The Angel of Pain. Benson Edward Frederic

is luck, Philip?” she asked.

      “Why, this. You and me. Think of the chances against my meeting you in this big world, and think of the chances against your saying ‘Yes.’ But now – now that it has happened it couldn’t have been otherwise.”

      Some vague, nameless trouble took possession of the girl, and she shivered slightly.

      “You are cold, my darling?” he said quickly.

      She had been leaning against the stone balustrade of the terrace, but stood upright, close to him.

      “No, not in the least,” she said.

      “What is it, then?” he asked.

      “It is nothing. Only I suppose I feel it is strange that in a moment the whole future course of one’s life is changed like this.”

      He took her hands in his, and the authentic fire of love burned in his eyes.

      “Strange?” he said. “Is it not the most wonderful of miracles? I never knew anything so wonderful could happen. It makes all the rest of my life seem dim. There is just this one huge beacon of light. All the rest is in shadow.”

      She raised her face to him half imploringly.

      “Oh, Philip, is it all that to you?” she asked. “I – I am afraid.”

      “Because you have made me the happiest man alive?”

      A sudden, inevitable impulse of honesty prompted Madge to speak out.

      “No, but because I have perhaps meddled with great forces about which I know nothing. I like you immensely; I have never liked anyone so much. I esteem you and respect you. I am quite willing to lead the rest of my life with you; I want nothing different. But will that do? Is that enough? I have never loved as I believe you love me. I do not think it is possible to me. There, I have told you.”

      Philip raised her hands to his lips and kissed them.

      “Ah, my dearest, you give me all you have and are, and yet you say, ‘Is that enough?’” he whispered. “What more is possible?”

      She looked at him a moment, the trouble not yet quite gone from her face. Then she raised it to his.

      “Then take it,” she said.

      The night was very warm and windless, and for some time longer they walked up and down, or stood resting against the terrace wall looking down over the hushed woods. A nightingale, the same perhaps that had been charmed to Tom’s finger two evenings ago, poured out liquid melody, and the moon began to rise in the East. Gradually their talk veered to other subjects, and Madge mentioned that Evelyn was willing to do her portrait.

      “He will begin at once,” she said, “because it appears his impression of me isn’t a thing that will keep. He is putting off another order for it.”

      “That is dreadfully immoral,” said Philip, “but I am delighted to hear it.”

      “Oh, and another thing. He gives it us – to you and me I think he said – as a wedding present.”

      “Ah, I can’t have that,” said Philip quickly. “That is Evelyn all over. There never was such an unthinking, generous fellow. But it is quite impossible. Why, it would mean a sixth part of his year’s income.”

      “I know; I felt that.”

      Philip laughed rather perplexedly.

      “I really don’t know what is to be done with him,” he said. “Last year he gave my mother a beautiful pearl brooch. That sort of thing is so embarrassing. And if she had not accepted it, he would have been quite capable of throwing it into the Thames. Indeed he threatened to do so. And he will be equally capable of throwing his cheque into the fire.”

      “All the same, I like it enormously,” she said; “his impulse, I mean.”

      “I know, but it offends my instincts as a man of business. I might just as well refuse to charge interest on loans. However, I will see what I can do.”

      They went in again soon after this, for it was growing late, and found Lady Ellington preparing to leave the table of her very complete conquests. It had fallen to Evelyn to provide her with a no-trump hand containing four aces, and she was disposed to be gracious. The news, furthermore, that he would begin her daughter’s portrait at once was gratifying to her, and she was anxious that the sittings should begin at once. As both they and he would be in town for the next month, the matter was easily settled, and it was arranged that the thing should be put in hand immediately.

      Philip followed Evelyn to the billiard-room as soon as the women went upstairs, and found him alone there.

      “The Hermit has gone to commune with Nature,” he said. “He will die of natural causes if he doesn’t look out. He called me a Pagan this morning, Philip. Wasn’t it rude? And the fact that it is true seems to me to make it ruder.”

      Philip lit his cigarette.

      “I’m going to be rude too, old chap,” said he. “Evelyn, you really mustn’t make a present of the portrait to Madge and me. It is awfully good of you, and just like you, but I simply couldn’t accept it.”

      Evelyn shrugged his shoulders.

      “Then there will be no portrait at all,” he said shortly. “I tell you I won’t paint it as an order.”

      Philip held out his hand.

      “I appreciate it tremendously,” he said. “It is most awfully good of you. But it’s your profession. Hullo, here’s the Hermit back.”

      Tom Merivale entered at this moment.

      “Aren’t we going to sit out to-night?” he said.

      Evelyn rose.

      “Yes, let’s go out,” he said. “Well, Philip, not a line will I draw unless you take it. Or I’ll give it to Miss Ellington and not you.”

      “You really musn’t,” said Philip.

      “But don’t you see I want to paint her? I said so to you only the other day. Hang it all, I tell you that I do it for pleasure. I shall also be the vast gainer artistically. I’ve got an idea about her, in fact, and if you don’t let me paint her I shall do it from memory, in which case it will not be so good.”

      An idea struck Philip.

      “Well, paint me as well,” he said, “and let me pay you for that.”

      Evelyn followed Tom out.

      “Oh, I can’t haggle,” he said. “Yes, I’ll paint you if you like. But I will paint Miss Ellington first. In fact, you shall be painted when I’ve nothing else to do. Well, Hermit, seen Pan to-day?”

      “No, you scoffer,” said Tom.

      “Call me when you do. I should like to see him, too. Let’s see, he was a man with goat’s legs; sort of things you see in Barnum’s.”

      Tom shifted in his chair.

      “Some day, perhaps, you may think it serious,” he said.

      “I daresay; a man with goat’s legs is not to be taken lightly,” said Evelyn. “And he sits by the roadside, doesn’t he, or so Browning says, playing the pipes? What pipes, I wonder? Bagpipes, do you suppose?”

      Tom laughed; his equanimity was quite undisturbed even by chaff upon what was to him the most serious subject in the world.

      “Ah, who was frightened at a nightingale coming to sit on my finger a few nights ago? Evelyn, if you are not serious, I’ll frighten you again.”

      “Well, but is it bagpipes?” asked he.

      Tom suddenly got grave.

      “No, it sounded more like a glass flute very far off,” he said. “No explanations are forthcoming, because I haven’t got any.”

      Evelyn was silent a moment.

      “And when did you hear this glass flute very far off?” he asked.

      “Two