"Think?" he said. "Think!"
And then the middle ends of his eyebrows rose--all tender and quizzical;
and with one mitten he clutched at his breast--just over his heart. And
he said:
"If only I could get it out I would give it to you!"
Cynthia, too, began to look melting tender and wondrous quizzical; and
she bent her right arm forward and plucked at its sleeve as if she were
looking for something. Then, in a voice of dismay:
"Only three days ago it was still there," she said; "and now it's
gone--I've lost it."
"Oh!" said G. G. "You don't suspect me of having purloined--" His voice
broke.
"We're only kids," said Cynthia.
"Yes," said he; "but you're the dearest kid!"
"Since you've taken my heart," said she, "you'll not want to give it
back, will you? I think that would break it."
"I oughtn't to have taken it!" said G. G.
And then on his face she saw the first shadow that ever he had let her
see of doubt and of misgiving.
"Listen!" he said. "My darling! I think that I shall get well.... I
think that, once I am well, I shall be able to work very hard. I have
nothing. I love you so that I think even angels don't want to do right
more than I do. Is that anything to offer? Not very much."
"Nobody in all the world," said she, "will ever have the chance to offer
me anything else--just because I'm a kid doesn't mean that I don't know
the look of forever when I see it."
"Is it really forever?" he said. "For you too?"
"For me--surely!"
"Ah," said he, "what shall I think of to promise you?"
His face was a flash of ecstasy.
"You don't even have to promise that you will get well," she said. "I
know you will try your hardest. No matter what happens--we're final--and
I shall stick to you always, and nothing shall take you from me, and
nobody.... When I am of age I shall tell my papa about us and then we
shall be married to each other! And meanwhile you shall write to me
every day and I shall write to you three times every day!" Her breath
came like white smoke between her parted lips and she stood valiant and
sturdy in the snow--a strong, resolute girl, built like a
boy--clean-cut, crystal-pure, and steel-true. A shot sounded and there
came to them presently the pungent, acid smell of burnt powder.
"And we shall never hurt things or kill them," said G. G. "And every day
when I've been good I shall kiss your feet and your hands."
"And when I've been good," she said, "you'll smile at me the way you're
smiling now--and it won't be necessary to die and go to Heaven to see
what the gentlemen angels look like."
"But," cried G. G., "whoever heard of going to Heaven? It comes to
people. It's here."
"And for us," she said, "it's come to stay."
All the young people came to the station to see Cynthia off and G. G.
had to content himself with looking things at her. And then he went back
to his room and undressed and went to bed. Because for a week he had
done all sorts of things that he shouldn't have done, just to be with
Cynthia--all the last day he had had fever and it had been very hard for
him to look like a joyous boy angel--he knew by experience that he was
in for a "time." It is better that we leave him behind closed doors with
his doctors and his temperature. We may knock every morning and ask how
he is, and we shall be told that he is no better. He was even delirious
at times. And it is only worth while going into this setback of G. G's
because there are miracles connected with it--his daily letter to
Cynthia.
Each day she had his letter--joyous, loving, clearly writ, and full of
flights into silver-lined clouds and the plannings of Spanish castles.
Each day G. G. wrote his letter and each day he descended a little
farther into the Valley of the Shadow, until at last he came to Death
Gate--and then rested, a voyager undecided whether to go on or to go
back. Who may know what it cost him to write his letter, sitting there
at the roadside!
His mother was with him. It was she who took the letter from his hands
when he sank back into his pillows; and they thought for a little that
he had gone from that place--for good and all. It was she who put it
into the envelope and who carried it with her own hands to the
post-office. Because G. G. had said: "To get there, it must go by the
night's mail, Mumsey."
G. G.'s mother didn't read the letter; but you may be sure she noted
down the name and address in her heart of hearts, and that for the girl
who seemed to mean so much to G. G. she developed upon the spot a
heavenly tenderness, mixed with a heavenly jealousy.