"When hope lies dead.
Ah! when 'tis death to live
And wrongs remembered make the heart still bleed,
Better are sleep's kind lies for
Life's blind need
Than truth, if lies a little peace can give."--THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON.
As Philippa entered the hall of Bessacre High House the butler met her.
"Dr. Gale is here, miss," he said. "He wished me to say that he would be glad to speak to you when you came in."
"Certainly," she replied. "Where is the doctor?"
"In the library, miss. This way."
He conducted her to the door of the room and announced her. A man who had been seated by the writing-table rose to meet her, an elderly man with grizzled hair and beard and thick overhanging eyebrows.
"Miss Harford?" he said in a gruff, abrupt voice as he bowed.
"Yes," answered Philippa. "You wished to speak to me?"
"Please," he returned. "Won't you sit down? You must be tired, and I am afraid I must detain you for a little while."
She seated herself and waited, while the doctor stood before her, pulling fiercely at his ragged beard, and evidently at a loss for words.
When he spoke his manner was short and his tone rather harsh, but he gave her the impression of a man who was to be trusted. Rough, perhaps, but straightforward and honest, if somewhat unpolished. His first words strengthened her conclusion.
"There is no use in beating about the bush; let us come to the heart of the matter at once. What are you going to do?"
"What am I going to do?" repeated the girl in surprise. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that we are in your hands. On your decision the life of Francis Heathcote hangs. I understand from Mrs. Goodman that she has put you in possession of the facts of the case. I have just been speaking to her. I quite realise that the occurrence of to-day must have been a very trying one for you, as trying as it was unexpected. I cannot tell you what my feelings were when I saw you enter that room, for I didn't know of your existence, much less of your presence in this house; but the fact remains--Francis Heathcote has mistaken you for the woman he loved years ago, and for whose coming he has waited so long.
"Undoubtedly the realisation of his hopes has been a great shock to him, bodily, and mentally also, for the sight of you has had the effect of dispersing the cloud which has shadowed his brain for so long. He is now what may be called sane--perfectly sane--although the term is a misleading one, for he has never been insane, as we understand the word. His state has been curious. I can only describe it in the words I used just now. His mind has been shadowed--clouded by one idea, one obsession. And now, the sight of you, as he sees you, has removed the cloud; he is satisfied and sane."