Now—she was by my side. As we came across the grass plat I summoned all my courage. I did not know whether I wished to be convinced that she was Lilia—or that she was not. I only felt abject fear—for the first time in my life I was an entire coward: I sickened, I was in a cold sweat.
“Will you sit here a minute?” I asked. “I want to see what time it is. I must strike a match under the bushes—there is too much wind here.”
I slipped away, and going round came slowly into the moonlight opposite to her. Ah! it was terrible to see her seated there, then to see her spring up and come to me—for once in my life, to experience a realised dream.
“Let us go,” she said, passionately—I had never seen her so disturbed. “I remember—come—!”
I accompanied her, passively. She went along the path between the laurels, then, after but a moment’s hesitation, she took the path leading to the terrace.
A few swift steps and she turned back to see if I followed.
“Come!” she said, in a voice of pain. “Come!”
Then, after one more poise—like a bird before it takes flight—she hurried up the slope and was at the end of the terrace. The wide, grassy avenue was before us.
I joined her. It was a long time since I had visited the spot. The long grass was rank and weedy, the beds were unkempt—I could see that much in this light. The scene by moonlight, that light which chastens and beautifies, was desolate—what would it be by the light of day?
The shame that I had neglected this favourite resort of Lilia’s partially levelled emotions, brought me back in some degree to ordinary common sense. But my practical mood did not last long. I followed Mercedes across the grass, blaming myself that I had let her come here, to a spot which was a disgrace to its proprietor in its neglected state—when to my astonishment she flung her arm about the stone fountain and turned upon me.