Part 23 (2/2)
”Don't ask me.”
Philip turns away and wipes his brow. Erminie's true heart bleeds for him as she thinks of the perfect sympathy and confidence reigning between herself and Nelson.
”Your cloud may lift in time,” she says, somewhat lamely seeking to console him.
”It may deepen,” he answers lugubriously.
”Supposing you were able to persuade Eleanor to go home for a visit; it would be pleasant at Copthorne now the spring has come. Her parents are good, honest people, the country life a healthy one. It might strengthen her in body and mind, awaking memories of youth and innocence, your courts.h.i.+p, her marriage! There is no tonic for a diseased mind like fresh air and green fields. She said she longed to see the dear old farm again only yesterday. It would put her beyond the reach of Giddy Mounteagle, and you might run up and down several times in the week.”
”I will suggest it,” says Philip.
The idea delights Mrs. Roche beyond measure when later on her husband mentions it. She has frequently met Carol Quinton of late, and the ardour of his pa.s.sion and her own overpowering love have frightened her at last.
The thought of escaping to the country to seek forgetfulness and avoid temptation appeals to her.
She puts her arms softly and half timidly round Philip's neck, resting her cheek against his, as she has not done for weeks.
He s.n.a.t.c.hes her to his heart with a cry, smothering her face in kisses.
”Eleanor, can't we be better friends?” he whispers.
The tears course down her cheeks, the guilty love she is trying to crush rises before her--jeering, taunting.
”I will try, Philip,” she falters. ”Only let me go home for a while, and see the old scenes, the familiar faces.”
He still holds her to him, his pulses thrilling at her softened tone, as he answers, ”Yes.”
”I am really going back to the farm, Giddy,” she says the following day, ”to vegetate, and grow young again among the primroses and violets. The lawn will be yellow with crocus flowers, and I can almost smell the hyacinths. I promised them faithfully I would return when the birds began to sing!”
”You must give me your address,” says Giddy. ”I should like to write.”
Eleanor looks at her shrewdly.
She has never quite forgotten the ”Lady MacDonald” or ”the party”
episode. It is the recollection of this that makes her state, with a certain pride, the pleasure she feels in visiting her people.
”I will give it you on one condition,” she replies.
”And that?”
”Promise me faithfully on _no_ account to pa.s.s it on to Carol Quinton.”
”Why not?”
”Because I have gone too far, Giddy. I want to get away from his influence. You know he dogs my footsteps, tracks, and haunts me. I dare not trust myself. I am going away for a course of discipline, simple living, and country pursuits. I know, if you promise, I can trust you.”
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