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!