“Then let me help you,” he said, with a patience which I had not deserved.
Up to that moment I had been leaning against the back of a garden chair. Something else now got between me and my chair. It stole round my waist—it held me gently—it strengthened its hold—it improved my temper—it made me fit to understand him. All done by what? Only an arm!
Philip went on:
“I want to ask your father to do me the greatest of all favors—and there is no time to lose. Every day, I expect to get a letter which may recall me to Ireland.”
My heart sank at this horrid prospect; and in some mysterious way my head must have felt it too. I mean that I found my head resting on his shoulder. He went on:
“How am I to get my opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gracedieu? I mustn’t call on him again as soon as to-morrow or next day. But I might meet him, out walking alone, if you will tell me how to do it. A note to my hotel is all I want. Don’t tremble, my sweet. If you are not present at the time, do you see any objection to my owning to your father that I love you?”
I felt his delicate consideration for me—I did indeed feel it gratefully. If he only spoke first, how well I should get on with papa afterward! The prospect before me was exquisitely encouraging. I agreed with Philip in everything; and I waited (how eagerly was only known to myself) to hear what he would say to me next. He prophesied next:
“When I have told your father that I love you, he will expect me to tell him something else. Can you guess what it is?”
If I had not been confused, perhaps I might have found the answer to this. As it was, I left him to reply to himself. He did it, in words which I shall remember as long as I live.
“Dearest Eunice, when your father has heard my confession, he will suspect that there is another confession to follow it—he will want to know if you love me. My angel, will my hopes be your hopes too, when I answer him?”