‘Stephen, say something—say you don’t hate me!’
A log crashed, sending up a bright spurt of flame, and Stephen stared down into Angela’s face. It was marred by weeping; it looked almost ugly, splotched and reddened as it was by her weeping. And because of that pitiful, blemished face, with the pitiful weakness that lay behind it, the unworthiness even, Stephen loved her so deeply at that moment, that she found no adequate words.
‘Say something—speak to me, Stephen!’
Then Stephen gently released her arm, and she found the little white box in her pocket: ‘Look, Angela, I got you this for your birthday—Ralph can’t bully you about it, it’s a birthday present.’
‘Stephen—my dear!’
‘Yes—I want you to wear it always, so that you’ll remember how much I love you. I think you forgot that just now when you talked about hating—Angela, give me your hand, the hand that used to bleed in the winter.’
So the pearl that was pure as her mother’s diamonds were pure, Stephen slipped on to Angela’s finger. Then she sat very still, while Angela gazed at the pearl wide-eyed, because of its beauty. Presently she lifted her wondering face, and now her lips were quite close to Stephen’s, but Stephen kissed her instead on the forehead. ‘You must rest,’ she said, ‘you’re simply worn out. Can’t you sleep if I keep you safe in my arms?’
For at moments, such is the blindness and folly yet withal the redeeming glory of love.