My hands in his, Selwyn looked long at me, then again drew me to him,
again raised my face to his. "A thousand times I've asked. A
thousand times could give myself no answer. Why did you wire me to
come back, Danny?"
"You were staying too long."
He smiled. "No; it was not that. There was something else. What
was it?"
"I wanted to see you."
He shook his head. "What was it? Why did you send for me?"
"To--tell you I would marry you whenever you wish me to--"
His face whitened and the grip of his hands hurt. Presently he spoke
again. "But there was something else. You had other reasons.
Surely between us there is to be complete and perfect understanding.
What is it, Danny?"
I drew away and motioned him to sit beside me on the sofa. In the
firelit room faint fragrance of the flowers with which he kept it
filled crept to us, and around it we both glanced as if its spirit
were not intangible; and at unspoken thought his hands again held
mine.
"You sent for me--" He leaned toward me.
"Because I heard--an unbelievable thing. David Guard tells me--you
have sold--your house. I can think of nothing else. Tell me it is
not true, Selwyn! Surely it is not true!"
"It is true."
With a little cry my fingers interlaced with his and words died on my
lips. As quietly as if no fight had been fought, no sleepless nights
endured, no surrender made at cost of pride beyond computing, he
answered me, but in his face was that which made me turn my face
away, and in silence I clung to him. The room grew still, so still
we could hear each other's breathing, quick and unsteady, then again
I looked up at him.
"But why, Selwyn? Why did you sell your house?"
"You would not be happy in it. You do not care for it. I am ready
now to live--wherever you wish."
"But I am ready, too, to live--where you wish. Don't you see it does
not matter where one lives? What matters is one must be very
sure--one cannot live apart, and that one's spirit must have chance.
Why did you not tell me, Selwyn? Why did you do this without letting
me know?"
"You would have told me not to do it; would not have consented.
There was no other way to be sure that I was willing--to do my part.
I know now there is something to be done, know I must no longer live
behind high walls."
"But the house will be needed when the walls come down! It is not
where one lives, but how, that counts. You must not sell your house."
"But I have sold it--" Something of the old impatience was in his
voice, then the frown faded. "There was no other way--to be sure.
Were the walls down-- I did not think, perhaps, that walls could be
anywhere. It is too late now. The house was sold while I was away.
The papers will be signed next week."
Again the room grew still and I made effort to think quickly,
definitely. I was not willing that Selwyn should make such sacrifice
for me. I would let the sunshine into his house and love it when its
cold aloofness became friendly warmth, and together we could learn in
it what life would teach. The house must not be sold, but how
prevent? I bent my head down to the violets on my breast, drew in
deep breath. Suddenly a thought came to me. I looked up.
"When a man sells a piece of property doesn't his wife have to sign
the papers as well as himself?"
"She does." Selwyn smiled.
"And the sale couldn't be consummated unless she signed them?"
"It could not. You know the law." Again he smiled. "Not having a
wife--"
"But you will have--before those papers are ready to be signed. I am
not going to sign them. I mean-- Don't you see what I mean?"
"I'm not quite sure I do." Selwyn's voice was grave, uncertain. "Is
it that--"
"We will have to be married next week and then you can tell the party
who wants your house that your wife does not wish it to be sold. Put
the blame on me. It would be disappointing to many people if there
was not something, even about my marriage, for which they could
criticize me. You mustn't sell the house, Selwyn. That is why I
wired you to come. I was afraid it might be too late--if I waited."
Still doubting, Selwyn looked at me as if it could not be true, that
which I was saying, and again the room grew still. Then--
Presently, and after a long and understanding while, he broke its
stillness, though when he spoke it was difficult to hear him. "We
will always keep them, these rooms in Scarborough Square. We will
need them as well as the house without its walls. And I-- You must
have patience with me, Danny. Are you sure you have enough?" "I have
not quite as much as you will need for me. And yet--when there is
love enough there is enough of all things else. We have waited long
to be sure. Surely--oh, surely now--"
"We know?" He bent lower. "Yes, I think now--we know."