“Yes; perhaps I may tell you how it was some day, but not now.” He spoke hurriedly; and immediately began talking about other things; informing me,--as he had now got a habit of doing,--exactly how his affairs stood. Now, they were nearly arranged; and it became needful he should leave the camp, and begin his new duties by a certain day.
After a little more talk, he fixed--or rather, we fixed, for he asked me to decide--that day; briefly, as if it had been like any other day in the year; and quietly as if it had not involved the total ending for the present, with an indefinite future, of all this--what shall I call it?--between him and me, which, to one, at least, had become as natural and necessary as daily bread.
Thinking now of that two or three minutes of silence which followed--I could be very sorry for myself--far more so than then; for then I hardly felt it at all.
Doctor Urquhart rose, and said he must go--he could not wait longer for Mrs. Granton.
“Thursday week is the day then,” he added, “after which I shall not see you again for many months.”
“I cannot write to you. I wish I could; but such a correspondence would not be possible, would not be right.”
I was standing by the mantel-piece, steadying myself with one hand, the other hanging down. Doctor Urquhart touched it for a second.
“It is the very thinnest hand I ever saw!--You will remember,” he then said, “in case this should be our last chance of talking together--you will remember all we have been saying? You will do all you can to recover perfect health, so as to be happy and useful? You will never think despondingly of your life; there is many a life much harder than yours; you will have patience, and faith, and hope, as a girl ought to have, who is so precious to--many! Will you promise?”
Whether he took my hands, or I gave them, I do not know; but I felt them held tight against his breast, and him looking at me as if he could not part with me, or as if, before we parted, he was compelled to tell me something. But when I looked up at him we seemed of a sudden to understand everything, without need of telling. He only said four words,--“Is this my wife?” And I said “Yes.”
Once, I used to like reading and hearing all about love and lovers, what they said and how they looked, and how happy they were in one another. Now, it seems as if these things ought never to be read or told by any mortal tongue or pen.