"I AM GOING TO SPEAK OUT," SAID PHILIP.
When Philip made his appearance that evening behind the scenes, the
First Old Woman smiled significantly at him, and once, when her cue to
go on the stage was given, she cried to him, of malice aforethought:
"O, dear me! I'm wanted on the stage! Hold my baby, Mr. Rowe, till I
come off again."
And before he had time to utter a word one way or another, baby was in
his arms, and the mother darted away, laughing to herself.
Philip was not ashamed of his burden; he nursed the baby tenderly, but
somewhat gingerly, it must be confessed--fearful, perhaps, lest he
should break the little thing, or dislocate something. Margaret, who
was on the stage at the time, looked at him furtively as he was
kissing the mite, and her mind was in such a whirl, that for the first
time during her engagement she forgot the words she had to speak.
Observing which the First Old Woman made matters worse by whispering
sly nonsense in Margaret's ear. Little did the unconscious baby
suspect the important part she was playing in the sentimental comedy.
Later on in the night, Philip said to Margaret:
"I am going to speak out."
This was the very thing she was pining for, and now that her wish was
about to be gratified, she exclaimed:
"If you dare, sir!" saucily, mischievously, coquettishly.
Then what did Margaret do but lead him into a more retired spot,
where, if he did speak out, no one but herself could hear him.
"If you dare, sir!" she repeated, with a smile which magnetised him.
There was but little need for that; he was bewitched already.
"Call me Philip," he entreated.
"Philip," she sighed.
It was like the whisper of a rose.
He was radiant; the joy in his heart was reflected in his face. He
toyed with her fingers. Slender they were, and supple, and not strong.
But never were chains more potent.
"Well, Philip?" said Margaret shyly.
"Well, Margaret?"
He could find at that moment nothing more sensible to say. He was
engaged watching the light of her eyes, and the colour come and go on
her cheek.
"What is that in your hand?" said she.
"A letter."
"Ah, that's what you brought me here for! A letter! For me! Give it to
me!" She held out her little hand eagerly.
He withheld the letter from her.
"It is not for you."
"O, indeed!"
She tore her fingers from his grasp, for he had taken them and was
kissing them.
"But you may read it," he said ruefully.
She nestled to him, and gave him her hand again, and looked
remorseful. When she pleaded mutely for forgiveness, with her pretty
face upturned to his, and with her soft red lips within an inch of
his, what would you have done, had you been in his place? He did what
you would have done--and did it again--and again--and----
"No, sir," she cried, putting her hand upon her lips. "No, Philip, I
mean. You shall not--you must not! Some one will be coming this
way----"
There was nothing for it, as her lips were covered, but to kiss her
neck; and he did so, until she lay in his arms panting.
"You frighten me," she sighed; "and if you are not still, I'll run
away."
And she meant it. Dramatic lovers she had had by the score, in silk
and fustian. She had been made love to a hundred times upon the stage,
but those were sham engagements, and her gentle breast was not
fluttered by them, nor was her sweet nature spoilt by them. This sort
of thing was quite different.
"And I've a great mind to be angry with you," she said, not moving
from his embrace.
"Why?"
"You have brought me no flowers."
He looked disconsolate. "If I had known you wanted them!"
"If you had known, sir! You must guess things. You must look into my
face, if you think it will not frighten you, and you must say,
Margaret wants this; Margaret wants that----' No, no, Philip I did not
say I wanted _that!_"
"But you told me I must look into your face, and guess things, and I
did!"
"Then I'll take back all that I have said, for men are such foolish
creatures." She gave him the tenderest smile, to strengthen the words.
"And indeed, and indeed, I've a good mind to be angry with you."
"Be angry with me after you have read my letter."
"How can I read it when you will not let me go?"
Certainly his arms were round her, but she did not make the least
effort to get away from them.
"_Shall_ I let you go?"
"If you like."
"I don't like."
He pressed her closer to him.
"Tell me, first, how you got my flowers last night."
"Why, you puss, I have told you twice already."
"I forget it, I want to hear it again."
These small deceptions are permissible between lovers, when they are
used to such felicitous purpose. He told her again, and her bosom
panted, and her heart beat, and a proud and tender light shone in her
eyes as he described the mad gallop he had taken; how her face was
ever before him, urging him on; how he had won the flowers; the way
the woman had said, "O, if it's for that!" then the ride back, singing
as he rode----
"Singing!" she exclaimed, interrupting him. "O, you didn't tell me
that last night. I knew you had left something out."
"I did sing, and the trees heard me."
"What song was it, sir?"
"Philip!"
"Philip, then. What song did you sing?"
"No song at all--yes, the sweetest song! A song with only one word to
it."
"With only one word to it! Dear me I know some, and I don't know
that--and the sweetest song, you say."
"The sweetest, the dearest, the best word in the world."
"What word was it?"
"Margaret--Margaret--Margaret!"
"O Philip! And everybody heard it!"
"I left it behind me--no, I didn't; I wouldn't part with it. Part with
it! Never, while my heart beats! Yet I did lose it too, for an echo
stole it--and I heard it singing Margaret as I rode on."
They were talking together in the open; there was a light in the sky,
but the moon had not yet risen. Ten minutes afterwards he said:
"Now read my letter."
"I can't see it," placing her eyes close to it; "it's too dark."
"Not for my eyes." He bent his head to hers; their cheeks touched.
"'Dear madam,' he commenced, 'my name is Philip Rowe----'"
"What a stupid commencement!" she said, laughing.
"Is it? Wait. Perhaps it will improve farther on. 'My name is Philip
Rowe. I am twenty-six years of age, and I am an Englishman, born in
Devonshire. I have a half share in a rich claim on a rich quartz reef.
I love your daughter----'"
"O, O," she cried, trembling from happiness. "It's to my mother. And
you're from Devonshire. Mother has friends in Devonshire. One in
particular, that she has often talked of. I've never been there. Go
on, Philip. 'I love your daughter.' Do you, do you, Philip?"
"Do I, my darling?" he said passionately. "Listen to my heart. What
does it beat but Margaret, Margaret? I came here to find my life, and
I have found her. I love you with all my soul. I never knew what a
beautiful thing life was until I saw your dear face."
This was heaven to her to hear. Presently, "Go on, Philip,
I love your daughter.'"
"'And she loves me.'"
"O, Philip, who told you? What are you doing, sir?"
"I am listening to your heart, My darling."
"And what does it say! As if it could speak! What does it say, sir?"
"I think I hear it. I think it beats for me."
So inexpressibly tender was his tone, that her arms crept round his
neck, and she sighed, "It does, Philip; it does!"
It was the proudest, happiest moment in his life. A blissful silence
encompassed them.
"I haven't much more to read," he said, and added cunningly, "Where
did I leave off?"
"You know, Philip."
"No, but tell me."
"'And she loves me,'" she whispered.
"My darling! 'I love your daughter, and she loves me. I cannot make a
lady of her, for she is that already, thanks to you.' Isn't that
good?" he asked, breaking off.
"Yes. Go on; go on. I want to hear the end."
"'I will do all in my power to make her happy; and I write with her
permission, to ask you to allow me to subscribe myself, in every
letter that follows this, your affectionate son, Philip Rowe.' There!"
"And how can you see to read such a bold letter, sir? My eyes are as
good as yours, and there's no light."
"I did not read with my eyes, dear Margaret."
"With what then, Philip? You are full of riddles."
"With my heart, my darling."