"Yes," said Philippa quietly; "I am staying there."

The other nodded. "I used to live with my aunt at a little house in the village--the Yew House it was called--you may have noticed it as you pa.s.sed--but that was long ago. She has been dead for many years, and when she died I joined my father abroad. I used to know the High House very well once, but I do not know either Major or Mrs. Heathcote.

I see so few people in these days. I have been living on Bessmoor for some time now. There used to be very large parties at the High House when Lady Louisa was alive, and--I suppose there are plenty of visitors there now?"

"No, I am the only visitor."

"Do they live all alone?" Isabella Vernon's voice was rather unsteady, and her eyes were still searching the girl's face.

"They have a little son," Philippa replied, "but he is not well just now. They are anxious about him."

"I am sorry," said the other simply. "We used to have very happy times in the old days when--your aunt stayed with Lady Louisa--and her brother too sometimes."

"He was my father. Did you know him?"

"Oh yes, I knew him quite well."

"He died some years ago."

"Ah! I had not heard. He and I were very good friends when we were young. But I don't suppose he remembered me."

"I do not think I ever heard him speak of you."

"No, very likely not. But I have a good memory, especially for my friends. One loses sight of people very easily, far too easily; and then it is difficult to find them again when one returns to England after a long absence. You have been a good deal abroad too, I expect."

"Yes, I have lived almost entirely abroad. So much so, in fact, that I am disgracefully ignorant about my native land. I hardly know it at all. I was so interested as I travelled down here, to see how utterly different it was to anything I had ever seen."

"I think that is the most interesting part of travelling," answered Isabella Vernon, smiling "The aspect of the different countries, I mean. Not the people, but the very earth itself. You cross a frontier and at once all seems changed. There may be hills and trees and water just as there have been before, but they have not in the least the same appearance. Of course there are some tiresome folks who are always seeing likenesses; they will tell you glibly that Canada reminds them of c.u.mberland, or South Africa of the Sahara, but that is merely because they are blind. Having eyes they see not the subtle characteristics of every land and miss its individuality. I have journeyed all round the globe, and now, as I sit by my own fireside and think of what I have seen, it is always some particular point about the look of a country that comes first into my mind. The peculiar ochre tint of the bare stretches of Northern China; the outlines of the hills in j.a.pan--so irregular and yet so sharp, as though they had been cut out with a sharp pair of scissors in a shaky hand. The towering ma.s.ses of the Rockies, where the strata runs all sideways, as if a slice of the very crust of the universe had been tilted up on edge by some gigantic upheaval.

"I don't know why, but these peculiarities, which some people call insignificant details, and some never notice at all, are for me the very places themselves. They rise instantly before my eyes when the name of the country is mentioned; just as when I was away the mere mention of the word "home" brought a vision of Bessmoor and its mysterious purple distance. But here I am letting my tongue run away with me, and making long speeches in the most unpardonable way.

Forgive me. You must excuse a hermit who lives a solitary life. And here we are almost in the village. I won't come any further."

She stopped and held out her hand. "Good-bye," she said. "I hope you will let me see you again. I should so like to show you my cottage.

Would you come?"

"I should like to, thank you," answered Philippa. "But I hardly know----" for all of a sudden the perplexities which had for a while been forgotten crowded into her mind again.

"Could you come to-morrow, do you think?" continued the other, speaking with some eagerness.

"Indeed I hardly know when I shall be able to get away. I will come if I possibly can, but----"

"Well, never mind," said Miss Vernon quickly. "Do not settle now, but come when you can. If you walk along this road I am pretty certain to see you. I spend my life on Bessmoor, and I should like to teach you to appreciate its beauties as they deserve."

"I shall certainly try to come, and I think you would find me a willing pupil," said Philippa with a smile. Then with a murmured word of thanks she walked quickly away, feeling suddenly afraid lest any further development should have arisen in her absence, for she had stayed away from the house longer than she had intended.

As she turned into the lodge gate she looked back. Isabella was standing where they had parted, gazing at her with the same intentness which had been so noticeable during their conversation; but now, she waved a friendly hand, and then she too turned and walked away up the hill.

"What does she know about it all, I wonder?" said the girl to herself.

"How much could she tell me of the details I long to know? All the time she was speaking she seemed to be on the point of asking some question. What was it? and why did she seem so pitifully anxious to make friends with me?"

CHAPTER VI

DOCTOR GALE

"When hope lies dead. Ah! when 'tis death to live And wrongs remembered make the heart still bleed, Better are sleep's kind lies for Life's blind need Than truth, if lies a little peace can give."--THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON.

As Philippa entered the hall of Bessacre High House the butler met her.

"Dr. Gale is here, miss," he said. "He wished me to say that he would be glad to speak to you when you came in."

"Certainly," she replied. "Where is the doctor?"

"In the library, miss. This way."

He conducted her to the door of the room and announced her. A man who had been seated by the writing-table rose to meet her, an elderly man with grizzled hair and beard and thick overhanging eyebrows.

"Miss Harford?" he said in a gruff, abrupt voice as he bowed.

"Yes," answered Philippa. "You wished to speak to me?"

"Please," he returned. "Won't you sit down? You must be tired, and I am afraid I must detain you for a little while."

She seated herself and waited, while the doctor stood before her, pulling fiercely at his ragged beard, and evidently at a loss for words.

When he spoke his manner was short and his tone rather harsh, but he gave her the impression of a man who was to be trusted. Rough, perhaps, but straightforward and honest, if somewhat unpolished. His first words strengthened her conclusion.

"There is no use in beating about the bush; let us come to the heart of the matter at once. What are you going to do?"

"What am I going to do?" repeated the girl in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that we are in your hands. On your decision the life of Francis Heathcote hangs. I understand from Mrs. Goodman that she has put you in possession of the facts of the case. I have just been speaking to her. I quite realise that the occurrence of to-day must have been a very trying one for you, as trying as it was unexpected. I cannot tell you what my feelings were when I saw you enter that room, for I didn't know of your existence, much less of your presence in this house; but the fact remains--Francis Heathcote has mistaken you for the woman he loved years ago, and for whose coming he has waited so long.

"Undoubtedly the realisation of his hopes has been a great shock to him, bodily, and mentally also, for the sight of you has had the effect of dispersing the cloud which has shadowed his brain for so long. He is now what may be called sane--perfectly sane--although the term is a misleading one, for he has never been insane, as we understand the word. His state has been curious. I can only describe it in the words I used just now. His mind has been shadowed--clouded by one idea, one obsession. And now, the sight of you, as he sees you, has removed the cloud; he is satisfied and sane."

"Will he recover?" asked Philippa gently.

"I cannot say. He is very weak. But this I can say--that so surely as he suffers another disappointment, or as he frets, and is not satisfied, so surely he will die."

The doctor fixed his eyes upon the girl's upturned face. Intense anxiety was written clearly upon his features; he tugged at his ragged beard even more fiercely than before.

"But how is it possible---- How can I----" she faltered, and he interrupted her vehemently--

"Don't decide--don't decide. Listen, and think of it--the pity of it!

For over twenty years I have been attending Francis Heathcote and seen him constantly, with never a word of greeting from him, never a sign of recognition. He is not merely my patient, he is my boyhood's dearest friend, and since his accident I have watched him closely; at first with hope, but later--with despair. If you could have known him in early manhood, and then seen him struck down to the pitiful wreck of after years, you would appreciate what it has been for those who loved him--and we all loved him--to stand by and do nothing. He was the most lovable creature it has ever been my lot to know.