“I am so glad,” she exclaimed, “that you think my hand is nice. Because I have given it to you for all time. And if you are ever tired, or discouraged, or unhappy, or lonely, and you want me, I shall come to you.”
“But you will be with me now always.”
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, Robert, always.”
They had now reached Almouth House. Her little foot, with its arched instep, seemed too slight and delicate for the pavement. Robert knew that her arm rested upon his, because he felt it trembling. They crossed the threshold together. The doors closed after them.
“And he never once kissed her on the way from church!” exclaimed the footman.
But the coachman did not think this very peculiar. “I don't hold with kissing,” said he; “to my mind there's nothing in it. Kissing is for boys and gals—not for men and wives.”
Baron Zeuill was unable to join them all at breakfast, but Pensée, and Reckage, and David Rennes (who had been especially invited the night before because he had proved so entertaining), did more than their duty as friends by talking feverishly, eating immoderately, and affecting the conventional joyousness universally thought proper at such times. Pensée ventured to make a reference to the forthcoming marriage of the “best man,” and expressed the faltering hope that “dear Agnes would be as happy as dear Brigit.” Reckage scowled. Rennes was seized with a fit of coughing. It was the one unlucky hit in the whole conversation, and it was soon forgotten by every one present except Orange, who remembered it frequently in later days. At last the hour for departure came. Pensée, weeping, kissed Brigit on both cheeks, looked into her grave eyes long and lovingly, put her arms around the slight, girlish form with that exquisite, indefinable tenderness, unconscious, unpremeditated, and protective, which married women show toward very youthful brides. Robert handed his wife into the brougham, the order was given “To Waterloo,” the horses started, rice and slippers were thrown.
“They go into the world for the first time,” exclaimed Rennes.
Then Pensée was assisted into the barouche, and drove homewards.
“We shall meet again,” she said, as she parted from Reckage; “we meet at Sara's at lunch.”