“No,” he says; “I have no wish to know the tale of kisses. Many or few, we will take them for granted.”
Her head sinks on her breast in an agony of shame.
“Many or few, they are past and done with,” she cries out. “And now I beg you to forgive me! on my knees I beg you to forgive me!” As she speaks, she suits the action to the word, and drops on her knees beside the bed.
He looks at her, disturbed at the humiliation expressed by her whole being, yet with an underlying calm that dominates her.
“The only thing that I can’t forgive you is your present attitude,” he answers; and, as he speaks, there is just enough of gentle disgust in his voice to bring back before her, in prosaic strength, his æsthetic detestation of all scenes, rows, uglinesses.
“I must keep it till you answer me,” she returns, chilled, yet persistent. “Will you forgive me? and will you prove it by marrying me?—by marrying me as soon as you get well? I will stay here until my knees grow to the carpet, if you do not say ‘Yes.’”
He lies silent for a moment or two, considering her with a sort of high, detached pity.
“I have no alternative,” he answers, with a grave smile. “Since you wish it, I will marry you—when I get well; and now, would you oblige me by standing up?”
CHAPTER XXII
So it is settled. Her prayers are answered; her vows are fulfilled. Everything is, or will be upon Rupert’s recovery, as it was. As it was? When? Before Binning’s coming? Her soul, half-lightened of its burden of remorse, awaking to new pain, cries out in bitter protest, “My God!—no!” And yet to all appearance it will be so. To all appearance she will take up the thread of life where she had dropped it on the day of her uncle’s and Rupert’s return from London. There is no hurry about her question now. She will have countless hours of married intimacy in which to put it.