I
don't think I realized that she had vanished so completely."
"Not more completely," she declared gaily, "than the gloomy gentleman
who frowned upon my existence and resented even my gratitude.
Although," she added, leaning a little towards him, "I am very much
afraid that I see some signs of a relapse today. Don't bother about
those horrid letters. Let me tell Mrs. Tresfarwin to pack us up some
lunch, and take me to Hanging Tor, please!"
Wingrave laughed a little unsteadily as he rose to his feet. One day
more, then! Why not? The end would be soon enough! . . .
Sooner, perhaps, than even he imagined, for that night Aynesworth
came, pale and travel-stained, with all the volcanic evidences of a
great passion blazing in his eyes, quivering in his tone. The day had
passed to Wingrave as a dream, more beautiful even than any in the
roll of its predecessors. They sat together on low chairs upon the
moonlit lawn, in their ears the murmur of the sea; upon their faces,
gathering strength with the darkness, the night wind, salt and
fragrant with all the sweetness of dying flowers. Wingrave had never
realized more completely what still seemed to him this wonderful gap
in his life. Behind it all, he had a subconsciousness that he was but
taking a part in some mystical play; yet with an abandon which, when
he stopped to think of it, astonished him, he gave himself up without
effort or scruple to this most amazing interlude.
Pages:
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267