Part 26 (1/2)

At the bottom of the large sheet of notepaper was a postscript--”I am longing to know whether you are coming to us for the winter. We should simply love to have you. Do answer, dearest, because I want to make all sorts of arrangements and cannot settle anything until I know.”

Philippa searched her address-book until she found what she wanted, and wrote out a telegram and gave it to the butler for dispatch. Then she returned to the writing-table and took up her pen, but she did not commence to write.

It was clearly high time that her mother should be told of her engagement, and of the fact that she was shortly going to be married; it was unkind to leave her in ignorance, and yet Philippa could not bring herself to write the news. It was so difficult to explain, and she knew the volley of questions which would descend upon her. It was even possible that Lady Lawson would come flying to England in order to a.s.sist at the ceremony, which was the last thing her daughter desired.

All she wished for was that she and Francis might be married as quietly and as privately as possible--she intended to settle the details with Marion and her husband when they came--and then slip away to the Magical Island. Once there she could take hold of life with her two hands and mould it to her will.

She gave a little sigh as she thought of it, for now that she had awaked from her dreams into a world of realities she saw the future in a different light; but she was quite determined, she was going to wrest happiness--her own happiness and that of the man she loved--from the hands of fate. She was going straight forward. Never again would she allow herself a backward glance, lest the recollection of the glamour she had known weakened her with vain longings for what had been a dream. It had been a dream. She knew that now, but in the future she might find herself dreaming it again and know it true; for dreams do sometimes come true.

She gave up the attempt at last--it was impossible to write fully to her mother to-day. She would keep her precious secret a little longer.

To tell it to Lady Lawson was to blazon it out to the world at large, and that was more than she could bear.

She joined Francis after a while and found him looking better than on the previous evening. He declared himself perfectly well, and suggested that they should go for their drive as soon as possible.

”I am afraid it is still raining,” she answered, going to the window; ”but I can see a patch of blue sky, and the clouds are lifting a little. We shall have to wait until after luncheon.”

”It rained very heavily in the night,” said Francis.

”Did it disturb you? I hope not. Old Goodie told me you had had a good night.”

”So I did, dearest, but I heard the rain nevertheless. I am afraid I was rather dull and stupid last evening. I am sorry.”

”You were not dull and stupid, but I think you were tired.”

He nodded. ”My head felt rather tired. I found it difficult to collect my thoughts, and it worried me rather. Darling,” he continued, coming closer to her, ”forgive me if I am a nuisance sometimes, but--my memory is all wrong still--it must be, for so much seems strange to me.

It seems as if there were blanks I cannot account for. But you are the same; and you will never change, will you?”

And Philippa answered him with all her heart: ”I love you and I shall never change.”

He put his arm round her and kissed her fondly. ”That satisfies me--I want no more than that; and I will try and follow your advice and give up thinking.”

”I wish you could. It would be better for you. And now let us settle down to a quiet morning, so that you will be quite rested and ready to go out if it is fine this afternoon.”

”If the queen commands,” he answered, with a little jesting smile.

”The order shall be reversed this morning. You shall listen while I take a turn at reading.”

A timely breeze sprang up about noon, and the sun, after wasting some time in playing an aggravating game of hide-and-seek behind the s.h.i.+fting ma.s.ses of grey cloud, decided to come boldly out, to the great joy of the small birds who hopped on the lawn where the water hung like diamonds on every blade of gra.s.s. The sparrows chirruped with satisfaction as they pecked about for their midday meal, and the stout thrushes tugged at succulent worms which had poked their misguided heads through the soft damp earth regardless of probable and dire consequences.

In the swaying branches of the tree-tops the rooks used strong language--or it sounded like it--as they balanced themselves with clumsy ease and strove to straighten their ruffled plumage under circ.u.mstances which made toilet operations far from easy. The rabbits in the park popped their heads out of their holes and sniffed the air in an inquiring manner, as much as to say, ”Is it safe to venture out?”

and then, coming to the conclusion that it was, had a short quick scamper to stretch themselves after their slumbers.

The air was moist and fragrant as Philippa and Francis walked out of the front door to find the pony-carriage waiting for them.

”It is going to be a lovely afternoon,” he said. ”I want to drive in that direction to-day,”--he indicated it with his hand. ”We haven't been there yet, and I know it leads to the village.”

”Oh, do let us go up on the moor,” said Philippa quickly.

”I want particularly to go to the village,” he said in a low voice.

”Do let us go there, darling. I want to see if I remember it.”