SAFE--AND LOVED.
Now that we are safe in Spain, now that Philippa’s arrest is a matter
of impossibility, and her expulsion from a country so lax in its
observance of international obligations highly improbable, when her
guilt can at the utmost be only suspected, if indeed suspicion ever
points to her, I may pass rapidly over the events of the next two
months; the more so as my record of them would differ very little from
the description of an ordinary tour in Spain. To me, after the feverish
anxiety, the horrible dread as to what any hour might bring forth,
which had characterized our flight from England, it seemed something
very much like bathos my dropping at once into the position of the
every-day tourist taking a couple of ladies on a round of travel; but
for the time I was outwardly neither more nor less.
From Burgos we went to Valladolid; from Valladolid to Madrid--Madrid,
the high-perched city, with its arid, uninteresting surroundings and
abominable climate. Not long did we linger here. Bad and trying as
the English winter may be, the cold of Madrid is a poor exchange for
it. I had almost thrown aside the assumed character of an invalid;
but I felt it would be the height of inconsistency, after forcing my
companions to accompany me in the search of warmth, to make any stay
in the Spanish capital. Right glad I was to leave it, and turn my face
southward. Philippa was by now in apparently good health, both bodily
and mental; but while at Madrid I trembled for her, as I should tremble
for any one I loved who made that city a resting-place--a city swept
from end to end by crafty, treacherous, icy winds blowing straight from
the Guadarrama mountains; insidious blasts in which lurk the seeds of
consumption and death.
So at our leisure we went southward, halting at such places and seeing
such sights as we thought fit; lingering here and there just so long
as it suited us; travelling by easy stages, and in such comfort as
we could command. At Malaga we spent weeks, revelling in the balmy,
delicious air; at Granada we were days and days before we could tear
ourselves from the interesting, absorbing glories of the departed
Moor. We were in a new world--a world which I had always longed to
see. At last--it was just at the end of April, when the land was full
of roses, when vegetation was breaking into that rich luxuriance
unknown in the northern lands--we turned our steps to the city which I
had in my own mind fixed upon as the end of our wanderings, the half
Spanish, half Moorish, but wholly beautiful city of Seville; brilliant,
romantic Seville, with its flower-bedecked houses, its groves of
orange and olive trees, its luxuriant gardens, its crooked narrow
streets, its Moorish walls, its numerous towers, all of which sink into
insignificance under the shadow of the lofty Giralda. All I wanted
seemed to be here.
Here was everything for the sake of seeking which I had professed to
leave foggy England--sun, warmth, color, brightness. Here I thought, if
in any place in the world, will the one I love forget what she knows of
the cruel past. Here, it may be, our new life shall begin.
Glorious, wonderful Seville! The magic charm of the place fell on my
companions as it fell upon me, as indeed it falls upon all who visit
it. By common consent we arranged to stay our course for an indefinite
time. Perhaps by now we all thought that we had endured enough of hotel
life, and wanted some place which might bear the name of home; so,
although such things are not very easy to find, I hired a furnished
house. Such a house!
From the narrow street--the need of shade makes narrow streets
indispensable to Seville--pass through a light open-work iron gate into
a spacious white marble-lined courtyard, or, as the Spaniards call it,
_patio_; a courtyard open to the sky, save for the gayly-colored awning
which is sometimes spread over it; a space fragrant to the four corners
with the perfume of orange and other sweet-smelling blossoms, bright
with glowing oleanders, and musical with the murmur of fountains.
Around the walls statues, some of the fair works of art, paintings
and mirrors. Every sitting-room in the house opening on to this cool
central fairyland--a fairyland which, for many months of the year, is
almost the only part of the house used in their waking hours by the
Sevillaños. Add to this a garden, not large but exquisite, full of the
rarest and choicest blooms, and if you are not hopelessly bigoted, and
enamored of English fogs, you must long for such a home in courtly,
beautiful Seville!
With such surroundings--almost those of a Sybarite--who can blame me
for being lulled into security, if not forgetfulness, and for telling
myself that my troubles were nearly at an end? Who can wonder at the
castles I built as hour after hour I lounged in the _patio_, with its
fragrant, soothing atmosphere, and gazed at Philippa’s beautiful face,
and now and again meeting her dark eyes, and sometimes surprising in
those thoughtful depths a look which thrilled my heart--a look which I
told myself was one of love?
True, that often and often in my sleep I saw the white, dead face, with
the snow-heap forming over it. True, that often and often Philippa’s
wild cry, “The wages of sin--on, on, on!” rang through my dreams, and I
awoke trembling in every limb; but in the day-time, in the midst of the
sweet shaded repose, I could almost banish every memory, every thought
which strove to lead me back to grief and horror.
The days, each one sweeter than its forerunner, passed by. Each day
was passed with Philippa. We wandered for hours through the marvellous
gardens of the Alcazar; we drove under the shading trees of Las
Delicias; we made excursions to Italica and other places, which the
guide-book tells you every visitor to Seville should see; but I think
we found in the ordinary sights, which were at our very door, as much
pleasure as in any of the stock shows. We loved to watch the people.
We delighted in the picturesque, ragged-looking, black-eyed Andalusian
boy-rascals who played and romped at every street-corner. We noted the
exquisitely graceful figures of the Sevillañas; I, moreover, noted that
the most graceful of these figures could not be compared to Philippa’s
own. We strolled up the awning-roofed Calle de las Sierpes, and laughed
at the curious windowless little shops. Everything was so strange,
so bright, so teeming with old-world tradition, so full of intense
interest, that no wonder I could for the time send painful memories to
the background.
And Philippa? Although there were times when her face grew sad with
sad remembrances; although at times her eyes sought mine with that
troubled, inquiring look; although I trembled as to what might be the
question which I seemed to see her lips about to form; I did not, could
not believe she was entirely unhappy. The smile--a quiet, thoughtful
one, yet a smile--was oftener seen on her face. It came now of its own
accord. More and more certain I grew that, if nothing recalled the
past, or I should say, if nothing filled the blank, so mercifully left,
of that one night, the hour was not far distant when my love would call
herself happy. Oh, to keep that fatal knowledge from her forever!
Such was my life. So, in calm, peace, all but happiness, the days
passed by, until the hour came when for the third time I dared to tell
Philippa that I loved her--to tell her so with the certainty of hearing
her re-echo my words. Yes, certainty. Had I not for many days seen her
eyes grow brighter, the grave, thoughtful look leave her face, her
whole manner change when I drew near? Such signs as these told me that
the crowning moment of my life was at hand.
Here for one moment I pause. I scorn to excuse myself for wishing to
marry a woman who had been, or supposed herself to have been, the
innocent victim of a scoundrelly man of the world. I have nothing in
common with those who think such an excuse is needed. Mrs. Wilson’s
statement that the marriage was valid might be true or false. It gave
me the impression that it was true, and I believed that Philippa could
lay claim to bear the man’s accursed name. But whether she was Lady
Ferrand, or a trusting woman betrayed, for my own sake I cared little.
She was Philippa!
As to my intention of marrying, my one wish to marry, a woman who, in
her temporary and fully-accounted-for delirium, had killed the man who
so cruelly wronged her, I have but this to say. My tale, although I
give it to the world, is not written for the purpose of fiction. It is
the story of myself--a story which seemed to me worth telling--of a man
who loved one woman passionately, blindly, and without consideration.
Such was my great love for Philippa that I feel no shame in telling
the truth, and saying that had I seen her, in full possession of her
senses, level that pistol and shoot her betrayer through his black
heart, I should have held that only justice had been done. I should
have regretted the act, but, nevertheless, I would have pleaded for her
love as fervently and reverently as I now was about to plead for it.
Once more I say, if you condemn me, throw the book aside.
Philippa, with her eyes half closed, was, as was usual at that hour,
sitting in the _patio_. In her hand she held a sprig of orange blossom,
and ever and anon inhaled its delicious perfume; an action, by the bye,
scarcely needful, as the whole air was redolent of the fragrance thrown
from the great tree in the centre of the marble space. She was, or
fancied she was, alone, as some little time before I had left the court
to obtain a fresh supply of cigarettes; and my mother, who could never
quite adapt herself to the semi-open-air life, was taking a siesta in
the drawing-room. As I saw Philippa in all her glowing beauty, the
white marble against which she leaned making as it were a suitable
foil to the warm color of her cheek--the long, curved, black, downcast
lashes--the bosom rising and falling gently--like an inspiration the
thought came to me that in a minute my fate would be decided. Heavens!
how could I have waited so long to hear the words which I knew she
would say?
I crept noiselessly to her side. I passed my arm round her waist and
drew her to me. I whispered words of passionate love in her ear--words,
the confidence of which startled me; but then this time I knew that my
love of years was to be rewarded.
She did not shrink away; she did not struggle to free herself, but she
trembled like a leaf in my embrace. She sighed deeply, even hopelessly,
and I saw the tears welling in her dark eyes. Closer and firmer I held
her, and kissed her cheek again and again. Had that moment been my last
I should have said I had not lived in vain.
“Philippa,” I whispered, “my queen, my love, tell me you love me at
last.”
She was silent. The tears broke from her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
I kissed the signs of sorrow away.
“Dearest,” I said, “it is answer enough that you suffer these kisses,
but I have waited so long--been so unhappy; look at me and satisfy me;
let me hear you say, ‘I love you!’”
She turned her tearful eyes to mine, but not for long. She cast her
looks upon the ground and was still silent. Yet she lay unresisting in
my arms. That, after all, was the true answer.
But I must have it from her lips. “Tell me, dearest--tell me once,” I
prayed.
Her lips quivered; her bosom rose and fell. The blush spread from her
cheek and stole down her white neck.
“Yes,” she murmured, “now that it is too late, I love you.”
I laughed a wild laugh. I clasped Philippa to my breast.
“Too late!” I cried. “We may have fifty years of happiness.”
“It is too late,” she answered. “For your sake I have told you that I
love you, Basil. My love, I will kiss you once--then loose me, and let
us say farewell.”
“When death closes the eyes of one of us we will say farewell--not
until then,” I said, as my lips met hers in a long and rapturous kiss.
Then with a sigh she gently but firmly freed herself from my arms.
She rose, we stood on the marble floor, face to face, gazing in each
other’s eyes.
“Basil,” she said softly, “all this must be forgotten. Say farewell;
to-morrow we must part.”
“Dearest, our lives henceforth are one.”
“It cannot be. Spare me, Basil! You have been kind to me. It cannot be.”
“Why? Tell me why.”
“Why! need you ask? You bear an honored and respected name; and I, you
know what I am--a shamed woman.”
“A wronged woman, it may be, not a shamed one.”
“Ah! Basil, in this world, when a woman is concerned, wronged and
shamed mean the same thing. You have been as a brother to me. I came to
you in my trouble; you saved my life--my reason. Be kinder still, and
spare me the pain of paining you.”
By look, by word, by gesture, she seemed to beseech me. Oh, how I
longed to tell her that I firmly believed she was the dead man’s wife!
I had much difficulty in checking the words which were forming on my
lips. But I dared not speak. Telling her that the marriage was a valid
one meant that I must tell her of her husband’s death, and, it might
be, how he died.
“Philippa,” I said, “the whole happiness of my life, my every desire,
is centred upon making you my wife. Think, dearest, how when I had no
right to demand this gift my life was made desolate; think what it will
be when I know you love me and yet refuse to be mine! Have I been true
to you, Philippa?”
“Heaven knows you have.”
“Then why, now that you love me, refuse me my reward?”
“Oh, spare me!--I cannot, I will not give it. Basil, dear Basil, why
with your talents should you marry the cast-off--mistress--of Sir
Mervyn Ferrand? Why should you blush to show your wife to the world?”
“Blush! The world! What is my world save you? You are all to me,
sweetest. You love me--what more do I want? Before this time next week
we will be married.”
“Never, never! I will not wrong the man I love. Basil, farewell
forever!”
She clasped her hands and fled wildly across the court. I caught her
at the door, which she had reached and half opened. “Promise me one
thing,” I said; “promise you will wait here until my return. I shall
not be five minutes. It is not much to ask, Philippa.”
Philippa bent her head as in assent. I passed through the door, and in
a few minutes returned to the _patio_, accompanied by my mother, who
glanced from Philippa to me in a surprised way.
“What is the matter?” she asked, with her cheerful smile. “Have you two
young people been quarrelling?”
Philippa made no answer. She stood with her fingers interlaced; her
eyes cast on the ground.
“Mother,” I said, “I have to-day asked Philippa to be my wife. I have
told her that all my happiness depends upon her consent to this. I have
loved her for years; and at last she loves me. Yes, she loves me.”
My mother gave a little cry of pleasure, and stepped forward. I checked
her.
“I love her, and she loves me,” I continued. “But she refuses to marry
me. And why? Because she fears to bring shame on an honorable name. You
know her story; you are my mother. You, of all people in the world,
should be the most jealous as to the honor of my name. You should know
whom you would choose for my wife. Tell her--”
I said no more. My mother advanced with outstretched arms, and in a
moment my poor girl was weeping in her embrace, while words which
I could not hear, but whose purport I could well guess, were being
whispered to her. I had indeed been right in trusting to my mother’s
noble nature.
“Leave us for a little while, Basil,” she said, as Philippa still
sobbed upon her shoulder. “Come back in a quarter of an hour’s time.”
I turned away, went past the screen which is sometimes put up to insure
privacy, out of the iron gate, into the narrow street. I watched the
lounging, dignified-looking men and the dark-eyed women who went
by; I looked at the merry urchins at play; and after what seemed an
interminable quarter of an hour, returned to learn how my gentle
counsel had succeeded with my suit.
My mother and Philippa were sitting with their arms around each other.
Philippa, as I entered the _patio_, raised her eyes to mine with a look
of shy happiness. My mother rose and took the girl by the hand.
“Basil,” she said, “I have at last been able to persuade her that you
and I, at least, rise above the conventionalities of what is called
the world. I have told her that, knowing all I know, I see nothing to
prevent her from being your wife. I have told her that simply for her
own sweet sake I would rather see you marry her than any woman in the
world. And, Basil, I fancy I have made her believe me.”
With her soft eyes full of maternal love, my mother kissed me and left
the court. I opened my arms to close them round the fairest woman in
the world; and all the earth seemed bright and glorious to me. My great
love had conquered!
And yet, even in that moment of bliss, my thoughts involuntarily flew
away to a snow-heaped road in England--to a white drift, under which
for days and days a ghastly object had once been lying. A dream! a
dream! It must have been a fearful dream. Forget it, Basil North, and
be happy in the happiness you have at last won!