He rose to his feet, and coming to her, laid a kindly hand upon her shoulder. "You are sure of this?" he asked. "You are sure you are not carried away by your sense of pity?"

"I am certain."

"He is old enough to be your father--and he will never be strong."

"That makes no difference."

"He thinks you are----"

"That also makes no difference. I love him and I shall make him happy.

He need never know."

"It will not be easy."

"I do not mind. Doctor, do you remember the words you used yourself not so many weeks ago? You said he ought to have 'just a little happiness for all the years he has missed.' Well, he is going to have it."

"What will Mrs. Heathcote say?"

"I don't know. I have written to tell her that I am engaged to be married to Francis. I think she will be surprised."

He shook his head doubtfully. "You know what Francis is to me--but I cannot see this clearly. Above all I desire his happiness, but I can't quite see that this is the right way to get it."

"Don't be afraid," said Philippa. "Time will show you that I am right.

Anyway, you will give me your promise not to interfere."

"I do not see that I can interfere," he said slowly. "You have taken the matter into your own hands."

"Promise me," she repeated.

"It may be for his happiness; but what about yours?"

"I am going to be happy too," she a.s.sured him. "Indeed I did not know that life could hold so much happiness, or so great a joy as I have now. Tell me," she added more lightly, "how long do you think we ought to keep the nurse?"

"There is no need for her now," he said in his usual professional manner. "Keen can look after him, with you and Mrs. Goodman to do the cosseting. I will get rid of her at the end of the week."

"He will be able to come down-stairs soon, and then I shall drive him out in the pony-carriage."

"It won't hurt him," he agreed, "provided he is carried down the stairs. If I could only tell how much he remembers!"

"That is what we cannot tell. Perhaps it is better to hope that he will never remember."

The doctor nodded. "I shall not be coming so often now. I have one or two other cases which require a good deal of attention, and you can send for me if it is necessary. Meanwhile I will look in every few days. He is less likely to think of his illness if I am not here to remind him of it. Have you heard when the Major is coming home?"

"No. In Marion's last letter she said that d.i.c.kie would be able to travel in a fortnight or so, but that he was ordered to the sea. So I don't know whether they will come home or not. She said that this coast was rather too bracing for him--at least she thought so."

"I expect you will hear something in the next day or two," said he rather grimly.

Philippa laughed. "Yes," she agreed, "I expect I shall."

CHAPTER XVII

ISABELLA'S POINT OF VIEW

"All things Of dearest value, hang on slender strings."--WALLER.

"So, my dear, it has come." These were Isabella's words of greeting.

For a moment Philippa hesitated; then she raised her eyes and met the other's look fearlessly.

"Yes," she said simply. "How did you know?"

Isabella took her arm and they walked on together.

"How did I know?" she repeated. "It is written on your face. I was waiting for it, you see."

"You were waiting for it?" repeated the girl wonderingly.

"Yes. I knew it must come. If for no other reason than that pity is akin to love; but more than that, I knew that if there was anything left in the older man of the Francis I used to know--any of his great charm and sweetness of character--you could not, being what you are, fail to love him."

"I did not know--indeed I did not know."

"No, I am certain of that. It is curious, isn't it"--Isabella spoke musingly--"how a little spark of love may fall, all unknown to ourselves, deep down in our heart, and smoulder there without smoke, until some sudden gust of emotion--sorrow--pleasure--anger--G.o.d knows what--fans it into a blaze that we cannot extinguish--into flames so high that they reach from earth to heaven and light the whole world for us? Yes, and not only the whole world, but all that unmapped country within us of which we know so little and in which we are so apt to lose ourselves."

"He asked me," said the girl. "I had known in a vague way that the question must come--and I think you knew it too, for that was what you meant the other day, wasn't it? And I was quite prepared. I meant to answer him. I meant to stick at nothing, to satisfy him whatever he asked--and I was going to lie. And as I spoke the words I knew that they were true, I knew that I loved him, Isabella. No, nothing to do with pity, although you may be right when you say that pity had something to do with it in the beginning--but love, such as I did not know was possible to me."

"And now," asked the older woman, gently, "are you glad or sorry?"

"Sorry!" she cried. "Sorry! How could I be sorry? I am glad."

"You welcome love?"

"I welcome it. It is so wonderful--so beautiful----"

"Love brings suffering."

"I am not afraid of suffering--for myself--only for him. If suffering comes, it can never take from me the joy I have known."

"The price of love is heavy."

"No matter the price, I will pay it gladly." There was no mistaking the gladness and the courage which rang in the words.

"Poor child! poor child!" said Isabella softly.

"Do not pity me. There is no need for pity," she said earnestly.