THEY were married at St. John’s a couple of months after his return. Mr. Preston united them in the bonds of holy matrimony with his still unvarying wooden gravity, through which, however, Milly was able to discern some faint, limited attempt at warmth, and Mrs. Preston folded her in her arms afterwards with a scoffing fondness that rather troubled the bride when she thought of it. She did not want to think now of spoiled lives. Something in Mrs. Preston’s manner implied—could it be pity?
It had been delightful after three years of maiden dreaming and shadowy aspiration to be carried forcibly out of them into a clear, cheerful, masculine territory where things seemed to be exactly what they were. The charm of having a lover who was almost a stranger, yet whom it was taken for granted must be both dear and familiar, was nearly too bewildering. She laughed at absurd jokes, was betrayed into demonstrative foolishness, and could scarcely believe in her own metamorphosis. She was in a state of suppressed excitement which must be happiness.
“I hardly knew you when I saw you coming in the gate,” she confessed one day soon after his arrival. “Think of it! I ran and hid.”
“You did not hide long,” he answered gravely, taking a hairpin from her smooth locks. “Let your hair down, I want to see if it has grown.”
“Norton! how silly. Are you always like this?”
“Certainly.”
“But I want to tell you of so many things that I could not write when you were away. Oh, Norton, the years have been short, yet they were so very, very long, too! There is so much I have to confess to you—how shall I ever begin?”
“Don’t try,” he answered laconically. “Leave all that time out, Milly, I hate it. We’ll begin fresh now.” He drew a long breath. “It was a hard, coarse life out there—you couldn’t even understand it, sweetheart. But one thing I can tell—” he turned around and faced her with steadfast gaze—“I can look you straight in the eyes, dear, and not be ashamed.”
“Why, of course!” said Milly.