“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t!” It was a shock to her; it was reality, yet, somehow, she was not affronted, was more startled than displeased.
“You love me,” he insisted. “Let me hear you say it.”
“I—don’t know,” she said. “Everything is so—so confused. Everything is happening—”
“Of course,” he said, gently. “I’ll behave myself.... But you’ve got to love me,” he said, with determination. “We were meant to love each other.”
They ran up the long driveway and stopped at the carriage-door of Potter’s house. He leaped to the step and lifted her out in his arms, and as she felt the strength of them, the promise of protection in them, she was conscious of a pleasant contentment, of something more, perhaps. She looked up into Potter’s face and smiled, nor did she avert her head as he pressed his lips to hers. Yes, perhaps this was love. Certainly she was moved, stirred by this young man. If it were not love itself, she thought, somewhat vaguely, it gave promise of opening into love.
Mrs. Waite was sitting up for her son as she had promised. When Potter and Hildegarde entered the room she arose, surprised, but repressing her surprise.
“Mother,” said Potter, “you know Garde, of course.... We’re going to be married to-night—here. That’s why I asked you to sit up.... I’ll leave her with you while I run out to fetch a parson.”
Hildegarde waited, looking at Mrs. Waite with reserve, expectancy. The older woman stepped forward and took the girl in her arms as her own mother might have done. “My dear,” she said. Then, “Tell me about it, son.”
Potter told all there was to tell, impetuously. His mother watched him tenderly, understandingly, as his face mirrored the emotions that moved within him. She sympathized with her son, loved her son.... And she knew, as she watched him, that he loved this girl, that it was no mere fascination leading him headlong into ill-considered marriage.
“And you,” she said, holding Hildegarde at arm’s-length, “do you love my son?”