She had been considering matters exceedingly earnestly all the while Miss Tibbutt had been talking to her, and she had come to one very definite conclusion. She felt perfectly certain now, that it would ease the situation considerably if Pia knew who this Michael Field really was. It had come to her in an illuminating flash, that the same reason which had caused him to hide his identity, was responsible for his odd behaviour towards Pia. Now, of course, if Pia could see some even possible reason and excuse for the oddness of his behaviour, it must be a great comfort to her. But the question was, could she—Trix—tell her? Would not the telling probably involve her in the untruth her soul loathed? Or, if she was firm not to tell lies, would it not somehow involve a breaking of her promise to Nicholas? Again she saw, or thought she saw, all the questions which must ensue if she said where she had met the man; and if she did not say where she had met him, it would probably mean saying something which, virtually speaking at least, would not be true. If only she had not met him in the grounds of Chorley Old Hall.
It was the same old problem which had presented itself to her mind twice already, and the same possible over-scrupulosity was perplexing her now. However, she must stop thinking about it for to-night. She had come to an end of these thoughts so far as she could muster them into shape, and it was not the least particle of use going over them again. Her brain would run round like a squirrel in a cage, if she did. And Tibby was not with her to open the cage door, as she had opened it for Tibby. Besides, there was the other trend now.
She settled herself back among the cushions, and gazed at the dancing flames. It was all so wonderful, so gorgeously unexpected, and yet it was one of those things which just had to be. She was so sure of that, it made the happening doubly sweet. It was exactly as if she had been walking all her life through a quiet wood, a wood where the sunshine flickered through the trees overhead just sufficiently to make her feel quite certain of the existence of the sunshine, and then suddenly she had come out into its full warmth and beauty to behold a perfect landscape. And she knew that no single other path could have led her to this place, also that there could be no other prospect as beautiful for her.
“When did you first know?” she had asked him. The question millions of women have asked in their time, and that will be asked by millions more.
“I think,” he had answered smiling, “it was the very first moment you came into the room, looking like a woodland elf in your green frock. Anyhow I am quite certain it was when you were—shall we say a trifle snubbed in the moonlight.”
“Ah, poor Pia,” said Trix.
And then they had told each other countless little trivial things, things of no earthly importance to any one but their two selves, things rendered sweet, not so much by the words, as by the tone in which they were spoken. It had been the old, old story, the story which began in all its first beauty in the Garden of Eden, before the devil had entered therein with his wiles, a story which even now ofttimes holds much of that age-old wonderful beauty. And the stuffy, fusty railway carriage had not in the least diminished the joy of the telling.
Trix smiled to herself, a soft little radiant smile.
To-morrow she must tell Pia. She gave a little sigh. It would seem almost cruel to let her know of their happiness.
For Trix’s own happiness to be without flaw, it was invariably necessary that others should be in practically the same state of bliss.