FLIGHT.
I read the woman’s letter again and again--read it with feelings in
which joy and disgust were strangely mingled; but the former was the
predominant sensation. In the first place, if Mrs. Wilson kept her
promise of secrecy, it seemed to me that all danger of suspicion
falling upon Philippa was removed. There would be no one else to make
known the fact, that upon the night of Sir Mervyn’s death a wronged,
distracted woman left her home--a woman whose life’s happiness had been
clouded by the villain’s treacherous act--a woman of strong passions,
who in her temporary delirium might easily be turned to take such
vengeance for which I, at least, held her quite unaccountable. If I
could but feel sure of the silence of the one person whom I dreaded,
we might even return to London, and fear nothing. I wavered. After
all there is something contemptible in flight. Should I trust to Mrs.
Wilson’s promise, and return with my companions by the next boat from
Boulogne?
No, a thousand times no! Philippa’s welfare is far too precious to me
to be trusted in the hands of one excitable woman--a woman, moreover,
who has wrongs of her own calling for vengeance. To-morrow her mind may
change, and instead of furthering our safety, she may be urging on the
pursuit. Let me trust no one save myself.
For my love’s sake, I was overjoyed to hear that, supposing the
woman’s statement and date were correct, Philippa was the dead man’s
lawful wife. Not that this fact for one moment palliated the guilt
of his intention, or lessened the contempt and hatred I bore toward
him; not that it changed in my eyes by one iota my love’s position.
Married or unmarried, to me she was all that a woman could be. Though a
blackguard’s craft had wrought what would be her shame in the eyes of
the world, though her hands were unconsciously red with a man’s blood,
to me she was pure as a vestal, innocent as a child.
Yet for her sake the news gladdened me. I knew that if ever the time
should come when I could place proofs in her hands that she was a
wife--that she could, if she chose, bear her worthless husband’s
name, and face the world without fear of scorn, the restoration of
her self-respect would bring with it a joy which only a woman can
rightly comprehend. And Philippa, with all her pride and passion, was
a true woman, full of the softness and delicate dread of shame which
characterizes the best of her sex.
Yet when should I be able to tell her? Whenever I did so I must also
reveal the fact of her husband’s being dead, and my doing so must bring
the whole story of his death to her knowledge. I trembled as I thought
what this might mean. Surely its dramatic surroundings must suggest
something to her mind--must bring back the night and its horrors; must,
in fact, tell her what she had done in her madness! Rather than risk
this, I must let her continue to bear the cruel weight of what she
thought her shame. My aim must be to make her believe that Sir Mervyn
Ferrand is still alive, and troubling nothing as to what has become of
the woman whom he once falsely swore to love and cherish until death. I
cursed the wretch’s memory as I thought of him.
The sending of Philippa to live under the charge of one of his own
discarded mistresses was but another proof of the man’s revolting
cynicism. Mrs. Wilson’s acceptance of the charge showed me to what a
level a woman could sink. It told me, moreover, that in spite of her
letter she was not to be trusted. A woman who could lend herself to her
former lover’s purposes in such a way as this must have parted with
every atom of pride. It seemed to me that the woman and the man were
well matched in baseness.
Still her letter lifted a load from my mind. I felt that for a while
there could be no pursuit; yet I resolved to risk nothing, but hurry
on with all possible speed. Only when we crossed the frontier of Spain
should I sleep in peace.
All researches, with a view to obtaining evidence of the first Lady
Ferrand’s death, I postponed indefinitely. Some day, if all went well,
I would return to England and procure the documents necessary to prove
the validity of Philippa’s marriage. There was no pressing hurry. As to
any money which should be hers, never with my consent should she touch
a penny which had belonged to the dead man.
Protracted as my meditations seem on paper, they were in reality much
longer; indeed, they were not at an end when the boat steamed in
Boulogne harbor. I went in search of my companions, who, I was glad
to find, had borne the voyage well. We were soon in the train, and,
without any event occurring worth recording, at eight o’clock stood on
the Gare du Nord, Paris.
We drove through the brightly lit streets to the Hotel du Louvre. The
stains of travel washed away, my mother gave a sigh of satisfaction
as she seated herself at the dinner-table. Like a sensible woman, she
was no despiser of the good things of this life. There were other
late diners in the great coffee-room, and many a head was turned to
look at the beautiful girl who sat on my right hand; for every day
which brought her new health and strength, brought also to my love an
instalment of her former rich beauty. In a very short time she would be
to all appearances the Philippa of old.
“How long shall we stay in Paris, Basil?” asked my mother.
“It is now half-past nine; our train starts at 8.45 in the morning.
Calculate the time.”
“Oh, nonsense! It is years since I have been in Paris. I want to look
at the shops. So does Philippa, I am sure.”
“My dear mother, the man, much more the woman, who lingers in Paris
is lost. If you are going elsewhere, the only way is to go straight
through, or else you get no further. I have proved this, and mean to
run no risk.”
“But remember we are only weak women. This poor child is far from
strong.”
She smiled at Philippa, whose eyes thanked her for the affectionate
appellation.
“Don’t be merciless, Basil,” she continued; “give us at least one day.”
“Not one. I am just going to look after a courier, so that you may
travel in all possible comfort.”
My mother seemed almost annoyed, and again said I was merciless. What
would she have said had she known that, unless I had received that
letter, instead of going to our present comfortable quarters, we should
have driven to the Orleans Railway, and taken the first train to the
south? How little she knew--how little, I trusted, Philippa knew--from
what we were flying!
I felt I must give my mother some reason for my haste; so, before going
in quest of my courier, I took her aside.
“It is not well for Philippa to stay in Paris,” I said. “Some one whom
she ought not to meet was here a short time ago.”
I blamed myself for the deception; but what could I do? Alas! it seemed
to me that my life, which once was fearlessly open to the inspection of
all, was now full of little else save deceptions. Should I ever again
be my true self?
My mother raised no further objection. I found a courier--a bearded
gentleman of commanding presence, who spoke every European language
with impartial imperfection. I gave him instructions to see to
everything the next morning; to collect our luggage, save the small
quantity we carried with us, and to register it through to Burgos.
I had no particular reason for choosing Burgos, but it seemed a
convenient place at which to take our first thorough rest.
The next day’s journey was a dull, dreary, wearisome affair. My
companions had not shaken off the fatigue of the previous day, and now
that I felt Philippa’s safety was, comparatively speaking, assured,
a reaction set in with me. No wonder! I shudder now as I think of
the strain to which both body and mind had been subjected during the
last fortnight. I was moody and listless. The air was full of fog and
mist. The so-called express train pounded along after the well-known
style of French railways. Orleans, Blois, Tours, Poictiers, Angoulême,
Coutras, and other stations passed me as one in a dream. The dull day
crept on until dark evening was upon us, and we were all thoroughly
glad when our day’s journey ended at Bordeaux.
My mother, who was rather great at guide-books, had beguiled part of
the journey by a Murray, which somehow made its appearance from her
travelling-bag. As she knew we were to sleep at Bordeaux she had been
laying down the law as to what we were to look at. We were to see the
curious high wooden fifteenth-century houses of the old town; the
cathedral, with its fine towers; the very old churches of St. Croix
and St. Seurin, and a variety of other interesting objects. It needed
all the assurance I possessed, all the invalid’s querulousness and
insistence I could assume, to induce her to consent to resume our
journey the first thing in the morning. Even Philippa pleaded for
delay, and gave me to understand that she thought I was using my mother
unfairly. But I was firm. If I could I would have hurried on by the
midnight train. Anyway, now that we were within a few hours’ journey of
the frontier and of safety, I would leave no more than I could help to
chance.
So, in the early morning, I got my party together and before it was
light led them to the train. I believe that by now my mother looked
upon me as rather out of my senses. She frankly owned she could not see
the necessity for making such a toil out of what might be a pleasure.
She little knew that nothing could have made that journey a pleasure to
me; that even finding Philippa’s eyes now and again fixed on my face
with what I almost dared to think was tender interest--that even the
blush which crossed her cheek when I caught those glances--was not
sufficient to reward me for my anxiety.
A slow, a painfully slow train. Innumerable stoppages. A country which
under the circumstances would have given me no interest even if we
had been in summer instead of winter; and then, after nearly five
hours’ slow travelling, Bayonne at last. Bayonne, with its strong
fortifications. Bayonne, with the welcome Pyrenees towering above it.
In less than two hours we should be in Spain.
A curious dread seized me--a presentiment so strong that ever since
then I have lost faith in presentiments. Something seemed to tell me
that all my efforts had been in vain; that at the frontier there would
be certain intelligence received which would lead to our arrest; that
Philippa, with one foot, as it were, in the land of refuge, would be
seized and carried back to face the horrors and the shame of a trial
for murder. It was, as events showed, an absurd fancy, and only the
increasing tension of my nerves can account for the hold it gained upon
me.
I grew so pale, trembled so in every limb, that my companions were
thoroughly alarmed. We had brandy with us, which was duly administered
to me. After awhile I recovered, and although the fear was still with
me, sat with the stoicism of an Indian at the stake, awaiting what
might happen at the frontier. I had done all I could. If, at the last
moment, disaster overtook us, I had at least striven by every means
within my power to avert it.
We have passed Biarritz, the merry bright watering-place. We have
passed Hendaye, the French frontier station. We leave the towering
Pyrenees on our left. We are at Irun, where all baggage must be
jealously scrutinized. We are in Spain! Nobody has troubled us. No
suspicious-looking stranger has watched us. The stoppage has been
long, for the custom-house officers are annoyingly particular in the
discharge of their duty; but our noble-looking courier has saved us
all personal trouble. He has done us yeoman’s service. At last we
are in another train, a train which runs on a line of another gauge.
The very time of day has changed. We have lost or gained--I forget
which--some twenty minutes. We now count by Madrid time. We are fairly
on Spanish ground, and I have saved my love. Saved her from others--now
to save her from herself. Never, never shall she know the secret of
that dark night. We will speed away to the south--to the sun; the
color; the brightness; the flowers. All shall be forgotten. The dark
remembrance shall be swept from my mind. I will call it a dream. I
will win Philippa’s love--the love that I dare to believe is already
almost mine. We will live forever in bright, sunny, glowing lands. Who
cares for dull, dark, dismal England? Have we not youth, wealth, and
oh, blessed word! love? Before my love and me lie years and years of
sweetness and joy. Shake off black gloom and be merry, Basil North. You
have conquered fate!
We have passed St. Sebastian. The sluggish train is wearily winding
up the valley of the Urumea. We are in wild and glorious scenery. The
railway is carried at a great elevation, from which we get now and
again peeps of far-away valleys. Yes, I could now find time to admire
the wonderful scenery which lasted until we passed Miranda.
My mood changed with the country. I laughed; I jested. Each of the
many stations at which we stopped furnished materials for my new-born
merriment. I laughed at the solemn-looking Spanish railway officials,
and drew pictures of the doleful fate of imaginary nobly-born hidalgos
whom poverty forced to descend to such employment. I grumbled not at
the slowness of the train, although an ordinary traveller might well,
when on a Spanish line, sigh for the comparatively lightning speed
of the much-maligned French trains. Time was nothing to me now. Was
there not a lifetime stretching before me--and Philippa? My gayety
was contagions. My mother laughed until the tears came, and Philippa
smiled as I had not seen her smile since we picked up under such sad
circumstances that long-dropped thread of friendship.
Those who have travelled in Spain will scarcely credit me when I say
we had the compartment to ourselves. We were troubled by no cloaked
Spaniard who, as is the wont of his kind, insisted upon smoking like a
furnace and keeping both windows shut. Our noble courier had been given
his instructions. His arguments were venal, and had I troubled about
money I should have found them costly. But they carried the point, and
no one intruded on our privacy.
The hours went by. My mother slept, or pretended to sleep. I seated
myself near Philippa, and whispered words of thinly-veiled love. She
answered them not--I expected no answer--but her eyes were downcast and
her cheek was blushing. She sighed. A sad smile played around her sweet
mouth; a smile that spoke of a world of regret. That sigh, that smile,
told me that she understood me, but told me also that, ah! it could
never be. The past never forgives! But all the same she let her hand
rest in mine; and although, considering what had happened, I scarcely
dare to say so, for once, for many, many months, I was all but happy.
For me that journey ended only too soon. At night we reached Burgos,
the capital of the old Castilian kingdom, and I laid my head on my
pillow and enjoyed sleep such as I had not known since the night before
that one, when Philippa, with the snow-flakes falling around her,
stood outside the window of my cottage and gave me something to live
for--something to hope for!