'Don't cry,' he repeated, 'don't cry any more.' He held her head close against him, very close and quiet.
At last she was still. Then she looked up, her eyes wide and frightened.
'Don't you want me?' she asked.
'Want you?' His darkened, steady eyes puzzled her and did not give her
play.
'Do you wish I hadn't come?' she asked, anxious now again for fear she
might be out of place.
'No,' he said. 'I wish there hadn't been the violence--so much
ugliness--but perhaps it was inevitable.' She watched him in silence. He seemed deadened.
'But where shall I stay?' she asked, feeling humiliated.
He thought for a moment.
'Here, with me,' he said. 'We're married as much today as we shall be
tomorrow.' 'But--' 'I'll tell Mrs Varley,' he said. 'Never mind now.' He sat looking at her. She could feel his darkened steady eyes looking
at her all the time. It made her a little bit frightened. She pushed
her hair off her forehead nervously.
'Do I look ugly?' she said.
And she blew her nose again.
A small smile came round his eyes.
'No,' he said, 'fortunately.' And he went across to her, and gathered her like a belonging in his
arms. She was so tenderly beautiful, he could not bear to see her, he
could only bear to hide her against himself. Now; washed all clean by
her tears, she was new and frail like a flower just unfolded, a flower
so new, so tender, so made perfect by inner light, that he could not
bear to look at her, he must hide her against himself, cover his eyes
against her. She had the perfect candour of creation, something
translucent and simple, like a radiant, shining flower that moment
unfolded in primal blessedness. She was so new, so wonder-clear, so
undimmed. And he was so old, so steeped in heavy memories. Her soul was
new, undefined and glimmering with the unseen. And his soul was dark
and gloomy, it had only one grain of living hope, like a grain of
mustard seed. But this one living grain in him matched the perfect
youth in her.
'I love you,' he whispered as he kissed her, and trembled with pure
hope, like a man who is born again to a wonderful, lively hope far
exceeding the bounds of death.
She could not know how much it meant to him, how much he meant by the
few words. Almost childish, she wanted proof, and statement, even
over-statement, for everything seemed still uncertain, unfixed to her.