‘I gave him my hand, and Mike, who I suspect has cared neither for God nor man in his life, caught it to his lips. My dear Mademoiselle, you can guess that it was a good moment. To pull one’s patient round, in body, is much. O’Halloran will have a human heart in that dark breast of his from to-day forth.’
And having told his story, Geff Arbuthnot rose. With a lingering look he took in the home-like suggestiveness of the little salon, the violets on the mantelshelf, the morsel of embroidery, the slender implements of needlework on the table. Then he bade Mademoiselle Pouchée good-night. Marjorie listened while his remembered step ran up the stairs, listened until she knew by the opening and shutting of a distant door that he had gained his study. Then she crept forth, uncertain of mien, from her hiding-place.
‘Have I committed a dishonourable action? Was there anything I should not have heard? Oh, Mademoiselle,’ she went on, incoherently, ‘is not Geoffrey Arbuthnot the noblest man in the whole world?’
And Marjorie clasped the mantelshelf, steadying herself thereby. She bent down over a cup of violets, hiding the face from which she felt all trace of colour must have vanished.
‘You look tired, ma mie. The news from Florence has not brought back your roses. Now, what shall I get for you?’ cried Pouchée, stealing a kind arm round the girl’s shoulder. ‘Thanks to your Italian letter, remember, you have been cheated out of dinner.’
‘I should like some tea,’ Marjorie answered, plausibly. ‘Tea and a plate of tartines, cut after the fashion that only you, dear Pouchée, understand.’
If the flattery were a trick of war to effect the Frenchwoman’s absence, I hold that, in a moment supreme as this, it was pardonable.
Off went Pouchée to the kitchen, unsuspecting to the last of the love story in which she had played a part, and Marjorie, her heart on fire, awaited her fate. For the first two or three minutes all was quiet. Then she heard the impetuous opening of Geoffrey Arbuthnot’s door. Her limbs well-nigh failed her, her spirit sank. Through a few seconds of suspense the past fifteen months seemed to unroll themselves, one by one, before her sight.... At last the salon door opened and closed. Marjorie moved a step forward—she held out a hand that trembled violently. A moment more and strong arms held her close, her blushes were hidden on Geff Arbuthnot’s breast.
There was a long space of silence, an interchange of such words, such broken attempts at explanation as pen and ink can ill put into form. Then Geoffrey led his sweetheart into the broader light of lamp and fire. He looked at her tall figure, her altered softened face, with wondering eyes.
‘You have grown several inches, Miss Bartrand. You have become beautiful. Tell me I am not asleep—dreaming, as I have done so often—that I hold your hand. Tell me my good luck is real!’