_ BOOK IV. THE VORTEX
CHAPTER XVII
"Berna, we must get married."
"Yes, dearest, whenever you wish."
"Well, to-morrow."
She smiled radiantly; then her face grew very serious.
"What will I wear?" she asked plaintively.
"Wear? Oh, anything. That white dress you've got on--I never saw you looking so sweet. You mind me of a picture I know of Saint Cecilia, the same delicacy of feature, the same pure colouring, the same grace of expression."
"Foolish one!" she chided; but her voice was deliciously tender, and her eyes were love-lit. And indeed, as she stood by the window holding her embroidery to the failing light, you scarce could have imagined a girl more gracefully sweet. In a fine mood of idealising, my eyes rested on her.
"Yes, fairy girl, that briar rose you are doing in the centre of your little canvas hoop is not more delicate in the tinting than are your cheeks; your hands that ply the needle so daintily are whiter than the May blossoms on its border; those coils of shining hair that crown your head would shame the silk you use for softness."
"Don't," she sighed; "you spoil me."
"Oh no, it's true, true. Sometimes I wish you were not so lovely. It makes me care so much for you that--it hurts. Sometimes I wish you were plain, then I would feel more sure of you. Sometimes I fear, fear some one will steal you away from me."
"No, no," she cried; "no one ever will. There will never be any one but you."
She came over to me, and knelt by my chair, putting her arms around me prettily. The pure, sweet face looked up into mine.
"We have been happy here, haven't we, boy?" she asked.
"Exquisitely happy. Yet I have always been afraid."
"Of what, dearest?"
"I don't know. Somehow it seems too good to last."
"Well, to-morrow we'll be married."
"Yes, we should have done that a year ago. It's all been a mistake. It didn't matter at first; nobody noticed, nobody cared. But now it's different. I can see it by the way the wives of the men look at us. I wonder do women resent the fact that virtue is only its own reward--they are so down on those who stray. Well, we don't care anyway. We'll marry and live our lives. But there are other reasons."
"Yes?"
"Yes. Garry talks of coming out. You wouldn't like him to find us living like this--without benefit of the clergy?"
"Not for the world!" she cried, in alarm.
"Well, he won't. Garry's old-fashioned and terribly conventional, but you'll take to him at once. There's a wonderful charm about him. He's so good-looking, yet so clever. I think he could win any woman if he tried, only he's too upright and sincere."
"What will he think of me, I wonder, poor, ignorant me? I believe I'm afraid of him. I wish he'd stay away and leave us alone. Yet for your sake, dear, I do wish him to think well of me."
"Don't fear, Berna. He'll be proud of you. But there's a second reason."
"What?"
I drew her up beside me on the great Morris-chair.
"Oh, my beloved! perhaps we'll not always be alone as we are now. Perhaps, perhaps some day there will be others--little ones--for their sakes."
She did not speak. I could feel her nestle closer to me. Her cheek was pressed to mine; her hair brushed my brow and her lips were like rose-petals on my own. So we sat there in the big, deep chair, in the glow of the open fire, silent, dreaming, and I saw on her lashes the glimmer of a glorious tear.
"Why do you cry, beloved?"
"Because I'm so happy. I never thought I could be so happy. I want it to last forever, I never want to leave this little cabin of ours. It will always be home to me. I love it; oh, how I love it!--every stick and stone of it! This dear little room--there will never be another like it in the world. Some day we may have a fine home, but I think I'll always leave some of my heart here in the little cabin."
I kissed away her tears. Foolish tears! I blessed her for them. I held her closer to me. I was wondrous happy. No longer did the shadow of the past hang over us. Even as children forget, were we forgetting. Outside the winter's day was waning fast. The ruddy firelight danced around us. It flickered on the walls, the open piano, the glass front of the bookcase. It lit up the Indian corner, the lounge with its cushions and brass reading-lamp, the rack of music, the pictures, the lace curtains, the gleaming little bit of embroidery. Yes, to me, too, these things were wistfully precious, for it seemed as if part of her had passed into them. It would have been like tearing out my heart-strings to part with the smallest of them.
"
Husband, I'm so happy," she sighed.
"Wife, dear, dear wife, I too."
There was no need for words. Our lips met in passionate kisses, but the next moment we started apart. Some one was coming up the garden path--a tall figure of a man. I started as if I had seen a ghost. Could it be?--then I rushed to the door.
There on the porch stood Garry. _