She drew one hand--the other was still tightly clasped in his--across her eyes as if to brush away a veil of unreality which seemed to hang over everything, and looked again. But no, there was no mistaking it--the dark hair drawn loosely back from the brow--her hair--her face as she saw it daily in her mirror--even her dress; a touch of pale yellow lightly indicated the folds of soft lace--the bunch of violets; and there, in black letters of unmistakable clearness on the gilding of the frame, the one word "Philippa."
On the table in front of the portrait was a bowl of violets--nothing else--just as might stand the offering at some shrine.
Beyond this one great mystery the room itself was devoid of anything out of the ordinary. The walls were panelled in white with touches of a pale grey colour; there were a few pictures, not many. The two windows were hung with a bright chintz of a somewhat old-fashioned design which matched the coverings of chairs and sofa, but the curtains were not drawn and the blinds were up.
From where she sat Philippa could see the moonlight flooding the sleeping park-land, and in the distance a clump of elm-trees outlined clear and lacy in the silver light.
Before one of the windows stood a large table littered with papers, a tumbler of water holding some brushes, and a drawing-board. By the fireplace was a comfortable chair, and on the floor beside it, as if dropped by a sudden careless movement of the reader, a book face downwards; and with the curious involuntary attention to detail to which we are liable in moments of strain, she noticed, almost with annoyance, that some of the pages were turned back and creased by the fall.
The room told of nothing beyond an everyday homelike peace; there was nothing to help her elucidate the mystery.
And all the while the man at her feet was pouring out a stream of rapid, fervent words. "And still you did not come! Ah, love! the long, long shadows--purple shadows--mysterious, unfathomable. No sun, no warmth, excepting when I saw you in my dreams--distant, illusive. No brightness, only darkness, until you came. But I knew you would come. Dearest, love makes no mistake, does it? Such love as mine that calling--calling--must draw you to me at the last. My beautiful Phil! my dreams of you never equalled the dear nearness of you. The night is past--the shadows are swept away, for the dawn has come--the dawn that was so long in coming, for it could only break to the music of your footfall. Phil, why do you look at me like that?" he queried suddenly. "Is it possible that I have frightened you? God knows I did not mean to. Or was it yesterday, sweetheart, did I hurt you? Truly, dear one, I did not mean to. I said that you were cold--I did not blame you--I did not think of blaming you; but my love for you is so great, so overwhelming, that it is hard to be patient. I hunger so for the touch of your lips. Forgive me, sweet, forgive me. See! now I will be calm."