But Madelena wouldn’t have it.
“At least she must have a bridal gown! To be married without a bridal gown would be all wrong! . . . And in Lisbon we can surely find something that will be perfect for the occasion. I could find it myself if Steve cannot summon up the energy to make the trip to Lisbon. We are much of a size. . . . Anything that would fit me would fit Steve. . . . ”
But Steve smiled at her, rather mistily.
“I have enough energy to go to Lisbon and choose a dress to be married in, Madelena,” she assured her. “And to buy a few other things as well. And if you will help me—” “I shall love helping you!” Madelena cried, clapping her hands.
That night, after dinner, Steve found herself with Manoel on the terrace of the Quinta Rosa. She had not been home to the cottage yet, but some clothes had been brought to her, and she was wearing a simple white evening-dress which suited her beautifully, and made her seem very fragile and a trifle unreal in the dusk of the terrace. But she didn’t feel in the least fragile as Manoel’s arms encircled her fiercely, and in response to the wild hunger of his mouth every pulse in her body leapt and sang, and she gave back kiss for kiss as a young moon climbed above the trees and let them see the shimmering sea.
Manoel, she had discovered, was a trifle like dynamite. His passion was all consuming, and he had to make a supreme effort to control it and not to allow himself to be carried away by it. Not that Steve made it exactly easy for him. . . . She seemed to melt into his arms, and she was only happy when they were round her. The last few weeks of unhappiness had sharpened her need of him to desperation point, and he could feel it in her clinging fingers and the way her soft mouth trembled under his.
But she was also adorably shy, and Manoel’s demands left her breathless and frequently shaken. She was a little afraid of the storm she aroused in him, and until she could surrender herself completely to him she tried hard to be less transparent herself, and to withdraw from him at times. She felt they were both treading the sides of a volcano, and it might erupt at any moment.
Manoel was penitent and almost humble at times. He couldn’t forget that but for her strength of mind—and the merciful intervention of Carlos D’Castelos—he might have had something to reproach himself with which he could never forgive himself.
That night at the little mountain hotel he had been agonized by the thought of losing her. Now that he knew she was his he was shattered by the knowledge that he had been ready to harm her.
“That night I shall never forget,” he told her, as he held her close on the terrace. “You were everything that was desirable, and I had to let you go. . . . Can you wonder I lost my head, as no responsible de Romero has surely ever lost his head before?”
“It was your silence on the way home that really upset me,” she confessed, resting her cheek against him. “I had a feeling that you despised me, and that you blamed me for your own weakness. . . . And then the next day you wrote and asked me to marry you!”
He took her face between his hands, and his expression was a trifle perplexed as he gazed at her.
“But, why were you so upset by my proposal?” he asked.
“It was a perfectly sincere proposal, since nothing you could ever do would cause me to despise you, and I despised myself more than I can ever tell you! I was the man who loves you, and whom you love, begging you to marry me—prepared to wreck my life for you if necessary! —and your answer was to turn me down in the curtest possible phrases, and then to treat me with disdain. After that night I was sure you had conceived a kind of loathing for me.”
She shook her head, and sighed.
“I loathe you? I would have married you if you had begged me—yes; even although it meant breaking with Madelena, whom I did not know was in love with Tim! — but you did not beg me. Your letter was cold and polite and pointed out very clearly what I would be doing to you if I accepted. It seemed to me that your conscience was troubling you, but nothing else. So, naturally, I refused!”
He gazed deep into the blue eyes, with their fluttering, golden-brown eyelashes. He stroked the short curls of her hair.
“You would have refused me in any case, Stephanie,” he told her. “I knew that when I wrote the letter. You would have done nothing to hurt Madelena. . . . Or me, I think, since you loved me. And it was my knowledge of the hopelessness of the situation that made that letter so curt. It had to be written. I should have gone to Madelena and freed myself, and then come to you and begged you to make me happy. Because I could only—ever—be happy with you, my very, very dear one!”
There was a moment of ecstasy and passionate clinging, and then he lifted his head. He looked up at the silver slice of moon.
“By the time that moon is full—by the time it is half full! —you will be mine!” he told her triumphantly. “We shall be in Paris, and from Paris we will wander the world for a time. When we are tired of the world we will come back here to Portugal, and the
Quinta Rosa.” He folded hex deep in his arms. “I will show you so many things, teach you so many things, my darling,” he promised, “my white rose of love!”
THE END
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