He had come to complete the declaration which the song had interrupted
on the lake, and at the first hint the chords that had been touched by
the unknown singer vibrated sharply, bringing back her old heartache. He
crossed to her quickly that he might show her how completely the memory
of that night had been obliterated; that it had vanished utterly and
ceased to be, like the ripple stirred to a moment's life by the brush of
a swallow's wing on still water. He stood beside her and took both her
hands in his strong clasp.
"We are going to be married, Sylvia; we are going to be married, here,
now, to-day!"
"No, no!"
She turned away her head, but his arms enfolded her; he bent down and
kissed her forehead, her eyes, and her lips last of all.
"Yes; here and now. Unless you say you don't care for me, that you don't
love me. If you say those things I shall go away."
She did not say them. She clung to him and looked long into his face,
and kissed him.
Harwood had chosen the hour well. Sylvia had met bravely the great
crisis of her life, and had stood triumphant and satisfied, weary but
content in the clear ether to which she had climbed; but it was a relief
to yield herself at last to the sway of emotions long checked and
stifled. Save for her grandfather's devoted kindness, and the friendship
of Mrs. Owen, her experiences of affection had been singularly meagre.
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