With Lady Hope, as with Rachael Closs, there was no moderation in her feelings, which were tenacious as they were powerful and exacting. But Rachael, with all her impetuosity, had strong contradictory qualities. She was sagacious, and could rein in her passion of love or hate as an Arab controls his desert steed. That which her soul most desired she could wait for.
One night, when the moonbeams lay like silver on the stone terrace, and the shadow of the peacock fell from the balustrade like a second bird, Lady Hope complained of fatigue, and retreated into her own room, leaving Hepworth and Clara sitting upon a flight of steps which led down to a flower-garden, somewhat neglected of late years, which lay beneath the stone terrace and brightened the grounds nearest to the lady's apartments. Not far from these steps was a noble old cedar of Lebanon, rooted deep, where the drawbridge had been hundreds of years before. Beneath it was a rustic seat, and in its branches innumerable birds were sleeping.
There never was, perhaps, a finer contrast of silver light and black shadow in any landscape than surrounded these two persons, as they sat together side by side, both thinking of the same thing, and both reluctant to break the delicious silence.
At last Hepworth spoke—it was but a single word, which made his companion start and hold her breath.
"Clara!"
She did not answer him; that one word frightened her. She had half a mind to start up and hide herself in the shadows, for he was looking in her face, and the moonlight fell like a glory over his features, which she now saw were grave even to sadness.
"Clara, do you know that I must go away soon?"
"Oh, no! no!"
The girl had not expected this. The infinite tenderness in his voice had led her completely astray, and she broke forth in an eager protest.
"I must, dear child."