East of the Shadows Part 3

Before Philippa, dazed by the sudden light and the utter unexpectedness of it all, could collect herself sufficiently to speak, he took both her hands in his with a movement infinitely tender and possessive, and drew her further into the room.

"They said you would not come. They lied. I knew they lied. Oh, Phil! the joy to see you. My sweet! My sweet!"

The girl made an effort to withdraw her hands. What had happened?

What did it mean?

"Oh, no!" she stammered. "It is a mistake--I do not know---- You are mistaking me for somebody else. I----"

He held her hands closer, closer, until they were pressed against his breast.

"Mistake?" he echoed with a little sound--it was hardly a laugh--of triumph and content.

"Mistake! Love makes no mistake!" and all the while his eyes burnt into hers with an intensity of pa.s.sion and of longing.

"But yes--" she faltered. It was difficult to find words against the ardour of his gaze. "Yes, I am Philippa Harford. I must have mistaken the room. Believe me, I am sorry----"

"Philippa Harford!" and again that little sound broke from him, half sob, half sigh, and clearly indicative of infinite joy, a joy too deep to be expressed in words. "My Phil!--as if I should not know! Sun in my shadows--light in my darkness--darkness which surrounded and overwhelmed, and in which I groped in vain, and only clung to you."

He spoke her name as if the very repet.i.tion of it told the sum of his content. "Phil!--and I not know!--and my love's violets!" Releasing one hand he touched the flowers she wore. "And the little heart--the same! Your heart and mine!"

He led her, compelled against her will, unresisting to a sofa.

Philippa sank upon it overwhelmed and almost nerveless under the stress of his emotion. He placed himself beside her, half sitting, half kneeling at her feet.

"I do not know--was it yesterday I saw you, cool and sweet in your soft primrose gown? or was it long ago before the shadows fell? Ah, love--your eyes! your hair! And always in the darkness the sound of your voice--the touch of your dear hand."

Philippa felt her senses reeling. With an effort she tore her eyes from his and gazed round the room. What did it mean? What dream was it? Was she waking or sleeping?

Beside the sofa stood a table, and on it an easel supporting a picture of--oh no, it could not be herself!

She drew one hand--the other was still tightly clasped in his--across her eyes as if to brush away a veil of unreality which seemed to hang over everything, and looked again. But no, there was no mistaking it--the dark hair drawn loosely back from the brow--her hair--her face as she saw it daily in her mirror--even her dress; a touch of pale yellow lightly indicated the folds of soft lace--the bunch of violets; and there, in black letters of unmistakable clearness on the gilding of the frame, the one word "Philippa."

On the table in front of the portrait was a bowl of violets--nothing else--just as might stand the offering at some shrine.

Beyond this one great mystery the room itself was devoid of anything out of the ordinary. The walls were panelled in white with touches of a pale grey colour; there were a few pictures, not many. The two windows were hung with a bright chintz of a somewhat old-fas.h.i.+oned design which matched the coverings of chairs and sofa, but the curtains were not drawn and the blinds were up.

From where she sat Philippa could see the moonlight flooding the sleeping park-land, and in the distance a clump of elm-trees outlined clear and lacy in the silver light.

Before one of the windows stood a large table littered with papers, a tumbler of water holding some brushes, and a drawing-board. By the fireplace was a comfortable chair, and on the floor beside it, as if dropped by a sudden careless movement of the reader, a book face downwards; and with the curious involuntary attention to detail to which we are liable in moments of strain, she noticed, almost with annoyance, that some of the pages were turned back and creased by the fall.

The room told of nothing beyond an everyday homelike peace; there was nothing to help her elucidate the mystery.

And all the while the man at her feet was pouring out a stream of rapid, fervent words. "And still you did not come! Ah, love! the long, long shadows--purple shadows--mysterious, unfathomable. No sun, no warmth, excepting when I saw you in my dreams--distant, illusive.

No brightness, only darkness, until you came. But I knew you would come. Dearest, love makes no mistake, does it? Such love as mine that calling--calling--must draw you to me at the last. My beautiful Phil!

my dreams of you never equalled the dear nearness of you. The night is past--the shadows are swept away, for the dawn has come--the dawn that was so long in coming, for it could only break to the music of your footfall. Phil, why do you look at me like that?" he queried suddenly.

"Is it possible that I have frightened you? G.o.d knows I did not mean to. Or was it yesterday, sweetheart, did I hurt you? Truly, dear one, I did not mean to. I said that you were cold--I did not blame you--I did not think of blaming you; but my love for you is so great, so overwhelming, that it is hard to be patient. I hunger so for the touch of your lips. Forgive me, sweet, forgive me. See! now I will be calm."

He rose to his feet and stood before her at a little distance.

"Listen," he said, "I have something to tell you. Do you remember that little song you used to sing to me, that I loved? Well, always in my dreams when I saw you, you were coming to me like that.

"'Through soft grey clouds the kind May sun was breaking, Setting ablaze the gold flower of the broom.'

Always with the violets at your breast in a flood of golden radiance.

Coming!--but you never came. Always sunlight where you are, my Phil, even when the shadows were darkest. And now--you have come!"

As he stood before her Philippa was able for the first time to notice the personal appearance of this man--this total stranger who was laying his very heart bare to her bewilderment. He stood above the usual height and was thin to emaciation, but with something virile and active about him which belied the apparent delicacy of his frame. His face was pale and worn, and his hair, which was quite white, accentuated the darkness of his deep-set eyes. He was clean-shaven and his mouth was perhaps rather hard, but it softened to tenderness as he spoke. His whole form seemed to radiate with his feeling of joy in the reunion--a strength of feeling dominating and triumphing over any bodily weakness.

As he moved his position slightly, the light fell more fully upon his face, and she saw the line of a deep scar running from cheekbone to temple. Instinctively she wondered what fearful wound he could have sustained to leave a mark like that.

He was dressed for the evening, but wore a black velvet smoking jacket in place of the formal dress coat. It was impossible to tell his age.

His figure might have been that of a man of five-and-twenty, but his face and hair might signify another ten or even fifteen years.

He ceased speaking, and with his last words a feeling of sudden emotion almost choked Philippa. It was as if the unreality of it all was pa.s.sing away, and the knowledge came to her that she, Philippa, was listening to the outpourings of a man's inmost heart, of a love not intended for her. She had no right to listen. What was she doing here? She rose quickly.

"I must go now," she said, trying to control her voice and speak as if nothing unusual had occurred. She was so bewildered, it seemed the only way to treat the impossible situation. "I must go now. It is getting late." Even as she spoke the words their utter ba.n.a.lity irritated her, but what could she do?

He moved forward. "Is it late?" he said. "Have I kept you too long?

But you will come again to-morrow?" He took her hands, which were hanging nerveless at her sides--took them and held them close. "You will come?" he whispered pa.s.sionately. "Ah, dear love! the shadows when you do not come!"

It was impossible to resist the appeal in his look and voice. "I will come," she answered very low.

He raised her hands and kissed first one and then the other.

"Good-night," he said tenderly. "G.o.d guard you, my dear love!"

Philippa broke from him, and turning swiftly, opened the door and pa.s.sed out. Then she stopped abruptly, startled. On the threshold a woman was standing, a woman of advanced years and rather stern appearance. She wore a dark gown, and her grey hair was covered with a cap of some soft white material. She moved aside to allow the girl to pa.s.s, and then said in a cold and perfectly emotionless voice, "I will show you to your room."

Philippa followed her, blindly, stumblingly, for her knees were shaking now, and there was such an air of resentment in the other's demeanour that it jarred upon her overstrung nerves.

In silence they pa.s.sed down the long corridor until they arrived at their destination. The woman flung the door open and switched on the light. The fire was burning brightly, and Philippa recognised her own belongings on the dressing-table, and her dressing-down and slippers warming at the hearth, with a throb of relief. She walked in and then turned and faced her guide, who looked at her, long and scrutinisingly, opened her lips as if about to speak, and then shut them with a snap, as if afraid that words might escape against her will--hesitated for a moment, and then walked out and closed the door in silence.

Philippa sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. One question was ringing through her brain. "What did it mean? What could it mean?" The wildest and most impossible explanations presented themselves to her fevered mind. Had she ever been here before? Was she dreaming? Had she lost her memory? Had she ever seen him before?

Who had painted her portrait--and when? Then another thought struck her: Was it possible that he was mad? But no, she dismissed it immediately. There had been so sign of madness in his behaviour or his actions. Excitement, yes, but quite controlled; and above all truth and sincerity and pa.s.sionate devotion. There was no mistaking that.

Whatever might be the explanation of the extraordinary happenings of the evening, one thing was beyond all argument, beyond all doubt, and that was the love this man bore to--whom? The woman whom he imagined her to be--who was it? Philippa Harford! But _she_ was Philippa Harford. The name was not so common that Philippa Harfords were to be found readily to be confounded with one another. And the portrait!--there was the very heart of the mystery--the primrose gown--the violets. What was it he had said? "Love's violets!" and "The dark, dark shadows since they had met." And then--"yesterday,"--he had said they had met yesterday. What could it mean?

She pressed her hands closer against her aching temples. What was the secret of this extraordinary house? Was it all unreal? Had it never happened at all? Was it supernatural--a fevered vision of the brain--an apparition haunting the scenes of the past? Impossible!

And the woman? She at all events had been tangible and real. Why had she looked at her with eyes that held hatred--nothing more nor less than hatred, bitter and undisguised?

Who could she ask? whom could she turn to? For a moment she had a wild impulse to peal the bell and call for--whom? Somebody--anybody--to speak--to tell her she was awake--alive. Marion? but Marion was not here. Marion had gone with the big soldier husband whose mere presence in the house would, the girl felt, have been an a.s.surance of security, of sanity. Violets! What had Marion said? "There is a sad story attached to violets at Bessacre." But she had not told her what it was. Why had she left her? And then she remembered the earlier events of the evening--d.i.c.kie--his illness--the telegram. It all seemed so distant. Marion had been in trouble and had left her. Then gradually the thought of her friend's anxiety had the result of restoring her to a more normal condition of mind.

She rose to her feet and prepared herself mechanically for her bed.

When she laid her head at last upon the cool whiteness of her pillow, and closed her weary eyes, sleep was far from her. She saw only one face, heard only one voice. "Such love as mine must--calling--calling--draw you to me at the last. My sweet! my sweet!" Oh, the pity of it! the pity of it!

Was it a few minutes, or ages later--she could not tell--that suddenly she heard a door bang violently--once--twice? She heard a hurried step on the gravel below her window, and then a shout, and the sound of a horse galloping faster and faster into the distance. Then even the echo died away, and silence as of the dead remained. She strained her ears, s.h.i.+vering with nervousness and fatigue, but could hear no more, and after a while she sank into a troubled sleep.