THREADS
"Of little threads our life is spun,
And he spins ill who misses one."
Philippa's first feeling when she gained the open moor and saw the low
bushes which had been their last meeting-place, was one of acute
disappointment, for Isabella was not there. She had confidently
expected to find her waiting and had not paused to consider whether her
hope was reasonable or not. For a moment she fancied that perhaps she
had mistaken the place; but no, all around the grass was trampled down,
and some shreds of torn paper proved to her that she was right.
She mounted a little hillock and scanned the road as far as she could
see, but no one was in sight. There was evidently nothing for it but
to make her way to the cottage. It was a long walk, but after all that
did not matter as it was still early, and she had the whole day before
her; so she retraced her steps to the road and walked briskly along.
As she did so her mind continued in the same train of thought with
which it had been previously occupied--Isabella and her connection with
Francis; and then, quite suddenly, a light broke upon her. The
explanation seemed so obvious that she could only marvel that she had
not thought of it at once. Little by little she recalled all the
evidence to strengthen her conclusion. Isabella's dear memory of the
past--the words lightly spoken by the person whose good opinion was
more to her than the whole world--her eager, questioning gaze as though
longing and yet not daring to frame a question--and, most certain proof
of all, the silence with regard to Francis.
If he had been to her no more than a valued friend she would surely
have spoken of him, just as she had spoken of Philippa's father. She
had loved Francis; and he?--well---- He had, it would seem, been fond
of her in a friendly, careless way. The sandy cat! Was it of his
welfare she was so anxious to hear? Was it the necessity of being
somewhere near him that had drawn her to take up her abode in this
lonely if lovely spot?
And yet surely she could have obtained news of him, thought the girl.
Isabella had said that she did not know either Major Heathcote or his
wife, but even so, Marion was no ogress. Why had not Isabella gone
boldly to the door and asked for tidings of him for the sake of old
friendship? It would have been a very simple course to take. Or there
was the doctor. Surely if Francis and the first Philippa had known him
so well, Isabella must have known him too.
Well, to-day, if she had the opportunity, she would break the
silence--she would speak of Francis and tell Isabella of his marvellous
recovery. And then she realised that her own position might be a
little difficult to explain. It would not be an easy story to tell to
this woman if she loved him; but if Philippa was correct in her
surmise, and she had now little doubt on that score, surely Isabella
had a right to know the truth.
How different things would have been if Francis had loved Isabella; for
most certainly she would never have been a fair-weather friend. But
first she must have proof, and that should not be hard to obtain.
There would be some sign when his name was spoken--some intonation in
the woman's voice, even if she did not speak openly, which would reveal
her secret now that Philippa was ready to notice and to understand.
The girl came at last to the turning which led to the little green, and
then she saw Isabella approaching. She was walking, just as she had
walked on that first afternoon, with her eyes on the ground, lost in
thought, and it was not until she was within a few yards of Philippa
that she glanced up and saw her. And then there was no doubt that
absence had done much the same for them both, for when they met, they
met as friends. The look of welcome, even of affection, was
unmistakable on the older woman's face.
"Ah!" she said, as she put her arm through Philippa's and fell into
step with her; "I am a little late this morning. I am sorry, for you
have had a lonely walk. I was beginning to wonder whether I should
ever see you again!"
"I was quite absurdly disappointed not to see you under the thorn
bush," said Philippa, smiling. "Although why I should imagine that you
must spend your days there I do not know."
"You are not far out," was the answer. "I have been there every day."
"I could not come. It was not possible sooner."
"You have come at last, and that is enough for me," said Isabella.
"Come home and rest. Bessmoor is looking rather weepy but very
beautiful, smiling after tears like a pretty child."
"You surely did not wait for me in all the wet weather we have been
having?"
"Oh, we don't think much of a drop or two of rain in these parts,"
replied Isabella lightly; "nor, as you may notice, is my costume likely
to be affected by the damp," she added, laughing, as she pointed to the
high waterproof boots and the serviceable mackintosh she wore. "I
think we shall have some more rain, but we shall soon be under shelter
now. Look at that wonderful cloud rising from the sea. It is like a
monstrous eagle waiting to swoop. The clouds here are always
wonderful. Often I sit and fancy I can see strange mysterious
countries passing like a fairy cinematograph before my eyes. Sometimes
great ranges of snow mountains with deep purple shadows on them, as if
the cold grey rock which formed them showed through where the snow had
melted; and then they shift and fade and the scene changes. Perhaps it
may be next a broad and sunlit river that I see--far, far away in the
distance, with a vista of amethystine hills crowned with waving
palm-trees; and then I think I can smell the spice-laden breezes of the
East. Or again, it may be a wide plain like some vast camp of gleaming
white tents under an azure sky--the camp of the old Crusaders,--with
here and there a banner waving, and I can almost catch a glimpse of the
walls of Ascalon, or Acre the beleaguered city. People talk about
seeing pictures in the fire! No fire ever lighted can show me such
pictures as I see over Bessmoor, and no castles in Spain or Eldorado
were ever quite so perfect as mine built all of cloud. But here we
are, arrived at last, and here is a comfortable chair for you. I am
going to fetch you a glass of milk before we settle down to our chat.
Oh yes, you must have it," she insisted as Philippa demurred. "Mrs.
Palling has gone out for the day, so we shall be all alone."
"How is Mrs. Palling?" asked Philippa presently. "Has she been
indulging in any more extraordinary readings of the truth?"
"Not just lately. She was particularly cheerful this morning. She has
gone to a funeral, and the very mention of one always rouses her to
enthusiasm. I must tell you that the deceased was no relation and not
even a dear friend, so I saw no reason to damp her pleasurable
excitement. She loves an outing, does Mrs. Palling. Notice the
beehives. They are looking decidedly rakish adorned with black
streamers in honour of the occasion. I have written to London to-day
for a fresh supply of black ribbon, for the last was torn from my
Sunday hat. I had no heart to refuse Mrs. Palling's piteous appeal,
but the demand is becoming so constant that, as she does not seem
inclined to keep a supply herself, I feel I must for the future."
"I am particularly glad she has gone out to-day, for all this week she
has been occupied in the manufacture of a decoction of marigolds, which
she assures me is a sovereign remedy against colds and chills. It
appears that she has been trying to obtain the recipe for years, but
only one person had it, and she guarded it with the most jealous
secrecy. Now, at last, Mrs. Palling has prevailed upon her to disclose
it, to her overwhelming joy and my infinite regret. I can only say
that if the taste is anything like the smell I would most assuredly
prefer the cold. As it is, I shall live in dread of the moment when my
first sneeze will give Mrs. Palling the opportunity she longs for--that
of proving it; and she will appear like an avenging fury armed with a
flaming sword in the shape of a bumper of her noxious brew, stand over
me until I drink it, and force me under pain of repeated doses to
retract all the unkind remarks I have made about it. Mrs. Palling has
a horrible way of getting the better of me in the end. I am beginning
to think that a person who is always right is very trying to live with.
So much wisdom gives me a sort of mental indigestion. I used to think
nothing could be so irritating as a fool, but now I see why the
Corinthians of old suffered fools gladly. The sight of folly gives one
a comfortable feeling of superiority, and it is so nice to feel really
superior even if one has the grace not to show it."
"What have you been doing since I saw you last?" asked Philippa
presently.
"I have not been entirely idle. I have managed to get through quite a
respectable quantity of work."
"Another book?" asked the girl with interest.
Isabella nodded.
"Will it be quite as sad as the last?"
"No, I hardly think it will," she answered with a laugh. "I don't know
the reason though. I half think that the fact of knowing you has put
me in lighter vein. Talk about it not being good for a man to be
alone; I have come to the conclusion that it is ten times worse for a
woman. What a sentiment to come from me! For it is not long ago that
I was earnestly seeking a crack in the earth's surface which should be
just large enough to hold me, to the exclusion of every one else. It
must be your magic that has made this great change. Yes, the book is
creeping on, and some of it will stand, I think."
"Are you satisfied with it?"
"Not at all," was the frank answer. "There is nothing so disappointing
in the world as one's own writing; and yet one goes on. And so far as
I am concerned I can only say that every time I write "Chapter I" on a
new sheet of paper, I am full of conviction that this time at last I
shall scale the height of my ambition, and that the child of my brain
will be born to live. Not to have a few months or years of cheap
notoriety, but to live a life of much more than that--to make some
lasting impression on the hearts of the readers, and to have a healing
touch which will comfort when those hearts are sick and sore."
"If that is your ambition I think you have gained it," said Philippa
warmly. "You do not know your own power and you underrate your work."
"Do I? I wonder. I have attained something, perhaps, but attaining is
not achieving--that is where people make the mistake. Perhaps I
attempt the impossible. It may be that I have shot at the highest and
hit mediocrity. I think that is more likely."
"I think you do not know the fame of Ian Verity," said Philippa.
"Oh, I don't thank you for personal fame. I would prefer something
less showy but of far more value. But as a matter of fact, what I
should choose had got very little to do with it."
"We all know what we should like, but we can't choose our prize."
"No," rejoined Isabella quickly, "You are quite right, we cannot
choose and we cannot all win.
"'And what reward for strivers who are losers?
A wooden spoon? Sometimes not even that.
Nor, does this seem, since men may not be choosers,
A thing to wonder at;'"
she quoted, smiling. "The wooden spoon is mine, and I suppose I ought
to cultivate a decent gratitude for favour received."
"What nonsense!" said Philippa, laughing. "You are not a loser. You
have won a great deal more than you know. Some day you will learn how
deep an affection your readers have for you, and your heart will be
warmed by the knowledge of the happiness you have given to thousands."
Isabella smiled. "Well, well; we shall see," she said serenely.
"You will be dragged from your retirement when that day comes,"
continued Philippa. "You will not be able to hide your light any
longer, and I shall be dazzled by the splendour of it."
"Not a bit of it. Here I am, and here I shall stay. I take comfort in
the fact that no one connects Ian Verity with an elderly and
unattractive spinster hidden in a hermitage on Bessmoor. You will not
betray me, I know, and it is good of you to come and visit me in my
solitude. I am growing old and you have all your life before you. I
have crossed to the shady side of the road while you walk still in the
sunshine. I have thought of you often since we met."
"And I of you," answered Philippa quietly, and then after a moment's
pause she added, "You do not ask me what I have been doing."
"That does not mean that I do not care to know," replied Isabella
gently. She was sitting looking out on the moor, leaning back in her
chair with her hands folded in her lap. Something in the rigidity of
her attitude told Philippa that she was listening intently.
"I have been helping to nurse Francis Heathcote."