Meanwhile Eros and Psyche laboured with all their hearts and hands, and made the rooms green with ivy, holly, and laurel. In the parlour, beneath the cluster of mistletoe that hung from the ceiling, was arranged a little platform, with a daïs, and an altar-table covered with white samite. It was here that the marriage ceremony was to take place. By mid-day of Christmas Eve all the preparations were complete, and the two lovers were sitting together in the deep bay-window, half hidden by the ample curtains, and head-over-ears in lovers’ talk. They were big with the charming self-importance that belongs to young people in their condition. Love burned for them in the centre of all things—it illumined, warmed, and perfumed the whole world. For them the great earth turned more smoothly on her axis, and moved in a fairer orbit; the setting sun sank splendidly amidst his clouds for their sake; for their delight yonder rosy-cheeked boy ploughed his whistling way through the snow, and the sleigh-bells jingled so merrily from the distant road. If only Mortimer were there, their happiness would be complete. And now he must arrive every moment, so Eros kept saying, looking out of the window with confident expectation; but Psyche scarcely replied. Her soft little hands were cold and tremulous, and the corners of her sweet lips drooped as she thought of the secret that harboured in her breast. It was the first secret she had ever kept from Eros. Oh that it might resolve itself happily, and not—not as she now began to dread! For evening was coming on apace, and their friend had not yet come. He did not come, though he had promised that Death only should forestall him. As minute after minute slipped by, Psyche felt an almost irresistible impulse to snatch forth the letter from her bosom, where she had hidden it, and give it to her lover, that he might share and perhaps cheer her suspense. But she forebore; she was strong enough to suffer alone, and she felt, though hardly admitting it even to herself, that Eros was not so strong in that kind of strength as she. He would laugh at a blow from a fist such as would knock her senseless, but the blows of mental pain and disappointment he was but ill-fitted to endure. Thus thinking, the gentle Psyche crushed her trouble down, and even strove to forget it, or believe it unfounded and imaginary, if so she might answer her lover cheerfully, and in no way cast a shadow upon his Christmas Eve. But still that strange coldness crept at intervals through her veins, making her hands and her voice vibrate.
“Why, it’s quite dark already!” exclaimed Eros at length. “Surely the man means to be here by supper-time? I wonder how near he is now.”
“There may have been a delay. The snow is very deep, you know, in some places. Perhaps he won’t find it possible to get here before to-morrow.”
“Pooh! my dear little Psyche. You have forgotten the kind of man that our Mort is. When he says he’ll do a thing, he does it—if he’s alive. And in that very letter of yours, which you make such a mystery about, but which I know perfectly well has nothing in it more than you read to me—he says in that very letter that only Death would stand in the way of his getting here to-night. And since he’s a man in perfect health and in the prime of life, I don’t see what doubt there can be that he’ll keep his word. Only I do wish he’d told us the very hour, so that we mightn’t have had this suspense to bother us.”
“Do you suppose we shall recognise his face when he comes?” asked Psyche, after a little pause.
“Recognise him? Of course we shall!” returned Eros, positively, as became his masculine superiority. “He’ll be considerably changed, to be sure; very likely he’ll have a big black beard, and there’ll be a few lines across his forehead and round his eyes; but you mustn’t mind that. That sort of thing is bound to come on a man as he grows old. I’m beginning to find that out myself; and Mort—why he’s nearly forty by this time!”
“How very wise he will be!” murmured Psyche, thoughtfully. “He was the wisest person in the world before he went away; we shall be almost afraid of him now.”
“Well, as to that,” said Eros, rubbing his downy upper lip and smiling, “as to that, my dear Psyche, you must speak for yourself. Undoubtedly Mort, the dear old fellow, has an immense deal of information, and plenty of good sense to back it—which is more than always happens, I can assure you. But when a man reaches his majority, and is on the point of becoming a family man into the bargain—give me another, dear——what was I going to say? Oh, well, I don’t think I shall be much afraid of him, or of anybody else, that’s all.”
“Eros,” whispered Psyche, feeling his strong young arm round her, and his hand on hers, “should you be willing to have him take us back with him to his Paradise, as he speaks of doing in the letter?”