Out in the park, out of her sight, he stood and looked round him like a man who has received an overwhelming shock, which, for the time, has bereft him of his senses; then he went toward his horse, which was quietly nibbling at the boughs.
As he did so he heard a sound behind him, a sob such as one hears from the woman whose heart is breaking.
He dropped the bridle, and a shudder ran through him as he stood for a moment awestruck; then he sprang back. She was lying full length on the ground, her arms extended, her face lying upon the grass, her hands clinching the bracken; a picture of a living soul writhing in an agony of shame and wounded love.
He was beside her in an instant, his strong arms around her, his voice, full of passionate love and self-reproach, calling on her name.
“Olivia! Olivia! my love! my love! Olivia!”
Weakened, exhausted, she was powerless to resist him, and he held her in his arms, her supple form pressed against his breast, his eyes looking down into hers with a mad, wild hunger, an infinite sadness.
A moment—ah, but it was a lifetime!—passed, then suddenly a cold wave seemed to sweep over him, and, still holding her, he rose to his feet.
She felt the change, be it what it may, and drew back from him, leaning against a tree, panting and quivering.
And he stood and looked at her in silence—a terrible silence.
At last his voice came hoarsely, as if with difficulty.