“You are full of freaks and whims; you are a Mystic. Dr. Lake truly named you. I used to think you a bundle of impulses, and now I find you sternly adhering to a principle. If your whim be founded on principle, and I verily believe it is, I honor you even when I am laughing at you.”
“Don’t laugh at me; I am too miserable to bear that. Be patient with me as if I were ill.”
“You are not strong enough to go from home. If you do not feel well, will you write for me to come and bring you home?”
“I am well enough.”
“Promise me, please.”
“I can not promise,” she answered decidedly.
They were neither of them in a mood for further talk; she felt more at rest than she had felt for two years; there was nothing to think of, nothing to be hurried about; she had a whole year to be happy in, and then—she would be happy then, too. As for him—she could not see his face, for they had turned into the cross-road, thickly wooded, that opened into the clearing before the gates of Old Place.
He spoke to his horse in his usual tone, “Gently, Charlie.” He stooped to wrap the robe more closely about her feet; as he raised himself, she slipped her ungloved hand into his. “Don’t be troubled about me, I will not be troubled; I will not reason; but don’t be sure; perhaps when the year is over I shall not be satisfied.”
“Then you must take another year.”
“You will not be so patient with me another year; I shall not take another year.”