Nurse Lang by Jean S. Macleod

verdict he had yet to hear.
    The two men took their lunch in Philip’s room, as if to give him added confidence, and Moira left them, knowing that she would not hear that verdict until Sir Archibald had returned to London. She might not hear the whole truth even then, she realized, and it was perhaps in that moment that she understood how much it had come to mean to her. Her days had become bounded by the hope of Philip’s ultimate recovery, hedged in by alternating confidence and doubt, and in that way she had become part of Philip’s life.
    Sir Archibald and Grant came downstairs shortly before two o’clock.
    “I’m taking Sir Archibald over to the hospital,” Grant intimated. “He would like to look round and make a few suggestions about Philip’s operation.”
    When Sir Archibald had shaken her by the hand and said that they would be meeting again quite soon, she made her way slowly up to Philip’s room, where the maid was clearing away the remains of the luncheon party. Philip did not speak until the girl had gone, closing the door behind her.
    “Well,” he said, “that’s that! I suppose they’ve gone into a professional huddle about me now?”
    “They’ve gone over to the hospital,” she said. “That’s all I know.”
    He lay for several minutes staring up at the ceiling.
    “Supposing Grant is right,” he said at last. “Supposing some miracle is still possible? If I were well again, Moira—?” His eyes held hers for an instant and then they fell away again. “But what’s the use of supposing?” he demanded angrily. “Nothing can ever come of building—castles in the air. I’d never be able to fly again.”
    “Is that the main issue?” she asked, coming to stand beside the bed. “There are—other things, you know.”
    “Such as settling down—or getting married?” he suggested derisively. “Is that what you mean, or would it be just another airy castle?”
    “No!” she exclaimed passionately, because it seemed that his cynicism might undermine much of what Grant was trying to do for him. “No, Phil, it needn’t mean that. We are all entitled to some measure of happiness in our lives.”
    He turned awkwardly groping for her hand.
    “Moira!” he said. “Moira, you’re different!” His fingers fastened about her wrist, pulling her towards him. “If all this comes right, if I can hope to live even something of a life, would you share it? I’m not asking you to take pity on me in my present state,” he added swiftly. “I’d do anything rather than ask that, because pity was never a thing I wanted, but if there is a hope in this operation of Grant’s then it might mean hope for the future, too. We could start again together, you and I.”
    His voice died in the silence and he lay waiting with his fingers still compelling on her wrist, and Moira felt as if every heartbeat must be audible to him as she cast about in her mind for some way—some unhurtful way—to answer.
    “What’s the matter?” he asked suspiciously at last. “Are you going to marry someone else?”
    “No.” The word all but choked her. “No, I’m not going to marry anyone else.”
    “And you won’t take a chance on this? You won’t give me the hope I need?”
    She strove to free herself, but he held her the more closely.
    “Moira! Moira, don’t fail me!” he begged, all the tension gone out of his face, leaving him young and vulnerable and infinitely pathetic for a moment. “I need you! I need your faith and your courage to see me through all this!”
    “I don’t know how to answer you, Phil. You can’t possibly be in love with me—”
    “Can’t I?” he demanded. “I’ve told you you’re different. You’re kind and generous and—safe, and you’re very lovely!” He tried to draw her closer. “Promise me that you won’t walk out on me.”
    “I won’t walk out, Phil,” she said.
    Surprisingly, he did not attempt to kiss her.
    “Well, that’s settled,” he said in an almost