“Well, rather!” he said, with a short laugh, still keeping the cigar in his mouth, and talking with his teeth clenched upon it. Then he turned his face toward the window again; but his glance was so vague that Martha felt that he saw some picture in his mind, rather than the scene below. “The service was the same,” he said, clasping his hands behind his head, and narrowing his eyes as if to get the perspective. “The music was the same—and those roses! And that was not all. Vivid as she always is to me in every other respect, I have not always been able to hold on to her voice; but to-day I heard it perfectly, saying, ‘I, Sophia, take thee, Harold,’ and all the rest.”
He got up suddenly, threw his cigar into the grate, and walked across the room.
“Oh, poor Harold!” Martha said, her voice thick with tears.
The effect of her words was instantaneous. He turned suddenly, and showed in both face and figure a swiftly summoned and effectual calm.
“My dear girl,” he said quickly, “you don’t suppose I’m posing for an injured husband, I hope? I have suffered, of course; but with a man certain kinds of suffering get to be a business. To speak of it seems like talking shop. It’s detestable to be talking it to you now; but the truth is, this wedding affair has nearly knocked me out. I could have gone on keeping up the bluff, of course, and talked the usual bosh with the wedding-guests in yonder; but I found I had a contract with myself that had to be seen to. It has cost me something to smooth out and harden down my thoughts and feelings about my own life; but I had got the thing done. This wedding business, however, upheaved it all. When I found that I was actually sinking into the mushy swamp of self-pity, I thought it was about time to come away, and steady up my nerve a bit. I’m all right now, however, and I see clear again. The thing’s over, and no harm is done.”
Martha’s eyes followed him wistfully as he turned to the dressing-table, picked up a brush, and smoothed the swart surface of his thick, dark hair, brushed some specks of dust from his coat, and carefully straightened the injured flower.
“Shall we go back?” he said. “We may be missed.”
“Don’t go quite yet. No one will think about us,” she said; and then she added doubtfully: “May I talk to you a little, Harold?”
“Certainly, my dear. Talk all you want,” he answered, sitting down; “only there’s nothing to say.”
“Where is she? I’ve so often longed to know.”