Part 2 (1/2)

”You can strike the last items off your list,” rejoined Philippa decidedly; ”I certainly don't want them. I just want to be allowed to do nothing in particular except see a great deal of your lovely country in the quietest and laziest way possible, please. These little villages fascinate me--all cl.u.s.tering round a church which looks far too big and important for the number of cottages. Why have you so many churches about here? I counted eight on my way from the station.”

”Ah!” was the reply, ”times have changed in these parts since the days when the priors and monks raised these churches, and since the countryside was thickly populated. Silk and wool were staple industries here then. Many and various causes have brought about the change. First they say that the Black Death raged more violently here than in any other part of England, and second---- Excuse me!” Major Heathcote broke off suddenly as the butler handed him a telegram. ”How did this come at this hour?”

”Miss Brooks sent it up, sir; Bailey's boy brought it on a bicycle--she thought----” The man's voice trailed away into silence at the look on his master's face.

Major Heathcote's eyes were fixed on the pink slip in his hand, and Philippa, who was watching him, saw his face darken suddenly and his rather square jaw shoot forward as a strong man's will in the face of danger.

Then he rose quickly and walked round to his wife.

”Old girl!” he said, ”I am afraid the boy isn't very fit--Jack wires that he seems seedy, and that they have got a man over from York.

Don't be anxious, it's probably nothing much--but I think I'll run up and see.”

”d.i.c.kie! Oh, Bill!” faltered Marion. ”What does he say? Let me see.”

”That's all. Just 'd.i.c.kie doesn't seem well, have wired for Stevens from York,'” he repeated. His hand was tightly clenched on the crumpled ball of paper. ”Wait a moment, darling. Let me think a minute----”

”Yes! Ford! The car round at once, please,”--he gave the order sharply,--”and bring me a Bradshaw. I think I can get to Eastminster in time to catch the 9.15, which should get to Carton Junction in time for the North Express. Now, dearest,”--he turned to his wife again,--”you must try not to be too anxious. I will----”

Marion had regained her composure, and rising she laid her hand on his arm. ”All right, Bill,” she interrupted quickly. ”I'm coming--you are quite right--we must hope for the best. How long can you give me?”

”Ten minutes.”

”Very well. I won't keep you waiting.” She was half across the room as she spoke.

”Is there anything I can do?” asked Philippa. It hardly seemed the moment to offer anything but the most practical form of sympathy to the man who stood motionless just as his wife had left him, with his eyes fixed upon the chair she had quitted. Her question recalled him to himself with a start, but he did not reply.

”I am afraid there was more in the telegram than you told Marion,” she said gently.

”Yes,” he answered huskily. ”I won't tell her--yet. It said 'Come at once--very anxious.'” Then something between a sob and a groan burst from him, and he squared his shoulders. ”But we must----” Then he turned and went away. The sentence wasn't finished. That obvious pitiful plat.i.tude with which most of us are only too sadly familiar--that phrase which comes most naturally to our lips when our hearts are torn and bleeding with anxiety and the very earth seems to rock beneath our feet. Often when we are tortured with enforced inaction and we do nothing--can do nothing--but hope for the best. So easy to say, but oh, how difficult to do!

Ten minutes later Philippa was standing at the front door where the car was waiting. She heard Marion's voice giving some hurried instructions to her maid and turned to meet her. ”You are warm enough?” she asked.

”Will you have a fur coat? Take mine.”

”No, no,” said Marion; ”I have everything, thank you, dear.” Then she lifted her face to Philippa and the two friends clung together for a moment in loving sympathy. Then she released herself. ”Where is Bill?” she asked.

”I am here,” he answered from close behind her. ”Are you ready?

That's right.”

”And you, Philippa!” said Marion suddenly, ”Forgive me! I--forgot.

What will you do?”

”I shall be perfectly all right,” said Philippa. ”The only thing you can do for me is not to think about me at all.”

She stooped to tuck the rug more closely as she spoke. Major Heathcote was already seated at the wheel. ”I will telegraph,” he said.

”Please do,” replied Philippa, and in another moment the car was speeding down the drive, a dark shadow behind the radius of light thrown by its powerful lamps which shone a streak of gold upon the moonlit gravel.