CHAPTER XV
REVELATION
"God called the nearest angels
Who dwell with Him above.
The tenderest one was Pity,
The dearest one was Love."—WHITTIER.
As Philippa entered Francis' room on the evening of the same day, she stopped on the threshold with a little cry of surprise. He was standing in front of the hearth waiting for her.
"Oh," she said, as she moved quickly forward, "take care."
He gave a low laugh of content. "I thought I should surprise you, my dearest; but I have been an invalid too long."
He put his arm through hers and leaned a little on it, more for the pleasure of her nearness than for support.
"It is good to stand again. You need not be alarmed, I have old Rob's permission, and am guilty of no rashness."
"You really feel stronger?" asked Philippa eagerly. "It is splendid to see you walk, but you must be careful."
"Oh, I will be careful enough," he replied lightly. "And you, my sweet? Have you had a nice day? I was sorry to see the rain. Come and sit down and tell me all about it; but first—your violets." He walked to the table as he spoke and handed her the flowers which lay there. "A late gift to-day; but that was not my fault, was it?" he asked fondly. "You look all the better for your rest. You have the old pretty colour in your cheeks and your eyes are shining like stars. You must get out more. It is not right that because I am a prisoner you should share my sentence; but I am selfish, I cannot spare you for long."
"I spent the day on Bessmoor," she told him. "It was lovely up there. The clouds were beautiful—dark masses like mountains, and patches of brilliant blue sky behind them. The ling is coming into bloom, and you cannot imagine anything so vivid as it appears where the sunlight catches it, and all the world seemed so fresh and clean after the rain."
"I can picture it. The fragrance and freshness of the moor. You did not get wet, I hope?"
"No, I was under shelter. It was a heavy shower, but it didn't last long."
"Were you alone?" he asked. He was sitting close beside her on the sofa, with his arm thrown along the back of it behind her head.
"No—I was with a friend," she replied.
"Who was it?" he asked lightly. "Shall I be jealous that a friend was with you when I wasn't?"
"I was with Isabella Vernon." As soon as the words were spoken a sudden fear seized her, but it was too late to recall them.
"Dear old Isabella!" he said. "How was she? It seems ages since I have seen her." But he did not wait for an answer to his question, but continued, "You would be safe with her. Isabella was always a good friend. Do you know, I have a piece of news for you? Rob said to-day that unless I had another set-back I might go down-stairs in a day or two."
"That is good news indeed," said Philippa warmly. "And soon you will be able to go out and see all the beauty of Bessmoor for yourself. We will have the pony-carriage and I will drive you—as soon as ever he thinks you are fit for it."
"I suppose he wouldn't let me get on a horse?" he said, rather wistfully.
"Not for a while, I am afraid. I know it is difficult to be patient, but driving will be almost as good, won't it?"
"Dearest, of course it will be better than anything so long as you are with me. Believe me I am not impatient. I want nothing in the world but you—I didn't mean that. What do I care if I never see a horse again? Do you know, my darling, I wouldn't really mind if I never got quite strong so long as we were together, but I can't bear it for you. You are so good, so dear, but I know you must feel tied to the side of an invalid. You who ought to have nothing but the sunshine of life, and who should never know a hint of shadow if I could spare it you."
"I have told you that you must not think of me," replied the girl. "Now, if you will lie down I will get my work. I have been very idle to-day."
He allowed her to place the cushions and establish him in comfort, and then she fetched her embroidery frame from the corner where it stood and seated herself in a low chair beside him.
"Phil," he said suddenly, "you are changed."
"In what way?" she asked quietly.
"You are different to my memory of you—before the shadows—a little different to what you were. Your face has changed too. You were always beautiful, but now your face has gained in beauty, although I should have said that would be impossible. You were so—oh, I don't know how to describe it—so illusive, like a streak of fairy gold flitting through life, but now you are so steadfast and so dear—such a strength to me in my weakness. So thoughtful and so tender to me when I have been thrown a helpless log upon your hands."
"You make too much of the little I can do for you," she said lightly.
"Where did you learn to be such a good nurse?" he asked with a smile.
"I don't know. I am afraid I cannot boast of much previous experience! Perhaps you thought a woman could not rise to an occasion, but I think they generally can."
"I have found that you can," he said tenderly. "But you were always perfect." He spoke the words with a simplicity which robbed them of all extravagance.
"Don't say that," she replied jestingly. "No one is perfect, and I least of all. If you expect perfection in this world you will be disappointed when you find the flaw."
"I shall love it when I find it, if I ever do."
She made no reply, and for a while he lay in silence watching her busy fingers manipulating the gleaming gold thread with which she was working. Presently he spoke again.
"Phil, my darling," he said rather hesitatingly, "do you mind if I ask you—but don't you like your ring? I notice you do not wear it—and if you dislike it I will give you another. You shall have just what you fancy."
"Oh," cried Philippa, "you are making a mistake; indeed I do not dislike it. It is careless of me—to have forgotten it; you must forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive," he said earnestly. "Only I should like you to wear something of mine besides that little trumpery brooch. You are faithful to that and I love you for it. I thought perhaps you had lost the ring and didn't like to tell me."
"I have not lost it."
"Will you fetch it, darling?"
"Of course I will fetch it," she said, rising as she spoke. "I will bring it to you, and you will see that it is quite safe."
She hurried along the corridor with a sensation that was almost fear quickening her pulses—and yet what she feared she did not know. As she had told Isabella, she would not hesitate to answer whatever question he might ask. It seemed that the moment was drawing very near in which she would be called upon to keep her word.
She unlocked the dispatch-box and drew the ring from its resting-place, and with it in her hand ran back to his room. Francis had risen from the sofa. She was conscious of a wish that he had remained where he was, she was not yet used to seeing him standing up, and it placed her somehow at a disadvantage.
"Here it is," she said. "Quite safe, as I told you."
He took it from her, retaining possession of her hand, and drawing her nearer to him at the same time. "Let me put it on."
She stood quietly while he placed it on her engagement finger, and would then have moved, but he did not release her.
Suddenly he threw his arm round her. "Phil," he said passionately, "my darling! You do not know how I love you, my dear, my dear! I don't want to frighten you—I try to be patient—but if you knew how I crave for a word from you! You are all that is sweet and dear and good, but oh, how I long to hear you tell me, just once, that you love me! My darling, if you have even a little love for me, I will teach you love's fullness." He bent his head to hers and rested his face for a moment on the dark softness of her hair. Then he held her from him, and looked eagerly into her eyes. "Do you love me, sweetheart?" he whispered.
Somewhere in the back of her mind Philippa had always known that this was the question he would some day ask. She had never framed it in words, but she was prepared with her answer. She had resolved that when the time came she would lie—lie—boldly; and without hesitation. Was it not part of the rôle she was playing?
The words were easy. Just "I love you." But as her lips framed them a sudden flood of intense feeling rushed upon her, bringing an instant realisation that it was all a mistake, a delusion. It was no lie; it was the truth. What had wrought this strange miracle she did not know—she only knew that a blinding flash of revelation had plunged her into a sea of ecstasy which left no room for thought, no room for wonder. A vivid blush suffused her face from throat to temples—she shook from head to feet.
He drew her closer—closer—until their lips met in a long kiss. Then—she was in the shelter of his arm—her burning face hidden on his breast.