“An’ there’s the milkman—that milkman’s cows ought t’ blush at th’ sound o’ your name! Here’s his accounts for the last six months, an’ I’ve found—”
“Have you, Mrs. Trapes? We’re trying to find Hermione—where is she?”
“Oh, she’s in her room—laying down, I guess.”
“Not,” enquired Ravenslee, “not—er—in bed, is she?”
“Mr. Geoffrey, I don’t know; I’m busy. Go an’ see for yourself—she’s your wife, ain’t she?”
“Why, since you ask, I—er—hardly know,” he answered a little ruefully, “anyway, found she shall be.”
With the child perched upon his shoulder he strode up-stairs and along wide corridors whose deep carpets gave forth no sound, and so reached a certain door. Here he hesitated a moment, then knocked with imperious hand.
“Come in!” called that voice whose soft inflection had always thrilled him, but never as it did now as, turning the handle, he entered his wife’s chamber.
Hermione was standing before a long mirror, and she neither turned nor looked from the radiant vision it reflected; her eyes, her attention, all the feminine soul of her being just then fixed and centered upon the tea gown she was trying on; such a garment as she had gloated over in the store windows, yearned for, but never thought to possess.
“Ann,” she sighed, “oh, Ann, isn’t it exquisite! Isn’t it a perfect dream! Of course it needs a wee bit of alteration here and there, but I can do that. Isn’t it good of him to have bought it without saying a word! And there are heaps of dresses and robes and—and everything! A complete trousseau, Ann, dear—think of it! I wonder how he knew my size—”
“Oh, I just guessed it, my dear,” answered Ravenslee in the voice of a much experienced husband.
Hermione gasped, and turning, stared at him wide-eyed, seeing only him, conscious only of him. Lifting Hazel to the floor, he seated himself upon her bed and, crossing his legs, eyed her flushed loveliness with a matter-of-fact air. “Really,” he continued, “I don’t see that it needs any alteration; perhaps the sleeves might be a trifle shorter— show a little more arm. But those flounces and things are perfect! I hope all the other things fit as well?”
Hermione flushed deeper still and caught her breath.
“Oh, Hermy,” said a soft, pleading little voice, “won’t you see me, please?”
Hermione started, her long lashes drooped suddenly, and then—then, forgetful of costly lace, of dainty ruffles and ribbons, she was on her knees and had the child close in her arms. And beholding the clasp of those round, white arms, the lovely, down-bent head, and all the tender, craving, inborn motherhood of her, Ravenslee held his breath, and into his eyes came a light of reverent adoration.
Presently he rose and left them together, but as he went, the light was in his eyes still.
CHAPTER XL
CONCERNING A HANDFUL OF PEBBLES
“And so,” said Hermione, as she waved good-by to Hazel, who stood in the cottage doorway with Mrs. Bowker—a Mrs. Bowker no longer faded, “you didn’t forget even the doll that says ‘Mamma’?”
“It was such a little thing!” he answered.
“What a—man you are!” she said softly.
“Just that, Hermione,” he answered, “and—frightfully human!” She was silent. “Do you know what I mean?” he demanded, glancing at her averted face.
“Yes!” she answered, without looking around. So they walked for awhile in silence. Suddenly he seized her hand and drew it through his arm.
“Hermione,” he said gently, “I want my wife.”
She still kept her head averted, but he could feel how she was trembling.
“And you think—” she began softly.
“That I have been patient long enough. I have waited and hoped because—”
“Because you are so generous, so kind—such a man!” she said softly and with head still averted.
“And yet since I have been well again, you have kept me at arm’s length. Dear, you—love me still, don’t you?”
“Love you?” she repeated, “love you?” For a moment she turned and looked up at him then drew her arm from his and walked on with head averted once more. So they entered the rose garden and coming to the lily pool leaned there side by side.
“Hermione,” said he, staring down into the water, “if you really love me, why do you hate to kiss me? Why do you hardly suffer me to touch you? And you’ve never even called me by my name, that I remember!”
“Geoffrey!” she breathed; “and I—love you to touch me! And I don’t hate to kiss you, Geoffrey dear.”
“Then why do you keep me at arm’s length?”
“Do I?” she questioned softly, gazing down at the lily pads.
“You know you do. Why?”
“Well—because.”
“Because what?”
“Oh, well, just—because.”
