The soft voice broke: she wheeled suddenly round, hiding her face, but Martin leaped after her, seized her by the arms:
“Grizel—Grizel!”
Her face quivered into tears.
“Oh! Oh! you made me do it; and I vowed I wouldn’t!—If I’m worth having, I’m worth asking, and oh, Martin—I’ve waited!”
“Grizel, Grizel!” cried Martin again. She was in his arms, she clung to him, sobbing with the abandonment of a child. Grizel, in whose gay eyes he had never yet seen a tear! His grasp, the trembling of his strong frame, the dazed rapture of his face, told their own tale, but as yet he had no words; it was Grizel who poured out her tale of love.
“It was always you—never any one else. And I was happy because I knew that some day—! And I tried, I tried to make you! ... Oh, Martin, your arms at last! To rest here! And you talk of money! Oh, now I am rich; but for years I have starved,—Martin! Martin!”
He strained her close, still dazed, incredulous with joy.
“Grizel. Beloved! You are my life, but can I take you? Dare I? Is it right?”
“You have no choice—I’m here! Martin, I’ve loved you since that day I saw you first, standing with little Juliet among the roses... She’ll be glad, Martin—there can be no jealousy in a spiritual world. She’ll just rejoice that you are happy, and that love has come to you again. I’m so sure of that!”
Was there another woman in the world who would have spoken of Juliet at that moment? Martin flinched, for at the back of his mind still lingered a consciousness of disloyalty, but he loved Grizel the more for her sweet comfort.