He cleared his throat again, and again she took no notice. At last he spoke:
“Annie, aren’t you going to speak to me?” he asked, in the gentlest, most entreating of voices.
She turned round in surprise. He stood there before her, this big, handsome young fellow who could tame the most fiery of horses with a hand and a will of iron, shy, nervous, irresolute, looking down with wistful submission on the small, slight woman at the window.
“Haven’t you a word for me after all these weeks?” said he, as she was silent. “I can’t help being horsy, so wasn’t it better to turn my horsiness to some account? I forgave you for not answering my letters; but, now you’ve come to see me of your own accord, I think you might have a kiss for me.”
Annie looked, listened, in utter bewilderment. Letters! Kisses! What was he talking about? Was this Harry, with the loving, pleading eyes and the gently reproachful tone, the ungrateful, faithless husband she had come to upbraid? Was this some artful plan to avert her accusations by being first with trifling charges against herself? Still in perplexity, but thawing in spite of herself under his affectionate words, she moved mechanically toward him. But the want of spontaneity in the action roused his passionate temper, and he stepped back from her, his face all flushed with wounded pride and affection.
“Don’t make a martyr of yourself, pray,” said he. “I don’t want a little, cold duty-peck because I’m your husband. If you can’t kiss me because you love me don’t kiss me at all.”
She was in his arms, clinging to him, her upturned face aglow with passionate love, almost before he had spoken the last words of his hasty outburst. Muriel West, money, jewelry, unanswered letters—all were forgotten, thrust aside as matters to be explained hereafter or shelved as things of no account. Whomsoever he might have loved in the past he loved her now; whatever he might have done he was holding her in his arms now; and he might condescend to prove his innocence of every charge she might bring against him, or he might treat them with contemptuous silence—he was her husband, she loved him, he loved her—what else could matter at that moment?
It was not until they were sitting side by side on the sofa in the twilight that some words of his roused in her the remembrance of the grievances with which she had come armed.
“Why didn’t you come before, my darling? I have been longing for a sight of you; and the only glimpses I got of you were on the stage.”
“But why was that? Why didn’t you come and see me, or send for me?”