the porch. The couch had been wheeled to its accustomed place in the
rose-garden, and Allan was supposed to be lying on it as he often did in
the evenings. But it was hard to make him stay there.
"Oh, you _must_ lie down," said Phyllis hurriedly, trying to move out of
the circle of his arms. "You mustn't stand till we find how much is
enough.... I'm going to send for the wolfhound next week. You won't mind
him now, will you?"
"Did you ever want to be here in my arms, Phyllis?"
"Of course not!" said Phyllis, as a modest young person should.
"But--but----"
"Well, my wife?"
"I've often wondered just where I'd reach to," said Phyllis in a
rush.... "Allan, _please_ don't stand any longer!"
"I'll lie down if you'll sit on the couch by me."
"Very well," said Phyllis; and sat obediently in the curve of his arm
when he had settled himself in the old position, the one that looked so
much more natural for him.
"Mine, every bit of you!" he said exultantly. "Heaven bless that
tramp!... And to think we were talking about annulments!... Do you
remember that first night, dear, after mother died? I was half-mad with
grief and physical pain. And Wallis went after you. I didn't want him
to. But he trusted you from the first--good old Wallis! And you came in
with that swift, sweeping step of yours, as I've seen you come fifty
times since--half-flying, it seemed to me then--with all your pretty
hair loose, and an angelic sort of a white thing on. I expect I was a
brute to you--I don't remember how I acted--but I know you sat on the
bed by me and took both my wrists in those strong little hands of yours,
and talked to me and quieted me till I fell fast asleep. You gave me the
first consecutive sleep I'd had in four months. It felt as if life and
calmness and strength were pouring from you to me. You stayed till I
fell asleep."
"I remember," said Phyllis softly. She laid her cheek by his, as it had
been on that strange marriage evening that seemed so far away now. "I
was afraid of you at first. But I felt that, too, as if I were giving
you my strength. I was so glad I could! And then I fell asleep, too,
over on your shoulder."
"You never told me that," said Allan reproachfully. Phyllis laughed a
little.
"There never seemed to be any point in our conversations where it fitted
in neatly," she said demurely. Allan laughed, too.
"You should have made one. But what I was going to tell you was--I think
I began to be in love with you then. I didn't know it, but I did. And it
got worse and worse but I didn't know what ailed me till Johnny drifted
in, bless his heart! Then I did. Oh, Phyllis, it was awful! To have you
with me all the time, acting like an angel, waiting on me hand and foot,
and not knowing whether you had any use for me or not!... And you never
kissed me good-night last night."
Phyllis did not answer. She only bent a little, and kissed her husband
on the lips, very sweetly and simply, of her own accord. But she said
nothing then of the long, restless, half-happy, half-wretched time when
she had loved him and never even hoped he would care for her. There was
time for all that. There were going to be long, joyous years together,
years of being a "real woman," as she had so passionately wished to be
that day in the library. She would never again need to envy any woman
happiness or love or laughter. It was all before her now, youth and joy
and love, and Allan, her Allan, soon to be well, and loving her--loving
nobody else but her!
"Oh, I love you, Allan!" was all she said.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Rose Garden Husband, by Margaret Widdemer