“Of course,” Grace assented gravely. “It’s right that you should go. Poor Sir Robert! My heart aches for him; and I—I feel almost ashamed of our happiness, Roger, when I think of his crushing sorrow.”
“I know. But, after all, it wouldn’t do him any good—or her either, poor soul!—if we were to try to be as miserable as anything. Come along, sweetheart, let’s get out into the sunshine. The car’s a regular peach, isn’t she? And what weather! Perfect ‘Indian summer,’ by Jove! Might have been made on purpose for us.”
So they set forth for another glorious day in the open, over the downs and through the weald, splendid with the gracious, wistful beauty of late autumn; and back by the coast, to arrive as dusk was falling at their peaceful retreat. How invitingly homelike the little room was with its cheerful fire, and Miss Culpepper and the cats coming out to the porch to welcome them.
“And what’s the programme for to-morrow?” asked Roger after supper, as they sat together in lazy content on the couch drawn up by the fire, Cleopatra and Semiramis ensconced on Grace’s lap, Dear Brutus snuggling on Roger’s shoulder.
“I want to go to the early Celebration in the morning,” said Grace. “I nearly always do, you know, and to-morrow——”
“Me too, beloved,” he answered softly; and she slipped her hand in his.
There was no need for further speech; on this great point there had long been perfect understanding, perfect sympathy between them.
And so, in the fresh, sweet dawn of an exquisite morning, they went up the hill together to the little church, and with full hearts made their “sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving.” As they knelt before the altar, I am sure they silently renewed those solemn vows they had made three short days before; as I am very sure also that Grace’s gentle soul sent up a fervent prayer for that of Paula Rawson, the beautiful woman whose fate had been so strange and sudden and terrible.
The glory of the risen sun shone on their happy faces when they came forth, and life was beautiful beyond words. They would have liked to share their happiness with the whole world. As that was impossible they shared it with little Miss Culpepper, and took her, snugly sandwiched between them, in the car to Canterbury. It was Roger’s idea, joyfully acclaimed by Grace.
“She’d love it; she told me yesterday she had never been in a motor-car in her life, and I thought then we must take her for some runs. She may think Sunday excursions wicked; but we’ll ask her.”