Then, in a rush, came the healing, peace-giving tears.
It was not until ten days later, when father, marvellously recuperating, sat up for the first time and demanded his "children" about him that I faced the fact that what was done could not be undone, and that I was confronted by the finality of marriage.
"Well, you two," said father weakly, but with a tiny glimmer of mischief in his eyes, "it looks as if I had hurried you before the altar under false pretences. What are you going to do about it—now that I've fooled you by living?"
Beneath his half-laughter, I heard a note of anxiety, of doubt. And the resolution rose up strong and compelling within me that never, as long as I lived, should father know what he had done. It was the only way in which I could pay my debt.
"Play the game, Mavis," I said to myself, and smiled straight into father's eyes.
Bill, sitting beside me, drew a long breath. Was it relief? I glanced at him quickly and knew that for one moment we agreed.
"You old matchmaker," I said, "were you so afraid that I would never find a husband? Was it quite necessary to frighten us all to pieces in order that I should wear a wedding ring?"
Father laughed.
"Then," he asked, "It's all right—with you two?"
I turned to Bill and saw him nod once before I spoke.