Part 23 (1/2)

Philippa explained, and for a moment a hope shot through Marion's mind that this woman might succeed where she had failed.

”What does she think of it all?” she asked rather nervously.

”She entirely agrees with me, because--you see--she has loved Francis all her life, and she only thinks of him.”

Marion sighed with disappointment. If that was the case any appeal for interference from that quarter was useless.

”She would come if I wanted her,” continued Philippa, ”and I see her fairly constantly.” And with that Marion was forced to be content.

As she journeyed back again that evening her thoughts hovered anxiously between her child in his weakness and her friend in her mistaken contentment. If only it were possible to divide herself, she thought piteously, between these two who both needed her so much! But, after all, did Philippa need her? Not consciously, certainly, and yet Marion told herself miserably that things would never have tangled themselves into this knot if she had been at Bessacre. She could not leave d.i.c.kie, for even his father could not satisfy him for any length of time. It was his mother he clung to in the weariness of convalescence, and it was out of the question to move him yet.

There was nothing to do but to let things take their course. For a moment she had an idea of sending her husband home, but after all what could Bill do? There was not much chance of his being able to persuade Philippa where she had failed, and, indeed, Bill had already made one effort in that direction, and was by no means over-anxious to undertake a second attempt to stem the torrent of a woman's will.

CHAPTER XIX

HALCYON DAYS

”Love keeps his revels where there are but twain.”--_Venus and Adonis_.

Even Dr. Gale, who constantly preached caution lest strength should be over-taxed, could find no fault with Francis' progress during these halcyon days of happiness.

There was a wide terrace on the sunny side of the house, just below his rooms, and there, whenever the weather permitted, he and Philippa would spend the warmest morning hours.

Francis was carried down-stairs in obedience to the doctor's orders, but once on the level he was allowed to walk a little. Leaning on her arm he was able to accomplish the length of the house, but that had up to the present been all that he had been equal to.

On two or three occasions they had driven in a low four-wheeled pony-chaise for half-an-hour or so, but they had not yet ventured beyond the confines of the park.

Francis had expressed no surprise at anything he had seen, indeed he had not appeared to notice any particular details, but he had repeatedly spoken of his delight in being out of doors again, and had said that he was looking forward to the day when he should see Bessmoor again.

During the early afternoon he rested, and she joined him again later, to spend the remainder of the day with him in his sitting-room, which now held for her so many a.s.sociations.

There had been a time when she had wondered what they would find to talk about, what line of conversation could be pursued with one whose mentality was bounded by such extraordinary limitations; whose outlook was that of a man, with a man's rational intelligence and consciousness, hampered by the retrospective knowledge of a little child.

For the first few days of their companions.h.i.+p she had indeed known moments of perplexity, moments during which she had racked her brain for a suitable remark, a new idea to interest him; for talk is difficult between new acquaintances when such matters as politics, literature and current events are taboo, and personalities are to be avoided; but since her mental att.i.tude towards him had changed and love had taken possession of her, this embarra.s.sment had vanished.

Two people in the first fine rapture of mutual affection do not, presumably, discuss any of the weighty matters which occupy the attention of ordinary individuals, nor, it is safe to say, would their conversation be of the smallest interest to any one but themselves. It is possible that lovers spend a certain portion of their time in a silence more expressive than words; for the rest, let those who have been in a similar situation fill in the blanks--experience will have taught them understanding.

That Francis realised his condition to some degree was evident, for he occasionally asked for enlightenment on a point he did not understand; also he would sometimes be puzzled over the meanings of words. He would use one without thinking, and then hesitate, in doubt as to whether it was the right one to convey his meaning. He would treat the matter lightly, making a joke of it, but would be obviously relieved when Philippa a.s.sured him that it was correct. And it was almost invariably correct, for it seemed that although his memory failed him, he drew unknowingly upon a subconscious power which worked independently--a store of knowledge which existed in his brain, but of which he had mislaid the key.

She was reading to him one day, a light story from a magazine, which described an act of gallantry on the part of the soldier hero, and ended in his death. It concluded with a sentence in which the expression ”facing fearful odds” was used. When she finished reading Francis said suddenly--

'”And how can man die better, than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his G.o.ds?'”

She looked up to meet the utter bewilderment in his eyes. ”Where on earth did I get that from?” he asked with a little laugh. ”I seem to know the words.”

She recited as much of the original poem as she could remember, and he seemed interested for the moment, but apparently paid little heed to this odd trick of his memory.

Nor had Philippa thought further of it. If she had not been so entirely engrossed in love, to the blinding of her reasoning power and common sense, she would have appreciated the episode at its true value, for it was important, in that it proved that Dr. Gale had been right when he had suggested that under the cloud which shadowed so much, there was a force at work which they could not measure.