Some of this Arthur told me briefly; much more I have heard since.
Then, to his concern, he learnt that I had hurt my knee: and he said how foolish he had been to let the dog-cart go home first, instead of driving straight to the Pass. And I said—"Oh no,—I am so glad you did!" For how could I wish anything to be different? How could I mind waiting?
Then he said something, speaking a little brokenly, about having almost made up his mind to leave England for ever. He had thought of it for months. And he had been to Glynde again for a night,—he hardly knew why. He had seen Mrs. Hepburn and Gladys. And something—something Gladys said or did not say,—something in her look of reproach, when she spoke of me,—had made him resolve to try once more.
And in a husky altered voice, he asked—
"Constance, is it true?—Have I been under a great mistake? Could you be mine now,—after all?"
I have no idea what I said in answer. It matters little what words one uses at such a moment, or whether one uses any words at all. He understood me, and I understood him. It was such wonderful unexpected happiness. All clouds seemed to have been suddenly swept away from my whole horizon, leaving only sunshine and a blue sky.
But I think my first impulse was to look up,—to feel that this joy was indeed my Father's gift to me, and to Arthur.
Life was so changed to both of us, in that one short hour. Changed, and yet the same. For the same Presence is with us still, the same Will directing us, the same Love surrounding us, the same Light beckoning us onward.
Only now we hope to live a life of service to Christ together,—not apart. And that means earthly as well as Heavenly sunshine.
When we reached home, we found that Sir Keith and Thyrza were engaged, to the great satisfaction of everybody. Thyrza appeared to have quite recovered from her severe climb. And I wrote at once a few lines of comfort to Miss Millington, telling her of my new happiness, and of the Help which might be hers, if only she herself were willing.