“You are meant to be a real helpmeet to a fine man.” Cis heard Father Morley’s voice again saying these words to her. He had known when he said it that Anselm meant to ask her to marry him; he wanted her to marry Anselm, though Anselm was a great man, while she was only red-haired Cicely Adair!
It came upon her with an irresistible rush of conviction that she did love Anselm, that she had been loving him and had not known it. For how could she ever have thought of his loving her? Yet this was why all other things, Nan, her old home, Rodney Moore seemed insufficient to her; this was why she had been restless, longing, unsatisfied. What a life it was that opened out before her in this house, the wife of this man, his helpmeet, his beloved!
Distrust of herself, the magnitude of the joy stretching out before her drove her into the true woman’s dalliance with yielding to this unforeseen bliss.
She must hold off for a little while the glorious submergence of herself out of which she knew would arise the truer, greater self which would forevermore be Cicely.
“Take me home,” Cis said rising. “I cannot answer yet.”
Obediently Anselm followed her toward the door, but he looked bitterly disappointed. Cis halted, wavering, on the threshold, as her heart smote her for this look. This was Anselm’s mother’s room, the sanctuary of his childhood, the shrine of a tender love. It would be sweet to make him happy here; he had brought her hither for this.
She was a generous Cicely, albeit a frightened one. She turned fully and faced Anselm.
“I think I do. Love you, I mean. I’ll come,” she said.
He caught her, reverently, gratefully, yet most lovingly in his arms and kissed her flaming hair, her white brow, her closed eyes, and at last, with the bridegroom’s kiss, he kissed her sweet lips.
The great cable which had held her fast, had also drawn Cis safe into port.