Denzil had none of these limitations; he said everything which could cajole and excite the imagination. He murmured a hundred affecting tendernesses in her ears. He caressed her—he commanded and mastered her, and then assured her that he was her slave. He was arrogant and humble—arrogant when he claimed her love, humble in his worship. He spoke of the child and what it meant to him that it should be his and hers. He caused her to feel that he was strong and protective and that she was to be cherished and adored. He made pictures of how it would be if he could spend a whole day and night with her presently in June, when she would be quite well, and of how thrilled with interest he would be to see the baby, and that, of course, it must be exactly like himself! And Amaryllis' eyes, all soft and swimming with emotion answered him.
Naturally, since she loved him so passionately, it would be his image! Had not his own mother accounted for his pronounced Ardayre stamp by her having been so in love with his father—so, of course, this would re-occur! It was all dear to think about!
They spent another hour of divine intoxication, and then the clock struck six.
It sounded like a knell.
Amaryllis gave a little cry.
"Denzil, it is altogether unnatural that you should have to go. To think that you must leave me, and may not even welcome your son! To think that by the law we are sinning, because I am sitting here clasped in your arms! To think that I may not have the joy of showing you the exquisite little clothes, and the pink silk cot—all the things which have given me such pleasure to arrange…. It is all too cruel! You know that eighteenth century engraving in the series of Moreau le Jeune, of the married lovers playing with the darling, teeny cap together! Well, I have it beside my bed, and every day I look at it and pretend it is you and me!"
"Darling—Darling!"—and Denzil fiercely kissed her, he was so deeply moved.
"It is all holy and beautiful, the coming to earth of a soul. It only makes me long to be good and noble and worthy of this wonderful thing. But for us—we who love truly and purely, it has all been turned into something forbidden and wrong."
"Heart of me—I must have some news of you. I cannot starve there in the trenches, knowing that all the letters that should be mine are going to John. My mother is really trustworthy, will you let her be with you as often as you can, that she may be able to tell me how you are, precious one? When the seventh of May comes I shall go perfectly mad with suspense and anxiety. I will arrange that my mother sends me at once a telegram."
"Denzil!" and Amaryllis clung to him.