One day,rummaging over an old chest,he comes across a coloured picture-book of Bible stories.He turns the torn pages fondly,remembering the Sunday afternoons of long ago.At one picture,wherein are represented many angels,he pauses;for in one of the younger angels of the group--one not quite so severe of feature as her sisters--he fancies he can trace resemblance to Anne.He lingers long over it.Suddenly there rushes through his brain the thought,How good to stoop and kiss the sweet feet of such a woman!and,thinking it,he blushes like a boy.
So from the soil of human suffering spring the flowers of human love and joy,and from the flowers there fall the seeds of infinite pity for human pain,God shaping all things to His ends.
Thinking of Anne,John's face grows gentler,his hand kinder;dreaming of him,her heart grows stronger,deeper,fuller.Every available room in the warehouse has been turned into a ward,and the little hospital is open free to all,for John and Anne feel that the whole world are their people.The piled-up casks are gone--shipped to Woolwich and Gravesend,bundled anywhere out of the way,as though oil and tallow and the gold they can be stirred into were matters of small moment in this world,not to be thought of beside such a thing as the helping of a human brother in sore strait.
All the labour of the day seems light to them,looking forward to the hour when they sit together in John's old shabby dining-room above the counting-house.Yet a looker-on might imagine such times dull to them;for they are strangely shy of one another,strangely sparing of words--fearful of opening the flood-gates of speech,feeling the pressure of the pent-up thought.
One evening,John,throwing out words,not as a sop to the necessity for talk,but as a bait to catch Anne's voice,mentions girdle-cakes,remembers that his old housekeeper used to be famous for the making of them,and wonders if she has forgotten the art.
Anne,answering tremulously,as though girdle-cakes were a somewhat delicate topic,claims to be a successful amateur of them herself.
John,having been given always to understand that the talent for them was exceedingly rare,and one usually hereditary,respectfully doubts Anne's capabilities,deferentially suggesting that she is thinking of scones.Anne indignantly repudiates the insinuation,knows quite well the difference between girdle-cakes and scones,offers to prove her powers by descending into the kitchen and making some then and there,if John will accompany her and find the things for her.
John accepts the challenge,and,guiding Anne with one shy,awkward hand,while holding aloft a candle in the other,leads the way.It is past ten o'clock,and the old housekeeper is in bed.At each creaking stair they pause,to listen if the noise has awakened her;then,finding all silent,creep forward again,with suppressed laughter,wondering with alarm,half feigned,half real,what the prim,methodical dame would say were she to come down and catch them.
They reach the kitchen,thanks more to the suggestions of a friendly cat than to John's acquaintanceship with the geography of his own house;and Anne rakes together the fire and clears the table for her work.What possible use John is to her--what need there was for her stipulating that he should accompany her,Anne might find it difficult,if examined,to explain satisfactorily.As for his "finding the things"for her,he has not the faintest notion where they are,and possesses no natural aptitude for discovery.Told to find flour,he industriously searches for it in the dresser drawers;sent for the rolling-pin--the nature and characteristics of rolling-pins being described to him for his guidance--he returns,after a prolonged absence,with the copper stick.Anne laughs at him;but really it would seem as though she herself were almost as stupid,for not until her hands are covered with flour does it occur to her that she has not taken that preliminary step in all cooking operations of rolling up her sleeves.
She holds out her arms to John,first one and then the other,asking him sweetly if he minds doing it for her.John is very slow and clumsy,but Anne stands very patient.Inch by inch he peels the black sleeve from the white round arm.Hundreds of times must he have seen those fair arms,bare to the shoulder,sparkling with jewels;but never before has he seen their wondrous beauty.He longs to clasp them round his neck,yet is fearful lest his trembling fingers touching them as he performs his tantalising task may offend her.Anne thanks him,and apologises for having given him so much trouble,and he murmurs some meaningless reply,and stands foolishly silent,watching her.
Anne seems to find one hand sufficient for her cake-making,for the other rests idly on the table--very near to one of John's,as she would see were not her eyes so intent upon her work.How the impulse came to him,where he--grave,sober,business-man John--learnt such story-book ways can never be known;but in one instant he is down on both knees,smothering the floury hand with kisses,and the next moment Anne's arms are round his neck and her lips against his,and the barrier between them is swept away,and the deep waters of their love rush together.
With that kiss they enter a new life whereinto one may not follow them.One thinks it must have been a life made strangely beautiful by self-forgetfulness,strangely sweet by mutual devotion--a life too ideal,perhaps,to have remained for long undimmed by the mists of earth.
They who remember them at that time speak of them in hushed tones,as one speaks of visions.It would almost seem as though from their faces in those days there shone a radiance,as though in their voices dwelt a tenderness beyond the tenderness of man.