The fifteenth day of her absence had come and gone and there had been no
word from her.
Whether or not he had permitted himself to expect any, the suspense had
been none the less almost unendurable. He walked the floor of the studio
all day long, scarcely knowing what he was about, insensible to fatigue
or to anything except the dull, ceaseless beating of his heart. He
seemed older, thinner:--a man whose sands were running very swiftly.
With the dawn of the fifteenth day of her absence a gray pallor had come
into his face; and it remained there. Ogilvy and Annan sauntered into
the studio to visit him, twice, and the second time they arrived bearing
gifts--favourite tonics, prescriptions, and pills.
"You look like hell, Kelly," observed Sam with tactful and
characteristic frankness. "Try a few of this assorted dope. Harry and I
dote on dope:
_"'After the bat is over,
After the last cent's spent,
And the pigs have gone from the clover
And the very last gent has went;
After the cards are scattered,
After I've paid the bill,
Weary and rocky and battered
I swallow my liver pill!_'"
--he sang, waltzing slowly around the room with Annan until,
inadvertently, they stepped upon the tail of Gladys who went off like a
pack of wet fire-crackers; whereupon they retired in confusion to their
respective abodes above.
Evening came, and with evening, letters; but none from her. And slowly
the stealthy twilight hours dragged their heavy minutes toward darkness;
and night crawled into the room like some sinister living thing, and
found him still pacing the floor.
Through the dusky June silence far below in the street sounded the
clatter of wheels; but they never stopped before his abode. Voices rose
faintly at moments in the still air, borne upward as from infinite
depths; but her voice would never sound again for him: he knew it
now--never again for him. And yet he paced the floor, listening. The
pain in his heart grew duller at intervals, benumbed by the tension; but
it always returned, sickening him, almost crazing him.
Late in the evening he gave way under the torture--turned coward, and
started to write to her. Twice he began letters--pleading with her to
forget his letter; begging her to come back. And destroyed them with
hands that shook like the hands of a sick man. Then the dull
insensibility to pain gave him a little respite, but later the misery
and terror of it drove him out into the street with an insane idea of
seeking her--of taking the train and finding her.
He throttled that impulse; the struggle exhausted him; and he returned,
listlessly, to the door and stood there, vacant-eyed, staring into the
lamp-lit street.
Once he caught sight of a shadowy, graceful figure crossing the
avenue--a lithe young silhouette against the gas-light--and his heart
stood still for an instant but it was not she, and he swayed where he
stood, under the agony of reaction, dazed by the rushing recession of
emotion.
Then a sudden fear seized him that she might have come while he had been
away. He had been as far as the avenue. Could she have come?
But when he arrived at his door he had scarce courage enough to go in.
She had a key; she might have entered. Had she entered: was she there,
behind the closed door? To go in and find the studio empty seemed almost
more than he could endure. But, at last, he went in; and he found the
studio empty.
Confused, shaken, tortured, he began again his aimless tour of the
place, ranging the four walls like a wild creature dulled to insanity by
long imprisonment--passing backward, forward, to and fro, across, around
his footsteps timing the dreadful monotone of his heart, his pulse
beating, thudding out his doom.
She would never come; never come again. She had determined what was best
to do; she had arrived at her decision. Perhaps his letter had convinced
her,--had cleared her vision;--the letter which he had been man enough
to write--fool enough--God!--perhaps brave enough.... But if what he had
done in his madness was bravery, it was an accursed thing; and he set
his teeth and cursed himself scarce knowing what he was saying.
It promised to be an endless night for him; and there were other nights
to come--interminable nights. And now he began to watch the
clock--strained eyes riveted on the stiff gilded hands--and on the
little one jerkily, pitilessly recording the seconds and twitching them
one by one into eternity.
Nearer and nearer to midnight crept the gilded, flamboyant hour-hand;
the gaunter minute-hand was slowly but inexorably overtaking it. Nearer,
nearer, they drew together; then came the ominous click; a moment's
suspense; the high-keyed gong quivered twelve times under the impact of
the tiny steel hammer.
And he never would hear her voice again. And he dropped to his knees
asking mercy on them both.
In his dulled ears still lingered the treble ringing echo of the
bell--lingered, reiterated, repeated incessantly, until he thought he
was going mad. Then, of a sudden, he realised that the telephone was
ringing; and he reeled from his knees to his feet, and crept forward
into the shadows, feeling his way like a blind man.
"Louis?"
But he could not utter a sound.
"Louis, is it you?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"What is the matter? Are you ill? Your voice is so strange. _Are_ you?"
"No!--Is it _you_, Valerie?"
"You know it is!"
"Where--are you?"
"In my room--where I have been all day."
"You have been--_there_! You have been _here_--in the city--all this
time--"
"I came in on the morning train. I wanted to be sure. There _have_ been
such things as railroad delays you know."
"Why--_why_ didn't you let me know--"
"Louis! You will please to recollect that I had until midnight ...
I--was busy. Besides, midnight has just sounded--and here I am."
He waited.
"I received your letter." Her voice had the sweet, familiar, rising
inflection which seemed to invite an answer.
"Yes," he muttered, "I wrote to you."
"Do you wish to know what I thought of your letter?"
"Yes," he breathed.
"I will tell you some other time; not now.... Have you been perfectly
well, Louis? But I heard all about you, every day,--through Rita. Do you
know I am quite mad to see that picture you painted of her,--the new
one--'Womanhood.' She says it is a great picture--really great. Is it?"
He did not answer.
"Louis!"
"Yes."
"I would like to see that picture."
"Valerie?"
"Yes?"--sweetly impatient.
"Are we to see each other again?"
She said calmly: "I didn't ask to see _you_, Louis: I asked to see a
picture which you recently painted, called 'Womanhood.'"
He remained silent and presently she called him again by name: "You say
that you are well--or rather Rita said so two days ago--and I'm
wondering whether in the interim you've fallen ill? Two days without
news from you is rather disquieting. Please tell me at once exactly how
you are?"
He succeeded in forcing something resembling a laugh: "I am all right,"
he said.
"I don't see how you could be--after the letter you wrote me. How much
of it did you mean?"
He was silent.
"Louis! Answer me!"
"All--of it," he managed to reply.
[Illustration: "She knelt down beside the bed and ... said whatever
prayer she had in mind"]
"_All!_"
"Yes."
"Then--perhaps you scarcely expected me to call up to-night. Did you?"
"No."
"Suppose I had not done so."
He shivered slightly, but remained mute.
"Answer me, Louis?"
"It would have been--better."
"For you?"
"For--both."
"Do you believe it?"
"Yes."
"Then--have I any choice except to say--good-night?"
"No choice. Good-night."
"Good-night."
He crept, shaking, into his bed-room, sat down, resting his hands on his
knees and staring at vacancy.
Valerie, in her room, hung up the receiver, buried her face in her hands
for a moment, then quietly turned, lowering her hands from her face, and
looked down at the delicate, intimate garments spread in order on the
counterpane beside her. There was a new summer gown there, too--a light,
dainty, fragile affair on which she had worked while away. Beside it lay
a big summer hat of white straw and white lilacs.
She stood for a moment, reflecting; then she knelt down beside the bed
and covered her eyes again while she said whatever prayer she had in
mind.
It was not a very short petition, because it concerned Neville. She
asked nothing for herself except as it regarded him or might matter to
his peace of mind. Otherwise what she said, asked, and offered, related
wholly to Neville.
Presently she rose and went lightly and silently about her ablutions;
and afterward she dressed herself in the fragile snowy garments ranged
so methodically upon the white counterpane, each in its proper place.
She was longer over her hair, letting it fall in a dark lustrous cloud
to her waist, then combing and gathering it and bringing it under
discipline.
She put on her gown, managing somehow to fasten it, her lithe young body
and slender arms aiding her to achieve the impossible between neck and
shoulders. Afterward she pinned on her big white hat.
At the door she paused for a second; took a last look at the quiet,
white little room tranquil and silent in the lamplight; then she turned
off the light and went out, softly, holding in her hands a key which
fitted no door of her own.
One o'clock sounded heavily from Saint Hilda's as she left her house;
the half hour was striking as she stooped in the dark hallway outside
the studio and fitted the key she held--the key that was to unlock for
her the mystery of the world.
He had not heard her. She groped her way into the unlighted studio,
touched with caressing finger-tips the vague familiar shapes that the
starlight, falling through the glass above, revealed to her as she
passed.
In the little inner room she paused. There was a light through the
passageway beyond, but she stood here a moment, looking around her while
memories of the place deepened the colour in her cheeks.
Then she went forward, timidly, and stood at his closed door, listening.
A sudden fright seized her; one hand flew to her breast, her
throat--covered her eyes for a moment--and fell limp by her side.
[Illustration: "She was longer over her hair ... gathering it and
bringing it under discipline."]
"Louis!" she faltered. She heard him spring to his feet and stand as
though transfixed.
"Louis," she said, "it is I. Will you open your door to me?"
The sudden flood of electric light dazzled her; then she saw him
standing there, one hand still resting on the door knob.
"I've come," she said, with a faint smile.
"Valerie! My God!"
She stood, half smiling, half fearful, her dark eyes meeting his, two
friendly little hands outstretched. Then, as his own caught them, almost
crushed them:
"Oh, it was _your_ letter that ended all for me, Louis! It settled every
doubt I had. I _knew_ then--you darling!"
She bent and touched his hands with her lips, then lifted her sweet,
untroubled gaze to his:
"I had been away from you so long, so long. And the time was approaching
for me to decide, and I didn't know what was best for us, any more than
when I went away. And _then_!--your letter came!"
She shook her head, slowly:
"I don't know what I might have decided if you never had written that
letter to me; probably I would have come back to you anyway. I think so;
I can't think of my doing anything else: though I _might_ have
decided--against myself. But as soon as I read your letter I _knew_,
Louis.... And I am here."
He said with drawn lips quivering:
"Did you read in that letter one single word of cowardly appeal?--one
infamous word of self? If you did, I wrote in vain."
"It was because I read nothing in it of self that I made up my mind,
Louis." She stepped nearer. "Why are you so dreadfully pale and worn?
Your face is so haggard--so terrible--"
She laid one hand on his shoulder, looking up at him; then she smoothed
his forehead and hair, lightly.
"As though I could ever live without you," she said under her breath.
Then she laughed, releasing her hands, and went over to the dresser
where there was a mirror.
"I have come, at one in the morning, to pay you a call," she said,
withdrawing the long pins from her hat and taking it off. "Later I
should like a cup of chocolate, please.... Oh, there is Gladys! You
sweet thing!" she cried softly, kneeling to embrace the cat who came
silently into the room, tail waving aloft in gentle greeting.
The girl lifted Gladys onto the bed and rolled her over into a fluffy
ball and rubbed her cheeks and her ears until her furry toes curled, and
her loud and grateful purring filled the room.
Valerie, seated sideways on the edge of the bed, looked up at Neville,
laughing:
"I _must_ tell you about Sam and Hélène," she said. "They are too funny!
Hélène was furious because Sam wrote her a letter saying that he
intended to marry her but had not the courage to notify her, personally,
of his decision; and Hélène was wild, and wrote him that he might save
himself further trouble in the matter. And they've been telephoning to
each other at intervals all day, and Sam is so afraid of her that he
dare not go to see her; and Hélène was in tears when I saw her--and I
_think_ it was because she was afraid Sam wouldn't come and resume the
quarrel where she could manage it and him more satisfactorily."
She threw back her head and laughed at the recollection, stroking Gladys
the while:
"It will come out all right, of course," she added, her eyes full of
laughter; "she's been in love with Sam ever since he broke a Ming jar
and almost died of fright. But isn't it funny, Louis?--the way people
fall in love, and their various manners of informing each other!"
He was trying to smile, but the gray constraint in his face made it only
an effort. Valerie pretended not to notice it, and she rattled on gaily,
detailing her small budget of gossip and caressing Gladys--behaving as
irresponsibly and as capriciously as though her heart were not singing a
ceaseless hymn of happiness too deep, too thankful to utter by word or
look.
"Dear little Rita," she exclaimed, suddenly and tenderly solemn--"I saw
her the morning of the day she departed with John. And first of all I
asked about you of course--you spoiled thing!--and then I asked about
John. And we put our arms around each other and had a good,
old-fashioned cry.... But--_don't_ you think he is going to get well,
Louis?"
"Sam's brother--Billy Ogilvy--wrote me that he would always have to live
in Arizona. He _can_ live there. But the East would be death to him."
"Can't he ever come back?" she asked pitifully.
"No, dear."
"But--but what will Rita do?"
He said: "I think that will depend on Rita. I think it depends on her
already."
"Why?" she asked, wide-eyed. "Do you believe that John cares for her?"
"I know he does.... And I haven't much doubt that he wants to marry
her."
"Do you think so? Oh, Louis--if that is true, what a heavenly future
for Rita!"
"Heavenly? Out in that scorching desert?"
"Do you think she'd care _where_ she was? Kelly, you're ridiculous!"
"Do you believe that any woman could stand that for the rest of her
life, Valerie?"
She smiled, head lowered, fondling the cat who had gone ecstatically to
sleep.
She said, still smiling: "If a girl is loved she endures some things; if
she loves she endures more. But to a girl who is loved, and who loves,
nothing else matters ... And it would be that way with Rita"--she lifted
her eyes--"as it is with me."
He was standing beside her now; she made room on the side of the bed for
him with a little gesture of invitation:
"People who die for each other are less admirable than people who live
for each other. The latter requires the higher type of courage ... If I
go out of your life I am like a dead person to you--a little worse in
fact. Besides, I've shown the white feather and run away. That's a
cowardly solution of a problem, isn't it?"
"Am I a coward if I decide to stand back and give you a chance?"
"You haven't decided to do it," she said cheerfully, lifting the
somnolent cat and hugging it.
"I'm afraid I have, dear."
"Why?"
"You read my letter?"
"Yes and kissed every line in it."
He retained sufficient self-control to keep his hands off her--but that
was all; and her eyes, which were looking into his, grew serious and
beautiful.
"I love you so," she breathed.
"I love you, Valerie."
"Yes.... I know it.... I know you do...." She sat musing a moment, then:
"And I thought that I knew what it was to love, before you wrote that
letter." She shook her head, murmuring something to herself. Then the
swift smile curved her lips again, she dumped Gladys out of her lap
without ceremony, and leaned her shoulder on Neville's, resting her
cheek lightly against his:
"It doesn't seem possible that the problem of life has really been
solved for us, Louis. I can scarcely realise it--scarcely understand
what this heavenly relief means--this utterly blissful relaxation and
untroubled confidence. There isn't anything in the world that can harm
me, now; is there?"
"Nothing."
"Nor my soul?"
"It has always been beyond danger."
"There are those who might tell me differently."
"Let them talk. I _know_."
"Do you?--you darling!" Her soft, fragrant mouth touched his cheek,
lingered, then she laughed to herself for the very happiness of living.
"Isn't it wonderful how a word sometimes shatters the fixed ideas that a
girl has arrived at through prayer and fasting? I am beginning to think
that no real intelligence can remain very long welded to any one fixed
belief."
"What do you mean, Valerie?" She rested her head on his shoulder and
sat considering, eyes remote; then her white fingers crept into his:
"We won't talk about it now. I was wrong in some ways. You or common
sense--or something--opened my eyes.... But we won't talk about it
now.... Because there are still perplexities--some few.... We'll go over
them together--and arrange matters--somehow."
"What matters?"
But she placed a soft hand over his lips, imposing silence, and drew his
arm around her with a little sigh of content.
Presently she said: "Have you noticed my gown? I made it."
He smiled and bent forward to look.
"I made _everything_ that I am wearing--except the shoes and stockings.
But they are perfectly new.... I wanted to come to you--perfectly new.
There was a Valerie who didn't really love you. She thought she did, but
she didn't.... So I left her behind when I came--left everything about
her behind me. I am all new, Louis.... Are you afraid to love me?"
He drew her closer; she turned, partly, and put both arms around his
neck, and their lips touched and clung.
Then, a little pale, she drew away from him, a vague smile tremulous on
her lips. The confused sweetness of her eyes held him breathless with
their enchantment; the faint fragrance of her dazed him.
In silence she bent her head, remained curbed, motionless for a few
moments, then slowly lifted her eyes to his.
"How much do you want me, Louis?"
"You know."
"Enough to--give me up?"
His lips stiffened and refused at first, then:
"Yes," they motioned. And she saw the word they formed.
"I knew it," she breathed; "I only wanted to hear you say it again.... I
don't know why I'm crying;--do you?... What a perfect ninny a girl can
be when she tries to.... _All_ over your 'collar, too.... And now you're
what Mr. Mantalini would call 'demned moist and unpleasant!' ... I--I
don't want to--s-sob--this way! I do-don't wish to ... M-make me stop,
Louis!... I'd like a handkerchief--anything--give me Gladys and I'll
staunch my tears on her!"
She slipped from the bed's edge to the floor, and stood with her back
toward him. Then she glanced sideways at the mirror to inspect her nose.
"Thank goodness _that_ isn't red," she said gaily.... "Kelly, I'm
hungry.... I've fasted since dawn--on this day--because I wanted to
break bread with you on the first day of our new life together."
He looked at her, appalled, but she laughed and went into the studio.
There was a beautiful old sideboard there always well stocked.
He turned on the lights, brought peaches and melons and strawberries and
milk from the ice-chest, and found her already preparing chocolate over
the electric grill and buttering immense slices of peasant bread.
"It's after two o'clock," she said, delighted. "Isn't this divinely
silly? I wonder if there happens to be any salad in the ice-chest?"
"Cold chicken, too," he nodded, watching her set the table.
She glanced at him over her shoulder from time to time:
"Louis, are you going to enjoy all this? _All of_ it?
You--somehow--don't look entirely happy--"
"I am.... All I wanted was to see you--hear your voice.... I shall be
contented now."
"With just a view of me, and the sound of my voice?"
"You know there is--nothing more for us."
"I know nothing of the kind. The idea! And don't you dare struggle and
kick and scream when I kiss you. Do you hear me, Louis?"
He laughed and watched her as she went swiftly and gracefully about the
table arrangement, glancing up at him from moment to moment.
"The idea," she repeated, indignantly. "I guess I'll kiss you when I
choose to. You are not in holy orders, are you? You haven't made any
particular vows, have you--?"
"One."
She halted, looked at him, then went on with her labours, a delicate
colour flushing face and neck.
"Where in the world is that salad, Louis? A hungry girl asks you! Don't
drive me to desperation--"
"Are we going to have coffee?"
"No, it will keep us awake all night! I believe you _are_ bent on my
destruction." And, as she hovered over the table, she hummed the latest
popular summer-roof ballad:
"'Stand back! Go 'way!
I can no longer stay
Although you are a Marquis or a Earl!
You may tempt the upper classes
With your villainous demi-tasses
But--
Heaven will protect the Working Girl!'"
At length everything was ready. He had placed two chairs opposite one
another, but she wouldn't have it, and made him lug up a bench, lay a
cushion on it, and sit beside her.
They behaved foolishly; she fed him strawberries at intervals,
discreetly, on a fork--and otherwise.
"Think of it! Fruit--at three in the morning, Louis! I hope Heaven will
protect _this_ working girl.... No, dear, I'd rather not have any
champagne.... You forget that this is a brand-new girl you're supping
with ... And, for reasons of her own--perhaps as an example to
you--there is never again to be anything like that--not even a
cigarette."
"Nonsense--"
"Oh, it's on account of my voice, not my morals, goose! I have rather a
nice voice you know, and, if we can afford it, it would be a jolly good
idea to have it cultivated ...Isn't this melon divine! What fun,
Louis!... I believe you _are_ a little happier. That crease between your
eyes has quite disappeared--There! Don't dare let it come back! It has
no business there I tell you. I _know_ it hasn't--and you must trust my
word. Will you?"
She leaned swiftly toward him, placed both hands on his shoulders.
"You've a perfectly new girl to deal with," she said, looking him in
the eyes;--"a miracle of meekness and patience that is rather certain to
turn into a dreadful, frowsy old hausfrau some day. But that's the kind
you wanted.... It's none of my doings--"
"Valerie!"
"What?"
"You darling!--do you mean--"
She closed his lips with hers.
"Silence," she said; "we have plenty to talk over before the hour
arrives for me to be a door-mat. I _won't_ be a door-mat when I'm trying
to be happy over a perfectly good supper!... Besides I want to torture
you while there's still time. I want to make you miserable by reminding
you how disgracefully unmoral we are, here in your studio together at
three in the morning--" She stretched out a slim, white ringless hand,
and lifted the third finger for his inspection:
"Not a sign of a ring! Shame!" She turned her pretty, daring face to
his, eyes sparkling with audacity:
"Besides, I'm not going back to-night."
He said tranquilly: "I should think not."
"I mean it, Kelly, I simply won't go. And you may ring up the police and
every ambulance in town--and the fire department--"
"I've done it," he said, "but the fire department refuses to put you
out.... You don't mean to say you've finished!--after fasting all day
like a little idiot," he exclaimed as she sprang to her feet and pushed
away her chair.
"I have. I am _not_ an anaconda!" ... She passed swiftly into the outer
room where her own toilet necessaries were always ready, and presently
came back, leisurely, her hands behind her back, sauntering toward,
him with a provoking smile edging her lips:
[Illustration: "'Yes,' she said, 'it is really great.'"]
"You may retire when you like, Kelly, and tie your red cotton night-cap
under your chin. _I_ shall sit up for the sun. It's due in about an
hour, you know."
"Nonsense," he said. "We'll both, be dead in the morning."
"You offer me your guest-room?" she said in pretence of surprise. "How
_very_ nice of you, Mr. Neville. I--ah--will condescend to occupy
it--for this evening only--" Her eyes brightened into laughter: "Oh,
isn't it delicious, Louis! Isn't it perfectly heavenly to _know_ that we
are utterly and absolutely all right,--and to know that the world
outside would be perfectly certain that we are not? What a darling you
are!"
Still holding her hands behind her back she bent forward and touched her
lips to his, daintily, fastidious in the light contact,
"Where is that picture of 'Womanhood'?" she asked.
He drew out the easel, adjusting the canvas to the light, and rolled a
big chair up in front of it.
"Please sit there," she said; and seated herself on the padded arm,
still keeping her hands behind her back.
"Are you concealing anything from me?" he asked.
"Never mind. I want to look at your picture," she added slowly as her
eyes fell upon the canvas.
Minute after minute she sat there in silence, neither stirring nor
offering comment. And after a long time he moved restlessly in the
depths of the chair beside her.
Then she turned and looked down at him:
"Yes," she said, "it is really great.... And, _somehow_, I am lonely.
Take me, Louis."
He drew her into his arms. She lay very silent against his breast for a
while, and at last raised her curiously troubled eyes.
"You are going to be a very, very great painter, aren't you, Louis?"
He laughed and kissed her, watching her face.
"Don't be too great--so great that I shall feel too--too lonely," she
whispered.
Then his eyes fell upon the ring which he had given her--and which she
had gently put aside. She was wearing it on her betrothal finger.
"Where did you--find it?" he said unsteadily.
"In its box on your dresser."
"Do you realise what it means?"
"Yes.... And I am wearing it."
"Valerie!"
Her head nestled closer:
"Because I am going to marry you, Louis.... You were right.... If I
fail, as your wife, to win my way in your world, then it will be because
I have attempted the impossible. Which is no crime.... Who was it said
'Not failure, but low aim is crime'?"
She sighed, nestling closer like a child seeking rest:
"I am not coward enough to run away from you and destiny.... And if I
stay, only two ways remain.... And the lawful is the better for us
both...." She laid her flushed cheek against his: "Because," she said
dreamily, "there is one thing of which I never thought--children.... And
I don't, perhaps, exactly understand, but I realise that--such things
have happened;--and that it could happen to--us."
She lay silent for a while, her fingers restless on his shoulder; then
she spoke again in the same dreamy voice of a half-awakened child:
"Each for the other's sake is not enough. It must be broader, wider,
more generous ... it must be for the sake of all.... I have learned
this.... We can learn it better together.... Louis, can you guess what I
did the day your letter came to me at Estwich?"
"What did you do, my darling?"
"I went to Ashuelyn."
"What?"
"Yes, dear. If it had not been for your letter which I could feel
against my breast I should have been frightened.... Because all your
family were together under the pergola.... As it was I could scarcely
speak; I gave your mother the letter, and when she had read it and your
father and your sister had read it, I asked them what I was to do.
"It was so strange and still there under the pergola; and I scarcely
knew what I was saying--and I didn't realise that there were tears in my
eyes--until I saw them in your mother's, too.
"Louis! Louis! I wonder if she can really ever care for me!--she was so
good--so sweet to me.... And Mrs. Collis took me away to her own
room--after your father had shaken hands with me--very stiffly but I
think kindly--and I behaved very badly, dear--and your sister let me
cry--all that I needed to."
She said nothing more for a while, resting in his arms, dark eyes fixed
on space. Then:
"They asked me to remain; your brother-in-law is a dear!--but I still
had a long day of self-examination before me. Your father and mother
walked with me to the gate. Your mother kissed me."
His eyes, blinded by tears, scarcely saw her; and she turned her head
and smiled at him.
"What they said to me was _very_ sweet and patient, Louis.... I
believe--I sometimes believe that I may, in time, win more than their
consent, I believe that, some day, they will care to think of me as your
wife--and think of me as such, kindly, without regret for what might
have been if I had never known you."