"Yes, I seem so, just for a little time. But I fear that I shall never be well enough to be your wife."
"It was so very near once, you know," was all he whispered.
There was no one within view, and they sat, her hand clasped in his. The old expressive silence that used to lie between them of old, ensued now. They could not tell to each other more than they had told already. In the unexpected reconciliation that had come, in the bliss it brought, all had been disclosed. Arthur had heard all about her self-humiliation and anguish; he knew of the treasured violets, and their supposed treachery: she had listened to his recital of the weeks of despair; she had seen the letter, written to him from Eastsea, worn with his kisses, blotted with his tsars, and kept in his bosom still. No: of the past there was nothing more to tell each other; so far, they were at rest.
Arthur Bohun was still unconsciously twirling that pink hyacinth in his fingers. Becoming aware of the fact, he offered it to her. A wan smile parted her lips.
"You should not have given it, to me, Arthur."
"Why?"
Ellen took it up. The perfume was very strong.
"Why should I not have given it to you?"
"Don't you know what the hyacinth is an emblem of?"
"No."