glamour
she had known weakened her with vain longings for what had been a
dream. It had been a dream. She knew that now, but in the future she
might find herself dreaming it again and know it true; for dreams do
sometimes come true.
She gave up the attempt at last--it was impossible to write fully to
her mother to-day. She would keep her precious secret a little longer.
To tell it to Lady Lawson was to blazon it out to the world at large,
and that was more than she could bear.
She joined Francis after a while and found him looking better than on
the previous evening. He declared himself perfectly well, and
suggested that they should go for their drive as soon as possible.
"I am afraid it is still raining," she answered, going to the window;
"but I can see a patch of blue sky, and the clouds are lifting a
little. We shall have to wait until after luncheon."
"It rained very heavily in the night," said Francis.
"Did it disturb you? I hope not. Old Goodie told me you had had a
good night."
"So I did, dearest, but I heard the rain nevertheless. I am afraid I
was rather dull and stupid last evening. I am sorry."
"You were not dull and stupid, but I think you were tired."
He nodded. "My head felt rather tired. I found it difficult to
collect my thoughts, and it worried me rather. Darling," he continued,
coming closer to her, "forgive me if I am a nuisance sometimes, but--my
memory is all wrong still--it must be, for so much seems strange to me.
It seems as if there were blanks I cannot account for. But you are the
same; and you will never change, will you?"
And Philippa answered him with all her heart: "I love you and I shall
never change."
He put his arm round her and kissed her fondly. "That satisfies me--I
want no more than that; and I will try and follow your advice and give
up thinking."
"I wish you could. It would be better for you. And now let us settle
down to a quiet morning, so that you will be quite rested and ready to
go out if it is fine this afternoon."
"If the queen commands," he answered, with a little jesting smile.
"The order shall be reversed this morning. You shall listen while I
take a turn at reading."
A timely breeze sprang up about noon, and the sun, after wasting some
time in playing an aggravating game of hide-and-seek behind the
shifting masses of grey cloud, decided to come boldly out, to the great
joy of the small birds who hopped on the lawn where the water hung like
diamonds on every blade of grass. The sparrows chirruped with
satisfaction as they pecked about for their midday meal, and the stout
thrushes tugged at succulent worms which had poked their misguided
heads through the soft damp earth regardless of probable and dire
consequences.
In the swaying branches of the tree-tops the rooks used strong
language--or it sounded like it--as they balanced themselves with
clumsy ease and strove to straighten their ruffled plumage under
circumstances which made toilet operations far from easy. The rabbits
in the park popped their heads out of their holes and sniffed the air
in an inquiring manner, as much as to say, "Is it safe to venture out?"
and then, coming to the conclusion that it was, had a short quick
scamper to stretch themselves after their slumbers.
The air was moist and fragrant as Philippa and Francis walked out of
the front door to find the pony-carriage waiting for them.
"It is going to be a lovely afternoon," he said. "I want to drive in
that direction to-day,"--he indicated it with his hand. "We haven't
been there yet, and I know it leads to the village."
"Oh, do let us go up on the moor," said Philippa quickly.
"I want particularly to go to the village," he said in a low voice.
"Do let us go there, darling. I want to see if I remember it."
At this moment Ford stepped forward. "Your telegram has come back,
miss," he said. "The one you sent this morning. The woman at the
post-office doesn't understand where it is to go to, and she can't read
this word."
"What is it?" asked Francis, who had heard the man speaking.
"It is a telegram I sent this morning to--a friend in Russia, and there
seems to be some muddle at the post-office about it."
"We will drive there, and then you can go in and explain it yourself."
He stepped into the carriage as he spoke, and Keen arranged the rug
over his knees.
Philippa hesitated. She did not want Francis to go into the village,
and yet, since he himself had suggested it, it was difficult to find a
good reason for opposing him.
"What is it about?" he asked again.
"Oh, it isn't of any great importance. It is only an address that some
one asked me to send. It can quite well wait. I can attend to it when
I come in."
"But why not take it? It won't take long."
"I will take it myself, miss, if you wish," said Ford, "if you will
tell me the spelling of this word."
Philippa spelt it--"Nevskiy."
"No, no," interrupted Francis. "Come along. We'll do it ourselves."
There was a little impatience in his voice, and he was evidently tired
of waiting, so she resigned herself to the inevitable and took her
place at his side.
Francis chatted quite happily of unimportant matters as the pony
trotted sedately down the drive, and when they reached the old
red-brick lodge, Philippa wondered rather nervously whether the sight
of it would draw any comment from him; but no--he only looked about him
with quick, interested glance, as if wishful to see something familiar.
They turned to the left and entered the straggling village street,
where quaint thatched-roofed cottages stood on either side. One or two
little children were playing on the footpath, but other wise no one was
to be seen, for the elder ones were at school, and most of the mothers
had gone for their weekly visit to Renwick, for it was market day.
The pony slowed to a walk as the road mounted an incline, and after a
few minutes they came in sight of the church, which stood on rather
higher ground, with its square tower and grey flint walls wreathed in
ivy. It was approached from the road by a flight of worn stone steps
surmounted by a lych-gate, through which could be seen a flagged
pathway leading to the church door.
"No," said Francis, in a tone of disappointment, "I do not remember it.
I hoped I should. However," he added almost instantly, "we won't worry
over anything to-day, but just enjoy our drive."
It seemed to Philippa that he had discovered that allusions to his lack
of memory troubled her, for more than once that day he had checked
himself and changed the subject, as though he did not wish to distress
her, and she was thankful for it.
"It is very pretty, isn't it? The post-office is just opposite the
church, and when we leave there we can drive straight on until we come
to Bessmoor. You would like that, wouldn't you? You love the moor."
"Yes," he responded quickly; "I love it. Let us do that, by all means.
The clouds have nearly all blown away, and it ought to be lovely
to-day."
She pulled up at the cottage which served as post-office and general
emporium of the village, and was in the act of handing the telegram to
the groom when Francis stopped her.
"Why not take it yourself?" he said; "it will prevent any more muddle.
There is no hurry I shall be quite happy sitting here."
She looked at him in surprise, for he had never shown himself so
practical as to-day, but there seemed no reason why she should not
leave him, so with a word of assent she got down and entered the door.
The front room of the low building served as the shop, and displayed a
varied assortment of wares in most haphazard fashion. Along the
rafters sides of bacon and farthing dips hung in close proximity to
stout corduroys and wooden clogs, while in the corner a child's wicker
cradle formed an excellent receptacle for the last batch of crisp brown
loaves. The narrow counter was piled high with biscuit-tins, bottles
of sweets, patent medicines and articles of clothing, arranged in a
sort of orderly confusion.
There was no one to be seen, and Philippa rapped sharply on the wooden
counter two or three times. At last an old woman appeared, a
cherry-cheeked old dame with her white hair drawn neatly into the
modest shelter of a black chenille net. The girl explained her errand,
and was at once invited to step "into the back."
Making her way through a lane of sacks she reached the inner room,
where all the business connected with His Majesty's mails was
transacted.
"'Tis my daughter, miss, as sees to the post an' telegraph, but she's
been druv to go to bed--wonderful queer she were--took bad about noon;
but I make no doubt but what she'll be better by and by. Was it a
telegram you wished to send? Then I'll call her. If it had been jus'
a matter of a few stamps now, I could have settled that nicely, or one
of them orders; but that there ticking machine, that's past me. But
Maggie, she's wonderful quick at it. Stayed about as long as she could
too, with terrible pains in her----"
Philippa broke the stream of the good woman's confidence.
"It will do very well later," she said, "when your daughter is better.
She can send it when she comes down. I am sorry she is ill, but don't
disturb her for me. I will just write out the words more clearly, as I
understand there has been a doubt about the spelling."
She printed the words plainly on a fresh form and handed it to the old
woman, who counted them slowly and laboriously with the stump of a
pencil. "Eighteen words," she said. "That'll be a matter o'
ninepence, I reckon."
"Oh no," corrected Philippa. "It is to St. Petersburg, in Russia. It
will cost much more than that."
"Wouldn't that be a British Possession now?" was the doubtful reply.
And Philippa, chafing at the delay, could only smile at the question,
and answer regretfully that she was afraid it wasn't.
The woman stretched out her hand for the Postal Guide, but the print
was small, and necessitated the careful adjustment of a pair of
spectacles before it could be deciphered, and finally the girl found
the place herself, reckoned the amount and put down the money.
"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, miss," said the old dame with a
curtsy. "'Tis kind of you to say that can stand over till Maggie's
better. She just dropped off for a bit of sleep, and thought as how
she would be safe like, seein' that we don't get no mor'n four or five
of them things in a week these days--not but what there's more when the
Major's at home; and Mr. Taylor, up to Chancey Hall, he's a wonderful
one for them, but he's not at home now--gone for to find lions and
tigers in some heathen country, so they tell me. Not but what Maggie
she'd 'a' come down if you'd wished, miss. It don' do for to leave the
machine by rights. That's against rules, that is; but what's a body to
do when she comes over that queer with shootin' pains, an' her head
a-whizzin' like Farmer Brown's threshin' engine. I thank you kindly,
miss, and good-day to you."
Philippa hurried out. She had wasted more than ten minutes over the
affair, and Francis would be weary of waiting.
"I am so sorry," she cried penitently, "I have been so long, but----"
As she was in the act of urging the pony to proceed he put out his hand
and stopped her.
"Turn round," he said. "We will go home now."
She looked at him and saw that his face was white and his mouth drawn
and hard.
"What is the matter?" she asked anxiously. "Do you feel ill?"
"No," he said shortly, "I am not ill; but I do not want to drive any
farther."
He said no more, and she, greatly wondering, did not like to press him
further. She hurried the pony as much as possible along the road they
had so lately come. "Had he remembered something?" she asked herself.
What had happened in those few minutes? Something must have occurred
to account for this sudden change. If he would only speak and tell her!
He was sitting with his head sunk on his chest, so that she could not
see his face, and he was absolutely silent until after they had turned
in at the lodge and were going up the drive. Then he turned to her.
"Is Isabella still here?" he asked.
"Isabella!" faltered Philippa, taken aback by the sudden question.
"Yes, Isabella. Does she still live here?"
"Yes; she lives here."
Then as they pulled up at the door he added, "Will you fetch her? Will
you bring her to me, please? I want to see her."
"Certainly she shall come, dear, if you want her."
Ford came to the door in answer to the bell, and Francis descended.
Philippa was about to follow him, when he stopped her. "Will you go
and fetch her? Will you go now?"
"Won't you let me stay with you? I will send for her."
"No," he interrupted. "Please go and bring her--as quickly as you can."
"If you really wish it," she stammered, "I will go." She did not know
Francis in this strange mood. "But may I not come and see you safely
up-stairs first?"
"I wish it. I shall be all right. Please go." He spoke kindly but
quite decidedly.
Philippa made one more effort.
"Let me at least stay until Keen comes to you." But he replied with a
gesture which showed her further argument was useless, and she obeyed
him without another word.
Ford had meanwhile gone in search of Keen and the carrying-chair, so
that when Francis entered he was quite alone. He did not pause, but
walked straight across the hall and up the stairs.
When Keen, who had been reading the local paper over a quiet pipe in
the kitchen yard, arrived in all haste in answer to the summons, he
failed at first to find his master, but then he saw him and hurried to
his side.
Francis was standing at the head of the staircase as though he had
stayed to rest a moment, and his eyes were fixed on a picture on the
wall. He paid no heed to his servant's murmur of regret that he should
not have been at hand when needed--he did not seem to hear. Then his
lips moved. "Poor Rip!" he said, almost under his breath. "I
know--now--what you must have felt--and I pity you----"
Keen, quite uncomprehending, followed the direction of his glance, and
remarked with polite jocularity--
"Looks as if he wanted a new suit of clothes rather badly, sir; doesn't
he, sir?"
Francis raised his head, and took the man's proffered arm; and as they
moved away he said slowly--
"I think, Keen, that it was more than a suit of clothes he
wanted--something much more than that."