A night bird in the trees along the river’s edge began to trill, and Mary drew her strength from it.
“And so it happened,” she went on, “a fairy of the nearby forest heard the lady’s mournful speech, and being deeply moved by it, the fairy turned the lady to a falcon that could ride into the battle on her true love’s hand, and so they rode away together and had many fine adventures, and he carried her forever with him and she spent her life content, for she had wings to spread and fly with and the man she loved to hold and keep her safe.”
There was no sound or movement for long moments but the rushing of the river and the night bird calling.
And then Hugh asked, “What adventures did they have?”
She found it difficult, with all of the emotions of her speech, to make a calm reply. “I do not know.”
He thought this over. “Then ye’d better come to Spain,” he said, “and live them for yourself.”
She turned to look at him, and saw that he was straightening to stand at his full height before her in the semidarkness, and the faint light from the windows of the little island at her back showed her his steady gaze was serious.
Her heart became a trembling thing within her as she straightened too and faced him, and the night air grew alive between them, though she could no more have guessed his thoughts than she had done when they’d first faced each other in the Paris street. Except his eyes now were not cold, she thought. Not cold at all, and no longer impenetrable.
“Marry me,” he said.
She had to smile at his tone, for it could not be helped. “That’s not a question.”
“No,” he said, and bent his head towards her. “It is not.”
And then her smile was covered by his kiss and Mary, wrapped within the warmth of it, could care for nothing else.
Let currents flow and kingdoms fall and time move onward, Mary thought—this moment was for them. Those people of an age to come who stood upon this bridge would never know how long she’d stood tonight in Hugh’s strong arms, or what he’d said to her, the quiet simple words that had been spoken from his heart and were for her alone; nor would they know what she had answered back, and how he’d smiled and gently tipped her chin up with his hand to kiss her longer and more deeply; nor how he had finally held his hand to her outstretched and she had taken it with happiness and followed him.
It mattered not that no one else would bear that moment witness nor remember it, for if the future could not know them, neither could the past confine them, and the choice was always theirs to make, the tale their own to finish, as her aunt had once assured her. And her aunt had been right also when she’d laid her hand on Mary’s heart and said, “I think that always here you’ve had a little voice that calls to you.” For Mary knew the voice that she’d heard calling to her for so long had been Hugh’s own, and now had come the time, at last, to let it lead her home.
THE END