Then, springing down to the other side, he takes her in his arms to bring her to the ground beside him.
But when his arms have closed round her he leaves them there, and draws her to his heart, and lays his cheek against hers. With a little soft happy sob she lifts her arms and lays them round his neck; and then, he tells himself, there is nothing more on earth to be wished for.
"My wife!—my darling!" he says, unsteadily.
The minutes pass; then she looks up at him with soft speaking eyes. There are no tears upon her cheeks, but her face is pale as moonlight, and on it is a new deep meaning that Dorian has never seen there in all his life before,—a gentle light, as kind as death, and as soft as holy love!
As she so stands, gazing solemnly into his face, with all her heart in her eyes, Dorian stoops and lays his lips on her. She colors a lovely trembling crimson, and then returns the caress.
"You do love me at last?" he says. And then she says,—
"I do, with all my soul,"—in a tone not to be mistaken. Afterwards, "Are you happy now?"
"Yes. How can I be otherwise? For
'Thou with softest touch transfigurest
This toil-worn earth into a heaven of rest.'
How could you so far have misjudged me?" he says, reproachfully, referring to the old wound. "What had I done to you, that you should believe me capable of such a thing?"