We arrived at Old Point in the morning, and the balmy air and genial skies seemed to help Gordon from the first. Oh, sweet Southern air and sweeter Southern skies! how unspeakably dear to me I knew not till I thus returned after all the maze of years. It was so delicious to hear again the soft Southern accent, to catch the liquid voices of the negroes, to breathe in the fragrance of the flowers that bloom in our dear Southland even in November.
I remembered—what woman would forget?—the very room that had been ours when we were there in that same hotel on our bridal tour so long ago, the dearest little room, with a tiny balcony that looked out upon the ocean. And I arranged that we should have it now—I would take no other. Not a word did I say to Gordon. But the first night we were there, after Dorothy had been safely stored away, I was sitting beside him, looking out over the moonlit harbour. The night was hushed, the ocean calm; voices of darkey stevedores floated softly up to us as they moved hither and thither with their creaking wheelbarrows on the wharf.
Suddenly Gordon turned his face full on mine in the moonlight. "Helen," he began huskily, "do you know what room this is, Helen?"
I yielded to his arms as he slowly drew me within their shelter; "it's where we were before—when you were my bride, my lovely, lovely bride," he said softly; "did you know it, Helen?"
I nodded, smiling up to his bending face. "Yes, I knew it, darling," I said; "that's why I chose it, Gordon."
I know not why it was—I suppose no one could explain it—but the dawn came to us, and the darkness rolled away, in that blessed hour. Tears came at last to Gordon; slowly at first; then in copious flow; then in a gush of feeling that wrung his whole form till it shook and sobbed like the frame of a little child. Passionately he held me, his kisses falling on my lips while he murmured such words of love as the days of courtship had never heard.
"It was like this before," he cried, pointing to the radiant sea; "the moon shone on it, just like this. And we were so happy then, darling—we didn't know of the long years, with their care and sorrow, that stretched before us. And you've been so good, Helen, so true and faithful—and so brave; whatever I've done, or been, I owe to you, my darling," and through all the gust of passion his voice had a naturalness, his eye a new-found calm, that told me the long dark night was past.
"We were so happy then, weren't we, dear?" he said again after a little stillness.
"I'm happier now," I answered, nestling in.
"Why?" he exclaimed. Then, suddenly discerning: "I know why—it's because we have the children now. Isn't that why, Helen—isn't it Dorothy and Harold?"