"Depends on what it is."
"Just a little one?"
"Probably not. But what is it?"
"You remember our wedding at the Unitarian Church, away back in that
enchanted past?"
"Yes."
"Well, just consider that ceremony binding."
"Now you are getting crazy again."
"No, I was never saner."
"Very likely, but you are crazy now. Why, Drowsy, being only a man, you
don't realize how lucky we are that it was not binding!"
"Lucky for you, perhaps," said Cyrus, "but not for me. I am sure you
are even more desirable, more beautiful, more generally perfect and
irresistible--if possible--than you were then."
"On the contrary. If you could see me by daylight you would shout for
joy at your escape."
"No, Ruth, you can't fool me that way. Are you little or big?"
He groped about and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I should say you were
little."
She pushed away the hand. "Keep your hands to yourself, Cyrus. You
forget we are no longer children."
Cyrus obeyed. "True enough. But we were really married, you know.
Surely a husband may touch his wife's shoulder. Tell me, have you the
same wonder-working eyes and mouth and haughty bearing? You are not a
great big woman, I have discovered that."
"No, I am neither big nor lovely. I am little and dried up--and
wrinkled, like a baked apple--and surprisingly ugly."
"Dried up at your age? May I touch your face just a little?"
"You may not!"
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter. There's charm in baked apples. There's
character in a dried-up face."
"But that was only the beginning. As I dried and shriveled, my hair
fell out."
"Good! I love a bald head--especially in a woman. There's no
distinction in hair. All animals have it. In that delectable period
of sudden marriages, I remember some things clearly, as if yesterday.
I recall distinctly the eyes of my bride. No man could forget them.
In their fathomless depths even a boy could lose himself. And, oh, so
beautiful! One such eye would transform a dried apple face into a thing
of joy. And in that bride's face were two of them. Don't tell me they,
also, are gone."
"Only one."
"Too bad! Have you lost any limbs?"
"Not yet."
"And your teeth are gone?"
"Oh, long, long ago."
There was a silence. So black was the enveloping darkness that the
silence itself seemed heavy, as if forbidding conversation.
At last Cyrus spoke. "So far as I can learn, your face is like a baked
apple, your teeth and one eye are gone, and you have no hair. But I'll
take you as you are."
Ruth laughed. "Why, Cyrus! That's practically an offer of marriage!
You appear even wilder and more reckless than when you were trying to
discover whether you were in England or Massachusetts."
"On the contrary, I am wiser than you think. I was in love with you in
Longfields--and I am finding now that neither time nor absence have
changed that feeling. What's a tooth, an eye, or a few hairs more or
less to an honest lover?"
"Honest humbug! You forget how well I knew you. You had no respect for
truth."
"Yes, but only as a child. I am telling the truth now, on my honor.
Let's not separate again. Why, it's beginning a new life! Come. Let's
go back to the Unitarian Church and be married just once more. Only
once more; that's all I ask."
"Indeed I shall not! I am not buying a pig in a poke. When daylight
came and I really saw you I might be sick with horror."
"No, no! I'm not so bad as that! In fact I look about as I did when a
boy, only--more beautiful."
"Then you are a funny looking man, Drowsy, with your sleepy eyes and
your little buttoned-up mouth."
Cyrus laughed. "No, I swear I'm not funny looking. I have the same
eyes, but my mouth is three times as long. It's one of the largest and
most admired mouths in Massachusetts. But why these questions? You saw
me a few minutes ago when I came along. The glare of those headlights
ought to illuminate any kind of a face."
"You held your hand before your face to shade your eyes."
"So I did. But, seriously, Ruthy, I realize now that all my old feeling
for you has never died. Your voice alone revives the memories of those
pleasant years. Why part again? It might be forever."
"A thousand reasons."
"But no good ones. What better test of my affection could you want?
I don't ask to see your face. Your voice, your words, yourself, and
old-time memories are more than enough. Come. Say yes."
"No. Never in the world! Suppose, when you could really see me, there
came regrets. What a position for a woman! Oh, no! Never that!"
"Don't say 'never.'"
"Is this a habit of yours--making love in the dark to women you don't
know? You should have a guardian."
"Be that guardian!"
"Thank you, I have other occupations."
Here came a silence. The thoughts of Cyrus, whatever they might be,
were interrupted by Ruth:
"You must think me a most adaptable woman, Cyrus, to fall in love, at a
minute's notice, with a voice and a memory."
"If you are a toothless, hairless, wrinkled, one-eyed hag you ought to
be grateful."
"A toothless hag, even with no pride--may have a little caution."
"Anyway," said Cyrus, and he spoke more seriously--and with more
decision--"I am in earnest. I may be talking like a fool--I don't know
how to express myself. Meeting you again is like a new life. As a
little girl, Ruthy, you were everything to me. You don't know what a
difference, what a void it made when you vanished and left me adrift.
Now that we are again together, and I am older, I realize what I lost.
After you left Longfields--and your leaving was awfully sudden, if
you remember--not even a chance to say good-by--I used to sit on your
doorstep and try to think you would come out."
"Is that true?"
"On my honor. And one moonlight night when father and Joanna thought I
was in bed I stood at my window and tried to get a message to you, in
the old way--hoping a thought would reach you. Then I stole out of the
house, ran to yours and threw little stones against the closed shutters
of your empty chamber. Of course no answer came. But I waited and
waited. The moonlight seemed to encourage me. And when I had waited in
vain--a very long time,--it seemed a year--I pretended you came to the
window and we had a long talk."