Part 17 (1/2)
”This went on for two years. I could not bear to go away, and yet there was no use in staying, for little by little all news of him ceased. Those servants who were known to have gossiped were dismissed, and their places filled by others who could be trusted to be silent.
”The old nurse, who would, I know, have told me, never went outside the grounds, and all the talk had so disgusted me that, with all my longing to know, I don't think I could have questioned a servant.
”Then my aunt died suddenly, and I had to leave. I had no money, and in consequence no choice in the matter. I joined my father, who was at that time in Canada, and remained with him, travelling all over the world wherever his fancy took him until his death three years ago. By that time I had made enough money by my books to know that a livelihood was a.s.sured to me, and I came here.
”I could not discover for some time whether he was alive or dead. I heard that Lady Louisa had died a few months before, and I wouldn't ask any direct questions out of respect for her. If she had managed to keep the whole pitiful story a secret, to bury it in oblivion, what right had I to drag it to light again--to make her and him the subject of idle t.i.ttle-tattle, for that was what it amounted to? She was at rest beyond the reach of tongues, and in a way that made it worse, for she wasn't there to guard him from lies.
”At last one day I went to see her grave in the churchyard, and then I knew. Have you seen it?”
”No,” answered Philippa. ”The doctor asked me the same question, and whether I knew what was written on it.”
”Her grave is just inside the lych-gate at the top of the steps. Over it is a plain white marble cross with her name and the dates, and these are the words on the base of it--
”'I leave my best beloved in His care, And go because He calls me--He whose voice I cannot disobey; praying that He Who heard the widow's prayer in Galilee Will hear mine now, and bring you soon to me Where tears and pains are not; that we may stand Before His throne together, hand in hand.'
I think that if her heart had not broken before it must have broken when she had to leave him.”
”The doctor told me that she wrote the words and asked that they should be placed on her tombstone,” said Philippa. ”Poor soul!”
”I did not know that,” returned Isabella, ”but I have sometimes thought that she must have hoped that Francis would see them some day; but her hope has been vain.”
”Why did you not go straight to Marion--to Mrs. Heathcote, I mean, and ask her?” asked Philippa. ”Marion is so kind, she would have told you all she could. Or Doctor Gale? Did you not know him? Why could you not have asked him?”
”I hardly know why I did not do so, but I know that it was impossible to me. It is not as if I had ever--as if I had any right--I was a stranger. It is true that I knew Robert Gale in the old days, but look at the years that have pa.s.sed. He would probably not have remembered me, and how could I have explained? It would have been like tearing my inmost heart out and laying it on the table for him to dissect as he chose. My story was my own--I have hugged it very close--until you came. And yet I think I always knew that some day, through no effort of mine, the veil would be lifted. I was certain of it, and in that certainty I could wait with some degree of patience until the moment came. Sometimes I must confess I have wondered whether it would be in this world or the next--and I didn't want it in some other sphere, but here in the old world, among the scenes and sights he loved. I have waited for some message. Will it ever come, I wonder! Shall I ever see his face again? For a moment I thought it had come when I met you--in all outward seeming, the Phil I used to know. I knew she was dead--I saw it in the papers; and then to meet you! Honestly, my senses reeled.
”Then of course it became clear that you were of another generation. I think I did not realise how far I had left my youth behind until I knew you. And still you did not mention him--and G.o.d knows I wanted to question--but I saw that if I wanted all the truth I must wait a little longer. I saw you were not one of those who blurt out all their affairs to a pa.s.sing stranger--that first I must win your trust and, if I could, your affection.”
Philippa laid her hand on Isabella's with a mute gesture and she clasped it tightly.
”So I set myself to wait again with all the patience I could muster.
You may wonder why I told you about Ian Verity; perhaps it seems to you a small thing--but it was all I had, all that I valued outside the story that I am telling you now, and I gave you my confidence, craving yours in return. It was nothing to you. But now you have broken the silence.”
”How does he look?” she asked suddenly. ”I have always remembered him as he used to be, and yet, of course, he must be changed.”
”His hair is white,” said Philippa gently; ”but he looks young in spite of that. He is so slim and upright--not like a man of his age.”
”And his face?” Isabella asked the question almost in a whisper.
”He bears a dreadful scar, but I do not think it alters his expression.
It leaves his features quite untouched.”
Isabella drew a long breath. ”Ah!” she murmured, ”how often I have dreaded lest he should be dreadfully disfigured. His face was so beautiful,” she added pathetically.
They sat for a long time hand in hand, each occupied with her own thoughts. Outside the rain dripped with a plaintive sound, but overhead the sparrows twittered cheerfully under the eaves. The clouds were drifting away to the west like some dark horde driven from the field by the s.h.i.+mmering spears of the sunlight which pierced them. A tender expanse of blue sky spoke a promise of fairer weather, a promise repeated by the satisfied hum of the bees who had once more ventured out to pursue their daily labours. The air was full of sweet scents--fragrant earth and fragrant blossom made all the sweeter by the cleansing shower.
To Philippa in the fullness of her youthful strength and beauty there was something profoundly touching in the simple way in which Isabella had recounted the story of her life. There was a n.o.bility in the confession. This woman--no longer young, with her grey hair and plain rugged features--stating quite honestly that all the love of her youth had been supported on ropes of gossamer, woven when she was at an age for dreams.
What is the age for dreams? Ah, who can tell? Let us pray that to those who dream the awakening comes not too soon; and that when it comes, as in this world it must, they may preserve a measure of the dream radiance to light them to that greater awakening when all tears shall be wiped away.
Isabella had made no appeal for sympathy, had not suggested that there was any room for pity. She did not wish to forget.