"No, I was under shelter. It was a heavy shower, but it didn't last long."

"Were you alone?" he asked. He was sitting close beside her on the sofa, with his arm thrown along the back of it behind her head.

"No--I was with a friend," she replied.

"Who was it?" he asked lightly. "Shall I be jealous that a friend was with you when I wasn't?"

"I was with Isabella Vernon." As soon as the words were spoken a sudden fear seized her, but it was too late to recall them.

"Dear old Isabella!" he said. "How was she? It seems ages since I have seen her." But he did not wait for an answer to his question, but continued, "You would be safe with her. Isabella was always a good friend. Do you know, I have a piece of news for you? Rob said to-day that unless I had another set-back I might go down-stairs in a day or two."

"That is good news indeed," said Philippa warmly. "And soon you will be able to go out and see all the beauty of Bessmoor for yourself. We will have the pony-carriage and I will drive you--as soon as ever he thinks you are fit for it."

"I suppose he wouldn't let me get on a horse?" he said, rather wistfully.

"Not for a while, I am afraid. I know it is difficult to be patient, but driving will be almost as good, won't it?"

"Dearest, of course it will be better than anything so long as you are with me. Believe me I am not impatient. I want nothing in the world but you--I didn't mean that. What do I care if I never see a horse again? Do you know, my darling, I wouldn't really mind if I never got quite strong so long as we were together, but I can't bear it for you.

You are so good, so dear, but I know you must feel tied to the side of an invalid. You who ought to have nothing but the sunshine of life, and who should never know a hint of shadow if I could spare it you."

"I have told you that you must not think of me," replied the girl.

"Now, if you will lie down I will get my work. I have been very idle to-day."

He allowed her to place the cushions and establish him in comfort, and then she fetched her embroidery frame from the corner where it stood and seated herself in a low chair beside him.

"Phil," he said suddenly, "you are changed."

"In what way?" she asked quietly.

"You are different to my memory of you--before the shadows--a little different to what you were. Your face has changed too. You were always beautiful, but now your face has gained in beauty, although I should have said that would be impossible. You were so--oh, I don't know how to describe it--so illusive, like a streak of fairy gold flitting through life, but now you are so steadfast and so dear--such a strength to me in my weakness. So thoughtful and so tender to me when I have been thrown a helpless log upon your hands."

"You make too much of the little I can do for you," she said lightly.

"Where did you learn to be such a good nurse?" he asked with a smile.

"I don't know. I am afraid I cannot boast of much previous experience!

Perhaps you thought a woman could not rise to an occasion, but I think they generally can."

"I have found that you can," he said tenderly. "But you were always perfect." He spoke the words with a simplicity which robbed them of all extravagance.

"Don't say that," she replied jestingly. "No one is perfect, and I least of all. If you expect perfection in this world you will be disappointed when you find the flaw."

"I shall love it when I find it, if I ever do."

She made no reply, and for a while he lay in silence watching her busy fingers manipulating the gleaming gold thread with which she was working. Presently he spoke again.

"Phil, my darling," he said rather hesitatingly, "do you mind if I ask you--but don't you like your ring? I notice you do not wear it--and if you dislike it I will give you another. You shall have just what you fancy."

"Oh," cried Philippa, "you are making a mistake; indeed I do not dislike it. It is careless of me--to have forgotten it; you must forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," he said earnestly. "Only I should like you to wear something of mine besides that little trumpery brooch. You are faithful to that and I love you for it. I thought perhaps you had lost the ring and didn't like to tell me."

"I have not lost it."

"Will you fetch it, darling?"

"Of course I will fetch it," she said, rising as she spoke. "I will bring it to you, and you will see that it is quite safe."

She hurried along the corridor with a sensation that was almost fear quickening her pulses--and yet what she feared she did not know. As she had told Isabella, she would not hesitate to answer whatever question he might ask. It seemed that the moment was drawing very near in which she would be called upon to keep her word.

She unlocked the dispatch-box and drew the ring from its resting-place, and with it in her hand ran back to his room. Francis had risen from the sofa. She was conscious of a wish that he had remained where he was, she was not yet used to seeing him standing up, and it placed her somehow at a disadvantage.

"Here it is," she said. "Quite safe, as I told you."

He took it from her, retaining possession of her hand, and drawing her nearer to him at the same time. "Let me put it on."

She stood quietly while he placed it on her engagement finger, and would then have moved, but he did not release her.

Suddenly he threw his arm round her. "Phil," he said pa.s.sionately, "my darling! You do not know how I love you, my dear, my dear! I don't want to frighten you--I try to be patient--but if you knew how I crave for a word from you! You are all that is sweet and dear and good, but oh, how I long to hear you tell me, just once, that you love me! My darling, if you have even a little love for me, I will teach you love's fullness." He bent his head to hers and rested his face for a moment on the dark softness of her hair. Then he held her from him, and looked eagerly into her eyes. "Do you love me, sweetheart?" he whispered.

Somewhere in the back of her mind Philippa had always known that this was the question he would some day ask. She had never framed it in words, but she was prepared with her answer. She had resolved that when the time came she would lie--lie--boldly; and without hesitation.

Was it not part of the role she was playing?

The words were easy. Just "I love you." But as her lips framed them a sudden flood of intense feeling rushed upon her, bringing an instant realisation that it was all a mistake, a delusion. It was no lie; it was the truth. What had wrought this strange miracle she did not know--she only knew that a blinding flash of revelation had plunged her into a sea of ecstasy which left no room for thought, no room for wonder. A vivid blush suffused her face from throat to temples--she shook from head to feet.

He drew her closer--closer--until their lips met in a long kiss.

Then--she was in the shelter of his arm--her burning face hidden on his breast.

CHAPTER XVI

HOPES FOR THE FUTURE

"Deeds condemned by prudence, have sometimes gone well."--MATTHEW ARNOLD.

"Ten years!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mrs. Goodman. "Ten years since he crossed the threshold, and then it was only to be carried to the Rose Room while his own rooms were repapered. Oh, that my old eyes should see him walk again!"

The old woman was anxiously watching a little procession which moved slowly along the wide corridor. Francis, with the doctor and Philippa, one on either side, was making his first venture in the way of exercise. Behind him hovered the nurse, and Keen, his devoted man-servant, ready to render immediate a.s.sistance should it be necessary.

It was in the same place many, many years before that he had essayed the first halting steps of babyhood, and she well remembered it. She recalled the exact spot where his mother had stood with her arms outstretched, her face alight with pride and affection, breathlessly intent upon every movement of the tiny swaying form setting out on its first journey. Such a short journey, with every obstacle removed that might hinder the safe pa.s.sage of those unsteady feet. How many mothers have yearned to make as free from peril that longer journey along the road of life which awaits their little one!

Old Jane Goodman could see again the pretty child with the sunlight streaming from the mullioned windows on to his sunny curls--she could hear the baby laughter and the cry of triumph which meant the arrival into the safe refuge of his mother's arms. There was no detail of the occurrence that faithful heart could not recall. Time had no power to dull the recollection which love's alchemy kept clear and bright. Was he not still her boy--her lamb--for all her fourscore years and all the sorrow they had both known between that day and this? And the old walls which had rung to the sound of Francis' baby merriment echoed to his laughter again now. He was in the highest spirits, making a jest of everything, and scorning the idea of any need for caution.

Robert Gale called him to order at last, and threatened instant return if he would not be quiet.