“Peace,” she replied.
“Yes, peace. Oh! my dearest, with you, peace.”
He rose from her side. She let her hands go over the keys, playing snatches of things. The prelude to tea appeared, the table and the cloth.
Mr. Wainbridge walked to the window, and Launa was playing “Warum.” “Das bange bittere Warum,” with its ceaseless unanswered questions. It was one of the things she had always played and felt she had not understood. Through what a century of emotions she had gone, and “Warum” brought her back. She understood it now as she never had done before.
She had been drifting down a rapid quiet stream, hurrying past the old landmarks, soothed by the swift dark water, lulled by its swirl, and rush, comforted by Mr. Wainbridge’s care of her and for her. Now she was out on the sea, the broad sea of love, with its indefiniteness. She had awakened with a start to find herself there; to know that he loved her and wanted to marry her, and she also knew that to turn back was impossible.
“I am so happy, my darling,” he said, turning round as he spoke. “I have loved you for so long, and I have feared.”
“Feared what?”
“I feared you. That you did not care, and you do not care as I do.”
“No,” she replied; “I do not, I cannot care as you do. Why is it? I want to, and I want to remember only you. Only I can’t, I can’t.”
“You do not want to remember the old life?”