She had imagined Philippa composed, even happy—indeed the girl had said as much when she wrote—uplifted by a sense of heroism which was possibly quite unconscious—ready to take a course to which her sympathy and her compassion impelled her, without any thought of what the consequences might be, so far as she herself was concerned.

As she, Marion, well knew, the bodily weakness of a man can be in itself a great attraction to a certain type of woman, and no doubt Phil had been carried off her feet by his very need of her—blinded by her emotions so that she could not see that they were misleading her, to say the least of it. And instead of this, she found a Philippa radiant, palpitating, blissful, with eyes that shone with gladness through a veil of dreams.

It was so utterly unexpected that it cut the ground of all her carefully prepared arguments away from underneath her feet. She drew Philippa to a couch and they sat down side by side.

There was silence for a while, and then the girl began recounting in a low voice the steps which one by one had led her to the present moment. She did not find it easy. It was hard to forget that under Marion's kind and grave attention there must be, for all her love, the little barrier raised by the dissentient voice of her conscience. It had been much easier to be quite frank with Isabella, whose love for Francis swept aside every scruple, every obstacle, but with Marion it was different. It was not that she could not understand the power of love, or was incapable of sacrificing herself on love's altar; she was essentially a woman who knew love at its very best and strongest, and who would at any time have laid down her life for the beloved; but there was another thing more precious to her than life, and that was righteousness. She had in her some of the stuff of which martyrs were made, and she would have torn her heart out by the roots sooner than have stepped into happiness over the grave of a principle. And to her, at any rate, it was clear that in this case a very precious principle was being violated, for the whole matter hung upon a deception. Truth was right, and untruth was wrong, and her whole heart was bent upon bringing Philippa to a correct vision of right.

"My dearest," she said, as Philippa ceased speaking, "you say that he is better and stronger now. Well, then, tell him the truth."

"I cannot do that," replied the girl firmly. "It would only make him very unhappy, even if he were strong enough to bear it."

"It might make him unhappy just for the time," rejoined Marion quickly. "But surely, oh, surely that would be better than the greater unhappiness of knowing you have deceived him. For he must find out. You cannot possibly guard him against enlightenment. Why, any day when he is able to go out he might meet some one who would make some remark quite by chance which would betray you. He needs you, he is to a certain extent dependent on you; once he knew he would—in a little while if not at once—turn to you for comfort."

"I love him too much to hurt him."

"I believe you love him, and I am sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

"Because this love must bring you pain; but believe me, dearest Philippa, for his sake it would be kinder to tell him."

"I cannot see it," answered the girl rather hotly. "He is absolutely happy, absolutely contented. He knows I love him. The fact that he has made a mistake hurts nobody."

"There can be no blessing on a love which is not based on truth," said Marion gently.

"You speak as if I were defrauding some one. There is no one else to be considered. Phil is dead and gone, and the whole matter rests between him and me."

"You are defrauding him and you are defrauding yourself of the highest and best part of love, and what love should mean—confidence and trust! Philippa, let me tell him. Let me tell him, and explain your pity which misled you and which grew into love for him."

"Oh no, no!" cried the girl quickly. "It is out of the question. It would be wicked—cruel!"

"I think I had better tell him," repeated Marion persuasively.

Philippa thought a moment. "If you do he would not believe you," she said, with a little note of triumph in her voice. "I should not be afraid. Of course it is quite impossible to think of such a thing on account of the distress it would cause him. He would only be afraid it was part of the old trouble—that he was dreaming or delirious. He would never believe you."

Marion recognised the truth in this, and withdrew from that line of attack. She thought for a moment of asking Philippa what her mother's opinion would be, but on reflection decided not to mention Lady Lawson. Her intuition told her that she would hardly be the person to consider ethics, and would probably be quite willing that her daughter should follow her inclinations, always provided that the social and financial position of the man she wished to marry left nothing to be desired.

Philippa rose from her seat and took two or three steps across the room; then she turned and faced her friend.

"I cannot tell you, dear, how sorry I am that you and I should differ over this. But nothing you can say will make me alter my mind. I am absolutely positive that what I am doing is best for Francis, and I only wish I could make you think so too. Do you imagine that I would do anything that was not for his good—I who love him so much? Of course I wouldn't. I would not have promised to marry him if I had not cared for him. I could not have done such a thing. It would have been a dreadful position, and I can't bear to think of what it would have meant. But after all there is no reason to think of it now. I love him and I will be his most loving wife. My every thought shall be devoted to him and to taking care of him. I only wish you could see him. Perhaps then you would understand. But it is not possible. It is most important that he should not be worried or disturbed, and if he saw you he might worry because he did not remember you. I know there will be difficulties, but I am confident they can be overcome. We shall be married very quietly in a month or six weeks' time. I haven't written to my mother about it yet, but, of course, I will do so when it is definitely settled. Then I shall take Francis abroad to some quiet, sunny place, where he will not be in the least likely to see any one he knew before his illness. The doctor says that will be the best thing for him."

"I blame Dr. Gale very much," interrupted Marion.

"I don't think you need," rejoined Philippa with a little smile, "the poor man is quite penitent enough already. And, indeed, although he had something to do with it at first, he has nothing to do with it now. He took much the same line as you do when it came to the question of marriage, but I explained to him that it was my affair, and no one else's. Marion, it is not as if I was a child. I am of an age to decide for myself. And, of course, the doctor was only thinking of me. He knows well enough that it is the best possible thing for Francis. Don't look so dreadfully unhappy!" she said in a lighter tone, for Marion's pretty round face was flushed and drawn and her eyes were full of tears. "Dear," she added affectionately, "if you knew how happy I was, I think you would rejoice, and not be so full of dismal forebodings. I love him and he loves me, and nothing else matters."

Marion's face paled. It was an effort to speak the words which had been on her lips for some moments, for to her it seemed that they must deal Philippa a blow which she would thankfully have spared her, a blow which must surely dissolve the girl's castle of dreams into dust. But she did not flinch.

"He does not love you," she said sternly.

Philippa started; then she gave a low laugh of content.

"Ah," she said with a tender smile, "you do not know—how should you?—how great a love he has for me."

"He does not love you. It is not you he loves," continued Marion relentlessly. "Oh, my dear! my dear! can you not see your mistake? It is you who do not understand. His love is not for you. Every word of love he speaks, every bit of the love in his heart belongs to another woman. He does not think of you. You are not in it at all, or if you are, you are only a supplanter taking what is not meant for you."

Marion was crying openly now, the tears coursing unheeded down her cheeks, but Philippa did not notice them. She did not seem to have heard, she was gazing out of the window, intent only on her thoughts, and from the expression on her face those thoughts were very tender, very sweet. And in the little pause that followed, Marion laid down her weapons, knowing they were useless. Her last shot had failed, and there was nothing in her armoury that would pierce the armour of the girl's conviction. She had no power to forbid. After all, Philippa was not a child, but a woman grown.

She dried her eyes rather surreptitiously, and then got up and crossed to where her friend was standing, and put her arm through hers.

"I won't say any more," she said huskily, "because I don't think it is any use, and although we can't agree, which distresses me infinitely, our disagreement is not going to divide us. Nothing can hurt our friendship." In her heart she was already seeking to comfort Philippa for the pain which she was certain must come, but the girl knew nothing of that.

Philippa stooped and kissed her without speaking.

"Dickie is getting better every day," Marion went on. "Of course we shall have to be careful of him for a long time, but I quite hope we shall be home in a fortnight or three weeks. I shall be glad to be here. I do not think you ought to be alone—without any woman with you, I mean. It has been too unfortunate."

"I have made friends with Isabella Vernon," said Philippa. "Looking back, it seems incredible that the time has been so short—so much has happened. I seem to have known her for years."

"Who is Isabella Vernon?" asked Marion in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIX

HALCYON DAYS

"Love keeps his revels where there are but twain."—Venus and Adonis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'"And how can man die better, than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his gods?'"

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

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

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

The quotation in itself was nothing, a mere tag of poetry as familiar to every schoolboy as his ABC, but if the timely mention of it was a sign that the cloud was dispersing further, what would be the next train of thought to emerge from darkness and oblivion? Had Philippa been more vigilant the occurrence would undoubtedly have afforded her food for reflection.

There came at length an afternoon when for his amusement she described a place which they should visit together, which should be for them both a garden of enchantment; and lest he should wonder at her intimate knowledge of a land which possibly her namesake had never seen, she painted it in fanciful poetic words, leaving him uncertain whether she was drawing entirely on her imagination or not.

There was, as a matter of fact, a villa on the shore of Lake Maggiore which she had seen the previous year, and which had impressed itself upon her memory as being the loveliest spot earth could show—a veritable dreamland—and when she had turned her mind to the task of finding some retreat, hidden safely from the eyes of curious passers-by, and possessing all the necessary qualifications of climate and comfort, it had at once struck her as the very place she sought.

She had laid her plans with eager care, no detail for his well-being should be forgotten. It only now remained that she should receive a reply in the affirmative to her letter of inquiry as to whether the house was available.

Francis was sitting beside her watching the smiles come and go on her expressive face as she grew more and more interested in her theme.

"Go on, dearest," he said, as she paused. "Tell me some more about your paradise."

"There is a terrace in front of it where lilies and oleanders grow and roses riot over an old stone wall, and the air is rich with the scent of them. At one end is a tall cypress-tree, and the sunlight touches the stem of it until it shines like fire against the green darkness of its boughs. On the worn old stone pavement white pigeons strut and preen themselves, puffing out their chests with the most absurd air of self-satisfaction. There are steps down from the terrace, and at the bottom there is a great bed of carnations, red and white and yellow, and their fragrance meets you like a wall of perfume as you pass."

"There should be violets," he interrupted. "Where are your violets? You could not be happy without them."

"Oh, of course there are violets," agreed Philippa, "masses of them, but I am not at all sure that they flower at the same time as the roses and lilies and carnations. I don't know much about gardening. Well, you walk down the pathway into a grove of olive-trees—a shimmer of pale silvery green, a sort of dim aisle in fairyland—until you come to the water's edge. There is an old stone seat, and you can just sit and look and look and drink it all in. No, not the water—the view, I mean. Blue water, brilliant heavenly blue, and far away in the distance a line of hills, faint and yet clear under a sky that is—— Oh, I don't know how to describe it. It is ridiculous to say it is blue. You must try and imagine it for yourself. And I think—oh yes, I am sure—there would be just a gleam of snowy whiteness on the top of the hills."

"I don't believe you have ever seen it," said Francis teasingly. "You are making it all up as you go along."

"Perhaps I am," she replied. "But I am sure I know where to find it."

"Then we will go and look for this Magical Island, sweetheart. It is an island, I suppose? How do we reach it? In a fairy boat drawn by swans?"

"Not quite. But it is fairyland when we get there."

"When shall we start, my darling? Phil, how soon can we go?"

"We must wait a little while."

"But need we wait for long?" he pleaded. "How soon will you marry me?"

"There is a long journey to the Magical Island—a long journey. But in a few weeks perhaps we can begin to think about it."

He leaned towards her. "A few weeks! and I count the days until you are really mine. How soon do you think Rob will let me travel?"

"I don't know. Let us ask him."

He nodded. "I will ask him. And then—you will not keep me waiting?"

"I will not keep you waiting," she said soberly.

He kissed her fondly, and then rose to his feet and stood looking down at her as she stretched out her hand and drew a thread from the pile of silks which lay on a table beside her.

"How industrious you are. Time was when you never touched a needle, and now you are always at work."

"I am developing good habits, that is all. There is no saying what I shall take to next; you must never be surprised."

"I know the cause, and I love you for it."

"What is the cause?"

"You only do it because you are obliged to spend so much time indoors with me. You don't acknowledge it because you are so dear and sweet, but I know well enough all you have given up for me."

"Wait until we get to the Magical Island where it is always warm. We can be out there together all day long."

"Just you and I together?"

"Just you and I together," she repeated; "unless you want any one else."

"I want nothing and no one in the world but only you."

A little thrill ran through her at the thought of his utter dependence on her, for she was literally his whole world.

He stood, but for her, absolutely isolated, absolutely alone—the friends of his early life forgotten, wiped out as though they had never been; but what matter since it made him more entirely hers?

Each day brought Philippa its draught of Love's elixir, and she drank it lingeringly, unwilling to lose a drop. And in some curious way the potion wrought a change in her. She adopted a new personality. It was not that of Phil—the Phil she had undertaken to represent, for she would have had recollections of old days to linger over with him—but a new Phil, reborn in a wonderful present, with no past because he could not share it, and with a future veiled in half-fearful, wholly delicious mystery.

To-day, the glorious Now, was his and hers, they were together on the hill where Hope stands smiling, and if, somewhere below that dizzy altitude, there was a valley where Memory lurked, she could not see it for the rainbow clouds of joy that wrapped her round.

Francis had walked to the uncurtained window and was standing looking out, and after a while his voice broke in upon her thoughts.

"Come and look at the sunset, sweetheart."

The sky behind the clump of tall elms was tinged with tenderest rose, and here and there wisps of greyish-purple cloud were floating across the glow. All was very calm, very still, the silence broken only by the low notes of the birds who sung their vesper hymn. Side by side they watched the shadows creep softly over a drowsy earth.

"A sleeping world—a world of dreams," Francis said gently. "You and I in a beautiful world of dreams."

She made no answer, and after a minute he added, "To-morrow it will wake. Must we wake too, dear love?"

"Oh no," she cried quickly. "Why do you say that?"

"Somewhere out there," he continued thoughtfully, "there is a world of action. I wonder if it will call to us?"

"If it calls we will not listen."

"I have lost count of much, I think. I seem to have lived long in dreamland. Perhaps it is because I still feel weak, that at times illusive, intangible thoughts come into my mind. I cannot hold them. When I try to grasp them they are gone. It is rather a horrid feeling, not to be able to master your own thoughts. There is so much that I have forgotten—so much that seems blank. But, thank God, I have still my memory of you. All through my illness you were the anchor to which I clung when everything else drifted away from me."

It had become such a habit with Philippa to speak the word which would turn him from any effort to remember, that she did it now almost unconsciously. It was never very difficult, for he was only too ready to follow any lead she gave him towards the subject of their contentment in each other, or the safe topic of the existing moment.

"Do not try to remember, dearest. Think only that we are together."

She felt his arm go round her and she leaned towards him.

"You are my life," he said earnestly, "and nothing matters when you are beside me. I think I have reason to be grateful to the long hours when I was weak and ill. They have taught me what you really are—an angel of tenderness and patience. It was a dark time, my darling, but the remembrance only intensifies the present joy."

"Ah, yes," she repeated softly; "the present joy."

"And a future to be glorified by our love lies all before us. What is a little weakness of body when weighed against all the precious possessions which are mine?"

He held her closer until her head was resting on his breast. It seemed to Philippa then that life could hold no moment more charged with utter bliss than this—she and the man she loved, together in a vast encircling peace.



CHAPTER XX

BITTER-SWEET

"Full from the fount of love's delicious joys Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings."—BYRON.

The low carriage jolted over the deep ruts left by the carts which had carried the bracken the previous autumn, as the stout pony threw himself into the collar with a will. On either side of the narrow lane were high, sandy banks, riddled with rabbit-holes and crowned with a tangle of brambles and briars. The leaves were just beginning to turn, and the hips and haws had already clothed themselves in their winter finery, and shone in flaming scarlet against the blue sky overhead. There was a pleasant coolness in the air, and the birds twittered merrily in tune with Nature's cheerful mood.

Francis was in excellent spirits, and Philippa, noticing the unwonted colour in his cheeks, told herself that she had never seen him look so well, and that surely the journey to the Magical Island might soon be undertaken.

They were paying the long-talked-of visit to Bessmoor, and Philippa, who had before now explored most of the roads near Bessacre, had chosen this unfrequented lane in preference to the usual road which led through the village; partly because of its beauty, and partly because she had no wish that they should meet Isabella Vernon, who so often walked upon the upper part of the moor.

She had seen her on the preceding day, and had given her a full account of the invalid, but she did not intend that he should be confronted by an old acquaintance if it could possibly be avoided. It was, of course, possible that he would not recognise her, but safer to run no risks.

Slowly they climbed the incline, the pony slipping and stumbling as the sand crumbled away from under his feet.

"It is a hard pull for the poor old thing," said Philippa penitently; "I ought not to have come this way."

"We'll give him a rest when we get to the top. It won't hurt him, but it makes me feel as if I ought to get out and walk."

"You ought to do no such thing," she retorted quickly. "The very idea is preposterous."

Francis laughed at her vehemence. "You need not think that you are going to pamper me like this for the rest of my life. We shall be taking long walks together, you and I, very soon. Oh, it is a joy to be alive on such a day as this. Look at that rabbit scuttling away up the lane. It reminds me——" He stopped and hesitated "I can't remember—but I seem to—— Oh, drive on, Phil. Yes,"—he spoke excitedly,—"it is coming back to me now—that tree and that gate."

They had reached the top of the hill where the lane ended at the edge of the moor. There was a crooked oak-tree standing on the right at the junction of two banks which divided some cultivated land from the heath, and under the tree was a gate, broken from its hinges and lying half upon the ground.

"Phil, darling, this is the place. I know now why you brought me here. It was so dear of you to think of it." He laid his hand on hers, and then lowered his voice as the groom who had been walking behind the carriage came forward to the pony's head. "Hang the man!" he said boyishly, "let him wait here while we go on a little further. I want to talk to you. Oh, I can see you now. We had been walking up the field. It was planted with turnips, and a rabbit ran out just here. Then—oh, sweetheart, I am glad to have remembered. It is one more memory of you. It was the happiest day of my life. You had on a scarlet cap. I wish you had put it on to-day—I always loved you in it."

A little chill of some inexplicable feeling ran through Philippa. It was not dismay, for he had often alluded to some detail of Phil's appearance which he recalled. She had never failed to satisfy him with some light answer—she could not make it out. However, it was gone in a moment, and she listened again to what he was saying.

"Don't think me silly, darling, but I had waited so long for you. Surely you like to remember it too—the day you gave yourself to me. I had given you my heart long before, and you have it still. Oh, I am glad to have seen this place again."

"It is most beautiful," she agreed. "Look at the line of the sea—how wonderfully blue it is. You can see the smoke of a steamer on the horizon—over there." She pointed with the whip in her hand. "When I was a child I used to watch the ships, and make up all sorts of stories as to where they were going and the wonderful adventures they would meet with—pirates and desert islands and shipwrecks and sea-serpents. I think I must have had a very vivid imagination. But my stories always ended up happily. After endless perils and hairbreadth escapes my vessels sailed home laden with treasure. Where is that ship going, and what sort of passengers does she carry? I wonder if they are all very unhappy at leaving England, or full of hope about the new land they are going to?"

"Perhaps they are bound for the Magical Island," Francis said, smiling. "Is it north, south, east or west, that fairyland? And is it really more beautiful than Bessmoor after all? Just think of it. If I hadn't been ill we might be there now, and by this time I should have discovered your secret. Tell me where it is, darling."

"No, no," she replied, laughing. "I won't tell you. You want to know too much. You must be patient. It is to be a surprise for you."

"I wish we were sailing there now, in that ship over there," he said. "But anyway I am sure of one thing, and that is that even on the Magical Island we couldn't be happier than we are now."

"No, I don't think we could," assented Philippa, in a tone of great contentment.

"I cannot say how glad I am that we should have come here for our first drive together since all the shadows rolled away. It seems right, somehow. Thank you, dear one, for bringing me. It is a perfect spot, isn't it? It seems a worthy setting for the perfect joy which came to me here. Phil, I wonder—when you promised to marry me—here—standing by that gate—did you love me as much as you do now?"

Again that curious chill ran through the girl, but this time it was much more definite, so strong that it gave her a feeling of physical sickness. It was only with an effort that she could wrench her mind free from the grip of it and answer calmly and with perfect truth, "I have never loved you so well as I do to-day."

His arm pressed hers with a movement full of affection, and he smiled into her eyes.

"We must be going back now. You will have been out long enough." So saying she turned the pony round and they retraced their road.

"Oh, how it all comes back to me!" Francis continued. "You were so full of life and spirits that day, I thought I should never get a chance to say the words which were burning on my lips—to tell you what I was longing you should know. I don't know which I love best, the Phil who was always overflowing with fun and laughter, or the sweet serious Phil of to-day."

He changed his tone instantly as he saw her face. "I was only speaking in jest, dear one," he whispered. "I, too, can say as you said just now, that I have never loved you so well as at this moment. But I have a happy memory of the old Phil as she was before I was such an anxiety to her that she almost forgot how to smile. But never mind, soon you will forget all the sadness, and I will teach you your old trick of laughter."

But Philippa did not speak. She was wrestling with the most insupportable sensation of mingled misery and revolt, and she seemed to hear words as clearly spoken as though the speaker were actually by her side—"He does not love you. It is not you he loves."

A surge of anger blotted out the sunshine and darkened the whole world, and through the darkness one lightning flash shot through the girl's sick heart. This was jealousy. Suddenly she felt she could not bear it—she could not sit there beside the man she loved and hear him talk of other days which she had never known and of his love for another woman. In a minute or two the storm passed, but it left her faint and numb, with the beautiful veil which had enveloped her dream of bliss torn to ribbons.

She fought desperately to recover her self-possession and succeeded to a certain extent, but her hands were so cold that she could hardly feel the reins, and in her ears there sounded the rushing of great waters.

Step by step the old pony trod down the steep, uneven track, and the necessity for careful driving seemed sufficient excuse for her preoccupation.

"We must come here again," said Francis thoughtfully. "It will help me to remember;" and then, as though his thoughts had gone back to the scene enacted long ago on the place they had just visited, he added half to himself, "Dear little girl, with her happy face and clouds of dark hair under a scarlet cap!"

Philippa suppressed a wild desire to scream aloud. The words were like a knife turning in her heart at the moment; but to her relief he did not speak again until they reached the house.

Keen and a footman were waiting for them at the door, and he was carried up-stairs to rest as usual after his drive. Philippa followed, and arranged his cushions and attended to his comfort in the way that had become habitual to her, but she left him as quickly as she could and sought the privacy of her own room. She wanted to be alone to battle with the unexpected enemy which had in some unaccountable way stormed the stronghold of her heart and threatened to lay it in ruins. The words Marion had spoken—words which had been utterly unheeded at the time—now battered for admission to the fortress and met with slight resistance. "His love is not for you—every bit of the love in his heart belongs to another woman." It was not true! It could not be true! Francis loved her—now—to-day. What right had the woman who had failed him to rob her, the living Philippa, of one corner of his heart? For she wanted it all. She, by right of her love for him, claimed his every thought, she could not spare one.

Phil had renounced her privilege, had thrown it aside as something of no value, had broken the tie which bound her to Francis the first moment that it galled. Could Philippa then be blamed if she had riveted the chain afresh and possessed herself of what Phil had discarded as worthless? Surely not. This was a point which Philippa had considered thoroughly at the time of making her first decision. In her first interview with Francis she had, as has been stated, blamed herself for listening to words of love intended for another; but once she had learned the rights of the whole affair she had altered her opinion, and had deliberately set aside all thoughts of Phil. So entirely had she identified herself with the woman whom Francis loved, that she had ceased to allow her a separate individuality at all. She, Philippa, was in effect that woman, as she was in reality the woman who loved him. His allusions to Phil had never troubled her up to the present, save, of course, that they required careful answering. Marion's plain speaking had glanced off the armour of her security without even denting it—why should she think of it now?

It was so dreadful to be jealous—she had always considered jealousy a vulgar failing—and her face flushed with shame and humiliation that she, who had always prided herself upon being above petty weakness, should harbour so despicable a sentiment, and that of a dead woman. And yet she could only acknowledge honestly that it was torture to her to hear Francis speak of Phil in terms of such affection. Now that this odious whisper had made itself heard, how could she submit to his embrace? Could she ever forget? What could she do? Her deep, passionate love craved for evidences of his in return. Was this horrible ghost always to stand between them?

She paced up and down the room, striving with all her might to straighten out this abominable coil. Of all the pains to which poor human nature is liable, and not a few are self-inflicted, none is sharper than jealousy. It has been well described as the child of love and the parent of hate.

But for all that at the moment Philippa was suffering acutely, she was by no means prepared to permit this vile thing to conquer. She would fight it and root it out. It had come upon her so suddenly. What was the cause? Was it merely a freak of that incomprehensible phenomenon the human mind that had twisted the chain of her affection into so mischievous a knot, or merely a figment of the brain springing from inner consciousness to torment her with devilish ingenuity? or did the fault lie with her in some simpler, more tangible way? Was it possible that her love was not the great and boundless force that she had imagined, but weak, in that it could not dispel and overcome any thought that dimmed its purity—such a poor selfish thing that she allowed an idea to influence her to its despite?

She had been so utterly happy—had she been thinking only of herself? But no, Francis had been happy too. Had Marion been right when she had accused her of defrauding not only herself, but him, of the best part of what love should mean—confidence and trust—and was this her punishment? And little by little, as she thought and puzzled over it all, the scales fell from her eyes and she knew the truth. She knew that she had "drugged her brain against realities, and lived in dreams,"—dreams which had been, as most dreams are, strange compounds of self-deception and hallucination, distorted, imaginary and futile.

And yet, while her hope and joy vanished like a vapour before the searching heat of truth, one thing remained firm—her love for Francis. Whatever mistakes she had made, whatever fancies she had taken for fact, this was actual, pure and irrefutable. It seemed to her suddenly that this was the only saving clause in the long list of errors, and she saw the difference it would have made if Francis had known the truth. No possible cloud could have come between them then, and all the rosy dreams in which she had indulged might have proved waking joys.

And even now she could not see how she could have acted differently—certainly not at the outset—it was impossible then to undeceive Francis; but later, supposing that when she first became aware of her love for him—supposing she had told him the truth then, making clear her affection at the same time, could he not have borne it? Had that been in reality her one hour of choice to which regret now turned with longing? At the time she had been so engrossed in her own rapture that she had passed it unheeding. And now, was it possible to tell him? And if she did so, how could she explain, how vindicate her own actions? She had taken his protestations, his tenderness under a false pretence. How could she tell him now, when his memory was groping back slowly and painfully, and he had already so much to bear in the fuller knowledge of his limitations—when he had no one but her?

She could not do it. The only thing she could do was to go on, to carry on what she had undertaken; and after all, if he did not love her he was absolutely dependent on her. She must school herself to listen to this talk of old days. It could be only for a time, for in the future there would be so many new interests for him that he would cease to think of the past. She would so fill his life that if she were only patient, surely she might hope for the day when she could say that he was hers in every thought. She would practise self-control and self-abnegation, and perhaps after a time this dull heartache and sense of loss would pass away.

Fortified by these excellent resolutions, she took up a book which she and Francis were reading together and went to his sitting-room. As she entered she saw him standing in front of a tall mahogany bookcase, the bottom drawer of which was open and filled with papers. He held one in his hand, but as he glanced up and saw her he replaced it and closed the drawer without speaking. His face was very white, and she asked him anxiously if he was tired.

"A little," he answered, "but not too tired for some reading."

He lay down, and Philippa drew a chair to her accustomed place and began to read. She read steadily for a while, but presently she noticed that Francis was paying no attention to the story, although he had hitherto been interested in it, so she suggested some music. He assented readily enough, and she went to the piano and played several of his favourite pieces, but she could see he was not listening. She took up a song with the intention of singing, but laid it down again, feeling thankful that he had not asked for it, for the effort would have been beyond her to-night. To-morrow she would be calmer and stronger.

But the music soothed her and she sat on, playing from memory, passing from one thing to another almost without heeding what she was doing. Many times before she had played to Francis like this in the earlier days when he had been too weak for sustained conversation, but never had his silence lasted so long as to-night. It rather alarmed her at last, and she rose and went to his side.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked. "Are you sure you are not feeling ill?"

"What should be the matter?" he replied. "No, thank you, darling, I am not feeling ill, but——" he passed his hand over his forehead with a gesture of perplexity—"I seem to be thinking of so many things to-night, that is all."

"Do not tire yourself with thinking," she said earnestly. "Put thought aside until you are more fit for it—or let me do the thinking for you. What is it that you want to know?"

"Oh, so many things," he answered, with an attempt at lightness. Then rising he added: "Perhaps I am a little tired. Will you ring the bell for Keen? I think I will go to bed. I am sorry, dearest, but I don't feel like talking to-night. The fresh air has gone to my head, I think; but I shall be all right after a night's rest."

He kissed her as usual and she left him, feeling reassured about him. The expedition of the morning was enough to account for a little extra fatigue.



CHAPTER XXI

POOR RIP

"Since knowledge is but sorrow's spy It is not safe to know."—DAVENANT.

The early post brought Philippa two letters next morning. One was from Marion, who wrote to say that their plans were suddenly changed, and that Philippa must not be surprised to receive a telegram at any moment announcing their immediate return; the truth being that Dickie, who up to now progressed well towards recovery, had begun to pine for his own belongings and his familiar surroundings, and that, with all the fretfulness of childhood in convalescence, he asked unceasingly to go home. His demand had become so persistent, in spite of all his parents could say or do to pacify him, that the doctor had said it might be wiser to take the risk of moving him sooner than was expedient rather than allow him to wear himself out with tears and unhappiness.

"He is not really naughty, dear little boy," so ran the mother's words, "but he cannot be content. He won't pay any attention to toys or games, and whatever I do to amuse him he turns away his head and his little lip quivers pathetically. 'Thank you very much,' he says wearily, 'but I don't want it. I want to go home.' So there is nothing to be done but move him as soon as possible—the sooner the better, I think, but the doctor wants to put it off a day or two if he can. Will you tell the servants to get the rooms ready, and I will let you know when we actually start? We shall motor all the way, as we can make up a bed for Dickie in the car; I am sure he will be perfectly quiet so soon as he knows he is really going home.

"Both Bill and I are most anxious that our coming should not disturb Francis in any way, and if you will let us know exactly what the doctor's wishes are we will see that they are carried out. If he thinks it wiser that Francis should not see us we will arrange our comings and goings so that we do not meet him. I gather from your letters that except for the time he spends out of doors, he is mostly in his own rooms, and if it is desirable we will keep away from that part of the house altogether. I shall be so glad to be home again—almost as glad as Dickie, I think, and I shall be glad to be at hand in case you need me in any way."

Marion wrote very affectionately, and did not in any way allude to their difference of opinion at their last meeting, but Philippa was a little distressed at the subject of her letter. She would so infinitely rather have continued alone with Francis, following their usual routine until their marriage. She had no doubt that Marion was right when she said that their coming need not disturb Francis in any way; but still it would not be quite the same as when they had the house to themselves. One cannot entirely ignore the presence of one's host and hostess, however self-effacing they may be, and in a sense it would be a danger, for now that Francis was able to walk he might at any time choose to depart from his custom and so come upon them without warning. However, it was impossible to make any contrary suggestion in the face of the reason which compelled their change of plans, and it only remained for her to be constantly on the watch to guard against any accidental meeting.

The other letter was from her mother, who wrote in her gayest style, describing all she was doing—the last party—the last fashion in dress—the craze of the moment—and the new dancer whose fascination both on and off the stage kept the gossips busy. She ended by asking Philippa for the address of a certain dressmaker in Paris whom she had previously employed. She had lost it, and would Philippa be an angel, underlined, and telegraph it to her at once, underlined, as she wanted it immediately.

At the bottom of the large sheet of notepaper was a postscript—"I am longing to know whether you are coming to us for the winter. We should simply love to have you. Do answer, dearest, because I want to make all sorts of arrangements and cannot settle anything until I know."

Philippa searched her address-book until she found what she wanted, and wrote out a telegram and gave it to the butler for dispatch. Then she returned to the writing-table and took up her pen, but she did not commence to write.

It was clearly high time that her mother should be told of her engagement, and of the fact that she was shortly going to be married; it was unkind to leave her in ignorance, and yet Philippa could not bring herself to write the news. It was so difficult to explain, and she knew the volley of questions which would descend upon her. It was even possible that Lady Lawson would come flying to England in order to assist at the ceremony, which was the last thing her daughter desired. All she wished for was that she and Francis might be married as quietly and as privately as possible—she intended to settle the details with Marion and her husband when they came—and then slip away to the Magical Island. Once there she could take hold of life with her two hands and mould it to her will.

She gave a little sigh as she thought of it, for now that she had awaked from her dreams into a world of realities she saw the future in a different light; but she was quite determined, she was going to wrest happiness—her own happiness and that of the man she loved—from the hands of fate. She was going straight forward. Never again would she allow herself a backward glance, lest the recollection of the glamour she had known weakened her with vain longings for what had been a dream. It had been a dream. She knew that now, but in the future she might find herself dreaming it again and know it true; for dreams do sometimes come true.

She gave up the attempt at last—it was impossible to write fully to her mother to-day. She would keep her precious secret a little longer.

To tell it to Lady Lawson was to blazon it out to the world at large, and that was more than she could bear.

She joined Francis after a while and found him looking better than on the previous evening. He declared himself perfectly well, and suggested that they should go for their drive as soon as possible.

"I am afraid it is still raining," she answered, going to the window; "but I can see a patch of blue sky, and the clouds are lifting a little. We shall have to wait until after luncheon."

"It rained very heavily in the night," said Francis.

"Did it disturb you? I hope not. Old Goodie told me you had had a good night."

"So I did, dearest, but I heard the rain nevertheless. I am afraid I was rather dull and stupid last evening. I am sorry."

"You were not dull and stupid, but I think you were tired."

He nodded. "My head felt rather tired. I found it difficult to collect my thoughts, and it worried me rather. Darling," he continued, coming closer to her, "forgive me if I am a nuisance sometimes, but—my memory is all wrong still—it must be, for so much seems strange to me. It seems as if there were blanks I cannot account for. But you are the same; and you will never change, will you?"

And Philippa answered him with all her heart: "I love you and I shall never change."

He put his arm round her and kissed her fondly. "That satisfies me—I want no more than that; and I will try and follow your advice and give up thinking."

"I wish you could. It would be better for you. And now let us settle down to a quiet morning, so that you will be quite rested and ready to go out if it is fine this afternoon."

"If the queen commands," he answered, with a little jesting smile. "The order shall be reversed this morning. You shall listen while I take a turn at reading."

A timely breeze sprang up about noon, and the sun, after wasting some time in playing an aggravating game of hide-and-seek behind the shifting masses of grey cloud, decided to come boldly out, to the great joy of the small birds who hopped on the lawn where the water hung like diamonds on every blade of grass. The sparrows chirruped with satisfaction as they pecked about for their midday meal, and the stout thrushes tugged at succulent worms which had poked their misguided heads through the soft damp earth regardless of probable and dire consequences.

In the swaying branches of the tree-tops the rooks used strong language—or it sounded like it—as they balanced themselves with clumsy ease and strove to straighten their ruffled plumage under circumstances which made toilet operations far from easy. The rabbits in the park popped their heads out of their holes and sniffed the air in an inquiring manner, as much as to say, "Is it safe to venture out?" and then, coming to the conclusion that it was, had a short quick scamper to stretch themselves after their slumbers.

The air was moist and fragrant as Philippa and Francis walked out of the front door to find the pony-carriage waiting for them.

"It is going to be a lovely afternoon," he said. "I want to drive in that direction to-day,"—he indicated it with his hand. "We haven't been there yet, and I know it leads to the village."

"Oh, do let us go up on the moor," said Philippa quickly.

"I want particularly to go to the village," he said in a low voice. "Do let us go there, darling. I want to see if I remember it."

At this moment Ford stepped forward. "Your telegram has come back, miss," he said. "The one you sent this morning. The woman at the post-office doesn't understand where it is to go to, and she can't read this word."

"What is it?" asked Francis, who had heard the man speaking.

"It is a telegram I sent this morning to—a friend in Russia, and there seems to be some muddle at the post-office about it."

"We will drive there, and then you can go in and explain it yourself." He stepped into the carriage as he spoke, and Keen arranged the rug over his knees.

Philippa hesitated. She did not want Francis to go into the village, and yet, since he himself had suggested it, it was difficult to find a good reason for opposing him.

"What is it about?" he asked again.

"Oh, it isn't of any great importance. It is only an address that some one asked me to send. It can quite well wait. I can attend to it when I come in."

"But why not take it? It won't take long."

"I will take it myself, miss, if you wish," said Ford, "if you will tell me the spelling of this word."

Philippa spelt it—"Nevskiy."

"No, no," interrupted Francis. "Come along. We'll do it ourselves."

There was a little impatience in his voice, and he was evidently tired of waiting, so she resigned herself to the inevitable and took her place at his side.

Francis chatted quite happily of unimportant matters as the pony trotted sedately down the drive, and when they reached the old red-brick lodge, Philippa wondered rather nervously whether the sight of it would draw any comment from him; but no—he only looked about him with quick, interested glance, as if wishful to see something familiar.

They turned to the left and entered the straggling village street, where quaint thatched-roofed cottages stood on either side. One or two little children were playing on the footpath, but other wise no one was to be seen, for the elder ones were at school, and most of the mothers had gone for their weekly visit to Renwick, for it was market day.

The pony slowed to a walk as the road mounted an incline, and after a few minutes they came in sight of the church, which stood on rather higher ground, with its square tower and grey flint walls wreathed in ivy. It was approached from the road by a flight of worn stone steps surmounted by a lych-gate, through which could be seen a flagged pathway leading to the church door.

"No," said Francis, in a tone of disappointment, "I do not remember it. I hoped I should. However," he added almost instantly, "we won't worry over anything to-day, but just enjoy our drive."

It seemed to Philippa that he had discovered that allusions to his lack of memory troubled her, for more than once that day he had checked himself and changed the subject, as though he did not wish to distress her, and she was thankful for it.

"It is very pretty, isn't it? The post-office is just opposite the church, and when we leave there we can drive straight on until we come to Bessmoor. You would like that, wouldn't you? You love the moor."

"Yes," he responded quickly; "I love it. Let us do that, by all means. The clouds have nearly all blown away, and it ought to be lovely to-day."

She pulled up at the cottage which served as post-office and general emporium of the village, and was in the act of handing the telegram to the groom when Francis stopped her.

"Why not take it yourself?" he said; "it will prevent any more muddle. There is no hurry I shall be quite happy sitting here."

She looked at him in surprise, for he had never shown himself so practical as to-day, but there seemed no reason why she should not leave him, so with a word of assent she got down and entered the door.

The front room of the low building served as the shop, and displayed a varied assortment of wares in most haphazard fashion. Along the rafters sides of bacon and farthing dips hung in close proximity to stout corduroys and wooden clogs, while in the corner a child's wicker cradle formed an excellent receptacle for the last batch of crisp brown loaves. The narrow counter was piled high with biscuit-tins, bottles of sweets, patent medicines and articles of clothing, arranged in a sort of orderly confusion.

There was no one to be seen, and Philippa rapped sharply on the wooden counter two or three times. At last an old woman appeared, a cherry-cheeked old dame with her white hair drawn neatly into the modest shelter of a black chenille net. The girl explained her errand, and was at once invited to step "into the back."

Making her way through a lane of sacks she reached the inner room, where all the business connected with His Majesty's mails was transacted.

"'Tis my daughter, miss, as sees to the post an' telegraph, but she's been druv to go to bed—wonderful queer she were—took bad about noon; but I make no doubt but what she'll be better by and by. Was it a telegram you wished to send? Then I'll call her. If it had been jus' a matter of a few stamps now, I could have settled that nicely, or one of them orders; but that there ticking machine, that's past me. But Maggie, she's wonderful quick at it. Stayed about as long as she could too, with terrible pains in her——"

Philippa broke the stream of the good woman's confidence.

"It will do very well later," she said, "when your daughter is better. She can send it when she comes down. I am sorry she is ill, but don't disturb her for me. I will just write out the words more clearly, as I understand there has been a doubt about the spelling."

She printed the words plainly on a fresh form and handed it to the old woman, who counted them slowly and laboriously with the stump of a pencil. "Eighteen words," she said. "That'll be a matter o' ninepence, I reckon."

"Oh no," corrected Philippa. "It is to St. Petersburg, in Russia. It will cost much more than that."

"Wouldn't that be a British Possession now?" was the doubtful reply. And Philippa, chafing at the delay, could only smile at the question, and answer regretfully that she was afraid it wasn't.

The woman stretched out her hand for the Postal Guide, but the print was small, and necessitated the careful adjustment of a pair of spectacles before it could be deciphered, and finally the girl found the place herself, reckoned the amount and put down the money.

"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, miss," said the old dame with a curtsy. "'Tis kind of you to say that can stand over till Maggie's better. She just dropped off for a bit of sleep, and thought as how she would be safe like, seein' that we don't get no mor'n four or five of them things in a week these days—not but what there's more when the Major's at home; and Mr. Taylor, up to Chancey Hall, he's a wonderful one for them, but he's not at home now—gone for to find lions and tigers in some heathen country, so they tell me. Not but what Maggie she'd 'a' come down if you'd wished, miss. It don' do for to leave the machine by rights. That's against rules, that is; but what's a body to do when she comes over that queer with shootin' pains, an' her head a-whizzin' like Farmer Brown's threshin' engine. I thank you kindly, miss, and good-day to you."

Philippa hurried out. She had wasted more than ten minutes over the affair, and Francis would be weary of waiting.

"I am so sorry," she cried penitently, "I have been so long, but——"

As she was in the act of urging the pony to proceed he put out his hand and stopped her.

"Turn round," he said. "We will go home now."

She looked at him and saw that his face was white and his mouth drawn and hard.

"What is the matter?" she asked anxiously. "Do you feel ill?"

"No," he said shortly, "I am not ill; but I do not want to drive any farther."

He said no more, and she, greatly wondering, did not like to press him further. She hurried the pony as much as possible along the road they had so lately come. "Had he remembered something?" she asked herself. What had happened in those few minutes? Something must have occurred to account for this sudden change. If he would only speak and tell her!

He was sitting with his head sunk on his chest, so that she could not see his face, and he was absolutely silent until after they had turned in at the lodge and were going up the drive. Then he turned to her.

"Is Isabella still here?" he asked.

"Isabella!" faltered Philippa, taken aback by the sudden question.

"Yes, Isabella. Does she still live here?"

"Yes; she lives here."

Then as they pulled up at the door he added, "Will you fetch her? Will you bring her to me, please? I want to see her."

"Certainly she shall come, dear, if you want her."

Ford came to the door in answer to the bell, and Francis descended. Philippa was about to follow him, when he stopped her. "Will you go and fetch her? Will you go now?"

"Won't you let me stay with you? I will send for her."

"No," he interrupted. "Please go and bring her—as quickly as you can."

"If you really wish it," she stammered, "I will go." She did not know Francis in this strange mood. "But may I not come and see you safely up-stairs first?"

"I wish it. I shall be all right. Please go." He spoke kindly but quite decidedly.

Philippa made one more effort.

"Let me at least stay until Keen comes to you." But he replied with a gesture which showed her further argument was useless, and she obeyed him without another word.

Ford had meanwhile gone in search of Keen and the carrying-chair, so that when Francis entered he was quite alone. He did not pause, but walked straight across the hall and up the stairs.

When Keen, who had been reading the local paper over a quiet pipe in the kitchen yard, arrived in all haste in answer to the summons, he failed at first to find his master, but then he saw him and hurried to his side.

Francis was standing at the head of the staircase as though he had stayed to rest a moment, and his eyes were fixed on a picture on the wall. He paid no heed to his servant's murmur of regret that he should not have been at hand when needed—he did not seem to hear. Then his lips moved. "Poor Rip!" he said, almost under his breath. "I know—now—what you must have felt—and I pity you——"

Keen, quite uncomprehending, followed the direction of his glance, and remarked with polite jocularity—

"Looks as if he wanted a new suit of clothes rather badly, sir; doesn't he, sir?"

Francis raised his head, and took the man's proffered arm; and as they moved away he said slowly—

"I think, Keen, that it was more than a suit of clothes he wanted—something much more than that."



CHAPTER XXII

FRIENDSHIP

"Where are they now—the friends I loved so well? My outstretched hands clutch only empty air! I call on those who loved me—Like a knell The silence echoes to my question—Where?"

Isabella was sitting in her favourite place, a writing-board on her knees, a pen in her hand. On a low table beside her lay a pile of manuscript and several books, but the sheet of paper in front of her was blank. She had intended to work, but for once her mind refused to centre itself upon the task in hand. It was not often that she allowed her thoughts to tempt her to idleness, for experience had taught her that they were apt to lead far away from the straight grey road of the Actual into the shadowy realms of Might-Have-Been, and along paths paved with pain and bordered with regret.

But to-day as she sat there old memories crowded so thickly upon her that she could not drive them back, old scenes appeared before her mental vision blotting out the well-loved and familiar view of heath and sky and sea. There seemed to be no particular reason why the past should call to her so insistently to-day; there was, so far as she knew, nothing to account for it, nothing had happened to remind her particularly of the girlhood which lay so far behind her, and of bygone days when the hours had been all too short for the joy they had contained.

Since the day when Philippa had unfolded her plans for the future, Isabella had relinquished all hope of seeing Francis again, and had quietly schooled herself to accept the fact that in his life there was no place for her. His health had been restored, as by a miracle, and he remembered her existence, but that was all.

None but herself knew how greatly she had longed and hoped for the day when his clouded mind would once more awake to the recollection of her and of their friendship. How many times had she promised herself that when the moment came he would turn to his old comrade in his loneliness and grasp her strong hand for help and comfort! But the time had come and gone, and he had not wanted her; there was nothing she could do for him.

She had faced the bitter truth with all the courage she could muster, and forced herself into calmness and acquiescence. For her the memory of the past remained. In her inmost heart she had long ago erected a shrine—a shrine where Memory was enthroned—a boyish, virile figure with all the hope and joy of his young manhood on his beautiful, eager face.

She laid down her pen after a while, and with it all pretence of any other occupation than that of listening as "the muffled tramp of years came stealing up the slope of time." She sat quite motionless, with her head bent forward and her hands folded in her lap. It was an attitude characteristic of her, and she had at all times a curious power of stillness.

So engrossed was she, so intent upon hearing Voices which spoke for her ear alone, that an unwonted stir at the cottage door failed to rouse her, and it was not until Mrs. Palling hurried in, with excitement and pleasure written large on her homely face, that Isabella became aware that she had been called already several times.

"Miss! miss! there's the pony-shay from the High House a-comin' along the lane. 'Twill be the young lady for a cup o' tea, for sure. It don't surprise me, that it don't, for them bees have been buzzin' for a stranger these four days or more; but I come to tell you, thinking as though you might like to go and meet her. I made a bit o' plum bread this very morning that rose as light as goosedown, and that'll just come in handy for your tea——"

Isabella had risen hastily to her feet, and was out at the little green gate before the woman had finished speaking.

The old pony was answering gamely to the encouragement which Philippa was giving him with both whip and voice, and trotted across the green at a pace which must have reminded him of his distant youth, and as she pulled up he tossed his head and shook himself as though to disguise the fact that he was blowing hard as the result of his unwonted exertions.

Philippa got quickly out of the carriage and came close to her friend. "Isabella," she said, "will you come? he wants you—now—at once."

Isabella made no answer, but she turned and fled into the cottage, where she stumbled her way up the steep stairs with a blinding light dancing before her eyes. When she reached her little room under the overhanging eaves she had, perforce, to stand still a moment and steady herself, for the floor was rocking under her feet. The message had come—at last, when all hope seemed dead—Francis wanted her.

In a moment she was calm again, and taking up a motor-cap from the bed where she had flung it earlier in the day, she crammed it on her head with her usual disregard of appearance, and dragged on the coat which lay beside it.

She ran to the door, but as she reached it she stopped. Retracing her steps to the dressing-table she scanned herself closely in the glass. An unwonted colour flushed her sallow cheeks as she straightened the cap and replaced some strands of hair which straggled under it. Poor Isabella, she was perhaps more of a woman than she knew.

But she did not linger, and in another minute she was seated beside Philippa, hastening in answer to the summons for which she had waited so long. Suddenly a thought struck her, and she asked quickly—

"He is not ill?"

"He is not ill, but I think that something is troubling him. We were in the village, and I left him for a few minutes while I went into the post-office. When I came out he asked to go straight home, and when we got to the house he asked me to fetch you. Oh, Isabella, I do not know what I fear, but he spoke so—differently—it did not seem like Francis speaking. I only hope he has not remembered—anything that will pain him. What could have changed him so quickly? He could not have met any one he knew—there was no one about—and besides, there is no one."

"Tell me just what he said."

Philippa did so, and Isabella was silent for a while, and her face was very grave. Then she said gruffly, "Well, we've just got to help him, whatever the trouble is."

They did not speak again, and when they arrived at the High House Philippa led the way quickly to Francis' sitting-room, and was about to enter when she stopped and motioned to Isabella to precede her.

He was standing just as he had stood once before, and he now came forward with just the same air of eagerness he had shown then, and Philippa's thoughts flew back to that first evening which had seen the beginning of it all for her; but his expression was different, for where joy had been so clearly visible then, intense anxiety and even fear were now written upon his face.

Isabella held out her hand. "Francis!" she said quietly. "It is good to see you again." And if she felt any surprise at his altered looks she did not betray it in her even tone.

He laid his hand in hers without speaking as his eyes scanned her face. "Isabella!" he cried "It is Isabella!" There was no doubt in the words, only something of terror.

"Isabella!" he repeated; then he passed his hand over his brows with a little pitiful gesture. "Then—Phil—is dead."

It was not a question but an assertion.

He sank down in a chair and covered his face with his hands. Isabella seated herself close to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder.

Philippa stood just inside the door which she had shut; she was leaning against it and both her hands were pressing the wood behind her, as if the solid surface were the only thing firm in a world of chaos. There was no sound in the room except the slow ticking of the clock which seemed to be tolling for the vanished years.

Suddenly Francis broke the silence.

Sitting up and lifting a white, drawn face to Isabella, "Old friend," he said brokenly, "you would not lie to me—tell me—am I mad?"

"No," she answered quickly, and almost sternly, "no, a thousand times no."

"Then what does it mean? Phil, my little Phil, is gone—is dead—I know she is dead or she would be here—and mother—seventy-three years—my mother was not seventy-three. Phil is dead——" He paused and then turned to Philippa: "Who are you?"

It was Isabella who answered him, framing her reply so that he could understand: "This is Jim's girl," she said.

"Jim's girl?" he repeated. "Old Jim! Where is he?" and as she did not speak he threw out his arms with a quick despairing movement. "Dead?—are they all dead?"

And instantly Isabella's hands closed on his in a strong close grip.

"What does it mean?" he cried again.

"It means, dear Francis, that you have been very ill for a long, long time—that years have passed without your knowing it, and that the years in passing have robbed us of our dear ones."

"How long?" he asked in a low whisper.

"Twenty-two years," she answered steadily.

"When did Phil die?"

"Nearly twenty years ago."

"Twenty years!" he echoed; "and I did not know!"

"You did not know because you had an accident which destroyed your memory."

"An accident?"

"Yes. The horse you were riding threw and injured you."

Again he looked at Philippa.

"Then," continued Isabella, speaking slowly and distinctly, "Jim's girl came to stay here, and quite by chance she came into your room, and you thought she was Phil—and gradually your memory has come back."

"And to-day—I have seen my mother's grave—and read her message. It was a message, wasn't it, Isabella?" He spoke wistfully, almost like a child.

"Yes; I think she meant it to be a message for you."

"Dear mother! I have thought that Phil was with me—I did not know; but when I read the dates—it made me remember, and I could not understand. She has gone—and Phil has gone—and I am here alone."

"No, not alone, dear Francis."

He thought for a while. "But, have I not seen Bill? Who lives here now? And Goodie?—surely Goodie is real——"

"Yes; Goodie and Robert Gale have been with you all through, but it is Bill's son who lives here, now."

And so with long pauses, that his shocked mind might grasp it, he told him the whole sad truth.

And still Philippa neither moved nor spoke. Almost as if in a trance she watched these two, who seemed to belong to a world in which she had no part—grey-haired man and grey-haired woman clasping hands across a gulf of years.

"I sent for you," he said presently, "because I knew you would not lie to me, and that if I saw you—and I was not mad—that you would be older. If all those years had passed Phil could not be still almost a child. I tried to reason it out while I was waiting for you to come. So that was why Phil never came. My little Phil! I cannot think of her as dead," he whispered brokenly, "and all our joy in being together again was nothing but a mistake—a dream. She is not here!" He repeated the words as though he could hardly grasp their meaning; then his voice changed as he cried, "Why did they not tell me the truth? Why did they let me believe that it was Phil?"

"You were not strong enough."

"Not strong enough to know the truth, but only to be deceived," he said bitterly. "And I did not know! I thought—blind fool!—that it was Phil! Oh, I was easily duped."

"Don't say that," said Isabella quickly. "I know it must seem like deception; but, Francis—don't you see—you had waited so long for Phil—you had never ceased to look for her coming—you could not understand that she was dead; and when you saw Philippa it was you who accepted her as Phil. And you were so content, so happy, that it was impossible to tell you the truth. It would have killed you."

"There are worse things than death," he answered slowly. "It would have been better to die—to go to her—than live to know that all one's joy was false, and all one's hopes a delusion. They are all gone, Isabella—Phil, mother, Jim—all gone; and only you and I are left, and we—are old, Isabella—you and I."

"Not old," she replied, with a touch of her whimsical humour, "not old; but getting on that way, Francis."

A little wintry smile flickered for an instant across his wan face. "You have not changed—your voice is just the same. Oh, how it makes me remember! We were good comrades, Isabella, you and I."

"We were, and are still," she answered huskily, "and shall be to the end."

He nodded. "To the end."

Hand in hand they sat as the daylight faded in the quiet room, seemingly oblivious of the presence of the watcher, who stood immovable, as if turned to stone, beside the door. Now and again Francis would ask a question and Isabella would answer, but for the most part they were silent. Words were of no avail to help him—they could not reconstruct his shattered world or bring back those he had loved and lost. And it was too soon for her to urge him to take courage, or to tell him that perhaps his happiness of the last few weeks might prove to have been something more than a dream.

When at last she rose to leave him he said slowly, "I cannot understand it yet—I must have time—but it comforts me to know that while so much is lost, you are still here, and you are still the same."

She fought back the tears that were blinding her. "I am always the same—remember that—and I am here when you want me. Good-night, dear Francis."

"Good-night, dear friend."



CHAPTER XXIII

CONTENT

"The dead are glad in heaven, the living 'tis who weep."—K. Y. HINKSON.

Philippa followed Isabella down-stairs like one walking in her sleep, without feeling, without consciousness, save of a dreadful numbness which seemed to envelop her, body and heart alike.

She walked to the door and opened it, and then she became aware that her companion was speaking. The words came as if from a great distance through a mighty void.

"He will need you," Isabella was saying through her tears. "Go back to him. He must not feel he is alone. See if your love can help him——" Then her sobs choked her, and she walked quickly away into the gathering darkness.

The girl returned to the hall and stood in front of the hearth. She wanted to think and lacked the power to do so. There was something she must do—what was it?

A servant came and handed her a letter as she stood there, and she took it mechanically without glancing at it. Her fingers tore it open automatically, and then she looked—and something burst the icy band which froze her faculties and a low cry broke from her: "Oh no! not now—not now."

It was a thin square envelope bearing an Italian stamp—a reply from her friend to say that the villa should be prepared for her.

It had come—now—when her dream was shattered, and the man she loved—for whom she had planned the journey to the Magical Island—knew her only as Jim's girl.

But as sense and feeling returned to her in a burning flood of pain they brought also a courage as of despair—a courage and a determination to cling with all her strength to what had been hers—when—such a little time ago.

Was her love of no avail? It was at least a shelter and a refuge for him in his loneliness and grief. All jealousy of Phil had vanished now—there could be no barrier between them now he knew the truth. He was hers to shield and comfort—surely he would need her now more than ever before.

Then she remembered what she had wished to do, and crossing to the writing-table she penned a short note to the doctor. "He has remembered; I think you had better come." She signed it and fastened the envelope; her brain was working clearly now. She rang the bell and ordered the note to be taken at once, and asked for some soup and wine.

Francis would need nourishment, and although he had not appeared ill, it would be better for the doctor to be at hand in case the agitation of the afternoon prevented him from sleeping, and some soothing draught might be advisable. It was wisest to send for him. And she did not know—indeed how could she?—that the doctor was at the moment watching by a dying bed many miles away, and that her summons was destined not to reach him before the next morning.

When the tray was brought she took it up-stairs herself. Francis was lying on the sofa and did not look up as she entered.

"I have brought you some soup," she said; "I think you must need it."

He raised himself and thanked her courteously, and took the cup from her hands. Philippa felt encouraged, for she had been half afraid lest he should repulse her. She stood quietly beside him while he drank, and then moved to set the tray on a table.

Having done so she returned, to find his eyes fixed on her, and he watched her while she fetched a chair and sat down by the couch.

Then he asked very gently and kindly, "My dear, why did you do it?"

Philippa had answered this question when Isabella had asked it, and answered it honestly—or so she had thought at the time, but she was wiser now.

Looking at him bravely and without a tremor in her voice, for she was determined to hold herself well in hand, "Because I loved you," she said simply.

"Poor child! Poor child!"

He murmured the words almost inaudibly. Then after a moment's silence he added, "I did not know—I did not know—I thought it was Phil. There was so much I could not understand—I thought it was all part of my weakness. Then, when we went to Bessmoor, the sight of it was so familiar, and so many thoughts troubled me—but I had no doubt; and then, in the afternoon when I was alone, I opened that drawer and found—so many pictures—of—Phil. I will show you. Will you fetch them?"

She did as he bade her, and came back to his side with a sheaf of drawings.

"Look," he said, "I found all these. I suppose now that I did them in the years that have gone by. But they puzzled me, because I thought they must be my work, and there are so many—and yet—I could not remember. Some are very like my little Phil. And the sight of them seemed to stir my brain, and I wondered more and more. I thought that you were Phil, and that they were of you—and yet—— Somehow there was some one else I missed—a blank—so many blanks. I could not understand, until to-day. Dear mother! What did she feel I wonder, all those years? How dreadful for her! Did I know her?"

"I do not know. You did not often speak."

"I wonder what made me go there to-day," he continued thoughtfully. "I was sitting waiting for you, when suddenly something seemed to tell me to go into the churchyard—and just inside the gate I saw her grave—and then I knew. It was just as if a veil had been torn from my eyes—and still I could not understand. For mother was not old when I saw her last. I was afraid I was mad, until Isabella explained. And I thought and thought while I was waiting, and I knew you could not be Phil, for although you are exactly like my memory of her—in face—she would be much older. And there had been little things which puzzled me—which are clear now—about you, I mean. Phil could never have been content to stay indoors all day as you have—she was always a restless fairy thing—I never remember her still for long—and you are always working. Phil never did. Oh, I can find many little differences now.

"I cannot think of her as dead—she was so bright—so happy. She is dead—and I have lived on all these years. I wonder that I did not know that she was dead. I ought to have known it, for I loved her so. And all our love lately has been only a dream—and we were so happy. Oh, why was I not told the truth? why did you not let me die? It would have been kinder than to let me live to find out for myself—that she is gone—and I am all alone."

Philippa slipped down upon her knees beside the couch, and cried passionately, "Oh no, you are not all alone—we have been so happy—I have made you happy. Can we not be happy again? I love you so—have you no love for me?"

She was sobbing now, with her face hidden in her hands.

"I do not know," he said. "It is Phil I love—I loved you when I thought that you were Phil. My dear, my dear, how can I disentangle the present from the past?"

"Then do not try," she pleaded, raising her tear-stained face. "Oh, Francis, let us be happy again; let me make you happy. Think of me as Phil if you will—but let us dream again the dream we found so sweet. I love you so, and I will comfort you. Think of all we had planned. Shall we not grasp our dream and make it real? If I may be your wife—as you asked me—we will go together to the place where it is always sunshine and you will find that life can hold brightness. I will make it bright for you. You remember it was all arranged, we were to go to the Magical Island—that was what you called it. Do not send me away from you."

He looked at her pityingly. "My dear," he said gently, "it was only a dream—a dream and a delusion. It is not possible—you are only a child, while I am old. You are Jim's girl, and Jim was my boyhood's friend. Your life is all before you, while mine is near the ending—and—it is Phil I love."

"I am no child." She was pleading desperately now for what was slipping from her grasp. "I am no child, but a woman, and I love you—I ask of you nothing more than the right to be with you and care for you. You say you are all alone—then let me comfort you."

He shook his head. "Phil is dead—my life is over—I did not know—and she will forgive me my mistake—she must know I love no one but her. She was so true—I could not but be true to her—and perhaps I may go to her soon—she will be waiting—and I have lost twenty years of Paradise."

A fierce temptation assailed Philippa, the fiercest she had ever known or was ever likely to know—to tell him. To tell him the one thing of which as yet he was ignorant—that Phil had not been true, that she had not loved him, that she had been the wife of another man at the time of her death. Surely if he knew this he would turn to her, whom he had loved—if only in a dream—for a little while.

The words were almost past her lips when she stifled them, for the next instant she knew she could never speak them. Out of the wreckage of his life—of all that he held dear—only one thing was left to him, and that was his love for Phil, his faith in her. Could she, who loved him so, destroy the one thing he still possessed simply in the hope to gain what she herself longed for? Could she deal him another blow, and that the hardest, bitterest of all—undermine what had been the very keystone of his life, the one really flawless element in the whole sad story? Her love—the strength of which she boasted—had been sullied by jealousy, dimmed by reservations, a paltry thing beside his; and yet, be that as it might, she knew it was all she had to give. She had given him her whole heart, irrevocably. Let her prove it by her silence now.

He must live out his days, sad as they must be, without the added burden of disillusionment; and for the rest, it was in higher Hands than hers. She resumed her seat presently very quietly and sat watching him.

He lay quite still, evidently thinking deeply; he was, outwardly at least, perfectly calm and composed, but all the vitality, all the animation which had been so marked in his expression a few short hours before, had gone from his face, leaving it set and stern. The years which had passed unheeded in their going took toll of him now, and set their seal upon his features, altering them strangely.

The slow minutes passed, taking with them all the tattered remnants of her hope; and little by little it seemed to her in her pain that unseen hands were pushing her farther and farther from him, building a barrier between them—a tangible thing which she had only to stretch out her hands to feel, setting her outside his ken.

The man she loved was going from her, leaving in his place a stranger she had never known. Francis had been so near to her in their love, had never glanced at her except with tenderness and welcome; for her his voice had ever taken a deeply tender tone. Who was this stern, aged man who looked at her with veiled eyes, and spoke in a voice she did not know, and which bore little resemblance to the one which had thrilled her to passionate devotion?

Never again would she know the rapture of his kiss, the exquisite security of his enfolding arm. The To-come was before her—bleak, grey and bereft; the roseate hues of love's delight lay all in the Gone-by. Her love was of no avail. It had fluttered back to her, a wounded, helpless thing.

The striking of the clock roused her at last. It was the hour at which she usually bade him good-night, and she rose from her chair. Following her habit she crossed the room and rang the bell. When she turned again Francis too had risen, and he took a few steps towards her.

"My dear," he said gently, "if I have been selfish in my great sorrow, will you forgive me? Believe me I am not ungrateful for your care and devotion, but it seems to me it would have been a more real kindness to have told me the truth. Perhaps I am wrong—I cannot think clearly to-night—I am very tired, and everything is very dark—perhaps to-morrow will bring light."

He held her hand for a moment and then released it. His eyes wandered to the picture which stood on the easel in its accustomed place. He moved towards it and stood looking down at it in silence.

And so she left him.

It was old Goodie who found him next morning. She entered his room with his cup of tea, prepared just as he liked it, "with two lumps of sugar and a dash of cream"—and then she saw——

He was lying cold and still, his hands folded on his breast, in the peace which passeth understanding. The morrow had brought light.

"The sorrow ends, for life and death have ceased. How should lamps flicker when the oil is spent? The old sad count is clear, the new is clean. Thus hath a man content."



THE END



Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay.