EAST OF THE SHADOWS

"Her air, her manners, all who saw admired,
Courteous though coy, and gentle, though retired:
The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed,
And ease of heart her every look conveyed."—CRABBE.

The porter slammed the door with all the unnecessary vehemence usual to his class and touched his hat, a shrill whistle sounded, the great engine gave several vehement not to say petulant snorts, and the long train glided slowly out of the terminus. Gaining speed with every second, it whirled along through the maze of buildings which form the ramparts of London—on past rows of dingy backyards where stunted bushes show no brighter colour than that of the family washing which they support every week—on through the suburbs where the backyards give place to gardens trim or otherwise, and beds of gay flowers supplant the variegated garments—on until at last it reached the open country, spreading fields and shady woodlands, where it seemed to settle to a steady pace that threw the miles behind it, as it rushed forward with mighty throb and roar.

Philippa Harford breathed a sigh of relief at finding herself alone in her compartment, and arranging her belongings round her with the method of an experienced traveller, she settled herself in a corner seat and took up her book. She did not read for long, however, for in a few moments her eyes wandered to the window and there fixed themselves on the swiftly passing landscape. She let her hands fall into her lap and sat thinking.

Some of her friends (or perhaps acquaintance would be the truer word) had been known to describe Philippa Harford as an "odd girl," and if this indefinite adjective meant that she was somewhat different from the majority of young women of her generation, there was truth in the description. For while freedom of action and of speech are notably characteristic of the young of the present day, there was about her a reserve, one might almost say a dignity, beyond her years. Where the modern girl will cheerfully collect friends haphazard by the roadside, Philippa allowed very few to pass the line which divides the stream of acquaintanceship from the deep waters of friendship.

There are, and always will be, some people who display to the world a formidable aspect, as it were a stone wall with a bristling row of broken bottles on the top, or an ugly notice board with injunctions, such as "Strictly Private," or "Keep off the Grass," but Philippa was not one of these. You might wander in her company along paths of pleasant conversation, through a garden where bloomed bright flowers of intelligence and humour, and it was only afterwards that you realised what in the enjoyment of the moment you had failed to notice, namely, that inside the garden a high hedge, which had appeared merely a pleasing background for the flowers, had completely hidden the part you most particularly wished to see, and that the paths had brought you out at the exact spot where you entered.

It was just because this hedge of gentle reticence denied to a curious mob admission to the inner sanctuary of her thoughts, that they designated her as "odd." They found it impossible to know just what she meant and felt and thought. In their own parlance "they got no further." But it must be added that no one attempted to deny the existence of the inner sanctuary.

In spite of this rather tantalising trait in her character she was popular—every one liked her, for her natural kindness of heart, combined with great charm of manner and more than ordinary good looks, made her gladly welcome wherever she went.

She was an excellent person to confide in, for she accepted the confidences of other women with sympathetic and frequently helpful interest; but when it came to returning those confidences—well, that was quite a different matter.

In her life Philippa had possessed few intimate friends, and the chief of them had been her father. From him she had inherited, with her dark hair and straight eyebrows, a certain direct outlook on life. It was not an attitude of superiority or even of conscious criticism, but more an instinct for the people and things which were, as she expressed it, "worth while," a keen desire for the very best, and a preference for doing without should that best be unobtainable.

Mr. Harford understood as did no one else the depth of pity and the enormous capacity for affection in the heart of his child, and had from her earliest youth striven to inculcate self-reliance and thoughtfulness. "Most women are frivolous and empty-headed fools," he would assert hotly, "with no strength of mind, and no notion of playing the game;" and yet, by one of those inexplicable contradictions with which men of his type so frequently give the lie to their expressed opinions, he had married a woman in whom the attributes he professed to admire were conspicuously lacking.

Graceful, charming, and extraordinarily attractive, but with no thought beyond the pleasures of the moment, Mrs. Harford fluttered through life like a butterfly.

Mr. Harford's diplomatic appointments had necessitated their living abroad, and for a surprising number of years his wife had been one of the acknowledged beauties of Europe. No one could have been prouder of her than was her husband, who was always her foremost and most devoted admirer. For him, her beauty and her charm never waned, and to the day of his death, which occurred some three years before my story opens, he had regarded her as a most precious possession, to be gazed at, caressed and guarded, if hardly to be depended on. For her part she returned him all the affection of which she was capable.

At the age of fourteen Philippa had been sent to school in England, and when she returned to her parents, who were then living in Berlin, the tender intimacy which had existed between father and daughter had lost nothing by absence, and their mutual devotion increased day by day.

It was soon after that a certain episode happened which, slight as it was, must be recorded, as it was not without effect on Philippa's development.

A man, attracted by the freshness and originality of the young girl, and possibly piqued by the fact that she gave him no encouragement, declared his affection and set himself deliberately to gain hers in return.

This was not to be done in a day, and presently his fickle fancy found a new attraction and he wearied of the game. His marriage with another woman came as a surprise to the community, who had been watching the affair with the usual interest evinced in such matters, and much indignation was expressed at his behaviour. There had been no engagement—it is doubtful if Philippa's heart had really been touched—but his protestations of devotion had been fervent and she had believed him, and her trust in her fellow-creatures suffered a shock.

It was unfortunate that Mr. Harford, with all his love for his child, had been unable to guard her from the experience, which could not fail to be hurtful to one of her over-sensitive nature, but he had been absent on a special mission at the time. Philippa's attitude towards the world in general, and towards men in particular, was changed; it became one of amused toleration. Men were interesting, certainly, and pleasant companions, but were not to be taken seriously or to be believed in.

Since then several eligible suitors had presented themselves, but they had never succeeded in convincing Philippa of their sincerity, and Mrs. Harford, whose idea of a good mother was one who successfully married off her daughter in her first, or at least her second, season, was doomed to disappointment.

Since her father's death Philippa had been with her mother, living in Paris, or Dresden, or on the Riviera, as the elder lady's wayward mind directed. Mrs. Harford, who had mourned her husband with all sincerity for longer than her friends anticipated, had recently married again. Philippa had just bade good-bye to the bridal pair, and seen them start off on their journey to St. Petersburg, where her stepfather, who was, as her father had been, in the Diplomatic Service, was attached to the Embassy as First Secretary.

She had no anxiety with regard to her mother's choice, nor fortunately did she feel any resentment that her beloved father should have been so easily replaced in her mother's affections. She realised clearly that Mrs. Harford, or, as we should call her now, Lady Lawson, having all her life depended absolutely on a man's care, was lost and unhappy without it, and she could only feel grateful that her choice had fallen on a man entirely able to give her all she wanted, and, so far as the future could be foretold, to make her life happy.

At all events her mother would continue in the same surroundings that she had enjoyed for many years, and in a position which she would undoubtedly fill to her own and every one else's satisfaction.

To be honest, Philippa, although fond of her mother, had found the last year or two very trying. For some time after her father's death their mutual grief and loss had drawn the two near together, but as Mrs. Harford's powers of enjoyment and her love of excitement reasserted themselves, Philippa had discovered that she was quite uninterested in her mother's pleasures, and that they had very little in common.

A constant round of gaiety such as the older woman revelled in was quite unsatisfying to her daughter. In consequence the girl was really lonely. She had not yet found an outlet for her desire to be of some use in the world, or to fill the void left by the loss of her father's constant companionship.

But just at this moment she was enjoying a certain sense of freedom which the shifting of the responsibility of her mother on to stronger shoulders had given her. She had, owing to the circumstances I have related, seen very little of her native country, although she had travelled widely on the Continent and in more distant lands, and she anticipated with keen enjoyment the visit she was about to pay to a friend who lived in the east of England.

This friend had been a school-fellow—that is to say, she had been one of the older girls when Philippa, a shy child of fourteen, had arrived, unhappy and awkward, among a crowd of new faces in an unknown land. Marion Wells, as she then was, was one of those people in whom the motherly instinct is strong, even in youth. She had taken Philippa under her wing, and being by no means daunted by an apparent want of response which she rightly attributed to its proper cause, a strong friendship had grown up between them, which had continued, in spite of meetings few and far between, until the present day.

Marion had married, very soon after leaving school, a man who, while invalided home from South Africa, had excited her first to pity and then to love. She mothered her big soldier regardless of his stalwart size and now perfect physique much in the same way in which she had mothered Philippa in her childhood, and her loving heart was still further satisfied by the possession of a son, now eight years old.

Bill Heathcote had retired from the army, and was living on a property to which he had succeeded on the death of his grandmother some three years ago.

Lady Lawson's last words returned to Philippa's memory: "Good-bye, my darling child. I do hope you will have a good time!"

She smiled at the recollection. A good time! It was an expression which had been very frequently on her mother's lips, as it is on the lips of so many people now-a-days. It may mean so many things. To Lady Lawson it meant a succession of social gaieties. Well, she thought with thankfulness, these were hardly to be expected at Bessacre.

Marion had expressly stated that Philippa must not look forward to anything of the kind. Their only excitements at this season of the year were a few garden parties which could hardly be called amusing, but that she might have plenty of golf if she cared for the game. Also, if time hung too heavily, they might indulge in the frantic dissipation of motoring over to Renwick and listening to the band on the pier.

Renwick, which had been a quiet fishing village a few years ago, was now metamorphosed with surprising rapidity, by the enterprise of its newly formed Parish Council, into a fashionable watering-place, with pier, concert-hall, esplanade and palatial hotels all complete, for the pleasure and comfort of the summer visitors, and also incidentally for the personal profit of the members of the aforesaid Council: a state of things much regretted by the residents in the neighbourhood, whose peace was disturbed during the holiday season by char-à-bancs and picnic parties. So much Marion Heathcote had explained in her last letter.

Philippa sat enthralled by the beauty of the country through which she passed. The wide-spreading cornfields, the cosy flint farm-houses, with their red roofs, the byres and orchards, the glitter of the placid Broads lying calm and serene under the summer sun, reeds and rushes reflected as in a mirror on the water, which was so still that hardly a ripple disturbed its even surface.

It was so utterly unlike anything she had ever seen that it possessed for her an intense fascination. Later, as she was approaching the end of her journey, her first view of the low heather-crowned hills made her heart thrill.

A freshness in the air, and the curious one-sided appearance of the wind-swept trees, made her aware of the nearness of the sea—then presently she saw it—just a line of deeper blue against the azure of the sky, with the square tower of Renwick Church girdled with clustering red roofs clearly visible in the middle distance.

In a few moments the train stopped, and she alighted at the station to find a carriage drawn by a fine pair of horses awaiting her.

The long drive in the cool of the waning sunlight was to her pure delight. The road led first through beautiful beechwoods, out into the open country where low banks, bright with wild flowers—scabious, willow-herb and yellow ragwort—divided the corn-fields, now golden and ready for harvest; up on to a wide heath where the bell heather flooded the landscape with glowing purple light—through pine-woods dim and fragrant—and so on until the carriage turned through a gateway, past a low lodge of mellow ancient brickwork, and entered a well-kept carriage drive.

A few minutes more and Philippa was being assisted out by her host, and warmly welcomed by Marion, to the accompaniment of the cheerful if noisy greetings of two West Highland terriers who squirmed and yapped in exuberant hospitality.

"At last," said Marion, embracing her fondly. "I expect you are very tired."

"Oh no," replied Philippa quickly, "I thoroughly enjoyed the journey—every moment of it."

"Come in and have some tea," said Major Heathcote.

"Isn't it too late for tea?"

"Never too late for tea with your sex, is it?" he returned, laughing. "I thought ladies always wanted tea!"

"Perhaps ours won't suit you," said Marion as they entered the hall. "Don't you like yours made in a samovar and flavoured with lemon?"

"Not a bit of it," rejoined Philippa. "Nice English tea with plenty of cream, please."

"I can promise you that. Just sit down here. Now, Bill, give her a cushion and hand her the scones. They are freshly made and hot. Try some honey with them, real heather honey from Bessmoor. Don't ask her any questions. Let her have her tea in peace, and then you can ask as many as you like."

CHAPTER II

"PHIL!"

"The atmosphere
Breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers
Seem full of welcomes."—LONGFELLOW.

"Where is Dick?" asked Philippa presently. "I do so want to see him."

"Dickie is away, I am sorry to say," answered his mother mournfully. "We have all been staying with my sister in Yorkshire. Bill and I came home yesterday, but she persuaded me to let him stay for another week."

"It is so good for the little chap to be with other boys," said Major Heathcote. "He has no companions of his own age here. This neighbourhood is curiously short of boys."

"When will he be going to school?" inquired Philippa.

"Oh; not for two years at least," replied Marion quickly. "Don't let us talk of it; I dread the very idea of it."

"Poor little hen with one chick," her husband laughed good-humouredly. "You will hardly recognise Dick, Miss Harford. He has grown enormously since you last saw him. Let me see—that was three years ago, wasn't it?"

"Very nearly three years ago, in Gibraltar," assented Philippa.

"I began to think that Fate had a plot against us, and that we were never going to meet again," said Marion. "It is delightful to feel that you are here at last. I have so much to tell you that I hardly know where to begin."

"We must show you all round the old place to-morrow," said her husband, rising as he spoke. "But if we are going to dine to-night we ought to begin to think about dressing. Dinner is at a quarter to eight. We keep old-fashioned hours in these parts."

"Come along," said Marion, taking her friend's arm as they moved towards the wide staircase.

"What a lovely house, Marion!" exclaimed Philippa, turning to survey the hall in which they had been sitting.

This apartment had formed part of the original house built in Tudor times, and had remained unaltered, untouched, save for the hand of Time, which had darkened the oak panelling and the beams of the high timbered roof, in the dim recesses of which hung tattered banners—spots of colour in the gloom overhead.

Above the huge stone fireplace, which was large enough to have roasted the historic ox of mediaeval festivities, hung a portrait of the royal lady whose visit had given the house its name—Queen Elizabeth, represented in her famous gown, embroidered with eyes and ears—seeing all, hearing all!

Marion laughed as she pointed to it. "It is all very well to say that Good Queen Bess could never have visited half the places or slept in half the rooms which boast of her occupation, but she really did stay here. I'll show you her room to-morrow, and tell you all about it. I don't think you would care to sleep in her bed, although you may if you like. I wouldn't for worlds. It is too much like a catafalque. Now, here you are arrived at last."

"I don't believe I shall ever find my way down," said Philippa. "I never saw such passages. We seem to have walked for miles!"

"Oh! we haven't really. It is quite easy. You'll soon get used to it. You must turn twice to the right, that is all. But I'll come and fetch you, so as to make sure that you don't get lost. Are you certain that you have everything you want?"

"I am certain of it, in this charming room, and—— Oh, my dear! Violets! How do you manage to have violets at this time of year?"

Philippa buried her face in a fragrant bunch which stood in a vase on the dressing-table. "My favourite flower of all!"

"We always have them. There is a pitiful story attached to violets at Bessacre, but that again must wait until to-morrow. Now I must fly. I have only got twenty minutes to dress in, and Bill will be raging."

Philippa's maid had already unpacked, and she now quickly and deftly assisted her to dress. The girl's clothes had been a constant cause of irritation to her mother, whose taste for frills and fripperies did not agree with her daughter's preference for simplicity, but she had been reluctantly compelled to acknowledge that Philippa's style of dressing was becoming, even if it did not follow strictly the ever-varying dictates of fashion. Nothing could have suited her better than the picturesque gown of pale yellow chiffon which she now put on. It was very simply made, but the perfection of its simplicity, the draping of the fichu of old lace on the bodice, and the graceful lines of the soft material from waist to hem, betrayed its Parisian origin in every fold.

Round her neck Philippa fastened a narrow band of black velvet, and her only ornament was a small brooch of pearls set in the form of a heart. This trinket she had found in a dispatch-box belonging to her father, while going through some papers after his death, and it was one she frequently wore.

At the last moment, unable to resist the charm of her favourite flower, she secured the bunch of violets in the laces at her breast.

Then Marion's voice was heard outside the door, and telling her maid that she would not require her services again that night, that she need not wait up for her, Philippa hurried to meet her friend.

"Dear thing! How nice you look," was Marion's comment. "What a lovely frock."

"I am so glad you like it. Poor mamma! She said it was too Early Victorian for anything. She despairs over my frocks."

"It is perfect," said Marion decidedly. "Thank goodness you know what suits you, and haven't got your skirt tied in at the ankles so that you shuffle like a Japanese."

"Or hop like a kangaroo!" added Philippa, laughing.

They descended into the hall, where Major Heathcote was standing in front of a cheerful fire which, notwithstanding the time of year, was crackling and spluttering on the hearth.

"Don't be shocked," he said cheerfully. "I hope you are not one of those uncomfortable people who consider fires immoral between May and October. The evenings are none too warm in this realm where sunshine never lingers and summer is unknown, and this house is always cold, or I feel it so—probably because I have lived for so long in more sultry climes."

"Yes, I expect you miss the sunshine," said Philippa as they walked into the dining-room.

"No. Do you know, I don't. Here in England people can't understand that you can have too much of it. You get so weary of perpetual glaring sunshine, and unchanging blue sky. There seems to be no variety and no rest, I remember as I landed from the trooper at Southampton after the South African war, hearing a Tommy say with a sigh of relief, 'Thank Gawd for a blooming grey sky,' and I quite agreed with him."

"I love the sunshine," said Marion, "and certainly we don't get too much of it here."

"No," replied Philippa; "but you do get the most wonderful cloud effects. Driving here this evening the sky was perfectly beautiful—a great bank of clouds like mountains and soft fleecy ones touched with pink overhead."

"What Dickie used to call the weeny woolly ones," said Marion softly. "Dear little boy, I wish he were here now. I remember once when he was much smaller we were walking on Bessmoor where you get such a wonderful view—he looked up and said, 'Does God live up there?' and I said, 'Yes,' because it was the only answer you could give a baby to such a question. 'Above the weeny woolly clouds?' he persisted. 'Yes,' I said again. 'Then,' he said in an awe-struck voice, 'He must be very careful not to put His foot through!'"

"How curious a child's mind is," said Philippa, "At least not curious, but so perfectly literal."

"That is why it is so difficult to answer them," put in Major Heathcote. "He asks me the most appalling questions, and goes on asking them until I answer him. But don't encourage his proud mother," he added, laughing. "If you once allow her to talk about her precious boy you will never be able to switch her off on to any other topic of conversation."

"Well," retorted Marion, "I am sure Dickie is more interesting than the weather, and I always let you talk about that. Besides, don't you believe him, Philippa; he talks about our Dickie just as much as I do."

"Now tell me," said Major Heathcote presently, "what do you like to see and do while you are here? What is your particular line? I suppose you have one?—every one has now-a-days. Is it old furniture shops? If so we can motor over to Eastminster, where you can poke about in dust and dirt to your heart's content. Or is it something more learned—abbeys and architecture? If so there are Castle Hill and the ruins of Bessmoor Priory. Or pictures at Longmead—or scenery? Make your choice. The only things we can not supply are social functions. Our neighbours are few and far between, and many of them are away just now."

"You can strike the last items off your list," rejoined Philippa decidedly; "I certainly don't want them. I just want to be allowed to do nothing in particular except see a great deal of your lovely country in the quietest and laziest way possible, please. These little villages fascinate me—all clustering round a church which looks far too big and important for the number of cottages. Why have you so many churches about here? I counted eight on my way from the station."

"Ah!" was the reply, "times have changed in these parts since the days when the priors and monks raised these churches, and since the countryside was thickly populated. Silk and wool were staple industries here then. Many and various causes have brought about the change. First they say that the Black Death raged more violently here than in any other part of England, and second—— Excuse me!" Major Heathcote broke off suddenly as the butler handed him a telegram. "How did this come at this hour?"

"Miss Brooks sent it up, sir; Bailey's boy brought it on a bicycle—she thought——" The man's voice trailed away into silence at the look on his master's face.

Major Heathcote's eyes were fixed on the pink slip in his hand, and Philippa, who was watching him, saw his face darken suddenly and his rather square jaw shoot forward as a strong man's will in the face of danger.

Then he rose quickly and walked round to his wife.

"Old girl!" he said, "I am afraid the boy isn't very fit—Jack wires that he seems seedy, and that they have got a man over from York. Don't be anxious, it's probably nothing much—but I think I'll run up and see."

"Dickie! Oh, Bill!" faltered Marion. "What does he say? Let me see."

"That's all. Just 'Dickie doesn't seem well, have wired for Stevens from York,'" he repeated. His hand was tightly clenched on the crumpled ball of paper. "Wait a moment, darling. Let me think a minute——"

"Yes! Ford! The car round at once, please,"—he gave the order sharply,—"and bring me a Bradshaw. I think I can get to Eastminster in time to catch the 9.15, which should get to Carton Junction in time for the North Express. Now, dearest,"—he turned to his wife again,—"you must try not to be too anxious. I will——"

Marion had regained her composure, and rising she laid her hand on his arm. "All right, Bill," she interrupted quickly. "I'm coming—you are quite right—we must hope for the best. How long can you give me?"

"Ten minutes."

"Very well. I won't keep you waiting." She was half across the room as she spoke.

"Is there anything I can do?" asked Philippa. It hardly seemed the moment to offer anything but the most practical form of sympathy to the man who stood motionless just as his wife had left him, with his eyes fixed upon the chair she had quitted. Her question recalled him to himself with a start, but he did not reply.

"I am afraid there was more in the telegram than you told Marion," she said gently.

"Yes," he answered huskily. "I won't tell her—yet. It said 'Come at once—very anxious.'" Then something between a sob and a groan burst from him, and he squared his shoulders. "But we must——" Then he turned and went away. The sentence wasn't finished. That obvious pitiful platitude with which most of us are only too sadly familiar—that phrase which comes most naturally to our lips when our hearts are torn and bleeding with anxiety and the very earth seems to rock beneath our feet. Often when we are tortured with enforced inaction and we do nothing—can do nothing—but hope for the best. So easy to say, but oh, how difficult to do!

Ten minutes later Philippa was standing at the front door where the car was waiting. She heard Marion's voice giving some hurried instructions to her maid and turned to meet her. "You are warm enough?" she asked. "Will you have a fur coat? Take mine."

"No, no," said Marion; "I have everything, thank you, dear." Then she lifted her face to Philippa and the two friends clung together for a moment in loving sympathy. Then she released herself. "Where is Bill?" she asked.

"I am here," he answered from close behind her. "Are you ready? That's right."

"And you, Philippa!" said Marion suddenly, "Forgive me! I—forgot. What will you do?"

"I shall be perfectly all right," said Philippa. "The only thing you can do for me is not to think about me at all."

She stooped to tuck the rug more closely as she spoke. Major Heathcote was already seated at the wheel. "I will telegraph," he said.

"Please do," replied Philippa, and in another moment the car was speeding down the drive, a dark shadow behind the radius of light thrown by its powerful lamps which shone a streak of gold upon the moonlit gravel.

Philippa watched it out of sight and then re-entered the house.

"Will you return to the dining-room, miss?" inquired the butler.

"No, thank you," she answered. In truth in the hurry and stress of the last few minutes the interrupted dinner seemed vague and far away.

"Perhaps you will take your coffee in the hall, miss," said the man, and in response to the suggestion Philippa seated herself in a deep arm-chair in front of the glowing logs. The two dogs, Spiker and Darracq, whimpering a little in the sure sympathy of faithful canine hearts, crept close beside her, and finally, after many restless turnings, curled themselves into two little balls in the fold of her gown.

All her thoughts were with her friends. She pictured them speeding through the clear moonlight, where the dark lines of the banks cut the silver flood on either side of the road—arriving at the railway station—God grant nothing occur to delay them—then the train, which even at express speed must seem to crawl on such an errand—and finally arriving—to find—what?—Ah! what?

It was easy to see that the joy of both parents centred in that one little life; no jesting could disguise the ring of love and pride in both voices as they spoke of Dickie. She recalled the instinctive, protective love clearly visible in tone and gesture as the two anxious souls had striven to give courage to each other. The eternal trinity of love—husband and wife and child—and the greater the love the greater the risk of sorrow and of loss. Ah! that might be so, but who would grudge the risk in the greater possession?

She put her empty cup on a table beside her, and folding her hands behind her head leaned back in her chair as thought after thought came crowding into her mind.

Her surroundings affected her—the ancient house with its atmosphere of the past—of people dead and gone—of joy and sorrow ever blending in lives lived out for good or ill. The weapons on the walls—the faded banners, relics of warfare, now hanging limp and tattered beneath the weight of years in this hall of peace—the peace of an English home. Home! The word had held no meaning for her of late. While her father had been alive, home to her had been with him, but even then it had no abiding-place; and since then, the charming apartment in Paris or the villa at Cannes with all their comfort and luxury seemed but to mock the word.

"No," she mused, "home for me should be England."

England and home, surely synonymous terms. And then, suddenly, a feeling of intense loneliness broke over her like a wave. She felt like a bit of driftwood, cast up upon a summer shore where flowers and verdure smiled on every side and all was peace; but at the next tide, once more the waters would engulf her and drag her back to the sparkling, restless ocean. She smiled to herself at the foolish simile even as she thought of it. It was absurd to compare the gay life to which she had been accustomed to an engulfing ocean; but never mind, for once she would give her thoughts a free rein and be honest with herself, and acknowledge that the life she had lived was utterly unsatisfying to her.

Was it merely the boredom of a blasée woman? Surely it was something deeper than that which she felt. Now, to state her case fairly—to balance the pros and cons—what had she to complain of? Was it reasonless discontent? She hoped not. Why, she had all, or nearly all that counts as the world reckons for happiness—youth, looks, intelligence to enjoy, money—surely a goodly array of pros; and also entire freedom to please herself and arrange her own comings and goings. Ah! she wasn't sure that this last item in the tale of her possessions did not go far to invalidate the rest. And yet only this morning she had rejoiced in her freedom, and now she had discovered, or thought she had, that here was the very root of her discontent. She did not want this boasted freedom now that she had got it, for, put into plain words, it meant that no one, not one human being, really minded whether she came or went, no one claimed the service she would so willingly have rendered to any one in a position to demand it.

How easy to say that life should mean service for others, but, so far as she was concerned, no one wanted of her more than the cheap small change of daily sociable intercourse, and what she longed to offer was both hands full of gold—pure gold. She thought of the women in the cottages she had passed that day, living hard, toilsome lives, but all for somebody—all working day and night that loved ones might be clothed and fed and comforted. Ah! that was the point, the crux of the whole matter.

And having thus arrived at the nature of her trouble, she turned her mind to finding a remedy. She arraigned herself at the bar of her conscience on a charge of idleness, but justice dismissed the accusation. Idle she was not, she never lacked occupations; her reading, her music, her sewing, for she was a skilled embroideress, more than filled her leisure hours. But who profited? Herself alone!

For a woman of her class what was there—what opening for the willing service of hand and heart? First and foremost, marriage. Well, marriage was, for her at all events, impossible without a great love to sanctify the bond, and love had not come to her. Had her mother spoken truly when she had reproved her for holding an ideal too high for this work-a-day world? Possibly.

Of course she might do as other women she knew of, who gave up their lives of ease and pleasure and spent their days in the crowded courts and alleys of great cities, waging war against the giants of dirt and ignorance and disease. Or, she thought whimsically, she could join the ranks of Women with a capital W, and hurl herself into a vortex of meetings and banner-wavings, like other unemployed. No, anything but that.

Poor souls, clamouring for place and power as they imagine it, without realising that even should they obtain beyond their wildest hopes, they are even now throwing away that priceless heritage of future generations—the dignity of their mothers. Those stately gentlewomen, our mothers and our grandmothers, living decorous and well-ordered lives, busy with manifold duties, wielding an influence impossible to over-estimate for good to their descendants, their country and the nation,—they are gone—their example is unheeded—their teaching is laid aside; but who will make good the loss to children yet unborn?

A log rolled from the fire with a soft crash, and Philippa roused herself. "Well," she said as she rose, "what is the use of thinking and wondering. 'Do the thing that's nearest,' which at the moment, my little dogs, is to go to bed!"

Spiker and Darracq uncurled themselves drowsily and sat up with questioning eyes. She rang the bell and delivered them into the butler's care, and then walked slowly up-stairs. The mood of her musings was still on her, and she was more than a little sleepy.

As she reached the top of the staircase she heard the man turn the switch, and the hall below her was plunged in sudden darkness. Before her the long corridor was dimly lighted by a few lights at a long distance from each other. All was very still. She heard the swish-swishing of her gown on the thick carpet and that was all. "How quiet," she thought, "so different from the glare in the passages of the hotel last night, with its echo of voices and perpetual banging of doors."

At the end of the gallery she turned to the right, and later to the right again, and twisting the handle of the first door on the left opened it wide. Instead of the firelight she expected the room was brilliantly lighted, and before she could move, a man who was standing in the centre started forward. His eyes met hers with a look in which love and longing and rapture were all blended. He moved quickly to her with outstretched hands. "Phil!" he said, "Phil! dear love! At last!"

CHAPTER III

THE STRANGER

"'Twas strange, 'twas passing strange.
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful."—Othello.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He led her, compelled against her will, unresisting to a sofa. Philippa sank upon it overwhelmed and almost nerveless under the stress of his emotion. He placed himself beside her, half sitting, half kneeling at her feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And all the while the man at her feet was pouring out a stream of rapid, fervent words. "And still you did not come! Ah, love! the long, long shadows—purple shadows—mysterious, unfathomable. No sun, no warmth, excepting when I saw you in my dreams—distant, illusive. No brightness, only darkness, until you came. But I knew you would come. Dearest, love makes no mistake, does it? Such love as mine that calling—calling—must draw you to me at the last. My beautiful Phil! my dreams of you never equalled the dear nearness of you. The night is past—the shadows are swept away, for the dawn has come—the dawn that was so long in coming, for it could only break to the music of your footfall. Phil, why do you look at me like that?" he queried suddenly. "Is it possible that I have frightened you? God knows I did not mean to. Or was it yesterday, sweetheart, did I hurt you? Truly, dear one, I did not mean to. I said that you were cold—I did not blame you—I did not think of blaming you; but my love for you is so great, so overwhelming, that it is hard to be patient. I hunger so for the touch of your lips. Forgive me, sweet, forgive me. See! now I will be calm."

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

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

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

Always with the violets at your breast in a flood of golden radiance. Coming!—but you never came. Always sunlight where you are, my Phil, even when the shadows were darkest. And now—you have come!"

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

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

He was dressed for the evening, but wore a black velvet smoking jacket in place of the formal dress coat. It was impossible to tell his age. His figure might have been that of a man of five-and-twenty, but his face and hair might signify another ten or even fifteen years.

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

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

He moved forward. "Is it late?" he said. "Have I kept you too long? But you will come again to-morrow?" He took her hands, which were hanging nerveless at her sides—took them and held them close. "You will come?" he whispered passionately. "Ah, dear love! the shadows when you do not come!"

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

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

"Good-night," he said tenderly. "God guard you, my dear love!"

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

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

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

Philippa sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. One question was ringing through her brain. "What did it mean? What could it mean?" The wildest and most impossible explanations presented themselves to her fevered mind. Had she ever been here before? Was she dreaming? Had she lost her memory? Had she ever seen him before? Who had painted her portrait—and when? Then another thought struck her: Was it possible that he was mad? But no, she dismissed it immediately. There had been so sign of madness in his behaviour or his actions. Excitement, yes, but quite controlled; and above all truth and sincerity and passionate devotion. There was no mistaking that. Whatever might be the explanation of the extraordinary happenings of the evening, one thing was beyond all argument, beyond all doubt, and that was the love this man bore to—whom? The woman whom he imagined her to be—who was it? Philippa Harford! But she was Philippa Harford. The name was not so common that Philippa Harfords were to be found readily to be confounded with one another. And the portrait!—there was the very heart of the mystery—the primrose gown—the violets. What was it he had said? "Love's violets!" and "The dark, dark shadows since they had met." And then—"yesterday,"—he had said they had met yesterday. What could it mean?

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV

FRANCIS

"The eternal landscape of the past."—TENNYSON.

The next morning Philippa rose late and had breakfast in her own room. The night had brought no counsel, she was undecided as to the line of action she should take, and physically weary. She felt it impossible to ask questions of her maid, who might have gained information in the housekeeper's room; equally impossible to summon Ford the butler, excellent and confidential servant as he appeared to be. It was not a subject upon which she could touch, however distantly, with a subordinate. It had affected her too deeply, and yet she must know more.

She had no doubt but that the woman she had seen could enlighten her fully, but she was ignorant of her position in the house, and even had this not been the case, she shrank from demanding anything from one so obviously hostile to her.

She could not forget that she had made a definite promise to return; she wondered now how she could have done so, and yet at the time it had been impossible to deny the insistent appeal. She would keep that promise—on so much she was determined—but as to the manner of keeping it she could not tell.

Finally, a desire to be out of the house and under the open sky overcame her. She would go for a walk, and perhaps on her return something would guide her as to her next move.

Accompanied by her maid, who appeared to have mastered the topography of the corridors, she descended to the hall, and then she realised her mistake of the previous evening. Marion's instructions had been to turn twice to the right, a movement easy and successful this morning, but of course in ascending to her room the direction was reversed, and she should have turned twice to the left. A simple mistake, out of all proportion to the events which had followed upon it.

"I knew I should lose my way last night, miss," said Walker. "Them backstairs is bewildering; but I thought to myself, I'll be even with them somehow, so I just tied my handkerchief on a table-leg in the passage as I went down, and counted the doors, and when I came up and saw my handkerchief I knew I was all right. The head housemaid came up-stairs with me and she was most amused."

"I think it was very clever of you," said Philippa. "I wish I had done the same."

"I hope you'll have a pleasant walk, miss," said Walker, and with that she disappeared.

Philippa went to the front door, and stood on the step breathing in the freshness of the morning. The sun was shining brightly, the dew lay heavy on the lawns, and here and there a faint veil of mist was hovering, soon to be dispersed by the warmth of the new day. All Nature seemed refreshed and cleansed by the healing and rejuvenating power of the night.

The girl herself in her simple suit of white serge looked as fresh as the morning, although a careful observer might have noticed a shadow telling of mental disquiet under the clear steadfast eyes. "Exercise," she told herself, "that is the thing for me. I will explore this lovely garden."

She descended the steps and walked down the broad terrace which ran along the south side of the house. She had only gone a few yards when a sudden call behind her made her turn. A maid-servant ran to her—a young girl, evidently one of the under-servants. She was breathless with hurry or with fright, Philippa could not tell which, and almost incoherent. "Oh, miss," she cried, "please come! Please come at once! Mrs. Goodman wants you."

Philippa did not wait for any further explanation, but returned immediately. At a small door on the terrace stood the woman who had been her guide a few hours before, her face ashen, her eyes suffused with tears, her whole appearance tragic in the extreme. She seized Philippa by the hand and led her swiftly away. Between the sobs that were shaking her the girl made out a few words:

"Come—quickly—for God's sake!—he wants you. My boy! my boy!"

With a speed which seemed remarkable for one of her age she ran up the stairs, stumbling and sobbing as she went. Philippa put out an arm to steady her, feeling conscious of no surprise, no wonder, nothing seemed to matter except the urgent need for haste.

At last they reached the room, which she recognised. There were the same flowered chintzes, there was her portrait on the table.

A sound of voices came from an adjoining apartment, and the woman stopped to listen, raising her finger with a gesture commanding silence.

Suddenly a voice rang out, clear and peremptory. "Please ask Miss Harford to come here. Where is Goody? She will understand."

Then she ran forward, her hand on Philippa's arm, through the connecting door into the inner room. A strong pungent smell of restoratives filled the air. The figure on the bed was sitting upright, motioning to one side the nurse and an elderly man, presumably the doctor, who were trying in vain to soothe him. The next moment his strength failed—he fell backward on the pillows, and his face assumed a livid death-like hue.

"Too late! too late!" murmured Mrs. Goodman in a tone of anguish.

The doctor, who had been occupied in his attentions on the invalid, glanced up and met Philippa's eyes. He recoiled as if in surprise or horror, but in an instant his professional calm reasserted itself.

No sound broke the stillness of the room except the laboured breathing of the poor old woman. Philippa gazed at the still white face, perfectly still, perfectly white, and apparently lifeless. The nurse raised herself with a sigh which seemed to intimate that all further effort was useless.

The slow minutes passed, and with each moment a greyer shadow crept like a veil over the face of the dying man.

Suddenly Mrs. Goodman spoke, sharply, and in a voice that sounded strident in the silence.

"Speak to him! call him!" she said.

A clutch of emotion strangled Philippa; her one conscious feeling was pity—pity overwhelming and profound. Pity for the soul going out into the Great Unknown, lonely, unsatisfied, craving something which it seemed that only she could supply. She fell on her knees beside the bed, and laid her warm hands on the frail white ones which were growing cold, so cold.

She felt some one remove her hat, and then again came the prompting insistent voice at her elbow.

"Call him! Call him!——Francis!"

And then she called—all her sorrow for the sick and suffering, all her potential motherhood ringing in her young voice.

"Francis!" Then louder, "Francis! Can you hear me? Francis! It is Philippa!" Again the breathless silence. Then, intent only on the task of gaining a response, she slipped her arm under the pillow, and leaning her face closer and closer, she called again and again. Did an eyelid flicker? Was it imagination, or was the deathly pallor changing slightly? Were the shadows round the drawn mouth less dark?

The doctor with his fingers on the pulse bent forward. "Again!" he said gruffly. "Once more!"

And again the girl's voice rang through the silent room in urgent appeal: "Francis! Francis!"

One long breath—another—and the eyes opened—vague, unseeing, turning this way and that until they found what they sought, and in them slowly dawned the light of recognition. A little later—low, very low—a whisper, in which content and joy triumphed over weakness—clear enough to the anxious listeners: "Phil! Darling!"

Two hours later Philippa went to her room. The doctor had gone, to return at evening; the invalid was sleeping, for the moment all was as well as could be expected, and it was considered probable that he would sleep for some hours. Her limbs were stiff and cramped from the position in which she had remained, fearing that the slightest movement on her part would snap the frail thread which we call life. When it became evident that the sleep was sound and strengthening she had crept away.

Presently Mrs. Goodman entered, bearing a tray of food and a telegram.

"You must need food," she said. "I have brought it, and I have said you are not to be disturbed." Her voice was strained and trembling, but quite kindly.

Philippa opened the telegram. "Operation to-morrow—hopeful—will wire again." For a moment she could not think what it meant, then she remembered; but somehow it seemed trivial, of no importance. Nothing mattered just now but the explanation which must surely come. All else was far away, outside the radius of her mind.

The woman pressed food and wine upon her, and stood beside her as she ate. Then she removed the tray and placed in on a table, and returned to Philippa's side. Her face was working grievously, her limbs were shaking. Then, quite suddenly, she sat down and burst into tears—the slow, laboured weeping of the aged.

Philippa drew her chair closer, and laying a hand on her shoulder she waited, knowing instinctively that the tears would bring healing, and that the overstrained nerves must find relief before words would come.

At last she grew quieter, and said brokenly, "He knew me! You heard him! 'Goody! Goody will understand!' I that have nursed him and tended him from babyhood! And never to know me—never to know his old Goody all these weary years! At last! At last! Oh! if my lady were but here to see!"

"Will you try and realise that I know nothing?" Philippa said gently. "I lost my way last night and went into the wrong room, and found—him. I do not even know who he is, but he seemed to expect me. Try and tell me what it all means."

"First, will you please tell me who you are?" said Mrs. Goodman.

"I am Philippa Harford."

"Aye, Philippa Harford! How little I thought ever to speak that name again! You are Philippa Harford, that I know—it is written clearly on your face for all to see; but you are not the Miss Philippa I knew, although I had not imagined that two faces could be so much alike."

"My father was James Harford. He died a few years ago. I did not know there was another Philippa."

"James Harford!" echoed the woman. "That would be Mr. Jim."

Philippa rose to her feet, and walking over to the dressing-table returned with a photograph in her hand.

"This was my father," she said. "It is an old photograph."

Mrs. Goodman looked at it.

"Yes. Mr. Jim, we used to call him."

"You knew my father?"

"Aye, I knew him well. He was often here in the old days—they were boys together. He was two years older than Mr. Francis. Miss Philippa was his sister."

"My aunt?"

"Yes, she would be your aunt. And Mr. Francis loved her, and they were to be married—and then came the accident——" Mrs. Goodman stopped suddenly. "I can't bear to speak of it——"

"Try to tell me," urged Philippa. "Don't you see that I must know? I have never heard of my aunt. I never knew that my father had a sister."

"He had one sister. They often stayed here together. She was some years younger than he was, and he loved her dearly—until it happened."

"Until what happened?"

"The accident, and Mr. Francis' illness."

"Who is Mr. Francis?"

Mrs. Goodman dried her eyes and made a great effort at self-control.

"I will try and tell you the story from the beginning," she said. "Mr. Francis is the Major's uncle. He is the son of Lady Louisa Heathcote, my dear mistress, who was second wife to Richard Heathcote, the old squire. He—the old squire—was twice married, and his first wife was mother to William Heathcote, the Major's father. She was married to him about ten years, and then she died, and five or six years after he married Lady Louisa, my lady. Mr. Francis was her son, born in 1862. He was seventeen years younger than his half-brother, Mr. William, who was a soldier, and never lived much at home after his school-days. A splendid boy he was, Mr. Francis, and a splendid man—until he was six-and-twenty.

"I can see him now, as he started that morning. It was in June. I can see him now as clearly as I saw him then, riding out of the stable yard. I was watching him from my window. His horse was rearing and plunging, but he never minded that, for he was a beautiful rider. Miss Philippa, she was walking beside him, leading her great dog—a huge brute it was, very wild, and difficult to hold, and I think Mr. Francis must have known his horse was shy of it, for I heard him call to her! 'If you're coming down to the jumps, darling, don't bring the dog. This animal is quite excited enough already.' I heard her answer him: 'Oh, that's all right!' Quite carelessly she spoke—and then they passed out of sight. The last time I saw him ride." The old woman's voice faltered and broke. "Half-an-hour later they carried him in—that awful day!"

"What had happened?" asked Philippa gently, as the speaker paused.

"It was all through the dog. Mr. Francis had taken his horse once round the jumps—he always schooled his horses down there in the lower meadow—and then he came round the second time. He passed close to where Miss Philippa was standing, and her dog was so wild at the horse galloping past that it broke away from her, and tore like a mad thing after him. It overtook him just as he reached a jump. Some of the stablemen were watching from the top of the field, but they couldn't see exactly what happened. Some said the dog leaped right up at the horse, others that it merely frightened it and caused it to swerve, but in a moment they were on the ground, with Mr. Francis lying half under the horse.

"Before the men could reach the place the animal was up, but in its struggles it had kicked him terribly about the head. His body was not hurt. Dr. Gale soon came, and his father, the old doctor, too, and they sent for great men from London, but they all thought that he must die. My poor lady! I shall never forget her awful anxiety. He was just all the world to her, was Mr. Francis. Night after night she and I would sit outside his room, holding each other's hands like two children afraid of the dark. He had splendid nurses, I will say that, but they wouldn't have us in his room. I said it was cruel, but my lady said No. She said it was not a time to consider any one but him and what was good for him. She was a wonderfully brave lady, and wise."

"And Philippa?" asked the girl.

Mrs. Goodman hesitated, and into her face there crept the same dark look of hostility which it had worn on the previous evening. At last she answered coldly—

"Miss Philippa did not like illness."

"What do you mean?"

"She stayed a few days." Again the woman hesitated. Then her anger mastered her and she spoke scornfully and with intense bitterness. "She stayed a few days and then she left the house—said she could not do any good by staying. And Mr. Francis lying between life and death!"

She covered her face with her wrinkled hands and began to weep again, and it was some moments before she could proceed. When she did so, it was in a low, hurried tone, as though she wanted to get to the end of her story, as if the mere mention of the dreadful days which followed was more than she could bear.

"The time passed, and doctors came and went, and at last he recovered consciousness, but he wasn't the same. The first word he spoke was her name. After that he asked for her unceasingly. I remember a doctor coming—a very great man he was—and he said to my lady, 'I am hopeful, decidedly hopeful, but your son must be kept quiet, and perfectly contented. Where is this young lady he asks for? she must come immediately. If he is not kept quiet I will not answer for the consequences.'

"After he had gone, my lady turned to me. 'We will telegraph at once,' she said, 'Surely she will come.'

"Well she came, and she went to his room. He had been calling her just before, and when she came he did not know her. He was very ill that day, and he was wandering, and when he saw her he talked some childish nonsense about his boyhood.

"She didn't say a word as she came out, but that evening my lady spoke to her, and told her that she must have patience, that he would be better soon; but she only said, 'He is terribly disfigured.' Those were her very words. Not a word for the pity of it, or of comfort for his poor mother.

"The next morning his mind was clearer, and again he asked for her. She went to him, but she wouldn't go in without my lady went with her. He was lying quite still, but after a minute he opened his eyes and said, 'Phil, darling! where have you been? There is a nest in the holly-bush. I'll show it you after breakfast.' Of course it was just rambling talk, but the doctors said that the fact of his knowing her was a hopeful sign.

"She never spoke to him, or answered him as one must answer sick folk when they have fancies. She went away again the next day. My lady tried to reason with her—she thought she was frightened; but it was no use, she wouldn't listen.

"Then, after a few more days, my lady wrote. I saw the letter. It was pitiful, just a cry from her breaking heart imploring her to come back, saying that without her Mr. Francis would never get well. She wrote back saying that she would come when he was right in his mind. She just seemed determined not to understand that his mind never could get clear while he was fretting for her night and day. That is two-and-twenty years ago last June, and he has waited for her coming ever since."

"But I cannot understand it," said Philippa. "I cannot understand any woman not coming to the man she loved, however crazed he was. He wanted her!"

"Ah, that was just it!" answered Mrs. Goodman sadly. "I knew it all along, but my lady would not believe it until she was forced to do so. She never loved him; and it was proved at last, for about six months later she wrote to my lady and said she considered herself free—that of course it was dreadfully sad, but that she could not spend her life engaged to a hopeless invalid. Just a month after that she was married."

"Married!" echoed Philippa.

"She ran away with some man her family didn't approve of. She never had a heart, hadn't Miss Philippa."

"Then why did she become engaged to Francis Heathcote—if she did not care about him?"

"Well, you see, he was rich and very handsome, and there were plenty of young ladies who would have been glad to marry him. He was madly in love with her!"

"Where was my father in those days? Do you know?"

"He was abroad somewhere. My lady wrote to him, beseeching him to try and get Miss Philippa to come back. That was soon after the accident. He came to England, but he couldn't do any good. I did hear he quarrelled with his sister over it, and wouldn't see her or speak to her again. He was so fond of Mr. Francis.

"It is an old story now." The old woman sighed deeply. "I little thought to speak of it again. My lady never named her, and I hated her too much to wish to speak of her. She condemned my boy to years of prison—aye, and worse than prison. Of course I hated her. Even when I heard that she had died a few years after her marriage the hatred didn't die. I couldn't help it. You can't help your feelings. But I never spoke of her. If you can't say good of the dead you had best say nothing. When I saw you last night I really thought it was her. God forgive me! I think there was murder in my old heart! But now—you have come—and he will be content."

CHAPTER V

ISABELLA

"In life there are meetings which seem like a fate."—OWEN MEREDITH.

The sun was low upon the horizon, casting cool shadows across the summer landscape, as Philippa walked out of the lodge gates the same evening, and turned up the road which climbed the incline leading up on to the moorland.

She had passed through many emotions in a short space of time, and she craved for solitude—to be at peace to think over the extraordinary events of the last few hours, and steady her mind, which seemed to be whirling under the strain she had endured.

The day had been hot, but now a cool breeze, very refreshing to the tired girl, was blowing in from the sea. She walked slowly along, thinking deeply, and as she thought, gradually little points of light shone out from the dim past, and played upon the story she had heard, and which had touched her so profoundly. Little actions of her father's—words which he had spoken, unheeded at the time, or at any rate not understood, now seemed to acquire a new meaning. She had been utterly ignorant of her aunt's existence, or if she had known her in early childhood, she had lost all recollection of her. Her father had never mentioned his sister.

One incident which had happened when she was about thirteen returned very clearly to her memory. A young friend had come to spend the afternoon with her, and as the two girls were playing in the school-room Mr. Harford had come in, and had joined in their game. He was always a delightful playmate, and they had welcomed him with glee. The fun was at its height when Philippa's friend, in the excitement of the moment, called to her, addressing her as Phil. Philippa well recalled how her father had risen from his chair, and in a voice so stern as to be utterly unlike his own, had said, "My daughter's name is Philippa, and I must ask you never to address her again as you did just now." The girl, taken aback and rather frightened at the displeasure she had all unintentionally provoked, apologised instantly, and Mr. Harford, realising that his rebuke must have seemed over severe for the innocent offence, patted her on the shoulder and begged her to think no more of the matter. But it was evident that he could not shake off the effect of the occurrence, the game came to an end, and shortly afterwards he left the room. At the time Philippa had wondered why the simple abbreviation of her name should have caused him so much distress, but the reason was very clear to her now. What painful memories it must have conjured up in a moment!

Also, she remembered a young secretary in Berlin whom they had known very intimately, Phil L'Estrange. Every one had called him Phil with the exception of her father, who had invariably addressed him as Philip, in spite of the young man's laughing assurance that he did not answer to the name.

"How could she have done it?" she murmured half aloud. "How could she have done it?" Twenty-two years of waiting! What a love this man must have given to the other Philippa—a love so strong that it dominated weakness of the body, and even of mind, and through all the long years burnt on with the same clear flame of youth.

Would he die now, this man who had waited so long?—would he die happy, satisfied that his love had come to him again? It was an absorbing thought. Why did these coincidences happen? Were they coincidences? Here was she, a stranger, with, it would seem, a human life hanging on her coming—at least it had appeared so this morning, when her voice had roused him from the lethargy of weakness which was drifting him out of life. And if he died, what would his meeting be with that Philippa who had passed before him into the Unknown, the land where there was no marriage or giving in marriage?

Yet, in that land of which we speak so glibly and picture each of us according to our personal fancy, and of which we are so absolutely ignorant—in that future state there surely must be love. Was a wonderful human love like this to come to an abrupt end—to be left behind with the body's frail shell? Surely not. Surely, although human, it held too much of the divine to perish with the earthly clay; and yet, if the love of Francis Heathcote passed with his spirit, how would he meet Phil? or, rather, how would she meet him? Would she be changed while he remained unaltered? Would heaven itself be heaven for him without her love? Oh, the awful mystery of the future life!

And—if he did not die? She stopped abruptly, and stood quite still as the recollection of the words which the old woman had spoken returned to her mind. "Now you have come, and he will be content."

What did she mean? What had she, the living Philippa Harford, to do with Francis Heathcote? a man of whose very existence she had been ignorant, known nothing, until yesterday—nothing.

And if clear reason asserted itself in his shadowed mind, as seemed possible, how could the truth be explained to him?

She walked on again overwhelmed by the difficulty of her position. Unthinkingly—unwittingly—she had, in the pitying impulse of the moment, drawn a fellow-soul back to earth and life. If she had not been there he must have died—so much was certain; and yet——

So engrossed had she been in her thoughts that she had paid no heed to the road along which she passed, but now, as she lifted her eyes and gazed round her, this way and that, as if seeking some solution of the problem that confronted her, she found that she had reached the moor.

Before her stretched a wide expanse of earth and sky, lit into splendour by the rays of the sun which was sinking, a ball of fire, into a sea of flame. So calm was the distant water that its unruffled surface mirrored the glory of the sky above it in wonderful tones of scarlet and orange and palest rose. The moor itself, brilliant with bell heather, seemed a magnificent robe clothing the world in regal purple; while across it, winding like a ribbon laid lightly over its richness, ran the road—further and further into the distance until it vanished from sight at the meeting-place of land and water. Philippa gazed entranced—her perplexities forgotten—her whole being stirred—uplifted by the beauty of the scene.

Even as she looked the vision changed. The sun dropped below the horizon, throwing, as it fell, great shafts of light like gleaming spears, up across the splendour to the azure overhead—spears which glittered for a moment, flashing a signal to herald the approach of the dusk which on the instant, as if in response to a command, threw a mysterious veil over the pageant of departing day.

No sound broke the stillness—the very earth was hushed.

Philippa gave a little shiver. It was as if with the waning of the glory something had passed from her spirit, leaving her strangely cold and small—an atom in an immeasurable loneliness.

Instinctively she turned to seek human companionship, as a child might turn to seek its mother's hand in a moment of awe. She searched in vain and could see no living thing, but presently she distinguished far off upon the road a figure which gradually she made out to be that of a woman walking towards her. Half impatient with herself at the relief which the sight afforded her, she watched intently.

The woman came steadily on, glancing neither to left nor right, but with her eyes bent upon the ground; and it was not until she was within a few yards of where the girl was standing that she became aware that she was not alone.

She raised her head, and met Philippa's gaze. A look of intense surprise and bewilderment came over her face; she started forward, and as she did so she caught her foot on some unnoticed stone, stumbled, and almost fell. Philippa made a movement towards her, but immediately the stranger recovered herself.

"You," she said, in a quick low tone, almost as if she was speaking unconsciously, her eyes all the while fixed in a curious, scrutinising stare upon Philippa's face. The girl showed no astonishment. There seemed no room for astonishment in the world of strange happenings in which she found herself, but before she could reply the woman spoke again.

"I am not mad, as you might easily imagine," she said. "Please forgive me, but—will you tell me who you are?"

"My name is Harford—Philippa Harford."

The other nodded. It was evidently the answer she had expected.

"For a moment I took you for—some one I used to know many years ago. Of course it is quite impossible that it should be her, but coming upon you suddenly like this surprised me out of my senses."

She was a tall, angular woman of what is sometimes called uncertain age, that is to say, she might have been anything from thirty to five-and-forty. She was dressed in a simple gown of brown holland, and it was singularly unbecoming to one of her complexion, for her hair was a faded, nondescript colour which might possibly have been red in early youth, and her skin was sallow and colourless.

Her face could not, even by the most charitable, have been called anything but plain—the cheekbones were high, the features rugged, the eyes small and light; but Philippa noted something very attractive in the expression. There was cleverness in the broad low brow under the wide-brimmed hat so deplorably innocent of all suggestion of prevailing fashion, and a whimsical twist about the corners of the mouth which showed its possessor to be rich in humour. And yet it was a sad face—in some indefinite way it suggested patience and expectancy. Just now the eyes were wistful, questioning.

"It must have been a relation of yours, I think," she was saying, "because her name was Philippa Harford too." It was an assertion, but Philippa answered the eyes rather than the words.

"She was my aunt."

"How the years go by, don't they?" The stranger seemed to be trying to lead the conversation away from the personal. "And one really doesn't notice their passing. One lies on the shelf and gets dusty as the world goes on. Are you going this way? May I walk with you? This is an unconventional meeting. Will you count it sufficient introduction that I knew your aunt many years ago? My name is Isabella Vernon, but that probably conveys nothing to you."

"By all means let us walk together," answered Philippa readily. "I had been watching the sunset, and the moor seemed so solitary."

"It is. That is why I love it. Dear Bessmoor. Ever changing, yet ever the same—suiting all moods—sympathetic—enveloping. I have a cottage in the heart of her, where I live the simple life, which I like, but which for most people is a synonym for few baths and many discomforts. Do you live near here?"

"No, I am only staying here."

"But you know this part of the country."

"No," replied Philippa again. "It is all new to me. I only arrived yesterday."

And in her heart she was thinking, "Here is some one who could probably tell me many things I want to know," and yet how impossible to speak of such matters to a stranger.

Isabella Vernon seemed anxious to make friends.

"If you do not know the neighbourhood, I will explain the geography," she said pleasantly. "This is an excellent point of view. See, over there,"—she indicated the direction with her hand as she spoke,—"on the other side of the moor lies the village of Denwick. It has a very fine church—you can just see the tower—and it used to be a place of some importance in the dim ages. There are villages dotted all over this part of the country, right down to the sea.

"'Renwick and Deanwick, Bessmoor and Ling,
Northam and Southam lie all in a ring,'

as the country-people say about here. Eastminster is over there——" again she pointed. "On fine days you can see the spire of the cathedral, but not from here—from a point about two miles further across Bessmoor. If you are staying some time you ought to explore."

Again her eyes questioned, and Philippa answered—

"I do not know yet how long I shall stay."

"You will find many beautiful spots about here which will well repay a visit. Now, you can see Bessacre lying in the little hollow below us. The woods over there belong to—Major Heathcote——" She paused tentatively.

"Yes," said Philippa quietly; "I am staying there."

The other nodded. "I used to live with my aunt at a little house in the village—the Yew House it was called—you may have noticed it as you passed—but that was long ago. She has been dead for many years, and when she died I joined my father abroad. I used to know the High House very well once, but I do not know either Major or Mrs. Heathcote. I see so few people in these days. I have been living on Bessmoor for some time now. There used to be very large parties at the High House when Lady Louisa was alive, and—I suppose there are plenty of visitors there now?"

"No, I am the only visitor."

"Do they live all alone?" Isabella Vernon's voice was rather unsteady, and her eyes were still searching the girl's face.

"They have a little son," Philippa replied, "but he is not well just now. They are anxious about him."

"I am sorry," said the other simply. "We used to have very happy times in the old days when—your aunt stayed with Lady Louisa—and her brother too sometimes."

"He was my father. Did you know him?"

"Oh yes, I knew him quite well."

"He died some years ago."

"Ah! I had not heard. He and I were very good friends when we were young. But I don't suppose he remembered me."

"I do not think I ever heard him speak of you."

"No, very likely not. But I have a good memory, especially for my friends. One loses sight of people very easily, far too easily; and then it is difficult to find them again when one returns to England after a long absence. You have been a good deal abroad too, I expect."

"Yes, I have lived almost entirely abroad. So much so, in fact, that I am disgracefully ignorant about my native land. I hardly know it at all. I was so interested as I travelled down here, to see how utterly different it was to anything I had ever seen."

"I think that is the most interesting part of travelling," answered Isabella Vernon, smiling "The aspect of the different countries, I mean. Not the people, but the very earth itself. You cross a frontier and at once all seems changed. There may be hills and trees and water just as there have been before, but they have not in the least the same appearance. Of course there are some tiresome folks who are always seeing likenesses; they will tell you glibly that Canada reminds them of Cumberland, or South Africa of the Sahara, but that is merely because they are blind. Having eyes they see not the subtle characteristics of every land and miss its individuality. I have journeyed all round the globe, and now, as I sit by my own fireside and think of what I have seen, it is always some particular point about the look of a country that comes first into my mind. The peculiar ochre tint of the bare stretches of Northern China; the outlines of the hills in Japan—so irregular and yet so sharp, as though they had been cut out with a sharp pair of scissors in a shaky hand. The towering masses of the Rockies, where the strata runs all sideways, as if a slice of the very crust of the universe had been tilted up on edge by some gigantic upheaval.

"I don't know why, but these peculiarities, which some people call insignificant details, and some never notice at all, are for me the very places themselves. They rise instantly before my eyes when the name of the country is mentioned; just as when I was away the mere mention of the word "home" brought a vision of Bessmoor and its mysterious purple distance. But here I am letting my tongue run away with me, and making long speeches in the most unpardonable way. Forgive me. You must excuse a hermit who lives a solitary life. And here we are almost in the village. I won't come any further."

She stopped and held out her hand. "Good-bye," she said. "I hope you will let me see you again. I should so like to show you my cottage. Would you come?"

"I should like to, thank you," answered Philippa. "But I hardly know——" for all of a sudden the perplexities which had for a while been forgotten crowded into her mind again.

"Could you come to-morrow, do you think?" continued the other, speaking with some eagerness.

"Indeed I hardly know when I shall be able to get away. I will come if I possibly can, but——"

"Well, never mind," said Miss Vernon quickly. "Do not settle now, but come when you can. If you walk along this road I am pretty certain to see you. I spend my life on Bessmoor, and I should like to teach you to appreciate its beauties as they deserve."

"I shall certainly try to come, and I think you would find me a willing pupil," said Philippa with a smile. Then with a murmured word of thanks she walked quickly away, feeling suddenly afraid lest any further development should have arisen in her absence, for she had stayed away from the house longer than she had intended.

As she turned into the lodge gate she looked back. Isabella was standing where they had parted, gazing at her with the same intentness which had been so noticeable during their conversation; but now, she waved a friendly hand, and then she too turned and walked away up the hill.

"What does she know about it all, I wonder?" said the girl to herself. "How much could she tell me of the details I long to know? All the time she was speaking she seemed to be on the point of asking some question. What was it? and why did she seem so pitifully anxious to make friends with me?"

CHAPTER VI

DOCTOR GALE

"When hope lies dead. Ah! when 'tis death to live
And wrongs remembered make the heart still bleed,
Better are sleep's kind lies for Life's blind need
Than truth, if lies a little peace can give."—THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON.

As Philippa entered the hall of Bessacre High House the butler met her.

"Dr. Gale is here, miss," he said. "He wished me to say that he would be glad to speak to you when you came in."

"Certainly," she replied. "Where is the doctor?"

"In the library, miss. This way."

He conducted her to the door of the room and announced her. A man who had been seated by the writing-table rose to meet her, an elderly man with grizzled hair and beard and thick overhanging eyebrows.

"Miss Harford?" he said in a gruff, abrupt voice as he bowed.

"Yes," answered Philippa. "You wished to speak to me?"

"Please," he returned. "Won't you sit down? You must be tired, and I am afraid I must detain you for a little while."

She seated herself and waited, while the doctor stood before her, pulling fiercely at his ragged beard, and evidently at a loss for words.

When he spoke his manner was short and his tone rather harsh, but he gave her the impression of a man who was to be trusted. Rough, perhaps, but straightforward and honest, if somewhat unpolished. His first words strengthened her conclusion.

"There is no use in beating about the bush; let us come to the heart of the matter at once. What are you going to do?"

"What am I going to do?" repeated the girl in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that we are in your hands. On your decision the life of Francis Heathcote hangs. I understand from Mrs. Goodman that she has put you in possession of the facts of the case. I have just been speaking to her. I quite realise that the occurrence of to-day must have been a very trying one for you, as trying as it was unexpected. I cannot tell you what my feelings were when I saw you enter that room, for I didn't know of your existence, much less of your presence in this house; but the fact remains—Francis Heathcote has mistaken you for the woman he loved years ago, and for whose coming he has waited so long.

"Undoubtedly the realisation of his hopes has been a great shock to him, bodily, and mentally also, for the sight of you has had the effect of dispersing the cloud which has shadowed his brain for so long. He is now what may be called sane—perfectly sane—although the term is a misleading one, for he has never been insane, as we understand the word. His state has been curious. I can only describe it in the words I used just now. His mind has been shadowed—clouded by one idea, one obsession. And now, the sight of you, as he sees you, has removed the cloud; he is satisfied and sane."

"Will he recover?" asked Philippa gently.

"I cannot say. He is very weak. But this I can say—that so surely as he suffers another disappointment, or as he frets, and is not satisfied, so surely he will die."

The doctor fixed his eyes upon the girl's upturned face. Intense anxiety was written clearly upon his features; he tugged at his ragged beard even more fiercely than before.

"But how is it possible—— How can I——" she faltered, and he interrupted her vehemently—

"Don't decide—don't decide. Listen, and think of it—the pity of it! For over twenty years I have been attending Francis Heathcote and seen him constantly, with never a word of greeting from him, never a sign of recognition. He is not merely my patient, he is my boyhood's dearest friend, and since his accident I have watched him closely; at first with hope, but later—with despair. If you could have known him in early manhood, and then seen him struck down to the pitiful wreck of after years, you would appreciate what it has been for those who loved him—and we all loved him—to stand by and do nothing. He was the most lovable creature it has ever been my lot to know.

"Miss Harford,"—he dropped into a chair at her side and leaned towards her,—"to-night, when I went into his room, I thought he was sleeping, but he opened his eyes and saw me standing beside him, and then——" The doctor cleared his throat and steadied his voice, which was shaking with emotion—"'Hullo, Rob!' he said. It was only a whisper, but I tell you the old boyhood's name nearly did for me. 'Have I been dreaming, or was Phil here?'

"'Yes, she was here,' I answered as lightly as I could.

"'Will she come?' he asked eagerly.

"'She will come,' I said. 'But you have been ill, and you must get a bit stronger first.'"

The doctor paused, and for a few moments there was silence, broken only by the words he was muttering under his breath, "Hullo, Rob! Hullo, Rob!"

"May I ask a question?" said Philippa at last.

"Ask as many as you like," he replied quickly.

"Is his—condition—the state he has been in for all these years, I mean—is it—was it the result of the accident, or——"

"I think I know what you want to say. You want to know to what extent his long illness was due to the disappointment he suffered?"

She nodded.

"It is very difficult to say; but this I know, that had he been at the time of the accident a man of good physique—which he undoubtedly was—and had there been no adverse circumstances to complicate the case, he would have recovered, and in course of time have been as sound in brain as you or I. But quiet of mind, peace of mind, contentment, are absolutely essential to recovery in such cases, and these were exactly what he lacked. He fretted incessantly for the presence of the woman he cared for so deeply—this made rest impossible, and it became an obsession, a fixed idea, and his brain could not stand the strain. This is hardly a technical explanation, but I want to put it in such a way that you can understand."

"Would nothing have done him any good?" asked Philippa. "No treatment, or operation?"

"All that has been possible in the way of treatment has been carried out, but operation was out of the question; and, indeed, if it had been deemed advisable Lady Louisa would never have agreed to it. She said, and there was truth in her argument, that all the surgeons in the world could not restore him what he missed and craved for. And now—at last—it seems that a miracle has been performed, and you are here to save him."

"What do you want me to do?" she asked in a low voice.

"I want you to go to him, to be with him occasionally, to content him, to give him a little happiness—for all the years he has missed—a little happiness—until——"

"Until?"

"Until he—dies—or——"

"Or?"

"We can't think of the future; we must just go on from day to day. I know it is much to ask of you, a stranger, but I have no choice but to ask it. Think it over. For a day or two I can keep him quiet, but not for longer. Take a day or two to decide."

"I will think it over. I cannot decide now—indeed, indeed I cannot," said Philippa earnestly. "It is not that my heart is not wrung with pity. It is the most pitiful thing I ever heard of; and if I—a stranger, as you truly say—feel it pitiful, what must it be to you who have known him always?"

Tears were standing in her eyes. Apart from the tragedy there was something very touching in this man's affection and sorrow for his friend. Neither gruffness of tone nor shortness of manner could disguise the strength of the underlying feeling.

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

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

"What violets?"

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

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

"Does he speak?"

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

"Does he see Major Heathcote?"

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

"Didn't he know his mother?"

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

"How awful for her!" cried Philippa.

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

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

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

"He never spoke to me of his sister."

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

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

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

"You are very charitable," said Philippa reflectively.

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

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

The doctor pulled at his beard.

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

CHAPTER VII

INDECISION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII

THE HEART OF BESSMOOR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But what about the winter?"

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

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

"Means what?" asked Isabella in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX

A SQUARE IN THE PATCHWORK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The other nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X

THE MAJOR'S VISIT

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

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

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

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

"Pshaw!" said the doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He knew you?"

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

"What did he say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"DEAREST FRANCIS,

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

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

"Best love.
"PHIL."

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI

VIOLETS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are really feeling better?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And I may see you every day?"

"Every day, unless the doctor forbids."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You will come again soon?" he pleaded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did he speak of old times?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 belovèd 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 rôle 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."

East of the Shadows