And so, holding himself very upright, and with his head in the air, he went slowly past the veranda and the Hankins, and, turning to Mrs.
Tailleur, gave them the full spectacle of his gladness and his pride in her.
"How good you are to me," she said. "I know why you did that."
"Do you?"
He smiled, guarding his secret, holding it back a little while longer.
"Where are we going to?"
"Anywhere you choose to take me."
He took her through the gate that led them to the freedom of the Cliff.
"Do you see that?" He pointed to the path which was now baked hard and white by the sun.
"What is it?"
"Your little footprints, and my great hoofmarks beside them. I believe n.o.body comes this way but you and me."
"You see, it leads nowhere," said she.
"Doesn"t it?" said he.
The little room in the Cliff-side was whiter than ever, burning white, it was, where the sun faced it. But the east side of it was in shadow, and they sat there, under the great forehead of the Cliff.
They were both silent. Lucy was thinking of how he had found her there, and of the fear and trouble of last night. He vowed that if he could help it there should be no more fear and no more trouble for her. In their silence, voices thin and sweet with distance, came to them from below, where children played on the beach among the rocks that, washed by water-springs from the Cliff"s forehead to its foot, lay heaped where they had fallen. She listened and laughed.
She was happy now. He watched her as she stretched her adorable feet to the sun. A little wind came from the sea and played with her, taking from her a slight scent of violets for its salt. Every nerve in his body was aware of her nearness.
Only last night he had seen her crouching just there, in the darkness, convulsed, her face wet with rain and tears. It was good that the place they had chosen should be changed and cleansed for them by sunlight and wind from the sea and the sweet voices of children.
She did not break the silence. She only looked at him once with eyes whose pupils, black and dilated, narrowed the blue ring of the iris.
Then he spoke. "I was going to say something to you last night, but I didn"t. There was something I wanted to know first, something I wasn"t quite sure about."
She turned her face from him. The light struck it, and it quivered and grew white.
"Well, do you know now?"
"Yes," he said, "I know now."
But her lips scarcely moved as she answered him. "Of course you know."
She faced him with her sad white courage.
"Everybody knows. I"d rather you knew. I--I meant you to."
"Oh please"--he protested. "I wonder if I may say what it is?"
"It"s something about me?"
"Yes. It"s something about you. If I may say it."
"You may say anything you please. You know that."
"Well, I wanted very much to know whether--whether you were fond of children."
"Oh----" She drew a long breath, as if released from torture. Then she laughed the indescribable half-sobbing laugh of a child tormented and suddenly set free.
"Whether I were fond of children. Do you honestly mean it? Was that what you weren"t sure of?"
"Well, of course, in a way I knew--but I couldn"t tell, you know, till I"d seen you with one."
"Well, and so you can tell now?"
"Yes. I can tell now."
"And if I am fond of children, what difference does that make?"
"It makes all the difference. You see, I"ve got two little girls----"
"Two little girls." She repeated it after him smiling, as if she played with the vision of them.
"You see--they"ve no mother. My wife----"
"I know," she said softly.
"How did you know?"
"I can"t tell you."
"My wife died five years ago when my youngest little girl was born."
"And I thought," she said, "you were so young."
"I"m thirty-five."
"Still I was right. You"re young. Very young."
"Oh, well, don"t you know, they say a woman"s as young as she looks, and a man"s as young as he feels. I _feel_ all right."
"You dear." Her mouth and eyes said it without a sound.
"Are you quite sure that"s all you want to know?"
"I had to know it."
"It was so important?"