Part 4 (1/2)
CHAPTER IV
FRANCIS
”The eternal landscape of the past.”--TENNYSON.
The next morning Philippa rose late and had breakfast in her own room.
The night had brought no counsel, she was undecided as to the line of action she should take, and physically weary. She felt it impossible to ask questions of her maid, who might have gained information in the housekeeper's room; equally impossible to summon Ford the butler, excellent and confidential servant as he appeared to be. It was not a subject upon which she could touch, however distantly, with a subordinate. It had affected her too deeply, and yet she must know more.
She had no doubt but that the woman she had seen could enlighten her fully, but she was ignorant of her position in the house, and even had this not been the case, she shrank from demanding anything from one so obviously hostile to her.
She could not forget that she had made a definite promise to return; she wondered now how she could have done so, and yet at the time it had been impossible to deny the insistent appeal. She would keep that promise--on so much she was determined--but as to the manner of keeping it she could not tell.
Finally, a desire to be out of the house and under the open sky overcame her. She would go for a walk, and perhaps on her return something would guide her as to her next move.
Accompanied by her maid, who appeared to have mastered the topography of the corridors, she descended to the hall, and then she realised her mistake of the previous evening. Marion's instructions had been to turn twice to the right, a movement easy and successful this morning, but of course in ascending to her room the direction was reversed, and she should have turned twice to the left. A simple mistake, out of all proportion to the events which had followed upon it.
”I knew I should lose my way last night, miss,” said Walker. ”Them backstairs is bewildering; but I thought to myself, I'll be even with them somehow, so I just tied my handkerchief on a table-leg in the pa.s.sage as I went down, and counted the doors, and when I came up and saw my handkerchief I knew I was all right. The head housemaid came up-stairs with me and she was most amused.”
”I think it was very clever of you,” said Philippa. ”I wish I had done the same.”
”I hope you'll have a pleasant walk, miss,” said Walker, and with that she disappeared.
Philippa went to the front door, and stood on the step breathing in the freshness of the morning. The sun was s.h.i.+ning brightly, the dew lay heavy on the lawns, and here and there a faint veil of mist was hovering, soon to be dispersed by the warmth of the new day. All Nature seemed refreshed and cleansed by the healing and rejuvenating power of the night.
The girl herself in her simple suit of white serge looked as fresh as the morning, although a careful observer might have noticed a shadow telling of mental disquiet under the clear steadfast eyes. ”Exercise,”
she told herself, ”that is the thing for me. I will explore this lovely garden.”
She descended the steps and walked down the broad terrace which ran along the south side of the house. She had only gone a few yards when a sudden call behind her made her turn. A maid-servant ran to her--a young girl, evidently one of the under-servants. She was breathless with hurry or with fright, Philippa could not tell which, and almost incoherent. ”Oh, miss,” she cried, ”please come! Please come at once!
Mrs. Goodman wants you.”
Philippa did not wait for any further explanation, but returned immediately. At a small door on the terrace stood the woman who had been her guide a few hours before, her face ashen, her eyes suffused with tears, her whole appearance tragic in the extreme. She seized Philippa by the hand and led her swiftly away. Between the sobs that were shaking her the girl made out a few words:
”Come--quickly--for G.o.d's sake!--he wants you. My boy! my boy!”
With a speed which seemed remarkable for one of her age she ran up the stairs, stumbling and sobbing as she went. Philippa put out an arm to steady her, feeling conscious of no surprise, no wonder, nothing seemed to matter except the urgent need for haste.
At last they reached the room, which she recognised. There were the same flowered chintzes, there was her portrait on the table.
A sound of voices came from an adjoining apartment, and the woman stopped to listen, raising her finger with a gesture commanding silence.
Suddenly a voice rang out, clear and peremptory. ”Please ask Miss Harford to come here. Where is Goody? She will understand.”
Then she ran forward, her hand on Philippa's arm, through the connecting door into the inner room. A strong pungent smell of restoratives filled the air. The figure on the bed was sitting upright, motioning to one side the nurse and an elderly man, presumably the doctor, who were trying in vain to soothe him. The next moment his strength failed--he fell backward on the pillows, and his face a.s.sumed a livid death-like hue.
”Too late! too late!” murmured Mrs. Goodman in a tone of anguish.
The doctor, who had been occupied in his attentions on the invalid, glanced up and met Philippa's eyes. He recoiled as if in surprise or horror, but in an instant his professional calm rea.s.serted itself.