"No, Mary; you are a living woman, and I am a little boy whose life was long ago. He will kiss you."
I watched the white form dissolve in the moonlight. I knew the room was empty. The crystal clearness of my heart was suddenly dimmed. The cloak of physical existence once more enveloped my soul. I was back in the world.
CHAPTER XLV: WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID
At my Grandmother's funeral Lord Tawborough had said: "Miss Traies, if ever you need any advice or service of any kind, write and let me know, will you? It is the only kindness I would presume to ask." On the morrow of Christmas Night I thought often—only—of these words. I did not write. Something told me that I had no need to.
The whole of that wintry morrow I was alone in the cold house. Even for Sister Briggs it was Boxing-Day: I had told her to take advantage of a day that even for oilmen (and Christians) should be a holiday, and to stay at home with her husband, as I could very well fend for myself.
I waited. It was foolish, impossible, one more Maryish notion of magic, madness, moonshine. It was possible, probable, inevitable, immediate.
The bell rang; with clamant heart and hurrying feet I sped to the door.
There were preliminary embarrassments and explanations. Trivial matters, to which we both gave grateful over-measure of zeal and zest, filled the awkwardest first moments, tided them capably over. "The snow on your coat: I must dry it"—"May the coachman come in and wait? The weather is bad"—"Certainly, there is the kitchen fire: for coat and coachman too"—"Thank you"—"I will get you a cup of tea."