Then the silence of death reigned about us both, though heaven knows I tried my best to break it, but could make no sound. And then, then—with all the stealth of love and of a strong man's will—he gently drew the letter from my hand, my heart fluttering till it hurt, and without a word he tore it up, slowly, noiselessly, almost reverently, into a hundred pieces, and a moment later they fluttered through the dark out onto the bosom of the silent river.
I was like one in a dream, unspeaking still. Perhaps I had a great sense of weakness, even of wrong. But I do not think so. I only knew that life was changed to me in that wonderful hour, and that I cared nothing for the future, all that it might bring, all my unfitness for it. I only knew that I had found at last what my poor, tired, frivolous heart had been seeking in alien ways for long. And I knew that love's great lie, so desperately cherished, had retreated before Love's great Reality. And when he took me in his arms, so strong, so tight, I shut my eyes and rested there; and when he kissed me—only once—I prayed, a swift, wonderful prayer. And I knew at last that love was holy, stainless, and that God was good.
XI
A MOTHER CONFESSOR
They were waiting for us when we got home, wondering a little why we were so late. We told them we had been on the river, and Mr. Laird apologized for the loss of the oar; I remember uncle said it was lucky he was able to paddle his own canoe.
I went into mother's room when I went up-stairs to fix my hair—and she noticed that Charlie's ring was absent from my hand. I expected her to, for it was a source of constant joy to her. Then I told her. I shall not describe the gust that followed, except to say that what I remember best about it was mother's appeal to my sense of unfitness for the life of a minister's wife. There was a lot more—Europe and the yacht were not forgotten—about the folly of giving myself to a life of obscurity and poverty when a very different one was open to me.
"I'm sick of money," I said foolishly; "I've always had nearly everything I wanted—and I wasn't happy."
"You'll know the difference when you don't have your uncle to give you everything you want," said my mother.
"He's been the kindest man that ever was," I agreed, "but no uncle that ever lived could give a girl everything she wants. There's only one can do that," I went on, for my heart was singing—"and I've found him at last."
It was then that mother appealed to me on the ground of my unfitness for the life I had chosen. And I must admit that did hit me pretty hard.