After this first flurry of talk, in which she had come down from that lofty spiritual altitude where she had dwelt for the last two weeks, she was sheer woman, thrilling to his words and to the sense of his nearness. As they had progressed in intimacy her maternal instinct had asserted itself more and more frankly towards him. She had treated him at times almost as if he were a boy whose education she was fondly directing. She had lost some of that feeling, now, in virtue of her mistake; she was curiously humble.
He, too, had somewhat changed. Before Clytie's direct gaze he had lost something of his power; he had been afraid of her. In this readjustment the normal phase of courtship was restored, and, feeling his way with her, delicately perceptive as he always was with women, he began to notice that she would willingly resign the scepter—she would gladly be mastered if he would but put forth his power. She was learning to be a woman; she would be conquered anew.
He was to learn all this slowly, however; so slowly that, at every manifestation of her inclination he had a moment's pause for the wonder of it, tasting the flavor of her condescension, marveling at his own conquest. To him, as to all lovers, his sweetheart had been a woman different from all her sex. He was now to find that she was not one woman but two—that in her the subtly refined spirit of his vision shared her throne with that immemorial wild creature of primal impulse who is the essence of sex itself; who, subdued or paramount, dwells in all women, saints and sinners alike. He had, in virtue of his victory, merged those two warring elements in her soul into one. She had come into her birthright, not lost it. She seemed a little frightened by the metamorphosis, but there was a triumph of discovery, too; he reveled in its manifestation, but he was still timorous before the new, splendid, potent being he had invoked. There was an intoxicating excitement, now, as he saw in her traces of every woman he had known. It was as if, after exploring a strange land and meeting its people, he had at last come upon the queen who combined all the national characteristics and fused them with the unique distinction of royalty.
They had, also, as yet, a whole lovers' language to manufacture, metaphors to weave into their talk, words to suggest phrases, phrases to stand for moods and emotions. But such idioms are untranslatable—they will never bear analysis. For love is a subjective state, whose objective manifestations are ridiculous. No one can see a kiss—it is a state of being.
But into this relation they entered, as children go to play, making their own rules of the game, establishing their own sentimental traditions as lovers use. With such vivid imagination as both possessed the pastime became deliciously intricate; it had pathos and comedy, wind and dew and fire. They spoke in enigmas, one's quick intuition answering the other—there were flashes so quick with humor that a smile was inadequate in satisfying its esoteric message. An observer would have seen Clytie, her eyes alight, her pose informed with gracile eagerness, waking from her gentle languor to inspired gesture—Granthope pacing the room, erect, virile, dark, sensitive in every fiber to her presence, flinging a whimsical word at her, or with a burst of abandon pouring himself out to her to her delight. There was an intellectual stimulation as well as an emotional pressure in their intercourse that forbade any monotony of mood. There was a tensity of feeling that broke, at times, into waves of laughter; but there were moments, too, when the sudden realization of their relation, with all its doubts, its unknown paths, and secret, fatal web of circumstance, impelled them to make sure, at least, of the moment, and to defy the future with an expression of their present happiness. So they came down, and so they went up. From height to depth, from shadow to light he pursued her. He chased, but she was ready enough to be caught! She held a hand to him and helped him up; they met in delightful solitudes of thought; they walked together through the obvious. That he should so follow her, that she could understand, there was wonder enough, even without that other diviner communion. It was a lovers' play-day, now; there was time enough for the lovers' ritual and the worship at the shrine. For this day was the untellable, impossible delights of wonder. They took repossession of their kingdom, no longer jeoparded by doubt.
It was Clytie, who, at last, grew more bold, more definite. She rose and put her two hands on Granthope's shoulders, smiling at him with pride in her possession.
"I can't wait any longer," she exclaimed. "I've suffered enough. Before anything else comes between us, let's settle it so that nothing can separate us. You see, my instinct has triumphed after all. I'm sure of you—indeed, I always have been. I must speak to father to-morrow, and, if you like—" She hesitated, in a sudden, maidenly access of timidity.
"We'll be married—instantly? Dare you?" He crushed her impetuously in his arms, not even this time without a wonder that she should permit him, not quite daring even yet to believe that she was more than willing.
She freed herself with an expression that should have reassured him. "There's nothing, now, to be gained by waiting, is there?"
"Nothing, if you can live on what I can provide."