Kabanata Kabanata 64 · BOOK IV 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.