did not understand her at once, and feared lest I had mistaken
the whole case, and only annoyed her. I went up to her. 'Oh, Phillis! I
am so sorry—I thought you would, perhaps, have cared to hear it; he
did talk so feelingly, as if he did love you so much, and somehow I
thought it would give you pleasure.'
She lifted up her head and looked at me. Such a look! Her eyes,
glittering with tears as they were, expressed an almost heavenly
happiness; her tender mouth was curved with rapture—her colour vivid
and blushing; but as if she was afraid her face expressed too much,
more than the thankfulness to me she was essaying to speak, she hid it
again almost immediately. So it was all right then, and my conjecture
was well-founded! I tried to remember something more to tell her of
what he had said, but again she stopped me.
'Don't,' she said. She still kept her face covered and hidden. In half
a minute she added, in a very low voice, 'Please, Paul, I think I would
rather not hear any more I don't mean but what I have—but what I am
very much obliged—Only—only, I think I would rather hear the rest
from himself when he comes back.'
And then she cried a little more, in quite a different way. I did not
say any more, I waited for her. By-and-by she turned towards me—not
meeting my eyes, however; and putting her hand in mine just as if we
were two children, she said,—
'We had best go back now—I don't look as if I had been crying, do I?'
'You look as if you had a bad cold,' was all the answer I made.
'Oh! but I am quite well, only cold; and a good run will warm me. Come
along, Paul.'
So we ran, hand in hand, till, just as we were on the threshold of the
house, she stopped,—
'Paul, please, we won't speak about that again.'
Part IV
*
When I went over on Easter Day I heard the chapel-gossips complimenting
cousin Holman on her daughter's blooming looks, quite forgetful of
their sinister prophecies three months before. And I looked at Phillis,
and did not wonder at their words. I had not seen her since the day
after Christmas Day. I had left the Hope Farm only a few hours after I
had told her the news which had quickened her heart into renewed life
and vigour. The remembrance of our conversation in the cow-house was
vividly in my mind as I looked at her when her bright healthy
appearance was remarked upon. As her eyes met mine our mutual
recollections flashed intelligence from one to the other. She turned
away, her colour heightening as she did so. She seemed to be shy of me
for the first few hours after our meeting, and I felt rather vexed with
her for her conscious avoidance of me after my long absence. I had
stepped a little out of my usual line in telling her what I did; not
that I had received any charge of secrecy, or given even the slightest
promise to Holdsworth that I would not repeat his words. But I had an
uneasy feeling sometimes when I thought of what I had done in the
excitement of seeing Phillis so ill and in so much trouble. I meant to
have told Holdsworth when I wrote next to him; but when I had my
half-finished letter before me I sate with my pen in my hand
hesitating. I had more scruple in revealing what I had found out or
guessed at of Phillis's secret than in repeating to her his spoken
words. I did not think I had any right to say out to him what I
believed—namely, that she loved him dearly, and had felt his absence
even to the injury of her health. Yet to explain what I had done in
telling her how he had spoken about her that last night, it would be
necessary to give my reasons, so I had settled within myself to leave
it alone. As she had told me she should like to hear all the details
and fuller particulars and more explicit declarations first from him,
so he should have the pleasure of extracting the delicious tender
secret from her maidenly lips. I would not betray my guesses, my
surmises, my all but certain knowledge of the state of her heart. I had
received two letters from him after he had
the whole case, and only annoyed her. I went up to her. 'Oh, Phillis! I
am so sorry—I thought you would, perhaps, have cared to hear it; he
did talk so feelingly, as if he did love you so much, and somehow I
thought it would give you pleasure.'
She lifted up her head and looked at me. Such a look! Her eyes,
glittering with tears as they were, expressed an almost heavenly
happiness; her tender mouth was curved with rapture—her colour vivid
and blushing; but as if she was afraid her face expressed too much,
more than the thankfulness to me she was essaying to speak, she hid it
again almost immediately. So it was all right then, and my conjecture
was well-founded! I tried to remember something more to tell her of
what he had said, but again she stopped me.
'Don't,' she said. She still kept her face covered and hidden. In half
a minute she added, in a very low voice, 'Please, Paul, I think I would
rather not hear any more I don't mean but what I have—but what I am
very much obliged—Only—only, I think I would rather hear the rest
from himself when he comes back.'
And then she cried a little more, in quite a different way. I did not
say any more, I waited for her. By-and-by she turned towards me—not
meeting my eyes, however; and putting her hand in mine just as if we
were two children, she said,—
'We had best go back now—I don't look as if I had been crying, do I?'
'You look as if you had a bad cold,' was all the answer I made.
'Oh! but I am quite well, only cold; and a good run will warm me. Come
along, Paul.'
So we ran, hand in hand, till, just as we were on the threshold of the
house, she stopped,—
'Paul, please, we won't speak about that again.'
Part IV
*
When I went over on Easter Day I heard the chapel-gossips complimenting
cousin Holman on her daughter's blooming looks, quite forgetful of
their sinister prophecies three months before. And I looked at Phillis,
and did not wonder at their words. I had not seen her since the day
after Christmas Day. I had left the Hope Farm only a few hours after I
had told her the news which had quickened her heart into renewed life
and vigour. The remembrance of our conversation in the cow-house was
vividly in my mind as I looked at her when her bright healthy
appearance was remarked upon. As her eyes met mine our mutual
recollections flashed intelligence from one to the other. She turned
away, her colour heightening as she did so. She seemed to be shy of me
for the first few hours after our meeting, and I felt rather vexed with
her for her conscious avoidance of me after my long absence. I had
stepped a little out of my usual line in telling her what I did; not
that I had received any charge of secrecy, or given even the slightest
promise to Holdsworth that I would not repeat his words. But I had an
uneasy feeling sometimes when I thought of what I had done in the
excitement of seeing Phillis so ill and in so much trouble. I meant to
have told Holdsworth when I wrote next to him; but when I had my
half-finished letter before me I sate with my pen in my hand
hesitating. I had more scruple in revealing what I had found out or
guessed at of Phillis's secret than in repeating to her his spoken
words. I did not think I had any right to say out to him what I
believed—namely, that she loved him dearly, and had felt his absence
even to the injury of her health. Yet to explain what I had done in
telling her how he had spoken about her that last night, it would be
necessary to give my reasons, so I had settled within myself to leave
it alone. As she had told me she should like to hear all the details
and fuller particulars and more explicit declarations first from him,
so he should have the pleasure of extracting the delicious tender
secret from her maidenly lips. I would not betray my guesses, my
surmises, my all but certain knowledge of the state of her heart. I had
received two letters from him after he had
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