"It is unfortunate," he muttered. "I have been writing to him to tell him the state of affairs here, and I am sure he will come if he can.

Let us hope their worry about the boy will soon be over. The little chap has a splendid const.i.tution. I shall be over to-morrow morning.

Don't hesitate to send for me if you want me, and don't go into Francis Heathcote's room until I have prepared him for your visit--not unless there is any crisis and you are obliged to do so. But I think he will be quiet enough. Go to bed, my dear young lady, and get a good rest; you must need it. And forgive me having detained you for so long."

CHAPTER VII

INDECISION

"When conscience sees clear, conscience need not budge: But there are times it cannot clearly see This way or that, and then it strives to stand, Holding an even balance in its hand."--ALFRED AUSTIN.

Sleep was impossible. All through the long hours of the night Philippa lay wide awake, every nerve, every faculty of her mind tuned to the highest point of tension, going over and over the story she had heard.

Her keen sympathy and ready imagination filled in the details which had been omitted, and she pictured the endless succession of weary days which lengthened into years--the mother's anguish as hope grew fainter and was at last extinguished, and, the central figure of the tragedy, the man who for all the years, day in, day out, had waited. "Just waited." The very simplicity of the doctor's words had only added to their pathos.

She thought of her father, and of what his feelings in the matter must have been. She knew well that to a man of his rigid integrity of mind and purpose his sister's action must have been beyond all possible excuse. The mere fact that she had broken her plighted word would have been hard to condone, for to him the violation of a promise once given was impossible, and against all the principles which ruled his life.

He would have felt a personal shame that one of his own family should have been guilty of it, and more especially his dearly loved sister; and that in addition she should have acted with what could only be described as utter heartlessness towards the man who had been his dearest friend must have been a sorrow beyond all words.

That this had been literally so was proved to Philippa by the fact that, in spite of the intimacy of thought and speech which had existed between them, he had allowed her to remain in utter ignorance of the whole affair. She had enjoyed his fullest confidence; he had frequently spoken to her of old days, of his boyhood and early manhood, but never once had the names of either Francis Heathcote or his sister pa.s.sed his lips. And yet, had he not, by his reticence, acted the kindest part? Was not silence the only tribute love could lay upon the grave of the woman who had failed? And he did not foresee, indeed how was it possible that he should, that by the mysterious working of that power which erring men call Chance, the whole sad happening would be brought to light again.

If he had for a moment deemed it possible that his daughter would come face to face with Francis Heathcote, he would surely have prepared her in some way for the meeting, have given her some notion of how he would wish her to act. But even if he had antic.i.p.ated the possibility of a meeting he could never have imagined that it would come about under such extraordinary circ.u.mstances, or that his girl would be called upon to stand in the dead woman's place, and to a.s.sume her very personality.

And if by some miracle he stood by her side now, what would he wish her to do? That was the question which seemed to dance before Philippa's tired eyes, limned in letters of flame against the black wall of doubt and difficulties which barred the way she was to take.

What would he wish her to do? Would he feel that some heritage of duty left undone was hers to accomplish, to fulfil? a point of honour as it were--pride of race insisting that there was a debt owing, which she was called upon to pay? Would he not in his affection for his friend be the first to echo the doctor's plea, "just a little happiness for all the years he has missed"?--the happiness which it seemed that she of all people was alone able to give.

She thought of the little brooch, "Your heart and mine,"--the only visible link which connected her father with the story at all. How had it come into his possession? Surely, if Phil had returned it with other tokens of her engagement, it must have fallen into Lady Louisa's hands. Had she perhaps overlooked it at first, and then, before she died, sent it to her brother--a mute appeal for forgiveness, a silent confession of regret? The explanation was conjectural, but it was possible. Philippa would have liked to know it true, for it would have been some comfort to her father.

She thought of old Jane Goodman, comforted by the certainty which seemed to the girl so entirely without foundation, that her mere presence would dispel all the trouble that had wrecked a life.

She tried to think consecutively, to argue fairly, weighing the matter judicially, noting all points, for and against, in the hope that by this means her decision might be rendered more simple, but it was impossible. Her thoughts would not be controlled, they wandered this way and that. At one moment she felt certain that she could not condemn a fellow-creature to distress if any action of hers could prevent it, the next she was tortured by the simple question of right and wrong: whether if she allowed Francis Heathcote to remain under his misapprehension as to her ident.i.ty, it was not much the same thing as deliberate deception, a lie, in short? And yet, the truth was to him nothing more nor less than his death sentence. Could she be the one to push him back into the darkness from which she had all unwittingly rescued him?

"A little happiness for all the years he has missed--a little happiness until he dies." For a few hours, or perhaps weeks--who could tell?

Was it not an act of simple human charity she was called upon to perform? Could it not be considered something similar to acting as an understudy--continuing a role which had been left with some last lines unsaid by the princ.i.p.al actor? Why need she hesitate to respond to the urgent appeal for comfort and for help? "No brightness--only darkness, until you came. Ah, dear love! the shadows when you do not come!

Phil! Dear love! At last!"

Small wonder that the dawn found her wide-eyed and unrested, and that when the hour came for her to rise she was prostrated with nervous headache and fatigue, utterly incapable of the slightest effort. And so the next day pa.s.sed. At noon there came a note from the doctor, saying she need be under no anxiety. His patient was quiet and as well as could be expected.

On the afternoon of the next day but one, the necessity of obtaining fresh air and a strong desire to meet Isabella Vernon again drove her out of doors. She was almost surprised to find how keen was her wish to pursue the acquaintance so informally begun; she could not account for it. It was certainly not at the moment any desire to gain information about the past; that had entirely left her. She wished rather to gain relief from the subject, to try if possible to lay it aside for a time, and she had not the smallest intention of admitting a stranger into the difficulties which beset her. No, it was some personal attraction about the woman which drew her in a most unusual way. Philippa was not in the habit of feeling drawn to people of whom she had so slight a knowledge, and she was inclined to think that it was only a feeling of loneliness which prompted her to seek the only person to whom she could talk in an ordinary, everyday way, and so obtain an antidote for the clamour and unrest of mind of which she was only too conscious.

She had barely mounted the hill on to Bessmoor, and felt the wind blowing cool from the sea with a salt tang most refreshing to her, than she saw, a few yards off the road, and under the shelter of some gnarled thorn-bushes, a little encampment, and she directed her steps towards it.

Miss Vernon was seated on the ground beside a small cart, and at a little distance away a donkey stood contentedly, flicking away the flies which disturbed his peace.

To a critical observer the down-trodden state of the gra.s.s and undergrowth might have suggested that the place had been occupied for more than a few hours, but Philippa was not in a mood to be observant, or to wonder how long the other had waited for her arrival. Nor did Isabella Vernon say a word to betray the fact that she had spent the whole of the previous day in precisely her present position, having carefully chosen a point of vantage from which any one coming along the road from Bessacre could not by any means fail to be visible to her.

She scrambled to her feet. "I am so pleased to see you," she said.

And the warmth of her greeting was unmistakable, not so much in the words, which were conventional enough, as in the tone of real welcome in which they were spoken.

"I am fortunate to find you," replied Philippa. "I was hoping so much that I might see you. You told me you were often on Bessmoor."

"Every day. I live out of doors. Now I do trust that you have time to come and see my cottage. It is not very far off, and if you do not scorn my humble equipage, my donkey, who seems to be sound asleep at the moment, will save you the trouble of walking. You look very white, I hope you have not been ill."

"It is only the effect of a stupid headache which bothered me yesterday, but I am really all right to-day."

Isabella eyed her searchingly. "Humph! you don't look it," she said candidly. "But let us see what a drive in our splendid air will do for you. It will not take more than a few minutes to collect my belongings and make a start."

She knelt down as she spoke and gathered together a quant.i.ty of papers which she had scattered as she rose to greet Philippa. "You must not expect our progress to be rapid," she continued, speaking in an easy, good-humoured way; "for my donkey, being an animal of great discernment, arrived long ago at the knowledge that time means nothing to us in these parts. We simply don't know the meaning of the word, and he resolutely refuses to hurry for any inducement I can offer him.

When I first made his acquaintance I wore myself out in vain efforts to urge him into something that might reasonably be called a trot, but the experience was so distressing to us both that I gave it up in despair.

Now, I frankly confess that he is my master. If he chooses to reflect upon the road, I do the same, and say nothing. If he proceeds, well, so do I. I still say nothing, and am inwardly thankful. But to give him his due, he is docile, which after all is something, for I cannot imagine what an unprotected female like myself, with scanty knowledge of quadrupeds and their ways, would do with a beast who kicked or ran away, especially in a lonely spot like this, where one so seldom meets a soul upon the road. Come up, Edward," she added, tugging at the bridle, and with some difficulty persuading the reluctant animal to take up his position between the shafts. Philippa went to the rescue, and between them the deed was done, and in a few moments they were seated side by side in the little cart, proceeding very deliberately across the moor.

Philippa saw that her companion was dressed precisely as she had been at their previous meeting. The same drab cotton frock, or possibly a duplicate; the same hideously unbecoming hat; but she merely glanced at these, for her attention was presently drawn to some indefinable change in Isabella's face. It was some minutes before she realised what it was. The curious, expectant look was gone, and where, on the previous occasion, her new acquaintance had seemed possessed by an intense desire to question, she appeared now to have entirely lost that desire.

Her face hardly showed contentment; there were lines of sadness on it which could never be obliterated, but it had regained what was probably its usual calmness--the calmness of one who has forced herself to wait patiently, who sees her course of action, or inaction, clearly mapped out before her, and is biding her time, waiting for events to bring her to some desired point.

Meanwhile there was no doubt that she discerned immediately that the girl beside her was suffering under a strain of some kind, and was exerting herself to draw her out of her thoughts, to distract her attention from her anxiety, whatever it might be, and presently she succeeded. Philippa felt herself gaining strength from the other's strong and sympathetic personality, and listened with interest to her remarks upon the neighbourhood, and upon the various objects they pa.s.sed upon the road.

CHAPTER VIII

THE HEART OF BESSMOOR

"Those house them best who house for secrecy."--THOMAS HARDY.

"There is one distinct advantage in my humble chariot," Isabella said presently, "and that is that you have plenty of time to give your full attention to the scenery as you pa.s.s. If we were dashing along in a motor I should not have time to tell you that those two flat stones over there," she pointed in the direction as she spoke, "mark the resting-place of the last highwayman who ever disturbed the peace of these parts. He seems to have been a most mysterious person, by all accounts, and he rode a white horse--surely a very foolish colour for a highwayman to choose--and he kept the countryside in a state of terror.

He was caught at last--it would take too long to tell you the story of his final escapade and capture--and hung upon that pine-tree.

"It appears that, within an hour of his execution, while the sheriff and his men were still upon the moor, his body disappeared. It was spirited away. And the country-people will tell you quite plainly that the Old Gentleman came in person to fetch him. That, of course, may, or may not, be true, but the curious part of it is that those two stones--they are a fair size, as you can see--were placed there in that position the same night. By the same agency, of course. Very civil of the Old Gentleman to leave a memento of his visit, wasn't it? And since then, of course, he rides at night upon his white horse on Bessmoor, as every self-respecting highwayman who has swung for his crimes should. I cannot say that I have ever had the pleasure of seeing him, but of course I must believe in him. He is quite the most notorious person on Bessmoor--the 'White Horse Rider' as they call him.

"You ask Mrs. Palling, the ancient lady who is good enough to 'do' for me; she is quite what one might call an intimate friend of his, she seems so well acquainted with his movements.

"Now, here we are at the cross-roads. Here we turn to the left and go down what we call a 'loke' in local parlance--in other words a _cul-de-sac_. And now, over there, you can see the chimney of my domicile. It only boasts of one. The other belongs to my good friend and neighbour the afore-mentioned Mrs. Palling, a most refreshing person whose acquaintance you should certainly make. She would amuse you. She is great on signs and portents, and won't even make a loaf of bread unless the moment is favourable. Her favourite hobby is 'Bees,'

but I shouldn't use the word 'hobby,' I should rather say they are her household deities. She consults them about every detail, and informs them of every occurrence. I only trust they have permitted her to keep my fire burning, and then you shall soon have a cup of tea."

The sandy track along which they were pa.s.sing--it could hardly be called a road--ended abruptly in a tiny open s.p.a.ce with a grove of trees upon one side and a sandpit on the other. In the centre was a pond, shrunken at this season of the year to most diminutive proportions; so much so, indeed, that it barely served for the ablutions of some half-a-dozen ducks, who hustled and jostled one another angrily in their efforts to perform their toilet.

Several stout poles supported a varied a.s.sortment of washing, which Isabella pointed out with a smile.

"I will not apologise for the publicity of our domestic arrangements,"

she said. "It used to distress me at first to see my most intimate garments hanging in such close proximity to the well-worn unmentionables of the redoubtable Mr. Palling, but I have got over that. I did mention it to his wife, who failed to understand my scruples, and replied, 'They meets in the washtub, and why not on the line?' and in truth, why not? But here we are arrived at last."

The donkey pulled up at the gate of one of a pair of cottages which stood at the further end of the little green, and Philippa gave an exclamation of pleasure and surprise. "Oh," she cried, "but this is perfectly charming!"

"Wait until you get inside the gate, and then I do think you will say that my retreat is not ill-chosen," answered Isabella with a smile.