"No, not alone, dear Francis."

He thought for a while. "But, have I not seen Bill? Who lives here now? And Goodie?--surely Goodie is real----"

"Yes; Goodie and Robert Gale have been with you all through, but it is Bill's son who lives here, now."

And so with long pauses, that his shocked mind might grasp it, he told him the whole sad truth.

And still Philippa neither moved nor spoke. Almost as if in a trance she watched these two, who seemed to belong to a world in which she had no part--grey-haired man and grey-haired woman clasping hands across a gulf of years.

"I sent for you," he said presently, "because I knew you would not lie to me, and that if I saw you--and I was not mad--that you would be older. If all those years had pa.s.sed Phil could not be still almost a child. I tried to reason it out while I was waiting for you to come.

So that was why Phil never came. My little Phil! I cannot think of her as dead," he whispered brokenly, "and all our joy in being together again was nothing but a mistake--a dream. She is not here!" He repeated the words as though he could hardly grasp their meaning; then his voice changed as he cried, "Why did they not tell me the truth?

Why did they let me believe that it was Phil?"

"You were not strong enough."

"Not strong enough to know the truth, but only to be deceived," he said bitterly. "And I did not know! I thought--blind fool!--that it was Phil! Oh, I was easily duped."

"Don't say that," said Isabella quickly. "I know it must seem like deception; but, Francis--don't you see--you had waited so long for Phil--you had never ceased to look for her coming--you could not understand that she was dead; and when you saw Philippa it was you who accepted her as Phil. And you were so content, so happy, that it was impossible to tell you the truth. It would have killed you."

"There are worse things than death," he answered slowly. "It would have been better to die--to go to her--than live to know that all one's joy was false, and all one's hopes a delusion. They are all gone, Isabella--Phil, mother, Jim--all gone; and only you and I are left, and we--are old, Isabella--you and I."

"Not old," she replied, with a touch of her whimsical humour, "not old; but getting on that way, Francis."

A little wintry smile flickered for an instant across his wan face.

"You have not changed--your voice is just the same. Oh, how it makes me remember! We were good comrades, Isabella, you and I."

"We were, and are still," she answered huskily, "and shall be to the end."

He nodded. "To the end."

Hand in hand they sat as the daylight faded in the quiet room, seemingly oblivious of the presence of the watcher, who stood immovable, as if turned to stone, beside the door. Now and again Francis would ask a question and Isabella would answer, but for the most part they were silent. Words were of no avail to help him--they could not reconstruct his shattered world or bring back those he had loved and lost. And it was too soon for her to urge him to take courage, or to tell him that perhaps his happiness of the last few weeks might prove to have been something more than a dream.

When at last she rose to leave him he said slowly, "I cannot understand it yet--I must have time--but it comforts me to know that while so much is lost, you are still here, and you are still the same."

She fought back the tears that were blinding her. "I am always the same--remember that--and I am here when you want me. Good-night, dear Francis."

"Good-night, dear friend."

CHAPTER XXIII

CONTENT

"The dead are glad in heaven, the living 'tis who weep."--K. Y. HINKSON.

Philippa followed Isabella down-stairs like one walking in her sleep, without feeling, without consciousness, save of a dreadful numbness which seemed to envelop her, body and heart alike.

She walked to the door and opened it, and then she became aware that her companion was speaking. The words came as if from a great distance through a mighty void.

"He will need you," Isabella was saying through her tears. "Go back to him. He must not feel he is alone. See if your love can help him----"

Then her sobs choked her, and she walked quickly away into the gathering darkness.

The girl returned to the hall and stood in front of the hearth. She wanted to think and lacked the power to do so. There was something she must do--what was it?

A servant came and handed her a letter as she stood there, and she took it mechanically without glancing at it. Her fingers tore it open automatically, and then she looked--and something burst the icy band which froze her faculties and a low cry broke from her: "Oh no! not now--not now."

It was a thin square envelope bearing an Italian stamp--a reply from her friend to say that the villa should be prepared for her.

It had come--now--when her dream was shattered, and the man she loved--for whom she had planned the journey to the Magical Island--knew her only as Jim's girl.

But as sense and feeling returned to her in a burning flood of pain they brought also a courage as of despair--a courage and a determination to cling with all her strength to what had been hers--when--such a little time ago.

Was her love of no avail? It was at least a shelter and a refuge for him in his loneliness and grief. All jealousy of Phil had vanished now--there could be no barrier between them now he knew the truth. He was hers to shield and comfort--surely he would need her now more than ever before.

Then she remembered what she had wished to do, and crossing to the writing-table she penned a short note to the doctor. "He has remembered; I think you had better come." She signed it and fastened the envelope; her brain was working clearly now. She rang the bell and ordered the note to be taken at once, and asked for some soup and wine.

Francis would need nourishment, and although he had not appeared ill, it would be better for the doctor to be at hand in case the agitation of the afternoon prevented him from sleeping, and some soothing draught might be advisable. It was wisest to send for him. And she did not know--indeed how could she?--that the doctor was at the moment watching by a dying bed many miles away, and that her summons was destined not to reach him before the next morning.

When the tray was brought she took it up-stairs herself. Francis was lying on the sofa and did not look up as she entered.

"I have brought you some soup," she said; "I think you must need it."

He raised himself and thanked her courteously, and took the cup from her hands. Philippa felt encouraged, for she had been half afraid lest he should repulse her. She stood quietly beside him while he drank, and then moved to set the tray on a table.

Having done so she returned, to find his eyes fixed on her, and he watched her while she fetched a chair and sat down by the couch.

Then he asked very gently and kindly, "My dear, why did you do it?"

Philippa had answered this question when Isabella had asked it, and answered it honestly--or so she had thought at the time, but she was wiser now.

Looking at him bravely and without a tremor in her voice, for she was determined to hold herself well in hand, "Because I loved you," she said simply.

"Poor child! Poor child!"

He murmured the words almost inaudibly. Then after a moment's silence he added, "I did not know--I did not know--I thought it was Phil.

There was so much I could not understand--I thought it was all part of my weakness. Then, when we went to Bessmoor, the sight of it was so familiar, and so many thoughts troubled me--but I had no doubt; and then, in the afternoon when I was alone, I opened that drawer and found--so many pictures--of--Phil. I will show you. Will you fetch them?"

She did as he bade her, and came back to his side with a sheaf of drawings.

"Look," he said, "I found all these. I suppose now that I did them in the years that have gone by. But they puzzled me, because I thought they must be my work, and there are so many--and yet--I could not remember. Some are very like my little Phil. And the sight of them seemed to stir my brain, and I wondered more and more. I thought that you were Phil, and that they were of you--and yet---- Somehow there was some one else I missed--a blank--so many blanks. I could not understand, until to-day. Dear mother! What did she feel I wonder, all those years? How dreadful for her! Did I know her?"

"I do not know. You did not often speak."

"I wonder what made me go there to-day," he continued thoughtfully. "I was sitting waiting for you, when suddenly something seemed to tell me to go into the churchyard--and just inside the gate I saw her grave--and then I knew. It was just as if a veil had been torn from my eyes--and still I could not understand. For mother was not old when I saw her last. I was afraid I was mad, until Isabella explained. And I thought and thought while I was waiting, and I knew you could not be Phil, for although you are exactly like my memory of her--in face--she would be much older. And there had been little things which puzzled me--which are clear now--about you, I mean. Phil could never have been content to stay indoors all day as you have--she was always a restless fairy thing--I never remember her still for long--and you are always working. Phil never did. Oh, I can find many little differences now.