"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 a.s.sured 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 t.i.ttle-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 beloved 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 pa.s.sed. 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sing 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 n.o.bility 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 pa.s.sed 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

"G.o.d 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 ma.s.ses 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?"