The Zeppelin's Passenger Part 47

"I told you how I felt about it just now," Helen reminded her. "Your going is like a great black cloud that I have seen growing larger and larger, day by day. I think that, in his way, d.i.c.k will suffer just as much as Henry. We shall all be utterly miserable."

"Why don't you try and persuade me not to go, then?" Philippa demanded.

"You sit there talking about it as though I were going on an ordinary country-house visit."

Helen raised her head, and Philippa saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

"Philippa dear," she said, "if I thought that all the tears that were ever shed, all the words that were ever dragged from one's heart, could have any real effect, I'd go on my knees to you now and implore you to give up this idea. But I think--you won't be angry with me, dear?--I think you would go just the same."

"You seem to think that I am obstinate," Philippa complained.

"You see, you are temperamental, dear," Helen reminded her. "You have a complex nature. I know very well that you need the daily love that Henry doesn't seem to have been willing to give you lately, and I couldn't stop your turning towards the sun, you know. Only--all the time there's that terrible anxiety--are you quite sure it is the sun?"

"You believe in Mr. Lessingham, don't you?" Philippa asked.

"I do indeed," Helen replied. "I am not quite sure, though, that I believe in you."

Philippa was a little startled.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "Exactly what do you mean by that, Helen?"

"I am not quite sure," Helen continued, "that when the moment has really come, and your head is upturned and your arms outstretched, and your feet have left this world in which you are now, I am not quite sure that you will find all that you seek."

"You think he doesn't love me?"

"I am not convinced," Helen replied calmly, "that you love him."

"Why, you idiot," Philippa declared feverishly, "of course I love him!

I think he is one of the sweetest, most lovable persons I ever knew, and as to his being a Swede, I shouldn't care whether he were a Fiji Islander or a Chinese."

Helen nodded sympathetically.

"I agree with you," she said, "but listen. You know that I haven't uttered a single word to dissuade you. Well, then, grant me just one thing. Before you start off this evening, tell Mr. Lessingham the truth, whatever it may be, the truth which you haven't told me. It very likely won't make any difference. Two people as nice as you and he, who are going to join their lives, generally do, I believe, find the things they seek. Still, tell him."

Philippa made no reply. Richard opened the door and lingered upon the threshold. Helen rose to her feet.

"I am coming, d.i.c.k," she called out cheerfully. "There's a gorgeous fire in the gun room, and two big easy-chairs, and we'll have just the time I have been looking forward to all day. You'll tell me things, won't you?"

She looked very sweet as she came towards him, her eyes raised to him, her face full of the one happiness. He pa.s.sed his arm around her waist.

"I'll try, dear," he said. "You won't be lonely, Philippa?"

"I'll come and disturb you when I am," she promised.

The door closed. She stood gazing down into the fire, listening to their footsteps as they crossed the hall.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

Lessingham stood for a moment by the side of the car from which he had just descended, glanced at the huge tires and the tins of petrol lashed on behind.

"Nothing more you want, chauffeur?" he asked.

"Nothing, sir," was the almost inaudible reply.

"You have the route map?"

"Yes, sir, and enough petrol for three hundred miles."

Lessingham turned away, pushed open the gate, and walked up the drive of Mainsail Haul. Decidedly it was the moment of his life. He was hard-pressed, as he knew, by others besides Griffiths. A few hours now was all the start he could reasonably expect. He was face to face with a very real and serious danger, which he could no longer ignore, and from which escape was all the time becoming more difficult. And yet all the emotionalism of this climax was centered elsewhere. It was from Philippa's lips that he would hear his real sentence; it was her answer which would fill him once more with the l.u.s.t for life, or send him on in his rush through the night for safety, callous, almost indifferent as to its result.

He walked up the drive, curiously at his ease, in a state of suspended animation, which knew no hope and feared no disappointment. Just before he reached the front door, the postern gate in the wall on his left-hand side opened, and Philippa stood there, m.u.f.fled up in her fur coat, framed in the faint and shadowy moonlight against the background of seabounded s.p.a.ce. He moved eagerly towards her.

"I heard the car," she whispered. "Come and sit down for a moment. It isn't in the least cold, and the moon is just coming up over the sea.

I came out," she went on, as he walked obediently by her side, "because the house somehow stifled me."

She led him to a seat. Below, the long waves were breaking through upon the rocks, throwing little fountains of spray into the air. The village which lay at their feet was silent and lifeless--there was, indeed, a curious absence of sound, except when the incoming waves broke upon the rocks and ground the pebbles together in their long, backward swish.

Very soon the sleeping country, now wrapped in shadows, would take form and outline in the light of the rising moon; hedges would divide the square fields, the black woods would take shape and the hills their mystic solemnity. But those few minutes were minutes of suspense.

Lessingham was to some extent conscious of their queer, allegorical significance.

"I have come," he reminded her quite steadily, "for my answer."

She showed him the small bag by her side upon the seat, and touched her cloak. She was indeed prepared for a journey.

"You see," she told him, "here I am."

His face was suddenly transformed. She was almost afraid of the effect of her words. She found herself struggling in his arms.

"Not yet," she begged. "Please remember where we are."

He released her reluctantly. A few yards away, they could hear the soft purring of the six-cylinder engine, inexorable reminder of the pa.s.sing moments. He caught her by the hand.

"Come," he whispered pa.s.sionately. "Every moment is precious."

She hesitated no longer. The open postern gate seemed to him suddenly to lead down the great thoroughfare of a new and splendid life. He was to be one of those favoured few to whom was given the divine prize. And then he stopped short, even while she walked willingly by his side. He knew so well the need for haste. The gentle murmur of that engine was inviting him all the while. Yet he knew there was one thing more which must be said.

"Philippa," he began, "you know what we are doing? We can escape, I believe. My flight is all wonderfully arranged. But there will be no coming back. It will be all over when our car pa.s.ses over the hills there. You will not regret? You care enough even for this supreme sacrifice?"

"I shall never reproach you as long as I live," she promised. "I have made up my mind to come, and I am ready."

"But it is because you care?" he pleaded anxiously.

"It is because I care, for one reason."

"In the great way?" he persisted. "In the only way?"

She hesitated. He suddenly felt her hand grow colder in his. He saw her frame s.h.i.+ver beneath its weight of furs.