I could have struck the mocking devil in the face, for by this time I was thoroughly out of temper; but, again for dear Barbara's sake, I refrained from uttering the hot words that rose to my lips.
The carriage was at the door and my wife was ready. Maxwell opened his arms for a parting embrace, but Barbara slipped from him and entered the carriage. As it moved away I caught a last glimpse of him standing on the doorstep laughing immoderately, and I almost fancied I heard him call after us, "What a jolly wedding day!"
[CHAPTER IV.]
The next day we were in Paris. We had a miserable crossing and two miserable railway journeys. On neither of the lines could I get a compartment to ourselves, both the French and English trains being crowded to excess. On the steamboat Barbara was very ill, and I gave her into the charge of the stewardess, being too unwell myself to attend to her. We were not, as may be imagined, a very cheerful couple, nor was this a cheerful commencement of our honeymoon. I did my best, however, to keep up Barbara's spirits, but she continued to be sad and despondent, and did not rally till we reached the gay city. The bright sunshine and the animation of the streets did wonders for us. I held her hand in mine as we drove to the hotel in which I had engaged rooms, and life assumed a joyful aspect. The color came again to Barbara's cheeks, the sparkle to her eyes.
"The worst is over, dearest," I said, "and we are together—and alone."
She pressed my hand fondly.
Was I really in love? I cannot answer. The fire of youth was in my veins, the light of hope was in my heart. Call it what you will—love, passion, desire—Barbara was all in all to me, and our fond endearments caused the hours to fly at lightning speed. The embarrassments and mortifications of yesterday were forgotten; to-day was ours, to enjoy. We dined at the hotel, by Barbara's plate a caraffe of iced water, by mine a bottle of old Burgundy. At nine o'clock, knowing that Barbara had some unpacking to do—for it was my intention to remain in Paris a week—I said that I would take a stroll in the streets, and would return at ten.
"It will take me quite two hours," she said, with a trembling eagerness in her voice, "to get my boxes in order."
"I will return at eleven," I said gaily, kissing her.