"What has his life been?" she asked. "What has he done?"

"Waited," answered the doctor shortly. "Just waited. Nothing more nor less. He has occupied himself a little for a few moments at a time. He has read, but does not remember what he reads, and the same book serves him over and over again. He has painted a little, but always the same thing—a woman's face—sketchy—unfinished, but recognisable; and then thrown aside to commence another—but always the same face. But never for one day in all these years has he forgotten the violets."

"What violets?"

"It was his custom during their short engagement to give her a bunch of violets every morning. They were her favourite flower, and he took a good deal of trouble to procure them, and when, after his accident, the season for their blooming passed, and there were none, it distressed him so terribly that his mother, Lady Louisa, insured that there should be a constant supply for him.

"You will see the long line of glass lights in the kitchen garden. These are exclusively for his violets. He always asks for them, and places them in a vase of water in front of her portrait. A little thing, but very pathetic, isn't it?"

"Does he speak?"

"Oh yes. He has always received me with some polite remark, as if I were a perfect stranger whom he had never seen before, but he always seemed in a hurry to get rid of me. Sometimes he would excuse his haste by saying he was expecting a visitor. It was just the same when he saw Mrs. Goodman. He was perfectly civil, but evidently impatient of anything or any one who disturbed him, who distracted his attention from his incessant waiting and listening. It is so difficult to know how much he has really understood. Sometimes I think that under the cloud he may really be aware of a great deal more than we give him credit for, but he shows no sign of it."

"Does he see Major Heathcote?"

"Sometimes; not very often. When the Major and his wife first came to live here they were most anxious to do everything in their power to make his life as happy as possible; but after a while they realised what I had told them from the first, and that was, that the more he was undisturbed the more content he was. Or rather I should say the less distressed, for he was never content. There was never a moment when I felt I could say, 'Now he is not thinking of her; now he has really forgotten that he is waiting for her.' He takes the Major for his own half-brother, William Heathcote. Bill, he was always called, like his son Bill, the Major. Francis never knew his half-brother very intimately; there was a great disparity in their ages, and Bill never got on very well with his step-mother, Lady Louisa—or rather Mrs. Bill didn't, which came to the same thing. They never came here very much."

"Didn't he know his mother?"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Who can tell? He never appeared to. He was just the same to her as he was to any one else who entered his room—quite polite, but glad when they went away."

"How awful for her!" cried Philippa.

"Yes, it was awful. She was a wonderful woman—one of the old type. She had no notion of admitting the outside world into her affairs, or of discussing her inmost feelings with any one. A woman of dauntless courage, old Lady Louisa; and if some people thought her hard it was not to be wondered at; she was a bit hard, but it was merely a sort of armour she put on in self-defence. She fought every inch of the way—every inch. She never lost patience, even after hope was gone. Everything she could think of she did, trying endless devices to interest and amuse him—for years Francis drove with her every day. And finally she accepted the truth with the same courage with which she had fought against it—the courage that knows when it is beaten—and ceased to try and rouse him. He hasn't been outside his room for years now. Many people don't know he lives here—new-comers to the place, I mean; for the older folk in the village, who reverenced Lady Louisa and loved him, respected her wishes too much to chatter. Which is saying a good deal, isn't it? For it takes a good bit to stay a gossip's tongue. But her will was law in the place, and I never heard of any one attempting to dispute it. I know she suffered agonies of mind, but I never knew her break down until just at the last, when she was dying. She kept death at bay by sheer strength of will for weeks, simply because she couldn't bear to leave him. He was her only son—her only child. And her last words were, 'Let him come soon, O God; let him come soon.' Go and look at her grave and read the inscription she wrote out herself for it. Poor Lady Louisa! and poor Francis!"

"Did you know my father?" asked the girl after a while.

"Yes; I knew him, but not so well as I knew your aunt. I was a good deal away after my boyhood, and my holidays later on did not always coincide with his visits here, but I met him several times."

"He never spoke to me of his sister."

"That I can understand. It is only what I should have expected. I happened to see your father, Miss Harford, as he left this house when he came here after the accident. He had seen his sister, he had failed in his efforts to persuade her, all his arguments had been of no avail, and his distress was beyond all words. He had loved Francis Heathcote—he was his most intimate friend—and he had adored his sister. Up to that time I think he had firmly believed that she could do no wrong. And then, to find that under stress of trouble she had failed so grievously nearly broke his heart. And yet"—the doctor spoke slowly and thoughtfully—"yet—I think still as I thought then, and as I told him that day, that she should not be too greatly blamed."

"But of course she was to blame," cried Philippa hotly. "Her behaviour was inhuman."

"So it seems to us," he replied. "But we must remember what she was—a spoilt child—a butterfly. Your father himself spoilt her absolutely. She had never been crossed—had never known a moment's anxiety—never even been obliged to do anything she did not like—to do anything except please herself. She was beautiful—most beautiful; and if she was shallow, well, then the very shallowness only made her more attractive. She fascinated us all." The man's voice took on a softer tone as he spoke. "Francis loved her—madly—passionately. His overwhelming joy in their betrothal was a thing never to be forgotten by those who saw it. And yet—thinking it over, as I have thought it over so often—was there ever a single action of hers—a single spontaneously unselfish action on her part—which should have led us to suppose, to expect that she would rise high in any crisis? We were all at her feet. We never noticed that she was utterly self-centred, because we, with all the world, were ready to satisfy her lightest wish. No, no, it was we who were wrong—wrong in our estimate of her. We expected too much—we expected more than she was able to give—more than a woman of her character was able to give. She simply acted as she had acted all her life—doing what she liked best—refraining from doing what was uncongenial—what did not amuse her. Poor, beautiful butterfly! she was broken sadly at the finish. By all accounts her married life was very unhappy. She did not live long."

"You are very charitable," said Philippa reflectively.

"No," he replied in his abrupt way, "I'm not. I'm merely wise after the event, which is an easy thing enough. Ah, well, if Francis had married her the chances are she would have failed him—if not in one way, then in another. He endowed her with a half-angelic personality which in truth was not hers at all. He placed her on a high pedestal from which she must have fallen at the first buffet of life, and life gives plenty of buffets, although perhaps you are too young to know the truth of that at present." He rose as he spoke. "You are not so like her as I thought you were when I first saw you," he went on, standing and looking intently at the girl. "When I first saw you to-day I thought you were just the very living image of your aunt, but you are not. If you will forgive my plain speaking, I should like to say that you are not so beautiful, but that you have more soul in your face—more strength of character And it is what I see written there that makes me dare to hope that you will see that we are in your hands. But there, we won't say any more about that now. It isn't fair to urge you, although God knows I wish to. Let me know your decision in a day or two, and I will do my best to keep him quiet until then. When does the Major return?"

Philippa hastily told him of Dickie's illness and the sudden departure of his anxious parents, and also of the telegram she had received.

The doctor pulled at his beard.

"It is unfortunate," he muttered. "I have been writing to him to tell him the state of affairs here, and I am sure he will come if he can. Let us hope their worry about the boy will soon be over. The little chap has a splendid constitution. I shall be over to-morrow morning. Don't hesitate to send for me if you want me, and don't go into Francis Heathcote's room until I have prepared him for your visit—not unless there is any crisis and you are obliged to do so. But I think he will be quiet enough. Go to bed, my dear young lady, and get a good rest; you must need it. And forgive me having detained you for so long."



CHAPTER VII

INDECISION

"When conscience sees clear, conscience need not budge: But there are times it cannot clearly see This way or that, and then it strives to stand, Holding an even balance in its hand."—ALFRED AUSTIN.

Sleep was impossible. All through the long hours of the night Philippa lay wide awake, every nerve, every faculty of her mind tuned to the highest point of tension, going over and over the story she had heard.

Her keen sympathy and ready imagination filled in the details which had been omitted, and she pictured the endless succession of weary days which lengthened into years—the mother's anguish as hope grew fainter and was at last extinguished, and, the central figure of the tragedy, the man who for all the years, day in, day out, had waited. "Just waited." The very simplicity of the doctor's words had only added to their pathos.

She thought of her father, and of what his feelings in the matter must have been. She knew well that to a man of his rigid integrity of mind and purpose his sister's action must have been beyond all possible excuse. The mere fact that she had broken her plighted word would have been hard to condone, for to him the violation of a promise once given was impossible, and against all the principles which ruled his life. He would have felt a personal shame that one of his own family should have been guilty of it, and more especially his dearly loved sister; and that in addition she should have acted with what could only be described as utter heartlessness towards the man who had been his dearest friend must have been a sorrow beyond all words.

That this had been literally so was proved to Philippa by the fact that, in spite of the intimacy of thought and speech which had existed between them, he had allowed her to remain in utter ignorance of the whole affair. She had enjoyed his fullest confidence; he had frequently spoken to her of old days, of his boyhood and early manhood, but never once had the names of either Francis Heathcote or his sister passed his lips. And yet, had he not, by his reticence, acted the kindest part? Was not silence the only tribute love could lay upon the grave of the woman who had failed? And he did not foresee, indeed how was it possible that he should, that by the mysterious working of that power which erring men call Chance, the whole sad happening would be brought to light again.

If he had for a moment deemed it possible that his daughter would come face to face with Francis Heathcote, he would surely have prepared her in some way for the meeting, have given her some notion of how he would wish her to act. But even if he had anticipated the possibility of a meeting he could never have imagined that it would come about under such extraordinary circumstances, or that his girl would be called upon to stand in the dead woman's place, and to assume her very personality. And if by some miracle he stood by her side now, what would he wish her to do? That was the question which seemed to dance before Philippa's tired eyes, limned in letters of flame against the black wall of doubt and difficulties which barred the way she was to take.

What would he wish her to do? Would he feel that some heritage of duty left undone was hers to accomplish, to fulfil? a point of honour as it were—pride of race insisting that there was a debt owing, which she was called upon to pay? Would he not in his affection for his friend be the first to echo the doctor's plea, "just a little happiness for all the years he has missed"?—the happiness which it seemed that she of all people was alone able to give.

She thought of the little brooch, "Your heart and mine,"—the only visible link which connected her father with the story at all. How had it come into his possession? Surely, if Phil had returned it with other tokens of her engagement, it must have fallen into Lady Louisa's hands. Had she perhaps overlooked it at first, and then, before she died, sent it to her brother—a mute appeal for forgiveness, a silent confession of regret? The explanation was conjectural, but it was possible. Philippa would have liked to know it true, for it would have been some comfort to her father.

She thought of old Jane Goodman, comforted by the certainty which seemed to the girl so entirely without foundation, that her mere presence would dispel all the trouble that had wrecked a life.

She tried to think consecutively, to argue fairly, weighing the matter judicially, noting all points, for and against, in the hope that by this means her decision might be rendered more simple, but it was impossible. Her thoughts would not be controlled, they wandered this way and that. At one moment she felt certain that she could not condemn a fellow-creature to distress if any action of hers could prevent it, the next she was tortured by the simple question of right and wrong: whether if she allowed Francis Heathcote to remain under his misapprehension as to her identity, it was not much the same thing as deliberate deception, a lie, in short? And yet, the truth was to him nothing more nor less than his death sentence. Could she be the one to push him back into the darkness from which she had all unwittingly rescued him?

"A little happiness for all the years he has missed—a little happiness until he dies." For a few hours, or perhaps weeks—who could tell?

Was it not an act of simple human charity she was called upon to perform? Could it not be considered something similar to acting as an understudy—continuing a role which had been left with some last lines unsaid by the principal actor? Why need she hesitate to respond to the urgent appeal for comfort and for help? "No brightness—only darkness, until you came. Ah, dear love! the shadows when you do not come! Phil! Dear love! At last!"

Small wonder that the dawn found her wide-eyed and unrested, and that when the hour came for her to rise she was prostrated with nervous headache and fatigue, utterly incapable of the slightest effort. And so the next day passed. At noon there came a note from the doctor, saying she need be under no anxiety. His patient was quiet and as well as could be expected.

On the afternoon of the next day but one, the necessity of obtaining fresh air and a strong desire to meet Isabella Vernon again drove her out of doors. She was almost surprised to find how keen was her wish to pursue the acquaintance so informally begun; she could not account for it. It was certainly not at the moment any desire to gain information about the past; that had entirely left her. She wished rather to gain relief from the subject, to try if possible to lay it aside for a time, and she had not the smallest intention of admitting a stranger into the difficulties which beset her. No, it was some personal attraction about the woman which drew her in a most unusual way. Philippa was not in the habit of feeling drawn to people of whom she had so slight a knowledge, and she was inclined to think that it was only a feeling of loneliness which prompted her to seek the only person to whom she could talk in an ordinary, everyday way, and so obtain an antidote for the clamour and unrest of mind of which she was only too conscious.

She had barely mounted the hill on to Bessmoor, and felt the wind blowing cool from the sea with a salt tang most refreshing to her, than she saw, a few yards off the road, and under the shelter of some gnarled thorn-bushes, a little encampment, and she directed her steps towards it.

Miss Vernon was seated on the ground beside a small cart, and at a little distance away a donkey stood contentedly, flicking away the flies which disturbed his peace.

To a critical observer the down-trodden state of the grass and undergrowth might have suggested that the place had been occupied for more than a few hours, but Philippa was not in a mood to be observant, or to wonder how long the other had waited for her arrival. Nor did Isabella Vernon say a word to betray the fact that she had spent the whole of the previous day in precisely her present position, having carefully chosen a point of vantage from which any one coming along the road from Bessacre could not by any means fail to be visible to her.

She scrambled to her feet. "I am so pleased to see you," she said. And the warmth of her greeting was unmistakable, not so much in the words, which were conventional enough, as in the tone of real welcome in which they were spoken.

"I am fortunate to find you," replied Philippa. "I was hoping so much that I might see you. You told me you were often on Bessmoor."

"Every day. I live out of doors. Now I do trust that you have time to come and see my cottage. It is not very far off, and if you do not scorn my humble equipage, my donkey, who seems to be sound asleep at the moment, will save you the trouble of walking. You look very white, I hope you have not been ill."

"It is only the effect of a stupid headache which bothered me yesterday, but I am really all right to-day."

Isabella eyed her searchingly. "Humph! you don't look it," she said candidly. "But let us see what a drive in our splendid air will do for you. It will not take more than a few minutes to collect my belongings and make a start."

She knelt down as she spoke and gathered together a quantity of papers which she had scattered as she rose to greet Philippa. "You must not expect our progress to be rapid," she continued, speaking in an easy, good-humoured way; "for my donkey, being an animal of great discernment, arrived long ago at the knowledge that time means nothing to us in these parts. We simply don't know the meaning of the word, and he resolutely refuses to hurry for any inducement I can offer him. When I first made his acquaintance I wore myself out in vain efforts to urge him into something that might reasonably be called a trot, but the experience was so distressing to us both that I gave it up in despair. Now, I frankly confess that he is my master. If he chooses to reflect upon the road, I do the same, and say nothing. If he proceeds, well, so do I. I still say nothing, and am inwardly thankful. But to give him his due, he is docile, which after all is something, for I cannot imagine what an unprotected female like myself, with scanty knowledge of quadrupeds and their ways, would do with a beast who kicked or ran away, especially in a lonely spot like this, where one so seldom meets a soul upon the road. Come up, Edward," she added, tugging at the bridle, and with some difficulty persuading the reluctant animal to take up his position between the shafts. Philippa went to the rescue, and between them the deed was done, and in a few moments they were seated side by side in the little cart, proceeding very deliberately across the moor.

Philippa saw that her companion was dressed precisely as she had been at their previous meeting. The same drab cotton frock, or possibly a duplicate; the same hideously unbecoming hat; but she merely glanced at these, for her attention was presently drawn to some indefinable change in Isabella's face. It was some minutes before she realised what it was. The curious, expectant look was gone, and where, on the previous occasion, her new acquaintance had seemed possessed by an intense desire to question, she appeared now to have entirely lost that desire. Her face hardly showed contentment; there were lines of sadness on it which could never be obliterated, but it had regained what was probably its usual calmness—the calmness of one who has forced herself to wait patiently, who sees her course of action, or inaction, clearly mapped out before her, and is biding her time, waiting for events to bring her to some desired point.

Meanwhile there was no doubt that she discerned immediately that the girl beside her was suffering under a strain of some kind, and was exerting herself to draw her out of her thoughts, to distract her attention from her anxiety, whatever it might be, and presently she succeeded. Philippa felt herself gaining strength from the other's strong and sympathetic personality, and listened with interest to her remarks upon the neighbourhood, and upon the various objects they passed upon the road.



CHAPTER VIII

THE HEART OF BESSMOOR

"Those house them best who house for secrecy."—THOMAS HARDY.

"There is one distinct advantage in my humble chariot," Isabella said presently, "and that is that you have plenty of time to give your full attention to the scenery as you pass. If we were dashing along in a motor I should not have time to tell you that those two flat stones over there," she pointed in the direction as she spoke, "mark the resting-place of the last highwayman who ever disturbed the peace of these parts. He seems to have been a most mysterious person, by all accounts, and he rode a white horse—surely a very foolish colour for a highwayman to choose—and he kept the countryside in a state of terror. He was caught at last—it would take too long to tell you the story of his final escapade and capture—and hung upon that pine-tree.

"It appears that, within an hour of his execution, while the sheriff and his men were still upon the moor, his body disappeared. It was spirited away. And the country-people will tell you quite plainly that the Old Gentleman came in person to fetch him. That, of course, may, or may not, be true, but the curious part of it is that those two stones—they are a fair size, as you can see—were placed there in that position the same night. By the same agency, of course. Very civil of the Old Gentleman to leave a memento of his visit, wasn't it? And since then, of course, he rides at night upon his white horse on Bessmoor, as every self-respecting highwayman who has swung for his crimes should. I cannot say that I have ever had the pleasure of seeing him, but of course I must believe in him. He is quite the most notorious person on Bessmoor—the 'White Horse Rider' as they call him.

"You ask Mrs. Palling, the ancient lady who is good enough to 'do' for me; she is quite what one might call an intimate friend of his, she seems so well acquainted with his movements.

"Now, here we are at the cross-roads. Here we turn to the left and go down what we call a 'loke' in local parlance—in other words a cul-de-sac. And now, over there, you can see the chimney of my domicile. It only boasts of one. The other belongs to my good friend and neighbour the afore-mentioned Mrs. Palling, a most refreshing person whose acquaintance you should certainly make. She would amuse you. She is great on signs and portents, and won't even make a loaf of bread unless the moment is favourable. Her favourite hobby is 'Bees,' but I shouldn't use the word 'hobby,' I should rather say they are her household deities. She consults them about every detail, and informs them of every occurrence. I only trust they have permitted her to keep my fire burning, and then you shall soon have a cup of tea."

The sandy track along which they were passing—it could hardly be called a road—ended abruptly in a tiny open space with a grove of trees upon one side and a sandpit on the other. In the centre was a pond, shrunken at this season of the year to most diminutive proportions; so much so, indeed, that it barely served for the ablutions of some half-a-dozen ducks, who hustled and jostled one another angrily in their efforts to perform their toilet.

Several stout poles supported a varied assortment of washing, which Isabella pointed out with a smile.

"I will not apologise for the publicity of our domestic arrangements," she said. "It used to distress me at first to see my most intimate garments hanging in such close proximity to the well-worn unmentionables of the redoubtable Mr. Palling, but I have got over that. I did mention it to his wife, who failed to understand my scruples, and replied, 'They meets in the washtub, and why not on the line?' and in truth, why not? But here we are arrived at last."

The donkey pulled up at the gate of one of a pair of cottages which stood at the further end of the little green, and Philippa gave an exclamation of pleasure and surprise. "Oh," she cried, "but this is perfectly charming!"

"Wait until you get inside the gate, and then I do think you will say that my retreat is not ill-chosen," answered Isabella with a smile.

At this moment the door of the next cottage opened, and a woman came running out. "Well now," she cried in a hearty voice, "didn't I say just that same thing to Palling when he comed for his bit o' dinner? Them bees, they've been that excited all day, I knew that couldn't mean nothing but a visitor. They know when a stranger comes about as well as well. Never you think about the dinkie, ma'm, I'll see to he. Jes' you go right in. The kettle, that have been on the boil a-waitin' this hour or more; for them bees, they told me you'd be bringin' a visitor back with you as certain as anythin'. Pallin', he said to I, 'Where's a visitor comin' from, I'd like to know?' But Pallin', he ain't no believer; he wouldn't believe he was dying not unless he woke up an' found himself dead—that he wouldn't."

"I'll promise to believe anything the bees tell you if only you will get us a cup of tea," interrupted Isabella, cutting short the stream of the good woman's volubility. "Now come in," she continued, taking Philippa's arm.

They walked up the narrow flagged pathway, at the end of which two bushes of yew, neatly clipped, stood like sentries on either side of the doorway, where the overhanging thatch hung low, with a patch of golden houseleek glowing like a jewel upon its weather-stained and varied tones.

The interior was small and low, but it was evident from its look of comfort that affectionate care and good taste had been lavished upon its simple furnishing. On the walls, which were plainly distempered a light colour, hung a few photographs of well-known pictures. A sofa and one or two easy-chairs covered with a pretty chintz, an oak table shining with age and the results of Mrs. Palling's energetic polishing, a few pieces of cottage china and various trifles which spoke of travel in far lands—these and a number of books formed all the furniture of the simple apartment.

In the wall, opposite to the one by which they had entered, was a door hung with a curtain of Chinese embroidery, its once brilliant hues now faded to tender purples and greys, and Isabella stepped forward and pulled it aside.

"Ah," she said, in reply to Philippa's murmur of admiration, "this is nothing. Wait until you see what I am going to show you."

She opened the door and Philippa passed through it, and then stood quite still, struck dumb by the beauty of the scene before her. She found herself standing in a low space—it could not exactly be called a verandah, for it was evidently a part of the original building, perhaps a shed of some kind, and it was under the shelter of the thatch, but the outer wall had been entirely removed and replaced by two stout oaken pillars, which in no way impeded the view. Before her stretched the wide expanse of Bessmoor, glimmering and gorgeous with heather, while far away in the distance was the blue line of the sea.

Immediately in front of the building was a small garden where lilies, blue delphiniums, lupins and other old-fashioned flowers were in bloom, but no fence or hedge divided it from the moorland, which ran like a purple wave right up to the flower border.

"Sit down," said Isabella. "Sit down and gloat over the wonder of it, as I do. I am very rich, am I not, with a vision like this ever before my eyes? Now you see why I told you that I spent my life on the moor. It was literally true, for I live in the very heart of it, don't I?"

"However did you manage to discover such a wonderful spot?" asked Philippa at last.

"Quite by accident. I had a longing to re-visit scenes which I had known very well many years ago, and I planned a solitary tour, and rode my bicycle all over this part of the country. One day I just happened to see in the distance the smoke curling out of a chimney, and some impulse made me turn off the road to explore. I found these two cottages and Mrs. Palling, and it ended in my coming to live here. At first for a year or more I lodged with her next door. This side was occupied by some people who moved away later on, and about the same time the little property was put up for sale, and I bought it. It is my very own, and you cannot wonder that I am proud of it. Then I altered this side to suit myself, and Mrs. Palling continued to look after me; the cooking is all done next door, and she saves me all trouble."

"It was a stroke of genius—this arrangement, I mean. How did you think of it?"

"We are sitting in what corresponds to Mrs. Palling's wash-house," returned Isabella, laughing. "Only, I knocked the outside wall down, much to the dismay of the good lady and of the local carpenter whom I employed. I am sure they thought I was a little mad. What sane person would think of living in a room without a wall? Mrs. Palling did not express her opinion quite in those words, but that was what she meant. I live out here, and have all my meals here, and sometimes, to tell you the truth, I sleep here."

"But what about the winter?"

"If it is too desperately cold I retire into the parlour, but there really is hardly a day in the whole year that I do not spend some hours here. But here comes the tea."

"Well, well," said Mrs. Palling, as she set down the tray on a table in front of Isabella. "That means it's gone, for sure."

"Means what?" asked Isabella in surprise.

"I was just a-liftin' the kettle off," said the good lady, speaking quite cheerfully, "when a little coffin that jumped out of the fire—just as plain as plain—a little small thing that were. And that means, for sure, that Mrs. Milsom's eighth is gone. I did hear as how that were wonderful sickly, and no doubt but what that's all for the best. 'Tisn't as if she hadn't plenty more."

"You are a heartless woman," cried Isabella. "What grudge do you bear Mrs. Milsom's eighth that you speak so cheerfully of its early demise? It can't be more than ten days old at the most, for it certainly seems no time since a cradle jumping out of the fire announced its undesired arrival. Think of the poor mother's feelings. Mothers as a race have an unfortunate tendency to value their offspring, even when, as in this case, the supply exceeds the demand."

Mrs. Palling seemed rather doubtful as to whether Isabella was not, in her own phraseology, making game of her, for she was silent for a moment, and then repeated positively—

"That were a coffin, sure enough. Wonderful small that were. I'll be goin' over presently. But if some folks won't believe I don't feel no manner of doubt but what that's true," and so saying she departed.

Isabella laughed. "You must forgive Mrs. Palling," she said. "She is an excellent, hard-working woman, and most kind-hearted, although perhaps she hasn't given you that impression. Now let us have our tea comfortably."



CHAPTER IX

A SQUARE IN THE PATCHWORK

"Reading into the Unknown Hopes that we have long outgrown. Weaving into the Unseen Tidings of the Might-have-Been."—S. R. LYSAGHT.

"What do you do for companionship?" asked Philippa presently. "Don't you find it a little lonely here sometimes?"

"Yes, I am lonely sometimes. There is no use in denying it," answered Isabella. "But I am not more lonely here than I should be anywhere else. Some people are born to be alone, it seems to me; it must just be accepted as a fact and made the best of. But I lead a very busy life in my own way, and I have plenty of books, as you see."

"Oh," cried Philippa, as she turned to a small bookcase which stood close at hand, "I see you have some of Ian Verity's books. Do you like them? My father was particularly fond of them, and we read most of them together. His writing appeals to me tremendously. I have fought more than one battle on his behalf with people who say he is too hard on women, and that some of his characters are overdrawn. Do you know him?"

"Yes, I think I may say that I know him pretty well," replied the other quietly.

"I should very much like to meet him," continued Philippa. "I should so like to ask him why he wrote The Millstone, for, although I won't let any one say a word against him, I do think in my heart that he made a mistake—that his point of view was a little distorted, I mean. It was so tragically sad."

"There is usually a strong element of tragedy in everyday life for those who have eyes to see it, and it is just the story of a plain woman. And there is not the slightest doubt that a woman without a share, at any rate, of good looks, is as a rule handicapped. She hasn't the same start in life as the others. To a woman, beauty is the very greatest asset."

"Oh, surely not the greatest," objected Philippa. "Looks are of no importance compared with attributes of the mind—intellect, sympathy."

"Oh yes, they are. Those things come later in life, but they will very seldom help a woman to what she wants when she is young. A woman wants exactly those things which a man wants to find in her; and what a man wants is a pretty face, and the happy assurance of manner which it gives its possessor. What man ever gave a second glance at a plain girl, however intelligent, if there was a pretty one in the room? Later on in life, I grant you, a plain woman may gain a place by what you call attributes of the mind, but it won't be the same; her youth will be over, and youth is the time."

"Evidently you agree with Ian Verity," said Philippa.

Isabella looked up, "Oh yes," she said, "of course I agree—because I am Ian Verity."

"You are Ian Verity!" repeated the girl in astonishment.

The other nodded.

"Yes, but until this minute not a soul knew it except my publisher."

"But every one thinks a man wrote the books."

"Let them continue to think so," said Isabella easily. "I don't mind. As a matter of fact I had no intention of deceiving any one when I published my first book under my initials only, but they all jumped to the conclusion that I. V. was a man; and when, later, my publisher thought it would be better for me to take a name instead of initials only, I saw no reason to undeceive the world at large, and chose a name to fit the letters."

"I think it is wonderful," said Philippa, after a slight pause. "I cannot tell you how interested I am. When I think of the times without number that my father and I tried to build up a personality for the writer from the books, and the intense interest we took in him, and now to find that after all, if he had but known it, it was an old friend of his who wrote them and not a 'he' at all."

"I am glad he liked my books. I wonder if he thought The Millstone true to life," she said musingly. "I think, somehow, that he would have understood. Oh yes, it is true to life, my dear. I have been a plain woman, and I ought to know."

"But how can you say that beauty is everything when you have such a wonderful gift? It is no small thing to be Ian Verity, and bring pleasure to thousands."

"That may be so. I grant you that is the case. But it has come too late to give me the joy of youth. I am not holding it lightly, do not think so for a moment. It is everything to me now—or nearly everything—but it did not help me to climb the heights, it only makes my journey across the plains fuller and brighter. Oh," she cried, with a sudden ring of feeling in her voice, "if I had a daughter I know what I should say to her. If she was pretty I would say, 'My dear, make the very most of your looks and of your time. Don't try to be clever, because you are probably a fool, but that doesn't matter. Keep your mouth shut, and look all the brilliant things you haven't the wit to say.' And if she were ugly I would say, 'For heaven's sake be amusing, and cultivate the gift of patience, and don't hope for the impossible.'" Isabella smiled. "Why did no one give me any good advice when I was young, I wonder? When I think of what I was as a girl—shy, awkward, and insufferably dull! I was unselfish. Oh yes, revoltingly unselfish. So pitifully anxious to please that I couldn't have said Boo to a goose, if I could have found a bigger one than myself, which is extremely doubtful. In fact, I was thoroughly worthy; and, my dear, God help the girl to whom her friends apply that adjective."

She leaned forward, clasping her knees with her hands, and with her eyes fixed on the distant heathland. She spoke without a trace of bitterness. "One day, it is very long ago now, but I have not forgotten, I happened to overhear a conversation which was not intended for my ears. I heard my name mentioned, and I heard some one answer, 'Isabella! Oh, we all love old Isabella—she is just like a nice sandy cat.' And the person who said that was the one whose opinion I valued more than anything else in the wide world. That remark showed me exactly where I stood, it left no loophole for self-deception. A man does not want to marry a sandy cat."

Philippa could not help smiling at Isabella's tone. "A very pleasant companion for the fireside," she said decidedly.

"That may be; but who thinks of the fireside when the sun is shining, and spring is in the air and in the blood? Not a bit of it. It is human nature—beauty rules the world, and it does not matter whether the particular world she rules over is large or small, her dominion is the same. Beauty is queen, and although her reign may be short it is absolute. The queen can do no wrong."

Isabella spoke half jestingly, and Philippa thought of her conversation with the doctor and his judgment, or rather his vindication, of a beautiful woman. It seemed a proof in favour of the argument.

"And so," continued the other, "like the fool I was, instead of proving that I was something more than a hearthrug ornament, I shut up at that remark, and retired still further into my shell. I stayed there for a long time. The years passed, and youth with them, and then, one day, when I had learned quite a few lessons, I realised that the years which rob us so in passing throw us a few compensations in return for all the wealth they steal, and that although the pattern had all gone wrong, still, there was no sense in leaving my particular square of the patchwork with the edges all frayed. So I took my brains off the shelf and dusted them, with a very fair result on the whole. If I had been a man in a novel I should of course have gone to the New Forest, and lived the simple life in sandals and few clothes, subsisting mainly on nuts; but as I was a woman in real life, with an honest contempt for what some one has called the widowhood of the unsatisfied, I settled down here. For reasons of my own I wanted to be in this part of the world. To me there is ever a healing strength in wide spaces, and Bessmoor has been my best friend. And if the leaves of memory make a rustling at times, I am glad of it. I do not want to forget. By this I do not mean I spend my time in weaving withered wreaths for the past—I don't; but I do not forget. And I sit here, writing very busily, secure in the sheltering personality of the mythical Ian Verity, firing broadsides at a patient public, giving them the truth as I see it, whether they want it or not. They don't want it, but most of the things we don't want are good for us, which is one of the disagreeable axioms of nursery days. I disguise it sometimes, just as my old nurse wrapped the powder in a spoonful of raspberry jam out of the pot which was kept for the purpose on the right-hand corner of the mantelpiece in the night nursery—I can see it now. But sometimes they have got to swallow it pur et simple, just as it is."

"It is very difficult to know what is the truth," said Philippa slowly; "the truth as regards our own actions, I mean. We cannot always judge of the truth of them ourselves."

"It is very difficult. And after all, though we sit here glibly talking of it, what is truth? It is not easy to define. Dictionaries will tell you that it is the agreement of our notions with the reality of things, but that is hardly an answer, for what is the reality of things? Who can arrive at it? Ten people may witness some occurrence—a fire, an accident, what you will—and yet, if questioned, not more than two at most will give the same account of the happening. Their versions will probably be entirely contradictory in detail, and yet they may each be under the impression that they are speaking the truth, giving each an honest description of their notion of the reality of things. Of course this is a very different matter to deliberately stating what you know to be untrue; and yet, do you know, I can easily imagine circumstances where even that would be the only possible course. You have probably heard the story of the soldier who was court-martialed for cowardice on the field of battle. I think it was in the Peninsular War, but I have forgotten. Anyway, the man was accused of having hidden himself in some safe place until all danger was over. He turned to his officer after hotly denying the accusation, and said, 'You know I was in the thick of it, sir. Why, I shouted to you and you answered me. You must remember.' Well, the officer had absolutely no recollection of it, and yet it was quite possible that the man's story was true and that he had forgotten. Think of the excitement of the moment. Memory plays strange tricks at such a time. Everything depended on his answer, for the man would undoubtedly be shot if he could not prove his innocence, and the officer lied unhesitatingly. 'I remember perfectly,' he said. 'You were there.' What would you have done?"

"I should have done the same," said Philippa quickly.

"So should I," agreed Isabella. "I am absolutely certain of it. But I don't know that that proves the morality of it. Ours is a woman's point of view, and I am not at all sure that there isn't some foundation for the statement that a woman's idea of honour is easier than a man's. It is a humiliating reflection. And yet, notwithstanding that, I still feel that if such a thing as a human life depended on my lying I should lie. And I don't think I should have any fear of the slate of the recording angel either. I am afraid you will be shocked at these unorthodox opinions, and consider me a dangerous acquaintance, but I can assure you that I am generally considered a truthful person Fortunately these stern tests to my veracity do not occur every day."

Philippa laughed. "I am not afraid," she said.

At this moment Mrs. Palling reappeared. "Didn't I say that were true?" she announced triumphantly. "That poor little thing's gone. Milsom's Jimmy jus' come up to tell me. You haven't got such a thing as a bit o' crape about you, have you, miss? I'm sorry to trouble you, but I haven't a scrap left."

"I am afraid I haven't," replied Isabella. "Does Mrs. Milsom want crape?"

"Why no, ma'm. Crape ain't for her as would be more likely to be wantin' bread-an'-butter; but I did think I'd like just to take a bit to them bees. 'Tis real important to let them know when there's a death about, and I always like just to tie a bit o' crape on the hives, if you would be so good."

Isabella preserved a solemnity of manner suitable to the occasion, but her mouth twitched with hardly suppressed laughter as she regretted her inability to comply with the request, but suggested that a piece of black ribbon which she happened to possess would perhaps do as well.

Mrs. Palling seemed a little doubtful at first as to whether the bees might not consider this exchange in the light of an attempt to defraud them of their just due; but after some consideration she assented, and departed in search of the mark of complimentary mourning. At the door she paused, and looking back, she said with a low triumphant chuckle—

"I knew 'twere true. Didn't I say so?"

"'Truth is the agreement of our notions with the reality of things,'" quoted Isabella, laughing. "There you have it plainly demonstrated."

"I must go now," said Philippa, rising. "I have to thank you for a very delightful afternoon."

"I only hope it may be the first of many others," answered Isabella warmly. "I should like to try and persuade you to stay longer, but if you really cannot do so I will get the cart ready and drive you back. You will come again, won't you?" she added earnestly.

This Philippa was only too glad to promise, and a few minutes later they were proceeding across the moor at the same dignified pace at which they had travelled on their outward journey.



CHAPTER X

THE MAJOR'S VISIT

"Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed."—Gareth and Lynette.

Major William Heathcote stood, with his feet firmly planted rather wide apart, on the hearthrug of his library at Bessacre High House, in the proverbial attitude which Englishmen assume when they are giving their opinion with what may, without prejudice, be called decision. It is possible that he had taken up this attitude as being the nearest approach possible under the circumstances to the strategic position known as "back to the wall." His face was stern, and now and again he emphasised a remark by drumming with his right hand upon the palm of his left. His voice was not raised, but his words came cuttingly, and it was evident that they were prompted by something very near to cold anger.

The other occupant of the room, for there were only two, was Doctor Robert Gale, who was doing a quick quarter-deck march between the door and the window, his face set, his chin pushed forward, tugging persistently at his ragged beard, first with one hand and then with the other. He did not seem to be angry, merely impatient and very obstinate.

"I cannot permit it," the Major was saying, "The whole scheme is preposterous; it is grossly unfair—first of all on poor Francis himself——"

"Pshaw!" said the doctor.

"You talk about shock," continued the other without noticing the interruption, "but the shock will be much more severe when he finds out the truth—and secondly to Miss Harford. You had no right to suggest such a course. She is young, and a visitor in my house. Now do just think reasonably for a moment." The Major's voice took a more persuasive tone. "Granted that Miss Harford's sympathy leads her to agree with your suggestion, where is it going to end? How can you hope that such a course of deception can possibly bring any real happiness to poor Francis? Your medical mind sees nothing but the one point, which is—life at all cost—anything to prolong life—while there is life there is hope. I know all the clauses of your creed."

"Aye!" said the doctor, vehemently—he almost shouted the word—"you are right. It is my creed, and I'm here to carry it out. Any step that will prolong life it is my duty to take. And I know—I know—that any attempt to upset Francis Heathcote's belief that it is Philippa Harford come back again will result in his death. It will kill him."

He took his watch out of his pocket and noted the time, and as he did so the door opened and Philippa Harford the second walked into the room.

Major Heathcote moved to meet her. "You did not expect to see me," he said. "But I had a letter from the doctor here, telling me of Francis's—illness—and I came at once."

"How is your boy?" asked Philippa. "I do hope you and Marion are less anxious."

"He is doing pretty well, but there must be anxiety for some days yet, I fear," was his reply. "Certain complications have arisen which must make his recovery slow, but we have every reason to be hopeful. It is not, however, to talk about Dickie that I came to-day, but about yourself, and to express my sincere regret that you should have been placed in a position so complicated and so difficult while in my house. Will you sit down?"

Philippa seated herself. "I had an appointment with the doctor for eleven o'clock," she said quietly. "I hope I have not kept you waiting." She turned to Dr. Gale as she spoke.

He shook his head. He was watching the girl with the greatest attention, striving to read the verdict which he awaited with very evident anxiety. He could read nothing from her face. It told him nothing.

"Dr. Gale has told me," began the Major, speaking rather quickly, "of your meeting with Francis Heathcote, and the most unfortunate mistake he has made as to your identity. I cannot tell you how deeply grieved I am that this has happened. He has also told me of the very extraordinary change which that meeting has brought about in Francis' mental condition. Up to this point I can only be truly grateful to you for your kindness and sympathy with one whose life has been so pitiably wrecked, but beyond this—well, it is a very different matter. I understand the doctor has suggested to you that you should allow Francis to remain under this mistake—that you should visit him, and to all intents and purposes be the person he takes you for. The reason he gives me for asking this of you is, that any unhappiness or mental disquiet would in his opinion be fatal to Francis in his present state of weakness. The doctor also tells me that he cannot in the least tell whether his patient will recover, even with all the care and affection which could be given him. Now I must most earnestly point out to you the difficulties—in fact the undesirability of your doing what has been suggested.

"God knows I pity poor Francis with all my heart. There is nothing I would not do to bring him a moment's happiness, but I cannot let you, a stranger, be drawn into the affair. It is quite impossible! I am sure that you, in your goodness of heart, would do anything in your power for any one who was suffering, but you do not realise what it means."

He paused, and waited for Philippa to speak, but finding that she sat silent, he continued.

"In the first place it is deception. Yes, it is," he repeated in answer to a mutter from the doctor. "It is deception. You allow him to believe what is not true. In plain words you act a lie. Can any possible good come from such a course? In the second, can you do it? Picture to yourself what it will be. You will be the affianced wife of a man whom you do not know, and if you are to act the part in such a way as to make it in the least realistic, you must be on more than friendly terms with him. You must show a certain warmth of manner, to say the least of it, in response to his demonstrations of affection. Philippa, you can't do it! You can't! Imagine yourself in such a position." Again he paused, and again she did not speak.

"I wish you would tell me what is in your mind. You know the whole sad story. Can it be possible that there is some quixotic notion in your head that it is for you to heal a wound for which one of your family was responsible? Oh, surely not! And yet, you women are so fond of anything like self-sacrifice that it is impossible to fathom the motives that drive you into folly: generous, well-meant folly, but folly all the same. You have no one here to advise you, and I beg you to be guided by me. You are not really called upon to do this thing. It is undesirable—it is not right."

He stopped speaking at last. It was useless to continue to argue with a person who could not apparently be moved by anything he said.

The doctor stepped forward. "Miss Harford," he said abruptly, "you have heard Major Heathcote's side of the question; you already know the other. As I told you before, we are in your hands. What are you going to do?" Strive as he would he could not keep the note of anxiety out of his voice.

Philippa's next words were a surprise to both men, but the doctor was the first to understand her intention, and his face brightened visibly.

She turned to the Major. "How long is it since you have seen—Francis?" she asked him.

"I——" he replied, rather taken aback, "I think it must be about a fortnight."

"Will you go and see him now—and then when you have spoken to him, will you come back to me here?"

"Certainly, if you wish it," he replied wonderingly.

The doctor led the way and the Major followed him, and they walked up-stairs without speaking.

Philippa moved to the window, and stood there looking out, her hands lightly clasped in front of her—motionless, her eyes gazing across the sunlit park.

And so she waited, until after the lapse of about ten minutes the two men returned.

As they entered the room she stepped quickly forward, and before either of them could speak she said—

"Before you say anything, I want to tell you that I have quite decided. Thank you," she made a gesture to the Major, "for all you said. I know you mean to be kind, in telling me of the difficulties, but I have quite decided. If it is a mistake—well, I am content to abide by it; but as it seems possible for me to bring a little happiness to Francis, I am going to do it."

This time it was the Major who did not answer. He was standing by the fireplace with his eyes on the hearthstone, and his face was working under the stress of some emotion. In his hand he held a small bunch of violets.

"God bless you," said the doctor softly. Then with a quick change of tone he added, "We'll save him yet. Please God we'll save him yet."

Then he drew Philippa to one side, and began to give her some instructions, and some professional details as to the condition of his patient, to which the girl listened attentively.

"At five o'clock this evening I'll come and take you to him," he said presently. "I can only allow you to stay a few moments, and I need hardly impress on you the strict necessity that he should not be allowed to excite himself in any way. But I do not think we shall have any trouble of that kind, for I have already warned him about it. I must go now. You may expect me at five this afternoon."

"I wish Marion were here." The Major turned to Philippa when they were left alone. "I think in a case like this a woman might know what to say to you. I have said all I can, haven't I?"

"You have said all you can, but—I think you saw for yourself, didn't you?"

He nodded. "Poor chap!" he said, with real feeling in his voice. "It is a wonderful change."

"He knew you?"

"Apparently; although, of course, he may have thought I was my father. We had the same name. He looks frightfully ill—more so than he did when he was walking about his rooms—but he spoke as sensibly as you or I."

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'That you, Bill?' when I came into the room. 'I've had rather a nasty turn, but I'm on the mend now. How is Phil? That ruffian has been keeping her away for a day or two, but he says I may see her soon now. Will you give her my dear love?' And then he looked round for the violets which were beside his bed. 'Give her these, will you, old fellow, and tell her I shall see her as soon as I can get on the soft side of old Rob.' He does not look to me as if he could live long."

"Then we will make him happy, until—as long as he lives. Do not trouble any more about it—my share of it, I mean. Just try and think of me as if I were really Phil, not Philippa any more. Will you help me?"

"I wish Marion were here," repeated the Major earnestly. "But it is impossible; she cannot leave the boy. And I cannot leave her, for she is nearly worn out with nursing and anxiety."

"I think it is really better that I should be here alone," returned Philippa. "It makes it all easier, I think."

"As you are going to carry this through," he said after a while, "I will give you some letters and papers I have, which may help you. I will fetch them."

He returned after a few minutes with a dispatch box in his hand, which he laid on a table beside her. "In this you will find Philippa Harford's letters, and also a number written by Francis when they were engaged. You had better read them. You have a right to do so. My grandmother put them all together and gave them to me. Poor old soul, I wonder what she would say if she were here to-day. I have no doubt she would see the matter in the same light as you do. What I should like to know is this: How much has Francis known of all that has passed in the last twenty years? Has he any notion of time? Has he noticed the alteration in people's appearance, I mean? Has he noticed that they have grown older? People he has seen constantly like Robert Gale and old Goodman. Does he know his mother is dead? Has he missed her? Oh, there are half-a-hundred things one wants to know."

"We can only hope that he will never ask," returned Philippa gently. "It will be much happier for him if he takes everything just as it is, and doesn't puzzle over anything. The doctor tells me he is not fit to talk very much—that he must be kept absolutely quiet. I am only to go and sit with him, and not to talk more than I can help. Will you give my best love to Marion, and do not let her worry about anything here? She has so much to trouble her as it is. I do hope you will be able to give me better news soon."

"Let me know if you want me, or if there is any change," he said as they parted. "I will come at any time."

Philippa spent the afternoon in her own room with the dispatch-box by her side, going systematically through the contents.

These consisted of two packets of letters, one very small, merely some half-dozen in all, tied round with a faded piece of pink ribbon—Phil's letters to Francis. The other a thick bundle held together by a piece of red tape—his letters to her.

A small cardboard box containing a ring—a half-hoop of diamonds—a glove, and a bunch of violets faded and dry almost beyond recognition, yet faintly fragrant. A pitiful collection truly, telling plainly of a love story of other days.

Philippa read the letters with a shrinking at her heart, and yet it was absolutely necessary that she should learn all there was to know as to the relations in which these two had stood, the one to the other—not before the public, but in their intimate revealings. Those of the man were closely written and long—outpourings of an affection which carried all before it. The earlier ones—for Philippa placed them in consecutive order—were full, brimful, of joy, of triumph and satisfaction; but in the later ones, while affection was in no way lessened, there was something of appeal—or so it seemed to her as she studied them. An undercurrent as it were of longing, a desire to make the recipient understand the depth of love—to get below the surface, to obtain some deeper expression of confidence in return.

This was particularly evident in one letter. The writer commenced by imploring pardon for some offence which had been unintentional. He dwelt upon the strength of his love—of his desire for her happiness. Would she ever understand what she was to him—what his love meant? and so on, and so on. A deep sincerity burnt in every line. And Philippa turned to the other packet, to find, if she could, the answer; for it was such a letter as must have drawn a reply in the same strain from the woman to whom it was addressed. It was an appeal from the heart, such as no woman with any love for the writer could withstand.

By comparing the dates she found it. It was a hurried scrawl, and read as follows—

"DEAREST FRANCIS,

"I have just had your letter. I never knew such an old boy as you are to worry your head about nothing. Of course I love you. Why do you want me to go on repeating it? But I can't stand heroics, or see any sense in them. I am having a jolly time here. We went to the Milchester races yesterday, and had a very good day. Forest has got a young chestnut that jumps like a stag, I wish you had been there to see it. It would make a first-class hunter, after you'd handled it a bit, and I could do with another if we are going to be at Bessacre next season.

"I shall see you on Friday. Post just going.

"Best love.

"PHIL."

Philippa wondered whether the heart of the man had taken comfort from the phrase, "I wish you had been there to see." It was rather like giving a crumb to one who demanded bread; but after all, she told herself, she had not known the writer, and many people have no aptitude for expressing their feelings on paper; and although the woman's letters were not particularly affectionate and showed a want of deep feeling, still, there was a certain insouciance, a gaiety about them which was far from unpleasing. It was only that as love-letters they were hardly satisfactory.

It also struck Philippa, as she thought them carefully over, that if her aunt had not felt for Francis the true love of a lover, that high essential essence which turns all to pure gold, she might easily have missed the appeal in them—might even have been frankly bored by them. To one whose heart could not respond to their very evident sincerity they might easily have appeared 'high-falutin'. She herself did not find them so, far from it—she found them inexpressibly touching; but then she knew the story of the man who had waited, and could not fail to be influenced by it.

On the whole, what she gleaned from the perusal of these records out of the past tended, she thought, to make her task the easier, for Phil had clearly disliked and discouraged any very demonstrative affection, and as to the rest she felt no anxiety. She was ready and able, she knew, to give Francis all he could need of cheerful companionship, to make the days pass happily, to minister to him in his weakness. She had some experience of sick people and their needs, a natural aptitude for nursing, and an instinct as to the right thing to say and do in response to their demands. Also there were the services of the trained nurse to fall back on, and on her would rest the actual responsibility of the case.

Again she told herself that all she had to do was to remember that she was playing a part; she had only to forget herself and centre her whole mind on the role she had undertaken. Above all, she must not look forward, for no amount of peering could throw light on what the future would bring; sufficient for her to make sure that her particular little square in life's patchwork, as Isabella had called it, was not left with frayed edges. She had a definite task to perform, that of bringing happiness into the last days of a fellow-creature.

So she thought, and so she reasoned, but whether her reasoning was sound she did not stop to consider. Nor if she had done so would she have found it easy to bring a level judgment to bear upon the matter. As she had said to Isabella, it was very difficult to know what was truth when it came to the motives that prompted actions, and there was in her inmost heart the echo of a voice which in some measure deafened her to the calm tones of cold reason.



CHAPTER XI

VIOLETS

"And to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth And that was shining on him."—BYRON.

Punctually at five o'clock Philippa walked out of her room and along the corridor. She was so perfectly familiar with the plan of the house by this time, that there was no likelihood of her mistaking the way which led to the room which she had only discovered by such a slight and, after all, very natural accident on a former occasion.

At the door she found Doctor Gale awaiting her. He came to meet her, scanning her appearance closely.

The girl had put on a soft, light gown, and in her breast, as once before, she had fastened the bunch of violets with the little pearl heart brooch. She had debated in her own mind as to whether she should put on the ring which she had found in the dispatch-box—as to whether it was necessary to dress the part with such a strict regard for detail; but a strong disinclination urged her against it, and yet at the time she had wondered why such a small thing should be so against the grain when others so much more important were unconsidered. It was very like the proverbial "straining at a gnat to swallow a camel." Be this as it might, she had replaced the ring where she found it and locked the box again.

"The likeness is extraordinary," muttered the doctor, half to himself.

He seemed nervous and ill at ease, as he opened the door of the sitting-room and preceded Philippa.

"I will go first if you will allow me," he said.

A screen had been placed at the entrance, and it was not until she had passed round it that Philippa realised she was in the presence of the man she had come to see. The sofa had been drawn forward and he was lying on it, propped up with pillows. The nurse was sitting beside him.

"I have redeemed my promise," said the doctor cheerfully. "I have brought Miss Harford to see you. But she must only stay a few minutes, and less than that if you don't obey orders and keep quiet."

It struck Philippa that he was speaking in order to give her time to decide on her first words, and needlessly so, for she was conscious of no trace of nervousness. She was looking straight at Francis, whose eyes were fixed upon her with the look of joy and welcome she had seen in them before, as she stepped quickly forward.

"Ah!" she said, "I did not expect to see you on the sofa. It must mean that you are better."

She spoke quite simply, and with just the warmth of manner one would use to an intimate friend under similar circumstances.

He held out his hands and she laid both hers in his. Then she turned and thanked the nurse who had vacated her chair, and sat down beside the couch.

Dr. Gale was addressing the nurse. "Go out and take a walk," he was saying. "I thought we should have rain this morning, but now the clouds have disappeared and the sun is shining."

As they left the room together, Francis raised Philippa's hands and kissed them, first one and then the other.

"The clouds have disappeared, and the sun is shining," he repeated softly; "for you are here. Oh, my sweet! what it is to see you again!"

"You are really feeling better?" she asked.

"Ever so much stronger," he assured her, "and the sight of you will complete the cure. I ought to be well shaken for giving you such a lot of trouble and anxiety, oughtn't I? But I'll make up for it, my darling; I promise I will. Give me just a little time to get quite well and strong; I shall not be a bother for long. Old Rob says he can make a job of me. Then you shall see what care I will take of you. You are looking thinner. It must have been a dull time for you, but we'll make up for it all by and by."

"You mustn't think of anything except getting well again," she said.

"You will stay here?" he asked, with a note of anxiety in his voice.

"The doctor said I might stay a few minutes."

"I don't mean that—I mean, you will stay at Bessacre."

"Certainly I will stay just as long as you want me," she answered quickly.

He leaned back on his pillows. "I was so afraid that you might not be able to stay—that you might have some other engagement. I had an idea that you were going to Scotland. It is sweet of you to stay with me. I must confess that the thought of losing you was troubling me."

"I have no intention of going to Scotland, I am going to stay here."

"And I may see you every day?"

"Every day, unless the doctor forbids."

"Oh, hang old Rob," he said gaily. "You have taken the very last load off my mind. Together we will rout him, you and I. Oh, Phil, my darling! how soon do you think I shall be able to get out of doors? I want to feel the fresh air of Bessmoor and ride for miles, just you and I together, with the wind in our faces."

"You must get stronger first, for you look as if the wind on Bessmoor would blow you away altogether."

"Yes, I don't feel quite like getting on a horse yet—or, in fact, like doing anything at all except sitting here with you. When will you sing to me again, Phil?"

"Any time you like," she replied. "But not to-day, because I think the authorities might object. Wait a day or two."

He lay for a while silent, evidently feeling more feeble than he cared to acknowledge, and Philippa watched him.

He was very pale now that the flush which had come into his face from the excitement of seeing her had faded, but knowing as she did that he was a man of over five-and-forty, he looked extraordinarily young.

His hair was white, it was true, but it had all the appearance of being prematurely so, and it seemed out of keeping with his skin, which was smooth and unlined. His eyes were clear and bright, almost like those of a boy; while there was a ring, a freshness in his voice which was much more in accord with early manhood than with maturity. His weakness was very evident to her observant eyes, but she saw also that he was by nature one of those in whom the spirit would always rise above bodily weakness, and in whom distress of mind would destroy more inevitably than bodily ailment. It was easy to see reason in the doctor's statement that in his present condition any disappointment would be fatal. He was upheld by his heart's joy in their reunion.

Certain words came into the girl's mind, although where she had heard them or read them she could not remember—

"Love is a flame, and at that flame I light my torch of life."

The torch was burning with a clear white light, but the end of light would mean also the end of life. Quite involuntarily she gave a little sigh for the pity of it all, and in a second he opened his eyes, which had been closed.

"Don't sigh, my sweet," he said tenderly; "I cannot bear you should be unhappy for a moment, especially when I know you are unhappy because of me."

"I am not unhappy," she replied. "Did I sigh? If so it was quite unconsciously. Perhaps you should rest a little now. Don't you think you could sleep? I think the doctor would feel I had been here long enough."

"You will come again soon?" he pleaded.

"To-morrow," she said, rising. "Now, mind, you are not to doubt or to worry yourself. I shall come to-morrow, and every day so long as you want me. To-morrow I will read to you if you ought not to talk, and I shall hope to see you ever so much stronger." She paused. This was the difficult moment, and she was quite aware of it.

He took her hands and kissed them as before, and then, stooping lower in response to the unspoken appeal which she read in his eyes, she kissed him on the forehead.

"Heart's dearest!" he murmured fondly. "How good you are to me!"

"Sleep well," she said, as lightly as she could as she stepped softly from the room.

The doctor was waiting outside. "Is he quiet?" he asked anxiously.

"Perfectly quiet, and, I think, inclined to sleep," she answered. "I have promised him to come again to-morrow."

"You might come for a little while both morning and afternoon if he goes on all right. Will you see the nurse and arrange with her? She will know which is his best time."

Philippa said she would do so, and the doctor went in for a final look at his patient before leaving the house.

As the girl sat alone later in the evening, she pondered over the words Francis had spoken. That his memory had not failed in any detail within what might be termed the radius of his love story she was well aware. It had been further proved to-day; he had mentioned her singing. Fortunately that presented no difficulty to her, for, although she did not possess a voice in any way remarkable, still, she had been well trained and had sung a good deal in her father's lifetime. He had also spoken of riding, and of her going to Scotland. It might be that he remembered riding with her, and perhaps the first Philippa had arranged a visit to Scotland—she could not tell. But beyond this he had spoken of Bessacre and Bessmoor, giving the places their correct names without hesitating. She had always understood that the names of places presented the gravest difficulty to a memory in any way troubled or imperfect. Did this mean that his mind was perfectly clear upon all that had happened up to the time of the accident, but that from that moment all was darkness? This was frequently so in cases of concussion of the brain, as she knew, but against this explanation was the fact that he had recognised both the doctor and Mrs. Goodman. If he only remembered them as they were at the time of his accident, surely he would have made some comment on their altered appearance. It was this that puzzled—this that made the situation so complex.

She made a little plan of campaign in her mind—of books she would read with him, of various little things which she would order which might amuse him. The way bristled with pitfalls if once she allowed herself to consider them. Twenty years! How everything must have altered since then! For instance, how much had the ordinary everyday sights such as pass us every day without our giving them a thought changed in that time! Twenty years ago the motor-car was unknown, electric light was in its infancy. The Heathcotes had cars, but she remembered that Francis' room looked out on a part of the garden and that the drive was not visible from the windows. Therefore, although it was possible that he might have heard the sound of a horn or siren, he would never actually have seen a car. Electric light was installed in his room. She had no idea when this had been done, but he must be quite accustomed to it.

It was not until she began to sum them up that she realised how innumerable are the changes wrought by a couple of decades—in our habits, even in our speech. English 'as she is spoke' is a variable quantity, and the jargon of to-day is forgotten to-morrow. Philippa the first had mentioned in one of her letters that she was having "a jolly time." Well, "jolly" as an adjective is as dead as the dodo, and if the letter had been written by her to-day, she, being what she was, would undoubtedly have used the word "ripping."

Her namesake smiled to herself as she thought of it. Fortunately here again she was safe. Having lived so much abroad, and having spoken fluently in several languages, she had not contracted the habit of employing all the hundred-and-one words of current slang such as are on the lips of most young people.

On the whole, she decided it was useless to consider possible pitfalls. They did exist, but she must rely on her quickness and presence of mind, and hope to escape them.

After a while she summoned Mrs. Goodman and asked her help in the matter of songs. Could she tell her of any songs Francis had cared for particularly? The old woman looked puzzled at first, but after some reflection said that, in a lumber-room, there was a pile of music which had been cleared out of the library years ago. He always had his piano in the library, she explained, and it was there that he and Miss Philippa used to play and sing together. "The same piano stands in the morning-room now. I have so many things that were his. My lady told me to throw away his bats and racquets and such things, but I couldn't do it. And some of them he himself asked me to take care of for him, many years ago in his school-days. He probably forgot all about them, but they were safely kept. Will you come one day and see them, Miss Phil?"

The girl promised readily. She was only too anxious to learn all she could; every detail of his life, however seemingly unimportant, might be of help to her.

The old woman sat talking for a time, and then Philippa suggested that they should go together in search of the music.

Mrs. Goodman demurred, saying she feared the place might be dusty, for it was long since she visited it, and no one else had access to it; but Philippa laughingly overcame her scruples, and they mounted the stairs together.

The sun was low and it was growing dusk when they entered a rambling attic at the top of the house. It was filled with the heterogeneous collection of odds and ends such as accumulate in any large house—pieces of furniture, broken or too worn for use; pictures, some with frames and some without; toys, a nursery chair, and who knows what beside. Mrs. Goodman laid her hand on a rocking-horse which peered out of the gloom like some weird monster, head upreared and snorting fiercely.

"The Major told me nothing here need be disturbed," she said, with a little quiver in her voice. "He was always so fond of his horse." But in the latter part of her sentence it was clear that "he" was not the Major. The old woman stroked the battered steed tenderly. "It doesn't seem long since I saw him ride it," she went on; "sitting on it in his little holland blouse as proud as a prince. He was very small then, and as soon as he was old enough his mother gave him a pony. Gipsy, its name was. I shall never forget his delight."

"Have you known him ever since he was born?" asked Philippa gently.

"Very nearly," was the reply. "I knew Lady Louisa before she was married. My father was one of her father's oldest tenants. I was married some years before my lady, and lost both my husband and child. When Francis was born he wasn't very strong, and my lady engaged a nurse for him with the best possible recommendations, but she was no use and the child didn't thrive. My lady was very troubled about him—he was her only one, you see—and when the nurse proved so unsatisfactory she wrote to me and asked me to come.

"I remember her letter now. 'Will you come and help me to look after him?' she wrote, 'for I would rather he had your affection, Jane, than the wider experience of strangers. I know you will never neglect him, and can trust you.' So I came. He was about a year old—a tiny, weakly baby; but he throve wonderfully, although my lady used to say we were like two hens with one chick. She was very wise and would not let him be spoilt. His father died when he was about ten years old. He was much older than Lady Louisa and had been twice married, as I think I told you."

She paused for a few minutes and then resumed: "Francis was always so happy. It was his nature. Very high-spirited, and as a child very quick-tempered, but if he was angry it was just a flash, all over in a minute."

"Who has been nursing him in his illness?" asked Philippa.

"At first, of course, he had trained nurses, but later, when he could not be called ill in himself, he just had his own valet for some time. But after a while, to Lady Louisa's great distress, some one spread a report in the village that he was out of his mind, so she arranged that his rooms were to be quite separate. They were never entered by the house servants. I sent for a nephew of mine, a quiet, trustworthy man who I knew could keep his tongue in his head, and for years he has waited on him, and his wife has had charge of his rooms under my supervision. I have been to see him every day and seen to his comfort, but I am very old now and past work. If that were not so, should not I be nursing him now?" she asked sadly. "It is difficult to stand aside and watch others doing what you long to do yourself. But that must be in old age. It is years since he crossed the threshold of his own rooms, and I am sure there are people on the place now who don't know he lives here—so quiet was it kept, by my lady's wish. Oh," she cried tremulously, "if my dear lady could only be here to see the change in him!"

"You have seen him to-day?" asked Philippa. "How did you think he was looking?"

"He looks very ill," answered the old woman; "but he was quite his old self. He had some little joke ready for me. He was always full of fun. Isn't it wonderful? It seems just as if all those years had been wiped right off, as you would wipe a slate."

"Did he speak of old times?"

"Not exactly, but he was just having his breakfast as I went in, and I stood beside him while he ate it, and he laughed when I tried to help him, and asked whether I shouldn't feed him with a spoon—whether I thought he was a baby again. Then he spoke of you, and asked if I had seen you and how you were."

They found the music presently, and Philippa possessed herself of a quantity of it and carried it down-stairs to the morning-room to try it over on the little piano which had belonged to Francis years before. The instrument was rather thin in tone, and some of the notes were out of tune, but Mrs. Goodman promised before she left her, to send for a man from Renwick next morning to put it in order, so that it could be taken up-stairs to the sitting-room.

Turning over the songs, which were, of course, quite out of date, and mostly of the highly sentimental order which found favour in the early eighties, Philippa's eye was arrested by some words which seemed to her familiar. They were the ones Francis had quoted at their first meeting. He had spoken of a song Phil had been in the habit of singing, which seemed to him written for them. She tried it through. The tune had a certain happy charm which once heard might easily linger in the memory after the music was hushed. The words were these:—

"My heart met yours, when spring was all awaking, Down in the valley where the violets bloom; Through soft grey clouds the kind May sun was breaking, Setting ablaze the gold flower of the broom.

Your heart met mine, and all the birds were singing, Singing for joy that winter's day was done; On every side the harebells pale were ringing A bridal peal for joy—our hearts were one.

Our hearts are one, and nothing can dissever The chain that binds us close; come good or ill, The golden radiance floods life's pathway ever, The scent of violets lingers round us still."

How many years was it since the simple words had been sung in that house, and the notes of the old piano sounded to the lilting cadence of its melody? And now, of the two who had sung it together, one was gone, and the other—well, for the other some of the golden radiance still shone after all the bitter years fate had meted out; and the scent of the violets lingered still.