His eyes were full of pity and his voice was quivering. "Yes," he said, "yes, it's holy—but we have the children left, my darling," and he began to lead me gently from the room. Nor did he stop till we were standing where we had stood before, looking down on the unconscious forms.
"I'm going down to the study for a while," he said a little later; "I won't be long," as he began to descend the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the dismantled house.
I went back to my room, weeping, and sat down upon one of the trunks that stood about. Suddenly an impulse came to me—I think it must have been from heaven—and I sprang to my feet, burrowing eagerly towards the bottom of the trunk.
Ten minutes later I stole down the stairs. I was arrayed in my wedding gown. The years may have chafed it some, but they had not availed against its beauty and its richness. The pearl trimming—and those other radiant things that have no name—shone triumphant in the light. And I had about my neck, and on my bosom, some precious lace that I had removed long years before. The hall was almost empty—little there but our piano, that had been dragged out and left close beside the door. There was a mirror, too, still undisturbed upon the wall; and I paused before it just as I had done that golden day in Baltimore when Gordon was waiting to take me as his own forever. My eyes rested lovingly on the sweet and stainless vesture—it still fitted me like a glove, thank heaven—and then wandered to the face above. Long, long I gazed into the answering eyes, the past lying deep within them like water in some amber spring. The face was older, of course, and the signs of toil and care were on it; but the golden glow of love, I felt, clothed it with a peace—and a beauty too—which it never knew on that far-off wedding day. Poverty and hardship, I knew, were waiting at the gate; obscurity and struggle were to be our portion. But my husband was sitting in the room just beyond the door; my children—oh, the wealth and sweetness of the word!—my children's breathing I could almost hear; the years were past and gone, from whose hands I had received them all—and in that hour my wedding robes glistened with a holier light than time can cast, and the bridal bliss sprang like a fountain in my heart.
"Why so long?" Gordon suddenly sang out; "come in."
"I'm coming, dear," I said, and I felt the blitheness of my voice as it echoed through the hall. Very softly I stepped in and stood before him as he sat beside the dying fire.
His eyes devoured me with love; they roamed mostly about my dress—which was exactly what I wanted. I think he glanced once or twice about the room, its denuded bareness contrasting strangely with the rich robe I wore. Then he rose and took me into his arms—far, deep in—as into a mighty refuge. "You never looked so sweet, my darling—the years haven't touched it," was all he said. But he kissed my hair, my neck, my lips.
It was nearly an hour later when we arose to go up-stairs, and I was still in all my glory as we moved out, Gordon's arm still about me, into the echoing hall.
"Sing something," he suddenly requested as we passed the piano. It stood in sullen silence, as if it knew this to be a move for the worse.
My hands roved over the keys for a little; it was hard to know what would suit the hour.