“I will walk with you to the door. That will be 184 sufficient. Speak for yourself; you speak to a tender heart.”
So they walked together through the garden, Peter delaying a little at the various beds of spring blossoms, for he wished Adriana to see that he had quite forgiven Harry’s offence, and taken him into favor again. And such forgivenesses are better thus understood; nothing is gained by discussing faults which are admitted, and for which there is no apology but the pitiful one of an unconquerable temptation. Peter’s talk was of the flowers, and of the fine spring weather, but Harry was hardly conscious of what he said; for he felt that his future had been brought to the fine turning-point of a single word. Would Yanna speak it?
Peter led him into the parlor and called Yanna. Then he said something about the strawberry beds and left the lover to plead his own cause. There was a few minutes’ delay, which Harry employed in walking about the room; then the door opened, and was softly closed, and Yanna stood in his presence, pale as a lily, but lovelier in his sight than she had ever before been.
He held out his hands to her. His eager face was a prayer. And though she stood very still, her heart was stirring and throbbing and sweetly urging: “Forgive him! Forgive him!” Then her eyes filled with a soft, blue light; and a smile that you might have felt in the dark spread like sunshine over her white face—and her hand clasped his hands—she was within his arms—something wonderful and instantaneous took place—everything was confessed in a look, and forgiven in a kiss, and love was satisfied without a word.
And the bliss and the strength of the next two hours 185 convinced Harry that he could no longer bear to be separated from a woman so near to his best self, and so necessary to it. He prayed Yanna to marry him at once, that day—well then, that week—or, if not, then certainly that month—when Miss Alida came back to Woodsome, and not a day later. And just how it happened neither knew, but when Harry went back to New York it was with Yanna’s promise to make their wedding day at a very early date.
On the journey he naturally thought of his mother, and he resolved to face her anger at once. “The day has been fortunate; I will take all it can give me,” he said. And so, as soon as he reached his home, he inquired for Mrs. Filmer. She had been making calls all the afternoon, and the woman who can return from that social duty in a state of serenity has not yet been evolved from nineteenth century conditions. Mrs. Filmer was not only tired, she was cross. “I feel as if I had been turned into a pincushion,” she said. “All the afternoon the wind blew the dust into my face, and the women pricked me in every place they thought a pin-point could hurt. They have condoled with me about Rose’s marriage until I could scarcely keep the tears in my heart, and congratulated me on it until my face burned like a flame. I never before knew that words could be stillettos. But if you had only been with me, Harry, it would have been different. Where have you been all day? I called on Miss Van Hoosen, and she had not seen you.”
“I have been to Woodsome.”
“It was unnecessary. Your father was there two days ago. All is ready for us.”
“I went to see Yanna. I want to induce Yanna to marry me very soon—in fact, this month.”