“If you will not tell me these things yourself, Ethel—it’s mean of you, dear; it puts me at a disadvantage when you remember and I don’t. Heaven knows that I oughtn’t to forget anything that would give pleasure to you—that’s true; but I’m not mean on purpose, and you are. You know—But don’t let’s quarrel to-night.”
“Quarrel!” Mrs. Waring lifted her head indignantly. “As if I wanted to quarrel! Who was it told you, Henry?”
“Well, Ethel, if you must know, Nan was in the office to-day to say they couldn’t come, and she—”
“Nan—your sister Nan!”
Like a flash Mrs. Waring saw it all. She knew Nan’s impetuous, whole-souled way; but—One of Henry’s family! Life could have no further joy for her.
She looked at him furtively as he stood beside her gazing ruefully out across the water. Were they quarreling—would they get to throwing plates after a while? His attitude was ludicrously dejected. In spite of herself and the tears that had been ready to well up in her eyes the moment before, a sudden sense of the absurdity of it all came over her, and she broke into a refreshingly unexpected peal of laughter. Her husband stared, and then laughed, too, in delighted relief. “Ah,” she murmured, with her cheek against his coat sleeve, “I suppose I’ll just have to love you as you are!”
“If you only would, dear,” he assented humbly.
The lights on the New Jersey shore shone brighter and brighter now, yellow and red and green, casting their reflection on the black lapping water below. The boat was nearing the dock. All unbidden with the last words had come a deep joy, a thrill from heart to heart, wonderful in its illuminating power. The warm silence that followed was an instant benediction to unrecorded vows.
The chains clanked in the dock. As they stepped across the gangplank toward the dark, waiting lines of cars beyond, he pressed her hand in his as he bent over her, and whispered in tender playfulness, “Shall we take the train for Washington or Philadelphia?”