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.

"G.o.d bless you," said the doctor softly. Then with a quick change of tone he added, "We'll save him yet. Please G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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-cla.s.s 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 apt.i.tude 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 pa.s.s happily, to minister to him in his weakness. She had some experience of sick people and their needs, a natural apt.i.tude 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 role 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.