"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, G.o.d 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 sh.e.l.l. I stayed there for a long time. The years pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sing 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 s.p.a.ces, 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 circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.sure 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' c.r.a.pe about you, have you, miss? I'm sorry to trouble you, but I haven't a sc.r.a.p left."

"I am afraid I haven't," replied Isabella. "Does Mrs. Milsom want c.r.a.pe?"

"Why no, ma'm. c.r.a.pe ain't for her as would be more likely to be wantin' bread-an'-b.u.t.ter; 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' c.r.a.pe 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 a.s.sented, 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 att.i.tude which Englishmen a.s.sume when they are giving their opinion with what may, without prejudice, be called decision. It is possible that he had taken up this att.i.tude as being the nearest approach possible under the circ.u.mstances 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 d.i.c.kie 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 ident.i.ty. 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.

"G.o.d 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.