"Yes."
He did not move, did not cast himself upon his knee in a passion of protesting gratitude, but in his stillness a current of unutterable love and fervour flowed from his body into hers through the medium of their touching hands and into his eyes there welled up such a look of tenderness and devotion that, meeting hers, it fused about them like an aura of radiance.
"You'll not regret it, dear," he whispered, as he leaned across the table and softly kissed her lips. "I'll do my utmost to make you happy, Mary! I've been selfish, but now you will always come first. I'll work hard for you. I'm making my way fast and I'm going to make it faster. I've got something in the bank now and in a short time, if you? I’ll wait, Mary, we'll just walk off and get married."
The dazzling simplicity of the solution blinded her, as, thinking how easy it would be fpr them to run away suddenly, secretly, without her father knowing, to loose themselves utterly from him, she dasped her hands together and whispered:
"Oh! Denis, could we? I never thought of that!"
"We can and we will, dear Mary. Ill work hard so that we can manage soon. Remember my motto! We'll make that our family crest Never mind the Wintons! Now, not another word or another worry for that little head of yours. Leave everything to me and remember only that I'm thinking of you and striving for you all the time. We may have to be careful how we meet, but surely I can see you occasionally even if it's only to admire the elegant little figure of you from a distance."
"I'll have to see you sometimes; it would be too hard to do without that," she murmured, and added ingenuously, "Every Tuesday I go to the Library to change Mamma's book, and sometimes my own."
"Didn't I find that out for myself, you spalpeen!" smiled Denis. "Sure enough I'll know all about your mother's taste in literature before I'm finished. And don't I know the Library! I'll be there, you may be sure. But can you not give me a photo of your own dear self to keep me going, in between times?"
She hung her head a little, conscious of her own deficiencies and the oddity of her up-bringing, as she replied, "I haven't got one. Father didn't approve of it."
"What! Your parents are behind the times, my girl. We'll have to waken them up. To think that you've never been taken is a shame; but never mind, I'll have your sweet face before the camera the moment we're married. How do you like this?" he enquired, as he produced a misty brown photograph of a jaunty young man stand-
ing with cheerful fortitude, mingled with an inappropriate air of hilarity, amongst what appeared to be an accumulation of miniature tombstones.
"Denis Foyle at the Giants' Causeway last year," he explained. "That old woman that sells shells there, you know, the big curly ones that sing in your ear, told my fortune that day. She said I was going to be the lucky, lucky gossoon, and indeed she must have known I was going to meet you."
"Can I have this, Denis?" she asked shyly. "I think it's lovely."
"It's for you and no other, provided you wear it next your heart."
"I must wear it where nobody sees it," she answered innocently.
"That'll suit me," he replied, and smiled teasingly at the sudden rush of colour and understanding which flooded her modest brow. But immediately he amended honourably:
"Don't mind me, Mary. As the Irishman said, Tm always puttin' me foot in it with me clumsy tongue."
They both laughed, but as she dissolved in gaiety, feeling that she could have listened to his banter for ever, she saw the purpose behind it and loved him for the attempt to hearten her against their separation. His courage made her valiant, his frank but audacious attitude towards life stimulated her as a clear cold wind might arouse a prisoner after a long incarceration in stagnant air. All this rushed upon her as she said involuntarily, simply:
"You make me glad and free, Denis. I can breathe when I'm with you. I did not know the meaning of love until I met you. I had never thought of it did nor understand but now I know that, always, for me, love is to be with you, to breathe with the same breath as you."
She broke off abruptly, covered with confusion, at her boldness in speaking to him like this. A faint recollection of her previous existence, of her life apart from him, dawned upon her, and, as her eye fell upon the heap of parcels beside her, she remembered Mamma who would be wondering what had become of her; she thought of her already appalling lateness, of the necessity for prudence and caution, and starting up abruptly, she said, with a short sigh:
"I'll really need to go now, Denis."
Her words burdened him suddenly with the imminence of her departure, but he did not plead with her to stay, and he stood up, like a man, at once, saying:
"I don't want you to go, dear, and I know you don't want to go either, but we've got the future straightened out better now. We've only got to love each other and wait."
They were still alone. Bertorelli, in vanishing irrevocably, had, monster though he might be, betrayed none the less a human understanding and a tactful appreciation of their situation which might weigh in the balance however lightly against the atrocities that had been imputed to him. They kissed quickly, when her lips swept his like the brush of a butterfly's wing. At the door they shared one last look, a silent communion of all their secret understanding, confidence and love, which passed between them like a sacred talisman before she turned and left him.
Her reticule, now a featherweight, her steps rapid, fluent to her dancing heart, her head in the air, her curls straying and sailing buoyantly behind her, she was home before the rapture of her thoughts had abated. As she swept into the kitchen Mrs. Brodie looked at her questioningly from around the inclination of her nose.
"What kept you, girl ? You took a long time to get that pickle of messages. Did you meet any one you knew? Was anybody speirin' ‘bout Matt?"
Mary almost giggled in Mamma's face. For a ridiculous instant she considered the effect upon her mother were she to tell her she had just eaten an ambrosial sweetmeat, served by an outrageous ruffian, who tortured bambinos with macaroni, in a forbidden haunt of iniquity, and in company with a young man who had virtually proposed a honeymoon in Paris. It was well that she refrained, for had she yielded to this absurdity in the exhilaration of her spirits Mrs. Brodie, if she had not doubted her daughter's sanity, would certainly have swooned immediately.
"The air must have done you good, anyway," continued Mamma, somewhat suspiciously. "You've got quite a colour."
Credulous as she was, the maternal instinct that was in her doubted such immediate efficacy in the usually impotent Levenford air.
"Yes! I feel much better now," replied Mary truthfully, with twitching lips and sparkling eyes.
"Grandma was saying something when you were out, about a letter she had seen you reading," persisted Mrs. Brodie, trailing after her nebulous idea. "I hope you're not up to any mischief your father would disapprove of. Don't set yourself up against him, Mary. Them that has tried it have aye regretted it. There's only one finish to that!"
She sighed reminiscently, and added, "He finds out eventually, and he'll be at you in the end, ay, and make it a bitter, bitter end."
Mary shook off her mantle with a shrug of her shoulders. In the space of the last hour her slim figure had regained its youthful and imperious vitality. She stood erect, filled with a fierce and confident joy.
"Mamma," she said gaily, "don't worry about me. My motto is now, 'Mary never knows defeat!'"