He looked up at her for a reply; but she only smiled a little and slowly shook her head.
And so they talked on, these two, for a long time; they drifted on into a dreamy, personal mood—into a land where only common interests could get a footing, where there was no clock—nothing but the red flames, and the dim rows of books, and the hushed house, and themselves. They forgot to-night those three years of divergence—forgot that there was one set of facts centring about the Michigan lumberman and another about Margaret. To Halloran all of life had slipped away except that dreamy figure in the Morris chair, with the late red glow of the fire on her face and on her hair. Her eyes were half closed, and she turned them toward him now and then without moving her head. A smile hovered on her face—now on her lips, if he spoke to her—at other times flitting about her eyes. Her hands lay motionless on the arms of 'the chair. To both of them it was a rich glad time, so glad that it could best be explained by silence, tempered only at intervals by low voices; so rich that it poured its warmth into their very souls and quieted them, and gave them to know that such high moments are rare, that they must be conserved and guarded, must be lived through reverently.
He looked at her shyly at first, with stolen glances, until in some silent way she gave him her permission; and then he looked long, not from his eyes alone, but from the new self within him which had risen almost to equality with that other self of hers. He knew this now—knew it to be gloriously true; and he felt a defiance of all life, of all the pressing facts and things that had crowded into his existence, a defiance, a consciousness of self that thrilled him with its reality. For the first time in his life he knew that those solid things were not real. And his soul was awed and humbled.
And she looked at him—shyly always, yet conscious of what she was too honest to deny. And the occasional pressure of her sensitive mouth, the twitch of her eyelid as the light wavered over it, were not needed to show him that she, too, was wholly given up to the reality—that her life was gathered up to-night, with his, into one full hour of happiness.
Into this Arden came the distant whistle of a locomotive. Her eyes sought his, and at the expression they found there she shook her head.
“That is going the other way,” she said softly.
“I'm sorry”—he looked at his watch—“I have just time for the last train.”
He rose and stood a moment looking at the fire. Then he came over and leaned on the back of the chair and reached down and raised her hand in his. She almost shivered at his touch, but he held it firmly; and after a moment, in which the blood seemed to leave her face, her fingers closed on his and clasped them tightly.
And then he forgot all about the last train. He knew that the impulse that he had feared so long had at last mastered him, and he was wildly, exultantly glad. He slipped down on the broad arm of the chair and held her hand on his knee, and looked down at her hair; whilst she, still with that occasional compression of the lips, gazed into the fire. For her, too, everything had slipped into oblivion—everything but the red, red glow of the dying fire and the clasp of his hand in hers and the touch of his other hand on her hair. There was nothing else in the world for her to-night; and her happiness was so poignant that she felt herself swept blindly along with him, past all the obstacles of convention, of small misunderstandings, of outside interests, on up to heights that had never before during her quiet lifetime even entered her imagination. At moments her fingers would tighten on his and strange, happy tears would fill her eyes, to be kept back only by an effort. Once she could not keep them back; and he looked down and saw them on her cheek, and she did not care. Tears were trivial, now that her soul was laid bare to him.
At another time she spoke so softly that he could not hear, and he bent down his head.