III
When Hodder had reached the foot of the stairs, Alison came out to him. The mourning she wore made her seem even taller. In the face upturned to his, framed in the black veil and paler than he had known it, were traces of tears; in the eyes a sad, yet questioning and trustful smile. They gazed at each other an instant, before speaking, in the luminous ecstasy of perfect communion which shone for them, undimmed, in the surrounding gloom of tragedy. And thus, they felt, it would always shine. Of that tragedy of the world's sin and sorrow they would ever be conscious. Without darkness there could be no light.
“I knew,” she said, reading his tidings, “it would be of no use. Tell me the worst.”
“If you marry me, Alison, your father refuses to see you again. He insists that you leave the house.”
“Then why did he wish to see you?”
“It was to make an appeal. He thinks, of course, that I have made a failure of life, and that if I marry you I shall drag you down to poverty and disgrace.”
She raised her head, proudly.
“But he knows that it is I who insist upon marrying you! I explained it all to him—how I had asked you. Of course he did not understand. He thinks, I suppose, that it is simply an infatuation.”
In spite of the solemnity of the moment, Hodder smiled down at her, touched by the confession.
“That, my dear, doesn't relieve me of responsibility. I am just as responsible as though I had spoken first, instead of you.”