“I thought the suffering was all on my side,” he said. “Bridget, I’ve endured the torture of the damned these last few months!” He tightened his grasp on her hands till it hurt her. “I kept away; how I did it, I don’t know; but I kept away from you because I couldn’t trust myself. I was afraid you would know it, and it would worry you. Poor child!—and you have trouble enough already.” His voice suddenly dropped into infinite tenderness for her.
The tears sprang to Bridget’s eyes. With a sudden movement she laid her cheek caressingly against his hand.
“My darling!” he whispered, holding her close. “You know what it means? Bridget, you poor little girl, have you thought?”
She drew herself away.
“No,” she said, with downcast eyes. “I know there’s a battle coming. We shall have to decide—I know that; but, Larry, I can’t think of it now. There’s no room in my heart for anything but joy! Dear, let us have our moment! We shall have plenty of time to think,—plenty of time!” she repeated sadly.
He knelt beside her, murmuring her name in a half-incredulous voice. “This day, at least, is ours,” he said triumphantly, defiantly. “Nothing can take it from us!”
CHAPTER XV
The Trelawneys spent their honeymoon in Paris; and since June, they had been stopping at a little village on the coast of Normandy, which several of Jim’s artist friends had also chosen as headquarters.
Bridget was spending her holiday with them. A fortnight of it had passed already, when she and Helen spent one brilliant morning on the cliffs. The August sun blazed royally in a hot blue sky.
On a hill, above the coast, the little gray church of St. Marguerite overlooked the sea. Below it, clothing the hillside with a sheet of rose-pink and purple blossoms, a field of clover swept downwards towards a narrow cleft in the chalk cliffs, by which the shore was reached.