She was clad for riding and
her close-fitting habit served only to accentuate the voluptuous
beauty of her form, yet her eyes seemed maidenly and untroubled,
wide-opened and serenely steadfast as of old, and this of itself
stirred within me a sullen resentment as she stood looking at me, a
little pale, very wistful, yet radiant in her beauty; and when she
spoke her voice was untroubled as her look.
"Mr. Vere-Manville, I beg you will leave us awhile!"
Even as she spoke, Anthony bowed, strode to the door and was gone
before I could stay him.
"Peregrine?"
One word, softly uttered, yet in it a world of pleading--reproach and
troubled wonderment, insomuch that, remembering that accursed
black-bodied chaise, the ring and gossamer veil, my sullen resentment
waxed to bitter anger, the whole thing seemed so utterly nauseous.
Evening was falling and from one of the trees in the orchard a
blackbird was calling to his mate, soft and sweetly plaintive, and
never, to the end of my days, may I hear such without recalling all
the agony of this hour.
We stood very silent, looking upon each other, while the blackbird
piped in the orchard below; and now I trembled no more, for my anger
was passed and in its stead was a cold and purposeful determination.
"Are you better, Peregrine?" she questioned at last. "More yourself?"
"Thank you, yes."
When next she spoke her voice faltered a little, though her glance
never wavered.
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