Gough, who had his own reasons for wanting to rejoin the others, professed that turning back was the very course he should have thought advisable, so with a conventional word or two of regret, they separated.
“Now one can breathe again,” exclaimed Claverton, in a tone of relief.
“I don’t know,” laughed his companion; “climbing a flight of very steep steps is likely to put one out of breath. And it’s awfully steep here.”
“It is rather,” he answered, taking her arm to help her up the rough bush path, which was, in truth, like a flight of stairs. “But you’ll go wild with delight when we get to the top, I expect. It’s just one of those views you revel in. And,” he added, tenderly, “this is the first time I have had you all to myself to-day.”
“I thought I should have ridden this morning,” she said.
“Were you sorry you didn’t?”
“They said it was too far for me to ride,” she went on as if not hearing his question. Then, looking suddenly at him: “Yes, I was sorry; but—”
Claverton’s heart gave a bound. Was this anything to augur from, after all? No. Lilian was not as most girls.
“But what?” he asked, eagerly. “Nothing,” and the expression of her face was grave and troubled.
Of late she had been a prey to sad misgivings; at times she felt as if she had been playing a deceitful and unworthy part. She had let this man go on thinking she was learning to care for him—for she was sure that he did think so—knowing the while that she could never be anything to him; and now the time of her stay was drawing very near its close, and she must explain to him that the fact of having given him so much of her society, and sought his confidence, and shown her unmistakable esteem for him, was only her side to the compact which they had ratified that evening under the stars, and that they must part as they had met—strangers, or what to him would seem but little less cold—friends only. Yet she had been very happy with him, happier even than she dared own to herself. And now she must explain all this, and what would he think of her? Would he hate her? Would his powerful, all-in-all love change to bitter contempt? Ah! there lay the sting. But, no! She felt that he was different somehow to other men. He would understand perhaps, and pity her, and even not withdraw his love. She could not bear the thought of losing that—and she was so lonely. Yes; she would explain; this very day, she had made up her mind as to that. But when she tried to begin she had stopped short, and when he would have had her continue, had answered “Nothing.”