ISABELLA
"In life there are meetings which seem like a fate."--OWEN MEREDITH.
The sun was low upon the horizon, casting cool shadows across the
summer landscape, as Philippa walked out of the lodge gates the same
evening, and turned up the road which climbed the incline leading up on
to the moorland.
She had passed through many emotions in a short space of time, and she
craved for solitude--to be at peace to think over the extraordinary
events of the last few hours, and steady her mind, which seemed to be
whirling under the strain she had endured.
The day had been hot, but now a cool breeze, very refreshing to the
tired girl, was blowing in from the sea. She walked slowly along,
thinking deeply, and as she thought, gradually little points of light
shone out from the dim past, and played upon the story she had heard,
and which had touched her so profoundly. Little actions of her
father's--words which he had spoken, unheeded at the time, or at any
rate not understood, now seemed to acquire a new meaning. She had been
utterly ignorant of her aunt's existence, or if she had known her in
early childhood, she had lost all recollection of her. Her father had
never mentioned his sister.
One incident which had happened when she was about thirteen returned
very clearly to her memory. A young friend had come to spend the
afternoon with her, and as the two girls were playing in the
school-room Mr. Harford had come in, and had joined in their game. He
was always a delightful playmate, and they had welcomed him with glee.
The fun was at its height when Philippa's friend, in the excitement of
the moment, called to her, addressing her as Phil. Philippa well
recalled how her father had risen from his chair, and in a voice so
stern as to be utterly unlike his own, had said, "My daughter's name is
Philippa, and I must ask you never to address her again as you did just
now." The girl, taken aback and rather frightened at the displeasure
she had all unintentionally provoked, apologised instantly, and Mr.
Harford, realising that his rebuke must have seemed over severe for the
innocent offence, patted her on the shoulder and begged her to think no
more of the matter. But it was evident that he could not shake off the
effect of the occurrence, the game came to an end, and shortly
afterwards he left the room. At the time Philippa had wondered why the
simple abbreviation of her name should have caused him so much
distress, but the reason was very clear to her now. What painful
memories it must have conjured up in a moment!
Also, she remembered a young secretary in Berlin whom they had known
very intimately, Phil L'Estrange. Every one had called him Phil with
the exception of her father, who had invariably addressed him as
Philip, in spite of the young man's laughing assurance that he did not
answer to the name.
"How could she have done it?" she murmured half aloud. "How could she
have done it?" Twenty-two years of waiting! What a love this man must
have given to the other Philippa--a love so strong that it dominated
weakness of the body, and even of mind, and through all the long years
burnt on with the same clear flame of youth.
Would he die now, this man who had waited so long?--would he die happy,
satisfied that his love had come to him again? It was an absorbing
thought. Why did these coincidences happen? Were they coincidences?
Here was she, a stranger, with, it would seem, a human life hanging on
her coming--at least it had appeared so this morning, when her voice
had roused him from the lethargy of weakness which was drifting him out
of life. And if he died, what would his meeting be with that Philippa
who had passed before him into the Unknown, the land where there was no
marriage or giving in marriage?
Yet, in that land of which we speak so glibly and picture each of us
according to our personal fancy, and of which we are so absolutely
ignorant--in that future state there surely must be love. Was a
wonderful human love like this to come to an abrupt end--to be left
behind with the body's frail shell? Surely not. Surely, although
human, it held too much of the divine to perish with the earthly clay;
and yet, if the love of Francis Heathcote passed with his spirit, how
would he meet Phil? or, rather, how would she meet him? Would she be
changed while he remained unaltered? Would heaven itself be heaven for
him without her love? Oh, the awful mystery of the future life!
And--if he did not die? She stopped abruptly, and stood quite still as
the recollection of the words which the old woman had spoken returned
to her mind. "Now you have come, and he will be content."
What did she mean? What had she, the living Philippa Harford, to do
with Francis Heathcote? a man of whose very existence she had been
ignorant, known nothing, until yesterday--nothing.
And if clear reason asserted itself in his shadowed mind, as seemed
possible, how could the truth be explained to him?
She walked on again overwhelmed by the difficulty of her position.
Unthinkingly--unwittingly--she had, in the pitying impulse of the
moment, drawn a fellow-soul back to earth and life. If she had not
been there he must have died--so much was certain; and yet----
So engrossed had she been in her thoughts that she had paid no heed to
the road along which she passed, but now, as she lifted her eyes and
gazed round her, this way and that, as if seeking some solution of the
problem that confronted her, she found that she had reached the moor.
Before her stretched a wide expanse of earth and sky, lit into
splendour by the rays of the sun which was sinking, a ball of fire,
into a sea of flame. So calm was the distant water that its unruffled
surface mirrored the glory of the sky above it in wonderful tones of
scarlet and orange and palest rose. The moor itself, brilliant with
bell heather, seemed a magnificent robe clothing the world in regal
purple; while across it, winding like a ribbon laid lightly over its
richness, ran the road--further and further into the distance until it
vanished from sight at the meeting-place of land and water. Philippa
gazed entranced--her perplexities forgotten--her whole being
stirred--uplifted by the beauty of the scene.
Even as she looked the vision changed. The sun dropped below the
horizon, throwing, as it fell, great shafts of light like gleaming
spears, up across the splendour to the azure overhead--spears which
glittered for a moment, flashing a signal to herald the approach of the
dusk which on the instant, as if in response to a command, threw a
mysterious veil over the pageant of departing day.
No sound broke the stillness--the very earth was hushed.
Philippa gave a little shiver. It was as if with the waning of the
glory something had passed from her spirit, leaving her strangely cold
and small--an atom in an immeasurable loneliness.
Instinctively she turned to seek human companionship, as a child might
turn to seek its mother's hand in a moment of awe. She searched in
vain and could see no living thing, but presently she distinguished far
off upon the road a figure which gradually she made out to be that of a
woman walking towards her. Half impatient with herself at the relief
which the sight afforded her, she watched intently.
The woman came steadily on, glancing neither to left nor right, but
with her eyes bent upon the ground; and it was not until she was within
a few yards of where the girl was standing that she became aware that
she was not alone.
She raised her head, and met Philippa's gaze. A look of intense
surprise and bewilderment came over her face; she started forward, and
as she did so she caught her foot on some unnoticed stone, stumbled,
and almost fell. Philippa made a movement towards her, but immediately
the stranger recovered herself.
"You," she said, in a quick low tone, almost as if she was speaking
unconsciously, her eyes all the while fixed in a curious, scrutinising
stare upon Philippa's face. The girl showed no astonishment. There
seemed no room for astonishment in the world of strange happenings in
which she found herself, but before she could reply the woman spoke
again.
"I am not mad, as you might easily imagine," she said. "Please forgive
me, but--will you tell me who you are?"
"My name is Harford--Philippa Harford."
The other nodded. It was evidently the answer she had expected.
"For a moment I took you for--some one I used to know many years ago.
Of course it is quite impossible that it should be her, but coming upon
you suddenly like this surprised me out of my senses."
She was a tall, angular woman of what is sometimes called uncertain
age, that is to say, she might have been anything from thirty to
five-and-forty. She was dressed in a simple gown of brown holland, and
it was singularly unbecoming to one of her complexion, for her hair was
a faded, nondescript colour which might possibly have been red in early
youth, and her skin was sallow and colourless.
Her face could not, even by the most charitable, have been called
anything but plain--the cheekbones were high, the features rugged, the
eyes small and light; but Philippa noted something very attractive in
the expression. There was cleverness in the broad low brow under the
wide-brimmed hat so deplorably innocent of all suggestion of prevailing
fashion, and a whimsical twist about the corners of the mouth which
showed its possessor to be rich in humour. And yet it was a sad
face--in some indefinite way it suggested patience and expectancy.
Just now the eyes were wistful, questioning.
"It must have been a relation of yours, I think," she was saying,
"because her name was Philippa Harford too." It was an assertion, but
Philippa answered the eyes rather than the words.
"She was my aunt."
"How the years go by, don't they?" The stranger seemed to be trying to
lead the conversation away from the personal. "And one really doesn't
notice their passing. One lies on the shelf and gets dusty as the
world goes on. Are you going this way? May I walk with you? This is
an unconventional meeting. Will you count it sufficient introduction
that I knew your aunt many years ago? My name is Isabella Vernon, but
that probably conveys nothing to you."
"By all means let us walk together," answered Philippa readily. "I had
been watching the sunset, and the moor seemed so solitary."
"It is. That is why I love it. Dear Bessmoor. Ever changing, yet
ever the same--suiting all moods--sympathetic--enveloping. I have a
cottage in the heart of her, where I live the simple life, which I
like, but which for most people is a synonym for few baths and many
discomforts. Do you live near here?"
"No, I am only staying here."
"But you know this part of the country."
"No," replied Philippa again. "It is all new to me. I only arrived
yesterday."
And in her heart she was thinking, "Here is some one who could probably
tell me many things I want to know," and yet how impossible to speak of
such matters to a stranger.
Isabella Vernon seemed anxious to make friends.
"If you do not know the neighbourhood, I will explain the geography,"
she said pleasantly. "This is an excellent point of view. See, over
there,"--she indicated the direction with her hand as she spoke,--"on
the other side of the moor lies the village of Denwick. It has a very
fine church--you can just see the tower--and it used to be a place of
some importance in the dim ages. There are villages dotted all over
this part of the country, right down to the sea.
"'Renwick and Deanwick, Bessmoor and Ling,
Northam and Southam lie all in a ring,'
as the country-people say about here. Eastminster is over there----"
again she pointed. "On fine days you can see the spire of the
cathedral, but not from here--from a point about two miles further
across Bessmoor. If you are staying some time you ought to explore."
Again her eyes questioned, and Philippa answered--
"I do not know yet how long I shall stay."
"You will find many beautiful spots about here which will well repay a
visit. Now, you can see Bessacre lying in the little hollow below us.
The woods over there belong to--Major Heathcote----" She paused
tentatively.
"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 passed--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 Cumberland, 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 Japan--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 masses
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?"