"Then"—said Maryllia, with grave sweetness—"I know that God does mean everything for the best—and I thank Him for having made me a cripple! Because if my trouble has warmed your heart,—your cold, cold heart, John!"—and she smiled at him through her tears—"and has made you say you love me, then it is the most blessed and beautiful trouble I could possibly have, and has brought me the greatest happiness of my life! I am glad of it and proud of it,—I glory in it! For I would rather know that you love me than be the straightest, brightest, loveliest woman in the world! I would rather be here in your arms—so—" and she nestled close against him—"than have all the riches that were ever counted!—and—listen, John!" Here, with her clinging, caressing arms, she drew his head down close to her breast—"Even if I have to die and leave you soon, I shall know that all is right with my soul!—yes, dear, dear John!— because you will have taken away all its faults and made it beautiful with your love!—and God will love it for love's sake, almost as much as He must love you for your own, John!"
There was only one way—there never has been more than one way—to answer such tender words, and John took that way by silencing the sweet lips that spoke them with a kiss in which the pent-up passion of his soul was concentrated. The shadows of the winter gloaming deepened;—the firelight died down to a mass of rosy embers;-and when Cicely softly opened the door an hour later, the room was almost dark. But the scent of violets was in the air—she heard soft whisperings, and saw that two human beings at least, out of all a seeking world, had found the secret of happiness. And she stole away unseen, smiling, yet with glad tears in her eyes, and a little unuttered song in her heart—
"If to love is the best of all things known,
We have gain'd the best in the world, mine own!
We have touch'd the summit of love—and live
God Himself has no more to give!"
XXXII
The prime of youth is said to be the only time of life when lovers are supposed by poets and romancists to walk 'on air,' so as John Walden was long past the age when men are called young, it is difficult to determine the kind of buoyant element on which he trod when he left the Manor that evening. Youth!—what were its vague inchoate emotions, its trembling hesitations, its more or less selfish jealousies, doubts and desires, compared to the strong, glowing and tender passion which filled the heart of this man, so long a solitary in the world, who now awaking to the consciousness of love in its noblest, purest form, knew that from henceforth he was no longer alone! A life,—delicate and half broken by cruel destiny, hung on his for support, help and courage,—a soul, full of sweetness and purity, clung to him for its hope of Heaven! The glad blood quickened in his veins,—he was twice a man,—never had he felt so proud, so powerful, and withal so young. Like the Psalmist he could have said 'My days are renewed upon the earth'—and he devoutly thanked God for the blessing and glory of the gift of love which above all others makes existence sweet.
"My darling!" he murmured, as he walked joyously along the little distance stretching between the lodge gates of the Manor and his own home—"She shall never miss one joy that I can give her! How fortunate it is that I am tall and strong, for when the summer days come I can lift her from her couch and carry her out into the garden like a little child in my arms, and she will rest under the trees, and perhaps gradually get accustomed to the loss of her own bright vitality if I do my utmost best to be all life to her! I will fill her days with varied occupations and try to make the time pass sweetly,—she shall keep all her interests in the village—nothing shall be done without her consent—ah yes!—I know I shall be able to make her happier than she would be if left to bear her trouble quite alone! If she were strong and well, I should be no fit partner for her—but as it is—perhaps my love may comfort her, and my unworthiness be forgiven!"
Thus thinking, he arrived at his rectory, and entering, pushed open the door of his study. There, somewhat to his surprise, he found Dr. 'Jimmy' Forsyth standing in a meditative attitude with his back to the fire.
"Hullo, Walden!" he said—"Here you are at last! I've been waiting for you ever so long!"
"Have you?" and John, smiling radiantly, threw off his hat, and pushed back his grey-brown curls from his forehead—"I'm sorry! Anything wrong?" Dr. 'Jimmy' shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing particular. Oliver Leach is dead,—that's all!"