“The only one I want you ever so much as to think of confessing to,” Rodney said approvingly.
“Someone warned me that it wasn’t safe to play with you, Rory O’Moore, that I’d be sorry later on, that you weren’t quite, quite all right, trustworthy, you know. I didn’t really listen; I did not believe, and I said that sort of talk had to stop, but it was said, Rod, and I’m ashamed of myself that I let more than your name get past. I didn’t listen, I didn’t truly, but too much was said.” Cis poured out her confession eagerly.
“Who was it? Who was she? Safe to say she, of course! What else did she tell you? Anything I ought to know—and that you ought not to know?” Rodney looked furiously angry, and somewhat alarmed.
“Don’t ask me who it was; I won’t tell. I won’t say it was a woman; may have been a man. And nothing was said, more than I’ve told you; that the person doubted your being safe for me to play with,” cried Cis. “I’m sorry I heard more than one word.”
“The old gal, I’ll bet! Funny old Gallatin; she always suspects me,” cried Rodney. “Why, Cis; why, Holly, my darling, there’s no one on earth half as safe as I for you to play with! How dares she think I’d harm you, grieve you? Never any other man loved a girl as I love you. I’m mad about you, Cis, you—you glowing Holly-berry! I never dreamed there was such a girl on earth. When we’re married—My heavens, when we’re married! Cis, oh, Cis, you can’t dream how happy we’re to be! Did she think maybe we wouldn’t marry? Cis, we shall, we must! You’re going to marry me, aren’t you, my darling, my glowing ruby-jewel?”
Cis looked up, trembling, forgetful of fear, of doubt, responding to the call of this love that blotted out the world with as much ardor as its summons held. “Yes, oh, yes! I’d die else,” she said.
Rodney drew her to him oblivious to the highway and its many passers-by, but Cis came to her senses, and eluded his arms.
“Oh, Rod, Rory dear, we’re engaged!” she almost sobbed. “We are really, truly engaged, and isn’t it beautiful! Do people get engaged like this, without meaning to, just sort of talking, and then there you are? And it’s so public, and so queer! But, oh, Rory O’Moore, it’s so beautiful! What can it mean, it’s so beautiful?”
“It means that by your birthday, by Christmas, my Holly-berry, you’ll be in your own home, in my home, my wife, and that no cold nor storms shall ever touch my Christmas bride! Oh, Holly, Holly of my heart, red and glowing, thorns for all else, but for me the crimson fruit of your love!” cried Rodney, stammering under an emotion which unconsciously turned back to the phrases of his Celtic forbears for its expression.