Part 17 (2/2)
Into Philippa's heart there crept a faint realisation of the infinite power and the infinite patience of a great love, and with it a longing, half wistful, half eager, that she too might one day know its thrall.
Francis Heathcote had loved, and his love had survived years of darkness and longing, but there had been plighted vows and lovers'
sweet delights to weld the chain of his affection; but Isabella had known none of these, and yet she had lived in Love's bondage--bound by ropes of gossamer. She was roused at last by her friend's voice.
”You will need great courage,” Isabella said thoughtfully.
”Why shall I need courage?” the girl asked simply.
When the reply came it was no answer to her question, for the older woman only repeated the doctor's words--”A little happiness for all that he has missed.”
Philippa made a little quick movement. ”Yes! That is just it. He shall have a little happiness if it is in my power to give it him. You understand, don't you, Isabella? It is really easy to make him happy--he asks so little and is so grateful for all that is done. And he is happy now--really happy, I mean. Oh, I know his happiness is founded on a mistake, but does that matter? Surely not when you think of all the years he has pa.s.sed in misery. I do want him to live long enough to have the 'little happiness,' just to blot out all that he has suffered. I am so desperately sorry for him that there is nothing I would not do to bring some joy into his life, even if it is only very short.”
Isabella nodded. ”I understand, but it will need courage. My dear, it may be easy now. He has found you again--that for the moment is sufficient; but, will his devotion content him to the end? What if he asks a question that you cannot answer?”
”I shall answer,” replied the girl with quiet firmness. ”I promise you that by no act or word of mine shall he be disappointed. I am going to carry it through, Isabella. He has had enough of sorrow.”
Once again Isabella scanned the girl's face with a quick glance, but the sweet grey eyes which met hers were full of eager friendly sympathy--and nothing more.
CHAPTER XV
REVELATION
”G.o.d called the nearest angels Who dwell with Him above.
The tenderest one was Pity, The dearest one was Love.”--WHITTIER.
As Philippa entered Francis' room on the evening of the same day, she stopped on the threshold with a little cry of surprise. He was standing in front of the hearth waiting for her.
”Oh,” she said, as she moved quickly forward, ”take care.”
He gave a low laugh of content. ”I thought I should surprise you, my dearest; but I have been an invalid too long.”
He put his arm through hers and leaned a little on it, more for the pleasure of her nearness than for support.
”It is good to stand again. You need not be alarmed, I have old Rob's permission, and am guilty of no rashness.”
”You really feel stronger?” asked Philippa eagerly. ”It is splendid to see you walk, but you must be careful.”
”Oh, I will be careful enough,” he replied lightly. ”And you, my sweet? Have you had a nice day? I was sorry to see the rain. Come and sit down and tell me all about it; but first--your violets.” He walked to the table as he spoke and handed her the flowers which lay there. ”A late gift to-day; but that was not my fault, was it?” he asked fondly. ”You look all the better for your rest. You have the old pretty colour in your cheeks and your eyes are s.h.i.+ning like stars.
You must get out more. It is not right that because I am a prisoner you should share my sentence; but I am selfish, I cannot spare you for long.”
”I spent the day on Bessmoor,” she told him. ”It was lovely up there.
The clouds were beautiful--dark ma.s.ses like mountains, and patches of brilliant blue sky behind them. The ling is coming into bloom, and you cannot imagine anything so vivid as it appears where the sunlight catches it, and all the world seemed so fresh and clean after the rain.”
”I can picture it. The fragrance and freshness of the moor. You did not get wet, I hope?”
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