We found Robert Wentworth with Mrs Tipper, and he too, I saw, very
curiously examined Philip as they were introduced to each other.
Each eyed the other curiously and critically for a moment or two, as
they uttered the first few words; and I think each was as favourably
impressed towards the other as I could desire them to be. They
were kindred spirits, and soon recognised that they were, making
acquaintance in easy, undemonstrative, manly fashion.
Robert Wentworth was like an elder brother of Philip's, and there was
just sufficient difference between their minds to give a zest to their
companionship. Philip's was a more mercurial temperament; whilst there
was a vein of satire in the other, lacking in him. Lilian thought that
Robert Wentworth had not the same poetical perception which Philip
possessed; but that did _not_ I, for whom the former had unfolded
the hidden meaning, the subtle essence of some of _the_ poet's most
delicate imagery. Of course I could not suppose Robert Wentworth to be
Philip's superior; but neither would I do him the injustice of calling
him inferior. They were different.
One thing puzzled me not a little as time went on. Whether it was that
my love for Philip made me shyer and more reticent with him, or whether
he did not look for certain things in me, I know not; but one part
of my mind, which was as an open book to Robert Wentworth, remained
undiscovered and even unsuspected by my lover. Once when Philip made
a little jest about Lilian's romance and enthusiasm, Robert Wentworth
smilingly opined that there were graver offenders in that way than
Lilian; but I knew that I was the only one to perceive his meaning.
If Philip had any suspicion that the allusion was intended for me, he
did not perceive its application. Would it have made any difference
if I had been able to let my thoughts flow into words when alone with
him? When I was his wife--when this foolish shyness, reticence, or
whatever it might be, was once overcome--I knew that he would find me
a much more attractive companion than now. But while I longed to give
more expression to my feelings, I nervously shrank from doing so. I
almost wished that he would _force_ me to shew my thoughts, as Robert
Wentworth used to take so much delight in doing.
What girl could love as I did? What love could be deeper and more
intense than mine? Yet the consciousness that I was _not_ a girl kept
me silent whilst my soul vibrated to every look and word of his. Ah
me--ah Philip! would it have been wiser to let you see? That night when
we stood together in the moonlight--when you good-naturedly jested me
about my matter-of-fact way of regarding things--would it have been
better to let you see the volcano hidden beneath the snow? Ah Philip,
when you feared I had caught a chill, and wrapped my shawl closer about
me, would it have been wiser to let you know _why_ I was trembling
beneath your touch?