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
passed 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 anticipated the possibility of a
meeting he could never have imagined that it would come about under
such extraordinary circumstances, or that his girl would be called upon
to stand in the dead woman's place, and to assume 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 identity, 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 principal 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 passed. 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 grass 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 quantity 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
passed upon the road.