John was not good at phrases. Under great emotion he could be eloquent in few words—with the short, burning syllables, trembling like fire-tongues from a furnace, which break through a man’s outer self now and then. But at the present moment he felt no deep emotion—scarcely any emotion at all, in fact. For months he had been used to the idea that the beautiful young girl by his side was his lawful wife. For months he had been accustomed to short, half-clandestine meetings. The great thing, his real life with her, was as far off as ever, in his heart’s sight, though his reason told him that the long period of probation was drawing to a close. A habit had formed itself in his heart of taking for granted, without words, that each loved the other truly, and that each was waiting for the other. He had won her long ago. His business of late had been to overcome circumstances, and he felt that his actions might speak for him now, without language to help them. Yet he felt sorely at the present moment the need of the phrase, and the absence of the heart-beat that might prompt it. He saw that she missed it, but though he loved her so dearly he could not force it to come. She should have been thankful that he could not, and grateful to fate for his inexperience.
It is a long drive from the corner of the Park to Lafayette Place, where the Crowdies lived. The distance is fully two miles and a half, and John realized that in the twenty minutes before him there was time for many misunderstandings. With his natural directness, he spoke out.
“Darling,” he said, “don’t let’s be foolish, and quarrel over nothings—”
“Quarrel? With you? Why—I’d rather die, Jack dear! It’s not that. I was only thinking—”
She stopped, evidently with no intention of completing the sentence, which meant, doubtless, a great deal to her, though it was vague to him. But he had begun his explanation, and was not to be hindered from pursuing it to the end.
“Yes, I know,” he replied, as though setting aside all her possible objections. “Let’s look at it sensibly. It amounts to this. We both love each other with all our hearts. You always say ‘care’ instead of ‘love.’ I suppose it’s a euphemism. But I say it just as it is. Do you think we should have gone through all we have for each other if we didn’t love with all our hearts? I know we couldn’t. And as for me, I’m perfectly sure I never cared two straws for any one else. Aren’t you?”
“Jack!” exclaimed Katharine, almost offended at the idea.
“Yes—well,” he continued, rapidly, “it isn’t possible to say which has done the most, or said the most, for the other’s sake. I think you’ve done more for me than I have for you, if you want to know—but that’s been the result of circumstances. You know I’d have done anything under the sun, at any moment, don’t you?”
“Of course I do! Do you think I’d have made you marry me if I hadn’t known that?”
“Well—that’s all right. As for saying things—I’ve said a great deal more than you have. I’ve told you I love you several hundred thousand times in the last year or two—haven’t I?”