Then he stopped, dazed and bewildered, for Yvonne, her arms outstretched, her head thrown back, her lips parted, and a great yearning light in her eyes, came swiftly to him from where she stood, uttering a little cry, and in another moment was sobbing in his arms.
“Oh, my love, my dear, dear love!” she cried, “I could not leave you—take me—for always. I love you—I love you—I could n’t leave you!”
“Yvonne,” he cried hoarsely, his pulses throbbing like a great engine’s piston-rod, in the tremendous amazement, as he held her—how tightly he did not know—and gazed down wildly into her face, “Yvonne, what are you saying? What is it? Tell me—for God’s sake—the marriage—Everard?” Then she threw back her head further against his arm, and their eyes met and hung upon each other for a breathless space. And there was that in Yvonne’s eyes—“the light that never was on sea or land”—that no man yet had seen or dreamed of seeing there. The straining, passionate love too deep for smiling, glorified her pure face.
“There will be no marriage,” she murmured faintly, still holding him with her eyes, “I went to Everard this morning.”
She raised her lips almost unconsciously toward him, and then the man’s whole existence was drowned in the kiss.
For many moments they scarcely spoke. Passion plays its part in swift burning utterances and tumultuous silences. At last, she freed herself gently and moved towards the fire. But only to be taken once again into his clasp.
“Oh, my darling, my darling, is this joy madness, or is it real?”
“It is real,” said Yvonne. “Nothing can ever part us, until we die.”
He helped her off with her hat and jacket and led her to the great armchair by the fire and knelt down by her side.
“Oh, Stephen dear,” she said in piteous happiness, “it has been such suffering.”