Part 66 (1/2)

”You must not tremble so--”

”I can't help it.... I am afraid. I want to go, now. I--I want to go--”

There was a chair by the window; she sank down on it and dropped her head back against the wall behind.

And, as he stood there beside her, over her shoulder through the open window he saw two men in the garden below, watching them.

Presently she lifted her head. His eyes remained fixed on the men below who never moved.

She said with an effort; ”Are you displeased, Clive?”

”No, my darling.”

”It was not because I do not love you. Only--I--”

”I know,” he whispered, his eyes fixed steadily on the men.

After a silence she said under her breath: ”I understand better now why I ought to wait for you--if there is any hope for us,--as long as there is any chance. And after that--if there is no chance for us--then nothing can matter.”

”I know.”

”To-night, earlier, I did not understand why I should deny myself to myself, to you, to _them_.... I did not understand that what I wished for so treacherously masked a--a lesser impulse--”

He said, quietly: ”Nothing is surer than that you and I, one day, shall face our destiny together. I really care nothing for custom, law, or folk-way, or dogma, excepting only for your sake. Outside of that, man's folk-ways, man's notions of G.o.d, mean nothing to me: only my own intelligence and belief appeal to me. I must guide myself.”

”Guide me, too,” she said. ”For I have come into a wisdom which dismays me.”

He nodded and looked down, calmly, at the two men who had not stirred from the shadow of the foliage.

She rose to her feet, hesitated, slowly stretched out her hand, then, on impulse, pressed it lightly against his lips.

”That demonstration,” she said with a troubled laugh, ”is to be our limit. Good night. You will try to sleep, won't you?... And if I am now suddenly learning to be a little shy with you--you will not mistake me; will you?... Because it may seem silly at this late date.... But, somehow, everything comes late to me--even love, and its lesser lore and its wisdom and its cunning. So, if I ever seem indifferent--don't doubt me, Clive.... Good night.”

When she had entered her room and closed the door he went downstairs, swiftly, let himself out of the house, and moved straight toward the garden.

Neither of the men seemed very greatly surprised; both retreated with docile alacrity across the lawn to the driveway gate.

”Anyway,” said the taller man, good-humouredly, ”you've got to hand it to us, Mr. Bailey. I guess we pinch the goods on you all right this time. What about it?”

But Clive silently locked the outer gates, then turned and stared at the shadowy house as though it had suddenly crumbled into ruins there under the July moon.

CHAPTER XXIV

A fine lace-work of mist lay over the salt meadows; the fairy trilling of the little owl had ceased. Marsh-fowl were sleepily astir; the last firefly floated low into the shrouded bushes and its lamp glimmered a moment and went out.

Where the east was growing grey long lines of wild-ducks went stringing out to sea; a few birds sang loudly in meadows still obscure; cattle in foggy upland pastures were awake.