Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (190 page)

In
the
meantime
events
moved
with
me,
for
they,
having
settled their
own
lives,
charged
themselves
with
the
arrangement
of
mine; and,
by
a
delicate,
untiring
management,
I
found
myself
growing more
friendly
or
more
accustomed
to
a
lady
of
her
kin;
whom,
at
last, they
expected
me
to
marry;
who
certainly
expected
to
marry
me; and
whom
I
should
wed
when
the
time
came
with
neither
reluctance nor
impatience.
But
this
lady
I
do
not
remember
even
slightly.
She is
a
shade;
a
fading
smile,
and
exists
for
me
as
a
dream
within
the dream.

It
was
settled,
and
whether
I
or
they
or
she
arranged
it
I
no
longer know.
It
may
have
been
just
propinquity,
or
that
sense
of
endlessness, that
inertia
of
speech,
which
causes
one
to
continue
talking
when there
is
no
more
to
be
said;
so
that,
and
inevitably,
one
asks
a
girl to
marry
one,
there
being
nothing
left
to
be
said;
and
she,
terrified lest
silence
should
fall
upon
her,
agrees
to
do
so,
and
marvels
thereat until
she
is
endlessly
wed.

So
I
asked
and
she
replied;
and
those
who
take
charge
of
such arrangements
took
charge
of
this;
and
settled
all
about
time
and
place, and
removed
every
impediment
to
our
union.

9^

It
was
the
night
before
my
wedding,
and
I
was
filled
with
that desolation
of
the
traveller
who
must
set
forth
on
the
morrow,
and does
not
quite
know
where
he
is
going,
nor
why
he
should
go
there. I
had,
as
was
now
my
custom,
taken
horse
and
gone
to
the
castle. The
girl
I
should
marry
was
there,
and
those
two
who
walked
like gods
on
the
earth
and
who
stirred
like
worms
in
my
mind.

We
talked
and
ate,
but
beyond
that
I
can
only
remember
the atmosphere
of
smiles
and
kindliness
to
which
I
was
accustomed.

My
recollection
begins
towards
nightfall.
I
had
kissed
that
girl's hands
and
she
went
away
to
her
bed;
and
I
was
preparing
to
perform the
same
duty
to
my
hostess,
when
she
postponed
it.

"It
is
a
lovely
night,"
she
said,
"and,"
looking
at
her
husband, meaningly,
as
I
thought,
"after
to-morrow
we
three
shall
not
be
the companions
we
have
been.
We
shall
not
meet
so
often
nor
so
carelessly."

To
my
glance
of
enquiry
she
continued,
smilingly:

"A
husband
belongs
to
his
wife.
Your
leisure
will
henceforth
have so
many
claims
on
it
that
we
may
see
little
of
you.
When
we
see
you again
we
may,
like
drunken
men,
see
you
double."

My
glance
was
humorous
but
questioning.

"Let
us
take
a
last
walk,"
she
suggested.

"Yes,"
her
husband
assented.
"One
more
walk
of
comrades;
one more
comfortable
talk,
and
then
let
to-morrow
work
what
changes
it may."