ely azure crescent over the houses,
and its faint mild rays were like a benediction upon us. Then we had
turned to the left, and were in the Bois de Boulogne. We stopped the
carriage under the trees, which met overhead; the delicatest breeze
stirred the branches to a crooning murmur. All around was solitude and
a sort of hushed expectation. Suddenly Rosa put her hand into mine,
and with a simultaneous impulse we got out of the carriage and
strolled along a by-path.
"Carl," she said, "I have a secret for you. But you must tell no one."
She laughed mischievously.
"What is it?" I answered, calmly smiling.
"It is that I love you," and she buried her face against my shoulder.
"Tell me that again," I said, "and again and again."
And so under the tall rustling trees we exchanged vows--vows made more
sacred by the bitterness of our experience. And then at last, much to
the driver's satisfaction, we returned to the carriage, and were
driven back to the Rue de Rivoli. I gave the man a twenty-franc
piece; certainly the hour was unconscionably late.
I bade good night, a reluctant good night, to Rosa at the entrance to
her flat.
"Dearest girl," I said, "let us go to England to-morrow. You are
almost English, you know; soon you will be the wife of an Englishman,
and there is no place like London."
"True," she answered. "There is no place like London. We'll go. The
Opera Comique will manage without me. And I will accept no more
engagements for a very, very long time. Money doesn't matter. You have
enough, and I--oh, Carl, I've got stacks and piles of it. It's so
easy, if you have a certain sort of throat like mine, to make more
money than you can spend."
"Yes," I said. "We will have a holiday, after we are married, and that
will be in a fortnight's time. We will go to Devonshire, where the
heather is. But, my child, you will be wanting to sing again soon. It
is your life."
"No," she replied, "you are my life, aren't you?" And, after a pause:
"But perhaps singing is part of my life, too. Yes, I shall sing."
Then I left her for that night, and walked slowly back to my hotel.
THE END.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Ghost, by Arnold Bennett
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