"Come with us," Marian urged in a low voice. "That would make our visit here complete."
The man made no response, yet she could see no signs of weakening. The color left his face and it was now more ashen than before. The lips were tightly compressed as if he feared to trust them, and his hands clenched the walking-stick he held in front of him with a grip of iron. He mastered himself at last, and the pathetic smile which wrung Marian's heart whenever she saw it returned to his face. It was too clearly the reflection of a wound which pride alone concealed from sight.
"You are too generous," he said at length, feeling the necessity of making some response,—"far too generous; but it is like you, Marian. Huntington is generous too, but you both are mistaken in your kindness. There are some exotic growths which can't be transplanted; I am one of those."
He paused for a moment; then he continued: "I must ask one more favor before you go—come to me to-morrow afternoon and let us have a final celebration in honor of our reunion. Come to my villa, all of you, and in the midst of the family I have created—my flowers, my trees—let me dedicate my home anew to the dear friends who have brought life back to me, even though they too will soon join the memories amongst which I must continue to live. Give me this last experience to remain with me after you are gone."
"Of course we will, Philip,—we would love to come," Marian replied, affected by his words and the depth of emotion which his voice expressed. "It will be the one remembrance we would most rejoice to take back with us if we can't take you. For these days, Philip," she added in a voice so low that he alone could hear,—"these days have not been vital ones for you alone, dear friend. Our meeting has brought back much to me which I shall always cherish, and beyond all I wish I might be the means of giving you back that happiness you lost through me."
"No, no! You mustn't say that, Marian!"
"Oh, but I feel the burden of it, Philip! You give me no chance to make restitution. If you would only come—"
A tremor ran through his frame but he quickly controlled himself. "No, Marian," he said firmly; "you must come to me!"
While the little group were conversing together the bathers had left the pool, and now one by one appeared from the bath-houses, radiant from their invigorating exercise, and looking for new worlds to conquer. Cosden was first, and he seated himself on the bench beside Edith.
"Am I forgiven?" he asked in a low tone, but with a smile which expressed confidence in the answer.