Then there rushed through her again the warm
wonderful sense that had been with her all those precious days--of
love that knew secretly of its approaching triumph and fulfilment; the
delicious sense of giving every minute of her time, every thought,
and movement; and all the sweet unconscious waiting for the divine,
irrevocable moment when at last she would give herself and be his. The
remembrance too of how tired, how sacredly tired she had been, and of
how she had smiled all the time with her inner joy of being tired for
him.
The sound of the bell startled her. His telegram had said, the
afternoon! She determined to show nothing of the trouble darkening the
whole world for her, and drew a deep breath, waiting for his kiss.
It was not Miltoun, but Lady Casterley.
The shock sent the blood buzzing into her temples. Then she noticed that
the little figure before her was also trembling; drawing up a chair, she
said: "Won't you sit down?"
The tone of that old voice, thanking her, brought back sharply the
memory of her garden, at Monkland, bathed in the sweetness and shimmer
of summer, and of Barbara standing at her gate towering above this
little figure, which now sat there so silent, with very white face.
Those carved features, those keen, yet veiled eyes, had too often
haunted her thoughts; they were like a bad dream come true.
Pages:
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345