THE SECRET KEPT.
It is needless to say that when I awoke the next morning my first
thought was of Philippa: but my first action was to go to my window
and look at the skies. My heart sank within me as I saw that the snow
had ceased falling, and the wintry sun was shining. I threw up the
sash; the cold air cut me like a knife. I gathered up a handful of snow
from the window-sill. It crumbled in my fingers like tooth-powder.
I guessed at once that a hard black frost had succeeded the snow. I
ran downstairs and glanced at my thermometer outside my sitting-room
window. It registered twelve degrees of frost. My spirits rose; I felt
that Philippa would be saved. The wind was due east: so long as it
stayed there the frost would last, and that white tomb on the roadside
hide the secret of the dreadful night.
I found, moreover, that Philippa’s condition was all that could, under
the circumstances, be hoped for. Since she had awakened from that
long sleep into which the opiate had plunged her, there had been no
recurrence of the delusions; no symptoms which gave me any alarm. She
was, of course, weak in body, but quite quiet and collected. She spoke
but little, and the few words which she did speak had no bearing on
forbidden or disturbing subjects.
Day after day went by, and still the brave black frost held the world
in its iron grip, and kept the secret of the night. Morning after
morning I woke to find the wind still blowing from the east, the skies
clear and showing every evidence of a long spell of hard weather. A
presentiment that we should be saved was now firmly established in my
mind. The heavens themselves seemed to be shielding us and working for
us.
I have not given the year in which these things occurred; but many who
can remember that mighty fall of snow, and the time which the frost
kept it on the earth, will be able to fix the date. Since that year
there has been no weather like it.
Day by day Philippa grew better and stronger. I spare you, as I
promised to, all description which is not absolutely necessary of my
treatment of my patient, and all technical summary of the case; but
before many days had gone by I knew that, as I hoped, I had to deal
with one of those rare instances in which the balance of the mind is
restored by forced sleep, and the complete restoration of health is but
a matter of time and care.
As soon as it became a certainty that all danger to life or reason
was at an end, I began to consider what course to adopt. The moment
she was well enough to risk the journey, or even, if a thaw set in,
before then, Philippa must fly from the scene of the tragedy in which
she had played so terrible, yet morally irresponsible, a part. We
must put lands and seas between ourselves and the fatal spot. But how
to persuade her that such flight was absolutely necessary? Brother
and sister as we now termed ourselves, would she ever consent to
accompany me abroad? Had I the right to put the woman I loved in such
an equivocal position? No! a thousand times no! And yet I knew there
was no safety for her in England; and with whom could she leave England
save with me?
I dared not urge upon her my true reason for flight. It was my greatest
hope that the events of that night had left her mind when the madness
left her, never to be recalled. And now time was pressing; ten days had
passed by. The glorious frost still kept our counsel, but it could not
last forever. The time must come when the white heaps of snow would
melt and vanish away, and then Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s cold dead face
would appear, and tell the tale of his death to the first passer-by.
I had scarcely quitted the house since that night. Yet one day a kind
of morbid fascination had led me to walk along the road toward Roding,
and to halt at what I judged to be the spot where I laid the dead man
by the side of the road. I fancied I could single out the very drift
under which that awful thing lay, and a dreary temptation to probe the
white heap with my stick and make sure assailed me. I resisted it, and
turned away from the spot.
There was a certain amount of traffic on the road. By now the snow had
been beaten down by cart-wheels and people’s feet, so that it was quite
possible to walk from one place to another. As I reached the house from
which Philippa fled to seek refuge with me, I encountered Mrs. Wilson.
I was going to pass without any sign of recognition, but she stopped me.
“I thought you were going to take your sister away?” she said.
“Lady Ferrand was unfortunately taken very ill when she left you. She
is now hardly well enough to be removed.”
“Has she heard from Sir Mervyn?” asked Mrs. Wilson, abruptly.
“Not to my knowledge,” I replied.
“It is strange. You know, I suppose, that he was expected at my house
that night?”
“Certainly I do. It was for that reason my sister left you.”
Mrs. Wilson looked at me thoughtfully. “She will not meet him again?”
“Never,” I said, thinking as I spoke that my words bore a meaning only
known to myself.
“Does she hate him?” she asked, suddenly.
“She has been cruelly wronged,” I said, evasively.
She laid her hand on my arm. “Listen,” she said. “If I thought she
hated him, I would see her before she leaves, and tell her something.
If I thought he hated her, I would tell him. I will wait and see.”
She turned away and walked on, leaving me to make the best of her
enigmatical words. She was evidently a strange woman, and I felt more
sure than ever was in some way mixed up with Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s early
life. I had a great mind to follow her and demand an explanation, but
caution told me that the less I said to her the better. It was from
this woman’s knowledge of the relationship between Philippa and the
dead man that, when the secret of the night was laid bare, the greatest
danger must arise.
After walking a few paces, Mrs. Wilson turned and came back to me.
“Give me an address,” she said; “I may want to write to you.”
I hesitated; then I told her that any letters sent to my bankers in
London would reach me sooner or later. It was too soon to excite
suspicion by concealment of one’s movements.
It was after I had gazed at that white tomb by the roadside that my
impatience to remove Philippa grew fiercer and fiercer. Moreover, I had
at last made up my mind what to do with my precious charge. As soon
as she was well enough to bear the journey, I resolved to take her
to London, and place her in the hands of one of the truest, noblest,
tenderest women in the world, my mother.
She was in London, waiting for me to join her. I had written, telling
her that the serious illness of a friend prevented me from leaving
my home for some days. Now I resolved to go to her and tell her all
Philippa’s sad tale--all save the one dark chapter of which she
herself, I hoped, knew nothing. I would take her to my mother. I would
tell my mother how I loved her; I would appeal to her love for me, and
ask her to take my poor stricken girl to her heart, even as she would
take a daughter; and I dared to hope that, if only for my sake, my
prayer would be granted.
Philippa was by now thoroughly convalescent. As I lay down my pen for
a moment and think of that time, with its fears and troubles, it is a
marvel to me that I could have dared to wait so long before moving her
from the neighborhood. I can only attribute my lingering to the sense
of fatality that all would go right, or to the professional instinct
which forbade me urging a patient to do anything which might retard
recovery; but the time had at last come.
Save for her quiet and subdued manner, my love was almost her old
self again. Her words and manner to me were tender, affectionate, and
sisterly. I need hardly say that during that time no word crossed
my lips which I would have recalled. Love, if not the thought of it,
I had laid aside until happier days dawned; for--I say it advisedly,
and at risk of censure--Philippa was to me pure and innocent as on the
day when first we met. If her hands were stained with the blood of Sir
Mervyn Ferrand, she knew it not. Her wrongs had goaded her to madness,
and her madness was responsible for the act, not she herself.
The man’s name never crossed her lips. For all she spoke of him he
might never have existed, or, at the most, been but a part of a
forgotten dream. As soon as she was well enough to rise from her bed,
and I could for hours enjoy her society, we talked of many things; but
never of Sir Mervyn Ferrand and the immediate past.
But, nevertheless, there were times when her look distressed me. Now
and again I found her gazing at me with anxious, troubled eyes, as if
trying to read something which I was hiding from her. Once she asked me
how she came to my house that night.
“Out of the whirling snow,” I said as lightly as I could. “You came in
a high state of fever and delirium.”
“Where had I been? What had I been doing?”
“You came straight from Mrs. Wilson’s, I suppose. I know no more.”
Then she sighed and turned her head away; but I soon found her troubled
dark eyes again fixed on my own. I could do nothing but meet their gaze
bravely, and pray that my poor love might never, never be able to fill
those hours which were at present a blank to her.
At last, exactly a fortnight from the fatal day, we left my home. I
was now what is legally termed an accessory after the act, and was
making every effort to save the poor girl from justice. In order to
avert suspicion, I decided it was better not to shut up my house;
so I left the faithful William to take care of it, and await my
instructions. At present it was advisable that any inquirers should
learn that I had gone to London with my sister, and that the time of
our return was uncertain. By and by, if all went well, I could get rid
of my cottage in an ordinary way. I, for one, should never wish to
visit the place again.
Philippa acquiesced in all my arrangements. She was quite willing to
accompany me to town. She trusted me with childish simplicity. “But,
Basil, afterward--what afterward?” she asked.
Even in the midst of the menacing peril it was all I could do to
refrain from kneeling at her feet and telling her that my love would
solve the question of the future.
“I have a surprise for you in London,” I said, as cheerfully as I
could. “Trust yourself to me; you will not regret it.”
She took my hand. “Whom else have I to trust?” she said simply. “Basil,
you have been very good to me. I have made your life miserable; it is
too late to atone; but I shall never forget these days.”
Her eyes were full of tears. I kissed her hand reverently, and told her
that when I saw the old smile back upon her lips, all I had done would
be a thousand times repaid; but as I spoke I trembled at the thought of
what might be in store for both of us.
We drove to Roding, and were perforce obliged to take the road which
passed by Mrs. Wilson’s house. Philippa half rose from her seat, and
seemed to be on the point of asking me some question; but she changed
her mind, and relapsed into silence. I felt a horrible dread lest the
roadside objects and landmarks should awaken recollection, and my heart
beat violently as we neared the white heap by the hedge, that heap
which I believed held our secret. I felt that I grew deadly pale. I was
forced to turn my head away and look out of the opposite window. My
state of mind was not made easier by knowing that Philippa was gazing
at me with that troubled look in her eyes. Altogether I felt that the
strain was becoming too much for me, and I began to wonder if my life
would ever again know a happy or secure moment.
After a long silence Philippa spoke. “Tell me, Basil, have you heard
from that man?”
I shook my head.
“Where is he? He was coming that night. Did he come?”
“I suppose not. Why do you ask?”
“Basil, a kind of horrible dream haunts me. There was something I
dreamed of that fearful night, something I dream of now. Tell me what
it was.”
The perspiration rose to my brow. “Dearest,” I said, “no wonder you
dream. You are well now, but that night you were quite out of your
senses. Your fancies are but the remains of that delirium. Think no
more of that wretch; he is probably living in Paris, after the manner
of his kind. Think only that life is going to be calm and happy.”
Anything to keep the knowledge of her fatal act from her! I forced
myself to talk in a light, cheerful manner, I jested at the appearance
of the few muffled-up country people whom we passed on the road. I
pointed out the beauty of the trees on the wayside, each branch of
which bore foliage of glistening snow. I did all I could to turn her
thoughts into other channels--to drive that strange questioning look
from her eyes. Right glad I felt when we were at last in the train, and
the first stage of our flight an accomplished fact.
Upon reaching London, I drove straight to the hotel at which my mother
was staying. It was one of those high-priced respectable private
hotels in Jermyn Street. I engaged rooms for my sister and myself. I
sent Philippa to her room to rest, and then went to find my mother. In
another minute I was in her arms, and ere half an hour was over I had
told her Philippa’s story, and my love for the woman on whose behalf I
besought her protection.
Yes, I had done right to trust to her. I knew her noble nature; her
utter freedom from the petty trammels of society. I knew the love she
bore her son. Let me here thank her once more for what she did for me
that day.
She heard all my outpourings in silence. I told her all, save two
things--the name of the man who had wronged my love, and the fate which
had overtaken him. I told her, as I have told you, how I had loved--how
I loved Philippa; how I now dared to hope that in time to come my love
would be rewarded. I prayed her to take my poor girl to her heart,
and by treating her as a daughter restore, if it were possible, her
self-respect.
My mother heard me. Her sweet face grew a shade paler. Her lips
quivered, and the tears stood in her eyes. I knew all that was passing
through her mind. I knew how proud she was of me, and what great
things she had hoped I should do in the world. She was a woman, and,
woman-like, had counted upon her son’s bettering himself by marriage;
but, in spite of all this, I knew I was right in counting upon her aid.
Once again, my sweet mother, I thank you.
She rose. “Let me see the woman you love. Where is she? I will go to
her.”
“She is here, in this house. Ah, mother, I knew you would do this for
me.”
She kissed my forehead. “Bring her to me,” she said.
I went out, and sent word to Philippa that I wanted her. She soon came
to me. She had removed the stains of travel, and, although pale, looked
the perfection of graceful beauty. I led her to my mother’s room. She
stopped short as she saw it was tenanted by a lady. A quick blush
crossed her cheek.
“Philippa, dearest,” I said, “this is my mother. I have told her all,
and she is waiting to welcome you.”
Still she stood motionless, save that her head bent down and her bosom
heaved. My mother came to her side, and, placing her kind arms round
her, whispered some words which I neither heard nor tried to hear.
Philippa broke into a storm of sobs, and for some moments wept on my
mother’s shoulder.
Then she raised her head and looked at me, and my heart leaped at the
expression in her tearful eyes. “Basil, my brother, you are too good to
me!” she ejaculated.
My mother led her to the sofa, and, with her arms still round her, sat
down by her side. I left them, knowing that my love had now the truest,
noblest heart to sob against; the quickest, most sympathetic ear to
listen to the tale of her wrongs; and the softest, kindest voice to
soothe and console her.
Ah! how happy I should have felt, could that one night’s dark work have
been undone--could that white tomb forever hold its ghastly secret!