Antonia rose from her place, and at last she looked at him. “Beside the fountain. Beside the fountain. He is there,” she said.
He had seized her arms now as if to hold her back more forcibly.
“Nonsense!” he cried loudly. “Miss Latimer is a medium—as you know. Her subconsciousness got at yours. They are the words you used the other morning.”
“He is there,” she repeated; “and I must see him. He has come for me. And I must see him.”
He held her for a moment longer, measuring his fear by hers. Then, releasing her, “Very well,” he said. “I’ll come too. We shall see nothing.” But he was not sure.
They crossed the room, Antonia swiftly going before him. She paused so that he might come up with her before she drew back the curtain from the third window. The moon was high. The cedar was black against the brightness. They looked down into the flagged garden and saw the empty moonlight. Empty. Nothing was there.
“Are you satisfied?” Bevis asked her. He placed his arm around her waist and a passionate triumph filled him. Empty. They were safe.
Motionless within his grasp she stared and stared and found nothing. Only the fountain was there, a thin spear of wavering light, and the fritillaries, rising like ghosts from their narrow beds.
“Are you satisfied?” Bevis repeated. They seemed measurelessly alone there at the exorcised window, alone, after the menace, as they had never been. He held her closely while they looked out, putting his other arm around her, too, as if for final security. “Will you come away with me to-morrow?” he whispered.
She looked at him. No; it was not triumph yet. Her eyes were empty; but of him, too. They showed him only a blank horror.