THE MAJOR'S VISIT
"Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed."--_Gareth and Lynette_.
Major William Heathcote stood, with his feet firmly planted rather wide
apart, on the hearthrug of his library at Bessacre High House, in the
proverbial attitude which Englishmen assume when they are giving their
opinion with what may, without prejudice, be called decision. It is
possible that he had taken up this attitude as being the nearest
approach possible under the circumstances to the strategic position
known as "back to the wall." His face was stern, and now and again he
emphasised a remark by drumming with his right hand upon the palm of
his left. His voice was not raised, but his words came cuttingly, and
it was evident that they were prompted by something very near to cold
anger.
The other occupant of the room, for there were only two, was Doctor
Robert Gale, who was doing a quick quarter-deck march between the door
and the window, his face set, his chin pushed forward, tugging
persistently at his ragged beard, first with one hand and then with the
other. He did not seem to be angry, merely impatient and very
obstinate.
"I cannot permit it," the Major was saying, "The whole scheme is
preposterous; it is grossly unfair--first of all on poor Francis
himself----"
"Pshaw!" said the doctor.
"You talk about shock," continued the other without noticing the
interruption, "but the shock will be much more severe when he finds out
the truth--and secondly to Miss Harford. You had no right to suggest
such a course. She is young, and a visitor in my house. Now do just
think reasonably for a moment." The Major's voice took a more
persuasive tone. "Granted that Miss Harford's sympathy leads her to
agree with your suggestion, where is it going to end? How can you hope
that such a course of deception can possibly bring any real happiness
to poor Francis? Your medical mind sees nothing but the one point,
which is--life at all cost--anything to prolong life--while there is
life there is hope. I know all the clauses of your creed."
"Aye!" said the doctor, vehemently--he almost shouted the word--"you
are right. It is my creed, and I'm here to carry it out. Any step
that will prolong life it is my duty to take. And I know--I know--that
any attempt to upset Francis Heathcote's belief that it is Philippa
Harford come back again will result in his death. It will kill him."
He took his watch out of his pocket and noted the time, and as he did
so the door opened and Philippa Harford the second walked into the room.
Major Heathcote moved to meet her. "You did not expect to see me," he
said. "But I had a letter from the doctor here, telling me of
Francis's--illness--and I came at once."
"How is your boy?" asked Philippa. "I do hope you and Marion are less
anxious."
"He is doing pretty well, but there must be anxiety for some days yet,
I fear," was his reply. "Certain complications have arisen which must
make his recovery slow, but we have every reason to be hopeful. It is
not, however, to talk about Dickie that I came to-day, but about
yourself, and to express my sincere regret that you should have been
placed in a position so complicated and so difficult while in my house.
Will you sit down?"
Philippa seated herself. "I had an appointment with the doctor for
eleven o'clock," she said quietly. "I hope I have not kept you
waiting." She turned to Dr. Gale as she spoke.
He shook his head. He was watching the girl with the greatest
attention, striving to read the verdict which he awaited with very
evident anxiety. He could read nothing from her face. It told him
nothing.
"Dr. Gale has told me," began the Major, speaking rather quickly, "of
your meeting with Francis Heathcote, and the most unfortunate mistake
he has made as to your identity. I cannot tell you how deeply grieved
I am that this has happened. He has also told me of the very
extraordinary change which that meeting has brought about in Francis'
mental condition. Up to this point I can only be truly grateful to you
for your kindness and sympathy with one whose life has been so pitiably
wrecked, but beyond this--well, it is a very different matter. I
understand the doctor has suggested to you that you should allow
Francis to remain under this mistake--that you should visit him, and to
all intents and purposes _be_ the person he takes you for. The reason
he gives me for asking this of you is, that any unhappiness or mental
disquiet would in his opinion be fatal to Francis in his present state
of weakness. The doctor also tells me that he cannot in the least tell
whether his patient will recover, even with all the care and affection
which could be given him. Now I must most earnestly point out to you
the difficulties--in fact the undesirability of your doing what has
been suggested.
"God knows I pity poor Francis with all my heart. There is nothing I
would not do to bring him a moment's happiness, but I cannot let you, a
stranger, be drawn into the affair. It is quite impossible! I am sure
that you, in your goodness of heart, would do anything in your power
for any one who was suffering, but you do not realise what it means."
He paused, and waited for Philippa to speak, but finding that she sat
silent, he continued.
"In the first place it is deception. Yes, it is," he repeated in
answer to a mutter from the doctor. "It is deception. You allow him
to believe what is not true. In plain words you act a lie. Can any
possible good come from such a course? In the second, can you do it?
Picture to yourself what it will be. You will be the affianced wife of
a man whom you do not know, and if you are to act the part in such a
way as to make it in the least realistic, you must be on more than
friendly terms with him. You must show a certain warmth of manner, to
say the least of it, in response to his demonstrations of affection.
Philippa, you can't do it! You can't! Imagine yourself in such a
position." Again he paused, and again she did not speak.
"I wish you would tell me what is in your mind. You know the whole sad
story. Can it be possible that there is some quixotic notion in your
head that it is for you to heal a wound for which one of your family
was responsible? Oh, surely not! And yet, you women are so fond of
anything like self-sacrifice that it is impossible to fathom the
motives that drive you into folly: generous, well-meant folly, but
folly all the same. You have no one here to advise you, and I beg you
to be guided by me. You are not really called upon to do this thing.
It is undesirable--it is not right."
He stopped speaking at last. It was useless to continue to argue with
a person who could not apparently be moved by anything he said.
The doctor stepped forward. "Miss Harford," he said abruptly, "you
have heard Major Heathcote's side of the question; you already know the
other. As I told you before, we are in your hands. What are you going
to do?" Strive as he would he could not keep the note of anxiety out
of his voice.
Philippa's next words were a surprise to both men, but the doctor was
the first to understand her intention, and his face brightened visibly.
She turned to the Major. "How long is it since you have
seen--Francis?" she asked him.
"I----" he replied, rather taken aback, "I think it must be about a
fortnight."
"Will you go and see him now--and then when you have spoken to him,
will you come back to me here?"
"Certainly, if you wish it," he replied wonderingly.
The doctor led the way and the Major followed him, and they walked
up-stairs without speaking.
Philippa moved to the window, and stood there looking out, her hands
lightly clasped in front of her--motionless, her eyes gazing across the
sunlit park.
And so she waited, until after the lapse of about ten minutes the two
men returned.
As they entered the room she stepped quickly forward, and before either
of them could speak she said--
"Before you say anything, I want to tell you that I have quite decided.
Thank you," she made a gesture to the Major, "for all you said. I know
you mean to be kind, in telling me of the difficulties, but I have
quite decided. If it is a mistake--well, I am content to abide by it;
but as it seems possible for me to bring a little happiness to Francis,
I am going to do it."
This time it was the Major who did not answer. He was standing by the
fireplace with his eyes on the hearthstone, and his face was working
under the stress of some emotion. In his hand he held a small bunch of
violets.
"God bless you," said the doctor softly. Then with a quick change of
tone he added, "We'll save him yet. Please God we'll save him yet."
Then he drew Philippa to one side, and began to give her some
instructions, and some professional details as to the condition of his
patient, to which the girl listened attentively.
"At five o'clock this evening I'll come and take you to him," he said
presently. "I can only allow you to stay a few moments, and I need
hardly impress on you the strict necessity that he should not be
allowed to excite himself in any way. But I do not think we shall have
any trouble of that kind, for I have already warned him about it. I
must go now. You may expect me at five this afternoon."
"I wish Marion were here." The Major turned to Philippa when they were
left alone. "I think in a case like this a woman might know what to
say to you. I have said all I can, haven't I?"
"You have said all you can, but--I think you saw for yourself, didn't
you?"
He nodded. "Poor chap!" he said, with real feeling in his voice. "It
is a wonderful change."
"He knew you?"
"Apparently; although, of course, he may have thought I was my father.
We had the same name. He looks frightfully ill--more so than he did
when he was walking about his rooms--but he spoke as sensibly as you or
I."
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'That you, Bill?' when I came into the room. 'I've had
rather a nasty turn, but I'm on the mend now. How is Phil? That
ruffian has been keeping her away for a day or two, but he says I may
see her soon now. Will you give her my dear love?' And then he looked
round for the violets which were beside his bed. 'Give her these, will
you, old fellow, and tell her I shall see her as soon as I can get on
the soft side of old Rob.' He does not look to me as if he could live
long."
"Then we will make him happy, until--as long as he lives. Do not
trouble any more about it--my share of it, I mean. Just try and think
of me as if I were really Phil, not Philippa any more. Will you help
me?"
"I wish Marion were here," repeated the Major earnestly. "But it is
impossible; she cannot leave the boy. And I cannot leave her, for she
is nearly worn out with nursing and anxiety."
"I think it is really better that I should be here alone," returned
Philippa. "It makes it all easier, I think."
"As you are going to carry this through," he said after a while, "I
will give you some letters and papers I have, which may help you. I
will fetch them."
He returned after a few minutes with a dispatch box in his hand, which
he laid on a table beside her. "In this you will find Philippa
Harford's letters, and also a number written by Francis when they were
engaged. You had better read them. You have a right to do so. My
grandmother put them all together and gave them to me. Poor old soul,
I wonder what she would say if she were here to-day. I have no doubt
she would see the matter in the same light as you do. What I should
like to know is this: How much has Francis known of all that has passed
in the last twenty years? Has he any notion of time? Has he noticed
the alteration in people's appearance, I mean? Has he noticed that
they have grown older? People he has seen constantly like Robert Gale
and old Goodman. Does he know his mother is dead? Has he missed her?
Oh, there are half-a-hundred things one wants to know."
"We can only hope that he will never ask," returned Philippa gently.
"It will be much happier for him if he takes everything just as it is,
and doesn't puzzle over anything. The doctor tells me he is not fit to
talk very much--that he must be kept absolutely quiet. I am only to go
and sit with him, and not to talk more than I can help. Will you give
my best love to Marion, and do not let her worry about anything here?
She has so much to trouble her as it is. I do hope you will be able to
give me better news soon."
"Let me know if you want me, or if there is any change," he said as
they parted. "I will come at any time."
Philippa spent the afternoon in her own room with the dispatch-box by
her side, going systematically through the contents.
These consisted of two packets of letters, one very small, merely some
half-dozen in all, tied round with a faded piece of pink ribbon--Phil's
letters to Francis. The other a thick bundle held together by a piece
of red tape--his letters to her.
A small cardboard box containing a ring--a half-hoop of diamonds--a
glove, and a bunch of violets faded and dry almost beyond recognition,
yet faintly fragrant. A pitiful collection truly, telling plainly of a
love story of other days.
Philippa read the letters with a shrinking at her heart, and yet it was
absolutely necessary that she should learn all there was to know as to
the relations in which these two had stood, the one to the other--not
before the public, but in their intimate revealings. Those of the man
were closely written and long--outpourings of an affection which
carried all before it. The earlier ones--for Philippa placed them in
consecutive order--were full, brimful, of joy, of triumph and
satisfaction; but in the later ones, while affection was in no way
lessened, there was something of appeal--or so it seemed to her as she
studied them. An undercurrent as it were of longing, a desire to make
the recipient understand the depth of love--to get below the surface,
to obtain some deeper expression of confidence in return.
This was particularly evident in one letter. The writer commenced by
imploring pardon for some offence which had been unintentional. He
dwelt upon the strength of his love--of his desire for her happiness.
Would she ever understand what she was to him--what his love meant? and
so on, and so on. A deep sincerity burnt in every line. And Philippa
turned to the other packet, to find, if she could, the answer; for it
was such a letter as must have drawn a reply in the same strain from
the woman to whom it was addressed. It was an appeal from the heart,
such as no woman with any love for the writer could withstand.
By comparing the dates she found it. It was a hurried scrawl, and read
as follows--
"DEAREST FRANCIS,
"I have just had your letter. I never knew such an old boy as you are
to worry your head about nothing. Of course I love you. Why do you
want me to go on repeating it? But I can't stand heroics, or see any
sense in them. I am having a jolly time here. We went to the
Milchester races yesterday, and had a very good day. Forest has got a
young chestnut that jumps like a stag, I wish you had been there to see
it. It would make a first-class hunter, after you'd handled it a bit,
and I could do with another if we are going to be at Bessacre next
season.
"I shall see you on Friday. Post just going.
"Best love.
"PHIL."
Philippa wondered whether the heart of the man had taken comfort from
the phrase, "I wish you had been there to see." It was rather like
giving a crumb to one who demanded bread; but after all, she told
herself, she had not known the writer, and many people have no aptitude
for expressing their feelings on paper; and although the woman's
letters were not particularly affectionate and showed a want of deep
feeling, still, there was a certain insouciance, a gaiety about them
which was far from unpleasing. It was only that as love-letters they
were hardly satisfactory.
It also struck Philippa, as she thought them carefully over, that if
her aunt had not felt for Francis the true love of a lover, that high
essential essence which turns all to pure gold, she might easily have
missed the appeal in them--might even have been frankly bored by them.
To one whose heart could not respond to their very evident sincerity
they might easily have appeared 'high-falutin'. She herself did not
find them so, far from it--she found them inexpressibly touching; but
then she knew the story of the man who had waited, and could not fail
to be influenced by it.
On the whole, what she gleaned from the perusal of these records out of
the past tended, she thought, to make her task the easier, for Phil had
clearly disliked and discouraged any very demonstrative affection, and
as to the rest she felt no anxiety. She was ready and able, she knew,
to give Francis all he could need of cheerful companionship, to make
the days pass happily, to minister to him in his weakness. She had
some experience of sick people and their needs, a natural aptitude for
nursing, and an instinct as to the right thing to say and do in
response to their demands. Also there were the services of the trained
nurse to fall back on, and on her would rest the actual responsibility
of the case.
Again she told herself that all she had to do was to remember that she
was playing a part; she had only to forget herself and centre her whole
mind on the role she had undertaken. Above all, she must not look
forward, for no amount of peering could throw light on what the future
would bring; sufficient for her to make sure that her particular little
square in life's patchwork, as Isabella had called it, was not left
with frayed edges. She had a definite task to perform, that of
bringing happiness into the last days of a fellow-creature.
So she thought, and so she reasoned, but whether her reasoning was
sound she did not stop to consider. Nor if she had done so would she
have found it easy to bring a level judgment to bear upon the matter.
As she had said to Isabella, it was very difficult to know what was
truth when it came to the motives that prompted actions, and there was
in her inmost heart the echo of a voice which in some measure deafened
her to the calm tones of cold reason.