'And so,' suggested the stranger.
'And so,' said Clemency, taking him up mechanically, and without
any change in her attitude or manner, 'they at last were married.
They were married on her birth-day - it comes round again to-morrow
- very quiet, very humble like, but very happy. Mr. Alfred said,
one night when they were walking in the orchard, "Grace, shall our
wedding-day be Marion's birth-day?" And it was.'
'And they have lived happily together?' said the stranger.
'Ay,' said Clemency. 'No two people ever more so. They have had
no sorrow but this.'
She raised her head as with a sudden attention to the circumstances
under which she was recalling these events, and looked quickly at
the stranger. Seeing that his face was turned toward the window,
and that he seemed intent upon the prospect, she made some eager
signs to her husband, and pointed to the bill, and moved her mouth
as if she were repeating with great energy, one word or phrase to
him over and over again. As she uttered no sound, and as her dumb
motions like most of her gestures were of a very extraordinary
kind, this unintelligible conduct reduced Mr. Britain to the
confines of despair. He stared at the table, at the stranger, at
the spoons, at his wife - followed her pantomime with looks of deep
amazement and perplexity - asked in the same language, was it
property in danger, was it he in danger, was it she - answered her
signals with other signals expressive of the deepest distress and
confusion - followed the motions of her lips - guessed half aloud
'milk and water,' 'monthly warning,' 'mice and walnuts' - and
couldn't approach her meaning.
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