“It is strange,” she said, “when you turned to me there on the
terrace and spoke, it was as if a light broke into my life. And it has
been the same ever since—my heart has been full of light. Oh, I have
wanted you so much! I was afraid you did not care for me. Why have you
waited so long?”
No need of putting down my answer nor the rest of our dialogue. When
Mr. Tikulski came back I confessed every thing. He asked but a single
question, imposed but a single condition.
I replied that I earned enough by my teaching to support him and her
comfortably and to contribute toward the maintenance of the widow and
her brood in Germany. Furthermore, I had solid grounds for expecting to
earn more next winter. There would be an opening for me in the Symphony
and Philharmonic Societies, and as I was gaining something of a
reputation I might reasonably demand a higher price for my lessons. It
was arranged that we should be married the first week in August.
Our journey to Hoboken was all too short that night. Never had horse-car
or ferry-boat advanced with such velocity before. As we left the church
she asked, “Did you notice how my voice trembled in my solo?
“It only added to its effect,” I answered. “Were you nervous?”
“Oh, no, I was happy, so happy that I could not control my voice.”
Ah, but I had a full heart as I walked home that night. The future was
all radiant radiant beyond my wildest dream. It frightened me. Such
perfect bliss seemed scarcely possible, seemed too great and glorious to
last. And yet had not Veronika’s own lips promised it? and sealed the
promise with a kiss that burned still where she had placed it? It was
useless for me to go to bed; it was useless for me to stay in the house.
I put on my hat and went out and spent the night pacing up and down
before her door. And as soon as the morning was far enough advanced
I rang the bell and invited myself to breakfast with her; and after
breakfast I helped her to wash the dishes, to Mr. Tikulski’s
unutterable disapproval—it was “unteeknified,” he said—and after
that I accompanied her as far as the first house where she had to give a
lesson.
While writing the above I had almost forgotten. Now I remember. I must
stop for a space to get used to remembering again that she is dead.