“Good-night.” She put her little, warm, brown hand, flashing with gems, into his; and then with one long, unwinking gaze–in which she caught Piers’ gaze–she strangely troubled the young man. His blood grew hot as fire; his heart bounded; his face was like a flame; and he clasped her hand with an unconscious fervour. She laughed lightly, drew it away, and passed on. But as she did so, the Indian scarf she had over her arm trailed across his feet, and thrilled him like some living thing. He had a sense of intoxication, and he hurried forward to his own room, and threw himself into a chair.
“It is that strange perfume that clings around her,” he said in a voice of controlled excitement. “I perceived it as soon as I met her. It makes me drowsy. It makes me feverish–and yet how delicious it is!” He threw his head backward, and lay with closed eyes, moving neither hand nor foot for some minutes. Then he rose, and began to walk about the room, lifting and putting down books, and papers, and odd trifles, as they came in the way of his restless fingers. And when at last he found speech, it was to reproach himself–his real self–the man within him.
“You, poor, weak, false-hearted lover!” he muttered bitterly. “Piers Exham! You hardly needed temptation. I am ashamed of you! Ashamed of you, Piers! Oh, Kate! I have been false to you. It was only a passing thought, Kate; but you would not have given to another even a passing thought. Forgive me. O Thou Dear One!”
“Thou Dear One!” These three words had a meaning of inexpressible tenderness to him. For one night,–when as yet their Love was but learning to speak,–one warm, sweet July night, as they stood under the damask roses, he said to Kate,–
“How beautiful are the words and tones which your mother uses to the Squire. She does not speak thus to every one.”
“No,” replied Kate. “To strangers mother always says ‘you.’ To those she loves, she says ‘thou.’”
And Piers answered, “Dear–if only–” and then he let the silence speak for him. But Kate understood, and she whispered softly,–
“Thou Dear One!”
It seemed to Piers as if no words to be spoken in time or in eternity could ever make those three words less sweet. They came to his memory always like a sigh of soft music on a breath of roses. And so it was at this hour. They filled his heart, they filled his room with soft delight. He stood still to realise their melody and their fragrance, the music of their sweet inflections, the perfume of their pure and perfect love.
“Thou Dear One!” He said these words again and again. “It has always been Kate and Piers! Always I and Thou–and as for the Other One–”