CHAPTER XXII
FRIENDSHIP
"Where are they now—the friends I loved so well?
My outstretched hands clutch only empty air!
I call on those who loved me—Like a knell
The silence echoes to my question—Where?"
Isabella was sitting in her favourite place, a writing-board on her knees, a pen in her hand. On a low table beside her lay a pile of manuscript and several books, but the sheet of paper in front of her was blank. She had intended to work, but for once her mind refused to centre itself upon the task in hand. It was not often that she allowed her thoughts to tempt her to idleness, for experience had taught her that they were apt to lead far away from the straight grey road of the Actual into the shadowy realms of Might-Have-Been, and along paths paved with pain and bordered with regret.
But to-day as she sat there old memories crowded so thickly upon her that she could not drive them back, old scenes appeared before her mental vision blotting out the well-loved and familiar view of heath and sky and sea. There seemed to be no particular reason why the past should call to her so insistently to-day; there was, so far as she knew, nothing to account for it, nothing had happened to remind her particularly of the girlhood which lay so far behind her, and of bygone days when the hours had been all too short for the joy they had contained.
Since the day when Philippa had unfolded her plans for the future, Isabella had relinquished all hope of seeing Francis again, and had quietly schooled herself to accept the fact that in his life there was no place for her. His health had been restored, as by a miracle, and he remembered her existence, but that was all.
None but herself knew how greatly she had longed and hoped for the day when his clouded mind would once more awake to the recollection of her and of their friendship. How many times had she promised herself that when the moment came he would turn to his old comrade in his loneliness and grasp her strong hand for help and comfort! But the time had come and gone, and he had not wanted her; there was nothing she could do for him.
She had faced the bitter truth with all the courage she could muster, and forced herself into calmness and acquiescence. For her the memory of the past remained. In her inmost heart she had long ago erected a shrine—a shrine where Memory was enthroned—a boyish, virile figure with all the hope and joy of his young manhood on his beautiful, eager face.
She laid down her pen after a while, and with it all pretence of any other occupation than that of listening as "the muffled tramp of years came stealing up the slope of time." She sat quite motionless, with her head bent forward and her hands folded in her lap. It was an attitude characteristic of her, and she had at all times a curious power of stillness.
So engrossed was she, so intent upon hearing Voices which spoke for her ear alone, that an unwonted stir at the cottage door failed to rouse her, and it was not until Mrs. Palling hurried in, with excitement and pleasure written large on her homely face, that Isabella became aware that she had been called already several times.
"Miss! miss! there's the pony-shay from the High House a-comin' along the lane. 'Twill be the young lady for a cup o' tea, for sure. It don't surprise me, that it don't, for them bees have been buzzin' for a stranger these four days or more; but I come to tell you, thinking as though you might like to go and meet her. I made a bit o' plum bread this very morning that rose as light as goosedown, and that'll just come in handy for your tea——"
Isabella had risen hastily to her feet, and was out at the little green gate before the woman had finished speaking.
The old pony was answering gamely to the encouragement which Philippa was giving him with both whip and voice, and trotted across the green at a pace which must have reminded him of his distant youth, and as she pulled up he tossed his head and shook himself as though to disguise the fact that he was blowing hard as the result of his unwonted exertions.
Philippa got quickly out of the carriage and came close to her friend. "Isabella," she said, "will you come? he wants you—now—at once."
Isabella made no answer, but she turned and fled into the cottage, where she stumbled her way up the steep stairs with a blinding light dancing before her eyes. When she reached her little room under the overhanging eaves she had, perforce, to stand still a moment and steady herself, for the floor was rocking under her feet. The message had come—at last, when all hope seemed dead—Francis wanted her.
In a moment she was calm again, and taking up a motor-cap from the bed where she had flung it earlier in the day, she crammed it on her head with her usual disregard of appearance, and dragged on the coat which lay beside it.
She ran to the door, but as she reached it she stopped. Retracing her steps to the dressing-table she scanned herself closely in the glass. An unwonted colour flushed her sallow cheeks as she straightened the cap and replaced some strands of hair which straggled under it. Poor Isabella, she was perhaps more of a woman than she knew.
But she did not linger, and in another minute she was seated beside Philippa, hastening in answer to the summons for which she had waited so long. Suddenly a thought struck her, and she asked quickly—
"He is not ill?"
"He is not ill, but I think that something is troubling him. We were in the village, and I left him for a few minutes while I went into the post-office. When I came out he asked to go straight home, and when we got to the house he asked me to fetch you. Oh, Isabella, I do not know what I fear, but he spoke so—differently—it did not seem like Francis speaking. I only hope he has not remembered—anything that will pain him. What could have changed him so quickly? He could not have met any one he knew—there was no one about—and besides, there is no one."
"Tell me just what he said."
Philippa did so, and Isabella was silent for a while, and her face was very grave. Then she said gruffly, "Well, we've just got to help him, whatever the trouble is."
They did not speak again, and when they arrived at the High House Philippa led the way quickly to Francis' sitting-room, and was about to enter when she stopped and motioned to Isabella to precede her.
He was standing just as he had stood once before, and he now came forward with just the same air of eagerness he had shown then, and Philippa's thoughts flew back to that first evening which had seen the beginning of it all for her; but his expression was different, for where joy had been so clearly visible then, intense anxiety and even fear were now written upon his face.
Isabella held out her hand. "Francis!" she said quietly. "It is good to see you again." And if she felt any surprise at his altered looks she did not betray it in her even tone.
He laid his hand in hers without speaking as his eyes scanned her face. "Isabella!" he cried "It is Isabella!" There was no doubt in the words, only something of terror.
"Isabella!" he repeated; then he passed his hand over his brows with a little pitiful gesture. "Then—Phil—is dead."
It was not a question but an assertion.
He sank down in a chair and covered his face with his hands. Isabella seated herself close to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder.
Philippa stood just inside the door which she had shut; she was leaning against it and both her hands were pressing the wood behind her, as if the solid surface were the only thing firm in a world of chaos. There was no sound in the room except the slow ticking of the clock which seemed to be tolling for the vanished years.
Suddenly Francis broke the silence.
Sitting up and lifting a white, drawn face to Isabella, "Old friend," he said brokenly, "you would not lie to me—tell me—am I mad?"
"No," she answered quickly, and almost sternly, "no, a thousand times no."
"Then what does it mean? Phil, my little Phil, is gone—is dead—I know she is dead or she would be here—and mother—seventy-three years—my mother was not seventy-three. Phil is dead——" He paused and then turned to Philippa: "Who are you?"
It was Isabella who answered him, framing her reply so that he could understand: "This is Jim's girl," she said.
"Jim's girl?" he repeated. "Old Jim! Where is he?" and as she did not speak he threw out his arms with a quick despairing movement. "Dead?—are they all dead?"
And instantly Isabella's hands closed on his in a strong close grip.
"What does it mean?" he cried again.
"It means, dear Francis, that you have been very ill for a long, long time—that years have passed without your knowing it, and that the years in passing have robbed us of our dear ones."
"How long?" he asked in a low whisper.
"Twenty-two years," she answered steadily.
"When did Phil die?"
"Nearly twenty years ago."
"Twenty years!" he echoed; "and I did not know!"
"You did not know because you had an accident which destroyed your memory."
"An accident?"
"Yes. The horse you were riding threw and injured you."
Again he looked at Philippa.
"Then," continued Isabella, speaking slowly and distinctly, "Jim's girl came to stay here, and quite by chance she came into your room, and you thought she was Phil—and gradually your memory has come back."
"And to-day—I have seen my mother's grave—and read her message. It was a message, wasn't it, Isabella?" He spoke wistfully, almost like a child.
"Yes; I think she meant it to be a message for you."
"Dear mother! I have thought that Phil was with me—I did not know; but when I read the dates—it made me remember, and I could not understand. She has gone—and Phil has gone—and I am here alone."
"No, not alone, dear Francis."
He thought for a while. "But, have I not seen Bill? Who lives here now? And Goodie?—surely Goodie is real——"
"Yes; Goodie and Robert Gale have been with you all through, but it is Bill's son who lives here, now."
And so with long pauses, that his shocked mind might grasp it, he told him the whole sad truth.
And still Philippa neither moved nor spoke. Almost as if in a trance she watched these two, who seemed to belong to a world in which she had no part—grey-haired man and grey-haired woman clasping hands across a gulf of years.
"I sent for you," he said presently, "because I knew you would not lie to me, and that if I saw you—and I was not mad—that you would be older. If all those years had passed Phil could not be still almost a child. I tried to reason it out while I was waiting for you to come. So that was why Phil never came. My little Phil! I cannot think of her as dead," he whispered brokenly, "and all our joy in being together again was nothing but a mistake—a dream. She is not here!" He repeated the words as though he could hardly grasp their meaning; then his voice changed as he cried, "Why did they not tell me the truth? Why did they let me believe that it was Phil?"
"You were not strong enough."
"Not strong enough to know the truth, but only to be deceived," he said bitterly. "And I did not know! I thought—blind fool!—that it was Phil! Oh, I was easily duped."
"Don't say that," said Isabella quickly. "I know it must seem like deception; but, Francis—don't you see—you had waited so long for Phil—you had never ceased to look for her coming—you could not understand that she was dead; and when you saw Philippa it was you who accepted her as Phil. And you were so content, so happy, that it was impossible to tell you the truth. It would have killed you."
"There are worse things than death," he answered slowly. "It would have been better to die—to go to her—than live to know that all one's joy was false, and all one's hopes a delusion. They are all gone, Isabella—Phil, mother, Jim—all gone; and only you and I are left, and we—are old, Isabella—you and I."
"Not old," she replied, with a touch of her whimsical humour, "not old; but getting on that way, Francis."
A little wintry smile flickered for an instant across his wan face. "You have not changed—your voice is just the same. Oh, how it makes me remember! We were good comrades, Isabella, you and I."
"We were, and are still," she answered huskily, "and shall be to the end."
He nodded. "To the end."
Hand in hand they sat as the daylight faded in the quiet room, seemingly oblivious of the presence of the watcher, who stood immovable, as if turned to stone, beside the door. Now and again Francis would ask a question and Isabella would answer, but for the most part they were silent. Words were of no avail to help him—they could not reconstruct his shattered world or bring back those he had loved and lost. And it was too soon for her to urge him to take courage, or to tell him that perhaps his happiness of the last few weeks might prove to have been something more than a dream.
When at last she rose to leave him he said slowly, "I cannot understand it yet—I must have time—but it comforts me to know that while so much is lost, you are still here, and you are still the same."
She fought back the tears that were blinding her. "I am always the same—remember that—and I am here when you want me. Good-night, dear Francis."
"Good-night, dear friend."