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 identity. 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.
"God 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.
The doctor stepped forward. "Miss Harford," he said abruptly, "you have heard Major Heathcote's side of the question; you already know the other. As I told you before, we are in your hands. What are you going to do?" Strive as he would he could not keep the note of anxiety out of his voice.
Philippa's next words were a surprise to both men, but the doctor was the first to understand her intention, and his face brightened visibly.