VIII The Length of a Minute
Well, there, in the vestibule, the tendrils were still on her face, and her eyes were greater and her voice softer than before; and, somehow, without her will her hands went out to him, and without his will his arm disposed itself as it had done for dancing.
“Hush!” she whispered, putting her hand on his mouth to shut out the very words she hungered for, “we have only a minute, and I wished to thank thee and to be forgiven by thee—and—and—to forgive thee—and to never, never meet again—as we agreed—so—so—oh, it was wrong—wrong! But I am so wicked that I am not sorry. No, nor ever shall be! But thee will never tell—and—and when thee is married—everybody has little secrets from his wife—or—husband—my mother has—why, do not tell thy—wife—”
But that word was too much for either of them to endure.
He kissed her so savagely that she lay quiet in his arms.
“Bell-Bell,” murmured the happy and dishevelled Quaker lady to the sleepy lady of the house of Jarn, “I’m sorry. Forgive me. It was more than a minute—wasn’t it?”
“I think it was an hour,” snapped Bell-Bell, with pretended savagery.
“Bib—but thee did not call,” half sobbed the happy one, “and—and I—forgot!”
“God bless you both!” shouted the little wife, and in a moment had the dishevelled head with the damp tendrils of hair on her breast. “I am almost as happy as you.”
“Why?” questioned the Quaker lady.
“Why—didn’t he ask you to marry him?”
“No. I don’t think he would wish to marry a Quaker—especially one as wicked as I am.”
She could hear the fine teeth of Bell-Bell grind.
“Isn’t it funny that one can be so very wicked and so very happy at the same time?”
“No. Go to sleep. I must think.”
“Mi—must I tell thee all that happened in the vestibule?”
“No. I know.”
“Oh! Thi—thee saw us?”
“I went straight to bed.”
“Then, how, Bell-Bell, dear—”
“Look here, I’ve been through all that. There are others besides John Rem. I don’t like him a bit to-night. And I shall tell him so very early in the morning.”
“Not so tall and strong as he, I think, dear Bell-Bell.”
“All right. Go to bed, you wicked little Quaker.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to talk. Bell-Bell, there couldn’t have been any one to hold thee that way—as if thee were never to get away again! And—and kiss thee. That is twice!” she wailed, with the air of a felon confessing his felonies. “Does thee think me irreparably wicked? He does, I know, and will never look at me again.”
“Never fear. They like us to be wicked—a little—you know. Now, off to bed with you!”
“Truly?”
“Truly. To bed!”