I held out my arms, and a second later our lips met, and we were uttering incoherent words which none but those who know the language of the heart can interpret.

"You know now, don't you?" she said at length.

"Yes, I know," I said.

And yet it was all a wonder to me. When last I had spoken to her an invisible barrier stood between us. I had admired her beauty, her keen intelligence; I thought, too, that I saw wondrous possibilities in her nature; but I did not love her. Something, I knew not what, forbade that love. I had told her so, told her that I did not love her, that I only loved the woman she ought to be. Now it seemed as though a magician's hand had swept away the barrier; that some divine power had illumined her life and filled it with a new and divine element. I saw her enn.o.bled, glorified; the old repellent look had gone; those eyes which had flashed with scorn were now filled with infinite tenderness. Why was it? And what had wrought the change?

Presently she lifted her head, and I saw a look of fear come into her eyes.

"You said you didn't love me; is that true?"

"You know," I replied.

"But tell me, tell me!"

"I can't," I replied; "words only mock me; they would only suggest the faintest shadow of what fills my life. The barriers are gone! What has wrought the change?"

"Are you sure you are strong enough to hear? Oh, it is wrong of me to speak to you like this, and you so weak!"

"Your every word is giving me new life," was my reply; "tell me everything."

"And you are sure, sure--that--that----"

"That I see in you the woman G.o.d meant you to be," was my reply. "But what has wrought the change?"

"I can hardly find words to tell you, it seems so unreal, so--so beyond the power of words to express. But--but years ago I could not love; I longed to love and could not; something held me back, what, I didn't know. I tried to break down that something. I--I was called a flirt, you know," and she laughed nervously.

"Yes, yes, I remember," I said.

"I did it as an experiment. I fancied that somehow if I won the love of some one, the cas.e.m.e.nt around my heart would break, would melt away; but it was no use. And all the time I knew that I was missing the joy of life. Then you came. Yes, you were right; I thought I saw in you one who might break the hard crust around my heart, and I tried to fascinate you, tried to--to--do what you said. You remember?"

"Yes, I remember."

"But you were right. If you had loved me then, I had nothing to give you. At the centre of my heart there was a burning fire; but that fire was confined; I didn't love you; I wanted to, longed to, but I could not. And yet all the time I knew that if ever love came to me it would be for you, only you."

She ceased speaking for a few seconds, and I heard her tremulous breathing.

"Do you understand? Do you forgive me?" she asked.

"Yes, I understand; go on, tell me."

"Then came that day, before--before--the awful night. You know when you told me that you believed you were going to die, and you hinted that that very night you were going on an enterprise which meant danger, possibly death, I think I went mad; I have no remembrance of anything except the feeling that I must watch you, save you! So all that evening I waited around your hut unseen. I saw you at your little wireless station; I saw you send Simpson away; I saw you go down through the copse towards the beach. I followed you, watching all the time. Even then I didn't know my secret; I acted as though I had no will of my own, as though I were driven by some power I could not understand. I didn't know your plans, but I felt that I must be silent and watch. Then when that man leapt on you something seemed to break within me, something was liberated, I didn't know what; but I knew that I loved you, I knew that the power of love had come to me, and that I was ready to die to save you. Without thought or comprehension of what I was doing, I flung myself upon the woman, and--and...."

"Oh, my love, my love!" I murmured. "Thank G.o.d for all His goodness!"

For some time we were silent.

"Tell me all the rest," I said presently.

"That's all, isn't it?"

There was a great deal more, but I cared nothing about it. At that moment it seemed to me that all I had tried to do and hoped to do for my country was swallowed up in the one great possession, the one great fact which overwhelmed everything.

"Am I doing wrong in telling you this?" she asked. "It seems as though there is nothing else in life now but that, because it has meant everything else--faith, religion, G.o.d. It has made the world new, it has broken down all barriers and glorified all life. Oh, my love, my love, do you understand?"

"I understand," I replied, "I understand."

And then the truth which had contained everything, the truth which was the centre and circ.u.mference of all that came to me during the time I thought I was dead, flooded my heart and brain.

"Life and love are everything, for these mean G.o.d."

I did not ask her the result of my struggle with Liddicoat, or the outcome of the plans I had made. I wanted to ask her, and yet I did not; somehow that did not seem to matter.

I heard the birds singing in the trees around the house; heard the lowing of the cattle in the meadows; saw the sunlight streaming through the window; breathed the sweetness of the morning air.

I had indeed entered the light and life of a new day; the world was flooded with a glory that was infinite; barriers were broken down because I had learnt the secret of life!

For some time we were silent; again there seemed nothing to say, because everything was too wonderful for words.

"During the time your life hung on a thread, and when the doctors doubted whether you could live, even then I had no fear," she went on presently. "That which had come to me was so wonderful that it seemed to make everything possible, and--I cannot put it into words--but while I was almost mad with anxiety, in spite of a kind of certainty which possessed me, I knew that all was well, I knew that somehow--somehow we should be brought together and that life's secret would be ours."

A knock came to the door and the nurse entered.

"How is the patient, Miss Lethbridge?" she asked.

"I feel wonderful," I replied; "far stronger than I was when you were here last, nurse."

"Yes, you are all right," said the nurse smilingly. "Miss Lethbridge came directly you fell asleep, and insisted on my going to bed. I am sure it was awfully good of her to relieve me."

"She has proved a good subst.i.tute, nurse," I replied; "but you must insist upon her going to bed now if she has been watching all the night."

"Yes, and you look as though you need washing and your hair brushed,"

laughed the nurse. "You must not get on too fast, you know."

"I shall be quite well enough to receive visitors soon," was my reply.

"Visitors!" laughed the nurse; "you will be inundated with them as soon as you are strong enough. A man has come all the way from London to see you; he wants to interview you for one of the London newspapers. You see, having succeeded in exposing that German plot, and causing the arrest of a lot of dangerous people, you have been the talk of the country."

"I was successful, then?" I said.

"Successful! Oh, of course you don't know; but you will hear all about it later, as soon as you are stronger."

"How long is it since it happened?" I asked curiously.

"I have been here just five weeks," replied the nurse.