And Jeanne, looking from Philip's face, saw Gregson, for the first time, as he passed through the door.
XXIV
Both Philip and Jeanne were silent for some moments after Gregson had gone; their only movement was the gentle stroking of Philip's hand over the girl's soft hair. Their hearts were full, too full for speech. And yet he knew that upon his strength depended everything now. The revelations of Gregson, which virtually ended the fight against him personally, were but trivial in his thoughts compared with the ordeal which was ahead of Jeanne. Both Pierre and her father were dead, and, with the exception of Jeanne, no one but he knew of the secret that had died with them. He could feel against him the throbbing of the storm that was passing in the girl's heart, and in answer to it he said nothing in words, but held her to him with a gentleness that lifted her face, quiet and beautiful, so that her eyes looked steadily and questioningly into his own.
"You love me," she said, simply, and yet with a calmness that sent a curious thrill through him.
"Beyond all else in the world," he replied.
She still looked at him, without speaking, as though through his eyes she was searching to the bottom of his soul.
"And you know," she whispered, after a moment.
He drew her so close she could not move, and crushed his face down against her own.
"Jeanne—Jeanne—everything is as it should be," he said. "I am glad that you were found out in the snows. I am glad that the woman in the picture was your mother. I would have nothing different than it is, for if things were different you would not be the Jeanne that I know, and I would not love you so. You have suffered, sweetheart. And I, too, have had my share of sorrow. God has brought us together, and all is right in the end. Jeanne—my sweet Jeanne—"