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 d.i.n.kie, 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 pa.s.sed through it, and then stood quite still, struck dumb by the beauty of the scene before her. She found herself standing in a low s.p.a.ce--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 a.s.set."

"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 a.s.surance 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."