Her hand ceased its movement and lay softly on his hair. His hand came
up and found her other hand. For a long time neither spoke. Then
suddenly she said, "What is it?" for she had felt the tiniest movement
of the head her hand rested on, a movement that told her he had been
about to speak and had then thought, "Not now, not yet."
So she said, "What is it?" because she had a secret, and she feared that
he knew it.
Then he did speak. He said: "I have something to tell you; I hope you
will forgive me. I must tell you now. Ah! let your hand lie there while
I tell you. Princess, I have deceived you. If I did not think you would
forgive me, I don't think I could tell you, even now."
"I could forgive you anything," she said, so low that he hardly knew he
heard it.
"It is this," he said. "That marriage of ours--that mock marriage--ah,
try to forgive me for deceiving you! It was a real marriage, my dear; I
tricked you into a real marriage. It seemed to be the only way not to
lose you. It was a real marriage. You are my wife."
The clock ticked on in the kitchen, the fire crackled on the hearth,
far on the down a sheep-bell tinkled and was still. He sat there,
immobile, rigid, like a statue of a man, his heart beating a desperate
tune of hope and fear. Could she forgive him? Dared he hope it? This
moment, so long foreseen, held terrors he had not foretold for it. Was
it possible that this deceit of his should come between them, even now?
He almost held his breath in a passion of suspense, and the moments fell
past slowly, slowly. He could bear it no longer. He sprang up, walked
across the room, came back, leaned on the mantelpiece so that she could
not see his face.
"Oh, Princess, oh, my dearest!" he said, brokenly, "don't say that you
can't forgive me."
She, too, had risen and stood beside him. Now she laid her hand on his
shoulder. "It's not that," she said. "I don't know how to tell you. I've
nothing to forgive--unless you have, too."
He turned to meet her eyes, and they fell before his.
"Oh, Edward," she said, with a little laugh that was half tears, "don't
look like that! My dear, I knew it all the time."
And there they were, clinging to each other like two children saved from
a shipwreck.
"You knew?" he said at last.
"Of course I knew," she said.
They drew back to let their eyes meet in that look of incredulous
gladness that lovers know when, at last, all barriers are down and true
love meets true love without veils or reservations.
"Thank God for this day," he said, reverently.
And at that a thunderous clamor at the house-door broke in on their
dream, a clatter and a clangor, a rattling of chains and a volley of
resonant reverberatory barks.
"Why, it's Charles!" he cried. "How could he know I was here?"
How, indeed? For it was indeed Charles, incredibly muddy and wet,
bounding round in the room the moment the doors were opened, knocking
over a chair, clattering the fire-irons, and coming to heavy anchor,
with all four feet muddy, on the edge of her white gown.
"I must go and chain him up in the stable," he said, when Charles had
been fed with the remains of the supper. "You won't be afraid to be left
alone in the house, Princess, dear?"
"I sha'n't be afraid now," she said, caressing Charles's bullet head.
"You see, it's all different now. How could I be afraid in my own home?"