“Will you not let us,” I said to him, after Mr. Lovelow’s word about his talent, “see your drawings sometime? It would give us great pleasure.”
Whereupon, “Sure. Me, I’ll toin de whol’ of ’em over to youse,” said the Greek god, thumbs out and shoulders flickering.
But back of these glimpses of reality among them there was something still more real; and though I dare say there will be some who will smile at the affair and call that interest curiosity and those awkward thanks mere aping of convention, yet Pelleas and I who have a modest degree of intelligence and who had the advantage of being present do affirm that on that Easter morning countless little doors were opened in the air to admit a throng of presences. We cannot tell how it may have been, and we are helpless before all argument and incredulity, but we know that a certain stone was rolled away from the door of the hearts of us all, and there were with us those in shining garments.
In the midst of all I turned to ask our Little Friend some trivial thing and I saw that which made my old heart leap. Little Friend stood before a table of the lilies and with her was young Mr. Lovelow. And something—I cannot tell what it may have been, but in these matters I am rarely mistaken; and something—as she looked up and he looked down—made me know past all doubting how it was with them. And this open secret of their love was akin to the mysteries of the day itself. The gentle, sad young clergyman and our Little Friend of the crimson muffler had suddenly opened to us another door and admitted another joyous presence. I cannot tell how it may be with every one else but for Pelleas and me one such glimpse—a glimpse of two faces alight with happiness on the street, in a car, or wherever they may be—is enough to make glad a whole gray week. Though to be sure no week is ever wholly gray.
I was still busy with the sweet surprise of this and longing for opportunity to tell Pelleas, when they all moved toward the door and with good-byes filed into the hall. And there in the anteroom stood Nichola, our old servant, who brushed my elbow and said in my ear:—
“Mem, every one of ’em looks starvin’. I’ve a kettle of hot coffee on the back of the range an’ there’s fresh sponge-cake in plenty. I’ve put cups on the dinin’-room table, an’ I thought—”
“Nichola!” said I, in a low and I must believe ecstatic tone.
“An’ no end o’ work it’s made me, too,” added our old servant sourly, and not to be thought in the least gracious.
It was a very practical ending to that radiant Easter morning but I dare say we could have devised none better. Moreover Nichola had ready sandwiches and a fresh cheese of her own making, and a great bowl of some simple salad dressed as only her Italian hands can dress it. I wondered as I sat in the circle of our guests, a vase of Easter lilies on the table, whether Nichola, that grim old woman who scorned to come to our service, had yet not brought her pound of ointment of spikenard, very precious.
“You and Mr. Lovelow are to spend the afternoon and have tea with us,” I whispered Little Friend, and had the joy of seeing the tell-tale colour leap gloriously to her cheek and a tell-tale happiness kindle in his eyes. I am never free from amazement that a mere word or so humble a plan for another’s pleasure can give such joy. Verily, one would suppose that we would all be so busy at this pastime that we would almost neglect our duties.