All the woman in her cried “yes,” but it also held her back.
“Will you love me in after years as now, Raine? Will you never come to think that this shame that has come to me was deserved? Think of it, dear, in your clear, honest way. You will never come to feel that you have given all your wealth for what, like most men, you should have trodden under foot? Your life's happiness—mine—depend upon your answering it from your heart of hearts, dear. Judge me now for ever and ever.”
“As God hears me,” said Raine, with the love in his voice. “To me you are ever the purest and the noblest and tenderest of women. You love me with a woman's love and I with a man's; and we will love soul to soul, dear, till we die. Our love, dear, is as sacred to me as the ghost I buried in it a few weeks ago. All this will be like a troubled dream—all the past, darling, in both our lives as shadows. Thank God!”
He put his arms suddenly round her, drew her to him, and kissed her. For both of them the world stood still, and the commonplace gardens were Eden, and the old peasant nodded his weatherbeaten head, and the mongrel and the dusty child looked on unastonished, like the beasts when the first apple was eaten.
Raine went, an hour or so after, to the Hôtel National and found Hockmaster outside, cultivating a dinner appetite with sherry and bitters. He jumped up when he perceived his visitor, and came towards him.
“Hello, Chetwynd! This is real friendly of you. Come and sit down—join me.”
Raine accepted the seat, but declined the sherry.
“Do you mind my asking you a very intimate question?” asked Raine.
“As many as you like,” said Hockmaster, with naïve effusion. “I have given you a sort of right to be familiar. Of course, whether I answer it is a matter for my discretion.”
“Precisely. But I hope you will. Are your feelings very deeply engaged in this affair with Mrs. Stapleton?”