"At last one day I went to see her grave in the churchyard, and then I knew. Have you seen it?"
"No," answered Philippa. "The doctor asked me the same question, and whether I knew what was written on it."
"Her grave is just inside the lych-gate at the top of the steps. Over it is a plain white marble cross with her name and the dates, and these are the words on the base of it—
"'I leave my best belovèd in His care,
And go because He calls me—He whose voice
I cannot disobey; praying that He
Who heard the widow's prayer in Galilee
Will hear mine now, and bring you soon to me
Where tears and pains are not; that we may stand
Before His throne together, hand in hand.'
I think that if her heart had not broken before it must have broken when she had to leave him."
"The doctor told me that she wrote the words and asked that they should be placed on her tombstone," said Philippa. "Poor soul!"
"I did not know that," returned Isabella, "but I have sometimes thought that she must have hoped that Francis would see them some day; but her hope has been vain."
"Why did you not go straight to Marion—to Mrs. Heathcote, I mean, and ask her?" asked Philippa. "Marion is so kind, she would have told you all she could. Or Doctor Gale? Did you not know him? Why could you not have asked him?"
"I hardly know why I did not do so, but I know that it was impossible to me. It is not as if I had ever—as if I had any right—I was a stranger. It is true that I knew Robert Gale in the old days, but look at the years that have passed. He would probably not have remembered me, and how could I have explained? It would have been like tearing my inmost heart out and laying it on the table for him to dissect as he chose. My story was my own—I have hugged it very close—until you came. And yet I think I always knew that some day, through no effort of mine, the veil would be lifted. I was certain of it, and in that certainty I could wait with some degree of patience until the moment came. Sometimes I must confess I have wondered whether it would be in this world or the next—and I didn't want it in some other sphere, but here in the old world, among the scenes and sights he loved. I have waited for some message. Will it ever come, I wonder! Shall I ever see his face again? For a moment I thought it had come when I met you—in all outward seeming, the Phil I used to know. I knew she was dead—I saw it in the papers; and then to meet you! Honestly, my senses reeled.
"Then of course it became clear that you were of another generation. I think I did not realise how far I had left my youth behind until I knew you. And still you did not mention him—and God knows I wanted to question—but I saw that if I wanted all the truth I must wait a little longer. I saw you were not one of those who blurt out all their affairs to a passing stranger—that first I must win your trust and, if I could, your affection."