Part 5 (1/2)

”My father was James Harford. He died a few years ago. I did not know there was another Philippa.”

”James Harford!” echoed the woman. ”That would be Mr. Jim.”

Philippa rose to her feet, and walking over to the dressing-table returned with a photograph in her hand.

”This was my father,” she said. ”It is an old photograph.”

Mrs. Goodman looked at it.

”Yes. Mr. Jim, we used to call him.”

”You knew my father?”

”Aye, I knew him well. He was often here in the old days--they were boys together. He was two years older than Mr. Francis. Miss Philippa was his sister.”

”My aunt?”

”Yes, she would be your aunt. And Mr. Francis loved her, and they were to be married--and then came the accident----” Mrs. Goodman stopped suddenly. ”I can't bear to speak of it----”

”Try to tell me,” urged Philippa. ”Don't you see that I must know? I have never heard of my aunt. I never knew that my father had a sister.”

”He had one sister. They often stayed here together. She was some years younger than he was, and he loved her dearly--until it happened.”

”Until what happened?”

”The accident, and Mr. Francis' illness.”

”Who is Mr. Francis?”

Mrs. Goodman dried her eyes and made a great effort at self-control.

”I will try and tell you the story from the beginning,” she said. ”Mr.

Francis is the Major's uncle. He is the son of Lady Louisa Heathcote, my dear mistress, who was second wife to Richard Heathcote, the old squire. He--the old squire--was twice married, and his first wife was mother to William Heathcote, the Major's father. She was married to him about ten years, and then she died, and five or six years after he married Lady Louisa, my lady. Mr. Francis was her son, born in 1862.

He was seventeen years younger than his half-brother, Mr. William, who was a soldier, and never lived much at home after his school-days. A splendid boy he was, Mr. Francis, and a splendid man--until he was six-and-twenty.

”I can see him now, as he started that morning. It was in June. I can see him now as clearly as I saw him then, riding out of the stable yard. I was watching him from my window. His horse was rearing and plunging, but he never minded that, for he was a beautiful rider. Miss Philippa, she was walking beside him, leading her great dog--a huge brute it was, very wild, and difficult to hold, and I think Mr. Francis must have known his horse was shy of it, for I heard him call to her!

'If you're coming down to the jumps, darling, don't bring the dog.

This animal is quite excited enough already.' I heard her answer him: 'Oh, that's all right!' Quite carelessly she spoke--and then they pa.s.sed out of sight. The last time I saw him ride.” The old woman's voice faltered and broke. ”Half-an-hour later they carried him in--that awful day!”

”What had happened?” asked Philippa gently, as the speaker paused.

”It was all through the dog. Mr. Francis had taken his horse once round the jumps--he always schooled his horses down there in the lower meadow--and then he came round the second time. He pa.s.sed close to where Miss Philippa was standing, and her dog was so wild at the horse galloping past that it broke away from her, and tore like a mad thing after him. It overtook him just as he reached a jump. Some of the stablemen were watching from the top of the field, but they couldn't see exactly what happened. Some said the dog leaped right up at the horse, others that it merely frightened it and caused it to swerve, but in a moment they were on the ground, with Mr. Francis lying half under the horse.

”Before the men could reach the place the animal was up, but in its struggles it had kicked him terribly about the head. His body was not hurt. Dr. Gale soon came, and his father, the old doctor, too, and they sent for great men from London, but they all thought that he must die. My poor lady! I shall never forget her awful anxiety. He was just all the world to her, was Mr. Francis. Night after night she and I would sit outside his room, holding each other's hands like two children afraid of the dark. He had splendid nurses, I will say that, but they wouldn't have us in his room. I said it was cruel, but my lady said No. She said it was not a time to consider any one but him and what was good for him. She was a wonderfully brave lady, and wise.”

”And Philippa?” asked the girl.

Mrs. Goodman hesitated, and into her face there crept the same dark look of hostility which it had worn on the previous evening. At last she answered coldly--

”Miss Philippa did not like illness.”