Part 20 (1/2)
For a moment she struggled vainly. Austin's arms tightened about her like bands of steel. She gave a little sigh, and lifted her face again.
”I can't seem to--kiss back any more,” she whispered, ”but if this is what you want--if it will make up to you for these last weeks--it doesn't matter whether you hurt or not.”
Every particle of resistance had left her. Austin had wished for an unconditional surrender, and he had certainly attained it. There could never again be any question of which should rule. She had come and laid her sweet, proud, rebellious spirit at his very feet, begging his forgiveness that it had not sooner recognized its master. A wonderful surge of triumph at his victory swept over him--and then, suddenly--he was sick and cold with shame and contrition. He released her, so abruptly that she staggered, catching hold of a chair to steady herself, and raising one small clenched hand to her lips, as if to press away their smarting. As she did so, he saw a deep red mark on her bare white arm. He winced, as if he had been struck, at the gesture and what it disclosed, but it needed neither to show him that she was bruised and hurt from the violence of his embrace; and dreadful as he instantly realized this to be, it seemed to matter very little if he could only learn that she was not hurt beyond all healing by divining the desire and intention which for one sacrilegious moment had almost mastered him.
A gauzy scarf which she had carried when she entered the room had fallen to the floor. He stooped and picked it up, and stood looking at it, running it through his hands, his head bent. It was white and sheer, a mere gossamer--he must have stepped on it, for in one place it was torn, in another slightly soiled. Sylvia, watching him, holding her breath, could see the muscles of his white face growing tenser and tenser around his set mouth, and still he did not glance at her or speak to her. At last he unfolded it to its full size, and wrapped it about her, his eyes giving her the smile which his lips could not.
”Nothing matters to me in the whole world either--except you,” he said brokenly. ”I think these last few--dreadful days--have shown us both how much we need each other, and that the memory of them will keep us closer together all our lives. If there's any question of forgiveness between us, it's all on my side now, not yours, and I don't think I can--talk about it now. But I'll never forget how you came to me to-night, and, please G.o.d, some day I'll be more worthy of--of your love and--and your _trust_ than I've shown myself now. Until I am--” He stopped, and, lifting her arm, kissed the bruise which his own roughness had made there. ”What can I do--to make that better?” he managed to say.
”It didn't hurt--much--before--and it's all healed--now,” she said, smiling up at him; ”didn't your mother ever 'kiss the place to make it well' when you were a little boy, and didn't it always work like a charm?
It won't show at all, either, under my glove.”
”Your glove?” he asked stupidly; and then, suddenly remembering what he had entirely forgotten--”Oh--we were going to a ball together. You came to tell me you would, after all. But surely you won't want to now--”
”Why not? We can take the motor--we won't be so very late--the others went in the carryall, you know.”
He drew a long breath, and looked away from her. ”All right,” he said at last. ”Go downstairs and get your cloak, if you left it there. I'll be with you in a minute.”
She obeyed, without a word, but waited so long that she grew alarmed, and finally, unable to endure her anxiety any longer, she went back upstairs.
Austin's door was open into the hall, but it was dark in his room, and, genuinely frightened, she groped her way towards the electric switch. In doing so she stumbled against the bed, and her hand fell on Austin's shoulder. He was kneeling there, his whole body shaking, his head buried in his arms. Instantly she was on her knees beside him.
”My darling boy, what is it? Austin, _don't_! You'll break my heart.”
”The marvel is--if I haven't--just now. I told your uncle that I was afraid I would some time--that I knew I hadn't any right to you. But I didn't think--that even I was bad enough--to fail you--like _this_--”
”You _haven't_ failed me--you _have_ a right to me--I never loved you so much in all my life--” she hurried on, almost incoherently, searching for words of comfort. ”Dearest--will it make you feel any better--if I say I'll marry you--right away?”
”What do you mean? When?”
”To-night, if you like. Oh, Austin, I love you so that it doesn't matter a bit--whether I'm afraid or not. The only thing that really counts--is to have you happy! And since I've realized that--I find that I'm not afraid of anything in the whole world--and that I want to belong to you as much--and as soon--as you can possibly want to have me!”
It was many months before Hamstead stopped talking about the ”Graduation Ball of that year.” It surpa.s.sed, to an almost extraordinary degree, any that had ever been held there. But the event upon which the village best loved to dwell was the entrance of Sylvia Cary, the loveliest vision it had ever beheld, on Austin Gray's arm, when all the other guests were already there, and everyone had despaired of their coming. Following the unwritten law in country places, which decrees that all persons engaged, married, or ”keeping company,” must have their ”first dance” together, she gave that to Austin. Then Thomas and James, Frank and Fred, Peter, and even Mr. Gray and Mr. Elliott, all claimed their turn, and by that time Austin was waiting impatiently again. But country parties are long, and before the night was over, all the men and boys, who had been watching her in church, and bowing when they met her in the road, and seizing every possible chance to speak to her when they went to the Homestead on errands--or excuses for errands--had demanded and been given a dance. She was lighter than thistledown--indeed, there were moments when she seemed scarcely a woman at all, but a mere essence of fragile beauty and sweetness and graciousness. It had been generally conceded beforehand that the honors of the ball would all go to Edith, but even Edith herself admitted that she took a second place, and that she was glad to take it.
Dawn was turning the quiet valley and distant mountains into a riotous rosy glory, when, as they drove slowly up to her house, Austin gently raised the gossamer scarf which had blown over Sylvia's face, half-hiding it from him. She looked up with a smile to answer his.
”Are you very tired, dear?”
”Not at all--just too happy to talk much, that's all.”
”Sylvia--”
”Yes, darling--”
”You know I have planned to start West with Peter three days after Sally's wedding--”
”Yes--”