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, a.s.suring 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 pa.s.sion--with Philippa the first.

The storms which had swept Bessmoor from end to end for many days in succession had pa.s.sed over, leaving behind them just a few dark clouds, drifting in broken ma.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed--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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sing 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sures 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 a.s.suredly 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 b.u.mper 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 quant.i.ty 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."