Part 11 (2/2)

CHAPTER X

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 att.i.tude which Englishmen a.s.sume when they are giving their opinion with what may, without prejudice, be called decision. It is possible that he had taken up this att.i.tude as being the nearest approach possible under the circ.u.mstances 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 d.i.c.kie 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 ident.i.ty. 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.

”G.o.d 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.

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