Philippa dropped her face until it touched the faded bunch upon her breast. What is there about the scent of violets that always conjures up thoughts of the past? They have beyond the scent of all other flowers a power of memory. The scent of roses tells of long summer days, of dreams soft and tender as light summer airs; lilies speak of love and of love's crown; but it is violets that help us to regret.



CHAPTER XII

PROGRESS

"The days are made on a loom whereof the warp and woof are past and future time."—EMERSON.

The improvement in Francis Heathcote's condition in the days which followed was, so the doctor and nurses declared, phenomenal. Robert Gale ceased to tug at his beard in angry perplexity, and melted into something which might almost have been called jocularity, as he watched the man gaining in health and strength. "Splendid! Splendid!" he would say, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. "Go on as you are going, and you'll see the last of me soon."

And as the days went by, peacefully and seemingly uneventfully, the time she spent with Francis became more and more the pivot on which Philippa's whole mind and thought turned. Day by day, almost hour by hour, he appeared to gain visibly in vigour. The cheerfulness and high spirits which had characterised him in an unusual degree before his accident, returned to him; and she marvelled increasingly at the almost boyish gaiety which he evinced at times. There were moments when she had perforce to remind herself of the long years of loneliness and deprivation through which he had passed. They seemed to have left no mark on him. And yet she could not think they were forgotten, for once—it was at her second visit to him—he spoke at some length of his illness. Not, however, with any bitterness or annoyance, but merely as one might mention a curious experience through which one had lived, and for which one was little or none the worse.

"It is all so muddled to me. Sometimes it seems as if I had waited years for the sight of your face, and then again it would seem only the day before that I had seen you. Sometimes I saw you so clearly that I thought you were in the room, only I never could get you to speak to me. And I never could touch you. The moment I thought you were coming nearer you went away altogether. That was what bothered me. I suppose it was imagination or some kind of delirium, but it was rather dreadful, for when I couldn't see you everything was swallowed up in a horrible darkness. It was only when you came that there was daylight at all, the rest was a dreadful night."

"Don't talk of it," she had begged him, "it is over now." And seeing that the subject distressed her he had not spoken of it again.

Philippa found no difficulty in amusing him, or distracting his attention from anything which her intuition warned her might lead to dangerous questioning. She sang to him, and read to him, choosing lighter stories from the magazines, and preferably those in which the plot was laid in other countries or in previous centuries. He showed no signs of bewilderment when such events as the Indian Mutiny or the French Revolution were mentioned, and the girl could not be sure whether he listened without comprehending, for the mere pleasure of hearing her voice and knowing her companionship, or whether some feeling of half-shamed reticence prevented his acknowledging that he had never heard of these things before.

Perhaps, again, the mention of them awoke echoes which had long been silent, and dragged forgotten facts out of oblivion to the light of day—just as one may enter a room which has been closely sealed for years, and see objects once familiar but long since absolutely forgotten, shrouded in dust and dim with disuse, but of which the sight instantly recalls every trifling association.

Sometimes he would comment upon the situations or characters in a story, frequently making fun of them and their peculiarities, and at others he would bid her lay down the book and talk to him instead. He found the greatest pleasure in the time they spent together, when Philippa would take up her embroidery and sit beside him, and he would lie on the sofa with his eyes on her, watching her every movement as her dexterous needle slipped rapidly through the canvas.

He was thoughtful of her, never omitting to question her as to whether she had been out, and constantly bidding her not to give up all her own amusements for his sake. He did not speak a great deal of his love, but his devotion showed itself plainly in a hundred different ways—in his deep gratitude for any slight service rendered—in his look of gladness when she came—in the inflexion of his voice, and so on. He seemed determined not to peril his new-found joy, or weary her by any protestations.

It was all quite easy, and Philippa was conscious of a great content, which she attributed to the reaction from her anxiety lest she should fail in the thing she had undertaken, and the natural pride which a nurse may legitimately feel when she sees a patient making strides on the road of convalescence.

She had received a letter from Marion, who wrote from a heart evidently torn with misgivings as to the wisdom of the course Philippa was pursuing. Her words were affectionate and guarded, but doubt and even disapproval could easily be read between the lines. She wrote of the grave dangers which must presently confront her friend, of the moment which must surely come when it would be impossible to go on without acknowledging the truth, and the word which might have been said at once would have to be spoken. She earnestly begged her to withdraw herself altogether, to leave the nursing of Francis Heathcote to others. The pain she would now cause would be nothing to the pain which would be his later when her daily presence had become a delightful habit with him—and so on, and so on. She reiterated the Major's regret that Philippa should have been drawn into the affair while a guest in their house, and particularly during their absence. Her pity for Francis was intense, but that did not alter her fixed opinion that Philippa was not doing the best or the kindest thing by assisting to deceive him; for that was what it really amounted to. She knew Philippa's power of sympathy, and her loving heart had no doubt blinded her to what was wise and right.

The girl read the letter carefully, but even if the arguments contained in it might have moved her to a different decision had they come earlier, they arrived too late to be of any value whatever. She told herself that it was only natural that Marion should feel as she did—that no one who was not on the spot, who had not seen Francis, could possibly judge of what was best for him—and that the wisdom of her decision had been amply proved by the marvellous improvement in his health. As for grave dangers in the future, they did not trouble her; she could only think of each moment as it came.

She answered the letter, assuring Marion of her affection, and regretting they could not see the matter in the same light, and repeating her conviction that had her friend been there she would undoubtedly have acted in the same way. Then she dismissed the question from her mind. This was not the moment for looking back and wondering what would have happened if she had acted differently.

If she had wondered at all, it was to marvel why she had hesitated, for now she could not see that any alternative had been practicable; but she was not one of those unfortunate people who are forever looking back, forever apprehensive, forever haunted by doubts as to whether they have done the right thing; on the contrary, she possessed sound stability of purpose and a power of acting on her own convictions, fearlessly accepting any responsibility they entailed.

It is true that in this affair she had found an unusual difficulty in arriving at a decision, but once having made up her mind, she was not likely to be affected by the opinion of others. Having chosen her path she would tread it without faltering. Her time was fully occupied with details which, although in themselves trifling, were of importance to her great objective—gathering flowers for Francis' room—collecting scraps of news—trying over new songs to sing to him—planning fresh ways to interest and amuse him.

And then, without warning, came some days of grave anxiety, for the advance which had been so steady seemed suddenly arrested, and Francis lost as much ground in a day as he had gained in a week. It was hard to account for it. The weather, which had been warm and sunny, had changed, and heavy storms of rain and a close thundery atmosphere prevailed. This might have affected the patient, or, did this relapse mean that his condition had been one of superficial strength induced by sheer power of will? The doctor resumed his usual ferocity of manner and refused to be questioned. For hours he and Philippa sat beside the bed, watching a feeble, flickering spark of life—so feeble that it seemed that every moment it must be extinguished; but gradually—very gradually—the distressing symptoms decreased, a little colour returned to the face which had looked so lifeless, and again hope grew strong.

At last there came a day when the doctor pronounced himself satisfied that, for the time at least, danger was over.

It was Francis himself who suggested a little later that Philippa should, as he put it, take a day off. Days and nights of watchfulness and unremitting care leave their mark even on the most robust, and although the girl denied that she felt any fatigue, it was evident to him that she was looking white and strained. The very idea that she should in any way suffer through her devotion to him distressed him so greatly that Philippa agreed, and it was arranged that she should spend the whole day in the open air, and that on the following day the plan should be reversed—she should spend it with him and the nurse should take a holiday.

"Why don't you ride?" Francis asked. "It must be weeks since you have been in the saddle. You, who spend half your days riding, of course you must miss it."

She made some evasive reply and he did not urge her further, to her relief; for she did not care particularly about riding, whereas it had been more than a pastime—indeed almost a passion—with Philippa the first.

The storms which had swept Bessmoor from end to end for many days in succession had passed over, leaving behind them just a few dark clouds, drifting in broken masses across a sky of deepest blue, and throwing deep shadows here and there across the moor—ever-varying elusive shadows which only accentuated the brilliancy of the sunshine where it fell upon the warm colours of the ling, which was just coming into blossom, for the blooming time of the bell heather was over.

There was a buoyancy and freshness in the air doubly welcome after the sultry depression which was in tune with Philippa's mood—in tune with the exhilaration of spirit of which she was conscious. The clouds had passed—the sun was shining—away with gloomy forebodings—Francis was really better. And having schooled herself to live only in the present and take no thought for the morrow, she was able to say, with no slight feeling of contentment, that all was well.

She had not seen Isabella Vernon since the day she had visited her cottage, and she had decided that since Francis had forbidden her presence in the house, she would spend the day with the woman whom she was beginning to call her friend.

She had thought a good deal of Isabella since their last meeting, and in some curious fashion her thoughts had brought her more intimately near. There seemed to be no particular reason why this should be so, for Philippa was not in the habit of tumbling into friendship; but in the long hours which she had spent beside Francis' bedside, Isabella had been constantly in her mind. Was it, perhaps, because she had been so closely connected with the past of the man, that past which was so inextricably fused with the present? Was it of that past that Isabella had spoken when she had emphatically repeated, "I do not want to forget!" And if this was so—— She could not tell. All she knew was that in some mysterious way it had become quite clear to her that Isabella had come into her life, and had come to stay.



CHAPTER XIII

THREADS

"Of little threads our life is spun, And he spins ill who misses one."

Philippa's first feeling when she gained the open moor and saw the low bushes which had been their last meeting-place, was one of acute disappointment, for Isabella was not there. She had confidently expected to find her waiting and had not paused to consider whether her hope was reasonable or not. For a moment she fancied that perhaps she had mistaken the place; but no, all around the grass was trampled down, and some shreds of torn paper proved to her that she was right.

She mounted a little hillock and scanned the road as far as she could see, but no one was in sight. There was evidently nothing for it but to make her way to the cottage. It was a long walk, but after all that did not matter as it was still early, and she had the whole day before her; so she retraced her steps to the road and walked briskly along.

As she did so her mind continued in the same train of thought with which it had been previously occupied—Isabella and her connection with Francis; and then, quite suddenly, a light broke upon her. The explanation seemed so obvious that she could only marvel that she had not thought of it at once. Little by little she recalled all the evidence to strengthen her conclusion. Isabella's dear memory of the past—the words lightly spoken by the person whose good opinion was more to her than the whole world—her eager, questioning gaze as though longing and yet not daring to frame a question—and, most certain proof of all, the silence with regard to Francis.

If he had been to her no more than a valued friend she would surely have spoken of him, just as she had spoken of Philippa's father. She had loved Francis; and he?—well—— He had, it would seem, been fond of her in a friendly, careless way. The sandy cat! Was it of his welfare she was so anxious to hear? Was it the necessity of being somewhere near him that had drawn her to take up her abode in this lonely if lovely spot?

And yet surely she could have obtained news of him, thought the girl. Isabella had said that she did not know either Major Heathcote or his wife, but even so, Marion was no ogress. Why had not Isabella gone boldly to the door and asked for tidings of him for the sake of old friendship? It would have been a very simple course to take. Or there was the doctor. Surely if Francis and the first Philippa had known him so well, Isabella must have known him too.

Well, to-day, if she had the opportunity, she would break the silence—she would speak of Francis and tell Isabella of his marvellous recovery. And then she realised that her own position might be a little difficult to explain. It would not be an easy story to tell to this woman if she loved him; but if Philippa was correct in her surmise, and she had now little doubt on that score, surely Isabella had a right to know the truth.

How different things would have been if Francis had loved Isabella; for most certainly she would never have been a fair-weather friend. But first she must have proof, and that should not be hard to obtain. There would be some sign when his name was spoken—some intonation in the woman's voice, even if she did not speak openly, which would reveal her secret now that Philippa was ready to notice and to understand.

The girl came at last to the turning which led to the little green, and then she saw Isabella approaching. She was walking, just as she had walked on that first afternoon, with her eyes on the ground, lost in thought, and it was not until she was within a few yards of Philippa that she glanced up and saw her. And then there was no doubt that absence had done much the same for them both, for when they met, they met as friends. The look of welcome, even of affection, was unmistakable on the older woman's face.

"Ah!" she said, as she put her arm through Philippa's and fell into step with her; "I am a little late this morning. I am sorry, for you have had a lonely walk. I was beginning to wonder whether I should ever see you again!"

"I was quite absurdly disappointed not to see you under the thorn bush," said Philippa, smiling. "Although why I should imagine that you must spend your days there I do not know."

"You are not far out," was the answer. "I have been there every day."

"I could not come. It was not possible sooner."

"You have come at last, and that is enough for me," said Isabella. "Come home and rest. Bessmoor is looking rather weepy but very beautiful, smiling after tears like a pretty child."

"You surely did not wait for me in all the wet weather we have been having?"

"Oh, we don't think much of a drop or two of rain in these parts," replied Isabella lightly; "nor, as you may notice, is my costume likely to be affected by the damp," she added, laughing, as she pointed to the high waterproof boots and the serviceable mackintosh she wore. "I think we shall have some more rain, but we shall soon be under shelter now. Look at that wonderful cloud rising from the sea. It is like a monstrous eagle waiting to swoop. The clouds here are always wonderful. Often I sit and fancy I can see strange mysterious countries passing like a fairy cinematograph before my eyes. Sometimes great ranges of snow mountains with deep purple shadows on them, as if the cold grey rock which formed them showed through where the snow had melted; and then they shift and fade and the scene changes. Perhaps it may be next a broad and sunlit river that I see—far, far away in the distance, with a vista of amethystine hills crowned with waving palm-trees; and then I think I can smell the spice-laden breezes of the East. Or again, it may be a wide plain like some vast camp of gleaming white tents under an azure sky—the camp of the old Crusaders,—with here and there a banner waving, and I can almost catch a glimpse of the walls of Ascalon, or Acre the beleaguered city. People talk about seeing pictures in the fire! No fire ever lighted can show me such pictures as I see over Bessmoor, and no castles in Spain or Eldorado were ever quite so perfect as mine built all of cloud. But here we are, arrived at last, and here is a comfortable chair for you. I am going to fetch you a glass of milk before we settle down to our chat. Oh yes, you must have it," she insisted as Philippa demurred. "Mrs. Palling has gone out for the day, so we shall be all alone."

"How is Mrs. Palling?" asked Philippa presently. "Has she been indulging in any more extraordinary readings of the truth?"

"Not just lately. She was particularly cheerful this morning. She has gone to a funeral, and the very mention of one always rouses her to enthusiasm. I must tell you that the deceased was no relation and not even a dear friend, so I saw no reason to damp her pleasurable excitement. She loves an outing, does Mrs. Palling. Notice the beehives. They are looking decidedly rakish adorned with black streamers in honour of the occasion. I have written to London to-day for a fresh supply of black ribbon, for the last was torn from my Sunday hat. I had no heart to refuse Mrs. Palling's piteous appeal, but the demand is becoming so constant that, as she does not seem inclined to keep a supply herself, I feel I must for the future."

"I am particularly glad she has gone out to-day, for all this week she has been occupied in the manufacture of a decoction of marigolds, which she assures me is a sovereign remedy against colds and chills. It appears that she has been trying to obtain the recipe for years, but only one person had it, and she guarded it with the most jealous secrecy. Now, at last, Mrs. Palling has prevailed upon her to disclose it, to her overwhelming joy and my infinite regret. I can only say that if the taste is anything like the smell I would most assuredly prefer the cold. As it is, I shall live in dread of the moment when my first sneeze will give Mrs. Palling the opportunity she longs for—that of proving it; and she will appear like an avenging fury armed with a flaming sword in the shape of a bumper of her noxious brew, stand over me until I drink it, and force me under pain of repeated doses to retract all the unkind remarks I have made about it. Mrs. Palling has a horrible way of getting the better of me in the end. I am beginning to think that a person who is always right is very trying to live with. So much wisdom gives me a sort of mental indigestion. I used to think nothing could be so irritating as a fool, but now I see why the Corinthians of old suffered fools gladly. The sight of folly gives one a comfortable feeling of superiority, and it is so nice to feel really superior even if one has the grace not to show it."

"What have you been doing since I saw you last?" asked Philippa presently.

"I have not been entirely idle. I have managed to get through quite a respectable quantity of work."

"Another book?" asked the girl with interest.

Isabella nodded.

"Will it be quite as sad as the last?"

"No, I hardly think it will," she answered with a laugh. "I don't know the reason though. I half think that the fact of knowing you has put me in lighter vein. Talk about it not being good for a man to be alone; I have come to the conclusion that it is ten times worse for a woman. What a sentiment to come from me! For it is not long ago that I was earnestly seeking a crack in the earth's surface which should be just large enough to hold me, to the exclusion of every one else. It must be your magic that has made this great change. Yes, the book is creeping on, and some of it will stand, I think."

"Are you satisfied with it?"

"Not at all," was the frank answer. "There is nothing so disappointing in the world as one's own writing; and yet one goes on. And so far as I am concerned I can only say that every time I write "Chapter I" on a new sheet of paper, I am full of conviction that this time at last I shall scale the height of my ambition, and that the child of my brain will be born to live. Not to have a few months or years of cheap notoriety, but to live a life of much more than that—to make some lasting impression on the hearts of the readers, and to have a healing touch which will comfort when those hearts are sick and sore."

"If that is your ambition I think you have gained it," said Philippa warmly. "You do not know your own power and you underrate your work."

"Do I? I wonder. I have attained something, perhaps, but attaining is not achieving—that is where people make the mistake. Perhaps I attempt the impossible. It may be that I have shot at the highest and hit mediocrity. I think that is more likely."

"I think you do not know the fame of Ian Verity," said Philippa.

"Oh, I don't thank you for personal fame. I would prefer something less showy but of far more value. But as a matter of fact, what I should choose had got very little to do with it."

"We all know what we should like, but we can't choose our prize."

"No," rejoined Isabella quickly, "You are quite right, we cannot choose and we cannot all win.

"'And what reward for strivers who are losers? A wooden spoon? Sometimes not even that. Nor, does this seem, since men may not be choosers, A thing to wonder at;'"

she quoted, smiling. "The wooden spoon is mine, and I suppose I ought to cultivate a decent gratitude for favour received."

"What nonsense!" said Philippa, laughing. "You are not a loser. You have won a great deal more than you know. Some day you will learn how deep an affection your readers have for you, and your heart will be warmed by the knowledge of the happiness you have given to thousands."

Isabella smiled. "Well, well; we shall see," she said serenely.

"You will be dragged from your retirement when that day comes," continued Philippa. "You will not be able to hide your light any longer, and I shall be dazzled by the splendour of it."

"Not a bit of it. Here I am, and here I shall stay. I take comfort in the fact that no one connects Ian Verity with an elderly and unattractive spinster hidden in a hermitage on Bessmoor. You will not betray me, I know, and it is good of you to come and visit me in my solitude. I am growing old and you have all your life before you. I have crossed to the shady side of the road while you walk still in the sunshine. I have thought of you often since we met."

"And I of you," answered Philippa quietly, and then after a moment's pause she added, "You do not ask me what I have been doing."

"That does not mean that I do not care to know," replied Isabella gently. She was sitting looking out on the moor, leaning back in her chair with her hands folded in her lap. Something in the rigidity of her attitude told Philippa that she was listening intently.

"I have been helping to nurse Francis Heathcote."



CHAPTER XIV

ROPES OF GOSSAMER

"Deep in my heart the tender secret dwells, Lonely and lost to light for evermore Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, Then trembles into silence as before."

Isabella did not move, but Philippa could see that her breath was coming fast as though she had been running; otherwise she gave no sign of having heard.

"He has been very ill," continued the girl, "but he is better now."

The older woman rose suddenly from her seat and moved a few steps forward, and stood with her back towards her companion and with one hand on the oaken pillar as though to steady herself.

"Is he—conscious?" she asked in a low voice.

"He recognises the doctor and his old nurse, but we cannot tell how much he remembers about his long illness."

"Is he—happy?"

"I think he is perfectly happy," replied Philippa slowly.

There was a short silence, and then Isabella resumed her seat. Philippa glanced at her and then turned away her eyes, but she answered the unspoken question she had read in her friend's face.

"It is impossible to say. The doctor cannot tell. At first he thought it would be only a matter of days or perhaps weeks; but now the improvement has been very great, and it seems as though if all goes well he might live some time. You see, his memory returned quite suddenly, and the shock was very great. It was almost too much for his strength. We can only go on from day to day. It is useless to look forward."

At last Isabella spoke. "You must forgive me," she said brokenly, and with an evident effort to regain her composure. "But it is a long time since I have heard his name. I thank you for telling me, but—there is something I cannot understand. What are you doing here—you—a child, with a face and form of the past?"

"I met him quite by accident. I went into his room, mistaking it for my own, on the first evening after my arrival. I came to stay with Marion Heathcote, who is an old friend of mine."

"And he?"

"He thinks I am——"

Isabella nodded. "It was the sight of you recalled his memory?"

"Yes."

"And you have not undeceived him?"

"It was not possible to tell him of his mistake. He was too weak."

"Tell me some more, please."

And Philippa told her, beginning from the beginning. She told her of the doctor's plea—of Jane Goodman's words—of all the phases of his recent illness—only of his words of love to her she did not speak. And during the recital Isabella watched her with a look of deep scrutiny, but she did not interrupt. Only when the story was all told she said—

"I wonder why you did it?"

"There was nothing else to be done. You would have done the same yourself," replied Philippa simply.

"Yes," cried Isabella, with a little cry that was more than half a sob; "you are right. I should have done the same myself; but—I have loved Francis Heathcote all my life. I should have done the same; but I did not have the chance—did I? After all these years——

"Listen," she continued, as she leaned forward resting her chin on her clasped hand, while into her eyes there crept the look of one who is blind to what is actually before her, but entranced with some inward vision visible to herself alone. "Listen, and I will tell you what I can about that past which died so long ago and which is yet alive to-day. When I was a girl, scarcely more than a child, I came to live with an aunt in Bessacre village. My mother was dead, and my father, who was one of those delightful but utterly unpractical people that the world calls rolling stones, was seldom or never in England.

"My aunt was a woman rather hard to describe. My father used to say that she had the brains of a rabbit and the tongue of a viper, and perhaps that best explains her. She meant to be kind, I think, but she was without exception the silliest and most empty-headed person I have ever known. I do not say this unkindly; she gave me what she could, and it was very little—just clothes and food; but of sympathy or human understanding not a particle. And so it followed that I was very lonely, which may in part account for what I have to tell.

"Francis Heathcote and I were about the same age, and during the holidays we played a great deal together, and all the happiness of those childish years I owe to him. We were allowed a good deal of freedom, and there is hardly a stone or a tree in the park that does not hold some memory of delight for me.

"Then of course came his college days, and he was more seldom at home, but even so something of the old comradeship remained to us. And then—one summer—circumstances threw us more closely together again. I was at the age for dreams, and as I told you before, more than half a fool, and God knows what ropes I wove out of gossamer—until—Phil came.

"She was very beautiful, and I expect you know the rest. One thing I can honestly say, I was never jealous of her—I could not wonder that Francis loved her. Every one revelled in her beauty, even I who watched my ropes melt away into nothingness as the dew of the morning before the sun's rays. I watched their courtship. It was some time before he won her, and—Francis used to tell me all his hopes and fears—I think I was some use to him at that time—a sort of safety-valve." She gave a little whimsical smile. "It wasn't always quite easy to listen to his rhapsodies about the girl he loved, but, after all, it meant that we were together, and that was a great deal to me. I do not think the world ever held any one more keen, more eager than he was—so full of the joy of living, so ardent in his love. How his whole face used to light up when he spoke of her! Every one loved him, rich and poor alike. And then came his accident—you know all about it?" Philippa made a gesture of assent. "And there, so far as I am concerned, the story ended. All my remembrance lies in the happy days when we were boy and girl together—when we grew to manhood and womanhood almost before we realised it. I never spoke to him again—I cannot say I did not see him, for I saw him driving once with Lady Louisa. He did not know me."

"Have you never been to the High House since?"

"Only once. It was after I heard that Phil—that his engagement was broken off. It is not a visit that I care to remember. I think I was half crazed with grief for him. Anyway, I felt that I could bear it no longer, and I went and practically forced myself into Lady Louisa's presence. I did not know her very well, she was not the sort of woman any one ever knew well—very cold in manner and reserved—and I had always been afraid of her, but I forgot my fear that day. I have a horrid recollection of being very foolish—of begging her upon my knees to let me do some little thing, even the smallest, for him—and finally of creeping out of the house humbled and despairing, with my whole world in pieces. It had been pretty well shattered before that. I don't know that Lady Louisa was unkind to me, but if she was she had every excuse; and, poor soul, I know how she must have felt—like a tigress defending her young. For it was then that all sorts of rumours were rife about him. People said that he was hopelessly mad—that he had tried to murder her—that he had been taken away to an asylum—and heaven knows how many more lies. And of course she must have thought, and with good reason, that I was an hysterical idiot. Well, I quarrelled with my aunt over it—not the interview, she knew nothing of that, but over the gossip. You can imagine what food for talk in the village, and most of it was her fault, and I was maddened by it.

"This went on for two years. I could not bear to go away, and yet there was no use in staying, for little by little all news of him ceased. Those servants who were known to have gossiped were dismissed, and their places filled by others who could be trusted to be silent.

"The old nurse, who would, I know, have told me, never went outside the grounds, and all the talk had so disgusted me that, with all my longing to know, I don't think I could have questioned a servant.

"Then my aunt died suddenly, and I had to leave. I had no money, and in consequence no choice in the matter. I joined my father, who was at that time in Canada, and remained with him, travelling all over the world wherever his fancy took him until his death three years ago. By that time I had made enough money by my books to know that a livelihood was assured to me, and I came here.

"I could not discover for some time whether he was alive or dead. I heard that Lady Louisa had died a few months before, and I wouldn't ask any direct questions out of respect for her. If she had managed to keep the whole pitiful story a secret, to bury it in oblivion, what right had I to drag it to light again—to make her and him the subject of idle tittle-tattle, for that was what it amounted to? She was at rest beyond the reach of tongues, and in a way that made it worse, for she wasn't there to guard him from lies.

"At last one day I went to see her grave in the churchyard, and then I knew. Have you seen it?"

"No," answered Philippa. "The doctor asked me the same question, and whether I knew what was written on it."

"Her grave is just inside the lych-gate at the top of the steps. Over it is a plain white marble cross with her name and the dates, and these are the words on the base of it—

"'I leave my best beloved in His care, And go because He calls me—He whose voice I cannot disobey; praying that He Who heard the widow's prayer in Galilee Will hear mine now, and bring you soon to me Where tears and pains are not; that we may stand Before His throne together, hand in hand.'

I think that if her heart had not broken before it must have broken when she had to leave him."

"The doctor told me that she wrote the words and asked that they should be placed on her tombstone," said Philippa. "Poor soul!"

"I did not know that," returned Isabella, "but I have sometimes thought that she must have hoped that Francis would see them some day; but her hope has been vain."

"Why did you not go straight to Marion—to Mrs. Heathcote, I mean, and ask her?" asked Philippa. "Marion is so kind, she would have told you all she could. Or Doctor Gale? Did you not know him? Why could you not have asked him?"

"I hardly know why I did not do so, but I know that it was impossible to me. It is not as if I had ever—as if I had any right—I was a stranger. It is true that I knew Robert Gale in the old days, but look at the years that have passed. He would probably not have remembered me, and how could I have explained? It would have been like tearing my inmost heart out and laying it on the table for him to dissect as he chose. My story was my own—I have hugged it very close—until you came. And yet I think I always knew that some day, through no effort of mine, the veil would be lifted. I was certain of it, and in that certainty I could wait with some degree of patience until the moment came. Sometimes I must confess I have wondered whether it would be in this world or the next—and I didn't want it in some other sphere, but here in the old world, among the scenes and sights he loved. I have waited for some message. Will it ever come, I wonder! Shall I ever see his face again? For a moment I thought it had come when I met you—in all outward seeming, the Phil I used to know. I knew she was dead—I saw it in the papers; and then to meet you! Honestly, my senses reeled.

"Then of course it became clear that you were of another generation. I think I did not realise how far I had left my youth behind until I knew you. And still you did not mention him—and God knows I wanted to question—but I saw that if I wanted all the truth I must wait a little longer. I saw you were not one of those who blurt out all their affairs to a passing stranger—that first I must win your trust and, if I could, your affection."

Philippa laid her hand on Isabella's with a mute gesture and she clasped it tightly.

"So I set myself to wait again with all the patience I could muster. You may wonder why I told you about Ian Verity; perhaps it seems to you a small thing—but it was all I had, all that I valued outside the story that I am telling you now, and I gave you my confidence, craving yours in return. It was nothing to you. But now you have broken the silence."

"How does he look?" she asked suddenly. "I have always remembered him as he used to be, and yet, of course, he must be changed."

"His hair is white," said Philippa gently; "but he looks young in spite of that. He is so slim and upright—not like a man of his age."

"And his face?" Isabella asked the question almost in a whisper.

"He bears a dreadful scar, but I do not think it alters his expression. It leaves his features quite untouched."

Isabella drew a long breath. "Ah!" she murmured, "how often I have dreaded lest he should be dreadfully disfigured. His face was so beautiful," she added pathetically.

They sat for a long time hand in hand, each occupied with her own thoughts. Outside the rain dripped with a plaintive sound, but overhead the sparrows twittered cheerfully under the eaves. The clouds were drifting away to the west like some dark horde driven from the field by the shimmering spears of the sunlight which pierced them. A tender expanse of blue sky spoke a promise of fairer weather, a promise repeated by the satisfied hum of the bees who had once more ventured out to pursue their daily labours. The air was full of sweet scents—fragrant earth and fragrant blossom made all the sweeter by the cleansing shower.

To Philippa in the fullness of her youthful strength and beauty there was something profoundly touching in the simple way in which Isabella had recounted the story of her life. There was a nobility in the confession. This woman—no longer young, with her grey hair and plain rugged features—stating quite honestly that all the love of her youth had been supported on ropes of gossamer, woven when she was at an age for dreams.

What is the age for dreams? Ah, who can tell? Let us pray that to those who dream the awakening comes not too soon; and that when it comes, as in this world it must, they may preserve a measure of the dream radiance to light them to that greater awakening when all tears shall be wiped away.

Isabella had made no appeal for sympathy, had not suggested that there was any room for pity. She did not wish to forget.

Into Philippa's heart there crept a faint realisation of the infinite power and the infinite patience of a great love, and with it a longing, half wistful, half eager, that she too might one day know its thrall. Francis Heathcote had loved, and his love had survived years of darkness and longing, but there had been plighted vows and lovers' sweet delights to weld the chain of his affection; but Isabella had known none of these, and yet she had lived in Love's bondage—bound by ropes of gossamer. She was roused at last by her friend's voice.

"You will need great courage," Isabella said thoughtfully.

"Why shall I need courage?" the girl asked simply.

When the reply came it was no answer to her question, for the older woman only repeated the doctor's words—"A little happiness for all that he has missed."

Philippa made a little quick movement. "Yes! That is just it. He shall have a little happiness if it is in my power to give it him. You understand, don't you, Isabella? It is really easy to make him happy—he asks so little and is so grateful for all that is done. And he is happy now—really happy, I mean. Oh, I know his happiness is founded on a mistake, but does that matter? Surely not when you think of all the years he has passed in misery. I do want him to live long enough to have the 'little happiness,' just to blot out all that he has suffered. I am so desperately sorry for him that there is nothing I would not do to bring some joy into his life, even if it is only very short."

Isabella nodded. "I understand, but it will need courage. My dear, it may be easy now. He has found you again—that for the moment is sufficient; but, will his devotion content him to the end? What if he asks a question that you cannot answer?"

"I shall answer," replied the girl with quiet firmness. "I promise you that by no act or word of mine shall he be disappointed. I am going to carry it through, Isabella. He has had enough of sorrow."

Once again Isabella scanned the girl's face with a quick glance, but the sweet grey eyes which met hers were full of eager friendly sympathy—and nothing more.



CHAPTER XV

REVELATION

"God called the nearest angels Who dwell with Him above. The tenderest one was Pity, The dearest one was Love."—WHITTIER.

As Philippa entered Francis' room on the evening of the same day, she stopped on the threshold with a little cry of surprise. He was standing in front of the hearth waiting for her.

"Oh," she said, as she moved quickly forward, "take care."

He gave a low laugh of content. "I thought I should surprise you, my dearest; but I have been an invalid too long."

He put his arm through hers and leaned a little on it, more for the pleasure of her nearness than for support.

"It is good to stand again. You need not be alarmed, I have old Rob's permission, and am guilty of no rashness."

"You really feel stronger?" asked Philippa eagerly. "It is splendid to see you walk, but you must be careful."

"Oh, I will be careful enough," he replied lightly. "And you, my sweet? Have you had a nice day? I was sorry to see the rain. Come and sit down and tell me all about it; but first—your violets." He walked to the table as he spoke and handed her the flowers which lay there. "A late gift to-day; but that was not my fault, was it?" he asked fondly. "You look all the better for your rest. You have the old pretty colour in your cheeks and your eyes are shining like stars. You must get out more. It is not right that because I am a prisoner you should share my sentence; but I am selfish, I cannot spare you for long."

"I spent the day on Bessmoor," she told him. "It was lovely up there. The clouds were beautiful—dark masses like mountains, and patches of brilliant blue sky behind them. The ling is coming into bloom, and you cannot imagine anything so vivid as it appears where the sunlight catches it, and all the world seemed so fresh and clean after the rain."

"I can picture it. The fragrance and freshness of the moor. You did not get wet, I hope?"

"No, I was under shelter. It was a heavy shower, but it didn't last long."

"Were you alone?" he asked. He was sitting close beside her on the sofa, with his arm thrown along the back of it behind her head.

"No—I was with a friend," she replied.

"Who was it?" he asked lightly. "Shall I be jealous that a friend was with you when I wasn't?"

"I was with Isabella Vernon." As soon as the words were spoken a sudden fear seized her, but it was too late to recall them.

"Dear old Isabella!" he said. "How was she? It seems ages since I have seen her." But he did not wait for an answer to his question, but continued, "You would be safe with her. Isabella was always a good friend. Do you know, I have a piece of news for you? Rob said to-day that unless I had another set-back I might go down-stairs in a day or two."

"That is good news indeed," said Philippa warmly. "And soon you will be able to go out and see all the beauty of Bessmoor for yourself. We will have the pony-carriage and I will drive you—as soon as ever he thinks you are fit for it."

"I suppose he wouldn't let me get on a horse?" he said, rather wistfully.

"Not for a while, I am afraid. I know it is difficult to be patient, but driving will be almost as good, won't it?"

"Dearest, of course it will be better than anything so long as you are with me. Believe me I am not impatient. I want nothing in the world but you—I didn't mean that. What do I care if I never see a horse again? Do you know, my darling, I wouldn't really mind if I never got quite strong so long as we were together, but I can't bear it for you. You are so good, so dear, but I know you must feel tied to the side of an invalid. You who ought to have nothing but the sunshine of life, and who should never know a hint of shadow if I could spare it you."

"I have told you that you must not think of me," replied the girl. "Now, if you will lie down I will get my work. I have been very idle to-day."

He allowed her to place the cushions and establish him in comfort, and then she fetched her embroidery frame from the corner where it stood and seated herself in a low chair beside him.

"Phil," he said suddenly, "you are changed."

"In what way?" she asked quietly.

"You are different to my memory of you—before the shadows—a little different to what you were. Your face has changed too. You were always beautiful, but now your face has gained in beauty, although I should have said that would be impossible. You were so—oh, I don't know how to describe it—so illusive, like a streak of fairy gold flitting through life, but now you are so steadfast and so dear—such a strength to me in my weakness. So thoughtful and so tender to me when I have been thrown a helpless log upon your hands."

"You make too much of the little I can do for you," she said lightly.

"Where did you learn to be such a good nurse?" he asked with a smile.

"I don't know. I am afraid I cannot boast of much previous experience! Perhaps you thought a woman could not rise to an occasion, but I think they generally can."

"I have found that you can," he said tenderly. "But you were always perfect." He spoke the words with a simplicity which robbed them of all extravagance.

"Don't say that," she replied jestingly. "No one is perfect, and I least of all. If you expect perfection in this world you will be disappointed when you find the flaw."

"I shall love it when I find it, if I ever do."

She made no reply, and for a while he lay in silence watching her busy fingers manipulating the gleaming gold thread with which she was working. Presently he spoke again.

"Phil, my darling," he said rather hesitatingly, "do you mind if I ask you—but don't you like your ring? I notice you do not wear it—and if you dislike it I will give you another. You shall have just what you fancy."

"Oh," cried Philippa, "you are making a mistake; indeed I do not dislike it. It is careless of me—to have forgotten it; you must forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," he said earnestly. "Only I should like you to wear something of mine besides that little trumpery brooch. You are faithful to that and I love you for it. I thought perhaps you had lost the ring and didn't like to tell me."

"I have not lost it."

"Will you fetch it, darling?"

"Of course I will fetch it," she said, rising as she spoke. "I will bring it to you, and you will see that it is quite safe."

She hurried along the corridor with a sensation that was almost fear quickening her pulses—and yet what she feared she did not know. As she had told Isabella, she would not hesitate to answer whatever question he might ask. It seemed that the moment was drawing very near in which she would be called upon to keep her word.

She unlocked the dispatch-box and drew the ring from its resting-place, and with it in her hand ran back to his room. Francis had risen from the sofa. She was conscious of a wish that he had remained where he was, she was not yet used to seeing him standing up, and it placed her somehow at a disadvantage.

"Here it is," she said. "Quite safe, as I told you."

He took it from her, retaining possession of her hand, and drawing her nearer to him at the same time. "Let me put it on."

She stood quietly while he placed it on her engagement finger, and would then have moved, but he did not release her.

Suddenly he threw his arm round her. "Phil," he said passionately, "my darling! You do not know how I love you, my dear, my dear! I don't want to frighten you—I try to be patient—but if you knew how I crave for a word from you! You are all that is sweet and dear and good, but oh, how I long to hear you tell me, just once, that you love me! My darling, if you have even a little love for me, I will teach you love's fullness." He bent his head to hers and rested his face for a moment on the dark softness of her hair. Then he held her from him, and looked eagerly into her eyes. "Do you love me, sweetheart?" he whispered.

Somewhere in the back of her mind Philippa had always known that this was the question he would some day ask. She had never framed it in words, but she was prepared with her answer. She had resolved that when the time came she would lie—lie—boldly; and without hesitation. Was it not part of the role she was playing?

The words were easy. Just "I love you." But as her lips framed them a sudden flood of intense feeling rushed upon her, bringing an instant realisation that it was all a mistake, a delusion. It was no lie; it was the truth. What had wrought this strange miracle she did not know—she only knew that a blinding flash of revelation had plunged her into a sea of ecstasy which left no room for thought, no room for wonder. A vivid blush suffused her face from throat to temples—she shook from head to feet.

He drew her closer—closer—until their lips met in a long kiss. Then—she was in the shelter of his arm—her burning face hidden on his breast.



CHAPTER XVI

HOPES FOR THE FUTURE

"Deeds condemned by prudence, have sometimes gone well."—MATTHEW ARNOLD.

"Ten years!" ejaculated Mrs. Goodman. "Ten years since he crossed the threshold, and then it was only to be carried to the Rose Room while his own rooms were repapered. Oh, that my old eyes should see him walk again!"

The old woman was anxiously watching a little procession which moved slowly along the wide corridor. Francis, with the doctor and Philippa, one on either side, was making his first venture in the way of exercise. Behind him hovered the nurse, and Keen, his devoted man-servant, ready to render immediate assistance should it be necessary.

It was in the same place many, many years before that he had essayed the first halting steps of babyhood, and she well remembered it. She recalled the exact spot where his mother had stood with her arms outstretched, her face alight with pride and affection, breathlessly intent upon every movement of the tiny swaying form setting out on its first journey. Such a short journey, with every obstacle removed that might hinder the safe passage of those unsteady feet. How many mothers have yearned to make as free from peril that longer journey along the road of life which awaits their little one!

Old Jane Goodman could see again the pretty child with the sunlight streaming from the mullioned windows on to his sunny curls—she could hear the baby laughter and the cry of triumph which meant the arrival into the safe refuge of his mother's arms. There was no detail of the occurrence that faithful heart could not recall. Time had no power to dull the recollection which love's alchemy kept clear and bright. Was he not still her boy—her lamb—for all her fourscore years and all the sorrow they had both known between that day and this? And the old walls which had rung to the sound of Francis' baby merriment echoed to his laughter again now. He was in the highest spirits, making a jest of everything, and scorning the idea of any need for caution.

Robert Gale called him to order at last, and threatened instant return if he would not be quiet.

"Don't fuss, man," was the gay rejoinder. "Did ever you see so long a face, Phil? The truth is that his job is over and he knows it. The prisoner is free, and the jailer in consequence out of employment. Disguise your feelings, Rob. I am sorry for you, but I don't intend to be ill again even for your sake. Go and try your pills and potions on some other unfortunate. I can't see nurse's face because she is behind me, but I have no doubt she is looking just as glum. You can't think how funny it feels to get out of those four walls and see something new. Hullo! What's that?"

They had paused for a moment at the head of the staircase, and his attention had been attracted by a small drawing hanging rather low down on the wall, close at hand. He stepped nearer to examine it.

It was a clever sketch in water-colour by a modern artist, and the draughtsmanship was superb. The subject was an old man with a long straggling beard and wearing tattered clothes, surrounded by a group of villagers and children. The creator had allowed his fancy full play, and the result, without being in any way a caricature, was full of a most merry and whimsical humour; and yet, by some stroke of his genius he had made the scene infinitely pathetic, and the central figure tragic and dignified for all his ragged attire. On the gold frame were printed the words "Rip van Winkle."

"Rip van Winkle," repeated Francis. "Who was he? Oh, don't tell me; I think I remember. Wasn't he the old Johnny who slept for a hundred years and woke up to find every one was dead and nobody knew him? He looks rather sad, poor old boy. The chap who did that knew how to draw, anyway."

He moved on to the next picture. "Oh, now we come to a gentleman in armour. Jolly uncomfortable that tin hat must have been."

"Supposing we sit here for a little while," suggested Philippa.

In the centre of the house the corridor widened into a square apartment known as the Guard Room, and tradition stated that the soldiers had here kept watch to ensure the safety of their sovereign, who had occupied a room close by, on the occasion of her famous visit to Bessacre High House.

The walls were panelled with oak and hung with portraits of dead-and-gone Heathcotes. A high oriel window threw good light upon the pictures, some of which were dark and dim with age.

Francis sat down on the window-seat and looked round him.

"Well, I can't call them a good-looking lot," he said, smiling. "What is the name of the man in the corner there in a flowing wig, Phil? I have forgotten all about them."

"Amyas Heathcote," read the girl. "He may not be good-looking, but he had a pretty taste in lace if one may judge by his ruffles."

"And a pretty taste in wives," said the doctor lightly, pointing to the picture hanging next. It represented a winsome dark-eyed woman in a brocaded frock, wearing a muslin cap over her powdered hair.

"I think she is beautiful," exclaimed Philippa. "You wait, my darling, until your portrait hangs here," said Francis quickly. "All the other Heathcote wives will be put into the shade then."

"He had a pretty taste in wine too," interrupted the doctor gruffly, "if one may judge by his complexion. I don't know anything of the gentleman, but I'll take my oath he died of apoplexy—unless the leeches killed him first with an over-dose of blood-letting. It seems to have been a playful habit of those days."

"Talking of leeches," said Philippa quite composedly, "reminds me of rather a good story I heard the other day. Only I'm speaking of the animals, not the doctors. A friend of mine told me that a few years ago her mother sent a linseed poultice and some leeches in a jar to a man in the village who was ill, and the doctor had ordered them to be applied. Some days later she visited the cottage and asked if the remedies had done any good. 'Well,' said his wife, 'he did enjoy the pudding, but try as he would he couldn't swallow them little fishes.'"

The doctor laughed, but his amusement struck Philippa as being a little forced and he had begun to tug at his beard, a sure sign with him that things were not going in the way he wished. She looked quickly at Francis, thinking that perhaps Robert Gale's professional eye had detected signs of over-exertion; but no, he did not appear in the least fatigued. And yet there was no doubt that the doctor was worried about something, for almost immediately he suggested that it was time for the invalid to return, and helping Francis to his feet he motioned to Philippa to give him the added support of her arm.

In vain Francis declared that the distance to the end of the corridor had yet to be accomplished, that he was perfectly fit for it. The older man was inexorable, and the little party retraced their steps.

"You will have your rest now, and Miss Philippa will take a walk," he said firmly. "There is no sense in doing too much the first day. It is always the same with convalescents, if you give them an inch they take an ell."

After seeing Francis comfortably settled to rest he walked with Philippa down to the library and shut the door behind him.

"What is it?" she asked quickly. "I think you are troubled about something. Is he not so well?"

"He's all right," said the doctor abruptly. "I am not anxious about him—now."

"Do you mean—that you think that he will live?"

She put the question breathlessly, and waited for his reply almost afraid to draw a breath, so great was her anxiety for his verdict. It was the question that had been ringing incessantly in her ears for days past, for, with the gradual increase of Francis' strength, a new hope had been born—a hope of which she hardly dared to think, and which had yet been ever present with her.

The answer was long in coming, but at last Robert Gale spoke.

"I can see no reason now why he should not—live—why he should not live out his life to the allotted span. He will never be robust, of course, but he has no disease. Even the heart-weakness has responded to treatment, or rather, I will say, to happiness, in a remarkable way."

For a moment the room and its contents danced before the girl's eyes and a sense of the greatest gladness warmed her through and through. All through the days that had passed since she had made the Great Discovery, since she became aware that she loved Francis Heathcote with every fibre of her being, there had been behind her new-found joy a sense of dread lest the dark Angel of Death should dissipate it with one sweep of his flaming sword. She had tried not to think of it, to steep herself heart and soul in the one joy of loving, to surrender herself entirely to the magic thrall of such a love as she had dreamed of but had never dared to think would be hers; and now, the doctor's verdict opened to her such a vista of delight for the future that her mind could hardly grasp it. What matter if Francis were never robust? would it not be her greatest happiness to guard him and give him all the care and devotion she could bestow? She asked no more than to be with him always. It would be her privilege to see that nothing endangered the health which had in a measure returned to him.

The doctor was walking up and down the room with short, quick steps, but for a while she did not realise that he was addressing her until she heard a sentence which arrested her attention.

"The situation is terribly difficult."

"Why is it difficult?" she asked.

"Oh," he answered with obvious irritation, "I know that it was my doing. It was the only course open to me at the time, and you've acted nobly. You have been wonderful. But now——" He was silent for a moment, and then he said half to himself, "I've set a wheel rolling, and now—I can't see how to stop it, and that's the truth."

But having received his assurance that all was well with the man she loved, Philippa was far too happy to be in sympathy with his mood.

"What is the matter?" she asked again, lightly. "You seem most depressed." What she wanted to say was, "For goodness' sake do stop pulling at your beard or you'll have it out by the roots."

"If I am depressed, you are certainly remarkably cheerful," he retorted sarcastically, coming to a halt in front of her and regarding her angrily from under his bushy eyebrows.

"I am exceedingly cheerful; and can you wonder at it after the news you have just given me?"

"You are either the most wonderful actress, young lady, or——" He stopped and changed his sentence. "Perhaps you see some way out?"

"Way out? What do you mean?"

"Good God!" he almost shouted at her, "can't you understand? How are you going to tell him?"

"I am not going to tell him."

"You are not going to tell him? But he is going to live. He isn't going to die. And what are you going to do when he speaks—of marriage? He hinted at it just now."

"He has spoken of marriage," said Philippa calmly. She had grown attached to the doctor and had lost all fear of his rough speech.

"Then you'll have to tell him."

"Oh no. I have promised to marry him as soon as ever he is strong enough."

"What?" The word came like a pistol-shot.

"I have promised to marry Francis as soon as ever he is strong enough," she repeated composedly.

The doctor dropped into a chair. "No, no," he said huskily. "My dear, it won't do. You have been splendid. I did not think any woman could do what you have done; but—no one could expect this of you—it is too great a sacrifice. Sooner than that I will tell him the whole story. Eh! you're a brave woman, but it has got to stop here."

"On the contrary, it is only just beginning. And it is out of your hands now. I cannot let you interfere. Nor can I really let you take any of the responsibility. I made my own choice, and I am going to abide by it, I am going to marry him."

The doctor dropped his face into his hands. "You don't know what you are talking about. It is impossible. How can you marry a man you—don't—care for."

"No," she replied softly, "I could not marry a man I did not care for; but I love Francis with all my heart—and that makes all the difference, doesn't it?" she ended with a gentle laugh.

He rose to his feet, and coming to her, laid a kindly hand upon her shoulder. "You are sure of this?" he asked. "You are sure you are not carried away by your sense of pity?"

"I am certain."

"He is old enough to be your father—and he will never be strong."

"That makes no difference."

"He thinks you are——"

"That also makes no difference. I love him and I shall make him happy. He need never know."

"It will not be easy."

"I do not mind. Doctor, do you remember the words you used yourself not so many weeks ago? You said he ought to have 'just a little happiness for all the years he has missed.' Well, he is going to have it."

"What will Mrs. Heathcote say?"

"I don't know. I have written to tell her that I am engaged to be married to Francis. I think she will be surprised."

He shook his head doubtfully. "You know what Francis is to me—but I cannot see this clearly. Above all I desire his happiness, but I can't quite see that this is the right way to get it."

"Don't be afraid," said Philippa. "Time will show you that I am right. Anyway, you will give me your promise not to interfere."

"I do not see that I can interfere," he said slowly. "You have taken the matter into your own hands."

"Promise me," she repeated.

"It may be for his happiness; but what about yours?"

"I am going to be happy too," she assured him. "Indeed I did not know that life could hold so much happiness, or so great a joy as I have now. Tell me," she added more lightly, "how long do you think we ought to keep the nurse?"

"There is no need for her now," he said in his usual professional manner. "Keen can look after him, with you and Mrs. Goodman to do the cosseting. I will get rid of her at the end of the week."

"He will be able to come down-stairs soon, and then I shall drive him out in the pony-carriage."

"It won't hurt him," he agreed, "provided he is carried down the stairs. If I could only tell how much he remembers!"

"That is what we cannot tell. Perhaps it is better to hope that he will never remember."

The doctor nodded. "I shall not be coming so often now. I have one or two other cases which require a good deal of attention, and you can send for me if it is necessary. Meanwhile I will look in every few days. He is less likely to think of his illness if I am not here to remind him of it. Have you heard when the Major is coming home?"

"No. In Marion's last letter she said that Dickie would be able to travel in a fortnight or so, but that he was ordered to the sea. So I don't know whether they will come home or not. She said that this coast was rather too bracing for him—at least she thought so."

"I expect you will hear something in the next day or two," said he rather grimly.

Philippa laughed. "Yes," she agreed, "I expect I shall."



CHAPTER XVII

ISABELLA'S POINT OF VIEW

"All things Of dearest value, hang on slender strings."—WALLER.

"So, my dear, it has come." These were Isabella's words of greeting.

For a moment Philippa hesitated; then she raised her eyes and met the other's look fearlessly.

"Yes," she said simply. "How did you know?"

Isabella took her arm and they walked on together.

"How did I know?" she repeated. "It is written on your face. I was waiting for it, you see."

"You were waiting for it?" repeated the girl wonderingly.

"Yes. I knew it must come. If for no other reason than that pity is akin to love; but more than that, I knew that if there was anything left in the older man of the Francis I used to know—any of his great charm and sweetness of character—you could not, being what you are, fail to love him."

"I did not know—indeed I did not know."

"No, I am certain of that. It is curious, isn't it"—Isabella spoke musingly—"how a little spark of love may fall, all unknown to ourselves, deep down in our heart, and smoulder there without smoke, until some sudden gust of emotion—sorrow—pleasure—anger—God knows what—fans it into a blaze that we cannot extinguish—into flames so high that they reach from earth to heaven and light the whole world for us? Yes, and not only the whole world, but all that unmapped country within us of which we know so little and in which we are so apt to lose ourselves."

"He asked me," said the girl. "I had known in a vague way that the question must come—and I think you knew it too, for that was what you meant the other day, wasn't it? And I was quite prepared. I meant to answer him. I meant to stick at nothing, to satisfy him whatever he asked—and I was going to lie. And as I spoke the words I knew that they were true, I knew that I loved him, Isabella. No, nothing to do with pity, although you may be right when you say that pity had something to do with it in the beginning—but love, such as I did not know was possible to me."

"And now," asked the older woman, gently, "are you glad or sorry?"

"Sorry!" she cried. "Sorry! How could I be sorry? I am glad."

"You welcome love?"

"I welcome it. It is so wonderful—so beautiful——"

"Love brings suffering."

"I am not afraid of suffering—for myself—only for him. If suffering comes, it can never take from me the joy I have known."

"The price of love is heavy."

"No matter the price, I will pay it gladly." There was no mistaking the gladness and the courage which rang in the words.

"Poor child! poor child!" said Isabella softly.

"Do not pity me. There is no need for pity," she said earnestly. "Isabella—if I lost him—to-morrow—still, I have known—but he is not going to die, he is going to live."

"The doctor thinks so?"

"Yes; he says there is no reason why he should not live out his allotted span of life—those were his words."

Isabella did not speak—she was thinking only of Francis, and not at all of the girl beside her. Which was best for him? Would it not be kinder, happier, if he died now before he knew? Her face was very grave and sad; so much so, indeed, that Philippa repeated the words she had spoken, "He will not die. And I have promised to marry him."

"The difficulties are enormous." The words broke from Isabella half against her will. Of what use to speak of difficulties to the girl whose mind refused to acknowledge the existence of any?

"I have planned it all," continued Philippa, without heeding Isabella's words. "We shall be married and go straight abroad. It would not be good for him to be in England for the winter. He needs brightness and warmth and sunshine, and I shall take him to some quiet place where he can have them—where there is no one he has ever known before, to disturb him, or make him worry because he does not remember."

"Do you think he tries to remember?"

"I do not know. He certainly remembers something of the past. I mentioned your name to him the other day, and he replied quite naturally and quite calmly, 'Dear old Isabella! she was always a good friend.' So you see he does remember."

A painful flush rose in Isabella's sallow cheeks, but she said no word. Was this the message she had waited for so long? Casual words repeated with a cruelty that was quite unconscious on Philippa's part.

She too was thinking only of Francis, and not at all of this woman who had loved him in silence for so long. But with the wound comfort came to Isabella in the knowledge of the meed of praise the words contained. It was something to know that Francis remembered her, and more to know that he recalled her as a good friend. What more could she expect? Then, taking her love and her longing with both hands, she laid them a sacrifice before the welfare of the man she loved, and made the renunciation of her one hope without a quiver in her voice.

"I think you are perfectly right," she said. "It is most important that he should not see—any one—he knew in the old days. It would only disturb and perplex him, and if you take him abroad you will be able to guard him from every danger of this kind."

"Yes," said Philippa eagerly, "that is what I feel. I shall try and explain it to Marion, but I am afraid it will not be easy to make her understand. If he sees the Major I am sure he will begin to wonder, and Marion and the child would puzzle him dreadfully. But right away in Italy, or somewhere he has never been before, there would be no danger of anything of the kind. He can start a fresh life altogether.

"I did not really want him to live, Isabella," she continued presently. "I thought it would be better for him to go out of it all, out of all the bewilderment and trouble; but that was before—I knew—I loved him. And now, you cannot wonder that I want him to live. My life shall be devoted to taking care of him. Oh, how I wish you could see him, Isabella! You would see that what I say is true. He is so happy, so light-hearted. I think he must be just what he used to be when he was a boy.

"I had a long talk with poor old Goodie last night. She is in the seventh heaven of delight because the nurse is leaving. She has been so jealous of her, poor old soul. You can hardly wonder at it, can you? She told me exactly what she and Keen had arranged. He is going to sleep in the next room because, as she said, much as she would like to be next to Francis, she did not wake as easily as she used to, and she might not hear him if he called; but she is to take in his early cup of tea so as to have a look at him before any one else. 'I know just how he likes it,' she assured me. 'Two lumps of sugar and a dash of cream.' Her devotion is quite pathetic, and she nearly made me cry last night when she invited me into her room and showed me all her most precious possessions. They had all to do with Francis. His first pair of gloves, such tiny things with fingers about an inch long, his baby shoes, his favourite playthings, beginning with a worsted rabbit and ending with his last tennis racquet. She had a cupboard full of them. And she was so proud of all his presents to her, particularly of a blue china mug which she told me he had bought for her with his own money when he was seven years old. The dear old woman couldn't stop talking of him, and I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. She showed me letters she had from him when he first went to school. The first one he wrote began 'Darling Goodie,' and ended up 'Your loving little Boy.' Well, it appears that she did not think this was a suitable way for him to address her, so she wrote and told him that he was not to write like that again, but to remember his position, and that God had made him her superior. He wrote back 'Darling Goodie,' and ended up 'Your loving little superior Boy.' I saw the letter written in a sprawling childish hand with a line of crosses for kisses at the bottom of the page. It was rather sweet, wasn't it?

"You never heard such stories as she told me. How he once dressed up in the coachman's livery and took the brougham to fetch his mother from Renwick. It was quite dark, and she got into the carriage without noticing anything. He drove home at a fearful pace, and galloped the horses right up the drive, and pulled up at the hall door with a tremendous jerk. His mother quite thought the coachman was drunk, and as she got out she said very sternly, 'You will come to me in the library immediately, Williams.' 'Yes, darling,' said Francis, and jumped off the box and gave her a great hug. It must have been very funny."

"You would think it particularly funny if you had known Lady Louisa," assented Isabella. But she said nothing of a girl who had crouched behind the gatepost, shivering with cold and excitement, to watch the success of the plot which had been hatched by two playmates in the fragrant fastness of the hayloft, which had been always their favourite hiding-place. To this day the scent of hay gave Isabella a delicious tremor, a thrill of the old joyful dread of discovery, which had been the charm of the innocent conspiracies of those far-off days. That it had been her fellow-conspirator who usually undertook the carrying out of the deeds of derring-do, and that upon her had fallen the humbler task of keeping guard against any possible surprise—covering his tracks—averting suspicion—even occasionally taking the blame, though this was without his knowledge,—made no difference to her intense enjoyment. The axiom that one must lead and the other must follow had been early instilled into her by her masculine comrade, and she for her part had been only too content to follow so long as it was he who led. She had forgotten nothing. If it came to stories about Francis as a boy, she could, had she so wished, have recounted as many as old Goodie, but she listened to the recital with a calmness that gave Philippa no hint of her real feelings.

"She showed me a lot of his drawings, too," Philippa said presently. "It seems rather curious that he has never spoken of that, for I think he had been painting the first day I saw him. Dr. Gale told me it was one of his occupations during all the years he was ill. Perhaps he will take it up later on—it will be an interest for him."

"He used to do a good deal of it at times before he was ill," said Isabella. "At one time he had an idea of taking it up seriously, but he was always too fond of being out of doors to stick to anything that kept him in. I remember one Long Vacation he arranged a studio in one of the barns, and declared he was going to work in deadly earnest; but after a while the longing to be out became too strong to be resisted and we heard no more of his career as an artist. No one ever had such a love of nature and sunshine and the open air as he had, and he loved the place so, every field and every tree."

"I wish I had known him then. Oh, Isabella, doesn't it seem extraordinary to think of all that has happened in these last few weeks? I was in such a stupid frame of mind when I came here—so self-centred and so dissatisfied—and now, everything is changed for me. First came all the interest and the intense pity I felt, and then, little by little, love grew without my knowing it until it filled my heart, and I know that whatever happens life can never be the same again to me. It seems so wonderful that everything can be changed in a moment. Does love always come like that? The realisation of it, I mean. I suppose not. Oh, I am sorry for the people who have never felt it. I can hardly believe that I am the same person who grumbled at life being empty a little while ago, for now it is so good to be alive." She stretched out her arms with a welcoming gesture that seemed to embrace the whole world. Then she turned quickly.

"Forgive me, Isabella," she said with a little happy smile; "forgive me for talking about myself, I don't know what made me do it. I think my heart was so full it just had to come out. Now let us talk of something else. How is the book getting on?"

"Not very well, I am afraid. I must confess it has not progressed much the last few days; partly because I have not been quite in the mood for it, which is a terrible confession of weakness, and partly because Mrs. Palling has been on the war-path.

"First of all her beloved bees have been in a most unsettled frame of mind, or so she tells me—I can't say I have seen any sign of it myself—and she assures me that something is going to happen. At first she felt certain that it was the arrival of a visitor for which they strove to prepare her. I am quite sure that it must have been your coming that is the cause of it. No one ever invaded my solitude before, and the excitement was too much for her. But as day after day passed and no stranger arrived, she changed her mind and is now equally certain that the restlessness of her household gods portends some fearful disaster. The awkward part of it is, that even she cannot make out what form it will take; she merely tells me gloomily that something is going to happen. She has tied a bunch of herbs over the door to keep illness away, and she has presented me with a little stone which she beseeches me to carry about with me to avert accident, but even these precautions haven't comforted her much. Whenever I return home I see her waiting anxiously at the gate with a face long enough to propitiate all the gods of misfortune, and when she sees me she finds it hard to believe that I am not dragging myself home to die of some hidden wound.

"But never mind! I have known the good woman suffer from these attacks of depression before. It will pass and she will be restored to her accustomed cheerfulness. I have already told her that her symptoms point to indigestion, to which she replied darkly that by some oversight the last pig was killed at the waning of the moon, and that possibly the pork was 'a bit unheartsome' in consequence. Come and see her some day if you can. I dare say the sight of you will appease the bees and restore her to sanity."

"I will if I possibly can," returned Philippa doubtfully. "But you know, I do not like to go very far in case Francis might ask for me. Could you not come and see me?"

Isabella hesitated. "I do not think I will come to Bessacre unless you really want me—for anything particular, I mean. If I can be of any use to you, send for me, and I will come at once; but otherwise I think it will be better not."

They parted soon afterwards, and Isabella trudged back to her home across the sunlit moor with slow and lagging step. Philippa's words had indeed "knocked at her heart and found her thoughts at home," and the old wound throbbed with a dull fierce ache. She, with her intimate knowledge of Francis, could picture to herself the whole course of recent events.

Had she not known him as a lover, wooing Phil with all the strength of his early manhood, all the force of the flood-tide of his love? Had she not seen him curbing that love lest any demonstration of too open affection might harm his cause with the woman who had not "liked heroics," wooing with innocent devices and tender subtlety? And she could almost hear the words he must have spoken when again he wooed. Small wonder that Philippa's heart had awaked to his appeal. The fact of her own affection, although it did not entirely blind her, distorted her outlook. She only saw that Francis' peace of mind must be preserved at all costs, and it was not likely that she, who would have sacrificed herself gladly for his lightest good, could bring a clear judgment to bear upon the ethics of the case. Had she been in Philippa's place no question of abstract morality would have carried weight with her. She would have taken any action which would have saved him from distress, just as surely as she would have plunged into fire to rescue him.

She would never have stooped to casuistry or self-deception, but she would never have hesitated. She was not what may be called a religious woman as we understand the term. She believed with all her heart in a Supreme God whom she worshipped, but she could not agree to the restrictions which, it seemed to her, orthodoxy set upon His power, and she had no sympathy with women who trample heedlessly upon the feelings of others in a frantic effort to save their own souls. The truth being that Isabella, like so many of her sex who lead solitary lives, had constructed for herself a curious philosophy out of the hotch-potch of maxims, theories, prejudices and principles which she called her opinions, and it had at any rate the merit of being a philosophy of self-sacrifice and self-control.

She realised that Philippa's new-found joy was built upon a delusion, that at any moment it might come tumbling about her ears, but that was hardly worth consideration, although it aroused in her a sense of pity.

She had said "Love brings suffering," and in the words she had recited a clause in her creed of life. Had she not been taught by bitter experience? Love brings suffering, yes; but that was no reason for shrinking from Love. The greater the value of anything, the greater the price which must be paid. This was not cynicism, but common sense; and it was only a coward who did not welcome the suffering as an intrinsic part of the wonderful whole, only a miser who would not pay the price.

She herself had paid it—ungrudgingly—in tears—in long years of loneliness—with empty hands. But with Philippa it was different. Happy Philippa, who might know the delight of Love's service. It is never so hard to suffer in the forefront of the battle, it is the inaction that tortures.



CHAPTER XVIII

MARION SPEAKS HER MIND

"And truth is this to me, and that to thee."—Idylls of the King.

"One that would neither misreport nor lie Not to gain paradise."—Queen Mary. TENNYSON

Philippa was sensible of a certain relief when the post brought no reply to her letter to Marion. To say that she was dreading her friend's answer would be over-stating the case, for the girl's present frame of mind was far too exalted, too ecstatic, to admit of anything so sobering as dread; but she could not help knowing that Marion would entirely fail to understand her actions or the motives which prompted them, and would be mystified and unhappy about her.

She had not the happy faculty which some people have of putting their thoughts on paper, lucidly and clearly, and the letter had not been an easy one to write. She had honestly tried to be frank, but when it came to writing of her love, words seemed so bald, so inadequate, that after several efforts she had given it up in despair, and merely stated simple facts. And yet she would have liked Marion to know all. It would have added to her happiness to have known that her friend sympathised and shared in it.

She never for a moment considered the possibility of an answer in person, and she was, in consequence, taken entirely by surprise when, on the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Heathcote walked into the hall where she was sitting.

Philippa sprang to her feet. "Oh," she cried, "I never thought you would be able to come. How delightful!"

Marion returned her kiss warmly. "I felt I must see you," she said affectionately, "and I was able to leave Dickie for a little while."

"How is he?"

"Getting gradually stronger."

"Is your husband here?"

"No, he stopped with the boy; we could not both come away. I can only stay a short time. Will you come into the morning-room and let us have a talk there, where we shall be undisturbed?"

"You got my letter?" asked Philippa.

"Yes, that is why I came," answered Marion gravely. "Will you tell me all about it, dear?"

For answer Philippa flung her arms about her and held her close. There was something so comforting, so dear about Marion, that at the sight of her a flood of recollection flashed through the girl's mind of unnumbered kindnesses and loving counsel in the old days, a thousand links in the chain which bound them in friendship, and yet—now—how was she to make her understand?

Marion, with all the genius for loving-kindness which she undoubtedly possessed, held certain rigid and unwavering opinions. They were a part of her; without them she would not have been Marion—the Marion Philippa loved—and it was just her perfectly sane, normal outlook on life which made the stumbling-block, for it was not easy to her to take another person's point of view, or look, as it were, through another person's eyes.

And Marion herself, holding the girl tightly in all affection, and stroking the dark head with a tender touch, felt a sudden helplessness. This was not the Philippa she had expected to see. She had read her letter with the utmost surprise, not to say consternation, and, womanlike, had read into the simple communication a very great deal that had not been in it at all.

That Philippa should feel affection for the man whom she had come to know under such extraordinary circumstances she could well believe; it was entirely in keeping with her estimate of the girl's character, and she had, in fact, said as much to her husband from the first. "Philippa will love any one who wants her badly enough," she had said. "It is simply her loving heart and her pity that lead her into it." But that she should think of marriage was almost unbelievable; it could not be allowed.