“Dear Emily—dear Richard,” he said, in his strong melodious voice, “we will not cloud the joy of this sacred day with any word of what has passed forever. Let us not look upon it with one regret. Let us think of it rather with gratitude and blessing; for it has bound us together closer than we were before. See, I had but two friends; and now, I, who have no brother or sister of my own, have found a sister and a brother in you. That is worth the mutual pain—that repays it all. Behold, a new heaven and a new earth have come to us, and the former things are passed away.”
His voice ceased, and the silence came like a benediction. In a moment, his arms fell, and he turned from them. There was a pause, in which Wentworth and Emily wandered to the windows, wiping their eyes.
“Ah, me,” presently sighed Wentworth, breaking into his volatile laugh, “as I always say, I feel as if I’d got religion. In fact, I’ve got religion several times the last few days.”
“So have I,” cried Emily, dropping her handkerchief from her eyes, and laughing merrily. “John!” she exclaimed, turning quickly, and sweeping, with a rustle of silks, toward Harrington—“now, Richard, don’t be jealous!” she archly said in passing—“John, you restored me to life. I was dying with my long vigil of suffering when you held me in your arms. You lulled me to that sweet sleep, and when I awoke it was to happiness. You gave me back my life, and Muriel gave me back my love. How can I ever thank and love you enough for all you did for me? How can I ever repay you? But I owe you one thing—the kiss you gave me. Oh, I was like an unloved, weary child, dying for affection that hour when I asked you to kiss me. See—I owe you that kiss, and I give it to you.”
Wentworth, touched by the simple and tender fervor of her voice, and by the child-like affection of her action, turned away, filled with emotion.
“Good, now!” he exclaimed, in a moment, wheeling around, and playfully assuming an injured air. “Just keep that up all day, will you! Continue! I’m placid. I can stand any amount of laceration. Don’t stop for me. I’ll bear it.”
They laughed gaily, and came toward him, arm in arm.
“Well, you’re a handsome couple anyway,” pursued the mercurial Wentworth, surveying them with an air of bland admiration—genuine admiration, too, mixed with his affectation of it. “As for Emily, she’s just what Muriel calls her—the gorgeous queen-rose of Ispahan. But you, Harrington—what have you been doing to yourself? I never saw you look so finely in my life. Walter Raleigh—the beautiful and tall Sir Walter—must have looked like you, though I don’t believe he looked so well.”
Emily, leaning on Harrington’s arm, looked up into his face, and saw that what Wentworth said was true. A change had fallen upon the masculine bearded countenance—a fine rapture lit its regular features—a faint color lessened its pallor, and the pure blue eyes swam in brilliance.
“Indeed, Richard, you are right,” said Emily. “He looks as beautiful as the sun-god.”