"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."
"What do you mean?"
"She stayed a few days." Again the woman hesitated. Then her anger mastered her and she spoke scornfully and with intense bitterness.
"She stayed a few days and then she left the house--said she could not do any good by staying. And Mr. Francis lying between life and death!"
She covered her face with her wrinkled hands and began to weep again, and it was some moments before she could proceed. When she did so, it was in a low, hurried tone, as though she wanted to get to the end of her story, as if the mere mention of the dreadful days which followed was more than she could bear.
"The time pa.s.sed, and doctors came and went, and at last he recovered consciousness, but he wasn"t the same. The first word he spoke was her name. After that he asked for her unceasingly. I remember a doctor coming--a very great man he was--and he said to my lady, "I am hopeful, decidedly hopeful, but your son must be kept quiet, and perfectly contented. Where is this young lady he asks for? she must come immediately. If he is not kept quiet I will not answer for the consequences."
"After he had gone, my lady turned to me. "We will telegraph at once,"
she said, "Surely she will come."
"Well she came, and she went to his room. He had been calling her just before, and when she came he did not know her. He was very ill that day, and he was wandering, and when he saw her he talked some childish nonsense about his boyhood.
"She didn"t say a word as she came out, but that evening my lady spoke to her, and told her that she must have patience, that he would be better soon; but she only said, "He is terribly disfigured." Those were her very words. Not a word for the pity of it, or of comfort for his poor mother.
"The next morning his mind was clearer, and again he asked for her.
She went to him, but she wouldn"t go in without my lady went with her.
He was lying quite still, but after a minute he opened his eyes and said, "Phil, darling! where have you been? There is a nest in the holly-bush. I"ll show it you after breakfast." Of course it was just rambling talk, but the doctors said that the fact of his knowing her was a hopeful sign.
"She never spoke to him, or answered him as one must answer sick folk when they have fancies. She went away again the next day. My lady tried to reason with her--she thought she was frightened; but it was no use, she wouldn"t listen.
"Then, after a few more days, my lady wrote. I saw the letter. It was pitiful, just a cry from her breaking heart imploring her to come back, saying that without her Mr. Francis would never get well. She wrote back saying that she would come when he was right in his mind. She just seemed determined not to understand that his mind never could get clear while he was fretting for her night and day. That is two-and-twenty years ago last June, and he has waited for her coming ever since."
"But I cannot understand it," said Philippa. "I cannot understand any woman not coming to the man she loved, however crazed he was. He wanted her!"
"Ah, that was just it!" answered Mrs. Goodman sadly. "I knew it all along, but my lady would not believe it until she was forced to do so.
She never loved him; and it was proved at last, for about six months later she wrote to my lady and said she considered herself free--that of course it was dreadfully sad, but that she could not spend her life engaged to a hopeless invalid. Just a month after that she was married."
"Married!" echoed Philippa.
"She ran away with some man her family didn"t approve of. She never had a heart, hadn"t Miss Philippa."
"Then why did she become engaged to Francis Heathcote--if she did not care about him?"
"Well, you see, he was rich and very handsome, and there were plenty of young ladies who would have been glad to marry him. He was madly in love with her!"
"Where was my father in those days? Do you know?"
"He was abroad somewhere. My lady wrote to him, beseeching him to try and get Miss Philippa to come back. That was soon after the accident.
He came to England, but he couldn"t do any good. I did hear he quarrelled with his sister over it, and wouldn"t see her or speak to her again. He was so fond of Mr. Francis.
"It is an old story now." The old woman sighed deeply. "I little thought to speak of it again. My lady never named her, and I hated her too much to wish to speak of her. She condemned my boy to years of prison--aye, and worse than prison. Of course I hated her. Even when I heard that she had died a few years after her marriage the hatred didn"t die. I couldn"t help it. You can"t help your feelings. But I never spoke of her. If you can"t say good of the dead you had best say nothing. When I saw you last night I really thought it was her. G.o.d forgive me! I think there was murder in my old heart! But now--you have come--and he will be content."
CHAPTER V